The Playhouse
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The Playhouse Chapter 1: Candidate free porn video
THE PLAYHOUSE
Copyright Transfemme, 2002.
CHAPTER 1: Candidate
Verity Sherman walked down the central colonnade of the
Facility, a pretty young woman in a pastel yellow sundress,
her full lips pursed with trepidation. It was Monday
morning; the Committee was meeting at ten thirty-five to
discuss her latest progress report. Verity noted the time
with an anxious turn of her wrist. Attendance was
mandatory; she couldn't afford to be late by even a few
seconds. She quickened her pace to match the pounding in
her chest.
The colonnade was a vast expanse of iridescent columns
sweeping off into an alabaster limbo. Opalescent pillars
loomed on either side, their crystal surfaces glimmering in
the muted light. Verity could hear her heels clicking along
the vast corridor, remote echoes in the brooding, marble
stillness. A fresh summer breeze seemed to flicker along
the Italian floor tiles, raising the hem of her dress.
It was a trick, of course. Like everything else in the
Facility, the breeze was an illusion, a simple mirage
redolent with the scent of grape and honey-suckle.
Deception was the only truth in this house of vacant
fantasies. Everything here was either a lie, a dream or a
nightmare - although the boundaries between the three were
somewhat obscure, Verity had come to realise.
In the three months since she'd entered the Program, Verity
had been exposed to indignities without number: probes and
penetrations; medical procedures which invariably left her
shaken and tearful. The invasions never seemed to end.
They'd explored her most intimate recesses with a barrage
of wicked-looking instruments, delving and touching and
pricking and poking until she'd begged them to stop,
wailing like a child as each new device was inserted.
Still, there was something worse than all the violations
she'd suffered over the past ninety days.
There were the Interviews.
Reaching the end of the colonnade, Verity entered an
equally extravagant hallway decorated with Baroque oils -
Rembrandts, Van Dykes, Rubens and hundreds of others she'd
never heard of. The walls were covered with thick indigo
velvet, lending the hall the appearance of some lavish
private gallery. Verity wasted no time examining the
artwork; she could think about improving her cultural
literacy if she survived her probation. As it was, she'd be
lucky to make it through the next twenty-four hours with
her sanity intact.
Verity wasn't alone in her never-ending pilgrimage through
the Hall of Wonders. Like every other candidate in the
Reorientation Program, she had a bodyguard assigned to
accompany her whenever she moved about the Facility. A
combination security guard, escort and prison warder, he
rarely spoke, other than to inform her which door to enter
or what direction to take.
Verity looked shyly up at the man striding beside her. He
was a big, heavy-set veteran in a black business suit, aged
perhaps in his mid-thirties. He walked with the precise,
measured step of a military serviceman. His dark, impassive
face was masked by a pair of reflector sunglasses,
enhancing his hard, disciplined bearing. The tag on his
lapel read TYLER, F. Verity had often wondered what the 'F'
stood for, but had never summoned up the courage to ask.
She was under strict instructions never to engage the
bodyguards in private conversation.
They walked past a chain of sumptuous Rococo sculptures
depicting the Rape of Persephone ('rape' being the
operative word in this case), arriving before an enormous
oaken door, half as tall as a Los Angeles apartment block.
Verity's gaze wandered up to the coat of arms mounting the
portal. Painstakingly embossed on the sepia woodgrain was a
silver serpent coiled around a cross. The letters 'TVC'
were inscribed in gold leaf directly below the shield.
Verity had never understood the significance of the
crucified snake, but she thought she knew what the initials
stood for.
The bodyguard stepped in front of her, his large frame
blocking her view of the logo. He must have been at least
four feet across the shoulders. Touching a finger to the
side of his sunglasses, Tyler F spoke quietly into his
comset.
"Miss Sherman's here."
Endless grey silence for several seconds, followed by an
equally ominous click: hidden locks turning in varnished
oak panel. Verity's knees weakened as she contemplated the
abject humiliation awaiting her on the other side of that
monstrous door. She was dizzy, light headed; almost
feverish with fear and expectation. It was a consistent
paradox: despite her misgivings, Verity always felt a
thrill of excitement as she prepared to face the Committee.
The door opened, evidently of its own volition.
"Go in," Tyler told her dispassionately.
Stealing a final, calming breath, Verity stepped across the
threshold.
The Committee Room was roughly the size of a European
Nation. The titanic proportions never ceased to amaze her.
Walls lined with cedar bookshelves rushed upwards like
errant skyscrapers, their lines broken by a series of
gigantic frescoes filled with battle scenes, tiger hunts
and similar masculine subjects (the paintings were actually
state of the art holograms, reproducing the originals right
down to the crumbling plaster. As Verity had noted
previously, everything in the Facility was an illusion).
The thick red carpet was littered with antique furniture of
virtually every period; Victorian chaise-lounges vied with
art nouveau sofas and coffee tables. The place had the feel
of an Edwardian gentlemen's club, complete with the
disapproving English butler (although such allusions would
have been lost on Verity; history had never been her strong
point, considering her background).
Picking her way through a forest of Chippendale easy chairs
and stalwart black Grandfather clocks, Verity made her way
to the far end of the room, where a long mahogany table lay
before a row of tall French windows. Thirteen men were
seated at the Committee Board, their forms silhouetted by
the Autumn sunshine hazing in through the windows. The
table was covered with laptops, legal files and drinking
utensils.
There were a dozen new faces on the Interview Panel. Verity
recognised Scott Freeman - the Executive Officer of the
Committee - but the remaining twelve were unfamiliar to
her. They were all cut from the same cloth, however;
affluent young executives with leather jackets, five
o'clock shadows and the coolest moves in the space-time
continuum. Looks, money and attitude: a devastating
combination.
Freeman himself was a supernaturally handsome man with
Alpine features and the gaze of a white pointer. Seated at
the central position, he dominated the entire room with his
Herculean presence, an upstart god resplendent in all his
glory. He wore a black leather shirt open to the chest,
cuffs and pockets studded with gold. His hands were as
smooth and hard as veined marble, giving the simultaneous
impression of superhuman strength and breathtaking
sensitivity. A silver-grey Macintosh iBook sat before him,
jacked into a terminal in the middle of the desk.
Scott barely glanced up as Verity approached the Table,
although she knew from prior experience that he was aware
of everything that occurred in the Committee room. A
silver-plated comset twined unobtrusively around his
temple, his fingers toyed with a tiny grey palm consol,
feeding data into the iBook. Leaning forward on his left
elbow, he read from the laptop's LCD. His words were brief
and clipped, matching the quasi-Edwardian decor of the
room.
"Interview convened at 10.35 AM/ September 15/AST. Subject:
Sherman, Verity, JN162054/19C. Category: 19C; Inductee
(probationary). Program: Reorientation, level G7A.
Authorisation: Freeman S/2051A16."
Scott paused to enter the information into the iBook's
database, then settled back into the ebony depths of his
armchair, greeting the 'subject' with a vaguely wolfish
smile. Verity felt her spine tense. His manner was
taunting, self-assured, almost dismissive.
"Morning, Verity," he began, idly fingering his palmset,
"you're looking considerably better than the last time we
saw you." He made no move to offer her a seat. His eyes
strayed from her face to her belly then up to her breasts.
Verity shifted uncomfortably. The sundress was a wisp of
fine yellow cotton, her figure must have been visible
through the translucent fabric.
"Yes, thank you," she replied to his comment, "I've had a
good week; Doctor Wanderly gave me something for the
morning sickness." Nausea was one of the more common side
effects of Tetragynozine. Most of the 'girls' in her
dormitory had suffered some degree of physical discomfort
during their transition. At the end of the day, genetic
reconfiguration was simply another form of advanced
chemotherapy. She'd been lucky to get off so lightly.
"Good," Scott said, absently clicking away on his palmset,
"How have you been feeling - emotionally, I mean? Doc
Wanderly noted some minor bouts of depression in your last
psych report."
"I'm fine, thanks," she answered, a little more shortly
than she'd intended. She'd been walking the razor's edge
most of the week, knowing this meeting was just round the
corner. She found these weekly interviews even more
invasive than the Psych Unit's daily evaluations.
"Care to talk about it?" Scott enquired mildly, already
knowing what her answer would be.
"No," she retorted with just a hint of petulance, then
added in a more reasonable tone, "I've already discussed it
with Doctor Wanderly." Which was true enough, Wanderly's
mindprobes were as exhausting as her daily physicals. Scott
nodded, as if he'd expected nothing better from her.
"Well, in that case, we'll get this over with as quickly
and painlessly as possible," he remarked off-hand, still
wearing that lupine grin. Verity braced herself, knowing
what to expect now that the formalities had been completed.
"If you'll take off that dress, we can get started."
Verity inhaled sharply, dropping her gaze to the floor. Her
previous encounters with the Committee did nothing to
lessen the impact. This was the part of the interview she
loathed more than anything else, the thing she'd been
dreading all week. Worse still, refusal was out of the
question; these impromptu stripteases were obligatory,
stipulated in the probationary clauses of her contract.
God I hate this, she thought, feeling the blood rush to her
cheeks.
Blushing all the way to her eyebrows, Verity unclipped the
back of her dress and started to disrobe. A surge of
frustration overwhelmed her system as she removed the
frock. It wasn't fair - what right did they have to force
her to strip down to her bra and panties this way? No
matter how many times she performed this degrading
ceremony, she could never adjust to the basic injustice of
the situation.
Dropping the dress to the floor, Verity turned to face the
Committee, her tummy fluttering with unwilling pleasure.
Practically everything she had was on display - she could
feel their eyes wandering over her nubile figure. Worse
still, she was wearing a lacy white garter-belt with black
suspender stockings. Her choice had been an impulse, a
thoughtless whim as she'd dressed for breakfast that
morning.
Or so she'd told herself.
Pulse racing in her throat, Verity crossed her hands over
her cleavage, aware that her high-cut panties were on open
exhibition. A perfect match for the garter-belt, they had
floral patterns along the sides and a delicate lace trim
encircling the waistline. Biting her lower lip in
suppressed fury, she raised her face to meet the
Committee's steady, probing stare. She stood trembling with
expectation, her crystal blue eyes glittering like
sapphires. Would they make her take off her brassiere
again? They seemed to enjoy watching her squirm with anger.
"Lower your arms to your sides, Verity," Scott said,
amiably reading her expression, "and come a little closer.
Let's take a look at you."
Nooooo! Verity thought, but complied with his command,
despising herself for giving in so easily. She stepped
forward in her gleaming white underwear, high heels
clocking on the varnished wooden floorboards. Her garters
stretched along her thighs, tugging gently on the flimsy
black stocking-tops. Her bra-strap felt uncomfortably tight
across against her pale flesh, her breath came in shallow
spurts. Scott nodded in satisfaction. The rest of the Panel
scrutinised her with a kind of casual interest. They were
enjoying this, she could see it in their mocking smiles.
She halted about six feet from the interview table,
electric fire tingling in every nerve in her body. Here she
was, posing before them in nothing but her bra, panties and
nylons, a curvaceous young woman with wavy blond hair
cascading down to her hips. At twenty-one, she looked
perhaps five years younger. Her large eyes and small,
pouting mouth lent her a soft, childlike appearance. Her
cheeks glowed with a delicate rose flush: these weekly
inspections were humiliating beyond words. Her mind swirled
with conflicting emotions; shame, arousal, fear and
outrage.
Scott looked her up and down, waving a hand in her general
direction.
"Could you take off your bra please, Verity?"
And there it was.
I knew it, she thought, lips curving down into a sulking,
little-girl frown. She paused for several seconds, eyes
simmering with feminine wrath, then reached back to unclip
her brassiere with both hands. Slipping the straps off her
shoulders, she removed the sheer lace cups from her body,
indulging the 'Guys' with an utterly heart-stopping view.
Her breasts were high and firm and deliciously round. Their
large, pink tips were throbbing in time to her racing
heartbeat.
She stood with her arms by her sides, the bra swaying
gently from her right hand. She felt totally defenceless
before their ravenous, masculine gaze. Her nipples were
swelling with arousal, she had to fight down the urge to
cover them with her red-glossed fingertips.
"Well," Scott began, leaning back in his chair, "you seem
to be making exceptional progress, Verity." He spoke in an
infuriatingly superior tone of voice, a rich young god used
to getting anything he wanted. He raised his eyebrows
disarmingly, as if seeing her stripped to her pants and
stockings was the most natural thing in the world.
"Thank you," Verity replied, her face perfectly composed
despite the bright spots standing out on her cheeks. She
knew Scott was listening for the slightest hint of
rebellion in her answer. All of them were. That was point
of the interview; to decide how well she was adjusting to
her new gender. Anatomically speaking, the 'gynozine
therapy had eliminated all traces of masculinity from her
physique: indeed, she appeared considerably more 'feminine'
than any biological female her age.
Needless to say, the psychological aspects of the process
were considerably more complicated. A woman was an
extremely complex and enigmatic being; at once passive and
rebellious, docile but wayward, innocent yet sensual. Three
months of Tetragynozine could alter human DNA, irreversibly
transforming a twenty one year-old male into a nubile,
adolescent girl, but it couldn't reverse two decades of
social conditioning. At the end of the Program, Verity was
still exhibiting chronic symptoms of gender rejection,
secretly resenting the submissive role she was being forced
to play.
Scott was consulting his iBook, scanning through her
personal files.
"Your medical reports look rather promising. Chromosomatic
structure stabilised, reproductive and endocrinal systems
approaching normal parameters. Neural implants
functioning." He paused, reading down the screen a few
lines, nodding to himself. "Latest test results suggest
that you'll start ovulating within the year. Not bad,
considering the time frame we were working with. Should be
able to take you off the 'gynozine within the next month."
"Does... does that mean that I'll be released from the
Program soon?" Verity ventured, hoping against all logic
that this ordeal was finished and she'd have her life back.
She realised immediately that her voice had sounded too
eager, too... reproachful. On reflection, she shouldn't
have broached the subject at all, it would only raise
doubts as to her suitability. As she later discovered, no
one was ever truly released from the Program. Even after
reconditioning.
"You don't like it here, Verity?" Scott asked, eyes
wandering over her breasts. The rest of the Committee were
staring at her, their expressions ranging from wry
amusement to open suspicion. Several were making notes on
their palmsets, others exchanged comments through cupped
palms. Verity wilted, feeling small and naked and
vulnerable.
"No - I mean yes," she stammered frantically, losing track
of her thoughts as the words tumbled over each other, "I've
never been happier than I am now - honestly. I... was just
wondering what happens next." She looked down at her
gleaming red shoes, hating the hesitant tremor in her
voice.
"We've decided that you need a little more time to adapt to
your changing circumstances," Scott commented, returning
his attention to the screen, "your psych evaluations have
us a little concerned, Verity. According to Doctor
Wanderly, you've having trouble accepting your new
designation."
"My... designation?" Verity asked uncertainly. She didn't
like the direction the conversation was heading. She seemed
to be getting in deeper over her head everytime she opened
her mouth.
"Your new gender," Scott explained, "your most recent tests
confirm that you're resisting your feminine status. 'In
denial', as they used to say back in the nineties. That's
not unusual at this stage of the treatment. Most of our
candidates experience some form of transitionary dysphoria
following their re-configuration."
He spoke down to her like a schoolmaster addressing a slow
and none-too-promising student. Verity felt a fresh wave of
anger strike her head on. He was trying to confuse her with
a lot of psychological jargon and hyperbole. As if being
required to strip to her underpants wasn't enough, now she
was being patronised; treated like an idiot, an imbecile. A
Nute.
"In short," he concluded, "you don't like being a girl."
Verity opened her mouth to protest her innocence, refute
his allegations, but Scott cut her off with a wave of his
hand.
"Don't bother denying it, Verity. We all saw the look you
gave me when I asked you to take off your bra. You hate
these interviews, hate being made to undress in front of a
bunch of strange men, hate exposing your body every time
you step into this room. You hate my smug, contemptuous
attitude, and most of all - you hate being treated like a
woman."
Verity said nothing for several moments, unable to dispute
this bald-faced pack of truths. Everything he'd said had
been correct. Standing here with nothing but a pair of
panties and a garter belt to hide her shame, Verity's anger
dissolved into moist, humiliated defeat. She began to nod
her head slowly.
"I don't like being a girl," she murmured, mostly to
herself.
She struggled to control her emotions, knowing that they
had been expecting some display of weakness. She'd broken
down six times over the past month (each incident no doubt
recorded in Wanderly's daily report). Part of it had been
the nausea, the constant stress of her treatment. But it
was more than that. She used to be so much stronger: she'd
never cried before her reassignment, not even when her
mother had died, nine years ago. Now she seemed to burst
into tears at the drop of a hat. She forced herself to look
up at them, despising her vulnerability, her submissive,
feminine nature.
Scott beamed with mock sympathy, the very paragon of
understanding.
"Sudden mood swings," he said in a conciliatory tone, "very
common at this point of the therapy. Increased oestrogen
levels, emotional instability, sensitive nipples. You can
expect to feel this way at least once a month."
Verity acknowledged his comments with another hesitant nod,
her lower lip trembling with dismay. How had she come to
this: quivering and half naked before a group of ogling,
self-satisfied males? She was proving them right,
confirming everything they had thought about her. Frail,
insipid, powerless. A typical woman.
"That's a lot to deal with," Scott continued, spreading his
hands magnanimously, "that's why we're willing to give you
all the time you need to adjust." He was literally glowing
with generosity, his expression that of an absolute monarch
conferring a supreme favour on a pauper.
"What do you mean?" Verity asked apprehensively.
She stifled her emotions by an immense act of will.
Something was coming, something she hadn't been expecting.
What did they have in mind? More tests; an extension of her
probation? Another month of nausea, depression and anxiety?
She had to calm down, compose herself. Prepare for whatever
tribulations they had planned for her.
"We're transferring you to the Playhouse," Scott told her.
His canine smile broadened, his eyes gleamed with malicious
joy.
Verity's lips parted in a sudden alarm, a frigid charge ran
the length of her spine. He couldn't be serious! They
couldn't send her to the Playhouse so soon, she'd only been
in the Program three months. She'd barely completed her
metamorphosis. She had no experience as a female,
physically or emotionally. She simply wasn't ready for
reconditioning. Couldn't they see that?
"The Playhouse?!" she cried, recovering her voice at last,
"Scott, I've only been a woman for a couple of weeks, I
haven't even finished with the 'gynozine! You said I
wouldn't start ovulating for another year!!"
"Our specialists say you're a prime candidate for
reconditioning, Verity. Based on their reports, the Psych
Unit has recommended you for intensive psychosexual
reprogramming. Doc Wanderly approved your transfer
himself."
Verity gaped in open shock, poised - literally - at the
brink of terror. She knew precisely what 'psychosexual
reprogramming' meant. Hot flushes rushed through her
smooth, trim belly. How could this be happening? How could
they have made this decision without even consulting with
her? It was her life, her future, her body.
"Don't I have any choice in this?" She wailed, making no
attempt to hold back her tears.
"Yes," Scott answered, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, "you
can go back to living on the street and scrounging for food
through garbage cans."
"That's no choice at all!!" Verity wept in near-hysteria,
"I can't go back to the Red Zone now! I'll die out there!!"
She looked from face to face in a state of rising panic.
Scott cleared his throat.
"There's no need to be so apprehensive about the transfer,"
Freeman told her patiently, "it may be difficult to believe
at this point, but the decision was made in your best
interests. At the end of the day, we're only trying to help
you."
"Help me?! You're denying me my most basic human rights."
"We're denying you nothing," Scott answered evenly, "you've
always been free to come and go as you please. There are no
prisoners here." Not in any physical sense. The Facility
had no need for cell-blocks or razor wire to contain its
inmates.
"You can't make me do this," Verity sobbed, wiping her face
with a small right hand, "it's just not right."
Scott felt the moment approaching, that point of absolute
surrender he'd been watching for since the interview
commenced. He changed tack seamlessly, reminding the girl
of her legal obligations, playing her fears and anxieties
like a violin.
"This is what you wanted, Verity," he said, folding his
arms across his chest, "you signed on for the Program of
your own free will. We have your name in triplicate." Scott
confirmed this remark by turning the laptop around to face
her. Verity's vision blurred momentarily as she looked
toward the monitor. The screen displayed an image of her
admission form. The picture magnified itself automatically,
revealing her signature at the bottom of the page. In
triplicate.
The contract was suddenly replaced by a photograph of a
young man in his late teens; a thin, emaciated youth with
tangled brown hair and hollow, beaten eyes. His face was
angular and bruised, his lips split from a recent fight. A
large, suppurating wound disfigured his jaw line. Verity
looked away, unable to meet that broken, hopeless gaze. Her
other self: the boy she'd been before her induction at the
Facility. Another lonely, aimless refugee from the gangs
and poverty of the Red Zone.
"Is that what you want, Verity?" Scott asked quietly, "Do
you want to return to the ghettoes?"
"No," she replied, her final shred of self-esteem torn
away. She was trapped, snared, beaten. There was no escape,
no way out. Her memories of the streets were as vicious as
the edge of a shattered mirror. There were far worse things
than reconditioning: she'd suffered most of them out in the
Zone. Descending into that nightmare once more was
unthinkable. Clothed in a woman's body, she'd be dead
inside a week. Verity crumpled like a crystal ornament,
reduced to a hopeless, pleading child.
"Please, Scott," she wept, covering her face with both
hands, "please don't send me back, Scott. I'll do anything
to stay here. Anything!" And at that second, she would have
been willing to endure any indignity, any insult, any
disgrace, to stay on at the Facility. She wavered from foot
to foot, shoulders heaving with desperate tears. Her
eyeliner ran down her flushed cheeks, heavily smudged by
her fingers.
Freeman regarded the girl with growing interest. Breakdowns
of this kind were nothing new for him. Verity was
exhibiting all the behavioural characteristics he'd come to
associate with gender transition: frustration, anxiety,
trepidation; a belief that she was being unfairly
victimised. In that respect, she was no different to five
hundred other candidates he'd screened over the last two
years.
However, there was something different about her, some
quality so insubstantial, so ethereal that even the Psych
Unit had failed to pick it up. Whatever it was, he'd been
sensing it at some instinctive level for weeks. Couldn't
pin a name to it, but his curiosity (along with his libido)
had been pricked. This one would bear watching.
"Verity," Freeman said as gently as possible, "you have
nothing to fear. The Playhouse isn't a bordello, you won't
be treated like a sex slave." Not exactly, he thought,
savouring the smooth contours of her breasts, the straining
peaks of her nipples. Sexual slavery was an understatement
where the Playhouse was concerned. Let's face it, even the
word 'rape' was too mild a term to describe what she was
facing.
The psyche evaluations had been right about one thing, at
least. Verity Sherman was the perfect candidate. Passive,
self-deprecating and completely open to exploitation. Scott
regarded her with a growing sense of anticipation. This was
a special case indeed; he could almost smell the fear
emanating from her pores like an exquisite French perfume.
Meantime, the Perfect Candidate was standing before him
virtually naked, her face glistening with rouge, mascara
and sweet, liquid shame. Scott's words had done little to
reassure her. Rumours were rife throughout the Facility. If
the stories she'd heard from the other candidates were
true, psychosexual reprogramming was a treadmill of agony;
worse - in some respects - than the back allies of the Red
Zone.
"I'm so scared..." she whispered.
Now, Freeman thought, sensing that the moment had finally
arrived. It was time to play his hand, home in like a
barracuda on a death dive. He had to strike now, seize the
prey while she was frightened, confused and alone. Before
she had an opportunity to reconsider her options - slim
though they were.
"Verity," he said, spreading his palms wide, "just for a
second... think of what we're offering you. You'll probably
live longer than anyone sitting at this table. You'll sleep
between satin sheets, surrounded by luxury beyond anything
you can imagine. You'll never go cold, or hungry, or
thirsty - ever again. You'll be pampered, indulged and
spoilt like an only child. You'll never need to worry about
money or food or anything else, because we'll take care of
your every physical need.
"For the rest of your life"
To be continued
Contact me on for more at [email protected]
Aeryn
- 28.01.2022
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