1 is the Loneliest Number

Chapter One

Everything was monitored; if you walked to the right, if you dressed to the left. Loose lips could sink ships, but we had become paranoid, eager to report one another. There was reason in our madness: the war and some of us really were ill, criminal. Fortunately, we had doctors to identify our sickness; unfortunately, the tools at their disposal were morbid.

The anorak sitting next to me was shaking. “I’m going on ward,” he said, “or worse, straight to the front.”

His face was red, sweating, and he looked rotund like a red wobbly jelly. It was hot today, and he wore the wrong coat. He sat in the corner, fenced in against the grey wall of the waiting room. There was no clock, just a ticket machine. Time was judged by the next number that flashed on the screen.

The only spare seat had been next to his. Everyone else had avoided it, like he had the flu or something worse, contagious, deadly. But this was much worse; this blabbermouth might get you drafted. We needed manpower on the front willing, or unwilling, to spill blood for the cause.

I slipped on a pair of powdered latex gloves, and picked up a paper to read from the rack. There was no mention of the war, only cake recipes, not recipes for disaster.

“What are you here for?” he asked.

I tried to ignore him. He looked out of condition, and was struggling for breath. It didn’t pay to be near the ill; it made you look unhealthy too. And that was dangerous. You could be investigated, labelled, then pigeon-holed in a soulless cell. Ill health was treated with a stretch inside, with survivors judged fit for combat. The Council allowed the horror stories from inside to filter out; they were meant to frighten us, keep us on our toes.

“Me, all I said was men should decide for themselves,” he stammered. “A slip of the tongue; my neighbour reported me. I only meant we are still shown too much respect, that some would choose harsher penalties, crueller controls.”

The room was gloomy, like our mood. The one bright light was the Femocratic officer guarding us.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m just here for my yearly check-up,” I said.

He sounded a bit far off the loop, and I was starting to hear the cuckoo clock chime. Though, no one was ever mentally ill; rather, they were unwell, like the old-timers who were un-young.

That’s right. Maybe you didn’t need a doctor, but how would anyone know if it wasn’t life threatening? Hence, there was the annual consultation. And if you were fit, had a clean bill of health, you’d just earned extra credits. So why did everyone look terrified?

An old man coughed, and everyone shuffled uneasily in their seat.

“You see, the real joy is in total submission,” said the guy wanting to be my friend, the humiliation freak.

His mouth was chubby, with the bottom lip loosely hanging down, out of control like his morals. His wide forehead should have encased a larger brain, but he was empty headed, like all of us guys.

“Is he bothering you?” asked the guard.

Her eyes darted everywhere; they never relaxed, frightened to lose what they had gained, stolen from us.

Did I say yes or no? Which reply made me look most cooperative, more social? I looked at the young slim Officer, into her pretty brown eyes. At least they couldn’t read our thoughts, yet. But they could change them with a prescription.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

She was smiling and her tone was friendly, but females were far deadlier than the male. And did she really want to help, or feast on my helplessness as she corrected the situation on my behalf? A room full of men, and it took just one woman to control us; we really were pathetic.

“I’m fine,” I finally replied.

I wasn’t fine, happy, or content. I wore a mask like all the other guys; only mine wasn’t made of mud. I was having thoughts, dreams I couldn’t control, of taking control and subduing them, women. It was both seductive and frightening.

“You don’t recognise me, do you?” said the anorak.

His tone was deadly serious. I felt nervous.

“That’s all right. It was a long time ago. You haven’t changed though.”

I was spooked.

“College,” he said. “MEN.”

“Danny 55?”

He nodded.

“Keep your voice down,” I whispered.

I bit the first finger on my clenched fist. He’d piled on the pounds, and my head was pounding.

“We were young, messing around,” I said.

“They didn’t see it that way.”

We were lucky. They never discovered who’d painted the college assembly with ‘Male Emancipation Now, MEN.’

Though my luck might have just run out, and that was more than a shame; it was a tragedy. I was a success of sorts, had the good life of a kind, at least for men like me.

“I don’t feel good Valery 01, they’re going to take me,” he murmured.

I didn’t know what to say, I just played with my hair. We’d met in the synchronised swimming team, neither of us good enough to make the netball grade. But we weren’t failures; you couldn’t be, literally. We were neither winners nor losers, but known as ‘not yet winners’; so there you have it. We were still valued, accomplished, almost.

“Do me one favour,” he implored in hushed tones.

I looked over his shoulder, out of the window at the street, and the long queue of taxis.

“I’ve changed,” I said.

“But the past hasn’t. We could still be charged.”

“What do you want?”

“Hey you two,” shouted the officer, “stop discussing the weather.”

We weren’t, but we did.

The others in the room looked at me, judging, I could read it on their tired male faces.

A light flashed over our heads: number five to reception. It was the only recognition of existence in our morose pessimism.

“That’s me,” said Danny 55.

He held out his hand to shake, and instinctively I shook it. I regretted it immediately, but at least I still had my gloves on.

“I won’t be coming back,” he said.

There was a tear in the corner of his eye, and he brushed it away. I instantly felt guilty for not caring.

He looked into my eyes, my soul, and smiled, but not happily, rather with a wry sadness. The Guard was watching us, snarling. Her boots were up to the knee, over a tight blue jump suit. There was a holster strapped around her waist and, unlike the guys here, she was fully loaded.

I shook my head; the anorak was on his way. I slipped the piece of paper he had palmed me into my pocket, crumpled in the rolled up gloves. Probably an address for a rendezvous; I got a lot of that. But if the guard saw it, she might read my file and sign me up for hormones. I had to admit I’d considered the idea, being a shemale. It would mean a bigger apartment, promotion, and maybe regular sex.

I had some vintage magazines hidden under the floor boards, illegal stuff from when women were once considered objects of desire. It was corrupting, animalistic. But we’d moved on from our base desires when men caused the wars. Sure we were in the middle of World War Three, but that wasn’t women’s fault; over half the worlds’ men were still Undiagnosed.

Patients, all men, came and went. Danny 55 was right, he didn’t return.

It was my turn, and I tapped the door nervously.

“Enter,” she said sternly.

She wore a white coat, and looked down her nose, undressing me like a piece of meat. I felt awkward, violated.

“Take off all of your clothes, and stand over there.”

I stripped slowly, goose bumps prickling my flesh. My bellbottom trousers came off last. I avoided underwear with tight trousers lest the panty lines should show. I placed them folded on the chair next to my white blouse and thin polyester jacket hanging on the back.

I could see an anorak dangling on the back of the door, and I recognised his other clothes thrown in the corner next to the bin with the yellow bag. Danny 55 must have changed in a hurry into prison uniform. He was obese and could have worn a bra, but they were banned on both sexes. For women the chains had come off, and they needed no reminder, only a standard issue webbed vest.

The doctor pointed at the weighing scales next to the bed. There was no screen, no privacy. I was a specimen to be examined.

“Good,” she said reading the dial.

I felt invigorated, relieved.

“Face the middle of the room,” she said.

The name badge read ‘Doctor Persephone Eve’. They had no numbers, those were for men; we were belongings. The female trappings of ownership had been cast aside: no surnames, no married names, no Miss, Mrs, nor Ms to denote rank in a male world, and no rings to wear or jump through.

Out of respect and a shared memory of where they had come from, they had one thing in common, apart from power over us, their second name Eve. It had been a long and troubled journey, but they had finally reached the nirvana of emancipation.

Her hair was blonde, her eyes were blue, and her scented perfume was seductive. Her high heels tapped on the floor as they approached me. I looked straight ahead; I wasn’t falling for it. I tried to think of other things, mundane and tedious, anything that would stop me thinking of her.

“Is everything all right?” she asked up close.

Her voice was soft and high, almost frivolous, as though she could be controlled, entered. I focused my mind and thought of death, my rotting corpse underground. It helped.

The pretty guard entered, it was a ploy to catch me out. I’d been here before, but then I was still taking all of my meds.

I watched them shake hands, though it was more like holding. The doc brushed back her hair, and the guard whispered something in her ear, giggling. They were both looking at me, smiling. I couldn’t control nature any longer and, accordingly, I was scathingly chastised.

The doctor held out her hand with the guard watching, hand on her holster.

“Take this,” she said.

It was a tot of liquid. It worked more quickly than tablets, and I couldn’t hide it under my tongue. At least I’d enjoyed the pleasure of my aberrant display, and wanted the sensation to linger longer.

“Feeling better?” asked the doc a minute later.

“Yes.”

I was, and my urge had gone.

“Men, pathetic, their own worst enemy,” rasped the guard on her way out.

“I’m going to up your meds, Valery 01, and this time you will attend the clinic once a week,” said the doctor.

I knew what this meant: injections.

“Sorry, Doctor, about my reaction.”

“I’m in a good mood today, Valery 01. I could have sent you to the front, you know that?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I meant it. The fighting was fierce, and there were no prisoners, only starvation for the captured. It was total war.

“Any other problems?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“No, I’m fine.”

“I hope so, or you’ll be off to prison.”

“Like the anorak?” I asked.

She smiled.

“Sad, isn’t it? He loved his bed more than exercise and freedom. I gave the lazy so and so three years, but if he slims down he might get early release to the front line.”

We had given women complete control. Now they were determined to keep it. She was athletic, toned, but I was the one in constant training.

“Do you have a trainer?” she asked, bending me over.

Sex had been turned on its head; improved, they told us. Men would no longer dominate, but serve to be pegged. The penetration was assertive, laid down the law, and gave women control over our bodies and minds. They invaded us, conquered our territory. Thus we no longer needed to explore, or gain new land and possessions. We wanted to nurture what we had gained, unlike the Undiagnosed, men who sought to take it from us.

She pushed her gloved finger deeper inside me, and I squealed, much to her delight.

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “Now get dressed.”

“Anything else, Doctor?” I queried, hesitant, with a lump in my throat.

They liked it when you were submissive, but I really shouldn’t have asked and was already regretting my boldness.

“Now you mention it, see Gretel in reception before you go. I think we’ll lock your little monster up, just to be safe.”

Damn, a chastity cage. I should have seen it coming, unlike the Doc.

“And, because of that frown, you can wear the spiked one. I’m not taking any chances, Valery 01.”

I left with my tail between my legs, and the Doc on the phone.

“Gretel, get cage number 5 ready for our young whipper-snapper Valery.”

“You’ll get used to it,” said Gretel, fastening the lock shut. The spikes pointed inwards, pricking my soft flesh.

“Don’t you have another size?” I asked.

“That’s the smallest we have.”

“I meant bigger.”

The size was constrictive; over time I’d shrink.

“Just kidding,” said Gretel. “I’ve been through a change too.”

“You’re a reassignment?”

“Your surprise tells me they did a good job.”

Like all societies, we had a hierarchy. Women were flying high, with the gender reassignments in the clouds. Beneath them were the shemales who still packed a pistol, then transvestites, crossdressers, and, finally, men. And if you were gay you had slightly more privileges.

“Are you thinking of joining us? You’d make a fine looking woman, I can tell; great skin, high cheek bones, and not much of an Adam’s apple.”

“Thanks, and, you’re right, they did a wonderful job.”

They loved flattery, but I was still going home wearing the tight spiked chastity cage.

“They’ll check the cage at the clinic when you have your depot,” said Gretel. “Sometimes they make an adjustment for comfort.”

The depot was the cocktail of drugs I would take in the butt.

“And, while I think about it, you should make a donation at the Bank; you’ve got good genes.”

Sure, we were still needed for something, but on their terms.

“Can I think about it?” I asked.

“No need, I’m going to give them a call. Hang on.”

“Here’s your appointment,” and Gretel handed me a card.

The Bank was on Wednesday, and the injection on Friday. My libido was under control again, but I still had to make a deposit. It wouldn’t be easy, but I wasn’t meant to enjoy it.

I was on ten drugs, or should have been, until I’d wondered what it was like to love, lust after a woman. We guys called them cocktails: sexual suppressants, mood stabilisers, and oxytocin to encourage trust and empathy. It was a formula for stability, a prescription for a safer society for women.

“Be careful on the path,” shouted Gretel after me. “There’s a loose paving slab.”

I headed for the bus stop, the cage rubbing against me. Only women could drive; men couldn’t be trusted. It was a long standing joke that we couldn’t even park a car.

I read the paper with a crossdresser looking over my shoulder. They didn’t need an army of paid spies, just a handful of secret police; we were our own worst enemy.

We’d lost the battle of Helsinki, but were winning the war. The Undiagnosed were trapped in a pincer movement. By Christmas their lines would be pushed back to the Black Sea, and all of Greater Euroland would fly the flag of Femocracy again. Only Switzerland stayed neutral.

The sign at the front of the bus was revolving with adverts: men’s makeup, chastity cages, and extra credits for guinea pigs at the University.

“Hi Cordelia,” I said.

We were in the gardens at the entrance to my home. The walls were high and white, and the sunshine bounced off them and Cordelia’s long silky hair. She turned to look at me, and instantly began twirling a lose strand of hair with her finger.

Cordelia 615 was the warden to my flats, and a recent post-op transgender due for a transfer in line with her new status.

“Valery. What brought you out today?” she asked, looking me up and down.

Cordelia was forty-two, a red-head, size 16, with great legs. She’d gone for the chop with selective erasure. Bless her; she couldn’t remember a thing about her previous sex life, or lack of it. That was their new tool, memory cells surgically removed. It was a tool you could use to effect, unlike ours.

“My check up, courtesy of Vespertina.”

Vespertina Eve was the leader of Western Europe, and the woman in which we placed absolute trust to guide us through these troubled times.

“Feeling all right, love?” asked Cordelia as she continued to prune the hedge.

“Yes, thank you. I was a little under the weather. Nothing I could do about it, said the doc.”

“Lucky for you.”

I guess I was. Our leaders could be merciless. Recklessness, miscalculation, out in the rain without a coat, dangerous sports, too much food, or not enough food, they could all cost you time inside. And a man who’d served time was even more expendable on the front lines.

“You hear about that guy with the cold?” asked Cordelia.

“Bill Thingamajig.”

“That’s the fellow. He coughed all over the firing squad this morning.”

Bill had become a celebrity, the kind they had to make an example of. He caught the flu, but went to work and gave the bug to the entire office. Half of them, the recovered, went to his execution.

Suddenly a siren wailed; it was a reminder to take our medicine. They hung from the tall white posts dotted around the landscape; they were innocent looking unless you knew their true meaning, to keep the underclass subdued in their rightful place.

“You’re not going?” asked Cordelia.

“No need, I’m on depots from now on.”

“Then you have been a naughty boy, Valery. You should be a transgender; I’m drug free.”

“No thanks. I’ve got this thing about surgery.”

“Shame, you’d make a great girl.”

I really wished they would stop saying that.

“Damn,” said Cordelia.

She stepped off the ladders and went to plug the trimmer back into the extension. Suddenly, she fell like a tree hit by lightning, coiled up on the ground, electrocuted and unresponsive.

My mind raced ahead of me as I rushed to cut the power. I performed CPR then put her in the recovery position; she was breathing again. An ambulance picked her up. There was a white post down the street, and a crossdresser called Norm had pressed the emergency button.

Cordelia had been saved by the three of us: me, Norm, and the chop. Accident-prone men headed to prison, if anyone cared enough to save them. Naturally, Norm and I got no thanks from the female ambulance driver and her two tranny lackeys, the stretcher bearers. Norm hung around, invited me in for a drink. But I didn’t want friends too close to home, and politely declined. I would hate the stress of wondering whether or not to say hello every time our paths crossed.

I bolted my door shut and went to the bathroom. I needed a shower. How would I cope with my new steel friend? I had long brunette hair, hazel eyes, and a smooth complexion with great symmetry. I’d resisted the blusher up to now, but it paid to look good and be frivolous if you wanted promotion. I wasn’t a natural cross-dresser, just casual; I couldn’t feel the thrills even on the pills. But I realised long ago that to get my job, flat, and perks, I’d have to condescend.

I was in medical supplies, a cog in the machine making things happen, allowing things to go on the way they wanted. But history had taught us it was better this way; women were now safe, and men had stopped inventing situations to enslave them.

I towelled dry, but still felt dirty for my earlier distasteful thoughts. I ran the bath, adding scented foam. It would take a few more generations of men like me before the caveman was gone for good. But we were progressing; the women called it Eve-olution, the natural progression of order.

The bath was ready. I went to the fridge for a bar of milk chocolate, and lit the candles that floated like lily pads on the fragrant water. I was lucky, and I knew it.

I wore my powder blue robe, the fluffy one, and looked at the catalogues for some new shoes. The internet and social networks were a thing of the past, for men.

I was bored, had been off work too long, and tidied my wardrobe. The clothes were organised in rainbow colours with all the black velvet hangers pointing inward. Then I remembered him, the anorak, and his creased note. I poured myself a glass of red wine from the carton in the fridge, and sat in front of the electric fire.

I expected an address or an introduction to my blackmail. It was neither, it was much worse: a page of stickers. And they all read MAD. I began shaking like a leaf; those letters could get you killed, and it appeared Danny 55 had been their poster boy, sticking insurgency on toilet doors.

Folded inside the page was a steel token; ‘Tilda’s Boat House’ was engraved on the front and ‘One Free Ride 29’ on the reverse.

The stickers fluttered to the ground, and I quickly kicked them under the bed away from me, shivering. The token went in my sewing bag next to the buttons.

The capitals stood for Mason Adam Deviant, and it was a capital offence to be associated with his teachings. Paradoxically, his followers sought not to usurp Utopia, but to increase its powers. These masochists wanted pain and suffering under a female boot, through whip, cane, or any other aggravated means. But it was a choice, and Vespertina understood that free will amongst men was too dangerous, whatever the reason.

I poured myself another glass of wine and snuggled under the blankets, cosy and warm from the ill winds that were beating at our Empire’s door. Thank goodness I was a man.

Chapter Two

“Colonel Anais Eve, how are the grunts?” asked General Rolliet.

Colonel Anais was slumped in a chair reading her new battle plans. They were in the war room.

“Morale is low, General.”

“Aren’t you in charge of the Depressed Brigade?”

“Indeed.”

“Then what do you expect? If only those fools back home knew the truth.” Rolliet was older, more experienced. Her steely-eyed glances marked a determination to succeed. “That we’re losing the war.”

There had been six years of increasingly bitter fighting. Prisoner exchanges had been replaced with starvation. Others were tortured on the front line to un-nerve the enemy, wailing like banshees as life slowly drained away.

“We’re in retreat, Anais Eve.”

The Eve was used either for formality or, in this case, to underscore a point: the possibility of defeat.

Rolliet held a long stick, a snooker cue from the Officer’s mess, and pointed it at the white board. “At this rate, they could push us back to Berlin before the New Year.”

“Reinforcements?” asked Anais. “Army group four?”

“Surrounded in Romania.”

“What about HQ?”

They were in the French Alps under the mountains, safe from bombardment, but if they were cornered there was no way out.

“We’re safe for now. Do you keep the pill? I know some of the Officers don’t. But if you’ve ever had one of those grubby monsters panting on top of you, believe me you would.”

The pill was cyanide, not contraceptive.

“The Undiagnosed?” asked Anais. “I never knew you were captured.”

“I wasn’t; I’m talking about all men. I’m old enough to remember the days of another invader, before medication was universal.”

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Careful, Anais, that’s treason.”

“I was just curious.”

“If I was a romantic fool maybe I would, but I’m not. And this, my dear Anais, is worth ten men.”

She opened her pill box; it was fashioned from a grenade and just as explosive. Lusterone was orgasmic dynamite. It took your heart, mind, and soul, and melted them into one. It was woman’s greatest achievement, and no man on earth could compete.

Once upon a time post coitus, one would have slept like their baby in the arms of a lover. But Lusterone kept you awake, alert. It boosted self-esteem, if not empathy. The magic vibrator removed breeding and brooding. The Undiagnosed banned its production, fearing female addiction.

“You know we drop it over enemy lines,” said Rolliet.

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Anais, excuse me whilst I melt.”

She put the paper tab on the tip of her tongue, and closed her eyes. She visibly shuddered, and afterwards glowed like a golden oil lamp.

“Anais, do you know what I really miss?” she asked, composing herself in a swivel chair.

She answered before her junior could reply, “A cigarette,” and laughed.

“Why is that funny?” asked Anais.

“Just a memory, gone up in smoke,” replied Rolliet.

“The truce, what happened?” asked Anais.

“They want to destroy us, complete annihilation, and erase every memory.”

A friendly fighter escort could be heard overhead.

“The Surgeon General’s here,” said Rolliet, smiling broadly.

“Where are the others?”

“They will be joining us later. This is top secret, Anais, between the three of us.”

Anais hitched up her grey woollen stockings, frayed like her nerves, underneath her green tunic. She wore a knee length skirt, jacket, and a beret pinned to a tilt on her thick black hair. The General wore a red dress; she’d been a scarlet woman until a man broke her heart, now she broke their will.

“Are you aware your kill ratio is the lowest in the Corps?” said Rolliet.

Anais smiled nervously. Were they going to replace her? She had heard the rumours.

“I am.”

“Is that not regrettable?”

“Indeed. But my troops want to die too easily.”

“Then change their meds.”

“We have tried, with unfortunate consequences.”

“The euphoria mentioned in your report.”

“Lewdness, exhibitionism, and self-gratification. There was even a case where one of my Officers was approached for sex.”

“Disgusting, what happened to the miscreant?” asked Rolliet.

“Shot at dawn.”

“I will be honest, Anais, it’s a problem affecting the war effort. It seems their willingness to fight, aggression, is being curtailed by feminization.”

“A reluctance to shoot their weapons.”

“Quite. But we must find a solution, for too long history has been written in their pathetic fluid.”

“And the other Brigades?” asked Anais.

“Our fiercest warriors are the personality disorders, led by Colonel Charlotte Eve, then the social phobias and schizophrenics, your old unit. Of course, the grandiose are always ready to fight tooth and nail, and the paraphilia’s and somatoform disorders include some of our staunchest supporters.”

The door flung open and two MP’s, shemale military police, quickly scanned the room with eyes and gadgets. Machine guns were slung over their shoulders; peaked red caps were tilted down, covering their eyes.

“Clear and safe,” announced one, and in marched Vespertina.

“You can wait outside,” she said to her guards.

The bombproof door closed behind her, sealing them in.

“If only my mother could see us today,” said the surgeon general. “She hated men.”

Vespertina, Surgeon General, wore a black rubber bodysuit, impervious to blades and bullets. Under the direct light it appeared more two-tone, with a greyer sheen to the upper body parts. No one knew her real age, only that she was much older than her appearance.

“At ease, women,” said Vespertina.

Words either elevated or condemned a society, and there was no longer a trifling distinction between women and ladies. The term ‘gentleman’, once perpetuated to elevate one irrelevant male above another, was now taboo.

Rolliet and Anais stood down, though they were still nervous. Vespertina removed her helmet, and they could see her beauty in all its magnificent glory. It was rumoured she kept a harem of a hundred captured and drugged Undiagnosed women. Her eyes sparkled above a seductress’s lip, and they both wondered if the curvaceous armour was padded on the hips.

“There have been reports of cruelty on the front line. Do either of you have any idea what they refer to?” asked the surgeon general, taking a seat.

“The Undiagnosed show no quarter to prisoners, and neither do we. But I thought the order had been passed,” said Rolliet.

“I meant to our troops by their commanding officers. Anais, you’re at the front, what do you say?”

“Some of my officers have been a little heavy handed; if that’s what you mean.”

“And what do you mean?” snapped Vespertina.

“Floggings for disobedience, rations withheld for cowardice, extra pegging for incompetence.”

“Sadism?” asked Vespertina, her eyes glowing.

“I can assure you my officers take no pleasure in it.”

Anais looked down as if she had seen enough cruelty, reluctant to carry the whip hand.

“Of course not, and you, Anais, do you think it is a little unfair?”

“Perhaps, but we are taught a man’s life holds less value.”

“And do you believe it?” asked Vespertina.

Her beady eyes seemed to move visibly closer across the room, and Anais took a deep breath. Sympathy to the lot of the common soldier was justified on the grounds of winning the war. But questioning the social order could get you court martialled. What she heard next took her completely by surprise.

“The lot of man is completely unfair,” said Vespertina.

“Then why do we mistreat them?” asked Anais.

Rolliet looked at her empty holster; no weapons were allowed near the Surgeon General. Instead she looked at Anais, daggers drawn.

“The desire of man has not been kind to women, Anais. He has lied to control us, then cheated on us,” said Vespertina. “Do you wish to return to those days, concerned what the fools think of us?”

“Of course not,” answered Anais.

“Because we have tamed the beasts, risen above them,” said Vespertina.

They needed medication to achieve their goal, and plenty of it, but women were finally in control.

“Women can be equally selfish,” pondered Anais.

Rolliet raised a hand to slap the insubordinate before Vespertina interjected with one of her own.

“Those women are quickly removed,” said Vespertina.

“Killed,” said Anais.

“My dear Anais, those that survive this world are neither the strongest, nor the most intelligent, but those able to adapt the quickest.”

Young women were educated in self-sacrifice at the Academies. Mother Nature could be harsh, and their quarters were as Spartan as their lessons.

“May I?” asked Rolliet.

“Be my guest,” said Vespertina.

“No boy will ever grow into a monster again. Already they are more concerned with their hair and conditioner than social conditioning. And bullies are terminated.”

She spoke as though they were taking away the dirty dishes, and perhaps they were.

“Of course, there is an alternative,” said Vespertina. “We could revert to the days of men behaving like dogs, whistling like wolves.”

“Perhaps we should lose the war, surrender our cause?” said Rolliet, positioning Anais for the firing squad.

“I am not a traitor,” said Anais. “I merely wondered if we are not a little harsh on the males. But you have made it clear to me and my foggy mind. I gratefully understand and accept your wisdom, my Surgeon General.”

‘Don’t worry, Anais, your courage and willingness to fight for the cause is not in doubt. I have studied your file in great detail. It is a shame that not even you can transform the Depressed Brigade into a ruthless killing machine. However, that only highlights the difficulties we have with such men, and not your prowess as a commander.”

Vespertina slowly got up; they had made her suit as mobile as possible, but it still caused some stiffness. She went to the bulletproof window. They were high in the mountains.

“The view is magnificent.”

Rolliet stood by her side.

“I always find disagreement tedious when Mother Nature presents us with such spectacles. After all, so much of life is truly pointless,” said Vespertina.

She often bordered on the nihilistic; love used to make the world go ‘round, now it was war.

“Forgive my manners,” said Rolliet. “Let me get you a drink.”

“I will call my shemale guard. No disrespect, General Rolliet, but I have to be careful. The Undiagnosed would love to see me dead.”

She blew on her whistle, and the MP’s, plastered in makeup and wearing camouflage dresses and boots, returned to the room.

“Vodka for everyone,” announced Vespertina.

An MP opened a briefcase on the table, and pried free three shatterproof glasses. The other unlocked a bottle shaped carrier before pouring the still chilled vodka, lime pre-added.

Vespertina waited until the shemales left the room before shouting, “Cheers.”

“Let me divulge the reason for my visit, Anais.”

“Shall I stay?” asked Rolliet.

“Of course, I am not plotting an apocalypse just yet, and the idea was yours, General.”

“Anything and everything I can do for the war effort,” said Rolliet.

“The Council approved your plan against my better judgement,” said Vespertina.

She chaired a council of six wise women, and was usually the most influential and manipulative.

The three of them sat around the round table, hawkish, as Vespertina spoke.

“How do we remove male violence from society, and yet have soldiers able to kill in our defence?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, and the others could hear every breath of Vespertina as she became exhausted by their ignorance. She carried on.

“Our studies have proven beyond doubt that male aggression and sexual psychology are linked. Indeed, the biological process of entering another body is an act of force, assertion upon another. As their brains were once programmed to respond primarily to testosterone this leaves us with a problem, one we must solve quickly to defeat the Undiagnosed.”

Anais was flattered to be in such high company, but wondering why she was there. Her consternation was apparent, and her commanding officer, Rolliet, tried to dispel her disquiet.

“Vespertina asked me to find a candidate worthy, and I came up with you, Anais.”

Vespertina coughed loudly, clearing the vodka from her throat.

“Actually I chose Colonel Rea, but Vespertina wanted you,” said Rolliet.

“Worthy for what?” asked Anais.

“Delivering the solution,” said Vespertina. “You have seen our problems first hand on the front, and studied psychiatry in Rome.”

“And what tools are at my disposal?” asked Anais.

“You will fly with me back to London, where you will find a suitable male to test; one who will experience a new drug that will heighten aggression but not arousal. Make him harder without being hard, if you see what I mean.”

“A guinea pig,” said Anais.

“Let’s just say pig,” said Vespertina.

“And where will I find such a man?” asked Anais.

“Contact Professor Caveat at Dame University, he has started the balls rolling.”

“And what if it proves impossible to make the specimen beastly without the beast surfacing from below?”

“Then you must be very careful, Anais,” said Vespertina. “But if you have no choice, do feel free to shoot the poor devil.”

Rolliet looked at the latest message on her cell phone.

“With your permission, Surgeon General, the other colonels wish to report.”

“Of course, but tell my shemales to search them first. I can’t be too careful. And no more briefcases please, I would hate for a bomb to go off; it would play havoc with my costume.”

One by one the colonels lined up to kiss Vespertina on the cheek before taking a seat. They were dressed identically to Anais, with one exception; their nylons that flashed between boot and hem. Some wore woollen ribbed nylons, others lace floral, with one daring to flaunt seamed stockings, and another fishnet. But all were black, like the mood amongst the Corps elite.

“This isn’t our best day, nor our finest hour,” began Vespertina, “but we are a long way off from losing the war. Your thoughts, please.”

“The Undiagnosed are fighting like animals; it is only our superior weaponry that holds them back at the moment,” said Colonel Rea.

Vespertina looked at Rolliet.

“Our machine gunners can now fire twice as many rounds in the same time, and armour piercing shells are standard.”

“The tanks?” asked Vespertina.

“Superior in every detail.”

“Surgeon General, if I might suggest, we need more air cover,” said one of the colonels, and the others nodded.

Vespertina was making notes. Exhibitionists made better pilots, the anorexic good submariners. If you had obsessive compulsive disorder the role of gunner was ideal; the equipment never jammed. Voyeurs were excellent spies unless they were frotteuristic, in which case they were soon captured.

The troops were marched into battle with bipolar blockers behind; guns were pointed at the backs of their own men, should they try and escape the battle. The grandiose were used to infect each brigade with a sense of purpose, but something was lacking; the magic bullet that Anais might find.

They were in the twilight, and it was time for Anais to accompany Vespertina back to London. She didn’t have time to collect her ration of Lusterone from the barracks. The stars were out and she looked up; the world kept turning no matter what happened. Empires came and went, and civilisations adapted. She was a grain of sand trapped in a storm.

Chapter Three

I was nervous returning to work, my mouth was dry. It was always the same: an anxiety that crept along the flesh and into my bones. I stepped off the works bus and headed for the gates. We followed each other blindly, checked with handheld scanners. Medication was part of the war effort, and part of our lives. I was in the queue behind a blonde bimbo named Steve 873, my work colleague and best mate.

I wasn’t happy. I felt awkward, and constantly tried to redefine myself in a world from which I felt nothing but increasing detachment. I needed something other than the war to believe in; I needed to believe in myself. And damn these steel suspender clips Gillian, my new supervisor, insisted I wear under my skirt. They were digging in like hell. The things a guy had to do to get ahead.

“Hey Valery, you’ve done something different with your hair.”

I turned and smiled, Dorian 3309 was obsessed with hair. He’d made the cover of a magazine once, and never let the rest of the office forget it. Fortunately, he was part time. Wigs were his forte, the hair looked almost human.

“No, it’s just the same as last week,” I replied meekly.

“You don’t say.”

Actually I did say. Dorian frowned. He’d once pushed a note into my desk drawer asking for a date. I wasn’t gay, and he came across as creepy, obsessed. The way he watched me, undressed me, made my skin crawl. He once asked for a lock of my hair, and was my main suspect for the brush missing from my desk.

“Must be the shampoo then, or the conditioner; you’ve changed your routine.”

I just smiled limply, as we headed to our desks.

There was a poster at the side, hanging down like my head. ‘Crossdress for Success’, it read, and there was a picture of a tranny. He wore a black power suit with shoulder pads, and a smile wrapped in thick red lipstick.

A paperclip hit the back of my head and I turned around. Sitting, smirking, behind me were Cassie and Trudi, two crossdressers still waiting for success. Cassie put her hand to her mouth as she spoke and Trudi giggled. They had me in their sights, the office gossips.

Claire Morgan, our manager, entered the room in her tight skirt. She wore flats but had the legs for it; though I wasn’t supposed to notice.

“Valery, so glad to see you back,” she said. I was surprised to see her; she rarely came out of her office.

She undid the top button of her blouse, carefully watching my eyes for the slightest reaction that might give me away. No need, the new meds had kicked in. My sex drive was in reverse, like so many others. But I still wondered what it would be like to hold her in my arms and smell her hair.

“Valery, are you listening?” she asked.

I wasn’t.

“Sorry, I was looking at your hair.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Meaning?” she asked.

Had I been caught out? Were my hormones racing out of control again?

“The colour, it’s simply divine. I must go for it next time at the salon.”

“Hmm,” she appeared neither convinced nor impressed.

“I’ll give you the number,” shouted Dorian from his desk. “I go all the time.”

Light streamed into the office through the large glass windows. The grass had just been cut, and the smell of freshly mowed lawns permeated the air.

“Oh, how pretty,” I said looking out of my window, “a swallow.”

“Where?” asked Cassie, running to my side.

“Settle down,” said Claire, “There’s work to be done. Important news from the War Office, they want a new design in camouflage.”

“Oh my,” I heard Trudi say.

“Catch me, I’m going to faint,” said Cassie.

“Is that possible?” I asked. “You are talking about one coat, a single brushstroke?”

“Indeed, invigorating isn’t it? The most exciting war project I, sorry, the team has been involved in.”

Claire was overstating our importance to the war effort a little. We at 15 Payton Gardens designed nail polish, including the packaging. We received free samples every Friday.

“Well, get to work. I’ll be back at mid-day,” said Claire.

Now just how did you combine two colours that when painted on the nail separated in two, green and brown? But not clearly divided, mottled, with one blending into the other. I went to the coffee machine and met Steve, he was clearly excited.

“This is going to revolutionise nail polish,” he gasped.

He was almost drooling with excitement.

“I know, amazing isn’t it?”

He didn’t detect my sarcasm.

“Any ideas?” he asked.

The tone in his voice was high.

“Maybe,” I replied before placing the end of my pencil in my mouth. His pupils were dilating as he watched me twirl the rubber coated end between my lips.

“Teaser,” he said.

I was the office chemist, if anyone could devise a formula it was me. But there was one thing out of my reach. My soul yearned to be in love; I wanted her, needed to be her slave, but I wasn’t sure who she was.

We all watched the clock and each other. Gillian had been looking at me for the last hour, and every time I glanced back she turned away, instantly laughing at some spurious comment from Steve. Should I play with my hair, file my nails? Finally, she walked over, looking me up and down. She leant forwards over my desk. Her mouth hovered over my ear. I could feel her warm breath as she whispered, “I love a man in stockings,” and her leg brushed against mine. The suspenders dug into my flesh like stirrups.

“You’re on my radar, Valery,” she said.

I could see a fire in her eyes.

“Pretty boys like you are gagging for it,” she continued.

I’d never seen a woman like this, her eyes wild, biting her bottom lip.

“The others will hear,” I stammered, and fluttered my eyelashes coyly.

It worked, but she jabbed her fingernail into the back of my hand before leaving. Her heels stabbed into the floorboards.

The five o’clock whistle sounded, and we all rushed for our coats.

“Valery 01 to the office,” announced the voice over the speaker.

I hesitated, desperate to leave, but Claire would make mincemeat of me the following day.

“What have you done now, Valery?” asked Steve.

“Who’s a lucky so and so,” said Cassie as he fastened the buckle on his full length mauve raincoat.

The others had gone as I approached their lair, my head down, feet dragging.

Claire sat at her desk with Gillian perched on the end like a hunting bird. She was holding a sharp pencil.

“Any luck with the formula?” asked Claire.

“Almost,” I replied. ‘Just give me another day or two.”

“Aren’t you the bright one,” said Gillian, but the tone in her voice said the opposite.

“Look, why am I here?” I asked, trying to raise a feeble, compliant smile. I failed.

“Gillian has noted an air of insubordination of late,” said Claire, matter of factly.

I looked at the floor. I knew the real reason I was here as Gillian opened her briefcase and reached for the strapon. Even with the roles reversed everything was still about sex, except sex itself. Sex was about power, and I duly, obediently, bent over Claire’s desk as they fastened their weapons like gunslingers. I was a puppet; this is what women did to us, legally.

They took turns and it seemed to last forever. The only concession to my comfort was the gel. I separated myself from the humiliation.

“Not a word,” said Claire before holding a finger to her lips.

I was sore, physically and mentally.

“I bet he enjoyed it,” said Gillian, laughing as I pulled up my dishevelled clothes. “And caged too, isn’t he just adorable?”

She was younger than Claire, with short jet black hair, and a snarl etched on her thick lips. She twisted a silver ring with a large black opal on her middle finger.

“I always mean what I say,” she said, “and have what I want.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll drop you home,” said Claire.

We all knew there was no point complaining, and I looked out of the window to avoid their gaze.

I lay in the bath for hours when I got home, but I still couldn’t feel clean.

I fell asleep in new bed linen, wondering what I had done wrong to draw their hurtful attention. And, more importantly, what I could change in the future to stop it happening again.

Chapter Four

I felt like I was trapped in a cage and I was, a steel one on prescription. I showered carefully; no time for a bath, I was running late. Besides the running water was more hygienic and flowed over and through the spikes like a waterfall. Something felt different, unreal. I was longing for her to save my soul, but I still didn’t know who she was, only that one day she would come for me.

I could hear their boots running up the stairs and their banging fists on the doors. But we were the quietest block on the street thanks to our interview panel. I’d gotten in because the tranny voted in ahead of me had a stroke before he could move the sofa out of the lift. He was rehabilitating in prison.

“Open up,” they screamed.

I recognised their pitch, shemales.

I opened the door wearing my dressing gown, a towel wrapped around my long hair. The first shemale in scowled, the second threw me a wink.

“You can tidy up later, love,” said the female officer standing on the stairs, smirking at my confusion. They were enjoying themselves at our expense.

She had bags under her eyes, weighed down with responsibility, and wore thick green trousers and jacket, with a brown leather holster. The handle on the pistol was worn like her boots. I wanted to speak to her, wish her well and admire her, but I was just a male, a number; that changed when they found the stickers under my bed. My mattress was turned on its side, the apple print duvet strewn over the ground like an orchard hit by a tornado.

The shemale handed them to the officer. She smiled before her stare cut me in two.

“Sit on the sofa,” she shouted to me, then ran up the stairs.

The flats were teeming with shemales, with a handful of officers in charge. Tranny crime scene operatives waxed lyrical to one another, whilst the crossdressers studiously took notes. We, the men, cowered and obeyed. I guess it was a pretty good snapshot of our Femocracy.

I could hear two crossdressers talking near my door. Some sucker had set up an illegal still, and a trail of bootleg vodka had led them to Rinse Gardens. As an endless thud of boots marched down the stairs I guessed they’d found their man.

Riesling 88 was standing with his back to the wall as the hastily assembled shemales fired. He lay on the ground with torn tights in a pool of his own blood.

I couldn’t have helped Riesling, and I couldn’t have helped the others before him. Unfortunately, now it was my turn, and there was no one to help me either.

“Stand up darling,” said the officer.

Her peaked latex cream cap was shiny and pointed downwards but I could still see her stare, cold like her heart.

“I’ll be late for work,” I said.

She laughed so much I didn’t think she was ever going to stop.

“That is the least of your worries, Valery 01,” she finally said.

Our names, and number, were on the front of the doors. I didn’t know if it was the same for them, our rulers; they lived apart, in secret. Except they had no number and fewer restrictions. Women and transgenders could drink just about anything, the rest of us were restricted to red wine, two bottles a month at home.

She looked at the stickers shaking her head, “I’m taking you in for questioning.”

“Can I get changed?”

“Sure, my shemales will help you, and no funny business.”

My would-be friend threw me another wink.

“And nothing too revealing,” she shouted as they followed me into the bedroom.

My eyes avoided the floorboards, looked everywhere but downwards. If they uncovered my porn stash, I’d be pushed against the same wall as Riesling 88.

They started looking around, snooping. I quickly tidied up the duvet and found my distraction. I jumped back, terrified.

“Kill it,” I pleaded, looking at the monstrous spider scuttling across the floor.

A shemale removed her heel, and I saw a glimpse of stocking, red toe and seam on opaque black, nice pair. I’d seen some just like it at the mall with floral holdups.

‘Splat,’ and the beast was dead.

“I’ll get some tissue,” I said.

I flushed it down the loo with a bent spider’s leg sticking out from the mush. My nose was screwed up, like my life.

We passed a confused Cordelia 615 on our way down the stairs.

“I just got back this morning, thanks, Valery, I owe you one.”

Then she saw my escorts and looked the other way. We were all good at that.

“Sorry,” she said, but I wasn’t sure if it was meant for me or them.

And was that Dorian 3309 outside in the courtyard? I squinted again and the image was gone.

Chapter Five

I’d been in the windowless cell for a day and a night. Someone pushed food through a grille, but no one came, no one spoke. The yellow ceiling light was made of toughened glass and secured in a wire cage should I consider another way out. They’d taken my hair brush and comb, but there was no mirror.

There was a book at the foot of my bed, The Feminist Manifesto, by Professor Carla Marks. She was a revolutionary, visionary, blending economics with Mother Nature for what had become a quasi-religious Femocracy. I opened the cover, there was nothing else to do; I was medicated.

Left in charge, men would destroy the world. All their organisations were harems. Only women could be entrusted with leadership, their decisions were not based on basic instincts: using and entering another. But try telling that to Claire and Gillian.

Carla had fuelled the revolution, and we were all schooled in her philosophy. Her revered tomb was in North London.

I was isolated, and should have felt lonely, perhaps more vulnerable than I already was. But I didn’t, somehow I felt less awkward in the cell, and I could gather my thoughts. I was always surrounded by others but never quite part of them. Often I had been within earshot of frivolous laughter from those playing a game, the loneliest pretending.

I read the Manifesto from cover to cover, partly out of boredom but then nostalgia for my school days. Were men really that bad? Were we nothing but jealous animals led by our tails?

As I flipped over the final page, there was a short eulogy to Vespertina Eve, our beloved Surgeon General, but her book was incomplete, she still had much to do. Carla Marks had died in a bomb blast, an assassination, just before the war broke out. Any final trust in men had died with her.

The lights never went off; perhaps they were meant to keep me awake, but I hadn’t slept so soundly in years. The mattress was hard and there weren’t enough blankets. The sheets scratched my smooth skin, but the anxiety attacks had stopped; someone had cut the rubber band that often tightened across my chest.

I had been stupid to keep the stickers, but that was my only discovered crime and for now I wasn’t Gillian’s office bike, a role I thoroughly expected her to reprise with Claire in tandem. Surely no one would really believe I was MAD?

Chapter Six

Was it two days or three before the cell door finally opened? I rolled off the bed, relieved to stretch my legs.

“Valery 01, follow me please.”

“But my hair,” I pleaded.

“Men,” she scoffed, handing me a small brush from her side pocket.

“Well don’t take all day,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“And the brush, please,” she held out her hand. “No telling where you perverts will shove it.”

She laughed and so did I, but mine was nervous.

‘Court Room,’ the sign proclaimed on the grim steel door, and I felt sick.

“Just tell the truth,” advised my Guard as she unlocked the handcuffs.

“Change your conditioner,” she added looking at my roots, and then she was gone.

There were three of them, younger than I expected, early thirties like me but with more of a future. The judge wore a white gown with a red sash, flanked by a police chief in a blue cheesecloth suit, and an officer in military garb, thinnest green cotton due to the increasing temperature. I had felt it in the cell, a heatwave was coming, and I was getting hot under the collar.

I lifted up The Feminist Manifesto in my right hand, and recited the oath inscribed on a small table in front of me.

“I, Valery 01, swear in front of Mother Nature, and the duly appointed panel, to tell no lies, spin no half-truths, and deceive no woman. If I do then I fully expect to be punished within the rules of law, up to and including my death.”

No ambiguity there then. I sat down in front of them.

The central figure wore a peaked amber cap, shiny silk. A medallion was stitched to the front, portraying the tree of wisdom and not life; this was a judge that could easily take yours away.

I was scared to face them, and looked under the table at the police chief’s boots. She nudged the judge, smiling.

“Is he medicated?” she asked.

The colonel opened my file.

“Weekly injections start Friday.”

“Frisky?” asked the police chief with the darkest of eyeliner.

“Excited in the doctor’s surgery. Don’t worry, he’s caged,” said the colonel.

“Mason Adam Deviant,” said the judge, decision maker, solemnly.

She looked at me, and my bottom lip quivered.

“The stickers were pushed into my hand,” I said.

“Indeed.” She read the notes I’d penned in my cell upon arrival.

“What turns you on, Valery 01?” asked the colonel with the brass pips on her shoulders.

Her lips wore cherry red lipstick.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I replied. “I’m medicated.”

It was a phrase us guys used a lot when we wanted to appear submissive, get what we wanted, if we wanted anything at all, apart from being left alone.

She pulled a gun from her holster.

“Would you like me to shoot it off, if it means nothing to you?”

I shook my head violently.

“Colonel Anais, really,” said the police chief, her authority usurped.

“Apologies, Stella Eve, too long on the front.”

“We fully appreciate the effort of our officers, and the difficulties they face. But just try and remember why we are here, we don’t want to kill him just yet.”

Had she just said kill? I mopped my brow.

“I’m making a donation at the Bank,” I informed them.

“That won’t get you off the hook,’ said the judge, stretching her long legs further under the table. I could now see the top of her boots, and her knees.

“Would you like to kiss them?” she asked. “Roll under them, get stamped, stomped?”

“I’m no masochist,” I said.

Though I could understand why some had been attracted. If you couldn’t go to the other side of the barbed wire, then to be scratched whilst you dangled helplessly upon it would at least give a sense of perverted pleasure, exquisite pain. And if there was no other feeling available then something could be better than nothing. I was getting used to the spiked cage pushing into me, and the cold steel wrapped around my gonads that kept the apparatus in place, secured with a small numbered padlock.

“Humiliation then?” asked the colonel. “Gives you a funny feeling, an uncontrollable pleasure?”

“Not at all.”

I brushed my hair back with my hand, and crossed my legs.

“Who gave you the stickers?” asked the police chief.

Her hair was jet black, too dark to be natural.

“No one. They were pushed under my door.”

“And why didn’t you report it?” asked the judge.

“I was scared, didn’t want to get involved.”

“But you have reported other instances,” said the colonel.

She really had read my file.

“My stalker,” I said.

“You think it’s her?” asked the judge.

“Setting you up?” added the colonel.

“Does it matter, really? I’ll never get the chance to prove it,” I lamented.

Was it boldness or dejection? I was ready for the guillotine. I sat back in my chair, below their elevated asses. To the side were two armed shemales, silent, granite faced.

The colonel whispered in the judge’s ear, and my heart sank to the bottom of their boots. One mistake could screw up your entire life. My moment of youthful rebellion had come back to haunt me. Should I come clean? Bargain with the steel token?

“Have you ever seen your mysterious stalker face to face?” asked the colonel.

“The police haven’t taken it seriously,” I said.

“That wasn’t my question.”

I mopped my brow. “No.”

“Wait outside,” said the judge.

I was back under the glare of my shemale escort. She had a strapon in her pocket; I recognised the bulge. She stroked it and looked at my ass. I knew what she had in mind. Her phone rang, and she removed it from under her epaulette.

“You can go,” was all she said, holding my bag on the end of her outstretched arm as though it were contaminated.

“What day is it?” I asked.

“Wednesday.”

I made my way to the exit. It turned out I was in a bunker, and as I climbed the stairway the light hit my eyes. Some woman, looked retired, wolf whistled as she drove by.

The sky was blue and so were my balls, perhaps I was developing a tolerance to the meds? But if I wanted to stay clear of the law, I’d best stick to the prescription. Damn, the Bank. I checked my watch and hailed a taxi. I had an hour before my second release of the day.

“You’re a looker,” said the taxi driver.

She had short blonde hair, no makeup, and her face and shoulders were red with sunburn.

“Where to, honey?”

“The Donations Bank.”

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” she said.

Quickly realising I wasn’t the conversational type, she turned on the radio. But she did adjust the rear view mirror to get a better look at me.

“Fifteen credits,” she said as we parked outside the pink sandstone monolith that was the Bank.

I reached for my purse, in the satin clutch bag. It really wasn’t the time or the place but I’d been rushed into getting dressed and couldn’t find my favourite orange leather shoulder bag with the marigolds stitched around the top.

“Hey, if you can’t find the money you can always pay me another way,” and she leered in my direction.

I pushed the money into her hand and, once the door was unlocked, tumbled out.

I checked my compact and brushed my hair, appearances were everything. I smoothed out my dress, front and back, and coughed loudly at the receptionist who was ignoring me.

“Doesn’t say crossdresser in your notes,” she said after a short introduction.

“I wanted to make the day special,” I replied, batting my eyelids.

“And donating to the Bank isn’t special enough?” said the nurse who had crept up behind me. “If you’re even good enough.”

All donations were screened for genetic illness. Vespertina was our gardener.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I mumbled, and the receptionist and nurse smiled between them.

The nurse clicked her fingers and I followed. More corridors, and I was a rat in a glass maze.

“OK, honey, wait in here.”

I grimaced. It was either honey, love, or darling. And if it turned serious, if they wanted you but you weren’t forthcoming, bitch, slut, and worse.

I sat in the armchair. There was a jug of water on the table and a large blue pill. On the wall in front was a TV screen.

The nurse turned around before closing the door.

“I almost forgot, you’re a newbie. Take the tablet with plenty of water; in ten minutes you’ll be ready.”

“How?” I asked.

“The pill blocks the suppressants you’re on. You’ll feel like a new man, literally.”

“I’m not gay,” I said.

“And straight men wear dresses?”

I could see her point and hopefully she’d soon see mine; she was fit, and I could remember how that felt a few days ago.

“See that remote control?”

I nodded.

“Porn movies,” she said, “like in the old days.”

I pretended I had no idea, that I’d never wondered.

“It’ll get your motor started,” she said. “Press one for shemales, two for crossdressers, and three for gay men.”

“No women?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“My, you really are a pervert. I’d go for the shemales in that case.”

Half an hour later and the heels in the corridor were walking in my direction. There were two nurses, but not the one I’d seen earlier, and a guard who was the prettiest of the bunch. I’d think of her, watch maybe, or was that too salubrious?

They lifted up my dress as I lay back on the couch, and pulled down my satin camis.

“Damn, he’s caged,” said the brunette.

“Why didn’t you say?” asked the blonde.

“I thought you’d have the key,” I replied.

Besides I’d have completed already; the blue pill really did work.

“Not our department,” said the blonde.

“Is there a problem?” asked the guard.

She was new to me, and they talked as though I wasn’t there.

“Maybe, we’ll just do it the hard way, or not as the case may be,” said the brunette.

They laughed, and I just felt myself getting warmer, but with embarrassment not passion.

The nurse bent me over gently. I was pliable to their will, and the guard unleashed her standard issue strapon. A cup was put under me at the end of my cage.

The nurse held me down, and I was ravished, my prostate milked. Eventually the container was full, brimming with a new generation of female leaders and male subordinates: queen bees and an endless supply of male drones, workers, fighters, defenders of the realm.

“I’ll take it to the lab,” said the guard, pinching her nose.

Passion was now a process; sins of the flesh had been abandoned for safety, purity.

They poured a syrup down my throat, and I waited an hour before they deemed I was safe to unleash upon society once more. My desires, urges were under control yet again. Regrettable was putting it mildly; I’d felt like a new person, invigorated, manly even, if that’s how a man felt. I’d wanted to take on the world, and all three of them. I desired to do unspeakable things.

“Tidy yourself up,” was the last instruction I received, and, for the second time in a day, I was unceremoniously booted out.

Chapter Seven

Gillian was looking at me with either desire or hatred, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was both, perhaps she hated wanting me.

I’d handed in my slips, explanations for yesterday’s absence, signed and stamped by the Court and the Bank. My camouflage nail varnish had worked, and I was disappointed there were no sticky buns for the office, the edible type, not mine.

Claire called me into her room, but at least it was still mid-day and I had witnesses; Trudi and Cassie were filing. It was rare, but occasionally some of the ruling class were convicted of assaulting the junior ranks of society, the men, rape not included. We were the new witches, bitches, leading them on; besides, everyone knew men always enjoyed sex.

“Mother Nature only knows why, Valery, but it appears you’re a wanted man.”

She waved a piece of paper across my face.

“It’s my depot tomorrow,” I replied.

“Was, it’s been cancelled. And I’ve been ordered to give you tomorrow and next week off, more if you don’t show.”

“Why?”

My heart was pounding. I didn’t want any trouble.

“You really don’t know?” asked Gillian entering the room.

I shook my head.

“I hope this isn’t to do with the pegging,” said Gillian.

She’d got carried away, scratched my back and bit my arm, technically an assault of the non-sexual variety.

“Don’t be silly,” said Claire. “The poor boy was gagging for it, led us both astray.”

“Teaser,” said Gillian. “But you should know I have connections, Valery; give me any problems and I’ll have you marched to the front.”

They may have taken my pride, but I still wanted to hang onto my life.

“I never said a word.”

“Well, let’s just keep it that way,” said Claire, “and maybe next time we’ll go easy on you.”

“Maybe,” added Gillian.

She sat on my lap, and began to stroke my hair.

“You know, you’re so adorable when you’re mad,” she said.

Her finger was under my chin, and she pushed it up until our lips touched. Suddenly she pushed me away, and wrapped her soft hand around the back of my neck.

“Not yet,” she said, and my head was spinning.

Maybe she was right, I was gagging for it. I was perspiring heavily.

“Hey don’t sweat it,” said Claire. “You can leave early today.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m always sure, and, besides, it’s Friday tomorrow. Have a good long weekend, week, whatever; who knows what’s in store.”

“Thanks.”

“And, Valery, great job on the nail varnish,” said Claire.

Chapter Eight

The phone wouldn’t stop ringing and eventually, wearily, I picked it up from under my pillow. It was Steve 873 from work. I guess it had to be; I had no other friends.

“Let me in, sleepyhead, we’re going to be late,” he said.

I pulled on a light blue velour tracksuit, and lifted up the latch.

“You can do your hair on the bus,” said Steve, excitedly.

It was Saturday, and we were going to Claude’s for our monthly waxing.

“You ever wonder about Z’s?” asked Steve.

This was our nickname for Claude, he always looked tired.

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, just that he’s such a handsome beast, unattached, and never seems aroused, excited.”

“Maybe he’s into women,” I said.

Steve’s mouth dropped open in shock, as though he’d never considered the option.

“I won’t believe it,” he said, “and we’re two of the most gorgeous guys in town.”

Well, I was good looking. I wasn’t so sure about Steve. You couldn’t call him ugly, or rather you would but you couldn’t. No one was labelled unattractive officially; we were all beautiful in our own way.

“So why hasn’t he hit on us?” I asked Steve.

“Oh my, you really think he’s into them, women, real ones?”

“Ask him,” I replied.

“I couldn’t, just the sight of him leaves me tongue-tied, but you could.”

“I’d be embarrassed, Steve, honestly. Besides if he’s into women, or would be given the chance, he’s probably fighting depression like the rest of us.”

That was another drug in our cocktail, antidepressants. They worked most of the time.

Steve played with his hair for a while, and looked around the bus to see if there was anyone he could flirt with.

“Or perhaps he’s androgynous,” I said, trying to cheer him up. “It’s not illegal.”

In fact, they were usually in better jobs than us medicated guys and received more credits. Though I’d heard it was one hell of a test to prove it.

“What a waste,” pondered Steve as we hit the kerb.

The only guy responding to his pouts was the driver.

“He’d look great as a blonde,” he whispered in my ear whilst pointing in the driver’s direction. “I’ll get my nails filed later.”

“At Suzie’s nail bar,” we said together and laughed. Steve laughed much louder than I did; he was trying to show the driver he was fun.

“A bite to eat?” I asked.

“Only if we shop for a new bag.”

“Steve, I’m low on credits”

“Don’t be such a sissy, I’m buying. Next stop.” He rang the bell.

It wasn’t the only bell he’d pushed, and he took the drivers number as we alighted.

Steve pulled out the sunglasses from his bandana, and we strolled to Claude’s, arm in arm. Steve had the longest legs, and made the most of them in his orange flannel hot pants. He’d look even more stunning after his full body wax. Mother Nature, had I really just thought that? Did I fancy my best mate? But I loved women, didn’t I?

“What was it like, Steve, turning to the other side?”

He laughed.

“You mean going after men?”

“Yes.”

“You’re considering changing sides after all this time?” he asked.

“No, but I always wondered how it must feel.”

“It seems like the most natural thing in the world.”

“Still, I couldn’t.”

“Then you must like the peg,” he said.

“You know?”

“The whole office knows, Valery. Gillian let it slip out.”

“The shame,” I said.

I could imagine the catcalls, and the toys pushed into my desk to remind me of my greatest humiliation.

“Hey, don’t feel sorry for yourself; most of the office is jealous.”

Claude ran up to us as we entered his emporium. He smiled at Steve, and then looked me up and down with his mouth turned down. He wore an obvious silver curly wig that covered the tops of his ears.

Claude had a Roman theme in the shop this year, and the staff wore togas. He clapped his hands, and Steve and I parted ways.

My beautician was Keenan 15. He’d tried to greet me with a kiss on the cheek, but I’d turned away; machismo handshakes were banned years ago. It wasn’t a good start and I staggered out, still grimacing. The things a man had to do to stay beautiful.

I was a biological freak, too much oestrogen in the food chain, finally engineered into what I was today. But was it really for the better? I’d keep those thoughts to myself, but what did I do for excitement, satisfaction? Look through glossy magazines, dress up, or simply shop for bags, was this fulfilment or betrayal? Instinctively, I knew something was missing.

The often submerged sensations were enough to drive you into the arms of Mason Adam Deviant, the underground masochistic. His movement was outlawed, but I suspected there were women who harboured sadistic dreams. After all, they were human too. In which case, I needed to find them, and lose myself in total subjugation. Is that why I hadn’t mentioned the token ride, or had fear caused my amnesia?

“You want a hand?” Steve shouted through the bathroom door as I showered.

“No thanks.”

Steve was in the lounge, towelled dry, and waiting for me.

“Why don’t you wear one of my catsuits this evening?” I asked him.

“You got something against guys in dresses?”

“Of course not, take a look in my wardrobe if you don’t believe me. I just thought tonight we could try something different.”

“OK.”

We stepped out on the town, foundation powdered and suited, if not suited to be together.

We dropped by Suzi’s nail bar, for a file and paint. I went for lime, Steve for sunset pink. We never paid, and instead left Suzie more boxes of samples from the office.

We breezed into the crowded restaurant, garnering our fair share of stares, and ordered our usual vegetarian pizza and pasta. There was no meat; the cost of production was extortionate, prohibitive. It took seven units of grain to produce just one of meat.

Animal specimens were outlawed too; food was needed for humans. The last zoo in Europe had closed its gates twenty years ago. Mother Nature was our guardian, and we lived in an agricultural utopia.

Yet still we had to be careful, ruthless. There were no props anymore. If you needed long term care, then your future was short term. The invalids were invalid, and the fragile geriatrics quickly put to compost for the benefit of the next generation. Nature had always been cruel.

Steve couldn’t resist using the monitored phone booth whilst we waited for our meal. We left in different taxis. The bus driver was in Steve’s.

This was crazy, like my mind. I needed to feel something, anything, and I held the candle above the cage that might no longer be a prison but a gateway to freedom. Was it agony or ecstasy I felt as the burning wax landed onto me? Claude’s treatment had changed my body; this changed my mind. The candle was both a weapon and an instrument of desire.

It was difficult and time consuming to remove the congealed puddles of wax once they had melted into place. I had writhed in agony and pleasure, sensations that had seemed joined at the hip. My mind was both curious and alarmed. I yearned to fit in and hide, and my desires below the belt were corroding my sensibilities. Would I really gamble a lifetime of comfort for a momentary pleasure?

I had taken the first dangerous step, replacing the sensual caresses of another with pain. I was shaking, covered in sweat, feeling first hot and then cold. No woman would or could love me legally; pegging was neither love nor sex, it was power, aggression.

I would trade my pain for a woman’s love. Although I didn’t know who she was, if there were a hidden column of masochists amongst us, then there had to be sympathisers. Every force had an opposite.

Mason Adam Deviant would know where to find them, but did I really want to find him, or was the fantasy better than the reality? I poured myself another glass of wine, wanting to abandon my caution, just for once. But I couldn’t fight the habit of a lifetime or the propaganda. I had to save myself from myself, before I ever stared into the abyss again.

The token ride for Tilda’s Boat House was still a secret, if it meant anything at all. Danny 55 would never talk. After all, which tools could a woman use to extract the truth on a horny male masochist? But maybe I should. I curled up on the rug, smashed, with my month’s supply of wine wasted in one night, like me.

Chapter Nine

I had bags under my eyes, and just taken a couple of painkillers with my breakfast muesli. The desk sergeant was surprised to see me. She sat on a high stool, looking down at me. On the bench to my right sat two guys looking sorry for themselves. They were dressed to be killed, not kill, in women’s attire, power suits. The men were protestors, hence the handcuffs.

“We don’t normally get voluntary returns. Forgot your bag?” she asked. “Or perhaps you can’t resist a woman in uniform?”

“I’m medicated,” I replied.

She removed her black latex cap, undid a clip, and her hair tumbled down, a brunette fountain, with no split ends. I wanted to faint at her feet, worship her. She could feel my consternation.

“You were saying?”

Was it a trap? I was unsure how to answer.

She put her cap back on and laughed.

“You’ll never change, no matter how many meds, or operations. I keep telling them, but no one listens to Sandra Eve. You were saying.”

“I was here a few days ago. I think I could be of use in finding Mason Adam Deviant.”

I had a hangover but didn’t want hanging. I’d decided to relinquish the truth about Danny 55. The stress of knowing what they didn’t was killing me.

“If you say so.”

She sounded decidedly unimpressed.

“Look, just let me see the judge who interviewed me.”

“You’d be lucky to; it’s the weekend. Fill in this form, and she’ll read it Monday.”

“Traitor,” muttered the guy next to me, under his breath.

“I heard that,” said the sergeant, standing up. “To the cells, now.”

Slowly they stood to their shackled feet. As they marched off, one looked over his shoulder studying my face, remembering me should we ever meet again.

I sat on the bench, and begged to make amends for my earlier misdemeanour of not reporting the stickers. I almost wrote the whole truth and nothing but the truth before regretting my moment of daring. There were screams from the cells, before a deadly silence. I was now dreading further involvement, wishing instead to be a wallflower.

My hormones were all over the place, should have had my depot, and my hand shook as I wrote. I kept it short and not sweet, a grovelling apology. I had presented a token, only it was no longer Tilda’s.

I had no testosterone, nothing to challenge the world, and no reason to invade anyone’s territory, including women. A hundred years ago I would have been a failure, now I was celebrated, the new man who was safe around females. But beyond the front lines lay the Undiagnosed, barbarians; they were the way we used to be, before our balls were emptied and our minds cleared.

I walked home through the Park, there were couples, gay men, and single guys looking to hook up either for the night or for life, should they find the one. No one strutted, promenaded, or swaggered, rather they ambled, lazily strolled, unless they teetered on come and get me heels with their asses pushed out.

No prams, nor children were there. They were brought up by the state, weeded. Birth took place away from men; the chosen ones at the Bank never knew if their seed had been harvested, whom they had fathered. Perhaps we were selected for extinction, and soon they would reproduce without us. A female only planet: Lesbos, with their endless supply of Lusterone.

It hadn’t taken long for male homosexuality to become the new norm in Utopia. A mind shift concentrated by the rising numbers swamping the earth. New additions were strictly limited, selected. We had saved our resources, reclaimed and recycled. Now the Undiagnosed wanted what we had earned.

The sun beat heavy on my neck, and I purchased a paper lemon parasol. I was a peacock, but were my feathers splayed for a man or a woman? Maybe I could have my fairy cake and eat it. Take the chop like so many before me, but then be a lesbian. A choice that was the best of both worlds? Or would the female hormones prove irresistible, would I turn against my own will? Desire, lust, was hard to fight, impossible even. If you wrestled with it, submerged and denied it, it would rear its ugly twisted head, deviant, perverse, MAD.

The birds and the bees were the only animals not culled, and two swans paddled on the calm waters of the woman-made lake. Partners for life. I sighed, loneliness was killing me. I glanced at Tilda’s Boat House and the pedal boats outside, before turning away down a familiar path. Indecision was tearing me in two.

Rinse Garden apartments: outside painted pink, four floors high, with plants on every rooftop. I was lucky I was uptown. It was not as if there was ever any violence, but across the tracks the guys were loose. I was a demisexual; I wanted to connect emotionally before bodily. They wouldn’t understand, I’d be a tease at first, mocked later, and then mobbed, isolated. At least the guys in Rinse Garden were more understanding, if not aloof. There were three apartments on each floor, and a common kitchen. Lartley 87, Coussan 6, and I timed it so we didn’t get in each other’s hair. I wasn’t even sure what they did for a living.

I decided to take a nap; the heat was wearing me out.

I awoke to find a note pushed under my door. People loved to give me messages.

‘You looked nice in the Park today,’ it read.

The signature sent a chill down my spine, ‘Burdizzo,’ my stalker. This was the closest she had come to my front door. I felt numb, and my right hand was shaking, though not with pleasure.

It was two months since her first introduction; heavy breathing down the phone at work, then gasping ‘This is Burdizzo’ before the line went dead. Fear and intimidation, the anxiety of not knowing who she was, where she was, was giving me sleepless nights, paranoia. But the police had never taken it seriously.

Admittedly, this wasn’t a direct threat, just a reminder that Burdizzo was still around, that I was still on her radar. But when you heard of dead guys being found in the woods with their scalps missing, you got a little worried.

Burdizzo was terrifying because she took a man’s prize possession, his hair. It had to be a woman; she was too mobile, well informed. It was whispered she was on the Council, protected. But why was no one interested in protecting me?

My flat was my companion, the walls my real friends that cocooned me from the world, whom I could confide in, knew my secrets. Our Mistresses had promised to destroy cruelty but words were weapons, and a new dictionary had emerged with fresh insults on the pages.

I sat on the bright tangerine stool in my bedroom, removing the makeup I’d hid behind. The walls were avocado and the carpet grapefruit pink. It was fruity, but I was a fruit without a crush.

A night time breeze swayed the curtain and I was reminded to lock my windows, thanks to Burdizzo. I stood naked as a camera flash made me blink. I still couldn’t focus as a car pulled off. I was both scared and relieved as I sipped my hot chocolate. I might have been willing to feel the pain, but her previous partners were dead, which meant she had something to hide, something more than her crimes.

Chapter Ten

I was at their mercy, under their control. A tranny called Nancy was on my left, and a shemale with a loaded pistol on my right. I sat between them on the backseat, chewing lemon bonbons. The limousine was nondescript apart from the Council number plate. The seats were leather, and Nancy kept rubbing his leg next to mine. I glared but only he pursed his lips framed in black lipstick.

My case was packed in the boot, and I wore my favourite blue velour tracksuit. ‘Wear something comfortable,’ they had said, arriving unexpected.

The windows were tinted to halt prying eyes, but they were pretty good at keeping out the sun.

“You’re caged. I can tell,” said Nancy.

I uncrossed my legs.

He reached into my bag and stole a bonbon without asking.

“You know, has anyone ever told you you’ve got great ...”

“All the time,” I said, cutting him off.

“I haven’t finished.”

“Great skin, am I right?”

“Yes, smooth and tight.’

Oh my Mother Nature, was I being chatted up while on government business? It was embarrassing.

“Nancy, give it a rest,” said the shemale, “We’re at work.”

“And you’re perfect, Toni?”

“You know I hate repeating myself,” said Toni.

Nancy sighed, and looked forlornly out of the window.

We entered Dame University through the West gate, and the driver began to slow. Young women were everywhere, students.

“Let’s go,” said Toni, opening the car door.

Nancy moved to open his side.

“Why don’t you stay here, and get to know the driver?” said Toni.

Nancy slumped back down, and I threw the last of my sweets onto his lap. The driver, a burly crossdresser from the poor part of town, turned around and gave him a toothless grin. He didn’t have great skin.

It felt awkward in the lift. I could have been Toni and he me, and we had everything but nothing to say to one another. He wore boots up to his knees in spite of the warm weather, with a cotton brown skirt and jacket. His blouse was crisply ironed, and he wore an ID badge around his neck.

I was about to say great photo when the lift doors opened.

A group of young army women stood in the corridor, blocking our path and in no hurry to move. I wore no makeup, but my skin was shiny with moisturizer, polished and blemish free. My long hair was tied in a bun; my nails were trimmed and unvarnished.

Suddenly the cadets were standing aside and saluting. I knew it wasn’t for me or Toni.

“Valery 01, so nice to see you again.”

She was out of uniform but there was no mistaking the Colonel from the police station. Her sparkling eyes, the grace of her neck, and the shape of her lips stood out.

“You can leave us,” she said to Toni.

“Lost your tongue?” she asked.

“Time permitting,” I replied.

“Excellent, and we haven’t even begun the therapy.”

Her white coat was too small. Perhaps it was no accident but rather a deliberate cry for attention as it embraced her curves. She wore plimsolls, and the glimpse of her fishnet hose was heavenly.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” I said.

“Naturally, you’re a man.”

“How do I address you?”

Mistress would have sufficed, but I was feeling emboldened by her prolonged eye contact. Her thick black hair was down and she flicked it behind her right ear. There was a pen behind her left.

“Since we’ll be working together, how does Anais grab you?”

It grabbed me quite a lot.

“Whatever,” I said.

First name terms with a colonel, an angel, albeit of death. Was I playing hard to get? I regretted it immediately.

I looked at her purple strapped vest, barely visible under the lab coat but there were rosebuds embroidered along the edge. She noticed me undressing her but there was no retribution, only a warm smile. For a moment I felt we were the only two people in the room.

“Let’s go to the cafeteria, and get to know each other a little better. After all, Valery 01, I want you to trust me,” said Anais.

“Want or need?” I asked.

“Want.”

I followed her to the front of the queue, no one complained. I chose a salad, and Anais had sugary doughnuts, four.

“I’m addicted,” she said. “I prefer chocolate though; I’m not really a vanilla girl.”

She was still licking the sticky sugar off her fingers when I asked the obvious.

“Why am I here?”

She stirred more sugar into her tea.

“An experiment.”

“Will it hurt?”

“I doubt it, in fact, quite the opposite.”

“Meaning?”

“The High Command want to see if man can be a tamed beast. You’re going to get all the treated testosterone you can take.”

I smiled, but would treated mean a treat for me or them?

“We want the warrior back on the front lines, but not his appetite for sex, at least with women,” she said.

“I thought the war was going well.”

She didn’t answer.

“Of course, this is an experiment. So, regrettably, you might find certain feelings begin to rise up in you.”

I knew what she meant, and I would have no regrets. I could assure her of that.

“Then my cage needs removing,” I said.

“Later, I just want you to settle in today. And tomorrow we go shopping.”

“Why me?”

“Honestly? I liked what I saw.”

There was a pause between us, a silence by no means uncomfortable. Our eyes did the talking.

“I must get another doughnut,” she said. “I’m addicted to sticky sweetness.”

She clapped her hands, and two trannies came to collect me, only their Adam’s apples gave them away. One was dressed in a lime green skirt, blouse, and tights, and the other in pink. They were striking, and everyone was staring.

Anais turned to me one last time and said, “There’s only one rule here: if anyone falls in love, they lose.”

‘Love,’ that was a word I hadn’t heard before, not between two people. Sure someone loved my hair, I loved my latest designer acquisition, but that was frivolous, emotionless.

The pink tranny coughed, and I got the message. I followed them to my quarters and unpacked. I had been helping the war effort with my nail varnish, so my pay was pretty good. I’d invested wisely on clothes and luggage.

I carefully placed tomorrow’s outfit on the door hanger. I wanted to make an impression, and chose my sparkling silver tights. They were warm evening wear, but they made my legs look fabulous. I added a blue pencil skirt with matching jacket. I’d choose the blouse when I awoke and according to my mood; I needed some unpredictability. No lipstick, but eyeliner was a must; she’d find me irresistible, even in flats.

I had a long soak in the bath though it wasn’t as deep as the one back home, and tingled in my cage. My mind drifted to the pretty colonel, although it didn’t have far to go; I’d missed the depot or rather I hadn’t missed it. But the spikes in my chastity cage were reminding me of my disgusting flesh obsessed lust, and I headed for the soft flannelette sheets.

Chapter Eleven

“My, you are a picture,” said Anais at the breakfast table.

“A pretty one?” I asked, unsure from her voice if she was delighted or disappointed.

“I hadn’t imagined you were such a sissy, but of course why wouldn’t you be? Don’t worry, it’s all about to change.”

“Sometimes I like being me. Does that disappoint you?”

“No, nor does it surprise me. Ignorance can be bliss.”

Something caught my eye.

“Why are they wearing those?” I asked Anais.

Three lab coats with golden silk thread were shimmering in the light, stealing the attention from my tights.

“They’re the breakthrough team, game changers. I wish we had more like them.”

I pulled up my tights and down on my skirt.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “The officers love your camouflage nail polish.”

“Really?”

“Sure, it’s the talk of the mess.”

I smiled, and flicked my hair. It was difficult to explain, but I wanted to be soft and hard at the same time. Maybe I was a tranny?

Anais finished her morning doughnut and announced, “Let’s go shopping.”

I stood up, my back stiffened. I felt like a real man, in sparkling silver tights; this was as close to hunting as we got.

Anais donned a pair of wraparound sunglasses from her top pocket, and I wanted to be wrapped around her too. Her eyes were now smoky like the lenses, and there was a smouldering fire behind them. I just needed a chance to light it.

Two shemale escorts lagged behind.

“In case you get lost,” said Anais.

“Me go missing from a shopping trip, really?”

She smiled, and I had a feeling we were connecting on more than just a professional level.

“How many credits do I have?” I asked.

“Five hundred.”

I didn’t need the sunshine to cheer me up today, and the shemales could hold my bags.

I was an exhibitionist, showing off to the trannies on the till as they removed the security tag from the mauve purple woollen handbag. Too many crossdressers were looking for a steal.

A pair of knee high boots were on sale in my size. They were last year’s winter stock and reduced by 70%, but there was an old boot holding them. I pretended not to look, though she was measuring my interest out of the corner of her beady eye. Teasing me, she held them, put them back, and then picked them up again; never releasing them when I was close enough to swoop. Finally, she put them down and turned away, but as I stepped up to be counted, she reclaimed them. I was crestfallen as she waddled to the till, and it took the tartan long socks on special offer to lift my mood.

We headed back to the custom made bulletproof government limo. Everyone looked tired, apart from me.

“I’ll leave you alone to try on the outfits,” said Anais at the campus.

I was disappointed; I thought this crossdresser had found a dresser. But it seemed only Steve 873 wanted to share my wardrobe secrets.

“I hope there are no returns,” said Anais without looking at me, leaving. “We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

My bags were on the bed, my door closed. I hadn’t felt this excited in months and was determined nothing could ruin my mood. Then I saw a copy of The Daily Watch left by the cleaner in the kitchen next to the kettle. ‘No Man Safe,’ shouted the headline; Burdizzo had struck again.

I sat on the sofa, bags unopened, tissue unwrapped; the only tissue touched was used to dab my eyes. On page three was advice for men; we were used to that but this could save your life. We should stay in groups when out, and not dress provocatively; this presumably meant no short skirts or tight trousers. Don’t accept lifts from strange women, and avoid high heels so you could run away. Late nights weren’t mentioned because we were already under curfew; lockdown was at 10 p.m. in the spring and summer and 8 p.m. in the autumn and winter.

I was terrified to lose my scalp, and wanted to hide under the blankets. But was my fear, like my hair, conditioned? I needed to find the real me, the true man, with the colonel’s help. Then perhaps I could stop running and hiding.

Chapter Twelve

“I see you got my message,” said Anais, looking at my conservative clothes.

I nodded, tongue-tied. Anais was stunning in her military dress that wasn’t a dress. Her legs were covered by tight cream trousers, a thick webbed belt wrapped around her hips, and a camouflage shirt was rolled up at the sleeves; perhaps it was homage to my breakthrough nail varnish. She wore a holster around her hourglass figure, and her bosom heaved with every breath. Her hair was in a bun, she wore dark glasses and boots. Her message to me was to dress down, and I was cloaked in my tracksuit, drab by comparison.

I undressed behind a screen, butt naked but not shy. My itinerant shemales were nowhere to be seen, but were probably watching through the ceiling camera should there be any unforeseen developments.

Anais turned her back, and ordered the three lab rats to uncage me. Maybe she couldn’t bear the thought of another woman that close to my naked body.

After several unsuccessful attempts with a key, and much pain on my part as the burgeoning excitement pushed against its confines, the poor red faced students gave up.

Long handled metal cutters appeared, and I quickly became as nervous as the girl holding them in her shaky hands. Fortunately, I wasn’t here for the chop, and I was released.

My photo was taken for the benefit of science. I just hoped it wouldn’t make the cover of a magazine.

“Ouch,” I howled. “You could at least have warned me.”

One of the lab assistants had just pricked me in the bottom.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d want it.”

She held a ridiculously long needle in front of my face. She was right; it seemed too big to take.

“Don’t worry the next one won’t be as bad,” said Anais.

I wish I could see her eyes. I wanted to know if she’d enjoyed my pain, whether there was a game we could play between us.

“There’ll be more?” I asked.

“You do want to feel like a real man, don’t you, as opposed to feeling one?” she said, grinning. “It’s a new prescription for you to take. Let’s call it your second coming.”

“What’s it called?” I didn’t care too much, I just wanted to keep her talking.

“Tostestalone. It has a brother, testosterone; hopefully this one is better behaved.”

“How long before the desired effect kicks in?”

She shrugged her shoulders, but I already had my answer. I couldn’t take my eyes off her adorable, cute ass. Maybe the siblings were closer than expected.

“Let’s start recording the data,” said Anais.

I was sitting in a leather recliner with everything on show, and thankful it wasn’t a cold aluminium chair from the canteen; things tended to shrink in the cold, and the stifled giggles of the lab rats were pushing me pleasingly to the edge.

My essential war equipment for invasion was measured and weighed. Later, tensile strength was tested. All data recorded.

“Now how did that little monster ever get in its cage?” said Anais.

Had she just said little? I was aghast. How many had she seen, whose were they, and did mine compare unfavourably? It didn’t look small from my view, and if I breathed in, well, it looked quite the opposite.

Anais observed my consternation, my furrowed brow.

“I do believe that’s bigger than expected,” she said, “and at such an early stage.”

My arms were strapped into the chair and my wrists bound, but my smile could still embrace her.

“Shall I give him another shot, Colonel?” asked the lab rat with the horn-rimmed glasses.

She looked kind of nerdy, plump with plumper lips. But right now they were all sex bombs, though I was the one ready to explode.

Anais nodded, and the needle came up through the gap in the chair. But she was right, I was feeling less pain. Hell, I was almost ready to scream, ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ I was angry and horny.

My senses were overloaded, and their perfumes were like feathered gloves ready to knock me out. I could hear every tap of their heels like a symphony.

Anais moved closer, our eyes locked. I felt her cheek brush against mine as she whispered in my ear, “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” I asked. I was having a ball.

“Now let’s see how the little soldier responds to real pain,” said a lab rat, holding a sterilised needle. I was beginning to feel like a pin cushion.

She prodded and poked, but I stood firm. Then she brought out its friend, a spiked cog on a roller, and proceeded to travel the shaft.

Even the metal rod couldn’t dampen my ardour, as it slid further inside, up and down, back and forth.

Anais had obviously seen enough, and clapped her hands.

“OK that’s all for today,” she said.

I sighed with relief.

“We can start all over again tomorrow.”

Damn these women.

I was handed a magazine on the mummification rites of ancient Egypt, and ordered to read. Whilst I was deflated on page three, they slipped on a plastic cage, but it didn’t have spikes and was two sizes bigger.

“I don’t want you to ruin anything,” said Anais, “and I don’t want to ruin you, just yet.”

“Indeed not, my dear Colonel Anais Eve,” said the un-young scientist entering the room. His lab coat was rich with golden thread, and his swagger was as big as his name badge; I guessed he was important.

“No need for formalities, my dear Professor,” said Anais.

He looked at me, as if down the barrel of a gun and I was in his sights. Someone handed me my clothes, and I quickly slipped them on.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Valery 01. Professor Cygnus Caveat. I’ve been watching your progress for quite some time.”

I was still staring at his name badge.

“That’s right, I have no number,” he said.

His hair was thin, grey, and his face covered in craggy lines. He should have moisturised years ago.

“I helped Vespertina back in the day,” he said, smiling like a fairy godfather.

I’m sure he wasn’t the only turnpetticoat, but what did he do now?

He clicked his fingers, and a book of calculations was placed in his hand.

“Impressive, but haven’t you forgotten something?”

The lab rat looked at her notes, turning bright red before stammering, “Circumference.”

“That’s right,” said the prof, “thickness counts too, my dear. I should know,” and he winked at the girl, causing her further embarrassment.

“I’m on Lusterone,” she said, trying to compose herself.

“My first breakthrough,” said the prof. “Lucky you.”

“Oh, how ill mannered,” he returned his attention to me. “I’m ignoring our guest. Well keep it up, Valery 01, so to speak. Splendid job, no really, splendid. Oh and your name, doesn’t really fit anymore, does it? Now you’re Valiant 01, got it?”

“Got it,” I replied with my chest puffed out.

“You’ll need a razor from now on,” he said, “for your face.”

I stroked my chin; I was bristling with excitement.

“Where from?” I asked.

Too late, he was gone. Anais wiped her brow.

“You should know, Valery, sorry Valiant 01, the Professor advised I choose you for this experiment,” said Anais.

“Why? How?”

“Data, of course. He can access anyone’s personal database.”

“But ...”

She placed her finger to my lips, and I wanted to kiss hers.

“Don’t ask too many questions, not yet,” she said.

I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I just wondered if her body wanted mine just as much. But even before she clapped her hands I could hear the heels of my guardian shemales approaching. How was I supposed to sleep tonight? I couldn’t get her out of my head.

Chapter Thirteen

I was staring at the night sky, wondering if I was moon-struck or love-struck. Certainly something felt different, but I still wasn’t sure what I wanted; I had no experience. I was convinced Anais would fall into my arms at some point, but when and could I wait? I tried on my new clothes out of loneliness, boredom.

I opened a packet of tartan socks, crisscrossed purple and red. Brand new and laddered, but I wouldn’t be taking them back. I reached for my sewing kit, and saw the token. Quickly I laced up the vintage gothic boots. Torn hosiery had a desperate appeal, and I was feeling pretty desperate.

I remembered Danny 55, and the Judge’s boots, dirty, exciting. Now that I had a sex drive, should I drive it underground to Mason? Feelings of love, lust, surged through my body; I was pulsating, vibrating. Perhaps female authority was stamped on my soul, in which case my passion could only be sated by swimming in subservience.

A black spider, maybe a widow, was on the wall watching me. I quickly searched for a suitable swatter, before picking up the glass that had held my toothbrush. I lifted the window, not glancing back, and I and the arachnid were suddenly both free, alive. We understood the meaning of captivity and fear.

Three floors up, I slid down the drainpipe light as a feather, but not a white one; I was courageous. The Lake, Tilda’s Boat House, was an hour’s run away. I’d cut across the woods, not for speed but cover. My tank was full of testosterone, tostestalone, or whatever they wanted to call it, and risks now felt challenging, not crippling.

Across the Lake the lights were out, but Tilda’s had wooden shutters on the windows. I jogged, in hope, along the path.

I was brazen enough to tag behind the crossdresser with the smudged lipstick. He’d wandered out of nowhere, and I followed him down the wooden boardwalk to the entrance.

“First time?” asked the female at the door; she was in mufti, I was in a leather dress.

I looked up at her, and nodded. She was in charge and knew it, but it was a different sense of authority. Not quite mutual respect but one of immediacy, intimacy, between user and abused, dominatrix and her sub.

“Token?” she asked, holding out her hand.

I handed her the coin Danny 55 had given me. She looked at it, bit it, and then returned it.

“You’ll need it for later,” she said.

“Where’s the free ride?” I asked.

“Take a look in the mirror; you’ll soon find it.”

I smiled, at least I’d been broken in at the office, but I wanted to take a good look around first.

Lartley 87 from Rinse Gardens brought me a drink, vodka.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. ‘It’s always the quiet ones.”

“I just like my privacy,” I said.

“Oh don’t worry, there are rooms upstairs. Not everyone likes to put on a show.”

“How?”

Lartley sighed.

“Your token,” he said, “what’s the number?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“OK, when one of the Madame’s shouts it out, just follow her.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh don’t worry, Valery, she’ll make all your dreams and nightmares, come true.”

A guy walked by in nipple clamps; it was Coussan 6. He looked whipped, literally.

A female came close, whispered in my ear.

“I hope I get you. I just love the newbies,” and she bit my ear.

There was something strange about her hands, or perhaps not, considering where we were.

“Walrus teeth,” she said, noticing my stare.

She wore finger claws attached to silver rings.

“I’d love to put you through your paces,” she said.

Her face was pretty, an angel with a demon’s heart. I’d dreamed of her many times before, but the screams coming from upstairs no longer stiffened my intent. She was right though; I was pacing, to the exit. I did a double take on my way out, was that Gillian and Claire?

I was outside again, but not completely in the cold; I had Anais. I looked over my shoulder, no one was behind me.

Chapter Fourteen

No one came for me, nor woke me up. So I made my own way for breakfast. Anais was waiting, and waved me over to her table.

“So, where did you get to last night?” she asked, stirring her coffee.

I still had a sore head from the ice cold vodka and night, and now it was spinning. Of course, they’d checked my room.

“Oh don’t look so worried,” she continued. “I half expected it now that your tanks are full.”

“Really?”

I was relieved.

“Of course you need to explore, invade new territory. So tell me, who was the lucky woman?”

“No one.”

“Man?”

“I’m not gay.”

“Solo?”

“I’m not into solitaire.”

“I’d better put the lab rats on alert. Today is the last injection, a stabiliser. Then it’s your turn to hold the syringe. I thought that would put a smile on your face.”

I grinned further.

“You sure you’ll know where to stick it, given the chance?”

“I get confused easily, Colonel, perhaps you could show me.”

She wiped her mouth with the serviette and stood up.

“I don’t think you want to miss your last appointment.”

“No,” I replied, and was left to make my own way to the lab.

One final injection and my hormones would be permanently restored as, I hoped, nature intended. Maybe that would be even higher; hell, didn’t we have a war to win? And I was their prototype, protégé. There could be more to follow, but would I want them following Anais?

The lab rats had turned into sex kittens, the white gowns replaced with short skirts, hosiery, and heels. If this was an attempt to measure the greatest circumference it worked, and they all looked suitably impressed. I guessed it was no coincidence they discussed their dorms.

I hardly felt the injection in my posterior, and there was one last test to be recorded for posterity: the shopping trip. No Guards, just me and Anais. I was salivating as I heard her footsteps move ever closer, the taps in tune with the beat of my heart.

Anais was a sex bomb, and she’d just hit my target, boots replaced with booty. Flat shoes, we were on a shopping expedition, but sheer electric blue nylons, a pink knee length skirt, and a tight black shirt. I should have been quarantined; I was foaming at the mouth.

“Glad you like my outfit,” she said. “Let’s go shopping. And, Valiant, this time you can take the lead. I want to see some initiative.”

I wanted her so badly, but now my libido had finally hooked up with my brain, I decided to play it smart. The fact she liked what she saw boosted my hand. How could I tell? The way her eyes lingered, the mirrored body language, and for once she seemed interested in what I had to say. The playing with her hair helped. Speaking of which, I needed a drastic makeover, and this time that meant no makeup.

There were no hairdressers prepared to give me a short back and sides. Instead I bought a pair of scissors. I was still forbidden a beard and moustache, but razors were unheard of. The prescribed cocktail had been our trimmer for facial hair. Eventually I threw in an electric razor from an antiques shop.

I was wearing my dark brown catsuit, feeling conspicuous, and was busy scouring the display windows for something a tad smarter, crisper, that marked me out as a lady’s man and not a ladyboy.

There was nothing but men’s chiffons, plaids, bell bottoms, and hipsters. A few shops were already stocking their autumn/winter outfits to get ahead of the game, but it was fake fur and corduroy with frills.

With a sigh of resignation, I led Anais to the women’s outfitters, and we received our fair share of glances and disapproving scowls. Perhaps she would understand what it was like to be a man. A grey suit caught my eye, but the tranny refused to assist me until Anais flashed him her ID card.

The suit was packed by a wide mouthed crossdresser, alongside a white shirt. I gave him a wink and Anais threw in a slim black tie without the inconvenience of any additional payment. She had the pips on her uniform, even if it was back at the campus, and he was a pipsqueak.

After dismissing the fur-lined men’s boots for a rugged terrain all weather women’s pair, we were ready to head back for some head, or so I hoped. I insisted on carrying the bags.

We hardly spoke in the taxi. The crossdressing driver did it all for us, and all I could do was stare at Anais and drool like a fool.

“Don’t speak,” she said as the door closed in her apartment and the bags hit the floor. “The bed’s this way.”

But the banging was coming from the other side of the door.

“Damn,” she cursed before answering.

It was her guard of honour, the shemales, and I hated them more than ever.

“The surgeon general wants an update on your new toy,” said one. She stared frostily down her long crooked nose at me. I could sense the hate, the jealousy.

Anais hesitated, and the shemale looked over her shoulder, at her superior officer.

“Immediately,” she said. “Don’t worry about packing, she’s in London.”

“I’m coming,” said Anais, and suddenly I wasn’t.

Still, I was certain we’d get another chance soon. After all, I was her toy.

Chapter Fifteen

Anais had been gone for two days, and I was both high and low. I liked the new me and the associated feelings; I felt alive, but I was worried too. What was taking her so long? Was Vespertina going to pull the plug on the experiment, on me? After all what had Anais said, ‘we need a new man who can fight without fighting off the opposite sex’? But I could think of nothing but sex, with a female. I wanted love, not war.

I decided to stretch my legs on campus. I begged my nervous shemale overseer to let me go it alone, and promised to be good. It took some flattery but even a newly qualified heterosexual sex addict like me could appreciate a great pair of legs on the third sex. I, on the other hand, dressed androgynous in trousers and a shirt.

It was in the canteen he surprised me. I was lazily sipping an iced tea when someone placed their hands over my eyes.

“Surprise, surprise. No, don’t turn around. Who is it?”

I had hoped it was Anais, but the voice was distant.

“Vespertina?” I joked.

He removed his hands, and was standing in front of me. I was confused; he was in uniform. Dorian 3309 was in the secret police, PUSSI (Police Undercover Search Surveillance and Intel)?

“I’ve been watching you,” he said.

His grey uniform was crisp, his long black boots shiny, and his trousers tucked in.

“I’ve noticed,” I replied.

“Sorry, Valery 01, I never meant to creep you out. I wanted to save you.”

“From myself?”

“Burdizzo.”

He pulled up a chair. No one was looking at us. The secret police put the fear of Mother Nature into everyone. They were few in number, men who genuinely hated other men, but their responsibility was large.

“You know?” I asked him.

“Of course, I read the police reports.”

“So they did take it seriously.”

“We didn’t want you to tip her off unwittingly.”

So I wasn’t witless after all.

“She’s close,” I said.

“Closer than you can imagine,” said Dorian.

“You have a plan?” I asked.

“I want to trap her.”

“With me as the bait?”

“You game?”

Actually, I was, and nodded. I didn’t tell Dorian I was a new man.

“What’s it like,” I asked, “being in PUSSI?”

“The most wonderful feeling in the world,” he replied, grinning. “It gives you a feeling of control, power.”

“Shouldn’t I tell my shemale escort?” I asked as we headed for the University exit.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be back before curfew.”

I took a ride downtown in his unmarked car. I should have felt safe, but I was increasingly nervous with his lack of communication.

“Burdizzo lives somewhere in this block,” he said, parking on the empty street outside.

“A man?”

“A woman in disguise. As a woman she can travel anywhere, as a man she can hide anywhere. Don’t be too surprised, Valery 01.”

He didn’t use my new name. He may have been in PUSSI, but he didn’t know I wanted some too.

“There’s a surveillance flat across the road.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “isn’t she supposed to see me?”

I thought that was the plan: to flush her out and identify her. Why else would Dorian bring me here?

“Sure, but I need to pick up some equipment first.”

I wasn’t convinced, but I was PUSSI whipped. Although you wouldn’t know it, his uniform was now covered with a black trench-coat.

We alighted from the lift, and, after fumbling with his keys, we were in. He flicked the light switch; it was still daylight but the curtains were drawn. I asked for a tea, and my host retreated to the kitchen.

“One or two sugars?” he asked.

“I’m sweet enough,” I replied.

“I forgot,” he said, “Of course you are. And great hair too, I wish it was mine.”

With Dorian 3309, if that was his real name, waiting for the kettle to boil, I couldn’t resist looking at his collection of wigs displayed on the mannequin heads lined across the sideboard. There were five, and the hair felt so real, and the congealed blood on the scalps did too. The blood, scalps, what the hell? I sat down fast.

“Here’s your tea,” he said, smiling politely.

“Thanks. You know what I will have sugar after all,” I said. “I’m getting a sweet tooth.”

Two sugared teas sat in front of us, on the small round table, and no one thus far had taken a sip.

I looked at him as I swapped them around, and picked his up.

“Drink up,” I said.

“You know yours is drugged, of course,” he said. “Out of curiosity, what gave me away?”

“Curiosity.”

“Then you should be in PUSSI.”

I had the same feeling.

“And you?” I asked.

“Oh it’s true; I’m in the secret police. The office job’s my cover.”

“And no one suspects you’re a serial killer? Your superiors, the women?”

“You know I’ve often wondered that. This flat’s a secret, my hideaway, but why shouldn’t they know, and what would they do if they did?”

Maybe he was right. Perhaps it suited them, society.

“Control by fear,” I said.

“And medication, but you have to admit it does keep the fairies on their toes.”

“But what’s in it for you?”

“Every time I kill someone, something in me dies as well. The part I hate.”

Was he a psychiatrist or did he just need to see one? His eyes were wide, demonic.

“And the scalps are trophies?” I asked.

“Hardly, I have alopecia, always have. Boys can be so bitchy you know.”

I wasn’t a shoulder to cry on. Not here, not now, not with him.

“So now what?” I asked.

He laughed.

“You die of course.”

He brandished a revolver, and I flicked my eight legged friend off the cushion with a forefinger.

“I thought you were terrified of spiders,” he said.

“No, that’s for pussies.”

He was even more surprised as I stabbed his neck with the letter opener. We looked at each other, both in disbelief, before his eyes closed.

He fell forward, dead, onto the carpet. His wig slipped, and there was a bald patch, on him as well as the rug. His low life was over.

I stepped over his body, away from the pouring blood. I tip-toed towards the curtains, I wasn’t sure why no one else was there, and slowly peeled them back, looking onto the street. Dead quiet; all the guys were inside watching the netball final. His car was still there, but it was no use to me. I couldn’t drive; I was a guy.

The wallpaper was grotesque, like the headpieces, green and orange squares on a white canvas. The furniture was dark wood, old and tired, apart from one glass bookshelf stacked with hair magazines, and some named files. I took mine even though I was leaving a trail of DNA behind. Maybe the flat was a secret, but a rotting corpse wouldn’t be. A pile of papers fell on the floor from a foolscap. They were stamped Top Secret, but it was the name that jumped off the page ‘Professor Cygnus Caveat.’

Just one thing remained, to return to the University before curfew. I didn’t wash up, but I did find a bus pass on the kitchen drainer.

“Doesn’t look like you,” said the tranny bus driver inspecting the photo on my pass.

“I’ve changed my hair,” I said.

“The face looks different,” he said.

“Dental work,” I replied.

“Oh, get on,” he finally relinquished. “I want to get back to the station, maybe I’ll catch the last half hour of the match.”

I took my ticket and headed for the back of the bus.

“Hey,” shouted the driver, “just a minute.”

My heart stopped.

“Who are you supporting?” he asked.

“No one, I’m not into netball,” I replied, without turning around.

“I bet you like women too,” he scoffed.

“Something like that.”

“You are kidding, aren’t you, about not liking netball?” said the guy, leaning over towards me.

“Sure, who doesn’t like netball? I’m not heterosexual.”

And we both laughed.

“Valiant 01, I was worried,” said my shemale guard. “Where have you been?”

“Sorry, Andrea, but ever since the new drugs I’m almost dying for PUSSI.”

Back in my room I quickly closed the blinds, and threw the files on the bed. I’d been under surveillance for a year. There was the naked photo snapped at my window, and one description calling me chubby, heart-breaking. I was proud of my figure- make that physique.

I pulled up the blankets, plumped up the pillows, and opened the dossier on the prof.

What I read was a transcript copy. Dorian had recorded a secret conversation between the prof and one General Rolliet, about me.

I’d always been an experiment, insurance for times of war. I’d been chosen at birth by Cygnus not to have the hormone exchange and reversal serum, HERS. So that’s why I’d always felt so damn different; I was. I wasn’t the only one, or the first, but those ahead of me had placed themselves in jeopardy and died. The colonel in charge, Swayne Eve, was fired, literally by the firing squad.

Vespertina was determined I would fail too, die miserably, and deliver final proof to the Council, if any were needed, that men were completely, utterly, useless. The Femocracy could never win the war by conventional means. If you called Brigades of manic depressed, obsessional, schizophrenic crossdressers conventional.

They suspected Vespertina would go nuclear, sooner rather than later, and take the world with her. My whole body was shaking, valiant or not, they were plotting a coup to topple the witch.

I couldn’t sleep; shame, it was perfect practice for the great oblivion, unless there really was a spiritual realm overseen by Mother Nature. Naturally the men would still be second class to the ruling class of women.

Chapter Sixteen

I felt like we were going on holiday, albeit a working one. We were together and uninterrupted, at least for a moment. Anais had returned and our bags were packed. I shut the door on my University room for what I guessed was the last time. In a way I’d miss the place. I had fond memories.

“May I,” said the voice, and he proceeded to pick up our suitcases. It was the prof.

“Let the shemales do that, Cygnus,” said Anais.

“You’re right,” he relinquished. “Too old in the tooth, sorry, un-young.”

“Come to see us off, Prof?” I asked.

“Even better, I’m coming along.”

I sighed. I could see my precious time with Anais eroded.

In an hour we were over the Chanel, and only Mother Nature knew what awaited me when we landed. Anais was tight-lipped, and the Prof tapped the side of his nose when questioned. The shemales at the back of the plane just grimaced, apart from Andrea; we’d struck up a kind of friendship. She used to be a plumber, but like so many shemales had swapped sex for sex.

At least Anais sat next to me, and when no one was looking I brushed her hand with mine. She was back in uniform, aloof and ice-cold to the outside world, but hot as a hell underneath. I could feel her pulse, blood like steam from the shower we’d quickly shared before any shemale got too suspicious.

The plane descended steeply. Anais had warned me, but I still felt sick. We were escorted from the runway by an armed guard of tranny air-force cadets. I wondered if they could sense the masculinity in my swagger, or considered me another hopeless case for the front.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch,” said Anais.

Before I could answer, she had hopped into a jeep and was heading for one of the tunnels burrowed into the mountainside.

Cygnus tugged my sleeve. “It’ll all be OK tomorrow,” he said.

“Meaning?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” was all I got out of the un-young fool.

The warmth I once felt was quickly dissipating. Although, apart from Anais, he was my only friend. OK, make that acquaintance, and only if not counting Andrea. Then again, just how far could I trust a shemale; especially one that was always looking me up and down? I had Steve 873 for that, but he was miles away.

I saw my reflection in the lift. Clothes make the woman they say. Now they were making a man, me. I was still getting used to them: trousers minus pleats, shirts without the frills, and a bomber jacket. I felt taller without my high heels, and more confident without foundation. I was trying to remember what I used to look like, how I sounded, thought. If I saw that same guy today, I’d probably knock him out.

“This is where we part company,” said the prof at my door. “I shall see you in the morning. Be up bright and early.”

I nodded, there was no problem with that; I had a certain vigour in the morning these days.

“You going to tell me why?” I asked, turning the handle. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He sighed, and looked down. It didn’t look good, and it was about to sound much worse.

“The program you’re on, Valiant. The intention has always been to make a man hard without getting him hard.”

“Well one out of two isn’t so bad,” I said, smiling. I half expected what was coming next.

“I have a little medicine to correct that anomaly.”

I didn’t want to hear anymore. “You’d better go,” I said. “See you later.”

An impatient shemale pushed open my door, and I slammed it shut.

They wanted me to risk my life without giving me one, neutered once more. The only body fluid I was allowed to spill was my blood, unless I donated at the Bank. I picked up the lamp, about to throw it at the wall, before sitting down at the desk, head in hands. What on earth was I going to do? I wasn’t in the mood to play ball. I looked up at the ceiling; there was no attempt to hide the camera.

Chapter Seventeen

I should have unpacked last night, but I had no energy. Besides, the wardrobe was full of all my new clothes: camouflage trousers and jackets with a green vest and socks, brown leather army boots too, with no fur trim. I tried them on; they were clothes to die for.

“I’m surprised,” said Cygnus, “you’re up.”

“Why don’t you just walk right in,” I said.

“I’m sorry, I should have knocked.”

“Coffee?” I asked.

“Black,” he replied, “and two toast.”

“I don’t see the ...”

“It’s under the sink; the bread is in the freezer.”

We sat down.

“Valiant, you gave me a sleepless night.”

“Why?” I asked, disappointed. Was everyone gay?

“In hindsight, the antidote to your lust seems,” he paused and sipped his coffee, “unproductive.”

He pushed the burnt toast away, and I looked up at the camera. He had my attention, but did he have anyone else’s?

“Oh don’t worry,” he said. “They can’t hear us.”

“You want to reward me?”

“No, that’s a decision for Anais. I think it will compromise your natural aggression.”

We folded our arms simultaneously. If he had a problem, I didn’t; when I had no problems, he did.

Professor Cygnus was losing his golden touch. He wore a green lab coat, but was recognised by the endless figures of armed guards. How many experiments had he brought here before? How many just like me? I didn’t have to wait long before I got my answer.

We followed the signs to the ‘Shooting Range.’

“Don’t talk too loud,” said Cygnus. “I have a confession to make.”

“Let me guess, I’m not the first.”

“Of course, Dorian had your file,” he said.

“You mean Burdizzo,” I said.

I got the impression it had all been a game to keep an un-young man entertained.

“MAD, Tilda’s, was a test of your cunning. Dorian was an examination in courage. You passed with flying colours,” he said.

“And the others?” I asked.

“I either removed them from the program, or Burdizzo did. Vespertina would only accept the very best. It took longer than I expected. Colonel Swayne Eve was an unforeseen casualty.”

There was no sense of regret, no guilt.

“Danny 55, my college friend?” I used the term friend loosely.

“He’s a natural, isn’t he? Rebellious enough to convince others, smart enough to hand them in. He’s on the Council’s payroll.”

“Did you know Dorian 3309 was watching you?”

At last the smug smile disappeared. He’d been my saviour, but he wasn’t a god, more like a devil.

“How can you be certain?” he asked, mopping his brow.

Two trannies saluted at the entrance to the range. Cygnus pointed at one of their chests, “Button up.”

The tranny quickly fastened his bright orange tunic.

“Dorian had a transcript of you, General Rolliet, and the coup.”

“Oh dear, then I really haven’t got long left. Look, you’re here for the day, I need to go.”

“I’ll see you again?”

“Unless Vespertina has shot me.”

“You and me.”

He feigned surprise, before a half smile of acknowledgement.

“She does want me to fail and die?” I asked.

He nodded before turning and leaving.

Vespertina was my main thought as the instructor gave me a crash course in firing a handgun and rifle.

There were two more days of training, and 48 hours of Prof looking over his shoulder. After hand to hand combat, bayonet training, and grenade throwing, I was no longer feeling the rookie. Everyone told me the front was different, that some men froze. What I couldn’t tell them was that I was a real man, and that real men had fire in their bellies, not ice.

Chapter Eighteen

I hadn’t burnt the toast this morning, and there was an envelope pushed under my door.

‘Dear Valiant 01,

After delivering this letter I have taken poison. I’m not one for torture. General Rolliet will be hanged in secret later today, and then posthumously declared a war hero. Vespertina will have you and Anais arrested for her murder, and then shot as traitors.

It’s your life, but may I make a suggestion? Head for the front, there will be a bombing raid tonight; use it to escape to the other side.

Queensy Sevastopol has evidence of Vespertina’s intent to go nuclear. If you want to save the planet and Anais, take it to the Council. Queensy is expecting you.’

Cygnus.’

It wasn’t in the morning papers but it was headlines, for all the wrong reasons. If I could trust the prof, and make that a big if after his previous tests, I was getting seriously pissed with people wanting to kill me.

I’d been waiting for nearly an hour, pacing the floor, when someone knocked on my door. If it was the firing squad, they were awfully polite. It was Anais, wearing camouflage fatigues. She had a pistol at her belt, and looked like one of the regulars apart from the pips on her shoulders.

“Morning soldier,” she said, and I saluted. “Follow me.”

Some guy hanging out of a jeep gave a banned wolf whistle.

“You’re popular,” I said to Anais, hoping for an opportunity to discuss her beauty.

“He’s in the Gay Brigade; he likes you.”

“Aren’t most of the soldiers gay?” I asked.

“Most are medicated. He’s genuinely gay. Think of him as less competition, soldier.”

“Soldier? I haven’t finished training and passed out.”

“No, but you’re more loaded than an entire Brigade. The prof, Mother Nature rest his soul, had no doubts in your abilities.”

“Rest his soul?”

“Sorry, I thought you’d heard. He died of a heart attack last night, in his sleep.”

I bit my lip.

We came out in a cave, and I was surprised to see a train.

“A maglev,” said Anais. “It’s a four hour ride to the front line, one hell of a tunnel.”

“Was this your idea or the prof’s?”

“The tunnel?”

“The front line.”

“He sent me an email last night; thought it would help if you saw a little action, before we throw you in the deep end.”

Too late, I was already swimming with sharks. It was 9 a.m. and the Military Police, wearing red caps and trousers, were making me nervous. I grabbed Anais’ hand and we jumped on the train before anyone could check our papers. The corridors were crammed with soldiers and I pushed our way through. I locked us in the toilet.

As we pushed down the window, I could see the MPs quarrelling on the platform. It was something or nothing, but it could be a warning that time was short, our time. Anais was still doing up her hair.

“You took me by surprise,” she said, and I had.

Her rank got us two seats in a carriage full of schizophrenics. Good choice; they were too busy hearing their own voices to pay any attention to ours.

“I have another surprise,” I said handing her the letter. “It was pushed under my door this morning.”

Her face became ashen.

“Who’s Queensy?” I asked.

“There was a rumour Vespertina’s chef, Queensy Sevastopol, had defected from an international cooking convention in Switzerland. Maybe she took some insurance with her.”

Another train whizzed by, heading in the opposite direction, back home to safety and medals for the fallen. The only time a male was honoured was when he was safely underground. Dead heroes were honoured with their names on a plaque in the rose garden at Rinse Gardens.

There was one hour left to the front; we put on our helmets.

“I’d never had guessed the battle was so close,” I said. “No supply lines.”

“A lot of the war effort is secret,” said Anais. “You should know; it’s all need to know.”

It was a world away from my warm scented bath, fluffy dressing gown, and hot chocolate.

We stood in the corridor sandwiched between two hypochondriacs. They were popping pills, spilling syrups, and taking each other’s blood pressure.

The platform at the end of the line was chaos. The MPs were blowing whistles constantly, and the soldiers were running around attaching themselves to various units before marching off.

“Follow me,” said Anais.

I could see the top of the prof’s letter sticking out of her breast pocket.

“Colonel Rea, how are you?” she asked.

“Ready for action.”

“Let’s give them hell,” I said.

The Colonel stared me down; I’d been too cocky.

“Forgive him,” said Anais on my behalf. “And how is General Rolliet these days?”

“Mother Nature! Anais you haven’t heard, she’s in surgery.”

“A heart attack?” asked Anais.

“Worse, a bomb, sabotage.”

“But who?”

“The Military Police have a list of suspects. I hope you’re not on it, Colonel,” joked Rea.

Anais gulped, and I tugged her sleeve.

Colonel Rea was making prolonged eye contact. Did she want to hit me, or was she hitting on me?

“This one looks a little different, Colonel,” she said.

“A prototype, don’t worry he’s under my control.”

“So this is the new man we keep hearing about. Well let’s not forget why we’re fighting this war: for women’s freedom everywhere, and liberation from apes like him.”

She turned her back on us, and calmly went on her way.

“You believe it now?” I asked Anais as tenderly as I could, but just how much could you soften the blow? We were being hunted by our own side.

“I won’t believe it, Valiant, I just won’t,” she said.

Had I just heard the first note of vulnerability in her voice? I wanted to hold her in my arms, if she’d let me, but we were in the wrong place, wrong time.

A gang of eight men shuffled by in leg-irons. Each had his hands on the shoulders of the man in front of him.

“Prisoners?” I asked Anais.

“Self-harmers, but don’t worry; they’ll have no need for DIY where they’re going.”

“And where am I going?”

“With me, to the Grandiose Ideas Brigade.”

“Isn’t that risky? I mean for you.”

“Their ideas don’t run to women, but they do think they’re invincible; destined to annihilate the enemy, covered in glory and citations.”

They’d never make it back on the street. Like all the grunts, this was a one-way ticket to the compost heap, sooner or later. There would be no male parades nor ticker-tape in a Femocracy, even with the women taking all the salutes.

“Risk takers,” I suggested.

“Sure, but I could have sent you to the Depressed Brigade. Now, those guys are dying to die. Besides have you never heard that fortune favours the brave?”

“OK, I’m in,” I pretended as if I had a choice. “I guess we can always fall back if we get outgunned or outnumbered.”

Anais smiled and shook her head.

“Withdrawal is not an option this time,” she said.

“The blockers.”

“We only use the bipolar; they have no problem firing on their own men. Guess they’re either too depressed to care, or too elated to bother.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“I’ve seconded a couple of my best machine gunners to your unit. You’re a valuable asset Valiant, or soon will be.”

“So you don’t believe the prof’s goodbye letter?”

“A test, another hoax,” she said. “If it was him.”

“And General Rolliet?”

“Coincidence.”

Now where was women’s intuition when you needed it most?

“How long are you hanging around?” I asked her, and instantly regretted using the word ‘hanging’.

“Until I’ve seen enough. Don’t worry, I’ll be safe. I’m under orders. Can’t risk a colonel falling into the hands of the Undiagnosed. Although, I do have this.”

She removed a small pill box from her pocket, and I instantly knew what it was. If she took it, it would probably kill me too.

A soldier in a stretcher was carried between us, bandages soaked in blood. Behind him another hobbled on crutches, his face twisted in agony. The reality of war was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable.

“Come on soldier,” said Anais.

I followed her lead, and we jumped into the back of a truck, soldiers either side. They weren’t battle weary yet, and were singing.

“Take the green pill when you want fight,

The red to keep him up all night,

And if they shoot you in the balls,

With your back against the wall,

There’s no need to wail,

You’re gonna be a shemale.”

We disembarked onto a rain soaked field, and I stepped down a ladder into a mud lined trench just after Anais had said her goodbye. I hoped it wasn’t the last.

I followed the wooden posts marked HQ. The non-commissioned officers, men, had no time for me, and scribbled a map on the back of a chocolate bar wrapper.

“You going to win us the war?” asked the guy with the scarred face. They were shrapnel injuries, unless he was a self-harmer; it was hard to tell the difference amidst the mayhem.

I sensed any optimism on my part would be shot down.

“Are there ever any winners?” I asked.

“An intellectual,” said the NCO with the leather gloves.

I wasn’t certain if they were an affectation or his hands were truly cold. Considering his monocle, I went for the former.

“The only good thing here is the rules are relaxed,” said Scarface, “A kind gesture to the condemned.”

I felt sorry for the truly enthusiastic: the fresh faced who believed in the war. They didn’t stand a chance with these two.

“You need to go that way,” said the gloves, pointing.

His words were slurred, and I noticed a bottle of vodka on the table with two glasses.

“We’ve earned it,” he said, presumably discussing the alcohol.

I had no doubt, and was glad to leave them and the booze. Like a lot of the troops, these guys were fighting their own battle.

“You must be Alfie 90,” I said, my boots sinking into the mud.

He was standing on a short plank, reluctant to give me any room.

“Welcome to paradise,” he said.

There was a stuffed parrot sewn onto the shoulder of his jacket. Its beak was wrapped tight with string. I wasn’t sure if this was a political gesture.

Alfie pointed to the bright feathers amongst the darkness.

“Helps with the diagnosis,” he said, “delusional.”

“But this is the Grandiose Brigade,” I said.

“I think I’m a swashbuckling, seafaring pirate.”

“That still sounds delusional.”

“So sue my psychiatrist.”

This was one war were being mentally ill didn’t get you a ride back home, it actually got you drafted.

He offered me a mint from a rather grubby packet. I was reluctant to accept but took it in the manner it was offered, as a token of friendship.

Alfie removed his helmet, and scratched his head.

“Two more days and I got me some R and R,” he said, smiling. “Maybe I should tell the folks back home we’re losing this bloody war.”

“Should you be doing that?” I asked.

“What?”

“Putting your head above the parapet.”

His nose was in the air.

“More rain due,” he said.

Still, Alfie had no need to worry; a bullet sailed clean through his head, hitting the wall of the trench hard. I crouched down as quickly as I could, careful not to sink into the quagmire.

Suddenly whistles were blowing everywhere. I followed the others up the ladders. There was only one way to go, and we charged the barbed wire, bayonets on rifles. I winced as one of our tanks crushed a fallen comrade, friendly fire.

A machine gunner was cutting us down like grass. I ran to the pillbox, and threw in a grenade. Hands over my ears I counted to three, or should it be five? All hell was coming apart around me, until I felt someone pat me on the shoulder.

“Well done, soldier,” said Anais.

Bodies were falling like the rain on both sides, men were screaming, shaking, bloodied and maimed, but as evening approached we were the last men standing. I looked at the fields of corpses no longer horrified but anaesthetised. To live through the danger and live, somehow that felt invigorating yet tinged with guilt to have survived.

There were few stretcher bearers, but plenty of shemales putting the basket cases out of their misery with a final bullet to the head. At least I hadn’t lost mine in the heat and hate of battle. My reward was sharing Anais’ tent, but together always had a nasty habit of falling apart before we could actually get together.

They entered uninvited, a law unto themselves: two shemale military police. They were suited for authority and booted.

“Well, well, the rumours are true,” said one, looking at me.

“It’s not what you think,” said Anais.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. You’re wanted at General HQ immediately, and lover boy too.”

I wanted to stand my ground, instead I felt I was sinking into it.

“Why?” asked Anais.

“Treason, assassination, and subverting the Femocracy.”

“Doesn’t get any more serious, does it Colonel?” said the other shemale, smirking.

They drew their weapons. I wanted to draw their blood.

“Assassination?” I asked.

“General Rolliet,” they both said.

They seemed pleased with themselves.

“Lights in the sky,” a voice shouted outside.

They’re called stars I thought, only they weren’t, unless you needed the Undiagnosed bombers to give you some breathing space before your last breath. The whistling alarming as the bombs dropped through the sky, and the blasts all around shredded your nerves. You had no idea which tent or piece of ground would disintegrate next.

The shemale MPs looked at one another under their long coated eyelashes.

“Dead or alive,” they said together.

Sometimes things just go slow, other times, important times they move in slow motion, like now. Fingers were on their triggers, about to squeeze, as a wall of flames ripped through our tent. The MPs took the force of the blast, and Anais and I were knocked off our feet.

“Do you believe me now?” I asked as I held her in my arms.

She nodded, and I had a feeling now was my time to prove the prof was right about everything, especially me.

We headed for the woods, stepping over bodies, and circumventing the craters. We crossed to the other side under the gaze of the moon.

“No turning back,” said Anais, holding my hand.

“No turning back,” I repeated, looking into her eyes.

She hesitated but then to my delight threw away her cyanide pill. It was a vote of confidence in the new me.

The night air was cool and so was my head. I had realised that without danger life was nothing but complacency.

There was a river ahead. We stayed out of sight along the bushes before we found a narrow crossing point.

“Can you swim?” she whispered.

I nodded.

“You?”

“I think I’ve been doing the backstroke all of my life.”

We were out of the frying pan and into the fire, but still cold and wet.

“We have to find the nearest town and get out of these clothes,” she said.

We were shivering.

“First let’s share our body heat,” I said.

“Oh, you mean a hug,” she finally replied.

She was kind of right.

I was worried as daylight approached, and I still didn’t see cover. As the clouds cleared we followed the belching chimneys to the power station. There was a small railway hub outside with empty coal wagons. They had to return somewhere, and with two stowaways on board. We took our ride and our chances. At least we could ‘hug.’

The prof, my mentor of sorts, was dead, or at least I hoped he was. There were rumours of the gruesome protracted deaths that awaited those that had turned to the other side. He’d known about the bombing raid, I just hoped he was right about Queensy. Anais helped me brush up on my Russian.