Constant in All Other Things: Chapter 03 (Patreon)

Constant in All Other Things

 Chapter 3

by

Fakeminsk (fakeminsk@gmail.com ; https://www.patreon.com/fakeminsk)

“Friendship is constant in all other things

Save in the office and affairs of love:

Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;

Let every eye negotiate for itself

And trust no agent.”

Much Ado About Nothing

Synopsis:

Girls aren't just born, David learns, they're trained, especially in the witness relocation program. And eventually, you have to put that training to use, because you can't stay indoors forever.

What has gone before:

David Saunders saw something he shouldn't have: his boss, pharmaceutical magnate Jeremiah Steele murder the son of a rival.  Placed in witness protection, an assassination attempt forces David into hiding. Wounded, his handler, Agent Katherine Smith, decides his best chance of survival is to adopt a disguise: that of Cindy Bellamy, a young woman.

One: We Must Labour to Be Beautiful

Amanda Lang.  God, what a girl.  What a woman!  She was sexy, with these amazing hazel eyes that stared right through a man like she wasn’t even there; and this amazing inky mane that reached right down to the small of her back.  But she wasn’t just tits and ass, though she was blessed in both.  Amanda was clever.  She was smart.  I felt everything she did was an act of manipulation: every little subtle movement, the way and where and when she’d check herself in the mirror and touch up her lipstick, and then slyly smile at your reflection when she caught you watching; or what she wore, those tailored and tapered suits, feminine and flirty but professional, with just the occasional glimpse of lace-trimmed bra or the top of a stocking.  Trying to score with her felt like playing chess with a grandmaster who thinks seven steps ahead, and you’re still figuring out what the horsie does. 

            Tom and I never stood a chance.

            We’d already chased and fought over most other available tail in the office.  Amanda existed on a whole other level.  We were middle-management scum; she lived in the tallest corporate spires; she was penthouse while we remained mired on the fourth floor.  She was an executive administrator to the powers that be.  It’s not like we wanted her to advance our career or anything.  We were both doing fine on our own.  But a girl like that, you’d do just about anything to score.

            It took months of working her over.  Oh yeah, you could tell that she totally knew what we playing at, and she played us in return, and the whole thing was a hell of a lot of fun.  You could tell she loved setting Tom and I against each other.  She was such a bitch, in the best possible way.

            This is how I ended up in her office in the newly installed NeoPharm divisional offices the night everything went wrong.  She’d set a trap for us, as it were.  None-too subtle hints made it clear she was working late that night.  After hours, top floor, empty office and... Amanda.  Ripe and ready for the taking.  Thing is, who was going to get there first?  Tom or me?  The little minx was testing us--who was willing to take the chance, who could figure out how to reach those forbidden executive Olympiad heights despite the after-hours security and risk to our jobs?  Yeah, it was just a game, but we both knew the consequences could be pretty fucking serious.  Tom thought she was fucking around with us.  I knew she was fucking around with us, and I took the bite anyway.

            Looking back, it was an exceptionally stupid thing to do.  So why’d I do it?  Not for Amanda.  Not really.  To this day, the only excuse that comes to mind is this: I was bored; so goddamn bored I was willing to risk my job—fuck, my life—for a chance to outwit some foxy top-floor slut and relive the thrills of an abandoned and violent childhood.

            The peculiar skill set that my misspent youth left me made it easy enough to break into her office.  I say “easy” but it bordered on insanity.  Had ever a man worked so hard in the pursuit of pussy? 

            I’d cut a deal with Frank, one of the cleaners, which got me an ID card into the warren of maintenance halls beneath the building.  Then into one of the service elevators shafts—the one they kept turned off at night—and the long climb up the emergency ladder—to the fifteenth floor, where executive access started.  From there some old-fashioned lock-picking got me into Buddy Coleman’s office, and I knew his pass was sitting in his desk because the poor bastard had been suspended for negligence a week ago and Harry in IT moaned over a couple of pints that he was backlogged and hadn’t blocked his account yet because he hoped Buddy’d be back before he had to. 

            Then up to Amanda’s floor.  A swipe of the blank access card I’d nabbed from Harry and I was into the hallowed halls of new corporate power.  Had Neopharm completely settled into their new acquisition it might’ve been a lot harder, but they still had holes in their security coverage, the AI systems weren’t integrated yet and the general chaos of the takeover left gaps to slip through,

            I can tell you I was feeling pretty flush and cocky as I finally slipped down the hallway to Amanda’s office.

            And that’s where I found her, in her expansive corner office with its night time view over the wide expanse of the city.  The office lay in shadows and the cold urban lights glittered far below.  Traffic sounded a distant muted hum.  She sat in her tall-backed office chair, fingers steepled, long, shapely legs crossed at the knees, waiting.  When I slipped through the door her thin lips, painted and outlined a deep burgundy, curved into a slight, wry smile.

            “About time,” she said, and her eyes revealed all the joy and cruelty of a predator’s.  The dim illumination overhead glistened in the pattern of flecked crystals woven into her stockings.  The garters stretched taut across her ass and lay slack across her thighs and pulled her basque tights against her supple body.  She thought she was in complete control.  Men danced to the sway of her hips, the taut stretch of her skirt, the glimmer on her lips.  Sweaty and exhilarated by the effort of reaching her, I decided then and there to set her straight and show her how fragile, how ephemeral her feminine control really was.  Her game, but my rules: her eyes went wide as I strode wordlessly up to her, tearing my sweat-stained shirt away.  Her mouth opened to say something—it didn’t matter what—as I grabbed her roughly by the waist.

            A moment later I had her up over her desk against the wide expanse of those windows that looked down on the world below, panties a torn mess on the floor behind her.  Her tits made generous pillows as she spread her legs wide, thrown forward in her towering heels, sleek and black and probably worth a week’s salary.  “Fuck me, you son of a bitch,” she hissed, “harder!”

            And I did, half mesmerized by the swirl of lights outside and the feel of her body tensing through the flimsy fabric beneath my hands.  If I’d known then that she’d be my last fuck for months I would’ve paid more attention.  I gripped her waist and fucked her hard and steadily until she released a low, shuddering wail that she half-stifled by biting into her own hand.  When I withdrew, she wobbled for a moment on weak legs before finding her footing.  A rough shove had her on her knees, and she proved a remarkably skillful cocksucker, lavish and enthusiastic.  Amanda cut a fine figure kneeling at my feet, wrapped in dark lingerie, head bobbing up and down, her voice a muffled moan, carefully manicured fingers cupping my balls, until, with a final triumphant grunt, I blew my load down her throat.  She swallowed it all.

            Then she stood and slapped my across the face, hard.

            “Get the hell out, you bastard,” she said, and winked.

            That should have been the end of it.  Who knows what would have become of my late night venture if, slipping free of her office, I hadn’t been momentarily distracted by an unexpected sound down the hall?  But instead of heading home, I allowed curiosity to draw me onwards, as I clambered back into my clothes, down unlit hallways and past newly built directors’ offices and upstairs, to the open, unfinished floor above. Wind tugged at plastic sheeting through gaping windows and the night air felt fantastic after the night’s fucking.  Distant lights glinted coldly and I stood by a gap in the outer wall, staring into the dark, vertiginous drop beyond. A single slip—or step—and a thirty-something fall to the ground below….

            Nearby indistinct sounds resolved themselves into something all too familiar.  Sliding into one of the adjoining room, I stealthily ducked past crates and trolleys overflowing with equipment and tools. A space, waiting to become corporate halls: exposed wiring, single-bulb lighting, unpainted walls and open paneling, stacked desks waiting to be installed. And in the middle of that room….

            Fuck.

            That’s where I saw it all, that bastard Jeremiah Steel gun down Georgio in a savage shower of blood and gore and recorded a video of it for posterity on my phone.

Somehow, though, the memory of it all doesn’t quite seem enough to explain how I’ve ended up here, torn from those height and forced into this dirty ugly apartment, flouncing back and forth across the room, keenly aware of every little jiggle of these new tits, the sway of hair across the nape of my neck and the flash and dance of those damned earrings as they tickled my cheeks.  What could possibly make sense of this whole goddamn feminine package I found myself squeezed into?  God, if Amanda could see me now.

            A quote kept flitting across my thoughts—Yeats? Heany? One of those Irish dudes—as I submitted to K’s instructions: ‘To be born woman is to know— / Although they do not talk of it at school— / That we must labour to be beautiful.’  Well I might not have been born woman, but I fucking well labouring ….

            “Keep your legs straight!” K commanded.  “Legs together!”  Another trip across the room and she added, “No, no!  Point your feet straight!”

            “Whatever.”  I grumbled, but tried to do as she said.  I’d assumed a half-dozen centimetres or so of heel were ‘sensible’ heels, no big deal, right?  Well, those centimeters threw everything off and were a fucking nightmare to walk in.  I knew how to walk, dammit, but these slim heels were wobbly and my ankles kept twisting out to compensate.

            “And Cindy, relax,” K added.  I swear, that bitch was enjoying this far too much.  “You look ready to throw a punch.”

            I was fucking ready to throw a punch.  “Yeah, yeah,” I repeated, turned sharply, mindful of how the heel wavered beneath my foot, took an unsteady step forward and felt my ass wiggle as I walked across the room.

            “Better, better,” K encouraged from the side.  God, I must’ve look like such a fool, like some prancing asshole, but I couldn’t help but wiggle my ass and thrust my chest out, squeezed into these clothes.  This was the second hour of K’s ‘training’ in the art of being Cindy, and I was just about at my limit.  My calves burned and my toes were cramped and the makeup still felt heavy and thick on my face and I felt light-headed from the compression around my waist.  I was tired and sweating in my pantyhose and jeans and aching and only slightly drunk; and none of these were good things.  Meanwhile, K sat comfortably in the sofa chair in the corner, one leg dangling over the other, cradling a glass of red wine in her hand.

            The moment K felt I’d had enough of staring at Cindy in the mirror, she started the training.  At first she just wanted me to look at myself, to turn to the side and check my posture.  Between the waist-cincher and heels, and those giant weights hanging off my chest, yeah, my posture was a bit different, you know?  I wanted to overcompensate for the heels while those massive jugs, even in a bra, made me feel all top-heavy.  Once she thought I’d built up a bit of confidence, she brought me out of the bedroom to the main room.  More space to walk.  Joy.

            Back and forth, forth and back; a lifetime of watching women prance in heels hadn’t prepared me much for doing it myself.  “Heel first”, “Shorten your stride”, “Swing your arms for balance”, “no, not that much!”  These were the commands K continued to repeat during that first half-hour of walking.  And damn her if she wasn’t right--within half an hour, my walking improved and my confidence grew.  However as my confidence grew my mood darkened.  I could just fucking picture myself, walking across that room: the short mincing stride, my arms swinging girlishly with each step, the sway of my ass, the jiggle of my cleavage--earrings, bangles, hair--fuck, everything pulling and squeezing and jangling with each step.  How in chrissake did girls put up with the constant distraction?  Worst of all were my cramped ball and, despite the pain, my cock straining against its confines, strangely aroused by all this enforced femininity.  After two hours, I felt ready to erupt in my panties.

            My fucking panties!

            K didn’t exactly give me many breaks.  Even when I was taking a breather, she kept feeding me girly info and vocabulary she said I had to memorize.  When she handed me another drink--and the Scotch was gone, damn her to hell! replaced by glasses of sweet white wine--she made sure I held it correctly, drank from it primly, and taught me how to touch up my lipstick afterwards.  I think that’ll always be a vivid image burned into my mind: the first time I pulled that glass away from my mouth and saw the frosty pink imprint of my lips on the rim.

            And through it all those damn heels!  “Practice makes perfect!” K insisted, so even if I wasn’t specifically practicing walking, I kept the fuckers on.  I did everything in those damn shoes.  Bitch would’ve locked them on to me if she could have, I’m sure.  So when I grabbed a bite to eat--not that I could fit much in my stomach, even though I was starving, constricted as I was--it was in heels that I trotted about the kitchen, making a quick sandwich.

            Amazing, how something as simple as making a sandwich becomes a whole new experience when you’re dressed like a chick.  Even leaning down to butter my bread I had to keep dragging my eyes away from that massive crevice splitting my chest.  The flash of colour at my fingertips with each motion of my hands--distracting.  The tap-tap of that slender heel against the floor--very distracting.

            Hell, even hitting the can became another exciting goddamn adventure in femininity.  Freeing myself from the bondage that is ultra-tight jeans, pantyhose and panties took longer than expected--I almost pissed myself before I got my cock out.  And wouldn’t you fucking know it, but K even checked in to make sure I was doing it like a chick--sitting down and all.  I almost lost it then again; I told her to fuck off or I’d storm out of the apartment and take my chances with the hitmen.

            Sitting there on the crapper, panties and hose around my ankles, ankles twisting out at an awkward angle because of those heels, I couldn’t even see my cock and balls--those bloody tits got in the way.  It wasn’t all bad, though.  It gave me time to knock another one off, and damn if it wasn’t better than the last one.  I don’t think I’d been this horny since I was a teen.  Guess I had easy inspiration: I just had to look down.  But I didn’t touch myself or anything, you know?  Squeezing those tits or fiddling with those new nipples while jerking off . . . that would’ve been fucking weird.

            And then, squeezed back into that girly getup, back to walking, back and forth across the room, K proved herself a harsh taskmistress and an intense teacher.

            Believe me, it went on and on.  I was learning more than I ever wanted about women’s shit.  I mean, yeah, you bring girls home and you learn a bit, and I’m a fairly observant guy when I want to be, but it’s not like most guys ever pay much attention to what the chick’s actually wearing.  Watching a girl sensuously strip off her stockings is all about what lying beneath the fabric--not about the damned things themselves.

            So putting on the bra wasn’t a big deal because I’d taken enough of the fucking things off.  But until today I didn’t know, for example, that what I was wearing was a D-cup balconet bra.  Sure, I’d bought lingerie for girls I’d dated in the past, but those brief shopping experiences into the foreign and strange world of women’s fashion had taught me little.  Now I gave the damn things a little adjustment as I walked and felt the straps across my shoulders, as slender as they were, dig into my skin.

            I knew what lipstick was and all the basic crap, but as I practiced my walk K was giving me a crash course in feminine terminology as I strolled around the room.  Finally it was time for another break, and K gestured for me to sit opposite her.  Last time I got it wrong she made me walk for another fifteen minutes.  This time, I eased myself gracefully into the chair and casually crossed my legs at the knees--despite the throbbing pain in my groin--and gave a contented sigh.  Truth is, I wasn’t feeling very good: I had a nasty headache coming on.

            “You are doing very well, Cindy.”

            “Yeah, thanks,” I said.   I sounded abrupt but her praise actually felt kind of nice.  I was doing well, dammit.  “Listen, K . . . I know why you’re putting me through all this and all, but I seriously doubt one of Steele’s assassins is likely to quiz me about my favourite brand of lipstick, you know?”

            K smiled.  “Are you so sure?”

            “Yeah, I’m sure.”

            “And what if you were to step into a restroom, Cindy?  You take care of business and step up to the mirror to check your makeup.  The woman standing next to you, she asks you a question--maybe she asks to borrow some makeup, maybe she compliments you on your top and wants to know where you bought it.”

            I hadn’t thought about ever using the chick’s bathroom.  I had pretty mixed feelings about that one.  Any chance to see some sexy things in their natural state’s a good one--but what’s the point if your cock’s crammed away in a prison of lace and nylon?

            “So?  It’s not like she’s gonna say ‘I like that sweetheart neckline,” and it’s a trick question because it’s really a v-neck and I say ‘yeah’ and she hauls out a gun and pops a cap in my ass.”  It’s the fucking women you’ve got to watch for, of course. No doubt Steele had female agents chasing after me.  If he’s got a profile on me I’m sure it must’ve highlighted women as a weakness of mine.

            K sighed.  “Again, of course not.  What I am saying is that any hesitancy, and confusion over matters that a girl your age would know instinctively--would have done time and time again every day over several years--will ring false.  This is a very sensitive time, Cindy.  Until we get you out of the city, anyone . . . anyone, could be an agent in the employ of Mr. Steele.”

            I took another sip of wine.  It was pretty foul shit, way too sweet for me, though I knew chicks dig this kind of crap.  “Yeah, but then why are you making Cindy--sorry, me--out to be such a girly-girl?  I mean, with these tits and my waist all crushed in like this, you could throw sneakers and a jogging suit on me and I’d probably still pass for a goddamn chick.”  Especially with the long hair, which I was continuously brushing away from my eyes or pulling away from my lips, poking the long tresses back behind me ear.            “I mean, does she have to be all ‘icky poo!’ and feminine?  Why couldn’t I be a kick-ass girl, you know, a tough broad, like you?  Why all this limp-wrist shit?”

            K took a moment to collect her thoughts.  I looked her over and wondered, yeah,  why couldn’t I be dressed up like her, for fuck’s sake?  K was tough, but there was no denying she was a woman, full stop.  I didn’t want to be a girl, but if I had to then that’s the kind of woman I wanted to be.

            “Mr Saunders,” she started, and already it seemed a shock to hear her use my male name.  “When you approached us about testifying against Mr. Steel, and asked for witness protection, what did you think it would entail?”

            “Not this,” I answered dryly.

            “What, then?”

            “I dunno.  A new identity, a new job, and that you’d shuffle me out of town, somewhere far away from the bastard.”

            “Yet you knew that nowhere is truly ‘far away’ from Mr Steele.  In an age of multinationals and AI surveillance, he has eyes and ears feeding data back to corporate branches and subsidiary companies across the world.”

            “Then bury me in some small town somewhere.  The odds of ever bumping into him are slim, yeah?  He’s not exactly a local-bar kind of guy.”

            “And his employees, Mr. Saunders?”

            I shrugged.  “Okay, sure, he’s probably got employees living just about everywhere, but it’s not like they’re all going to be keeping an eye out for me.  There’s not going to be a corporate e-mail going around saying, ‘reward for David Saunders!  Wanted dead or alive!’”

            “David,” K said in a most serious tone, “that is precisely what I expect Mr Steele to do.  Once his agents lose track of you--and I have every intention of assuring that they do, and that is why your Cindy disguise must be as perfect as possible for its duration--he will rely on the benefits of being one of the largest international employers in the world.

            “Think of your own office.  How would colleagues react to request for leads regarding the whereabouts of a certain individual, a former employee? Perhaps they spin it as benevolence: concern, for the mental health of a disappeared colleague. Perhaps the offer a reward... if turning him in could net a year’s salary reward . . . would your former colleagues do so?”

            Bastards.  Yeah, they would.

            “But I am sure you knew all this already, Cindy,” K continued, and the thing is, the damn bitch was right.  For all my grumbling and complaining, when I approached the feds I knew that witness protection, long shot that it would be, wouldn’t be an easy thing but probably my best shot.  “So what were you expecting?”

            “A disguise, I guess.”

            “A new life?”

            “Yeah, I guess so.”

            “And so are the people chasing after you, Cindy.  Plastic surgery is easy and cheap. Enough to fool simple facial-recognition software, maybe. But Steele has access to far greater resources than that.  He will unleash the most sophisticated AIs Neopharm has access to. They know that you will change your appearance.  Perhaps not so drastically,” and here she smiled slightly, “but nevertheless, other than some basic parameters--height, weight--they are not looking for someone who resembles David Saunders.”

            “Then what are they looking for?”

            “They are looking for someone who acts like David Saunders,” K answered.  “Someone loud and rude.  Strong and confident.  Someone very manly and capable.  They are looking for someone who isn’t you, Cindy.”

            I hated her for being right.  I hated Cindy, too, at that moment.  But it made a twisted kind of sense, I guess.  Whatever kind of psych profile these guys drew up, there’d be nothing in there about me dressing up as a chick, especially one like Cindy.  It’s just not the kind of thing I’d ever done or thought about before, and would seem totally contrary to character.  And who knew how many ways they might have of tracking me?  How many eyes would be watching?  How many cameras could they tap into?  In public, I needed to be anything but myself if I had any hope of remaining hidden and safe.

            I sunk deep into the chair and threw one arm across my eyes.  I felt sick to my stomach again.  “K, be honest with me.  Seriously.  The truth.  How long am I going to be stuck like this?  It’s not just going to be a day or two, is it?”

            Her response felt carefully considered and a long time coming.  “David, in all honesty I don’t know.  If all goes well--and I pray it does--two week, maybe three.  I know a place.  A private medical clinic.  It is very remote and in the countryside.  It will give you a little time to rest and heal and most importantly, to disappear.  In a few weeks when Mr Steele’s attention has been diverted by more important things--hopefully life-time imprisonment--we can recreate you in a male persona and transfer you somewhere else.”

            I released a deep, defeatist sigh.  Two weeks, maybe three of this shit; fuck, maybe even longer.  Weeks of waking up to get dressed up in these goddamn clothes.  Of walking in heels and practicing how to . . . fuck, how to do everything, all over again, but in a Cindy kind of way.

            “K,” I said, and I fought to keep down the despairing tremor creeping into my voice, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

            “I have every confidence in your ability to pass yourself as a woman.”

            I wasn’t too sure how to take that.  “But--I mean, hell, there’s just so much!  Every morning, slipping on pantyhose and putting on makeup and prancing around in heels . . . shaving all over and . . . it’s too much!”

            “It sounds like nothing more,” K said, and she smiled wryly, “than what most women go through every day.”

            “But I’m not a woman, dammit!” I exclaimed.  “And I don’t know how to do any of that shit.  It’s not like I snuck into my mom’s room when I was eight and played with her makeup, K.  I didn’t grow up with any of this crap in my life.  Girls learn it as they grow up--I didn’t.”

            “They learn it through practice, Cindy, just like everything else.”  She shrugged, almost apologetically.  “By the time the average girl has reached her mid-teens, she has already spent hundred, if not thousands, of hours practicing in front of the mirror.  She has read magazines on how to do her hair and wear makeup, and looked online how to choose the right dress for the prom, and watched TV and picked role-models whom she would most like to be like.  And then she copies, and emulates . . . and practices.  You just had a late start.

            “Speaking of which . . . .”

            With only the slightest of whimpers, I clambered to my high-heeled feet and started to walk.

Two: Two Guys, One Girl

Like I said, the first time I met Tom was over at the local pub, The Snug, just down the road from the office.  It was a pretty cool place, as far as these corporate hangouts go, with that imported real authentic pub feel--low ceilings and dim lighting and a dart board and all--which was impressive, since the place was apparently less than a year old.  They had a fine range on tap and a few very expensive, very choice malts behind the bar.

            Well, this one Thursday night, just a few weeks after I’d started working at Indigo Tech, I went there after working late.  I figured I’d grab a pint or four before heading home.  Jimmy was working the bar; Jimmy was a right bastard but a hell of a talker.  I’d just grabbed a pint of something imported and expensive and was scanning the busy crowd when I saw Julia Beaumont.  Julia Beaumont and her long black hair.  I’d sure like to climb her beautiful mountains—I’m a funny guy, huh?

            Like I said before, Julia was this total bitch working the office.  I’d already chatted her up a couple of times at work and she’d given me the smile and stare in response.  Yeah, she walked by my office more often than she had to, wiggling her tight-skirted ass, and any time she brought me stuff she’d lean way over and give me an eyeful. 

            (I’ve developed a strange sympathy for her now: wearing those sexy fuck-me heels of hers everyday must’ve been murder.)

            I feel a bit sad for her now, thinking about it.  She never figured out that dressing like a wet dream and acting like a slut wasn’t going to get her anywhere in the company.  It was just going to get her used by pricks like me.  And yeah, we were both new to the city, new to this professional life, and both of us only into the first couple of weeks at a new job, and me still trying to adjust to being, well, normal—it wasn’t my job to sort out her life.  Fuck, I was only twenty-five and Julia, twenty-two.  Seems ages ago, now.  In a way I guess it is.

            She was sitting alone, looking bored and petulant, and she made eye contact with me as she slowly finished off a G&T.  I mean, fuck, the way she had her lips wrapped around that straw, the way she pulled on it, it was practically an open invitation.  I figured, what the fuck? and went and joined her.

            “Jimmy?” I tapped the counter and gestured at her drink and ordered another.  I sauntered over to her table.  “Mind if I sit?” I asked, and didn’t wait for an answer.  That’s the worst thing you can do to a chick--give them a chance to think, give them a choice in what happens.  Place like this, girl like Julia, you just tell them what’s going to happen.  It’s what she wants, when you get down to it.  The only problem, I found out a minute later when her date returned from the toilet, was that she wasn’t alone.

            Normally that’d be an awkward situation, you know?  Two guys, one girl, muscling in on a date, all that shit--but somehow it wasn’t.  I could see straight away that the guy didn’t really care.  Thing I couldn’t suss out straight away was whether it was pure confidence on his part, which I was cool with; or if he arrogantly just didn’t see me as a threat, which I most certainly wasn’t cool with.  It wouldn’t take me long to figure out where this guy was coming from.

            “David Saunders,” I introduced myself.

            “Thomas Hunter,” he answered.  We shook hands.  He had a strong and challenging grip.  You can tell a lot about a man from his handshake.  Tom held it for a second longer than necessary and met my eyes with a hard stare.  His eyes were a startling blue, the kind that girls really dig.  He gave a tight smile.  “Why don’t you join us?” he said, as if I hadn’t already grabbed a seat.  “You’re the new guy, right?  Over in Davies’ division.”

            Like he gave a shit.  The only thing he wanted right then was Julia and that wet little spot between her thighs.  I decided then and there that I did as well.  But what both of us wanted, even more than this sad, clueless bitch sitting between us was to take each other down a notch.

            He was a good-looking guy, big and imposing, towering over me—I reckon standing, I only came up to his chin.  He had the kind of tough, square jaw that had probably taken a punch or two.  Pretty quickly he dropped into the conversation the fact he played football in college, figured out early enough he wasn’t going to go pro, got educated--but kept in shape.  I respected that; too many of those jock assholes turn to fat once the game’s over.  They need their discipline enforced from outside; real discipline comes from within and this guy had it.  He dressed smart, oozed confidence; yeah, the fucker was a real contender.  Beating him to the lay was going to be sweet.

            We drank and chatted and worked the bitch and each other over until the pub kicked us out.  Tom went home alone.  I went home with Julia. 

Three: Swapping Brass Knuckles for Eyeliner

Training time was over.

            “We have to make a move soon,” K told me.  She gave me a look-over, taking her sweet fucking time.  I felt like a piece of meat, and damn if I couldn’t help but fidget under her eye, fiddling with a bracelet on my wrist.  It was a hell of a lot easier to fidget, dressed as a girl.  There was more to play with.

            She seemed, if not actually pleased, then at least satisfied with what she saw.  “How do you feel?” she asked me, and then with added emphasis added, “Cindy?”

            “Umm . . . fine?” I tried to answer in character.  “I mean, I’m a bit nervous but I’ll be okay.”  It’s what K wanted.  I was Cindy.  Problem is, I still wasn’t sure who Cindy was, other than being a piece of fluff.  I could do fluff; I’d played dumb before.  I tried to soften my words a bit, but there was no hiding the masculine timbre of my voice.  I nervously smoothed down the front of my sweater, the cincher beneath keeping my stomach flat and taut.  Beneath that tightness there were major storm brewing, believe me.

            “Bruises?” she asked.

            “A little sore,” I admitted.  “But I can deal.”  It was a damn sight worse than ‘sore’ but I wasn’t lying.  I could deal.  I really could.  All the straps and weight and shit constricting me beneath that fluffy peach sweater wasn’t helping none either.  It should’ve been worse, really, but I may have been in state of slight shock.

            “You must be exhausted,” K said, and she was right, I was.  Not just from the ordeal of getting dressed up and finding out that I’d be living the next few weeks as Cindy.  I was genuinely bone tired.  I’d been going full-out for a day or two now, except for that brief unconscious period after I’d been shot--and bullet-enforced naps aren’t very restful, I can assure you.

            “I want you to take a rest, Cindy.  Take a seat and relax.  I need some time to prepare for our departure as well.  The rest will do you good.”

            I wasn’t about to argue with her.  K went off to do secret agent-type stuff in the other room.  The sofa chair was warm and inviting.  I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep.  I thought the boobs and clothes and everything else would distract me and keep me awake.  I was wrong.

            A gentle push from K woke me up an indeterminate, dreamless period of time later.  She knelt next to me and watched me expectantly.  “Cindy?” she softly asked.  “Are you ready?”

            “Yeah,” I mumbled.  I felt unusually groggy.  K handed me a glass of juice, which I eagerly drank down.  My mouth felt dry and my tongue thick as if I had a heavy night’s drinking beneath the belt.  In a way, I guess I had.  “How long was I out?”

            “An hour,” she answered.  I focussed on her and noticed she looked . . . different.  Still K, but she’d obviously been working herself over during my nap.  She looked a little bit softer, somehow, and just a tad older.  I’d placed her in her late thirties, and now she looked about a decade older.  The years had been kind, though, with just a touch of grey in her hair.  She swapped the severe secret agent threads for something that, for want of a better description, screamed ‘soccer mom’.

            “What’s with the getup, K?”

            She smiled, and even that gesture somehow seemed friendlier, if not downright more caring, than anything I’d seen from her yet.  To be honest, it found it more than a little creepy.  “I’m hurt, Cindy,” she said, with a slightly patronizing tone.  “Don’t you recognize your own aunt?”

            “You have got to be kidding me.”

            “Not at all, Cindy.  Now c’mon, chop-chop, we have a big day ahead of us!”

            She was clearly insane, but I reluctantly left the comfort of the chair and found my feet, albeit with a few wobbles.  I had to focus to walk.  I had to focus to do everything, really, as Cindy.  “Yeah, yeah,” I said.  “So what’s the plan?”

            “Well, the first thing you’re going to do,” she said, throwing some things into a purse, “is touch-up your makeup, dear!  You look an awful fright!”

            An ‘awful fright’ was a bit harsh, but I was already looking a bit ragged around the edges.  K handed me a small makeup case.  I looked at the assorted tubes and bottles within and groaned.  She might as well have handed me instructions to a model airplane written in fucking Chinese.  I hesitatingly pulled out a slim, golden tube, and K gave an approving nod.

            Ten minutes later, under K’s expert tutelage, I managed to repair the damages of an hour’s sleep.  Practice, practice, practice--but fuck, there was just so much to learn!

            “Well done, Cindy!” she enthused.  “Now just one more thing.  Say ‘ah!’”

            “Ah?” She took advantage of my opened mouth to jam a long, slender rod down my throat.  There was a sudden ‘hiss’ and this very uncomfortable, very cold sensation spread across the back of my throat.

            I went to tell her off.  “Don’t talk!” K commanded, kindly persona gone.  “This is--well, a necessary precaution.  It causes a tightening of the soft tissue separating the hard cartilage in the larynx.  The extra pressure on the vocal chords will help you speak with a more feminine pitch.”

            Clutching at my throat, I felt something decidedly disconcerting going on beneath the skin.  What the fuck had this bitch just done to me?  I didn’t want to talk like some bimbo--not when this was all over, anyway.  I glared at her in disbelief.

            “Do not worry, Mr. Saunders,” K said.  “The effect is strictly temporary, generally lasting only four or five hours.  Yes, another fine unreleased product from your former employer, though surprisingly from a veterinarian subsidiary.  Unfortunately, its use is limited--frequent reapplication of the spray has been known to cause permanent damage to the user, one of the reasons why, I’m sure, the product is not yet available on the open market.”

            Permanent damage?  What the fuck did she mean, permanent damage?

            “If you speak before it finishes bonding with your voice box, Cindy, you could cause yourself serious and permanent injury.  The first application normally takes ten to fifteen minutes, with subsequent use working faster.”

            I continued to glare at her, and she continued to ignore me.

            “Now.  When we leave the apartment, Mr. Saunders, we will make our way to a car waiting for us down below.  Walk at a normal pace.  Talk to me as any daughter would her auntie.  Act normally.  When we enter the car, fiddle with the media player, your purse--typical girl stuff, riding with her parent.  You leave the older man you were behind you; now, you are only twenty and a girl.

“And most importantly: from the moment we step out that door, you are Cindy.  There is no David Saunders.  To the rest of the world you must appear like nothing other than Cindy Bellamy.  Walk like Cindy, talk like Cindy, act like Cindy.  Do you understand?”

            I was still furious with her, but nodded.  The numbness at the back of my throat was slowly fading.  I watched mutely as she collected some final things, though she otherwise seemed content to leave the place in a shambles.  On a second glance, I realized that was untrue: the place wasn’t a mess, it looked lived-in.  She must’ve sorted it out while I was napping.  If anyone checked this place out after we left, they’d find a place that looked untidy but homey.  There were even some family-type photos on the wall I hadn’t noticed before.

            There was a small backpack for me; pink, of course.  There was a selection of clothes and toiletries buried in there, and a reading tablet.  I wondered what kind of girly shit Cindy read?  Guess I’d find out later.  K also handed me a purse, a sporty little thing that went well with my outfit, I guess.  Rummaging through it I found more makeup stuff, a brush, a couple of bills and coins, a hair scrunchie, a tampon, a few condoms . . . .

            My muffled exclamation drew her attention.  My expression clearly stated ‘what the fuck?’ as I waved those final two things in her face.

            “You are twenty, Cindy.  It’s always difficult for an aunt to accept, but I’m no fool.  My, the stories your mother told me!” She looked wistfully into the middle distance.  “But you were a bit of a boy-chaser as a teen. And dressing the way you do . . . well! I guess it’s just a sign of the times. I don’t quite agree with the type of guy you like to date, but girls will be girls, I guess.”

            With another angry grunt, I waved the tampon at her.

            “Better safe than sorry, Cindy.  Fortunately it’s not that time of the month yet.”

            No fucking shit.  What did she expect me to do with that thing, shove it up my ass?  I closed the purse and slipped the damn thing over my shoulders and managed to yank my new hair something awful; that wig was clipped into my hair and hurt if I pulled on it.  It must’ve been an expensive wig.  It fell naturally and felt like the real thing.  Great, another thing to learn how to deal with.  Me, I like my hair nice and short.  Quick and easy in the morning.  And better in a fight.  Hopefully we wouldn’t have to fight, not dressed like this.

            I was feeling ready.  I was getting antsy.  Not that I was looking forward to stepping out into public looking as I did.  Despite what the mirror showed me, I was still half-convinced there was no way we could pull this off and that someone would stop and stare, that I’d be a goddamn laughingstock in pantyhose.

            K checked her watch.  “It should be okay to talk again,” she said.  The coldness at the back of my throat seemed gone.

            “About fu--” I started to say, but squeaked at the sound of my own voice.  I found myself clutching my throat again.  “What the fuck?”  Somehow, it didn’t sound as forceful as it used to, those words.  It suddenly sounded . . . .girly, to my ear, anyway, and unusually squeaky and high pitched.  It was hard to tell if it was properly feminine or not from within, but it certainly wasn’t anywhere near my usual gruff tones.

            “Cindy, please remember--language.  Try and soften your voice a bit when you speak.  Once we are safe at the clinic, we will begin your vocal coaching.  In the meantime . . . try and mimic a girl you know, a girlfriend or something.  And whatever you do, do not speak in a falsetto.”

            “This better wear off, K.”  Pattern myself after a girlfriend?  What girlfriend?  I wasn’t exactly the committing type.  Longest I’ve ever dated someone--and I use the term very loosely here--was four months. Julia lasted two.  Akiko a bit longer.  None of those ended well.  Persephone was the longest.  That one ended very, very badly.

            Fucking Persephone. 

            And most of the other women in my life, well, we weren’t together for the conversation, you know?

            “It’s Auntie, remember?”

            “Yeah, fine.  Sorry Auntie, I’ll do my best.”  Dammit, but this voice didn’t sound angry, just petulant.

            “And don’t worry, dear.  Like I said, in six or eight hours you’ll be back to your normal voice.”  It was weird, hearing her talk all normal and shit.  And calling me dear.  Didn’t quite like that, to be honest.  As she spoke she gathered her own things.  She slipped on a bulky, cheap-looking jacket and shouldered her own purse.  It felt a bit like the old days, running with the gangs, getting all suited-up and psyched up before heading into a rumble . . . except in some kind of surreal, feminized version, swapping brass knuckles for eyeliner and leather for lace.

            Maybe I spoke too soon, though, as I saw K have a quick check over a handgun.           

            “Auntie!  I didn’t know you packed heat.  All the others girls are going to be so jealous!  Can I have one too?”

            She didn’t smile.  “Do you know what this is?”  She didn’t really sound like ‘an aunt anymore.

            I’d never handled a Glock but knew what one looked like.  I shrugged.  “Uh, a gun?”

            “Not a laughing matter.”  She slipped the weapon into the recesses of her jacket.  “And no, you can’t have one, Cindy.”  Suddenly she was all smiles and motherly charm again.  “So, are we ready?”

            And at that moment, I suddenly felt that I really, really wasn’t ready.  As much as I’d hated everything that had gone on in this shitty little apartment over the last few hours--at least there’d only been K and me in here.  Out there were . . . people.  Girls who knew how to act like girls and pricks staring at my rack and wanting to fuck me somewhere they couldn’t.  And let’s not forget the assassins.  No, let’s not forget them.  Fucking Steele.  If I ever saw the bastard again, I was going to plant five centimeters of Dolce and Gabbana spike heel into his goddamn scrotum.

            “Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

            “Cindy!”

            “Sorry Auntie.”

Four: All These Things That I’ve Done

My heart pounded so hard in my chest you’d have thought the sound would echo through the whole damn apartment block.  On the outside, though, I looked cool and collected . . . a little self-absorbed, maybe.  That’s the kind of chick I figured Cindy was.  Girls that look the way I do usually are.  She trotted along beside her auntie, fiddling with her hair, her other hand unconsciously resting on her purse.  Living in the city, she’d learned to keep her possessions close to hand.  Maybe she’d been robbed or mugged a year ago; it left her slightly nervous at night.  But that instinct wasn’t instinctive yet.  Every single thing I did was calculated and thought out, every fucking heel-toe step, every sideways glance at ‘Auntie’, even absently picking a piece of peach-coloured fluff off my sweater.

            The hallway was dingy, dark and empty.  Scuffed wallpaper curled up at the edges.  There was that unique smell of mixed ethnic cooking and stained carpet common to cheap buildings where too many people live in too small a space.  A lone baby’s cry rang out, muffled, from the far end and was abruptly cut-off.  There was a shout, voices raised in argument.  God, I couldn’t wait to get out of here.  This wasn’t Cindy’s kind of place at all.

            We waited for the elevator.  I hadn’t even realized we were on the fifteenth floor.  K--sorry, ‘Auntie’--checked her purse.

            “Gum, dear?”

            “Nah,” I said, then figured Cindy was probably the gum-chewing type.  She was a blonde, after all.  “Um, yeah, sure.  Thanks.”

            When the elevator arrived there was a guy on it, carrying a laundry basket full of assorted crap.  The lights flickered overhead, one of the cheap florescent tubes gone, the other soon to follow it.  In the dim light of the small space you could faintly hear the muffled music of the boy’s headphones.  There was no hiding a weapon--other than the one all men carried--in those loose grey joggers and wife-beater.  His eyes lazily danced across the two of us before happily settling on my cleavage.  The corner of his lips tugged up in a smile.

            Butterflies in my stomach?  Fucking hell, I had a goddamn flock of seagulls in there now.  I felt a warm flush of embarrassment slowly spread up my neck and face.  I must’ve been glowing redder than Rudolph’s fucking nose but that jackass sure as hell didn’t notice.  He had other things to look at.  K didn’t bloody hesitate or nothing; she just stepped on to the elevator.  Thing is, right then, stepping into that elevator and following her seemed like the most difficult thing in the world.  Yeah, I knew this moment had to happen.  There wasn’t much point in getting all dressed up if nobody was ever going to see me.  I wasn’t ready.  I just wasn’t ready for this.  I needed another hour or two prancing back and forth in that apartment.

            “Coming?”  K’s voice, that of the long-suffering parent, snapped me out of it.

            “Uh, yeah.  Sorry ‘bout that Auntie.  Blonde moment!”  I trotted into the elevator and stood next to her.  My knees wanted to knock together.  I couldn’t believe how nervous I felt.  For chrissake, you’d think it was the hardest thing I’d ever done.  It wasn’t.  It really wasn’t.  But to step in front of that teenage prick, who was no doubt checking out that firm ass of mine, really did take an effort of Herculean proportions.

            The doors slid shut.  They were mirrored on the inside, dirty and defaced but suddenly confronting me with the reflected Cindy.  And, yeah, just as I thought: that jackass was scoping the goods.

            “Cindy?  Push the button?”  K . . . uh, Auntie, was rummaging through her purse for something.

            “Uh, yeah.”

            I watched the reflected Cindy as she stepped forward with one delicate, high-heeled foot and reached out with her slim arm.  Soft curves shifted beneath her sweater and she gently pressed one pinkly-glinting fingertip against the first-floor button.  “Down we go,” she said in a throaty purr.

            “How’re you feeling?” her mother asked.

            Cindy gave a soft laugh.  “Fine, fine.  Just a bit spacey.”  With a practiced flick of her head she tossed the long sweep of her blonde hair over one shoulder and smoothed it back with a quick stroke of the hand.  Cindy gave a stretch, absently scratching at an itch beneath her right breast, and then took in a deep breath and released a loud, bored sigh.  The boy’s eyes stayed glued to every jiggle of her tits like a fly on shit. 

            Eight floor.  Cindy glanced back at the boy behind her and licked her lips.  She gave a secretive, wet smile.  ‘Hi,’ she silently mouthed to the boy.

            His eyes widened in surprise.  I’m sure a bulge propped up his pants.

            “What’s that you’re listening to?” she asked.  Those brilliant green eyes lingered for a second down below before drifting up to his face.

            The kid’s gaze kept sliding down to her tits.  “Uh . . . The Killers,” he said, surreptitiously shifting his laundry basket over his swelling crotch.

            “Wow, how retro!”  Cindy exclaimed.  “I just love them, especially their old stuff, though I guess all their stuff’s old stuff, right?” She giggled.  “Y’know, like that one song, uh . . . .”  She gave a few chews on her gum, and then hummed a line.  “How’s it go?  ‘I’ve got soul but, uh . . . . Oh, I’m no good . . . you know which one, yeah?”

            “All These Things That I’ve Done?” the boy stammered.

            “Yeah!  That’s it!”  Cindy gave a little pout, her pink lips shiny in the dim light of the elevator.  “Oh, poo . . . now I’m gonna have that song stuck in my head all day!”  She turned back to the front, but her eyes glinted in the mirror, still watching the boy.  Her aunt looked bored with the whole affair, as if she’d seen it all before.  They reached the lobby and the doors opened.

            Cindy stepped out, giving a little wave as she went.  The boy stayed on the elevator but struggled with himself for a moment, visibly building up courage.

            “Hey, waitasec!  Hey, my name’s . . . .” he started to say, but the doors closed and cut him off.

            “I couldn’t give a fuck,” I growled, walking away.

Five: Bubblegum Pop

The car was a nondescript grey Honda Civic, the kind you never remember seeing, a weather-beaten model decades beyond its best before date.  We didn’t speak a word as we crossed the parking lot.  A cool autumnal wind tugged at my hair.  Tall lampposts dropped limpid pools of flickering light.  It was only about seven o’clock, but the early-evening dark suddenly felt a lot more threatening than I’d ever remembered.

            I focused on crossing the hard asphalt without breaking an ankle.  The patter of my heels against the ground rang unnaturally loud.  It’s a good thing we were the only ones in sight; I was fighting down the urge to vomit.  Another fucking perv ogling the goods might’ve pushed me over the edge.

            It was a relief to finally slide into the car.  Getting off my feet was a needed break, even if the seatbelt felt strange sliding between D-sized tits.  Pulling the door shut behind me gave a moment’s sense of security--it felt good to be alone again.  I struggled to remain in character as Auntie tossed our bags in the back and slammed the hatchback shut.  I rummaged through the purse and pulled out a compact as she slid in next to me.  Cindy probably checked her makeup a lot and shit like that.  I didn’t like the look in my eye, neither the fear nor the disgust I saw there.  It took all my willpower to keep my hand from shaking as I applied a quick dab of lipgloss, clicked the compact shut and stowed it back in purse.  My left foot started to tremble.

            Only once K had us underway, slicing through the darkened streets of a bad neighbourhood, did I start to lose it.  The sharp, acrid taste of bile flooded my mouth and I gagged, swallowing it back.  There was no hiding the shakes anymore.  I took several deep breaths.  I sat on my hands.  I closed my eyes and leaned back.  Fuck.  Fuck!

            “You are doing well, David.”  K’s voice cut through the pounding in my ears.

            “I know,” I muttered, and then: “I know, I know, I fucking know!” I screamed, and slammed my fist into the ceiling, again and then again.  “Fuck!”  The Civic’s roof wobbled from the impact and I left a spot of blood where my knuckle split.  One of those fucking bracelets snapped and went spinning off into the back seat.

            “Now you are doing less well.”

            I glared at her.  “Jesus, K, I can’t do this!”

            “You carried yourself remarkably well back in the elevator,” she said.  Her eyes danced between the street and my face as she drove.  “I must say that I was  . . . surprised.”

            “Yeah, well, it had to fucking be done, didn’t it?  But . . . goddamn it!”  I wanted to pound at my own belly, I wanted to reach in there and yank out that damn, queasy feeling churning in there.  “Every fucking step!  Every goddamn move!  Every word, for chrissake!  I’ve got to think and plan and worry about every thing I do!  The stress is gonna kill me, K!”

            She waited as I struggled to calm myself.  She took a turn, working us towards the lights of the central city.  “There is no need to overdo it, Mr. Saunders,” she finally said.  “You could have simply ridden the elevator down in silence.”

            “You think I don’t fucking know that, K?” I snapped back.  “You think I wanted to flirt with that punk?  Yeah, I could’ve just stood there, that little prick was so fixated on my ass wasn’t gonna give a shit either way.  Most girls in an elevator with their aunt, that’s what they would’ve done, right?

            “But this is cock-tease-fucking-Cindy Bellamy, yeah?  She wouldn’t just stand there, would she?  I mean, I damn well ride the elevator in silence, but Cindy, she doesn’t.  The little bitch probably just likes the sound of her own voice.”

            “Is that who you think Cindy is, Mr. Saunders?”

            “I don’t know.  I don’t know!  I just know she’s not me, K.  I’m creating this bitch from the ground up, aren’t I?  And with each new thing that happens, I’m inventing a new part of her--of me, and I swear, it’s gotta be one of the toughest things I’ve ever done because, frankly, I don’t like who I’m turning myself into.”

            K seemed to digest that for a few moments before responding.  “Then why are imagining her in this way, Mr. Saunders?”

            “Because,” I answered flatly.  “I plan on staying alive.”

            We rode for another ten or fifteen minutes in silence after that.  I slowly got my breathing under control and felt the stress bleed out of me, watching the streetlights glide across the windowpane.  Now I felt mildly embarrassed by my outburst.  I checked the rearview mirror from time to time.  I knew this wouldn’t happen again.  The fear’s always the worst the first time.

            What I hadn’t told K was that I needed to flirt with that little shit in the elevator.  I had to do it because it was the last thing that I wanted to do.  Stepping into that elevator, I was fucking terrified of that boy.  I was afraid of talking to him.  I was afraid of the way he looked me over like a piece of meat, and when he popped a boner I almost lost it.  I nearly snapped his goddamn neck I was so scared. 

            And me, I don’t like being afraid.  I’ve spent too much of my life in fear.  And I’ve learned how to deal with it.  It’s the way I was trained, I guess.  When I was younger, I was scared of so much shit.  God, I was pathetic.  Sakura, she taught me how to not be afraid.  She taught me how to confront my fears, how to overcome them--how to make them a part of me, really.  Giving in to fear is giving control over to someone or something else; mastering that fear is keeping the control within yourself.  Because if something’s part of you, and you know who you are--well, then you see the fear for what it is.

            Like, for instance, I’m afraid of dogs.  You wouldn’t know it to see me now.  I’d had a couple bad run-ins when I was a kid with dogs.  Really bad run-ins.  But now?  That fear’s part of me.  It’s part of me but I know it’s not all of me; the whole of me is greater than that fear, and so I control it instead of the other way around.

            So in that elevator, I knew I had to do the same goddamn thing.  It was complicated this time, because I’m still not sure what it was I was afraid of, exactly.  I suppose it doesn’t matter.  That first time is over with now.  Next time Cindy has to chat to someone, she’ll be fine.  I’d already grabbed that particular bull by the horns.

            Fuck, that’s the closest I ever want to get to another guy’s horn.

            “Was that a chuckle?” K asked.

            “Huh?  Yeah, I guess so.”

            “Are you feeling better?”

            “I think I am.”  I reached forward and fiddled with the radio.  “Hey Auntie, you mind if pop on some music?”  The Killers, eh?  Who would’ve thought?  Cindy, she looks like she’s all bubblegum pop but really she’s into her vintage Indy rock scene.  Go figure.

            “Not at all, Cindy.”  She smiled.

            When I looked up from finding a funky FM station, the smile was gone.  I glanced at the side-view mirror and felt my stomach sink.

            “We’re being followed,” K stated grimly.

To be continued. . .