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PANTIED - four days for a life change, by - Nicci Knox Chapter I Saturday, Early - an enforced transformation. I awoke to the vision of my wife undertaking some strange task that involved bending and stretching, and what a vision! The early morning sun, streaming in through the netted windows, caught the auburn cascade of her hair, echoing the glitter as it touched the splendid red profusion of her pubic bush and the pink freshness of her somewhat freckled body. Her firm high breasts, tapered thighs, elegant legs and beautifully rounded buttocks lifted and settled in an invitingly provocative manner as her naked body continued her task. My cock began to pulse and stir in anticipation of another excursion into the wet warm velvet of the exciting slit between her thighs. Suddenly, as my vision focused on the task she was undertaking, rather than on her body, I realised what it was she was doing - at least, I thought I knew but my brain couldn't, or wouldn't, take it in. She appeared to be systematically removing all my clothes . oops! Sorry, Andrea and Sharonn . clothes from the draws that held them, and depositing them in black plastic 'bin bags'! "What are you doing?" I asked with some urgency and exasperation, as I raised myself onto one elbow. "Hhh! After yesterday evening, I'm surprised you've got the gall to ask! Or, that you even need to guess!" Came her rejoinder, as she looked across her shoulder contemptuously. "Last . last evening," I stuttered, already groaning inside at the recollection. "What . what's yesterday evening got to do with it?" I added, weakly. "Last evening hhh!" Again her voice registered contempt, if not loathing, "I had to wait until that odious man literally had his hands on my bum before you could bring yourself to intervene! Then what happened? He looks as though he's going to smack you one, and you back off! You're not a man, you're a wimp! I had to smack his face for him, myself, defending my own and your honour! Then, when we got home, you couldn't raise a decent erection, not until I sucked you up, so that I could get a decent screw! Although 'decent screw' is an exaggeration for what I had to put up with! As I said, you're not a man! You're a wimp! You're like a little frightened girl! Like a little frightened virgin bride on her first night! Well! I've decided, if you're going to act like a girl all the time, you can jolly well dress like one as well! Your clothes are headed for the recycling bank, my son, and your going to dress as suits your nature!" My eyes had been growing wider and wider, and my face redder and redder, as Bernice spoke. I remembered the previous evening only to well! My sister Stephanie and her business partner and lover, Diedre, had held a party at which Bernice had indeed been subjected to, first of all having her breasts fondled by the man she was dancing with, admittedly outside of her dress, but sufficiently ardently for him to no doubt discover that she wasn't wearing a bra'. And she'd been quite openly flirting with him it has to be said, teasing him and only remonstrating in the mildest tones as his hands wandered around her body. Then, whilst they'd continued dancing with her still laughing into his shoulder, he managed to drag the back of her skirt up to waist level demonstrating to all and sundry that, as so often on these occasions, my wife wasn't wearing any knickers either, enabling him to grab the cheeks of her buttocks - one in each hand. My intervention had been only to brief, as she'd pointed out. Even when Bernice had slapped his face herself, he'd only laughed and gone his way smirking, having drawn her behaviour and exposed her immodesty to the room. But he was twice my size! And Bernice had kind of asked for it. It was true too that she'd had to fellate me to get me hard enough to make love, when we got home. But I was especially hurt by her dismissal of our sex! I didn't remember it as anything less than fantastic! With Bernice, it always was! She saw to that! Now I was faced with goodness knows what! Did she really expect me to dress like a woman? Surely not! Seven years of submission to her authority, her domination, had programmed me to accept that if she decided I had to, I would certainly end up doing so. "But . but . but I can't possibly dress as a woman!" I wailed, "you can't possibly mean that! You can't possibly make me do that! What about work? What about our neighbours? What about our friends? What will they all think? What will they all say?" "To answer your questions in order," my wife replied, in a pseudo patient manner, " you can. And you will. I do mean it. I can do it. I'll be explaining to Stephie and Diedre tomorrow when they come to lunch. As for the rest, they'll either have to accept my explanation or cross us off their lists of acquaintance. It's up to them. I don't care either way. Just remember, what you think or say is immaterial. Now, for goodness sake, go and have a shower and come back here so that I can get you properly dressed for your initiation." I suppose that I could have resisted. Even then I could have asserted my own independence. Had I done so, who knows? But I didn't. As I've said, five years of marriage and the two years before them, had conditioned me to bow to my wife's domination. With my heart in my mouth and a sick dread feeling churning my stomach, I trailed off to the bathroom to shower, then meekly return to discover what fate, in the shape of my wife, had in store for me. Back in our bedroom my wife was surveying a collection of her own clothes, she had laid out on the now remade bed, with narrowed eyes. "Hmm! The trouble is you're such a scrawny little thing," she said, in an almost conversational manner, as though the matter had now been settled - as indeed it was, I couldn't see anyway out! - and we were now engaged in some kind of academic exercise, "it's difficult to imagine what you'll look like. My clothes will all be a bit on the big side, but they'll have to do until we can get you something better. We'll start you off with these." 'These' proved to be a set of her underwear - matching lacy, pale lemon, satin panties, bra', suspender-belt ['garter-belt'- west of the Atlantic], short lacy skirted chemise and nylon stockings - with a frill fronted lemon satin blouse, a very short straight slim mid-tan skirt and matching two inch court shoes. "Get these on!" Bernice ordered. Then "tut-tutted," audibly as I struggled to fasten first the suspender belt, then the bra', around myself. "For goodness sake!" She muttered as she bade me "stand still! You men are only to quick to learn to how to unfasten a bra' when a girl's wearing one, but you're bloody useless at doing it up again, especially when you're wearing it and the catch is behind you. Well, you're going to have to learn how to do it now! And that jolly quickly, too! This is the first and only time I'm doing this for you!" So saying she deftly fixed and adjusted both of them around me. "There!" She added, as she regarded me critically after she'd done her best, "you certainly are a wimp! These things are far to big for you! I'll have to reduce the suspender straps to their shortest just so you can wear the stockings!" And so it proved. Her stockings, that were purchased to suit her superb legs were far to long for me. She had to reduce the suspender straps to the minimum and, even then, the stocking tops were almost cutting into my crotch. My misery continued. I'd half hoped that, having made her point, Bernice would repent and allow me to dress in my own clothes which, after all, we hadn't yet dispensed with. But no, after padding out the bra' cups with cotton wool, Bernice lifted the delicate satin chemise off the bed and slipped it over my head as I resignedly lifted my arms to allow her to do so. When it finally settled, it barely hung below the crease between my buttocks and the back of my thighs. I felt it dragging against my flanks, my buttocks and the top part of my masculinity as it clung to me, leaving most of my cock hanging exposed below the short, lacy hem. Inevitably - despite myself, my natural resistance to what was being imposed upon me, and my dread at the thought of what was to follow - my seemingly electrically charged nerve ends reacted strongly and severely. My cock began to thrust and thicken as my arousal increased, pushing outwards strongly under the minimal lacy hem of the chemise, wearing it like a lace fringe across the rapidly thickening and stiffening shaft. My wife couldn't but help but notice! "Ha!" She snorted, almost derisively, "I though as much! Your little 'cocky's' quite enjoying this isn't it? I wonder whether your protests are as honest as you make out? You're getting quite excited at the thought of being dressed like the girl you are really, aren't you?" I wasn't! I was becoming more and more petrified at the thought of what was happening to me, and what was going to happen, but my cock wasn't about to give up responding to the almost magical touch of the fabric that now draped over it, clung to it. There was no point in my saying so, though. Or trying to explain. The time for protest was long past. Whatever happened now, I knew I would have to accept. I was incapable of resistance. Incapable of imposing my own will in opposition to my wife. After regarding me critically for a moment or two, Bernice handed me first the blouse then the skirt and again assisted me to fasten them properly around myself. The final transformation was startling. My image, in the dressing table mirror and the tall pier glass my wife used to assist her own dressing, was that of a slender, rather delicate and definitely confused and worried young woman, dressed in a somewhat fussy blouse and a skirt that reached only about midway between her crotch and her knees. On my wife the skirt would have barely covered her stocking tops. On me of course, being about two-and-a-half inches shorter than she, it was somewhat more modest. Besides, Bernice's stockings too were over long for my legs. Something still worried me. My wife's delicate, lacy satin panties still lay on the bed. I looked at them, partly in anticipation, partly in dread, partly in puzzlement. Presumably my wife was about to hand them to me and instruct me to put them on. Bernice saw the direction of my eyes and read the expression on my face. "Oho!" She said, a malicious little smile on her face, "looking forward to putting your pretty little panties on, then? Like the thought of them clinging to your little cocky, do you? Not yet! No panties for you, yet! First you've got to learn to walk, and sit, and move in company like the little girl you are - that you're about to become - without showing to much leg. The best way to learn that fast, is to go out without any knickers on! You'll jolly soon learn how to keep you legs together that way. How to ensure you don't let any one see up your skirt. And, in the process, you'll learn what it's like for us girls, when we have to go out for the evening without our knickers - just to please you men. To give you men a thrill. So you can think about our poor little naked, unprotected quims under our skirts!" As I've already intimated my wife was .. is quite fond of being knickerless when she goes out for the evening. But it's certainly not to please me! As in everything, she does it to please herself, to give herself a thrill, liking it all the better if somehow, as on the previous evening, those around could be appraised of the fact too! Now I was appalled! My wife had me dressed as a girl, as a woman, in a skirt that barely covered my bum when I was standing, and would show goodness knows what when I sat down or moved, without any knickers! And, apparently, without any prospect of wearing any knickers for the immediate future! Dressed to my wife's satisfaction at last, including wearing the high heeled shoes and being equipped with a frilly lemon coloured apron, I was sent downstairs to prepare our breakfast. That, in itself, wasn't to unusual. I often prepared breakfast. But it was the first time I'd ever done so dressed in any of my wife's clothes, wearing stockings and suspenders, a padded out bra', an apron and high heeled shoes, with a skirt that barely reached my mid-thighs - and without any knickers! Saturday, Later - exposure and humiliation. Bernice continued the torture by leading me out to the car, after breakfast, making me carry out the three bin bags that now held almost all of my clothes and place them in the restricted boot [or 'trunk', if you prefer!] of her car. Still 'sans- knickers' I sat in the passenger seat, my face scarlet, feeling totally vulnerable, and sure that all our neighbours and everyone we passed had seen what I was required to do, how I was now dressed, and was aware of my predicament - not only forced to go out dressed in my wife's clothes - but naked under my short skirt, into the bargain. I'd dreaded the thought of dressing as a woman, as soon as Bernice told me that's what she had planned for me. And now here I was, almost in tears, sick with fright and humiliation, on the verge of begging my wife to allow me to wear a pair of her panties, just to try to preserve some kind of dignity! When she pulled up in the edge of one of the Supermarket car-parks, opposite the recycling banks, and sat waiting, obviously for me to pitch the bags into the Salvation Army clothing bank, I rebelled. A short lived rebellion, it's true. But a rebellion never- the- less. "I ca . ca . can't!" I stuttered, my heart and my stomach both in my mouth. "You can't make me! I can't step out of this car in front of all those people, like this!" 'This car' is a low slung open sports car, my wife's ancient much prized and beautifully appointed MGB, that almost inevitably would lead to my displaying far to much leg - with views up to my absent knickers. 'All these people' were the assembled shoppers, getting in and out of their cars, loading shopping, and so on. "Again," my wife said, with ice in her voice, "you both can and will! Unless you want to be abandoned here in the car-park, without any money, to find your own way home!" As I said, the rebellion was short lived! From the way the two young women parked nearest the recycling bay suddenly stopped what they were doing to stare wide eyed at me, then bent their heads together whispering and smirking and giggling, it was obvious that my efforts to prevent them seeing up my skirt as I climbed carefully out of the car, were totally unsuccessful. Scarlet faced, with a pounding heart and a churning stomach, I tried to control the panic that was sweeping through me enough to empty the bags into the clothing bin. I was only partially successful, and had to retrieve several items from the ground, to stuff them hurriedly and none to carefully into the container. It had to be the bag that contained my underwear and socks that I fumbled, of course, much to the delight of not only the two first onlookers, but also a few more who had been attracted to the scene by their obvious amusement. Almost crying, I climbed back into the car, careless now of my meagre skirt hem and what it revealed, to be greeted by my wife's smirking face. "Well, well," she said, as she re-started the car and drove slowly, very slowly, away in front of my appreciative audience, "that was obviously quite a show you gave them. You can see what I mean about the need to learn how to hide your legs if you're going to go about in skirts as short as that without any knickers. Which, believe me, you are!" She added in a totally different tone from the bantering manner in which she delivered the first part. I suppose I'd imagined that, having subjected me to that first ordeal, Bernice would now return home. Not a bit! That was only the early, mild start of my day of humiliation! She drove to the car-park behind the Victorian terrace on the edge of the city centre that housed - among a variety of small professional businesses, one or two 'commercial' hotels and some 'student land' flats - Stephie and Dierdre's Accountancy Company. Our parking facilities formed part of the car- park. "Wh . wh . what now?" I stammered out, fearfully, "Where are we going now? What are you going to make me do now?" "We're going to buy you some suitable clothes of your own!" Was my wife's terse reply. "You can see that my things won't be much good for long. You're far to scrawny for that! We'll have to get you some that fit properly. After all, Stephie and Diedre quite rightly expect their staff to present themselves in a respectable, professional manner. Just because you're going to be a girl from now on, it doesn't mean you can turn up to work looking as though you're dressed in your older sisters 'hand -me-downs'!" I let this sink in, 'buying me some suitable clothes'. Where? How? What on earth would she tell the assistants? Would I be expected to try them on? If so, where? My heart sank, my legs turned to jelly. I suddenly needed to pee - desperately. And, to cap it all, before I could climb out of the car, as carefully as possible to minimise my exposure, Tania drew up and parked a couple of spaces away, presumably also bent on a shopping expedition, giving us a cheery wave as she did so. Tania is another of my sister's employees, with Georgina, she and I make up the support staff for the two qualified accountants who own the business - as I've already said, business partners and lesbian lovers. Tina and Georgina live together, and are lovers, as well. Bernice wasn't about to let that stop her, or to await my pleasure in climbing out the car. Irritable she urged me out as she too left the car and all three of us stepped onto the tarmac at the same time. A puzzled expression crossed Tania face. "Golly," she said, looking at Bernice, "driving in I thought it was Victor sitting in the car with you. Whose this? Another sister, or a cousin perhaps?" "No!" Bernice replied, shortly, "you were quite right first time. It's Victor. After last night's little escapade I've decided that, as he acts like a girl most of the time, he'd better be one. From now on he's going to dress this way. Maybe I'll allow him and you to get used to it a bit, before he wears skirts to work. He can wear a suit over a pretty blouse and girlie undies for a few days, if necessary. I haven't talked to either Stephie or Diedre yet, but they're coming to lunch tomorrow and we can sought it out then. But soon he'll be dressing like this full time - at least for a while. A long while!" She looked hard at me when she said this. "Until he learns how to be a man again. Or rather, learns to be a man for the first time!" Tania's face turned from astonishment, to dawning understanding, to agreement, to amusement. She and Georgina had both been at the party the previous evening. "It's a good idea," she said, "he's more than a bit of a wimp. In the office as well. The Clients and the Inland Revenue people regularly 'run rings' round him. He's far more of a girl than any of the rest of us. Perhaps it'll teach him to toughen up. But why wait to send him to work in skirts? I certainly won't mind. Georgie won't either. Neither, I'm sure, will Sally." The thought of Georgie's reaction seemed to give her enormous amusement for some reason. "You can tell Stephie and Diedre that you've already spoken to me and it'll be okay with all of us." 'Sally' is the receptionist and office clerk. She also does any odd bits of typing we need, that we don't or can't do ourselves. And she's quite a 'wizz' on computer too and often has to dig either Georgie or me out of a hole - the rest of them never seem to have any difficulties! Sally wasn't at the party the previous evening. She'd had 'another engagement'. I was pretty certain my fate was sealed from that moment. I'd said 'goodbye' to my trousers, for a while at least - 'a long while', my wife had said. And I believed her! Meanwhile, I had another urgent need to attend to. I was desperate. "I'll have to go into the office for a moment," I told my wife, "I'm desperate for a wee." "Oh for goodness sake!" Was the reply. "Well okay. We can't have you peeing yourself in the shops! But hurry up! We haven't got all day!" Grabbing the spare office keys from my wife's car, I dashed inside and into the loo - an old fashioned toilet, in that Victorian building, without any urinals. Now I was presented with another dilemma. My skirt was so tight that I couldn't haul it up around my waist to free my cock, not without creasing it badly at least. After some hesitation, I unzipped it and removed it, then settled gratefully on the toilet seat my unprotected cock hanging down below the short, lacy hem of my chemise, to discharge my bladder into the bowl. It was only after I'd finished, as I carefully dried myself with toilet paper, that I realised what I'd done. I'd sat to pee, like a girl, instead of standing to discharge into the pan like a man. I didn't realise it, not quite then, but I'd just passed up my last chance to do so. Bernice was still talking to Tania in the car-park. From the way they turned and looked at me, and Tania grinned, I was pretty sure that my wife was telling her about my experiences at the recycling station and informing her that she hadn't yet let me start wearing any knickers, and that my cock and testicles were naked under my short skirt. But maybe it was just paranoia! Disconsolate, scarlet faced and with a still churning stomach, I followed the two of them out from the back of the terrace, up through the feeder road and into the High Street, all the time trying to look as casual and unconcerned as possible to deceive the people we passed, trying to accommodate my steps to my unaccustomed high heels. At the High Street Tania left us and my wife led me into the ladies clothing section of one of the departmental stores. Straight away she sought out one of the assistants, a woman of about forty, and explained - in a clear voice - that she 'intended to dress her husband as a woman for an extended experimental period, and needed some help in providing him with a suitable wardrobe', adding that, 'he'll need to be measured for size, of course'. The chosen assistant hardly blinked, and paused only momentarily, before she led us into the Brassiere and Corsetry Fitting Room, and into one of the cubicles. "I think this will be the best place to take the necessary notes." She said. Then turning to me, "I wonder if you'd mind undressing, ma . sir? I mean." Feeling as though I was in some kind of a dream, I slowly and carefully removed my skirt and blouse, then stood up, in chemise, suspender-belt, stockings, shoes and bra', totally humiliated as my cock hung below the lacy hem that barely covered my buttocks. "Come on, for goodness sake!" Bernice ordered me, "get your slip and bra' off! How can we measure you properly otherwise?" "Ta . ta . take off my slip and bra'!" I wailed, "I can't! I won't!" "Can't! Won't!" My wife responded. "If you don't! And quickly! I'm leaving here and taking your blouse and skirt with me! You can come home like that!" As before, the rebellion was extremely short lived! Totally defeated now and abjectly submitting to my fate, I stood passively - clad only in suspender-belt, stockings and high heeled shoes - as the assistant and Bernice measured me. "Thirty-four inch chest," the assistant mused, "not very big is he? Maybe a thirty- six 'A' cup, or a thirty-eight 'B' or 'C'? What do you think?" She turned to Bernice in query. "Oh! I don't think we want him getting to many grandiose ideas, do you?" Was her reply. "I think we'll settle for the thirty-six 'A'." And so the measurement went on. Five-feet-six-and-a-half, in stockinged feet, twenty-nine inch inside leg, twenty-six inch waist and thirty-four inch hips. "He's rather slim in the hips and flat in the buttocks to make a really classic girl," the assistant commented, "but if you keep him in high heels, it should push his bum out a bit. Tell me, he's not wearing any panties. Is it your intention to keep him knickerless, permanently?" I might as well've not been there! " No," my wife remarked, "only for a couple of days, or so. Until he gets used to moving about, sitting, getting in and out of cars, going upstairs, that sort of thing. Without showing off his stocking-tops and his fanny, I mean." The assistant nodded. "A wise plan," she agreed. "You'll want some knickers then? Panties, briefs, something? Along with the rest of his lingerie?" It was my wife's turn to nod, and the two of them departed leaving me stood to all intents and purposes naked - but still identifiably feminised, whist they made a selection of clothes for me. Mercifully, no-one else tried to come into the cubicle whilst they were away. Underwear! My wife, in collaboration with the assistant, decided that I would need about a dozen and a half sets. Each set comprising a bra' and suspender-belt, two pairs of panties and a slip, half slip or chemise. "I usually advise young women to include three pairs of panties with matching sets," the assistant had commented, in a matter-of-fact manner to my wife, "then, at a pinch, the bra', suspenders and slip can be pressed into service for a second day, and still allow some leeway for minor accidents with the panties, but your husband isn't so likely to be subject to such 'little accidents' as other girls, so two pairs per set should do it. Oh! And two pairs of stockings per set as well." My wife had concurred readily with the assistant, as they set out to make their selection. They'd also agreed that all sets should be in delicate lacy, satin or nylon. All highly feminine, fragile and decorative. They brought a considerable selection into the fitting room and held them up against me - to judge the effect of style and colour - and, after I'd been instructed to remove my suspender-belt and stockings and of course complied, to try on a bra' or two, a suspender-belt and pair of stockings, confirming some, rejecting others, finding and discussing alternatives and finally, once they had made their choice, they dressed me in a complete set of underwear from those they had chosen - not including the panties. I was still required to remain knickerless. Of course, despite myself, despite the repugnance that filled me at the thought of what was being imposed on me, I reacted to the feel of the delicate silkiness of the nylon half slip that enshrouded my manhood. My cock stiffened and thrust out against the fragile gossamer touch, that dragged across it. "Typical!" Bernice expostulated, "now he's enjoying it! You can see how he loves the girlie feel of his new cloths! Men! What can you do about that! Just wait 'till he gets his panties on! He'll be permanently 'on the bonk'!" "Hmm!" The assistant agreed, "there are ways, of course. You could try restraint. Buying a gaff, sort of male 'cache-sex', like a little pouch that you could feed his cock." "Cock!" My wife expostulated again, "call that a cock! You wouldn't call that a cock, if that's all you could expect when you're feeling randy! No! It's more like a little girlie clitty!" ". feed his clitty ." the assistant continued. "Little girlie clitty!" My wife insisted. ". feed his little girlie clitty into, and secure it up between his legs. But it's a little problematical. He would be able to untie it himself, might have to every time he wanted to pee. Besides, tucked away between his legs he wouldn't get the feel of his soft pretty clothes on his cock . er, clitty to remind him of what's happening to him. The other method is both more secure and has the advantage that he's constantly reminded of what he has become. Have you considered 'intimate body piercing'?" "Intimate body piercing?" My wife was curious. "I'll show you." Was the rejoinder. Quickly, the assistant unfastened and removed her slim formal 'sales uniform' skirt, then the nylon half-slip she had on underneath. Then, as my wife - and I admit myself - watched in fascination, she removed her dark blue lacy nylon panties. Sitting herself on a chair she spread her legs apart and invited my wife to examine the cleft of her sex, between her thighs. From where I stood I, too, had a good view of her shaven quim. Both of her cunt lips had been pierced in two places, tiny steel sleeper rings installed and the rings secured in pairs with two tiny steel padlocks. The assistant effectively had her cunt locked against access to every one, saving the person who had the key to the padlocks. "My partner works downstairs near the front entrance in the Ear and Body Piercing Unit," the assistant told my wife, conversationally, "she caught me one day, in bed with an old friend and former lover, who just happens to be her husband. She did this to me 'to keep me for herself', she says. And then she did the same to her husband. At least, him being a he, she couldn't do exactly this but she did something similar. She padlocked his foreskin to the front of his scrotum. Now he can't raise an erection without she releases him, but he can still pee - sitting down. As he's at home all day, my partner and my home that is, dressed as a maid, keeping house for us and doing the cooking and such, it isn't much of problem to him, and the feel of his pretty, frilly knickers on a cock that can't respond is a constant reminder to him of his new status. As your husband hasn't been circumcised it wouldn't be to much of job. Or to painful for him, I suppose." The last was an afterthought. "As a bonus, of course," she continued, turning to my wife in conversational tones, "when . if you let him screw you at any time, the ring in the underside of his . of his 'little girlie clitty' will rub nicely on the inner surface of your vagina in a highly pleasant sensation. Believe me, we do let 'Geraldine' service us occasionally, and I can confirm that it's so!" I knew! I knew my wife would immediately agree. I could feel my cock shrivel up at the thought, and my testicles throb and itch, in their sac. "Why don't you take your husband down there, ask for Dora and say Ella sent you - and why. She'll sort him out. Whilst you're gone, if you go, I could pick out some dresses and skirts and blouses for you to approve. Oh! And three or four pairs of breast forms, and a selection of extra stockings. You could leave the rest of his underwear here. It'd help me in 'the match', And," again, as an afterthought, as she suddenly started to giggle, "he could wear this wrap down through the shop. We wouldn't want to cause to much of a sensation, would we?" Meekly, almost before my wife signified her approval of the suggestion, I accepted the peach coloured satin wrap she handed me wrapped it around myself over the set of rose-pink, lace trimmed nylon underwear - sans knickers - I was now wearing, with matching lacy stockings, and padded down through the store in my stockinged feet. 'Not cause to much of a sensation'! That was sensation enough. Even though I suppose my true gender was disguised well enough. There was no suggestion of my cock asserting itself, and standing out hard against the minimal restraints of the delicate underwear I had on. It was far to busy shrivelling up and trying to hide from the anticipated misuse it was about to be subjected to! Downstairs, Bernice quickly identified the piercing unit, and 'Dora', explained her mission and received her immediate and enthusiastic co-operation. Given no time to complain or resist - even if I'd been capable of either - I was whisked into yet another cubicle, my satin wrap and nylon half-slip removed and sat on something that resembled a dentist's chair. Dora, looking rather like a dentist herself anyway in a white 'lab-coat', approached me and took my cock in one surgically gloved hand and raised it slightly so that she could pinch my foreskin between the thumb and finger of her other hand, and stretch it away from the helmet underneath. "No problem." She reported to my wife. Then, "there! That's number one!" Without any preamble, she had reached for a piercing gun and in one movement pierced the underside of my foreskin and clamped a tiny steel ring in the flesh. The pain was explosive, but nothing to the sting that followed as she washed the whole area thoroughly in surgical spirit. I cried out, tears in my eyes, and clasped my hands to my cock. "Keep still! And keep your hands away!" I was ordered, tersely. The same treatment - pinching, piercing, clamping and extensive washing - was meted out to the folded flesh of the front of my scrotum. The pain was ten time worse! This time I screamed and again grabbed at my poor misused genitalia. Again, I was commanded to 'keep still and keep my hands out of the way', and the final indignity was accomplished. Dora slipped the hasp of a tiny steel padlock through the two rings, and my cock was secured into a little loop with my foreskin attached to my scrotum. Finally, she handed Bernice three little keys that she assured her 'were unique' and that both rings and padlock were high tensile steel and impossible to force open. As I remained in the chair, recovering, from the pain, the indignity, the humiliation and the misery as best I could, almost as a routine Dora pierced both my ear lobes and inserted a pair of small, gold sleepers. Then, as Bernice paid for the 'service', I resumed my half-slip and wrap and my wife led me back upstairs to the fitting room, for Ella to display the dresses and other outer wear she had chosen for Bernice's approval, or discard. Ella was absolutely right. Although the fragile, delicate material of my half slip and the thought of what I was enduring, continued to stimulate my cock, any attempt at ordinary arousal, any attempt at achieving the semblance of an erection, was totally negated by the manner in which it was locked into a bunch. 'Stimulation'! It was torture! Some time later, more than three-and-a-half hours after we'd entered the store, I left clad in a short crimson skirt, a frill fronted blouse that matched my underwear - but wearing the same shoes that I'd worn into town that morning - clutching a variety of bags that contained my new wardrobe. Vainly my cock tried to assert its masculine prerogative of responding to the stimulus it was undergoing. All to no avail. It was locked in place, unable to respond properly, despite how much it wanted to, able only to achieve a kind of half rigidity that thickened my bowed organ, resulting in a constant tugging against it's restraining padlock, setting up a half delicious, half agonising, constantly intrusive throbbing in the shaft and in my testicles. As my wife led me back to the car-park, and the car, she looked critically at my feet. "Hmm, we'll have to do something about your shoes, " she said, "we'll go and get some lunch, then we can find a good shoe shop." My misery was to continue, then. And continue it did. After spending twenty minutes perched high on a bar-stool in front of a sandwich bar trying to keep my thighs closed around my throbbing, stinging masculinity to ensure no one could look up my skirt, I was led into a shoe shop where Bernice selected yet another smartly dressed female assistant of about forty, to help her chose several pairs of shoes for me. Of course, the selection of shoes involved the assistant kneeling, or crouching in front of me, and me having to raise my feet and legs in such a manner as to be incapable of protecting my skirt hem - and thus, my modesty - so that she couldn't fail to see that I wasn't wearing any knickers and observing the bunched up form of my cock between my thighs. To do her justice, after the first hastily stifled gasp of astonishment, she continued on with the task without comment - other than that applicable to the work she was doing, But she did seem to find it even more necessary to kneel in front me for extended periods, as she required me to lift my feet. And, with a tiny smirking smile on her face throughout, she made a point of referring to me as 'Miss'! With undue emphasis on the word. Saturday, Evening - a woodland experience and a silken night. I suppose I'd anticipated that, after the dramas of the shopping expedition, during the middle of the day, the evening would pass in comparative quietness whilst Bernice allowed me to begin to come to terms with my new situation. If so, I was mistaken. No sooner had we unpacked the spoils of our trip and, under my wife's direction, I had placed my new wardrobe in it's required places, Bernice ordered me to remove my skirt and blouse and replace them with a far plainer linen shirt, still rose pink, and a short plain blue denim skirt. She also ordered me to wear a pair of low heeled blue 'slip on' shoes. She herself changed into a pale lemon shirt and pale green denim trousers. Then, after a 'wash and brush-up', and a pause to make preparations for the following days lunch, she led me to her car again and we set off - in the glorious late Spring evening - for a pub snack and a walk in the woods, in Ashclyst Forest. We were early at the pub, almost to early to catch first food orders, so I was able to sink quietly into a corner, after Bernice had insisted that I do the ordering, and obtain a fair degree of anonymity. The girl behind the bar didn't appear to re-act in any unusual way as I ordered food and drinks and our meal was served, by the same young woman, as casually as I could wish. She even called us both 'ladies' as she did so. I was initially relieved, then intrigued and finally disturbed to realise that I had felt no small degree of both pride and satisfaction with the thought that my masquerade was good enough to mislead her. In all my previous encounters with women that day, dressed as a woman myself, I had been easily identified as a feminised - forcibly feminised - man. Later, I wondered whether that was one of Bernice's reasons for our evening jaunt. At the time I thought that the real reason lay in what happened later, in the forest. Having led me deep into the trees, into a small clearing flooded with evening sunlight, Bernice suddenly sat on a fallen tree trunk and patted the wood beside her to signal that I should join her. As I did so, wondering quite what to expect next, she bent to kiss me taking my head between both her hands. "Poor Victor," she said, in an expression somewhere between a sigh and a giggle, "its been a strange day for you. Never mind my darling, you'll soon get used to your new personality. You might even get to like it in time. I wonder, shall we continue to call you Victor, just to keep reminding you of what you are, or shall we call you 'Vicci' from now on? I'm not sure. Maybe we'll let Stephie and Diedre decide tomorrow." I felt her hand creep up under the hem of my skirt, up my nylon clad leg, beyond my stocking top to play briefly with the satin strap of my suspender, then move on to close around the bunched up flesh of my shackled cock. "Ahh!" She breathed, "we'll have to do something about that," as her fingers encountered the tiny padlock. "Take your skirt off." Then, "come on!" As I hesitated, looking around fearful of other walkers. Still somewhat hesitantly I removed my skirt and the lacy half-slip I was wearing and stood, rather awkwardly as Bernice unlocked the tiny padlock an put it carefully into the shoulder bag she was carrying. My skirt and slip were folded and placed over the log. In no time, she removed her own light trousers and delicate satin panties and pulled me down to lay on my back as she first caressed my gratefully freed and already rapidly engorging cock into proper life, then straddled my chest to thrust her moistening quim against my mouth until she was satisfied that she too was ready. Sliding back she impaled her sex on my throbbing straining rod and rode us both to massive climax. All the pent-up emotions of the day, the bewilderment, the fear, the embarrassment, the agony and - I admit it - the arousal that I had felt at various times and in various sequences, centred themselves in my masculinity and burst from my cock in what seemed like a never ending fountain of semen that spent and spent and spent itself into the velvet wet warmth of the voracious slit between my wife's thighs. It was true too that the metal ring, held reasonable firmly in the folds of my retracted foreskin, rubbed and chafed at Bernice's internal vaginal muscles as she rose and subsided onto me. At our conclusion I lay almost unconscious for several minutes before I came round to find my wife had resumed her panties and trousers and was sat beside me with her digital camera in her hand. "I think we'll just take a few photographs, before we go home," she said, a little smile on her face, "just to record your first day as a girl!" "You can't!" I said aghast. "Not now! Not here! Not like this!" 'Like this', was with me still minus skirt and half-slip, with my now deflated cock dragging limply between my legs, framed in stocking-tops, satin suspender straps and lacy nylon suspender-belt, with my false breasts cupped in a lacy bra', beneath my unbuttoned short hemmed pink shirt. "Don't be silly." My wife responded patiently, "of course I can. And I will. After all, I've got your skirt and your underskirt in my bag. If you persist in making this silly fuss, I'm off back in the car, taking them with me, and you can find your own way home dressed like that." As before, the rebellion was short lived. As were all my rebellions. So Bernice proceeded to take a series of shots of me in my dishabille. Working backwards she started by taking several shots of me as I was, sitting on the ground, on the fallen tree trunk and standing firstly besides one of the trees that flanked the clearing, then in the open in the middle of the clearing. In most of them she ensured that my cock was clearly visible, striking an incongruous note taking into account the femininity portrayed by my clothes and the general setting. Next she re-shackled my cock and repeated a number of the poses. Allowing . ordering me to fasten my blouse, she took some more and, finally, she took some shots of me with my underskirt and then my skirt in place. Throughout, on pain of being abandoned where and as I stood, Bernice prevailed on me to adjust my face to her requirements - a smile or a pensive or a coy look, as she directed. When I was at my most vulnerable, without either skirt or underskirt and with my cock clearly visible - still framed by my stocking tops, satin suspender straps and the lacy nylon suspender-belt - I became acutely aware of noise and movement in the bushes and trees around the clearing and was certain I could hear stifled giggles and the murmur of female voices. My wife forbade me to cover up, or take any other evasive action, and for her part ignored the disruption entirely. At the end, when I was again fully clothed, just as I thought the session was ended, Bernice lay on the ground and had me straddle her, legs and arms akimbo, to allow her to take a couple of 'up skirt' shots of my shackled masculinity surrounded by nylon and lace. Moving to lie down against the fallen tree, she ordered me to lift one foot up across her and took a couple more. Caddyhoe, in the edge of Ashclyst Forest, is owned by the Baden Powell Organisation and is used as a centre for weekend activity with the youngsters and for the training of leaders. As Bernice finally led me back to the car we encountered a group of young women, in the company of two older women, all dressed in the blue clothes of the Guiding [or 'Girl Scouting'] Movement. Their high pitched giggles and chatter were audible before we encountered them, and the nudges and stares and stifled remarks that passed between them, when we did, confirmed the source of the noises I had heard earlier. Worse, I recognised one of the older women as a member of the church we occasionally attend when the fancy to do so strikes my wife. Worse still, Bernice left me for a moment, with an instruction to 'go on to the car. I'll catch you up', and walked across to engage her in conversation. My stomach churning as badly as ever, my face scarlet, my heart thumping in my chest and my evening meal residing in the back of my throat I carried on walking. I didn't dare look back, but I could feel the eyes of the assembled company on my back as they gathered round to receive Bernice's explanation. Back home Bernice off loaded the picture she'd taken onto a C.D. disc on the computer, in revised order, that showed me in various positions in the clearing fully clothed, then undressing [I hadn't been aware of her taking 'photos as I dressed], then displaying my shackled and unshackled masculinity, with the 'up skirt' shots inserted after my initial appearance, before she had me undressing. Satisfied at last with the order in which she placed them, she then printed a few off. "These will do nicely to explain what we're doing to Stephie and Diedre, tomorrow," she commented, almost conversationally. "Although we won't really need any photographs. You'll be around to demonstrate your new image." Both Bernice and I slept naked up to that time. We had done so before our marriage and had continued to do since our return from our honeymoon. This was now to change. For our honeymoon Bernice, on a whim, purchased a half dozen or so long flowing, full skirted silk night dresses, with delicate little matching silk briefs - the latter having been appropriated since as the necessary night time protection for the first night or two of her periods. As we prepared for bed that night she produced one of her night dresses and announced that 'this is what you'll be wearing to bed from now on. Not the knickers, of course. Not yet, although we both know how much you're looking forward to wrapping your little cocky in a pair of pretty little panties. Not until I decide that you've learned enough of how to be a girl to let you start wearing them'. And so I did. I spent the night with the delicate silk fabric of the night dress stimulating the supercharged nerve ends of skin, with my cock still shackled and unable to achieve the arousal it demanded. Chapter II Sunday, Morning - debut appearance. I came-to to find Bernice already awake, gently stroking my constrained cock through the delicate fabric of the skirt of my night dress, regarding me with a somewhat pensive smile on her face. "Well, my darling little Vicci," she said, "just because you've now become a girl it doesn't mean that I don't still expect you to give me all the little the attentions I need. I realise you can't use your little cocky, your little girlie clitty, in the usual way but there's nothing wrong with your mouth, or your fingers." So saying she threw back the Summer weight duvet and spread herself out beside me, her eyes half closed, her legs apart, a dreamy expression on her face and her hand and fingers playing gently with her own nipples and aureole. The inference was obvious and, anyway, in my state of heightened arousal - brought about by the touch and pull of the delicate fabric of my silk night dress, as it dragged provocatively across the surface of my skin - despite the impediment that prevented me from attaining any satisfactory degree of erection, I slid down the bed and began to apply myself to my wife's body. She had taught me well in our early days together and I knew just how and where to apply my fingers, my lips, my tongue and my teeth to the lips of her sex. Just how firmly but delicately she liked me to use my fingers to hold her lower lips open to slide my tongue into the warm, wet velvet tunnel of her vagina. Just how deep and persistent that penetration should be. Just when I should suck the rigid rod of her engorged clitty in between my lips - holding the lips of her sex still further apart to allow it's proper emergence - and in between my busy teeth. Just when to abandon the stimulation of her quim, to pay proper court to her breasts, her nipples and aureole, her throat and her mouth. Just when and how to reclaim the salivating slit between her legs, to bring her to a shuddering, gasping, orgasm. Just how to savour and consume the musky honeydew that erupted from her fount. Just how to cleanse the residue of her orgasmic flood from her body, her quim, her thighs and her pudenda, with my lips and tongue. And just how soon and how fast, after her initial recovery, to begin the whole process again to bring her to a second and then a third climax. But all the time, in my present state of curtailment, I was unable to achieve the condition of arousal my body craved. And throughout, somehow, it never occurred to me to remove my night dress and dispel the femininity of the image I must have presented to my wife and would have presented to any one who had caught us so occupied - which of course no one did. Bernice didn't, or wouldn't, release my cock 'part of my training', she explained. I 'needed to appreciate how women were required to accept that whether on not they had achieved proper satisfaction from any coital activity, was a matter of little or no significance to their partners - at least, to their heterosexual partners'. Little significance! If ever I'd failed to ensure that she was totally and completely satisfied, before I'd allowed my own release, I'd have been severely castigated, by her, and her 'favours' would have been withdrawn - for a considerable period! After breakfast, taken on my part still wearing my silk night dress, Bernice decided that this was as good a day as any for me attend church in my new status. "Meeting Mary like that, yesterday evening, brought it to mind." She told me. Brushing all my fearful and feeble protestations aside, as always, she sent me up to shower whilst she repaired to the bedroom to decide what I would wear. After looking me over critically, she decided I didn't need to shave. My fair skin has little or no body hair - apart from my blond, rather sparse pubic bush - less than many dark haired women. Two shaves a week is more than ample to ensure my fresh face remains completely beardless. And I'd shaved my face less than two days before, just prior to going to the party. The first thing that Bernice did, as entered the bed room, was to bid me 'stand still', whilst she ensured that my pierced holes were properly clean. "We certainly don't want any of them festering," she said, " think how embarrassing that would be for you, having to go to hospital or the doctors to have that put right!" And, without any further preamble, she liberally doused the sleepers in my foreskin, my scrotum and my ear lobes, and the areas of flesh around them, with surgical spirit, bringing cries to my throat, floods to my eyes and set me clutching at my genitalia. "We obviously won't be able to trust you to do that properly!" Was her only response to my agonised writhing, and flowing tears. Dressed to Bernice's satisfaction - in a powder blue linen skirt and jacket, over a dark blue satin slip, matching bra' [with breast forms] and suspender-belt and dark blue stockings, with flat shoes to match my skirt and jacket - I was led, still petrified, out to my wife's car to drive to the city centre church we occasionally attended. As on the previous day, Bernice had not allowed me any panties, underneath my skirt and slip I was again knickerless. Bernice herself wore a pair of smart, dark green linen trousers, with a matching bolero over a yellow linen blouse. Under her trousers she was, of course, wearing a pair of green satin panties with which she had put on a matching bra' and suspender-belt as she, too, was wearing stockings - the same colour as her blouse. Even in my confusion, misery and fear I reflected on the twists of fortune that had me clad in skirts whilst nearly all of my immediate female acquaintances wore trousers most of the time. My wife, Stephanie Diedre Tina and Sally, and even my mother, all wore trousers for most occasions - only changing into skirts or dresses for special events, such as the party two evenings previously. And certainly Bernice always wore knickers under her trousers and I presumed the others did so too whilst I, in my skirts, remained knickerless and doubly vulnerable. The only exception to the rule was the petite Georgina, the only woman of my circle who was shorter than me. She came to work wearing either smart little suits or light dresses, that displayed her neat and slender form to it's best advantage, and she carried the same mode of dress into all the other aspects of her life. I didn't have much time for such reflections, as Bernice pulled the low slung car into the church car-park and I had to clamber out as in front of the gathering congregation, protecting my modesty under my scant hem line as best I could. We received lot of puzzled looks from the people who knew us. Then, as recognition of 'the new girl' registered, puzzlement became astonishment then excitement. A buzz of half stifled comments followed us into the body of the church as Bernice led me into the building, a seraphic little smile on her face. I received my hymn book and notice sheet from a stunned door steward and stumbled after my wife into one of the pews. If I could have, I would have buried myself in the stone floor beneath my feet. I know my face remained scarlet throughout the service, and I hardly dared to stand or kneel at the appropriate moments in case I fell over or, as my stomach churned and somersaulted, either wet or soiled myself in humiliation and fright. And when I did move, however cautiously, the drift of my delicate satin slip across my shackled manhood only served to enhance the ever present feeling of my arousal struggling to no avail against it's restraint, maintaining the throb and ache in the shaft of my cock and in my swollen testicles. Bernice's little smile remained on her face throughout as she appeared to pay rapt attention to all that went on and, at the end of the service, she insisted on exchanging pleasantries and comment with several of the congregation - most of whom replied in strangled monosyllables, as they looked at both of us goggle eyed and almost breathless. For my part I was as speechless in my continued misery as they were, and spoke to no one, not even the Minister or the door steward, and made my way as quickly as possible to the side of the car, but still had to wait for Bernice to arrive several minutes later, to unlock it before I could clamber in. Had I been dressed as usual, in trousers, even my short legs would have been enough for me to step over the locked door into the open cockpit. But, in my short tight skirt and knickerless condition, I didn't dare attempt it. "There," Bernice said, as she finally drove away, "that wasn't to bad, was it? I spoke to Pat as I came out and explained your experiment in cross dressing, how you thought that you would feel more comfortable in a role that better suited your nature. She was very understanding about it and offered her approval for your decision, and her full support." 'Pat' was the Reverend Patricia Desmond the Minister of the church. As I shrank back into the safety of the car seat and breathed a silent sigh of relief at the thought of returning to the sanctuary of our home, it suddenly occurred to me that Bernice had now placed the responsibility for my situation fairly and squarely on my shoulders! At least as far as the members of the church were concerned. Sunday, Afternoon and Evening - decisions approved and further steps taken. At home Bernice ordered me to remove my linen jacket and replace it with a nearly transparent creamy satin blouse, through which the plain cups of my dark blue satin slip and the bra' that contained my imitation bust line were clearly definable. She then handed me a pretty creamy, lace trimmed apron and bade me help to lay out lunch for four on the patio at the rear of the house. Lunch consisted of cold roast duck, cooked the previous evening in orange and apricot sauce, and salad, followed by strawberries and cream - and washed down by two bottles of a light Mareuil Rose - with coffee to follow. Our patio, like most others, is situated immediately outside the French windows opening out from the lounge. It is on the same raised platform as the detached house, some four feet or so above the level of the rest of the garden - and, although immediately shielded on both side by the shrubs along the garden perimeter and despite the low stone balustrade across it, is clearly visible to any of our neighbours who happen to be in the lower part of their own garden. Beyond the back gardens, the valley side falls away to the lower road, the river and it's immediate riverside park, and the railway line, then climbs up to the City. From the rear of all our houses, and from the terrace at the back of most of them, we have an almost unrestricted view of the rising valley side opposite and the City skyline. As well as our immediate neighbours, anyone travelling the road or the railway, or walking the river bank, also has a view into our garden - albeit at some distance and distorted by the angle at which they would have to look up. Resigned to complete obedience now but highly conscious of the potentially interested eyes of our neighbours I laid out the lunch as instructed, inclusive of opening the wine and placing it in cooling flasks, finishing just in time to look up as Stephanie and Diedre walked through the house and out onto the terrace. "Golly!" Stephanie exclaimed, genuine surprise and a degree of shock in her voice, "no wonder Bernice told us to expect something unusual! Well, little brother . or should I say 'little sister', this is certainly something unusual! And yet, I don't know, it rather suites you somehow. Seems right, if you know what I mean, more like the real you. A pretty, rather shy little girl." So that was it! I couldn't expect any support from my sister! And if Stephie was content Diedre would be, also. The faint hopes I'd harboured that they might demur at the situation, and that somehow a halt would be called to my humiliation, evaporated. I could see myself cast in the role allotted to me by my wife for the foreseeable future. For some time to come I would be forced to assume the identity of a young women, dressed accordingly in the femininity Bernice had decided was appropriate - from the skin out! I knew instinctively, too, that they would accept Bernice's account of our encounter with Tania the previous morning, and of her assurance that there would no objection to my appearance at work 'skirted' from the first. The other faint hope I'd allowed myself that at least I would be allowed to retain my masculine exterior for a few days, however feminine my underwear might be, also evaporated. The next day, I would still have to face Georgie and Sally. At least Georgie would be aware of what to expect. Tania would have told her. But it would be a shock for Sally! And, come to that, on Tuesday morning 'Mrs. P.', the office cleaner who came in twice a week, would be in early and I had three scheduled meetings with clients to face! My whole being seemed to groan within me. Why, oh why hadn't I busted Graham's jaw for him Friday evening, and taken the beating that would surely have ensued? At least I'd only have had a few bruises, and maybe a broken nose and a couple of black eyes to contend with, not this! Bernice joined us on the terrace bearing the cold duck and the salad. "I see you've made your acquaintances," she said, as she began to carve the bird. "Sit down, we can eat as we talk." Over the meal, talking in a completely 'matter of fact' manner, my wife explained to my sister and her lover the sequences of the weekend so far - starting with the incident on Friday evening and how my reaction to that indignity and humiliation had triggered off her response. She mentioned that she had been becoming increasingly irritated with my 'milk-sop' demeanour for some time and that this had proved the 'final straw'. Well, she'd made her decision. Had I made any real attempt at resisting her, and refusing to countenance the transformation, she might even then have relented. But all that had happened was that I'd gone meekly along with it and, despite my mild and half hearted protestations, the evidence of my body's reaction to being wrapped in 'soft, girlie fabrics' was sufficient to indicate that, secretly, I was loving every minute of it. Underneath I seethed as Bernice's explanations continued but, somehow, even then I couldn't contradict her. Lack of resistance and refusal to co-operate! Mild and half hearted protestations! Loving every minute of it! All the embarrassment and humiliation I'd suffered over the past thirty or so hours counted for nothing! But even as I seethed I was acutely conscious of the effect my soft feminine clothes were having. My cock and testicles were in a more-or-less permanent state of excitement, and I was only prevented from rising to massive and rigid erection by the shackle introduced that kept my foreskin attached to my scrotum! Bernice had now moved on to talk about our encounter with Tania. "Tania seems to think that he might as well make the full transformation immediately," she said, "and wear skirts to work as from tomorrow morning. She's sure the other two won't mind. I was a little inclined to allow him to wear his own suits over girlie undies for a few days until you'd all got used to it. But it's up to you. What do you think?" I might just as well not have been there! Diedre and Stephie appeared to consider the problem for a moment. "No. She's right," said Diedre, "might as well start as you mean to go on. He can come in like that first thing." Then, turning to me for the first time, "you haven't got anyone coming in to see you tomorrow, have you? No," as I glumly shook my head, "I thought not. It's Tuesday before you're seeing anyone. I'll get Sally to ring them in advance tomorrow and warn them to expect a rather unusual change. By the way," turning to my wife again, "what about your neighbours and friends? What are you doing to let them know about . all this?" "We'll call a staff meeting first thing in the morning, so that we can introduce him to the staff properly, before things get moving for the day. I'll even see if I can get hold of Mrs. P. and get her to come in, too. We might as well get it all over at the same time." My sister added quickly, before Bernice replied to Diedre's inquiry. "Well, we went to church this morning and Victor made his debut appearance with people we know. You're obviously going to take care of things at the office and" my wife dropped her next bombshell, "I've invited the neighbours around for a drink tomorrow evening, plus a few friends, to meet him in his new persona. Perhaps you'd like to come as well." I choked, nearly fainted and only just managed to restrain my bladder from emptying forthwith. The three of them looked round at me, attracted by the noise and the movement. "What's the matter darling?" My sister chortled, "you'll be the star of the show. Of course we'll be here. Wouldn't want to miss your 'coming out', would we." That lead to another point. My name. What to call me for the duration. Should I remain Victor? Or should I become Vicci? If I retained my masculine name it would serve to underline my true situation to me, but it could be a source of embarrassment to some of the Accountancy's clients