Writing Update: 19/04/24 (Patreon)

Start of week: 38,636

End of week: 40,402

Change: +2021

Year to date: 60,057

The number don't quite add up, as there are other bits and pieces floating about: some cut-and-pasted into chapter 2, some just cut and left on the floor. There's also been edits and amendments throughout the whole story.

It's taken weeks, but finally the editing is done! Mostly. I still want to write an additional scene or two at the end of "Book 2" but otherwise, everything's had a once-over and a clean up. Names and dates and ages and whatnot should be harmonized throughout, a lot of details tidied, and hopefully the whole thing reads a bit better. I hadn't planned on cleaning up the Interlude, but now I'm glad I did, especially as it's led to the decision to repackage the whole thing as a trilogy.

Posting to TGStorytime is now complete through to the end of chapter 7--only one more to go, and then I can tick the "complete" box for Constant 2 (other than those additonal scenes I'm considering adding). It's been more work than expected, but worthwhile, I think.

So that's all positive. On the other hand, the writing of new stuff hasn't gone quite as well as I'd hoped this week. The main problem is that pesky day-job. Work's been brutal this week, and I've been exhausted in the evenings and struggled to get much writing done. Also, as mentioned earlier, I've found wrapping up the current chapter more difficult than expected.

On the other hand, I also finally had a bit of a breakthrough. After banging my head against the chapter, it's finally opened up a bit and the way forward seems a lot clearer now. I was going to share the finished chapter one, giving it a final read through, when I saw a place where I could squeeze in a scene I wanted--developing the relationship between Cindy and her boss, Michael Connor--and so I've started writing that out now. Consequently, I may have to break chapter one into two separate chapters, since it's set to hit about 45k words, and that's a bit long for a single chapter, I tihnk.

Here's a little peek at that scene in progress, to whet your appetite until next week. Otherwise--have a great weekend!

***

            I laugh and raise my glass. Julia laughs too, but strained, stress visible in the wrinkles in the corner of her eyes and the tightness at her neck. I know her, her body and she’s dreading the next part of the story.

            There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence before she asks: “So… what’s next?” She stares into the ruby depths of her glass.  “How did the ex-girlfriend kill off poor David Saunders?”

            I tap my chin as though in contemplation. I’m torn.  I hadn’t intended on telling her these stories, at least not in this way, but then I hadn’t anticipated acknowledging her love for me, either.

            “How about instead of that one,” I say, holding a dark fingernail to glossy lips, “You choose? Do you want to hear the story of the first guy I blew? Or would you rather hear about the time my boss gave me a spanking?”

            She coughs, sprays her wine, and it bubbles in her nose. I laugh, and she glares at me through watery eyes. “You did that on purpose.”  She wipes her mouth and eyes, careful with her makeup. “You could’ve done it with the shit wine.”

            “Yeah, but—” I shrug. “This was more fun.  So. You which do you wanna hear?”
            “Spanking!” she cries, then stops and says, “No, the other one.” The earlier tension dissipates. “Both,” she says.

            I take a deep drink.   “I’ll need to be a hell of a lot more drunk than this.”

            She tops up my glass.

Four: The Story of the Spanking

That first day back at work found me in a high-waisted, brown tweed houndstooth miniskirt with barely-there midnight pantyhose, slim leather belt, and a ribbed-knit turtleneck sweater over a sheer top.  Baby blue bra and panties; low chunky heels for the trip into work and pumps for the office. Knock-off designer purse, packed lunch, water bottle and a terrible, churning ache in the gut.

            Mirror after mirror threw back my performance. Long blonde hair, brushed straight and held back by a simple pink hairband, gleamed to my waist. A face done up in fashionably heavy makeup—foundation, contouring, glossy lips and cheeks—glanced at each reflective surface and saw itself there: wide-eyed, surprised or terrified at being in public once again. In comparing myself to the other girls arriving to work that morning, I realised just how interchangeable we were—doe-eyed, moist-lipped, flawless-faced—decorative mannequin brightening up our drab corporate space for the rich and powerful.

            Powerful, like Michael Connor, the people and operations director who called me into his office upon arrival. He was in early, and I’d barely had time to find my desk and swap over shoes before the summons came.

            “Welcome back, Cindy,” he said, sitting behind his heavy desk, leaning back in his chair, legs crossed at the knee. I stood near the door, plucking nervously at my skirt.

            “Thank you.” Then I winced, and hurriedly added, “Sir.”

            He laughed. “Relax.” He waved a hand at the door. “Would you close the door, please?”

            Volumina International was a hot-desking, open-concept workplace, but Michael’s seniority afforded him the privacy of one of the few dedicated offices on the floor. The corner space came with expansive views across the city below. Behind him, the rising sun burnished the glass of the building opposite in fiery hues, and beyond the city sprawled out below. His desk was neatly organised, and framed pictures of his wife and kids sat on a shelf behind him.

            I did as he asked. I hadn’t anticipated being called into a meeting with the boss on the first day. I would’ve worn a longer skirt if I’d known, or more sensible shoes. A meet-and-greet, sure, but Sarah Jenkins, the office manager, could handle that.

             Truth was, I didn’t like being around Michael—that is, Mr Connor. Previously, I’d fetched him his coffee and morning paper and ran a couple of jobs for him. But I didn’t like him. Not for any rational reason, of course. No: by all measures, he was a good guy and a great boss.

            The bastard reminded me of—me. Early forties, good-looking, broad shoulders, tailored suit. Chunky watch at his wrist, heavy brogues, short dark hair with a dusting of grey. He was like me—or rather, like the man I’d been a short six months ago—a memory of myself and an achingly tantalising hope of what I aspired to be once more. Despite everything, in those earliest days after returning from the Clinic, I still held firmly to the hope that I might reclaim my male life. Somehow, that made being in Michael’s presence even more painful.

            He sat there behind his desk and exuded conviction. There was a touch of Chad to this guy—older, more mature, but the same physical robustness and strength of personality and, even from his position of authority, a certain appealing empathy. But I didn’t want to think of Chad, not with the memory of one of the best blowjobs of my life still humming in my hindbrain; especially standing opposite my intensely masculine boss.

            And standing opposite him in my short skirt and high heels, I felt my enforced femininity as an almost stifling pressure, a pressure in my chest that left me nervous and anxious. I was half his age, curvy, small and fidgeting, and my manicured nails twisted into the fabric of my turtleneck. I felt a galling instinct to check my makeup or brush down my hair.

            And the thing was, my nervousness wasn’t entirely performed. It was my first time face-to-face with a man—a real man, anyways, not some pathetic leering pervert on the bus--since returning from the Clinic. And the truth was, I felt… intimidated; yeah, genuinely unsettled by his size and his confidence and his authority.   

            Michael Connor ran the place; I merely made it prettier.

            “Is everything okay?” I asked, eyes sliding downwards.

            His eyes remained friendly, but his gravelly voice turned stern. “Formalities please, Cindy,” he said. “Call me ‘sir’.”

            I glanced up and added, after a short pause, “Sir?”

            I felt him look me over. Michael’s eyes were slate-grey and intelligent, his features strong, and he unconsciously rubbed his chin with the pad of his thumb as he considered me. His gaze wasn’t that of a creep or pervert but of a manager assessing an employee.

            “Honestly?” He smiled, a disarmingly ambiguous gesture. “I don’t know.”