Synopsis:

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

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

Story:

Chapter 18.

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

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

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

He needed to pee. Urgently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A&A.?” David asked in a dull voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay”

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

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

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

“But not now. Not yet”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again a sad reflective shake of the head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cast frantically around for words to match his emotions.

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

“I will let you know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ‘phone rang. Again.

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

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

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

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

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

Another long pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again a pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Therapy?”

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

Chapter 19.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

David lay still, waiting for the lightening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

David’s stomach rumbled a muted agreement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then sleep finally, mercifully, claimed him.

Chapter 20.

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

“Sophie dear! Wake up darling!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interspersed were periods marked ‘Private Study’.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes but ... “

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

She leant forward and kissed his cheek.

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

“But ..”

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

And she pushed him out of the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question threw David.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

David stared at her.

“Well?” she enquired softly.

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

“It is not a fair question.”

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

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

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

“Choices don’t happen like that.”

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

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

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

She paused .

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

She let it sink in. David said nothing.

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

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

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

David cut in

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

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

“I don’t want this life!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 21.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You knew?”

She shrugged. Went back to the original question.

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

The silence grew between them. David broke it.

“And?”

“And what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfect my skills?”

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

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

Alarm bells carilloned in David’s head.

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

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

She giggled conspiratorially.

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

Again the surprisingly salacious giggle. David cringed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again the conspiratorial giggle. Husky and attractive.

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

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

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

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

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

Again the sexy, husky giggle.

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

Felicity made a moue of distaste.

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

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

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

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

Then David’s world reeled.

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

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

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

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

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

Here she winked at David.

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

She shook her head in sorrow.

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

She leant forward and patted David’s knee.

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

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

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

“A girl can’t start too soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 22.

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

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

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

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

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

History was repeating itself.

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

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

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

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

“Such progress Sophie dear!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was just a deadness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what?

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

No answer came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He put the box aside unopened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 23.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What were we talking about” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” David muttered.

“Wherein lies the problem?”

“I shouldn’t be having them.”

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

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

“And?” Dr Tabatha regarded him gravely.

David made no reply.

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

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

“I hope you can accept that Sophie?”

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

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

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

David made no comment. None was needed.

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

“Just relax .......”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A new ... My new sexual rá´le?”

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

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

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

David felt the darkness drawing in all around him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God did he really need to do this?

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve minutes gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Must hurry, he was going to be late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

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

He needed to go no further.

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

“Yes,” David said simply. “Her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips felt dry. Dryer than the penis tip.

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

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

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

‘Accept’ the voices said.

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

And he sucked.

And sucked.

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

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

Until his jaws ached.

Nothing happened.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 24.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Escape. Concentrate on escape.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And his inner voice approved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She directed her attention to the others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Infinite blackness. And then ...

Nothing.

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

After the attempted knifing, Grace de Messembry visits David in the Venumar Foundation's Hospital Research Facility, but does her gratitude lie deeper than her words? And what does she know about the knife? Emma has some rather exciting news, and some bad too. Coralie is seemingly broken just as the inscrutable branches apparently are. Otherwise nothing much happens. Nothing good from David's point of view anyway.

Story:

Because David's tale is slow in its serialisation it was suggested to me that the following character list might help in jogging reader's memories. Hope it helps.

Characters in order of appearance/mention in Part 8

David. The hero whose adventures we follow. Generally referred to by others as Sophie. ‘Recruited’ and then subjected to months in ‘Reception’ before progressing to the ‘Holding Wing’ where the subsequent action, prior to his arrival in the hospital facility, has taken place.

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

Dr. Victoria Walters. A surgeon in the employ of The Venumar Foundation. This is her first appearance although she was given a passing mention in Grace de Messembry’s ‘surgical intervention’ threat in Chapter 14.

Grace de Messembry. Majority, perhaps sole, shareholder in the Venumar Foundation, which in itself is the controlling influence of numerous international companies. She is apparently the source and instigator of all David’s current woes

Anne. One of Laura’s charges. She was already at the Holding Wing before David’s arrival. Her background is that of a boy saved from drug abuse and social problems by one of the charitable organisations under the aegis of the Venumar foundation.

Emma. Another of Laura’s charges, but a genetic girl. She, with Christine and Alice, represents the other, outwardly charitable, function of the Holding Wing, which is the education and training of girls coming from under-privileged and troubled backgrounds.

Janet. Janet Saggren A colleague of Laura’s. Her charges being Christine, Alice and Coralie

Coralie. The latest ‘recruit’ at the beginning of her feminisation. Tried to knife Grace de Messembry but the attempt was instinctively foiled by David. She shares David’s background, having been forcibly recruited and conditioned at Reception before arriving at the Holding Wing.

Olive. A predecessor of David’s and friend of Anne’s. Her suicide was seemingly directly related to her experiences at Rehabilitation to where she was sent for infraction of the rules.

Mrs Townsend. Staff. The beautician.

Nigel. One of the boys attending the last Post-Inspection party at which he made advances to David, whose stiletto heel subsequently broke bones in his foot.

Tommy. Another boy at the Post-Inspection party. Grace de Messembry sought David’s advice as to whether he would make a satisfactory girl.

Mrs. Felicity Cranwell Staff. Tutor in Female Sexuality

..........................

Girls of a masculine provenance seem destined to proceed to the Finishing Centre after the Holding Wing. At least Mona did. Other less complicated girls seem to graduate to the A. & A. programme (“‘Assessment and Assignment’ apparently). No-one knows for sure though as no-one so far has ever come back from either. All seem to be loosely grouped under the title “The Academy”

...........................

It should be remembered that the plot unfolds through the eyes of David. The descriptions of the people above conform to David’s understanding of their function, character, etc. Use of words such as ‘seemingly’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘apparent’ are because the facts, or surmises, can only be as David understands them. The reader has no other authority from whom he or she can seek verification.

Chapter 25.

A sensation of floating. The soft rumble of wheels. Voices from a distance. Voices that also floated, also rumbled. Faded and were reborn. Voices that made a sound but not words.
Purple light through eyelids.

There was a slight jarring, a sliding direction change. Footsteps echoing in a corridor.

He was lying on a trolley. Ill? Injured? He could not remember. Not another enforced lay off. The collar bone had ruined his last season. Perhaps it was just concussion.

Light flickered, prising eyelids open. Faces. Faces that he knew but whose identity eluded him.

The voices too were familiar but nameless. No not nameless. He knew the names but knew not who they were. They belonged to the faces. They belonged to ....

One of the voices formed words.

“She is coming round. Keep her still.”

Another voice.

“This will keep her quiet. Careful. Hold her.”

She? The thought came to David that there must have been an accident. There must be others injured. Another trolley perhaps. He tried to move his head to see but it was held in some kind of brace. Then soft fingers on his arm, feeling, measuring, and the prick of a needle.

A door opening .... And then David again slid back whence he had come into a velvety black unconsciousness.

When he woke again he was in a bed. In a small white room. He could not move his head but was aware of sun streaming through a window, brightening flowers on a bedside table just within the limits of his vision. Their shadows dappled across his shoulder, across the lace scalloped shoulder strap, picking out the sheen of its silken texture ....

And it all came back.

Laura’s voice from his other side, away from the window. Murmuring, soft, concerned.

“Sophie darling? Are you awake? How do you feel?”

His head ached dully, but the sickness that he felt was occasioned by the glimpse of the champagne coloured shoulder strap. He closed his eyes again and laid there, trying to sink back into the refuge of unconsciousness.

He sensed Laura standing up, leaning over him, then moving across the room, calling ....

“Dr. Walters, she is coming round.”

And then she was back to his bedside, followed by further scurrying footsteps, and the top half of the bed was ratcheted up through forty-five degrees

“Sophie dear.” A hand soft on his shoulder. “Sophie dear. Are you awake?”

Abandoning his refuge he opened his eyes. Laura was leaning over him. Her face only six inches from his. Her hazel eyes gentled by worry.

There was a tightness around his chest when he drew breath to reply. His voice came out as asthmatic whisper.

“Yes.”

More was too much to say. He still wrestled with the re-awakening to his reality.

There was someone standing behind Laura. The source of the scurrying footsteps. A plump woman in her early thirties with apple cheeks, her matronly appearance at odds with her years.

Moving forward, she took his wrist and, smiling down at David, felt for his pulse.

“This is Dr Walters, Sophie. Grace de Messembry called her in specially to care for you. She is the very best.”

The woman laughed. “Nice to be appreciated!” as she bustled about her routine, taking David’s temperature, shining a little torch into his eyes. Quick, economic, in her actions, exuding professionalism.

“Don’t worry Sophie, You were concussed but no permanent damage done. But you need to lie still to let your wounds heal. Your chest and side were sliced open. Lucky not to have been worse. Your tits saved you. But we need to ensure that there are no scars. Grace de Messembry was adamant. More than my life, let alone job, is worth, so you have to ....

“My tits? My tits saved me ....”

“Yes. Thank God for boobs! What would we girls do without them!”

Dr. Waters gave a rather surprisingly girlish giggle.

“But you will have to do without them for three or four days. Sorry about that, but we need to eliminate any drag on the skin whilst the wounds heal. So personal vanity will have to take a back seat I am afraid. Natural ones would be difficult enough but falsies are a risk too many. And as I said Grace de Messembry won’t have the slightest blemish on your skin, especially there.”

David closed his eyes again. Fatigue crept over him. His head throbbed. Thinking hurt. And he didn’t want to think. There were questions jostling in his mind that led to where he did not want to go. Not now. Not ever.

He heard Dr Walters’ voice as from a great distance.

“So stillness is the essence. I will be back tomorrow to see how you are getting on. But in the meantime don’t worry! We will have you out of here looking as pretty and as feminine as ever. And without a mark, I promise you. Just try not to move.”

A soft cool hand on his brow. Murmured goodbyes to Laura, and Dr. Walters was gone.

Laura’s voice dragged him back from his semi-conscious refuge. Her hand tentatively on his shoulder.

“I was so worried. At the time. So much blood .... And you looked deathly white. Your head made such a dull crack .... I thought, with all the blood too .... I thought ....”

She paused. David lay silent, unwilling to re-enter this world. This pretty, feminine world..

“But Dr. Walters tells me that you will be alright. That the scan, the x-rays, show no lasting damage was done. You just need to rest for a couple of days Sophie dear. Rest to let your wounds heal.”

“I can’t move.” David muttered sullenly.

“That is just a binding to keep your torso still pet. To avoid scarring. Your skin needs to heal without tensions or stresses. So no boobs and the minimum movement for the next few days.”

“What happened? I remember Coralie and the knife and then ....?”

“You dragged Coralie down when you fell. Then everyone joined in. Anne, Emma, Janet, everyone, even Grace de Messembry. It was confusing really. Between fear for you and fear of Coralie. The need to help you and the need to stop her. It ended up with Coralie pinned down with Janet and her girls sitting on her, holding legs and arms randomly. Whilst we were fussing over you. Then the medics came and you were put on a trolley and brought here.”

“Here? Where is here?”

“In the Venumar Hospital Research facility situated in the building. It also serves the needs of staff located here. So lucky that we could get you to skilled professionals so quickly! Dr. Walters is amongst the very best surgeons in the country!”

David remembered already hearing Dr. Walters’ surgical skills extolled. By no less an authority than Grace de Messembry. In almost the same words. When she had proposed a little surgical intervention on his penis. He pushed the image invoked to the back of his mind.

“What has happened to Coralie?”

“She was eventually restrained. It was all rather pitiful. She just lost it. Lost all her defiance, all her searing anger, and ended up broken and sobbing her heart out.”

“And now? Is she recovered? I would hate to think that ....”

David could see the tear streaked desperation of her face still.

“Oh she wasn’t hurt. No they finally managed to sedate her and took her off.”

“Took her off? Back to her room?”

“Sophie darling, don’t be a goose. She was, could still be, dangerous. She tried to kill Grace de Messembry. She could easily have killed you. She couldn’t be left in our little community as if nothing had happened. We would all be at risk. No they took her to Rehabilitation.”

“Christ. No!”

“Sophie dear....” Laura’s voice was gentle, her hand moved again to his shoulder. “They could not let her go on as if nothing had happened.”

“But with time .... We could have ... “

“No Sophie dear. You couldn’t.... You have your own issues to face, to come to terms with.”

Laura sighed. She sounded tired.

“And we, Janet and I, could not handle such a responsibility. She needs treatment. She will be back and then we must all help her. But for now....”

David closed his eyes. His own nightmare. The rehabilitation that had surely led to Olive’s suicide. A short weekend of which that had also scarred Anne and sealed her femininity.

The very threat of which rendered he himself impotent in resistance. Craven in obedience.

He heard Laura’s voice. “... and we have learnt from Olive’s tragedy. We now know so much more.”

But David could only see Anne’s face ravaged by grief, hear her voice choked in anguish, as she told him of Olive’s death. That they now knew so much more was of small comfort. Would be of even less comfort for Coralie in Rehabilitation itself.

“....and so I must away to prepare for this evening. Another party. Like last time. But on a rather reduced scale of course. Grace de Messembry said that she was sure that you would not want your little misfortune to deprive the others of their fun.”

David tried to catch up with the change in subject.

“But she will be dropping into see you first. Isn’t that good of her? She really is frightfully concerned Sophie dear”

David’s expression on hearing of Grace de Messembry’s forthcoming errand of mercy must have been misinterpreted by Laura, who continued.

“But you mustn’t worry about a thing darling. Mrs. Townsend has agreed to drop in first to ensure that you are looking your best for her visit. Isn’t she a sweetie? Being pale and interesting may have its attractions but is unlikely to impress Grace de Messembry.”

Again the hand brushed his forehead. “All you have to do darling is to lie there and get your strength back. If I rush now I should be back in time for her visit. Just in case .... There were some questions ....”

For a fleeting moment Laura’s tiredness let a greater worry show through, but her recovery was almost instantaneous.

“But you have surely nothing to worry about Sophie dear. Quite the little heroine really. Just lie back and let Mrs. Townsend work her magic and I just know everything will turn out fine. She will be here shortly. Until then just rest. Try to have a little nap.”

With a final flutter of her hand in a wave she left, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving David alone with his thoughts.

They were mixed and numerous. None of them happy.

Apart from the soul destroying realisation that nothing had changed, that he was back as Sophie, was the immediate concern of Grace de Messembry’s impending arrival. If that were not bad enough there was the nagging fear that Laura’s sudden uncertainty, her suggestion that there were questions to answer, might relate to the knife. If that could be traced to him. If the ever present cameras showed him hiding it. If the police found his fingerprints on it. If the police.... They might think he had planned this with Coralie. That he was an accessory to attempted murder. If the police .... But no one had mentioned the police. Which wasn’t surprising but supposing someone had been killed? Would they have hushed that up too? Not that it mattered. The police and an accessory to murder charge would be preferable to Grace de Messembry. Far, far preferable. Especially to a Grace de Messembry who thought he had conspired against her. That he had forgotten his undertaking, his promise even.

David realised that the sweat was running down his body. He could feel it under what was a sort of carapace holding his torso from the waist up in an immobilising grip. He realised that he wasn’t in any way restrained. It was weakness and the enfolding shell around his body that inhibited movement. In his desperation he considered escape. He was out of the Holding Wing’s security. The one thing which had seemed such an obstacle before. This was a hospital unit so surely it should be easier? And the door had just clicked behind Laura. No turn of a key in a lock. No lock that he could see. He struggled to sit up, the bedclothes slipping from his shoulders and upper body. Through the silken folds of his nightdress he could see the outline of a kind of armoured corset. God he was weak! The sweat broke out anew. This time because of the effort rather than the earlier rush of fear.

He wasn’t going anywhere. If he made the door and got through it, which seemed a daunting enough task in his present weakened state, his chances of proceeding further resembling a scantily dressed Boudica were non-existent.

He sank back, already feeling slightly giddy, distinctly faint. Not now. But in a day or so it must be a possibility. When he was a little stronger. He would need clothes. Perhaps if he could find a nurse’s uniform? A doctor’s white coat even. And he would need shoes. He must find out more about where he was. He must....

Through the frosted glass panel of the door he saw a indistinct shape that turned into the familiar form of Mrs. Townsend as she bustled into the room enveloped in an aura of perfume and cosmetics.

“Dear, dear Sophie! Oh you poor girl! What have they done to you! Oh darling you look positively frightful. And your poor boobs! Lucky you had them though I hear. But still you must miss them so! Never you mind about a thing though. We will have you looking as gorgeous as ever in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Mrs Townsend kept up a running commentary as she arranged the contents of a huge attaché case on a side table.

“And the party tonight too! What a shame to miss that. All those lovely young men! Still it’s their loss. Plenty of fish in the sea I say. Can you manage to sit up a little darling if I rearrange these extra pillows behind you?”

David struggled upright as she fussed behind him, stuffing and plumping pillows to wedge him in place.

There was little else to do. As ever Mrs. Townsend’s conversational style made no great demands on her companion. A smile, a judicial nod, even the occasional ‘yes’ sufficed to drop into the torrent of her words where they briefly bobbed unnoticed before they were washed away, tumbled over, in the flood.

All the while she worked on his face David moved eyelids, fluttered lashes, pursed lips, and proffered cheeks on command. At another time, for someone else, it would have been relaxing. For David it was just a reminder that he, or rather Sophie, was back, caught in the web of femininity.

It seemed to take ages but eventually Mrs. Townsend pronounced herself satisfied with the results of her ministrations. David beheld the result with sickening clarity as his face, no please God not his face, a face stared back at him from the mirror held before him. Any signs of masculinity, which must surely exist in his bone structure, had been quite erased by the beautician’s art. Jaw lines diminished, cheeks hollowed, cheekbones delicately leading the gaze to enormous eyes under elegant arching brows, his hair tumbling down the sides of his face in sly seductive curls. The generous red rosebud that passed for a mouth parted sweetly as he sought for the words of appreciation that he knew were expected of him.

“Mrs. Townsend you really are a miracle worker.”

“Sophie dear it’s lovely of you to say so, but I can only work on what is already there and you are just gorgeous darling. It is a real pleasure to work on you. We are all so pleased with your progress!”

Mrs. Townsend beamed at him with unalloyed, seemingly guileless, pleasure.

“I must away now Sophie dear. You must rest, and I have all the others to help prepare for this evening. Such a pity you won’t be there. It won’t be the same without you!”

And rest David did. Disheartened and heavy with fatigue from loss of blood, he slipped into a light sleep which must have lasted two or three hours, from which he was awakened by a voice saying.

“It seems such a shame to wake her. The dear girl looks quite angelic! ”

An authoritative, cultured, sardonic voice. David opened his eyes to Grace de Messembry smiling down at him. Helen Vanbrugh, Dr. Walters and Laura were there too providing the backdrop.

“Sophie dear,” the words dripped honeyed concern. “What a delight to see you looking so ravishing after your ordeal. I do so envy you your complexion. I do declare suffering must suit you. No do relax dear....”

This as David made an effort to raise himself from the horizontal..

“.... you must let us help our little heroine.”

This with a nod to Laura and Dr. Walters who together adjusted bed, David and pillows, until he had achieved a semi-sitting position.

“Such a pity you missed the Inspection Sophie. I do know how much you girls appreciate the chance to flaunt your progress. Such little show-offs!” This last as an aside to Helen.

“Still acts of derring-do must come first and there will be plenty of other opportunities for you to impress me with your girlish charms Sophie dear. What matters now is that you make a quick recovery. Dr Walters assures me that there will be no scarring at all. There isn’t that wonderful news!”

For the first time she paused, expecting a reply. David who till now had said nothing beyond a hasty greeting found himself meekly concurring. Agreeing that the fact that his breast would be unmarked was a great weight of his mind. He added that even more so was that Grace de Messembry was herself unscathed by the events. And damned himself for being an hypocritical creep.

“But all thanks to you Sophie dear, Without your spirited intervention goodness knows what that little wildcat might have done. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Grace de Messembry’s emerald eyes widened dramatically in horror at the recollection.

“The ingratitude of the girl. After all we have done for her.”

She begged enlightenment from David.

“What could have possessed her Sophie dear? Such a wicked thing to do. At first I thought she had a grudge against you, and after all that Laura tells me you did to help her! Did you have any inkling that she wished to harm me. You acted so quickly and resolutely!”

David swallowed. “Miss de Messembry, it was just instinct. I saw the knife and acted. I didn’t think. It all happened so quickly. I responded. It was instinct.....”

Grace de Messembry nodded her head in sympathy. “So quickly. Yes. So very quickly. She just stooped and picked the knife up. She must have known it was there. Planned it beforehand surely?”

She turned to Helen Vanbrugh. “The knife was from the bar I believe Helen?”

Helen nodded. “Yes. It was used to slice lemons.”

Grace de Messembry looked thoughtful. “You must have been amongst the last to use it then Sophie dear,” she purred, “A little bird tells me that you like the occasional gin and tonic and I think the rest were drinking Pimms or wine. Your fingerprints must be all over it darling. Lucky Helen has persuaded me to keep the police out of it otherwise they would be asking awkward questions no doubt.”

She shrugged. “Best to keep our little contretemps in-house don’t you think Sophie dear. We don’t want the local constabulary with their size 13's clumping all over the place frightening the girls with their clumsy questioning about a Miss Lavender with a knife on the roof garden. Such a lack of imagination. No wonder crime is increasing at such an alarming rate. The poor dears are quite out of their depth.”

David felt chill under the bed clothes. The sweat again running down inside his chest armour. She must know about the knife. At least must suspect something. Please, please let her not think he had planted it there for Coralie. Best tell some of the truth. What she must already know. Hope it be sufficient.

“If it is that knife then I did use it that evening Miss de Messembry. To slice a lemon. Although the knife I used was not the usual one. I can’t remember, I don’t know, what happened to it afterwards. I went back after dinner to look for my lipstick, and as I found it Coralie came up looking for Janet Saggren. I don’t recall seeing the knife again. I only saw her briefly, in passing, but Coralie certainly didn’t have a knife then. ”

But Grace de Messembry seemed already to have lost interest in the knife. “Sophie dear, I don’t expect you to have a scullery maid’s obsession with the bar’s inventory. That is not at all what you are here for. Suffice it is that you get well soon and are none the worse for your experience.”

Her tender and caring smile switched back on, illuminating her face with something akin to gratitude.

“But I really am forgetting the real reason that I am here Sophie dear, apart from seeing for myself that you are on the road to recovery, I have to thank you for saving me from a most unpleasant confrontation.” She shuddered. “It still seems difficult to believe that Coralie would have had the temerity to actually attempt to use the knife against me, good sense would surely have prevailed, but even so I am of an age when a wrestling match with a distraught girl is to be avoided if at all possible. So undignified.”

She shook her head in sorrow.

“Quite appalling how ignorant young people are these days If you ever decide to knife someone Sophie dear, always remember to thrust outwards and preferably twist upwards. Striking downwards may look alright in theatrical performances but it is quite impractical in real life situations if you wish to inflict serious injury. The angle of the blow is all wrong.”

She paused, smiling down at David.

“However that may be, your instinctive action, giving no thought to possible danger to yourself, is highly commendable. And indeed I find it most touching that your identification with our little community here can provoke such an automatic reaction in its defence.”

Grace de Messembry placed a small, elaborately wrapped package on his bedside table. “This comes from my own parfumier in Paris, so very select, and I am sure you are going to love it. It will make you feel so very, very, special every time you wear it. Not the scent he formulates for me of course, but still quite exquisite. More youthful and a little flirtatious, naughty almost.”

David began to mumble his thanks but Grace de Messembry waved the stumbling expressions of gratitude aside.

“Sophie dear no need to thank me. I do so love pampering my girls and I know how you just love perfume. A girl has to ring the changes you know. What is the name of the one you normally favour dear?”

David thought desperately. Behind Grace de Messembry’s back he saw Laura mouthing a word at him.

“Blue,” he said. “La Perla’s Blue.”

“Yes of course.” Her smile was tender, concerned.

“But Sophie, above all we mustn’t let this little setback hinder your progress in any way. I have asked Laura to liaise with Dr. Tabatha, and all your teachers, to visit you here so that you can continue to benefit from their help as near normally as possible. Deportment will just have to concentrate on hand and head movement rather than posture of course, but the other studies should be able to continue more or less as normal with a little thought and ingenuity. So you don’t need to have any worries on that score.”

She patted his shoulder reassuringly. A shadow of sadness momentarily dulled the sparkle in her eyes.

“I am afraid I have not been able to consent to Dr. Walters’ suggestion that we use hormones to aid the healing process ....”

David could not prevent his face from mirroring the horror that he felt. There could be no doubt as to the gender of the hormones in question.

Grace de Messembry held up an elegant hand to forestall any protest.

“Sophie darling you mustn’t be too upset. I do appreciate the importance you must attach to breast development. It is so natural for a girl to have such longings. After all breasts do put the budding into femininity.....”

The sympathy of her smile invited David to share in her little pleasantry.

“.... and Dr Walters did put up a strong case on your behalf. It would condition the skin as well as help ensure a perfect unmarked result. Apart from the desired overall ramifications. But I had to over-rule her. I do so hope you will forgive me, but I am quite set against any hormonal treatment in the Holding Wing, however meritorious the case, however deserving the girl. The importance of a girl’s mental pilgrimage is paramount. How can a girl concentrate on that against a background of an emotional roundabout of hormonally induced mood swings?”

David, eyes closed, heard himself murmuring weakly “No.”

“So glad you understand Sophie dear. What a sensible girl you are turning out to be! Patience is such a virtue!

David felt the wave of despair sweep over him, and again, and again. “No.”

“Sophie dear you are looking a little tired. What a brute I am to keep you from your rest!”

She looked at her watch in mock alarm before turning to the others, ushering them in the direction of the door

“And I too must be going Sophie dear, to prepare for tonight’s little soirée. We all must. So sorry that you can’t be with us. I know the boys will be quite devastated. Not Nigel of course. He is still hors de combat. Such a nasty break. But the others will all be there and I did so want your further advice as to whether Tommy would suit.”

Again the warm, complicit smile.

“Dr. Walters will drop in later to give you a sedative to ensure a good night’s sleep. Oh and don’t worry about the knife episode. I expect that poor Coralie will be persuaded to tell us the truth about her moment of madness anyway, so no need to worry your pretty little head about it.”

And with that parting shot she glided out.

David lay there. The Damoclean sword was still poised there. That Coralie would reveal all was beyond doubt. It would not be an option for her at Rehabilitation. It all depended on whether she had seen him secrete the knife or had just found it herself by accident. The second option seemed unlikely. But maybe she was unsure as to whether he had just dropped it? There were too many ifs. And Grace de Messembry didn’t need the considered opinion of a jury before deciding guilt.

And no hormones. No hormones now. ‘No now’ meant ‘Yes later’.

There was a remote control on his bedside table, half hidden by some flowers. In an attempt to clear the devils of thought from his head he switched on the TV set in the corner. The thought occurred to him that it might be out of the closed circuit of the Holding Wing. He should have known better, he reflected wearily as a programme celebrating the presenter’s skill in disguising largish ears by the astute choice of earings flickered into life. He looked at the package Grace de Messembry had left him. He had to open it with every manifestation of girlish delight. That he knew. He would certainly be monitored here as in the Holding Wing, and his adherence to the promise he had made to embrace femininity applied even more urgently now. If he were to escape he needed them to be off guard. And if he couldn’t escape, with the knife question unresolved, he needed equally to reinforce his appearance of compliance to Grace de Messembry’s wishes. Otherwise he would be following in Coralie’s footsteps.

His own earings flashed as he reached out his newly painted fingers to unwrap the perfume. The bottle itself would have made René Lalique proud to acknowledge it as his own. It would probably figure in some Antiques Road Show in later years David thought bitterly. He forced a smile as he gently freed the stopper and held the bottle to his nostrils. He didn’t need to breathe in. The scent itself freed itself from the bottle like genie from a lamp and insinuated itself into his nostrils. Pervasive, persuasive, an understated fragrance that spoke of feminine seduction in knowing, irresistible, terms. God knows what it must have cost.

He put the stopper back and replaced the bottle. The scent still embraced him. The woman on the TV was now advising on the which earings suited different hat shapes, interrelated naturally with the hairstyle and the occasion. It was almost a relief when the door opened to admit Dr. Walters.

“Just dropped in to make sure that you are O.K. Grace de Messembry would have me garotted if she thought you were not getting the best of care. And to give you this.”

She placed a half filled glass on his bedside table.

“It is just a sedative to help you sleep. You lost quite a lot of blood and you need rest badly. The binding is essential to avoid distortion of the scar tissue at this stage but it is not conducive to slumber. So this will help.”

Dr. Walters smiled conspiratorially at David. “Don’t look so suspicious dear. You don’t need to drink it. Only if you have difficulty getting off to sleep. Your choice absolutely. The essential is that there are no scars. If there are Grace de Messembry will not only have me garrotted but will have me publically dismembered first. Starting with my own boobs.”

David tried desperately not to think of why so much importance was being attached to an unblemished chest. Distractedly he asked. “What happened? I mean what damage was done to my chest. By the knife. What scars?”

Dr Walters nodded her head and slipped into professional mode. “You probably remember that there were two blows. The first was a stabbing motion which sliced into your chest from above. Grace de Messembry was quite right in her condemnation of it as an inefficient mode of attack although the Lord only knows where she acquired such expertise. It was almost vertical when it sliced into your bra and breast forms which in turn probably diverted the blade’s direction even further. In addition Coralie’s knife hand actually was buffered by the forms so that the blade achieved significantly less penetration than would have otherwise been the case. It ended by sliding downwards across four ribs.”

“And the other ....?”

“The other, the second blow, was also a downwards stab executed when you were grappling with Coralie and your bodies were quite close together and both off balance. Less power in the blow then. It hit a little lower down and about an inch to the left of the first one ....”

Dr. Walters’ face split into a grin.

“.... and it glanced off the under wiring of your bra darling. It slid from there along one rib, opening it up for about four inches along its length.”

The grin was now broad under her rosy cheeks. Inviting David to share her delight in his good fortune.

“Bloody and messy indeed but it could have been much worse. In fact it would have been if you had not been wearing your bra and breast forms. You really are such a lucky girl!

Chapter 26.

“Lucky fucking girl! Jesus fucking Christ!”

After Dr Walters’ departure David stared at the wall opposite. All his demons of despair were back, racing round his brain, competing for his attention, vying amongst themselves in their capacity to sicken him.

If he were lucky he would not be here, if he were lucky he would not have been stabbed. He would not have depended on a bra and on breast forms to ward off a knife.

And lucky wasn’t the word anyway. It wasn’t a question of luck. He was a victim. The victim of a considered attack on his liberty, identity, mind, body, on all that he was. Not a question of being lucky or unlucky.

He was the possessor of small hands and feet. Emma’s theory about his being selected because of his bone structure was probably correct. But even that was genetics. Not luck. That and because small hands and feet were perhaps a pre-requisite for a project concerning broken branches. In China perhaps? Or china conceivably? Were they going to use him for a Royal Doulton shepherdess model? Christ he had to keep it within the bounds of reason. Stop his mind wandering into sheer fantasy. The must be a good, solid, financially viable, reason why a large corporation was investing so much money in a project, whatever its name.

Thoughts crisscrossed in his mind. Thoughts of broken branches and the unknowable ‘why’. Thoughts of hormones and the waning of his masculinity. Thoughts of escape and what he would do thereafter. Thoughts all spiced through with a fear that made the sweat break out and prickle over all his body.

At one stage the lights in the room dimmed and then went out. In the dark, thoughts and fears swirled around his head long hour after long hour. Interrupting each other. Disorientated by fear and bleak imaginings.

At some stage he reached for the sleeping draught and swallowed it.

The light filtered through his eyelids. There was the clatter of a tray. A hand gently shaking his shoulder. A soft gentle touch on his shoulder, not really a shake, just a slight pressure to call his attention to the day.

“Good morning Sophie. Just hold on whilst I wind the bed upright.”

It was a nurse. Young, pretty, clad in a rather old fashioned uniform.

“Do you want the loo? I can help you to go if you like? Or at least help you out of bed. I have brought you some orange juice. Your breakfast will be ready in about five minutes. I do hope you are hungry? You can bath later.”

David’s bladder called out for relief. The nurse helped him out of the bed and he found that although weak he could walk well enough, albeit with the upper part of his body unwieldy and stiff in its shell. There was a door to small toilet and bathroom at the rear of the room to the left of the bed wherein David repaired.

He squatted, pulled up his long nightdress and, staring down at his smooth legs and pretty painted toes, urinated. The lace embroidered cups of his nightie, denied the soft swelling for which they were designed hung empty, and disconsolate on his flattened chest. Curiously he felt more vulnerable at the sight of the disordered unfilled lace. In a perverse way the absence of breasts seemed to draw attention to the empty cups which in turn mocked his putative femininity.

What must the young nurse think? How she must despise him? She was the first person not directly involved in the process that David had met since he began his transformation, and the thought inhibited him. God how she must despise him under her professional exterior. His padded back into the room. His cheeks already red at his humiliation.

Nothing but a rather charming smile greeted his return. If she had any thoughts as to his feminine pretensions no-one would ever know, least of all David. She helped him back onto the bed which was now adjusted to allow him to sit upright.

“Such a pretty nightie, love the colour,” was the only comment she allowed herself, as she bustled out with the promise that she would be back in a wink of a maiden’s eye with his breakfast.

After breakfast David ran himself a shallow bath and carefully washed himself as near to all over as his chest binding allowed. The young nurse had tried to insist that she helped him but he had managed to persuade her that he could manage and she had finally assented and left him alone; but not without dire threats as to what Dr. Walters would do when she learnt of his unreasonable obduracy.

On his return to the room he found that a new nightdress had been laid out for him. In a delicate peach colour. And in addition a pair of matching panties. They were needed as the nightdress hardly covered his hips. Not that the panties were designed to cover much. Rather to allow any fortunate observer tantalising glimpses of flesh through lace.

Without the benefit of panties, nothing had been more than lightly veiled by the discarded nightdress David rather belatedly realised, and the nurse’s ‘pretty nightie’ remembered comment made him blush anew.

He was exploring without enthusiasm the possibilities of the various magazines and DVDs when Dr. Walters arrived.

Pulse and temperature were taken. Questions asked about how well he had slept and how he felt this morning. Was there any pain or discomfort?. Another sedative promised for that night. He was suitably admonished for not accepting the pretty young nurse’s offer of help when washing. And it was pointed out to him that it was in fact extremely selfish of him to do so, as they all, Dr. Walters and the nurse included, bore the responsibility for his complete, and unmarked, recovery.

Reluctantly he promised to accept help when offered in future. In return Dr. Walters expressed herself very satisfied with his progress and promised an armchair. She also predicted an early return to the Holding Wing. Perhaps as soon as the end of the week if he behaved himself. She would know better on Monday when she would have a look at his wounds. Hopefully she could then replace the dressing with something less constricting.

“I will see what we can do about a provision for breast forms ,” She announced with a reassuring smile. “Otherwise none of your clothes will fit, and we can’t have you lazing around in nighties all day!”

“Oh, by the way,” she continued, “you will be able to insert this again now.”

She handed David his butt plug in a plastic sachet. “We removed it when you first came in but no reason why you can’t use it again now. There is some lubricant in the sachet to be going on with, and Laura has promised to drop further supplies in along with your other toys when she visits in later today”.

David felt the crimson mount in his cheeks.

“Anyway Felicity will be here on Monday or Tuesday to continue her lessons so if you want anything more you have only to ask.”

Dr. Walters chuckled. “You do well to blush Sophie dear, Felicity is a very imaginative lady when it comes to a girl’s best friend. She astounds even me sometimes.”

And to David’s chagrin the plumpish, apple-cheeked doctor roguishly, but unmistakenly, winked at him. A conspiratorial, all naughty girls together, wink.

When she finally left David busied himself with a desultory reading of the magazines, Marie Clare, Cosmopolitan, etc., interspersed with glassy eyed watching of the television. None of it sank in. It just it put off what he knew he had to do. Certainly before Laura came. Now in reality. They were watching and they would know. This was a battle he had already fought and already lost. If he hadn’t before Laura arrived, she would want to know why. Point out how he had to conform. How he had promised. Point out the consequences of not doing so; even of seeming reluctant to do so.

If he hadn’t, then she would insist it be done immediately. And that would cause more problems. He couldn’t really reach with one arm. It was difficult to do without twisting his body. Damn it, it was difficult at the best of times. It was too thick. It hurt to insert. At least it did until it was over the widest part and sank home, drawn into place by its narrowing contours. And with one arm and his body held largely immobile he wasn’t sure if he could do it. But if he didn’t, if he tried to explain, she would be all sympathetic and understanding and offer to do it for him. Or she would ask the pretty young nurse to do it for him.

Neither option was to be contemplated.

It was difficult, but he managed by wedging it upright and with the one hand steadying it, locating it, and then slowly, painfully, lowering himself down on it until that moment of relief when it slid securely home

He pulled up the lace creations that passed as panties and, humiliatingly conscious of the anal intruder, was back in bed when there was a tap at the door.

He thought it must be a mistake. A tap? People just walked in here! Nobody ever tapped. But he could see a shape through the distorted glass and the tap was repeated.

Perhaps it was Laura wondering if he was asleep? Hesitantly he responded, calling “Yes?”

And the door opened and in walked Emma, a broad smile on her face as she rushed over and kissed him warmly.

“Darling Sophie, darling, darling Sophie!”

“Emma how good to see you . But how, how did you get here?”

“Darling Sophie. I walked!”

Emma eyes sparkled as she laughed.

“Such news Sophie darling. Such news! But first how are you? You brave dear girl!”

Emma disentangled herself from David’s embrace and taking each of his hands in hers leant back regarding him intently .

“Mmm pale and interesting but as pretty as ever! But you are really alright? Laura says so and Dr Walters says so, but are you really?”

“Yes Emma, I am really. Wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy, but I am on the mend, and hope to be back with you at the end of the week. But how did you get here. And where is Anne?”

“Anne is fine Sophie darling. She sends all her love to you. But of course she could not come. Whereas I, whereas I .... Well as you can see, I can!”

Emma’s excitement bubbled over. “That is my news Sophie darling, but don’t be upset, promise me you won’t be upset. ‘Cos I won’t be leaving you, not really. Not as if I was just going to A&A and disappearing!”

Emma clapped her hands together. “I have told Anne and she thinks it’s a wonderful opportunity for me, she quite understands. Especially as I won’t really be going away and nothing will really change. And if I didn’t, well we would be parted properly, sooner or later, whereas as it is.... Tel me that you are happy for me too dear, dear, Sophie!”

David regarded her gravely. His mind tried to grapple with her news. It made no sense. Only that she was not really going away. Not really. He realised how much he had come to depend on her and Anne. Without their support he would be another Coralie in all likelihood. Or another Olive. Perhaps it would have been better though... David sighed.

“Sophie! You are not pleased! Why the sigh? Really I shall still be here for you! Please don’t sigh like that.”

“Emma, I just don’t understand. You are going away but not really. You ....”

“Sophie dear, are you sure that you are alright? Your head did go with an awful crack! I have just explained darling. Grace de Messembry told me at the Inspection. She offered me the chance to stay on after A&A as understudy to Laura and Janet. The poor girls have had no proper leave for months and months, simply ages. So after a while I could relieve them and anyway it is hoped to expand and they will need me and .... and even when you and Anne move on I will be able to keep in touch with you, Grace de Messembry promised and ....”

Emma paused, breathless.

“But do you want to Emma. Work here I mean?”

Emma looked at him, understanding in her eyes. “Sophie dear, I know, with you and Anne it is different, but my life before here was a living hell. I owe the Foundation a great deal. As do many girls like me. I would like to help others, like me, to regain their lives. Even Anne.... Well Anne had a hopeless drug addiction as I understand it. She knew a hell similar to mine. She would have been dead months ago. And well she is happy now, far happier than she was at any rate. And Mona too I think. The quality of life for most of us is comparative Sophie.”

David remained deathly still. Staring blankly to his front.

“And Olive, and Coralie? What about them?” ‘ What about me’ he would have added but the words would not come. Could not come. Stuck in a voiceless throat

“I do not know Sophie dear.”

Emma came close again and took his hands.

“I do not know the whys and the wherefores. Maybe a great wrong has been done. Is being done.”

“Maybe? Only maybe?”

Emma nodded. “Is then. But the wrong is not of my doing. And I can try to help. Try to lessen the suffering of those wronged. To lessen the hurt, your hurt, Sophie. As I have always tried to do.”

Her eyes met his.

“Laura told me that you had suffered to much, that your sense of injustice was too great, for you ever to understand why. That in accepting I risked losing your friendship and respect. Even though in a way you, Anne, Olive, Coralie even, were part of the reason I did accept. She said that that might be the price I had to pay.”

Her grip tightened on his hands.

“Laura said .... She said also that if I was very lucky, in spite of everything, you might still remember that I am your friend. And accept me as such.”

All her previous excitement, all her earlier bubble and sparkle, had gone now. She was deeply anxious. His response mattered a great deal.

David felt a great loneliness sweep over him. He wished he had known her before, before all this. In that other world. He would have fallen in love with her he suddenly realised. Perhaps he had even now in spite of everything .... But that was unthinkable. Must be unthinkable now.

Through the heavy silence the stretched between them she searched for a response. It had been delayed too long. And suddenly he knew that in spite of his isolation, because of it perhaps, he needed to guard some human contact. That he could not demand perfection of such. That it had to be taken and cherished in whichever form it came. That he had to remain part of the world.

Emma must have read it in his face because she moved closer and the hand holding became an embrace which lasted and lasted. At one point David felt her body tremble with suppressed sobs, but when finally she disengaged herself, apart from an unnatural brightness of eye, there was no sign of anything but relieved pleasure.

“I am so glad, so very glad,” she said.

“I am too,” David said, “so very glad.”

And they began to talk of other things. Afraid to venture back onto emotional ice, lest it prove too thin, or too concealing.

“We were all so worried about you on the roof garden.” Emma said inconsequentially. “There was a lot of blood and you were out cold., hardly breathing it seemed. We were all fussing round you, everyone offering advice, mostly conflicting. And poor Coralie screaming and swearing at Janet Saggren and her crew who were sitting on her, trying to bring her arms and legs under control.”

Emma giggled..”Utter chaos really. Until Grace de Messembry got a grip on things that is”

“Grace de Messembry? I can’t imagine her joining in a rough and tumble”

“No of course she didn’t Sophie dear, she just stopped it. It was a bit scary really. She told Helen to ring first the Hospital facility and then Security, and then she just went and half knelt by Coralie. Said something to the effect that knifing people was bad enough but to compound it by behaving like a fishwife was quite unforgivable in one of her girls.”

“The next thing we knew there was a scream followed by a quiet whimpering. She had Coralie’s little finger bent back in her hand. She told Christine and Alice that they would be more decorously employed by getting her and Helen a drink. And she asked Janet to pass her one of your shoes that had fallen on the path nearby.”

“My shoe?”

“Yes Sophie dear. She held it by the toe and brought the stiletto heel to just above Coralie’s eye. Almost touching. And she smiled at her and said. ‘Don’t worry about your finger Coralie dear, fingers mend. Concentrate upon what losing an eye will be like. And the other one too if you persist in this behaviour. Just lie still like a good girl if you don’t want to be sightless’.”

Emma shuddered.

“And she went on in a gentle conversational tone, as if admiring the view, about how it would be such a pity if she, Coralie that is, would not be able to see in her mirror in the future just what a beautiful girl she had become.”

“That is when Coralie broke and it was all over. She just seemed to crumple. Closed her eyes and began to cry. On and on. Not loudly but coming from deep inside. Just crying quietly as if she would never stop. She was still doing it when they came to take her away. They had to carry her.”

Emma hesitated. Then softly “I can still hear her. As I said I want to help.”

She stood up, looking at her watch. “I must away Sophie dear. I have to get back to A.&.A. this evening. I only managed to see you today because I had to come for my implants at the Facility here. So I ...”

“Implants Emma? Surely you don’t need, aren’t having ...?”

Emma laughed. “Don’t be an idiot Sophie dear. No not those. These are identity implants. Venumar’s version of VeriChips. All the staff have them, didn’t you know? They are about the size of a grain of rice so they are easy to inject under the skin and quite unnoticeable when in place. All the latest modern technology!”

“All the staff? But why Emma? What do they do?”

“They identify us. Allow us access to the Foundation’s facilities. Meals, Health Clubs even. Lots of things. I am only just starting to find out. Nothing to worry about Sophie dear. They don’t contain any information on us apart from who we are, to identify us as being part of the Venumar Foundation. No privacy issues at all. I expect even Grace de Messembry has one, although her’s will give her unlimited access of course whereas mine gives only a limited one. Just sufficient for me to move about and do my job.”

“Move about? Move about where Emma ...”

“Why anywhere I need to go Sophie dear, otherwise I would be weighed down with keys and have to prove who I was at every ....?

“Keys? You don’t need keys Emma?”

“Of course not. They are instead of keys. No-one uses keys. There are no keyholes. The door senses that you are authorised and opens on the turn of the handle.”

David felt the coldness descend.

“My door here too”? He asked..

“I imagine so”, Emma said. “As I understand it is quite a cheap mass produced fitment and it is easier to have a blanket use than to differentiate degrees of security at the basic level. But I don’t really know. It would need you to try it to find out. As I am tagged it is just automatic.”

“Oh.” David mentally saw the portcullis descend again.

But Emma was getting ready to leave and didn’t notice the deadness of the syllable. “I have a hectic few days in front of me Sophie dear. But I should be back with you in the Holding Wing within ten days. They say my A.& A. stay is purely a formality. Just to introduce me to the workings of the system.

Emma came close again leaning over and kissing his cheek, giving him a parting hug.

“You will never know how much your understanding means to me,” she said. “Laura told me that you had a great generosity of spirit and she is right.”

And then she was gone, turning the handle of the keyless door and slipping out into the corridor. The door swung shut behind her and closed with a quiet determined ‘click’.

Deep within him, the butt plug commenced its insistent vibration.

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

David's ascent, or descent, depending on one's point of view, into femininity continues with a cruel inevitability. But then a distant flicker of hope, of light at the end of the tunnel. Or will it turn out to be an approaching train? And Coralie returns, but alas no longer the girl you may remember. Oh, and some of the 'why' is revealed unto David. Not that he finds it reassuring.

Story:

Because David's tale is slow in its serialisation, and long in the telling, it was suggested to me that the following character list might help in jogging reader's memories. Hope it helps.

Characters in order of appearance/mention in Part 9

David. The hero whose adventures we follow. Generally referred to by others as Sophie. ‘Recruited’ and then subjected to months in ‘Reception’ before progressing to the ‘Holding Wing’ where the subsequent action, a part from his stay in the hospital facility, has taken place.

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

Emma. Was another of Laura’s charges, but a genetic girl. She, with Christine and Alice, represents the other, outwardly charitable, function of the Holding Wing, which is the education and training of girls coming from under-privileged and troubled backgrounds. Now graduated from the Holding wing and is a junior staff member

Mrs Townsend. Staff. The beautician.

Veronica Staff. Tutor in Deportment

Sally Staff. Tutor in Voice Training

Ms. Shelton. Staff. Tutor in Fashion (First appearance)

Mrs. Felicity Cranwell Staff. Tutor in Female Sexuality

Dr. Victoria Walters. A surgeon in the employ of The Venumar Foundation. She was responsible for his recovery after his knifing. She was previously given a passing mention in Grace de Messembry’s ‘surgical intervention’ threat in Chapter 14.

Grace de Messembry. Majority, perhaps sole, shareholder in the Venumar Foundation, which in itself is the controlling influence of numerous international companies. She is apparently the source and instigator of all David’s current woes

Anne. One of Laura’s charges. She was already at the Holding Wing before David’s arrival. Her background is that of a boy saved from drug abuse and social problems by one of the charitable organisations under the aegis of the Venumar foundation.

Daisy A genetic girl. In Laura’s group, replacing Emma. (First appearance)

Janet. Janet Saggren A colleague of Laura’s. Her charges being Christine, Alice and Coralie.

Coralie. The latest ‘recruit’ at the beginning of her feminisation. Tried to knife Grace de Messembry but the attempt was instinctively foiled by David. She shares David’s background, having been forcibly recruited and conditioned at Reception before arriving at the Holding Wing.

Olive. A predecessor of David’s and friend of Anne’s. Her suicide was seemingly directly related to her experiences at Rehabilitation to where she was sent for infraction of the rules.

Dr. Tabatha O’Neill. Staff. Psychiatrist.

Helen Vanbrugh. Grace de Messembry's close confidante on whom she appears to exercise a moderating influence. She was at David's first interview when he was named Sophie. It is to be assumed that she has director status in the Venumar Foundation.

Nigel. One of the boys attending the last Post-Inspection party at which he made advances to David, whose stiletto heel subsequently broke bones in his foot.

Tommy. Another boy at the Post-Inspection party. Grace de Messembry sought David’s advice as to whether he would make a satisfactory girl.

Girls of a masculine provenance seem destined to proceed to the Finishing Centre after the Holding Wing. At least Mona did. Other less complicated girls seem to graduate to the A. & A. programme (“‘Assessment and Assignment’ apparently). Emma passed through A & A before returning as assistant to Laura and Janet. Nothing is known for sure about the Finishing Centre as no-one so far has ever come back from it. All seem to be loosely grouped under the title “The Academy”

It should be remembered that the plot unfolds through the eyes of David. The descriptions of the people above conform to David’s understanding of their function, character, etc. Use of words such as ‘seemingly’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘apparent’ are because the facts, or surmises, can only be as David understands them. The reader has no other authority from whom he or she can seek verification.

Chapter 27.

The penis jerked in his hand, as the first jets of semen surged to the back of his throat, to subside into a repetitive twitching as the remainder of the cartridge’s contents voided themselves into his mouth. His cheeks bulged as a thin gelatinous trickle of the stuff escaped from the corner of his lips and a string of viscous pearls bled slowly down the side of his chin.

Eleven minutes forty three seconds. David looked at the oval, pinkish, face of his watch before rising to his feet and making for the bathroom. He was getting better at it. Three minutes thirteen seconds better. And his jaw ached less. Technique was more productive than desperate effort.

He brushed his teeth, had a mouthwash. Felt better. Not that the taste was repulsive. Quite bland really although the texture was strangely unctuous. How close it was to the real thing he had no way of knowing. Hoped desperately against hope that he never would. But the act encapsulated both his own subservience and his apparent destiny. He felt so very dirty. So very abandoned.

Three minutes thirteen seconds better. It had been far worse back there. Back in his hospital room when he had to contend also with the spectre of the pretty nurse coming in through the door to find him sucking on the false penis. And the sheer bloody obstinacy of the thing. Unyielding and unresponsive. Sullen and inactive in his hand. His mouth aching with effort. Forced back to the 'How to please your Man' DVD to learn technique. All the time conscious that she might at any moment enter. Rehearsing what he could possibly say if she did. Imagining her placing the tea tray in front of him with a smirked 'Whenever you are ready Sophie dear.'

To learn the technique was to drastically reduce the period of time in which he was vulnerable to the humiliation. At least being back in his room in the Holding Wing spared him that. Back home, hidden from others' eyes, from others' secret laughter behind well schooled expressions. Back home. Back in the Holding Wing.

At least here he had some illusions of privacy. There he had always been aware of the corridor outside. The silhouettes of others glimpsed through the frosted glass of the door. The sound of footsteps, of other unknown voices. Of an outside world complicit in his fate. Indifferent to it.

Compounded by his restricted immobility in a smaller area. A bed, the armchair alongside it. The tiny bathroom. All liable to be invaded by nurses or visitors.

Laura had arrived five minutes after Emma's departure with various 'essentials', including the abhorred ‘Oral Gratification Training Aid’ complete with a fresh box of cartridges. Hospitalisation had brought no respite from his obligation to embrace femininity. That much Laura had made plain during her visit. Not that she needed to. David was only too aware of his situation. Aware that the ice was ever thinner now that the question of the knife had been dropped into the equation. And Rehabilitation seemed an even more immediate threat with Coralie's dispatch there. At any moment David feared he might be seized and made to follow. If, no not if, as soon as she had revealed where she had found the knife. But nothing happened. Normality returned.

Or what passed for normality. The established routine of lessons, hours of instruction in the beautician's arts by Mrs Townsend, deportment by Veronica and in voice training by Sally. They at least passed the time, kept his mind from turning over and over in ever more futile speculations. Kept him in touch with some sort of reality, however unwelcome. Even a new addition, a Ms. Shelton, who had led him into the intricacies of the fashion world, had provided an interest, even a form of escape, in which he could hide from what it all meant.

The reality became nightmarish though with Mrs. Felicity Cranwell and her sessions encompassing the wilder shores of female sexuality. Her sweetly coy innuendos, her all-girls-together manner. Worse, far worse, his forced acceptance of her training schedules. His humiliation in both the act itself and in his acceptance of it. In the hospital facility it was magnified by the fear of being caught by a visitor or one of the nursing staff, whilst sucking on the damn thing. All compounded by the fact he couldn't make it work. Couldn't activate the bloody cartridge so it would, in discharging its load, bring the session to an end. His jaw, his whole mouth aching, he had had to pause and watch the accompanying DVD and study the intricacies of technique necessary to spark off the artificial penis' artificial orgasm. Time and time again, day after day. Eleven minutes and forty three seconds was a hard earned, record breaking, sprint

So his return to his room in the Holding Wing had an air of reaching a haven, of a homecoming.

Much as David hated the idea he could not deny it.

Laura had brought him back that afternoon. In a wheel chair. She and two male porters both of whom were about 6' 4'' and built like the proverbial brick outhouses. Just along a couple of short corridors and two floors up in a lift. No way to run. Even if he had known where to, or had recovered sufficiently to, or if the two hulking porters had suffered simultaneous and fatal cardiac arrests. Just corridors bounded by doors which he now knew he could not open.

Dr. Walters had removed his dressings that morning. There were only two thin red marks remaining to show where the knife had slit open the flesh across his ribs. He was assured that in another two or three weeks they too would have faded away. No need now for the heavy carapace. Just a deep bodied liberty bodice garment which held his chest firmly but lightly. It even had delicate lace edged bra cups incorporated and special lightweight breast forms had been found to give the requisite silhouette.

“Don't let it worry you Sophie dear,” Dr. Walters had said. “I know they feels all wrong. No real satisfying heft and of course they don't make the bust sway as it should, no sexy jiggle, but you will be soon be able to wear your normal ones. Just give it another week. Just to make sure.”

“I do think Grace de Messembry could have been a little more flexible about a hormone regime.” This last to Laura who had been present at the examination. “It would have made such a difference and I do think Sophie deserves every consideration after all she has gone through, and after all she will....”

Her sentence had faded in mid air. Said or unsaid though the message was the same. David shook his head to rid himself of the memory of the thought. He felt his hair brush against his cheek, his earrings lightly kiss the soft skin by his ears. The thought smiled at him gently and retreated to the fringe of his consciousness, where it jostled with other feminine concerns that now seemed to congregate there. Always present, not quite in the shadows any more, smiling at him, whispering to him.

He was to meet Laura and Anne on the roof garden in an hour. He had to get ready. Mustn't be seen looking dowdy and washed out. He owed it to them, to Anne in particular, just to reassure them that he was recovering. Dear Anne. She at least understood, even if she had accepted the ..., had made the adjustment, was now .... well .... reconciled. And there was to be the new girl there, Emma's replacement; he mustn't let the side down. Needed to support Laura.

A long hot soak was what he needed first. A long hot soak with lots of bath salts and bubbles. Time to relax, to put the last few days behind him. To think positively. But first he must decide what wear to meet them all ..... A long hot soak would help there too.

Fifty minutes later David was sitting at his dressing table, leaning earnestly forward to the mirror, as with the utmost concentration he removed a minute errant hair from what was already a perfectly arched eyebrow. With a small sigh of satisfaction he sat back and examined the result. At least his make-up skills had benefited from the long boring hours in hospital. The dusty pink of the new silk slip that Laura had given him was a bit of an eye opener. Pink really wasn't his favourite colour, he was always a little chary of it, but this particular dusky shade really was something special. And the lacy bodice and the frilled lace at the hem were so deliciously ... well frivolous. Not too mention the matching satin bows. Mmmmmm.

And just a spritz of the perfume that had been Grace de Messembry's present. Just to mark as special his return from the hospital.

With one last approving glance he stood up and went to the bed on which lay a Cacharel silk satin dress in a dusky pink only the slightest bit darker than the slip. Only slightly darker but just sufficient to give it an even more sultry look. It really was so very elegant with ribbed edging on the short V neckline, on the short sleeves and on the gather below the bust.

Ready to go. And only five minutes late. Well he was worth the wait David smiled to himself as he did a final half pirouette before the cheval glass near the door. The smile reflected back to him in the tall full length mirror. The smile of a very attractive girl. An attractive, immaculately turned out, girl.

The smile died in the mirror. Died on the lips of the attractive girl in the mirror. David found himself looking at himself, looking at David. A David dressed as a girl. Dressed by David as a girl. Dressed willingly. Christ! Dressed and prepared with pleasure, with enthusiasm even. Sophie not David

The shades at the edge of his consciousness retreated, reformed, whispered amongst themselves.

Christ! It was happening now for longer periods. Longer periods in which he would forget. Longer periods in which he would lose himself. Longer periods in which he would be lost.

Not just forget he was wearing a dress or a bra with false tits. That was easy. That was even normal. If you did it day in day out, day after day, one could not always be aware of the silk against the skin, of the weight on the chest. Of the heels and the perfume. Of all the outward trappings of femininity. The sensations were staled by custom. That was reasonable. If you twisted an ankle, burnt a finger, or even got lost in a book or heated in a conversation. For a measurable time other thoughts often took over. You didn't think 'wearing panties still feels odd and incidentally that searing and quite excruciating pain in my finger probably means I have caught it in a door, and I do so wish I didn't have to grow my nails quite so long,' .

But what was happening to him was different. Quite different. Different from the outer trappings. This concerned the inner core. Sophie seemed to take over for increasing periods of time. The increasing dreams were worrying enough but this concerned his waking hours in full daylight.

He had to fight it. The TV, the DVDs, and their hidden subliminal messages must be getting to him. But he could not escape them. Some he had to watch as part of the agreed programme. Some he didn't need to but .... Hell, he couldn't sit staring at a blank wall in his room all his solitary hours, and the books and magazines he had available were probably as insidious in their implanting of ideas!

But he must be aware. The battlefield was in his mind and he must exercise his own thoughts there. He needed to hold on for dear life to what and who he was.

For a moment he was tempted to change into something simple, less feminine than the dusky pink dress which he realised was essentially Laura's choice. “With those lightweight boobs and bodice you really need to wear silk slips so that your clothes move freely Sophie dear,” she had said. “And I saw one only this morning that I know you will just love. .... and the perfect dress to go with it! I know you will just love the colour!”

But it was too late. He was already late and the others would be waiting; and whatever he changed into would be only comparatively less feminine. He was quibbling over matters of degree. Conscious of the frilled lace of the slip brushing his thighs under the dusky pink dress he stepped out into the corridor and made his way to the roof garden.

It was early evening and warmer now than in those early days of May when he had first arrived. The roses that edged the walkways were now in full bloom and they, and the lavender that had been planted amongst them, calmed the senses with their fragrance. Laura was sitting, alongside another girl, at the small table near the bar with her back towards the steps, but Anne was facing expectantly and she was on her feet and running towards David before he had fully gained the garden level.

“Sophie darling! Dearest Sophie!” Her hug has all enveloping. Her body soft and perfumed to put the roses and lavender to shame. Supple and feminine, her hair brushing his cheek. Any vestigial traces of maleness in facial bone structure vanquished by the beautician's art. Not that one looked for traces. Her gestures and movements were so archetypal feminine, schooled by minute attention and long practice, that Anne and masculinity could surely not even breath the same air.

“Dearest Sophie!” Her hands clasping his shoulders she stepped away from the embrace and looked at him, her head slightly on one side, as a girl might regard a particularly expensive gown she was considering purchasing, holding it at arms length to catch the effect of the play of light on it. And then, as if satisfied by what she saw, she enfolded him in her arms again.

“I have missed you so much Sophie. Been so worried. We all have. And it has been just terrible not to be able to see you, although Laura has given us daily bulletins. And Emma having gone away too. It has been terrible. I have been so very worried. You must promise never to do such a silly thing again. Well of course it wasn't silly ... it was sooo brave of you. But you could have been killed and then what would we have done?”

“Put her down Anne dear. Remember her ribs. She will need to be hospitalised all over again if you squeeze her so.” Laura was there now standing behind her.

“Welcome back Sophie dear. I don't think I need to tell you how much you have been missed.” Laura's hazel eyes smiled at him, sincere, reinforcing her welcome.

Oh Sophie I am so sorry, I forgot, please forgive me!” Anne released David as if he were some fragile Royal Doulton figurine.

“It's alright Anne dear. I'm nearly mended. And anyway a greeting from you can only complete the healing process.” He smiled at her. He was glad to see her. Glad to be back here and away from the hospital facility.

“And you must meet Daisy.” Laura gestured towards the other girl at the table who had risen to face them. “Sophie this is Daisy. Daisy this is Sophie.”

David muttered a greeting to the waif like girl who stood there nervously. She was small with light brown hair and enormous brown doe eyes. Cockney by the sound of her voice but that would be schooled out of her.

“Anne has been training Daisy on how to prepare a gin and tonic in anticipation of your return,” Laura smiled. “So now is her opportunity to show what a good student she is and for you to show how good a judge you are.”

David sat there, at home but trying not to be. His gin and tonic in front of him. Ice jostling the lime as the bubbles floated upwards. It was a warm balmy evening. His companions were warm and friendly. It was Friday evening with a leisurely weekend stretching before him

He was in a sort of hell. An insidious one that seduced by pleasing. Whose kind understanding disarmed his resistance. A hell that accepted him, cosseted him, told him he was amongst friends.

Even the new girl Daisy. He had been chary at first, nervous of her. As with the nurse in the hospital facility he was hypersensitive to the fact that he was masquerading as a girl. Fearful of what she might think of him, embarrassed that he appeared less than a man, anticipating their scorn for being what he must appear to be. But if anything she seemed nervous of him, deferring to him, treating him as a senior girl. Nothing in her demeanour suggested that she detected in him anything other than a female whose accomplishments she, Daisy, was anxious to emulate.

Later Janet Saggren's group joined them. David's dusky pink dress was oohed and aahed over yet again. The tale, with individual embellishments, of the previous Friday's happenings was told and retold. David was told how brave and decisive he had been, how well he had recovered, how absolutely stunning he looked now, and how they all adored him.

It turned into an impromptu welcome-back-Sophie party. They all dined together, with joined tables and much clinking of glasses and general girlish merriment.

Later, much later when David had finally regained the solitude of his room, he undressed, cleaned off his make-up, applied the recommended night cleansing cream to his face, and crawled in his baby doll into bed. And slept.

And the dreams that came were gentle and comforting. They soothed him and spoke to him of summer evenings and the laughter of friends. Of being at home amongst those who appreciated him, who thought him amusing, and pretty, and desirable. Dreams where there was always the scent of roses and lavender in the air, always the embrace of soft supple bodies and the caress of silken hair against his cheek. What bliss to be a part of, to be at one with, such a world!

Unless of course you were a man and those attributes described you rather than others.

It was the butt plug that woke him. Seven o'clock of the morning. He didn't need an alarm clock. At seven o'clock always that spreading warmth that in turn stiffened and hardened his penis. He lay there waiting for it to subside. Trying not to touch himself, not to fondle himself, not to succumb to desire awakened in such a manner. The desire, the physical yearning for sex, was strong and so very urgent. Yet let it not be awakened, not be controlled, by that. Let it pass first. But this morning it continued until well past the five minutes which had been the norm until then, until his prostrate was itself twitching and squirming under its attention. Out of his control his cock spasmed in the dying moments of the plug's own movements. He grasped the softening organ between finger and thumb as he stumbled to the bathroom to finally release the long lumpen streams into the toilet.

Even this act seemed to no longer be under his control but could be activated without his consent. Humiliation even as his masculinity was asserted. At least he could though. For the moment. Until such time as he was put on a hormone regime that had been so often referred to. Not now. Not now they had said. But sometime surely? That much was implicit. And surely that must.... maybe it wouldn't, but surely it must? In the long term....

Saturday morning and the weekend stretched before him. Forty eight hours free of lessons on how to fulfill his feminine potential, a pause in the incessant indoctrination. But a time to be equally dreaded. Forty eight hours in which he had plenty of time to think. To brood on past wrongs and future terrors. On the terrors of an unknown that seemed less and less unknown. More and more predestined.

Dressed in a rose Cuban strap top and mid thigh black skirt of a soft jersey material, he went in search of breakfast and company. His choice of clothes was dictated by the contents of a wardrobe revamped in his absence. His search for company occasioned by his need to escape his own company and the thoughts that crowded in on him when alone.

At the breakfast table for company he found not only Anne and Daisy, but a sparkling Emma who, as she explained, was now officially joining them as assistant to Laura and Janet.

“But not till Monday darlings,” she explained. “I am just here as a friend now. I am supposed to be taking this weekend off but I couldn't wait to see you both and to tell you. We shall have such fun, and I know I can be such a help.”

So the morning meal was stretched by coffees towards noon. Gossip, and plans, and how Emma's elevation to being 'one of them' would make no difference to their friendship. And how she could help them so much. And what fun it would be. And who she could invite to the next post-Inspection party. Oh and did they know that Laura had put Michael in touch with her and that he had invited her out to dinner that very day? And how he had some dreamy friends and she was sure that amongst them there would be someone who would be just right for Anne and Sophie, and how ....

And then Daisy had to be brought into the conversation and everything had to be repeated, had to be explained to her....

And how Laura had wanted her back in good time before Coralie's return as she would be needed to ...

“Coralie? Back here?” David woke from the sedative effect of the gossip. “Is he, is she coming back? When?”

“Of course she is Sophie dear! Where else would she go? And Laura says we all have to be extra nice to her to help her get over... help her recover from.... get used to us all again and .... well... settle back into the routine here again.”

Emma's eyes turned to David in sudden alarm. “Oh poppet I know that it must be sooo difficult for you after the terrible thing she did, but you will try won't you. I mean I think you will find she is truly sorry and....” Emma floundered.

“Emma, don't worry. It wasn't her fault. I know how she felt. I ....”

David could only think 'There for the grace of God go I. Might still go if the truth about the knife is known or if.... Of if he fell into one of many pitfalls.'

He shook his head and then quietly to Emma. “Don't worry. She is a victim like ....”

'Christ be careful' he thought, 'otherwise you will follow in her footsteps.'

“I mean she, Coralie, was not thinking... I am sure it was not through malice, not through wishing to harm me, I just got in the way, was just a victim of circumstances.”

Emma rose and hugged him. “Sophie dear you are such a forgiving angel. You are just the sweetest natured girl, isn't she Anne?”

“Of course she is, but we have always known she is.” This with a grave smile from a suddenly rather subdued Anne.

David knew she must be remembering Olive's death, and wondering how Coralie had survived her spell in Rehabilitation. As was he, with the added concern of what she had said under interrogation about his part in secreting the knife. Nothing more had been said though. Nothing had happened since Grace de Messembry's visit although the fear still smouldered at the back of his mind. And in a curious way that was almost more worrying. Coralie must have known. And if she did know she would have told. They would see to that! They must know surely? And yet .... nothing?

He smiled at them. “Not an angel at all,” he said. “Just trying to be fair.”

And with that the talk strayed back into more girl gossip involving fashion, and Emma's forthcoming dinner date with the dishy Michael, and what she should wear for it.

David's weekend passed as he desperately tried to immerse himself in this humdrum feminine trivia. Anything to keep the demons of thought at bay. Not that it did of course, but at least he found minutes of refuge when the questioning was stilled. Sometimes he was too successful and he slipped seamlessly into the rá´le. Relaxed feminine moments when his training took over. When he became Sophie. Then he would find himself jerking back into reality with a start such as he remembered from college lectures when the fall of his hungover head had halted him on the brink of sleep's abyss.

More and ever more it happened. It became ever easier for him to escape into acceptance. An unquestioning acceptance where his demons of thought were stilled.

Monday brought a return to the routine of work and lectures. It was if he had never been away. Apart from the fact that he now had no hopes of escape through an unlocked door. Or of managing to acquire keys to doors. And if he ruled out doors ....?

What escape was there?

And if he ruled out escape.....?

Chapter 28.

His Tuesday's appointment with Dr. Tabatha was the first time he had seen her since before the knifing. She had, she explained in apologising for her absence, been called away for ten days on another case.

“So I missed all the excitement,” she smiled. “I gather you were quite the heroine of the hour? Grace de Messembry was quite cross with me for not being there. She felt that I had a role to play in soothing any trauma that you might have suffered. Did you? Suffer any traumas I mean?”

“No.”

“No? Most people would. All that blood. You could have been killed they say. A different angle of the knife. That is all.”

“It happened so quickly. It was over before I had time to think. Just an instinctive reaction.”

“Of course. I understand. But traumas come afterwards when the shouting and tumult have died away. In the stillness of the night when you are alone. Later, sometimes much later.”

“Not with me. I had, have other.... No, not with me. It doesn't seem to be that important.”

Dr. Tabatha smiled at him in an understanding way. “No, not that important. I don't suppose it would be. Not in the scale of things. No reliving of the moment then? No dreams?”

“No dreams of that.”

“No dreams of that.” Dr Tabatha devoted all her attention to her silver pencil as it performed arabesques in between her fingers. “But dreams of something else perhaps? I recall you accused me of inducing some by hypnosis at an earlier session.”

“I still have those dreams.”

“Which dreams?”

“Of being a girl. Each night. And sometimes even ....”

“And they are still so very unpleasant? But no, as I recall they were rather enjoyable at the time, but worrying in retrospect, on waking?”

“Not just worrying! Hateful!”

“Oh.”

There was a pause. A long pause. The silver pencil twirled in Dr. Tabatha's fingers.

“And you said 'and sometimes even'. Sometimes even what?”

“Even when I am awake.”

“You have waking dreams? Daydreams of being a girl? People usually daydream about things they desire, would like to happen. Whereas I thought you ....?”

“No, not daydreams. I just seem to forget that I am not a girl. I mean .... It is difficult to explain....

“Try.”

“I just forget I am me. For minutes on end. As long as thirty minutes once, sometimes. I seem to slip away .... into another reality. Become someone other than me..... Become....”

“Whom?”

David closed his eyes. They felt wet under his lashes.

“Sophie..... Sophie I suppose. I seem to get carried away by it all. By the femininity. More and more.”

Dr. Tabatha's pencil stilled. She nodded.

“And it is unpleasant? Unpleasant at the time? Or .... like your dreams? Only when you wake?

“When I jerk back into reality. Like wakening; when I realise what has happened.... I feel ashamed that I let myself .... And fearful that .....”

“Fearful?”

“Dreadfully. Scared to death.”

“Of what?”

“That I am losing myself. That in the future I will loose myself. Become someone, no something, other. There can be no greater fear.”

“And yet the experience itself is not unpleasant?” The pencil was moving again, turning slowly now, thoughtfully even, the fingers considering every twist.

“No.” The word emerged reluctantly. “The reverse really. When I am relaxed, contented even, I am most vulnerable to it. To .... to being other than me.”

The wetness behind his lashes, seeped out, and gathering itself into a small tear, crept out from under the mascara, over the liner and trickled hesitantly down his cheek.

“And?” The prompt was a gentle one.

“That is the worst of all. The real me knows knows neither contentment nor relaxation. How can I? The real me is in a hell from which I can only find relief, escape from, by ..... by not being me.”

There was a almost inaudible clink as Dr. Tabatha laid the pencil down. She sighed.

“I do not know how I can help you Sophie. I am supposed to help you find peace of mind, to ease mental anguish, but such relief is what you fear most.”

David was beyond words. The tear channel felt cold on his cheek. He knew words would undam the lurking flood. A nod, eyes downcast, was all he could manage.

Dr. Tabatha's low voice seem to come from further away. It sounded strained. Almost as if she too was caught up in an emotional involvement. But perhaps it was just that David's consuming misery formed a layer of insulation around him.

“Eventually you will have to come to terms with the situation Sophie you know. I can smooth the jagged edges for you. But only you can solve what now appears unsolvable to you. Only you can choose. And mean it. Accept or reject.”

“I can choose? Choose? What choice have I?” David's voice twisted bitterly through his choked throat, the words falling, dead weight, between them.

“Only you know the answer to that Sophie. Or can arrive at an answer to that. And mean it. And accept it. Whatever it is. Only you.”

She picked up her slim silver pencil again.

“In the meantime Sophie dear, lets see what a little hypnotherapy to ease away the tensions, clear away the extraneous clutter.”

She sensed David's reluctance.

“As ever Sophie you have my word that nothing I do will be harmful or against your interests. And again I assure you that I cannot make you more feminine or less masculine by one iota. It just doesn't work like that. Sometimes it might be easier if it did.”

She moved the little video screen in position and flicked a switch.

“Just relax,” she said. “Watch the screen and listen and relax .....”

The curious, now becoming familiar, numbness crept through David's limbs as he listened to her voice softly, soothingly, cajoling, gentling him. Speaking of fears that were not fears, of the need to be at one with himself. Calming him. Calming him, David, by name, and allaying any worries of loss, lightening his despair. Nobody had called him David since he came here. But now she did. Now Dr. Tabatha did. Allaying anxieties and asking him to relax, to .....

And it is true that when he awoke he did feel calmer, more relaxed; although of course nothing had changed. Nothing, just as Dr. Tabatha had foretold.

Nor did much change for the rest of the week. The lessons continued. With Sally for Voice Training and Veronica for Deportment. Sessions with Mrs. Townsend which delved ever deeper into the art and application of cosmetics, and with Ms. Shelton who led him into the highways and byways of fashion.

And with the disturbingly salacious Mrs. Felicity Cranwell, more journeys into the dark world of Female Sexuality. With great pleasure, and even greater insistence, she announced that she, Sophie, could now graduate from the initial butt plug to the second size. “Only four to go after this darling,” she had exclaimed with her trade mark girlish enthusiasm, “and then you will be ready for all eventualities. Such a lucky girl!”

Early Thursday morning, David had a visit from Dr. Walters.

“Just a check-up Sophie to make sure all is progressing well.”

And all apparently was. No inflammation and the scars, although still there, were far less red. and already smoother against the surrounding skin.

Dr. Walters smilingly broke the glad tidings to David

“Grace de Messembry will be so pleased Sophie! I promised her that there would be absolutely no mark on your breast and it very much looks as if my optimism was justified. Indeed I do think that you will be able to go back to wearing your proper breast forms in time for tomorrow's Inspection. So very satisfactory!”

David had forgotten about the Inspection. Well not forgotten exactly. That was not possible as it, and the need to prepare for it, be at one's best for it, was a constant refrain. He just had not realised that it was so imminent. Perhaps it was that he had forgotten it was Thursday or that Friday followed Thursday. Or that it was nearly a fortnight since the skirmish on the roof garden.

“Just one little proviso, Sophie dear, you must wear at least a light corset or some form of bustier to support the weight rather than an ordinary bra. And absolutely no adhesives!”

She smiled at David encouragingly.

“But I am sure that Laura will be able to find you something ravishingly pretty that will fit the bill. And at least you will be able to wear your clothes with more confidence. Balance and feel are so important. Dear Veronica was telling me how difficult it has been for your deportment with those flimsy foam things. No heft to them. No heft at all and .... well no sway, no jiggle.

Hardly had the door closed behind her than David was dragged from his contemplation of the morrow's meeting with Grace de Messembry, by the familiar double tap that presaged the entry of Laura.

She had not been so ever present since his return. Emma's arrival to help her and Janet Saggren had seemed to have had the effect of making the two mother hens busier than ever as they showed their new assistant the ropes. Or perhaps it was just that she was concentrating on preparing Daisy for her first hurdle. David and Anne seem to have been promoted to school prefect status, largely relied upon to ask for help and guidance as and when they themselves felt the need, rather than being forced fed. Not that any lapse or lack of enthusiasm on David's part passed unnoticed. Reminders of his promise to, his bargain with, Grace de Messembry, and the sure and certain consequences of any breach of such, arrived swiftly enough if he was at all lax in his pursuit of femininity. But it was as if Laura felt that the crucial stage was over and that she could relax as far as he was concerned and concentrate on other priorities.

As if he had already been consigned to the file marked 'Inevitable — Just Aid Achieve Perfection'.

The aid to perfection this time took the shape of a selection of light corsets and bustiers suitable for his breast forms as suggested by Dr. Walters. David forced himself to enthuse as Laura spread the garments out, held them against him, and then helped him try them on. His body had forgotten the heavy sway of the Venumar forms. Dr. Walters had been right. The difference in posture and movement was marked. So much more natural to be feminine in movement and gesture. Looking down at the softly swelling mounds under the scalloped
lace edge of a pretty champagne satin bustier, David again saw through Sophie's eyes, and smiled an unforced welcome at the return of the enhanced femininity.

Perhaps Laura sensed it, for she too smiled gently and caressed his side in a sympathetic, girl to girl gesture, running appreciative fingers down the silky material.

“So much nicer Sophie dear, so much nicer. It's by Favia del Core, one of the new generation Italian designers. So romantic the tapestry satin, with the ribbon lace front and back. And a snap front .... so practical!”

She giggled.

“And it comes with matching g-string panties which are perhaps not so practical for you darling. Such a pity! Still something to aspire to perhaps....”

This last casual phrase jolted David back to himself. He wondered if Laura had dropped it in on purpose as a test. She wasn't normally so careless. She didn't say things that might ..... might alarm. And 'something to aspire to' certainly did alarm in that context! But if she had she gave no sign and seemingly did not notice his mental shift, as she enthusiastically extolled the virtues of the bustier's detachable lace sleeves that could be worn on or off the shoulders.

A couple of hours later the alarm bells rang again. A loud, strident, tintinnabulation.

They were about to start lunch. David was hesitating between a delicate beef consommé and some chicken pate, allegedly home made. Anne and Daisy had already opted for the former but thought they ought perhaps to wait for Emma who had, so Anne said, promised to join them.

And at that moment Emma did. All smiles as she came into the restaurant and hurried towards them. Hurried towards them trailing Coralie in her wake.

The latter was outwardly just the same as the morning David had last seen her. At least at a distance. Blonde, pretty and petite with a flawless complexion. David thought now, as then, how well they had chosen, Grace de Messembry and her nameless talent scouts. She was still a trifle unsure on her 3” heels and her movements were stilted and artificial. Not, David cringed at the thought, as polished as he was, certainly not in the same league as Anne, but the potential was there as it had always been.

And yet there was something different. Before Coralie had radiated vitality. A vitality born of defiance, sheer bloody mindedness, a snarl at all-powerful authority. Perversely it had made her more alive, more vibrantly attractive in being what she rebelled against being. Even at her most sullen her energy had smoldered. Awaiting to erupt.

As she drew near David could see she was now but a shadow of what she had been. Now all had changed. Now she was trying. Trying desperately to achieve grace and femininity. She walked erect, her chest proud to display her breasts, her hips moved self consciously as did her elbows and wrists. All wanting, wanting so very much to do the right thing. To be girlish. To be what she was meant to be. To fulfill the destiny ordained for her.

And all that wanting, all that desperate, febrile, wanting was concentrated and reflected out through her large blue eyes, under her mascaraed lashes.

Those waiting at the table were on their feet as Emma stepped slightly to one side to allow Coralie to greet them.

“I am so very, very, sorry.” The words tumbled from her lips, repetitive, incoherent; but no-one could doubt their sincerity. “Please forgive me. I am so so sorry .... It will never happen again ... I promise! I am so ashamed! What must you all think?”

She turned to David, tears streaming down the satin of her cheeks, “I don't know what to say. Just that I didn't mean to hurt you .... That I am so sorry. And after all that you had done to help me, to help me understand... What must you think of me? Please forgive. I am soo.... soo...”

She stumbled and half fell into his arms, her head buried on his shoulder, her body shaking.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I will be, am, such a good girl now.”

The poignancy of this last phrase distilled into a pain in David's own heart.

His arms closed round her back. Held her tight. It was an automatic an action as when he had tried to intercept Coralie's knife nearly a fortnight ago.

“Don't worry,” he said. “Of course I forgive you. Nothing to forgive really. You poor darling, such stress.... Please don't cry.”

Over Coralie's shoulder, David saw Emma watching him. Saw her incline her head slightly in a small nod of approval. Saw that Laura had now also entered and was standing watching.

The sobbing slowly died down, reduced to sniffling and then silence. David unwrapped his arms and exposed her to the gentle forgiveness of Anne.

Then they all sat down and ate. Coralie first refreshing her make up in an attempt to repair the ravages caused by her grief. The conversation was artificial, all apart from Coralie making resolute efforts to skirt round the events on the roof garden. Trying to draw her into more general conversation with little snippets of compliments as to how pretty she looked. Coralie herself could not stay away from the subject of her contrition for long though and kept returning to it with promises of how she would make it up to them all in the future by her exemplary behaviour.

“And I am sure I don't deserve it, but Grace de Messembry was so sweet and forgiving. I was worried sick that she wouldn't let me have this second chance to find my true self.”

David choked over his sea bass and needed to drain his glass of white wine, aided by some helping pats on the back by Laura, before he could nod his appreciation of this evidence of their benefactor's generous nature.

“I feared she would just throw me out, abandon me, after what I did .... But she was so kind as to say that she still believed I had promise.”

Coralie's gaze turned on Anne and David.

“You must adore her so. And I know she thinks the world of both of you. All I had to do, she said, was to follow your example. To apply myself whole heartedly to the task before me and that all the support in the world was here to enable me to achieve perfection.”

David felt a chill creep in the central core of his spine. He daren't speak. He knew both Laura and Emma were watching him. Hopefully for different reasons.

“She, Grace de Messembry, told me that if I could blossom as you two have done then all her work would have been well worth while. That my success that would be reward enough for her.”

David could not trust himself to speak. Thankfully he left Anne to enthuse over Coralie's new found conviction and to promise all possible help in her endeavours.

“You are amongst friends here darling Coralie. Truly you are. We are just so glad that you are back with us.”

The spine's chill became a shiver. David looked down and saw his breasts quiver slightly, felt their new weight. Unconsciously his hand rose to them. His exquisitely manicured hand with the perfect lacquered nails and the pretty sparkle of the ring. He could not afford silence.

“Yes Coralie darling. Of course you can count on us. On our friendship. You know you can.”

It was lame. But it was all he could manage.

She turned towards him and he knew then that behind the desperate wanting that he had first read in those large blue, carefully accentuated, eyes there lay something else. Something that gave the eyes an extra darkness. It was not something that you could see, not something you could identify. More like the image of a void. A black hole which had found refuge there, hiding from space. The mirror image of an abyss into which those eyes had once looked. An abyss in whose depths they had seen things that should not be seen. And which would ever rest in the memory, haunting the very soul.

David remembered Olive's suicide and although he, please God, would never fathom its full depths, it came to him in a harsh blazing insight why she had sought death.

Chapter 29.

'Click-clack, click-clack.' His heels beat out the rhythm to the sway of his hips as he ascended the steps to the roof garden. As his head rose above the floor level he could feel the sun warm on his face. It was early and he was the first to arrive. Laura and Emma, with Mrs. Townsend in close attendance, were devoting all their energies to perfecting, as near as was humanly possible, the grooming of Daisy and Coralie. Even Anne, herself quite impeccably arrayed and prepared, hovered round offering advice, encouragement, and carefully judged, confidence boosting, flattery.

David had fled. His needed time, if only a few minutes, away from it all.

He was, he knew, beautifully turned out. He did not need Laura's and Mrs. Townsend's assurances, although of those there had indeed been plenty. His hair was longer and fuller now and the weeks of care and conditioning had allowed a cut that softened his face so that in conjunction with Mrs. Townsend's cosmetic wizardry, no casual observer would ever detect any trace of masculine bone structure in his face. Just the elegance of a rather beautiful girl blossoming into her early twenties.

His dress flowed around him, a deceptively simple dark russet sleeveless dress in pure linen. Long, reaching to mid calf, slightly fitted and seductively styled with a jellabah neckline and high side slits to mid thigh.

Grace de Messembry would be well pleased with the progress he had made, with this outward confirmation of his embracing of femininity.

As was becoming the norm he had slept well too, awaking refreshed and bright eyed after a night of content and ease. Not perhaps dreamless for at the edges of his consciousness he could remember, if not the dreams themselves then their general tenor. But that too was the norm and, as always, he was grateful that the detail escaped him.

Perhaps then Grace de Messembry would have reason to be well pleased with his inward progress too, he thought bitterly, if she could but know his mind. The thought occurred to him that perhaps she could. It provided no comfort.

He stood at the edge of the garden, staring through the glass panels that had been erected after Olive's death. How many weeks had it been? Five? Christ not even quite five! He was aware of his ghosted reflection in the glass. The reflection of a very attractive, utterly feminine, girl. A girl whose appearance he himself was feminine enough to identify with. To regard critically and to appreciate from a female stand point.

And the process seemed unstoppable. Resistance took him down the path of Olive and Coralie. The one dead, the other .... well he only knew that Coralie's fate was not to be envied. Better to be Sophie than to be what Coralie had become.

An unstoppable process. Hope of escape was a dream that had vanished at Emma's revelation about the VeriChip implants. He would need wings to get out of the Holding Wing alone. And as to what lay beyond....?

And staying here would lead inevitably, sickeningly, to what they had in mind for him. And, as he increasingly knew, some degree of acceptance by him. Some degree? What did the word 'some' signify? It would be acceptance. He would be broken.

Just like the branches? He had almost forgotten what had once been his burning resolve to solve that mystery. It seemed increasingly academic. What matter the reason why now? And anyway that too had proved beyond him. Unless bare branches was just a slang term for what he, Anne and Coralie were....? No that did not make sense either. And what had China to do with it? None of it made sense. Mona must have been mistaken. None of it .....

“The others are on their way. If they all look as stunning as you Sophie dear, poor Grace de Messembry will have absolutely nothing to complain of.”

Lost in thought he had not heard Anne's approach. She stood by him now, her perfume sweetly fresh in his nostrils.

“Thinking of Olive darling? I often do. And now poor Coralie... Please Sophie dear, promise me you won't....”

Other feet clattering on the stairs. Voices chattering excitedly. Anne reached out with a gentle reassuring grip on David's arm as they both turned towards the new arrivals.

“.... won't do anything silly darling.”

Hardly had Emma arrived shepherding Daisy and Janet Saggren's three girls, than there was a rather more restrained tip tap of heels and Grace de Messembry and Helen Vanbrugh, smiling and talking to Janet and Laura, were amongst them, composed and serene as ever.

Loathe Grace de Messembry as he may, David could not but admire the perfection of her beauty and social grace. As a mere male David would just have marvelled at her. Now with the advantage of force fed feminine awareness he had an even greater appreciation of just how rare a creature she was. In any company but her's, Helen Vanbrugh would have been the central point of interest; alongside Grace de Messembry she was merely a background figure.

Laura had once described Grace de Messembry to David as the only woman she had ever met who when she left a room, other women could not recall quite what she had been wearing. Her presence transcended detail.

Now all the charm was in evidence as the two visitors circulated amongst the little crowd. Daisy and Coralie were the centre of interest and David managed to escape with a murmured greeting and a few compliments. As the Inspection proper got under way David sat with Daisy and Anne making light conversation, each awaiting nervously their turn for the grilling to come. Emma had joined Laura and Janet as part of the charmed circle around the inquisitors, Grace de Messembry and Helen.

One by one the girls were called to the examining group. Daisy first, then Coralie, Christine and Alice.

“Saving the best until the last as always” Anne giggled softly, reaching out and resting her hands gently on David's hand rested gently on David's. “Don't worry Sophie dear, you look as pretty as a picture. Just be careful, think before you speak and remember your lessons. Above all give her all the confirmation she wants. Let her think.... “

“...she is winning.” David finished the sentence for her. “That at least won't be difficult.”

And then Anne too was called away to face the the questioning. After her session she had just time for a whispered “It's O.K. She's in a good mood,” as she crossed with David as he hurried to obey his own summons.

And so it seemed. He was greeted with warm smiles Helen waved him into a chair opposite her and Grace de Messembry. Janet and Emma stood behind, spectators, but Laura moved round to stand slightly behind his right shoulder. David remembered how she had done so at his first Inspection. Giving him support; protection if needs be. And he was grateful now as then.

“But how lovely you are looking Sophie dear,” Grace de Messembry purred, her voice silken with appreciation. “Such a wonderful recovery I hear from Dr. Winters, and now I have the proof before my own eyes.” Those same green eyes sparkled with a pleasure that almost completely masked the quiet amusement lurking deep.

“Thank you Miss de Messembry.” David heard his automatic response as his head inclined briefly in acknowledgment. “Dr. Walters as been very kind.”

“And Dr. O'Neill tells me that you seem to have no inner scars either? So resilient!”

“I am fine thank you Miss de Messembry. Everyone has been very kind and helpful.”

“I am sure that all of us here will find ample repayment in your continued progress Sophie dear. Tell me about that dear. About your progress I mean.”

She smiled at him. David had rehearsed this moment in his mind. Again and again, foreseeing the question. When it came he was lost. The bright, confident, hypocritical, response lost.

“My progress? I.... I think it is going well. And ..... “

Then in desperation.

“Well I mean no scars and I am feeling.....”

The shake of Grace de Messembry's head conveyed infinite patience.

“No Sophie dear. Don't be obtuse. I want to know about how you see your journey into femininity. I can see it that externally it is a credit to you and all the staff here, you're well on your way to becoming such a pretty girl, but how do you feel in your innermost self? No longer any foolish hankerings after an irrevocably dead past?”

She half turned in her chair to address Helen Vanbrugh. “I have always thought Helen that, deny it though she may, dear Sophie's progress has always suffered from being haunted by ghosts of what might have been. However committed she is to fulfilling her bright new destiny, she has never really managed to shake off a certain negativity in her outlook.”

Helen looked grave but, Grace de Messembry swiveled back to address herself to David again, she gave him a slight smiling nod of encouragement, of warning perhaps.

“You may be right Grace, but she has had a rather traumatic time of late and it may well just be an unconscious reaction to all the excitement. Is that not so Sophie dear?”

“Yes Miss Helen. I do try to be positive Miss Grace. Really. To be as feminine as you require, to be all that I promised.”

“Sophie dear, it is not a question of being as feminine as I require. My only concern is that you find whole hearted fulfillment in your chosen path. I thought we had agreed together that the feminine state was one that you wished desperately to achieve. I remember you promised me to enthusiastically embrace it as quite the best option open to you. Now if you are having second thoughts all you have to do is to say. Then we can discuss where we go from here. All I want is your happiness Sophie dear. As I think I told you last time, I would like you to think of me as an elder sister. One who only has your best interests at heart.”

The corners of her beautifully formed lips twitched slightly. Her smile was frank and encouraging.

David began to panic. He felt the sweat form. Laura put a hand on his shoulder.

“I do, really I do Miss Grace. I expressed myself badly. I meant to say that I wanted ....?”

But Grace de Messembry seemed not to notice. Not to be listening even. Her thoughts were elsewhere. Off on a tangent.

“Have you had a chance to chat to Coralie since her return Sophie dear?”

“No Miss Grace. Well that is I have met her and chatted of course, with the other girls over a meal, but ....”

“You know I am relying on Anne and yourself to help her find herself. Just now I thought she seemed a little disoriented, Not quite herself. Rather sad even. Of course I may be wrong. What is your impression dear?”

“She .... she seems much improved, much more feminine Miss Grace. As I say I haven't had much time to ....”

“Much improved. More feminine .... Yes I am sure you are right Sophie. She certainly is much more feminine isn't she? I noticed that too. All that old rebelliousness completely vanished. Don't you agree dear?”

“Yes Miss Grace. As you say she is .... is much more at ease with herself, much calmer now.”

“Yesssss.” With the long sibilants Grace de Messembry seem to weigh David's opinion. Turning it round. Looking at it from different angles.

“A change of air, of environment, such as provided in Rehabilitation, can indeed do wonders Sophie dear. And yet I do still worry a teeny bit about the poor girl. She does seem to have lost that vital spark that can make all the difference between a girl being merely pretty rather than really ravishing. Much calmer is all very desirable in her case no doubt, but it can be taken too far.”

She smiled conspiratorially at him. David was aware that Helen was watching him intently also. The sweat was running down his body now. Pooling cold under the breast forms.

“As with most things”, Grace de Messembry mused, “there is is a price to pay and sometimes one wonders if ....? But why should you worry your pretty head about such abstract questions which are of no concern to you Sophie dear? No immediate concern at least.”

The smile on the face of the tiger.

“All I want is to stress how much I am counting on you to help Coralie. To lead by example really. Show her how much fun being a girl can be. Help her recover the spark that she seems to have lost. Will you do that for me Sophie dear? “

“Yes. Of course Miss Grace. Anything I can do .....”

“I never doubted it for a moment. You are becoming such a sweet, good natured, girl! Now where were we? You mustn't let me get side tracked Sophie dear.”

“Grace I do believe you get carried away by your own oratory.” This from Helen. “You were questioning Sophie's commitment to femininity and then wouldn't stay long enough to hear the poor girl's protestations. It really is too bad of you to upset her so.”

“Upset her? Really Helen what a thing to say! I haven't upset you have I Sophie dear? All I want is what is best for you. All my girls are precious to me of course but I confess Sophie has wormed her way into my affections and has a special claim on my interest.”

She smiled beguilingly at David. “Dear Helen is so sensitive! And so very protective of all our little brood here! Sophie dear I am sure however you do not judge me so harshly. You know that I have only your best interests at heart and if I have your word that you really do delight in all aspects of your journey here, that you have never been happier, then of course that is quite good enough me. No more needs to be said on the subject.”

A delicately raised eyebrow added emphasis to the implied question. Grace de Messembry's lips parted slightly as if to savour the expected response.

David knew he had no option but compliance. The discussion on Coralie's progress had not been quite what it seemed.

“Miss Grace, of course, I truly fully accept and .... and welcome .... being a girl, and appreciate all the help and support here ....all the, your, kindnesses. And I am so sorry if my inadequate responses earlier gave you cause to doubt that, to think otherwise.”

“How sweet of you Sophie dear! And are you truly happy?”

David bowed his head. Knew defeat.

“Yes Miss Grace. Truly happy. All my dreams are of being truly female.”

That at least, he thought bitterly, was true.

Helen was smiling at him. Again the slight nod. This time of approval perhaps. Laura's grip on his shoulders relaxed.

Another bridge crossed. Burnt behind him.

Grace de Messembry was gathering up a few papers on the table in front of her. Putting them in a slim folder of dark green Moroccan leather and discrete gold trim. And then.

“I almost forgot. How remiss of me. I promised to review the matter of the proposed little surgical modification at the next Inspection. Alas we were somewhat side tracked then by poor Coralie's outburst of temper, but at least it has given us more time for reflection.”

Her voice radiated judicious concern.

“As I recall Helen and Laura persuaded me that it would counter productive, a reminder of lost masculinity if anything. What do you think now Sophie dear? After all you are the one it is designed to benefit. Do you think it would help you to concentrate on those little feminine actions and mannerisms that need to become instinctive?”

“ No .... No Miss Grace. Or rather yes .... I mean yes, they have become instinctive. I don't forget anymore. I am truly much more feminine now. Things like that, sitting I mean, and other things are quite instinctive. Why I even dream as a female. I mean No. No I don't think it would help. It would still be counter productive. Laura and Miss Helen were quite right.”

“Sophie dear. You sound quite flustered! I can't think why. I am only thinking of your own good. Trying to help you. You know I would not do anything to upset you. Your interests are quite paramount dear. You have my absolute assurance that nothing will be done against your wishes unless we feel that the long term benefit to you overwhelmingly outweighs any trivial, personal, short term considerations.”

She smiled reassuringly at an ashen faced David.

“It was just that I thought Sophie dear, that having met Dr. Walters, and having struck up such a rapport with her, you might have been less worried about the mechanics of the operation and seen only the benefits that would conceivably accrue.”

“No Miss Grace. I mean I do like Dr. Walters and she has been very kind but I am becoming, have become, so feminine now that I don't think that it would help. The surgical intervention I mean. I don't think it would help.”

Grace de Messembry nodded, apparently considering carefully what would be best for him.

“Right then we will leave it open shall we dear? See how you get on. After all the option is always there if required in the future isn't it?”

She completed the transfer of her papers to her case and smiled benignly at David.

“And you Sophie dear? Have you any questions that you would like to ask me before we join the others? “

The idea took him by surprise.

“No Miss de Messembry, I don't think so. You have made everything perfectly clear.”

“I am sure we understand each other perfectly dear? But you have really nothing else troubling you? Nothing at all?”

David wondered desperately if he had forgotten something.

“No Miss Grace. Nothing ....”

“That's good dear. It is just that I thought you might be a teeny weeny bit concerned about that curious affair about the knife that Coralie used? So glad you have put it out of your mind. Even Coralie seems a little confused. The poor girl was not herself of course, so her account is naturally somewhat garbled. And mere speculation on what is passed is a singularly futile pursuit don't you think. Particularly when there is so much in the future to enjoy. So much to achieve.”

She rose indicating that the interview was at an end.

“I do so envy you and the other girls Sophie dear. On the threshold of it all. Such an exciting journey towards a fulfillment still to come.”

The smile was beatific.

“Let's go and relax over a drink. I do so think we have earned it.”

Bar Grace de Messembry's usual little speech, saying how well they had all done and announcing that Laura's little group had just scraped home to win the contest and that accordingly all her girls would receive presents of perfume and lingerie, that was it. Another Inspection over.

But not the customary post-Inspection party on the roof garden. It was much as David remembered from his first weekend. Mid June now with the evening sun warm on his shoulders, the light touching his earrings and the necklace arrowing towards his cleavage. The same seductively styled dress, the same long Italian boots. Largely the same company too. Anne of course and Emma too. The latter circling the impromptu dance floor in the arms of the ensnared Michael, her beau from that same evening that now seemed such an age ago. Some of the same male guests too. No Nigel certainly who was still limping badly, or so Grace de Messembry had informed him earlier.

“I know that you will be terribly disappointed that poor Nigel will not be able to make it this evening Sophie dear,” she had said. “The unfortunate boy can still hardly walk. Just don't damage the new guests, if you can help it though. You have no idea how difficult it is becoming to find presentable young men.” She had smiled roguishly at him. “And we need some in reserve for the future. One must distinguish, if only slightly, between girl fodder and cannon fodder.”

No Tommy either, although no reason was given for his absence. And the thought preyed on David's mind that he might already be being softened up in the isolation of one of Reception's bleak little cells.

Here, not so many yards away from those cells, it was all very civilised. Another world. Soft music playing, attentive handsome escorts, and the roof garden making a quite idyllic setting for an intimate summer evening party. Girlish laughter matching the polite murmur of the boys' voices as courtesies and compliments were exchanged. Ice tinkled in the in the crystal glassed Pimms. House martins wheeled overhead and, high above them, swifts performed scimitar winged arabesques. Another world. But in reality only a progression on the same theme. The same bricks and mortar, the same restraints, the same destiny

Grace de Messembry's appearance had been brief. She had arrived with Helen Vanbrugh, trailing behind her a gaggle of invited young males. Once these had been cast off to make their own way in the little social world, the two women had circulated independently, drinks in hand, being sociable with the girls.

“You really are looking lovelier than ever his evening Sophie dear,” she had said. “I am really becoming quite jealous!”

“You mustn't tease me Miss Grace,” for once one of David's carefully prepared phrases against such an eventuality, had sprung to his mind. “Alongside your beauty, any claim I have is mere impertinence.” It sounded clumsy.

Grace de Messembry had laughed delightedly. “What a sweet girl you are Sophie dear. But you have no need of such a silver tongue. Particularly as you are the possessor of such other attributes. The paying of such compliments is best left to the men folk. That is one of the few things they are good for. All we have to do is acknowledge them gracefully and wait for more substantial tokens of appreciation.”

“Yes Miss Grace.”

“Don't be so po-faced Sophie dear, you really have such a lot to learn about men and their usefulness in the feminine scheme of things. That is really what I wanted a word about dear.”

“A word? About men Miss Grace?” David had felt the unease that invariably half paralysed him in Grace de Messembry's presence, rocket upwards.

“Yes. It is such a lovely evening,” Grace de Messembry's gaze had swept appreciatively around the scene before her. “And I want you to take full advantage of it. As regards the men dear. It really is time you started to learn how to deal with them and in this cloistered setting you normally have so few opportunities. So I will expect you to make the most of it, of this evening.”

“Make the most of it? But ..... But ... Miss Grace, you don't mean that I should....? Please, I don't think....”

Grace de Messembry's delighted laughter had trilled out, so that several heads had turned in her direction.

“Sophie! Sophie dear, what a sexy little vixen you are turning out to be! So quick to find a naughty innuendo! No darling, I do not mean you to bed the assembled guests. Just to treat them normally. Dance with them, flirt with them a little, let them know that you are a girl. Practice some feminine wiles on them. Find out what makes them tick.”

David had felt a hot blush creeping up from his neck into his cheeks.

His tormentor's amusement had bubbled over. “On what a goose you are Sophie. I just want you to behave like a girl. Explore the potential your femininity gifts you. Delight in it!”

The green eyes had sparkled.

“You don't need to play the wanton dear. Not at this stage anyway. Unless you absolutely feel you must that is? Unless some young man triggers off an irresistible urge!”

The elegant eyebrows had risen inquisitorially.

“But originally all I wanted to do was to ensure that you had a lovely time with the young men I have brought for your entertainment. And to urge you to flirt with, rather than maim, them.”

David had stood silent before her sensing her genuine amusement, embarrassed beyond words.

“Sophie, you really are a delight. I am so very pleased that you were recruited to our little exercise. Our little community. I can't wait to tell Helen what a forward little minx you are turning out to be!”

And she had passed on to talk to Daisy, still smiling to herself.

Shortly afterwards, she and Helen had made their farewells and left. Laura and Janet had not tarried long after, leaving Emma in her new role as the sole representative of authority. Not that Emma was interested in wielding it, her attention being devoted to securing her prey, Michael.

David was conscious though that, whereas authority might lack a rigorous representative, it was still there, its ubiquitous surveillance systems watching and listening. So he had tried to comply to Grace de Messembry's thinly veiled commands. He had smiled at the men, held interested eye contact, acknowledged compliments as graciously as he could, shown amusement when appropriate, admiration when called for. He had flirted with them.

He had accepted invitations to dance. In the slow smoochy numbers he had let himself be held close, feeling his partner's body pressed against him, forcing himself to respond with pressure from his own groin when hard, erect maleness was pressed against him, and hands gently massaged his lower back and buttocks emphasising the contact. He had leant his head on their shoulders and allowed his hair and perfume to seduce their senses. He had sighed contentedly when they had kissed his neck, nibbled his ear.

He had accepted their offers of drinks. He sought refuge in the numbing of the senses that alcohol gave. He needed it to get through the evening, to allay the self disgust that his behaviour aroused. That he had no choice did not seem a justification, but just another side to his own weakness. He became distanced from his surrounding. The noise, the faces, the words were all perfectly clear, but as if witnessed through a thin partition. As if they were but ghosts, or perhaps more correctly as if he were the ghost amongst them, the living, by some curious error.

His feet were killing him. Squeezed toes sore, ankles aching, as were the calf muscles still not fully accustomed to dancing in 3” heels. He pleaded that he had danced enough. Begged them to remember that he was only out of hospital and that the evening had been too great a strain for an invalid. Someone called Jason was still persistent in his attentions, laying his fingers on David's, trailing his hand on his shoulders when he passed his chair, but David hardly noticed now, accepting it as part of being what, who, he was. Anne was busily fending off the attentions of a blond haired youth called Ben whom David vaguely recognised from the earlier party a month ago. She seemed in a state of suppressed excitement, had been so since the Inspection and had obviously news to share, but so far the opportunity to do so had not arisen. In the meantime she was dealing competently, if unenthusiastically, with her admirer.

Emma and Michael seemed to be inhabiting a small cocooned world of their own. Lost in mutual adoration they were making plans for meeting again later in the week. David tried not to think about what Emma's new found freedom meant. Tried not to remember when he as a young man could date a girl in a place, at a time, of his own. He took another sip of his drink, smiled absently at Jason, gently withdrew his hand out of his reach, and sought distraction in the doings of the others.

Christine and Daisy were in the arms of their partners, close wrapped in their arms, swaying rather than dancing, their feet hardly moving. Alice and Coralie were standing by the bar with the remaining men .... David's eyes suddenly came into sharp focus again. No they weren't! Well Coralie at least wasn't. Had been when last he looked. But wasn't now! Maybe she had gone for a pee? Alice was there with two men. Two? There should be three! Grace de Messembry had brought a surplus male. A reserve she had called him. “Just in case dear Sophie takes a dislike to one and maims him,” she had said.

David suddenly felt connected again. They were supposed to be looking out for her. She was vulnerable, so vulnerable. His eyes scanned the garden. No sign of her, of them. Of either of them. Perhaps she had gone down to the main floor? No. No-one could use those stairs in high heels without alerting the entire building. There was only one place she, they, could be. The bar area fronted the wooden summerhouse, but behind it there was a largish room with a table, a couple of chairs and storage cupboards; and beyond that a small kitchen area and the toilets. Or rather a toilet. The little girls room which, on occasions such as this, lost its feminine exclusivity.

David's unease grew. Olive's suicide had happened a few days after her time at the Rehabilitation Centre. And now Coralie ....

He rose, his hand reaching for Anne's shoulder. “This little girl needs to powder her nose,” he simpered. “Coming girls?” It was out of character. The phrasing, the tone of voice. Even coming from one conforming to an stylised ideal of feminine behaviour, it was over the top. It would have taken much more than that to penetrate Emma's preoccupation with Michael but Anne picked up on it immediately.

“Of course Sophie darling,” she trilled. “The boys will just have to do without us for a few minutes. Absence makes the heart grow so much fonder darlings! Just chat amongst yourselves about boring old football.”

She blew a mocking kiss at them as she too rose and, hurrying, caught up with David as he made towards the summer house.

“What's the matter?”

He stopped and turned towards her.

“It's Coralie,” he said. “She's vanished. I think she must be in there.” He inclined his head towards the summerhouse. “And I am worried. It may be O.K., but, well I don't think she is in any state to....”

“No she isn't, You're right Sophie.”

David saw his concern suddenly mirrored in her face.

“The windows. At the side. Let's try the kitchen. The loo one's opaque,” she said.

The side window was half obscured by trailing purple wisteria, and the lighting in the kitchen was minimal, but it was enough to reveal Coralie jack knifed forward over a table, the skirt of her dress piled up on her back, her panties wrenched down around one splayed ankle and now caught under the heel of her elegant court shoe. The soft light picked out the white globes of her arse cheeks framed by the tightly stretched black straps of her garter belt. Her whole body lurched rhythmically, thrust forward relentlessly by the penetrating strokes of the cock of the man standing behind her. Thrust forward and then falling back on the reciprocating piston recoil as if fearful that the maleness filling her would escape.

Both seemed oblivious of the other. Each lost in the fulfillment of their own lust. The motion of their bodies synchronised to the grunts, the little moans and cries that escaped their lips. Two creatures in rut.

Anne and David stood there, momentarily frozen, as Coralie, apparently consumed by her passion, raised her head and then they saw the tears streaming from her staring, unseeing, eyes. Tears rolling fast down her face, trailing mascara lines in little runnels in their wake.

Chapter 30.

“Let it be. Let them be.” They turned to find Emma standing behind them.

“It's too late now.” Her hands gently but firmly held their upper arms and steered them away.

“But she was crying Emma. In distress. We must help. It can't be right!”

In David's mind's eye the image of Coralie's grief stricken face lingered, starkly real and urgent.

“It would only make things worse Sophie dear, if we all charged in on her now. It would make her feel guilty, ashamed, dirty even. It has happened. If we had been more alert perhaps ....” Emma shook her head wearily. “But we weren't .... and even then.... Let her be Sophie, Let her be dear.” .

“Emma she was being raped. Raped. We must....”

“No she wasn't Sophie dear.” Anne broke in. “No she wasn't. Emma's right. She has been programmed. She probably instigated it. Led him on. To intervene now would be to make things worse. Emma is right. Leave it be. Come away.”

She moved round to David's other side and Emma and she together steered him away from the window.

“But you saw her tears. Tears streaming down her face. Tears. She was in terrible, heartrending, distress”

“The tears were Martin's, Sophie. Martins, not Coralie's.” Anne's voice was infinitely sad as if she too shared the desolation that loss brings.

The gentle sorrow was echoed in Emma's words too.

“We witnessed a catharsis Sophie. The death of Martin. They were his tears, not tears for him. Coralie needed to rid herself of him. To move out from under his shadow. That is why she ....... why she sought sex. She has no choice. It is required of her. To be penetrated. To explore femininity to the full. It is her salvation. Without that life would be unsupportable. As Olive found it to be.”

Anne was reflective, quiet in her own memories, remembering the choices she herself had made.

“You can't be two people Sophie. Certainly not after Rehabilitation. Not when you hate what you once were. Loathe the conflict between what you once were and what you are destined to be. Coralie now passionately desires to be a female. Martin was the symbol of the maleness that now revolts her to the very depth of her being. And so Martin had to die. It is very simple. The tears were his farewell.”

She repeated quietly to herself, more for her own benefit than that of her listeners.

“Very simple. Once you have been there. I only glimpsed it. But it was enough.”

They joined the others at he bar. In their absence their partners had quit the table and joined Alice and the two other male guests at the bar. Emma thrust a large measure of single malt into David's hand. He drank deeply trying to control his shaking hands.

There was the sound of furniture being moved, of a door closing, from the room behind the bar, and a man appeared. The man whom David had seen a few minutes ago with his penis embedded deep inside Coralie. He was smiling in a self satisfied way and as he emerged from behind the bar itself he gave a broad knowing wink to the other men; a confident enquiring smile to the girls. The smile of a man confident in his own indisputable maleness and the attraction that such had for the other, weaker, sex.

David turned away and moved on leaden feet out to the other side of the garden looking out through the plate glass panels at the darkling landscape. The landscape of another country.

There was a further bustle at the bar and he turned to see Coralie re-emerge from the back room. She paused, turning to examine herself in the mirror on the wall behind her, smoothed down the back of her dress, and then dropped a mocking curtsy to the others, the men and the girls. She made a little moue to her recent lover. “Don't you think at the very least a girl deserves a drink after that darling?” She enquired sweetly, moving close and proffering her lips for a kiss.

The party broke up shortly afterwards. Emma resumed her mantle of authority and gently chivvied them to drink-up before escorting the guests down the stairs and out. Out to the world beyond. Coralie and the rest of the girls departed to their respective rooms. All apart from Anne who came over to David, carrying with her the remains of the malt which he had left on the bar.

“You forgot your drink,” she said, handing the glass to him, companionably taking a small sip from her own. David looking down at his glass saw little circles form on the surface of the whisky as the tremor in his hands communicated itself to the liquid.

There was silence between them for a while. And then, softly, tentatively.....

“You remember that other evening here Sophie dear? When I told you of my visit there .... to the Rehabilitation Centre. That preview? The glimpse they gave me?”

David nodded.

“Coralie had the full course. A whole fortnight. As Olive had.”

David looked across the countryside, to where in the distance the lights of a village were flickering in the encroaching dusk.

“It is best for her now Sophie. Please understand. She cannot go back. Cannot now even meet Martin in her mind again. Must not remember who, what, she once was.”

David nodded, struggling towards an acceptance of what she was telling him.

“What you, what we, saw tonight Sophie, was Coralie seeking to divorce herself from a past that to her now seems beyond all horror. She was trying to find a way to achieve contentment in her ordained future.”

Anne shook her head. Her dark bobbed hair swirled across her neck and set her earrings a-sparkle.

“I express it badly.... I can't find the words .... Unless you have been there yourself... Pray Heaven you don't .... But Emma was right. Coralie now has no other option. All we can do is give support. Try to help her be Coralie.”

She smiled. A trace of sadness in her eyes, but an echo more from the past than a present sorrow.

“As I have become Anne.”

“I promise”They stood there together in companionable silence lost in their own thoughts.

Then David remembered.

“Anne, earlier on, before the episode with Coralie, you seemed.... I had the impression that you had something to tell. Some news ....?”

She smiled at him, the excitement seeping back. “

Yes, I have Sophie dear, I wanted to tell you. Only its terribly hush hush. It may not even happen, well it will happen but not now.....” She took a deep breath. “It's really a secret but there is no harm in me telling you, although it's not certain, but Grace de Messembry intimated that the next Inspection might be my last!”

“Your last?”

“Yes, she said, gave me to understand that she was pleased with my progress and that there would be a vacancy at the Finishing Centre shortly and ....”

She saw the look in David's eyes.

“Oh Sophie It will be awful leaving you. But neither of us can stay here for ever you know. And I want to move on now. I need to be what I have to be. It is important now for me....And I have still another fortnight here even if....if all goes well””

“Yes of course you have to go Anne darling.” David's tone was flat. “I am just being selfish. It is just that I will miss you so. But if you really want to go, then of course you must, and I am glad for you.”

He managed a smile. Tried to think what it would be like without her support.

“But Sophie darling, I am sure you will be joining me soon. Really you are such a lovely, attractive girl now. You will be moving on as well soon, I am sure. It is just that, well I think you have to want to.... inside.... and I'm not sure if .... yet.”

She moved to put her arms round him, comforting him.

“I know it is what you want though Anne and I am truly pleased for you. And we shall keep in touch until we do meet again.”

“I am not counting my chickens just yet though,” Anne smiled. “It's just a possibility. I shall probably be here for ages yet, You will be glad to see the back of me when I finally get my marching orders.”

“I could never be that Anne,” David said. “Glad to see the back of you I mean.”

“Yes, I know. But it must be a secret, our secret. Till I know for sure. You mustn't mention it to anyone. Promise.”

“I promise.”

They stood there in the enfolding darkness, silent until again a clatter of footsteps on the stairs heralded Emma's return.

David drained his glass, savouring the final drops as they both turned to greet her.

“Bed time.” she said. “Thank God we have the weekend before us in which to recuperate.”

“Will Michael figure in the recuperation?” asked Anne smiling.

“He'd better!” was the reply.

Back in his own room, David extracted his feet from the high white leather boots and massaged his toes. He unfastened his stockings from his garter belt tabs with practiced ease and carefully peeled them down his legs. There was a roughness there, on thighs and calves, and he knew he would have to apply depilatory cream in the morning. The white Jean-Paul Gaultier dress was carefully smoothed out and hung in the wardrobe. He sat in bustier, panties, and slip before the mirror of his dressing table and carefully removed his make up and applied night cream.

Then to the bathroom, before divesting himself of all his undies and slipping into a silken dream of a nightie.

He didn't need to think about it any more. The actions came naturally now, automatically. It was what one, a girl, did before she got into bed.

It was what David did every night, without fail, before he got into bed. What he would continue to do until ....

He slipped between the cool sheets and lay there in the darkness. Tired and needing sleep. Needing to escape the fears that tormented his day, but dreading the relief that sleep would bring. Knowing that the comforting dreams that would soothe and comfort his spirit would involve him in being Sophie.

And so, at last, unwillingly he slept.

And he dreamt, as he had known he would, as he always did nowadays, of pleasant things, of gentle things. Relaxing, comforting dreams that refreshed his soul and brought him to the dawn refreshed.

Refreshed. Until he woke into that dawn and the reality came flooding back in. But there was increasingly a lull before it did. More and more the dreams seemed to extend a little into his waking moments, while reality waited outside, leaving him in peace a few precious moments longer. Just a few moments longer as the girl in the dreams.

So the days passed. The routine was established. After the weekend, when femininity had actively to be sought as a leisure pursuit, came the weekdays. Days filled with the relentless tuition sessions honing his feminine skills, deadening the memory of past male behavioural patterns.

Days when his acceptance of his status as a girl was assumed. Because non acceptance was unthinkable.

Even Anne assumed it. She was far to considerate of his feelings to mention it of course. Or perhaps she just thought it a fait accompli, or a fait soon to be, inevitably to be, accompli, and therefore not worth the mention. But David could see that she considered that his path must inescapably lead him to where her's had, and that his own acceptance of that must follow as night follows day. As her's had.

Emma too. And Laura. They watched his struggles with a sort of sad resignation knowing that there could only be one end. As one might watch a dear friend suffering from some obstinate mental aberration, stubbornly refusing to see what was so obvious to all the others. Bearing with him in his folly, ready to welcome him home when he at last could bring himself to admit the error of his ways. The ruin of his hopes.

Coralie in all probability did not even notice that he clung so desperately to whatever inward vestiges of male identity remained to him. She only saw the pretty girl, with the evermore accomplished female mannerisms and habits, and envied him for his skills and proficiency in the femininity to which she herself now so fervently aspired. Sophie and Anne had become role models for her as she strove desperately to make up for the extra weeks' immersion that they had had in which to absorb their destiny.

And as for the tutors, to them he was another girl who needed polishing, refining so that she could become as near a perfect example of her kind, whatever that was, as their not inconsiderable expertise could make him. Failure didn't come into it.

Perhaps Dr. Tabatha O'Neill knew differently but if she did she gave no sign.

And then it changed quite unexpectedly. Or at least appeared to. Or gave the glimmer of a chance of changing. And it came from an unexpected source.

The next weekend turned out to be wet. Constant drizzle with a grey sky presaging yet more drizzle to come. David was emerging with the others from a talk on 'Fashions in the Twenties', a Saturday treat kindly organised as a diversion by Ms. Shelton, when she called him back.

“Helen Vanbrugh asked me to tell you that she wants to see you,” she said. “Now. In the library.”

“Now?”

“Well she said at your convenience after this talk. You may interpret that as you will but.....”

David found her sitting reading at a table at the far end of the room. She stood up as he entered and smiled a greeting.

“Sophie dear, so glad of you to drop in. I do so hope I have not torn you away from the other girls? I know how irritating it can be to have one's precious leisure time eaten away.”

“No Miss Helen, please don't apologise. I am at your service naturally.”

“Dear Sophie, now you mustn't stand on ceremony. I am just here as a friend. For an informal chat. This isn't an Inspection. Just a little talk between friends dear.”

She gestured to one side and David saw that someone had left a selection of drinks on a tray with in an adjoining alcove.

“Perhaps you will do the honours dear? I will have a glass of the white wine please, whereas I believe you might prefer a gin and tonic.”

David moved over to the alcove and busied himself as instructed, whilst she demonstrated the art of doing nothing with skill and grace. As he had so often observed, she was beautiful indeed, immaculately turned out in what must qualify unjustly as casual wear, superbly sculpted dark blue slacks and a simple linen top that fell over breasts that needed neither emphasis nor flattery, with a fine cashmere scarf in a sort of modern paisley design, draped carelessly, artfully carelessly, over her shoulders and side. Obviously benefitting from the same schooling as Grace de Messembry in all matters pertaining to elegance and comportment, her presence was electric.

“Cheers Sophie dear,” raising her glass fleetingly in David's direction before touching it to her lips, “your very good health. Now please sit down and let's have an old fashioned natter. And please Sophie I do so earnestly assure you that this is most definitely not a case where things may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

She slid into a chair and motioned for David to do likewise. The tray lay between them, slightly to one side.

“If you just tell me what you think I want to hear we won't get anywhere Sophie. I certainly won't learn anything new and nor will you dear.”

The dark brown eyes assessed him carefully. Searching how to win his confidence.

“Just a girl-to-girl chat. No strings to it, no secrets between us, no recriminations afterwards.”

A warm smile.

“Although I have just a sneaking suspicion that for you a girl-to-girl chat may not be quite the attraction that some may think it?”

David said nothing. His throat felt suddenly a little dry. He sipped the ice cold drink. Tasted the juniper through the quinine and lime.

“No matter.” Helen continued. “What do you think of Anne? I think you have become close friends”

“Yes we have. Become friends. I am very fond of her. She has shown me great kindness.”

“And Emma, and Laura too. You have the gift of making friends, of attracting people. You even intrigue Grace. And of course I too find myself having a quiet drink and a chat with you. People like you, sympathise, empathise even, with you.

“I have always liked people.” It sounded lame.

“But Emma and Anne have become important to you? Understandably of course as the only ones you could trust in this place. The rest of us are all suspect to say the very least.”

“Yes. Even with Laura. I can never be quite sure although she has been kind, and I ... and Dr Tabatha said that I could..... Trust her I mean. But then Dr. Tabatha is .....”

“....also working for the Foundation, and, in spite of all her protestations, might equally be lying through her teeth.” Helen Vanbrugh smilingly finished the sentence off for him.

David looked down at his glass. Too wary to reply. The conversation was heading for, had arrived in, sensitive areas.

“For what its worth Sophie, Dr Tabatha is very strict about all matters she considers ethical. Grace teases her about it even, and admittedly it can be an irritation, but she couldn't really do her job otherwise.”

She ran her finger round the rim of her glass reflectively. “But then I would say that wouldn't I? That is your problem, our problem, isn't it. There is no point that is marked 'The truth starts here'.”

David sipped his drink. Giving himself time to think. The truth seemed easiest.

“Yes. I know I am being manipulated. I cannot take anything at face value.”

Helen Vanbrugh nodded.

“Of course you are being manipulated Sophie dear. The process involves considerable manipulation. And from our point of view of course we cannot take everything you say at face value either, can we dear?”

“But that is not fair!” David indignation over rode his prudence. “I have to dissemble. It is required of me. I have to conform. If I don't you....”

“Mmmmm I could argue dear that conforming does not necessarily involve dissembling; accepting is a viable option. But the point I am trying to make, without allocation of blame, is that all this uncertainty as to where truth begins and ends does muddy the waters of communication between us. We can at least agree on that, can't we?”

“Yes. I suppose it does. But I don't see how agreeing on it alters it.”

“Being open about things always helps Sophie; hopefully we can build on it.”

She swirled the wine round in her glass in an elegant twisting movement of the wrist, seemingly absorbed in watching it drain down the sides.

“But to get back to your friends. Emma and Anne. The former now has other responsibilities and is, well, perhaps slightly distanced now by what you may regard as thirty pieces of silver, whilst Anne awaits her imminent departure to the Finishing Centre. You will find it rather lonelier here in future.”

David was suddenly alert. Anne had said it was a secret, a possibility only, but a secret and he had promised ....

Anne's departure? I don't know. I.... What departure?”

Helen Vanbrugh smiled gently at his discomfiture.

“Don't worry Sophie. I just assumed she had told you of the possibility. It would be natural for her to do so and there is no harm at all in your knowing. In fact I am pleased she has.”

David tried to look non-committal, neither denying nor confirming the fact.

“You can put her mind at rest Sophie; tell her that her place there has been confirmed. It will be formally announced at Friday's Inspection and she will leave at the weekend. Laura of course knows and doubtless Emma also now.”

“I will tell her,” he said. “She will be pleased. And you are right. I will miss her.”

Helen Vanbrugh sipped her drink and looked at David in a silence that seem to drag out, minutes long.

“You don't have too,” she said. “There are two vacancies on the intake. You can opt to go with her. I have a proposition for you.”

David saw the ground open at his feet. It must be a trap. Perhaps even worse it could be quite straightforward, all that it seemed to be. To be sent to the Finishing Centre. To be finished. To be completed. To be a girl.

“Such hesitation Sophie dear? My, my for a girl committed to the pursuit of her femininity you seem somewhat reluctant to seize the opportunity? I had hoped you would be delighted.”

“Miss Helen, it is just that it takes me by surprise. Anne is so much more accomplished than I. She has been here longer, and .... And I don't even know what the Finishing Centre is really. I don't know what will be expected of me there. What it will do to me?”

“Then let me enlighten you Sophie dear. In the interest of that openness and truth of which we spoke earlier. Firstly the Finishing Centre. The name really says it all. The process, of which you are experiencing the initial stages here at the Holding Wing, is carried to its logical conclusion there. This is quite a makeshift operation here really. An environment originally designed to help underprivileged and destitute girls find new identities, new lives, has been expanded to serve the same purpose for males, starting them on the path to the same female destination.”

“Against their will!” David blurted out.

“Sometimes against their will. Yes.” Helen Vanbrugh acknowledged. “That is one of the differences between here and the Finishing Centre.”

“It is different there? One has a choice?”

“Yes it is different there. A lot more freedom. And there are lots of choices. But not the one to which I think you refer alas. The difference is that all there do desire to be female from the moment of their arrival. Otherwise they would not have been offered a place there. They have already made that choice.”

“Here in the Holding Wing we just bring them to the point where they make that choice and are happy in having made it.”

“And they do? Happily make that choice?” David's voice was low, intense.

“Yes Sophie dear.” Helen's voice was gentle. “They always do. Eventually. It is inevitable. It is not really a question of choice at all. It is just an acknowledgment of what they have become.”

“No! That cannot be.”

“Sophie you said earlier that Anne was more accomplished than you. Well perhaps she is, fractionally. It was really my second point, but .... Go and look at yourself in the looking glass there dear.” Helen Vanbrugh nodded to a full length mirror that was on the wall next to the door, a standard location in all the rooms. “And tell me what you see.”

David went and did as he was bid. Stood there staring at the reflection of a pretty girl, standing easily in a naturally elegant stance. One hand touching her hair in a feminine gesture, the other smoothing her dress down the side of her thigh. Remarkable only perhaps in the perfection of make up and hair which indicated a high degree of sophisticated care. He tried to relax, to be more himself, but only succeeded in looking rather gauche, in a particularly feminine way. In the back of the mirror she could see the reflection of Helen Vanbrugh smiling knowingly at him.

“I don't need to say anything do I Sophie dear,” she said. “Just look and be honest with yourself. Look carefully. And be realistic.”

David turned away. Retraced his steps to the table. Sat down and took a long swig from his glass. Saw his painted nails around it. The ring sparkling on his finger.

“You have been here six weeks,” she said. “Not even six weeks indeed.”

“It is just an outward show,” David said defiantly.

“That's not quite true though is it Sophie? Now you aren't really being honest with yourself. There is more, we both know there is.”

David put his glass down. It was empty. Helen Vanbrugh nodded to him. An assent. She reached over and dropped to ice cubes into his glass. He picked up the wine bottle and topped up her glass before giving himself another gin and tonic.

“And after another six months dear? And we might even cheat a little you know. So many ways of doing that. Really believe me, we are only haggling over a time scale. Better get used to being Sophie”

She sipped her wine and pursed her lips in a little gesture of appreciation. It made her look very sexy.

“Would you like to hear more about the Finishing Centre? Then I can put my proposition to you. If I read you aright dear, I think you may be agreeably surprised by that at least.”

David nodded. There was no point in not hearing her out. And he might learn something useful. Not that anything would make much difference.

“As I was saying, the Finishing Centre exists for the sole purpose of allowing you to complete your transition. Hormonal treatment is naturally a standard procedure. As you are probably aware, within the Venumar Group are to be found leading companies in this field of whose expertise full benefit is taken. There are also a couple of minor surgical interventions to supplement such, none of which, to allay any fears you may have, are either irreversible or painful. There are available a full range of more serious surgical procedures up to and including full gender reassignment surgery. The latter right at the cutting edge of modern surgical technology as indeed are all our in-house procedures.”

She pulled a wry face, smiling, at the unintentional pun.

David's world seem revolve. He sought to steady himself.

“You offer me a vacancy there. You expect me to .....?”

She waved the question aside.

“All these more drastic 'improvements' Sophie dear are only carried out at the behest of the girl herself. Nothing is done unless she desires it.”

“I expect they do though? Don't they? Desire the ops. I mean.” David's sarcasm was bitter.

Helen Vanbrugh affected not to notice it.

“Yes Sophie almost invariably. After all that is what they are there for. It is their ultimate gaol. If they didn't ask to complete their journey it would be a failure for all concerned.”

“And that is your proposition Miss Helen? That I take up this opportunity to accompany Anne on the next stage of her journey?”

“It is your journey as well Sophie dear remember. But yes .... and no. I have a slight variation in mind for you.”

“What.” A flat question. It was far too serious a matter to elaborate.

The question was answered by another. One that stopped David dead. One to which he had been searching for answer since he first woke up in Reception months ago.

“Do you know why you are here dear?”

“No.” Jesus Christ she surely wasn't going to tell him that? Now?

“We need data. On the feminisation of males. How to feminise them, most efficient methods of so doing and accompanying downsides. The effects of, sources of raw material, potential success rates, sexual behaviour of finished result, psychological profiles, ethnic suitability, etc. The list goes on and on. So many categories. I won't bore you with them. Indeed I can't remember half of them myself.”

She smiled at him.

“Basically you are an essential part of a far reaching and in depth field trial. A global one.”

“Why? Why? In God's name! Why?”

“Well that is not far me to say alas Sophie dear. I personally can see no harm in you're knowing, but company policy decrees otherwise. It is a very sensitive area with government's involved and you know how paranoiac they can be about the left hand not knowing what the right one is doing. Not letting the right hand itself know most of the time even. National security and all that.”

“The bare branches?” A bow at a venture. But it had to be.

“Ah yes I heard that you were asking about those. Such a clever girl. Yes Sophie dear, bare branches refer. But beyond that dear I am afraid my openness does not extend. The ultimate reason is anyway irrelevant. What is important is that you understand that whilst the process of your feminisation is of great interest to us, our interest, commercially at least, stops there. The finished article is free to do whatever she will. Go wherever she will.”

“You don't care do you? Don't give a bugger about people as human beings!”

“On the contrary Sophie, I care very much. Believe it or not so does Grace also. You, Anne, and Mona, Coralie even, are particularly close. From the very beginning we have seen all of you develop here in this U.K. facility. We have all become involved in your fortunes. As I said you have the knack of getting people to like you. True we only get to know the girls from the other countries when they arrive at our Finishing Centre, when their decision is made. But, without exception, all our girls prosper when they leave us. They have opportunities that they would not otherwise have come near to. We see to that. All are at least reconciled to their new life, The majority prefer it. And I know it may strike a jarring note with you, but their financial future is assured.”

“As was Olive's!”

Helen Vanbrugh bowed her head. Studied her own glass.

“Yes. That was indeed a tragedy. There is no excuse. We caused her death and it haunts us.. Rehabilitation was in it's early days then. It is still not a success. Nowhere near it. It creates more problems than it solves. Dr. Tabatha is scathing about it. We are improving it, but then, well then it failed....”

There was a silence between them. David was still livid, his indignation boiling bitter deep within him. Deep beyond the reach of words.

“It may be little consolation to you now Sophie,” Helen Vanbrugh continued, “but your flat is still in your name. All your bills are settled promptly as they arrive and a salary in line with the original recruiting offer is paid into your bank monthly.”

His flat seemed far away. Unreal. Of no concern. There was no future worth considering.

“I tell you all this so that what I propose will make sense.”

Her voice seemed to come from a distance.

“In a field trial we need a constant. Something to measure the performance of others against. To gauge the effect of our treatments.”

“We are all just statistics to you. My destiny is to be a statistic. If I were to be sold off as a whore then at least there would be an honest useful end to it.”

Helen Vanbrugh sighed, and seemed to steady herself. Her voice was low and patient.

“Listen Sophie. Listen to what I have to say. I could send you there as such a girl. I know the principal of the school well. She is a personal friend of mine. You may recall her from your first interview. I will speak to her to see if she will agree to you being the one who receives the placebos. So you don't have hormones, that any injection or small intervention will be for conformity only. That you maintain your physical integrity free of any introduced stimuli.”

She paused watching David carefully. Trying to reach him through his mingled anger and despair.

“I cannot guarantee anything at this stage. The final decision must be her's. It is her responsibility. But if you like, if you agree, I will try.”

David roused himself. Perhaps after all ... He looked up. Interest, hope even. beginning to stir.

“Why me?”

“It has to be someone.” She shrugged. “And I think perhaps we owe it to you Sophie. After the way you acted over the Coralie affair. Her attack on Grace. And perhaps because I think, and Dr. Tabatha agrees incidentally, that your acceptance of your femininity is not as deep as others might believe.”

She smiled.

“I am torn a little bit. I think you would make a lovely girl. And I think that when you have accepted that you will have a rich and happy life. But perhaps you have earned the right of choice.”

He nodded, His mind racing, looking for snags, for hidden agendas.

“And of course you may still. I hope you do. Fully accept your female destiny I mean. At the Centre you will still be subject to all the other pressures and influences contrived to lead you down that road. And never underestimate the peer pressure of the other girls, not to mention the distance you have already travelled. It may already be too late after all.”

She eyed him, seeming to add up, to calculate. his chances.

“Do you want me to try? To arrange it?”

He nodded. It might be a snare. But it might be genuine and at least it offered a chance.

“Yes. Yes please. And thank you Miss Helen.”

“Two conditions that you must be aware of Sophie dear. Two caveats that if broken would cancel it.”

The snag! David thought. The bloody snag!

She read his thoughts.

“No. Nothing untoward. Nothing to worry about Sophie. The first is just good practice. The second is in your interests.”

She watched him relax slightly.

“Ideally no one on the programme should know that one amongst you is being treated differently. Not even the person concerned. It skews the result. That is standard practice. But we have no option. You do know. We can't draw the names out of the bag and chose by hazard. That would be depriving those girls who seek femininity of their desired aim. But no-one else must know. The principal herself will of course as will those assessing results and monitoring progress, but they are not the people with whom you will normally be in contact.”.

Helen Vanbrugh paused to marshal her points.

“It is vitally important Sophie. Great care will be taken to ensure that your treatment will superficially be identical to that given to the other girls. For the good reason that most will not know, and those that do cannot admit it, you must never refer to this to any of the staff there. Not to the Doctors, nor tutors nor administrators, not to Grace de Messembry, particularly not to Grace de Messembry. Not even to myself again. If you do they will deny it. If you insist you will be put back on the normal programme. All that we discussed here forgotten. Do you understand?”

"Yes, but what if ....”

“No 'but what ifs', no exceptions. Do not mention it, hint at it to anyone.”

“And the second proviso?”

“The second condition follows naturally from the first. It is in your interest, in case the environment there does indeed dissuade you from your present inclination. Because you must not refer to, or hint at, any difference in your treatment, should you request, or volunteer for, surgical intervention that will be taken as a sign that you wish to end your special status. For example should you ask for breast implants then from that moment onwards your pills, injections etc., will no longer be placebos but the real thing. Indeed you will doubtless be put on a crash course to enable you to recover lost ground. Such will be irrevocable.”

David tried to grapple with the information. His head was spinning.

“Do you agree Sophie dear? Should I try to intercede?” Helen Vanbrugh asked. “Will you go along with Anne to the Finishing Centre? Or bide a little longer here in the Holding Wing until such time as an offer such as this will be .... well quite irrelevant?

Notes:

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Synopsis:

And is it true? The light at the end of the tunnel grows brighter. David's time at the Holding Wing seems to be numbered and pastures greener by far beckon. But greener for whom, even supposing that he gets to feel them under his feet? In the meantime though hope is alive again. In David's breast at least. And talking of breasts.....

Story:

Because David's tale is slow in its serialisation, and long in the telling, it was suggested to me that the following character list might help in jogging reader's memories. Hope it helps.

Characters in order of appearance/mention in Part 10

Helen Vanbrugh. Grace de Messembry's close confidante on whom she appears to exercise a moderating influence. She was at David's first interview when he was named Sophie. It is to be assumed that she has director status in the Venumar Foundation.

David. The hero whose adventures we follow. Generally referred to by others as Sophie. ‘Recruited’ and then subjected to months in ‘Reception’ before progressing to the ‘Holding Wing’ where the subsequent action, a part from his stay in the hospital facility, has taken place.

Anne. One of Laura’s charges. She was already at the Holding Wing before David’s arrival. Her background is that of a boy saved from drug abuse and social problems by one of the charitable organisations under the aegis of the Venumar foundation.

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

Olive. A predecessor of David’s and friend of Anne’s. Her suicide was seemingly directly related to her experiences at Rehabilitation to where she was sent for infraction of the rules.

Emma. Was another of Laura’s charges, but a genetic girl. She, with Christine and Alice, represents the other, outwardly charitable, function of the Holding Wing, which is the education and training of girls coming from under-privileged and troubled backgrounds. Now graduated from the Holding Wing returning as a junior staff member

Grace de Messembry. Majority, perhaps sole, shareholder in the Venumar Foundation, which in itself is the controlling influence of numerous international companies. She is apparently the source and instigator of all David’s current woes

Dr. Victoria Walters. A surgeon in the employ of The Venumar Foundation. She was responsible for his recovery after his knifing. She was originally given a passing mention in Grace de Messembry’s ‘surgical intervention’ threat in Chapter 14.

Dr. Tabatha O’Neill. Staff. Psychiatrist.

Mrs Townsend. Staff. The beautician.

Mrs. Felicity Cranwell. Staff. Tutor in Female Sexuality

Coralie. The latest ‘recruit’ to feminisation. Tried to knife Grace de Messembry but the attempt was instinctively foiled by David. As a result of this attack she passed a fortnight in Rehabilitation. She shares David’s background, having been forcibly recruited and conditioned at Reception before arriving at the Holding Wing.

Christine. A genetic girl in Janet Saggren’s charge

Alice. A genetic girl in Janet Saggren’s charge

Janet. Janet Saggren A colleague of Laura’s. Her charges being Christine, Alice and Coralie.

Daisy A genetic girl. In Laura’s group, replacing Emma.

Girls of a masculine provenance seem destined to proceed to the Finishing Centre after the Holding Wing. At least Mona did. Other less complicated girls seem to graduate to the A. & A. programme (“‘Assessment and Assignment’ apparently). Emma passed through A & A before returning as assistant to Laura and Janet. Nothing is known for sure about the Finishing Centre as no-one so far has ever come back from it. All seem to be loosely grouped under the title “The Academy”

It should be remembered that the plot unfolds through the eyes of David. The descriptions of the people above conform to David’s understanding of their function, character, etc. Use of words such as ‘seemingly’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘apparent’ are because the facts, or surmises, can only be as David understands them. The reader has no other authority from whom he or she can seek verification.

Chapter 31.

They looked at each other, waiting, weighing possibilities, probabilities.

They looked at each other, the elegant, sophisticate called Helen, and the pretty girl whom she called Sophie.

The one seemingly without a care in the world, the other racked with more doubts and fears than it seemed possible her slender shoulders could bear.

“Do you find the conditions so upsetting Sophie dear? Or are you having second thoughts?”

“Words like 'irrevocable' frighten me Miss Helen, and somehow, somehow they bring it all home to me.”

What he did not have to say. They both knew.

“It is only a word Sophie dear. Words do not change the reality. A reality you have already indicated you preferred. To go with Anne to the greater freedom beyond or to stay here and hope against hope for .... well for divine intervention.”

He didn't trust her. He didn't trust any of them. He saw his long red nails on the glass as he finished his drink in a decisive swallow. The motion of his arm moved his breast, and he felt the bra strap gently remind him of its weight. For once perhaps this was a case of better the devil you don't know. The devil he did know seemed to have covered all the angles. The Finishing Centre couldn't be worse. And it might, just might, be better. There he might have a chance; here he knew he no longer did. And Anne would be there.

“Yes. Yes I would like to go. Thank you again Miss Helen.”

Her dark eyes regarded him steadily over her glass as she paused it at her lips.

“I, we indeed, haven't given up on you Sophie you know. This isn't a simple passport back to masculinity. Do not thank me for that.”

She drained her drink with a little flourish, returning the glass to the tray.

“ If I were a betting girl,” she mused, “I know where I would put my money. On the emergence of the beautiful butterfly already here at its chrysalis stage.”

She rose, indicating the end of the interview.

“At least dear, you will never now be able to claim that you never had any real choice. You will have to take some of the responsibility, of the credit, yourself for what you may become. You won't be able to take refuge in the reproach that it was all our doing.”

In the corridor she turned to him. “Remember to tell Anne that she will be going. And with a companion. I will tell Laura. Whatever the result, I applaud your choice, you need to move on.”

She smiled at him and turning strolled down the corridor towards the exit which opened on silent hinges in obedience to her implanted VeriChip's authorisation.

David watched her go. He was starting to shake a little. He knew that whilst what was bad here was all too immutable, the good was seldom what it seemed. And yet perhaps this move to the Centre did offer some way of surviving, of escaping. Hope, against all the odds, was reborn.

The plug in his arse started to vibrate, mocking him and his hopes. That at least he could not hope to escape at the Finishing Centre. With a rather stilted walk he went in search of Anne.

He found her where he expected her to be. Thin watery sunshine had chased away the drizzle and she was in a corner of the roof garden, staring out through the glass panels at the countryside beyond. The view that had been Olive's last.

They stood in companionable silence together for a while. David wondering what the future held. Anne perhaps reflecting on what the past had lost.

At last. “I have just had a meeting with Helen Vanbrugh,” David said. “Quite a long one actually. She told me I could tell you that it was alright. About your going to the Finishing Centre.”

Anne turned to him, eyes sparkling. “I can go? She said it was alright?”

Her hand on his arm. Grasping tightly. Communicating her excitement.

“Yes.” He smiled at her. “Yes you can go Anne dear. You can go. After this Friday's Inspection. She is going to tell Laura.”

Her grip on his arm softened, gentled.

“I shall miss you Sophie darling. Miss you so very much.”

“I am to go with you Anne dear. That is what Helen wanted to see me about. She said .... “

His words were lost as Anne threw herself at him, winding her arms round him, clasping him close to her.

“It was the only thing, leaving you here, the only thing that spoilt it for me.” There were tears in her eyes, enhancing their sparkle. A detached part of David's mind registered them as being tears of joy, tears such as he could not recall ever seeing before. Not even then. Before the 'now' had started. Never seen, just read about.

“I begged them all, Laura, Helen, Grace de Messembry. I pleaded with them to let you come too. Told them it was silly to keep you here any longer, that you were such a delightful girl, such a fast learner, and better than I really. I told them they must let you .....”

David hugged her close.

“So I owe it all to you do I. You little minx! How dare you browbeat poor Grace de Messembry like that!”

Anne freed herself just enough to poke a finger hard into his ribs.

“Don't tease Sophie. I am serious. It makes such a difference. And I did you know. I told them all. That you should come with me.”

“I know Anne dear. And going with you does make all the difference. Helen said I would be lonely without you and she is right. I do not know if I am ready to go or if I should go, but you make the difference. You are the deciding factor. Otherwise....”

His voice trailed off as doubt niggled uncomfortably, ever present, at the back of his mind.

“Pooh! Fiddlesticks! What rubbish you talk Sophie dear. Of course you are ready. We shall have such fun! It will be a real giggle. Just you wait and see!”

She took his hand and smiled at him. “Let's have a celebratory drink. Laura will be here soon. I can't wait to see her face!”

David was towed across to the bar, Anne chattering excitedly the while. “Darling you will be a star. Helen wouldn't have asked you otherwise. I just know you will. I am sure Laura will say the same! What will the others say?”

“I think we should keep it to ourselves Anne dear. Just us, Laura and Emma. Helen said that I could tell you, and that the other two would know but .....”

“Of course Sophie dear, you are quite right, as always darling, but it will be soooo hard. I am useless at secrets ....”

David turned his own secret over in his mind. Perhaps Anne couldn't have kept something like that to herself. Maybe that was why Helen had chosen him? Believing that he was capable of discretion, of dissembling. Holding close and inviolate the knowledge that he alone was outside the loop ....

“Just a tonic Anne, with a dash of angustura,” he said. “No gin. I had a couple of those with Helen. And any more I shall be telling the world.”

If this was to be a solution, his salvation, he must watch what he said. Even with Anne he had to be careful. Discretion and alcohol made uneasy bedfellows and already he felt his cheeks slightly flushed.

“Don't be so stuffy Sophie darling, Just one won't hurt. To celebrate. Both of us moving on. So important. You can't not have any mother's ruin! Not today!”

David would have protested more strongly but his attention was diverted by the sound of heels heralding the arrival of Laura. She swept towards them, arms outstretched as Anne splashed two liberal gins into the ice packed crystal tumblers.

“Sophie, dear, dear Sophie! She hugged him. “I am so pleased for you darling. Helen has told me. So pleased. And I am sure that you are ready. That you will just love it there.”

“Make that three darling.” This to Anne over David's shoulder. “And don't stint the gin.”

David sat with them, trying not to drink the tempting gin. It was unusual to see Laura on a Saturday afternoon. It was obviously important enough for her to sacrifice her free time. Perhaps Helen had forewarned her; perhaps she just wanted to be with them to share their pleasure.

“It seems only yesterday when I first had a drink here in the garden,” Anne was saying. “It was a campari I remember. I had never had one before. Olive suggested it. Olive....”

Her name brought momentary silence with it.

Laura reached out, laying her hand on Anne's. “Yes, poor Olive,” she said gently.

Anne shook her head as if to banish the spectre. “It seems so long ago now. I was such an awkward .... girl. I remember I spilt some down my dress. I caught my glass on my boobs of all things, not expecting them to be there. It was all so new to me. I was so ashamed, and .... lost.”

David nodded, remembering is own arrival. It had been all so new to him too. Had all been so new. Had been. Wasn't now. Now it was so normal, so everyday. Difficult to envisage it otherwise.

He remembered his own shame, and that feeling of loss that had never ever gone away. Remembered Anne too. Brought in to show him his destiny on that first evening.

He spoke unthinkingly. Words forming in his mouth, echoing his thoughts.

“You were already a lovely girl when I arrived,” he said. “I remember my first evening. Laura asked you in to meet me. Do you remember. She said we would be friends. I.....”

David's voice choked. It, he, had been so different then ....”

“Darling Sophie of course I do, you were quite exhausted after all that time in that dreadful reception place, not at all the glamour puss you are now!”

“I remember the fuss she made about wearing that simple little denim dress and how I had to coax her into it,” giggled Laura. “Such a time I had of it. And you think she was exhausted Anne? I was worn out. She really played up, wanting to be all butch and macho. Quite adamant that skirts were not for her.”

“I remember the dress too Laura,” said Anne. “I can understand why she baulked at it. Not her style at all, just a simple tunic. No allure at all. And no boobs either. If you had given her a little silk clingy number slit to the hip she would have been in it like a shot.”

They were laughing at him, teasing him, sharing with him. No malice or intent to do anything that could now upset him. Just to see the folly of his resistance in retrospect and rejoice with them that he had moved on.

“Talking of boobs,” Laura said, “reminds me. I brought these for you. I know that they are forbidden in the Holding Wing”. She rummaged in her handbag. “But they will give you a flying start and I don't see how it matters for one week if the other girls don't know. One of each every morning and evening. Just let them dissolve under the tongue.”

The bag yielded four pill packets. Two of which she gave to Anne and two to Sophie.

“There you are darlings, the result of Venumar Laboratories latest research. Basically antiandrogens in one packet and and estrogens in the other. Both under fancy names of course. Doubtless The Finishing Centre will come up with a few additional treatments and refinements but these are more than capable of making your dreams come true.”

“Laura! You are such a darling!” cried Anne!

David stared at the packages in his hand. One orange, the other purple. These must be the real things. Only Helen knew what she had proposed. Unless Helen had given her them? But if he asked it would sound grudging

“Yes thanks Laura. You are soooo good to us!” There seemed little else he could do. He must play along. Even if the tablets were hormones or what ever antiandrogens were, it couldn't really matter. Not for a week. These things took time.

Tentatively then.

“Did Helen say we should, that you could start us on ....”

“Oh no Sophie dear, but I am sure she won't mind. She was sympathetic to Dr. Walters when she wanted to prescribe hormones after your scarring. And if it wasn't for Grace de Messembry being so adamant about it, would probably have argued for it more forcibly then. As it is what possible harm can there be in it now?”

Her smile encompassed them both.

“I shall miss you both you know. You must promise me that you will visit.”

Laura's voice broke through his fears

“We will be able to visit? To see you again?” Anne leant forward excitedly.

“Of course. Why not if you want to. As I hope to see you. We will still be close neighbours. It is not a long goodbye. Dr Tabatha, Mrs Townsend, Mrs. Cranwell, most of the staff here also work there. It is all part of the same estate. Five minutes walk. That is all it will take.”

“Estate?” It seemed an odd word to use David thought.

“You will see for yourselves in a few short days. I don't want to spoil the surprise. All you need to know is that there you will have much more freedom of movement and of contacts. You will no longer be in a closed community. The Centre is just part of the complex,”

“Other people? Apart from the girls in the Centre?”

Laura laughed. “Wait and see Anne dear. But yes there will be other people, apart from your fellow students, People who work in some of the other Venumar interests there. It is part of the process, of your training. That you meet and mingle with others in a normal social environment. You will be free to come and go as you want. Within reason of course.”

“Come and go as we want?” David struggled to come to terms with the concept. It could not be true.

“I said wait and see dear. Initially there will be restrictions of course. You can have no conception of what your training has so far cost the Foundation darlings. You both represent a very large investment on their part and they wouldn't want to let that vanish over the horizon without trace. Certainly not at this crucial stage of your development.”

She regarded them with an almost maternal patience and smile.

“I know you wouldn't be going there unless your dedication is beyond question, but I suppose their attitude is better be safe than sorry. However you will find it far more relaxed than it is here. And progressively yes, you will be able to come and go anywhere your fancy takes you.”

Chapter 32.

In his dream that night David revisited his school. He had always remembered it as a boy's school and he had been a boy there, a boy in a boy's school and it was strange therefore that it seemed natural to him that it was now co-educational. Girls seem to be all around him. Sometimes he would be talking to one of the boys he remembered and he would .... no she would have become a co-educational girl, prettier than he had remembered her to be, and with breasts which looked really rather promising and better developed than his own which really wasn't surprising because boys like him, like Sophie, don't have breasts until they are rather older. Unless they asked for them of course which made all the difference. And when James Evans kissed him and told him how he had wanted to do just that and more for simply ages, he was so pleased he had asked because breasts made all the difference to a girl. Everyone seemed so pleased to see him and even the Old Bunsen the Physics master whom he had never really liked before said he had always known he had it in him to fully develop his talents in a knowing way and a wink he felt quite warm and tingly inside and that made everything so worthwhile and rewarding and he was pleased that the finishing laboratory had a new centre and everyone could pass through it and become more feminine, paradise really, even Old Bunsen whose breasts though were only 'A' cup and had a silly bra on which didn't match his robes at all but having his hair like that was such an improvement. And the bell for the next period went just as he was really enjoying himself and he didn't want to leave and ....

It was morning. The butt plug throbbed deep within him. David lay there adjusting to the reality of the day, of the sunshine filtering into his room, lying in mote-filled beams across his bed, the dream fading, but still remembered for a few fleeting moments.

They, the dreams, were now an accepted, inescapable, part of his existence. As always on their fading he was filled with a dreadful fear that nagged away at him. The fear that he was indeed losing control over his inner masculinity. That it was seeping away, insidiously being replaced by the acceptance of a softer feminine self. Even the fear seemed dulled now though. Perhaps because one can't replicate fear day after day, it wears away, watered down by familiarity, eroded by waiting.

And perhaps it was less this Sunday morning because perhaps it need not be. Before there had been no refuge from it. No place to hide. But now? But now there was a little corner of hope to which he could retreat. From there he could look out at his fear, examine it from all angles, turn it over in his mind. See it for what it really was.

It was fear. Simply that. Not an inescapable destiny forced upon him. Destiny and fear were not the same thing at all. Fear was only an internal mental problem.

And even that Destiny, that source of his fear, was now not necessarily so.

There were sunlit uplands beyond to which he could win through. If it were to be a mental struggle only, then the battlefield would be his. It would be in his head and that was on home ground. It could be won. The more he turned it over in his mind, the more he was convinced that Helen's offer implied that he could win. There could be no possible point in his being a sort of bench mark against which the progress of others could be measured if he were inevitably to share their common destiny. It would be of no value to the Venumar Foundation. And being of value to them was the only consideration they recognised.

Later that Sunday morning at his dressing table, waiting en deshabille for the two tablets under his tongue to dissolve before he could apply his lipstick. He looked at the attractive girl in the mirror quietly watching him. Knew she was him, that the lingerie silkenly flattering her body was the same that clung to his. Found himself turning over in his mind what he was to wear; anticipating the sensation of the chosen clothes as they moved over his body. And David thought, if he was honest with himself, the sensation was pleasant enough. The feel of silk and satin caressing his skin, of stocking clad leg sliding against stocking clad leg, of freedom of air circulating under a skirt, even the taste of lipstick, the scent of perfume. On a girl in one's arms they would all be desirable, sexually arousing even. It was just that on him they represented something that was abhorrent. No that was wrong too, Femininity wasn't abhorrent. It was only the thought of him being feminine that was. The thought? Or him being? They were not the same. Perhaps both? But if not both, which?

And then the blessed thought that it did not matter now. Not so much anyway. If he had to wear womens' clothes for the next few months it did not matter. He could even let himself enjoy the tactile pleasures without relating them to a loss of masculinity. Even having false boobs did not matter. They were just there to give line and style to the clothes. They were an adjunct to the those clothes, and not to him. It was, yes was .... he must be positive .... it was only a temporary state of affairs.

For the rest of the week, this inner conviction sustained him. Sometimes he was plagued by searing doubts, sinking back into a morass of misery; sometimes optimism coursed through him and he imagined a sure and certain route to freedom. Mostly he just had the feeling that the Finishing Centre on Helen's terms was a positive step that could, with luck, be a way of regaining his life. The life they had stolen from him. Even at his most pessimistic though, when the doubts swirled around in his head, hope was there too, and hope gave him a refuge and a strength.

The dreams at night did not matter. They were but dreams. And admittedly pleasant ones too.

The waking dreams, which were ever more frequent, ever more convincing and longer lasting, could be seen as what they really were. A natural consequence of his submersion in the feminine world. An extension of his present world of an all embracing femininity that permeated everything he did. Amongst friends, relaxing, or with only his mirrored reflection smiling back at him, mimicking each subtly girlish gesture, was it not the most natural thing in the world that he should slip into an complicit, easy, acceptance? It meant only that he was confident enough in his own true identity to relax.

The lessons, the tutorials were now of no consequence. They were no longer a preparation for a future destiny but an interesting exercise in conforming to the will of others in order to deceive them. To lead them astray in their calculations. He applied himself with a new will to do well. To ensure that there would be no second thoughts. That none of them would protest to Grace de Messembry that he was in truth far from ready leave them.

Only with Dr. Tabatha was he uncertain. It occurred to him that she might be privy to Helen's proposal. They seemed close and Helen herself had told him that she had been consulted on his, David's, state of acceptance. But he could not let her know of the proposal nor of his agreement. And she was astute, knew more about him than he would have liked. And he was deeply suspicious of her sessions of hypnotherapy. All in all he was ill at ease, unsure.

But if she knew of his imminent departure from the Holding Wing, or of the terms agreed with Helen, or even if she sensed David's unease, she gave no sign. She only mentioned that she had heard from the other tutors of his increased application and corresponding accelerated progress. She even smilingly ventured polite surprise, hinting at a change in his attitude, and hoping that this was but a forerunner of happier times ahead. As always though her voice betrayed no conviction of her own relating to such alleged progress, more a gentle enquiry inviting David to confirm or deny the its truth or otherwise.

And as always he had left her after the hypnotherapy feeling more at peace. Any inner turmoil stilled, more inclined to see the positive side to his advancement to the Finishing Centre.

And more and more, since his moment of rationalisation before the mirror, the clothes, the make up, the perfumes became less abhorrent to him. In truth abhorrent was no longer the correct word. Nor had it been for some time. You can't wear skirts and dresses, silken lingerie, stockings, all the trappings of sexy femininity day after day and maintain a high degree of abhorrence towards them. It is as with fear. Custom stales the sensation.

Even the sex toys, the anal plug and the grotesquely named 'Oral Gratification Training Aid' seemed less horrific now, although still maintaining their ability to disgust. The latter's humiliation was of an ever shorter duration, dramatically improved to under seven minutes before the cartridge voided its contents into his mouth. One small anomaly had caused a passing vague concern. He was sure that when he had first opened the box the cartridges had been Type VF19. He remembered his relief that at least they had not been the VF23 which the accompanying booklet had designated as containing hormone additives. In his general distaste for the whole procedure he had not paid much attention since but he suddenly saw that the current ones were marked Type VF20(a). Even stranger was that the box was also clearly marked with this Type No. It must have been switched; perhaps they had got them mixed up when they had brought them to the hospital facility? But it was odd. Not that it mattered much he thought. There seemed no discernible difference in taste or consistency, and as long as they weren't the VF23s! Anyway he might have been mistaken. Much water had passed under the bridge since then and this was trivia in comparison.

The rest of the week passed quickly. Freed of the burden of despair, David was able to relax more. Evenings spent with Anne and the other girls on the roof garden were no longer marred by bitterness and black inner solitude. Emma would frequently join them, Laura too sometimes, and it seemed as if a last barrier had been lifted.

He was no longer apart, but one of them. Easy in their company, accepted and accepting. Indistinguishable from them, his perfume mingling with their's as the dusk descended; his voice, his laughter, now schooled to blend with their own. He drank sociably as one does amongst friends. Not as one does alone to hide from oneself.

Friday, the day of the Inspection, David was up early. A luxurious soaking in the bath, aware of his freshly depilated body smooth to the touch, his skin softened by the pampering regime of creams and unguents. He soaped his breasts, only faint lines now to mark where the knife had slid along his rib cage. Saw the ten red ovals of his toenails peeping through the bubbles at the far end. They would be covered today but needed repainting nonetheless, his training always emphasising how a girl must not be slipshod in her preparations. Today there must be no hitches. No failing to achieve the perfection that would ensure that Grace de Messembry would give her seal of approval to his progression to the Finishing Centre.

He had worried and worried as to what he should wear to create the right impression. Anne, Emma and Laura had all been consulted. The general, oft debated opinion, was that he should go for a fairly sophisticated yet fun look. Sexy in a flirty rather than obvious way. Dr. Walters had told him that he could use adhesive again for his breast forms which was such good news as it gave him a much wider choice of bras and accordingly dress styles.

He waved his fingers gently to hasten the drying process of his nails. In the mirror's reflection he could see his dress hanging behind him on the wardrobe door. A dark bottle green sheaf of native silk. Off the shoulder, decorous at the front but plunging down at the rear to the small of his back with just a criss cross of thin straps there to hold it precariously in place. It had an asymmetrical hem which at its highest point was quite decidedly, indeed outrageously, revealing, although a slight ruffle made it look a little more respectable than the reality warranted. It would however test his deportment to the limit if he didn't want to flash his knickers at all and sundry.

His focus shifted back to is own reflection. His strapless bra was deceptively fragile. Satin support with transparent gauze tops, embroidered below and lace edged above. Wasted of course because it would be quite hidden but, as Emma had pointed out, knowing one was equally pretty underneath gave a girl such a confidence boost. Hidden from the mirror's gaze, his matching French knickers were even more deceptive in their lacy frivolity, holding his penis in a fierce, unrelenting, embrace tucked tight back between his legs. No leeway in the dress' line to accommodate that sort of bulge. They had unanimously opted for hold-ups rather than having a suspender belt. Somewhat reluctantly because of the sexy allure of the latter, but under the slim silk sheaf dress the tabs would show up terribly. A little too tarty they had thought. And Laura had clinched it by producing some hold-ups with seams which struck exactly the right note!

He leant forward, examining his make-up earnestly. Mrs. Townsend would be in later to help to give a final last minute gloss but he wanted to show her and Laura that he had now mastered the art himself, and was quite capable of achieving something akin to perfection.

Laura had found him a small day necklace, a thin gold chain with a single emerald drop in a art deco gold setting with matching earrings. Paste only of course but quality, and the settings and chain were genuine.

In front of the cheval glass he stopped and made a by-now-automatic pirouette, appraising himself as he had been schooled to do. He saw nothing that did not epitomise careful cultivated femininity. He nodded approval to himself. Surely Grace de Messembry would approve? Would let him take up Helen's offer. Surely?

Later that morning, after Mrs. Townsend had indeed found small minor improvements to make, perhaps more to satisfy herself, or to give David morale boosting confidence, rather than from necessity, he walked with Anne up the stairs to the roof garden.

Both resplendent. Anne in an ice-blue outfit that reflected in the deeper blue of her eyes; he in the bottle green silk sheaf. Both confident in their immaculate appearance, both nevertheless nervous because with Grace de Messembry one never knew.

Coralie, Christine and Alice were already there in a little serious cluster around Janet Saggren who seemed to be giving them last minute instruction.

Anne squeezed his hand. “It will be alright,” she whispered. “You'll see.”

“I know,” he replied. “Alright for both of us.”

A clatter on the stairs and Emma along with Daisy, the newest and hence the last of the girls to receive last minute ministrations, hove into view, both a little breathless. “She's here,” Emma said. “On her way, with Laura.”

A more staid, light but measured tread, and two heads appeared, The dark one of Laura bent towards the deep autumnal red of Grace de Messembry's.

They all turned towards them. Moved towards them, respectfully, unconsciously, to form a little court round them. David listened expectantly for other footsteps but there were none. Helen Vanbrugh was not with them.

Little time was wasted on preliminaries. Grace de Messembry seated herself at the prepared table flanked by Laura and Janet Saggren, with Emma hovering behind them. At first everything went smoothly, efficiently. Missing Helen's presence, Grace de Messembry seemed more business like, less inclined to indulge in her usual teasing circuitous approach.

First Christine, then Alice, then Daisy sat in the little chair before her. All were greeted and dismissed with smiles, all passed smoothly. Then it was Coralie's turn and that too seemed to be progressing well. As it was expected to. Coralie, since her return had been desperate to embrace her femininity. Impatient at what she deemed to be her own slow progress, Blaming herself for any perceived shortcomings. Worryingly unnatural as it may be, at least it could give no grounds for Grace de Messembry to accuse her of the two great sins of lack of effort and insincerity.

But suddenly Coralie was crying, tears streaming down her face, her body racked with despair. Rising from her chair, standing with her hands first flat on the table before her, and then raised and clasped in what looked like supplication.

“Please! Oh please, Miss Grace. I will do anything. But please. Only let me. Please!”

Her voice was loud, jagged with emotion. Its carefully tutored femininity cracking under the strain. The waiting girls turned towards the raised frantic voice where before there had been but a gentle murmur of conversation. But Coralie was unaware of the attention that her outburst had provoked. She stayed there, hunched forward, gazing at Grace de Messembry, silent now but every taut line of her body echoing her desperate entreaty.

Then a sob that shook her body and a final “Please?”

Grace de Messembry, taken aback by the passion of Coralie's outburst, seemed at first lost for words. Then, as those standing behind her moved round to the other side of the table, she leant forward, her hands enfolding those, still clasped, of the trembling figure before her, and spoke to her, low and urgently. David could not initially catch what she said but as he and Anne impulsively moved forward, responding to a nod from Laura, he heard .....

“.... control, calm yourself dear. I will think about it I promise, but you must understand that it is against all the rules here. But perhaps there are extenuating circumstances in your case. I will think about it.”

Emma and Janet were half supporting Coralie as Anne and David arrived at the table.

“I promise to give it very careful consideration. But you must calm yourself now.”

Grace de Messembry turned to Emma. “You and Anne try to calm her. A largish brandy might help. Sophie dear you can stay here.” She gestured to the chair vacated by Coralie and sank back into her own chair as Laura and Janet moved back to her side of the the table.

David sat as he was bid, watching out of the corner of his eye as Emma and Anne led a shaking Coralie away.

Grace de Messembry smiled at him. Never a good start.

“Such an emotional girl poor Coralie. I do so hope you aren't going to throw any wobblers Sophie dear? But then I am sure Anne and you are much more sensible, much more advanced as it were? And such exciting news?”

The smile, the pause, invited a response.

“Yes indeed Miss Grace.” David hesitated, uncertain. Presumably she was referring to the move. Helen would have discussed it with her. But to what extent? And what was behind the scene with Coralie?

“Yes I am thrilled Miss Grace, We both are. Naturally.”

Again the smile, under appraising green eyes.

“You seem a little distracted dear. I was expecting greater sparkle from you. A spring in the step, that sort of thing. But I suppose you are distracted by witnessing poor Coralie's distress? Such a caring girl!”

Grace de Messembry half turned to Laura and Janet.

“Perhaps dear Sophie's opinion would be of use to us here. After all she must be experiencing the same desires and emotions, although naturally hers' are so much nearer to fulfillment now she has progressed to the hormone stage....”

Here Grace de Messembry glanced back at David with an all-girls-together look of complicity.

“Don't worry Sophie dear, Laura has already confessed to me about allowing you to start a hormone regime, and although it was rather naughtily premature of her, and against all the rules of course, I don't see any harm in it and after all a girl does need to be spoilt from time to time.”

An elegant eyelid drooped in a slow suggestive wink before she turned her attention back to those behind her.

“...... and implants are just a natural progression, just icing on the cake as it were, two cup cakes in this instance of course,” the corners of her lips twitched upwards as in appreciation of the aptness of the image invoked, “so I am sure Sophie must herself experience that same exquisite longing for breasts that is such an essential emotion in all those that aspire to full femininity.”

Her full attention shifted back to David awaiting his confirmation.

“Yes,” David did not disappoint. Dared not embrace the futility of doing so. “Yes of course Miss Grace.”

A soft trill of inclusive laughter rewarded him.

“You really must learn not to look so embarrassed about admitting to these feelings Sophie dear. We have all shared them. I so longed for my boobs to grow, to be able to flaunt them. Any impatience you and Anne are feeling has also been ours. In this you are at one with all your sisters. Don't deny that you have never fantasised as to what it will be like when your very own boobs fill your bra? Dreamed about the day when you will bid farewell to your breast forms?”

“Yes Miss Grace. I have indeed.”

For once David could speak without fear that his lack of sincerity would be detected. Could swear on the bible that that at least was true. Doubly true! He had dreamt of the day when he would be rid of his breast forms, when he would again be flat cheated. But alas, and more and more, dreams in which he had indeed been the proud owner of the most deliciously perky and well rounded breasts had invaded his sleep, unbidden but pervasive.

“In poor Coralie the desire seems rather to have got out of control Sophie dear. I am afraid that she is prone to getting quite hysterical about it, as you probably noticed just now. She professes that life without boobs is simply not worthwhile and .... well.....”

The chestnut hair swayed gently, her head moving gently to and fro as she pondered the frailties of Coralie's condition.

“.... you know how my girls' welfare and happiness is my foremost consideration, and I do realise that poor Coralie has been exposed to quite traumatic stresses of late, but rules are there for a purpose. Hormones can cause such mood swings in young girls and that can be counterproductive, and implants are so much better when one has already benefited from the initial breast formation as provided by the hormones. It is so much more satisfactory to allow development in the nipples and aureolae first. The horse should come before the cart. Don't you agree Sophie dear?”

“Yes Miss Grace, I am sure that you are right, I don't know very much about it though, not being .... I mean .... not having breasts myself, I ....”

“Don't split hairs Sophie dear. Possession of the actual physical attributes is a mere technicality, a matter of time only. What is important is that you have the longing for them, the overwhelming need of the assurance of your indisputable femininity that they will bring.”

Grace de Messembry paused, leaning forward slightly as if trying to read his thoughts.

“You don't look as if breasts are truly your heart's desire Sophie? You haven't changed your mind have you ....?”

David inwardly screamed at his facial muscles to respond, to replicate enthusiasm and desire. Helen's lifeline was at at stake.

“Of course not Miss Grace. I dream of having them. Breasts are my desired destiny, I was concerned about Coralie, wondering how I could help.”

“Your destiny is far more conclusive than breasts alone Sophie dear. They are but a stepping stone on your journey. Your concern for Coralie does you credit though.....”

Her smile of reassurance fractionally lowered the tension in David's bow strung nerves. Very fractionally. Whether they were his destiny or not, their destiny for him was confirmed unless Helen's offer held.

“.... so tell me, what do you advise? Should I go against all that I hold to be true, against all received wisdom indeed, and succumb to her girlish tantrums, or ....”

Her head tilted slightly in query as if to balance the raising of an eyebrow, one diamond earring glinting as it swung free of a tress of her hair.

“....or should I give way, should I humour her and let her have the boobs upon which she is so fixated? Bearing in mid her past history and uncertain mental equilibrium? What would you do in my shoes dear?”

The cogs in David's brain whirred frantically, searching for an answer that would please, an answer of which she would approve, an answer that would illustrate his own understanding, an answer that would outwardly confirm his own supposed yearnings.

The eyebrow, carefully, exquisitely, sculpted, was higher now.

He saw a returned Emma looking at him from behind Grace de Messembry's back, almost fiercely willing him on. What would she do, say, what would .....

“Let her just have the hormones Miss Grace, .....”

Emma was nodding, as was Laura.

“..... she needs to feel that she is making progress, as we all do, but she more, much more than us after .. well after .... And you can explain .... tell her that it is for her own good, that the process must be natural, that her breasts must burgeon naturally first before she can have implants. That to achieve perfection she must be patient ... just hormones.....”

Grace de Messembry was smiling. In agreement?

“.... I know she is already mentally fragile, but if her desire is so fiercely all consuming, then perhaps the risk of mood swings is a chance worth taking. Better mood swings whilst she rejoices at her progress, whilst she has the security that such would give, than acerbate her sense of failure, of unworthiness to be female, by your outright rejection.”

“Mmmm I see. Not just a pretty face Sophie dear....”

Grace de Messembry nodded twice, three times.

“I think you may well be right. And of course she need not be introduced to Uncle Silas yet awhile.... What a clever girl you are!. Helen was right about you, in that respect at least. I wonder if she is right about you in other ways dear? About you going to the Finishing Centre for example? Do you think you are ready to take the final steps?”

The smile would in other women perhaps have been described as maternal. But the adjective was a grotesque mockery when applied to Grace de Messembry.

“Yes Miss Grace, we talked about it at length, Miss Helen and I, we both, felt that I should seize this opportunity to become fem .... to complete my journey. And I am grateful for the opportunity, and I promise to ....”

Christ he was rambling, and he should have said 'become female', but he hadn't been able to. But she just had to believe him. Jesus.! She just had to. Otherwise he could not hold out. And how much did she know? Had Helen told her everything? Why was she talking about hormones? She never said anything without a reason! And who was Uncle Silas for fuck's sake?

“.... as I promised Miss Helen that I will embrace, without questioning, eagerly, that ultimate destiny.... my femininity.”

Grace de Messembry held up her hand, palm outwards in a pantomime gesture to stop the flow of words.

“Of course you will Sophie dear, that has always been beyond doubt. It is just the timing that has been in question. Whether or not you have fully come to terms with that reality, accepted it wholeheartedly so that you will be able to fully benefit from all the facilities and processes that the Centre has to offer. Without us having to play little games to get you to comply?”

The smile frank, open, beguiling in its honesty.

“Such fun Sophie dear. So very amusing, but becoming rather boring don't you think? I know I do. We now want to put all that behind us now and work together with common purpose.”

She grimaced self deprecatingly.

“Dear God, I am beginning to sound like a politician. Heaven forfend! Forgive the verbiage Sophie dear, but you know what I mean.”

It wasn't a question.

“Yes Miss Grace, I was hoping that Miss Helen would be here to tell you, to reassure you ....”

“Unfortunately she has had to go to the Far East at short notice, China and India, for the Foundation, I shall be joining her there next Wednesday myself. However ....”

Grace de Messembry looked at her watch and seemed to come to a time driven decision.

“.... we have had a long chat about you and the general state of play and she assures me that the move is very much in all our interests. And who am I to question her judgment in these matters? I just wouldn't dare Sophie dear. She can get so very cross at the slightest hint of opposition.”

A mock shudder depicting horror.

“And quite the tigress defending her young where you and Anne are concerned.”

“So it is alright Miss Grace? About going to the Finishing Centre? For Anne and I?”

“But of course Sophie dear, I thought Helen had made that clear. Once she had your agreement and assurance it was all cut and dried. It is not for me to interfere in decisions of that nature. They are up to the staff here in consultation with Helen who, of course, has the final say. But you know me Sophie dear! I just wanted to be sure in my own mind that you had not been harried in any way, or felt you had to agree just to please us. Your wellbeing is of course paramount and I just wanted, selfishly, for my own peace of mind, to know that it is something you really want, something for which you feel quite ready.”

“Yes it is indeed. Something I really want, am ready for, Miss Grace.”

“I can see that now dear. Such a weight off my mind! All we have now is a little task for you to perform. A little tradition that has grown up here in the Holding Wing. Nothing too onerous but quite important for some sweet girl's future.”

David tensed. Christ the sting in the tail!

“What we want you to do Sophie dear is to christen your successor here. We do have two recruits standing in the wings as it were. Two new girls who have been carefully prepared, primed to follow in your footsteps. All they need is names. So what do you suggest dear? Just the one, Anne will christen the other.”

It sounded so simple David thought. So simple and yet .... and yet they were involving him. Offloading on to him some of the responsibility. Making him an active participant, sloughing off onto him some of the guilt, however small. Some other man-to-be-girl would have to live with a daily, an hourly, reminder of his decision for the rest of their ....”

“Come Sophie dear,” her voice cut across his thoughts. “What do you suggest? Poor Olive should have chosen a name for you of course, but as the circumstances .....” She hesitated, “.... As that was not possible, I myself chose yours dear, and you have told me often how pleased you are with it, so now you can bestow the same blessing on a new sister.”

David thought wildly. It didn't matter. Don't cross her. Give the man-to-be-girl a name. It can make no difference to whomsoever .... Just give her a name.

“Margaret ... perhaps ..... or Fiona? Or Cecilia or Jaqueline.... or ....”

“Sophie dear, we are not filling a whole gymkhana programme. Just one will be sufficient.”

“Fiona Miss Grace, Fiona, if you think that would be suitable?”

“Eminently so Sophie dear. I can't wait to see her face when I tell her! I am sure she will be delighted. Such a pretty feminine name!”

The smile was all embracing. David felt the tension ebb away.

“Nor run along and get yourself a drink dear. And ask Anne if she would be so good as to step across and join us. And do enjoy this your last evening here.”

The Plymouth gin had rarely tasted so good, the lime caressed by the tonic water's bubbles, seldom blended so refreshingly. He had made it. He had a chance to be fully David again

He had hardly savoured the first mouthful, before Anne was back along side him. Herself all a-bubble with excitement and pleasure. He knew it was too late for her, that she no longer wished to reclaim her previous identity, but he knew too that she needed to move on. That for her also the Finishing Centre offered a closure. A homecoming. And he rejoiced for her.

The euphoria lasted throughout the evening.

Grace de Messembry was not present at the customary party. Only the usual bevy of her 'nephews'. Anne and David had initially been the centre of attention as the rest of the girls congratulated them on their graduation from the Holding Wing. Coralie had recovered herself and she too, whilst professing to be consumed with envy, seemed to be back on an even keel, after being told that she could start a hormone regime. Envy mingled with gratitude as Grace de Messembry had let her know that it was David's advice that had gained her the privilege.

Tomorrow it would all be different David thought. Helen had said that her money was still on him failing to break out of the net, on his eventual acceptance of his butterfly destiny. But deep down his determination burnt and he knew, he just knew, that he could do it. It would not be easy. But with his body free of chemical interference, his spirit could take all that they could throw at it. For however long they chose to do it.

Tomorrow it would all be different.

And so it didn't matter on this his last night at the Holding Wing. It didn't matter when the nephews danced with him, when they held him tight in slow clinches barely moving on the little round dance floor. Didn't matter when their hands slid down his silken dress, over his buttocks, gently feeling his bum cheeks, tracing with insistent fingers the line of his panties. Didn't even matter when their erections were pressed invitingly, promisingly, against his groin, writhing to the music in a slow importunacy.

Because tomorrow it would all be different. Get through this evening. Because it no longer mattered that other men saw him as a desirable female. That other men, although they knew he wasn't, believed him so to be. Their bodies and senses betrayed them. Bodies and senses that were in turn betrayed by him.

So he drank and laughed and chatted to the other girls, exchanging comments about the men. And in an odd way he enjoyed himself. Felt as if he was in control for the first time in months. In control of the men who desired him as a woman. Knew that, in spite of their knowledge of the truth, they wanted to believe in his deception. He was far more powerful than they. He could manipulate their truth.

And of course none of it really mattered, because tomorrow it would all be different.

Notes:

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Synopsis:

David arrives at the Finishing Centre. So much more freedom there. If he can just hold true to his resolve, all will surely be well. Or will it? Life is never quite so straightforward. Particularly not for David. And freedom is anyhow only relative. "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage;"

Story:

Because David's tale is slow in its serialisation, and long in the telling, it was suggested to me that the following character list might help in jogging reader's memories. Hope it does.

Previously encountered Characters in order of appearance/mention.

David. The hero whose adventures we follow. Generally referred to by others as Sophie. ‘Recruited’ and then subjected to months in ‘Reception’ before progressing to the ‘Holding Wing’ where the subsequent action, apart from his stay in the hospital facility, has taken place. Now ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre

Anne. One of Laura’s charges. She was already at the Holding Wing before David’s arrival. Her background is that of a boy saved from drug abuse and social problems by one of the charitable organisations under the aegis of the Venumar foundation. Now ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre

Laura. David’s mentor in the ‘Holding Wing’. Her other charges originally being Anne and Emma. Daisy subsequently replacing the latter

Emma. Was another of Laura’s charges, but a genetic girl. She, (with Christine, Daisy and Alice still in the Holding Wing), represents the other, outwardly charitable, function of the Holding Wing, which is the education and training of girls coming from under-privileged and troubled backgrounds. Now graduated from the Holding Wing returning as a junior staff member

Dr. Francesca Pinecoffin. One of the three interviewers, albeit in a minor role, when David passed from Reception to the Holding Wing, being christened Sophie en route

Helen Vanbrugh. Grace de Messembry's close confidante on whom she appears to exercise a moderating influence. She was at David's first interview when he was named Sophie. It is to be assumed that she has director status in the Venumar Foundation. She facilitated David’s move to The Finishing Centre, offering to use her influence with the Principal there that he may receive a special non-hormonal dispensation.

Mona. Was at the Holding wing when david arrived. Moved to The Finishing centre before him. Was originally sponsored by Indian businessmen she herself being of Indian ethnicity

Dr. Victoria Walters. A surgeon in the employ of The Venumar Foundation. She was responsible for his recovery after his knifing. She was originally given a passing mention in Grace de Messembry’s ‘surgical intervention’ threat in Chapter 14.

Coralie. The latest ‘recruit’ to feminisation. Tried to knife Grace de Messembry but the attempt was instinctively foiled by David. As a result of this attack she passed a fortnight in Rehabilitation. She shares David’s background, having been forcibly recruited and conditioned at Reception before arriving at the Holding Wing were she currently remains.

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

It should be remembered that the plot unfolds through the eyes of David. The descriptions of the people above conform to David’s understanding of their function, character, etc. Use of words such as ‘seemingly’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘apparent’ are because the facts, or surmises, can only be as David understands them. The reader has no other authority from whom he or she can seek verification.

Chapter 33.

He was above all conscious of how different the sensation was. Around his legs, around his calves and thighs. The coolness that eddied intimately, caressing him with its freshness. On the roof garden the glass surround had acted as a wind break. But now, for the first time in a summer dress, he was walking unsheltered in the open air.

He and Anne, with only Laura for company, walking along a footpath over short cropped grass that still bore traces of the night's dew. No guards or wardresses. Only Laura and only she because she said that she would show them the way and introduce them, and anyway she had to call into the office herself about some expenses that were due to her.

The footpath climbed fairly steeply which made it a challenge for David even though his heels were a sensible 2”. There was a perfectly good tarmac road that goose necked off to their right but the footpath was more direct and the turf pleasanter to walk upon. Both footpath and road ended behind them at the large square building that lay in the dip. Only the front and one side could be seen now, as all three, pausing for breath, looked back. The still low sun reflected back from the glass panels atop the visible side. It must be the roof garden. Out of sight, was the central garden of the building onto whose path Olive had fallen; the fourth side was bounded by the wall that David could now see extended on each side to form the boundary of the property.

A false crest and then, panting slightly, they reached the top of the rise and saw the whole estate spread before them. It was huge. Parkland that seemed to go on for ever. David could see a couple of flocks of Jacob's and, yet further to the right where the ground fell away again into the loop of a river, a scattering of fallow deer. In front of them was a higgledy-piggledy group of buildings. Outbuildings that clustered behind the back of a curious amalgam of stone and brick, of ancient and modern, of Queen Anne and utility.

“That,” said Laura, “is Helgarren Hall. Your home for the foreseeable future.”

“It looks a bit odd,” giggled Anne, “Not very .... well .... tidy.”

“It originally was the home of the Earls of Athelstarn. For generations until interbreeding overtook them and they died out in the 1890s. Then it had a chequered history with assorted owners who were either Victorian industrialists, brewers, cotton magnates, that sort of thing, or decaying gentry financially refreshed by marriage to American dollars. Then during the war the Ministry of Defence requisitioned it and established a Research Institute here. Nobody is quite sure what they were researching. It was all highly hush hush. A sort of pharmaceutical Bletchley Park.”

“They had promised to return it to its rightful owners of course, but whether they ever would have done is beside the point as the owner himself died, and both his sons did the decent thing and were killed in action with the Desert Rats in North Africa. Anyway by that time the Germans had got wind of it and bombed it, two direct hits did what generations of death watch beetle and dry rot had failed to do. The destroyed bits were rebuilt in a hurry so as to get the whole thing fully operational again. Aesthetics weren't a primary issue. Modern annexes just sprouted out of it willy-nilly.”

They were now close enough for David to see that it had once indeed been a gem of Queen Anne architecture; parts of it still were. The rest could most charitably be described as functional modern. Ramblingly interesting hotch-potch sufficed as an overall classification.

“I am surprised the heritage and the conservation people allowed it.” Anne said.

“During the war they weren't asked. And afterwards, well it was still MoD. property and there was always one natural emergency or other they could cite. I suppose basically though it had been so irrevocably ruined during the war that there was nothing worth saving. Nobody could rebuild the original. And then about 6 years ago when the MoD could no longer find a half convincing reason to hang on to it, the Venumar Foundation took it on a long lease. They got it for a song, all 1,200 acres of it. So cheap in fact that the tabloids tried to make a scandal over it, but the Great British Public's attention was at the time focussed on another cause célá¨bre involving a Minister of the Crown, a rent boy, a prostitute and an Alsatian dog, all in one bed, and naturally weren't interested at just another example of Governmental financial naivety, so the scandal died at birth.”

The footpath they were on forked right to the front of the house where it joined the road that had arrived from the right and which then straightened through an avenue of lime trees towards a distant gate house. To the right the ground sloped past a sports complex comprising a scatter of pavilions, an athletics' oval bounded by a track, tennis courts, and a cricket ground, and then towards a river. To the left David could see a continuation of the wall that had bounded the building they had left, and which then incorporated the gate house before apparently ceasing in a small tower a couple of hundred yards further on. In front of the old house the view stretched away without apparent obstacle, as far as the eye could see, towards a small village a couple of miles away.

David thought about just running. Running away from it all. Just running. The river was not unswimmable, the wall not unscaleable. But he didn't need to surmount either. In front there was nothing but open country.

Perhaps Laura, not fully convinced of his conversion to femininity, read his thoughts. Whatever the reason, she resumed her one woman guided tour, gesturing towards the open countryside in front of them.

“The original landscaping of the parkland was done by Charles Bridgeman and there you see, or rather can't see, a classic example of a ha-ha. One of his very first apparently and a little unusual in that the wall is nearly 10' high and on the outer side of the trench, reputedly because the 8th. Earl had some rare deer he didn't want to escape. Especially designed to give this uninterrupted vista from the front of the house.”

It didn't matter anyway David thought. They weren't so trusting as to just let Anne and he walk free as air, with only Laura as company, without some precautions having been taken. They would be under surveillance, and he would be rounded up before he had gone a couple of hundred yards, let alone before he could try to climb walls. And even if they were asleep, he had not run for over eight months now. And he had never run in heels, albeit only 2” ones. Nor in a skirt, which if not strictly pencil, was tight enough to restrict even his walking stride.

David had a momentary inner vision of him stripping his dress off to climb the wall and fleeing like a headless chicken clad in bra and panties. And there was nothing in his handbag save for a small lace hankie and a selection of lipsticks, assorted cosmetics and the obligatory tampon. 'Just for appearances' sake darling' as Laura had explained. Certainly no money. And in which direction would he run? And Laura could not be expected just to stand there and cheer him on!

And yet .... for weeks he had dreamed of this. Of being out here. Of escaping. And now? But he needed the right moment. A moment when the odds were on his side. Not now when they would recapture him within a few minutes. And now he had so much to lose. He was no longer so desperate. Even if he didn't run, there was hope. A hope he dare not risk. He had far, far more to lose than to squander it on some quixotic gesture.

Better by far to wait. To prepare. To plan. He would need to glean more as to where he was, in which direction he should head once outside the walls, across the river. Preferably with some money, preferably.....

And by then it was too late. In truth had always been too late. They negotiated a car park at the side and stepped out onto a flagged approach to the quite beautiful Queen Anne façade that the Luftwaffe had spared over sixty years previously.

Inside it was deliciously cool and smelt of old timber, beeswax and chrysanthemums. The latter dominated a reception desk behind which sat a girl whose angular features, thick horn rimmed glasses with upswept sides, and severely drawn back hair, contrasted somewhat oddly with the well rounded contours of those parts of the body that could be seen through the flowers.

Laura evidently knew her. “Hi Angela! Meet Anne and Sophie who are on the new intake at the Finishing Centre.”

Angela moved her head slightly to allow her line of sight to bypass a singularly large bloom.

“Hi girls!” she said. “Glad to meet you. Welcome to Helgarren Hall. I just know you will just love your stay here. Everybody does!”

She produced two folders from a tray on her desk. On top of each was pinned a name tag.

“Sophie? .... Anne?”

As they obediently reached for them, she continued. “The tags to be worn during working hours, 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. We all have to. All except the high-ups that is. Avoids confusion. All will be explained in Dr. Pinecoffin's welcome briefing in the conservatory at 11 o'clock, in about ....” Angela glanced at her watch, “.... fifty minutes time.”

Laura was already moving away, past the reception desk and into a broad corridor that lay behind the centrepiece grand double staircase that swept in two impressive wings to the floor above. They hurried after her, clutching their folders.

“I'll get you settled in first.” The words drifted back over her shoulder, her heels clattering on the flagstones as she led Anne and Sophie past the entrances to various subsidiary corridors meandering into the maze that was the old part of the house, finally emerging into a courtyard at the rear. A cobbled area encompassing a sizeable square of lawn, at the centre of which dolphins and naked, rubenesque, young ladies, spouting water from divers orifices, vied for the attention of an impressively endowed and equally naked Neptune.

The building at the far side boasted an impressive arched gateway and David thought that it must at one time have been an indoor exercise and dressage area, but on either side there were the brightly painted doors of half a dozen terraced one-up one-down houses, which must have been converted from the original stables and grooms' accommodation.

“Pretty aren't they, ”smiled Laura, “you two are in numbers 8 and 9 in the far right hand corner.”

Together David and Anne followed her into the nearest of the two little houses. A bedroom and bathroom upstairs. Downstairs a single room, with a small kitchen at one end, a dining table and then a small sitting room area. Fully and tastefully equipped and all immaculately clean.

“All your things should have already arrived by now. You just need to unpack and find new homes for them. Make yourself a cup of tea if you want. If you need anything just let me know.”

“The meeting in the conservatory....?”

“I will be back to take you both there. But you have half an hour to make yourself at home, to sort things out, to explore a little if you wish. But be ready in half an hour. You don't want to keep Dr. Pinecoffin waiting.”

“Who is she, another doctor?” David's old fears surfaced.

“Wait and see little Miss Impatient. That is what the meeting is for. But no she isn't a medic. Rather a Phd. in some esoteric subject .... Oh and she has a prestigious MBA. And her name is Francesca. She is in overall charge of the various research groups and companies here at Helgarren Hall, including the Finishing Centre.” She grinned at them. “Especially the Finishing Centre in your case darlings.”

Alone in No.9, David hung up dresses, skirts and various frilly feminine fripperies, carefully folded and laid into drawers intimate garments lovingly crafted from silk, satin, and lace. Stacked shoes and arranged an array of cosmetics and perfumes on his dressing table. Depilatories, unguents, creams for every imaginable purpose where displayed in his bathroom cabinet. Together with the orange an purple pills that Laura had given him. Hormones to facilitate his ascent into femininity.

The Oral Gratification Training Aid had not been forgotten. Nor had its accompanying box of cartridges. David held them in his hand. Perhaps he should do it now. Get his daily exercise over with. It would be opportune and he needed to ....but no he hadn't the time. Only ten minutes to Laura's return and he had to redo his make up. Must look his best for the meeting. Must make the right impression on Dr. Pinecoffin. But still ...... David found himself looking at the artificial penis with something approaching .....No he just hadn't the time. It would do later. Must do later. Yes must do later.

He sat down at the dressing table and began critically to repair the all but imaginary ravages suffered in the walk across from the Holding Wing.

Laura and Anne found him there. Together they walked back across the square into the house and along corridors to a large conservatory in which were period armchairs in a semi-circle facing a matching chaise longue. Four girls were already there, standing looking out of the windows onto a pleasant, well tended, garden.

David felt Laura's hand on the small of his back, urging him across the threshold.

“I'll leave now. Don't worry. I'll drop in later in the week to see how you are getting on. As will Emma, I know.”

And with that she was gone. Behind them David heard a murmured greeting as she passed two other arrivals in the passageway, and then he and Anne were inside the room, hastened forward by the need to make room for the two newcomers. The girls at the window turned towards them in greeting. Two pretty Chinese girls whose name tags proclaimed them to be Xia He and Shu Fang, and two westerners, Lisa and Marie-Helene.

Soft voices, the flow of skirts, perfumes that swirled and mingled. And then swirled and mingled again as the latest two edged passed Anne and David, to form an expectant, utterly feminine, grouping. One of these last was exquisite in a bright orange sari, the other was also from the Indian sub-continent but wore an elegant classic black dress. Their tags bore the names Akhila and Farhana.

None looked remotely masculine. Nor did any gesture, or movement or nuance of behaviour. betray the fact that they might have once been, in some respects still were ....

Not for a moment would it occur to anyone to doubt their femininity. Unless one had been schooled in the same way of course and knew what to look for. Knew where perfection still beckoned. Knew what was yet to be achieved. As they all did. David included. David knew and knew at the same time that he also was outwardly delightfully feminine, indistinguishable, in that at least, from the others.

Everyone was on their best behaviour. Cautiously polite, making social small talk. All waiting, all apprehensive, all wondering.

And then a clear low voice behind David said.

“Sophie my dear. I don't expect you remember me, but I have heard such a lot about you since that first, all-too-short, acquaintance.”

Dr. Francesca Pinecoffin was amongst them.

The weather had broken. Rain first spattered, then drummed, on the glass roof. Distant thunder growled at the lightening that flashed over the parkland. But the darkness that had invaded the room could not dim the beauty of the blonde hair that fell down on Dr. Pinecoffin's shoulders. A light golden shade to match the tight grained wood of her name.

David remembered her. The third woman at his christening interview. With whom Helen Vanbrugh claimed close friendship. With whom she had arranged David's special circumstances.

“Yes of course I do Dr. Pinecoffin. Remember you, I mean. And Miss Helen too has spoken of you.”

It was the nearest he could go. The nearest to reminding her of what had been promised.

“Indeed and she of you dear. I look forward to getting to know you so very much better, I hear such golden opinions of you from everyone and I am sure that you will flourish and be happy here. My door is always open.” Her smiled washed over him as she turned to Anne.

“Surely you must be Anne? But such a lovely girl! Grace and Helen are quite ecstatic about your progress dear, and Mona is quite beside herself at the thought of meeting you again.”

Dr. Pinecoffin moved on, exchanging brief greetings with all the girls, as she progressed to the chaise longue, where she perched, gesturing with an eloquent hand to the others to do likewise on the surrounding armchairs.

It all seemed so unreal. Perfect manners in surroundings of gracious living. No coercion or suggestion that anything was amiss, no hint that anyone was here under duress.

Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Apart from the fact that it seemed to good to be true. Life was never quite this civilised.

And apart from the fact that he was male. Admittedly appearances were against him And admittedly everyone else would deny it. And admittedly he himself would deny it if asked. Would have no option but to deny it.

It all seemed so unreal.

Everyone else was leant forward in rapt attention listening to Dr. Pinecoffin. David's posture was identical but he was wrapped in the unreality of it all, and only odd phrases filtered through to float around in his consciousness.

“....will I know be such assets to our community .... I set such great store in a happy atmosphere here .... many employees working .... research laboratories etc. .... social opportunities .... staff facilities open to all .... restaurants and dining rooms .... tennis, cricket, squash..... just one section .... working towards social good....”

David's mind grappled with the words, but dreaming unreality claimed him again as the soft, persuasive voice droned on.

“.... emphasis on feminine virtues and styles .... dress behave accordingly .... tuition .... help in achieving .... progress closely monitored .... time outside hours your own .... rewards of achieving one's ambition .... the ultimate goal .... building a new and rewarding life .... embracing opportunities .... privileged ....lucky .... will understand need to initially confine .... stay within estate boundaries .... so much to do in the wider community here ...so much to contribute .... and eventually ....”

David listened to the thunder, found himself counting the seconds between the lightening flash and the noise. It seemed so much more immediate in the glass conservatory. So much closer, more relevant in a way.

“.... And whilst I have already met Sophie and feel I already know Anne ....”

The name, his name, jerked him back to the present attentive world.

“.... through her time at the Holding Wing here, I am sure that in no time at all we will all, all of us meeting here for the first time, all grow together in mutual understanding and respect. And that you all will enjoy your stay here with us, making solid friendships that will endure when your days here are just a treasured memory.”

“And that is really all I wanted to say girls. Thank you for so patiently listening to me when I am sure that you can't wait to be get to know one another, and to explore your new homes and all the facilities that Helgarren Hall has to offer. Someone will be along in a moment to take you to lunch. After that the week end is your own apart from the medical interviews that I mentioned. You will find details of your individual appointments in the folder that you were given when you arrived. They will start at 2 o'clock sharp so please check your appointment time immediately after lunch.”

A warm professional smile and Dr. Pinecoffin moved back amongst them, taking of each a gracious leave, with a promise that she would be looking forward to seeing them again soon, and that if they were in any doubt about anything, just anything at all, the staff were here to help them, and that she herself would always be on hand to allay whatever fears might trouble their pretty little heads.

“My door is always open,” she confided to each and everyone of them. “At any time.”

The staff restaurant was up-market self service. A large, cheerful room with the serving counter down one side. Their guide, who turned out to be one of the cooks, led them through the food selection, handing over entitling luncheon vouchers, a further supply of which would, they were assured, be delivered to them later. The room was beginning to fill up, but they were led to a large table near the windows which had a prominent 'Reserved' notice displayed on it.

“Just because it is your first day,” their guide explained, “normally its a free-for-all and you can sit wherever you want, or can find, a place.”

More people were now streaming in. Both men and women, groups entering and splitting up, friends greeting each other.

“It's a lot quieter for dinner of course. Most of the offices and labs only work nine till five and most staff go home then, although there are exceptions. That leaves mostly the evening staff running the complex and you Finishing Centre girls, your intake and the seniors of course. So in the evenings we normally blank this part off with space dividers. A lot cosier, otherwise it is like eating in a barn.”

The others, apart from the certain shyness to be expected of newcomers anywhere, seemed to take it all in their stride, but David had difficulty in coming to terms with it. He felt terribly self conscious and rather disoriented. It was the first time in months, the first time as Sophie, that he had been exposed to other people, people moreover who seemed to be perfectly normal, in a perfectly normal working environment, living out a normal routine working existence. People, male and female. And he was sitting amongst them, dressed as a girl, acting as a girl, to all intents and purposes a girl. And none of them seemed to notice or think it was odd. If any should catch his eye they just smiled, a welcoming, reassuring, smile that recognised him as a newcomer to their society.

He wondered why he didn't stand up and shout at them.

'My name is David Jackson and I am a man. Not a girl! Please help me! Please I shouldn't be here. I am here against my will. Being forced into womanhood! Please help me!'

If he did what would they do? What had they been told about him? About him and his companions at this reserved table by the window? And about the other boy/girls lunching in the rooms? The other boy/girls at anonymous tables, perhaps sitting next to, friends with, indistinguishable from, those ordinary people doing everyday jobs here? What would they do if he told them, screamed the truth at them ....

'I am a man'

And he knew beyond certainty that they would studiously ignore him. Or at most look away embarrassed, wishing him to be silent, willing him not to make a scene. And he knew. Knew that they would believe he was just one of the new intake of the voluntary girls-to-be, getting hysterical, over excited perhaps at the prospect of realising her dream. Perhaps the lab workers, the scientists, amongst them would exchange knowing glances with those others already transitioning here. Forgiving him his outburst, making allowances for him, knowing the stress he must be under now he was on the brink of fulfilment.

“Finish your coffee Sophie dear.” Anne's voice in his ear. “We must get back to check our medical appointment times.”

He looked down at his coffee cup in surprise. An empty plate beside it on which there was the debris of a meal. He could not remember eating. Had had no sensation of taste.

The others at his table were stirring, rising. He drained his coffee.

“Yes Anne of course.” And then they were threading their way through the other tables to the door, down corridors and scampering out, through the rain, to their new homes.

The folder contained maps of both Helgarren Estate and of the old Hall and its various annexes. There were notes on staff activities and facilities and even invitations to join various clubs and staff societies. Even a sheet detailing forthcoming attractions which ranged from a display of vintage cars to an evening concert by a string quintet. It was all so matter of fact. So ordinary. A world removed from the atmosphere at the Holding Wing. And a whole galaxy from that of Reception. They were apparently to be treated just as any other member of staff who worked there.

The only difference was that they were not allowed outside the boundaries of the Estate, although even this restriction was qualified by a 'without obtaining prior permission from the Principal's office' rider.

The 'Course Curriculum' covered the same subjects as those subjects already studied at the Holding Wing, but there was more free time and more discretionary use of such and of the auxiliary subjects to be taken. The tutors were the same though and Dr. Tabatha's name appeared at regular intervals on his time table. Even Laura's name although without a specific title of job description. Just her name and a telephone number with a note that if she, Sophie, had any personal worries or concerns she was always there for her.

And finally a small folder labelled 'Medical File'. Inside there were some medical pamphlets and charts dealing with hormones and the possible side effects that their ingestion might trigger; together with one giving all the information David did not wish to know about breast prostheses and adhesives, inserts and hormonal options.

There was also a map showing the location of the Medical Centre together with a schedule of weekly medical appointments.

The first one was at 2 o'clock that day. In twenty minutes time. With Dr. Victoria Walters.

Somehow it was reassuring. The devil you knew was always preferable. A stranger would have been worse. It was irrational but he dreaded seeing that look in other peoples' eyes. That look that was a sneer because he was a man masquerading as a woman. Albeit that it was not his choice. Doubly irrational because he had never yet seen it. But he felt he would. That next time, or sometime soon, he would, should perhaps, see it in a stranger's eyes.

He redid his make up, tidied his hair, examined himself before the mirror. And, pursing his lips, gave a little moue of approval. He looked good. All the work was coming together, paying off. He was really quite... well...pretty. As Laura, Anne, Dr. Tabatha had all told him, if he was to be a woman, it was better to be an attractive, pretty one. Not that he was to be one of course, not now he knew what he must do, but as a temporary measure it was still important to do his best. Essential indeed that he succeeded in convincing them of his pleasure in his new identity.

He blew a kiss at his reflection, and locking his door behind him, scurried out back across the square towards the Hall.

The Medical Centre was in an annexe accessed by a short covered walkway. There he was welcomed by a nurse who with a capable professional air measured him, weighed him, checked reflexes, eyesight, hearing, lung capacity; noting down figures, ticking boxes, on innumerable forms held on a clipboard.

She seemed oblivious to the fact that he was stripped first down to slip, stockings, shoes, panties and bra, then progressively to stockings, shoes, panties and bra, finally standing before her in stockings, shoes and panties only, his false breasts perking proud without their disguising bra.

She exuded an air of having seen it all before. Many times. David was less embarrassed than he had initially envisaged. Or was until ....

“Now your panties Sophie please.” The Caribbean lilt dispassionate.

“My panties? Is that necessary?”

“I wouldn't ask otherwise. Please hurry dear.”

David could feel the blood coursing to his cheeks and he bent and slid his panties down one stocking leg and then the other. He looked over her head. Around the room, anywhere to avoid eye contact as he felt her hands grasp his penis, stretch it, the cold plastic of a ruler alongside it.

“Now I need the corresponding measurement when erect. Shall I do it, or would you feel more comfortable arousing yourself?” Clinical, detached.

“Myself please .... I mean I would prefer .... I feel inhibited.”

“Behind the screen there ... some magazines and DVDs .... to help your inhibitions, but don't be all day Sophie. We mustn't keep Dr. Walters waiting....“

For the first time David thought he detected a flaw in her professional boredom. The first suggestion that she sometimes enjoyed her work. It didn't help him.

“You will need these Sophie.”

She handed David two containers resembling large test tubes. One, the larger was opaque, the other, narrower but longer, with a curious bulbous end..

“When you have finally overcome your inhibitions, you need to let the final stage of the erection take place inside this tube, allowing it to maintain its engorged state for 2 minutes. This will give us a record of your measurements. You can then withdraw it and bring yourself to orgasm, collecting your sperm in the second vessel. Please ensure that all sperm is thus collected. No sloppy coitus interruptus hastiness! It is important that we have a full measure to record volume and sperm count.”

David turned and nearly fell as he stepped with one foot on his discarded panties still hanging round his other ankle.

The nurse tut tutted behind him. “More haste less speed Sophie. You should take more care of such pretty things. Now go and have naughty sexy thoughts about some young studs and what they might do to you.”

Behind the screen David sat, his cheeks burning. Naked apart from stockings and shoes. His sexual libido at an all time low.

“And do hurry up dear, we haven't got all day,” the disembodied voice taunted him. “I am nipping next door to give Dr. Walters your notes but will be back in a few minutes when I expect you to have some news for me.”

David seized his flaccid member despondently. It lay there in his hand disinterestedly. He thrust a DVD into the machine, opened one of the magazines and riffled through it. The DVD whirred into life. Two attractive girls going for a film test. The story would have been trite if it hadn't been non existent. A man appeared; suggestions, promises were made. One of the girls was sweet talked into removing her bra .... Whether it was the sight of her tits or a reluctant response to his fondling David felt his penis begin to stir, to come alive, to show interest.

Opened at random the cartoon story in the magazine followed what seemed similar lines. An exceptionally well endowed man. Impressively erect had under some miraculous pretext succeeded in persuading a girl of astounding naivety, whose breast development had plainly outstripped any corresponding brain activity, to stroke his cock for reasons which remained unclear.

His own flesh responded. Thickening, slowly at first, then stiffening and raising itself upwards, upwards, thickening. Desire spreading along its length, pervading it, all his feelings of lust. Pure and simple lust, growing deep seated in his cock, yearning upwards. He slid the larger tube down over it. It moved easily down, already treated with a thick gel, it seemed to welcome him, seemed almost to draw his prick inside itself, hungry for him.

On the little screen in front of him the second girl in true competitive spirit was also stripping, slowly, lingeringly, temptingly, whilst the first one, now clad only in panties, stockings and 5”heels, had moved behind the man and was now caressing the straining bulge in the front of his thin trousers. Huskily her voice promised the man that all he had ever desired would be his if only ..... he would submit ... if only he would promise ...

David tried not to move. Keep it there for two minutes the nurse had said. His hips urged him to move. Hie hands longed to slide the tube up and down, up and down the length of ...... Two minutes. He must remain still for two minutes. He pressed the lip of the tube hard into his crotch, hard into the firm flesh around the base of his cock to nullify any slight uncontrollable roll of his hips, any ungoverned thrusting. To keep it as still as he could as he felt a sudden rise in temperature in the mass that seemed to grip him tight. A rise in temperature that as it stabilised, was accompanied by a subtle difference in the feel in the substance within. A firming, a competing hardness.

His eyes strayed back to the magazine where the girl having stroked the cock was now engaged in teasing the tip of it with her tongue, easing out a dew of liquid that presaged an even greater issue. Her tongue teasing, her hand under the ball sack scratching, gently with long scarlet talons.

It must be two minutes. It must! He eased his penis slowly out of the tube. He had expected suction to keep it plugged irretrievably up but there must have been a valve mechanism for it came out, slowly, gliding over ridges now, sliding over the contours that it itself had formed. A slight, so very slight 'plop', and it emerged, glistening with the lubricating gel. One hand abandoned the tube on the side table, whilst the other were drawn irresistibly back to his own prick

His fingers slid on the lubricant, a lubricant now overrunning with his own juices, unable to seize the flesh, only to move over it, rub without friction. He was almost sobbing in his need to bring himself to orgasm; to spend this great desire, this pressure building up inside himself. His whole hands were coated with the stuff, slithering down his wrists, making control impossible, all he could do was to try to fight for a grip, to try and master this flesh that now had a life of its own. Flesh that was beginning to drive the rest of his body to a rocking swaying, thrusting motion. Hips, buttocks, stomach muscles, thighs. All driven to an inexorable rhythm, dancing to the dictates of his cock. A cock consumedby a primitive need.

God it was time! He reached for the other tube. His hand slimy with the lubricant having difficulty in grasping it. His body surging now, out of control, he just managed to slide the tube down over the spasming penis as the thick glutinous sperm erupted out in thick coils of pearled rope that curled and fought into a seething living mass in the bulbous head of the tube.

And on the little screen he saw that the man, himself now wearing a bra, was fucking the arse of one of the girls, a girl who it was apparent was herself possessed of a cock, whilst remaining blissfully unaware that he himself was about to be buggered by the second girl who herself was not really all she had first appeared to be.

David stood up placing the first tube alongside the second. Sickened by what he was watching. Sickened by what he had himself done. Feeling betrayed by that fact that his own stimulation had been triggered by watching ... what had turned out to be something a little too close to home to be comfortable.

He looked down to where the magazine lay on the floor, discarded in the moments of his own uncontrollable lust. It had fallen open a few pages further on. The pretty girl, her act of fellatio accomplished was depicted as greedily swallowing the fruits of her labours. Only she too wasn't really a pretty girl. Any more than David was.

Chapter 34.

“There's a good girl!” the nurse came bustling round the side of the screen and lifted the two tubes, one after the other, examining them carefully.

“Now that wasn't so bad, was it Sophie? Indeed from what I heard when I came in, I would guess that it wasn't a chore at all really.”

To David's horror she winked at him.

“Dr Walters is ready for you now dear. You can leave your knickers, bra and slip here for the moment. Just put this on to cover your blushes.”

She handed him a rather scanty chemise in a silky material that reached barely to the top of his thighs. “I know it isn't really hospital wear Sophie, but what girl doesn't want to look her best for a doctor's appointment eh? And those legs of yours are worth flaunting dear.”

“And a little reward pet, for being such a good girl.”

She handed David a small glass of a milky coloured liquid. “A little restorative! Straight down the hatch dear and it will do you a world of good.”

David, his resistance eroded by shame, drank. First a small sip though. It tasted quite pleasant with a vague coconut flavour so he did as he was bid, and it went straight down.

The short chemise necessitated a rather careful walk if it were not to reveal all and, even in only 2” heels, David was acutely aware that his stride was almost a mince as he went through the communicating door into the surgery proper, his faux breasts, freed from a bra's restraint, moving the lace cups of the chemise seductively.

The apple cheeked Dr. Walters greeted him as an old friend.

“Sophie dear, how lovely to see you again. And looking so well! And the scars all gone I hope?”

She took him by the hand and led him to a low divan bed covered in a crisp cotton sheet.

“Just sit there dear. Nothing to be worried about. Norse Formby has carried out the routine examinations. Just a little chat and a small procedure and you are free to go and enjoy the rest of the weekend. Do you play golf by the way?”

It was not what he had expected. “No I am afraid not.”

“Doesn't matter, neither did I until about four months ago, you'll soon get the hang of it.”

And then seeing the puzzlement spreading on David's face.

“It''s just that we have a new 9 hole course and everyone at Helgarren has been infected by golf mania. A disease that quite defies any cure that I can proscribe. And even being quite useless at it seems only to aggravate the symptoms”

Her chuckle gurgled at the back of her throat, inclusive, inviting David to share, woman to woman, the humour of her situation.

“Now let's look at your scars dear, just lift your chemise ... like that .... yes.... yes... mmmm.... almost gone .... another two weeks and I won't be able to find them ..... That's fine Sophie dear, you can cover yourself now .... And you mustn't worry .... I can safely clear you to play ... even the most energetic swing won't do any harm now.”

Again the chuckle, even more pronounced as Dr. Walters sat back, her eyes bright.

“Just a moment dear whilst I finish checking these test results that Nurse Formby has given me. So very efficient. Such a treasure.”

She half turned away, examining the papers on the clipboard. David sat there, trying to adjust, warmed a little by Dr. Walters' attitude which had to some extent dispelled his recent humiliation. Warmed a little? David wondered at the warmth of the room, comfortable enough when one just sported a chemise, sported , such an apt word given its length, sported, but when one was fully dressed it was surely a mite uncomfortable. Perhaps it was to cater for the client's comfort rather than that of the staff? But then he had always thought the temperature in hospitals oppressively high, and had wondered if any patients actually died from heat exhaustion .....

“Mmmm all perfectly satisfactory Sophie dear.”

Dr. Walters placed the clip board on a side table and turned her full attention back to him.

“All systems working and at high efficiency. No problems at all, quite indecently healthy indeed. Of course we will have to wait on the lab tests for sperm count etc., but I envisage no problem there. Just a technicality. Just to measure your progress.”

“My progress?” David felt quite light headed. Doubtless the relief of having finished with the humiliation of the tests. Light headed and warm. Hot sometimes. Hot flushes. He giggled to himself. Maybe he was going through the change.

“To womanhood Sophie dear. To chart the decline of all those nasty male urges. So inappropriate and distracting.”

Again the chuckle.

“Not to say counter productive.”

David found his thought processes elusive. Dr. Walters would not know. Helen had warned him that it would be a secret not to be divulged to, shared with, other members of staff. So he, David, could not explain that there would be no changes, no diminution in ..... To explain would be to negate the agreement. But Dr. Walters would notice surely .... ?

“Chart the progress?”

“Of course Sophie dear. We check the sperm count, blood supply, and related erective tissue volume, on a fortnightly basis to ascertain the efficacy of the hormone treatment. All monitored in conjunction with the Pharmaceutical Division of the V.M.R.I. here at Helgarren.”

“The V.M.R.I.?” David's earlier hot flushes were giving way to a general wooziness. Thinking was becoming an effort.

“The Venumar Medical Research Institute dear. In addition to the Pharmaceutical, the Surgical, and Biological Divisions also have their HQ s and laboratories here at Helgarren. So you can be assured that the very latest techniques and discoveries, the cutting edge of science, are here to help you transition.”

David's mind wrestled with the concept. And gave up. It all seemed too difficult. And unnecessary because it didn't apply to him. Had no relevance. Because he wasn't going to transition. He was just a stalking horse. No that was not the word. He was just a ....

“And on the subject of transitioning Sophie, I understand that Laura has rather jumped the gun and already given you hormones to take? Not before time too! One doesn't normally like to criticise Grace de Messembry, but I personally think she is far to rigid in forbidding their use at the Holding Wing....”

“Not any more.” David heard himself saying. “Coralie is starting. I persuaded her, persuaded Miss Grace that is....” He found himself smiling, almost with pride. It occurred to him to wonder why.

Dr. Walters voice filtered through to him, sounding a little distant now. He tried to concentrate.

“I am delighted to hear it dear, Long overdue in my opinion. But as far as you are concerned you can finish those that Laura gave you, they are perfectly OK, but then you can start on these.”

Dr. Walters rose and opened a medical cabinet with a small brass key, selecting a package from a box on the middle shelf and then with a muttered “No not those”, replacing it whence it came and then, after a moment's hesitation, opening a small drawer and returning with two boxes. “These are for you Sophie. The very latest development. Hot from the press.”

David felt relief wash over him. She must know! They were different.

And then he was no longer sure why that was so important. His mind seemed to be retreating. His senses also. He knew it mattered and that it was a confirmation, but of what and whether it was really important he was no longer sure. His brain seemed suddenly to have retreated into a cocooned numbness.

“There's 28 days supply here. When they are exhausted you just have to ask myself or Nurse Formby for more.”

Dr. Walters voice came to him down a corridor. A corridor with an echo. He had to listen hard to understand what she was telling him.

“Lie back Sophie dear. There you go. Just relax.”

And there was the prick of a needle in his groin. Just below his scrotum. The thought came to him that it was his own fault for not wearing his panties. A girl who had any shred of self respect should never be seen without her knickers, they were her last line of defence. Dr. Walters was saying something again. He must listen, it might be important. Concentrate!

“Just that small procedure I mentioned dear. We call it having Uncle Silas visit. It won't take a moment. Nothing to worry about. Just to help you on your way. A small temporary intrusion. Quite reversible and.........”

He felt a coldness overwhelm his groin. Maybe it would spread? That would be nice. He really was far too hot and ...... His mind sought for an explanation. Maybe they were amputating his willie? They may as well; it seemed only to cause him humiliation now and it did so spoil the lines of a dress. Better without it really although he did need it still to pee through otherwise it would go all over his shoes. Only if caught short on a country walk that is, he reminded himself sternly, because he always sat to pee now when there was a proper loo available. All good girls did and he had to be a good girl. He had promised Miss Grace and there were so many advantages if he agreed. So much more convenient and it really was quite nice with all the lovely undies and dresses....

“Drink this down Sophie dear.”

Pillows were being plumped up and adjusted behind his back.

“I am so sorry.” David said, hearing his words roll down the echoing corridor in his head.

He felt the rim of a glass cold against his lips, tasted fresh cold lemon with a sweet after taste through his lipstick.

“I am so sorry, I just couldn't concentrate, must have dozed off, you were telling me something and I .... I am so sorry....”

“Hush dear. It is for us to apologise It was the drink Nurse Formby gave you. A bit sneaky of us perhaps. It is a mild sedative, we felt it better not to alarm you before hand. Girls such as you tend to be suspicious of any alteration down there, and we did not want to panic you unnecessarily beforehand.

He felt numb, deadly cold in his crotch. No feeling at all. Nothing there? But they had promised! He struggled to sit up, to see.

Hands on his shoulders, restraining him. He realised that the nurse had joined them.

“No Sophie dear, Nothing taken away I promise you. Just an addition that's all. An Uncle Silas. To increase the effectiveness of the hormones. So that they don't need to counteract any malign testosterone activity. All in a good cause dear.”

“All in a good cause?.... Uncle Silas? Who is Uncle Silas?”

“You know dear. A pawnbroker. Three balls. We had introduced a third ball into your scrotum. Quite a small one really, about the size of a child's marble ....”

David's head was clearing, his thoughts clarifying, his brain beginning to work again. But still he fought for understanding.

“Why? Why introduce a third....”

“Its presence inhibits the action of your testes dear. We are not sure why, the details are still the subject of intense research. But tests have shown conclusively that, for whatever reason, it is most efficient. It in itself doesn't effect you in any way Sophie but it does give the oestrogen full rein as it were. On that account it is rather like castration in its function.”

She must have sensed that the last comparison was not conducive to engendering the desired calm in David's breast so she continued hastily.

“And of course it is completely reversible. The testes aren't harmed in any way, and if you should wish to remove it later, they will function as before.”

Dr. Walters hesitated, and then, after an inner struggle, opted for honesty.

“At least if it is not left in too long dear. We haven't sufficient data to be one hundred percent sure yet about any long term deterioration. But certainly in your case such concerns would be irrelevant.”

“And production of sperm?”

“As far as we can see not quite such an immediate response Sophie. Our sperm count tests on you will help enormously in determining its efficacy in that respect. But nothing that you need worry your pretty little head about. Just the contrary in fact. Given that your hormone regime will inevitably diminish, indeed eventually eliminate, that particular male characteristic, any acceleration attributable to Uncle Silas could well help in minimising the mood swings that could otherwise be expected.”

Not finding that these tidings brought relief flooding into David's face she continued.

“But there is really nothing for you to worry about Sophie. The numbness will wear off within the hour. The incision through which Uncle Silas was inserted is minute and will be fully healed within a couple of days. Just remember to wear cami knickers rather than panties, and stockings rather than tights, for a couple of days and you will not know anything has been done. Perhaps it may seem a little weighty down there for a while but you will soon get accustomed to that.”

David struggled to a full sitting position and swung his legs down, feet on the floor. Sheer stockinged legs and feet shod in elegant dainty shoes, following down from the lace frilled edge of his chemise.

“There is just one other thing.” Dr. Walters said. “I also fitted an enhancer ring around the base of your penis. No suggestion of surgery being involved of course and, as its name suggests, its primary function is to enhance the effect of Uncle Silas, but subsequently it has become apparent that it does have an unfortunate side effect....”

Jesus Christ! What had they done! David pulled aside the bottom of his chemise and looked down, modesty forgotten.

“.... As you know much of the work done here is cutting edge research and we have to be on our guard against commercial and technical espionage. So besides the normal CTVs etc., we have installed around the base of the walls, in the trench of the ha-ha, and on the banks of the river, electric cabling which has the ability to detect the passage of objects, particularly, though by no means exclusively, of metal manufacture ....”

He could see a thin, finely articulated, circle of bright metal clinging close, the top widened, swelled out to form a solid pod shaped lump. His right hand sought it out.

“.... so as to alert us as to any attempted unauthorised intrusion. It is a basic security precaution and although its mis-en-place over such a distance proved extremely expensive, it really has proved most effective. The only snag is that the Uncle Silas device, or rather the nano circuitry of the enhancing ring in conjunction with Uncle Silas, reacts to it rather as those electronic dog collars do to boundary wires, only more so. The pain is, I am told, quite....”

His fingers traced the metal, The flexible metal ring hugged his penis and scrotum tightly before seeming to disappear into both sides of the flattened pod which itself almost merged into the flesh. It was all still numb down there so he had no way of knowing how tight it was., how it would feel.

“.... excruciating, disabling even. Moreover the enhancing ring which is carefully constructed to expand to conform to the expansion, or otherwise, of the penis, for maximum comfort .” Dr. Walters coughed delicately, “shuts down its circuits as a safety device, which regrettably leads to an immediate and extreme contraction; thus cutting off the blood supply with, potentially, very serious consequences indeed....”

David withdrew his hand, smoothed down his chemise, looked at the normally ebullient doctor and knew from her stilted language, her unusual over formality, that this was a prepared speech. There were too many words. She too was embarrassed. It was a far cry from healing his knife wounds.

“.... as I am sure you can imagine. Luckily of course you would trigger off the alarm and our security people should be able to reach you before any permanent damage was done.” She shook her head. “Not that it need worry you at all Sophie dear, just remember and take care. Naturally the Gateway itself is unaffected so there is no earthly reason to approach the perimeter at all, River bank picnics can be fun of course but in the circumstances better the lake ....”

“How close?”

“How close dear? Oh it would certainly be triggered at six feet. Better double that to be on the safe side.”

Dr. Walters looked at her watch. “I hate to rush you Sophie, but if you are feeling well enough now perhaps you could go with Nurse Formby and retrieve your clothes. She has some spare cami knickers for you too. It is just that my next patient is due and I.....”

David stood up. Apart from the numbness down in his crotch, and a lesser feeling of numbness in his head as he digested what had been done to him, what he had been told, he was himself again.

“Thanks for the warning Dr. Walters.”

“Just take care Sophie dear. Another appointment in a fortnight I think, but don't hesitate to drop in at any time if you feel a little under the weather. Hormones can be tricky things.”

Chapter 35.

They sat together on the low bench, the sun hot on shoulders and arms. David closed his eyes and heard the insistent low drone of a bumblebee dwarfing the background murmur of smaller more distant insects, the song of a skylark above him, the crack of ball on bat, desultory hand clapping, and a male voice drawling lazily, as if to itself, “Good shot.”

David closed his eyes and for a few brief, infinitely valuable, moments, allowed himself to drift back in time, back to other years, to other lazy summer afternoons.

Only now the sun warmed arms and shoulders were emerging from a white halter sundress in a cotton mixture, with a smocked bodice and a sweetheart neckline. And the legs stretched out languidly before him were bare from mid-thigh downwards, and ended in feet clad in leather wedge espadrilles with rope ankle ties.

Only now his companion was not a cricketer, clad as he in whites, already padded up for the fall of the next wicket, but a girl, who vying with him in seductive femininity, pretty in a
turquoise short shift dress with silver rings on the straps and a silver buckle. Her legs, fetchingly parallel to his own, ending in cute grosgrain bow slingbacks which matched perfectly the colour of her dress. Not that he hadn't had such charming company before of course, although, if he was honest, seldom quite so entrancing, but then he had been ....

“Bur it doesn't change anything Sophie darling. You aren't aware of Uncle Silas' presence now. And you really didn't expect them just to let you walk out. And it is just so much more pleasant here.”

It was the Sunday of the following weekend. And they were watching the Helgarren Cricket Club play against a local village team.

“Yes.” David said. And it was.

Anne was right. After the traumatic appointment with Dr. Walters, life at Helgarren had been uneventful. Certainly less claustrophobic than in the Holding Wing. And if one accepted that one was still effectively a prisoner, there was a large degree of freedom. And freedom in quite idyllic surroundings.

The routine was less demanding and with much more free time. The tutors were largely the same and all were pleased at his progress, friendly and helpful. Dr. Tabatha O'Neill had been sympathetic to his concerns and her hypnotherapy sessions had helped to quiet the nagging questions at the back of his mind. He had his own delightful little house, the front door of which was his to lock. The other girls were pleasant and already their characters were melding into a happy little community. The larger community, both male and female, accepted them all at face value and they had all been inundated with invitations to join this or that Society, partake in this or that social activity. Uncle Silas was undetectable and he was unaware of the ring enhancer so comfortably did it mould around him, adjusting to his changing contours. Of course he worried about his sperm production and thought already that there may be some diminution, but couldn't be sure. But even that wasn't crucial. The process was reversible. Even more importantly the hormones were placebos.

Another scattering of applause. The same languid voice, only this time “Well bowled.” David opened his eyes. Stumps lay spreadeagled on the ground. An umpire's finger pointed skywards and the batsman turned towards the pavilion.

“Yes Anne,” he said, and turned and smiled at her.

“I am so glad you think so Sophie dear. You could be happy if .... ,” her voice faltered, “.... if you could come to terms with it, with being Sophie a little more. I know you still hanker after the old you, but darling you must accept and, and enjoy what you have. As I have....”

She really was very pretty David thought. He could not imagine her as anything other than what she seemed to be. As anyone other than Anne. Briefly he wondered if others saw him that way. It didn't matter. Anne was right. He must, whilst holding true to his inner flame, survive this place. And if he were to do that then he must turn it to his advantage. He must draw strength from enjoying what it could offer. Milk its pleasures and squirrel them away to reinforce his own determination, his own stamina.

She reached across and laid her hand on top of his.

“Please”, she said, “it's two way you know. I also depend on you, draw on your strength.”

He placed his hand on her's. “Yes Anne dear. But it is your strength that has sustained me. I would not have got this far without it.” He squeezed her hand gently and felt an answering grip on his fingers.

“So very touching.”, a cool amused voice sounded behind them. “Helen was so right! It would have been quite wrong to separate you. You just had to accompany Anne here, Sophie dear. Such a sweet couple.”

David's head turned, as he and Anne half rose.

“No please remain seated darlings, I too am just here to enjoy this lovely English summer's day and to watch a little cricket. I have told you both before, it is my dearest wish that you both regard me as an elder sister.”

Grace de Messembry moved round to their front and with an apologetic smile, and a “If you could just move up a tiny bit dears?” seated herself between them.

“Such an exciting game, don't you think? We have only lost once this season so far but it is still very much in the balance today.”

“Very much so Miss Grace.” David felt the familiar near paralysis seize his tongue.

“Of course it is very much a needle match.” She continued. “Near neighbours, only about five miles away as the crow flies, and our beating them by eight wickets last year still rankles.”

She smiled at them.”I hope you don't mind me joining you, but I couldn't help overhearing the last of your little chat, and I just had to tell you how delighted I am that you have become such good friends. And both determined to enjoy all your wonderful opportunities here to the full. So very rewarding!”

Grace de Messembry clapped delicate expressive hands together in appreciation of a rather edgy leg glance producing a four.

“Just one little point though. I do beg you not to feel so responsible for each other's progress. Whilst not for a moment disputing that you must have been of great comfort to each other at times of imagined uncertainty, or perturbation, you must realise that we would have got you here, to your present delightful emergent state, by hook or by crook as it were. So you really have nothing to worry about. You can cast aside any worries or doubts on that score. Just enjoy each other's company and leave the rest to us.”

Grace de Messembry placed a hand, butterfly light, on each of their knees adjacent to her.

“Now tell me dears, just to satisfy an older woman's romantic curiosity. Have you each managed to find yourself a beau here yet? Any of the young men here caught your eye yet? Or are you two too wrapped up in yourselves to notice their interest?”

David found himself blushing and could see the colour rising equally to Anne's cheeks.

It was Anne who found her tongue first. “No Miss Grace. Not really We have hardly settled in. So much to learn, we can't afford to be distracted.”

“Fine words, Anne dear, but Cupid laughs at good intentions, as you will doubtless find out. We do have Staff Summer Ball in a few weeks and I am sure you will be much in demand then. I shall have to do some matchmaking myself if none of our young males show any initiative.”

The be-ringed butterflies on their knees shifted slightly in a patting motion.

“What do you think Sophie dear? You are very quiet. Are you hiding something from me? I suspect that you are a bit of a dark horse. Or should that be dark minx? Will you trust me to find a young man for you to bewitch?”

Her face turned towards him, eyes wide in innocent enquiry.

“Please Miss Grace. No please .... I mean Yes I do trust you naturally, but it is still early days, and I know how busy you are .... and I would not like to think .... that any young man felt constrained, because of pressure from yourself .... ! mean.... If I am to find someone I would rather .... myself...“

God. No please, David thought. Please God don't let her go down that avenue.

“Oh it's no problem Sophie dear, the romantic, sentimental, streak in me would enjoy it. Such a long time since I dabbled in matchmaking. And as for any pressure! Dear me dear, you make me sound quite an ogress. Coercion just isn't me! To gently facilitate is my forte.”

“Miss Grace it is so very, very, kind of you and we do appreciate it, truly we do, but I think what Sophie means is ....” Anne rushed to the rescue, “....that we might prefer to think that we could attract our own boys .... might do wonders for our self confidence if we could ....”

“Anne dear, I quite understand, and I am confident you both will be fighting them off ere long. Perhaps they are still wary of you. Men, poor darlings, run scared at the sight of intelligent women. So if your natural allure doesn't entice them shortly, I might just be tempted to administer, behind the scenes of course, a little push in the right direction to selected candidates.”

Her face relaxed into a there-it's-settled expression. Anne smiled back at her, accepting the compromise. David too mustered a grateful mien, knowing that such was called for, but aware that another marker had been put down. That nothing Grace de Messembry said was by chance, however casual the conversation or occasion.

“I know how much those little soirées at the Holding Wing meant to you both. Such fun! And of course so essential for you at that time to learn some of the social skills a woman needs, the gentler ones as well as the use of a stiletto heel in martial arts.”

Silvery, genuine laughter, as she stood up in an elegant sweeping motion.

“Such happy memories for us all. Perhaps not so much for poor Nigel. He still limps a little you know.”

Grace de Messembry took three paces away from them before turning, unconsciously striking a model's pose, one hand in an elegant gesture turning out from an elbow close to her waist. The other hand lightly clasping the brim of her large brimmed straw hat, two ends of a band of richly coloured Indian silk fluttering from it. David had a vague recollection of seeing a girl in that posture in a poster from the 30 s or 40 s. A cigarette advertisement .... for Craven 'A' perhaps?

“Oh and Sophie dear, talking of those evenings reminds me, we took your advice about Tommy. About him being potentially such good girl material you remember? He's in Reception now but I am sure that, once that is over he will be eternally grateful to you for giving him his opportunity. Or should that be her by now?”

With a final wave she strolled away in the direction of the pavilion.

Anne moved close again and took his hand. Much that was unspoken lay between them. Each weighing Grace de Messembry's words and what lay behind them.

Such an idyllic setting. And any dispassionate observer would have been seduced by Grace de Messembry's charm and kindly consideration for her two protégées. But David wasn't dispassionate, Nor a mere observer. He was involved in the most personal way possible. And bitter experience had taught him that any intervention, however presented, by Grace de Messembry boded ill for those personally involved. As poor Tommy would now be finding out.

He recalled Helen Vanbrugh's words to the effect that she was not offering a passport back to masculinity and that she would still bet against it, hormones or no hormones. She hadn't actually said 'There are more ways to skin a cat .... ' but she may as well have done.

He mustn't let his guard down. Not allow himself to be seduced, lulled, into a state of mind where femininity just absorbed him, overcame him. Acceptance was easy, attractive even. He could no longer regard being treated as a girl, effectively living as a girl, as something abhorrent. His time at the Holding Wing had changed that for ever. Against all his original instincts he now knew that being female offered some advantages. That sometimes it could be pleasant. That if he were to become a girl it would not be the end of the world. That life could still be there for living.

The erosion of his attitudes, his male preconceptions, had progressed. Alarmingly

But the bottom line was that he was male. Had been born male and raised as a male. Was meant to be male. Was destined to be male ...... Yes he must believe that. Was destined to be male in spite of the Venumar Foundation's plans to the contrary..

But it was becoming difficult. That Sunday evening Anne and he dined with Laura and Emma in the restaurant. Silver service and candlelight. All girls together enjoying themselves. All suggestion of coercion, of lack of liberty, seemingly absent. Emma and Laura no longer representatives of a hateful authority, just convivial company, and he content to be a part of it. An elegant, attractive, female indistinguishable from her equally attractive, equally feminine, peers.

Or so it was for much of the time. The gossip turned to Emma's boy friend Michael. Their romance since that first meeting at the Holding Wing had blossomed. It transpired that he was in fact a biologist working in the Helgarren Hall laboratories and that, with Emma now established on the staff, they had plenty of opportunities to meet. At first David found himself drawn into the conversation, interested in his friend's activities, her evident happiness in the relationship. Even in a girlish way intrigued by the courtship details; Emma's reading of the progress of their friendship and the extrapolation of seemingly trivial incidents to become major indicators to both Michael's character and his intentions. Sharing in Laura's and Anne's questioning, Urging Emma on to fresh revelations.

And then under such girlish questioning, helped by the flow of wine, more intimate details emerged. How they had first made love. In detail. How fortunate she was to have such a lover. Kind, considerate but wonderfully potent, potent and imaginative and passionate. Just what every girl needed.

And Grace de Messembry's offer that afternoon nagged away, gaining ascendency over the girlish chatter. To find him a boyfriend. And a boyfriend was not just someone who sent you flowers, paid you compliments, bought you a drink and provided a foil for bright witty conversation. A boyfriend was, in Emma's words, what every girl needed. Someone who in return for the flowers and compliments would expect the girl to provide him with everything he needed. Compatibility has a physical dimension as well as a romantic one.

Laura must have sensed the change in him. Perhaps she had seen it coming. Knew the effect the turn of the conversation would have on him. At the end of the evening she lingered behind, making her excuses to the others with a careless “I will see you two in the bar. I just want a word with Sophie first. We will join you there in five minutes.”

“So,” she said when they had left, “what has happened, what's wrong? Have you boy friend problems already?”

And he told her. About the afternoon's meeting with Grace de Messembry, He needed to tell someone. And Laura was, according to his folder, the one with whom he should discuss his worries.

“.... but you probably knew already. Knew it would happen anyway.” he finished.

“No. No I did not know, but I cannot pretend that I am surprised. You must have half expected it too. Helgarren is not a limbo where you can rest suspended 'twixt then and now. Freedom here is the freedom to make progress. Not to stay cocooned in a fool's paradise. Girls acquire boyfriends. Both have expectations as to what that entails.”

It was true David knew, but he had not thought it through in such basic terms. Had unconsciously blocked the thought out. As with many others. Otherwise he could not survive.

“Yes I should have foreseen, but I had not thought .... not so soon anyway ....”

He wanted desperately to tell her about the hormone exemption, but remembering Helen's stipulation, dare not put it at risk, not even with Laura. Even with her he wasn't sure.

“Late or soon, Sophie dear, it will happen. You should think the unthinkable. Must think it. If I were you..... “ Laura paused.

“You can't be me! You can have no conception of what it is like to be me!” David filled in the silence.

“No I can't, but if I were, I would pre-empt her. I would look for a boy friend yourself. One that you can control, keep within limits. Because if Grace de Messembry finds you one, she won't pick him for his subservient attributes. His ready obedience to your wishes will not feature highly in her list of desirable characteristics .”

“Yes.” David nodded. Reluctantly finding wisdom in what she said. But not yet he thought.

“Talk to Anne. Perhaps together you can work out a strategy. But bear in mind ....”

Again the hesitation.

“.... bear in mind that even your limits might involve you in .... in acts in keeping with your new identity. Platonic friendships amongst the young are rare in the twenty first century. Bear in mind that you may have to accept that as the price you have to pay.”

Notes:

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Synopsis:

A continuing BigCloset TopShelf story. Another day in the life of our hero. Or heroine as The Venumar Foundation would wish him to be known. Anne unburdens herself and David finds confirmation of a sort. Together they try to form a hypothesis. But alas unsuccessfully. Unless....
Otherwise Life pursues the even tenor of its ways. Anyone for tennis?

Story:

Because David's tale is slow in its serialisation, and long in the telling, it was suggested to me that the following character list might help in jogging reader's memories. Hope it does.

Previously encountered Characters in order of appearance/mention.

David. The hero whose adventures we follow. Generally referred to by others as Sophie. ‘Recruited’ and then subjected to months in ‘Reception’ before progressing to the ‘Holding Wing’ where much of the subsequent action, apart from his stay in the hospital facility, has taken place. Now ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre.

Marie-Helene A member of the new intake of girls at the Finishing Centre

Dr. Francesca Pinecoffin. The Principal Administrator/Chief Executive of Helgarren Hall. First encountered, albeit in a minor role, on the interview board when David passed from Reception to the Holding Wing, being christened Sophie en route.

Mrs Townsend. Staff. The beautician

Anne. She was already at the Holding Wing before David’s arrival. Her background is that of a boy saved from drug abuse and social problems by one of the charitable organisations under the aegis of the Venumar foundation. Was ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre with David

Helen Vanbrugh. Grace de Messembry's close confidante on whom she appears to exercise a moderating influence. She was at David's first interview when he was named Sophie. It is to be assumed that she has director status in the Venumar Foundation. She facilitated David’s move to The Finishing Centre, offering to use her influence with the Principal there that he may receive a special non-hormonal dispensation.

Mrs. Felicity Cranwell Staff. Tutor in Female Sexuality

Dr. Victoria Walters. A surgeon in the employ of The Venumar Foundation. She was responsible for his recovery after his knifing. She was originally given a passing mention in Grace de Messembry’s ‘surgical intervention’ threat in Chapter 14.

Emma. Was another of Laura’s charges, but a genetic girl. She represents the other, outwardly charitable, function of the Holding Wing, which is the education and training of girls coming from under-privileged and troubled backgrounds. Now graduated from the Holding Wing returning as a junior staff member

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

Lisa A member of the new intake of girls at the Finishing Centre.

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

Grace de Messembry. Majority, perhaps sole, shareholder in the Venumar Foundation, which in itself is the controlling influence of numerous international companies. She is apparently the source and instigator of all David’s current woes

It should be remembered that the plot unfolds through the eyes of David. The descriptions of the people above conform to David’s understanding of their function, character, etc. Use of words such as ‘seemingly’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘apparent’ are because the facts, or surmises, can only be as David understands them. The reader has no other authority from whom he or she can seek verification.

Chapter 36.

David sat upright. Prim, demure, and practising looking attentive. He was worried about his lipstick. It was a shade that Marie-Hélá¨ne had insisted he try. But his colouring was wrong. It was fine for her with that dark Mediterranean complexion, but just too vivid for him. Drew colour from his cheeks and attention from his eyes. Made him look rather tarty really. And today of all days when he had this, his first weekly meeting with Dr. Pinecoffin when it was so important that he made a good impression.

He wondered if he had time to nip along to see Mrs. Townsend before lunch. She would know. Would be able to advise him. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all? What had she drummed into him so often in those early days in the Holding Wing. 'It is how you feel that counts. To be confident is to be beautiful.'

He wished there was a mirror handy so he could check. But there wasn't. Just the big desk in front of him, Green tooled leather top with rich polished walnut surround. A telephone, a slim folder with a sheaf of paper peeking out. Several other loose leaves of paper surmounted by a book acting as a paperweight. And behind the desk shelves upon shelves of books.

David nervously fingered his handbag on his lap. Just perhaps a glimpse in his compact mirror? Just to be sure ....

The door swung open and Dr. Pinecoffin entered. Silently as always. A golden haired cat burglar in 3” heels.

“So sorry to keep you waiting Sophie dear .... No please don't get up .... just wanted an informal word to make sure you are settling in, and to give you the chance to ask any questions that you may have, raise any complaints .... that sort of thing.”

David had no complaints. None that he could voice, or that would profit him to voice. So he smiled and shook his head.

”I just wanted to fill you in on some of the administrative details,” Dr. Pinecoffin continued, having satisfied herself as to David's state of general contentment, “we do try to include the basics in the folder you were given but there always seems to be more missing than not.“

Most of what she proceeded to tell, David had already picked up, experienced, or been told by the other new girls. Or had confided to him by Mona whom had already joined Anne and him for several meals.

All living expenses, meals, clothing, cosmetics, everything they could conceivably need was provided free for them. Automatically as in the case of meals or cosmetics, or by signing for them as in the case of clothing, However they could access the balances in their own bank balances for extra or luxury items. Should they want to eat in one of the two 'guest' dining rooms on a special occasion. “Just a romantic twosome to mark a special someone's birthday.” as Dr. Pinecoffin suggested. Buy special jewellery, perfumes, or indeed clothes for themselves or as presents. There were special shops within the complex selling a range of these last items, but they also had access to mail order catalogues. They could even write away for these. There was a post room wherein they had each a pigeon hole for both sending and receiving mail. Items thus ordered were paid for by the Foundation and the cost deducted from their accounts on their signature.

Outward mail was, not unexpectedly, subject to discrete scrutiny. Censorship was not a word that was ever used.

Helen had been as good as her word. David now had his monthly bank statements delivered. He was richer than he had ever been. A generous salary had been paid monthly into his account in line with what had first attracted him to the fateful, spurious, job offer that had entrapped him. Subsequently deductions had been made for mortgage payments on his flat, community charge, etc., all the normal expenses of owning property. Which incidentally was still awaiting his re-occupancy. But there had been plenty to spare with no living expenses to deduct, and the balance had grown to be very healthy indeed.

Dr. Pinecoffin evidently expected him to be gratified by this and indeed he was. When he did get out he would have a substantial buffer against misfortune. Or more than enough, as Dr. Pinecoffin expressed it, “To get a flying start in your new life.”

And then...

“By the way, did Dr. Walters mention the trouble we have been having with our security system? About the snag of over-reaction with your Uncle Silas device?”

Christ why was he starting to blush? It wasn't his doing. Why was he so sensitive about being reminded of his maleness? Or apparent lack of it.

“Yes, she said it was not safe to venture too close to ....”

“Oh good. So you know then. I had meant to put a note about it in the folder but it went clean out of my mind .... Well I am afraid it is not fixed yet. Such a simple thing! Really you would think that with all the scientists cluttering the place up here, one of them could rectify something so basic as that! So just be careful not to stray too close won't you dear? I gather it really is quite dangerous and until we do manage to solve it .....”

“By the way I do love your lipstick dear. Is it the one that I saw Marie-Hélá¨ne wearing at breakfast? Such a pretty girl too isn't she, with that dramatic dark colouring? I couldn't get away with it myself. Not at my age any way.” She smiled in mock sadness. “All right for you young things of course. Push the boundaries back whilst you can I say!”

So it was a mistake!

She leant forward, moving the book to extract some of the papers under it. Offering a slim selection to David.

“Nothing here that I haven't covered, or that you don't already know, I think. But still have a quick look through them, and then put them in your folder for reference.”

But David could see only the book, now slanted towards him, its two tone blue cover depicting trees silhouetted stark against a wintry sky. Leafless trees. And across them was blazoned the title. 'BARE BRANCHES'.

His fingers fumbled with the papers. Mona had been right. Was right.

He forced himself to look at Dr. Pinecoffin. To look natural. As if nothing had happened. And nothing really had, except that he had for the first time seen ..... seen in print the words whose meaning had plagued his waking thoughts. Words he had listened to, screaming in his brain in the dark of the night's sleepless hours. Words printed on a book cover. Words that could not be a coincidence. On a book that could tell him why he was here. Tell him why they were doing this to him.

And he had to pretend that they were not there. Had to ignore the words that cried out to him.

“Thank you”, he said. “Thank you, yes of course I will. Look through them.”

And he turned and walked towards the door. Holding his head high. With an effort. His mouth suddenly desert dry. Legs weak under their caressing skirt.

Outside, the door shut behind him, he leant against the corridor wall breathing fast and shallow.

He would ask Mona again. There must be something else. He had let the why slip into the background amidst all the strain of daily life. Amidst all the excitement, hope indeed, of his arrival at Helgarren. But now, now he knew what he was looking for. A book. If there was one copy there might be others. If it were so important. So central to the work here that Dr. Pinecoffin had it on her desk. There was an extensive library here open to all. And apart from the library, no shortage of rooms with bookshelves crammed with books.

But above all Dr. Pinecoffin had a copy in her office. There must be some way he could get to it. Just a glimpse might be enough. Just a flick through the pages. A sight of the chapter headings would surely suffice?.

There was the clicking of heels rising above the scuttling sound of someone in a hurry and Anne came into view around the corner.

David levered himself off the wall

“Sophie dear, is Dr Pinecoffin free?” She had the glow of health in her cheeks and in her eyes a sparkle that only excitement and joy could impart.

“Yes Anne, I have just left her. But, but I thought you had already seem her and ....I“

“Yes of course I have darling, but this is about something quite different, I have seen Helen and she says it is all right but that I must .....”

“Helen? Helen Vanbrugh? Is she back?”

“Of course dear, how could I have met her otherwise? The end of last week. And she said I had her blessing, but that the last word must be with Francesca, and.....”

Anne knocked politely on Dr. Pinecoffin's door. One single tap followed by an more impatient double tap-tap.

“Anne what is the matter? What is happening?”

“Oh you will just love him Sophie darling! Just what I have always dreamed of. For my very own! And the gardener is such a sweetie and he has promised to keep ....”

And she was through the door whilst the final syllable of the inviting 'Come in' still lingered on the air.

David looked at his small pink faced watch. No more lessons scheduled before lunch. Just time to pick up some cartridges for his Oral Gratification Training Aid from Mrs. Cranwell. He had used the last one on Saturday and had felt restless since. Not that there was any obvious pressure on him. Mrs Cranwell had merely mentioned that he could get extra supplies from her when he needed them. But he felt that it would be noticed if he didn't. If he just stopped taking them. Stopped using that grotesque false ..... They knew how many he had been issued with. Could count the days as well as he. But they needed him to ask. And more than that, it nagged at him. At the back of his mind he knew he had to, needed to.... almost like a compulsion.

“Which ones are they Sophie dear?” Mrs. Cranwell was all welcoming smiles.

“I think I need the VF19s, “ David replied. “Although the last ones were the VF20 (a)s. I don't know if there is any difference .... ”

“Oh the VF 20 (a)s are much better Sophie dear. So much more appropriate for you darling. The 19s are really just starters to get you into the routine as it were.”

“And the difference Mrs. Cranwell. ..... Are there ....?” David hesitated.

“Just better darling .... That's all. As I said more suited. Of course if you need additional hormones then you really need the Type 23. Yes indeed I should have thought of it before, although you should, strictly speaking, check with Dr. Walters first. Just to make sure it doesn't conflict with her dosage regime. However I don't see how it can do any harm .....”

“No Mrs. Cranwell,” David broke in hastily. “No I wouldn't like to do anything that ..... I am sure the Type 20 (a)s will be ideal.”

“Well if you change your mind Sophie dear, just let me know. I am sure I can square it with Dr. Walters.”

Her smile embraced him with promises of understanding and help. She placed her hand on his upper arm and drew him closer, leaning confidentially nearer.

“I am so glad you dropped by dear. I wanted to ask you. Have you found a lover yet? Any young stud fallen under your spell?”

The bluntness of the question aggravated the unwelcomeness of its content. Both his face and his body posture combined to betray the revulsion he felt. Not that such deterred the ebullient Mrs. Cranwell.

“Don't look so shocked Sophie dear! You surely don't expect to remain virginal indefinitely do you?” She winked at him. A salacious, knowing, wink. “But I don't want to pry, I only asked because of your butt plug.”

“Because of my butt plug? But why ....?”

“Don't be so obtuse dear. If you are getting the real thing then a butt plug becomes superfluous. Nothing like a regular fucking to put colour in a girl's cheeks and a smile on her lips. Not to mention toning up her orifices.”

David felt the colour rising in his cheeks.

“No I haven't a boy friend, I am not getting .....” He couldn't say it. Couldn't even articulate it lest it brought his nightmare closer.

“Never mind dear. I am sure you will find someone nice soon. I will keep an eye open for you.” Again the wink. “Nothing I like more than a little matchmaking. It must be the old romantic in me.”

God not another one David thought. Not her and Grace de Messembry!

“We need to get you onto firm hard flesh a soon as possible So much more agreeable and so beneficial dear. But in the meantime we don't want to spoil you. I don't suppose you are so aware of your butt plug by now are you?”

“No.” And it was true. Most of the time he was hardly aware of it. Even when it vibrated into life it just seemed part of his day. Part of what he now was. In the morning, lying in bed, warm amidst the silk and satin of his nightie, its massage of his prostrate produced the inevitable hardening and more ..... although even that lately .... with .... with Uncle Silas .... was not so....

“I thought not. Well I suggest you move on to the next size dear, but wear it only at night time. We don't want you too extended do we? The flexibility of the sphincter is all important. Even the most gorgeous men are not as well endowed as one would like, and there is nothing so disillusioning for a girl to have her beloved's inadequacies so exposed, with his cock slapping around inside her instead of enjoying a nice tight snug fit.”

David tried hard not to listen.

“So until we can find you the real thing Sophie dear, just ration yourself to night times with the plug, but perhaps double the time spent on those clenching muscle exercises. If you are lucky enough to find good meaty prick that stretches you a bit too painfully at first well .... you will just have to remember that there is no gain without pain.”

By the time David had freed himself from Mrs. Cranwell's attentions he was barely in time for lunch at the restaurant. The two Indian girls were just finishing theirs' but the rest had gone. Even Anne with whom he habitually ate. David felt a little miffed, he had so much wanted to discuss the latest happenings with her. He had pushed Mrs. Cranwell's remark's to the back of his mind. They were to be expected. Nothing new there. Just more pressure and at least he didn't now have to wear the beastly plug during the day time. As for the rest? Well the crossing of that bridge was was for the future, and might never happen. Would never happen if he had anything to do with it. He could deal with it later. Perhaps Laura or Helen could help. But for now he wanted to talk about the book. The book and ..... and what was Anne seeing Dr. Pinecoffin about? And what had the gardener to do with it. Christ she couldn't have found a lover! Not Anne!

His own worries were suddenly eclipsed. He needed her support. Her resilience. He tried desperately to remember Anne's words. She had been excited, and happy. So surely not a boyfriend. Not Anne! Not that betrayal. And surely not the gardener who was fifty if he was a day and reeked of his own compost heap? Although he had assistants and..... and a son .... who was home from University ....

David had a vague recollection of a tall young man, blue eyed and freckled whom he had seen chatting to the gardener last night as he was re-arranging the pattern of the lawn sprinkler in the square fronting their little houses. And Anne had been there too. He remembered that she had misjudged the spray and had herself got somewhat wet; that the gardener and his son had laughed with and at her, and that she had joined them giggling her reproaches.

But not so soon surely? And what would the son think of her.... ? Did he even know? Although surely his father did? And would have told him? And for Christ's sake what did she need to ask Dr. Pinecoffin about? To what had Helen agreed in principle?

That afternoon he had a session with Mrs. Townsend and then a study period. But Anne's schedule did not chime with his and so it was late afternoon before he eventually found her. Or rather she found him. Her heels clicking on the cobbles outside his house. Her excited voice calling outside his window.

“Come on out! I have such news! Come and see!”

And there she was standing there. Her eyes enormous and bright with tears of happiness. Her smile trembling in tenderness.

In her arms was a small white bundle with odd shaped tan and black markings. A small white bundle that squirmed to reveal a head with two ears, one up, one down, and a mouth from which a small rose pink tongue stretched and strove to lick the saltiness on Anne's cheek.

“Isn't he just adorable, Sophie?” Her eyes pleaded for his confirmation.

“Yes just adorable Anne dear.” And the little puppy was just that. Adorable. And in that moment so was Anne. She seemed more alive than David had ever seen her. She epitomised happiness. And the little pink tongue lapped eagerly at the tears that sparkled on her cheek.

“I wanted you to come with me to take him on a walk Sophie dear. His first walk with me.”

And so he did. Although the little dog was carried most of the way, tightly hugged in Anne's arms.

At first it was in companionable silence. Anne seemed to be surrounded by an almost visible cocoon of happiness the like of which David had never before encountered, and which it seemed sacrilege to intrude upon. Something that must be preserved and protected by silence. Not that the silence was absolute. Anne murmured to the small warm bundle and it in its turn, grunted and snuffled. Part of David was entranced, part was aware of an irrationality. The little bundle at the centre of this happiness was a half-formed dog. It was all out of proportion. The whole affair. So many problems, so many threats. All banished by a small squirm of a puppy.

And yet he did not know how to break the magic of the moment. Did not dare to, did not want to. So he just walked alongside them and wondered.

They arrived on a rise overlooking the cricket pitch and sat on a bench watching nets practice. Anne put the puppy down and it waddled over to an adjacent empty seat and unsuccessfully tried to cock a leg to piddle. Collapsed and had to make do with a squat.

“Grace de Messembry would approve.” Anne giggled. Even David found an involuntary smile twitch his lips.

It broke the spell.

“You must think I am just being very silly, childish perhaps. But I just wanted you to share it with me. The dream. Even if you didn't understand. I wanted to share it with you in the hope that a little of the joy I felt would overflow onto you. And perhaps because I hoped that sharing the happiness with you would make it even greater for me too.”

Her eyes were unnaturally bright and David could see a small tear on her cheek again.

“And so it did.... for me anyway.” she finished.

David looked at her solemnly. “Yes it did,” he said, “for me too, although I don't know why it should, or even what it was about. Only that it was special .... the happiness I mean.”

“I am so glad.” she said and reached out to touch his hand. Just a gentle touch that brushed his fingers.

Together they watched the puppy as it bumbled around them, its nose exploring the short cropped grass, registering the scents for future reference.

“Bramble is what I wanted to see Dr. Pinecoffin about this morning. The gardener offered me him. He is one of Flirt's litter.”

David considered this rather cryptic sentence and unravelled it.

“I see.”

“And she was very good about it. I explained about why it was so important .... and that the gardener would always look after it if I wasn't about .... And she said 'Yes of course'.”.

“She did? And Helen before her?” David's face was a study in incredulity.

“Yes. I was a bit surprised too. But perhaps I caught them on a good day and when I explained the circumstances. About how it was so important for me .... What it would mean to me.... Not all of it of course .... Just enough to give them an inkling. Although of course they must have known already. From their records. Perhaps that is why Helen agreed so readily ....“

And then.

“But I have never told you have I? About me? About what I did, what I was before ....?”

“No Anne. Only that you had had a tough time. Drugs and related problems. That is all. I did once ask but you pointed out that the past is out of bounds here.”

Anne sighed

“The past is, or at least was, out of bounds because it was at that stage irrelevant from the Foundation's viewpoint. But we can never quite escape it, and you knowing mine would help you understand many things perhaps. Certainly why Bramble means so very much to me.”

The small puppy referred to was stalking a large orange tailed bumble bee through the grass, his ridiculous stump of a tail stilled in concentration....

“My mother died when I was four, giving birth to my sister. I hardly remember her. Just a feeling of warmth and safety. And a face I see sometimes in dreams. Perhaps my father loved her. Perhaps he loved her too much. I do not know. I can only remember, only dream-see, her from those early days. I know only that things changed after that. Not overnight but gradually. Perhaps he blamed us. Perhaps he didn't care. Whatever the reason I think he came to hate us. Hate everyone but especially us. And then Jane, my sister, died when she was seven. Meningitis they said. She was the only other person I had to love, and I had cared for her so hard. So very hard, and I thought perhaps that I had not cared hard enough. Perhaps it was my fault. But I was only a boy....”

Anne's voice strained and broke. She swallowed once, twice, thrice, trying to regain composure.

“But I tried so hard. And her too I can see in my dreams. Not only in my dreams. Every time I close my eyes.... I can see Jane.”

Anne found a scrap of handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, her mouth working as she fought for control. David stretched his hand and placed it on hers as she returned them to her lap.

“After that it was worse. He seemed to enjoy being cruel. Physically and mentally. Telling me it was my fault that Jane had died. That if I had cared more I could have saved her. That I was, deep down, irredeemably wicked and it was that, my wickedness and her despair over it, that had worn down my mother. The worry of it all had undermined my mother's health so that she could not survive giving birth. That it was all my fault. And maybe it was. I can't remember. I was only four. I can't remember.”

David had no words to offer. Only his presence. He tightened his grip on her hands. As he felt the the hot wetness behind his own eyelids.

Anne seemed to gather strength from some inner well. Her gentle exterior belied a deep spiritual toughness David thought. Without it she would never have survived.

“And then one day someone gave me a hamster. A neighbour who perhaps could see... Well he gave it to me in a little cage. And I kept it hidden, A hidden secret because I knew my father would not let me have it. Would not let me have anything that he thought I wanted..... anything that I loved. And I did love it. Fiercely as only as a small boy can. I loved Bertie. That is what I called it, him. I called him Bertie.”

Her hands twisted in her lap. Caught and held David's fingers.

“He was only the third thing I had had to love. My mother, Jane and then, and then, Bertie. .... And it was foolish. I was foolish. It could not last. It was inevitable that my father should find him. As he did.”

A deep shuddering breath racked Anne. Her nails dug into David .... hurting.

“He, my father, came down to the sitting room holding the little cage in his left hand. With his right he hit me, again and again and again. He raged on about my deceit, my lack of openness, my lying nature, my wickedness in keeping secrets. I begged him to let me keep Bertie. I shouldn't have even tried. It was a mistake. And then I made an even bigger mistake...... I said I loved him. Loved Bertie.”

David longed to put his arm around her. To give her a closer physical contact to assuage her agony. But her hands vice-like held his tight in her lap.

“ It was the final straw. He threw the cage ..... He threw Bertie into the fireplace. I had a momentary vision of the flames licking his cage, but in his anger he had thrown too hard and the cage rebounded onto the hearthrug, its door flew open and a dazed Bertie was precipitated onto the floor. My father stood there, and then, and then, very slowly he brought his heel down upon him. Slowly he crushed him. Slowly, with malice, watching me and laughing whilst he did it. I heard a noise like the splintering of a matchbox. And then I was out of that house. Out and running into the dark night. Running away from him, and from my childhood.”

Her grip on David's hand slackened enough for him to withdraw it and he held her tight. Held her so tight that her sobs reverberated through him also. So tight that he felt her grief as a physical thing. Felt it and tried to share it, to absorb at least part of it into his own body.

“I never went back. Never saw my father again. I lived rough. Numb and dead inside. There is no more to tell really. I survived as I had always survived. I did things that I should not have done. I took drugs to try to dull the pain. As briefly they did, only for it to return with an ever greater intensity as they wore off. So I took more and more, and at shorter and shorter intervals. But still the pain mocked me. Life was slipping away without regret when one of the Venumar charities chanced upon me. The rest you know.”

David nodded.

“At the Holding Wing I made the first friend I had ever had.”

“Olive.” David said.

“Yes Olive. And when she committed suicide the world seemed empty again. Laura helped and Emma too so it wasn't .... then you arrived and we became friends. And I saw your pain and tried to care .... to help. From that first evening onwards.”

“You did Anne, truly you did, still do. I should have told you before how very much....”

Anne sniffled and wiped her tears with the back of her hand, her hankie now a sodden crumpled heap on the grass before them.

“But there was still this blank inside me. A black hole. I needed something, a creature, of my own to love. To give me a centre. A reason to continue. Something to keep the regrets, the fears from crowding into my dreams. Something that could be the recipient of all the love I had to give. Something for which I could care. Just to prove that I could care. That my father had been wrong. That I could care!”

David gave her the scrap of lace edged lawn that passed for his own handkerchief.

“It was Dr. Tabatha who told me that the gardener's bitch Flirt had had a litter. And suggested that I might like to look after one. And I went to look .... and I saw Bramble..... And he was just like .... what I had always dreamed of .....just like ....”

David felt the sobs again and gently held her until she could muster the strength to continue.

“Why Bramble?” He said, just to give her time to recover. “Why do you call him Bramble?”

“When I ran out into that night I left behind the one thing I still had that my mother had given me. A child's book. The sort that one starts to learn to read with, with thick pages, large print and simple pictures. I treasured it. Read and re-read it although I had long outgrown it. It was about a puppy. There were drawings of it on every page. A small white stumpy puppy with brown and black spots. And it was called Bramble.”

Chapter 37.

The puppy in question, having retreated from his challenge to the bumblebee, was now snuffling at Anne's feet. He seized a decorative string on one of her sandals and tugged on it, growling ferociously as if to warn the bumblebee that next time it would be different.

Anne partially disengaged herself and leaning forward, picked him up and wrapped him in her arms, snuggling him close to her.

She looked at David. “You see dear, I have always felt that you despise me a little. For accepting my lot. For accepting the femininity that has been forced upon us. Despised me because you felt that I should struggle as you do. That I should fight against it, deny it. Defy it and the Venumar Foundation.”

“No Anne truly, we all have to make our ....”

She shook her head gently.

“Don't lie to me Sophie. I, we, have heard enough of those. And between you and I lies would be a betrayal of what I hope we have. I know you despise me sometimes because occasionally I can see it in your eyes, and because if our positions were reversed then I think I would feel that way too.”

David nodded dully. She was right. He had and it would be a betrayal to lie about it. He owed her that truth.

“So I told you ..... what I told you so that you might understand. Might learn to despise me less. Because for me accepting is in a way unimportant. Whatever happens to me now is so much better than what has gone before that it fades into insignificance....”

“Yes I can see, can understand. I was wrong .... to think less of you for.... Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Perhaps I would prefer deep down to be what I was born, but I am no longer sure. Whilst I was male I knew nothing but sorrow. Now I have a deal of happiness. I recognise the inevitability of what is happening to me and the destiny which seems to lie before me. And if one accepts that then life here is pleasant enough as is seemingly the future. And I think also that perhaps some resistance can be traced back purely to a foolish pride, or a fear of what others may think. Neither of which emotions can have any relevance for me now.”

She placed the small wagging bundle on the ground as she stood up.

“In a perfect world then I think I might wish that things might be different. But this existing world is as near perfect as any I have yet known and so I will settle for it.”

Davis walked close alongside her as they retraced their steps back to the Hall, both watching where they placed their feet as Bramble gambolled along amongst them.

“With you I know it is different. Had my life been as yours maybe, probably, I too would share your determination. But it wasn't and I don't. All I pray is that you can understand me now.”

“Yes,” David said. “I have been selfish. Not perhaps for the first time. I do understand. In many ways what you say about accepting is right anyway. It would solve many problems .... and ....”

“Yes .... and that is what they want you to think. The problems are designed to be solved that way. And it suits me to solve them thus. But you are different David. And you know I will help, will be there for you whatever you decide, whatever happens.”

Anne kissed him on the cheek in a natural, totally feminine, way.

David tried to ignore the little inner voice that urged him to be truthful, to be totally honest with her. Nagged him to tell her about Helen and the agreement he had reached with her about the hormones. Was on the point of so doing when Bramble, without warning, squatted on the path for his forty ninth pee causing him, David, to execute a last minute acrobatic leap to avoid standing on him, losing both a shoe and his dignity in the process. They both collapsed in laughter and the moment was lost.

“I knew Bramble would bring me luck,” Anne said, “It is such a weight of my mind now that you know why and I know that you no longer .... well think me a useless wimp, a traitor to my sex. My erstwhile sex perhaps.”

David smiled at her.”I don't know anyone more courageous irrespective of sex,” he said. “I am so fortunate to have you for a friend.”

They walked on in companionable silence. The three of them. David, Anne and the small puppy who had brought them closer than ever before.

They had nearly reached the Hall before David broached the subject that had monopolised his mind earlier that day.

“Anne, when you saw Dr. Pinecoffin this morning did you see a book on her desk? One with a two tone loose cover? Lying on a file of papers?”

Anne furrowed her brow making trying to summon up a visual recollection.

“I .... I think I remember a book. On the desk. But I could not see it properly because Dr. Pinecoffin was reading a folder when I entered. Perhaps the file you mention. She put it on top of the book when she asked me to sit down. So I didn't have a chance to see what it was or even notice the colour of the cover.”

“Damn! I was hoping that you .... well I suppose you just seeing it would not have made any difference. I know it was there and ....”

“I did see what the file was though if that helps Sophie? And a little of what was in it. The top page was askew, peeking out and I could read a few lines. Upside down of course but .... it looked important.”

“It could relate I suppose. Yes it may be help. What was it about?”

“The folder cover had a large red sticker on that said 'RESTRICTED — SENIOR MANAGEMENT' . Printed on it were the words. 'From the Office of Grace de Messembry to Dr. Francesca Pinecoffin — Private.'”

“And inside? You said you could see some of the contents.....?”

“Not much. Just a few lines. And only from Page 5 which must have been out of kilter with the others. I could see the number in the right hand top corner......”

“And?”

“It was about global warming. About the irregularities in the monsoon period that it would cause in China. And something about the melting of the ice cap in the Himalayas and flooding in the Yangtze basin....”

“Global warming? That must be wrong. It can't be relevant. I suppose I should have known better than to think that the world revolves round us. The Venumar Foundation is hydra-headed. It must be another lucrative avenue they are pursuing. They seem to specialise in capitalising on the misery of others.”

The disappointment in his voice was bitter and deep.

“I just thought .... that it mentioned China as Mona overheard. And perhaps the branches are bare because they have lost their leaves .... because of drought ....and ....”

Anne's voice tailed off. She nodded sadly.

“No you are right. It doesn't make any sort of sense. Doesn't start to. I was clutching at straws. Wanting desperately to help.”

“It's not your fault Anne. All that we see cannot be relevant. But we need to keep looking. Need to be aware. I need to get hold of the book....”

“What was the book? You haven't told me. Why is it so important?”

“Didn't I? No I suppose .... talk of the folder sidetracked me. The book was the 'Bare Branches'. That can't be a coincidence. That must mean something. The 'why' must be in there.”

“We can try the Staff Library. It is fantastically well stocked and anything they haven't got they can get for you if you ask.”

“I bet they won't get us 'Bare Branches'. Any more than we can get a meaningful response from the Venumar search engine on our computers when we type it in.”

“It is worth trying Sophie. They may not always be infallible. And if you can't, you will at least know you are right and that the answer is in it.”

“Yes... You are right. Then at least we will know. And we may get lucky. We can't afford to ignore long shots. I will even try searching 'Global Warming' linked to China, and indeed India as Mona suggested. Just in case we have overlooked something.”

“Perhaps we could enlist the help of others? Others outside our intake. Outside our programme.”

Anne's voice sounded tentative, thoughtful.

“Not a chance Anne. Who would help? We don't really know anyone outside our group. Not enough to trust them. And we can't afford to let it get back to the Foundation.”

“Perhaps .... There was something Emma suggested that might, just might, kill two birds with one stone.” Anne began hesitantly as they halted in the little square outside their houses.

“Perhaps it isn't the right time, but have you thought any more about what Laura said? About finding boyfriends before Grace de Messembry foists her sex mad protégés on us?”

“I have tried not to Anne. It leads to where I do not want to go. Even to think about it is to admit the possibility, the possibility that .... Well you know. Mrs Cranwell was more than hinting at it again this morning.”

“She is just a dirty minded old cow Sophie. A twice removed voyeur who probably isn't getting any herself. But we have to think about it and fast because Grace de Messembry is going to as sure as God made little apples.”

“I suppose you're right Anne. But I don't see how it helps with the Bare Branches' book.”

“Wait till I have finished! Emma suggested that we join one of the Staff Societies where we could scout around for suitable, ineffective, would be partners. And that prime consideration should be given to the 'Writers' Guild'.”

“The Writers' Guild'? What the hell is that?”

“It is allied to the 'Book Club'. For those of the staff with an interest in literature. They all read a book a month, the same one, and then meet and discuss it and get through an inordinate amount of wine. In fact Emma says that it could equally be called the 'Wine Club' only they talk about what they have read rather than what they are drinking. And the 'Writers' Guild is a sort of inner circle comprising people who actually write or want to write.”

“And?”

“Well Emma thought that the male element would be just what we needed. Rather feeble, intellectual, bookish types who with any luck had perhaps imbibed the concept of courtly romance and for whom passion was best unrequited. Or if that was asking too much they would at least be men inclined to thought rather than to action.”

“Anne that is cloud cuckoo land! I know you and Emma missed out on a lot of education but even you must know that the biggest libertines unhung are to be found amongst the literati. From the Marquis de Sade via Lord Byron to .... well to practically all of them! All writers are tarred with the same brush! They may be men of thought but their thoughts are usually such as to inflame their actions. And God only knows how many unwanted pregnancies are occasioned by the membership of Book Clubs!”

Anne giggled. “Sophie I am sure you exaggerate. Emma has been to a couple of their meetings and she says that the men there are wimps. So there! Ripe for manipulation. And they have special privileges about getting books, and, from what she has told me, access to the library's computer ordering set up. And, and....”

She paused.

“And if you are looking for a book what better place to start? Unless you have a better idea. And anyway I have always wanted to read more. When I was growing up I couldn't, I had no books of my own apart from ....”

Anne glanced at Bramble now vying with the fountain in the middle of the square.

“.... and well I always loved poetry at school and I would so love to try to write, only I don't expect I would be any good, but even to try would be .... And it just might help. And we have to do something. Unless you think it is really a bad idea?”

“No Anne I don't think it a bad idea. It is certainly better than any I have to offer. And certainly worth a try. And I am sure poetry will become you. You have all the sensitivity in the world.”

David gave her a hug.

“Come on,” he said, “lets take Bramble for a drink. I am sure he will be allowed in the bar. garden. Especially with both Francesca's and Helen's seal of approval. And we can collect membership application forms for the 'Writers' Guild' on the way.”

“Yes let's. But I need to freshen up first. I must look a real frump and I know my make up is a mess. Mrs. Townsend would crucify me if she came across me looking like this. And perhaps you should do the same Sophie dear. You do look just the teeniest bit wind blown, and .... and well I do so hope you won't be offended dear, but .... that lipstick? I am not sure it is really you. Not your colour really perhaps ....? I wouldn't mention it, but, I feel as a friend, I am sure that .... You are so lovely and it seems such a shame; it does detract just the teeniest, weeniest, bit from your normal perfection.... I do so hope you don't mind?”

“You are quite right Anne. It was a terrible mistake. I have regretted it all day. Let's meet again outside in, say twenty minutes, and I promise you I shall be looking my old self again, although nothing to rival you dear.”

Half an hour later found the two sitting at a small cast iron table in the garden to which the staff bar gave access through two adjacent French windows, wide open now on a glorious summer evening. Bramble was tethered by a small tartan lead to Anne's chair. He snored gently, exhausted by his day's excitement.

Anne looked exquisitely cool in a low scoop necked, long sleeved, T shirt in a fetching cyclamen pink, and white, slightly hipster style, cropped linen trousers.

David, equally relaxed, had on a stone coloured pure linen sleeveless dress. Long, reaching to mid calf, slightly fitted in a seductive style with jellabah neckline and large side slits.

His lipstick was 'Starry Kisses' a shimmering pink shade by Yves-Rocher. Of a pearlised, semi-transparent texture, it complemented, rather than dominated his colouring. Both he and Anne had agreed that it was a vast improvement. She had lent him a pair of silver hooped earrings with stones of a miraculously matching shade to complete the effect.

Between them lay two copies of 'The Kite Runner'. They had been given them when the registered for the 'Writers' Guild'. They had until next Thursday week to read them.

David sipped his Plymouth gin and tonic, savoured it, and looked lazily out, over the distant hidden ha-ha, to the soft undulating countryside beyond. There was a companionable silence between them. Anne looked towards him and half-raised her iced amontillado in a recognition of their mutual ease.

There was a waft of a new perfume. An expensive perfume. A stirring in the summer air. A gentle, well bred, voice behind them spoke.

“May I join you? If I am not intruding?”

It was Helen Vanbrugh. Chair already in her hand.

“No please don't get up. I don't want to disturb you, But you made such a delightful picture sitting here that I was jealous of your calm, and I hoped I might be permitted to share it for a short while.”

Her right hand airily waved a glass of white wine in their direction to still their attempts to rise, as she placed her own chair down and swivelled into it with accustomed grace.

Helen Vanbrugh smiled.

“And of course I noticed that there were now three of you and I felt I just had to introduce myself to the newcomer.”

She leant down and gently fondled behind the ear of the somnolent Bramble.

“I have to thank you Miss Helen for allowing me to ....“

“Anne, dear Anne. No thanks are required. I am just delighted that Dr. Pinecoffin agreed. If any thanks are due, they are to her, and to Dr. O'Neill, for suggesting it. But he really is adorable isn't her? A real heart stealer.”

She busied herself with stroking the puppy who stirred enough to wag his stump of a tail at her.

“And how are you two settling in at Helgarren? Enjoying it?”

“Yes thank you Miss Helen.” Two voices chimed in, almost synchronised.

“I am so pleased. I knew you would. Even Sophie whom I suspect did not quite believe me when I extolled its advantages.”

Helen Vanbrugh sipped her wine as, over the glass, she raised an enquiring eyebrow at David.

“Yes Miss Helen, I greatly prefer it here. We both do.”

“Greatly prefer it?” Helen mimicked. “Sophie dear, you do tend to damn with faint praise. What could be more delightful to be sitting here having a quiet drink amongst friends on this delightfully balmy English summer's evening?”

“I didn't mean to sound churlish Miss Helen. The surroundings are lovely here. And there is much more freedom as you promised there would be. Less constraints....”

“Don't be so serious Sophie dear. I was only teasing. Nothing has changed in that you know my own hopes for you. And if such do not currently coincide long term with your own yearnings then we can at least agree on the basis of 'gather ye rosebuds whilst ye may'. 'Carpe diem'..... and all that.”

Her smile turned its attention to Anne.

“I gather that you are both signed up to the 'Writers' Guild'? And that you love poetry Anne? Do you know your Herrick:? No? Well you could do worse than start there. One of my favourites. So fresh and uncomplicated! I will send you a slim volume of his works across. I am sure you will love it.”

“Thank you Miss Helen. That is very kind. I look forward to it.”

“Lighter than your current book. Although I am sure you will enjoy that also.” She indicated the copies of 'The Kite Runner'. A little harrowing perhaps but a tribute to an indomitable spirit. Also a lesson in adapting to circumstances of course. Something of relevance to us all.”

“Did you get to Afghanistan on your last trip Miss Helen?”

David's tone was neutral. His voice innocent. Belying the quiver of excitement he felt. Fish while you can he thought. The book gave him the entrée.

“No Sophie dear, just India and China this time and then back via Washington. Just boring old business I am afraid. I always resent leaving England at this time of year. Anywhere colder is to be avoided, and anywhere hotter is usually swarming with biting insects and tourists.”

“Global warming might change that Miss Helen from what I have read.”

His remark was greeted by a peal of delighted laughter.

“Oh Sophie darling. You are a veritable hoot! You have been doing your homework haven't you? But you will never make a poker player. Yes, to satisfy your insatiable curiosity, it won't hurt you to know, that part of my business did touch on that very theme.”

Helen looked at them, her eyes sparkling..

“You are priceless, both of you. Drink up and I will get you both another one and then I must go. Oh dear! Oh dear! How on earth did you get there? We shall really have to be so very careful when you two are about.”

She rose and glided back through the French windows into the bar area.

Anne and David looked at each other, bewildered.

“I loused that one up.” said David. “I suppose it was obvious but I hadn't the time to skirt round it and it seemed worth the shot.”

“At least it confirmed that the Foundation is interested in Global Warming....”

“We knew that already, but I suppose it confirms that it doesn't concern us. Judging by Helen's reaction, we didn't trespass on a sensitive subject, just the contrary in fact. She seemed genuinely amused.”

“Perhaps she just doesn't think we can make the link, or doesn't care if we do?”

“Perhaps so Anne, but overwhelmingly more feasible is that there isn't a link to be made. Anyway Global Warming is just that .... global. And why we are here concerns India, China and their neighbours only. At least .... at least we think it does “ David concluded lamely.

“Yes Sophie dear, I suppose it is silly even to entertain the idea. Of a link between our contrived transition to femininity and climate change I mean. But then we always thought it was. It is just a coincidence. The Venumar Foundation has many irons in the fire. There are doubtless scores of memoranda such as the one I saw. All on different subjects.”

There was a thoughtful silence between them.

“So we are left with the bare branches. We need to find the book, or find out what it is about.”

“Yes Sophie dear. Either we need to get into Dr. Pinecoffin's office when she isn't there or see what the Writers' Guild offers by way of information. Forget flights of fancy .... chasing after red herrings or whatever. We need to be practical.”

“Good Lord Anne! you will have to watch your tongue at the Writers' Guild. Mixing metaphors is akin to heresy in literary circles. They are terrible sticklers for the rules.”

Anne laughed. “I shall count on you to protect me Sophie dear. Anyway it will do them good. Mixing things is so productive of new ideas. You never know what the result will be. So much depends on the mix, on the ingredients, and.....”

Her voice tailed off. And then cautiously, but with growing excitement ....

“Sophie all that we have said is true .... unless .... unless .... Sophie suppose, just suppose, that the herrings aren't red at all, aren't even herrings perhaps .... Suppose they are an integral ....”

“Sorry to be such an age darlings. People drink such complicated mixtures these days. It took me an age to get served. Fortunately I managed to catch Bruce's eye and he sprang to my rescue.”

Behind Helen Vanbrugh was a waiter who expertly dispensed their drinks from a silver salver, placing each on the table with a small flourish and a professional, subservient, smile.

Helen dismissed him away with a careless gesture and no tip.

“I do so hate people who fawn over me! Now where were we? Oh yes. Well such imagination certainly bodes well for you two girls' membership of the Writers' Guild. Now what other societies are you going to join?”

She looked at them over her condensation glazed glass as she sipped her drink. The amusement still bright in her face.

“I shall need to warn them.” But the tone was kindly.

“I thought about tennis,” said Anne, “I always wanted to try it.”

“I play there myself. If you come down Friday evening, I will give you an introductory knock around and arrange some lessons with the coach. But before that visit the sports boutique in the tennis pavilion and get kitted out. There are some very pretty outfits that I am sure you will just love, and you will need a racquet of course. And can I persuade you to join us Sophie...?”

She lingered on, talking inconsequentially. It was never quite possible to forget who she was or to ignore the authority that sat so easily on her shoulders. But that was not her doing. Just a fact of life. With them she was natural and easy, teasing sometimes perhaps, but in an-all-girls-together context: and if very occasionally the unworthy thought that it was all superbly choreographed flitted through the periphery of David's mind, then it was just that. Unworthy.

She made her farewells when Lisa and Marie-Hélá¨ne appeared wending their way towards their table.

“But I have monopolised your time for far too long my dears. The last thing you want is dowdy middle aged women intruding in a young girls' coven. And I have things to do. Work to catch up with”

And with a roguish wink

“You can't imagine how time consuming sorting out the world's problems is. Would I were young and carefree again!”

She was effusive with the new arrivals. Apologising for her abrupt departure. Promising them that she would spend longer with them next time. Assuring them of her interest in them and her longing to get to know them better. And then she was gone.

Lisa was originally from the States, Marie-Hélá¨ne was French, from Guadeloupe. Both were around 19 and were lucky to have survived truly horrific childhoods. Life's flotsam, they had ended up at the Venumar Foundation's Research Centre in the Caribbean. Both seemed, as Anne did, reconciled to their feminine persona. But then any observer would think that of David also.

They had another drink and then companionably went in to dinner together.

Afterwards Anne was caught up with a promise to take Bramble to show to Emma and Laura, and so David retired home alone. He read for a while and then went through the now familiar process of preparing for bed. He removed his make up carefully, applied a night moisturiser. Inserted reluctantly the now, thankfully, night time only plug, slipped into a rather dreamy nightie in a silky cool fabric with a dainty scalloped neck, and climbed between the crisp cotton sheets.

His thoughts drifted in that delicious no-man's land between sleeping and waking. Sliding gently along the fault line that runs on the borders of the unconscious. He had meant to wait up for Anne to ask her what she had meant to say when Helen had reappeared. But he was tired. He must watch his gin consumption. Not that he had had all that much and it had been pleasant sitting there chatting with the others. Such nice girls they were turning out to be. Anne was a real sweetheart of course, but the other two as well. Considering their backgrounds. He had been so lucky really before his parents had been killed. An idyllic, loving, childhood. An expensive education at one of the better schools .... So lucky. He stretched out in the bed feeling the soft fabric caress his skin. And it could wait till tomorrow. Anne's idea. If it was an idea. Not that it mattered. Knowing why would not help. All he had to do was outwardly conform and it would resolve itself. It would all go away. All the worry would go away. All he had to do was to survive from day to day. Treat each day as it comes. So tomorrow he could wear his new silk crepon dress. The fabric with a slightly crinkled effect really fell well and with its straight front and back neckline, drawstring straps and bourdon edging, it really made a girl feel so .... well attractive. And the dusty pink would be fantastic with his new lipstick, if only he could find a really good match of polish. He would have to ask Anne .... Not that he was interested of course, but he needed to show willing. And he had an appointment with Dr. Tabatha first thing so it was doubly important that he looked at his feminine best. So that she could help him to be .....

David turned in bed his breasts forms tugging. It was a pity about them. Having to have breasts. Not that they were breasts of course. Just forms to show off his clothes, make them fit. Real breasts would be better of course. The new dress, tomorrow's dress, the silk crepon one, would look really good if he had real breasts. The neckline was rather low but if he had real breasts, proper breasts, his very own boobs, he could take more advantage of it and .... But he couldn't because having real breasts meant that one wanted to be a real girl and ... but it was a pity sometimes and he wondered how they would feel?

And then sleep claimed him. The day's images swirled round in front of his eyes, disappearing one by one as he sank deeper, leaving in the second before unconsciousness just the faces of Helen Vanbrugh and of Grace de Messembry smiling at him. And then they too merged into just the one smiling elegant face with mocking eyes. But whether those eyes were green or dark brown he, in that same split moment that he saw them, forgot.

Notes:

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Synopsis:

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

And a very nasty surprise. Well a couple really.

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

Story:

Because David's tale is slow in its serialisation, and long in the telling, it was suggested to me that the following character list might help in jogging reader's memories. Hope it does.

Previously encountered Characters in order of appearance/mention.

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

David. The hero whose adventures we follow. Generally referred to by others as Sophie. ‘Recruited’ and then subjected to months in ‘Reception’ before progressing to the ‘Holding Wing’ where much of the subsequent action, apart from his stay in the hospital facility, has taken place. Now ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre.

Anne. She was already at the Holding Wing before David’s arrival. Her background is that of a boy saved from drug abuse and social problems by one of the charitable organisations under the aegis of the Venumar foundation. Was ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre with David

Helen Vanbrugh. Grace de Messembry's close confidante on whom she appears to exercise a moderating influence. She was at David's first interview when he was named Sophie. It is to be assumed that she has director status in the Venumar Foundation. She facilitated David’s move to
Finishing Centre, offering to use her influence with the Principal there that he may receive a special non-hormonal dispensation.

Mrs Townsend. Staff. A beautician

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

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

Grace de Messembry. Majority, perhaps sole, shareholder in the Venumar Foundation, which in itself is the controlling influence of numerous international companies. She is apparently the source and instigator of all David’s current woes

Emma. Was another of Laura’s charges, but a genetic girl. She represents the other, outwardly charitable, function of the Holding Wing, which is the education and training of girls coming from under-privileged and troubled backgrounds. Now graduated from the Holding Wing returning as a junior staff member

Mrs. Felicity Cranwell. Staff. Tutor in Female Sexuality

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

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

It should be remembered that the plot unfolds through the eyes of David. The descriptions of the people above conform to David’s understanding of their function, character, etc. Use of words such as ‘seemingly’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘apparent’ are because the facts, or surmises, can only be as David understands them. The reader has no other authority from whom he or she can seek verification.

Chapter 38.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know what I mean.”

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

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

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

“Not willingly!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sorry. I didn't know.....”

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

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

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

“Why should I do?”

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

Dr Tabatha nodded, encouraging him to continue..

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

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

“But....”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But none came.

Dr. Tabatha laid her pencil down and smiled.

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

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

“Just watch and relax,” she said.

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

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

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

“Yes. You saw a connection with the 'bare branches'?”

“ I don't know. It was just a thought. At the time I thought it might have a relevance. But it is at best tangential. And afterwards .... thinking about it .... I am not sure.”

“Tell me,” David said, “It just might have .... and I need something. Grasping at straws is all I have.”

“It is just that whilst climate change can have no direct connection with .... with why we are here .... why we are girls now .... it might be something that reacts with, intensifies, in some way effects, or makes more urgent, more drastic, whatever the 'bare branches' implies.”

“It's a separate factor you mean?”

“Yes but an important one. We were talking about the Writer's Guild you remember and I was saying it would do them good to break the rules, to mix things, ingredients, up. And it struck me. Just suppose the resulting floods, droughts, famines, whatever, would magnify, intensify, trigger perhaps, the 'bare branches'. Whatever that implies.”

“That it is just part of the mix? A catalyst perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps yes.”

There was silence between them as David tried to collect his thoughts, tried to absorb this idea into the whole. And then.

“Yes. That would make sense. Although it still isn't the answer.”

“No. I didn't expect it would be. It was just an idea. Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it. It may only be a distraction.”

“No Anne. Not a distraction but a piece of the jigsaw. All knowledge is valuable. It helps to narrow it down. The bare branches must be something that fits into that background.”

Bramble was snuffling round the base of a large ash tree on a small knoll. There was a whirl of black and white, two whirls as birds flew out towards the river.

“One for sorrow, two for joy.” intoned Anne.

And then a third bird, belatedly flying low and hard after the others.

“Three for a girl and ......” David replied and paused, waiting.

But there was no fourth for a boy.

“Good evening Mr. Magpie.” David said.

“Why do you say that?” Anne asked.

“Something my mother always said. Always greet the magpie politely. That way you can escape the rhyme.”

“No four for a boy?”

“No four for a boy.” echoed David and a sudden shadow seemed to scud across the parkland.

“Good evening Mr. Magpie.” Anne said softly. “Just for you Sophie.” And she took his hand to show she understood.

---------------------------------------

David was conscious of the wooden slats of the bench warm against his legs. Against the full length of his legs. The skimpy tennis cami dress was not long enough to sit on, hardly long enough indeed to cover his pretty matching knickers when he was standing. But then as Emma had explained when she had advised on their purchase, it was designed to reveal not to conceal. His long bare legs, tanned as much by Mrs. Townsend's lotion as by the sun, stretched out in front of him. Long bare legs, smooth, and really rather well shaped. Hairless of course. They were strict about such elemental beauty care. Although they no longer needed such care and attention as they once had. Perhaps it was Uncle Silas and the testosterone blocking action.

Janet, who was playing with Laura in a mixed foursome on an adjacent court, had exclaimed that he looked a 'perfect doll', and he feared she was not exaggerating. Several young men had confirmed this opinion by frank appraising glances and murmurs of appreciation. One or two had profited by the presence of Bramble, tethered by a long lead to the leg of the bench, to stop, stroke the puppy, trail pleasantries, inviting him to exchange names and friendship. Suggesting he might like to join them in a game.

David was becoming accomplished in turning such approaches away, diverting conversations into polite dead ends. Currently his fall back excuse was that he was waiting for a friend to join him to make up a foursome with the two already on the court.

There Helen was instructing Anne in the basic principles of the game. The latter was a quick learner. Lithe, athletic and with a natural grace. At David's school and university tennis had always been considered a social activity rather than a man's sport. A distraction from cricket, athletics and rowing. A fundamental knowledge of it was useful in the pursuit of girls but there it ended. Anyone good at it was rather morally suspect. Vaguely suspected of placing undue importance on the gratification of their own carnal appetites.

It probably hadn't changed David reflected gloomily. Only now he was the potential prey rather than the hunter. He twirled his racquet, the rings on his fingers throwing bright sparks of light back at him, the polished red sheen on his nails vivid in the sun.

Anne had persuaded him to join her in taking up Helen's invitation. He felt he owed her any support he could give and he knew too that he needed to show some involvement, needed even to follow Laura's advice and pre-empt Grace de Messembry's stated intention of finding him a boy friend. Either here or at the Writer's Guild. Not to find of course, not yet anyway please God. But to be seen to be looking.

Footfalls behind him, soft on the mown grass. Christ not one of the male hunters? He sought to recall the excuses he had practised against such an eventuality. Sprained wrist? Sore ankle? .... and then a hint of perfume caressed his senses. Over and above his own. Distinctive ..... Redolent of elegance and ease.

“Sophie dear. What a happy coincidence finding you here! But surely you are not on your own? Do tell me to go away if you are waiting for some one? I would hate for my presence to inhibit any prospective swain?”

David half rose, betrayed by a remnant of masculine behaviour he had thought long schooled out of him, and then, flustered......

“Oh.... Good day Miss Grace. You startled me. I was just watching Miss Helen and Anne. No I am not expecting anyone. Perhaps a little game with Anne afterwards ..... But please sit down.”

She already had. It was a hot day but one felt cool in her presence. How could it be otherwise? She epitomised style and composure. David saw that she was carrying a parasol. A long sticked affair with a frilled white cotton panoply. And white gloves! It was pure Edwardian. She must have had the parasol made. Surely one could not just buy one of the shelf these days? A pity if not though.

The thought occurred to David that it was probably a sword stick

The tip of it, now furled, tapped the point of her elegant right shoe, a lattice white doeskin creation.

“Well just for a moment then. I was hoping to meet you. To find out how things are going with my favourite girl. And to tell the truth Sophie dear, I was feeling, am feeling indeed, a trifle guilty.”

“Guilty Miss Grace? Guilty? Why .....”

“Why? About you of course Sophie dear, you and Anne together. I had promised to find you both suitable male partners and .... “

“Please Miss Grace. You shouldn't really.... bother I mean. I know you are busy and .... Anne and I are quite happy .... well we are mixing socially now ... the Writers' Guild and .... here .... and ....”

“So sweet of you Sophie dear! But a promise is a promise and I mean to honour it .... Unless of course you are hiding something from me? Have Anne and you already selected your prey? Do tell! You know what an old romantic I am!”

“No not yet Miss Grace. No one specifically in mind as yet, but .... but we .... are looking .... we understand that we need.....”

“.... need to take full advantage of the new avenues of experience opening up for you? Of course you do dear. You know how keen I am that all my girls fulfil their potential. To the utmost.”

She smiled benignly at David.

“So important for a young girl dear, To experience all that life has to offer. Without let or hindrance as they say. But I don't blame you dear. It is today's young men! Such an unworthy lot. Most of them incapable of stringing a single coherent sentence together. Let alone seducing an intelligent woman. That's how feminism was born dear. Out of a desperate need to wake them up. I wouldn't mind them keeping their brains in their penises if they actually functioned there. Or at least reacted to stimuli as their host does. Woke up and paid attention from time to time.”

The parasol cum sword stick switched its attention to her left shoe.

“But you mustn't worry your pretty little head about their failings Sophie dear. I do know quite a lot about men. Far more than they do themselves. And you can safely leave finding your Mr. Right to me. All you have to do is to take advantage of the opportunities when they are offered.”

The parasol was flicking left and right now. Metronomic from one shoe to the other.

“Promise me that you will take advantage of any opportunity, any men indeed,” the corner of her lips twitched in appreciation of the phrase, “that I can strew in your path.”

The green eyes suddenly transfixed him. Demanded an answer. Demanded a promise. The parasol stilled, rested on her right shoe.

“Promise me.” She repeated, her voice low, insistent. “I do so hate having men going to waste.”

“I .... I.... p...p...promise, David stammered. From her now emanated not coolness but suddenly a deathly chill. Elegant Edwardian had become the Ice Queen. Denial of her will, withholding of the promise demanded, was not an option for him.

And then the sun warmed his shoulders again. The parasol resumed its slow movement. The green eyes shone with what might be taken for mirth. The moment passed, but in that moment he heard another door close behind him.

“What a delightful animal.” Grace de Messembry said indicating Bramble with her parasol.”Is he Anne's new puppy of which I have heard everyone rhapsodise or have you also entered the animal welfare arena?”

“No he is Anne's Miss Grace, not mine. I am just looking after him whilst she is on court. His name's Bramble.“

Bramble eddied fatly in the general direction of Grace de Messembry, his small round body writhing like a stout pendulum, counterbalancing his ridiculous stump of a tail. His legs struggled to impose direction on his body. He stopped, balancing precariously as he cocked his leg and peed against a leg of the seat, before lunging, mouth a-gape, at the parasol.

Just in time Grace de Messembry flicked it out of his range and Bramble collided with her ankles before subsiding in a heap at her feet. She regarded him with a tolerant smile, carefully moving the parasol to her other side outside his line of sight.

“Quite the little stealer of hearts, everyone tells me.” She said. “Curious how the small and helpless can so worm their way into one's affections. Especially puppies and kittens. Even children they tell me.”

She turned her attention back to David. “But I understand Anne was particularly vulnerable when it came to giving him her heart. That she needed the stability that caring for something even as humble as a puppy can give.”

“Yes,” said David, “Bramble gives her something that had been missing from her life. He is important to her.”

But as he said it he wondered whether it was wise of him to follow this train of thought. It felt almost like a betrayal of Anne to discuss her in these terms. And bitter experience had taught him that Grace de Messembry never, but never, indulged in conversation for conversation's sake.

“Even more vulnerable now.” Grace de Messembry drawled the words out reflectively. “Now that the dear girl has come to know and love the dear little creature. Now that she has had a little time to so completely bond with it. Poor Anne would be quite devastated if anything were to happen to it now, don't you think Sophie dear?”

“Yes Miss Grace it would destroy her I imagine. But surely nothing would. I mean I can't envisage a safer environment for a puppy than here at Helgarren, No traffic and he does not leave her side. And the gardener keeps an eye on him when Anne is not about. Surely there is no cause to .....”

“Of course you are right Sophie dear. What on earth could happen to the dear creature? Just a foolish woman's morbid fancies.”

The parasol was flicking backwards and forwards again now. Tip-tap, tip-tap against the toes of her shoes. Bramble crouched in a plump parody of a hunting stance as he watched it.

“It is just that Anne is so very vulnerable Sophie dear that I worry about her, as I am sure you do too dear. And we both must be extra vigilant to ensure that nothing untoward occurs. Puppies are such unpredictable trusting creatures and even here in Helgarren, which as you so rightly point out is the safest place imaginable, a veritable haven of tranquillity, accidents can alas happen.”

The red sheen of her hair moved in the sun as her head swayed slightly in contemplation of the uncertainties and pitfalls that could beset a small puppy's existence.

“But I am sure you are fully aware of that already Sophie dear. I know I can rely on you to be extra watchful though, extra diligent shall we say, in ensuring Bramble's, and through him Anne's, well being.”

David's mouth felt suddenly dry. The message was clear.

“So nice to have a confidante who understands so well my concerns.” Grace de Messembry purred. “Someone I know I can rely on. Someone who can sympathise with my foolish apprehensions.”

The message that Bramble was a hostage. Another thread of the web. Comply or else.

“But I mustn't bore you with my idle chatter any longer, Sophie dear, Helen and Anne seem to be nearly finished and I know you must be dying for a game. Such a pretty outfit too. Tennis does give a girl with good legs the chance to flaunt them!”

Grace rose. “Do remember what I have said Sophie dear. About boyfriends I mean. We can't have all these young men going to waste or pining away because their affections are unrequited. Just leave me to find someone suitably hunky for you. Unless you can entrap someone here yourself dear.”

And an elegant eyebrow and lid closed slightly over the green of her right eye in what was almost a wink.

With a final twirl of her parasol in Bramble's direction, she went over to where Helen Vanbrugh and Anne, their game apparently over, were chatting at the side of the court.

It was left unsaid. Grace de Messembry would never be quite so blatantly crass as to articulate it. But David understood only too well. A boyfriend or else Bramble dies. A boyfriend or else Anne would suffer losing the one thing that mattered to her; the one thing that might, against all the odds, make her whole again. It wasn't much really. Not compared with all the rest. It was just a reminder of who was in charge. And of how absolute her power was.

Chapter 39.

The boy friends had the overriding advantage of being innocuous. At least that was the apparent virtue that had been paramount in their selection over three weeks ago. Already though it was becoming apparent that such a virtue could be eroded by time and familiarity.

Vincent and Simon were both members of the Writers' Guild. Nice enough boys. Nice to the point of being nondescript. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair, medium... No, David couldn't remember what colour their eyes were. Could not recall having ever known. One had spectacles, the other hadn't. One had a slight Geordie accent, the other the product of the Home counties. Both were lab technicians working in the Helgarren laboratories.

And they were both in love. Or so they claimed. In love with Anne and Sophie.

Perhaps it was pure coincidence, yes surely if must be that..... but the current subject under discussion by the aspiring writers at the Guild was poetry. And being a mixed group, the poetry most discussed was love poetry, thus allowing the more flirtatious amongst them to personalise their readings and indeed their literary efforts.

Vincent and Simon would not normally fall into the more flirtatious category but had had that mantle laid upon them by Anne and David precisely because they weren't. The latter two had been schooled by Emma in the female arts of seduction The arts that dissembled so that the victim felt himself the instigator, was persuaded into believing that he and he alone was the dauntless, the young, Lochinvar. Persuaded into believing it against all the odds, and against all reason. And that Anne, or David, was the fair Ellen. Against all reason indeed.

David was exhilarated at how easy it had been. Appalled that he should be doing it, but exhilarated at his success at it. So easy really. To be pretty and to smile whilst holding Simon's gaze that little bit longer. To smile and be pretty whilst standing a little closer to him. To show enthusiasm for his enthusiasms, to approve his choices of verse, to compliment him on his reading of it, how well his voice brought out the emotion. To point out favourite lines in his book, one's fingers touching lightly on his.

To be pretty and to smile. And perfume helped of course.

And it was satisfying to know that when Simon wrote poetry it was with him in mind. Well with Sophie in mind of course, not him. Even though the poetry was stumbling in scansion and sickly in sentiment. It was the thought that mattered. As they say.

And when the thought of what he was doing appalled him too much. When he gagged at the thought of himself, of David, sexually enticing another male, then he would think of Bramble. Think of his small body crushed and bloody and what it would do to Anne. There were other wrongs of course, other reasons, and Bramble was only a dog. A dog, a puppy, whose sole asset was unquestioning love. Only a small, defenceless, poorly coordinated, puppy. But Bramble lying dead was easy to visualise. A convenient image to store in his mind, to bring out and examine when he needed the spur to continue his deception, to continue his shame.

The nail varnish brush in David's hand stilled. He extended his foot in front of him and flexed it as he considered with a judicious air, his head slightly to one side, his toe nails glowing softly pink in the morning light. Yes they would do. He tucked hie legs back and frowned in concentration as he turned his attention to his fingernails. A wisp of hair fell across his face, obscuring his vision, and he brushed it away impatiently with the back of his hand.

Simon was going to be a problem. As was Vincent, but he was Anne's problem. Simon was David's.

Simon's thoughts were venturing beyond the dictates of courtly love and the dedication of his latest sonnet to David. Simon's baser, earthier, needs were beginning to manifest themselves. Visibly manifest themselves if the surprisingly large bulge which was ever more frequently in evidence in the groin area of Simon's chinos was any guide. In that department at least nondescript was not an apt description. Maybe he had not been such a wise choice after all.

David stretched his hand, palm outwards, fingers upwards as he critically examined his nails. They really were quite elegant now he thought. Even Mrs. Townsend had said so. Carefully sculpted long ovals whose perfection was ensured by careful ridge filler treatment and an assiduous regime of foundation, lacquer and topcoat. It had been difficult at first he remembered. Even simple things that were now second nature, like fastening and unfastening his bra, had been awkward with  ¼” extensions. And as for suspender tabs! And the nails themselves were always getting chipped or broken. Not so much now. Now he was far less clumsy. He gently, languidly, waved his fingers to speed up the drying process and decided that the crystal opaline colour, well a sort of deep dusky pink really, was the right choice for him. Anne and he had had such a heated conversation about it last week but he was glad he had finally chosen as he had.

He held his hand against his breast and earnestly examined the result in the mirror. The lacquer was almost the exact shade as that of his new Calvin Klein bra and panty set. Not that any one but himself would ever appreciate the happy coincidence of course. Still it was just one of the little inner bits of knowledge that a girl hugged to herself and which gave her confidence.

Mind you if Simon had his way he might also be a beneficiary. Although the tunnel vision invoked by testosterone tended to exclude such niceties as colour matching.

Christ! He must stop thinking like this! He mustn't listen to the other voice. To Sophie's voice. Just try to hang on and to see it through. Just hang on and prove Helen wrong. Keep his body's male integrity as she had promised and the female mental conditioning could be reversed. He was under no illusions now about the latter. More and more he was accepting feminine values as his own. Slowly and surely his masculinity was being eroded. It was a matter of time only. He felt female, delighted in female things, thought female thoughts not just for minutes at a time now but for hours together.

Perhaps it was for the best. If he had to go further with Simon ...... Not all the way. Christ no not that. Over his dead body! But if he had to ... well calm him down, give him some satisfaction, perhaps.... Well if he had, maybe it would be easier if he allowed the girl now within him..... if he allowed Sophie to take over. Maybe it would be...? Surely it would be .... well less traumatic. Less of an affront to nature?

But that is what they wanted. What they expected. Why perhaps Helen had seemed so sure that hormones or no hormones the end would eventually be the same. His brain was being drip fed femininity. Messages and programming hidden in every TV programme he saw, every CD or DVD. Every session with Dr. Tabatha in spite of her protestations to the contrary. Femininity surrounded him. Clothes, conversation, everyone's assumption and expectation, all reinforced the simple indisputable message that he was female. Or would inevitably shortly be. He was absorbing the reality by a form of all pervading osmosis. Through every pore of his skin.

Through every orifice too. David thought of his nightly tryst with the butt plug, of his continuing exercises with the Oral Gratification Training Aid. Both of which he now accepted as part of a routine. A moment's unease hovered at the back of his mind. He needed some more cartridges for the OGT. Only two left. And more hormone pills. Well they weren't really hormone pills of course, mere placebos, but he needed to take them to comply outwardly as he had promised. And the regime once one gone into it was quite addictive. One mustn't run out of pills. The very thought made him feel uneasy. It was the same with the OGT cartridges. Only a couple of days ago he had awoken in the middle of the night with the sudden awareness that he had forgotten to perform the compulsory exercise, to suck the bloody thing to its mechanically induced orgasm.

And so he had had ..... then and there. In the middle of the night. Sat on the side of the bed and done it. It was ridiculous really. No one would have known. But it was just a matter of observing the routine. It was easier that way. And he needn't worry about running out. He could get fresh supplies from the Medical Centre later that day. When he replenished his supply of hormones. Kill two birds with one stone.

The slight unease passed. To be replaced by the realisation that if he didn't stop day-dreaming he would be late for his hair appointment followed by a session with Mrs Townsend on 'Skin Care'. And that would never do. His skin was so much better recently. All the ointments and unguents must be working their miracles. Another instance of the assiduous following of a routine paying off. As Mrs Townsend had assured him it would.

Although there was still the niggling thought that the Uncle Silas implant might be helping. If helping was the right word. David pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Although he had to admit that erections seemed perhaps less, well less frequent, and perhaps, well less urgent, hard and urgent. But that was only to be expected; the cause was known and reversible. No physical change was involved, not as would be the case if he really was consuming bottles of the Venumar Institute's latest hormones.

And that evening he was due to meet up with Anne and Emma for a drink. Perhaps they could advise on what to do about Simon....

And that evening they could, and did, advise. At least Emma could and did. Anne was, with David, merely a beneficiary of her wisdom.

“Oh poor Simon, the poor darling. How could you be so mean?” It was not the response David had been expecting.

“Poor Simon? Me mean?”

“Of course. How could you be so cruel? His poor willie must be in a real state. One big ache! You really are a frightful tease Sophie. It is just too bad of you!”

Emma was consumed by the giggles at the very thought.

“Emma! It is no laughing matter. I need to know what I should do. I don't want to finish with him. Because .... Well because if I do Grace de Messembry will produce some randy young stud and I shall have forsaken the frying pan for the fire.”

The thought of Bramble, an image of a dead Bramble, nagged at the back of his mind.

“So I need a boyfriend but .....”

“....but one not interested in sex.” Emma finished for him. She shook her head in sad despair at his naiveté

“Platonic boyfriends are as rare as unicorns in this day and age Sophie dear. In fact rarer where virgins are concerned sweetie.”

“But....”

“But nothing dear. You really have to accept the simple fact that a boy friend equates to sex. Don't tell me that Felicity Cranwell has never broached the subject?”

More giggles as she saw the look on David's face. Even Anne could not keep a straight face.

“Sophie dear, it's a trade off. You need a boy friend. Your boyfriend needs sex. It is a simple equation. You know it. I know it. Anne knows it. Poor Simon, most of all, knows it.”

David nodded, slowly, reluctantly.

“I know. But I had hoped, thought perhaps .... And I am .... Well I am not a girl .... it is difficult to accept.....”

Emma shook her head.

“Sophie you are a girl. What have you been doing here at Helgarren, and at the Holding Wing, for the last few months? What do you see in your mirror every morning?”

She paused for an answer that never came.

“Well I can tell you what I see. I see a sexy, startlingly attractive, girl. A sex bomb primed to trigger of an immediate explosion in the underpants of any male under the age of eighty whose line of sight she as much as crosses.”

David stared blankly at her. Knowing it was true. Hating the knowledge. Fearing that to respond would be to confirm. That to articulate the confirmation would make it irrevocable.

He saw Anne's eyes upon him. Saw in them confirmation that it was indeed so. Saw that Anne was a girl, and knew that if he was looking into a mirror he would see the same.

“The one thing I don't see, Sophie dear, is a boy.”

She didn't mean to be cruel. But it hurt. Hurt deeply. Hurt because it was what he feared the most. And because he couldn't deny it. Couldn't deny it because he had promised not to. Because if he did then he would surely lose any chance he had of it not being true. Hurt because he knew that it was indeed now partly true.

Perhaps Emma read the anguish in his face and knew because her voice softened.

“I am sorry dear,” she said, “I thought the worst was over, that you were reconciled. As you have to be pet. That you had agreed when you came here to Helgarren. Because if it isn't so, if you aren't a girl yet, or not completely so, then you will be, will be soon, with the hormones and .... and .... everything.”

The word 'surgery' hovered wraithlike behind the 'everything'. David wanted desperately to tell her, to tell her and Anne, about his agreement with Helen Vanbrugh but knew he couldn't risk it. Wanted to tell them both so they would understand. Understand that it was different for him. That for him there were no hormones, and that there would therefore be no surgery. Not for him.

“Emma's right, Sophie dear. I know it is difficult. But we have to think of ourselves as girls, because that is what, what we ...... are.”

The last, breathed out on a dying breath, was hardly audible, as if in its utterance Anne had herself crossed a divide.

Emma hurried to smooth over the tension.

“Its not as if you have to do anything much. Not shag him or anything,” she said. “Not yet anyway. Just get him a little worked up. You know, cosy up to him. Little gasps of admiration at his vigour and size, a few moans of repressed passion and longing. With any luck he will explode before he can untangle his prick from his boxers. In fact if a girl joins in the general fumbling about at that juncture, she can so complicate matters that the mess is indeed confined to his underwear. Especially if its his first time. And then even if it does get to see the light of day it isn't difficult to induce his orgasm with your hand.”

Emma giggled.

“Before things get out of hand as it were. Just remember to be quite disconsolate with disappointment. Make him feel really bad about it. Ashamed of being unable to control his animal urges. And then insist that it isn't really his fault, that being prone to premature ejaculation isn't the end of the world, that it can happen to anyone, and enquire with great solicitude as to whether he always has this problem. Point out that doctors can cure these things nowadays and so it isn't something that need blight his life. Above all assure him that you think none the worse of him for it.”

Emma was having difficulty in speaking through her giggles now.

“With any luck,” she said, “you will so inhibit him that he will never again be able even to get an erection when he's with you.”

She wiped tears from her eyes.

“Seriously though Sophie darling, joking apart, all you need to do is to give him to an early orgasm. A hand job is easy, and using your mouth is not the end of the world. After all you told me that Felicity Cranwell had given you on a frightful false cock to practice on. Believe you me the real thing is far nicer than that.”

And on that reassuring note the conversation drifted off down other avenues.

And strangely enough David did feel better about it. .Not good about it, but better. It didn't seem quite so horrific, the advice he had expected but dreaded. Not when it had been given and was out there in the open. And perhaps some of the humour that Emma had found in the situation had communicated itself to him, mitigating the disgust he felt.

And it was better certainly than the alternative.

And anyway it was in the future. An indefinite future. Not now. And he had learnt to take one day at a time.

So he drank with them, with Emma and Anne, and gossiped with them. And as the evening progressed he joined in their laughter. And the others in the bar just saw, perhaps some indeed desired at least one of, three attractive girls having an early evening drink.

Only later, at the close of the evening, preparing for bed, cleaning off his make up, rubbing in his night moisturising cream, and slipping on the Alannah Hill 'Nighty Night' silk slip in a delicate ivory shade that had been arrived by the morning's post, only then did the thought return that in the long term the problem of Simon, or whosoever Grace de Messembry might produce, had not been solved or gone away. That eventually more would be required of him.

And that, barring something quite unforeseen, a miracle perhaps, he would have no option but to provide that it. And that although a cock in his mouth or his arse might, as Emma had authoritatively stated, be preferable in theory to a plastic imitation, they were not at all the same thing. Not as far as he was concerned.

He lay there, felt his hair long on his pillow, his limbs soothed by the silk nightie, his perfume lingering in his nostrils, and he knew that it would not be enough to passively await salvation by survival. Even without hormones, without a date to aim for he was vulnerable as his mind more and more succumbed to the insidious pressures and daily indoctrination to which he was being subjected. Not to mention the seeming near inevitability of accepting a female sexual rá´le. And if he didn't accept it. If he rebelled? The threat of Rehabilitation was never now mentioned. Not mentioned now he had seemingly promised to accept, to welcome indeed, his feminisation. But it was there. As relevant as ever. If he reneged, defaulted on his promise, then the ultimate penalty was not just that the agreement with Helen would be annulled, that he would be subject to hormone regime. But that he would be reduced to what Coralie had become. There would be no choice, no resemblance of a choice left to him. He would not even be Sophie. Sophie at least he knew, was familiar with.

And there was always Bramble's fate. Though that paled into insignificance alongside his own.

The agreement with Helen was basically flawed. He was, she had said, part of a field trial, but no mention had been made of a time scale. Anne and the other girls would, he knew, shortly be showing some effects of the hormones. Anne had discussed it with him, almost as if it were a race to see whose boobs would show first. At his own last session at the Medical Centre, Dr. Walters had felt his nipples, his chest; questioned him as to whether he was aware of any new sensation there, any itching or soreness.

When it happened to all the others, when they had breasts, and swelling buttocks. When it became obvious that it wasn't a question of late development but that he was immune to physical change, then would they say 'enough'?

When Anne and the other girls had opted for surgery to enhance their feminine assets, surgery to finally remove any traces of masculinity, and he remained defiantly flat chested and resolute in his own maleness, would they then say 'enough'?

When the other girls finally left Helgarren and went to the new lives, the new careers, that had been promised them, then would they say 'enough'? Would he also leave Helgarren to resume his old life as David?

Or would they start again with another intake? Or find another rá´le for him? Another field trial in which he could participate?

And what would he be then? Regularly fucked by Grace de Messembry's young men and mentally accepting that and all the trappings of femininity which in truth already were part and parcel of his existence. Accepting them fully without reservation. Taking pleasure in them. Taking pleasure in being fucked?

Sleep claimed him. And in his dreams all his fears faded, all was sweetness, and softness, and perfume, and femininity. And any male presence belonged not to him, but to another. Another someone who cherished him and made him feel that he was indeed worthy of being cherished. Made him feel attractive and seductive. And the young man, whoever he was, was gratifyingly so smitten with him, adored him so much, that it seemed a shame to disappoint him, to deny him .... and it really was bliss and made him feel so thoroughly feminine, which was so nice, so very fulfilling ....

The feeling of satisfaction, of fulfilment, lasted well into his first waking moments.

He had to drag himself back. Back to the realisation that time was not his friend. At the very least he must have an escape avenue. A plan that he could activate if, when, needed. As near as foolproof a plan as possible. Because if an attempted escape failed he was under no illusion as to where he would end up. Rehabilitation.

In the days following he looked at his surroundings with a new driven interest. In between the continuing lessons and tutorials aimed at perfecting his outward femininity, doubtless at the expense of a little of his inner masculinity, he was obsessed with his new found resolution.

He had decided against telling Anne. Sadly he accepted that she was living in a parallel existence. Keeping things from her seemed almost a betrayal but she seemed to have achieved a degree of contentment. Accepting her femininity and cocooned in an approximation of happiness centred around having Bramble to care for. It would do no good. Just spoil things for her. She would worry about him. Perhaps feel guilty at her own contentment. And of course if she knew, if she was perhaps implicated in any escape, there was Bramble to think of. David thought, hoped, that Grace de Messembry wouldn't carry out that particular threat once he had gone. There would be no point. It would be pure sadism and, perhaps more importantly, it would be counter productive in that it would alienate Anne who had conformed. If it was a risk, well it all involved risk.

But as much as he, as frantically as he, agonised over possibilities of escape, a solution evaded him. It looked easy. He thought of all the stories of escape from wartime prison camps. Here there were no guards except at the gate and even they were just ordinary security staff and seemed neither much in evidence nor unduly threatening. There were vast expanses of wall, of river, and of ha-ha, which were apparently quite unguarded except for the presumption of cameras. The many staff of Helgarren entered, exited, as a daily routine.

But they didn't have an Uncle Silas as a constant companion. Pain he was prepared to risk, to endure. Even pain that castrated at the final throw, because if he failed that looked inevitable anyway. But pain that disabled and led to recapture? That was the rub.

Perhaps it was because he was distracted with such considerations, that he let his guard down with Simon. He was sitting by the riverside wondering where exactly the cable was laid and if a jump from a high bank could carry him over it into the water before it had time to activate. What was it Dr. Walters had said about its range? Effective at six feet certainly, possibly up to twelve feet. Say nine feet was worth the risk ..... Six feet even at a pinch....

“Sophie darling I have been looking all over for you. Anne was adamant that you had gone to the Sports Complex but I had a hunch you might be by the river.”

Simon was standing behind him.

“I was just about to come back Simon. It is about to pour down and rain is death to this dress material.”

David got to his feet quickly, forestalling a movement by Simon to sit besides him on the grass.

“I was just thinking about tomorrow's Guild meeting. Will you have any more poems for us?”

Simon blushed. “With you as my inspiration how could I not darling Sophie,” he said, “though I fear they will be completely unable to do you justice.”

“Don't be silly Simon, I am sure I am not anyone's inspiration. We all look forward to hearing them ...” David cast around for something flattering, but non-committal, to say about Simon's literary offerings.

Simon took his hand and David forced himself to let it rest there, acutely aware that even in Helgarren's broad acres surveillance cameras were ever present.. Also aware from past experience that at least in that way Simon's hand would be unable to fondle his buttocks.

“But Sophie darling You know they are for you. I just can't get you out of my mind. You know I am mad about you darling.”

Bombarded by this and similar protestations of undying devotion, David led Simon by the hand back towards the Hall, absent mindedly fending of his more passionate advances whilst still mulling over in his mind whether the river offered any conceivable escape options.

Between these two concerns he hardly heard the thunder rolling closer. It had been a distant background presence for the last hour or so, but the sky suddenly darkened with dramatic quickness and the first heavy warm drops of rain fell suddenly upon them.

The lightening strobed the sky before them, throwing Helgarren Hall into stark silhouette.

The Sports Centre offered the nearest shelter and together they turned and ran towards it as the heavens opened. The door of the nearest building was unlocked and there they sought refuge. It was a small storeroom on the outskirts of the complex. Inside were stored spare gymnastic equipment, benches, horses, mats etc. and an assortment of athletic equipment, hurdles, high and pole jump stands and bars, a rack containing javelins, and several unmarked wooden storage boxes. It smelt slightly musty, but was clean and above all dry.

For a few minutes they stood at the doorway in silence watching the storm. Simon took advantage of an extra loud clap of overhead thunder to move his arm around David's waist. Tentatively, more protective than passionate, but it caused David to move back slightly away from the confines of the doorway so that he had more space.

And it was then that he saw them. Athletics was not one of his passions. His summers had been spent playing cricket, but he knew what they were. Pole vault poles. They were too long to stand upright, but were racked horizontally along the wall. Too long, they must be about 15' he guessed, and the thought came to him suddenly that although he could not vault with them, he had no idea how to and anyway he no longer had the necessary muscle base, he could conceivably use them to.....

David was suddenly made aware that Simon seemed to have misinterpreted his move away from the door deeper into the store. He felt himself pulled round and wrapped in a tight embrace, felt Simon's lips nuzzling his neck, heard endearments breathed into his ear. As he tried to pull his head away slightly his lower body was levered against Simon's and he felt an insistent mound there, pressing back against his groin.

His body's leverage only served to encourage a reciprocal response from Simon. David was only wearing a summer skirt of thin silky material over a thin half slip. His panties were rather more substantial in order to hold his own penis tucked unobtrusively down, but substantial was only comparative. Nothing he wore could disguise the shape or rock hardness of what was pressing into him. All that he wore, he was acutely aware, by its tactile silky sliding response to the movement against it, could only inflame Simon's sexual desire.

He tried to push away, to gain literally a little breathing space, but his former male musculature had been quite eroded away. Simon was, he realised, much stronger than he.

His lips crushed now as Simon transferred his attention away from his neck, he could feel a tongue exploring them, the inside of them, sliding against his teeth. A firm hand on his rear now, pushing him, guiding him, urging his lower body to some sort of rhythm against the insistent bulge now trying to burrow into him.

“Oh Sophie darling, I do so want you.”

Unwelcome as the protestation was, at least David could breathe again, speak again.

“Want me?” Breathlessly. Trying to think.

“Want to make love to you darling, And I know you want it to, I can tell.”

The words rhythmically reinforced by the thrusting of his penis through the thin material of his chinos, the even thinner material in which David was clad.

“Want you?”

A kiss half smothered David's startled reaction.

“Yes I know you do. I've known for ages. Confess it darling.”

“You do? Confess what?”

“That you want me to fuck you of course Sophie.”

They had reached a mat used for the high jump and David found himself dragged down to a semi sitting, semi reclining position, on it.

“But I can't Simon. I can't.” He heard his own voice scratchy, desperate.

“You must know I can't Simon. Even if I wanted to.” He forced the words out. “I am not a real girl. Just a pretend one. I haven't a pussy. You must know .....”

“But you will be, will have, Sophie. Everyone says so. And soon. When your new hormones kick in. And then you can have the operations. Implants and .... and other modifications ....And in the meantime darling we can .... well darling there are other ways .... and I know you want to....”

He held David's hands, smiling at him, his eyes aglow with .... desire .... enthusiasm.

“! am not gay or anything like that Sophie dear, but we could use your other pussy couldn't we? For the time being? Everyone says that you are trained to do so ....”

“Everyone? Trained? Simon who is everyone .... who has been telling you .... talking about me ....” David felt sick, deathly cold inside. Too cold even for outrage.

“Everyone? Why everyone. We are working here to help you transition .... “ Simon sounded puzzled. “...to help all the girls, on the programme, your programme. At least our section is.....”

“Helping us? Your section ....?

“I thought I told you. I....we .... our section, our team, are have been developing the new hormones. They really are wonderful Sophie dear. Once they do kick in it's like an explosion .... you'll see darling.”

Simon smiled at him affectionately. Then leant forward and fondled David's false boobs. “So you see darling girl you won't have to rely on artificial tits much longer.”

“And Rory says ....”

“Who the hell is Rory? And what does he know about anything?”

Simon seemed a little taken aback by the vehemence in David's tone. He planted a pacifying kiss on his nose.”

“Don't be so upset darling. Rory works with me. You must have seen him about. He is Sandra's boyfriend.”

“Who the hell is Sandra ......?”

But then he knew. Sandra was one of the senior girls. In Mona's intake. A tall willowy girl with dark hair whose slimness emphasised the proud uplift of her impressive breasts. Impressive since three weeks ago when her erstwhile boyish figure had been transformed by the acquisition of implants. Around the time when she had also acquired Rory as a boyfriend David remembered.

“Oh that Sandra.” He said weakly.

Simon, seemingly emboldened by the sudden understanding in his voice, moved his hand down and started caressing David's knee

“And Sandra has told him all about it, about the programme here and how it is helping her, helping all of you ......”

The hand moved in a smoothing motion up David's thigh, sliding over the silkiness of his stockings.

“..... and how it so important for you all that you be treated just like ordinary girls. Especially when it comes to sex. You need it so badly to help you psychologically adjust, and how you have been trained to take it up....there ...”

His fingers reached the thicker band at the top of David's stockings, strayed to toy with the tabs of his suspender belt, and paused as if relishing their the potential of their position.

“.... And they do it all the time .... and Rory says it really is good .... and he isn't at all gay .... but he says it's just as good ....and even when she, when Sandra, has a proper cunt .... well it will be difficult to choose ....”

His breath was becoming ragged, deep in his chest, his fingertips straddling the latex band of David's stockings, touching the smooth flesh beyond.

The tingle of flesh on flesh, alien fingers on his flesh, woke David from the paralysis that had seized him. He knew his options had all but vanished. Simon was stronger than he and was now on such a wave of passion that calm reasoning would not even be listened to. He could scream, make a frenzied resistance which might or might not deter him. And if it did?

And if it did? If Simon backed of? If he could be persuaded to take his engorged member away in search of someone else's orifice. Then he would talk. Then all the lab staff would know. He would be labelled a prickteaser, a cold bitch who led boys on, let them buy her meals, dance attendance without caring.... And they would hear. It would come to the ears of Grace de Messembry and .....”

David remembered Emma's advice. And took the only decision open to him.

“Simon darling,” he purred as his hand moved down under his slip to restrain the other's hand. “Of course I want you darling. It's just that it is my first time and I didn't know how you would react to.... whether you really would want to .... be inside me there ....”

David leant up and kissed Simon full on the lips. A long lingering kiss.

Buying time. Whilst he thought. Trying to recall what Emma had said.

He moved Simon's hand back down his stocking thigh, gently, languorously until it was back at his knee.

“I want it to be special darling. Please let us take it slowly, please be gentle and loving.”

David abandoned the hand on his knee and moved his own hand to feel the urgent staff that imprisoned in Simon's trousers. There was already a smear that was slippery to his fingertips at its crest, seeping through the intervening, restraining material. He kissed Simon again and slowly massaged his mound. Up and down, up and down. His fingers trailing its length, feeling it through the thin fabric, gently tracing its outline.

He tried to make his mind a blank. Concentrate on the technicalities. Don't think of it as another man's cock. Not as another man's assertive maleness. Not as a counterpoint to his own incipient femininity.

Up and down his fingers went, caressing, encouraging.

“Darling it's so huge,” David whispered, “I didn't know it would be so big.”

Simon moaned “It's big for you Sophie darling, it wants to be inside you. Wants to penetrate you, to feel you, your flesh, all around it.”

His hand abandoned David's knee as his own sensations became paramount. It closed over David's hand guiding, encouraging it, pressing it down, David was aware that he was also fumbling with the zip, trying to free it.

“I want it inside me too,” he gasped, “deep inside me.” As he tried to hinder the opening of the zip by a display of clumsy helpfulness.

To his horror he was aware that his own penis was responding, swelling inside its restraining panties. He must concentrate on the work in ..... Christ No...! Not the work in hand! No the aim. He must bring Simon to orgasm before.... he must remain dispassionate. Numb. Think in abstract terms.

Simon's other hand was inside David's blouse, fumbling with his bra hooks and eyes. He must be mad! What did he expect to find there? Was it some genetic programming or an ingrained routine?

Simon's fly was open now. Simon's hand guiding his inside. God it was big. And it was leaking gallons of pre-cum. The underwear was soggy and sticky with it. 'Y' fronts! Simon was wearing 'Y' fronts!

David uttered up a silent prayer of thanks. An organ that size, in such a rigid state, had no chance of getting through the opening in a pair of 'Y' fronts, not without divine intervention. They would have to be pulled down, Simon's trousers too ..... may a slip between the cup and the lip ..... Christ don't think about it..... Don't go there!

David's fingers slipped though the fly of the 'Y' fronts and his nails scraped along the satin soft flesh of the Simon's prick. God he could never get that inside him. He tried to measure it in his mind against his current butt plug and .....

Simon was fumbling at the belt of his own trousers. Moaning “Darling, darling Sophie... Please...”

David kissed him again. “Gently darling, lets make it last. I want it to be special ... Patience sweetie .... it's best slowly. I promise you.”

Simon squirmed, lifting his hips trying to ease his trousers down. David's hand through the opening of the 'Y' fronts, caressing, stroking, smearing the pre-cum, obstructing his efforts. Holding him so that movement to liberate the rock hard cock with a searching urgent life of its own was impeded. Impeded but not prevented. Simon's pants were down to his knees, then kicked away. His penis rampant was still snagged in his underpants by its jutting assertiveness, thrusting proud through the opening, but Simon evidently considered the battle won and his hands now returned in unco-ordinated lust to simultaneously fumbling under David's skirt and at his bra.

David summoned up every ounce of dispassionate numbness he could muster. He must get him to orgasm before .... Even if it meant .... He saw with rabbit's eyes the stoat rearing before him, nodding rhythmically in response to his own caressing, felt his own mouth water, behind dry but now half parted lips. This was what his nightly exercises with the OGTA had prepared him for, made him an expert at. It would be so simple. Over so quickly.... He felt his head drawn towards the purpling head, saw the slit magnified by a bead of lubricant.

His fingernails scraped the long length, his palm smoothed the head feeling its silken oiled softness as his mouth seemed drawn downwards, his tongue flicking his own lips in unbidden anticipation, moistening them, moisture to the moist, sweets to the sweet ....

And then the first convulsion. Far back At the very base. Just a twitch really. The rod shook. Just a twitch. But David knew. And it was confirmed by a small groan in the back of Simon's throat. A small groan of impending loss. And then another small deep explosion, stronger now. And another and another. A whole series. Not longer twitches but full blooded spasms that convulsed the whole body. Simon's body.

Semen erupted forth. The first emission a thick burst, A warning shot. The second, a string of molten pearls, with greater vehemence, greater velocity, that leapt up towards David's face, uncurling before his lips, before falling back bespattering his hands and wrists. A hydrant pumping. Again and again. Fierce ejaculations that eventually diminished to sullen gouts that oozed in a dying fall.

Relief washed over David. Relief, and a strange regret, a sadness, a feeling of fulfilment denied. Of loss. He looked at his right hand and saw that in the hollows of his painted nails little pools of sperm nestled, pearls against his fingertips. Trancelike he brought them to his mouth and fed them between his lips.

Simon was moaning. Between the moans the word 'sorry' featured. Irrationally David felt a giggle building up inside him. Fought to suppress it. It was as Emma had said.

“Oh dear, Oh dear .... So soon. But you mustn't worry darling,” he said, and brought his hand up to caress Simon's face, leaving there a sticky trail. “You mustn't blame yourself. It's my fault for getting you too excited. I'll just have to take greater care of you next time. You mustn't think that you .... That there is anything wrong. It could happen to anyone....”

David smiled at him. Understanding and sympathy dripping from every syllable

“Its just that ....” David sighed. “Perhaps we should just take it a little easy for a time. Until you can control your ..... your emotions a little better. To avoid disappointment....”

He was on is feet now, smiling down at Simon whose post orgasmic emptiness of spirit seemed to find little solace in his words.

“But really, you mustn't worry about it....” And he reached down to pull the disconsolate Simon to his feet.

Outside it was all late sunshine, the grass beneath their feet sweet after the rain, as they walked in silence back to the Hall.

Little was said. There was little to say. Just the occasional 'sorry' from Simon, the stumbling beginnings of an explanation that never progressed beyond half a sentence. From David just the answering sweet reproach masquerading as forgiveness, stilling the apologies.

David was shivering slightly. Behind the smiles he felt a great hollowness within himself. It had been a close run thing. Too close and he knew it was not over. There would be other romantic interludes with Simon, or others, and the odds against him fending off such advances would decrease each time. He would be fucked. Literally. It was merely a question of time. The where and by whom irrelevant. The when an unavoidable certainty.

David was shivering slightly. But not because of that, that physical destiny revealed, but because of the self knowledge that had come to him in that moment of Simon's orgasm. The moment his training, his indoctrination, his .... something had taken over and he had been drawn as if in a dream, his head, his mouth had been drawn down towards Simon's prick. When he had wanted to feel it on his tongue, in his mouth. Because for him it was right.

And then he had been mesmerised by the sight of the sperm in the curve of his fingernail. That he had felt on his tongue, in his mouth. Voluntarily. Because for him it was right.

And worst of all because these reactions could be explained by the physical conditioning of the OGTA, the nightly exercises that had made it second nature, was the feeling of loss when the premature ejaculation that he had striven to bring about had finally occurred.

Something deep in his subconscious had wanted something more, had been as bereft, as unfulfilled, as Simon had been. And that was very, very, wrong.

They parted before the Hall, Simon making his way to the Car Park for his car and the drive home. David to the small terraced house in the little square which was his refuge and his prison. The shivering had abated, given way to an empty sick feeling, an inner sleaziness. He felt deathly tired and his chest hurt under the breast forms that Simon had fondled with such misplaced zeal. He needed a long soak in a hot bath. He needed a stiff drink. Several stiff drinks.

There was mail for him lying inside the door. Anne must have collected it with hers and pushed them through his letterbox. In addition to lingerie catalogues from La Perla and Blush and the latest 'Elle', there were two rather formal looking envelopes, both of an expense-no-object quality. One of them had, in small engraved lettering on the back flap, an impeccably respectable London address over which were inscribed the words 'Haughton and Humphries. Solicitors.'

On the back of the other was scrawled a short message. 'Exciting new developments — see you at 7 in bar — More later - Love Anne.'

Both were addressed to Miss Sophie F. Jackson, 5, Thegn Court, Helgarren Hall. Neither had either a stamp or a further address so they must have been originally sent to Helgarren Hall under different cover.

David weighed them in his hand. The stiff drink, any drink, he decided reluctantly could wait. He was due to meet Anne in the bar later and additional drinks now would not be a good idea. Besides he needed to think, needed a clear head. Needed above all a bath.

Carrying the thicker of the two envelopes he went to the bathroom and turned on the taps. Watched the steam rise. Poured in some bath oil. His chest irritated him. Bloody Simon must have loosened the adhesive. Anyway it was time they were redone. The skin softened too much if they were worn continually. He needed to wear unattached forms for a few days to let it recover. A nuisance but essential. Real boobs would be so much more convenient .... God don't even think that....

To block the thought, to seek distraction, he tore open the envelope. The solicitor's letter was crisp and heavy. The typing impeccably spaced and formatted. The language formal and dispassionate.

'Dear Miss Jackson,' the first sheet began. Then 'We are pleased to be able to inform you that pursuant upon the instructions received from the Venumar Foundation, we are now in the happy position of being able to confirm to you that the application made by us on your behalf under The Gender Recognition Act 2004 has been satisfactorily processed and approved and that accordingly .....'

The words swam before David's eyes. He sat down on the side of the bath. What the hell were they talking about? He read through the punctuationless legalese again trying to make sense of it.

'..... the enclosed Gender Recognition Certificate has been issued in the name of Sophie Felicity Jackson ....'

“Christ! Jesus fucking Christ!” David stared in disbelief at a second, even thicker piece of parchment, folded behind the first. It bore the Royal governmental crest beneath which were the words 'Gender,' and 'Recognition,' and 'Certificate.'

'..... As you will be aware this certificate automatically leads to a new birth certificate in the acquired gender with all its attendant rights and responsibilities. This includes the right to marry.'

'Whilst strictly speaking all the normally obligatory conditions have not in your case yet been fully complied with, the Home Office are recognisant of the special circumstances attached to your case as have been strongly argued by the Venumar Foundation and are pleased to waive any reservations in acknowledgement of the aforementioned circumstances.'

'You will perhaps be aware that the normal circumstances referred to are that a person to be eligible for the Gender Recognition Certificate must :-

have been diagnosed as having gender dysphoria, or
have had gender reassignment surgery, and
have lived in their acquired gender role for two years,
intend to do so permanently for the remainder of their life.'
'Account has also been taken of the Venumar Foundation's past accomplishments and future contributions in this respect as well as their assurance that any apparent current shortfall in the fulfilment of these criteria as they relate to your own individual circumstances is a matter solely of timescale.'
'It remains only for us to express our satisfaction at the successful outcome of this application and to congratulate you, Miss Jackson, on the attainment of your new status which we trust will bring you great happiness in future years. Naturally if I, or my partners, can be of any further assistance to you in any matter, pertaining or otherwise, then we are at your entire disposition.'
Then a 'Yours faithfully' and an undecipherable squiggle of a signature.

David felt numb. All the sick emptiness that he had felt earlier returning. He turned off the taps. The perfume of the bath essence swirled around him.
He undressed slowly. There seemed little else to do. On automatic pilot.
Shoes, and then sliding his skirt down over thighs and calves. The silken slither of his half slip as it followed the descent to the floor Stockings unclipped and insinuated back down his legs, peeled off the end of his toes. His top over his head, arms aloft as he eased it over his head, taking care lest his earrings snag. Arms down and back reaching for the hooks and eyes of his bra. Fingers fumbling for a moment and then as the pretty satin and lace moulded confection fell away. The matching panties next, followed by the wisp of a suspender belt.

He felt tired, drained of energy. The soothing bath beckoned. A bath to wash away the present, to drown his troubles. But before that .... He opened the bathroom cabinet and found the small bottle of solvent for his breast adhesive.

Holding it he sank deep into the welcoming, hot, perfumed bath. Lay there, wallowing in it, letting the healing water sink into, permeate, every pore. The bubbles reached up to, indeed covered the top of his breasts but through them he could see that there was indeed the beginning of a gap there. He sat up slightly straighter, wiped the water and bubbles away. Poured a little of the solvent into the gap, spread it around the edges and massaged it gently in.

The events of the day came crowding back as he relaxed. He re-read in his mind the solicitor's letter. Making it official. He was Sophie ... .Sophie Felicity? The Home Office acknowledging the Venumar Foundation's past accomplishments .... and future contributions? The shortfall in conditions merely a matter of timescale? And back beyond that. To the moment of his own self realisation. When he had wanted to.... When he had felt the loss, felt deprived.....

And he knew bleakly that he was losing. Knew that perhaps he had always been losing. In spite of his brave, defiant, resolutions. Helen had been right in her confidence that the beautiful butterfly would emerge. It didn't need hormones. It was what happened inside that mattered. They knew. Had always known. So confident that they had officially changed his sexual status. Permanently. And had mocked him by telling him.

His fingers circled the edges of his breasts, working the oily solvent deeper down. Feeling the alien mounds beginning to sag on the skin of his chest. The skin sensitive underneath.

It was what happened inside that mattered. In his head. In his acceptance of the routine. A new normality being superimposed upon the old. Blocking it out, weakening and then destroying it. What was being fed daily, hourly, minute by minute, into his head. Hormones were the icing on the cake. They didn't need to give him them, they were only an outward confirmation of femininity.

He couldn't sit it out trusting to their ultimate benevolence. Trusting that they would let him go to be David again when he had served his purpose as a statistical benchmark.

He had to get out. And quickly. Perhaps the a pole jump pole would work. If only he could get it there. Unless they came to pieces like a fishing rod? But that was unlikely. But there must be a way .... Before he accepted it. Accepted being Sophie. Before he accepted being, before he became Sophie.

His right breast fell away in his hand. Then the left. Underneath the skin was white and slightly wrinkled. A few days with ordinary falsies pouched in his bra were needed. His hands smoothed the skin of his chest .....

And he froze....

Again his fingers felt, explored. Dreading the confirmation of what they had first felt, had first discovered.

And as his fingers confirmed their findings, as they found the firm first buddings, as his brain struggled to accept, he glanced down and saw through the remaining bubbles still clinging to his chest, that his nipples were puffy and were now surrounded by a wider area .... small aureoles over small, but unmistakeable, mounds .....

Breasts.

Notes:

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Synopsis:

David's friends lend sympathy and help. For which David is duly grateful but does it solve anything? Is it all too late with the Government seemingly now involved? Hope eternal springs in some breasts whereas David's breasts seemingly just spring ....

Helen offers an explanation, but you will have to decide for yourselves....

Story:

Part 14

Because David's tale is slow in its serialisation, and long in the telling, it was suggested to me that the following character list might help in jogging reader's memories. Hope it does.

Previously encountered Characters in order of appearance/mention.

Anne. She was already at the Holding Wing before David’s arrival. Her background is that of a boy saved from drug abuse and social problems by one of the charitable organisations under the aegis of the Venumar foundation. Was ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre with David

David. The hero whose adventures we follow. Generally referred to by others as Sophie. ‘Recruited’ and then subjected to months in ‘Reception’ before progressing to the ‘Holding Wing’ where much of the subsequent action, apart from his stay in the hospital facility, took place. Now ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre at Helgarren Hall.

Dr. Victoria Walters. A surgeon in the employ of The Venumar Foundation. She was responsible for his recovery after his knifing. She is in charge of the medical facility at Helgarren Hall.

Helen Vanbrugh. Grace de Messembry's close confidante on whom she appears to exercise a moderating influence. She was at David's first interview when he was named Sophie. It is to be assumed that she has director status in the Venumar Foundation. She facilitated David’s move to The Finishing Centre, offering to use her influence with the Principal there that he may receive a special non-hormonal dispensation.

Grace de Messembry. Majority, perhaps sole, shareholder in the Venumar Foundation, which in itself is the controlling influence of numerous international companies. She is apparently the source and instigator of all David’s current woes

Simon. A member of the Rook Club/Writers' Guild whom David chose 'faute de mieux' as a possible boyfriend when pressurised to find one. David has had one fumbling encounter with him which did not however lead to a complete consummation of their putative relationship.

Emma. Was also at the Holding Wing before David' arrival, but is a genetic girl. She represents the other, outwardly charitable, function of the Holding Wing, which is the education and training of girls coming from under-privileged and troubled backgrounds. Now graduated from the Holding Wing returning as a junior staff member

Dr. Francesca Pinecoffin. Overall Executive Head of Helgarren Hall. Together with Grace de Messembry and Helen Vanbrugh she was present at David's initial interview after his stay in Reception

Laura. David’s mentor in the ‘Holding Wing’. Her other charges then being Anne and Emma.

Marie-Hélá¨n and Lisa Two other 'girls' in the current intake at Helgarren Hall arriving by an overseas route.

Coralie. A late ‘recruit’ arriving at the Holding Wing after David. Tried to knife Grace de Messembry but the attempt was instinctively foiled by David and she was sent to rehabilitation as a result. She shares David’s background, having been forcibly recruited and conditioned at Reception before arriving at the Holding Wing.

Mrs Townsend. Staff. The beautician

It should be remembered that the plot unfolds through the eyes of David. The descriptions of the people above conform to David’s understanding of their function, character, etc. Use of words such as ‘seemingly’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘apparent’ are because the facts, or surmises, can only be as David understands them. The reader has no other authority from whom he or she can seek verification.

The Deception of Choice = Chapter 40.

Anne, there before him, was sitting at a table at the far end of the garden opening out from the bar. Bramble snoring softly at her feet.

She smiled a welcome as he approached. “Did you get my note? About the developments. New but not completely unexpected.” She giggled.

Autumn was in the air. The sun westering low although it was not yet six. Though the evening was still warm David saw that she was wearing a light cashmere wrap flung across her shoulders. He hugged himself as he shivered with a sudden inner chill.

“Yes,” he said. “I got it. And the mail. Thanks Anne dear.”

“It's so exciting isn't it? And did you get the letters too? From the bank and the solicitors?”

“Yes. From the solicitors anyway. There was another .... so perhaps the bank too ....”

“It's all happening isn't it. I've been to see Dr. Walters and she ....” Anne's voice trailed off.

“There's something wrong isn't there? You must have started too? But .... I mean I know you don't want them. Breasts. But it was bound to happen .... with the hormones I mean .... you must have expected .... known.”

David looked at her .... tried to find the words.

“I got you a gin .... ready for you.... to celebrate .... I'm sorry....?

David sat. reached for the drink and half emptied the glass.

“Thank you,” he said.

Anne studied him. Watched him drink.

“There's more isn't there? She said.

“Yes,” David said and drained his glass. “Much more.”

He rose and taking his empty glass walked slowly through the French windows into the bar itself. Anne watched him anxiously. Sipped her drink. Sombre now.

He came back, his glass replenished and a new drink for Anne, and sat down in silence, looking not at her but over to the distant view that stretched before them in the late sunshine. Peaceful. Idyllic even, the rolling countryside stretching away with a church spire the only sign of distant habitation.

“Tell me,” Anne said.

And so he did. For it didn't matter now. And in a way it was a relief. It had been the only thing he had hidden from her. The only thing he had not been open about and the one thing that had thus been always a reproach for him, marring their relationship.

The special, secret, understanding he had had, thought he had had, with Helen Vanbrugh. About hormones.

His drink lay untouched before him. He did not look at her, could not bring himself to do so, but fixed his unfocused gaze away from her towards the blur of the distant spire. He needed to be unseeing to retain self control.

Only when he had finished did he look towards her. But by then it was too late to see her face clearly. Tears welled up and distorted all. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to hold them back but they squeezed out under his lids and one ran softly down his cheek. He blinked and fumbled for his handkerchief. In his purse for his handkerchief. His hand trembling, his long immaculately manicured fingernails clumsy with the clasp.

“I should have told you before,” he said, “but I was so caught up in the secrecy of the thing. So fearful of what would happen if I broke my side of the agreement and told someone .... that I .... “

“I understand,” Anne said, and reached out with both her hands to hold, to steady his.

“I understand,” she repeated, “Truly. It's not your fault. I understand.”

And then.

“I didn't think.... I was just excited, I wanted to share it with you Sophie dear. Having breasts .... and the letters too. But the hormones .... I had no idea .... And I always thought of Helen as being rather pleasant in spite of .....”

David needed both hands to hold his glass steady enough to drink from. He concentrated on it, watching the tremors on the surface as the ice cubes clinked and eddied round the lime slice.

He nodded.

“Yes so did I. And what she said sounded so plausible. And there seemed no reason for it not to be true. I still can't fathom it. Why did she tell me that .... why did she go through all that rigmarole to get my agreement .... if it were just a charade?”

“Perhaps,” Anne ventured, “ perhaps something else happened that we don't know about .... or perhaps Grace de Messembry intervened .... Helen was away and ....?”

But David seemed not to hear.

“I don't think I can go on Anne. Before there was the hope that I could survive. Survive unchanged. Survive as me. As a me that could at least be regained one day. But now?”

“You will always be you Sophie dear. They can't change you inside. Whatever they do you will always be the kind thoughtful sweet girl that I ... that I.”

“You see Anne, even you! Even you. That's how you see me!”

Anne was distraught. Her hand at her mouth, her eyes wide at the realisation of the enormity of her words.

“No! No! I ....”

“Yes! Yes Anne! That's why I can't go on. No not because you see me as Sophie for that is as you have always known me. How else would you think of me? Not even because everyone else sees me as Sophie, nor even because in many ways I now am Sophie. But because I see my self more and more as her, think of myself more and more as Sophie.”

“And I can't go one because if I do one day soon I will be Sophie. One day soon I shall look at my breasts, weigh them in my hands, my fingers caressing the nipples and smile to myself with the satisfaction of knowing that they are indeed mine. One day soon I shall look back on today and wonder how I could ever have been so foolish not to have rejoiced with you at their budding. One day soon I thank whatever gods there be for the blessing of oestrogen.... “

“Sophie! Hush Sophie! You mustn't. Please stop!” Anne's voice was low, urgent. “Others will hear Sophie. I beg you. Please let us talk it through quietly.”

David's voice dropped to its normal level.

“See”, he said, “I am becoming hysterical to boot.”But its all too true Anne dear. More and more it's true. They are winning. Perhaps they've already won. This afternoon with Simon, When he tried to .... when he did ..... Part of me ..... reacted.”

“This afternoon? Simon? What happened with Simon Sophie? Did he? Oh Sophie!”

“It's been a bad day Anne.” David forced a wry smile. This afternoon Simon tried and .... well he partially succeeded .... I will tell you later .... but once or twice Sophie nearly took over. Once or twice she, I, wondered, was curious, about what it was like, whether I would enjoy. Wanted even to find out, to experience.....”

“So perhaps I should end it now while I still have control.”

David finished his gin. His hand was steadier now. “Another one Anne dear?”

Anne shook her head “You, we, should eat first. And then talk.” There must be a way. Something we can do.”

“I am not hungry. The thought of food .... Ughh! Whereas ......”

“I know. But you must try to eat. Even if it is like sawdust in the mouth. Come back to my place and I will do an omelette for you. And I have some wine too. Better no more gin if we are going to talk this out.”

“Anne it's no use. There is nothing I can do.”

“Sophie you need to eat something. Please. And we need to talk. Together. There must be something we can do.”

“Anne it's no use. And it's not your problem You have accepted femininity. Are happy with that. For me it's different.”

“Sophie dear, if you don't know now then I suppose you never will.... but I care what happens to you. I don't want you to end it all unless .... well unless it really is best for you, unless there is really no other option, no other way.”

Anne bent down and gathered up Bramble who, being those torn from dreams of canine derring-do, licked her cheek. “And I care for Bramble too. And he is certainly hungry and needs feeding. As do I. And I am not going to leave you here swigging gin on your own so you have really no choice but to come and make yourself useful by opening the wine.”

...........

David cradled his wine glass and regarded his empty plate. In spite of his earlier protestations, the omelette had been welcome. Had, as Anne had known, been essential, even if only to counteract the effect of the gins he had drunk. At least he could now attempt to think through his despair. Even if the effort still seemed a a waste of time.

But Anne was determined.

“It's too early Sophie. Too early to choose death. Too many unknowns yet. You can't be certain that it is the only option.”

“Isn't it Anne? What are the others then? Rehabilitation which is worse than death; worse than being Sophie even. Becoming Sophie, some sort of weird unnatural hybrid ......”

David saw the pain in Anne's face.

“I am sorry Anne dearest. I didn't mean to imply that you .... That you would be anything but a delightful person, a charming girl, nothing unnatural, but you have accepted. No longer question. Which makes it all different. Whereas I .....”

“You too could accept Sophie. It isn't difficult. Not now. Maybe you will anyway. Maybe it is inevitable..... You said yourself earlier .....”

David shook his head savagely as if to clear the vision from therein.

“That's just it Anne. Why it isn't too early to end it. Whilst I still know that it is the right thing to do. Before it is too late. Whilst I still can.”

Anne kept her voice cool, dispassionate.

“There is another option. We will have to help you escape Sophie.”

“Anne I have thought about escape, endlessly so, both here and at the Holding Wing. It's no use going down that avenue time and time again.”

“The avenue is different now Sophie. Forget the Holding Wing. That's in the past anyway. Helgarren is different. Far more open But more importantly before today you thought it didn't really matter. You thought that you had only to sit tight, think resolute thoughts, and eventually you would walk away. Just walk out of here unscathed apart from plucked eyebrows, pierced ears and a few ingrained feminine gestures.”

“That's unfair Anne. I have thought about it. Why only today I realised ....”

“I don't think it is unfair Sophie. It wasn't a do or die situation. Since you came to Helgarren all you had to do, so you now tell me, was to play the game. Keep taking the fake hormones and if you held true to yourself, and didn't offend Grace de Messembry, then you would be able in due course of time to be your own true unsullied self again.”

“Perhaps Anne, although it wasn't quite so simple, I wanted to ....”

“Perhaps it's harsh but it's true Sophie dear. But now it's changed. Hormones have changed it all. Now the only way you can see of holding true to yourself now is by taking your own life. Otherwise you will be the proud possessor of two delightful feminine breasts and a curvaceous perky bottom. With a withered male appendage that, even if it worked which it wouldn't, you would never dare expose for fear of the ridicule it would invite. Not that that would be any other than a temporary inconvenience. Once you have become reconciled to, indeed once you have learnt to fully appreciate all the advantages of your new persona, as indeed you will dear, why then you can ask for that poor vestigial symbol of your lost masculinity to be replaced by something more suitable, more becoming ..... more ....”

Anne paused.

“ .... more fitting.”

And with that she was holding him. Holding him close.

“Sophie forgive me. It hurts me too. It is my chosen option that I am talking of. You must know that. But you need to realise that for you it is different now. Escape for you is no longer eminently desirable. It is everything.”

David rested there in her embrace. Feeling the warmth of her body sink into him, reaching out to the inner coldness that had seized him. Drawing strength from her.

“How?”

“Tomorrow we must go through it. Systematically, methodically. And then throw ideas about. I think we should ask Emma if she has any.”

“Emma? But .... Can we trust her? If she tells ....? Rehabilitation is the worst of all....”

“I believe we can. There is no doubt in my mind Sophie dear. I think she may be a little disappointed but she won't betray..... and will want to help.”

“Disappointed?”

“Yes disappointed. As I am indeed. About you not wanting to be a ..... wanting to leave .... Selfishly so .... But that is all. She is fond of you too.”

“But she works for them and ....”

“And she is your friend. And you have to weigh the risk, because you can't afford to be too cautious. You now need to take risks because being too cautious is akin to doing nothing. And Emma is clever and is brimful of ideas. And above all you need ideas.”

David nodded.

“Yes. Ask Emma.”

Anne divided the last of the wine bottle between their glasses.

“You need to sleep now,” she said, “it's already late and your day has been eventful to put it mildly, but tomorrow we will go through it all, starting with the perimeter. Wall and gate house, ha-ha and river, there must be a weak spot somewhere.”

“I thought of somewhere, something today”, David said. “Just before Simon.....”

“As I said,” Anne smiled,”There are new avenues if you look for them. But let's save it for tomorrow when we are fresh. We might yet be spoilt for choice.”

At the door as he took his farewell Anne turned to face him.

“Just one thing”, she said. “Perhaps a jarring note, but go to see Dr. Walters tomorrow. Don't put it off. You need to know as much as you can about the effect of the hormones. For when you escape ..... You need to know if there are any other side effects .... Anything else that may be important .... And she will be expecting it. Don't give her cause to wonder. Oh and on a practical note you will need new breast forms to accommodate them.”

“Only one thing.” David said wryly. “If I do get out it means I will never know. About the meaning of the 'bare branches', about the 'why'.”

Anne gave him a gentle shove through the door.

“Go to bed”, she said. “Another reason for not choosing a suicide's grave. Alive you can always work it out later at leisure. From first principles if needs be. Or I suppose I could always write and tell you if I get there first.”

Back next door, in his own house, he made himself a goodnight cup of cocoa. That was another thing, he had never drunk cocoa since when as a small boy aged eight he had been introduced to it when he first left home to board at his prep school. And then he had found a tin of it in the kitchen cupboard here and it had again become part of his nightly routine. Idly he wondered if it was an idea that they had planted in his head or whether it was pure chance and he found solace in it simply because of brought back the comfort and certainties of those schoolboy years. Only then of course he had not had the option of adding to it a slug of whisky which now seemed not to detract from the childhood memories to the slightest degree.

And now it helped him to sleep, which in those far off days had never been a problem.

.................

Perhaps because he was anxious about his forthcoming visit to Dr. Walters and by association more conscious of his burgeoning breasts, but he was constantly aware of them the next morning as he walked down Helgarren Hall's labyrinthine corridors the next morning. The breast forms pouched in his bra seemed to rub them unduly, aggravating their new found sensitivity and so preoccupying his thoughts that he was not aware of the approaching clip clop of high heels heading towards him until, on turning a corner, he nearly collided with Helen Vanbrugh. Would indeed have collided with her had she not, with an awareness and reactions that put David's to shame, executed a nifty side step and shimmy that, if observed by selectors, would have made her a serious contender for the number 10 shirt in any International Rugby Fifteen.

“Sophie dear! What a pleasant surprise!” Helen Vanbrugh seemed genuinely pleased. “I haven't seen you since our little drink together on the terrace. So enjoyable! But I have been away on my travels since and ....”

She stopped. Saw in David's face the accusation of betrayal. The physical unconscious recoil away from her.

“Oh. I see. It has happened. So you know.” Flatness in her voice.

“Yes. It has happened. I know. Know you lied.”

Helen looked at him for a long moment. David met her gaze unwaveringly, willing her to know his contempt.

“Yes you must think that. But I didn't, although what I did was, I suppose, just as unforgivable.”

She reached out a hand to him and then hesitated as if she dared not, and then withdrew. She nodded as if to herself and then .....

“Come with me. To my office. If you are going to hate me so, then let it be for the right reasons.”

“I have an appointment.” David said stonily.”With Dr Walters. Because of...... Because of .... it.” He felt tears well behind his eyes, his throat tighten and feared lest she would see his weakness and despise it. Or see it as an obscene justification of what they had done to him.

“Dr. Walters will wait. I need to tell you and you had best know before you see her.”

She turned abruptly, and started to retrace her steps, before turning and repeating. “Come with me. Now.”

And David followed her. Though why he did not really know. Perhaps it was the authority in her voice, an authority that he had grown to, been schooled to, accept. Perhaps it was because he felt on the verge of collapse; his sudden meeting with her coalescing the threads of his despair into a form of numb paralysis. Perhaps it was simply because he could see no clear alternative.

Her office was spacious, catching the morning sun which streamed through high mullioned windows. Helen led him, not to her desk which backed onto the window area, but to where two low comfortable looking chairs and a matching sofa surrounded a low table on which rested a small vase of alstroemeria.

“Sit down Sophie. Please.” She indicated the sofa whilst speaking into an intercom on her desk. - “Two coffees please. Black. Oh and tell Victoria Walters that Sophie has been delayed.”- before herself sinking into one of the chairs.

For what seemed an age there was silence between them. David tried to concentrate on the flowers before him. Working out their exact shade, trying to lose himself in admiration of the reverse curve of their petals, their light fragrance. Trying to concentrate on them so that in doing so he might regain his own equilibrium, master his own emotions that threatened to betray him.

Maybe it was just the coffee for which Helen waited. Maybe. When it had arrived, when she had poured two cups and placed one in front of the unacknowledging David, she sipped hers reflectively and then .....

“I don't know where to start Sophie. I owe you an apology. And you have it. Have it from the bottom of my heart. Although I don't expect you to accept it. Nor do I expect it will make any difference to you. Nor salve any wounds nor lessen your sense of hurt ..... of betrayal.”

“You lied to me.” David could hear his voice creak He had long since mastered the art of speaking in a light feminine voice. Such had become second nature to him. But now it was as when a boy's first starts to break, as he struggled to squeeze out the words.

Helen shook her head. “No dear I did not lie. Although possibly, obviously, it seems to you that I did. I said .....”

“You said that the hormones I was given would only be placebos. That they would not real. That if I kept my side of the bargain. If I agreed to ... that I would not have hormones. That I would not develop breasts .... That I would be a sort of yardstick against which others could be measured .....That I would retain my physical integrity. My physical integrity. Those were your words. “

The words came tumbling out. Disjointed phrases returning time and time again to the theme of the breaking of trust, of duplicity. Disjointed phrases that melded into the coherence of a heart rending betrayal.

Helen remained silent. Watching the grief stricken figure of the girl before her. Watching as it disintegrated .... vulnerable, miserable. Then she rose and quietly joined David on the sofa, placing her arm softly across his shoulders, her hand gently soothing him.

“I am so very sorry Sophie. I tried. I only said I would ask Dr. Pinecoffin. The final decision was always hers. But I truly thought that her assent was a formality. I had already mentioned it to her, and in principle she had already agreed.”

“Then why? If she had agreed .... Why?” David's voice was muffled, his head buried in his hands.

“Agreed in principle. And I thought it would be enough. There was no reason for it not to be. Not then. And then I was called away. Suddenly. On that trip to the Far East. So I wasn't there. Not when it mattered.”

“I don't understand. Nothing changed. I had agreed to your terms, to go .... to come here to Helgarren..... What else mattered?”

David lifted his head from his hands. Looking at her. Pain in his eyes.

“What mattered Sophie was that Laura gave you hormones. And you took them. You started the regime. It negated your value as a test standard.”

“I took them because I had no option. I had promised you. No-one must know of what we had agreed you said. I had to conform. I didn't think a few days' supply would make any difference!”

“You weren't to know. And I don't suppose it would make a difference. But from a scientific viewpoint .....”

“So it's all Laura's fault!” Real anguish now. Anguish screaming in every gesture, every look.

“ No. Not Laura's fault. She did not know. She thought she was helping..... It was just a mistake.”

“A mistake!”

“A mistake. Mistakes happen. If I had not been away I could have perhaps prevented it. Covered up even. Even that. But I wasn't. I couldn't. It was unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate? Is that all you can say? Unfortunate! Did Grace de Messembry know?”

“Grace? Why should she? It's just a small part of ...... and anyway It was my responsibility. Something I had arranged.”

“Yes something you had arranged. And afterwards did you think it was such a small part of something that it was not worth a mention? Not a word of it when you returned. When we shared a drink together, you and Anne and I, and we chatted of books and tennis.

David straightened up. Shrugging off Helen's arm. His body bowstring taut.

“It's not as if you didn't know where to find me.”

Helen Vanbrugh nodded. “I have no defence,” she said. “I was cowardly. That is my sin. That of cowardice. Not deceit. I didn't know how to tell you. Kept putting it off. And ......”

“And?”

“.... And I told myself that it didn't matter. Because you knowing would not change anything. It was too late. The die was cast. Not knowing was best for you. Less stressful. And perhaps hoping that by the time you did know. By the time it became obvious. By that time perhaps you would be reconciled. Would not mind. Even be enough of a girl inside to welcome it..... to welcome the changes that the hormones had .......”

“And you think that that really excuses, justifies my not knowing .... justifies your silence?”

Helen sighed. “No of course not. It was to assuage my conscience, ease my embarrassment, that is all.”

David drew a deep breath. “If you had told me. When you first returned after your trip, then I could perhaps reconsidered, changed my mind. Stop taking them ....”

“No. You know it doesn't work like that. One way or another you would still be on a regime of hormones. Perhaps not so advanced, perhaps not here, but..... And anyway Sophie hormones are not the end of the world. Remember I told you then, at that meeting, that I thought that you would become a butterfly irrespective of our agreement? Because what happens to the body is not crucial to what you become. It is just the veneer, the icing on the cake.”

David felt stubbornness welling up inside him. The stubbornness of defeat perhaps, of spitting into the face of Fate. “I could still stop taking them.”

Helen shook her head wearily.

“It's far too late for gestures of that sort Sophie dear. Far too much time, effort and money has been invested in you. What I offered was perhaps a lifeline and I am sorry that it turned out as it did. Regret that it raised hopes that served only to inflict still more pain. But it was at best a half chance and an exceptional one. There isn't any more options open. Certainly not the one of blank refusal ..... And anyway .....”

She looked at him solemnly

“.... And anyway you might find you didn't want to, couldn't, stop taking them.”

“Couldn't? Might not want to? What do you mean.”

Helen Vanbrugh looked at her watch.

“What do I mean? Why that perhaps it has already gone too far. You must realise it yourself.” She seemed weary suddenly. “In am sorry Sophie dear, but I am now running very late, as are you. Dr. Walters awaits. Give her my apologies for delaying you.”

She hesitated, indecisive.

“And ask her about the hormones. She is far better qualified than I to explain. I really know so little about the details ......”

Her voice faded and she stood up indicating that the chat was over.

“I am truly sorry that it didn't work out Sophie dear. What we had planned. I hope that you will in time understand and find it in your heart to forgive my cowardice in not telling you earlier.”

And at the door again she paused, her hand laid lightly on David's arm.

“So sorry. Please remember. I am always here. For you. In spite of everything.”

But David had no words to give her. He turned his back on her and set off down the corridor towards the Medical Centre, his senses seemingly put on hold. Feeling nothing. Just an emptiness inside.

The welcome by Dr. Walters had warmth enough to dispel the blackest mood. It merely deepened David's. He didn't need to explain the cause of his visit. Dr. Walters clearly already knew. Had been expecting it, anticipating it and was now fully prepared to rejoice over it. She examined his breasts and the area around them carefully, her fingers pressing here and there as she made little clucking noised indicating satisfaction. When the probing and pushing were over she leant back and smiled her pleasure at him, her apple cheeks beaming her delight.

“They're coming along just fine Sophie dear. Now they have started we can expect a fairly rapid progression. So very exciting isn't it? One of the most satisfying aspects of my job is to see you girls blossom so.”

David's failure to confirm his own delight at the development that was transforming his body seemed to pass unnoticed. Dr. Walters fairly bubbled with joy. And advice.

“We will have to find you new breast forms of course. With a concave inner shape to accommodate your new shape. Nurse Formby will find you a suitable model size. And of course we will have to be monitor them carefully to take account of their growth. And of course I am afraid that the use of adhesive will have to be limited to fairly short periods, special occasions only. We must allow them to develop naturally and for that there must be no undue pressure or drag.”

She patted the back of David's hand encouragingly.

“Don't look so serious dear. There's nothing to worry your pretty little head about about. We will keep a careful eye on them. And the new adhesive ones attach only at their perimeter allowing free movement towards the centre. So no need to concern yourself as long as you keep to our guidelines for periods of use.”

David, naked to the waist, bra-less, looked down at the nubs of nipples on his chest, already more prominent than he remembered them, surrounded by what were clearly spreading areolae, themselves already thrust outward by the beginnings of a soft swelling beneath.

Dr. Walters misinterpreted his glance

“Too soon to consider implants yet dear though. We need to see what the natural contour line is. And indeed you may not need them although .... well most girls appreciate a little extra ....”

Dr. Walters sat back in her chair, clasped her hands in front of her and regarded David benignly.

“Now are there any questions you have dear? Anything else I can do to help?”

David feared answers, was reluctant to ask questions that might provoke them. But remembered Anne's advice the night before.

“Are there any more I should know about them. The hormones .... any other effects? H

Dr. Walters looked surprised.

“Apart from breast development dear? Well yes of course. Some of which are perhaps not so immediately evident though. More weight on your hips and rear, hair growth, a softer skin ... I have a leaflet I can let you have which goes into some detail. All female attributes to make you even lovelier ....”

“No. No not that. I meant the hormones themselves. Will there be any adverse effects long term or can I stop taking them now? Can I ....”

“Stop taking them? Good lord no Sophie dear. You need to continue. Will always need to take them without a natural oestrogen production of your own dear. But there are no really harmful effects. Nothing more than some of the symptoms that women themselves would experience at ....... “

“But if I stopped .... For some reason or another ..... If I forgot say .... What would happen?

Don't worry Sophie dear. You won't forget. They are rather addictive you see. Not on their own of course. That would disqualify them from any commercial use but .... “

“Addictive!”

“Yes Sophie dear. Although strictly speaking only latently so. Although in practice .... well in practice it is a little more complicated. Although it doesn't matter. It all boils down to the same thing really. You do need to take them after all. So it makes no difference in the long run.”

David looked at him aghast.

“What do you mean? In practice? No difference in the long run?”

“Well dear although the addiction in the hormone tablets is only latent, they do become highly addictive when taken in conjunction, as you have done, are indeed doing, .... when taken in conjunction with OGTA Type 20 (a) cartridge .....”

“The bloody OGTA! The bloody cartridges! They're addictive too!”

“Only mildly so dear. For your benefit. Just to act as an aide-memoire. You may have noticed. But taken together they react with each other and move the latent addiction inherent in the hormone to a completely different level. Its quite interesting really. In the way it has little effect on the Type 20 (a) but such a drastic one on the hormone preparation. The former acts as a sort of catalyst to the latter. Although catalyst is not technically a correct description. There is a long scientific name for the phenomenon, of which this a splendid .......”

“A drastic one? A drastic addiction?”

“ Oh I am afraid so, Sophie dear, but as I say nothing you need to worry about. The Type 20 (a) cartridge effect is only slight and indeed we can wean you off that quite easily. You could do it yourself probably although it might not be a pleasant experience. Mainly a question of will power to overcome the craving and a little help with the physical withdrawal symptoms. As for the hormone tablets .... well it doesn't matter does it? You will need to take them anyway so the question is only a theoretical one.”

“But if .... if after I leave here .... if I can't get a supply for while ....What then?”

“But you can get them quite easily Sophie dear. They are generally available on prescription. The version you receive here is our very latest product destined to be released soon to the general public. What is currently available on the market will serve your addiction equally as well though. It differs from the new only in its degree of efficacy. And anyway you could always get a supply of the latest product direct from the V.M.R.I.'s Pharmaceutical Division's website. You would only have to give your name.”

“But if I couldn't .... for whatever reason.” David's voice was hardly a whisper. “If I couldn't. What then? What would happen?”

“But you would have to Sophie dear, You would need to. The alternative is not one you should contemplate. As I said, once triggered they are highly addictive. We do indeed have a course of in-house treatment available to counteract the addiction. Indeed it would be most unethical of us not to have one. But it involves rather unpleasant side effects over a considerable period of time and I certainly wouldn't recommend it.”

Dr. Walters smiled and patted David's hand reassuringly.

“But you need them anyway dear and we are here to monitor your progress and take care of you so its not an issue. Though anyone in a less fortunate position deprived, for whatever reason, of a supply of our hormones would find .... well it is not just a question of an intense craving. There would be other more serious physical complications..... No Sophie you are completely dependent on them now, with all that such a dependency entails.”

Chapter 41.

“I have spoken to Emma,"Anne said, “and she is eager to help. Well after a little persuasion anyway. She can't understand why anyone quite so pretty should want to but .... well she said she would come round later this evening and have a brain storming session with us.“

They were sitting on a small grassy knoll overlooking the river. Bramble hunted haphazardly, circling around them, trying to make sense of the new scents that invaded his questing nose. Like seeing words for the first time, knowing they are important but beyond experience.

“She said that we should start by making a list of the obstacles, reduce them to individual problems, and then seek for individual answers. So I thought there is the wall, and the river, the ha-ha, and ....”

“.... the gate house,” finished David. Because he felt he ought to contribute. They were doing it for him. “And all reinforced by the perimeter cable which I can't cross. Or which if I try to will disable me. Painfully.”

“To which we have been told you can't approach nearer than 10 feet, perhaps less,” corrected Anne. “It may not be the same thing. Emma said we had to examine facts not conclusions.”

David dragged his mind back from hormone addiction.

“Yes,” he said, “she's right. It had occurred to me. I mentioned it last night. When I was in the Sports Centre I had an idea. I could use a vaulting pole. Only ....”

“I didn't know you knew how. Could you really clear the wall with one? Don't you need a proper run up and a firm base to ....?”

“I have no idea how to pole vault. I have never tried. But I wasn't thinking about the wall but the ha-ha. If the perimeter cable is laid at the bottom and I could use the pole to swing over it .....”

“.....you would clear the cable by more than ten feet .... Yes!” It was Anne's turn to finish a thought.

“But how would I get the pole there? The ha-ha is plain view of the house. I can hardly pass the pole off as the latest fashion accessory, something every with-it girl must have!. And I don't think they come apart like fishing rods. And people will see me do it. Unless I try at night and that will make it even more difficult. And I have no real idea it I could do it. And I can hardly practice. I would have only one attempt and .... It's not really feasible. It was just a thought.“

“No Sophie dear. It is more than that. A vaulting pole is a way of crossing the ha-ha. And of clearing the cable. Maybe we can think round the other problems. It's a start. It proves it is not impossible. There must be other ways over or under or around the other obstacles. And when we have defined them, we will surely be able to select one that is feasible.”

“But Anne, even if one is .... even if I could. Then what about the addiction? I will still need hormones. I will still grow breasts, become more feminine. I will....”

“.... you will be free Sophie dear. With other options. Other possibilities. More possibilities than if you were dead. Remember, let's take one problem at a time. The wall, the river, the ha-ha, and the gate house to start with.”

And so they did. Together they examined as minutely as they could the physical characteristics of their surroundings, probing for weaknesses in the security of Helgarren Estate.

“As seen from the inside.” as Anne said. Because if security had been designed to counter industrial espionage and intruders coming in rather than inmates trying to get out, then there might be makeshift compromises involved.

And if at the end they were no nearer to finding a solution they did have a much clearer grasp of the problem. And also a feeling that, if it were not exactly optimism, at least had the semblance of a distant echo of hope. Although why this should be was not exactly clear to either. Perhaps for David it was the concentration involved in tackling a tangible, practical, situation and thereby becoming intellectually divorced, albeit only temporarily, from a world revolving around his concerns of incipient femininity.

Traces of it even survived the opening of the bank's letter, forgotten in the turmoil of the previous evening.

It stated that, acting on the instructions of, and the evidence provided by, her solicitors Haughton and Humphries, they had pleasure in confirming the change of her account name to Ms. Sophie Felicity Jackson in accordance with her new status, and trusted that they would have the pleasure of continuing to serve her. They took advantage of this opportunity to enclose her new charge and credit cards made out to correspond to her new identity and begged to inform her that her new pin number would be forwarded to her under separate cover.

True to their word, and as if determined to establish new levels of efficiency to mark the occasion, such had arrived by the day's post.

Accompanying it was another official looking envelope, although brown and cheaper in appearance denoting its provenance from a government department. It was from the DVLA and it contained a new Driving Licence. Made out in the name of Sophie Felicity Jackson. It, rather sniffily, announced the cancellation of a previous one made out in the name David Victor Jackson, which had apparently been returned to the DVLA by Haughton and Humphries, Solicitors, who had additionally provided the requisite certified copy of the Gender Recognition Certificate and supporting documentation enabling this action to be taken in compliance with the relevant Road Traffic Act.

“Why did they bother?” David asked Anne as they walked together across to the restaurant for dinner.

She shrugged. “Maybe it's a legal requirement ... if you have a licence and your status changes ... Don't ask me. I haven't got one. Where I was brought up people didn't usually bother to pass a test before they stole a car.”

“I've got one. Or at least I did. It may still be in it's garage.”

“Maybe they don't know about it though?”
“They will do. If they have access to my driving licence and bank details they will have found its registration documentation and insurance ..... I think Helen once told me that everything was taken care of, all insurances renewed etc. So they will know all right.”

“It could be useful though.”

“I don't see how. If I use the new licence I shall have to do so as a girl. If I did get out that is.”

“At least you recognise the existence of an 'if' now.” Anne said.

They shared a table with two of the other girls from their intake, Marie-Hélá¨n and Lisa, so further exploration of that particular conversational theme was lost. Not that there was any lack of animation or excitement. At least as regards two, three even, of the diners. Breasts, their arrival, development, possible enhancement, advantages accruing, sensations emanating, effect on boyfriends real and imaginary, formed an inexhaustible source of speculation, experience, anecdote and fancy.

It brought David back to grim reality. More and more conscious of his own breasts which, newly re-awakened to his awareness, delicately made their presence felt with every movement of his body. He caught Anne's admonishing glances and desperately tried to join in the chatter, exchanging experiences ....'on first discovering'.... etc., lest any lack of enthusiasm be remarked upon.

“Just in time”, Marie-Hélá¨n exclaimed, “for our preferment.”

“Preferment?”

“Yes Anne, preferment. With the new intake arriving this weekend we shall no longer be new-girls-on-the-block. And it wouldn't be right and proper to be senior girls without our own boobs would it?”

“A new intake?”

“Just so Sophie”, said Lisa.”There's a notice about it on the board. Another six girls arriving. 'Novitiates' they call them. Did you know they called us that? I didn't. Makes us sound dreadfully nun-like and pious! So very untrue!”

And they all giggled. Three of them in genuine amusement.

“Anyway we will be able to be as sinful and un-nun-like as we wish when we are seniors. In fact I think it is one of the qualifications for being one from what the others tell me.”

“Will they allow us out?” Anne asked thoughtfully “I remember Dr. Pinecoffin saying, when we arrived, something about the seniors being allowed out on special occasions.....”

“Oh I think you have got to have a track record of being very naughty indeed before they allow that .... Very senior. And very naughty indeed.....”

“What a terrible one track mind you have Lisa! Doubtless you will be the first to qualify! But I think you are right Anne. I know seniors do go out sometimes but only when they are very senior and always accompanied. At first anyway. And not until they are very certain ....”

“Very certain about what Marie-Hélá¨n?”

“Why very certain that, when left to our own devices, we are truly very capable of being naughty Sophie dear!”

There was a fresh dissolving into girlish merriment. So much so that those seated at neighbouring tables could not help smiling to themselves, so infectious was the sound.

“Another possibility,”said Anne, as she and David walked back.

“No. By then it will be too late. Before they let me out I will be Sophie. Irredeemably so. Christ! Probably as naughty as the rest of you. Unless it's in a coffin.”

“ Sophie don't. You promised not to think like that until ....”

“I am just bearing it in mind Anne.... as I must.”

A light drizzle was beginning to fall as they scurried past the fountain and across the little square to the adjacent front doors.

“It's my turn”, said David.

“Next time Sophie dear. I told Emma to come here, and I have already prepared some nibbles and things for when our brains need nourishment.”

And indeed Emma arrived whilst Anne still had her key in the lock.

With cries of delight and much air kissing the three made their way into the little cosy sitting room. Emma sank into the sofa, David chose an armchair, whilst Anne fussed around pouring drinks. Plymouth gin and tonic for David. Campari and soda for Emma, and a schooner of dry amontillado for herself.

Emma was brought up to date with the result of the afternoon's deliberations on escape possibilities.

“So we don't think it's impossible”, Anne said. “We just haven't come up with a scheme that seems workable. The cable is the problem. Protected by it the wall cannot be climbed over, tunnelled under, or broken through. One could not get close enough. The river in parts is fordable and in itself not a serious barrier. But the cable in the bank rules it out also. The ha-ha is not impossible in that it could be vaulted if we were sure that the cable indeed runs in it and not on the bank itself. But how to cross it without being seen is another problem.”

“And the gate house?”

“We don't know Emma. I seem to recall Dr. Walters telling me that the gate house was unaffected. But I am not sure. I was pretty much in a state of shock at the time. And Anne can't remember either. We thought maybe you could find out?”
“Yes. That shouldn't be difficult.”

“But even if it is unaffected, it is manned. Nobody passes through without authorisation. The main gates are locked between 11.00 p.m. and 6 a.m. And the postern is under control of the night guard.”

“Guards are human Sophie. And The Venumar Foundation is genuinely concerned about industrial espionage. Your programme is really only an offshoot of what happens here. I think that the guards are more concerned about checking who comes in than who goes out. They may have been told to do both but, as I say, they are human, and human means fallible. As far as I know none of the other girls have tried to sneak out, so they why should they expect it?”

“But Sophie needs more than that Emma. More than the possibility that she will be allowed through. She needs, at the very least, a strong probability. She won't have another chance.”

There was silence as all three considered the consequences of it going wrong. Of her being discovered.

“I will check first whether the cable runs through the gateway itself. Even if it does, there must be provision for that section of it to be turned off when girls are authorised to go out. As we know they are. I will try to check that as well, although it may take time. I shall have to be discrete.”

“In the meantime”, said Anne, “we can add it to the ha-ha as a possibility.”

“We can add the river too”, said Emma suddenly. “And even the wall at a pinch. It's the cable that is the problem and, whilst we can't do physically anything about that, we might be....”

“.... be able to cut off the electricity supply to it.” Anne finished for her, bright eyed with excitement, sitting bolt upright. “There must be a control switch or a fuse box or.... if only we could find were it is?”

David who had half risen from his chair, subsided slowly back into it. “No.” he said. “Such a switch would be located on the circuit. I would not be able to get near it. The same distance conditions would apply.”

He looked at Emma. “And I couldn't allow you to do it Emma. The consequences for you would be ..... if found out .... would be incalculable. Don't even think about it. I couldn't live with that.”

Emma smiled at him. “I make my own decisions dear. But I take your point. For the moment anyway. Although they would have to find out first. But for now let us work on what we have. Clear up the uncertainties. Think on what we have said. We have enough to occupy ourselves with for a couple of days.”

She turned and grinned at Anne, twirling her empty glass in her fingers.

“In the meantime a girl could die of thirst.”She winked openly at David. “If our hostess would pander to my insatiable requirement for alcohol I would volunteer two snippets of news.”

Anne levered herself out off her chair, her own glass in her hand. “I just didn't want to encourage you in your excesses darling, especially as Grace de Messembry expressly asked me not to, but since you are determined to transgress, I suppose the rules of hospitality leave me with no choice.

She busied herself with glasses and the contents of bottles. “I suppose you expect Sophie and I keep you company in your iniquity dear? Intend to drag us down with you?”

“Absolutely. I insist,” said Emma. “One of the attractions of going to Hell, apart from enjoying the journey itself, is that one meets all one's friends there.”

“Very well then Emma dear, I suppose good manners leave us no option but to sip some innocuous beverage also, purely to keep you company. Will tonic 'au nature' suffice for you Sophie dear?”

“It sounds too delightful Anne darling, but as quinine straight gives me such frightful headaches, if you could possibly dilute it a little ....?”

“Dear Sophie, of course. May I suggest a healthy measure of Plymouth gin would answer?”

They all laughed. And David knew that he would miss them dreadfully if he did escape, that it was moments such as these that had kept him sane. Enabled him to cling, however precariously, to his own identity. Tried to ignore the paradox that he enjoyed them through another identity.

Glasses refreshed they waited. Three girls content in each other's company. Three girls? Outwardly anyway. Outwardly?

“Your snippets of news Emma?” Anne prompted.

Emma sat back in the sofa and sipped her Campari, savouring its bitterness, drawing out the moment until their attention was assured.

“Well first”, she said, “there is the matter of a visit from the Minister of Science and Technology the weekend after next to open the new Stem Centre Research laboratory. Although truth to tell, it has already been operational for ten months and anyway isn't really new, just refurbished with the latest gear.”

“We must be charitable though. After all he is a politician and they have so much on their plates at the moment. Busy all the live long day with wars to fight, illegal immigrants to hunt down, excuses to be made, errors to conceal, misdemeanours to cover up. The poor darlings can scarce find the time to fart, let alone venture out of their London ivory towers to visit poor little us.”

“Emma, you're not serious surely? A government Minister here? But what about us? Aren't they worried that this operation might be discovered?”

“David don't be so self-centred. Helgarren doesn't resolve round us. It has an international reputation as a centre of excellence for, amongst numerous other specialities, research into genetics and stem cells. The Minister will be here in acknowledgement of that reputation and of the V.M.R.I.'s contribution to export earnings, etc., etc., or so the citation goes.”

Emma winked at Anne. “Try not to be too scandalised Sophie dear, but it is an open secret that that Grace de Messembry has again refused a DBE that an eager government is keen to bestow on her in recognition of all this. It is said that she fears it might link her too closely to one party when she has always striven to be apolitical. As she says, one never knows who will win the next election.”

Anne giggled “So we have to thank her desire for impartiality so as to maximise future opportunities for not having to address her as Dame Grace.”

“Exactly. Grace de Messembry is adept at remaining in the shadows. And as for discovery Sophie, if you took the trouble to examine the folder that you were given on arrival you would see that the Transgender Research Project does indeed figure in the list of activities here at Helgarren Hall, albeit not in the 'Headline' category.

“I bet it's buried so deep that it would be easier to find starting from Australia than from here.”

“Not at all Sophie. And I offer as proof the fact that the Minister is, or so Laura tells me, scheduled to meet some of your sisters.”

David looked at her aghast.

“No .... Surely?”

“Yes, Surely Sophie dear. Not you, nor Anne, but two or three of the very senior girls who are finished and a credit to themselves and to the project.... modified to complete specification as it were..... voluntarily of course.”

“But why? Why on earth does a Minister want .... “

“Perhaps because they are involved in the funding. Laura mentioned it yesterday. A rumour she had heard that the Transgender project is government funded.”

“Christ!”

“I tried to check with a friend who works in the Accounts Department and well .... It is complex. It looks perfectly straightforward at first sight. The funding is direct from the Biology Division of the V.M.R.I., but .... but there is no accountability. The thread goes back from there to the Institute itself and then fragments into nominal accounts that link back to the Venumar Foundation. And some of these these links have been used on other occasions as a vehicle for the receipt of such funding.”

“I don't follow it. Don't begin to understand it.”

“You're not supposed to Anne. I don't either and so have probably got it wrong anyway. The accountant who tried to explain it was herself confused. It's labyrinthine and designed to remain so. Basically though the project is financed by monies filtered through Grace de Messembry's private holding company and such monies may well originate, totally or partially, from government, or indeed governments.”

“Governments?”

“Quite probably governments. The variety of sources, of threads, suggest different donor currencies. But we don't really know.”

David's mind whirled in ever expanding, ever decreasing, circles. He drank the rest of his gin without tasting it. Anne got up and poured replenishments.

“But they can't condone what happens? What happened to me in Reception and later in the Holding Wing .... and .... and here? For Christ's sake they can't condone what happens in Rehabilitation!”

“Of course they can't Sophie dear, or rather couldn't if they knew about it.”

“But Emma they must know. If they are funding it. They can't believe we are all volunteers .... there wouldn't be any point ....”

“ They can believe exactly what they want to believe dear. 'Where the apple reddens never pry, lest we lose out Edens, Eve and I ....' is the favourite quotation of politicians and their advisers. They bring the art of not knowing to new levels of perfection.”

“But Emma ....”

“No Sophie dear, it doesn't matter,” Anne interrupted. “It's like the 'bare branches'. None of it really matters in the here and now. What does matter is getting you out of here. Concentrate on that and that alone.”

“But it puts it on a different plane. If I get out ....”

“A bridge to cross later. What my news really was, and was is more relevant to you Sophie, is that on that evening will be held a dance. For everyone. Although I suppose the Minister will be whisked back to London by helicopter and already safely tucked up in bed with his hot water bottle and rent boy by the time it gets under way.”

“Relevant to me Emma?”

“It will be a big dance. Properly speaking a fully fledged ball with a band, bare shoulders, and beaux. On the 30th. September so we have exactly ten days to prepare. Ten days to find exactly the right gown and the right partner. Important for you more than anyone Sophie because you must be seen to be so excited and committed that no-one could be in any doubt that you relish this chance to parade your new boobs in the lowest off-the-shoulder creation available, lest ....”

“... lest they suspect that you have also ten days to prepare for not being there.” finished Anne excitedly.

“Clever girl! Don't you see Sophie it is an ideal opportunity? Getting out is one thing but you will desperately need time to get as far away as possible. Being found a couple of hundred yards away and then dragged back in chains would be a poor reward for all the thought and effort Anne and I are putting into this.”

“And with an influx of people arriving, and eventually departing, the band, caterers, wives, partners, florists, you name it, security arrangements will be in turmoil.” Said Anne. “And afterwards ....”

“.....And afterwards when everyone is pursuing their individual goals of romance, lust, and drink no-one will be wondering where Sophie is and afterwards .....”

“And afterwards.” Anne took up the baton again. “Nursing hangovers and trying desperately to remember what they had done, and with whom, and whether whoever it was could themselves remember with any greater accuracy, no-one is going to have your whereabouts as a priority. Not until lunchtime at the very earliest.”

So we have a deadline,” said Emma. “September 30th. In 10 days time. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Anne.

“Agreed,” said David. But his mind was preoccupied with speculation on the possibility of government involvement. If true how much did they know of the reality of what was happening, of what had happened, to the girls in the transgender project? Whatever the truth was they would certainly not want to hear it. Would not allow it to be heard. Escape in ten days time seemed a pipe dream. The ball would not take away the perimeter cable nor cut the electricity supply. The security guards would not be tripping the light fantastic. More likely they would be on heightened alert because of it.

“And your other snippet?”

Anne's voice was heard but the words passed by him. He felt a great gratitude towards them both. Feared that killing himself would seem to them ungracious, a slap in the face even. Feared that perhaps they liked him too much and would suffer too much by his death. Wished in a way that they hadn't complicated his decision, making him feel guilty.

Even if he did escape they would lose him. In a way the best outcome for them would be to keep alive in him the hope of freedom, the hope of regaining himself, his masculinity. A hope that would give him solace right up to the moment when he finally faded through the looking glass to emerge on the other side as Sophie. A Sophie that they would seamlessly welcome and embrace, as she herself would then welcome and embrace her future.

And he knew that the thought was unworthy. That they both truly wanted for him to be himself as he would himself define it. Whether feasible or not, they subscribed to this ambition and would do all that they could to help him realise it. Even if it meant losing him. Even if he himself was losing faith in it.

“But we know that already, we were talking about it in the restaurant this evening. About them being called 'novitiates'. We hadn't realise we were quite so nun-like.”

David dragged himself out of his reverie and surfaced slowly back to an awareness of the ongoing conversation.

“Yes Anne but did you know that Coralie will be in the intake?”

“Coralie? But of course .... she must be due..... How is she?” There was concern in Anne's voice.

“It is difficult to say. Both Laura and I think that perhaps she is not ready to come into the wider community here but.... but what else can we do with her. She can't stay at the Holding Wing indefinitely.”

“What do you mean? 'Not ready'”

Emma sighed. “Most of the time she is fine. Fully embracing her femininity. Enthusiastically so. Perhaps too enthusiastically so. “ Here she glanced at David. “But it all seems so very artificial and ....”

She paused, worry creasing her brow.

“... and sometimes she relapses into a private reverie. Unreachable in her own world. Catatonia is perhaps too strong a description .... but it is worrying.”

“Poor girl. We will make a special effort with her, won't we Sophie dear. It is the least we can do.”

“Yes Anne we will. I owe her that. I in particular owe her that.”

And again he heard, echoing through the corridors of his memory, the dying fall of the cry 'My name is Martin'. Heard in its simple four words all the desperation and bewilderment of his own torment. And was ashamed, feeling his own cowardice at that time.

David looked at Emma and Anne. “I owe her in particular. I have always felt that I could have done more. That I did what they expected of me to bring her into line. I should have made more common cause with her, with him, then. If I had been braver then, perhaps she might have escaped Rehabilitation, perhaps she might ....”

“Too many perhaps's Sophie darling.” said Anne. “It happened as it happened. And it wasn't your fault. Everyone of us can always say in retrospect 'I could have done more' about practically every calamity but it doesn't help.”

Emma nodded in agreement. ”Coralie snapped and tried to knife Grace de Messembry. For that she was sent to Rehabilitation. It wasn't your fault Sophie.”

“I suppose not Emma, but ...” And David thought of the knife and how he had left it there.

“Do you sometimes wonder what would have happened if she had .... Regret perhaps that you managed to stop her?”

David smiled the smile of one who had already trod that mental path. “No Emma, that at least is straightforward. Firstly because the death of Grace de Messembry wouldn't have made any difference. Multi-national corporations don't close down profitable ventures because of the death of one person, albeit if that person be the instigator and driving force. The project would have rumbled on. Ministers still want to visit. It would just have been faceless. Although perhaps not even that. Just another face.”

“And secondly?”

“And secondly Anne, because killing people is wrong. I know why Coralie tried. And I might have done so too I suppose. An opportunity allied to frustration, hate, despair. Something snaps. And even if it doesn't, it's tempting. But I'm glad Coralie didn't succeed for her sake. And glad too the opportunity did not come my way, for my sake. For it would have diminished me and .... and ....”

David's voice faded away. He sat there staring, unseeing.

The two girls both rose and crouched down by his chair, arms outstretched to comfort by their touch.

“And .... and I have already been too much diminished.”

They hugged him close. Their perfumed softness wrapping him in sympathy.

“Ten days,” said Emma. “Ten days and then it will be different.”

But later as David sat at his dressing table, carefully stroking night moisturising cream onto his face in the patterns instilled in him by Mrs. Townsend, 'ten days' seemed more and more just an empty phrase. A slogan to comfort, to buffer him against reality. He had removed the bra holding his new breast forms, but had replaced the straps of his slip so that he could no longer see the swellings of his breasts, his now prominent nipples surrounded by their spreading areolae. Out of sight out of mind. Only of course they weren't. The cups of the slip were manifestly not quite empty, the silken material betraying the nipples' contours, contours that were themselves made more prominent by the soft mounds from which they rose. And at every movement of his arms, of his body the gentle friction of the material brought home to him their new-found sensitivity.

And they were only at their beginning. Ten days would perhaps not make much difference, even if Simon had said that the new hormone preparations had explosive results once started, but what of the days, the weeks after that? Even if free, could he stop their growth or would he be slavishly bound by addiction to ingest the hormones that ensured the femininity of their curves? Of his curves. Of his other curves on hips and bottom. In themselves less sensational perhaps but softly complementing his transformation.

Perhaps he should stop now? Not take any more? Test out the severity of the addiction. But they would surely know. He was being monitored. And there would be physical symptoms surely? And mental ones too? And if they knew at best he would have no further choice, and at worst ....? Don't even think about it..

David shuddered and the silken fabric of the slip moved seductively over his nipples. And the nipples themselves, as if pleased by the attention showed to them, responded to the caress.

And the last thing he wanted in the next ten days was to have the complication of a fight against withdrawal symptoms.

Not that it made any difference really. It was all so unrealistic. The chances of escape were negligible. And even if he did get away, where would he go? And as what? As a man or as a woman? His bank account, his credit cards, his driving licence, even his official identity was now female. Damn it he looked more female than male. If he could still hide his nascent tits and hack off his hair, his extravagantly arched eyebrows would still betray him. His way of walking, all his gestures, were feminine now. Engrained in him. Moreover he knew that he himself, at his very core, was now invaded by thoughts of femininity they had implanted there. Consciously and sub consciously. Until he himself, deep down, no longer knew.... could no longer be sure.....

David felt desperately tired. Longed for the sleep that would bring his mind relief from this ever circling questioning. A night's respite from the unanswerable questions and worries that plagued his waking thoughts. To sink into the warm relaxing world of dreams, full, as they always were these nights, of that gentle, floating, comforting, femininity in which he could finally find peace.

But first, before he could pass through that gateway, before he could find the solace sleep brought, there was one final waking chore to perform.

He opened the drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe and, drawing out his Oral Gratification Training Aid, he carefully inserted a new cartridge into its base.....

Notes:

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