FanArt by Fraylim: School girl costume (Patreon)

More exclusive fan art by Fraylim. This one's from the hedonistic Halloween party at Volumina International, the one that leads to an unexpected and explicit encounter with Cindy's boss, Mr Connor. Here's the relevant extract from Constant 3, Chapter 2 that leads up to the wonderful image above:

***

            What could I do? I gave in and joined the girls 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.

            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 barely cleared my crotch and a g-string stretched tight between my ass cheeks. Even in that first week in September, after I got back? No. David, or at least some tattered remnant of his male ego, remained far too alive and kicking to put up with this crap.

            But by Halloween? Like I said, a lot can change in two shorts month—or even in a single devastating evening. I was still reeling from that final night with Julia. And it’s not like I wasn’t used to putting myself on display by this point. I’d been out clubbing a few more times and hit the bars on a Friday night with the girls. I’d even been out on a date or two, right? By the end of October, I was used to bared shoulders and bared midriffs, shorts skirts and long legs drawing the appraising look. I could flutter my lashes and smile coyly and blush demurely for the approval of men with the best of them and feel only a quiver of shame as I licked shiny lips and made eye contact.

            No. And it also wasn’t just the skimpy outfit that made the night so painfully humiliating at first, even though that was part of it. Nor was it how effortlessly I blended in with the other young girls, though that gnawed at me, too.

            So, what was it then that had me squirming and sweating with barely contained humiliation?

            The setting played a big part, I think. This wasn’t some noisy club or intimate restaurant, but rather work, the office, and I’d be seeing all these men and women again on Monday. And after tonight, surely, whenever they looked at me, they’d see—well, what they’d always expected, I guess. Like Dan: he was out there, too, and that rankled, and Anastasia sure as hell wasn’t with the rest of us office girls. Though when I imagined Dan comparing me to that bitch, I smiled wickedly.

            But maybe what really got to me was simply the sheer, audacious femininity of the event, the erotic sensuality of these sultry outfits, the bared flesh, gleaming lips, and mincing and flouncing steps: prettiness bound and captured by social convention and restrictive clothes. Or perhaps, the recognition that these costumes and the exaggerated parts played this night by these girls existed on the same spectrum as daily life. What difference, really, between Halloween sexy secretary and daily mundane secretary, but for a few centimetres shaved off a skirt and added to her heels?

            And I say ‘these girls’ but of course I was one of them, and maybe that was it: these fucking festivities forced a simple, painful awareness of self. We were all wearing costumes, but mine never came off: day and night, I lived my disguise. Only, at some point over the past few months my everyday workday clothes had stopped feeling like a costume, nor Cindy a role I was playing. Slipping into my outfit that night alongside the other girls was a painful reminder of who I once was. There was nothing to do with this masculine resurgence but grimace and swallow it down and feel sick.

           

           

            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. And while the reality had far more swearing, bitchiness, and elbowing for space—tears and fears, jealousy and resentment, humiliation and indignity—the booze and drugs flowed copiously enough to burnish those rough patches into something bright and pleasant, or at least tolerable.

            My lithesome form in the gentle glow 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, a gaudy explosion of girlish entertainment for big bosses, clients and agency employees outside—the MC heralding our arrival—and we tittered and blushed and prepared ourselves.  It was fucking insane, finding myself 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 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. Some, like Mel, hardened herself to the event through disdainful arrogance. More were like Emma, a flustered mess falling back on chemical confidence to get through the night. Two weeks ago, I could’ve pulled off a Mel but now felt more like Emma and 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.

            Hours of drinking and dancing followed, of leering conversations and unsolicited touches we couldn’t refuse, of brief breaks to primp, 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. Dialogue, but not conversation: 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. Some hinted; others said it explicitly. 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 in girly pairs or trios: fixing makeup, fixing costumes, fixing attitudes. Rallying, and ever spiralling into deeper drunkenness and despair.

            Vague memories survived of Dan, dressed as a surgeon, eyes wide with lust; Red-Riding Hood Anastasia, wolf pelt draped over one shoulder, sneering; Sarah the office manager, a French Maid bent over a table; then someone dragged me to meet one of the new bosses and I sat on somebody’s lap with their erection poking my ass. Phones snapped photos. Lights flashes, music swelled. Dan dragged me into a corner, me tripping on my heels confused as he tried to talk to me alone. Then suddenly, Mel. Then Emma, crying in the corner. The room whirled. The room skipped and dipped.

            Until finally—I broke away for a breather. Tunnel-vision staggering, girl-colours effervescing at the edges amongst faces—some leering, some concerned, other appraising or disdaining. Mouths moving and words unheard as I slid through the crowd. Then, suddenly, a bathroom somewhere, another floor, soft golden lights and calming music, an oasis of peace. I stared into the mirror and wondered how I’d gotten here. Fumbled in my purse and fixed my makeup. Spent ages on my lips, meticulously balming, outlining, filling, plumping and glossing until they glistened invitingly.

            I rode the elevator down to Volumina International, sharing the space with a sexy cat and near-naked xenomorph dry humping each other in the corner. Even back in my usual offices, there were people slithering in or out of costumes, or sneaking into darkened corners or empty boardrooms. 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’d left buried at the back of a drawer, slipping it into the safety of my bra.

            That’s when I saw Mike was in his office, the door ajar.

            And so there I was, standing outside my boss’s office in a slutty little schoolgirl’s outfit, hair in bouncy pigtails and swaying in stripper-high patent leather Mary Jane platforms. I steeled myself for what came next. I hugged my bared midriff and saw in the polarised office windowpanes my plunging cleavage, white bolero crop top tied off beneath my tits with more than a hint of under-boob visible. A mockery of a tie hung around my neck and shimmering ivory stockings clipped to pink garters rode up beneath my micro-mini pleated skirt. Finally, my g-string—and its tiny triangle of pink satin barely preserving my modesty up front—plunged deep between the pert perfection of my ass cheeks.

            A moment’s hesitation—long enough for a final check and tweak of my appearance in the glass—and I slipped through the door into Michael’s office.

            “Hiya, Mikey,” I purred, pulling the door shut and locking it behind me.