David's travails continue in Helgarren's pleasant pastures. Anne and Emma try to help as does Dr. Tabatha in her dispassionate way. Grace de Messembry drops by to say hello .... and perhaps rather more although one can never be quite sure. And then there is the wretched question of boyfriends.....

And a very nasty surprise. Well a couple really.

The author wishes to apologise for a scene containing a rather graphic description of an act of a sexual nature, although the reader may be assured that such is by no means gratuitous but rather fully justified by all international conventions regarding plot development, characterisation, etc. Nevertheless readers of a sensitive disposition or of an unduly excitable nature are advised to close their eyes tightly before reading the pages concerned. Not that much really happens. Or does it ....?

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 does.

Previously encountered Characters in order of appearance/mention.

Dr. Tabatha O’Neill. Staff. Psychiatrist/Hypnotherapist

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 much of the subsequent action, apart from his stay in the hospital facility, has taken place. Now ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre.

Anne. 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. Was ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre with David

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. She facilitated David’s move to
Finishing Centre, offering to use her influence with the Principal there that he may receive a special non-hormonal dispensation.

Mrs Townsend. Staff. A beautician

Janet Saggren. A colleague of Laura’s at the Holding Centre.

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

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

Emma. Was another of Laura’s charges, but a genetic girl. She 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

Mrs. Felicity Cranwell. Staff. Tutor in Female Sexuality

Dr. Victoria Walters. A surgeon in the employ of The Venumar Foundation. She was responsible for his recovery after his knifing. She is in charge of the medical facility at Helgarren Hall.

Mona. Was transitioning at the Holding Wing under the care of Janet Saggren on David's arrival there and preceded him to Helgarren hall. She is also was apparently 'sponsored' by a group of Asian businessmen

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 38.

Dr. Tabatha O'Neill made notes. Or perhaps she was just doodling. David couldn't see from his position on her couch. Just the flickering glint of her silver pencil's top was visible.

More and more she just let him talk. Just dropping the odd word to steer the conversation. Afterwards, thinking back, he was always surprised at what he had told her. How natural, unnoticed, the unburdening had been. This session was no different.

“You look better. More alert yet more relaxed. Helgarren suits you?”

“Yes. I suppose it does. Well no of course it doesn't. Well only in that is is better than the Holding Wing. More fresh air and freedom. Well, not really freedom of course, just more space.”

“Fresh air and space are important.” Dr. Tabatha nodded her agreement.

“It feels less like a prison. The surroundings and the attitudes of people. Only of course it isn't really is it? There is no freedom here. Not for me. No real freedom.”

“We trespass into philosophy. Real freedom is like infinity or democracy. A concept rarely achieved in this world. Or in any other.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” The silver pencil described an inquisitive parabola.

“Of course you do. Freedom may never be absolute but there are generally accepted norms. Society does not generally countenance one being feminised against one's will, being forced to dress as a girl and expected to behave as one.....”

“But I thought that you had agreed to that. As a condition of being here? As a price willingly paid for some of that freedom you mention?”

“Not willingly!”

“Yes willingly Sophie dear. I am not privy to all the details but basically you did barter more femininity against more freedom.”

“The freedom had been stolen from me in the first place. It was mine by right. Not theirs.”

Dr. Tabatha sighed. “Agreed. It was yours. And they acquired it unfairly. And you are buying it back. You have to come to terms with that. Life moves on.”

Her smile was sympathetic. “We, you and I, can only deal in the present. With the here and now Sophie. And try and make the best of them. I told you when we first met that I want to help. To make life better for you, but I cannot change the circumstances. Only you can do that. And not even you can change that which is past.”

“It is not what I want.”
“You don't want freedom? Or you don't want to abide by the bargain you have made? Or you don't want to feel as you do about the future as you see it?”

“I don't want to be this me. This me here in this place. I would be as I was, who I was, with the life that I had.”

“Many of us could echo that Sophie. I lost my husband and my baby son in an accident two and a half years ago. I too feel diminished but try to live to the full the life that I have.”

“I am sorry. I didn't know.....”

“How could you? I didn't say it to gain your sympathy though. That would be cheating.... One needs to be dispassionate. Just recognise that life does not always give people, give us, what they or we want.”

David thought of Anne. Of the insight she had given him the previous day into her own lost childhood and its attendant horrors.

“You sound as if you think me selfish .....”

“Why should I do?”

“Because of your own loss. And because of something Anne told me yesterday. About her life before she came here.... You know?”

Dr Tabatha nodded, encouraging him to continue..

“But it is not really the same is it? Your loss was accidental, Anne's tragedy was the result of.... her father. She wasn't a prisoner. My situation is enforced. It is not the same.”

“Isn't it? Children are prisoners of their parents. Subject to the enforcement of their will. One can always attribute causes. The accident was caused by a drunken driver. Anne's father may have himself been a victim of his own childhood, or of mental illness, or sheer inadequacy. There are many causes. Knowing them does not lessen the pain.”

“But....”

“No but, Sophie dear. You have to recognise that forced or unforced, accidental or malicious, just or unjust, pain is pain. Its provenance makes no difference. If anything it could be argued that personal, malicious, individual hurt is the easiest to deal with. Then at least you have a focus for your rage.”

“So you do think I am being selfish?”

“No Sophie. Just behaving as a human being will. I am not attaching labels, just trying to help you put things in perspective. Help you think it through.”

“You want me to accept. That is what these sessions are all about.”

“No. I promise you. I am trying to assuage the hurt and the pain you feel by clearing away emotional cobwebs so that you can see more clearly the actuality of your situation. If that leads to acceptance, a decision to make the best of it, then so be it. But it is not the object of these sessions.”

“And have you cleared away Anne's emotional cobwebs too? Helped her so that she accepts?”

“That is not worthy of you Sophie. Are you envious of Anne perhaps?”

“Envious of Anne! No of course not. How could anyone be after all that she has endured?”

“That was then. In the past. Before she was Anne. In the present I believe she has found some form of contentment. Acceptance if you will. Even happiness. More than you I think. It is not unnatural for people to be envious of those they perceive are happier than they.“

“It is not envy. I am pleased for her. Pleased that she has found some happiness. I can understand why. But it is different for me. Our pasts are different.”

“But your presents are the same. She has had to make the same choices as you do. Shares the same current difficulties as you do. Shares your future perhaps? Where lies the difference between you?”

“She told me herself that it was easier for her. Because of her past.... It explains it. Explains her acceptance of .....”

“Does it? Or is it just that she is better equipped to put things into perspective? Has experienced survival before? Knows the value of looking for happiness in little things?”

There was silence between them The silver pencil stilled as if waiting for a pronouncement. A settlement.

But none came.

Dr. Tabatha laid her pencil down and smiled.

“You are right. One can only live one's own life Sophie.”

And she pulled the small video screen across in front of him.

“Just watch and relax,” she said.

As usual he felt calm after the session. The talk and the hypnosis. His mind clearer, less cluttered by 'what ifs'. Though why he could not determine.

Before dinner he walked with Anne and Bramble along the side of the road that led to the gateway. Companionable together, the small dog freed from its lead snuffling about their feet on the short cropped turf. A cluster of Jacobs watched him closely, unable to see the small roly-poly bundle as a threat.

“When Helen returned last evening,” David said, “you were saying .... Unless....”
“Unless? Oh about the relevance of climate change you mean?”

“Yes. You saw a connection with the 'bare branches'?”

“ I don't know. It was just a thought. At the time I thought it might have a relevance. But it is at best tangential. And afterwards .... thinking about it .... I am not sure.”

“Tell me,” David said, “It just might have .... and I need something. Grasping at straws is all I have.”

“It is just that whilst climate change can have no direct connection with .... with why we are here .... why we are girls now .... it might be something that reacts with, intensifies, in some way effects, or makes more urgent, more drastic, whatever the 'bare branches' implies.”

“It's a separate factor you mean?”

“Yes but an important one. We were talking about the Writer's Guild you remember and I was saying it would do them good to break the rules, to mix things, ingredients, up. And it struck me. Just suppose the resulting floods, droughts, famines, whatever, would magnify, intensify, trigger perhaps, the 'bare branches'. Whatever that implies.”

“That it is just part of the mix? A catalyst perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps yes.”

There was silence between them as David tried to collect his thoughts, tried to absorb this idea into the whole. And then.

“Yes. That would make sense. Although it still isn't the answer.”

“No. I didn't expect it would be. It was just an idea. Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it. It may only be a distraction.”

“No Anne. Not a distraction but a piece of the jigsaw. All knowledge is valuable. It helps to narrow it down. The bare branches must be something that fits into that background.”

Bramble was snuffling round the base of a large ash tree on a small knoll. There was a whirl of black and white, two whirls as birds flew out towards the river.

“One for sorrow, two for joy.” intoned Anne.

And then a third bird, belatedly flying low and hard after the others.

“Three for a girl and ......” David replied and paused, waiting.

But there was no fourth for a boy.

“Good evening Mr. Magpie.” David said.

“Why do you say that?” Anne asked.

“Something my mother always said. Always greet the magpie politely. That way you can escape the rhyme.”

“No four for a boy?”

“No four for a boy.” echoed David and a sudden shadow seemed to scud across the parkland.

“Good evening Mr. Magpie.” Anne said softly. “Just for you Sophie.” And she took his hand to show she understood.

---------------------------------------

David was conscious of the wooden slats of the bench warm against his legs. Against the full length of his legs. The skimpy tennis cami dress was not long enough to sit on, hardly long enough indeed to cover his pretty matching knickers when he was standing. But then as Emma had explained when she had advised on their purchase, it was designed to reveal not to conceal. His long bare legs, tanned as much by Mrs. Townsend's lotion as by the sun, stretched out in front of him. Long bare legs, smooth, and really rather well shaped. Hairless of course. They were strict about such elemental beauty care. Although they no longer needed such care and attention as they once had. Perhaps it was Uncle Silas and the testosterone blocking action.

Janet, who was playing with Laura in a mixed foursome on an adjacent court, had exclaimed that he looked a 'perfect doll', and he feared she was not exaggerating. Several young men had confirmed this opinion by frank appraising glances and murmurs of appreciation. One or two had profited by the presence of Bramble, tethered by a long lead to the leg of the bench, to stop, stroke the puppy, trail pleasantries, inviting him to exchange names and friendship. Suggesting he might like to join them in a game.

David was becoming accomplished in turning such approaches away, diverting conversations into polite dead ends. Currently his fall back excuse was that he was waiting for a friend to join him to make up a foursome with the two already on the court.

There Helen was instructing Anne in the basic principles of the game. The latter was a quick learner. Lithe, athletic and with a natural grace. At David's school and university tennis had always been considered a social activity rather than a man's sport. A distraction from cricket, athletics and rowing. A fundamental knowledge of it was useful in the pursuit of girls but there it ended. Anyone good at it was rather morally suspect. Vaguely suspected of placing undue importance on the gratification of their own carnal appetites.

It probably hadn't changed David reflected gloomily. Only now he was the potential prey rather than the hunter. He twirled his racquet, the rings on his fingers throwing bright sparks of light back at him, the polished red sheen on his nails vivid in the sun.

Anne had persuaded him to join her in taking up Helen's invitation. He felt he owed her any support he could give and he knew too that he needed to show some involvement, needed even to follow Laura's advice and pre-empt Grace de Messembry's stated intention of finding him a boy friend. Either here or at the Writer's Guild. Not to find of course, not yet anyway please God. But to be seen to be looking.

Footfalls behind him, soft on the mown grass. Christ not one of the male hunters? He sought to recall the excuses he had practised against such an eventuality. Sprained wrist? Sore ankle? .... and then a hint of perfume caressed his senses. Over and above his own. Distinctive ..... Redolent of elegance and ease.

“Sophie dear. What a happy coincidence finding you here! But surely you are not on your own? Do tell me to go away if you are waiting for some one? I would hate for my presence to inhibit any prospective swain?”

David half rose, betrayed by a remnant of masculine behaviour he had thought long schooled out of him, and then, flustered......

“Oh.... Good day Miss Grace. You startled me. I was just watching Miss Helen and Anne. No I am not expecting anyone. Perhaps a little game with Anne afterwards ..... But please sit down.”

She already had. It was a hot day but one felt cool in her presence. How could it be otherwise? She epitomised style and composure. David saw that she was carrying a parasol. A long sticked affair with a frilled white cotton panoply. And white gloves! It was pure Edwardian. She must have had the parasol made. Surely one could not just buy one of the shelf these days? A pity if not though.

The thought occurred to David that it was probably a sword stick

The tip of it, now furled, tapped the point of her elegant right shoe, a lattice white doeskin creation.

“Well just for a moment then. I was hoping to meet you. To find out how things are going with my favourite girl. And to tell the truth Sophie dear, I was feeling, am feeling indeed, a trifle guilty.”

“Guilty Miss Grace? Guilty? Why .....”

“Why? About you of course Sophie dear, you and Anne together. I had promised to find you both suitable male partners and .... “

“Please Miss Grace. You shouldn't really.... bother I mean. I know you are busy and .... Anne and I are quite happy .... well we are mixing socially now ... the Writers' Guild and .... here .... and ....”

“So sweet of you Sophie dear! But a promise is a promise and I mean to honour it .... Unless of course you are hiding something from me? Have Anne and you already selected your prey? Do tell! You know what an old romantic I am!”

“No not yet Miss Grace. No one specifically in mind as yet, but .... but we .... are looking .... we understand that we need.....”

“.... need to take full advantage of the new avenues of experience opening up for you? Of course you do dear. You know how keen I am that all my girls fulfil their potential. To the utmost.”

She smiled benignly at David.

“So important for a young girl dear, To experience all that life has to offer. Without let or hindrance as they say. But I don't blame you dear. It is today's young men! Such an unworthy lot. Most of them incapable of stringing a single coherent sentence together. Let alone seducing an intelligent woman. That's how feminism was born dear. Out of a desperate need to wake them up. I wouldn't mind them keeping their brains in their penises if they actually functioned there. Or at least reacted to stimuli as their host does. Woke up and paid attention from time to time.”

The parasol cum sword stick switched its attention to her left shoe.

“But you mustn't worry your pretty little head about their failings Sophie dear. I do know quite a lot about men. Far more than they do themselves. And you can safely leave finding your Mr. Right to me. All you have to do is to take advantage of the opportunities when they are offered.”

The parasol was flicking left and right now. Metronomic from one shoe to the other.

“Promise me that you will take advantage of any opportunity, any men indeed,” the corner of her lips twitched in appreciation of the phrase, “that I can strew in your path.”

The green eyes suddenly transfixed him. Demanded an answer. Demanded a promise. The parasol stilled, rested on her right shoe.

“Promise me.” She repeated, her voice low, insistent. “I do so hate having men going to waste.”

“I .... I.... p...p...promise, David stammered. From her now emanated not coolness but suddenly a deathly chill. Elegant Edwardian had become the Ice Queen. Denial of her will, withholding of the promise demanded, was not an option for him.

And then the sun warmed his shoulders again. The parasol resumed its slow movement. The green eyes shone with what might be taken for mirth. The moment passed, but in that moment he heard another door close behind him.

“What a delightful animal.” Grace de Messembry said indicating Bramble with her parasol.”Is he Anne's new puppy of which I have heard everyone rhapsodise or have you also entered the animal welfare arena?”

“No he is Anne's Miss Grace, not mine. I am just looking after him whilst she is on court. His name's Bramble.“

Bramble eddied fatly in the general direction of Grace de Messembry, his small round body writhing like a stout pendulum, counterbalancing his ridiculous stump of a tail. His legs struggled to impose direction on his body. He stopped, balancing precariously as he cocked his leg and peed against a leg of the seat, before lunging, mouth a-gape, at the parasol.

Just in time Grace de Messembry flicked it out of his range and Bramble collided with her ankles before subsiding in a heap at her feet. She regarded him with a tolerant smile, carefully moving the parasol to her other side outside his line of sight.

“Quite the little stealer of hearts, everyone tells me.” She said. “Curious how the small and helpless can so worm their way into one's affections. Especially puppies and kittens. Even children they tell me.”

She turned her attention back to David. “But I understand Anne was particularly vulnerable when it came to giving him her heart. That she needed the stability that caring for something even as humble as a puppy can give.”

“Yes,” said David, “Bramble gives her something that had been missing from her life. He is important to her.”

But as he said it he wondered whether it was wise of him to follow this train of thought. It felt almost like a betrayal of Anne to discuss her in these terms. And bitter experience had taught him that Grace de Messembry never, but never, indulged in conversation for conversation's sake.

“Even more vulnerable now.” Grace de Messembry drawled the words out reflectively. “Now that the dear girl has come to know and love the dear little creature. Now that she has had a little time to so completely bond with it. Poor Anne would be quite devastated if anything were to happen to it now, don't you think Sophie dear?”

“Yes Miss Grace it would destroy her I imagine. But surely nothing would. I mean I can't envisage a safer environment for a puppy than here at Helgarren, No traffic and he does not leave her side. And the gardener keeps an eye on him when Anne is not about. Surely there is no cause to .....”

“Of course you are right Sophie dear. What on earth could happen to the dear creature? Just a foolish woman's morbid fancies.”

The parasol was flicking backwards and forwards again now. Tip-tap, tip-tap against the toes of her shoes. Bramble crouched in a plump parody of a hunting stance as he watched it.

“It is just that Anne is so very vulnerable Sophie dear that I worry about her, as I am sure you do too dear. And we both must be extra vigilant to ensure that nothing untoward occurs. Puppies are such unpredictable trusting creatures and even here in Helgarren, which as you so rightly point out is the safest place imaginable, a veritable haven of tranquillity, accidents can alas happen.”

The red sheen of her hair moved in the sun as her head swayed slightly in contemplation of the uncertainties and pitfalls that could beset a small puppy's existence.

“But I am sure you are fully aware of that already Sophie dear. I know I can rely on you to be extra watchful though, extra diligent shall we say, in ensuring Bramble's, and through him Anne's, well being.”

David's mouth felt suddenly dry. The message was clear.

“So nice to have a confidante who understands so well my concerns.” Grace de Messembry purred. “Someone I know I can rely on. Someone who can sympathise with my foolish apprehensions.”

The message that Bramble was a hostage. Another thread of the web. Comply or else.

“But I mustn't bore you with my idle chatter any longer, Sophie dear, Helen and Anne seem to be nearly finished and I know you must be dying for a game. Such a pretty outfit too. Tennis does give a girl with good legs the chance to flaunt them!”

Grace rose. “Do remember what I have said Sophie dear. About boyfriends I mean. We can't have all these young men going to waste or pining away because their affections are unrequited. Just leave me to find someone suitably hunky for you. Unless you can entrap someone here yourself dear.”

And an elegant eyebrow and lid closed slightly over the green of her right eye in what was almost a wink.

With a final twirl of her parasol in Bramble's direction, she went over to where Helen Vanbrugh and Anne, their game apparently over, were chatting at the side of the court.

It was left unsaid. Grace de Messembry would never be quite so blatantly crass as to articulate it. But David understood only too well. A boyfriend or else Bramble dies. A boyfriend or else Anne would suffer losing the one thing that mattered to her; the one thing that might, against all the odds, make her whole again. It wasn't much really. Not compared with all the rest. It was just a reminder of who was in charge. And of how absolute her power was.

Chapter 39.

The boy friends had the overriding advantage of being innocuous. At least that was the apparent virtue that had been paramount in their selection over three weeks ago. Already though it was becoming apparent that such a virtue could be eroded by time and familiarity.

Vincent and Simon were both members of the Writers' Guild. Nice enough boys. Nice to the point of being nondescript. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair, medium... No, David couldn't remember what colour their eyes were. Could not recall having ever known. One had spectacles, the other hadn't. One had a slight Geordie accent, the other the product of the Home counties. Both were lab technicians working in the Helgarren laboratories.

And they were both in love. Or so they claimed. In love with Anne and Sophie.

Perhaps it was pure coincidence, yes surely if must be that..... but the current subject under discussion by the aspiring writers at the Guild was poetry. And being a mixed group, the poetry most discussed was love poetry, thus allowing the more flirtatious amongst them to personalise their readings and indeed their literary efforts.

Vincent and Simon would not normally fall into the more flirtatious category but had had that mantle laid upon them by Anne and David precisely because they weren't. The latter two had been schooled by Emma in the female arts of seduction The arts that dissembled so that the victim felt himself the instigator, was persuaded into believing that he and he alone was the dauntless, the young, Lochinvar. Persuaded into believing it against all the odds, and against all reason. And that Anne, or David, was the fair Ellen. Against all reason indeed.

David was exhilarated at how easy it had been. Appalled that he should be doing it, but exhilarated at his success at it. So easy really. To be pretty and to smile whilst holding Simon's gaze that little bit longer. To smile and be pretty whilst standing a little closer to him. To show enthusiasm for his enthusiasms, to approve his choices of verse, to compliment him on his reading of it, how well his voice brought out the emotion. To point out favourite lines in his book, one's fingers touching lightly on his.

To be pretty and to smile. And perfume helped of course.

And it was satisfying to know that when Simon wrote poetry it was with him in mind. Well with Sophie in mind of course, not him. Even though the poetry was stumbling in scansion and sickly in sentiment. It was the thought that mattered. As they say.

And when the thought of what he was doing appalled him too much. When he gagged at the thought of himself, of David, sexually enticing another male, then he would think of Bramble. Think of his small body crushed and bloody and what it would do to Anne. There were other wrongs of course, other reasons, and Bramble was only a dog. A dog, a puppy, whose sole asset was unquestioning love. Only a small, defenceless, poorly coordinated, puppy. But Bramble lying dead was easy to visualise. A convenient image to store in his mind, to bring out and examine when he needed the spur to continue his deception, to continue his shame.

The nail varnish brush in David's hand stilled. He extended his foot in front of him and flexed it as he considered with a judicious air, his head slightly to one side, his toe nails glowing softly pink in the morning light. Yes they would do. He tucked hie legs back and frowned in concentration as he turned his attention to his fingernails. A wisp of hair fell across his face, obscuring his vision, and he brushed it away impatiently with the back of his hand.

Simon was going to be a problem. As was Vincent, but he was Anne's problem. Simon was David's.

Simon's thoughts were venturing beyond the dictates of courtly love and the dedication of his latest sonnet to David. Simon's baser, earthier, needs were beginning to manifest themselves. Visibly manifest themselves if the surprisingly large bulge which was ever more frequently in evidence in the groin area of Simon's chinos was any guide. In that department at least nondescript was not an apt description. Maybe he had not been such a wise choice after all.

David stretched his hand, palm outwards, fingers upwards as he critically examined his nails. They really were quite elegant now he thought. Even Mrs. Townsend had said so. Carefully sculpted long ovals whose perfection was ensured by careful ridge filler treatment and an assiduous regime of foundation, lacquer and topcoat. It had been difficult at first he remembered. Even simple things that were now second nature, like fastening and unfastening his bra, had been awkward with  ¼” extensions. And as for suspender tabs! And the nails themselves were always getting chipped or broken. Not so much now. Now he was far less clumsy. He gently, languidly, waved his fingers to speed up the drying process and decided that the crystal opaline colour, well a sort of deep dusky pink really, was the right choice for him. Anne and he had had such a heated conversation about it last week but he was glad he had finally chosen as he had.

He held his hand against his breast and earnestly examined the result in the mirror. The lacquer was almost the exact shade as that of his new Calvin Klein bra and panty set. Not that any one but himself would ever appreciate the happy coincidence of course. Still it was just one of the little inner bits of knowledge that a girl hugged to herself and which gave her confidence.

Mind you if Simon had his way he might also be a beneficiary. Although the tunnel vision invoked by testosterone tended to exclude such niceties as colour matching.

Christ! He must stop thinking like this! He mustn't listen to the other voice. To Sophie's voice. Just try to hang on and to see it through. Just hang on and prove Helen wrong. Keep his body's male integrity as she had promised and the female mental conditioning could be reversed. He was under no illusions now about the latter. More and more he was accepting feminine values as his own. Slowly and surely his masculinity was being eroded. It was a matter of time only. He felt female, delighted in female things, thought female thoughts not just for minutes at a time now but for hours together.

Perhaps it was for the best. If he had to go further with Simon ...... Not all the way. Christ no not that. Over his dead body! But if he had to ... well calm him down, give him some satisfaction, perhaps.... Well if he had, maybe it would be easier if he allowed the girl now within him..... if he allowed Sophie to take over. Maybe it would be...? Surely it would be .... well less traumatic. Less of an affront to nature?

But that is what they wanted. What they expected. Why perhaps Helen had seemed so sure that hormones or no hormones the end would eventually be the same. His brain was being drip fed femininity. Messages and programming hidden in every TV programme he saw, every CD or DVD. Every session with Dr. Tabatha in spite of her protestations to the contrary. Femininity surrounded him. Clothes, conversation, everyone's assumption and expectation, all reinforced the simple indisputable message that he was female. Or would inevitably shortly be. He was absorbing the reality by a form of all pervading osmosis. Through every pore of his skin.

Through every orifice too. David thought of his nightly tryst with the butt plug, of his continuing exercises with the Oral Gratification Training Aid. Both of which he now accepted as part of a routine. A moment's unease hovered at the back of his mind. He needed some more cartridges for the OGT. Only two left. And more hormone pills. Well they weren't really hormone pills of course, mere placebos, but he needed to take them to comply outwardly as he had promised. And the regime once one gone into it was quite addictive. One mustn't run out of pills. The very thought made him feel uneasy. It was the same with the OGT cartridges. Only a couple of days ago he had awoken in the middle of the night with the sudden awareness that he had forgotten to perform the compulsory exercise, to suck the bloody thing to its mechanically induced orgasm.

And so he had had ..... then and there. In the middle of the night. Sat on the side of the bed and done it. It was ridiculous really. No one would have known. But it was just a matter of observing the routine. It was easier that way. And he needn't worry about running out. He could get fresh supplies from the Medical Centre later that day. When he replenished his supply of hormones. Kill two birds with one stone.

The slight unease passed. To be replaced by the realisation that if he didn't stop day-dreaming he would be late for his hair appointment followed by a session with Mrs Townsend on 'Skin Care'. And that would never do. His skin was so much better recently. All the ointments and unguents must be working their miracles. Another instance of the assiduous following of a routine paying off. As Mrs Townsend had assured him it would.

Although there was still the niggling thought that the Uncle Silas implant might be helping. If helping was the right word. David pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Although he had to admit that erections seemed perhaps less, well less frequent, and perhaps, well less urgent, hard and urgent. But that was only to be expected; the cause was known and reversible. No physical change was involved, not as would be the case if he really was consuming bottles of the Venumar Institute's latest hormones.

And that evening he was due to meet up with Anne and Emma for a drink. Perhaps they could advise on what to do about Simon....

And that evening they could, and did, advise. At least Emma could and did. Anne was, with David, merely a beneficiary of her wisdom.

“Oh poor Simon, the poor darling. How could you be so mean?” It was not the response David had been expecting.

“Poor Simon? Me mean?”

“Of course. How could you be so cruel? His poor willie must be in a real state. One big ache! You really are a frightful tease Sophie. It is just too bad of you!”

Emma was consumed by the giggles at the very thought.

“Emma! It is no laughing matter. I need to know what I should do. I don't want to finish with him. Because .... Well because if I do Grace de Messembry will produce some randy young stud and I shall have forsaken the frying pan for the fire.”

The thought of Bramble, an image of a dead Bramble, nagged at the back of his mind.

“So I need a boyfriend but .....”

“....but one not interested in sex.” Emma finished for him. She shook her head in sad despair at his naiveté

“Platonic boyfriends are as rare as unicorns in this day and age Sophie dear. In fact rarer where virgins are concerned sweetie.”

“But....”

“But nothing dear. You really have to accept the simple fact that a boy friend equates to sex. Don't tell me that Felicity Cranwell has never broached the subject?”

More giggles as she saw the look on David's face. Even Anne could not keep a straight face.

“Sophie dear, it's a trade off. You need a boy friend. Your boyfriend needs sex. It is a simple equation. You know it. I know it. Anne knows it. Poor Simon, most of all, knows it.”

David nodded, slowly, reluctantly.

“I know. But I had hoped, thought perhaps .... And I am .... Well I am not a girl .... it is difficult to accept.....”

Emma shook her head.

“Sophie you are a girl. What have you been doing here at Helgarren, and at the Holding Wing, for the last few months? What do you see in your mirror every morning?”

She paused for an answer that never came.

“Well I can tell you what I see. I see a sexy, startlingly attractive, girl. A sex bomb primed to trigger of an immediate explosion in the underpants of any male under the age of eighty whose line of sight she as much as crosses.”

David stared blankly at her. Knowing it was true. Hating the knowledge. Fearing that to respond would be to confirm. That to articulate the confirmation would make it irrevocable.

He saw Anne's eyes upon him. Saw in them confirmation that it was indeed so. Saw that Anne was a girl, and knew that if he was looking into a mirror he would see the same.

“The one thing I don't see, Sophie dear, is a boy.”

She didn't mean to be cruel. But it hurt. Hurt deeply. Hurt because it was what he feared the most. And because he couldn't deny it. Couldn't deny it because he had promised not to. Because if he did then he would surely lose any chance he had of it not being true. Hurt because he knew that it was indeed now partly true.

Perhaps Emma read the anguish in his face and knew because her voice softened.

“I am sorry dear,” she said, “I thought the worst was over, that you were reconciled. As you have to be pet. That you had agreed when you came here to Helgarren. Because if it isn't so, if you aren't a girl yet, or not completely so, then you will be, will be soon, with the hormones and .... and .... everything.”

The word 'surgery' hovered wraithlike behind the 'everything'. David wanted desperately to tell her, to tell her and Anne, about his agreement with Helen Vanbrugh but knew he couldn't risk it. Wanted to tell them both so they would understand. Understand that it was different for him. That for him there were no hormones, and that there would therefore be no surgery. Not for him.

“Emma's right, Sophie dear. I know it is difficult. But we have to think of ourselves as girls, because that is what, what we ...... are.”

The last, breathed out on a dying breath, was hardly audible, as if in its utterance Anne had herself crossed a divide.

Emma hurried to smooth over the tension.

“Its not as if you have to do anything much. Not shag him or anything,” she said. “Not yet anyway. Just get him a little worked up. You know, cosy up to him. Little gasps of admiration at his vigour and size, a few moans of repressed passion and longing. With any luck he will explode before he can untangle his prick from his boxers. In fact if a girl joins in the general fumbling about at that juncture, she can so complicate matters that the mess is indeed confined to his underwear. Especially if its his first time. And then even if it does get to see the light of day it isn't difficult to induce his orgasm with your hand.”

Emma giggled.

“Before things get out of hand as it were. Just remember to be quite disconsolate with disappointment. Make him feel really bad about it. Ashamed of being unable to control his animal urges. And then insist that it isn't really his fault, that being prone to premature ejaculation isn't the end of the world, that it can happen to anyone, and enquire with great solicitude as to whether he always has this problem. Point out that doctors can cure these things nowadays and so it isn't something that need blight his life. Above all assure him that you think none the worse of him for it.”

Emma was having difficulty in speaking through her giggles now.

“With any luck,” she said, “you will so inhibit him that he will never again be able even to get an erection when he's with you.”

She wiped tears from her eyes.

“Seriously though Sophie darling, joking apart, all you need to do is to give him to an early orgasm. A hand job is easy, and using your mouth is not the end of the world. After all you told me that Felicity Cranwell had given you on a frightful false cock to practice on. Believe you me the real thing is far nicer than that.”

And on that reassuring note the conversation drifted off down other avenues.

And strangely enough David did feel better about it. .Not good about it, but better. It didn't seem quite so horrific, the advice he had expected but dreaded. Not when it had been given and was out there in the open. And perhaps some of the humour that Emma had found in the situation had communicated itself to him, mitigating the disgust he felt.

And it was better certainly than the alternative.

And anyway it was in the future. An indefinite future. Not now. And he had learnt to take one day at a time.

So he drank with them, with Emma and Anne, and gossiped with them. And as the evening progressed he joined in their laughter. And the others in the bar just saw, perhaps some indeed desired at least one of, three attractive girls having an early evening drink.

Only later, at the close of the evening, preparing for bed, cleaning off his make up, rubbing in his night moisturising cream, and slipping on the Alannah Hill 'Nighty Night' silk slip in a delicate ivory shade that had been arrived by the morning's post, only then did the thought return that in the long term the problem of Simon, or whosoever Grace de Messembry might produce, had not been solved or gone away. That eventually more would be required of him.

And that, barring something quite unforeseen, a miracle perhaps, he would have no option but to provide that it. And that although a cock in his mouth or his arse might, as Emma had authoritatively stated, be preferable in theory to a plastic imitation, they were not at all the same thing. Not as far as he was concerned.

He lay there, felt his hair long on his pillow, his limbs soothed by the silk nightie, his perfume lingering in his nostrils, and he knew that it would not be enough to passively await salvation by survival. Even without hormones, without a date to aim for he was vulnerable as his mind more and more succumbed to the insidious pressures and daily indoctrination to which he was being subjected. Not to mention the seeming near inevitability of accepting a female sexual rá´le. And if he didn't accept it. If he rebelled? The threat of Rehabilitation was never now mentioned. Not mentioned now he had seemingly promised to accept, to welcome indeed, his feminisation. But it was there. As relevant as ever. If he reneged, defaulted on his promise, then the ultimate penalty was not just that the agreement with Helen would be annulled, that he would be subject to hormone regime. But that he would be reduced to what Coralie had become. There would be no choice, no resemblance of a choice left to him. He would not even be Sophie. Sophie at least he knew, was familiar with.

And there was always Bramble's fate. Though that paled into insignificance alongside his own.

The agreement with Helen was basically flawed. He was, she had said, part of a field trial, but no mention had been made of a time scale. Anne and the other girls would, he knew, shortly be showing some effects of the hormones. Anne had discussed it with him, almost as if it were a race to see whose boobs would show first. At his own last session at the Medical Centre, Dr. Walters had felt his nipples, his chest; questioned him as to whether he was aware of any new sensation there, any itching or soreness.

When it happened to all the others, when they had breasts, and swelling buttocks. When it became obvious that it wasn't a question of late development but that he was immune to physical change, then would they say 'enough'?

When Anne and the other girls had opted for surgery to enhance their feminine assets, surgery to finally remove any traces of masculinity, and he remained defiantly flat chested and resolute in his own maleness, would they then say 'enough'?

When the other girls finally left Helgarren and went to the new lives, the new careers, that had been promised them, then would they say 'enough'? Would he also leave Helgarren to resume his old life as David?

Or would they start again with another intake? Or find another rá´le for him? Another field trial in which he could participate?

And what would he be then? Regularly fucked by Grace de Messembry's young men and mentally accepting that and all the trappings of femininity which in truth already were part and parcel of his existence. Accepting them fully without reservation. Taking pleasure in them. Taking pleasure in being fucked?

Sleep claimed him. And in his dreams all his fears faded, all was sweetness, and softness, and perfume, and femininity. And any male presence belonged not to him, but to another. Another someone who cherished him and made him feel that he was indeed worthy of being cherished. Made him feel attractive and seductive. And the young man, whoever he was, was gratifyingly so smitten with him, adored him so much, that it seemed a shame to disappoint him, to deny him .... and it really was bliss and made him feel so thoroughly feminine, which was so nice, so very fulfilling ....

The feeling of satisfaction, of fulfilment, lasted well into his first waking moments.

He had to drag himself back. Back to the realisation that time was not his friend. At the very least he must have an escape avenue. A plan that he could activate if, when, needed. As near as foolproof a plan as possible. Because if an attempted escape failed he was under no illusion as to where he would end up. Rehabilitation.

In the days following he looked at his surroundings with a new driven interest. In between the continuing lessons and tutorials aimed at perfecting his outward femininity, doubtless at the expense of a little of his inner masculinity, he was obsessed with his new found resolution.

He had decided against telling Anne. Sadly he accepted that she was living in a parallel existence. Keeping things from her seemed almost a betrayal but she seemed to have achieved a degree of contentment. Accepting her femininity and cocooned in an approximation of happiness centred around having Bramble to care for. It would do no good. Just spoil things for her. She would worry about him. Perhaps feel guilty at her own contentment. And of course if she knew, if she was perhaps implicated in any escape, there was Bramble to think of. David thought, hoped, that Grace de Messembry wouldn't carry out that particular threat once he had gone. There would be no point. It would be pure sadism and, perhaps more importantly, it would be counter productive in that it would alienate Anne who had conformed. If it was a risk, well it all involved risk.

But as much as he, as frantically as he, agonised over possibilities of escape, a solution evaded him. It looked easy. He thought of all the stories of escape from wartime prison camps. Here there were no guards except at the gate and even they were just ordinary security staff and seemed neither much in evidence nor unduly threatening. There were vast expanses of wall, of river, and of ha-ha, which were apparently quite unguarded except for the presumption of cameras. The many staff of Helgarren entered, exited, as a daily routine.

But they didn't have an Uncle Silas as a constant companion. Pain he was prepared to risk, to endure. Even pain that castrated at the final throw, because if he failed that looked inevitable anyway. But pain that disabled and led to recapture? That was the rub.

Perhaps it was because he was distracted with such considerations, that he let his guard down with Simon. He was sitting by the riverside wondering where exactly the cable was laid and if a jump from a high bank could carry him over it into the water before it had time to activate. What was it Dr. Walters had said about its range? Effective at six feet certainly, possibly up to twelve feet. Say nine feet was worth the risk ..... Six feet even at a pinch....

“Sophie darling I have been looking all over for you. Anne was adamant that you had gone to the Sports Complex but I had a hunch you might be by the river.”

Simon was standing behind him.

“I was just about to come back Simon. It is about to pour down and rain is death to this dress material.”

David got to his feet quickly, forestalling a movement by Simon to sit besides him on the grass.

“I was just thinking about tomorrow's Guild meeting. Will you have any more poems for us?”

Simon blushed. “With you as my inspiration how could I not darling Sophie,” he said, “though I fear they will be completely unable to do you justice.”

“Don't be silly Simon, I am sure I am not anyone's inspiration. We all look forward to hearing them ...” David cast around for something flattering, but non-committal, to say about Simon's literary offerings.

Simon took his hand and David forced himself to let it rest there, acutely aware that even in Helgarren's broad acres surveillance cameras were ever present.. Also aware from past experience that at least in that way Simon's hand would be unable to fondle his buttocks.

“But Sophie darling You know they are for you. I just can't get you out of my mind. You know I am mad about you darling.”

Bombarded by this and similar protestations of undying devotion, David led Simon by the hand back towards the Hall, absent mindedly fending of his more passionate advances whilst still mulling over in his mind whether the river offered any conceivable escape options.

Between these two concerns he hardly heard the thunder rolling closer. It had been a distant background presence for the last hour or so, but the sky suddenly darkened with dramatic quickness and the first heavy warm drops of rain fell suddenly upon them.

The lightening strobed the sky before them, throwing Helgarren Hall into stark silhouette.

The Sports Centre offered the nearest shelter and together they turned and ran towards it as the heavens opened. The door of the nearest building was unlocked and there they sought refuge. It was a small storeroom on the outskirts of the complex. Inside were stored spare gymnastic equipment, benches, horses, mats etc. and an assortment of athletic equipment, hurdles, high and pole jump stands and bars, a rack containing javelins, and several unmarked wooden storage boxes. It smelt slightly musty, but was clean and above all dry.

For a few minutes they stood at the doorway in silence watching the storm. Simon took advantage of an extra loud clap of overhead thunder to move his arm around David's waist. Tentatively, more protective than passionate, but it caused David to move back slightly away from the confines of the doorway so that he had more space.

And it was then that he saw them. Athletics was not one of his passions. His summers had been spent playing cricket, but he knew what they were. Pole vault poles. They were too long to stand upright, but were racked horizontally along the wall. Too long, they must be about 15' he guessed, and the thought came to him suddenly that although he could not vault with them, he had no idea how to and anyway he no longer had the necessary muscle base, he could conceivably use them to.....

David was suddenly made aware that Simon seemed to have misinterpreted his move away from the door deeper into the store. He felt himself pulled round and wrapped in a tight embrace, felt Simon's lips nuzzling his neck, heard endearments breathed into his ear. As he tried to pull his head away slightly his lower body was levered against Simon's and he felt an insistent mound there, pressing back against his groin.

His body's leverage only served to encourage a reciprocal response from Simon. David was only wearing a summer skirt of thin silky material over a thin half slip. His panties were rather more substantial in order to hold his own penis tucked unobtrusively down, but substantial was only comparative. Nothing he wore could disguise the shape or rock hardness of what was pressing into him. All that he wore, he was acutely aware, by its tactile silky sliding response to the movement against it, could only inflame Simon's sexual desire.

He tried to push away, to gain literally a little breathing space, but his former male musculature had been quite eroded away. Simon was, he realised, much stronger than he.

His lips crushed now as Simon transferred his attention away from his neck, he could feel a tongue exploring them, the inside of them, sliding against his teeth. A firm hand on his rear now, pushing him, guiding him, urging his lower body to some sort of rhythm against the insistent bulge now trying to burrow into him.

“Oh Sophie darling, I do so want you.”

Unwelcome as the protestation was, at least David could breathe again, speak again.

“Want me?” Breathlessly. Trying to think.

“Want to make love to you darling, And I know you want it to, I can tell.”

The words rhythmically reinforced by the thrusting of his penis through the thin material of his chinos, the even thinner material in which David was clad.

“Want you?”

A kiss half smothered David's startled reaction.

“Yes I know you do. I've known for ages. Confess it darling.”

“You do? Confess what?”

“That you want me to fuck you of course Sophie.”

They had reached a mat used for the high jump and David found himself dragged down to a semi sitting, semi reclining position, on it.

“But I can't Simon. I can't.” He heard his own voice scratchy, desperate.

“You must know I can't Simon. Even if I wanted to.” He forced the words out. “I am not a real girl. Just a pretend one. I haven't a pussy. You must know .....”

“But you will be, will have, Sophie. Everyone says so. And soon. When your new hormones kick in. And then you can have the operations. Implants and .... and other modifications ....And in the meantime darling we can .... well darling there are other ways .... and I know you want to....”

He held David's hands, smiling at him, his eyes aglow with .... desire .... enthusiasm.

“! am not gay or anything like that Sophie dear, but we could use your other pussy couldn't we? For the time being? Everyone says that you are trained to do so ....”

“Everyone? Trained? Simon who is everyone .... who has been telling you .... talking about me ....” David felt sick, deathly cold inside. Too cold even for outrage.

“Everyone? Why everyone. We are working here to help you transition .... “ Simon sounded puzzled. “...to help all the girls, on the programme, your programme. At least our section is.....”

“Helping us? Your section ....?

“I thought I told you. I....we .... our section, our team, are have been developing the new hormones. They really are wonderful Sophie dear. Once they do kick in it's like an explosion .... you'll see darling.”

Simon smiled at him affectionately. Then leant forward and fondled David's false boobs. “So you see darling girl you won't have to rely on artificial tits much longer.”

“And Rory says ....”

“Who the hell is Rory? And what does he know about anything?”

Simon seemed a little taken aback by the vehemence in David's tone. He planted a pacifying kiss on his nose.”

“Don't be so upset darling. Rory works with me. You must have seen him about. He is Sandra's boyfriend.”

“Who the hell is Sandra ......?”

But then he knew. Sandra was one of the senior girls. In Mona's intake. A tall willowy girl with dark hair whose slimness emphasised the proud uplift of her impressive breasts. Impressive since three weeks ago when her erstwhile boyish figure had been transformed by the acquisition of implants. Around the time when she had also acquired Rory as a boyfriend David remembered.

“Oh that Sandra.” He said weakly.

Simon, seemingly emboldened by the sudden understanding in his voice, moved his hand down and started caressing David's knee

“And Sandra has told him all about it, about the programme here and how it is helping her, helping all of you ......”

The hand moved in a smoothing motion up David's thigh, sliding over the silkiness of his stockings.

“..... and how it so important for you all that you be treated just like ordinary girls. Especially when it comes to sex. You need it so badly to help you psychologically adjust, and how you have been trained to take it up....there ...”

His fingers reached the thicker band at the top of David's stockings, strayed to toy with the tabs of his suspender belt, and paused as if relishing their the potential of their position.

“.... And they do it all the time .... and Rory says it really is good .... and he isn't at all gay .... but he says it's just as good ....and even when she, when Sandra, has a proper cunt .... well it will be difficult to choose ....”

His breath was becoming ragged, deep in his chest, his fingertips straddling the latex band of David's stockings, touching the smooth flesh beyond.

The tingle of flesh on flesh, alien fingers on his flesh, woke David from the paralysis that had seized him. He knew his options had all but vanished. Simon was stronger than he and was now on such a wave of passion that calm reasoning would not even be listened to. He could scream, make a frenzied resistance which might or might not deter him. And if it did?

And if it did? If Simon backed of? If he could be persuaded to take his engorged member away in search of someone else's orifice. Then he would talk. Then all the lab staff would know. He would be labelled a prickteaser, a cold bitch who led boys on, let them buy her meals, dance attendance without caring.... And they would hear. It would come to the ears of Grace de Messembry and .....”

David remembered Emma's advice. And took the only decision open to him.

“Simon darling,” he purred as his hand moved down under his slip to restrain the other's hand. “Of course I want you darling. It's just that it is my first time and I didn't know how you would react to.... whether you really would want to .... be inside me there ....”

David leant up and kissed Simon full on the lips. A long lingering kiss.

Buying time. Whilst he thought. Trying to recall what Emma had said.

He moved Simon's hand back down his stocking thigh, gently, languorously until it was back at his knee.

“I want it to be special darling. Please let us take it slowly, please be gentle and loving.”

David abandoned the hand on his knee and moved his own hand to feel the urgent staff that imprisoned in Simon's trousers. There was already a smear that was slippery to his fingertips at its crest, seeping through the intervening, restraining material. He kissed Simon again and slowly massaged his mound. Up and down, up and down. His fingers trailing its length, feeling it through the thin fabric, gently tracing its outline.

He tried to make his mind a blank. Concentrate on the technicalities. Don't think of it as another man's cock. Not as another man's assertive maleness. Not as a counterpoint to his own incipient femininity.

Up and down his fingers went, caressing, encouraging.

“Darling it's so huge,” David whispered, “I didn't know it would be so big.”

Simon moaned “It's big for you Sophie darling, it wants to be inside you. Wants to penetrate you, to feel you, your flesh, all around it.”

His hand abandoned David's knee as his own sensations became paramount. It closed over David's hand guiding, encouraging it, pressing it down, David was aware that he was also fumbling with the zip, trying to free it.

“I want it inside me too,” he gasped, “deep inside me.” As he tried to hinder the opening of the zip by a display of clumsy helpfulness.

To his horror he was aware that his own penis was responding, swelling inside its restraining panties. He must concentrate on the work in ..... Christ No...! Not the work in hand! No the aim. He must bring Simon to orgasm before.... he must remain dispassionate. Numb. Think in abstract terms.

Simon's other hand was inside David's blouse, fumbling with his bra hooks and eyes. He must be mad! What did he expect to find there? Was it some genetic programming or an ingrained routine?

Simon's fly was open now. Simon's hand guiding his inside. God it was big. And it was leaking gallons of pre-cum. The underwear was soggy and sticky with it. 'Y' fronts! Simon was wearing 'Y' fronts!

David uttered up a silent prayer of thanks. An organ that size, in such a rigid state, had no chance of getting through the opening in a pair of 'Y' fronts, not without divine intervention. They would have to be pulled down, Simon's trousers too ..... may a slip between the cup and the lip ..... Christ don't think about it..... Don't go there!

David's fingers slipped though the fly of the 'Y' fronts and his nails scraped along the satin soft flesh of the Simon's prick. God he could never get that inside him. He tried to measure it in his mind against his current butt plug and .....

Simon was fumbling at the belt of his own trousers. Moaning “Darling, darling Sophie... Please...”

David kissed him again. “Gently darling, lets make it last. I want it to be special ... Patience sweetie .... it's best slowly. I promise you.”

Simon squirmed, lifting his hips trying to ease his trousers down. David's hand through the opening of the 'Y' fronts, caressing, stroking, smearing the pre-cum, obstructing his efforts. Holding him so that movement to liberate the rock hard cock with a searching urgent life of its own was impeded. Impeded but not prevented. Simon's pants were down to his knees, then kicked away. His penis rampant was still snagged in his underpants by its jutting assertiveness, thrusting proud through the opening, but Simon evidently considered the battle won and his hands now returned in unco-ordinated lust to simultaneously fumbling under David's skirt and at his bra.

David summoned up every ounce of dispassionate numbness he could muster. He must get him to orgasm before .... Even if it meant .... He saw with rabbit's eyes the stoat rearing before him, nodding rhythmically in response to his own caressing, felt his own mouth water, behind dry but now half parted lips. This was what his nightly exercises with the OGTA had prepared him for, made him an expert at. It would be so simple. Over so quickly.... He felt his head drawn towards the purpling head, saw the slit magnified by a bead of lubricant.

His fingernails scraped the long length, his palm smoothed the head feeling its silken oiled softness as his mouth seemed drawn downwards, his tongue flicking his own lips in unbidden anticipation, moistening them, moisture to the moist, sweets to the sweet ....

And then the first convulsion. Far back At the very base. Just a twitch really. The rod shook. Just a twitch. But David knew. And it was confirmed by a small groan in the back of Simon's throat. A small groan of impending loss. And then another small deep explosion, stronger now. And another and another. A whole series. Not longer twitches but full blooded spasms that convulsed the whole body. Simon's body.

Semen erupted forth. The first emission a thick burst, A warning shot. The second, a string of molten pearls, with greater vehemence, greater velocity, that leapt up towards David's face, uncurling before his lips, before falling back bespattering his hands and wrists. A hydrant pumping. Again and again. Fierce ejaculations that eventually diminished to sullen gouts that oozed in a dying fall.

Relief washed over David. Relief, and a strange regret, a sadness, a feeling of fulfilment denied. Of loss. He looked at his right hand and saw that in the hollows of his painted nails little pools of sperm nestled, pearls against his fingertips. Trancelike he brought them to his mouth and fed them between his lips.

Simon was moaning. Between the moans the word 'sorry' featured. Irrationally David felt a giggle building up inside him. Fought to suppress it. It was as Emma had said.

“Oh dear, Oh dear .... So soon. But you mustn't worry darling,” he said, and brought his hand up to caress Simon's face, leaving there a sticky trail. “You mustn't blame yourself. It's my fault for getting you too excited. I'll just have to take greater care of you next time. You mustn't think that you .... That there is anything wrong. It could happen to anyone....”

David smiled at him. Understanding and sympathy dripping from every syllable

“Its just that ....” David sighed. “Perhaps we should just take it a little easy for a time. Until you can control your ..... your emotions a little better. To avoid disappointment....”

He was on is feet now, smiling down at Simon whose post orgasmic emptiness of spirit seemed to find little solace in his words.

“But really, you mustn't worry about it....” And he reached down to pull the disconsolate Simon to his feet.

Outside it was all late sunshine, the grass beneath their feet sweet after the rain, as they walked in silence back to the Hall.

Little was said. There was little to say. Just the occasional 'sorry' from Simon, the stumbling beginnings of an explanation that never progressed beyond half a sentence. From David just the answering sweet reproach masquerading as forgiveness, stilling the apologies.

David was shivering slightly. Behind the smiles he felt a great hollowness within himself. It had been a close run thing. Too close and he knew it was not over. There would be other romantic interludes with Simon, or others, and the odds against him fending off such advances would decrease each time. He would be fucked. Literally. It was merely a question of time. The where and by whom irrelevant. The when an unavoidable certainty.

David was shivering slightly. But not because of that, that physical destiny revealed, but because of the self knowledge that had come to him in that moment of Simon's orgasm. The moment his training, his indoctrination, his .... something had taken over and he had been drawn as if in a dream, his head, his mouth had been drawn down towards Simon's prick. When he had wanted to feel it on his tongue, in his mouth. Because for him it was right.

And then he had been mesmerised by the sight of the sperm in the curve of his fingernail. That he had felt on his tongue, in his mouth. Voluntarily. Because for him it was right.

And worst of all because these reactions could be explained by the physical conditioning of the OGTA, the nightly exercises that had made it second nature, was the feeling of loss when the premature ejaculation that he had striven to bring about had finally occurred.

Something deep in his subconscious had wanted something more, had been as bereft, as unfulfilled, as Simon had been. And that was very, very, wrong.

They parted before the Hall, Simon making his way to the Car Park for his car and the drive home. David to the small terraced house in the little square which was his refuge and his prison. The shivering had abated, given way to an empty sick feeling, an inner sleaziness. He felt deathly tired and his chest hurt under the breast forms that Simon had fondled with such misplaced zeal. He needed a long soak in a hot bath. He needed a stiff drink. Several stiff drinks.

There was mail for him lying inside the door. Anne must have collected it with hers and pushed them through his letterbox. In addition to lingerie catalogues from La Perla and Blush and the latest 'Elle', there were two rather formal looking envelopes, both of an expense-no-object quality. One of them had, in small engraved lettering on the back flap, an impeccably respectable London address over which were inscribed the words 'Haughton and Humphries. Solicitors.'

On the back of the other was scrawled a short message. 'Exciting new developments — see you at 7 in bar — More later - Love Anne.'

Both were addressed to Miss Sophie F. Jackson, 5, Thegn Court, Helgarren Hall. Neither had either a stamp or a further address so they must have been originally sent to Helgarren Hall under different cover.

David weighed them in his hand. The stiff drink, any drink, he decided reluctantly could wait. He was due to meet Anne in the bar later and additional drinks now would not be a good idea. Besides he needed to think, needed a clear head. Needed above all a bath.

Carrying the thicker of the two envelopes he went to the bathroom and turned on the taps. Watched the steam rise. Poured in some bath oil. His chest irritated him. Bloody Simon must have loosened the adhesive. Anyway it was time they were redone. The skin softened too much if they were worn continually. He needed to wear unattached forms for a few days to let it recover. A nuisance but essential. Real boobs would be so much more convenient .... God don't even think that....

To block the thought, to seek distraction, he tore open the envelope. The solicitor's letter was crisp and heavy. The typing impeccably spaced and formatted. The language formal and dispassionate.

'Dear Miss Jackson,' the first sheet began. Then 'We are pleased to be able to inform you that pursuant upon the instructions received from the Venumar Foundation, we are now in the happy position of being able to confirm to you that the application made by us on your behalf under The Gender Recognition Act 2004 has been satisfactorily processed and approved and that accordingly .....'

The words swam before David's eyes. He sat down on the side of the bath. What the hell were they talking about? He read through the punctuationless legalese again trying to make sense of it.

'..... the enclosed Gender Recognition Certificate has been issued in the name of Sophie Felicity Jackson ....'

“Christ! Jesus fucking Christ!” David stared in disbelief at a second, even thicker piece of parchment, folded behind the first. It bore the Royal governmental crest beneath which were the words 'Gender,' and 'Recognition,' and 'Certificate.'

'..... As you will be aware this certificate automatically leads to a new birth certificate in the acquired gender with all its attendant rights and responsibilities. This includes the right to marry.'

'Whilst strictly speaking all the normally obligatory conditions have not in your case yet been fully complied with, the Home Office are recognisant of the special circumstances attached to your case as have been strongly argued by the Venumar Foundation and are pleased to waive any reservations in acknowledgement of the aforementioned circumstances.'

'You will perhaps be aware that the normal circumstances referred to are that a person to be eligible for the Gender Recognition Certificate must :-

have been diagnosed as having gender dysphoria, or
have had gender reassignment surgery, and
have lived in their acquired gender role for two years,
intend to do so permanently for the remainder of their life.'
'Account has also been taken of the Venumar Foundation's past accomplishments and future contributions in this respect as well as their assurance that any apparent current shortfall in the fulfilment of these criteria as they relate to your own individual circumstances is a matter solely of timescale.'
'It remains only for us to express our satisfaction at the successful outcome of this application and to congratulate you, Miss Jackson, on the attainment of your new status which we trust will bring you great happiness in future years. Naturally if I, or my partners, can be of any further assistance to you in any matter, pertaining or otherwise, then we are at your entire disposition.'
Then a 'Yours faithfully' and an undecipherable squiggle of a signature.

David felt numb. All the sick emptiness that he had felt earlier returning. He turned off the taps. The perfume of the bath essence swirled around him.
He undressed slowly. There seemed little else to do. On automatic pilot.
Shoes, and then sliding his skirt down over thighs and calves. The silken slither of his half slip as it followed the descent to the floor Stockings unclipped and insinuated back down his legs, peeled off the end of his toes. His top over his head, arms aloft as he eased it over his head, taking care lest his earrings snag. Arms down and back reaching for the hooks and eyes of his bra. Fingers fumbling for a moment and then as the pretty satin and lace moulded confection fell away. The matching panties next, followed by the wisp of a suspender belt.

He felt tired, drained of energy. The soothing bath beckoned. A bath to wash away the present, to drown his troubles. But before that .... He opened the bathroom cabinet and found the small bottle of solvent for his breast adhesive.

Holding it he sank deep into the welcoming, hot, perfumed bath. Lay there, wallowing in it, letting the healing water sink into, permeate, every pore. The bubbles reached up to, indeed covered the top of his breasts but through them he could see that there was indeed the beginning of a gap there. He sat up slightly straighter, wiped the water and bubbles away. Poured a little of the solvent into the gap, spread it around the edges and massaged it gently in.

The events of the day came crowding back as he relaxed. He re-read in his mind the solicitor's letter. Making it official. He was Sophie ... .Sophie Felicity? The Home Office acknowledging the Venumar Foundation's past accomplishments .... and future contributions? The shortfall in conditions merely a matter of timescale? And back beyond that. To the moment of his own self realisation. When he had wanted to.... When he had felt the loss, felt deprived.....

And he knew bleakly that he was losing. Knew that perhaps he had always been losing. In spite of his brave, defiant, resolutions. Helen had been right in her confidence that the beautiful butterfly would emerge. It didn't need hormones. It was what happened inside that mattered. They knew. Had always known. So confident that they had officially changed his sexual status. Permanently. And had mocked him by telling him.

His fingers circled the edges of his breasts, working the oily solvent deeper down. Feeling the alien mounds beginning to sag on the skin of his chest. The skin sensitive underneath.

It was what happened inside that mattered. In his head. In his acceptance of the routine. A new normality being superimposed upon the old. Blocking it out, weakening and then destroying it. What was being fed daily, hourly, minute by minute, into his head. Hormones were the icing on the cake. They didn't need to give him them, they were only an outward confirmation of femininity.

He couldn't sit it out trusting to their ultimate benevolence. Trusting that they would let him go to be David again when he had served his purpose as a statistical benchmark.

He had to get out. And quickly. Perhaps the a pole jump pole would work. If only he could get it there. Unless they came to pieces like a fishing rod? But that was unlikely. But there must be a way .... Before he accepted it. Accepted being Sophie. Before he accepted being, before he became Sophie.

His right breast fell away in his hand. Then the left. Underneath the skin was white and slightly wrinkled. A few days with ordinary falsies pouched in his bra were needed. His hands smoothed the skin of his chest .....

And he froze....

Again his fingers felt, explored. Dreading the confirmation of what they had first felt, had first discovered.

And as his fingers confirmed their findings, as they found the firm first buddings, as his brain struggled to accept, he glanced down and saw through the remaining bubbles still clinging to his chest, that his nipples were puffy and were now surrounded by a wider area .... small aureoles over small, but unmistakeable, mounds .....

Breasts.