Publish: Constant 3, Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Posting to TGStorytime has finally caught up with current writing, so I'm happy to be putting that aside for awhile! Meanwhile, writing continues apace with the new Chapter 1 and 2 of Constant 3. Please find below the near-final version of Chapter 1. Most of this should be pretty familiar (it's pretty much what I posted to FM) though there's been some tweaks throughout--and there'll probably be a few more before the final version. There's a notable gap: I'm still working on the scene with Michael, Cindy's boss--that was a late addition to the chapter.

Enjoy!

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Constant in All Other Things 3

Chapter 1

by

Fakeminsk (fakeminsk@gmail.com ; https://www.patreon.com/fakeminsk)

“Friendship is constant in all other things

Save in the office and affairs of love:

Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;

Let every eye negotiate for itself

And trust no agent.”

Much Ado About Nothing

Synopsis:

Julia joins Cindy for the funeral of David Saunders.

What has gone before:

David Sanders saw something he shouldn't have: his boss, pharmaceutical magnate Jeremiah Steele murder the son of an underworld rival.  Placed in witness protection, an assassination attempt forced David to adopt the life of Cindy Bellamy, a tragically deceased young woman.  For months he suffered the ignominy of living a life he despises, his torture both alleviated and acerbated once discovered by Julia, a jilted ex-girlfriend. A return trip to the Asklepios Clinic raised tantalising hints of the past, revealed an old enemy, and led to an unexpectedly intimate encounter.  The visit also extended his time as Cindy by another six months whilst making his disguise all the more complete.

One: The Funeral of David Saunders

It seems fitting that her life begins with his death.

            All things considered, the funeral of David Saunders’s a pretty sorry affair.  But then, so was David Saunders. A pretty sorry affair, I mean. Oh, don’t get me wrong. His life was fine. Mostly. He was good at his job and he was pretty successful, as far as these things go.

            The sex was good. And there was a lot of it: so many girls, though never enough to fill the emptiness. But then, he’d always been nothing more than a shell, really, a papier-mâché husk. To be fair he’d made a convincing go at his hollowed-out life, presented a perfectly suitable exterior but the contents—well, the young man who stepped into that life was already broken beyond repair.

            Poor damaged me; how sad. I’m becoming maudlin. If I’m not careful my mascara will run. But hey, if I can’t indulge in a bit of panda face at my own funeral, then when?

            There’d never be a tombstone or grave or anything to mark David’s passing. But if there was, his epitaph ought to be… oh, I don’t know: “He was a good lay,” probably. I’d like to think all those girls who met him, went home with him, spread their legs for him remembered him—fondly, if they remembered him at all. They ought to. At least he always made a point of getting them off, whatever it took. Never thought twice about going down on a girl, didn’t care if they wanted to ride on top or needed a little fingerplay or wanted it rough or wanted it gentle. He always took it as a badge of pride to get the girl off, and he was good at getting them there, too.  The giving and receiving of pleasure: there, that was it; that was his gift.

            And that on its own made him a hell of a lot better than a lot of guys out there.    

            Still.  From dust to dust, nothing to nothing; cock to cunt, male to female. Non-existence to stolen existence: David Saunders’s last act in this world was to slip, cuckoo-like, into a pair of panties and take over the empty nest of Cindy Bellamy’s life.

            There’s only two of us in attendance. It took some work, but Julia finally agreed to come. I can tell she’s more than ready to be rid of David. Saying goodbye’s easier than dealing with guilt, right? And she clearly still feels guilty over what she did to me last month, at the way she quite literally fucked me over. 

            Like, I get it; she wanted revenge. It’s a motive I understand, better than most. But it—more than hurt, and we hadn’t spoken since.

            Her presence tonight brings a strange sort of fluttery happiness in my belly, even if she’s standing there looking caught between sombre, confused and bored. She’s bothered to show, and that means something. She’s even made some effort to dress up. Julia looks good in black, though I miss the long hair. She cut it short after we fell out. Looking her over, I still feel an echo of the old longing—and a wholly inappropriate dampening at the crotch imagining what I’d still love to do to her. It is a funeral, after all.

            And then there’s me, in my tight little back dress, the same one I’d worn all those months ago on that first date with Dan. (That bastard son of a bitch.) Squeezing into it—and the under-rigging required to get it to fit—brought back all kinds of memories. Not necessarily good ones, mind. 

            On the one hand, that night months ago with Jules, gilded memories glossed by time: Champagne giggles as we tried to make sense of the bands and buckles of the lingerie. Twisting and turning as she strapped me in—her playful slap across my bottom and sucking in my gut—taut straps across my thighs and her fingers tracing them. Makeup, soft colours painted on each others’ lips… kissing, and back to the sensuous brush strokes, repairing the damage.  Breasts pushed up against each other, and the phantom memory of a cock straining against the confines of panties.  Our roaming hands.  Our hot whispered words.

            Was that the night that killed David Saunders?

            No.  But it was a nail in the coffin, one of many. 

            Then the other hand, the bad memories.  After the fun, zipping me into the little back dress and sending me off on a date with a man, another man, in the full knowledge of where it would bring me and openly mocking me for it. Her ongoing campaign of humiliation and retribution played out on the arena of my flesh.  Though that night out—that date with Dan—paled in comparison to what came after.  Contriving to humiliate me in another man’s company was merely a taster of what was to come—ha!—and led to the breakdown between us.  She got her revenge.

            And so did I.

            Funny, though, how disgusting the idea of sitting with another man, in a romantic setting and holding his hand once seemed.  Or kissing him.  Going home with him and doing what inevitably follows.  Funny, though not ha-ha funny.  A lot can change in three months.

            Still, no denying that night—that first date—was a tentative step leading to tonight’s… celebration?  That seems a bit cold.  Ceremony, then.

            I smile at Julia from behind my veil as she shifts uncomfortably in her heels.  There’s some kind of irony to the fact she’s less confident in heels than I am.  She’s getting better, though—she’s had to because of work, and I take a weird satisfaction in that.  Meanwhile, my makeup’s appropriately dark and smoky, lips a deep dark burgundy, nails a glittering shade shy of black. 

            “Thanks for coming, Julia,” I say.  “I mean it.”

            She opens her mouth to answer, frowns, shuts it and shrugs.

            Appropriately sombre music rolls in the background.  I’ve asked the speakers to throw out some sad music and, knowing my tastes, the AI’s generating an unending flow of low dirges that seem one-part remix of SIN-Di’s latest to two-parts ambient dark synth.  Murky and ponderous throbbing sets a perfect mood.  A few dozen LED tealights dotted around my tiny apartment flicker and dance in the dark, glimmering from chipped shelves or dotted across the flimsy coffee and end tables.  A little circle of lights cast their faint glow on a picture of David Saunders.

            It was the best photo I could find.  I found it in an international trade paper from a few years back, an article on Neopharm’s recent expansion into Japan. The original picture captured the Hanami party in a wide-angle shot, black suits and colourful kimonos against a backdrop of brilliant cherry blossoms.  A little zooming, cutting and cleanup and I’d extracted David from the moment.  He was leaning with arms crossed against a tree trunk, smiling that cocky half-smile. He was alone beneath the short-lived sakura.  A single sliver of peach-shaded petal rested on one shoulder.

            (The risk was minimal.  I’d popped into a trendy café on the way home from work one night, one off the usual route.  I’d used a shell account and a scrubbed laptop to grab the image.)

            There’s no denying he’s a good-looking guy; very much so.  Short-cropped hair and lean but the stretch of his white shirt hints at the muscle beneath.  A little short, sure, but even at rest he exudes confidence—a swaggering confidence I admire.  Looking at the framed printout, I yearn for that old self-assurance for myself. 

            Yeah, right.  If I was there as I am now, I’d be one of those slim, pretty girls in the colourful kimonos, shy smiles and bending at the knee, serving up sake to the businessmen.  Gliding around the edge of the action, giggling behind fanned fingers, checking and keeping my makeup meticulous, an adornment to this manufactured scene of powerful and important people.

            And afterwards?  Yeah, I could totally see myself hanging off that guy’s arm at some club.  My fingertip-length skirt stretching tautly across sleek thighs, a sexy contrast to his suit, shirt and tie.  His arm around my waist, possessively; possessed and cared for, pressing into him, safe.

            I’d studied his face carefully before framing, setting it to memory: the angular features, that golden tint to the skin hinting at his own Japanese ancestry, bright green eyes; sharp, high cheekbones—cheekbones and nose just crying out for a little contouring, a hint of blush. 

            I shake my head.

            “What the fuck are we doing here, David?” Julia shifts from one foot to the other.

            “Not David,” I say.  “Cindy.”

            “Whatever. What’s all—” and she sweeps her hand across the room, indicating candles and photograph, the flowers and canapes.  “This?”

            It’s too big a question to answer in words though I want to, need to, judging by the pressure squeezing my chest and pressing my throat into silence.  Instead, I force a shrug and offer a weak smile instead. 

            She leans against the wall, drinking me in for a moment.  “I’m going to need more than that.  Cindy.”

            I try again, reaching for something more sonorous and meaningful.  “We’re here to commemorate the life and death of David Saunders.” In my lilting girl’s voice, it lacks timbre and doesn’t sound quite as profound I would’ve like. Still. It’s good enough—for her, and for the other listeners. Jonathon, Crystal or K—or some Clinic supervising AI—I know for a fact they’re watching—always listening—I’m too valuable an asset to trust with privacy.

            Today’s performance is as much for them as it is for Julia.

            She raises an eyebrow.  “What, you’re…,” she sighs.  “He’s dead?”

            My bottom lip trembles a little as I nod.

            “How?”

            “Four suspects,” I say, and with all the flourish of the skirted detective in the final Act of a drama—I raise four fingers.

            Julia rolls her eyes.

            “They all did him in,” I continue.  “But who takes the blame?”

            The whole thing’s a bit pointless, to be fair, but I want Julia, want somebody to understand and maybe even mourn my—his—death.

            Thing is, I already know when the fatal blow was dealt: the night he stumbled across Jeremiah Steele, gun in his hand standing over a bloodied corpse.  That bastard might as well have shot him down then and there. There’s no returning to the way things were before—not after witnessing that sort of thing—especially after turning to the authorities.  Even then I knew that whatever followed wouldn’t be David Saunders’ life but somebody else’s, a new identity to replace the old.

            I just didn’t expect things to turn out like this—by ‘this’ meaning the tits and pussy, obviously, the skirts and heels, and so on.  Me, mincing around as a secretary all day, and nights—Jesus.  How’d it get to this?

            “The ex-girlfriend,” I state, pulling back one finger.  “The girls at work,” I add, drawing back the second.  “The boyfriend, and the boss.”  I raise my hand, fingers curled into a small fist. 

            “The ex-girlfriend?”  Julia smiles without humour.  “Really?  Fuck this, David.  I’m out of here.”

            Wincing, I hold up a placating hand.  “Please,” I say, and the sincerity and pleading whine to my voice must touch her somehow.  “I… I don’t think I can do this without you.”

            Julia tosses her head as though sweeping an invisible mane of hair over her shoulder, and her hand reaches for something that’s no longer there, a gesture I’m all too familiar with.  She scowls but stays, picking up the glass of wine I’ve poured for her.  It not great stuff, not on my secretary’s income.  She takes a heavy drink, grimaces, and forces a humourless, red-stained smile. 

            “Well?”  She waves a hand as though giving me permission to begin.  “Get on with it, then.”

Two: The Story of the Ex-Girlfriend

This is the story I told Julia, and it’s all true, more or less, though I left out some parts and embellished others for her benefit.  It started with my return from the Clinic and finished with the start of the end between us.  There was more to tell, of course, but that would come later.

            And it wasn’t an easy story to tell, filled with guilt and embarrassment, anger and sadness.  (And, if I’m honest, some good times as well, some pleasure amidst the pain.)  To tell this story, I had to go back a little bit, to before she actually showed because…. Well.  Just because, I suppose.  I wanted to justify myself to her and to do that she needed to understand.  And there’s no way she’d understand if she couldn’t put herself in my shoes and try, just try and imagine how I felt when I first got back from the Clinic.

            Fucked up, to put it mildly.  And fucked off.  First off, the drive back from Asklepios was a long one. An overnight drive, and I only dimly remember stopping at a charging station halfway.  Stumbling into the toilet.  Bleary eyed staring into a cracked mirror under flickering fluorescent light through a mess of blonde hair and wondering what the fuck was going on and then standing—yes, standing to take a piss in the stall and feeling a warm trickle down my leg….

            I could’ve cried, could’ve punched the wall.  Instead, I trembled and sat down and took deep breaths until the shaking stopped and then finished the job, trying not to think too closely on what was getting wiped afterwards.  Did my best to repair the damage when I got back to the car, grabbing a clean pair of panties and a skirt from the trunk and changed in the back seat.  Pushed all the resentment down—like, really deep down—and eventually slept the rest of the way, trying desperately to not think about what the next six months was going to be like with a goddamn fucking slit between my legs.

            And yes, that’s like half a dozen fucks.  It’s weird, because I don’t really swear like this anymore?  It’s just—remembering that first weekend—it’s like stepping back into his skin.  Yes, his skin; David’s; and it feels so… angry.  He was so angry, all the time, so angry with… everything and everyone.  With some justification, of course, but still; that kind of anger is exhausting.

            But he wasn’t angry when he was with Jules.  Oh, sure, he—I—resented some of the things she made me do.  Especially… well.  We’ll get to that.  But it was always about the clothes with Julia.  I was her little fantasy dress-up doll.  I dressed for parts she never could.

            Part of me really hated giving up that kind of power to her, letting her decide how I should dress and consequently, how I should act.  Like, her influence over the kind of workday I was going to have, that was reason enough to resent her, right?  Because it makes a big difference slinking into work in soft pastels and pleated skirt looking like a demure schoolgirl, versus the patent leather skirt and tight white blouse of the naughty librarian; or whatever other kinky fantasy seized Julia that morning.

            But.

            What can I say?  It was also a lot of fun.

            After two weeks of playing dress up at the Clinic, the photoshoot and all those sessions with Crystal, after—Chad; and after what they did to me?  Well.  I guess maybe Julia’s little games didn’t seem so bad anymore.  And giving in to them, giving in to her?  That month of October after we made up and before we fucked it all up again?  Honestly, one of the best months of David Saunders life.

            And I wish I’d told Jules this, back then, though at the time I couldn’t appreciate how good things were.  Maybe if I’d been more open about—enjoying dressing up for her—being with her—I don’t know; things might have turned out differently.  She wouldn’t have done the thing she did and—and I wouldn’t have betrayed her.  Maybe. 

            It’s all hindsight, of course, the first two months of Cindy’s life-with-a-vagina seen from the vantage point of experience.  Even now and after all these months I’m pretty sure I’ll never like the really girly stuff, the pigtails and pink and glitter and all that—well, maybe sometimes but only for special occasions, right?  The thing is, dressing like that for her?  It was fun, and what made it fun was doing it with her. 

            Julia kept the anger away.  She helped me forget just what a wreck of a human being I am. Was.

            So. Yeah.

            I returned to Cindy’s apartment on Friday morning.  It was the first weekend of September, and even here in the suburbs you could feel the city’s efforts to retain the heat, concrete and glass fingers clawing the sky.  But it still slipped away.  The buildings broke up those early autumn winds, but something had changed.  There was a nip to the air, a little swirl of cold against bare thighs and skirted bum as I emptied the car.

            And boy was there ever a lot to empty.  It’s a miracle no one tried to mug me.  The Clinic, in their infinite wisdom and generosity, sent me home with all those gorgeous clothes they’d made for me, all that bespoke lingerie, the 3d printed dresses and shoes, even the Sin-DI corset from the photoshoot. 

            I bitched about it then, but those clothes made the next few months easier.  Worth a small fortune, it was a pretty pile of clothes, and mostly stuff way beyond Cindy’s salary.  Most of it tragically useless for work but turned out my clubbing wardrobe was mostly set for the months ahead. 

            Dragging all that stuff up to my apartment that morning was a bit of a nightmare.  But it kept me busy and that was good, the work kept me moving and not thinking because after I was done, after I’d dropped the last case by the entrance and the door clicked shut behind me, I just stood there a little sweaty and very tired and leaned against the wall.  And that’s when it hit me, really.  I just kind of took in Cindy’s little apartment—you can see the whole thing from the entrance, pretty much—my home for the next six months—my reality for the next six months….

            It all just caught up with me then.

            I dropped to the floor and clutched my head in my hands and wanted to cry.

            But I didn’t. 

            And when I was done not-crying, I went downstairs to the dodgy little ground-floor shop.  That dodgy little shop was great: Cindy wasn’t even twenty-one when she got back from the Clinic, I was fucking underage for buying booze but the owner never gave a shit.  No ID. I’d been buying from this guy since first waking up Cindy nearly a year ago, way back in March when I wanted to obliterate myself—and he’d never said a thing.

            So, I bought up a shit tonne of booze and some crap food I could throw in the microwave and brought it all back up to the apartment.  The plan was a simple one: to huddle down and hide until everything went away.  Everything: me, Cindy, the thing between my legs and the expectation that I live with it for the next six months. 

            I started with beer.  Wandering around the apartment, getting steadily more and more drunk, I surveyed the place.  Stopped and stared at the ribbon of peeling wallpaper in the hallway, or that corner in the bathroom crusted over with mildew, or the wicker chair in the bedroom that was half-caved in under a pile of dirty laundry.  I’d left Cindy’s place a mess. Now, it was my mess.

            Eventually, I fell into the sofa and stared at the wall, killing cans of cheap off-brand lager one after another.  But beer can only get you so far, really, at least when you’re a tiny little girl and feel bloated and have to take a piss every goddamn thirty minutes.  I stared at the can in my hand and I wasn’t feeling it, some little nagging voice at the back of my head kept staving off the desired oblivion. 

            Feeling increasingly nauseous, I staggered over to the balcony and stood outside, breathed deeply and stared towards the centre, towards the city, towards that great cluster of shining glass and cold steel and concrete and plastic standing tall against the murky sky.

            It was getting close to noon by the time I rallied and switched to the hard stuff, some kind of knock-off vodka that was nasty and left an oily feel to the tongue and probably breached a half-dozen health code regulations or something.  First couple of swigs burned like hell on the way down.  It got better after that.

            The sun was high in the sky by this time, painfully bright in a cloudless sky behind a brown haze.  I stared into the sun until I saw spots, until my eyes stung and watered and tears streamed down my cheek.  Julia was out there, somewhere, working that Friday but if I’m honest there wasn’t much room in my head for her, for anyone, for anything beyond incandescent rage and stomach-churning fear and shame, God, I felt so ashamed of what I’d become, at what I’d allowed them to do to me.

            At some point I stood naked in front of the mirror in my bedroom.

            The time between balcony and mirror remains blank.  I just knew it was dark, now.  Nighttime noises filtered through the open bedroom window: the wail of sirens, arguing voices, a child’s cry from another apartment, all riding a breeze that raised goosebumps across bare skin. 

            I willed myself to hate the girl I saw in reflection.  She was young and beautiful in her youth, a slender ghost in dim light.  Slender arms hung limply at her side; large breasts pushed out from the darkness, tipped by pale nibs rising in the cool air.  Smooth thighs waxed pallid in the little light slipping between fluttering curtains.  Her hair was long and straight and fell nearly to the curve of her ass.

            But I didn’t hate her.  I wanted to but couldn’t, not anymore.  I… begrudged her life and despised everything she signified but—not her.  After all, she was me; and I was Cindy Bellamy, at least for the next six months.  Possibly longer.

            In one hand she held a half-empty bottle in the crook of her thumb by its stubby neck.  The other hand—well, it hovered over that space between the thighs, close but not touching, palm down as though warming itself by the heat of a campfire.  Pulling the hand back confronted what was there: nothing; no thing.  Female smoothness: the cleft and slit; that garden or rosebud or peach; a pussy, snatch, twat or cunt—meat sheath or honey pot.  My vagina.

            Enough time had lapsed for the prosthetic to blend perfectly with the surrounding skin.  Back at the Clinic I could still disassociate myself from—it—from the dull, grey cover laid over my genitals, like wet plaster draped over a damaged limb.  But there was no longer any seam or discoloration, no division between where I ended and the artificial genitals began.  Most tellingly—judging by the faint stirring of the cool night air—I could feel it, as a part of me, as a tickle of curly blonde hair and a prickle of goosebumps.

            In that half-obliterated state of extreme drunkenness, I stared at my girl parts for a long while.  Strange and incoherent thoughts churned through my head.  Eventually, I brought the bottle to my lips for another swig.  It was the smell that did it—harsh, chemical—and I laughed, once, and then my arm dropped back to my side, the bottle dropped to the floor, and I dropped to my knees in a puddle of pungent booze. 

            Curled into a naked little ball with knees to chest, I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, haven’t I already done this?

            Six months ago. When I first woke up as her I faced—well, not the same thing, actually, because that first time was worse, far far worse.  It nearly drove me mad that first time, nearly killed me the first time I saw Cindy—I mean myself—in the mirror, it nearly drove me over the edge.  And that girl back then, hell, she wasn’t nearly as… girly? as now.  Smaller boobs, thicker waist, shorter hair—and a fine specimen of manhood between her legs. 

            I tried to efface her through booze, too, back then, the last truly glorious bender of David Saunder’s life and—well, it didn’t work, right?  A few weeks later I had a job, was living Cindy’s life, had men hitting on me, men like Dan, and Cindy’s first kiss, a man’s tongue in my mouth on a drunken night out at a trendy bar after work.

            And now, that first night back in Cindy’s apartment after the visit to the Clinic?  It just didn’t feel right, I couldn’t get into the groove of killing her off, if that makes sense. It felt stupid, like a waste of time.

            Maybe all those hours of therapy with Crystal meant something after all.

            And so while it’s all a blur, I can dimly remember stumbling into the kitchen and pouring the rest of the bottle down the drain and then—well, I must’ve collapsed on the sofa or my bed or maybe just the floor, but I don’t remember anything until the sun and heat beaming through the open balcony had me crawling to the toilet to puke my guts out.

            I woke with a blistering hangover but it faded to a bearable ache quickly—a perk of all those regenerative chemicals in the bloodstream keeping me fit and female, I guess.  I ate, drank loads of water and looked at the state of my apartment and decided I couldn’t quite deal, yet. 

            Instead, I slipped on a sports bra and some jogging pants, did my hair up in a quick ponytail and went for a run.

            It’d been ages since I went for a jog in the neighbourhood.  After starting my bullshit job at Volumina International, I started using the employee gym there; still do.  And no, it’s not because I’m trying to catch the eyes of the guys who work there, the managers and directors, the up-and-comers, whatever those bitches at work say. 

            Although I do, obviously, catch their eyes that is.  And yeah, the guys who show up early like me are in great shape, like I used to be; and they appreciate a bit of eye candy on the treadmill, just as I once did.  Maybe a few of them have offered help from time to time, like spotting me on the bench or adjusting the machines; and maybe I’ve accepted their help once or twice even if I don’t need it; and sure, I might do my makeup and hair before my workout because… why not?  Doesn’t hurt to look good, and it doesn’t mean anything, and if one of those guys wants to take me out for a drink, pay for dinner, well, I’d be an idiot to turn down free food, right, a classy night out, especially on my income?

            But I’m getting ahead of myself.  That’s a different story, another nail in the coffin.  Point is, I went for a run in the neighbourhood to clear my head and this time… this time, it felt different.

            And no, I don’t mean the obvious.  But let’s get that out of the way first.  That first run was probably the moment I realised that, yeah, as much as I hated having my cock and balls sealed away behind some kind of lunatic fake-flesh Frankenstein science experiment, I felt… free.  Not like a bird, but you know… I didn’t have to strap anything back, right?  Nothing constrictive, nothing tight, just a simple pair of cotton panties and some baggy jogging pants and no pain, no anxiety over someone noticing an unlikely bulge between my legs.  I had a drawer full of underwear in a rainbow of colours and a dizzying array of styles that I’d never worn because of the need to sleeve, tape or tuck my dick out of the way.

            That morning, a minute into the run and I was grinning like a fool, despite the throbbing in my skull and the fuzz on my tongue.  It felt—good; great, even, to just be able to walk or run freely again.  Just an easy, loping stride, ponytail dancing in counterpoint to each step, and for a moment I forgot what was—or wasn’t—between my legs.  So, yeah, score one for the vag: Cunt 1, Cock 0.

            It didn’t last, though.  Because it didn’t take long for me to start to notice just how sketchy my neighbourhood was.  I’d never really noticed before.  Or more to the point, I’d noticed but not cared. 

            Now don’t get me wrong. David once lived in a pretty swanky community.  Gated, clean and well-maintained, nice shrubbery, trees lining the road and paths, private security zipping about in their little carts keeping the neighbourhood safe.  And sure, from the lofty reach of my penthouse condo I used to look out over the neighbourhood below and you could always see the darkness, and if you breathed in deep enough you could almost taste the stench of trash piled up just beyond the walls and gates and barriers of my upper-middle class fiefdom.  Distance and height might diminish the sirens and cries in the night, but escaping it altogether required even more privilege and money than he’d enjoyed at his peak.

            Thing is, I’d lived on the other side of that wall for too long to ever forget it, and the taint of piss and shit and vomit and refuse never washed out. I recognized it in my youth, and I recognized it now.

            It was a ten-minute jog to the park.  It was that early Saturday morning stage between the cleaners pushing through—self-propelled bots that didn’t bother to show half the time—and the homeless creeping from whatever refuge they’d found for the night.  Friday night trash littered the streets: broken bottles, scattered canisters like silver bullets gathered in corners, used condoms under a bridge.  Closed security shutters barricading shops and restaurants were painted with lurid prophesies of revolution, the end of the world, and where to have a good time.  Hastily scrawled tags warred with meticulously painted, sensationally artistic graffiti. 

            It seemed that for every tired shop or grubby apartment building there was a hole in the row of buildings, like gaps in a boxer’s grin who’d gone one too many rounds.  Fire and riot, pandemics and decay had left their indelible mark over the years, but I noted what survived: the gambling shops, off-grid tech traders, pawn shops and foreign fast-food joints; the dodgy dealers in jewelry, ticket and credit resellers, grungy cafes and AI-trainers; the laundrettes, market stalls and thrift and charity shops. 

            There were also a few bars and an underground club or two and over it all, giant screens behind protective glass flashed larger-than-life promises, oozing sensuality, glistening lips and ballooning tits.  The image I saw that morning of a corseted Sin-DI leaning forward, wide-eyed and arms bound behind her back, smiling around the steel bit between her bared teeth, hit home hard.

            But many of the screens were damaged, black patches flickering amidst impossible dreams of foreign trips and aspirational purchases; or simply dead and broken.  Darkness lurked behind cracked windows plastered with anachronistic newsprint, and I’d never noticed before how many lean, angry men with sunken eyes stood in doorways as I jogged past.  They tracked my passage with a scowl, or an unnerving grin.  A few called out: “hey, you!  Yeah you, bitch! Don’t you fucking ignore me, you cunt!”—but I pretended to not hear them over the music in my ears. 

            Leaving the main drag behind, I cut across a disused lot, passed down a residential back street lined with dog shit and uncollected garbage, skirted a roundabout decorated with an almost hilariously incongruent statue of a sword-bearing angel—now stained with patches of rust and rude artwork—and reached the park at last.

            The gate into the park was open.  I made my way in, out of the sun and into the long dark tunnel before passing into the wide oval space beyond. The short jog brought a pleasant warmth to my limbs, and I breathed easily as I entered the park.

            Twenty years ago, the park had been an Olympic stadium, an impressively designed oval raised in glory of athletic prowess.  Then it became a white elephant, a curse on the community as the promised Big Team takeover kept getting delayed—the arena languished once game seasons started to get too hot for outdoor play.  A few corporate rentals, the occasional music festival, but one pandemic and a few bouts of street violence and even those died out.  Once the owners finally admitted they couldn’t be bothered to build a retractable roof over the thing and install air conditioning throughout, it fell into disuse.  Scheduled for demolition, some bright spark years ago had the idea to use some federal greening money to revitalise the whole thing, turn it into a closed garden and community centre, break up the concrete and steel sprawl with some shrubbery and flowers.

            Surprisingly, the initiative worked and flourished for awhile—according to the faded information panels at the entrance tunnel behind their scratched and scored plastic—and drew investment and people back into the neighbourhood.  Shops, restaurant, an art gallery and even a nursery moved into the faded shell of the stadium.  Property values went up; crime went down. 

            A couple of years and change of government later, and the whole thing was sold off to some corporation likely more interested in the land beneath than the community above.  Even the propaganda at the entrance couldn’t salvage the story of negligence: part of the buyout was a contractual obligation to maintain the space, but over the past decade they’d only put in the minimal effort necessary to avoid triggering a major lawsuit. 

            Jogging along the winding circular path, I could see the new owners were doing a top-notch job of letting the place collapse into wrack and ruin.  The park at the centre of the stadium was yellowed from sun and lack of water, and drifts of rubbish accumulated at the base of trees. 

            There was some token effort at maintenance.  At one point I passed a crew repairing a fountain and the bench next to it.  A bored-looking young man in a grey-and-orange jumpsuit wearing a hi-viz jacket listlessly checked over the fountain, whilst a pretty, young female counterpart watched in sullen silence as a third man, older and grizzled, worked on the wooden bench.  Hammer in hand, he lined up each nail and pounded them deep into the yielding wood, over and over again.  The girl winced with each blow but seemed fascinated by the rhythmic beat of his labour.

            Eventually I worked my way up the concentric circular paths that wound the circumference of the old stadium.  I grew warmer with the effort, a pleasant buzz infusing my limbs.  Jogging on, I passed bench after bench taken by men and women in a stupor. 

            I recognized their deep state of despair, the kind that’s nearly impossible to escape, some still drunk or drugged from last night, others already starting the process over again.  It wasn’t everyone and everywhere, of course—there were a few other late morning Saturday joggers out for a run like me, mostly men but a few girls as well—but it was impossible to ignore the despair and decay at the heart of my adopted neighbourhood.  You just needed to know where to look and what to look for. 

            I did.  I’d been one of them, once, after all.

            At one end of the oval, at the far end of the highest concentric ring of the stadium park, there was a lookout platform.  A simple round slab of horizontal concrete ringed by transparent plastic walls with a few solid benches, the viewpoint still offered a stunning view over the suburban sprawl below.  Stopping there to catch my breath, I enjoyed a little break. My body hummed pleasantly from the run as I leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. 

            Cutting the music in my ears, I listed to the wind and the grumble of the awakening city.  Far below, train tracks sliced a sunken swath through the neighbourhood.  Though the station beneath the stadium hadn’t been used in years, tracks still ran through before curving off to join the junction the next stop along the route. 

            I wasn’t alone.  A man, probably about David’s age, with a full reddish beard and heavy eyebrows, sat with his dog.  She was a slim, beautiful mutt, blonde and bright eyed—maybe a labrador crossed with something smaller—sleek and energetic, her fur shining in the sun in contrast to the heavy leather and steel of her harness.  She was yapping up a storm, paws up on the barrier, barking at the trains below, and the man was hauling her back.

            “Princess!” he shouted and yanked on her leash.  “Heel!”

            The dog dutifully returned and sat next to him, looking up with expectant and loyal eyes.

            “She’s a stupid bitch,” the man said, grinning apologetically as he scratched the dog behind the ear.  “But I love her anyway.”

            Turning away, I shivered in the wind and watched as a heavy-duty maglev train approached with only the faintest hiss, hauling a half-dozen cars marked with graffiti and industrial waste symbols.  It diverted down the stadium branch, allowing a passenger train emerging from the tunnel ahead to rush past.  The ugly, snub-nosed engine slowed as it approached the disused stadium platform, a swollen bulbous protuberance dragging storage cars that snaked sinuously behind. 

            Then it picked up speed once again, amidst a shower of sparks and grinding of connectors, before gliding with eel-like grace back onto its route.  It slid silently and smoothly into the waiting tunnel that gleamed with the luminous bioluminescent gel that conducted power back into the thrusting engine.  The tunnel pulled the train in; and it was gone.

            By this time my headache had largely cleared and so I left the platform, taking a final look over the park and my home for the next six months.  I took in the tired, tall and slender trees below, and the washed-out building beyond, and the hollow and empty spaces that once housed fashionable shops and cafes.  Crude cock-and-ball graffiti scored into the plastic walling of the balcony forever shot their triple droplets of jizz towards the concrete floor.

            Afterwards, back in the apartment I felt—pensive, I guess.  Behind the anger and the tiredness and the shame, something started to roll over in the back of my mind.  I locked the door behind me and stood there for some time looking over Cindy’s—over my—home.

            Stripping naked, I stepped into the shower and washed away the stench and grime from the run, the flecks of vomit in my hair, lingering traces of piss from the drive back and yesterday’s makeup.  The water ran scalding hot as I scrubbed myself vigorously clean.  A moment’s hesitation and then I allowed instinct to reassert itself and reached for the razor and shaved armpit and legs.

            Soon after I found myself standing in front of the mirror once more, once again naked, but this time under the bright light of the noonday sun.  I stared at the girl in the mirror; I stared at myself and thought, okay, let’s do this.

            And if I had to pick a moment when all this started, the first step down the road that leads to the death of David Saunders, I think maybe it started then, a willful act of self-negation; suicide, in a way.  Something started to shift inside of me after that jog.  By the time Julia showed up later that night, I’d already taken the first small step towards a larger change.

            Which she did.  Turn up, that is.  When Julia arrived later that night, she found me hard at work cleaning.  She caught me in a cute homemaker dress, one she’d bought me on a whim a few months back, this little red number with white polka dots, really 1950s vintage-inspired and flouncy with a nipped in waist.  My makeup was done up all proper to match, I’d slipped on some thigh highs and heels, and with cheery music on in the background I busily carved my little oasis of peace and tidiness out of the mucky mess of the previous three months.

            And why was I dressed like a sitcom housewife from the 50s?  Because at that precise moment, that’s who I wanted to be.  Or rather, that was the part I wanted to present, the happy homemaker, the cheerful cleaner because, frankly, if this was going to be my home for the next six months somebody had to do something about the goddamn mess. 

            And yeah, it’s a bit ridiculous but I was still proving to myself that I could play the part laid out for me.  I was laying the foundation for the next six months, and I was laying it on thick—as thickly as the cream smoothing my features and hiding the imperfections of skin ravaged by the previous day.

            That evening, I didn’t hear Julia let herself in.  She had her own key from before, not that she’d ever had call to use it.  Before, I’d almost always ended up at hers rather than the other way around. 

            Who knows how long she watched me flutter around, cleaning. “David?”

            I started in surprise, turned and saw Julia.

            Standing there in that swirling dress, in heels and heavy makeup, with a spray bottle and cleaning rag in hand as her eyes roamed back and forth over me brought a swell of emotions I could hardly process at that time.  There was an unexpected warmth, a happy surge at the sight of her. 

            But at the same time: I wasn’t ready, I realised, not yet, to deal with other human beings and especially one who knew me as a man.  In two days, I’d be heading back to my job as an office assistant and receptionist—a fucking secretary—and so back to all the social expectations and anxieties and pressures of ordinary life; and I wasn’t ready, I just wasn’t prepared to go back, not when I was still reeling from the realities of life with a vagina.

            One look from her and I instantly and acutely felt like a man prancing around in a flirty dress and flushed a deep and hot red with embarrassment.

            She smiled, plum-coloured lips parting in a broad smile, and her eyes sparkled with mirth.  “Hello honey,” she said, stepping away from the door.  “I’m home.”

            We stared at each other for a moment, and my smile grew to mirror hers.  Why not?

             “Oh my goodness, Dear, you look exhausted,” I trilled, and flounced over to her.    And it wasn’t just role-playing: Julia did look exhausted and to judge by her clothes she’d just come from the office.  She wore a fitted suit, white shirt with a touch of lace and ruffle at the collar and slim, high-waisted trousers paired with heels.  Julia never wore heels—hated them, but loved me in them, the taller the better—and the professional femininity of her work clothes was a new look for her, one that clearly left her ill at ease.

            With one hand on her shoulder, I reached up and gave a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek.

            Julia’s hand hovered over the memory of lipstick left behind.  “Thanks,” she said, raising an eyebrow desperately in need of trimming.  I took her suit jacket.

            “Hard day at work?” 

            “Yeah.”  She sighed.  “Yeah, you could say that.”

            I took her hand and pulled her into the room.  “Sit down,” I said.  “Let me get you a drink.”

            She smiled.  “I like the sound of that.”  Julia passed me a bag she held at her side.  “Got some Champagne in there I picked up on the way over.  Should still be chilled.”

            “Champagne?”  I gave a little clap of joy.  “Yay!”

            Julia smiled wryly.  “Yeah.  Yay.”

            I brought the bottle to the kitchenette and placed it on the counter.  One of the high cupboards had a pair of flutes in it, stashed away out of common use.  Even in heels I couldn’t quite reach.  Straining, I gave a little “eep!” of surprise when I felt a pair of strong hands at my waist.

            “Here, let me,” Julia said, gently pulling me aside and her hands brushed up against my tit as she reached past.  She was taller than me, especially in heels.  She passed me the glasses.

            “Thank you.”  I turned to the bottle, stripped away the wrapper and made a show of struggling with the cork.  Making a little moue of disappointment, I silently passed the bottle to her.  Julia took the bottle with a tolerant sigh and easily popped the cork and poured out the Champagne.

            Our glasses gave a merry tinkle.  “To…?” I asked.

            A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.  “Tonight,” she said.

            She took a deep drink, and I a little sip.  My stomach churned a little at the thought of more booze after yesterday’s abuse, though the quality wasn’t lost on me; it was a fine Champagne, an expensive one and belied her offhand comment about simply picking up the bottle on the way over.  She was spoiling me, and I appreciate the effort.  The role-reversal also wasn’t lost on me, especially with me in the dress and her in trousers.

            I took her by the hand and led her over to the sofa.  “Sit.  Relax,” I told her.  “Tell me about your day?”

            Still with that curious half smile, she sank gratefully into the seat. “Jesus.  Where to start?” Julia stared balefully at her shoes.  A rich, deep brown, maybe eight centimetres of slender heel and just a touch of platform, they were beautiful, expensive, and entirely out of character for Julia.  Her usual work style was best described as aggressively work-casual, enviably so, and while she took great pleasure in dressing me in a range of uncomfortable but cute, pretty, or provocative outfits, she leaned heavily towards comfort and convenience for herself.

            I sank gracefully to the floor next to her, knees together to one side, dress settling with a whisper over my stockinged legs.  Smiling up at her, I removed her shoes and she sighed with toe-wiggling pleasure.  I rolled down and removed her thin socks.  Then I took her left foot in hand and began a foot massage.  With gentle strokes and precise presses of finger and thumb up and down the arch of the foot—not too strong, but firm enough to not tickle—I sought out knots and stiffness.  Finding blocks and pain, I worked to release them.

            The massage was an invitation for her to talk.  She groaned, at first, and went silent, but then stirred and with her eyes closed began to tell me about her day.  “I wasn’t meant to work today,” she lamented.  “Fucking takeover.  Fucking egos.”  Julia eased into her complaints, amidst a series of twitches, grimaces and grunts as my fingers danced along her foot.

            She told me about the past two weeks of work, the unexpected announcement of a takeover—apparently in the works for the past year—the gradual integration of the new bosses and new processes, the changing expectations.  The sudden spike in workload and the introduction of new fears: fear of redundancies, changing job descriptions, lateral shifts in the management structure.  After years of relative comfort, Julia suddenly found herself fighting for her career.

            Guided by her reactions, the ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ of relief—I gradually increased the pressure, kneading the muscles, rubbing at the tendons, pushing harder until my own hands ached.

            “That explains the shoes,” I said.

            She smiled wanly down at me.  “Yeah,” she said.  “There’s also a new dress code.  Can you fucking believe it?  The new owners brought in a new dress code which—wait for it, it’ll blow your mind— only really affects women.”

            “Like me?” I asked quietly.

            She snorted.  “Hardly,” she said.  “You’re pretty much the poster-girl for what they want.  You’re already part of the makeup-and-heels brigade.  If anything, you might have to tone down the girliness.  No,” she added, voice souring, “it’s more a management thing.  More crass chauvinistic bullshit to keep women in positions of power under the thumb of patriarchy.”

            “I’m sorry,” I said, quietly, even though it wasn’t my fault. I was hardly the embodiment of patriarchy at that moment.

            “Yeah, I bet you are,” she said, looking down at me. 

            “Be nice,” I said.  “Or I stop.”

            “Heaven forbid,” she said, and settled back in the chair.  “Carry on.”

            Which I did, following a sip of Champagne.  The rim of my glass was stained cherry with lip-print.  My nails, cradling the glass, made a sharp, shaped contrast between their vivid, painted redness and the pale yellow of the drink.  The sun had long since set and a faint gloss of moonlight cast its light over the two of us. 

            In silence, I tended to her aching feet.

            “You’re amazing,” she eventually said.  “When you’d get so damn good at this?”

            Breaking character for a moment, I shrugged.  “I’m a guy, Jules, and turning forty.  It’s high on the list of things every guy should know. You know, like how to order a good wine or drink a single-malt whisky.”

            “If you say so,” she said.  “So where’s lip gloss and lingerie on the list?”

            I drove my thumb into a knot and made her jump.  I smiled sweetly in response to her glare and continued the massage.  Eventually she relaxed again.  Her eyes rolled back, and she sank deeper into the sofa.  I continued for a little longer and wondered whether she was falling asleep, but then she stirred and sat up a little. Julia took a sip of her drink.  She licked her lips as she watched me. 

            “God, I could get used to this,” she murmured.

            I smiled up at her.

            “I get it,” she continued.  “What guys see in this.”

            Without stopping, I glanced up at her demurely, inquisitively.

            “The kneeling girl, the skirt-and-heels, the perfect makeup, the attention and care.”  She leaned her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow on armrest, and made a show of studying the bubble-and-fizz sparking from her glass.  She gazed at me through its amber lens.  “And all for me.  All this effort, for me, for my approval. The male gaze.”  Reaching down, she stroked the side of my head, which felt good until I realized she was basically petting me, like a dog.  “And the attention’s nice, the devotion.  Being listened to.” 

            She pulled her hand back and I nearly chased the retreating touch, feeling its absence when it was gone.  “But you know, I don’t think it’d work for me if it was a guy down there, a man on his knees.”

            “You’d turn down a foot massage from a guy?”

            Julia took a sip from her drink. “Of course not,” she said, but when she turned her eyes back to me, I saw the lust burning there.  I felt an echoing warmth, as though heated by the fire of her desire, and felt the first, disconcerting stirrings below. 

            That was the first time: my first time growing wet, sexual arousal triggered by Julia’s gaze.  It felt—weird; and I squeezed my thighs together as I continued to look up at her.

            “But it’s not the same,” she said.  “It’s the way your dress hangs open when you lean forward and shows off those beautiful tits of yours.”  Her eyes roamed over my visible assets. I flushed and arched my back a little.  “It’s the long hair and the way it tickles.  It’s the way you look at me, those great big green eyes—I never knew what they meant by ‘doe eyed’ but there it is.”   She pulled her feet back and sat up and reached for me.  She caressed my cheek and I tilted into her touch.  Julia nudged my chin upwards until she looked down at me and smiled.  “It’s a power thing, and I hate myself for feeling it, but I’d be embarrassed looking down on a man like this.”

            “I am a man, Julia,” I said.

            “Of course you are, Dear.” 

            Whatever stirring I felt went cold under her mockery, and the roleplay suddenly didn’t feel so fun.  I pulled back and clambered to my feet.  But when I turned and went to step away her arm snaked around my waist.

            “Let go.”

            Instead, she pulled me closer and unsteady in heels, I fell back into her lap.  “Aw, did I upset my little princess?”

            “Fuck you,” I said, and struggled to disentangle myself from her grip.  She was larger than me, and stronger too, and so her arms remained fast around me.

            She nuzzled my neck, and one hand crept its way to my chest.  “I missed you, you know,” she said.  “I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”

            I gave up the fight.  “I missed you, too,” I said, although that wasn’t entirely true.  I’d thought about her during the stay at the Clinic obviously, sent her the occasional update and talked about her with Crystal but—between the gym, therapy sessions and… well, Chad; I hadn’t really had time to miss her.

            But under her touch, the earlier warmth returned.  She fondled my breast through the thin fabric of the dress and the bra beneath.  She kissed my neck and I sighed and leaned my head to the side as she trailed further kisses up to my ear.  Her tongue flicked an earlobe; she nibbled at my ear; she nudged my face towards hers and my arms snaked around her neck as our long hair intertwined and closed around us like a cocoon of blonde and black silk.

            “You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this,” she said.  Her hand grabbed my tit more roughly, then she held me closer and crushed her mouth up against mine.  When she pulled back, she licked her lips and smiled.  “Mmm.  Haven’t tasted lipstick on another girl’s lips in two weeks,” she said.  She squeezed my tit again.  “Or felt this.”

            “Happy to oblige,” I murmured.  “But Julia, we need to—”

            She silenced me with another kiss, her tongue thrusting between my lips and dancing with mine.  I couldn’t suppress a little moan, a groan at her touch. I twisted in her grip and on her lap, trying to break free once again, but her hands on my tits held me firm.  She kissed my neck again and my knees felt weak.  I felt it elsewhere, too.

            “I’ve been waiting two weeks, David.” Her tongue lapped at my ear, her breath a hot whisper against the skin.  “Holding off in anticipation.”  The hand at my breast grew firmer, roughly fondling, thumb flicking across the increasingly hard point of an engorged nipple.  I squirmed in her lap, caught in her grasp, and growing increasingly aroused and—uncomfortable—by my arousal.

            “Julia, we need to talk.”

            “My little housewife,” she purred into the curve of my neck.  “Don’t fuck this up with words.  I am so goddamn wet right now.  Bedroom.  Now.” 

            She stood, and I slid off her lap and stood with her, and now her other hand grabbed me by the ass, snaking its way beneath my dress, gripping my panty-clad bottom.  “I want you to fuck me,” she said.  “Make me scream.  Make me weep.”  And her hands fondled and roamed, even as she hissed in my ear—“I want your cock inside me”—and her fingers reached for the expected bulge….

            “What the fuck?”

            She shoved me away, hard, and I stumbled in heels and nearly fell on my ass.

            “Julia—”

            “What the fuck?” she said, eyes wide and pointing with her finger.  “What the actual fuck?”

            I stood bashfully in front of her, eyes downcast.

            “Was that—?”

            I nodded.  “Yes.”

            “Where’s—?”

            “It’s….” My sad shrug was wholly inadequate for expressing how I felt.  “Gone.”

            “No,” she said.  “No no no!”  She stormed towards me.  “This is some sick joke, right?”

            Falling back with hands raised in defense, I shook my head.

            “Show me!”  she commanded, “Strip!” and I swear she nearly ripped the clothes from me herself. 

            I batted her hands away.  Stepping out of my heels, I turned and lifted my hair and indicted the back of my dress.  Her hands—angry, hurried—fumbled with the buttons there, and a wiggle later I stood before her in nothing but underwear.  I suddenly felt very small next to her, and vulnerable.

            Her eyes widened at the sight of the smooth curve of my crotch.  “You’ve got—”

            “A vagina.” I sighed.  “Yes.”

            “Are you—” Conflicting emotions crawled across her face, a complex mix of—anger, disappointment, outrage, delight and… humour?  I swear a hint of a smile tugged at her lips, but she sounded disgusted when she spoke.  “Are you fucking wet?”

            I felt the return of the hot flush spreading across chest and face.  “Yes, I’m fucking wet!” I couldn’t meet her glare.  My words came out angry, a blend of frustration and embarrassment. 

            She stepped closer.  “Panties. Off,” she ordered.

            I wriggled out of the tight, diaphanous thing and stepped free.  Now I was down to thigh highs and demi bra and shivered a little under her hot gaze.  Her eyes widened further, if possible, and her mouth gaped a little.  She dropped to one knee and shuffled closer and studied the light blonde fuzz and mound and slit and I could see she didn’t quite know what to think.

            “You’ve had—?”  She pointed with one finger like she wanted to poke it like you might an unfamiliar but recognizable bug on a branch.  “Surgery?”

            “It’s a prosthetic.”  It felt—awkward, having her see me like this, and my hands twisted within each other; I didn’t know what to do with them. 

            “Like hell it is.”

            “I swear.”

            “So it comes off?”

            “Not for at least three months.”
            She looked me in the eyes.  Her mouth opened, then closed.  She frowned.  Then: “Is this why you were gone for two weeks?  To get this… thing put on you?”  Now close enough to touch, her hand hovered at my hip but she seemed reluctant to come closer.  She continued before I could answer, and her voice was scored through with anger and disappointment.  “And you didn’t even think to ask me?”

            “I….”  I swallowed.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

            She scowled.  “We’ve been fucking each other for what, three months now?  You didn’t think I’d have a vested interest in… this?  Fuck sake, David!”  Her hand slapped me across the thigh and it stung.  “You selfish bastard. I waited two weeks for you!  Two fucking weeks; you have any idea how horny I am?” She slapped me, again, then pointed.  “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

            “I can—fingers, tongue, you know—”

            She surged to her feet and glared down at me.  With both of us out of heels she was taller and I wasn’t feeling particularly powerful at that moment.  “I don’t want your finger; I want your fucking cock inside me!”

            “I—” Felt emasculated, which I quite literally was, and ashamed but also frustrated and angry.  “It’s not like I asked for this, you know?”

            She’d already started to talk over me but froze at my words.  Her mouth opened once or twice, silently.  Then she frowned.  “What?”
            “I didn’t go to the Clinic for—this,” I said, and waved a hand in the general direction of my groin.  “It was… unexpected.”

            I wasn’t sure what to expect; it certainly wasn’t laughter.  She threw her head back and laughed, and when she returned to me her mouth split in a wide grin.  “You didn’t want this?”

            “Of course not!” I answered, indignant.

            “Oh, David,” she said.  “My God, what have they done to you?”
            “They said it would help,” I answered.  “Make things easier.  Make the disguise more convincing.”

            “You think?” she said.  She stepped closer, uncomfortably so, and I shivered in my nakedness as she brushed up against me, her suit unexpectedly prickly against bare skin.  “I mean, they’re right.  I can’t see any trace of the man I knew.”

            I stepped away from her.  “You know I don’t want any of this.  You know I hate this.”

            “I do,” she said, advancing slowly as I backed away.  “And you know I love the idea of David Saunders squirming somewhere beneath these layers of femininity.”  I winced and stepped back and she smiled and stepped forward.  “That under all this softness, this angry little bundle of toxic masculinity is going absolutely batshit crazy forced to live all cute and pretty like.” 

            My naked bottom bumped up against the wall.  She had me pinned there and lit from behind her shadow fell over me. “I’ve loved torturing you these past few months, David.  Watching you prance around at work in whatever outfit I’ve picked out for you.  Seeing you sink ever deeper into this… disguise.”  She all but sneered.  “And look at you: you’re more feminine than I’ll ever be; I never thought you’d go this far. God, you’re such a fucking girl now, aren’t you?  All soft and sweet and pretty.”

            “I’m still a man,” I insisted.

            She laughed.  I nearly shook with suppressed anger.  “Tell that to Dan.”

            Memories of that night crowded in—trembling nervously in lingerie before my male colleague, sinking to my knees between his legs, stroking slender fingers along his erect penis until he came in my stocking—and then I thought of Chad—his firm hands on my tits, grabbing my ass, the happy flutter in my belly and again, falling to my knees and pulling out his cock, lips wet in anticipation.

            “Please,” I said.  “Stop.”

            “Payback, David.  For what you did.”

            “I know,” I whispered.

            “No, you don’t.”  She titled her head to one side.  “You have no idea how much I hated you.  How badly you hurt me.  How… long, it took me to put myself back together after you fucked me and dumped me.” 

            “I’m sorry,” I said.  “I am.  I’ve said it so many times and I’ll say it again.  I’m sorry.  I never meant to hurt you.”

            “But you did.”  She reached out and I flinched, but her touch was gentle as she stroked my cheek.  “Did you know I tried switching teams after you left?  After I recovered enough to even consider a relationship with anyone ever again.”

            I hadn’t known, though I’d guessed.  From the very start she’d been comfortable with my femaleness, with tits pressing up against hers, long hair mingling and the taste of makeup on each others’ lips.

            Her eyes were shadowed as she continued.  “I thought I was done with guys.  So I tried girls for a bit.  And it was…”  She trailed off, momentarily lost in thought.  “Just as shitty as with men, to be honest.  But not all of it, and never as bad as it got with you.  There was this one girl, Ayesha, we dated for a few months and….”  She trailed off again, smiling a sad little smile.  “It didn’t work in the end.”

            Her hand continued to idly stroke my cheek, and her closeness and her soft touch renewed distinctly uncomfortable feelings.  “Why not?” I asked.

            “I was still too broken,” Julia answered.  “And I couldn’t trust her, not as she deserved.  It would take me years to learn to trust anyone again.”  Her hand drifted from my cheek to touch an earlobe and the small dangling earring she found there, then drifted down to my shoulder.  “But mostly because it never felt—right.  I tried, I dated a bunch of women, but even at its best—with Ayesha—petting, kissing… sex….”  She sighed and shook her head.  “When it was good, it was good; I enjoyed it.  But it always felt like something was missing.”

            Her fingers curled into my shoulder.  Her other hand reached for my flank but pulled back when I recoiled.  I looked up at Julia.  The hardness in her eyes softened.  Instead, there was a desperate yearning there, and a desperate sadness, too.  I reached up to her in return, cupping her cheek in my palm, and she leaned into it, and sighed.

            “I missed—you, David.”  Tears beaded in the corner of her eyes.

            What could I say? That I hadn’t thought of her at all over the intervening decade? That I almost completely forgot about her after that final night with Tom, until she found me fourteen years later, three months ago drunk and puking in the toilet stall of a fancy bar?  No.

            “I hate myself for it,” she continued, touching me fleetingly here and there, soft presses at my breast, a hip, my chin and then shoulder.  Her words and her touch and her tears especially brought a tingle to my tummy and it was all I could to not squirm with the renewed sensation of dampness between my legs.  “God, I hate myself for wanting you.”

            “I want you too,” I murmured, and it was true, fuck how I wanted to tear those trousers from her, bend her over the sofa and bury myself deep into her familiar cunt.  The yearning I felt was qualitatively different than when I’d worn a prosthetic before.  That one I’d only worn for a few weeks; it’d been attached hastily, painfully; and the sensation it transmitted, though initially baffling faded quickly until for the final week it was nothing more than a dull, heavy weight trapping my genitals. 

            But now—God!—the confused and conflicting signals this thing attached to my crotch sent my brain left me confused, weak in the knee, desperate.  It was—how to explain?—like I still felt the phantom ache of balls, somewhere inside, that physical build up of need that bordered on maddening and demanded release.  And I swear there were—twitches—ghost sensations of hardness, vibrations along invisible wires that jolted my hips forward to impale her on something absent.  But that same jerking wasn’t just a pushing out, it was a drawing in, and I felt—

            God, I felt—

            “Have you—tried it, yet?” In my distracted state she’d drawn closer, her arm coiling around my naked waist, pulling me to her.

            “Tried—” I started.  “No!”

            “Really?”  She sounded genuinely baffled by my answer.  “Why not?”  I felt fingers drift closer, sliding gently across my thigh as they crept towards that hot, wet place between my legs.  “You haven’t been tempted?”

            “No,” I whispered.  I laid my hand over hers.  “Please,” I said.  “I—don’t want—”

            A wicked smile lit up her face.  Julia pulled her hand free, pushed mine aside.  Her arm around my waist suddenly tightened, drew me closer, and her leg was suddenly thrust between mine, and my crotch rubbed up against her thigh, and—

            A low, shuddering groan from between cherry lips.
            I could hear the smile in her voice as I sagged against her.  “Sure sounds like you want it.”  She sniffed.  “Smells like it, too.”

            A shuddering breath as my hips twitched, confused, caught between wanting to impale and be impaled, push out and draw in.  There was a—need—still unmet; but the touch of her textured trousers only added to the heat she’d already lit in me with her fleeting touches of breast, hip, and cheek. 

            I squirmed in the circle of her arm, which only served to rub tight nipples against the cool silk of her blouse and the soft swell of her own breasts and I bit down on my lip to stifle another moan.  She shifted her stance; her thigh rubbed up against the pussy again; my legs went weak.

            “Tell me to stop,” she whispered. 

            “Please.” My breath hissed between clenched teeth. 

            “I’m not doing anything,” she said. “I’m not touching you.”

            And it was true; she wasn’t. She kept me close, trapped against the wall, her leg thrust between mine—but she wasn’t moving, and it was me, my own needs betraying me as I rubbed myself back and forth along her thigh, trousers stained wet with arousal.

            I was so fucking turned on, and from her flushed face and heavy breathing knew she was as well.  The temptation to keep going, to hump her leg like a bitch in heat and feed the heat between my legs and see just how high the fire could grow was nearly overwhelming. I felt the arousal in my groin and in my tits and my whole body thrummed with desire. 

            But.  I didn’t want this, and unlike Julia it’d only been a few days since I’d last gotten my rocks off.  Maybe If Chad hadn’t gone down on me just a few days ago, I couldn’t have resisted her.  Instead, with a sound halfway between a whimper and a groan, I shoved Julia away from me.

            She stumbled back, looking hurt.

            “No,” I said.

            Julia’s hands balled into fists.  “Why not?”  She was red in the face, breathing hard.  “Why the fuck not?”

            “I’m not—” Standing there in nothing more than a flimsy bra and thigh highs, pubic hair matted with wetness, I shivered and hugged myself.  “Ready, Julia, not for that, not yet.”  I saw the frustration, the anger and disappointment at being rejected, and so I hastened to add: “But if I was—” and I smiled weakly—“Believe me, there’s no one else I’d want to, you know….”  My hand made a vague gesture in the vicinity of those genitals.  “Do stuff.”

            She smiled feebly. “Stuff?”

            I nodded and offered a tentative smile.

            Julia stared at me a long time before finally releasing a deep breath.  She stepped away from me and collapsed heavily into the sofa, sitting legs spread, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling.  “Jesus Christ, David,” she said, and groaned.  “You make it difficult.”

            It wasn’t entirely clear to me what ‘it’ was, but I shrugged.  “Sorry.”

            She glanced at me before returning her gaze to the ceiling.  “Do you have any idea how fucking horny I am right now?”

            “Sorry,” I repeated, padding closer.

            “Two weeks,” she said.  “God, I was really looking forward to a good, solid fucking tonight.”

            “Sorry.”

            “Sorry sorry sorry,” she parroted.

            With a shiver of stocking against stocking, I dropped to my knees and laid my hand on her thigh.  “I can still make you feel good, Jules.  It’s not what you wanted, I know, and I wish I could fuck you the way you want, I really do, but….”  I smiled and licked my lips, sliding closer between her legs.  “I’d still like to make you happy.”

            She looked down at me.  “Like you did Dan?”

            “Fuck you,” I snapped and pulled back. 

            But she held me close, hand on my head, fingers curling into my hair.  She winced, took a deep breath, and smiled.  “Sorry,” she said, and smiling wryly, she chuckled.  “So many apologies tonight.”

            I reached for her waist.  “Nothing happened, you know,” I said, as I undid the slender belt and unfastened her buttons.  “I didn’t go down on Dan.”  With a sharp tug, her trousers were down to her knees.  “I tried.  Drank myself half-blind trying to get there.”  Her panties were gorgeous, pale blue and sheer, with elaborate ivory lace in a floral pattern, and she wore a matching suspender belt clipped to satin and gold garters at her thighs.  Her lingerie set must’ve cost a fortune.  She looked great in it—so would I. “But I couldn’t do it.”  I gently drew one long fingernail across the bulge of lips beneath gossamer fabric and elicited a sigh from her. 

            “But this?”  I smiled up at her.  “This I can do.”

            Before long, we moved to the bedroom.  I ate her out, and used my fingers, and she came—I don’t know, half a dozen times.  It was easy; I knew her body and played it like a familiar instrument, strumming and fretting her secret chords and drew from her those beautiful sounds, the gasps and screams, the drawn-out cries and shuddering moans.  The music of her pleasure was exquisite. 

            Julia softened, melted under my touch and tongue.  Eventually we finished, sitting naked on the bed together. 

            She cradled me in her arms as I leaned into the soft comfort of her chest. She rested her chin on my head and held me possessively between her legs. I felt the cool damp patch of her pubic patch against the small of my back.  Eventually, she began kissing the nape of my neck, her hand rested possessively over one boob, idly stroking, occasionally flicking the nipple.  Holding me, she spoke softly into the blonde mess of my hair.  “Mmm, thank you.  I needed that.”
            “Always a pleasure.”

            “Pleasure’s all mine,” she said, her breath tickling my neck.  She cupped my tits with both hands, gently squeezing.  “Are these bigger?  They feel bigger.”

            I sighed.  “C-cup,” I said.  “But they’ve stopped growing.”

            “I like them this way,” she said.  “They’re perfect.” 

            She continued massaging my tits.  I hummed with pleasure, leaning back into her.  “That feels nice,” I said. 

            Julia nuzzled my neck.  “There’s more if you want it.”  One hand abandoned the breast to trail down my abdomen.

            “No.”  I rested my hand over hers.

            “Doesn’t seem fair,” she said.  “The pleasure’s really been all mine.  I feel guilty.”  She ignored my arresting touch and her hand drifted past my waist.  “I don’t like feeling guilty.  Especially to you.”

            “It’s just—”

            “I’ve got a dildo in my purse,” she said.  “We could use that.”

            I stiffened in her arms.  “Excuse me?”
            I could hear the laughter in her voice, though the mocking edge was absent.  “I bought it as a gift,” she said.  “You know—to practice on.  After your night with Dan.”

            “I didn’t—” I nearly shouted, then realised she was trying to get a rise out of me and took a calming breath.  More quietly, I added, “I don’t need practice.”

            I felt her laugh as a vibration along the spine.  “How long have you been living as a girl now?  Three months—four?  And you still haven’t done it with a guy.”

            “Does kissing and heavy petting count?”

            She shook with silent laughter.  “No.”

            I felt no need to tell her about Chad.  “Don’t forget, underneath all this I’m still a man.”

            “So?  Seems a wasted opportunity.”

            “I’m not gay.”

            “David, you’ve got tits and a pussy.  At this point, whatever you get up to falls outside traditional classification.”

            “Not interested.”

            “Not even a little?”  She gave my shoulder a gentle bite.  “Not tempted at all?”

            She continued massaging my breast during this exchange, squeezing and then gently rolling my nipple between forefinger and thumb.  Once, this kind of attention would’ve been unpleasantly toe-curling; I wouldn’t have put up with it.  Now?  It felt—good—unnervingly so; and her touch and her kisses and her hair and smell were doing a lot to excite me.  I would’ve squeezed my thighs together if her hand hadn’t already been there between them.

            “I—” I bit my lip against a tremor of nervousness that ran through me.  “Of course I’m tempted,” I said.

            Her hand now lay gently over my furred mound.  She must’ve felt the heat there as a palpable thing, the wetness I felt.  She pressed her palm down.  “Are you sure this is a prosthetic?” There was wonder in her voice.  “It feels….”

            “Yeah.”  I’d gone stiff in her embrace.  “Very real.”

            She kissed my neck, my ear.  Her hand pressed down more firmly.  “You can feel this?”

            I jerked my head in confirmation.

            “What about—this?”

            Very gently, she curled one finger inwards.  The tip of her finger parted those feminine lips and slipped—

            “Ah!”

            “Relax,” she whispered in my ear.  She shifted her hand very slightly, finger dipping deeper—

            “Please,” I whined.

            “Okay,” she murmured and then—she was inside of me, finger buried up to the knuckle, and it felt—she was inside me, and—fuck—I didn’t even know how to process the feeling, but some instinct kicked in and…

            “Oh, you like this, don’t you?” Julia said.  “You’re clamping down.”

            “It’s not—” I gasped.  “Me.”

            “You’re so fucking wet,” she said.  “You little slut.”  Her hand at my tit grew firmer, more aggressive as she pinched and pulled at the nipple—but instead of hurting, the burn there felt like an echo of the heat down below, growing and adding to it.  “Tell me to stop.”

            With muscles I didn’t even know I had, I clenched down on the finger invading me.  “St-stop,” I whimpered and then, “Don’t.”

            “Talk about mixed messages,” she purred, and licked my ear, and half withdrew her finger and then thrust it back in again.  And it felt—oh, so very good—as she continued, finger-fucking my snatch with a steady rhythm.  And with each thrust I felt something growing inside, a—rising wave that felt both familiar and utterly alien—a pressure deep down where I imagined my balls were—a desperate need for release—but instead the pressure grew—and the sound, the wet slick sound of it—and I was panting with wanting, mewling with the need for it to end—"feels good, doesn’t it?”—but also wanting that wave to grow ever larger, the promise of something truly spectacular—“my horny little slut”—but it was too much—

            “Stop!” I yelped.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “I need—” I yanked myself free and scrambled from the bed.  “Need to piss!”

            Later, I sat shame-faced in a thin robe watching Julia get dressed.  We’ d finished off the last of the Champagne in silence, and the buzz of it did a little to comfort my embarrassment.  She was still laughing at me.  “Idiot,” she said. 

            “I told you I wasn’t ready.”

            “How many girls have you fucked, David?”  She buttoned up her blouse.  “That was your orgasm,” she said.  “You were about to cum.”

            “Felt like I was going to piss myself.” I drew the robe around me more tightly, feeling petulant and frustrated.  “It felt weird.”

            “Yeah,” she said.  “Well, welcome to the club.”  She shrugged, pulling on her socks.  “It can also feel—fantastic.”

            “I’ll take your word for it.”
            She raised an eyebrow.  “I seriously hope you’ll do more than that.”  Slipping into her work blazer, she leveled an unexpectedly serious look at me.  “You’ve got that thing on for the next three months, right?  You ever go three months without jerking off or getting laid?”  She shook her head.  “You’ll go nuts.  And if that prosthetic’s as responsive as it seems—why the hell wouldn’t you make good use of it?”

            Blushing a little, I stared at the floor.  “I’ll take your advice under consideration.”

            She padded over to me and laid a hand on my shoulder.  “Listen.  I’m being serious here.  Yes, I get a thrill seeing you trapped all girl-like like this and yes, I think you deserve it for being such a dick in the past.  But…,” and here she took a deep breath, “things have changed.  You’ve changed.  You’re not the same guy I once knew.”

            I gave a dry laugh.  “No shit.”

            “I mean it, you’ve changed.  And so have I.  I—care for you, David.  And I think you’ll go nuts if you don’t make use of that thing down there.”

            “So, what, I should spread my legs for the next guy I see?”

            “Why not?”  She shrugged.  “You might be surprised at how much you enjoy it.”

            I shook my head.  Instead, I took her hand in mine.  “What about… us?”

            She smiled, a little sadly.  “Tonight was fun.  Unexpected, but fun.  But… no.  Maybe on occasion.  But like I said—with a girl—I enjoy it, but I need something more.”  Her hand touched my long hair and smooth cheek, my slender shoulder, the swell of my breasts.  “And right now, you’re all girl.  At least where it counts.”

            Her words hurt.  “I see,” I answered, still petulant, still frustrated.

            She glared balefully at her shoes before slipping back into her heels.  “Let’s meet up tomorrow.  You’re back at work on Monday?  You’ll need some help getting your shit together—believe me.”  She gathered her belongings as she spoke but paused and looked back at me still on the sofa.

            Julia smiled.  Reaching into her purse, she pulled out the dildo she’d earlier mentioned.  “I meant this as a bit of a joke,” she mused, turning it over in her hand.  “But now, I’m thinking you might get some good use of it.”  She tossed it to me.  I caught it wordlessly, gingerly as though its touch might burn.

            The quality of the thing belied her comment about it being a joke: it was an impressive replica, covered in synthetic flesh that felt real and room-temperature to touch, veiny with balls and little prickly hairs.  I lacked the shopping experience but imagined it was an expensive item—not super-expensive like one of those AI-enabled, fully responsive models, but still an extravagance for a simple joke.  The colour was a near match to Dan’s penis, the size a little larger—more Chad’s girth, perhaps.  I suddenly felt a little sick to the stomach and forced a smile for Julia’s sake.

            “You can thank me later.” Julia laughed.  “Let me know how you get on with it.” 

            She slipped on her coat and picked up her briefcase and walked over to the door. 

            At the doorway she hesitated.

            “So why’d you go to that Clinic for two weeks?”  Her voice was strangely neutral.  “You didn’t go to get that prosthetic attached,” she added.  “So why’d you go?” 

            I was still contemplating the dildo in my hand.  “They wanted to check up on me,” I said.  “See if I was ready.” The detailing was impressive.  The smoothness of the glans, the feel of the shaft under my fingers—just holding it brought back memories of kneeling between Dan’s legs, or at Chad’s feet.  It felt surprisingly real to the touch, even the wrinkly and hairy skin at the scrotum.  Throat dry, I swallowed.  Could I really put this thing in my mouth? Or… elsewhere?

            “Ready for what?”

            “To say goodbye to Cindy,” I said.  Very deliberately, I put the dildo down on the coffee table.  It’s not like I needed it: Cindy already had a vibrator buried at the back of a dresser drawer, a slender silver rod.  “To go back to being a man.  Disappear, and start a new life under witness protection.”  This life-sized artificial prick was a hell of a lot more intimidating than her slim sex toy.  “I wasn’t really expecting to come back.”

            “Disappear?” Julia’s voice was dangerously quiet.

            Only then did I focus on her. Too late I saw the betrayal in her eyes, the gathering storm of her anger.

            “You were just going to disappear?  Without even saying goodbye?”

            “I thought….”

            “You selfish prick,” she said.  “You haven’t changed at all.”

            She didn’t shout or slam the door.  She just stared at me for a long moment, as though casting me to memory.  Then she turned and left.

            We didn’t meet up the next day, as planned.  In fact, Julia didn’t speak to me for a full month.

Three: Bubbles in a Kettle

Julia’s on her third small glass of cheap red. She’s eaten most of the canapes. Outside is getting steadily darker, a strong November wind dashing rain against the windowpanes and rattling them in their frame. It’s only about four o’clock in the afternoon but feels much later, and it’s getting dark in here, too. I should really turn on a light.

            “This is shit,” Julia says. She’s staring at the glass she holds, but I’m pretty sure her words are directed at the funeral.

            “I really could’ve used your help that first week,” I said. “I needed you, Jules.”

            “Yeah?” She avoids my gaze, choosing instead to stare out the window. “Well.”

            “And I’m sorry,” I say.

            “For what?”

            “For hurting you. For not talking to you first.”  I take a sip of wine, wince at the taste, and hurry on before I lose courage. “And—and for not understanding, sooner.”

            Now she’s looking at me. “Understanding what?”

            “That you’d fallen in love with me,” I say.

            She releases a deep breath; one I hadn’t realised she’s taken.  Julia stares at me for a long moment, then stands up and walks away. For a moment I fear she’s going to leave, but instead she disappears into the bathroom. Five minutes pass before I hear the toilet flush and running water. When she returns, her makeup’s been touched up but beneath the concealer I can see her eyes are a little red and puffy.

            She sits heavily opposite me and stares out the window for a long moment before talking. “I did,” she says.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Stop saying that,” she snaps. 

            “I—” I stop myself, and nod, and draw a chair closer and smoothing down my dress, sit opposite her, close enough for our knees to nearly touch. I reach out, hesitate, and then lightly lay my hand on her knee.  “Then tell me.”

            “I hated you,” she begins, “so much. When you first left me, fourteen years ago.”  She visibly sags. “And we don’t need to go over that again. But when I found you all those months ago in that stall, and realised the next day that it really was you, somehow, that this young girl was really David, the man who’d hurt me so badly—I…”  She pauses, and bites her lip, and looks away.

            “I’ve had a lot of therapy over the years. It took me a long time to get over you, and to learn to trust anyone else. I’ve already told you this: I tried dating women for a while, and then I went back to men, and for awhile I just gave up entirely. And some of those men, they reminded me of you, and those were the men I wanted the most; those were the relationships I always sabotaged; the ones where I hurt them, and they hurt me the worst.

            “That was all years ago. Now?  Now—” She gives a dry chuckle. “Before I met you again, I was in a good place.  I’d finally settled down a bit, stopped bouncing around and actually focused on me, on my job and my needs and my pleasure.  And surprise! Things got better. I got promoted. I met a couple of nice guys—nothing serious, or at least nothing really serious, you know, but someone I could call up on a Friday night, take in a meal and a few drinks, a good fuck when I needed it.”

            Her eyes glance askew to me, slide away, and she sighs. “And then you pop up, looking like….”  She waves her hand at me. “This.  And all these urges, these revenge fantasies and old hurts and—desires….” She winces. “That first night in my apartment, it all came crashing down on me: I wanted you. So intensely it hurt and when we fucked, and after, I felt—” Her fists clench and unclench, knuckles whitening as she speaks.  “Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.” 

            Julia makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I wanted you.  Physically and—more; inside me, yes, but also… inside me, like I wanted to—consume you, if that makes sense.  And unlike before, you were now—vulnerable.”  She looks at me, then, and I see her gaze travel across my hair, chest, slender arms and legs.  “Weaker. Softer. And at my mercy; quite literally, because suddenly I could have you killed if I wanted it.

            “And it was wrong, and I knew it was wrong; it was… immoral, to take advantage of you that way. But God, you deserved it, you deserved anything I did to you and there you were, sucking it all up, dressing the way I wanted, acting the way I wanted, my own little….”  She reaches for a word. “Sissy, femboy—”

            “Hey,” I interrupt.

            “I wanted to hurt you, like you’d hurt me.”

            “Mission accomplished.”  I try to keep my voice neutral, but resentment rises to the surface like bubbles in a kettle, like marsh gas frothing scum.

            She flinches, then her eyes harden.  “Do you expect me to feel bad about what happened?”

            “I know you do,” I say.

            “After what—” She stops.  “You deserved it.”

            I keep my voice gentle. “I forgive you, Julia.”

            “I don’t want—!”

            “But I want yours,” I say.

            She opens her mouth to answer, closes it, and surges from her seat. She stalks away, but the apartment is small; there’s nowhere to go, really, other than out and she’s not ready for that, not yet.  “Jesus, you make this hard,” she declares to the wall. She turns in a tight little circle and faces me again. “You never loved me, did you?”

            Slowly, I shake my head.

            And when she asks, “Why not?” her voice trembles, briefly, and there is something unbelievably tragic in her expression, quickly suppressed, a desperate need for affection and understanding that has been there since before I ever met her.  Perhaps had she met some other man, all those years ago, a better man instead of an angry, broken bastard, she might’ve found happiness.

            Instead, she found me.  “Because I loved someone,” I say. “Once. Before you. Twenty years ago.” The memory of Persephone’s death is always close, far closer than the memories of her in life. Even now, I see her on that stained mattress, the purpled face, the blood.  “She died.”

            Julia waits, as though expecting more.

            “And that’s it.  She died.”  She was murdered.  “And with her, part of me.”  I shrug. “Sorry.”

            She walks over to me, and sits down again, and our knees touch, a murmur of black stocking on stocking.  “That’s not good enough,” she says. Her hand hovers, as though wanting to reach out to me. “You can love again,” she says.

            I take her hand in mine. “No.” I say. “I’ve tried.” I smile wanly. “I tried with you.”  My thumb traces little circles on the back of her hand.  “And I care for you, Jules. I do, I really do. The time we spent together—after you came back, and before you hurt me—I didn’t realize it at the time but… it’s probably the happiest I’ve been in a very long time.”  My grip tightens around her hand. “Maybe ever.”

            “David,” she begins, but I interrupt her.

            “Cindy,” I insist.  “David is dead, and… well, we’re here to commemorate that, remember?”

            Her smile is sad, but she nods. “Fine,” she says. “But I’ll need more wine.”  She grimaces at the empty glass in her hand. “No offence, but no more of this corner-store shit, please? Open up the good stuff I brought.”

            I force a laugh and step into the kitchenette and grab two clean glasses and crack open the bottle and pour us out fresh drinks. I’m considering what story to tell her next.  She’s not yet ready for the rest of her story; frankly, neither am I.

            She takes a sip and sighs with pleasure. “Mmm, that’s better.”

            “Hey, that ‘shit’ was the best I could afford,” I grumble, and the bitterness is real. “You try getting by on a secretary’s pay.”

            “Been there, done that.  No thanks.”

            “Besides,” I add, pointing at the empty bottle. “It’s not that bad.”
            “Adequate at best.”  She raises an eyebrow and smiles behind the rim of her glass. “Gauche, new world and pedestrian.”

            “You forgot sharp, with hints of bitterness.”

            “We still talking about the wine?”      

            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.

            “Thank you, Michael.” I stood near the door, plucking nervously at my skirt. “I, um… appreciate it.”

            He frowned and 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. He had his own bathroom, and a large cabinet against one wall held a handful of books and a decorative vase with flowers, as well as a large screen, currently on and silently playing the news. There was a small sofa, and a sideboard with a decanter and a few heavy glasses. His desk was very 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—an older and more mature version of the man I’d gotten to know at the Clinic, with similar good looks and physicality.  He exuded strength 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 to Cindy’s life. 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.

            “You wanted to see me, Michael?” I asked.

            “That’s twice now, Cindy,” he said. “Let’s not forget the formalities, please.” His eyes remained friendly, but his voice turned stern. “It’s ‘sir’, or Mr Connor. Understood?”

            The tone of his voice—the deepness of it; and the easy authority he wielded: I felt it as a disconcerting tremor that ran down my spine. My eyes slid downwards, and I blushed and—what the fuck?—I felt the very slightest of tingles down below.

            I bit my lower lip and nodded. “Sorry. Um, sir.”  I glanced up at him through long lashes and added, after a short pause, “Is everything okay, Mr Connor?”

            I felt him look me over. Mr Connor’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?” His smile utterly disarmed the earlier sternness. “I don’t know.”

            “If it’s about my leave of absence, Mr Connor, I can—”

            “No.” He chopped the air with his hand. “That’s between you and HR. None of my business.” His smile softened slightly. “Though I hope the time away was beneficial.”

            “Yes, sir. It was.”

            “Good.” Then his smile hardened slightly. “No, Cindy. I’ve called you in here because I took it upon myself to review your personnel file whilst you were away and….”  He frowned. “You haven’t been entirely honest with us, Cindy.”

            I kept my face impassive. My fingers stilled. “How do you mean? Sir?”

            “High school education, incomplete,” he said. He tapped at his keyboard, swiped the screen and checked some data. “No qualifications beyond that. Twenty years old. No real professional experience before starting with V.I.” He glanced aside at me. “Sounds about right?”

            “I never hid any of that,” I said.

            “True.” He clicked and opened a few files and turned the screen towards me. He gestured for me to sit. “Recognize this?”

            Smoothing my short skirt down over my bum, I slid into the chair opposite and sitting back straight, chest out, leaned in to look. “That’s the first draft of the emissions report.” I tapped the tabs on the screen. “Scope 1, 2; wait, what the hell?—Chris, Scope 3’s a fucking mess.” I slapped hand over my mouth. “I mean—”

            Mr Connor laughed. “No, no, you’re absolutely right. It’s a fucking mess. Now look here—” he clicked and brought up an earlier version— “recognize this?”

            I nodded, checking the date stamp. It was the last version I’d seen, before heading to the Clinic. 

            “Beautiful work, and ahead of deadline,” Mr Connor said. “So here’s the thing, Cindy. You’ve been mostly working for Mr Peterson and, just between you and me, Jack’s a sack of shit. Absolute waste of space. He hides it well, but…. Well.” He smiled. “Let’s just say your absence highlighted certain deficiencies in his workflow.”

            “I—,”hesitated, flicked my eyes towards the door and then back to Mr Connor, and tucked and smoothed a bang behind an ear and gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Mr Connor.”

            “I’d wondered how Jack managed to pull his shit together the past few months. But you can imagine my surprise when I went digging through files and reports and found your fingerprints all over them. Nothing attention grabbing, just a consistent, low-level effort at cleaning up other peoples’ crap. Not just Jack, either – minor corrections all over the place, little tweaks to workflow, gentle nudges connecting people.”

            Chewing on my bottom lip, I asked in a little voice, “am I in trouble, Mr Peterson?”

            “Quite the opposite,” Mr Connor said.

            My first meeting with Mike—I mean, Mr Connor—ended with a job offer. He offered Cindy a promotion: internal comms, easing interactions between staff, enabling communications, helping managers and directors link up. There’d still be occasional receptionist duties—“you’re too pretty for us to lose you as the face of V.I.,” he said, utterly seriously—but also additional responsibilities, and a boost in pay.

            He gave me a week to think about it.

            I turned him down, of course. When I did, he looked at me over steepled fingers and asked, “why?”

            And at stage in early September, still clinging to the belief that maybe—just maybe—there’d be an escape for me in six months, I couldn’t explain that this life was meant to be transient, that the more ephemeral and insignificant the job, the better.  I couldn’t explain that Cindy’s life had to be low-key and invisible: a pretty face behind a desk is one thing, but weekly meetings with managers, drawing attention, having an impact, even a small one, on the operations of the company? The whole point of living Cindy’s life was to avoid getting noticed—noticed in the wrong way, that is—and how to explain a twenty-year old high school dropout sudden rise through the corporate ranks?

            “Because I want to have fun,” I told him, and fiddled with my hair, and flashed a bright smile. “I don’t want the responsibility.”

            Which he seemed to accept, but afterwards Michael Connor seemed to take me on as a project. God knows why. Maybe he saw the untapped potential in Cindy; maybe, at first, I reminded him of his daughter.

            I settled back into the office routine, picking up the same, boring duties as before. Sitting at the front desk, I smiled and received clients and kept my appearance immaculate and seethed at the disdain of some and bridled under the leers of others. At first, I avoided surreptitiously tweaking colleagues work but truth was, I couldn’t help myself: a little data correction here, a forwarded email there, or a giggle and dropped comment by the ever-ironic water cooler.

            I started to report directly to Mr Connor instead of Sarah, and every week during our one-to-one he’d ask if I’d reconsidered the job offer. He’d pick out the soft-touch, above-and-beyond work I’d done around the office that week. He was very perceptive; not much I did slipped past him unnoticed. It felt good, having my efforts recognized. His compliments always left me with a warm glow. I began to look forward to those fifteen minutes a week with him alone.

            The little changes crept in gradually: the way I dressed, my makeup, on those days—that little bit more luscious, a touch more cleavage exposed, shinier lips or a tighter skirt. It wasn’t until the other girls pulled me up on it—“you’re such a slut,” one laughed, “tease,” another, “he’s old enough to be your fucking dad,” the third—that the reality slammed home.

            I was flirting with my boss. I was flirting with a man. And I was enjoying it.

            Okay, sure, by this time I’d been back at work for a month, right? And alongside all this, there was a lot of other stuff happening, too, right? I was—well; that’s another story, okay, but this was now a full month into this side of the visit to the Clinic.

            One month—but also a whole fucking nine months—Nine. Goddamn. Months!—of playing or performing or living Cindy in one way or another, from that first charade when I left the safe house with K wearing tight jeans and a fuzzy sweater to….

            Perching at the edge of his desk, in a tartan skirt skimming my thighs; black, figure-hugging sleeveless top; and freshly glossed lips parted in a wide smile at something he’d just said.

            And on the one hand: what the fuck, right? I was a man, too, despite appearances, and it was galling—humiliating—to find myself flicking my hair, smoothing it back behind my ear and smiling shyly, demurely, and glancing up at him and finding—genuinely, profoundly and shamefully—a little thrill and an easy, warm pleasure in the resonate timbre of his voice.

            But at the same time: why the hell not? Why shouldn’t I flirt just a little with the boss and have a little fun with it? 

[Scene in progress]           

Five: Transition to The Story of the Dress

Six: The Story of the Dress

Imagine a dress.

            No. Imagine this dress: short—very short; panty-flashing with the slightest bend at the waist.  And tight; very tight, hugging curves like a second skin, like a sausage casing, a sheer strapless tube reaching from tits to thigh.  Barely clearing the nipples, a built-in bustier top pushed C-cup tit-flesh upwards in a lewd, jiggling display. 

            Sheer fabric, embroidered with silver sequins in a swirling pattern of stars, veiled tantalising hints of naked flesh. Wearing it I felt like a fishing lure fluttering and flashing to attract those primal feeders surging beneath the water’s placid surface, sleek, serpentine predators seeking prey.  Prey, like me: fresh meat, vulnerable in heels, tottering and trotting steps, body shimmering with glitter, metal flaring at wrist and ankle, neck and ear.

            Now imagine me dancing.

            How I swayed and hugged my curves and languidly slid crystal-encrusted nails along iridescent flanks and reached for the ceiling with graceful arms, slender shoulders dipping, hips swaying, skin glistening, head thrown back and hair gleaming like gold under strobing lights to throbbing music.  The only thing brighter than the flashing lights was the gleam of gloss on parted lips.

            Boys orbited us like sharks in the ocean, like pilgrims at a shrine. They circled ever closer, driven by the scent of sex in the air. They circled ever nearer, desperate for a touch, a taste, a moment’s contact with the divine—with me, the incarnation of their lustful worship. I was the boys’ epiphany, their miracle made flesh; a Madonna on a pedestal; chum in the water.

            They orbited me and the girls who were with me and they orbited our purses on the floor at the centre of our shifting, sweaty, exultant band of feminine indulgence, concentric rings of beauty and excess and desire.  And I was part of it—at the heart of it—a man and yet the brightest star of them all, all tits and ass and makeup and heels, a manifest dance floor fantasy of youthful vigour and female sensuality wrapped up in a tight, sexy minidress.

            For all the dresses worn over the past months, I’d never worn anything like this.  Scandalously short, tantalisingly revealing—perfect for clubbing—worn with platform heeled sandals and hoop earring and bright makeup—dangerously braless, paired with a scrap of lacy, g-string panties flossing my ass with each shimmy and shake.  Only sheer willpower, boob tape and constant attention kept everything in its place.

            It wasn’t a dress many could wear with confidence.  Most women I knew would’ve felt terribly self-conscious in this thing, tugging at hem or neckline or awkward in the heels, embarrassed by the expanse of flesh on display, their whole body and posture betraying their discomfort. 

            And for David Saunders, wiggling into that little dress was an act of ego-suicide.  Wearing it was humiliating.  The way it flaunted my assets, shameful. 

            But fuck me if I didn’t look great in it.

            Yeah, I felt pride wearing it, at how sexy I looked, and felt pleasure too.  Yes, pleasure, unexpectedly: as a tingle in the chest and warmth in my groin as I primped in the mirror and painted my lips and marvelled at my own audacity.  My pride was rooted in the same soil in which it’s always flourished: at the ability to draw the admiring eye, the lustful desire.  But the pleasure?  That came from the simple fact that as I gazed upon myself in the mirror—I turned myself on. 

            I ran my hands over my hips and saw my heavy-lidded gaze in reflection, the full and moist lips and deep cleavage between my full, round tits on display—and God, I tingled and my nipples stiffened and I wanted to fuck the girl in the mirror in a way that simply wasn’t possible.

            However, pleasure and pride stood in agonizing tension with the shame and humiliation.  Humiliation, at the debasement of displaying myself in this way for the enjoyment of men.  At the start of the night, my prancing, clattering walk and acres of naked skin in the cool, late September air belied the possibility I dressed this way for anything but the gaze of men: not for myself, or my friends or the pure pleasure of my own femininity, but to entice and enflame male passion.

            The shame, on the other hand, lay at the utter effacement of masculinity in this girlish presentation.  Six months, yes, living this life; but is that all it took, really, to wipe away all presence of the man?  Looking in that mirror, I only saw the girl; but beyond those precisely painted eyes, behind the long, curled lashes and mascara, eyeliner and eyeshadow and finely sculpted brows—there was still a man, buried deep and staring out those eyes and he felt—afraid of what was coming, and so deeply humiliated.

            That dress, and the girls who chose it for me; the shame and humiliation; and that night that carried us to Tartarus, the waterfront club at the edge of the city where I met Jonas and what happened after… all of it proved as much a nail in David Saunder’s coffin as anything Julia ever did.

            So. Imagine: a girl in a tight, sparkling minidress writhing in musical ecstasy with a thousand other bodies pressing up against each other, ensnared in the throbbing swell of bass and the DJ’s craft, tits and ass and abs and strong arms swirling in this bacchanal of youth and fleeting touches: David Saunders, drowning in feminine sensuality.

            And in the then and there, in that heaving press of hedonism, I danced.  I danced awkwardly at first—very much a man in a dress ashamed and aware of his mincing steps and clown-painted face.  Also, a man very much aware of his lack of experience on the dance floor, one uncomfortable with the showy display of dancing at the best of times. Familiar with the setting, yes: I’d been bouncer and bartender.  But never the main act, the luminary dancer; always the supporting role, sullen from the sidelines. 

            So I drank.  I followed the example of the other boys and girls and drank for confidence; I drank to forget who I really was; and I drank so that I could dance.  In the fog of drunkenness that quickly followed I found freedom. 

            Tunnel vision hid the lusty and scornful watching eyes, and the desired drunken haze brought fragmentation.  For a time, the night became fleeting moments of acute consciousness against a backdrop of swirling impressions: coloured lips, loud voices, gyrating bodies, touches, arms at waist, grins and pretty eyes; and over it all the heavy jungle miasma of arousal.

            Body grinding against body; gilded hair tossed and swirling in syncopation with sequins; bums bumping; nails flashing in cascading lights, lips too, eyes wide, pupils dilated, a spray of sweat, the exultant cry and twist and then a boy—not the first, hardly the last—moving in, the grin, flash of white teeth and hungry eyes roaming, lips and tits and thigh.  A touch; a grab—too rough and unwanted—his voice loud in the ear like a foreign language. Then interception—thank God for Mel, sliding in between us, the cutting remark and turned back and fuck-off body language until a sudden lull in the music….

            Hand-in-hand, scooping up purses, a momentary retreat.  Standing at a small circular table—no sitting in these outfits!—another round of tiny white tabs dissolving on the tongue—then “Drink up, bitches!”: lick the salt, knock back the shot, suck the lime, grimace.  Blossoming warmth and sidling glances at the next table over, grinning boys, not bad looking, what d’you think?  Shit—he’s coming over? You look great.  He’s looking at you—no, you.  Fuck me, the size of him—those arms!—think he’s packing the same below?

            Then Emma was gone with her sandy-haired boy in his ridiculous jacket and vivid tattoos, and she flashed a smile back over her shoulder, one-part thrilled to one-part panicked.  Three of us now diverting from dance floor to toilets. Obnoxious queue, idle chat, and an anxious little dance from foot to foot as boys breezed past.  Finally!  Time for a quick piss then primping in the mirrors, jostling for space: “hey, watch it!” “fuck you,” “love that colour,” “she’s a tramp”, “may I?” “here, let me” “he said what?”—an ecstasy of fumbling, lipsticks and brushes, and skilled precision, the eye pencil wielded under the influence, mascara, poking hair into place.  Unceremonious hiking of pantyhose, twisted skirts, fixed suspenders and garters, tweaked bras and tits hoisted back into their cups and adjusted straps on shoes, then—out again, into the heat and sweat, noise and energy, holding hands threading through the crowds. 

            To the bar, grabbed a drink, something bright in unnatural colours, sweet and with a kick to fell a bull. We watched the couple making out pressed up against the wall—laughed as he attacked her neck and she rolled her eyes—stopped laughing as his fingers disappeared under her skirt and her whole body shuddered and then her eyed really did roll back; and something in us responded. 

            Onwards! Ignoring a trio of guys catcalling, and a girl vomiting, hair held back by a friend.  Past an archway opening into a vaulting chamber filled with foam piled high and shadowy figures, crimson-lit from beneath; another sloping downwards into darker, heavier music; and paused at the cordoned-off stairs with their richly marbled steps and ornate banister leading to rooms behind shadowed glass in which rich and powerful figures posed in silhouette and looked down from above on us all. 

            A bouncer stood by the stairs, deceptively slender in a tailored suit, and his eyes ceaselessly tracked the movement of everyone who passed.  His gaze raked across our half-naked frames, at first lingering and then dismissive.

            “Up there?” “That’s for VIPs.” “Well, I’m very important!”—but not important enough and ushered along we returned to the rhythmic, pounding beats of our chosen space, mixed pop and synth driving the masses to frenzy.  Back to short skirts and fitted shirts, bared midriffs and tight abs, freshly gleaming lips and sculpted chins.  

            “Shit, where’s Willow?” “There!” “She’s fine.” “But—” “She’s fine—” and there she was dancing with some guy, tossing her head and waving her shirt in the air, cute in her denim romper suit and pink bra flashing, his arms coiled around her waist.  Mel had me by the hand drawing me along, smiling, teeth flashing like fangs, nails digging into palm, and she pulled me close: “feel it yet?” Her voice hot in my ear, chest to chest.  “What?” “Feel it?” “No.” “No?” “Nothing; you?” “I’m—”

            A flick of the switch, circuit sparking, the pills kicking in and then the music exploded incandescent, the lights thrummed and her touch flared ecstatic lines across bare skin.  I grinned, so that my mouth ached: at the sudden infusion of joy, at the tremulous upswelling of inchoate emotion felt as a prickling flush through supple flesh; and at the insanity of a thirty-nine-year-old man in a tight dress consumed in this frenzy of youth, this agony of hope: all this pointless, wasted, beautiful energy and I was part of it, it was my energy too and I felt connected, I felt blessed, I felt—like a girl, I did, I really did in my flesh and in clothes worn as an extension of that flesh.

            I felt that dress—that gorgeous dress—that pretty, showy, short and sparkly dress—and how lovely the sense of it: tightness a loving caress, constriction an exhilarating containment of femininity yearning to rupture like overripe fruit, its brevity a celebration of body.  So shiny, and soft against my skin, and each shining sequin a little sharp-edged sparkle of bliss. 

            With each shimmy I felt the pull of flush fabric across thigh and belly and breast: a delightful pressure on tits warmed in the spreading flush simmering from neck to bosom—and further down.  With each shift came the acute awareness of lace taut between my ass, panties drawing tight against sudden tingling wetness.

            Even the pinch of arched feet and towering heels became a projection of my girlishness: precarious, poised, pretty; coveted, on a pedestal of my own making.  Suspended, I suppressed the desire to squeeze thighs together, squirm or jerk hips forward, or hold—or bring—hands to my tits, or my cheek, or my mouth.  Instead, my gaze swept incredulously from glittering fingernails along shimmering skin, across sparkling dress and lithe, glistening legs to the final sparkle of those platform sandals and the entirety of me seemed to flash in the light at the centre of the darkness of the dance floor. 

            I was a star, filled with radiance, my whole being suffused with luminosity.  A momentary doubt—the wrongness, mortifying fraud of it all, the indignity of flashing tits and the tiny dress and the leering eyes of boys—encroached, turbulent roils of doubt darkening the brilliance of my pleasure—but then I saw my joy mirrored in the ecstasy of Mel’s face, looming close and wide eyed, turning on the dance floor and caressing herself before reaching out to me in supplication.  Her hand bridged the space between us, carrying me from my masculine doubt to her feminine joy.  I gripped her hand tightly and drew myself to her.

            In that instant, whatever doubt, fear, or shame I carried with me fizzled and faded, burned away in the heat of her presence.  In that moment there was only room within the diminutive dimensions of my female frame for rapture: for Cindy.

            And Cindy’s chest nearly burst with this sudden and unexpected freedom.  She felt unburdened.  She felt loved.  She felt wanted and connected to those around her.  This is what it meant to be alive.  This is what it meant to be a girl.  Euphoric in her gender and in the swell of love and joy around her, Cindy danced.  She smiled and she twirled and felt she might burst for containing so much happiness.  Let this moment last forever, her soul sang.  And if not forever, at least for the length of this song.

            Desire flared in the swirl of eyes around her.  The desire she saw echoed her own.  As she turned in the embrace of the other girl her gaze swept across the faces and bodies of all the beautiful people sharing this moment with her.  Skin gleamed ebony and amber and gold; all precious, and their eyes were like jewels. 

            The girls were beautiful and so were the boys.  She saw the mesh dresses and flaring skirts, cropped tops and slinky dresses, and the shoes and the makeup and the flash of earrings and bracelets and she wanted to feel those clothes herself, the touch of others’ makeup and explore the multiplicities of self she saw reflected in these possible female versions of who she could be. 

            And she saw the boys, in their taut t-shirts, slim trousers, bared arms and tight bums, and she knew them and wanted them, too: their strength and confidence, their solidity, their purity and openness.  She wanted to be with them.  She wanted to give herself over to them.  She wondered who she could be and what she might become in their company.

            For she saw that their look was hungry, the boys’ gaze lustful and possessive; and her desire to be possessed and lusted after confused her.  Cindy wanted their touch and desire, but the projection of their male presence came at the expense of her own.  The surge of male bodies nearly overwhelmed her. 

            Darkness nipped at the bubble of her joy.  She felt the first inkling of fear.  Time juddered and collapsed in on itself. The aura of glowing delight in which she’d cocooned herself trembled and she stopped dancing, suddenly self-conscious and afraid.

            Two cooling hands found her face.  The touch focused her attention.  It was Mel.  Her grin brought Cindy’s smile back.  Her touch returned Cindy to the dance floor.  Mel held Cindy close.  They held each other under ephemeral light as the music swelled. The music shifted.  Now it was Sin-DI and familiar happiness fluttered through her like a shower of pleasant sparks.  In her happiness she looked at Mel.  Cindy saw the passion there, the resonant joy, and again the desire.  Wonderfully aware of her own excitement, riding the surrounding sweat and sound, Cindy surrendered to Mel’s advances. 

            The girls kissed.  Berry gloss and peach lipstick and the scent of passion and perfume.  Breasts pressing together, arms at waist and arms at neck, and both swayed and Mel spun the smaller girl around so Cindy’s ass ground her crotch.  Mel massaged the other girl’s boobs, nibbled her neck, turned her again and they were kissing once more.

            “I knew you weren’t such a prissy bitch,” she breathed in Cindy’s ear. 

            Cindy moaned.  She was lost in the moment.  Her skin felt on fire with her touch. Her nipples felt hard and hot.  Her crotch felt wet and alive.  She wanted to be looked at.  She felt Mel’s eyes on her and it made her squirm.  Cindy felt hot and she felt tight.  She wanted to be taken and roughly held and she wanted something more.  Her body shuddered with the impossibility of the release she desired.

“Here they come,” Mel said.

            The boys moved in.  Divide and conquer: the display of female affection drew them in, both excluding and inviting.  At first Cindy danced with Mel and forgot the intrusion.  They twisted and turned, bodies intertwining.  Hands on each others shoulders they slid sinuously to the floor, heels high, asses out, pressing into each other, and rose again, caresses, hair tossing, gazing adoring into each others’ eyes.  Backs turned to the boys they faced each other.  They kissed.  Their tongues slid sensuously together.  They were briefly, blissfully wrapped within the joyous embrace of their own celebrated femininity.

            Soft, gentle and yielding: the touch of Mel’s lips felt wonderfully supple, the tack of her lip gloss delicious, the tickle of her hair playful.  Cindy giggled into Mel’s mouth. The kiss seemed to last forever yet felt too short.  They pulled apart, smiling, touching tenderly nose to nose before leaning into each other, forehead to forehead.  “Thank you,” Cindy said. Eyes bright and wide, Mel threw her head back and laughed—and then she was gone.

            Replaced by a boy. Young, shirt off, pecs gleaming in the light, flecks of sweat and drink, exultant grin and storm-grey eyes and reaching arms.  His arm, at Cindy’s waist.  His grip, pulling her close.  Surprised, she stumbled into him. 

            The boy kissed her. Boy lips seared berry gloss; fingers curled ass flesh close; tits pillowing rock-hard abs; twirled in strong arms, golden cascade and swirl of lights; unsteady heels and hot breath, hot hard twin points, and his mouth over hers. And this was different than before, but also good, and she moaned, suddenly so hot, tongues sliding past each other, wet, God so wet—and hot—can’t breathe—roaming hands trailing sparks, and it felt wonderful and her whole body shuddered and she felt weak in the knees but then he was gone, and she swayed, momentarily lost, but there was another boy taking his place now, and that boy’s hand was on her chest and he’s all smile too, all teeth and laughing eyes now, speaking but incomprehensible over the pounding of the music and her blood and then he’s on her, his tongue in her mouth and it still feels good, but not as good, no, she feels the magic fading, the sparks burning brighter but more painfully, now, and then he’s gone, too, and there’s a third boy—or a fourth?—it too much but now this boy dips his head and–-his tongue trails slug-like across her collarbone—his tongue’s on her nipple—her tit’s out the dress—and his hand’s on her breast, pinching—and it hurts—and tongue’s invading her mouth again, he’s twisting her nipple—and it hurts—and she feels how hard he is, thrusting, jabbing into her and suddenly the mood’s gone, ecstasy’s fled, there’s no joy in this, no pleasure, only the horrible pawing of a drunken boy ugly in his lust and the leering eyes of his friends and her tits bouncing free and now someone’s trying to hike her dress up, and she’s had enough, yanking her dress back over her breast but he doesn’t let her, laughing, she’s had enough and nearly in tears as she struggled to break free but his grip is too strong, and someone smacks her across the ass and holds her wrist and pulls her close and his hand grips her hair hard and controls her as he forces another kiss as friends close rank and hide this moment in the midst of a heaving crowd lost in their own moments.

            “That’s enough.”  A heavy hand tore the boy away.  The boy blinked and turned and reared a fist back and a moment later scrabbled in a headlock, face red, eyes bulging, and the circle of friends conspicuously gone.  The bouncer, a tower of diffident strength in the midst of humbled apologists, looked slightly ashamed as he effortlessly held the youth to one side and extended a hand to Cindy.  “You okay?”

            Mutely, Cindy shook her head no, face screwed up in a little-girl expression of imminent tears.

            The bouncer visibly sighed.  “Let’s get you out of here.”  He waved some help over. “Take this shithead, will ya?”

            “Bitch wanted it!” the boy insisted.

            The slightest tightening of his arm and the boy’s face purpled.

            “Well, she don’t want it no more,” the bouncer rumbled.

`           He passed the boy over.  “Slut!” her assaulter spat, before being unceremoniously dragged away. 

            The bouncer’s heavy hand fell on her shoulder, powerful and gentle. “Come with me,” he said, and took Cindy away.

            Later, I sat alone.  With knees together and long legs stretched out to one side I sank deep into the velvet softness of the seat.  The embrace of soothing ambient music gently lifted me as I came down from my high.  Floor-to-ceiling screens coalesced calming scenes in 360-degree hyper-realistic sharpness around us: currently, a slow sunrise in oranges and purples over rolling green hills.  Having been left to recover in one of the club’s chill lounges, I stared into the bright light of the rising sun and relaxed in the calm of a pod built for this purpose.  The room was long and high and dotted with a dozen of these comforting egg-shaped capsules.  With a bottle of water in one hand, I hid from the world.

            Huh. What a night.

            I’d entirely lost track of Emma, and Willow and Mel.  Time, too, had melted away.  In blissful isolation along with all the other fucked-up, drugged and drunk dipshits dotted across the lounge, I sat and stared and breathed and recovered.  I alternated between sips of cooling water and periods of absent breathing.  The awesome high and awful low of whatever the fuck had been in those pills had mellowed somewhat.  Lights and colours still flickered at the edge of vision, melted and reformed.  I held my hand up in front of my eyes and turned it this way and that and marvelled at the paleness of the skin, the vivid colour, unwieldy length and precise beauty of each nail.  The webwork of blue veins across the back of my hand vibrated with brightness, and in the lines criss-crossing my palm lay a secret message, if only I knew how to read it. 

            So, yeah.  I was still high as a kite. Still plastered, too, though riding those pills I felt lifted above mundane drunkenness, immunised against simple booze.  I burrowed deeper into the safety of the pod.  In that cushioned retreat, there was safety and space to consider the night.  Even in that dim, dark place my dress sparkled.

            I tugged at my pigtails and a giggle escaped.  Under my fingers, each sequin felt huge, its edge sharp.  I held my hand to my neck and felt flushed.  An irrational urge to strip naked seized me.  Grinning almost painfully, I pulled my knees up to my chest.  I squeezed my eyes shut and wondered how I’d ended up here.

            It started, of course, with a shopping weekend for the girls.

            Four of us: the office gang and their newest member, Cindy.  All of us in our early twenties, free and fun and sweeping through shops in a show of tittering comments, jibes and laughs, hugs, pictures, poses and—for me at least—a near-constant sense of panic. We clattered into the labyrinthine halls of the shopping centre in our heels and skirts, a showy display of girlish glee as we descended upon the first of many, many shops—so many shops—in our exhausting exploration of female capitalism.

            Passing through shop entrances triggered half-hearted protests as digital shop assistants read our socials and biometrics and generated recommendations—uneasily mannish offerings for Cindy, unexpectedly feminine for Willow—then the human attendants’ subtle guidance and corrections—and then the flurry of changes, because while smart mirrors were quick and easy, where was the fun in that?  We could buy all this stuff online, but the fun was in the experience and the shops catered to that.

            Laughs and giggles alongside performative catwalk displays, hair tosses and rolled eyes and nervous grins.  Then a break for coffee and a small sandwich.

            “Like, what’s wrong with me?” Emma said.

            Willow, purple lips pursed around a straw, shrugged.  Mel rolled her eyes and sighed.  “How do you mean?” I asked, and Mel groaned.

            “Don’t engage,” she hissed.

            “It’s because I’m fat, isn’t it?” Emma said.  She poked at her sweet-potato fries.  “Guys don’t like me because I’m fat.”

            “You’re not fat,” Mel said.

            “I’d do you,” I said.  “If I was a guy.”

             “Aw, that’s so sweet,” Emma said.

            And then back at it with the Saturday afternoon rolling out before us, a glittering, glamorous procession of skirts and dresses, shoes, hair and makeup, accessories and nails punctuated by further breaks, some wine, talk about next weekend and uncomfortable questions about boys.

             At one point we wandered into Terpsichore, a medium-sized shop decorated with swooping swaths of cloth hung from the ceiling, backlit in golden and purple hues.  It overflowed with clubwear. 

            We spread out, flicking through dresses, skirts and tops, accessories and shoes, checking sizes, holding them up against our frames, wondering, asking.  The girls moved with confidence.  They chose and discarded quickly, decisively.  I moved with ponderous indecision and with a sick twisting to my stomach. Each dress asked the question: do you want to wear me?  To which the answer was always—no!  No, I do not want to wear you.  I don’t want to wear you because your very design is to entice men, to draw the eye and inspire fantasy.

            Though I couldn’t deny just how well I embodied that fantasy.  Cindy could’ve worn just about anything in that shop and fucking rocked it.  Hell, she’d rock a potato sack.

            I was uneasily holding up a green, glittery thing that seemed more strap than fabric when Mel approached.  “Not that one,” she said.  “Green’s so last week.”  Her lip curled with a touch of disdain—at the very idea of fashion in general, perhaps—though she always looked perfectly turned out, of course.

            “Um—yeah,” I said, and put it back.

            “Fun, huh?” she said, fingers flitting along the row of outfits.  “Reminds me of shopping for my prom.”  She looked askance at me.  “What’d you wear?”

            “To my prom?”

            She nodded.  “I wore this pale blue thing, embroidered butterflies and poofy shoulders. Tight around the tummy and with a slit up to here.”  She held her hand to waist and scowled in mock anger.  “What was I thinking?  You?”

            I had no fucking idea and scoured the arrayed clothes to inspire an answer.  Like, what the hell did Cindy wear to her prom?  Did Cindy even go to her prom?  I felt, momentarily, the yawning void of ignorance that shadowed my adopted past—a great gaping hole into which I was always at risk of stumbling.

            Fortunately, Mel wasn’t really paying attention.  Her eyes went wide.  She grabbed a dress.  “Oh—oh, this is perfect,” she said, and grinned.  “You’ve got to wear this, Cindy—promise.”

            I hadn’t really been listening.  “Uh, sure.  Yeah.”  Anything to divert questions away from the past.

            “Promise?”

            “Yes.”  I blinked.  “No—wait, what?”

            She held up the dress.

            Emma bought a shiny skirt; Willow grabbed oversized hair scrunchies.  And I bought the dress.

            Afterwards, we moved on to underwear. 

            More giggles then, and sideway glances, bit lips and inquisitive stares; odd silences; lingerie held up against bodies and always the unspoken question: dare I wear this? Can you imagine?  Will I feel sexy in this?  Will I get laid in this? 

            There was the bodysuit that defied understanding—how to even get into it?—and the lingerie that insulted the wallet—how could so little cost so much?  Tension broken with manhandling sex toys, an impromptu sabre-fight broke out with floppy-shafted dildo the size of forearms. Sexy costumes followed: naughty schoolgirl; French maid—Emma held one up to me and giggled.  “You should wear this to the Halloween party next month,” she said.

            And when the other two sifted through discounted nightwear, Mel sidled up to me and with a surreptitious tug at the elbow pulled me into a crimson-hued side room.

            “Pretty fucking freaky, huh?” she said, and there was a wicked gleam in her eye as she scanned the room and then looked at me.  Lifelike mannequins, mostly big-titted female, a few well-hung male, one or two ambiguous, stood or knelt or were otherwise posed in positions of bondage or punishment. There were harnesses and handcuffs, gags and plugs, whips and crops, cages and canes.  Leather and steel gleamed, and whilst black dominated, pinks, whites and reds burst like extravagant flowers in a Gothic midnight garden.

            “How’d you like this?” Mel asked, drawing one finger along a sleek-looking collar.

            I pursed glossy pink lips in silent disapproval.

            “You’re such a prissy little bitch, sometimes” she said, buying it anyways.

            Sitting now, immersed in soothing music a week later, body humming with the lassitude following the excesses of drug and drink, I wore the dress she’d chosen and felt her collar at my neck, cuffs at my wrist, steel d-rings and leather hidden under layers of fluffy pink armbands chosen by Willow. 

            Tugging absently at the pink at my wrist, touching the oversized scrunchies holding my hair high in two extravagant pigtails streaked with further pink and purple, I felt the return of that earlier wonder, and marvelled to find myself here, dressed in this way, so cute, so sexy and yet—still male, somehow, beneath all these layers of feminine frivolity.

            The cuffs were tight though not uncomfortable.  I pulled the pink armband aside and contemplated the faux-leather beneath and their gleaming D-rings.  They were part of a harness set: a separate belt held wrists clipped at the hips or behind the back, with another leather strap stretching tautly along the spine between shoulder blades to the collar at the neck; and I suddenly imagined myself kneeling and naked in harness, breasts thrust forwards and elbows held back, wrists at side and chin held high… I licked my lips and shivered despite the warmth of the pod and the glow of the sun on the giant screen overhead.

            Thoughts turned to earlier tonight, to the hours before catching the cab to the club.  First, the anxious bus ride to the girls’ place for pre-drinking and prep. We crowded in the tiny basement apartment they shared a few miles from our work offices. A little drone-delivery food—nibbles to soak up the booze, but not enough to bloat, girls’ clubbing outfits were fucking unforgiving—and drinks and singing and drama. 

            Emma knocked back two glasses of white wine spritzer and had a meltdown and locked herself in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. (“She fucking does this every fucking time,” Mel confided.)  At twenty-four, Emma was the oldest of us by a year.  She was very beautiful, thought she was ugly, and was in desperate need of a win after getting dumped by her long-term boyfriend six months ago. She was the tallest of us and so Mel teasingly called her “mom” and a string of unsatisfying one-night stands had left her weary and wary and desperate.

            Meanwhile, Willow was quiet and shy—the absolute mistress of the demure glance, the cute bashful blush—until she got drinking; then she never shut up.  She was a tiny little thing—even shorter than me—and cute, giving off a real tomboy vibe. (“She’s even more girly than you,” Mel said.  “All frills and lace under there.”)  She had long straight black hair, dark eyes and had an unnerving tendency of intensely staring during conversation.  She drank beer, until she got drunk, and then drank the sweetest, girliest drinks on offer, at which point she became wonderfully foul and swore like a sailor.

            And then there was Melanie.  Mel was a bitch, a sexy, angry, insecure mess of self-destructive impulses, unrealized potential, and sharp intellect pointed inwards.  She’d long ago assessed what she saw within, found it wanting and lashed out, projecting her disappointment on others. I hated her when I first started working at V.I.: manipulative, condescending, at times cruel—but since she’d welcomed Cindy into the group, also helpful, fun and—where and when no one could see—genuinely and deeply caring.

            God, how I wanted to fuck her.  Frankly, there wasn’t one amongst them I wouldn’t have rapturously screwed until they begged for more and screamed my name.

            Instead, I was doing Willow’s lips for her.  “You’re so good at this,” she said.  “How’d you get so good?”

            “Shut up,” I said kindly, switching from pencil to brush.

            “Because she’s a prissy little princess,” Mel added, topping up my glass.

            “Thanks.” I took a sip.  “And fuck you. You’re next.” I waggled the brush at her.

            “Whatever, bitch.”

            “I hate my nose,” Willow said.

            “That’s what contouring’s for, babe,” I said.  “But you don’t need it.”

            “You’ve got to let me do your hair,” Willow said.

            Mel rolled her eyes.  “Will….,” I warned.

            “I’m thinking pigtails,” she said.  “And pink!”

            I groaned and finished off her lips and felt—weird, so out of place in that cramped little apartment with these three girls preening and prepping for a night out.  I was one of them—or Cindy was—and yeah, it was fun, especially after a couple of drinks helped me relax—and with nothing to hide between my legs a lot of the stress was gone.  But an insane ambivalence remained.  Yes, I was one of these girls, pretty and more than a little vain, fussing with my hair and anticipating—fuck, I didn’t know; a good night out, whatever that meant. 

            But at the same time, buried beneath the layers of makeup there remained a thirty-nine-year-old man and he felt utterly bewildered to find himself caught up in all this.  It’s like, Willow was only twenty-one, Mel twenty-three and while I wasn’t quite old enough to be—I don’t know, their dad—I felt moments of insane protectiveness for these girls I’d gotten to know over the past month.  Since they’d taken me in, we’d shared lunch at work; gone out a few times in the evening; gotten drunk. 

            I liked them.  They were good people.

            And if not exactly fatherly, my instincts were at least brotherly, at times. I wanted to shield them: from the shitty, stupid world that could convince Emily she was fat, Willow that her nose looked funny, or Mel that she wasn’t worthy of respect.  I wanted to protect them from men—like me, who’d fuck them and forget them.

            At the same time, I wanted to be that man, to ravage them, all of them.  Especially as we moved into the final phases of getting ready and they all but pranced about me in their underwear, Willow rolling stockings up her legs and snapping them to suspender tabs and Mel closing the long row of hook-and-eye fastening of her black bustier.  Emma emerged from the bathroom, all micro-dosed smiles and resplendent in an ivory long-sleeved body embroidered with floral details. 

            God, how I wanted to grab Emma and fuck her then and there, grab her by those gorgeous wide hips and smack her ass and fuck her until she screamed my name and forgot those bastards who’d treated her so badly in the past.  I wanted to lift Willow up and slam her up against the wall and pound her so that the room shook and she squeaked and squirmed around my cock until her eyes rolled back into her head and she cursed me in an unending flow of ecstatic profanity.  And Mel—fucking Melanie—I’d silence her but good, shove my dick down her throat until she choked and her eyes watered, then flip her onto her back, spread her wide and show her just how damned awesome she really was.

            Instead, I squeezed into my own little dress and Emma did the zip at the back and the whole time my body hummed with horniness and I grew damp at the crotch.

            And that was then, hours and a drug-fuelled dance floor lifetime ago, and this was now; and for fuck’s sake I was still turned on.  The tingling remained.  I was still aroused.  Hornier than ever.  I raised a finger to my lips and swept it across my cupid’s bow and shivered at how good it felt.  There remained an eagerness to feel something against those lips—or between them; and the same down below.  There remained an eagerness to fuck—or be fucked. 

            What remained of a rational brain insisted: Well, even drunk and drugged, that sure as hell isn’t happening tonight. 

            And yet….

            I raised my head, tossing back dangling pigtails and looked along the length of the lounge.  The illuminated backdrop shifted, flaring into brilliance as the view swept across a crystalline sea reflecting the clarity of a clear sun set in an azure sky over a golden beach.  About half of the other pods were occupied, some by intertwined bodies moving in slow unison, others by sad, silent individuals like me. 

            Directly opposite me sat a boy.

            He wasn’t much to look at.  Under the light of that imagined tropical sun, he looked pale and a little scrawny.  Short, sitting cross-legged in his pod, leaning back, eyes closed.  Young-ish, probably early twenties, and he hadn’t made much effort to dress up for the night, wearing what looked like a fresh pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt.

            My head lolled left, and then right.  On one side, the next pod over was empty.  The other side, a girl slumped deep into a pod’s recesses, legs in fishnet tights and heavy boots sticking out in a stiff horizontal ‘V’. 

            The music ambled into something a little darker in contrast to the sunny display, deeper droning balanced against tinkling ethereal textures.  I turned back to the boy, finger tapping against my lip.  His dark hair was shaggy and unkept, falling freely across one eye.  The look suited him.  Rather than scrawny he seemed slim, tall, and ascetic-looking: an artist rather than a player.  There was a little stubble to his chin; too young to grow a beard, or two lazy to shave before a night out.  It really wasn’t fair—I spent hours getting ready and this jackass just sauntered in wearing jeans and a t-shirt.  He probably hadn’t even showered.

            Annoyed by this silent boy’s implied insult, I huffed and turned away.  Suddenly aware I was still softly sliding the pad of one finger along my lips, I stopped and reached for my bottle.  I took a sip of water.  I squeezed my thighs together and placed my little clutch purse on my lap.  It was a miracle it hadn’t been lost or stolen.  Studiously ignoring the flashing lights of unread messages on my phone, I pulled out a lipstick.  Slowly, enjoying the sensuous slickness of its application, I touched up my lips.  Digging out some gloss, I put that on too, and it also felt and tasted wonderful.

            The brilliant sun overhead began to set.  The sky deepened into the purples of twilight, transitioning into the velvet hues of night.  My eyes were drawn to the boy again.  His stubble suited him.  In his own way, his look was as calculated as my own.  A bit haphazard sure, lazy in appearance, but that was an affected look in itself, the carefully calculated indolence suggesting an intellectual superiority to the frivolity of fashion.  It was the male version of the no-makeup makeup look; I got it.

            His stubble offset a gentleness suggest by surprisingly full, almost feminine lips—probably soft, certainly kissable.  Slender arms indicated he wasn’t much of an athlete, so not one for the gym; that was disappointing.  Cute, but not muscular. 

            Wait, what—cute? Kissable?

            The sun set.  A full moon rose in its wake and under its reflected glow I began to see him more clearly.  Yes: cute; disconcertingly so.  Undeniably a bit geeky: the jeans were a little too fresh, a little too blue and looked as though they’d been picked out for him by his mother, or maybe a well-intentioned but equally geeky female friend.  He had a backpack in the pod with him.  Curious, that he’d hadn’t had to check it in at the door.  It was decorated with a dozen little metal pins: from concerts? Favourite shows? Declarations of political idealism?  The more I looked, the more character I saw to this boy, the more intriguing he became and consequently, that little bit sexier. 

            And I was still dabbling my lower lips with a finger, thighs tightly squeezing together, and a slow, hot flush built at the neck and spread across my chest once again; and I was still tingling and yes, I was growing wet again, embarrassingly so.  The moon reached its apex and cast its full bright glow down up on us, and I realised that the boy was awake.  Eyes open, he stared back as candidly as I stared at him.

            I wanted him.

            God how I wanted him and fuck me and fuck the booze and fuck the drugs but—yeah: I wanted him; and lucky little shit that he was, in the right place at the right time, this cute young man was going to get his cock sucked tonight.

            I’d always half-believed that getting laid was the easiest thing in the world for a girl, especially for any half-decent looking one.  And Cindy was a hell of a lot more than just half-decent.  Of course, I only half-believed because I knew this wasn’t entirely true.  Even for a sexy woman, guys could be infuriatingly inconsistent.  Come on too strongly and they’d run for the hills.  Wait, and the guy might chicken out and never make his move.  Speak too coarsely and risk offence; too mildly, boredom.  To hear Mel speak, men were vile shits, an inscrutable mystery, dogs in heat, woefully inadequate idiots—and an inevitable destiny, a physical and spiritual counterpart forever just beyond her reach.  (That last bit only came out under extreme drunkenness, which I’d only seen a few times.)

            As for the boy sat across from me—how to cross the distance separating me from him?  How exactly does a pretty girl address a boy she wants to blow?

            How about: ‘Guess what? It’s you’re lucky day.  You’re going to take me home, and I’m going to suck your cock.’  My cheeks reddened.  No.  He’d be offended.  Too crass, too bold.  He’d think I’m drunk or off my tits on drugs—and he’d be right—and I’d probably terrify the poor thing.

            How about: ‘Buy me a drink?’ and work from there?  No.  He wasn’t the type to buy a girl a drink.  Too academic, too proud—like he was paying for something that ought to be freely given.  He’d be fully aware of the economic disparities between men and women but still find the societal expectation that he pay a tax on female companionship offensive.

            How about: ‘You won’t believe me, but I’m really a thirty-nine-year-old man.  Nearly a year ago I witnessed a murder and consequently, through a series of unlikely events, I’ve ended up in this hot little body.  Some girls from work have taken me out tonight with the express intention of getting laid and a night of drink, drugs and the proximity of all these sexy young people have left me incredibly horny and sexually frustrated and therefore, against all odds and for the first time in my life, I genuinely want to go down on a man, I want to take your dick in my mouth and suck and lick up and down your shaft and feel you shoot your load down my throat….’

            Squeezing thighs together even tighter, squirming a little in my seat, I released a shuddering breath.  Maybe no.

            I leaned down and unbuckled my shoes.  Hopefully, the boy caught a glimpse of my glorious cleavage as I did so. Taking those high-heeled sandals off was a blessed released.  I sighed with pleasure and stretched my feet and wiggled my toes.  Little sparks exploded at the back of my brain, a pale shadow of their earlier ecstasy.  Then I picked up my shoes and collected my little clutch and padded over to the boy. 

            The carpeting felt wonderful beneath my bare feet.  I managed to walk a straight line—mostly.              He watched my approach, face impassive.  He looked up at me in silence.  There was a hint of a frown at his brow, but his eyes seemed gentle and curious.

            I bit my lower lip with nervousness.  “Sorry,” I said.  Timidity trembled my little-girl voice.  “I am, but—would you mind if I sat with you?”  I smiled shyly and the embarrassment crept through.  “I—um, maybe drank a little too much.  Took some pills.  I crashed hard and…” Slender shoulders rose and dropped in a weak shrug.  “I don’t know you.  But you look nice and…”  I hugged myself and blushed a little.  “I really don’t want to be alone right now.”  I gestured with the hand holding the shoes at the space next to him.  Buried at the back of the pod sat his backpack, half open and spilling a laptop and books like seeds from an over-ripe fruit: Renaissance Self-Fashioning; Manufacturing Consent. “Could I—could I sit with you?”

            The boy hesitated, long enough for my stomach to twist and for me to begin feeling foolish, hyperaware of my half-nakedness and the showiness of my appearance.  The pause couldn’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, but it was long enough for me to suddenly feel… shallow, superficial; like a needy, desperate little girl; like a slut.  These dark thoughts crowded in; in his face I saw judgment and scorn; and I swear, I felt tears gather.

            And then: “Sure,” he said, and with that simple word he was utterly transfigured.  His act of simple generosity made of him in that moment the kindest—and consequently sexiest—man I’d ever met.  My whole body flushed, not just with gratitude but also with an unnervingly profound attraction to this person who’d spoken precisely one word to me.  “Grab a seat.”  Four words, now; and I’d have had his babies right then and there if I’d possessed ovaries and a womb and my vagina hadn’t been a mushroom-based prosthetic pasted over male genitals.

            “Thank you.”  I sat next to him.  It felt good sitting with someone.  Less lonely; dark thoughts lurking at the periphery retreated. 

            “I’m, ah—”

            “My name’s—”

            He laughed; I giggled.  “Um, ladies first,” he said.

            “Lucinda,” I said.  I held out my hand, fingers extended.  He looked at my shiny fingertips a little cross-eyed for a moment before taking them in his hand and giving a little shake. 

            “Jonas,” he said. 

            “Thank you,” I repeated and then I leaned into him.  He went stiff for a moment as I cuddled him, and then I felt rather than heard a chuckle pass through him.

            “Er—fine,” he said.  “This is fine.”  He relaxed, and his arm fell across my shoulders, and he held me gently but close.  I curled my feet up under me and rested my head against his chest.  “Um, Lucinda.”

            “Cindy,” I said.  “My friends call me Cindy.”

            “Cindy.”  His breath tickled my hair.  “Are you—okay?”

            I nodded, stopped and then shook my head no. 

            “Bruno—” He paused.  “That’s the bouncer. He’s my roommate.  He dropped you off here, asked me to keep an eye on you.”

            I looked up at Jonas.  “That’s very kind of you, Jonas.”  Reaching up, I brushed the back of my hand across his cheek.  “Thank you.”

            Frowning a little, he gently pulled my hand away from his face.  “My pleasure.”

            I blinked at my hand in his.  “You have a girlfriend, don’t you?”  I went wide-eyed and scooted away.  “Oh—oh, I’m so sorry, you—”

            “No!”  He exclaimed.  “No.”  A hint of bitterness scored his voice.  “No girlfriend.”

            “Boyfriend?”

            He smiled wryly.  “No, no boyfriend, either.”

            “Good.”  I smiled and leaned back into him.

            Outside the pod, the scene shifted again, sliding gently downwards into the sparkling sea below that resplendent moon.  At first the waters shimmered with the glow of the moon above, but as we descended through shades of sapphire, cobalt and ultramarine we entered a realm of glimmering darkness.  One by one, like candles at a midnight mass, tiny lights flared to life in the hazy darkness.  Growing closer, they resolved into jellyfish, hundreds then thousands of slowly drifting bundles of bioluminescence in pastel shades of peach and apricot.  They cast their glow across the lounge, and the soft light filled our pod.

            My breathing deepened and I remained transfixed by the spectacle.  His hand hovered then lowered onto my head.  Jonas gently stroked my hair.  I wiggled under his touch and sighed happily.  My hand touched his knee.  A moment later, his other hand rested gently on my hip.

            Something happened, then.  An echo of the night’s sublimity; held in this kind boy’s embrace under shifting kaleidoscope lights, I felt myself—sink—pleasurably—into a kind of happiness, but it was a happiness far removed from the night’s earlier ecstasy.  I slid within the boy’s embrace until my head rested in his lap.  He shifted slightly to accommodate me.  I felt—vulnerable—but now in a good way—and grew comfortably warm relaxing under his touch. 

            Yes, I was acutely aware of the boy’s touch at my head and at my hip, but in a happy way; his touch felt protective as we shared this moment together. Earlier on the dance floor I’d felt my girlhood as an explosive revelation, a frenzy of sequins, shimmer, and shine.  The feminine awakening I now experienced felt equally powerful and compelling, perhaps even more so, a deep roiling of the soul as I was subsumed in the sensuous surrender to this young man’s caring touch. 

            Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be taken care of in this way?  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to always feel this safe?

            Time flowed passed us as we watched the slow progress of jellyfish in myriad colours gracefully undulate through their dark depths.  In this silence, I head an inner voice wail. This weak and tragic moan came from some deep and dark corner of the soul.  The voice raved and pleaded.  Its protests were more frantic than during the delirium of the dance floor.  Crushed under the intensity of music and the press of young bodies, it had been easily ignored.

            The silence and peace of the boy’s touch created a space in which this inner voice could reach me. This quiet moment was powerful and seductive in contrast to the fevered pitch of Cindy’s early exultations. The voice knew where this scene could lead.  This voice understood where this quiet contentment must end.

            The voice of the man cried out—

            But there simply wasn’t room for him. Not now, as she lay with her head in the lap of this kind boy, his hand smoothing down her hair with calming, gentle strokes. Her body hummed with hormones and happiness, chemicals and booze, and wonderful lethargy pinned her to the boy’s lap.

            The voice cried—

            The boy’s touch brushed my temple.

            I looked up at Jonas and smiled.  “Thank you,” I said.

            “It’s….”  He struggled to say something and winced.  “My pleasure.”

            After another indefinite length of time, I withdrew from his lap. I sat with legs tucked beneath me and wordlessly reached for his crotch.  I felt there the familiar hardness I’d felt poking into the back of my head a moment ago.

            “Do you think I’m pretty?” I asked him.

            His eyed danced away.  His jaw clenched.  “Yeah,” he said.

            I slowly rubbed him through his jeans.  “You’re upset,” I said.

            His touch stilled the motion of my hand.  “No.”

            “You’ve been very kind.”

            He took a shuddering breath.  “You don’t have to.”

            “Don’t have to… what?” I asked in my best innocent-girl voice.

            “Do… this.”  His hand retreated.

            “What if I want to?”  Without his touch stopping me, I resumed rubbing a regular, circular pattern over his groin. “What if I want to thank you?”

            “It’s not right,” he said.  “You’re drunk.  You’re fucked up.  You’re—” He took a breath.  “I’d be taking advantage of you.”

            And—I laughed.  I tried not to; but he just looked so tragic and serious that it was too much.  “Oh, Jonas,” I said, and leaned in close and kissed him on the cheek.  He flinched and pulled back, but only a little, and rubbed at his cheek where I’d left an imprint of lipstick and gloss.  “I’m taking advantage of you.”

            “But—”

            “Yes, I’m under the influence,” I said, and with a fluid motion I straddled him, settling onto his lap.  Sitting like this rolled the dress up around my waist.  I felt the roughness of his jeans against my bare bum, the nothing fabric flossing my ass doing nothing to protect my delicate bottom.  In the shelter of the pod, I was just another curvy silhouette, a backlit shadow of pigtails and glittering body. 

            “And yeah, I’m drunk and fucked up and whatever. But most of all, Jonas—” and here, I leaned in close and threw my arms around his neck, so that my breasts pressed up against his chest.  “I’m horny,” I whispered in his ear.  “And I want you.”

            His hands settled at my waist.  He wasn’t a large or athletic man, but Cindy was very small.  For a moment I thought he was going to push me off his lap.  I stiffened under his touch—not out of fear that he might hurt me, but because I feared his rejection. 

            Being pushed away by him felt as though it would make a mockery of everything I’d experienced tonight—as though somehow, this ridiculous young man’s approval meant anything; and yet it did.  It was irrational; it was stupid; and yet if he sent me away, I thought I might collapse into the lurking darkness of a trip gone bad.  In that murky headspace there’d be no hiding from the awful reality of what happened here—from the reality of my masculinity trapped in a sexy short dress, squirming in the lap of some young guy in an attempt to seduce him, driven by sexual frustration and a need to validate the feminine experiences of tonight. If he kept me, the trip continued; if he pushed me away, I collapsed in on myself.

            His fingers gripped me through sequins and mesh.  He groaned and his hands at my waist held me firm.

            And when I looked into his eyes, I saw that he was equally terrified. He didn’t know what to do.  He wanted me: the presence poking my ass was evidence enough of that. But he couldn’t take charge, bridge that final space between us.  It wasn’t weakness, just fear and inexperience, and I saw then just how young this handsome young man was, how vulnerable, how sweet.

            Dark thoughts and my own fear fled.  A rush of confidence filled me.  I grinned, wickedly, and brought my mouth close.  “I want this, Jonas,” I whispered, flicking my tongue out along the edge of his ear.  I felt delightfully powerful and in control.  I reached beneath my ass and roughly caressed the bulge I found there. “And so do you.”

            I crushed my mouth against his.  At first, his lips were firm and unresponsive.  A shudder passed through him.  Then, the boy’s lips parted and the entirely of his body relaxed.  We kissed, and his lips against mine felt wonderful.  The tingling haunting me all night brightly flared.  Heat blossomed in my chest and groin.  We kissed, and I moaned as I caressed his scalp and cheeks and attacked his face.  I left traces of makeup across his skin.  I pushed my tongue into his mouth and squirmed in his lap. 

            At first the boy sat passively.  I brought his hand to my chest.  His first touch was charmingly gentle. I leaned into his palm. As though shocked into life, his fingers curled into me.  I felt his grip through the fabric of the dress.  “Yes,” I hissed.  His touch felt fantastic but I needed more. With a sharp tug, my boobs popped free of the dress.  His eyes nearly popped out of his head.

            I giggled.  “More,” I commanded.  Like a penitent fearing punishment for their audacity, the boy’s first touch of my naked breasts was tentative, worshipful.  The caress of skin on skin sent a jolt down my spine.  Full of wonder, his hand explored my tit, travelled along the full curve, swept the contour and finally approached the peak.  First his finger then a thumb brushed across my nipple.

            I jerked and bit down hard on my lip.  His eyes went wide.  “Did it hurt?”

            Moaning through pleasure and laughter, I shook my head. Instead, I grabbed his head between my palms and yanked his face to my bosom. The boy took the hint; a moment later I felt his tongue lap at my tit and my whole body trembled.  When his lips closed around my nipple something inside of me turned to jelly.  I squealed and made other undignified sounds and buried my face in his neck and laughed as my whole body juddered.

            Deep down, I felt the impossible stress of sealed away and anesthetised balls straining to empty.  Without the possibility of a hard-on, my body was responding in strange and wonderful and frustrating ways.  With every touch of the boy’s hand or lips or tongue, nerve endings flared.  I whimpered with the desire for release.  But release remained elusive.

            With a wet pop, I pulled my nipple from his mouth.  He looked up at me wide-eyed, like a puppy’s whose favourite chew toy was taken away.  “Good boy,” I giggled, and tapped him on the nose.  His eyes widened even further as I slithered to the carpeted floor.

            “My turn,” I said.

            I looked up at him through heavy eyelashes.  He gave no sign of protest or resistance and instead looked down at me with the same disbelieving gaze of someone in a beautiful dream, afraid they’re going to wake up too soon.

            How many long-haired silhouettes had knelt between the knees of shadowed figure and bobbed their heads in rhythmic counterpoint to the music of this dimly lit hall?  And I was about to join them, another lithe body in a sparkly dress with moist lips parted in anticipation. How many this very night—or even right now, hair tossed back over shoulder as they buried their face in their man’s crotch?  Would our heads bob in unison, our hands curled in prayer-like worship around the veiny base of our idolatry? 

            On my knees, tits out and grinning like the proverbial cat, I reached for his belt buckle.

            He made a final, weak protest.  “You don’t—”

            “Shut the fuck up,” I said kindly and yanked his trousers and boxers down.

            The cock that popped out his pants was—gorgeous; I blushed to think it but there was no denying the beauty of this thing standing tall and proud before me.  I swear it glowed in the half-light of the pod and the surreal phantasmagoria of colours bleeding across the screen behind my back.  It wasn’t unusually large or small but appeared supernaturally well-formed and beautiful; as fine a specimen of manhood as I’d ever seen in the wild.  That tingling at my lips returned as did the delightfully heat and wetness between my legs.  A prickling warmth spread across my skin.  Again, the urge to feel something up against or between my lips.

            I licked my lips and stared.

            And stared—

            I willed myself forward—

            And trembled, fingers curling around the base of the boy’s prick.

            He brushed a stray lock of hair back from my eyes.  “Are you okay?”   

            Looking up at him, I swallowed and smiled.

            “Am I?”

            I nodded.

            “You don’t have to—”

            And then his cock was in my mouth and neither of us could talk.

            And for a moment I just knelt there between this boy’s knees with his nob distending my cheek, lips a painted ‘O’ around the girth of his cock and marvelled at the fact I held a man’s penis in my mouth.  A strange pride blossomed in my chest, a sort of ‘I did it!’ moment, ‘I really did it!’ And the expected squeamishness, shame or disgust never materialised. 

            At that moment, where I was and what I was doing seemed the most natural thing in the world.  What shame could there be in this?  I was sexy, I was young, and I was a woman.  And if that woman was on her knees in front of a boy who’d been really, really kind to her, well—why not go down on him?

            And as had happened before I felt pulled outside myself and looked in wonder at this beautiful scene: the rolled down sparkling dress, the bobbing pigtails and jiggle of full tits as she went to work.  Her bare ass gleamed briefly in reflected light from the screens behind but the scene shifted, dimmed and cast a private shadow over the room.  In this quiet darkness I heard the wet sounds of her ministrations.  She licked up and down the shaft and flicked her tongue along the rim of the helmet and again engulfed the head in her mouth.  She hummed in satisfaction as the boy threw back his head and slumped half-insensate into his seat.

            And—I didn’t want to be outside the moment, I was part of it and then it was my lips wrapped around this boy’s cock.  I felt his length slide sensuously between my lips and shuddered at the sensation.  Holding him in my mouth, my tongue fluttered and pushed against the unfamiliar presence and slowly I pulled back until only the tip remained between my lips.  I grinned, and he groaned, and I took him in again as my slender fingers dextrously flitted up and down his length.

            He whimpered, and his hips twitched, and I felt the wonderful, impossible heat between my legs, and with one hand still massaging the boy’s balls the other disappeared beneath the hiked-up hem of the dress.  For an agonising moment I waited, one long, painted fingernail poised above the waiting slit.  I inhaled deeply, the musk of his manhood filling me and I eagerly sucked at his cock once, twice, established a bobbing rhythm and—

            —touched myself…

            —languidly dragged the waiting nail along hungry lips…

            —felt my pussy through the drenched fabric of my panties…

            —and discovered the little waiting button....

            My squeal dissolved into a sobbing moan of released passion and I melted, my deep, resonate groan vibrating along the boy’s shaft, my lips clenching tight, and his hips bucked, once, and he grunted and his hands suddenly grabbed me by the pigtails and held me firm and tight as he came.  Cum splashed the back of my throat, a wholly unexpected burst of sweet and salt, and I was so lost in the throes of my own released passion that I instinctively swallowed it down.

            Later, I sat in his lap and we cuddled under the fantastic scene of an alien sky in lavender and pink and—

Seven: Idyllic Little Scene

“Stop,” Julia interrupts.  “For the love of God, just… stop.”

            I lower my wine glass and watch her over its rim.  “What’s wrong?”

            “Jesus Christ.”  She shakes her head.  “Enough of this male power-fantasy bullshit.”

            I raise a sculpted eyebrow.  “What d’you mean?  There’s a boy, and I gave him a blow job, and after we—”

            “I’m supposed to believe,” Julia interrupts, “that you, David Saunders, a red-blooded, totally heterosexual man less than a year ago is now gushing over some kid’s dick, like actually salivating to….”  She trails off and frowns and then fixes me with a glare.  “I’m supposed to believe you’re this happy little cocksucker now, you blew this boy and swallowed, and then just cuddled up to him in some idyllic little scene of feminine submission?”

            I wince and carefully return my glass of wine to the table. “You don’t have to say it like that,” and I sound a touch more petulant that I’d like.  I’m feeling a little drunk after a few glasses.  “You don’t have to call me a cocksucker.”

            She ignores me.  “Your story’s bullshit.”

            “But you know it’s true,” I say, voice quiet and a little hurt.  “You’ve seen me.  We’ve gone out together, brought men home together. We’ve knelt side by side and… hell, you’ve seen me on all fours with a dick in my mouth.”

            “Is that what this is about?”  She’s angry and resentful, as though I’ve tricked her somehow.

            “No,” I insist.  “Like I said, this was the first time. We’re here in memory of David, right?  Well, that night did a lot to kill him off.  Like, a lot a lot.”  I gaze into the middle distance, a little wistfully.  “But it was a good night.  Even the lows, you know, the shitty parts just kinda made the highs feel all the better. It was the first time I can remember having fun being Cindy—feeling… wanted, as Cindy, and popular and part of something… feminine.”

            “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Julia says.  “You were just another skanky bitch in a megaclub full of assholes and sluts.”

            “Sure,” I say, and smile, “And it was a good night out.”

            She goes silent.  She picks up her glass of wine and realises its empty.  She gazes into it for some time before speaking, sounding hurt and resentful.  “Didn’t we have fun together?” she asks. She avoids my gaze.

            I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine.  “Oh, Jules.  Yes.  Yes; I’ve told you—those weeks together?  They were some of the best of David’s life.”  I reach for the nearly empty bottle and go to top up her glass.  She hesitates, then nods.  I pour her the rest of the bottle. 

            “But those times belong to David’s life—not Cindy’s.  Everything we did together, you and me, that was you and David.  It was David you wanted to humiliate.  It was David that you… liked.  Spending time with you was always a callback to the man I used to be, even when you had me mincing around your apartment in stilettos and a maid outfit.  Remember that?

            She smiles wistfully and nods. “Yeah,” she says.  “You looked great.  Good times.”

            “But when you weren’t around?  It was just me; David and Cindy; and usually that was okay but sometimes, it was awful.  Lonely, but also—dark.  A lot of anger.  So much resentment.  And fear, too, at what was happening.

            “And those girls? Those ‘bitches’ from work?  Well, they only knew Cindy and they liked Cindy and took me in and that night out was maybe the first time I enjoyed—really, really had fun—as Cindy.  It was the first time her—life? Her identity? The possibility of being her really came into focus for me.  And sure, the cocktail of drugs and booze and sexual frustration did a lot of heavy-lifting that night, but even afterwards, once I’d recovered a bit and could think back on the night, I thought: yeah, that was fun.  That was a good night out.  I enjoyed that. I want to do that again.  I want to be that again.

            “I’d never experienced that as Cindy before.

            “And if I’m going to be stuck this way for—who knows how long—well, maybe I can have a bit of fun with it, you know?”

            I fan my fingers out on the table and make them dance, dark fingernails glittering.  “Does that make sense?”

            Julia stares at me for a long time. “Fine,” she admits.  “Fun times.  Drugs and booze and dancing and pretty boys and—and all that shit.” She tries to keep it light, but I can hear an undercurrent of seething resentment in her voice.  “I’m happy for you.”

            “We could go, you know,” I say.  “Clubbing together.”

            She laughs. “I’m nearly twice your age.”

            “So? You don’t look it,” I say.  “And nobody gives a shit, anyways.”

            “Says the sparkly twenty-year old.”

            “You can be my big sister.”

            “And blow some boys in the back room?” She raises an eyebrow.  “Is that what you want?”

            “If you do.”

            “I’ll pass, thanks.”

            “Or we come home, and I eat you out?” I shrug. “I’m easy.”

            “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” she says, but smiles a little and reaches for her wine.  “This new you? It’s going to take some getting used to.”

            “No shit,” I say, standing.  I’m padding towards the kitchen to grab another of Julia’s bottles.  I’m working the corkscrew into the top of the bottle when I realize she’s followed me and is watching in silence.  I glance over my shoulder.  “Yeah?”

            Her eyes glitter in the dim light.  “I can still hear you—him, I mean, you know—his voice, sometimes,” she says.  She shakes her head.  “David comes through.  Sometimes I can even see you—the way you slouch in your chair or hold your hands.”  Julia points her chin at the way I’m cradling the bottle.  “You say he’s gone, that David’s dead but—he still haunts you.  The ghost of him, even after all this time.”  With that, she turns and returns to the table. 

            I take a moment to compose myself before following her back, open bottle in hand.  “This isn’t easy for me, you know.”

            “I can’t even imagine,” she says, and she’s eying me speculatively.  “It’s been fascinating watching you change, though.”

            I pour out the wine. “I’m so pleased you find me entertaining.” 

            “I still don’t buy it, though.”

            Dropping into the cheap plastic chair opposite her, I stretch out my legs.  “What, my first blowjob?  We’re back to that?” It’s gone dark outside as we move into the early evening.  My heels are starting to pinch, my stockings are bunching at the ankle and my bra’s chaffing and I’m thinking, funeral or not, that I’d really like to get out of this tight dress and into something a little more comfortable.  My stomach’s grumbling and with nothing to soak up the alcohol I’m feeling a bit queasy from the wine. “Why not?”

            “The way you told that story?  It’s total male fantasy bullshit. The sweet nerdy boy with the gorgeous cock; the sexy little kitten, all wet and eager. You actually described his cock as ‘glowing,’ for fuck’s sake.”

            “You don’t think it’s believable?”
            She snorts.  “Outside of porno?  No.  Reality is a drunken fumble, a floppy dick and twenty minutes of slurping, bruised knees, an aching jaw and no payoff.  Reality is…”  She takes a deep breath.

            “This is reality: my turn to tell a story now, okay? Here’s the story of my first blow job.” 

            She takes a deep breath.  “I was seventeen. Mateo Hendrick. He was in my History class. We’d gone to see a movie.”  She pauses in recollection.  “Fallen Angels, I think, summer of ‘33. Not that it matters. We weren’t really there for the movie.  Anyways.  The cinema was mostly empty, you know, the way they always are after a pandemic and this was only a couple of weeks after everything opened up again. We sat at the back and at some point I decide, okay, here we go and I slide to the floor and pull his dick out.”  She chuckles.  “And that makes it sound easy but it wasn’t.  Barely any room between the rows of seats and I’d made the terrible mistake of wearing a skirt that didn’t stretch.  And I’d been building up to this all week, right, reading all this shit about what to expect, and I was wondering what he’d think, and how I’d feel and I was nearly shaking with nervousness.

            “But what I remember most is the floor being kinda tacky, there was some popcorn and some M&Ms crunched under my knee.  I remember he didn’t seem to have any pubic hair and everything I’d read led me to expect a big hairy bush, so that was weird.  Later he told me he’d trimmed, can you believe it? And so, yeah, I go down on him and it’s messy, it’s sloppy and I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing.  We were terrified of getting caught. His cock wasn’t—” she pauses to remember—"glorious; I barely even saw in the dark. But it smelled of sweat and he was so scared at first he could barely get it up. My jaw ached and I nearly gave up and my neck hurt. And when he finally came, after way too much effort on my part, I didn’t swallow and smile like some high-class prostitute—I gagged and ran to the goddamn toilet and spat it out and rinsed my mouth with Ginger Ale. It was gross. And we didn’t cuddle under a lavender sky—we watched in awkward silence as Zendaya and Cavill did their thing on the big screen, and I died a little inside from embarrassment.  It felt like I had a drop of cum on my chin for the rest of the night. I kept scrubbing at the spot until it hurt. So, yeah. That’s what happened.

            “Oh, Mateo,” she says and raises her glass of wine in a mock salute to the memory of the boy from her past. “You truly were a terrible boyfriend.”  She turns back to me.  “In other words—no; I don’t buy it.  Your story’s bullshit.  Drugs and booze be damned, no way your first blowjob was this glorious ecstatic experience, unless there’s something you haven’t told me.”  She leans forward a little and grins.  “Maybe David Saunders wasn’t the heterosexual alpha male I thought? Previous experience you’d care to share?”

            “Ha-ha.” I stick my tongue out at her.  “No.”

            “So, what really happened then?”

            I stare at her for a long time and she stares back at me and finally I sigh in defeat.  “Fine,” I say.  “You want the truth?”

            She nods, a little too eagerly.

“It was awful, okay?  Fucking awful.”

            “Go on,” she says, and I take a deep breath before telling her the story of the fucking awful blow job.