Sneak Peek: Halloween Party (Patreon)

With the completion of this scene, Chapter 1 will finally be complete! I probably shouldn't have posted the chapter earlier this week - it was a bit premature, and still riddled with minor errors. Once this scene with office boss Michael is complete, I'll give the whole chapter a final pass to make sure the new scene integrates properly and then post the completed chapter here.

It's a scene I'd been looking forward to writing for ages--it had been lurking in the back of my mind, incomplete, since the earliest days of writing Constant. But the natural flow of the "funeral" chapter made it hard to fit in, initially. My worry is that, when it's done, the scene will sit a bit discordantly alongside the nightclub scene--too much partying back to back, maybe? On the other hand, it also builds up hints of events happening later in the chapter that hopefully explain David's behaviour.

In any case, here's a sneak peek of the scene, running from Cindy's first day back at work up to MIchael's office. I've cut it off there purposefully--have to keep some surprises for when the completed chapter is posted!

***

 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, surprise—or terror? so hard to tell them apart sometimes—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. He leaned back in his chair, leg crossed ankle to knee. He flashed a wide, welcoming smile and waved me forward.

            “Thank you, Michael.” I trotted through his door, plucking nervously at my skirt. “I, um… appreciate it.”

            Something like annoyance flashed across his eyes. “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. 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. 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 any measure 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 less than a year 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 excruciating. He was, more than anyone else I knew at that time, a living reminder of what I’d given up professionally.  His authority and confidence highlighted my weakness and irrelevance.

            He sat there behind his desk with… conviction; he had the aura of a man who knew he belonged. 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 command, an appealing empathy.

            Meanwhile, I came off as… what? Delicate in comparison to his strength and my very appearance suggested an inward-looking vanity, surely? Insecure even in my footwear, towering heel better suited to fashionable sitting than prolonged posing. Standing opposite my boss in miniskirt and heels, I felt my enforced femininity as a stifling weight, a pressure in my chest that left me anxious. I presented as half his age, curvy, small and fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot as my manicured nails twisted into the fabric of my skirt. With his eyes on me, I felt a galling instinct to check my makeup or smooth my hair.

            My nervousness wasn’t entirely performed. It was my first face-to-face with a man—a real man, anyways, not some pathetic leering pervert on the bus or ground-floor security guard—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. He eyes remained friendly, though his voice turned stern. “Let’s not forget the formalities. It’s ‘sir’, or Mr Connor.” He smiled. “Understood?”

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

            I bit my lower lip and nodded. “Sorry. Um, sir.”  I glanced up at him through long lashes and added, brushing hair away from my eyes, “Is everything okay, Mr Connor?”

            He looked 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 expression softened slightly. “Though I hope the time away was beneficial.”

            “Yes, sir. It was.”

            “Good.” Then his smile hardened. “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, have you.”

            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. “Does that sound 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 forward to look.  “That’s the first draft of the emissions report.” I tapped the tabs on the screen, quickly swiping through rows and columns of data. “Scope 1, 2; wait, what the hell?—Christ, Scope 3’s a fucking mess.”

            I slapped a 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 these past few months. But you can imagine my surprise when I went digging through files 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 here and there, gentle nudges connecting people.”

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

            “Quite the opposite,” he said.

            My first meeting with Mike—I mean, Mr Connor—ended with a job offer. He offered Cindy a promotion: Internal Comms. It was a bit of a bullshit job, frankly, a real girl job: easing interactions between staff, enabling communications, helping managers and directors link up. But for Cindy it was a golden opportunity. There’d still be occasional receptionist duties—“you’re too pretty for us to lose you as the face of V.I.,” he told me—but also additional responsibilities, and a small 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 that early September stage, 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, 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 rising through the corporate ranks?

            “Because I want to have fun,” I told him, and coiled my hair around an index finger. I flashed a bright smile. “I don’t want the responsibility.”

            Which he seemed to accept, and God knows I did my best over the next couple of weeks to live that lie. I had fun, and lived the life of the cute, twenty-year old party-girl, the responsibility-adverse, thrill-seeing, boy-chasing, sparkle-and-shine enthusiast. But through it all, Michael Connor remained focused on what he must’ve seen as Cindy’s untapped potential. He took me on as a project. God knows why.

            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.

            Very quickly I learned the soft touch worked best. The few times I made overt suggestions—especially to male colleague—it didn’t go well.  At best, I was politely ignored, usually because they were staring at my tits or my lips and trying their best to not get caught. At worst—well, after being told “shut up, bitch,” a few too many times, you pick up on the subtext and keep your opinions to yourself.

            Not that anyone would be that crude, of course. There are a dozen different euphemistic ways to tell a girl to shut up and fuck off. I felt them all, and resented them, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it but flush hot red under my makeup, swallow down the anger and walk away. Sometimes I complained to the other girls over lunch in the canteen. Sometimes I screamed it out at home, or burned the anger on the treadmill at the gym. Sometimes, I hid in the bathroom stall and shook and struggled to supress surging emotions that brought tears to my eyes.

            And maybe that’s why I came to value my meetings with Mr Connor so much.  He listened. I began 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 subtle, 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. He made me feel valued for something more than beautiful hair or pouting lips. 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, “be careful,” 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, okay?

            I’d made friends, as Cindy; gone out, as Cindy; and experienced—other shit, as Cindy: that’s another story, obviously. The thing is, a full month into this side of the visit to the Clinic, my… relationship with Cindy had fundamentally shifted. Inhabiting her skin and her life felt materially different than it did that first day back.

            I say a month—but it was 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….

            Mid-October and perching at the edge of Mike’s 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 not? Seriously, why the fuck not? Why shouldn’t I flirt with the boss and have a little fun with it?  A little harmless fun and trapped in this life, why not eke out what little enjoyment I could?

            Because it was fun: Michael was just so damn serious, stoney-faced and intense, that it was hard not to poke a little fun at him and test the boundaries. I’d see how long I could get away with calling him “Michael” or even once, “Mike,” before he’d call me on it and thrill, just a little, at the rumble of his deep voice correcting my insolence.

            A few times, I sat at the edge of his desk as he showed me something on his screen, skirt riding high on pale thighs. Or I’d lean in close, blouse falling open—slightly—offering a tantalising hint at youthful full breasts and the lacy bra that held them.

            Once, I even rested my hand high on his thigh and it stayed there far longer than intended and his grip at my wrist, as he removed my hand, lingered, unexpectedly firm, thumb pressing and rolling over the small bones beneath the surface.

            Later that night, I remembered the moment vividly. Sitting alone in my little apartment, in the dark and staring into the night, I pictured his stern look and his—touch, hot against my skin, the vivid contrast between the slender, sparkly bracelet and his strong grip. Pearl fingernails and heavy leather watchband; woody musk and floral perfume; my breathe, caught in my throat, tip of tongue between bright teeth, glossy pink lips, and his steady gaze assessing me, something powerful and a little scary roiling behind those stormy-grey eyes. He didn’t say anything and with my breathe caught in my throat, neither did I. He held my wrist and after a long moment removed my hand from his thigh. He stared at me the whole time.  A muscle in his neck jumped and his nostrils flared.

            Then he let me go and resumed talking as though nothing had happened.

            That night, I recalled how profoundly turned on the encounter left me. And sitting in the dark, I realised that something had shifted deep inside of me, to find this man—this perfectly ordinary man—so erotically charged; because there was no denying that in his presence, my pulse beat that little bit faster and I waited, breath baited, for his validation.

            The distant lights of the city flared white against the underside of heavy clouds. The grinding thrum of an uncaring world swirled beyond my windows.  And I sat slumped deep in the soft embrace of my sofa with one hand kneading my breasts, and the other slid slowly across smooth satin pulled taut over engorged lips, and I thought of Michael’s strong jaw, and his deep eyes and of firm hands and I imagined—

            I imagined.

            The next week, he transferred my one-to-ones back to Sarah. It wasn’t just me: normally a dynamic presence in the workplace, he withdrew behind his closed office door. There was gossip, of course: problems with management, higher up; problems at home, with his wife; problems with his daughter, and her lifestyle choices.

            Whatever the problem, I was cut off. Part of me breathed a sigh of relief; another part intensely missed him.

            That that should’ve been the end of it. And it would have been, had it not been for the Halloween party that year. It conveniently fell on a Friday and the office was abuzz with talk of costumes and pre-party plans, and hedonistic stories of parties past unfurled throughout the weeks leading up to the night.

            My workplace, I discovered in the leadup to the end of October, was industry semi-legendary for its annual Halloween party. With a half-dozen major clients invited, and at least twenty creative agencies, and the full staff from associated companies distributed across several floors also attending—it was a big deal. Even the new high overlords following the takeover were going to be there, and they’d splashed out on what must’ve seemed an easy morale win. The event spaces a couple floors up were taken over by lavish decorations. Costumes were a must. Attendance was—well, for someone like Cindy, pretty much mandatory.

            And fuck me if Cindy didn’t cut a fine figure at the party that night.

            It wasn’t even my goddamn choice of outfit. All us office girls drew from a jar. Of course, we’d also filled the damned thing, outdoing each other in scrawling ever more daring costumes on little slips of paper. French maid, cheerleader, Sin-DI, sexy cat, or devil—anything, really, with the word “sexy” attached, that sort of thing. It was the usual deluge of sexualised, exploitative, demeaning shit that always seemed to target the girls more than the boys although—and maybe it was the booze and microdosed buzz of the night speaking—kinda fun, too?

            It’s not like anyone forced us to pick these costumes, right? Though telling, perhaps, that all the young office girls across the various floors and businesses ended up in costumes somewhere on that sexy-to-slut spectrum. And it’s not like any of the more mature women, or managers, the higher-ups and powers-that-be, wore anything as revealing or provocative as we did. No, it was purely an… indulgence? Of the young, the feminine and the frivolous.

 There was an expectation that the junior staff put in some effort; a tradition, that they take part in an opening catwalk display of Halloween regalia; and even hope, among some, of getting noticed by eligible higher-ups.  We were, clearly, part of the draw and part of the entertainment, colour and flare and flesh adding that frisson of naughtiness to the night’s fun.

            There were a few daring outfits, obvious, even among the upper ranks. Bondage-themed costumes were big this year, a general trend creeping out of the bedroom into everyday life; the Sin-Di effect, Julia called it. Lots of women in tight outfits, steel and leather, dystopian-inspired fancy or medieval reinterpretation: the COO’s wife swanned through the crowd in a big-breasted gilded breastplate with diamond nipples, steel cuffs at her biceps binding her arms to her waist: a golden Gwenevere tied to an aging Arthur.

            And among the men there was a lot of leather and straps, collars and cuffs, but even then—well, the men were mostly bare-chested barbarian kings or toga-wearing emperors; even in costume they maintained their power hierarchy. 

            Cindy was way, way down that hierarchy.

            And workplace expectations be damned, I hadn’t planned on attending. Office girl social pressures could go fuck themselves, I thought. I wasn’t looking to catch the eye of any young eligible stud out in the crowd—though I might’ve taken some pleasure in reminding that fucker Dan what he’d given up. But I remained man enough in the leadup to Halloween to think: no fucking way I’m taking part in this exploitative shit show.

            Funny how things change. One bad weekend, and my resolve crumbled. Crushed, I couldn’t muster the willpower to deny the other girls in the office. their pleading demands. They were concerned; they thought they were helping; “it’ll be fun,” the said, “it’ll get your mind off whatever’s wrong.” 

            I gave in and joined the girl that night.

            And okay, it wasn’t the first time I’d worn a skimpy little outfit, right? And Halloween sorta gave license to wear this kind of thing, made it… acceptable? But stepping out of the girl’s changing room that night—God—it almost killed me with embarrassment.

            Like, pre-Clinic, there’s no way I could’ve pulled it off—not with a cock dangling between my legs, not in a skirt that short. And even afterwards, that first week in September? Still no.  David, or at least some tattered remnant of his male ego, remained far too alive and kicking to put up with this shit.

            But by Halloween? Like I said, a lot can change in two shorts month—or even in a single evening.

            In memory, that changing room is some kind of fever dream of giggles, perfume and half-naked jiggling flesh; a freshman boy’s ecstatic fantasy of schoolgirl locker rooms. We did each other’s makeup and hair and helped each other into our ridiculous outfits and sucked in our guts, adjusted buckles and preened in the mirror.

            My lithesome form in the soft lighting of the changing room mirror was so fucking sexy I turned myself on. I still died a little inside from the shame of it all but even that—yes, even the full-body, stomach churning mortification of seeing myself so lewdly on display like this—simply added to the sensual quiver that coursed through me as I cocked one hip, tossed my hair and admired myself over one shoulder in reflection. I held one shiny fingertip to my lips and pouted, as the other shiny and pouty girls circled around me in their scant costumes, flashing tits and stockings and wide, disbelieving eyes.

            We waited for the signal to erupt from the room into the party, an incandescent explosion of girlish entertainment for clients and agency employees outside—the MC heralding our arrival—and we tittered and blushed and prepared ourselves.  It was fucking insane, finding myself as it were backstage with these girls. 

            I’d always been the one outside. Entertained, not entertainment; served, not the service, at least since I’d left those earliest days of David’s life behind.  And I’d been to plenty of wild, debauched corporate parties like this—just like this—only a year ago I’d been a samurai with topknot, kimono and obi, katana and wakizashi at my side, and an inscrutable expression as I sat cross-legged at my table and got absolutely shitfaced on an endless stream of tiny cups of warm sake. 

            Now I jiggled and jostled alongside the other girls, and fought against the rising tide of panic and anticipation and knocked back another shot to quell the fear. It wasn’t just me—I swear, half us girls in that changing room that night knocked back our SSRIs with shots of flavoured vodka and rode a soothing high into the rising swell of the party.  All these blissed out babes riding their buzz into that feeding trough of a party—and I was one of them.

            The signal came. I stuck a large, round lollipop in between my plump, red lips. On uncertain, coltish feet I pranced out with the other girls, and joined the party.

            An hour or two of drinking and dancing, of leering conversations and unwanted touches, of brief breaks to primp in the toilet, or breaking away for a minor tantrum, cry or rant—swelling gossip, lusty glances and hopeful approaches. The evening swirled around me. Always, a hand at the small of my back and a grinning male face, looming, joking, eyes burning with confident lust. Conversation, but not dialogue: nobody gave a shit what I said, but they wanted me near them as I said it. Men stared at my lips, my tits and imagined what I’d look like naked. Someone flipped up my nothing of a skirt. Another lunged for a kiss. A pinch here, a grope there. More shots, another pill. Brief escapes with the other girls: fixing makeup, fixing costumes, fixing attitudes. Rallying, and ever spiralling into deeper drunkenness.

            Until, finally—I broke away for a breather. Tunnel-vision staggering, girl-colours sparking at the edges amongst faces—some leering, some concerned. Then, a bathroom, somewhere, gentle golden lights and soft music, an oasis of calm. I stared into the mirror and wondered. Fumbled in my purse and fixed my makeup. Spent ages on my lips, meticulously outlining, filling, plumping and glossing until they glistened invitingly.

            On a whim I rode the elevator down to Volumina International. I wasn’t the only one—a few were already making their escape, or slithering in or out of costumes, or sneaking into darkened corners or empty offices. The floor was dark, illuminated only by security door lights and the occasional square of monitor glow. Guided more by instinct than rational thought, I passed by my desk. Collected something I wanted, slipping it into the safety of my bra.

            And that’s when I saw the light was on in Mike’s office, the door ajar.

            Which is how I ended up standing outside Michael’s office in a slutty little schoolgirl’s outfit, hair in high pigtails and swaying in stripper-high patent leather Mary Jane platforms. I stood and hugged my bared midriff and saw reflected in the glass panes of his office my plunging cleavage, and the shimmering white stockings clipped to pink garters riding up beneath my micro-mini pleated skirt and beneath it all, a g-string buried deep between pert ass cheeks.

            He’d tinted the glass office walls black, obscuring the inside, but I could see his heavy shadowed shape moving over near his desk.

            A moment’s hesitation—long enough to check my appearance in the windowpane, tweaking everything into place—and I slipped through the door into Michael’s office.

            “Hiya, Mike,” I purred.