Constant in All Other Things: Chapter 02 (Patreon)

Constant in All Other Things

Chapter 2

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:

Reluctantly agreeing to Agent Katherine Smith’s plan, David finds himself coddled and squeezed into the identity of Cindy Bellamy. But just what kind of girl is Cindy? he begins to wonder.

What has gone before:

David Saunders saw something he shouldn't have: his boss, pharmaceutical magnate Jeremiah Steele murder the son of an underworld rival.  After giving his testimony, an assassination attempt nearly leaves him dead.  Rescued by Special Agent Katherine Smith, he wakes up in a safe house, where she presents him with an unexpected course of action: to disguise himself as a woman.

One: Not My Cup of Tea

I haven’t exactly led a sheltered life. There’s been more than my fair share of violence.  There was a lot of weird stuff that went on in my youth--stuff that I didn’t even realize was unusual until much later.  In other way though, I guess my life was fairly sheltered in some ways.  Distracted by other stuff, I didn’t clue in to matters of love and sex until late.  More specifically, I didn’t figure out that some guys actually prefer other guys until I was fourteen.  Hey, I’m pretty clued in now when it comes to sex and all that.  I mean, it’s not like I’ve got trouble finding female company for the weekend, if you know what I mean.  But I had a bit of a late start on account of my screwed-up childhood.  So the first time a boy came on to me . . . yeah, it took me by surprise.

            I’m a good-looking guy.  I was a good-looking kid.  Sakura gave me this job to do once at this high-school, around when I was thirteen; it was one of the first solo jobs she gave me and I was still earning her trust and was eager to please and . . . well, that’s where I met Ken.  Ken was a nice kid, a few years older than me, and I knew I could trust him.  We worked well together and he helped me get the job done even though he didn’t really understand what was going on.  We became good friends.  Stupid, naïve me, I didn’t realize the kid was helping me because he had this huge crush going on.  And so, at the end when it was all over, Ken kissed me.  He just kind of lunged in and next thing I know, his lips were pressed up against mine, and a second later his tongue was in my mouth, and his fingers were digging into my arms, pulling me closer.

            Hell, at that point I hadn’t even figured out girls yet.  My first kiss was with a guy and yeah, I was pissed off.  I smacked him in the face and knocked him down and kept hitting him.  I hurt him bad, and the punches were only a small part of it.

            Fuck.  Some part of me still hates myself for hitting him.  I was an idiot.  I was young.  Ken’s gone now.  Last time I saw him was a few years ago, before the disease took him.  I think that was the last time I cried.  I don’t cry often.

            Well, I’m older now.  I understand some things better.  I eventually figured out that there were other people like Ken out there, and that it wasn’t a big deal.  Some guys like guys.  Some guys like to wear frilly clothes and lacy underwear.  Hell, some guys even want their dick sliced up and pushed inside out and try to pretend they’re really a girl.  I mean, from my point of view, that’s weird shit.  That shit’s wrong.  You are what you are.  But sometimes, it’s hard to figure exactly what you are and that’s where it all seems to fall apart.

            I don’t pretend to understand it.  I like girls.  I mean, I really do.  That moment, when you first slide your cock into a warm pussy, that closeness and soft intimacy, and of course the feeling of power, of authority--God, I love that.  I can honestly say I’ve never looked at a guy and thought, “I want some of that.”  The thought of a man’s cock in my mouth sickens me.  Girls do that shit, and they do it well.  They’ve got the body for it, the soft lips and long hair and curves and all, you know?

            Don’t get me wrong: I’m no fucking homophobe.  I’ve got no problem admitting when some guy’s good looking.  But guys just don’t do it for me and I can’t imagine why any guy would want another man over the softness of a girl.

            But even though I don’t understand it, I guess I can kind of respect it.  I’m not one of those freaks quoting Deuteronomy and claiming God’s going to claim divine retribution just because some dude wants to wear a bra.  That’s fucked up.  God’s got bigger shit to worry about.  But as they say, it’s definitely not my cup of tea.

            So when K pushed that folder over to me and I saw a chick’s name there?  Yeah, I was more than a little taken aback.

            “Uh, K?” I said.  “That’s a chick’s name.”

            K nodded.  She didn’t seem apologetic or bashful or anything.  About as empathic as a cantaloupe, K is.  “Yes, it is.”

            I may have been groggy, but I was pretty sure of one thing.  “K, I’m not a chick.”

            “No, you are not,” she said.  “However, considering your unique situation I believe it to be your best chance to reach safety alive.”

            I shook my head, then stopped when the vertigo hit.  “But I don’t want be a chick.”

            “Of course not,” she said.  I swear she almost smiled.  “In a way, this is your own fault.  It was you who gave me the idea, when you asked about that dress back at the courthouse.”

            “You said that was idiotic.”

            “Yes, I did,” K answered.  “To throw a dress on you and walk you out of that building would have been foolish.  You would have looked like a man in a dress.  You would have drawn more attention instead of turning it away.  But we have a little time here.”  She gave me a quick look-over.  “But I believe with a little work you could be passably made to resemble a woman.  At least from a distance.

            “You are short for a man,” she said.  Yeah, thanks for pointing that out, bitch.  “But your height is ideal for a woman.  You are slender and many of the features that make you a handsome man are also considered beautiful on a woman.  You are too muscular but that can be concealed with the proper clothing.  To be honest, with effort you may not just pass as female, but as an attractive one.”

            Somehow that reassured me a bit.  I mean, if you’re going to do something this fucked up, you at least want to look good, right?

            “Mr. Steele doubtlessly has more assassins searching for your location at this moment.  We may already be under surveillance.  This disguise, unlikely as it may seem, may be enough to at least temporarily throw off any pursuit.”  K finished her spiel and watched me expectantly.

            It must’ve been the multiple bullet wounds, but for some reason K was making a twisted kind of sense to me.  Anyone chasing me would be looking for a guy.  A good-looking guy, if I say so myself.  My face was probably plastered all over the papers by now.  Even if some fucking assassin didn’t see me, all I’d need is some pedestrian moron to point a finger and shout my name and it could all be over.  I still had one important argument to make, though.

            “But I don’t want to be a chick!”

            K sighed.  “Yes, Mr Saunders.  I understand this.  And I assure you that this would only be temporary, until we can relocate you to safety and establish your new home and identity.  But I honestly feel this is your best chance of surviving until then.”

            And you know what?  I trusted her.  I really did.  It was a crazy idea, worthy of the worst kind of paranoia-fuelled alien-fiction tabloid--but hell, sometimes the crazy ideas are the best, simply because they’re so fucking crazy.  I normally trust my instincts but they were conflicted: on the one hand they told me that this was absolute bullshit, complete nonsense, impossible and unnecessary; but my instincts also told me to trust K.  And fair enough, I was pretty messed up and woozy and all, but I decided to throw my lot in with her--even though the idea of hiding behind a skirt felt very, very wrong.

            “I . . . trust you, K,” I said.  “What do I have to do?”

            “Rest, and gather your strength,” she said.  “I will gather your disguise together and wake you when we are ready.”

            I wasn’t about to argue with her.  I’m tough, sure, but part of that’s knowing when to take it easy.  I could barely keep my eyes focussed on her as it was.  I passed out about five seconds after K stood up and walked out of the room.

Two: Tight Little Skirts and Spiky Heels

Thomas Hunter--Tom--like I said, he’s a good friend of mine.  I called in a favour and sailed into IndigoTech on a beefed-up CV with a falsified diploma and good recommendations and landed a job in PR.  Within a year I’d impressed the powers that be and took my first step up the corporate ladder into middle management.  They gave me a secretary—sorry, a personal assistant. God, she was a sexy bitch, sashaying into the office with these tight little skirts and spiky heels and firing off enough erotic triggers to turn your average office nice guy into a borderline rapist.  This girl was totally trying to hook herself onto some rising star--like me--and launch herself into the upper ranks of the company.  Seriously.  Back then, she just seemed so fucking stupid to me, the way she didn’t even see the climb wasn’t worth whoring herself out like that.  To her credit, she didn’t even try to hide it.  She had a mediocre education--though I guess her real education trumped my fake one--ruthless ambition and a fucking amazing body.  Phoney as hell, though.

            Tom loved that chick.  Her name was Julia.  What a bitch.  But Tom had a thing for her.  And I did too at first.  I was new to this whole office thing and lost my common sense for a bit.  Tom was an up-and-comer as well, in a different division.  We both fought over this bitch, and I won, if bringing a girl like Julia home can really be considered any kind of victory.  Tom laughed about it afterwards, me bedding her first.  I lost track of her—we were a thing for a couple of months and that was pretty good, I guess, and then I moved on.  Far as I know, Julia never really escaped the first rung of the office pool at IndigoTech and then moved on somewhere else, but by next year both Tom and I were well on our way into management.

            And that’s how I met Tom.  Remember how I said I was a good judge of character?  The moment I met the guy, down at the local bar as we both chatted up Julia, I knew we were going to be friends.  Competition.  Respect.  And trust.  That’s what a good friendship’s built on. 

            Good?  My last night with Julia, we took her back to mine and fucked her together, drunkenly high-fiving each other over her back as I drove my cock into her mouth and he plunged into her pussy.  Yeah.  That was the night we became great friends. 

            Good times.  I was going to miss Tom.

Three: One Guy in a Million

K was sitting next to my bed when awoke.  How long had she been there?  I might’ve cried out in my sleep again.  That happens sometimes; it’s embarrassing.  Girls can go on as much as they like about how they want their men to be sensitive and emotive, but at the end of the day what they really want are guys who are tough and silent.  They definitely don’t want sissies that cry in their sleep.  But what can I say?  I get bad dreams.

            “Are you ready to begin?” K asked. 

            I felt a hell of a lot better than before.  Still a bit hazy, a bit dopey, but the pain was a manageable throb in the background.  I could deal.  I wouldn’t want to debate a major issue or run a marathon, but my head was on a hell of a lot straighter than before--straight enough for me to have second thought about this crazy scheme.  The sunlight wasn’t slanting in through the door anymore.  It must’ve been night, which meant I’d been out for a solid twelve hours at least.

            I threw my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.  I felt a moment’s wooziness but fought it down.  When I stood up I felt ill, like I was going to throw up, but it wasn’t that bad.  Truth is I felt sicker at the thought of what was coming than at the pain.  How the hell was she going to make me into a passable woman?

            “I have something for you that might help.”  I thought she was going to hand me another glass of water and some pills.  Me, I don’t like to take pills or most medicines, to tell you the truth.  First off all, they often react in a funny way with me.  Dunno why; something in my blood chemistry, I guess.  But when the warning on the box says one guy in a million reacts in a funny way to a drug, that guy’s probably me.  And besides, who knows what’s really in those pills people hand you, right? 

            Maybe I’m a bit paranoid.  Maybe it’s from being bought out by a pharmaceutical company.  So even though my legs were a bit wobbly and I was still hurting, I shook my head no.  “Nah, it’s okay, K,” I said.  “I’m feeling better.  The pain’s not so bad.”

            “Believe me, you’ll need it.” She gave a small smile.  “But I thought a stiff drink might help you get through this.”  The pills were there, but instead of water she handed me a scotch on the rocks.

            What a girl.  And it was good stuff, too, dark and peaty, a Laphroaig maybe.  I wondered if they had a list of my favourite drinks in my file. 

            “Good,” K said once I’d pounded back the drink and the pills, a waste but the sudden burn at the back of the throat and the warmth of the alcohol in my empty belly invigorated my limbs.  It settled my nerves a bit.  Fuck, but was I ever nervous thinking about what was coming up.  I hadn’t felt this nervous in ages.  “Follow me.”

            She led me into the next room, as grey and dull as the bedroom.  It wasn’t much, to say the truth.  There was an attached kitchen with an old and stained fridge that hummed noisily in the corner, stained carpeting and threadbare curtains. Boring IKEA-looking furniture, chipped and dirty, finished off the decor.  There wasn’t even a video screen or computer.  That kind of bothered me, since I wanted to see if there’d been a reaction to my testimony yet.  I’d basically thrown my life away to see this bastard put away.  I wanted some results.  For the last five years things had been going really fucking well--a bit boring, yeah, but comfortable, a real and normal life.  Now I was about to slip a dress on and pretend I was a girl.  Jeremy Steele had better get put away for this.  I wondered if Tom was going to go through the same bullshit.  Hopefully Steele’s attention was so fixated on me that he’d avoid the embarrassing necessities I was about to endure.  I mean, the guy’s over six feet tall and an ex-college linebacker: he’d make a terrible woman. 

            There was a window but I knew better than to hang out at that end of the room.  Instead, K went over to a table and grabbed a bag and handed it over to me.  “You’ll need this,” she said.

            I looked inside.  It was one of those cheap plastic toiletry bags.  There was a bunch of shower products in there.  The bottles were pink and flowery and looked very girly.

            “What the hell’s this shit?” I asked, even though I’d had enough women leave their shit scattered across the bathroom to know perfectly well.

            “It’s all perfectly normal items for a woman to use in the shower,” K answered.  Then she fixed me with those serious eyes again, that stare.  It finally registered that she had eyes as grey as a northern sea.  “Cindy.”

            “Easy there,” I said.

            K shook her head.  “The earlier you get used to it, the better.  Your name, until we clear you of this mess, is Cindy.”

            “Aw, c’mon K, it’s just the two of us in here.  Call me Dave.  Call me Mr Saunders if you’ve gotta.  But a chick’s name?  Gimme a break.”

            “Your name is Cindy,” she said, and the tone of her voice brooked no argument.  “You are twenty years old and female.  The earlier you accept this, the better.”

            “Oh for Chrissake,” I muttered.  “This is ridiculous.”

            I didn’t know which part was more insane—trying to pass me off as twenty or as a woman—but there wasn’t any point in arguing with her.  I’d already committed myself.  And like she said, this shit was only temporary.  Until I could get to that hospital, get myself checked out, and then pick up a new identity and get the hell out of Dodge.  I felt fine at the moment--mostly--but I knew how deceptive that could be.  Just because I could stand didn’t mean there might not be something seriously wrong, especially with that bruise over my temple.  The sooner I went along with K’s plan, as insane as it was, and got myself checked out, the better.

            “Fine,” I said.  “But what the hell am I supposed to do with all this?”

            She pointed to a room off of this one.  “Begin in there,” she said.  “Use this first.  Read and follow the instructions.”  She indicated a pink bottle.  “Then use this.”  She pulled out a can, also girlishly pink, and a razor.

            “What the hell?”

            “Shave everywhere: legs, chest, armpits, face.  Shave your face twice.”

            “K, no one’s going to see me that close up!”

            “Why risk detection because of sloppiness?  We need your disguise to be as convincing as possible, considering the circumstances.”

            “Listen,” I insisted.  “You can slap a dress on me and whatever, but there’s no way I’ll pass for a chick up close.”

            K just gave me one of those steady, unflinching stares.  “I will be the judge of that,” she said, “and you may be surprised.”  That was that, really.  When I dig my heels in, I’m a pretty stubborn bastard.  But with K, I just didn’t seem able to find my footing.  Unnerving, that woman, and it wasn’t just the lesbian thing.  But for some reason I just didn’t want to argue with her.  Probably because I trusted her.  I mean, me heading into the bathroom and shaving all over was kind of weird, but she wanted me to do it for my own good, right?

            So, following her order to use the rest of the crap in the bag as well, I grudgingly trudged off into the next room.  It was another bedroom, a larger one with a double bed, and with a small en-suite bathroom.  I stepped into the bathroom and got the shower started.  I looked over the first bottle.  It was one of those Nair-type things that chicks use, some kind of cream to burn the hair off of me.

            Well, what the hell was I going to do?  Suddenly I was really glad that I’d had that drink.  I’m not sure I could’ve done this otherwise.  I stepped into the shower and lathered myself up with this shit and waited out the time.  It stank a bit and tingled at first and eventually burned uncomfortably.  When I rinsed myself off I was amazed at how much of my body hair sloughed off with it.  But I wasn’t done yet.  K wanted me to shave as well so dammit, I was going to shave.  I lathered up with a can of pink-scented shaving cream and picked up the razor and went at it.

            It was a totally new experience.  A strange one, to be honest.  I’d never done something like this before.  Even lathering up was different.  It didn’t exactly smell like my macho Gillette’s, if you know what I mean.  There I was surrounded in this flowery cloud, holding this quadruple-bladed razor with a flat handle; it even sat differently in my hand compared to what I was used to.  I had this real moment of hesitation.  Under the steaming hot water, what I was about to do seemed really fucking weird.  And wrong.  I mean, how was this all necessary?  But I also thought about what K had said, and that also made sense.  And I remembered that I trusted the woman, and with that in mind I brought the razor down to my leg and took the first stroke.

            I’d like to think I did a good job.  The chest was easy enough.  The armpits were another story.  Fuck, but I wouldn’t want to do that every week.  Talk about gaining respect for the shit women go through to look good.  As for the legs: well, the shins were easy enough, but I’ve got to admit reaching those tough spots in the inside of the knee was another matter.  The pills and booze numbed the pain enough that craning and stretching and blind strokes with the razor didn’t knock me out, and I managed to get the job done, slicing away the little the depilatory hadn’t removed.  After that it was a pretty simple matter to rinse-lather-repeat, washing out my hair until it smelled like a woman’s.  The shower gel was a tad more floral than I would’ve liked, though.  I stank like a fucking garden by the time I finished.

            The air felt chilly when I stepped out of the shower.  The towel slid across my skin differently without any hair between me and the fabric.  There was a full-body mirror in the bathroom, but fortunately it was all fogged up from the shower.  It must’ve taken me nearly thirty minutes to get it all done.  I felt just a little water-logged after all that.  My head was a bit fuzzy again as well.

            I really didn’t want to see myself at that point.  I could see glimpses of my hairless legs and that was enough.  I’d never exactly been what you’d call a hairy guy but you get used to what you’ve got and its absence was just plain disconcerting.  There was another bottle in the bag for me to use: some kind of baby-powder-type stuff.  So I powdered myself all over, and by the time I was done I felt like a total fucking pansy.  I couldn’t believe how smooth my skin felt.  If I closed my eyes and felt my thigh I bet I could fool myself into thinking I was stroking up some chick.  I passed my palm along my leg and didn’t find any stubble, but the feeling of my palm sliding smoothly against skin kinda freaked me out. 

            I finally stepped out of the bathroom.  Big surprise, K was waiting for me.

            “Cindy, what are you doing?  Please try to show a little modesty.”

            What the hell was she talking about?  I had a towel wrapped around me, a surprisingly soft and fluffy one (pink) considering the state of this shitty apartment.

            “I know we’re both girls here, but still,” K continued, and she suddenly blushed.  It was strange, seeing this strangely human and bashful reaction on a woman like K.  “I can see your chest and everything. . . .”

            Bloody hell.  I was wearing my towel like a man, covering the important bits but not exactly worried about the chest.  Sighing, I readjusted the towel to cover my pecs.  It still reached to my crotch, but left me feeling like my ass was hanging out.  That wasn’t cool.

            “Good.”  K suddenly sounded all professional again, dropping the shyness.  “Begin with the articles on the bed, please.”  She stepped out of the room.

            I approached the bed with some trepidation.  I knew what was coming but that doesn’t mean I was looking forward to it.  And sure enough, there on the bed were articles that even in a drunken, blind state you wouldn’t mistake for anything other than feminine.

            The panties came first.  Did she really expect me to wear these?  Fuck.  There was a bra as well, also lacy and black.  Beneath them was a rolled-up lump that revealed itself as a pair of black pantyhose.  Wonderful.  They weren’t exactly the day-to-day shit that most women wear, either plain or durable; these were so sheer they were nearly invisible and tinted black and had a lacy, embroidered top.  Last time I’d seen clothes like this was nearly two months ago, before I saw any kind of murder or anything.  It’d been after a night out at a club.

            Alice had been hot and willing and easily impressed by my slick clothes and good job and easy money.  Fuck, girls usually are.  God, I love girls, how they fall for the cheesiest lines, how soft they feel in your arm and the way they like to cuddle up.  Don’t get me wrong, though.  I also respect women--well, some women, that is.  I’ve known enough women who can seriously kick my ass to not respect them.  Like the woman I used to work for, Sakura, back in the day.  And Persephone, the woman I loved. 

            Fucking Sephy. . . .

Four: You are Cindy Bellamy

Now wasn’t the time to remember.

            But man, can chicks ever be stupid when they want to be.  I’ve never understood that, how they can just throw logic and reason and self-respect to the side, just to be with some guy--to be with me.  I’m a damn fine catch.  And I’m an honest one: I don’t promise anything I’m not going to deliver, and I never promise much. 

            And this Alice chick, she really surprised me.  ‘Luminous’ is this bar not far from the office, trendy without being phoney, even if most of the people who went there were right bastards.  Like me, I guess.  That’s where I picked up Alice.  She was a sexy little thing, but a bit mousy.  She had that naughty-librarian look going.  But when I got her back to mine and peeled off those clothes, fuck, what a surprise.  Like unwrapping a surprise gift, those bland clothes fell away to reveal a soft, curvy body squeezed into a sexy little basque, garters and the whole deal, like something out of a magazine spread.  A tiger in bed as well.  We went at it for hours.  Dumb as bricks but amazing in bed.  Afterwards we lay tangled in the sheets of her small bedroom, staring at the ceiling as the pizza joint across the way alternately painted the room blue and yellow with neon lighting.  A slight breeze fluttered the curtains and sighed across our naked bodies.  In the half-asleep stupefaction of a good fuck, she nestled in my arm and idly traced a single fingernail across my chest.  She followed each and every line of my chest and abdomen as though drawing a scalpel across the armour of my flesh seeking and failing to find a chink, some crack, a way into the man beneath.

            Eventually she fell into a deep sleep.  I remember laying there for hours, unwilling or unable to allow myself the same luxury.  The night drew on and the lights from across the way faded and the room sank into darkness and silence.  Traffic died; the noises of the urban night faded; soon, only the sound of her light breathing remained for company.  And for some reason I can distinctly remember the frilly wisp of fabric, her underwear looped over the furthest bedpost.  I stared at her panties through the night until dawn coloured the room a steely grey and I slipped free from her embrace without waking her and left.

            I never saw Alice again. 

            And now, sat on the edge of another bed in another shitty little room in another unknown part of town, I found myself staring at another pair of panties that bore an uncanny resemblance to that pair of two months ago.  They were very thin, nearly see-through and a tight fit, decorated with embroidered little flowers.  Sexy.  I’d love to bring a girl home and unwrap her and find something like this underneath, all damp and ready to peel off.  But I probably shouldn’t have been thinking about that, or Alice, because I encountered my first problem right then.

            “Hey, K?” I called out.  “I’ve, uh, got a problem.”

            A few seconds later she was standing there in the doorway.

            “I have a problem,” I said, and stared at her expectantly.  I pointed down at my crotch.

            I’m an average-sized guy and that’s never been a problem for me.  I’m not packing a twelve-inch sausage, and I wouldn’t want to be.  I’m big enough to get the job done, and to get it done well.  I take it all very seriously.  Even if I’m just with some silly bimbo I picked up that night, one so dumb she doesn’t even know she’s being used even after I’ve told her, I think it’s important to show her a good time.  There’s no excuse for being lazy in bed.  I’m a selfish bastard in real life, but sex is something itself; it’s special.  Giving pleasure, receiving it—that shit matters.  You’ve got to work at it, and anything I work at, anything worth doing, I like to do well.  So it’s important to me for the girl to get there as well, and I use all the tools at my disposal, if you know what I mean.

            I’ve read that penises are roughly the same size when erect but vary like crazy when flaccid.  With mine, it’s small when relaxed, and when erect it’s bigger than you’d expect.  I guess I’m like my dick, then: small when relaxed, but you don’t want to fuck with me when I get going.  And that was the problem.  For whatever the reason, this messed-up situation, the thought of Alice and the sight of K, the clothes themselves and the feminine scent that flowed off my own body and lingered faintly in the underwear itself--I was reacting. 

            K spared a glance at my crotch, and sighed.  “A problem?”

            I shrugged.  My disguise wasn’t likely to work with seventeen centimetres of cock thrusting up over the waistband.  “You think you can help me with this?” I said, and flashed her my most winning smile.

            “And what do you expect me to do about it?”  K stepped into the room and sauntered closer, and I’ll be damned if it didn’t suddenly seem like she was coming on to me.  Easy to assume, really, considering I was standing all but naked in some unknown apartment, with my cock standing out at a sharp angle against my body, fiercely escaping the sheer panties I’d pulled on.  “Are you looking for a kind friend, Miss Bellamy?”

            K was now standing right up against me.  She was taller than me, especially in her heels.  Not that I found that intimidating; it was erotic.  This close, a faintly musky scent surrounded her.  Who would’ve thought she wore perfume, even if it was a bit mannish?  Her breasts rubbed up against my chest, the fabric of her jacket rough against my sensitive, still-glowing skin.  She brought her mouth near my ear.  Her hair tickled my neck.

            “Mmm, this is an unusual problem for a girl, Cindy,” she murmured, and her breath was hot on my ear.  I nearly jumped when I felt her hand, slightly cold, gently wrap around my shaft.  “We have to do something about this, don’t we?”

            “Yes…,” I hissed, growing harder under her touch.

            “Is this turning you on, David?”  Her grip tightened around my cock.  Her breasts rubbed up against my chest again

            “Does it excite you to wear these clothes?”

            What?  “No!”  But then she stepped back and for a moment I thought I saw a glimpse of both disgust and hatred flash across her eyes; and then she gave my cock a quick, hard smack on the tip.

            “Ow!”  I stumbled back.  “Jesus Christ, K, what was that for?”

            “What did you think I would do, Miss Bellamy?  Give you a hand job?  Get down on my knees and suck you off?”

            I drew in a deep breath, clutching the wall for support as my cock wobbled up and down indignantly.  “I was just fuckin’ about!”

            “Your dubious charms, Miss Bellamy, are best saved for a more appropriate time.” She reached over to a nightstand by the bed and grabbed a box of tissues.  She tossed it over to me, where it bounced off my head before landing at my feet.  “Tend to your own needs, please.  In the bathroom, if you don’t mind,” she said as she walked away.  “When you are finished please continue dressing.”

            I picked up the tissues.  Fucking dyke bitch.  “You’re not making this any easier for me, you know that?” I yelled after her.  You’d think she could take a joke.  I didn’t really expect to her to, you know, relieve my pressure.  But man, it would’ve been fantastic if she had.

            She turned about at the door.  She let her jacket slip open and undid the top button of her blouse and, slowly sliding her hands along her sides, gave a little wiggle as she leaned forward and flashed me her most generous cleavage.  She had awesome tits, from what I could see above the floral lacing of her bra.  Then she slowly straightened, turned sharply on her heel, and sashayed out of the room, that tight ass wiggling beneath her skirt with each exaggerated, toe-to-toe step.  “I hope that helps you finish off, Cindy,” she said over her shoulder.

            God, I wasn’t sure if I hated or loved that woman.  What a bitch, and I meant that in a good way.  A few minutes later I stepped out of the bathroom, drying my hands and ready to tackle the task at hand.

            The sight of the clothes on the bed brought me back to earth like a punch to the gut.  It really did feel like a hit to the stomach.  It was the feeling of doing something wrong, like when you’ve borrowed your parents’ car without permission and you’ve smashed it up and know you’re in big trouble?  Kinda like that.  I was just wishing I’d had another stiff drink when I saw that K had left one for me by the bed.  What a woman.  I took my time with it, reinforcing each step of dressing up with another fortifying gulp.  I was already starting to feel a bit buzzed.  The joys of drinking on an empty stomach.

            I slipped the panties back on.  They fit better this time, once I tucked my cock back.  Tight and a bit uncomfortable, riding a tad higher between my ass cheeks than I’d like, but nothing unbearable.  Then the pantyhose.  I’d seen enough girls slip them on in the morning around my place, but these seemed really wispy and easy to tear.  I rolled them up into a donut and pointed my toes and pulled the stocking up my first leg about halfway, and then did the same with the second foot, and finally stood, found my balance, and pulled the whole thing up over the panties.

            Know what?  My legs looked damn fine in those pantyhose.  Denuded and encased in that sheer, inky fabric, the sharper muscle definition of my legs were smoothed and softened and somehow made to look slimmer.  The panties beneath made a darker ‘V’ against which my compressed cock proved an unbecoming mound.  My legs felt warmer than expected.  The embroidered control top came up to just beneath my bellybutton and was tight across my buttocks, caressing and shaping.  The silkiness as I slid the nylons up my legs had been unnerving; now, passing my hand along those sleek lines I felt a tremor through my stomach.  The sensation was just so . . . feminine.  I’d stroked many a woman’s thigh beneath her skirt, and I loved the feeling of my palm against her nylon-clad ass.  Now it was my ass in nylon, looking way too good for my comfort and smooth to the touch.

            That’s when K stepped into the room.  To her credit, she didn’t laugh though a hint of a smile danced at the corner of her mouth.  “How are we doing, Miss Bellamy?”

            “I feel like a damn fool, K.”

            “You look fine,” she said.  She unravelled another silky, black thing in her hand as she approached.  “You will need this as well, I am afraid.”

            “Great,” I answered.  “What the hell is it?”

            “A waist cincher.”

            “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

            Sadly, K wasn’t much of a kidder.  “What is the first part of a woman that you notice, Mr. Saunders?” she asked, as she had me raise my arms above my head and wrapped the damned thing around me.  At least she was calling me by my male name.

            “I don’t know.  Her tits?”  I was going to say ‘her eyes’ because, truth be told, it’s a woman’s eyes that do it more for me than anything.  I’ve even fucked more than a few fatties, just because they had the most gorgeous, sexy eyes.  But wearing panties and nylons, with a waist-cincher being wrapped around me, I felt like I had to say something typically manly.

            She had the damned thing around me.  She zipped it up the front and then went behind and I felt her begin to tug on the laces.  With each one I felt the thing tighten its grip.  “A woman’s shape defines her gender, at least from a distance,” K said.  “Even in unisex clothing, or with short hair, or without makeup, or any of the other superficial trappings of femininity, a woman’s hips and waist trigger recognition.”  She gave a sharp tug, forcing my breath out.

            “Hey, take it easy!”

            “Keep those arms up,” K commanded, her voice sharp.  I grudgingly kept them above my head as she continued her torture.  “You lack curves, Cindy,” she continued.  “We can put you in a dress and make you wear a wig and slather on the makeup, but unless you have the shape of a woman, even an unskilled observer will sense there is something wrong.”  The waist cincher’s grip continued to tighten, vice-like.  “There are a thousand other things that can give you away, of course, but this one is easily enough remedied.”

            K stepped away.  I lowered my arms and took a hesitant breath.  The waist- cincher followed the lines of my body like a second skin, starting at my hips and ending at my ribcage.  It was black, like everything else K seemed to be picking out, with crimson lines where the fabric drew in.  It wasn’t quite as bad as I expected, to be honest.  I wasn’t going to pass out like some damsel from Gone with the Wind.  My internal organs didn’t feel like they were being crushed.  Nevertheless, I didn’t feel like I could draw in a big breath.  I wasn’t about to go ten rounds wearing this thing. 

            “How do you feel?”  K asked, her voice conspicuously lacking in concern.

            “Just fucking great,” I answered.  I made a sweeping gesture that took in my lower half.  “I feel like a goddamn faggot, K.”

            She made a small clucking sound of disapproval.  “Really, Miss Bellamy, must you swear so much?”

            “I’ll swear as much as I fucking well please!”

            She gave me a firm look.  “I am afraid, Cindy, that you really will have to watch your tongue.  There are numerous linguistic differences in male and female speech patterns in the English language.”

            I couldn’t believe this woman.  “So, what, you expect me to speak like some friggin’ chick, too?”

            “Cindy,” she said.  “You are a ‘friggin’ chick,’ so to speak.  Please try to remember that.  Now wait here for a moment.  We still have a lot to do.”

            She left me standing there mouth agape.  I wish she’d left me there with another whisky.  I wish she’d left with the heat on, because I felt goose-bumps rising across my arms and chest.  I missed my hair.  This was all a bit much and had me feeling deeply unsettled.  How long did she expect me to wear these damned clothes anyway?  I wasn’t going to be this ‘Cindy’ chick for long.  No fucking way.  No damn way.  No friggin’ way.  There.  That’s as good as K was going to get from me.

            When she returned a few minutes later she was carrying a box in her hand.  “Sit down on the bed, please,” she asked, as she pulled a small table across the room and set the box down.

            “What’s in there?” I asked, making myself comfortable.

            “This is your--,” she started, glancing back, and then stopped.  “Cindy, really, some modesty please.”

            “What now?”

            “It is unseemly for a girl to sit with her legs like that.”

            I was sitting with my legs spread, of course.  My balls were already feeling cramped, squeezed in by the panties and hose.  The waist-cincher was keeping me in this unnaturally straight-backed posture.  Worse, all this nonsense was already getting to me again--I was starting to fly at half-mast, and the growing bulge between my thighs was making this all the more uncomfortable.

            “Fuck this!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet.  I didn’t know what I was going to do.  I felt ready to rip this goddamn clothing off and storm out the room.  I’d take my chances on my own instead of suffering through more of this nonsense.

            “Mr. Saunders, sit down!” K commanded. 

            I’d never heard her shout before.  Steel underscored her voice.  She stood with arms on hips and glaring at me with that flinty-grey stare, looking more like an outraged school principal than a secret agent.  I don’t like being ordered about, but the authority she exuded held me from just walking off.

            “K, this is ridiculous!” I insisted.  “It’s only a temporary disguise, right?  I mean, what the hell, are you gonna stop me on every single damn thing I do that isn’t all girly and shit?”

            “Yes, Mr. Saunders, I am going to correct you on every little action that is not all ‘girly and shit’.  This is your cover.  This is your new identity.  Even if only temporarily, I expect you to be the best ‘Cindy’ that you can be for the duration of your time in the role.  I expect you to sit with your legs crossed at the knee.  I expect you to wear the very same clothes that Cindy Bellamy, 20 year old female, would wear.  I expect you to do all this, Cindy, because I promised that I would make every effort to keep you alive, and I will be damned if your bullshit macho pride is going to get you killed.”

            I hadn’t heard her swear before.  “You expect me to speak like a girl?”

            “Yes, Miss Bellamy, I expect you to speak in a way appropriate for a woman your age.”

            “I don’t even know what that means,” I said, slowly sitting down.  “And just so you know, I’ve known lots of girls who weren’t exactly sweet-talkers.”  And I didn’t just mean in bed.  I’d met some amazing girls over the years.  Some of them kicked my ass.  Like Sakura.  God, I was glad she couldn’t see me in this getup.  “They’d put a sailor to shame.”

            “But you aren’t a real girl,” K insisted, as if I needed a reminder.  “Everything about you is masculine, Mr. Saunders.  Very much so.  Your mannerisms, your shape, the way you speak, the way you walk, how you approach people and the way you confront a problem.  Each and every one of these things can give away your real identity.  All it would take is one wrong action, one word that shouts out “I am David Saunders” at the wrong time, and all our efforts will have been wasted.  This is not the time to indulge in politically correct behaviour.  Cindy is going to be, I am afraid, through necessity, a bit of a girly-girl.”

            The thing is I already knew all this.  I’d done stuff similar to this before, though not as ridiculously out-there as trying to pass myself as a chick.  In a sad and twisted way, even “David Saunders” was as much a disguise, as much a creation, as Cindy Bellamy was going to be.  Perhaps we all lived lives of pretence and illusion, but probably most of us didn’t take it to this extreme.

            I wasn’t feeling all that cooperative.  I hated sitting there in these fucking clothes--especially in front of this sexy woman.  She left me feeling extremely self-conscious, something I wasn’t used to.            On top of that, the thought of what I’d have to do and the way I’d have to act while pretending to be this ‘Cindy’ bitch made me sick to my stomach.  Combined with the fucking pain in my chest from the bruising and the throb in my side and the headache and the booze souring in my empty belly and everything else--yeah, I was struggling to keep control.  But I felt a little bad for taking it out on K.

            “Yeah, well, don’t expect me to say ‘aw, poo!’ or nothin’”

            Her features softened in a small smile.  “No, Cindy, I do not expect you to ever say ‘aw, poo.’  Now, are we ready to continue?”

            I gave a grudging nod.

            K pulled out a measuring tape and took my size around my chest, right where the waist cincher ended.  She nodded with approval, as if she’d already correctly guessed my size.  She went to her box and pulled out a couple of bottles and a pair of gloves.  “The next part is going to feel a bit strange,” she said, pulling on her gloves.  She gave me a slight shove.  “Please lie back.”

            Hell, normally this would be the start of a good night--some sexy chick pushing me back onto the bed and straddling me.  Of course, I was wearing women’s underthings, which kinda spoilt the mood.  And instead of rubbing her ass into my crotch, she used a cotton cloth to start wiping down my chest.

            “It’s just alcohol,” she said.  “You did a good job in the shower but we have to make sure that you are properly clean.”  She did a very thorough job.  I was starting to get excited again.

            She slowly unscrewed a nondescript white jar bereft of any labelling.  When she carefully put the lid aside a strong, pungent smell filled the room.  I couldn’t quite place it--something acrid that left an unpleasant chemical taste in the back of my throat.  She used a small plastic spatula to lift out a dollop of amber goo from the jar.

            “This may sting a little,” she said, and began to smear it across my pecs.  At first I wondered what she meant.  It was bracingly cold--which did a little to dispel my erection, steadily growing and struggling against its silky confines--but otherwise felt fine.  Then it began to tingle.  And then--holy motherfuck!--it started to burn, and burn, and burn, God, as if someone was pressing a branding iron into my chest.  “Do not move!” K ordered, as she saw my eyes widen in shock.  “And most importantly, do not touch your chest!”

            “Christ!”  I exclaimed through gritted teeth.  “What the hell is this stuff?”

            “A product of your former employers,” she said, working quickly.  “An organic bonding agent.  Very cutting-edge, very expensive.”

            “It fucking hurts!”

            “Yes, one of the reasons it will not be approved by the FDA.  I suspect the bruising is making the pain worse.  Now lie still.  The gel needs a few minutes to settle properly.”  And with that she lifted herself off of me and stepped out of sight.  I couldn’t hear her, either: this shit hurt so much all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears.  I grit my teeth and the pain totally burned through the nice drunk feeling from those two Scotches was totally gone, I’m telling you.

            A few minutes, she said?  Felt a hell of a lot longer.  And I’m good at dealing with pain.  I lay there on the bed, my toes curling with pain in their silky sheath, fists gripping tight knots into the bedsheets as I fought back the urge to jump off the bed and rush into the shower and wash this shit off of me.  I kept waiting for the pain to ease.  Slowly, after what felt like ages, it ebbed slightly.  That’s when K sat back down on me.

            She had two large grey objects, each more than a handful for her.  I had to blink the tears out of my eyes.  They were tits.  They were grey and dead-looking things, but quite clearly tits, tipped in pale rounded nubs.

            “What the--”

            “These are your new breasts,” K said.

            I guess I’d been expecting something like this.  I mean, she seemed set on doing a damn fine job of making a convincing girl out of me.  Very professional and thorough, Agent K is.  So maybe I shouldn’t have been expecting a pair of rolled-up socks.  That’s what a guy I knew used when he dressed up as a cheerleader back at one of the high schools I’d been to.  He’d been 190 cm and nearly a hundred kilos.  He made a crap cheerleader.  Somehow, I suspected I was going to prove far more convincing than he had.

            “They look big.” 

            Surprisingly, she blushed, and this time it seemed very real and natural.  “I . . . my apologies, David.  They are.  D-cups, I’m afraid.”

            A lot of guys I know, they like big tits.  Like I said, I like big eyes.  Weird, I know, but I’ll always take beautiful eyes over perky tits any day.  Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate a fine pair of knockers, too.  But they’ve always come after legs and ass.  Of course I like a girl to actually have some--none of this mosquito-bite bullshit--but I don’t like ‘em too large, either, bobbling all over the place like fucking udders.  Unless they’re fake or young, they’re going to be droopy once you set ‘em free from confinement and that ain’t so sexy to me.  A nice firm, perky pair, fun to play with, that’s what I like, not that I’ve ever kicked any girl out of bed for not meeting some arbitrary criteria.  Pussy’s pussy, after all.

            “They’re a bit large, I’ll admit,” K rushed to continue.  “Though considering your frame, they should be just about perfect.”  As she spoke she brought those grey lumps down to my chest.  I had a quick glimpse of them.  From the back they were flat and tear-drop-shaped, covered in a multitude of fine, straight-standing bristles.  “It was all I could get my hands on.”

            “Yeah, I noticed you had your hands on them.”  I was trying for wry, hard to manage with the pain and the apprehension.  Surprisingly, she blushed even further.

            “I have to keep them in place,” she insisted, “so they bond properly.”  I couldn’t quite see what she was doing.  The burning in my chest was quickly fading away, leaving a strange numbness across the area.  I couldn’t even feel her moving those things around or pressing them down.  “The position has to be just right.”

            I waggled my eyebrows at her and smiled.  “From here, your position looks just about perfect.”

            “Please, Mr. Saunders.  This is embarrassing enough as it is.”

            I wasn’t sure why this was any more embarrassing than any of the other weird shit we’d done today, but it was nice to finally see a human reaction out of her.  “Well, how long is this going to take?”

            “A few more minutes,” she said.  “Until the breastforms fully attach themselves to your chest.”

            “Hey, waitasec!  All this bonding agent shit and all--these things are gonna come off, right?”

            It was her turn to smile.  “You sound worried, Miss Bellamy.”

            “Fuck off with this ‘Miss Bellamy’ crap!  They come off or what?”

            “Yes, Cindy, they do.  I have a counter-agent that will break down the chemical bonding and release the breastforms.  The reverse process if far less painful as well, so no need to worry.  Even without the counter-agent the bonding will eventually deteriorate on its own.”

            “Well . . . good.”

            “And that should just about do it,” she said, and clambered off of me.  “Please stand up, Cindy, and let’s see how they settled.”

            Feeling was slowly creeping back into my chest, and it felt . . . weird.  Really fucking weird.  When I sat up I felt this disconcerting weight on my chest that moved with every motion I made.  The weight pulled me forward.  But what really blew my mind was when I reached up and actually touched my new breasts.  I could feel the fucking things!  And I don’t mean their shape, either, or their weight in my hand.  I could feel my own fingertip brush against the fake skin.

            “K, what the fuck?”

            “Cindy, language, please.”  She took my hand and pulled me to my feet.  I was so out of it I just let her lead me away from the bed.  “You’re a very lucky girl, you know.  These are very cutting edge.  Another fine, unreleased product from your former employers.  I’m told they’re grown as opposed to made.  The bonding agent acts as a catalytic medium through which artificial nerve connections are made and sensation passed.  If I touch you here,” and as she spoke she gently drew her fingertip across the underside of my breast, sending an uncomfortable shiver down my spine, “you feel it the same as if I had touched your real chest.  And the artificial skin is even reactive--look, you can see goosebumps rising.”

            This was too much.  I felt off-balance.  I had mother-fucking tits now, real goddamn breasts!  I felt like I needed to sit down.  But K wasn’t done with me.  She lightly flicked my right nipple.

            “Dammit, K, cut that out!”  It didn’t hurt; it didn’t particularly feel of anything, to be honest, the sensation coming as though from far away, muted and diffuse.  But I could feel it.  I didn’t like the way she was playing with my new chest.  Fuck, I didn’t like having a new chest.

            “You can see the nipple reacting as well, as the breast finishes bonding.”  And damn if she wasn’t right, as under a few more light touches my new nipple began to stand out in a way my real ones never had.  Did I say weird?  Now it was getting all surreal.  I could gently feel my nipples poking out like that, getting hard--I’d never felt anything like it.  I’d never been a fan of nipple play, and the whole experience was leaving me feeling disconnected and disconcerted, almost detached from my own body.  The damn things were still grey, looking very weird against my tanned and bruised skin.

            “Yeah, well, if you’re done playing with my tits, K, I’ll ask you to keep your hands to yourself.”  I pulled away and crossed my arms over my chest.  Fuck, it felt weird doing that.  They way they moved and flattened beneath my arms, it felt totally real.

            “The colour will adapt itself over the next few hours.  The seam between the breastform and your natural flesh will also gradually fade over the next twenty-four hours.  Before long, they’ll be nearly indistinguishable from the real thing.  Sensitivity should also grow as the nerve connections strengthen.”

            Great.  K had me do a few arm stretches to verify how my new breasts moved.  When I raised my hands over my head they flattened against my pectorals--or rather, they flattened as much as these things could.  I’d never thought of a D-cup as overly large but from this perspective they seemed enormous.  When I twisted they swung to the side before jiggling back.  Most disconcerting of all, when I bent forward I felt them hang down and sway heavily with every move.  It’s something I love, that moment when a chick crawls up the bed towards me with her tits hanging down and swaying with each sensuous move of her ass.  Now I was that fucking chick, and I was starting to feel nearly feverish with the weirdness of it.

            K tossing me a bra, after all that, seemed anti-climatic.  I’d watched enough girls put them on to figure out how to do it myself with only a little fumbling.  She certainly didn’t offer to help.  It was yet another black, semi-opaque number.  Cup size: D, the tag said.  Fucking wonderful.  Underwired and frilly, it shoved up my tits as though on a display shelf and only just covered my new, dark areola, and did nothing to keep those fucking nipples from peaking through, insistent little bastards.  All of a sudden, I had cleavage.  If I’d known that ratting on Jeremy fucking Steele was going to end with me sporting cleavage, I don’t think I would’ve bothered.  Fucking asshole.  This was his fault.  Jail was too good for the bastard.

            At least the damned bra relieved some of the weight, though the way the straps dug into my shoulders didn’t exactly thrill.  I’d only had these things for about ten minutes and already I was starting to hate the damn, ponderous things.  All she could get her hands on, my ass.  I was starting to think that K was enjoying this far too much.

            The next item she passed me took me by surprise.  “Jeans?”

            “You sound surprised, Cindy.”

            I shrugged.  The motion left me perturbed, as I could feel my new breasts jiggle with the gesture.  Fucking things.  I briefly wondered if I’d ever get used to their presence, before realizing that I didn’t ever want to get used to having breasts--I didn’t plan on keeping these puppies for that long.  “Yeah.  I expected you to stick me in a miniskirt or something.”

            “Would you prefer a miniskirt, Cindy?”

            “Hell, no!” I exclaimed, grabbing the jeans from her.  Soon after I realized she wasn’t letting me off that easy, though.  They were jeans, sure, a very dark denim blue, but definitely a pair of old-school, retro girl’s jeans, the kind that was coming back in fashion.  “K, there’s no friggin’ way these things are gonna fit!”

            “They will fit just fine,” she said, again holding back a slight smile.  “They may just be a little tighter than you are used to.”

            No shit.  I’d worn slim-fitting jeans before but nothing like this; it took me forever get into those damn things.  I finally had to stretch out on the bed with my legs up in the air, hauling with all my might and wiggling and tugging (which, with those damn melons on my chest, was mightily distracting) to pull the goddamn things over my ass and newfound curves.  The denim didn’t give in the least and if I hadn’t been squeezed and softened and smoothed out beforehand there’s no way I would’ve gotten them on.  When I finally got the button fly done up I was exhausted.  I had to admit though, craning my neck to look back at my rear, you’d be hard pressed to mistake me for a guy in these things.  The jeans were like a corset for my ass.  And damn, I had a fine ass.  And there was certainly no sign of a bulge in my crotch now.  Frankly, I was a little worried all this was doing my guys some serious damage.

            The jeans were skin-tight with a very cute, very girly flowery design along one of the legs that slightly sickened me.  That’s when I noticed that the damn jeans were way too long for my height. 

            “Dammit K,” I said, once she returned to the room.  “I killed myself getting into these, and I’ll be tripping over myself with every step.”  I took a few shuffling steps to demonstrate.  “I can’t wear these.”

            “Not at all,” K said.  “They go with these, of course.”  She held up a pair of shoes.  Dainty and with heels; and black, of course.

            “K?  I’m really beginning to hate you,” I said.

            Some guys I know, especially a couple of pricks at work, they’re short like I am and they’ve got this real problem with their girl wearing heels.  Only thing worse than those idiots, are the fucking bitches who can’t deal with being taller than their man.  Me, I couldn’t give a shit.  Sometimes it’s nice to have some petite five-foot little cutie cradled in my arm, but I’m not about to complain if I’m eye-level with some Amazon’s tits, am I?  It’s not height that makes me manly.  It’s me that makes me manly.  I’m pretty damn secure with myself, and I’ve got very little respect for fuckwits who can’t deal with shit like that--or worse yet, don’t even know they’re as insecure as a six-year old who’s just wet themselves on the playground.  Me, I’ve never given two shits if a girl wants to wear heels.  Damn, but heels are damn sexy, if you ask me, especially when she keeps them on in bed. 

            Still, watching some silly cute things trotting about in these ridiculous stilettos, barely able to cross the street, it’s hard not to laugh sometimes.  Well, I wasn’t laughing now, as K knelt down and slid the first shoe onto my foot.  It fit, too, but then again I’ve always had small feet for a guy.  It was just another drop in the torrent of weird sensations bombarding me, as I tentatively put my foot down and felt it settle in an arched position.  It wasn’t some stupidly tall kind of shoe, probably only about two inches of heel or so, but hell, it was more than enough for me and although the heel wasn’t a proper spike it still felt pretty fucking slim and wobbly to me.  My toes peeked out the end and there was a thin strap across the ankle.

            “How the hell do you expect me to walk in this getup, K?” I asked

            “At first, carefully.  You will have a chance to practice your walking before we leave the apartment.”

            She handed me a top, which I thankfully pulled on.  Somehow, going topless just wasn’t as much fun when I had these tits thrust up in my face.  Not that they disappeared once I got that sweater pulled on.  The damn thing was soft peach in colour and a lot softer and fluffier than anything I was used to.  Snugger and longer in the arms but baggy at the shoulder, somehow my hands seemed elegant, poking out the sleeve.  Worse of all was the ridiculous v-neck that left my cleavage proudly exposed.  What the hell’s the point of putting on clothes if all your goods are still hanging out?

            K reached behind me to attach a necklace with a clear, little pink-tinted bauble that settled comfortably between my boobs.  When she reached around my neck our tits rubbed together--and yeah, that was another weird feeling to add to the list, but truth be told, by this time I was so fucking out of it that I wasn’t exactly resisting anything she did.  And she was right: already those things hanging off my chest were growing more sensitive to touch.  But I didn’t even twitch when she clipped on some dangly earrings, saying something about how “a girl my age should really have had both ears pierced years ago.”  She slipped a couple of jangling bracelets on my left wrist, before stepping back to examine her creation.

            “Needs a belt,” she stated, and a moment later I sported this low-riding wide leather belt with a massive ring buckle, hanging off my narrowed waist.

            I levelled a dull stare at her.  “We fucking--sorry, we damn well done yet?”

            K gave a small smile.  “Almost,” she said.  “Wig, and makeup.”

            She left the room to gather the last of her instruments of torture, giving me a moment with myself.  When I looked down I felt the earrings tickle my cheek.  When I reached up to touch them the bangles on my arm chimed.  I squirmed at the edge of the bed and I felt slippery inside my jeans and the panties rode up my ass and my heel wobbled beneath me.  That massive crevice leading into my shirt tingled with new goosebumps.  Slender straps ran over my shoulders.  I couldn’t breathe properly.  How could this possibly be my best chance of survival?  How the hell could I fight in this fucking setup?  Or even run?  I trusted K and all but . . . this was crazy, insane!

            “Are you okay?” K asked, stepping back into the room.  Bless her, she was carrying another drink.  I hadn’t noticed finished the last one.

            I offered a wan smile.  “Let’s just get this over with.”

            She pulled a chair over and sat across from me and gave me a look that was genuinely sympathetic.  “You are not enjoying this, are you?”  She handed me my third scotch.

            “What was your first clue?”  I pounded the drink back and grimaced as it went down.  This one was a double.  It helped, though only a little.

            “Mr. Saunders, if it helps, just try to think of this as getting ready for a Halloween party.  Or maybe for a part in some play.”

            “K, if you fuck up your lines on stage, nobody shoots you.”  I sighed, though not too deeply thanks to the damned waist-cincher.  “Listen, I know why we’re doing this but I damn well don’t like it.  It feels . . . wrong.”  I mulled my thoughts over and barely noticed as she took my hand.  The acrid scent of nail varnish assaulted the senses but I steadfastly ignored the sight of my nails being painted, one by one.

            It felt wrong.  The need for it felt wrong.  I felt this very, very strongly, despite K’s reassurances, despite the fact that I trusted her.  I was taught, long ago, to pay special attention to anything that created such a strong, visceral reaction.  Hate, love, loathing, disgust, obsessions--these were emotions to be tempered but never ignored.  I didn’t want to think about it, but I had to ask myself: why did I hate this so fucking much?

            Strong reaction like that, it’s usually because something important to you is being challenged.  I figured out who I was at a very young age.  I had to.  As I learned more about the world and life in general I just sort of integrated the new stuff into myself, hung the new ideas off of the core self I’d already fashioned, and I stayed me deep down inside.  That’s how I was taught.  Know thyself.  An important lesson--the most important one--and the hardest thing in the world to pull off; most people, I think, find it impossible.  But once you know who you are--there’s so much you can do.  Hesitation, doubt, all that bullshit fades away; other peoples’ scorn, jealousy, insults are easily ignored.  Instant actions become more than just instinct but rather an expression of who you are, done in that place that exists free of uncertainty. 

            So this painful, gut feeling I was having?  There had to be more to it than just bullshit machismo.  Fuck, if a guy’s genuinely secure about who and what he is then he shouldn’t be bothered at all by this kind of shit.  This I believe.  I really do.  I mean, yeah, I don’t go in for all this girly crap and it’s nothing I’ve wanted to do before, but if it keeps me alive then… yeah, wearing a skirt--or very tight jeans--doesn’t make me any less a man.  I’m a man; none of this changes that; and I long ago gave up caring what the world thinks of me.  So something else was going on here.  I just couldn’t figure out what.  Maybe it was the booze, or the numbed pain.  My head still felt a bit hazy.

            “You seem quiet, Cindy.  Is everything okay?”  K was finishing off my nails.  They weren’t dry yet but were already disconcertingly shiny.  It was a clear varnish that gave my nails a glimmering sheen that rippled with faint pink hues in the light.

            “Yeah, sure,” I grunted.  I didn’t really want to bother K with nonsense thoughts.  Instead, I just said the first angry thought that jumped to mind.  “Christ, K, how the hell am I going to defend myself, wearing this shit?  I’m not sure I can walk in these fu--these damn shoes, let alone do anything else.”

            K started doing the makeup thing.  I honestly have no idea what she was doing, but she attacked my cheeks and eyes and lips with this and that thing as she talked, occasionally pausing to curtly order me to ‘look that way’ or ‘blink’ or ‘purse your lips’, mimicking the action for me when I hesitated, ‘like this.’  She continued explaining as she worked.  “Cindy, the whole idea is for you to not fight.  Do you know how to fight?”

            I gave a calculated shrug.  I tried to be careful not to disrupt what she was doing.  “Yeah, I guess so.”

            “Could you defeat a professionally trained assassin?”

            Another non-committal shrug.  “You’ve got the file on me, what do you think?”

            “I believe that there is little use in bringing a sword to a gunfight, Cindy,” K answered, as she rubbed some powder across my eyelids.  “Mr. Steele’s men have guns, and they know how to use them, and they can shoot from very far away.  The best fighter in the world stands little chance against that.”

            “Yeah, I guess so,” I grudgingly admitted.

            “And that’s if they bother with shooting.  There are many ways to kills a man.  A car crash.  A gas leak as you sleep.  Something in your food.”

            I grunted.

            “Not that you need to worry about that, Cindy.  A girl like you isn’t a fighter.  You do not know how to fight because you do not have to.  Standing in a crowd, why would anyone want to hurt you, cute and demure as you are?”

            Cute.  Demure.  Girly-girl.  I wish I’d had a better look at that dossier on Cindy and seen what kind of a girl she was before I’d agreed to become her.  I was starting to get worried.  Even if only for a short time, a few days or a week, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stand being some mincing sissy bitch.  Exactly what kind of girl was K turning me into, anyway?

            “K, listen, I’ve got to know . . . ow!”  I was about to challenge her on her plans for Cindy, but then she started to rip hairs out of my eyebrow and I had to bite down to keep myself from telling her exactly where she could jab those fucking tweezers of hers.  Oh, I had a couple of choice locations in mind.  When she was done that, she used this wand-type thing to smear this gooey, sweet-tasting shit across my lips and I kind of gave up on talking for a bit.  I swear, my whole face felt weird, all gunked up and heavy with makeup.  “We are almost done,” she said, and after a few final touch-ups across my face, she had a go at my hair, slicking it down before pulling out a wig.

            Cindy was a blonde, of course.  Why wasn’t I surprised?  “Try to keep any hair from touching your lips,” K suggested, as she brought the whole thing down on my head.  Suddenly, I had long flowing locks the colour of sunflowers, and bangs, and hair tickling the nape of my neck, and as that damned woman made her final adjustments I suddenly felt this incredible urge to burst into tears.  I didn’t, of course--like I said, I’m no pansy and I haven’t cried in years.  I’ll shed tears over a good friend but I’d be fucked if I’ll waste tears on something stupid like this.  Hell, I don’t even know why I wanted to cry all of a sudden like that.  I just did.  The moment passed and I was okay.

            Finally, the whole damn ordeal was over and K was helping me to my wobbly feet.  She led me across the room over to a full-length mirror set in the corner.  Thank fuck she was there to lean on and it was just a few steps away.  It didn’t help that I was starting to feel more than just a little drunk.  I didn’t want to see myself.  I really didn’t.  Especially clutching on to K’s arm like that.  She was dressed a hell of a lot manlier than I was, and I felt like some silly drunk chick in wobbly heels reliant on a strong arm to get anywhere.  Fuck me, but that was not the kind of chick Cindy was going to be, not if I had any say in the matter.

            And then, the moment of truth.  K set me in front of that mirror and stepped away, and I had my first good look at Cindy Bellamy.

            Cindy, I had to grudgingly admit, was cute, in a blonde-coed sort of way.  Truth be told, I felt almost a little disappointed at my first glimpse of Cindy.  After all that fucking work and prep and struggling and emotional upheaval, I was expecting something pretty damn amazing.  Cindy’s body was pretty hot, I’ll give her that.  She was slim and her legs were long and coltish, in those low-riding skin-tight jeans with just a glimpse of heels peeping out from beneath.  Jeans like that begged for a glimpse of trimmed midriff but Cindy was feeling a bit shy; her sweater hung past her waist, cinched in by a wide open-pleated belt.

            Thing is, she was kind of chunky, especially across the shoulders.  But with a rack like that, who’d be checking out shoulders?  Her breasts stood out firm and round beneath her fuzzy peach sweater and a little crystal bauble glinted and irresistibly drew your attention to that proud cleavage.

            What I liked about Cindy, though--what took my breath away, to be honest--what scared me about this girl, were her eyes.  She had the most beautiful emerald eyes, somehow wider, the colour more vivid, than I’d ever seen them, and those flecks of grey in contrast made the green all the more vibrant.  There was hesitancy in those eyes, a trembling anxiousness--a vulnerability I’d never seen in my eyes before, because I damn well knew that this trim, young girl was somehow me.  I reached up with one shaky hand to brush a few stray hairs back behind my ear; bangles clinked and slid down my forearm and my eyes were drawn by those glimmering silvery strips suspended from my ears and I quickly pulled back from such a feminine gesture.

            Sure, the illusion fell apart if you looked too closely or knew what to check for.  Cindy’s jaw was just a little too strong for a girl, the nose a bit odd, those hands too big, and something that suspiciously resembled an Adam’s apple bobbed into sight when she nervously gulped.  From beneath the heavy mask of makeup and the illusion of youth looked someone older, someone not quite girlish enough.  There was definitely something mannish about her.  But from afar, maybe even from up close in a dark room, you wouldn’t glance twice--or maybe you would, to check out that tight ass, or that amazing rack.  Or those eyes, those fucking enigmatic eyes.

            “What the hell,” I said, barely audible.  My eyes danced back and forth across my reflection, uncertain where to settle but always drawn back to themselves, to those green depths.  “Who the hell am I?” I whispered.

            Standing a few feet behind me and to the side, I heard K answer.  “You are Cindy Bellamy.”

            “Yes, but. . . ,” I swallowed before continuing, “Who . . . who is she, K?”

            “Cindy,” Agent K determined, “is everything that David Saunders is not.  Cindy is unsure of herself where David is cocky.  She is humble when he is arrogant, and modest in the face of his pride.  David is very strong but Cindy, she is far weaker.”  K walked up behind me and rested one hand on my shoulder.  She gently smoothed the sweep of my blonde hair back across my neck and I touched at her intimate touch.  “David has always prided himself in his independence,” she all but whispered in my ear.  “But Cindy is very dependant on the help and opinions of others.  She is coy where David is brash and timid where he is bold and demure where he is daring.”  K’s eyes caught my reflected gaze and bore into me.  “David was antagonistic and abrasive and selfish.”  Her breath was hot on my neck and ear.  “But you, you are gracious and gentle and caring.”

            “I . . . .”

            “This is you, Cindy.”

            “I . . . I don’t know if I can . . . .”

            “I will train you,” K said, lips curled in a thin smile that suddenly seemed cruel.  Her hands rested on my shoulders as she stood behind and over me.  Her eyes glittered like diamonds in the mirror, beautiful and hard and cold.

To be continued…