Verity inhaled sharply, dropping her gaze to the floor. Her previous encounters with the Committee did nothing to lessen the impact. This was the part of the interview she loathed more than anything else, the thing she'd been dreading all week. Worse still, refusal was out of the question; these impromptu stripteases were obligatory, stipulated in the probationary clauses of her contract.

God I hate this, she thought, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks.

Blushing all the way to her eyebrows, Verity unclipped the back of her dress and started to disrobe. A surge of frustration overwhelmed her system as she removed the frock. It wasn't fair - what right did they have to force her to strip down to her bra and panties this way? No matter how many times she performed this degrading ceremony, she could never adjust to the basic injustice of the situation.

Dropping the dress to the floor, Verity turned to face the Committee, her tummy fluttering with unwilling pleasure. Practically everything she had was on display - she could feel their eyes wandering over her nubile figure. Worse still, she was wearing a lacy white garter-belt with black suspender stockings. Her choice had been an impulse, a thoughtless whim as she'd dressed for breakfast that morning.

Or so she'd told herself.

Pulse racing in her throat, Verity crossed her hands over her cleavage, aware that her high-cut panties were on open exhibition. A perfect match for the garter-belt, they had floral patterns along the sides and a delicate lace trim encircling the waistline. Biting her lower lip in suppressed fury, she raised her face to meet the Committee's steady, probing stare. She stood trembling with expectation, her crystal blue eyes glittering like sapphires. Would they make her take off her brassiere again? They seemed to enjoy watching her squirm with anger.

"Lower your arms to your sides, Verity," Scott said, amiably reading her expression, "and come a little closer. Let's take a look at you."

Nooooo! Verity thought, but complied with his command, despising herself for giving in so easily. She stepped forward in her gleaming white underwear, high heels clocking on the varnished wooden floorboards. Her garters stretched along her thighs, tugging gently on the flimsy black stocking-tops. Her bra-strap felt uncomfortably tight across against her pale flesh, her breath came in shallow spurts. Scott nodded in satisfaction. The rest of the Panel scrutinised her with a kind of casual interest. They were enjoying this, she could see it in their mocking smiles.

She halted about six feet from the interview table, electric fire tingling in every nerve in her body. Here she was, posing before them in nothing but her bra, panties and nylons, a curvaceous young woman with wavy blond hair cascading down to her hips. At twenty-one, she looked perhaps five years younger. Her large eyes and small, pouting mouth lent her a soft, childlike appearance. Her cheeks glowed with a delicate rose flush: these weekly inspections were humiliating beyond words. Her mind swirled with conflicting emotions; shame, arousal, fear and outrage.

Scott looked her up and down, waving a hand in her general direction.

"Could you take off your bra please, Verity?"

And there it was.

I knew it, she thought, lips curving down into a sulking, little-girl frown. She paused for several seconds, eyes simmering with feminine wrath, then reached back to unclip her brassiere with both hands. Slipping the straps off her shoulders, she removed the sheer lace cups from her body, indulging the 'Guys' with an utterly heart-stopping view. Her breasts were high and firm and deliciously round. Their large, pink tips were throbbing in time to her racing heartbeat.

She stood with her arms by her sides, the bra swaying gently from her right hand. She felt totally defenceless before their ravenous gaze. Her nipples were swelling with arousal, she had to fight down the urge to cover them with her red-glossed fingertips.

"Well," Scott began, leaning back in his chair, "you seem to be making exceptional progress, Verity." He spoke in an infuriatingly superior tone of voice, a rich young god used to getting anything he wanted. He raised his eyebrows disarmingly, as if seeing her stripped to her pants and stockings was the most natural thing in the world.

"Thank you," Verity replied, her face perfectly composed despite the bright spots standing out on her cheeks. She knew Scott was listening for the slightest hint of rebellion in her answer. All of them were. That was point of the interview; to decide how well she was adjusting to her new gender. Anatomically speaking, the 'gynozine therapy had eliminated all traces of masculinity from her physique: indeed, she appeared considerably more 'feminine' than any biological female her age.

Needless to say, the psychological aspects of the process were considerably more complicated. A woman was an extremely complex and enigmatic being; at once passive and rebellious, docile but wayward, innocent yet sensual. Three months of Tetragynozine could alter human DNA, irreversibly transforming an eighteen year-old male into a nubile, adolescent girl, but it couldn't reverse two decades of social conditioning. At the end of the Program, Verity was still exhibiting chronic symptoms of gender rejection, secretly resenting the submissive role she was being forced to play.

Scott was consulting his iBook, scanning through her personal files.

"Your medical reports look rather promising. Chromosomatic structure stabilised, reproductive and endocrinal systems approaching normal parameters. Neural implants functioning." He paused, reading down the screen a few lines, nodding to himself. "Latest test results suggest that you'll start ovulating within the year. Not bad, considering the time frame we were working with. Should be able to take you off the 'gynozine within the next month."

"Does... does that mean that I'll be released from the Program soon?" Verity ventured, hoping against all logic that this ordeal was finished and she'd have her life back. She realised immediately that her voice had sounded too eager, too... reproachful. On reflection, she shouldn't have broached the subject at all, it would only raise doubts as to her suitability. As she later discovered, no one was ever truly released from the Program. Even after reconditioning.

"You don't like it here, Verity?" Scott asked, eyes wandering over her breasts. The rest of the Committee were staring at her, their expressions ranging from wry amusement to open suspicion. Several were making notes on their palmsets, others exchanged comments through cupped palms. Verity wilted, feeling small and naked and vulnerable.

"No - I mean yes," she stammered frantically, losing track of her thoughts as the words tumbled over each other, "I've never been happier than I am now - honestly. I... was just wondering what happens next." She looked down at her gleaming red shoes, hating the hesitant tremor in her voice.

"We've decided that you need a little more time to adapt to your changing circumstances," Scott commented, returning his attention to the screen, "your psych evaluations have us a little concerned, Verity. According to Doctor Wanderly, you've having trouble accepting your new designation."

"My... designation?" Verity asked uncertainly. She didn't like the direction the conversation was heading. She seemed to be getting in deeper over her head everytime she opened her mouth.

"Your new gender," Scott explained, "your most recent tests confirm that you're resisting your feminine status. 'In denial', as they used to say back in the nineties. That's not unusual at this stage of the treatment. Most of our candidates experience some form of transitionary dysphoria following their re-configuration."

He spoke down to her like a schoolmaster addressing a slow and none-too-promising student. Verity felt a fresh wave of anger strike her head on. He was trying to confuse her with a lot of psychological jargon and hyperbole. As if being required to strip to her underpants wasn't enough, now she was being patronised; treated like an idiot, an imbecile. A Nute.

"In short," he concluded, "you don't like being a girl."

Verity opened her mouth to protest her innocence, refute his allegations, but Scott cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"Don't bother denying it, Verity. We all saw the look you gave me when I asked you to take off your bra. You hate these interviews, hate being made to undress in front of a bunch of strange men, hate exposing your body every time you step into this room. You hate my smug, contemptuous attitude, and most of all - you hate being treated like a woman."

Verity said nothing for several moments, unable to dispute this bald-faced pack of truths. Everything he'd said had been correct. Standing here with nothing but a pair of panties and a garter belt to hide her shame, Verity's anger dissolved into moist, humiliated defeat. She began to nod her head slowly.

"I don't like being a girl," she murmured, mostly to herself.

She struggled to control her emotions, knowing that they had been expecting some display of weakness. She'd broken down six times over the past month (each incident no doubt recorded in Wanderly's daily report). Part of it had been the nausea, the constant stress of her treatment. But it was more than that. She used to be so much stronger: she'd never cried before her reassignment, not even when her mother had died, nine years ago. Now she seemed to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. She forced herself to look up at them, despising her vulnerability, her submissive, feminine nature.

Scott beamed with mock sympathy, the very paragon of understanding.

"Sudden mood swings," he said in a conciliatory tone, "very common at this point of the therapy. Increased oestrogen levels, emotional instability, sensitive nipples. You can expect to feel this way at least once a month."

Verity acknowledged his comments with another hesitant nod, her lower lip trembling with dismay. How had she come to this: quivering and half naked before a group of ogling, self-satisfied males? She was proving them right, confirming everything they had thought about her. Frail, insipid, powerless. A typical woman.

"That's a lot to deal with," Scott continued, spreading his hands magnanimously, "that's why we're willing to give you all the time you need to adjust." He was literally glowing with generosity, his expression that of an absolute monarch conferring a supreme favour on a pauper.

"What do you mean?" Verity asked apprehensively.

She stifled her emotions by an immense act of will. Something was coming, something she hadn't been expecting. What did they have in mind? More tests; an extension of her probation? Another month of nausea, depression and anxiety? She had to calm down, compose herself. Prepare for whatever tribulations they had planned for her.

"We're transferring you to the Playhouse," Scott told her. His canine smile broadened, his eyes gleamed with malicious joy.

Verity's lips parted in a sudden alarm, a frigid charge ran the length of her spine. He couldn't be serious! They couldn't send her to the Playhouse so soon, she'd only been in the Program three months. She'd barely completed her metamorphosis. She had no experience as a female, physically or emotionally. She simply wasn't ready for reconditioning. Couldn't they see that?

"The Playhouse?!" she cried, recovering her voice at last, "Scott, I've only been a woman for a couple of weeks, I haven't even finished with the 'gynozine! You said I wouldn't start ovulating for another year!!"

"Our specialists say you're a prime candidate for reconditioning, Verity. Based on their reports, the Psych Unit has recommended you for intensive psychosexual reprogramming. Doc Wanderly approved your transfer himself."

Verity gaped in open shock, poised - literally - at the brink of terror. She knew precisely what 'psychosexual reprogramming' meant. Hot flushes rushed through her smooth, trim belly. How could this be happening? How could they have made this decision without even consulting with her? It was her life, her future, her body.

"Don't I have any choice in this?" She wailed, making no attempt to hold back her tears.

"Yes," Scott answered, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, "you can go back to living on the street and scrounging for food through garbage cans."

"That's no choice at all!!" Verity wept in near-hysteria, "I can't go back to the Red Zone now! I'll die out there!!" She looked from face to face in a state of rising panic. Scott cleared his throat.

"There's no need to be so apprehensive about the transfer," Freeman told her patiently, "it may be difficult to believe at this point, but the decision was made in your best interests. At the end of the day, we're only trying to help you."

"Help me?! You're denying me my most basic human rights."

"We're denying you nothing," Scott answered evenly, "you've always been free to come and go as you please. There are no prisoners here." Not in any physical sense. The Facility had no need for cell-blocks or razor wire to contain its inmates.

"You can't make me do this," Verity sobbed, wiping her face with a small right hand, "it's just not right."

Scott felt the moment approaching, that point of absolute surrender he'd been watching for since the interview commenced. He changed tack seamlessly, reminding the girl of her legal obligations, playing her fears and anxieties like a violin.

"This is what you wanted, Verity," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "you signed on for the Program of your own free will. We have your name in triplicate." Scott confirmed this remark by turning the laptop around to face her. Verity's vision blurred momentarily as she looked toward the monitor. The screen displayed an image of her admission form. The picture magnified itself automatically, revealing her signature at the bottom of the page. In triplicate.

The contract was suddenly replaced by a photograph of a young man in his late teens; a thin, emaciated youth with tangled brown hair and hollow, beaten eyes. His face was angular and bruised, his lips split from a recent fight. A large, suppurating wound disfigured his jaw line. Verity looked away, unable to meet that broken, hopeless gaze. Her other self: the boy she'd been before her induction at the Facility. Another lonely, aimless refugee from the gangs and poverty of the Red Zone.

"Is that what you want, Verity?" Scott asked quietly, "Do you want to return to the ghettoes?"

"No," she replied, her final shred of self-esteem torn away. She was trapped, snared, beaten. There was no escape, no way out. Her memories of the streets were as vicious as the edge of a shattered mirror. There were far worse things than reconditioning: she'd suffered most of them out in the Zone. Descending into that nightmare once more was unthinkable. Clothed in a woman's body, she'd be dead inside a week. Verity crumpled like a crystal ornament, reduced to a hopeless, pleading child.

"Please, Scott," she wept, covering her face with both hands, "please don't send me back, Scott. I'll do anything to stay here. Anything!" And at that second, she would have been willing to endure any indignity, any insult, any disgrace, to stay on at the Facility. She wavered from foot to foot, shoulders heaving with desperate tears. Her eyeliner ran down her flushed cheeks, heavily smudged by her fingers.

Freeman regarded the girl with growing interest. Breakdowns of this kind were nothing new for him. Verity was exhibiting all the behavioural characteristics he'd come to associate with gender transition: frustration, anxiety, trepidation; a belief that she was being unfairly victimised. In that respect, she was no different to five hundred other candidates he'd screened over the last two years.

However, there was something different about her, some quality so insubstantial, so ethereal that even the Psych Unit had failed to pick it up. Whatever it was, he'd been sensing it at some instinctive level for weeks. Couldn't pin a name to it, but his curiosity (along with his libido) had been pricked. This one would bear watching.

"Verity," Freeman said as gently as possible, "you have nothing to fear. The Playhouse isn't a bordello, you won't be treated like a sex slave." Not exactly, he thought, savouring the smooth contours of her breasts, the straining peaks of her nipples. Sexual slavery was an understatement where the Playhouse was concerned. Let's face it, even the word 'rape' was too mild a term to describe what she was facing.

The psyche evaluations had been right about one thing, at least. Verity Sherman was the perfect candidate. Passive, self-deprecating and completely open to exploitation. Scott regarded her with a growing sense of anticipation. This was a special case indeed; he could almost smell the fear emanating from her pores like an exquisite French perfume.

Meantime, the Perfect Candidate was standing before him virtually naked, her face glistening with rouge, mascara and sweet, liquid shame. Scott's words had done little to reassure her. Rumours were rife throughout the Facility. If the stories she'd heard from the other candidates were true, psychosexual reprogramming was a treadmill of agony; worse - in some respects - than the back allies of the Red Zone.

"I'm so scared..." she whispered.

Now, Freeman thought, sensing that the moment had finally arrived. It was time to play his hand, home in like a barracuda on a death dive. He had to strike now, seize the prey while she was frightened, confused and alone. Before she had an opportunity to reconsider her options - slim though they were.

"Verity," he said, spreading his palms wide, "just for a second... think of what we're offering you. You'll probably live longer than anyone sitting at this table. You'll sleep between satin sheets, surrounded by luxury beyond anything you can imagine. You'll never go cold, or hungry, or thirsty - ever again. You'll be pampered, indulged and spoilt like an only child. You'll never need to worry about money or food or anything else, because we'll take care of your every physical need.

"For the rest of your life"