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Inter-Sub-Mission By Susannah Donim A 'Master of the Universe' Investment Banker and his university professor wife are a happy and successful couple. Then their Psychologist friend persuades them to participate in an unusual study and things change for everyone. Prologue - early May Dinner was over. We were relaxing on the patio, listening to the gurgle of the river, and finishing off the second bottle. "So have you decided what you're doing for your sabbatical?" Bill asked me. "Three months, isn't it?" "I haven't decided to take one at all yet. It isn't terribly convenient at the moment, and Jackie can't take time off until the end of the summer term." "I thought your firm insists you take a break within two years of being promoted - because of the high levels of stress for new partners?" "Not so much 'insists' as 'strongly encourages'." "Well I'd like him to take a break," my wife put in. "His stress levels are over the moon. Mine are too, come to that." "Rubbish, I'm fine," I said. "You are not!" she said. "You're always snapping at people, even me. And you get exasperated when I ask you to make trivial decisions, like which movie to see or even what you want for dinner." She turned to Bill for support. "Classic symptoms," he said sympathetically. "You're supposed to be my best friend, not my shrink." I turned back to Jackie. "And you never said anything about being stressed yourself. Is that old fool working her too hard, Bill?" "Well she is the best Assistant Professor in the Astrophysics Department. I imagine Jenkins is just dumping all the admin on her." "Too right," Jackie said, "I wasn't in the lab at all last week, what with budget meetings and writing project business cases - and I haven't set foot in the observatory for a month." "Actually I have an ulterior motive for asking you about your sabbatical," Bill said, with a noticeable hesitation. "I'm in a bit of a spot, and you may be able to help." "Of course," Jackie said. "Anything..." "...within reason," I smiled. "What's the problem?" "We're having difficulty recruiting people for a slightly unusual research programme. If we don't find enough volunteers by the end of the month, they'll cut the funding. It's just that I think you two would be perfect for it, and it would fit in nicely with your sabbatical." "What about Jackie? She can't take much time off. She's used up most of her holiday allowance. That's why I'm hesitating about the sabbatical." "No, no. The project would be full time for you, but Jackie can easily do her part in the evenings and at weekends. In fact, it's quite important that she is working full time." "You've got us intrigued now, Bill," Jackie said. 'Tell us more." I nodded my agreement. "Well the project protocols require me to run through an interview questionnaire with you, and only then can I explain what it's all about. I know you know I know most of the answers already, but rules are rules." He grinned. "Oh, go on then. You psychologists!" Jackie said. "Right, here goes." He took a couple of sheets of A4 out of his pocket. "I won't bother asking your names. First question then: How long have you been married?" "Well you should know, you dick! You were my Best Man!" He sighed. "OK, six years, and the answer to the next question is: no children. Now, would you please describe your occupations?" "Partner, Atkinson Stern, Investment Analysts," I said. "And the youngest partner they've ever had," Jackie said proudly. "Oh, is it me? Senior Lecturer, Astrophysics, Cambridge University." "OK, that routes me down the 'Professional Couple, Both Working Full- time' path of the questionnaire. Here's where it starts to get interesting. Generally speaking, who makes the decisions in your relationship?" Jackie and I looked at each other and grinned. "Generally speaking..." I said. "...we both do," she finished. "Come on, chaps, help me out here," he pleaded. "No, really," I said. "We consult over everything: new house, new car, holidays, investments. It works because we have similar tastes." "I wouldn't even buy a new dress till I'm sure he liked it," Jackie said. "Although she would look gorgeous in a sack, so I don't think I've ever overruled anything she wanted." "Yes, you have. You told me not to buy that green mermaid dress for the May Ball." "Oh yes..." "And you were right. It looked hideous." "It certainly did - and you talked me out of that blue pinstripe suit." "It made you look old." "I thought I looked dignified." "Nope. Just old." She grinned. "OK, I get the picture," Bill interrupted. "Nobody wears the pants in your marriage." "No, we both wear the pants," I said. "But only I wear the dresses," Jackie said. "Well you have much better legs." "Actually yours are pretty good. They'd look great in fishnets." "Ohhh-Kayyyy," said Bill, "moving on. Next question. Would you say you had a 'traditional' marriage, in the sense of subservient, obedient wife and strong, protective husband?" He laughed when he saw the looks on our faces. "No, I would not!" I said firmly. "Jackie is my soulmate, my best friend. I would never give her orders like a servant." But Jackie was looking thoughtful. She smiled and said, "But I do see him as my protector, I suppose. Do you remember that time we were meeting at that bar near your office? I think we were going to dinner and then the theatre, straight from work? Anyway you were held up at the office and I was sitting alone at the bar reading, and this big guy came and tried to chat me up." "Oh yes, I remember." "Anyway, I told him I was married and waiting for my husband. But he was obviously drunk and he said that you couldn't be much of a husband if you let me sit alone in bars. Anyway he had just put his arm around me when you walked in." She paused. I think she was a little embarrassed. Bill was watching us both carefully. "At first I thought he must have been an old friend," I said. "Then I saw that you were trying to shrug his arm off. When I got closer I could see you were angry." "And frightened - till I saw you. You came up to us, brushed past him, took my left hand, and held it up to him, showing him my ring finger. Then you waved your own wedding ring in his face. I remember you didn't say a word. You just looked him straight in the eye. He was much bigger than you, but he lowered his head, muttered something like 'Sorry, mate,' and walked out. I couldn't believe he gave in so easily. I guess he just recognised your... I don't know... authority." Now I was embarrassed. "It didn't seem like a big deal at the time. I suppose I'm just used to people doing what I say - you know, at the office, and so on," I finished lamely. "He could have killed you." We were silent for a while. Bill cleared his throat and said, "Why don't I tell you about the project now?" We sat back to listen. * * * "It's about sex..." he began. "All your projects are," Jackie giggled. I shushed her. She pouted happily. "...kinky sex," he continued. "You've heard of dominatrix - submissive relationships?" "Dommes and subs?" I said. "Sure." "Well, some of the clinicians we work with as part of our research programme have reported a marked increase recently in the number of what they call unhealthy relationships - couples who hurt each other, physically, often quite badly. In other cases the relationship becomes seriously unbalanced; for example, one partner wants more extreme role- playing than the other and this leads to them breaking up. Our psychiatrists have protocols for treating these couples, but they have a distressingly low success rate. Most of the relationships end, and with a suicide in a few cases. The consensus is that clinicians have a basic lack of understanding of how a domme-sub relationship develops in the first place." "Isn't it just that each partner is built that way?" Jackie said. "So when they meet, they recognise each other's... um, proclivities, and get it together?" "Well, that's the key question: do these matching tendencies have to be inbuilt in each partner, or can they develop over time as part of the everyday pressures of modern life? In other words, is it 'nature' or 'nurture'? These relationships seem to be on the increase, especially the failing ones. Though maybe the therapists never see the successful ones." "So the university has been asked to investigate?" I asked. "That's right," Bill said. "We've developed an experimental programme. We look for couples in successful, well-balanced relationships, ask them to do some role-playing, and report back on what they experience." "And you want us to take part?" Jackie asked. "As I said, I think you'd be perfect. I've known you both for ages. You're the happiest, best-matched couple I know. You're both analytical, articulate individuals. Your insights would be invaluable." "Okay, dial it back a little, Mr Used Car Salesman," I said. "You don't have to smarm us into doing it. But we need to know the details. I have the feeling there are parts of this I'm not going to like. You used the word, kinky. I'm really not sure about that." "Oh I didn't mean you have to have kinky sex - well that would actually be up to you - but some of what you'd have to do, Dan, is a little... out there. I probably wouldn't be suggesting this at all if it hadn't been for that Halloween party last year..." "Oh, that," I said. "You do know that was the one and only time in my life I have cross-dressed? I didn't even play a female part in a school play - and ours was an all boys' school." "But you made a fantastic cheerleader," Jackie said, "and a really convincing girl. So sexy! I told you, you have great legs." "And your features are quite delicate. Not exactly feminine," Bill hastened to add, afraid he was being offensive, "but not unmistakably masculine either. With the makeup Jackie put on you, and the long wig in pigtails, you easily passed as a girl... er, I mean you could have, if you'd wanted to." "Okay, okay, I'll pretend I'm not offended for the moment. More details, please. Details!" "Well, the relationship we want to study is where the woman in the relationship is a dominatrix and the man is submissive. The other way around does happen of course, but it doesn't seem to trouble the medical profession much. I guess it's more normal, more acceptable in modern society, and if it gets too extreme it's more a matter for the law courts than psychiatrists. Anyway in the domme-sub relationship, the woman runs the household, and gives the orders, and the man does what he's told." "I suppose we could try that, if you wanted us to," Jackie said dubiously, "but it doesn't sound like it would tell you much." "No, you're right. I'm talking about a much more dramatic change of status. This programme would require you both to adopt new roles, and play them 24-7 for a while." "What roles?" I asked. "Come on, Bill, tell us the worst." He took a deep breath. "Dan, you would become Jackie's maid. Jackie, you would be Dan's mistress and employer." There was silence. Jackie and I looked at each other. I was about to protest, vehemently, when she spoke. "How would it work?" she asked, hoarsely. "First of all, let me stress that everything would be totally anonymous. I'm the only person in the programme who would know who you really are. We would rent a house for you somewhere where nobody knows either of you. Jackie would carry on at work as normal; she'd just be going home to the rented house while her husband was 'away'. Dan, you would be thoroughly disguised as the live-in maid. You wouldn't have to go out if you didn't want to, though you'd probably have to interact with callers like the postman and the grocery delivery driver. You'd be responsible for all cleaning, laundry and cooking in the household, and you'd have to do anything else Jackie asks you to do. Jackie, you'd be in charge. You'd have to make sure that your maid is doing her job properly and take appropriate action if she doesn't." "How long would you want us to do this for?" I asked, intrigued despite my obvious misgivings. "Let me run you through Stage 1 of the programme. On the first day you'd check in to a facility we're using for the project. It's called 'Transformations'. They have all the necessary equipment and skills. During that first week they'll teach you everything you need to know to present yourself as a convincing woman: makeup, hair styling, etc, but also movement, mannerisms, gestures, and so on. They'll have all the clothes you'll need: underwear, nightwear, maid uniforms, shoes, casual dresses, and so on. More importantly, they'll also teach you how to be a maid: housekeeping skills, obviously, but also how to behave as a servant. "You will then join your mistress at her rented house and serve as her housemaid for three weeks. You both have to stay in your roles throughout that period, preferably with no 'time-outs', though we won't be too rigid about that. As your sponsor, I will come by occasionally, probably unannounced, to see how you're getting on." "To check up on us, you mean," Jackie said. "If you like," he agreed. "Anyway we'll ask you both to record a daily diary of your feelings in your role, and fill in a questionnaire every week. For example, do you find yourselves becoming your roles at all, or are you always aware you're play-acting? Dan, do you feel that by living as a maid you're becoming submissive? Jackie, are you getting any pleasure out of ordering your maid around? That is, are you dominating, becoming a dominatrix? This is the really key data we need." "I assume the university would pay our expenses?" I said. "Yes, indeed... though there is a small catch. 'Transformations' is expensive, and then there's the rented accommodation..." "And her clothes," Jackie said, indicating me with a laugh. Her? "Actually they won't be that much - she's a poor working-class woman, remember. She can't afford anything fancy." They both chuckled. I didn't see what was so funny. "So as an incentive to stay the course, you'll have to pay for everything as you go along. All your expenses will be reimbursed eventually - I promise! - provided you finish the four weeks, fill in all the questionnaires, and give us good feedback in your diaries." Bill paused again, and Jackie and I chewed it over. The financial incentive was irrelevant to me, of course. I had no idea how much we'd lose if we dropped out early or didn't provide any data, but I was prepared to bet that I made enough in half a day to pay for everything. I had much more serious concerns. "I'm not sure about this," I began. "I don't know how I feel about my wife seeing me dressed as a woman for a month." "Are you afraid I'll lose my respect for you?" Jackie said. "Come on, babe, you know me better than that. I'll always know you're my big hunky hubby, however you're dressed or acting." "I guess so," I said, doubtfully. "But we've never been in a situation like this. You don't know how you'll feel..." "Are you afraid I'm going to turn into some sort of tyrant and treat you horribly?" I smiled. "No, I don't think that's in your nature. Are there any other rules, Bill?" "Such as what?" "Well, can we still sleep together, for instance?" "Absolutely. The only rule is that what Mistress says, goes. If she wants her maid in her bed - or doesn't - that's her decision." "Oh, I'm looking forward to taking my sweet little maid to bed," Jackie said eagerly. "Don't forget, this isn't about Dan cross-dressing or learning house- keeping skills," Bill continued. "The maid-mistress role-play is just a device to put one of you in a submissive position and the other in a dominant role. We could just as easily do it the other way round with Jackie as the maid, but it's more informative this way because, in general, it's more common for husbands to be dominant. The objective is to explore how a well-balanced real-life relationship responds to domme-sub role play. We want to see what changes, if anything. I guess there is some risk that something might get lost between you, but I think it's much more likely you'll gain something; a more intimate knowledge of each other, new pleasures, who knows?" "I don't think so, Bill," I began. "This isn't my kind of thing at all. It's potentially really embarrassing; and - to put it bluntly - I don't see what's in it for me for the effort I'd have to put in." Bill was clearly disappointed and was trying to marshal a counter- argument, when Jackie came in. "I think this would be good for you, Dan," she said, "not the cross- dressing per se, but a month off with no stress, no giving orders, no responsibility. And you might even find household chores therapeutic!" She laughed. "It would certainly help my stress levels if I no longer have to do my share of the housework. Come to think of it, I don't know why we don't have a maid already. It's not like we can't afford it." I could see that my wife was intrigued by the whole daft project. If she really wanted to do this I knew I'd end up giving in anyway. I might as well save us all some time. I sighed. "Well, I could never refuse you anything," I said. "But doesn't that mean I'm a pussy-whipped submissive already? Doesn't that rule us out of the programme before we start?" "You? Pussy-whipped? As if!" Jackie snorted. Bill laughed and turned to me expectantly. "Oh, okay, I'll go along with it," I said. "I guess it might be fun." Jackie whooped. "I'll let them know at the office that I'll begin my sabbatical in July. Does that work for you?" Bill nodded happily. "By the way," Jackie said, "if this is just Stage 1, what is Stage 2?" "I'll tell you that if you get through Stage 1," Bill said. May - June I arranged for my sabbatical to begin at the end of June, returning on the first Monday in October. This would work well as the summer months were always fairly quiet in my business. I notified my clients that I would be away and that my assistant would be available if they wanted anything. She would be e-mailing all the important investment research, and I told her she could text me if she needed to, but only in an emergency. I couldn't even guarantee I would see e-mails. (Jackie would have her laptop of course, but a maid couldn't ask to use her mistress's computer!) Jackie took all my measurements so that Transformations could start putting my wardrobe together. At Bill's suggestion I stopped getting haircuts so that they could do my hair in a feminine fashion and I could avoid having to wear a wig. Otherwise I wasn't required to do much else to prepare for the Project over the next few weeks, except that Jackie insisted I improve my cooking. She was an excellent cook and loved to prepare most of our meals at home. Knowing my culinary skills all too well, she wasn't confident that the Transformations maid training would be enough, and she didn't want to eat beans on toast for three weeks. Under her instruction, by the start of the sabbatical I was able to prepare a dozen of her favourite meals. Week 1 - Sunday So on the Sunday before my training week was to begin I cooked lunch for Jackie, Bill and myself. He gave us our final briefing as we ate. "I'll drop you off at Transformations later this afternoon. Remember that from the moment you walk in through the door you'll be Nancy." "Who?" "Oh, didn't I tell you?" Jackie grinned. "Bill asked me a couple of weeks ago what I wanted my maid to be called and I chose Nancy." "But I don't like the name Nancy! Don't I get a say in this?" "Of course not. No one ever gets to choose their own name, do they?" Jackie said. "And we can hardly ask your Mum and Dad, can we?" "They always said they would have called me Miriam, if I'd been a girl," I mused. "I suppose even Nancy's better than that. But I'd like to be... How about, Alexandra?" "That's hardly an appropriate name for a maid!" Jackie said. Bill agreed and added, "Anyway the documentation has already been completed in the name, Nancy Potts, so I'm afraid you're stuck with it." "God, I'll sound like a character from Coronation Street or EastEnders!" "If I might continue?" he said, impatiently. "We're due at Transformations at four o'clock. Your consultants will begin your makeover today and continue tomorrow. You will then have four days of maid training. I will pick you up on Saturday afternoon and take you over to your mistress's new home. You'll then have to get it ready for her. Apparently it hasn't been occupied for months, so it will need a good clean. Mistress will arrive on Sunday evening and you will serve her a three-course meal. If you give me a shopping list, I'll make sure the house is well stocked." "That will be nice," Jackie said. "Nancy's getting to be a very good cook." Bill smiled. "You don't need to pack any clothes, and please leave your phone and wallet with Jackie. You won't need a coat either. Everything Nancy needs will be provided there." He paused. "Look, I won't be able to say this once you're both 'in role', so to speak, but thanks for doing this. They confirmed the next year's funding. You've saved my bacon." So that's all right then. * * * Transformations was a big converted Manor House on the outskirts of the town, about a half-hour drive from where we lived. We were welcomed by a very attractive young receptionist. I wondered whether she was actually a she, but there was no sign of maleness in either her slim body or her voice. "Nice to see you again, Professor," she said to Bill, "and this must be Nancy? Hello, I'm Angela." Bill confirmed my identity. It felt really odd being introduced with a woman's name. He signed me in, leaving me with no need to say or do anything. I realised that standing around, watching my 'betters' making decisions for me and waiting for instructions, was going to be my life for the next month. Part of me wanted to protest at being treated like a non-person, but another part was thinking it might actually be quite restful, as Jackie had said. "Now, Nancy," Angela said, "go into the Ladies' locker room over there, take all your clothes off - I mean, everything - and put these on." She handed me a shopping bag from a large department store. I could see something pink inside. "Put your own clothes in the bag and bring it back to me," she added. It seemed I was going to be ordered around by everyone in my new life, even junior support staff. I wasn't used to that. As a Partner in an Investment Bank, I was usually the one doing the ordering around. This was going to be hard to take. Bill could see from my face what I was thinking. He led me away from the receptionist. "Look, Dan, I appreciate how hard this is going to be for you," he said, quietly. "But your reactions to this kind of treatment are what we need to understand. Please just go along with it. You can vent your spleen in your daily diary. Write down exactly what you feel. It'll be invaluable data." I nodded and made my way to the Ladies' and began to strip. The bag contained a pair of pink panties, a cheap pink dressing gown of the kind favoured by middle-aged women, and a pair of pink slippers. I put them all on and looked at myself in the mirror. With my man's haircut, five o'clock shadow and hairy chest and legs, I looked like an idiot. I sighed, stuffed my men's clothes in the bag, and returned to Reception. Bill got up to greet me and reached for the shopping bag. "I'll see these get back to your house," he said. "Don't forget his watch, Professor," said Angela. I took off my expensive men's watch and handed it to Bill. He dropped it in the bag. "Okay, I'll say goodbye now, Nancy. See you on Saturday." Sadly, I watched him go, leaving me to an uncertain fate. I had no cash, no credit cards, no phone, and no ID as my male self. I wondered how he and Jackie would feel if I said I'd changed my mind. * * * Angela took me in to meet my 'consultant'. She was a big-boned lady called Mrs McLaughlin. I was much less certain of her gender than Angela's, but all her mannerisms and gestures were completely feminine. If she was a beneficiary of Transformations' services herself, they must be very good. "I usually ask my clients to call me Ingrid," she said, in a rich contralto which didn't rule out her being either sex, "but you are to be a housemaid, I understand, so we'd better stick to 'Mrs McLaughlin'. It wouldn't do to let someone in your position get too familiar." She walked around me, prodding and poking, and peering very closely at my face. "Professor Hawkins already gave me all your measurements, of course, but I find it's easier to decide on the best transformation - the best physical type for you - when I can examine the subject closely in person," she explained. "I'm satisfied we can make you a completely convincing woman for this interesting project, but I'm afraid you'll have to give up all hope of being young and pretty..." "I never held out any hope of that!" I said. "Oh yes, I was forgetting you're not the usual type of client we get here..." I detected that remark might have been slightly tongue-in-cheek, but I couldn't be bothered trying to persuade her that I was only doing this for 'scientific research'. Just let it go, I told myself. That was hardly the worst thing I was going to have to put up with over the next four weeks. "Anyway," she continued, "you don't have an over-masculine face or features, but with hair and makeup appropriate for a housemaid, you'll still look middle-aged. How old are you anyway?" "Thirty-four." "Well, you might get away with early forties, I suppose; thirty-nine, maybe. Being older will help with your voice too. It's not too deep, so as long as you speak softly it will easily pass for that of a middle-aged woman, but really not for a young girl. The other problem is your figure, of course." "I thought I was slim enough to have quite a decent figure as a woman?" I said. "So you are, but it's all about proportions. Typically, a man has broader shoulders and a thicker waist than a woman of the same height, even if he has no excess fat at all round his tummy and buttocks. So we'll have to pad you out around the hips, thighs and bottom to compensate for the breadth of your shoulders. You'll need something to pinch in your waist too, to give you a feminine 'hourglass' shape. If we don't do all that, your overall figure will look unbalanced and strange for a woman and would attract unwanted attention. Then if anyone were to look at you carefully for too long, they'd soon work out you were a man in drag. Sadly the padding you'll need will make you a little plump, and we'll have to choose breast forms to match, of course. I think you can expect to be a generous size 16." I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but I knew Jackie was a size 8. So not just a maid then, but a middle-aged, fat maid. Terrific! * * * The rest of Sunday was a nightmare. I was led, still wearing my panties, slippers and neglig?e, to a salon where a big, bluff no- nonsense woman called Vera gave me an all-over waxing, including my face and neck. Although she kindly started me off with a quadruple Jack Daniels to render me inert, it was still the worst pain I can remember. She wiped away several spots of blood, and the soothing lotion she rubbed in afterwards helped a little. After the waxing Mrs McLaughlin came to collect me and took me into a dark room with a lot of high-tech equipment. She then went next door to the control room. I had to stand stock still on a da?s - naked - while several cameras on gantries flashed and took photographs from all sides. When they had finished she signalled me to put my clothes back on and join her at the computer terminal in the next room. I saw what looked like a 3D image of my body with red and green sections highlighted. She was twiddling with various knobs. "This enables us to see how much padding you will need to approximate a convincing feminine figure. It also programmes the 3D printer to make the prosthetics." A huge machine on the other side of the room started whirring. A strange plasticky smell filled the air. After a couple of minutes Mrs McLaughlin went over to the machine and collected a number of strangely-shaped, flesh-coloured objects from its output tray. "I'll start with your breasts, I think," she said, approaching me with two huge fleshy mounds. "That will get you started feeling like a woman." She had me lie down on my back on a massage bed. "Now hold very still. I'm using medical adhesive and it's best if it only goes where it's supposed to." She painted my chest and the back of the first form. Then she pressed it onto me and leant down hard with all her weight for a count of sixty. I thought she was going to crack my ribs. Then she repeated the exercise with the other form. "Right, you need to stay still for another five minutes to let the adhesive set. Then you can put on your first bra." Oh joy. "I assume it is your first?" she said, still sceptical. "It certainly is!" "If you say so, Nancy." When she eventually allowed me to move, I tried to sit up and was astonished at the weight on my chest. Mrs McLaughlin laughed and hastened to wrap a huge bra around me. "Here you are. You'll need this to support their weight, and it will prevent the forms from tearing your chest. The skin will rip before the adhesive will break." It was a plain white bra, not especially frilly or sexy, the kind a middle-aged, working-class woman would wear. I put my arms through the shoulder straps. She fastened the clasp behind me and I immediately felt more comfortable. "Now for your abdominal prosthesis. That means the padding for your hips, thighs and buttocks." "I know what 'abdominal' means. I was at Cambridge; I know lots of long words." "You might have been, dear, but Nancy certainly wasn't. You're going to have to start hiding your elite education, you know, and I'm afraid you'll have to get used to people talking down to you. Now step into this." The 'abdominal prosthesis' was like a pair of plastic running shorts, but flesh-coloured, and heavily padded, the mock blubber contoured to resemble a middle-aged woman's cellulite. When I reached to pull it up, I found it was really heavy, like the breasts. The fleshy parts wobbled realistically. Mrs McLaughlin noticed me struggling. "The prostheses are designed to weigh the same as real flesh," she said. "That way the wearer is forced to move as he'd have to if they were actually part of him. I'm afraid Nancy won't be running and jumping about much. "Now the next part is tricky. Let me help you adjust yourself. You might find this a little uncomfortable at first, but you'll soon get used to it." And without the slightest sign of embarrassment - on her part, at least - she reached inside the tight-fitting padded panties and manoeuvred my wedding tackle into a special compartment that went down between my legs. It certainly was uncomfortable. She helped lever my testicles back up into the cavities from which they had descended twenty years ago. "We usually recommend gluing this on with a special paste that prevents perspiration, but I understand that Bill and your Mistress don't want that for the moment. So you will get a little sweaty, and you'll have to take it off every few days and clean yourself up. Otherwise you could develop a nasty rash." I would be perfectly happy to divest myself of this hideous thing as often as possible. She stood back to admire her handiwork. "That looks pretty good. You appreciate you'll have to sit down to use the toilet, but you should find the apertures in the prosthesis are correctly aligned with yours, so 'doing your business' should all feel quite natural. But now you look like a naked woman down there. You'd better put some knickers on. These should fit you perfectly." She handed me a pair of panties that matched my bra. I put them on and when I looked in the mirror now I didn't look quite so stupid. I put my neglig?e and slippers back on. Mrs McLaughlin looked up at the clock on the clinic wall. It showed nine p.m. By force of habit I looked down to check it against my own watch - accurate to a second a year - but of course it was no longer on my wrist. "I think that's enough for today," she said. "I'll show you to your room. You can call down to the kitchen for some supper if you like, but they won't let you order anything too heavy. You have to learn to eat like a woman now, Nancy. Tomorrow: hair, makeup and clothes." And all this while being called 'Nancy' and treated like a servant, a second-class citizen. But there was one ironic compensation: I hated it! So I couldn't be a latent submissive, could I? * * * I was shown to a bedroom which was pleasant enough. It was a bed-sit, much like student accommodation or a room at the Premier Inn or Travelodge, except that it had a distinctly feminine feel to it; soft pastel colours; frilly duvet; a small en suite with a wide range of herbal bath salts; and a toilet seat that wouldn't go up. Presumably the management wanted me to sit down to do my business, rather than point and shoot at a much-reduced target, not that I had any choice while wearing the prosthesis. The wardrobe contained some cheap and probably second-hand dresses, a dark blue cardigan, and some smart and clearly new maid's uniforms: two grey, one pink and one black. All of them had long sleeves, which would mean the thickness of my arms and my masculine muscles would always be concealed. On the floor of the wardrobe were two pairs of plain black patent leather shoes in what I guessed would be my size, one lace-up and one 'Mary Jane'-style with a strap. Both had one-inch heels. There was also a pair of white ladies' sneakers. The chest of drawers contained plain bras and knickers, much like the ones I was wearing; underslips; several pairs of pantyhose, tights, etc, in black and nude; two strange-looking belt-like garments, one black and one white; and a couple of half-aprons, presumably for use with the maid's uniforms. I wasn't tempted to explore further, let alone to experiment. All that could wait until I was actually instructed to do so. As far as I could see there were no pants, not even women's slacks. They obviously intended that I stick to dresses for the duration. A plain ladies' watch was on the nightstand. I put it on. I'd felt naked without a watch. A cotton nightdress, pink as usual, had been laid across the bed. No point in fighting it. I put it on and slumped down in the chair beside the bed. There I saw a large format, spiral-bound diary, which, as promised, Bill had left for me to record my feelings in each night. I decided to start right away. Nancy's Diary - Week 1, Sunday Well the first day was completely horrible. They made me feel a complete idiot, dressing me in female underclothes and calling me 'Nancy' while I still looked completely like a man. And I didn't take to that McLaughlin woman at all. (I assume she doesn't get to see anything I write, Bill?) She clearly doesn't believe that my 'transformation' is all in the name of science and is assuming that I am either a genuine transsexual, in denial, or a deluded fantasist. Well fuck her. I have nothing to prove to her, and as long as she does a good job, I don't care. I'll never see her or anyone else here again after this. I have to say, with regard to the domme-sub thing, I'm not feeling it yet. I don't feel submissive at all - even though everyone here is treating me like I'm stupid and uneducated - I just feel angry. Presumably because for most of my adult life I've been treated with respect, and now everyone is looking down at me. But of course, they don't know me, and arguably they're only doing this to help me get into character, so perhaps I should give them a break. I guess I shouldn't have told the McLaughlin woman I was at Cambridge. Maybe the worst of this is that today was just the first day of being separated from Jackie and sleeping alone in a strange bed. It's like the first day of boarding school and I miss my wife, lover, best friend. Perhaps I'm just lonely, or homesick, or something. If I had to summarise my feelings, it would be anger and resentment. At this point I can't imagine putting up with this for one week, let alone four. Is that the sort of thing you wanted in this diary thing, Bill? Week 1 - Monday A uniformed waitress (Male? Female? No idea!) woke me at seven o'clock with a glass of orange juice and a tasteless muesli-like cereal. When I started moving and attempted to get out of bed, I nearly fell over from the unfamiliar weight distribution of my huge breasts and grossly-enhanced butt, hips and thighs. I hadn't attempted to remove the 'abdominal prosthesis' the previous night, partly because it seemed sensible to try and get used to it, and partly because it was too much like hard work. I resolved to take it off that night though and get properly cleaned up. I was told to report to Mrs McLaughlin's office downstairs by eight o'clock wearing one of my ordinary dresses, rather than a maid's uniform, and not to forget my 'waist-cincher' - whatever that was. After eating my breakfast I decided to risk a shower. I took off my nightie, panties and bra, but didn't attempt to remove any prosthetics. Being wider now than I had been, I managed to hit my side against the shower door, both getting in and getting out again. Fortunately I only banged my 'padding' and didn't hurt myself, but it was a sharp reminder of my unfamiliar plumpness. On the plus side, the prosthetics seemed to be completely waterproof. For the day, I chose a rather shapeless floral number, nude control-top tights, and the Mary Janes. Unfortunately it was too tight around the waist and I couldn't get it to fasten. Neither of the other dresses were any better. Then I remembered the 'waist-cincher' instruction, presumably referring to the two belt-like garments in my lingerie drawer. I took out the white one and wrapped it around myself. I pulled the laces as tight as I dared and tied them off. When I put the dress back on, the fiendish apparatus showed all too clearly through the thin material of my dress. So I took the dress off again and put on a white underslip. The cincher's lumps were now smoothed over. I put the dress on again and with some difficulty zipped myself up. Success! * * * Mrs McLaughlin greeted me briskly. "Morning, Nancy. I trust you slept well?" She gave me no time to answer but quickly continued, "That dress looks very nice on you. Come along now, dear. Lots to do today!" She rushed off along the corridor from her office in the opposite direction from where we had been the previous day. I followed, slightly more slowly. The one-inch heels weren't too challenging, but I had never worn heels of any kind before. Also I was finding the jiggling of my boobs and the sideways motion of my buttocks disconcerting. When I tried to match Mrs McLaughlin's pace I found my rear swaying disturbingly from side to side. The room she led me into turned out to be a hairdressing salon with all the usual fittings: swivel chairs in front of mirrors; batteries of dyes and setting solutions; racks of curlers of various sizes; scissors and clippers; and tall, free-standing hair dryers. Mrs McLaughlin introduced me to a cheery, middle-aged lady called Sharon, who I was told would be looking after my hair and makeup. "Just a little off the top, please," I said, in a pathetic attempt at humour. Sharon smiled. "Sorry, love, you're in for the full treatment today. Trim, tint and perm." "What? Why?" Mrs McLaughlin stepped in. "As I explained yesterday, we think your best chance of being convincing will be to make you a slightly overweight, lower-class woman in her early forties. At that age, you would expect to have noticeably greying hair, and most women would use a little tint. Now, Nancy can't afford an expensive hairdo, or the frequent maintenance that would entail..." "...So we're giving you a cheap, semi-permanent tint," finished Sharon. "It will be a bit obvious, I'm afraid, but that fits with your character too. Tints of this kind can last up to twenty washes on average, slowly fading away every time you shampoo your hair." "But why a perm?" I asked. "Again, it fits the character," said Mrs McLaughlin, getting up to leave. "And it will frame your face better and make you look more feminine," added Sharon. "Don't let it get wet for at least the next forty-eight hours, and always wear a headscarf or a hat when you're outdoors if it looks like it might rain." At this point she pushed my head down over the basin, giving me no further chance to protest. It was no surprise to learn that I was going to be blonde. * * * While I was sitting there with curlers in, Sharon painted my nails a bright red. Then she began my makeup. "I'm going to do the bare minimum," she said, "to keep it simple for you, and anyway a cleaning lady wouldn't bother with much makeup when she's working. I'll explain everything I do as I go along, and then I'll clean it all off and you can do it again yourself. That whole exercise took well over an hour. I might be a natural at mastering complex financial instruments, but when it came to makeup, it turns out I'm a slow learner. But the process was quite enjoyable. She also showed me how to do bolder makeup for going out in the evening. Privately I was determined that would never happen. When she was eventually satisfied that I had mastered 'Cleaning Lady Makeup 101', Sharon took out my curlers and brushed my hair. "You realise you'll need to put curlers in every night?" she said. "I hope you were watching how I did it." My heart sank. "I'm sure I'll manage," I said. "I'll give you a sleep bonnet to wear over them. Otherwise a curler could catch on your bedclothes and rip your hair out." Then she called Mrs McLaughlin. When she returned the two women studied me carefully. "I think we'll have to give you glasses," Mrs McLaughlin said. Sharon concurred. "But I have 20-20 vision." "I mean, as part of your disguise. Despite everything you still look too young." "And pretty," added Sharon. "Put these on," said Mrs McLaughlin, reaching for a pair of ladies' glasses from a box on a nearby shelf. "Don't worry - they're plain glass. They'll make you look older, and conceal your features better. People look different wearing glasses; they're like a mask. So it's even less likely you'll be recognised if you do bump into someone you know." I put the glasses on. They both nodded. "Right," she continued. "Time to get you over to the training centre. You look like a woman now, but we still have to teach you to move like a woman." * * * We made our way out of a side entrance to an adjacent building and into a large open room. It had a polished wood-tiled floor and a high ceiling. It reminded me of my old school's gymnasium, minus the wall bars and exercise equipment. There were white lines painted on the floor too, but they weren't for badminton or basketball. They included footprints and I guessed they were the steps for various ballroom dances. A long trestle table stood against the wall at one end, with various strange-looking items of equipment scattered along its surface. A tall thin woman approached us. She looked even more like a schoolmistress than Mrs McLaughlin "You must be Nancy," she said. Her manner was a little brusque, and she made no attempt to shake hands. "This is Miss Parr, Nancy," said Mrs McLaughlin. "I'll leave you in her capable hands." "Thank you, Ingrid," Miss Parr said. "I understand I have the rest of the day to teach her to move like a lady?" "Not a lady, actually, Alice. Just a female. Nancy is going to be a housemaid." "Ah, one of those. Well, that will be a little easier." I was getting used to Transformations staff making assumptions regarding my motives for this silly exercise. That didn't stop my anger rising again, but nothing would be gained by giving vent to my feelings, so I kept quiet. Neither woman showed any sign of noticing my sullen demeanour. "I'll check back with you later in the day," said Mrs McLaughlin, and left me with my new instructor. "Now then, Nancy," Miss Parr began, indicating that I should sit down on one of the hard-back chairs in front of the table. "We're going to begin with your walk. I'm sure you know that men and women walk differently. There are several reasons for this, some physiological, some psychological. Firstly, the angle the femur makes with the pelvis is significant. The average woman's pelvis, being much wider than the average man's, makes a greater angle to the femur. As a result, a woman's gait is noticeably different from a man's. "Secondly: weight distribution. Women have a lower centre of gravity as well as wider hips. This causes their feet to point naturally towards one another, and thus a slight horizontal swaying motion. A man's centre of mass is higher, and his tapering hips and protruding genitalia cause the male feet naturally to point outwards from the body, restricting horizontal movement." This was actually quite interesting, though I wasn't sure how it was going to help me. "Thirdly: body shape. A woman with substantial breasts - like you," she chuckled, "- has to adjust her posture to keep her centre of gravity above her hips." It was true; I had realised I was now leaning back slightly to compensate for the additional weight on my chest - though not as far as I would have had to if it weren't for the compensating weight of my pudgy thighs and buttocks. "Typically," Miss Parr continued, "a woman arches her back, puts her weight on the front of her feet, pulls her shoulders back, and so on. Also, women have more body fat and less muscle; they have slimmer limbs, narrower shoulders and waists, and on average they are shorter than men and so take shorter strides. A woman's hips naturally move from side to side more, because her hips are wider apart than those of a male of the same height. All these factors result in a different walk." She saw I was about to interrupt - relevance, your honour? - and said quickly, "I see you're wondering how this can help you make a more convincing female impersonation. My point is, it's not actually difficult to change your gait once you're aware of all these physical differences. But it takes practice and self-discipline, which we're going to work on today." I finally got a word in. "You also mentioned psychological reasons for the difference between how men and women move?" She smiled. "Yes, part of it is that both men and women sometimes walk in a way designed to attract the opposite sex; men swagger, women sashay - hips swinging, chest out. This may be conscious or unconscious. But I don't think that's something you need to be thinking about, is it?" I glowered. "Definitely not. I'm not interested in attracting anyone - male or female." "Right, now let's do some walking practice. You can start with the shoes you have on. One-inch heels, aren't they? You've probably already noticed that you have to walk differently in heels, but the adjustments you have to make will all help you walk like a woman. Up to a point, the higher the heel, the more you have to consciously adjust your gait. We'll be trying some higher heels later on." She led me over to the middle of the hall and positioned me on a white square on the floor. A straight white line led off the square towards another one at the other end of the hall. "Now I want you to walk along the line to the far end. Don't try too hard to be feminine. First, let's just see how your new padding and prostheses affect your gait. Remember: shoulders back, chest out." I set off. She darted around me, sometimes behind, sometimes to my side. I realised she was filming me on a small hand-held video camera. To keep my balance, I was walking more slowly than I was used to. I found I was holding my hands still, not swinging them as I would have before. I wasn't sure how my butt was moving, but I definitely felt the skirt of my dress swishing from side to side. When I reached the end of the hall, I stopped and turned around for her comments. "Good. Now back again to where you started, but this time focus on pointing your toes. Try to place each foot on the white line. Allow a little more swivel to your hips." I set off again, trying to do as she said. I was watching the white line intently and placing each foot on it. This was quite difficult as my bust was big enough that I couldn't actually see my feet, only the places where I intended to put them when I - and they - got there. It felt strange, like I was almost crossing my legs over one another, but I could definitely feel my rear swinging now. It almost felt like a parody of a woman's walk, like I was a drag queen, mincing along for laughs. I stopped again back by the table. "That was better, but you need to shorten your stride; there's no rush. You probably felt like you were overdoing the 'girliness', didn't you?" I nodded glumly. "Well, you were, but not by much. For the moment, you need to keep doing it like that. Once the new movements become ingrained in your muscle memory, you'll be able to dial it back naturally. You do seem to be getting comfortable in your heels, which is very good." She gave me a handbag. "OK, again, but this time I want you to carry this in the crook of your arm. Tuck your elbows in toward your waist, hold your forearms parallel to the floor, and let your hands fall loosely from the wrist. Cut the arm-swinging out completely." After a couple more lengths she replaced the handbag with a tea tray laden with crockery. Now I couldn't swing my arms at all and had to swing my hips a lot to keep the tray level. And so the day continued. I was surprised how tiring all this walking was, but I suppose I now had to carry a lot more weight than I was used to. We took a break for coffee at about eleven, after which I had to repeat all the exercises wearing a headscarf and an outdoor coat. By lunchtime I was starting to get it. With this moderate success my sullen resentment of my situation had started to evaporate. Miss Parr was a good teacher. She was encouraging and praised me for each little advance. The whole process reminded me a little of when Jackie and I had tried ballroom dancing lessons, and of when I struggled to learn how to hit a topspin forehand with the tennis club coach. My real successes in life had always been intellectual and that was what I was good at. Learning new physical movements was a challenge and I was proud of myself for the progress I was making. To my relief at around one o'clock Miss Parr called a halt. I collapsed gratefully into a chair, pulled my shoes off, and massaged my aching feet and calves through my stockings. A buffet lunch was brought in for us. she uploaded her videos to a laptop and we studied my efforts while we ate. My first few walks down the hall were deeply embarrassing. Despite trying to follow her instructions I looked like a soldier square-bashing in drag. Miss Parr was ruthless as she pointed out what I was doing wrong. But as we watched I could see steady improvement, and to my astonishment, by the time we reached the video of my last walk before we stopped for lunch, I realised we were watching a woman. There was no trace of maleness in the figure in the picture, in either appearance or movement. After lunch Miss Parr announced we were going to work on other aspects of feminine behaviour. "I only have time to teach you enough gestures, mannerisms, and speech patterns to stop you from looking odd and attracting attention. Your feminine behaviour and movement will improve as time goes on. It'll help for you to be in your role as Nancy twenty-four-seven and interact with other people as a woman." I refrained from pointing out that that wasn't going to happen. I was going to stay in our house for the entire three weeks, and the only person I was going to interact with would be Jackie. So we started working on how to sit down and stand up like a woman, the main lesson being to keep my legs together and my back straight. All men have a tendency to slouch when they sit, I learnt, probably because of the male genitalia. With my junk tightly tucked away in my prosthesis, sitting like a woman wasn't too difficult, but it required constant concentration, and I quickly lost count of how often Miss Parr pulled me up for letting my legs drift apart. When she was satisfied I had got the gist of these instructions she asked, "Do you want to learn to curtsey?" "No, I don't!" I said. Then I thought it over for a moment. "But I suppose I better had." This whole project was supposed to be about finding out whether playing a subservient role would make an otherwise assertive person submissive. I therefore needed to adopt subservient behaviours to see how they made me feel. Curtseying was about as subservient as it gets. So she showed me how to curtsey and I had to spend twenty minutes practising. It wasn't difficult, but it was quite a strain on my back as well as my already tender leg muscles and feet. I looked forward to showing my best curtsey off to Jackie. She'd laugh her head off. Miss Parr also drilled me in feminine patterns of speech. She fired lots of phrases at me, describing the day to day experiences of a woman's life, and I had to repeat what she said exactly how she said it. I began to see how women express a thought quite differently from men. She told me women use a 'rising inflection' much more, almost as though they're not confident in what they're saying, or maybe it was that they tended to be consultative when expressing an opinion, rather than authoritative. She also had me change the tone of my voice to inject more emotion and illustrate my words with lots of hand movements. I shuddered to think what some of our feminist friends would make of Miss Parr's instructions, but I supposed she was generally right. In any case, her views were fine for a humble maid, if not for a woman CEO or a cabinet minister, or a senior manager at Atkinson Stern. After a brief tea break, we went back to walking. Now she made me repeat all the morning's exercises in progressively higher heels. The pain in my feet, ankles and calves returned with a vengeance, but I managed. My feminine walk seemed to have become ingrained, as she had said it would. By five o'clock when we stopped again for tea and more videos, walking had become torture. But I was now managing four-inch heels and my movement was entirely feminine. I was a little worried that I would struggle ever to walk like a man again. I wondered if Miss Parr offered exercises to undo what she had done. Mrs McLaughlin turned up at about 5.30 and I was required to demonstrate what I had learned to her. "Very good. Thank you, Alice," she said. "You may return to your room now, Nancy. I will expect you for dinner in the dining room at 7.30, where I trust you will demonstrate everything you have learned today. Change into your best dress and your highest heels and put on evening makeup." And just like that, McLaughlin's superior attitude ruined my good humour. She made me feel like I was in prison, or perhaps a girls' boarding school. I'm not a woman, I insisted to myself, and certainly not a maid! I felt my anger and frustration returning. Miss Parr told me to keep the high heels I had been using during the afternoon and wear the four-inchers to dinner. I put my one-inch heels back on and limped back to my room. Nancy's Diary - Week 1, Monday OK, Bill, the second day had its ups and downs. You want to know my feelings? Well, here goes. When I woke up and saw myself in the mirror in my nightie, with my woman's hairdo and my tubby feminine figure, I had to admit I looked the part, but I didn't feel female in any way, let alone feminine. A day of intensive movement training seems to have changed that. It was hard, painful work, and I know my legs and feet are going to be sore tomorrow. It was also an emotional roller-coaster. I started off in a bad mood, which got worse when I realised how difficult it was going to be. But as I began to master my lessons, and got positive feedback from my instructor, I began to cheer up. Maybe I bonded with her and wanted to please her? She was a lot more 'user-friendly' than that ghastly McLaughlin woman, after all. But I don't think it was that. It was more that I saw this as a challenge and was determined not to let it beat me. It was my competitiveness, not incipient submissiveness. Sorry! Anyway, when I went down to dinner this evening, in my best dress (still fairly shabby by Jackie's standards), pantyhose, high heels, and evening makeup, I felt quite different from how I woke up this morning. I was now consciously trying to move and act like a woman, and it seemed to be working. I am still definitely me on the inside, but like an actor at the first dress rehearsal, I am starting to 'inhabit the role'. I think I can be her convincingly. It may even be fun, fooling everyone! The heels restrict my movement and force me to adopt a feminine posture. My breast forms are so big and heavy that when I arch my back and thrust my chest out to help with my balance, my boobs are way out in front of me. I'm just afraid they'll attract the wrong kind of attention. Dinner with McLaughlin got me angry again. I couldn't eat much because of my girdle thing. Of course, without it I wouldn't have been able to fasten my dress, but that wasn't what annoyed me. Playing Nancy wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for McLaughlin's constant criticism. I was tired after the day's exertions, and probably losing my concentration, and she was constantly reminding me to 'Sit with your knees together' and 'Cross your legs properly'. (Apparently, men and women cross their legs differently when they're sitting down. Who knew?) She also got me to describe my day and corrected my way of speaking many times. 'You sound like a man. A woman would never use that word. A maid would never express her opinion that strongly.' It was a self-service cafeteria and when I got up to get my meal, she came with me saying 'Shorter strides' and 'Put each foot directly in front of the other' and 'Bend your arms at the elbow' and 'Let your wrist hang loosely'. It never stopped. She also insisted on accompanying me to the Ladies. There it was 'You need to smile more' and 'Don't forget to freshen your lipstick'. It just went on and on. But you want to know what effect this treatment is having on me? I'm still not feeling submissive, but maybe my anger is slowly turning to stoicism. I'm going to see this through. I hope you and the university are suitably grateful. I'm sitting at the desk writing this in my underwear. I glance at myself in the mirror. With my curvy figure, hairdo and makeup, and my feminised movements and mannerisms, I'm beginning to get some strange feelings - is this female sexuality?!! I suppose I'd better put my curlers in. Week 1 - Tuesday I was woken at six-thirty with orange juice and toast. The waitress handed me a note from Mrs McLaughlin, which was characteristically terse: Early start today. Meet at front entrance at seven-fifteen. Wear grey maid uniform, cardigan, outside coat, headscarf, one-inch heels. Bring large handbag with cap, apron, and flats. I wolfed done the meagre breakfast, showered (with a shower cap on for the first time ever), took my curlers out, brushed my hair, and put on some light make-up - a pale lipstick and just enough foundation to disguise the roughness of my skin. Then I dressed as instructed, including the dreaded waist-cincher. The uniform dress was still quite snug, even with the girdle thing, but that was probably for the best. It would make me keep my knees together. I put on my outside coat and headscarf. I paused to check my appearance in the wardrobe mirror. I swallowed nervously. I looked exactly like a plump, middle-aged, working-class woman. I felt completely humiliated, but I suppose it was a whole lot better than looking like a man dressed as a middle-aged, working-class woman. When I got down to the front entrance at the appointed time, Mrs McLaughlin greeted me. "Ah, Nancy, there you are," she said, as though I was twenty minutes late instead of two minutes early. She handed me a packed lunch in a brown paper bag and led me outside to a waiting taxi. "The driver will drop you at the offices of the cleaning company we've arranged for you to work for this week. When you get back there later, they'll call him to pick you up and bring you back here." With that, she turned on her heel and hurried back inside, leaving me with lots of questions. I got in the car with my handbag and packed lunch, trusting that her arrangements would all work. Fastening the seatbelt was a challenge with my new boobs. It wasn't comfortable over or down the side of either, so I had to manoeuvre the strap to go between them, which wasn't much better. But it was only a short journey. The car pulled up outside a nondescript office block. I went inside where I was greeted by a large, smiling black lady, who was dressed similarly to me. She looked about my age; that is Nancy's age - mid-forties, at least ten years older than Dan. "Hi, you must be Nancy. Lovely to meet you, darling. I'm Maggie. We'll be working together this week." We shook hands limply, girly fashion. Hers were meaty and calloused, but her manner was friendly and jovial. I liked her immediately. Maybe this week wouldn't be all bad. I wondered if she had been told I was really a man. I certainly intended to assume not. I knew my disguise was pretty much flawless, but had I learnt enough about feminine behaviour, gestures, mannerisms, speech patterns, etc? I guess I'd soon find out. If I accidentally gave Maggie any indications of my true sex, she'd be bound to let something slip sometime during the day. "Let's get on the bus," she said. "I can tell you all about what we'll be doing today when we're on board." And she led the way outside to where a twelve-seater minibus was waiting. Home Counties Housekeeping Services was stencilled on the side and back. It was about ten years old, judging by the number plate, and sorely in need of a car wash. The back door was open and foldaway steps had been deployed. The bus was laid out with benches down each side. Maggie led the way in and I followed, mindful of yesterday's lessons on feminine movement. I had to gather my tight skirt and raise it above my knees to climb the steps. I felt the stiffness in my ankles and calves. The bus was nearly full of chattering women of various races and colours, all wearing different kinds of cleaning uniforms. Only three of us were in maids' dresses. Most were in smocks and skin-tight black trousers. Many of them paused in their conversations to give us friendly smiles. They all welcomed Maggie by name and showed unabashed curiosity about me. "This is Nancy," Maggie said. "She's new. She'll be working with me at the Sheldrake place all week." Sheldrake? Where had I heard that name before? A chorus of "Hi, Nancy!" and "Welcome to the madhouse!" and happy laughter rang out, then the conversations resumed. The ladies on the left-hand side of the bus moved up toward t