Monday Sneak Peek: Second Life (Patreon)

Another sneak peek of the current chapter, working through the crucial three-week period when Julia returned and took over David's life. As always with these things, this is stuff in an early stage of writing; it'll go through a few more revisions (and possibly, some major changes) before being ready to publish. Enjoy, and if you like, let me know what you think!

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            That was Cindy’s first life across the month of October, largely unchanged, the whole messed-up, single-white young female reality of it flashing by in a kaleidoscope of days and nights counting down to a six-month deadline. And that life was dull, surprising, simple, amazing, fun, exhausting—in other words, a normal life—and in each day of that life there were moments of intimacy, frustration, joy and peace. To tell the story of each of those days would take forever, and looking back there is a sense of wonder that the stories of those days are my story, my life, a second youth refracted through female lens.

            I kept this life isolated from the other one. It was Cindy’s life and never shared with Julia, though her presence shadowed it. Julia never knew of the meetings with Mr Connor, and how the timbre of his voice trembled down my spine and I’d squeeze me thighs together and lean in closer to listen, biting down on a shiny lower lip so the pain would distract from the pleasure his presence brought me.

            Nor did I tell her about Jonas and our last night together, the memory of him forever mingled with the flavour of ramen and Japanese beer and the smell of fennel and nutmeg. My first blow job. The first boy to slide his finger in my pussy. The first boy I ever broke up with. He cried.

            Tuesday happy hour Daquiri with the girls at Calypso’s—another one of Willow’s ‘traditions’—she always wanted to start a new tradition—“we should do this every Tuesday! This could be our thing!”—though it never happen more than twice before she latched on to something else. I kept this from Jules, too.

            I never even told her about the double date with Emma, and how the next day at work I dragged her into the bathroom stall, locked it and brushed back her hair, and saw the bruise the concealer couldn’t quite cover. Her smile was sad and accepting. She shrugged and didn’t cry, though I did.

            That was Cindy’s first life; but her second life was also David’s life and spent with Julia; and Julia swiftly took charge of that life.

            The playful ambivalence of our earlier days together was gone. She made that very clear that first evening we met at Café d’Eon, the day after her return. There was no threat of handing me over to Steele, or turning me in to the police, or exposing my male previous identity. 

            “You do as I say,” she said. “Or we’re through.”

            We sat at our little table at the back of the café. We’d first sat here four months ago, when I tried to convince her that Cindy has always been a part of me—that David was the façade worn over my true self. She’d been angry, then. So full of spite and resentment and bile that there’d been no possibility of reconciliation, let alone trust. Had Julia gone her way four months ago, she would’ve let someone—anyone—possibly everyone know that the new, pretty young woman in the office had been born male. She would’ve hated herself for doing it, eventually. But she would have equally gloried in my destruction.

            Instead, I revealed my disguise and exploited her hunger and bound her to me. She needed me, to feed her anger and kindle her passion.

            And now, I needed her.

            Julia sipped her chai. In her fitted charcoal suit and heels, she presented a mature contrast to the outfit she’d picked for me.  Serious and stern, but then she removed her blazer and her black top, satin sheen and fitted, bared her left shoulder and softened her look: stern yet feminine, and I envied her. She sat comfortably, leaning back in her chair and a smile tugged at her lips as she gazed at me over the rim of her cup.

            Meanwhile, under her gaze I squirmed in my seat, though only a little. My feet ached, after a day in stilettos. My skin chaffed, after a day restrained by the girdle she’d found rolled up and buried at the back of my drawer. The stockings I didn’t mind so much—my legs looked fucking fantastic in them—but the clips holding them in place were shit, plastic rather than metal, probably the reason the undergarment ended up forgotten. All day long I’d made surreptitious adjustments to my stockings, twisting them back into place, or disappearing to the toilet to reclip. Meanwhile, the wholly-inappropriate-for-work thong disappearing up my crack ensured my ass felt uncomfortably chilly under the tight, abbreviated miniskirt she’d picked. I’d taken special care all day to avoid flashing my privates to colleagues.

            Meanwhile, management insisted on keeping the ambient temperature just a couple of degrees too cold for scantily-clad secretarial types like me. The men were fine, of course; the girls shivered all day. I’d have thrown on a jacket or something—but Julia hadn’t allowed me one. Meanwhile, the bra she’d picked, a gorgeous light blue, lace balconette, was more boudoir than boardroom. My nipples poked clearly through my high-collared ivory top all day. People noticed; I noticed people noticing; I spent most of the day in a hot, uncomfortable flush. Constantly aware of the eyes of men and women, I bristled under their gaze and hid my discomfort behind a bashful grin that was one-part embarrassment to one-part feminine shrug, ‘like, what can you do?’

            And I got it: her intentions were equal parts humiliation to discomfort, a reminder that I was, to put it bluntly, her bitch. I was constantly reminded throughout the day of what I was wearing and more importantly, why: because she’s told me to, and the thought of her never strayed far from mind. To be honest, even without the clothes my mind would’ve drifted back to her. She’d well and truly fucked me with the dildo last night. She’d dispelled the sexual fog of the previous weeks.  Yet somehow, I wanted more.

            “You look… delicious,” Julia said.