The Deception Of Choice, Episode Eleven free porn video

The Deception of Choice. Episode Eleven, comprising Chapters 27 & 28 Preamble: David, back from his sojourn in the Venumar Foundation's Hospital Research Facility feels a sense of homecoming on his return to the comparative privacy of the Holding Wing. And such a welcome from all the girls! Not to mention Dr. Tabatha and his instructors. Escape seems further away than ever and sometimes that seems less important. Oh and Coralie returns, but alas no longer the girl you may remember. 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 all right 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. A hell that accepted him, cosseted him, told him he was amongst friends. Friends whose kind understanding disarmed his resistance. 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 fulfil 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 whom 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 .... Or 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 r?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, a 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 consomm? 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 smouldered. 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 fulfil 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. .