Only A Baby Machine -- Part 4, What's in a Name

What's in a name? Sometimes, far too much!

Part 4

by Suzy Q

Copyright © 20010 Suzy Q
All Rights Reserved.

April 16

-- Doctor Ibarra entered his office and closed the door. He had just finished treating a man who had attempted to steal the car of a prominent Honduran politician. Don Pablo had offered Ibarra’s services in designing a punishment. Seá±or Montes had been skeptical at first, but on learning the details, he had been delighted. “If your Doctor Ibarra can deliver, I’ll be in your debt,” he had told Don Pablo.

The subject, Juan Garza, had been a truck driver. Ibarra changed his name, as was routine. Then he erased the knowledge and training needed for driving. Using drugs and shocks, he virtually destroyed the neurons associated with mechanical reasoning ability. Finally, using hypnotic drugs and conditioning techniques, he gave the subject (now Benito Flores) a dislike for things mechanical, and an irrational desire to serve Seá±or Montes as a stable hand. Doctor Ibarra left him the memory of his career as a truck driver (if not the ability to resume that career), and the memory of the attempted theft. The treatment had taken three months. Now he reported:

Don Pablo: My treatment of Seá±or Flores proceeds well. He has forgotten who he was. He can not drive a vehicle, nor can he even tolerate sitting in one without distress. I am now in the process of fixating him on his new position as a stable hand. I expect no problems. As to your pet project, the unfortunate Seá±or Deon: all preparations are done, and I await only the opportunity.
April 20

-- George’s breasts, although still small, continued to swell,. He could’ve hidden them if he had been allowed loose clothes, but they showed plainly through his form-fitting tops. His chest looked like that of a thirteen-year-old girl. When he walked, his breasts jiggled visibly, just a little. His students accepted his condition without comment, as did everyone else on the finca. George thought, “If Don Pablo tells them to treat me like a girl, that’s what they’ll do. If he told them I was a cow, they’d probably try to milk me.” The most frightening part of his ordeal was that his feminine appearance was coming to seem normal, even to him; and unless he forced himself to think about it, he wasn’t even resentful of his morning primping, performing it carefully and automatically.

That afternoon, Jaime brought him a copy of the Atlanta Constitution, dated February 15. It was folded to an inner page, and he pointed out a short paragraph, datelined Tegucigalpa. A picture was included.

The death of George Deon, an expatriate American chemist and former Atlanta resident, was confirmed today in the Honduran town of Tela. Mr. Deon was reported missing from his teaching post in La Ceiba in early January, when he did not return from a trip to Tela. Local residents said he had gone swimming at an isolated beach, and he was feared to have drowned. Yesterday his body was found. It was badly decomposed, and identification was possible only by dental records and DNA analysis. He is survived by his parents, two brothers, and a sister. A memorial service will be held in his home town, Akron, Ohio.

“You dead má¡s que three months, muchacha. O el Seá±or Deon is dead three months, al todo el mundo. El Seá±or Deon is dead here too, but only one month. Claro que no sos el hombre aquá­ en esto foto; no sos hombre de ninguna manera!  ¡Te miré a vos mismo! Vos sos la Seá±orita Deon,  ¿no?”

George glanced at his chest, where small mounds pushed out a thin lilac top. “No, it’s not true,” he insisted. “You know better in spite of my appearance. You know I’m a man. George isn’t dead yet!”

Jaime assured him, “He soon is, chica, he soon is.”

A scolding from Evelina reminded him of his work. “Enough chitchat, girl. And no more talk of this ‘Jorge’. You’re just a lazy girl, and a maid in training. If you forget, I’ll remind you. After the laundry’s hung up, more clothes need ironing.”

Jaime gave his high giggle and added, “You think still you is George? Look at your nice little titties! Ahora y siempre, you is Seá±orita Deon, chica, y está¡s llegando a ser muchacha cuquá­sima.”
April 22

-- On the fourth Friday of the month Jaime stopped by to take photographs of George, clothed and naked. “Estos fotos is record of tu progreso,” he announced. “Doctor Weiss and Doctor Herná¡ndez use them for report.” George retorted that he didn’t give a damn about their report, but Jaime told him his feelings were irrelevant. “Your body do what the doctors want, you like or no.”

Except for the loss of his libido, George didn’t think there had been crucial changes in his body, at least not yet. Herná¡ndez might be right, but the effect so far was minor and probably not permanent. Even the bacterial infection could be cured, he thought. But he worried about the future. May 1 was just over a week away; what new torment would he suffer? On the spur of the moment, George decided to run. Today.

After lunch he had a half hour before he’d go to work. Recently his captors had seemed less watchful during the day, although he was still locked in and guarded at night. Yes, three weeks earlier his escape attempt had cost him; but he couldn’t wait passively as they destroyed him. He removed his earrings and washed off his makeup, then left his room and headed towards the casa, where Evelina waited for him. His guards expected him to leave now, and they simply watched as he approached the casa. Instead of going in the rear door, he circled the house and passed the stables. Once in the nearby cafetal where he couldn’t be seen, he severed his ankle monitor with a small kitchen knife and then began to trot. He felt a growing panic, as during the earlier attempt, and he had to fight a growing urge to return to the safety of his room. “I have to run,” he told himself. “I can’t let them carry out their plan.” He knew he’d eventually become sick; but he’d be far from Las Rosas by then. Maybe Don Pablo’s threat was genuine. Maybe withdrawal would kill him. He didn’t care any more. He’d have to risk it.

George had seen that people moved in and out of the finca constantly. He was gambling that vigilance had slackened and that, with makeup removed, he could slip through the gate unnoticed. It appeared he had been right, as he left in the company of several campesinos headed for Comayagua. This was the break he needed!

As George fled, an alarm sounded in Ibá¡á±ez’s office, and another in the casa. Jaime informed the don, who told him, “I am not surprised. Come with me.” In the room where the alarm had sounded, the don flicked a switch and a monitor lit. He fiddled with switches, and a map of the department of Comayagua appeared. The location of Las Rosas was marked by a green square. A red dot was superimposed on the square. “That marks the present position of our guest,” Don Pablo pointed out. “At this scale it is not helpful.” He pushed a button and the red dot reappeared, superimposed on a map of Las Rosas and its immediately surrounding area. The dot was just outside the limits of the finca. “That is better,” he remarked. “He is barely off the finca. I would guess he is terrified now, if Ibá¡á±ez’s device works properly. I will let him go a bit further; he should become ill soon, and that may send him back. I doubt it, though. Herná¡ndez tells me Seá±or Deon understands what is happening to his body, and I imagine he is desperate.” He turned to look at Jaime. “I doubt he can get to the main road. He should be forced to stop this side of El Palmar. Beyond that, I am told, he will be too sick to go on. Tonight, after he has had time to regret his action, take Paco and pick him up.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a small portable radio. “Take this with you. I will keep track of his position, and I will tell you where he is. There is no rush. Leave after dinner. You ought to reach him half an hour or so after you leave.”

Ten minutes later George was desperate. His terror left him almost unable to think, but his subconscious transferred the emotion to the danger behind him, and he forced his body to move. He had already emptied his stomach, but the retching continued to get worse, and his legs were cramping; he couldn’t go much further. “I have to keep going,” he told himself. “I have to!” He was struck by a bad spasm, and he doubled over, collapsing onto the ground. His left leg cramped too badly to allow him to get back up, even if his stomach allowed. Unable to rise, he crawled into a cornfield, recalling Don Pablo’s warning that withdrawal might be so bad that he could be killed. His lucidity fading, he thought, “This can’t be happening! I can’t be having withdrawal so soon!” He spent the rest of the day semiconscious, curled around his cramping belly.

It was dark when they found him. George heard the van approach, but he was too miserable to care. It drove past, then backed up. Jaime and Paco got out and walked straight to him. He offered no resistance, and it wasn’t necessary to knock him out. He wanted to fight, but physically he was a wreck. The two men half-dragged, half-carried him to the van, put him in the back, and locked the door. As the van bounced back up the mountain, George wondered briefly how they had found him without the device on his ankle, until another spasm diverted his attention.

He was taken to the casa. Jaime put him in a room, bare except for a cot. Once in the room, Jaime allowed him to slump to the floor and shook his head. “Amiga, you a fool. Vos sos muy tonta,” he told George; “You no can escape. You try, then you suffer. Tomorrow we give you cure, but ahora tenés que sufrir.” George crawled to the cot, climbed onto it, and lay on his back. He was given a pitcher of water and a small loaf of hard bread. He drank the water gratefully, and managed to eat some of the bread, but he vomited it up again. Giving up on eating, he settled for more water. Shortly afterwards, he fell into a drugged slumber.

Late that night Jaime led a plastic surgeon to George’s cell. Doctor Balsas sedated George and carefully injected collagen into his lips, until they attained a fullness more appropriate for a woman. The effect wasn’t obtrusive–acquaintances of the old George Deon would recognize him–but the newly plump lips, together with the hairdo and the loss of facial hair, left his face even more girlish. Then the doctor selected another hypodermic, very tiny, and painstakingly tattooed the lips with a permanent red dye. The dye wasn’t vivid. It left the lips only slightly redder, well within the range of natural colors, if towards the ruby end of the spectrum. The result was to impart a yet more feminine cast to his face.

When Doctor Balsas had finished, the don sent Jaime and Yolanda to tend the prisoner. Jaime helped her strip him and put him into a nightie. (Several more had been hung in his closet.) Yolanda gave his face a thorough makeover, including a perm for his hair. His new lipstick was bright rose-red, hiding the new “natural” color of his lips, if not their new fullness. His earrings were replaced with pendant ceramic roses, and his nails received a professional manicure and a coat of rose-colored enamel. He was left to sleep off the anesthetics.
April 23

-- Jaime watched as George awoke in his cell on Saturday morning. “Buenos dá­as, chica. How you feel?” he inquired. “You need cure?”

George sat up, but then fell back. He felt terrible, with a pounding headache and persistent nausea. “Yes! Please!” he begged. “I need something; I feel lousy!” He paid no attention to his nightclothes.

“Por supuesto, amiga. First you listen to me. You make mistake ayer. Pero ahora no importa. You need pay for mistake, but already done.  ¡Miré!” He handed George a mirror.

George looked. He saw a girl’s face staring back. It looked a little like his own–no, a lot like it–but it was undeniably female. No wonder Jaime addressed him as “amiga”! Still, he was relieved: compared to the loss of his remaining testis, the penalty seemed mild. “Yes, I see,” he replied. At the moment, though, he cared less about his appearance than his sickness. “But help me. I can’t even stand up, I’m so bad.”

“Muy bién. I help un poco.” He handed George a blue pill and a bottle of water. George took the pill, and he quickly felt better. He sat up, then stood. Jaime insisted that he dress, and for lack of a better choice he selected a pale-lilac blouse with short puffed sleeves. The wall mirror confirmed that he looked like a pretty young girl.

Jaime gazed at him approvingly. His prisoner had become quite attractive; he was beginning to believe that the don’s project might succeed, at least as far as George’s appearance was concerned. “Veo que vos te cambiará¡s a muchacha superguapa, chica,” he complimented George. “Pronto les gustará¡s mucho a los hombres. Soon you… you will please much the men.” He left, and George began to look for materials to teach his class.

Amazingly, George felt good, even euphoric. Even when Evelina put him to doing laundry, he felt good. Petunia was relieved, but shocked, when he returned. He explained why he had been punished. Her shock became horror as she realized that he might have lost the remnant of his manhood. She begged him to flee. “Yes, I know you risk punishment. But you have to escape! You can’t do it alone, like you tried. That was stupid!” Then, mindful of possible bugging, she held a finger to her lips and wrote a note on scrap paper. The note told him that she had contacted friends. “They’ll assist us if we can just get away from the finca. A car’ll be waiting for us.” George looked down at his blouse–two slight bulges pushed the lilac fabric outward–and nodded in agreement.
April 27

-- Doctor Herná¡ndez arrived soon after George finished his algebra class. “It’s time to check your progress, Seá±orita,” he announced. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the… ummm… let’s say, your entry into puberty. It’s clear to everyone. However, I need quantitative results. Strip to the waist, please.” George obeyed sullenly, pulling a mint-green top over his head. He loathed this man, who was slowly subverting his body. He was growing breasts; he couldn’t deny it. They were quite sore, too. “ ¡Sá­!  ¡Sá­!  ¡Se va adelante bién!” Herná¡ndez muttered happily as he palpated George’s chest. George winced and protested, but the doctor told him, “There’s nothing wrong, the tenderness is quite normal. Maybe a bit more sensitive than usual, because you’re developing more rapidly than most girls–already well into Tanner Stage 3 of puberty, with expanded and pigmented areolae. Nothing to worry about, though. Or at least it wouldn’t be anything to worry about for most girls; I understand your own reluctance to enter into womanhood.” He chuckled. “You never thought to worry about your girlish figure, no? Don’t worry, it won’t remain girlish. By the time you reach Stage 5, you’ll fill out a sweater in a most attractive way. Lift your arms, Seá±orita.” George obeyed, and Herná¡ndez took his bust measurement. “Now undo your belt and lower your pants.” Again George followed orders, and his waist and hips were measured. The doctor hummed tunelessly as he jotted the numbers down; George pulled his trousers up and began to fasten his belt. The doctor held up a hand; “Not quite yet. Drop them all the way.” They went to his ankles, as did his shorts. Herná¡ndez palpated the remaining testis. “Extraordinario, totalmente extraordinario,” the doctor commented.

“Can I get dressed now?” George asked with barely controlled fury.

“No, not just yet. Wait a moment.” He took a camera out of his bag and photographed George again, then told him, “I’m pleased by your body’s response to treatment. Of course, you have a rather higher than normal estrogen level, for those reasons I gave four weeks ago.” He chuckled. “You’re a wonderful subject. Not just for me, but also for Doctor Ibá¡á±ez. And Doctor Ibarra’s looking forward to working with you as well.” He finished the photos and told George he could pull up his pants. “I predicted your figure would approximate that of an adult female by the end of the year,” he told George, “but mammary development is proceeding more rapidly than I expected. Your nipples especially–they are exceptionally prominent, true?” He took a blood sample. “Your mother and sister have rather full figures–we checked on them–and your shared genes should give you the same. Soon you might consider wearing a sostén…” He thought briefly. “A bra. The bra of an adolescent girl is appropriate for your present stage of development, although soon it will need to be replaced with a larger size. I am sure if you ask politely, Don Pablo will grant your request. If not…” He grinned. “The men here will all enjoy the view.”

George was not delighted by the news. He didn’t know what Ibá¡á±ez had done, or was doing, but he was sure he and Doctor Ibarra meant him no good. He told this to Herná¡ndez. The doctor laughed. “Didn’t Don Pablo tell you all his plans? No matter: you will find out eventually.”

The don had said that he’d have to become a maid for Suzi. It was already crystal clear that he had more in mind than simply dressing the part. “I don’t care what his plans are. They won’t succeed,” George insisted.

“Ah, but I think they will. But it’s not my affair. Buenos dá­as, chica. I’ll follow your progress with interest.” He left the room, still humming his tune. After he left, George recognized the melody: “I Enjoy Being a Girl”.

That evening George told Petunia what Herná¡ndez had said. “I don’t know what to do, Petunia. I can’t just sit here and let them take away my manhood. But I’m afraid if I run again, I’ll fail again, and they’ll just do it anyway, only quicker. And you don’t know–you can’t know–how sick I get when I try to escape. I’d just as soon die as go through it again. Besides, if I fail… I don’t want to think about it.”

“You have to try, George. And you have to succeed, too. You know that!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, I know, but I’m afraid. And tomorrow’s May first. There’ll be something new. What can I do?”

“I don’t know, George, but you have to try.”
May 1

-- Jaime arrived at 7 AM. “Buenos dá­as, Seá±orita,” he greeted George. “Vená­ conmigo al Don Pablo.” In the library, the don looked him up and down. George flushed as he stood on display, his nascent breasts pushing out a puff-sleeved sheer white blouse. His dark nipples and areolae were clearly visible. “Doctor Herná¡ndez tells me that your development proceeds in a satisfactory manner. I am spending much money on your transformation–and will spend a great deal more–so I wished to see for myself. He was right. You are becoming rather pretty.”

“It’s not satisfactory–it’s an outrage! Please…”

“Save your breath, Seá±or. My plans for you are fixed. Your opinions, your desires do not matter more than those of the white rats in my doctors’ laboratories.” He took a sip from his ever-present coffee cup. George tried to protest again, but the don said sharply, “ ¡Bastante!” and pushed two buttons on a hidden control. Terror seized George and he was struck dumb, his mouth opening and closing silently. The don smiled in satisfaction; Ibá¡á±ez had done his work well. “Jaime told me you resent being recast into a feminine mold. You do not wish to become a ‘pansy’, you told him. I was unfamiliar with the term, but I have looked it up. Certainly it would seem appropriate; you no longer seem at all masculine. Perhaps ‘pansy’ might indeed apply. Do you agree?”

Recovering his voice, George denied it: “N…no! I did… did… didn’t choose this, I’m forced to look this way!”

“Perhaps you are right. You insist–and I agree–that your inward nature is as yet unchanged. Still, we hope to train you to act as feminine–as girlish–as any maid, so that it will become an intrinsic part of your new personality. You will behave like any other peasant girl, reflexively.” He held out a limp-wristed hand to demonstrate. “In any case, I have been considering a new name for you, one proper to your new circumstances, and you have aided me in my choice. We are indeed changing you to a ‘pansy’, as you put it. Therefore ‘Pansy’ shall be your name. You will answer to it. My doctors tell me that, after a sufficiently long period, you will come to think of yourself, in your own mind, as ‘Pansy’.” He steepled his palms. “I thank you for that excellent suggestion.”

“Pansy? Pansy!?” George’s voice rose in disbelief and outrage. “You want to call me Pansy? That’s crazy!”

Don Pablo shrugged. “It seems apposite for a man wearing lipstick and a girl’s blouse. Moreover, it is a name that confers little status. It will make it difficult for others to take you seriously. It is a good name for a maid.”

“I… no, I…” George swallowed hard. “If I have to use a girl’s name, couldn’t you pick something else?”

“No.” Don Pablo smiled. “I must tell you: your instinct to reject the name is well founded. One’s name helps to shape one’s character. It affects how others see you; but even more, it affects how you see yourself. This particular name carries with it a great deal of baggage. After you have accepted it as your own, subconsciously you will come to see yourself not only as Pansy Deon, but also as a ‘Pansy’ in the figurative sense, and that should subvert your personality to better match the name. Also, the name makes you equivalent, in a symbolic way, to your girlfriend: two pretty flowers, Petunia and Pansy. However, I suppose I can give you a choice: ‘Pansy’ and what little remains of your manhood–if only for a while–or ‘George’ and another visit to Doctor Weiss, immediately.”

That was a choice? “I… I’ll take the new name.” But I’ll never really accept it as my own, he thought. No way!

“A wise decision. Who are you, then? What do you call yourself?”

With a scowl George replied in a low voice, “I’m P… Pansy. Pansy Deon.”

“Good. I leave it to you to inform others of your choice. Tell them you are a Pansy. If you or others continue to use your former name, I will take further measures. You may go now–Pansy.”

Later George told Petunia, “The don won’t be satisfied until you call me ‘Pansy’. Otherwise…” He shuddered. “He’ll punish me. But he’ll punish you too. Humor him. I’m George, yes, but just call me ‘Pansy’. Temporarily.”

She set her jaw. “No! You’re George, and I’ll continue to call you that.” He dropped the matter, although he feared the consequences, and they went on to his Spanish lesson.

His students were more agreeable to his request. They had watched with mixed fascination and horror as he slowly became more feminine. His bust was apparent now, and his hips and waist were beginning to look a little more girlish. Mapy still believed that George’s figure was due to padding, but she was less sure than before. She had to admit, the breasts certainly looked real. Ana Mará­a and Consuela weren’t sure, but Elena was convinced that Don Pablo was dosing George with female hormones, and that the swelling breasts were authentic. When he asked them to call him “Pansy”, they readily agreed. Echoing Don Pablo, they told him he didn’t look like a “George” anyway. They remained curious, though: was the don changing him into a real woman? The other girls dared Elena to ask Seá±or Pansy. “Ask him,” Mapy said. “You’re the one who thinks he’s growing boobies.” She was afraid to ask. “No, you ask,” she told Mapy; “You’re the one who’s sure he’s not.” But the others agreed that she should do it, and she finally gave in. At the end of the class she approached her teacher. “Seá±or, please,  ¿will you answer a question for us?” Elena wanted to make sure that Seá±or Pansy knew they all wanted to ask, not just her.

George gave her an odd look, as though he knew what Elena going to say. “I don’t know for sure, chica, until you’ve asked it. But I think… Yes, probably I will.  ¿What is it?”

Elena was embarrassed, but continued. “We know Don Pablo is punishing you by forcing you wear girl’s clothes and making everyone call you Pansy. But, Seá±or, please don’t be angry with us. We wanted to know,  ¿is he really changing you into a real girl?  ¿And are you really growing breasts?” She had done it! Her face grew red, and she looked at the floor. When she looked up, Seá±or Pansy had a funny smile.

“Yes, he is trying to turn me into a girl, as much as he can. And yes, I am growing real breasts.  ¿Is there anything else?”

Elena felt herself blush all over again. “No, thank you. And…  ¡and we are sorry!”

A real smile lit George’s face, and he told her, “It is all right, Elenita, it is all right.  ¡And thank you, chica!” As Elena ran back to tell the others, he shook his head. Petunia was right. His escape would have to be soon, or it wouldn’t matter. Petunia had told him that her friend would be able to assist them in June. He prayed that he’d still be intact then–or as intact as he was at the moment.
May 7

-- Dawn on Saturday was cool, and the mingled scents of pine and roses wafted through the window of George’s cottage. He felt the fresh breeze through the sheet that lay over his nude body–he had stopped wearing a nightie–and looked at Petunia in the other bed, still asleep. “I’m going to get out of here,” he told himself. “I’ll reverse any changes those devils caused, I’ll get Petunia out of this lousy country, and we’ll get married.” He got up, showered, slipped on his clothing and fixed breakfast. Petunia got up soon after, and she was ready to share his meal. George felt fine. He hadn’t felt the withdrawal pangs he had feared.

“Maybe they’ve stopped using the drug, and you’re not addicted any more,” Petunia suggested.

George shook his head. “Maybe. But I doubt it. Or even if it’s true, I’m afraid they have other ways to punish me. And they could just put me on the drug again. Maybe I should just get this damn radio off my ankle somehow or other, and make another run for it.” Petunia agreed, and they finished breakfast.

Jaime appeared after breakfast to escort George from his room, but he didn’t take him to Evelina. Instead, they went to a car. “Hoy vamos a San Pedro, muchacha,” Jaime told him. “The don have a new thing for you. You come quiet?” Terrified of losing his remaining manhood, George jumped from the car and tried to run, but he passed out suddenly before he’d gone five feet, for no apparent reason.

When he awoke, he was strapped in a chair, in a laboratory of some kind. Large pieces of equipment lined the wall. It looked as if it had been converted from earlier use as a living room or salon; some of the furniture was fine mahogany, and a painting of some old aristocrat hung on the wall.

Soon after, a tall man with thinning blond hair entered. He wore a soiled white lab coat and carried a clipboard. Another white-coated man, shorter and black-haired, joined him. Peering at George through horn-rimmed glasses, the blond man greeted him: “Buenos dá­as, Seá±or. I am Doctor Jesáºs Ibarra. You are about to participate in an interesting experiment. Truly fascinating, I think. I almost envy you. Almost, but not quite.”

“Let me go!” George demanded. “You have no right to keep me here!”

“I’m afraid not, Seá±or. I need an experimental subject like you. Don’t worry, my methods are painless.”

George wasn’t reassured. “What… what are you planning to do?”

“Oh, not much. Nothing to your body. I work with the mind. Don Pablo told you what he plans for you?”

“Yes.” George didn’t elaborate.

“Well, your body is developing as intended. My job is to help shape your mind to match it.”

At least he wouldn’t be mutilated. He was almost relieved. “You’re wasting your time,” he told Ibarra.

“I don’t think so. I have much experience in this, Seá±or, and I doubt that your brain is different from those of my other subjects.” He motioned to his assistant. “Juan, dele al Seá±or Deon su inyecciá³n de la metrazina.”

Juan produced a hypodermic and approached George, who sat helpless. He protested, “Seá±or, por favor,  ¡no hace esto!” Ignoring him, the assistant thrust the needle into his arm and injected the contents of the hypodermic.

Doctor Ibarra explained, “This exercise is comparatively minor, Seá±or. You have just been given a dose of a hypnotic drug. In a few moments you will become very suggestible. I’m going to begin giving you your new identity. You’ve been told what that identity is, I know. Tell me.”

George didn’t want to talk about it but it didn’t seem important to oppose him in this. Not yet, anyway. “Don Pablo’s trying to make me into a woman. He wants me to become… to be a… a maid.” It was hard to concentrate.

“Yes, that’s right. You’re exactly correct. We–Doctor Ibá¡á±ez and myself–are trying to impress you with a new personality. One tool in shaping that personality will be an appropriate past. When the time comes to take up your new duties, you’ll recall growing up as a peasant girl. Now, here’s a dolly for you.” He held out a rag-doll baby. “She needs a name. You love your dolly, so you’ll pick a pretty name for her, won’t you?”

George began to protest again, but it was pointless. He was helpless, but he didn’t have to cooperate. He’d simply ignore the bastard. As these thoughts ran through his head, he accepted the doll and cradled it in his left arm. He heard himself say, “My… my dolly… I’ll call… I’ll call her Pepita. That’s a… a pretty name.” The small corner of his mind that remained under his control wondered at his response. He hadn’t intended to reply.

The doctor nodded. “I think he’s ready, Juan. He’ll give us no trouble. The ophthalmoscope, please.” He flashed a light in George’s right eye, then his left. “Yes, he’s quite ready. Let’s begin.” He turned out the room light, and George could see no more than the vague outlines of the other men. Pulling up a chair, Ibarra sat next to him.

“Seá±or, you are tired. You want to rest. Soon you will sleep, but not yet.” George was tired. He knew he needed a rest. “First I’ll release you. You will sit quietly after that.” He stood and loosened the straps that held George still. The tiny portion of George’s will that remained tried to make him rise and run, but he continued to sit. “Now, you are so tired that you cannot think of anything. Your mind is blank. Your name, your age, your profession… they are all gone. You have forgotten everything about your own life. Do you understand?”

The last fragment of George’s autonomy fled with his banished identity. “Yes, I understand.”

“Tell me then: What is your name?”

“My name is… It’s…” Somehow he couldn’t seem to recall. “I don’t know. I… I forget.”

“How old are you?”

“I… I don’t know.” The tone of George’s voice was dull and uncaring.

“Where were you born?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is your nationality?”

“I don’t know.”

“Repeat: I am a young girl. I am Pansy Baca. I am twelve years old. I was born in Comayagá¼ela, Honduras.”

George’s voice was unsure, but he obeyed: “I am… I am a young girl. I am… Pansy Baca? I am t…twelve years old. I was born in…” He paused and looked puzzled. “I was born in… in Comayagá¼ela, Honduras?”

“That’s correct. Pero ahora, dá­gamelo en espaá±ol.” George obeyed, this time more confidently, and Ibarra added, “Everyone calls you ‘Pansy’. You think of yourself as ‘Pansy’. Now repeat ‘I am a girl. My name is Pansy, and I am twelve years old,’ until I tell you to stop.” While George repeated the statement, Ibarra took Morales aside and told him, “He can begin to learn his biography now. Set up the video and give him his headphones. I’ll prepare a time-release dose of metrazine for him so he’ll remain suggestible for the next couple of days.”

Morales fetched the equipment. While he was setting it up he asked “ ¿Aren’t you using nepentine on your patient, Doctor?  ¿Or mnemosine?”

“No, no nepentine, and only a little mnemosine. Just a touch. I think he’ll retain the information well enough with only a light dose of mnemosine; but in any case this trial will serve as a control.” He paused, then explained further: “These memories are intended to be several years old, and they shouldn’t be quite as clear as some others.” Then to George (or for the moment “Pansy”) he said, “Pansy, stop now. That’s enough.” “Pansy” obeyed and fell silent. Ibarra ordered, “Now watch the screen and listen. Remember what you see and hear; this is your own past.”

A face projected onto the screen. Through headphones Pansy heard, “Mamá¡ Rosa, your mother. You love her.” Another face appeared. “Papá¡ Jorge, your father. You love him.” The rest of her family was introduced: an older sister and two younger siblings. Then the family members were shown in various activities. Pansy was told to identify each. She did so without error, but at first with some hesitation. When the hesitation was gone, she watched a wedding. The video focused on a young girl, a bridesmaid, dressed in pale pink. Through the earphones Pansy heard, “This is you–Pansy Baca–at your cousin’s wedding in Tegucigalpa. You were proud to be chosen as a bridesmaid, and you loved your pink dress. You will not forget it.” Under the drug she accepted it as true. She acquired other memories in the same way: birthday parties, grade school, family affairs, and other events. The tape then quizzed her until she knew the stories well. She was introduced to her possessions: her rag doll “Pepita”, a beat-up secondhand Barbie doll, a small dollhouse, a set of jacks, cheap costume jewelry suitable for a young girl. She learned that her family was poor and that she expected to work as a housemaid when she grew up. “Sometimes you work for your uncle as a maid. You clean for him, you iron his clothes–whatever he wants. You have to do it to earn money for the family, and to learn to be a good maid.” She agreed.

Ibarra showed her videos of herself washing laundry, ironing clothes, cooking. He told her she was good at these chores, for a little girl. “But you won’t be a little girl much longer. You’re growing up. You want to grow up and become a pretty seá±orita. Your body is starting to change already. You’re proud of your little breasts. Aren’t you?” She agreed again, so pleased that she was becoming a woman.

“You want a boyfriend now and eventually you want to get married. Of course you’ll cook and clean for your husband, and have lots of children. They will be the center of your life.” She assimilated the statement. Within a hidden corner of her brain, somewhere a remnant of George tried to rebel, and she hesitated. Ibarra noted the pause and told Morales, “Another dose of metrazine, Juan. Even as Pansy, our subject seems reluctant to enter into the life of a campesina. I can’t say I much blame her, not at all.” George received the shot and Ibarra repeated the statement. Pansy accepted it without hesitation this time.

Once Pansy had absorbed her biography, Ibarra had her recite back to him what she had just learned. He elaborated on some parts of it, and she integrated his additions into her life. He asked her to tell even more; she obeyed, giving plausible details that hadn’t been part of the original lesson. The biographical recapitulation continued until Ibarra was satisfied that Pansy knew her past thoroughly.

A last step ensured that inconsistencies were disregarded. Ibarra told her, “Pansy, you will not question your body. You are a young girl; you will ignore anything that might conflict with that fact. You are modest, and you will always keep your private parts covered.” She agreed, and he went on: “Your voice is normal. You will accept it as normal. And you won’t take notice of the language you speak, you will simply speak without thinking about it.”

That task finished, Ibarra gave George another shot, which implanted a calibrated time-release drug dose that would leave him unable to reject the story he’d been given. For the next twenty-four hours, George would be “Pansy Baca”, a poor peasant girl. After George’s physical and mental transformations were finished, the new biography would provide a suitable background for a maid. Morales doubted that the bare sketch of a biography would be effective, but Ibarra reminded him that this was only the first treatment. “Don’t worry, Juan. By the time we finish, our Pansy’ll recall her childhood more clearly than most people ever do.”

Morales was skeptical. “But no one else will remember that nonexistent little girl.  ¿Won’t that weaken her illusion?”

“A good point–but we’ve already taken that into account. Pansy’s identity won’t be imaginary. She’s going to replace an actual woman, with a real history. She’ll have a family waiting, and they’ll corroborate everything we’re telling her now.” He smiled. “It’s a new technique, and we think it’ll help Pansy accept the new life we’re laying out for her.”
May 11

-- George awoke in an unfamiliar room. His mind was fogged, and he had trouble thinking, but he found himself lying in a large bed. In fact, everything in the room seemed oversize: bed, chairs, doors. The room looked like a young girl’s room, decorated in a pink floral motif. He seemed to have shrunk several inches. He wasn’t bound or constrained in any way, but he couldn’t seem to move. And he wore a frilly pink cotton nightie that looked as if it belonged on a little girl. Why was he here, dressed like this? He should be back at… at…. He tried to recall. He was… What was his name? “My name is… is Pansy,” he thought. It came into his mind unbidden, But that couldn’t be right! That wasn’t right. His name was… All he could remember was “Pansy”.

The door opened, and a tall man entered–or at least he seemed tall until the scale of the room shrank him to normal. “Ah, Pansy, I see you’re awake. It’s time for my little girl to get up,” he ordered. “Pansy’s” seeming paralysis vanished, and she sat, then stood up. “What’s your name, muchacha? Your full name,” the man said.

“I’m… I’m Pansy… Pansy Baca,” she told him. She knew something wasn’t right about that. She knew she was really… was really… But no other name came. She was Pansy.

“Of course you are,” the man agreed. “I’m your Uncle Juan Gá³mez, and you work for me,” the tall man–no, he wasn’t tall, she was small–told her. “Call me ‘Seá±or’, and do as I say. You’re my little maid today. You understand?” No, her inner voice shouted, but she couldn’t deny it. “Yes, Seá±or, I’m your maid. I’ll do what you say.” To her ear her own voice was girlish, and proper to her new identity. New identity? No, it wasn’t new. She had always been Pansy. Seá±or Gá³mez smiled. “Look in the mirror,” he told her. “You’re pretty, yes?” Obeying, she stared at the floor-length mirror that hung on a wall by the closet. The image startled the observer hidden deep inside her: a young girl, eleven years old–“No, I’m twelve!” she told herself–stood there in a frilly pink little-girl nightie. She had a sweet face and brown hair held in twin ponytails by pink hair ribbons on either side of her head.

“Pansy, you love to play with dolls, yes? You want your dolly, yes?” Suddenly she wanted her doll. She loved Pepita. “You can play with her after you’re dressed, and after you do your chores. After all, today you’re just a servant girl for me.” And she knew it was true. “Your undies are in the drawer; your other clothes are in the closet. Put them on. I’ll watch.” That sounded wrong, but she had to obey. She chose underwear from a drawer, modestly put on cotton panties under the nightie, then took off the nightie and pulled on a white slip. In the closet was a pink party dress, with a triangular white yoke trimmed in lace and a skirt embroidered with flowers. It buttoned up the back. She stepped into it awkwardly, and thrust her arms into the puff sleeves. The buttons were difficult, and after trying to button herself, she told Uncle Juan, “I can’t button my dress, Seá±or. Please, help me?”

“Of course, chica. Come here.” He buttoned her up the back. “You love pretty dresses, don’t you?” And she knew she did. Of course she did! Her uncle added, “You’re growing up, Pansy. Your figure is developing, yes? Look at yourself!” Obeying, she saw slight bulges where her breasts swelled, and she was so proud of them. Her inner observer despaired. Then she pulled on a pair of pink lace-trimmed socks, chose black patent-leather maryjanes from the closet, and slipped her feet into them. Little bell pendants went on her pierced ears.

After dressing, she walked to a table where her dolls lay. Two framed photographs sat there. The first showed her in a pink dress trimmed with snowy lace. Her long hair hung in ringlets over her shoulders, and she held a bouquet of baby’s-breath in her white-gloved hands. She knew it had been taken when she had been a bridesmaid at her cousin Maria’s wedding earlier that year. It had been her first visit to the capital since her family had left when she was only a baby. Behind her, Seá±or Gá³mez–Uncle Juan–asked, “You remember that wedding, don’t you? Tell me what you did then, and how you felt.” Obediently she told how she had walked down the aisle with the other girls, how she had watched her cousin Mará­a wed Miguel Fuentes, how happy she had been to be there, how much she loved the dress. It was so clear in her mind, as if it had happened yesterday. “And the other picture?” he asked. She had been about eight years old then, and wore a simple blue jumper and white blouse. Her hair was in braids. The jumper had a little gold cross embroidered on it. “I remember,” she replied. “That’s my picture when I was in the third grade in San Pedro, after Papá¡ brought us back from the United States.” She recalled how all the girls had lined up to have their class picture taken, and how her father had taken this picture. Then her parents took her to a movie, and her father bought her a new doll. She had named her “Pepita”, and she sat there on the table now. “May I take Pepita with me, Seá±or?” she requested. “Of course, chiquita. But you can’t play until later; you have to do your chores first. Come with me.”

Uncle Juan led her to a room where two piles of clothing lay. “Iron these,” he told her, pointing to one pile, “and the others need to be mended.” The iron and ironing board were there, and needle and thread lay on a table. “I know you want to play with your dolly. You will play after you finish the chores.” Pansy did want to play with Pepita, to dress her in her other clothes, but she knew she had to work first. She remembered: her mother was a maid, and she was expected to help with the work too. When she grew up, she’d be a maid too–for a while, at least–but she hoped to find some handsome man who’d let her stay home with the children she wanted to have.

Pansy had lunch after work: two pupusas de frijoles (a sort of bean quesadilla) and a cool glass of a locally popular rice-based drink, horchata. Then she sat contentedly with Pepita, dressing her in assorted costumes. The observer in her head tried to tell her she wasn’t Pansy, that she didn’t like dolls, that her memories were false–but to no avail. She did enjoy playing with the doll, just as Uncle Juan had said–especially when her pleasure was augmented by the chip. She spent the day alternately in work and play. After supper she read, then went to bed.
May 12

-- Next morning Pansy’s clothes were laid out for her: a bright yellow jumper with her name appliquéd on the yoke, along with a white blouse. The ensemble wasn’t as fancy as Sunday’s party dress, but it was more suited to weekday wear. She put on the same maryjanes and the same bell earrings.

Her uncle told her, “You’ll stay with Don Pablo for a while. He wants you to do some chores for him, like those you did yesterday. Evelina will be delighted to see you in your pretty clothes. You make a very pretty girl, you know.” Pansy was pleased, but her helpless mental observer cringed. They quickly left for Las Rosas.

As he drove, her uncle told her, “When we arrive, you’ll be able to act on your own; but your new memories are permanent. You’ll recall working for me, and being a bridesmaid in a pink dress. You’ll know you played with dolls as a girl in San Pedro. And you’ll remember wearing that party dress. I don’t know what the doctors will do ultimately, but now you know what they can do. Those girl memories may be the only ones you’re left with. For now, Ibarra only suppressed your old name; eventually he’ll erase it. What is your name, muchacha?”

She seemed to recall–or her invisible tenant knew–that there had been another name, but she couldn’t remember it. “I… I don’t understand, Seá±or. I’m Pansy B…Baca. I… I think I had another name, but it’s gone. I’m just Pansy.” She paused, confused. “Seá±or, I don’t… I don’t know who I really am. I seem to be… It’s almost like I was two people. And what you just said–it’s like you’re talking to the other one.”

He laughed. “I suppose you are two people, chica. Don’t worry; it’ll clear up when we get to Las Rosas.”

By the time they arrived, George had returned. But in a sort of mental double vision, Pansy still recalled her girlhood as well. Seá±or Gá³mez recognized that George was back, and noted that Petunia would be surprised at her boyfriend’s attire. “But you do make a cute little girl. Make sure you keep the doll with you, by the way. It’s a reminder of what might happen if you disobey again.” He grinned. “You might get to ‘remember’ being a hot little teenage slut, necking and petting. I’ll get to play your escort.” George shrank from that horrible thought.

The car stopped under the poinciana by the front door of the casa. Jaime opened the door and stood with his hands on his hips, grinning. “Pansy, bienvenida. Ayyy,  ¡qué bonita! Vos sos muchacha guapa, en tu vestido nuevo. Vá¡manos; Evelina te espera.”

On the way to Evelina, Jaime told George he’d continue to wear his jumper and blouse. And he was to carry his doll with him. “Ahora you is chica.  ¿Comprendés?”

George understood that the humiliation was part of the don’s campaign to grind down his resistance, to make him docile and obedient. But there was little he could do, other than to grit his teeth and accept it for now.

Evelina was waiting for him in the laundry. “ ¡Qué bonita la muchacha en su vestido!” she exclaimed. “ ¡Y ella trae su muá±eca!  ¡Qué cuuuuca está¡! Pansy,  ¿cá³mo se llama tu muá±equita?”

Looking at the wall, George answered morosely, “Ella se llama Pepita, Seá±ora.”

“Bueno.” She pointed to a pile of laundry. “Pero ahora, hay trabajo. Aquá­ está¡ tu lavanderá­a, chiquita.”

George worked hard. A few women stopped by and tittered when they saw the overgrown girl in her cute jumper, scrubbing at the washboard. Evelina sternly shooed them away, warning that Pansy’s work was none of their business. When the laundry was finished and hung to dry and he had finished the ironing, Evelina set him to other household chores. He did the work stoically–and well; he refused to risk further punishment.

When he returned at the end of the day, George expected Petunia to be appalled at his clothing. She was. But she was amused too. “You look like a little girl. A big little girl.” Then she asked seriously, “Where did they take you Saturday? What did they do? I was so worried about you!”

George told her about his experience. “The worst part is, I was a little girl. They must’ve used some drug or other–something to keep me from questioning what they told me–but I had no doubts. As far as I knew, I was Pansy, a twelve-year-old girl. I remembered growing up in San Pedro, and being my cousin’s bridesmaid. And I wanted my doll. Petunia, it was scary. Or it’s scary now. At the time I was quite content to be a peasant girl.”

She was skeptical. “That’s impossible! For one thing, you’re too big. For another, your anatomy’s wrong. Even if you were drugged, there are too many inconsistencies.”

“Impossible? That’s easy to say now, but believe me, it seemed real enough at the time. Somehow I seemed a lot smaller. And I didn’t notice the inconsistencies. I don’t know how, but… Damn it, Petunia, my mind wasn’t my own! They could make me think whatever they chose!”

“And now? You’re back to normal?”

George looked at her with haunted eyes. “No. I still remember the nonsense they stuffed into me. Pansy’s still in my head. I know the memories are planted, but they’re as real as… as real ones. Maybe more so. I think being a twelve-year-old girl in San Pedro is more real to me than being a twelve-year-old boy in Akron. Petunia, if I want to stay me, male or female, I’ve got to escape. But if I’m caught, the penalty’ll be awful.” Feeling safe in his room, George stripped off the schoolgirl clothing and put on trousers. Then he took out the two ponytails and let his hair hang loose. “Petunia, I’m afraid, more than ever. But what can I do? I know what happens when I disobey.” Petunia wrote on a scrap of paper, “I don’t think we should talk about it. We may be bugged.” George scribbled back, “Is your friend still planning to help us next month? Can he help any sooner?”

She and looked down. “There’s not much we can do, George.” On the paper she wrote, “Yes, he’ll help, but he can’t do it right now. I’ll say when.” George nodded in agreement, and they retired to bed.

Back at the Institute, Ibarra watched a video of “Pansy” for the third time. The drug combination seemed to suppress George’s personality. The result was similar to the phenomenon of “multiple personalities”. Their “Pansy” construct had behaved as intended. Of course, the presence of Seá±or Gá³mez, a bit over two meters tall, and the fact that the room was scaled to make Pansy seem less than a meter and a half tall, just right for a twelve-year-old, helped considerably. However, the most important factor seemed to be that the drugs forced the subject to ignore evidence contrary to what he was told to believe: for example, voice and anatomy. He was incapable of noticing inconsistencies. Moreover, the drug cocktail had included a new drug, mnemosine, which stimulated the hippocampus and implanted any experience into long-term memory. “Pansy’s” experience wouldn’t be forgotten. He told his assistant, “Eventually he won’t recall most of his time here, but he’ll remember clearly his day as Pansy. He’ll think that it really happened, that it’s absolutely real. To him,  ¡it will be! And he’ll remember all the other details we fed him.”

George’s comment that he seemed to be two people in one, supported the analogy with the multiple-personality syndrome. If the analogy held, the ultimate resolution would be the integration of the personalities into a final persona. Ibarra’s control of the memories, and Ibá¡á±ez’s conditioning, should ensure that the final persona contained more of Pansy than George. Ibarra thought that more such experiments should be tried.

While George was returning to Las Rosas, Ibá¡á±ez was discussing further work with his patron. He sat back in an armchair in the don’s library and sipped a cognac. His host asked, “ ¿You say Seá±or Deon should be taken from Evelina? I thought he made excellent progress. She has whipped him into shape.”

The doctor explained, “He should be given a chance to learn some other skills. His work has been unpleasant drudgery: scrubbing floors, scullery work, laundry. He needs to learn more refined duties. Sewing. Cooking. Waiting on table. Making beds. You say that Conchita’s an excellent housemaid, and she can teach all of those. And I think he may be a willing, even eager, pupil, if it lets him escape the scullery. I’ll strengthen his desire to learn with a light application of pleasure, and in the end he’ll regard the lighter work as enjoyable. It’ll make him a better maid in the end.”

The don nodded and took a drink of coffee. “You may be right. I will see to it.”
May 13

-- George’s usual clothes were returned, but he was not happy. The feminization of his body was far too advanced. Tight slacks revealed the slow expansion of his hips and butt as fat was redistributed. The clingy tops allowed his small breasts to bounce freely, and displayed his ever-larger nipples. Men made lewd comments as they ogled him. It was bad enough that he appeared to be an adolescent female; but worse, he looked like a slut.

Petunia agreed. After supper she told him, “You can’t go around looking like that. You’re not decent!”

“But this is all I have. You know that! The don took my own clothes!”

Petunia turned away. “That isn’t… it’s not what I mean. You need… you need a bra! Ask Don Pablo for one.”

It was his turn to look away. “But… but Petunia, I’m not a woman! I’m not!”

“I know, but it… it doesn’t matter. You… you have breasts, and they’re getting too big to show off like that.”

“‘Show off’? But I can’t… I can’t help it! I want to hide them, not show them off!”

Petunia softened. “I’m sorry, George, I know that. But they… they’re there. And you need a bra! You do!”

But to ask for a bra would be to participate in the unraveling of his manhood. He continued in his denial: “I don’t care! I’m a man! I won’t cooperate with that madman’s scheme!” Or admit that he was succeeding, a niggling voice within his head told him.

She let the matter drop.

May 16 -- George was learning to make tortillas under Conchita’s critical eye–he almost enjoyed the tedious chore, as a break from the drudgery inflicted by Evelina–when he was summoned to the don’s study. His host cast an approving eye over the man standing in front of him. “Only two weeks have passed since we last met, Seá±or. I was told that in that short time your development has accelerated. The reports were hard to credit, but I see they were true. Your body has changed even in that short time, yes? You are becoming an attractive girl.”

George had promised himself that he wouldn’t beg–he knew it would be a useless exercise in self-abasement–but he couldn’t resist. “Seá±or, please, have mercy! You’re destroying me!”

“Exactly! George Deon, the arrogant norteamericano, is being destroyed. He is being replaced by Pansy, a humble maid. Conchita and Evelina tell me your skill in your new profession is increasing.”

“Yes, I’ll be Susana’s maid, I’ll work hard, but for the love of God, have mercy! Leave my body alone!”

Don Pablo raised an eyebrow. “You told me yourself: a maid’s job is women’s work, suitable for a peasant girl. I agree. No man should be forced to perform it. However, as I noted at our first meeting, you have proven yourself unfit for a man’s duties.” He paused and sipped his coffee. “My doctors tell me that, in a few months, ‘women’s work’ will be entirely appropriate for you.” His gaze fixed on George’s torso, covered (but not concealed) by a thin lilac top with lace trim. “Your bosom grows nicely, yes? From one day to the next, you may not notice a change; but each morning when you awaken, your breasts are slightly larger than on the day before. And then, larger again.” He smiled slightly. “Imagine how much they will grow in a few more weeks… And months… Already they begin to bounce delightfully, I see. And your nipples show clearly, yes? Your body is becoming soft and rounded, sweet and girlish. Soon your form will be unmistakably feminine, whatever you wear. Already men treat you differently, yes? It is an instinctive response to your appearance.” The smile grew. “Truly, ‘Pansy’ suits you better than ‘George’. A sweet and feminine name, yes? A good name for a maid. A good name for you.”

George squirmed. The don’s observations were all too accurate. “It isn’t my name! I’m George!”

“Humor me, Seá±or Pansy. It would be painful to use such an ugly name for the girl you are becoming. Your acceptance of ‘Pansy’–and Petunia’s acceptance–will make the transition to your new life easier. A girl called ‘George’ would be an abomination.” The don motioned towards a stool. “Please sit down.”

George sat. “I agree. So let me work as a man named George. I promise I’ll work–I’ll work willingly!–if you’ll just stop the doctors from… from mutilating me! Please don’t destroy my manhood!”

“You will work willingly–and you will work as a girl called Pansy. Your old name will be lost to you.”

George scowled: “In spite of your doctors’ best efforts, I’ll never be ‘Pansy’. Not really! I’m George Deon!”

“‘My doctors’ best efforts’?” Affronted, the don set down his cup. “You have been my guest for less than five months. Your changes have only just begun. I do not yet know what ‘my doctors’ best efforts’ can achieve in nineteen more months, but those changes will be more thoroughgoing than you seem to imagine.”

“I can imagine too much already!”

“You imagine I will make you female, or at least as female as is medically possible. You are correct, of course. The Herrera family honor demands that you lose the instrument by which you dishonored my daughter.” George clenched his teeth. The don was telling him nothing he hadn’t guessed, but it was painful to hear it stated baldly. “But that is not all. Can you see yourself begging Suzi to keep you as her maid, after I free you? Can you imagine asking permission to go shopping for a pretty dress, so you can show off your figure… to your boyfriend?”

George leaped up, and his stool fell backwards. “You’re crazy!”

“I thought not. And you may be right. That goal may be impossible. Now sit.” George righted the stool and sat. “I have three goals. The first, your punishment, is assured. You are chemically castrated. It is not irreversible–not yet–but nearly so. You will never satisfy a woman again. If you left now, your best option would be a total sex change.” He ignored George’s shock. “My second is to help Suzi. She wants a career, but she needs help–someone to do laundry, feed the baby, and so on. In short, she needs a maid. You will fill that need.” George shook his head, but he went on: “My third goal is the most ambitious. I am trying to alter a subject’s personality. If I can do that–if I can reconstruct a man’s identity, in effect make him into a different person–then I can sell those techniques. Imagine how valuable they would be, for example, in criminology or psychotherapy. I need subjects who will not be missed, and you have presented yourself: clearly an act of Providence.” George didn’t react; he was still absorbing the earlier statement. Don Pablo went on: “You are not the first subject, and most of our earlier efforts were fairly successful. However, yours will be the most extensive reconstruction. You will be our masterpiece. We will show you to prospective clients, to demonstrate how thorough a change we can impose. When they see you, a pretty girl who had once been a proud norteamericano, choosing to work as a maid–and I emphasize, choosing–our case will be made. I will need proof, of course–without it, no one could believe that you had once been a man–so your progress into full womanhood is being fully documented. Your reconstruction is expensive, I might add–even exorbitant–but we expect to turn a profit once the process is commercialized.”

Disbelief warred with horror on George’s face. “You’re crazy!” he repeated. “There no way you can do that! But… but just let… let me go work for Suzi now. She can call me Pansy, or any damn… any damn thing she wants. I’ll be a… a good… a good…” He swallowed. “I’ll be a good m…maid. Just… just let me go now! Please!” To his further dismay, tears began to flow down his cheeks. “D…don’t… Please…” He started to sob.

“No, I cannot send you to Suzi yet. You are not trained. You would not work well. Even if you were trained, and even if you kept your word, you would leave as soon as you are free. You are becoming a girl, as we intend–but more important, we want you to become a Honduran peasant girl. As such, you will value your position as a maid. Think of your own maid, Mará­a, whom you abused. If we succeed, you will be very much like her.”

George struggled to control his emotions. “I d…don’t be…believe you! You p…promised I could have normal sex again after you released me, too–you said I could m…marry!–but… but now you say my cas…cas… my castration is… is irreversible! You lied… you lied to me! I… I…” Sobbing overcame him again.

Don Pablo scowled. “I keep my word to the letter: Normal sex will be possible–but you will have to bed a man, not a woman. I do not know if you recall, but on our first meeting, I said you would become Suzi’s peasant girl. I choose words carefully, Seá±orita-to-be.” Then his smile returned. “We are curious to see if your mind can be adapted to match your body. If it does–an unlikely outcome, perhaps–then lying with a man will not be so awful a prospect. As a girl, you should enjoy sex with a boyfriend, and perhaps you will make some lucky peasant a fine wife. I suspect, though, that your sexual orientation may be too well established. If so, then your choice of partners will be limited to other lesbians. Of course, Petunia is a normal woman, and she will regard you as a girlfriend, not a bedmate.” With a touch of sympathy in his voice, he added: “Your display of tears is not unexpected, by the way. Your new hormonal mix is affecting your emotional balance. You will find that you weep easily–like a girl, yes?”

George controlled himself with effort. “You are an… an evil man, Seá±or.” He looked away. “And…” He gritted his teeth. Insults wouldn’t help him–even true ones. “Maybe you’re right. My body is… is changing, like you say, and my… my breasts are getting bigger. I want… I think I need… I need a b…bra. Can I get one?”

Don Pablo nodded. “I will see to it. …By the way, Susana had your child yesterday. You are the proud father of a baby boy–preposterous though that may seem, to look at you. You may go back to Conchita now.”
End of Part 4
To Be Continued...

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