.

The doorbell rang and I checked my appearance in the full length mirror in the hallway and gave my hair a little primp before I went to answer it, as usual consciously enjoying the swish of my petticoats against my nylons as I sashayed to the front door and opened it.

An impeccably dressed man stood at the threshold, briefcase in hand. He was tall and quite handsome, probably in his mid-thirties, blondish hair cut short and vivid blue eyes. My heart skipped a beat.

“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?” My standard greeting was accompanied by a small curtsey and a demure smile. He was so nice-looking….maybe this would be the one.

His eyes went immediately to my bust, which I must admit is worth looking at especially with my push-up bra and plunging neckline performing their magic. I know I’m vain but I admire myself every morning before I shower and they are two of my favourite features. The other is between my legs and it was already anticipating some action.

His eyes came back almost reluctantly to my face and he cleared his throat.

“I have an appointment with Ms. Worthington. “

“Yes, of course, sir. Please come in. May I take your coat?”

He stepped inside. I shut the door and took his briefcase, setting it down on the hall table, then helping him to take off his camel-hair Kent & Curwen topcoat, which I carefully placed on a hanger before hanging it on the coat-tree. I took in his suit when the coat was off….definitely Savile Row….or maybe Jermyn Street. Top quality either way. The shirt was white silk and his striped tie was probably some club or other but I didn’t recognize it.

“Please follow me, sir. She’s in the drawing room.”

“And you are…?” he asked me. His accent was very public-school.

“I’m Dolly, sir, and it will be my pleasure to serve you while you are with us today.” I batted my eyelashes a little and took a deep breath to make my chest swell.

“Dolly….hmmm….what an appropriate name. “ He gave me a charming smile, but his eyes hinted at other things. Somehow he had a slightly raffish aura about him.

“Thank you, sir. This way please.” I minced down the passage to the drawing room, as sexily as I could, giving my hips that little extra sway to keep his attention focused.

I was not dressed in that caricature French Maid uniform, but a nice black satin dress, long-sleeved and knee-length, skirt a little flared with a couple of lacy petticoats and a genuine full-sized apron and frilly cap….a working maid with a little panache. The only concession to the stereotype being my wide and deep boat-neck barely covering my nipples.

I knocked on the door and my employer’s voice called out, “Come in.”

I ushered our visitor in and said, “Mistress, you have an appointment with this gentleman?”

She rose and came forward.

“Yes. Thank you, Dolly. Good afternoon, Mr. Jones…so good of you to come. Please sit down.”

She took his arm and ushered him to the sofa.

She is a handsome woman, my Mistress, and I adore her. After all, she made me what I am today. She doesn’t seem to have aged at all in the last seven years and is still a slender, elegant forty-something lady with a commanding presence.

“Dolly, please fetch Mr. Jones and I some tea, or would you prefer coffee, Mr. Jones?”

“Tea will be just fine, Ms. Worthington.”

“Right, and some cakes and biscuits too, Dolly.”

Yes, Mistress.” I curtsied and left the room, swinging my hips.

As I went I heard him say, “She’s very well trained, isn’t she?”

The door closed and I didn’t hear her reply.

I busied myself in the kitchen, making the tea and readying the best china on a tray with sugar and milk jugs, a cake-tree with both cake and biscuits, small plates, spoons, tongs and everything needed to serve the snack. I take pride in my domestic skills and besides, I wanted to impress him.

I checked myself again to make sure that I was as close to perfect as possible, seams straight, hair and make-up impeccable, cap just-so, apron-strings hanging correctly across my derriere, the bow also balanced just so. I tugged my dress down slightly to give him the best possible view of my bosom and stuffed a couple of pieces of tissue into each of my bra-cups (to give that little extra help to the push-up). I was so pleased that I gave myself an impromptu twirl on my four-inch-heel patent pumps….balance perfect, naturally, seeing I had worn heels all day, every day for seven years. Actually, I doubt if I could walk in flat shoes now.

Putting tea-pot and strainer on the tray I returned to the drawing-room, balancing the tray on one hand as I opened the door. Crossing the room to where they sat, one on each end of the sofa, I squatted gracefully, knees together, as I had been taught, and placed the tray on the low table before them.

“Shall I pour, Mistress?”

She nodded assent, deceptively indifferent.

“How do you like it, sir?” I looked him straight in the eyes, promising much more than tea and biscuits.

“Not too much milk and one lump please.”

I poured the tea and added milk, gazing at him with my lips slightly parted. “Say when, sir.”

He almost croaked when he said “When.” And his eyes were definitely not focused on the cup.

I added the lump of sugar and bent forward far more than absolutely necessary as I handed him the cup across the table, knowing that this would expose my decolletage to the maximum. I love these French words that Mistress has taught me. French is such a sexy language. My nipples hardened just thinking about it.

Straightening, I took a small plate and the tongs.

“Cake or cookie, sir?” I asked in the most sultry voice that I thought I could get away with without annoying my Mistress.

“Cake please, Dolly,” he said, a little breathlessly.

I tonged a piece of cake onto the delicate plate and once again bent low to place the cake on the table in front of him. The teacup wobbled dangerously in his hand, making a clatter against the saucer..

Turning my attention to my Mistress I poured her tea as I knew she liked it, following with three biscuits.

“Thank you, Dolly. That will be all for now, but please wait in here in case we need anything more.”

“Yes Mistress.”

I curtsied and retreated to a corner of the room, where I assumed a sort of “at ease” position and let my mind drift until I was required to do something. Their voices droned in my ears and I registered what they were saying, but it only half impinged on my consciousness. I was dreaming of the handsome Mr. Jones escorting me down a wide marble staircase, him in a smart tuxedo and me in a shimmering silver sequined gown, diamonds dripping from my ears and nestled between my breasts and wrapped around my wrists.

I just lurve diamonds. In the words of the song “Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend.” I thought something not too flashy on the third finger of my left hand would be just nice, two or three carats in a brilliant blue-white, perhaps.

“Well, Mr. Jones, I imagine you have checked my credentials thoroughly, just as I have yours.”

“Of course, Ms. Worthington. Your advertisement on the website merited an in-depth check….such an intriguing proposition.”

“Please, call me Joan….and may I call you Steven? I feel we are going to be in one-another’s company for a while.”

“Certainly, Joan, and Steven will do nicely. You don’t mind Dolly hearing what we are saying?”

“No. Her mind will be in a sort of stand-by mode until I ask her to do something, and anyway, I can instruct her to forget anything she hears and she will forget it.”

“Then can I ask you a little about where she came from and your methods of training?”

“Of course. Dolly is actually a bit unusual in that I did not acquire her through my normal channels. As you obviously already know, I am a clinical psychiatrist and hypnotherapist. If I say so myself I think my talents are well-recognised in the medical community.

“I’m sure you won’t mind, Steven,” a small nod as she spoke, “ if I ask you to demonstrate your bona fides before we go any further.”

“No problem, Joan” He smiled widely, opened his brief-case and a large sum of money became visible.

“Five hundred thousand pounds. If we conclude our transaction the other ninety per-cent will be transferred to an account of your choosing electronically. I hope that’s satisfactory?”

She leaned across and took a bundle and riffled it to ensure the notes were all there, and then did the same with another couple of bundles.

“You are welcome to examine them as much as you like. I promise they are genuine. It would be foolish to try and gull you,” he said with a thin smile. “Now will you tell me where these girls come from and how you obtain them and train them?”

“Steven, your down-payment entitles you to that. It is clear that it is non-refundable, is it not?”

“Your advertisement was quite clear and my investors accept that.”

“Very well. Mostly I obtain my subjects through the Social Services system. I do a lot of work with wayward children and I keep my eyes open for what would be called by most “real delinquents” who have been passed from foster-home to foster-home and proven to be unmanageable and intractable, so that no-one wants them. I get to check these children medically and I always test for susceptibility to hypnosis. To be of interest to me they have to be in the 5% of the population who are exceptionally suggestible. When I find one in this category aged about thirteen or fourteen I then assess their physical characteristics to ensure that they have not gone through puberty and that they will be suitable for feminization.”

“I’m sorry. Could you run that past me again? I’m not sure I understood you.”

“What didn’t you understand?”

“What you said about feminization.”

“I thought you would have known. I only take boys as my subjects. They are much easier to train than girls and there are far more of them that are considered to be socially irredeemable so that few people even notice a disappearance. They are assumed to have run away and not much effort is put into tracking them down. With girls everybody is concerned about their safety and morals. They’re simply not worth the trouble, and I think you will come to agree that our girls are superior in every way. If you wish you may sample Dolly to satisfy yourself. Just say the word.”

Steven Jones looked slightly stunned. “Dolly was a boy?”

“Oh, yes. All my girls started out as boys.”

I stood in my corner waiting to be summoned. The last few sentences from Mistress had penetrated my consciousness and I fervently hoped that he would want to sample me, because I certainly wanted to sample him. It made me wet just thinking about being together with him.

But he just continued his conversation with Mistress.

“How do you actually obtain them?”

“Simple. When I examine a suitable boy with the right physical and mental characteristics I arrange a follow-up medical exam and I plant a post-hypnotic suggestion that at a particular time they walk out the door and jump into one of my vehicles waiting for them. Hey Presto! They simply disappear.

“Then we start on the process of educating them and transforming them into worthwhile members of society that people like yourself are willing to pay for. That’s when they become my girls, which means that nobody is looking for them and those delinquent boys no longer exist.”

“Amazing. How many do you have under training at any one time?”

“It depends on the supply, but usually three or four, in various stages. Would you like to see another one?”

“Yes I would.”

“Dolly.”

I stepped forward and curtsied. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Please go and get Fifi and bring her here.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I left the room to do her bidding, somewhat miffed at having to bring Fifi…the little minx…to meet Mr. Jones.

I found her making beds and ordered her to accompany me to the drawing room. She has to obey me because I am the senior girl, but she lets me know that she doesn’t like it through dumb insolence. The cheeky little slut has only been with us for three years and has a lot to learn before she is ready for sale.

I led her back and knocked politely to allow Mistress to ask us to come in. Civility is one of the cornerstones of our training. With permission given I ushered the hussy in and then had to seethe in silence while Mistress had her perform and pirouette for our guest, who ogled her like a side of meat. A dumb lamb chop; I had to swallow a smile.

“She’s only half-trained, Steven, and not yet fully transformed, but I think you can see the potential there. I can see you are aroused. Would you like a demonstration?”

“If that is acceptable…”

“Fifi, please service Mr. Jones.”

My blood boiled. This should have been me. What was Mistress thinking?

The little bitch stepped forward and knelt in front of him. I had to grudgingly admit that she did it quite gracefully. She took hold of his trousers and pulled down the zip of his fly, inserting her hand inside and pulling his penis out. Him being a man he was already rigid and she began to fondle him. I was so jealous. His tool was gorgeous and I wanted it. It should have been mine.

She gave a sly, triumphant glance at me and lowered her lips to take him in her mouth, pulling back his foreskin as she did so. When she began to suck that engorged purple helmet I could have killed her, and then she ran her tongue up and down that glorious shaft and I nearly came in my panties. I swear the bitch was taunting me while she was enjoying herself.

She began to take the whole of his meat and swallowed him back into her throat. He grabbed hold of her head and pulled her all the way onto him, then spasmed and came, ejaculating all he had into her mouth.

The silly little bitch couldn’t handle it and streams of jism started to dribble down her chin, threatening to drip on his trousers. I took the opportunity to step forward quickly with a handful of tissues to wipe her chin, and then use another handful to lovingly wipe his cock and clean him thoroughly before carefully tucking his member back into his pants and zipping him up with an affectionate pat.

“I do apologize, Steven. I thought Fifi could do a bit better than that. I can assure you that Dolly would perform perfectly, but I wanted to save her for later. Anyway, you will now have a basis for comparison if you wish to use Dolly.

“Fifi, you may go now.”

She didn’t exactly sneak away but she wasn’t anything like as cocky. I sniggered inside.

Steven Jones had recovered his composure and turned back to Mistress.

“Joan, you said that Dolly didn’t come to you in the normal way, so how did you find her?”

“Serendipity, perhaps. I was just taking a walk one autumn evening, on a quiet street not too far from one of my seaside apartments, merely getting some fresh air. It was quite cool and I saw this girl come out from a house maybe a hundred yards ahead of me. She came towards me and there was something not quite right to a woman's eye. She was wearing a summer dress and a headscarf and really it was too cool for that particular kind of dress.

I realized that no girl would be dressed that way on an evening like that and watched as she came towards me. Her movement was wrong and I realized she wasn’t a girl…she was a boy, so as she came close I asked her if she could tell me the time. Automatically she went for her watch…which was a man’s watch, not a ladies’ watch…and then she almost went into shock when she realized that she was being asked a question.

She was about to run when I grabbed her by the wrists and told her not to run or I would scream, but to calm down because I wasn’t going to hurt her. She was shaking like a leaf and I pulled her over to a bench and made her sit. Then I asked her to tell me her story. Why was she dressed as a girl? She was almost incoherent but I managed to get out of her that dressing as a girl made her feel good.

I kept stroking her arm and said I would like to talk to her some more, and I wasn’t going to harm her. She was terrified I would tell her parents and I promised that I wouldn’t as long as she came to see me, but reminded her that I knew where she lived. I got her to agree that she would come to see me at my flat the next Saturday as she…he…was still at school, a thirteen-year-old. Her name was Roger. I gave her my card with my local address and made her promise to come and see me on pain of disclosure and let her go. She promptly fled back to her house. I use the pronoun “she” because he was dressed as a girl, and I felt that “she” was psychologically a girl.

“I didn’t know if he would come, but he did, and that signaled to me that he really wanted to be understood, so I sat him down at my place with a cup of my special coffee (with a few drops of ketamine tranquilliser) and he told me ….with lots of urging from me….how he had always wanted to be a girl and had been dressing in his mother’s clothes for a number of years and that it was the very first time that he had ventured outside when I had caught him. His worst nightmare was being caught by his parents.

“I asked him if he was absolutely sure he wanted to be a girl and if he would mind if I tested him. I told him I was a doctor with experience in these things, and he was so relieved to have someone sympathetic to his plight that I think he would have agreed to anything. I gave him a thorough physical examination and he met my criteria perfectly.

“So I hypnotized him…or maybe I should say “her”. He was definitely one of the most susceptible 5%.....no, 1%...in fact he was the most susceptible subject I had ever come across. You cannot lie while you are in trance and the more questions I asked the more I became convinced. There was absolutely no doubt that this was a girl. I could have let her go back to her parents, but from what she told me they were fundamentally opposed to any expression of femininity on her part, her father violently so, and she was terrified what would happen if he found out..

“So what was I to do? In a way I adopted her. I never allowed her to be Roger again and I never allowed her to wear male clothing again. I christened her Dolly on the spot and she accepted it as though that had always been her name. In a way there had never been a Roger, not as a real person. She has always been the most feminine of my girls and has needed no conditioning to induce her to be a girl because she always was one. I am almost ashamed to put her up for sale but money talks. She welcomed the transformation procedures like no other of my girls and I will guarantee she is worth every penny that I am asking for her.

“That was seven years ago and I have trained her in everything she needs to know to become totally female and feminine. She is proficient in all aspects of running a home. You have had an opportunity to see her work as a maid and later on I hope you will sample her cooking. She has all the female arts of lovemaking and is completely at home with both male and female partners. She has other attributes that I will have her demonstrate for you, although there are some that you will have to take on trust until we reach an accord.

“I have had all the necessary surgeries performed to transform her into a woman, including facial surgeries that ensure she can never be recognized by anyone from her previous life, not that it is likely that a twenty-year-old will be compared with the thirteen-year-old that she was when I rescued her, and it was a rescue. Had I not chanced upon her she would have been doomed to a miserable existence.”

“Thank you for your frankness, Joan.”

“I want her to be happy and you will have to guarantee that no harm will come to her if you decide to proceed with the purchase. Bondage and S/M are permitted as is total sub/dom in any sexual or physical relationship provided that she is not physically damaged. She cannot be damaged psychologically because she is so suggestible that she will welcome any instructions given to her under hypnosis. If you tell her she is a chicken she will be a chicken, although I do not recommend such a thing as it may be difficult to reverse. You do not want to have the most expensive chicken in the world.”

“What other attributes are you talking about?”

“Besides her domestic training she is an accomplished catwalk model and an excellent companion for all formal occasions, much more than what somewhat vulgarly might be called “eye candy”. She can be transformed into an utter slut and whore who will give satisfaction to any man or woman who desires her. She can also be programmed to remember and repeat verbatim any conversation you want to overhear and then instructed to forget if that is what you wish. Physical pursuits include Tae Kwon Do, ballroom dancing and she plays the piano beautifully. There is more but we will have to complete our transaction before I reveal those to you.”

“All of that is as your advertisement promised. I am sure we can continue with our negotiations.”

“Very well Steven. Would you care to stay for dinner and perhaps overnight? That will allow you to experience some of her other aspects personally….a preview.”

They exchanged conspiratorial and lascivious smiles.

“That would be delightful.”

“Dolly.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Coming out of my reverie I stepped forward and curtsied automatically.

“You will prepare dinner for three. Asparagus spears with Hollandaise sauce to start. I suggest grilled salmon for a main course and creme brulee to finish.”

She cocked an eyebrow towards Mr. Jones, who nodded.

“Excellent.”

“Put a couple of bottles of the Krug on ice to chill. My research says you are an afficionado of champagne, Steven.”

He nodded and smiled.

“And Dolly, you shall be our hostess tonight, so please dress appropriately and arrange for Fifi to serve. We will eat at 7.30. After dinner you will entertain Mr. Jones until tomorrow. Please ready the main guest room and bathroom for Mr. Jones’ use. You may address him as Master for the duration of his time with us”

“Oh, yes, Mistress. Thank you Mistress. Thank you Master.”

I curtsied to both of them and scurried off to prepare the meal, mentally selecting my gown for the evening and organizing the presentation. I wasn’t going to let that little cow Fifi ruin it.

I prepared the asparagus and the sauce ready for cooking. It would only take a couple of minutes on the stove and I could tell her when to do it. The salmon needed to be marinated and I organized that. The grilling would take ten minutes at high and the potatoes a little longer. The peas were a five-minute job. The creme brulee could not be started until the main course was eaten and I would have to supervise the little cow but if she ruined it she was so dead.

I checked the main dining room to make sure that the table was correctly laid and that the flowers in the centre were fresh and arranged properly. They should have been because I had done them myself earlier but it never hurts to check. Then I made sure that there were fresh towels and toiletries in his suite, including two toothbrushes and toothpaste.

When my preparations were done I went back to the drawing room to make sure my Mistress and my Master were comfortable. They appreciated the service and asked for drinks so I poured them a Glenmorangie (no ice) and a gin-and-tonic before leaving to ready myself for the evening.

It was 5.30 p.m. when I went to change. I took off my uniform and underwear and admired myself in my bathroom mirror. I am pretty good-looking even if I say so myself. I had to stand on tiptoe because I am unused to standing flat-footed, but that makes me look better anyway because I have great legs. My toes are painted violet. My pussy and hips are just right, shading to a small waist and then swelling out to my chest, which is adorned by my beautiful breasts.

My arms are slender, not too muscly, and my hands are delicate with nails half an inch longer than my natural length and painted the same violet as my toenails. Shoulders are a little broad but not too masculine. Some things cannot be changed by hormones. By and large, I am more than satisfied with who I am. Of course I wish that I had been born female. Who wouldn’t?

Ah! Did you think I didn’t know about my transformation from male to female? Mistress never hid any details from me and I never had any qualms about becoming physically a girl. If she hadn’t found me I would have been condemned to life as a boy….a life of misery and probably pain and hurt…..or maybe no life at all.

So,yes, I do remember being a boy, or at least everyone telling me that I was a boy, but I never believed them. I knew I was a girl and I owe so much to Mistress. The day I went to talk to her at her flat was the first time I had ever been able to explain my feelings and have somebody actually understand. I was overjoyed when she kept me there and even more overjoyed when she gave me my maid's uniform...my very own set of female clothing, not borrowed from my mother.

I was so lucky that she found me before male puberty had commenced and she put me on testosterone blockers and hormones straight away. Occasionally I feel a little sorry for leaving my birth-mother but she never would have understood my nature and my father may have killed me. A week after Mistress found me we sent my parents a letter telling them I had run away and posted it from London.

I have described what my body has become. I like my face too. It’s perfectly heart-shaped and I have these blue/grey/green eyes, high cheek bones and a small snub nose and big pouty lips. Mistress certainly did me proud with the cosmetic surgeries. My eyebrows are neatly plucked to a nice arch and my dark auburn hair hangs to my breasts unless I style it differently. I know I’m vain but I do appreciate myself and could look at myself all day if I didn’t have other things to do. Weell, perhaps not ALL day.

Speaking of which…. I tucked my hair into a shower-cap and stepped into the shower, using a lavender-scented body lotion to cleanse myself and make sure I smelled nice. I wanted Master to appreciate me. As usual I paid some attention to my nipples and aroused myself while I imagined him inside me. Climaxing in the shower is always so pleasant.

Wasting no time afterwards, I dried myself and did my face again after moisturizing to ensure that no trace of my previous make-up remained. This time I applied more dramatic evening shades to my eyes and a rich burgundy to my lips. I swept my hair into an up-do and secured it high with a butterfly white lace ribbon bow which contrasted nicely with my dark hair.

I debated whether to wear a long slinky silver-sequinned halter-neck Dior number or a Calvin Klein cocktail frock that I liked, a true LBD, short and sweet with a single diagonal strap and reaching to mid-thigh, tight over my bust naturally, but draped rather than clingy so that it swirled prettily when I moved. I chose the latter because it would be much easier to get out of when we went to bed.

So, a black suspender-belt, frilly black panties and a strapless black bra, sheer grey-shaded nylons and I slipped into the dress and zipped myself up. Next a pair of Jimmy Choos, 4-inch stilettos of course with a half-inch platform sole and gold-motif straps between toe and ankle.

Finally the bling; a pair of dangly diamond ear-rings, and a diamond bracelet on my right wrist. Not too much; less is more.

Now I allowed myself a little personal fashion show, primping and pirouetting to make sure that my dress was nice and swirly and my diamonds swung and glittered to good effect. I pulled out a couple of locks of hair to give myself a slightly waifish look and declared myself a five-million pound girl. Worth every penny too I grinned to myself and blew me a kiss in the mirror

Only one thing remained and that was to redo my nails in the same burgundy as my lips. Fifteen minutes later, waving my fingers in the air, I was ready to go downstairs, a silver Oroton clutch-bag with a repair kit in one hand. I walked through a mist of Chanel No. 5 before leaving. My timing was just right. It was 7 o’clock. Enough time for an aperitif while I made sure Fifi didn’t burn anything.

Both Master and Mistress were very appreciative when I entered the dining room. Master came to his feet, gently grasped my hand and kissed it gallantly.

“My Dear, you look absolutely lovely,” and he undressed me with his eyes. I didn’t mind. I just wished we didn’t have to wait to actually do it.

Mistress air-kissed me on the cheek and told me I was exquisite. “Party time,” she whispered in my ear.

My dinner was a great success. To be fair to little Fifi she tried very hard to make sure everything was perfect and the only course I had to really supervise was the creme brulee and that’s not an easy dish to prepare properly. For the rest I merely looked on to make sure it was OK, and she was so demure when she served...butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth, even though I knew she was dying to jump his bones. Of course she couldn't actually because she hadn't yet been fully transformed.

Besides the Krug I had chilled a couple of bottles of Chablis Grand Cru to go with the salmon and a Chateau D’Yquem for the dessert. During the meal we chatted about the Queen’s upcoming Diamond Jubilee, the Arab Spring in Tunisia, Libya and Egypt and its chances of success in Syria, President Obama and his opponents in the US elections and other current affairs subjects.

What I really wanted to do was get him into bed. I felt totally gorgeous in my LBD but I wanted to feel gorgeous out of it. Foreplay is all very well, but…. Finally we sat with coffee and Mistress said she was going to bed if we didn’t mind. It had been a long day, so we stood and I kissed her cheek and she whispered in my ear “Now it’s slut-time.”

My Master gently shook her hand and she departed up to her bed..

I took the cups to the kitchen and then we devoured each other with our eyes, and came together in a mad grope, hands and lips all over the other until we were breathless.

Then I took him by the hand and towed him up to his bedroom, pulling off his jacket as we entered.

Somehow his shirt and tie ended up on the floor, as did my dress and then I had his trousers around his ankles and him on his back on the bed. Shoes and socks flew across the room and his trousers followed them with underpants not far behind. God! He looked good naked with his dick standing like a flagpole. I had to restrain myself from immediately engulfing it with my mouth but I didn't need to wait long.

He hadn’t been wasting time undressing me either and I wound up wearing only my stockings and suspender belt…which weren’t going to get in the way of anything.

He was an excellent and surprisingly considerate performer and four times I brought him to climax while I lost count of my own orgasms.One of the best things about being female is the total intensity of the sex.

The fourth one took some considerable time but that was fine with me as it meant that I had him inside me for a lot longer. I could have kept on going but like all males he ran out of steam. It’s so frustrating when they start snoring while you’re still working on them. So, reluctantly, I curled into him and joined him in Slumberland, his penis in my hand.

The next I knew he was shaking me awake.

“Get dressed, Dolly.”

“Why?” I asked somewhat sleepily.

The next words he spoke triggered my most basic defensive mechanisms and I snatched the hair-pin from my chignon and stabbed him right in the heart without even thinking about it.

His eyes went wide and he started to throw me off, but the poison acted so quickly that he was dead within seconds.

“Mother!” I screamed, and in moments the woman I address as Mistress in public was in the room.

“What’s up darling?”

I pointed at the lifeless body on the bed.

“He was a fake.”

“When will they ever learn?” she sighed, and started examining his clothes.

“What tipped you off?”

“He did. He said, “I’m from the Government and I’m here to help you”. One of those basic lies that you condition us against.”

She had pulled a wallet from his jacket and was examining the contents.

“Well, my dear Dolly, our principals will be pleased. It seems you have just killed a certain James Bond.”

The End

A Journey

By Joannebarbarella

I smile at my customer as I place his drink on the table. His gaze is firmly fixed on my breasts almost spilling out of my low-cut top as I bend forwards. and I doubt if he even sees me smile. I always like it when they do that. That's why I always wear one of my maximiser bras when I'm working.

“Will there be anything else, Sir?” I ask breathily. I now know a prospect when I see one. This one’s good for at least a blow-job if not a full fuck.That’s how I make my real money and it all helps me to meet my goals. Besides which I do enjoy it now that I have accepted who and what I am. I'm a sexy sissy who is on her way to becoming as much of a woman as possible.

********************

When I applied for the job I really didn’t know what I was doing or what I was letting myself in for. Looking back, maybe I should have asked myself exactly what the advert meant, but in these days of political correctness it didn’t make any alarm bells ring.

“Waitperson wanted. Uniform and accommodation provided. Enquire within.”

So there I was, sixteen years old, just left school and looking for a job…any job, in these awful economic times. I had six O-Levels but that didn’t seem to impress any prospective employers. They all wanted experienced employees….but how could you get experience if they wouldn’t give you a job?

The premises behind the ad didn’t look very prepossessing from the street, just a small shop front with curtained windows and a sign saying “Crossover Café & Bar”. I opened the door and entered into a much bigger place than I had expected. The immediate entrance was more like a corridor and twenty feet from the door was one of those lectern-like desks where a receptionist sat. Behind that the room opened out into a much larger space with tables and booths, a bar on one side, a stage big enough for a small band and a dance-floor.

The walls were clad in a red velvety material and hung with portraits of famous models and movie-stars, all female and in the sexiest poses. Marilyn was there, and Sophia and Diana (Dors that is) and Brigitte and Jane and Gina and lots of others from that fifties-sixties era. I fell in love with the place straight away. I had always had great admiration for those beautiful ladies who put the “G” in glamour.

I was gawping at all that feminine pulchritude when an authoritative voice interrupted my teenage lust.

“Can I help you, dear?”

I spun around to find a tall, fortyish woman in a tight black dress that showed prominent breasts standing behind me. From the voice I hadn’t been sure whether I was being addressed by a man or a woman….the voice was sort of indeterminate.

“Ah…sorry….I’m inquiring about the job advertised outside.”

She looked me up and down.

“It might not be quite what you expected. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” I lied.

She walked around me, sizing me up.

“All right. I’ll give it to you straight. What I really want is a cocktail waitress, but the law says I have to offer equal opportunity work, so I will have to employ a male if I can. So unless you’re willing to wear a dress to work there’s no job for you here. You should also know that this is a gay and transvestite bar, so if you worked here you would almost certainly be propositioned by some of the customers and I would expect you to be nice to them and that might mean providing sexual favours.”

I think she expected me to turn tail and run and I almost did. I suppose under normal circumstances I might have, but these weren’t normal circumstances. I had been looking for a job for two months, pounding the pavements and the laptop keyboard and getting more and more desperate. Apart from anything else I wanted…no…needed…to leave home. My relations with my father were dangerously close to breaking point and my mother was driving me up the wall with her constant nagging at me to get a job.

“What kind of dress would I have to wear?” I was that desperate. I had never even thought about dressing as a girl but it couldn’t be that bad, could it? After all, half the population did it.

She laughed out loud, a bellow that sounded more like a man than a woman.

“It wouldn’t only be a dress. You’d have to be a total girl from top to toe. Hair, face, dress, stockings, heels; a cocktail waitress in a French maid’s uniform…..and I’ll have to give you a trial run before giving you the job. Are you up for that?”

“That’s OK. You can give me a trial. If you give me the job, what’s the wage and what’s the accommodation?”

“We will pay you two hundred and fifty pounds a week. That’s for a six-day week, nine hours a day….or night, to be exact. We open at seven p.m. and close at four a.m. or when the last customers leave and you’ll do prep and clean-up every day. All the tips you get are yours. Most of our girls make as much in tips as they do in wages. The accommodation is the flat upstairs; bedroom, bathroom, living and kitchen. You pay the utilities.”

She laughed again, not as raucously this time.

“If you live up there you can’t be late for work.”

“Can I see it, please?”

“Yes. I’ve got the keys here. Come on up.”

I followed her up a flight of stairs at the back of the club and she unlocked a door on a landing at the top. You certainly couldn’t get any closer to the club. We walked inside and it was better than I expected, clean and airy, basic furniture but enough for me. The bedroom had a double bed, side tables and a large wardrobe and a dressing table with lots of drawers and big three-panel full-length mirrors. I didn’t appreciate then just how essential that would be.

There was a dining table with four chairs in the living room and a settee, two arm-chairs and a coffee table, plus a kind of side-board with a TV and record player. The kitchen had a fridge and stove plus assorted gadgets, crockery and utensils, and the bathroom had a shower and bath as well as a loo.

The rooms all looked as if they had all the things that they ought to have. I could live here easily….anything to get out of home….but this would be paradise. Two hundred and fifty a week for those hours was starvation wages but the flat made up for it in my mind….and any wage was better than no wage at all.

“It’ll be your responsibility to keep everything clean and tidy, and I will check up on you.”

“Thank you. If you give me the job I’ll be happy to live here. When do you want to give me your test?”

“Why don’t we do it tomorrow? I’d better warn you that it’ll probably take several hours seeing as where we’re starting from.” She looked me up and down again and shook her head.

“If you’re not suitable, too bad. I won’t pay you for the time spent in trialling you but if you do suit then you can start the day after, or maybe even tomorrow night if you want. After all, you’ll be dressed and ready to go. If you’re still up for it be here at two o’clock tomorrow.”

I said I could do that….without thinking. I was that desperate. Looking back I can’t imagine why I was so blasé about dressing as a girl and working in a gay bar….but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Just young and foolish I guess….a typical teenager, except that I had never thought much about sex. I suppose I was just a late starter.

And so I duly turned up the next day at two and the owner, who told me to call her Miss Trudy, took me up to the little flat and told me to strip off. That made me feel a bit shy but she told me that I didn’t have anything that she hadn’t seen many times before and did I want the job or not?

So I stripped and stood in front of her with my hands covering my groin while she walked around me inspecting me.

“Hmm, could be worse,” she said, “not much body hair, slim and a bit coltish.”

She handed me a tube of toothpaste-like stuff.

“Slather this on your legs and under your arms. Leave it on for five minutes and then wash it off under the shower. When you shower wash your hair with the shampoo and use the conditioner afterwards. Make sure to use that nice soap so that you smell pretty. There are towels and a dressing gown in the bathroom. Give me a call when you’re finished and don’t take all day. Fifteen minutes, OK?”

She left me to it. I followed her instructions, hanging my shirt and trousers while I waited for the smelly toothpaste-stuff to do its job. The shower was nice and the soap smelled like flowers. I washed my hair with the shampoo and conditioner and ran a comb through it to get rid of any tangles. My hair was actually quite long, partly because I had not had it cut for several months and partly just to annoy my father.

I put on the dressing gown and called down to Miss Trudy. She came up quite quickly and she was carrying a hanger with a dress on it and an array of underwear, stockings and shoes.

She looked at me.

“This might actually work,” she said. “OK, dressing gown off and put these on.”

She handed me a pair of lacy panties, which I gratefully put on, covering my nakedness. Then she gave me a pair of fishnet tights, which she had to show me how to get into, as I had never worn anything like them before. Once you knew how it was easy and I liked the feel of them against my legs, almost like wearing nothing but a whisper.

A bra came next. Of course, I knew what it was but again had no idea how to put it on. She showed me how and then slipped in a pair of false breasts and adjusted them into position. They felt a bit strange but I thought I could get used to them if that was what the job required.
Then she took the dress from the hanger and had me step into it before zipping it up at the back. It seemed to fit me quite well and I liked the feel of the petticoats as they swished around my stockinged legs. This wasn’t too bad, I thought.

She turned her attention to my hair and worked on it with a dryer and a brush.

“I’ll finish that later. First we’ll see what you look like with make-up. Sit down and stay still.”

She began to work on my face with creams and powders and I could only guess what she was doing. She spent a lot of time round my eyes and finally applied lipstick. She gave me a bottle of stuff to remove it with before I went to bed. Then she went back to my hair and combed and brushed and sprayed until she was satisfied.

“Shoes. Ever worn high heels?”

“No,” I said, as she slipped a pair of four-inch black patent pumps onto my feet (I didn’t know the description that first time).

“Well, if you’re going to work for me you’d better get used to them. They’re an essential part of the uniform. Anyway, let’s have a look at you.”

I stood, tottering in those heels, and saw myself in the three-panel mirrors.

High heels, long shapely stockinged legs, short flared black petticoated skirt seguing into a top of the same colour edged with white lace at the neck and sleeves….and my face and hair! Wow! I was a different person and I liked what I saw.

I liked it all. I knew at that moment that I not only wanted the job but I was going to love it. This was a kind of freedom from my dull, miserable existence before. I really needed her approval. Please let her say I could have the job.

“I think you might do. You’re quite pretty and our customers will like you. Do you want to start tonight, seeing as we’ve got you ready?”

I just nodded. I was still breathless, admiring myself. She said I was pretty! I thought so too.

“All right, a few formalities. Do you have National Insurance?”

I shook my head. “I’ve never had a job before.”

“We can fix that. Name?”

“Les Paul.”…………….I know, I know (snigger)

“Les, from now on you are Lesley here….with an EY not an IE, but we’ll keep your proper name for the NI card. I’ll get you a name badge for the customers. Now, you will be paid from 7 p.m. Do you have any money?”

“Just a couple of shillings.”

“I’ll give you fifty pounds against your salary and take it out of your first pay cheque , OK? If you get any tips that’ll help too. Here are the keys to your flat. Don’t lose them.. I will supply two spare sets of uniforms and underwear. You are responsible for organising your own laundry. We’ll show you the ropes tonight and I’ll give you make-up and lessons for one week. After that you’re on your own; you do it yourself. If you haven’t settled down in two weeks we part company.

“A couple of other things you should know. I’ve told you this is a gay and transvestite bar. You are one of the transvestites and so am I. I am not a real girl but this is how I want to be. Many of our patrons want to have some kind of sex with girls like us. You don’t have to accept if you don’t want to but if you decline do it nicely and politely. If you accept you do it on your own time and whatever you make is yours and there is no comeback to the bar.”

“You may want to work here just as a job. That’s your choice and is not a problem to me as long as you stay in character as a girl during working hours. Do you have anything you want to ask me right now?”

I was still so blown away with how I looked that all the other stuff went over my head, so I just shook my head.

Now it was six o’clock so we had a spare hour before opening time and so Miss Trudy started showing me where everything was. We had a barman to pour the drinks so I only had to ferry them to the customers at their tables, take their orders, deliver the bills when needed and transfer them to the cashier (who was Trudy)and take back their change…..simple really.

Trudy gave me a couple of circuits of practice in carrying trays with full glasses, which was a little more difficult than you would have thought, dodging tables and chairs pulled back into your way. I also had to get used to the heels while I was doing this. The dress was no problem. I already felt totally at home in it. It was just clothing after all.

At 6.30 the regular cocktail waitress came in. Her name was Rose and she had been working in the bar for two years. Trudy introduced us and told Rose to look out for me until I got used to everything. Rose seemed friendly and said the extra help would be welcome. However, when Trudy went about organising the general business of the bar Rose took me to one side.

“Don’t you go stealing my regulars, little girl.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t even started yet.”

“Let me put you straight then. There are gentlemen who come here and I service them. You don’t go anywhere near them before you check with me, OK?”

“Y-Yeah, sure. I only want a job. I’m not out to sabotage whatever you’ve got going. I just want to earn a living wage.”

“Yeah. Well, you’ll soon find out that you need a little bit extra to make a living wage. Just don’t tread on my toes, OK? Do as I tell you and we’ll get on all right.”

I didn’t want to upset anyone and was more than happy to toe the line for the people who already worked there.

We opened at seven and there were soon a few customers to serve. I was a little surprised that most of the men looked entirely normal, although I wasn’t sure what I expected gay men to look like. There were a few women too, some of them quite beautiful but a couple were obviously men in dresses. Rose told me they were all actually men. This was one of the few places in town where they could feel comfortable and safe.

I was kept busy taking orders and serving drinks. I got a few inappropriate touches but nothing I couldn’t handle and all of a sudden it was 4 a.m. and closing time. I had a few tips which I shared with Rose and the barman and ended up making an extra two pounds for the night, which I thought was great. Talk about naïve.

When I finished the shift I got out of those shoes as fast as I could and stripped down to naked and removed my make-up as I had been shown and fell into my new bed exhausted.

I went home the next day and collected my pitiful case full of clothing, my laptop and bathroom stuff. I had nothing else to take with me. It was a Sunday so Mum and Dad were at the pub. I left a note to tell them that I had finally got a job and I was moving out and that I would let them know where I was but not to worry.

My little flat seemed very welcoming and it took me no time at all to settle in. There were already three dresses and a selection of underclothes in the wardrobe and drawers in the bedroom plus a pair of shoes under the bed. My feet had been killing me by the time we finished the night before but somehow I didn’t care. I liked them. Wearing high heels had seemed right. I felt that this was my future looking at me.

I unpacked what little I had and set about making the flat friendly for me. That didn’t take long. I had just finished when Miss Trudy showed up, knocking at the door.

“Well, Lesley, how was your first night? Do you think you’ll survive? Can you live with being dressed as a girl night after night?”

“Miss Trudy, my first night was fine. I didn’t mind it at all, and quite honestly I didn’t even notice being dressed as a girl except that the shoes were killing me by the end of the shift and some of the customers seemed to like touching my bum.”

She laughed.

“Lesley dear, that goes with the territory and you won’t even notice the heels in a couple of weeks. In time you may even come to love them. But, otherwise, you were comfortable?”

“Yes Miss Trudy. I can do this.”

“All right. We don’t open Sundays so you actually have tonight off, but I’d like to give you a make-up lesson if you don’t mind.”

I didn’t mind, since I had nothing else to do and I wanted to make a success of my new job.

The first two weeks passed very quickly. I became reasonably proficient at doing my own make-up and no longer needed Miss Trudy’s help to appear good enough for my work shifts and performing my duties as a waitress was a breeze. I was quite comfortable wearing my maid’s uniform and everyone seemed to accept me as Lesley even though they must have known that I was a boy. I fitted right in. I loved my little flat and Miss Trudy seemed to be happy with me. I received my first pay cheque and with tips I had an extra twenty-five pounds. I thought I was in heaven.

Both Rose and Miss Trudy gradually opened up to me and became more friendly as time passed. Rose had been dressing and living as a girl for years and didn’t consider herself a boy at all. She happily serviced the customers in whatever way they wanted as long as they paid her. She was saving up for sexual reassignment surgery and reckoned she would have enough money for the operation in another couple of years.

Miss Trudy was a little more complicated. She considered herself to be a gay male, but loved dressing and living as a woman and would not even consider dressing as a man. She regarded men as the opposite sex and was attracted exclusively to them. She flirted outrageously with her male customers and had many serial affairs with those of them that identified as male. She had absolutely no desires against those of her customers that identified as female but treated them as welcome sisters. She seemed to have adopted me as a kind of surrogate daughter and made it her mission to make me as female as possible. She was always giving me little tips on how to behave like a girl should. She said it was to help me do my job as best as I could and I really tried to do what she said.

Some weeks later Miss Trudy came to me and we had a chat about my personal position. By now I was totally comfortable working as a female. She suggested that I might be more comfortable dressing as a girl full-time. It would make it easier for me changing for work and passing during the day when I needed to go out. I really had to give this some consideration but in the end I thought that was a good idea because, in truth, I was finding it a chore switching backwards and forwards between male and female and I was actually beginning to feel more comfortable being a girl. Somehow it seemed more natural. So she took me shopping and we chose a number of outfits for me. She also introduced me to a salon so that I could get my hair done and a bit of facial pampering. After that I had no trouble going out during the days as a girl and doing my grocery shopping or just walking around browsing the clothes shops and enjoying myself. Nobody ever picked me as a boy and I really liked my new clothes and particularly my underwear, so smooth and silky. Having my hair done and wearing make-up soon became second nature. Wearing high heels no longer bothered me. In fact I now felt uncomfortable in flat shoes and really liked the way the heels made my legs look longer and more shapely. I liked feeling elegant and spent more of my increasing tips on pretty dresses and skirts.

After about ten weeks in the job I had almost forgotten what it was like to dress as a boy. I was a girl 24/7 and that was now my new normal. A day came when I threw away the last of my boy things. I knew I would never wear them again because I was now just so comfortable with my new clothes and they somehow seemed to be much more "me". In fact, boy's clothing now revolted me. Miss Trudy definitely approved. She always called me Lesley and encouraged me to become more girly, although in truth I was finding that I didn't need much encouragement. Maybe that was so that I would be better at my job but I felt that she just liked me better as a girl. Rose had become much more friendly and often introduced me to some of the customers who she said would be nice to me. So far I had resisted advances from these men, but one night I think someone spiked my tea (I didn’t drink on duty) and I felt a little woozy and spaced out by the end of the night, so that when this guy wanted me to suck his dick it didn’t seem at all strange and I did it without protest.

I later remembered licking and sucking and swallowing and enjoying the feel of his penis in my mouth, particularly when I swirled my tongue arond its head, just like eating an ice-cream cone. And how nice the shaft felt in my hands with my fingers wrapped around it and knew I could do it again whenever I was asked. The twenty-five pounds I got for doing it also made it all worthwhile. After that I didn’t need any more encouragement to repeat the experience and it became a regular part of my work and life. I figured it couldn’t do me any harm and it made me quite a lot of money. Extra money was always welcome and I found that I really liked shopping for new clothes and especially shoes, all high-heeled naturally. Miss Trudy suggested, about that time, that maybe I should take female hormones to increase my attractiveness to the customers. She told me that many of them liked breasts on their “girls” and that hormones gave us a more feminine figure, which in turn increased our financial value to them. It sounded like a great idea and I agreed readily. After she suggested it I realised that I had come to want to have my own breasts to fill my bras and make me feel more feminine. Besides, I would be able to wear lower neckline dresses and show off my new assets. My uniforms almost demanded that I allowed my breasts to spill over the top and be on presentation to our customers and my skirts were so short that they barely covered my bum.

She took me to see a doctor, who gave me a couple of injections and a course of pills. At first the only difference that I noticed was that I got mood swings from feeling lovely to feeling sad but after a few months that went away and my breasts began to grow and my bum became bigger. A year totally turned my body shape into a girl’s. I would stand in front of my triple-panel mirrors in the morning and admire my new curves and feel my smooth hairless skin. My penis also shrank and wouldn’t stand up but I didn’t care because I really felt like a girl now and I liked it. I had never used it for sex anyway

Sometime during this period one of my customers wanted to fuck me after I had sucked him off. I didn’t think this would be much of a stretch so I lubricated my backside with KY Jelly and let him have his way. It hurt at first but then I began to enjoy the feeling and ended up screaming in ecstasy when he came inside me. The hundred pounds he paid me afterwards didn’t hurt either. The first of many. I suppose that made me a whore but actually I liked it so much I would have done it for free. As far as I was concerned I was a girl now. Except for that one little piece of flesh I looked like a girl, I dressed like a girl, I acted like a girl and I'm sure I thought like a girl. I had found my true self and I was happy being me.

Miss Trudy sort of confessed that she took me on hoping that things would progress along the lines that they have, that she saw a slightly girly boy who could make a target for her clientele with a little bit of nudging and I fulfilled her wildest dreams.

So here I am, a little over two years after I took a job from sheer necessity. I am now a sexy sissy whore. Sucking cock and anal sex are second nature to me now. There is nothing like a big stiff penis in my mouth with its foreskin pulled back to expose the purple mushroom at its end and I delight in using my internal muscles to help massage a man into cumming inside me. Do I care? Yes, I do. I actually love the girl that I have become. The sex is great and the attention that I get turns me on no end. This is much better than being a nerdy boy tramping the streets looking for a job.

I have had my breasts enhanced so now I have a more than respectable pair of 38Cs which I cherish and can look down on my cleavage. That never fails to give me a thrill. I have had some cosmetic changes to my face including collagen injections to my lips which I think make me look really sexy. I’m very pretty. I know because I get told often enough and can confirm by just looking in the mirror. Yes, I admit to being a little vain. There is no way anyone will ever take me for a boy again, not that there was much chance of that before I embarked on this journey. When I have made enough money I will complete the process and have that little package changed to something much more compatible with the girl that I have become..

When I look back it seems that I sort of drifted into becoming a girl. It was accidental, not something premeditated. Taking this job changed my life and I have accepted the changes that it forced on me, with maybe a little help, but I have never regretted it. It was inevitable in a way….predestined.

Thank you for the opportunity Miss Trudy.

All In A Day’s Work

By Joannebarbarella

This is a tribute to someone who did not even know she was a heroine (and probably still doesn’t). She’s a member of our sorority here at BC. I have not sought her permission to publish this piece as it can be construed as fiction, and probably much of it is, but I hope she likes it. I think she may recognize herself.

This might also qualify for Dorothy’s Challenge

*********************

In those days they called her Big Pete. This was when she was an ambulance man or at least appeared to be. Most people have no idea what those people go through.

You had to study for a couple of years to become an emergency medical technician, or an ambulance man. They taught you all the theory but they couldn’t teach you the reality. Nobody could show you the blood and guts that you would actually encounter. Only experience would teach you what that was like.

So she graduated and the world saw this big tough guy who was the epitome of the men who operated the ambulances that responded to all kind of emergencies, traffic accidents, fight-related incidents, and all the rest. Only those who worked with him saw the kind and gentle person inside and most of them did not quite know how to respond to that person. They did not realize she was female. Actually neither did she.

The crises she saw are too numerous to narrate in one story, so here are a few to let you all know what it’s like to be on the sharp end, particularly if you know that you are not who you seem to be but have no idea what to do about it.

So you’re cruising in your ambulance with a driver and a partner and you get a call to a pub in Oxford Street. Everybody in Sydney knows what that means. It’s the heart of the gay district. You arrive to find a young girl unconscious on the floor of the bar and a number of people trying to restrain a vicious drunk who is attempting to kick the shit out of her as she lays helpless. You try to ignore him while you tend to her and assess her injuries. It’s pretty obvious that she has been badly beaten and will require hospitalisation.

The drunk gets away from the bystanders trying to hold him back and tries to resume his attack.

You push him away from the girl.

“What’s your fucking problem, mate?”

“She’s a fucking bloke.”

“Well, this *IS* Oxford Street. What do you expect?”

He tries to get at her again, so you flatten him with a single hit and then turn your attention back to the girl lying on the floor. Your ambo mate brings the stretcher over and together you lift her on to it as tenderly as you can and take her out to the waiting ambulance to transfer her to Saint Vinnies.

Just another incident…..all in a day’s work.

Forget about the innumerable Saturday nights when you have to go to some accident or incident and pick up the pieces. That’s normal. Drunks and druggies, the ever-present punch-ups, the odd stabbing or shooting. You can turn your mind off when dealing with those. Many times those you are trying to help turn and attack you or your partner or their mates do. Sometimes the cops are there to help you out but not always, so you become inured to having to defend yourself too. All in a day’s work.

It’s the big ones that get to you. There was the nursing home fire. You got the call and raced to the scene. The building was well and truly alight and you and your crew got there before the cops and the firies. None of you hesitate. It’s into the burning building and looking for the old folk inside. Between you, you manage to carry out half a dozen before the other emergency services get there. More ambulances arrive. You should have taken the ones you have saved to the hospitals but those who arrived later did that and you kept going back inside to try and rescue more until the firemen and the police physically restrained you.

Fifteen died that night. If it wasn’t for you and your mates it might have been thirty. Did you get any thanks for it? No. All in a day’s work. You went home, sobbed your heart out and eventually cried yourself to sleep. Your wife said you were a big baby. Real men don’t cry.

More routine every-day disasters, year on year. The little ones just gradually wore at your soul, a bit at a time, so you didn’t really notice them, but they did come back in dreams. They always came back in dreams. To make it worse, your wife never seemed to get it. When you screamed and wept in your sleep she just got annoyed because you woke her up. What was such a big deal about riding around in an ambulance?

Then came the really big one, the one that finally broke you. A train derailed and took out the pillar that was supporting a bridge which passed over the track. The bridge collapsed onto the train and crushed a couple of carriages crammed with commuters on their way to work. The incident later became known as the Granville Train Disaster.

You and your ambo mates got called out to deal with the aftermath. To call it a mess was a vast understatement. Even access was a nightmare. Try to imagine two railway carriages crushed under a collapsed bridge. For twenty four hours you fought to get the victims out and to transfer them to hospitals for treatment, but in all too many cases you pulled on an arm or a leg that was no longer attached to the rest of its body. You lost count of the number of times that you threw up.

But you kept working, and every now and then you found one who was still alive. The railway men and other emergency workers stayed with you and helped in lifting pieces of crushed metal and concrete from those who were trapped. They cried and spewed along with you. This was a piece of hell. In the end you collapsed, exhausted, and were carted off in one of your own ambulances. Your mates said you were raving about being able to save more when you couldn’t even stand.

The final toll was eighty-two dead, and the authorities said two hundred and ten injured, but they did not include those like you who had cleaned up after the catastrophe, pulling out the dead and injured. Your injuries were not physical, but were nevertheless just as real. Any military veteran would have received better treatment than you did, but it was all in a day’s work, wasn’t it?

The nightmares started coming longer and harder and didn’t go away. Every night was punctuated with crying jags. You awoke sweating and in tears. Your wife was much less than sympathetic. Real men don’t have nightmares and don’t cry all the time. You must be some kind of sissy. She actually didn’t realize, and nor did you, just how close to the truth she was. You took to sleeping in another bedroom.

You tried to go back to work but you were useless. Every minor incident would leave you a quivering wreck. Your workmates looked after you as well as they could but they still had work to do and you were just getting in their way. You were sent to the Medical Officer, who said you were just suffering from stress and it would pass. You were given anti-depressant pills for the days and sleeping pills for the nights and told to take two weeks leave.

None of that worked. You couldn’t stand being at home with your wife and she couldn’t stand you being there. The pills seemed to have little effect. You were like a zombie during the days and the sleeping pills just plain didn’t work. The nightmares kept on coming.

You went back to work with much relief, just to get away from a woman you were coming to hate. You had never hated anyone in your life and those who knew you best said you cared too much. That was a blessing but also a curse. It was why you were good at your job, but it was also why you hurt so much inside when you thought you had failed. This time around you just couldn’t cope.

They sent you to see a psychiatrist, who also told you it was only stress and it would pass. Here, take these pills. This made your wife even worse. She complained to all who would listen that she was married to a nut-case who couldn’t hold down his job and was spaced out most of the time.

After several months it was gently suggested that you resign. You were actually now old enough to get a severance payment, long service leave and a pension. You loved your job but realized that you were now a liability so you reluctantly accepted retrenchment. You also decided that you had had enough of your bitch of a wife so you told her the house was hers and you were off.

You decided that a change of scenery would be good for you so you moved to Queensland and got yourself a little flat in Surfers’ Paradise. That seemed to work for a while although the dreams and night-sweats didn’t disappear. Casual work was fairly easy to come by and although you didn’t really need to work you still liked to feel useful. That was fine until one day you witnessed a car and motorcycle crash. Old habits kicked in and you rushed to help. Suddenly all the nightmares became daymares and you suffered a complete mental blackout, becoming a casualty yourself.

When you awoke you were in hospital, in a mental ward, no less, and drugged to the eyeballs to keep you tranquillized. After a few days they lowered your dosage and you were compos mentis again. Of course they sent a psychiatrist around to see you to try and determine what happened to cause your melt-down. For a change this one was a fortyish woman who listened and she extracted your story from you bit by bit.

You opened up to her and told her of your years as an ambo and the tragedies and disasters that you had witnessed and attended. She listened and asked you questions about your emotions and feelings. Maybe it was partly still the effects of the drugs but you showed more of your tender nature than you had ever shown to anyone since you were a child.

After a week of daily conversations she grasped your hand one day.

“I think I know what’s wrong with you,” she said. “I think you’re really a woman!”

It was as if you had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Things fell into place and made sense. The care you had lavished on the victims who you had helped or tried to help was like a mother’s love. They had all been, in a way, your children. It was your feminine nature that had pointed you to become an ambulance man. In a different time and in a different body you would have been a nurse.

“I’ll need to do a few more evaluations and tests, if you’re willing, and then we can work on fixing the problem.”

Finally someone understood you and you were more than happy to continue exploring this radical new idea. The lady organized further medical examinations and a week later you were released from the hospital, no longer considered a danger to yourself, besides, they needed the bed.

The sessions with the psychiatrist continued on a weekly basis and after the clinical results came in you were declared fit for further treatment. Those conversations also convinced you that she was right and that you were actually and should always have been a woman. All these years you had been in denial, had pushed your innate femininity down to the depths of your sub-conscious.

The acceptance of the diagnosis partially relieved the dreams and nightmares. They still came but were somehow more controllable and lost some of their power.

After a few more sessions she offered you a way forward.

“I can put you on female hormones. They will have physical effects on your body. Even at your age you will develop breasts and get smoother skin, but they will also have mental effects. At first you will experience mood swings, but I don’t think that will necessarily be a bad thing. They will help you to get rid of emotions that you have held back for many years. I doubt that your nightmares will ever go away completely but we can certainly ameliorate them. It’s up to you but I recommend that you take them.”

It didn’t take you but a moment to agree.

“If you do decide to transition I have to warn you. I believe your mental health will benefit considerably, but with your physical build and appearance you will probably never be able to convincingly pass as a woman.”

“I don’t care. Let’s do it.” You said.

And so you started on an irreversible course. It wasn’t instantaneous, but, with the help of your psychiatrist you made many friends along the way and became that person that you should always have been.

At 75 you became maybe Australia’s oldest transsexual and you are now finally at peace with yourself. Maybe you still have the occasional nightmare but I know they are nothing like as frequent and you have many people who love you. They don't care that you look mannish because they can see your soul.

v>

********

The flies must have thought all their Christmases had come at once. Well, I guess they weren’t that far out, seeing as it was the third of January. The reasons for their joy were the rivers of sweat pouring down my face and the moisture from my back and armpits plastering my shirt to my body.

The greedy little buggers must have thought they were water-skiing on Sydney Harbour, I was so wet.

Yes, it was bloody hot but what else do you expect in North Queensland in the summer. It must have been 40 C in the shade, but there wasn't any shade. It was either that or a thunderstorm, and as drenched as I was I really didn’t want it to start raining, even if that would have got rid of the flies.

I was dressed in standard Queensland summer gear, socks and Red Wing work-boots on my feet, the Red Wings well worn in, khaki Hard Yakka shorts over regular briefs (no give-away panties) and a khaki work-shirt with two breast pockets. I was lucky that I had had my Akubra with me too or I would have been fried. Even so, my hair was sodden. But it kept the sunburn off.

My handkerchief was drenched from wiping the sweat rolling down my forehead and into my eyes.

There are a few unbreakable rules in the bush, one of which is “look where you’re going”. I wasn’t. I was looking all around, trying to suss out any problems we might have for the next section of the road we were building instead of where my Landcruiser was pointing. I drove straight into a long and deep patch of bulldust at the wrong speed and in the wrong gear. Even my four-wheel-drive couldn’t handle it, so there I was, well and truly bogged, about five miles south of Kajabbi.

There was nothing for it but shanks’s pony, so I started walking. The flies lost no time targeting me and the only other companions I encountered along the way were two goannas, a pair of dingos, a snake and an emu with her chicks. They didn’t give me any grief so I didn’t bother them either. No roos. They’re too smart to roam in the middle of the day. Their times are dawn and dusk. Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun, and, yes, I’m English, or I was when I came out here ten years ago.

I had been walking for about two hours when I came over a small rise and, lo and behold, there in front of me was the Kajabbi pub, like an oasis in the desert, or the Wizard’s palace in the Land of Oz, even if it was only a corrugated-iron shed with those wooden windows which opened at the bottom, propped up by a pole. Very basic air-conditioning.

Anyway, right then, I didn’t care. All I wanted was a cold drink and somewhere to rest out of the blazing sun. Then I could contemplate how to solve the rest of my problems.

Kajabbi wasn’t exactly a metropolis, its population was roughly twenty-five in those days. The pub was the entertainment centre. There was a general store, a police station which was a 40 by 10 prefabricated hut, similar to the one I lived in back at the camp. Next door was a neat Queenslander with a garden where the local cop and his family lived, and scattered around were a half-dozen or so run-down shanties. Oh, I almost forgot, there was a railway station as well. They got one train a week from Cloncurry.

It was the end of the line for now but people were hoping the railway would be extended. Gold had been discovered at a place called Gunpowder, about twenty miles to the west and there were plans to extend the line to the proposed mine-site. If that happened Kajabbi would become a full-blown mining town. Our new road would connect the place to the larger settlements to the north and south, Normanton, Cloncurry and Mt. Isa.

I didn’t exactly stagger into the pub but I wasn’t galloping either. Yes, it had bat-wing doors! Once in the gloom inside I took off my hat, wiped the sweat from my face and looked around. Only a few of the more stubborn flies stayed with me and I swiped them away. The only occupants were a couple of blokes sat at the bar, about my age, obviously ringers or station-hands who looked as if they had started pretty early. Official opening time was 10 a.m. but nobody took much notice of that in these parts. Then there was the barman and the local copper, who was sitting by himself at a table writing a report or something.

He was a friend of mine, all six-foot-six of him, and I was tremendously glad to see him.

He looked over when I entered, “G’day Mac. ‘Ow yer goin, orl right eh? ”

“G’day, Tiny. Could be better but I’ll survive. Talk to yer later.” I went to the bar, sat on a stool and spoke to the barman, who I hadn’t seen before.

“I don’t suppose you have a Chardonnay?”

He looked at me as though I was an alien from Mars. “What’s that?”

“It’s a kind of white wine.”

He all but sneered, turned to the shelf behind the bar and came back with a bottle in each hand. “If it’s plonk yer after, we got red and we got white. This is Kajabbi, not the Hilton in Brisbane. Which one do yez want?”

I looked at the offerings. The white was sauvignon blanc which I normally hated, but I was hot, dry and thirsty. The red had no label but knowing where I was I reckoned the grapes had probably been picked from the shady side of the boat at four o’clock in the afternoon, sieved through a sweaty sock and poured into the bottle a few minutes later.

“I’ll have a glass of the white, please.”

This time he did sneer but poured me about two-thirds of a middy in a beer glass.

One of the young guys at the end of the bar turned to his mate, “I tolja. He’s a bloody Pom.”

“Nah, I think he’s a poofter,” said his oppo.

“A girl, more like it.”

“Same thing.”

I didn’t rise to the obvious challenge. All I wanted was to relax, drink my drink and rest my weary legs. In a way I couldn’t blame them because some of our boys from the camp used to come here on Saturday nights to get plastered and then have a good old-fashioned punch-up with the equally drunken locals. All good fun and generally no permanent damage done.

I continued to mind my own business while they eyed me. I took one sip of the wine. It was warm, so I asked the snarky barman, “Do you have any ice, please?” I didn’t like sav blanc and I specially didn’t like warm sav blanc. At least ice would mask the taste and make it drinkable.

“Of course we have ice, sir,” he replied, trying to imitate an upper-class English accent and failing miserably.

I don’t have one. I come from Brighton (well, Hove actually) not bloody Eton.

Continuing with his witticism, he asked, “One lump or two, sir?”

By this time I was tired of being belittled by morons. I snarled, “Fill up the fucking glass.”

I may have startled him because he did exactly that.

However, his two sozzled mates at my side of the bar took it as an invitation to start the fight that they were looking for and got off their barstools.

That was when Tiny stepped in. “Listen, you ratbags, just sit down and behave yourselves. Tom, give these bludgers a triple rum each on my tab.”
Tom, evidently the barman, did as Tiny instructed. The ratbags basked in Tiny’s generosity and retreated back to their end of the bar.

You really didn’t want to upset Tiny. Apart from his size and his position he was a bit of a legend in his own right.

I had come to know him because he was the armed guard on our payroll runs. In those days we still used to have to pay our men in cash, which meant we had to travel from the bank in Mt. Isa to our construction camp with tens of thousands of dollars in a four-wheel-drive and the insurers insisted that the money was protected. We were allowed by the Queensland Police Force to hire Tiny for that duty. I was happy to have him on board because otherwise it fell to me. We had a rusty old pistol at the camp which scared the hell out of me and also I didn’t have any ammunition so if anyone tried to rob us I would have had to point the gun at them and yell “Bang!”

He was a real outback character. When I started on the job I had an out-of-date NSW Driving Licence. I told Tiny and the next day I had a brand new QLD Licence. Strictly speaking I should have had to take a fresh driving test, but Tiny didn’t care about that.

He just did the right thing.

If you wanted to embarrass him all you had to do was mention his Bravery Medal. A young aboriginal stockman had got his knickers in a twist over something and held his station’s managers at bay for a six hour siege with a rifle. Tiny just walked up and took the gun from the kid.

His other little quirk was a fascination with fast-draw. He had an old-style Western gun belt and a Colt 45 and he would go out onto the airstrip in the evenings and practise his fast-draw. He was rumoured to have killed more beer-cans than anyone else in Queensland.

And he was a lovely, unassuming man.

He watched our two trouble-makers finish their rums and told Tom to pour them two more triples, and then he watched them drink those, too. He gave them ten minutes and dragged them off their perches. By now they were glassy-eyed and could hardly stand. He took one in each hand and marched them out of the pub. “Just hang on a minute Mac, and I’ll be right back.”

So I sat and finished my drink until he came back, grinning. “They’re safely stashed until tomorra. They’ll sleep it off in the lock-up and then I’ll send ‘em back to the station.”

“Why did you shout them the free liquor, Tiny?”

“Saves wear and tear on the knuckles and I just add the cost of the drinks onto their fines.” He turned to Tom the barman. “You’d better watch yourself, mate. You don’t know who this is,” pointing at me. “He’s the Project Manager on the new road, so give him a bit of respect.”

Tom sort of gulped and gave me a sickly grin, which I took as a kind of apology.

“Now, Mac, what’s your problem?” questioned Tiny.

I told him about getting bogged and how a ride and a tow would set me straight.

“No wucking furries. The ute’s outside. Let’s go. We’ll have you set in half an hour.”

So we set off in the paddy-wagon. As soon as we were on our way he turned to me. “Well, are you still dressing?”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” I knew full well what he meant but I was gobsmacked.

“Wearing dresses and such.”

“Who told you that?”

“Look, don’t get shitty. First of all, I’m the local cop, so I’ve gotta know what’s goin’ on, so I don’t get any trouble I can’t handle. Second, some of your boys told me about it, the party you had and how well you scrubbed up. Wish I’d been there. So, are you still doin’ it?”

“Nah, I made a resolution to give it away. I’ve got enough problems as it is.”

“Pity. I reckon you’d make a pretty good lookin’ girl. I’d like ta see ya. My youngest boy is sayin’ he wants ta be like his mum when he grows up. Thought maybe ya could give me some advice.”

Tiny was married with three kids, all of whom he doted on.

I shrugged. “Tiny, all I can say is be patient with him. It may go away or it may not . Time to start worrying if it doesn’t. You don’t need advice from a weirdo like me causing you trouble.”

“Mac, you don’t even register on my weirdo meter. This is the Queensland bush. You have no idea how many nutters we got out here.”

“What, like that kid whose gun you took away?”

I was trying to distract him from focusing on my strangeness.

He laughed. “Young Willie? Nah, I knew he wouldn’t shoot me. He just needed a bit o’ time to calm down. I used ta go huntin’ pigs with his Uncle Darcy and we taught the boy how ta shoot. He didn’t actually hurt anyone. I’m just sorry I had to turn him in. I look in on him every month and as long as he behaves himself he’ll be out soon.”

He eyed me. “But we were talkin’ about you. “Why stop? You’re not hurtin’ anybody.”

“It’s hard to explain, but it does cause problems. Some people don’t like it. I figured it would be better if I just stopped. That’s my New Year’s resolution.”

“OK, your choice, but if you ever dress again I want an invite.”

“Sorry, Tiny, not gonna happen.”

We were back at my bogged vehicle so that conversation ended, much to my relief.

We tied a rope between the cars and pulled mine out, no problems. Afterwards we shook hands and went our separate ways, without broaching that subject again. I went back to our construction camp and took a bottle of chardonnay from my personal supply. I went into our wet canteen and had my first decent drink out of a proper wineglass. Cold wine that I liked. I had only the one and then I went back to my quarters, stripped off and had a long shower to wash away the grime of the day.

I washed everything, including my matted hair. I have to say that, after my two-hour bushwalk it felt wonderful to get clean. Only one problem, I just couldn’t resist using my fragrant shampoo and conditioner, which led me to using my scented soap. When I finished I felt so feminine and one thing led to another.

Everything went downhill from there. All the old feelings came back and when I dried myself off, blow-dried and brushed out my hair, I had to tell myself that I really couldn’t…. mustn’t…. wear those beautiful clothes that were calling to me with a siren song. That lovely underwear, the pink nylon panties with the lace trimmings, the matching bra and the inserts which would give me the curves that I always desired.

I couldn’t help myself. I succumbed to temptation, put on my underwear and a pair of thigh-high stockings, took a nice eggshell-blue dress, with three-quarter sleeves and white lace trimming from my wardrobe and finally began to feel like myself.

I couldn’t just leave things like that so I had to make up my face and put on a bit of bling. I even went mad and did my nails. Finally, the shoes. Had to be heels, yeah, why not?

So here I was, all dressed up with nowhere to go. But then, I did have somewhere to go. The boys had all seen me so there was nothing to be afraid of except myself. Let them have another look at the real me.

It’s a Project Manager’s job to inspect the camp regularly and there’s nothing that says how you’ve got to be dressed when you’re doing it. Deep breath and out of the door of my donga. Nothing to be afraid of. I walked around in the evening shadows, poked my head into the dining hall and the wet canteen. I took care to stay on the concrete walkways; I didn’t want to break either a heel or an ankle. Nobody took any notice of me.

There you go. It was a pretty stupid resolution anyway when I think about it. I had no hope of sticking to it and making it work. Being honest with myself I didn’t have my heart in it and if you really want to quit something you have to mean it.

Looks like you’re here to stay, Joanne.

The only plane I had ever been on was a Tiger Moth, on a twenty- minute joyride out of Shoreham, which was only an airfield, not a proper airport.

It didn’t make me feel like Phineas Fogg, more like a descendant of Biggles or the Red Baron. Besides, I was just a kid when I had that first flight.

There’s a world of difference between a hot-air balloon, a biplane, and a Boeing 707. In about thirty-six hours I would be in Sydney, Australia, away from all the heartbreak and temptations that had led to me sitting in a window seat on a jet plane, watching the miserable tarmac pass beneath me.

Goodbye, London. Goodbye England, Good riddance. Why am I crying? Better not let anybody see.

We stopped for refuelling and whatever else in Beirut, Bangkok, Hong Kong and Darwin, each one giving me a glimpse of places which were still exotic to me, even if it was only a different airport terminal. We had enough time at each stop to get off the plane and look around. We were served food on the plane, bland and generic. You ate it because there was nothing else to do.

Did anybody ever tell you that long distance air travel is boring?

Beirut was how I had imagined the East to be, one big bazaar, the counters of the booths full of gold, silver and jewellery, but I didn’t have enough money to buy any of the exotic trinkets on display. Who would I purchase them for, anyway? I did buy some Duty-Free cigarettes at about a quarter of the price you could get them in England.

Sue me. Everybody smoked. My poison was Benson and Hedges.

Bangkok was as hot as buggery, although it was a dry heat, in the middle of their so-called winter. The terminal wasn’t air-conditioned and just a big hall with seats. We were glad to get back aboard. The leg to Hong Kong was a relatively short three hours and our time on the ground there was longer.

That’s one place where you can’t mistake where you are. There’s a stretch of water parallel to the runway called a nullah. It’s an open sewer and smells like shit. I’m not kidding. It permeated the plane when we were taxiing into the apron. Coupled with the unique approach between the high-rise buildings, where you swore you were looking up into people’s bathrooms and kitchens, it was an unforgettable experience.

Fortunately, the terminal’s air-conditioning filtered the smell. Our stop was about six hours. It seemed there were quite a few new passengers heading for Sydney. There were a couple of bars and restaurants, so I got a drink or two to break the monotony and actually had a haircut. Chinese barbers removed every hair from my nose and ears, as well as what I allowed them to crop from my head. I wouldn’t thank them for that in the not-too-distant future.

We took off into the evening sky for the next seven-hour leg to finally reach Australia.

We landed in Darwin in the middle of the night, and it was pissing down rain. They gave us umbrellas to walk to the terminal, such as it was. I had never felt a combination of heat and humidity like that. The huge raindrops hitting my shirt battled with the profuse sweat from my armpits, but both dried and disappeared when I got inside. At least the terminal was dry and had enormous fans moving the air around but it had nothing else going for it.

On to Sydney, where we landed at six in the morning, local time. I questioned the three-hour time passage. It’s a bloody big country. After being sprayed with insect repellent in the plane, ostensibly to get rid of any mosquitos we had picked up along the way, we were allowed to disembark into bright sunshine, just what they had told us to expect. After going through Immigration and Customs an apparatchik from the Snowy Mountains Engineering Corporation, SMEC/ SMHEA, my new employer (actually their official title was Snowy Mountains Hydro Electricity Authority, but it was rarely used), loaded us into a bus and deposited us in an unassuming-looking hotel in Darlinghurst Road in Kings Cross. It turned out to be a modest hotel with much to be modest about.

There were three other young blokes like me on the plane, destined for Cooma, two hundred and fifty miles further south. Naturally, we had kind of bonded. We were all experiencing our first bout of jetlag, if you wanted to call it that. After all those hours on and off the plane, snoozing on the long hauls, we didn’t want to go to bed. We wanted a drink!

We left the hotel and wandered through the streets of the Cross to an area called Woolloomooloo and came across a pub called The Duke of Bedford, a strange name in the heart of Sydney. We didn’t care. We wanted our first taste of the famous Aussie beer “Fosters” and the bar was open at that hour of the morning.

There were no kangaroos hopping around, as some jokers would have had you believe. There were, however, quite a few drunks lying on the pavement outside the pub clutching two-gallon flagons of some kind of red wine, so we stepped carefully over and around them to get into the bar. It wasn’t like an English place at all. The floor was covered in sawdust and the walls were all tiled like a toilet. They could be hosed down after closing to eradicate the vomit and other detritus left behind by the likes of some of the patrons lying in the gutters outside. This was evidently not a five-star establishment.

The main thing that we were focused on was that there was a bar and a barman, so we upped and ordered four pints of “Fosters” only to be met with a condescending sneer from the Italian on the other side of the counter.

“This is New South Wales. We don’t serve that Victorian piss here. Youse can have ‘Tooheys’ or nussing.”

That was our first encounter of the parochialism between the states.

We all looked at each other and shrugged, a beer’s a beer after all. ‘Tooheys’ would do.

As he turned away to get the glasses we heard him mutter, “Bloody Pommy bastards.”

After that warm welcome to Australia, we drank our beers and decided to return to the hotel. By now the jetlag was beginning to bite. I slept through the rest of the day, waking in time to go down to the dining room for a steak dinner. There was more meat than I could eat, but it was either that or a pork chop which looked like it had come off a giant wild boar. The accompaniment was chips and green peas. Nothing flash about this place.

We were told by a SMEC official to be ready to leave the next morning and were duly collected at eight, after a largely sleepless night courtesy of the jetlag, taken to the railway station and loaded onto a rather dilapidated train pulled by a diesel locomotive. I was eager to see the country but the jetlag claimed me again and I slept for several hours.

When I woke, we were still trundling along at what seemed like walking speed. That train was non-stop, but hardly an express. Outside the windows were scattered gumtrees and scrub. Miles and miles of miles and miles. There was no sign of the eponymous Mountains, just a few rounded hills in the distance, nothing to draw your eyes.

I was a young engineer with a problem. It was nothing to do with my job or profession. Well, I guess that’s not completely true. It was only the fact that work was available in Australia that enabled me to be on that flight. I was what the Aussies called a “Ten- Pound Pom”

That meant that an immigrant from the UK paid ten pounds to travel to Australia at government expense. In return the transportee had to stay in the country for two years. If that condition was not met the individual concerned had to pay for their own return fare and repay the real cost of the original voyage. As I was going to work for a federal agency, I did not even have to pay the ten pounds. They got me free of charge!

How did I get here?

Leaving home was the first step, my childhood domicile was a very modest flat in Brighton (well, Hove actually), mainly to get away from my parents and live my own life. The combination of my teenage rebellion and their disapproval pushing us asunder.

I had been busily applying for jobs since leaving school and had obtained a position as a junior draughtsman with British Railways. In those days that was the first step to becoming a civil engineer without going to university and getting a degree. You did it all by day-release and night classes and ended up with a Higher National Certificate, which was a recognized qualification.

To be honest, the main attraction for me was that it was in London. That city was a magnet for kids like me. This was the age of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, and I was far more interested in being where they were performing rather than slaving away at a career. During my time in The Big Smoke I did get to see the Stones but not the Fab Four.

I had taken a room in what you could call a boarding-house, but that wasn’t satisfactory. The woman who ran it was every bit as bad, if not worse than, my parents, a real tyrant. Everything not specifically permitted was forbidden.

After a few weeks, I was desperate to find somewhere else. I even thought about returning home, but that was a step too far and would have meant admitting defeat, something very hard to do for a seventeen-year-old.

That’s when I lucked out, or thought I did, not all at once, but with a light at the end of a tunnel which did not seem like an oncoming train. Seeing that I was working for the railways that irony wasn’t lost on me.

I met a girl in a coffee bar and for some strange reason she seemed to be interested in me. It was she who made the moves. I was pretty naïve and fell head-over-heels in love with her. After a few encounters, call them "dates" if you like, she asked me if I would like to move in with her. She shared a flat with three other girls in Earls Court and one of them was moving out, so they had a spare bedroom. Naturally I jumped at the chance and a week later I was a flatmate with my beloved, Belinda, and her two friends, Amy and Mary. I had my own bedroom, had to share in the housekeeping chores and expenses and pay a quarter of the rent, which was about half what that harridan at the boarding house had been charging me.

There’s always a catch, isn’t there?

A condition of their tenancy was that all the occupants had to be female, so I was added to the register as “Joan”. I was told the landlady rarely visited and they always knew when she was coming, so all I had to do was be out during her visits. Simple.

Everything worked fine for the first eighteen months or so. I only had to make myself scarce twice for a couple of hours. My romance with Belinda blossomed. There were frequent nocturnal trips between bedrooms, and often nights where there were just kisses and cuddles in one room or the other. Needless to say I soon lost my virginity.

In a way I was lucky. There was not too much comment on my appearance. I was a skinny boy and not too masculine in my facial appearance. It was something I didn’t appreciate at the time but I was, in fact, pretty good-looking, if slightly androgenous.

Then our landlady decided that she wanted to meet “Joan”. I think she was curious rather than suspicious, but it gave us a problem. What to do? We had a pow-wow and the girls decided that they could disguise me as a girl. Between them they had plenty of clothing, cosmetics, and even wigs which I could borrow, just for the few hours when I would have to meet the landlady.

I was worried about how I would look. I didn’t want to appear as some parody of a girl, and that would lead to disaster all round. However, after they had finished making me over, I couldn’t tell that I wasn’t female. In fact, I was quite excited with my transformation.

Let’s face it, don’t most boys wonder what they would look like as a member of the opposite sex?

We had a dry run the week before Landlady Day. I saw myself in a nice dress, face made-up, and wig properly fixed for the first time. I remember gasping because I was definitely pretty. Amy and Mary gushed over me, so pleased with their transformation skills. Belinda looked a little dubious. With twenty-twenty hindsight that was the moment when everything started to unravel between us.

They insisted on taking me out that evening for practice and to smooth out any rough edges that would expose me as not being female. I probably enjoyed the experience too much. I felt really at home being one of four girls having a night on the town. My only worry was that my voice would give me away, but with a little concentration on pitch and wording I was assured that I sounded authentic, and a shy smile disarmed potential confrontations.

The next week was back to reality. I went to work as usual and Friday night was again transformed into a girl, ready for Saturday’s visit. I did notice a certain coolness in Belinda but just thought it was maybe due to her period.

We met the landlady in the afternoon, which gave me some extra time to adapt to my new femininity. During the meeting everything went well. I acted shy and said as little as possible without seeming rude and she welcomed me to her house. She did ask to see my room, something which the girls had anticipated. All my male appurtenances had been disposed of and replaced with dresses, skirts, tops, and underwear from their own belongings. They had even put a couple of stuffed animals on my bed to add legitimacy!

She asked what I did for a living.

I told her I was a pay-clerk at the London Electricity Board and often had to work overtime checking that everybody had been paid the right amount, which explained my absences at her previous visits. I also always had to be present late on Fridays to deal with queries because pay-day was Thursday. All-in-all everything went off well and our landlady departed, apparently quite satisfied that I was “Joan”.

It was decided that a celebration was in order so once again we went out on the town, a foursome of girls. Safety in numbers. Heady with success, I enjoyed myself much more than the first time and even got a bit tiddly after visiting our third pub. When we got home Belinda accused me of flirting with one of the boys in The Kings Arms. Of course, I vigorously denied it, couldn’t remember doing any such thing, but she went to bed in a huff.

The other girls thought it was a hoot and teased her about being jealous of her girlfriend, which just made things between us worse. It wasn’t helped by the fact that I was finding being a girl very seductive. It was a real turn-on to see how I looked in a dress, face made-up, and wearing a wig. The way people interacted with Joan, rather than John, was an eye-opener. They were generally much nicer, although I was warned to beware of boys and men wanting to get into my panties.

Friday and Saturday nights became girls’ nights. I didn’t need any encouragement to don female garb. It was only a few weeks later that I went shopping one afternoon on my own, confident in my ability to pass. I bought two pairs of high heels, pumps in basic black and white, so I could use them with most outfits. Marks and Spencer’s got a work-out. With the money I had been saving through living with the girls I purchased several sets of underwear, a couple of dresses, and three or four skirts and tops to go with.

Belinda was not pleased.

I didn’t want to sponge on the girls the whole time and I loved the idea of having my own clothes. I had been washing their undies after every time I wore them but I detected a degree of reluctance on their part to wear the items they had loaned me. I understood, in a way.

The only fly in the ointment was a definite cooling in my relationship with Belinda. She started to avoid me when I was Joan. Not obviously, just little things, like the sliding away of an eye when I looked at her or the withdrawal of a hand when I touched her. On my part I was becoming enmeshed in my new persona and was reaching a point where I hated to go back to being John on Sunday evening. I couldn’t understand Belinda. I still loved her. In a way, she had initiated all this by inviting me to share her flat and starting the imposture by signing me in as “Joan”. Surely, she must have seen where it would end up.

I tackled her about it one evening. “What’s up, darling? How am I upsetting you?”

“You’re not you any longer. I don’t recognize you,” she accused.

“But I’m still the same person and I still love you," I argued.

She looked at me side eyed. “Perhaps you do, but it’s not the John that I met that still loves me.”

“I’m still John, and I DO love you.”

She shook her head, "You love Joan more and you aren’t John anymore, are you? What if I told you Joan had to go? What would you say?”

With those words she stuck a knife through my heart. When I searched inside myself, I knew I couldn’t stop being Joan. I had become more of her than I had realized. I hadn’t meant to lock Belinda out.

My long, awkward, silence told her more than any words I could have uttered.

“See. You can’t give her up. You’re Joan now and I’m not in love with her. I’ve lost you and you have lost yourself. We’re just flatmates from now on. Let’s call us ‘acquaintances.’”

The trouble was, she was right. I did love her, but the passion was no longer there. I was more concerned with how well I applied my cosmetics and whether I was dressed correctly for an evening out. I had my own couple of wigs and loved my heels. My wardrobe had expanded and if you went into my room, you would know it belonged to a girl. Our night-time dalliances had dwindled to nothing.

I had badly wanted to let my hair grow so that I no longer had to wear a wig. I could easily look like one of The Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger wore his to the collar. It was only work requirements that constrained me. Anything unconventional was frowned upon. I had even been sent home one day for not wearing a tie.

“Can we at least be friends? I never intended to hurt you,” I tried again.

“I guess I know you didn’t,” her expression softened. “Yes, we can be friends, but only girlfriends. Don’t expect any more rendezvous in the middle of the night. I am not a lesbian.”

That really hurt! “If that’s all I can get, I’ll take it,” I replied with a sad smile.

My heart was broken, but I did my best not to show it. It was my own fault. I had been selfish and inattentive to her needs and feelings, and here I was, a boy in girls’ clothing.

No, it was more than that. I felt like a girl. If I could have had a choice, I would have been a girl. I didn’t know how the realization had snuck up on me.

“Joan” was gradually squeezing out “John” and I was not only allowing it, I was welcoming her in. I did love Belinda, but I loved being Joan,too. I knew that if I stayed here in London “John” would disappear and I would be unable to resist.

I didn’t know what to do. I had no financial support as “Joan”. My career, my job, everything, depended on me being “John”. I was stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Britain, at that time, was still divided by “class” (I was working class) and nobody had ever contemplated female engineers and transvestite engineers to boot. Joan would just be an object of scorn, a target for the newspaper scandalmongers like The News of the World.

Like an icy polar blast, the answer hit me in the face. I had to get away. First, I must finish my course, which would take the rest of the year, and then I must put temptation behind me and go somewhere that would allow me to be John again. I didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t see a way forward as Joan. That would consume me.

That’s when I started to apply for jobs overseas, anywhere but Britain, and the ads for The Snowy Mountains were everywhere. I had a couple of interviews at Australia House, and they must have been desperate because I was told that I would have a place with SMEC/SMHEA as long as I passed my final exams. Six months later, that was a reality and I was accepted and given my plane ticket to Australia for January 6, 1966. In exchange, they had my written promise to stay in Australia for two years. The salary was also very much better than I was getting at the time.

Before that I hadn’t put temptation far behind me. Joan came out on every possible weekend. She burned her candle at both ends, knowing it couldn’t last, and I became more and more her on our outings. It was both insidious and invigorating. The last hurrah. There was nothing left between Belinda and me. I told the girls I was going and as soon as I got a date I would let them know, so that they could find another girl to share the flat.

I spent that Christmas with my parents. I reckoned I owed them that much. Then I went back to the flat to pack whatever belongings I was taking with me. I had to grit my teeth and discard everything of Joan’s: the underwear, dresses, skirts, tops, shoes, wigs, cosmetics, everything. It’s amazing what a girl needs to be a girl, isn’t it? I was left with one small suitcase with clothes and toiletries belonging to John.

On the morning of my departure, we had a tearful farewell. I’m sure they were actually saying goodbye to Joan, who had been a much more active part of their lives in recent times.

I was not only saying goodbye to them, but I too was saying goodbye to Joan, and especially to Belinda, who, for a while, had been the love of my life.

It’s complicated.

We finally arrived in Cooma at about four-thirty in the afternoon. The two-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey had been covered at a stately thirty miles per hour. Once again, we were decanted into a bus and taken to a collection of prefabricated huts, which I later found to be typical of their construction camps. We were shown our very basic allotted rooms, pointed to the ablutions block with toilets and showers and to another housing the dining hall. The Corporation was kind enough to provide us with sheets, blankets, and towels. Soap was from dispensers in the showers.

“Dinner is from six thirty to seven thirty. Don’t be late or you’ll go hungry,” we were advised by our obviously underwhelmed escort. “Breakfast is from six in the morning, finishes at seven thirty. Same goes, if you’re late you don’t eat.”

He singled out my three flight companions. “You’re on the plane to Khancoban at eight thirty. I’ll pick you up at eight. Be ready and bring your kit.”

They were all welders, going to the other side of the mountains, where the action was. After the next morning, I never saw them again.

He turned to me. “You’re going to Cooma North, HQ. A car will come for you at eight.”

I was thinking that I might as well have joined the army, the only difference being that I didn’t have to salute.

So I began my new life with three months in SMEC’s design office for acclimatization until I was dispatched to my assigned location in another construction camp. I soon discovered that the book didn’t match its cover. What had been sold to me as an exciting pioneering organization when I was recruited in London was just another civil service bureaucracy. Dozens of jobsworths ambled around with pieces of paper in their hands, trying to look busy and pretending they had a destination. We were clocked in every morning by a man with a roll and a red pencil to indicate if we were on time, or not.

Finishing time had been whimsically set at four twenty-one p.m. A siren blew and there was a thundering of hooves along the corridors in order to hit the outside doors right on the dot. The clock-watchers had it down to a T. They could be at the entrance when the horn blew.

Except that Tuesday night was compulsory overtime until nine p.m. We were allowed to knock off as usual to eat but had to be back at our desks by six. I had nothing to do, so asked if I really had to do it. I was told to shut up and read a magazine or something. Just be there for the headcount and red-pencil notations!

My co-workers were friendly enough and nearly all young apart from some of the European refugees who arrived after the war. One late-middle-aged guy in our office had been a Professor of Civil Engineering in Dresden but all his documentation had been burned to ashes in the bombing raids, so he had nothing to prove his status. However, they did allow him to be classified as an engineer.

SMEC proudly asserted that the workforce came from twenty-seven different countries and had erected poles with flags attached for each of those countries around a green in Cooma’s centre. I thought it was ironic that one of the four sides of the green was the wall of Cooma Prison.

I had no reason to doubt their claim of varied nationalities. One of our weekend pastimes was watching the Serbs and the Croats having a gunfight on the town’s green with each trying to chop down the pole bearing the other side’s flag, while we sat in the relative safety of ‘The Young Australian’ pub's saloon bar with ringside seats. Any bloodshed was taken care of elsewhere.

During my time in Cooma the only Aussie wildlife to which I was introduced were the swarms of flies that would attack as soon as you were outside and sweating. You quickly learned to keep your mouth shut. Other than the damned flies, we saw none of those exotic animals bent on killing you that you may have expected to be around. The town was surprisingly urbanized.

In due course, I was sent to Tumut, although the actual location of our camp was an even smaller place a couple of miles away called Talbingo, where preparations were under way for a major dam, a power station and pipelines connecting the two. I was a pipeline engineer, having been assigned that role upon my arrival in Cooma. It was interesting work and a totally different atmosphere to Head Office. People were keen on their jobs and there was no bullshit. This was the engineering Nirvana I had been promised.

The accommodation was just as basic, prefabbed huts with amenities blocks, but you dropped into bed at night tired out, and you shoveled down the quite adequate but barely edible food before heading to work. It kept you alive.

Tumut was only a village. Apart from the SMEC presence there was little more than a general store and post office, a couple of pubs, a bank, a church, a garage, and a few dozen houses. It did boast a golf course which seemed to be mostly inhabited by mobs of kangaroos and wallabies. I couldn’t tell the difference.

We were warned to leave any ball which went into the rough and hit another, as that was where the snakes were. There were plenty of the slithering buggers on the fairways, but you could at least see them. A two-stroke penalty was better than being bitten.

Wombats roamed the streets, together with echidnas, all completely unafraid of humans, and the eucalypts were infested with koalas. We would be awoken every morning by the mocking laughter of kookaburras.

About once a month a bunch of us would head to Sydney for a little R & R. There was nothing to do in Tumut or Talbingo; they really were what Poms would call hamlets. That eventually contributed to my downfall.

I had settled into life in Talbingo and those weekends in Sydney were a great way to let off steam. We did work very hard on the Tumut schemes, crazy hours, but it didn’t matter. We were building a part of the nation, and we were proud of it, but every now and then we needed a long weekend to relax. The drive to Sydney took about six hours.

Like all young guys a lot of our recreation centred round pubs and drinking but we also went to the beaches where I learned to surf. I don’t claim to be much good, but I could stand up and ride the board when a decent wave came along. I was already a reasonable swimmer, good enough not to be laughed at by the Aussies, who all swam like Dawn Fraser or Boy Charlton. I wasn’t that good but with a little effort I could keep up, just.

When in Sydney we usually stayed in a Youth Hostel in Double Bay. There was a tidal sea-pool next door, so we could exercise and also wash away the excesses of the previous night’s entertainment. Plus it was cheap and close to many of the pubs we liked.

Naturally we went clubbing, too. Most of the night-clubs were in the Kings Cross area, spilling down into William Street and overflowing into Woolloomooloo and Oxford Street. The latter was known as the queer district.

On one trip to the area I made a big mistake, not instigated by me, but one of the other lads reckoned it would be a bit of a laugh to go to see Les Girls, which was a famous drag show. I shouldn’t have gone along with them, but how could I get out of it?

Of course, I couldn’t forget my time being a girl. I couldn't push it right out of my mind, which was why I had come here in the first place. Most of the time I could get by without thinking about it. But I would be lying if I said it didn’t surface on the odd occasion, mostly in the middle of the night, when I was trying to go to sleep without thinking about Belinda and those Friday and Saturday excursions with her, Amy, and Mary.

Suddenly, here I was, watching all these boys and men performing as women and they were just SOOO good. You really could not tell that they weren’t girls except for the occasional comedy act.

I made a point of not being too keen but those “girls” were so alluring, beautiful, and professional that they brought back all my submerged memories. One feature of the venue was that one of the “girls” would come and sit with us at our table, chat for a while to entertain us and have a (presumably harmless) drink before moving on to other patrons. I always had trouble keeping my eyes off them.

I could have coped with that. Over about six months our gang went there a couple of times, and I was enthralled by those beauties. It was fairly obvious to my mates that they had an effect on me. I took some good-natured ribbing about being a Pommy poofter-lover. Our visits were rare enough, though, that they never became really suspicious.

Then came the trip when disaster struck. We were watching the TV News one night at the hostel when an item grabbed our attention. A major bushfire had swept through the Tumut area. We even saw footage of our construction camp at Talbingo being consumed by the flames and what was left of it afterwards. Nothing but the foundations. Fortunately, nobody had died in the blaze, although there were some serious burns.

Everything that most of us owned had been destroyed. I now only had the clothes that I had brought with me, and the Identity Documents that you never leave behind. Most of the others were in the same straits but had resources that were not tied to the location. I was the only Pom amongst us. All the others were Aussies and had homes scattered across Victoria, New South Wales, and even Queensland.

My lifeline was a bank account with the Bank of New South Wales, so I had access to money, at least. The next morning, we had a sober discussion about what to do and phoned the regional SMEC Centre in the township of Tumut. We were advised that reconstruction of the camp would take at least a couple of months and no alternative accommodation was available. There was no point in going back until the rebuild was completed.

Our jobs would be safe but we should all use any accumulated leave entitlements and then we would be put on half-pay for the duration. I guess that was quite a fair offer.

The cars that had ferried us here belonged to others of our group and the Aussie blokes all wanted to go to their various homes, if only to assure their families that they were OK. I couldn’t argue with that, and transport arrangements were made that would deliver each one to his home or to some point close-by where public transport would take them there.

That left me. I couldn’t go “Home”. Australia was home and I had no family or kin here. That was the point of my being here. I didn’t actually mind that much. My losses at the camp were merely clothes and belongings like a radio, nothing irreplaceable. I would go into the nearest branch of the bank on Monday and arrange for access to my account. I would have to buy some new clothes but, so what? I went to talk to the hostel’s management. They knew about the fire and were full of sympathy.

I would be able to stay for the duration, no worries.

The blokes in our party felt quite guilty about leaving me and a couple of them offered to take me to their homes and put me up. Although I appreciated their concern, I refused. I didn’t want to bludge on them or their families for some indeterminate period. You know that old saying about visitors staying past three days smelling like dead fish?

We said our goodbyes and I waved them off to wherever they were going. Then I went about fixing the basics, money first. There were no credit cards in those days. The manager at the local branch of the bank was very understanding. That news about the fire had gone everywhere. My two Driving Licenses were the state one, registered in Cooma and SMEC’s own one, also registered in Cooma, plus I had my Passport with me. A couple of phone calls and the usual four-to-five-day wait was waived, and I was issued with a temporary cheque book, which I could draw from immediately. I guess it didn’t hurt that I had a sizeable balance in my account. There wasn’t much to spend it on in Tumut and especially Talbingo.

With dollars in my pocket (Australia had changed to decimal currency about a year ago, so pounds, shillings and pence didn’t exist anymore) I went searching for new gear. That took me into the city. I had little trouble finding suitable clothing for a young man about town. A couple of trips and I was done. I didn’t bother with work gear yet. I could get that later.

The first several nights I watched some TV, read a few books, and chugged down a couple of Toohey’s before going to bed. After a week or so, I was bored and missing the camaraderie of my mates, so I went to the Cross. I tried a couple of the pubs, but drinking on your own is not the same.

One of the main differences between England and Australia was that Australia, while being much more egalitarian, was far more stratified along gender lines. Women were not welcome in public or saloon bars and were generally relegated to a ‘beer garden,’ so meeting a girl was no easy matter. In fact, a couple of months before, two ladies, Merle Thornton and Rosalie Bognor had made national headlines by chaining themselves to the bar of The Regatta Hotel in Brisbane in protest at not being allowed to drink there.

That segregation between men and women also extended to the work environment. A woman's place was in the home or in one of those 'female' callings, like nursing or serving in a store. There certainly was no concept of women in engineering or the 'heavy' trades.

So the call of ‘Les Girls’ with their cabaret became too much for me to resist. It was a Tuesday night, not one of the nights when you go clubbing or to a show, but when you’re alone and, yes, lonely, you do unusual things. The show captivated me. Sitting watching the ‘girls’ perform was much better than staring into a half-glass of beer.

I booked myself in and sat and watched the likes of Carlotta, their star performer, go through her paces She was a great talent with snappy repartee and dance moves. It was only later that I found out that she was “transgender”, a boy who had undergone surgery to become a girl. There wasn’t even a word for it in those days.

One of the young showgirls came to sit with me at my lonely table. She was one of those who had provided companionship before.

“I’ve seen you in here a couple of times,” she said,” But you were with a crowd of young blokes. Where are all your mates?”

“They’ve all gone to their various homes and I’m the only one left here,” I replied. “I’m surprised you remembered.“

“I always remember the quiet ones,” she smiled at me. “What’s your name?”

I was tempted to say “Joan” but I kept my senses and told her “John”.

“I’m Crystal.”

They all have to have exotic names, don’t they?

“Well, John, why are you here on your own?”

“Did you see the news a couple of weeks ago, about the construction camp at Talbingo burning down? Well, that was my home. I’m stuck in Sydney until they build me a new one. All my mates had homes to go to.”

She laid a comforting hand on my arm. “That’s terrible. You poor boy.”

I didn’t want to be comforted, but I did, if you know what I mean.

“What are you doing about a place to live?’

I told her about the hostel in Double Bay. “I’m all right,” I said. “A room and a bed for the night until they build a new camp. It’s basic but it’s OK. I’ll survive.”

“Look, you come here any time you like. We don’t open Mondays, but I’ll tell the door-bitches to let you in half-price any other day of the week. Just give me your full name and consider it done.”

I shrugged. “Crystal, you’re an angel.” I gave her my details.

After that I became a regular, taking a table at least a couple of times a week. Crystal must have told all of the cast and the floor-staff about my plight because I had their company every time and for longer periods. I soon knew all the girls by name and enjoyed their attention. It not only relieved my loneliness but we soon all knew each other’s stories. Some of them had run away from unsympathetic families or small country towns where their femininity had not been appreciated. Some had just been attracted by the lights of the big city and the alternative lifestyles offered. All of them loved dressing as girls and performing in the cabaret.

Naturally, I did not tell them the truth about myself. All of that was behind me. Wasn’t it? What I related to them was the story of a young man stuck in Britain’s hidebound class-conscious society, longing to get away for a real, meaningful, job in a relatively classless environment. I had found it here until the bushfire cut it short, hopefully temporarily.

My problem was the call that I felt to be like them, which I thought I had carefully concealed. Evidently, I’m not as good an actor as I thought or maybe it was the audience that was more perceptive. Previously I had only acted out my dream to the everyday world and its largely oblivious inhabitants. Here, I was exposed to a team of girls who were very much tuned in to others who wanted to live their lives as females.

There came an evening maybe six or seven weeks into my frequent sojourns in the club when I was given a different invitation. Crystal and another girl, Kendra, asked me to go and have a drink with them at one of the Oxford Street pubs where ‘queer’ people were welcome. No alarm bells went off. By now, they were my friends.

“Listen, Johnno, we’re closed on Mondays, so why don’t we go and have a drink at The Riley, just you, me, and Kendra. It’ll make a change from being here all the time.”

“I’ll check my appointments book, but it sounds OK,” I said, somewhat flippantly. “Yep, I’m free Monday. What time?”

“How about seven? We can get some pub-grub there, too.”

That was settled and we met up at The Riley the next Monday. It was a cut above The Duke of Bedford, timber-floored and pictures hanging on the walls, with proper tables where you sat and drank if you didn’t fancy a stool at the bar. There were no drunks on the pavement outside, although some of the patrons inside were definitely on the flamboyant side.

The two girls came in what passed for ‘civvies’ for them, high heels, short skirts and scanty tops, but they still looked ultra-feminine. Miniskirts had arrived in Australia with a famous appearance by Jean Shrimpton on Melbourne Cup Day last year.

I was there a few minutes before them and had got a table inside. Monday nights were not crowded. I waved when they entered. They came over and both kissed me on the cheeks as they sat.

“My shout. What’ll you have, same as at the club?” I kept a straight face.

They both laughed. “Don’t take the piss, Johnno. You know that’s cold tea. When we’re feeling wicked, we put in a lump of sugar or a slice of lemon. Abe would fire us if we drank the real McCoy.”

Abe Saffron was the owner of Les Girls, amongst other less savoury establishments. He was ‘rumoured’ to be a gangster. I had shaken his hand a couple of times when he graced the show with his presence. He was affable enough with me and sympathized with my plight.

I knew the girls’ drinks were fake. If they had been real they would have been blotto by the end of a night doing their rounds. It made perfect sense that they weren’t allowed to drink while on duty.

“OK, what would you like?” I was serious this time.

“A G & T, a double, lots of ice,” said Kendra.

“Same, please,” from Crystal.

I departed to get their drinks. I was still on Toohey’s. We clinked glasses when I returned and settled in.

“You girls are always so nice to me. I don’t know why. Don’t get me wrong. I love your company, but surely you’ve got boyfriends?”

Kendra replied. “You know what we are. It’s not that easy to find a decent boy, who really doesn’t care. Besides, we’ve got each other and we flat together. We both think that you’re the nicest boy we’ve met in months. You’re polite and quiet, obviously relaxed about our lifestyle and don’t manhandle the girls. We’ll even forgive you for being a ‘Pom!’ What we don’t get about you is why you seem to find us so fascinating.”

I was in a quandary. I couldn’t tell them that I wished I was one of them so I fell back on the excuse that I really liked the show. Being here in Sydney on my own it provided me with entertainment and an excuse to get out of the hostel, and it was a damned sight better than sitting in a pub on my own nursing a beer.

“No, I don’t buy it. I see your eyes light up when one of us comes to your table and sits to chat with you and keep you company. That’s what you come for, the companionship, and that’s unusual. Most of the blokes regard us as a joke. You don’t. Don’t think you can fool us, we’re not just dopey sheilas. There’s something more that you’re not telling us.”

Maybe I went red. I dodged and ducked and dived and weaved with all the skill of a veteran fighter pilot, but I could not shake my pursuers from my tail and I didn’t have a rear-gunner.

We drank more and we had something to eat, I don’t remember what. They kept on circling and eventually wore me out.

“All right, if I tell you the truth will you promise to keep it amongst us three?”

They looked at each other triumphantly. “Toldja,” said Crystal.

“We promise, cross our hearts!” They proclaimed together.

Defeated, I began to tell them the true tale of my time in London. Surprisingly, once I got started it became easy. Everything that had been bottled up for the last couple of years came pouring out.

Maybe confession is good for the soul.

I told them how I had left home and gone to London and ended up sharing a flat with three girls, one of whom I loved and thought she loved me. I shared the consequences of them having to register me as a girl in the flat’s lease and how that had eventually caused me to have to impersonate a girl to satisfy the landlady.

How one thing led to another and I had become enthralled with my impersonation, until it was no longer just that, but was taking over my life and I embraced it, but my beloved Belinda couldn’t stand the change in me and our romance had come to an end and left me with a broken heart, leading to my decision to come to Australia and leave all that behind me.

Now, circumstances had combined against me to bring my desire to be a female back to the forefront. Seeing them and admiring them was turning my world upside down again. My inner Joan was demanding to be released.

“You’re just like us,” exclaimed Kendra. “No wonder we sensed something different about you.”

“Why fight it?” Crystal asked. “You’ve got a home just waiting for you at Les Girls. You can be one of us. We’re always looking for new talent. You’ll fit right in.”

“But what about my job? What if I don’t go back? I’m not good-looking enough to be one of you. You two and the other girls are all beautiful.”

“The job? People go missing all the time. I came from Wagga Wagga and I doubt if anybody is looking for me. As long as I don’t get into trouble they won’t care, and I have no intention of going back. If you don’t try to leave the country neither will SMEC. They’ll just write you off as some sort of casualty. They’ve done without you for over two months now. Somebody will do your job and it’s a big country. What do you want, to be one of us or a wage slave with a broken heart?”

Kendra broke in. “Listen, you passed while you were in London, so you can do the same here. You’ve got nice regular features. We can amaze you with what we can do. You are pretty, you know? You’ll make a beautiful girl."

"Just let your hair down and give it a go.”

“I dunno,” I said, only half convinced.

I want to. I really do.

“Give it a chance. You don’t have to make your mind up now. Come to our place next Monday and we’ll give you a proper make-over. We guarantee, when you’ve seen yourself after we’ve finished with you, you won’t be able to resist.”

I spent the next week dithering. I knew there was no way I could be an engineer in Aussie society and be a girl at the same time. I was torn. I loved my work, but did I want to go back to Talbingo? Could I part with these wonderful girls? Sydney was my London now. I told myself I was still undecided and went to the club and confirmed that I would go to their apartment on Monday. The fateful day arrived and at three in the afternoon I turned up on their doorstep, full of trepidation.

They let me in and got ready to work on me. I knew the drill, having done this numerous times. Soon I was stripped and showered and scented. As soon as I was in the underwear that they provided me I was a goner. The more girly things that they dressed me in the more helpless I became to resist. “Joan” resumed centre stage and by the time they had done my make-up and fixed my wig nearly all traces of John just disappeared.

“Well, what do you say?”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Don’t you feel better like this?”

I had to admit that I did. The girl in me had been bottled up for far too long. “But where will I live, and what will I do for a living?” I protested weakly.

“Go and get your gear from the hostel and come here and stay with us. We’ve got a spare bedroom. Next week, you’ll start at Les Girls on Tuesday. It’s all arranged. We knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. You won’t be up on stage yet, but you can do the table service, hob-nobbing with the customers. You’ve seen enough of that to know how to do it. You’ll just change sides. There’s one downside though, you’ll have to drink cold tea.”

They fell about, laughing.

“And your new name is Jana.”

I’d come halfway round the world to find myself.

He was walking along the river bank on the footpath, just whiling away a pleasant Sunday afternoon in Brisbane, no need for a jacket or long pants here in early November. A polo shirt, shorts, short socks and trainers were more than adequate. The Regatta was fifteen minutes away at his current amble and he thought he would have earned a glass of chardy by the time he got there.

Minding his own business, lost in thought, enjoying the sun, when he heard someone yell.

"There's a boy. There's a boy in the water."

He propped and looked. Nobody in their right mind goes swimming in the Brisbane River, not any more at any rate. The reflection from the afternoon sun was raising glaring ripples off the water and it was hard to see, and then he did see. He saw a head appear and then disappear, an arm raised as the head went down, but no cries of help. He didn't stop to think. He ripped off his trainers, ran down the bank and launched himself into the muddy water, swimming as fast as he could to where he had seen the head disappear, twenty yards offshore.

He got to where he thought he'd seen the swimmer...no...non-swimmer and... nothing. Then he saw that arm again, ten yards downstream. Of course, he should have thought. He was supposed to be an engineer wasn't he? The current was doing its work. He quickly swam toward the now-gone arm and a head appeared right in front of him. He grabbed a handful of longish hair and trod water while he got himself ready, then hauled the head up, put his arm underneath and assumed the classic lifesaving position, lying on his back, supporting the victim. He paddled back to shore, kicking as hard as he could, until he felt ground beneath him.

It was more like mud and he had to scramble, slipping and sliding, to get himself and the inert body he was holding clear of the water. As soon as he could he checked the body's pulse.....None......Breathing.......No. Oh, shit. He'd have to give the kiss of life. Yeah, he'd done the training but he'd never actually USED it.

"Let me do it right" he prayed, to a god he didn't believe in, and started in, holding the figure's nose and counting as he'd been taught before blowing into the mouth. He hadn't even had a chance to look at who he'd rescued, assuming whoever it was lived. A cold shivery feeling descended on him as if he were possessed. He knew he wouldn't be able to give up.

People were starting to crowd around. Someone said, "We've called the Ambos and the cops."

He didn't take much notice, concentrating on what he was doing. All of a sudden the body gave a cough and then started spewing water. Quickly he turned it over and began to apply good old-fashioned artificial respiration, expelling the water from the lungs. He felt much more comfortable with this; he'd seen it done many times and done it a time or two himself. A shudder, and a gasp, and breathing......hacking.....gulping breathing, started. He grabbed a wrist. YES! The pulse was going. Then there were two uniformed men beside him, asking him to move back; taking over with the ease that practice brings to professionals. Yes, he could recognise that from his own experience.

He sat back on the muddy riverbank and relaxed for the first time in many minutes, drained emotionally, reaction setting in. He began to shake, and then he began to cry as what he had just done hit him. You couldn't tell because his face was still wet from the river. He grasped the arm of one of the ambulance officers.

"Will....he?...she? I don't know, be all right?"

The ambo looked at him and said, "It's a boy, mate. And yes, he's got a good chance, thanks to you."

"Fuck, thank you, god that I don't believe in. Would it be all right if I got that chardy now?" words unsaid but really meant.

He heaved himself up and staggered up the bank in his socks, helpful hands pulling him up the slope to the cycle path next to the road.

"Must go and find my trainers," he thought. "Can't go in the pub with no shoes. Dress code and all that." The fact that he was dripping wet from his swim somehow escaped him.

People were slapping him on the back. "Bloody great....Well done.....Hero..."

"Shit, I'm no bloody hero. I was there and I can swim a bit, that's all. Anybody would have done the same. 'Scuse me. I have to go and find my shoes"

"They're here. I picked them up," said a lady and handed them to him.

He was just sitting down to put them on and the cops came. Naturally they wanted to ask him questions. They were much more polite than usual and there were plenty of other witnesses, so it only took half an hour, but he had to sign a statement and promise to go to the station the next day.

They said they would take him home. He told them he didn't want to go home; he wanted to go to The Regatta and have a quiet drink, but they wouldn't take him there. What the fuck did a man have to do to get a bloody drink round here? No wonder he didn't believe in God.

The cops did one good thing. They kept the TV reporters and the press off of him. Some kind soul had rung them up and, like ravenous vultures, they flocked to the scene.

So they took him home, to where he did not particularly want to be. His wife took one look at him.

"Typical. Look at you. You tell me you're just going for a walk and you get pissed and fall in the river. I suppose you'll have some wild excuse, but I don't want to hear it. Having the police bring you home, you sorry excuse for a man."

He sighed. Wondering where the sweet girl he had married so long ago had gone to?

"I'm tired. I'm going to have a shower and go to bed. We can talk about it in the morning," If we're talking, he thought.

He stripped off, threw his sodden clothing in the laundry basket, showered and went to bed, dreaming of a glass of chardy.

His wife shook him awake next morning.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I've just seen the early news, and there were pictures of you. They're calling you the Mystery Hero, because no-one got your name, and the cops took you away before they could interview you. You rescued a boy and they're saying he will live all because of what you did.

"They're saying he was clinically dead when he came out of the water, but you kept on going, kept working until the Ambos came. People were telling you he was dead but you wouldn't give up."

He didn't remember anyone saying that.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You weren't in a mood to listen."

He could have said more, but it would have done no good. She had changed so much since menopause had hit her. At 45 she was five years older than him. The pity was she had been such a lovely natured woman, and now so bitter and harsh, a living demonstration of the power of hormones. It had been starting when he took the job in Hong Kong, but he hadn't recognised it, certainly hadn't understood what it might mean. Would it have made any difference? No, probably not.

They were due to go back next week and he didn't know if she would. A large part of him hoped she wouldn't. It was hard enough working ten to twelve hours a day without coming home to a litany of woes and a constantly growing list of his shortcomings. The wine was a refuge. If you're pissed a lot of these things go over your head, but it wasn't good for the job or for his reputation. He really hoped it wasn't noticed too much.

With a slight groan he got up to do the usual morning things, dressed and read the papers. He was front-page in The Courier Mail and even got a mention on Channel Nine; the man with no name; made him feel like Clint Eastwood! His wife was contrite and was trying to be nice. He appreciated the effort but knew it would only last until the next hot flush. Then the phone started to ring.

Unfortunately, she answered it first. It was Channel 7, miffed about not being first with the news.

She was saying, "Yes, it was my husband," while he was frantically shaking his head and mouthing "No" but she took no notice, thinking she was making up for yesterday. Could they interview him? Yes, she was sure he would be happy to be interviewed. No, he fucking wouldn't be happy! But it was all arranged. They would send a car to take him to the studios at 10.30 so he could be on the mid-day news.

What do you do? You can try to keep your wife and everybody else happy or you can look like a prick. In a week he would be back in Hong Kong and yesterday's hero and it would all be forgotten.

The news would move on. He would have his fifteen minutes ala Andy Warhol, just grin and bear it. He could act it out. After all, hadn't he been doing that all his life? Pretending.

The car duly came and collected him. His wife had fussed and wanted him to wear a jacket and tie, but he refused, agreeing only to an open-necked business shirt. Smart casual would be OK. The interview went well actually. The name interviewer, Bruce Paige, put him at ease and soon had his background, civil engineer, worked as a contractor, yeah, running up and down ladders and round construction sites kept you pretty fit and he'd always been a good swimmer. Not Australian-born, a ten-pound pom. That got a bit of a laugh. At least the guy he'd rescued might reckon he was worth ten quid. No, definitely not a hero; didn't do anything that lifesavers around the country didn't do every day and without all this hoo-hah. In the right place at the right time, that was all.

They offered him money to keep it exclusive, but he said no. He didn't want to be beholden to them or have some legal type walking behind him. They shrugged their shoulders and took him to lunch.

Now there was an offer he could accept. At long fucking last he got the drink he'd been aiming for for twenty-four hours, a nice glass of chardy. The steak didn't go amiss either. They dropped him off at the cop shop after lunch. He was half-pissed but the cops didn't seem to mind. The questions they asked were purely pro-forma and apparently the interview had been aired at noon on the news. It had come across well and he was the day's celebrity so nobody was going to give him a hard time (except maybe his wife).

One of the cops asked him if he knew the boy he had pulled out of the river and he said no, got no idea who he is. The cop asked if he would like to meet him. He shrugged, hey, who could refuse?

They took him in a police car to The Wesley. That was good. It was only walking distance to The Regatta so he could refuse a lift home and go and have another drink. The Wesley is a good hospital, private of course, but it had been the closest and they don't refuse emergency cases. They had put the boy in a private room in order to keep the vultures away and afford the police some security until they knew the whys and wherefores of the matter.

The cop who took him there showed him into the boy's room and gave him a bit of a strange look as he introduced him.

"John, this is Robert," pointing to the lad, who looked to be fourteen or fifteen. "Robert, this is John, the guy who saved your life. I'll leave you two to talk for a few minutes."

As he left the room the boy gave John a look bordering on hatred.

"Why did you pull me out? I wanted to die. Why did you interfere? I should be dead."

Taken aback would be a mild description. Flabbergasted, gobsmacked, would be closer to the mark, but this was a man who had worked on construction sites for twenty years. You see and hear strange things and deal with them.

"How was I to know? I couldn't stop to ask you and you were in no state to tell me. I did what you would have done for me if it was the other way round."

The boy gave a ghost of a smile. "No I wouldn't have," he mumbled. "I can't swim."

Serious or not, John had to laugh. "Touché!" he said.

"What's that mean?"

"It means I can't answer you. Where are your parents? Surely they'll be happy?"

"You're joking. They'll wish I was dead even more than I do."

He considered for a minute. "Well, from what I was told and what I felt when I pulled you out they got their wish and so did you. You WERE dead. So now you're alive again, what are you going to do? Just so you know, I work in Hong Kong."

"Yeah, I know. I saw you on the news. Hero." He made it into a sneer.

Despite the attitude there was something about the kid that reached out for help.

"I'm telling you because the Chinese believe that if you save a person's life you are responsible for every act they commit thereafter, and I think that's not a bad belief. I may not be Chinese but I understand some and acknowledge more, so, I'm telling you, if you fuck up in any way from now on I'm going to come after you because it's on me. I want you to live the best life you can live. I want you to be happy from now on, I don't care what happened to you before. You have a new life, do not waste it. If you want help you can come to me, but do it before you get in the shit, not afterwards."

Robert seemed nonplussed at this little speech. John took out his wallet and gave the boy a card.

"It's got all my numbers. I mean it. Anytime, anywhere. Your soul is mine. You want money; I'll give it, as much as I can. Help? If it's in my power, it's yours. Now, get well and behave yourself in future."

He walked out of the door, said goodbye to the cop outside and headed to The Regatta, he needed that drink.

For the next weeks and months he half expected a call from the boy but nothing happened. Months lengthened into years. Life went on, as life does. Small problems came up and got dealt with. Larger problems came up and were either endured or dealt with or eventually faded away. There were some big victories and some small ones. There were big failures and small ones, thankfully not too many big ones. His wife got through menopause and his home life became a little less stressed.

Twenty-five years went by and the incident was a distant memory. John was still in Hong Kong, still an engineer of course, but working in a different part of the industry. One day he got a phone call.

His secretary talked to him before putting it through.

"I have this lady on the line. She says it's a personal call, won't give a company. She says you'll take it because she owes you her life."

Puzzled but intrigued he told her to put it through and said, "Hello," in a quizzical tone.

"Hello, John. I don't expect you to remember me but I certainly remember you. My name is Roberta Stone and we met many years ago, in Brisbane."

Well, in twenty-five years you meet a lot of people and it's hardly surprising if you don't remember them all.

So he said, "Well, hello Roberta, what can I do for you?"

"Nothing now. I would just like to invite you for a drink for old times' sake. I'm staying at the Conrad for a few days. Could you meet me in the bar at six tonight?" She chuckled, as if she'd made a joke.

"You can bring your wife or a friend if you like."

By now thoroughly intrigued, John agreed. "How will I recognise you?" he asked.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll recognise you."

The appointed hour arrived and John got a table in the Conrad bar. He hadn't brought any "protection". He didn't think he needed it in a public place like this, especially not in Hong Kong. He had only come because a call like that was out of the ordinary and he still enjoyed the occasional surprise. He ordered a chardy, a nice South Australian, a creature of habit in that department at least, and started to sip it when an attractive woman of about forty, but looking pretty good on it, came straight to the table and sat down.

"Hello, John. It's been a long time. I don't suppose you remember me. I'm Roberta." She stuck out her hand and he took it and shook gently.

"I have to apologise, but I really don't remember you, and I can't understand how I could forget such a beautiful lady." When you get old you can compliment women without them feeling threatened, one dubious advantage of age perhaps.

She laughed.

"It's hardly surprising. The last time you saw me I was lying in a hospital bed and my name was Robert. You pulled me out of the river the day before."

He sat dumbstruck as the waiter brought her a chardonnay and put another in front of him.

"Yes, I drink the same as you," she said. "I've kept tabs on you ever since that day in the hospital. You told me you were responsible for me and I never forgot. You told me to be happy and live the life I wanted to live and that's what I've done. I think I've done you proud. The reason I tried to drown myself was because I wanted to be a girl and nobody understood. You saved me and although the subject never came up I thought somehow it was possible you would understand and here I am."

John looked at her, and ancient regret flooded through him.

"Oh,yes,I do understand. I only wish someone had saved me."

D-DAY
By Joannebarbarella
.

D is for decisions. The day has come. As some of my coarser friends would say “Shit or get off the pot”. It’s now or never.

D is for dithering; decades of dithering.

D is for Dianne. As I looked in the mirror that morning I knew I had to do it. A lifetime of pretending to be someone who I was not was finally about to come to an end.

I stood in front of the mirror naked except for a pair of panties. I still had the package I was born with but I didn’t like to look at it any more than absolutely necessary. I had decided that it wasn’t worth getting rid of it. At sixty-plus I wasn’t going to be using it and I had no great desire to change my plumbing so that a man could insert his penis between my legs. A couple of snips had ensured that it was no longer pumping poison into my body.

My problem had never been about sex or sexuality, but about feeling comfortable in my own skin.

I looked at my breasts, newly augmented, and felt a surge of pleasure at the pure femininity that they expressed for me. I couldn’t help myself in fondling them and giving my nipples a tweak until they engorged and hardened into little rocks on my chest. My little girls stood firm and proud. They hadn’t had time to sag into sixty-year-old razor strops yet.

I realized that I was dithering again, delaying the moment when I had to step through that office door. I put on my bra, enjoying the feeling of the white lacy cups and the mounds of my flesh which filled them….one of the ultimate signs of womanhood….cleavage. To look down on those twin mounds and know that they were mine.

I had started taking hormones (at last) about nine months before and now I had taken a month off work to try to refine the changes that had taken place to my body before I finally exposed my real self.

After my bra came my pantyhose. They had to be black and 40 denier, enough to hide the varicose veins in my legs that accompanied my sixty-odd years. I thought my legs were pretty good but you can’t always hide the ravages of time.

What to wear? What to wear? I rummaged through my wardrobe, wanting something distinctive but not outrageous. I was, after all, going to the office, not a night club, although in some ways a night club would be easier....nobody would know me there. I finally settled on a plain white silk blouse coupled with a swishy black and white striped skirt and a black jacket with white piping to highlight it. I set them down on the bed while I did my make-up.

I had been taking lessons in how to do sophisticated but discreet make-up from a lady who specialized in make-overs for people like me. She was “one of us” and had plied her trade for thirty years. She was an expert and had taught me well.

I sat in front of my mirror and reckoned that the face-lift had been well worth the money. After four weeks all signs of the surgery had gone and I thought I looked at least ten years younger. As I applied the foundation and other creams, lotions and powders my confidence grew that I would be able to survive today. As she had taught me I took special care around my eyes without going overboard.

The coup-de-grace was of course my lips. I had indulged myself with collagen to give me that Angelina Jolie look…a total indulgence….there was no way I could ever look like her or be anybody’s idea of a pin-up girl at my age, but those lips! I could not resist. As I parted my lips and stroked on a coral pink colour I regretted all those wasted years. I was never going to be beautiful now but I hoped that I could pass as incognito and I was going to be happy.

Dressing took only a couple of minutes. I checked myself out in the mirror and then I added some simple pearl-drop earrings. My wig was ready to wear with a bit of combing out. My make-over lady had prepped it with a very nice everyday style. I pulled it on and fluffed it up to add that bit of body. After experimenting with various styles and colours we had agreed that I was blonde. In truth I felt a bit light-headed when I surveyed the results. Part of me still had difficulty believing I was doing this.

I stepped into my shoes, black naturally, with two and-a-half-inch chunky heels, a chisel toe and a gold band around the heel. I knew I could wear these all day without them killing me. I loved heels but I knew that they could cripple you if you overdid them.

Now almost ready to leave the house I packed my handbag. Repair cosmetics, tissues, money, keys, spare panties in case. What had I forgotten?

I paused at the front door and almost panicked, fear rising up to nearly make me throw up, then firmly shut the door behind me and minced to my car, bridges burning behind me.

Driving to work was no different to before even though I was dressed differently. I did take my shoes off and drove in stockinged feet for extra care as I didn’t want to be involved in any accidents. I drove into my usual parking space and nobody challenged my right to park there. I was early, so none of the other partners had arrived yet. That was actually normal. I was usually first in.

So… shoes back on and out of the car, heels clicking on the concrete across the car park in the open, heart thumping and waiting for the laughter to start. Nothing happened. I opened the door and entered the lobby and headed for my receptionist’s desk.

The moment of truth and my personal moment of terror. What would my long-time receptionist say and think? She had been with me for fifteen years and was the only employee I could never beat into the office. I sometimes thought she slept there, but if she did she must have had a concealed wardrobe with all her clothes there.

“Good Morning, Margaret.” My voice still needed some work.

She looked me up and down with that cool receptionist’s gaze. I froze, waiting for the ultimate rejection.
Instead she smiled at me; her usual warm, welcoming smile.

“Good Morning. Welcome back. About time you took yourself in hand. What took you so long?”

I gaped a little.

“How did you know?”

“Well, for a start you always treated us girls much better than any of the men, and there were lots of other little clues. Then it’s been obvious for months that you were up to something, and when you took the month off we ran a book that you would return as the person we all thought you should be.”

“We’ve been waiting for the day. May I say you look much better this way.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“So what do we call you now?”

“D for Dianne.”

“No problem.”

I turned to go into my office.

“By the way, Dianne, love the outfit.”

DISCONNECTED

By Joannebarbarella

Frustrated, he went through combination after combination to see if he could get a connection, but no matter what, when he tried to log on to the internet, he ended up with the same display on the screen of the laptop.

He tried to get onto the server, but, naturally, you needed a web connection to make a complaint. Typical. Particularly when it was out of hours. Just like the notices you see for courses to remedy illiteracy.

He wouldn’t be able to do that until he got to work after the weekend. His normal evening was stuffed....probably the next two as well. At least it looked like it was a server problem, which meant the laptop itself was all right, no software to worry about. He could access Word but what good was that?

Yeah, I know, get a life!

He usually spent the evening hooked into the net, reading stories on Big Closet Top Shelf, a site catering mostly to those who believed they were the wrong gender, reading, commenting, or conversing with people like himself (or herself), all the while gently supping on glasses of wine, not getting drunk, but just having a bit of a buzz on, dulling the reality of everyday life, taking off the sharp edges of the ever present longing..

Living alone much of the time was OK. When you got to his age you liked company part of the time, but also enjoyed some time by yourself. Selfishness is thy name. At this particular moment solitude ruled. The previous week had been spent at home over the Chinese New Year holidays surrounded by wall-to-wall friends and the woman who still, against all odds, loved him.

Now here he was, back in Singapore, alone. Now he could wear the clothes that he loved, the silks and the satins, could put on a little (ha-ha, a lot of) make-up and a wig and pretend that he wasn’t a fat old man, but the nineteen-year-old girl inside. No....that wasn’t right....she was the girl.... not the fat old fraud. She didn’t look in a mirror any more than she had to, not liking what looked back.....but she was who she was. She still remembered those golden teenage days when she was the face shown to the world until HIS fear drove her back into hiding.

The lack of internet was spoiling the mood somehow. Talking to others like herself was a large part of the pleasure. It always felt so good to sit in front of the keyboard with her painted nails pressing the keys and exchanging Personal Messages with one of the other girls.....with someone who understood where she was coming from.

Desperately seeking diversion, she went to their CD collection, and, after some thought, pulled out a couple of Dire Straits and Mark Knopfler discs. It wasn’t the music they’d been brought up on but they both loved Mark’s guitar and the gutsy working-class lyrics of many of the songs resonated with their youth. They were actually a Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Stones and Beatles child by age, but they didn’t write the really gritty stuff in those days.

He knew in a way that he was already past his “use-by” date when he went looking for a decent radio/CD/cassette to play his CDs on. All the stores tried to sell him an iPod, not one of those out-of-date contraptions, and he had to traipse all around town to find a Philips set in the back of a tiny, dusty shop in Little India. I mean, who buys Philips these days?

She went to put on Dire Straits but found a forgotten CD of AC/DC doing “Iron Man 2” which was already loaded, not a bad movie either. With a small smile she decided to indulge herself with them first. She had always had a soft spot for the raw energy of Acker Dacker. When the music started the girl began bopping around the room, glass of white wine in hand, remembering the times when she had been the one in control, spinning and cavorting to “Back In Black”. God, those boys could still do the metal.

Shimmy and shake, put the glass down so she could do justice to that wild tune, the sweat coming off her brow as she danced to the beat. She loved the old man. He had never denied her in all those years, but he was such a coward that he had kept her hidden. She knew why, of course. Those were the days when he would have been a freak featured in the sordid pages of The News Of The World if she had been exposed.

Discretion took the place of the valour he didn’t have and he hid her away, married, had kids and lived a pathetic “normal” life.

His wife had vague suspicions, having found one of his stashes one time, but he had talked his way out of that. He had confessed her existence to his latest girlfriend. She sort of accepted it, but being Chinese, managed to ignore it, as the Chinese do with things with which they are uncomfortable.

She kept on dancing, finishing up with a wild rendition on “Highway To Hell”, picking up her glass and draining it when the music finished, panting, heart thumping, but feeling invigorated as she hadn’t for years. Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be so bad.

AC/DC finished and she went and got another glass of wine. Her dress was sticking to her a little and she could feel her heels making the muscles at the back of her calves ache, but she didn’t care. She should have made him let himself go like this more often. It was fun and liberating too. She could almost feel her breasts straining at her bra.

She took over, putting on Dire Straits, and together they sat and listened to “Telegraph Road”, both appreciating the marvellous guitar solo embracing them in the middle and amazed at how a Geordie man could recreate the story of Detroit with such passion.

She had another large swig of the wine and started dancing again to “The Sultans Of Swing”, holding the glass out at arms' length as she sashayed to those wonderful British pub lyrics. You don’t appreciate the talent until you haven’t heard it for a while.

More wine and dance, dance, dance, a lot of tears along the way as the lyrics melted into the brain, and into the soul, some slow swings around the room and some full-blooded rock. She loved “Money For Nothing” for both the beat and the lyrics and gave it all she had. At the end of that number the old man collapsed onto the sofa.

“Go and get another drink,” she said.

But he just lay there looking at her.

“Brothers In Arms” started.

“Come on. This is a slow one.”

He looked at her. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“It’s all yours, love. I can’t.”

She tried to pull him to his feet but their fingers slipped through each other’s.

So she danced away into the night, free at last.

This little piece resulted from a lack of internet connection which forced me to find alternative entertainment. Do not read too much into the ending. While I was feeling a bit melancholy I wasn’t THAT melancholy....or you wouldn’t be reading this.

I have deliberately mixed the gender pronouns to try to convey the dichotomy experienced by myself and those like me, so please don’t make that a hook for any criticism you might have.

There was some debate between me and my friends and editor as to whether I should even post this, but in the end I have ignored their advice, so don’t blame them. Thank you Sheila and Dimelza for your views and comments, and Kristina for editing and your opinion.

This is actually inspired (that may be the wrong word) by an article I read. Apparently in Marseilles some years ago there was a gang that used to kidnap young boys, feminise them, and sell their services as prostitutes.

She didn’t actually remember it until the psychiatrist teased it out of her mind. The indoctrination had been so complete and effective that it was buried in the back of her head somewhere, together with all the other memories which had not mattered during her recent life. She was still getting used to doing without the happy-drugs and that occupied a lot of her consciousness, in fact most of it. Ancient history had not been a priority for years. Why would it be when the focus was on feeling good today and tomorrow? That had been the only thing that mattered.

It had been three or four weeks since the raid, she thought, although she wasn’t exactly sure. Time had been a bit elastic for a while after that, and when they hadn’t given her that regular injection or the pills which she had come to depend on she had been out of it for a while, screaming and sobbing and begging for them to give it to her. She promised to do anything they wanted. Did they want a blow-job? She was only too happy to do it. She gave the best blow-jobs in the business. Everybody said so. She just loved to have a dick between her lips and she could make that dick do spectacular things. Her tongue could manipulate a frenulum better than anybody. Did they want to fuck her? It wasn’t a problem. She loved being fucked, the bigger the cock, the better, the deeper it penetrated her the more she liked it. Something more exotic? Anything they wanted. Bondage, S&M, anal sex? Just ask. Anything to lose this nausea and the goose-bumps and the chills and that general rotten feeling, shaking, nose running and eyes streaming.

She just couldn’t understand when they pushed her away, with something like revulsion on their faces. All the other men from before always wanted her. She had made sure she looked her prettiest and dressed so that they would notice her and take her because she knew she would get her happy-juice injection and some pills. Doctor Adam was good about that.

When she had got over the worst of the sweats and the shivers and had thrown up until she was too weak to do any more they had actually given her some injections which made her feel a little better. They were not the real thing but they were better than nothing, and after another week or so she had been able to eat without being totally nauseated. All that time she had been dressed only in a kind of smock because she messed it all the time. She hadn’t cared about peeing in it or spewing over it or shitting on it and she wasn’t really in control anyway. The women who looked after her had changed her regularly and washed her just like she was a baby.

Slowly she became aware of her surroundings again and a few days ago she had asked the nice lady who talked to her all the time if she could have a shower and wash her hair, and when she had done that she realised that she would like to feel pretty again so she had asked for some make-up and a decent nightie and dressing gown. The nice lady had looked at her with a kind of pity which she thought was strange but had brought the stuff she asked for. She felt so much better with clean hair and some eye-shadow and mascara and a smear of lip-gloss. Perhaps she would soon ask if she could get her hair done properly and wear some nice underwear and a real dress and shoes.

The nice lady told her that her name was Elizabeth, but she could call her Liz. She was a psychiatrist and it was her job to make her well again. Funny, she didn’t remember being crazy.

One day the lady took her to a room that looked like a doctor's surgery, sat her down on a sort of couch and started questioning her, which made her very nervous. The tissue she was holding to wipe her nose was soon crumpled and then shredded by her hands which seemed to have taken on a life of their own.

Liz started off by asking her name.

“I’m Catherine,” she told her.

“Yes, dear, but you must have had another name before. Think hard. Can you remember ever having a boy’s name?”

The girl obviously concentrated, screwing up her face as she thought. “No, I’ve always been Catherine. If I wasn’t Catherine I didn’t get my happy-juice.”

“Who did you say you were to make them not give you your happy-juice?”

The girl struggled again with that thought, and said grudgingly, “I told them my name was Anthony, but it was only at first and it wasn’t true. When I told them it was really Catherine they gave me my happy-juice, so that must be my name. Doctor Adam always gave me my happy-juice when I was a good girl.”

“Yes, dear, but when did you think you were Anthony, and why?”

Again that long and painful pause, and this time she burst into tears and her hands writhed ever more nervously.

“It was when they took me in the car, and afterwards,” she sobbed.

“Why don’t you tell me about when they took you in the car? Tell me what happened. Can you remember how old you were? What were you doing when it happened?” Liz was stroking the girl's hair to calm her.

The girl thought for another minute or so, and her tears diminished a little.

“I was on my way home from school and this big black car pulled up next to me. There was a man driving and a man in the back. The man in the back was Doctor Adam. He asked me if I was Anthony Asher and I said I was. He told me my Mum had had an accident and was in the General Hospital and he’d been sent to find me and take me there, so he opened the door and I got in. I think I was 12 when that happened.”

The girl Catherine got quite agitated all over again when she recounted that. “Look, lady, my name’s Catherine and I’m a girl. Now can I have some happy-juice please? I’ve told you what you wanted to hear. I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I?”

“Yes dear, you’ve been a very good girl. Can I call you Cathy? I can’t give you happy-juice but I’ll give you something nearly as good that won’t hurt you. It’ll make you sleepy though, so we’ll continue tomorrow, OK.” She injected the girl with a syringe and led her to a couch and laid her down. In a minute she was asleep.

As soon as she was sure Cathy was dead to the world Liz picked up the phone and rang the police detective she was working with. After the brothel had been raided six teenage girls had been taken into custody as well as the two men who were obviously in charge of the establishment. All of them were addicted to heroin, but it was a shock to the police to find out, following a medical examination, that the girls were all genetically male. They had immediately transferred them to psychiatric custody for further investigation.

“Hi, Dan. Liz here. I’ve got the first crack in the wall. She’s like the others, so conditioned she believes everything they’ve told her, but I got her to remember when they took her. Her name was Anthony Asher, aged 12. That would have been about five years ago, so check your missing persons files for that period. With what we’ve got from the other girls we have enough to send this Adam character away for years on the strength of the kidnappings alone, but the way he’s mutilated these kids and messed with their minds, plus addicting them to heroin, I don’t know what punishment would be enough.”

The man on the other end of the phone spoke for a while.

“Yes, I know it’s hard for you to come to terms with. All these boys turned into near perfect imitation girls, and wanting to please you sexually every time you come near them. Don’t get me wrong, but you may need some counselling yourself when this is over.”

He spoke again.

“Look, whatever you do, don’t blame the kids. I know it’s disgusting and revolting, but it’s not their fault. They’ve been physically modified without consent and mentally manipulated with the aid of the drugs. You of all people should know that an addict will do literally anything to get their fix and these kids are in a worse state or more than most addicts.”

There were more noises from the other end of the phone.

“Yes, I’ll continue with her tomorrow, but it’s not going to happen overnight. I have to break down the conditioning and her body has to adjust to the absence of the drug. Don’t worry. I’m recording everything so you’ll have your evidence. She’s the youngest of them all, so she should be easier to rehabilitate than some of the others.”

The phone gurgled again.

“Make no mistake, Dan. My job is to help her first. I want to see that shit put away maybe more than you, but I won’t destroy her to do it, and yes, she is a she. There’s no going back for her. She’s stuck with what she’s been made into and I have to try to make her reasonably happy with it. Please, I don’t need you coming on all male chauvinist with her, all right?”

With that, Liz put the phone down, sighing as she did so. Men could be so difficult, particularly when they felt threatened sexually.

The next morning Liz went to see Cathy in her room before she got dressed.

“Hello, Cathy dear. I thought you might be ready for some proper clothes, some nice underwear, a skirt and blouse maybe and some decent shoes. What do you think?”

Cathy actually smiled for the first time that Liz remembered since starting to see her. The girl’s face was still pale and drawn, her eyes big and nervous, but there was animation there too, a hopeful sign.

“Yes, please. That would be really nice.”

“I’ll have to go and pick something for you. Will that be OK? In a couple of days we can take you shopping and you can choose some things on your own, but for now you’ll have to trust me. I’ll have to guess your sizes because you’ve lost quite a lot of weight since you came here. What about your shoe size?”

“I’m a size 7.”

“That’s the same as me. Here, try these on. If they fit it’ll make things easier.”

The shoes fitted pretty well. Liz had known they would because she had tried them on the girl while she slept last night, guessing that new clothes would make her feel much better and therefore easier to question, and what teenage girl can resist new shoes. The clothes sizes weren’t too hard to estimate when a tape measure had been run over her sleeping body.

Liz told Cathy to take a shower while she went and bought the clothes. A quick trip to Marks and Spencer’s reaped a pretty and serviceable couple of sets of panties, bras, stockings, skirts and tops, and a pair of black pumps with three-inch heels, enough to set the mood and be going on with.

When Liz returned to the psychiatric hospital Cathy was waiting with barely concealed eagerness and quickly unwrapped the purchases, sighing with delight when she put on the panties and the bra. She fussed with the skirt and top and grumbled a little that the skirt was too long and the neckline of the top too high, but she was clearly pleased to be wearing real clothes again. Once she had fixed her face and hair she was much more relaxed than she had been the previous day, which was, of course, exactly what Liz wanted. She had also transformed from a rather sickly-looking kid into an extremely pretty girl, even though still pale with worried doe-eyes.

“Now Cathy, I’m going to ask you more questions, starting from where we got to yesterday. I don’t want you to get upset, but I’m going to call you Anthony to begin with, because I think it will help you to remember, OK?”

Cathy looked nervous and nodded uncertainly, her fingers twisting together in her lap.

“Lie down on this couch and relax. If you get frightened just tell me and we’ll take a break. Now, I’m going to count to fifty and I want you to breathe nice and slowly and then I’ll start asking you questions. One...two...three....four...five....six.....fifty.”

The young girl lay there with her eyes closed, breathing evenly, relaxed now.

“Now, you got into the car, Anthony. What happened next?”

“The next thing I knew I was waking up and I felt better than I ever felt in my life. There was a slight pain in between my legs, but it just didn’t matter, and I seemed to remember a couple of pricks in my backside, but I just felt so good. I was practically floating and everything seemed so fine. Then I remembered my mother had had an accident, but I couldn’t get upset about it. I asked the man, Doctor Adam, where my mother was and he said the accident wasn’t as bad as they had thought at first so she had gone home. I was very happy for her.”

“Then he asked me how I felt and I told him I felt wonderful, and he asked me if I would like to feel that way all the time.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Yes, please, sir.”

“Well, Catherine, you can, but you have to be a good girl and do what I tell you, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand, but my name is Anthony and I’m a boy.”

“No, from this moment on your name is Catherine and you are already a girl. If you don’t believe this you will very soon start feeling sick and will only get better when you accept what I tell you.”

“But sir, my name is Anthony and I’m a boy. How can I change that?”

“Catherine, you’re being stubborn and I will have to punish you until you obey me.”

The girl on the couch began to get agitated and tears leaked from her eyes.

“Please, Miss Elizabeth, don’t call me Anthony any more. My name is Cathy and I’m not a boy, I’m a girl. “

“Hush, my dear. It’s all right Cathy. Tell me what he did to you then.”

The girl quieted somewhat. “First, he didn’t give me any happy-juice and soon I felt really rotten. I was shivering and I got goose-pimples all over. I felt like I was going to be sick all the time and my muscles cramped. It was awful. Then he gave me some more happy-juice and I felt wonderful again, but he said he didn’t believe me when I agreed with him that my name was Catherine and I was a girl, so he was going to prove to me that I was a girl.”

“He stripped me naked and put me in a big cage. It was big enough for me to lie down if I curled up a little. There was a bowl like a dog bowl that they put some mushy food in once a day. On one side of the cage there was a thing like a rubbery cock about half way up and if I wanted to drink I had to suck on it. There was another harder one on the floor at the other end of the cage and he told me I had to sit on it and work it up inside of me if I wanted my injections. He put TV screens all around and all they showed were girls sucking and being fucked from behind, like he told me, doggy style, which was why I was in the cage, he said: to learn. All the time the voices on the TVs were saying how nice it was to suck and be fucked, and how girls really liked it. Because the cage was not big enough to stand up in I got cramped. He said if I sucked and fucked like a good girl the cramps would go away and he’d give me happy-juice.

At first it was very uncomfortable as I felt I was choking and wanting to shit all the time as the cocks stretched me and filled my mouth and throat, but then I got the injection and I did it so that I would feel good. The lights and the screens were on all the time and I couldn’t sleep, but when the cramps got bad I would push myself on to the back one and suck the other one and they would pulse and wiggle and after a bit I started to like it, especially since I knew I would get the happy-juice and the voices kept on telling me good girls loved to do it and the girls on the screens seemed to be enjoying it so much. He kept on calling me Catherine and saying I was a good girl and he would let me out when I had learned my lesson. I’m not sure but I think I was in there for a couple of weeks and of course he was right. I had been stupid and my name WAS Catherine and I WAS a girl and I don’t know why I thought any different. Then he let me out and said my training would start straight away.”

Liz was so shaken by this story that she couldn’t go on any more that day and told Cathy she could relax until tomorrow. The girl seemed less upset than the psychiatrist expected. She said she didn’t mind very much because she had got her happy-juice and the rest didn’t really matter. Liz gave her another injection of methadone to keep her calm and rang Dan to pass on the news. Naturally he was disgusted. In both of them there grew an even greater desire to make the so-called Doctor Adam pay for his actions.

Liz and Cathy continued the following day.

“How did they train you, Cathy?”

“Well, first they made me dress in girls’ clothes. I had to wear panties and a training bra and these cute little dresses with petticoats, and ankle-socks and mary-jane shoes. They did something with my hair to make it longer. Two other girls were brought in to show me how to behave, how to dress myself and sit and stand and walk. Their names were Julia and Patsy. They told me that if I didn’t do everything right they wouldn’t get any happy-juice and nor would I, and if they didn’t get their injections they would be very angry with me and make me suffer.”

“I wanted to get mine, so I tried very hard to do what they told me. When they said I must move in such-and-such a way I did it. I practiced walking with a wiggle in my hips and holding my hands by my sides with my wrists limp; how to bend down from the knees instead of from the waist like a boy. They taught me how to curtsey and smile nicely for the customers and how to do my hair and put on make-up. I learned how to talk like a girl too; use words and expressions the way a girl does. I really tried and I was very good and we all got our happy-juice every day. After a while it all seemed to come naturally. The more I tried to be a girl the better I liked it”

“I see. Can you tell me when you knew you didn’t have testicles anymore?”

“Oh, that was before, when I was in the cage. I don’t remember exactly when, but one day when I was putting the rubber cock in my backside I felt my crutch and I knew it was empty. Before I had balls in the sack behind my willy and now I didn’t.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“I don’t remember feeling anything. I got my shot of happy-juice and that took care of everything. That was all that mattered.”

“And how did you feel about having to wear girls’ clothes and make-up and all that?”

“I didn’t really mind. If Doctor Adam said I was a good girl I got my injection, so I tried very, very hard to do it right, and, after a while I began to like it very much. If I looked good and did my hair right and dressed real pretty then everything would be all right, so soon I liked it very much and I couldn’t imagine any other way of dressing. It got even better as I got older and my breasts developed and my hips and bum became nicely shaped. Then the clothes really started to look good on me.”

“When did you have to serve customers? When did that start?”

“I’m not sure. I think it was about three or four months after I got there. Doctor Adam taught me how to suck meat lollies and when he thought I was good enough I had to do it for other men and sometimes I had to lick ladies too. Oh, and sometimes they used to fuck me, too, just like I’d been taught.”

“What did you think about that?”

“At first I was a bit scared, but when Doctor Adam told me I was a natural it made me so happy and now I love it. When are you going to give me some more cocks to suck? I can’t wait to take out some of that lovely meat inside the trousers that I see round here. And what about you Liz? Would you like your fanny licked? I promise you I’ll make you very happy.”

Liz was revolted. This poor child had been turned into a sex machine, but, at the same time the idea of having her pussy licked insinuated into her mind and refused to go away. To make things worse her body also started to betray her as she began to get damp between her legs. The temptation was nigh on irresistible, yet with a mental and physical shudder she made herself clamp down on that thought.

While she was getting her mind back into gear the girl had moved quickly into a position kneeling in front of her and had begun to slide her hands up Liz’s thighs, kneading the soft flesh there. Shivering more than slightly Liz grabbed Cathy’s wrists and had to almost wrestle her back.

“Cathy! No! Don’t! Please, you mustn’t.” As she straightened her clothes and regained her composure Cathy’s face screwed up and she burst into tears.

“I thought you liked me. I only wanted to make you feel good. None of the other ladies wanted me to stop.”

Liz got herself under control, put her arms around the sobbing girl and pulled her face into her shoulder, stroking her hair as she did so.

“I do like you very much, Cathy, but you have been taught some things that are not appropriate. I have to find out all the things that have been done to you and try to make you see them in a different light. In order to do this I have to have a stand-off relationship with you. If you and I get sexually involved they will take me off of your case and put somebody else on it. I don’t want that to happen and I hope you don’t either.”

Cathy stopped crying and looked at Liz with fear in her eyes.

“No, don’t leave me. I don’t want anyone else.”

“Then you have to behave and not make any advances to me. Just answer my questions and tell me your story, OK?”

“Yes, Miss Elizabeth.”

“It’s Liz. Thanks Cathy and I really do like you so let me help you get better, all right?”

The girl nodded and Liz thought how beautiful she was even in a bedraggled state. She tried to see her as the boy she might have become but her minds eye wouldn’t produce the picture. Anyway it was her job to try and return this girl to a normal life and she would do her damnedest to make it a happy one.

“Let’s carry on then. Tell me more about the men. What did you actually have to do for them?”

“Well, usually Dr. Adam would tell me I had a customer coming two or three hours before they came and if they had any special requirements, so I could get myself ready.”

“What do you mean ‘special requirements’?” Liz had a pretty good idea what it meant but wanted Cathy’s voice on tape detailing the degradation she had had to endure.

“Some of them wanted me dressed as a schoolgirl or a French maid. I really liked being a French maid. Others wanted me to be a nurse or in black leather. Some liked me to look like a Hollywood screen goddess. My favourite was Veronica Lake. Others just wanted me in a negligee so they didn’t have to waste time undressing me. Those were usually a bit rough and I didn’t like them so much.”

“So what did you do when they arrived?”

“I had to greet them as if they were my only lover, fuss over them and make them comfortable; get them a drink if they wanted one, and stay in character if it was a special, like if I was a domme I had to humiliate them or a schoolgirl I had to call them Daddy. You know. They nearly all wanted me to give them a blow-job first and I could hardly wait. As soon as I could without spoiling the mood I would have their cocks out of their pants and be on my knees in front of them sucking that lovely gorgeous meat lolly. Have you ever tried it, Liz? It’s so nice when you start and tease the head, giving it little licks and kisses and nibbles. Then you take the whole of the shaft into your mouth and sort of squeeze it backwards and forwards until you feel that final swelling just before a man cums and then everything spurts into your mouth and you swallow it all and then lick him clean. It’s really delicious and you just know they want more.”

Liz couldn’t stop blushing. She hadn’t ever sucked a cock and here was this nymph describing it with such relish and enthusiasm that she found mental images of herself and a past lover floating into her thoughts, with her mouth engulfing his dick. She shuddered and again mentally clamped down as her nipples began to tighten under her blouse.

“No dear. Go on.”

“There were only a couple of guys who didn’t want that. There was one who was very sweet. He only wanted me to be like his French ladies’ maid. I used to take him upstairs, undress him, shower and powder him and dress him as a woman, make up his face and tell him how good he looked, which was true actually. Then he would pretend he was the lady of the manor and I would be her servant for a few hours. We would go downstairs and I would bring her tea and cake and wait on her. When time was up I took her upstairs and turned her back into a man again. She always cried when I did that. I used to really want to suck her cock and make her feel better but she wouldn’t let me. She used to give me very big tips.”

“What did you do with your tips?”

“Oh, I had to give them to the Doctor to help pay for my upkeep.”

“What about the other one?”

“Oh, he was quite different. I was supposed to be his wife and as soon as he saw me he would start yelling at me and call me a slut and a bitch. He used to grab me by the arm and drag me to the bedroom, throw me on the bed and take me from behind. I always made sure I was well lubricated when he was coming. Then when he was finished he just used to leave, still calling me names. I think he was probably actually scared of his wife.”

“Hmmm. I think you might be right, dear. Tell me, when did they remove your penis?”

“That was a bit over a year ago. Dr. Adam took me to this special hospital and I was in there for about two weeks.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“It was OK. The silly little thing didn’t do anything. It was just what I peed through. The Doctor said a pussy would be much nicer and more useful. When I came out of hospital they gave me this big plastic tool that I had to put inside me every day. At first it hurt because I was sore but the happy-juice made the pain go away and after a while it felt so good that I used to put the tool in five or six times a day. It made me feel as good as an injection. Then, after about three months Dr. Adam took me to bed and fucked me in my new fanny with his cock. God, it felt so good. I thought I would pass out because I loved it so. Then I could service my customers with something extra. I was really happy. Do you think any of the men here would like to fuck me? I’m getting so wet just talking about it.”

Liz watched in a kind of horrified daze as the sweet-looking young girl pulled up her skirt, thrust her fingers into her crutch and began to masturbate, her face taking on a look of ecstasy. The psychiatrist wanted to stop her but found herself unable to move until Cathy spasmed and came with a little scream.

She eyed Liz with a languorous smile on her lips. “See, I couldn’t do that before. I bet you love to have a cock in there too, don’t you?”

Liz unfroze. “I think we’ve done enough for today, Cathy,” she strangled out. “Let’s take a break.”

The psychiatrist gave the child her methadone injection and left her staring into space with a dreamy and vacant look on her face. She was licking the fingers of the hand she had masturbated with.

Liz felt ashamed of herself for her reactions during the session. She didn’t know whether to throw up or find something to smash. What had been done to the child was utterly callous and she knew it would be hard work undoing it. That out-and-out shit Adam!

She rang the police officer, Dan, and told him what she had recorded today.

“I hope it’s enough. I don’t know how much more I can take,” she said.

The policeman told her it was definitely enough. With what the other girls had told them Adam would be going away for a long time. When he was convicted the word would be put around in the prison that he was a serial child-molester, the most despised class of criminal. The other inmates would make sure his stretch wasn’t a cake-walk. Then the detective produced a surprise. They had found Anthony Asher’s mother and she wanted to see her little boy as soon as possible, understandable since she had all but given up hope of ever seeing him alive again.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Did you tell her what’s been done to him?”

There was buzzing on the other end of the line.

“Oh, thank you so much. You just told her he’d changed physically, like he’d grown up some and maybe she wouldn’t recognise him. So you’ve left it all to me and I’m going to have to deal with a distraught woman and introduce her to her nymphomaniac daughter when she’s expecting her son. God, I hate men sometimes.” Liz slammed down the receiver.

She sat and seethed as she thought about this development. Gradually she quietened down. It was obviously impossible to postpone a meeting between mother and daughter for long. She would see if she could hold the mother off for a day or two after she broke the news, just so she could get to grips with the idea. Maybe it might give Cathy an anchor to the real world, as long as Mrs. Asher could accept her as her child. If Cathy went back into a normal environment it could give her therapy a real boost.

The next day Liz told Cathy she was taking her shopping and she wanted her to pick clothes that a customer might want to see her in if he asked for a teenage girl. She took up the challenge with a vengeance, buying a couple of mini-dresses and tight jeans and short tops that showed her midriff, clearly enjoying the outing and preening in the shops as she tried things on. When Liz took her back to the hospital she told the youngster that she wanted her to dress in those clothes for the next couple of days and to pretend she was a teenager, which of course she was.

Mrs. Asher had rung the hospital and Liz had agreed to see her later that afternoon. When she arrived Liz arranged for Cathy to be in an interview room which had a one-way observation mirror along one wall and had given her a couple of teen magazines to keep her occupied.

Liz met the mother in her office and sat her down with a cup of tea. The lady had clearly once been very attractive but now five years of strain, uncertainty, worry, fear and anguish had taken their toll and she looked every day of her age. Also she was absolutely determined to see her son, come hell or high water.

“You can see him in a few minutes Mrs. Asher, but I want you to realise he’s been through a dreadful experience and is under psychiatric care. I’m worried about the effect this might have on you as you almost certainly won’t recognise him. Therefore I’ve arranged for you to see him in an observation facility today and then I want you to go away, think about what you’ve seen, and come back tomorrow to talk to me. You’ll understand in a few moments that a reunion could be traumatic for you both.”

“I really don’t understand. It’s my right to see my son after five long years. Many a time I thought I’d never see him again. I just want to hold him...please?”

“I beg you to be patient, Mrs. Asher. Believe me, I want this to work out, but he’s physically very different to the boy you remember.”

“They didn’t disfigure him, did they? I won’t care as long as I get my son back.”

“Not in the way you might think, Mrs. Asher, but please be prepared for a shock. Now, let’s go and see him,” and Liz led the way to the room adjacent to the one-way mirror.

“There he is,” said Liz, indicating the lovely young girl sitting reading on the other side of the glass.

“Is this some kind of sick joke? Are you trying to make a fool of me? That’s not my son.”

“I’m afraid it is Mrs. Asher. Look closely and you’ll see the features, but that’s what they did to him. They made him into a girl and into a prostitute and a heroin addict. We can treat the second two conditions but the first is irreversible. Your son is now your daughter.”

To her great credit Mrs. Asher did not faint or recoil. She stepped closer to the mirror and carefully scrutinised the face of the girl in the next room. After a couple of minutes she turned to Liz with tears running down her face.

“My poor, poor boy. Whatever did he do to deserve this?”

“He accepted a lift from strangers. They told him you had had an accident and they were sent to take him to you. Of course he believed them and then it was too late. Those evil bastards addicted him to heroin and then moulded him into what you see in front of you. Forgive me, I have to call him “she” now. Her name is Catherine and she has had hundreds of sexual encounters with both men and women over the last five years and she is currently convinced that she loves it because of the conditioning. Now you know why I wanted you to just see her today. Your mind must be in turmoil with the shock and I imagine there must be some guilt and possibly even disgust if you think about those years she has endured, what was done to her and what she has done as a consequence.”

The mother clutched Liz’s arm and staggered. The psychiatrist quickly guided her to a chair.

“Do you want to go back to my office?”

“No. I want to sit here and look at her a bit longer. She’s still my child, you know, and I haven’t seen her.. him.. for five long years. I often feared he was dead, but I never gave up, and now this. She’s very pretty, isn’t she? Anthony always had very delicate features. I’m sorry if I’m rambling. It’s all very confusing. Did you tell her I was coming?”

“No. I wanted to make sure you were all right with it first. The child’s been traumatised enough without being rejected by her mother.”

“How could you think I would do that? She’s still my baby, whatever she looks like. Yes, it’ll take a lot of getting used to and I do need time to think things through, but I’ll tell you now, she’s coming home with me,” said the woman heatedly.

“Like I said before, why don’t you think about things overnight and call me tomorrow. If that’s the way you feel I’ll tell Cathy you’re coming to see her. I hope you don’t change your mind. Believe me, there are many parents who wouldn’t have been able to face up to it. I think you’re very brave and very strong and that will really help Cathy to become a normal girl. One thing though, it’s going to be several weeks if not months, before I can release Cathy. I have to be sure she’s no danger to herself or others. She is a recovering addict you know. Of course you can come and see her any time, even overnight here if you wish.”

“Oh, very well. I’ll call you in the morning, but I’m not going to change my mind.”

With a last, longing glance at Cathy through the window Mrs. Asher left the room with Liz and then left the building. Liz heaved a mighty sigh of relief, both at the mother’s acceptance, at least for now, that her son had become her daughter and that she had been somewhat able to gloss over the depth of Cathy’s addiction to sex.

Liz decided to take a chance that the mother would not change her mind. She had, after all, seemed pretty determined. She retrieved Cathy from the interview room and took her to her office, sat her down and told her that her mother had been found and wanted to see her. How did Cathy feel about that?

“I sort of don’t know. Until you started me remembering things, I had almost forgotten about her, but now I know it was because I was really scared for her that I got into the car. I must have loved her but it’s all a bit fuzzy.”

“Do you want to see her? She knows what happened to you and she wants to see you. If it gets too hard you only have to tell me and I’ll send her away.”

“No, I’ll see her. It’ll be OK.”

“All right. No time like the present. How about this afternoon? If she agrees, of course. Let me talk to her.”

“Yeah, sure, but I want to look my best, so can I have a couple of hours to get ready?”

“Of course you can, dear, but nothing too outrageous, please?” She escorted Cathy back to her room to let her change, while silently praying that her mother hadn’t changed her mind since yesterday.

It was not long until Mrs. Asher rang and immediately demanded to know when she could see her son.

“Mrs. Asher, You can see her today. I’m so glad you still feel the same way, because I told her you would come and she wants to see you too. In fact she’s getting ready now. I think we should talk first, though. I’d like to prepare you for some of the things that might happen.”

“Oh dear...’she’.... It’s so hard to get used to. I have to remember I have a daughter now. My poor little Anthony is gone but still with me. Oh, I hope I can cope. Yes, I think it’s a good idea if we talk first. I must sort myself out before I meet her. I’ll be there in half an hour. Will that be all right?”

“Of course,” replied Liz.

Mrs. Asher arrived only twenty minutes later, clearly impatient and more than a little nervous. Liz steered her into her office and gave her a seat and a cup of tea. She asked the mother her name and was told it was Phyllis so she began her little lecture.

“Phyllis dear, there are a few things I must warn you about. You have to start by remembering that your son was castrated almost immediately after he was kidnapped, was given heroin and subjected to a form of brainwashing, degradation and debauchery. From the time he awoke after being in the car nothing about his life was normal. He was dressed and indoctrinated to be a girl and he went through a female puberty except for the incongruity of having a penis. However, he did not have the benefit of a girl’s family environment and was taught to be a sex object, so that to him.....her..., that is now normal. She exists to satisfy the sexual needs of others and finds that not only natural, but necessary to her well-being.”

“You mean she’s a slut?” asked Phyllis.

“I think that word doesn’t have any meaning in her case. She craves sex and because of the addiction and the indoctrination she equates it with feeling good. If you drop your guard she may well make advances towards you, even though you’re her mother. She just wants to make you happy in the only way she knows how. I can treat that condition but it’ll take time and I want you to know what may happen if you’re not careful. She doesn’t have any morals in the normal sense of the word. Rehabilitating her will be like teaching a small child what’s right and wrong. I’m thinking of using hypnotherapy on her to facilitate the process.”

“Do you really think you can make her into a normal girl?”

“I can only do so much. You will have to play the biggest part in the end. A loving home environment and having somebody who really cares for her, someone who will give her a moral compass and support her when she looks like backsliding, will be the most important thing. I warn you, it’ll be hard work.”

“I don’t care, as long as I get my baby back. You can’t imagine what it’s been like these last five years. The only thing that kept me alive was the hope that we’d find him......her, I mean. I can’t wait to get her home, and I promise I will love her with all my heart. Can I meet her now?”

“Give me a moment to get her to one of the lounges and I’ll be right back for you, Phyllis,” Liz told her and went to fetch Cathy.

She went to the girl’s room with mental fingers crossed, hoping she had prepared herself in a suitable manner. When she opened the door she was pleasantly surprised. Cathy was sitting waiting, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, no make-up, which made her look as boyish as she could possibly be, which wasn’t very much, but would give her mother at least a glimpse of her lost boy. She was wearing a white top with a boat neck, thankfully not too daring, and a knee-length black skirt. The 3-inch heel black pumps that Liz had originally bought her from M&S completed the outfit.

All in all she looked quite demure except that there was no denying the entirely female figure inside the clothes. Nobody was ever going to mistake her for a boy.

“You look very nice, dear. Are you ready to see your Mum now?”

“I guess so. Do you think she’ll be all right?”

“I think so. I’m more worried about you.” With that, Liz took Cathy by the hand and escorted her to the lounge, told her to wait and went and fetched Phyllis Asher, who charged ahead of her when told her daughter was waiting.

The psychiatrist had to almost run to get in front of her to open the door and, all of a sudden, mother and daughter were face to face. Cathy surged to her feet and Phyllis stopped dead in her tracks as they stared at each other. Long seconds passed, until the mother reached out her hands and said;
“Oh, Anthony, I’ve missed you so much.”

In an instant they were embracing, weeping and hugging each other as if they would never let go, with Phyllis stroking her child’s hair and kissing her face indiscriminately, making up for all those years.

“Mum, I’m so sorry, so very sorry. You always told me to be careful about accepting lifts, but they lied to me. They told me you were hurt and they were taking me to you, so I believed them. And now look what they did to me. Please don’t hate me. I know I made a mistake. I’m sorry,” and the tears streamed down that pretty face.

“Hush, darling. It doesn’t matter any more. I’ve got you back and that’s what counts. Actually, you’re beautiful too. I hate them for taking you away from me for all that time, but now I’ve got to make it up to you. We have to start over and I promise you we will make it all better than before. When I get you home I’ll look after you and we will be so happy together. I’m going to enjoy having a daughter and I hope you’ll enjoy having a Mum. I’ll have to be more careful this time so that I don’t lose you again.”

Liz stood silently watching all this, greatly relieved, and thinking what a champion Phyllis Asher was. She saw that the tears rolling down Cathy’s cheeks were happy tears. There was no longer any fear or tension in her face, and Liz allowed herself to hope that the girl could be brought to a state of normality. After observing for a little longer she decided that she could safely leave the two of them to get to know each other untended for a while, and so she quietly left the room, gently pulling the door to as she went.

An hour later she returned to find the pair entwined together on the sofa, the girl cuddled into her mother with her arms around her, and Phyllis stroking her hair and gazing adoringly at her new daughter, murmuring endearments as she did so. Liz coughed and suggested that it might be enough for them today, reminding them that there was always tomorrow. Mrs. Asher reluctantly disengaged herself from Cathy’s embrace and promised to return in the morning. The girl was equally loath to let go but accepted her mother’s assurances and allowed Liz to take her back to her room.

Liz went back to find Mrs. Asher still sitting in the lounge waiting for her, looking happier and more relaxed than at any time since the psychiatrist had first met her.

“Well,” said Liz, “I think that went pretty well, don’t you?”

“I think so too. She really is a sweet and innocent child, and I can see my Anthony inside her too. I know now that I will be able to love her. I can’t wait to get her home. I think we’ll both be good for one another.”

‘Innocent?’ thought Liz. She guessed it depended how you assessed it, but she knew what the woman meant.

“Good. I hope you’ll come and see her as often as possible. It’ll help her therapy and soon I will want you to take her out on trips to reintroduce her to the world; go shopping, eat out, take her to the movies and stuff like that. Then in a couple of months she can go home. That’s when you’ll have to educate her. Remember she’s had no schooling since she was twelve, so there’s a lot of catching up to do. It’ll be hard work.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Nothing matters except having my child back.”

The two women got into detail. Liz wanted to treat Cathy in the mornings, so Phyllis would come every afternoon and bring books and magazines to entertain her daughter. After two weeks they would assess her progress and decide on the next phase of her rehabilitation. Soon it was settled and Mrs. Asher left, now almost jaunty, smiling to herself.

Liz returned to see Cathy sitting in her room, but also looking quite relaxed.

“What do you think, dear?” asked Liz.

“Umm, she’s very nice, and I was remembering more and more about when I was with her before. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could go back to then? Can I go home with her, Liz? I think I’d really like that. I think I can love her again and I want her to love me.”

“Yes, you can go home with her, but I have to keep you here for a few weeks. She’s going to come and see you every day, so you can get to know each other again. I think you’re both going to be all right.”

Liz began hypnotherapy sessions with Cathy the next morning, winkling out lost or hidden memories and making sure the girl could face them. Some were too horrific to retain and were mercifully reburied. The psychiatrist was aware that the girl might have to give evidence at a trial so had to be careful with the treatment. Some awful events had to be retained, but she could fix that later, well, help some anyway. There would almost certainly be a few nightmares along the way. She concentrated now on reviving her recollections of her childhood with her mother.

Phyllis Asher turned up every day to sit and talk with her daughter, reading teen magazines, chatting about clothes, hairstyles, makeup and girly things in general. In truth, Cathy knew more about some of these than her mother, but the point was that it was a bonding exercise, and it was working. Soon Cathy progressed to doing Phyllis’s face when she came, shaping her eyebrows and showing her different make-up effects. In just two weeks Phyllis was looking better than she had for years, sure, it was partly the joy of having her child back and the release that came with that, but the beauty lessons definitely helped.

Liz and Phyllis sat in conference after two weeks, both very pleased with the progress of the fortnight, and agreed to continue for a further two weeks, except that Cathy would be taken for occasional excursions outside.

One terrific development was that the trial of Dr. Adam had been held and the judge had accepted recorded evidence from Cathy on the grounds that she was still a minor and undergoing therapy for the mental and physical damage that had been inflicted on her. The other girls had testified; medical evidence had been submitted, and the result was that Adam had been sentenced to life imprisonment. Dan had told Liz it was unlikely that he would survive the sentence and, although professionals are not supposed to be vindictive, they agreed that it could not happen to anyone more deserving.

This meant that Liz was free to suppress some of the nastier memories in Cathy’s mind, which she could not see had any benefit to anybody, such as the episode in the cage. She was careful, though, not to extinguish events that could change the girl’s personality. She lessened the memory of the heroin highs without erasing them, so that they could be recalled but the attraction of the addiction was no longer the siren call that it had once been. The lapse of time also helped. Memories fade if not stirred up and Cathy had now been weaned off of methadone. The only medication she now used was a regular dosage of hormones.

Dealing with the sexual aspects of Cathy’s captivity was more difficult. Liz did not want to use a direct aversion therapy and run the risk of turning the kid off of sex for life, so she opted for a strategy of emphasising the girl’s liking for nice clothes and femininity over her sexual desires, reducing these to something like a routine that she was obliged to go through to reach her true goal of being beautiful. She hoped they would become something not unpleasant but necessary and not simply required by her captor to ensure her well-being. There was one thing Liz did not quail from doing and that was to depict Adam as the monster he was in Cathy’s mind. She hoped all this would take root and override the earlier mindset.

In parallel, Cathy’s mother began to take her on excursions into the world outside, finding she was very naive about most aspects of daily life, never having experienced much of it, and, if at all, only fleetingly. One of the first outings was to a salon for the regular female necessities and Cathy was over the moon. She told Phyllis straight after the session that this was what she wanted to do when she came home. Working as a beautician seemed a good fit given her already extensive practice. Phyllis was delighted with the serendipity of her choice of outing.

The visit to a salon, of course, became a regular destination. Other favourites were eating at alfresco cafes to watch the passing parade, going to the movies and, naturally, shopping. That soon proved not to be a one-way affair. Mrs. Asher had lost much of her appetite for dress and appearance during her lonely years. Cathy began to insist that her mother smartened herself up and forced her to buy more fashionable and younger styled clothes and shoes. At the rate the two of them spent money it was as well that Phyllis’s divorce settlement had been generous, although she had been frugal for the previous five years.

Liz and Phyllis had had a meeting after another fortnight had passed and agreed to carry on as before. Now it was six weeks since their first meeting when they once again sat down to talk. Liz was amazed at the visible improvement in Cathy’s mother. She looked ten years younger with her hair nicely done, her face lightly made up and an elegant plum-coloured suit with a skirt slightly above the knee. She could almost have been Cathy’s elder sister.

Liz eyed the other woman and said with a smile, “I’m not sure who’s getting the therapy here. I think your daughter is a good influence on you. You’re coming on pretty well yourself. I know she’s enjoying shaking you up because she’s told me.”

“It’s true,” said Phyllis. “I neglected myself for all those years and now she’s pulling me into line and making me take more care of myself, and I have to admit I’m enjoying it. I’m so glad I’ve got her back. Liz, when can I take her home?”

“Well, I think I’ve just about done all I can do. Her addiction seems to be under control, although you have to keep a constant watch because there’s always a danger of backsliding. Her sexual tendencies also appear to be more restrained, but only time will tell. I’ve had to be very careful there, so that I don’t turn her off altogether. I hope that living a normal life will give her a different perspective on it all.”

“Do you mean I can take her home now?”

Liz sighed. “Yes Phyllis, you can take her home. It’s your problem now, but I have to see her once a week for a while. If she’s going OK I’ll cut it to once a fortnight and then once a month. Let’s just see how it develops.”

Mrs. Asher positively beamed. “When can I take her?” she asked.

“How about this weekend?” replied Liz. “That’ll give you tomorrow and the day after to get ready and give me time to do all the paperwork and tell Cathy to get herself ready too.”

“As far as I’m concerned it can’t be soon enough. I’m sure it’ll do her a lot of good to be in a proper home.”

“Phyllis, I’m sure you’re right. It’ll do you both good. Oh, and I’ll want to see you at the same time as Cathy.”

“Why, Liz? I’m not the one you’re treating.”

“No, but she’s having such an obvious effect on you that I just want to keep an eye on you too. You may not realise it but this could be an awful strain on you. I want to make sure everything works out for the best.”

“I suppose I can’t complain about that. Well, let me go and break the news to my little girl. Then I’ll take her shopping, just for a change,” she said with a sly smile.

One of the things that made Liz slightly nervous was that in Phyllis’s mind Cathy appeared to be still a child. She didn’t quite seem to have grasped the effect of the five-nearly six now-year absence. It probably didn’t matter but she needed to watch it. She hoped it was only a manner of speech.

The next morning Liz sat down with Cathy for a heart-to-heart chat.

“Cathy dear, you’re going home very soon and I need to know that you’re happy with that and we’ve put some things in the proper context, so I’m going to ask you some questions. First I want to know how you feel about being changed from a boy into a girl.”

The girl thought deeply for about half a minute.

“If you asked me when I was a boy if I wanted to be a girl I would have said no, but I was only twelve and it wasn’t something I ever really thought about, but since it happened I’m glad now that it did. I still remember being with my Mum before and I know she loved me, but it’s different now. I think she likes me as well as loving me and it’s so good doing things together. I love my body now, and I’m comfortable in it. I think I’ve got a lovely shape and I like being pretty. It’s lots of fun picking the right clothes to make myself look good and making my face even prettier with a little make-up, and, best of all, I can help Mum to do the same. I can do things with her that a boy could never have done.”

She paused and thought some more. Liz just waited.

“Also, I know I missed out on a lot in the last five years and I want to catch up. When I see the magazines Mum brings there are so many things I want to learn. I already know I want to do a beautician’s course and then work in a salon. I want to learn ballroom dancing and cooking and dress-making and even housework. I want to be the best daughter my Mum could ever have, so I guess I do like being a girl. Of course, I had some practice before but I’m not sorry about that either.”

“OK. How do you feel about the heroin-the happy juice- now?”

Cathy actually shuddered before she spoke.

“I know I loved it before, but I think now that it made it easy for me to like things that weren’t much good for me. I don’t want that to happen again. I want to like things because “I” like them, not because some drug tells me to like them.”

“All right, what do you think about sex?”

“I love it. Oh, I know what you mean. You want to know if I still can’t wait to suck a cock or have somebody fuck me. Well, the answer is that now I would have to like them a lot before I did it. I don’t want to just have anybody like it was before, but somebody I really like, that would be lovely.”

Liz thought that these answers, while not perfect, showed that Cathy was now pretty sane and ready to go out in the world.

“What about going home?”

“Liz, I can’t wait. I know you’ve been very good to me, but this is still a hospital and my Mum needs me and I need her. I think she suffered more than I did and I know I can help her. We’ll be good together.”

With that, Liz knew the girl had to go home. She had done what she could do. Psychiatry is an imperfect science or art or whatever you want to call it, and she had done her best.

“Home on Saturday then,” said Liz with a sigh. “I’ll really miss you, you know. I’m very fond of you. I know, I know, I’ll see you every week for a while, but it’s not the same. Anyway, you have to look after your Mum.”

So Saturday came and Cathy went home with her mother to the start of a new life, Liz waving goodbye with tears in her eyes. She knew it was unprofessional to get so close to a patient, but couldn’t help herself. Her heart still ached at what had been done to that child.

Inevitably, other concerns took more prominence as the weeks went by. Cathy and her mother turned up for their weekly appointment, both happy and full of life. The girl would relate all the things she was learning with zest and tell of her amazement at some of the strange things people did. Phyllis looked better and better as the ghosts of the past receded and her daughter made her dress smarter and younger, hair styled nicely and tinted. She would tell Liz how some nights Cathy would sneak into her bed and sleep cuddled up against her and what fun it was to teach her how to cook and just do things together.

The weekly appointments became fortnightly then monthly appointments until finally the psychiatrist told them they needed only come in six months, just as a check that everything was fine. Ten months had passed since Cathy went home and now she was eighteen, no longer a minor, so Liz could not justify spending too much time on her.

When the pair reappeared after six months Liz was amazed at the transformation in Phyllis Asher. She had had a facelift, was using more make-up, and had grown her hair to midway down her back. She looked like a beautiful woman in her twenties and was dressed accordingly in a scarlet mini-dress with a low-cut neckline and matching sandals with at least 4-inch heels. Frankly she looked like a hooker. Cathy was dressed in similar fashion but in black, cleavage showing boldly. Men would notice when she leaned forward. Somehow it looked more appropriate on her.

Liz gaped. “What’s going on? Phyllis, you’ve really changed. Tell me what all this is about.”

“Liz, I think I’d better tell you. Mum’s still a bit shy,” said Cathy.

Liz gaped at the older of the two tarts in front of her. “Shy?” she thought. “Oh, yeah?”

“A few months after I got home, one night when I sneaked into her bed, Mum was crying in her sleep, so I thought if I licked her pussy it might cheer her up. She didn’t wake up until she had an orgasm, so it obviously worked, but when she realised what I had done she yelled at me and cried and said she was scared that, if she told you, you would take me away again, so she made me promise not to do it again and that we wouldn’t tell you.”

“But I knew she had really liked it or she wouldn’t have cum, and when she was crying again one night I licked her again. She was crying because she hadn’t had any sex since she and my father were divorced, so she actually really needed what I was doing for her. She said it was wrong, but when she was asleep she couldn’t stop me, could she? And I knew she couldn’t resist and it was actually good for her and she really liked it after a while because it really did feel nice for her and I said I’d help her.”

“See, I’d started learning ballroom dancing about that time. I love those sexy dresses and there are some really dishy men there. I told you before that I like sex very much, so I gave some of the men that I liked blowjobs, if we had had a really good dance session. After that I was never short of partners. Then I got Mum to come along too, because it would help her to meet men and maybe make some friends. She was very shy at first until I showed her how to suck meat lollies and now she has no trouble getting partners either. It’s made her much sexier and she wants to look younger. So you see, it’s my fault, but I think she looks fabulous and she doesn’t cry in her sleep any more, because every now and again one of the men goes home with her.”

“Is this true?” asked Liz, thoroughly gobsmacked.

“Oh yes,” replied Phyllis, giggling like a teenager. “I’m much better now. We go out and have such fun together and we enjoy life and men. Don’t we darling? Things couldn’t be better.”

Liz felt a strange tingle go through her and she could have sworn she heard an evil, sardonic laugh from somewhere indescribable.

THE END

My usual thanks to Kristina LS for editing, suggestions and just putting up with my faux pas (that’s a plural).
Joanne

P.S. Will grovel for comments. Rude ones also accepted.

Of course I didn't tell them. When circumstances hand you your dream you don't want to spoil things.

I was like Brer Rabbit, " Please don't throw me in the briar patch!"

I had but recently graduated and hadn't yet managed to get a job when I saw the advert. It was very brief but intriguing:

"Engineering graduates needed for work of vital national importance. Apply to P.O. Box....."

It implied that one of our government agencies was looking for somebody to carry out work that might be a little exciting. I immediately thought "I'm their man" and emailed my application straight away. I guess I probably didn't expect to get the job, whatever it was, but received an invitation to an interview the very next day at the Signals Directorate HQ. I was fortunate to be in our nation's capital, where I had just completed my degree so the location could not have been more convenient.

I arrived at the appointed time and filled in a mountain of paperwork (how old-fashioned, I thought) before being escorted through Security to an internal office. There, I was confronted by a three-man panel and handed yet more paper, which I had to sign before the actual interview began.

This was a copy of the Official Secrets Act and anything transpiring from that moment and revealed by me to anybody else would result in my imprisonment or, in extreme circumstances, death! Now that many years have passed and things are different I think I can continue my story with no great risk of retribution.

It transpired that a certain foreign power was attempting to steal information regarding recent advances that we had made in the application of nanotechnology and it was felt that only someone with a knowledge of the scientific principles would be able to identify where the potential leaks were occurring. I was one of the candidates for such a position.

Of course there was a catch.

Only a woman would be suitable, as it was considered that our adversary would be looking for a man infiltrating their relevant organisations. Only a male would have the necessary qualifications to understand how they were perpetrating their theft of our secrets.

My immediate reaction was to ask why they were interviewing me, when I was obviously not a woman. That was when things got interesting.

It appeared that here and now, in 2043, it was us who had made the breakthrough in nano-engineering which would permit the total transformation of a man into a woman and vice versa. We did not wish this process to be available to certain other nations.

Why would we consider this development undesirable in foreign hands, I thought. It could solve many medical problems. My heart had leaped when they told me. Ever since I was old enough to remember I had dreamed of being a girl, a secret that I had kept buried both for fear of social rejection and its innate impossibility. Now I was being told that there was a chance for my dream to come true, but a lifetime of caution prevented me from admitting this.

Their reasoning was that it was a matter of national security. The country that exclusively possessed this knowledge would have an immense advantage in penetrating the espionage services of their opponents, both current and future.

Heart secretly thumping, I returned to the question of "why me" and began my Brer Rabbit impersonation.

They told me that transformation could now be completed in six months and it was envisaged that an assignment to uncover a suspected leak could be carried out in a year, after which the operative could be returned to his birth gender in another six months, so, allowing for some further education slippage, a three-year contract would be adequate. The pay and conditions would be adjusted to be appropriate for the dislocation experienced by the chosen candidate.

Naturally I told them that I was not interested, but they persisted in persuading me, and it became evident that, for whatever reason, I was their only viable choice. I allowed myself to be worn down, on the basis that the pay and conditions were extremely attractive and they would guarantee my reversion to masculinity at completion of my enforced duration in femininity.

We finally reached agreement following various threats on their part about the application of the Official Secrets Act and concessions on my part with respect to my feminisation. I actually "disappeared" from the face of the earth on that day and the spooks began to do their thing. They didn't waste any time and I received my first dose of nanobots before I left the office, just in case I changed my mind!

They hadn't exaggerated with respect to the efficacy of the process and my body completely transformed over the next six months. There was some pain involved, but nothing I couldn't handle.....and I wanted to handle it. My dream of being female came true. In a few months I transformed into a perfect facsimile of a woman. That's not correct; I became a woman. It was confirmed by my first period occurring after five months. Naturally I pretended to be horrified while I was secretly delighted. All the other changes were complete within six months. I now owned a lovely pair of breasts, a female reproductive system, the smooth legs, wider hips and female facial features that accompanied my new condition.

What they didn't expect was that my mental processes also transformed and I was no longer a man in a woman's body but a woman in a woman's body with a woman's desires and needs. Those nanobots worked other miracles than the visible ones.

My education was looked after with courses in deportment, gesture, movement, speech, vocabulary, wardrobe, cosmetics and anything else you could think of, so that by the end of the six months I was externally indistinguishable from a "real" woman. The trouble was that I was a "real woman". I wanted to be fucked; I wanted to be held in the arms of a man; I wanted to suck cocks. I wanted a mouth stimulating my vagina and I wanted to feel the nipples on my breasts hardening with desire.

My minders wanted to keep me isolated but I wanted to go and enjoy my new self. I managed to sneak off every now and again and scratch my itches. I found that I loved being penetrated by a stiff cock and my new vaginal muscles could massage and cajole said member into ejaculation inside me. I had to be careful to use these occasions during intervals when I couldn't get pregnant or ensure that I had taken the Pill. However, when it came to giving blow-jobs I needed to take no such precautions. Like most young women I loved to dress in sexy and elegant clothes. I probably went a little over the top with my make-up and hairstyles and I was told that I was a natural in heels. I knew I could sashay with the best of them and if men weren't ogling my bust they were watching my bum.

Of course, I should have known better. After all, this was an organisation of spies that I was working for and they had me under surveillance the whole time. I was brought down to earth when one of my mentors unzipped his trousers and displayed his tumescent weapon in front of me. I couldn't keep my eyes off of it.

"OK, you little minx," he said. "Playtime is over. Now you get to use your charms for real. This is what you'll be doing when you're under cover, to extract intelligence, so suck it....purely in the national interest of course."

I didn't need a second invitation and my mouth was wrapped around his cock quicker than you could say "Jack Robinson", if you can manage to say that with your mouth full.

Thus began the final stage of my education. Those three taught me all the finer nuances of oral, vaginal and anal sex on a daily basis for the next few months plus all the little tricks that men desire from a girl who is supposedly seducing them. I felt that it was with a certain degree of reluctance that they finally agreed that I was ready for my task.

I was supplied with all the necessary documentation and backstory to prove that I was a secretary/personal assistant with hands-on (!!) experience, an office-ready wardrobe, mostly with short skirts, plunging necklines and skyscraper heels and inserted(!!) into one of the offices of our opponents, where I was to worm out the extent of their knowledge of our achievements. For some weeks I carried out normal secretarial duties until one morning I was instructed to go to the office of the Department's deputy head.

The door had barely closed behind me when he told me to get on my knees and he pulled out his penis and waved it in my face. My lips immediately puckered into sucking mode and I wrapped my fingers around that hard, erect tool. Instants later it was in my mouth with his foreskin exposed and my tongue playing little swirling games with his head. Then I engulfed its entire length and embedded him in my throat, moving up and down until he came and I swallowed everything he produced. Afterwards I licked him clean and savoured the aftertaste of his cum.

Now, I thought, I will be able to extricate all the information he knows about our technology.

He grasped my hair and tilted my head back.

"Damn", he said. "You're as good as they said you'd be. We'll be doing this every day from now on. I must say they trained you well."

I was confused. "What do you mean, sir?"

"I was waiting until we could be sure that you were properly conditioned. We've tested you thoroughly over the last few weeks and we know that you are 100% female. The conversion was a total success. You are about to get a promotion to my live-in mistress. From now on you are mine. Our intelligence services know everything about your conversion technology and can replicate all the changes that were performed on you, but in the meantime I don't see any reason why we shouldn't enjoy its results. Judging from your performance a few minutes ago it doesn't seem as if you have any fundamental objections."

I was in shock. The reason for my presence here had disappeared in an instant. On the other hand I was being "offered" a continuation of my existence as a woman. It didn't seem to be wise to refuse and perhaps I could use this revelation to my advantage. I had no particular loyalty to my erstwhile employers. Even though they had enabled me to fulfill my deepest desires it had been for their ends, not mine. If our so-called adversaries already knew all the information that I was supposed to ferret out then I was not betraying anybody.

"Sir, what do you want of me."

"Well, my dear, it appears that you are well-adjusted to being female and I will welcome you to be my full-time companion in your current form. However, to justify our use of you for professional purposes we will have to make a few facial adjustments so that we can return you to work for us against your former employers to ensure that their technical knowledge is equitably shared between our agencies."

"You want me to remain as a female?" My principal worry was that they would want me to revert to being male.

"Of course. You are a lovely woman and our thinking matches that of your agencies insofar as a woman is far easier to insert into a position of trust and extract information from gullible men. You don't object, do you?"

Brer Rabbit time was over and they had the measure of me.

"As long as you don't expect me to become ugly, I'm yours."

"Oh no, we want you to be as desirable as we can make you before dispatching you on a mission, and I personally want to sample your femininity first. We will provide them with snippets to show that you are actively doing your job. We will not start any modifications before we discuss them with you first. Is that acceptable?"

"That sounds more than fair," I acquiesced.

And so I began my new career as a double agent. I spent three months as a mistress to my new boss and no expense was spared in presenting me as a beautiful piece of arm-candy who was ostensibly pumping him dry of all his secrets.
I really enjoyed this interlude, not only for the daily and nightly sex, but for the opportunity to be dressed to the nines and mix with the cream of their society. Then the day came when I was introduced to my new face, and although I was already good-looking I was enthralled by the beauty that I was to become.

It was amazing what the cosmetic surgeons could do. Some small adjustments around my eyes and cheeks, a reduction to the size of my nose and my lips enlarged to be real cock-sucking pillows and I was a completely different woman, utterly desirable to the male half of the community (gay men excepted). The operations did not take long but recovery needed nearly three months until all the swellings and bruising were gone and I was ready for my new assignment.

This turned out to be the mirror image of my first. after a period of acclimatisation in my new position I became a trusted personal assistant to a senior executive and naturally his paramour. I gave his secrets away as required. Eventually we married and my new employers engineered his demise after a suitable period, leaving me as a beautiful young grieving widow of considerable wealth.

I've never looked back. Obviously I never reverted to male and my usefulness to the espionage community gradually waned as, like all secrets, it became less of a secret. While still not generally known, the transformation of men and women to perform security exercises became more or less routine. I was lucky to have been the first.

The years have passed and I remarried and had two children. I love both them and my husband dearly and now I'm a grandmother too. A side-effect of the nanobots is that I age at about half the rate of normal people, so I am still attractive and sexually active in my seventies. I can't pass up the occasional fuck and blowjob even now.

But whatever you do.."Please don't throw me in the briar patch!"

When you think of a mall-cop, you probably picture a big beefy bloke in a black shirt with SECURITY written across the back. Well, I’m not your average mall-cop. I’m 23 years old and female, although some argue that definition because I’m TG.

Is it Christmas that brings out the worst in people or is it that the worst people come out at Christmas? I don’t really know the answer. All I know is that it’s a mall-cop’s busiest time of the year, maybe even worse than the Boxing Day sales, although they’re a nightmare all of their own.

Those weeks leading up to the holidays seem to attract the lowest forms of humanity, in terms of serial dishonesty. They’re not gangs organised along the lines of the Mafia, but mostly families where there have been generations who taught their children and grandchildren that it’s fine to cheat and steal. Their motto is “don’t get caught”.

Now we seem to have also been inflicted with those idiots who deny that transgender women and girls have any right to exist. That includes me, so pardon me if I am as prejudiced against them as they are against me. They’re a new phenomenon, spawned by social media and the anonymity it provides to the spiteful.

As a mall-cop it’s my job to prevent as much crime as I can and to keep things as peaceful as I can. The lead-up to Christmas and the New Year is a pain-in-the-arse.

The biggest problem with malls is that they’re designed to entice people to come in, not to keep them out. We’ve got three levels of shopping with a huge atrium on the ground floor and five levels of carparks (three below and two above). There are also professional offices for doctors, dentists and the like in a tower above the shopping centre. There are dozens of lifts (elevators), numerous escalators between floors and entrances to the surrounding streets, let alone the vehicle accesses. Fort Knox we are not.

That’s a nightmare from a security point of view. We can ban criminals and no-good-niks but it’s like having an open prison with the gates wide open and neon signs flashing an invitation to come in and steal. Also, we are not real cops so there are limits to our authority. We can patrol our halls and detain offenders but if things get really bad we have to call the boys and girls in blue. We try not to do that. They have their own problems.

At this time of year our piece of paradise is decorated with Christmas lights flashing merrily in all their different colours, tinsel draped everywhere and naturally we have a massive tree hung with every bauble you can think of. I’m buggered if I know how they get it in. You can barely see the green for all the trinkets. Sometimes I think the angel at the pinnacle is laughing at us.

Our mall has the usual anchor-stores and supermarkets. We have Woollies, Coles and Aldi for the groceries. They all employ extra security for the season, starting about the beginning of December and going through to mid-January. I’m so grateful that we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving! Or we’d have an extra month to frazzle us. Mind you, Black Friday Sales are starting to infiltrate into our commercial culture. How you can have a Black Friday without the holiday leading up to it is beyond me. I guess anything for a buck.

Most of the seasonal security employees are repeat regulars, mostly retired and happy to work only for a few weeks of the year, so they know what to do and we appreciate their presence. Even so, we often get called on to help them as both the mall in general and the big stores are prime targets for the villains. Their authority stops at the checkouts, and we take over. When we can’t handle it we have to call the cops as a last resort.

The main department stores are David Jones, Myer, Target and Big W. We’ve got the lot. They also employ their own security for the season. In fact, they have double the numbers that we do, because they are even bigger draws for the thieves with huge floor areas and lots of their goods are of higher value. We assist once someone leaves a store without paying or if the store detectives yell for help. Quite a few of the specialty stores, like JB Hi-Fi, with all the expensive electronics, gadgets and DVDs also employ security. Luckily 60-inch-plus TVs are too hard to purloin.

Our management is, of course, well aware of the lure of the season and our numbers are boosted for those months. We are all given extra training in how to recognise potential larcenists but we have to beware of profiling. Not every thief is the wrong colour or dressed in rags. It’s attitude, loitering and diversions that we look for. The crooks are far from stupid. They play it like a magic show, where you watch the left hand while the right is doing the business.

Then you get those other Christmas Specials. Every Mall has to have its Santa and ours also has three comic drag artists. They’re not exactly pantomime dames but they’re comedians and they wander the aisles giving candy to the little kids, making lame jokes and exhorting their parents to visit Santa and his elves. There is no way they can be mistaken for real women. Even Blind Freddie could see that. The red-coated gentleman has an entourage of six assistants to hand over the gifts and keep the kids amused while they wait their turn. They are, of course, his elves.

All the elves are actually young TG girls because HR has found that they are generally very good at controlling the children who are queuing to see the bearded old man. They do this with great empathy and without any hassles. It has crossed my mind that maybe that explained how I got hired with so little attention paid to my own transgenderism.

They’re all thoroughly vetted to avoid any accusations of paedophilia. I keep an eye on them all just in case some homophobic parent raises an imaginary complaint. There’s usually no cause as the elves really enjoy being in green short-skirted feminine costume and do not want to jeopardise their six or seven weeks employed in an environment they love, where they can flaunt themselves and swish to their hearts’ content without being subjected to the usual hostility of the outside world. I think most parents have no idea that they are not actually teenage girls.

Naturally, I’m on the same bus as they are so I try to stop any trouble before it starts. They are lovely kids and are the least of my worries but do need to be toned down occasionally.

Santa Claus is our main attraction and when he’s in residence there’s always a queue of kids and parents waiting to see him. The elves also keep the sacks of toys full and maintain a semblance of order while the children impatiently approach their goal. Our Santa is a sweet elderly guy who can do the “Ho-Ho-Ho” and sit them on his knee without scaring them, or most of them at any rate. There’s always one who doesn’t know how to deal with him. The elves defuse many a tearful encounter with those littlies who are afraid of the old man in the red suit.

Now, it’s one of those facts of life that a crowd will attract the bears to the honeypot, so one of our prime surveillance targets is the pickpockets who wander back and forth looking for the carelessly open bag carried by distracted mothers trying to keep their child or children under control while in the queue. The occasional fathers who have been lumbered with baby-sitting while Mum does the shopping are also special targets for the unprincipled. For some reason they are less wary of the danger. A favourite ploy is for one member of a criminal group to jostle or push through the crowd (with apologies) while an accomplice lifts desirable items from bag or pocket while the victim is off-balance and immediately hands them to another thief who departs the scene of the crime before the hapless stooge is even aware that he or she has been robbed. That makes them pretty difficult to catch but you learn the signs. Being on the spot is crucial.

While all these activities serve to keep me and my colleagues on our toes I wouldn’t want you to think that the world is populated with that kind. 99% of the shoppers are honest citizens but when you get three times as many good people you also get a proportionate increase in the number of scumbags. They are mostly not inclined to be violent and are happy to go quietly if caught. Their forte is theft, not warfare, although some will protest vociferously. Life becomes much more difficult for them if they have to front up in court having resisted arrest.

However, I do admit to sometimes feeling sorry for the occasional shoplifter. The season also brings out those poor buggers who cannot afford to purchase the joys of Christmas. Mostly they are after basic food and groceries. In today’s world a lot of people struggling on a basic wage, with high rents, are living on a shoestring and just want to feed themselves or their family. They get caught with a couple of packets of biscuits or some sliced cheese that they haven’t paid for before leaving the store. You see the desperation in their eyes when you apprehend them. The store’s security just want to be rid of them. It’s too much trouble to prosecute somebody for a couple of dollars’ worth of goods.

I suppose I’m a dreadful softie and I often slip them $20 when I eject them from the mall, while telling them not to do it again. I know when I’m right because the gratitude in their eyes is my reward. That amount will at least buy a day’s food. Not much for good cheer and goodwill. I know I can’t save the world but I had my own piece of good fortune and I’ll help those down on their luck if I can. There are charities, of course, but some folks are too proud to ask for help and some slip through the cracks.

So, as if those activities weren’t enough to keep us busy and frazzling all of us with the extra work there came a day when we were confronted by a new threat, a dozen or so ranting women waving banners and yelling slogans. This was something we hadn’t experienced before. They were carrying home-made placards attached to wooden poles or stakes which they waved above their heads. Mostly middle-aged, but with a couple of younger women in their ranks.

Their signs carried messages such as:-

“Hands Off Our Kids”

“Leave Our Children Alone”

“No Gender Grooming”

“Women’s Rights!”

“Drag Is Disgusting”

“Safety For Women”

You get the message.

Two of our drag-queens were there at the location of their demonstration, which was close to our Santa exhibit, and they were the focus of their venom. The two guys were trying to leave the scene but were being harassed by the women, some of whom were using their signs in a very threatening manner.

Luckily I was also present, innocuously dressed in a black skirt-suit with a white blouse, so they paid no attention to me. I immediately pressed my “panic button” to call for reinforcements and started to record the scene on my phone. There could have been no doubt as to who were the aggressors and who was being attacked. In seconds it started to become truly violent, with our “ladies” being struck by the mob’s improvised clubs.

It was then that I stepped in, shouting out my identity as Security and telling them to back off. I didn’t stop filming and a few of them became aware of what I was doing and turned their attention to me.

“She’s one of them!” screamed a harpy who I recognised as one of the ones who I had previously ejected after they attacked a young girl in the toilet. She came towards me, waving the stake bearing her placard. She certainly seemed as if she was going to use it to subdue me and I backed away, but I kept filming.

I was thinking, “Even if this bitch gets me I’m going to make sure she gets hers.”

Just then the cavalry arrived, in the shape of four of our biggest bruisers. One of our regulars, Joe, a lovely guy who had been kind to me from the day I started work, stepped in front of me and grabbed the timber stake from the hands of the woman who was about to hit me with it. Then, with one beefy hand, he had both her wrists locked together. She tried to kick him but he just held her at arms-length and laughed at her.

You would think she would have given up but she carried on spitting obscenities at both of us. I continued filming throughout. Some of it might be a little wobbly but I reckoned it would stand up in a courtroom.

Mentally, I egged her on to keep going and incriminate herself. This was personal now. I really wanted to see her put away. Now, the modern theory is that TG girls like me who have gone through puberty are stronger than natural-born women, but I was unarmed and I certainly didn’t feel as if I had an advantage. The metre-long timber baton in her hand scared me.

In the meantime our colleagues had gone to the defence of our beleaguered drag-queens and had succeeded in blunting the attack of the enraged harridans, keeping them away from the queueing mothers and children and Santa and the elves. Even though our team was outnumbered they knew what they were doing and were far more disciplined than the rag-tag mob trying to attack them. After a minute or so we had them cornered against an exit staircase and they were becoming more interested in escaping than continuing to fight. One of our cohort had rung the police when things got ugly and we now got reinforcements in the shape of six coppers.

Fortuitously, they arrived at exactly the right place and blocked the exit stairs which these women were trying to use as their escape route. With the police above and our Security below they had nowhere to go, and the gendarmerie had soon relieved them of their wooden staves and placards and hand-cuffed them. Two paddy-wagons were quickly filled with the protesters and the doors banged shut.

Naturally the cops wanted details, so for the next half-hour we described the fracas caused by their arrival and I showed them my filmed record, which was copied to an official phone. They wanted to know what we wanted done with them.

I jumped in. “Can you take them to the watch-house and hold them until we can tell our bosses about it? It’d be great if you could keep them overnight.”

The senior policeman gave me a smile.

“I think that could be arranged Miss. Let us know in the morning how you want us to proceed. Temporarily, we’ll charge them with disturbing the peace and resisting arrest. We’ll see how they like a night in the cells.” With that they departed.

This whole incident had taken about an hour. We were left to tidy up after the ruckus. There was no longer any queue waiting to see Santa Claus. The parents had, probably wisely, left the scene, taking their children with them. That left us with a forlorn Santa and bunch of elves plus two mishandled drag-queens (number three missed all the excitement). As the confrontation and its resolution had taken place in the early afternoon we took it upon ourselves to suspend Christmas operations for the day while we went and fronted our Management to explain events.

Those of our Security team, including me, Santa and the elves and the two drag-queens, who had been involved, trooped up to the corporate office on the fourth floor to find our General Manager and recount the earlier happenings. The grapevine had been working and he was aware that there had been a near riot in the atrium. We were taken to the conference room and settled to report the details.

“First, let me thank you all for your quick response time. It could have easily been much worse. Now, who’s going to give me the blow-by-blow account?” from our GM.

Joe, who was one of the most senior of our security personnel, pointed at me.

“I think it should be Joanne, Sir. She was there from start to finish and she’s got the record.”

I hadn’t expected to be fingered, but he was right.

“OK, I’ll start by showing you all what I filmed. This should show that we were reacting to an unprovoked attack, Sir. I just happened to be there when it all started.”

So I downloaded the entire sequence from my phone. It showed the incident from the start until the police took them away. It was absolutely clear who instigated the affray, and the most dramatic piece was when I was being personally threatened and Joe stepped in and saved me from a blow from a three-foot lump of two-by-two.

The attack on our drag-queens was also vividly portrayed on the clip. Luckily, they only sustained bruises on their fore-arms.

When the video had finished I described as much as I could of what had occurred that I didn’t manage to record, but the boss was convinced that we had reacted as best we could.

“So, are we going to charge them, Sir?” I asked.

“I think not,” he said, leaving me gobsmacked.

“Why not?”

“I know you’re probably not going to like this, but this is our busiest time of the year. We do more trade in these few weeks than in the rest of the year combined. Every day, every hour, that we lose, is worth a fortune to our tenants. If I lose half my Security team, my Santa team and my drag-queens for a day in court to testify against these vicious women we’ll be hamstrung against our normal gangs of shoplifters and we may well be sued by some of the shop-holders for sustained losses.”

“What I will do is ask the police to charge the women with disturbing the peace. That won’t require the presence of any of you in court and they will be fined and an offence will be entered against them. That should be a sufficient deterrent to stop any repeat occurrence. I will issue a press release today to re-assure the public that we will be open as usual tomorrow and we will not be deterred by illegal protesters. Our security staff will deal severely with any such incidents. Hopefully, the incident attracted enough publicity that I may be able to get on TV and calm things down.”

“Sir, I’m sorry to disagree, but I think you’re wrong. These women are fanatics and ordinary sanctions won’t stop them.” Joe kicked me under the table to shut me up.

The boss smiled at me. “Your opinion is noted, Joanne, but that’s my decision. The buck stops here, and if I’m wrong, well, you’re not to blame. Oh, by the way, all of you will get a bonus for handling the situation today so well.”

So our interview ended. The boss did get on the TV News that evening. Others had filmed part of the goings-on and given the channels dramatic footage to air, so we were famous for a couple of seconds. The General Manager was interviewed and came across as calm, smooth and unruffled, promising business as usual.

For the next several days and weeks it appeared that his approach had been the right one. The assailants were in court within a day or two. They had been bailed, appeared before a judge, all remorseful, and were duly fined and put on probation, just a light slap on the wrist.

Our business increased; apparently notoriety attracted extra trade and thus extra turnover for our retail tenants. Santa, his elves and our drag queens were local heroes (and heroines, unknown to most) and the queues to see them were even longer than usual. Everybody was happy.

We settled into the mundane tasks of dealing with shoplifters and pickpockets. Ostensibly, life returned to normal, or as normal as that time of year permitted. I still had this niggling feeling that things weren’t finished, but as time passed I too began to relax.

Then, one week before Christmas they returned and they even brought reinforcements. Maybe two dozen screaming protesters invaded the atrium. As soon as I saw them I not only pressed my “panic button” but I rang our command post to tell them to bring all hands to Santa’s grotto. Then I turned my phone camera on.

As a precaution I signalled all the elves to gather in the nearest ladies’ toilet and told the last one in to barricade the door. I was afraid that if these fanatics knew that the girls were TG they would direct their ire onto these kids. They were, after all, the prime target of their hatred. Luckily, or not, depending on your perspective.

This time all three of our drag queens were on hand, and while they might not have been the manliest of men, they grabbed whatever was to be found as defensive weapons and formed a phalanx in front of the toilet entrance to repel this angry mob. In other circumstances it may almost have seemed comical, but I can assure you that it was not.

As it happened Santa, the elves and drag queens were not the focus of the TERFs’ rage. I was!

Those who had participated in the two previous incidents had evidently decided that I was a transgender target (well, I was, but they had no evidence!). Now, I’m pretty sure that I look like a female, act like a female and generally present as a female. I certainly feel like one. Nobody calls me out, either at work or at play. I don’t hide it, but I don’t broadcast it. I just get on with my life and my friends and colleagues accept me as I am.

However, the women who were attacking us were certain that I wasn’t a genuine female, so, in their own eyes, I was just one of those males that they were justified in preventing from entering their spaces because I was only doing that to ravage them.

Honestly, I would be happier ravaging sheep. No, on second thoughts, I wouldn’t. I have nothing against sheep and I would have a pretty hard time ravaging them.

While they were approaching and closing the gap between us I was steadily filming. This time I was savvy enough to share the video every few seconds in case they destroyed my phone. I knew they would kill me if they could, but basically I had nowhere to run to.

The nearest store was Coles. If I took refuge in there I could throw a hot roast chicken at them but not much more. Anyway, I did not have to select that choice because the full force of our Security arrived, plus some extras from the department stores who had decided that defending me took precedence over nabbing the odd shoplifter.

To say I was relieved was a gross understatement. The sight of twenty-odd large males coming to my rescue was more than enough to gladden a maiden’s heart.

The wind suddenly went out of the sails of my attackers. They were only bold when they had a victim and now the tables were turned.

I was very tempted to scream, “Come on, you bitches! Come and get yours!” but I restrained myself. An outburst like that wouldn’t help us.

Our people quickly had them disarmed and then the police arrived. They had been warned and this time they had half a dozen vans ready to transport the transgressors, many of whom were still protesting that their rights were being trampled on. They weren’t getting any sympathy.

The same senior cop from the previous incident came up to me.

“Are you OK, Joanne? How do you feel?”

“I’m a bit shaky, but I’m all right.”

“I don’t blame you. What’s with these women?”

“They’ve decided that people like me have no right to exist.”

“What do you mean? People like you?”

I saw the lightbulb go off in his head.

“You’re trans?” It was a question, not a statement.

“Yep!” No point in dissimulating.

“Well, bugger me!”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

He broke out laughing, and so did I, although mine probably had a degree of relief in it. Still, his laughter was genuine, without any hostility or antipathy. Some surprise, but I could understand that.

“You could’ve fooled me. Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. Aaargh! You know what I mean. You’re just another pretty girl.”

“Thanks! I think.”

Actually, I was very happy to have a senior cop on side, and he seemed like a genuine bloke. Whatever, I just hoped we didn’t have too many encounters in the future.

We got into the business of taking statements and again I showed him and transferred my video. It all took a little longer than last time, since there were more participants and the clash was more violent.

An hour later we were finished and the TERF terrorists were carted away. Then it was time for my colleagues and I to go and face our boss. He wasted no time in admitting he had been wrong and was determined to have them charged. He had done a bit of advanced work and agreed that only I would be required to give evidence in court, thus leaving the mall with nearly a full security complement while those hateful women were dealt with.

While I wasn’t entirely happy with that I couldn’t fault the logic. I was the one who had assembled the evidence and I had been at the centre of every one of their attacks since the first incident in the toilet.

The courts agreed to special sittings to deal with their incursions as it was rapidly approaching the Christmas break, so I wound up two days later spending a day in the witness box. I wasn’t that keen but I was lucky in a way. Because of the season and the short notice our villains hadn’t been able to engage any of the top briefs to interrogate and denigrate me, so I was able to cope adequately with the attempts to paint me as a freak and a liar.

I was helped by the testimony of the police and the evidence from the camera on my phone, which also had audio registering the abuse and rage coming from my attackers. Every one of them ended up spending Christmas and New Year in jail, with sentences ranging between six months and a year for those who had been involved in the earlier incidents.

I was told they would probably appeal, but that would take time and so we would get some peace and tranquillity, and even if successful they would be bound over to keep the peace, so, hopefully, de-fanged.

I returned to the mall the next day and was told not to arrange anything special for after work, because I’d have to see the boss. That was a lie to prevent me from knowing about the party involving Santa, the lovely elves, our drag queens and the security guys, which they had arranged in my absence.

GRANNY

BY JOANNEBARBARELLA

She told me years ago that she had a secret and she was going to tell only me. I don’t know what I was expecting……maybe a map showing where to find the buried treasure…….maybe a glass slipper. She always used to tell me outrageous stories, which I believed when I was little. I always remembered the one about her being so poor as a child that she had to walk barefoot through the snow for two miles to get to school because her parents couldn't afford to buy her shoes. I'm going to tell my own kids that one.

I only remember her as my granny, ever since I was very little, and I loved her. She’s gone now so I can’t go back and ask her although she had already told me she had left me a book which I wouldn’t get until I was eighteen. I wish she was still here so we could read it together. Well, today is my eighteenth birthday and who can wait to open a secret document, a kind of diary?

She made me swear that I wouldn’t tell anyone else until after she died because she didn’t want anybody hurt and I was the only one she felt she could trust. We were always very close.

The book came in one of those padded envelopes and was handed to me by her solicitor on my birthday. When I took it out it was just a plain book with nothing on the black cover to make it special.

Inside on the first page there was a message to me.

“My Darling Jane,

If you are reading this then you are 18 and I’m sure you are a beautiful young lady. I am writing this at the age of 73 and you are 11 years old as I write. It would be lovely if we could be reading this together, although I’m not sure if I would be brave enough to do that even after all these years,

I love you my dear,

Nana Suzie “

I turned the page and began reading.

“It is now over 55 years since I became who I am today. I had met the woman who you knew as Auntie Lucy some months before and the main reason I am writing this memoir is to make sure that Lucy is remembered by someone other than me for who she really was.

You will remember that she died a couple of months ago. The combination of breast and liver cancer was something that would have killed her at any age but a woman of 81 had no chance at all. I could say it broke my heart but that would not describe the desolation I felt…and still feel. She was the light of my life….apart from you my little one, who will soon have to carry the torch for both of us.

The last few years of her life were very much a trial for the two of us. Cancer is a dreadful disease, not only for the one who suffers it but also for those who have to look after the victim. In fact, being a prime carer is worse in a way. To watch your dearest love wither away to a shell of her former self is a torture in itself. Actually she had little real pain until the last day of her life, but she shrivelled and shrank before my eyes, becoming weaker and frailer, skin you could almost see through and stretched over an ever more visible skeleton. Sure, she endured chemotherapy and radiation treatment, which are awful and debilitating in themselves, but we both knew it wouldn’t save her….could only prolong her life by some months…. and she finally decided enough was enough and she would rather try to enjoy her remaining months rather than drag herself through them exhausted and drained by the treatments.

That’s when she decided she would like to go on a cruise, so I organised the best cabin I could get with a balcony on the cruise line recommended as the height of luxury. You’ll remember the pictures we sent back from New Zealand, Tahiti, Moorea, Bora Bora, Honolulu and other places. She did enjoy it, although the trip exhausted her and by the time it was over I was wondering if I would get her home alive. Her mind was going a bit by then too and conversations could be a little repetitive. Still, we got her home and she lasted another six weeks, so we made it just in time and it made her final days much pleasanter than having more useless treatments.

Still, I’m telling you the story from the wrong end.

I was 17 when we met and although it seemed impossible I fell head-over-heels in love with her. She was 25 at that time and the most beautiful girl I ever saw. You obviously won’t remember just how lovely she was. Age catches up with us all and her illness really took its toll in her final years. I have enclosed some photos of both of us with this account to give you an idea of her beauty and even of my younger self. Seen from my present viewpoint I looked pretty good too, although I say so myself.

I’ll cut to the chase because I don’t want to bore you. Incredibly, she liked me too, gauche insecure child that I was, and one thing led to another and I ended up moving in with her to take care of the ordinary things in her life while she pursued her career. She was never very good with domesticity.

I think on her part “like” turned to love in the next few months and she was instrumental in curing all my insecurities and helping me to become the person you know, or, maybe by the time you read this…..knew.

There were reasons why we could only live together. Society was different then but we were accepted in a way. Our sin was not frowned upon as much as those of others, though the prejudice lingers on even today. Two women living together will always result in sniggers and sly remarks behind the back.

We had a happy life together, a few ups-and-downs, but the spats were few and far between and we always made up and the love never stopped. Your father was born about five years into our relationship, and together we raised him, Lucy and me. I was the one he called Mum because Lucy was our breadwinner. Although she didn’t actually need to, she loved working in the theatre, while I stayed home and looked after all the domestic side of things, including the education of our little boy. I don’t mean he didn’t go to school but I tried to instil the values by which we wanted him to live. I think we succeeded and we were both proud of him.

Of course he asked questions about his father, who we didn’t really want to discuss, so we told him that the man had gone away and wasn’t coming back, which was true in its way.

So life went on and your Dad grew up and eventually married your mother. I can now admit that I had mixed feelings about her. She can be a lovely woman and I know you love her dearly, but there are times when she can be a real cow. I suppose you could also call my reservations "mother-in-law syndrome", so please don’t tell her I said so. I know she made the occasional snide remark about me and Lucy, but that’s all in the past and she was wonderful when Lucy passed away and I was a basket-case for a time. Your cuddles and hugs helped me get through that too.

Anyway, then you arrived on the scene and I don’t think I have to tell you that both of us old ladies loved you to bits. We tried to make sure that you would grow up to be the beautiful, kind-hearted and wonderful human being that I am sure you have become. Find yourself a nice young man (or girl for that matter) and have a happy life. Don’t be afraid to have a professional life either. I think you would make a great doctor, but whatever you fancy, you go chase it, girl. The world is your oyster.

Now for the secret.

Or maybe it’s two secrets, one more devastating than the other.

I am not your grandmother. Your “Auntie” Lucy was your true grandmother. She loved both your father and you just as much as I did, but deferred to me in a way because I was the one who changed nappies, bathed and comforted, dressed and nurtured both your Dad and you (when I got the chance). She didn’t mind. She got her share of hugs and kisses and the satisfaction of knowing that her child and grandchild loved her as well as me. She was a very unselfish woman….part of the reason I loved her so much.

I hope you can deal with the other secret. I think you can.

I am your grandfather….yes, I am your Dad’s father. I know it’s only a technicality now, but I was born male. I didn’t want to be but that was the hand that I was dealt. I always knew I was a woman inside, but it took Lucy to release me from that burden. Still, before my physical form was forever changed, together we produced your father. I wish I could have been the one to have carried him within my body, but of course that was not possible.

Then I fulfilled my destiny, had the necessary operations and became the woman that you knew as your Granny. I have never looked back and never regretted my wonderful life,

I love you darling Jane,

Forgive me,

Nana Suzie.

0000000000000000000000000

Dear Jane,

I am adding a postscript here. We have just had your 17th birthday and you have fulfilled all my expectations. I have lived long enough to see you become a beautiful young woman and human being.

However it is unlikely that I will be celebrating your next birthday as I have been diagnosed with a chronic heart condition. Don't feel sorry for me; my death will probably be quick and it won't be a bad way to go. I am content and just want to say that I love you one more time before the inevitable.

I have been so proud to be your Nana and please remember your Auntie Lucy and me with love,

Nana Suzie

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Of course I had a good cry.....who wouldn't? They were both so special.

The pictures were at the back of the book as promised, although at first I couldn't look at them through my tears.

I had to sit and absorb all this. It certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. So my “Auntie” was my Grandmother and my “Grandmother” was………….???

For a while I just sat and then I dried my eyes and looked at the photos that she had included with her little memoir. Both of them were beautiful as girls and even into late middle age until the cancer had claimed Lucy. But there was a series of pictures in which a rather forlorn looking young boy gradually transformed into a radiant young woman. I could see she was my Granny. It didn’t matter. She will always be my Nana. The boy was just a ghost.

---

I’m not Scrooge, and I don’t get bent out of shape with other people enjoying it, but it doesn’t do anything for me, not any more. Many years ago, when my son was little, we used to do all those Christmassy things, trees and fairy lights and decorations. Presents under the tree on Christmas morning and a visit from Santa during the night. You do those things when you have a little kid.

Neither my wife nor I were religiously inclined, so we didn’t do the Midnight Masses or the Carols. Maybe we should’ve for the sake of the boy. But we did try to make it into something shared with family. I was an only child, so my seasonal experiences weren’t particularly festive. Yeah, I got prezzies and we had a tree but mainly I remember our traditional Christmas lunch and then my parents went for an afternoon nap, leaving me to read a book or whatever. Sometimes they gave me a small glass of port, maybe hoping I would sleep too. I don't think it ever worked.

My wife was one of four kids so when we married I became part of a slightly more extended family and we always tried to spend the holidays with her side. By that time mine were on the other side of the world anyway. That was OK, I liked her brothers and sisters and her parents and their children were great company for our little boy.

However, all things pass, our son grew older, my work took me to all sorts of exotic locations and we spent many Christmases away from wherever we were calling home at any particular time. There were interludes where we could catch up with family and we did try to maintain that contact with other children of his generation. Also, there were new friends made, so we didn’t live in a holiday-less desert.

One of my major overseas postings afforded us with lots of benefits, including paid education for our boy in boarding school in Australia while we were out of country, plus enough travel assistance to enable my wife to go home and visit him several times a year without breaking the bank. So we either went to him for the holidays or he came to us. In those days we could even afford to pay the fares for some of his friends to accompany him and stay with us.

A good time was had by all, but it wasn’t celebrated like a traditional European Christmas. It was just one of many equally important holidays, like Tung, the winter solstice, and Chinese New Year , the most important holiday of the year in those parts. Trees and tinsel and ornaments played very little part. The main occupation was feasting. The Chinese love their food and will happily eat what the gwailos eat for one day. I had an American friend who was married to a Chinese girl and he would cook her family a traditional Thanksgiving dinner every year and they loved it.

Perhaps all of this served to weaken my observation of Christmas, but probably the main influence was my transgenderism. I never confided in anybody that I wished I had been born a girl, not my wife and not my son, nor any other member of the family. It was my dirty little secret, hidden from everybody other than myself. I didn’t dare to reveal it for fear of losing my wife, my son, my friends, my job. It was bottled up inside me and I only indulged myself in the safety of my apartment when they had gone on holiday or to school, leaving me alone.

I had no fear of shopping in Hong Kong. The locals didn’t care as long as you were spending money, and they regarded all Europeans (gwailos) as odd anyway, so I could walk into a dress-shop and order a skirt with maybe only a raised eyebrow directed at me. Not to mention that all the well-known places like Marks And Spencers and H&M existed there. The only problem was shoes. Given the difference in sizes between the Chinese and Westerners the only way was to get them custom-made. I found one shop where nothing was said when I ordered ladies’ shoes in a larger size than anything any local girl would want. They took my order and they took my money. Nuff said.

Years go by. My son went to university and got his degree and then his first step on a career as a dentist. My wife stayed with me but became homesick and spent more time back in Brisbane. This did not mean any estrangement. I still spent time with her whenever my job allowed, or she returned for a few weeks, but I was earning the money meant for our retirement. It did mean that Christmas became less important to us, but that seemed like a very small price to pay.

The company I worked for was taken over by a German conglomerate and I guess basically we didn’t like each other. The inevitable “downsizing” and amalgamation took place and I was “invited” to take a position which I didn’t want. Australian and German business cultures clashed, so I said “Thanks, but no thanks” which was obviously what they had wanted all along, I’m sure. I went back to Australia, thinking I would retire. A rest would be nice.

It was nice and relaxing, until after five months my wife told me I made the place look untidy, so why didn’t I see if there was anything interesting for me to do that would get me out of the house. I started looking at the ads, and soon found some possibilities, went for a few interviews, but the results were not encouraging. It became very evident that I scared the people who were on the established employment ladder, heading for the directorships and top management. They didn’t want a prick who had been overseas coming in and usurping their spot on the ladder just because he had more and better experience than they had gained by staying in the one place.

There were various excuses, like I wouldn’t be able to handle the Unions, even though I had been dealing with them for years before I went overseas, or I was too old! For fucks sake, I was all of 49! Or I lived too far away and I could have the job if I moved. I would have been happy to get back on site as a Project Manager but they all said I was over-qualified.

Well, long story short, I eventually got a job as Area Manager for Northern Australia, which meant Queensland and the Northern Territory. I’m sure I only got it because I had worked for the company’s Managing Director some years earlier, and he swatted some of the mosquitos out of my way. Actually, it was more of a marketing and development position, since the company had very little real work in those regions.

I have to be honest. Marketing wasn’t my strong suit. I was an engineer, not a salesman. I tried. I put in a lot of miles and wore out a lot of hypothetical shoe-leather, visited lots of companies touting our wares, and, yes, I got us some work, but I knew in my heart of hearts that I wasn’t really paying my way.

Eighteen months later my unspoken prayers were answered. I was invited to an interview with a company based in Hong Kong who had been one of the main competitors of my previous employer. Although we had been in competition I had no problems with them. Our rivalry had been fierce but honest and I had friends there. Coincidentally my father-figure where I was working had moved on, so I didn’t feel that I had any conflict of interest in replying to this invitation.

Their Chairman was soon to be in Sydney so we arranged to meet there. That only meant a day’s leave for me so it wasn’t too hard to arrange. On the agreed date I flew to Sydney and we sat and talked in the bar of one of the leading hotels, very informally. We knew each other quite well so there was no need for introductions and we were soon down to the nitty-gritty of what they wanted and whether I was the right person for the position.

It was right up my alley. I knew what they did and I knew I could do it. My only problem was to not appear desperate to take it. It was to be their Managing Director. They were a second-ranked construction company in Hong Kong and Macao and just needed that little push to get them to be a leader in the field. Without wanting to appear arrogant, my previous experience and my contacts could provide that push. The job was made for me. We agreed that I would have to be interviewed by the head-hunters who they had engaged, which would be in Hong Kong and then we would talk salary and conditions. If all of that went OK the job was mine.

I went home and talked with my wife and she agreed to go back with me as long as she could return to Brisbane whenever she wanted. I had no problem with that, I knew the pull that family had on her, and my son was very close to getting engaged and hopefully married, so that was her territory.

I, of course, had my own agenda. With her taking frequent trips back home I would be able to indulge myself and dress more often. Being on my own would give me many opportunities to be my true self without anybody being the wiser.

Within a month it was agreed that the job was mine. There were a couple of hiccups about salary and conditions but nothing major. They were somewhat meaner than my former employer but in many ways I was doing this for job satisfaction rather than pure avarice, not that they needed to know that.

My wife came back with me and the next five years went by with no personal problems. All jobs have their difficulties but nothing I couldn’t handle. Our son got married, my wife was totally involved with the arrangements and we both attended the ceremony. We shouted them a two-week honeymoon in Hong Kong and Macao. Everything in the garden was lovely. Then the wheels fell off.

On one of her trips back to Australia my wife went for a check-up and was diagnosed with breast cancer. At first I was told it was all early days so it wasn’t really a problem. I just carried on working, bringing in the money.

A few weeks later I was told it was serious and I should get back home soonest. It was Chinese New Year and there was no way that I could get a flight for a week. Only two airlines operated between Australia and Hong Kong, Qantas and Cathay Pacific. Everything was booked out. It was ten days later that I managed to get a seat, Business Class, and even then I had to travel to Sydney and back-track to Brisbane.

I arrived in time to meet my wife booking out of hospital, having already been operated on. Needless to say, I wasn’t particularly flavour of the month, even though it hadn’t been my fault. That didn’t cut any ice. I wasn’t there when I was needed. I stayed for a month, although I really should have been at work. When she was clear I went back. My daughter-in-law assured me she would look after her.

That was one of those unfortunate incidents that went badly both ways. My absence from work was not appreciated and my absence from my wife in her time of need was also not appreciated.

The coincidence of the two events led to some unfortunate consequences. Unbeknownst to me, which I later found out about and was thoroughly pissed off about, our major share-holder had been negotiating with a Spanish company about selling their holdings. This was something that I should have been made aware of, but they used my absence as an excuse for not telling me. While I had no personal financial interest in the company I did have a fiduciary responsibility. I could have made some trouble with the stock exchange, but coming with my wife’s problems I was distracted, and it was something I really didn’t want to do anyway.

Also, it made me think about where my future really lay. Loyalty is supposed to go in both directions, upwards and downwards. Clearly, in this case it went only one way, so when I heard of what was going on, I resigned immediately. They didn’t expect that and I was asked to stay on and manage the transition. I told them where they could stick that. The press release said I was resigning for “family reasons” which was half true I suppose.

So I returned to Brisbane and again became a gentleman of leisure, although there isn’t much leisure involved in looking after a sick wife. Things didn’t get any better on that front. The cancers spread to her liver, her eyes, her adrenal glands, and god-knows where else, none of it good. She had multiple chemotherapy sessions and then radiation therapy, which did prolong her life but left her a shadow of her former self. In the end her oncologist told her that another round of chemo would probably only extend her life by maybe two months.

She basically said “bugger that”, she would rather go on a cruise and feel OK rather than waking up feeling sick every day, so that’s what we did. We went on a cruise to New Zealand, Tahiti, Moorea, Bora Bora and Hawaii and she enjoyed it, although I must admit by the time it ended I was wondering if we would get her home. Well, we did get her home and she died six weeks later. She was only in real pain in the last twenty-four hours.

I hope cancer is not what finishes me.

However, life goes on and a couple of years later I was wandering the aisles of a local mall looking for inspiration for Christmas gifts about a week before the big day. I had just about given up on that and was heading back to my car when I came across this girl sitting in a corner on one of their seats looking forlorn and sobbing her heart out. Her only possession seemed to be a sports bag at her knees. She was wearing sandals, short shorts and a sloppy T-shirt.

Now, normally I wouldn’t have interfered or intervened in the plight of a teenage girl sitting in a mall, but there was something that told me that this was not normal. I sat down close to her but with some distance between us so that I would not appear threatening. She could easily have taken me as some kind of predator.

“You OK, love?” I asked and passed her a tissue. I always carry some. She took the Kleenex without looking at me and blew her nose.

She turned to me, red nosed and red eyed. “What’s it to you?”

“I just saw you crying and wondered if I could help.”

“Nobody can help me.” Big sniffle.

“Well, I won’t know if I can or can’t if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

I was thinking, “Careful, you don’t know what you’re getting into here.” but I ploughed on, digging myself deeper into whatever her problems were.

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been chucked out of my home and I don’t have anywhere to go.”

I was struggling to understand. How could anyone throw a youngster out of her home unless she had done something dreadful.

“What did you do?” I asked her.

“Nothing. It’s just who I am.”

“Well, you must have done something,” I persisted.

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

“I’m Trans.”

I didn’t need to ask any more questions. I knew THAT problem.

“Is that all? OK, look if you want a bed for the night you can come home with me, and we’ll sort out something tomorrow when you’re feeling better. You don’t have to trust me. Here’s my phone and you can ring anybody you like, even the cops. We’re here in public so you can run anytime you want to. You’ll be faster than me.”

I was torn. I wanted to help someone with the same problem I had, even though I didn’t know her from….Eve, but I didn’t want to get saddled with a fugitive waif either. All right, sometimes you have to do the right thing.

She looked at me a little less suspiciously. “You sure?”

“Let’s give it a try, eh? We go down to the carpark in the lift. You can stand at one end and it’s only two floors. You stand at the door end, so if you get scared you can run. I’ll stand at the back. When we get to the carpark you stand aside and I go to the car and you follow. I open a back door and get in the front to drive. If you trust me you get in the back. I can’t do anything funny.”

“OK, sounds all right. Where are you taking me?”

“My home, of course. It’s in South Brisbane. If you want to run there’s no way I can stop you. When we get there I’ll take you up to my apartment, let you in and then come back down and park the car. If you decide you don’t like it all you have to do is call the lift, press one and go. Otherwise wait for me to come back. I’ll be about two minutes.”

We completed the trip in about ten minutes. I stopped the car in the small carpark on my side of the block, fifteen metres from the front door. I took her to the entrance and then to the lift. I called it from wherever it was and shepherded her inside.

“The door to No.62 should be open, just go in. Now, if you want to bolt, you call the lift and press one and press that green button by the front door to get out, but please leave my mobile inside, all right? I’ll be back up in a couple of minutes.”

She was still there when I got back and looking calmer, no longer weeping, parked on the sofa.

“Well, did you have a sticky-beak while I was downstairs?”

She actually smiled and nodded. It wouldn’t have taken her long to do that. I have two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a laundry, a living room, kitchen and a balcony with a table and four chairs.

“Can I really stay? Just for a little while?”

“Yes, I wouldn’t throw you out. You can tell me when you’re ready to leave. What’s your name? You can call me Mac.”

“Ali.”

“Short for Alison?” I knew it probably wasn’t but it was important to let her give me whatever information she wanted to.

“No, Alistair.”

“Well, if you’re happy with Ali, then Ali it is. If you want to be called something different, just let me know. What do you want to do now?”

She got a pleading look on her face, as young girls do when they really want something. “Please can I have a shower? I feel so grubby.”

“Yeah, of course. Hang on and I’ll get you some towels and some soap. Use the second bathroom and the second bedroom to change. I’ll get you a dressing-gown too. What’ve you got to wear?”

“I’ve some undies in my bag, but only these shorts and this top.”

I went and got the towels, a dressing gown and soap. She looked at me sideways when I handed them to her. The soap was Dove, and I used it when I was able to dress properly. The dressing gown was obviously feminine. I also handed her some shampoo and conditioner, which were scented Palmolive. She obviously wanted to ask me about those, but I wanted time to think about it.

“OK. Shower first, talk after.”

She disappeared into the bedroom and then into the bathroom, while I went back onto the balcony and wondered what the hell I was doing. She was obviously curious as to why I had feminine toiletries. The dressing gown was a dead give-away too. Of course I could lie and say they had belonged to my wife, but inevitably that would lead to further questions and soap, shampoo and conditioner don’t last for over two years. The robe I could explain away as being hers and unused since she died.

But all of a sudden, I was sick of subterfuge. The girl was a temporary complication. She would be gone soon enough, and maybe she would need a helping hand down the track. I would tell her the truth and it would give her the confidence that there was someone who genuinely had a reason to care.

It was over half an hour before she re-appeared, hair washed and combed, wearing the robe. There was no doubt in my mind that she was a girl.

Together we went out onto my balcony and sat facing each other. I waited for her to start. I knew she would be curious.

“Why have you got scented soap and shampoo and conditioner? And this dressing-gown is a woman’s.”

“Yep, I’ll let you into a secret. I’m like you.”

“But you’re sixty.”

“Not far off but in the wrong direction. All that means is that I know how you feel, because I’ve been feeling that way for nearly fifty years. It’s something you can’t change.”

“But you look normal.”

“You learn how to hide things. I’ve had lots of practice. Just hang on. I’ll show you something.”

I went to my desk and got my laptop, opened it to my photos and handed it to her. “Check that out.”

I let her page through my pics; there were about fifty that I had kept from my make-over sessions. The ones I didn’t like I had already deleted. I may have been kidding myself but I thought I looked all right, no longer a young beauty of course, but definitely female. They do say that cross-dressing takes ten years off your age and I reckon at least that.

She finished scrolling through my memories and looked at me with tears in her eyes. “But, why? Why don’t you live as a woman? What do you call yourself?”

“When I’m dressed I call myself Joanne. Life is complicated, and it was even more so fifty years ago. Then I suppressed my female self, got married, had a son, had a wife, had a job. I just had to live what most people call a normal life otherwise my family and my friends would have suffered. You are just starting and times are different. It’s still not easy but if you want to you can be who you want to be.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because I know how hard it is. You’ve been rejected by your family and maybe because it’s time I gave something back. I can get you the help you need, if you want it. You can stay with me until you want to leave. We’ll go shopping tomorrow and get you some decent clothes and whatever else you need. Or you can do it all by yourself.”

She considered for a minute or so. “I’d like to stay, if it’s OK. But how can I repay you?”

“We’ll worry about that later, shall we? Let’s just say your company is sufficient payment for now. Are you hungry?”

“God! Am I? I haven’t eaten since yesterday. What’ve you got?”

“I was thinking pizza, OK?”

Her stomach rumbled, as if on cue, “ Definitely.”

So I rang Dominos, ordered a large Hawaiian and half an hour later we shared it. She had orange juice to wash it down and I had a very much needed glass of Chardonnay. Confessions take it out of you.

When we finished we made up the bed in the spare bedroom, I gave her a new toothbrush and some toothpaste I always kept just in case and told her she could go to bed anytime and I’d see her in the morning. She surprised me by giving me a big hug and “Thank you so much.” In my ear.

So I did my usual computer things, showered, went to bed and surprised myself by having a good night’s sleep.

In the morning I had my pills, orange juice, coffee and biscuits. She joined me in the OJ, had a cup of tea and a couple of boiled eggs and a slice of toast. She had put back on her shorts and top, so I said we should go and get her some clothes. She couldn’t wear the same old things all the time.

Off we went to the shopping mall, the same one in which I had picked her up yesterday, and my first stop was an ATM. I got out five hundred and gave her three.

I pointed her at Target. “Is that enough?” I asked.

"I'll meet you back here in an hour,OK?"

If she was going to do a runner and prove to me that I was an idiot this was her chance.

Meanwhile I went to Coles and stacked up on groceries. It was a nice change in a way, shopping for two instead of one. The supermarkets don’t really cater for singles, plus I bought things like cereal, milk and more veggies that I would normally not have done. She was making me eat healthier!

After an hour I went back to our appointed meeting place near the bank with the ATM and she was there waiting for me with half a dozen bags.

“All OK?”

“Thanks, Yes. Here’s the change,” and she tried to hand me thirty or forty dollars and some silver.

“Forget it. You might need it for McDonalds or something.”

I was actually impressed that she hadn’t spent everything I gave her and she offered the unspent money back.

So we went back home and she couldn’t wait to show me what she had bought. It made me jealous, what wouldn’t I have loved to have all those nice clothes? Target may be cheap but they still have some good stuff. The problem was, I’m not a teenager anymore. Very far from it.

She looked lovely in her new clothes and she was just so delighted in having them. I patted myself on the back, money well spent.

So, Christmas was fast approaching and I had been invited to lunch on the day with my son and his family. What to do with Ali?

“Listen, are you happy to stay with me over Christmas? I’ve got an invite to lunch with my family on the day and I’m sure they won’t mind if I ask you to join us. Up to you.”

“I’d love to stay, if it’s no trouble for you. Do you think they’ll be OK with an extra guest, though?”

“Only one way to find out, but I’m sure they’ll be all right.”

So I rang my daughter-in-law and told her I had an unexpected guest and could I bring her to Christmas lunch.

She was naturally curious about an unexpected guest but I told her I had found someone who needed a bit of help over the holiday and all would become clear on the day. I didn’t want to leave her sitting alone at home while we all enjoyed ourselves.

Kylie is a kind soul and she is a great cook so she said yes, of course. That was settled and I told Ali she was coming to Christmas lunch with us. It took me five minutes to stop her crying.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“It’s all right, love. It’s time I did something to help, should have done it long ago.”

“But I haven’t got anything to give them.”

“We’ll get some chocolates, that’ll be enough.”

Everybody loves chocolates, don’t they? If not they can always regift them. So we got four boxes and gift-wrapped them. It’s such a female thing, isn’t it? Gift-wrapping.

By Christmas day I was really used to her. She was no trouble and I liked her presence in my home. Damn, how was I going to get rid of her? Would I get rid of her?

Time came to go over to my family’s house. No problem for me, but she was so worried about whether she looked all right. She did look all right, she looked very pretty and was just another teenage girl. She’d be fine. I had to give her a hug to convince her. Kids!

So we arrived at Chez Family, only a ten-minute Uber away, me with my prezzies and she with hers and went through introductions, which all seemed to go off OK and soon we were sitting around with drinks and nibblies.

My son, Anthony, wife Kylie, grand-daughter Dixie, grandson Max, Ali and me. I should have known there would be an interrogation.

Kylie started by asking, “So how did you meet Mac?”

Ali looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh, you mean Joanne.”

With all the innocence of youth she had just thrown me under the bus. Four pairs of eyes turned on me; four mouths goldfished. Nobody actually screamed.

Kylie was the first to recover and did an admirable impersonation of Pauline Hanson. “Please explain*.” That was to me.

“Oh, shit!”

---

 
* Pauline Hanson is one of our prominent fascist senators. An interviewer asked her if she was xenophobic, to which she replied "Please explain."

I sat at the counter and ordered a Chardonnay. I rubbed the condensation on the glass. Suddenly there was a beautiful girl on the seat next to me.
“Hello, good looking.” She said. That should have alerted me but I was too busy looking at her chest.
“See something you like?” she purred.
“I certainly do. What’s your name?”
“ Laika. I’m a genie. What’s your wish?”
I laughed, not believing her. “Free drinks for the rest of my life.”
I walk into a bar and men rush to buy me drinks, but it takes me SOOO long to get ready.

By Joannebarbarella

“Do I really look all right?” I asked her anxiously. “I’m not over the top, am I?”

She looked at me with a critical eye, taking in my carefully coiffed, lightly moussed dirty blonde hair,loosely pulled up and styled to make me look waif-like, delicately arched eyebrows, mascara coated lashes and blended shades of eye-shadow; the pillow lips which I had joyfully had plumped up with collagen, now highlighted with a warm pink lip-gloss. A pair of dangling, shimmering crystal ear-rings and a crystal necklace set off my face.

Continuing her inspection downwards past the modest white back-buttoned blouse with pirate sleeves, through which the lines of my bra could just be seen, she took in the gold Rolex on my left wrist, the plain gold bangle on my right and the professionally shaped nails in the same colour as my lips.

A wide red belt cinched my waist between blouse and black flared layered knee-length skirt, which swirled pleasingly when I walked. Ecru sheer nylons pointed the way to my red sandals with two-inch heels. I would have liked a higher heel but she had told me not to be too tarty.

She brought her eyes back up to mine just as I was starting to feel like a slab of meat and smiled.

“You look lovely, just perfect. We want her to see that you really are a girl, but we don’t want you looking like a street-walker. The only problem I can see is that she won’t see any Tommy at all. We’re the only ones who know that there’s only one tiny bit of him still functioning, aren’t we?”

We both burst out laughing, but mine was an expression of relief.

“I’m not sure I can do this.” I said.

“Actually, darling, you don’t really have a choice. You have to do it some time.”

I whimpered, “Yes, but does it have to be today?”

“It’s been five weeks. We can’t hide things much longer, can we? She’s been getting more and more insistent, asking about Tom. I think she thinks I’ve done away with him; got him buried in the garden or something. Besides, if we don’t move soon, you’ll have my mum spilling the beans. Do you think that will be a better solution?”

As apprehensive as I was that made me giggle. We had flown to Sydney a week ago and confronted her mum and sister with the change in me. Perhaps because they had known of her previous (lesbian) entanglements they had just about yawned and ho-hummed at the news and evidence that I was now showing my true colours as a girl. I don’t think they thought Tommy was much of a man anyway and, of course, as women always are, they were right.

Cathy had extracted a promise that they would not spill the beans to my mum before two weeks were up, but we did not totally trust her mum, who could talk under water and at great length too. That was why we were where we were now.

“Well, in a way she’s right and we’re partners in crime, but what if mum doesn’t accept me like this?”

“One thing’s for sure, my sweet, we won’t ever know if you don’t try. I think she’ll be all right with you, but if she’s not you’ve still got me, and we’ll handle things together.”

I turned away from the mirror and moved to embrace her, so thankful for her support and acceptance, my heart overflowing with love, but she grabbed my wrists and stopped me from giving her a full-blown hug.

“Not now, my love. We didn’t spend all that time getting you ready so we could go and ruin your make-up now. OK, let’s go. Are you going to take a jacket?”

“It’s warm enough not to,” as I grabbed the bag that matched my shoes and belt, checking that all my necessities were in it. I do love shoes and bags. After inspecting myself in the mirror one final time I supposed I would have to do.

I admired her as she preceded me down the stairs, thinking again how lucky I was. She looked a little dykish in black low-heeled ankle-boots, black tights and a loose black boat-necked sleeveless top hanging past her bum, but then in a way she was a dyke.....my dyke. If I thought about it I suppose I could be classified as a lipstick lesbian. A frisson of anticipation passed through my body. How could I even think of sex at a time like this?

“You drive. You need the practice. Heels and a skirt make it different.”

We took the Lexus, which had been Tommy’s before I inherited it. Changing my driving licence had been one of our early priorities, and had turned into a sort of surreal experience. We had got our solicitor to do a lot of the necessary paperwork for disposing of my old identity but a new driver’s licence was one of those things you had to do yourself in person.

We had gone to the city branch of the Department of Transport in Elizabeth Street, where I produced the letters backing up my request for a new licence, filled in the necessary forms and handed in Tommy’s old licence. We went and sat down while the clerical work proceeded and all of a sudden the space behind the counters was a major traffic artery with personnel going backwards and forwards and looking at me without looking at me, the women with their better peripheral vision less obvious than the men.

I was called to have my picture taken and then sat down again waiting for the precious new plastic-coated card. A lady came out and called my name.“Tanya Catherine Thompson” and I went to the counter to collect it.

As she handed it to me she leaned over conspiratorially and in a loud stage whisper said, “Good luck, my dear. I think you’re so brave to change your sex. Drive safely.”

Half of the people seated waiting were looking at me with expressions ranging from fascination through naked curiosity to disgust and horror. Cathy and I fled. I didn’t even examine the licence until we were outside. My picture was surprisingly good and I had that vital “F” where it said what sex I was. While I always drive carefully it’s nice to know I wouldn’t have any unnecessary aggravation if stopped by the law, and, of course, a Driver’s Licence is the most common item of normal I.D.

Most other documents were surprisingly easy to change. Credit cards, bank accounts, utility company details; all handled at arm’s length by the lawyer, who didn’t even bat an eyelid at the change in me. A bit of legalese works wonders with bureaucracy. Even a new passport wasn’t a problem. So it was now “Tommy who?”.....as if he had never existed. Well, he hadn’t really.

However, back to the present. We set off to mum’s place with me driving. She’s only fifteen minutes away in normal traffic and it wasn’t rush hour. Cathy had rung and made sure she would be home when we got there. I kind of wished she hadn’t and then I would have had an excuse to turn around and drive away if she had gone shopping or something.

Mum’s place is a nice three-bedroom brick in Taringa. We had been left pretty well-off through my dad’s insurance and the settlement after his untimely death on a construction site in Papua-New Guinea. When it came to investments my mum wasn’t silly either, so to say she was comfortable was a slight understatement.

She was at home as promised. My stomach was performing loop-the-loops and Immelmann Turns as that moment approached. Cathy had to practically drag me from the car, prising my fingers from the steering wheel.

“Don’t be a wuss,” she said.

“I can’t help it. I am a wuss. I’ve always been a wuss.”

She took my hand and towed me to the door and rang the bell.

Don’t get me wrong in all of this. I really love my mum and I admire her no end. She brought me up on her own so she’s not a weak woman even if she has her foibles, like the vanity that prevents her from wearing her glasses.

Me being her only child she had a tendency to spoil me and was somewhat over-protective. That was one reason I had left to live on my own at eighteen, along with the REAL reason that I could relax and dress in proper clothes when the occasion allowed. Even so, when she came to visit me I made sure all my female attire and accoutrements were well hidden.

My mum answered in thirty seconds or a lifetime, whichever you prefer. Einstein hadn’t included intervals like this in his Theory of Relativity.

“Oh, hello Cathy, and..... er......Tanya. How nice to see you. Come in and have some coffee. You said you had some news about Tommy. Nothing bad I hope?”

“No, of course not, Marie. I wouldn’t do that to you. Let’s have that coffee and we’ll talk about it.”

Mum wasn’t wearing her glasses so she was operating on a combination of blur and sonar, but she knew her way around well enough to make coffee, and we put the cups, milk jug and sugar on a tray and carried the whole set into the living room.

“Shall I pour?” said Cathy, and mum smiled her assent. She did know her limitations. When three cups were in front of us Cathy said;

“Marie, I know you don’t like to wear them when you don’t have to, but this is important. Will you please put your glasses on. There’s something you have to be able to see clearly.”

I took a quick swig of my coffee while mum was fumbling for her glasses, because I thought I wouldn’t be able to hold the cup without spilling it when we told her.

She put them on and peered expectantly at the two of us, her gaze seeming to linger on me with a slight look of puzzlement.

“Go on then,” said my lovely wife to me....the bitch.... combing her auburn hair through her fingers. “This is your show now.”

“Thanks a million, darling,” I thought, glaring at her, hoping her brain would fry....well....only a little....at least get a bit warm.

I cleared my throat and took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.

“Mum, look at me closely. Do I look familiar?”

She peered at me.....owl-like through those thick lenses.

“Why are you calling me mum? I’m not your mum.”

“Yes, you are actually. It’s just that you thought you had a son called Tommy when you really had a daughter. I was the one who everybody insisted was Tommy and I just went with the flow because I was too frightened to do anything else. Now the time has come for me to face the truth and to let you see me as I am meant to be.”

Her eyes almost popped behind those pebble lenses and I twisted my fingers nervously together waiting for her reaction. This time she really gave me the once-over.

“T-T-Tommy? You’re not my Tommy.”

“I am and I’m not, mum. You must get used to calling me Tanya from now on. I was the person you thought of as Tommy, but he’s gone now and he won’t be back. I am who he really was but was afraid to let out.”

She continued to inspect me, bug-eyed, and then, all of a sudden, she burst into tears, raising her hands to her face and knocking her glasses off as she covered her eyes. Cathy and I both reached to embrace her, one on each side, and she didn’t resist as she sobbed, shoulders shaking.

We held her and shushed her for a couple of minutes, until she gradually lapsed into tearlessness and dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. She fumbled around, looking for her glasses, until I picked them up off the carpet and handed them to her. She wiped her eyes one more time and put the specs back on and resumed examining me.

I started to get that slab-of-meat feeling again, until she leaned forward and patted my cheek.

“Yes, you are, aren’t you? I should have seen it before. Well, it’s my own fault I suppose.”

“What do you mean, mum? Your fault?”

“The easiest way is to show you. Just wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”

She got up and went up the stairs towards her bedroom.

Cathy and I looked at each other non-plussed and shrugged. Cathy gave me an encouraging smile.

“It’s going to be OK, I’m sure.”

A few seconds later mum came back into the lounge, carrying one of those old-fashioned photo-album scrap-books. You don’t see them these days because we keep our snaps on memory sticks.

She went to the dining table.

“Come over here girls, so we can all see.”

My heart gave a little jump. She had said “girls” so naturally. Cathy and I went to the table and sat either side of her as she opened the scrapbook.

The pictures on the first two pages were of my father and her; bride and groom; happy young couple, the two of them on their own; mum with tiny bundle in her arms. She was beautiful and radiant in those days. The fashions of the mid-eighties were not so different from today. My dad was a handsome young man in his mid-twenties, obviously ready to take on the world.

Unfortunately the world had taken up the challenge.

“I loved him so much,” said mum. “I still miss him so badly, but I’m afraid I had a kind of a breakdown when he died. I would have killed myself if it wasn’t for you To.......I mean Tanya. I still went kind of insane afterwards.”

She turned the page and there were pictures of the baby.....me, I guess.......growing through the first months of its life. She turned the page again and the child began to grow into a little person, but.....

“I hated everything macho and male....not men as such.....but all the trappings of manhood, the competitiveness, the pissing contests. I made my mind up that I was not going to let my child grow up to be trapped into that world, so I set to work to make my son into a gentle, caring person and the only way I could think of doing it with my mind in that state was to raise him as a girl.”

While she had been explaining, I had been goggling open-mouthed as the pretty little girl in the photos grew from one year old to two and then older, wearing typically small-girl clothes, brightly-coloured dresses, a pink fairy-costume in one picture, complete with tiara and wand. Long light brown hair fell past her shoulders and she looked happily out of every shot. She was me.

We turned another page. Cathy was smiling a smug “told-you-so” smile as we carried on looking at the album. Then, at I guessed about four years old, the little girl disappeared and there was Tommy. He seemed subdued, not so happy as the girl or as comfortable.

“When you were three and a half, I came to my senses....or so I thought until today.....and realised that I could not continue to raise you as my daughter. I was coming out of my total grief stage and some men were becoming interested in me and I thought I might get interested in one of them. If that happened I didn’t want to try explaining why my baby girl was a boy.

“In any case the secret would be out as soon as you started kindergarten. People always find these things out, particularly mothers who are protecting their children, so I began to put you into boys’ clothes and train you to join the outside world. I told you it was a game we had to play and we had to make sure everybody thought you were a boy.

“You were a bit reluctant at first but I tried to make it fun for you, telling you that being a tom-boy was a good thing, and you gradually seemed to accept it. By the time you were four-and-a-half you seemed to have totally forgotten about being a girl. I don’t suppose you remember any of this and I can only say how sorry I am for messing up your life. Forgive me, my darling.”

I was still trying to absorb the images of me as a little girl. I was so obviously happy. I turned to mum and took her hand.

“Mum, there’s nothing to forgive. You were alone in the world and you tried to do your best for me. Who knows what would have happened if you had kept on bringing me up as a girl? Perhaps you affected my perception of myself, but I think things would have turned out the same way. The main thing is...do you accept me as I am now?”

She squeezed my hand back. “Of course I do, darling. I only ever wanted you to be happy. If a girl is what you are, then I’m happy for you.”

I sagged in relief and put out my other hand to Cathy, but she got up and came around my mother and gave me a great big hug from behind and kissed me on the neck.

Mum blushed scarlet. “I’m going to have to get used to seeing two girls canoodling, I guess,” she said.

“What about you, Cathy? Are you all right with having a girl for your husband?”

“Marie, I can’t begin to tell you just how all right I am. She’s lovely, as you can see, and she is so much happier with herself in the last few weeks. I’m like you. If she’s happy, then I’m happy.”

“Hello-o-o-o, you two. I’m right here.” Mum joined Cathy in a three way hug and I burst into tears seconds before they did.

When we all dried our eyes and had gone to the bathroom to repair panda eyes we sat down again with fresh coffees. I was still rapt in the album and the pictures of myself.

“What did you call me, mum? It couldn’t have been Tommy.”

She laughed. “You are not going to believe this. It’s almost like predestination. I called you Tanya, so it was all meant to be.”

I wondered if there was some hidden memory lurking in my mind, but it was Cathy who had picked my name. I looked at her and she was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. She raised a hand to her mouth and breathed onto it and then buffed her nails on her chest.

“OK, smartarse,” I couldn’t help grinning too.

“Tanya! Is that any way to talk to your wife?”

“Yes, mum. It is, otherwise she’ll get unbearable.”

“One thing I suppose I’ll have to give up on is the thought of grandchildren. Never mind. There’s always adoption.”

“We thought of that. We both wanted kids, so Tommy has left a bequest in the sperm bank.”

Cathy again looked like the cat who got the cream. She gave a little cough.

“What’s up with you?” I asked.

“Well. Surprise! Surprise! Tommy left more than a sample. I’m preggers!”

Mum and I both shrieked at the same time.

“Why didn’t you say?”

“I’ve only just missed my period. I figure it happened the day I came home and found Tanya had moved in full-time instead of a part-time Tommy, so we’ve got something to thank the airlines for. Much more fun that way too. If it’s a girl we can call her Dolly.”

My love for my wife was almost too much to bear.

“You’re a rotten bitch.”

“No insults please. You have to take good care of us expecting mothers, you know. Do you want to be a daddy or a mummy or a maddy or a dummy?”

“I suppose Dummy suits me best. You won't miss....?"

She grinned, "No, I think we have all we need from Tommy."

We all laughed and cried at the same time.

There might be a reader (possibly even two) who remembers a story I did a couple of years ago titled "Not What You Expected". Tanya and Cathy are the girls from that story. This is not exactly a sequel and I hope stands on its own.

However, if you're a masochist, and want to boost my ratings, that story will give you the context for this one.
.

Inconvenience

By Joannebarbarella

The phone rang.

Of course it did, I was sitting on the loo. When else does it ring, other than when I’m in the shower.
I refuse to take my phone with me when I’m doing my business or I’m naked and wet, so it rang out and went to “Message”, allowing me to complete doing what I had to do and make myself half-way decent (or at least to cover myself up) before going to see if anything worthwhile had come in.

I keyed in 101 but the replay said the caller hadn’t left a message and the number was unfamiliar. To me that meant that it was either somebody looking for money, probably one of the charities to which I already contributed, but once you’ve done so, they consider that you are a bottomless well existing only for their convenience, or maybe it was a scammer also trying to get money out of me. The buggers never stop.

It hadn’t always been that way. One of my girl friends used to call me most mornings. We often joked about how she must have had some kind of “trans-dar” that told her when I was enthroned or wet and naked. Then she stopped ringing. It took me a little while before I found out she was dead…suicide. Like so many of us, she couldn’t take it. I wish she would have told me. Maybe I could have said something…. done something…. Who knows? You feel so guilty.

I pressed “Delete” and continued to have my breakfast, my glass of orange juice with my pills, a bowl of Weetbix and a couple of boiled eggs with a slice of toast, not to forget my coffee. None of that instant crap, strong ground roast to open my eyes for the day.
After washing the few dishes I carried on getting dressed for the day. That took me longer than it used to a couple of years or more ago but I wasn’t complaining. It is only natural for a woman to take longer than a man. When I was still pretending to be someone who I wasn’t all I had to do was throw on a pair of underpants, socks, a shirt, slacks and decide whether to wear my brown shoes or my black ones. I might need a jacket if the weather was cool. The biggest chore was shaving, but I’d usually already done that when I showered.

Now I have to think about what I’m going to wear today, and it can’t be the same as yesterday. Underwear is relatively easy. As long as I’m happy with a matching panty and bra it’s not a problem, but you have to wear white or pink or flesh with a light-coloured outfit ,or something darker if your outerwear needs it . Actually, these days I am mostly restricted to a skirt and top, thigh-highs or panty-hose and matching shoes with at least some kind of heel. For work It’s usually a white or bright-coloured blouse with a black skirt and jacket. Of course I have to add make-up and a bit of bling to give me a professional look. Luckily my nails are taken care of at work. It’s only in the evenings that I can really get dolled up.

The story here is that my current situation is due to one of those almost unbelievable strokes of luck. Some people would say that I was hit in the bum by a rainbow and I can’t really argue with them.

I won the lottery when I was nineteen, during my first year at Uni, not the big prize, but a more realistic $970,000 plus a little bit, not quite a million. Not enough to bring all the vultures down on my head; the first prize that day was $60 million, won by somebody else who they could chase. I was more than happy not to attract the attendant publicity. The lottery company had a policy not to pay for two weeks after the actual win, which gave 19-year-old me some time to actually think about it and discard some of my wilder impulses and teen-age flights of fancy.

Maybe I was selfish but I decided not to tell anybody about my luck…nobody at all. My parents were well-off enough so I had no guilt about them and I had no siblings to worry about. It was mine….all mine! Gollum. My Preshuss! It was me who had bought the ticket. It was mine to spend. I still buy a ticket every week; you never know. Lightning could strike twice.

Those two weeks were a godsend by giving me time to think. I determined to buy an apartment, which would give me the freedom to pursue my dream. This took nearly half of my winnings. However, my main priority was to get myself fixed. I had known for years that I should have been a girl, but previous opportunities had not been propitious. I had dressed very occasionally when I still lived at home, pretending that I was going to parties or for Halloween, but the reception from my parents had been pretty lukewarm to say the least. They were people of their generation and just did not understand how their son could want to be a girl. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get through to them that I did not “want” to be a girl, I was one. They weren’t cruel but they definitely weren’t supportive. Ignore the problem and it will go away.

That situation had been kinda resolved when I went to university and lived in digs. I still could not be my real self full-time but I managed to spend a much greater amount of time in my true gender at least as far as dressing and presenting went. Uni was quite kind to folks like me. Nobody gave a monkeys when I turned up to lectures wearing a dress or a skirt and top. Long hair wasn’t even noticed.

Still, my win enabled me to review my life and I researched what I would have to do to become as completely female as I could possibly be. I knew, of course, the general outlines of transitioning but without the means to pursue my goal I had put it on the back-burner, one of those impossible dreams.

With money to spare I dug much deeper into the internet and it didn’t take long to chart a course through the mechanics and medical requirements of the process. As it turned out it wasn’t so much the money but the time. It was going to take me two to three years to go from being technically male to achieving the femininity needed to satisfy myself and face the world full-time.

My windfall meant that I had no problem financially. I could afford all the necessary treatments, even allowing for private medical and hospital charges and I had almost enough to live on while I transitioned. I still wanted to complete my course at university even though I had no idea how a degree in English Literature would benefit me after I graduated.

It took me a few months to finalise my living arrangements and get my new flat in a location and a condition that I was happy to live in, but now without financial restraints I didn’t feel under any pressure. I used the time to bring my wardrobe up to scratch and to widen my other requirements to enable me to live while transitioning. With half a million to hand it was amazing how much “advice” I could get.

One thing my parents, particularly my father, had drummed into me as a child was to look very carefully at the motives of people who wanted to “help” me take care of my finances. He had invested in a mix of stocks, shares and property, which, while not making our family wealthy, had provided us with a decent income on top of his salary, enough to fund my tuition fees.

I now had my property. It didn’t generate any income but relieved me from the burden of paying rent. My only outgoings were for Council rates, utilities and Body Corporate levies. I could buy shares through reputable stockbrokers and that’s what I did, sticking to what were called blue-chips that paid decent dividends. I couldn’t live completely on the proceeds but as a student it went a long way and the money enabled me to pay for my treatments. Part-time jobs were easy to come by for all the little extras. Mostly I waitressed and the tips were OK too.

I was definitely lucky insofar as I had never looked particularly masculine and I grew only to 5’ 8” (172 cm). I knew that with a little cosmetic enhancement facially I could present as a woman. After all, I had already been passing on a regular basis. With my domestic arrangements and my financial situation settled I got serious about advancing the medical aspects of my transition. Obviously I had to jump through multiple hoops with respect to endocrinology and psychiatry but after a few months I was cleared for hormone therapy and once on the path I found it surprisingly easy. Perhaps because I was paying my own way the support was very sympathetic and regular check-ups were just a phone-call or email away with few problems in getting appointments.

What I had to keep schooling myself in was that there were no shortcuts. The process took time and the only parts under my control were the cosmetic procedures to ensure that the rest of the world looked at me and saw a girl. I didn’t go overboard with my face. I wanted to blend in, not be Miss Universe, so a few tweaks to my mouth, nose and eyes were enough to satisfy me. Just as well, because even those weren’t cheap.

It was only when I had completed my hormone treatments and my course at university that I allowed myself some breast enhancement and went up to a C-cup and then I scheduled the Big One, the conversion of my genitals to female. For that I went to Thailand. I had already changed my documentation to enable me to present as female. I had engaged a lawyer to expedite it and it was surprisingly painless and easy, the only confrontation needed was changing my Driver’s Licence which had to be done in person. We won’t go into that little ordeal. Thus my passport already showed me as female and I had no trouble travelling.

The internet had provided the details of the necessary surgery at a well-known hospital in Phuket and my operations and accommodation pre- and post-op were already booked and paid for. I also booked a further two weeks for recuperation in a local tourist resort. I’m glad I did, as none of the literature tells you how painful the aftermath can be. Things take a while to settle down and even an extra two weeks is not really enough. Anyway, all went well and after a month in Thailand I flew home happy that my physical changes totally matched the details on my passport. I drank champagne all the way (Business Class).

Now I had to come out to my parents and while they weren’t overjoyed they finally had to accept that my strangeness hadn’t just been a passing phase. They didn’t cut me off (not that they could) but our relationship was cool, in the temperature sense, not the friendly sense. The friends that I had were cool, in the second sense.

With my gender sorted and my Degree completed it was time to get a job. I determined that I would not hide in the shadows and would inform any prospective employers that I was transgender in order to avoid future repercussions or recriminations. I still don’t know if that was smart.

Despite protestations of inclusive diversity policies I failed to get any interviews for those jobs for which I initially applied, and those were the ones where I thought my degree might actually be worth something. Consequently I lowered my sights and began applying to commercial outfits that might appreciate someone with a decent general education and after a few more disappointments I landed an interview with the management of the major shopping mall closest to where I lived. I imagined that I would be doing some kind of management training or clerical work; I hadn’t specified anything in particular. By this time a job was a job. A living wage was a priority and any experience was worth having.

My initial interview went well and my transsexualism rated only a little comment. I was assured it would not be a problem although I asked the HR ladies not to spread it around. I had a second interview with the overall manager of the complex and it didn’t even rate a mention. A week went by and I was beginning to think it had been another wasted effort when I was called back. A third interview? They must be serious, I thought, but what they proposed came out of left field. Later I reckoned somebody must have had a twisted sense of humour.

They offered me a job, but in their Security Department. It sort of made sense. They had no problems getting male security guards, but females were surprisingly hard to recruit. If you took out the major “anchor” supermarkets over 50% of the retail outfits in the mall catered to women. Situations often arose where the presence of men was not the best way to deal with transgressions. Most shop-lifting was committed by females and searches could only be done by another woman without the perpetrator screaming “harassment” and the police had to be called in, not a good look.

The other possible area of conflict was in the women’s washrooms. They had not yet had any major problems but they wanted to be prepared. Was I interested in being a mall-cop? It would involve patrolling the aisles waiting for trouble and dealing with it if and when it arose.

Surprisingly it appealed to me. I would be dressed as a “civilian” but with an identity badge, a panic button and a phone on which the outlets would be able to contact me in the event of trouble and I would be able to notify my male colleagues. With respect to the washrooms there had been accusations that they had been infiltrated by men for sexual impropriety, although nothing had been proved. A female security officer would be able to hopefully cut such problems off before they got ugly.

I thought about it and accepted. Not only for the money, but because it was something different which might prove interesting. Two weeks later I started my induction course. There were three male security guards to show me the ropes and they were all pretty much relieved to have me join them. Naturally they were all big, beefy blokes and hated to have to restrain generally much smaller female miscreants and then be accused of assault or harassment while the cops were coming.

A couple of weeks accompanying my colleagues and I was considered ready to patrol on my own. I had been introduced to the staff of many of the retail outfits, particularly those involved in women’s fashion. Without exception I was welcomed. They had nearly all had incidents where a female presence could have helped to ameliorate in restraining a perpetrator with less drama.

One of the pluses which I had not anticipated was the offer of employee discounts at many of the stores! I was, after all, an attractive 23-year-old. The nail salon was only too pleased to look after my talons for free and my hair was kept looking good. Sessions were arranged for slow periods or after-hours.

My daily rounds consisted of basically posing as a shopper and visiting those stores which were the principal targets of thieves. The salesgirls very kindly gave me previews of the latest clothes and shoes before they hit the shelves. What more could a girl want?

As it happened, my first months on the job were relatively quiet crime-wise and I only had a few “arrests” to deal with, mainly attempted shoplifting. Actually I, strictly speaking, could not arrest anyone unless I called the cops, but most of the thieves did not want the police involved and nor did our Management, so what we did was photograph them, obtain their personal details (quite often they lied) and ban them from entering the mall on pain of police involvement next time. We also notified the other malls in the vicinity. This worked quite well. Presumably they either went straight or went elsewhere to practice their larceny.

Christmas approached and the volume of shoppers increased. So did the thefts (we knew we didn’t get them all) and attempted thefts. There was also the occasional fight at one of the pubs, but those were usually dealt with by the men in our little squad. Management took on a couple of temps to deal with the increased workload and even managed to employ a rather tough-looking lady to assist me. She scared me, so, hopefully, she also scared the thieves.

Just after this, my first restroom emergency occurred. As it happened I was just about to check one of the Ladies’ toilets when I heard a ruckus inside. I entered as quickly as I could and encountered two middle-aged women attacking a girl about my age or maybe a little younger. They were trying to restrain her physically and being none too gentle about it. I took a few pictures on my phone and inserted myself into the fracas and demanded that they all separate. When I showed my Security pass they obeyed, the older ones with some reluctance.

I looked at the younger girl and my own experience and circumstances caused me to suspect that she was like me, a transsexual. Unluckily for her she did look somewhat mannish, but she was nicely dressed and made-up and I wouldn’t have given her a second glance anywhere else in the mall. She was clearly terrified at what the two women had been doing to her.

The two older women were frothing at their mouths and going on about counterfeit males invading women’s spaces with the intention of committing rape or worse on unsuspecting females.

I yelled at them all to shut up and we would sort the situation out. I told each of them to stand in a cubicle while I conducted my investigation. They did as told but the two aggressors looked smugly triumphant. What I had done was isolate each of them so I could control the situation. I was learning.

I gave the girl who I suspected to be trans a big wink, which the others could not see.

“Will you please allow me to see your genitals?” I asked and gave her another big wink.

I motioned for her to raise her skirt, but gave her a signal to stop when I could see her panties. I actually did not need to see any further to see that she was actually still pre-op.

“OK, Miss. It’s all fine,” I said, winking again, out of the line of sight of the others.

I turned to the first of the other two.

“Will you please allow me to see your genitals?”

“How dare you?” she spluttered.

“Well, this young lady has shown me that she is indeed female, so she has every right to use this restroom. If you refuse my request then I have to suspect that you are a fake male using this toilet to commit an offence.”

She turned an interesting shade of puce. I took her photo while she spluttered.

“I will not! I demand that you call the police.”

“Maybe I will,” I replied, “but first I have to check this other lady.”

“Madam, will you please demonstrate that you are female,” I said to the other woman.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m obviously a woman. It’s this man in drag who is the problem.”

“So you’re refusing to be examined?”

“Yes I am! You have no right!”

Actually she was right, but I took her picture while she frothed at the mouth. I had these two off balance. They had expected support, not questioning, but they got me. I was laughing inside, because they had no idea that I was one of those whose very existence, and right to exist, they denied.

“Very well, then I must detain you both until the police arrive, for causing a disturbance in a public space and assaulting this young lady. Please stay where you are, they’re on the way.”

This was total bullshit on my part. I had pressed the Emergency button with which I had been issued and called my male colleagues. They would shortly be outside the toilet waiting for me to tell them when and if to enter or apprehend anybody trying to exit.

I turned to the young girl who had endured the hostility of the pair of harpies, “Miss, you may go, but here is my card if you decide that you wish to lay charges.”

I pretty much knew that she wouldn’t, but hoped she would call me when she had calmed down. The whole experience must have been traumatising for her.

The two women were both frantically protesting their innocence and claiming that I had misinterpreted the situation.

“I don’t think so. Shall we wait for the police?”

They began to bluster.

“You have no evidence.”

“Oh, but I do.”

I showed them the first pictures I had taken, which clearly showed the two of them attacking the young girl, and then I showed them the photos of each of them demonstrating the depth of their antagonism towards their victim. Neither of them was a pretty sight when enraged.

“I’ve no doubt the cops will interpret your actions and attitudes exactly as I have.”

Realisation started to dawn on them and they suddenly became much more compliant and co-operative.

“We don’t think you need the police. We didn’t do any harm. We were just trying to stop a pervert from committing an offence.”

I didn’t feel like giving these evil shrews any leeway. They had attacked a girl like me who was only interested in having a pee and maybe repairing her make-up. Still, I knew I could only push it so far.

“Maybe I can hold the police back, although I don’t see why I should. You assaulted a young woman because you “suspected” she was a man and you were wrong. From what I saw it was obvious that she was in here legitimately. I’m not so sure about you two. You both refused an inspection to prove you are female and you don’t look particularly female to me. Give me one good reason why I should allow you to get off scot-free.”

My diatribe took the wind out of their sails and they protested that they were “real” women who were dedicated to exposing transsexuals and other “perverts” who were not women at all. These individuals did not have periods and could not bear children.

I stopped them in full self-righteous flow. They were really starting to get up my nose.

“Let me get this straight. You are saying that nobody who doesn’t menstruate can be a woman?”

“That’s right!” from both of them.

“Well, my mum doesn’t menstruate and neither does my twelve-year-old sister,” I said, laying it on thick, “so neither of them is a woman?”

“That’s not what we mean!”

“What about women who cannot have children?”

“You know that’s not what we mean!”

“ I think you two LADIES have no idea what you mean and I don’t think you care. You just have some kind of prejudice against girls who were born with a problem.”

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“Well, you’ll never know and you’re lucky you are only going to get banned from this mall. Now, if you don’t shut up I WILL call the cops and with the evidence I have I will tell them to charge you with assault and I will happily testify against you in court.”

They didn’t want the police involved. Bullies like them never do, so, grumbling, they exited the loo at my insistence, into the hands of my beefy mates. We extracted statements from them, which only served to further incriminate themselves in their bigotry. They just couldn’t restrain themselves. Then we escorted them from our domain with an injunction not to return.

That’s how I became a T.E.R.F. hunter. I’ll show those bitches.

OOOOOOOOOOO

One thing I should have checked is whether the term "convenience" applies to public toilets in USA and Canadian vernacular.

“Don’t be such a wimp.”

I tried to return her glare, but found it hard to meet her eyes.

“I can’t help it. I am a wimp….and besides, you caught me at a weak moment.”

“You agreed,” she snarled. “Don’t tell me now that you’re not man enough to do this. I’ve spent a lot of money….not to mention my time… getting everything ready for this, and you’re going if I have to drag you there in chains.”

“But I’ll look stupid,” I whined weakly.

“No you won’t. That’s one of the reasons I’ve put so much effort into this. Yes, three quarters of the blokes will look stupid and most of them will treat it as a big joke, so if you’re feeling fragile you can pretend it’s a joke too, but you’re going to look good whether you like it or not.”

She softened a little and came over and put her arms around my neck and looked into my eyes with that special way she had which always made my knees go weak.

“Look, Jimmy, I’m not trying to make you look a fool. I guarantee you will be a big hit. You’re slim and tall and have nice features and clear skin. I’ve got you a dead sexy outfit and when you’re made-up and wigged they’ll all be wondering if you’re a real girl trying to pull a fast one. Tell you what. We’ll have a practice run tomorrow and if you really don’t want to do it we’ll call the whole thing off, OK? Of course, I’ll never speak to you again.” Her last words were quiet and dead serious.

She can wind me round her little finger, and, in fact I was dying to do it but was afraid of looking too eager. I didn’t want her to think I was some kind of gay. I’m not gay but the thought of going out dressed as a girl really turned me on, in fact more than that; it wasn’t just being dressed as a girl but being thought a girl and being seen as a girl, and feeling like a girl, even if it was only an illusion.

I had had a dream for years that I was some kind of fish out of water….that nature had really intended me to be a girl but somewhere along the line the chromosomes or genes or whatever had got scrambled so that I came out as a boy. I had never done anything about it, putting it into the category of hopeless wishes that would never be horses. Just get on with your life, Jimmy.

Anyway, some weeks before, she had suggested, very forcefully suggested, that we should go to the annual Tarts and Vicars Ball, which is an event where the men go dressed as girls and vice versa and everyone has a glorious booze-up and a competition to choose a “King” and “Queen”. Naturally it’s very popular with uni students and that ilk. I had been distracted at the time and agreed, thinking it was one of her many projects and enthusiasms which would likely come to nothing.

However, this time it had not come to nothing, and when Sylvia really puts her mind to something she becomes a force of nature and god help anyone or anything that gets in her way. So I wasn’t about to become another piece of discarded flotsam or jetsam left in her wake. Besides, despite my misgivings I love her to bits and she really does provide my missing backbone.

Yes, I am a wimp. I admit it. She seems to love me and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because she CAN dominate me. She says it’s because I’m sweet and gentle and not a Neanderthal. I don’t know about the first two but the third qualification is definitely true. On my side I was mesmerised by her beauty and personality from the instant we met.

I was just seventeen at the time and recently out of school, standing in the pouring rain at a bus-stop holding an umbrella. She came running to the bus-queue trying to protect her hair by holding her handbag over it. It seemed to be the polite thing to do to offer to share my umbrella with her. There was no thought of romance in my mind. Even in her bedraggled state it was obvious to me that she was way out of my league as well as being at least a few years older than me. I found out later it was six…years that is.

Anyway, she thanked me profusely and I said it was my pleasure and then we chatted about the inclement weather and how she had left home not expecting the sudden change. Then the bus came and it turned out we were catching the same one. I offered to give her my umbrella to get her home when she got off and she said thanks but she couldn’t possibly. So when her stop came I took an uncharacteristically bold step for me and said, “What a coincidence, this is my stop too and I will walk you home,” and so I did.

She hung on to my arm and almost snuggled up to me all the way down the street, but I assumed that this was just to take advantage of maximum cover from our shared umbrella.

We arrived at her flat and I sheltered her while she rooted out her keys from the bottom of her bag and unlocked her door.

She turned and looked at me and my heart did a couple of somersaults. All I was expecting was a thank you and a goodbye.

“Well, come on in,” she said. “You deserve at least a cup of coffee and a chance to dry out a bit.”

Truth to tell, even with the cover provided by the brolly, the bottom half of me was pretty damp and I wanted to stay with her as long as I could. We entered a small hallway and we both shrugged out of our wet coats and hung them on a coat-tree and I deposited the umbrella in a rack where it began to drip on the parquet floor. She led us into a sitting room where she unceremoniously kicked off her shoes, pulled up her skirt as if I wasn’t there and stripped off her stockings with a sigh.

Turning and looking at me she said, ”Don’t just stand there. Take off your shoes and socks. Your pants look like they could do with a good dry too. Take ‘em off while I go and get some towels.”

She left the room while I did as I was told and stood there in my bare feet and underpants. Just for once I blessed my mum’s insistence that my underwear should always be clean.

“You never know when you might have an accident and end up in hospital,” She used to say.

The girl…..I didn’t even know her name…. came back in wearing a dressing gown, her hair in a towel turban and carrying several towels. She tossed a couple at me and giggled, presumably at me standing there wearing a jacket, shirt and underpants.

“You’re welcome to take off your jacket. I’m not insisting on formality. Give me your socks and trousers and I’ll put them to dry in the kitchen”

I’m sure I blushed, but I did what I was told and rubbed at my legs with a towel while she went out of the room again. She came back in a couple of minutes later and gave me an exasperated look.

“Do I have to tell you it’s OK to sit down?” she asked. “For Crissake sit down and make yourself comfortable, Sir Walter Raleigh. I know that’s not quite right, ‘cos he stopped the Queen from getting her feet wet, but the thought was there. I’m Sylvia by the way. Who’re you?”

“Jimmy.”

“Well, Jimmy. Pleased to meet you. From your accent you’re not Glaswegian. I guess you’re a local and I just got here a few days ago from London. Is the weather always like this? I thought this was supposed to be sunshine central.”

“Sorry. They tell lies to bring in gullible tourists. It rains here most weekdays and at weekends it brightens up and only drizzles.”

She laughed. “I like you, Jimmy. Seriously, thanks for saving me. I would have got really soaked. Now sit there and relax while I make some coffee. I’m afraid it’s only instant; I’m not properly organised yet. How do you take it?”

“Just a little milk and two sugars, please. Can I help with anything?”

No. It’s OK. Instant coffee I can manage. Anything more complicated and you’d probably have to do it yourself.”

When she returned bearing two mugs of coffee she sat down next to me on the sofa and to my amazement started telling me her life story. Born in London…Kensington….still got a place there. Only child; her father was a fairly big wheel in the Army, a colonel in charge of certain operations against the IRA, and he was killed by a car-bomb in the early 1990s in retaliation for some of the things he had supposedly organised. She had hardly known him. She loved her mother who was a strong woman who had brought her up on her own. Ordinary primary school just around the corner in South Ken; High school at Cheltenham Ladies College and then a brief period at the London School of Economics (which told me she was very bright just getting in) until she had foolishly married and was soon divorced.

“My mum told me not to, said I was too young, but of course I didn’t listen. He was only after my body, and anyone else’s he could get, including my best friend’s, the cow. So that didn’t last long…..only a year. And then my mum got cancer and in a few months she was gone. It was a terrible time. Towards the end I couldn’t even look after her and she had to go into a hospice. One of the reasons I am here is to leave the memories behind.”

She shed a few tears at that point and I wanted to comfort her but wasn’t quite game, so I just made sympathetic noises.

It turned out she was seriously wealthy. She had known they were well-off but had got quite a shock when her mum’s will was read. The amount was millions, not hundreds of thousands. So she definitely didn’t need to work but she was studying archaeology at our local university; not ancient bones but medieval fashion like you see in the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Well, I thought, that lets me out. Apart from her being out of my league in looks and poise I’m probably worth ten quid if I’m lucky.

Our coffee had long been drunk and I figured I had better go, so I thanked her and asked for my clothes back. They surely would be dry enough by now.

“Oh no you don’t. I’m not giving you your pants back until you tell me your story. Turnabout is only fair play. I’ll get more coffee. You stay put.”

When she came back with the mugs refilled I was still wondering what to tell her. My life was very mundane. Anyhow, I cleared my throat and started.

Born in this town, also an only child, and lived here all my life, although I really wanted to get out. My dad was a merchant seaman, not dumb; he made first mate, until my mum demanded that he give it up. He was gradually getting squeezed out by sailors from third-world countries who cost less anyway. So he tried various jobs until he wound up caretaking for a block of flats. My mum is a housewife. I went to the local primary school and then the town Grammar school but quit a few months ago in a fit of teenage umbrage, feeling I was still being treated as a child. At least I got my O-Levels, ten of them. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t clever enough. My personality just seemed to cause me problems.

I had applied for jobs in the design offices of various aero-space companies because that was where I wanted to be, but without success. The industry was contracting, not hiring, so I was currently working part-time in a coffee shop….basically waiting tables until I could find something more rewarding.

And then somehow I found it was all coming out….things I had never meant to mention….few friends at school or now…..somehow not fitting in. Trying to stand up to bullies who thought they could push me around because I was skinny and not much good at sports and maybe too clever by half and somehow I was always the one who got blamed for the fights while they stood aside and laughed while I got punished. The only thing I didn’t mention was my feeling that I should have been a girl.

I ended up apologising for subjecting her to my misery and asking if I could go now. Please give me back my clothes. Instead of which she folded me in her arms, cuddled me and stroked my hair while I broke down and cried on her shoulder, and when I dried up she said……

“We’re both lonely, aren’t we? Can I see you again, Jimmy? Will you be my friend please?”

“Why would you want to be friends with me? You’re rich and beautiful and I’m a loser.”

“That’s why. You just called me beautiful and you brought me home under your umbrella, not expecting anything for yourself and not knowing anything about me. Tell me….if you hadn’t thought I was beautiful would you still have shared your umbrella with me?”

“Yes, of course. It was the right thing to do. I couldn’t have let a girl get soaked just because she wasn’t pretty.”

“See. That’s why I want you to be my friend. When can I see you again?”

“Whenever you want to. How about tomorrow?”

“Pick me up here at three o’clock, then?”

“OK.”

“You lied, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t your stop at all, was it?”

I blushed.

That’s how a small kindness wound up getting me a date with Sylvia, a girl way beyond my dreams. Then more dates, and then me moving in with her, because she told it true that she was hopeless at actually looking after herself. Every time I went to her place it was a pigsty and I always ended up cleaning it up for her. All her fine education and her wealth hadn’t made her into a good housekeeper or a good cook, while my frugal upbringing had done the opposite. Somewhere along the line I think…I hope… she fell in love with me or maybe it was just my housekeeping. I had been in love with her since she came under my umbrella.

Whatever, the end result was that I moved in with her and looked after the flat and cooked and washed for her. She didn’t insult me by paying me but gave me a credit card to look after all the expenses including my personal needs.

So when she said she’d never speak to me again if I didn’t go along with her plans for the ball I really had no choice, even if I didn’t really believe she was serious I wasn’t going to take the chance.

I smiled meekly and weakly and said “OK, let’s see how I look.”

“So strip, baby. It’s shower time.”

I did as I was told. I could hardly get coy about stripping in front of her when we went to bed naked every night except for the bad time of the month.

I’d be the first to admit that I’m not a big hairy macho type with ginormous muscles. In fact she says she loves me because I’m not. We’re actually about the same size except you could play the xylophone on my ribs and she has a cover of what they call subcutaneous fat. It’s a lovely cover and gives me goose-pimples when I rub my hands over it. It’s sort of like velvet. Don’t even mention her breasts.

If I was put into one of those camps that the Serbs used for ethnic cleansing I’d look like a malnutrition victim before I started. Sorry, I can’t help being skinny. It’s in my genes. I’m eighteen years old and I weigh 133 pounds and stand 5 ft 10 inches. If you called me wiry you would be being very kind.

She towed me to the bathroom and slathered my naked body with green goo and left me standing shivering while she got the shower going to her satisfaction. Then she gave me my razor and pushed me into the spray.

“Wash off all the gunk and give your face a good shave while you’re in there. When you’ve done that shampoo and condition your hair and use my body lotion all over.”

What body hair I had clogged the drain for a short time but eventually disappeared. Shaving my face didn’t take long. My beard was pretty sparse and I normally shaved about once every five or six days. Shampooing and conditioning was routine since I had moved in with her. Applying her body lotion was almost beyond erotic on my hairless body and my little man stood up as I finished. When I got out she was laughing.

She grabbed the horizontal protuberance and gave it a sensuous massage with a small towel which soon produced the inevitable reaction and I shuddered to a climax and the tool dropped to the vertical.

“There,” she said, grinning. “That would have spoiled the fall of your dress, so I fixed it.”

I didn’t complain as she helped me to rub the rest of me dry and turbaned my hair. It’s amazing how different you feel when your body is all soft and smooth. Every whisper of air seems to caress you as it passes over you. Any objection I had disappeared right then.

“Right. I’ve got everything ready so just do as you’re told. Lie down.”

Completely submissive I laid on the bed. There was no point in fighting now. I had agreed to what was to come. First was a pair of cold chicken fillets carefully aligned on my chest and then glued into place. They warmed up surprisingly quickly. Then there was a strange shaped artefact into which she inserted my penis, glueing the front half to my groin and pulling the tail end through to my bum and glueing that into position at the back. She held the device down for a couple of minutes to make sure my soldier didn’t stand up again, which it was trying hard to do.

“All right, let’s see how that looks so far. Stand up and let’s have a look.”

I stood and saw myself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. No male organs were visible, just a very realistic vagina and a nice pair of boobs.

“Of course, you’ll have to sit down to pee until it comes off, and you should try to think pure thoughts so you don’t strain anything down there.” And she laughed like a drain.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re starting to look like one of those size-zero models. Now lie down again, face down this time.”

More chicken fillets, but thinner and wider, were applied to my bum, and then she got me to lie first on one side and then the other while she applied more shaping pads to my hips.

“Where do you get all this stuff?” I asked.

“The internet is a wonderful place. You’d be amazed at what you can get with a little research.”

“I’m amazed already.” I said as she had me stand and observe myself in the mirror. My body had become a woman’s body; hips and bum, breasts and groin….all just with a few pieces of silicone and some adhesive. I felt marvellous but tried to maintain my cool.

“How long does this stuff stay on?”

“The instructions for the adhesive say it will last at least three weeks, although it can be removed with some difficulty and a special solvent after about two weeks. I didn’t get the solvent though as I thought you would need to get comfortable with being a girl.”

“Wh-a-a-t? You mean I’m stuck like this for three weeks. The Ball’s in two weeks, so you’re telling me I’m stuck with being a girl until then?”

“What’s wrong with that? You’ll need the practice. You have to learn as much as you can about being a girl before the Ball. I don’t want you looking like a cowgirl without her horse. I want you poised and elegant and feminine. Anyway, it’s mainly you and me, babe, and you’ll be used to it by then. Nobody will even know. Trust me. Half the world lives like that all the time.”

“But how will I get the shopping and things?”

“You’ll go to the grocers and the supermarket and the butcher just like you normally do, but dressed as a girl. I bet you’ll be surprised at how much better the service is.”

“If that’s the case why don’t you do it instead of me?”

“Because you’re much better at it than I am, even as a man.”

I didn’t have a comeback for that.

“You really are a sneaky cow. You’ve tricked me into being a girl for two weeks when I thought we were just trying on the costume. I should…..”

She was doubled over. “Should what? Right now you’re stark naked and you can’t get your dick up. So you can’t even fuck me….although I’m getting quite turned on seeing my Jimmy as a female. I’ll have to think of some things for two girls to do in bed, because I’m going to be quite horny over the next fortnight.”

I was left speechless…..and really I was delighted. When somebody forces you into a situation which you can’t control, and you secretly want, then there is no guilt, and I had a whole two weeks before the Ball. Then I might feel terror, but not yet. She didn’t know that I wanted this so I could play the injured party all the time and flounce and pout and be a girl to my heart’s content.

“Now put this on.” She held out one of her dressing gowns so that I could slip my arms into the sleeves.

“Sit down and give me your feet. I won’t give you a full pedicure today, just some nail polish.”

She carefully painted my toenails a brilliant vermilion and wadded bits of cotton-wool between my toes so that I couldn’t smudge them.

“Fingers. Hold your hand out and keep it steady.”

I watched fascinated as my fingernails were lightly shaped and coated with vermilion varnish. I felt more feminine by the moment as they changed colour.

“Don’t touch anything and wiggle them around for five minutes,” she instructed me when she had finished. So I delicately flapped my newly painted fingers.

“Now, I’ll do your face and hair. In two weeks I’ll expect you to be able to do this yourself except I will supervise on the day of the Ball because I want you to look superb. I’ll show you how to do it over the next couple of days so you can do it yourself.”

“First I’m going to fix your wig and then I’m going to do your make-up and then we’ll see about getting you dressed. I promise you, you are going to be amazing, darling. No whingeing now; some of this may hurt a little, but there’s no gain without pain.”

No vampire ever looked more eager for blood than she did at the prospect of feminising me.

As promised, first she fixed a wig in place by glueing it to my forehead and temples after she had brushed my own hair into a kind of bun at the back of my head and tucked it under the hairpiece. Then she started on my face. I almost cried as hairs from my eyebrows were viciously pulled out until she was satisfied that the shape of my brows was acceptable. Then she started on me with powders and brushes and sticks and pencils and finally a lipstick before brushing my artificial hair into its final shape.

She looked at her finished work and her expression was a strange mixture of satisfaction, pride and horror.

“What have I done?” she breathed almost inaudibly. Unable to see the results I wondered what she meant.

Whatever it was, the moment passed and she waved at the collection of garments laid out on the bed.

“ Time to get dressed. First, suspender belt. You may think that’s odd but you have to fasten your stockings first and then put on your panties so that you can go to the loo without having to take off your stockings.”

I immediately saw the logic in that as she showed me how to put on the suspender belt and then fasten the stockings, first showing me how to roll them up my legs, after which we slid up the panties. God, I felt sexy. The stockings covered my legs but left them feeling as if they were bare, so that every waft of breeze would caress my skin. I shivered in anticipation.

“Bra. The easiest way is to put it on backwards, fasten it at the front, then pull it round to the correct position, pull the straps over your shoulders and then lean way forwards and jiggle your boobs into the right position. That’s a good girl. You got it first time. This particular bra is designed to push up your breasts to make you sexier.”

As I looked down at my breasts I could see it was doing exactly what it was meant to do and I felt a real thrill. I wished my breasts were real as she dabbed on some make-up which made the lines joining them to my skin disappear.

She held up a piece of fabric with laces.

“”This is a waist-cincher. It’ll pull you in to the right shape for your costume.” And she proceeded to wrap it around me and tighten it until I felt I was almost cut in half.

“You’re joking, aren’t you,” I wheezed. “Wasn’t I thin enough already?”

“No. Shut up. You’ll thank me for it by the time we go to the Ball. Your waist will be at least three inches smaller and you’ll be exactly the right shape.”

Then she held up my dress. It was black with white lace trimming on the neckline and sleeves and around the hem of the skirt. It also had built-in white petticoats in a slightly stiffer material. She held it low.

“Step into this,” she said, holding it open.

I did as bid and she pulled it up and over my arms, tugging a little to settle it and then zipped it up tight at the back. It had a hard time going over my waist and I knew what she meant about the waist-cincher; I would have to lose a few inches to make it fit me perfectly. As I moved I felt for the first time the swish of the petticoats against my nylons. The sleeves were long with white cuffs and the neckline swooped down at the front to barely cover my bra. The bodice was tight to the waist and then flared out over my hips, supported by the petticoats and ending six inches above my knees. Yes, you guessed it. It was a classic French Maid costume, just like you see in the stage and film farces.

“Now for the piece de resistance or maybe that should be pieces,” she said, holding out a pair of black patent high heels. “Put these on. I hope they fit.”

She helped me stand as I slipped each foot into a shoe and stood a little wobbly, but they did fit. They felt great….my dreams come true.

Sylvia finally turned me towards the full-length mirror and I saw myself for the first time. I’ll say that again. I saw MYSELF for the first time. Not Jimmy….ME!. In that instant my world changed

I gasped as I looked at myself. Everything I saw in the mirror screamed “GIRL”. I was not what you would call gorgeous or beautiful, but pretty wouldn’t be a stretch of the imagination.

I knew in that instant that the genie was out of the bottle and was not going back in. How to describe the mixture of elation and joy that I felt at that instant. I had expected terror, shock, embarrassment and I don’t know what, but it just didn’t happen. Later, maybe. I would have fainted from ecstasy if Sylvia’s hand had not been on my arm. My first thought was that for the first time in my entire life I loved myself and my second was “Will Sylvia still love me like this?”

Sylvia was staring at my reflection just as hard as I was. Our eyes met in the mirror.

“Oh my god!” She said.

I pirouetted to get a view of myself from as many angles as I could. The girl in high heels with the gorgeous nylon-clad legs and the sexy petticoated skirt did the same. Her breasts amply filled her bra and were on display above the plunging neckline of her lacy top. I thought just how much having breasts suited her. Her black hair hung to just below her chin and her perfectly made-up face completed the image of a sexy French maid. It was not just an image. I was the perfect French maid and felt exactly as I thought a maid should.

“I hope you still love me,” I said, “Because you just changed the world for me. I’m not Jimmy any more. I think you can see that.”

“Oh my god. What have I done?”

“You’ve created a monster of sorts Madame Frankenstein. Are you proud of your work?”

“Oh my god!”

“Tell me, what did you do with my lips? They’re twice their normal size.”

She recovered herself enough to answer me.

“It’s called lip plumper. It makes them swell up before you put on lipstick. Oh my god.”

“I love them. So, when are you going to give me lessons on how to be a girl in the next two weeks?”

“Oh my god!”

I always thought I would be stoic, calm, maybe even a little heroic in my fortitude, when finally faced with death. Of course that didn’t include being tortured or hit by a bus or anything crazy, but, when my time came, I would be able to accept it in old age as the inevitable end of a life well lived and go quietly and with dignity to my grave.

It didn’t happen like that and I learned much, much more about myself than I really wanted to know.

Constant pain finally drove me to see a doctor, who immediately referred me to a specialist. After a week of tests, blood taken and an MRI, the specialist gave me my death sentence. Liver and pancreatic cancer, spread too far for any expectation of remission. Metastases, funny the stuff you learn as you go. I should have gone to see him earlier. In a way I knew that sub-consciously but like many men I had ignored the nagging warning signs. Surely they would go away.

Six months to live, maybe a year or even a bit more with chemotherapy and radio therapy. At my age that was as good a prognosis as I could expect. I was already past the three-score-and-ten.

I went home stunned. At first I wallowed in a kind of limbo. For two days belief was suspended. I found that denial is not a river in Egypt. Not me. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t true. I had always been as healthy as the proverbial horse. I must surely have another ten to fifteen years.

Then fear, abject terror and grief hit me together. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t deserve to die. Not yet. Yes, it happens, but not to me. Noooo! No way!

How do I describe the next few days? Rage. Smashing the furniture (metaphorically, of course) Despair. Weeping. Whimpering. Self pity. Thoughts of suicide……..strange that, when it was death I was afraid of. Although it was the prospect of that inevitable decline into pain and suffering that was even more terrifying. I had seen my own father become a shadow of himself as he oh so slowly succumbed to prostate cancer and I couldn’t bear the thought of going like that. Seemed like I didn’t have a choice.

Eventually, of course, I had cried enough tears and felt sorry for myself for long enough and I forced myself back to the doctors to start the useless treatments that would give me a few more months of futile life. I wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry that my marriage was over and my kids somewhat distant.

Glad was a bit better, on the whole. I didn’t want to be a burden or an object of pity during my final days. I could at least retain the dignity afforded by having impersonal nursing staff looking after me when I finally descended into a bed-wetting, shitting, trembling mess, looking forward only to my next dose of morphine, and, hey, maybe the diagnoses were wrong and I would make fools of the doctors.

I started the treatments. Chemo is every bit as bad as you might have heard. You feel sick and exhausted most of the time. The chemicals are only a little more poisonous to cancer cells than they are to healthy cells. Getting out of bed in the morning just doesn’t seem worth it most days, but you drag yourself through the motions. Nausea lurks ever-ready in your throat and occasionally takes you by surprise. Oncology is just another word for torture.

I didn’t have much hair to start with. The genes I inherited had already taken most of it, but the remaining fringe disappeared in a matter of weeks, falling out as I combed it each day until I was totally bald. Sick as I was I was still vain enough to hate that unwanted new look, but there seemed to be little point in trying to disguise it by wearing a wig or some kind of hat, so I deluded myself into half-believing that I looked fashionable without a hair on my head.

My face gradually turned into a skin-covered skull with blood-shot eyes and my body into a facsimile of a resident of Dachau or Belsen. The weight just dropped off of me. This was the ultimate diet; pity you couldn’t market it. The side-effects were a real bitch.

Six months and the chemo had done whatever it was ever going to do. I can’t say I felt any better for it, but without it I might have felt much worse....or, even worse, felt nothing at all. I was so thankful for the six-week break before they put me on the radio-therapy. I was probably going down-hill but straight pain seemed preferable to the awful debilitation of the chemo.

Then they started the radio. It wasn’t painful but every day I felt exhausted, and my appetite, such as it was, dwindled to nothing. Food was absolutely tasteless as a side-effect of the treatment and I had to force myself to choke it down. My weight kept on going down and by the time the torture was over I weighed only 45 kilos. I knew the end was near. I had lasted the predicted year and couldn’t say I enjoyed it, but I still REALLY did not want to die. Fear? Stubbornness? A bit of both? There were still things to do, places to see, people to meet.....oh, crap, you know what I mean.

Now I never believed in miracles and I’m certainly not religious. I said goodbye to my kids and grandkids…..even my ex-wife came to see me…….and I told them all to leave me alone and not come back until I was dead. I think they were all relieved that I didn’t want them hanging around.

They would all be more than happy to put me in the ground and attend the reading of my will. Don’t get me wrong…..I didn’t blame them. I’d never been too happy to be round sick people either.

My doctors sent me to another specialist, who gave me another thorough going-over. What a waste of time, I thought, but I dare not pass up the vaguest glimmer of hope.

After he finished examining me he sat and looked at me for a few minutes. I was a little unnerved by his silence, but it wasn’t unfriendly. He was sizing me up......for what?

“Richard, if you repeat what I am about to say I will deny it and say that you are so close to death that you are delusional. That’s partly true. You are close to death; a few weeks at most. Do you want a chance? It’s a very risky chance and I can give no guarantees.”

My heart almost stopped anyway, at being offered hope. I’ve been around a long time and I’ve listened to an awful lot of bullshit. I knew all the stories about people in my situation being offered miracle cures and spending all that they had left on a crock of shit, but he didn’t sound like a snake-oil salesman. I just hoped that my desperation wouldn’t overcome my good sense.

“Oh, yeah, doc. How many million will it cost me?”

He gave me a thin smile, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms before answering.

“You’re right to be suspicious. Look, if you agree, it will cost you $100,000. That’s basically for nursing and palliative care. It’s a highly experimental procedure, with absolutely no guarantee of success. I won’t lie to you. You will be the first human subject. We’ve tried it with rats and mice and dogs.The results have been encouraging but not 100% successful. I have backers because it will be a goldmine if it works, but if we go through the regular medical protocols it’ll be twenty years before it’s approved.

“I want to save lives…..and the prospect of a Nobel is nice too……not to mention being wealthy. I’m asking you because, to put it bluntly, if it doesn’t work you won’t be around to tell the authorities about my “crime”. I’ll get you to sign all the relevant releases, of course, but if I’m exposed, I’ll never be allowed to practice medicine again. If it does work I don’t think you will be in the least bit inclined to snitch on me. Are you interested in hearing more?”

“I’m listening. I just hope you’re not shitting me.”

“Good man, and no, I’m not shitting you. My colleagues and I have been researching a new approach to cancer and have had considerable success in animal trials, though not in every case.In some there was no improvement at all. As you know, there are many different types of cancer and we haven’t found the magic bullet that will treat all of them, but I have reason to believe that we can at least put yours into remission. We’ve brought together different branches of medical science that haven’t been combined before, and what we are doing goes right down to the most basic genetic level and resets your body.”

“Keep going, Doc. I’m not a total ignoramus in medical matters. It’s been my principal interest for the last year or more, for obvious reasons.”

“Well, I won’t try to describe the process in detail, but what we’ve been developing is a combination of targeted chemicals, enzymes, benign viruses and bacteria and wrapping them into tiny packages made of nano particles which adhere to the sites of the cancer cells and release the drug cocktail where it is needed. Do you know what telomeres do?”

“I know the word and they are something to do with chromosomes. Nanoparticles? Isn’t there a danger they will turn you into grey goo?”

“You’ve been reading too much science fiction. These are just very small particles, not the fabled nano bots. They’re inert. They’re just a wrapper. Anyway, telomeres actively repair cells, but over time they wear out and actually help to promote and perpetuate a number of cancers. One of the theories is that when they wear out we age. For my money that's absolutely true.

“Well , we believe we’ve found a mechanism to stop them from wearing out and we’ve found a way to make them not only keep on repairing, but continuing the process until the cell is in pristine condition, exactly as nature intended it to be when it reached maturity. In the process the cancer disappears as if it had never existed.”

“This is sounding better and better. Go on. What’s the catch?”

“There may be side-effects…..that’s assuming the treatment works, and we don’t know why. Some of the test animals have exhibited abnormal growths and some have developed totally different types of cancer. In most cases though there has been age regression back to a point which appears to be just after puberty in the most extreme cases.”

“Did I hear that right? You’re offering a cure for cancer AND eternal youth?”

The doctor looked a bit pained.

“That’s putting it crudely and overstating the case at the same time. If it works you will get younger for sure, but when the treatment ceases you will age normally.”

“Never mind. Where do I sign up?”

“Let me finish. Some of the test subjects also developed secondary sexual characteristics of the opposite sex. We have no idea why.”

“You mean I might grow tits or something?”

“Look, I think it’s unlikely, but you will be our first human subject and it’s only fair that you understand the risks.”

“I’m 90% dead and if I do nothing I’ll be 100% dead in a few weeks. Just bring me whatever I have to sign and let me write out a cheque and then don’t waste any more of my time. Let’s get started.”

“You’re sure? You’re a brave man, Richard.”

I croaked out what passed for a laugh these days.

“No, hardly. It’s because I’m an utter coward, and I don’t want to die. How long will the treatment take?”

“That depends on how stubborn the cancer is and how effective the process proves to be. Anything between six months and a couple of years, I’m guessing. For you, probably longer rather than shorter.”

I signed all the paperwork and gave him a cheque. I didn’t want to hang around. Just because they said I had a few weeks didn’t mean I couldn’t shuffle off this mortal coil earlier. I rang my son and told him I was going in for one last try and my flat was his to do as he wanted with. I told my solicitor by email to have me declared dead if he hadn’t heard from me in two years.

Then with no further delay I was taken to a private clinic in a secluded country house only half an hour’s drive from the city to begin. It was superbly equipped, which made me feel a bit better about the whole insane exercise.

Well……it worked…….kinda, or I wouldn’t still be here, but I don’t think the doc’s going to get his Nobel yet and you won’t see the product on the market for a while, although there might be a really kinky niche for it.

There is no doubt my cancers are gone. I feel gloriously healthy as I take my daily run along the beach.

The development of secondary sexual characteristics? In spades, yeah?

I am young and 100% female. There’s nothing like being pregnant to demonstrate that. They tried everything they knew to stop my transformation but, not knowing what was causing it, they couldn’t do too much, and didn’t want to kill me in the process. Needless to say I appreciated that, but then we were all making medical history, me most of all.I can watch the videos over and over.

They were amazed when my bone structure began to change so radically and even more amazed when I started to menstruate. It was a difficult time for me getting used to my new body and when I felt the need for sex I was just like a bitch in heat. I had to have it and I did. He was so handsome. I couldn’t resist him and I obviously had the same effect on him. We fucked like a couple of animals. I really loved the feeling of that big cock inside me and now I will soon be a proud mother.

I leap as high as I can to catch the Frisbee Doc threw towards me and trot over to him, panting lightly from my exertion. I drop it in front of him and stretch luxuriously, getting the kinks out of my body.

I have got to know Doc well over the last three years. He is a lovely man and never gave up on me even when I didn’t turn out quite the way he would have liked. He has promised me another treatment when some of the bugs are ironed out.

“I’m sorry, girl,” he says for the hundredth time as he scratches behind my ears and I affectionately lick his hand, wagging my tail furiously to show there are no hard feelings.

I stared at it, almost going cross-eyed; I was so close to it.

It stood up like the Eddystone light-house and I swear it was throbbing; blue veins stood out along its eight inch length. I knew that the three inches of its girth would completely fill my mouth and it was imperiously demanding that I engulf it without delay. My lips had parted of their own accord to obey that imperative. I couldn't help myself. My body was getting aroused without any conscious effort from me, my nipples as round and hard as marbles and my pussy lubricating itself to welcome the edifice.

My mind was at war with itself. Was this what schizophrenia was like? There were voices inside my head, some insisting that I begin to kiss it immediately while others were aghast at the very idea. I couldn’t remember ever having a conflict like this. Most of me seemed to really want to do it.

My hands reached out of their own accord and my fingers wrapped around it gently, tentatively grasping that shaft of flesh with the tips of my coral-pink nails and pulling down towards its base, towards the mass of hair and the scrotal sac which held his testicles. It was almost as if they had done it before and the skin followed the pressure of my fingers and retreated from the end of the member, exposing a dome of purple flesh, almost mushroom-shaped. The skin stopped retreating when the extremity was fully exposed leaving a small collar of flesh at the underside of the head.

I gripped the pulsing monstrosity harder and bent my head towards it, the tip of my tongue protruding from my open mouth, ready to start licking and caressing.

“Go on. Do it. Suck my dick.” The man attached to the base of the penis yelled at me. “Suck it. Kiss it. I swear I’ll still love you afterwards. I’ll love you even more. Just do it.”

The warring voices in my head continued to make conflicting demands of me. They were also yelling at me now.

“Go on. He’s right; you’ll love it. Imagine taking it all in your mouth and licking that little drop of liquid from the end first. Imagine the feel of that beautiful shaft of flesh filling your whole mouth and throat . Imagine sliding up and down the length of it and gripping it with your teeth and giving it a nibble, your lips caressing it until he ejaculates into you and you swallow it all. Then he’ll know how powerful you are and he’ll do anything for you, just as long as you do it again and again. You’ll love it.”

The other voice said “Eeewww! Nasty! Gross! Why would you want to do it? All he wants is a blow-job, and like all blokes he’ll tell you any lies to get one. You’ll probably hate the taste anyway, and it'll just go all floppy and limp when he climaxes, so you won't even get the satisfaction of having it inside of you afterwards! ”

Slowly I drew my face away from his dick and unwrapped my hands from the pole of flesh. The voices faded.

“You bastard. I think I’m going to throw up. There’s no way I’m going to suck your cock. It’s a revolting idea and I don’t know why I let you try to get me to do it.”

“Hey! Listen mate, you agreed to the experiment, didn’t you?”

“Yes, well. I suppose I didn’t think it would go this far.”

“It looked like it went pretty close, but wasn’t that what we were trying to prove? That hypnosis could not force you to do something that you really didn’t want to do?”

“I know, but it seems that I’m always the one being hypnotised and being put into these awkward positions. Can we stop now? We must have enough material for our thesis by now. After all, we’ve been at it for over three years. Surely this must definitively show that there are limits and those limits cannot be crossed.”

“Well, that’s only because we established that you’re a much better subject for suggestion than me. If it had been the other way round I would have accepted it, but you’re right, honey; we’ve got lots of material and we know what’s possible and what’s not. I guess that this was the ultimate test. We’ll call it a day and start compiling our results, OK?”

We had a grant to produce a treatise on “An Investigation into the Possible Use of Hypnotherapy in the Treatment of Gender Dysphoria” and after experiment after experiment it looked like the time had come to actually write the thesis, as disappointing as that might be. Oh, well, it had been fun while it lasted.

One of the little voices in my head suggested I still had a chance to suck his cock; it wasn’t too late, but I kind of bludgeoned it into submission. Hmmm, talking of submission.. now would be nice...I battered that one back down too. Maybe some other time....tempting though.

“We’d better get dressed.”

Later I sat in front of my laptop trying to ignore my cleavage, even though I deliberately enhanced it with a maximiser bra and wore a low-cut dress to make sure it received the admiration that it deserved from Ben. I started reviewing the innumerable experiments that we had conducted.

Friends since childhood, we had attended the same schools and university, both studying the same discipline,we had started off with high hopes and great expectations, hoping to find a new tool to put into the service of medicine. Our first tests had shown that I was the one who was most susceptible...in fact, extremely so, to hypnosis, so inevitably I had been the main subject of our ensuing investigations.

We had tried hard for the next three years, but a scientist must be objective and we now had to admit that it had been a somewhat disappointing exercise. Quite frankly I can’t see a viable future for hypnotherapy in treating gender dysphoria.

Rather belatedly I realised that I should have been more assertive in the design of the experiments. Ben seemed to have framed many of them in a way which led to negative results.

I recalled one of the early ones where I was put into a trance and an attempt was made to get me to accept that my name was really Gerald and not Geraldine. I snorted to myself. When your name is such an integral part of yourself how can you be persuaded that it is something else? Ridiculous!

Remembering that dismally failed experiment caused me to recall others in the same mould. There was the one where he tried to get me to accept that it was wrong to have nice finger and toenails; that I shouldn’t have them shaped and varnished. I showed him that that wouldn’t work on me by going straight to a nail salon and getting my toenails shaped and a nice set of extensions on my fingernails, then had both tinted a beautiful hot pink. The girl who did them gave me some funny looks and giggled like crazy but allowed how nice they looked when she finished. I totally agreed with her as I admired her handiwork, wiggling fingers in front of my face in as feminine a manner as possible before triumphantly dashing back to show Ben that his stratagem had failed. I remembered that somehow he wasn't as disappointed as I had expected him to be.

Then there was the one with the ear-rings. He tried using the hypnosis to dissuade me from wearing them, but after I came out of the trance I showed him it wasn’t going to work by going and getting my ears pierced immediately and slipping a nice set of butterfly keepers in. I love wearing ear-rings and I took a few seconds to admire the dangly emerald pair I’ve got in at the moment, moving my head from side to side so that they swung back and forth caressing my neck. I'm never without them these days except when I take them out to sleep.

More and more of those futile experiments came to mind. I should keep my hair short; but I knew it looked much better when I wore it long and that silly suggestion goaded me into growing it half-way down my back; laser-treating my facial hair was a bad thing;I failed to see that, especially since a girl should only shave her legs,so my face quickly became hairless; do not wear cosmetics; as if I wouldn't try to look my best for him, and besides it makes me feel so much more attractive; collagen in the lips is totally unnecessary;I took a moment to admire my totally kissable pout enhanced by a carmine lipstick; high heels are bad for the feet; maybe...but they're just so pretty and make my legs look so good and I feel so sexy in them; skirts and dresses are draughty and impractical; but they're so elegant and feminine. I successfully resisted all those propositions. Hypnosis can’t make you do anything you really don’t want to do.

There were a couple that I went along with, mainly to stop Ben from getting too despondent. Besides, we had to use our grant money or it would be cut the next year. So I didn’t resist the suggestion that I take specific vitamins on a daily basis without fail. After all, it’s only sensible to keep yourself in good shape and my shape is certainly good now. I smiled as I looked down at my breasts, revelling in the delicious sense of femininity that surged through me. I couldn't see my waist from here but I knew I narrowed nicely before swelling out into a most satisfactory pair of hips and a skirt-filling bum.

Raising the pitch of my voice was another positive action. It did make me sound so much more natural, and then there was the one that really pleased him, which was my finally getting rid of the birth defect in my groin which had previously made me so insecure. Actually, I knew that with that useless appendage out of the way he would have to desist with all the stupid experiments that seemed to be designed to convince me that I was a boy. I had been going to get it fixed all along but I let him think he had pushed me into it. I had a failure of my own (a delicious one) in that I couldn't keep away from him after that and we slept (if you can call it sleeping) together every night once I came back from hospital and healed up. He seemed to appreciate that, and I know I did. It certainly improved our sex life.

Like I keep saying, we have demonstrated that hypnotherapy cannot make you do anything that you really don’t want to do, and there was no way I was going to let myself be made into a stupid boy. Why would I want to? They’re not all totally stupid, of course. I love Ben even if he is a bit thick at times. Anyway, I just can't imagine why a girl would even think about it.

When he says, “Gerry, I love you,” I just totally melt and will do nearly anything to please him. I just want to snuggle up in his arms and have him kiss me.

For some reason that made me mentally picture his throbbing erect penis again, and I got an urgent sense of anticipation feeling his hardness pressing against me for what we’re going to do in bed tonight. Maybe sucking it wouldn’t be so bad after all, and if I really don’t like it I don’t have to do it again.

I know how much he wants me to and sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and bugger the hypnotherapy.

Well, you know how little kids are.....or maybe you don’t, but, believe me, they can get some funny ideas. When I was really small, perhaps four years old....five at the most, I was watching TV one day and I saw all these people cheering and clapping and one was waving this golden statue of a man, looking so happy, something to do with acting, and it made them all so happy that I knew I had to have one, no matter what it took. I never forgot. It stayed with me year after year. I watched that programme as I got older and knew it was The Oscars.

Ever since I can remember I wanted to be a movie star, a famous actor. Even when I was little, like five, six or seven years old, I loved to show off, to be the centre of attention. I wanted applause and loved to have people laughing at me and saying how clever and funny I was. At family parties and other events I loved to dress up.....as anything.....a pirate; a superhero; a cowboy; an angel; a fairy; anything at all which would have them looking at me and laughing as I pranced and danced.

Later, I loved being in our school plays and any kind of dress-up opportunity that came my way. I happily played any part, including all the ones that none of the other kids wanted to play, like Alice, as in “Alice In Wonderland”. Of course, in an all-boy school I had a monopoly. You might think that such willingness to dress as a girl, even if only on the stage, would have got me into trouble with my schoolmates, but mostly they just accepted that I was a little weird because once out of costume I played the same sports as they did and just as hard as they did. When occasionally a fight reared its head I either smooth-talked my way out of it or, if I had to, actually fought, giving as good as I got. In other words I was a pretty normal kid apart from that dream of stardom.

As soon as I was thirteen I joined the local theatrical club. They wouldn’t let you join before that. Something about children not being allowed to take part in money-making theatrical productions. They’ve changed that law now, not that the club ever actually made any money even though they charged for entry to their productions. They were really a labour of love and enthusiasm and the sales only partly paid for the production costs.

I played any kids’ parts that came along, male or female, I didn’t care as long as it got me onto the stage. I was small enough to get away with either. I immersed myself in the classics, Shakespeare, of course, and more moderns like Wilde, Capek, Maugham, J.M.Barrie, Noel Coward and Ivor Novello. I played Peter Pan a couple of times, and Wendy once, although I really loved being Juliet, such a meaty part.

Don’t get me wrong here. The sex or gender of the character didn’t really matter to me, only the part itself. Remember, Juliet was played by boys for nearly 200 years. It was whatever got me on the stage. I just loved acting, and I always had this driving ambition to be the best. If that meant I had to play a girl, well, so be it, and I did it as well as I could. In costume I became the role, so that when I was Juliet I was really the girl in love with Romeo.

Anyway, doing female roles didn’t last too long since I began to go through puberty at fifteen, maybe a little late, but not pushing any envelopes. This was my signal to really begin to pursue my goal of becoming a big male star and an Oscar winner. Roles from Hamlet through to James Bond floated in my imagination. I took up Tae Kwon Do to develop myself and because I thought fighting skills could help my career.

Only one problem; I did not grow into the six-foot plus I always thought I would be, like my dad. Evidently I took after my mother’s side of the family and I stopped at five eight, just a little taller than her. Not only that but I favoured her in looks too, and didn’t get a ruggedly handsome chiselled face or a buff, muscled body. I remained sort of androgynous, a little girly even, and I stayed skinny, although I was pretty fit. For a while there I was crushed. It looked as though my ambitions were to be thwarted by my genes.

I’m not stupid and it didn’t take me long to realise that I was never going to be the big movie star that I’d always dreamed of being, someone like Cary Grant, Rock Hudson, Sean Connery or Clint Eastwood, so I downsized my dreams and told myself I would settle for being an ordinary honest actor and threw myself into earning a place for myself in theatre as soon as I left school, envisioning myself as one of those much-in-demand supporting character actors, a Paul Giametti perhaps, winning an Oscar purely for my acting skills rather than my dashing manliness and chiselled features. I was sure I could do it.

Well, let me tell you. It ain’t that easy. I was one of too many other young aspiring actors looking for that elusive part, and for a skinny seventeen-year-old those parts are not falling out of the trees. I knew I was a better actor than nearly any, if not all, of my rivals, but ability is not the only criterion.

Yes, I could have got much more work than I did. There are plenty of gay men in positions of influence in the English theatre scene and many of them were only too keen to have my slim figure and (I hate to admit it) pretty face close by. All I would have had to do was give a few cuddles, suck the odd dick here and there, jump into bed and I could have made an indecent living.

It wasn’t for me. Pride wouldn’t let me for a start. I knew I could act and act well, superbly, in fact. I had no particular hang-ups about the gays, but I had no desire to prostitute myself, and, make no mistake, those old queens were hunters. Let’s not even mention Sir John. He used to terrify me with his wicked hungry eyes. I came to half expect him to start drooling as he pawed me whenever he had the opportunity.

He was none too subtle about his desires or wandering hands. That old line about an octopus fit him well and my skin crawled when he was around.

I wanted to achieve my goal with my dignity...and my virginity...intact. Mind you, I had no objection to losing my virginity to someone attractive of the fairer sex, but unfortunately none of them seemed to be inclined to take my cherry. You never know, maybe the word had been put around that I was spoken for, or it could have just been my lack of traditional manliness which failed to impress the girls.

One of my friends saw me practicing my katas one day and suggested that I could try stunt work to back up my acting. If you could cut the mustard it actually paid better than the stage at the middle levels. So I enrolled in a stunt school. It wasn’t cheap and I nearly starved. Chip butties’n’HP Sauce with a glass of tap water was a meal far too often but I learned to sword-fight, get hit by cars, die realistically, and get hit in a brawl without getting hurt.

Because of my martial arts training I could already roll and fall and leap around in the manner required for film stunts. As a bonus I also knew how to ride a horse. Learning how to fall off was a lot harder though! Those things are tall and can move pretty fast and it’s a long way to the ground. You learn to respect jockeys, who accept it as an everyday hazard.

After six months at the school, working in McDonalds at night and all manner of odd jobs at weekends, and even the odd acting gig, I guess I graduated cum laude in a way. What actually happened was that one of the senior stunt co-ordinators for a major film studio was watching us do a routine one day and called me over when we had finished and asked me if I would like to join his team.

They were about to start an action movie with lots of kung fu and gratuitous violence and he was looking for someone like me, not too big and not too masculine, to be a stunt double for some of the actresses. Could I do it?

Apart from the stunts I would have to do some acting on the lead-up and at the end of the action to a point where a realistic transition back to the real actress could be effected. Some guys got a thing about doing female parts. Would I want to?

He carefully explained to me that I might have to remain in character for extended periods, sometimes even for the duration of the shooting, depending on how much “action” the star I was depping for had in her part. Some directors even used us for distance shots in order to give their expensive actresses a break or to avoid down-time when the lady concerned was afflicted by her monthlies or having a prima donna moment.

Hunger and ambition have a funny way of colouring your perceptions, not that dressing as a female bothered me in any way. It was something I’d done before and acting is just that; acting. It’s all about practice and dedication.

The hardest part was trying not to bite his hand off as I pretended to think about it. What I did was give him my best Juliet from the balcony scene and I had him grinning his head off after only two or three minutes.

“Shit, son,” he said, “If you were in the right costume, I’d be taking you in my arms this minute.”

I felt like preening, but I was more interested in the pay and how long the gig would last. Pragmatism rules, doncher know?

“I doubt you’ll have to speak much, even though you have the voice for it, but the actions and body language are very important and you’ll have to study your ladies pretty quickly.”

“You won’t find me lacking in application, sir. May I ask how long is the stint and what‘s the pay and what else goes with it?”

“Well, I won’t tell you the name of the pic, but it’s set in America and it’s about a number of girls kicking back against society. You will have heard of the stars, but they are not yet all fully on board so I’ll wait till they’re confirmed. Filming our stuff will actually be done in Vancouver, Canada, because it’s cheaper and the union isn’t so tough there.

“How long? At least three months, probably four. Pay; US$75 an hour and you won’t do less than a ten-hour day while the shoot’s on, including rehearsals, most weeks six days, but you get down-time for exteriors when the weather’s bad and of course there will be days when your lady has no stunts to do and you will be on stand-by. Insurance, travel and accommodation...all found... provided. We’ll take you there and bring you back, if you decide to join us.

“So say the least you can expect to earn is fifty thousand, US of course, with the extras thrown in. Costuming will be provided, naturally. You’ll have to take care of your own tax, and if you work out I can offer you a more permanent position. We’re always short of stunt-doubles for actresses. By the way, don’t get your hair cut.”

Fifty thousand US! Three months work! Pay my own tax! Woo-Hoo! And I love long hair!

I hadn’t earned that much or had that much work in all the time since I’d left school, eighteen months ago now. If I’d really been Juliet I would have wept and kissed him. As it was I just grinned like an idiot and said yes. I refrained from hugging myself and dancing a jig while he was still there.

Later, of course, I wondered if I should have asked for more. The human condition....greed.

It took a month to sort out all the details and I nearly starved while I waited. A couple of times I almost despaired, thinking it might all be some elaborate hoax, but eventually the paperwork was done; contract signed; air tickets delivered; accommodation details provided and instructions as to what I had to do after I arrived in Vancouver.

Then I did all the necessary things in London, said my goodbyes to my mum and dad. Did I mention I was an only child? I admit I fudged on what I was actually going to do. I told them it was to be a cameo part in an undisclosed movie and might lead on to greater things; not entirely untrue, eh? They were naturally proud of me.

“We’ll look out for you at the Oscars,” said my dad, obviously thinking he had made a huge joke.

“If only,” I thought.

“You take care of yourself now, and make sure to write,” said mum, hugging me and crying.

You can only do so many goodbyes and an eighteen-year-old doesn’t have that sort of patience, so soon they were all done and I was on my way. Heathrow to Montreal; a stopover and plane change and next stop Vancouver. I didn’t get much time in Montreal, but it looked like many a European city, down to a large number of its inhabitants talking French and being as snobbish and rude as any Parisian.

The next day I left for Vancouver. Canada's an awful big country and I got the thirty-thousand-foot tour; first forests and lakes, then miles and miles of miles and miles, mountains and more forests and lakes until we came in to land seven hours later.

I was met at Vancouver airport by a thirty-something man in jeans, check shirt and denim jacket waving a placard with my name on it as I exited from airside.

“Hi, Mike. I’m Clint. I’m your stunt co-ordinator,” he introduced himself as he pumped my hand.

It kind of surprised me that anybody was actually named Clint, except Eastwood, and this guy was only a couple of inches taller than me.

“Geez, kid, how old are you, sixteen?” as he took my two bags and shepherded me to a typical giant-size SUV.

“Eighteen, actually,” I gritted. Puberty short-changed me in the age-stakes too, but, of course I might not have got this gig if I was all manly and rugged. So, gift-horse, huh?

He grinned at me and said, “It’s lucky you look so young. Wardrobe’s gonna be real pleased for a change. They’ll have something to fit you without going to the tailors, and Make-up’s gonna eat you up, ‘cos it’s gonna be easy to make you look like one of the prettiest girls on the planet for the next three months.”

“Do you know who I’m doing the stunts for?” I asked eagerly.

“Didn’t you know? It’s Ange.”

“LaBelle? Wow! Do you really think they can make me look like her?”

He looked me up and down appraisingly.

“Reckon it’ll be a darn sight easier than puttin’ lipstick on a pig. And there’re so many tricks in the industry these days you could end up thinkin’ you’re really her,” he laughed. “They did tell you that you might have to stay in character for the whole of the shoot, didn’t they?”

“It was mentioned....as a possibility.”

“Well, lookin’ at you, I’d say it was near to a certainty. The gals in Make-Up are going to want you to have her hairstyle, rather than keep on fittin’ you with wigs. For them extensions are much easier, and actually will be for you too. You’ll find that doin’ the stunts when you’re dressed as a gal is a whole different thing. Your balance will be thrown out by the weight of breast forms and high heels will just kill you when you have to throw yourself around a bit. It’s a whole new ballgame and it’ll take some learnin’. Mike, I think you’d better get used to the idea of bein’ Michelle for the next three or four months.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is that usual?” It suddenly sounded like an awful long time and next-to-impossible to really make work or stay sane while you were doing it.

“Depends. On this one there’s a shit load of action and you’ll end up bein’ on screen almost as long as your lady. If you defrocked at the end of the day and refrocked next mornin’ you’d be spendin’ about an extra four hours on set every day. You’d soon get sick of that, believe me. It’s really much easier to stay dressed all the time. You’ll soon get used to it and none of our crew will give you a hard time; just the opposite. It makes everyone else’s job smoother and shorter and we all appreciate that. The other guys doin’ the girls’ stunts are all doin’ it. I did it myself a time or two when I was younger.” He smiled to himself and shook his head as if at some memory.

We arrived at the crew’s quarters about then, in a district of the city called Burnaby, not too far from the down-town area, so the conversation was interrupted. The complex was rather like an up-market motel and Clint carried my bags to a door, unlocked it and showed me in. It was more like a small flat with a living/lounge area, a kitchen with enough facilities to cook a light meal...breakfast or similar... separate bedroom and naturally a bathroom and toilet.

The furniture was comfortable rather than luxurious and included a flat-screen TV, DVD player and a desk-top computer. It made my previous digs look like a Victorian hovel, which wasn’t far from the truth anyway.

“Wow!”

“You like? We reckon we have to keep our people comfortable. When you come home after a day on set you’ll really need to relax. You might be bruised and sore and you’ll need to review what you did so we can iron out the bloopers next day. We also have a full-service dining room, a gym, a bar and lounge and an on-tap physio. I’ll take you down there and you can meet some of the guys too.”

So saying, he dropped my bags on the bed, gave me the keys to the room and took me out again. We went along a corridor and at the end and around a corner he opened a double door, showing me a large room with tables for about fifty people and a servery; a big canteen.

“Our dining-room,” he said. “Open for breakfast at 5.30 every morning and dinner from 6.30 t0 10 every night. They’ll do a packed lunch for you if you ask ‘em nicely.”

It was empty at that time of the afternoon but I could hear pots clattering in an adjacent kitchen.

“Come on. I’ll show you the bar and lounge,” pulling me through the cafeteria-style room to another set of doors at the far end.

We went through into a slightly smaller room with a well-stocked self-service bar on one wall, a counter with half a dozen stools and lots of low tables with armchairs scattered around, very comfortable and more than a little up-market. There were maybe a dozen people, men and women, all looking to be in their twenties, dressed casually, sitting around and turning to watch us with interest.

“You serve yourself. Drink whatever you like and as much as you like. A couple of rules. Alcohol is no excuse for not being fit to work in the morning. If it happens, you’re gone; history; no warnings. Rule two...no fighting. You get enough chances to let off steam on the set. Mind you, we haven’t had a fight for a couple of years now.”

He pointed at two extra-large plasma TVs mounted on one wall.

“Here’s where we get together to review the day’s work and try to figure out how to fix our mistakes or make a play look more realistic.” He laughed. “Although realistic ain’t really the word. Spectacle and style is what we’re after. This is the movies, not real life. By the way, there’s a DVD library which is slanted towards movies of our stars so you can bone up on their mannerisms and characteristics. Enough for now. I’ll show you the gym later.”

Turning to the seated watchers, “Hey, guys, this is our new recruit, Mike Stewart. He’s got Angie. Mike, I’m not gonna introduce you to all these individuals. You’ll just forget their names anyway, so we’ll let them tell you what they do and you’ll get to know them over the next few days.”

He ushered me over to one of the tables to a chorus of “Hi”, “Hello”, “Welcome” and the like.

I sat in a vacant armchair and nervously eyed my new colleagues. A blonde girl wearing a white blouse and black skirt stretched out a manicured hand with carmine nails. Close up, she was pretty masculine, but slightly built. She said in a baritone;

“Hi Mike. I’m Tom Tyler and I’m doing Meg, so call me Maggie for now. I think Angie will be really pleased with you. Hey, Clint, why don’t we surprise her and not show her Mike until he’s dressed?”

“Yeah, good idea. I’d like to see her face when she meets him too. She’s a good sport. It should be worth a laugh.”
There was a general chuckle all round.

Another guy waved at me. “Jim Mason. I’m a driver.”

Others introduced themselves, several fight specialists; another driver. Clint was right. I forgot almost all their names almost immediately.

A long-haired Asian girl in a tight black cat-suit and high-heeled boots came over. I immediately knew who “she” was.

“Hi, Mike. I’m Joe Chan and I’ve got Lucy. Call me Lou,” spoken in a sultry contralto. “You really will look like Angie when the Make-Up and Wardrobe crews finish with you. It’ll help a lot. She’s actually very nice but she gets some strange moods at times and she can be a bit of a diva, so she can be hard to work with.”

All in all, the crew went out of their way to make me feel at home, asking me questions about my background and talking amongst themselves (without leaving me out) about how I would make a really good double for Angie. I was the right height and build and my bone structure was very similar. A few little temporary extras, like a collagen injection for my lips, some eyebrow shaping, boobs, naturally, and I could be her sister. Everybody agreed she would be pleased.

At some point someone asked Clint what my “femme” name was going to be and he said he thought Michelle would do nicely. Somebody else pooh-poohed this.

“It has to be Lina, the second half,” he said and there was a loud murmur of agreement.

“OK. You’re Lina for the duration,” said Clint, gesturing to me. “That’s appropriate for being her other half.”

What could I say? Actually I was rather chuffed. It would help me to stay in character, so I just grinned and shrugged my shoulders and said in my best female voice, “Lina is pleased to meet you all.”

There was a moment of stunned silence and then we all laughed, with me making mine a silvery tinkle. Every good role starts with dedication and when I play a part I insist on doing it right.

Soon after we went in for dinner and then, afterwards, suddenly tired, I went to my room, unpacked and went to bed and slept like a couple of logs, probably well sawn, until the alarm woke me at 5.30 a.m. I got up, consciously sat on the loo (I was Lina, after all), had a shower, dressed in distastefully male clothing and went for breakfast.

Very shortly I was joined by Clint, who gave me my itinerary for the day. We were working at Bridge Studios and I was to go first to Make-Up, where they would give me the right hairstyle, shape my eyebrows, plump my lips, fix me up with breast forms, remove unneeded hair and do whatever other minor miracles they thought necessary.

Then it would be Wardrobe’s turn. They would provide a selection of the costumes to be worn by Angie and make the alterations to accommodate my male body shape. When they finished with me, down to underwear and shoes, I would be returned to Make-Up and by the end of the day Lina would come back to quarters and be here to stay until filming ended. Stunt training would start tomorrow.

“How long have we got for training?” I asked.

“It’s just over two weeks till the stars arrive and, believe me, you’ll need every minute of it to get used to doing the work en femme. When we’ve got you kitted out you’ll bust your arse gettin’ it right.”

So...off to the studio, five minutes ride in the company bus. It was enormous, a gigantic cavern of a building, divided into sound stages. Before I could gawk too much I was delivered to Make-Up and the gentle charms of a fortyish dragon-lady who was introduced as Mad Maxine and her assistant Poxy Roxy, a twenty-something goth girl with a predatory look in her black-rimmed eyes.

They walked around me with hungry expressions on their faces, like a couple of lionesses circling a stunned gazelle. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if they had started licking their lips.

“Strip,” Said M.M. “down to your jocks.”

I obeyed, scared of what they might do to me if I dawdled. I wasn’t going to risk fire and brimstone being rained on me, and Roxy looked like she would make one fine torturer.

When I stood shivering before them in my Y-fronts they leered at me and then at each other.

“Oooh, this is going to be such fun. A real canvas for a change,” from Maxine.

“Mmmmmm, just lovely,” replied the goth.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, luvvie. It’s just that normally we have to try and turn gorillas into fairies, and this time we only have to turn a pixie into a fairy. You’re beautiful,” and she patted me on the cheek.

“OK, we’re gonna have fun, but we aren’t going to hurt you. Here, sit down on the bed and I’ll tell you what we’re looking at doing. Don’t worry, none of it’s permanent, unless you agree. Hairstyle, obviously. We’ll give you extensions and you’ll need darkening a little. No big deal. Do you reckon you’ll ever want to grow a beard?”

Nervously I shook my head.

“Then what say we give you the laser treatment? You’re dark enough that three or four sessions will get rid of your beard forever and we can use it in your brow shaping too. Tweezering is such a bore.”

I had always hated the need to shave, even though I didn’t have to do it often. The thought of being beard-free for the rest of my life was enticing, if just a little scary.

“OK, sounds good to me.”

“Some collagen in the lips. It wears off after about three months. You really need to do it because she has lips like pillows....as I’m sure you already know. We’ll have to pierce your ears but that’s normal. You’ll need it for your next gig, I’m sure, and if you don’t, the holes close over. The rest of the face we can do with make-up and we’ll show you the ropes for fixing it yourself over the next couple of weeks, OK?”

I almost breathed a sigh of relief. Visions of my bones being broken and remoulded disappeared.

“Yeah, I can live with that.”

“Now for the body. You won’t need to go on some crazy diet. Boobs, naturally. She’s a pretty well-endowed girl. Have you ever worn breast-forms before?”

“No.”

“They’ll take a bit of getting used to. Sticking them on is OK and they‘ll stay in place for a week or better. First, they’ll throw your balance way off to start with, and the other thing you really have to watch is that you can’t feel anything on your chest, so you have to be very careful that you don’t stick your tits in a mangle, so to speak.”

“Let me assure you, I have no intention of doing that. Do they still have mangles in Vancouver?”

Both women laughed heartily. “Tits in the wringer” got hiccupped a few times to more chortling.

“Probably in the back-blocks, dearie, but we won’t go looking. You’ll see what we mean when they’re in place. No time like the present. Lie down and we’ll turn you into a reasonable facsimile of a girl.”

Maxine pushed me down onto my back and Roxy produced two large chicken fillets, breasts not thigh, which she proceeded to align on my chest.

“You have no chest-hair at all, so we can do this now, instead of waiting until you shower, so, when you do shower, you’ll already be a different person,” and she chuckled evilly.

So I lay back submissively while the wobbly objects were glued to my chest. I had worn falsies before but never appliances like these. When M.M. had stuck them on she got me to hold them in place until they were firm and I immediately understood what she meant. There was no feeling on the surface of my new titties. If somebody touched me up or sliced off a nipple I wouldn’t know.

“Turn over,” she said after five minutes, and I obeyed, yelping when Roxy pulled my underpants down.

“Don’t be a baby. We’re going to fix you up with some bum-shapers. It won’t hurt.”

It didn’t hurt and while the adhesive was drying she applied some gunk all over my legs and under my arms and on my fore-arms, that is, wherever I might have had hair except my head.

Ten minutes later I was ordered to shower and use the soap, shampoo and conditioner provided. It felt funny with my brand new breasts jiggling and my bum sticking out further than it ever had before but with me being unable to feel either protrusion. Drying myself was a comedy. When you can’t feel what you’re rubbing you don’t know when it’s dry. So you rub too long and then you realise you’re massaging your own tits and bum and all of a sudden you get horny and then, with two weird women standing there, your old fella stands up and they chortle themselves to death.

“Poor little man,” said Roxy, grabbing my cock. “I do believe you like being a girl,” and she rubbed my tool until I was a nanosecond away from climax.

With a sudden swoop she was kneeling in front of me engulfing my cock in her mouth and in seconds I came. Then she was standing again, grinning like the proverbial cat that got the canary and being high-fived by Mad Maxine.

She swallowed and said, “Well, that got him ready.”

They pushed me down onto the bed again, spread my legs and grabbed my now-limp tool by the foreskin and wiped it dry. Roxy took a small tube and spread a line of liquid down each side of my cock and pulled it down between my legs. The two of them then quickly pushed my thighs together and just stood there leering at me.

I was still in a state of shock. What had just happened was not only totally unexpected, you have to remember I was a virgin....or was I still? Did that count? What was the Bill Clinton take on that?

“What are you doing?” I finally managed to gasp out when I got my head back together.

“Consider it to be a bit like pulling a dressing off a scab,” said M.M. “You can either rip it off very quickly or you can pull it off slowly. Some guys object so we decided not to give you the opportunity. What we’ve done is super-glued your penis back so that you’ll have to sit down to pee for the duration and you won’t have any unsightly bulges when you’re dressed. It helps keep you in character and controls it when you’re in action. Don’t worry, we have the solvents to release it at the appropriate time.”

“That’s if you’re a good girl, of course,” interjected Roxy with an insane giggle.

“She’s having me on,” I thought, and then a cold shiver ran down my spine. What if she wasn’t? I dropped that thought very quickly.

“Well, thanks for telling me. What happens if I get hard?”

“It’ll be quite uncomfortable,” and they cackled like a couple of the Macbeth witches. I suddenly knew for certain why they called her Mad Maxine.

Roxy handed me a dressing gown....it had to be pink, didn’t it?

“Here, put this on. It’s time for your hair and face.”

I complied, surrender complete. Not that I had intended any rebellion, and allowed them to lead me over to a typical salon station with basins, mirrors, reclining chair and various torture instruments. I lay back again and they started in on me. For the next several hours I was lased, waxed, had my hair pulled and lengthened, washed and styled. My fingernails were extended and painted together with my toe nails. My lips were injected with collagen and vigorously and ruthlessly massaged by the Poxy one. I changed her name to Ming The Merciless.

At last the pair of them stood back and elevated the chair to a more upright position. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and knew that they might be crazy but they were true artists, maybe even witches. I looked like Angie’s sister, even though I was still not made-up, but with the unmistakeable pouty lips, arched brows and dark hair artfully tousled.

I examined myself critically with my actor’s antennae out. My nose was a touch too prominent and there were differences in my eyes, but I would certainly be able to pass for her in a dimly lit restaurant, provided you didn’t actually know her. I smiled at myself. I had good teeth, courtesy of the National Health Service, and I looked even more like her when I showed them. I would be a hit with make-up on and could hardly wait to see my finished self.

I assumed my role, pulling it on as if I was rolling my nylons up my legs.

“So what do you think? Are we good or are we good?” asked the pair in unison.

“Mmmmmm. You’re not bad. When are you going to finish me off?” in my best girly voice, my Juliet one.
It was their turn to gawp.

“I think we just created a monster,” said M.M. to P.R. who carried on gaping.

“No you didn’t. You made a screen goddess. Now where are my clothes?” I demanded imperiously, “and call me Miss Lina."

“Yes, Miss Lina. We’ll take you to Wardrobe straight away, Miss Lina, and when you’re dressed you can come back here and we’ll do your face. Will that be all right?”

“I suppose it will just have to do,” I said sweetly, my nose in the air, as befitted a beautiful and famous movie star.

They took me along a short corridor to a much larger area, absolutely packed and stacked with rails of clothes, shelves of hats and more shoes than Imelda Marcos ever owned. They towed me over to the person in charge of the empire.

I swear this whole place was filled with odd-balls. The woman looked exactly like Dame Edna Everage, complete with a pink bouffant hairstyle and over-the-top glasses, but greeted me in a Roedean accent.

“Oh, hello, Angie my deah. What a lovely surprise. We thought you wouldn’t arrive for at least two weeks. What have these two scallywags been doing to you, eh?"

The two scallywags doubled over, laughing.

“Zoe, you’re either going blind or we have done our usual superb job. This isn’t Angie. This is her stunt double. You may call her Miss Lina.”

I put out a hand, making sure to keep it limp and bent at the wrist. I was "in character" now.

“Pleased to meet you, Zoe. I’m Lina, and I hope you can find me something nice to wear.”

She took my hand and twirled me around, twice.

“Holy shit. Since when did Clint and his gang staht using real girls for their stunt doubles?”

Poxy Roxy and Mad Maxine were having a ball with this situation, hugging themselves and looking for all the world as if they were going to wet themselves at any moment, thighs pressed together and feet apart. Well, let them have their fun.

“Lina is a boy, Zoe. Believe it or not. She’s just such a lovely subject for transformation. Now let’s see if you can keep up with us with your costuming.”

She looked me up and down again, walked around me, touched my breasts and ran her hands down past my waist to my hips and bum. She pulled the dressing gown open and gasped.

“This is going to be such a pleasure. I actually have clothes to fit you without going to the seamstresses. If you don’t mind I’ll just do you generic Angie for the next few days and then we’ll kit you out properly later. I suppose you’ll be throwing yourself around in training, so we’ll pick something you can work in while you’re getting used to female clothing. What’s your waist measurement, dahling?”

“I’m a 27 inch waist.”

“OK, some plain white bikini panties; doesn’t look like you’ll need a gaffe. Bra will be a 38D if you’re doing Ange and we’ll cinch you down to a 25. That shouldn’t be too painful. Now, we won’t bother about stockings right now. You’d just ruin them in practice. I’ll give you a couple of pairs of panty-hose for the evenings.”

She rummaged around on one of the nearby shelves and handed me half a dozen pairs of panties and bras, all white, and the promised panty-hose, a dark grey.

“Put a pair of those on, luvvie. The others will keep you going for a few days. I know you will get unbelievably sweaty doing those awful stunts, so you’ll need enough to be able to freshen up afterwards. Maxine, don’t you dare economise on deodorants. My clothes are meant for ladies and ladies always smell nice. Ah, here we are, a few nice cinchers. Come here, dear. I don’t suppose you’ve ever worn one of these before?”

I had been putting on my bra and panties; no big deal, leaning forwards to centre my breasts in the cups. It was a relief not to have them flopping around (they were quite big). The bra pushed my cleavage upwards and inwards. From my point of view it was quite spectacular.

She produced the waist cincher and showed me how to fasten it and then tighten it. I could feel the pressure as it pulled me in to a 25, making me breathe a little shallower, but not too bad; nothing I couldn't live with.

Zoe ran a tape measure around me, checking. 38-25-36, and then she went to a rack and selected a white cotton dress, very simple, form-fitting, boat neck, short sleeves above the elbow, mini-length to about mid-thigh, back zipped and with a built-in lining. She took it from the hanger, unzipped the back and held it for me to step into, which I did. She pulled it up into position, settled it and zipped me up.

All of a sudden I felt incredibly sexy. That dress hugged me like an old friend, the satin lining caressing my body, and I knew we were made for each other.

“I’ll give you six to carry over. Now for shoes and we’ve got you basically done. Oh, except for some exercise gear and a purse. Every girl has to have a decent purse.”

She went over to the shoe racks. “Size?” she asked.

“Eight in mens, about C width.”

“British or American?”

“British.”

“Mmmmmm. OK, let’s try a 9  ½.” She picked out a pair of white sandals with what I guessed to be a 3 inch heel, open-toed, lots of straps, including behind the heel.

“If you’re going to be jumping around, you need something that will stay on as well as something you can walk in. Here, try these.”

She definitely had a good eye. They fitted perfectly, and made my toes look good too. I walked up and down, trying them out. They actually helped to counter-balance the heft of my boobs by making me walk more upright. I was beginning to feel very comfortable. I concentrated on shortening my stride and placing my feet one in front of the other. I could feel my hips swing.

She grabbed me by one hand and pulled me in front of a three-panel mirror. A close approximation of Angie stared back at me. God, I’ve got great legs. I smiled at myself. I was a little breathless, partly because of the waist cincher but also because I was excited by the girl in front of me. I felt my imprisoned member stir and willed it down before I got too uncomfortable. A girl shouldn’t get excited looking at a girl, should she?

“Thank you, Zoe.” I pivoted from side to side to get myself from different angles, preening unashamedly. The dress was wonderfully simple and simply wonderful and I resolved to put on a pair of the panty-hose when I got back to my quarters. I knew they would set my look off really well.

“You’re welcome, sweetie. Here’s your bag and I’ve put an extra pair of sandals and a pair of marabous in with your spare underwear. You’ll need some sports bras, shorts and tights for working out, so I’ll get them and the dresses delivered this afternoon,” and she handed me an enormous white shoulder-bag. If I was into shop-lifting I could hide a K-Mart’s contents in that bag.

“Are you sure you’re a man?” eyeing me quizzically.

“I’ve already told you. I’m Lina. Do I look like a man?” I responded haughtily, before giggling and clutching her arm.

Everybody laughed.

I turned to the terrible twins of Make-Up. “Can we go and finish me off now? I really want to see the finished product.”

“I’m coming too,” said Zoe, and we all trooped back down the corridor.

The zany duo popped me back into the salon chair, draped a coverall over me and proceeded to rub in creams and lotions, brush and pat. Every step they took they explained to me exactly what they were doing.

“Remember, less is more,” quoth Mad Maxine as she used lots more, it seemed.

When they had done my face overall they got stuck into my eyes, no false lashes today they said, although the time would come, just mascara and eyeliner and shadows of different shades, all carefully explained, and finally those gorgeous lips of mine, reddened, bee-stung. Their running commentary made me think I would be a smá¶rgá¥sbord of fruit salad. All these powders and unguents were peaches and plums and apricots and berries. I had information overload and their instructions went in one ear and out of the other.

But when I saw myself I went weak at the knees, even though I was still sitting down. I fell in love with me there and then.

I don’t know how to explain this. My psyche was still male, yet I was looking at someone who was all girl. I wanted to take myself in my arms and I wanted to melt against the luscious glossy lips that I saw before me and kiss me. My mind’s eye saw me in a gorgeous evening gown walking down the red carpet, smiling radiantly as I clutched my Oscar, a star at last. Dream On, Mike.

After an age gawping at myself, and in considerable pain at groin level, I got out of the chair and sashayed around, still admiring myself.

“Oh, shit. It really worked. I do look like her.” I barely remembered to stay in character.

Maxine and Roxy looked offended. Dame Edna just looked, with a dreadful beatific smile on her face.

“Of course it worked. What do you think we are, charlatans?”

“I’ll never be able to do my face by myself,” I gently stroked a cheek, scared of something cracking.

“Don’t worry, dear. Just put on mascara and lippy in the morning and we’ll fix the rest for you when you get here. You’ll be doing it like a pro in two weeks. We promise,” and MM and PR hugged me. “You are our masterpiece and we’re going to make sure everyone knows it.”

Eventually I was loaded into the bus and taken back to stunt person heaven, escorted by Zoe, both of us loaded with various bags and hangers of my male and female clothing, cosmetics and toiletries. When we arrived she came into my rooms with me and organised my closets, pushing the stuff I had brought with me from England to the nether regions. She left, promising to send over more skirts, tops and accessories in the next few days.

I got myself settled and after a while I went along to the bar, reckoning I needed a drink before facing my colleagues. It was 5 p.m. already and I thought it wasn’t too early and the rest would be back soon. I poured myself a pretty weak gin and tonic, giving myself lots of ice, not the way the Brits normally do it (one lump or two?) if you’re lucky enough to get ice at all, that is.

I hadn’t even sat down after turning from the bar when a dozen people burst through the double doors and propped in a sort of melee as the front ones stopped and those behind kept on coming.

Jaws hit decks.

There was a chorus of “Fuck Me’s” and “Holy Shit’s” and “Where did she come from?” until Lou and Maggie elbowed their way forward and walked around me a couple of times, grinning like sharks.

“Mike...I mean Lina...is that really you?” asked Maggie. “Jeez, I wish I could look that good,” somewhat spoiled by the baritone.

“You really will knock ‘em dead. Wait until Gerry and Angie see you,” from Lou.

“Who’s Gerry?” I asked.

“Alzheimer, the director.”

“What an unforgettable name,” I thought.

Sipping my drink, I was inspected by the mob and, as centre of attention, like any good actor, I hammed it up a bit, striking poses with a hand behind my head and one leg bent in front of the other. Clint came over and took my hand. I thought he might start dancing with me, but he gave me a hug and remarked what a find I was.

The atmosphere became party-like and the cooks and kitchen staff all came and eye-balled me, laughing, clapping and oohing and aahing. This outfit were nothing if not professional though, and in due time we went into the dining room and ate.

Mindful of the warning not to drink too much I went to my rooms straight afterwards. Lou came with me and helped me undress and remove my make-up. That was so thoughtful of her, even though she was a guy too. Oddly, she gave me a goodnight kiss and said, “Sleep well, little sister.”

Next morning I was up at five and quickly sorted a sports bra, shorts and top to go and do my katas, wearing a pair of my sandals to the gym. Christ! What a lash-up. Between heels and boobs I was all over the place, clumsy as an ox. It was only after my regular half-hour that I was getting any semblance of balance. I was a little dispirited when I returned to my rooms for a shower, but by the time I had done that and dressed properly, as my mind told me, I felt really good when I saw my mascara-ed eyes and apricot lips in the mirror, admiring my legs again.

It was six when I got in for breakfast and was greeted with a chorus of grunts or “Hi, Linas,” and treated as though I was part of the furniture that I almost felt miffed. Fame is a fleeting thing, it seems. Sigh.

Breakfast over, I went and got my enormous tote-bag, stuffing it with spare panties, make-up and deodorant, and joined the rest of the crew on the bus.

My first stop at the studios was at the Mad Women’s Den, where they did my face again, patiently spreading fruit all over me and explaining what they were doing. More stayed in my head this time and they both gave me a kiss before releasing me to the wild.

And wild it was. We girls were practicing a karate fight where we kicked arse on six thugs who were supposedly trying to rape us. The choreographer was a tartar and I was the dummy of the show because my balance was all off, but they were all very patient with me and after several hours Clint called a halt and we wiped the sweat off and sagged into canvas seats.

He went off and came back with a bearded guy, talking animatedly, and waving at techies and cameras.
Beard said, “OK, we’ll give it a first run,” and started to organise sound booms and issue directions. Then he caught sight of me.

“Ange, what the hell are you doing here? Get out of there before someone from the insurance company sees you and doubles my premiums. You know you’re not supposed to go anywhere near the action.”

Then he stopped and ran a handful of fingers through his hair.

“What the hell are you doing here anyway? You’re not due for two weeks. What’s going on?”

All our guys were grinning fit to bust, and Beard was getting a bit antsy.

“Clint, what the fuck are you pulling?”

Clint stepped forward, grinning a real shit-eater.

“Gerry, I’d like you to meet Lina, stunt-double for Ange.”

“Lina, this is Mr. Gerry Alzheimer, our director.

“Pleased to meet you Mr. Alzheimer,” in my sweetest voice, and extending my hand.

“Call me Gerry.” He examined me from head to toe as he took it.

Thank God he told me to call him Gerry. It was much easier to remember.

He turned to Clint. “Are you shitting me? When did you start using girls for stunts?”

“His name is Mike Stewart, Gerry, and that’s a gotcha!”

Alzheimer looked at me again, walking around me and undressing me with his eyes. I felt like a side of beef. He shook his head.

“Is that true?” he asked me.

“Yes, sir,” I fluted, fluttering my eyelashes.

He started to laugh. “Wait till Ange sees you. Boy, we’ll have some fun.” Addressing the whole crew, “Nobody’s to tell her, right?” and he got a general murmur of agreement, with lots of grins and chuckles.

“Clint, if this kid can act, your crew gets bonus rates whenever I can use.....Her?.....whatever... to dep for Ange.”

I got a few claps on my bare shoulders when he said that, some of which nearly flattened me.

Then it was back to work.

The next two weeks were murder. Practice, practice, practice. I practiced stunt after stunt, as did we all, and I learned to do them all in dresses and heels or tights and heels, or skirts and heels, or shorts and heels, until my boobs and heels were part of me. My katas in the mornings became smooth and graceful.

Then I went to my make-up lessons every day on arrival at the studio, and Mad Maxine and Poxy Roxy hammered into me all the different treatments of fruit, until I could blend eye-shadows and apply liners and lipsticks and glosses, foundations and face-creams and blushers to somewhere near their satisfaction and shade my breast forms in so you couldn’t see the join with my skin. The dressing table in my room gradually filled up with jars and tubes and brushes until it was just like a real girl's.

On top of that I had tuition from Zoe in the wearing of various feminine garments, suspenders and stockings, body suits and corsets. Even tops and blouses required attention. Every couple of days she would issue something new for me to wear and drill in, insisting that when Ange arrived I would have to sit side-by-side with her and get dressed in the exact same outfit to satisfy the continuity girls.

Finally I would go back to camp and take a stack of DVDs back to my rooms after dinner, where I would imitate her movements and mannerisms and patterns of speech and accent until they became mine. I almost forgot that my real name was Mike and I think that the crew did too.

Mr. Gerry Whatsisname used me on several occasions to rehearse scenes starring Angie so he could check camera angles and lighting and such and, true to his word, paid the crew extra when he did so. Naturally this made me quite popular and the guys (and girls) really looked after me. I got used to being treated like a lady, doors opened for me, chairs pulled out at mealtimes, drinks brought to my seat at the bar, comforting arms around my shoulders. It’s seductive you know...

After two weeks and two days the lady herself appeared. Everyone knew she was coming and I was terrified. Two weeks is woefully underprepared in London theatre. Normally we would rehearse for at least three times that. OK, so I had been doing her 24/7, but even so I was not confident that I could carry her off when confronted with the original.

She strode onto the set that morning like a goddess, dressed in tight jeans, 3 inch heel boots and a tight black top with a scoop neck and short sleeves. She had such presence that you could feel the indrawn breaths as she passed by.

“Hi, Gerry. Are you ready for me yet?” to our director.

“We nearly finished it without you Ange. You’re going to be lucky to get paid.”

She eyed him haughtily. “What are you talking about, you miserable son-of-a-bitch. If you’re trying to pull some kind of stunt I’ll phone my agent here and now.”

Gerry Thingy grinned at her. “Ange, I have somebody you have to meet before you do one of your famous meltdowns.”

All my good friends and colleagues started pushing me to the front of the throng, while I was trying to melt into the crowd. Gerry grabbed Ange by the hand and led her towards me. My two true-blue “girlfriends” Lou and Maggie peeled away from in front of me, leaving me face-to-face with the woman I had been impersonating for the last few weeks.

Angie was simmering, close to the boil, when she spotted me. Gerry was grinning like a fool.

It was almost like seeing a cat arch its back and prepare to leap, and then she did a classic double-take and really looked.

“And just who the hell are you?” staring straight at me, no longer hostile, just stunned.

I gulped, a bit of stage fright hitting me. “Ms. LaBelle, I’m your stunt double.”

She came right up to me and stopped inside my personal space, reaching out and grasping me round the neck with both hands, not tightly, more a caress.

“My God, are you a man or a girl? What’s your name?”

“I’m Lina, Ms. LaBelle, for the duration of the shoot. I’m here to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

“Yeah, OK. You didn’t answer my question. Are you a man or a girl and what’s your real name? Gerry, I won’t have a girl doing my stunts,” turning to Mr. Whosis, but arms still clasped behind my neck.

She gazed deep into my eyes and I fell in love there and then. I’m sure she knew, such was her power.

“Ms. Labelle, my name is Mike Stewart and I’m a man, but it’s my job to be you for the next few months and I always try to do the best job I can.”

“I can see that.” She released me and walked around me a couple of times, then she grabbed me around the neck again and kissed me . tongue deep into my mouth, as passionately as I had ever been kissed before. She broke it off and stroked my hair, all the time keeping her eyes boring into me, while I tried to recover my breath and slow down my racing heart.

“Welcome to my family, Lina. You are now officially Lina LaBelle and you are mine. You call me Ange, understand?”

She turned to our director and laughed. “OK, Gerry, you got me. I owe you one, you miserable bastard. So let’s get started.”

Gerry tugged on a non-existent forelock, smirking away, and said, “Yes Miss Ange. Whatever you say Miss Ange. Sheez, who’s running this show?”

She slapped him playfully and they went off to her trailer arm-in-arm. She looked over her shoulder and winked at me as they left.

From the next day forward, she and I sat together as we got dressed for the day’s shooting in identical outfits, with two continuity girls checking every item of our clothing, make-up, hairstyles and every little thing to make sure we were identical. She didn’t say much, but she held my hand and squeezed it as we stared into the mirrors in front of us while we were being worked upon.

I watched her, drinking up her mannerisms, walk, gestures and her wonderful smile, copying them at every opportunity, particularly when I was back in my rooms. She watched me too. She was always there when I was doing the stunts for her, sometimes clapping softly when Gerry said it was a wrap.

A week went by and she fronted me at the end of shooting one day, taking me by the hand and pulling me close.

“Come to my trailer.”

I was mesmerised and would have gone to Hell with her. I remember we were both dressed in short tartan skirts, black tops, leather jackets, black tights and calf-length boots. It was not a particularly glamorous get-up, but she could have made a hessian sack look good.

She pulled me up the steps to her van and through the door, closed it behind us and proceeded to strip me while simultaneously snogging me like crazy. I was soon returning the compliment and her clothes were landing in a heap on the floor with mine. Before long we were both naked except for panties and entwined around each other. She knew what she was doing and I was following willingly.

She pulled me over to the bed, a double intended for her to rest during the day, not meant to be slept on at night. She ripped off my panties and felt for my cock.

“What the fuck? Where is it? You told me you were a man!”

It was still glued back between my legs and I was so hard that it hurt like hell.

“I am. Make-up didn’t want any bulges so they glued it back.”

All of a sudden I saw the famous temper. She swung around and grabbed the phone, punching in a number instantly.

“Maxine? Ange here. Listen you crazy bitch, did you glue Lina’s cock back between her legs?”

“Buzz, mumble,” from the other end.

“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit. I want to use it. You get your fat arse over here this instant with the appropriate solvents or you’ll be looking for a fucking job in Siberia tomorrow, capisce?” and she slammed down the phone.

“I’m sorry sweetie. You should have said and I could have had it fixed before.”

“Well, it’s not exactly what one talks about to another lady.”

“OK, but you can drop that sexy voice when we’re in bed together. You may look like gorgeous Lina but it’s Mike I want to hear.” She crouched above me, stroking my hair. “They really did a great job on you. God, it’s a turn on imagining making love to yourself. Move over, Narcissus.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come!” She called imperiously, and Mad Maxine practically scuttled through the door, carrying a tray.

Angie got off me and pointed at my crutch, showing no embarrassment at our nakedness.

“Unglue it. Now! And if it doesn’t work afterwards I’m going to glue the lips of your cunt together and throw the solvents away.”

“It’ll be alright, Ange, I promise,” said Maxine as she poured some liquid onto a cotton wool pad.

She was sweating as she dabbed the pad along the length of my imprisoned penis. Within seconds I could feel the solvent working and my member began separating from the skin of my groin. She continued rubbing the stuff in and within a minute I was free. The operation had not stimulated me at all and my tool just lay there, limp. Ange snarled when she saw it.

“Take your gear and get out of here you silly cow. You’d better start praying it works.”

Maxine left even quicker than she’d entered.

Ange turned to me and grabbed a tube of aloe vera, which she started to massage into my crutch.

“You poor boy. Why did you let them do it?”

“They took me by surprise, and I suppose I’m naive, too,” I replied as Mike.

My cock was definitely responding to her ministrations, straightening and hardening nicely. It was good to see the little (well, not-so-little) feller again after it being M.I.A. for a couple of weeks. Ange was almost purring as she gently stroked along its length.

“Your voice is nice. I do love English accents. I’m going to make you keep talking to me....later, though.”

She stopped rubbing my now fully erect and throbbing meat and swung herself back astride me. She leaned forward and kissed me passionately. She took my nipples between her fingers.

“I wish you could feel that. Don’t you?”

I could only emit a strangled gargle. I was still trying to catch my breath after the kiss.

She moved her hands down to my groin again, kneading the base of the protrusion.

“Are you a virgin?”

“I’m not sure. Does a blow-job count?”

She chortled. “No you silly thing. You have to put it all the way inside.”

“Then I’m a virgin.”

“Not for long.”

She grabbed me by the shaft and stretched her lips apart with the other hand, gently lowering herself onto me as she did so, wriggling a little until I was fully embedded as far as I could penetrate and she was sitting on me with a demonic grin on her face.

“Now you’re nearly not a virgin, but to give you the certificate we have to make both of us come.”

She began to move up and down and to grip my dick with her vaginal muscles, giving me a rippling sensation over the length of my penis which made me gasp and shudder and reciprocate by thrusting against her when she rose. I can’t exactly describe the feeling. You have to have done it to fully appreciate what I mean, but control was not in the vocabulary. The sensation pulled at all my senses. Feeling fled from all other parts of my body into that one protuberance, building and building until all the pent-up sensation released in one mighty heave and I felt a rush of warmth and wetness from her gush over me too.

“O-o-o-o-h. Wow, Mike. That was nice. We came together on your first time. I’d say that’s a good omen.”

She leant forward and kissed me and I kissed her back. Then she extracted herself, rolled over and laid next to me, holding me in her arms so that our faces were only inches apart.

“Now you can talk to me, sweet boy. I want to know your life story.”

So I told her; only child, mad about acting, obviously not superstar material, downsized ambitions, good money as a stuntman, right material for doubling for female stars and here I was. She was a good listener. Most actors and actresses are, because it helps them to pick up clues that they can use in their roles.

She stroked me while I was talking; cheeks, hair, arms, groin; enough to keep me slightly aroused without going over the top. When I was finished she looked at me, something unfathomable in her eyes.

“Maybe there’s a way we can help you achieve your ambition. Let me think about it. In the meantime....” and she lowered her mouth onto my cock. She gave a much better blowjob than Poxy Roxy and then I lost my virginity for a second time, if that’s possible.

“Go and have a shower, Lina, and we’ll get you back to base.” Somehow that signalled the end of our intimate session and I reverted to my Lina voice. She nodded her approval.

When we were both dressed she checked my make-up just as thoroughly as did Mad Maxine and declared herself satisfied before she called her chauffeur to come and pick me up. She draped her arms around my neck and looked into my eyes again. I was lost.

“We wouldn’t want everybody to think we’d been shagging, would we?” and she laughed fit to bust.

“I have a reputation to protect and you need to get one.” She kissed me, quite gently. “Go home now, Lina, and we’ll do this again soon.”

The driver took me back to our HQ and as soon as I walked into the bar every eye was on me, with knowing grins the order of the day.

“Got laid, did we?” asked Clint, and I’m afraid I gave it away with a blush which must have doubled for a traffic light. It didn’t go unnoticed and there was a general laugh.

“It’s OK, kid. You don’t have to say a word. Most of us have worked with her before.”

I almost leapt to her defence before I realised how stupid that would be, but it hurt me knowing that I wasn’t her one and only true love. Nobody made a really big thing about it though. I got a few slaps on the shoulder and a lot of ribald winks, but that was it and the evening soon became the normal post-mortem and review session.

After that she would take me to her trailer maybe once a week and I had to be Mike when we made love. She seemed to take an interest in me apart from the purely sexual. She got me to take over my portfolio, such as it was, and discussed seriously the shots of me in various productions and my promotional material.

“Poor Mike", she sighed, one afternoon. “You’re never going to be like Troy (her husband) or Harrison, are you? It’s not fair. You can out-act both of them.”

At work she always took a keen interest in the stunts and applauded quietly when we did one successfully. Gerry Al-whatever frequently used me for scene-setting and distance shots when Ange didn’t have any other commitments for the day. I worked away at being the best Lina I could possibly be, refining all those nuances that I gathered from observing her.

Except for that couple of hours each week I was her. I became great friends with her, as a twin sister should, and we often sat together chatting about girlie things when neither of us was on camera. I found that our tastes in clothing and shoes and make-up were very similar and we would even do each other's nails as we chatted away. When we walked together I was told that people cuold not tell which of us was which from behind, and even sometimes from the front. I treasured those times and I almost forgot my real name was Mike.

Then, all of a sudden it seemed, “Suzie’s Seraphim” was shot and in the can for editing back in the main studios.

We had an after-party. I was Mike again, back in pants, comfortable shoes (oh, how I missed my heels) and a shirt, with only my hair in a pony-tail and the residue of my collagen-inflated lips and thin eyebrows to remind me of the last four months. I felt awkward and naked without my make-up, missing the brush of my skirt against my legs and my balance was all off without my boobs and shoes. I really had immersed myself in her....in all possible ways. She was there and she came up to me and embraced me and kissed me passionately. The assembled crowd all cheered like mad and made lewd remarks, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears at the thought of losing her. I was still Lina in my mind, her alter ego, as well as being her lover.

I wanted to stay with her, to be her....or at least a part of her....for the rest of my life. I guess that's what love does to you.

She held me close and slipped a card into my pocket and whispered in my ear.

“I’ll be at home for a couple of months. Email me and come and see me. Please,I really mean it.” She gave me the 1000-watt look and kissed me again before turning away and circulating in the gathering.

Nothing happened the day after the party. We were all truly well hung-over. There was no need to curtail our drinking since we didn’t have to turn up for work. The release from four months of tension required a bit of a break, and I for one had never developed a big tolerance for alcohol anyway.

The following day I had a session with Clint. He told me we had been paid some 50% over what we had expected, largely because of my success as Lina and Jerry’s (sorry, Gerry’s) use of me as an acting substitute for Ange which had saved the producers millions of dollars. The company had agreed to give me a $10000 bonus on top of my share of the earnings so nearly $100,000 was going into my bank account. He asked if I wanted to go back to England and I said I would rather have a look around America, so he agreed to give me the equivalent air fare.

The company was going to relax for a couple of months or maybe a bit longer but if I wanted to do the next gig I was more than welcome and they would give me an hourly rate of US$100. I said I reckoned I would take him up on that and we parted most amicably with him having my email address to let me know where and when our next assignment would be.

I finally got a few days to look around Vancouver while I cleared the necessary hurdles for me to go to the States. It's a nice city, with those inlets and harbours reaching right through it and these magnificent mountain vistas everywhere you look, but I was marking time.

Tourist visa for the USA in hand, I wasted no time in heading for Los Angeles, where Ange was supposed to be. Funny place; forget sunny California, it was grey and misty, but call it fog and the locals haughtily told you it was the “marine layer” which somehow made me think of a broody seagull.

I checked into the Ritz-Carlton, secure in the knowledge that I had a decent future income stream and $100K burning a hole in my pocket, an 18-year-old (who looked 16) on the ran-tan. I got a couple of old-fashioned looks at reception, but these suddenly turned to smiles when I produced my Platinum credit card and they had run a discreet check on it. The same happened when I hired a car, although I could at least produce a licence with my age on it. They charged me extra for insurance. Both the hotel and the car-hire were actually surprisingly inexpensive.

Settled in and my meagre possessions unpacked I emailed Ange letting her know I was in town and where to get hold of me. Then I got a map from the concierge along with some advice on the best tourist spots and took off in my Toyota Prius, feeling virtuous about being “green”. I actually hardly needed the map as the GPS in the car told me in a sexy voice where to go and how to get there. So, with little fuss I visited the La Brea tar pits, Topanga National Park, cruised past the “Hollywood” sign, and went along Wilshire and other LA musts. I got back to the hotel wondering what one does on one’s second day in Los Angeles if you don’t want to go to Disney, Knottsberry Farm or Universal Studios.

The car was taken by the jockey. Quiet night coming up, I thought; a meal and go to bed.

As I passed reception the clerk called out to me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stewart, sir. There’s a message for you. Urgent. Ms. Angelina LaBelle asks that you ring her the instant you get back. It’s probably on your computer too, sir, but she was most insistent that we delivered the message to you in person.” He passed me an envelope.

“Well, thank you,” I said.

“Sir, may I ask if you’re related to her? I can see a family resemblance,” very deferentially.

I decided this was worth milking.

“Between you and me, we’re very close. I’m from the English branch of the family, but she doesn’t generally like it to be known that she has noble blood, if you take my meaning, VERY noble. My grandmother is a great fan too,” and I winked at him, before turning on my heel and heading up to my room with her phone number clutched in my hand.

The phone leapt into my hand as soon as I got into the room. It must have been a personal number because I got straight through to her, no flunkies in between.

“Hi Ange, I got your message. I was out sightseeing.”

She laughed. “That must have taken all of half an hour. Hey, Mike, I’m glad you’re here. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“Well, I was going to have a burger, but.....”

“Don’t piss about. I’ll send the limo for you at seven, OK?’

“Shall I bring a toothbrush?”

“Nah. I think I might have a spare somewhere, and, if not, you’ll have to share mine.”

“Oooh, gross,” I said in Lina-speak.

“Be ready, love,” giggling as she put the phone down.

So I showered and shampooed and conditioned and blow-dried and put on my best jeans and a decent polo shirt and a pair of $300 Tods. Carrying a denim jacket I went down to the lobby at about a quarter to seven to await the limousine.

Word must have got around that I was related to royalty, because I was approached by a bellboy as soon as I exited the elevator (lift to me).

“Do you need your car, Mr. Stewart? I’ll get it brought around.”

“No, it’s OK. Ms. LaBelle’s driver is picking me up.” I namedropped shamelessly. "I’m just a little early. Will you let me know when he comes?” and I slipped a ten into his hand.

“Certainly, sir.” If he’d had a forelock I’m sure he would have tugged it.

Americans get so turned on by royalty, while we just yawn.

I sat down in one of the lobby chairs and grabbed a paper. A glass of sparkling water (probably Perrier) with ice magically appeared at my elbow and I smiled at the girl who delivered it.

My cool was a pure facade. I was dying to see my lovely Ange again and hoping that things would be the same between us. Of course, I also knew that the atmosphere of the movie set was a thing of the past, but she had sounded genuinely pleased to hear my voice and she had responded to my call much quicker than I expected. I was still in love.

The car arrived exactly on time and the hotel staff came and got me, just about forming a reception line to bow me out to the forecourt. I almost asked where the red carpet was, but restrained myself. You mustn’t overdo it.

I jumped into the stretch Merc, said good evening to the driver and was whisked away as soon as the door shut. We drove for about half an hour, leaving the freeway for a winding road which climbed into the hills. Behind me the city lights lay spread out like a sparkling carpet as the twilight faded.

“Where are we going,” I asked, curious.

“Ms. Ange lives in the canyon country, sir. We’re nearly there.”

A minute later he put a cell phone to his ear. It must have been on “silent”.

“Yes Ms. Ange.... In about two minutes...... No, no problems.”

We turned into a driveway and went through a set of automatic gates before coming to a stop.

My door opened and Ange, dressed in tight black pants and an electric-blue billowing blouse, leapt into the car and dragged me out, wrapped herself around me and gave me a serious smooch, before moving back and giving me a patent 1000-watt grin.

“Oh, Mike. It’s lovely to see you. I was worried you wouldn’t come. I really missed you.” She directed herself to the driver. “Thanks, Carl. We won’t need you until the morning. You can put the car away.”

Hanging on to my arm and leaning into me she steered me through the front door. The hall was as big as my Vancouver rooms and opened onto a typical Hollywood living/lounge area, the size of a decent house, which in turn opened on to a huge patio and pool, all obviously designed for lavish partying.

“It’s a nice night. I thought we’d eat on the patio.” She put her arms around my neck and we kissed again. She really seemed glad to see me and I knew I was glad to see her. Her raised eyebrows and smirk as we pressed together told me that she knew just how glad I was to see her.

She gave a little wiggle and burst out laughing, teasing me.

“Later, darling. First I want you to do something for me. Then we eat and talk. And then..... But now, a drink, to celebrate.”

There was an ice-bucket with two bottles in it, on a stand next to a table laid for two, with several different kinds of glasses amongst the cutlery. She grabbed one, and with the ease of much practice, popped the cork with just a few wisps of “steam”, no waste like racing drivers.

She gave me the bottle and took two flutes, holding them out for me to pour the bubbly. As I poured I saw that the champagne was Taittinger 1998 Blanc de Blancs. I’m not James Bond (oh, if only!). I put the bottle back in the bucket and she handed me a glass. We clinked, and she said, “To us.”

I drank, and although I’m no connoisseur that stuff was like angels’ tears going down the throat. I looked into her eyes.

“Wonderful,” I croaked.

“Me or the champagne?”

“Both, but you told me you come later.”

“I will, very definitely. In the meantime, another glass?” lovely lips parted, so provocative.

She poured two more, and we linked arms in a lovers embrace as we drank.

It was a lovely evening and she flipped a switch and put some music on. It was a really cool guitar, bluesy with jazz and pop elements.

“That’s Robben Ford,” I exclaimed. “Fancy you liking him.”

“Yes, he’s great, isn’t he? You know, I really wanted to be a guitarist when I was a kid, and I really tried, but I just don’t have that kind of talent. I could listen to him all night, or Clapton or Larry Carlton or Jeff Beck.”

“Our tastes are pretty similar. They’re all favourites of mine.”

She reached out and stroked my cheek. “See how much I have to learn about you and you about me.”

She poured us another glass of champagne, opening the second bottle in order to fill the glasses.

“Now I want to ask that favour.”

I would have done anything for her, maybe short of committing suicide. I waved my glass, feeling the first effects of the alcohol.

“Anything, Ange.”

She came in close, her free hand gently stroking my chest.

“Will you be Lina for me tonight, until we make love, just like Vancouver? Maybe I’m twisted, but there’s just something so erotic about looking into your eyes when you’re Lina. You look so much like me, but not like me. When I look in a mirror I see all the little things wrong with my face, a wrinkle here and a crease there, but when I look at Lina I see perfection. Small differences, yes, but no blemishes. Will you do that for me?”

“Ange, I’m the one that sees perfection, but, yes, I’ll do that for you.”

To tell the truth I had really missed being Lina. Four months of wearing the persona as well as the clothing and the make-up had sort of soaked into my bones. The fact that Ange loved Lina had a lot to do with it, of course, but the stunt gang had treated me like a lady and I liked that too. Knee-jerk, hard-wired behaviour, perhaps, but real nevertheless. When I was Lina I felt so comfortable and natural. I was a girl in their eyes, and in my own.

“I hoped you would say yes. C’mon, I’ve laid out Lina’s stuff in my dressing room. Bring the glasses.”

She grabbed me by one hand, the remaining bottle in the other, and me with the two glasses, and practically dragged me upstairs to a room bigger than a normal master-bedroom with wardrobes and closets and a huge make-up table, which practically was surrounded by searchlights. No blemish would remain undiscovered in there.

“Strip! No Mikes are allowed in here. Shower!” she pointed at the cubicle. I giggled, under the influence of the champers. She hiccupped and we both fell about laughing. I took off my clothes and shook out my hair, letting it fall to my shoulders and fan out. It was obvious what my body was thinking, except that “thinking” was not the right word.

She stepped forward, spread my hair and fluffed it out. Then she took my cock in her hand.

“Maybe we should change to Plan B. What do you think?”

“What was Plan A?”

She hung around my neck and nuzzled me, not answering.

I was beyond control, not drunk but definitely high. I could not take as much champagne as she could. She had had more practice.

“I’m yours to do with as you will, my lady,” I think that’s what I said.

“Definitely Plan B,” and she proceeded to strip too.

Soon we were standing face-to-face and closer-than-close, stark naked and pawing each other passionately. She turned me so that I was facing my reflection in the mirror and she stood by my side. Even without makeup my face looked like hers.

She turned us back to face each other. We looked into each other’s souls and she led me to her bedroom with a king-size bed that could have left me like a sailor ship-wrecked on an island, struggling to find another survivor.

Our eyes were still locked together as she pushed me down and straddled me, panting.

“I know you’re not dressed, but be Lina for me, please. I want Ange and Lina to be one tonight.”

I let Lina take over my body and brain and kissed my alter ego greedily. My male parts slid into her so easily, but once in it was as if it didn’t matter who was male and who was female. Two lovers entwined so closely that they were a single being. We were Angelina.

We made love for hours it seemed. It ended when her stomach made these loud gurgling noises, most unromantic, and we both wound up laughing ourselves stupid as I put my ear to her tummy and imitated the sounds coming from within.

"Gurrrkkk, bluuurrrppp, ubbbblee, blooop, blooopp, bbbbuuuubbbb."

We went and showered together, shower caps protecting our hair. When we were dry she led me back to the bed and produced a pair of breast forms and proceeded to glue them on me as I lay looking up at her.

“This was Plan A, before I so rudely interrupted us,” she explained, holding them in place and nuzzling me.
She let me get up a few minutes later and handed me a white bra and panties. I put them on and tucked myself back easily since all passion was still drained. Ange was dressing at the same time, in identical undies. She produced matching caftans in a kind of golden brown swirling psychedelic pattern and we slipped into them before sitting next to each other at the giant make-up station with the searchlights illuminating our faces.

“Match me, “she said and we made our faces up, with me copying her every move until we finally blotted our glossy lips.
She inspected me thoroughly and then began to brush and comb my hair into a do as close to hers as possible before fixing three-inch hoops into our ears. At last she indicated two pairs of white sandals and I took the larger and put them on.

She pulled me across to a triple mirror and we again stood side-by-side gazing at our reflections, sisters.....not identical, but close. I felt better than I had since the movie in Vancouver. I was Lina again.

“What do you see?”

“I see us, Ange and Lina.”

“How badly do you want that Oscar?”

“Every day, every waking moment...and in my dreams too.” I laughed a little bitterly.

She waved her hand at the mirror. “There’s the answer. You’ll never make it as Mike, but as Angelina....”

I continued to examine us, and the stark truth of her statement penetrated my head and terrified me.

“Come on. Let’s go and eat and then we can talk.”

So saying she led the way downstairs, her arm around my waist, and into the kitchen, where she started to bustle around, pulling a couple of decent-sized steaks and a big bowl of salad from an aircraft-carrier of a fridge.

“Where is everybody? Surely you have help?” I asked her.

“Troy’s on location, doing his new movie, and I gave the staff the night off. I wanted it to be just us. We have important things to discuss.”

The steaks had gone onto a grill and the smell was devastating. Our stomachs were singing a symphony. I set about tossing the salad with Italian dressing to take my mind off it.

“We like our steaks rare, Lina, and our salads green with the Italian. We eat healthily and we exercise a lot. Being Ange is hard work and I think you have to start learning now.”

She dumped the steaks onto a couple of large plates and I carried the salad bowl as she took them to the table on the patio. We sat down together and she twisted the top off of a bottle of Merlot.

“I do like these screw tops, much easier than corks,” as she poured us a glass each.

She raised her glass and reached across to me. I took mine up and we clinked.

“To an Oscar and to us.” We toasted.

She talked as we tore into our steaks.

“Here’s how I see it. A bit of background first. I said it’s hard being Angelina. That’s because of the demands of the business. They want you here and they want you there, all at the same time. Do this movie; go to that ball or dinner; act for this charity; be glam all the time; promote this brand; smile for the bastard paparazzi......on and on and on. It can really wear you down.

“When I saw you in Vancouver I had a sort of brainwave. You look so much like me I thought * what if there were two to share the load?*. Then I thought you would never go for it. After all, it would mean you’d have to be my double 24/7. Then you told me of your dream, and it was obvious to me that you would never make it as a man.”

She reached across and took my hand.

“Not because of lack of talent. I soon saw you had that in spades, as well as dedication. But as a woman you could make it and I can give you a head start. It depends how hungry you are; how much you really want it.

“Do you want it enough to become a woman?”

That question was a show-stopper. Did I? My dream. I couldn’t answer her, but Lina was saying "yes! Yes! YES!" inside my head.

“A little bit of surgery on your face and you will be indistinguishable from me; your nose and a touch around the eyes. Collagen to your lips is easy, and eyebrows.....we’ve done that already. It’s the rest which you really need to think about. You have to be prepared for the demands that they put on a female star. Nude scenes....sex scenes. You won’t be able to hide anything. It has to be all the way, real boobs, real pussy, the real thing, all the way.

“If you agree, I’ll teach you to be me. You’ll become Ange. It won’t be quick. First we’ll have you doing the off-screen stuff, the charity shows, the visits to sick kids, schmoozing with hangers-on, doubling for me when I go to visit my girl friends.”

Some of the tension went out of me. Everybody knew, or thought they knew, about her lesbian affairs. It was the meat of gossip media.

“So you’d be shagging while I work? Sounds like the Seven Dwarves theme.” I tittered in full female mode. “Go on, Jezebel.”

“We’d ease you into the movies, until you’re doing it all, and with your talent, it won’t be long. I really believe you could have that Oscar in five years if we pick our movies right.”

“WHY?” I just about yelled at her. “Why would you do this for me?”

“It’s not just for you, darling. The whole scene has been getting too much for me. I need to get away a bit, but I have so many commitments. If I had you depping for me we would share the load, and I would get the glory of the Oscar too. We would know it was you, but the world would think it was me. I don’t think I’m actress enough to win. I’m pegged as a sex symbol, but I know you could do it, ever since I watched you in Vancouver.

“I would pay you of course. Allowing a five-year target I offer a million dollars a year minimum, plus full wardrobe, all surgeries and the usual perks, car, accommodation, travel, etc. Of course a lot of that will be picked up by sponsors and promoters. Don’t forget, I earn at least five million per film and I do two to three a year. I’ll happily put you on a split when you’re in there replacing me. Money is not a problem.”

“What about us? When I’m a girl, I mean.....I mean if I’m a girl.”

She cupped my chin in both her hands. It was too far across the table for us to kiss. She gazed into my eyes.

“I will cherish you and we will love each other. I know how to cherish a beautiful girl, especially when she’s me. That’s my ultimate turn-on, believe me.”

“What about Troy? Would I have to go to bed with him? I don’t think I could do that. And what would he think about all this?”

She laughed. “Read the gossip columns! I probably won’t be with him much longer, so I doubt you’d ever be faced with going to bed with him. As for our little scheme, we just won’t tell him. We’ll fix you up with an apartment and he’ll never know.”

“You don’t love him then?”

“I suppose I do, in a way. He is a nice guy, but he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and marriages in this business have a habit of ending sooner rather than later. We’re never together for a start. Either I’m off filming or he is, not conducive to long-term relationships. Then there are all those bitches out there, dying to take him away from me.”

Troy was a hunk, a typical Hollywood leading man, but somehow he gave the impression that it was all a bit of a joke; that he did not take himself seriously, when he was doing interviews with Oprah or Letterman, a part of his charm perhaps.

She looked at me shrewdly. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you? I can tell.”

“I...I...I’m not sure. It’s scary. I need to think about it.”

She was right, of course. I was going to do it. I was scared to death and I liked being male, but....I was an actor. What a challenge! To be one of the most beautiful women in the world! And my ultimate prize... an Oscar! No other way I would ever get one. I had to do it! And I had to admit to myself that I really, really liked being Lina.

“All right. Do you want any dessert?”

“Yes, you.”

Have you ever seen a beautiful woman leer? It’s awesome.

“OK, Lina, let’s clear away and go to bed, but you have to tell me in the morning.”

Between us, we took the dirty dishes, cutlery and glasses to the kitchen and gave them a squirt of liquid as we rinsed them in the sink and left them for the cook in the morning. She gave the grill a quick scrub to keep the roaches away. The California climate breeds them so big that they can’t use them in monster movies because nobody believes it. Even Hollywood has its limits.

We went upstairs and stripped naked, then took each other’s make-up off and rubbed our night creams in, sensuously massaging our fingers into the other’s face, before going to bed.

She fondled my breasts. “I can’t wait until you can feel me doing that,” she sighed softly.

“Nor can I.”

She had her answer. She went to sleep, with this cat-that-got-the-cream expression on her face. I don’t know what I looked like. I know I didn’t go to sleep.

I wondered if I really said that and if I really meant it. I said before that hunger, ambition and greed are a fearsome combination and here everything was complicated by love and a need to please her. I didn’t intend to cheat her but I thought I could try it for a few months and back off if it wasn’t working. But overriding everything was the thought of a shot at that little golden statue. I saw myself again, in a gorgeous sparkly white evening gown, almost like a wedding-dress, clutching the statuette as I smilingly strode along the red carpet, the queen of the world.

With that image in my mind I finally fell asleep.

The next morning we made love again, and then she unglued my boobs and made me dress as Mike before we went down for breakfast.

“Remember what you said last night?” she asked.

“I remember.”

“Do you still mean it?”

I swallowed. “Yes.” It came out as a croak.

“I’ll draw up a contract, you know. You’ll be committed. Five years and you’ll be a woman for the rest of your life.”

“I know,” I said hoarsely, and looked her in the eyes. “I will do it. I’m going to win that Oscar. And I love you.”

She embraced me. “Good girl. Let’s eat.”

There were two Filipinas in the kitchen and the remains from last night were already gone.

“Morning, Ms. Ange,” they chorused when we appeared.

“Morning Emy, Liliana,” she greeted them back. “Mr. Mike and I would like a couple of eggs over easy, a heap of bacon, not too crispy, white toast and jelly, grapefruit juice and a pot of strong coffee with cream on the side. Use the Blue Mountain beans, OK?”

“Five minutes, Ms. Ange. Juice coming right up.”

The relationship between them was friendly but the maids knew they had to keep her happy too. That was obvious.
As soon as we sat, two frosty glasses of juice appeared. Ange also got a small dish of pills, which she proceeded to down with the grapefruit.

“You’re not supposed to do this, but I don’t care. Vitamin E, B Plus, Omega 3 and Evening Primrose. The juice gives me the Vitamin C. Remember. You’ll be taking them soon.”

The bacon, eggs, and toast arrived. She examined them and seemingly found them to her taste, shovelling bacon onto my plate. One of the maids poured my coffee. The smell of the Blue Mountain made me inhale almost involuntarily to capture the essence of it.

I didn’t want to talk about our plans so I told her how she would now be treated like royalty at the Ritz-Carlton, which made her choke as she chuckled.

“Won’t make a lot of difference, actually. You’ll soon find out we’re Hollywood royalty. They make 100% sure they look after us, but I can drop a couple of hints about Queenie to put the icing on the cake. You’re pretty cheeky for a kid, sometimes.” Grinning at me.

I didn’t much like her calling me a kid. I was her lover for Christ’s sake.

“Are you nearly finished? I want to talk a bit more before you go. I’ve got a full day ahead.” She rolled her eyes. “Just like I told you; no rest for the wicked.”

We chewed our last pieces of toast and swigged the dregs of the coffee, then went out onto the patio deck in the warm morning sun.

“We’ve got lots of details to sort out, love, but we can get started. OK? I took a nice rental in Belair so that you have somewhere to stay and I can meet you without worrying whether anyone knows. Those assholes of paparazzi follow me all over, but they can’t get past the gates, so they’re stymied. They may know I go in but they don’t know what happens after that, and I have lots of friends there.”

“I’ll get Carl to take you back to the hotel. Pack up, get rid of your rental and I’ll come and pick you up myself at about four. I’ll use my Prius, and I’ll do the headscarf and dark glasses bit. That’ll give them something to talk about,” she sniggered. “Check out and then you disappear. Well, you only partly disappear. We’ll have to get you a green card and register you so you don’t have any trouble with the IRS, as well as sort out your contract with my lawyer. Aagh! Details! We have so much to do.”

I had to laugh. She was getting really steamed up. She was right of course. The details really did seem to pile up and I guess she was run ragged between dealing with them and her regular schedule.

I stayed as Mike for the next week, got rid of my rental car, checked out of the hotel, with half the staff gawking at her as she came and got me “incognito” in her bright red Prius. A couple of paparazzi followed us to Belair and got stopped at the gates. She merrily flipped them the bird as we whizzed through.

She had described the house as “modest”. Doh! A tiny five bedroom, four-bathroom, two-story mansion discreetly nestled behind nine-foot high white walls, hiding a fifty-foot pool and monster patio. A little white Honda town-car sat all lonely in a garage for four limos.

“What am I going to do with all this?” I asked her. “Do you want me to learn how to be you? Or do you want me to be the maid for this place? Do I get one of those sexy French outfits?”

“Hush, Dopey! I told you money’s not a problem and you have to learn to live Hollywood style. This is part of your education. I’ve arranged a cleaning service for now. Hmmm. I do like the idea of you as a French maid though. I’ll get you a uniform and I’ll be your domme. Oooh, kinky!”

She gave me the Cooks tour. The main bedroom was quite similar to her own, with an enormous bed. An adjacent one had been turned into a dressing room with a two-person bench in front of a giant make-up table with the mirror ringed with lights like the runway at an airport. Where the windows stopped the walls were invisible behind wrap-around closets and chests of drawers.

Smiling, she opened them. More clothes than Zoe’s kingdom, it seemed, with two sets of everything. Even the underwear was duplicated.

“See. One for you and one for me, identical twins. Ange comes in and Lina goes out, or vice versa. You work while I play. Kidding,” with a silvery tinkle she patted my cheek and pirouetted in front of a three-leaf full-length mirror.

“Do you think I look like Audrey Hepburn as Holly? No, I need a hat and a cigarette-holder,” posing, still in her headscarf and oversize dark glasses.

I was stunned by the lengths she’d gone to. “You must have been pretty sure of me. What if I’d said no?”

“Then I would have wasted some money, no biggie.”

She faced me through the mirror and gave me a long appraising stare.

“Yes, I took a chance, but I saw you in Vancouver; how you threw yourself into being me, and I had you in bed and you told me your life story. I made a bet with myself that you wouldn’t be able to resist, and I was right, wasn’t I?”

She walked over and threw her arms around me and kissed me full on the lips, passionately. I could not help responding and we clinched for maybe a minute, panting slightly when we broke apart.

“It’s for both of us. I get you, but you’ll be me. The very thought of making love to myself makes me all wet. I get freedom to do my own thing as well. You get to show the world that you’re a great actor by fooling them into believing you’re me; you get an Oscar; you get me, and you get rich. That’s what they call a win-win situation.”

“One small detail. I lose this me. I become a woman.”

“There are some things one has to do for one’s art,” she jeered gently. “Will that be so bad? You will be beautiful, with beautiful clothes, and beautiful people around you. And I guarantee you’ll just lurve the sex. I promise you.”

She unzipped my fly and undid my belt, letting my trousers drop to my ankles.

“I think we need a bath,” she purred as she took off her glasses and headscarf and then everything else.

I hopped around trying to get my shoes and socks off in order to lose my pants until at last, both naked, she towed me into the bathroom. Nothing here is small. She turned on the Jacuzzi and as it filled I thought how lucky it was I could swim. She tucked first my hair and then hers into shower caps, poured in a double handful of crystals and launched us into the water, punching the jets to “high”.

I have to admit it felt very erotic as the crystals dissolved into a gentle soapy fragrance and those jets sought out all the hidden places on my body, but not half as erotic as when she began to massage my cock. I returned the favour with her pussy and breasts, which seemed to float on the water, until I could take no more and cried uncle.

"Stop! Or I’ll come.”

“Wimp!” She giggled, but she stopped, got out and grabbed a couple of horse-blankets masquerading as bath towels, one of which she threw to me. I got out and we dried each other. It seemed to take a long time and then we made a landing on the aircraft carrier in the bedroom and she showed me once again that it’s experience, not size (at least, not mine), that counts.

We lay there in a warm glow later, and then she straddled me and began to lay out our programme.

“Tomorrow we get a whole slew of photos of you, all angles. Do you know how to use Photoshop?”

I shook my head.

“It’s OK, I’ll show you. It’s easy when you know how. Do you want to know why?”

“Why?” I asked obligingly, teasing her.

“Well, first we need them for your green card application and to put on your contract. We have to make you look a bit more masculine for that. We can Photoshop your hair shorter, thin your lips and thicken up your eyebrows; make you like you were when you hit Canada. Do you have anyone you have to keep in touch with?”

“Only my mum.” My few friends wouldn’t miss me or expect me to write.

“Well, your mom will expect you to send her pictures, won’t she? To prove how well you’re doing?”

“Yeah. Good idea. I told her I’d write and I’ve sent her a couple of letters already, but no pictures. I couldn’t really once I was working and in character. She and dad wouldn’t have understood. I told them I had a bit-part in a movie.”

“We’ll take enough that you can send different shots every month if you want. We can scan them into your laptop.”

I laughed. “My mum and dad wouldn’t know a computer if it bit them. I write and send snail-mail, but that’s OK. I can use this address, can’t I?”

“How quaint! I never thought of that, but yeah, you can use this address. In fact, we’ll use it for your contract and IRS file.”

“IRS?”

“Our tax dragons.” She shuddered. “You’ll have to pay tax. You really, really don’t want to upset the IRS. They’re the people who put Al Capone away when nobody else could touch him. Don’t worry. I’ll get my lawyer to file your returns and make sure everything is copacetic.

“He’s the first person we go to see after we’ve got your mug shots and we’ll get all the legal stuff under way.”

I chewed my lip as I thought that through.

“Won’t he be suspicious about what’s going on?”

“For what I pay him he won’t even think about it. Actually, that’s not fair. He’s been my mom’s lawyer for ever; ever since she divorced my father, and he’s absolutely trustworthy. He knows things about me...well, just let’s say he could have taken advantage and he never tried. You normally don’t say this about lawyers but he’s a really nice guy.”

She leaned down and kissed me. I responded by stroking her nipples and she slapped my hand away.

“Stay focussed here. The serious stuff starts after that. The day after tomorrow we go to a clinic I know and we fix your face, get you a physical and some injections and pills to begin your transition.”

“Where will we go to do that?” envisaging some secret laboratory in the desert, run by evil, mad scientists.

“Here, of course. L.A.....Hollywood. We have the finest cosmetic surgeons in the world. You don’t think all those marvellous studs and gorgeous females are 100% natural, do you?”

“Doh! But of course! Silly me. But sex changes too?”

“Them too. You only need enough money to buy the best and keep them quiet. You wait till you get your boobs and tush. They will do a magnificent job on you and afterwards nobody will believe you weren’t born with them. Look at mine.”

She hefted them proudly.

I must have gaped. “You mean they’re not real?”

“About 80% real. I just got ‘em enhanced a little, from C to D. A girl has to flaunt herself in this business. See, you never would have guessed. The same man is going to do all your work. He’s a genius....and very discreet.”

“You certainly have everything figured out, Ange. What then?”

“Then Mike disappears and Lina reappears. Except you will be Lina Plus. You’ll need about three weeks for the scars and bruising to fade. You can use that time for practicing. I’ve got tapes and movies and books lined up for you to study. There’s recording gear here so you can play back as you rehearse. All my favourite music, books and even recipes are downstairs so you can get to know my tastes, and I’ll come to see you every day so we can interact. No more male clothes. We want you to be completely comfortable as a girl. The whole object is to make you forget Mike.”

I almost got cold feet there and then. I felt as though I had swallowed a huge chunk of ice and I couldn’t help shivering, and then that golden statuette floated across my vision. My fear must have shown, plus she probably felt the shudder, because she pulled me up into her arms.

“It’s all right, honey,” she murmured, stroking my hair. “It’ll be all right.”

I clutched her to me and buried my face in her neck.

“Just don’t stop loving me, please. Please.”

“Shhh, Shhh. I won’t. C’mon, let’s get dressed now. I’ve done enough to you for one day.”

So we dressed and returned to her mansion in the hills, where Liliana and Emy served us a nice dinner of grilled salmon and salad by the pool and I absorbed what she had told me and came to terms with it. Funnily enough I slept like a log. She showed me a video of us in the morning. We snored in unison, which we both reckoned was hilarious.

“Do you record everything?” I asked.

“Not everything, but lots. It’ll really help when I show you what I do with my girlfriends, because you’ll have to do it one day. I record most business meetings, in case someone tries to put a different spin on what happened. That’ll be useful for you too, because you will know how I interact with various people.”

“What about with me? Have you recorded that?”

“Not us making love, I promise you. Us talking and just being together, yes. You can see it all if you want. It was kinda insurance in case I was wrong and you said no. I’ll destroy it if you say so.”

“Let me see it first, and then I’ll tell you.” I chewed it over. She was one scary woman sometimes.

“Let’s go and have breakfast. The photographer’s coming at nine.”

It had not occurred to me that he would be coming here. I was still not used to this Hollywood extravagance. We went down and had the same breakfast as last time. She was a creature of habit with that, apparently. Afterwards we showered and dressed. The photographer turned up on the dot at nine. So much for “He.” She was striking, a tall, willowy girl, six feet, late thirties, brunette, with reddish hints, and slightly the handsome side of pretty, dressed in a dove-grey slack suit, with a white blouse. She greeted Ange with a serious kiss and held out her hand to me.

“My, Ange, he’s cute,” she said, giving me a wide grin. “OK, are we gonna do this on the patio? The light’s pretty good.”

“You’re the pro, Kris. I trust your judgement.”

“Here then. Let me set my gear up.”

She dragged in a couple of silver-lined reflector umbrellas on tripods and two heavy-duty lamps which she plugged in. Suddenly, it was dazzlingly bright, until she adjusted them to point into the reflectors and there was no place for shadows.

“Make-up?” she asked Ange.

“I think just some powder so he doesn’t shine and thicken up the brows a little.”

Kris worked on me for a couple of minutes and turned back to Ange.

“OK?”

“Yes, that’ll do.”

“How many shots do you want? Will sixty be enough? Digital or film?”

“Take sixty digital. I want a couple of straight mug shots for official papers, and maybe twenty usable portrait style, different angles, head and shoulders only. Film, do a roll of 36 and we’ll take the chance that eight or ten are OK.”

Kris looked offended. “He’s a nice-looking boy. I reckon half will come out good. The digital we can check out on my laptop while I’m still here.”

“Right, you.” I was obviously her piece of meat. “Look where I tell you. Sit there first and then I’ll move you around later.”

I just followed directions for the next half an hour, facing the camera; look up; don’t look up; face that way; face this way; smile; don’t smile; grin; eyes wide; mouth open; mouth closed. Wait while I adjust the reflectors. She herself crouched, knelt, bent, stood straight, stood back, and came close. It was pretty obvious she knew what she was doing. Then she changed cameras and repeated the whole exercise with film.

Finally she said, “Done. Let’s see what we got,” and she unpacked a laptop from a carry bag and plugged in the digital camera. We went inside the house, away from the fierce lights on the patio. In seconds we were looking at me from all angles, paging through the shots. Even the full-frontals looked OK, not like the horrible ones you usually see in passports and on driving-licences that make you seem like some sub-human dork, startled by Freddie from Elm Street.

She really knew how to judge that lighting. Actors appreciate that, not being all shiny or washed-out or a silhouette without features. Every one was clear and sharp. Some were better than others, naturally, as they picked up my best features, but I was pleased as punch with them all. Usually I was my own worst critic when it came to pictures of me. I guess you get what you pay for.

“Satisfactory, as usual,” commented Ange.

“Satisfactory? Satisfactory? They’re bloody good and you know it, you stuck-up bitch. You be careful or you’ll go on my shit list.”

Ange doubled over, “Gotcha, Kris,” she spluttered. “You’re such an easy mark.”

“Cow.” Kris grinned and grabbed her. “I’ll screw you rotten next time we have a session. You’ll walk bandy-legged for a week, so you will.”

She turned to me. “I could give you a taste of honey, too, sweetheart. You’re a nice subject.” She patted me on the cheek.

“I know when I’m not appreciated. I’m going. Besides, I’ve got another appointment. I’ll send the film in a couple of days. Six by fours all right for a start? I’ll scan them through too. Here’s the memory stick for the digitals,” and she handed Ange the tiny item.

She had been busily packing up while she was talking and putting her stuff back in her car. She embraced Ange once more, climbed into her ancient Range Rover and left.

“Let’s go and have another look and print what we need for the lawyer.”

She headed to her desktop and plugged in the memory stick and soon we were scrolling through again.

“I don’t think they need much tweaking. They’re very good. She’s one of the best in the city, and she’s a friend so she won’t go shooting her mouth off. The powder and the touch of make-up on your eyebrows make you much more male. I’ll show you how Photoshop works. We just need to adjust for your hair.”

She selected four of the “mug shots”, moved them around on the screen, fiddled a bit, and did something which took my hair back to a medium male length, sitting just over my ears, grunted her satisfaction, and emailed them to the lawyer.

“There. They’ll be ready when we get there. That’ll save a bit of time.”

Fifteen minutes later we were in the Merc, Carl driving so we didn’t have to worry about parking. The traffic was quite heavy at that time of morning, although rush hour was over and it was just before eleven when we pulled up in front of the U.S. Bank Tower in the heart of downtown L.A.

The very location shouted “Money” and we elevatored (can you use that as a verb?) to the fiftieth floor and a sumptuous office, typically lawyerly with wood panelling, book-filled shelves and soft carpets. Letz, Ripp & Newcomb said the gold leaf on the door. Ange was recognised instantly and a svelte receptionist ushered us to a corner office with a fabulous view of the city (pity the sun wasn’t shining) where a handsome guy of about fifty, trim-built, silver-grey hair, the very model of a modern Hollywood lawyer, greeted her with a genuine hug, shook my hand and asked us to sit. I plopped down in an armchair and my bum kept going until it stopped just shy of the floor. Ange, more used to the furniture, perched delicately on the edge of hers. I wondered how I was ever going to get out of mine without an assist. Still, I was a sometime stunt person. Never give in.

“Good morning, Ange. How’s your mother? Haven’t seen her for a while.”

“She’s fine, Newk. As crazy as ever, but fine.”

Mr. Silver Fox turned to me.

“Mr. Stewart, I’m John Newcomb. Ange has asked me to draw up a contract for you and to commence procedures to regularise your presence in the USA, that is, get you a green card. That shouldn’t be difficult as I understand you’re British. Do you have your passport with you?”

I produced the maroon document from my pocket and handed it to him. He took it and quickly flipped through it.

“We’ll have to hang onto it for a few days. We’ll give you a receipt of course. Is that OK?”

What could I do but smile and nod.

“The photos came through, Ange. They’ll do fine. Now, If you like, I’ll hand Mr. Stewart over to my associate and we’ll get on with that other business.”

“Let’s do that, Newk.” She smiled at me. “Mike, will you excuse us while we deal with some messy family stuff?”

An invisible signal brought a petite girl in her mid-thirties into the room, an Asian with cropped hair and a mannish black business suit over a white shirt.

“Ms. Ho, will you look after Mr. Stewart, please?” and I could see I was gone from his mind.

I levered myself out of the clutches of that chair and the girl extended her hand to me.

“Ida Ho, Mr. Stewart, let’s go to my office,” and she opened the door and ushered me out.

We walked along the corridor and she opened her door, only two along from Newk’s. She didn’t rate a corner, but still had a great view. She showed me to a chair at her desk, a fairly standard comfortably padded one which didn’t try to devour me, and she went to the business side of the desk and seated herself. She smiled and reached for a thin sheaf of paper in a tray, pushing it across the desk to my side.

“Mr. Stewart, here’s your draft contract which we got ready on Ms. LaBelle’s instructions. Maybe you’d like to read it and tell me if it’s OK, or if you would like anything changed. While you’re doing that I’ll start getting your green card papers and your IRS forms prepared.”

I took it from her and started to read:

Employment Contract
(I’m only putting in the essentials)

Employer: Angelina LaBelle

Employee: Michael Stewart

Position: Personal Trainer/ Special Effects Advisor

Contract Period: 5 (Five) Years (Renewable on satisfactory completion of service)

Commencement Date: 5 November 2008

Salary: US $1,000,000 per annum equivalent, paid as follows. Initial payment upon signing contract US$ 200,000. Monthly payments thereafter US$80,000 x 60 months

Annual Leave: 2 (Two) Weeks (to be taken by mutual agreement to suit Employer’s schedule)

Medical: All medical expenses to be borne by Employer

Employee’s Duties: To provide personal services as required by Employer at any hour or on any day. Such duties may include substitution for Employer in Industry-Related situations.......Employer shall supply costumes and clothing as required............Employee shall wear such attire as directed without demur...........Employer shall provide and direct cosmetic procedures as required.........This may include physical enhancements........ Employee shall not refuse such treatments without due cause........Refusal shall be grounds for dismissal......

Termination: The Contract may not be terminated during the first 3 (three) years except by the incapacitation or death of the Employee, or refusal to abide by the duties outlined above, or if the Employee shall commit a felony resulting in a prison sentence. In the event of termination, one year’s remuneration shall be forfeit.......and the Employee shall reimburse the Employer for the cost of all cosmetic and/or physical enhancements received up until the date of termination.

During the final 2 (two) years The Contract may be terminated by either party giving to the other six months notice without penalty.

************

There was lots more, like suitable accommodation provided free of charge and transport supplied, but I knew what I was getting into and a million dollars a year and a shot at an Oscar was too hard for me to refuse. The worst that could happen was that I had to do a runner after a few months and leave the money behind, and I could transfer some and how would they find me or it. $200,000 up front could solve a lot of problems. I didn’t intend to cheat on her, but you never knew. Shit happens.

“I’m happy with all that,” I told Ida when I had finished reading.

“Good,” she said. “I’ve just about finished the INS and IRS paperwork, so you can look that over too, and sign them all if you’re happy.”

They were standard Government forms of the kind you find anywhere, wanting all sorts of irrelevant information like your grandmother’s maiden name, but I had no problem with them, and signed all three documents (in triplicate) for her. She witnessed them and told me to wait while she went and got Ms. LaBelle to sign. I somehow got the impression she didn’t like Ange much.

She came back a couple of minutes later with Newk and Ange in tow. Ange sailed in and kissed me, pulling me out of the chair as she did so.

“I’m glad you approved, darling, and I’ve told Newk to arrange the first payment today. Here’s your copy of the Contract. The timing was good, too. We had just finished our other business. Thanks, Newk. Thanks, Ida. We can go now, and get out of your hair.”

“Always a pleasure to see you, Ange. Give my best to your mother and tell her not to marry an axe murderer, or she’ll do me out of repeat business.” Newk chuckled at his little joke.

We exited the offices with Ida and Newk escorting us, and Ange rang Carl on the cell while we waited for the lift (sorry, de-elevator) and when we got to street level, there he was waiting for us.

She dropped me off at her house and sped off to her next appointment, leaving me to the tender mercies of the two maids. I stopped them from feeding me by going for a swim and doing katas for half an hour before showering. I wandered round in a bathrobe and found the gym, so I went and got some shorts and a singlet and used the exercise bike and the walking-machine for an hour. This could be the last time as a man, I thought. Enjoy.

Eventually I went for another shower and was relaxing with a biography of her and a shandy ( half beer, half lemonade..which I had to show Emy how to make) on the patio when she returned. She grabbed me and hugged me.

“I’m so excited. We start tomorrow. I’ve got you lined up for a nose job, a bit of work around the eyes, permanent lip-filling, a tracheal shave and a couple of other bits and bobs. I’ve seen the projections and you should look just like me afterwards.”

“Well, I’ve gotta earn my money, haven’t I?”

She was chivvying me along at seven in the morning, after a night demonstrating that she really was excited. I groaned a little, because she could be very energetic. Anyway, we were in the Prius by 7.45, me without breakfast, because I was going to be under anaesthetics, and speeding away from the city towards her favourite clinic. We passed through the gate at 8.15 and I was in a doctor’s office getting an extremely thorough check-up fifteen minutes later.

I was undressed and on a gurney about an hour later. One slight prick in the arm and a demand to count to ten and that was it. Just before I passed out I remembered it was my nineteenth birthday.

I woke up and Ange was by my side holding my hand.

“How do you feel?”

I considered. My eyes hurt. My nose hurt. My lips hurt. My throat hurt. My chest was sore, my stomach was sore....and something wasn’t right in my groin and my bum.

Croaking, I relayed these feelings to Ange. She immediately gave me a glass of water with a straw and told me to sip.

“Ah, that’s better,” still hoarse, but no longer grinding gravel. “What did they do to me? It feels like more than you told me to expect.”

She looked a little embarrassed, but then grinned.

“Wait and I’ll tell you. You’re going to love it, but first I want you to see what you look like.”

She pulled me up in the bed to a sitting position, and fronted me with a mirror, like the one a barber shows you when he asks you if your hair’s all right at the back.

“Jesus Christ! Did they take a baseball bat to me?”

My face was black and blue, and purple and yellow and green, all over. Bandages lurked at the corners of my eyes and over my nose. My lips were swollen and puffy like a cartoon camel. I was a classic picture of a domestic violence victim.

“It’s all right. Everybody looks like that after cosmetic surgery. In three weeks you’ll be beautiful.

“You’d better be right, Ange, or you’ve wasted your money. What about down here?” I waved a hand down at my body.
I could see some suspicious-looking mounds under the loose hospital gown.

“Look, I’ll tell you everything. After your physical the surgeon suggested that we take the opportunity to perform a couple of extra procedures, since we were keeping you in overnight and some of the procedures needed full anaesthetic anyway. You’re fit and young and there were some things he felt would help in your transition, so you had the eye clip to make them slightly larger, and your nose has been reshaped. You’ve got Gore-Tex implants in your lips and a tracheal shave.

“I told you about all those. What he suggested was that we give you a head start on your breast development, so he put in saline implants, about ”A” cup size, so that as the hormones work we increase your bust in increments. You’ll be part natural and part enhanced. It will make it easier for you to adjust at each stage of your development.

“Then he recommended a few other simple procedures; liposuction to reduce your waist and a double orchiectomy to increase the effectiveness of your hormone treatments. Without all that testosterone to fight your feminisation will go much more quickly. Oh, and buttock implants to improve your shape. Isn’t that good?”

My blood ran cold. No balls! The other things I could have reversed, but.....No Balls! So much for my emergency scenario of skipping if I didn’t like where things were heading. I had been out-manoeuvred. That wasn’t in the script. Somehow I managed to smile. Ange kept on enthusing.

“You’ve already had your first series of hormone injections and I have your pills for the next month right here. You have to come back and see the doctor in a few days and again in a week to get all the stitches taken out and to check that everything is going all right. After that, once a month should be enough.”

“Lovely,” I said in my best Lina voice, although still hoarse from the tracheal shave. I had better get used to it. Mike was now irrelevant and superfluous, if not a fading shadow. “Can I get up now?”

“Yes, darling, of course you can. We can take you home anytime.”

Wanting to see what was under my hospital gown I got up from the bed. Everything was still sore, but I could move without much difficulty. When I was up I got her to help me take off the gown. She had seen me naked so there was no need for any false modesty.

When I had stripped I looked at my body in a full-length mirror on the wall. I was wearing a support-bra and my bust line was visible but not obtrusive, rather nice actually and only slightly bruised. My waist didn’t seem much different, a little smaller, a couple of inches perhaps, but then I hadn’t been at all fat before. I could see that my waistline segued nicely into the curve of my bum. Oh, yes, very feminine. Amazing how different it looked. I took a deep breath when I examined my groin. My cock looked just fine, no different. There was a dressing behind it, but he must have cut only enough to get them out, maybe four inches. In fact the dressings on all the incisions were pretty small. The guy knew his business.

“Did he say if it would still work?” I asked Ange, indicating my member.

“Yes, it’ll keep on keeping on until the hormones win out. We’ll still be able to use it for at least a year, maybe longer with Viagra.” She grinned evilly and gave it a little flip with two fingers.

She produced a bag of clothes for my home-going, very simple. A satin cerise blouse, high-necked and long-sleeved, a pair of white cotton panties, a calf-length, lined black linen skirt, flared from the hips, a pair of black ballet-flats, enormous sun-glasses and a big floppy black sun-hat. I put on the basics and she brushed my hair out so that it concealed some of the damage. When I put on the hat and glasses I had the uneasy feeling that I looked like Michael Jackson.

We left after making two appointments for me, one in two days and one in a week’s time, and she drove us back to Belair, parking next to my little white Honda in the garage. We went inside and she told me not to bathe or shower until the next day, as some of the dressings were not waterproof.

She fussed around me for a while and left, assuring me she would come back in the evening. When she had gone I cried, hoping that would not damage the gauze round my eyes. I was a girl again, dressed as one, but more than that, irreversibly on the way to full womanhood....or as near as I could ever become. Too much..... too fast! Hush, Lina, think Oscar. That little golden man of dreams must replace the man that was or sort of is....still....just. Oh, yes, I cried, for lots of reasons.

Eventually the tears dried up and I dabbed ever so carefully at my eyes. I went and poured myself a stiff gin-and-tonic and got rid of it in five minutes, then poured another, taking this one much slower. At a loose end, I turned on the huge plasma TVs, which showed Ange, walking, pirouetting, sitting, bending, smiling, and so I began to practice again to be her, as I had in Vancouver, promising myself I would become Angelina LaBelle, in soul and heart and spirit, as well as body.

The show must go on.......break a leg, Lina.

I went back to the clinic two days later with her holding my hand and they checked me up and pronounced me good. The next week I drove myself and had all the stitches and most of the dressings removed. I was now merely yellow and a muddy sort of green, most of the swelling gone and I could see Ange peeping through. Only my nose stayed out of sight.

They wanted me back in two weeks to deal with that. Well, I did as bid and when the dressing came off, watched Ange watching me from the mirror. Eerie! I got my next set of shots at the same time. I had decided resistance was futile. I did look better than any Borg though.

After another three weeks of practice I was really getting into her skin. Not only movement and mannerisms, but voice and facial expression. I was practicing writing like her and her signature,which I needed for autographs and purchases by credit card, listening to her music and reading her books, even her childhood books; the Oz series, Anne Of Green Gables, Black Beauty, Little Women, Princess Ozma, soaking up her essence. I went through all her scrapbooks and sat with her and questioned her about the events in pictures and the people with her. I needed to know every intimate detail of her life because it was going to be my life.

Her history became mine too. She had been a catwalk model before going into movies and I got her to show me the little tricks of the trade and soon I could strut like the best of the supermodels.

Sure, I dressed like her 24/7 but I worked at being her sixteen hours a day, and maybe even in my sleep. My four months in Vancouver helped tremendously. I had a headstart in movement, mannerisms, body language and in make-up.

Ange came over nearly every afternoon or evening and we would sit next to each other at the make-up bench and she patiently taught me all her magic tricks until I could duplicate her every move with brushes and pencils, on lips and cheeks and eyes. In six weeks it was almost second nature. We wore the same outfits and identical jewellery, styled our hair the same and looked like identical twin sisters. I had to wear bust enhancers and push-up bras, of course, but other than that anyone would have been hard-put to tell Ange from Lina.....except for one thing.

She proved to me that my male remainder still worked. She really delighted in having us dressed identically and then slowly and lasciviously undressing while we kissed and cuddled, finally falling into bed and going at it like crazed rabbits. It turned me on pretty much too, and even though it was me sticking it into her I began to feel like we were two women making love or that I was the girl and she was the man.

More and more I became submerged in her, became her.....became me. It was less and less of a conscious act as I absorbed the very essence of being Ange, of being one of the most beautiful and sexy women in the world and I embraced my role, revelled in it, exulted as I admired myself in gorgeous outfits and watched myself twirl like a princess, with those Ange features smiling back at me, and I still had great legs, better than hers, I thought.

We gave it another two months before I undertook a public impersonation. She had an appointment to go to a children's ward at a cancer hospital and visit the kids. We thought that they would be a fairly uncritical audience, so I filled in for her. God, those poor children, many under a virtual death sentence, and so utterly cheerful and brave, skin and bone and bald from chemotherapy, all pathetically happy to see me. I was devastated and weeping by the end of the visit and thought I had blown it, but everybody seemed to think I was entirely normal. We both had hearts after all, apparently. Or maybe the hormones were catching up with me.

Talking of hormones, I definitely began to feel them after two months. My nipples and aureoles grew and became so sensitive that Ange could make me climax just by sucking and licking my nipples, and not just any ordinary male climax but a full out-of-control shuddering-all-over electrodes-to-the-skin orgasm. It was a blast and Ange would laugh herself sick at the effect she had on me, while I lay drained and panting but totally fulfilled. Becoming a girl certainly had its compensations.

From then on I could almost feel my mind and body change. I could burst into tears over a coffee commercial or go into ecstasy over the way a skirt caressed my legs. I inspected myself every morning to see if my bust was growing bigger, impatient to get my next, larger, implants, softer skin, more luxuriant hair, the sheer joy of being beautiful was overwhelming.

Girlhood....womanhood.....femininity....burst upon me. Mike disappeared and Lina blossomed. My every action and reaction was that of a newly minted, slightly dizzy, female. I know it's ever so hackneyed and banal, but I began to love to go shopping for clothes and shoes and jewellery, to try on a dozen dresses in a single boutique, twenty pairs of Manolo Blahniks or Jimmy Choos before choosing two or three pairs, admire the swing and sway of a pair of long dangly earrings brushing against my neck or the way the diamonds on a necklace nestled between my breasts, sparkling. Catching sight of my beautifully shaped and lacquered nails never failed to make me feel oh so pretty. Ange encouraged me to select our clothes and said my choices made her feel fresh and new because of the obvious pleasure I got out of it.

I took over more and more of her duties and responsibilities. I went to dinners and opened shopping centres, made appearances that she had agreed to, even did interviews for her. We prepared for these with extensive sessions of video. She filmed most of her engagements, both public and private, and she would fill me in on her relationships and dealings with the people she was meeting at any specific function. She had an excellent eye for detail and I tried hard to keep up with her. She had me go to meetings with her agent and swapped places at her home, where I interacted with the servants. She even arranged for me to meet her parents, which quite terrified me, but her mother accepted me for who I appeared to be (she was a bit spaced-out on some kind of tranquiliser) and the visit passed off without a hitch. Her father was so far up himself that he scarcely noticed me and I understood why she really couldn't stand him.

She kept me away from Troy, for which I was grateful. Although she showed me videos of the two of them together I was terrified that a husband would know his own wife, and I still wasn’t correctly equipped down below. In any case I didn’t want to find out. She had said they would probably split up and half of me hoped they would, but then I would see him on TV or in one of his movies. He told these stories of how he had dressed in a chicken suit for a gig when he was a struggling young actor and always got a laugh. I didn't fancy him sexually, but there was no doubt that he was a hunk and he came across with this insouciant sense of humour and deprecated himself with such innocent charm that I could see how he won her heart. I liked him very much.....theoretically, of course.

He was also no slouch as an actor. Mostly, of course, he got cast as the hero in action movies, but occasionally he got a more nuanced role and seemed to manage to surprise everybody, including himself, by the depths he brought to the character he played. He had been nominated for an Oscar a couple of times, but missed out on the actual award.

After a year, when I had my second implants and was a C-cup (which I really, really loved, by the way), she decided I was ready to take over part-time in one of her movies, directed by the famous Didley Squatt. This one was a story about a genteel young woman in love with a man from the wrong side of the tracks set in Edwardian times, so the costumes were very modest and there were no nude scenes (or scantily-dressed ones for that matter) nor stunts. The working title was “Lady And The Tramp.” It turned out to be a dog of a movie as far as the box office was concerned. There's no accounting for the taste of the public.

Ange worked it so that I played about half her scenes, while she took time off with her lesbian lovers. I didn’t begrudge her, because by this time I knew how hard she worked, and besides it was great to act again.....in a movie that is, rather than real life. I really enjoyed it and when we saw the finished product we both reckoned I was rather good. So did the critics. Pity it was a bomb.

So gradually I took over half her life, and two years into our contract there was no longer any acting about it. We were the identical twins Ange and Lina. she could start a sentence and I would finish it. The fateful day came for me to lose an appendage and gain the ultimate working parts of a woman. In a way it was my Christmas present, a little after my twenty-first birthday, and while we were at it I got my enhancement to a full D-cup. I went into the clinic eager to become complete, as the beautiful and talented woman I now embraced as myself.

It hurts. It really, really hurts. My twin sister was with me when I woke up and groaned. Even the drugs don’t take all the pain away. That first week she stayed with me nearly all my waking time and tortured me with this giant rubber sausage that she repeatedly shoved into my raw slit. It was agony, no matter how well lubricated it was and enough to put me off cocks for life. I hated her then. Even five million dollars and an Oscar were not worth this.

But day-by-day the pain lessened and I was allowed to go home after two weeks. She could not be with me all the time so I had to dilate myself, actually starting to enjoy the feeling, until in a few short weeks I was glad to be fully female and started thinking that maybe penises weren't so bad after all. Ange had introduced me to vibrators and dildos once I had healed sufficiently and soon had me squealing in ecstasy as she showed me all the different ways to use them.

I remember the two of us standing together in front of the mirror, naked, one day about four weeks after the operation and there was no way you could tell us apart unless you knew that I took a bigger shoe-size than her (an 8 rather than a 7). I thought that actually I didn't need her any more, because I was me, Angelina, but I pushed the thought away. After all, I loved her and she was paying me a million dollars a year. Actually I didn't need that now, because I just used my credit card and signed for everything.

But something inside me had changed. I WAS her but HER was ME. I was one of the most beautiful and famous women in the world now. There was no trace of Mike any more; had not been for quite a while. How to explain this? The act of being her had become the fact of being her. I was Ange now. No....that wasn't right....I was Angelina and I didn't need a mirror to prove it.

It was back to work after six weeks and another movie, with the new James Bond as the co-star, directed by Skinny Spinach. Again no stunts or sexy undress required, although some of the dresses were pretty revealing. I did the whole performance and I was good. All the critics said so. Ange, meanwhile, kept on educating me thoroughly in my new sex. I was soon spending time with her lady-friends and loved all the things I was learning. I was nervous at first at being in these intimate situations with women who knew my alter-ego so well, but Ange gave me extensive lessons and commentaries on the whims of each girl and they accepted me as her in bed. I slept with some of the most beautiful and famous women in Hollywood. Men would have envied me, and, best of all, it made me feel so deliciously evil.

Vibrators and dildos and what it was like to have my pussy licked became a new part of my life (I already knew the other end of the equation). She was such a sexual athlete that she was off cavorting with her men and women. I had learned by then that being jealous was a waste of time. Then one day she sat me down and showed me a disc of her and Troy making love. They were both enjoying themselves. It was easy to see that Troy was by the grin on his face ; a bit harder with Ange as her expression was distorted by the dick in her mouth.

“I thought you were going to divorce him,” I spoke hopefully as I watched her suck his cock.

“I keep on thinking about it, but he’s actually a very nice man and I haven’t caught him out with anyone yet. Look,” she nudged me, “he’s really good in bed too.”

I watched as she let him roll on top of her and guide his pretty substantial member into herself, moving in rhythm with his strokes, obviously enjoying it, until with a rippling shudder, they both came.

“Why are you showing me this?”

She gripped me by my shoulders. “Because you have to know how to do it. It’s your last test.”

“Ange, I can’t....I just can’t. He’ll know I’m not you and we’ll be exposed.”

“No he won’t, and neither will we, be exposed I mean. He’s nice but he’s not that smart. Don’t worry. I’ll show you lots of these and you’ll know exactly what he likes and how to handle him. Besides, if he told anyone, who would believe him?”

“I really don’t want to,” I wailed. “I don’t like men.”

“You have to. It’s part of our deal. Besides, all you have to do is what women have done since the dawn of time. When having a headache won’t stop him you lie back, spread your legs, close your eyes, grit your teeth and think of England.”

She seemed to think that was awfully funny and laughed like a loon while I just looked at her askance.

For days she showed me videos of the two of them making love. It always started with her sucking his tool and obviously swallowing his sperm when he came. A couple of times that was all that happened and they both went to sleep, but on most occasions he would roll over and give her a licking, either her pussy or her breasts or both, tickling her and laughing. It was quite clear that he enjoyed the play and in no time he would be inside her and she would enjoy herself as much as he did. I swear she winked at me through the camera’s eye on several occasions, the rotten bitch.

Troy actually talked to her after they made love. He didn't take her too seriously either and teased her and made little jokes in a good-natured kind of way. He would lie next to her twiddling a nipple with his other hand playing with her pussy until she grabbed his wrist and pulled his fingers further inside her and spasmed as she came. He was definitely not a wham, bam, thank-you-ma'am type of lover. He could keep my Ange going for ages, grinning as he fondled her. It almost made me jealous.

Finally she said to me one night, “Tonight’s the night, Lina darling. I know he’ll want it because he’s going on location for a month or more tomorrow. So do it tonight and then you won’t have to worry about it for a while. We don’t get together that often. You’ll be able to come up with excuses most of the time, but he’ll get suspicious if he doesn’t have me tonight.”

Sometimes you have to sacrifice for your art, right? So I drove to the house in the Canyons in her car and was greeted by Troy with a big kiss. I knew how to talk to him and we had a steak and salad on the patio by the pool. I tried to keep him engaged in conversation until he started looking puzzled and I realised I was overdoing it. He got up after a while and grabbed me by the hand, towing me upstairs to the main bathroom and bedroom.

There he embraced me, leaving me little choice but to return the favour. When he started to undress me I was forced to strip him too, until we both stood naked next to the shower. Bowing to the inevitable I put on a shower-cap and stepped into the stall, pulling him in behind me, a rictus of a smile on my lips. We soaped each other and rinsed ourselves off. He would be standing up like a horizontal flagpole, wouldn’t he? No chance of getting out of this. We dried ourselves and he picked me up and gently carried me to the bed, just like a brand-new bride, and, in a way, I suppose that's what I was.... he just didn't know it.

My mind was screaming “Go to sleep.” No such luck, of course, and then he was lying on his back, all expectant-like, a silly smile on his face. What could a girl do? I nuzzled down and got to work, remembering all the pointers in Ange’s videos. I licked and sucked exactly as I'd seen her do it. Two minutes later and he came. I swallowed every last drop and licked my lips for his benefit. He grinned at me cheekily. It wasn’t half as bad as I had imagined it might be, a fairly neutral taste, slightly salty, so I licked him clean for good measure and hoped that that would be all he wanted.

I lay down beside him, projecting “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep,” but evidently I wasn’t a mentalist.

Five minutes later, he was on top of me and sucking my nipples for all he was worth. I couldn’t stop getting turned on and I felt myself responding down below. My legs were already apart and I was lying down, so I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes and thought.

“England....England....England.....England.....England.”

He entered me, and I couldn’t grit my teeth any more because my mouth popped open into an O of surprise at the wonderful intensity of the feeling of him inside me. My eyes too popped open of their own accord and I was looking straight into his eyes, not just looking but losing myself in them. My legs went up and gripped his body, pulling him down into me. My arms were around his neck and we were kissing fiercely, as he pumped away and I responded with counter-thrusts that drove him deeper and deeper into my body, threatening to stab me all the way through, but I no longer cared as I made little whimpering noises with each gorgeous plunge of his weapon.

“Bugger Bognor!”

That was my last semi-cogent thought as I succumbed to the mind-numbing pleasure of making love with that lovely man. I felt every inch of him stretching me inside, threatening to split me in two, the frictionless traction of his member inside me, but my vagina fought back and lovingly squeezed him into, if not submission, at least a kind of armed truce as we thrust against each other, him grunting and me squealing. My whole body became a giant sex organ, nipples like rocks, feeling every brush against them. My skin was being caressed by ten thousand feathers, like tiny electric shocks tickling and tingling. My lips and tongue were jammed against his, grinding, trying to become one.

I know I screamed when I came. You can see fireworks, you know, skyrockets and Catherine wheels, galaxies and stars and all, and that was only the first time that night. I was a hungry female animal now, a tigress, wanting to devour him, wanting him to devour me. Whenever we had climaxed I would begin working on him again to bring him back to a state of arousal, so I could fuck him again. Four times we made love. This was what I was designed for. I could have gone more but he went to sleep....just like a man! And he snored too! Pout!

I woke in the morning with him leaning over me, playing with one of my nipples, cupping a breast in his hand.

I smiled up at him through bruised lips. “Want more?” I asked, grasping his penis, and massaging it slowly.

“You have to be joking. Anyway, who are you? You're not Ange.”

I stiffened in shock. “What are you talking about? I’m your wife. Are you crazy?”

“No you’re not,” he said, very calmly. “You may look like her, talk like her, walk like her, move like her, dress like her, but you’re not her. She doesn’t make love like you. Who are you?”

“You’re mad. Too much sex has fried your brains,” near panic, I tried to dissimulate.

He stroked my hair away from my eyes and kissed me, gazing deep into my eyes and making me catch my breath, heart aflutter. My arms went around his neck of their own volition and I suddenly realised why millions of women swooned over him in his movies. Do you believe in love at first sight? It wasn’t exactly first sight but I knew I wanted more nights like last night. I wanted them now. I wanted them forever.

“Tell me. I’m not going to hurt you or make a scene and I don’t want you to leave. I just want to know what I’m in for.” He seemed very persuasive with his face inches from mine.

I gave in. My cover was obviously blown. I had slipped out of control and out of character. I had to try to rescue the situation, because I thought I had just fallen in love and a life without him in it would be unbearable. He lay there on his back and I didn’t think; I just lowered my lips to his dick and said, “Mmmmmm.”

My nipples were rock-hard and my vagina was wet. His penis was a vertical shaft, so I straddled him quickly and when I was in position I slid down him like a fireman (woman) on my way to a call-out. When I got to the bottom I gave a little wriggle and a gentle squeeze to make sure I didn’t fall off. I was securely impaled. Neither of us were going anywhere unless he got soft and, with me on top, I could guarantee soft was not an option. Deep breath time.

“My name was Mike Stewart.....” I began to tell him the story, making sure to give him an occasional squeeze with my brand-new vaginal muscles to keep him alert. Those first few words stiffened him up no end. It was really nice.

I managed about half the tale before I stopped talking and started whimpering and then screaming, and he was producing these really heavy-duty grunts and then we were writhing against each other until his cock expanded into that super-size that men get when they are about to come and my passage decided that there was no way it was going to let him go and all of my muscles pulled him into me. I felt his release as everything gushed from me in a warm flood and we both collapsed panting in each other’s embrace.

We lay there, spent, caressing and kissing, still entwined and impaled, breathless.

“You were saying....” he said between kisses, three fingers inside me, kneading and rubbing my clitoris and vagina.

“No soul. Men have no soul,” I giggled as I cupped his face in my hands, returning his kisses. A short while later I resumed the story. I tried to revive his ardour, but it wasn’t working, so I just carried on gently stroking him, just in case, as it were.

“I signed an Agreement....” By the time I reached the end of my narrative he was well and truly aroused again, so we did a repeat performance of the fireman’s (or firewoman’s) waltz. I think this time we really were buggered when we finished, but I still wanted more. He slapped my hand away from his limpness when I tried to give it mouth-to-mouth, but he was laughing.

“I need a rest, fer crissake.”

He took the sting out of his actions by rolling over and giving me a big cuddle.

“Well, Mike Stewart, what do you want to do? Do we stay married? Do we get a divorce? I’ve been half expecting Ange to divorce me for a while now. What do you want to do?”

“I think I don’t want to let you go, but you probably don’t want a pseudo-woman in your life. If there’s any doubt in your mind you can think about it while you’re on location.”

He laughed heartily, wrapping me in his arms and gazing into my eyes, making my heart thump at the physical contact.

“I think you’ve been set up, “Mike”. Didn’t she tell you it’s snowing in The Rockies and our shoot’s been postponed?” He was teasing me with the Mike.

“No, she didn’t. The bitch. Does this mean you’ll be here for a while? And stop calling me Mike. He doesn’t exist any more and I think I’ve earned the right to at least be called Lina.”

Hope surged within me that he would be staying, and hope against hope that he would want me with him, especially at night.....although daytime would do quite nicely too.....as long as we were both naked. I squeezed his tool, just so he remembered.

“I’ll stay if you want. It’s probably going to be a week late and I need to get to know you better if we’re going to be repeating last night on a regular basis....Lina. In fact I would rather call you Ange, if that’s OK with you.”

My heart fibrillated when he said that. Finally I had become Ange, and if I had anything to do with it, I would be HIS Ange

“Almost anything you want to do will be all right with me as long as you stay. A week, huh? Oh goody. I’ll have to cancel a few things or get her to fill in for me for a change. Just think! A whole week in bed with Troy Witt.”

He blanched. “You’ll have to be gentle with me,” he said plaintively. “We’ll need to take some time out for eating and sleeping.”

“Consider it done. My first meal break starts now,” as I bent my head down to consume a fat eight-inch sausage.

He dragged my head back up to his face, laughing as he kissed me.

“A-a-a-a-w-w-w. Spoilsport.” I snuggled into him.

We got up about an hour later, showered and donned bathrobes. I called down to the girls to get breakfast ready and we went down to the patio. I tried to get Ange on her cell with no luck, and then my phone beeped that an SMS had come in. I opened it.

“I c u r getting along real well. I hv to do sum stuff n will b away for a bit. Sorry. Keep up gd work. Talk l8r. Luv Ange.”

Of course she had probably watched it all on her camera set-up. I should have guessed. I told Troy and then I started ringing around to see what I could put off or cancel for the next few days. Actually, this was supposed to be “my” time of the month, so the schedule was quite a bit lighter than usual, and, apart from a couple of art evenings and a dinner (all of which would be delighted to have Troy accompany me) I was able to clear my calendar for the next week.

After that it got impossible. “We” were due to start a new movie, and that’s something you can’t get out of. Troy, being an actor, understood, and he would probably be gone by then anyway. At least we had a week. Just like a honeymoon, I thought.

After breakfast we went back to bed. The maids had made it already, so we made a mess of it again. Maids do what they have to do and us Hollywood stars do what we have to do. I hoped Ange watched and got jealous, but, knowing her, she probably thought it was hilarious, a huge joke.

We got up again at noon and went for a swim and a frolic in the pool, skipping lunch. Then we both put in an hour in the gym. Some things have to go on regardless. The evening was one of the appointments I had not been able to skip; an art show for charity, so it was a Versace LBD and Jimmy Choo heels for me. I took extra care in making myself look good. Even if I was one of the most beautiful women on the planet I wasn't going to have him looking at anyone else. Troy was so handsome in his tux, and Carl ferried us to our destination.

Afterwards, instead of going straight home, we had dinner at the recently re-opened “Les Deux Cafe” where I had to really resist their decadent sweets, even though I knew I would probably burn more than a few calories later on.

I so enjoyed being on Troy’s arm all night and having him hold me round my waist. I couldn’t keep my hands off of him either, and I’m sure a lot of people noticed. Let them talk. Here I was...in love.

We talked. He said he wanted to know me better and I was fine with that. Ange had always kept us at arm’s length before my operation and hadn’t told me as much about him as she could have. In fact she had said their marriage probably wouldn’t last, so I didn’t know a lot about him, only the public image from interviews and, of course, his movies. His private persona was no different, in fact, although he told me about his boringly normal childhood and teen years in Ohio. There was nothing false about him. What you saw was what you got.

Would you believe we only made love a couple of times that night as we swapped backgrounds and anecdotes and little details, from early childhood onwards, him filling me in on some of Angie’s wilder moods and moments. She could certainly lose it on occasion, apparently a legacy from her father, another famous actor with a reputation for eccentricity.

At one stage I asked him if he had ever made love with a man before. He grinned.

“Darlin’, this is Hollywood. You should know all kinds of strange things happen here. If you’re asking me about you and me, well, you definitely are not a man, OK? As to what happened before, you don’t need to know!”

He stroked my boobs and made me purr like a pussycat. He is a lovely man. Ange had said he was not that bright, but I think she was wrong and he surely is sensitive.

The week passed and the snow in The Rockies melted, so he had to go. He held me in his arms as he was getting ready to leave.

“You’ll be here when I get back, won’t you?”

I felt like I was Scarlett in a scene with Rhett, or Ilsa farewelling Rick in “Casablanca”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” and I offered my face up for him to kiss me. Schmaltzy but true.

“You’re my real Angelina now, you know. I can pick you from her and you’re the one I want.”

He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again, like he meant it.

"You know how I can tell, apart from when we're in bed?"

I shook my head, not taking my eyes away from his, wishing we could hold this moment for ever.

"Because when you look at me I can see the love in your eyes. When you hold me you don't want to let go. I think the used-to-be Ange could never quite let herself love me totally and she couldn't quite believe that I loved her back. With you it's like looking into your soul and your soul is trying to climb into mine. I love you."

My heart whizzed around inside me and I cried tears of joy, laying my head on his chest and clutching him to me, while a small part of me wondered how somebody as mercenary and ambitious as me could be behaving like this. Would all this emotion fade when he was out of sight? I sighed. Only time would tell, but I didn't think so. I was wondering what I would do about Ange, seeing as how I was stealing her husband. God, I loved him so much. No matter what, she wasn't getting him back.

With him gone I threw myself back into being the star that I was supposed to be. Without the other Ange I had to do the whole of the new movie by myself. Not that I minded. It was a part that gave me dramatic exposure and a shot at that Oscar. It was directed by a megalomaniac but brilliant man called Cameron Dames and I was playing a spoiled young girl who fell in love with a penniless artist, who died at the climax of the movie, sacrificing himself so that I could live. It was set on a transatlantic liner and had a working title of “Iceberg”. I threw everything I had into my performance.

I tried and tried to find Ange. At least I told myself I did, even though I was finding life to be better with her absent. I no longer had to spend time maintaining our subterfuge so I could relax and be a bit less watchful, and, of course, I had Troy all to myself. That was the best bit. My love for him grew and grew. When he was home he would come to the studios and sit quietly watching me do my thing. I really think it helped enormously, because I used to imagine it was him I was making love to instead of my co-star. Anyway, I looked all over for Ange, but all that happened was that every now and again I would get an email or an SMS on these lines:

“Hi Lina,
Don’t worry. I am doing something very important which I have to do. I think I’ll probably be away for about six months. You’re doing great from what I hear. Sorry you have to do it all. Keep it up and I shall return,
Ange”

I received such messages about once a month with her time of absence gradually diminishing. In my heart of hearts I didn't want her back. Without her I was free to be me, Angelina LaBelle, on my own terms, no more masquerade. I began to put my own stamp on my life, just subtle differences, modulating some of what I had thought were my less desirable traits, hopefully becoming a better person and trying to make sure it was really me that Troy loved. I would fight her tooth and nail if she tried to reclaim him for herself if and when she did return. He was mine now and I wasn't letting him go. That lovely man belonged to me, in bed and out of it.

“Iceberg” ran horrifically over time and budget. Nothing satisfied our Director until we had done it a dozen times. We were still at it eight months later. The only good thing was that it was so time-consuming that my non-movie schedule withered on the vine. I simply could not go to art-shows and dinners and openings of envelopes, so I ended up with more time with Troy (between his movies) and our relationship just grew stronger and stronger. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that I was a transsexual. In fact he said I was more woman than nearly any of the ones he had as leading ladies. And I did try to be his woman, to more than fill any Angie-sized hole in his life. I know I’ve said it before but he really is a nice man and the more I got of him the more I loved him, not just in bed but in every part of our lives. I couldn't for the life of me understand why I had been thinking of divorcing him. I must have been mad.

The gossip-columnists who had been predicting our break-up were confounded and the thrice-damned paparazzi got pics of us everywhere nuzzling and cuddling and canoodling and obviously in love. Nobody knew what to make of it. Troy was asked several times in interviews about our relationship. He just smiled and, tongue-in-cheek, said I was a different woman these days and we were still very much in love. I refused to comment, only saying I loved my husband and, no, all those silly rumours about divorce were just plain wrong. He's my husband and that's the way he's gonna stay.

As a result, there were more and more times when I forgot about the former Angie. I was the real Angie now and she was the impostor. I knew it when I looked at myself in the mirror in the morning, naked. That gorgeous face and body were mine. When I got myself ready for the day and went out to face the world I was whole.I wasn't "in character" I just was.

I was loving my life. Then one day I came back from the studios and was greeted at the door by Liliana.

“Ms. Ange, you have one friend come to see you. I remember him and ask him to wait. He says OK”

I wondered who the hell it could be, but if Liliana recognised him he must be kosher. I walked into the shadowed lounge from the bright California sunshine, sunglasses still on. My heels clicking on the tiles alerted my guest, who was facing away from me. He rose and turned as I took off my glasses and suddenly all the colour faded from my world. I staggered and gripped the edge of a table to stop myself from falling.

I stared at the young man before me. I had never expected to see that face again. It used to be mine. I knew instantly who it was.

“Ange! What have you done?”

“No! Me Mike, You Ange,” said with a wide grin and a perfect Brighton accent. “What do you think, lover?”

As I started to recover from the initial shock I examined him; short dark hair in a barber-shop style, trimmed over the ears, his eyes subtly different, not quite so large, eyebrows bushier and much less arched, nose a smidgen more prominent and lips dramatically thinner, designer stubble on his jaw-line, but still could have been my brother. His open denim jacket showed a polo-shirt with no sign of breasts, just a flat male chest. He was heavier in the upper body and tapered to a neat waist and Levi-encased hips and legs, terminating in a pair of suede sneakers.

“Well,” he said in a pleasant tenor, “you sure look at me with a woman’s eye, but then why should I be surprised? You’ll remember me when you see me again.”

I gestured wordlessly at his groin, asking the question with my eyebrows, still short of enough breath to speak.

“Not yet. Maybe never. Just a hysterectomy. There are still a lot of my ladies out there who like it the way it is, and maybe a few men will like it. I’ve yet to find out.”

“But why?” I finally gasped out.

“Why don’t we sit down? I came back to tell you, because I reckoned you deserved to know.”

We sat, me perched primly on the edge of my armchair after pulling my skirt underneath me, and him sprawling back relaxed in his.

“Would you like a drink? I certainly need one.” I asked as I rang for Liliana.

“I got one already,” indicating a nearly-full beer on the side-table.

Liliana came in. “Get me a large gin and tonic, please, Liliana. Three measures of gin, thanks.”

A couple of minutes passed in silence while we sized each other up until my drink arrived. I took a very healthy swig.

“OK, “Mike” tell me your story.” With more than a touch of acerbity.

“Can I call you Ange, now? You really are her because I’m never coming back.”

I nodded, pleased in a way that he acknowledged the true me, and definitely pleased that he didn't intend to return.

“When I first saw you in Vancouver I was in a bad way. I was totally sick of the industry and wanted to get out of it. I was sick of the falseness and the sycophancy, the continual pressure and the lack of privacy, but I just didn’t know how to leave it behind. I was close to suicidal, because I thought they would never let me go in peace. They would keep on hounding me, all because I was Angelina LaBelle, the one and only, a target for the gossip columnists and the god-damned papparazzi.

“Then I saw you and a wild idea crossed my mind. You could take my place and I could take yours. No one would look twice at Mike Stewart. I’m sorry lover, but you know it’s true. I could see that with some work I could transform you into me and me into you. At first that’s all it was, a wild idea, but then when you told me of your hopes and dreams and I saw the naked ambition, the dedication and ability in your acting and your greed, I thought this could really work.

“So I started to encourage you. You kept me alive, you know, by giving me a hope for an exit from the movie world and a project to concentrate on. After Canada I worked hard to put together a proposition you couldn’t refuse. That included me. I did love you, after my fashion, but I was never in love with you. I’m sorry. I manipulated you shamelessly, but you followed the script without needing to be coerced, and you were really successful. You are the greatest actor I have ever come across, bar none.

“The only time I was worried was when I had to put you and Troy together. It could so easily all have fallen apart then. But, serendipity, you couldn’t act the part and the part became you. I was beside myself watching you fall in love with him. It was a wonderful outcome and I’m really glad for the two of you. He never hurt me, you know, and you're much better for him than I ever was.

“That gave me my cue to go, and for the last eight months I’ve been on testosterone and I’ve had all the treatments that you can see and I’m Mike Stewart now. I have your passport and your various IDs and you have mine. I tried to give you a fair swap. You have your shot at the Oscar; you have my money and my property and you are a beautiful girl and you even have my husband.

“For my part, I am happy with being Mike and anonymous. I have enough money too. I didn’t.....couldn’t....tell you the truth, but I hope you’ll forgive me and remember that you saved my life. I’ll go now and you won’t see me again.”

“Don’t go. Let me think. Just stay there.”

I sat and thought and finished my drink, the alcohol relaxing my buzzing brain. I realised She had made me far more like Her than She knew. I had wanted it too. Thoughts of betrayal at first filled my mind......but then, I had contemplated betrayal too if I didn’t like what was happening. And was I now unhappy with the outcome? I was now a wealthy, beautiful, famous and critically acclaimed actress and my husband was much beloved and I thought that I was loved just as much by him. And that was really the icing on the cake, the light of my life. Unhappy? No way! I loved it. She had acted in her interests and I had acted in mine. We were equally guilty. The only really hurtful part was that I had loved her and I thought she loved me. Yet it hadn’t stopped me from taking her husband.

I looked at Mike and wondered what to do. My former self; how could I hate him?

“Remember you once said to me that making love to yourself was the ultimate turn-on?”

He nodded.

I got up, put out my hand to him and pulled him out of the chair.

“Let’s go upstairs. I want to test that.”

We made a very gentle kind of love, lesbian love naturally, although I had never had a male lesbian lover before. In a way it laid some ghosts. For me it was not the ultimate turn-on, nor, I think, for him either. It was an act of forgiveness, atonement in a way, for me. I still preferred my beloved Troy and I was no longer in love with Ange. I could not be, because I was Angelina now, and this man was just a memory from the past.

Later, sated, we dressed and I asked him if he’d like to stay for dinner.

“Better not, but thanks, and thanks for everything.” He hugged me hard, we kissed, and he turned to go.

“If you ever need help, call me,” I said.

As he went out the door he smiled. “Good luck with the Oscar.”

Epilogue

“Iceberg” swept the awards and I got “Best Actress”. I walked across the auditorium wearing a smile so wide it almost met at the back of my head, waving that little golden man over my head triumphantly, at that moment the queen of the world.

I was wearing the most beautiful white spangled full-length strapless gown and gorgeous strappy Jimmy Choos, a diamond tiara holding my hair back as the ringlets tumbled to my shoulders, matching earrings brushing my neck and set off by a pendant nestled between my breasts.

I approached my husband, the light of my life, so handsome and hunky in his tux, clapping and then opening his arms to embrace me. I could hardly wait to return that embrace.

He was probably the only other person there who understood what I meant in my acceptance speech when I said I owed it all to Mike Stewart, wherever he might be. I was somehow sure he would be watching.

METHOD OR MADNESS
By Joannebarbarella

I rang the doorbell and waited at the top of the short entry staircase. I was a little nervous about the forthcoming interview, although there was no real reason why I should be. I had interviewed the man before and he had been perfectly charming. That meeting had been in his hotel room during one of those publicity stints that actors are obliged to do to promote their latest offering. I only wondered what I had done to merit an invitation to his Sloane Square home.

He was billed as Britain’s answer to Tom Cruise, an extremely handsome man a little taller than the American star, although not by much. He was known for the wide range of roles in which he had been cast and was a favourite of the critics as well as the public. He could be villain or hero with equal ease and was not averse to the occasional supporting role as a “character” either. He was a master of disguise when the part called for it and was well respected by his peers for remaining within the bounds of his roles and not trying to outdo or overshadow his principals.

In short (I giggled a bit at my unintentional pun) he was the perfect actor and I felt very privileged to be given this private audience. I guess I had been waiting about a minute when the door was opened by an extremely attractive woman wearing what I could only describe as one of those fantasy French Maid uniforms…. you know, the ones that start with high heels, continue up legs clad in fishnet stockings to a very short petticoated skirt and top, complete with a little lace cap atop a beautifully made-up face.

“What the fuck?” I thought to myself. “Why would Martin Reeves, of all people, hire a girl like this?”

“Hello,” she said. “You must be Ms. Devereaux.”

“Yes, I am,” I replied, somewhat stunned.

“Please come in. I am Mr. Martin’s maid and he sends his sincere apologies for not being here to meet you. He was called away on urgent personal business only fifteen or twenty minutes ago. He should be back in an hour and asks if you will wait. He instructed me to provide you with refreshments until he returns.”

I stepped inside, somewhat miffed at his absence, but these things happen and I wasn’t going to miss my chance at the interview.

She closed the door behind me and offered to take my coat. I allowed her to do so and she hung it nicely on a hanger before turning to me again.

“Please come into the drawing room Ms. Devereaux and take a seat. My name is Maria. Can I get you coffee and some cake or biscuits?”

I was still somewhat overwhelmed by the unexpected presence of this gorgeous creature.

“Yes, thank you, Maria, but just some biscuits with the coffee, please.”

I sat on a divan with a coffee table in front of it and she left the room to get my elevenses.

She was stunning, but it seemed so out of character for Martin Reeves to employ somebody like her. I could understand a maid, yes, but a girl who was almost a caricature of a maid, someone you see in West End stage farces? Everything about her was perfect. Her voice was educated and feminine, her make-up would not be out of place on a runway model. Her demeanour was exactly what you would expect of a maid. She made me feel downright dowdy….and yet there was something not quite right about her. I determined to give her the third degree when she returned.

Just as I steeled myself to do that she came back with a tray carrying my coffee and biscuits, which she proceeded to set on the table in front of me with studied grace and elegance.

“Thank you, Maria. How long have you been working for Martin? It must be exciting, working for someone as famous as him.”

“I’ve only been here two weeks, Ma’am. I’m on probation to see if I’m good enough.”

“Can I ask, why the saucy French Maid get-up?”

“I believe it has something to do with an upcoming production and he wishes to be ready for it.”

Suddenly, it all fell into place. One thing I had noticed was that she had no ear-rings, nor any sign of piercings.

“ Martin, you had me fooled, but you’re not quite perfect. What the hell is going on?”

“Damn! It only took you half an hour to clock me,” he said in the same beautifully modulated voice, not dropping out of his role for an instant. “Tell me what gave me away.”

“It was no ear-rings and no piercings. That was the clincher, but now that I’m really looking there are other little tells as well. You’re very good, but many women would be able to pick you as an impostor after a while. You probably didn’t help yourself with me by doing the charade with the French Maid schtick.”

“Bugger,” he said, still being the maid. He sighed.

“OK, I admit I need help, but I’ll have to swear you to secrecy before I ask for your help, or I’ll have to kill you.”

We both laughed at the corny old joke, but I noted that his laugh was more feminine than mine. He didn’t need help with his voice.

“Why me?”

“Well, I asked you here because I saw how feminine you were when you interviewed me before and you’re relatively new to the business, so I thought if I could persuade you, you would appreciate a leg up. I’ll pay you for your trouble, of course.”

“You’d better tell me what it’s all about, and, yes, I’ll keep your secrets until you tell me I’m free to release them. Provided it’s an exclusive, naturally.”

“Yes, exclusive guaranteed. No-one else gets a look-in, but it may take several months of your time. You’ll have to make me indistinguishable from a real woman. I have this project, which is already underway, and after your reaction this morning I’m obviously not up to it yet.”

It’s a TV series. We already shot most of the first season when Covid shut us down, so we’re on hold and expect to start filming again next year. That’s just as well because I just failed the test I set myself with you.”

“Well, what do *I* have to do with it?”

“The plotline is that I am a thief who has stolen fifty million pounds from the Russian mob, but they’re onto me and I have to find a way to stay alive to spend it. I come up with a scheme to disguise myself as a woman and through a series of mishaps I wind up in the household of the capo-di-capo of the Russians, who has a thing for French Maids dressed the way I am dressed now. While there’s a comedic edge to the whole thing there’s the underlying threat to my life, so I have to convince them that I am who I seem to be until I can find a way to escape.”

"So where do I come into all this?"

"You know that I always want to be perfect in the parts that I play, and you just proved that I'm not yet perfect. I need help."

“So you want me to be your “coach” into femininity and a female personality? OK, but isn’t it all a bit hackneyed? It’s been done before with things like “Some Like It Hot”.

“Yes, but it’s never been done by me and I do want to prove that I’m the best actor on the planet. I don’t just want to be laughed at like Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis. I want the audience to believe that I really am a woman and that I’m pulling off the impersonation of the century, any century.”

There was an actor’s giant ego showing through, but I could understand it as I’d been around a few thespians.

“Very well, you’re on, but you have to agree to do everything I tell you or it won’t work.”

“Agreed. Shake on it.” So we shook hands, although I felt an air-kiss would have been more appropriate. “So, Maria. We start now. As soon as possible you will get your ears pierced and we will choose suitable pendants for you to wear. And now I’ve had a little time to think about it we must do something about your bum and your bust. They’re pretty good but you are not displaying them quite correctly. It’s a matter of movement. I hope you realise that I’m going to have to move in with you and you are going to have to be my French Maid and a woman for the immediate future.”

I got a feeling of power at the fact that I was going to educate the country’s foremost actor into being an undetectable female. He was no longer a he. She was a she for the foreseeable future and until she had fulfilled the requirements of her contracted role.

I moved in with Maria the very next day and from that moment we worked on making her into the very best female that she could be. Being the actor that she was she threw herself into the part with gusto. Until later I didn’t realise exactly how much effort she put into her impersonation. I assumed that my comments about her bum and her breasts were fulfilled with prosthetics as her movements became much more feminine with my encouragement.

She got her ears pierced the day I moved in and I selected some lovely chandeliers to grace her lobes, which she seemed to appreciate. I did not allow her to wear a wig after some months growing her own hair out. We had to abandon the maid’s uniform for some normal street clothing when I took her out to shop and fraternize with ordinary people. This I deemed essential as it was not only me that she had to convince. In her TV role she was supposed to convince the Russian mafia that she was the woman that she purported to be. That meant that she had to be able to convince the man and woman in the street. Living as a woman was a full-time job. Going shopping at the supermarket, walking down the street and choosing appropriate clothes was all part of it.

Going to clubs, bars and restaurants became a regular feature. Sleeping in nighties and performing night and morning routines were all part of her education until she didn't have to even think about them.

I was lucky in that I had nearly a year and a half to do my job. I have to say that I loved the challenge and that by the time that filming was to recommence I didn’t think anybody would be able to pick Maria as anything other than a woman. Whether she was in her French Maid persona or as an elegant lady mixing with the cream of society she was totally convincing. I was proud of myself, but this time she fooled me too.

I had concentrated on her movement, her gestures and her demeanour, not thinking that she needed assistance with her voice, make-up or those aspects of femininity that we learn from babyhood. What I neglected was those physical attributes of womanhood. I had not realized that the developments to her body and in particular to her breasts and hips were not artificial. I found that she had been on a regime of hormones that had given her both a very real set of hips, a nice round bum and a more than acceptable bust, which she had managed to conceal from me, the artful cow.

By the time filming resumed she was all woman, except, I assumed, for the male bits which would resume their rightful importance when she became a he again.

She was a fantastic hit in her role as the female fugitive hiding in the mafia household. She had the way a woman wields her boobs to mesmerize a man down to a tee. When they weren’t ogling her tits they were fixated on her bum and the wiggle she could impart as she walked away from them.

As the maid she was dazzling and impeccable in serving the dons of the mafia. Her costumes were cut so low that only her nipples were covered. I couldn’t believe how I had missed that cleavage that she waved in their faces, the legs that emerged from those five-inch heels, with the fishnet stockings heading to her tiny hemlines and the enticing petticoated skirts and the rounded cheeks that emerged from beneath when she bent over.

I don’t know if it had been part of the original script but by the end of season two she was starting to appear as a paramour to the main male lead (the gangster) and there were several steamy sex scenes between the two of them.

Season three seemed inevitable and Maria (Martin) as I could hardly think of him now was firmly embedded in her role and the critics and the public were wetting themselves at how good she was in the part.

I was still living in his/her house and we eventually had a showdown about my education of him/her. I had initially been very proud of my part in his transformation into her, but had been having severe second thoughts, thinking I had overstepped the bounds of my remit.

So one night I decided that I had to have things out with him/her and we sat down in his drawing room. I demanded that Maria provided me with coffee and she laughed at me. She was not dressed as Maria but as the sophisticated and elegant woman that the series now had her appearing.

“Dear Estelle, you went above and beyond what I asked of you and, yes, there have been unintended consequences. As you can see, if you care to really look, there is no more Martin Reeves. I am now Maria and will remain as Maria for the rest of my life. Think of all the extra parts that I will be able to play!

I could say it is all your fault but that is not true. There was something in me that was just dying to become Maria, and now I am she. I guess I used you to accelerate the process, and you were my unwitting accomplice.”

She leaned forwards and her cleavage under the plunging neckline was obvious and was obviously all her own. I looked at her and could discern no residual maleness in the woman who was sitting opposite me.

“What about your career?” I asked.

“I don’t give a shit anymore. I have more than enough money to last me several lifetimes and I’m so happy with whom I’ve become, thanks to you.”

“But I didn’t do it,” I protested.

“You were my catalyst. Without your help this would have just been another part, but you turned it into reality. I want you to stay with me and bring me more good luck.”

“I don’t know how I can do that. I’m not sure that I did that in the first place.”

“Well, let’s look in my wardrobe and see how much male clothing is in there. Let’s look at my dressing table and see how much is occupied by female cosmetics. Let’s look at the drawers in my dresser and see how much male underwear there is in them. The answer is none!”

“ But I didn’t do that.”

“Yes, you did. You made me empty them of all my male garments and fill them with female finery to encourage me into girlhood.”

“I forgot that,” I said.

“And what about this dress that I’m wearing.”

She was wearing a beautiful mauve skintight dress with a nearly scandalous lowcut top displaying her bountiful bosom and a hemline well above her knees. Her four-inch heels and her stockings accentuated her shapely legs. I couldn’t ignore her beautifully made-up face and her hair which had been styled by experts into a totally feminine style framing her face. She was wearing lovely ear-rings in a chandelier style that hung close to her neck and when she raised her hands she showed fingernails sculpted into half-inch talons delineated in a mauve matching her dress.

She was every inch a woman. Did I create her, or was she in there waiting to be released?

“Now I’m going to offer you something that I hope you will accept in the spirit that it’s given. You’ve helped me immensely and I’m happy to keep on paying you the same amount we agreed upon all those months ago. Firstly you can publish everything about me and my transition….your exclusive, but I want you to become MY French Maid and keep me on the straight and narrow. I need somebody who understands me and will prevent any remnants of masculinity from returning”

I thought about it for a few seconds and then I agreed.

“Provided my name is Estelle.”

"Why Estelle?"

"Well, a Proper French Maid must have a proper French name, n'est ce pas?"

---

 
We stood and looked across the gully at the steep ridge on the other side, Tom and Curly and me. Red rocky soil with clumps of spinifex and a few stunted gum trees didn’t give it any great beauty, just typical of parts of the outback, but it was where the road had to go.

8 a.m. and it was already bloody hot and the sweat was running down the back of my shirt and off my forehead. The flies liked this rare source of moisture too, so the three of us were waving our hands about in the great Australian salute, brushing them away from our faces. Sure made you keep your mouth shut when you had to speak, unless you were partial to fly sandwiches.

A few small lizards studiously ignored us as they sat soaking up the sun a little way away from our vehicles. I wished they’d eat the flies, but they ignored them too. Apparently they also had better taste.

Tom and I had discussed what to do with this section earlier but, as usual, he let me take the lead. Even though I reckoned he was the best earth-moving superintendent in Australia, if not the world, he always gave me the prerogative of outlining things. In a rough-diamond kind of way he was a real gentleman.

“Curly, what do you reckon? Can we get a machine up to the top of the ridge and cut down from there?”

Curly was our foreman for this stretch of the road, built like a brick shit-house, our best man, because this section through the ranges, 70 miles north of Mount Isa, was the hardest part of the job.

He pushed the Akubra to the back of his head as he surveyed the problem.

“Yeah, Mac. We can do it OK. I’ll put Ian up there on a six*, haveta dog-leg his way up, cut a bit of a track, then Col on the nine* before we put the scrapers in. Piece a piss. Might take a coupla days, though.”

“OK, Tom?

“Pretty much what I figured.”

He was as skinny as a whippet and tough as an old leather boot. He had been in Darwin when the Japs bombed the place, so, now, thirty years later, there was no-one I knew who could match his experience or expertise. He could have just figuratively shoved me, the Project Manager, to one side and done the job himself and yet he always deferred to me, at least in public. In private he had given me many a bollocking when he thought I was wrong. He was also the only man I ever knew whose moustache would actually bristle when he was angry, which was quite a sight. Yet we mostly got on like a house on fire and I was proud to think he might be my friend.

They didn’t make them like that any more. The last of a vanishing breed.

“Well,” he said, “what the fuck are ya still standin’ there for, Curly. Stop wastin’ time.”

There was no heat in the remark. Talkative bastard our Tom, a real people person. To know him is to love him though.

Curly, who didn’t have a hair on his head, just grinned at Tom before jumping in his ute and taking off with only a slight spray of gravel. Restraint, flash was dangerous out here.

We were contractors, and proud of it. Never mind that the consulting engineers, who designed the roads, let alone their clients, looked down their collective noses at us. Something stuck to the bottom of their spiffy city shoes was a fair comparison in their eyes. We just smiled, knowing they couldn’t do the jobs they wanted done without coming to us. I loved contracting. I often thought I only became a contractor because piracy was a hanging offence.

It was our job to do the hard yakka and make money out of it for our bosses, the Quinn Brothers. There were four brothers who owned and ran the company. There was a fifth who was useless but, being family, they employed him as a storeman at the head office in Brisbane. They had all come off a Queensland property before the war and made their fortune working for the Yanks and retrieving and "liberating" the gear they left behind when the war was over. They were legends in the Australian construction industry.

The eldest, Les, was a shrewd old bastard who ran the show with an iron fist and inspired more fear than love, but I found that he had a sense of humour. Mind you, you had better know what you were talking about. Stan ran the South, New South Wales and the Snowy Mountains. He was a really lovely bloke, as was Bert, who was king in this neck of the woods. It took a while to get to know Bert. I got through to him by having a cup of tea lined up for him when he would occasionally hit the office at 7 a.m. Brown-nosing? Maybe, but it never hurts to have your boss on side and it really wasn't much effort.

The fourth brother, Cec, was something else. As rough and tough and acerbic as you’d find anywhere. I don’t think anyone actually liked Cec, but he seemed to like me. He took me in the company plane one time to deal with a problem at a coal-mine they owned. As we flew in I was appalled. Huge conical mounds of bare rock and dirt and craters filled with greasy water. It looked like the surface of the moon, but with an atmosphere.

“Well, whaddaya think, boy?” he asked me.

Trying not to be too rude I said, “Is it SUPPOSED to look like that?”

“Of course it’s not supposed to look like that, ya fuckin’ young idiot!”

I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing, and the old bloke actually cracked a small grin.

“That’s why I brung ya. We’re gunna try an’ make it look a bit better.”

“Shit, you don’t expect much do ya, Cec. Oh, well, I’ll try.”

“Ya fuckin’ better. That’s what yer ‘ere for, ya dopey prick.”

And I did. It took me six months, and he was at me the whole time. When I finished I was about ready to snatch it if he said one critical word.

He came in on the company plane again and I met him at the landing strip.

“Go an get yer gear. Yer comin’ with me.”

I did what he told me and was back at the plane half an hour later. Jack, the pilot, winked at me, so I realized I wasn’t totally in the shit. The plane took off and I finally asked where we were going, expecting it to be another shithole in the bush.

“Brisbane. Yer booked in The Hilton fer two weeks. Drink, eat ‘n’ fuck as much as yer want ‘n’ then come ‘n’ see me at the office.”

They used to tell this story about him. I can’t swear it’s true, but it easily could be. His son, Glen, who was a total dickhead, parked his car in the middle of a quarry they were working one day. A truck driver didn’t see him come in and reversed the truck over the car, flattening it. Cec fired the driver, not for totalling the car, but because he hadn’t made sure Glen was in it at the time!

They had a reputation for bastardry and treating young engineers like me as shit. They only employed us because the modern contract documents demanded it, a necessary evil. But somehow I managed to get on with them and I had been working with them for four years, which was almost a record. My only gripe was that they gave me all the shit jobs, the ones that were losing money or were months behind programme.

The bloke before me on this job wiped himself out big time on the grog and was doing a stretch in a detox establishment. I wasn’t averse to a drink myself, but apparently he had really crawled into the bottle.

So here I was, 29 years old, in charge of building a road from Mt. Isa to the Gulf of Carpentaria. The job had been going nowhere. Tom could handle the physical progress, no problem, but he was not trained to do the paperwork or extract the money from the client.

I was good at that. At first Tom had expected me to just sit in the office, but that wasn’t the way I worked. I had to walk or drive the site every morning, for my own satisfaction, and so that I knew what was going on. After I had pointed out a few areas where we should have been hitting the client up for more money, Tom would come and pick me up from the site-office at seven every morning after getting the dozers and scrapers going and we would drive the length of the job, climbing out of the four-wheel-drive every now and again to survey progress at particular points. Sometimes I would make a suggestion to try and improve production.

Of course I got a bit of flak from the operators when I arrived on the job. There was a sort of reverse snobbery from them. Engineers were considered to be a bit namby-pamby, limp-wristed, and my being a Pom didn’t help.

The sneering stopped when I moved a D9 one day, which was in the way of the excavation. I had done a course on dozers and knew enough to be able to start one, put it into gear, lift the blade and trundle it along for a hundred yards or so. I just about stopped the job when I did that. Nobody had ever seen an engineer drive a dozer before. A few jaws dropped and all of a sudden I was accorded a degree of respect when I made suggestions. I couldn’t have done much more with the machine but never told them that.

Because it was a remote job I lived with these guys, of course, in the construction camp. As we were in managerial positions, Tom and the Office Manager and I each had 40’x10’ cabins to ourselves, while all the others had 10’x8’ rooms in blocks of five with a couple of communal shower and loo blocks, a dining hall, and a wet canteen.

Apart from drinking, the after-work entertainment consisted of a couple of pool tables, a dart board and movies twice a week, for which I was quickly elected projectionist, since nobody else had a clue how to do it.

This was the first camp to have air-conditioning to each room. The Brothers reckoned the world was getting too bloody soft but personally I cheered. It was damn hot and dusty out there and a good night’s sleep improved productivity no end.

I told Bert, the Brother who was the man in overall charge of the Mt.Isa operations, this and he said something like “the whole industry is goin’ down the tubes. Everybody’s gettin’ soft” but he soon realized I was right. We got more out of the men because they could eat and drink and sleep in comfort. Simple economics won the day.

Air con or not I couldn’t have taken living out there if not for the fact that I had my own retreat to get away at night. I didn’t have a problem eating with the men. In fact, that was good, because it let me cut off any complaints about the quality of the food. If I could eat it so could they, but I made damn sure that it was edible, if only because there was no way I wanted to cook for myself after a day’s work.

Tom and I also used to have a drink with them in the wet canteen after work, ostensibly to cut the dust accumulated outside. In reality it was more of a PR exercise. Tom was OK but I had to be careful. It wouldn’t have been smart to get pissed, as my predecessor had done too many times, but it gave them a safety-valve to have a bit of a whinge in an informal way about things that were bugging them and gave me a chance to correct the ones that really mattered before they festered and became major problems. It was like having fifty big kids.

When I had done what I regarded as my social duties I would retire to my donga and relax for the rest of the evening. I now know, and I knew then, I guess, that I played a dangerous game.

My “hobby” for want of a better word, was dressing as a woman. I would make sure that all the blinds were down and I would treat myself to some personal time. After showering I would get into my underwear, panties, bra, falsies, suspender belt and nylons and choose one of my favourite dresses, put it on and make up my face and don a wig, finishing with a pair of heels to match whatever dress I was wearing that night. I couldn’t go out, of course, and had to make do with admiring myself in the mirror, remembering and dreaming of the time, ten years earlier, when I had actually lived as a girl for over a year. That had been in England, ten thousand miles and another lifetime away. I sat and remembered and regretted, but we make our beds, don’t we?

Foolish it may have been, but I couldn’t stop myself. I thought the guys would have probably killed me if they knew, and any respect would have been out the window. Getting out of the camp in one piece would have been the top priority, but anyone like me will know that you cannot just stop.

I mentioned the movies. We used to get the “new” ones from the Isa once a fortnight, not exactly straight out of Hollywood. Most were probably a couple of years old, but we built up a sort of library and the boys would request favourites like Bruce Lee, “The Magnificent Seven”, the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns and “Barbarella” which I would screen time and again. They loved “Barbarella” and so did I, although I’m sure, for different reasons.

“Barbarella” was really a silly movie, but very sexy and raunchy for those days. The audience used to whistle and yahoo all the sexy bits and I used to reckon they went back to their rooms and wanked themselves silly afterwards.

Me, I admired Jane Fonda and wished I could be her. She really was magnificently beautiful in that movie, and I still get a laugh out of the scene where she broke the Orgasmatron.

Daily life went on as normal. Our Office Manager was a young Irishman, who insisted on being called J.M. and I didn’t know why until his birthday came round and he produced a bottle of Tullamore Dew. He was adamant that Tom and I share it with him. Now, I’m no whiskey drinker but nor was he. Tom could have drunk paint-stripper all night and shown no ill effects. We found out the secret of his initials when the bottle was two-thirds empty.

He confided to us that his name was John-Mary, which he found tremendously embarrassing. He was terrified the workers would find out and start calling him Mary (which they probably would have) and he swore us to silence. I remember looking at Tom and strangling a laugh. If that was all he had to worry about, compared to my dark secret! I told him that Jean-Marie was a very common name in France and meant exactly the same, which cheered him up no end, but we still called him J.M.

As usual in all-male camps there was the occasional fight, and either Tom or I would be called down to break it up or adjudicate in some way or another. For me it was a further reason why I had to be careful when I dressed. I made a rule not to do it until the wet-canteen closed at 10 p.m. because one of us often had to go down to make sure they actually closed the place and didn’t just keep drinking. It was a chore that I hated.

Every now-and-again one of us would have to go over to the wet-canteen and clear out the drunken or half-drunken remnants of the lads who were having too much fun to go back to their rooms and get some sleep. Some would get surly about being deprived of even more beer and would go with ill-grace, pulled out by their more sensible mates. I was always half-expecting one of them to take a swing at me, something they would never dare to do with Tom, but somehow I managed to chivvy them out without any violence and would go back to my cabin breathing a sigh of relief.

One night I got a knock on the door. Tom had gone to town, so I had no choice but to go and sort things out. The man who came to get me, a huge fellow called Peter Haivonen, was our electrician. He could change the light-bulbs in the ceiling without using a step-ladder, and could have ripped the fighters apart with his little fingers, so why did he come and get me? Anyway, it went with the territory and he told me there had been a fight. The guy who had lost was an aborigine called Clarrie, and he claimed his opponent had abused him racially, so he wasn’t going to let the matter drop.

Peter only told me Clarrie was pissed and causing trouble without giving me any details, thanks very much. He accompanied me to the wet-canteen and then let me go in first.

I walked into the bar and suddenly I was staring down the business end of a double-barrelled shotgun, held by said Clarrie. Needless to say I nearly shat myself on the spot. As he looked wildly at me, waving the gun, Curly stepped forward and knocked the gun-barrel upwards and it discharged, blowing a large hole in the ceiling and the corrugated iron roof above it.

In rage and shock I lunged forward and flattened Clarrie with a single blow that came from I-don’t-know-where. I was just so mad. When he hit the deck I took the gun off him and told a couple of the operators to take him to bed, ordering the Camp Manager to lock him in. Next morning I fired him.

But I was surrounded by members of our workforce all trying to shove drinks at me, as if I was some kind of hero. My knees were like jelly. What I had done was pure reaction. If anyone was a hero it was Curly, who may just have saved my life. I had to sit down and I accepted a beer, which I had trouble drinking because I was shaking so much I couldn’t get the can and my mouth to meet in the middle. I made my excuses as soon as possible and went to bed, where I dreamed of shotgun barrels with bores like a cannon. I didn’t dress that night.

The job went on and we got the worst parts over with. The progress improved and with a little dry weather we were back on programme. I got stuck into the Main Roads Department (our client) and threatened them with all sorts of trouble if they didn’t pay us for the variations and extra work we had done. I quoted all the right clauses in the Contract at them and they caved in and started to pay us at least for some of the extra work we had carried out, so we were soon back in the black, if not exactly making heaps of money.

Even Brother Bert grudgingly admitted that the job wasn’t too bad.

“Don’t know why we keep you on,” he said to me one day. “None of your jobs make any money to speak of.”

“At least I don’t lose you a fortune,” I retorted.”We’ve already got a fair bit from Main Roads, and I haven’t finished with them yet. You should be happy.”

“Fuck off and get back to work,” was his polite reply.

I complained to Tom one evening.

“Why don’t they ever give me a good job? I reckon I deserve it after putting up with all this shit. All I want is a nice, dull, boring, profitable job.”

He laughed fit to bust.

“Johnny boy, you’ve got no chance ya dozy bugger. Who do you think the Brothers come up with when the shit hits the fan? You, ya dickhead. As long as you stay with them that’s what you’re gonna get. The things other people have fucked up. They reckon you can fix ‘em. Like this one. Pat wasn’t a bad sorta bloke but he just couldn’t take the pressure.” Talking about my predecessor.

“OK, but what if I can’t? What then? Do I get the boot? That’s what they usually do with their engineers when things don’t work out.”

“Son, you really don’t get it, do ya? These old guys are not idiots. They’ve got you pegged. If you can’t fix it, nobody can, and they know you will have tried everything. Whatever result you come out with will be the best they could have done under the circumstances.”

“Oh,” I said. Smart answer and I opened another can.

Occasionally we even had a bit of fun. One day I asked Tom if I could have a go on a scraper. I’d never been on one before, so he turfed the operator off of a 651* and put me up in the seat, showed me how to raise and lower the scoop, did a round with me and hopped off.

“Away you go, Mac,” he said.

Now a 651 is a big powerful machine with a motor on one end and what they call a scoop on the other, with bloody great tyres on each corner. I’m not going to get too technical but their purpose is to take soil that you cut from A and fill it into B. Needless to say it takes practice.

For the next hour the boys pissed themselves laughing at my attempts to get a full load in the bowl and to discharge smoothly in the fill area.

“Useless Pommy bastard!”

“Ya couldn’t drive a fuckin’ nail.”

“Listen, sport, y’aint supposed ta leave fuckin’ big holes like that in the cut.”

Those were a few of the nicer comments they made about my (lack of) skill.

Eventually I threw my hands in the air, spat out the dust I had been chewing and gave it away. I tell you what. You really need a seat-belt when you’re driving one of those; they’ll bounce you right out of the machine otherwise.

“You’re gunna have to buy us a beer tonight Mac, seeing you’ve fucked up our target for today,” was the chorus I got from the lads. Tom just grinned.

“Yeah, yeah, OK, OK.” It was no more than I expected.

So beer that night was on me. I didn’t mind. Of course, the lads who had been present watching my poor efforts had great fun describing the scene to those who had not witnessed me on a scraper. They even had me laughing as they hammed it up and mimicked me bouncing around in the driver's seat. I knew the boys always seemed to try a little harder when I fucked up, if only to prove they knew what they were doing, which I knew they did, of course. Tom had already got rid of any bludgers and deadheads long ago.

Another couple of months passed and we were getting close to finishing the earthworks, which meant the operators and fitters would be going off to some other job. We already had a passable road for the three hundred and odd kays between Mt. Isa and Normanton, just needed a bit of touching up before we called in the bitumen crews.

Tom came to my donga one evening and we sat and had a quiet beer. He seemed a little less relaxed than normal,unusual for him. He was always so laid back you'd think he was horizontal.

“The boys want to have a sort of goin’ away party to wrap this one up. They want to make it a costume affair.”

“Fine, I suppose they’ll want the company to put on the beer and the tucker. That’s not a problem. They’re a good crew and they’ve all worked bloody hard, no small thanks to you,” and I clinked cans with him.

He cleared his throat.

“They want to make it a cross-dressing night.”

He was looking straight at me when he said it.

As they say, I tried to dissimulate, but I guess I didn’t quite make it.

“What do you mean?” I think I may have been croaking or at least a bit hoarse.

“Everybody has to come as a girl.”

“Well, that’s all right. They can have their fun. You and I can’t go. How would you look with your moustache? And I’d look ridiculous.”

“I’m goin’,” he said, eyes boring in on me. “I won’t be the only woman in the world with a moustache. It’s just for a night and a bit of fun. And you’re goin’ too, if you want to stay mates with me.”

“Tom, I can’t. Really, I can’t. I’d just look stupid.”

His eyes continued to bore into me as if I was a moth or something, being inspected before being pinned to a board. It made me squirm.

“I thought you were a man. I’ve seen you on a dozer, and I’ve seen you on a scraper. I’ve seen you give those wankers from Main Roads the evil eye, and I’ve seen you tell the Brothers the truth when nobody else wanted to. You’re tellin’ me you won’t wear a dress for an evenin’ to let the boys have a bit of fun?”

I was sweating now, and it must have shown. I didn’t know what to say.

“I really enjoyed workin’ with you, ya know. When are you goin’ to learn to live with yourself? Do you think nobody knows that you put on dresses and get all dolled up when you’re alone at night? You’re livin’ in a fuckin’ construction camp fer Christ’s sake. There’re no secrets here. I know you pulled the blinds down, but people can still see shadows and some curious buggers sneak up for a peek between the gaps.”

Suddenly, he grinned. “Me included, you can still be curious when you get old.”

I thought I was going to die. “You mean everybody’s been laughing about me all this time? Maybe I should just leave tonight.”

“No way. If you try, I’ll stop you. Don’t think I can’t. Listen, the boys are doing this in your honour, not to humiliate you. Sure, they’re curious, but only to see how good you look. Word is, you scrub up pretty well. Come on. Do it for a night and at least you gotta tell ME what it’s all about. Now’s the time. And I guarantee nobody’s laughin’ at you.”

“How could they not? I’m a fucking pathetic freak.”

“Son, you’re the best boss most of them have ever had. You’ve looked after them; made sure the food was good. The rooms are kept clean. They admire you because you’ll get up on a dozer or scraper and give it a go, never mind that you’re not much good. You try. You share what they do. You drink with them. I wasn’t here, but you should hear them talk about the night that Clarrie lost it. They think you’re magic. There’s not a one of them wouldn’t work with you again.”

“I didn’t do anything but deck him. Curly probably saved my life. Clarrie was so drunk I could have blown him over.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s what they remember. You faced a bloke with a gun and flattened him bare-handed. Now, are you going to talk to me or not?”

I was lost anyway. No way out; nowhere to go, and it was really important to me to have Tom as my friend. I didn’t want to tell anybody about my problems, but I knew that I had to and I wouldn’t even have a show if I didn’t tell him, so I started to talk.

I told him the whole lot; how I first realised that I wanted to be a girl when I was 11 or 12, how I had kept it hidden in shame and guilt until I met this girl called Lucy who found me out but didn’t hate me for it.

I told him how Lucy had taken me in hand, encouraged and helped me and how I had actually lived as a girl for over a year; how I had chickened out for all sorts of reasons and ended up coming to Australia and how, as much as I tried, I still could not resist dressing as a girl when I got the opportunity. By the time I finished I was weeping, not just crying, really sobbing, convinced that I had blown everything. It was over.

When I finished I looked at Tom through blurry eyes, expecting to see disgust written all over his face.

That tough old man was crying too. I couldn’t understand it.

“Shit, son. I can’t figure out why you want to be a girl, but I do know it happens, and I can see it rips you apart. I don’t know how you can be as cool as you are and do your job when you’ve got all that going on inside. You’re a fuckin’ sight stronger than you think.

“Now, back to the party. You know now that the boys all know about it and they really want to see you as a girl. You’ve got lots of guts, and I’m goin’ in a dress. If I can do it, you can do it. Be proud. They won’t laugh. I’ll kill anyone who does. If I don’t Curly will, or Peter, or Ian or Col……well, you get the idea.”

The night of the party came and I got myself ready. I had reached a sort of plateau of numbness.

“We who are about to die salute you!” I whispered to the ceiling.

I took the greatest care with everything. I shaved myself all over. I had gone into the Isa and bought fresh supplies of body lotions and moisturizers, Chanel No. 5, a new burgundy lipstick, restocked my foundation, eyeliner, mascara, shadow, powder and blusher, new sheer stockings, even bought a new wig. Somehow, for once, I had overcome my usual fear of shopping for feminine things and being “sprung”. I had promised myself that tonight would be my moment of glory, and if things went sour, it would be my last night, the straight razor I had purchased would see to that.

So I bathed and anointed myself and put on my lovely underwear, bra, falsies, panties, suspender belt, nylons and then this favourite dress, which I had hidden away, satin in emerald green, form-fitting, halter neck, the skirt slit cheong-saam style, calf-length, no sleeves but matching opera gloves.

I did my make-up, remembering how it used to be from ten years ago, but wishing Lucy was there to do it for me, not only because she was a professional, but also to ease the heartache I still felt whenever I thought of her; love doesn’t die easily; chandelier-style gold earrings and a gold necklace, a gold watch on my left wrist over the opera glove. I laughed to myself; a real Aussie sportswoman in green and gold.

My wig was black, almost China-doll style, but longer, falling to my shoulders, fringe straight across, sandals also emerald green of course, 3 inch heels and I had done both my fingernails and toe nails in the same colour, even though you couldn’t see my fingers. It was so important for me to be all girl tonight, and then the spritz of Chanel. I know I was going into a crowd of men dressed as girls but I wanted to be the most beautiful of them all. Or die trying! Ah, black humour.

I stood for a while admiring myself in the mirror, remembering the joy of being Suzie, and the terror at making the change permanent. Altogether, I could still cut the mustard as a girl, I thought. If only I had the guts to do it.

There was a knock on the door of the donga and I went to open it. It was Tom, dressed in a little black cocktail frock, demure neckline, translucent sleeves, knee length skirt, black stockings and kitten heels, with a silver-grey wig. He must have taken some advice from his wife. The bugger had shaved off his moustache, and with his thin face and wiry build, actually looked like a very attractive older woman, if a bit leathery.

He looked me up and down.

“Fuck me dead!” he said. “Are you ready? You look like you are to me.”

I had to admit to myself that I would never be any readier.

“The moustache?” I asked, raising a newly plucked eyebrow.

“It’ll grow back,” he said gruffly. I swear he blushed.

He took my hand as if I were a real lady and helped me down the steps of the donga. When I reached the path I tucked my arm into his.

We walked around the end of the unit and across to the wet canteen where the party was to be held, and he ushered me up the couple of steps guiding me to the front.

I went in, and in front of me was a selection of girls, some obviously male, like giant Peter. I wondered where he found the heels he was wearing. They must have been size 18! Poor Curly just wasn't built to wear a dress either. He would've been the same height if you laid him on his side, but his wig and make-up made his face quite fetching.

Some of the others were outrageous drag-queens, and some could have actually passed pretty well, and all of a sudden I really believed what Tom had told me, that they truly had done this for me. I looked around at these guys who worked with me and I almost broke down, but then they started to whistle and clap and cheer, grins and smiles splitting their faces, and they surged forward, surrounded me, and started to hug me.

I knew I would not need the razor.

The Beginning?

- Caterpillar earthmoving equipment
- D6 Bulldozer (a small one)
- D9 Bulldozer (a big one)
- 651 Motor Scraper- a machine for moving earth from one place to another; an off-road vehicle, not a truck.

---

 

When I woke up this morning I groped behind me to make sure my wife was still there in bed. My hand found hers and we gripped each other's hands in a morning embrace, just our fingers entwining. We’re both too old now for much in the way of shenanigans but a touch just gives you that warm feeling of lifelong companionship.

“You OK, love?” I asked her and she smiled at me as she always does.

“Stay there and I’ll go and make the coffee,” I said as I got up. First stop, bathroom, put on dressing-gown, and then on to the kitchen.

So I made the coffee and by the time I had done that she was sitting comfortably in her armchair in our living-room.

I sat opposite her on the sofa and we watched the morning TV show together. It’s entertaining, but I have to leave the room for five minutes when they allow Alan Jones his spot. I can’t stand that bigoted vitriolic bastard and his always nasty opinions.

With that behind us we carry on watching until it’s over at nine. Then it’s shower and dressing time. She chooses her usual pants and a top with ballet flats. She rarely wears heels these days. I go for a nice skirt, chocolate brown with white flowers and an orange blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Today a pair of white sling-backs with just a two-inch heel. I think she approves my choice as she shows no disapproval.

We both apply a little make-up, not too much as we’re only going grocery shopping and finish off with a brush of our hair and inserting our ear-rings. We both love ear-rings and she has a pair of jade pendants and I have three-inch hoops. We’re ready to go and we grab our bags before heading down to the car.

Off to the shopping village, where our main stop is Coles, but as usual, we have to go to the pharmacy to get the meds that I need to keep me alive. We picked up some fresh orange juice at the greengrocers and a cask of Chardonnay at the bottle shop. A day without wine is a day without sunshine.

With the basics taken care of we could relax at ‘The Smoke’, my favourite bar in the corner of the complex, where I would have my regular two glasses of wine, making sure I stayed sober for our trip home. She just sits quietly, watches and smiles while I drink. Today my friend Paul is there too, so we solve the world’s problems over our wineglasses.

Nobody remarks any more on my choice of dress. It’s been years since I “came out” so it’s no longer a topic of conversation. I was worried the first year but it seems everybody has gotten used to Joanne now and realize that the woman inside was the real me. My wife’s quiet acceptance, following many years of denial, is the greatest gift of all.

My kids and grandkids are also accepting and share my wife’s attitude to the change in my life. It was not always so, but that was due to my cowardice in not telling my deepest darkest secret.

After the relaxing interlude of the drinks we head back home. As with most women it’s shoes off when we settle in and a little snooze in the afternoon. Later, I cook a couple of pork chops for dinner, with potatoes, peas and apple-sauce before washing up and turning on the TV for the evening news and an episode of Janet King after that.

Like most of our evenings these days it’s not exciting, but then we’re just about over all that. It’s now about being comfortable in each other’s company.

She always seems to get tired before me, so we get her into her nightie and into bed. I kiss her goodnight and go back into the living-room for a last glass of wine before joining her in bed.

She’ll always be with me after fifty years of marriage. I really hope she is happy with my lifestyle these days. It was never about hurting her.

It’s ten years since she passed away.

Pocahontas by Joannebarbarella Cliché Warning: If you don’t like TG clichés, read no further. This is a Forced-Fem Story There are some things only a man is good for.

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I stood in front of her desk as she sat behind it and looked at me in a way that I thought was a bit off. I wondered if I had done something wrong and that bothered me a lot as I always wanted to please her.

“It might be a good idea if you sat down”, she said.

A little nervously, I did as I was told, carefully pulling my skirt under me as I lowered myself into the armchair behind me.

She then said some words which made no sense, but all the memories of my life up to that time exploded into my head. I don’t suppose you ever had that happen to you. Believe me, you don’t want to. My head whirled for what seemed like forever but was probably only about twenty minutes while I struggled to put things together and stay sane while I did it. The main problem, apart from sheer volume, is that you remember everything as though it had happened today. Imagine an ultra fast forward on a video player with split screen a hundred ways and all the images talking at once and you might get close.

When my head had stopped spinning and I had put things into some sort of order I sat quietly for a bit before I stood up and walked over to a full-length three-panel mirror standing in a corner of the office. I had trouble keeping my balance and my body felt totally strange and unfamiliar. I now knew what to expect, of course, but seeing is believing and I just had to see. Even so,the confirmation was still a shock.

Staring back at me was a Veronica Lake look-alike,updated a little from her 40s-50s image, long wavy blonde hair down to her…my…shoulders, complete with that lock falling over my right eye. Blue eyes, arched brows, a pert nose and luscious crimson lips, slightly parted, completed my heart-shaped face. I was made-up of course, but not overdone. There was not a single trace of the young man who had been the original me. That pitiful wimp was gone, for ever vanished, and, I have to say, unlamented. He had actually disappeared on my first day here and I had been born, although I didn't know it at the time. I was really, really beautiful. They had said they would improve me and they had, even if it wasn't exactly what I thought I had signed on for.

How cruel of them, I thought, to transform me into a woman who I had such a crush on when I was a kid. Of course, they knew everything there was to know about me. The only major difference between me and Veronica in appearance was that I stood seven or eight inches taller than she had been. The reason why she did so many movies with Alan Ladd was because she was the only leading lady of the era who was short enough to wear high heels without dwarfing him.

I took in the rest of me, a royal blue power suit with a deep neckline barely covering a magnificent pair of breasts, the nipples of which were disturbingly apparent, leading my eyes down to a small waist which flared into hips appropriate to the woman I now was, trim and shapely nylon-clad legs below the knee-length skirt and white high-heeled pumps below. I really did look just like her and suddenly my nipples hardened with a burst of desire. I almost began to pant. I wanted to throw myself to the floor and ravage me. They had done a really good job on me. The young man might have disappeared on the outside but he was still alive and well inside my head.

Before I succumbed to my desire I turned to the white-coated woman.

“Why?” I asked, in a husky contralto. “Why did you make me into a woman? Surely you could have got this package using a real woman.”

“Actually, Mr. Smith, we couldn’t. Women are just not as susceptible as men to the training we wished to instill. They are nowhere near as amenable to hypnotic suggestion as males and although we need a woman for the work we have trained you for we discovered that they were nowhere to be found. You were our answer.”

“Dr. Wilson, even though you seem to have restored my memories of the time that I’ve been here and before, I still have no idea what you trained me for. You’ve made me into a girl...no, a woman... and I remember HOW you did it but I’ve no idea WHY.”

“Mr. Smith. Your training is finished. Here is a cheque for seventy-five thousand dollars and you can walk away from here. You have fulfilled the contract you signed on for. We will throw in all your clothes as a bonus, but if you wish to continue an association with us you will have to sign a new contract.”

I took the cheque and studied it.

“Much good this will do me. It’s made out to John Smith. I certainly don’t look like a John Smith now, do I? How am I supposed to bank it?”

“I’m afraid that’s your problem. You cannot deny that our agreement was and is with John Smith. A DNA test will prove that you are he.”

“I never imagined you would turn me into a girl. I may be one physically but I don’t feel like one. When I look in the mirror I want to make love to myself.”

“I’m sorry. Let me fix that little problem,” and she said some more nonsense words.

Instantly, I felt overwhelmingly female and feminine, just as I had for the previous three years. I no longer felt like grabbing my breasts and sucking my nipples or kissing those oh-so-kissable lips. I wanted someone else to do that, preferably a good-looking man or my darling Mindy. Instead I was conscious of my appearance and I hoped I was appropriately dressed and that everything matched and was hanging straight. When I had looked at myself previously I had been totally presentable, so I tried to stop myself from going over to the mirror again and primping. At first I merely brushed that errant lock of hair away from my eye, tucking it behind my ear, but then I lost the inner struggle and moved across the office to look at myself again. I couldn't stop my hand from going to my cheek and caressing my face. My long crimson fingernails only emphasised the fact that I was totally female. I did look so nice and I knew it. I tossed my head a little and admired my shimmery dangling earrings as they brushed against my neck and the thin gold chain with a diamante pendant which nestled neatly in my cleavage.

“How did you do that? You messed with my mind.”

"Mr. Smith, I told you how susceptible to hypnotic conditioning you are, and you know we’ve been “messing with your mind” for the last three years. You signed on for it. I just demonstrated to you how good my control is. Would you like me to show you more?”

“No! And would you stop calling me Mr. Smith?”

“What would you like me to call you?”

“Joanne, just as you have for the last three years.”

“Very well. May I suggest that if you don’t mind spending one more night with us that you review what has happened to you during your time here and that tomorrow we either discuss your future with us or you take your cheque and go. If you decide to go I promise we will change the name on the cheque to Joanne Smith.”

“What happens if I decide I might want to stay?”

To be honest I wanted to. This was home, after all.

“Obviously there are things we haven’t told you. Tomorrow we will tell you everything. If after hearing what we have to say you still don’t want to remain with us, then we can remove those things from your mind and you will be free to leave. Is that acceptable?”

I nodded and turned to leave the office. I could not stop myself from inspecting myself in the mirror again and giving my hair a reassuring pat, brushing that lock away from my face again before I went up to the room I had occupied for so long. I didn’t....couldn't.... believe she would just let me go after telling me the rest of the story. If that was true why didn’t she just tell me today and then wipe the memories? However, it didn’t seem smart to air that thought right then.

I settled into the armchair in my room and began to put my thoughts in order, kicking off my shoes to be more comfortable and tucking my legs up underneath me. I lit a cigarette to help me think, inspecting my carmine nails again as I held it delicately between two fingers. At that moment I was so pleased I was me. I couldn't resist getting up again, putting on my heels to perfect my posture, and going over to the full-length glass to admire myself once more. The cigarette made me look very seductive and I knew that whatever the future held I was perfectly capable of handling it. A woman like me could do anything she wanted, and surely anything my erstwhile employer wanted.

My job had been outsourced to India or Bangladesh or Vietnam or somewhere like that where programmers cost one tenth of what I did and as a result I was desperately searching for work. Weeks went by without a sniff of an opportunity requiring my expertise or experience, such as it was at my age.

Presumably all the other IT firms were doing the same thing in order to stay competitive and nothing was helped by those Wall Street wankers who had destroyed many of the businesses which might have provided me with a job.

Globalization may be a good thing in the abstract but, believe me, it doesn’t feel like it when you are one of its victims. Well, I had to pay the rent and even eat if possible so I started to widen my search to include just about everything except for a job at McDonalds, and I even gave that the odd stray thought.

Although the media kept on trumpeting about skill shortages I went to interview after interview but never got asked back for a second one. I was starting to realize that being a geek was not enough to get me a position. As I got ever more desperate I sold my car to provide a little more cash and save on gas and running costs. I’m not sure that was a smart idea as I seemed to have swapped it for shoe leather and the inconvenience of public transport.

I had about enough left for one more month’s rent without eating when I was net-surfing and saw the following ad:

INSTITUTE OF BEHAVIOURAL AND THERAPEUTIC RESEARCH

Participants required for a study in experimental investigation into the efficacy of hypno-therapeutic techniques in behavioural modification and learning and teaching techniques. Opportunities for the assimilation of advanced educational skills and training for manual dexterity. Physical improvements will almost certainly be a benefit of this course. Applicants must be of voting age and MUST be prepared to live in controlled clinical conditions for three years. The experiments are designed to establish whether hypno-therapy is a valuable tool in the treatment of some gender-related problems and/or the acceleration of educational processes now taught through conventional training schemes by traditional methods. Conditions will include full board, accommodation and appropriate clothing. Commitment to the whole of the program is a prerequisite and a contract to this effect will be signed by both parties on engagement and will be enforced. WARNING: If you are not prepared to complete the courses please do not apply. Salary $25000 per annum. Genuine applicants only should send their CV to: Box 7788 USPO New York, NY Attention: Dr. D. Wilson. Or email to: inobeather‍@‍nyny.com

OK, it sounded almost threatening in a way but offered an opportunity that I hadn’t seen for ages. Wow! I thought if I could get into this program I would be taken care of for three years in basic living needs, learn some new skills and come out with the best part of $75000 to help me start up again afterwards. Some parts sounded a bit vague but surely they would explain everything at the interview. Besides, I couldn’t afford to pass it up.

For me, the prospect of three years employment looked great after all those months of misery, so I quickly sent off my CV and anxiously waited for a reply. The next day I received an emailed questionnaire which seemed to mainly focus on education and personal background, which I completed without delay.

A week later, with bated breath, I opened an envelope inviting me for an interview at the Institute’s establishment in upstate New York and enclosing plane and train tickets to get me there and back, with details of how to find it and instructions for contacts on arrival, all very professional. They advised me to bring sufficient clothing for an overnight stay as the interviews could be extensive if I looked suitable.

I can’t say how relieved and excited I was. The prospect of an interview…with somebody actually paying my expenses…..woohoo! Naturally I was also nervous, on tenterhooks and chewing my nails. I really wanted this job and I didn’t even know how to prepare for it. I worried about it all week.

So, on the appointed day I travelled to a small town about one hundred and fifty miles from New York City. I was further impressed that the tickets they had sent were to schedules that fitted my travelling needs, allowing me ample time for changing transport modes. I followed the directions I had been given once I had disembarked at the town’s railway station, finally arriving at a pleasant and opulent three-storey mansion, probably a hundred years old.

The ivy-covered place looked as though it might contain twenty or more bedrooms and had spacious grounds with a number of relatively smaller buildings visible in a park-like setting, the whole complex enclosed by high, ivy-covered stone walls. I was impressed. It looked substantial, allaying my residual fears that this might be some kind of scam.

I got out of the cab I had hired at the train station and gave the driver the voucher I had been sent while he unloaded my small case. I didn’t have to ring the doorbell on the massive oak door as it was opened by a young lady in a white coat with a welcoming smile.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “My name is John Smith, and I’m here for an interview for the research jobs.”

Her smile seemed to get wider. “Oh, yes, Mr. Smith. We’ve been expecting you. Please come in and I’ll let Dr. Wilson know you’re here. Let me show you to the waiting room. Just take a seat and I’ll go and tell her. My name is Maria by the way. Can I get you a drink while you wait?”

“Yes thanks, Maria. A Coke would be fine.”

She smiled again and left me in what looked like a standard doctor’s waiting room, clean and neat with IKEA furniture and out-of-date National Geographics and Elles. I had hardly sat down when the girl came back with my Coke and assured me the doctor would only be a couple of minutes. I sipped the drink nervously and gazed almost unseeing at a magazine, I have no idea which one.

A few minutes later a tall, thin, quite attractive, grey-haired woman of about fifty, dressed in a navy blue skirt suit under your standard doctor's white lab coat, bustled into the room.

“Mr. Smith, so glad you made it. I expect you’re wondering what we have in store for you. Well, just relax. I’m Diane Wilson and I’m in charge of our program here. We’re going to give you a number of tests, but none of them are anything to be scared of. We’ve done most of your background stuff. We’ll give you some more intelligence and aptitude tests, and a physical, but the most important ones are to test your receptiveness to hypnotic techniques and all you have to do for that is sit on a couch.

“Are you ready to start. I’ll just check a few things first. Let’s see, you’re 22, single, male of course, currently unemployed, both parents deceased...what a shame....no other close relatives?”

I shook my head. All of my grandparents were dead too and I was an only child.

“OK. Are you ready to start? I’ll give you the IQ and aptitude tests and leave you here to complete them. There’s no set time limit so when you’re done press this buzzer and we’ll come and get you for the next set.”

So saying, she swept out, leaving me with what looked like half a dozen exam papers. I got stuck into them and she was quite right. They didn’t appear to be very hard. Mind you, I’m no dummy. It took me roughly an hour to complete them and I made myself check the answers before pressing that buzzer. This was important. I wanted this job.

Dr. Wilson came back within a minute, took the papers which I gave her and sat down opposite me. She checked them quite thoroughly and then gave me a surprisingly warm smile.

“Excellent, Mr. Smith. I feel justified in saying you aced them all. Now, do you feel up to taking the physical or would you like a break?”

“No. Let’s get it all over with, if you don’t mind?”

“Good. I hoped you’d say that, but you realize you’re going to have to stay the night anyway? There are no more trains back to New York until the morning.”

“That’s all right. You did warn me and I came prepared.”

“Fine. Then come with me and we’ll start. Leave your bag there and I’ll get someone to take care of it.”

She led me out of the room and along a corridor to an office with lots of high-tech screens all around the walls, a huge desk which I assumed was hers and a psychiatrist’s couch and adjacent armchair. She handed me one of those backless hospital gowns and pointed me to a curtained-off corner with an examination table.

“Strip off, please, Mr. Smith, and we’ll see what kind of shape you’re in.”

I did as she told me and drew the curtain while I took off my clothes, opening it again when I finished.

“OK, jump up on the table,” and she started to do all the usual doctor things with stethoscopes, etcetera, took my blood pressure and stuck her gloved finger up my bum. I’m sure you know the routine.

She finished in about half an hour.

“Basically you’re fit, but you haven’t been eating like you should. You’re underweight and lacking in vitamins and muscle tone. Don’t worry. Our program can fix that. Do you mind if I give you a couple of injections as a precautionary measure?”

I shook my head and she prepared a syringe, asked me to turn over and gave me two injections in my buttocks, quickly disinfecting the punctures afterwards.

“Right, Mr. Smith. That’s all done. Don’t bother to put your clothes on right now. We’ll go straight to the receptivity test. Lie down on the couch and make yourself comfortable. When I start that wheel spinning I want you to watch it and listen to my voice.”

“OK.”

She pressed a button and a wheel with black and white radial-shaped sections on it started to turn, I watched it and it seemed to draw my focus to the centre as it spun. I vaguely heard her talking.

“Just relax......Just relax. Sleep now......Sleep now.”

Next thing I knew I awoke from a deep refreshing sleep, even though I reckoned I had only closed my eyes for a couple of minutes. It took me a few seconds to remember where I was and what I was doing there, but then everything came rushing in, bright and happy. I was so glad I was here. My memories of the last few months seemed washed-out and dreamlike. Good riddance. It hadn’t been a fun time.

“We’ll leave it there for today, Mr. Smith. That was really excellent. We will continue in the morning. So far you are doing very, very well indeed. I think you deserve a good dinner and a decent night’s sleep and we’ll do our final tests in the morning. How does that sound?”

I couldn’t restrain myself. “Does that mean I’ve got a job?”

Surprisingly she didn’t laugh. “95% certain, but we have to do the final tests tomorrow. I’ll get someone to take you to your room and you can get freshened up before dinner.”

I felt enormously cheered. The prospect of three years here was heavenly. Then I thought that was an odd way for me to put it, even though I knew I would be very happy.

She must have pressed a button somewhere because Maria and another quite heavily-built woman came in.

“Maria and Anne will take you and show you to your room and fetch you for dinner.”

“What about my clothes?”

“Don’t worry about them. We’ll find you something nice and fresh and clean for dinner. Won’t we, girls?”

I left her office with the two women and they took me up two flights of stairs to a corner room with windows in both exterior walls. It was light and airy with ivory wallpaper and rose-coloured carpets. The curtains were frilly and matched the carpets. A queen-sized bed with a pink coverlet was the main piece of furniture but there was also a plasma-TV set on a stand, a writing-desk and chair and a plush armchair in matching ivory tones. They showed me a walk-in robe leading to a bathroom with a large bath, a shower, a vanity, WC and a bidet. The overall effect was very feminine and made me feel right at home.

“What do you think?” asked Anne. “Is it OK?”

I really loved it.

“It’s gorgeous...absolutely charming,” I said, again surprising myself with the way I expressed it, but somehow not embarrassed.

“That’s great,” said Maria. “Your case is here. We’ll leave you to freshen up. Dinner is at seven thirty. We’ll come and get you.”

As they left I thought I heard Anne say, “It’s taking well.” But it could have been my imagination.

I opened my bag and got out my toiletries, such as they were. When I took them into the bathroom I noticed that there were all sorts of exotic soaps, lotions and gels on the shelves. I was filled with a sudden desire to use these rather than my pedestrian gear. After months of scrimping and scraping a little luxury would do me good.

I went back into the main room and took off the hospital gown. I saw a big fluffy pink dressing gown, just like in a luxury hotel and almost reflexively I put it on. God, it felt good. It seemed to cuddle me and made me feel really girly. I shrugged my shoulders again at my unusual reactions. It must have been those months of deprivation and anxiety.

I went into the bathroom again and decided to have a bath instead of a shower. I could hardly remember the last time I had a bath. The salts smelled so nice and there was even bubble-bath. I giggled and felt totally naughty as I lowered myself into the water and lay there luxuriating in it. After about twenty minutes I thought I’d better get out before the water got cold, and I got wrinkly, dried myself and put the dressing-gown on again.

I had just gone back into the bedroom when there was a knock on the door. “Come in.” I called.

Maria and Anne entered, now no longer dressed in what I thought of as laboratory coats, but smart dresses suitable for evening wear.

“Dinner is in about an hour and a half and we came up to see if you needed any help. My, you smell very nice. You’ve used some of that Chanel lotion, haven’t you? It suits you.”

Somehow, that remark didn’t bother me. It was nice to have my choices confirmed.

“We thought you might like a manicure and pedicure before we go down. We couldn’t help but notice that you don’t seem to have been taking care of yourself as well as you might.”

“That sounds like a lovely idea if we have the time.” I imagined myself sitting and being cared for in a way foreign to me for the last several months.

“Oh, we have the time and Anne and I are both experts. Come and sit down and we’ll give you a treat,” and she patted the armchair, so I did as she told me.

Twenty minutes later I woke up from a nice doze, relaxed, with Anne massaging my shoulders.

“Don’t touch anything. You have to dry,” said Maria.

“Dry what?” I asked.

“Your nail varnish of course. I hope you like the shade we chose.”

“You varnished my nails? But I don’t wear nail varnish.”

“It’s OK. It’s just for tonight. We didn’t want you to be the only one at table without pretty fingers and toes. We’ll take it off if you leave tomorrow.”

This distracted me from the main question.

“If I leave tomorrow? I haven’t got the job yet.”

The two girls laughed.

“Bet we know something you don’t know,” Anne sing-songed. “Mother’s going to take you on for sure, and if you don’t have to go home, the Institute will arrange to pack up your stuff for you and bring it here.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s what happened to us,” they said together. “We just KNOW you’re going to be one of the family.”

I shook my head, not knowing what to say, but hoping with all my heart that they were right. I looked at my fingernails and at my toes, dry now, and a bright coral pink. Hmmm, yes, they did look nice. I wondered why I had never made them look pretty before.

“Right, let’s find you something to wear,”

Anne rummaged in one of the drawers and handed me a pair of white nylon panties, definitely not male style.

“I can’t wear those! They’re for a girl. Besides, they must belong to whoever’s room this is. I have the ones I bought with me.”

She picked up the pair I had brought with me from the case in her fingertips and spread them with a look of distaste. They had seen better days. Buying underwear isn’t your top priority when you’re broke.

“They’re dirty, and worn-out,” she said. “You can’t wear them when you’re all nice and clean. Anyway, I’m sure this room will be yours tomorrow and that includes everything in it. So they are actually yours.”

I meekly submitted and blushingly turned away from her to put on the pair she had given me. The dressing gown slipped off as I pulled up the panties and she gasped.

“Maria, look at this. The poor thing is so thin!”

OK, so I hadn’t been eating too well for the last few months. Maria came in from the wardrobe and grasped one of my arms round the biceps. Her fingers and thumb almost met.

“You poor dear. We have to put some flesh on your bones. Never mind, after a couple of months here you won’t know yourself.”

For some reason they both giggled wildly. Maria waved a pair of ivory-coloured slacks at me.

“Try these on and see if they fit.”

They were women’s slacks with no fly, only a zip at the back. As I began to protest she pushed me onto the bed and pulled them up my legs.

“Stand,” she ordered me, and the path of least resistance seemed to be to stand. It’s hard to fight with your pants down, whether they’re men’s or women’s.

She pulled them up and examined the length.

“Pretty good, and before you say you have a pair, they’re threadbare and we don’t want you to disgrace yourself tonight. Besides, they need cleaning too. We’ll get that taken care of, and your other clothes.”

Her partner-in-crime, meanwhile, was tugging my arms into the sleeves of a white silky shirt-like top, which she proceeded to button up while I stood with my mouth opening and closing and nothing coming out.She tucked the hem into the slacks, spinning me round to zip the back of the pants. They both then pulled and twisted a little until they were happy that everything was straight.

“Shoes,” said Maria.

“I think these,” responded Anne, dangling a pair of tan sandals with small heels in front of me.

“Perfect. We can’t have those pretty toes covered up and they’ll help with posture.”

The next thing I knew I was wearing them. I looked down and my toes stuck out nicely.

“Cute,” I thought.

“What are we going to do with the hair and the face?”

“Tonight I think not too much. A bit of a brush and a fluff while you put on a little mascara and lippy. That should do it. Understated, just enough to blend in with everyone else.”

I had given up. I was being treated like a clothes-horse, not a woman. Shit, did I think that? They did what they were going to do and then woman-handled me to the mirror.

I looked at myself expecting to see a clown, but I didn’t look like that at all. I was somewhere between a man and a woman. I didn’t feel as if I was in drag. I felt nice, neat and tidy. The make-up accentuated my eyes and lips and I reached a hand up to see that the nail polish matched perfectly. My hair wasn’t long but hadn't been cut for a while; another casualty of joblessness. Somehow she had fluffed it out with a comb and a brush and it looked more stylish and more than a little girly.

I should probably have been embarrassed to hell, but instead I just felt comfortable. I loved my varnished toes peeping out of the sandals and a little thrill went through me.

“Well? Did we do good? Isn’t that better than going to dinner with a lot of smartly dressed ladies wearing shabby gear like that?” Maria indicated my male clothing.

I could only smile and nod. I would actually like to look like this all the time, I thought to myself.

“Just in time. Let’s go.”

They took an arm each and led me down the two flights of stairs to a large dining room with a table which could have seated twenty people and had enough standing room for diners to chat and mingle before eating. There were in fact about a dozen people there, with places laid for that number.

The first person I saw was Dr. Wilson, transformed in a forest-green cocktail dress. She eyed me up and down and held out her hand for me to take.

“Well done, girls,” she said to Maria and Anne. “Mr. Smith, may I call you Joan?” She made it almost sound like Joanne.

“Yes, of course Dr. Wilson.”

“Well, Joan, I have to say that your chances just went up to 99%, even though I shouldn’t talk shop at dinner. You do look very nice, my dear.”

“Thank you.” I’m sure I blushed, but my mind was registering that 99% and wondering why I had become a near-certainty and I felt funny about the compliment. Somehow, it made me feel all quivery inside.

“Let’s get you a glass of wine and I’ll introduce you to some of the other staff.” She signaled to a lovely African-American girl dressed in French maid’s uniform.

“Mindy, please get Joan a glass of Chablis.”

The girl curtsied, “Yes Ma’am,” hurried off and returned very shortly with the wine, which she gave to me, curtseying again as she did so.

Dr. Wilson beamed proudly. “Mindy is one of our real success stories, so obedient and submissive, a lovely girl, and so very useful.”

I was then introduced to several other ladies, whose names I forgot within seconds of being introduced, but who all welcomed me to the Institute and seemed to appraise me for whatever their special fields of interest were. Two things stayed with me. Why did I think of them as “other” ladies? And why did I feel like a slab of meat?

Dr. Wilson fascinated me. She was a powerful personality, and, for an older woman, very attractive. This did not come across so strongly when she was in daytime mode, but there at dinner she was extremely seductive. I had this urge to do whatever it took to please her. When we sat at the table she placed me at her right hand and devoted much of the meal to chatting with me, frequently touching my arm as she spoke. It sent little thrills through me and I kind of fell in love, but as a daughter to a mother, which made no sense at all.

Dinner finished at about ten and Dr. Wilson reached over and took my hand, squeezing gently.

“Go and get a good night’s rest, Joan. We will start at eight with the rest of your tests and I really want you to succeed. I have a very good feeling about you. Maria and Anne will help you to undress and get ready for bed.”

It felt like an order, although she phrased it very nicely, and I knew I had to obey, so we three girls (three?) went up to my room and I let them undress me without embarrassment, right down to the skin. Anne started to fondle me but Maria slapped her hands away with a glare, making Anne pout. Somehow I wasn’t aroused. They gave me a pretty pink cotton nightdress and I brushed my teeth before going to bed and sleeping like a baby (and I don’t mean waking up every two hours for a feed) for the first time in ages.

They woke me at 6 a.m., evidently assigned to be my guardian angels. They let me go to the loo and do what everybody does in the morning. Normally I would stand to pee but it just didn’t feel right so I sat for the whole performance and then had a shower. Anne made me wear a shower cap. I was half done when she pulled me out of the cubicle and frantically started stroking my dick. As I hardened she knelt before me and sucked and nibbled and kissed me until I exploded in her mouth.

“Shhh!” She said.” Don’t tell, but I couldn’t let it go without a decent goodbye.” She grinned like the Cheshire Cat as she pushed me back into the shower and told me to make sure I was clean. I had no idea what she meant, but I wasn’t complaining. I knew what a blow-job was but I had never had one before.

I think I was still grinning like a fool when Maria came back and wanted to know why I was taking so long. Anne told her I already showered like a woman. I didn’t understand that comment either.

They got me out and dried me and powdered me, and Maria asked me if I would be comfortable wearing the same clothes as I wore at dinner last night (except for clean panties). It had all felt all right last night and nobody had freaked out at the sight of me so I said it was OK by me.

The only difference was she gave me a different pair of sandals, white with a two and a half inch heel, the toes still open so that I could admire my pretty toe-nails. I didn’t mind as they were comfortable enough, and the only make-up was a gloss of lipstick and a couple of swipes of mascara.

We went down to the dining-room, where a buffet breakfast was laid out. After last night I wasn’t very hungry, so I just had orange juice, some vitamin pills that Anne gave me, toast and coffee. I was still worried about the remaining tests despite all that I had been told. We went back upstairs so that I could clean my teeth. Truth to tell, I felt like vomiting; I was so nervous.

We went downstairs again. But this time they knocked on Dr. Wilson’s door and took me in when she opened it.

“Good Morning, Joan. How are you?”

“Very nervous, Dr. Wilson.”

“My dear, I told you last night you were 99% certain to join us.”

“Yes, I know, but it’s that one per cent that worries me. I so want to make it.”

“You will, my dear. You will. Now come and lie on the couch."

I went to the couch and lay down.

“Now watch the wheel,” she said. “Relax…..relax…..relax.”

“Joanne. You can wake up now, darling.”

The clock said it was 9 a.m. although it felt like moments since I had drifted off.

“Now, Joanne, we are offering you a position with us. You have passed our tests VERY satisfactorily, but you have to understand what you are in for. First, I want you to sign these releases and then I will explain what will happen over the next three years.”

I was overjoyed. My heart nearly burst. I had pleased this wonderful woman sitting next to me. She took my hand and led me over to the desk, gave me a pen and I signed the offered papers eagerly without bothering to read them.

“Now, Joanne, one of our prime objectives is to take a normal man, within certain physical parameters, and transform him into a woman, not only physically but mentally. I want you to understand that. Please confirm to me that you do,”

I understood what she said but wondered why she was telling me. However, it seemed like a good idea to agree, so that I would be able to stay in this wonderful place with this woman and all the other lovely ladies and girls.

“I understand.”

“You will be trained in many skills and crafts. You will be under surveillance during the whole time you stay with us for monitoring purposes and educational reasons. You are expected to complete the whole course. If you prove to be unsuitable or break our rules you will be expelled without notice and we will remove your memories of this place. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.” A thrill of fear ran through me. I didn't want to let her down.

“Then sign here and you are officially employed by the Institute. You may take your time and read the contract first,” and she handed me a sheaf of about ten pages.

I knew she wouldn’t do anything to hurt me so I didn’t bother reading the whole thing. I just signed and smiled at her, passing the papers back across the desk.

“Thank you, my dear. I have a feeling that if you work hard you will be our most successful subject. Now, from this moment on you will call me Mother.”

I was so happy I thought I would swoon, like one of those heroines in a bodice-ripper.

“Do you need to go home to get any personal belongings? If you like we can have them collected and brought here for storage. What about arrangements to terminate your lease on the flat? Can we help you with that?”

I didn’t ever want to leave this place. There was nothing in my flat worth keeping, just some old male clothing. The rest belonged to the landlord. The rent was paid to the end of the month and I could terminate by email. I explained all this to Mother and she asked me for my keys and said she would have the place cleaned and make the necessary arrangements to vacate it.

“So do you want to start straight away?”

“Oh, yes please, Mother. Can I?”

“Certainly. Now, we have found that it helps to have a clear mind when we start the program.
Rumpelstiltskin.”

As soon as she said that word my memories of my previous existence dropped away. It wasn’t unpleasant. I just knew that nothing mattered before I arrived here and it wasn’t that I couldn’t remember, but there was nothing worth remembering. All the important things in my life started when Maria opened the door for me. Before that it was sort of fuzzy and kind of distasteful. I just didn't want to think about it.

She pressed a buzzer and Maria came in, back in her white coat.

“Maria. Joanne has joined us. I want you and Anne to prepare her properly to be one of our family. When she comes to dinner tonight I would like her to be the belle of the ball as it were. Will you take care of everything please?”

Maria gave me a brilliant smile, grabbed both of my hands and kissed me soundly.

“See, I told you you’d get the position.” Turning to Mother she said, “It will be a pleasure, ma’am. She’s already responding, isn’t she?”

Dr. Wilson smiled. “She’s off the scale. I think we have a real winner here.”

I didn’t quite get the meaning, but they both seemed very happy about me and for me, so I basked in a warm glow until Maria pulled me out of the office and led me upstairs to the bedroom.

“I TOLD you! These are your rooms now. I knew it, so we got some really, really nice things for you. Look.”

She tugged me into the walk-in robe and there were rows of hangers with skirts, tops and dresses of all descriptions. A shoe-rack held at least two dozen pairs, ranging from trainers to high heels. She pulled me back into the living area and pulled open drawer after drawer in the sideboard, displaying panties, bras, camisoles, stockings, girdles, petticoats and jumpers, cardigans, and blouses galore. The dressing-table, with lighted mirror, had what looked like fifty or sixty bottles, jars, sprays and all manner of brushes on it.

“Wow!” was all I could muster. “I love it,” and I clapped my hands at the prospect of trying everything on.

“Yes, all yours. Now strip and we’ll get started and make you nice, like a girl should be.”

I stripped, totally unselfconsciously, and stood in the middle of the floor while she walked around me, inspecting me.

“It’s probably good that you’re so thin, not too much muscle, not much hair. We’ll soon get rid of most of that, although you’ll find electrolysis a pain, literally. Mmm, nice tight tush, great legs, dear.”

She grabbed hold of my penis and started stroking it, then knelt down and began to talk to it, stroking all the time.

“Poor boy. Soon you will become a useless piece of meat and then you will have to make the ultimate sacrifice because your mistress won’t want you or need you any more. I feel so sorry for you that I’m going to grant you one last request. Nod if you want it.”

My cock had become rock hard as she fondled it. Somehow it did seem incongruous that I had a penis but that did not stop it throbbing. She had it grasped firmly and she wagged it up and down as if it were agreeing with her.

“I knew you’d see things my way,” she said to it and leaned forward and kissed the tip, and then she engulfed it in her mouth, sliding her lips over the mushroom at its end and then slowly feeding the length of the shaft into her mouth, back and forth ,using her fingernails to rake it as she took more and more into her.

I couldn’t help myself. I was totally aroused and I grabbed her head and held it to me, jerking into her mouth and throat until I spurted a load of semen into her gullet. I was virtually a virgin and now I’d had two blow-jobs in one morning.

“That was lovely,” I gasped, “but why did you do it? Wouldn’t Mother be angry?”

“I’m sure she knows already,” she said, licking her lips and smiling at a tiny camera which I noticed for the first time in the ceiling. “She watches everything. Besides, it’s a kind of tradition. Somebody did it for me when I first came here.”

“B-but you’re a girl.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t when I arrived here. I was just like you, except you’re prettier, and you’re nearly a girl already. It took me a while. I promise you, you will do that for a new kid one day,” and she gently ran her hand along my cheek.

The penny dropped. “All of you? What about Mother?”

She nodded. “Every one of us, and especially Mother. She’s world famous, but under a different name. She’s an authority on the treatment of trans-gender issues.”

“But WHY?”

“You’ll be told when she thinks you’re ready and that’s enough for now.” Then she said something that I couldn’t quite catch and I lost interest.

“OK, enough fun, let’s get you ready for your beauty appointment. Into the bathroom!” She smacked my bottom, making me squeal, and I obeyed.

She stopped me outside the shower-stall and slathered me all over with a nasty-smelling cream, telling me to stand still for a few minutes, then she pushed me into the shower and, using the hand nozzle, washed all of my body-hair down the drain. She gave me some floral-scented soap , shampoo and conditioner and instructed me to shower properly and wash my hair.

When I had finished she helped me to dry myself and wrapped a towel around me, showing me how to fix it from the chest down.

“It’ll be much easier when you’ve got boobs,” and she wrapped another towel round my head turban-style.

We went back into the living-area and she had me take off the towel and lie on the bed. She produced a couple of things that looked like chicken fillets... breast not thigh... which she told me were breast forms, applied an adhesive and carefully positioned them on my chest, telling me that they would stay on at least a week but I would have to remove them for an hour or so to clean the skin underneath to avoid problems.

“It’s only for a few months, and then you won’t need them. You’ll have your own.”

I WANTED to have my own so badly I could taste them. It hit me then that I could never be truly happy until I had real breasts of my very own, beautiful round globes of feminine flesh with big nipples and aureoles like brown dollars, that would press against my clothes and men would admire them. I imagined a locket nestled between them in my cleavage. I lay on the bed for five minutes as instructed and when I got up I felt much better. The weight on my chest was so right and natural. It made me move much more fluidly and pushed my hips forward so that I stood straighter. I looked in the mirror and my body was already feminine and pretty. The turban towel around my head did something for my face too. I wished my dick was not there and I could see myself as a woman.

“Come on. Stop daydreaming. We have to get you ready for the salon. If you think you look pretty now, wait until we’ve finished with you there. Here let’s get this on you,”

She gave me a pair of white panties with little flowers on them. So pretty. And then she helped me to put on a matching bra and showed me how to centre my breasts in the cups by leaning forward and wriggling them.

"We’ll skip the suspender belt and stockings until dinner. We may want to do something different with your feet. I think just a simple dress , something to leave your shoulders and arms free for your hair-do. Ooh! I’m looking forward to tonight. Mother said we have to make you into the belle of the ball. You’re going to be so beautiful.”

She had been pulling out dresses from the racks and posing them against my body, then discarding them on the bed. Suddenly she stopped and took another look at the one she was holding. It was a white sun-dress with yellow and orange flowers all over it, a scooped neck and back, cut wide but still covering my bra-straps, short sleeves to the upper arm, and a knee-length full skirt with built-in petticoats.

“This is it. Bright and summery to suit your personality, demure but not too much so and a bit fifties-ish, almost Doris Day. Let’s see what it looks like on.”

I had already fallen in love with it and hurried to step into it and let her zip me up at the back. When she did, it hugged my waist and bust and the petticoats swished against my legs so sexily that my penis stood up in ecstasy. She saw it and laughed, before giving it a healthy swipe which made it lie down.

“I don’t have to ask if you like it,”

I admired myself in the mirror.

“Wait till I get some shoes. It’ll look even better.” She darted off and came back with a pair of white sling-back sandals with, I guess, three-inch heels and had me lift each foot as she slipped them on. I looked SOOO elegant. I longed for make-up and a feminine hair-do to make me complete.

“God, I’m jealous. You’re not even done and you look gorgeous. All right, let’s get to the salon before I ravish you.”

She took my hand and led me back downstairs again, tottering a bit in my heels, and into a large room fitted out with all the kit you would expect in a woman’s beauty parlour, four recliner swivel chairs, mirrors everywhere, basins, nozzles, hairdryers, brushes, the works.

Anne was there and she greeted me with a hug and a smile, re-introducing me to a red-headed girl called Barbara, who I had met the evening before but whose name I had forgotten.

“It’s going to be such a pleasure working on you Joanne. We were all really rooting for you to get the job. We knew you’d be perfect and when we’ve finished with you today you’ll know we were right.”

They took me to one of the chairs and sat me down, not before Anne and Barbara had exclaimed over my dress and said how much it suited me.

“Now today we’re going to give you a makeover. We’ll give you hair extensions, which will take a little time but it’s so much easier to handle than a wig and lets us teach you how to care for your hair over the next few weeks. We’ll give you a laser hair removal treatment. You’ll have to have electrolysis as well because you’re quite fair, but we won’t do that today. Then some eyebrow shaping and a facial. While we’re doing that we’ll inject a little collagen into your lips to make you nice and pouty. Full lips are so sexy.. Men can’t wait to kiss you.

“Nails again. We’ll give you some acrylics for now, since you don’t have to go back to being a man. We’ll colour you a little more dramatic too, a bit sexier. Pierce your ears, of course, only takes a minute. You’ll enjoy it all and you’ll be thrilled when you see yourself nicely made-up with a new hair-do.”

It all sounded lovely, although I wondered briefly what she meant about me going back to being a man. Never mind, it was probably just a silly remark.

For the next six hours I was operated on. Most of it was enjoyable though some parts were a little painful. Finally they made up my face. I was seated upright during this process and they explained every step to me and showed me the correct way to apply all the various cosmetics. I could feel the information being almost sucked into my brain and knew I would soon be able to imitate their actions.

Last of all they combed and fluffed and teased out my hair until golden waves flowed down to my shoulders, artfully framing the face that they had put so much effort into, my new pillow-like lips coloured a dramatic crimson to match my redone fingers and toes.

Although I had watched them prepare me there was something very powerful about the finished product. I turned my head from side to side and watched the sparkle of the diamond studs in my ears and the sexy way that a lock of hair fell over my right eye so that I had to look through it.

A great rush of gratitude to these girls and to Mother coursed through my body, that they had helped me find myself and that I would forever be one with them. I felt like crying but Maria was ready with a tissue which she dabbed at the corners of my eyes.

“Don’t you dare cry,” she admonished. “You don’t want us to have to start all over again, do you?”

I shook my head, lips trembling between a smile and the tears. I wanted to kiss them all but that would have to wait.

“Well, I think we’ve done what Mother asked,” said Barbara. “I think she’ll be the belle of the ball, well, a sensation at dinner, anyway.”

“Absolutely sensational,” chimed in Anne, and I blushed to the roots of my platinum hair, making them all giggle.

The day had gone by between my remaining tests and the time spent in the salon, so that when we returned to my room it was already time to dress for dinner. I kept admiring myself in the mirror and I really didn’t want to get undressed, but they made me.

I stood naked while they selected my outfit for the evening, black lacy panties and a push-up bra to begin with. Then a black suspender belt and sheer black stockings, which they showed me how to roll to put on and made sure the suspender straps went under my panties in case I had to go to the toilet. They followed up with a delightful little black dress with a halter neck, emphasizing my cleavage. It hugged my waist and flared from my hips, stopping well above my knees and showing off my nylon-clad legs. I thought it went very well with my platinum-blonde hair cascading to my shoulders.

I had never thought about wearing jewellery. A watch was just something to tell the time with, but when I saw the confection of gold and diamonds that they fastened to my left wrist, I knew I would think differently from now on. I couldn't help myself making extravagant arm movements so that everyone would notice it. However, that was soon topped by the elegant diamond bracelet on my right wrist and the huge diamond pendant that nestled between my breasts. I couldn't stop fondling it.

They finished me off with a pair of strappy high-heeled evening sandals. It seemed that every pair of shoes that they gave me had higher heels than the last pair. These had a three-and-a-half inch heel, but the practice I’d had with the others meant I could handle walking in them with no difficulty.

They checked my make-up and pronounced me ready. I couldn’t take my eyes off myself. I was no raving beauty but I certainly looked and felt like a pretty girl. I wondered why I had never thought of dressing up to the nines before. The two girls left me standing there. As they went Anne said something I couldn’t hear. I continued to feast my eyes until they came back a few seconds later, magically changed and ready for dinner. Anne said something to me and I jumped.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?” Maria came back

“Get ready for dinner so quickly.”

“Oh, it’s a little trick we know. We’ll show you one day.” They grinned at each other. “Come on. Let’s go down and have fun.”

We trooped down the stairs together and I wanted to make an entrance to the dining room but Maria held me back until Anne peeped round the door and then nodded. Maria pushed me forwards and I entered the room. Everybody in the house was lined up, apparently waiting for me. When they saw me there were gasps and smiles and they started to applaud.

Anne and Maria struck poses on either side of me as if presenting me and exclaimed, “Ta-Da!”

Mother came across and took my hands and said, “Welcome, Joanne. You look lovely.”

She then placed a finger on each of my cheeks and turned my face from side to side, examining me carefully.

“Hmm, I think we’ll need a little work on the nose, lips need plumping up some more and a touch on the jaw-line, We’ll widen the eyes and get rid of the Adam’s Apple and then you’ll be absolutely perfect. I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, dear?”

The desire to please her almost overwhelmed me. “Of course, Mother. Whatever you think best.”

“Would you like to start the procedures tomorrow, then?”

“If you say so.”

“I think it’s for the best. It won’t interfere with your deportment or voice therapy lessons, and we can still start on etiquette and fashion. We’ll do the paperwork in the morning. Come to my office at 8.30 and wear something simple. Now, let’s enjoy ourselves. Mindy. Wine please.”

Mindy, who had been standing by unobtrusively, smiled, curtsied and sashayed off, swinging her hips as she went, in a very provocative way. I suddenly recalled that she had once been a boy and had great difficulty believing it. I remembered that according to Maria everybody here had been male.

“Mother,” I said. “Is it true that everyone here was a man at one time?”

“I don’t think I would describe them as men, my sweet. It is true that they all had male bodies, myself included. We regarded that as a birth defect and corrected it, just as we are going to do with you. You don’t think of yourself as a man, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“But you have a male body at the moment. You want that fixed, don’t you?”

I shuddered, disgusted at being in this false shell. “As soon as possible, Mother.”

“Well, we’ll talk more about it in the morning. Ah, here’s our wine. Thank you, Mindy.”

Mindy smiled saucily and batted her eyelashes at me as she gave us the glasses. “My pleasure, Ma’am,” as she curtsied and turned away.

“Oh, that girl! Always practicing!” said Mother fondly. “Joanne, I said I wanted you to be the belle of the ball and you truly are. That dress really sets off your hair and eyes. I really must compliment Maria and Anne, not forgetting Barbara. She did a wonderful job on your hair. Come, my dear. Let’s sit down.”

We went to the table and she sat me at her right hand again. The evening was a rerun of last night, except that I got lots of attention, smiles and compliments and basked in it all, especially when Mother’s fingers would caress my arm and I got that electric tingle running through me. I knew I was her slave and wanted to spend the rest of my life serving her.

At ten she announced that it was time to go to bed, and so Anne, Maria and I went up to my room, where they cleaned off my make-up, showing me how to do it, chose a pretty pink baby-doll nightie for me and tucked me into bed. They both kissed me goodnight and said they would wake me in the morning.

I think I fell asleep immediately and dreamed vivid, happy dreams of me running through fields in my gorgeous sun-dress and sophisticatedly sipping cocktails in my LBD while I conversed wittily with handsome men in tuxedos.

They woke me as promised at six in the morning and I went to do my business. I just could not stand in front of the toilet bowl. It felt so wrong and it was with relief that I sat comfortably until I finished. Putting on my shower-cap was automatic, as if I had done it all my life and I reveled in the perfume of the soap I used.

Dried with the help of the girls I selected bra and panties, plain white satin with lace trimming. Mother had told me to wear something simple, so I chose a pair of cream slacks and a bright pink jersey top with the word “GURRL” in sequins across the front. For my shoes I selected a pair of cream sandals with a three-inch heel. I quickly brushed on a touch of mascara and a little coral-pink lipstick, ran a comb through my hair and fluffed it out and I was ready to go down to breakfast with my guardians.

They stood gaping at me and then looked at each other.

“God! That’s only after one day. Mother’s right. She’s off the scale.”

I didn’t know why they thought anything special had happened. After all, I had watched how they did things yesterday.

This morning I ate a decent breakfast, the nerves of the day before were laid to rest. The pair kissed me goodbye after eating, saying they would see me tomorrow as they knew Mother was going to send me for a little surgery later, so I went upstairs and cleaned my teeth before going back down to her office.

“Enter,” she called when I knocked. “Ah, good morning, Joanne. You look well-rested. Please sit down. Before we send you for surgery I want to have a talk to you and explain what we are doing for you. I have told you that you are extremely receptive to hypnotic suggestion. I have made a few modifications to your mindset to facilitate your education.

“I have suppressed your memories of your previous life… not destroyed….. they will be restored to full strength later, but for the duration of our program you will live largely in the present. I have estimated that you will master most subjects to the point where they become instinctive in about two weeks. At that juncture your conscious memory of preceding events will fade so that you can concentrate fully on matters currently in progress.

“I have heightened your retentive abilities so that you will observe more keenly and learn how to perform actions you have seen after only a few repetitions. I have given you an intense desire to learn, absorb and imitate female mannerisms, inflections of speech and movement, cultural affectations and attitudes. I only have to look at you to see that this is working already.”

She gave me a radiant smile and came round the desk, holding out her arms to embrace me. I rose to meet her and we hugged.

“You are going to be my star pupil. I have all your subjects planned. When you’ve done basic deportment, speech, fashion co-ordination, dress-making, hair-dressing and cosmetics we’ll move you on to “House” and Mindy will show you how to take care of cooking, service, chamberwork, flower arrangement, laundry and such.

“To make sure you get fit we also have tai-chi and tae kwon do which you will practice daily. For dance we have ballet and ballroom dancing to make you graceful. You’re going to be a busy girl and I haven’t even mentioned languages and the feminine arts yet.

“You will have a daily hypnotherapy session for reinforcement and review. Some classes will be conducted when you are in trance. Of course we have to fit your physical transformation into this regime in a way that permits other subjects to continue with minimum interruption. After all, we did promise physical improvement in our advertisement, and we always deliver on our contractual obligations. Do you have any questions before we prep you for today’s procedures?”

“No, Mother, only I can’t wait to get started.”

“Good girl. Then I’ll just get you to sign these releases agreeing that you have requested these operations and we’ll get you started. We’ll keep you in the clinic overnight just to make sure there are no complications.”

I signed the proffered documents and mother said some words and the next thing I woke up in a hospital bed. My vision was restricted because I had pads over the outer ends of my eyes, but I could see a large pad on my nose. I tried to speak but only a croak emerged. Immediately there was a nurse by my side.

“Don’t talk dear. I’ll go and get the surgeon.”

A few minutes later a business-like woman appeared, in the regulation white coat. I recognized her from the dining room.

“In case you don’t remember, my name is Julia. I operated on you today and everything is fine. You should try not to talk for the next couple of days and you’ll be a bit croaky from the tracheotomy for a few more days, but you should be quite normal in a week. I’ll remove the stitches from your eyes in a week and we’ll leave your nose and jaw line covered for a bit longer. You won’t be very pretty until the bruising disappears. That’ll take a couple or three weeks, but when it’s gone you should be beautiful.”

Taking her advice I nodded and grasped her hand to show I understood. I left the clinic the next morning and immediately started the regime as outlined to me by Mother. Most things seemed ridiculously easy. Walking, sitting, bending, gestures, mannerisms became instinctive within a few weeks. It seemed no time at all before I could walk like a catwalk model. Then I forgot ever learning.

When my bandages came off and the bruises faded I was captivated by my own face, until I could no longer remember when I hadn’t looked like that. It was just my face and I was beautiful. Putting on make-up made me perfect and I hated being without it.

About six weeks into the program my nipples became swollen and very tender, although the breast forms stopped this from being a major problem except when I took them off. Then, when I was washing myself I would become totally aroused. My penis would stiffen without me touching it and I would orgasm in a trembling frenzy which shook my whole body. I knew that my breasts would soon begin to grow and I could hardly wait until they were the right shape for my body.

My hips had started to grow and my body hair had virtually disappeared. The hair on my head was growing faster and I no longer had to shave. The regular electrolysis sessions had removed my facial hair. Because of the hypnosis I was able to stand the pain better, and that coupled with the fact that the Institute had the very latest equipment accelerated the process.

My education in dressmaking, fashion, deportment, ballet, ballroom and martial arts continued, and then were replaced or supplemented by housekeeping and domestic service. I loved being Mindy’s No.2 French maid for a month. We both wore those saucy uniforms that you see in the stage farces. It may be clichéd but those dresses are so sexy, along with the fishnet stockings and high heels. I did so love it. That was the best time of all. As Mother said she was one of her real successes. Mindy had come to The Institute at the age of fourteen, a swaggering gang-banger street kid and was now the most well-mannered and beautiful young woman, but really saucy with it.

She was a great teacher and I came to understand what Mother meant about her always practicing. She told me that we French maids must always be seductive and flirt with the men we served and, if the opportunity arose (giggle) we must be ready to serve them sexually.

Wearing the uniform really turned me on, from the required high heels and fishnet stockings to the short skirt and petticoats and on up tothe low-cut neckline which left my breasts nearly popping out and jiggling delightfully, even though they were still not really mine. Mother said she was very pleased that I had a streak of submissiveness and in due time she would show me how to turn it to good use.

I’m sure she knew Mindy had shown me how to suck cock, using me as a subject, and I had returned the favour by licking her pussy. Hypnosis can be turned to many things. It was really titillating to be dressed as a maid with another maid performing fellatio on me and me cunnilingus on her, sometimes at the same time. I fell in love with that girl and love her dearly to this day and I will be her maid anytime as long as she returns the favour.

Mother did not discourage sex between Institute personnel, far from it, and as technically the only male, I was fair game for the girls until my tackle stopped working. Mother herself came to my bed occasionally and I welcomed her since I worshipped her. All the girls knew that after two weeks or so I would have no memory of previous encounters so each time was like a virgin event.

Besides these techniques I learned how to clean, dust, polish, wash and iron, set a table, arrange flowers, pour and serve wine, greet and introduce guests. There is an art to running a household properly and I wanted to excel at it. I really loved serving at mealtimes. It was so nice to make people feel appreciated.

Six months and I dispensed with the breast forms, now able to wear padded bras and feel myself on the outside, my nipples caressed lovingly by the soft materials of the cups. A couple of months later, during one of my regular sessions in Mother’s office, she suggested that I might like to have breast enhancement and I agreed eagerly. As usual there was no waiting. I signed the paperwork and went into the clinic next day. I came out with titties between a B and a C cup, bruised and sore but delighted with the result. I was assured that when the hormones had done their remaining work I would be a full C cup.

Mother took me down to New York City to get me a new wardrobe of bras and tops to display my assets and while we were there she bought me a range of new dresses and shoes to complement them. We had a ball. She really was my Mother, indulging her daughter. I was afraid we had overspent but she assured me that the Institute was so pleased with my progress that it would cover the cost.

The months raced by, not that I knew at the time, living always in the present, until after eighteen months Mother told me that she thought that the final stage of SRS would now be appropriate and I should dispense with my penis and testes and have them replaced with a vagina. I thought this was a great idea, long overdue, and begged to sign the necessary papers. I awoke the next afternoon in the hospital with padding between my legs and remained there for a week, quite heavily sedated. I remembered that several times every day something like a twelve inch rubber sausage was inserted into my groin and pushed in and out, but mostly I slept, except when I had to go to the toilet. I think the first time I sprayed the walls but I soon learned control.

I was released after about a week and given several different-sized replicas of the rubber sausage and instructed to penetrate my new vagina four times a day for at least three months, making sure to use plenty of lubricant. While I was recovering I was given a large number of CDs, movies, books and memory sticks for the computer, demonstrating the techniques of seduction and the mechanics of different types of sexual intercourse to study.

As I mentally participated in these exercises, avidly imagining myself in the female role, the sight of some of the male members in the material provided to me caused me to use the dilators to produce relief. I could hardly wait for the real thing.

At last my vagina was pronounced ready for human consumption and Mother told me that from now on I was in the final phase of my training, when I would interact with men and outside influences possibly including other women. She also announced that she was increasing my attention span to a month as some operations might take that long and some situations may not be predictable.

Mother told me she was going to set up a situation in which I would be expected to have intercourse with a man and I should dress appropriately for a sophisticated evening out. I chose a black maximiser bra with matching panties and sheer black stay-up stockings, a silver shimmery mini-dress with a deep scooped neck which showed my cleavage when I leaned forwards. The skirt barely covered my stocking-tops when I sat so that I had to keep hitching it down, an action sure to catch the attention of any man. I got Barbara to give me an up-do with ringlets falling past my ears.

My make-up I did in dark dramatic tones, heavy blues in my eye shadow, black eye-liner and mascara, plum for my lipstick. Sex....whore.... was what it said...and what I wanted it to say. I put in dangly chandelier ear-rings and a necklace with a pendant that pointed directly to my breasts. I completed my jewellery with a couple of jangly silver bangles on my right wrist and a Rolex watch on my left. I slipped into a pair of Jimmy Choo four-inch heel sandals which matched my dress.

I went to Mother’s office and she looked at me.

“You have learned your lessons well, my sweet, but I’m going to reinforce them. Rip Van Winkle.”

As soon as she said those words I knew that I was going out tonight with the sole objective of getting laid by as many men as I possibly could. My nipples hardened at the thought of all the studly cocks that I would suck tonight and I was damp between my legs with the anticipation of being filled with man meat. My handler drove me to town and showed me the motel room where I could take my marks, giving me the key before she drove away. I flipped the silly old bat the bird as she went away before going in and checking my room to make sure it had a decent bed.

As I shimmied across the street to the nearby cocktail lounge I wondered how much I would make tonight. I checked in my Oroton clutch purse to make sure I had enough condoms. A dozen should do. Even I got tired sometimes. I went inside and eased myself onto a stool at the bar, crossing my legs seductively and letting my skirt ride up to expose the lace on my stocking-tops. I ordered a margarita and lit a Virginia Slim as I looked around. I savoured the feeling of being so sexy.

The free show had already caught the eye of one customer and I smiled at him with my eyelids slightly lowered before turning my head away. I was excited and my heart fluttered like a humming-bird’s wings at the prospect of getting him into bed. He wasn’t half-bad looking. I just hoped he was hung like a donkey.

He came across to the bar.

“Excuse me Miss, is this seat taken?” indicating the stool next to mine.

“It’s yours if you want it, sugar.”

“Buy you a drink…..?”

“The name’s Simone and the drink’s a margarita. You got a name, stud?”

“Tom. Are you free for a little fun?”

“Tom, I’m never free but I’m good value” I gave him my sultriest look and stroked a hand over his thigh. “Would you like to fuck me? $200 for an hour with a blow-job as a bonus, OK?”

“That’s expensive, girl.”

“I pay for the room and satisfaction’s guaranteed. You up for it or not?”

He gave me the once-over and I knew he liked what he saw. He should have. I would have to be the sexiest whore in the state.

“Come on, honey, lead the way.”

He put money on the bar for the drinks and I slipped my arm into his as I led him across the street, enjoying the sound of my heels clip-clopping on the tarmac and swinging my hips as much as I could. God, I felt so sexy. I was going to give this guy his money’s worth.

As soon as the motel-room door clicked shut I turned my back to him.

“Unzip me, hon.” He did, and the dress slid to the floor.

I picked it up and hung it in the closet. That sucker was one expensive dress and it was going to be on and off all night. I gave him a show as I waltzed around in my underwear and heels, making sure I was posed alluringly when I halted. I slid my panties down so he could look at my pussy and kicked off my shoes. He already had his jacket off, so I undid his belt, unzipped his fly and let his pants fall around his ankles. His cock was straining at his boxers, so I pulled them down too and a handsome eight inch rod leapt into my hand.

I released it in order to take off his tie and unbutton his shirt, giving him a full French kiss as I slipped it down and off his shoulders. I grasped his tool again and used it to steer him to the bed while he released my breasts from the bra and massaged my hard-rubber nipples. I pushed him back and took off his shoes and socks before pulling off his pants and jocks.

Now I had him naked and reached behind me to unclip my bra and shrug out of it, letting my boobs hang in front of his lips so he could suck me some more. Then I kissed my way down his body until his member was under my lips and I moved forwards with my tongue extended and licked the exposed helmet of his dick before opening my mouth and swallowing the whole of his shaft, gripping it with my lips and teeth as I moved slowly up and down and felt him swell inside my throat. I used my nails to massage those parts of him that were temporarily exposed as I was on an upstroke.

There's nothing to compare with the feeling of a rigid cock in your mouth, pushing past your tonsils and into your throat and the sense of power that it gives you. The man on the end of it is yours to do with as you want.

I felt that extra swelling as a male approaches orgasm and gripped him hard to make sure that every drop of his eruption hit me at the back of my throat so that I swallowed all of his sperm and when I had taken it into me I licked him along the whole length of his weapon before the inevitable slackening of his desire.

I moved back up his body and resumed smothering him with kisses while he lay there panting.

“Did you like that, lover? Can you manage the main course?”

“Give me a couple of minutes,” he gasped. That was answer enough.

What that silly old bitch that I work for doesn’t get is that I get my own rocks off doing this. I love to suck and be fucked, and when you can get paid for it that’s icing on the cake. It’s great to enjoy your work and the little bonuses that go with it. To go to work wearing the sexiest gowns and really fashionable shoes, hair and face done so nicely, and to know that you only have to bat your eyelashes to hook a fine fish. That’s nice.

I raised myself off the bed and straddled him sixty-nine style, pushing my wet and unsatisfied vagina into his face and again taking his beautiful shaft into my hands and mouth. It rose to the occasion as I lovingly sucked and squeezed and massaged and nibbled at it. It grew so big I could scarcely encircle it with my lips. All the while he was licking me out and I was beginning to lose control.

Then, before things got out of hand, so to speak, I swung around and laid on my back, pulling him on top of me so he could plunge that rigid member deep inside of me. Ohhh! That ecstatic feeling of being totally filled and fulfilled! Of doing what a woman’s supposed to do! I gripped him as hard as I could with my vaginal muscles but in truth it didn’t make any difference. He filled me so completely. I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him in as deep as I could and strained and bucked against him, just as he was doing to me.

That nine inch dagger impaled me to my core and he rode me relentlessly and my mind shouted “More! More! More!” His mouth gaped open and his eyes unfocussed and then with a great shuddering heave he came and came and took me with him into an orgasm that shook me like a bitch-dog from my curled-up toes to the roots of my platinum-blonde hair. It went on and on and I didn’t want it to stop but within seconds his rigidity ebbed and I came back to Planet Earth.

He rolled off me and took me in his arms and kissed me, hugging me tight, and I liked that a lot too.

“Well, Simone, you’re one hot bitch. You promised me satisfaction and you delivered.”

“Do you want another helping? I’ll give you a discount.” I said as I stroked the hair on his chest.

He laughed.

“Do you think you could make me get it up again?”

“Sure, honey. You’re a big strong man with a big strong dick. I reckon you could go three more rounds, and I do know a few little tricks.”

“That’ll take all night.”

“Probably, but you got somewhere else to be?”

“OK. How much for the night?”

“For you, let’s call it five hundred. I gotta eat, after all.” I would have done it for nothing. He had such a lovely cock and his technique really turned me on, but the dragon would kill me if I went back to the ranch with zilch.

We carried on the way we had started. After the second round I got the obligatory life story and lent the obligatory sympathetic ear. It goes with the territory and it’s good for repeat business. Then I started to suck him again and he forgot about his troubles. We did the three extra rounds with a little bit of recuperation time in between. By then I was pretty sore so the fifth time I got him to take my back passage.

That was actually better than my pussy. Don’t let anyone tell you size doesn’t matter. I hate to say it but he filled me up so well I almost lost my mind. When that was all over you could have turned me upside down and picked me up like a six-pack of beer with finger and thumb if you were strong enough and carried me around naked. We finally went to sleep and when I awoke he was gone. He left six hundred bucks on the bedside table and a note with his cell phone number “just in case”.

I showered and got dressed and then the phone rang. It was the ogre.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

“Yes, but why would you care, bitch?”

“I’m coming to pick you up. Be ready in ten minutes.”

She had put the phone down and I snarled at it.

Ten minutes later a horn sounded outside and I sauntered out as insolently as I could. My hair was a mess but the rest of me still looked pretty good.

The first words she said were “Sleepy Hollow” and suddenly I was a very sore and underdressed Joanne, but I wasn’t sorry.

“Mother, I only have six hundred dollars to give you. It didn’t quite go as planned.”

“It’s all right, dear. You can keep the money. We watched and you surely earned it. I was quite jealous. He was certainly very well hung and had stamina.”

“Why did I go like that, Mother? I just had to have him.”

“It was part of the program, darling. We are still trying to establish the limits of your suggestibility, so we increased your libido, modified your personality and decreased your IQ to produce a credible scenario to support your actions. It worked very well. I’m really pleased.”

“So you’re not mad at me?”

“No way, my dear. Exactly the opposite,” and she gave me a big cuddle.

I was glad, because I did like him and especially his dick. Maybe I would call him sometime. The scrap of paper with his number on it was tucked securely into my bra.

In the weeks and months that followed I was exposed to men in all types of situations, business, social and sexual, usually with the purpose of teaching me how to obtain my objectives by using feminine wiles or straight-out seduction and playing on that protective instinct felt by men for the weaker sex and their inability to believe that a woman could be their intellectual equal, let alone superior.

Often I was set up in one of the Institute’s satellite cottages so that I could bring home gentlemen friends and entertain in apparent security while we were still under surveillance. Mother used to show me the recordings to point out where I went wrong or where I could improve my technique. We would often get turned on together and practice in the solitude of her office.

With experience I found sex even more pleasurable and enjoyable. I particularly enjoyed those occasions that required me to attend social functions such as a dinner or a reception, which gave me the chance to dress up and look gorgeous before being taken home and dressed down to enjoy my reward in bed.

Then I was told three years had passed. This meant nothing to me until I sat in front of Mother and she said those words which restored my memories.

……………………………….

I had sat in my room reviewing the past, as I now knew it. I had the choice of taking $75000 and my clothes or continuing with the Institute but on a basis which was still a mystery to me. So what did I do? I undressed, savouring the partly fresh feeling of feminine nightwear and slept. Yes, I did sleep, and I awoke in the morning knowing I could not walk away without knowing. WHY had I been turned into a girl? No, not a girl, a woman, which I could not deny when I surveyed myself in a mirror. I was 25 and I was beautiful. I was Hollywood material. I had to know why.

I showered, dressed in the most provocative outfit I could think of; a LBD with a neckline that plunged to my waist and needed double sided tape to keep my breasts where they were supposed to be and was down to my waist at the back. The skirt barely covered my upper thighs, so I wore sheer panty-hose and black four-inch heels, Manolos.

I had got used to the very best during my stay here and somehow I didn’t want to give it up. I took extra care with my make-up and hair, actually totally inappropriate at breakfast time, but I was making a statement.

I entered the dining room and all my friends made little noises and remarks, “You Go Girl”, “Attagirl,” “Yeah” and similar. I strutted proudly around the buffet, selecting a little here and a little there and smiling at everyone to show them the confidence that I didn’t feel, and then went, quaking inwardly, back to my bedroom to brush my teeth before I went down to confront Mother, or was that Dr. Wilson?

At 8.30 I knocked on her office door, as I had every morning for the last three years and heard her command me to enter. I tried to look confident, but I’m sure she was a sufficiently good psychiatrist to see right through me.

“Sit down, Joanne. My, you look lovely this morning. I really am proud of you, you know. I do hope you decide to continue with us.”

I sat, saying nothing at first, until I was comfortable.

“Are you ready to learn why we made you into such a lovely young woman? I have told you before but you didn’t connect the dots. You were so keen to get three years of security, for which I don’t suppose I can blame you, given your circumstances.”

I nodded, my mouth so dry I couldn’t speak.

“Very well, Pocahontas.”

Suddenly I understood. Everything was clear and she was my Mother again. I would definitely stay. Now I was really confident and self-assured. There was nothing I couldn’t handle.

We got down to business. She proposed, and I agreed, that the Institute would set me up in an apartment in Manhattan. My training would provide me with the basics of a career to give me an assured financial future, supplemented by Institute assignments. In due course we implemented that plan and I settled into a stylish address with a view over Central Park.

I like to think of myself as a courtesan, since I provide much more than just sex. My services include companionship, escort, hostessing, conversation, modeling, et al. You have probably guessed that my name is not Joanne Smith. You may have seen my picture in the fashion magazines or the society pages but I am certainly not going to tell you who I am. Sometimes I think about poor John and how ill-prepared he was for life. No, I don't miss him at all. I am so lucky.

Every now and again I will receive a memory stick by special courier, which I put into my computer. A photo, usually of a man, but sometimes of a woman, will appear, with a bio panel next to it. Then a voice will say:-

“This is Mother.….Pocahontas. Your assignment, should you choose to accept it….”

Then I become her Black Widow spider, her weapon of man’s destruction. It’s what I was designed for.

The End

The man was tall, well-built and several years older than me so when he walked up and asked me if I wanted a lift when I was leaving work that afternoon I was immediately suspicious and pigeon-holed him as a poof. There were no stand-out clues, like a lisp or any mincing in the way he walked, in fact his appearance was totally masculine. It was just a general impression, a gut feel; maybe the way he looked at me, but I could not think of any other reason why he would offer to give me a lift out of the blue like that. It wasn't as if we knew each other.

Still, convinced that I could handle it, I accepted the offer. Stupid, you’ll say, getting into a car with a large, unknown stranger, but at that age you have all the answers and you’re invincible. He asked me where I wanted to go and I told him my address. Mistake number two? However he said that was fine as he lived one street away. What a coincidence! It was only a fifteen minute drive and he didn’t make any moves on me. We chatted about seemingly inconsequential things like how long I had been working there and the state of football.

When he dropped me off he asked if I would like to go for a coffee on Saturday. Secure in my teenage arrogance and somewhat curious about queers I agreed but said I would meet him at the coffee-bar at 11 a.m. rather than having him pick me up.

So Saturday duly arrived and I met him as arranged. We had a couple of cups of coffee in a popular down-town coffee-bar and chatted about everything and nothing, until a group of very attractive girls went by and I drew his attention to how sexy they looked

.
“I’m not really into girls,” he said.

“I guessed as much.” I was smugly satisfied that I had clocked him.

A bit of a silence followed that little exchange. I didn’t know what to say when he’d basically laid his cards on the table. Still, he seemed like a nice man…an honest man in his way.

“You’ve never met anyone like me before, have you?” he asked me.

“No,” I admitted, my sophistication disappearing fast.

“Do I frighten you?”

“No way!” indignantly.

“Do you find me attractive?”

“How do you mean? Do I fancy you? I don’t think so. You’re a nice guy, but…”

“You’ve never thought about whether you could fancy a man before, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.” I think I probably blushed like a fire-engine.

He patted my hand and said, “Relax. I won’t bite you. How old are you, sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” I lied, as teenagers do. When you’re that age you’re sensitive about it.

He looked at me, smiling a little. Nowadays I would call it “knowing”.

“So why are you here? Why did you agree to meet me?”

“I guess I was curious, and I didn’t think I could get into trouble over a cup of coffee.”

“Well, what exactly are you curious about. Do you think guys like me are some kind of monster?”

“No! No, it’s not that. I…I wondered what you do and how you feel about…you know…things.”

“Actually we’re mostly pretty ordinary. It’s just that we’re attracted to other men rather than girls.”

Emboldened and a bit cheeky, I asked him, “Are you attracted to me then?”

“Yes. You’re a very good-looking boy, and I sensed something a bit different about you, so I thought I would try to pick you up.”

Confused, I once more blushed like crazy. The “something different” could have been my deep, dark secret, but how could he know?

Nobody knew.

“I’m not gay,” I protested.

“Are you sure? I didn’t know I was when I was your age. I didn’t know what I was.”

“How did you find out, then?”

“I went into the Army to do my National Service and an officer seduced me. After a few drinks I woke up in bed with him and all of a sudden it seemed right. Then he introduced me to some of his friends and I’ve never looked back. I’d never been interested in men or girls before and I found that I liked men much better.”

“I’ve had girlfriends,” I blustered.

He laughed.

“It’s not forbidden. Lots of people swing both ways, but have a preference. I can show you people that you would never suspect were gay, men who are married with kids but live double lives.”

“Really?”

“If you’re interested. But look, you might find out more than you bargained for.”

“How do you mean?”

“They’re not all nice people, and once you start doing “the scene” you’ll attract attention and could become a target for predators.”

I was sixteen. Did I say that already?

“I can take care of myself, and, besides, I’ll be with you, won’t I?”

“You would have to make out you were my special friend, but I’ll show you round if you want to.”

Suspicion reared its head.

“Why would you do that for me?”

He shrugged.

“I hope you’ll find that you really like me, but I promise I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. If you don’t like what you see, just tell me and we’ll stop and I’ll leave you alone.”

I couldn’t refuse a challenge like that.

“OK, you’re on. When do we start?”

“What are you doing this evening?”

“Not much.”

“OK. Dress smartly and I’ll meet you here at seven. I’ll take you to a pub which you might find a bit different.”

And so it came to pass.

I haven’t given you any personal details, but so you can get the picture…….his name was Steven and he said he was 27 and worked as a stockbroker. He certainly didn’t fit my image of a gay man; I’d always thought of them as effeminate…..like Mr. Humphreys in “Are You Being Served?” He was 6’2” and very fit-looking and told me he played rugby. He even had a broken nose. His car was a Rover so he obviously wasn’t poor. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was that marked him as queer.

I’m Jack. You know my age. I’m 5’9”, hair a sort of mousy blond and touching my collar and skinny as hell. I had left school a few months before and got a job serving behind a counter in Marks & Spencer, which was only meant to bring in some money until I found something better. That must have been where he had seen me. I still lived at home but had promised myself I would move out as soon as I could, because my parents were driving me mad and probably vice versa.

I admit that I did sometimes wonder if I actually was gay, because I had this dreadful, shameful, guilty compulsion to dress in my mother’s clothes whenever I could, but I had never fancied men in any sexual way. In fact I was entranced by girls and jealous of how good they could make themselves look, so I didn’t think that was the source of my oddity. I just knew I was some kind of freak.

He took me to a pub called The Montpelier Arms in one of the upmarket areas of town…..a place I would not have dreamed of going to because it was way out of my price range and as far as I knew was frequented by toffs, not my kind of place at all. Also I had to be selective about where I drank because I was still under-age and it was so embarrassing to be refused service and asked to leave.

We entered the saloon bar, and at 7.30 on a Saturday evening it was about half-full. He steered me to a vacant table and I looked around while he went to get a couple of pints of bitter from the bar. I immediately became conscious that I was easily the youngest person in the place and the other clientele were all male.

Although nobody seemed to be looking at me I felt as if I was being stripped naked by a thousand eyes. I had a sudden realisation that this was how a pretty girl felt when she walked into a roomful of men.

Just then Steven returned with our drinks and took a seat, choosing to sit next to me rather than across the table. The pressure of the unseen eyes lessened immediately.

“Well, did you feel it?” he asked.

I took a swig of my beer to give myself a chance to recover.

“Yes. What happened exactly?”

“You were being sized up. If I hadn’t been here you would have somebody trying to chat you up in short order.”

“But how do they do it? How do they know?”

“Any young man who comes in here on his own is assumed to be looking to be picked up. They weren’t sure about you, so they were sort of sniffing around. When I came back with the drinks they assumed that you’re my “girlfriend” and eased off.”

“Shit! It’s a bit scary.”

“Welcome to my world. I did warn you that you might get a bit more than you bargained for. Still, don’t worry. They’ll leave you alone now, but if you come in here again without me, you’ll be fair game. Anyway, do you recognise anyone? Look around, but don’t be obvious about it.”

I surreptitiously looked around, using my peripheral vision and reflections in wall-hung mirrors to do it.

“The man sitting at that table just to the right of the bar looks very familiar.”

“Well spotted. That’s Sir John Fields, the famous actor. You probably saw him doing that TV series about Richard The Lionheart.”

“He looks much older than he did on the TV. But isn’t he married to Samantha Jones?”

“Make-up, Jack....make-up. He’s about sixty. Yes, he’s married to Samantha, but she swings to her own tune too, I hear. It suits them both to have cover for their extra-curricular activities; keeps the likes of The News Of The World off of their backs. He likes young men…..not like you……you’re far too pretty and skinny. He likes beefy rough-trade to fuck him, the rugged type like me, but he usually has to get rent-boys to do it, because the good-looking ones aren’t attracted to a raddled old queen like him.”

“Rent boys?”

He laughed.

“Ah, Jack, you are so green! Male prostitutes to you.”

“Would you go with him, then?”

“No way! I don’t fancy him at all and I don’t sell myself. It’s not all sex, you know. I have to like the guy I’m going with. We fall in love just like straight people do. Take you. You’re surprisingly good company and it does make me feel good just to be seen around with you. Think of yourself as eye-candy. You like to be seen with a gorgeous girl and I like to be seen with a gorgeous boy, but if I got you into bed, I’d want you to suck my cock and then I would make love to you. How about another drink?”

I nodded dumbly, not knowing how to reply to that, and he got up to go to the bar. That gave me time to pull myself together. He was right; there was such a thing as too much information.

However, when he came back we didn’t resume that conversation. Instead, he directed my attention to various men around the room and proceeded to dish the dirt on them. This one was a Member of Parliament, with a society wife and three children. That one was a Church of England bishop in plain clothes. Over there was a well-known author who wrote spy thrillers. I had actually read most of his books.

It seemed that half the men in that bar were famous or well-connected and they were all "gay",as they called themselves. Doctors, lawyers, teachers, even policemen; the list went on and on. My view of society was changed forever and I almost started to see queers hiding under my bed. I was suspicious of every man I passed in the street for the next few days, especially if they seemed to be taking any notice of me.

The following week he took me to a club frequented by a completely different crowd. Here they were all twenty-somethings and as loud and boisterous as could be. They were flamboyant, effeminate, limp-wristed and some were outrageously dressed, tossing around “Dahlings” and kissing openly….much more in line with my preconceptions. They eyed me like some kind of strange animal but left me alone. Even the barmen and waiters were terribly swish. Steven dismissed them all as ravers and said they were the ones who gave queerdom a bad name, flaunting themselves in the faces of the “normal” majority. The heirs of Oscar Wilde he called them, not his type at all.

After a couple of drinks we left and went to an ordinary pub. I thought it was quite hilarious that he could not stomach those examples of his own kind, but then I sort of empathised with him. How would I feel if I was surrounded by yobs? He was basically an average bloke who just happened to like other men. In fact he was a kind and sensitive guy who was going out of his way for me. OK, maybe he had an ulterior motive but he wasn’t pushing it. The rest of the evening he was quite subdued, but told me he would really open my eyes next weekend. And open my eyes he did….perhaps wider than he ever intended, or I ever expected.

We went to another club and at first I couldn’t understand what he had taken me to. The place was about equally populated with men and girls. There was a woman singing on the stage, doing a very creditable rendition of “These Boots Are Made For Walking” and sounding very much like Nancy Sinatra; all the waitresses were in sexy uniforms and there were maybe twenty or thirty very pretty girls dressed to kill sitting around chatting to each other or to men at the tables or at the bar.

“I thought you were taking me to another gay bar.” I said to Steven.

“I am.” He gave me an evil grin.

“But what are all these girls doing in here? And they’re all so good-looking.”

Steven laughed.

“They’re all boys.”

My jaw had fallen halfway to the floor when a waitress stopped at our table.

“What can I get you gentlemen to drink?” In a husky tenor.

“Pint of bitter?” Steven asked me.

Totally gobsmacked I just nodded. My mind was in turmoil. He couldn’t be right.

“Two pints of bitter, love.”

“OK, Steven. Be right back.”

“You know her?”

“Him. I introduced him to this place, worse luck.”

“Him? You have to be joking.”

The girl was wearing a low-cut dress with a plunging neckline showing lots of cleavage, a short skirt, seamed stockings, high heels and was Marilyn Monroe beautiful down to the platinum-blonde hair.

“His name is….was….David, but I don’t recommend you call her that now. She goes by Celestine these days.”

I could hardly speak. It hit me like a seven pound sledgehammer. I wasn’t alone any more! Here were all these boys doing what I had thought branded me as a freak. I wanted with every fibre of my being to join them. I wasn’t alone any more!

“You mean she lives as a girl?”

“I think nearly all of them here do. You can ask them if you like.”

“But what about the singer? She has a beautiful voice. ”

“Keira? Well she should too….she’s lip-synching, although her speaking voice is such that you wouldn't know. Yeah. She’s a boy….or man now...she’s my age. Although she’s probably ninety-nine percent of the way to becoming a girl.”

My head was still in a whirl as I tried to grapple with this situation.

“What do you mean….ninety-nine percent of the way to being a girl?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that she and most of the other girls are on hormones but this is a gay club, so there’s a rule that they still have to have dicks, otherwise they’d lose their customers.”

“Customers?” I guess I was being dense.

He waved around at the men in the place.

“These are all guys who like chicks with dicks. They like to be sucked by girls who are not 100% girls. If they wanted genuine girls they would go somewhere else.”

I was trying to absorb all of this, while my mind was screaming at me that I wanted to be a girl like them. I didn’t care about the implications of the setting; I wanted to be as pretty as them and dressed like them….among people like myself.

“You seem to know some of them. Do you come here often?”

“No, I don’t. I’ve told you I’m not into girls….not even girls like these, but a couple of the boys I’ve picked up in the past have decided that they like this life and I met Keira when I was in the Army. We’re friends.”

Keira had finished singing and Steven waved at her. She waved back and headed for our table, smiling at him as she approached. She bent and kissed him on the cheek when she arrived, giving me what I can only describe as a speculative look.

“Hi, stranger; long time no see. Who’s your friend?”

She swept her skirt under her as she sat and signalled the waitress at the same time. She was a stunning redhead, if a little heavily made-up. She smiled at me and extended her hand.

“Seeing Steven seems reluctant to introduce us, I’m Keira.”

“Jack. Pleased to meet you, Keira.” I stammered out.

The waitress brought her drink just then and she smiled her thanks at the girl.

Steven managed to get a word in edgeways.

“Keira, I’m just showing Jack around. Don’t jump to any conclusions.”

“You always did like fresh meat, Steve. Has he been nice to you, Jack? What do you think of my place? I bet he hasn’t told you I’m the owner.”

I didn’t know which question to answer.

“Wow! You own it? I think it’s fabulous.”

She eyed me shrewdly. Her gaze seemed to pierce me to my very soul.

“I think you’re very interested, aren’t you? Would you like to come back again?”

“Keira! Leave him alone! I only brought him here so that he knows all the wrinkles in the scene.”

She patted him on the hand.

“Sometimes you’re awfully dense, Steve dear. I think you’ve just introduced me to my latest recruit. What do you say, Jack? Although we’ll have to find a better name for you than that.”

She knew! She COULD see into my soul. I didn’t know whether to deny it or admit it, but something told me that this was make-or-break time. I nodded “Yes” and she reached over and patted me on the cheek.

“It’s OK, dear. We’ll look after you. I think Violet will be a nice name for you. What do you say?”

I was mesmerised, but managed to whisper “Yes.”

“ Keira, leave the boy alone.”

“She’s not a boy, Steven. Are you, Violet?”

Steven got up in a huff. “You’re too bloody queer for me!” And stormed out.

Two weeks later I began my new job.

Reassignment

By Joannebarbarella

The story takes place in an alternate timeline

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The most difficult part. Telling my son and daughter-in-law what I was about to do. They said they understood but I could tell they were not really comfortable with it. I left it with them to tell my grand-children.

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The lady on the other side of the desk looked at me with what I thought was a slightly condescending air.

“It’s my job to ensure that you understand exactly what services we provide here at SR & R . Actually our name says it all; Sexual Reassignment and Regeneration but we like to spell it out so that you are under no misapprehension as to what you will get. There are no refunds.

“Our equipment will automatically change your physical sex. In your case, if you decide to undergo the procedure, you will become female. There is no choice in this. It is an integral part of the process. The second part of the procedure is rejuvenation. I see from your application that you are 74 years old. Our equipment will regress your physical age to a point five years after your original puberty. The equipment automatically evaluates what was your age at pubescence. This varies in accordance with your genetic make-up, but is usually between 15 and 19. We have no control over this. It could be slightly earlier or later, but we have never had a case where the patient’s destination age has been more than a year either side of those figures.

“You will have to have a psychological and physical examination prior to being allowed to undergo our procedure. This is not intended to prevent you from participating but to prepare you for possible unexpected consequences. You may think that you know your own mind but sometimes the subconscious has ideas of its own and we try to advise you of things that you may not have considered because they have been buried within you for many years and suppressed for social or other reasons.

“This is a radical process, both physically and mentally, so we do try to ensure you are ready to cope with the hormonal and psychological changes that you will experience. For instance, at your age, you may think that you are well in charge of your sexual preferences but you will awaken in a body of the opposite sex some fifty-odd years younger and your psycho-sexual urges will be governed by the requirements of your younger and differently gendered self. To a large degree we can predict how you will react after evaluating you psychologically.

“It may well be that you will be more submissive, or conversely, more dominant than you expect, and we will be able to forewarn you of such changes. Thus we will be able to prepare you to cope with the new you. So we require you to now take a minimum of twenty-four hours for consideration before confirming your decision to continue with SR &R in undergoing our treatment. You will then sign the necessary release papers and complete the financial arrangements before commencing the procedures that I have just outlined. I should also advise you to ensure that your younger self has access to adequate financial resources after you have regenerated. It’s great to be young again but you won’t want to be broke.

“If you have questions, save them until you return. All this can be somewhat overwhelming and it’s better to give yourself time to think.”

She now smiled warmly, that hint of condescension gone.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time?”

“That’ll be fine. If you want to postpone or cancel, let me know.”

I got up and exited her office. In truth I did not need much more information. I had researched SR & R extensively. They had now been operating long enough that any bugs had been worked out and the costs had come down from astronomical to merely expensive. Expensive I could afford. Her advice about ensuring that I had adequate access to my money after the process was very sensible.

I already knew that the treatment was irreversible and could not even be repeated until ten years after undergoing the first procedure. I didn’t care. If I didn’t do it now I was unlikely to be around to do it later. Ten years or more as a young woman sounded wonderful to me.

More than wonderful. For as long as I could remember I had wished that I had been born a girl. The invention of their machine gave me the means to finally correct nature’s mistake or her joke on me. I had “cross-dressed” (how I hated that term) enough that, even at my age, I knew I wasn’t an ugly woman and my long-distant adventures as a teenager trying to be a girl still reminded me that I would be attractive….and this time around I would be the genuine item, not a wannabee.

Time spent in reconnaissance and research is seldom wasted. I had read everything I could find about their equipment and its capabilities. I did not pretend to understand all the science behind its operation but knew that nanomachines would repair and regenerate the telomeres in my body right back to early adulthood and that it would reverse the combination of my chromosomes, which, in my case would make me genetically female.

SR & R had been operating commercially for about ten years now. I had been very tempted to use their services earlier but the combination of cost and social pressure plus the changes in our society resulting from the process becoming widespread had delayed me until now.

As usual, politicians, lawyers and bureaucrats had complicated things, but they could not resist the pressure from the very wealthy (and many of themselves) who were the earliest clients. Still, you could not have mega-rich “youngsters” suddenly of the opposite sex running around without some form of identification and registration, so everyone who was rejuvenated was required to have a big “R” embossed on all their documentation and to have their original date of birth indelibly computer-chipped under the skin of their fore-arm. Thus you knew that the apparently twenty-something boy or girl that you were dealing with was actually probably eighty years old with the experience, wealth and power acquired over a lifetime. Needless to say there was considerable resentment and discrimination towards those who had undergone the process.

I didn’t care about any of that. My goal was to be female and the rejuvenation was the bonus which would enable me to enjoy my transformation to its fullest. I only intended to use my money on myself, not to develop some kind of empire. I knew that I would have to work hard to eliminate the male traits and habits that I had had to develop, however reluctantly, over a lifetime pretending to be a man. I wanted to become a girly-girl, to be pretty and dress nicely, to giggle and flirt and dance and sing, but mostly just to be happy and comfortable, knowing that my outer and inner selves were finally in harmony. That would also need work, since I hadn’t had the benefits of absorbing those attributes while growing up.

I day-dreamed about getting married eventually and bearing my own children. The “trying” part would be fun. Yes, I wanted sex, or thought I did, and I could hardly wait to find out.

So I went home and checked that I had made the proper arrangements. My apartment would still be mine of course and I had laid by a decent amount of cash for early expenses. I had “neutralized” my credit cards, bank accounts and other investments so that they no longer carried my male identity but omitted any “MR” and my old male forename replaced by a “J”. Tomorrow I would take my identity documentation with me, driver’s licence, passport, ID Card, et al, which SR & R guaranteed to take care of as part of their service, incorporating the obvious photographic changes and the necessary “R” and birth date inscriptions to the revised documents. I relaxed somewhat, satisfied that I hadn’t forgotten anything important, but that didn’t mean I had a good night’s sleep. It’s impossible to relax when your life is about to change so radically.

The next morning I dressed in a plain track suit and thongs (flip-flops to non-Aussies), since I had no idea what my sizes would be when the procedure was complete. I turned off all my appliances except the refrigerator, which I emptied of perishables, since the process took two weeks. I packed a purse with all my necessary documents, my car and house keys and left home, hopefully for the last time as a man.

It was an uneventful drive to the Regeneration Clinic. I’m sure that for most of their clients the rejuvenation was their main goal. They wanted to be young again, and I couldn’t argue with that. The gender change was more of a nuisance to them than anything else, but it was something that they could correct in ten years. In my case it was the other way round but I didn’t have to advertise that.

My intention was to live another lifetime as a woman and then, barring accidents, undergo the treatment again, but, having lived that life, I would be a fully acclimated female and would spend the obligatory ten years living the life of a trans-girl before undertaking the process again and reverting to my true gender. I would be able to mostly be a female for the rest of my unnatural life.

The same lady greeted me on my arrival at the clinic and asked me the obligatory questions about my willingness to accept the regeneration process. Naturally I agreed and we then signed the paperwork and I handed over the payment. As was to be expected the legal releases were boilerplate escape clauses in the event that anything went wrong.

With all the paperwork completed I was ushered into a doctor’s surgery type of room where a nurse asked me to strip and lie on an examination table. A technician came and gave me an injection and I drifted off into a quasi-trance. I remember being asked questions but could not quite remember what those questions were or what I replied. I think I was given a physical examination at the same time but my recollections are misty.

When I regained full consciousness I was dressed in one of those hospital gowns and two men who I presumed to be doctors were in attendance upon me.

“May I call you John?” one of them asked, and I nodded my agreement.

“Well, physically, there is no reason why you should not receive our treatment. You have a heart condition that we know about but no other major medical problems. We will leave your pacemaker in place as it will do no harm and it can be removed or renewed when the battery runs out in about ten years. Anything else will be taken care of by the rejuvenation process and you will be a healthy young woman when we have finished with you.”

“Thank you,” I said, not feeling the need to comment further.

The other man then chimed in.

“Your psychological evaluation shows that you have a definite predilection to become a female. In fact, I am quite surprised that you have successfully functioned as a male for so many years. You should have no problem transitioning to a female personality. You will probably find that you will tend toward the submissive, but not excessively so.”

“I think I can live with that,” I responded, thinking that I knew that already.

“OK, if you’re happy with our assessments we see no reason to delay commencement of your treatment.“

“I’m ready when you are.”

They nodded to a couple of attendants that I had not seen who wheeled my gurney into another room, which was occupied by a space-age looking unit like a glass-covered coffin with lots of pipes and wires attached to it. You’ve probably seen similar in sci-fi movies. They transferred me into the unit’s bed and wired me up with lots of tubes, and then I was given another injection and it was good-night nurse.

When I awoke I was being assisted into another gurney and transported into a bed in a hospital room. One of the doctors from before came into the room and smiled at me.

“Everything went fine. May I call you Joanne now?” he asked.

My heart leapt. Joanne! I was finally Joanne!

“Of course,” I replied, savouring the newly-minted femininity of my voice.

“Well, Miss, we’ll keep you for a couple of hours and give you a shower but then you’ll be free to go. I think you’ll be pleased with the results. Just as confirmation, your transformation took exactly two weeks and the equipment estimates your regenerated physical age at eighteen years old. Congratulations.”

He turned to go. This was obviously routine for him. I lay there thinking “I’m Joanne! I’m Joanne! I’m Joanne!” A lifetime of wishing and hopeless hoping and dreaming become reality.

Then it suddenly hit me just how well I was feeling. How can I describe what it feels like to be eighteen again when the last thing you remember was being seventy-four? You do not realize how many little aches and pains and stiffnesses you put up with without noticing. I got out of bed and everything worked….I mean really worked! Bend! Stretch! Twist! No pain! No clicking of bones! Up on my toes! Pirouette! Touch toes! Jump for joy! Boobs bounce with perfect elasticity!

The marvelous feeling of being young and healthy almost made me forget that I was now a young woman. For a little while it didn’t matter. Now I could appreciate the meaning of those extra fifty-plus years of life. I knew at that moment that it had to be only a matter of time before this procedure would be available to everybody. The savings in the costs of health care would be phenomenal, and if the benefits were withheld from the general population there would be a revolution.

Then the other half of my transformation, the part most important to me, hit me. I was a girl! I looked around for a mirror and rushed into the bathroom adjoining the room, where, sure enough, there was a full-length mirror. Well! All the clichés! I stood naked and admired myself, slack-jawed.

I wasn’t Marilyn Monroe or Angelina Jolie but I wasn't plug-ugly either. My hair was not long after only two weeks in the super-coffin but it had grown and at least I now had hair over my whole scalp. Even though it was still only a few inches long the coverage ensured that it was much more feminine than before and it had regained a blonde tint that I had lost many years ago. My facial features were still me as I remembered them from when I was young but again more feminine. The differences were subtle, the nose less prominent, the eyes wider, the lips fuller, but a girl looked back at me. Just a little bit of make-up would do wonders and she wouldn’t have any problems getting a date.

Then the body. My skin was soft and smooth and virtually hairless. My breasts weren’t enormous, but I estimated B-cup. I couldn’t resist cupping them and fondling my prominent nipples with areolae over an inch across. A frisson of pleasure ran through me immediately…..later, girl! My waist was appropriately tapered, maybe 25 or 26 inches (hey, I’m 74, going on 18, and still on Imperial measure!) and my hips and bum are probably about 36. Not bad at all. I loved my legs, long and shapely and the varicose veins all gone! I imagined them in sexy stockings. I would knock them dead! Overall, I thought I had lost about four inches in height, so I was now around 5ft 6 inches.That would be a great basis for wearing 4 inch heels and , believe me, I was going to be wearing lots of high heels.

Then, of course, my piece de resistance! My pussy! It was gorgeous! The epitome of womanhood! That perfect little mound and slit between my legs with just a small bush of hair surrounding it. I wanted to stroke it and insert my fingers into it but I knew that I would lose all control if I did and this hospital room was not the place to do it. When I got home I would surrender to my desires….not here, or so I thought.

The change from male to female and vice versa was an integral part of the process and I wondered how that would go down with most people when they were offered rejuvenation and told this was part of the package. For folk like me it was a godsend but would male-chauvinist pigs accept it (Well, Donna Trump did)? Or dyed-in-the-wool feminists like Germaine Greer (oh right, she already had. No more sexist diatribes from him)? Or those of fundamentalist religious conviction? And what about Muslim males in general? Perhaps it would change the perception and treatment of women for the better, but then, knowing the perversity of human nature it might lead to new forms of sadistic and pornographic entertainment.

One thing was for sure. It could not lead to new exploitation of children because it only worked on those who were already full-grown and did not rejuvenate anybody past early adulthood.

I do not know how long I gazed at myself in that mirror but it could not have been that long because I was interrupted by a discreet cough from a nurse who told me she had come to assist me in having a shower and to get me dressed. They were probably very used to patients losing themselves in admiration of their new physical attributes and her assistance to me with the shower was one of the most erotic experiences that I had ever had. She had no compunction in handling those parts of my anatomy that I had been studiously avoiding. I’m sure she enjoyed it almost as much as I did.

When I was clean and dry and calmed down she gave me a pair of panties and brought the tracksuit and slip-ons that I had come in with and took me to a “Discharge Room” where my other belongings, like my documents, keys, etc, were returned to me and I was cleared to go home. Before she left me she gave me her estimate of the clothing sizes that I would need to purchase. Her experience turned out to be pretty much spot on and most of my outerwear would be size 12. She told me to go to the Young Misses sections for the best selections and fits and it was good advice.

In a way going home was also kind of an adventure. I had to adjust all the driving positions in my car. I felt small. Then when you are a different person walking into a familiar environment there is this sense of strangeness. I was fifty-six years younger, perhaps four inches shorter and thirty-some kilos lighter, apart from being a girl. It makes a difference to your perception of things. It didn’t detract from my feelings of elation. I stood in the middle of my lounge room and twirled. Ecstasy! Young, fit and female! What more could a girl want?

As it turned out, a girl could want her bed. Even after being confined to a science-fiction coffin for two weeks my body had expended a lot of energy and needed rest. I slid into my bed naked. Tomorrow I would go shopping for girlie things like nighties, plus anything else that caught my fancy, but on this particular night I was happy to sleep between my own familiar sheets and, with all my tensions taken care of, I had the best night’s sleep ever.

I won’t say I leapt out of bed the next morning. I don’t think that’s how girls wake up, but it was wonderful to rise without all the aches and pains that I had become used to. I walked around the apartment stark naked, feeling the breeze on my breasts and between my legs. Even doing my business was a pleasure. I showered and caressed myself in all the spots that aroused me. God, I can get used to this. It's true what they say about women having it better. I imagined a big cock inside me, a lighthouse of a cock. I also imagined it between my lips. Just thinking about it nearly made me cum. I’m going to have to be careful about letting myself go.

Before I had undergone my transformation I had devoted much thought to pacing myself in my introduction to new pleasures. I didn’t want to use up all my opportunities at once. While a twenty-four hour orgy would be nice, it would probably be more enjoyable if it was spread over a longer period. Unfortunately I hadn’t taken into account how my teenage hormones would be raging. I was as horny as hell. On the other hand I still had a 74-year-old mind restraining me and counselling caution and, as yet, I had no partner to share with.

Similarly, I had promised myself that I would not buy up the contents of a whole emporium in one go, but here I was with NO clothes. My god! Where was I going to start? Undies and nighties, obviously; a few dresses, some skirts and tops, skinny jeans and SHOES, lots of shoes. Look out, stores! Here I come!

The only usable female accessories that I had were a selection of cosmetics left over from my pre-rejuvenation days and some sanitary pads which I had laid in just in case my first period took me by surprise. I had anticipated ONE other need before my transition and that was the need to demonstrate to my own satisfaction that I really was female so I had purchased a vibrator. I wanted to insert it into myself, turn it on and experience my first orgasm as a girl! I carefully laid a towel on the bed and did just that. In seconds my nipples expanded into huge rocks and I became so wet I couldn't believe it as the dildo vibrated inside me. My skin turned into one massive goosebump and my consciousness slipped away into a mindless ecstasy as I became a single sexual organ and came like a fountain, shuddering all over. I was the biggest vagina in the universe. I could have laid there all day but with what little willpower I had left I disengaged the wonderful tool and lay there gasping as my mind returned to some kind of sanity. I thought I had definitely proved that I was fully female. I needed a shower before I did anything else!

After that all I needed to get myself fixed up for a shopping trip was a little lipstick and some eyeliner and mascara, nothing excessive, just that necessary touch that every girl needs when she leaves home. I felt so good that I didn’t think I’d need the pads but threw a couple into my purse anyway.

I loaded up on cash and cards and headed for the shops. I was going to need groceries as well as clothes. My first stop was our closest large mall and my first purchase was a pair of cheapish ballet flats so that I could discard those over-large flip-flops. I restrained myself from devastating the shoe stores until later. Bras and panties came next. I couldn’t feel like a proper girl until I had some support where it counted.

I bought two pairs of skinny jeans and pretty pink tee-type tops to go with and could not resist returning straight back home to change into my new gear; now I was every-girl on an ordinary day’s shopping. I can’t begin to tell you how good that felt. It was time now to buy mundane things like food so I was soon back at the supermarket. Some things don’t change. Male or female it was still a pain buying for one person. The stores package for families and ignore the single-person household. Everything is large, extra-large or super-sized. To avoid wasting half what you buy you have to search for the smallest sizes or go to the specialty shops where you can buy a small piece of meat or just one or two pieces of fruit.

However, it was something you got used to and I wouldn’t mind regular shopping trips until my wardrobe was properly stocked up. That could take some time….and when it was I could start all over again.

The next weeks were filled with excursions to the fashion stores, plus routine grocery shopping. It was just as well that I had provided ample cash and credit for all my new purchases. My dressing table drawers filled with panties, bras and nighties. My wardrobe was overflowing with dresses, skirts, tops and pants and I had to buy extra storage racks for all my shoes. They were nearly all high heels, naturally, and I couldn't help myself going for Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos, as overpriced as they were. My trips to the malls were dominated by those heels and tight skirts. I'm sure I was wildly over-dressed but I didn't care.

Then there were visits to hairdressers and salons for hairdos, nail jobs, ear-piercing, and all those other little things that help you to become the girl that you were always meant to be. For days I couldn’t stop myself gloating over my beautiful magenta fingernails. And ear-rings!! the danglier the better. The feel of them caressing my neck made me feel so sexy.

My first period came about three weeks after I left the clinic. I awoke one morning feeling nauseous and grumpy and headed for the bathroom straight away. I knew full-well what was causing me to feel like that. After an initial chuck I didn’t feel so bad and put in a maxi-pad to deal with the flow, which turned out to be not so heavy. In a way I was quite pleased. Firstly, it was a kind of confirmation that I truly was now fully female, and, secondly, it wasn’t that bad. I was not incapacitated like some girls. Sure, I didn’t feel great for the next three days but I could function. I accepted that it was a part of the price that I paid for my rejuvenation and years of extra life and it was something I could live with. Being female was my reward for some discomfort.

Finally there came the day when I thought that I had to front up to my family. I had butterflies in my stomach. It was one thing to have told them what I intended to do and yet another to actually show them my new self. I rang my son to organize a meeting and naturally he didn’t recognize my voice. I had to have him ring me back to convince him that I was me. Nobody else would have answered my house-phone.

With that done and a time organized I agonized over what I would wear for my presentation to them. Would I go all girly and dolled up or would I minimize the differences? I decided on minimal, because the difference would already be stunning. Their seventy-four year-old father and grandfather would now show up as an eighteen-year-old girl. That was probably enough of a smack in the eye. There was plenty of time later to parade myself as a full-blown female fashion plate.

After all, I was hoping for acceptance, not rejection, so I selected a pair of jeans and a peasant top, the latter in a duck-egg blue. Naturally I wore a bra and added a plain white camisole. My shoes were black pumps with a two-inch heel and little bows at the toe. My hair was now about three inches long in a pixie cut and of course I wore some lippy and mascara. No girl would go out without at least a little make-up. I had gold studs in my ears but no other bling. At eighteen I felt I didn’t need any more embellishment.

Besides, I hadn’t been quite honest with the main reason for my transformation. I had presented it to them on the basis of extending my life by an extra fifty-odd years, not as a means of finally becoming a woman, so I didn’t want them to think I was having too much fun being a girl.

My relationship with my family had always been pretty good. I got on well with my son Anthony and my grand-daughter and grandson were treasures. My daughter-in-law Kylie was somewhat ambivalent towards me. I felt that she didn’t like me all that much and I had mixed feelings about her. Sometimes she was lovely, like when my wife died, and at other times she was a real cow, so I had no idea how she would react to this situation when she was confronted with the real thing.

So I was as nervous as a cat when I went up to their house and rang the bell. It was my son who answered the door and he stood there kind of gaping at me. I don’t suppose I could blame him.

“Hi!” I said. “You can hardly call me Dad anymore, so let’s make it Joanne from now on.”

“Shit! Is that really you? The treatment certainly works as advertised, doesn’t it? Although I can sort of see you in there.”

“That it does. Can I come in Anthony, or are we going to stand here all day?”

He stood aside and I walked in the door, giving him a kiss on the cheek as I passed. He accepted it without flinching.

“You look a bit like Elizabeth (my grand-daughter)”

“Well, that’s not a surprise, really. I always thought she was pretty and it does run in the family. Is she here?”

“Yeah, we’re all here.”

I went into the lounge room and there were my daughter-in-law Kylie, my grand-daughter Elizabeth and my grand-son Max.

They all stared….no surprise. I went to Kylie first and kissed her on the cheek. I had expected, if there were to be any rejection that it would come from her, but she also accepted my kiss readily.

Elizabeth practically sprang at me.

“Wow! You’re lovely. Is that right, that you’re only two years older than me?” She hugged me tight.

I had to laugh.

“It depends how you look at it, Dixie (my pet name for her). I’m either that or still seventy-four or both, but we may possibly be able to have some fun together. I do feel like eighteen, though.”

Max wasn’t quite sure what to do. He was a typical eighteen-year-old teenage boy and a nerd to boot. He had all the usual insecurities and he was blushing like crazy. I just gave him a kiss and a small hug and let him come to terms with the new me.

“Would you like a drink?” from Kylie.

“A glass of wine would be nice,” I said.

“Some things never change,” but she smiled.

“I do have to be careful now. I don’t have the capacity that I used to have. One glass is my limit when I’m driving.”

So we sat and we had a “family chat”. Obviously they were curious about the procedure and how I felt now. How did I feel about being female? I sort of deflected this by telling them how wonderful it felt to be young and healthy and being a girl was secondary in a way.

My son may have bought it but I could tell that Kylie didn’t. She didn’t say anything but I was somewhat used to picking up the vibes from other women, probably because I had always been one of them inside.

When we had picked the bones out of all the supposed circumstances of my transition and rejuvenation, and it had all gone without apparent antagonism, I got up to take my farewells. Kylie was the one who escorted me to the door and then to my car, something she had rarely done before.

When we were out of earshot of the others she smiled at me, a genuine and surprising smile.

“You’re an awful old fraud, Joanne. Yes, I understand the age thing, but you really wanted to be a girl, didn’t you? That was the real reason behind all this, wasn’t it? I should have seen it before, but you were pretty good at hiding it although I occasionally had my doubts about you. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow and we’ll go shopping and have some girl talk away from the boys, but my quid pro quo is that you’re going to have to look after Dixie and keep her out of trouble now that she’s growing up. Deal?”

With one condition. You have to help me become a proper girl. Deal?

“Deal.”

We kissed. I thought we could be friends from now on.

888888888888

Ten years have passed since that day. Kylie and I are great friends. She did give me all the necessary pointers to eliminate the male traits and habits that I had picked up over the years. They were mainly fashion tips and advice on my vocabulary and body language. As each year goes by I find it harder and harder to remember what it was like to be a man. That suits me fine.

I chaperoned Elizabeth through her teenage and early-twenties years, keeping her out of trouble with predatory young men. That wasn’t hard and I like to think that she took advice from me more easily than she would have taken it from her mother.

My son and grandson became a little more distant. I think the male psyche apparently finds it more uncomfortable for me to be female. They are by no means hostile but have never warmed to me as they once did. I guess you can’t have everything.

The rest of the family, my wife’s sister’s kids and Kylie’s sisters, treat me like one of the girls. That’s just great. I’m talking to Kylie’s mum right now about following in my footsteps. She’s a bit hesitant about becoming a man, but that’s part of the deal for those extra years of life. I have pointed out to her that she can always change back after ten years.

The cost of the procedure has come down drastically and it is predicted to be available on health insurance in the near future. The insurance companies are actually lobbying for it because many illnesses, including cancers, are avoided if you take the plunge.

For myself, I sowed my wild oats and enjoyed myself tremendously. Do I like sex as a woman? Woo-hoo! Nearly all of my fantasies were fulfilled. The sight of an erect penis with my taloned fingers caressing it is enough to make me very wet.

As a man I had never been really comfortable with sex. The only way I could climax was to pretend that I was the woman in the act. Now that I truly was the woman I was able to relax and enjoy myself. I found that being fucked was the most wonderful sensation I had ever felt. Being penetrated by a hard penis and filled until my body and soul became a mindless puddle of ecstasy and being able to repeat until I was too sore to move was sensational. I delighted in giving blow-jobs too. Taking a man's cock into my mouth and licking, nibbling and sucking until he ejaculated into my throat not only made me incredibly horny but gave me a sense of power and control as most men would do anything to be blown. I soon became an expert in controlling my current boyfriends. Men are easy meat for a pretty girl who is willing to give them what they want, and I was certainly willing. Thank the goddess for the pill.

My only problem was that most of the men that I interacted with were just horny boys. Don’t get me wrong. They could walk the walk physically but were shallow kids that I found it hard to talk to. My body was twenty but my mind was still seventy-five, although that didn't matter much when I was well-and-truly fucked. Still, one has to settle down sometime.

I’ve now got a boyfriend who is of my generation….or regeneration. We understand and love each other and we are planning to get married. I have my wedding dress picked out and Elizabeth will be my bridesmaid and Kylie will be my Matron of Honour. I plan to have children as soon as possible. Anyway, practicing will be fun.

I think I’m ready.

Last week I participated in a funeral in the Taoist tradition in Hong Kong. While funerals are not most peoples' preferred activity the older you get the more of them you witness.

The Chinese experience is so different I thought I'd share it. Firstly, Taoism is the traditional religion of China with multiple gods and "saints". The terms don't translate exactly, so I'll approximate.

This funeral was for the 92-year-old matriarch of a family that I have been associated with for over 25 years, and took place in a six storey funeral parlour, which the locals call "dai jau dim" meaning "big hotel". The building contains dozens of chapel-like rooms capable of seating perhaps 200 people, except that most don't sit.

At one end is a large photo of the deceased. Behind to the right is a room with the body lying "in state" which everyone enters at some stage to view the departed. To the left is a sort of withdrawing room for the family to rest in at any time during the proceedings (toilet facilities too).

In front of mother's picture is a bowl to contain incense sticks placed by the mourners, although mourners is not the right word. the whole ceremony is quite cheerful. The hall is decked in red and white. In front and to the sides are all manner of brightly coloured paper "gifts" to accompany the soul of the departed to the other side, including paper servants and bags of rice (facsimiles). In front of that a space where family go to pay their respects, bowing three times to mum's picture and planting three incense sticks in the sand-filled bowl.

In front of this space is a table piled with fruit and pastries (real this time) and ranks of red and white wreaths, with good wishes attached on ribbons.

Now we get to the public space. On the left side of the hall are the family, dressed in white thigh-length robes over their street clothes and a sort of hessian waistcoat over those; around the head awhite cloth band with a red spot in front (think Japanese Banzai) and pinned to the tunic a black piece of cloth about two inches square. This garb stays on to the end of the "ceremony".

On the right side of the hall, six priests in yellow robes and a chief priest in cyan edged in electric blue chant, ring small bells, beat drums and cymbals and walk around a sort of altar incessantly throughout the show.

Friends and relatives wander in and out at will, chat to the family and each other, pay tribute to the deceased by bowing three times, which the family acknowledges by bowing to them. Everyone drinks tea, has the occasional snack and shake hands before wandering off.

After about an hour the "funeral director" dressed in a long white robe claps his hands and organizes a team of helpers who grab all the gifts and go up to the roof together with the family, where there is a huge furnace and all the gifts are burned. Back down to the chapel and another hour of receiving guests and chatting.

It's now 10 p.m. and everybody packs up for the night, the family being careful to identify their respective robes for next day.

The following morning the family goes back to the parlour, don their robes and bow to mum's picture again, walk round the room three times and sit and relax while a team comes in with the coffin and put mum in, leaving the lid open. Everyone then has to have a look at her before the coffin is closed. The box is then taken to the hearse, which is light blue and white. It takes her to the crematorium, followed in a bus by the family, who are carrying mum's photo and a selection of the fruit and cakes.

On arriving at the crematorium the body is taken to a chapel. All the family yell mum's name to say goodbye and she is wheeled into the furnace room. Then all the fruit and food is thrown into a fire at the side and mum's picture is also thrown in. Out into a small garden where everyone jumps over a small fire and then trails a hand through a bowl of water and wets their head, and that's it folks.

Choices
by Joannebarbarella

Life gives us many choices. Have you ever wondered where you might be (or more importantly, who you would be now) if you had made a different decision?

This story takes place between 1959 and 1961 and is semi autobiographical.