Monday Sneak Peek: Shopping with Julia (Patreon)

This scene takes places after David's given in to Julia's control. Obviously, wiping out the last remnants of his masculinity has to start with a shopping trip, right? After a few other visits, Julia brings him to a specific shops, for a little sci-fi worldbuilding--though this scene will surprisingly important further down the line

Enjoy; and as always, comments invited!

***

            She frowned and put it back on the rack and led me out of the shop. Her mood lifted instantly, though when she spotted an upscale boutique on the higher level of the mall. A quick escalator trip and we stood outside Hestia.

            Julia smiled. “Okay.  Now this should be interesting,” she said.

            This was the second thing that day that stuck with me. I eyed the shop. It looked expensive; expansive and well-decorated with a somewhat pretentious mythological theme going on, mannequins on pedestals like classic statues modelling overpriced though elegant evening wear for men and women. “What’s so special about this place?”

            “Come,” she said, grabbing me by the hand and leading me in. We passed through the ubiquitous security scanners and under quiet cameras into the store, and she pulled me towards a large, full-body mirror. “This is one of ours,” she said.

            “A mirror?”

            “Oh my, no,” Julia said, and her voice filled with pride. “Much more than a mirror. You know those display screens you’ve seen in other shops? The ones that project your image, let you try on virtual outfits without the bother of doing it for real?”

            I nodded. Useful, though the girls preferred the physical experience, the changing booth scramble, the awkward fit, the giggling reveal.

            “And you’ve probably had a few that made recommendations—A.I. powered ones offering shopping suggestions?”

            I nodded.  “Yeah. They suck.”

            “Not anymore,” she said, and stepped in front of the mirror. “This is one of ours; one of mine, really. I’ve been developing this for the past few years, and we’re trialling it in select stores. This screen’s linked into every camera’s that’s tracked us since we’ve entered. That’s at least eight separate feeds, each providing a unique data stream to the AI I’ve trained to run this thing. I’ve also arranged for special access to the whole mall’s security system, so that data’s available, too, dozens of further visual data streams to analyse. It’s also tapped our phones, any smart devices we’ve got enabled, and digs through any socials we’ve got set to public access. And if the project gets the go-ahead, we’ll tie all this to a proper data harvester service or two, access some of that juicy deep data on the consumer, everything from dating profiles to location services.”

            The mirror in front of her faded to a foggy grey—not a mirror, but a screen.

            “Now, the software I’ve developed brings this all together, connecting social media data with media res data, linked to the latest in facial and body recognition software. It’s analysing behaviour patterns exhibited during our time in the wall, and since walking through that entranceway. Teasing our correlations and trends. And it feeds this through its millions of parameters and….”

            The fog on the screen faded, and there stood Julia, or rather a digital projection of her. She wore an elegant midnight blue halter dress, a sheer lace panel veiling her bosom, and star-burst patterns exploded in glittering gold sequins across her waist and skirt. The dress swept down to her ankles and a single high slit revealed medium-height heels and sparkling dark nylons. The image moved as she moved; and she looked amazing.

            Julia beamed with pride. “It’s recommending this dress because it knows I’ve booked us in for a theatre visit later this week. It’s chosen something at a price point it knows I can afford. The style and colours are influenced by the recognition software that slots me into one of thirty-two distinct consumer groups—we’re working on making that more granular, feed it more data to create exponentially more specific and identifiable consumer types, segregated by gender, age, class, race, occupation—by where they eat, where they go, the movies they enjoy and who they fuck.” She smiled. “Correlations between these data points create ever more precise recommendations, and purchasing patterns can return ever more relevant and applicable data back to the store owners.”

            Hands on hips, she turned this way and that a few times and gave a single, curt not. “I’m going to buy this.” Then she hesitated, gnawing on her lower lip, and turned to me. “What do you think? It’s not too… much?”

            “It’s perfect,” I said and meant it.

            Julia nodded, seeming pleased as she stepped away.  “Your turn.”

            The screen fogged over, like a magic mirror from a fairy tale, and the mists churned portentously. Plucking nervously at my sleeve, I glanced aside at Julia, who frowned slightly. “Is it working?”

            “Give it time,” she said. “We’ve had some buffering problems.”

            The fogs parted. And there I stood—in a man’s suit.

            The digital image only lasted a second. But for that second, Cindy stood cross-dressed in a tailored men’s suit, navy blue and pinstriped, cut to slender curves, standing solidly in wingtips with a heavy watch at her waist.  She wore a pastel tie and a crisp, light blue men’s shirt, the curves minimized by her blazer, single button fastened beneath her breasts. A darker shade of blonde swept her shoulder, and her makeup was subdued. Undeniably female, but incongruously so, and my heart hammered in my chest at the momentary reminder of my masculine past.

            Just as quickly, the projection flickered: Cindy, almost spilling out of a sparkly pink minidress, thin straps delicate over her shoulder, pigtails and shiny lips, cork wedge heels. It wavered and flickered again: flared jeans, tight bum, Sin-DI t-shirt and peep-toed stilettos. And again: knee high boots, beige skirt, curvy under a tight sweater and wide belt, autumn colours trench coat and a cute beret. Then Cindy, again in boyish clothes with a feminine flair, cargo shorts, baggy shirt, short-cropped hair but bright lipstick and long, painted nails.

            I looked to Julia. “What happening?”

            “I—don’t know.” She looked pained. “It’s… confused.” She frowned. “You’re confusing it.”

            The screen wavered a final time. Once more a mirror, it reflected: me. Pink-and-black jumpsuit, loose-flowing hair, and an expression of mild panic.