Halloween at the Old Infirmary

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Estate Agent, Tim Dudley, went to the old Infirmary on Halloween hoping to sell it to a client, but the client quickly left and he was left to wander the building by himself. The old manuscript was in a hidden laboratory next to the mortuary. It proved to be compelling reading!

Author's Note: There is no explicit sex in this story, but it does tell of certain activities with dead bodies. But then, if you read Halloween stories, you should expect nothing less.

Halloween at the Old Infirmary

by Lin Dale

"Mr Rogers?" Tim Dudley from Braddock and Smythe Estate Agents asked of the man who had just got out of the BMW. Not that anyone else was likely to drive up to the old Broughton Hall Infirmary site, when he had only just unlocked and opened the main gate and hurriedly cleared away the worst of the weeds from around the entrance.

"That's right, lad. I got the impression your boss wasn't interested in selling this place." He gave the huge building a quick glance. "On the other hand, I suspect he thought I wouldn't be interested as soon as I saw it. Listed, is it?"

"That's right," Tim said. "Grade two listed. After converting the building into flats, I'm sure that would be a big selling point to potential home buyers.

"I know it doesn't look much now," he desperately continued. A mild understatement; every window was boarded up, and the building was showing its two-hundred-year age. "...but with a bit of renovation..."

"Looks like you've got some serious mining subsidence over there." Mr Rogers pointed towards the end of the building, where a crack wide enough to insert a fist ran upwards from ground to eaves, showing that the end of the building had intentions of leaving the rest of it behind.

"Nothing that can't be fixed," Tim said.

"At a price," Mr Rogers agreed. "But you're talking serious money, especially with it being listed which means English Heritage has to agree every change. The best thing would be to pull the place down and start again, but they'd never agree to that. No, lad. I've seen enough. I'll let some other sucker take on the job. Bye."

He turned and walked back to his car, got in and drove off, leaving Tim feeling rather depressed. He'd been working for Braddock and Smythe for four weeks, and not a hint of a sale, yet. He'd hoped that selling the old infirmary building would be his big opportunity. On the other hand, he reasoned, if there'd been any chance of making a sale, there was no way Mr Smythe would have handed over the task to him.

Tim had no other clients that afternoon. Indeed, he'd planned to leave work early in order to visit the fancy dress shop to pick out a disguise for the company's Halloween party, that evening in some hotel in central Leeds, a forty minute journey away. Secretly, he rather hoped they would have no costumes left when he got there, and he'd then have an excuse not to go to the stupid party.

With no particular desire to return to the office at all, he thought he'd have a wander around inside the building — perhaps see exactly how bad the subsidence was so he'd be better briefed the next time he showed anyone around.

He unlocked and opened the main door, found the light switches and flicked several of them on, and looked around. At least it was dry inside, but with that depressing air of any abandoned building. The furniture had all been removed, but there was all kind of junk remaining; mainly paper and folders. There were probably the medical records for half the county lying around on the floor.

He walked forward to the stairwell, and stared up the three flights of stairs to a glazed dome in the roof. But to check out the subsidence, he needed to visit the basement. He made his way down the stairs and, with a little trepidation, faced the door saying, "Mortuary. Authorised Personal Only." He took a deep breath and pushed his way inside.

He was in an anti-chamber, and to his left was an open door through which he could see a mortician's table, fortunately devoid of any bodies, and beyond that a series of what looked like large filing drawers, which Tim had no wish to start opening.

The problem was that he needed to go in the other direction — towards the end of the building to his right and there was no doorway leading in that direction. Being built on a slight incline, the building presumably only had a basement level in the one half of it.

He made his way back to the ground floor and moved in the direction of the subsidence, along a narrow corridor, switching on lights as he went, the dim bulbs making little impact on the long dark passageway.

When he came to the end of the corridor, it was easy to see where the end of the building was starting to split apart. The wide crack in the internal corridor walls was even worse than the one on the outside, with huge chunks of plaster clearly about to fall off. Tim didn't know much about building, but he could see why Mr Rogers had taken one look and turned away. He simply touched one of the loose pieces of plaster to see how free it was, for it to fall out and crash to the floor in a shower of dust which covered his suit.


But the fallen plaster had exposed a door frame which at some time had been plastered over. There were all kinds of good reasons for the hospital authorities to reposition a doorway, and there really were no grounds why Tim should query it. But the sign on the door said, "Doctor Broughton's Laboratory. No admittance to the Mortuary this way. Go via the central staircase," which seemed to indicate that another set of stairs led downwards from here. He tried the door handle to see if it opened. It was locked.

There were several keys on the bunch Mr Smythe had handed over which might fit the lock, but none of them did; no reason why they should, but with Tim's curiosity aroused, he really wanted to see the other side of the door. He walked back along the corridor, and peeped into the next room, but it was a small office, and clearly, there was something situated between it and the end of the building.

He shrugged. He was already dirty so there was no point in pussyfooting around. He raised a leg and kicked the door as hard as he could. The doorframe split and the door opened, revealing blackness beyond. He located the light switch and flicked it on, illuminating a narrow set of steps leading down to the basement.

One half of him was scared about what he might find down there — a laboratory containing body parts? On the other hand, he couldn't remember doing anything so exciting since his days apple scrumping in his headmaster's garden which would have meant certain expulsion, if found out!

He kicked away the rest of the plaster surrounding the doorway, and started to walk down.


Doctor Broughton's Laboratory was just as scary as the mortuary. Benches stretched along either wall with sinks and gas outlets for Bunsen burners. But it was the six-feet-high glass cylinders, filled with some murky liquid, which dominated the room. He'd seen similar things in the biology department at his university, where they were used to illicitly brew huge amounts of beer for the students' Christmas party, but he suspected these cylinders would not be used for that purpose. He peered inside the nearest. It was empty and he let out a sigh of relief; thank heavens for that.

As he looked around some more, he saw a large wooden desk just beyond the stairs he had just come down, and on the desk was a large leather-bound notebook. His curiosity piqued, he walked over, sat down in the huge leather chair in front of the desk, and carefully opened the notebook and read the beautiful copperplate script. There was page after page of notes of experiments which Tim quickly skipped through, but right towards the end were several pages of manuscript. He started to read.


"What to do? Never before has my mind been in such confusion or such despair.

"I must consider my options," Doctor Walker had told me, adding that he hoped I would, "think about the reputation of the hospital and do the gentlemanly thing."

He meant, of course, take my own life.

If I do not, he says, he will go to the authorities in the morning. I shall surely be arrested, face trial as a monster, and go to prison for a long while, during which time I shall be reviled by the other prisoners. Is not death by my own hand a better alternative?

But I must not forget I am a man of science, and I have turned to the pen to find another solution. It is not the first time when faced with a terrible dilemma that I have found that carefully writing down the facts allows me to dispassionately analyse them. So, I will now begin.

I have always been interested in the anatomy of living beings, from the time when I was only seven years old and wandered the grounds of my father's estate at Broughton Hall. I came across a dead rabbit caught in a poacher's trap. Other children may have cried over its plight, but I thrilled at the opportunity it afforded. I took the rabbit back to an outhouse, borrowed a knife from the kitchen and dissected it. It was the first time in my life I had experienced such excitement, akin almost to the sexual pleasure I was to learn many years later; at that moment, I had found something that was simply ecstatic.

Being brought up as the only child of Sir Charles Broughton, the Victorian mine owner and industrialist, meant I lived a lonely life. My mother had died when I was five, and I had since been in the care of a number of elderly nannies and governesses. None took any interest in me, other than to be thankful I did something to occupy myself — until Doctor Roberts became my governor. He delighted in my interests and helped me develop them. It was he who eventually secured a place for me at a school of medicine, where I quickly devoted myself to pathology — to the omission of healing the sick almost to the point where I only just qualified.

I had never been close to my father, so his death hardly moved me. It was inheriting Broughton Hall which changed my life forever. For a short while, I was horrified by the responsibilities it entailed; I surely would have to give up my profession and devote myself to estate management. But I did then as I do now; I wrote down the problems and the untenable solutions. Then an idea came to me. Britain had recently entered the Crimean War and the first horrendous casualties were arriving back in England. I had worked under Doctor Rupert Walker during my training as a doctor, and I had the greatest respect for him. I went to him and suggested that I would loan Broughton Hall for use as a military hospital; he would run the hospital and in return, I would become the pathologist.

It was an idea which benefitted us both, and worked admirably. There was certainly no shortage of bodies which I could dissect, and from which I could greatly learn. In those first years, I published several learned papers upon my findings, papers which helped to improve the treatment of others with similar terrible injuries, although it had to be said that dreadful Nightingale woman took credit for many of my discoveries.

Eventually, of course, the war ended, my supply of bodies gradually dried up, and Doctor Walker and I agreed we would open up the hospital to the surrounding area. Broughton Hall Infirmary was born. It was unfortunate that my flow of bodies never recovered to its previous level; without the war casualties, fewer people were dying and invariably they were dying from clearly observable natural causes, without need for a post mortem.

So I was delighted when a local doctor came to me and said he was unhappy about the cause of death of Mary Parker, the maid of one of his clients. She was young and healthy, and there seemed no reason why she should die. I happily agreed to perform the post mortem, and had her brought to my mortuary.

Until then, I'd had no young women brought to me and when I saw her laid out on the slab, she was so beautiful that she took away my breath. A pretty face, a slim waist well-trained by the corset, with small firm breasts pointing towards the ceiling.

My assistant, a man of about forty was also visibly moved by her beauty. "She's so like my daughter," he said, "it seems a crime to open her up."

"Then let us try a different approach," I replied, carefully concealing my own lust by showing consideration for him. "Turn her over and we'll open through her rear."

I made incisions beneath her buttocks, and lifted those upwards, and I was then able to remove her organs, albeit with some difficulty. A simple Marsh test confirmed arsenic poisoning. I reported this at the inquest, and coroner was delighted by my statement. Subsequently, it was discovered that Mary Parker was having an affair with the master of the house, and in a fit of jealousy, his wife had administered the arsenic and was later hanged for murder. But more important to me was that, with Mary being an orphan, the coroner allowed her body to be donated to medical research.

My own personal laboratory led straight off the mortuary, so I could move Mary's body there without the help of my assistant. When he later asked where her body had gone, I told him it had been taken for burial. Instead, I spent some time and a considerable amount of formaldehyde in preserving her beautiful body. During the day, I kept her in one of my tall glass jars purchased specifically for the purpose; in the evening, I would use the overhead winch to lift her out, and we would spend the night together."

Tim nervously lifted his head and stared at the tall jars, and the winch hanging from an overhead rail which had been used to move Mary's body. He knew he should leave now, taking the book with him. He also knew he could not. He had to remain here and finish reading.

"Those next few weeks were like being in paradise. I had never had success in making acquaintances with young ladies; I was clumsy in speech and I think the pervading smell of formaldehyde also discouraged them. But Mary had no inhibitions about either and she loved me as much as I loved her. Our coition was wonderful, and we would awaken several times in the night and reunite.

The problem was that she started to decay. The formaldehyde should have prevented it, but it did not, and it got to the point where her body was becoming most unpleasant. Reluctantly, I had to cut her into pieces and send her to the Infirmary's burial pit.

I was certain that, sooner or later, another woman would come along to join me, but knew that I must use the intervening time in developing a better embalming fluid. This was one piece of research I did not want the world to know of, and I started working more secretly in my laboratory than I had done previously. Obviously, I still undertook post mortem work — for how else would I know when my next companion came along — but I took little interest in it, and had stopped producing learned papers of any kind.

I called my invention Broughton Liquid, and most beneficially, it was a colourless, odourless liquid. I had fortunately just finalised the design when Charlotte Miller appeared on my slab. She had a much fuller figure than Mary, and had died from food poisoning. More importantly, she also was an orphan, and my friendly coroner had no hesitation in allowing her to enter my laboratory for research.

The things we were to research over the next few weeks! Being much heavier meant we had to use different techniques to those Mary and I had used, but what fun we had. The fun went even further when Jane White appeared. She was a prostitute who had died from syphilis, but after thorough immersion in Broughton Liquid, her little problem held no fears for me. For many months, the three of us got up to all kinds of things together.

However, at some stage, the fun started to fade. Of course, my friends still satisfied a sexual need, but without the excitement of earlier times. Just suppose, I thought, that I could bring back life to such beautiful women. Oh, I was not talking about some Frankenstein re-creation, but simply removing their innards so their outer body could be adopted by another.

My work with Broughton Liquid had already provided the means. Flesh impregnated with the liquid was impervious to most acids. I did some tests on the rate at which the liquid would be absorbed into flesh, and calculated the thickness of flesh I would want to remain on each part of the body. It had to be sufficient to give it strength against tearing, but not so thick that it made the end result appear overweight.

When Marjorie Baker, my next body, arrived, a pleasantly attractive thirty-year old, I only used the liquid on her skin rather than totally immersing her in it, as I normally did. I injected extra large doses directly into the breasts and buttocks, and filled her vagina with it. I waited the correct time for it to impregnate through the skin, then I popped her into a vat of nitric acid and left her to ferment.

Once I had thoroughly rinsed off the acid, the result was everything I had hoped - the carcass of a beautiful woman perfectly preserved for my delight, but with a void inside into which I could fit.

I had already decided how I would gain access, and I made a slit beneath her buttocks, similar to the slit I had first used on Mary Parker. I had thought carefully about this whole aspect, and I now made a series of small holes along both edges of the slit, and strengthened them with exactly the same kind of eyelet as used by corset manufacturers. I also made some small adjustments in the groin, to create space for my own genitals, and allowing me to urinate through Marjorie's own urethral opening.

It was then a matter of folding the carcass in half, inserting my legs into the legs of the carcass and pulling it up to my groin.

The next bit was quite difficult, as I had to bend over and insert my head into Marjorie's upper torso hanging before me. Fortunately, the Broughton Liquid made the skin wonderfully supple and flexible, and I managed to achieve that with only a little difficulty and I pushed my head right into her torso and through the neck until it was fully inside Marjorie's head.

At this point, I was still fully doubled up, and I had to now insert my own arms and shoulders inside hers. Only then, could I start to stand upright, which of course pulled the rest of her torso down my own so that eventually I was standing erect.

I have to confess, there was something else extremely erect at this point, and it made sliding it into the space I had allowed completely impossible.

Whilst Tim had been both captivated and repelled whilst reading the manuscript up to this point, he now found that, for some reason, he, too, sported a massive hard on.

I have to confess that Marjorie's beautiful hands did something for me that no self-respecting lady could ever contemplate.

With that problem out of the way, I could now proceed, correctly locating my genitals in the space I had created and then reaching behind me to pull Marjorie's buttocks down so they met the top of her thighs.

I have already detailed the eyelets along both edges of the slit and, starting at the end, I inserted a cord through the eyelets, pulling the two parts together as I worked my way towards the centre. I loosely tied off those ends, and then did the same on the other side, until I could pull the two cords as tight as possible and tie them off to each other. Staring at my buttocks in a mirror, the join was almost unnoticeable.

It only remained then to adjust the face so that my own face fitted properly into it. I had carefully retained Marjorie's eyelids, which fitted over my own. The lower eyelids, I stretched and pulled until they married completely with the edge of my own eyes. Marjorie's lips fitted over my own. My nose was somewhat longer than hers, but her flexible skin coped with it.

I was highly delighted as I stared in the mirror, for facing me was Marjorie Baker!

I had retained the personal effects of most of my residents, so I was able to commence dressing. I have to confess, the thrill of corseting my waist was exquisite.

By now, Tim's hard on was throbbing fit to burst. He adjusted the position some more. Much as he wanted to take action, he had an even more pressing need to read on.

I had obtained several nurses' uniforms from the Infirmary store cupboard, so I now slipped on a dress and apron. So dressed, I was able to venture around the Infirmary building in the early hours of the morning, for such it was by the time I was ready. I met one or two other nurses, and I told them I had been engaged by Doctor Broughton for mortuary work, which they appeared to accept without suspicion.

My expeditions became a regular event. Sometimes, I would walk in the Infirmary grounds, safe in the knowledge that the outside gates were locked, with a night watchman who permitted only emergency access. Once, I met Doctor Walker, who occupied the Dowry House within the grounds, and he smiled nicely at me and bid me goodnight. His smile made me shiver with excitement.

In fact, I always found the expeditions enormously stimulating. Very often, I had to terminate my tours of the Infirmary in order to return to my laboratory, extract myself from Marjorie and then have coition with one or more of my other companions.

Susan Bennett, the milk maid, arrived a few months later, with the back of her head caved in with a blunt instrument. I selected her as one of my companions because of the truly outstanding size of her breasts, and repeated on her the procedure I had used on Marjorie. In honesty, I rapidly tired of walking out as Susan. Being of lowly origins, she did not have a proper corset to her name, and none of the other corsets I had collected could cope with the mammoth size of her breasts. So when I went out on my expeditions, their weight rapidly made my back and shoulders ache. How on earth the poor girl coped with them in life, I simply cannot imagine. After a few such expeditions, I returned to walking out as Marjorie and continued to gain tremendous excitement for several months to come.

I have already mentioned my desire for intimacy following my expeditions, and I was in just such a position earlier this evening with Charlotte and Jane when Doctor Walker entered my laboratory. Fortunately, Marjorie was out of sight, but there was no doubt in Doctor Walker's mind as to what he was observing.

He was totally appalled and called me many nasty words. Following the dressing down, came his command for me to consider my options or he would notify the authorities in the morning. In the meantime, he would instruct the night watchman that I was not to be let out of the Infirmary grounds.

So there is my stark choice: suicide; or disgrace and prison; or...

The thought came from nowhere, as I had hoped that it might. Suppose Nurse Marjorie Baker was to go to Doctor Walker's house this evening, and tell him that she feared for my safety; that I had told her to lock me in the laboratory and remove the key; that I would take care of everything; that the laboratory was to be sealed up and never opened again. Doctor Walker would imagine that I was preparing to take my own life, after tidying away the unfortunate evidence.

It was not only a way out of my predicament, but the idea filled me with excitement greater than any I had ever known.


I have now put myself inside Marjorie's body and I face the most rigorous challenge ever. Whichever course events take, this will be the last entry I ever make in this journal.


Many people occasionally lie to themselves. Words such as "I'll start my diet tomorrow," or "This is my last cigarette." So when Tim decided that, since he still needed an outfit for the Halloween party, it would be a bit of fun to see if one of Doctor Broughton's bodies really would make him look like a woman, he was hiding the compulsion inside. He had to put it on. He couldn't stop himself. He knew that, strictly speaking, he should be reporting this to the police but, he told himself, everyone involved was long dead, so it would only waste their valuable time.

With his conscience put at ease, he moved once more towards the tall glass cylinders. He had already found the first to be empty, presumably the home of Marjorie Baker. In the second and third cylinders, he found the preserved bodies of Charlotte Miller and Jane White. Strangely, having read Doctor Broughton's manuscript, he felt no more horror at seeing their dead bodies than he would at seeing the mummified remains of an Egyptian Pharaoh in a museum. In any case, it was the contents of the fourth cylinder which demanded his attention. Susan Bennett was not like the previous two who had proper bodies. Susan was more like a diver's wetsuit found floating in the sea, except a wetsuit with tremendous breasts which floated out towards him.

He stared around, and worked out how to move the overhead winch along a track on the ceiling until it was above Susan's cylinder. He pulled a stepladder over, climbed to the top, and stared into the murky liquid.

There was already some kind of harness around Susan's body, so it was only a matter of lowering the hook on the winch to catch the harness and then start to wind it up. All went smoothly until the top of the legs started to emerge, and Tim realised that the weight of liquid inside would stretch her body apart. Instead, he had to lower the body slightly, and then he used a convenient pole to pull up the bottom of the legs and allow the liquid to drain out of them, before he continued lifting Susan out of the liquid. Finally, he was able to descend the stepladder and pull the winch along its track until he could lower her onto the slab. He stared at her, both nervous about following the instructions in Doctor Broughton's manuscript, and incredibly excited at the prospect.

There was a water tap at one end of the slab with a hose attached. Tim turned on the tap. Clearly, the water supply to the Infirmary had been turned off, for only a trickle of water emerged, but at least it was clean. Tim commenced washing the murky liquid off Susan's body and hair.


Forty minutes later, Tim twisted and turned in order to inspect himself. Except that it was not a male that he stared at, but a shapely young woman. Doctor Broughton had not exaggerated the size of Susan's breasts; Tim had simply not realised that breasts came that size before silicone was invented. But these wobbled about on his chest, quivering with every movement, and joggling against each other, with a life of their own.

Everything had gone exactly as Doctor Broughton's manuscript had dictated, except that his penis had obediently slipped into the cavity provided without need of the action that Doctor Broughton had required. Now, he couldn't feel a trace of discomfort down there, although he was feeling incredibly randy, as well as excited about the prospect of going to the Halloween party like that.

Well, not quite like that. First, he had to get dressed. He found Doctor Broughton's collection of clothing in a cupboard under the stairs, and spent some time trying to find suitable items for Susan to wear. Doctor Broughton had remarked that she didn't have a proper corset, and when he held one of the nurses' uniforms against him, it was quite clear from the size of the waist that she would need one. Eventually he found a corset which would fit and laced himself into it. Just like Doctor Broughton, he found the process incredibly erotic, as his normally quite straight waistline became deeply curved before his eyes.

When he tried on a nurses' dress, he appeared incredibly top heavy. He wasn't certain whether nurses would normally wear a crinoline, but he thought he probably needed one to give him a shapely lower half. With apron and cap in place, he felt he looked stunning.

It only remained for him to get to the Halloween party.


It was the early hours of the morning when Nurse Susan Bennett returned to the laboratory. She sat down at the desk, pulled out a pen from her bag and started to write in the leather notebook.

What an evening! Never before have I had so much excitement — or so much fun! Everyone admired me in my costume and wanted to know who I really was — of course, I didn't tell them the truth, for I was little concerned about winning the prize for the best disguise. Instead, I wanted the world to admire me for being a sexually attractive woman.

Mr Smythe could hardly take his eyes off me when I arrived — the combination of tightly corseted waist and large breasts, with little to prevent their natural swing, was too much for most men, including him. I told him I was Tammy, Tim Dudley's sister.

"Oh, is Tim here?" Mr Smythe asked, wanting to know what fancy dress he was wearing. I told him Tim was close by, but not what his fancy dress was, and he spent a little time looking around for him. But he couldn't stop his eyes from frequently returning to me. It's strange that the thoughts of a male lusting after me tremendously excited me — but they did.

Of course, I had no intention of taking things further with any male, but I am afraid I had too much alcohol. So, when Mr Smythe suggested we go up to his room, I stupidly agreed. I don't know what I thought was going to happen — perhaps that he would simply kiss me and fondle my breasts — but as soon as we were through the door, he had pushed me onto the bed and had spread my legs.

Too late, I realised I was not wearing any drawers; most women did not in that period, and there were none in Doctor Broughton's wardrobe. But before I could even think about the delicacy of my position, he had forced himself into me, and was working in and out fit to burst. "By Gad, girl," he said, "you've got a tight little cunty."

I have to confess, I really enjoyed being rogered by him. It was very different from sex as a male, and very exciting. But when he had finished, he almost threw me out of his bedroom; I really should not have expected anything else from that chauvinist, but I still felt extremely disappointed. So, I went back to the fancy dress party and got picked up by three of my colleagues from the office. They took me back to one of their hotel rooms, and they all three rogered me! What fun!

Eventually, we split up and I have come away with all of their phone numbers; I still cannot decide whether I shall reveal all to them tomorrow morning, or keep quiet and go on dates with them! Whatever, I am totally besotted with being Susan Bennett, aka Tamsin Dudley, so I suspect I shall keep up the pretence for some time to come.

Susan Bennett reread the words she had just written. Hell, that had been fun. But in just a few hours, Tim Dudley would be expected to arrive at work. It was time to turn back into him.

As he closed the notebook, he noticed a folded sheet of paper pushed between the pages towards the rear. He took it out, unfolded it and started to read.

I feel it essential I complete the words I wrote over one week ago, so I am putting them onto this sheet of foolscap, and I shall try to talk my way past the workmen who, as I write this, are sealing up the laboratory. I shall tell them I have left some important papers down here, and ask their leave to come down. I have discovered that a smile and a promise from a woman will often work so much better than any amount of threats from a powerful man.

I could never have envisaged that my plan would work out so efficiently. It turned out that Rupert - that is Doctor Walker, was totally besotted by me, having seen me once before and looked for me ever since. So when I turned up on his doorstep, he accepted my words without thought that I might be lying. After all, he was only really interested in having his wicked way with me!

Even now, I am not certain why I let him. I could state it was a scientific experiment; that I wanted to see whether it would be possible for me to have sex with him as a woman might, without him becoming aware that I was male. It was, of course, an exceptionally high risk, for if he realised, I would be immediately arrested. In honesty, I suspect that my sexual needs compelled me to do so, as they have compelled me to do so much.

When I left him next morning, it was with a promise I would see him again that evening, a promise I never intended to keep.

My plan was that I would recover the valise of clothes I had hurriedly packed and hidden in the hospital grounds. I would then take the omnibus into the town centre and check into the Station Hotel. There, I would remove Marjorie's body, and dress once more as Doctor Broughton. I would catch the next train to London and start a new life - perhaps journey onto one of the colonies where my skills would be welcomed.

The first part of my plan went well, and I checked into the hotel without problem. But the problem arose when I tried to remove Marjorie's body, which appeared to be bonded to my own skin. I had never had any problem on previous occasions and for a time I could not understand the cause.

Then the realisation rushed through me like a punch in the stomach — in my panic the previous evening to don Marjorie's body whilst it was still a respectable hour at which to call on Doctor Walker, I had paid scant attention to washing the Broughton's Liquid off her body. I had washed it from the outside, but had not cleansed the inside.

My researches with the liquid had already shown me the importance of keeping the liquid off living flesh. An accidental splash and, after a few hours, the skin would soften to the point where it fell apart, exposing the flesh beneath, which had turned a strange shade of deep purple. It all healed perfectly within a few days, but it was certainly an experience I made certain I never repeated. Now, I suspected the same had happened, the liquid had dissolved my skin and my engorged flesh had somehow bonded to the flesh of Marjorie's body.

I could hardly go to the local infirmary and explain the problem! I was not in any pain, so I resolved to wait and observe what happened. At some stage, my skin would grow again, and I would be able to remove Marjorie's body.

So it was that I kept my appointment with Rupert that evening, and every evening since. Surprisingly, it appears my own flesh has adopted Marjorie's flesh as its own. Quite quickly, I started to detect a feeling in Marjorie's skin, which has continued to grow more sensitive as the days progress. Last evening, Doctor Walker only had to breathe on my nipples to send the most exquisite feelings through my body.

I must add that the joy he gives me with his penis surpasses anything I enjoyed as a male. I have decided to accept my fate and live my life as Marjorie, especially as Rupert has asked me to marry him.

I must finish now. Rupert has just told me that Doctor Broughton's laboratory is being sealed as I write. I must talk my way inside and then slip these pages into the notebook. After that, I must get to the church on time.

Tim sat still for a few seconds after he had finished reading, trying to make sense of it all. Then the realisation hit him just as it had Doctor Broughton; with only a meager flow of water from the tap, he had washed only the outside of Susan's body. The inside had still been quite moist with the liquid when he slipped into it. Could it possibly be true that the liquid had dissolved his own skin, as it appeared to have done to Doctor Broughton?

He was suddenly frantically pulling off his clothes and throwing them to the ground: his dress, crinoline, then his fingers were trying to undo the knot in the corset laces.

Finally, he stood naked before the mirror, and was twisting around, lifting Susan's buttocks and trying to locate the cords by which he had secured the edges of the slit together. But they appeared to have merged together, leaving a rather nasty scar along the bottom of Susan' buttocks.

He wondered whether stretching the skin from both front and rear at the same time might cause the bonded skin to part, so he moved his right hand around the front of his body and reached down between his legs.

The pleasure which ran through his body made him gasp with excitement. Of course, he would get on with removing the body in a moment, but in the meantime, he had no choice but to pursue the pleasure. He sat on the edge of Doctor Broughton's desk, parted his legs and allowed his fingers to explore some more. Never had he had such an exquisite feeling — a warmth which grew between his legs and surged throughout his body; a warmth which commanded his fingers to explore some more.

He lay back on the desk, spread his legs wider and let his fingers do the walking.


It was some time later before Susan Bennett recovered, and decided she really ought to dress for work. She was certain that Mr Smythe would not object to Tim Dudley being replaced by his sister, Tamsin, on a temporary basis to start with. They could sort out the paperwork later.

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