Fan Art by Fraylim: The Funeral of David Saunders (Patreon)

A slightly more subdued image for today, Cindy dressed for the funeral of David Saunders. This was one of the first pieces of fan art that Fraylim shared with me, capturing the moment below, from the opening of Book 3. Returning to this opening reminds me that I need to revisit and revise it--we've covered a lot of ground from chapter 1 to the current chapter, and some of this needs to bleed back into the opening of the third book. It's an appropriate image to post this week, I feel, as I bring the funeral arc to a close in Chapter 5.

***

There’s only two of us in attendance. It took some work, but Julia finally agreed to come. I can tell she’s more than ready to be rid of David. Saying goodbye’s easier than dealing with guilt, right? And she clearly still feels guilty over what she did to me last month, at the way she quite literally fucked me over. 

            Like, I get it; she wanted revenge. It’s a motive I understand, better than most. But it—more than hurt, and we hadn’t spoken since.

            Her presence tonight brings a strange sort of fluttery happiness in my belly, even if she’s standing there looking caught between sombre, confused and bored. She’s bothered to show, and that means something. She’s even made some effort to dress up. Julia looks good in black, though I miss the long hair. She cut it short after we fell out. Looking her over, I still feel an echo of the old longing—and a wholly inappropriate dampening at the crotch imagining what I’d still love to do to her. It is a funeral, after all.

            And then there’s me, in my tight little back dress, the same one I’d worn all those months ago on that first date with Dan. (That son of a bitch.) Squeezing into it—and the under-rigging required to get it to fit—brought back all kinds of memories. Not necessarily good ones, mind. 

            On the one hand, that night months ago with Jules, gilded memories glossed by time: Champagne giggles as we tried to make sense of the bands and buckles of the lingerie. Twisting and turning as she strapped me in—her playful slap across my bottom and sucking in my gut—taut straps across my thighs and her fingers tracing them. Makeup, soft colours painted on each others’ lips… kissing, and back to the sensuous brush strokes, repairing the damage.  Breasts pushed up against each other, and the phantom memory of a cock straining against the confines of panties.  Our roaming hands.  Our hot whispered words.

            Was that the night that killed David Saunders?

            No.  But it was a nail in the coffin, one of many. 

            Then the other hand, the bad memories.  After the fun, zipping me into the little back dress and sending me off on a date with a man, another man, in the full knowledge of where it would bring me and openly mocking me for it. Her ongoing campaign of humiliation and retribution played out on the arena of my flesh.  Though that night out—that date with Dan—paled in comparison to what came after.  Contriving to humiliate me in another man’s company was merely a taster of what was to come—ha!—and led to the breakdown between us.  She got her revenge.

            But so did I.

            Funny, though, how disgusting the idea of sitting with another man, in a romantic setting and holding his hand once seemed.  Or kissing him.  Going home with him and doing what inevitably follows.  Funny, though not ha-ha funny.  A lot can change in three months.

            Still, no denying that night—that first date—was a tentative step leading to tonight’s… send-off?  That seems a bit cold.  Ceremony then, or maybe a celebration—of a man’s life.

            I smile at Julia from behind my veil as she shifts uncomfortably in her heels.  There’s some kind of irony to the fact she’s less confident in heels than I am.  She’s getting better, though—she’s had to because of work, and I take a weird satisfaction in that.  Meanwhile, my makeup’s appropriately dark and smoky, lips a deep dark burgundy, nails a glittering shade shy of black. 

            “Thanks for coming, Julia,” I say.  “You being here means a lot to me.”