Sneak Peak: Interlude III (Patreon)

Here's the beginning of the final part of the Interlude.  I've switched to a 3rd person limited pov from David's perspective - after a few false starts, it seemed to work, maintaining some distance compared to the 1st person of the rest of the story, but giving the reader some insight into the protagonist (I hope!) after two long chapters written from other character's viewpoint.

All first draft, of course, especially the bit musing on power and beauty - not happy with that bit and it needs a few more passes.  Otherwise, enjoy!

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Part Three: Acceptance

Scene Twelve

On the final day of David Saunders’ manhood, he awoke in an unusually ebullient mood. He was alone, Chad having left several hours earlier. Wisps of the previous night danced hand-in-hand with exhaustion but, like any morning fog, faded with wakefulness.

The morning started like most others. First, he stumbled into the bathroom for a piss. Even after several months, the incongruity of holding his cock in finely manicured hand as he looked past the swell of his own breasts brought a frisson of discomfort. Returning to the bedroom, he ignored the detritus of last night: stockings like emptied husks lying limp and high from the mirror frame; the ivory corset, rigid and unlaced, a clam shell pried open to expose the pearl within; delicate panties, a scrap of satin and lace, hung from the bedpost.

Instead, annoyed there wouldn’t be time to hit the Clinic’s gym, David dropped to the floor and began the first set up push-ups. The heat of exertion burned away the ghosts of the evening.

He showered. Filled with thoughts of the previous days and of last night, he jerked off into the swirl of foam and water. Had he known it would be his last time bar once, he may have made more of the event. Tired as he was, it proved a desultory affair, perfunctory and unsatisfying,

Afterwards, lying on his bed and tucking his balls back before pulling up a snug pair of panties and securing everything in place, he considered how something so odd, so outside of his normal life experiences only a short six months ago had become so mundane. This, I won’t miss, he thought; nor this, as he strapped himself into a padded, push up bra.

Then he dressed. The resentment, frustration and anxiety had faded with time, but this morning he felt especially troubled by the decision as to what to wear. Excessively girly? Something masculine or reflective of his real age; both? Comfortable or alluring—he’d learned over time that the two rarely overlapped. Idly, his hand passed over the hanging clothes. So many colours, textures, from the lacy tickle fringing sleeve and collar to the heavy stiffness of boning and shaping fabrics. Unbidden, memories came with touch. Distaste and anger, at the black mesh top he wore his first day here; unexpected fondness for the slinky blue dress; and the peach sundress, cleaned and ironed but still stained, to his eyes, with blood.

His hand paused over a skirt. Rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger, he felt the slight prick of heavy wool, the slickness of the inner lining. How his relationship with clothes—with women’s clothing—had changed! Especially in the past month, it seemed, under Julia’s tutelage, Crystal’s urgings.

It occurred to him that this might be the last time: the last time slipping on panties, rolling stockings up his legs, stepping into a skirt or pulling a tight shirt over the curve of his tits. He knew this was unlikely; he hoped, with an intensity that stole his breath, that it was true.

Would he miss this?

A moment’s indecision and he pulled the skirt from the closet. The Clinic had done a remarkable job in filling his closet and drawers with clothes. Most had been waiting for him, a few printed on demand per Crystal’s request. Everything fit impeccably, but then who better knew his body, it’s very dimensions, it’s deepest secrets? They’d created it, designed the template and engineered the flesh; written a life story into the skin and poured the essence of David Saunders into the vessel that had once been Cindy Bellamy.

With a self-deprecating twist of the lips, he grabbed a button up shirt and stepped away from the closet. He thought of last night, and the day to come, and shook his head. Enough with the melodramatics, he decided. Get dressed. Don’t be late.

This past week he’d relied on the smart tech built into mirror and wardrobe to build his outfit for the day: the room knew its contents and made suggestions, projecting the illusion of clothes over his reflected frame in the mirror. Equally, the vanity made playful suggests for makeup and hair, even earrings and accessories. A quick search online or query with a fashion bot also produced more combinations and possibilities than he could process. It was something he’s never needed in his male life, and well beyond Cindy’s meagre means, but which proved a godsend this past week.

More often than not, faced with an overwhelming range of options, he’d fall back on his male gaze, choosing an ensemble he thought was sexy, picking the illusionary girl he’d most like to be seen with, chase or fuck—and rue that the girl would be him, and that others would doubtless be thinking the same way when they saw him.

This morning, however, he built his outfit himself. He started with the skirt and built on that. Sheer, patterned pantyhose; slender, shapely legs; black pleated mini skirt, detailed with shiny gold buttons; horizontal striped t-shirt with three-quarter sleeves and cut out shoulders. Slim headband to hold back his hair, and knee-high boots—a first for him—heeled of course—though nothing silly, chunky with a bit of platform, a modest boost to his height. Pulling up the zip on the boots and feeling the pliable material tighten to and caress his calves brought another shiver of distress as he grudgingly admitted the pleasure of the sensation.

If there was one thing he’d miss when he abandoned the world of femininity, it might be the shoes; not the pinch or strain or discomfort, but the cultural permission—encouragement, even—to fake his height, to grab a few centimeters at the expense of a little stability. Doing the same as a man was an invitation to scorn.

The thought flashed across his mind unbidden, and he quickly suppressed the thought. But then standing in front of the mirror, he turned this way and that and—somewhat to his chagrin but equally to his pleasure—admired the young woman in reflection.

That woman was him; and he looked great.

Ten minutes later, accessories and makeup done, stomach rumbling, he made his way to the Clinic canteen. The weather had turned with predictable swiftness over the past few days, blistering heat to blustery winds and cold. Oranges and reds danced in the foliage, the trees already giving in to the inevitability of a brief autumn and bitter winter. The first leaves fluttered and flew across the pebbled path, and David grumbled and questioned his choice of clothing and clutched his skirt as the wind’s fingers pulled and plucked at the hem.

It was with some relief he entered the canteen. God, I’m sick of this, he thought, thinking of the intersection of fashion and weather.

And then he thought, I’m sick of this, too: it was impossible to not notice the appraising glances flashed his way by both staff and other clients. The women he assumed were appraising his style, makeup, judging the way he held his hand at his side or tucked back his hair as he entered the room. The men were rating him, tits and ass, legs and lips, scoring him against some arbitrary scoreboard of their own preferences before returning to their food. A few might stare longer: picturing those glossy, full lips up close, the touch of long nails against their skin, or their hands rudely grabbing the fine ass barely concealed by the short skirt, hauling her close, the press of her soft roundness up against Chad’s firm body, and….

Flushing red, he scurried to the counter to collect his breakfast.

None of this bothered him anymore, he told himself. He’d been used to appraising and approving glances as a man; he’d been a good-looking man, very much so, after all, and took the gaze of others as granted. But it was different as a woman, somehow; especially a young one. He contemplated this as he sat and began to devour his breakfast, eggs and toast, bacon and sausage and hash browns, a meal that belied the size of the girl eating it.

Power and authority: he’d enjoyed both as a man, a mere six months ago, often unconsciously, an automatic privilege earned through hard work, certainly, but also granted by virtue of his gender and age. What part had his looks played in any of that? Robbed of raffish charm, would he have commanded the same respect in office? He thought it likely.

But would he still have brought a different woman home with him most weekend nights? Possibly, if he exuded enough confidence, enough cash. A little swagger never failed to overcome his greatest liability, his height.

Funny, he mused, how a perceived weakness as a man only added to his beauty as a woman. His shortness and slenderness, the delicate appearance, slim arms and lithe frame, were these not strengths that enhanced his beauty rather than took away from it? It seemed to him that the very clothes he wore were designed to emphasise this… strength seemed the wrong word. A force, rather: one to attract, perhaps to manipulate; an inverted power. Shoes that stole his stability, skirts that hobbled his steps, tight clothes that restrained, even loose and flowing clothes that threatened to tear and reveal, all these simply added whereas as a man, they’d make a mockery of his vital strength and undermine his beauty.

And as a woman: what power did he retain with his youthful beauty? The power to attract, it seemed; but in his limited experience, anything beyond that felt ephemeral at best.

Not that any of this mattered, he reminded himself. Today was his last as Cindy. It just had to be.

“This seat taken?”

Stifling a groan, David looked up from his breakfast at the woman standing next to the table.

She was young, though probably a year or two older than Cindy. Not much of a looker: ruddy face and beefy arms, mousy hair cropped short, but bright-eyed and tall. The woman was plump and dressed in baggy clothes that hid any hint of curves—but also looked appealingly comfortable. Her only concession to femininity appeared a faint touch of lip gloss and a pair of simple gold studs in her ears. David felt suddenly vaguely ridiculous, prim and over-dressed, and resented her for it.

“I’m Ivy,” she said, her voice inflected with the precise intonations of expensive foreign education and a vaguely European accent he couldn’t place, maybe Italian or Spanish. I bet you are, he thought, but feeling a slight warmth in his Asklepios bracelet he sighed and answered “Cindy,” and offered a distant smile.

She sat opposite and made a desultory stab at her food: a small bowl of porridge, decorated with a few slices of apple. “I know it’s for my own good,” she said, “but I hate what this place feeds me.” Her eyes widened at the sight of David’s breakfast. “Not fair,” she moaned.

Shrugging, he cut into an egg and moped up the yolk with a slice of toast.

“I mean look at you.” Ivy waved her spoon at him. “You look fucking gorgeous,” she said. “How do you keep so slim, eating like that?”

“Good genes?”

Ivy grunted. “Not fair.”

He speared a slice of bacon. “Want it?”

Her eyes betrayed wanton desire. “You evil bitch,” she said, and smiled. “Do I wantit? Yeah, I want it.” She snatched the bacon with her fingers. “Like I want to get out of this place.” She took a bit and flung the remainder back at his plate, then stuck her fingers in her mouth, licking off the dribbles of grease. “Oh God, that’s good.”

Ivy, it turned out, as she explained in some detail, was in line to inherit a family fortune, a ridiculous sum of assets and property and investments—conditional on her returning home a “proper young lady,” she spat. “So they sent me here, because I crashed out of the local fat farms and finishing schools. I was an ‘embarrassment,’ they said. I was bringing ‘shame on the family’ with my ‘vile debauchery,’ they said.” She gave a bark of laughter. “It’s like, the first time they’ll turn a blind eye, but after a half-dozen times with a strap on fucking some little princess in latex and suddenly you’re the antichrist or something, you know what I’m saying?”

“You know we’ve just met, right?” David said. “I don’t know you.”

“This thing says you’re okay,” she answered, tapping her Asklepios bracelet. “Not that I trust the bastards that run this place.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

“But you seem okay,” Ivy said. “Bet they think you’d be a good influence on me.”

“Me?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, yeah… I mean, look at you? You’re my parents wet dream: slim and beautiful, prim and perfectly dressed and presented. You’re what this place is trying to make me into.”

He couldn’t help himself: he laughed out loud. “I seriously doubt it.”

They chatted over the rest of their breakfast, and he found himself warming to her. He could sympathise with her story of being made to a live a life not of her choosing; her hatred of femininity coaching, lessons on poise and fashion and behaviour, training her to instinctively present a self she’d never wanted to be. “These fuckers had me in a photoshoot, can you believe it? It was totally fucking insane. Heels and corset and polka-dotted housemaker dress, like something out of a century-old postcard! And a debutant ball, like some bullshit coming out party.” She snorted. “As if I need coming out.”

“I can sympathise. Been there, done that.”

“Yeah, right.” She made a show of looking him over. “Prissy little princess like you? You’re already perfect. You are the fantasy. What could you possibly act out?”

And because he resented her calling him prissy, but also liked her brash manner, he showed her the picture from the -Lumen- photoshoot, the one he never showed Chad, the photo of naked bondage.

Ivy’s eyes widened with a satisfying combination of shock and desire. “Careful princess,” she said, “or I’ll have you face down in your eggs bent over this table for a spanking.”

David put his phone away. “You haven’t even drank you coffee yet.”

“True,” Ivy said. “Caffeine first. Spanking second. Then I’ll put you in your place.”

“My place?”

“Or mine, I’m easy.” Ivy grinned; David could see newly kindled intrigue and respect in her. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” he said drily.

She sat quietly for a moment, idly digging into her breakfast, before suddenly asking around a mouthful of porridge: “so what’re in here for, then?”

To safeguard me from a sociopath. As a science experiment. Therapy for a therapist. A damaged woman’s revenge. I’m in hiding and I’m afraid.

And because I want to live. Live, so that I can revenge.

But since David couldn’t speak his truth, he instead shared Cynthia Bellamy’s truth, or at least what he knew from her profile, read those many months ago and explored this past week in conversation with Crystal.

“I tried to kill myself,” he said, poking at the last bit of sausage on his plate. “Repeatedly.” And succeeded, David thought with some sadness. And now you’ve got me living the life you didn’t want.

“Jesus.” Ivy put down her spoon. “Why?”

“They called it body dysmorphia brought on by survivor’s guilt. My parents died, like, in a car crash a couple of years ago. It took me quite a bit of therapy to understand this, but they weren’t very good people, my parents. I was never good enough, you see. They loved me. I guess. In a way. Or rather, they loved a version of me that I never quite matched up to, if that makes sense.”

Ivy grimaced. “Yeah. It does.”

“Anyway. They died. Car crash. And I blamed myself, even though I wasn’t there and being there wouldn’t have made a difference. And all the doubts and fears were amplified after that. I obsessed over my appearance. Wanted to be the person my parents wanted me to be. And they’d been pretty well off before the crash, and all that money came to me. It’s paying for this place. Before, it paid for… well, everything else. I sought validation in other people’s opinion, men and women, and you can imagine how that went. Eventually, though, makeup and clothes weren’t enough. Turned to surgery, little corrections to flaws that didn’t exist but left me feeling worse than before.”

Ivy’s hand reached across the table and took his. “Princess,” she said. “You’re beautiful.”

A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob escaped. “And yet I still hate this body,” he said. “I hate it so much. I hate the way I look and I hate the way I dress and the way I act.”

And he could see from the bemused look on Ivy’s face that she simply couldn’t understand how someone as pretty and well presented as Cindy could hate their own flesh so deeply. Reflected in Ivy’s eyes, David glimpsed the existential horror the real Cynthia Bellamy must have felt, every day, hating what she saw in the mirror but unable to look away. It must have been a self-loathing surpassing even his own.

His bracelet suddenly vibrated and flashed the time. “Oh, look at that. I’ve got to go,” he said.

Ivy let go of his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Princess.”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “Same.”

“You ever want to talk,” she said, and slipped him a card. It was a business card: her full name, contact details: Ivy Burgess, and a local address. “You ever want to catch up again, look me up.”

Thinking it unlikely that he would ever meet her again, he left the canteen. Guided by his bracelet, he quickly found his way through unfamiliar corridors to a place he’d never visited at the Clinic, the infirmary.

The infirmary was a bit of an oddity. In a facility designed for the healing and betterment of the ultra-rich or otherwise fortunate, most medical concerns were dealt with through bespoke services, with privacy during both procedures and convalescence. But not everyone at Asklepios was a client. Accidents were inevitable among the massive staff that served the place, and those needing recovery time ended up here.

It was still one of the nicer medical facilities he’d visited, David noticed as he stepped through a door, with large open windows and subdued colours. Individual beds were given a generous space, and from the smell of it, food a significant step above typical hospital fair.

The long hall was mostly empty this morning as he worked his way past several beds, stepping in and out of shafts of watery sunlight. He noted his reflection in a bedside mirror, the gilt gleaming of hair, the flash of red lips, the vivid colours of his tops, and stood a little straighter, chest out, as he approached his destination.

The man was sitting up in bed, eating breakfast, watching TV. He doesn’t look that bad, David tried to convince himself uncertaintly, noting the care the Clinic had taken of his injuries, the healing bruises, bandages and casts. But then the man turned at the echoing sound of heels on the hard infirmary floor, and he winced with pain. His face was pale and bruised beneath a week’s growth of stubble, one lip split, an eye reddened with blood.

But the man eyed her curiously and without fear. There was a wariness to his gaze as he immediately fixed on her face. Eyes widened with recognition.

David braced himself for the man’s inevitable anger, recrimination or misogyny; instead, he was taken aback as the man’s face split into a giant grin.

“Well, Jesus!” he exclaimed. “It’s you!”

“Hello Mal.” He gave a little wave.