Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Chapter 4 – My Transformation

Can the professionals make Dave more convincing as Maria?

I didn’t ask Anna how she found out about Transformations or who her contact was, and she didn’t say, but the following Saturday morning Sally and I found ourselves at their anonymous-looking manor house out in the country. We were welcomed by a very pretty receptionist who introduced herself as Angela.

“I understand that it was your sister who made the appointment on your behalf, sir?” I nodded. “Now we never enquire of our customers why they require our services and indeed most prefer to maintain their anonymity. When I explained this to your sister, she suggested we make the appointment in the name of ‘Maria’. Will that be satisfactory?”

I snorted. Sally laughed.

“That will be fine,” she said. “He’s getting quite used to being called Maria.”

“Good. Well, if you’d like to follow me. I believe your consultant is ready for you.” She opened a door next to her Reception desk and beckoned us in.

“Come along, Maria,” Sally said with a huge grin on her face.

The ‘consultant’ turned out to be a large no-nonsense lady in a tweed skirt suit. She was checking her notes when Angela showed us in.

“Good morning,” she said. “I’m Ingrid McLaughlin.” She extended her hand. We shook. “Do call me Ingrid,” she said. “Please sit down.”

She was brisk and business-like. I couldn’t say I liked her exactly, but her professional manner did inspire confidence. We took our seats.

“So – Maria – let me just have a good look at you. I understand you’re hoping to pass as a Hispanic girl at close quarters and for long periods?” I nodded. “Forgive this possibly stupid question, but you do speak Spanish fluently?”

“Yes, we lived in Madrid for nearly four years,” I said.

“Which answers my second question – you won’t be caught out on the geography or culture. Now, your sister also said that some people you meet as Maria might have met your real self, so it would better if your face was unrecognisable too?”

Sally and I looked at each other. She shrugged.

“I suppose so,” I confirmed.

“Very well,” Ingrid continued. “Would you take your outer clothes off, please?”

I dutifully stripped to my underpants. Well, it was far too late to start being modest now.

“Yes… yes, good,” she said. “You’re not too tall; quite slim; not too musclebound. I think we can oblige you.”

She gave me some flip-flops and a plain pink ladies’ dressing gown to put on, from which I deduced I wouldn’t be getting dressed again for the moment. She consulted her notes.

“Can you clarify exactly what you mean by ‘Hispanic’?”

“He needs people to believe he’s a young Spanish woman,” said Sally.

“Yes, but what do you think a Spanish woman looks like?” Mrs McLaughlin persisted. “I mean compared with an English woman?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I suppose it’s like asking what French people look like, or British people, or American people… It’s about what we expect to be the most common features… I guess dark hair is more common in Spain than fair, and dark eyes too. I’d say Spanish women are mostly tanned – what they call ‘olive-skinned’? A typical Mediterranean look, similar to Italians and Greeks. I don’t know about things like broad noses and thick lips. I think those sorts of features are more South American – Latino, not Hispanic.”

“That’s about right,” she said. “The point is that Hispanic is not a race but an ethnic category. Hispanics are a multiracial community; there are white Hispanics, black Hispanics and Asian Hispanics. People of Anglo-Saxon descent don’t expect anyone coming from Latin America or Spain to have blue eyes or fair hair, though actually many do. You might find these pictures interesting.”

She showed us some colour print-outs of web pages. She’d done her research all right. The first three were well-known Spanish celebrities, two actresses and a TV presenter: Inma Cuesta, Sara Carbonero, and Cristina Pedroche. They all conformed to my characterisation of dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin.

“But then there’s this lady,” Ingrid said, showing us another picture. “Esther Cañadas. She’s a Spanish model and actress. I’d say she’s more like a typical Scandinavian. But none of that really matters, I think most people’s expectations will be the same as yours.”

“Just don’t expect to be as pretty as any of these, babe,” Sally laughed.

“No, indeed,” said Ingrid.

“I was hoping I could look like Garbiñe Muguruza,” I said, not entirely seriously.

“The tennis player?” said Sally. “You should be so lucky! She’s gorgeous.”

“She is… though not in your class, obviously...” I said. Sally grinned.

“Anyway,” Ingrid interrupted our banter. “We’ll need to dye your hair and colour your skin properly. You’ve been using that cheap fake tan stuff, haven’t you? I can see it’s fading in streaks already. The skin dye we use is much better. You’ll also need dark contact lenses, and we need to round out your face. A long thin face is typically male; yours isn’t too bad, but some cheek padding and a little double chin will make a huge difference. I think we might make your nose a little broader too, not to make you look Native American or anything, just to disguise your real features a little more. Anyway I can show you what I mean on the computer and you can decide then. How do you feel about injections in your lips?”

“What – collagen you mean?” said Sally.

“Actually collagen is being phased out nowadays. There are many types of dermal fillers for increasing volume in the lips but the most commonly used now are based on hyaluronic acid. It’s a naturally occurring sugar in your body, mainly found in the joints. The filler is a synthetic version but, because it’s a natural substance, your body thinks it’s its own so it doesn’t break down as quickly. Hyaluronic acid is hydrophilic, meaning it attracts water, filling the lips from the inside. Most collagen fillers are very short term as the body breaks it down too easily.”

“So how long do these new fillers last?” I asked.

“Well they say four to six months, though it varies a lot from patient to patient. The new fillers are still temporary, just usually longer-lasting than collagen. They’re also reversible.”

I was dubious, but Sally said, “Look at this way, sweetie, you won’t be able to go back to being… yourself easily with dyed skin and hair, and prosthetics stuck all over your face and body. So why do long-lasting thick lips matter? If you really hate the whole thing, we’ll just have to come back and they can undo everything at once.”

Ingrid nodded. “You need to understand that this is going to be a big commitment. Your male self will have to disappear for as long as you need to be a convincing Spanish woman. You won’t be able to be Maria during the day and ‘take her off’ in the evening.”

That was exactly what I’d thought I could do. I wasn’t at all comfortable with saying goodbye to Dave for the duration.

“I realise this is a big decision,” said Ingrid. “I need to go next door to set up the photography suite anyway, so I’ll leave you to discuss it.”

She left.

“I don’t want to be Maria all the time,” I began.

“It’s only till the Tribunal,” Sally said. “If you do this – and we win – we’ll be back on our feet. Besides, what’s the problem? I know you’re enjoying the work. You did a fantastic job for Anna and Dorothy.”

“The work’s OK, but I never wanted to be a charlady, for fuck’s sake! I can just imagine you introducing me at parties. ‘And what does your husband do, Sally?’ ‘Oh, he wanted to be an actor but that didn’t pan out so now he’s a cleaning lady’.”

“Well I never planned to be a bank teller either! I hate it, but I put up with it because it’s our only regular source of income. We’re both making sacrifices!”

I slumped. She was quite right. I knew she loathed her menial job as a counter clerk when she should be making a fortune as an investment banker. All she was asking of me was to spend a little time play-acting as a working-class, immigrant cleaning woman. Hell, at one time I was hoping for a whole career pretending to be someone else. Being Maria for five months was about the same commitment in terms of time as being in a West End play. But at least you could be yourself off-stage…

Sensing victory, Sally continued, “Also you can find out what it’s been like to be born female throughout history – stuck with menial tasks, cooking, cleaning, at the beck and call of some man…”

“What are you talking about? You’ve never had to serve a man in your life!”

“I never said I have,” she said, not in the least embarrassed. “I merely said it wouldn’t do you any harm to find out what it’s like to be a serving woman, having been a privileged white male all your life.”

“It might not do me any harm,” I said, “but I can’t see why it would do me any bloody good!”

This was fast becoming our first serious row. I didn’t want that, and apparently neither did she.

“Look, if you really can’t stand this idea, I won’t think any the less of you for backing out,” Sally said, almost kindly. There was none of her usual banter now. “We’ll find some other way of keeping our heads above water till the Tribunal. If we sold the house and moved into a flat, we could probably afford the mortgage on my salary…”

“No, I know it’s our best plan, and I’m not afraid of the disguise, or the work. It’s not that,” I said.

“Well, what then?”

“It’s… well… us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to be sure that nothing will change between us… I love you, and I want to be your husband, not a female house guest, and a skivvy at that. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could be me again every night, but… I’m afraid you’ll start seeing me as a woman, and a servant… I don’t think I could take that.”

“You’re the one who said there was nothing wrong with being a cleaner!” she said, with a smile. But she saw I was serious. “Hey, come on, have a little faith. I’m not going to forget who’s under the prosthetics and the women’s clothes. And I won’t forget why you’re doing it all – it’s for us and our future. I know I don’t say it very often – it’s not really my style – but I love you too.”

I suddenly realised that I couldn’t remember her ever actually saying that. But it had never mattered; she showed it in everything else she said and everything she did. She only said it now because she realised how vulnerable I was feeling.

“So just think of it as a long improvisation session,” she said. “Anyway, it might be kind of fun to have a husband and a best girlfriend in one package,” she said. “Hey, remember the sex we had when you were Fifi? It’ll be like that again.”

Ingrid came bustling in again at that point.

“So, are we going ahead?” she asked. We agreed; Sally confidently, me hesitantly. “Well your sister has already transferred a deposit to our account, so we’re good to go.”

Apparently Anna was confident Sally would talk me into it. I hate it when the women in my life know me so well and conspire against me.

She led me next door to the photography suite, as she called it. It was actually a small dark room, not much bigger than a dressing room in a department store. The only illumination was a small dim darkroom lamp.

“The cameras are high definition. You stay still and they move around you on those rails.”

She pointed at three circular tracks that ran around the walls of the booth, including apparently the door, once it was closed. One was at head height, one at waist height, and the other one at knee level. There was a camera on each track.

“We use the images to build a three-dimensional computer composite of your body, accurate to a thousandth of an inch. The software then shows you the female shapes we can make for you. When you’ve chosen the body you want, we use 3D printing to make the prosthetics.”

She helped me up onto the little platform. There were footprints on it showing me where to stand, like at airport X-ray security booths. She opened the door again.

“When I’ve gone, take off your underpants, flip-flops and robe,” she said. “You can just throw them over there into the corner. I’ll give you further instructions over the loudspeaker.”

When I was sure she’d gone, I stripped off as instructed and re-positioned myself on the platform. In a moment Ingrid’s voice came through.

“OK, are you ready?” she said. “The lights will be going off in a moment. Please stand as still as you can with your arms horizontal and out to your sides.”

I complied, and the lights went out.

“Starting the process now,” she said. “Try not to blink.”

The lights came on. They were incredibly bright after the darkness. The cameras starting orbiting around me, snapping away. After two circuits they stopped and the bright lights went off again and the small darkroom lamp came on. Ingrid’s voice over the loudspeaker told me to put the robe back on and return to the office.

She and Sally were at the computer console. I looked over their shoulders. The photographs had been assembled by the software into a three-dimensional picture. A figure clearly recognisable as me was revolving on the screen. My private parts had been pixilated out, like they do with the faces of children and innocent bystanders in TV news.

“Now we superimpose an average female figure the same height as you.”

The new figure was female, with my face. It was mostly white with some coloured areas. Where my body’s dimensions were inside the proposed female shape her protrusions were coloured green; and where my body stuck out beyond the female template, those areas were red.

“We make prosthetics for the green zones which will pad you out to the selected feminine shape,” Ingrid explained. “This will be mostly around the abdomen – the hips, thighs and buttocks – and of course the breasts. But the red zones are the problem. Your shoulders are too broad for an average woman, and even though you’re quite slim for a man, your waist is still too thick. You could wear a stiff corset, if you can put up with the discomfort, but that wouldn’t help with your shoulders.”

“That’s right,” said Sally. “You can always tell a drag queen by her shoulders, can’t you? A triangular shape - an otherwise slim woman with shoulders twice as wide as her waist!”

I always knew there was a problem, though now I understood it better, but the whole point of coming to Transformations was to get a female disguise that was undetectable.

“So what’s the answer?” I said.

“We increase your other dimensions slightly to compensate,” Ingrid said.

She moved the computer mouse to a scale that read from 0 to 28. It was currently on 8.

“Are those dress sizes?” Sally asked.

Ingrid nodded. As she dialled up the number on the scale first to 12, then to 14, then 16, the female shape broadened out. The red zones started to shrink and the greens got bigger.

“Hang on,” said Sally. “I’ve just thought. Can you adjust your figure’s vital statistics to match the clothes and underwear we already have?”

“Yours, you mean? I hardly think…”

“No, they belong to a ‘larger lady’ we know. We can’t really afford to buy Maria a whole new wardrobe, you see.”

“We can certainly try,” said Ingrid. “If you have the sizes, I can override the projected figure manually.”

Sally got out a scrap of paper and passed it to Ingrid. All I saw was 42D-32-44, which seemed a long way from what I had always assumed to be the ideal 36-24-36, but what did I know?

“I have a suitcase full of clothes in the car,” she said. “I thought I’d better bring them in case you were able to do everything today.”

That was Sally, thinking ahead as always.

Ingrid entered Carol’s measurements. Virtually all the red disappeared. The green areas looked huge to me now. Maria was going to be plump-to-voluptuous.

“I think that will be very effective,” Ingrid said. “I’ll do the facial prosthetics next.”

With a couple of clicks she brought up a 3D model of my head.

“I’ll add long dark hair first, and change the colour of your eyes.” More clicks. “Now you can begin to see what Maria might look like. I’m going to broaden her nose, pad her cheeks, and thicken her lips a little.”

The picture started to look more Latina.

“Your face is still too narrow and your chin is too pointed.” She clicked a different icon and ran the mouse pointer along a scale. The face in the picture immediately became rounder and grew a substantial double chin.

“She’ll look better with a little make-up,” said Sally. “Can you do that?”

“Certainly,” said Ingrid. “How’s that?”

Without make-up the face was plain and plump, but unmistakably feminine and Hispanic. With make-up she was actually quite attractive. More importantly, Ingrid had done enough that she didn’t look at all like me anymore. Sally confirmed that this latest design was good.

“Then I’ll print all the prosthetics now,” Ingrid said. “Do you want to do the actual transformation here today?”

Sally looked at me. I quailed.

“If you come on Monday, you’ll be on your own,” she said. “I’ll be at work. You’ll have to use public transport or taxis. And don’t forget Maria shouldn’t be heard speaking English anywhere. It’s too risky.”

I sighed. “Yes please, Ingrid,” I said.

“Well, first we must get you waxed; then dye your skin. We need to attach your prosthetics and plan your make-up. Also your hair needs to be done. It’s not a bad length but I would suggest extensions. I need to check that our beautician and hairdresser are available for all that. What else? You don’t wear glasses, do you? I think we have some plain dark contact lenses. Oh, and I’ll have to see if our nurse can come in this afternoon.”

“Nurse?” I said, panicking a little. “What will we need a nurse for?”

“The lip filler injections need to be done by someone with a proper medical qualification. Charlotte is a retired nurse; she does all ours. Don’t worry; it’s a minor procedure.”

It sounded like there would be a lot of minor procedures which would add up to some really major changes.

* * *

And that’s how the rest of that memorable Saturday went. The whole process took hours. There was no point in Sally waiting around, so she brought in the suitcase full of Carol’s clothes and underwear, smiled sympathetically, took my clothes (including my underpants) away in a plastic bag, and went off to the shops.

The waxing was horrendous, despite the fact that Vera, the masseuse, pumped me full of whisky to dull the pain. I lay down on her operating table, drunk as a lord, and waited for the torment to come. I struggled not to show how much it hurt, but eventually I had to let it all out in a decidedly unmanly scream.

“Wow!” said Vera, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard an actual woman scream like that while being waxed.”

“How do they stand it?” I panted through gritted teeth. “I’ve never felt pain like that!”

“Hah!” she snorted. “Try childbirth! I dunno; I suppose you men have a lower pain threshold. Hey, maybe your time as a woman will change that for you. You realise you’ll probably have to do this again in a couple of weeks?”

“Well, that isn’t going to happen,” I swore. “I’ll get a Ladyshave.”

“You could try depilatory cream. It’s not as effective as waxing, but it might be good enough. You’re supposed to be Spanish, aren’t you? They say European women are hairier than English girls.”

“Isn’t that just the French...? Owwwww!”

The conversation was interrupted by Vera tearing another strip off me, taking advantage of me being distracted.

“You must have led a sheltered life,” she said. “Have you never even had a tooth pulled? OK, I’ve finished your body; now I have to do your face. A close shave first, then wax.”

If anything, that was even more painful, but eventually the torture came to an end. I was sore all over. Vera dabbed away a few spots of blood with an alcohol-soaked cotton wool swab.

“We normally rub some soothing lotion all over you at this point,” she explained, “but you’re having an overall skin dye, so we can’t. If you’re covered in lotion, the dye won’t take. I’ll just tidy up your eyebrows a little. I know they say Spanish girls don’t pluck, but yours are too thick for a woman. It will also be another difference between Maria and… your male self.”

She used a stencil to mark out a feminine shape for my eyebrows and tweezers to remove individual hairs. It hurt as much as anything she’d already done today, and that was saying something. Maybe the brow is a more sensitive area.

“Right,” said Vera, when she was finally satisfied, “time for your skin dyeing.”

So, stinging all over and still wobbly from the booze, I was taken to what looked like a shower cubicle. She gave me thin goggles to cover my eyes, a tight swimming cap, and a pair of ear plugs. She also pushed a couple of small pieces of cotton wool up my nostrils.

“Keep your mouth closed tight, dear,” she said. “It’s not poisonous, but you don’t want to swallow any of this stuff. OK, let me take your gown. You need to be naked for this, obviously.”

I then had a shower in a fine black dye. It was actually quite soothing after my waxing, but it looked awfully dark.

“Don’t worry about the colour,” Vera called over the noise of the shower. “It will be much paler when it dries. You’ll be a nice tanned shade. Can you move about a bit? We need the dye to cover you equally everywhere. We don’t want any streaks.”

I couldn’t prevent the dye getting on my lips and some in my mouth. It tasted like paint, as I suppose it would. After about fifteen minutes Vera switched the shower to ordinary warm water to remove the surplus dye. Then two fans came on and blew warm air all over me.

“Keep turning round,” Vera called, “so that it dries evenly.”

Eventually I was allowed out and Vera helped me put my gown back on. She sat me down and removed the cap, goggles, ear plugs and cotton wool.

“I just need to check around your eyes and the edges where the cap was,” she said, dabbing around them with a paintbrush. “The goggles stop the dye getting in your eyes but they also cover up areas which need to be coloured. If I don’t touch you up a bit, you’ll look like a panda in reverse.”

“OK, that looks pretty good,” she said eventually.

She opened a cupboard door. It had a full-length mirror inside. My skin was now a dark caramel tone, like I had spent several months sunbathing in the Mediterranean.

“It should last at least a couple of months,” Vera promised. “You and Mrs Maria should be on the lookout for signs of it fading in about eight weeks. But you’ll be back before that for your next waxing, won’t you?” She chuckled. “OK, now let’s see about these prosthetics.”

I looked round and saw a trolley laden with what looked like weird lumps of flesh, the same colour as my newly dyed skin. Ingrid must have brought them in while I was in the dye shower. I caught a whiff of something like latex. Vera indicated for me to lie down on her operating table again, on my back.

“We’ll do your breasts first. Hold still. You don’t want to get this glue all over you.”

She applied adhesive to a wide area around my right nipple and also to the back of the first form. Then she pressed it on, leaning on me with all her not inconsiderable weight and counting out loud to sixty. Then she repeated the whole process with the other form.

“OK, you’re stuck with them for at least two weeks. Hah – stuck, get it?”

“What if I need to remove them earlier?”

“Well, we can give you a solvent that will dissolve the glue, but it’s a real pain to use. You have to keep applying it around and under the edges and peeling the form back little by little. It will probably take at least half an hour.”

“Couldn’t I just rip it off like a band-aid?”

“I strongly advise you not to try that. This is medical adhesive. You’ll rip your skin off before the breast form. After a couple of weeks you will be shedding the top layer of your skin anyway and the forms will slide off by themselves. When you do get them off, wash your chest and clean the forms very thoroughly, to avoid getting a rash or an infection. I’ll give you some adhesive, then you’ll be able to re-attach them without having to come back here. Now you need to stay where you are for another five minutes to let the adhesive set.”

She did some tidying up while we waited, then came back with a fine brush and a little pot of goo which seemed to be the same colour as my dyed skin and the breast forms.

“The edges are feathered so there won’t be an obvious join where the form ends and your chest begins, but I still need to apply a little make-up to conceal the edges completely. When I’ve finished they really will look like they’re part of you. You’ll be able to go topless and no one will know.”

“Absolutely not happening,” I said. She grinned.

“This is permanent make-up, by the way.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, that just means long-lasting,” she laughed. “It’s not like I’m tattooing your make-up on. That really is permanent. No, you’ll probably still have to do a little touching-up from time to time. This should last until you need to remove the forms, then you’ll have to re-apply it. You can take this pot with you.”

When she had finished, she invited me to get up and check my chest out in the mirror. It was amazing! My 42D breasts (I assumed) were totally realistic. You really couldn’t see the joins, but they were heavy.

Vera was rummaging in the suitcase Sally had packed. She fished out a pink cotton bra of Carol’s.

“Slip this on then,” she said. “Make yourself decent. Those babies will need support. You’re not used to carrying big boobs around; you could strain your back or stretch the skin of your chest.”

I tried to put the bra on the ‘proper’ way, but I couldn’t work out how to fasten the clips behind my back. Vera helped. She was right; I was much more comfortable with my bra on. She made some minor adjustments to the shoulder straps, but it was a perfect fit. Ingrid and her 3D printing program were clearly spot-on. But it was a little disconcerting not to be able to see my feet anymore, or my knees, or my waist, or indeed anything below my gigantic bust.

“Now let’s talk about your lower half,” Vera said, holding up a swollen, hideous-looking, thing.

We examined the prosthesis together. It was like a pair of flesh-coloured shorts, but heavily padded round the tummy, thighs, hips, and its big, round bottom.

“It’s exactly the same weight that the real thing would be,” Vera said, “so it forces you to move as you would if it was actually part of you. If you look inside, you’ll see there’s a little tube for your… thing, and it’s connected to the vaginal opening. Obviously you’ll have to sit down to use the toilet, but the rear orifice is aligned with your anus, so ‘doing your business’ – number ones or number twos – should all feel quite natural.

“It will be a very tight fit and should stay in place without any adhesive for at least a couple of days,” she continued. “We can glue this on you too. We use a special paste that prevents perspiration. If we don’t, you may get sweaty and uncomfortable during the day, depending on what you get up to, but if we do, you’re stuck without access to your… wedding tackle for at least two weeks at a time.”

“No glue,” I said, firmly. “I want access to my equipment. It’s the only thing I’ll have left to remind myself – and my wife – who I really am.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “You can always come back if you change your mind. But make sure you clean it and yourself properly at least every other day. The material it’s made of will retain its shape for quite a while but it will soften a little, which will make it easier to get off and on. Just be aware that when it starts to feel loose, that’s a sign that the material has perished and it will start falling apart. It should last at least a year though.”

“Well I certainly won’t need it that long,” I said. “Six months at the outside.”

The mock blubber in the thighs and buttocks was contoured to resemble a plump young woman’s flesh, a little early cellulite at the tops of the legs, and all. Vera sprinkled some talcum powder inside to make it easier to get on. I stepped into it and tried to pull it up. It was really heavy. The flabby tummy and buttocks jiggled realistically.

“Getting yourself tucked away is a little tricky,” Vera said. “Let me help. It’ll probably feel a little uncomfortable at first, but you’ll soon get used to it.”

She reached inside the tight-fitting padded panties and manoeuvred my wedding tackle into the tube she had pointed out before. Then she tucked it down between my legs. It was very uncomfortable until she gently pushed my testicles back up into my body cavities. I didn’t even know they could do that.

“You need to get this right, or you could damage your genitals, and that might affect your little swimmers,” Vera said.

She was manipulating my wedding tackle around till it fitted tightly but comfortably into the prosthetic. I say ‘comfortably’ but I’m speaking relatively. There was very little about this experience that was comfortable. This horrible thing would definitely be coming off every night.

Vera handed me a pair of pink panties from the suitcase.

“Cover yourself up, dear,” she smiled. “We don’t allow full-frontal nudity here. This is a respectable establishment.”

Just bending to pull my knickers up was a strain, and they did nothing to conceal the rolls of new fat I would have to get used to carrying around. I pinched several inches of unfamiliar flesh on my buttock. When I stood up and leaned forward, my boobs nearly pulled me over.

“Phew!” I said. “I feel really heavy.”

“You need to remember that you’re going from being a twelve stone man to a fifteen stone woman,” said Vera. “You’re carrying forty more pounds around with a musculature that’s not used to it. For a woman, gaining so much weight that quickly would be very dangerous. Your male muscles are stronger but you still need to pace yourself for a while. Don’t overdo the exercise.”

“So no squash or mountain climbing till I’ve built myself up a bit. Got it.”

“And no heavy lifting in whatever your new job is going to be.” She grinned. “Still I don’t suppose your new employer would expect you to be able to lift much, looking like you do now.”

I examined myself in the mirror again. It was still my face, albeit a lot browner than usual, but underneath it was a plump woman’s body in pink lingerie. Amazingly there was no sign of my genitals now – any masculine bulge was concealed by my new mons Venus and soft, round feminine tummy flab. I gulped.

“On a purely practical note,” Vera continued, “with this and your new boobs, you’ll find your centre of gravity is very different, which will affect your walk,” said Vera. “You’ll find your bum wants to swing from side to side. You need to let it.”

I tried a circuit of the room. She was right; my enhanced rear was swinging from side to side. It was horrible! I felt so ungainly, bulky, wobbly. I felt… vulnerable. I would be helpless if I got into any trouble. I couldn’t possibly defend myself – or Sally. Is this how women feel all the time? Heaven help me if I actually needed to run anywhere. And, yes, any sport would definitely be out for the foreseeable future. Maybe bingo? Competitive knitting?

Vera was checking a list on her clipboard.

“OK, just one more thing to do. Now that your dye is dry, I’m going to spread a little anti-androgen cream where your beard grows. This will gradually reduce hair growth and cut down your need to shave and get razor rash. I recommend using it every morning after you’ve shaved and again later in the day. Do you get five o’clock shadow?”

“A little.”

“Well until the anti-androgen effect has kicked in, you’ll need to shave again if you’re going out in the evening. You can apply the cream after that. Otherwise do it last thing at night. You can finish this tube, but don’t get any more. It won’t have as strong an effect as oestrogen would, but it might still reduce your sex drive if you use it for too long.”

She rubbed some of the cream into my face.

“Right, I’ve finished with you now. You look pretty convincing, if I do say so myself. I’ll check to see if they’re ready for you at the hairdressers. They’ll be doing your facial prosthetics and your make-up too.”