Synopsis:

David's odyssey continues, slowly, seemingly irrevocably, as he dances to the dictates of Grace de Messembry and the Venumar Foundation.

Increasingly desperate, he searches to escape but the arrival of a new 'recruit' complicates the issue, whilst the riddle of the broken branches remains as impenetrable as ever.

Story:

Chapter 18.

David awoke late. The morning sun was already high and casting an oblique rectangle of light across his bed. He stirred, at first puzzled by the shifting weight at his chest, the silken sensation of limbs against sheets. Warm in the fresh sunlight that reddened his closed eyelids, the vague unease at the back of his mind crystallised into the awareness, the remembrance, of his actuality.

“Saturday tomorrow, and the day, the weekend, is yours to relax in, to enjoy. No work, no schedules, no training.” Such had been Laura’s parting words after she had seen David back to his room after the party.

He moved in the bed and felt his breasts shift and settle, adapting to the change in his body posture. The product of Venumar’s latest research, Laura had said, designed to replicate the real thing both in movement and feel. David, without prior experience, had no way of knowing how successful the designers had been, but they certainly moved as if of his own flesh as they adjusted to the slightest movement of his chest. They swayed heavily, tugging at his skin, as he threw back the bed clothes and swung his legs out and on to the floor.

He needed to pee. Urgently.

As he shuffled, still not quite awake, into the bathroom the realisation swept over him that a bra was no longer just a newly hated feminine symbol, but a necessity. At least until such time as the adhesive lessened its grip. At the loo he hiked his nightie up and fumbled for his penis. Looking down he saw only two silken lace-trimmed mounds. Simultaneously he realised that he could no longer, dare no longer, relieve himself standing. He lifted his nightdress up over his thighs and bottom and swivelled round to sit on the seat.

He tried desperately not to think. And yet thought was necessary if he were to comply with the undertaking he had given. This first act of the day and he had so nearly transgressed. Saved only by the fact that his cock had not been in his direct line of sight.

Thirty minutes later, shaved, bathed, and perfumed, he sat at his dressing table and carefully applied foundation to his face. His bra was a frothy confection in a dove grey fabric that sparkled in the light. Flimsier than those given to him when he wore breast forms, it did less to control the movement of his breast, ensuring that the designers’ claim that they would accurately simulate the real thing were put on trial before a wider public. His knickers were to match, but although they too appeared flimsy, flippant even, they gripped him with deceptive control, ensuring a firm, smooth feminine profile to his lower groin.

They were amongst the clothes Laura had left out for him.

“Any old thing will do”, she had said. “Just choose something girly to relax in. I have laid out a few suggestions for you.”

“Just remember your undertaking and concentrate on being feminine, and on enjoying it!”

David shivered. “Remember your undertaking”, and, “Don’t forget your promise”, were phrases that he feared would become very familiar to him. If they bothered to warn him that is. There must be a limit.

The ‘any old thing’ that Laura had chosen turned out to be a mini skirt in a faded red denim that was so close fitting that even it needed a 2" slit at the side and thus failed to conceal the stay up lacy stocking tops . It was also cut so low that it only clung precariously to his hips. Or rather to one hip. One had to choose which it seemed. And then a flounced top with a low V-neck front and back which clung to, provocatively accentuated, his breasts. The shoes where strappy 2" wedges that matched his skirt.

When he ventured to late breakfast both he and the outfit were greeted with acclaim by Anne and Emma.

There was much laying of cheek against cheek and soft kisses amid the cries of delight at a reunion too long delayed. So much to talk about!

The previous evening was dissected, examined, re-dissected and re-examined. All agreed that it had been great fun. That David, that they all, had looked absolutely irresistible; but that Nigel had met his just desserts for finding David so.

David ate lightly through the hubbub, silently, restricting himself to the odd comment. The inner sickness of his heart killed appetite but some fuel was needed. And coffee helped.

Words washed over him. And then suddenly, out of the blue, his attention was triggered and he mentally surfaced to the chat of the other two..

“And so Mona thinks that Grace de Messembry will fix it for her.” It was Anne speaking. “She is so thrilled. The so-called guardians are a dubious crowd and she was quite dreading leaving here and being at their tender mercy.”

“Fix it? Fix what?” It was the name Mona that had set the bells ringing. .David wanted desperately to see Mona before she left. She was his only possible source on information on the broken branches.

Emma giggled. “Sophie darling you haven’t heard a word we have been saying. Who have you been dreaming of? What haven’t you been telling us about last night?”

“I’m sorry Emma, Anne, I am a little tired. So much ....”

“Darling Sophie, do listen!” Anne smiled at him. “I was saying, I saw Mona this morning, about half an hour ago. She was just finishing her breakfast. And she was all agog about it.”

David blinked. “Agog about breakfast? What are you talking about Anne?”

“You goose Sophie! You really have not listened to a word we have been saying this last ten minutes have you?”

Anne sighed. Emma cast her eyes to heaven in mock despair.

“Listen darling. Mona said that Grace de Messembry had told her that the Foundation would take the responsibility for her sponsorship away from her current guardians, as she, Grace de Messembry that is, was so impressed by the way that Mona has taken advantage of the opportunities afforded to her during her stay here that, after her time at the Finishing Centre, there would be a place for her with the Venumar Foundation itself.”

“But will the guardians agree? They may have other plans? They paid for her treatm.... her stay here?”

“Sophie! You really aren’t with it this morning are you?” Emma mocked, an amused eyebrow lifted. “No-one darling, but no-one, has plans that do not fit in with those of the Foundation. Particularly when those plans originate with Grace de Messembry herself. Or if they have, they are soon persuaded to the contrary. As you yourself should .... as we all here know.”

Anne cut in. “Mona asked the same question apparently. Grace de Messembry was seemingly much amused. She said that the guardians couldn’t afford but to comply. That there was too much at stake for them.”

There was a pause. David tried hard to concentrate and poured himself another cup of coffee.

“ I was hoping to see her, to see Mona, before she left.”

“I am sure you will Sophie dear, She won’t just fold her tent and steal away. I am sure she will say good-bye to us all.”

“But I wanted a word . To know more about ........... well perhaps she has remembered something ....”

He faltered. Emma lent forward and put her hand on his. “Maybe not this time Sophie dear. It may be a little too formal a meeting. She will be away in a couple of hours.”

Anne shook her head in sad sympathy. “And I don’t think she can tell you anything more darling. Not really. And would it be fair to ask her? To detract from her joy at her new future?”

“And you may meet her again at the Finishing Centre,” Emma added.

This was a new dimension. David in his few days at the Holding Wing, whilst questioning to obsession the future, had never considered the specific. Had never asked himself, ‘where do I go from here? If I go anywhere that is.

“What is the Finishing Centre? What happens there?” His voice was flat. Desperately he realised he did not want to know.

Anna seemed flustered. It was Emma who answered. “We don’t know really. Just that it is the next stage. For some of us anyway. It is just part of the Academy. First here and then the Finishing Centre . That or onto the A&A programme.”

“A&A.?” David asked in a dull voice.

“‘Assessment and Assignment’ apparently, although I am not too sure what that means. Or what the Finishing Centre means come to that. None of us has been there. No-one we know has come back to tell us. All I, all we... ” Emma glanced at Anne and David detected embarrassment. “All we know is really the names and what we have ourselves dreamt up.”

David nodded. “And what have you dreamt up.” His voice was grim. “The next stage? For some of us? For whom precisely?”

Anne was suddenly serious. “Sophie remember your bargain, your sworn desire to embrace femininity. Don’t put that in jeopardy. Whatever the Finishing Centre is, or the A&A is, whatever the difference, it is what the Foundation considers best for us, us as individuals, to help us towards that gaol.”

David’s voice was a hoarse whisper, heavy with sarcasm. “As does Rehabilitation Anne?”

David saw her face change. It was as if he had struck her. The blood drained from her countenance. Her eyes grew large and sparkled as the tears sprang.

She stood up and turned blindly, her coffee cup spilled and some dregs fell unnoticed on her dress.

“How could you.” her voice choked and seem to come from a great distance. “How could you. You of all people! How could you say ... How could you say that. After .. I had confided in ... after ... all that we had talked about. How could you?”

“After ... I have tried so hard to help...”

David was aghast, rocked back. The enormity of what he had said filtered down into his consciousness, belatedly into his understanding.

Anne turned and stumbled blindly away. Her chair overturned behind her and fell clattering into the deep silence of her going.

His own chair scraped back as he found his own feet. As he started to follow. “Anne ... Please.... I am so sorry.... Anne please... I didn’t mean ...”

David felt Emma’s hand vice-like on his wrist.

“Stay”

David stood there, lost. Uncertain. Aware only of the wrong he had done.

“Stay. It is too late now. Stay. The damage is done. Now is not the time to repair it. If it can ever be repaired. Stay and I will talk to her later.”

“The hurt is too close. Let it fade a little. Then we can talk to her. Then you can tell her all that you need to tell her.”

“But not now. Not yet”

Emma’s voice was low, insistent, with an unmistakable, unsuspected, authority.

“I do not know it all. Not all that she has told you. Not all that caused the pain. But much I can guess.”

David felt the tears on his own cheeks. His voice faltered, fought its way through an obstruction in his throat. He sank back onto his chair

“She, has been, is, such a dear friend. I could not have survived thus far without... without her ... and you Emma. She has been so kind, kinder beyond value. And I have repaid her with crassness. Unfeeling, stupid, crassness.”

“Yes.” Emma said gravely. “And more. You have betrayed her. Not just betrayed her confidence, but betrayed her as a person and betrayed her belief in you. You really have explored new depths of selfishness Sophie.”

Her blue-grey eyes were dark with concern. Perhaps with disappointment.

She shook her head. Her usual bubbly temperament now completely eclipsed.

“Perhaps as your femininity has time to grow deeper roots it will help you to be more aware of other people, and of their sensitivities, Sophie. At the moment you seem to sadly lack the ability to see any problems, any anxieties, other than your own.”

“Emma I am so, so, sorry. Really. It just came out. I did not mean ... would not for the world... hurt Anne. Nor you. It was unthinking. It just came out.”

“Unthinking yes Sophie. Much thought for yourself I notice. Little or none when it comes to others.”

Emma sighed. Shook her head. “Maybe I am being too hard on you. You are, I know, under great stress. A stress that I cannot begin to appreciate. Nerves as taut as a bowstring after last night.”

“But you have disappointed me. And I too am very fond of Anne. And she shares much of the same stresses that you do. Even if she does not perhaps show them to the same extent.”

Again a sad reflective shake of the head.

“We will have to try to repair the fences. I will do my best Sophie, You have my word for it. And you will need to as well. You cannot afford to lose Anne’s friendship. You have to rebuild that and the trust that existed between you. I will speak to Laura about it. I am sure she will be able to help.”

“Laura? I don’t know ... I mean does she have to know?”

“Don’t be a fool Sophie. Of course she has to know. She will find out anyway. But she has to know because she is responsible for our welfare, and at least one of her girls is, to say the least, utterly distraught with a shattered morale. Another one has just made a complete fool of herself .... no not just a fool ... has demonstrated such an unbelievable degree of unfeeling stupidity and selfishness that it leaves one breathless. And the third, myself, is left trying desperately to hold the pieces together. Sticking my finger in the dyke. Whatever mixed metaphor you prefer. Don’t compound your selfishness by believing you are the only one involved!”

Emma shook her head in despair. “Five minutes ago we had the three of us united in a close and supportive bond of mutual trust and friendship. Whatever our other worries, we all had that certainty of sympathy and understanding. And now?”

“And you have the temerity to ask if Laura needs to know? Apart from anything else, she has just put her judgement on the line by backing you in your request to Grace de Messembry.”

David sat silently. He felt lost and crushed. Emma released her grip on his wrist and stood.

“I will go and find Anne now. Hopefully she will see me. I will try to explain. Apologise.”

“Please tell her ... please ...that I am so desperately sorry. That I did not mean.... That I would not hurt her. That she is dear to me... That ...”

He cast frantically around for words to match his emotions.

“Yes,” Emma said. “That is your only grace, that I believe you are as sorry as you say. That I believe your grief for the pain you have caused her. Let us hope that it is a saving grace. That I can get her to believe it too.”

“I will let you know.”

David was left sitting there, staring at his manicured hands spread out on the table, half in a small pool of coffee dregs from Anne’s upturned cup. Red tipped hands seen over the swelling of his breasts. Red tipped hands and swelling breasts, that he had forgotten in the realisation of the effect of his unthinking blunder. Red tipped hands and swelling breasts that perhaps for the moment were less alien, less a matter for concern.

He pushed his chair backed and stood up. He felt old, tired. The tears had dried on his cheeks. No more came. His spirit was beyond the help that tears give. He felt so very alone.

He went back to his room. And went to the window and gazed out. The window and the company of friends, however new found, had been his only solace in this place. And now, with the thought that he had damaged that friendship, the window only served to accentuate his misery.

He stayed there, time suspended, staring out across the unregarded fields and woods to the distant spire. The swallows wheeled and turned, but he did not see them.

All, fields and woods and spire and swallows, all were eclipsed by the memory of Anne’s stricken face.

He was still there, lost in time, Anne’s face still before him when the ‘phone rang.

It was Janet Saggren. Mona wanted to say goodbye to everyone. Would Sophie like to join them on the roof garden in an hour’s time?

David assured her ‘Yes’, of course he would be there. But when she rang off, he stood undecided, hesitant. Yes of course he must go. His presence was demanded, not requested. Anyway common courtesy dictated it. His absence would be noticed. Wondered about. And he liked Mona. He wanted to go to say goodbye, God speed, to her. He wanted to wish her well.

And yet. And yet. He did not want to face it. Did not know how to handle coming face to face with Anne, with Laura. Felt ashamed.

The ‘phone rang. Again.

It was Laura. “We need to talk. Now, on the roof garden. I am waiting.”

She was sitting alone at the small bar pensively nursing a tall dew-covered thin glass. Another was alongside her, waiting for him. He sat silently by her and sipped it. Plymouth gin with minimal tonic and a slice of lime.

There was no eye contact. Both gazed into the middle distance.

“I don’t know what to say.” Laura toyed with her glass, turning it reflectively in her fingers.

“Nor I. Apart from that I am sorry, that I never meant for a moment to....”

Another long pause.

Finally Laura shrugged. “Perhaps you should transfer to Janet’s group. With Mona leaving there is a vacancy and I can take the new girl. Perhaps it would be for the best. I don’t like to admit failure but I have the others to think of. Perhaps that would be best. I will speak to Janet. I know she likes you so it should be O.K.”

“No. Please. I said I am sorry. You know I did not mean to hurt Anne. And I do not know how I could have managed without you.”

For the first time since his arrival in the garden, Laura looked at him. Her eyes sombre. “It is not just you, you know. I have to think of the others. Particularly of Anne.”

Laura took a small sip of her drink. “Emma is right. You are self centred. Perhaps not surprisingly.” She shrugged. “It has probably has escaped your notice until today. But Anne too is fragile. Rehabilitation has that effect, even in the smallest doses.”

Her hazel eyes searched his. “God you are stupid Sophie. She had spoken to you of her experience at Rehabilitation. And God knows to recall that must have been unbearingly painful for her.”

“Worse, you knew about the death of Olive who was her close friend. She delved into her soul to share these things with you in order to satisfy your curiosity. And then you threw it back in her face in what must have seemed to her a cheap sneer.”

“I needed to know.” David could have bit his tongue off . “Sorry that was ….”

“No Sophie. You did not need to know. You don’t need to know. Knowledge of that nature, does not, will not, cannot, change anything. You were indulging yourself in a futile exercise of self-pity. What will such knowledge change? Who will it benefit? Not you! Not Anne!”

David’s head was full of arguments, of answers but they seemed neither relevant nor likely to gain a sympathetic hearing. His head was a quagmire of frustrated thoughts. He cast around, without success, for something.

Finally, weakly. “Please let me stay,” he said. “In your group. With Anne and Emma. I will try to be less selfish. I am grateful for what you, what you have all, done to help me. Please let me stay.”

Laura considered. “I am tempted to say that Anne should have the last word. But that puts yet another burden on her shoulders. She already blames herself for this morning. The poor dear is tortured by the thought that she grossly over-reacted, was way too sensitive.”

“I don’t see it that way. I think you behaved badly and have to shoulder the bulk of the blame.”

“Still .... Sophie, I am also aware of how far you have come in so short a time. And I know that your experience in Reception is only a few days behind you. Not to mention the inspection and your ordeal there. And I am willing, I would like to believe indeed, that this would not have happened if your own mental state had been less in turmoil.”

Again a pause.

“Perhaps I judge you too harshly. Expect too much.”

Laura drained her glass and busied herself with a refill. She reached over and refreshed David’s hardly touched glass.

“Emma thinks that it can be sorted out. That you can make your peace with Anne. That we can try again. I trust her judgement and concur. As I said I am reluctant to entertain failure.”

Laura raised her hand to cut short David’s thanks.

“But we must ensure that nothing like this happens again Sophie. I will arrange for some therapy to sort out any mental jagged edges.. Anne had some when she returned from her weekend in Rehabilitation and I blame myself for not thinking of it earlier for you, Sophie dear.”

David’s relief at hearing the ‘dear’ again tacked on to his name, signalling a renewed acceptance back into the fold, was more than tempered by the carillon of alarm bells that sounded in his head.

“Therapy?”

“Just to tide you over Sophie dear. To help you get back onto an even keel. The Foundation has a terribly bright therapist that has proved invaluable in resolving such problems in the past. Already an eminent psychiatrist, as well as being a very successful hypno-therapist. But above all a really understanding girl, with such a warm kindly nature. I am sure you will get on with her like a house on fire.”

Chapter 19.

There was a clatter of heels on the stairs. A murmur of voices interspersed with subdued girlish laughter. The others were arriving.

First Jane, her left arm linked with Mona’s right. Then Christine and Alice clattering in close attendance.

David felt Laura’s hand firm on the back of his hand. “Later Sophie dear. They do not know. Just make your peace quietly with Anne. Emma will help.”

Laura was already half way along the walkway, greeting the newcomers. Kissing Mona on both cheeks. The trill of her voice, of Mona’s excited response, washing over David as he took a great gulp of his gin; trying to anaesthetise the questions jostling at the back of his mind.

And then he too, automatically on his feet, walking towards them, smiling and exchanging kisses with Janet and her girls, and then taking his turn to embrace Mona, when she was freed from Laura’s welcome. To congratulate her, to wish her well, to tell her how pleased he was for her.

Then he was swirled away in their wake as they surged, halted, surged again, towards the bar. Starling chatter accompanied by the clink of glasses and ice, the glug gurgle of bottles being poured.

David isolated, feeling so apart, conscious of his glass ice cold in his hand, seeing the red smear of lipstick at its brim. The errant thought that gin tasted quite differently when drunk wearing lipstick lodged in his mind.

And then a quieter, slower, rattle of heels on the stairs. Laura heard it too and she turned to David with a warning look.

Not all of Emma’s skilled attention could quite hide the redness rimming Anne’s eyes. Not all of Anne’s own efforts could give her smile any natural depth. There was a sort of hectic shallow energy about her.

Their glances crossed. Both looked away quickly, but not before David had seen the unnatural sparkle in her eyes increase.

David found himself on the fringe of the group as again all embraced. As again compliments and good wishes for the future were exchanged. He turned away and looked out towards the edge of the garden, to the corner where he had found Anne crying that evening, where she had told him about Mona. The corner where Mona had found her own salvation.

He did not hear the footfalls but there was a soft touch on his elbow and they were there beside him. Emma and Anne. He turned slightly. Searched for words and found he had too many.

“I know you did not mean it Sophie dear.” And then Anne too was silent.

David shook his head, trying to loosen the log jam of words there.

“No. I didn’t. I was unspeakably stupid. I am so very, very sorry.”

And the silence swept back from that corner to cover them again.

But David found he could now look at her again. And she at him. And David found that he was gently smiling. A smile of sympathy and tenderness and sorrow and hope. And he saw that his smile was reflected on her lips. And that the former brittleness had gone from them.

“I am so very, very, sorry,” he repeated.

Anne put her forefinger to her lips in a gesture of silence.

“I know.”

Emma smiled. "We ought to join the others.”

And so they did. The little group was animated. Mona and her move at the centre of interest of course, but the talk also ranged over the party the night before. The attractiveness, or otherwise, of the young male guests was the central point. Even the fate of David’s erstwhile suitor Nigel was discussed with relish. Janet Saggren confirmed that his fourth metatarsal was indeed fractured and this, after general congratulations to David, led into an in-depth examination of the suitability of various forms of the stiletto heel as a defensive, or alternatively, offensive, weapon.

David knew he needed to join in, to engage. His main concern however remained the possibility of extracting from Mona any more information about the broken branches. And that seemed increasingly remote. The only interest came when the talk shifted to Mona’s future at the Finishing Centre. Not that anyone knew anything. Mona floated on a wave of happiness but that owed much to the fact that Grace de Messembry had freed her from her ‘sponsors’. All the girls seemed to accept that the Finishing Centre was a desired, and indeed natural, progression for Mona. The seemed to be an unspoken accord between them though not to enquire as to what that future involved. And a tacit acceptance whilst such might be a natural step for Mona it was not so for all of them. Not for Emma, Alice or Christine.

David dared not put these thoughts into words. Not after his recent gaffe with Anne. Not whilst acutely conscious of Laura watching, listening, closely. But they added another layer to his fears.

A light buffet lunch was served ; and then it was time for the final leave taking.

Mona embraced him, her lithe body fragrant against his. “Such a joy to have met you Sophie dear. My only sadness is at leaving my friends, and I am sure you and I would have been even closer if only we had just a little longer to get to know each other.”

Spoken like the perfect lady David thought ruefully. Hearing his own voice, in light feminine tones, return the endearments and wishes for Mona’s happiness in the future.

He pecked her lightly on the cheek as she cooed into his ear “But I am sure we will meet again soon at the Centre. Pretty girls like you and Anne won’t linger far behind.”

Her lips brushed his cheek in return. And then she was away with Janet in attendance, down the stairs and out down the long corridor to the door, the exit to the Holding Wing.

“Just another five minutes of your time Sophie dear.” Laura’s voice behind him. “About the week starting Monday”

She guided him to one of the tables.”You know most of the routine darling. We have a little breathing space before the next inspection but a full programme to get through. Your days will be crammed full with lessons continuing your training on cosmetics, deportment, voice training, hair styling etc.”

Laura smiled. “No fears or mysteries there to spook you, you have met everyone and already made a start. Now you have to try for that improvement that will be expected of you. Particularly in view of your promise Sophie dear. We will be looking for wholehearted endeavour. Not just passive acceptance but enthusiasm and eagerness to suggest, to innovate, to initiate steps to push the programme forward.”

“Not that it is all work. We do have little evening sessions with visiting experts for all the girls to discuss, and indeed in some cases to try, the latest fashions. I hope you will find them really good fun. And an invaluable help in developing your own special style. All the girls adore them and I am sure you will to”

David nodded. He could not think of what else to do.

“I don’t expect you have had much opportunity to avail yourself of the TV or DVD player in your room. The Foundation does monitor the programmes that are available on it and indeed there are some of Venumar’s own productions which I am sure you will find interesting. The same with the DVD’s.”

Laura paused thoughtfully. “Sophie dear. I should tell you.” Again a pause “It’s only fair, now that you have decided to fully embrace your feminisation, that you should know that there is subliminal messages on both TV and DVD that are designed to help you to concentrate on this aim. A sort of learning whilst you relax. I am sure you will find it most helpful, although it will, of course, not be apparent....if you know what I mean. Anyway I just didn’t want you to feel that we were doing anything sneaky, behind your back, as it were.”

Laura smiled at him. And understanding, open, frank, now you are old enough, feminine enough, all-girls-together, kind of smile.

“So much to look forward to Sophie dear! Especially for you for whom there is so much to learn, so many boundaries to explore. Now that the first inspection is passed, and a little of the pressure off, I do so hope that you will be able to settle down and enjoy the new experiences that are open to you.”

“I do appreciate that you have lots of baggage, regrets even, stemming from the past. But that is now really irrevocably past, and I am sure that shortly you will be able to look back and feel nothing but gratitude for what we have been able to achieve together.”

Again the smile, frank and open, encouraging a return of confidences.

David was lost. Still emotionally drained from earlier in the day,.He knew he had to conform, daren’t do otherwise, and he struggled through the numb cocoon that enveloped him.

“Thanks.” It sounded, was, inadequate. “For letting me know.”

“Poor dear You have had a difficult morning. So glad it is resolved though. Just relax and enjoy yourself for the rest of the weekend. There really is such a lot of things to do apart from brushing up on your studies.

Laura patted his hand on the table in a confiding way. “Any questions though before I leave you?”

“Therapy, hypno-therapy, you mentioned, I don’t think it is really necessary Laura. I am sure I will be alright. Just a little tired after yesterday, after this morning.” David found himself stammering slightly.

“I know darling. Such an exhausting time.” Laura lightly held his hand. “That is why I believe it will be of such help! A couple of sessions with Dr. Tabatha and you will feel so much better!”

“But Laura. I don’t want hypno-therapy, hypnotism, I don’t want my mind messed about with.” David searched desperately for an way out. He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to hypnotised into being female. I have said I would co-operate, that I would try to be more feminine. But I don’t want my mind to be manipulated.”

Laura’s hazel eyes smiled into his. “Darling Sophie. Not try to be feminine, but be feminine! Success is required. And what silly ideas you have!”

She seemed genuinely amused. “You have been reading too much popular literature. Hypnotism can’t make you feminine against your will. Can’t make you anything come to that. That is not the idea at all! All that it can perhaps do is to give you a more positive frame of mind. Assuage your worries, help you to reconcile any inward turmoil that might inhibit your progress in the direction that we all desire.”

“It is just a tool that Dr. Tabatha uses. In a trance you are just more amenable to suggestions, particularly ones that seem sensible or desirable to you. That is all. Anyway you will be able to discuss this with her yourself. She will explain.”

David shook his head. Again he had the problem of wishing to scream ‘no’, whilst being aware that he was supposed to be reconciled to his feminisation.

“Listen Sophie,” Laura shook her head in mimicry. “Don’t be a goose. If you don’t believe me, that feminisation through hypnotism just wouldn’t work, ask yourself why I would want you to do it. There would be no point. If it did work, all this effort to help you understand that for you femininity is an attractive, not to say inevitable, option would just be a waste of time. We would just have you hypnotised. And with a little surgery we could transform you in a week-end. But we don’t because it wouldn’t work. And even if it did work we would end up with a robot.”

“Really Sophie dear that is the last thing the Foundation wants. We really do want you to embrace the feminine side of your nature, to enjoy it, to revel in it even. To become a happy and fulfilled member of this society, of society as a whole. We are spending an inordinate amount of money to help you achieve this. Believe you me hypnosis would not do this. Not and produce the girl we want.”

It was too difficult. David could not concentrate, could not analyse. Her words made some sort of sense but there was something not quite right and he felt deep distrust. Moreover her last sentence raised even more disturbing questions.

He nodded an acquiescence born of fatigue. A physical, rather than not mental acceptance.

“Good, “ Laura released his hand. “Think about it over the weekend and I will answer any further concerns you have on Monday. Give you your programme then too. In the meantime have a good, restful time. Explore everything and everywhere”

She was already up and moving away. “So very, very, glad that things are straightened out between you and the other two. Give them my love.”

David sat there in the deserted roof garden for a long time. Conscious of his outward femininity. His breasts firmly held, the silken movement of his clothes when he moved, when he breathed even, Could smell the perfume that came to him at every breath. Could feel the earings that brushed his neck, feel the whole panoply of girlhood that surrounded him. Frighteningly none of it quite so new, nor as alien, as it had been a few days ago. Knew that there were even minutes on end when he was no longer conscious of it.

Conscious, above all, of the mental pressures building up. The irreconcilable conflict between what he had promised and what he intended. The future that lurked menacingly but which he dared not examine too closely lest the nightmare became reality. The implication that beyond this place there was another future at the Finishing Centre.

David looked around. Apart from himself. he garden was deserted. There was drink still on the bar though. The Plymouth gin bottle beckoned to him. Still ice in the ice bucket. And tonic, and lime. At least he could forget for a while.

Maximum gin, minimum tonic. Too alcoholic a mixture to be refreshing. But good. The aromatic gin strong on his tongue, at the back of his throat.

Several glasses did not solve the problem, nor persuade his thoughts to turn down other pleasanter avenues. But he had not expected that they would. What they would do he knew, would help him sleep the afternoon away.

And they did. He returned to his room and, kicking off his shoes, lay down on the bed and sank into a troubled slumber, oblivious to the increasing mugginess of the afternoon that presaged a thunderstorm.

It was the lightening that woke him. Although the early evening sun still filled the room with a warm glow, there were electric blue shimmers of light that seemed to pass through the walls themselves. That filled the rooms for a moment, killing all shadows, all hiding places. And then, rolling deep and ominous, the growl of distant thunder.

David lay there, feeling stale physically. Mentally in paralysed despair with no will to move. Indeed reluctant to do anything apart from lie there and try not to think.

He heard the spatter of raindrops on the half open window. The curtains framing it stirred and billowed in a cool gust of rain laden air.

He was hungry. He needed to eat, to belatedly counter his alcohol intake. But he was bereft of energy. Devoid of the will to even stir from his bed. Even the thought of having to stand up, walking down to the dining room, having to face the others was debilitating. And before that having to freshen up. To renew his make up, re-apply lipstick, blush, eyeshadow, all the myriad of things that he now must do. He could not bring himself to do it. Could not face seeing his own face, no longer his own face but an artificial variant, looking back at him from the mirror’s depth.

The thunder rolled again, nearer. The rain heavy now, coming through the window, drenching the curtains. David lay there and watched it.

The ‘phone rang. David let it. Could not even turn his head it its direction. After a while it stopped. David closed his eyes and watched the lightening through his lids.

There was a tap on the door. Again. Repeated again, heavier. More urgently. A voice called “Sophie?”

David lay still, waiting for the lightening.

He heard the latch of the door click. Sensed the draught of air as the door opened slightly.

Again “Sophie? Sophie, are you awake?”

It was Emma’s voice. But two sets of footsteps drew softly closer, two perfumes on the storm cleansed air. He knew Anne was with her.

“Yes.” Reluctantly. Felt them at his side. Felt a hand gentle on his shoulder.

“Anne and I tried to ‘phone you. Wanted you to join us for dinner. And then, well with no reply ... you must have been asleep ... dead to the world, we were just a teeny weeny bit worried. So well we thought we would drop in to see how you were. Hope we didn’t disturb you?”

David turned his face towards them, half opened his eyes.

“No,” he said, “just tired. Kind of you. But, but I am not really hungry. Not sure if I can face food.” ‘Nor people’ was left unsaid. ‘Nor life’ too.

“But you must darling Sophie.” Anne pleaded. “Just for me. Just to show we are friends again. You must eat dear. Really you must.”

David’s stomach rumbled a muted agreement.

Emma giggled. “You see Sophie that makes it unanimous. Go on. Anne and I will wait for you. Please?” She took his right hand and, as if by prior agreement, Anne seized his left and together they levered him off the bed. David’s inertia spread to his powers of resistance. It was easier to comply. To go with them. And indeed he was hungry. Ravenously so he realised. He had hardly touched the buffet lunch.

He went to the bathroom whilst the two girls examined the rack of DVD’s. He heard them chattering whilst he splashed cold water on his face, and then urinated. In a sitting position as required. As agreed..

Back to his sitting room where he endured the others’ assistance in redoing his make up. And so to the dining room where the three sat down, and ate. And chatted. And drank . This latter particularly so in David’s case. Wine flowed freely. But more in David’s direction than in the others’. It helped in that it numbed. And he craved numbness. Numbness helped him to talk. Helped him to converse with the others. Helped him to seem natural when his reality was so unnatural.

If the others noticed nothing was said. Nor was David was at his most aware. If there were any glances of concern they passed unnoticed. And the wine served its purpose in getting him through the evening.

And through the night too. The lightening and thunder had abated but he was fast asleep before it finally died down completely. Fast asleep, oblivious to the allure of the baby doll nightdress whose lace and gossamer fabric rucked around, yet barely covered, his body, unaware of the breasts that shifted in response to his restlessness throughout the night.

But even the best of wine cannot prevent time passing, and all too soon Sunday morning dawned fresh and clear, washed by the previous day’s storm, a delight of a new morn to gladden the heart and uplift the spirit. The heart and spirit of most people anyway. Not of all people though. Not of David.

Sunday loomed before him. A day of rest. No new boundaries to breach. No new ordeals to face. And that in its way was worse than the activity of further feminisation because it brought with it time to think. Time to reflect on the femininity already achieved, already forced upon him. Time to anticipate. Time worry, to dread. Time to seek for means to avoid, to evade, destiny. To turn the clock back. To kill the future.

He needed to pee. And then to wearily begin the ritual of bathing, shaving, beautifying, selecting clothes, of pulling on panties and adjusting a bra around those mounds that seemed to be part of him. He sat in front of the mirror for a long time before he accepted reality and began applying his make up with the faltering care that he knew was his inescapable lot.

Breakfast was beyond him. After a couple of hours of staring blankly out of the window he sorted aimlessly through the DVD’s. They were a mixture of classical romances and soft porn involving female desires and perspectives. He remembered Laura’s warning about the subliminal messages and wondered why she had mentioned it. Perhaps to turn the screw tighter. Perhaps because she knew that he had no choice but to accept them. Had almost an obligation to listen now that he knew. Now that he had agreed to embrace feminisation.

Despite himself he felt curious. Would he notice. He selected the title ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and inserted it into the slot. Watched it. If there were messages he could not detect them; felt no immediate effects. And at least it passed the time. Perhaps it was a double bluff on Laura’s part. Although there seemed no reason for it. But then there seemed no reason for much that was happening to him. No reason for all that was happening in the broad sense. He tried another DVD. ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’. He had seen it before but it stood the repetition.

The ‘phone rang. It was Emma. She and Anne were about to go and have lunch and would he join them? He realised he was hungry and knew that he could not eat without meeting them, so in spite of his preference for solitude he accepted with as much grace as he could muster.

“In ten minutes then,” she said. “Just enough time to tart yourself up!”

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

Lunch was a cold buffet that they loaded on to trays and carried to the roof garden. David felt that his life was beginning to be centred there. Again the bar was open and wine was available with no apparent limit. The food was good. Smoked salmon, new potatoes, a salad with small young raw broad beans in walnut oil. The wine Anne chose, an excellent New Zealand Chardonnay. And then summer pudding. The Venumar Foundation did not penny pinch. In other circumstances it would have been a very pleasant meal indeed. For Emma, and quite possibly Anne, it was.

Again David drank deep. The conversation turned to speculation on who would replace Mona. That someone would was not in question. Nor was it really in doubt that she would be a new girl. Someone perhaps sponsored as had been Mona herself. Perhaps a recruit like David, or perhaps ‘rescued’ as Anne had been. Whatever the new comer’s provenance, both Anne and Emma referred to her as lucky. As lucky as they had been. As lucky as they all, David included, were, to have been given this chance.

When they perhaps sensed David’s hesitation the other two were quick to compliment him on the progress he had made. How he was unrecognisable from the poor dear that had arrived in their midst only five days before. How he was such a credit both to the Foundation, and especially dear Laura, as well as himself. Only the word used was herself, not himself.

Contentment, happiness, compliance, were all taken for granted.

David fetched another bottle from the bar. The others allowed their glasses to be topped up, but under protest, and David felt that they did so in a conscious effort to avoid a situation in which he would be left drinking it alone.

The bottle finished David left them there, pleading that he needed a little rest and made his way back to his room which, in spite of the terrors that lurked there, was the only refuge he had.

He put another DVD in the slot and stared aimlessly at it, half dozing through the rest of the afternoon. He wished the day gone yet dreaded its passing. The hours dragged but still moved at frightening, inexorable, speed towards their close. For tomorrow was Monday and the new week would bring fresh pressure, would erode yet further what masculinity remained to him.

He knew that he was drinking too much. Drink served a purpose but was a palliative not a cure. No, not even a palliative. Just a short term evasion. Worse, it dulled the need to face up to what was happening to him. Dulled also his resistance. Inaction was acceptance. The time that passed dragged him deeper into the quagmire. Drink dulled the despair, but dulled equally his chances of countering it.

But it was too late today. Tomorrow he would, tomorrow he must, work something out. Sunday was a day of rest. And he needed to relax, to recharge his batteries. Tomorrow would be better. Today he was tired. Tomorrow he must do something.

When hunger overcome the inertia, driving him to dinner, David found that Christine and Alice were sitting with Emma and Anne in the dining room. All four were well into their main course when he arrived. All were animated, and sparkled as they chatted, A rerun of the lunchtime conversation relived the events of the weekend, speculated on the expected new arrival. David sat and listened. Courtesy called for some participation but his minimum responses were easy to come by after the practice at lunchtime. The others seemed unaware of his quietness, perhaps attributing it to his need to make up leeway after his late start to the meal, although he felt Emma’s eyes, pensive, on him from time to time.

There was more wine of course. The others drank little, too busy talking, too busy sharing their thoughts, too busy enjoying the gossip. David found that it slipped down easily. In spite of his half formed resolution that afternoon, the recognition that drink didn’t help, it was a comfort. By the time he had finished eating and was sitting with coffee, he too was becoming more animated, more talkative.

At around eight the other four announced their intention to continuing their evening in the sitting room, to talk further or perhaps play games, cards or Trivial Pursuit. Apparently there was a new feminine version of the latter that had just arrived.

David excused himself on the grounds that he was still tired and would like to read quietly in his room. He had much studying to catch up on. Besides, he pointed out, five was not a good number to play. The others nodded understandingly.

Back in his room he thumbed through a couple of magazines. Cosmopolitan, Marie-Claire. It was a different world. He turned on the TV set. The hand control had all the normal controls but no programme buttons. There was no choice. Much to his surprise a BBC News broadcast was showing. It was David’s first contact with the outside world for months and he watched enthralled. Little seemed to have changed in the outside world though. The same global problems, and seemingly the same political faces still there although in slightly different roles than he remembered. There must have been a Cabinet re-shuffle.

When that finished a list of the evening’s programmes appeared, all courtesy of the Venumar Foundation the caption stated. Firstly a film, ‘Pretty Woman’, then a talk on ‘Skin Care in Summer’, the evening ending with a feature film ‘The Girlhood of Emily Pankhurst.’

Evidently his viewing was limited to what the Venumar Foundation approved. Still ‘Pretty Woman’ was good, if not exactly new, and he settled down to watch it. Anything to divert this mind from his own plight. To fill in the hours until he could find oblivion in sleep.

How many times had he seen it before? Three or four at the very least. But this time it seemed slightly different. He did not notice it at first, but after the first twenty minutes the thought stirred at the back of his mind and then in another ten minutes had grown into a slight unease.
But he could not pin it down. His eyelids grew heavy as the familiar story unfolded. Too much to drink. The unease faded but did not quite disappear. It was only later, in bed, just before sleep engulfed him, that it suddenly crystallised.

His perspective had changed. Before he had been entranced by Julie Roberts. Delightful, sexy, feminine Julie Roberts. He could not even remember, maybe had never known, the name of the man playing opposite her. She still entranced him, but perhaps his admiration was now more technical. Perhaps he now appreciated more, understood more, why she was so alluring. On the edge of sleep it seemed to him also that he understood why she had found the man so attractive. Richard, someone or other. He had never known his name. Could not remember. But he was charming. Any girl would fancy him ........

For a moment he was fully awake. Something disturbing fought through his consciousness. Had the film been edited? Was that the difference ? Or was it subliminal? Was it something in that film that had been changed by the Foundation? Or was it a cumulative effect from the infection in all he had watched?

And then sleep finally, mercifully, claimed him.

Chapter 20.

Laura brought morning and awareness with her. The light tap on the door that presaged but did not delay her entry

“Sophie dear! Wake up darling!”

David opened his eyes to see her rummaging in his wardrobe, looking back over her shoulder at him.

“Wake up Sophie dear! I can see you have had a rather too relaxing a weekend! Now we must get back to work.”

She held a dress up for his inspection. This will do just fine darling. In pure silk cráªpe. Soft grey, bias-cut with square neckline. You will look so dishy! Just can’t wait to see you in it!”

She beamed at him encouragingly. “I will let you choose suitable undies and shoes darling. Such good practice for you. And such fun too! You must hate having these things decided for you. I know I would”

Laura rattled on, not waiting for a reply. “I must rush anyway. Need to have a chat with Emma. Be back in forty minutes though to run through the week ahead. I will leave you this.”

She brandished an envelope. “Your programme for the week. I think you will find it quite straightforward. As we discussed. Have a quick glance at it before I get back and I will be pleased to go through any queries with you then.”

And with that she was gone. David had not had time to say a word. His week was beginning.

It was becoming routine. The toilet on which he obediently sat. The relaxing perfumed bath with soft clinging bubbles. The careful shave and the even more careful application of moisturiser and skin lotions. His new breasts seemed as firmly fixed as ever. How long was the adhesive supposed to last? David could not remember but for the present they remained part of him, their edges blending almost imperceptibly into his own skin.

Back in his dressing room he searched in his wardrobe for panties and bra. Someone had changed the contents. In one of his periods of absence someone had removed most or all of the clothing and completely restocked it. It now contained a ‘phase two’ collection he realised grimly. Now everything was fully fledged, unashameably, seductively feminine He remembered Laura, on his arrival at the Holding Wing, cajoling him into a shirt dress on the grounds that it so closely resembled masculine attire in spirit at least. That pretence had gone. The crepe dress was without doubt meant to emphasise the female form. To glory in it. And his lingerie were designed to emphasise that. To play a supporting role. He smiled bitterly at the unlooked-for mental pun. And, as Laura had so pointedly commented, he could himself choose what to wear.

His make-up techniques were still woeful. But at least he now knew roughly what to do. What to aim for and with a glimmer of an idea as to how it could be achieved. He hated himself whilst he peered into the mirror, did, undid, and redid his face. Hated the smell of himself as La Perla’s ‘Blue’ hazed over him. Saw no alternative.

It took him all of the forty minutes Laura had allowed. Still awaiting her return he sat on the bed and opened the letter containing the timetable for the week. Much of it was as he had expected. There were daily sessions with Mrs. Townsend for ‘Cosmetics’, with Sally for ‘Deportment’ and with Veronica for ‘Voice Training’. There was something called ‘Fashion & Dress Sense’ on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. On Tuesdays and Fridays he was scheduled for two hour sessions in the Hair Dressing Salon. There was even two ‘Dance’ slots.

Interspersed were periods marked ‘Private Study’.

There too, on Tuesday and Thursday, there were hour long sessions with a Dr. Tabatha O’Neill, psychiatrist.

There was something else too. “Female Sexuality”. Twice in the week. God knows what that entailed. David felt chill foreboding.

As he grappled with what that could mean, what it could encompass, Laura returned. The usual tap on the door and she was inside the room.

“Sophie dear, That dress is so you darling. So elegant!” She smiled encouragement at him. “Not to worry to much about make up at this stage dear. I have arranged that your first sessions each morning are with Mrs. Townsend so that she help you start your day looking absolutely immaculate. So important for a girl’s self esteem and confidence!”

She noticed the paper in David’s hand. “What do you think of the programme dear? I do so hope you like it. I have tried to make it as varied and as interesting as possible. Do you like it? So many fascinating things to explore! Any questions?”

“Laura, please, what are the ‘Female Sexuality’ sessions about?” David was embarrassed. “I know I am committed to behave as feminine as possible, but I haven’t, well, I haven’t got female bits ... I don’t have feminine sexuality.” He found himself blushing for reasons that he could not determine.

Laura giggled. “Oh Sophie! You are so sweet! Having female bits, as you so charmingly put it, is not a sine qua non when it comes to learning how the female body works and how to exploit it to the full, how to use it, how to draw maximum benefit, maximum pleasure, from all sexual aspects of the human condition.”

“Yes but ... “

“Sophie dear don’t cross your bridges before you come to them. The first session is just after lunch today and I am sure you will find it quite fascinating. And it is one to one so you won’t be embarrassed by blushing in front of the other girls.” Again a silvery giggle. “I look forward to hearing all about it this evening. But in the meantime don’t worry. You must get out of this habit of seeing dangers lurking round every corner Sophie dear. Just try and enjoy all the opportunities and facilities on offer here.”

She leant forward and kissed his cheek.

“The programme is honestly and truly designed with your best interests at heart darling. To help you to maximise your potential. The more you put into it, the more you will get out of it. And that includes enjoyment”

“But ..”

“No buts Sophie. Look You are going to be late for Mrs. Townsend. Run darling. And give her my love. See you later. And remember. Enjoy!”

And she pushed him out of the door.

When David joined the other girls for the now familiar lunch, his make-up was perfect after Mrs. Townsend’s ministrations, his hair newly styled after the subsequent session in the hairdressers.

Emma greeted him with a kiss and cries of delight. “Sophie darling, you look absolutely stunning.” Anne smiled at him in welcome. “Of course she does Emma. How could she not?”

It all seemed so familiar. All girls together. His grey dress clung to him, emphasising each movement, each curve of his body, moulding over his breasts, sliding over his silken lingerie and hose. He had to keep reminding himself that a week ago he was still entombed in the cell at Reception with no inkling of what lay in store. In a sort of hopeless, isolated limbo with no future. Now we was surrounded by companions, friends even, well fed and watered. With everything done to assure his future. But a future that seemed anathema to him. Then his masculinity was secure. Not so now.

The ‘Female Sexuality’ session was almost an anti-climax. Mrs. Cranwell was an attractive woman in her mid thirties. She exuded an air of sympathy and understanding. The ambience was calculated to put him at his ease. Two armchairs, and a screen on which Mrs. Cranwell could project illustrations. “You must be Sophie,” she said in a warm contralto voice, “Delighted to meet you. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’m Felicity.”

Felicity certainly had the gift of making people feel relaxed. Even David, full of trepidation and obsessed by the need to remain on his guard, felt his resistance drain away. She just talked at first. On themes now familiar to him. Explaining that all she was trying to do was to help people realise their potential. Help them to explore the richness of the sensual world that was theirs by right but to which so many people never found the key.

The remainder of the time was spent in a wide ranging talk on sexual organs, male and female, erogenous zones. The need for casting aside any ingrained prejudices and of opening one’s mind to the pleasure potential that sex offered. Nothing specific was touched upon. Such was Felicity Cranwell’s calming, low key, approach that David felt completely unthreatened, albeit perhaps slightly embarrassed at times, and his previous fears had been quite laid to rest by the time she looked at her watch and smiled. “Our time is up Sophie dear. I hope you have enjoyed our chat. I know I have and I look forward to our next talk together.”

“Yes, so have I, so do I Felicity. Thank you.” David found to his surprise that his unforced appreciation was quite genuine. His fears had been unfounded. There had been no pressure towards feminisation. No indoctrination.

“Good.” Felicity smiled at him. “Just one thing. I have a DVD here that I would like you to play the first part whenever you have a moment in your private study times. It just runs over the things we discussed. Gives a little more detail perhaps. Just to consolidate things before our next chat.”

She smiled at him. “Don’t worry, I am not going to question you on it. But if you could listen to it, just the first part, a couple of times, whenever you can, it would help us to progress.”

And that was it. ‘Deportment’ came next. And the day finished with ‘Voice Training’. Both a repetition and an extension of what he had experienced the previous week. Veronica and Sally greeting him as an old friend. Eager for gossip about the happenings on Friday.

It was becoming a routine. Pre-dinner drinks on the roof garden. When David arrived both Emma and Anne were already installed and eager to talk about the day. David was on his second gin before Laura found them there.

“Darlings,” she exclaimed, “What have I been missing? Do tell! I hope Sophie hasn’t been scandalising you two poor innocents with salacious details of a sexual nature?”

To the slightly startled, puzzled, looks of Anne and Emma, Laura cooed “Don’t tell me Sophie hasn’t told you both all about the inside knowledge she has on sexual behaviour? Felicity Cranwell tells me she is becoming quite the star pupil!”

And then to David, patting his knee playfully. “Sophie dear if you could only see your face! I am only teasing. I haven’t even seen Felicity. And if I had she wouldn’t tell me anything. What passes between you is quite confidential you know.”

Laura winked at the other two. “Poor Sophie was so worried this morning about going to a session on ‘Sexual Techniques’, I couldn’t help teasing her.”

Emma giggled. “What a waste of the poor darling’s time Laura. All she has to do is to spend more time gossiping with the rest of us girls. She will learn more than enough!”

Laura’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of mock disapproval. “Emma! We don’t want the poor darling completely corrupted. The object is to turn out young ladies not sluts!”

David was somewhat abashed. Forced on the defensive. True the session hadn’t been as threatening as he had feared, but then he shouldn’t have been subjected to it in the first place. Worse he felt the blood rising to his cheeks. Blushing again.

Again conscious that outwardly at least he was female. That the company, his friends treated him as such. That the weight on his chest, his clothes, perfume, told him such .. .but in the faces of the others all that could be seen was genuine, caring amusement. Not laughing at him, but with him, supporting him. Including him. Accepting him as a girl amongst girls.

Laura poured herself a drink, and he refreshed his own glass. His third gin. The talk turned to more general subjects and David sat back. Frightened by his acceptance, terrified by how he in turn felt comforted by it.

During dinner the girlish banter continue unabated. David was drawn in; could not escape the web of kindness. Fortified by the plentiful flow of wine, he managed to contribute to the conversation. Managed to achieve some level of social ease. Laura must have sensed how much effort, it was costing him. How fragile his balancing act with normality was, because she was supportive, no longer teasing him but taking his side when the others unwittingly exposed raw nerves.

At last the party broke up. All claimed they had work to do to prepare for the morrow. Laura took David by the elbow as they were leaving.

“Felicity asked me to remind you about the DVD she gave you. Do run it through a couple of times each night. Just the first part which covers your initial chat.” She smiled. “Perhaps now you won’t be so ready to make mountains out of mole hills.”

Her grip tightened very slightly. “That goes for tomorrow’s session with Dr. Tabatha as well Sophie dear. You will like her. And she can help you a lot. Just give her a chance. And don’t worry, she isn’t an ogre you know. None of us are.”

They were at the door to his room. “Goodnight.” Her lips brushed his cheek as she turned and swayed down the corridor to the door that led to her own apartment.

Back in his room David sank down in front of the TV set. He felt weary. Several large gins and more than his share of the wine at dinner had left him drained. He inserted the Sexual techniques DVD in the slot and set it to play the first track. It was only about fifteen minutes long and seemed just a rather clinical discourse on the female reproductive system. An initial stirring of sexual arousal died away, although whether that was because of the clinical nature of the DVD or because of his own alcohol fuelled tiredness was hard to say. In fact he had dozed off towards the end and sat there in a blissful, warm semi-sleeping state for a further half hour whilst the track kept re-running in front of his inattentive eyes.

Finally he shook himself out of his lethargy. Ejected the DVD and tried another at random from the rack. It was a light romantic comedy. David had not seen it; did not properly see it this time either, as he lapsed again into a torpor, half dozing, half in a black despair. When it finished David stared for a while at the blank screen. Although early, bed seemed his best option. At least it would bring a sleep and a respite from thought.

Conscious of the surveillance he carefully removed his make up, and applied the night moisturising cream to which Mrs. Townsend had attached such importance at the morning session. Performed his ablutions in the statutory fashion. Donned with distaste his baby-doll nightgown, smiling sweetly for the hidden cameras, and slid between the cool clean sheets.

With the nagging certainty that he had again gone with the flow, had again failed in his determination to resist, had again succumbed to the lure of any easy, drink induced, avoidance of thought, he slipped into a troubled slumber.

Tuesday morning came. It was becoming so frighteningly familiar. Routine. The time spent in the bathroom, emerging scented and lotion cleansed. The selection of clean undies from the delicate pastel pile of lace, and silk. Panties to smooth over his hips and a bra to drop and juggle his breasts into. Stay-ups to slide up his smooth legs. Yesterday’s dress, the soft grey one, “But never the same more than two days together”, Laura had warned.

Then half an hour before his mirror working on his hair and make-up. Laura’s remark on Monday about not needing to bother too much as he had Mrs. Townsend for the first lesson, had not been echoed by that lady herself who had been quite scathing about his efforts. Dire warnings had been issued concerning the fate of girls who perversely neglected to make the most of their natural advantages.

Breakfast with the others. Their warm greeting and the usual exchange of compliments on how ravishingly beautiful everyone was looking. What could be more normal?

David’s smile was sweet and caring. His hands fluttered in appreciation as they exchanged kisses and compliments. He was moving down the path to accepting the normality of it all. Mind churning abnormality was becoming normal. Repetition was eroding reason. He ate sparingly. Grapefruit and a little dry toast and marmalade. And black coffee. Three cups.

The first session with Mrs. Townsend drove home the point. Anne and Emma were also there and the three were immersed in a haze of perfume and cosmetics of every conceivable description. Faces were worked over and re worked over. Subtle changes to shades and applications assumed immense importance. Infinite care was required with the most delicate of brushes and cotton buds. And he no longer found it particularly strange. Indeed it was almost a haven in that it had a familiarity. It was safe. Non-threatening. Something with which he could deal. It was much to be preferred to the unknown danger that lurked ahead of him with Dr. O’Neill.

But that sanctuary could not last for ever. At 11 o’clock David tapped on the door of Room 13, as instructed in his time table, and a voice bade him enter.

The lighting was low. Just a small standard lamp in one corner of the room. Dr. O’Neill had been seated in an armchair with her back to the door but rose to meet David on his entry.

She did not conform to David’s preconception as to what a psychiatrist looked like. Tallish, about 5' 9", her smart beautifully tailored business suit, subtly emphasised a well proportioned figure, calm deep blue eyes were framed by honey coloured hair and her scent was unobtrusively expensive.

Her handshake was cool and firm. “You must be Sophie. So pleased to meet you. Please sit down.” She indicated a low divan facing her own armchair. “I’m Tabatha as I expect Laura has already told you.” Her voice had a rather husky timbre, classless with just a suggestion of a Northern Ireland accent. “Laura’s told me about you too.” Her smile was warm, attractive. “Don’t worry though, nothing that isn’t nice.”

She returned to her seat as David cautiously perched on the low couch which was he realised not just there for comfort. One end rose as a back or neck support and there was an arm swung back at the side attached to which was a panel. Another small stand supported headphones.

Dr. Tabatha seemed aware of his nervousness. “Laura told me you were dreading coming here to meet me. So I guess that the onus is on me to gain your trust. And the best way to do that is to spend this session trying to explain what I am trying to do and give you a little introduction to what we can hope to achieve together. For if you don’t trust me, if you feel I am not on your side then I cannot help you. And both Laura and I want these sessions to be to your benefit.”

She paused, giving David time to reply. But there was no response other than a rather helpless gesture.

“Laura has given me some background. Tell me if I have got it wrong won’t you? Oh, and by the way, although I work for the Venumar Foundation, a very strict doctor patient confidentiality rule applies. So all that passes within these four walls is sacrosanct.”

Again a pause for David’s input. This time he managed a guarded “Yes. I see.”

Dr. Tabatha seemed content to let it rest there. She had a small notepad on her left hand side and an elegant silver pencil in that hand which she turned between her fingers.

“So having cleared the air a little, how do you think I can help. What do you hope to gain from our talk.?”

The question threw David.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t my idea. Laura sent me. Insisted that I see you.”

“Well then why do you think she thought it was a good idea?”

“ I don’t know, perhaps ... David let the sentence tail off. “I don’t know.”

Dr. Tabatha regarded him quietly. The pencil still in her slim fingers.

“No idea at all? A complete mystery. Surely not? Perhaps.....?”

“Perhaps ...,” David’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Perhaps I thought, think that it is just another tool to, to hasten, to make me accept femininity.”

Dr. Tabatha nodded. “You don’t trust Laura?”

David shook his head. “I don’t know. She has been kind, I believe that she tries to help. A lot of the time. Without her I could not have managed. But I don’t know. I don’t know if I can trust anyone here.”

“I can see that, understand it, sympathise with it.” Her pencil was busy on the pad. Not writing though. Doodling. “I only wish I could reassure you. But I realise it doesn’t work like that. We will just hope to deserve your confidence in the future.”

“Let’s move on.” Her left hand was still again. “Why does the thought of being more feminine fill you with such horror?”

David’s voice echoed his indignation at the question. “Isn’t it obvious? I’ve always been a male. Born a male. Brought up as one. I am a male for God’s sake. You are supposed to be a psychiatrist. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Certainly. Nature and early nurture both combine.” Dr. Tabatha’s tone was soothing. “To some degree certainly. Reluctance. Distaste. Fear of the unknown perhaps. Feelings of inadequacy even. She regarded him closely. “But I said horror, and you implicitly concurred.?”

“Yes,” said David. “It is anathema to me.”

“What is the worst horror you can imagine Sophie?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Dr Tabatha shrugged elegant shoulders, “It is simple enough. At one end of the scale, utter horror for many would be being told that they, or perhaps a close loved one, had an incurable disease and only a few weeks, a few days even, to live. Or perhaps the devastation of a natural disaster or man-made catastrophe killing or maiming thousands.”

David stared at her.

“Well?” she enquired softly.

“If it were a straight choice Sophie, would you rather be dead or be sitting here talking to me or perhaps chatting with Anne and Emma on the roof garden over a gin and tonic?”

“It is not a fair question.”

“Questions involving choices often don’t appear fair Sophie. Dr. Tabatha smiled at him. “They are often valid though. Is having to wear a dress worse that losing a hand? Is it more of an ordeal for a woman to have a mastectomy than for you to wear a bra?”

David shook his head as he tried to find an effective response.” I didn’t mean horror like that. You are twisting my words.”

“I don’t mean to twist your words Sophie. I am sorry if you think I am doing so. I am just trying to put things in perspective. And in doing so to diminish the degree of horror perhaps.”

“Choices don’t happen like that.”

“Choices happen all the time Sophie. They can be quite unpredictable. You should know.” Dr. Tabatha paused. “Laura tells me that you chose only the other day to embrace femininity, to willingly go along with what you have just described as a horror, as against undergoing a very minor surgical procedure, which itself would have resulted in a minor inconvenience.”

“That was not the choice”. David was indignant. “I chose an future uncertainty against a present certainty, or...” his voice faltered and died.

“Some choices are finely weighted Sophie.” Her voice was gentle. “And the finer they are, the more difficult they are. What is important is that you made a choice. That you thought about it. Weighed the options and decided. And if you had decided otherwise?

She paused .

“It would not have been the end of the world.”

She let it sink in. David said nothing.

“Nor is this Sophie. Not the end of the world.”

“No,” David admitted, “but it feels like it. To me anyway.”

“Feelings we can deal with Sophie. I don’t mean we can change them completely. But we can bring them into perspective. Rationalise them. I can’t change the fact that you are here Sophie. Nor that you are now Sophie. But I can .....”

David cut in

“Nor that I am destined to be more Sophie?”

“No. Not that either. But I can perhaps help you to place that in a scale of values that will enable you to support it. To continue to be a rational, valuable person. With a life.”

“I don’t want this life!”

Dr Tabatha smiled with genuine compassion. “That is a common enough sentiment Sophie. Believe you me. Its prevalence is the only justification for my profession.”

She looked at her watch. The silver pencil sparkled in the light as she turned her wrist. David saw that the notepad had nothing but doodles on it.

“Time is running out. Thursday I think is our next session. Perhaps we can look at things in more detail then. To finish let’s try a little hypnosis. Just to get you accustomed to the idea of a trance.”

She smiled at David’s reaction. “Yes Sophie dear, Laura told me that you considered that as a secret weapon in the Venumar arsenal, luring you towards acceptance. Really it doesn’t work like that.” Dr. Tabatha’s smile was gentle, sympathetic.

“I can’t make you do anything against your will. Not that I would want to. I am a professional. I can’t even claim that anything I suggest to you whilst you are in trance will have any effect. It differs from one person to another. What is called hyper suggestibility is a very imperfect and disputed science. My own experience is that it can concentrate your mind. Strip it of outside influences so that you will listen to what I say. Induce a mental relaxation which I have found useful in reducing tension, such as I think is adversely effecting the clarity of your thinking.”

She stood up and expertly swung over the arm which supported a viewing panel, whilst picking up the headphones and proffering them to David.

“Humour me. Just try it. If it works for you, you have my word that it can only be positive. That it will make your life better. Lie back and try it . Please. For me.”

David was unconvinced but willy nilly found himself stretched out on the couch. His upper body at 45% whilst Dr. Tabatha swung the panel over till it rested about 18" in front of his eyes. “If you concentrate on it, it will help the trance. For your information it is called, rather terrifyingly, ‘binaural brainwave synchronisation”. She passed him the headphones. “The graphics and the sound work in tandem. Put them on. They still allow you to hear my voice.”

She stood back and looked down at David. As she herself sat she just said, “Remember. All this talk about mind control is complete rubbish. I can’t do it. No one can. And I personally would not be a party to even trying it.”

The screen showed a pattern of nondescript images that swirled, diminished, reformed, a sort of carousel that advanced and retreated. The music was the sort that one associated with science fiction films. Artificial, with a slow beat that itself swelled and diminished.

Through it all Dr. Tabatha’s voice came. Calm, evenly spaced, reassuring, friendly.

Telling him to relax. To feel the weight of his body. Watch the screen, feel the weight of his eyelids. Of his whole body. Asking him to relax. To listen. To relax. To rest his eyelids. To let them close.

A lassitude crept over him. Dr. Tabatha’s voice was soft, persuasive, gentle. He began to experience a curious numbness, firstly in his cheekbones but gradually it became more widespread. And his eyes did close. They responded to her insistent, repetitive suggestion. Finally he could not keep them open. He could no longer see the whirling patterns on the screen, although the music ran through his head.

Her voice urged him to welcome the trance, to sink deeper into it, to allow it to comfort him, to accept it, to surrender to it. To find refuge in it. To leave his own thoughts, his own mind, his own will behind.

He felt cocooned. Isolated from the outer existence. The normal world was still there. Dr. Tabatha’s voice reached out from it, gentle but authorative, comforting and yet firm. He lost all will to move, could not summon up the energy to stay in touch with it, with the world outside.

All he could hear above the music was her voice. It was clear inside his head. Gentle, caring, persuasive. It invited him to relax. Told him that by listening he could escape his cares and that he could always find a refuge there in trance. He seemed to float. His body was still there but as if swathed in many bandages. Distant and numb. He could not move.

Her voice told him to relax. To take life as it came. To accept. Not to worry. To accept. To think of his own welfare. To choose to take from life what it had to offer him. Not to rail against fates he could not control.

Perhaps there was more. Afterwards, when he had returned, when he had responded to her counting and opened his eyes to find himself back on the couch he had never left, he had this curious feeling that there had been more. That a half hour could not really just have passed. That there was something else. Somewhere else where he had gone. A something, a somewhere, that had faded back into the mists when he finally returned.

But all he knew was that she was there smiling at him “Awake? It wasn’t so bad was it? You should feel rested. More relaxed.”

She gave him her hand and helped him to sit upright. His dress had ridden up a little on his thighs whilst he had reclined on the couch. He smoothed it down with his hands in what he belatedly recognised as a typically feminine gesture. She too must have noticed but gave no indication.

“So Sophie, we have finished for today. You have survived unscathed in spite of all your forebodings.“ She smiled again, inviting him to share the joke against himself.

She accompanied to the door. Her hand on his upper arm. “I look forward to resuming our chat on Thursday. Try not to worry too much. Remember all that passes between us stays between us. And one last thing Sophie.” She turned and looked at him gravely. Her voice low and earnest. “Trust Laura.”

Chapter 21.

The days passed in the established routine. Meals with the other girls, The weather continuing fine, the end of each afternoon was marked by drinks on the roof garden. Laura and Janet Saggren usually were to be found amongst them. Emma, Anne, and David continued as a close knit group, although after the scene on Saturday, David felt that it was no longer quite the same. A slight reserve seemed to have entered the relationship. Perhaps it was his imagination. Just a hangover of guilt. But it was there in his mind.

David tried not to drink as much. Knew it weakened him and any capacity he had for independent thought or action. Suspected also that it could be used against him. The fact that he had not been warned about it, when they must have known, perversely worried him. But he was not altogether successful. His good intentions invariably weakening after his first Plymouth gin.

He continued inexorably to become, outwardly at least, more feminine. Of course the progress was slight. Not noticeable from day to day. But it was taking place. All the tuition, all the training, was having its effect. Little drops of water, little grains of sand ....

David knew too in his heart that it was not just outwardly so. Inwardly also. Repetition dulled the edge to his resistance. Increasingly he donned his bra and knickers, his dresses, stockings and shoes, not only with more skill, but with less thought. Caring for his hair, applying make-up, smoothing his skirt when sitting, knees together, even sitting when urinating, were becoming, if not exactly natural actions, then at least everyday, normal ones, done without too much thought, no longer accompanied by a sickening questioning. He was losing the struggle. He hated himself for it, but could not deny it. Sometimes, admittedly for only brief periods, but still sometimes, and no longer rarely, he would lose himself when chatting with Anne and Emma. All girls together. He would join in their laughter, natural and unforced.

Just two things stuck in his mind from the next few days. Before Coralie arrived and everything changed.

The first came about almost accidentally. It was towards the end of his second session with Dr. Tabatha. With growing confidence he has started to unburden himself. More and more Dr. Tabatha was assuming a listening role. Her questions often came out of the blue, changing the tack, questioning David’s assumptions. But more and more she just let him talk.

He told her of the privations he had suffered during those long months in Reception, and she listened with seeming sympathy. She prompted him.

“So basically although conditions are infinitely better in the Holding Wing, you are still here under duress. Moreover you see the enforced feminisation that is part and parcel of your existence here as a threat, as an affront to your self image. That although you have agreed to embrace this opportunity to explore femininity, you feel that you have been manoeuvred into such commitment?”

“It is more than that. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be Sophie. It is far worse. I fear that being female is my future, That I shall never be me again. That ...” David tried to marshal his thoughts, his emotions, his arguments. There was too much indignation within him to let it out in an orderly fashion.

“Yes, I see” said Dr. Tabatha. “And it is all tearing you apart.”

“Yes,” David said. “All that. All that. It is wrong. I cannot get my head round it. I should not be here. I do not know why I am here.”

Dr. Tabatha nodded. “Yes. It is not then the physical hardship? So much as the duress, the not knowing why?”

“Do the words ‘broken branches’ mean anything to you?” The question was out there, between them, before he realised it. He had not consciously framed it. It had just come out.

Dr Tabatha was unfazed. She just smiled at him. “Yes.” she said. “Why do you ask?” She seemed unsurprised.

“Why do I ask?” David said, taken aback by her positive response. Still surprised by his own question.

“Why do I ask? Because it might be a clue... It might explain ... Is it ... Is it the key to why I am here? To why this is happening to me?”

Dr. Tabatha seemed to consider this. Then she sighed.

“I did not expect you to ask me so soon. I am pleased that you feel able to. Pleased and rather flattered.”

“You knew?”

She shrugged. Went back to the original question.

“‘Broken branches’ is shorthand for an existing situation that has inspired, led directly to, the project by the Venumar Foundation of which you find yourself part.”

The silence grew between them. David broke it.

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what is it shorthand for? What is the project?”

Dr. Tabatha shook her head. “I am sorry but I am not empowered to tell you that. And even if I were, I do not know that I would. It would not help you to know. It would not change anything for you.”

“But I would know why. Why all this!” David’s gesture included his whole feminine body.

“And what end would that serve? It would not change anything.”

She seemed to relent. “Look, if it helps, the end is a laudable one. Very much so. You are unfortunate in that you are currently on the losing end of the age old philosophical question as to whether the ends justify the means. You have to believe me when I say that the end is pre-eminently important, and humane.”

David was aghast. “And what comfort is that to me?”

“Very little I imagine. That is what I have been trying to tell you. Knowing would not help.”

David, desperate, tried another tack. “You are a doctor, You are sworn to act ethically. How can you reconcile your involvement in all this. What price now the Hippocratic Oath!”

“Sophie. Listen. My work here is but a fraction of my duties within the Venumar Foundation. I do not approve of all that I see. I think that may be true of all large corporations. But I personally do my very best, using my skills to the utmost, to help people. And I think I do a worthwhile job. If you think that is cynical, so be it. But additionally, and specifically, I do believe that, as far as the ‘broken branches’ project is concerned, potentially the end benefit is enormous.”

David was reduced to silence. Shaking his head in bewilderment. One final “Please?”

She shook her head. “Sophie. I will do my best to help, to make things as easy as possible for you. To help you get through this. Hopefully to come out at the other end none the worse for the experience, perhaps with an even better life in front of you than you would otherwise have had.”

A pause and then gently “You must realise that I can no more influence what happens here than you can. Only help you deal with it to the best of my ability. To ensure that mentally you can overcome, even profit from, it”

There seemed little else to say .and the session limped on towards its close. But the exchange remained crystal clear in David’s mind, and he replayed it many times in the days ahead.

The other event was more of a shock A sudden glimpse down the dark abyss at his feet. It happened at the following Monday’s ‘Female Sexuality’ session. The previous two sessions had lulled David into feeling that his earlier worries about the subject had been unfounded. Nothing startling on the DVD first and second tracks either. But on Monday Felicity Cranwell’s opening words dispelled all complacency.

“What we must explore today Sophie is how your own sexuality can find expression. Obviously your own special circumstances rule out, for the time being at least, the more obvious errmmm ... avenues, which brings us nicely to fellatio and anal penetration. Such valuable weapon’s in any girls armoury!”

David’s mind found itself operating on two levels. Fellatio? Anal penetration? And perhaps worse ....

“Sophie! Cat got your tongue? Mrs. Cranwell’s usually friendly face had a slight frown. “Do pay attention Sophie dear! You do need to perfect your skills in these areas ....”

“Perfect my skills?”

Perhaps worse .. ‘for the time being at least!?’

“Yes Sophie. An amateur approach is simply not good enough. One must maximise possibilities. Learn how to both give and receive maximum pleasure.”

Alarm bells carilloned in David’s head.

“Skills? But I have no skills. I have never ever...... And I do not want to!”

“Never admit to ‘no skills’ Sophie. I won’t have my girls showing a negative attitude! I am sure that, even without tuition and practice, if such a situation were to occur, innate instinct would more than suffice.”

She giggled conspiratorially.

“And as for not wanting to! Well playing all virginal is all very well darling and I know that you are being trained to be genteel young ladies, but a girl has got to do what a girl has got to do!”

Again the surprisingly salacious giggle. David cringed.

“ A girl who has mastered the techniques of both is in such a strong position. Not only can she manipulate mere males so much more easily, and apart from that feeling of control of the masculine ego being a powerful aphrodisiac in itself, quite ecstatic sexual pleasure can accrue to the girl herself.”

Felicity Cranwell winked knowingly at David. “And of course the anal possibility has such particular relevance for yourself darling. With that little prostrate thingy of yours begging to be massaged. Nothing like a good, hard, thrusting prick up your arse to make a girl like you give thanks to whatever gods there be. But there is so much to be had from cock sucking too Sophie. Really. If anything more scope for variety, innovation even, and of course ultimate control.”

She looked at him searchingly. Taking his silence perhaps for him not being quite open with her, for holding back.

“But Sophie. Surely you have already? I mean I just assumed that you must have ... Oh a whole new world lies before you sweetie! You are going to have such fun!

David recoiled from the plain inference that he would be a participant in these fun situations in a not-so-far-distant future.

And restless at the back of his head still echoed her phrase. ‘For the time being at least!’

Felicity misinterpreted the expression on David’s face. Or perhaps she chose to misinterpret it.

“Sophie pet don’t worry about it! Instinct and a little enthusiasm will get you through most situations. And you will soon pick up the niceties with a little tuition. That is after all what this course is designed for.”

“The only problem is where to start!” Her smiling enthusiasm did her credit as an instructor.

“Firstly never forget Sophie that in whatever you do, your prime aim must be to exercise control. To strengthen your dominance over the man. To know, and to have the necessary skills, to either prolong the man’s pleasure, denying him orgasm, until he is reduced to begging, pleading, promising the earth, for it; or, at the other extreme, bringing him off so quickly that he hardly knows what hit him. But using it always to your benefit as the situation demands.”

She giggled. “Men often describe it as a tool. They may for once be right but they seem unaware that it is very much a two edged one, so to speak, and can best be used against them. All that is required is a little knowledge, a modicum of practice and a smattering of common sense on the girl’s part.”

David did not need to reply. Her enthusiasm swept her along, so that an strategically placed nod on his part from time to time was quite sufficient.

But, ever recurring, through his mind ran the phrase ‘For the time being at least!’

“Now. First things first, before we get to techniques. To swallow or not to swallow that is the question! What do you prefer Sophie pet. Oh I forgot you say you never, well haven’t so far, well .... . Well whether you do or not, take my advice, and swallow pet. One swallow may not make a summer but it can make a relationship.”

Again the conspiratorial giggle. Husky and attractive.

“Some girls get to love the taste. Well they have a point if you like horlicks made with salt, but even if you would rather be drinking a single malt darling, that is not really the point. Men love to think that producing yummy sperm is such a wonderful macho thing. Their dear little bollocks churn away and produce something that if it can’t impregnate someone can at least taste delicious!”

She shook her head despairingly, inviting agreement as to the general foolishness of the male sex.

David thought of his own bollocks, whose sperm was seemingly no longer destined to taste delicious, let alone impregnate someone.

Echoing through his mind. ‘Your own special circumstances rule out, for the time being at least.... the more obvious avenues. For the time being at least. The time being. Rule out. At least.’ Echoing.

“Well at least the taste can be acquired and I am told that the stuff is protein rich and can do no harm. So that must be a plus! The important thing is that men, bless their confused little child minds, like it. It inflates their ego. Just at the time when everything else is deflating.”

Again the sexy, husky giggle.

“It panders to them, God knows why. What relevance can it possibly have? But what swallowing does do pet is to stop it spraying all over the place. Whatever the merits of its taste there can be no doubt that it is messy. It creates havoc in one’s hair, and it stains dresses.”

Felicity made a moue of distaste.

“I know dresses can be cleaned, hair re-done! But why should we have to? And, as is often the case, the cock-sucking is done as a quickie! A little on account, promising other joys to follow! And one has to rejoin the company with all the evidence of one’s little peccadillo all over one’s dress and hair. So embarrassing pet. Much better to swallow and hoover up all the evidence as it were.”

And so it continued. Felicity moved on to techniques of first cock- sucking, and then of anal sex. “Taking it up the arse is so important for you Sophie pet with your present limited options! Even afterwards it will be such a useful skill to have mastered.”

‘Present options.’? ‘Even afterwards’? ‘For the time being at least’?

At the end there were the usual DVDs for David to study. “For discussion at our next session, Sophie pet.”

Then David’s world reeled.

“What has Laura provided for you in your dildo drawer Sophie pet?”

David found his voice with some difficulty. “Nothing. I haven’t got one. Haven’t got a dildo drawer.”

“But every girl should have one pet. Just like a knicker drawer. Sometimes the same thing for a modest collections of course. Or for girls who have dispensed with knicker wearing altogether.”

Her deep, throaty, chuckle vibrated like a cat’s purr.

“ I will speak to her about it. But at the very minimum you will need a lifelike penis on which to practice the sucking actions I have outlined. And of course some butt plugs just to accustom your arse to the feeling of being filled. Perhaps a progression so that your first experience of the real thing ... “

Here she winked at David.

“ ... will be pleasurable rather than an ordeal. We do need to stretch your sphincter muscles so that they can accept their alternative role with the minimum resistence.”

She shook her head in sorrow.

“So many girls have been put off by their first experience of anal sex. Denied a lifetime’s source of pleasure by the failure of either school or parents to provide the necessary instruction or practical advice. Naturally the introduction of a hard cock into a virgin arse can be painful without careful preparation And of course the men don’t help. Ignorance personified! As they are in most other aspects!”

She leant forward and patted David’s knee.

“But you don’t need to worry about that Sophie pet. We will make sure you are perfectly primed so as to milk maximum pleasure from the experience. No girl of mine is lacking in that respect!”

“But butt plugs are an essential aid. Quite indispensable! I will arrange with Laura for you to have some. I will work out a progression for you, as soon as we know which type suits you best. And of course a vibrator to tone up the prostrate. These imitation penises are all very well for giving girls ideas, but for the prostrate one wants a vibrator that is really going to hit the spot.”

She made a note in a small, silver backed, notebook.

“A girl can’t start too soon.”

As David left the room, after he had numbly promised Felicity Cranwell to make a real effort to study and to follow the suggestions in the DVD’s, for the first time in half an hour the nagging refrain of ‘For the time being at least!’was stilled. A more immediate horror loomed.

He was sinking deeper. His options were narrowing. Options? What options had he?

Femininity was invading him. Daily exposure to it was already imbuing the more outward signs of dress and behaviour with a sense of normality. And now there was a move towards shifting his sexual behaviour in the same direction. Becoming a penetratee rather than a penetrator was no longer a suggestion but an overt instruction in which he was expected to co-operate. Indeed in that respect he had already signed away his birthright. He had agreed to actively embrace, to enthusiastically seek feminisation. And now the chickens were coming home to roost. Embracing feminisation was not just a matter of wearing skirts and perfume and accepting breast forms. It was also a re-orientation of his sexual habits. What had been, was still, anathema was destined to become ..... the source of, his only, source of .....

And this was the Holding Wing. Just a preparation, an introduction. What else lay in store? What happened next? What awaited him at the Finishing Centre?

He must resist. And yet resistance led directly to Rehabilitation. Anne’s words that evening on the roof garden still burned bright in his memory. Rehabilitation meant the destruction of all what he was now. Utter loathing of all that was David. Rehabilitation had driven Olive to suicide. And even if Anne had lied, exaggerated about her own time there. Even if .... But no her own fear and revulsion must be genuine. She could not fake that. And Olive had died.

Perhaps Grace de Messembry could be persuaded that he was not a fit subject? His chances there seemed equally non existent. Physically he knew he was a fit subject. He looked down at his carefully manicured small hands and knew it And mentally he seemed to be a guineapig. They would make up their own minds. When they had sufficient data from the experiment. David shuddered. Anyway his attempts at negotiating so far with Grace de Messembry had not brought much in the way of benefit. He now realised that whether she had agreed or not to submit him to the ‘minor surgical intervention’, the long term result would have been much the same. He had been set up. He had nothing to bargain with any longer. May never had had anything to bargain with. And if by a miracle, or for her own private amusement, she would entertain the idea of negotiation, he could at best only buy a little time. The end was pre-ordained.

And that left escape. That must be the only possibility. But how? How?

Deep in the back of his consciousness David became aware of a new voice, a small, calm but insistent, voice. A voice that he had no noticed before but which may have been there for some time, only drowned in the clamour of his desperation. A still calm voice. A new voice.

‘Relax. It is not as bad as all that. Just relax. Look on the positive side. Nothing here is life threatening, nor even painful. Relax. Take your time. Be positive. There is nothing here that you cannot deal with if you are rational. People want to help. Just relax.’

David tried to relax, Tried to be rational. Tried to calm his fears. Tried to concentrate on the potential for escape.

Messembry’s inspection. Yourself included Sophie dear.” The roof garden was five storeys up on the fourth floor. He would need some rope or something similar if he were to descend to the garden below. There may of course be convenient drain pipes but with the glass panels in position he could not lean over to inspect the side of the building. And of course at first he had to get around over them to start the descent. Even if he could scale the armoured glass panels and succeed in reaching the garden below, he still had to escape from there. Get out over the high walls that surrounded it.

His room, and the main concourse, was on the third floor. His own window opened only about a foot. It would be difficult, probably impossible, to exit by it. Perhaps the other rooms had windows that opened wider but even so .... the problem remained of how he was to descend safely and whether he could get out of the walled garden. Unless .... he must check for drain pipes. He could at least get his head out of his room window to examine the wall.

The small voice at the back of his thoughts demurred that it was an awful risk. That he might kill himself. Wouldn’t it be better to just wait and see. It couldn’t be that bad. Dr. Tabatha was right. Trust her. And if he did reach the garden and could get no further, he certainly couldn’t get back. And what if he did get over the wall and escape. Dressed as a girl? No money? His flat would be watched. They would recapture him. It would mean Rehabilitation and the end of David.

Anyway, the little inner voice reminded him, it was time to meet the others on the roof garden. Time to enjoy the unusually fine weather with the other girls. Time to have a gin before dinner. Maybe even two ... And then there were those new DVDs that someone had dropped into his room ...

And so he succumbed and joined the others. And chatted in the evening sunshine and drank his gin and tonic. And tried to forget what the day had brought.

That Monday night though was restless. Sleep came late and fitfully. His mind, half asleep played back variations of his conversation with Felicity Cranwell. In the small hours his fears grew and twisted into waking nightmares. As the first grey lightening of the dark infused through his curtained window, he finally slept. Slept and dreamt. A peaceful nerve resting dream of which on waking he could remember only two things.

What the dream was about he could not recall. Of the others who had featured in it only the fact that they were sympathetic and seemed to approve remained. What he did remember was that in the dream he had been wearing high heels. They were boots, elegant and black, that came to just below mid-calf. Not only had he a visual image but that he was aware of how they felt on his feet, firm under his instep and heel. It was odd. Rather like when he first acquired some proficiency in French and had awoken one morning aware that he had dreamt in that language. Then he had been pleased. Smug almost. Now worry replaced pleasure. And yet the second thing he remembered from the dream was that, after an initial hesitation, he had been pleased, very pleased, and had basked in the approbation of the others.

Chapter 22.

That morning brought Laura bearing gifts and requesting a favour. Neither were welcome.

David had finished in the bathroom when she arrived. Clad in panties and bra, he was sitting on the bed carefully rolling up his stockings when, after the customary double tap on the door, she entered.

“Hurry up Sophie dear. A busy day ahead and your running late. Here,” Laura deposited a brightly coloured carrier bag on the table, “Felicity asked me to drop these in for you. But no playing with them now darling, you just haven’t time.”

She perched on the edge of the bed close to him. “I have a favour to ask you in return for bring such an array of gifts!” She winked at him. “We have a new girl joining us this afternoon, Coralie she is called and I want you to be particularly nice to her. She is really in Janet Saggren’s charge but as her background is similar to yours, we, Janet and I, thought it would be helpful if you could help her through these first few days leading up to the inspection.”

David had almost forgotten that the inspection was due Friday. So many other things had crowded in. But it made sense. He also had arrived on a Tuesday and then bustled towards Friday’s Inspection. No time to resist. A moral pressure to conform, to help the others.

History was repeating itself.

“So Sophie dear, Janet and I thought it would help settle Coralie if you could join us this evening. The poor dear must be feeling quite disoriented and it would be such a comfort to her to meet you and be assured that her femininity was something to be welcomed and enjoyed. You remember how Anne was such a comfort on your arrival?”

David nodded. “Yes but I am only new, and the least accomplished of all ...of all the girls. His voice faltered. “What about Janet’s girls or Emma, or Anne if you think a ‘new’ girl is, would be, better?”

“But poor Coralie is fresh from Reception Sophie dear, so you will know just how she is feeling. And then I thought it would be such a good opportunity for you to show your commitment following your undertaking to Grace de Messembry. And you mustn’t underestimate the progress you have made darling.”

Laura’s eyes sparkled saucily as she inclined her head in the direction of the carrier bag.

“Such progress Sophie dear!”

David found himself blushing. “Laura it is ... I mean Mrs. Cranwell insisted ... I have no intention of ... of using those things. I mean I don’t want to know ...”

“Of course you will use them Sophie dear ... don’t be such a blushing virgin. You will just love them! Girls do. My fault for not giving you them earlier. Anyway it is part of your commitment. But that is not the point. I need you to help poor Coralie.”

“And in helping her you will help us all sweetie, as of course we all have a vested interest in ensuring the success of Grace de

Laura patted the bed beside her. “So I can count on you Sophie dear? Coralie will be moving in to Mona’s old room. Perhaps you could join us there for a drink after dinner? Say eight o’clock?”

It was not a take-it-or-leave-it invitation.

“Of course Laura. If you think it will help.”

Laura rose. “Thanks so much darling. Must rush now. See you at breakfast. And keep your little fingers off the toys until later.” She winked roguishly. “Much to do today. The inspection looms for us all. See you at breakfast. Oh by the way for this evening wear the black and white Couleurs d’été dress with the V-neckline and embroidery on the front. The one with the shoestring straps and slightly fitted waist. Nothing too elaborate but it is very feminine in an elegant, understated, way. Just to show poor Coralie how pretty one can look with a little effort!”

When she was gone David hastened through the rest of his preparations before joining the others for breakfast. The news of Coralie’s imminent arrival had preceded him and there was already a buzz of gossip. Janet had also told everyone about David’s role in the welcome and the other girls were eager to proffer advice. All seemed genuinely to believe that Coralie was fortunate to be here and that she would soon settle down accepting her new feminine role. It just underlined his own isolation.

The day passed as David sank back into his routine. An increasingly feminine routine. All the usual sessions including a session with Dr. Tabatha. Her questions probed his beliefs. Questioned his motives for rejecting femininity. Pointing out the inconsistencies. Letting his own answers betray his argument. Turning aside the reality of his situation with the regretful admission that she could not influence that. Always in a gentle understanding way.

During the hypno-therapy, David found that he seemed to slip into the numbness of trance quickly. Again Dr. Tabatha’s voice came clear and calm through the background ebb and flow of the music. Reassuring him, gently suggesting that his concerns were exaggerated by his own prejudices. That acceptance of his situation would dispel his darker fears. Make life so much easier, enjoyable even

Repetitive messages that soothed, allayed fears in a logical reasoned way. And again after the trance had ended and he had been brought back to world, he was surprised to find that 45 minutes had passed. Perhaps he had just slipped deeper and could not remember all that was said.

“You will awake feeling better Sophie” Dr. Tabatha had said. And she was right.

Lunch and in the afternoon further short sessions of Deportment, Voice Training and with Mrs. Townsend, the beautician.

David dressed carefully ready for his evening meeting. He suspected it was also a test for him. That it was designed to see whether he was keeping to his undertaking to embrace femininity. So it was that when he joined the others on the roof garden before dinner he was rather late.

He had to sit and hear the oohs and aahs occasioned by the his Couleurs d’été dress. The Plymouth gin slipped down rapidly. His overall appearance came in for a lot of praise. He felt they all wanted him to look his best. To be an example to Coralie of what could be done. Almost a tinge of jealousy that he should be the first to meet her.

And then, without warning, the still voice at the back of his mind wondered if Coralie would really think that he looked sexy and feminine. He found himself preening, twisting slightly aware of his posture and the shift of his breasts. The thought jolted him. He finished his gin in a single swallow and took a second although the others were already rising to go and dine.
The second drink followed the first in a double gulp. He sashayed after them, aware of the enticing sway of his hips as the deportment lessons kicked in.

At a few minutes past eight he found himself outside Mona’s old door. Now with the name ~Coralie~ in the brass holder. He tapped and entered on the lilted “Come in Sophie dear.”.

Laura was there with Janet. They both rose to greet him and air kissed both his cheeks repeating the exclamations of approval as to his appearance already received from the girls on the roof garden.

“So kind of you to drop in hun.” This from Janet,.as Laura stood there smiling her approval. “I do so appreciate your help in helping Coralie feel at home, to know that she is amongst friends.”

“Coralie darling. This is Sophie.” So saying Janet took hold of David’s hand and led him close to Coralie so that it was quite natural for him to lean forward and, laying his cheek against hers, to air kiss her also.

It all came sweeping back to him. Only a fortnight ago he had been in exactly the same position. Only it had been Anne’s kiss on his cheeks, her perfume wafting over him. He looked at Coralie for the first time. She, or he? No he was still a he in spite of the name. Just as he was. He saw him, saw Coralie, just as Anne must have seen him, David, for the first time. A slim figure pathetic, dejected, shoulders slumped in fatigue. An occasional tic at the corner of his left eye. Complexion prison pallor. Eyes dead. Dressed in a blue poplin shirt dress such as he had first been inveigled into. “Just this evening Sophie, just for me. Just to please me." Laura’s words came back to him.

Coralie’s hair was blonde and tied back in a pony tail. She, he rather ... no, she would be easier. She, like him, must have been in Reception months for it to grow like that. There was a trace of lipstick and of foundation on her face. He tried to remember whether he had worn them that first evening.

He accepted the white wine offered, and sat opposite Coralie, joining the others in a room layout that mirrored his own. He found himself concentrating on all he had been taught in deportment classes, his knees close together, his hands poised delicately, his back straight, his breasts on show but not, heaven forfend, blatantly.

That new calm voice inside him prompted the thought that although Coralie had evidently so much to learn, she really could be quite a beauty. Lovely bone structure, and given training and the gift of more curves could be quite a honey. Lucky girl!

God what was happening to him? That is what they must think of me! Lucky girl! The poor bastard is like me! And then it hit him that it was not so. The poor bastard was like the David of a fortnight ago. Not like the present David, not like him now. The David of a fortnight ago would never have weighed up Coralie’s bone structure, wished feminine curves upon her. Not thought of him as her, not thought ‘lucky girl’.

David sipped his wine. Smiled and tried to gather his wits whilst he exchanged girlish pleasantries with Laura and Janet. Smiled sympathetically at Coralie who could not however meet his gaze. She was trembling slightly. When her wine glass was refilled she needed two hands to steady it.

David played his part in trying to reassure her. He articulated the small voice that increasingly was heard within his own thoughts. Told her how things were so much better here. That she would soon settle in to her new regime. That all the other girls were dying to meet her and how she would find them all so very supportive. He noted that both Janet and Laura played down the femininity aspect. It was presented as a mere whim on the part of the authorities. Dress and act like a girl. Nothing more. No big deal. Smile, conform and in time it would all doubtless go away. But in the meantime there was the inspection and she, Coralie, really must make an effort to co-operate in readiness for that.

The realisation swept over David that he was being used as a judas goat. Sitting there, smiling. Trying his hard to be the pretty vivacious girl that he was required to be. Being a role model for poor Coralie. As Anne had been required to be a role model for him. Perhaps there was a difference though. Anne had accepted her femininity. She had seen what Rehabilitation could do. David hadn’t. David was still David. He quelled the small voice that he heard sighing within him, giving a lie to his resistance. He heard again the sickening self-accusation ‘judas goat’. Anne had acted in all honesty. He wasn’t doing so.

And yet ... he remembered his own introduction. Anne had brought him comfort. Laura and she had given him some sort of stability after the horror of the eternity in Reception. Deception there may have been, certainly was, but perhaps such had had a positive rá´le. Just as it could have now for the poor disorientated figure now before him.

And he felt also to his shame a sort of bonding, not with Coralie, but with Laura and Janet. There was a feeling of being on their side. Of helping them. Of being included by them in their group, their conspiracy. Of being accepted as an ally by them, as one of the girls, almost as an equal, on the fringe of authority.

When it was time to leave he kissed Coralie on both cheeks, feeling her tremble. Sensing with a sudden horror, that she recoiled from him as if he were a carrier of some unspeakable disease. Had to make an effort to look her in the eyes as he promised her that he and all the other girls would be there for her in the days ahead. And that, with their help, she would soon come to terms with all the little rules and really enjoy herself in the Holding Wing.

Back in his own room he found himself trembling. But whether because of the memories it brought back of his own arrival, or because of the feeling of betrayal, of not only of the unfortunate Coralie, but also of himself, he did not know.

He sat down and saw on the table in front of him the bright carrier bag that held Felicity Cranwell’s ‘presents’ delivered by Laura that morning. He could not face it. Abruptly he got up and, holding the bag as if it were red hot, placed it out of sight behind the sofa. The new small voice inside him, mewed its disappointment. Arguing that he really had to investigate the contents; tryout the new toys. It was expected of him. Part of his commitment. Anyway, the inner voice slyly simpered, it might be fun.

David could not face it. He tried to shut out the other voice, which sensing failure, fell back to suggesting that he play a DVD before bed. David gave way and, inserting the nearest to hand, half dozed in front of the screen, sipping coffee and trying to concentrate again on the possibilities of escape. The evening’s events, Coralie’s arrival and his own reactions, had frightened him. Bringing home how far he had travelled on the route pre-mapped for him. There must a way other than scaling down to a garden which itself had no known exit.. He had arrived through the door at the end of the corridor. It was a double door, recessed flat with the wall with no apparent way of opening it from this side. Not that he had ever seen it opened apart from on his arrival. Laura and Janet had apartments flanking the door and he presumed that they had their own way out through those apartments. So if he could gain access to either of them, there might ...?

David stared unseeing at the flickering screen. He had never been to either of the flats. If he could get an invitation? He didn’t even know how they were locked. If it was by key maybe ... David frowned. The screen distracted him. The film was a light comedy with a rather silly anodyne plot. Nothing sexual at all. Suitable for all ages. And yet he felt vaguely uncomfortable. Distracted by thoughts of cock-sucking. He shook his head. It must be that bloody carrier bag getting to him.

It was late. He was tired. Tomorrow was another day. He turned of the unfinished DVD and made his way to the bathroom. He sat to pee. The image in his head had made his penis hard. Wanting to be sucked? Although that was not quite the image. David frowned slightly. No not of being sucked. He shook his head angrily. He was tired. He needed to pee but couldn’t. Too hard! He had to get it down! He stood up and thought of other things, washed and removed his make-up. Cleaned his teeth. Thought of escape and the need to find out how he could gain entry to the apartments at the end of the corridor. Sat down again quickly and peed.

He wanted sexual relief badly but somehow felt he was stronger without it. Somehow felt that his sexuality was being used against him.

Curled up in bed. He felt the insistent sexual urge. Fought against it. Distracted his mind with feelings of guilt and of escape. Finally slept. But not a dreamless sleep.

He was back in time. Before Sophie. When he was pure, unadulterated David. Naked in a boat. They had to be back in time for a drink when the pub opened. He grasped the oar and pulled on it. Hard. The blade churned the water and the boat surged in a circle. He called to his companion to pull too, but she had vanished. He went to grab another scull but all he found was his own penis. It too was hard. Thick as an oar handle and he found he needed two hands to control it. It twisted in his hands as the water seized it. Twisted and grew. And grew until it formed a pole in the middle of the boat around which the boat revolved. He had to hold it tight to stay in control, but however tightly he grasped it, it moved in his hand. Moved and grew. He looked down at him and felt the old uncontainable urge. A small dewdrop appeared at the centre of the oar and it in turn grew and ran down the side of it, lubricating it so that it slipped between his fingers. Impossible to hold. His fingers fought for a grip, his hand sliding up and down the oar which wasn’t really an oar but his penis. His penis which was the centre of all his nerve endings, and which swelled and lengthened until the glistening tip bobbed just beneath his lips. Inviting a tongue, inviting, imploring relief. His tongue responded, God so good.! Mmmmmmmm. His lips seemed to stretch out. They touched it, enfolded it. Sucked it. So good in his mouth. His loins were on fire. Hips moving in response. Gathering momentum, faster, faster, in and out, warm in his mouth, so good, warm and slick, so good, faster, faster. But not his penis any longer. Silly to think it was. His penis couldn’t reach his mouth. His penis had disappeared, The oar was back warm in his hands. A slick salty oar. Mmmmmm so tasty. Smooth, fleshy, a lovely cock. So good. Tasty. Hands on his boobs. My God! So good!. The cock thrusting in and out. At the back of his throat. Not his cock. He hadn’t got one now, but this lovely man had. Such a nice cock. Filling his mouth. Filling his thoughts. His lips tight around it , moving up and down, relishing the feel, the texture, He sucked it deep, helping it in and out. Controlling it. It filled his mouth, grew as he sucked on it. Pulsated. Pulsated. In and out. Pulsated. In and out.

His hips jerked and he was awoken by his own massive orgasm.

He lay there on his back, half waking to a pulsating flooding in his loins. Aware of a sticky warm wetness down there. He lay there until a small voice prompted him to get up and clean himself. His lovely nightie ruined. All sticky and soiled with semen. Ugh!! Men! He should have swallowed it. As it was he needed to rinse his nightie immediately before it was stained.

He rolled over and threw the sheets back. Staggered to the bathroom. Pulled his nightie, that froth of silk and lace, carefully over his head, being careful that the sticky residue did not contaminate his hair. Ran a hot bath. Plenty of bubbles. Lay in it and soaked. Noticed that one of his breasts was showing a line where the adhesive had weakened. His nipples poked out through the suds, two soapy cherries.

He felt sick as he relived the dream. Wide awake he tried to dissect it. Daren’t go too deep. But it was not normal. Not him. Was it the subliminal effects of TV and DVD? Or the missing time under hypnosis? Or both?

He looked at his boobs. Automatically he extended a forefinger and touched a nipple. He wondered what real ones would be like. Would they also float in that provocative way?

He stood up quickly, splashing water on the floor. He mustn’t go down there. He must escape. The process was accelerating. He couldn’t afford to sit back and see what happened. Tomorrow he must look at the possibility afforded by Laura’s apartment.

He found himself a clean baby doll nightie. The twin of the stained one but in peach rather than champagne. Pretty and sexy but he preferred the first. More his colour. Sleep came quickly. The sexual release had at least that benefit.

Coralie arrived at breakfast escorted by both Laura and Janet. All the other girls were there, eagerly awaiting the new arrival. They had both obviously worked hard on her. Certainly she was wearing breast forms which made the real difference if only because she was conscious of them. Her nails too were a pretty coral pink to match her lipstick and she was struggling to come to terms with her modest 2" heel. Her dress was simple but clung sexily to her. She clutched a purse, and sported a pretty wrist watch. It was a start. David knew that by lunch she would have been transformed much further by Mrs. Townsend’s ministrations.

They all tried to welcome her. David almost frenetically so, driven half by guilt, half by a genuine desire to smooth her ordeal. Coralie said practically nothing. Her eyes never met theirs’. The tic was still in evidence. Her food lay untouched on her plate. David recalled his first breakfast here. Saw the same reactions from Coralie. But he had at least eaten something and had tried to respond, even if only in the odd monosyllable. Although Coralie was at the other table, David saw Laura exchanging the odd worried look with Janet.

Early evening Laura joined Anne, Emma and he, as they sat at their usual table on the roof garden. Christine and Alice were at an adjoining table but of Janet and Coralie there was no sign.

“Poor Coralie is having a little difficulty in adjusting to the regime here. Janet will be bringing her up soon hopefully, but I just wanted to let you know. I know I can count on you all to help as much as you can.!”

Her eyes smiled at them all above her schooner of sherry. “Especially Anne and Sophie who perhaps have the greatest insight to what she must be feeling. Although, dear Emma has shown such understanding in the past that her contribution will also be invaluable.”

“Not that any amongst us can coast on cruise control until Friday’s inspection, especially you Sophie dear.” She winked at David. “Rather surprised to see you here in fact darling. Thought you might be fully occupied in trying out Felicity’s little toys. Not had time to become addicted yet perhaps?”

The other two giggled. “Shame on you Laura. You really mustn’t tease poor Sophie so. You will make the dear girl blush!” Emma leaned forward and patted David’s knee. “Pay no attention Sophie darling. Laura is quite shameless. Probably sex starved herself... .”

Laura cut in laughing. “Emma. You little minx! Sex starved indeed! Have you no respect!” They all giggled. All except David, who felt his cheeks burning.

He was saved from further attention by the appearance of Coralie shepherded by Janet.

The transformation was remarkable. Her face was a tribute to Mrs. Townsend’s art. Her eyes large and blue under gracefully arched brows and framed by sweeping mascaraed lashes that rested on delicate apple blossom cheeks. Her lips slightly pouting, eminently kissable. Two ears set of by the sparkle of diamond studs that twinkled and hid when her honey blonde hair swayed across the side of her face. Wherever Grace de Messembry had found her, she was a treasure well worth the capture.

Janet led her to their table. Alice and Christine joined them there pulling their table across to make one big one. Drinks were got for the newcomers, refreshed for those already in attendance. There was an air of excitement. All eager to welcome Coralie. To express their admiration of, to compliment her on, her new appearance.

The centre of attention did not reciprocate the warmth, the interest. Her eyes stayed downcast. Her face dead under its new beauty. Her voice had obviously benefited from one of Sally’s throat sprays, but its feminine huskiness was evidenced only by a couple of non-committal half grunts. It was not so much that she was rebelling against her new circumstances or showing defiance against whatever fates had brought her here.

It was just a deadness.

She seemed beyond their reach. If she showed any emotion whatsoever it seemed to be an additional distaste for Anne and himself. Especially himself. She tried to sit as far away as possible from him, and shied away from any bodily contact, or indeed closeness. Last night he had at least been permitted to air kiss his cheeks. Now she turned her head away to avoid any repeat of that greeting. If she was non-communicative with the others, she was icy with him.

At dinner the two groups split up as usual, Coralie ensconced amongst Janet Saggren’s girls.
Her silence though weighed heavily over Laura’s adjacent group and the meal was a subdued affair at both tables. David was aware of the tension and the somewhat strained conversation increased his own introspection, his own moroseness.

Back early in his room David sought the window and as he had so often done before, when stress or events brought him near to crisis, gazed out into the late evening. Out there people were leading normal lives. They seemed so far away.

He was increasingly aware that he could not just passively resist. That way led only to defeat. A defeat whose scope he only vaguely comprehended. Could not even consider. He was being eroded. Acceptance was the great enemy. And now acceptance lived within him. More and more he heard its voice within him. A calm voice whose reasonableness was increasingly difficult to gainsay. Even sleep now brought its own betrayal in his dreams.

Coralie’s arrival had in some way crystallised the danger. The contrast between them. The effect of a fortnight’s passivity on his part.

In here the Foundation held all the cards. It, they, were too strong.

He must get away, must escape. He had no option.

He fought back the small voice ‘Darling don’t exaggerate! What a drama queen you are becoming! Relax! Let’s see what there is on TV. Or a nice DVD perhaps?’

He must escape! It was becoming imperative. He must reconnoitre Laura’s, or Janet’s, door. There must be a way out through their apartments. Did Venumar occupy all the building? And if so what with? Was there strict security or were there just offices and the like belonging to their more legitimate activities?

He had been here fortnight and he knew nothing! Nothing!

He left the window and on impulse quietly opened his own door and looked out into the corridor. It finished about fifty feet away. A door like his own, leading to unoccupied rooms, on each side and then, flanking the heavy double central door, the doors to the apartments of Laura and Janet. David knew he would be under observation. He turned the other way towards the main body of the Holding Wing and then abruptly turned back as if he had forgotten something, or had changed his mind about going out. He paused and then, after a long moment walked back towards, and re-entered, his own door. He had seen enough though to know that on both the apartment doors there were handles but no sign of locks. It was odd. Unbelievable. But there could be no doubt. A handle, and what looked like a peephole but no sign of a key hole, a lock, on either door. Nor of a press button panel, nor of a hand print panel. Nothing but a handle and a peephole on each door.

There must be something. It couldn’t be that simple. The Foundation did not make mistakes like that. It wouldn’t allow one just to walk out. There must be something he didn’t know about!

But what?

David sat in his chair and tried to think what the security could be. He must get it right. There would be no second chance if he tried and failed.

No answer came.

It came to him that he had never seen Laura go through her door. Each time she had walked back with him she had left him in his room. Never said good night in the corridor. He recalled her words as she left that first evening. About the lock on his own door. “We don't need that now. Where on earth would you go?"

And yet if her door really didn’t have a key ...?

His brain went round in circles, increasingly desperate, increasingly frustrated.

He found he had turned on the TV. There was a chat programme about the increasing rá´le of women in initiating sexual activities. His eye was distracted by a corner of the bright carrier bag peeping out from behind the sofa. Christ he had almost forgotten that! He got up to push it back out of his sight line, back completely behind the sofa, to erase its presence from his consciousness. He found himself sitting back in his chair with it on his lap. A small voice, that twisted Jiminy Cricket of a voice, insisting that he couldn’t hide it for ever. That he had to face reality. Laura would ask tomorrow. Felicity had sent it and would want to know .... would insist. He had a commitment to Grace de Messembry to honour. The least he could do was to see what was in the bag. He could always pretend, dissemble, but to do that he had to know what she had sent him. He couldn’t be an ostrich indefinitely.

The others had already started to tease him. They thought it funny. It couldn’t be that bad, that outrageous.

There were six boxes inside. Simple white card boxes, on which the only decoration was the Venumar logo. The presentation was expensively simple, more redolent of that used for professional instruments than the garishness normally associated with sex toys.

The first contained an artificial penis. According to the blurb on the outside it was a Mark VI Model and was described simply as a ‘Oral Gratification Training Aid’. Full Instructions were apparently contained inside together with a suggested ‘Programme of Use’ and a DVD, enabling maximum benefit to be obtained. There was a reference to the fact that it was to be used only in conjunction with ‘Cartridges Type VF19, VF20, VF21(a) and VF23'.

David turned the box over. The Mark VI was no ordinary sex aid. The description ‘Training Aid’ was more than fully justified by the short description he found there. The artificial device replicated, with electronic sensors, the nerve endings in the average male penis in both location and intensity. The outer skin was a flexible approximation to that of a real penis, having a carefully calculated limited movement over the shaft itself. It also measured stimulation based on trials of in excess of 1,000 penises. When the appropriate oral stimulation had been received by the device, modified by a complicated time factor, the cartridge discharged, under pressure, a dosage of semen substitute.

Thus, it explained, the operator could prolonge almost indefinitely the ejaculation, alternatively bring such to the quickest possible conclusion, or any of the multitude of steps in between. It was a matter of training. Of the application of skill acquired. Bench marks were to be found in the Full Instruction Manual contained therein.

No guarantees were given that it would replicate any individual’s reaction under specific circumstances. It was however pointed out that it was based on an average reaction of over1,000 test subjects under a given scientifically controlled ambience.

The semen substitute was contained in the ‘Cartridges Type VF19, VF20(a), VF20(b), VF20(c), VF21, and VF23'.

Type VF19 was Venumar Foundation’s latest attempt to replicate real semen in consistency, taste, smell, colour etc. The other types were variations of such incorporating different flavours and medication. Type 23 incorporated a female hormone replacement additive. Apparently this latter was the result of the latest research by the Venumar Medical Research Laboratories Plc.

David sat back. His skin felt clammy and cold. They didn’t really expect him to use this as a ... Training Aid? Not really to suck on this grotesque thing in cold blood? Put it in his mouth and measure how long it took him to ... to ... ? And then to swallow?

He put the box aside unopened.

The next to emerge from Felicity Cranwell’s bizarre lucky dip was a long rectangular box containing six butt plugs of ever increasing length and diameter. They were also described as a training aid. Specifically ‘A Training Aid as a Precursor to Anal Penetration’. Each butt plug was designed to accommodate a standard radio controlled bullet vibrator, also included. The bullet was inserted into the plug and locked in by a bayonet fitting that also incorporated a swing arm. This arm, once the plug was fully inserted was designed to swing forward fitting snugly between the legs behind the penis so that the half hemispherical end inserted pressure on the perineum. Its sprung action held the butt firmly, immovably, in place once inserted, inclining it forward towards the prostrate. Apparently it was patented.

Another package contained a remote radio transmitter which would not only apparently activate vibrating bullets at 300 yards but could act as a staging point for more distant signals. A selection of bullets were included. Then there was an inflatable butt plug. Mundane almost in comparison with what had gone before. Although it was also linked to the transmitter in that it was inflated by a small state of the art electric air pump that could also be activated, monitored, and controlled by it.

A package of Anal Lubricant. Another small box labelled ‘ Hygienic Sheaths (Lubricated) for Anal Plug’

All the packages formed an unopened pile in front of David.

The largest package was at the bottom. Under the Venumar logo it said simply ‘48 x Disposable Cartridges for use with the Oral Gratification Training Aid Mark VI’, and underneath, on the next line, stamped on was. ‘Type VF19'

Seeping through his revulsion, David found one crumb of comfort. At least they weren’t Type VF23!

David put them all back inside the carrier bag and hid it behind the sofa. Not now. No. Not ever! Not ever? Not now certainly!

The inspection was on Friday so it would clash and automatically cancel his next session with Felicity Cranwell. He had until Monday. A lot could happen before then. He could die. That or escape. He must escape.

And the voice said. ‘Calm down. It is not the end of the world. Many people would envy you. Try to come to terms with it. It is not life threatening and it is just foolish to talk of dying. You must be reasonable. You really are becoming quite hysterical!’

But even deeper than the quiet voice that now seemed such a constant companion, David heard his old self and knew that he had no option. To do nothing was to accept defeat.

Chapter 23.

That night the dreams came again, fleeing only with the coming of the dawn. But shreds, disconnected fragments remained. Disconnected fragments of femininity. A femininity not forced upon him, but an accepted, normal, part of life. The details had ebbed away in his first waking moments but they had left lingering a general feeling of contentment and ease. An ease that vanished in its turn as awareness flooded back with full consciousness.

Anne and Emma were both lively and chatty at breakfast. Perhaps it was the closeness of the morrow’s inspection causing an extra spice of nervous anticipation. Whatever the cause, a sense of their old easy companionship was revised and David found himself soothed by it. No sign of either Laura or Janet, but, rather surprisingly, Coralie was sitting quietly at the next table with Christine and Alice. Still very subdued, but no longer completely silent in a world of her own, but responding, albeit monosyllabically, to the other two. And she was eating too David noticed.

Anne was still worried about her, and whether her lack of real progress might somehow condemn them all at the inspection. Emma was less concerned. “Don’t be such a goose Anne, Coralie is improving and will continue to do so. If I recall you said the same thing about dear Sophie a fortnight ago” Here she winked conspiratorially at David. “And she was the Belle of the Ball at the party on the Friday evening.”

Anne was indignant. “Don’t you believe a word of it Sophie dear. I always knew you would pass with flying colours. If I did say anything it was just a teeny weeny natural concern as to whether we could still win the competition with you having so little time to accustom yourself, to prepare ...” She glared at Emma. “I never for a moment doubted that you would make a super girl.”

Emma grinned and put a finger to her lips. “Quiet Anne darling, we don’t want the next table to know our little secrets. Anyway I was only teasing. You rise so easily!” Again she winked at David who felt only depression that they all had apparently regarded him as such a problem free candidate for the Foundation’s femininity programme.

“But with Coralie you must admit it is different,” Anne continued. “I agree she seems a little better this morning, but there is still something about her that strikes a wrong note. I know you are a real clever clogs Emma, but I have a feeling about this. What about you Sophie dear?”

David shook his head. “I don’t know. I was worried too yesterday. She seemed just dead. This morning is an improvement for sure but you may be right Anne. There is something there that is .... But how do I know? How can I judge? It is so traumatic. What is normal behaviour in these circumstances? I don’t know about myself, let alone others.”

Emma placed a hand over his. He knew he was trembling slightly. She had sensed it, would know it too now .Her voice was soft, concerned.

“It’s alright Sophie.” A warning glance at Anne. “I will have a word with Laura. Perhaps we should try another chat with poor Coralie this evening, now that she seems to be a little more approachable. In the meantime we ourselves have to prepare for tomorrow as well. Lets go and get on with it!”

They met Laura on their way out. Emma drew her to one side for a word, but not before she, Laura, had asked them all to join her in the library at noon for a little informal chat.

“About tomorrow darlings. And to tidy up odds and ends.”

David had first a session, shared with Anne and Emma, with Mrs. Townsend before his Thursday appointment with Dr. Tabatha.

The beautician by now regarded herself as a close friend and confidante of all the three girls. She chatted as they mutually assisted in, participated in, the treatment of each in turn. It was not just a make-over but an on-going lesson in the arcane arts of the application of cosmetics in the pursuit of perfection. The process no longer repelled David. He accepted it as part of his daily existence and, if he felt no enthusiasm for it, he increasingly found himself interested by the technical problems posed and their solutions when applied to his two companions. Perhaps even when applied to himself.

By 11 o’clock he was seated on the couch with Dr. Tabatha opposite, her silver pencil turning in her immaculately manicured hands. Her voice measured and reassuring.

“What were we talking about” she asked.

David cast his mind back. Still wary of her and apprehensive. Yet vaguely feeling she could be of help. He couldn’t remember the details of their last conversation. Much as usual he guessed.

Dr. Tabatha considered him gravely. “If there is nothing pre-eminent outstanding, where would you like to start this time?”

“I have started to have dreams”, he said.

“We all dream. The great majority of them we forget. They are transient things. A few, usually those that occur just before wakening, we remember.”

“Mine are related to being feminine. I can never remember fully. Just that I seem to be feminine in them.”

He paused. She may as well know it all. His voice dropped. “Feminine and content.”

“You wake up feeling content? No nightmares? Just content? At peace with yourself?”

“Yes.” David muttered.

“Wherein lies the problem?”

“I shouldn’t be having them.”

“We cannot control the dreams we have Sophie. You are in a feminine atmosphere. Everything about you is feminine. You yourself are being actively encouraged to be more feminine. It is hardly surprising that some echoes of your waking moments should appear in your dreams.”

“I shouldn’t be having them,” David repeated stubbornly. A rush of indignation, of pent up fear, surfaced. “And if I can’t control them then others perhaps can. Laura said the DVDs, the TV contained some subliminal stuff and , and ... “ His voice faded to a close.

“And?” Dr Tabatha regarded him gravely.

David made no reply.

“And? And I suspect that you think I have given them to you under hypnosis?” She shook her head sadly. “You must believe me in this Sophie. I cannot order your dreams. Nor can subliminal messages. Dreams can reflect your own inner emotions and conflicts. But no-one else can tell you what to dream.”

“Sophie you must believe that I am here to help you. Not to force you into anything against your will. I just deal with given situations and try to assist you in making the best of them. If this means helping you to come to terms with such situations so be it. It is what I am trained to do. But I am not here to initiate any such situations.”

“I hope you can accept that Sophie?”

David felt her sincerity. “Yes”, he said. “I accept that. I accept that my dreams are my responsibility. That you act, have acted, professionally. But someone has caused the mental state that leads to those dreams. The responsibility is perhaps once or twice removed but it lies with someone. I accept not you, but someone..... I did not have these dreams before.”

It was Dr Tabatha’s turn to nod. “Perhaps you would easier for you if I were responsible Sophie. If I were a malign controlling influence or perhaps that it would be better if they were nightmares rather than dreams? “

Her gaze was sympathetic, understanding. “What I think is frightening for you, is the thought that your dreams are conceived in your own subconscious, and that they signal your acceptance of femininity as an agreeable state?”

David made no comment. None was needed.

“Better face your devils Sophie dear, than curse their shadows. Come, see if I can help allay some of them, or at least put them in their proper perspective,”and she gestured for him to recline, leaning over to swing the viewing panel into position and handing him the headphones.

“Just relax .......”

At noon when David entered the library, the others, Laura, Anne and Emma, were arranging themselves around a table sheltered on three sides by bookshelves. It was a confidence boosting pep talk. All girls together. Must all do their best and show Grace de Messembry the progress they had all individually made. Build on the success of the last inspection. They all had hair appointments in the afternoon, and of course Mrs. Townsend would pay them flying visits on the morning itself. Naturally though she, Mrs. Townsend that is, would have her work cut out in helping poor Coralie and so they must all ensure that they were as near perfection as possible by their own effort. There was great excitement as Laura described the new outfit that she had got for Emma. The others, Anne and he, would wear the same as last time.

David sat there, brightly joining in. Trying hard to feign the interest and enthusiasm expected of him. He always left Dr. Tabatha’s sessions feeling more at ease with himself, and this and the inclusive nature of their talk made it easier to maintain the required front. It was all becoming easier. Perhaps afterwards he would wonder, but now, for the moment, it was easier.

The talk turned to Coralie’s progress. Apparently Anne had had a chat with her in the morning, and she had seemed calmer, slightly more communicative. Janet was still worried about how she would fare at the inspection however and David felt he had little option when asked but to also speak to her, to try to a allay her fears, to encourage her to make an effort for the inspection, for all their sakes. As Laura pointed out “You and Anne are such valuable rá´le models for her Sophie dear. Hopefully she will be able to empathise with you and realise that her silly little fears, whilst of course quite normal and understandable, are far more apparent than real. If you can just persuade her to accept your help and friendship it will help Janet and I so much.”

David, with considerable inner reluctance, agreed and it was arranged that he should drop back into the library around 6 o’clock when Janet would set up a meeting between them. In his head ran competing misgivings, the sheer hypocrisy involved, his own total unsuitability given his inner horror at the situation, fought with the idea that Coralie did need help and that if he could at least calm her down for the inspection it might be to her benefit. Give her more time, perhaps give him more time also, as she could be an ally in this place.

As they were leaving, Laura drew David back, letting Anne scurry on ahead. “Just a moment sweetie,” she smiled. “Felicity’s little presents.... such fun. But you really must try them. Before tomorrow I mean. Before the inspection. They are not an option Sophie dear. You really must show some progress in accepting your new sexual rá´le. Grace de Messembry will expect some progress.”

David felt himself in free fall. All the ease that Dr. Tabatha had engendered fell away.

“A new ... My new sexual rá´le?”

“Of course Sophie dear. As a girl silly! A penetratee rather than a penetrator remember? We don’t expect you to be celibate indefinitely you know. A girl has the right to some fun!”

She took his arm and guided him to the library door.

“You need to be prepared,” Laura coughed delicately, “to find your pleasure in accommodating the male of species darling. To fulfill your feminine rá´le in society.

David felt the darkness drawing in all around him.

Laura;’s voice, though still light and bantering, took on a noticeably more forceful edge.

“So run along now darling and insert a butt plug”, Laura glanced at her watch, “you have plenty of time before the afternoon sessions and starting now will give you lots of time to get use to the sensation before tomorrow morning’s affair. Specially valuable darling as I see you have Deportment after you hair appointment. It will give your hips that extra wiggle you’ll see!” She winked roguishly. “ I ‘ll bet Veronica spots it immediately.”

“No. Please Laura. Please. If I have to for the inspection, well then I have to, but I don’t need to just to practice surely?”

“Don’t be such a goose Sophie dear. It is not just for practice, it is to accustom and tone the muscles there. We need to monitor your progress through the various sizes. Quite indispensable for your future happiness. You know I wouldn’t ask you otherwise.”

She released his arm and patted his bottom. “Now run along like a good girl and do as I ask. No more buts please dear. Butts but not buts!”. She giggled.

“Better get on with it darling. You have only twenty minutes before your hair appointment. And remember you have to be back at the library at six for Coralie!”

Back in his room David selected from its box the smallest of the six butt plugs. Gingerly he held it. With distaste he examined it. With even greater distaste he slipped into its interior the small silver bullet and locked in place. Seven minutes had passed. He could not take all day. He blankly looked at the small instruction leaflet. The letters swam before his eyes. God he felt so ashamed. He was doing this of his own volition. Nobody was standing over him, threatening him. By himself he was preparing to push something up his arse the sole purpose of which was to prepare him to be sodomised.. Worse, was to prepare him to enjoy the experience.

He took of his shoes, Slowly took his panties down. Never had he felt so reluctant to remove his panties. From being emblems of femininity they had become friends and allies offering protection against intruders. And he himself was removing them.

He rucked his dress up round his waist. Then his slip. His stocking legs tapered delicately into his shoes.

God did he really need to do this?

He unrolled a hygienic sheath down over the plug. It was practically indistinguishable from a condom and indeed the container carried the information that its use encouraged the user to acquire a safe sex routine when indulging in anal penetration with a partner. He found the lubricant and reluctantly opened the tube top and squeezed a little maggot of the substance onto the tapered end of the plug from where it ran down in several thick strands sliding over his fingers holding it. He lifted one leg up onto the chair and bending forward felt with the end of the plug for his arsehole. He felt the cold and slippery end slide between his bum cheeks and nestle there. Ready for entry.

He couldn’t.... just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Ten minutes had passed. Another ten to go.

And if he didn’t? Then at very least the ‘surgical intervention’ with which Grace de Messembry had threatened him. And beyond that there lurked the shadowy unnameable fear of Rehabilitation. And losing David. Losing all that was himself.

But if he accepted to do this? Accepted to actively violate his own body with this thing? Would he accept later, accept when it was not just a question of a butt plug nudging there? Accept when he was only in a passive rá´le?

But it may never come to that the calm voice said. And you are going to escape. You must live each day. And it won’t hurt. Only a little anyway. It is the smallest and everyone else has to do it. Some want to do it. Mmmmmm ... try it.

Twelve minutes gone.

He applied pressure to the thing. Felt it slide, insinuate itself into his secret cavity. Just a little, perhaps a half inch. More pressure and it slid suddenly another inch. He felt it there insistent, invasive, propelled by his own hand. He tried to quell the panic rising within him. More pressure and this time there was greater resistance. Its diameter expanded him. Half inch by half inch. Slow progress. It hurt a little and still he had only started. He paused breathing hard.

With horror he realised his penis was reacting. Subconsciously aware of the sexual connotation of the activity. Reacting to him becoming a penetratee? The last thing a penetratee needed was a rampant penis.

And the inner voice took up the theme. A rampant penis is for penetrating. If his future lay elsewhere, any penis, let alone a rampant one, was merely an encumbrance.

He pushed harder. Fourteen minutes gone. And now it did hurt. He wondered if it would help if he sat on it suddenly. His cocked bobbed in front of him and he felt sweat on his brow. The inner voice urged him to try again. One more push, one more and it would be over, The pain would be over.

He thrust hard up into himself and gave a cry as the plug seem to come alive in his hand, sliding in the last bit independent of his fingers, his sphincter muscles seeking eagerly the narrow indentation before the plug swelled out again at its retaining base. Almost automatically he let the arm swing back to nestle between his legs. Relief spilled over him. At least it was in. The pain had gone. He had not thought that he would celebrate it sliding home but he did. Better that than its journey in.

His fingers tentatively explored the base. It was nestled almost flush between his cheeks, the handle he now realised was sculptured to conform to his body contours, the butt plug itself solid and seemingly immovable. He felt the slippery residue of the lubricant which he wiped off before standing and pulling up his panties. His prick was semi-rigid and he had a problem with tucking it to achieve the requisite smooth front.

Must hurry, he was going to be late.

Letting his slip and dress fall back into place he moved to his dressing table to check his make up. The act of sitting moved the plug inside him. Pressing it further in and further forward. It felt full and heavy, filling him. A careful repair of lipstick. A touch of blush and eyeshadow and his face looked composed again. The plug moved within him, caressing him, as he rose. The very act of walking seemed to move it heavily within him. The lever pressed it forward and the plug itself seemed to be like a large sleepy animal within him. Moving slightly when he moved. Adjusting itself to his own movement with a movement of its own.

He clattered on his heels down the corridor towards the salon. He was more than ever aware of the swivelling of his hips, of the slight jolt that walking in heels gave at every stride. The little animal down there was warm inside him now. Its body burrowing sleepily inside his. His own penis turgid, unable to sleep alongside its new neighbour. Alongside its new competitor?

Throughout the rest of the afternoon David’s consciousness was dominated by the feeling of the plug inside him. Even during his comparative immobility whilst his hair was being styled, he was aware of its minute compensations to changes to his own body posture.

And when finally he arrived for his Deportment class with Veronica, Laura was proved right. “Sophie dear! Where did you get that new sexy walk from darling?” She winked broadly at him. “Don’t need to tell me if you don’t want darling! A girl is entitled to her intimate secrets. Not that anything that gives your bottom a wiggle like that can really be a secret!” She giggled.

At the end of her lesson David felt exhausted. The plug nestled deep and warm inside him, filling him. The narrow neck of the plug was not so narrow that it did not distend him and there was a constant slight ache. His hips tried to compensate for its presence, hence the wiggle he supposed, but that in turn seemed to use new muscles. There was no respite to the awareness of the plugs presence and David wondered if there would ever be. Probably as with his breast forms he would eventually become reconciled to it and it would become accordingly less intrusive. And then he remembered that it was the smallest of the set of six and Laura had spoken of monitoring his progress.

And then .... on his way to his appointment with Coralie, at exactly 6 o’clock, suddenly, without warning, it came to life. Gently at first, almost a warming rather than a vibration, but then, quite distinctly a thrumming becoming a regular pulsating beat. David’s stride faltered. He stopped and rested against the wall, his back slightly arched. His hips twitched. Something, someone, had triggered the bullet. Unless it was programmed? Unless , unless it was the transmitter. At the back of mind there was something about it doubling as a staging point for signals.

His cock was responding. It must be his prostrate. Dear God how long would it last? Please let it not be permanent. His cock was hard, making a slight bulge under his skirt. He held hid purse in front of it, hiding it. He checked his hips as they stated to move to the rhythm. He could not stay here in the corridor. It was already past six..Perhaps if he ignored it, occupied his mind elsewhere? He gathered all his reserves and restarted his walk towards the library. Through the door and there at the far end was Janet and Coralie at a table at the far end.

If Janet saw anything, sensed anything, already knew anything, she gave no sign. She rose to greet him. “How kind of you to join us hun, Coralie has been so looking forward to having a heart to heart with you. It is all so new to her and the poor dear needs all the reassurance she can get.”

Coralie herself summoned up a greeting as she also stood in welcome. David kissed first Janet’s cheeks and then turning kissed Coralie in what for him was now an automatic gesture.

Coralie did not return the gesture but this time she stood her ground and only David sensed that she flinched.

David sat down with them, noticing that Coralie had at least now acquired the habit of smoothing her skirt underneath her and that there was the beginning of grace in her movements.

The plug continued to pulsate and as it was driven deeper by the chair seat, David found himself fidgeting Trying to will his own penis to slacken, his own hips to be still. It was difficult to concentrate. He came back to the conversation with an understanding that Janet had another appointment. “So many loose ends to tidy up before tomorrow darlings” and was leaving them to have a girl-to-girl chat.

“See you both on the roof garden in half an hour,” she smiled. “Bye for now.”

And then it stopped. Thank Christ! As suddenly as it has started the plug stopped vibrating. Reverted to being a small burrowing animal nestling within him. He glanced at his watch. It had lasted five minutes.

Janet sashayed out leaving them looking at each other over the table. “Coralie dear ...” David felt he must say something and the mode of address was now ingrained in him ... “I do so hope we can be friends. Anything I can do to help. The other girls were so kind to me when I arrived.” Christ it sounded so trite, unreal, unsuitable. ‘The other girls’ was the last phrase either of them wanted to hear.

He ploughed on feeling desperate. At least his arse no longer buzzed. “I mean I know it is hard. I myself have been through it, am going through it, but it gets better ... once...”

Coralie just looked at him. He ran his words through his own head again ‘Gets better?’ Christ!

“Once you settle in. Once the inspection is over. And the other girls are so supportive. You really will like it ...” God this was awful. He was really playing the judas goat.

Coralie continued to regard him At least there was now some life in her eyes. She had emerged from death. Then “I don’t want to be here. I am not a girl. I am not going to be a girl. Bugger the other girls. Bugger you.” spoken in a dead pan voice.

David thought of the cameras watching, of the listening devices. If he was to defy them then it should be on his own behalf, not tamely in support of others. And yet he had to give something to convince Coralie to temper her attitude with a little discretion for her own good.

“I understand”, he said. “I understand only too well, but for the moment you have to play their game. Outright hostility will not help your cause. And you need all the help you can get from us.”

David hesitated. “The best of the other options is a return to Reception. And there are far, far worse possibilities. More probable ones in all likelihood.”

“They have no right to do this. No right. It is criminal ... I am not going to act girlish just to please them. And how long do they expect this charade to last? The bastards, the fucking bastards!”

David felt that to explain that ‘acting girlish’ was perhaps an understatement, and that the ‘charade’ had an unpleasant air of permanence, would do little to assuage Coralie’s anger.

“You haven’t any rights here Coralie,” he said gently. “Here they are the law. Here they are in a position to enforce what they want. How they want you to behave. You have to face facts. Think what they have done already.”

“I can see what they have done to you!” Coralie spat back. “They’ve turned you into a mincing, primping girl. A fairy faggot who probably deserves all she got. Who probably was never a real man, a proper man, in the first place! Pervert!”

The insults washed over David, seeping into his soul, hurting. He wanted desperately to explain, to justify but knew it would be of no avail. That now at least was not the time. And he had to remember that he too was being watched, was being judged.

He shook his head resignedly. “Perhaps,” he said and summoned up all his resources to manage a smile . “But your mirror will tell you that you too have already had to conform to some extent. All I am trying to do is to help you to understand that for the moment at least you do have to go along with them, accept that you have to display some feminine attributes and behaviour.”

“ And that we others are here to help you Coralie ....”

“I am not fucking Coralie! My name is Martin.... Martin you understand! My name is Martin!

“Yes, but I cannot call you that. You must understand that I cannot, dare not, call you that. Here you must be Coralie.”

“Martin, My name is Martin.....” Coralie’s hands, carefully manicured with dusky pink nails, clenched and unclenched on the table between them. Her hands were shaking. A shaking that spread up to her shoulders until her whole body seemed to catch the infection.

David realised that she was crying. Deep racking dry sobs. She herself had her gaze fixed down on her own hands but as David watched her eyes lifted and met his own; and David saw naked fear in them. Fear that welled over into tears that ran down her carefully made up face.

“My name is ... is ... is Martin” came out, muffled and choked by sobs, of dusky pink lipsticked lips.

“I know.” David said and reached out his own hands to clasp hers. The was an answering pressure. A fierce pressure as of someone who could feel the quick sands tugging at their body.

They stayed like that for some time. Until the trembling quietened. The silence deep between them.

“Look”, David said finally, his voice soft and low with sympathy, with fellow feeling, “I can’t change anything. You need to accept that here you are Coralie and a girl to all outward appearances. That is a battle you cannot win. We can only help you to survive that. Friendship is not something that can be offered, it grows mutually of its own accord. But we can offer help and support, accept it or not, it is there.”

His eyes sought her’s but they were fixedly studying her hands. “Listen,” he continued, “you need to get through the inspection. They have told you about Rehabilitation?”

Coralie nodded, her eyes still downcast. “Janet keeps on about it. I think she is just trying to scare me, to get me to do what she wants. Nothing could be that obscene.”

David’s initial thought was to tell her to talk to Anne, but he knew he had not that right. Anne had suffered enough without being asked to relive it again for another. Least of all by his initiative. Instead he just said. “Believe me, it is only too real. Ask Janet to tell you about Mona.”

“You cannot afford to cross Grace de Messembry Coralie. If you believe nothing else, believe that, I implore you!”

This time Coralie’s eyes lifted to meet his own. “Janet speaks of her too”, she said. “But she too seems just designed to frighten one into submission. I have never met her. Who is she?”

“Did you have an interview before you came here? After Reception?” David asked and immediately saw the pain mingled with humiliation darken her eyes.

She nodded.

“Then you have probably already met her. Chestnut hair, green eyes, with, with authority and ...”

He needed to go no further.

The breath was expelled from Coralie’s lungs in a single. “Her!”

“Yes,” David said simply. “Her.”

David looked at his watch sparkling on his wrist. “We have had our half hour. We need to rejoin Janet on the roof garden.” He stood up “Come Coralie.” His hands still held hers as he pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go and find the others.”

And have a drink, he thought. God he needed a drink. He himself was trembling slightly. The episode with Coralie had drained him. He shared too many things with her. He was her in so many ways. And yet it had also brought home to him sharply how great a gap had opened up in the two weeks that separated them in this place. He dare not stay here longer. He must get out. Must escape before ... before ... But first he needed that drink.

He looked across at her as they made their way in silence. She was his height, delicately boned, blonde with blue eyes under her newly arched brows. Grace de Messembry, or her agents, had again chosen well. She would make a passable girl, pretty even although, as with the, Anne and himself, her shoulders and hips would never be quite right. Still presentation was all and with intensive beauty and deportment training that would be amply compensated for.

David wondered if he should mention to Coralie that she should re-touch her make up which had been ravaged by her tears. He dreaded her reaction though and, feeling that discretion was the better part of valour, decided to leave it for Janet Saggren to sort out.

At least Coralie seemed calmer. David knew he had not solved, could not solve, anything, but her outburst had almost certainly been cathartic and may have been of some short term assistance.

On the roof garden Janet, with many thanks, took Coralie back in her charge whilst David found sanctuary back with Laura, Emma, and Anne. And solace in a very large Plymouth gin & tonic.

It was when he went up to prepare the second round of drinks, that he saw it. The knife for cutting up the limes and lemons. With a thin pointed four inch blade, flexible, only slightly serrated but, judging by the way it sliced through the lime, very sharp. Previously the one used had been a fairly blunt serrated fruit knife. Someone must have replaced it. Made a mistake.

He looked back at the others. They were in animated conversation, not looking at him but must be aware of him, of his movements. And his purse was on the table. Even if he had it with him it was too small.

It would have to be later. He took his drink, with the rest of the round, back to the others. The conversation was animated. Perhaps because they were all conscious of, nervous of, the inspection on the morrow. David tried to join in, was in fact constantly dragged in with reassurances that he had made so much progress that Grace de Messembry was bound to be delighted with him, with them all indeed. Perhaps there would even be another party? And if there was, would the same boys be there? Emma’s Michael perhaps? And Tommy too, if he was still available? Not that dreadful Nigel surely? But he was unlikely to be walking again yet.

Running under the general conversation, silent but powerful in David’s mind, was the question of escape. His talk with poor Coralie had underlined the imperative for immediate action. The sight of the knife had given him fresh food for thought. He had considered stealing such before from the dining room but he had noticed that they were always counted and checked. Besides he was never alone there. But this one was different. Someone must have been careless. Moreover he could visit the roof garden alone. That is what he would have to do. It would be easy during the weekend when they were largely left to their own devices. Indeed if he were to escape then a weekend was the time to do it. And if a weekend then this weekend.

And once he had it? Once he had it, it could serve to open doors. The blade was long and flexible. He had read that the criminal classes habitually used credit cards for that purpose but surely a knife could to all that a card could, and much better? And he could use it as a weapon. Once out of the Holding Wing he could threaten anyone how tried to stop him. Use it even. Even here if Laura or Janet discovered him and tried to stop him. Just to threaten. He could not really face the thought of sliding the blade into their flesh, of spilling Laura’s or Janet’s blood. But certainly to threaten.

He must get the knife. But if it was a mistake, carelessness, then he needed to get it now before it was noticed and the mistake rectified. He opened his purse and freshened his lipstick. He saw Laura smiling approval at his action. He smiled back and palmed the lipstick as he pretended to return it to his purse. As she turned away he wedged it in a crevice of the table.

Almost simultaneous with hiding the lipstick it started again. The thing embedded inside him. The sudden warmth that presaged its awakening. The first intimations of its stirring. The at first gentle, but ever more insistent, ever growing vibration. His mouth must have gaped slightly as he instinctively resettled in his chair. He saw Anne’s was watching him. Saw her eyes also had widened slightly and that her smile was complicit, understanding. It must be happening to her as well. Of course it must. It was a standard procedure. He was nothing special!

Again it lasted five minutes and then ceased. Five minutes on the hour, every hour, seemed to be an established routine. And during the night as well?

The group’s infectious nervous excitement lasted over dinner. David’s earlier depression lifted as his brain ran through various escape scenarios. His adrenalin surged at the thought of doing something positive. The others too seemed infected in that strange way that make the best parties. A sort of communal forgetting of care, of enjoying the moment.

The laughter rang across at Janet’s table too. Even Coralie seemed a little more relaxed. The ball before the battle of Waterloo on a small scale David thought and inwardly grinned. They had been large gins and he was additionally benefiting from a very passable claret. Not for the first time he wondered at the quality of the wine offered. He had asked Laura once about it and she had just smiled and said that a knowledge of wine was an essential accomplishment that all correctly brought up young ladies should aspire to. And she had added that the additional cost of such over cheap plonk was infinitesimal in the general order of things.

As the coffee was finishing and Laura made initial movements that signalled the end of the meal, David opened his purse, and after a quick ferret around inside, gave a little cry of annoyance. “My lipstick, I seem to have lost my lipstick!” Anne volunteered that he had had it with him on the roof garden , and David with a hurried, “Oh yes of course. I must have dropped it. Be back in a moment”, rose and scurried out.

Once there he found the knife and was wondering how he could conceal it about his person when the realisation came that he daren’t risk it. Not now. Not the day before the inspection when the bar would be tidied and made immaculate for the morning’s visit of Grace de Messembry. Its absence would be noticed. And yet the mistake would also be probably noticed then too and the old fruit knife substituted. As he hesitated he heard footsteps starting to ascend the stairs. He had no time to run through all the options. If he put it somewhere that looked accidental as if it had fallen, and yet out of sight, so it would not be visible, he might get away with it. If its loss was remarked on and a search was made it would look like an accident. It could not be attributed to him. And with any luck it’s disappearance would not be noticed, or if it were it would not be considered significant, and he could pick it up later, during the weekend when the heat was off.

Turning , as if looking on the ground he drove the knife, blade down into an ornamental earthenware pot in which grew some flowers, so that its dark handle was shielded by leaves. Still with the pretence of searching, acutely aware of the approaching footsteps, he located his lipstick and stood up, showing it to the intruder. “Found it!”

It was Coralie. She was regarding him curiously. “I lost my lipstick”, he said lamely.

“Janet sent me to wait here for her”, was the response. “She said she wanted a heart to heart before tomorrow.” And indeed other footsteps could now be heard on the steps.

“I had better run”, David said, “the others will be wondering what is has happened to me.”

The others had indeed all left the dining room, all except Laura and Emma who where still deep in conversation. They broke off on David’s arrival. Emma hurrying away with protestations that she had so much still to do in preparation for the morning.

“And you too Sophie dear”, Laura purred. “So much progress darling, you need to have no real worries about tomorrow, so you can sleep soundly. I shall drop in first thing to help you get ready, help you guild the lily as it were. And you can count on Mrs. Townsend’s last minute ministrations too.

Just one thing. In the bathroom you will find some lotion, I think it is called ‘Breast Adhesive Remover’, or some such. Just apply a little round your boobs this evening before bed. We need to give you new ones tomorrow morning. You will find some profiles in the brochure in the book case. If you have any preferences, give me a ring.”

She walked back with him along the corridor to his room, Laura keeping up a running commentary of tips and encouragement. Outside his door they paused.

“I won’t come in Sophie dear. Last minute arrangements to attend to myself. Oh and now that you have found that you can indeed live with a little inner stimulation without the world coming to an end, you need to try the fellatio experience this evening. The OGTA you know. Just in case Grace de Messembry asks. Not that any more evidence of your commitment to femininity is really needed, your appearance amply endorses that. It doesn’t hurt to be on the safe side though does it?”

She winked at him roguishly. “Sweet dreams poppet, See you bright and early in the morning.”

With that she swayed down to her towards her own room. David watched her. His hands turning his own door handle, opening his own door slowly, very slowly. Sick at the thought of the cock sucking exercise that he must undertake, yet knowing he had to watch her, had to see ....... Laura reached her own door and turned the handle and entered as David himself finally ducked into his own room. No key, no lock, no pressure plate. Nothing. Laura had just turned the handle and entered her room. Odd but he had to believe his own eyes.

Back in his room he opened the box containing the Oral Gratification Training Aid. Inside was a perfect, if in his experience decidedly overlarge, replica penis complete with a scrotum and balls. Realistic to the smallest detail. It was covered with a soft skin which could be moved over the firm body of the penis which itself which, although threateningly erect and correspondingly hard, had an underlying softness of flesh. There was a small booklet labelled ‘User’s Guide’, a cursory examination of which led David to insert one of the Type VF19 cartridges, which was rather like an extended 35mm film capsule, into the OGTA’s base.

That done he sat looking at it. Turning it in his hands, feeling the skin like outer covering move over it. God it was disgustingly realistic! He tried to cut out all feeling. Tried to become an automatum. There was a DVD in the box also which was, he understood from the user’s manual, an essential accompaniment but he could not bring himself to play it. To do so seemed like a greater participation.

He touched it to his lips. Felt it warm and dry resting there. Inanimate. Neutral. If he was to suck it then it must be through his own volition. It was not going to help him, not going to force him. It was his decision, his alone.

His tongue flicked out. And again. Moistening the very tip of the penis.

His decision. But a decision that had already been made for him. By others.

His lips felt dry. Dryer than the penis tip.

He opened his lips and salivated on its end. Wetting it. Making it acceptable. Making the unacceptable acceptable. Open. Open wider. Feel the obtrusive knob on the inside of his lips, in his mouth even. Wet now from his mouth. Soft and firm and wet. Easier to accept.

‘Accept’, the inner voice said. ‘It is only a plastic tube. Accept. Resistance is not worth the effort.’

And his own voice. ‘Think about escape. This is only temporary. It does not matter. Think about escape.’

‘Accept’ the voices said.

His mouth closed over it. His hand pressed it in deeper. Deeper until it filled his mouth. Filled and dominated his mouth. Wet and moist and slippery now he moved it to and fro. Back and forth. He felt the soft outer skin slide over the hardness of the cock. In and out, back and forth. Over its erect hard core.

And he sucked.

And sucked.

Moved it in and out. His lips firm against the outer skin, moving it over the inner hardness, and he sucked.

Mechanically he moved it in and out, mechanically he sucked.

Until his jaws ached.

Nothing happened.

He stopped. He had got so far. Put it in his mouth. Sucked on it. Wasted effort, wasted humiliation if he stopped now. Maybe it was faulty?

Three or four minutes passed before he slid the DVD into its slot and pressed the ‘play’ button.

It led him through it. Step by step. Lick by lick. Tongue caress by tongue caress. Suck by suck, All the variations of intensity. All the manipulations of the ball sack. Graphically shown in close ups. The voice over cajoling, instructing, encouraging.

The butt plug awoke and squirmed into life as the penis kicked in his hand. And then spasmed and a warm glutinous stringy thick salty-sweet, creamy viscosity surged into his mouth, swirled round his teeth and gums. Spurt upon spurt, filling, over filling, until his cheeks bulged like a well fed hamster’s before escaping in long stringy threads from the corners of his mouth. Desperately he swallowed lest it burst forth and cover his entire front. Lest it run down his chest and into the declivity that marked his new tits. Swallowed the thick glutinous substance.

And the creature inside him, down there, thrummed and seemed to swell in sympathy with the fake orgasm.

Chapter 24.

The taste remained in his mouth. Swallowing still left strands coiled in his mouth. Persistent smooth strands that wrapped themselves around his teeth. The small cartouche of imitation semen had self ejected and now lay in his right hand. The OGTA itself, the artificial penis, was in his left, a strand of its discharge still running, uncoiling slowly down its length and over his fingers.

He had hit a new low. He tried to think of escape. To use the experience, the humiliation to steel his resolve. This could not continue. Something had to give.

He went to the bathroom and washed his mouth out. Over and over he washed his mouth out, trying to eliminate not only the taste but the memory of the taste.

And his own cock hardened as the thing thrummed inside him still. It drove him on to clean his mouth and the thought of what it had been privy to.

He undressed whilst running the bath. His body cried out for complete cleansing. Down to panties and bra and the thing inside him stopped vibrating. Stooping he swung the lever into its downward position and tried to extract it. To pull it out.. This time no gradual introduction of the thickly tapered end but the harsh abrupt shoulder. It hurt. But he had already been stretched once and this time it was easier. And the pain was sudden, if intense, and after the shoulder it slid out easily, expelling itself, leaving the orifice gaping, empty. He flushed the soiled sheath down the loo. Cleansed the hated plug with a disinfectant solution that he found in the bathroom cabinet. Washed his hands. Removed bra and panties and stepped into the bath. Lay there and let the hot perfumed water seep into his body.

Lay there until the water was lukewarm. Trying to plan his escape. Going over various permutations of what could or could not happen. Blocking out all thoughts other than those of escape. Especially all thoughts of the penis that had been in his mouth, of the plug that had been in his arse. That was destined to return there.

Out of the bath he dried himself slowly. Rubbed the anti adhesive cream around his breasts. With a fit of rebellion he consigned the butt plug back to its box. He had had enough for one day Tomorrow perhaps he would have to. But no more today. It was only a small useless gesture, but he had had enough. And then he remembered. Remembered his last small gesture, the last time he had stuck a metaphorical two fingers up to authority. Remembered his not sitting to pee, his sleeping without wearing a nightie. The trouble that had brought in its train. He couldn’t risk a repetition of that. Not when he was set on escaping and needed to avoid doing anything that might prejudice his plans.

Reluctantly, slowly he repeated the routine of inserting the butt plug. The sheath, the anal lubricant, all the deeply embarrassing rigmarole. The pain was less this time thank God. Perhaps because he was already slightly stretched. Perhaps because he was already lubricated inside to some extent. Perhaps because his thrust was less tentative. Whatever the reason the moment when his sphincter muscles closed over the shoulder and embedded the plug inside him was more easily achieved.

Only eight thirty. Too early for sleep. David redressed and went to sit before the TV, whose anodyne programmes he watched until it was bed time. Watched without seeing, his mind haunted by the possibilities that existed beyond the Holding Wing, once through the doors of Janet or Laura. And once out could he resume his life outside? Would his flat still be there in his name? Would it be safe to return there?

11 o’clock and the plug left him in peace. Hope formed inside him that he could at least get a night’s undisturbed sleep. He had half expected it. They had nothing to gain by him dropping with fatigue.

He undressed again. Cleaned his teeth. Cleansed himself of make-up. Applied moisturising cream. A little more of the breast adhesive softener, just for luck. Donned the gossamer silk baby-doll. Checked himself in the cheval glass and heard his inner voice murmur in approval that he really was rather dishy.

Escape. Concentrate on escape.

Sleep came quickly. As did the dreams. Unremarkable dreams. Not at all disturbing, they troubled not his sleep. Unleashed no demons. Provoked no nightmares, no waking covered in sweat.

Perhaps he would have been happier if they had done. They differed in one aspect, one aspect only from the dreams to which he was accustomed. In them he was female. Sexy, attractive and, above all, enjoyably female. He had indeed escaped but to a feminine world.

Wakening brought him a consciousness centred on a spreading warmth which even as he surfaced into the reality of the morning, became an insistent, and now familiar vibration. It was 7 o’clock and another day, an inspection day, had begun.

Initially he just lay there, the vibration bringing back the awareness of his plight. His penis stirred, became hard. His body responding in spite of himself. With an effort he tumbled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. There he extracted the still moving plug, consigned the sheath to the loo and, flushing it away in a preliminary act of distaste, sat there himself to empty both his body and his mind of waste. Easier for his body than for his mind. He had to concentrate.

Whatever the day brought he had to hold on terrier fashion to the need to escape. Everything else was of no importance. Whatever hoops he had to jump through he would, and with every appearance of doing so willingly, enthusiastically. Whatever Grace de Messembry ordained, whatever humiliation she had in store, he must welcome, smile and welcome. His dress and behaviour must be beyond reproach. And if she found reproach in what was beyond reproach, that too he must smilingly accept.

He carefully applied a generous layer of the Venumar, Depilatory cream to his body and legs, waited five minutes and showered it off. A hot perfumed bath followed, in which bliss he luxuriated in spite of himself. He lingered, languished, in the hot water. Five minutes passed. Then ten. He moved reluctantly to get out . And was aware that his breasts were half unattached. They peeled off almost with their own weight as he sat upright. He placed them on the bath side. His skin underneath was pale, almost greyish but still firm and seemingly healthy.

Then the careful shaving of his face and the application of the creams and unguents that had become come almost second nature to him. Then the re-insertion of the cursed plug. Re-sheathed, re-lubricated. Still painful, excruciatingly so, as he pushed, paused, pushed, praying for that moment of relief when his sphincter muscles closed over its shoulder, settling it deep inside him. Settling the hateful intruder deep inside him.

Back in his room he donned a girdle as he had worn on that first Friday. And searched his wardrobe for sheer stockings to roll up his legs and fasten to its tabs. Then his cock tucked decisively between his leg, he stepped into, and pulled the satiny, lace edged panties in the attractive deep champagne colour, up over his thighs and smoothed it over the girdle.

And his inner voice approved.

Laura found him seated before the dressing table carefully applying eye shadow. She was fulsome in her praise.

“Such progress darling!” She brought with her new breast forms. “Just a mite perkier darling! I thought that the dress would benefit from a fractional uplift,”

Her fingers traced circles over the flat surface of his chest. “Mmmm such a pity that they don’t allow hormonal treatment in the Holding Wing Sophie darling. Your skin does need a rest. Perhaps we will have to go back to loose breast forms for a few days next week.”

She placed a finger on David’s lips. “Don’t say a word dear. I know it is a disappointment, but we have to do what is best for you, and your skin does need a rest. Any way that is for the future. We must have you looking your best today and a little longer will do no harm. Just hold it there ... and ... and ... the new breasts were placed on his chest, held there for what seemed an age, then released as Laura’s fingers smoothed the edges, blending them in to his skin.

“Love your choice of panties sweetie, and the matching bra will look a dream with these new blouse bunnies.” So saying she left his side to forage in his wardrobe, returning to slip the bra in question over his shoulders, fastening it behind his back.

“There darling, don’t you look scrumptious!” She gave him a little cheek-to-cheek hug. She giggled gently. Do you remember your first bra Sophie dear, such a shy protesting girl you were then. Janet and I had almost to trick you into it. And I bet you can’t imagine life now without it? So very sexy!”

In the mirror David saw his upper half, curvaceous with his pretty deep champagne bra caressing the breasts that indeed looked to now be a natural part of him. If he were a girl, he thought, he would indubitably be pleased with what he saw. And the inner voice smiled and whispered ‘If only he were a girl.’

No not that. Don’t listen. Concentrate on getting through today. What happened today didn’t matter. Go with the flow. Get through the day. He forced himself to compartmentalise his mind. He must please Grace de Messembry. He must escape. The second might depend on the first. But don’t mix them up.

Christ! The warmth, the vibration was starting again, his body almost welcoming in its response.

Laura was still talking. “ .... Must drop in on Anne and Emma Sophie dear. Continue the good work. Mrs. Townsend will be here in twenty minutes just to apply the finishing touches and then we can all meet for breakfast at about a quarter past nine.”

Another hug and she was moving to the door. “Such progress Sophie. I am sure Grace de Messembry will be delighted. Just think confidence!”

By the time he joined the others he was in band box condition. He had sprayed his throat specially and his voice was an attractive husky contralto. Anne, Emma and himself. Three delightful girls at ease with themselves and each other. If they were at all apprehensive, it only showed in an increased animation, an increased self-awareness which was perhaps reflected in bearing and hand movements. Laura presiding as usual, but no exhortation now. Just friendly chat. All the preparatory work done. Perfection attained.

At the adjoining table Christine and Alice were huddled in deep conversation. Also immaculate in preparation but seemingly a little on edge. No sign of Janet Saggren nor of Coralie.

Their unease communicated itself to Laura. She smiled at her own brood as she rose from the table. “I will just pop and see if Janet could do with a hand darlings. Perhaps Coralie is having last minute nerves, the poor dear. Emma, would you make sure you are all on the roof garden well before ten. Including Alice and Christine of course”

She rummaged in her bag and produced a mobile phone which she gave to Emma. “I will give you a ring dear when I know what is happening.”

When she had gone they stayed sipping their coffee and theorising on possible problems with Coralie until, at twenty to ten, Emma shepherded them all to the roof garden. It was laid out as the last time. The same table for drinks and canapes. Beyond the summerhouse apart from the usual tables and chairs there was the larger wooden table with the additional green leather easy chairs.

The girls stood around chatting, a little lost without their two guiding lights. As usual Christine and Alice had drifted a little apart from Laura’s brood. At a quarter to ten Emma’s phone rang. She listened, nodded, and placing it back in her purse and, raising her voice so that Christine and Alice were included, said. “Nothing to worry about, but poor Coralie is proving a little recalcitrant apparently. Laura didn’t elaborate. Just rang to assure us that there is nothing to worry about, but that if they, Janet, Coralie and she, don’t make it before Grace de Messembry and Helen Vanbrugh arrive, I am to welcome them, assure them that they are on the way, present their excuses, and generally hold the fort as it were.”

A few more minutes and then the clatter of heels on the approach stairs. They all turned to see Grace De Messembry heading towards them, a half pace ahead of Helen. Emma glided forward, conscious of her new duties and the need for composure. She stopped and the others could hear her greeting and explanation, her excuses, as she turned, accompanying them in their progress to the other waiting girls.

David as always was struck by the sheer force of Grace de Messembry’s personality. The moment that she appeared the atmosphere radically changed. All were constantly aware of her. She radiated power. Beauty too of course, but other women were also beautiful. Helen Vanbrugh could lay almost equal claim to that. What Grace de Messembry had was a radiant commanding confidence. It was impossible to describe. Impossible to analyse, to explain. But one felt it. One could not help feeling it. It was a physical, almost tangible, force. A sort of horizontal gravity.

As they drew near Helen veered off to join Christine and Alice. Grace de Messembry with Emma in tow greeted Anne and Sophie with that amused glint in her eye that David had so come to dread.

“Anne and Sophie, two of my very favourite girls! What a delight to see you looking so absolutely lovely.” Her calm, perfectly formed smile embraced them both.

Anne and David both inclined their heads in respect as they murmured their greetings. The gesture was not lost on Grace de Messembry. “My how polite everyone is this morning! Quite the young ladies. Maybe I should have you taught how to curtsey?”

Her laugh cut across Anne’s deferential, “As you please Miss de Messembry.”

“My dear Anne of course I have no intention of indulging in outmoded practices such as that. Victorian reverences are quite out off place here. I like to think of us all as equals, mutually contributing to our little society. Each adding what they can to the achievement of the desired goal. Anyway we can provide enough melodrama of our own. What do you think Sophie dear?”

As usual in her presence, David had to search for words, fearful that they might be misinterpreted, or that they might not be sufficient, feeling that she probably had already second guessed his answer. To add to his difficulties he was, as usual, unsure as to the question or its implication.

He chose non-committal banality. Sheltering behind his friend. “I agree with Anne, Miss de Messembry. We rely on your guidance and of course we all want to please you, to do the best we can to ... to fulfill our rá´le here.”

The green eyes turned on him, sparkling with amusement. “Dear girl you can do better than that! You disappoint me. I thought we were becoming such friends, and you still treat me like a stranger. Worse like an elderly headmistress. You must shake off this nervousness and confide in me without reserve. Treat me just as you would a darling elder sister”

He gaze rested on the other two. “Mustn’t she Emma? Anne? I as I hope you all do!” The perfection that was a right eyebrow lifted inquisitorially. “Anyway that is not what I meant. The mutuality of our ambition here is something which I am sure I can confidently take for granted. I meant the Victorian melodrama aspect Sophie dear. Your virginal response to Nigel’s advances for example. I did so enjoy that little show of spirit.”

Her lips twitched at the corners. “I am led to understand that you have become perhaps slightly less virginal in the last fortnight Sophie dear, so perhaps in future you will be less antagonistic to young men's natural urges?” The right eyebrow edged even higher.

David was mortified, Felt the colour rise to his cheeks. The bloody woman knew everything!

“I am sorry if you think I over reacted Miss de Messembry.”

“Don’t be silly Sophie dear, as I said at the time, I wouldn’t have missed it for the worlds. I was just teasing you. It is so worthwhile, you blush so divinely. There are natural gifts a girl has, that no art nor training can instil. And with you it is that natural colour rising so spontaneously to your cheeks. Quite delicious.”

She directed her attention to the others

“What do I need to say to get you to blush so prettily Anne? Or are you a more hardened sophisticate?”

As her spotlight switched away from him, David tried to regroup his mental energies. Emma had remained silent throughout the exchange and from her vantage point slightly behind and to one side of Grace de Messembry she smiled and winked at him in sympathy.

It was with relief that David heard heels clicking on the stairs presaging the arrival of Laura, Janet and Coralie. Grace de Messembry was already turning back to him, poised to inflict further humiliation. “So looking forward to our little chat about your progress Sophie dear, Helen and I have a few ideas we would like to run past you ...”

Laura was in the lead, hurrying towards them, full of apologies.

“Miss de Messembry, Helen, We’re so dreadfully sorry, Janet and I, and of course Coralie. A few last minute hitches. Quite our fault I am afraid. Poor Coralie had an attack of nerves. Poor darling, a bit overawed by the occasion I am afraid. I was just helping Janet and ...”

Grace de Messembry was all forgiveness. “Dear Laura, Janet, please don’t give it a moment’s thought. Emma is a real jewel and she has been an absolute marvel in your absence. And you know I always adore having the chance to have a little informal friendly chat with the girls. Bonding isn’t it called?”

David looked beyond her to Janet and Coralie. The latter was doll like, blonde hair cascading down, rose petal lips, eyes highlighted by the blue of her eye shadow, complexion flawless. Pretty as a picture, albeit slightly unsteady on her 3" heels.

As alive as a picture. Face dead. Only her eyes glittered.in the mask. She was slightly ahead of Janet who seemed to be positioned to prevent any change of mind she might have. Any last minute escape from her ordeal.

Laura and Grace de Messembry were still vying with each other in the game of compliments as Coralie, far from showing reluctance to join them, increased her pace, leaving Janet behind. As she passed the summerhouse she seemed to stumble and nearly fell, her hand reaching out and steadying herself on a flower bedecked urn. Then she broke into a tottering trot towards them. Tears were now streaming down her face channelling her make up so painstakingly applied. She roughly barged aside Emma, who had turned to her in greeting, sending her sprawling. Anne gave a little cry and moved to help Emma who had fallen half on the path, half on the lawn.

And then David saw the knife. The blade a long glint of silver in the morning sun. High above Coralie’s head, high in her right hand as she lunged towards them. David had been the First XV’s scrum half at school, and the First XI’s wicket keeper and had had a trial for his county Under 18s in both positions. Automatically, without thought, he reacted, pivoting and sweeping in low in a tackle, his near arm moving upwards to deflect Coralie’s knife arm, as she launched herself at Grace de Messembry.

But his rugby and cricket had never been played wearing 3" heels. Nor had he ever played in a skirt reaching to mid-calf. Nor then contended with the shifting weight of breasts. Nor with a vibration deep inside him that now arrived on cue to mark the coming of the hour.

He stumbled off balance. The tackle turned into a sort of clumsy body block. And his half turned body was unprotected from the downward sweep of the knife which sliced into his left breast and down beyond. David felt the cold burning sting and saw the knife half raise again. He grappled with Coralie, his right arm holding her left, and took another knife blow from her right. Staggering backwards, still frantically clasping Coralie, the back of his knees encountered Emma rising from all fours and he somersaulted backwards over her body.

Falling he saw a red peony blossom on his chest, the petals drooping down, darkening as they stained the material of his dress.

His head hit the stone edging of the path and a diamond light exploded against the purple backdrop in his head. Exploded into blinding bright scintillas, splintering into a myriad dagger fragments.

Bright fragments that died and were absorbed into the deep purple blackness

Infinite blackness. And then ...

Nothing.

Notes:

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