Sneak Peek: Chapter 6--The Housewife and the Massage (Patreon)

Another peek at where the story's going.  As always: rough draft and liable to change over time, but hope you enjoy as is!

***

Soon after I found myself standing in front of the mirror once more, once again naked, but this time under the bright light of the noonday sun. I stared at the girl in the mirror; I stared at myself; and thought: okay, let’s do this.

And if I had to pick a moment when all this started, the first step down the road that leads to the death of David Saunders, I think maybe it started then, a willful act of self-negation; suicide, in a way.  Something started to shift inside of me after that jog. By the time Julia showed up later that night, I’d already taken the first small step towards a larger change.

Which she did. Turn up, that is, uninvited. And when Julia showed up later that night, she found me hard at work, cleaning. She saw me in a cute Suzy-homemaker dress, one she’d bought me on a whim a few months back, this saucy red number with white polka dots, really 1950s vintage-inspired and flouncy with a nipped in waist. My makeup was done up all proper to match, I slipped on some thigh highs and heels, and with some cheery music on in the background I was busily carving my little oasis of peace and tidiness out of the mucky mess of the previous three months.

And why was I dressed like a sitcom housewife from the 50s? Because at that precise moment, that’s who I wanted to be. Or rather, that was the part I wanted to play, the happy homemaker, the cheerful cleaner because, frankly, if this was going to be my home for the next six months somebodyhad to do something about the goddamn mess.

And yeah, it’s a bit ridiculous but I wanted to prove to myself that I couldplay that part. I was laying the foundation for the next six months, and I was laying it on thick—as thickly as the cream smeared across my face hiding the imperfections and ravages of the past day—though saying that, even then, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was already considering what I could do to get the fuck out of there, to spend as little time as possible in my shitty apartment in that shitty neighbourhood.

So I didn’t hear Julia let herself in. She had her own key from before, not that she ever used it. Before, I’d almost always ended up at hers rather than the other way around.

Who know how long she watched me, flutter around and cleaning. Later, it was going to worry me that I hadn’t noticed her come in. I had the music on, was deeply into the task at hand, but still… to not notice someone invading my home?

Her voice cut through to me.  “David?”

I started in surprise, turned and saw Julia.

Standing there in that swirling dress, in heels and heavy makeup, with a duster in hand as her eyes roamed back and forth over me brought a swell of emotions I could hardly process at that time. There was an unexpected warmth, a happy surge at the sight of her.

But at the same time: I wasn’t ready, I realised, not yet, to deal with other human beings and especially one who knew me as a man. In two days, I’d be heading back to work as an “office administrator,” a glorified secretary, and so back to all the social expectations and anxieties and pressures of ordinary life; and I wasn’t ready, I just wasn’t prepared to go back, not when I was still reeling from the realities of life with a vagina.

One look from her and I instantly and acutely felt like a man prancing around in a flirty dress and flushed a deep and painful red with embarrassment.

She smiled, plum-coloured lips parting in a broad smile, and her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Hello honey,” she said, stepping away from the door. “I’m home.”

We stared at each other for a moment, and my smile grew to match hers. Why not?

“Oh my goodness, Dear, you look exhausted,” I trilled, and flounced over to her.  And it wasn’t just role-playing: Julia did look exhausted and to judge by the way she was dressed, she’d just come from the office. She was wearing a fitted woman’s suit, white shirt with a touch of lace and ruffle at the collar and slim, high-waisted trousers paired with heels. Julia never wore heels—hated them, but loved getting me in them, the taller the better—and the professional femininity of her work clothes was a new look for her, one that clearly left her slightly ill at ease.

With one hand on her shoulder, I reached up and gave a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek.

Julia’s hand hovered over the lipstick imprint left behind. “Thanks,” she said, raising a sculpted eyebrow as I took her suit jacket.

“Hard day at work?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Yeah, you could say that.”

I took her hand and pulled her into the room. “Sit down,” I said. “Let me get you a drink.”

She smiled. “I like the sound of that.” Julia passed me a bag she held at her side. “Got some Champagne in there I picked up on the way over. Should still be cold.”

“Champagne?” I gave a little clap of joy. “Yay!”

Julia smiled wryly. “Yeah. Yay.”

I brought the bottle to the kitchenette and placed it on the counter. One of the high cupboards had a pair of Champagne flutes in it, stashed away out of common use. Even in heels I couldn’t quite reach. Straining, I gave a little “eep!” of surprise when I suddenly felt a pair of strong hands at my waist.

“Here, let me,” Julia said, gently pulling me aside and her hands brushed up against my tits as she reached past. She was taller than me, especially in heels. She passed me the glasses.

“Thank you.” I turned to the bottle, stripped away the wrapper and made a show of struggling with the cork. Making a little moue of disappointment, I silently passed the bottle to her and shrugged. Julia took the bottle with a tolerant sigh and easily popped the cork and poured out the Champagne.

Our glasses gave a merry tinkle. “To…?” I asked.

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Tonight,” she said.

She took a deep drink, and I a little sip. My stomach churned a little at the thought of more alcohol after yesterday’s abuse, though the quality wasn’t lost on me; it was a fine Champagne, an expensive one and belied her offhand comment about simply picking up the bottle on the way over. She was spoiling me, and I appreciate the effort. The role-reversal wasn’t lost on me, especially with me in the dress and her in trousers.

I took her by the hand and led her over to a chair. “Sit. Relax,” I told her. “Tell me about your day?”

Still with that curious half smile, she sank gratefully into the chair. “Jesus. Where to start?” Julia stared balefully at her shoes. Shiny and black, a good ten centimetres of slender heel and just a touch of platform, they were beautiful, expensive, and entirely out of character for Julia. Her usual work ensemble was possibly best described as aggressively work-casual, enviably so, and while she took great pleasure in dressing me in range of uncomfortable but cute, pretty, or provocative outfits, she skewed towards comfort and convenience for herself.

I sank gracefully to the floor next to her, knees together to one side, dress settling with a whisper over my stockinged legs. Smiling up at her, I removed her shoes and she sighed with toe-wiggling pleasure. I rolled down and removed her thin socks. Then I took her left foot in next and began giving her a foot massage. With gentle strokes and precise presses of finger and thumb up and down the arch of the foot—not too strong, but firm enough to not tickle—I sought out knots and stiffness. Finding blocks and pain, I worked to release them.

And as I massaged her, I invited her to talk. She groaned, at first, and went silent, but then stirred and with her eyes closed began to tell me about her day. “I wasn’t meant to work today,” she lamented. “Fucking takeover. Fucking egos.” Julia eased into her complaints, amidst a series of twitches, grimaces and grunts as my fingers danced along her foot.

She told me about the past two weeks of work, the unexpected announcement of a corporate takeover, the gradual integration of the new bosses and new processes, the changing expectations. The sudden spike in workload and the introduction of new fears: fear of redundancies, changing job descriptions, lateral shifts in the management structure. After years of relative comfort, Julia suddenly found herself fighting for her job again.

Guided by her reactions, the ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ of relief—I gradually increased the pressure, kneading the muscles, rubbing at the tendons, pushing harder until my own hands began to ache.

“That explains the shoes,” I said.

She smiled wanly down at me. “Yeah,” she said. “There’s also a new dress code. Can you fucking believe it? The new owners brought in a new dress code which—wait for it, it’ll blow your mind!— only affects the women.”

“Like me?” I asked quietly.

She snorted. “Hardly,” she said. “You’re pretty much the poster-girl for the new dress code. You’re already part of the makeup-and-heels brigade. If anything, you might have to tone down the girliness. No,” she added, voice souring, “it’s more a management thing. More crass chauvinistic bullshit to keep women in positions of power under the thumb of patriarchy.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, quietly, even though it wasn’t my fault and I was hardly the embodiment of patriarchy at the moment.

“Yeah, I bet you are,” she said, looking down at me.

“Be nice,” I said. “Or I stop.”

“Heaven forbid,” she said, and settled back in the chair. “Carry on, Dear.”

Which I did, following a sip at my Champagne. The rim of my glass was stained cherry with lip-print. My nails, cradling the glass, made a sharp, shaped contrast between their vivid, painted redness and the pale yellow of the drink. The sun had long since set and a faint gloss of moonlight cast its light over the two of us.

In silence, I tended to her aching feet.

“You’re amazing,” she eventually said. “When you’d get so damn good at this?”

Breaking character for a moment, I shrugged. “I’m a thirty-five year old man, Jules. It’s high on the list of things every guy should know. You know, like how to order a good wine or drink a single-malt whisky.”

“If you say so,” she said. “So where’s lip gloss and lingerie on the list?”

Instead of answering, I drove my thumb into a knot and made her jump. I smiled sweetly in response to her glare and continued the massage. Eventually she relaxed again and sighed. Her eyes rolled back and she sank deeper into the chair. I continued for a little longer and wondered whether she was falling asleep, but then she stirred and sat up a little. Julia took a sip of her Champagne. She licked her lips as she watched me.

“God, I could get used to this,” she murmured.

I smiled up at her and continued.

“I get it,” she continued. “What guys see in this.”

Without stopping, I glanced up at her demurely, inquisitively.

“The kneeling girl, the skirt-and-heels, the perfect makeup, the attention and care.” She leaned her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow on armrest, and made a show of studying the bubble-and-fizz sparking from her glass. She gazed at me through its amber lens. “And all for me. All this effort, for me, for my approval. The male gaze.” Reaching down, she stroked the side of my head, which felt good until I realised she was basically petting me, like a cat. “And the attention’s nice, the devotion. Being listened to.”

She pulled her hand back and I nearly chased the retreating touch, and unexpectedly missed it when it was gone.  “But you know, I don’t think it’d work for me if it was a guy down there, a man on his knees.”

“You’d turn down a foot massage from a guy?”

Julia took a sip from her drink. “Of course not,” she said, but when she turned her eyes back to me, I saw the lust burning there. I felt an echoing warmth, as though heated by the fire of her desire, and felt the first, disconcerting stirrings below.

“But it’s not the same,” she said. “It’s the way your dress hangs open when you lean forward and shows off those beautiful tits of yours.” Her eyes roamed over my visible assets. I suppressed the instinct to cover myself. “It’s the long hair and the way it tickles. It’s the way you look up at me, those great big green eyes behind heavy lashes.” She pulled her feet back and sat up in the chair and reached for me. Her fingers caressed my cheek and I tilted into her touch. Julia nudged my chin upwards until she looked down at me and smiled. “It’s a power thing, and I hate myself for feeling it, but I’d be embarrassed looking down on a man like this.”

“I am a man, Julia,” I said, pulling away.

She grinned. “If you say so.”

Whatever stirring I felt went cold under her mockery, and the roleplay suddenly didn’t feel so fun. I pulled back and clambered to my feet. But when I turned and went to step away her arm snaked around my waist.

“Let me go,” I said.

Instead, she pulled me closer and unsteady in heels, I fell back into her lap. “Aw, did I upset my little princess?”

“Fuck you,” I said, and struggled to disentangle myself from her grip. She was larger than me, and stronger too, and so her arms remained fast around me.

She nuzzled my neck, and one hand crept its way to my chest. “I missed you, you know,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

Giving up the fight, I succumbed to her advances. “I missed you, too,” I said, although that wasn’t entirely true. I’d thought about her during the stay at the Clinic obviously and talked about her a lot with Crystal but—well, between the gym, therapy sessions and… well, Chad; I hadn’t really had time to miss her.

But under her touch, the earlier warmth returned. Her hand fondled my breast through the thin fabric of the dress and the bra beneath. She kissed my neck and I sighed and leaned my head to the side so that she could trail further kisses up to my ear. Her tongue flicked an earlobe; she nibbled at my ear; she nudged my face towards hers and our long hair intertwined and closed around us like a silk cocoon of blonde and black silk.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this,” she said. Her hand grabbed my tit more roughly, she held me closer and crushed her lips up against mine. When she pulled back, she licked her lips and smiled. “Mmm. Haven’t tasted lipstick on another girl’s lips in two weeks,” she said. She squeezed my tit again. “Or felt this.”

“Happy to oblige,” I murmured. “But Julia, we need to—”

But she silenced me when her mouth found mine again, her togue thrusting between my lips and dancing with mine. I couldn’t suppress a little moan, a groan at her touch. I twisted in her grip and on her lap, trying to break free once again, but her hands held me by the tits. She kissed my neck again and my knees felt weak. I felt it elsewhere, too.

“I’ve been waiting two weeks, David.” Her tongue lapped at my ear, her breath a hot whisper against the skin. “Holding off in anticipation.” The hand at my breast grew firmer, roughly fondling, thumb flicking across the increasingly hard point of an engorged nipple. I squirmed in her lap, caught in her grasp, and growing increasingly aroused and—uncomfortable—by my arousal.

“Julia, we need to talk.”

“My little housewife,” she purred into the curve of my neck. “Don’t fuck this up with words. I am so goddamn wet right now. Bedroom. Now.”

She stood, and I slid off her lap and stood with her, and now her other hand grabbed me by the ass, snaking its way beneath my dress and gripping my lace-clad bottom. “I want you to fuck me,” she said. “Make me scream. Make me weep.” And her hands fondled and roamed, even as she hissed in my ear—“I want your cock inside me”—and her fingers reached for the expected bulge….

“What the fuck?”

She shoved me away, hard, and I stumbled in heels and nearly fell on my ass.

“Julia—”

“What the fuck?” she said, panting slight and eyes wide, pointing with one finger. “What the actual fuck?”

I stood bashfully in front of her, eyes downcast.

“Was that—?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Where’s—?”

“It’s….” My sad shrug was wholly inadequate to expressing how I felt. “Gone.”

“No,” she said. “No no no!” Scowling, she stormed towards me. “This is some sick joke, right?”

Falling back, hands raised, I shook my head.

“Show me!” she commanded, “Strip!” and I swear she nearly started to rip the clothes from me herself.

I batted her hands away. Stepping out of my heels, I turned and lifted my hair and indicted the back of my dress. Her hands—angry, hurried—fumbled with the buttons there, and a wiggle later I stood before her in nothing but my underwear. I suddenly felt very small next to her, and vulnerable.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the smooth curve of my crotch. “You’ve got—”

“A vagina.” I sighed. “Yes.”

“Are you—” Conflicting emotions crawled across her face, a complex mix of—anger, disappointment, outrage, delight and… humour? I swear a hint of a smile tugged at her lips, but she sounded disgusted when she spoke. “Are you fucking wet?”

I felt the return of the hot flush spreading across chest and face. “What the hell do you expect, Jules? Mauling my tits like that?”

She stepped closer. “Panties. Off,” she ordered.

With a shrug, I wriggled out of the tight, lacy thing and stepped free. Now I was down to thigh highs and bra and shivered a little under her hot gaze. Her eyes widened further, if possible, and her mouth gaped a little. She dropped to one knee and shuffled closer and studied the light blonde fuzz and mound and slit and I could see she didn’t quite know what to think.

“Is it—?” She pointed with one finger like she wanted to poke it like you might an unfamiliar but recognizable bug on a branch. “Real?”

“It’s a prosthetic.” It felt—awkward, having her see me like this, embarrassing, and my hands twisted within each other; I didn’t know what to do with them.

“Like hell it is.”

“I swear.”

“So it comes off?”

“Not for at least three months.”
 She looked me in the eyes. Her mouth opened, then closed. She frowned. Then: “Is this why you went to that Clinic for two weeks? To get them to put this… thing on you?” Now close enough to touch, her hand hovered at my hip but she seemed reluctant to touch me. She continued before I could answer, and her voice was scored through with anger and disappointment. “And you didn’t even think to ask me?”

“I….” I swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She scowled. “We’ve been fucking each other for what, three months now? You don’t think I’ve got a vested interest in what you do with that thing? Fuck sake, David!” Her hand slapped me across the thigh, almost like a spanking, and it stung. “You selfish bastard. I waited two weeks for you! Two fucking weeks; you have any idea how horny I am?” She slapped me, again, then pointed. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

“I can—fingers, tongue, you know—”

She surged to her feet and glared down at me from her high-heeled height. “I don’t want your fucking finger, I want your fucking cock inside of me!”

“I—” Felt emasculated, which I quite literally was; and ashamed; but also frustrated and angry. “It’s not like I asked for this, you know?”

She’d already started to talk over me but froze at my words. Her mouth opened once or twice, silently. Then she frowned. “What?”
 “I didn’t go to the Clinic for—this,” I said, and waved a hand in the general direction of the prosthetic. “It was… unexpected.”

I wasn’t sure what to expect; it certainly wasn’t laughter. She threw her head back and laughed, and when she looked back at me her mouth split in a wide grin. “You didn’t want this?”

“Of course not!” I answered, indignant.

“Oh my God,” she said. “What have they done to you, David?”
 “They said it would help,” I answered. “Make the next six months easier. Keep my disguise more secure.”

“No shit,” she said. She stepped closer, uncomfortably so, and I shivered in my nakedness as she brushed up against me, her suit unexpectedly prickly against bare skin. “Have you—tried it, yet?”

“Tried—” I started. “No!”

“Really?” She smiled wickedly. Her hand drifted close, laid gently against my thigh and I felt it creep slowly towards that junction between my legs. “You haven’t been tempted.”

“No,” I whispered. I laid my hand over hers. “Please,” I said. “I’m—not ready.”

“Do you think I give a shit?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”