Pride in a Pallu

Chapter 3: The Making of the prides

The Transformation Suite smelled of antiseptic mixed with the faint, almost comforting trace of attar rose and oud that Dr. Arif must have sprayed to mask the clinical sharpness. The room was larger than they expected: pale green walls, two padded reclining chairs side by side like dentist chairs, soft overhead lights, and a long counter lined with trays of instruments that gleamed under sterile blue glow.

Arif spoke quietly, professionally, as though he were discussing a haircut. He is an underground scientist, testing new unknown techniques...

“Full reversible transformation. Six to eight months safe duration. No permanent changes. Hormones minimal just enough for skin texture and minor fat redistribution. Voice modulation via laryngeal adjustment and training. Prosthetics are medical-grade silicone, seamless, breathable, temperature-responsive. Everything comes off in under thirty minutes when the time comes.”

He looked at them both. “You’re sure?”

Saad and Safiya exchanged one glance the kind that said everything without words then nodded.

Saad went first.

They started with waxing. Full body. A technician a silent woman in scrubs named Ayesha worked methodically. Hot wax on chest, stomach, legs, arms, back. The rip of cloth strips felt like fire followed by sudden cold. Saad’s jaw clenched each time, but he didn’t make a sound. When it was over, his skin was baby-smooth, pink, hypersensitive to the slightest draft from the AC. Every brush of air felt like a feather dragged across raw nerves.

Next came the skin treatment: a full-body wrap of a clear, cooling gel that smelled faintly of cucumber. It tightened, then softened his pores, giving his complexion an even, almost porcelain glow. Arif explained it would last months with minimal upkeep.

The voice came after. A small injection at the base of the throat local anaesthetic first, then a precise filler to subtly reshape the vocal cords. Saad tried speaking. His voice cracked, then settled into something higher, softer, melodic. Not cartoonish. Just… undeniably feminine. He cleared his throat, tested it: “This is… strange.” The words came out in a gentle Tamil-inflected lilt. He hated how natural it sounded.

Then the prosthetics.

They brought in the breasts first. Two realistic silicone forms, C-cup, weighted, with textured skin that matched his new tone perfectly. The adhesive was surgical, applied warm, then pressed on. When the edges sealed, there was no seam. Only smooth, warm flesh that moved with his breathing. He looked down. They rose and fell naturally. When Ayesha cupped them to check adhesion, the sensation travelled straight to his brain, pressure, weight, faint ache of new nerves waking up. He swallowed hard.

The lower half was more invasive.

First, a custom flat chastity cage, medical silicone, ventilated, locked with a tiny biometric pad that would only open to his original fingerprint. It cupped him snugly, compressing everything backward, leaving a smooth, featureless front. The pressure was constant, intimate, unignorable. Every shift of his hips reminded him it was there.

Then came the vaginal prosthetic a lifelike outer labia and pubic mound, complete with realistic dark pubic hair individually implanted. It glued over the cage, creating a perfect, seamless illusion. When the technician gently parted the silicone lips for final fitting, Saad felt the cool air touch places that shouldn’t exist. The sensation was so real his stomach flipped.

They gave him a name tag: Sameera.

Safiya now Sajid watched from the other chair, eyes wide, lips pressed tight.

Her turn.

Waxing first. Legs, arms, chest, back, bikini line. She hissed through every strip, but refused painkillers. When it was done, her skin felt newborn, every hair follicle screaming.

They darkened her skin tone slightly with a safe tanning solution just enough to make her look convincingly Tamil male. Beard implants came next: individual follicles, surgically precise, dark and thick. When the anaesthetic wore off, she scratched her jaw and felt the rough stubble rasp against her palm. The weight of it was alien.

The voice adjustment: same procedure. Her pitch dropped, timbre roughened. When she spoke “Saad…?” it came out deep, gravelly, unmistakably male.

The most humiliating part was the phallus.

A realistic, weighted silicone penis and scrotum, attached with the same medical adhesive. Blood-warm, textured, veined. It hung heavy between her legs, swaying slightly with every movement. The scrotum had a faint, realistic heft. When the technician adjusted the base for fit, the tug pulled at skin she didn’t know could feel that way. She looked down, saw it, and her new voice cracked on a laugh that sounded more like a cough.

They dressed her first.

Plain white vest, then a crisp light-blue full-sleeve shirt. Dark grey trousers, belt cinched tight. Black leather sandals. A simple steel watch. A white cotton topi on her head. The mirror showed a tall, clean-shaven (except the new beard), broad-shouldered man who could have been any local accountant.

She.... i mean... he flexed his shoulders. The shirt pulled across a chest that no longer had softness. The weight between his legs shifted. He adjusted it instinctively, then froze, cheeks burning.

Now Sameera.

They started with the innermost layers.

White lace bra padded just enough to support the new breasts without looking fake. The straps dug lightly into shoulders already tender from waxing. Matching panty high-waisted, cotton-lined, smoothing everything flat and seamless. Then a cream camisole, soft against the hypersensitive skin.

Next, the salwar kameez: soft georgette in pastel peach, embroidered with tiny silver gota work. The dupatta was long, sheer, edged with gota lace. They draped it carefully over her head and shoulders.

Jewellery next. Small gold jhumkas that brushed her neck with every turn. A thin gold chain with a tiny heart pendant that rested between the breasts. Glass bangles green and gold that clinked softly when she moved her wrists. A small red bindi on her forehead. Kohl around the eyes, mascara, faint rose lipstick.

Hair: a long, wavy wig in jet black, pinned securely, smelling faintly of jasmine oil.

Finally when leaving, the burqa.

Black, flowing, two-piece. The inner abaya first silky, ankle-length. Then the outer layer with the niqab veil attached. They lifted it over her head. The fabric settled around her like a second skin cool at first, then warming to her body heat. The mesh eye screen let her see out, but the world looked softer, filtered. Her breathing sounded louder inside the cocoon. Every inhale brought the faint scent of new fabric and her own rose attar.

She looked at herself in the full-length mirror.

Sameera stared back modest, elegant, undeniably female.

Sajid stood beside her in shirt and trousers, arms folded, looking every inch the confident groom-to-be.

Arif handed them each a small envelope: new Aadhaar cards, PAN, voter ID all under their new names, with forged family histories already uploaded to the system.

They stepped outside the clinic together.

The late afternoon sun hit them like a slap.

A yellow-top auto waited at the curb, engine idling.

Sajid opened the door for Sameera first a small, automatic gesture that made her stomach twist with something between rage and reluctant amusement.

Sameera gathered the folds of her burqa, careful not to let the hem drag, and stepped in. The fabric whispered against her legs. She sat, knees together, hands folded in her lap over the small embroidered purse they’d given her.

Sajid slid in beside her, legs spread comfortably, one arm along the back of the seat.

The driver glanced in the rear-view, then asked in Tamil: “Enga, anna?”

Sajid answered in the new voice steady, deep: “Triplicane, Kutchery Road.”

The auto lurched forward.

Inside the burqa, Sameera felt the vibration of the engine travel up her thighs, through the chastity cage, a constant, humiliating reminder.

Sajid felt the new weight between his legs shift with every pothole.

Neither spoke.

But both, silently, were already planning how to make the other suffer more.