Sneak Peek: Cindy and Jasmine (Patreon)

Here's the scene I'm using to break up the long bit between Crystal, Katherine and Jonathon.  Though not 100% happy with it (it's still first draft) I think I like what it's doing - I might extend it a little, or write up a follow-up scene to break up the C/K/J passage later on.

Anyway, here it is below:

Scene Ten

As the tightly bound figure twitched and yanked at their restraints, Jasmine Poole considered how she both loved and hated her job in equal measure.

On the one hand, on an almost daily basis she felt an intense and hateful jealousy of the gorgeous fashions and intense situations she designed for others. Such beautiful clothes; such wonderfully weird and exciting and titillating and often erotic experiences—wasted on all these rich fucking bastards that passed through her hands. They never appreciated the artistry, the craft then went into making their fantasies an experiential reality.

Oh, sure, the occasional actor or musician got it. A lifetime of backstage costume changes and posing in front of the camera and performing on stage gave them some small inkling of the effort Jasmine put into her work. But the billionaire portfolio holders, the socialite daughters, energy barons, cocky CEOs and elite aristocrats and spoiled inheritors—fucking bastards, all of them, expecting the world and giving nothing back but complaints and more demands.

You’d think elegantly bespoke corsets just grew on the rack, or that they kept elegant dresses, sparkling with a thousand embedded crystals, perfectly sized and fitted, lying around in storage. To say nothing of the props, costumes, and decorations; the preparation and planning; the posing and photography—the incredible effort her team put into their art. 3D printing and drone delivery only got them so far. The local town worked hard fulfilling their orders, an unlikely commune of skilled artisans delivering clothes and setting on demand.

Wasted, Jasmine grumbled, on wealthy, entitled pricks looking for a new experience, some titillation to fill the emptiness of a life already brimming with everything the world could possibly offer them.

Dickheads and bitches.

Except, she admitted, sometimes the effort really was worth it.

Last week, they’d brought to life a terminally ill child’s Disney princess dreams, frothy frocks and a fantasy landscape filled with princes and anthropomorphic animals. Another week, the sci-fi hallucinations of a failed writer—the century-old ray-gun and go-go boots aesthetics a crazy thrill to manifest. She loved her job for those moments; she hated it for the boardroom power fantasies, tropical bikini shots and trite nightclub stripper delusions.

On the other hand, she thought, pulling corset lacing tighter and eliciting a strangled gasp from her client, every now and then something special came along.

“You okay there?” she asked.

The client grunted around the gag in their mouth, then with a twitch of long blonde hair jerked their head in assent.

Despite the boobs and feminine name, “Cindy” was clearly born biologically male, judging by the generous package tightly taped back in their delicate panties. Unusual, but not surprising. The intimate nature of the work made the fact impossible to hide, and “Cindy” was hardly the first man she’d strapped into lingerie before. Normally there was some indication on the client’s record, but not always—anonymity reinforced by non-disclosure agreements ensured clients experienced their fantasies or therapy at the level of privacy they required or desired.

Football hero to cheerleader, star to starlet, CEO to secretary, husband to housewife, master to maid, groom to bride—and vice versa—and far too many strippers, sluts and college girl skanks—the fantasies started to feel mundane after awhile. At least the so-called ‘therapeutic’ sessions, where the client was apparently learning something, brought a frisson of excitement—there was something delightful in seeing these powerful men (and occasional women) squirm in discomfort as she squeezed them into some tight little outfit and had them act out in ways so contrary to their inclinations.

“Cindy” was something else, though. There was a wonderful discordance to the client—clearly consenting to the process, but equally clearly hating every step of it. The way their eyes widened in fear—in near panic—as Jasmine spoke thrilled her. “I’m going to tighten it a little more,” she said, “and then seal away the lacing and the busk. You’ll be locked in; it’ll be impossible to loosen the laces until we’re done. Understand?”

Cindy moaned, sparkling red lips blanching as they bit down on the gag. As Jasmine explained the D-rings and showed off the arm binders and other gear, they went pale under heavy makeup. They closed their eyes and when opened again there was such fierce determination and anger there that Jasmine found herself flushing hot.

“You’re doing great,” she whispered, leaning in close with one hand resting gently on the narrowed waist. “You’ve got this.”

Afterwards—after stripping away the corset and bondage and wiping away the photography makeup—Jasmine sat with the client. Cindy blew at wisps of steam rising in curls from a herbal tea, a simply cotton gown hanging loosely revealing the twin swell of naked breasts. Jasmine flicked through the raw footage from the first two shoots of the day.

“How is it?”

“Good.” She flicked threw the images. “Like, really good. Great. With a bit of editing we’ll really get these to pop.” She glanced up. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Cindy shrugged.

Jasmine hesitated. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t really meant to engage with the client like this—keep it professional, keep it cool. Guide them through the process, ease their anxiety when necessary, draw out their best. But there was something about Cindy that invited questions. “Are you enjoying this?”

Grimacing, Cindy glared at the floor for a moment before answering. “Honestly?”

Jasmine nodded.

“Between you, me, and whoever’s listening at the other end of this thing—” and they tapped their armband, “no, not really.”

“The first one was kinda fun,” they continued. They passed a hand through their hair, picking out the purple and pink streaks. “Even the clothes and makeup. But that last one?” They shivered and drew the gown tighter around their slender frame. “No.”

“You did great.”

“I was fucking terrified.”

“Fear is good,” Jasmine answered. “Brings intensity to the shoot.” And it’s fucking hot, she thought, seeing this—man?—trussed up and tied back, tits jiggling with the struggle against their restraints, eyes wide with fear, breathing heavily—as heavily as the crushing corset would allow—around the bit parting plump lips—every muscle straining in bondage—suffering an extremity of feminine indignity—at least as they understood it.

Jasmine couldn’t help but wonder if she’d maybe lost just a little professional focus in her enjoyment of Cindy’s predicament. She may have laced the corset slightly tighter than necessary and trussed her client up that little bit more savagely than warranted.

Cindy grunted, a decidedly unfeminine sound, and sipped their tea.

“So why are you doing this?”

There was a long pause as the client seemed to consider this. “You know, you’d think while you had me all tied up there that I would’ve had time to think up a good answer, right?” They shook their head. “But—no. I was too busy trying to keep my shit together. And yeah, believe me, I’ve been asking myself the same thing: why the fuck am I putting myself through this.” Cindy frowned. “Like, I knew what I was getting myself into, but I didn’t ‘know know’, if you get me. I knew what we were aiming for but….” With a vague wave of an arm—a wide gesture that parted her gown again, collar tumbling down one appealingly bare shoulder—she took in the expanse of the studio. “Not all this. Didn’t think it through. Didn’t think the corset would be quite so tight.” Cindy glared at her in mock anger. “Or that I’d feel so….”

Their voice trailed off.

“Hey, like I said—you didn’t great.”

“I was scared.” Cindy voice sounded like a little girl’s voice.

“A little fear isn’t uncommon, Cindy.”

Cindy shook their head. “You don’t understand.”

“You can stop. You’ve done two out of four.”

“No,” Cindy said. “That’s why I’m here, right? For the experience?” They spread their hand wide, wiggling fingers and watching the sparkling nails flutter and flash. “To learn something, right? Build up some… girl memories, I guess.”

Jasmine gave a bark of laughter. “You think these are typical girlhood experiences?”

“No, of course not. But—well, also, yes.”

“I’m not going to speak for my entire gender,” Jasmine said, cocking an eyebrow. “But most women I know aren’t into locking corsetry and heavy bondage.”

Cindy grinned sheepishly. “I know. But—how did Crystal explain it?—it sort of made sense before—it’s about the vulnerability, the… fear.” They looked up from their hand and locked eyes with her, gazing directly into with an intensity that Jasmine found unnerving. “Feeling constrained by things out of your control. Restricted in what you can do. Being at somebody else’s mercy, voiceless and completely dependent on them to let you out.”

Jasmine flushed and looked away, suddenly annoyed by her own discomfort. For a moment there, she’d felt afraid, as though Cindy was some kind of threat to her own safety. “You always had the option to stop this whenever you wanted.”

“With my hands tied behind my back, and gagged?” Cindy shook their head, slowly. “Listen, I know this is all illusion. And you and your team were good—really good—and got me through this.” Cindy eyes unfocussed. “But there was a moment there, when you cinched me in really tight, and I had that fucking thing between my lips, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe, and….

They sighed. “I felt… afraid. Like I haven’t in a very, very long time.”

What are you, like twenty? Jasmine wondered but remained silent. While it wasn’t uncommon for clients to work through some kind of epiphany during or following a session, it rarely happened with her—she rarely got to sit with her subject in this way. And watching Cindy process—something—it seemed suddenly very clear to her that she was sitting, talking and working with a man. Something in the way he spoke, the cadence of voice and expression, convinced her that this was a man—a very feminine man—and somehow that made everything all the more exciting and troublesome for her.

She reached out and took his hand in between hers. “Listen, I don’t usually say this but… maybe you should stop. Maybe try again later.”

“No,” he said. “There won’t be a later.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m running out of time,” he said. “And—I want to finish this. Damn her for being right, but Crystal knew what she was signing me up for. It’s a fucking weird form of therapy but I’m working through stuff I buried years ago.”

Jasmine smiled, unsuccessfully hiding her pleasure at the idea of strapping this strange man into his next costume. “If you say so.”

He noticed the smile and groaned. “It’s another corset, right?”

“This one’s gorgeous,” she said, eyes sparkling wickedly. “And even tighter.”