Constant 3, Chapter 4-3 (Patreon)

The final (?) draft of chapter 3, scene 3. As always, feel free to leave comments and criticism! This will undergo a final revision before the whole chapter is published.

Three: Mirage Under Moonlight (7,773)

The second week of living under Julia’s control ended with a visit to Juno. It was Saturday morning and the mall thronged with early shoppers eager to escape the heat.

            “What are we doing here?” I hissed as we entered the lavish shop. Elaborate dresses in white and ivory ringed the main room, floating chiffon and tulle specters floating above us in decorative niches. It was like stepping into an ancient Roman temple set along the Tiber, and I the heathen invading this sacral space. A harp tinkled in the background: not a recording, but a girl with long hair in a flowing white dress. An eager and diffident young woman dressed in white approached.

            “Enjoy,” she said, and offered us a pair of glasses filled to the brim with Prosecco.

            “I’ve been thinking,” Julia said as we sat in a cushioned alcove, sipping at out drink. She relaxed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt; I felt less so in sandal heels, tight white shorts and bolero jacket over a balconette bra. I felt half naked because I was. Guys openly checked me out all morning, staring at my tits, checking out my ass, tossing rude comments my way like monkeys flinging shit at zoo patrons. It was just so fucking tedious and though I felt out of place in a bridal shop, this female space was a welcome retreat from the public eye. “About that first day I met Cindy.”

            I took a wary drink and nodded. Truth was, I was already on tenterhooks. The day had already been one of surprises. Second weekend of October, and an unexpected heatwave sweltered the city, early morning sun glaring painfully off steel and glass towers.

            The mall offered climate-controlled relief, and Julia was on a roll. We’d started early and enjoyed brunch and some idle chatter. A little shopping, in which she seemed just as eager to check in on her ‘magic mirror’ as buy clothes. Something about me still confused Julia’s software, but less so that before, I thought. It recommended an elegant red dress. Julia bought it, with a knowing smile.

            Then, a visit to a piercing studio. I made a token effort to protest. My efforts were wasted. She emerged with a second stud in her ear, a match for mine; but the belly-button piercing was for me alone.

            “Very trendy,” she said, “very Cindy.” The captive bead ring rested against my taut belly, a constant presence throughout the day. To be honest, I wasn’t much pleased. Bits of metal dangling off my body always felt like an obvious vulnerability, something for an enemy to grab, yank and tear the flesh. As a man, I’d never been one for earrings or any kind of piercing and didn’t even like rings or a watch at my wrist. Gradually, I’d come around on earrings—the way they sparkled, the weight in the lobe, felt a comforting presence now, and truthfully, I felt sort of naked without them.

            But anything beyond that? It felt—weak, girly; foolish, even, although of course the whole point of Cindy was that she didn’t have any enemies. Cindy didn’t fight mercenary assassins. What kind of monster would tear anything from her body, ear, navel or otherwise?

            But also, I felt bad. The girls had already harassed me to join them for some piercings weeks ago, and they’d be pissed I went ahead and did it without them. Especially Mel. She kept pressuring me to get drunk one night after work. Then, get a tramp stamp, or another piercing, or—something. Increasingly, her self-destructive instincts included me, as though she senses a kindred spirit keen to join her downward spiral.

            Julia kept me busy, but I’d caught up with Willow and Mel last night. Unexpectedly, Julia gave me a free pass last night, a Friday. I guess she was busy prepping today’s ‘fun’. Or maybe she let me loose because she was having Caleb around. Either way, I’d looked forward to a relaxed night at home, alone.

            Yeah, right. The moment Emma figured out I was free, she guilted me into joining the girls for the night. They’d been dropping catty hints about my recent absence, complaining I’d been avoiding them, called me a stuck-up bitch—that was Mel, so nothing new there—and Emma, eyes nearly brimming with tears, insisted I joined them with such earnestness you’d think I’d been off to war.

            The usual Friday night, then: around to their cramped apartment after work. Drinks and food, makeup and clothes, and Willow cried out “bitches united!” as she sculled a glass of white whine spritzer, then advanced on me with an array of glittery makeup. Mel was gluing on fake nails and gazing at me with half-lidded eyed.

            “What?” I asked.

            “Nothing,” she said then immediately: “you’ve changed.”

            I’d have raised an eyebrow, but Willow was busy drawing them in. “I haven’t.”

            “You have.” She glared at me accusingly. “You’re—fuck me, you’re happy! Look at you—relaxed; where’s the prissy little bitch gone?”

            I leaned in close. “Don’t worry, Mel,” I whispered in her ear, “I’ll always be your little bitch when you need me,” I gave her a light kiss. She held her hand over the memory of lipstick at her cheek, and something smouldered in her eyes.

            Then out to Tartarus once again, girls in glittering apparel squeezed into the back of a taxi slicing through urban lights towards the darker patch of city curled around the waterfront’s edge. Overhead, a thin sliver of waning crescent moon cut through wisps of cloud, a silver fingernail grasping at the sky. The club was heaving and the lineup long, boozy sweat and flaring tempers under late autumn heat.

            Fortunately, Bruno pulled us out of the queue for a private word.

            “Not good, not good,” he said, shaking his head sadly. He ushed the other girls through but held me back for a chat.

            I looked down at my sparkly outfit, tugged it up over my prominent tits. “Not you, baby girl, not you,” he said. “Jonas.”
            Bruno explained that Jonas had been suspended from his job with the club, his AI taken offline. There’d been a major security breach: last weekend, somehow, the club’s AI not only failed to track an unknown intruder into the club but actually aided their progress through back doors and “personnel only” corridors up to the VIP rooms where—and here, Bruno’s voice fell to a whisper—a very important person, indeed, had met a very gruesome end. Rumour had it was some kind of political thing, maybe, or gang warfare, a professional hit job.

            I blanched at the news. “Is Jonas okay?” I asked, laying one hand on Bruno’s massive arm. I smiled weakly at him. “Was anybody hurt—I mean—anyone other than…?”
            He was fine, although under investigation; everyone was fine except for the victim. It was only the extreme secrecy surrounding the target that kept the club open whilst the authorities did their thing behind closed doors. The VIP lounge was closed, but hedonism continued unchecked everywhere else.

            “You should go see him,” Bruno said, his massive hand at the small of my back gently nudging me into the club and in the direction of my friends.

            I did. Emma had already bailed, before we even left the apartment—a ding from her phone redirected her from girls’ night out to boyfriend-night in. Then, Mel quickly hooked up with some guy and didn’t need me hanging around as they sucked face. With any luck she’d go home with him; she’d been nearly vibrating with the need for a good fuck all night.

            Meanwhile, Willow bumped into a pair of girls she knew from a side-gig she did a year ago, some temp work zero-hour contract thing at a conference, booth babe client-forward stuff. Both were tiny and cute, like Willow, long hair and bright makeup, one in a dress even shorter than mine, the other in tight shorts and sparkly tube top. The conversation kept drifting towards the past, and so after knocking back a quick drink I made myself scarce.

            There was an edge to the night, a threat of violence in the air I hadn’t felt before at Tartarus. Without the guiding hand of Jonas’s security AI, staff struggled to identify flashpoints before they flared. Part of me yearned to stay, to see what happened as the bouncers scrambled to contain the rising tide of alcohol- and heat-fuelled tension. But it wasn’t Cindy’s scene.

            Instead, she sought out Bruno. He was busy but found a moment to step aside. There was a fire to his eyes I hadn’t seen before, his dark skin flecked with sweat, and his smile bright. I gave him a little kiss on the cheek and he ordered me a cab back to Jonas.

            The poor kid was devastated. Sat alone in the dark, scrolling through lines of code of a backup copy of the club’s security AI he’d trained, hunting for the flaw that cost him his job. Paler than usual, he had the strained look of someone who hadn’t slept in days.

            “I don’t understand,” he kept saying. “It’s not possible.”
            I comforted him as best I could. At first, he resented my advances, insisting he had to work, had to fix it, but he soon succumbed, and afterwards he was grateful as I gave his cock a final lick and gentle kiss to the tip, before tucking him away. “Thank you,” he mumbled, as I gathered him in my arms. He rested his head against my chest. “You didn’t have to,” he said. “But thank you.”

            Soon, he fell asleep and lay there in his bed, his breath a whisper against my skin, and I stroked his hair and stared out the window into the night and eventually also fell asleep.

            Despite this, I felt surprisingly buoyant the next day, with a lightness to my step as I joined Julia in the city that morning. True, I struggled to focus on her plans for the day. Thoughts of last night, a touch of almost brotherly worry for the girls and concern for Jonas, distracted me. Too often, I reflected on his cock, or his hand at my breast, or the way he made me feel as he gently slept, a masculine weight cleaving to my softness.

            But I did my best to push these thoughts aside. I was with Julia, now: a little shopping, brunch, a little salon piercing—and now… a bridal shop?

            “Do you remember?” Julia asked, gazing into the thin lines of bubbles snaking through her drink, rising, popping like memories. “You told me a story about a wedding dress.”

            A transformative experience, I’d told her then, an epiphanic visit to a bridal store, the moment of revelation of my natural femininity. It was the story of a seven-year old’s discovery of who she really was, raised male but destined to someday wear one of these gorgeous cascades of silk, taffeta and lace.

            I nodded and sipped my drink. When the hell did I become so familiar with satin and tulle and chiffon? The last two decades of my life had been cottons, worsted wool, and the fine cut of a tailored suit. An unlooked-for education: in shoes and heels, kitten, block or wedges, stiletto, sandals and slingbacks, pumps, platforms and mules. In necklines and hems. In lingerie, especially. But also in dresses, skirts and tops; and the fabrics used to make them, the drape and fall, support and style, texture and sheen.

            My stomach churned a little as the Prosecco hit. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone an entire day without booze. There’s anxiety, too: I’m with Julia but still thinking about Jonas and how terribly pale he looked as I left him, and the events at the club. Even a morning blow job hadn’t cheered him up. Leaving in the early morning, I saw the concern in Bruno’s face. I also saw the bruises and the split lip.

            “A busy night,” he rumbled, shaking his head, tired and blissful. “But thank you, baby girl. For taking care of him.” The massive paw of his hand patted my ass as he saw me out the door.

            Meanwhile, Julia waited expectantly. “You know I made it up, right?” I answered.

            “Did you?”

            “I mean, yes, my mom brought me with her to a wedding dress shop. But it’s not like I discovered my inner girl then or anything. Obviously.” Wrinkling my nose with distaste, I thought back to my childhood. “I can’t really remember why she brought me. She wouldn’t have if she didn’t have to. She was shopping with a friend. It wasn’t a place like this.” With a sweep of my arm, I indicated the luxurious wedding dresses, the classy details and gentle lighting. “There weren’t places like this where I grew up, and even if there had been, we couldn’t have afforded them.

            “I just remember she wasn’t happy. I laughed at her friend, maybe? She shouted at me and sent me out. I sat on the steps outside the shop and waited for hours before they finished. I remember the sun setting and feeling cold.”

            Julia’s hand rested on my knee. “I’m sorry,” she said.

            “Why?” I rested my hand over hers. “Not your fault my mom hated me.”

            Her eyes searched mine before she sighed. “You really are a fucked up bundle of joy, aren’t you?”

            I shrugged. “It’s like that song, you know – I’m a broken flower.”

            “Sin-DI?”

            I nodded.

            Julia smiled, a secretive glint to her eyes. “That reminds me. I’ve got a little something for you. A gift.”

            She reached into her purse and retrieved an envelope and passed it to me. I went to open it, but she stopped me. “I was going to give it to you tomorrow, but maybe it’ll cheer you up now.”

            “What’s tomorrow?”
            She pursed her lips. “Sunday. And the maid comes on a Sunday, doesn’t she?”

            I groaned. “Really?”

            “But you know, I was thinking: the maid, she’s a servant not a slave; and servants get paid. So—consider this your payment for services rendered.”

            I’d been thinking her shoving a dildo up my twat was more than adequate payment for my services, but I wasn’t averse to a little financial compensation, either. Truth was, money was tight these days, and I was struggling to pay the bills. Luckily, I had Julia buying most of my clothes and makeup, and I had all that stuff from the Clinic, but I was eating out a lot, and drinking with the girls, and my wages sucked. Just paying the entry fee at Tartarus nearly wiped out a day’s pay. Cindy’s social life wasn’t cheap, and I was steadily falling behind.

            A year ago, I’d had a perfect credit score and a healthy bank balance, with additional funds stashed away in secret, and short-term assets easily converted in an emergency. Now, I was in the red, credit lines nearly maxed, and part of me hoped I escaped Cindy’s life simply to dodge the fucking bills. Galling as it might be, on a night out, if a guy didn’t buy me a drink, I wasn’t drinking; if someone didn’t buy me food, I wasn’t eating.

            Opening the envelope, there were two thin slivers of plastic, deep crimson and glittering with silver flecks. I glanced at Julia curiously.     

            “Go on,” she said, barely holding back a big grin.

            I shook out the envelope and examined the plastic in the palm of my hand—they were long, narrow strips covered in tiny printing, with an imbedded chip—I looked at them closer—and then, I’m embarrassed to say, released a genuine squee of delight.

            The woman at the counter glared at us in disapproval.

            “Like it?” Julia asked, dryly.

            “But—how?” They were a pair of concert tickets. “It sold out instantly. This is—and so expensive!—oh my God, Jules—how?” I almost vibrated in my seat. I looked closer. “Are these—Jesus, fucking backstage tickets? Fucking lord, Jules, this is—I can’t believe it!”

            Julia smiled, reached out and stroked the side of my head. “Her production company hired us on for some research work. Corporate tickets. There was an in-house lottery, and I got lucky.” She gave me a little kiss on the cheek, and I nearly melted. “Happy?”

            I could’ve ruined both our makeups then and there with mauling her face. Instead, I squeezed her hand and fought back a sudden rush of tears. Tears! What the fuck? but staring at those Sin-DI tickets in my hand, I felt—ridiculously excited, a hormonal fizz of joy bubbling through my veins. “Happy? I’ll—you just wait till we get back to yours! And tomorrow—I’m going to clean the fuck out of your apartment.”

             She smiled wryly. “Feeling a bit better now?”
            I nodded, eagerly.

            “Anyway, I got to thinking this week about—well, Cindy.” She leaned in a bit closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And how she might disappear some months down the line, and all those wonderful experiences girl she’ll never enjoy.”

            She pulled back, and smiled, and I swear there was something sad and melancholy to her gaze as she looked over me. “That didn’t seem fair to me. I want you to—enjoy this, Cindy. I’ve signed us up for the full bridal experience: drinks and nibbles, hair and makeup, and I’ve brought the lingerie. And after, once we’ve found the perfect dress—pictures, so we never forget.” Julia smiled, and her eyes were distant. “Something to remind you of what could’ve been.”

            Unexpected tears glimmered in the corner of her eyes. I opened my mouth to speak, but just then one of the shop women approached. 

            “We’re ready for you now,” the woman said, and led us through one of the archways.

            The ladies at Juno took charge, and by the time they were done with me, I was… gorgeous, absolutely fucking drop-dead sexy and beautiful, but in a demure, eyes-downcast, trembling flower kind of way. Makeup heavy, but not too bold; blonde hair gleaming, styled and erupting into bouncy, full curls. They built me from the ground up, chatting all the while. They were fantastic at putting me at ease, but absolute bullies at moving things along. “We had a man in here last week,” one whispered conspiratorially as she did my nails. “Can you imagine? You should’ve seen the look on his face.”

            “Very pretty face,” the other woman added.

            “His fiancée loved it.”

            “He did not, at first?”

            “Yet a very pretty bride.”

            “By the time we were done.”

            “But not as pretty as you,” they assured me.

            I stripped naked and changed into the panties Julia bought for me: a delicate wisp of ivory silk, decorated with sapphire bows and lace. Then creams, sprays and powders, bronzers and highlighters conceal imperfections (what imperfections?) and drawing out an almost inhuman luminosity—by the time they were done, I shimmered like a desert mirage under moonlight.

            Then the familiar ivory lingerie, including the bridal corset from the Clinic, and they cinched me in with almost cruel delight, per Julia’s instructions, mindful of my recent piercing which they carefully secured behind a strip of white medical gauze. I’m not sure my waist had ever been so tightly bound, tapered and narrow. A strapless bra, held up by both willpower and tape, lifted my tits. Then gossamer silk stockings with exquisitely wide, decorative welts, and shoes—elegant and delicate, less tall than I’d expected but with pencil-thin heels demanding precise and careful steps.

            Finally, and after careful consideration, the dress chosen by Julia. Time and effort to squeeze into that cascade of skirts, off-the-shoulder frills and tight bodice secured over corseted curves. Drop pearl earrings and heavy necklace drawing attention to my prodigious bosom. The ladies then posed me on a little dais and snapped photos beneath soft lighting, and I felt very much the unattainable Beatrice on a pedestal. Men could gaze and write sonnets in my honour, yearn but never touch, or if they touched—touch themselves. I was virginal wank-fodder in silk and satin, and I swear my eyes were wide with disbelief in half those photos at the crushing impression of my own bridal beauty.

            But the surprise—the big reveal—was Julia herself, emerging from behind a curtain having undergone her own transformation: suit and heavy shoes, her long hair hidden beneath a short, sandy-coloured wig. She had a thin, precise moustache, and her tits must’ve been flattened by a chest binder beneath that elegant dark grey suit. There remained something distinctly feminine to her shape, but there was also something unexpectedly manly about her, too. They’d brought out a firmer cast to her features, stronger chin and thinner lips, and a wholly unexpected heat flare in my belly. I felt— dainty, as she stood next to me, and vulnerable—and consequently, desirable.

            So many photos, then: her, kneeling, sliding a ring onto my finger. Side by side, arm around my waist. Veiled, and then carefully pushing back the veil to reveal full lips and my half-frightened, half-eager anticipation. Leaning in for the first, hesitant kiss, careful and chaste. Then in her arms, swept back, the heavier kiss that stole my breath and left me gasping, wanting more. With a bouquet. With flutes of bubbly raised in cheer. Alone, arms at my side and lips slightly parted and an ambiguously distant look: resigned, or ready?

            My favourite, though, was a photo taken at the very start after Julia joined. It’s an image—a memory—carried forward beyond everything that happened afterwards:

The young bride stands next to her husband. She is slightly shorter than he is, despite the heels. (A trick of the camera; Julia stood on a short riser, and my knees were slightly bent, hidden in the folds on the dress.) Silver and tiny pearls glitter in her hair, and her hair is pinned up in golden curls high on her head. Her long veil is thrown back. The man’s arm is at her narrow waist, possessive and assured. The simple dark grey of his sleeve cuts a sharp contrast with ivory white, but also with the intricate whorls of lace and tiny woven stones that glitter and catch the light. She looks tiny in his arms, cleaves to him. One hand holds the forearm across her waist closer, as though confirming possession; the other hand rests lightly against his side; and the fingernails of both hands are vividly pearlescent pink. The new husband gazes forward and upwards, as though into the future, and his lips curve, very slightly, in a satisfied smile. But the bride sees only her groom: she gazes up at him adoringly, green eyes wide with potentiality.

After the last photo was take, Julia leaned in close. “We’ll take more pictures,” she promised me in a deep whisper that trembled me to my core. “When we get home.”

            It was late by the time our bridal experience ended. Julia wanted to head out for some food. Clearly, she had planned the day carefully. Not only had she booked us a table at a nice restaurant—Chez Pierre, no less, the same place I’d gone on that first date with Dan—but she also had the clothes for me to change into.

            “Keep the corset on,” she instructed, and when I groaned, she kissed me deeply. Julia held me by the waist, both hands splayed to reach around my compressed waist, though fingers and thumbs couldn’t quite meet. “Please,” she added, playfully spinning me around.

            Her eyes shone brightly with emotion—a reflection of something I couldn’t then identify, carried with her throughout the day. We were in the changing rooms, though Julia wasn’t changing other than to remove the chest binder: she was the man, tonight, albeit a curvy one it seemed, and me the young female companion.

            “It’s your choice. I won’t force you.” Then she leaned in close, her breath on my neck growing a pleasant warmth in my belly. She kissed my neck, softly. “But I like you this way, tonight. Your shallow breathing. The pink in your cheeks. How small you feel in my arms.” Another gentle kiss, and another, her lips hovering over mine. “But tonight, it’s your choice.”

            No choice at all, then. I kept the corset and the stockings as she passed me the red dress bought earlier that day and a suitable bra. The dress wouldn’t have fit without the corset.

            The heat of the day dissipated with the night, and it was only a short walk to the restaurant. I trotted alongside her confident steps, her arm at my waist, leaning into her, her hand an occasional presence at my bum. We drew the occasional stare, most of them appraising or jealous; a few confused or amused or outraged, if they passed close enough to see through Julia’s masculine appearance.

            But the restaurant didn’t case, and swiftly sat us at our table.

            “So, what did you think?” Julia asked, scanning across the menu.

            The price of this place struck me again, just as it had the night out with Dan. “Julia,” I said, leaning close, voice lowered to stagy whisper. “Are you sure about this? This place is expensive.”

            “So?” She smiled. “Being taken out for an expensive meal is one of the benefits of being a beautiful woman.”

            “You wouldn’t take me out if I wasn’t beautiful?”

            “That’s right.” Julia scanned the menu. “You better keep your looks, babe.”

            “Sure, whatever.” I tapped one long fingernail at the menu. “But—listen, I appreciate this. I really do. But Chrissake, Jules—how much have you spent on me this week?”

            “A lot.” Her smile suddenly seems a little strained, the forced look of an addict insisting there’s no problem, really.

            “All these clothes?” I plucked at the dress. Beautiful and elegant, I hadn’t really worn anything like it before. There was a material difference between clubwear and evening wear, and whilst neither made me feel particularly more feminine than the other, it definitely had me feeling like a different kind of woman. This dress covered me from neck to ankle, yet I felt as naked as last night’s barely-there tube dress at Tartarus. A classier nakedness, maybe, but objectified sexuality nonetheless, eroticism with a higher price-tag.

            This dress was tight, with a cut out panel showing off cleavage, and a slit nearly up to the waist. “The maid dress? Bespoke corset? All these shoes? The bridal experience….?” I ticked each one off an elegantly manicured finger, another of Julia’s gifts today. “Even this—” and I tapped the navel ring, still trapped away beneath corset paneling. “You’re spending a fortune on me.”

            “Yes,” she said. “I am.” And before I could ask why, her hand covered mine and held it firmly. “I’m in a good mood, okay? Everything’s going well.” She squeezed my hand. “I’m feeling benevolent and you’re the lucky recipient. So don’t fuck it up, okay?”

            “But can you afford it?”

            “I’ve made good money for years, and not spent it. Might have a pay increase coming next week, too. Bonuses have been good. I’ve been a bit of workaholic so… what can I say? I’m enjoying the excuse to burn through some savings.” She closed her menu and put it to one side. “Besides,” Julia added, and smiled at me. “You’re worth the investment.”

            “Yes, but—” and I was about to ask what return she expected on this investment, when the waiter arrived. Professionally discrete, she raised an eyebrow at the sight of Julia’s hand over mine, and her masculine presentation, but nothing more. Judging by the hint of tattoos beneath collar and cuff, and concealed piercings dotting nose, eye ridge and upper ear, who knows? Maybe she silently approved. Either way, she immediately deduced who was in charge and she focused on Julia.

            “Are you ready to order?” and the unheard ‘sir’ or ‘madam’ hung over us like a question mark.

            Julia ordered for us both, starters and main and drinks. She continued to hold my hand. I relaxed into my role: the pampered girlfriend, the decorative adornment to Julia’s night. Our glasses rang our musically as we cheered, drank and then she stared deep into my eyes. “How was it?” Her voice thrummed with the need to know. “What did you think?”
            “Painful,” I answered, after a moment’s thought. “It stung, though not as bad as I expected. Annoying.”

            Julia looked both stunned and hurt. “But—”

            I patted my front. “Not a fan of piercings, to be honest.”

            Julia crumpled a napkin and threw it at me. “Tough.” She brandished her knife at me. “Now tell me how it felt being the bride.”

            I pulled back my hand and smoothed down my dress, and felt the corset boning beneath, and the garter straps pulling taut as I crossed my legs at the knees with a whisper of stocking and a sigh of silk. “It felt—” and my throat tightened and I said nothing.

            Fortunately, the waiter returned then with our starter, little bruschetta breads drizzled in olive oil, mouth-wateringly garlicky. Taking a delicate bite, I hid my hesitation. Dabbed at my lips with a napkin and smiled for Julia and tried again.

            “It was…”

            Complicated: and I searched Julia’s face for what she wanted to hear and saw that it was complicated there, too.

            There was the purely physical side of it all of course, an aspect I couldn’t deny enjoying. Glasses of Prosecco, delicately sipped; nibbles of cheese and biscuits. And being pampered, of course, a feminine indulgence rarely enjoyed as a man, and rarely too as Cindy, outside of Asklepios Clinic extravagance. I simply couldn’t afford the massage and manicure and pedicures, the salon facial and coddling escape into feminine luxury—even though Mel, bizarrely, kept trying to tempt me to a local spa. The truth was that the meticulous care the ladies at the bridal salon took with me felt exquisite: the care to my hair and body against a backdrop of soothing music and mild drunkenness—and the lotions and makeup that made me luminous like ocean waters under a full moon—and then sitting as they did my face, the tickle of brush at eyes and lips, careful blending, precise lines drawn, my features a canvas transformed under their skill.

            And of course, though Julia couldn’t know, this wasn’t my first time in white. But those bridal photos taken months ago at the Clinic had been pure fetish sexuality, tits and cuffs manifesting Sin-DI’s wry metaphor for the bondage of matrimony. Then, my bridal experience had been one of objectification, sexualised bondage in which I was wrapped in white for the pleasure of another, a lesson in learned helplessness and submission.

            The experience today had been different. Sensual, yes, but somehow more real and consequently, intensely… alluring? if I’m being honest with myself.  And therefore, far more disconcerting than anything felt at the Clinic. I saw the bride in the mirror and saw myself and I liked who I saw.

            This realisation terrified me.

            A few short days ago, Julia wanted only to punish and humiliate me. From dragging me out to Noir to dressing me as a maid, my ex-girlfriend wanted me to squirm.

            And I squirmed: especially last weekend, at the bar dressed like some teen tart cruising for cock; and afterwards, kneeling in front of Caleb. No matter how used I got to these clothes, she found new ways to bring the embarrassing reality of these painful, restrictive or distracting clothes back to life.

            From the thong wedged up my ass to the hobbling pencil skirts that mocked my formerly masculine stride; the corset that stole my breath, or the flouncy skirt flirting at my thigh; new piercings, accessories at wrist or neck, bold swipes of makeup or her focus on some other feminine feature, be it hips, waist, bust or bum, bared midriff or glossy lips—Julia somehow managed to consistently bring back to demeaning life the realities of my female existence. Cindy might adapt, but Jules insisted David never forget who he’d been and how far he’d fallen.

            But somehow today was—worse; far worse, because there was no mockery intended. The whole day, from shopping and brunch to piercing and bridal experiences—had been….

            Joyful.  Yes, that was the word and the emotion whose name eluded me earlier. Joy, shining in Julia’s bright eyes all day: joy, not at my humiliation or immolation but in each others’ company and the day’s shared experience.

            But what pleasure could I find in an act than felt so terribly transgressive? When those ladies buttoned me into that bodice, I remembered my first bra. Yes, my first bra handed to me nine months ago, in a dirty little safe house with stained walls and cheap blinds pulled down over cracked windows. Still pallid and grey, a heavy pair of prosthetic tits hung from my chest. And under Agent K’s instruction, I slid my arms through the straps of that first bra and felt—ill, that deep-down stomach-churning sense of wrongness: a man, wearing an item designed for a woman.

            And as the wedding dress drew tight around me earlier today, I felt that same profound sickness once more. I was masquerading in matrimonial white. This was forbidden territory, the inner holy chamber, the walled garden and yonic space. Men were not allowed here. In this sanctified event she stood resplendent at the centre of ritual.

            The groom was an appendage to her brilliance, and all eyes followed as she was walked down the aisle, given away and transferred from one man’s ownership to the next. The woman flowed to meet the man, an inversion of their shared moment of creation in which agency was consumed and her final freedom expressed in a triumphant celebration of extravagant finery, flowers and dresses and bridesmaids and shining cutlery, female memories crafted to endure a lifetime.

            It was sick, to enjoy this. I knew this deeply in my bones, in my soul, in every fibre of my being. Yet I saw in Julia’s eyes such euphoric enjoyment of the experience—and saw that her joy belonged not to her alone, but also as a reflection of my own, the shared light of sun and moon in the sky; and I felt sick.

            Julia stepped out from behind the heavy velvet curtains in her man’s suit and strode towards me with absolute confidence. I stood trembling in my wedding dress, and felt—with shivering intensity—fleetingly, frighteningly—yet not as Cindy, not as performance or disguise—female; and in the mirror of her eyes and the intensity of her gaze, I genuinely saw and felt myself as a girl, as her girl, and I felt warmth and I felt—

            “Now tell me how it felt being the bride,” she asked, and gripped by an intensity of fear or anger that left me breathless, I said nothing.

            Instead, wholly unexpected tears welled up in my eyes, my eyes shimmered in the soft lighting of the restaurant and then those heavy tears ran in rivulets down my cheeks to hang suspended at my chin before falling, sparkling, to the table, to my chest, onto my lap where they dotted the red silk with darker stains.

            I tried to smile, a watery weak smile, and snivelled a little. “It was—”

            Julia squeezed my hand. “I know,” she said. “I understand.”

            Careful to not ruin my makeup, I dabbed at my eyes with a napkin. “I felt—beautiful,” I said.

            “You were,” Julia said.

            By the time the main course came, I’d gone to the toilet to compose myself, fix my makeup and plaster a contented smile back on my face. Duck a l’orange for Julia and a salad for me: you’ve got to watch that figure, she said with a wry smile, and with my stomach compressed in that fucking corset, I decided the salad was fine even as I eyed her food with envy.

            We ate in silence at first, lost in the ambience of the restaurant’s hum: tinkle of cutlery, clink of glasses, a gentle conversation of consumption interrupted by the murmur of men and women. We were beautiful, Julia and I, and so were the strangers around us, and their dimly perceived dialogue hinted at narratives we could never know.

            “Julia?” I kept my voice soft and gentle. At first she didn’t hear me. “Jules?”

            She leaned closer. “Yes?”

            “I hate to circle back around like this but—yeah. Like, really: why are you being so nice to me today?”

            Julia wiped flecks of juice from her lips. She considered, smiled and then, “can I ask you a question, first?”

            I nodded.

            “Promise to answer seriously?”

            I shrugged.

            She hesitated, then pushed on, dropping her voice to a whisper. “What do you miss—about being a man, that is? If this—” she waved her hand at me, my dress, makeup, hair and boobs, “—was, you know, permanent; what would you miss most?”

            A dozen stupid answers crowded my tongue, and I swallowed them each back, because I could see her question was genuine: it was asked in good faith, not to bait me but in genuine curiosity. The clothes, obviously, though I supposed even in the current cultural climate a woman could get away with less-overtly feminine choices if she wanted. There was no escaping panties and bras, though, not with boobs the size of mine—that was a little depressing to consider.

            I missed not giving a shit. Tired, exhausted or in a bad mood, I could get away with—just not giving a shit, not shaving, skipping a wash, stepping out in a rumpled shirt and getting by. Yeah, people might notice but no one cared. If I tried that as Cindy? Yeah.

            Pissing standing up; I really missed that. It seemed a jokey answer but really wasn’t. Pissing pretty much anywhere, whenever I wanted, was a privilege I’d taken for granted. Outside of rare occasions, guys didn’t have to worry abut holding it in; for girls, I’d learned, it was a daily challenge. Lineups at bars and clubs? A nightmare. Public toilets? Gross; and there always seemed to be some sketchy guy hanging out, hand buried deep in his pocket, watching….

            I missed my cock. Locked away behind the prosthetic, I was only dimly aware of it at times. The feel of it in my hand—or in some chick’s mouth—yeah; but even just the simplicity of balls, shaft and helmet. I missed the presence of manhood between by legs.

            Sex, obviously; God, yes—and everything rolled into it, from arousal to control to the intense finality of climax. My weight, over a woman, and pressing down. Confidence, and the way people listed to me. The way I altered public spaces simply by standing in them. The thrill of competition; the satisfaction of success and conquest; how easy it all once seemed.

            I stabbed another forkful of salad, crunched on leaves and tried to make something coherent out blurred impressions:

            “I’d miss—actually, I miss, as in right now—not missing anything.” Very precisely, I put down my fork and knife on either side of my plate. I held up my hand, fingers splayed, for Julia to see between us, turning this way and that so that my nails sparkled in the light. Their pink and pearlescent sheen from today’s experience caught the hazy light. “No. That doesn’t make sense.”

            I tried again: “It’s hard to explain, Jules. It’s not even a conscious thing, you know? Nine months already and I can’t even imagine what another nine months—or years—I can’t think about it.  But it’s always there, just beneath the surface. The sense of something missing, that’s something’s… not wrong, but not quite right. I feel—”

            Hesitating, I looked across the restaurant as though the answer sat among the other patrons. I saw all these couples, these beautiful pairs of people, women in evening dress—like me—sparkling and glimmering dresses and makeup and shoes, bare skin, cleavage and shining smiles sat opposite men in suits and crisp shirts and equally bright grins.

            “Incongruent,” I continued. “Like something’s out of joint. It’s not an ache, not a pain. And I suppose its not even really a sense of something missing—it’s—it’s more like feeling the absence of something you’ve never had. A hole where nothing once was.

            “Does that that makes sense?” I shook my head. “It doesn’t make sense.” I offered a wan smile in way of apology. “Sorry.”

            Julia reached across the table to take my hand, but before she could say anything I continued.  “You know when you get a filling and at first you always know it’s there? You keep prodding it with your tongue, feeling its sharp edge against the tongue and wonder how you’ll ever get used to it. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t not hurt. Until one day, you wake up and it’s gone—forgotten—until for some reason, you find yourself running your tongue over it again.”

            I stared at her hand over mine, the contrast between our feminine presentation of fingers and painted nails. “And I’m not talking about any as crude as—at least, I don’t think I am—but, you know—like, missing my cock, although I do, believe me. Or a flat chest, anything like that. I miss those things. Obviously. But if I’m being honest—it’s not easy to admit—but like a filling-- I don’t really notice these things anymore.”  I cupped my boobs to illustrate. “These puppies, or the rest of it, really, unless something brings ‘em to attention, like when a guy stares or my bra digs in, or a hot day when pantyhose suck. Ditto with down there. If I’m being really honest, I might even enjoy these things, sometimes.”

            Julia smiles and gives my hand a little squeeze.

            “And yet….”

            I take a deep breath.

            “Even when I’m not thinking about it there’s this constant sense that something just isn’t right. Do you know what that’s like? I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin. Maybe that’s what I miss most. Just relaxing, within myself. I haven’t felt that in nine months. It’s like being trapped in a hot, muggy day, always uncomfortable and want to squirm, wiggle around in my own skin, like tweaking a dress so that it sits that little bit better. I keep waiting for my own body to fit properly and finally settle around who I am.

            “And I guess this—wrongness—it gnaws a me? Like background noise, a radio slightly out of tune with a channel that won’t play clearly. All the time, even when I’m not really aware of it and it means I’m always a bit tired, on the back foot and it saps my confidence, or—I don’t know—it’s not like I hate myself or anything, obviously—and when I look in the mirror, I don’t despise what I see there, how could I, what I see there is fucking gorgeous, right?”

            And this is a lie, of course. I don’t tell Julia about standing in front of the mirror with scissors held to hair, or knife poised where the prosthetic seam must be. I don’t tell her about drunken nights where I grab my tits, nails digging deep, and pull and yearns to rip and tear them off. Pain and tears; long absent stares into the mirror, lipstick held poised at the lip; or those days when the sight in the mirror churned my stomach so deeply I nearly puke.

            No. Instead I offered a limp shrug and said: “But that gorgeous girl in the mirror, she’s… not-me; it’s me, but not the me I know, and that dissonance hangs over me twenty-four-seven. And maybe it’ll go away someday. Every morning, I wake up and hope I’ll feel different, that for the first time in months I’ll feel—rested, like I’ve finally had a good night’s sleep and everything’s better. And maybe in another nine months or nine years, I’ll wear this skin in like a new pair of shoes, wear it until it softens and yields to who I am. But for now, all the give is from my end, pinched toes and blisters with each misstep.”

            I pulled my hand back. “I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve always known who I am.” And this too is a lie though an unintentional one, but it’s only in the saying that I realised that I didn’t know myself as David, either. His name and very existence, an illusion; and I don’t know that I’d ever felt comfortable in his shoes, either.

            “So, you asked me what I’d miss, Jules?” I shrugged.  “Fuck if I know, Jules. What I just said,” and I hung my head, wishing my hair hung loosely tonight so I could hide behind its curtain. Instead, I stare at my lap where the high slit of my dress reveals pale thighs, garter tabs and white stockings. “All of it.”

            Julia didn’t say anything.

            Eventually, I grew impatient and looked up, to find Julia’s contentedly munching away on the final sliver of duck. She washed it down with a gulp of red.

            I glared at her. She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

            “Really? Nothing?”

            “You want me to pat you on the back, say, ‘there there’?”
            I gaped at her for a moment, then turned away in a huff, arms crossed. “Forget it, Jules. Forget I said—”

            “Welcome to the club, Cindy.” Julia cut me off. She raised her glass in cheer, and took a final sip, finishing it off. “About time you got here.” She picked up her napkin and dabbed at a little trickle of grease. “I’m sympathetic,” she continued. “I really am. And I appreciate the honesty of your answer.” She smiled. “I really do.

            “But honestly—everything you just said?” She shrugged. “I don’t know a single woman who hasn’t felt at least some of that at some point in her life.” She ticked points off on her fingers. “Hating parts of herself? Check. Feeling like she doesn’t fit in? Check. Being—how did you put it?—incongruous with the world around her? Double-check.” She was left with her thumb. “Feeling on the back foot and feeling out of place and feeling like she doesn’t belong and—” she curled her thumb into a fist and brought it down on the table hard enough to make her plate jump, the cutlery jangle and draw disapproving glares, “being tired, so fucking tired all the time?”

            Julia shook her head. “I’m not making light of anything you said. Honestly. And I know, I’m being deliberately obtuse, here. I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to wake up in a body you don’t recognize. But at the same time—truly, David, half of what you just described is was most women feel, all the time. Welcome to being a woman in a man’s world.”

            “But I’m not a woman.” Petulant, surly, resentful: “I’m not a bride, or a maid, or a secretary. I’m nobody’s girlfriend.” I leaned forward. “I’m not a fucking girl!”

            She leaned forward, too. “What are you, then?”

            I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out.

            “I’ll show you what you are,” Julia said. “Tonight.”