A year

"You really didn’t read the consent forms, did you?" The professor tuts peevishly, "You've signed up for the rest of the year."

He heads off your follow-up questions, explaining the parameters of the study with the air of a parent explaining basic facts to a particularly slow witted child.

You'll be expected to live as a woman for the duration of the study. You've been furnished with a new identity and supporting documents, as well as being moved to one of the all female dorms. Other than not revealing your true status, you'll be free to pick up pretty much where you left off. All your grades and course credits transferred to your new identity.

They've even arranged a part-time job for you. To "broaden your range of social interactions" as the Professor puts it.

When you try and point out you don't know the first damn thing about passing as a girl, the older man taps a few keys on his laptop and a torrent of new knowledge pours into your head.

A virtual encyclopedia of beauty and fashion, feminine deportment and etiquette. Not to mention a brothel's worth of sexual skills you sincerely hope you'll never need to use.

"Oh fuck me!" You groan in your girlish new voice, "What the hell have I got myself into?"