Constant 3: Chapter 4-6 (Patreon)

Whilst I'm considering this one complete, I'm more than a little uncertain about it. It went through three different versions before settling into it's current state; I'm curious what readers will think of it. Enjoy? And as always, feedback appreciated!

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Six: Icarus (8,434)

There’s something intimately familiar about Icarus. Nights spent in nondescript rooms, mini fridge and inoffensive art on beige walls, and always some kind of hotel bar: long counter, soft lit bottles of booze, strong drinks against the backdrop of a distant city. Exhaustion and boredom, both constant companions to conferences and office branch visits dotted across the country or abroad. Usually, a stalwart bartender willing to swap a few stories; occasionally, a girl at my side for the night; always, loneliness.

            Walking away from our table, I tugged at my dress. A futile effort, considering its length. It barely cleared my crotch and drew taut with each step. Slightest bend, I’d be flashing lilac panties. Even after all these months, the roleplays and dressing up and training, a dress like this didn’t feel natural or comfortable. At least, not tonight. It was too tight, too revealing. Behind me, Julia sat lit from beneath by her laptop screen, wicked grin glinting from her dark corner. She watched, from a distance; collected her data, from a distance, and experience my shame in abstract measurements of heart rate, sweat and AI-feedback.

            In towering heels, I wiggled my way to the counter. I felt acutely aware of the toy buried in my pussy and bit my lip. Awful anxiety stirred in my belly. Even more than that night with Dan, I didn’t want to do this.

            Across the long, dimly lit way, bound on one side by an expanse of windows looking down on city, and rows of tables and private booths along the other, I saw the exit: slim rectangles of light promising escape. Just keep walking—past the bar, past all the men—all watching—and out the door and… out of Julia’s life.

            Look good, she said. Drink, but don’t pay. Flirt. These were Julia’s instructions. Look good drink flirt: you couldn’t separate them. And if I wanted—totally your decision, she smirked—get laid. You’ll love it, she added. Trust me.

            Clothes aren’t consent, but my outfit sure as hell invited consideration, or at least the leering men watching me thought so. Stares and rude comments on my ass, my tits or what they’d like to do to me followed my clicking walk; I ignored them, blushing furiously, eyes to the floor. Tight, shiny and purple, my dress was an abbreviated tube paired with a matching choker and strappy heels. Julia bought it for me last Sunday. It sure as hell wasn’t appropriate for this kind of place. It barely covered me from tits to thighs. Fine for clubbing or maybe some youthful cocktail bar where I matched the bright lights and optimism. Icarus was dark and serious and dull, a haunt of tired and lonely men. I’d been that man, once: sat alone with midnight whisky after an exhausting, purposeless day of conference bullshit and team-building idiocy.

            Nearing the bar, I hesitated. My body thrummed, murmur of need beneath the flesh, and my brain ached. Half naked, I felt hot. Eying the entrance, I glanced over my shoulder at Julia. In the minute it took me to descend to the bar, someone had moved in. She wasn’t alone. A large man in a suit, indistinct in the dim light of the bar, stood over her. Julia looked up at him. Indicated the man should sit. He did, heavy shadowed bulk joining her.

            I gnawed my lip with indecision. Julia’s AI approved of my delicate confusion. I bit down harder, swaying as the toy hummed with ecstasy.

            God, I needed….

            My nails dug into my thigh. I gritted my teeth through the wave of pleasure.

            No. Fuck it—and even thinking it brought a warning tingle to my throat—but no, no fucking way, a thousand times no, fuck Julia and her goddamn toy and all this right to hell. This was—insane. No disguise needed this. One thing to… to prance around in a sexy dress and heels. Even, under threat, to follow some guy to his apartment and—drop to my knees and—but to—I bit my lip—my hands fluttering at my side.

            To sit with some guy. Flick back long hair, smile and laugh, and rest my hand over his, briefly. A drink? Tinkling laughter. I’d love one, yes—how kind. Coo at his boasts; laugh at his jokes. Another? I shouldn’t but… glance away, suddenly shy; blush and look up through heavy eyelashes and smile: why not? His hand, on my knee. Leaning in. Hot breath on my cheek, whisper at my ear and wide-eyed nod. Yes. Yes, and hand in hand follow him up to his hotel room. Standing silently in the elevator amongst others, already wet with anticipation, palm pressed surreptitiously to the bulge in his pants. Stumble down the hallway. Cardkey swipe, through the door, hand on ass, a pinch, a squeal—falling into him, the first kiss, hot and heavy and eager, slamming up against the wall. A flurry of wet kisses, grabs, tits and shirt and tie, and the susurration of a zipper, sliding down, and the moment in which it all pauses as with a wiggle the dress drops to the floor, joined by a bra, amethyst coils at the foot of a naked goddess in heels striding in glory towards the bed, rising on it like divinity on a dais and the man approaches like a pilgrim to a shrine, humble and so very full of sin as she lies back and he touches the foot, the knee and parts the legs and rises—rises with devotion and approaches—presses down—and enters the sacral space ….

            The vibrator kicked in once again and I nearly melted to the floor.

            No. No—I couldn’t… follow some guy back to his room and… lie back. Spread my legs. Let him—feel him—inside me.

            I held a hand to my throbbing temple. My palm felt slick with sweat, my forehead hot.

            Fuck, though, I’d miss her.

            The decision was agonising, but making it brought clarity, like waking from a long sleep. My head still hurt but the way forward seemed easier. Yes: I’d miss Julia and all the bullshit that came with her, playing at maid, her dress-up doll, ticking off her bucket list. I’d miss being her girlfriend and confidant.

            But the job was done. I’d gotten as much out of her as I could. I—felt something for her—but the cost was too high; she expected too much. She wanted to force me across a line from which I’d never return. She couched it as a favour, the gentle push rather than the yank of the collar. Break me and hide the pieces: this was her plan to keep me safe.

            But I’d been broken before, and an item once repaired is never as strong as it once was. I’d tried to deny this for years—for my whole adult life. This wasn’t the time or place but an overwhelming sadness—a sucking, galling grief—swept over me at the sudden acknowledgement of a past long buried. And riding this swell of emotion was fear.

            This fear gnawed at me, a twisting of the belly, a trembling at the knees. Terrified, I felt myself standing at a precipice, tottering in heels at the edge of a cliff. Playing at—no, even being Cindy was something I’d grudgingly accepted. But this? To fuck some guy, what, bar pickup and a one-night stand? To do what she wanted was to step into the abyss.

            I’d been staring up at her indistinct shape in the dark recess of the bar. Taking a deep breath, suppressing that awful feeling inside of me, I turned my back on her. I took the first step towards the exit. And then there was a presence in front of me, large man shape blocking the way.

            I bounced off his chest.

            “Woah.” Judging by his voice, he was half-amused, half annoyed, holding his drink high to avoid spillage.

            “Sorry,” I mumbled, and tried to wave this guy off, sidle past him, but suddenly he had me by the upper arm in an assured grip.

            “Hey, what’s the rush?”

            Suppressing the instinct—with a warning buzz at the throat—blistering pain searing across my skull—to turn and slap this guy or knee him in the groin, I instead forced a vapid smile to my face. It’s only as I turned to face him that I realized this guy’s voice was familiar. I blinked up at him through a mess of hair fallen across my face. I had to crane my neck, because of course even wearing heels I’m shorter than he is. My stomach clenched and twisted anew, and my blood ran cold.

            “Surely a pretty girl like you,” he said, voice a dark growl, his hand a confident match as he held me, “isn’t alone tonight?”

            And I had to blink again, because for a moment appearance and voice don’t match; I didn’t recognize him. I shook my head, tossing hair back and delicately draw long nails across my face to clear stray bangs out my eyes and—yes—it’s him after all. The first thing that comes to mind is: it’s about fucking time. I hadn’t seen this guy for months. I’d wondered where he’d disappeared to. It’s almost a relief, seeing him.

            Last time I saw this guy, he looked rough: red-rimmed eyes, unshaven and tense. He’s wearing the exact same clothes as before, expensive black trousers, crisp white shirt, and his hair’s still in the same short ponytail. But there’s also something different: he’s clean-shaven now, red eye gone, and relaxed. The threat’s still there, but then that might just be the ever-present intimation of menace between any woman and strange man at a bar, amplified by the contrast in height and size as I perched there in heels and my little dress, shaven legs shining under the glow of the bar. Dressed this way, I’d feel uneasy next to any man. Someday, I’d like to meet this guy when I was wearing normal clothes.

            He’s looking at me with a cocky grin, expectantly. I moistened my lips and forced a smile. “I’m not alone,” I said, tucking hair behind my ear with my free hand, touched an earring, and glanced demurely away and down and then back up at him.

             “Boyfriend?” He made a show of looking around. “I don’t see anyone.”

            I performed a little moue of sadness. He must be thinking of Dan. “It didn’t work out,” I said, and suddenly the vibrator kicked in hard, the accumulation of little flirty signals triggering a reward.

            I bit down on my lip to avoid squealing. Fuck—fuck fuck fuck Julia and her goddamn toys!

            His hand shifted from arm to waist to steady me. He must think I’m drunk—he wouldn’t be wrong—and he’s entirely too confident with my body. I suppressed a shudder, even as he asked, “You okay?” but it’s just an excuse to him to touch my bare shoulder as he leaned closer.

            “Just a bit emotional.” I wiped a fake tear away. Meanwhile, I desperately squeezed my thighs together, clamping down on that goddam toy. “It was a bad breakup.”

            “Grab a seat,” he said, and his hand slid from waist to bum and patted me towards the bar counter. “It’s pretty hot in here.” This dickhead’s manhandling me like a slab of meat, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

            Glancing back towards Julia, she’s still engrossed in conversation with the man sitting with her, two distant shadows against dark windows. Even her laptop’s closed, screen glow gone as she focused on the man sitting with her. Meanwhile, the hand on my ass has now moved to my elbow, helping me clamber up onto a stool designed for men in trousers, not girls in short tight dresses and spiky heels.

            Sat there primly, knees together, I pursed my lips. “Thanks.”

            He winced in mock hurt at my tone. He settled into the stool next to mine, and at last his hands are his own, again, resting lightly on the counter. I don’t like the way his eyes linger over me, especially my tits, and I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest. “So, where’re your friends?” he asked.

            I stared blankly at him.
            “You said you weren’t alone.” As he talked he loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his shirt. I hadn’t noticed the tie, before. “And no boyfriend, so….”

            “Friend. Just one. She’s over there,” I answered, nodding towards Julia.

            He glanced in the indicated direction. “Looks like she’s met someone to chat with, too.” He turned back to me, and his smile is friendly and inviting, a comforting mask pulled over a predator’s grin.

            “Chat?” I arch an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”
            He frowned, and the first hint of danger flashes across his eyes, sending a thrill down my spine. “Why not?”

            I held up my empty glass and shook it in front of him, ice cubes rattling.

            “What, I’ve got to buy you a drink just to talk to you?” His lip curled with—amusement? Disdain? even as he shook his head in mock disbelief.
            “Them’s the rules,” I said, flashing a wide, painted smile. “I don’t make them: good-looking guy buys the pretty girl a drink.”

            He considered that. “I’m good-looking?”

            The whole time we’re talking, I’ve imagined smashing my empty glass into the side of his face. My whole body was tight in anticipation, right foot reaching down to brace myself against the floor. But there’s a shiver at the throat, a warning against violence. Instead, I tapped one slender finger against my chin, as though considering. Rather than claw out his eyes, I reached up and held his chin between forefinger and thumb. My nails pricked his skin. He started, eyes widening with surprise at my touch; I smiled.

            Turning his head this way and that, I examined his nose, slightly crooked as though it’s been broken and reset a few times. He’s got a strong chin—small scar, short pale white line along the jawline; I draw the edge of a nail its length—and thin lips perpetually hovering between scowl and scorn. He submitted to my examination, eyes smouldering as he looked me over, too.

            “Good enough,” I said.

            His hand closed around my wrist. “But are you?” he said, pulling my hand away from his face. And I swear I hear him say, “A girl?” even as his grip tightened. “A pretty girl?”

            He knew. The bastard knew, somehow, impossibly this fucker knew who I really was, saw past the makeup and tits and dress, the simpering smile and flirtatious touches. He knew, and had me by the wrist, and the threat he posed was clearly written in the hunger of his gaze.

            I bristled beneath his touch. Then I relaxed, without needing a reminder jolt from the collar. In fact, I felt the phantom warning without it triggering. Compelled by the memory of pain, instead of lashing out or yanking my hand back, I tilted my head to one side, and smiled tentatively, and felt the training of the past week roll over me, a gentle urging away from violence towards something entirely more accommodating. I held his gaze. Licked my lips—but not nervously—and rested my hand over his. “That’s for you to say. Am I pretty enough?”

            And then it seemed to me that what I saw in his eyes wasn’t anger at all, nor threat—but lust. This man who worked for my enemy desired me. He wanted me—needed Cindy. He’d watched over her for months now and at some point, fell for her. I understood this with an immediacy and certainty that nearly left me breathless. Suddenly, the tension I saw drawn in every line of his body wasn’t a promise of violence, but an expression of want—or even, a fear of rejection. With that realization I felt powerful, and my own fear abated.

            He nodded.

            “How about that drink, then?” I dropped my eyes, smiling coquettishly.

            “Why don’t you tell me your name, first?”

            “Cindy.”

            “Cindy,” he repeated, in a tone that told me he didn’t care, he damn well knew my name already. But he gestured for the bartender.

            “Hm-mm.” I nodded, forcing a smile, tongue-tip between gleaming white teeth. Now I finally noticed the little white sticker stuck his lapel, conference-standard nametag: Hello, My Name is…. in printed blue scrawl. “And your name is….” I pressed my finger against the white rectangle with the scrawled name: “Terrance?” I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

            “Call me Liam.”

            I tapped my finger against my chin. “I wouldn’t have thought you a Terrance. You strike me as more of a… Jeff?”

            “Baby, you can call me anything you want.”

            He knew that I knew his name, must remember our previous encounter. But clearly, he was committed to this game we played. Well, so was I. He was Liam, clearly here for some conference or another, rather than Jeff—presumably not his real name, anyway—stalker-for-hire for Jeremiah Steele. Fine; and I was Cindy: secretary and receptionist, flirt and apparently tonight, single and available.

            If that’s what Liam-Jeff expected, then that’s damn well what he’d find. I’d give him all the confirmation he could ever need, prove once and for all that I’m the twenty-year old girl he thinks I am. After tonight, I never wanted to see this asshat again.

            The bartender approached. “All good, hun?” she asked, giving me a meaningful look, eyes dancing aside to the man sat next to me.

            Her name was Nadia. Earlier tonight, when I’d ordered the first round of drinks for Julia and me, she’d intervened when an early drunk punter got a little too grabby. She took sympathy on the silly, flustered girl clutching at her neck as this leering drunk pawed at her. We chatted for a bit, over that first drink.

            She told me about growing up in Kenya, and how the blight of alternating droughts and floods, and ultimately parental pressure drove her to study abroad. I told her about Volumina International and how my girlfriend—I’d waved over at Julia then, still setting up her equipment—was taking me out tonight to get me over a recent breakup. Nadia complimented me on my dress. I told her I loved her nails.

            She liked me; I don’t know why, but bartenders often did. Maybe it was my open admiration: she was gorgeous, tall and a little plump, and just radiated absolute confidence. The choker nearly melted my fingertip and toes warning me off, but I couldn’t stop staring at her eyes, large, dark and beautiful, or how her earrings sparkled against her skin.

            “Ah, Cindy,” she said, eyes on me and sparkling with amusement. “What can I get you?”

            I slid my empty glass back to her.

            “Same?” she asked.

            I glanced sideways at the man next to me. “Yup.”

            Nadia went off to shake up my cocktail. Meanwhile, my companion was openly checking me out and it made my skin crawl. “Thought I’d be drinking alone tonight,” he said, shaking his head.

            “You’re paying,” I said.

            He laughed dryly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

            Nadia returned with my cocktail, complete with straw, rim lined with slices of fruit. She handed it to me along with what I fancied was a warning look. Then she immediately moved on to serve another customer. Icarus was getting busy: there was a definite uptick in tired-looking men and women—but mostly men—in rumpled suits, loosened ties and half-untucked shirts. A late conference session must’ve just ended. I cradled my drink with both hands and stared into its depths: red and orange swirls, fruity sweetness belying a boozy kick like a punch to the head. I glanced up at… Liam? and smiled.

            “You here for the conference?”

            He grinned. “I prefer the sights.”

            This was—odd; none of this made sense. Even if he’d developed some weird thing for me, he was still Steele’s man—wasn’t he? If ordered to keep watch over me, then why approach and buy me a drink? If he knew who I really was, why wasn’t he acting on it?

            Then again, maybe he was working to get me alone, confirm a theory. Did he know I was really a man? At the moment, the open lust in his eyes suggested not.

            Unless—that was precisely why he wanted me.

            As to the most important question: was he a threat?

            This close, best I could hope for was a quick jab to the throat, collarbone, numb the arm, buy some time. Maybe strike the nose, or the armpit. If lucky, thrust ten centimeters of stiletto heel into his groin or the top of his foot before he found purchase. Yet these thoughts came from far away, a distant voice heard through a haze. That kind of violence, in full view in public? Stupid. It made more sense to leave Cindy in charge, follow him and yes… get him somewhere private. He could check me out and—I’d do the same.

            The week’s training made it easy.

            Lips wrapped around the straw, I gazed at him through half-lidded eyes. He looked back at me with a curious half-smile, clearly enjoying the view. I preened for him a bit, rolling my shoulders back and watched his eyes grow wide.

            I giggled. “Thanks,” I said, and lifted the drink in salute.

            His drink arrived a moment later: a martini, little curl of citrus, and he joined my salute. “Thank you,” he said. When he drank, he nearly gulped it down, eyes watering a little. It was clear he was nervous, fixated on me as though afraid I’ll disappear.

            I sip my drink a little more reservedly, or at least I think I do, but next thing I know it’s nearly empty and my head’s buzzing, alternating between stress-headache tightness and drunken wooziness. Meanwhile, he’s flushed red from his drink. I’ve pushed him a little, vague intimations of the last time I saw him: our short conversation at the bar, his distant observation as I stood in a little back dress under a lamppost in the night, cradled in Dan’s arms. He’s not biting; he’s remaining infuriatingly committed to his role: Liam, out-of-town middle manager from a minor pharmaceutical company I’d vaguely heard of before, here for a national conference on expanding markets.

            “Another?”

            “I shouldn’t,” I answered. His eyes flash with annoyance, with frustration, with familiar threat. It’s a little exciting, the ease with which I can trigger these emotions. I glanced away, as though shy, reluctant, maybe even embarrassed by my own forwardness. Blushing, I looked up at him through heavy eyelashes and licked my lips and smiled. “But… why not?”

            He smiled and signaled for the bartender. With his stool closer to mine now, his hand rested comfortably on my knee. His skin’s smoother than expected. I’d expected him to be rough and calloused.

            “So, why’re you here?” he asked as the second round of drinks arrived. “No, wait, let me guess,” he continued, before I can even open my mouth to answer. “Booth babe?” He grinned.

            I mirrored his smile, slapped him gently on the arm. “I already told you why, silly.”
            “Oh yeah—breakup?”

            I nodded, sadly.

            “Bad?” he asks, even though by the tone of his voice he clearly doesn’t care.

            “Cheated on me.” I place my hands at my waist, pushing my chest out. “On me, can you believe it?”

            He clearly can’t. “Idiot,” he answered, openly staring.

            Sliding my hands up my side, I cupped my tits. “I mean, Liam, would you cheat on these?”

            He nearly choked on his drink, recovered, and then pulled a very serious face. “Honestly,” he drawled. “I don’t know.”

            Mock hurt, I pouted. “Excuse me?”

            “Well, I’d have to actually see them to know, wouldn’t I?”

            The moment hung heavily between us. He’s about to wince, as though realizing he’d overplayed his hand and blown his chance. And I felt a heavy, hot blush rolling up my chest and neck and setting my cheeks aflame.

            “Would you like to?” I finally answered, quietly. I couldn’t meet his gaze. “See them?”
            A moment later his hand was on my thigh. He leaned in close, and his breath was hot on my cheek. A lengthy paused, and then I cupped his face between my hands. I drew him in for a kiss, or maybe he crossed the distance first; I don’t know. For a moment, his lips remained firm, and then softened. His chin felt rough against mine. My hand slipped to behind his neck and pulled him close. For a moment, it occurred to me how easily I could kill him, like this, a sharp blow to the throat; and then with a sigh my lips parted, and his tongue pushed against mine.

            I shivered at the thought of what I was doing, a cold counterpoint to rising heat. My eyes fluttered shut. He was a decent kisser, at least. Better than Jonas; nowhere near as good as Chad.

            He broke the kiss. “I have a room in the hotel,” he whispered, hoarsely, his words smelling of gin and vermouth. His fingers tightened around my thigh, scrabbling very slightly beneath the hem of my dress, like little roots reaching for moisture. “You want to come up?”

            With a breath caught in my throat, I nodded.

            “What do you want?” he asks.

            “To show you my tits.”

            “Is that all you want?”

            Gently biting my lower lip, I shook my head.

            “What do you want, then?” he repeats, smiling with one hand still stroking my bare thigh, but the other one took mine and guided it over the growing bulge in his pants.

            The moment I feel this man’s erection under my palm, I gasped. And its not because of his words or touch but because at that very moment I’m reminded of Julia’s little gift, which suddenly erupted into life, stronger than ever and vibrating and pulsing away, rubber tip vigorously suctioning my clit. His eyes widened, first with confusion, then surprise, and then with a knowing glint as he felt the faint hum of the toy.

            “You’re a horny little slut, aren’t you?” he whispered in my ear. And because I’m about to fucking lose it, about to fall over the edge and squeal with frustrated passion, I grabbed this guy by the face and kiss him again, shoving my tongue down his throat and moaning heavily into his mouth, eyes squeezed shut against tears threatening to stream down my face.

            When we break the kiss, I’m panting heavily and he’s grinning like the proverbial cat. He took my hand. “Coming?”

            Panties soaked through and nearly trembling, I laughed. No, not yet, I wanted to say. Instead, blushing and wide-eyed, I nodded and slid off the stool. The room swayed as I found my feet in high heels. I only just remembered to tug my dress down before following him out the bar, holding the hand of my stalker.

            I don’t know if Julia noticed me leave. The moment we stepped out the bar, the choker at my neck went dead, as did the vibrator. Away from Julia’s system, I was suddenly free of her and her goddamn AI’s influence.

            Good. There didn’t need to be a record of what was about to go down between us.

            We weren’t the only ones in the elevator: a few older businessmen in suits, and a young woman with tired eyes who might’ve been an assistant, dressed like Cindy on a working day. There was also a family of four crowded in with us, suitcases, two young children under the age of ten and their parents. I felt the dad’s eyes on my ass, and the mother’s disapproval roiling around us, even as we crowded into the front and ‘Liam’ held my wrist and surreptitiously pressed my hand to his crotch, where I felt his erect cock under my palm. He moved my hand and twitched under my touch, and I blushed wondering if anyone could see.

            A few floors of awkward silence. Flustered clatter as I stumbled in heels and a tight dress, trotting to keep up with this man’s eager pull as he dragged me towards his room. The hallway was almost eerily silent, the lights a little too dim, and the dark beyond the window at the far end almost complete, devoid of stars, lightened only by the red flashing of passing drones. Identical doors rolled down either side of the corridor. We stopped outside room 2029. I avoided thinking; Cindy was in charge; my hands roamed, sliding along his neck, across his chest, down to rub his crotch. “Hurry,” I moaned. “Get this fucking door open.”

            He fumbled around in his inner jacket pocket. “Christ,” he laughed.

            Then the door slid open. He smacked my ass, and I laughingly yelped and we fell through the threshold into his room.

            Almost instantly, his hands were all over me, too, insistent and rough. “Show me,” he demanded, already groping at the front of my dress. He crushed my tits through the dress.

            “Easy.” Gently but insistently, I pushed him away. “Not so fast.”

            Instead of backing down, he pulled me to him. His arm snaked around my waist and held me close. He forced his mouth to mine, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. Meanwhile, he returned to my chest, groping and kneading with way too much enthusiasm.

            I’m still weak in the knees and wet and horny as hell, but he was doing a fucking fine job of dousing the flames. Frankly, I expected better from my stalker.

            This time, I shoved him with a little more force. He fell back, nearly falling over the corner of the bed “What the fuck?”

            “I said easy,” I explained, the tone of a primary school teacher with a particularly dull child. “Slow down.”

            “You told me to hurry,” he said, petulantly.

            “And I need the little girl’s room.” I posed in the doorway, arms outstretched, hip cocked to one side, and tossed my hair and looked back at him over my shoulder. “Why don’t you make us a little drink?”

            I closed and locked the door. I stepped out of my heels and sighed with relief. Then I extracted that fucking vibrator. I wrapped it in tissue paper and buried it at the bottom of my purse. Then the choker, tricky to unlatch but a moment’s effort and it joined the sex toy. Then I took a piss, because after all those tall, fruity drinks I was genuinely desperate. Finally, I touched up my makeup in the mirror, a little flutter of mascara, a dab of gloss at the lips, and quickly brushed out my hair. Reluctantly, I stepped back into my heels and tried not to think as I fiddled with the delicate straps. Everything I did was done avoiding conscious thought. I did my utmost to avoid even acknowledging myself in the mirror. Cindy was in control. The last week’s training was fully in control. I needed this guy to see and believe in the girl I’d become.

            He smiled as I exited the bathroom. He’d taken off his blazer and tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. The room was small, double bed and tiny desk, and a tv screen on the wall, with a small window looking out on a central courtyard far below. The sight brought a heavy feeling of sadness, a recollection of far too many lonely nights spent in similar rooms. But the memory was fleeting.

            To be honest, I’d expected a bigger room. And in the dim light—his best effort at creating mood, I guess, overhead light off and a pair of reading lamps on—he seemed older, mid-thirties maybe, shorter and less muscular, still in good shape but much less threatening.

            He had a bottle of beer in each hand. “Beer?” he said, passing one to me. “You don’t strike me as a beer kind of chick.” He shrugged apologetically. “All that’s left in the minifridge.”

            I took the bottle. He watched me drink: raising the bottle to my lips, delicate grip and pinkie finger sticking out, pink nail white tipped sheen and the undulation of my throat with each swallow. The beer was cold and refreshing. Moisture beaded on the bottle, dripped, dotted my chest. I the hunger in the way he tracked my movement. I dabbed at the drops along my cleavage with a finger and sucked on the tip. “Mmm, good choice,” I purred through pursed lips.

            That did it for him. He dropped his bottle. It tipped over, frothing beer onto the carpet. He crossed the room in a single stride and grabbed me. I suppressed instincts to defend myself. Instead of kicking out the knee, or cracking the bottle across his face, I… gave up; retreated and did nothing. Hummed as he swept me up in his arms and swung me around—straining a little—and slammed me up against the wall.

            Gasping at the impact, I laughed. “Show me those tits,” he muttered, groping again at my chest, scrabbling at my thigh, hand sliding up under my dress, cupping my ass.

            I ran my hand through his hair, fingers curling around his ponytail. Up close, his hair was darker than remembered, more chestnut than sandy and thinner as well, almost balding at the top. With both hands I forced his face into my cleavage. His breath against my skin, wet lips, then his tongue dragging its trail of spit across my breast. He came up for air, groaned, and his cock prodded my thigh.

            Smiling wickedly, still pinned against the wall, I hopped into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist, arms at his neck. His eyes widened, and he groaned again and staggered under my weight.

            “Whee!” I laughed as he spun me around. We fell back a step and collapsed onto the bed.

            “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed, panting. “You’re heavier than you look.”
            And he was weaker than expected. I swung off the bed, grinning as I reached behind for the zipper. “As promised,” and shrugged and shimmied and stepped out of the dress. Then I stood in heels and bra and lilac silk panties. They had a cute keyhole detail over my bum, lace and tulle panels, and delicate pearl ornamentation: a luxurious gift from Julia. But the exquisite finery of my lingerie was lost on this guy, his eyes fixated solely on my tits.

            “Keep going.” He watched from the bed, sitting up. He brought to mind a puppy, begging for treats: eager and excited. But the surge of confidence that brought me to this point evaporated. Instead, I began to feel indescribably shy, and blushed and my knees shook very slightly. Reaching behind to unclasp my strapless bra, I instead hesitated and then my arms dropped limply at my side. Meanwhile, he was rubbing at his own crotch. “Hey, don’t fucking stop!” he exclaimed.

            “I….” Trailing off, unable to meet his gaze, I stared at the floor. Stroked my hair and felt the return of the earlier fear. My stomach churned and the room tilted slightly, and it occurred to me that I was actually really quite drunk. “I want you to do it,” I mumbled.

            Then he was standing, standing over me, reaching around and fumbling at the clasp of my bra. I swayed in the circle of his arms, helpless for the interminable length of time it took him to undo four hook and eye clasps. He radiated heat as he cursed under his breath. ‘Jesus, got it,” as the bra came loose, and my boobs bobbled free.

            My bra joined the dress on the floor. Jeff—Liam—this man stepped back and admired the view of a gorgeous young woman standing nearly naked in panties and heels in his hotel room. But he admired the view for only a moment, before taking my tits in his hands. He massaged and curled his fingers into the soft flesh. I yielded to his touch with a gasp. “Your ex was an idiot.” His tongue darted out, flicked across my nipple, and I moaned. “A fucking idiot.”

            Trembling, I pushed my chest further into his rough hands.

            “You like this, don’t you?” He kneaded harder, pinched my nipple and I jerked, shook my head no but he threaded the fingers of one hand through my long hair and grabbed tight. “You do.”

            I bit my lip and tried to shake my head again, but his grip stilled the motion.

            “You like being a slutty girl, don’t you?” He cradled my head, thumb sliding along my chin—to my mouth—and he forced it between my plump lips and held me like that. “Yes, you do.” He forced a nod from me, pushing my head up and down, like a doll’s.

            I moaned around his thumb. His other hand left my breasts to crawl spider-like across my abdomen, and I shuddered at the dimpling passage of his touch. His hand came to rest over my pussy—over my prosthetic vagina—fake flesh and his flesh separated by only the thinnest threshold of silk. His finger pressed down. He felt the wetness of my panties, traced artificial labia lips beneath. Another moan, and I trembled under his touch.

            “Suck it, babe,” he commanded, forcing his thumb deeper into my mouth, even as his other hand continued to rub my mock pussy. And I did, wet little slurping noises as he pushed me, none too gently, back onto the bed. The frame hit the back of my knees; I dropped sitting onto the mattress, his thumb still in my mouth, the other still between my legs. Summoning up some resistance, I squeezed my knees tightly together, pinning his hand.

            “Want me to stop?” He extracted his hand from between me knees and reached for his belt buckle. “I don’t think so.”

            His trousers pooled around his ankles. He kicked his feet free. His dick tented his boxer shorts, black cotton spotted with dark circles of precum. Standing over me, he fumbled at his shirt buttons. A moment later his shirt joined his trousers on the floor. Then he stood over me, slightly rounded belly, chest fuzzy with whisps of hair, pale and naked. He still had his socks on, and his shoes.

            “Touch it.” He grabbed my hand and brought it to his groin. I felt his cock beneath the cotton. It twitched when I touched it. I stroked him, rubbed him through is boxers, and looked up at him. “You want this?”
            I nodded.

            Increasingly, I felt detached from what was happening. I observed from a distance. This was Cindy’s show, not mine; at least, not yet.

            “Take it out,” he said.

            Into his boxers went my hand. His penis stiffened under my fingers’ touch. It felt hot and the skin smooth. He looked down at me, suddenly wordless. His mouth hung slightly open, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. For the first time, I noticed how thin and pale and dry his lips were, over a weak chin. He barely resembled the man I remembered from that first encounter in the alley behind the strip club.

            His boxers were lowered by a gentle tug, and he stepped free, and the whole time his cock was held in my hand. He stood over me, and I sat at the edge of the bed, with his dick in my hand.

            “Go on,” he said.

            Eyes wide, I shook my head no.

            He hesitated for a moment. A moment of doubt clouded his eyes. The old redness was back. He looked more than a little drunk, like me, cheeks patchy and red. Then, he grabbed me by the hair and yanked me forward so that his dick bounced off my chin and I felt the slime it left there.

            “Suck it,” he said.

            Whimpering, my mouth opened. Then there was a penis in my mouth, resting on my tongue, cheek pushed out by this invasive thing. His dick had my lips wrapped around it and he shuddered as he felt my head slowly work up and down his length. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Fuck yeah.”

            It only lasted a few minutes or so. Still holding me by the hair, he pulled his cock free from between my lips. It slid free with a wet slurp. His penis hit my nose, bobbed, left a trail of spit across my cheek. His grin was mean and his eyes hard as he shoved me onto my back. I fell supine onto the bed. Then he groped at my panties. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and yanked them down my legs. I scrabbled backwards, leaving the shoes behind , bare feet digging into the hotel bed sheets until I reached the headboard and hotel pillows behind me. Meanwhile, he took a deep sniff of my panties, then tossed them aside. He stared at my naked body with a drunken leer. For the first time, the artificial pussy was looked on by a man.

            This man clambered onto the bed and my knees were grabbed by him, parted by him as he shuffled forward into position between my legs, and his cock was hard and erect and pointed towards that space between my legs, trained on that prosthetic, aimed at me.

            From somewhere far away the thought reached me: he’s not so big; he’ll fit.

            Then a moment of panic. I can’t do this. No—but it was too late.

            This man rose over me.

            Then, with a push he was inside of me.

            His cock was inside of me.

            Yeah, he shuddered as he slid into me, fuck and you like that, baby and you’re so tight and he was inside of me as I lay supine pinned to the bed by the heavy weight of a man whose hips thrusted back and forth and back and forth and I’m being skewered by this thing moving inside—not me, but inside the prosthetic, a shell of artificial flesh laid over the real me and he’s rutting and sweating and grabbing at my tits as his pace picked up, harder, wet slapping sound and panting breath, creaking of the bed and rhythmic impact as I watched from a distance, picture on the wall over us, impressionistic swaths of colour, some alley of French boutique cafes against a night sky, tits bouncing with each thrust, God, almost there, he grunted, face red and ugly and lips curling, bitch, cunt, God, you fucking bitch and—

            His whole body shuddered. His cock swelled inside the prosthetic.

            He held me tight by the shoulders and stabbed himself as deep inside as he could and his eyes rolled back in his head as he jerked and wiggled and gurgled and finally sagged and collapsed on top of me, sighing, panting, nearly laughing with release, returning from that place a man goes to when he cums.

            And I, too, returned from somewhere far away.

            I wrapped my legs around him. My ankles locked together and held him tight. With a single strong twist I rolled him over onto his back. He was still inside of me, but now I’m on top. His eyes widened, he began to laugh, he couldn’t believe I was eager for more and reached for my hips to push me off.

            But I grabbed his hands and forced them down and pinned his wrists beneath my knees.

            And then I grabbed the pillow and forced it down over his face.

            And he’s still inside of me as he realised this isn’t some game and begins to thrash, his screams muffled by the pillow as I relentlessly pushed down on him, legs kicking and jerking beneath me, naked flesh slick with sweat. He tried to pull free. His hands clutched at my knees. One twisted, pulled free and blindly groped at me. He scratched my chest, pounded my side, grabbed at my chin and seized my hair. He writhed his whole body as I pressed down on him and kept him pinned to the bed, locked to me, cock to artificial pussy. His legs pounded the bed. I leaned my whole body down, arm over pillow over his face. I caught his ineffectually flailing hand and pinned it once more.

            His desperate efforts grew weaker.  

            Soon, he stilled.

            I should have kept the pillow at his face for longer. Another minute, to ensure that Steele’s man never disturbed me again. But then, a sudden, terribly doubt wracked me. This had been too easy. I expected more of a fight from my enemy. And so, instead of holding him down, I removed the pillow.

            Despite the fact he’d been spared any bruising, I no longer recognized his face.

            This wasn’t Jeff.

            His cock slipped free as I lifted myself off the body.

            I checked for a pulse and breathed a sigh of relief. He was unconscious, not dead. Weak, but he would recover.

            Christ. Shit. I’d almost killed—Liam, some dickhead middle manager from a minor pharmaceutical company who’d gotten lucky and picked up some young girl at the hotel bar for a quick fuck and one-stand stand. Not… an agent of Jeremiah Steele, just—some guy.

            What the fuck was wrong with me?

            I sat for a moment, catching my breath. The room was quiet but for the breathing of air conditioning. I listened for noise from the adjoining rooms but heard nothing. First, I grabbed Liam and hauled him onto a chair. I used his belt to bind his arms behind his back. His head slumped forward, so I dragged him next to the wall and propped his head so it stayed back, airway open. Digging through the closet, I found a cheap suit hanging on a hanger and another belt. I used the second belt to tie his legs to the chair legs. In the process of tying him up, I noted the pale band on the ring finger of his left hand, and then found the wedding ring on the bedside table.

            Jesus, what a fine catch this guy turned out to be.

            A little colour returned to his face, his breathing stronger, a little more stable. I took his tie and gagged him. Checking him over, he looked fine—his forearms would be sore tomorrow where I knelt on him but no real damage. In the morning, the cleaners would find and release him and other than embarrassment, he’d have no reason to make a fuss. Nothing stolen, nothing broken; just a kinky night gone weird and wrong, and how to explain that to a partner back home?

            Leaving him bound and gag to the chair, I went to the bathroom. It took some effort and time to repair the damages of the night, but when I stepped away from the mirror my makeup was once again immaculate. As I was painting myself a new face, I felt a sudden release and trickle down my leg as the man’s cum dribbled from my pussy. Catching his goo with a tissue, I flushed it down the toilet. Finally, I pulled my panties back on, and the bra, and the dress and slid back into my heels. I checked myself in the mirror—avoiding looking myself in the eyes. I looked pretty good, considering. There were angry red scratches along my shoulder and thighs, a few at my face covered by makeup; nothing to do about that, but the damage would heal.

            Finally, I returned to the bedroom and finished off my bottle of beer, keeping an eye on Liam. I don’t know that I’d ever enjoyed a more cooling and refreshing drink. Eventually, the man began to stir, a low confused moan emerging from behind the gag. I took that as my cue to leave.

            The door clicked shut behind me.

            As I progressed down the long corridor, Cindy gradually returned to me. Step by step, I subsumed myself to the physical sensations of the walk. The precision of each step. The slight wobble of heels on hotel floor carpet. Tight dress, mincing walk, and a wet ache between the legs. Long hair sway, earrings dangle, long eyelash flutter. Waiting, at the elevator. Smoothing down the dress, quick mirror primping: emerald eyes and pale face and a smile that wasn’t quite right. I felt suddenly the phantom heavy feeling of a man’s weight over mine, pressure on my chest—I couldn’t breathe; there was a rawness at my crotch and a stickiness in my panties and—what the fuck had I just done—how did I not recognize him?—how could I?—and he fucked me, I let a man stick his cock inside of me, and….

            No.

            I smiled again, and this time it was right.

            The elevator arrived. I rode it along with two others, man and woman in business attire, both checking me out as I joined them. Could they smell the sex on me? Did the woman smirk? I was too tired to care.

            Returning to Icarus, it occurred to me that I’d been away for all of thirty minutes. There was Nadia, serving another costumer. Men in suits milled around with drinks in hand. I felt their eyes tracking me as I entered the bar. And there was Julia, still sat in the high corner of the bar by the window. Her laptop remained closed. The bulky shadowy figure of a man still sat with her.

            I returned to her. Julia smiled as she saw me, eyes flashing with amusement—no, with pleasure, with barely restrained glee.

            “Cindy!” She stood and met me halfway. She took my hands in hers. “I’m so glad you’re back. I lost track of you for a bit, sorry. Been having fun?”

            I smiled wanly.

            “I’d like you to meet someone,” she said, leading me back to the table by hand.

            I followed her passively. The heavy figure at our table, back turned to us, stood as we approach.

            “He’s an old friend of mine,” Julia said, voice simmering with excitement. “Here for the conference.”

            The man stood and turned, and I looked into the grinning face of my constant friend, Thomas Hunter.

To be continued…

Scene Notes

The first version of this was considerably darker - David flat-out murdered Liam and left thinking he'd sorted the "problem" of Jeff. On the one hand, it felt in character and there was a pleasing symbolism to the idea of killing that aspect of himself. It also maintained the ambiguity as to whether Jeff was real - he could still pop up later in the story, if necessary.

But. It also felt very dark, possibly pushing an already questionable character too far into the "irredemable" category for readers. Plot-wise, it was a nightmare, too: in a near-future dystopian world shown to already be heavily surveyed, there simply wasn't any reasonable way for him to get away with the murder - not without some heavy-handed intervention by outside forces.

All that being said, there's a part of me tempted to bring back the original darker version - I'll share it in a future posting.