Constant 3: Chapter 03-2 (Patreon)

The second, near-complete scene from chapter 3. This scene establishes Julia's dominance over David's life.

Of the individual scenes making up this chapter, this is the one I'm least pleased with. It's very much a bridging scene between her return, and everything she does with and to David. As the chapte grows in length, I fear some of the content below is first up for the chop. What do you think - is it good material, worth saving? Or easily culled to maintain pacing?

Warning: explicit details

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Two: The Story of Julia (Control)

That was the moment, really, that my life—or rather Cindy’s—and where does one finish, the other start? —split in two. Cindy’s life bifurcated, two roads diverging though somehow, I travelled both.

            Like, to speak of Cindy’s life is of course to speak of my own. But in that first month following the visit to the Clinic, the memory of maleness remained raw and insistent.

            Truth is, in those earlier days femininity still felt exotic. This may seem odd, considering how long I’d inhabited Cindy’s life. And certainly, what had seemed a strange and distant land, like a foreign country studied at school, had grown familiar. Once, those lands of girlhood were only glimpsed from afar; tasted in brief samples, like exotic foods at a pop-up restaurant. Now, femininity was all too familiar, a place so often visited it now felt commonplace.  I’d moved into temporary accommodations, unwilling to pack my bags with the certainty that I’d be someday leaving.

            The vagina forced on me changed everything. Yes, it made life so much easier, in so many ways. But that prosthetic was like a wound that could not heal. It reminded me of its existence every single morning. Every time I went for a piss, for a walk, pulled up my panties or became even slightly excited—I felt its presence, not just for what was there, but by reminding me of what was absent. It fundamentally altered the way I interacted with the world. I felt vulnerable in a way I hadn’t before.

            So, yeah, I’d been living as Cindy for nearly half a year already, but now I had this thing between my legs: a passport to an unwanted destination from which I was desperate to escape but could not risk leaving. And how much longer, before I became the expat, waking up one day baffled to themselves forever abroad, years older and trapped in their beautiful, comfortable but ultimately alien land?

            And so, on the one hand: life over the next few weeks continued as it had been. I went to work. I had my weekly meetings with Mr Connor and hung out with the girls. I met Jonas, went clubbing with the girls again, went on a double date with Emma. So, yeah—that all happened; and life shuffled on in its steady pace of days.

            There were comments, of course: ‘you seem happier,’ Willow observed one day, ‘more relaxed.’ ‘Who’re you fucking?’ Mel demanded. People noticed other changes, too. Emma envied and resented the daily fashion show of my life under Julia: “Oh, I love that outfit it’s so you, I couldn’t wear it, but I love it!” And even though Mr Connor, ever the stolid professional, never said anything I felt his hot and heavy gaze tracking me across the office more than once.

            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 first 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 resonated in that place between my thighs as I 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 taste of ramen and Japanese beer and 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 after I dumped him, even though I tried to be gentle.

            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. Otherwise, we defaulted to Noir, or Ennui or even The Bends on especially dark days. All this, too, I kept from Jules.

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

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

            The playful ambivalence of our earlier days together was gone. She made that very clear that 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 previous male 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. I’d sweltered in the heat of a summer’s day, then, makeup almost sliding off my face, sweaty under the prissy costume I’d chosen to convince her of my newfound femininity. Today, I shivered with the chill of the late autumn’s evening, more rain dashing against the café’s wide windows.

            Julia had been so 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. 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. I wanted out of the skirt, the garter belt, the tightness that restrained my stride to a mincing trot. 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 thigh-baring miniskirt she’d chosen for me. I’d taken special care all day to avoid flashing my privates, let alone stocking tops, 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 teal lace balconette, was more boudoir than boardroom and visible through the sleeveless, high-collared ivory blouse. The blouse buttoned at the back, tiny fiddly buttons that were a nightmare to do up with fashionable nails. My nipples poked clearly through all day.

            People noticed; I noticed people noticing; I spent most of the day in an 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?’ Remarkable, too, how in-demand I’d been in the office today, retrieving old files from low cabinets and delivering paperwork and coffees as I vainly held the back of my skirt down and minced about in heels that rivalled my skirt in length.

            So why’d I go along with it?  Because I knew where Julia was coming from.  Her intentions were clear; she told me, directly. “I want to humiliate you,” she said. “All day long, I want you to remember who’s in charge.” Equal parts humiliation to discomfort, my clothes were a constant reminder that I was, to put it bluntly, her bitch.

            Consequently, 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 that dildo last night. She’d dispelled the sexual fog of the previous weeks.  But in that fertile ground, she’d planted a desire for more.

            “You look… delicious,” Julia said. “So pretty in pink.”

            The hot chocolate was too sweet, adorned with sprinkles, marshmallows and whipped cream—she’d ordered for me. “What the fuck, Jules?” I grumbled, sitting with legs tightly crossed at the thighs, squirming a little. “I’ve been flashing headlights all day—Sarah even took me aside to warn me.” I blushed at the memory. “The office’s so cold and—”

            “Do you know why that is?” she interrupted. “The building’s environmental controls are run by a simple AI trained to constantly monitor who’s in the building and balance the temperature against current staffing levels. Fine. Women generally prefer the temperature to be warmer than men. Good. And there’s more women than men in the building, did you know that? A lot more, generally a 3:1 ratio. But then: why’s it always so goddamn cold?

            “So, I went poking around in the AI code and you know what I found? Staff were given different weightings, based on perceived levels of responsibility—read, importance: Director? 10. Manager? 5. Secretary? 1—if even that. Cleaners barely register. Can you guess which jobs the men have, and which jobs the women have? Exactly. Can you guess who determined the weightings? Got it in one,” she explained. With nearly every floor male-dominated in the high value categories, especially following the takeover, it doesn’t matter if women in administrative and secretarial roles outnumbered the men, not when it took ten secretaries to balance out one male asshole in the top job. And that’s why the temperature consistently skewed towards the male-preference of twenty-two Celsius vs women’s twenty-five.

            “Even if those fucking numbers were determined nearly a century ago,” Julia muttered. “And yes, the men can take off their jackets, and female staff are actually directed to wear skimpier clothing—but hey, let’s think about the men for a change, right? Because he’s worth it, he’s just so fucking worth it.” The last she spat venomously, face reddening with anger.

            I took a precarious sip of my hot chocolate, avoiding the slowly-melting mound of whipped cream. “Well, if you knew all that, why’d you dress me—”

            “Welcome to the patriarchy, David.”

            I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I get it; it sucks. Being female’s hard. But still, I look—” the word ‘sexy’ came to mind, and hot, “rude.”

            Her lips drew into a thin, displeased line. “Then go home,” she said. “Change. Wear whatever the hell you want.”

            I sighed. “And let me guess, I’ll never see you again?”

            She gave a curt nod.

            “Goddamn it, Julia, does it always have to be all-or-nothing?”

            At my words, her eyes flared. She leaned forward and spoke with chilling, restrained fury. “You hurt me, David. You hurt me—again.

            “Fourteen years ago, you fucked me and left me and ruined my life and I….”  She drew a hand across her face, and her earrings glittered and danced as she shook her head in disbelief. “I let you do it again. Two months and I believed—I wanted to believe—that you’d changed. That you weren’t the same selfish, arrogant bastard I’d left behind. And God, it was easy, so easy to fool myself, I mean, look at you!”

            She gestured with one hand, nails drawing purple arcs in the dim light as she indicated me, sat opposite, the very image of prissy pink femininity. “You had tits, for fuck’s sake! And when I found you in that bathroom stall you were this tiny pathetic little bundle, all tears and running makeup.”  Her eyes unfocused in recollection. A hint of a smile tugs at the angry corner of her lips. “And when I realised that it was you—and saw, afterwards, the clothes you wore and the way you performed at work or when we were out in public together?

            “It couldn’t all be an act, I told myself. You even told me it was an act, that you were doing it all unwillingly—but I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it.  And I didn’t want to believe it, at least not entirely.  Because you were just so goddamn good at it. Good at being Cindy. I didn’t think any man could be that convincing. And I thought…

            “I thought….” She trailed off, and when she focused her gaze on me her eyes smouldered with anger again. “But no. All that time, it was you—the same toxic dickhead who’d left me all those years ago. You hadn’t changed; you haven’t changed at all.”

            I plucked at my diaphanous blouse to hide the fact my hand was trembling a little. “Why’d you come back, then?” I asked, voice soft, eyes downcast.

            “Look at me,” she said.

            I did.

            “Because I still have feelings for you,” she said, and just like that the hard ice of her eyes softened, melted – her eyes glistened.  But there was still anger there, too – anger at me, but also anger at herself.

            “I—”

            “No.” She held up a finger to silence me, and then after another deep breath, continued. “That guy in London? Cameron. He and I dated, university days, and we both wanted the same thing when we caught up with each other. We went to Paris together. Little boutique hotel on Isle-St-Denis. You asked if I fucked him?  Yes, we fucked. We fucked like bunnies, David.      

            “We’d take a little stroll along the bank of the Seine, or up the Champ Elysee and browse the boutiques. Then we’d pick up a bottle of wine, some cheese and a baguette, and head back to the hotel. We feed each other stinky soft cheeses sitting by the balconette window and drink wine and fuck.” She watched me, checking for jealousy, for some kind of reaction. Meanwhile, I was thinking that while she was getting laid by this European boytoy, I too was getting impaled, my lips sealed tight around a boy’s cock.

            “And it was—fun.” She takes a deep breath. “And it was—unsatisfying.”

            I kept quiet.

            “This man was fucking me, and it felt nice, it felt good have a cock in me again, you know?” and the way she said it, her voice slid into that comfortable, conspiratorial space used by girls between each other: the exchange of feminine secrets, girl experiences outside the realm of men. I wanted to interrupt and remind her that no, actually, I didn’t know—but thought of Jonas, and swallowed uncomfortably.

            “And Cameron was… fine. Considerate. A bit quick on the foreplay, maybe. Energetic, a bit like a puppy. It all felt really good, really—healthy, maybe’s the best word for it. Normal and safe, right? And he came, and I did too, though not every time but even when I didn’t it always felt… pleasant. But those time when I did cum and cried out? When it happened…” she trailed off and took a sip of her tea. Julia grimaced at the bitterness. “I was thinking of you.”

            I didn’t say anything; what could I say?

            “So, here’s the deal,” she said, as we finished our drinks. Julia still wanted me in her life. At least, that’s what she said. And after last night’s fucking, she knew I wanted her in mine.

            On that point, she was absolutely correct. I just didn’t want her—I needed her in my life, at least for a little longer.

            “But I don’t trust you,” she said.

            She was right not to trust me. I certainly couldn’t blame her for that.

            “I want to make sure you can never hurt me again,” she said. “Or any woman, for that matter. You’re a shitbag, David, even sitting there looking like a college boy’s wet dream, you’re still a toxic little bundle of selfish, arrogant…. And I want to….” She swallowed against the anger and bile building up; she leaned forward, eagerly.

            “We’re going to salvage the good bits, David. I’m going to erase every last bit of masculinity, manhood, I’m going to wipe away the man you were.” She spoke with such eagerness spittle flecks her lips. “And I’m going to teach you, David, whether you want to learn or not. Teach you to be a good person. No—to be a good girl. A gentle girl, demure and compliant, considerate and soft, maybe even kind—yes; the kind of girl who so easily gets hurt by men, by callous dickheads like you.”

            I weathered her withering barrage. “And what happens in five months, Jules, when I get my male life back?”

            She shrugged. “Not my problem.”

            “And if I say ‘no’?”

            “Then go,” she said, “But if you stay, you do it on my terms. You’ll submit, and you’ll never hurt me again.”

            I stayed, of course, although she was wrong: I would hurt her again and she, me.

            We finished our drinks in heavy silence. Then we returned to her place, with an agreement, an explicit recognition of her authority over me. We sealed the deal with my lips sealed around the dildo she’s bought me. I’d carried it around in my purse all day, flushing a hot crimson every time I had to dig something out, like my makeup or mirror or phone. Mel saw it in the bathroom, when I passed her a tampon; she grinned wickedly at me but kept silent.  My main fear was Julia sending me instructions to use it during the day. She’d sent plenty of other instructions: when to freshen up my makeup, where and what to eat for lunch.

            But no. Today, she waited until we were back at hers.

            My earlier reluctance to use that thing myself? Gone. Under her watchful, appraising eye, I knelt on a pillow in her bedroom in just my bra and panties, in front of her full-length mirror. With her curt, specific instructions guiding me, I luxuriously fellated the dildo, licking and sucking and bobbing my head to the rhythm she set. When she ordered me to grab my tits, I did; and when she directed my hand between my legs, I found myself hot and wet.

            And when she ordered me to lie down, face in a pillow, ass in the air, I was ready for that, too and she took that realistic, fleshy toy and smoothly thrust it in once more, and almost instantly drew from my lips the rapturous cry.

            Afterwards, she ordered me a taxi and I got home late and exhausted, on wobbly legs with a series of instructions and a tight knot in my belly, one part anxious churning to another part perverse satisfaction.

            Looking back, there’s so much that amazes me about this period. The brevity of it, the intensity of that month. Not even a month: a short three weeks—twenty-one days that changed everything—changed me—utterly.

            The easy submission to her will, for one. Especially at the start, I saw through the fragility of her authority. She was scared and uncertain. Discipline and control did not come easily to Julia. She wanted to be strong and cruel, but she was at heart a good person and callousness did not come naturally to her. Though taking control wasn’t entirely new to her, dominating me was, and a tremor of uncertainty trembled her voice and weakened her resolve. Had I pushed back, our shared illusion, this fortress on a foundation of sand, would have wavered and collapsed.

            But I did not resist, not even with my tits squashed and face in pillow, breathing in hints of lavender and floor polish, ass in the air and embarrassment suffusing me to a degree I hadn’t thought possible. I endured and eventually, I enjoyed; she pushed my limits, and the ever-present shame only accentuated the pleasure that followed.  

            Those three weeks were an intensely confusing time. It was my ‘other life’, the one that ran parallel to Cindy’s but wasn’t part of it. Because it was David she wanted—of that, Julia was absolutely clear. David’s life; David’s punishment.

            Yet simultaneously it was Cindy’s company she desired, for it was her vision of the girl that she was moulding me into that justified her vindictiveness.

            From that first night onwards, I did whatever Julia demanded. And the thing that took me most by surprise? With one or two exceptions, I don’t know if I’d ever been happier.

            We were back to her picking out my clothes, makeup, or sending me off to the salon for my hair or nails. I was her dress-up doll again, though this time with the guardrails off. And I was fine with that too. She kept a remarkable mental inventory of my wardrobe and dresser, bolstering it with purchases of her own.  Maybe my weeks at the Clinic had prepped me for this. Or maybe, knowing the intense pleasure that inevitably followed her dominance put my doubts to rest. Over those three weeks, she well and truly fucked David out of me. And by the end of it, I wasn’t missing him.

            But she did.

            And so, even knowing what came next, I can’t help but look back at this phase of our relationship with joy. I keep telling myself this. It really was an amazing three weeks: crazy and thrilling, humiliating and endlessly challenging. Some of the things she had me do… or wear… especially in the privacy of her place, or mine; I blush to remember.

            Equally, the sex was fantastic; some of the best of my life. I remained David enough for Julia to draw her own pleasure from what we were doing, and when she eventually gave me permission to go down on her, or finger her, or fuck her with the dildo, she also moaned and cried out and our shared feminine pleasure was beautiful.

            Before, our sex had always centred around me, my penis and the promise of penetration. Now, I think we discovered in our exploration of each other a new, sapphic enjoyment I’d only dimly experienced before. The softness of our chests pressed up against each other; her lips at a nipple; long hair intermingling, tickling bared shoulders; a gentle touch to the back of a knee; hands at a throat; grinning lips gleaming with lipstick; taste of makeup; a sharp slap to the ass; bite at the thigh; fingers—one, two, sometimes more, slowly thrusting; gentle circles; the final press; our moans, merging in an ecstatic music. At times, in our lovemaking she called me by another girl’s name. Once, she cried in doing so and I held her close, our naked bodied pressed together, breast to breast until her tears stopped.

            She loved the pleasure I brought her; she hated the fact it was me. Her emotions made the pleasure all the more intense, for both of us. She made it clear the savage joy she took in bringing me—bringing David—to these peaks of female ecstasy: my little yips of pleasure, gasps, and bared-teeth hisses interrupted by: “you like that, you little bitch?” “sissy,” “slut.”

            “Beg for it,” she spat, and I did, every time.

            What would’ve happened, I wonder, if we’d just left it at that? How long could we have sustained this strange and twisted relationship? Not much longer, I think.

            I learned to love having her in charge; I was fine with that. More than fine; my submission enabled pleasures I couldn’t have otherwise accepted. Truth was, after that first fucking, I was hers. I yearned for her—she could do whatever the hell she wanted, so long as it ended with her visiting that pleasure on me again. For some reason, she was the only one who could get me off. I couldn’t manage it on my own, and I wasn’t about to invite anyone else to try. And even the fact it never again felt as intensely powerful and conflictingly powerful as that first time was just more reason to keep trying and recapture that first hit.

            Being with her reminded me of the photoshoot back at the Clinic: trussed up, tightly bound, restrained at someone else’s mercy. Voluntarily giving up control—able to take it back at will—up to a point—taking comfort in the transient illusion of willing consent until the moment the gag went in, the arms bound, and agency torn away like a page from a book read in a second language. Limited by fear, in the fierce grip of the corset and my own ego, I hadn’t fully grasped this new truth. But under Julia’s tutelage, I came to an awareness of just how liberating it could be, submitting myself to another’s will.

            So long as I could stop it when I wanted to. And by the time I wanted off this ride, it was too late—that page had been ripped out, the gag was in, and I’d lost control.

            Perhaps more significantly: Julia couldn’t sustain it. Even by the end of the first week, I started to sense the signs of strain. The pallor; the hesitation. The exhaustion setting in as she tried to dominate my life without losing track of her own. Her world was already stressful enough without me in it. Work was grinding her down and though she wouldn’t share those stresses with me, she sure as hell couldn’t keep herself from taking her frustration out on my hide.

            But where did it start?

            It started with a shopping trip, of course.