Melanie invited me to write an episode of one of my favourite series, this is it. I’ll probably add a second part if there’s enough interest. I hope I’ve repaid the trust she had in my using her characters.

Princess For Hire. The British Kid Part 1 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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The walls of Kingston Academy hove into view as Tim Burton, Flight Lieutenant Tim Burton, RAF drove his hired Ford towards the gate. Beside him was his son, Paul, who was still sulking.

“Look, when I get some leave I’ll take you to see Disney Land.”

“You said we could go before you went to your rotten base.”

“I’m sorry kiddo, they changed my orders.”

“So I’ve got to go to boarding school with a load of Americans.”

“This is America after all, Paul, so you can expect there to be one or two there.”

“Huh,” the boy huffed, “It’ll be full of them–they can’t even speak English properly. That man on the hot-dog stand, I couldn’t understand half of what he said, Dad.”

“He only asked if you wanted tomato sauce on your sausage?”

“Did he? Coulda fooled me, he said something about potatoes.”

“No, son, he said tomatoes–but the Yanks pronounce it the same as potatoes. Anyway, here we are.” He steered the blue Ford sedan into the driveway and was impressed by the size of the grounds–he was sure he’d served on smaller bases than this appeared to be.

“Crikey,” commented Paul, “I hope I can get myself a bike, or they have a bus service–this is an awfully long way to walk.”

They parked in the small car park behind one part of the school and walked towards reception. Tim had offered to wear his uniform for the trip, but Paul had said, no, the stupid Yanks would probably think he was an admiral or something. So they arrived with Tim in smart casual–a polo shirt and jeans, with Paul wearing a tee shirt and jeans.

Paul was small and thin, an atypical Klinefelter’s syndrome child–he wasn’t really sure what that meant except he knew he had an extra X-chromosome to other boys, and it also meant he had small puffy breasts and very small testicles.

He had a morbid fear of needles–hypodermic needles–having seen his mother sectioned under the Mental Health Act, when he was four years old. She subsequently committed suicide by hanging herself from a door handle with her bra strap. Paul’s grandparents had never forgiven Tim for having her committed, but her severe bipolar disorder had meant he felt she was at risk of an attempt to kill herself as she had tried before. Tim was trying to help her, believing the right treatment would stabilise her, unfortunately it wasn't to be.

Subsequently, when the bitterness set in, Tim blocked their access to Paul, and while his RAF career took off–he was a graduate entrant with a degree in physics and maths–he placed Paul in a boarding school in England.

Paul had become quite withdrawn and depressed at the apparent loss of his surviving parent and at one point Tim worried if his son had inherited his mother’s illness–but apparently not.

Tim had been posted to various places around Europe, he was a natural pilot and flew large and small aircraft with great skill, particularly some of the inherently unstable ones which can only fly with computer assistance.

So when the USAF brought over a stealth bomber–the Northrop Grumman B 2 Spirit–to an air display at Cosford RAF base, Tim was fortunate to have a chance to co-pilot it with its American pilot. Within a short time he was flying it with the American acting as co-pilot. A month later, he was requested by the USAF to be sent to the States to train to fly the aircraft. He was really pleased–they were difficult things to control and it would be a real fillip to his career, to have that on his CV, especially when he went over to civilian aircraft to fly airbus and other jumbos.

He went to tell Paul the news and Paul was disgusted–now he really would be losing his other parent. Tim accepted the pressure his son placed on him and went to see his CO.

“I don’t think you understand the nature of the request, Burton, it’s not so much a request as a summons. The Yanks don’t let just anyone fly this stuff–so we don’t turn down the opportunity to get our chaps onto the programme.”

“But my son must come first, sir, he’s heartbroken to think he’s losing me as well as his mum.”

Knowing the history a little the CO, a kindly Squadron Leader, made the suggestion that brought them to the car park at Kingston Academy–“Why not take him with you?”

“Take him with me, sir? I can’t look after him and do this job.”

“Look, I’ll see if we can get some funding for him to attend a school over there, not too far from your base–if we place him as a boarder–it won’t be an ideal solution but at least you can get to see him now and again without crossing the ocean every time.”

“I don’t know, sir, he’s fairly settled where he is.”

“D’you want to fly the Northrop Grumman?”

“I’d love to, sir.”

“Go and convince him he’d like to go to see Uncle Sam with you. I’ll get on to the Air Ministry, see how much they have in the coffers.”

Because it had been a request from the USAF they agreed to part fund the boy’s schooling, and had even suggested Kingston Academy as being a good school with an excellent record albeit an idiosyncratic if not quirky approach to education.

When Tim saw the brochures he was impressed, in fact as much as he had been with the experience of the place. Paul was harder to convince–he didn’t want to have to play baseball or other sports where his small boobs would bounce about and get him ribbed by the other boys.

Tim had spoken to the headmaster by phone and explained his son’s problem, his hypogonadism and gynaecomastia, to Mr Uchiha, who had reassured him it wouldn’t be a problem and that some other form of exercise would be organised for Paul–possibly cycling or golf. He would speak to Paul personally and discuss the options. Tim was genuinely impressed.

Paul eventually agreed to go when he saw how much it meant to his father, and they’d gone to see a film and had a meal together to celebrate his assent. It was good old fashioned bribery, but neither was too worried.

Now three months later they were standing together outside the door to the headmaster’s study waiting to speak with him face to face.

In a short time, Paul was escorted off by some rather attractive girl–and he’d thought it was a boy’s school–while his dad signed a few papers and agreed the terms and conditions of his son’s stay there.

“This one is to allow him to take part in some of our experimental programmes.”

Tim looked up at the Asian-American gentleman standing beside him at a huge desk. “Experimental? How d’you mean, experimental?”

“Oh we do dietary experiments, social experiments, sport’s ones. In a recent one we discovered if the teams were supported by cheer leaders their success rate doubled. In a recent dietary one, we found that those boys who ate extra bananas fared better in cognitive testing–presumably something to do with potassium increase or some other thing, extra cucumber made them sleep better.”

“Just makes me fart,” said Tim blushing as he realised what he’d said.

“Me too,” agreed the headmaster easing his embarrassment. Tim signed everything.

“What about money? How much can I send him?”

“We prefer to have out boys earn their money, by doing chores round the school–picking litter, helping in the school farm and so on.”

“You pay them for being here?”

“Not quite, you pay us–or the US air force does, but the money we save by not having to employ extra staff, means we can share some of our savings with the boys.”

“What about the girl–I thought this was a boy’s school?”

“We find they act more like young men and less like Attila the Hun and his barbarian horde if they see a bit of femininity about the place–plus of course, we have need of cheer leaders for our teams. I take it you have no objections?”

“If it civilises the little darlings, I have no objections whatsoever–I mentioned Paul has Klinefelter’s–so he’s not likely to make anyone pregnant–so what the hell?”

After being shown his room, he had a single one next to this girl–he couldn’t believe his luck–he was taken back to say goodbye to his dad, who dashed back to the airport to fly to his base.

He couldn’t help the tears–the man had just come back into his life–and there he was gone again. Paul missed his friends, he had promised to email them when he had a chance.

Mr Uchiha, the headmaster, put his hand on his shoulder and said to Paul–we need to find another volunteer for one of our experimental programs–it takes a bit of guts to do it, but we do compensate you financially if you take part–and it would get you out of a few of the things I suspect you don’t like too much–like sport.”

“You actually pay me?” asked a surprised Paul.

“Yes, and better than if you work on the farm or gardens or in the cleaning squads.”

“Can’t say I fancy any of those–what’s this other programme, sir?”

“We call it the princess program.”

“What, I get to meet the girls you have here?”

“You will get to meet them all, and know them very well indeed, young Burton.”

“Okay–sign me up for it, it’s got to be better than mucking out cows.”

“I think I agree with you, Mr Burton. I’ll send for Becky Henderson to explain things to you in more detail, she like you was recruited on her first day because we thought she was most suitable–so far we haven’t been wrong.”

“Is that the girl, I met just now, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Kewl,” said Paul thinking he’d died and gone to heaven–and they pay me for it–who can’t have their cakes and eat ‘em?

Becky came and got Paul and they went back to his room, her leading him through the corridors, which he still found something of a warren. He’d tried to ask about this programme thing, but she’d hushed him and said she’d explain when they got back to his room. He shrugged and walked with her back to his room in the P wing.

Back in his room, she looked at her watch and told him they had an hour before dinner so he could ask her any questions he liked. He knew what he’d like to have asked her, but she was probably spoken for anyway. He had a bit of a surprise coming.

“What’s this Princess thing, and do they really give me money for taking part?”

“Oh they do more than give you money, they give you priority over passes to town, they provide you with clothes and lots of other things, too.”

“Kewl,” said Paul, “Better tell me about it then.”

“Better sit down then; it might take some time.”

She sat in his chair crossing what he considered to be quite elegant legs in the school uniform skirt and tights. “I’m one of the princesses,” she started, and he nodded–he could see that without being told. “They want you to become one too.”

He nodded then stopped. “Hang on, they want me to become a girl? I’m missing something here, aren’t I?”

“No you’re doing fine, that’s exactly what we want.”

“What is this some sort of weirdo place? You’ll be telling me you’re really a boy next.”

“I am, my real name is Daniel Henderson.”

“No,” Paul shook his head, “No you can’t be–this place is full of freaks–no.”

“Paul, please listen to me–no one is forcing you to do anything–okay?”

“Too right, they’re not.”

“Please, may I finish?” asked Becky.

Paul stood up wandered round the room looked hard at her and then sitting down, nodded for her to continue.

“It’s like this...” she explained how the program had been created and the benefits it had brought to the school, particularly the improvement in behaviour of most of the boys.

“But don’t they just see you as a boy in a skirt?”

“Did you?”

“No, but I didn’t know you before, did I?”

“True, but do I look like a boy in a skirt, now you know?”

Paul looked very hard, “No, I guess not–but that doesn’t mean I’m happy to do it.”

“No–but you have great potential–have you ever dressed up as a girl?”

“No way, I’m not some saddo.” After this outburst, he saw her frown, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I mean, what’s my dad to think of me poncing round in a skirt.”

“Poncing? What does that mean?”

“Oh it means, mincing round like some sort of poofter.”

“A poofter–that’s British slang for a gay man, right?”

Paul gave her an old fashioned look as if to ask if she spoke English, then realised the truth about Bernard Shaw’s remark about two nations divided by the same language.

“Yeah, I s’pose you’re one of those trans-wotsit types are you–or are you just gay?”

“Why are you?” she threw back at him.

“Don’t be stupid–I’m a normal hetero boy,” he stood up again.

“So why are you acting like a scaredy-cat girl?”

“I’m not.”

“What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” he snapped blushing and she knew now that he was.”

“I think you are–not that it matters–look back to the prog. You have to dress as a girl once or twice a week–each day you do so, they pay you. You also have to attend certain things as a girl and do some training.”

“This is still weird.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought at first, but now I find it’s fun most of the time.”

“But don’t the others think you’re gay?”

“No, most of them think I’m a girl most of the time.”

“You going to get an operation?”

“I doubt it, but I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You taking hormones and things?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean you can’t if you want to.”

Paul caught slightly off guard by the shock of all this said, “I don’t need to, I’m growing tits without them.”

“You’re what?”

“I’ve got Klinefelter’s–but don’t tell anyone will you?”

“I won’t–what’s that?”

“It means I’ve got an extra X chromosome.”

“What like XXY?”

“Yeah, exactly that–so I’m hardly the most masculine of boys.”

“I’m sorry, maybe we shouldn’t have asked you to be on the program, but you just seemed to be a natural for it, small and feminine looking. Maybe this is a bad idea?”

Paul sat on his bed and felt the tears well up in his eyes, “I’m some sort of freak, I’m growing tits, and a fat arse–I wish I was dead like my mother.”

“Hey there,” Becky sat alongside him and put her arm round his shoulder and he leant into her crying, “No need to get upset, ya don’t have to do this unless ya want to.”

She rubbed his back as she spoke softly to him, feeling very embarrassed as she did so–why do they always give her the difficult ones–or does she do something wrong?”

Paul smelt her perfumed toiletries and her shampoo–she certainly smelt like a girl, and acted like one–why did she want him to do it too–that’s what he couldn’t work out–especially as he wasn’t at all sure about it.

“Why did you ask me on my first day?” he asked after blowing his nose.

“I wondered if you might be interested and the other thing was a bit of devilment. See, no one but me has seen you as a boy, so if you turn up looking like a girl–and I think you could very easily–some of them are going to think you are one–an’ I think that’s kinda funny.”

“But won’t they know?”

“Some of them think I’m one even when I’m in boy mode–which I haven’t done for a while–I suspect they’d think the same about you, you’re kinda cute you know, pretty even.”

“Gee thanks, that’s really made me feel better.”

“An’ you’ve never wore a skirt or makeup?”

“No–I’m a boy–why would I?”

“If I asked you real nice?”

He blushed. “Won’t the others beat me up–I mean, I’d never look as good as you do.”

She sensed his resolve was weakening.

“You’d look even better than me, because you’ve got a better shape than me, I’m straight up and down, you’ve got hips.”

“I’ve always hated my body–afraid for anyone to see it.”

“This could be a way to experiment while no one knows you–doesn’t that excite you? You could be a woman of mystery.”

That suggestion hit Paul on the funny bone and he smirked.

“See, you could enjoy it couldn’t ya?”

He chuckled and nodded.

“Wait here, I’ll go get a few things,” he was still chuckling when he realised she’d left him–then he began to panic–what had he agreed to, were they all as crazy as her? Were they all screaming poofters?

She rushed back ten minutes later with a suitcase and a smaller case. “Here put these on, I think they’ll fit.” She handed him a bundle of clothes from the case. “Now, we don’t have all day, if you wanna eat.” She then as good as threw him into the bathroom.

He stood in there holding the bundle unable to move. She waited a couple of minutes before asking, “How ya doin’?”

He stood there paralysed with fear and shaking with something he couldn’t explain–but it wasn’t fear.

When she didn’t get an answer, she knocked and opened the bathroom door and frowned at him. “C’mon now, we don’t have all day, get undressed and put those on–hurry.”

He stayed rooted to the spot. She looked perplexed–no one had done this before–they’d refused, thrown the clothes at her and stormed out and variations on the negative theme–or dressed in the girl’s stuff she’d given him. No one had just frozen–but then–no one was quite as female looking as he was in terms of body shape.

“D’ya need some help?”

He looked at her and nodded.

Ten minutes later, his boy clothes were laid on his bed and he was standing wearing a skirt, blouse and cardigan over a pair of panties, tights and camisole–which his budding breasts pushed out slightly but enough to show through the blouse and cardigan.

Somehow, she played with his shaggy boy’s hair cut and he looked like a short haired girl. When she put just a touch of mascara on his dark lashes and a hint of lip gloss on his mouth–Paul had disappeared and he gasped.

He stood his mouth agape looking at this spectre in the mirror, one which had always seemed like it was waiting to spring out and consume his struggling masculinity. He knew he should have been afraid but somewhere inside he actually liked it–somehow things made a strange sort of sense to him, except he knew it didn’t–not logically.

“See, told ya,” beamed Becky proud of her skills in transforming the boy into a girl creature. When he didn’t respond, just stared into the mirror, she demanded, “Well, waddya think?”

“I–I–I look like a girl.”

“Doh,” said Becky–“Didn’t you hear anything I said?”

Paul simply shrugged.

“C’mon, Pauline, we need to get down soon or the food’ll be gone, I could eat a horse–well, a whole leg anyway.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him out of his room into the corridor.

He turned hearing the door click locked behind him–“What’re you doing?” he asked aware his bolt hole had just shut and locked.

“Don’t worry–we can get in through my room–keep walkin’ the refectory is a way off yet.”

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For those who'd like to refresh themselves with the originals:
http://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/book/19983/princess-hire