I always get the seasonal 'flu vaccination. Working as a shelf-stacker in a local supermarket, I didn't even have to hike to the medical centre. I just went to the in-store pharmacy, paid the fee, was spiked.

Taking ill with 'flu a week later was so unfair. Not just a 'man cold', a three-day thing, this was full-blown. High fevers, sweats, dreadful shivers, rinse and repeat. It just would not go away. The generic 'cold & flu' medicine that my apartment-share Garry brought didn't help much.

I endured those fevers sprawled on a bath towel on my bed, the old desk-fan howling. The towel and my T-shirt soaked up my monster sweats. I dumped the sodden stuff on the floor, crawled into bed with a heat-pad to thaw my shakes. Garry ran the laundry every night.

I could not hold down food. I sipped or slurped rehydration mix when I could, lost weight visibly.

The on-call doctor got around to me after a week, pronounced my chest clear of pneumonia. He told me to keep taking the generics. There was a nasty strain of 'flu going around, but it would resolve.

Three weeks in, I still had those fevers, sweats and shivers. I still could not eat. Even with Garry supplying rehydration mix and energy drinks, I'd lost ten kilos.

The doctor was not amused. Still, he pronounced my chest clear, told me to keep taking the generics. My 'flu would resolve. Gradually, just over a week later, something changed. Now, my fevers peaked short of hallucination. My shivers were barely worse than goose-bumps. Fifteen kilos lighter, weak as a kitten, I even managed to nibble a wedge from Garry's pizza. And, I kept it down.

Day by day, as my misery diminished, my hopes began to rise. That was when Garry delivered a joker. "Joe, your hair's falling out."

It was true. There were big clumps of brown hair on my bath towel. By the end of the week, I was bald as an egg beyond my eye-lashes. When I tried to shave, my month's beard and 'tache came off in lumps. My chest hair was no bear-mat, but it fell out. My arm-pit, knuckle, belly and crotch hair lasted a few more days. The puzzled doctor pronounced my chest clear, diagnosed 'stress alopecia'.

Wan with exhaustion, pale from time indoors, I looked like a wrinkled china doll. Upside, I was eating again, though only tiny portions. A bread roll for breakfast, a minimal evening meal was all I could stomach. Even slurping energy drinks, I was hundreds of kilo-calories a day short of break-even. I continued to lose weight.

Okay, I had it to lose. I'd been chubby, bordering on fat. Now, my bones were beginning to show. Garry duly delivered the second joker. "Joe, you have 'man boobs'."

It was true. I'd lost enough weight everywhere else for my chest flab to stand out. I found the strength to shrug. I'd never been athletic. I didn't care a whit for my looks. Besides, when I got clear of this 'flu, I'd soon eat the rest of me back to normal.

The third joker showed up when Pete, Garry's friend, brought a soft-porn movie to brighten their dull weekend. Such wasn't to my taste, but I'd nothing better to watch. Seeing all those nubile 'tits & clits' made Pete and Garry very happy. Their arousal was obvious. Me, it didn't touch.

I pleaded exhaustion, retreated to my tiny bedroom. There, I plugged in my MP3 player, ran 'Bridge Over Troubled Waters' loud enough to mask the hoots, moans and lewd comments from the main room.

The doctor's next visit, a week later, did not go well. He pronounced my chest clear, tutted over my 'man boobs', then frowned at my latest discovery. I seemed to be reversing puberty. My boy-bits had shrunk to grapes and a finger-tip of penis, were partly withdrawn inside my crotch. When the baffled doctor returned a few days along, I'd gone a stage further. My boy-bits were internal, my crotch bare but for a 'finger-nail'. I had to sit to pee. And, my 'man boobs' were significantly bigger, had pert nipples.

An hour later, I was in hospital having a suite of tests and scans. The good news was they confirmed my chest clear of pneumonia and other secondary infections. The bad news was that crowded waiting room seemed full of random young men with identical symptoms. Bald, ball-less and increasingly busty, we exchanged unhappy glances. The next arrival shattered our hopes.

"My voice broke this morning," he quavered in a scared soprano. "What's happening to us ?"

The scans showed we still had our boy-bits, though internal and dormant. The blood tests revealed an arc of oddities. As feared, our testosterone and related hormones were far down from the male norm, and falling. Also, our blood calcium levels were elevated. Something was mobilising that element from our bones. A long look in a mirror confirmed my features were softening. The others were the same.

Officially, it was 'Change Flu', but social media called it the 'Lady-Boy Plague'. There was genuine seasonal 'flu, too, so men couldn't know which they had until the changes began. As days turned to weeks, more and more young men succumbed. My tenor broke to mezzo. My features softened. As I recovered some weight, my body developed cute curves, a booty butt. My bust grew to 'noticeable'. I bound my growing breasts beneath loose tops, went back to work.

Across the world, the 'Change Flu' just kept going. It mostly hit late-teens and twenty-somethings, catching one in four or five young men. That was an average; some communities had one in a dozen transformed, others were swept clean. A grim 'Young Offenders' mega-prison in USA saw every male under thirty-five feminised, including staff and regular visitors. Many notorious ghettos found their gangs emasculated.

The effects were most dramatic in male-dominated cultures. The Arab world reeled as 'Change Flu' swept the Mecca pilgrimage. Beyond the medical problems of treating thousands of feverish patients, those proud young people baulked at wearing 'modest' garb, of deferring to full males. Prayer and treatment areas were hastily divided a third way. The virus went home with other travellers, infected extended families, up-ended social dynamics. It reached 'tribal' areas, changed many for the better. It reached Jihadist areas. Their leaders ordered summary execution of the afflicted, which prompted internal strife. Recruitment and support collapsed. Numbers culled, they lost the initiative, lost a lot of territory.

China struggled as their 'one child' policy back-fired. With a quarter of those 'little princes' feminised, many, many families found themselves with no heir.

Countries with 'standing armies' found 'Change Flu' tearing through barracks. Beyond the debilitation, many of those transformed seemed unable to 'soldier'. They'd lost their edge. Foul regimes tumbled like dominoes.

Mining camps across Africa and Australasia, full of hard, young men, lost large numbers of trained workers. Output dipped, spiking ore prices. Worse, those workers often supported extended families. Without their pay, entire villages collapsed into poverty and starvation.

The Western world's response was fragmented. Some pundits claimed a miracle, others saw a sign of end-times. Most pleaded for calm, for acceptance. The 'Gay & Lesbian' community embraced this jubilee.

Sport was hit hard as many athletes, now neither men nor women, had to drop out of competition. Soccer, football and other clubs struggled to field full teams. 'International Athletics' authorities promptly allowed a 'Third Lane', at least until the dust settled...

Less reported were many, many tragedies. The sick, the weak, the impoverished and the unlucky who could not endure such long, high fevers generally died of it. Heavy drug users and alcoholics succumbed whole-sale. Many transplant patients went into 'acute rejection'. Thousands of HIV carriers who'd been 'stable' on long-term meds had that flare cruelly, killing them within weeks...

Six months along, there were too many of us for that hospital waiting area. We crowded into a big conference room for a short report.

"The official position is that you represent a new, third gender," our weary consultant stated. "Technically, you've regressed to pre-pubescent. You still have your gonads and such, but internal, inactive. They may yet descend again."

"Yeah, right..." That wry soprano comment rather summed our mood.

"The alopecia may be transient. Other clinics have reported vigorous re-growth."

"What about our busts ?" came from the back of the room. "Mine's getting bigger and bigger !"

"They're not flab, they're real--"

"What ?"

"They are developing genuine mammary tissue. If exposed to oxytocin, they will produce milk--"

"We could breast-feed ?"

"Yes. An early case has a young father sharing breast-feeding with his wife."

"Can it be reversed ?"

"We do not know. Several early cases were given a course of testosterone. They-- Their mindset became 'lesbian' until treatment was halted. That would be a life-choice, as would breast reduction, fitting a prosthetic etc. At this stage, I must strongly advise against heroic medication or hasty surgery. We simply do not know how this will play out."

"But what do we do ?"

"I'll let my colleague answer that..."

Where our consultant was rumpled, this woman was power-dressed, with a neat auburn bob, a tailored pin-stripe suit, smart heels and a well-filled, low-cut blouse. In a confident contralto, she stated, "I'm Doctor Denise Shackleton, Consultant Psychologist. Before 'Change 'Flu', I was 'Dennis'."

She waited for our astonishment to settle before saying, "The obvious analogy is 'Coming Out' as Gay. That community supports new arrivals. They've offered their help."

Metrosexual or not, mutters indicated how many felt about that...

"I'm sorry, it is going to be hard. Like it or not, you've lost your virile male attributes. You've lost your testosterone edge and muscle-mass. Your looks are feminised. A lot of you have lost relationships, had families and friends reject you. I was lucky. My wonderful wife's been a hero, helped me adapt. Our two boys are still struggling. Our young daughter calls me 'Nanny' and gives me big huggles, but asks when Daddy's coming home." She sighed, continued, "A lot of employers are less than sympathetic, despite 'equal opportunity' claims. Many of you will have to find new jobs...

"But, look around. All of you are young and healthy, with increasingly attractive, albeit feminine bodies. Embrace your looks. Chest-binding causes long-term problems, so don't go there. Instead, get sized for a bra. Remember to switch to a sleep-bra or loose top at night, and beware thrush. Remember your size will change."

"Cross-dress ?"

"Nu." Doctor Shackleton shook her head. "Just wear appropriate clothing. If you need the support of a sport or fashion bra, get it. If you want to dress unisex, fair enough. If you want to flaunt a splendid bust and booty butt, go for it. Whatever you decide, please, please, be careful. Very, very careful. You don't have years of experience as a young woman. You haven't learned to gauge social situations from a female perspective. Your feminine bodies will get drunk or drugged so easily. Rapists may react badly to finding you are a 'Lady Boy'. Implemented 'male rape' is a terrible, terrible danger..."

After we stopped shuddering, some-one asked, "What about IDs and such ?"

"We'll issue letters confirming your change. The authorities have agreed on 'T' as a gender description. Or, if you prefer, leave it blank."

Armed with that letter, I had a quiet word with my employers. They were glad to have it made official; given my 'flu and hospital visits, they'd suspected what I'd become. In fact, there were four of us former young men, now remarkably attractive young 'women'. Dressed down and wary, we'd wondered about each other, but hadn't dared ask. How did we want to proceed ? Alone, I'd have stayed 'unisex', as might the others. Together, with our employers' support, we decided to make a clean break.

The bemused assistants in the supermarket's clothing department measured us up, assembled our essentials. We went into the changing rooms as baggily clad youths, came out as smart young women. We traded our plain male uniforms for the curvy female equivalents, exchanged high-fives.

My body continued to develop over the following year. When my hair came back, I wore it long. I grew a splendid bust, a booty butt, found clothes to suit. At Halloween, Garry and I went to a costume party as devils. He was a handsome brute, I was a stunning succubus in corset and high heels. We rocked. And, yes, when we got back to the apartment, Garry quietly asked if we could be lovers. I gathered he really, really wanted to get his hands and lips onto my big, big breasts' upstanding tits.

Well, okay, I'd give it a try. To my astonishment, having my bust kindly groped gave me an orgasm. It wasn't a male orgasm, as Garry had when I grabbed and worked his boy-bits, but my body and brain surely went orbital.

Garry craved me as his mistress, but he wanted a wife and children. He and I made a deal. There'd be no secrets; his life-partner must welcome me into the mix. Having attractive me on his arm helped him find the right young lady. Anna's shy twin brother was now a 'T', so they understood our needs. Happily, Anna, 'Jacki' and I soon became firm friends. I coaxed Jacki into less dour clothing, eased her out of her shell. I taught her to respect her neat bust, to wiggle her cute butt. We were matching 'Maids of Honour' at the wedding, giggly in the hugely hooped dresses we'd hired. Then, while Bride and Groom were bonking in the Bridal Suite, Jacki and I had fun, fun, fun else-where.

Six months along, Anna's dip-test showed positive. The scheduled ultrasound found twins. As planned, all three of us went to ante-natal classes. Jacki and I held Anna's hands through her long, long labour. Thus primed with oxytocin, we were able to wet-nurse those beautiful baby girls while Anna recovered her strength, then for many wonderful months there-after.

We did the same for Anna's other pregnancies.

Daisy and Maisy, John, Alice and Edward grew up calling us 'Nanny', loved our very bones.

Life was good.