Synopsis:

David Sanders saw something he shouldn’t have and Agent K will do everything she can to keep him alive–-but who can he trust as he sinks deeper into a disguise he never chose, and will he ever find himself again? This collects the first ten chapters--the first story arc--into one place. Transitions between chapters have been smoothed out and hopefully it reads as a single novel-length narrative.

Story:

Constant in All Other Things
by
Fakeminsk
([email protected])

Season One

Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent
-Much Ado About Nothing

I stand with the gun pointed at Tom’s head.

The weight of the pistol feels comfortable in my grip. A few weeks ago I would’ve sworn to having never seen a handgun before outside of a movie or the TV. The thought of holding one, let alone firing it, would have left me in terrified hysterics. Now the ugly thing nestles easily in my grip. I’ve once again grown used to the feel of the cold metal, the weight and the heft of the weapon.

I’ve grown used to a lot of new things in the last two year: the flash of colour on my painted nails curled around the pistol’s grip, the sweep of long blonde hair at the edge of my vision, and the taste of lipstick on my lips. The precarious balance and high arch of 4-inch stilettos is comfortable now. I’ve even gotten used to my breasts, their feel and weight and heft--to the way they move and the pretty bra that cups them.

But that empty feeling between my legs? Not that . . . that I will never get used to. The bastard responsible now sits tied to a chair, face bloodied and back bowed. I stand here with a gun pointed at his head. There is a simple beauty to the image we present. My slender bared shoulder and dainty outstretched arm, with its delicate silver bracelet that flashes in the flickering half-light of the dirty little room, trembles only slightly with indecision. There are a few feet of empty space, and then Tom’s battered face, eyes squeezed shut in terror. Not for the first time I admire the elegance that reveals itself in the ugliness of violence. After all I’ve endured: revenge.

The moment he opens his eyes I’ll shoot. I want to see the look in my friend’s eyes one last time.

“Oh, God. Please . . . don’t do this.” His voice pleads. The bastard keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “I’m so--it doesn’t--I didn’t--it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m so sorry.”

I don’t answer. The gun feels heavy. I’m a lot weaker than I used to be.

“Cindy,” he says. “Please.”

“My name’s not Cindy,” I hiss.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “David,” he says.

“Say it again.” I want to shout but my voice comes out hardly louder than a whisper. “Open your eyes.”

“David,” he repeats, louder.

“Look at me!”

He opens his eyes. He looks straight into me. His eyes are blue but so clear they seem nearly transparent. They are the most attractive feature of a very attractive man. A woman could easily lose herself in those gentle depths. I did.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

But I am not a woman. I squeeze the trigger.

***

**

“You did the right thing,” Agent K said. Her grip on my shoulder was strong and she looked straight into me. “Trust me.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one heading out in front of a courtroom full of people, in front of Jeremiah fucking Steele, and accusing him of murder. This guy wasn’t some backstreet thug who’d knocked over a liquor store. He was one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, a pharmaceutical magnate and all-around nasty guy. Rumours had him involved in all kinds of stuff. Shady stuff, you know?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t scare easily. Growing up I got involved in some pretty heavy shit, the kind of stuff you don’t tell nobody about. I’m not particularly proud of my past. I’m not ashamed of it either. But if people knew some of the things I’ve done? Yeah, I wouldn’t even have the one or two friends I do.

But for all the harrowing shit I’ve been through over the years, even I know better than to mess with a mean sonuvabitch like Jeremiah Steele. Squealing on him was asking for a whole world of pain and retribution. So Agent K didn’t need to tell me I was doing the right thing. I knew full well what I getting myself into, and I had my own goddamn reasons for doing it.

See, I’m a mean sonuvabitch myself. I really am. I’m not a nice guy. Now, being an asshole has done me really well in the corporate world. It’s where I’ve found myself working over the last few years. It’s a whole different world than when I was a kid, running with gangs and all that shit. But for all that, it’s not all that friendly, this corporate existence of mine. Oh sure, there’s swanky suits and air-conditioned hallways and some mighty fine ass walking through the office, often ready for a quick tumble if you drop ‘em the right line . . . but there’s also a lot of self-serving pricks and political shit going on. I haven’t figured out if I love or hate this new existence yet. I mean, seriously, I thought I was a jerk, but then I started working at NeoPharm and . . . . wow. Some of these guys? They make even me feel good about myself. And yeah, I said NeoPharm. You buy their products. It’s a subsidiary of this-and-that and part of Jeremiah fucking Steele’s corporate empire.

I didn’t know who I was really working for when I got the job, of course. I wouldn’t have taken it if I’d known that scumbag was in charge. Like I said, I’m an asshole . . . but even I’ve got my limits. Some things I just won’t do. I’d like to think I’ve got a, you know, moral code or something, although that makes it sound far grander than what it is. It’s probably more trouble than it’s worth. Truth be told, it’s also a bit shaky, this moral code of mine. It’s not like I’ve ever sat down and thought it through or made a book of it. Trust me, I’m not that clever. It’s not the bloody Hagakure or anything like that. I’m no damned samurai. But I know what I think is right, and what I think is wrong, and always do what I think is right, and avoid what I think is wrong. Always. Well, almost always.

So for instance, I’ll never backstab a friend. Ever. Way I see it, that’s the worst thing a man can do. When you get down to it, there ain’t much I wouldn’t do for a friend. A real friend, that is. It’s not like I’ve got that many friends, you know? You’ve got to watch out for the ones you’ve got.

And so, yeah, I didn’t need this Agent K telling me I was doing the right thing. I mean, I saw Jeremiah fucking Steels blow some guy’s head off, right there on the top floor of where I work.

Did I same ‘some guy’? Ha! Georgio Antazzi wasn’t just some guy, any more than Katherine was that girl I ‘liked’. Fuck. And yeah, I said Antazzi--that guy, the son of the mob boss. The apple of his eye, the High Street golden boy, the one who’d done good. All kinds of implications there, you know? Mob connections, murder, some of the scintillating dialogue overheard between the two before Georgio became a red smear across the floor, and of course, what they were up to before Tom and I stumbled into the room. . . .

Tom? He’s my best friend. I’ve known him for a couple of years now, ever since I started at NeoPharm and dedicated myself to living all, you know, normal-like and shit.

Yeah, Tom was there as well when Steele offed Georgio. He shouldn’t have been, of course. It was my fault. More or less. That’s not true. It was entirely my fault. I hoped I wouldn’t have to explain that as well. It’s not like Tom and I were supposed to be hanging around the top floor, yeah? That’s why he’s also a witness. Between our two testimonies, Agent K figures there’ll be enough on Steele to take him down, and hard, especially with all the extra inquiries that’ll be launched into his shady dealings. If that doesn’t get him, well, the backlash he’ll suffer from his power-mongering allies and enemies should do him in, she figures. K seems to have some kind of personal grudge against that bastard Steele.

So, yeah, chance to take down the bad guy? Of course I’m going to do it. Even if only half the rumours are true, the guy had it coming. It’s the right thing to do. Not heroic, not brave--just the right thing.

Problem is, doing the right thing gets you killed. Pissing off a guy like Jeremiah Steele gets you worse than killed. I’m lucky that way, I guess. I don’t have any family to worry about. The few really good friends I have I haven’t seen in years, and they can take care of themselves. I’ll even pity the dumbass that goes after them. Like I said, I wouldn’t backstab my friends, not even for something this important. I definitely wouldn’t let some stupid moral code--as shaky as it is--put them in danger if I didn’t think they could handle themselves.

As for myself--well, normally I wouldn’t be too worried. I haven’t had to in years but I can make myself disappear if necessary. It’s one of the few benefits of a messed up childhood: you learn to take care of yourself. This is different, though. This is . . . you know, Steele. I’ve rubbed shoulders with the powerful before, but nobody in this guy’s league. The dude’s seriously dangerous. Vengeful. Even if only half the rumours are true, you don’t get away from this guy. Unfortunately, rumours are usually only half the real story. In my experience, it’s the really scary stuff that people don’t know about.

But hell. I’m a man, dammit, and a man’s gotta do--well, you know. This Agent K woman’s promised me some witness protection-style help. I’ve got my doubts, but who knows? Maybe they can hide me somehow really good. Otherwise, I’m a dead man.

“You ready?” K asked.

I took a deep breath and checked myself over in the mirror. “Yeah.”

***

It went well. Of course it went well. I’m a good-looking guy. No, seriously, I am--and I don’t mean that in a conceited way. But hey, good-looking people get treated better, everyone knows that. Ask that sexy chick flaunting it when she steps into a store. Who d’ya think gets better service, her or the little mousy one scurrying along behind her?

It’s not as extreme for guys, but yeah, I get listened to and treated well, and it’s not fucking fair but there you have it. The only thing that works against me is my height. I’m only five-foot-five-and-a-half, though I drop the half because it’s pathetic to hang on to that extra bit of height. So what if I’m a bit short for a guy? I couldn’t care less. Seriously. I don’t. Listen, if some girl thinks I’m too short to date then fuck her. Bitch. It’s her loss.

Otherwise I do well. Better than well, to be honest. I’m not too big into the fashion thing but keep myself looking good, know where to shop and wear nice clothes and I’ve got just a touch of that long-haired bad-boy thing going on, left-over from my teen years, I guess. I keep my face smooth, though truth is the best I can manage is some rough stubble after a week or so--I call that my ‘artistic’ look. Swap the clothes and it’s also my rugged look. I’ve got green eyes girls seem to love, flecked with grey. I look younger than I am, and that boyish-charm thing can manage wonders, sometimes. Even in the corporate boardroom, especially if it’s some chick CEO I’m trying to impress.

Another thing the girls love is the body. I keep myself in shape. Now there’s an understatement! I keep myself in really good shape. Some might call it obsessive. I guess some habits just die hard. Chicks love the abs of steel. Couple that with money and, yeah, I do pretty damn well at the clubs on a Friday night. I’m no millionaire, but I’m better than just well-off. Chicks, they also love everything that a man with cash represents.

It helps that I’m a smooth talker when I’ve got to be. I don’t like doing it too often, because it feels very phoney to me, but it’s a necessary skill when clinching a marketing deal or convincing some girl to come back for the night. So working that court over was easy. I didn’t lie, of course, but there are ways of persuading people of your point of view, especially once you’ve figured out who you’re dealing with. I’m pretty good at that, sussing out what people want and then giving them the details they expect. I had the courtroom hanging on every detail as I explained the how and the why of Tom and my race to the top of the office tower, and what we saw while hiding in that executive secretary’s office.

Perhaps I overdid it. I got carried away by my own eloquence. It wasn’t the conversation I overheard, or even the fight or the whole gun-to-head thing that set Jeremiah off. The man in question took that very well. He sat behind his table, towering head-and-shoulders over his team of lawyers, and seemed highly amused by the proceedings. The man should’ve been nervous as hell but hid it well behind this fucking smirk the whole time. I think that’s what got me. That goddamn smirk. I hate arrogance. I really do. It pissed me off so much I added in some details that, strictly speaking, were true but very much unnecessary.

Steele kind of lost it when I got to those sketchy bits. Hard to make out exactly what he said, what with all the ranting and flying spittle, but I’m pretty sure I heard: “You’re a fucking dead man, Sanders!” and “I’ll have your goddamn balls on a plate!” and more threats of that sort. Shouting in front of everybody, rushing the witness stand . . . it took half-a-dozen men to hold him back from throttling me. Well, from trying, that is. I don’t throttle easily. Saying that--the man’s not small. Over six feet tall and all muscle, the guy reached the witness stand, bowling his way through the security and swearing the whole way, before they managed to pull him back.

They rushed me out of the courtroom into a small side room. Agent K was waiting for me.

“We should get you out of here,” she said. K’s damn sexy--in that severe, short-haired, lesbian kind of way--but not big on small talk.

“Hey, I’m feeling okay,” I said. “Thanks. Nice crowd, good security. So yeah, I’m feeling pretty good about myself.”

“Please try to focus, Mr Sanders,” K said. “You know what kind of man you are dealing with. If he has threatened to kill you, you can be sure he intends to follow through. Mr Steele is a very vengeful man. More importantly, he can not afford to look weak in front of neither his allies nor his enemies. Especially considering the nature of your accusations.” She hesitated for a moment. “Were they true?”

“Yup,” I said. “Every word.”

“Why did you include them?”

“Dunno. The bastard was just pissing me off.”

K sighed. “You embarrassed a very powerful man in front of many very powerful people, Mr. Sanders. Simply testifying was enough to put you in a very precarious position, but now . . . I fear Mr. Steele will stop at nothing to make an example of you. Even if made in the heat of the moment, he has no choice but to stick by his words. That was not just a threat; it was a death warrant.”

She’s not so good at inspiring confidence, this woman. I nodded. “So what do we do?”

“First? We get you out of here. Then we relocate you, give you a new identity, and make you disappear. And quickly, before Mr. Steels has time to declare open season on you.”

“Then let’s get started.”

Without another word she walked over to a corner of the room and bent down for a large duffel bag. I enjoyed the view as K’s tight skirt strained against the rounded firmness of her ass. Hey, like I said, she was a real looker, even if she went in for that real severe look, what with the past-the-knees skirt and mannish jacket and clunky heels. Tall and slender, she gave an impression of tightly-coiled strength, somehow, and at a glance you knew better than to fuck with her. She was pale, with a long face and thin lips that seemed perpetually set in an expression of mild disdain. Her hair barely reached her shoulders but somehow softened her look, an unexpectedly feminine touch on a woman who seemed eager to shed the outward trappings of her gender.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked dryly. Sharp eyes, this woman. We’d only met a few times, in arranging for my court appearance and in keeping me safe and hidden before the trial. There’s something very off-putting about her, to be honest. Like she knows more than she’s letting on. The fact that she didn’t respond to my charms didn’t help either. That’s her name, by the way, as far as I know. K. It has to stand for something but I’ll be damned if I know. I had this feeling that she didn’t particularly like me. At the same time I honestly felt like I could trust her, which is saying something. I’m not a very trusting person. You could say I’ve got commitment issues.

“So how do I get outta here alive?”

“With this.” She dropped the bag on the table. It looked heavy but she moved it without much effort. She zipped it open, reached in, and pulled out. . . .

“A dress?” It was a sexy little number, red and tight. “What the fuck, you’re gonna disguise me as a chick?”

She looked at me oddly. “That would be idiotic.” She reached deeper into her bag and hauled out a heavy vest, the kind with Kevlar in it. “I think this would prove more helpful, would you not agree?” she said, handing it to me. “Unless you had your mind set on the dress, of course. I have some darling heels in here that match.”

“Very funny,” I said. I slipped on the vest, its weight reassuring.

“There is a car waiting nearby. When I give the signal they will come around the side of the courthouse. We leave by a side entrance. You should be exposed for no longer than thirty seconds. Other agents, dressed similar to you, will leave by alternate exits simultaneously, hopefully confusing anyone keeping watch. Once we reach the car it will carry us to a safe location where we can begin to process your relocation and new identity.”

I nodded.

She handed me a heavy green sweater from her bag. I pulled it on over the vest. It was a bulky Gap thing--nondescript, and it hid the vest. I wondered if Tom went through something similar. He was a tough guy, but he didn’t have my . . . background. I’m sure that I would have been shitting myself if I hadn’t been through some rough times as a kid. I wondered where Tom was right now. He was due to appear in court after me. I had no idea how the case against Steele was doing--it’s not easy to get news while in hiding, especially when the trial is behind closed doors. Hopefully fucking Steele wouldn’t be as pissed off with Tom as he was with me. No reason why he should be; Tom didn’t see as much as I did.

Standing there just before K hauled me out of that room, with a higher-than-normal chance that I was about to get gunned down like some clay pigeon, I think what bothered me the most was that I’d probably never see Tom again. K was going on about procedures and I only listened with half an ear. I was thinking about my friend. Somehow I knew the guy was okay. He was a good guy. But with this relocation thing, chances are we’d never meet each other again. Man, I hate losing friends. It wasn’t the first time, you know? But it still sucks every time.

“Are you ready?”

K was looking at me expectantly. Even in civilian clothes she looked like a fucking federal agent, if you ask me. What’s the point of me putting on this shitty sweater if I’m hanging around with someone who just screams “secret agent”? I took a deep breath. Calmed the jitters in my stomach. Focused. Nodded.

She made the call. Pulled me forward. We walked quickly through the back corridors of the courthouse, our footsteps echoing through the narrow halls. Bland white walls and flickering fluorescent lighting. Nondescript faces flowing past. The sudden pungent smell of gasoline. A solid metal door, red and pitted and cool to the touch. Another deep breath and I felt coiled like a spring. Instincts long forgotten and forcefully buried awake began to awaken.

God, I was loving this. I hadn’t felt this alive in years.

We pushed through the door. The first bullet hit before I managed a single step.

***

“Mr. Sanders?”

The voice reached me through layers of pain. The darkness slowly receded. I took a shaky breath. Those vests are great at stopping bullets, but not so great at stopping the bruising. I wasn’t dead, but the way I felt nearly left me wishing I was. I knew when I looked down my chest would be a Rorschach test of black and blue.

I opened my eyes. K was watching me closely. She didn’t look all that sympathetic, but the moment she saw I was awake she reached out of my line of sight and brought back a glass of water.

“Can you sit up?” she asked.

Yeah, wonderful bedside manner, a real Nightingale, that K. Pain flared across my chest as I struggled to sit. Just like I expected: one massive bruise. My whole chest and upper abdomen was a purple and yellowed mess. The bastard who shot me must’ve been close. K placed some pillows behind my back to prop me up. My vision swam momentarily and my head throbbed with the effort. I reached up and found a sticky spot near my temple.

“These will help with the pain,” she said and for a moment, as she handed me the glass of water and two white tablets, she actually looked worried. Who knew the frosty secret agent could actually show concern for my well-being? I popped back the pills and the glass of water.

“You’re tougher than I imagined, Mr. Sanders,” she continued, that moment of sympathy apparently gone. “The assassin was standing right outside the door when you stepped through. He fired two shots that both caught you right over your heart. The impact sent you back into the doorway. Your head connected with the edge of the doorframe. A third bullet caught you in the side and the last one in the back, before the assassin was dealt with.”

It was hard to focus on what K was saying. My vision swam for a bit. I must’ve hit that doorframe pretty damn hard to mess me up like this. Like I said, I’m in good shape and I’m pretty tough. I’ve taken some harsh beatings in the past. Then again, four bullets at point-blank range? I was lucky to be alive. Vests aren’t the best thing in the world from the side. After hitting the door I must’ve spun as I tumbled to the ground, spreading the second double-tap between my side and back. No wonder each breath was like sucking on a hot coal.

K handed me another glass of water that I eagerly drained. Shaking my head and breathing deeply helped clear my head a bit, and finally my vision stopped swimming and the buzzing in my ears eased somewhat. There was still a faint worrying hum in the back of my mind, similar to a mild concussion but a bit different somehow. Mostly I just felt really tired. Funny how four bullets to the midriff can knock the wind out a person.

K pulled up a chair and sat next to me. She looked the same as before: same clothes, minimal makeup, angular features pinched into an expression of severity. Too bad, really: she’d be damn fine if she tried a little harder. I looked around and saw that I was propped up in a dirty single bed in a small, plain room with peeling and yellowed wallpaper. Probably some kind of safe house or something. Still, the question had to be asked. “Where the hell am I?”

“I pulled you into the car and we managed to escape before any more of Mr Steele’s agents could open fire. We took a very indirect route; it is unlikely that we were followed to this location. However, it would be unwise to stay here for any length of time.”

“Yeah, great.” Sunlight beamed in through the open door leading into the room. I must’ve been out for awhile. I gently probed my chest--it felt a bit like tenderized beef. I should’ve hurt more, but those pills of K’s worked fast and seemed to be keeping the pain at bay. The cloudiness in my head wasn’t retreating, though, and that had me a little worried. “K? I’m not feeling so hot.”

This one time at work I got really sick. It was some kind of crazy flu that landed all kinds of people from the office in the hospital. Like, over 40 Celcius temperature kind of sick, with swimming vision and that floating, detached kind of feeling. But I didn’t tell nobody. There was work to do and an important presentation to make to a client, and I got through it. Afterwards I passed out for something like 48 hours straight. When I got back to work I’d earned my first promotion and suddenly had a secretary and all that jazz. She was a real hottie, too. I think that’s when I met Tom, and the whole friendly rivalry thing started.

K nodded. “I see.” She stared me straight in the eyes. It was a bit eerie, really. When you think about it, people almost never stare you straight in the eyes. It’s a challenge, in a way. Or a sign of intimacy. I’d be damned if I’d look away, but it actually made me a bit nervous, the way she looked at me. She looked a little hungry. Or angry. “Mr. Sanders, I want you to understand that I will do everything I can do to keep you alive.”

nodded. I already knew that. Like I said, I’m a good judge of character. Usually. I know who my friends are, as few as they are. I know who’s a proper asshole and who’s likely to screw me over and when someone’s a phoney and a liar, usually within a few minutes of meeting someone. And I know who I can trust.

“And Mr. Sanders? I need you to trust me.”

I’m not a trusting person. Tough childhood. I’ve been screwed over far too often in the past. But staring K straight in the eyes as I lay battered and bruised in that bed, my head all foggy and buzzing--somehow, it renewed my belief that I could trust her.

“This is just a temporary safe house,” she said. “To call the medical facilities here ‘limited’ would be generous. Those shots you took were at very close range. Even with the vest, I’m concerned for your well-being. Especially with the bullet to your side.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You may need professional medical assistance. But I fear that to bring you to a nearby hospital would place your life at greater risk.”

“Yeah, and?”

K gave me a long look. I stared back at her blearily. “I have a proposition for you,” she said.

She’d done a pretty good job of getting me to the hearing alive and out of the courthouse--even considering I’d been shot four times. I mean, this was fucking Jeremiah Steele; I couldn’t help but wonder how many other agents turned down the assignment because they were afraid of the guy. But not K. I wouldn’t say I trusted her implicitly, but even with the whole dyke thing going on she seemed to actually have a clue, compared to most other authority figures I’d met. Besides, who said shit like “I have a proposition for you,” anymore? People just don’t talk that way. But K did. I think I liked her.

“Yeah? What is it?” I tried to sound tough but could hardly stay awake.

“I fear you won’t like it, David.” That’s when I really started to worry--when she called me David. I certainly woke me up a bit. Every communication we’d had, every meeting, she’d called me Mr Sanders. Just like she called that bastard Mr Steele and Tom, Mr. Smith. So if she was suddenly calling me David, then this had to be bad.

She gave a sigh. She pulled out a thick folder, one of those plain beige ones. “This is you,” she said. I looked at the folder and focused and eventually could read my name. David Sanders, age 25. Yeah, that’s me. She flipped it open and the top sheet of paper had a picture and a small summary of who I was and where I’d come from. The picture was from my ID photo at NeoPharm, looking just a bit goofy. I had to strain to read the summary of me, and it looked at lot like a basic CV, just with some extra details. I had to choke down a laugh when I looked through my educational and childhood history. Nothing about the gangs and the other stuff. Which is what I’d been promised, of course. Just a nice, ordinary high school past, complete with passing grades and a smooth ticket into university and a slick degree.

“And this is who I suggest you become.” K hesitated a moment and slid a second folder in front of me. It was much newer and thinner. I flipped it open.

There wasn’t much to read on the cover sheet. Only a name and an age:

Cindy Long. Age 20.

“Uh, K?” I said. “This is a chick’s name.”

K nodded. She didn’t seem apologetic or bashful or anything. About as empathic as a cantaloupe, K is. “Yes, it is.”

I may have been groggy, but I was pretty sure of one thing. “K, I’m not a chick.”

“No, you are not,” she said. “This is an identity created for someone else. However, considering your unique situation I believe it to be your best chance to reach safety alive.”

Now, I haven’t exactly led a sheltered life. I’ve been involved in more than my fair share of violence. There was a lot of weird stuff that went on in my youth. But for all that I still led a fairly sheltered life in some ways. Busy with other stuff, I didn’t clue in to matters of love and sex until relatively late. More specifically, I didn’t figure out that some guys actually prefer other guys until I was sixteen or seventeen. Hey, I’m pretty clued in now when it comes to sex and all that shit. I mean, it’s not like I’ve got trouble finding female company for the weekend, if you know what I mean. But I had a bit of a late start, on account of my screwed-up childhood. So the first time a boy hit on me, well . . . yeah, it took me by surprise.

I’m a good-looking guy. I was a good-looking kid. And I had this job once, at this high-school, around when I was fourteen . . . well, that’s where I met Ken. Ken was a nice kid, a few years older than me, and I knew I could trust him. We worked together well and he helped me get the job done even though he didn’t really understand what was going on. He was a good friend. Stupid, naíve me, I didn’t realize the kid was helping me because he had this huge crush going on. And so, at the end when it was all over, Ken kissed me. He just kind of lunged in and next thing I know, his lips were pressed up against mine, and a second later his tongue was in my throat, and his fingers were digging into my arms, pulling me closer.

Hell, at that point I hadn’t even figured out girls yet. My first kiss--was with a guy. Yeah, I was pissed off. I smacked him in the face and knocked him down and kept hitting him. I hurt him bad, and the punches were only a small part of it.

Fuck. To this day it still pisses me off. I was an idiot. I was young. Ken’s gone now. Last time I saw him was a few years ago, before the disease took him. I think that was the last time I cried. I don’t cry often.

Well, I’m older now. I understand some things a bit better. I eventually figured out that there were other people like Ken out there, and that it wasn’t a big deal. Some guys like guys. Some guys like to wear frilly clothes and lacy underwear. Hell, some guys even want to have their dick sliced up and pushed inside out and try to pretend they’re really a girl. I mean, that’s weird shit. That shit’s wrong. You are what you are. But sometimes, it’s hard to figure exactly what you are and that’s where it all seems to fall apart.

I don’t pretend to understand it. I like girls. I mean, I really do. That moment, when you first slide your cock into a warm pussy, that being together and soft intimacy--God, I love that. I’ve never looked at a guy and thought, “hey, I want me some of that!” The thought of sucking on a man’s dick makes me sick. Girls do that shit, and they do it well. They’ve got the body for it, the soft lips and long hair and curves and all, you know?

But don’t get me wrong. I’m no fucking homophobe. I’ve got no problem admitting when some guy’s good looking. But guys just don’t do it for me, and I can’t imagine why any guy would want that over the softness of a chick. Unless it’s to miss out on the mind games, maybe. Girls are fucked in the head.

So even though I don’t understand it, I guess I can kind of respect it. I’m not one of those freaks quoting Deuteronomy and claiming God’s going to claim divine retribution just because some dude wants to wear a bra. That’s just fucked up. God’s got bigger shit to worry about. But it’s definitely not something I’ve ever wanted or even thought of doing myself.

So when K pushed that folder over to me and I saw a chick’s name there? Yeah, I was more than a little taken aback.

I shook my head. “But I don’t want be a chick,” I said.

“Of course not,” she said. I swear, she almost seemed to be smiling and there was the shadow of something cruel in her expression. “In a way, this is your own fault. It was you who gave me the idea, when you asked about that dress back at the courthouse.”

“You said that was idiotic.”

“Yes, I did,” K answered. “To throw a dress on you and walk you out of that building would have been foolish. You would have looked like a man in a dress. You would have drawn more attention instead of turning it away. But we have a little time here. Not much, especially considering your injuries.” She gave me a quick look-over. “But I believe with a little work you could be passably made to resemble a woman. At least from a distance.

“You are short,” she said. Yeah, thanks for pointing that out. Bitch. “You are slender and features that are considered beautiful on a man are often also beautiful on a woman. You are somewhat too muscular but that can be concealed with the proper clothing. With effort you could probably even pass as an attractive woman.”

Somehow that reassured me a bit. I mean, if you’re gonna do something this fucked up, you at least want to look good, right?

“Mr. Steele doubtlessly has more assassins closing in on your location. We may already be under surveillance. This disguise, unlikely as it may seem, might be enough to at least temporarily throw off any pursuit.” K finished her spiel and watched me expectantly.

It must’ve been the multiple bullet wounds, but for some reason K was making a twisted kind of sense to me. Anyone chasing me would be looking for a guy. A good-looking guy, if I say so myself. My face was probably plastered all over the papers by now. Even if some fucking assassin didn’t see me, all I’d need is some pedestrian moron to point a finger and shout my name and it could all be over. I still had one important argument to make, though.

“But I don’t want to be a chick!”

K sighed. “Yes, Mr Sanders. I understand this. And I assure you, this would only be temporary, until we can relocate you to your new home and identity. But I honestly feel this is your best chance of surviving until then.”

And you know what? I trusted her. I really did. It was a crazy idea, worthy of some silly internet fiction or those crap tabloids--but hell, sometimes the crazy ideas are the best, simply because they’re so fucking crazy. I normally trust my instincts but they were conflicted: on the one hand they told me that this was the absolute bullshit, complete nonsense, impossible and unnecessary; but my instincts also told me to trust K. And fair enough, I was pretty messed up and woozy and all, but I decided to trust K. Even though the idea of hiding behind a skirt felt really, really wrong.

“I . . . trust you, K,” I said. “What do I have to do?”

“Rest, and gather your strength,” she said. “I will gather your disguise together and wake you when we are ready.”

I wasn’t about to argue with her. I’m tough, sure, but part of that’s knowing when to take it easy. I could barely keep my eyes focussed on her as it was. I passed out about five seconds after K stood up and walked out of the room.

I dreamed. You’d think I would’ve dreamed about girly stuff; you know, like the fact that when I woke up I’d be wearing a skirt or something shit like that. Yeah, real nightmare-type stuff. Instead, I had one of those dreams that play like an old scratchy sepia-toned film, flickering like the hazy wings of a hummingbird against the inside of my eyes.

***

I dreamed in surprisingly vivid detail how all this nonsense started. I’m not sure I slept deep enough to properly dream. Like I said, I trust K and all, but it wasn’t exactly a relaxing situation I was in, what with the bullet wounds and assassins and all. I really need to feel comfortable to sleep deeply. That’s the problem with nights out. I mean, I bring chicks home all the time and I love that shit, but unless I really know the girl I’m not likely to trust her; I don’t trust most girls, full stop. That’s why I don’t exactly get much good sleep. Some instincts die hard, I guess. But I’m used to getting by with only a little sleep, anyway. That’s the way I was raised: to get by on as little as possible.

Thomas Smith--Tom--like I said, he’s a good friend of mine. I sailed into NeoPharm on a supped-up CV with a falsified diploma, and landed a job in PR. Within a year I’d impressed the powers that be and took my first step up the corporate ladder. They gave me a secretary. God, she was a sexy bitch, sashaying into the office with these tight little skirts and spiky heels and firing off enough erotic triggers to turn your average office nice guy into a borderline rapist. This girl was totally trying to hook herself onto some rising star--like me--and launch herself into the upper ranks of the company. Seriously. She was so fucking stupid she didn’t even see it wasn’t worth slutting herself out like that. To her credit, she didn’t even try to hide it. She had a mediocre education (still better than mine, I have to admit), ruthless ambition, and a fucking amazing body. Brainless and phoney as hell, though.

Tom loved that chick. Her name was Tammy. I think. What a bitch. But Tom had a thing for her. And so did I at first. I was new to this whole office pool shark thing, and lost my common sense for a bit. Tom was an up-and-comer as well, in a different division. We both fought over this silly cow, and I won, if bringing a girl like Tammy home can really be considered any kind of victory. Tom laughed about it afterwards, me bedding her first. Tammy never really escaped that first rung of the secretarial pool, but by next year both Tom and I were well on our way into management.

And that’s how I met Tom. Remember how I said I was a good judge of character? The moment I met this guy, down at the local bar as we both chatted up Tammy, I knew we were going to be friends. Competition. Respect. And trust. That’s what a good friendship’s built on. Good? We became great friends. And we always remained competitive. Which is why that night, a month or two back. . . well, we ended up somewhere we shouldn’t have been, and saw something I wish we hadn’t.

When Jeremy-fucking-psycho-Steele shot that Italian dude’s head and it exploding like an overripe melon, splattering all over the room, the dream ended. I’d seen worse. Not much, but it wasn’t a first. But Tom didn’t take it too well. And that’s the image that seared itself into the back of my eyes as I awoke: Tom’s mouth, opened wide in a silent scream.

***

K was sitting next to my bed. How long had she been there? She must’ve woken me up when she sat down. I hope I hadn’t cried out or anything in my sleep. That happens sometimes, and it’s really embarrassing when I’ve got chicks over. Girls can whine as much as they like about how they want their men to be sensitive and shit, but at the end of the day what they really wasn’t are guys who are tough and old-school-like. They definitely don’t want pansies that scream or cry in their sleep. But what can I say? Sometimes I get bad dreams.

“Are you ready to begin?” K asked. Like I said, not big on the small talk, this woman.

I felt a hell of a lot better than before. Still a bit hazy, a bit dopey, but the pain was a manageable throb in the background. I could cope. I could function. I wouldn’t want to try and do any advanced calculus or debate a major issue or run a marathon, but my head was on a hell of a lot straighter than before--straight enough for me to have second thought about this crazy scheme. The sunlight wasn’t slanting in through the door anymore. It must’ve been night. It was hard to tell without a clock or window in the room.

I threw my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. I felt a moment’s wooziness but fought it down. When I stood up I felt ill, like I was going to throw up, but it wasn’t that bad. Truth is I felt sicker at the thought of what was coming up than at any pain I was feeling. How the hell was she going to make me into a passable woman?

“I have something for you that might help.” I thought she was going to hand me another glass of water and some pills. Me, I don’t like to take pills or most medicines, to tell you the truth. I mean, who knows what’s really in those pills people hand you, yeah? Maybe I’m a bit paranoid. Maybe it’s from working at a pharmaceutical company. So even though my legs were a bit wobbly and I was still hurting, I shook my head no. “Nah, it’s okay, K,” I said. “I’m feeling better. The pain’s not so bad.”

“Who said anything about the pain?” She gave a small smile. “I thought a stiff drink might help you get through this,” she said, and handed me a scotch on the rocks.

What a girl. And it was good stuff, too. I wondered if they had a list of my favourite drinks in my file. I wonder if Cindy did as well. Probably. She probably liked stupid girly drinks, pinks things with half-a-dozen fruit juices in it and an umbrella.

“Good,” K said once I’d pounded back the drink, the warmth of the alcohol spreading into my limbs. It settled my nerves a bit. Fuck, but was I ever nervous thinking about what was coming up. I hadn’t felt this nervous in ages. “Follow me.”

She led me into the next room, which made up most of the apartment from the look of it. It wasn’t much, to say the truth. It was really bland. Boring IKEA-looking stuff, chipped and a little dirty, just the bare basics to survive off of. Not even a TV set. That kind of bothered me, since I wanted to see if there’d been a reaction to my testimony yet. I’d basically thrown my life away to see this bastard put away. I wanted some results. For the last five years things had been going really fucking well--a bit boring, yeah, but comfortable. Now I was about to slip a dress on and pretend I was a girl. Jeremy Steele had better get put away for this. I wondered if Tom was going to go through the same bullshit. I wondered if his federal agent was called ‘J’ or ‘L’ or something.

There was a window but I knew better than to hang out at that end of the room. Instead, K went over to a table and grabbed a bag and handed it over to me. “You’ll need this,” she said.

I looked inside. It was one of those cheap plastic toiletry bags. There was a bunch of shower products in there. The bottles were pink and flowery and looked very girly.

“What the hell’s this shit?” I asked.

“It’s all perfectly normal items for a woman to use in the shower,” K answered. Then she fixed me with those serious eyes again, that stare. It finally registered that she had eyes as grey as a northern sea. “Cindy.”

“Easy there,” I said.

But K just shook her head. “The earlier you get used to it, the better. Your name, until we clear you of this mess, is Cindy.”

“Aw, c’mon K, it’s just the two of us in here. Call me Dave. Call me Mr Sanders if you’ve gotta. But a chick’s name? Gimme a break!”

“Your name is Cindy,” she said, and the tone of her voice brooked no argument. “You are twenty years old and female. The earlier you accept this, the better.”

“Oh for Chrissake,” I muttered. “This is ridiculous.”

But there wasn’t any point in arguing with her. And like she said, this shit was only temporary. Until I could get to that hospital, get myself checked out, and then pick up a new identity and get the hell out of Dodge. I felt fine at the moment--mostly--but I knew how deceptive that could be. Just because I could stand didn’t mean there might not be something seriously wrong, especially with that wet spot up on my temple. The sooner I went along with K’s plan, as insane as it was, and got myself checked out, the better.

“Fine,” I said. “But what the hell am I supposed to do with all this?”

She pointed to a room off of this one. “Begin in there,” she said. “Use this first. Read and follow the instructions.” She indicated a pink bottle. “Then use this.” She pulled out a can, also girlishly pink, and a razor.

“What the hell?”

“Shave everywhere: legs, chest, armpits, face. Shave your face twice.”

“K, no one’s going to see me that close up!”

“Why risk detection because of sloppiness? We need your disguise to be as convincing as possible, considering the circumstances.”

“Listen,” I insisted. “You can slap a dress on me and whatever, but there’s no way I’ll pass for a chick up close. Really, what’s the point?”

K just gave me one of those steady, unflinching stares. “I will be the judge of that,” she said, “and you may be surprised.” That was that, really. When I dig my heels in, I’m a pretty stubborn bastard. But with K, I just didn’t seem able to find my footing. Unnerving, that woman, and it wasn’t just the lesbian thing. But for some reason I just didn’t want to argue with her. Probably because I trusted her. I mean, me heading into the bathroom and shaving all over was kind of weird, but she wanted me to do it for my own good, right?

So, following her order to use the rest of the crap in the bag as well, I grudgingly trudged off into the next room. It was another bedroom, a larger one with a double bed, and with a small en-suite bathroom. I stepped into the bathroom and got the shower started. I looked over the first bottle. It was one of those Nair-type things that chicks use, some kind of cream to get the hair off of me.

Well, what the hell was I going to do? Suddenly I was really glad that I’d had that drink. I’m not sure I could’ve done this otherwise. I stepped into the shower and lathered myself up with this shit and waited out the time. It stank a bit and tingled at first and eventually burned uncomfortably. When I rinsed myself off I was amazed at how much of my body hair went with it. But I wasn’t done yet. K wanted me to shave as well so dammit, I was going to shave. I lathered up with a can of girly shaving cream and picked up the razor and went at it.

It was a totally new experience. A strange one, to be honest. I’d never done something like this before. Even lathering up was different. It didn’t exactly smell like my macho Gillette’s, if you know what I mean. There I was surrounded in this flowery cloud, holding this triple-bladed razor with a flat handle; it even sat differently in my hand compared to what I was used to. I had this real moment of hesitation. Under the steaming hot water, what I was about to do seemed really fucking weird. And wrong. I mean, how was this all necessary? But I also thought about what K had said, and that also made sense. And I remembered that I trusted the woman, and with that in mind I brought the razor down to my leg and took the first stroke.

I’d like to think I did a good job. The chest was easy enough. The armpits were another story. Fuck, but I wouldn’t want to do that every week. Talk about gaining respect for the shit women go through to look good. As for the legs: well, the shins were easy enough, but I’ve got to admit reaching those tough spots in the inside of the knee was another matter. After much craning and stretching and blind strokes with the razor I managed to get the job done. After that it was a pretty simple matter to rinse-lather-repeat, though I wasn’t a frequent user of conditioner. The shower gel was a tad more floral than I would’ve liked as well. I smelled like a fucking garden by the time I finished.

I felt strangely chilled when I stepped out of the shower. The towel slid across my skin differently without any hair between me and the fabric. That was really weird. There was a full-body mirror in the bathroom, but fortunately it was all fogged up from the shower. It must’ve taken me nearly thirty minutes to get it all done. I felt just a little water-logged after all that. My head was a bit fuzzy again as well.

But I really didn’t want to see myself at that point. I could see glimpses of my hairless legs and that was enough. There was another bottle in the bag for me to use: some kind of baby-powder-type stuff. So I powdered myself all over, and by the time I was done I felt like a total fucking pansy. I couldn’t believe how smooth my skin felt. If I closed my eyes and felt my thigh I bet I could fool myself into thinking I was stroking up some chick. I passed my palm along my leg and didn’t find any stubble, but just the feeling of my hand sliding smoothly against skin kinda freaked me out.

I finally stepped out of the bathroom. Big surprise, K was waiting for me.

“Cindy, what are you doing? Please try to show a little modesty.”

What the hell was she talking about? I had a towel wrapped around me, a surprisingly soft and fluffy one (pink) considering the state of this crumby apartment.

“You are far more daring that me,” K continued, and she suddenly blushed. It was strange, seeing this strangely human and bashful reaction on a woman like K. “I can see your chest and everything!”

Bloody hell. I was wearing my towel like a man, covering the important bits but not exactly worried about the chest. Sighing, I readjusted the towel to cover my pecs. It still reached to my crotch, but left me feeling like my ass was hanging out. That wasn’t cool.

“Good.” K suddenly sounded all professional again, dropping the shyness. “Begin with the articles on the bed, please.” She stepped out of the room.

I approached the bed with some trepidation. I knew what was coming but that doesn’t mean I was looking forward to it. And sure enough, there on the bed were articles that even in a drunken, blind state you wouldn’t mistake for anything other than feminine.

The panties came first. They were black and small and had lace around the edges. Did she really expect me to wear these? Fuck. There was a bra as well, also lacy and black. Beneath them was a rolled-up lump that revealed itself as a pair of black pantyhose. Wonderful. Especially since they were sexy pantyhose--you know, not the day-to-day shit that most secretaries and women in the workforce wear, those really plain and heavy beige ones; these were so sheer they were nearly invisible and tinted black and had a lacy, embroidered top. Last time I’d seen clothes like this was nearly two months ago, before I saw any kind of murder or anything. It’d been after a night out at a club.

Alice had been hot and willing and easily impressed by my slick clothes and good job and easy money. Fuck, girls usually are. God, I love girls, how they fall for the cheesiest lines, how soft they feel in your arm and the way they like to cuddle up. Don’t get me wrong, though. I also respect women--well, some women, that is. Thing is, I’ve known enough women who can seriously kick my ass to not respect them. Like this one woman I know, Sakura. And Katherine. Fucking Katherine. . . .

I’ll tell you about her another time.

But man, can chicks ever be stupid when they want to be. I’ve never understood that, how they can just throw logic and reason and self-respect to the side, just to be with some guy--to be with me. I’m not putting myself down or anything. I’m a damn fine catch. It’s just that there are far more important things to worry about than assholes like me. Yeah, stuff like psychotic billionaire CEOs killing you unless you convincingly pass yourself off as a girl.

But this Alice chick, she really surprised me. ‘Luminous’ is this cool bar not far from the office, trendy without being phoney, even if most of the people who went there were right bastards. Like me, I guess. That’s where I picked up Alice. She was a sexy little thing, but a bit mousy. She almost had that naughty-librarian look going. But when I got her back to mine and peeled off those clothes, fuck, what a surprise! Not only did she have a soft, curvy body squeezed into those otherwise bland clothes of hers, she had the whole semi-fetishwear thing happening, the garters and the whole deal, like something out of a magazine spread. A tiger in bed as well. We went at it for hours. Dumb as bricks but an amazing fuck. Which is a good thing, because she’s the last woman I’ve slept with. Hard to get some when you’re hiding for your life, you know? I hadn’t gone that long without tail since… well, since I was a fucked-up teen. And now look at me.

I sat on the edge of the bed and slipped the panties on first. They were very thin, nearly see-through., and a tight fit. Sexy. I’d love to bring a girl home and unwrap her and find something like this underneath, all damp and ready to peel off. But I probably shouldn’t have been thinking about that, or Alice, because I encountered my first problem right then.

“Hey, K?” I called out. “I’ve, uh, got a problem.”

A few seconds later she was standing there in the doorway.

“I have a problem,” I said, and stared at her expectantly. I pointed down at my crotch. “I don’t seem to fit.”

I’m an average-sized guy and that’s never been a problem for me. I’m no Ron Jeremy with a twelve-inch sausage, and I wouldn’t want to be. I’m big enough to get the job done, and to get it done well. I take it all very seriously. Even if I’m just with some silly cunt I picked up that night, one so dumb she doesn’t even know she’s being used, I think it’s important to show her a good time. There’s no excuse for being lazy in bed. I’m a selfish bastard in real life, but sex is something else. It’s special. Sex is a skill in itself. You’ve got to work at it, and anything I work at, anything worth doing, I like to do well. So it’s important to me for the girl to get there as well, and I use all the tools at my disposal, if you know what I mean.

They say most penises are roughly the same size when erect but vary like mad when flaccid. I don’t know where I read that--probably some fucking Maxim magazine or something. So I look small when relaxed, but when I’m all horned up, it’s bigger than you’d expect. I guess I’m like my dick, then: small when relaxed, but you don’t want to fuck with me when I’m pissed-off. And that was the problem. For whatever the reason, this messed-up situation, the clothes themselves, the feminine scent the flowed off my own body and lingered faintly in the underwear itself--I was reacting. The silky feel of drawing those panties up my cleanly shorn legs turned me on in a way that had me a little concerned. But only a little.

K spared a glance at my crotch. “You don’t fit, you say?”

“Nope.” I really didn’t. I don’t know if it was the thinking about Alice, or just the sight of K, or the fact that I hadn’t been laid in a while--but I can’t deny that I was getting aroused by all this. It couldn’t have been the clothes themselves. That would be weird. Even though they felt strangely titillating as they stretched taut across my groin.

But my disguise wasn’t likely to work with sex inches of cock bursting out the leg hole. “You, ah, think you can help me with this?” I said, and flashed her a winning smile.

“And what do you expect me to do about it?” K stepped into the room and sauntered closer, and I’ll be damned if it didn’t suddenly seem like she was coming on to me. Easy to assume, really, considering I was standing all but naked in some unknown apartment, with a woody standing out at a sharp angle against my body, fiercely escaping the sheer panties I’d pulled on. “I see your surname is well deserved, Miss Long.”

K was now standing right up against me. She was taller than me, especially in her heels. Not that I found that intimidating. More like erotic. This close, a faintly musky scent surrounded her. Who would’ve thought she wore perfume, even if it was a bit mannish? Her breasts rubbed up against my chest, the fabric of her jacket rough against my sensitive, still-glowing skin. She brought her mouth near my ear. Her hair tickled my neck.

“Mmm, this is an unusual problem for a girl, do you not think, Cindy?” she murmured, and her breath was hot on my ear. I nearly jumped when I felt her hand, slightly cold, gently wrap around my shaft. “We can not have this, now can we?”

“I--heh, yeah. . . .”

“Is this turning you on, David?” Her grip tightened around my cock. Her breasts rubbed up against my chest again. What a thing to ask. Was this turning me on? Hell, yeah!

“Does it excite you to wear these clothes?”

What? Fuck no. But then she stepped back and for a moment I thought I saw a glimpse of both disgust and hatred flash across her eyes; and then she gave my cock a quick, hard smack on the tip.

“Ow!” I howled in pain and stumbled back. “Jesus Christ, K, what was that for?”

“What did you think I would do, Miss Long? Give you a hand job? Get down on my knees and suck you off?”

I sucked in some deep breaths, clutching the wall for support. “I was just fuckin’ about!”

“Your dubious charms, Miss Long, are best saved for a more appropriate time.” She reached over to a nightstand by the bed and grabbed a box of tissues. She tossed it over to me, where it bounced off my head before landing at my feet. “Tend to your own needs, Miss Long. In the bathroom, if you don’t mind,” she said as she walked away. “When you are finished please continue dressing.”

I picked up the tissues. Fucking dyke bitch. “You’re not making this any easier for me, you know that?” I yelled after her. You’d think she could take a joke. I didn’t really expect to her to, you know, relieve my pressure. But man, it would’ve been awesome if she had.

She turned about at the door. She let her jacket slip open and undid the top button of her blouse and, slowly sliding her hands along her sides, gave a little wiggle as she leaned forward and flashed me her most generous cleavage. She had awesome tits, from what I could see above the floral lacing of her bra. Then she slowly straightened, turned sharply on her heel, and sashayed out of the room, that tight ass wiggling beneath her skirt with each exaggerated, toe-to-toe step. “I hope that helps you finish, Cindy,” she said over her shoulder.

God, I wasn’t sure if I hated or loved that woman. What a bitch, and I mean that in a good way. Five minutes later I stepped out of the bathroom, drying my hands and still flushed with the pleasure, ready to tackle the task at hand.

The sight of the clothes on the bed brought me back to earth, like a punch to the gut. It really did feel like a hit to the stomach. It was the feeling of doing something wrong. You know, like when you’ve borrowed your parents’ car without permission and you’ve smacked it up and know you’re in big trouble? Kinda like that. I was just wishing I’d had another stiff drink when I saw that K had left one for me by the bed. What a woman. I pounded it back. I was already starting to feel a bit buzzed. Never a good idea to drink on an empty stomach.

I slipped the panties back on. They fit fine this time, once I tucked my cock back. Tight and a bit uncomfortable, riding a tad higher between my ass cheeks than I’d like, but nothing too bad. The pantyhose were another matter. I’d seen enough girls slip them on in the morning around my place, but these seemed really wispy and easy to tear. I rolled them up into a donut and pointed my toes and pulled the stocking up my first leg about halfway, and then did the same with the second foot, and finally stood, found my balance, and pulled the whole thing up over the panties.

Know what? My legs looked damn fine in those pantyhose. Denuded and encased in that sheer, inky fabric, the sharper definition lines of my legs were smoothed and softened and somehow made to look slimmer. The panties beneath made a darker ‘V’ against which my compressed cock made an unbecoming mound. My legs felt warmer than expected. The embroidered control top came up to just beneath my bellybutton and was tight across my buttocks, caressing and shaping. The silkiness as I slid the nylons up my legs had been unnerving; now, passing my hand along those sleek lines I felt a tremor through my stomach. The sensation was just so . . . feminine. I’d stroked many a woman’s thigh beneath her skirt, and I loved the feeling of my palm against her nylon-clad ass. Now it was my ass in nylon, looking way too good for my comfort and smooth beneath my touch.

That’s when K stepped into the room. To her credit, she didn’t laugh though a hint of a smile danced at the corner of her mouth. “How are we doing, Miss Long?”

“I feel like a damn fool, K.”

“You look fine,” she said. She unravelled another silky, black thing in her hand as she approached. “You will need this as well, I am afraid.”

“Great,” I answered. “What the hell is it?”

“A waist cincher.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Sadly, K wasn’t much of a kidder. “What is the first part of a woman that you notice, Mr. Sanders?” she asked, as she had me raise my arms above my head and wrapped the damned thing around me. At least she was calling me by my male name.

“What? I don’t know. Her tits?” I was going to say ‘her eyes’ because, truth be told, it’s a woman’s eyes that do it more for me than anything. I’ve even fucked more than a few fatties, just because they had the most gorgeous, sexy eyes. But wearing panties and nylons, with a waist cincher being wrapped around me, I felt like I had to say something, you know, macho.

She had the damned thing around me. She zipped it up the front and then went behind and I felt her begin to tug on the laces. With each one I felt the thing tighten its grip. “A woman’s shape defines her gender, at least from a distance,” K said. “Even in unisex clothing, or with short hair, or without makeup, or any of the other superficial trappings of femininity, a woman’s hips and waist trigger recognition.” She gave a sharp tug, forcing my breath out.

“Watch it, dammit!”

“Keep those arms up,” K commanded, her voice sharp. I grudgingly kept them above my head as she continued her torture. “You lack curves, Cindy,” she continued. “We can put you in a dress and make you wear a wig and slather on the makeup, but unless you have the shape of a woman, even an unskilled observer will sense there is something wrong.” The waist cincher’s grip continued to tighten, vice-like. “There are a thousand other things that can give you away, of course, but this one is easily enough remedied.”

K stepped away. I lowered my arms and took a hesitant breath. The waist cincher followed the lines of my body like a second skin, starting at my hips and ending at my ribcage. It was black, like everything else K seemed to be picking out, with crimson lines where the fabric drew in. It wasn’t quite as bad as I expected, to be honest. I wasn’t going to pass out like some damsel out of Gone with the Wind. My internal organs didn’t feel like they were being crushed. Nevertheless, I didn’t feel like I could draw in a big breath. I wasn’t about to go ten rounds wearing this thing.

“How do you feel?” K asked, her voice conspicuously lacking in concern.

“Just fucking great,” I answered. I made a sweeping gesture that took in my lower half. “I feel like a goddamn faggot, K.”

She made a small clucking sound of disapproval. “Really, Ms. Long, must you swear so much?”

“I’ll swear as much as I fucking well please!”

She gave me a firm look. “I am afraid, Cindy, that you really will have to watch your tongue. There are numerous linguistic differences in male and female speech patterns in the English language.”

I couldn’t believe this woman. “So, what, you expect me to speak like some friggin’ chick, too?”

“Cindy,” she said. “You are a ‘friggin’ chick,’ so to speak. Please try to remember that. Now wait here for a moment. We still have a lot to do.”

She left me standing there mouth agape. I wish she’d left me there with another Scotch. I wish she’d left me with the heat on, because I felt goose-bumps rising across my arms and chest. I missed my hair. This was all a bit much and had me feeling deeply unsettled. How long did she expect me to wear these damned clothes anyway? I wasn’t going to be this ‘Cindy’ chick for long. No fucking way. No damn way. No friggin’ way. There. That’s as good as K was going to get from me.

When she returned a few minutes later she was carrying a box in her hand. “Sit down on the bed, please,” she asked, as she pulled a small table across the room and set the box down.

“What’s in there?” I asked, making myself comfortable.

“This is your--,” she started, glancing back, and then stopped. “Cindy, really, some modesty please.”

“What now?”

“It is unseemly for a girl to sit with her legs like that.”

I was sitting with my legs spread, of course. My balls were already feeling cramped, squeezed in by the panties and hose. The-waist cincher was keeping me in this unnaturally straight-backed posture. Worse, all this nonsense was getting to me again--I was starting to fly at half-mast, and the growing bulge between my thighs was making this all a bit uncomfortable.

“Fuck this!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I felt ready to rip this goddamn clothing off and storm out the room. I’d take my chances on my own instead of suffering through more of this nonsense.

“Mr. Sanders, sit down!” K commanded.

I’d never heard her shout before. Steel underscored her voice. She stood with arms on hips and glaring at me with that flinty-grey stare, looking more like an outraged school principal than a secret agent. I don’t like being ordered about, but the authority she exuded held me back from just walking off.

“K, this is ridiculous!” I insisted. “It’s only a temporary disguise, right? I mean, what the hell, are you gonna stop me on every single damn thing I do that isn’t all girly and shit?”

“Yes, Mr. Sanders, I am going to correct you on every little action that is not all ‘girly and shit’. This is your cover identity. Even if it is only a temporary disguise, I expect you to be the best ‘Cindy’ that you can be for the duration of your time as her. I expect you to sit with your legs crossed at the knee. I expect you to wear the very same clothes that Cindy Long, 20 year old female, would wear. I expect you to do all this, Cindy, because I promised that I would make every effort to keep you alive, and I will be damned if your bullshit macho squeamishness is going to get you killed.”

I hadn’t heard her swear before. “You even expect me to speak like a girl?”

“Yes, Miss Long, I expect you to speak in a way appropriate for a woman your age.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I said, slowly sitting down. “I’ve known lots of girls who weren’t exactly sweet-talkers, you know?” And I didn’t just mean in bed. I’d met some amazing girls over the years. Some of them kicked my ass. Like Sakura. God, I was glad she couldn’t see me in this getup. “They’d put a sailor to shame.”

“But you aren’t a real girl,” K insisted, as if I needed a reminder. “Everything about you is masculine, Mr. Sanders. Very much so. Your mannerisms, your shape, the way you speak, the way you walk, how you approach people and the way you confront a problem. Each and every one of these things can give away your real identity. All it would take is one wrong action, one word that shouts out “I am David Sanders” at the wrong time, and all our efforts will have been wasted. This is not the time to indulge in PC behaviour. Cindy is going to be, I am afraid, through necessity, a bit of a girly-girl.”

The thing is, I already knew all this. I’d done stuff . . . similar to this before, though not as ridiculously out-there as trying to pass myself as a chick. But I wasn’t feeling all that cooperative. I hated sitting there in these fucking clothes--especially in front of this sexy woman, for some reason. She left me feeling extremely self-conscious, something I wasn’t used to.

On top of that, the thought of what I’d have to do and the way I’d have to act while pretending to be this ‘Cindy’ bitch made me sick to my stomach. Combined with the fucking pain in my chest from the bruising and the throb in my side and the headache and everything else--yeah, I was feeling a bit grumpy. But I felt a little bad for taking it out on K.

“Yeah, well, don’t expect me to say ‘aw, poo!’ or nothin’”

Her features softened in a small smile. “No, Cindy, I do not expect you to ever say ‘aw, poo.’ Now, are we ready to continue?”

I gave a grudging nod.

K pulled out a measuring tape and took my size around my chest, right where the waist cincher ended. She nodded with approval, as if she’d already correctly guessed my size. She went to her box and pulled out a couple of bottles and a pair of gloves. “The next part is going to feel a bit strange,” she said, pulling on her gloves. She gave me a slight shove. “Please lie back.”

Hell, normally this would be the start of a good night--some sexy chick pushing me back onto the bed before straddling me. And K did straddle me. Of course, I was wearing women’s underthings, which kinda spoilt the mood for me. And instead of rubbing her ass into my crotch, she used a cotton cloth to start wiping down my chest.

“It’s just alcohol,” she said. “You did a good job in the shower but we have to make sure that you are properly clean.” She did a very thorough job. I was starting to get excited again.

She slowly unscrewed a nondescript white jar bereft of any labelling. When she carefully put the lid aside a strong, pungent smell filled the room. I couldn’t quite place it--something acrid that left an unpleasant chemical taste in the back of my throat. She used a small plastic spatula to lift out a dollop of amber goo from the jar.

“This may sting a little,” she said, and began to smear it across my pecs. At first I wondered what she meant. It was bracingly cold--which did a little to dispel my erection, steadily growing and struggling against its silky confines--but otherwise felt fine. Then it began to tingle. And then--holy motherfuck!--it started to burn, and burn, and burn, God, as if someone was pressing a branding iron into my chest. “Do not move!” K ordered, as she saw my eyes widen in shock. “And most importantly, do not touch your chest!”

“Christ!” I exclaimed through gritted teeth. “What the hell is this stuff?”

“Appropriately enough, a product of your former employers,” she said, working quickly. “An organic bonding agent. Very cutting-edge, very expensive.”

“It . . . hurts!”

“Yes, one of the reasons it will not be approved by the FDA. I suspect the bruising is making the pain worse. Now lie still. The agent needs a few minutes to settle properly.” And with that she lifted herself off of me and stepped out of sight. I couldn’t hear her, either: this shit hurt so much all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. That nice drunk feeling from those two Scotches was totally gone, I’m telling you.

A few minutes, she said? Felt a hell of a lot longer. And I’m good at dealing with pain. I lay there on the bed, my toes curling with the pain in their silky sheath, fists gripping tight knots into the bedsheets as I fought back the urge to jump off the bed and rush into the shower and wash this crap off of me. I kept waiting for the pain to ease. Slowly, after what felt like a short eternity, it actually did. That’s when K sat back down on me.

She had two large grey objects, each more than a handful for her. I had to blink the tears out of my eyes. They were breasts. They were grey and dead-looking things, but breasts nonetheless.

“What the--”

“These are your new breasts,” K said.

I guess I’d been expecting something like this. I mean, she seemed set on doing a damn fine job of making a convincing girl out of me. Very professional and thorough, Agent K is. So maybe I shouldn’t have been expecting a pair of rolled-up socks. That’s what a friend of mine used when he dressed up as a cheerleader back at one of the high schools I’d been to. He’d been 6’3 and over two hundred pounds. He made a crap cheerleader. Somehow, I suspected I was going to prove far more convincing than he had.

“They look . . . big.”

Surprisingly, she blushed, and this time it seemed very real and natural. “I . . . my apologies, David. They are. D-cups, I’m afraid.”

A lot of guys I know, they like big tits. Like I said, I like big eyes. Weird, I know, but I’ll always take beautiful eyes over perky tits any day. Don’t get me wrong! I appreciate a fine pair of knockers, too. But they’ve always been a secondary thing for me, coming in after legs and ass. Of course I like a girl to actually have some--none of this mosquito-bite bullshit--but I don’t like ‘em too large, either, bobbling all over the place like fucking udders. Unless they’re fake or young, they’re going to be droopy once you set ‘em free from confinement and that ain’t so sexy to me. A nice firm, perky pair, fun to play with, that’s what I like.

“They’re a bit large, I’ll admit,” K rushed to continue. “Though considering your frame, they should be just about perfect.” As she spoke she brought those grey lumps down to my chest. I had a quick glimpse of them. From the back they were flat and tear-shaped, and covered in a multitude of fine, straight-standing bristles. “It was all I could get my hands on.”

“Yeah, I noticed you had your hands on them.” I was trying for wry, hard to manage with the pain and the apprehension. Surprisingly, she blushed even further.

“I have to keep them in place,” she insisted, “so they bond properly.” I couldn’t quite see what she was doing. The burning in my chest was quickly fading away, leaving a strange numbness across the area. I couldn’t even feel her moving those things around or pressing them down. “The position has to be just right.”

I waggled my eyebrows at her and smiled. “From here, your position looks just about perfect.”

“Please, Mr. Sanders. This is embarrassing enough as it is.”

I wasn’t sure why this was any more embarrassing than any of the other weird shit we’d done today, but it was nice to finally see a human reaction out of her. “Well, how long is this going to take?”

“A few more minutes,” she said. “Until the breastforms fully attach themselves to your chest.”

“Hey, waitasec! All this bonding agent shit and all--these things are gonna come off, right?”

It was her turn to smile. “You sound worried, Miss Long.”

“Fuck off with this ‘Miss Long’ crap! They come off or what?”

“Yes, Cindy, they do. I have a counter-agent that will break down the chemical bonding and release the breastforms. The reverse process if far less painful as well, so no need to worry. Even without the counter-agent the bonding will eventually deteriorate on its own.”

“Well . . . good.”

“And that should just about do it,” she said, and clambered off of me. “Please stand up, Cindy, and let’s see how they settled.”

Feeling was slowly seeping back into my chest, and it felt . . . weird. Really fucking weird. When I sat up I felt this disconcerting weight on my chest that moved with every motion I made. The weight pulled me forward. But what really blew my mind was when I reached up and actually touched my new breasts. I could feel the fucking things! And I don’t mean their shape, either, or their presence in my hand. I could feel my own fingertip brush against the fake skin.

“K, what the fuck?”

“Cindy, language, please.” She took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I was so out of it I just let her lead me away from the bed. “You’re a very lucky girl, you know. These are very cutting edge. Another fine, unreleased product from your former employers. I’m told they’re grown as opposed to made. The bonding agents acts as a medium through which artificial nerve connections are made and sensations passed. If I touch you here,” and as she spoke she gently drew her fingertip across the underside of my breast, sending an uncomfortable shiver down my spine, “you feel it the same as if I had touched your real chest. And the artificial skin is even reactive--look, you can see goosebumps rising.”

This was too much. I felt off-balance. I had mother-fucking tits now, real goddamn breasts! I felt like I needed to sit down. But K wasn’t done with me. She lightly flicked my right nipple.

“Dammit, K, cut that out!” It didn’t hurt; it didn’t particularly feel of anything, to be honest. But I could feel it. I didn’t like the way she was playing with my new chest. Fuck, I didn’t like having a new chest.

“You can see the nipple reacting as well, as the breast finishes bonding.” And damn if she wasn’t right, as under a few more light touches my new nipple began to stand out in a way my real ones never had. Did I say weird? Now it was getting all surreal. I could feel my nipples poking out like that, getting hard--I’d never felt anything like it! The whole experience was leaving me feeling a bit disconnected, you know? The damn things were still grey, though, which looked very weird against my tanned and bruised skin.

“Yeah, well, if you’re done playing with my tits, K, I’ll ask you to keep your hands to yourself.” I pulled away and crossed my arms over my chest. Fuck, it felt weird doing that. They way they moved and flattened beneath my arms, it felt totally real.

“The colour will adapt itself over the next few hours. The seam between the breastform and your natural flesh will also gradually fade over the next twenty-four hours. Before long, they’ll be nearly indistinguishable from the real thing.”

Great. K had me do a few arm stretches to verify how my new breasts moved. When I raised my hands over my head they flattened against my pectorals--or rather, they flattened as much as these massive things could. When I twisted they swung to the side before jiggling back. Most disconcerting of all, when I bent forward I felt them hang down and sway heavily with every move. It’s something I love, that moment when a chick crawls up the bed towards me with her tits hanging down and swaying with each sensuous move of her ass. Now I was that fucking chick, and I was starting to feel nearly feverish.

K tossing me a bra, after all that, seemed anti-climatic. I’d watched enough girls put them on to figure out how to do it myself with only a little fumbling. She certainly didn’t offer to help. It was yet another black, semi-opaque number. 38-D, the tag said. Fucking wonderful. It shoved up my tits on display more than I would’ve liked, though, and only just covered my new, dark areola, and did nothing to keep those fucking nipples from peaking through, insistent little bastards. All of a sudden, I had cleavage. If I’d known that ratting on Jeremy fucking Steele was going to end with me sporting cleavage, I don’t think I would’ve bothered. Fucking asshole. This was his fault. Jail was too good for the bastard.

At least the damned bra relieved some of the weight. I’d only had these things for about ten minutes and they were already starting to feel heavy. All she could get her hands on, my ass. I was starting to think that K was enjoying this far too much.

The next item she passed me took me by surprise. “Jeans?”

“You sound surprised, Cindy.”

I shrugged. The motion left me perturbed, as I could feel my new breasts jiggle with the gesture. Fucking things. I briefly wondered if I’d ever get used to their presence, before realizing that I didn’t ever want to get used to having breasts--I didn’t plan on keeping these puppies for that long. “Yeah, I guess I am. I expected you to stick me in some kind of miniskirt or something.”

“Would you prefer a miniskirt, Cindy?”

“Hell, no!” I exclaimed, grabbing the jeans from her. Soon after I realized she wasn’t letting me off that easy, though. They were jeans, sure, a very dark denim blue, but definitely a pair of girl’s jeans. “K, there’s no friggin’ way these things are gonna fit!”

“They will fit just fine,” she said, again holding back a slight smile. “They may just be a little tighter than you are used to.”

No shit. It took me about a thousand hours to get into those damn things. I finally had to stretch out on the bed with my legs up in the air, hauling with all my might and wiggling and tugging (which, with those damn melons on my chest, was mightily distracting) to pull the goddamn things over my ass and newfound curves. If I hadn’t been squeezed and softened and smoothed out beforehand there’s no way I would’ve gotten them on. When I finally got the button fly done up I was exhausted. I had to admit though, craning my neck to look back at my rear, you’d be hard pressed to mistake me for a guy in these things. The jeans were like a corset for my ass. And damn, I had a fine ass. And there was certainly no sign of a bulge in my crotch now. Frankly, I was a little worried all this was doing my guys some serious damage.

The jeans were skin-tight with a very cute, very girly flowery design along one of the legs that would’ve made me puke, if I wasn’t so damned compressed by all these clothes. That’s when I noticed that the damn jeans were a couple inches too long. I tried pulling them up a bit more, but they would’ve reached my armpits and split my groin in two.

“Dammit K,” I said, once she returned to the room. “I killed myself getting into these, and I’ll be tripping over myself with every step!” If I could even walk, that was, which I was seriously beginning to doubt.

“Not at all,” K said. “They are just perfect to wear with these.” She held up a pair of shoes. Dainty and with heels; and black, of course.

“K? I’m really beginning to hate you,” I said.

Some guys I know, especially a couple of pricks at work, they’re short like I am and they’ve got this real problem with their girl wearing heels. Only thing worse than those idiots, are the fucking bitches who can’t deal with being taller than their man. Me, I couldn’t give a shit. Sometimes it’s nice to have some petite little cutie cradled in my arm, but I’m not about to complain if I’m eye-level with some Amazon’s tits, am I? It’s not height that makes me manly. It’s me that makes me manly. I’m pretty damn secure with myself, and I’ve got little respect indeed for fuckwits who can’t deal with shit like that--or worse yet, don’t even know they’re as insecure as a six-year old who’s just wet themselves on the playground. Me, I’ve never given two shits if a girl wants to wear heels. Damn, but heels are damn sexy, if you ask me, especially when she keeps them on in bed.

Still, watching some silly cute things trotting about in these ridiculous stilettos, barely able to cross the street, it’s hard not to laugh sometimes. Well, I wasn’t laughing now, as K kneeled down and slid the first shoe onto my foot. It fit, too, but then again I’ve always had small feet for a guy. It was just another drop in the torrent of weird sensations bombarding me, as I tentatively put my foot down and felt it settle in an arched position. It wasn’t some stupidly tall kind of shoe, probably only about two inches of heel or so, but hell, it was more than enough for me and athough the heel wasn’t a proper spike it still felt pretty fucking slim to me. My toes peeked out the end and there was a thin strap across the ankle.

“How the hell do you expect me to walk in this getup, K?” I asked

“At first, carefully. You will have a chance to practice your walking before we leave the apartment.”

She handed me a top, which I thankfully pulled on. Somehow, going topless just wasn’t as much fun when I had these tits thrust up in my face. Not that they disappeared once I got that sweater pulled on. The damn thing was soft peach in colour and a lot softer and fluffier than anything I was used to. Snugger and longer in the arms as well and somehow my hands seemed elegant, poking out the sleeve. Worse of all was the ridiculous v-neck that left my cleavage proudly exposed. What the hell’s the point of putting on clothes if all your good are still hanging out?

K reached behind me to attach a necklace with a little pink-tinted clear bauble that settled comfortably between my boobs. When she reached around my neck our tits rubbed together--and yeah, that was another weird feeling to add to the list, but truth be told, by this time I was so fucking out of it that I wasn’t exactly resisting anything she did anymore. I’m telling you, it was all just a bit too much. I didn’t even twitch when she clipped on some dangly earrings, saying something about how “a girl my age should really have had both her ears pierced years ago.” She slipped a couple of jangling bracelets on my left wrist, before stepping back to examine her creation.

“Needs a belt,” she stated, and a moment later I sported this low-riding wide leather belt with a massive ring buckle, hanging off my narrowed waist.

I levelled a dull stare at her. “We fucking--sorry, we damn well done yet?”

K gave a small smile. “Almost,” she said. “Wig, and makeup.”

She left the room to gather the last of her instruments of torture, giving me a moment with myself. When I looked down I felt the earrings tickle my cheek. When I reached up to touch them the shit on my arm chimed. I squirmed at the edge of the bed and I felt slippery inside my jeans and the panties rode up my ass and my heel wobbled beneath me. That massive crevice leading into my shirt tingled with new goosebumps. Slender straps ran over my shoulders. I couldn’t breathe properly. How could this possibly be my best chance of survival? How the hell could I fight in this fucking setup? Or even run? I trusted K and all but . . . this was crazy, insane!

“Are you okay?” K asked, stepping back into the room. Bless her, she was carrying another drink.

I offered a wan smile. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She pulled a chair over and sat across from me and gave me a look that was genuinely sympathetic. “You are not enjoying this, are you?” She handed me my third scotch.

“What was your first clue?” I pounded the drink back and grimaced as it went down. This one was nice and strong. It helped, though only a little.

“Mr. Sanders, if it helps, just try to think of this as getting ready for a Halloween party. Or maybe for a part in some play.”

“K, if you fuck up your lines on stage, nobody shoots you.” I sighed, though not too deeply thanks to the damned waist-cincher. “Listen, I know why we’re doing this but I damn well don’t like it. It feels . . . wrong.” I mulled my thoughts over and barely noticed as she took my hand. The pungent scent of nail polish assaulted the senses but I steadfastly ignored the sight of my nails being painted, one by one.

It felt wrong. The need for it felt wrong. I felt this very, very strongly, despite K’s reassurances, despite the fact that I trusted her. I was taught, long ago, to pay special attention to anything that created such a strong, visceral reaction. Hate, love, loathing, disgust, obsessions--these were emotions to be tempered but never ignored. I didn’t want to think about it, but I had to ask myself: why did I hate this so fucking much?

Strong reaction like that, it’s usually because something important to you is being challenged. I figured out who I was at a very young age. I had to. As I learned more about the world and life in general I just sort of integrated the new stuff into myself, hung the new ideas off of the core self I’d already fashioned, and I stayed me deep down inside. That’s how I was taught. Know thyself. Important lesson and the hardest thing in the fucking world to pull off. But once you know who you are--there’s so much you can do. Hesitation, doubt, all that bullshit fades away; other peoples’ scorn, jealousy, insults are easily ignored. Instant actions become more than just instinct but rather an expression of who you are, done in that place that exists free of uncertainty.

So this painful, gut feeling I was having? There had to be more to it than just bullshit machismo. Fuck, a guy who’s really secure in who he is shouldn’t be bothered at all by this kind of shit. This I believe. I really do. I mean, yeah, I don’t go in for all this girly crap and it’s nothing I’ve wanted to do before, but if it keeps me alive then… yeah, wearing a skirt (or very tight jeans) doesn’t make me any less a man. As long as I believe it, that’s what matters. So something else was going on here. I just couldn’t figure out what. I was too drunk, maybe. My head still felt a bit hazy.

“You seem quiet, Cindy. Is everything okay?” K was finishing off my nails. They weren’t dry yet but were already disconcertingly shiny. It was a clear varnish that gave my nails a glimmering sheen that rippled with faint pink hues in the light.

“Yeah, sure,” I grunted. I didn’t really want to bother K with nonsense thoughts. Instead, I just said the first angry thought that jumped to mind. “Christ, K, how the hell am I going to defend myself, wearing this shit? I’m not sure I can walk in these fu--these damn shoes, let alone do anything else.”

K started doing the makeup thing. I honestly have no idea what she was doing, but she attacked my cheeks and eyes and lips with this and that thing as she talked, occasionally pausing to curtly order me to ‘look that way’ or ‘blink’ or ‘purse your lips.’ She continued explaining as she worked. “Cindy, the whole idea is for you not to have to fight. Do you know how to fight?”

I gave a calculated shrug. I tried to be careful not to disrupt what she was doing. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Could you defeat a professionally trained assassin?”

Another non-committal shrug. “You’ve got the file on me, what do you think?”

“I believe that there is little use in bringing a sword to a gunfight, Cindy,” K answered, as she rubbed some powder across my eyelids. “Mr Steele’s men have guns, and they know how to use them, and they can shoot from very far away. The best fighter in the world stands little chance against that.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I grudgingly admitted.

“Not that you need to worry about that, Cindy. A girl like you isn’t a fighter. You do not know how to fight because you do not have to. Standing in a crowd, why would anyone want to hurt you, cute and demure as you are?”

Cute. Demure. Girly-girl. I wish I’d had a better look at that folder on Cindy and seen what kind of a girl she was before I’d agreed to become her. I was starting to get worried. I mean, I was really starting to get worried. Even if only for a short time, a few days or a week, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stand being some mincing sissy bitch. Exactly what kind of girl was K trying to turn me into, anyway?

“K, listen, I’ve got to know . . . ow!” I was going to challenge her on her plans for Cindy, but then she started to rip hairs out of my eyebrow and I had to bite down to keep myself from telling her exactly where she could jab those fucking tweezers of hers. Oh, I had a couple of choice locations in mind. When she was done that, she used this wand-type thing to smear this gooey, sweet-tasting shit across my lips and I kind of gave up on talking for a bit. I swear, my whole face felt weird, all gunked up and heavy with makeup. “We are almost done,” she said, and after a few final touch-ups across my face, she had a go at my hair, slicking it down before pulling out a wig.

Cindy was a blonde, of course. Why wasn’t I surprised? “Try to keep any hair from touching your lips,” K suggested, as she brought the whole thing down on my head. Suddenly, I had long flowing locks the colour of sunflowers, and bangs, and hair tickling the nape of my neck, and as that damned woman made her final adjustments I suddenly felt this incredible urge to burst into tears. I didn’t, of course--like I said, I’m no pansy and I haven’t cried in years. I’ll shed tears over a good friend but I’d be fucked if I’ll waste tears on something stupid like this. Hell, I don’t even know why I wanted to cry all of a sudden like that. I just did. The moment passed and I was okay.

Finally, the whole damn ordeal was over and K was helping me to my wobbly feet. She led me across the room over to a full-length mirror set in the corner. Thank fuck she was there to lean on and it was just a few steps away. It didn’t help that I was starting to feel more than just a little drunk. I didn’t want to see myself. I really didn’t. Especially clutching on to K’s arm like that. She was dressed a hell of a lot manlier than I was, and I felt like some silly drunk chick in wobbly heels reliant on her boyfriend to get anywhere. Fuck me, but that was not the kind of chick Cindy was going to be, not if I had any say in the matter.

And then, the moment of truth. K set me in front of that mirror and stepped away, and I had my first good look at Cindy Long.

Cindy, I had to grudgingly admit, was cute, in a blonde-coed sort of way. Truth be told, I felt almost a little disappointed at my first glimpse of Cindy. After all that fucking work and prep and struggling and emotional upheaval, I was expecting something pretty damn amazing. Cindy’s body was pretty hot, I’ll give her that. Her legs were long and coltish, in those low-riding skin-tight jeans with just a glimpse of high heels peeping out from beneath. Jeans like that begged for a glimpse of trimmed midriff but Cindy was feeling a bit shy; her sweater hung past her waist, cinched in by a wide open pleated belt.

Thing is, she was kind of chunky, especially across the shoulders. But with a rack like that, who’d be checking out shoulders? Her breasts stood out firm and round beneath her fuzzy peach sweater and a little crystal bauble glinted and irresistibly drew your attention to that proud cleavage.

What I liked about Cindy, though--what took my breath away, to be honest--what scared me about this girl, were her eyes. She had the most beautiful emerald eyes, somehow wider, the colour more vivid, than I’d ever seen them, and those flecks of grey in contrast made the green all the more vibrant. There was hesitancy in those eyes, a trembling anxiousness--a vulnerability I’d never seen in my eyes before, because I damn well knew that this trim, young girl was somehow me. I reached up with one shaky hand to brush a few stray hairs back behind my ear; bangles clinked and slid down my forearm and my eyes were drawn by those glimmering silvery strips suspended from my ears and I quickly pulled back from such a feminine gesture.

Sure, the illusion fell apart if you looked too closely or knew what to check for. Cindy’s jaw was just a little too strong for a girl, the nose a bit odd, those hands too big, and something that suspiciously resembled an Adam’s apple bobbed into sight when she nervously gulped. There was definitely something mannish about her. But from afar, maybe even from up close, you wouldn’t glance twice--or maybe you would, to check out that tight ass, or that amazing rack. Or those eyes, those fucking enigmatic eyes.

“What the hell,” I said, barely audible. My eyes danced back and forth across my reflection, uncertain where to settled but always drawn back to themselves, to those green depths. “Who the hell am I?” I whispered.

Standing a few feet behind me and to the side, I heard K answer. “You are Cindy Long.”

“Yes, but. . . ,” I swallowed before continuing, “Who . . . who is she, K?”

“Cindy,” Agent K declared, “is everything that David Sanders is not. Cindy is unsure of herself where David is cocky. She is humble when he is arrogant and modest in the face of his pride. David is very strong but Cindy, she is far weaker.” K walked up behind me and rested one hand on my shoulder. She gently smoothed the sweep of my blonde hair back across my neck. “David has always prided himself in his independence,” she all but whispered in my ear. “But Cindy is very dependant on the help and opinions of others. She is coy where David is brash and timid where he is bold and demure where he is daring.” K’s eyes caught my reflected gaze and bore into me. “David was antagonistic and abrasive and selfish.” Her breath was hot on my neck and ear. “But you, you are gracious and gentle and caring.”

“I . . . .”

“This is you, Cindy.”

“I . . . I don’t know if I can . . . .”

“I will train you,” K said, lips curled in a smile that suddenly seemed cruel. Her hands rested on my shoulders as she stood behind and over me. Her eyes glittered like diamonds in the mirror, hard and cold.

***

Amanda Lang. God. What an amazing chick. Screw that; woman. Chicks are the silly little things you pick up down at the bar and bring back home and have a night’s fun with and forget about soon after. Amanda was more than that. A hell of a lot more. Sure, she was sexy and all, with the most stunning hazel eyes and this amazing inky mane reaching down to the small of her back, but there was more to her than tits and ass. Amanda was clever. She was smart. She could manipulate people--guys and girls--instinctively in a way that was breathtaking to behold. I’ve known plenty of people like that; dangerous people. And yeah, Amanda was dangerous.

You can bet your left nut that Tom and I had a thing for her. We’d already chased and fought over most of the other available tail in the office. Amanda existed on a whole other level. We were middle-management scum; she lived in the tallest corporate spires. About twelve floors up, actually. She was an executive secretary to the powers that be. It’s not like we wanted her to advance our career or anything. We were both doing fine on our own. But a girl like that, you’d do just about anything, short of backstabbing a friend, to score with.

It took months of working her over. Oh yeah, you could tell that she totally knew what we were doing, too, and she worked us over, and the whole thing was a hell of a lot of fun. You could tell she loved playing Tom and I against each other. God, she was a bitch--and I mean that in a good way.

It all came to a head that night, two months ago. After hours, top floor, and ready for the taking. Thing is, who was going to get there first? Tom or me? The little minx was testing us--who was willing to take the chance, who could figure out how to reach those forbidden executive Olympiad heights despite the after-hours security and risk to our jobs? Yeah, it was just a game, but we both knew the consequences could be pretty fucking serious. I never found out how Tom eventually made his way to that top floor.

Me? Yeah, well, I didn’t cheat per se, but you could say I had access to certain skills Tom didn’t. I got there first. Saw shit I shouldn’t have. Then Tom showed up and fucking Jeremiah Steel gunned down Georgio in a savage shower of blood and gore, and now here I was, flouncing back and forth across some shitty apartment, keenly aware of every little jiggle of these new tits, the sway of hair across the nape of my neck, the flash and tickle of those damned earrings against my cheeks . . . of the whole goddamn feminine package I found myself squeezed into. God, if Amanda could see me now she’s bust that slender gut of hers laughing.

“Keep your legs straight!” K commanded. “Legs together!” Another walk across the room, and she added, “No, no! Point your feet straight!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled. Did I say ‘only two inches or so’ before? Those few inches were throwing everything off and were a fucking nightmare to walk in. I knew how to walk, dammit, but these slim heels were wobbly and my ankles kept trying to twist out to compensate.

“And Cindy, relax,” K added. I swear, that bitch was enjoying this far too much. “You look ready to throw a punch.”

I was fucking ready to throw a punch. “Yeah, yeah,” I repeated, turned sharply, mindful of how the heel wavered beneath my foot, took an unsteady step forward and felt my ass wiggle as I walked across the room.

“Better, better,” K encouraged from the side. God, I must’ve look like such a fool, like some prancing nancy, but I couldn’t help but wiggle my ass and thrust my chest out, squeezed into these fucking clothes. This was the second hour of K’s ‘training’ in the art of being Cindy, and I was just about at my limit. My calves burned and my toes were cramped and the makeup still felt heavy and thick on my face and I felt light-headed from the compression around my waist. I was tired and aching and only slightly drunk and none of that was a good thing. Meanwhile, K sat comfortably in the sofa chair in the corner, one leg dangling over the other, cradling a glass of red wine in her hand.

The moment K felt I’d had enough of staring at Cindy in the mirror, she started the training. At first she just wanted me to look at myself, to turn to the side and check my posture. Between the waist-cincher and heels, and those giant weights hanging off my chest, yeah, my fucking posture was a bit different, you know? I wanted to overcompensate for the heels while those massive jugs, even in the bra, made me feel all top-heavy. Once she thought I’d built up a bit of confidence, she brought me out of the bedroom to the main room. More space to walk. Joy.

Back and forth, back and forth. “Heel first!”, “Shorten your stride!”, “Swing your arms for balance!” These were the commands K continued to repeat during that first half-hour of walking. And damn her if she wasn’t right--within half an hour, my walking improved and my confidence grew further. However as my confidence grew my mood darkened. I could just fucking picture myself, walking back and forth in that room: the short mincing stride, my arms swinging girlishly with each step, the sway of my ass, the jiggle of my cleavage--earrings, bangles, hair--fuck, everything pulling and squeezing and jangling with each step. How in chrissake did girls put up with the constant distraction? No way I’d ever get used to all this crap! And worst of all--my cramped ball and, despite the pain, my cock straining against its confines, strangely aroused by all this enforced femininity. After two hours, I felt ready to erupt in my panties. Fuck. Panties.

K didn’t exactly give me many breaks. Even when I was taking a breather, she kept feeding me girly info and vocabulary she said I had to memorize. When she handed me another drink--and the Scotch was gone, damn her black soul to hell!, replaced by glasses of sweet white wine--she made sure I held it correctly, drank from it primly, and taught me how to touch up my lipstick afterwards. I think that’ll always be a vivid image burned into my mind: the first time I pulled that glass away from my mouth and saw the frosty pink imprint of my lips on the rim.

And through it all those damn heels! “Practice makes perfect!” K insisted, so even if I wasn’t specifically practicing walking, I kept the fuckers on. I did everything in those damn shoes. Bitch would’ve locked them on to me if she could have, I’m sure. So when I grabbed a bite to eat--not that I could fit much in my stomach, even though I was starving, constricted as I was--it was in heels that I trotted about the kitchen, making a quick sandwich.

Amazing, how something as simple as making a sandwich becomes a whole new experience when you’re dressed like a chick. Even leaning down to butter my bread I had to keep dragging my eyes away from that massive crevice between my tits. The flash of colour at my fingertips with each motion of my hands--distracting. The tap-tap of that slender heel against the floor--very distracting.

Hell, even hitting the can became another exciting goddamn adventure in femininity. Freeing myself from the bondage that is ultra-tight jeans, pantyhose and panties took longer than expected--I almost pissed myself before I got my cock out. And wouldn’t you fucking know it, but K even checked in to make sure I was doing it like a chick--sitting down and all. I almost lost it then again; I told her to fuck off or I’d storm out of the apartment and take my chances with the hitmen. Sitting there on the crapper, panties and hose around my ankles, ankles twisting out at an awkward angle because of those heels, I couldn’t even see my cock and balls--those bloody tits got in the way. It wasn’t all bad, though. It gave me time to knock another one off, and damn if it wasn’t better than the last one! I don’t think I’d been this horny since I was a teen. Guess I had easy inspiration: I just had to look down. But I didn’t touch myself or anything, you know? Squeezing those tits or fiddling with those new nipples while jerking off . . . that would’ve been fucking weird.

And then, squeezed back into that girly getup, back to walking, back and forth across the room, only now K was quizzing me as I practiced my steps. “Bra!” she’d demand, and I was supposed to answer with my band size, cup size, type, material . . . all that shit. She was a harsh taskmistress, and an intense teacher.

“Top!”

“V-neck. Uh . . . .cashmere and silk,” I turned smoothly, sidestepped, and walked back.

“Stockings?”

Trick question. “I’m not wearing stockings. The pantyhose, though, yeah, they’re control top, uh, almost black, 20 denier.”

“Panties?”

And on she went. I was learning more than I ever wanted about women’s shit. I mean, yeah, you bring girls home and you learn a bit, and I’m a fairly observant guy sometimes, but it’s not like I ever paid attention much. Putting on the bra wasn’t a big deal because I’d taken enough of the fucking things off. But until today I didn’t know, for example, that:

“38D, balconet push-up,” was what I was wearing. I gave the damn things a little adjustment as I walked. Those straps across my shoulders, as slender as they were, were damn annoying.

So, yeah, I knew what lipstick was and all the basic crap, but K was giving me a crash course in feminine terminology as I strolled around the room. Finally it was time for another break, and K gestured for me to sit opposite her. Last time I got it wrong she made me walk for another fifteen minutes. This time, I eased myself gracefully into the chair and casually crossed my legs at the knees--despite the throbbing pain in my groin--and gave a contented sigh. Truth is, I wasn’t feeling very good. My head felt all hazy again.

“You are doing very well, Cindy.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said. I sounded abrupt but her praise actually felt kind of nice. I was doing well, dammit. “Listen, K . . . I know why you’re putting me through all this and all, but I’m seriously doubting an assassin’s gonna come up and quiz me about what kind of panties I’m wearing, you know?”

K smiled. “Are you so sure?”

I gave her a disbelieving look. “Oh, c’mon!”

“And what if you were to step into a restroom, Cindy? You take care of business and step up to the mirror to check your makeup. The woman standing next to you, she asks you a question--maybe she asks to borrow some makeup, maybe she compliments you on your top and wants to know where you bought it.”

I hadn’t thought about ever using the chick’s bathroom. Let me tell you, I had pretty mixed feelings about that one. Any chance to see some sexy things in their natural state’s a good one--but what’s the point if your cock’s crammed away in a prison of lace and nylon?

“Yeah, so? It’s not like she’s gonna say ‘are those 20 denier’ and it’s a trick question because they’re really 15 and I say ‘yeah’ and she hauls out a gun and pops a cap in my ass!” Though I have to admit it also hadn’t occurred to me that Jeremiah fucking Steele could have some chick agents chasing after me as well. Hell, it’d just make sense, really--I’m sure the dude had a profile on me, and that profile must’ve highlighted hot babes as a weakness of mine.

K sighed. “Again, of course not. What I am saying is that any hesitancy, and confusion over matters that a girl your age would know instinctively--would have done time and time again every day over several years--will ring false. This is a very sensitive time, Cindy. Until we get you out of the city, anyone . . . anyone, could be an agent in the employ of Mr. Steele.”

I took another sip of wine. It was pretty foul shit, way too sweet for me, though I know chicks dig this kind of crap. “Yeah, but then why are you making Cindy--sorry, me--out to be such a girly-girl? I mean, with these tits and my waist all drawn in like this, you could throw sneakers and a jogging suit on me and I’d probably still pass for a goddamn chick.” Especially with the long hair, which I was continuously brushing away from my eyes and poking back behind me ear. And those fucking eyes. I don’t know what it was. But my eyes, something about them was just so damn feminine--and sexy.

“I mean, does she have to be all ‘icky poo!’ and feminine? Why couldn’t I be a kick-ass girl, you know, a real man-hater or something. Why all this limp-wristed shit?”

K took a moment to collect her thoughts. I looked her over and wondered why I couldn’t be dressed up like her, for fuck’s sake. K was a kick-ass woman, but there was no denying she was a woman, full stop. I didn’t want to be a girl, but if I had to then that’s the kind of woman I wanted to be.

“Mr Sanders,” she started, and as always it was a shock to hear her use my male name. “When you approached us about testifying against Mr. Steel, and asked for witness protection, what did you think it would entail?”

“Not this,” I said dryly, shoving those tits up.

She let my immodesty pass. “What, then?”

“I dunno. A new identity, a new job, and that you’d shuffle me out of town, somewhere far away from the bastard.”

“Yet you knew that nowhere is truly ‘far away’ from Mr Steele. He has corporate branches and subsidiary companies across the world.”

“But bury me in some small town somewhere, the odds of ever bumping into him are slim, yeah? He’s not exactly a local-pub kind of guy.”

“And his employees, Mr. Sanders?”

I shrugged. “Okay, sure, he’s probably got employees living just about everywhere, but it’s not like they’re all going to be keeping an eye out for me. There’s not going to be a corporate e-mail going around saying, ‘reward for David Sanders! Wanted dead or alive!’”

“David,” K said in a most serious tone, “that is precisely what I expect Mr Steele to do. Once his agents lose track of you--and I have every intention of assuring that they do, and that is why your Cindy disguise must be as perfect as possible for its duration--he will rely on the benefits of being one of the largest international employers in the world.

“Think of your own office. If a rumour spread that, should anyone have any leads on the whereabouts of a certain individual, a former employee perhaps, they would be amply rewarded . . . if actually turning him in could net a million dollar reward . . . would your former colleagues do so?”

Those fucking bastards. “In a New York minute.”

“But I am sure you knew all this already, Cindy,” K continued, and the thing is, the damn bitch was right. For all my grumbling and complaining, when I approached the feds--and yeah, it was me who found them after everything went wrong--I knew that witness protection, long shot that it would be, wouldn’t be an easy thing but probably my best shot. “So what were you expecting?”

“A disguise, I guess.”

“An altered image?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“And so are the people chasing after you, Cindy. They know that you will have changed your appearance. Perhaps not so drastically,” and here she smiled slightly, “but nevertheless, other than some basic parameters--height, weight--they are not looking for someone who resembles David Sanders.”

“Then what are they looking for?”

“They are looking for someone who acts like David Sanders,” K answered. “Someone loud and rude. Strong and confident. Someone very manly and capable. They are looking for someone who isn’t you, Cindy.”

I hated her for being right. I hated Cindy, too, at that moment. But it made a twisted kind of sense, I guess. Any kind of psychological profile these guys were carrying, there’d be nothing about me dressing up as a chick, especially one like Cindy. It’s just not the kind of thing I’d ever do. And if one of them did glance my way, even for just a second, and in that second I did something very, well, ‘David’ like . . . well, it’d all be over, wouldn’t it?

I sunk deep into the chair and threw one arm across my eyes. I felt sick to my stomach again. “K, be honest with me. Seriously. The truth. How long am I going to have to be Cindy? It’s not just going to be a day or two, is it?”

Her response was a long time coming. “David, in all honesty, I don’t know. If all goes well--and I pray it does--a week, maybe two. The clinic I will bring you to is very remote and in the countryside. It will give you a little time to rest and heal and, most importantly, disappear. In a few weeks when Mr Steele’s attention has been diverted by more important things--hopefully life-time imprisonment--we can recreate you in a male persona and transfer you somewhere else.”

I released a deep, defeatist sigh. A week, maybe two. Two weeks of this shit! Fuck, maybe even longer. Weeks of getting dressed up in these goddamn clothes. Of walking in heels and practicing how to . . . fuck, how to do everything, all over again, but in a Cindy kind of way.

“K,” I said, and I fought to keep down the despairing tremor creeping into my voice, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“I have every confidence in your ability to pass yourself as a woman.”

I wasn’t too sure how to take that. “But--I mean, fuck, there’s just so much! Every morning, slipping on pantyhose and putting on makeup and prancing around in heels . . . shaving all over and . . . it’s too much!”

“It sounds like nothing more,” K said, and she smiled wryly, “than what most women go through every day.”

“But I’m not a woman, dammit!” I exclaimed. “And I don’t know how to do any of that shit. It’s not like I snuck into my mom’s room when I was eight and played with her makeup, K. There wasn’t a sister who decided to teach me how to dress sexy and pick up boys. I didn’t grow up with any of this crap. Girls just learn it as they grow up--I didn’t!”

“They learn it through practice, Cindy, just like everything else.” She shrugged, almost apologetically. “By the time the average girl has reached her mid-teens, she’s already spent hundred, if not thousands, of hours practicing in front of the mirror. She’s read magazines on how to do her hair and wear makeup, and looked up internet articles on how to choose the right dress for the prom, and watched TV and picked role-models whom she would most like to be like. And then she copies, and emulates . . . and practices. You have just had a late start.

“Speaking of which . . . .”

With only the slightest of whimpers, I clambered to my high-heeled feet and started to walk.

***

Like I said, the first time I met Tom was over at the local pub, The Snug, just down the road from the office. It was a pretty cool place, as far as these corporate hangouts go, with that real authentic pub feel--low ceilings and dim lighting and a dart board and all--which was impressive, since the place was apparently less than a year old. They had a fine range on tap and a few very expensive, very choice malts behind the bar.

Well, this one Thursday night, just a few weeks after I’d started working at NeoPharm, I went there after working late. I figured I’d grab a pint or four before heading home. Jimmy was working the bar; Jimmy was a right bastard but a hell of a talker. I’d just grabbed my brew and was scanning the busy crowd when I saw Tammy Able. Tammy Able and her long black hair. Good ol’ T&A--the jokes wrote themselves, the poor cow.

Like I said before, Tammy was this total slut working the secretarial pool. I’d already chatted her up a couple of times at work and she’d given me the wet-lip smile and lingering stares in response. Yeah, she walked by my office more often than she had to, wiggling her tight-skirted ass, and any time she brought me stuff she’d lean way over and give me a eyeful of her knockers. Fuck, she was a real looker.

(Only now I’ve got to grudgingly admit, her tits weren’t really anything on mine and damn if my ass wasn’t finer than hers. I’ve got some sympathy though: wearing those sexy fuck-me heels of hers everyday must’ve been murder.)

I kinda feel sad for her now, thinking about it. She never figured out that dressing like a wet dream and acting like a slut wasn’t going to get her anywhere in the company. It was just going to get her used, by pricks like me. And yeah, new to the city, new to this professional life, first couple of weeks at the job, still trying to adjust to being, well, normal--I wasn’t about to set her straight. Fuck, I was only twenty-two. Seems ages ago, now. In a way I guess it is.

She was sitting alone, looking bored and petulant, and she made eye contact with me as she slowly finished off a g-and-t. I mean, fuck, the way she had her lips wrapped around that straw, the way she pulled on it, it was practically an open invitation. I figured, what the fuck? and went and joined her.

“Jimmy? Another drink for the lady,” I said, and sauntered over to the table. “Mind if I sit?” I asked. I didn’t wait for an answer, of course. That’s the worst thing you can do to a chick--give them a chance to think. Doesn’t do ‘em any good. Place like this, girl like Tammy, you just tell them what’s going to happen. It’s what she wants, anyway.

Only problem, I found out a minute later when her date returned from the toilet, was that she wasn’t actually alone.

Normally that’d be an awkward situation, you know? Two guys, one girl, muscling in on a date, all that shit--but somehow it wasn’t. I could see straight away that the guy didn’t really care. Thing I couldn’t suss out straight away was whether it was pure confidence on his part, or dismissive arrogance, or he just really didn’t give a fuck.

“David Sanders,” I introduced myself.

“Thomas Smith,” he answered. We shook hands. He had a strong and challenging grip. You can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. Tom held it for a second longer than normal, and he met my eyes with a hard stare. His eyes were a startling blue, the kind that chicks really dig. He gave a tight smile. “Why don’t you join us?” The nerve of the shit, like I hadn’t already grabbed a seat. “You’re the new guy, right? Over in Davies’ division.”

Like he gave a shit. The only thing he wanted right then was Tammy and that wet little spot between her thighs. So did I. But what both of us wanted, even more than this sad, clueless bitch sitting between us, was to take each other down a notch.

He was a good-looking guy. Big and imposing, too, with the kind of tough, square jaw that had probably taken a punch or two. Played football in college, figured out early enough he wasn’t going to go pro, got educated--but kept in shape. I respected that; too many of those jock assholes turn to fat once the game’s over. They need their discipline enforced from outside; real discipline comes from within, and this guy had it. He dressed smart, oozed confidence; yeah, the fucker was a real contender. Beating him to the lay was going to be sweet.

We drank and chatted and worked the bitch and each other over until the pub kicked us out. Tom went home alone. I went home with Tammy.

***

Training time was over.

“We have to make a move soon,” K told me. “It would be unwise to stay in this place for much longer.” She gave me a look-over, taking her sweet fucking time. I felt like a piece of meat, and damn if I couldn’t help but fidget under her eye, fiddling with a bracelet on my wrist or absently patting back my hair. It was a hell of a lot easier to fidget, dressed as a girl. There was more shit to play with.

She seemed, if not actually pleased, then at least satisfied with what she saw. “How do you feel?” she asked me, and then with added emphasis added, “Cindy?”

“Umm . . . fine?” I tried to answer in character. “I mean, I’m a bit nervous but I’ll be okay.” It’s what K wanted. I was Cindy. Problem is, I still wasn’t sure who this Cindy bitch was, other than being a piece of ass and fluff. I tried to soften my words a bit, but there was no hiding the masculine timbre of my voice. I nervously smoothed down the front of my sweater, the cincher beneath keeping my stomach flat and taut. Beneath that tightness there were major butterflies flapping about, you can well imagine.

“Your wounds?” she asked.

“A little sore,” I admitted. “But I can deal.” It was a damn sight worse than ‘sore’ but I wasn’t lying. I could deal. I really could. All the straps and weight and shit constricting me beneath that fluffy peach sweater wasn’t helping none either. It should’ve been worse, really, but I think I was in a bit of a pleasant, drunken haze.

“You must be exhausted,” K said, and she was right, I was. Not just from the ordeal of getting dressed up and finding out that I’d be living the next few weeks as Cindy. I was genuinely bone tired. I’d been going full-out for a day or two now, except for that brief unconscious period after I’d been shot--and bullet-wound enforced naps aren’t very restful, I can assure you. Talk about a stressful couple of days.

“I want you to take a rest, Cindy. Take a seat and relax. I need some time to prepare for our departure as well. The rest will do you good.”

I wasn’t about to argue with her. K went off to do secret agent-type stuff in the other room. The sofa chair was warm and inviting. I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I thought the boobs and clothes and everything else would distract me and keep me awake. I was wrong.

A gentle push from K woke me up an indeterminate, dreamless period of time later. She knelt next to me and watched me expectantly. “Cindy?” she softly asked. “Are you ready?”

One thing about me, I wake up quickly. I really do; nothing of this moaning and rolling around in bed bullshit. Nothing drives me up the wall like someone who takes an hour of bitching and slamming the snooze button before getting out of bed. That shit really infuriated me. It’s one of the problems with picking up chicks in bars and bringing them home--having to deal with that nonsense in the morning. When the alarm goes--wham!--I’m up and underway. Usually.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. I felt unusually groggy. K handed me a glass of juice, which I eagerly drank down. My mouth felt dry and my tongue thick, as if I had a heavy night’s drinking beneath the belt. In a way, I guess I had. “How long was I out?”

“An hour,” she answered. I focussed on her and noticed she looked . . . different. Still K, but she’d obviously been working herself over during my nap. She looked a little bit softer, somehow, and just a tad older. I’d placed her in her late thirties, and now she looked about a decade older. The years had been kind, though, with just a touch of grey in her hair. She swapped the severe secret agent threads for something that, for want of a better description, screamed ‘soccer mom’.

“What’s with the getup, K?”

She smiled, and even that gesture somehow seemed friendlier, if not downright more caring, than anything I’d seen from her yet. To be honest, it found it more than a little creepy. “I’m hurt, Cindy,” she said, with a slightly patronizing tone. “Don’t you recognize your own mom?”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Not at all, Cindy. Now c’mon, chop-chop, we have a big day ahead of us!”

She was clearly insane, but I reluctantly left the comfort of the chair and found my feet, albeit with a few wobbles. I had to focus to walk. I had to focus to do everything, really, as Cindy. “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “So what’s the plan?”

“Well, the first thing you’re going to do,” she said, throwing some things into a purse, “is touch-up your makeup, dear! You look an awful fright!”

An ‘awful fright’ was a bit harsh, but I was looking a bit ragged around the Cindy edges. K handed me a small makeup case. I looked at the assorted tubes and bottles within and groaned. She might as well have handed me instructions to a model airplane written in fucking Chinese. I hesitatingly pulled out a slim, golden tube, and K gave an approving nod.

Ten minutes later, under K’s expert tutelage, I managed to repair the damages of an hour’s sleep. Practice, practice, practice--but fuck, there was just so much to learn!

“Well done, Cindy!” she enthused. “Now just one more thing. Say ‘ah!’”

“Ah?” She took advantage of my opened mouth to jam a long, slender rod down my throat. There was a sudden ‘hiss’ and this very uncomfortable, very cold sensation spread across the back of my throat. “Ack!”

“Don’t talk!” K commanded, the motherly persona suddenly gone. “This is--well, a necessary precaution. It causes a tightening of the soft tissue separating the hard cartilage in the larynx. The extra pressure on the vocal chords will help you speak with a more feminine pitch.”

Clutching at my throat, I felt something decidedly disconcerting going on beneath the skin. What the fuck had this bitch just done to me? I didn’t want to talk like some bimbo--not when this was all over, anyway. I glared at her in disbelief.

“Do not worry, Mr. Sanders,” K said. “The effect is strictly temporary, generally lasting only four or five hours. Yes, another fine unreleased product from your former employer, though surprisingly from a veterinarian subsidiary. Unfortunately, its use is limited--frequent reapplication of the spray has been known to cause permanent damage to the user, one of the reasons why, I’m sure, the product is not available on the open market.”

Permanent damage? What the fuck did she mean, permanent damage?

“If you speak before it finishes bonding with your voice box, Cindy, you could cause yourself serious and permanent injury. It normally takes ten to fifteen minutes.”

I continued to glare at her, and she continued to ignore me.

“Now. When we leave the apartment, Mr. Sanders, we will make our way to a car waiting for us down below. Walk at a normal pace. Talk to me as any daughter would her mother. Act normally. When we enter the car, fiddle with the media player, the radio--typical girl stuff, riding with her parent. Remember, you are only 20; you have just left your teenage years behind you.

And most importantly: from the moment we step out that door, you are Cindy. There is no David Sanders. To the rest of the world you must appear like nothing other than Cindy Long. Walk like Cindy, talk like Cindy, act like Cindy. Do you understand?”

I was still furious with her, but nodded. The numbness at the back of my throat was slowly fading. I watched mutely as she collected some final things, though she otherwise seemed content to leave the place in a shambles. On a second glance, I realized that was untrue: the place wasn’t a mess, it looked lived-in. Clever woman, K. She must’ve sorted it out while I was napping. If anyone checked this place out after we left, they’d find a place that looked untidy but homey. There were even some family-type photos on the wall I hadn’t noticed before.

There was a small backpack for me; pink, of course. There was a random selection of clothes and toiletries buried in there, and a book. I pulled it out. ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic.’ Gag. I’d rather have fucking Steele kill me now. K also handed me a purse, a sporty little thing that went well with my outfit, I guess. Rummaging through it I found more makeup stuff, a brush, a couple of bills and coins, a hair scrunchie, a tampon, a few condoms . . . .

My muffled exclamation drew her attention. My expression clearly stated ‘what the fuck?’ as I waved those final two things in her face.

“You are twenty, Cindy. It’s always difficult for a mother to accept, but I’m no fool. My, but you were a bit of a boy-chaser as a teen. And dressing the way you do . . . well! I don’t quite agree of the type of guy you attract, but girls will be girls, I guess.”

With another angry grunt, I waved the tampon at her.

“Better safe than sorry, Cindy. Fortunately it’s not that time of the month, yet.”

No fucking shit. What did she expect me to do with that thing, shove it up my ass? I closed the purse and slipped the damn thing over my shoulders and managed to yank my new hair something awful; that wig was clipped into my hair and hurt if I pulled on it. It must’ve been an expensive wig. It fell naturally and felt like the real thing. Great, another thing to learn how to deal with. Me, I like my hair nice and short. Quick and easy in the morning. And better in a fight.

I was feeling ready. I was getting antsy. Not that I was looking forward to stepping out into public looking as I did. Despite what the mirror showed me, I was still half-convinced there was no way we could pull this off, that someone would stop and stare, that I’d be a goddamn laughingstock in pantyhose.

K checked her watch. “It should be okay to talk again,” she said. The coldness at the back of my throat seemed gone.

“About fu--” I started to say, but squeaked at the sound of my own voice. I found myself clutching my throat again. “What the fuck?” Somehow, it didn’t sound as forceful as it used to, those words. My voice, it suddenly sounded . . . .girly. To my ear, anyway. It wasn’t properly feminine, but nowhere near my usual gruff tones.

“Cindy, please remember--language. Try and soften your voice a bit when you speak. Once we are safe at the clinic, we will begin your vocal coaching. In the meantime . . . try and mimic a girl you know, a girlfriend or something. And whatever you do, do not speak in a falsetto.”

“This better wear off, K.” God, my voice was all husky, like a dame who’d smoked too much. Pattern myself after a girlfriend? I didn’t exactly have one. Longest I’ve ever dated someone was four months . . . it didn’t end well. Actually, it ended very, very badly. Fucking Kate. It’s not something I like to talk about. And most of the other chicks in my life, well, we weren’t together for the conversation, you know?

“It’s Mom, remember?”

“Yeah, fine. Sorry Mom, I’ll do my best.” Shit, I didn’t sound angry, just petulant.

“And don’t worry, dear. Like I said, in six or eight hours you’ll be back to your normal voice.” It was weird, hearing her talk all normal and shit. And calling me dear. Didn’t quite like that, to be honest. As she spoke she gathered her own things. She slipped on a bulky, cheap-looking jacket and shouldered her own purse. It felt a bit like the old days, running with the gangs, getting all suited-up and psyched up before heading into a rumble . . . except in some kind of surreal, feminized version, swapping leather for lace and knives for eyeliner.

Maybe I spoke too soon, though, as I saw K have a quick check over a handgun.

“Mom! I didn’t know you packed heat. All the others girls are going to be so jealous! Can I have one too?”

She didn’t smile. “Do you know what this is?” She didn’t really sound like ‘Mom’ anymore.

It looked like a Glock 18C to me. Even had the extended mag going on. Not exactly the kind of thing I would’ve expected K to carry. I shrugged. “Uh, a gun?”

“Not a laughing matter.” She slipped the weapon into the recesses of her jacket. “And no, you can’t have one, Cindy.” Suddenly she was all smiles and motherly charm again. “So, are we ready?”

And at that moment, I suddenly felt that I really, really wasn’t ready. As much as I’d hated everything that had gone on in this shitty little apartment over the last few hours--at least there’d only been K and me in here. Out there were . . . people. Chicks who knew how to act like chicks and pricks who were going to be staring at my rack and wanting to fuck my ass. And let’s not forget the assassins. No, let’s not forget them. Fucking Steele. If I ever saw the bastard again, I was going to plant two inches of Dolce and Gabbana spike heel into his goddamn scrotum.

I can’t fucking believe I just said that. Two more weeks of this shit and I really would be sounding like a pansy.

“Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Cindy!”

“Sorry Mom.”

***

My heart pounded so hard in my chest you’d have thought the sound would echo through the whole damn apartment building. But on the outside, though, I looked cool, collected . . . a little self-absorbed, maybe. That’s the kind of chick I figured Cindy was. Girls that look the way I do usually are. She trotted along beside her mom, fiddling with her hair, her other hand unconsciously resting on her purse. Every single thing I did was calculated and thought out, every fucking heel-toe step, every sideways glance at ‘Mom’, even absently picking at a piece of peach-coloured fluff off my sweater.

The hallway was dingy, dark and empty. Scuffed wallpaper curled up at the edges. There was that unique smell of mixed ethnic cooking and stained carpet common to cheap buildings where too many people live in too small a space. A lone baby’s cry rang out, muffled, from the far end and was abruptly cut-off. There was a shout, voices raised in argument. God, I couldn’t wait to get out of here. This wasn’t Cindy’s kind of place at all.

We waited for the elevator. I hadn’t even realized we were on the fifteenth floor. K--sorry, fucking ‘Mom’--checked her purse.

“Gum, dear?”

“Nah,” I said, then figured Cindy was probably the gum-chewing type. She was a blonde, after all. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

When the elevator arrived there was a guy on it, carrying a laundry basket full of assorted crap. He had headphones on but you could still hear the music. There was no hiding a weapon in those loose grey joggers and wife-beater. His eyes lazily danced across the two of us before happily settling on my cleavage. The corner of his lips tugged up in a smile.

Butterflies in my stomach? Fucking hell, I had a goddamn flock of seagulls in there now. I felt a warm flush of embarrassment slowly spread up my neck and face. I must’ve been glowing redder than Rudolph’s fucking nose but that jackass sure as hell didn’t notice. He had other things to look at. K didn’t bloody hesitate or nothing; she just stepped on to the elevator. Thing is, right then, stepping into that elevator and following her seemed like the most difficult thing in the world. Yeah, I knew this moment had to happen. There wasn’t much point in getting all dressed up if nobody was ever going to see me. I just wasn’t ready. I wasn’t fucking ready. Another hour or two prancing back and forth in that apartment suddenly seemed like a good idea.

“Coming?” K’s voice, that of the long-suffering parent, snapped me out of it.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry ‘bout that Mom. Having a blonde moment, you know?” I trotted into the elevator and stood next to her. My knees wanted to knock together. I couldn’t believe how nervous I felt. For chrissake, you’d think it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. It wasn’t. It really wasn’t. But to step in front of that teenage prick, who was no doubt checking out that firm, round ass of mine, really did take an effort of Herculean proportions.

The doors slid shut. They were mirrored on the inside, suddenly confronting me with the reflected Cindy. And, yeah, just as I thought: that jackass was scoping the goods.

“Cindy? First floor?” K . . . uh, Mom, was rummaging through her purse for something.

“Uh, yeah.”

I watched the reflected Cindy as she stepped forward with one delicate, high-heeled foot and reached out with her slim arm. Bountiful curves shifted beneath her sweater and she gently pressed one pinkly-glinting fingertip against the first-floor button. “Down we go,” she said in a throaty purr.

“How’re you feeling?” her mother asked.

Cindy gave a soft laugh. “Fine, fine. Just a bit spacey.” With a practiced flick of her head she tossed the long sweep of her blonde hair over one shoulder and smoothed it back with a quick stroke of the hand. Cindy gave a stretch, absently scratching at an itch beneath her right breast, and then took in a deep breath and released a loud, bored sigh. The boy’s eyes stayed glued to every jiggle of her tits like a fly on shit.

Eight floor. Cindy glanced back at the boy behind her and licked her lips. She gave a secretive, wet smile. ‘Hi,’ she silently mouthed to the boy.

His eyes widened in surprise. A bulge popped up in his pants.

“What’s that you’re listening to?” she asked. Those brilliant green eyes lingered for a second down below before drifting up to his face.

The kid’s gaze kept sliding down to her tits. “Uh . . . The Killers,” he said, surreptitiously shifting his laundry basket over his swelling crotch.

“I just love The Killers!” Cindy exclaimed. “Especially their old stuff? Y’know, like that one song, uh . . . .” She gave a few chews on her gum, and then hummed a line. “How’s it go? ‘I’ve got soul but I’m, not a solider . . . .’ Oh, I’m no good . . . you know which one, yeah?”

“All These Things That I’ve Done?” the boy stammered.

“Yeah! That’s it!” Cindy gave a little pout, her pink lips shiny in the dim light of the elevator. “Oh, poo . . . now I’m gonna have that song stuck in my head all day!” She turned back to the front, but her eyes glinted in the mirror, still watching the boy. Her mom looked bored with the whole affair, as if she’d seen it all before. They reached the first floor and the doors opened.

Cindy stepped out, giving a little wave as she went. The boy stayed on the elevator but struggled with himself for a moment, visibly building up courage.

“Hey, waitasec! Hey, my name’s . . . .” he started to say, but the doors closed and cut him off.

“I couldn’t give a fuck,” I growled, walking away.

***

The car was a nondescript grey Honda Civic, the kind you never remember seeing, a weather-beaten 2005 model that showed its age. We didn’t speak a word as we crossed the parking lot. A cool autumnal wind tugged at my hair. Two tall lampposts dropped limpid pools of flickering light. It was only about seven o’clock, but the early-evening dark suddenly felt a lot more threatening than I’d ever remembered.

I focused on crossing the hard asphalt without breaking an ankle. The patter of my heels against the ground rang out unnaturally loud. It’s a good thing we were the only ones in sight; I was fighting down the urge to vomit. Another fucking perv ogling the goods might’ve pushed me over the edge.

It was a relief to finally slide into the car. Getting off my feet was a needed break, even if the seatbelt felt really fucking weird sliding between those giant tits. Pulling the door shut behind me gave a moment’s sense of security--it felt good to be alone again. I struggled to remain in character as Mom tossed our bags in the back and slammed down the trunk. I rummaged through the purse and pulled out a compact as she slid in next to me and slammed her door. Cindy probably checked her makeup a lot and shit like that. I didn’t like the look in my eye; I liked neither the fear I saw there nor the disgust. It took all my willpower to keep my hand from shaking as I applied a quick dab up lipgloss, clicked the compact shut and stowed it back in purse. My left foot started to tremble.

Only once K had us underway, sliding through the darkened streets of a bad neighbourhood, did I start to lose it. The sharp, acrid taste of bile flooded my mouth and I gagged, swallowing it back. There was no hiding the shakes anymore. I took several deep breaths. I sat on my hands. I closed my eyes and leaned back. Fuck. Fuck!

“You are doing well, David.” K’s voice cut through the pounding in my ears.

“I know,” I muttered, and then: “I know, I know, I fucking know!” I screamed, and slammed my fist into the ceiling, again and then again. “Fuck!” The Civic’s roof wobbled from the impact and I left a spot of blood where my knuckle split. One of those fucking bracelets snapped and went spinning off into the back seat.

“Now you are doing less well,” she commented.

I glared at her. “Jesus, K, I can’t do this!”

“You carried yourself remarkably well back in the elevator,” she said. Her eyes danced between the street and my face as she drove. “I must say that I was . . . surprised.”

“Yeah, well, it had to fucking be done, didn’t it? But . . . goddamn it!” I wanted to pound at my own belly, I wanted to reach in there and yank out that damn, queasy feeling churning in there. “Every fucking step! Every goddamn move! Every word, for chrissake! I’ve got to think and plan and worry about every thing I do! The stress is gonna kill me, K!”

She waited as I struggled to calm myself. She took a turn, working us towards the lights of the central city. “There is no need to overdo it, Mr. Sanders,” she finally said. “You could have simply ridden the elevator down in silence.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that, K?” I snapped back. “You think I wanted to flirt with that punk? Yeah, I could’ve just stood there, that little prick was so fixated on my t-and-a he wasn’t gonna give a shit either way. Most girls in an elevator with their mom, that’s what they would’ve done, right?

“But this is cock-tease-fucking-Cindy Long, yeah? She wouldn’t just stand there, would she? I mean, I damn well ride the elevator in silence, but Cindy, she doesn’t. The little bitch probably just likes the sound of her own voice.”

“Is that who you think Cindy is, Mr. Sanders?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know! I just know she’s not me, K. I’m creating this bitch from the ground up, aren’t I? And with each new thing that happens, I’m inventing a new part of this girl--of me, and I swear, it’s gotta be one of the toughest things I’ve ever done because, frankly, I don’t like who I’m turning myself into.”

K seemed to digest that for a few moments before responding. “Then why are imaging her in this way, Mr. Sanders?”

“Because,” I answered flatly. “I fully plan to stay alive.”

We rode for another ten or fifteen minutes in silence after that. I slowly got my breathing under control and felt the stress bleed out of me, watching the streetlight glide across the windowpane. I checked the rearview mirror from time to time. I knew this wouldn’t happen again. The fear’s always the worst the first time.

What I hadn’t told K was that I needed to flirt with that little shit in the elevator. I had to do it because it was the last thing that I wanted to do. Stepping into that elevator, I was fucking terrified of that boy. I was afraid of talking to him. I was afraid of the way he looked me over like a piece of meat, and when he popped a boner I almost lost it. I nearly snapped his goddamn neck I was so scared. See, it’s the only way I know how to deal with fear. It’s the way I was trained, I guess. When I was younger, I was scared of so much shit. God, I was pathetic. Sakura, she taught me how to not be afraid. She taught me how to confront my fears, how to overcome them--how to make ‘em a part of me, really. Because if something’s part of you, and you know who you are--well, then you see the fear for what it is.

I’m afraid of dogs. I really am. I’d had a couple bad run-ins when I was a kid with dogs. Really bad run-ins. But now? That fear’s part of me. It’s part of me but I know it’s not all of me; the whole of me is greater than that fear, and so I control it instead of the other way around.

So in that elevator, I knew I had to do the same goddamn thing. It was complicated this time, because I’m still not sure what I was afraid of, exactly. Doesn’t matter. It’s over with. Next time Cindy has to chat to someone, she’ll be fine. I’d already grabbed that particular bull by the horns.

Fuck, that’s the closest I ever want to get to another guy’s horn.

“Was that a chuckle?” K asked.

“Huh? Yeah, I guess so.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I think I am.” I reached forward and fiddled with the radio. “Hey Mom, you mind if pop on some music?” The Killers, eh? Who would’ve thought? Cindy, she looks like she’s all bubblegum pop but really she’s into her vintage Indy rock scene. Go figure.

“Not at all, Cindy.” She smiled.

When I looked up from finding a funky FM station, the smile was gone. I glanced at the side-view mirror and felt my stomach sink. The fucker was still there.

“We’re being followed,” K stated grimly.

***

The second longest relationship I ever had lasted three months. Her name was Akiko. She was this way-cool Japanese girl, a professor up at the local university. Less than a year into my new life, into being this corporate climber, this rising young buck, I figured I had to give the real relationship thing a try. I’d been seeing a psychiatrist--yeah, you got a fucking problem with that?--and what she told me was: I had to get over Kate someday. Whether I wanted to or not, whether it was the right thing to do or not, some things are best left behind. It damn well didn’t feel like the right thing, but apparently it was unhealthy to nurse that memory and pain forever.

And Akiko, God, she was brilliant, that kind of blistering intelligence that makes a woman dead sexy. And I’ll be honest: the Japanese thing didn’t hurt either. It was unfair to the poor woman, really. I channelled way too much pent-up emotion about Sakura into that goddamn relationship. No wonder it didn’t work out.

It’s not like I was entirely to blame. I was only twenty-one, trying to figure out who the hell I was now, in the so-called normal world. I was younger than many of her students. There’s no way it could’ve ever worked out. This was before I hit NeoPharm and all, still bouncing between jobs, still looking for the right ladder to climb.

Fuck, though, did she give great head. Sexiest lips I’ve ever dated. But if I had to pick out one thing I took away from that relationship--one thing she really did for me, Akiko--it was a love for reading. Yeah, go figure; girl sucks your cock and you walk away thinking about books. Akiko was an English lit prof. She’d specialized in something or other with a healthy side of a critical theory fashionable and marketable at the time she entered teaching. She told me that with a wry smile. She explained almost everything about herself with a wry smile.

Her true love, though? The really old shit, like Beowulf and Chaucer and Shakespeare. (Though she taught me all that ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ stuff isn’t very old after all.) So yeah, she was well into her literature. You ever have someone softly whisper the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales into your ear whilst riding your cock? It’s sexier than it sounds. Sweet April showers still give me a hard-on to this day.

In any case, you know those long Sundays that just seem to go on for ever? The ones spent lying together in bed, having slow sex and talking about nothing and dozing off and having sex again? Yeah, on one of those days she taught me this really weird saying. It took me a bit to learn the damn thing, with both lips and pussy acting as encouragement and distraction in equal measure.

Akiko swore she lived her life by the saying, though I never quite figured out what she meant by that. There were mysteries to that girl; it’s probably another reason I fell for her so hard. I guess you could say we both had trust issues. Pity it didn’t work out.

“Giet bid daet selast,” I whispered beneath my breath. “Donne mon him sylf ne maeg.” After all these years I still remember it; even my pronunciation was perfect. “Wyrd onwendan.” I watched the headlights trailing us in the rear-view mirror. “Daet he donne wel dolige.” Funny what pops into your head when you’ve got an assassin chasing your panty-clad ass.

K didn’t seem all that perturbed by the pursuit. She didn’t change her speed or make any sudden turns or anything. Her grip stayed relaxed on the wheel as she drove us along the outskirts of the city centre. Her eyes, however, were bright and alert and kept a careful eye on our followers. The asshole behind us was good . . . but not that good. Under the false neon dawn of passing shops and restaurants, the car was easy enough to pick out. Sure, he didn’t ride our bumper but the traffic was light and he cut some of those corners just a little too sharp. After a couple kilometres and a few unnecessary but inconspicuous changes in course, the car was still behind us. It wasn’t just a fluke.

“You going to lose him?” I asked.

“In a Honda Civic?” K answered, cocking an eyebrow. “Besides, I do not believe we need to worry.”

Now it was my turn to raise a finely-plucked eyebrow. “K, we’re being fucking followed by fucking assassins. I’ll be honest: I’m a little worried. What’s there not to be worried about?”

She shrugged. “If the people in that car are indeed agents of Mr. Steele,” she said, “and they truly believed that Mr. Sanders was in this car, they would have driven up beside us a few kilometres back, especially as we passed through one of those quiet residential areas. They would have overtaken us and opened fire on this car until everyone within it was dead.”

I gave a low whistle.

“These are the kind of people we are dealing with, Mr. Sanders. The fact that they haven’t shot at us yet leads me to believe that they are merely following us on suspicion or whim. Hopefully they will soon realize that there is nothing more to this car than a middle-aged woman and her young daughter.”

“Huh.” Could it be this crazy Cindy disguise gig was actually working? Go figure. “So, where we going then?”

Mom flashed me a big smile. “Well, we’re not going to reach the clinic tonight, I’m afraid. You hungry, dear? Let’s grab some munchies and chow down at the motel room. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great, Mom!”

***

We pulled in at a cheap motel on the other side of town at around ten-thirty. The smell of drive-through fast-food drifted up from the back seat. I was getting antsy again, imagining with great pleasure peeling off the goddamn waist-cincher and digging in to some nice, manly burger and fries. I also liked the idea of getting my cock out and letting my balls breathe again. The boys were really starting to feel cramped and sweaty down there.

“Check us in under my name,” K said, handing me a wallet. Her name, I discovered on the drive over, was Wendy Jones. Apparently Daddy Long was either dead or gone and she’d reverted to her maiden name. “Get us one bed, a double.” At my surprised look she continued: “We are mother and daughter and we drive a cheap car. It is just sensible that we share a bed. Just act--normally. We plan to leave early tomorrow.”

“Why do you want me to check us in?” I fought to keep the tremor out of my voice. Checking-in meant talking to someone. Just because I’d mastered that particular fear didn’t mean I was looking for excuses to go out of my way and do the Cindy thing again. “Why the hell can’t you do it?”

“Because,” she answered, pulling her handgun from the recesses of her jacket, “I will be keeping an eye on you . . . just in case.” Keeping the weapon hidden, she smiled. “Besides, you need the practice, dear.” Our pursuers had gotten either bored or cleverer. We hadn’t seen them for the last three-quarters of an hour, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still out there. With a sigh I flipped down the sun shade and checked myself in the vanity mirror.

You’re not looking too shabby, baby, I thought, pursing my mouth and slathering on another layer of lipgloss. The gooey-sweet taste tingled on my lips and set them a-glistening. I touched up my mascara and fluttered my lashes under the weight. I’ve always had slightly effeminate lashes, long with a bit of curl. One girl I dated for a few weeks, she laughed at their length, even balancing a toothpick across them once after a few pints down at the local pub. “Wow, you’d look just great with a little mascara and eyeliner,” she gushed. “I could do wonder with your eyes!” She might’ve been a makeup artist or some goddamn thing; I can’t remember. I told her to fuck off, only half-joking, and we didn’t date for much longer after that.

Now, looking at Cindy through half-lidded eyes I saw that long-ago girlfriend proven right. I blinked once, languidly, and concentrated on those beautiful emerald depths. This isn’t a big deal, that gaze insisted. You look good. Those horny bastards in there’ll fall over themselves trying to rent you a room. They won’t be checking out your chin or nose or shoulders. You can do this. Cindy can do this.

Cindy Long gave herself a final wink and flipped the shade back up. She pulled a red lollipop from her purse and slid it into her mouth. “I’ll be back in a sec’, ‘kay Mom?” she said. She gracefully stepped out of the car, though the long drive must have left those lithe legs cramped as she tottered momentarily before finding her footing. Finding her balance she strode briskly towards the check-in office, purse swinging in counter-step to her stride. The click of her heels sounded clear across the parking lot. Lights shone behind the curtains of a few rooms, and the muffled sound of a TV turned up too loud reached her ears. Back at the car her mom popped open the trunk and began to pull out their few bags and cases.

Cindy paused at the door to check her reflection, tucking a wayward bang back behind her ear. The blonde-haired girl’s earrings spun and glittered in the glass. The door chimed as she stepped into the office.

The place stank of stale cigarettes and greasy food. Her nose wrinkled as she gingerly stepped around a fat, insolent cat stretched out in front of the door. She seemed a little less confident approaching the counter. The young man behind the counter sat deep in his chair, legs propped up on a banged-up metal cabinet. Attention fixated on an old, flickering flatscreen TV mounted to the wall, he didn’t even acknowledge her presence. With the volume set so high, he probably hadn’t heard her entrance. The colours on the screen bled together and contrasted sharply, rendering the show--some kind of music video--in lurid detail. Cindy bit her lower lip, clearly unsure what to do. Her hand hovered uncertainly over the counter bell before pulling back.

She pulled the lollipop from her mouth. “Um . . . excuse me?” Her soft voice went unheard under the loud blare of the television. Cindy nearly stamped a dainty foot in frustration. “Hello?”

If the man was aware of Cindy, he gave no sign of it. He idly poked at a button on the remote.

After glaring at the back of the man’s head for a moment, Cindy slid the lollipop back into her painted mouth. She leaned up against the counter and rested her chin in the palm of her hands. She watched the man for a little longer and then idly reached out and, with a deft flick of the hand, knocked over an overstuffed stationary basket. Pencils and pens cascaded over the counter and rained down on the man’s head.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, spinning around in his chair and leaping to his feet.

Cindy gave a long draw on the candy in her mouth, languorously rolling her tongue over the sweet sphere before pulling it out with a wet pop. She eyed the candy indolently for a second before her eyes wandered over to the attendant. Her lips parted in a glossy smile. “Hi!” she said, and the fingers of one hand danced in a cute wave. She seemed completely unaware of the fact that her arms, drawn together at the elbow, pushed up her massive breasts and gave an even better view of the cleavage barely hidden by the low V-neck.

The young man’s eyes went wide. “Uh . . . hi!” His eyes struggled between her tits and face, but if she noticed she seemed unconcerned. “What can I, um, do for you?”

Cindy’s eyes sparkled with merriment as she took in his flustered appearance. The poor thing was hardly older than a boy, his unshaven chin patchy at best and his cheap white polyester t-shirt stained with old food. He made an unconscious attempt to smooth down his hair and met with little success. She made a little moue. “Oh, it’s just so annoying!” she said. The boy jabbed at the volume control on the remote, nearly dropping it in his haste. “My Mom and I,” she said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the car with her lollipop, “we’re driving off into the country but we had some car problems, you know? Now we’re, like, running majorly late? And there’s no way we’ll get there tonight, so we kinda need a room.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially, her breasts crushing up against the counter top, and the boy eagerly moved closer. “I mean, this really sucks. It’s not like I want to head out there in the first place, I’m totally a city girl, you know? And now I’m stuck spending the night with my mom! Ugh.”

He gave a tentative smile. “That sounds, ah, horrible.”

Cindy shrugged. “Yeah, but what’re you gonna do, eh? Moms!” Her tone firmly summed up all the major problems of the world with that one word. “But she’s paying the bills so I guess I shouldn’t complain.” She flashed her mother’s credit card before the boy.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” The attendant seemed to relax a bit. It was an easy topic to relate with. “My mom’s got me working these weekend shifts or she’ll kick me out, she says. I’ve gotta pay my room and board, can you believe? God, she can be such a bitch sometimes.” He took the card from Cindy, and flushed red as her finger slid along the inside of his palm.

Her smile didn’t change, though, innocent as ever. “Yeah, my mom can be a total ball-breaker too, you know?”

He looked at her curiously. “Ball-breaker?”

“Oh, my brother,” she stammered. “He’s a little younger than me? But totally over-protective? But yeah, Mom pushes him really hard sometimes.” She gave him a little wink. “He’s a nice kid . . . a bit like you.”

“Ah . . . thanks,” he stammered, quickly looking down to hide his growing blush. “We, ah, have a couple of rooms left. What would you like?”

Cindy toyed with her hair. “Well, it’s kinda gross but Mom wants a room with just one double bed. We’re gonna share. Like, ick. I mean, she’s all sweaty in her sleep and she snores! But money’s tight, and she’s paying . . . .” She gave another idle shrug.

“Well, uh. . . .” The boy tapped a couple of buttons on a keyboard. “I’m not really supposed to do this, but maybe I can help you out.” His face burned red as he kept his eyes glued to the computer screen. “It’s getting kinda late and we normally don’t get too many people after eleven. We still have a couple double rooms left. How about I put you in one of those, and charge you for the single?”

Cindy gave a little squeal of glee. “You’d do that?” She even gave a little hop of joy, and the boy was hard-pressed to pull his eyes away from the way her exposed curves quivered afterwards. But then she stopped to think a moment, pressing one pink fingertip to her lip. “But . . . you’re not going to get in trouble, are you?”

He chuckled. “Nah. And it’s not like I love this job or nothing.” When Cindy looked doubtful he made a few more taps on the keyboard. “Listen, what I’ll do is I’ll book you and your mom into room 4--that’s a single room--but I’ll give you the keys for room 12, okay? It’s got two doubles. It’s not like anybody’s going to want it tonight, anyway.”

It only took Cindy a minute to fill in the room form and for the payment to go through on the card. She slid her mother’s card back into her purse and gave the boy a big smile. “You’re really sweet, you know that . . . .” She looked at him inquisitively.

“Ah, Tim.” He stuck his hand out.

“Cindy,” she said, meeting his hesitant but strong handshake with her soft grip. “You’re a nice guy, Tim.” And then, eyes fluttering wide with surprise, she quickly leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. His unshaven skin felt coarse against her lips. “See you!”

He called out to her at the door. “Uh, Cindy? Yeah, listen . . . uh, I mean, you don’t have to or nothin’ . . . I’m done work at midnight. I don’t suppose you’d, like, want to grab a drink with me after work? There’s a bar down the road . . . .”

Cindy gave him a sad look over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Tim. I . . . can’t.”

Tim looked away. “Nah, I understand. . . .”

“No, it’s . . . ,” she rushed to say. “It’s my mom. We’re leaving early tomorrow, you know? I better not be out late or anything.” She offered a tentative smile. “You understand, yeah? Moms?”

“Yeah, moms,” he said ruefully, and smiled.

“See you around, Tim.”

“Bye Cindy.”

***

My head felt like it was going to explode.

There were all kinds of shit going on in there. I was furious with K for sending me into that office. Some part of me wanted to turn right around and take that fucking kid by the throat and beat the living shit out of him. I know Tim didn’t deserve it. He really didn’t. But I was still pissed off. Then there was a lot of self-loathing and disgust going on as well. Obviously. I hated myself right then; I really did. I mean, God damn it, I’d just kissed a fucking guy! Foremost in my thoughts, though, was Ken.

Remember Ken? Ken was my first kiss. Believe me, that kind of shit can really mess you up when you’re a teen. What with all the other craziness going on at that time, dealing with that kind of nonsense just seemed really unfair. Now I’m thinking that maybe I never really dealt with it at all. Things were so crazy back then it was easy to take things you’d rather not think about and kind of push them off to the side and try to forget. But you never do, I guess. You always remember your first kiss. Mine came from another fucking guy. That was also the last time a guy had kissed me. Until tonight. Only tonight, he hadn’t kissed me; I kissed him.

Or rather, Cindy had.

“Did you get us a room, dear?”

I glared at K as I stormed over to the car. ‘Heel-toe’ and ‘straight feet’ and ‘small steps’ were forgotten in my anger. I was walking like a goddamn linebacker just then. “Yeah. Room fucking 12,” I growled. I grabbed half the bags off the ground before remembering that there was no fucking way Cindy could carry all that shit. “This way, Mom.” I fought to get my voice back under control, to push the anger back, and pretended to struggle with the weight of the luggage I carried. Two trips and we had our bags piled up outside the room. We worked in silence, but I could feel K’s eyes watching me carefully.

I used the key to let us into the room. It took two tries; my hands were shaking. The motel room was like every other cheap-ass room I’d even been forced to spend a night in, with bad carpets and yellowing wallpaper. Some unidentifiable, vaguely unpleasant smell hovered in the air. There were two double-size beds separated by a small cabinet, a bathroom opposite the entrance, and some really bad art over a small table next to a mirror. There wasn’t even a damn television set.

The moment the door clicked shut behind us I started to claw away at Cindy. The sweater nearly ripped as I tore it over my head; I had one heel on and the other went flying across the room when I kicked it off. My chest heaved with the hurry to be free of this feminine prison. I probably would’ve tried to yank those tits off, too, if there’d been a seam to find. I had the goddamn waist-cincher half-unzipped and my jeans unbuttoned at the crotch when K’s voice suddenly cut through my desperate effort.

“David! What the hell are you doing?”

I glared at her from beneath a twisted mess of blonde hair. “This charade is over, K! No more Cindy. No more bloody mincing about in fucking heels!” I struggled with and yanked off the second shoe. “I’ll take my chances with the killers, thank you very much. At least if they get me, I’ll die with some goddamn pride!”

I thought maybe she’d try to talk me down, or get all angry and bossy. Instead, she just watched me thrash about. Slowly her lips started to twitch up at the edges. Her eyes sparkled with the effort of restraint. She couldn’t hold it in anymore: K burst into loud peals of laughter.

“It’s not fucking funny!” I yelled, gesticulating wildly with the dainty shoe still clutched in my right hand. This just sent her into deeper hysterics. I swear the bitch was nearly doubled over, clutching at her side.

“It’s not funny, dammit,” I insisted. I caught a look at myself in the mirror. Brandishing that heel like a wicked weapon, with one tit popping out and that wig hanging over my face like a headbanger’s mop . . . I looked ridiculous. I couldn’t even walk with those jeans down around my knees, and my cock, overjoyed at the loosening of its bonds, strained mightily against its silky restraint. I slowly pulled off my wig and dropped it to the floor. Damn. I did look kind of funny, especially with my face all red with anger and those veins popping out at the temple. Hell, even I couldn’t take myself seriously, especially with all that makeup on.

“Sit, sit!” Still struggling to regain her composure, K gestured to one of the beds before half-stumbling over to our bags. She pulled a bottle out of a side pocket and tossed it to me. “Just . . . relax. Take a deep breath, David. Have a drink.”

I didn’t need a second invitation. I cracked open the bottle--Jack Daniels, God, this woman understood exactly what booze each part of this relocation required--and a moment later she brought over two cheap mugs from the bathroom. She swallowed a chuckle as I grimly poured us each a stiff drink.

“Bottom’s up,” I stated. We clinked out mugs together and pounded the booze back in one. The strong burn of the whisky down my throat was exactly what I needed. JD was a manly drink. I really wanted to feel manly right then. Even as I sat there still wearing panties and hose with tits half-spilling out of a lacy black bra. I poured both K and myself a second. We shot them back without a word, but I was very much aware of her eyes watching me over the rim of her mug.

When I went for a third drink, she gently held back the bottle. “Care to talk about it?” She sounded halfway between Agent K and Mom. I was starting to wonder who the hell she really was.

“Not really. No.” I pulled the bottle from her grip and poured myself another. She held her mug out for a refill. The third shot went down very smoothly. I wanted to get drunk. Check that; I wanted to get fucking drunk. She hadn’t drunk hers, though, watching me curiously. “What?”

K shrugged. “I am just gauging how drunk you have to be before feeling like you have recaptured enough of your masculine pride to tell me what is wrong.” She raised her cup in my honour and drank it back.

I really hated her sometimes. “Fuck you, K.” I refilled our cups.

She looked around the room. “I thought I asked you to get us a single room?”

“Who knew Cindy could be so persuasive?” I sneered bitterly. “The little shit in there thought he’d do us a little favour. I think he liked me. Her.”

“Ah. I see.”

She didn’t. She really didn’t. “Don’t fucking presume to know me, K.” We touched cups and solemnly knocked back our last drink. I screwed the bottle tightly shut and tossed it over onto her bed. The unseen clamp wrapped around my temple slowly began to loosen. I reached back and unhooked the bra as I talked. “You’ve got a profile on me. You’ve done all this research and shit. But you don’t know me. You have no idea what I’m feeling.” Without support those fake breasts bobbled free.

K averted her eyes with only the slightest of smiles. “Then why don’t you tell me?”

I continued to glare at her as I crossed the room in my stocking feet. I grabbed the bag that K packed for me and found a t-shirt. It hugged my curves and didn’t even reach my bellybutton, hanging off the massive orbs it barely restrained. The nipples clearly poked through the thin material, dual punctuation on either side of the emblazoned ‘Hot Stuff’ written in brilliant, sparkly pink. Fucking hell.

Without answering her I stomped into the toilet and slammed the door behind me. I peeled off the jeans and those damn pantyhose and tossed the panties in the corner. My bladder was screaming for relief, as were my balls. After a particularly angry bout of masturbation I cleaned myself off, wrapped myself in a towel and stormed back up to K. She was still sitting where I had left her.

“You have any idea how this is fucking with my head, K?” She watched me from her seat as I stalked back and forth across the room, ranting as I went. In a torrent of angry words I explained what had happened back in the motel office, about Tim and Cindy. She waited patiently for me to finish. When I finally flopped down onto the bed she handed me another drink. I hadn’t even seen her pick up the bottle. I certainly didn’t feel it but suspected I was getting very, very drunk.

“I don’t want to dress up and act like a chick, K!”

“Very few men would want to do what you are doing, David,” K said. Her voice was calm and soothing, motherly once again. “And even fewer could manage it half as well as you have so far. I already told you: you are doing very well. You can do this, Mr Sanders.”

“That’s easy for you to say, K.”

“I realize that.” She hesitated a moment. “Tell me, what was it that made you so angry? Was it the kiss?”

I felt my face redden and glowered at her. “What the fuck do you think? Yeah, that’s damn well part of it. A big part of it.”

“But it was just a little kiss to the cheek, right? How is that a big deal?”

“It’s a big deal to me, okay?”

Her eyes stayed fixated on me for an uncomfortably long time, as if she were processing difficult thoughts. I tried to ignore her by rummaging through the clothes she’d packed for me. There wasn’t a hell of a lot in there, and I was expecting it to all be stupidly girly, but buried away at the bottom I found a pair of jogging pants. I eagerly pulled them on. Despite riding a hell of a lot lower on the hips than anything I’d normally wear, they were blissfully comfortable after wearing those jeans all day. Between the joggers and that ludicrous t-shirt I had something like a yard of toned midriff left exposed.

Finally running out of patience, I turned back to K. “What? What the hell is it?”

“David, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“I thought your damn federal profile covered everything.”

“No, not everything,” K answered.

“Fine then. Ask away.”

“Have you ever kissed another man before?”

I slowly sank down onto the bed. “Yeah,” I admitted. “How’d you know?”

“It was a hunch, based on your reaction.”

I looked at her quizzically. “Really? Why?”

“Tell me, this previous kiss . . . were you young when it happened?”

I nodded, curious where she was going with this. Back when I’d turned twenty and was seeing that psychiatrist? I didn’t even tell the shrink about Ken. Didn’t see much reason to talk about it, to be honest. So I’m really not sure why I told K. It must’ve been the alcohol.

“Yeah. About fourteen. It was my first kiss.”

The fact that it was my first seemed to take her by surprise. “Was it your only kiss with another man?”

“Of course!” I exclaimed. “What do you think I am, some kind of fag?” Hell, I don’t even have any memories of being kissed or hugged by any kind of father figure or uncle or anything. I never really got to know my dad . . . my real dad, anyway. So the stubble on Tim’s face? That was the first time I’d felt anything like that up against my lip or cheek. Creepy stuff, I’m telling you.

She looked annoyed by my response. “I am not suggesting anything, Mr. Sanders. I simply find such a strong reaction to such a small action a little surprising.”

“I kissed a fucking guy, K!”

“It’s common in many cultures for men to show such levels of intimacy.”

“Yeah? Well, not in mine.”

“Did you enjoy kissing that boy?”

The question took me by surprise. I didn’t know whether she meant Ken or Tim. It didn’t matter. The answer would’ve been the same either way: “No!”

“Really?” She eyes me curiously. “I just wonder, David, whether under the stress of the last few days and through the forced role-playing of Cindy, if perhaps you are being forced to confront some aspects of yourself you have long tried to ignore?”

I eyed her warily. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“All the women, Mr. Sanders. The extreme macho posturing. And today, Cindy flirting with the only two males she has met . . . .”

“Just fucking say it, K!”

“Could it be, Mr Sanders, that you are in some kind of denial?”

I stared at her in stunned disbelief. Slowly, my lips twitched into a small smile until finally, I too burst into laughter. “What, you think I’m gay?”

K didn’t seem amused. “I think there is a possibility you have some repressed homosexual tendencies, yes.”

That just sent me off into another burst of laughter. Holy shit, but this woman cracked me up. “You really think I’m. . . .” I couldn’t even say it. And the look on her face was so serious! I stumbled to my feet and spread my arms wide before her and dropped my pants. “Behold! Proof of my manliness!”

“Mr Sanders, please.”

“Nah, check it, watch this. Right now, I’m thinking of . . . you!” I gave her a lascivious grin as my dick rose to attention, strong and proud. I really was thinking of her as well. God, I’d love to see what the real Agent K looks like. In the meantime, the imagination was doing a damn fine job of filling in the gaps. “And now, I’m thinking of . . . that dude in the elevator.” My manhood visibly wilted. I pulled the jogging pants back up and covered up. “I mean, seriously K, you think I’m some homo?”

She didn’t seem much impressed by my display. “I think there is a possibility, yes.”

Releasing a sigh, I flopped down on the bed opposite her. “K, you can believe what you want. I don’t really care. I really don’t. Though if you think a day of dressing up in chicks’ clothing and flouncing about as Cindy is going to turn me to the other side, you really don’t know me at all.

“Hell, how’s this, I’ll even tell you something I’ve never told anyone else: I actually wondered if I might be gay too, when I was a kid. Seriously! The kid I told you about, the one who kissed me when I was a teen? His name was Ken.” I flopped back on the bed, speaking to the ceiling. It was very distracting how, once they stopped wobbling about, those heavy breasts flattened beneath the t-shirt and weighed heavily on my chest. I quickly told her about Ken and about how I beat the crap out of him.

“And after I made up with Ken, there was a part of me . . . I mean, there really was a part of me . . . that wanted to be that way for him. I dunno why. To make up for hurting him? Or maybe because I really, really didn’t want to lose his friendship. I mean, fuck, K--friends, you know? They’re one of the only things really worth fighting for.”

I linked my hands behind my head and released a deep sigh. Why the hell was I telling her any of this? There were only one, maybe two people I’ve ever been this open with before. “But I couldn’t. I really couldn’t. I looked at Ken and, yeah, I felt very protective. I cared for the guy. But he didn’t do anything for me, if you know what I mean. And Ken damn well knew it. If he hadn’t been so honest I probably would’ve been messed in the head for a hell of a lot longer than I was.”

I felt a bit noxious, and it wasn’t the alcohol. I really didn’t like thinking about my past much.

“So, you really want to know why I was so angry, K?”

“Yes. Please,” she answered, in a tone that I couldn’t quite place. I was tempted to sit up and have a look at her face, but I also really wanted to get this off my chest while I was still in a talking mood. It didn’t happen often.

“See, this is the thing. I mean, really, if I was that insecure about my masculinity, K, d’you really think I’d be going around with these fucking things?” I hefted those udders stuck to my chest. “The reason I can pull off the Cindy thing so well is because I know she isn’t me. I don’t enjoy it--hell, I damn well hate it--but Cindy’s like a completely different person. What she does doesn’t really reflect on me, you know?”

“Then why did that kiss make you so angry?” K asked.

I sighed. “Because it made me feel sick, touching my lips to that boy’s cheek. Even after everything I’ve said, it made me sick to my fucking stomach. And it shouldn’t have. It really shouldn’t have. Ten years ago I almost put a friend--hell, he was more than a friend, he was probably my first real friend--in the hospital because he freaked me out. I didn’t understand him . . . although at that time I didn’t really understand myself either.

“But that was over ten years ago! I thought I’d grown since then. I kept in touch with Ken over the years. Him being gay really didn’t matter. Or so I thought. Only now, ten years later I find out I’m still the same pathetic homophobe I was when I was a kid. I thought I’d figured myself out years ago. And now Cindy’s showing me that I haven’t. There’s still somewhere inside of me that’s scared and insecure--a part of me that’s freaked out by something as stupid as a guy kissing another guy.

“So, yes, K, that really pisses me off. I hate myself for being weak. And worse, I’m angry at myself because it feels like I’m betraying the memory of Ken.”

“Memory?” Her voice was surprisingly soft.

“Yeah. Ken died a few years ago. He fought the good fight but the disease finally got him.”

“I’m sorry, David. AIDS?”

“Nah. Cancer. The idiot smoked two packs a day.”

K shook her head. “You were right, Mr Sanders. I don’t know you after all. Come on, the food is getting cold.”

***

Things got a little weird after we ate. The food itself pissed me off. I hadn’t really paid attention at the drive-through window, focusing intently on being the most convincing Cindy I could possibly be. Now I was finding out that K, damn her to hell, had bought ‘healthy’ food for me. God damn those healthy-eating initiatives! I wanted a burger and fries, dammit, not some fucking salad.

Once I’d calmed down, K coerced me back into Cindy-practice mode. She insisted I slip the waist-cincher, heels and wig back on, though she didn’t seem to mind the jogging pants and t-shirt. Thing is, even dressed-down like that I still looked like a flirty coed, back from a game of Ultimate Frisbee or something. K taught me how to clean the makeup off my face, apparently a very important ritual for young women concerned with keeping their skin healthy and smooth.

It was still weird, looking at myself in the mirror and seeing Cindy, though I didn’t feel quite as sick to the stomach anymore. The lack of makeup made a huge difference. My features lost some of their softness, returning to familiar rough edges, and I was almost disappointed to see my eyes fade back to their normal green. The dichotomy between face and body, though, really freaked me out. Those curves just looked way too real.

Halfway through dinner my throat tingled and my voice broke, similar to passing through a second puberty. Fifteen minutes later I sounded like a man again. For the first few minutes my own voice sounded strange to my ears, which was a little disconcerting. It was getting late and exhaustion was catching up to me, but K wasn’t quite done yet. She insisted we squeeze in another hour of training before bed. In a repeat of the time spent at the safe house, K had me prancing back and forth across the room, this time in a pair of tight, calf-high boots with slightly higher heels. I was so tired I was starting to feel hazy again. I couldn’t even muster up a defence against her drill-sergeant ways and numbly did as she asked. She had me incorporating gestures into my walk, and I held my wrist just a little limper than normal, or bit my lower lip with uncertainty, or toyed with my hair . . . she directed and I acted.

The whole thing got pretty damn boring pretty damn fast. I actually found myself thinking about Tim. Poor little shit. He seemed like a nice enough kid. Cindy wasn’t the girl for him. I checked the time and saw that he’d be finishing his shift in another fifteen minutes. Ten to one he was secretly hoping Cindy would change her mind and sneak away from Mom and grab a drink with him. Maybe that wasn’t the only thing he was hoping to grab tonight. I wondered if he’d go home and jerk off thinking about me. Not an entirely pleasing though, I assure you.

Eventually K relented and it was time for bed. I was almost ready to fall over, and it wasn’t because of the heels. When I went to strip that damned cincher off K stopped me. “Training,” she said. “Your body can keep practicing as you sleep, even if your mind can not.” Then she handed me something flimsy and pink. “And wear this to bed, please.”

I clutched the gauzy fabric in my hand. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, K,” I grumbled, and as always she wasn’t. Personally, I like to sleep naked. I usually do. It’s different for girls, apparently. They sure as hell have more to choose from when it comes to nightwear. K had just made my first choice. Cindy, she liked to be naughty. That’s what I would call the stretch lace babydoll (and matching panty, for fuck’s sake) K handed me. The underwire shoved those tits back up in my face and the hem didn’t even clear my ass--and the short slit that went up to my waist showed off even more. The fabric clung to me in a distressingly silky way. Not only did I feel like a total fucking poof wearing that damned thing--I somehow felt more naked than if I hadn’t worn a thing. K’s plain, long t-shirt seemed almost matronly (and far more comfortable) in comparison.

I was too tired to be horny, even at the sight of a partly-naked K. My bits made a noticeable but reasonable bulge in those skimpy panties. With a sigh of relief I crawled under the covers, only mildly put off by the weird slick feeling of my shaved, lingerie-clad body sliding between those stiff, starched sheets. Fuck it. I just wanted sleep.

K turned off the lights. “Goodnight, Cindy.”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

Sweet dreams, right?

The lights had been off for all of five minutes before we heard the urgent, quiet knock at the door. I had been drifting in that heavy-limbed zone between wakefulness and deep sleep; with a jerk I snapped fully awake. I heard K drop quietly to the floor between our beds. There was the very faint click of a safety being disengaged.

“Cindy?” The whispered voice sounded familiar. Tim?

I glanced back at K. “It’s the boy from the office,” I said in a low voice.

She gestured for me to move forward. Her silhouette faded into the shadows.

I padded over to the door. I only hesitated a moment before cracking it open. “Tim?” I whispered in a low, hoarse voice.

“Cindy?” Damn, but I didn’t sound much like the girl from before. I opened the door a little further. Any doubt he had was dispelled at the sight of me. He couldn’t see me well, standing as I was mostly in darkness, but the flutter of the babydoll around my bared legs was enough. I kept one hand over my crotch, though. Nothing ruins a teenage guy’s wet dream like the sight of an unseemly bulge in a girl’s panties, yeah? Fortunately the darkened room kept my face mostly obscured.

Bless the little punk, but he finally managed to drag his eyes away from the sight of those massive jugs resting half-uncovered in their lacy pink cups. “Tim,” I whispered, “I told you I can’t. . . .”

“It’s not that,” he interrupted me, his voice full of urgency. “There’re some cops asking questions about you!”

That certainly caught my attention. Standing behind that door naked but for a pair of fake tits and a flimsy scrap of semi-transparent nylon, I suddenly felt horribly vulnerable. Fuck. Fuck!

“They came in just after my shift. I didn’t see it but they were flashing a picture and badges around and asking about anyone who’d booked in tonight. The late night guy checked the records and told them you were in room 4.” Still standing outside, he glanced to the side. “They’re in there right now.” His eyes found mine, and I was stunned by the genuine concern I saw in there. “Listen, Cindy . . . I don’t know what’s going on. I think you’re in some kind of trouble. And I probably shouldn’t get involved.”

No, you shouldn’t, you stupid little punk. You’ll just get yourself killed.

Tim smiled bashfully, his eyes flashing in the pale light of the outside lamps. “But I also think you’re one of the most amazing girls I’ve ever met,” he said. “And whatever’s going on, I wanted to let you know that.” He glanced to the side again. “Uh oh. I think they’re almost done over there. I better get the hell out of here.” And then, with a final sweet smile, Tim said, “good luck,” and took off.

I closed and locked the door behind him. Shit.

A moment later K leapt into action. “Get away from the door,” she hissed, grabbing a small suitcase from the floor. “Say ‘ah.’” It didn’t occur to me protest as she shoved that fucking rod down my throat again. I was feeling out of it from that ‘most amazing girl I’ve ever met’ comment. Everything went cold and numb again. K then ushered me into the bathroom. “We do not have much time,” she said, starting the shower. The hiss of falling water filled the room. “Get undressed.”

My throat all bunged up with that crazy spray, I couldn’t argue or ask what the hell was going on. I quickly stripped. To my surprise, she stripped down to her bra and panties. “Once they find you missing, they will begin a systematic search of every room in the motel,” she said. “We’re going to give them Cindy. This is it, Mr Sanders. You’ve done it twice now. This is your final test.”

She shoved me into the shower.

***

The first time I had sex I was sixteen. It wasn’t a great experience. It really wasn’t. What it was, that first time, like so many other firsts in my life, was fucked up. A high school bush party, one of those big ones out in some shitty stretch of land on the outskirts of town that some kid’s parents own. All the usual shit was there: bonfires, burning bright under the crisp night sky; kegs and cases of beer; coolers overflowing with ice and girly drinks, and forty-ouncers of the hard stuff; and teenage hormones. Oh yeah, lots of the last thrown into the mix. The air was thick with it. All swirled up and made complicated in that pressure-cooker high school social dynamic kind of way.

I was the new kid in school, a bit of a bad-ass and outsider, but I knew enough of the cool kids to get an invite to a thing like this. Thing is, I wasn’t there for the fun of it. I was there for Muna. Sweet Muna, with soft mocha eyes and skin as smooth as silk. She was dating this guy called Karl, this Aryan fucker, a right proper asshole who fancied himself a bit of a badass as well. And Muna . . . yeah, sweet Muna, she was one of the nastiest pieces of work I’ve ever met. But I had to get to know her better. A lot better.

So I swaggered into that seething pit of teenage alliances and social dramas and walked straight up to the King of the whole shitpile. Karl didn’t much like me. I didn’t much like him either and let him know exactly what I thought. Those other kids, they must’ve thought I was drunk out of my mind. I was cold sober. Karl knew it as well. It didn’t take much to goad him into a fight. The dude was tough; he knew how to fight. I was tougher; I fought harder. And afterwards I had Muna. She knew where the power lay. Some girls figure it out young. God, I hated her. The sight of her made me want to puke.

She was my first. And for some reason, every vagina since I’ve compare to Muna’s. Like the one currently held in my hand.

I stood in a slight state of shock, holding this disembodied pussy in my hands and feeling it slowly warm beneath my touch. I still couldn’t talk but it didn’t make much difference; I couldn’t think of anything to say. The shower had been a quick one. K had clambered in and knelt before me and before I quite knew what was happening she was shaving my crotch bare.

Then she dragged me back to the bedroom and gave me a little shove. I was sitting numbly at the edge of the bed. She was kneeling between my legs. “Do you trust me, Mr Sanders?”

I gave a mute nod, staring blankly at the vagina I held in my hand. I thought it was kind of cute, as far as vaginas go. It had the same rubbery feeling and slightly grey colour that the artificial breasts first had before bonding to my body. After Muna I quickly discovered that every girl’s pussy was a unique creation. I had a sinking feeling that the one in my hand was Cindy’s. Go figure. Cindy’s vagina was cute.

“I’m sorry, David,” K said. I wondered why, turning my attention back to what she was doing. Too late I saw her smear that pungent amber goo across my scrotum, penis and inner thighs.

What the fuck was she doing? I gave a muffled cry of horror as I felt the initial tingling sink into my balls. It probably wasn’t safe for me to talk yet but I couldn’t keep a whispered “oh God please no” from escaping my lips.

K handed me a pillow. “Bite down on this,” she said, eyes filled with sympathy. I glared back at her with hatred and snatched the damn thing from her. “Giet bid daet selast,” I mumbled to myself, mantra like, slowly falling back into the softness of the bed. The tingling in my groin grew warm. “Donne mon him sylf ne maeg,” I whimpered, unbidden tears leaping to my eyes. “Wyrd onwendan.” I shoved as much of that damn pillow as I could into my mouth until I nearly choked on it. There wasn’t time to finish Akiko’s saying. I thought I knew what was coming.

I didn’t. A thousand white-hot needled being slowly pushed into my motherfucking gonads--that’s what it felt like. I howled into the pillow and my entire existence became white, searing pain. I writhed on the bed and bucked against the strong arms that held me down. Tears streamed down my face and inside I silently pleaded and begged for the pain to be done, for the torture to end, for it to be over . . . .

And then it was, and K was down between my legs holding something over the numb spot my groin had become. Drained of strength, I couldn’t have forced her away even if I tried. My breath came in ragged gasps as my sweat-drenched body rapidly cooled. By the time I found the strength to sit up K had already pulled away.

“Are you okay?” she asked in a soft voice.

I blinked away the tears and gave a curt, angry nod.

“I’m sorry, Mr Sanders. I had hoped that it would not be necessary. But we may not have another chance to quite so convincingly throw off our pursuers. Have a look, Cindy.”

I had to strain to see past those tits, but I could just make out a rounded, lightly furry mound where my boys used to be.

Was it safe to talk yet? Somehow that seemed a minor concern compared to my bits down below. “K,” I asked in a weak voice, “are they. . . .”

K hastened to convince me that everything was fine. “Your . . . equipment, is perfectly fine, Mr Sanders. They are merely hidden away behind the prosthetic.”

They certainly didn’t feel fine. In fact, what I could feel down there felt fucking weird and wrong. When those breasts first warmed to my chest I was gradually hit with the very disconcerting awareness of sensations coming from several inches further out from my chest than I was used to. And now . . . I had no idea what I was feeling; my mind couldn’t process it yet. I reached down with one tentative hand but K held me back at the wrist. “No time, Cindy,” she said, with a tight little smile. She pulled several articles of clothing from the suitcase.

“Let’s get you ready for the big show.”

***

The knocking on the door came loud and insistent.

Cindy secured the chain before daring to open the door. “Y . . . yes?” Peeking through the crack she saw a very determined, very official-looking man standing impatiently outside, and an equally serious-looking woman waited behind him. “Can I help you?”

“Federal agents,” the man stated. “Agent Fosters.” His eyes widened in surprise at what he saw. “Uh, miss. We need you to open the door, please.”

Cindy face glowed bright pink despite the cool air wafting in from outside. “It’s, um, not really a good time. . . .” She looked back at the room and down at herself and her blush deepened. From behind her came the sound of water running in the shower. “Please, officer, couldn’t this wait until morning?”

Looking a little embarrassed himself, the man held out his badge. “I’m sorry miss, but I really must insist.”

After glancing at the badge, blinking confusedly at it, she reluctantly unhooked the chain and stepped back. The door swung open and the two officers strode into the room.

Her long, slender legs shimmered in sheer white stockings as she skittishly flounced across the room. Flustered by the unexpected interruption, Cindy tottered unsteadily in four-inch ankle-wrap stilettos, the impossibly thin heel accentuating the smooth, lean curve of her calves. Thin white garters strained tautly across her rounded derriere as she carefully bent down to collect the insubstantial red gown tossed haphazardly across the pushed-together double beds. She fumbled to slip into the garment as the man gazed with open admiration at this vision of young beauty. There was nothing innocent about the sheer merrywidow to which the garters attached, nor in its plunge front over which her bountiful breasts spilled.

She finally managed to pull on the gown, though it did little to cover her. The layers of sheer fabric did little for her modesty; rather, it simply added to the seductive allure of those hidden places. The halter gown left her entire back open and one leg slid sensuously free of the high slit. The gown also did nothing to hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing any panties.

Cindy nervously smoothed down her front with a lightly trembling hand. Her eyes glistened with barely-repressed tears and her lower-lip trembled, much like a young child caught doing something naughty.

The man who had spoken at the door seemed unsure how to start. “Miss . . . uh . . . ?”

“Cindy,” she said, velvety pink lips parting in a timorous smile that disappeared almost immediately. Her face had an almost luminous sheen in the dimly--one could even say romantically--lit room. “Um, Cindy Long.” She nervously crossed her arms beneath her breasts, uncrossed them, and finally tangled her fingers in the mesh fabric of the gown over her veiled muff.

Both the man and the woman seemed to have trouble knowing where to settle their eyes, though an amused smile danced along the female agent’s lips. “The motel office has a Miss Cindy Long registered in room four, along with Wendy Jones. Mother and daughter, apparently.”

Cindy chewed on the corner of her lip. Brilliant green eyes ringed in smouldering hues shone beneath thick, impossibly long lashes. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken it. Oh, I knew it!”

The man looked at her inquisitively.

“The boy at the counter. Tim. He was so cute and shy, and nice, and he offered to put me in this room instead and only charge me for the cheap room, and I didn’t want him to get in trouble but I didn’t think he would, and it’s just this one time, I promise, and . . . .”

“Easy there, Miss Long, please.” He seemed a little distracted by the shimmering dusting across her exposed neck and breast. “And your, ah . . . mother?”

Cindy shook her head. Those long, dangling earrings flashed and danced beneath the sweeping curtain of blonde hair.

“Cindy?”

She nibbled on her lower lip for another moment before answering. “I’m not here with my mom, okay?” Her voice sounded hoarse with petulant frustration and teary embarrassment. “I registered under her name but she’s not here.” She jerked her thumb towards the bathroom. “I’m with . . . him.”

Both visitors slowly took in the room. An open bottle of wine and the two half-finished glasses, one whose rim was ringed with pink lip-prints. Bed sheets half drawn back but slightly ruffled in the middle, as if someone had been laying there in waiting. An unopened condom lying in wait on the nightstand. A messy trail of men’s socks and boxers led into the toilet. Recently lit candles were scatted around the room, the naked flames dancing in the breeze from outside. Sweet, floral perfume wafted from the nervously fidgeting girl standing half-naked before Agent Fosters, even as her nipples tightened and grew erect in the cooling air. The man sighed. He looked aside to his partner, who shrugged.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Miss,” the man said.

Cindy took a hesitant step forward. “Is there some kind of problem?” she asked, clearly concerned. “Is there any danger?”

He grinned reassuringly and shook his head. “Nothing you have to worry you pretty head about,” he said.

“Really?” Her lips split in a hesitant smile. “That’s a relief.”

The woman spoke for the first time. “While we’re here. . . .” she suggested. By the tone of her voice she didn’t sound in any hurry to leave, which only intensified Cindy’s nervous blush. Her eyes kept slowly sliding over the contours of the young girl’s body before settling over the shadowy area between her pale thighs.

Agent Fosters sighed. “Yeah, sure.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an 8x10 black-and-white photograph. He approached Cindy and held the image out for her to see. “We’re looking for this individual.”

She carefully examined it, absently chewing on the tip of her hair. “Is she dangerous?”

The man smiled. “Not to us.”

“I’m sure,” Cindy answered. She winked. “You definitely look like you can take care of yourself.”

The door to the toilet cracked open. “Hey, Cindy!” called out a deep, baritone voice. “You comin’ or what?”

“Maybe we’ll just leave you to it,” the man whispered, winking back. “Have fun.”

Beneath her heavy makeup Cindy blushed a hot, fiery red.

The man and woman stepped out of the room. The door locked behind them. Cindy leaned against the shut door, closed her eyes and released an exhausted sigh. When I opened my eyes I steeled myself for what came next.

With deliberate, careful steps I crossed the room. I pulled out one of the cases K had stowed beneath the bed. She’d left it unlocked . . . just in case. When I lifted the lid the weapons inside shone dully in the faint light.

“It is best,” Akiko taught me, “when man cannot himself change fate, that he endure it well.”

The gun settled comfortably in my grip. I slotted in the magazine and disengaged the safety and chambered the first round. Akiko had been a bit of a fatalist. I wasn’t. Maybe that’s why we didn’t last. I’ve put up with a lot over the few days. I’ve endured enough. Sometimes you lay back and put up with the bullshit life throws your way. And sometimes, you tell fate to go fuck itself.

K stepped from the bathroom, her firearm held low but ready. Without hesitation I levelled the gun at her.

She raised one eyebrow inquisitively. “David?”

“Care to explain, Agent K,” I asked, “why the feds are looking for you, not me?

K eyed me curiously. “Is there a problem, Mr Sanders?”

My aim never wavered. “You tell me, K.”

She stood framed in the light from the bathroom, dressed in functional grey cotton panties and bra. She kept the Glock low. With careful, deliberate steps I slowly circled towards the bed. I couldn’t stand long, not dressed in this goddamn lingerie, perched precariously on impossible heels.

“Would you like me to put up my hands?” K asked.

“I’d like to know what the fuck is going on, is what I’d like.” I settled on the edge of the bed. My head was pounding. Lack of sleep. The stress. Cindy. Tim and that Agent Fosters guy. The booze wasn’t helping. Now K. I felt like I was going to lose it. Not a good time to be holding a firearm. “But you can start by putting the gun down. Slowly!”

K did as ordered, engaging the safety before crouching and leaving the weapon on the floor. She looked up at me inquisitively. “And now?”

“Over there,” I commanded. I gestured with the gun for her to step towards the corner. She moved slowly, eying me cautiously. Fifteen feet between us. The room was only dimly lit by the candles and the light slanting in from the bathroom, and the little that slipped through the curtains from outside. K’s face, shrouded in shadows, revealed nothing. Nevertheless, I felt rather than saw the sudden tensing of her body.

My arm with the gun snapped taut. “Don’t even think about it, K.”

She relaxed and raised her hands to placate me. “Very well.” She backed up against the wall and slid to the floor, shifting to find a comfortable position. Her eyes never left the weapon in my hand. “There. Satisfied?”

I gave a curt nod.

“Are you going to shoot me, Mr Sanders?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Are you capable of shooting me, Mr Sanders?”

I gave a grim chuckle. “Don’t you doubt it for a second, K.” She probably didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t hesitate to prove her wrong. I liked proving people wrong. “So don’t push me.” I pressed the palm of my free hand against my temple. God, my head felt like it was going to explode.

“You don’t look well, Cindy.”

“Don’t call me that,” I growled. “The name’s David.”

She nodded. “Very well, David. David, you don’t look well.”

I gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, no shit.”

“I thought you trusted me. Why the gun?”

“Yeah, funny that. I’ve been trusting you, K, since I first approached the feds. Remember that? Yeah. And I was impressed, K. I really was. You struck me as very competent. I’m not a big fan of the authorities but you had me thinking differently, see? After all, I know fucking Steele isn’t an easy man to go up against . . . I didn’t think I’d find much help. Helping me had to seem a risky proposition.”

It’d been ages since I’d last held a gun. I gave it an expert little twirl and snapped it back to aim at K. Just like riding a bike. “But not too risky for you, eh, K? You sure stepped up to the plate awfully quick.”

She watched me from the corner impassively. “And your point is, David?”

“I’m here because I had nothing to lose. I’m here because it was the right thing to do. But why are you here, K?”

She didn’t answer me.

“I’m waiting, K.”

“Your wait will be a long one.”

“I’ve got the gun.”

She shrugged. “Then shoot me, Mr Sanders.” She stood up, one hand against the wall. “Though I suggest you use a pillow to muffle the shot, unless you want those authorities you so distrust to return.”

“Maybe I do.” I kept the gun trained on her, a little annoyed by her lack of concern. She left the corner and went about blowing out the candles she had quickly spread out to create a faux romantic atmosphere. She kept her distance, though. “Why should you care, anyway?”

“I promised you I would do everything in my power to keep you alive. I have every intention of keeping that promise.”

“Even though I’m pointing a gun at you.”

“Yes.”

“You sure that’s the only reason?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Because, you know, it’s you they’re looking for.”

Holding one of the candles in her hand, she glanced aside at me from the other side of the room. Her eyes glittered coolly over the dancing flame. “So you said.” She blew the candle out. “Is that why you have stopped trusting me?”

The weapon remained trained on her as she moved about the room. K was cleaning. She was actually cleaning up even though I had this goddamn gun.

“Who says I don’t trust you?” I answered with a wry smile. “I’m just wondering why they had a picture of you, K. They were going door to door looking for you. Not David Sanders. Not Cindy Long. You. So, yeah, it kinda got me questioning things. Things like: why the hell are federal agents hunting down one of their own?

“And it’s got me wondering about all this.” My gun made a wide sweep across my lingerie-clad form, these fake tits, that--I didn’t even want to think about it--thing glued to my crotch. “Not exactly standard gear for the witness protection program, I’m thinking. Eh? Cutting edge high-tech kit? How did you put it? ‘Unreleased on the open market?’ So how the hell did you get it, huh?” My free hand roughly grabbed and squeezed one of those jugs through the sheer fabric of the merrywidow. “Even if you could buy it, something like this is gotta be pricey. I’m guessing it’s all a bit outside the normal operating cost of the program.”

K stared at me from across the room for what felt like a long time. The ache in my head was slowly gathering into a single, blistering pain behind my right eye. God, I wanted to get out of these clothes. Those slender straps across my shoulders were distracting me something awful, and the ungodly arch of the shoes was killing me. Yeah, you could say I felt more than a little unsettled, dressed up like some little fuckbunny.

“Do you mind if I sit?” K asked, pulling the chair out from beneath the writing desk.

“Yeah, whatever,” I said, twitching the gun to show consent.

When was the last time I’d held a gun? I wondered. At least five years. A little bit longer. Not since everything went a little crazy after Kate. God. That long ago. Suddenly the five years spent as a corporate minion at NeoPharm seemed surreal, dreamlike, impossible. And now here I was. Sitting at the edge of bed, ensconced in virgin-white nylon and lace, covered and compressed by straps and stretch fabric that caressed every part of my body, over shoulders and thighs, around my back and across my ass. Dressed in lingerie with an ugly grey Steyr settled comfortably in my hand. Fifteen feet away sat K, also half naked, looking utterly unconcerned by the fact there was a firearm pointed at her chest.

My head throbbed so painfully it made the gun tremble in my grip. Shit. There was too much going on. Swarming around in my head. Anger and uncertain thoughts and painful memories. A string of women from my past: Amanda Lang and Akiko Takahashi and Muna Khalid. And God forgive me, Kate. Cindy.

And K. Motherfucking K. The thought that she might have betrayed me was killing me. It really was. I’ve already said I make my mind up about people quickly. No second chances. I’ve been screwed over often enough in the past not to have learned my lesson. That’s why I follow my gut feeling. My instincts usually have a better idea of what’s going on than my head does. God, my head--it felt like it was splitting in two.

My instincts told me that I could trust K, just as they told me that, despite the friendly exterior, there was something slimy and terrible about Agent Fosters. He’d been a decent-looking guy, medium build and probably in his mid-thirties. Slick suit and a winning smile. And yet--my gut told me not to trust the guy, not to fuck with him. He left me feeling . . . scared, and I don’t scare easily.

Then again, I’m not sure I would’ve felt safe around any guy, dressed the way Cindy was. That badge Fosters flashed me looked legit enough, as far as I can tell that kind of thing.

But that picture. K. The feds wanted her. Those weren’t Jeremiah fucking Steele’s hitmen tailing us all day, but rather goddamn federal agents. Which had me thinking very unpleasant thoughts.

What if K was actually working for that bastard Steele?

She watched me from across the room. Her eyes kept dancing away.

“Having trouble looking at me, K? Feeling guilty?”

She gave a polite cough. “Actually, I was hoping you would . . . sit a little more demurely. The view is more than a little distracting.”

Blushing angrily, I crossed my legs at the thigh, hiding that impossible fake vagina nestled between my legs. With a sibilant whisper the gown settled around my waist and left my stocking-clad leg exposed. It was proving remarkably difficult to maintain the aggressive posture, dressed as I was.

“Better?” I demanded.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Then how about some answers?”

K shrugged. “I would have happily answered them at any time, whether you had a gun or not.” She paused for a moment, as if she expected me to lower my firearm. I didn’t.

“You are correct, of course. Prosthetics such as the ones you currently wear are not commonly available to federal agents. Then again, the program is not commonly involved in the process of disguising its participants as members of the opposite sex.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I gave my right tit a squeeze. “So where the hell did this shit come from, then?”

“The easy answer, Mr Sanders, is that they came from your former employers. An R&D branch of NeoPharm created them less than a year ago, near as we can tell. The project was discontinued once it was discovered that the product was not economically viable. We believe they were originally intended for mastectomy patients, but that the cost of growing the breasts far exceeded what most women could afford to pay for them. Furthermore, the breasts themselves proved unstable.”

“Unstable?” My already high-pitched voice jumped a notch. I suddenly regretted groping the thing so roughly. “They’re not gonna . . . explode, are they?”

K laughed. “No, Mr Sanders. Unstable in that the compound used to form the breast has an unfortunately short lifespan. Though it draws a certain amount of its nutrients directly from your body to remain ‘alive’, it nevertheless begins to wither and die after a few weeks. Much like fruit, actually.”

Holy shit. I really did have melons stuck to my chest.

“But . . . how do they work? I mean, I can feel them, K. When I touch the damn things, I feel it--not down against my real chest, but out here,” I grabbed myself again, though this time gently, “as if they really were a part of me.” Strictly speaking that wasn’t true. The sensation of my own touch was slightly muted, somehow, as if it diffused by distance or a protective layer. The nipples themselves did nothing for me, but then again, my real nipples don’t either.

K shrugged. “I am not a scientist, Mr Sanders. The patents are held by NeoPharm. Some of the boys back in the lab tried to reverse-engineer a sample and best they could come up with, the breasts are grown from some kind of semi-organic compound that intelligently bonds with the patient. You can feel it, Mr Sanders, because technically speaking, they are part of you.”

“Whoa!” I exclaimed. “What the hell do you mean, intelligently?”

“Intelligent, Mr Sanders. Not sentient. Perhaps adaptive would have been a better choice of words.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, K. I’ve seen those movies--you know, the ones where someone gets a heart transplant or something and goes crazy? These tits, they’re not gonna try and take over my brain, are they?”

She smiled. “I believe your brain is as safe from those breasts as any man’s is.”

I didn’t like having those things there. Though she didn’t say it outright, they still sounded like parasites to me. They hung and fed off my body and ultimately gave back absolutely fuck all. “And . . . this thing?” I made a vague gesture meant to take in the vagina clamped down over my cock and balls.

“Similar technology, Mr Sanders, though necessarily somewhat more complicated.”

“It’s going to wither and die, too?”

She nodded.

“It’s not gonna take my dick with it, is it?”

Again she laughed. “No, Mr Sanders. Your male organs are perfectly safe, if somewhat tightly restrained. Your testicles are held back in their natural cavity and your penis is contained in an organic sheath. In fact, the lab believes the device naturally produces a topical anaesthetic which serves to eliminate any pain and minimize, ah, unexpected bulges from arising. However, urination should not be a problem, though of course you will have to sit like any other woman.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

K never kids. So as long as this goddamn thing was stuck to me I was going to be one step closer to Cindy--a huge step, if you ask me, and one I wasn’t too happy about. I love pissing standing up. I mean, I really do. More than anything else I figure that’s what defines a man: the ability to drunkenly write your name in the snow.

“Why the hell would somebody grow fake vaginas, K?” I demanded. “I get the tits. I do. But cutting-edge cunts?”

She winced at my language. I reminded myself to try and tone it down a bit. “I do not know precisely,” she answered. “More women than you know suffer beneath the fist of oppressive regimes, David. Genital mutilation . . . young girl having their clitoris scraped or burnt off . . . and worse.”

I swallowed uncomfortably at the thought. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Most people do not,” K answered. “Such women may have use for such products. Otherwise, the market for such things is obviously rather . . . limited. However. . . .” K hesitated, and then seemed to change her mind.

“C’mon, K. Spill it.”

“You have to understand that these are seized goods,” she said. “Less than a month ago, acting on information supplied by an informant, federal agents raided a medical institute thought to be involved in the distribution of a number of illegal substances.”

“Drugs?” I don’t like drugs. I mean, yeah, I’ve smoked a spliff or two in my life, especially as a teen, popped a couple pills out at the club, but I’d also seen the really nasty side of the trade. I’d lost more than one good friend to that shit.

“Far worse than that,” K answered, and her voice turned unexpectedly grim. “What we found beneath that clinic, David, was . . . evil. I wish I could think of a less melodramatic term, but what we found was beyond anything I have ever seen.”

The way she said it actually sent a small shiver down my spine. Intrigue was overcoming paranoia; the weapon in my hand slowly drooped as I listened to K. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes flashed coldly. “That is none of your business, Mr. Sanders.”

I pointed at my newfound furry patch. “It became my business the moment you attached these goddamn appliances to me, K.”

“Those?” She gave a humourless chuckle. “Those were the least of what we found in the raid.” By this time the gun was resting in my lap, though I hadn’t pulled my finger away from the trigger. Though my interest was captured, she hadn’t exactly renewed my complete trust. “Though we found enough NeoPharm products being put to use to arouse our suspicion.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are not the first man,” K answered, “To be unwillingly fitted with a pair of artificial breasts, Mr Sanders.”

I couldn’t keep myself from glancing down at those firm pale orbs hanging off my chest, barely contained within their lacy cups. Stupid rooky mistake, looking away like that.

K could’ve crossed the room and planted her foot in my face by the time I looked up again. She was certainly good enough. I don’t know why I believed that. It’s not like I’ve seen her action. But there’s a way a person carries themselves, once they’re no longer afraid. That Agent Fosters guy moved in the same way, come to think of it. And so does K. She knew she could take care of herself. Suddenly, even though I had the gun and she was sitting half-naked across the room from me, I had this feeling that I was the one in danger; that if I didn’t ask or answer the right questions bad things might happen.

She didn’t move, though. She seemed content to talk from across the room. “Ultimately, what we found was evidence possibly linking Mr Steele to the site we raided. There were not just NeoPharm products. Other items produced through Steele-owned subsidiaries were on site as well. Not ordinary things. Newly-developed, cutting-edge, unreleased. Very high tech. Illegal. Expensive.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What does this have to do with me?”

“The operation was discovered roughly two months ago.”

The pounding in my head subsided, but only because of a far worse sinking feeling in my stomach. “But that’s around when I. . . .”

“Not around, Mr. Sanders. Precisely. The night of. The very night you saw Mr Steele kill Mr Antazzi, I took part in an attack on a very well-defended medical institute that--”

“But I didn’t hear or see anything about--”

“He believes you did. He believes you can prove his connection to . . . to . . . .” Her voice died, strangled beneath repressed emotion. Her hands briefly shook by her side. When she found her voice again, her tone was bleak. “He will stop at nothing to have you removed, Mr Sanders. I was reluctant to reveal the full extent of the danger you have submitted yourself to, but now there is little choice.”

I cocked my head towards the door. “Agent Fosters? The woman?” Strange, but I’d almost forgotten about the woman.

If her voice was cold before, it was positively glacial now. “The day after the raid,” K told me, “three undercover agents involved in the raid turned up dead. Within a week four more colleagues were killed as well. My partner was killed.”

What do you say to that kind of thing? “I’m sorry.”

“There was an attempt on my life as well.” Her smile was thin and cruel. “Obviously it did not succeed.”

“So you think those two are bad news?”

“I do not know. But I discovered the hard way that the arm of Jeremiah Steele reaches very far and very deep. The very agency you turned to for protection, Mr Sanders, would have likely proved your undoing.”

“Huh.” Damn, but I knew turning to the feds was a bad idea. The authorities always manage to muck things up. I was really starting to regret starting this whole thing, I can tell you. Why the hell couldn’t I have kept my dick to myself? If I hadn’t been chasing after pussy that night, I wouldn’t have one of my own right now.

Though what K had told me really caught my attention. It really did. What the hell did she stumble across beneath that medical facility? I knew I’d gotten mixed up in bad shit when I saw fucking Steele whack that Italian dude, and the other stuff I saw was just downright wrong, but . . . this? How big a shitpile had I landed in?

The funny thing is, you’d think knowing that I’d just stepped into something way over my head would’ve made me feel worse. But I didn’t feel like I was drowning in it at all. Hell, I think the dull throb in my head even started to pull back a bit. Yeah, I was totally fucked . . . but there was also a part of me--a part I’d forcefully buried away and tried to forget--that thrilled at the idea of being swept up in something this big and nasty.

My thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

I snapped to attention, Steyr pointed towards the disturbance. I glanced back at K a moment later. Where the hell did that gun in her hand come from? She swiftly padded across the room towards the beds. She nodded once towards the door.

With wobbly steps I approached the door, weapon held at the ready. “Yes?” I called out, and the nervous tremor wasn’t entirely forced.

“Cindy?”

“Tim?” I glanced back at K. She shrugged and faded back into the darkness at the far end of the room. I opened the door as far as the locking chain allowed. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . . just had to check if everything was okay.” I dropped the handgun behind the door. Stupid kid. He stood there in the flat outdoor lights, with such concern etched into his face that I could’ve almost laughed. I think the idiot was actually crushing on me. Not that I could blame him, really. Cindy was pretty hot stuff. At the moment he could only see my face, peeking around the door. I gave him a nice, wet smile and decided he deserved a treat. He’d probably saved my life tonight.

“That’s so sweet,” I said, opening the door.

Whatever answer he had died in his throat. The light from the bathroom caught me from behind, highlighting those feminine curves, cascading through the shimmering fabric draped across my body. I leaned against the doorframe with my arm crossed beneath those silk-clad parasites.

Tim didn’t quite seem to know what to say or do. He looked away, blushing fiercely. Poor kid. “Um . . . those guys, they’re gone now.”

“I know,” I answered.

“You’re not here with your mother, are you?” He sounded angry. I watched the realization slowly work its way across his face, and felt sorry for him. I think he was cluing in that most girls don’t dress up like lingerie models when staying with family.

I gave a sad shake of my head. “No Tim, I’m not.”

When he looked back at me, his angry eyes stayed fixed on my green ones. The kid had some class, I had to admit. He wasn’t staring at those tits or anything; he was actually looking at me. “I can’t believe you played me like that.”

“Tim, I didn’t.” I tried to sound as genuine as possible. “I really didn’t. I meant what I said, you know. You really are a nice guy.”

He snorted bitterly and looked away again. “Yeah, I know.”

I sighed softly. “Tim, that’s not a bad thing.”

“Whatever. Just . . . just make sure you’re out by nine, okay?”

He was about to leave and I should’ve just left it at that. I really should have. But for some reason I called out to him. “No wait, Tim . . . please.”

The boy hesitated. Of course he did. A sexy young woman was calling his name.

“What?”

“Tim. I just wanted to let you know. If I wasn’t already with someone? I totally would’ve had that drink with you.”

“Yeah?” He finally looked back at me, smiling tentatively. “Really?”

“Really,” I said. And then . . . .

With a delicate step I moved up against him. I was taller than him in the heels, though only just. I liked that. There was an unexpected tingle as my breast flattened against his chest. One hand cupped his cheek and ran through his short spiky hair and slowly pulled him towards me. He didn’t resist. I leaned forward. My lips gently found his. The kiss was soft and sweet and just a bit sticky from the lipgloss. I sighed through slightly parted lips. “Thank you,” I purred, and pulled away.

Tim stood there for a moment, eyes unfocused. “Nobody’s gonna believe me when I tell ‘em,” he mumbled. “My first freakin’ kiss and she’s a total babe and nobody’s gonna believe me.”

I forced a giggle. “Good-night, Tim.”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

I closed and locked the door and released a deep breath. The pain in my head eased off. I didn’t feel sick anymore; quite the contrary. The tension through my shoulders slowly bled away. During the brief exchange with Tim I’d made my decision. I looked down at the gun on the floor and reluctantly picked it up.

I heard K stir from the far side of the room. “Do we return to our standoff now, Mr Sanders?”

“Call me Cindy,” I said. I cleared the round from the chamber, engaged the safety and released the clip. With a shrug I gingerly stepped back towards the bed. “Way I see it, K, I’ve got two choices here: I can either trust you, or not trust you. And I’ll be honest. A lot of shit doesn’t add up. You’ve got all this gear and you’ve clearly got back up and there’s all sorts of stuff going on in the background that you haven’t told me about. At the same time you say the feds are looking for you and can’t be trusted and we’re working alone. It’s all a bit overwhelming, although when you get down to it, I’ve also got no reason to believe anything you say to me.”

I held the Steyr out to her. “Like I said, there’s a lot about you that doesn’t add up. But you know what? My gut tells me you’re okay.”

She came up to me and pulled the gun from my hand. Her eyes glinted enigmatically in the half-light.

“Does that mean you trust me again, Cindy?” Her voice was surprisingly soft.

I shrugged and smiled. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

She stepped away and stored the firearm back in the case by the bed. “What did the boy want?”

I absently touched one finger to my lip. “To see if Cindy was okay.”

“Was she?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.”

***

Katherine Ophelia White. The only woman I have ever loved. I say that, though I’m not convinced that what we had was love at all. I mean, really, who the hell knows what love is anyway? What we had, was six months together. Only six months. And what we had was twisted and wonderful and difficult. I guess you could say that our relationship was . . . complex.

But then, I guess every eighteen-year old thinks their first serious relationship is the most intense and complicated thing in the world. It’s so hard to keep perspective on these things. That was seven years ago. It’s funny, when I think back about it. Not that I do very often. Think about the past, that is. She’s not something I like to think about. I think that’s what makes me sad and angry most of all: that the only person I’ve ever loved is also the only person I’ve ever truly hated. No wonder I went insane there for a bit once we were through.

That’s not true. What makes me really mad, is this: that when I think back and try to picture Kate . . . I can’t. It’s been seven years; God, only seven years. And already she’d fading from my memory, like newspaper used to cover a closed-down shop’s windows, yellowed and bleached by the sun. She was taller than me. Slender and inflexible, strong and healthy, like bamboo. That’s what I remember. Her and me and a bamboo forest.

The wind tore through that tall, rigid bamboo forest and surrounded us with this otherworldly rustling, creaking sound--an old wooden ship caught in a storm. We were hiding. Hiding in the bamboo, panting with exertion, our mutual hatred momentarily forced aside by a mutual enemy. Next thing, we were hungrily kissing, tearing at each others’ clothes, cursing and biting at each other, suddenly turned feral with lust and released tension. We had sex in that vibrant, verdant field of swaying stalks that clawed the greying sky overhead. She cried out in passion and fury as I entered her and she tore my back and her voice was ripped away by the growing storm.

I loved her from that moment on.

But that’s all I remember: bits and pieces, flashes of the whole. Her angry smile flashing; narrowed eyes; slim, nearly boyish hips cocked to one side and her balled up fists. “I’m no good for you, David,” she always used to tell me. “And you’re no good for me. This can’t last.”

She was right. Goddamn her, but she was right.

But man, was the sex ever good! The best: passionate, intense, our entire being poured into that short, ecstatic moment spent together. I’m not sure I really knew Kate, outside of sex. Not the real Kate anyway. Then again, we both spent a lot of our time together lying. We had to. But not during sex; that was always honest. And angry. I’d forgotten how good angry sex can be.

I’m not sure why Kate was running through my head as I returned to my bed. I’ll be honest: I didn’t bother cleaning off the makeup. I didn’t strip out of that damned lingerie or any of the other shit. Hell, I didn’t even unwind those goddamned heels from my calves. I was simply too tired. All I wanted was some sleep, a few good hours of solid, regenerative sleep. Vaguely aware of K puttering around the room, setting everything straight for our departure tomorrow, I collapsed face-down on the bed and closed my eyes.

I couldn’t sleep. Exhausted as I was, I begun to feel . . . odd. Hot, even though I lay half-naked over the sheets. At first I thought I was growing a massive hard on, but I knew that wasn’t possible. Not the way everything was sealed away and anaesthetized down there. The sensation was a phantom response, what I imagine an amputee feels for an arm or leg. Only it didn’t go away. Growing warmth settled between my legs and began to tingle. I squeezed my thighs together to clamp down on the feeling but it didn’t help; it made it worse; I began to feel strangely slick down there. I squirmed over the sheets, wanting to thrust into the bed but knowing it wouldn’t provide any relief.

It was because of Kate. It had to be because of her. The encounter in the bamboo forest all those years ago kept running through my mind. I vividly remembered pushing into her, her strong legs wrapped around my back; but those memories didn’t match up with the sensations my body was sending back to me; I had nothing to thrust with.

“Is everything okay, Cindy?”

K’s voice cut through my fevered confusion. I flipped over on the bed and stared up at her with wide eyes. “What the hell is happening?”

“What do you mean?” A shadow of a smile danced across her face. She knew, the fucking bitch!

“Dammit, K! I feel all . . . weird.”

“Weird? How, weird?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about!” My skin felt flushed and hot. I fluttered one hand down around my crotch. “This . . . thing. It’s making me feel all . . . tingly.”

“Has Cindy been having naughty thought?”

“No! Well, a little. So what? My bits are all locked away, right? So what the hell’s going on?”

K shook her head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I think you misunderstood me. Yes, your organs are incapable of responding in the normal way. After all, an erection could severely compromise the prosthetic. However, nothing was done to dampen normal sexual response.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” There was a panicked edge to my voice I wasn’t proud of. I wiggled my hips a bit and squeezed tighter and was shocked to feel actual wetness down there. How the fuck was that possible? God, how I wanted to reach down there with one hand and grab hold of . . . something.

“Here, sit up.” She helped me up and smoothed my hair back over my shoulder. I swear, her touch just made me feel worse, hot flares tracing across my skin. “In a way, I suppose this is my fault.”

“This is all your fault!”

K smiled. “What I mean is that in our haste to attach the prosthetic, there was not enough time to calibrate it properly. I suspect that it is operating at a slightly higher sensitivity than normal.”

“Slightly?” I wanted to squirm at the edge of the bed. “What is this thing doing to me?”

“As far as I understand the device, it is . . . hijacking, I suppose, the signal being sent to your male organs and rerouting them to the prosthetic. The artificial vagina seems designed to react as naturally as possible, and returns the appropriate sensations. It may seem a little . . . touchy, at the moment, but should adjust itself to an appropriate sensitivity with time.” She hesitated for a moment. “Do you trust me?”

I gave a dry, slightly manic laugh. “Yeah, sure, why not?”

She reached down and with a few touches coaxed my thighs apart. I couldn’t watch as she reached between my legs. I couldn’t see . . . but I could damn well feel as one finger gently traced a path through those short curly hairs . . . her fingernail sent a shiver through my spine . . . and then the impossible feeling of actually being penetrated, the tip of her finger quickly dipping into something I couldn’t have. I swear I actually whimpered and had to forcefully keep my legs from clamping down on her hand.

When she pulled her finger back the tip glistened in the dim light. “Amazing,” she said.

“Yeah,” I added weakly. “No shit.”

“Back at the lab, they are not entirely sure how the prosthetic generates the lubricant, though they believe it draws and stores moisture from the body. It is not the real thing, of course, but the approximation is truly remarkable. It seems to secrete in response to sexual stimuli.” She looked at me curiously. “What does it feel like, David?”

I wanted to reach down there myself so bad, to scratch at that place that K had touched . . . but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not with her there. Not even if she wasn’t. That just wasn’t a line I was interested in crossing. But the sense of arousal wasn’t fading away. “It feels . . . it feels really weird, K. Like I’ve got a hard on, but I can’t touch it . . . it’s like some kind of wide-on, and it’s not going away.”

“I see.” She reached into one of those lacy cups and gently held one of my breasts. Her thumb brushed against the nipple and I jumped. What the hell? “The breasts seem to be responding as well.” I hadn’t noticed but it was true--an almost painful stiffening of the breasts, like screws being tightened and focusing the warmth swelling through my chest on that one point. “The nipples are responsive to sexual arousal as well as to changes in temperature.”

“Yeah, that’s just great.” Bloody hell. It seemed an impossible, surreal scene to me, poised on the knife’s edge of that bed, in these clothes, with this sexy older woman fondling my breast. “Do you, ah, mind?”

“I was curious as to what the response would be,” she said, without removing her hand. In fact, her thumb continued to absently flick across the nipple as her eyes curiously wandered across my body. “Your brain is sending very masculine signals down to the prosthetic, and the device returns feminine impulses. How is the information processed by the male brain? Can it properly interpret the sensations? How should your body react?”

“K, I . . . please. . . .”

Her other hand found its way between my legs again. This time my thighs did clamp down, trying to keep her out, but too late. Her palm cupped that feminine mound and seemed to capture and intensify the warmth down there. With her middle finger she slipped into that--dammit, into my--vagina, and my hips jerked involuntarily again. God, I was so fucking wet! “Of course, these devices are merely very convincing replicas. Hardly the real thing. The vagina, for instance, though capable of limited penetration does not extend as deeply as that of a real woman’s.”

She pushed her finger all the way in. Jesus fucking Christ! I nearly collapsed against her, releasing a short, high-pitched squeal. The sensation of something inside of me, it was . . . I don’t know what it was! Understanding of what was happening to me kept sliding away as overwhelming and confusing feelings bombarded my brain.

“Interesting,” she said. “Just deep enough for a finger.”

“K, you gotta-- you hafta. . . ,” I panted.

“Yes, Cindy?” she asked.

“Stop,” I barely managed to say.

She paused in her ministrations with one finger inside of me and her hand gently holding my left breast. “Really? You are a very strong girl, Cindy. I am not restraining you in any way.”

Damn that woman. Yeah, I could’ve thrown her off me easy. K’s clearly a strong girl, but like I’ve said--I’m in good freakin’ shape. I might not look it but I’ve got some serious strength behind me when I need it. Somehow, she seemed to have robbed me of it. That finger in my cunt was like goddamn kryptonite. I was so geared up, so horny from whatever that thing between my legs was doing to me that I didn’t want her to stop touching me. But I did want her to stop, because this felt so wrong. It also felt really, really nice in a very, very strange way.

“K, I . . . I don’t know if I can. . . .”

“Shh, Cindy.” Her left hand spidered up from my breast and gently stroked my neck before softly pressing a finger against my painted lips. “You have wanted this since you first laid eyes on me.”

I think that’s when it finally occurred to me that I was sitting on a bed with a very attractive woman wearing nothing but her bra and panties. Yeah, yeah, forget the fact that I was wearing pretty much the same shit and had tits and the other thing as well. K pushed forward and her mouth crushed up against mine. The sweetness of lipgloss danced on our tongue and I realized it was mine. Still with that finger inside of me, she pushed firmly against my chest and I fell back onto the bed. She followed me down, exploring the inside of my mouth. The thought that I was actually getting it on with K carried me to a new level of arousal . . . I felt my hardness grow . . . no, I felt a confusing swelling . . . I moaned into her kiss and her finger slipped in and out of my redoubled wetness.

“My, Cindy, you are an enthusiastic girl, aren’t you?”

I was already flushed from the experience but found myself growing even hotter with embarrassment, which in turn made me squirm with even more sexual hunger. God, I just . . . I wanted some kind of relief so badly! Our breasts crushed together as she bore down on me. My mouth hungrily sought hers and I began to push against her weight, my hands reaching for her ass, running through her hair, grabbing, aggressive.

“No!” she commanded. Her finger slopped free of my pussy and her other hand released my tit and she grabbed at my wrists. “Be a good girl, now,” she said, forcing my arms back over my head. She straddled me at the waist. I looked up at her, half-blind with passion. Her eyes glittered in the half-light. Her small, tight breasts, still in their bra, loomed over me. Her smile was hard and cold. “Be Cindy.”

What the hell did that mean? Her cotton-covered crotch hovered an inch over mine. I wanted to buck my hips, thrust up and penetrate her; my thighs and ass tensed up and my tits felt even hotter and tighter than before. She stole another kiss from my open, panting mouth. She planted a trail of kisses along my neck down to my breast. Both massive things had already popped free of the merrywidow. Her tongue found a nipple and drew it into her mouth. Her hand stroked my leg, drawing sensuously up the silky length of the stocking before toying with the lacy edge.

Her face pulled away from my chest. Her hair tickled my skin through the nylon as she languidly traced a path towards my groin. Both hands stroked my breasts and then my sides before sliding beneath my ass and roughly squeezing. I watched, stunned, overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations, as this beautiful, sexy woman worked her way down to my crotch. My breathing intensified in anticipation of her sucking me off . . . but I couldn’t . . . she wasn’t going to. . . ?

Her tongue darted out and lapped against a little button down there I’d completely forgotten about.

“Fu--!” I cried out, my whole body jerking at the overwhelming sensation. I think something erupted in my head. There was no mistaking my voice for anything other than a girl’s at that moment. My fists coiled in the sheets and I went momentarily rigid as a board. “Oh . . . God, K . . . .” I felt poised at the edge of some thrilling, dangerous precipice; every nerve inflamed and crying out for relief. I was terrified and enthralled by where she was leading me.

“Did you enjoy that?” she asked, lifting her head from between my legs. Her chin glistened and her grin was animalistic. “Shall I continue?”

I stared at her with open eyes. My whole body quivered with anticipation and what worried me most was that I didn’t even feel ashamed, spread out and desperate before her. I’m not sure I’d ever been this physically turned on before.

“Say it!” she demanded.

“Holy shit . . . yes? Please?” I barely managed to whisper it.

Her smile grew and I was chilled by how cruel she suddenly seemed. “Too bad,” she said, and she pulled away and slid off the bed.

What the fuck? No! “K, you can’t . . . !”

Her face suddenly loomed over me, eyes flashing angrily. “If you ever point a gun at me again, David,” she said, “I will break your arm.” Then she lunged down and stole a final, savage kiss before breaking away.

She returned to her bed. “I advise you to get some sleep,” she said, her voice barely heard through the confused anticipatory haze in which she left me. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

I just lay there in stunned, eroticized silence.

“And Cindy? I strongly suggest you learn to control your urges. Good-night.”

She turned off the lights and went to bed.

***

The bitch woke me up at five-fucking-thirty in the morning. I mean, it must’ve been near three by the time my hard-on--or whatever the hell you call it when your cock’s caught beneath some kind of mad female prosthetic device--eased off and I finally drifted to sleep. K didn’t even look tired, but then I imagine she’d had a proper night’s sleep.

Groggy and cranky, I didn’t resist as she stripped me of last night’s lingerie and hustled me into the bathroom. She got the shower started. Another lesson in femininity: it takes a hell of a lot longer to get ready and look pretty in the morning. Especially if you’re really a guy.

My first real shower with breasts and a pussy was a very strange affair, but I was too out of it to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. I won’t deny that a part of me wanted to caress those parasites hanging off of my chest or hold the shower nozzle down to my crotch. Even the thought of it sent a warning tingle to my groin that I knew better than to indulge. The reality, though, was that I was so damn out of it that I just robotically did what was required. K handed me a razor. I lathered up and cleared the pink-tinted foam away with quick, long strokes. It was still a hell of a chore to get at those awkward spots, especially now that those massive tits were hanging off my chest and bobbling about and getting in the damn way every time I bent over.

Out of the shower? Pat dry, again a bit put off by the feel of flesh against flesh without a comforting layer of hair. Then moisturizer, and by the time the task was done I smelled like a goddamn flower garden. I felt silkily smooth and ill at ease in my own skin.

Stepping back into the main room I found clothes laid out on the bed, thoughtfully picked by K for me to struggle into as she showered and readied herself. I ignored the clothes at first. The moment I heard the shower start I dropped to the floor and worked through a quick exercise routine. Like I said, I like to keep in shape. I mean, hell, I’d been working out almost daily for the last decade, yeah? Something becomes that ingrained it’s hard to give it up. Between the bullets and bruising and all the other shit, I hadn’t had a chance to work out for days and it was really starting to get to me. Despite the injuries, my body was itching for some exercise. Most mornings I like to drop out of bed and crank off some push-ups and crunches; it helps to clear the head. Chicks dig that shit too. They love to see a man work out and sweat.

Yeah, but somehow it just wasn’t the same. I stripped naked and dropped to the floor, and goddamn if those blasted tits didn’t hit the floor before I did. They dangled and swayed with each movement, distracting and annoying, and the extra weight was a real pain in the ass--and the back. I managed sixty before giving up, disgusted. Rolling over onto my back, the crunches weren’t as bad, but those boobs were still a smothering weight, flattened out across my chest. I had a real surreal moment then, lying on my back and looking down at my painted toes, across the bodyscape of my tits and smooth, hairless belly leading towards that hint of pussy nestled between my legs. Those hairless legs felt too smooth, too sleek, crossed at the ankle and held up off the floor. I felt a vague sense of disquiet as I began the workout. This wasn’t a point of view I wanted to get familiar with. A quick hundred and I reluctantly, uneasily clambered to my feet to confront the clothes K had picked for the day’s festivities.

She told me afterwards that she’d considered leaving me bare-legged, but thought my legs too masculine, too muscular. Therefore stockings, this time white, semi-sheer stay-ups to soften the strong lines of my calf and shin. Then panties, pink, silky and--K had to teach me this--boy-cut. It was a very strange feeling, tugging those lacy things on and having them pull up against a flat, smooth crotch for the first time. The final indignity was a white corset: not a small waist-cincher thing, but a goddamn full-blown, all-around-boning rib-crushing piece of torture in satin. K was done her shower by this time, slipping into the role of ‘Mom’. Too tired to object, I simply raised my arms as she wrapped the damn thing around my chest and began to tighten the laces. In deference to my wounds and heavy bruising she eased off when I gasped from the hurt, but there was something in the way she savagely jerked and tied off the stays before she returned to the bathroom that left me thinking she took pleasure in my pain.

It was freaky, I tell you, looking down at myself after that. Those sleek, boned lines glimmered in the light and really forced a feminine contour onto my body. Under-wire cups shoved that fake bosom up high, creating positively mountainous cleavage, while down below everything was smooth, with just the slightest hint of vaginal lips beneath the panty’s taut silk.

I had to quickly turn away from the mirror, seeing myself dressed like that. My crotch started to tingle again. God, how was I going to survive if even just seeing myself left me all hot and bothered?

You’d think compared to the corset that a skirt would be easy, but if anything that’s what nearly made me lose it that morning. It was a pleated (sunburst pleat, K informed me) green-checked affair, above the knee and flirty and just a little too school-girlish for my liking.

See, it’s like life’s made of all kinds of lines you draw in the sand, yeah? And those lines, when you reach them you say, “no way.” Some lines, you compromise: “Well, if I’m really drunk,” maybe, or “if she’s, like, fucking hot” or “damn, but a friend’s in trouble.” These last few days, I’d discovered a new excuse: “only if a sonuvabitch psychotic’s after your ass and you’ve got to act like a total girly-girl.”

So, yeah, stepping into that skirt felt like crossing one of those lines, one I never even knew I’d drawn in the sand. It’s one of those things you never really say to yourself. “No way I’m ever gonna wear a goddamn short, pleated skirt, unless . . . .” It’s like, painted-on jeans with a flared leg? Feminine, sure, but guys wear jeans so no problem. But guys don’t wear skirts. Ever. A kilt’s one thing. This was a skirt. Short and sexy and made to hang off of curves--curves I somehow now sported. It’s the kind of thing I loved seeing on flighty little things prancing around the club, offering tantalizing hope of glimpsing her tight ass if she just . . . bent . . . over . . . a little further.

Well, I wouldn’t be bending over for much in this bloody corset, but it was still my pantied ass on display, and tired as hell I still wasn’t very happy about it. But what could I do? I’d already had my masculinity-reaffirming hissy fit last night; K didn’t seem to be talking much to me as it was; and I was too exhausted to argue the point. So I stepped into the little pool of fabric at my feet and slid it up my legs and over those surprisingly flared hips. Without the corset I doubt it would’ve fit. As I zipped up the side it hugged my curves. Turning quickly caused it to flare out and settle in a pleated whisper around my thighs, barely covering the lacy top of the stockings. Up above, the exposed semi-circle of those compressed globes quivered disconcertingly with every breath.

The top was white and form-fitting, a turtleneck sweater with slender sleeves reaching just past the wrist. My arms looked slimmer--more feminine--less muscular--in that damn thing. It seemed almost a shame to hide that prodigious cleavage, but I also thought not having those jugs on display would make for a nice change. Thing is, they made such a tight, high mound, proudly pulling the fabric out between both peaks, that I almost felt more self-conscious than in yesterday’s outfit. Talk about sweater-meat, you know? Tucking the top into the skirt, it drew tight across my stomach and somehow made my waist seem even thinner. At least the high neck eliminated any chance of my Adam’s apple popping out.

Slipping on the same open-toed heels as yesterday, I was confronted with a very strange, very off-putting sense of relief: at least they’re only two inches, I thought, which immediately left me feeling queasy to my stomach. Since when had the height of my heels been a goddamn concern of mine? But after those idiotic fuck-me stilettos of last night, these day shoes were almost . . . comfortable, in a very relative sense. Who knew an inch or two could make such a difference?

With the wig back in place I stepped in front of the mirror to get the full impact.

My face, free of makeup, was incongruous with the overall image. I had a man’s face, a strong chin, a firm jaw line. That’s what I told myself. Because that body reflected in the mirror? All girl. When she reached back to pull her hair into a ponytail, her movements were a bit unsure, a little too forceful, manly perhaps. Her shoulders looked a little too broad. At rest, however . . . God, at rest, I looked like a damn girl. I understood then why K had left me to get ready on my own, why she’d forced a skirt on me this morning. This body reflected back would confront me in the mirror every day for the next few weeks. Somehow, I had to come to terms with Cindy.

Because when I stared into my eyes--free of the colours and powders that made of them something other--I still saw myself, masculine and confident. When my gaze slid across those forced curves, it’s a good thing my own expression was hidden from me. I didn’t want to see those eyes turn feminine and hesitant. I had to find some middle-ground between those extremes, or I’d go crazy before I could drop the disguise.

You know those lines I mentioned? The ones drawn in the sand? Yeah. Over the last few days, I think I’d crossed more of them than I ever thought possible. That’s the thing, I guess: these limits you place on yourself, on who you are and what you’re willing to do--most of them are unconscious. Unconscious, but you know when you’ve crossed one. That sinking feeling in the stomach, the sudden hot flush or stifled breath? Every punch to the gut and momentary unease over the last few days was me getting pulled and dragged into territory I never wanted to visit. And now here I was whether I liked it or not. Cindy Long. Age 20.

***

The countryside blurred past. Behind us lay the city. Hours unspooled in near silence as the land outside the window became greener, healthier and wilder. We passed through the occasional town nestled by a river or in some nook or cranny between hills, but only stopped once for gas and food. She handled the transaction; I had little interest in stepping out of the vehicle. We ate in the car.

Mostly I stared unseeingly at the passing landscape, distracted and lost in thought. The ride was comfortable enough. The silence was less so. I couldn’t tell if K was left either angry or awkward after last night’s performance, or was maintaining her role as Wendy Jones, my supposed mother.

What do relatives do on long drives together? It’s not like I had much in the way of personal experience to draw from, you know? What do normal people talk about after a lifetime of conversations and arguments and listless Sunday afternoons? Therefore, other than a few simulated exchanges over inconsequential matters, Cindy and her mother said very little as the car wound its way deeper into the wilderness and higher into the hills.

Cindy mostly fiddled with the media centre, tuning in a new retro-rock station as the signal from the last one died out. She absently read a copy of YM her mother had picked up at the last stop and intently studied the section on makeup and hair. Every now and then she rubbed her bared knee and futilely tugged at the hem of her skirt.

“How are you doing?” K asked, and after a short pause she added, “David.”

I released a deep breath--as deep as the corset would allow--scarcely aware of having kept it in. Free of the need to act like Cindy I felt unconscious stress lifting from my shoulders. Yeah, riding in a Honda Civic through these unknown backwaters, the chance of anyone catching me out of character was pretty slim. The thing is I needed the practice, though I hated admitting it nearly as much as I did maintaining the charade.

I shrugged. Truth is, other than the boredom this was probably the most relaxed I’d been in weeks. ‘Relaxed’ is a relative term. I wasn’t in fear for my life at the moment, but on the other hand I wasn’t exactly comfortable, sitting there in that damn corset, legs crossed at the thigh like some pansy and dressed in a skirt that barely seemed to clear my ass. I was feeling a bit sweaty and itchy under all that foundation gear and the whole thing was starting to get stifling. My battered and bruised chest occasionally throbbed in indignant pain. Sitting in heels isn’t as bad as walking in them, but after a few hours I really wanted to stretch my arches out.

“Yeah, fine,” I said. “I guess.” I glanced aside at her. K kept her eyes on the twisting road ahead. The change in appearance was amazing, from the sexy, severe professional of a few days ago to dowdy middle-aged mom. When she dropped character, however, something in the way she moved, in those unflinching slate eyes, dispelled any doubts as to who she was.

“You did well this morning,” she said. “You managed your makeup well.”

She had me do my own makeup this morning, though under her tutelage of course. It took a few tries but I did a pretty good job, I thought. The mascara and eyeliner stuff kind of freaked me out--I didn’t like poking those bloody things so close to my eye. K handled the trickier bits, the expert touches that somehow thinned my nose and softened the jaw line. “Thanks,” I said. I flipped down the sun visor and checked myself over. The face that peered back was frighteningly feminine. Where had those confident eyes of earlier gone? “I guess I should touch it up, huh?” It still felt like a heavy, caked on mask to me, all that makeup and shit smeared across my face. Believe me, painting my face with that crap wasn’t something I was going to miss once this was all over. I reached down for my purse, but a brief touch of her hand on my knee stopped me.

“Your makeup is okay,” K said. She sighed. I was surprised at how tired she sounded. “David . . . listen. Not everything I say is meant as an order, okay? I am not always reminding you of what Cindy needs to do.”

“If you say so,” I answered, but started to touch up my makeup anyway. It’s not like I was going to try anything ambitious in a moving car. That stupid magazine--and holy shit, could there be anything more boring and patronizing than a teen girls’ magazine?--pointed out something about shiny bits on a girl’s face, and I tried fixing it up. God. I was actually ‘powdering my nose’. Bloody hell.

K looked away from the road for a moment to watch me. I ignored her, rummaging through the purse for some lipstick. I’d quickly discovered I preferred gloss to this other crap. Lipstick felt heavier and uncomfortable on my lips, and somehow seemed more ‘adult’, the richer opaque colour more sexual. I figured the earlier I got used to it, the better.

“Are you angry with me, David?” K asked. There was an uncertain tone to her voice that seemed quite out of character.

I looked away from the compact in my hand. The slender black tube hovered at the edge of my lips. Was she slipping back into ‘Mom’-mode? Was she trying to play me somehow? “Nah, why would I be mad?” I said, and returned to painting my lips. I’m pretty sure the magazine said something about blotting and I looked in my purse for a tissue.

“Fine,” K said. She handed me a tissue from her pocket. “Here.” Her tone indicated a return to the nearly unbroken silence of the last few hours.

I pursed my lips and then touched them to the tissue and checked the results. My mouth looked sexier, my lips fuller and smooth. The magazine recommended using lip-liner but I couldn’t remember what kind of look it was for. Odds are I’d just end up jamming the damn thing up my nostril next pothole we hit, anyway. Still, the difference that darker colour made was surprising, drawing my mouth out from the rest of my face. Tilting the mirror I checked around my eyes, the careful brownish-pink blending of eyeshadow across my lids, the mascara and eyeliner that somehow made my eyes look wider and brighter. Then I looked into those greener depths. It can be uncomfortable, staring directly into yourself and seeing what stares back. I lost myself for a moment, only to feel anger well up inside. I shut the compact with an angry snap and almost threw my purse to the floor between my feet.

“Yeah, K, I am fucking angry, okay?” I spun in my seat to face her, and the way the seatbelt drew painfully against my chest only spurred me on. “What the hell did you expect?”

She kept her eyes on the road and answered in a cool voice. “And what did you expect, David, pointing a gun at me?”

“Those asshole federal agents were flashing a picture of you, K! That’s not the kind of shit you want to see, not when you’re dressed up as a goddamn girl and the person responsible is the one they’re looking for. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“I thought you said you trusted me.”

“I do!” I shouted at her.

“Do you like me, David?”

“What the hell does it matter? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“After you slipped on panties that first time,” she ticked off. “And again last night. That makes twice now that you have tried to ‘get it on’ with me.”

“Me?” I couldn’t believe this bitch! “You were the one finger-fucking me last night, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I was merely testing the efficiency of the prosthetic.”

“The efficiency of. . . .” I nearly choked. “I call bullshit, K. You wanna know the truth? Yeah, I like you. God knows why, considering what you’ve put me through these last few days. But for whatever reason, you’re okay by me. And if you’re asking me if I think you’re sexy . . . hell yeah! I haven’t had any action in two months, and you’ve got a damn fine body when you’re not being a total bitch about it.”

“That may be the nicest thing a man has said to me in a very long time,” K answered with a thin, wry smile.

I wasn’t quite done, though. “But you know what I think, K? I think you like dressing me up like this. You get a kick out of making me act and dress all girly-like and shit. You ask if I like you? You ask if I’m attracted to you? Hell, K, I think you’re the one who likes me . . . no, fuck that. K, you’ve totally got the hots for Cindy!”

I glared at her, arms crossed beneath those massive parasites lurking in my sweater, waiting for an answer. Her grip tightened and relaxed on the wheel. She was angry; I hadn’t known her for long but I was learning to read her. After carefully weighing her words she answered in a curt, clipped tone without taking her eyes off the road.

“Do I like Cindy?” she said. “Yes, David, I do. In many ways she is far more pleasant company than you.”

I gave a short laugh. “You like your girls silly and weak, is that it K?” Damn, but I’d just known she was a dyke. Had her pegged from the first time we met.

“Do you, David?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes. Not for anything serious.”

“And you are an expert on serious relationships?”

“Yeah, well I’m sure that profile you’ve got on me has an answer. You? Much of an expert?”

“That,” K answered, “is none of your business.”

“Huh. And here I thought we were enjoying an intimate road-trip, getting-to- know-each-other moment.”

She looked aside at me and her eyes glittered enigmatically. “I am not sure you are the kind of man any woman enjoys getting to know.”

That actually hurt. The truth often does. Dyke bitch. “Fuck you, K.”

“You are arrogant, Mr Sanders. You are a crude and aggressive misogynist.”

I blinked. “Yeah, and?”

“That was not a compliment, David.”

“What, you think I don’t know what I am? K, I’m not a nice guy. I’ve done plenty of shit I’m not proud of.” I had to be careful. The temptation was there to say things that shouldn’t be said. Long-distance-drive bonding moment or not, mortal peril and all, some things in my past were staying buried. What was it about K that made me want to confide in her?

“And you know what?” I continued. “Yeah, I treat girls like shit. Know what the best thing is? I don’t feel bad about it. Not at all. If some dumb bitch throws herself at me, who am I not to catch her? I’m not her goddamn therapist. She’s got issues that make her wet her panties at the thought of bad boys, then hey! I’ll be bad. She looking for some gold-digging action? Hell, I’ll drop the coin on her but, yeah, I’m damn well gonna expect some drilling of my own after. I’m not the guy you bring home to the parents, K. I’m just not that guy. Never have been. Never will be.”

I watched K for any kind of reaction, but her thoughts remained veiled. From my end, having said my bit I couldn’t help but look over myself and wonder how inconsistent that kind of diatribe sounded coming from the glistening lips of a guy wearing a pleated skirt and silk panties of his own. Yeah, I’m a really fucking badass, I am. Still, I meant every goddamn word.

“But know what?” I continued. “If you think I treat all women like that, then your profile really hasn’t a fucking clue and you’re a worse judge of character than I thought. Because if I was with a woman like you, K? No way I’d treat her like shit.”

K locked eyes with me. “You are right,” she answered, and turned back to the road. “You would not.”

And I thought that was that. We sank back into silence. It began to stretch out. Somehow it didn’t seem as uncomfortable as before. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and caught me by surprise.

“I do like you, David,” she said, and her smile was so genuine and shy and so quick I nearly missed it. “And yes. I think I do have the hots for Cindy.”

***

K was hardly the first woman to call me a misogynist. They all did. I’m not talking about the silly things I brought home from clubs or the office. Dumb as they were, they usually knew the score and I never led them on. With few exceptions I never promised to call or any of that nonsense. If I did say I was going to call, you could damn well expect your mobile to ring soon, and not after some bullshit two-day wait. I rarely gave my number to a chick, though. No point in waiting for them to make up their mind, you get me?

The girls that lasted a little longer? The relationships--and it’s almost laughable to call them that--that endured a couple of weeks, a month, maybe two at most? Yeah, they didn’t usually end so well. Those girls had several choice words for me, and ‘misogynist’ sure as hell wasn’t one of them. It’s probably the fondest memory I have of Tammy. She revealed a surprisingly creative knack for swearing after I dumped her sad ass.

Akiko, on the other hand, was the one who taught me what the word ‘misogynist’ meant. That was the teacher in her. It was the kind of word she liked to use, being a university professor and all. She was trying to save me from myself and by the end of the relationship she decided the reason I was beyond saving was because I hated both myself and women. Which is crazy because, believe me, I definitely don’t hate women. Akiko, she always looked too deeply into things. I think it’s a danger inherent to studying books and shit.

Amanda called me a misogynist. She thought it was funny. Muna would’ve called me a misogynist had we dated longer. I seem to remember that she had an impressive vocabulary for a sixteen-year old.

I doubt Kate would have. She didn’t think I hated women. She couldn’t have cared less anyway. That’s probably because she hated women too. Actually, she hated everyone, including herself. To this day I still believe she hated and loved me more than anyone.

And Sakura? She thought I hated women too, and knew why, and taught me how to use that hate, how to make it blossom when necessary, how to restrain it when not. Sakura taught me many things and maybe that’s why I was never able to bring myself to hate her, no matter how hard she worked me, how savagely she beat me. What I felt for her was something more than childhood infatuation, something less--or different--than the overwhelming, consuming swell of emotions I experienced with Kate.

Unlike the other women from my past, thinking about Sakura didn’t get me--God!--moist in the crotch. I could still vividly picture her even though it had been several years since we last worked together. A tiny woman of Japanese decent and youthfully indiscernible age, she wasn’t what you would call pretty. But she was sexy, in the same way that power can be sexual. She was attractive, in the way a roadside accident draws attention. Looking at a picture of her you might not think much. In person? The woman had this real . . . presence. Nah, presence doesn’t cover it, not by half. You know that feeling right before a really big, really cool storm? That electric hum in the air and an expectant weight spread across the sky, as the clouds roil above and the wind blows stronger and stronger and the leaves rustle and hiss anxiously in the trees? Yeah, that’s kinda like how I felt around Sakura. Seriously.

To just describe her, the long, straight shiny black hair, her small dark eyes and angular features, captures nothing of whom and what she is. Emotions varied and strong animated her body and she was capable of the most amazing expressions of joy or welcoming or anger--but a few times I had this uneasy sensation that she wore these emotions like a mask, easily discarding and replacing them as necessary. She certainly was capable of revealing nothing when she chose to, turning inscrutable, empty. I never learned to read that woman, not when I dropped out of school to join the gangs and she started to teach me; not when she took me in after I ran away from home; and I understood her least of all when I turned to her after losing Kate. Even then, at the end, I couldn’t bring myself to hate Sakura.

“Hey there, you okay?” asked Mom, gently shaking my shoulder. “You looked a wee bit lost.”

I blinked, snapping back to the present. It was beginning to grow dark outside. A faintly transparent image hung suspended in the window I unseeingly stared through: Cindy, quickly sketched in obscure lines, long hair, empty eyes, wet lips. “Umm, yeah,” I answered softly. “Just . . . thinking.”

“About what, dear?”

My fucked-up past, I wanted to say, but instead I turned, tossing that long mane of golden hair over my shoulder, and gave her a big, shiny smile. “Nothing! Well, nothin’ important, anyway.” Yeah, I learned a thing or two from Sakura about hiding emotions, swapping masks. “Just kinda wondering when we’re gonna get to . . . uh, that place we’re going.”

“The Asklepios Clinic?”

“Yeah! That place. The, umm . . . Ask-a-place. Clinic. Thingy.”

Mom gave a tolerant smile, and pointed at the glove compartment. “Have a look in there, Cindy. I think I kept a flyer or something.”

Shrugging, I reached forward, popped open the compartment, and amidst the jumble of road maps, packs of gum, old CDs, a snub-nosed .45, a couple of flash memory keys for the media centre and crumpled napkins, I found a glossy fold-out leaflet.

“This it?”

She nodded. “Have a look before it gets too dark. You wouldn’t want to strain your eyes, now would you?”

“No Mom,” I mumbled.

The Asklepios Clinic: Cleanliness, Medicine, Healing, the leaflet’s front promised, apparently amidst the sanctity and privacy of nature’s embrace. I had the sinking feeling that K was bringing me to some dumb-ass Goddess-worshiping, Earth Mother-loving, tree-hugging, granola-munching hippy commune, but was surprised by what the publication revealed within. The clinic seemed to be some kind of combination private hospital, recovery centre and sanatorium, thoughtfully nestled away from the bustle and confusion of the big city. Those with either large sums of money or a special recommendation reviewed by a board of trustees were welcome at the Asklepios Clinic, to stay and heal and--I wasn’t sure what they meant by this--change.

The facilities seemed ultra-modern. The centre offered a full range of surgical, medical, psychological and strangely enough (I thought), spiritual services, spread between four distinct collectives: the Hygieia centre, Meditrine clinic, Panacea house and Telesforos retreat. Accommodations varied from communal to very private and the clinic promised that they catered to a wide, yet very selective, range of clients.

The low whistle I released was entirely out of character. “Holy shit, K,” I said, flipping back and forth between the pictures of happy, shiny people clearly enjoying their stay at the clinic. “What the hell are we heading to this place for?”

“You need qualified medical help, Mr Sanders,” K answered. “And you require somewhere private, secure and remote in which to lay low. The Asklepios Clinic was the nearest and best place available.”

“Yeah, but . . . .” I scanned through the leaflet again. “Can we afford this kind of place?”

K chuckled. “No, Mr Sanders, as well-paid as we may both be and even if we had easy access to our accounts, our collective income would scarcely cover a weekend’s stay at the clinic. Fortunately, I have some connections on the admittance board. A few favours owing, you could say.”

“Huh.” I wondered what kind of favours she had owed to her and what she’d done to earn them. There were more than a few favours owed to me out there as well, and I wasn’t exactly proud of some of the shit I’d done to get them. Still, owed favours were damn useful things to have. “But, ah . . . what about Cindy? What would she need with this kind of place?”

K--Mom--gave a loving pat to Cindy’s knee. “Don’t worry, dear,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “This is just what you need. A chance to finally get over the past.”

What kind of past, I wondered, could a girl like Cindy possibly have to get over?

***

We made a quick stop at a rustic truck-top on the outskirts of some hick town buried in these mountain woods. K negotiated for some take-out food while I ran to the toilet. We’d been driving for most of the day and I couldn’t keep it in any longer. Let’s just say my first time in a public toilet as a woman wasn’t a great experience and leave it at that. I was damn tempted to give the owner of that fucking place a piece of my mind about the state of his stalls.

We were back on the road within fifteen minute, settling back into a comfortable long-distance quiet. My mind drifted back to the clinic. Now, I knew that Asklepios was the son of Apollo and that he was the Greek god of medicine and healing and that he’d been trained by this Chiron guy. Surprised? I’m no idiot, okay? I’ll admit, though, that the only reason I knew this was because Akiko taught me. She made me read this novel, The Centaur, back when we were dating. It was by some American writer called John Updike or something and I’ve got to say it was pretty damn weird.

See, the thing is, I’m not stupid. Really. That psychiatrist who worked with me when I was transitioning from my messed-up teen years to my corporate-climbing adulthood ran a battery of tests on me. Psych tests are a joke, mostly. Some of them are really odd as well. Mostly they were fucking boring. At the end of the whole thing, she seemed fairly convinced I was--what’s the clinical term?--a bloody genius.

Yeah, well, she was a shit psychiatrist. I’m really not that clever. I’ve just got a good feel for people once I’ve hung out with them long enough, and eventually I was just feeding her what she wanted to hear. Which isn’t to say I’m stupid or anything. Thing is, I’m a quick learner. I really am. That’s why this Cindy thing had me freaked, sure, but not as much as it might have. Deep now, I knew I could do it. I didn’t want to--but could. All this chick stuff I didn’t know? It’s sure as hell nothing I enjoyed or wanted to know, but most of it was stuff I could learn, and quickly to boot. It’s not like slipping on a bra or slapping on makeup’s the same as brushing up on rocket science or something.

It’s one of the ways I survived my job at NeoPharm. When I knew something big was coming up at work, some presentation or board meeting or bullshit like that, I could head home and just totally slip into this state, yeah, and study like mad all night. I’d be tired as hell the next day but could create this total air of competence. But sometimes I’d slip up, rarely at work but more often out in the ‘real world’. I’d say something and the other person would look at me like I was a total freakin’ idiot or something. Being a quick learner is one thing, but you actually need someone to teach you that shit in the first place. Me, I never even finished high school let alone university, no matter what my CV or bloody profile said.

So that’s how I knew who goddamn Asklepios was and can recite bits of Anglo-Saxon poetry and run off by rote stretches of Shakespeare. It’s all Akiko Takahashi. But ask me about a lot of the other shit you’re supposed to pick up in high school--stuff like, I dunno, the quadratic formula and Christopher Columbus and The Catcher in the Rye--and I don’t have a goddamn clue.

So, looking at that pamphlet in the rapidly fading light, I couldn’t really puzzle out much more about the place. If K thought it was a good place to lay low for awhile until Steele’s attention turned elsewhere, then that was good enough for me despite any misgiving I might have. After all, I trusted her. Even if it meant I had to keep dressing and acting like Cindy for a few more miserable weeks. I just had this instinctive dislike for hospitals and psych wards and things like that.

Lost in thought as I was, K’s voice took me by surprise. “Cindy?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Aw, c’mon K. Do we have to?” Maybe I was tired, maybe I was still feeling a little cranky after my visit to the toilet, but I really didn’t feel like being Cindy at that moment. I hadn’t had to deal with or talk to anyone back at the last stop, but I sure as hell noticed the stares from men across the room. Fucking redneck hicks.

She looked my way. Along the edges of that strong unyielding gaze lurked a soft pleading. “Please?”

Her imploring tone was unexpected, yeah? It wasn’t the kind of thing I expected to hear from K. How could I refuse her? I took a deep breath.

“Yeah, Mom?” A subtle but very deliberate change crept over my demeanour, in the way I held myself, rested my hands, crossed my legs and responded to her words. My voice softened. These actions were very far from instinctive. After only two days, every movement was still achingly planned and deliberate. In some ways Cindy still seemed like an unfinished block of marble to me, a statue still waiting to find itself. Every time I sunk myself into this half-formed persona I chipped a piece away here; K added to her past and I carved out a detail there; a boy ogled her and I grudgingly refined another curve. Would this work-in-progress ever be complete? The thought both sickened and, in some strange way, intrigued me. Who would she be, this Cindy?

“No,” she said. “Not Mom.”

“Then who?” I asked, arching a thin eyebrow. In gradual steps I slowly shifted into Cindy: my wrist went just slightly weak and I held my fingers spread a little wider; my legs crossed comfortably at the thigh and I rolled my balance marginally towards my hip as I turned to face her; I absently fidgeted a little less with the feminine accoutrements spread across my body but toyed with my hair more. Was any of this properly feminine, truly Cindy? I was still trying to figure that out.

“Just me,” she said. “But I would rather talk to Cindy than David at this moment.”

Weird, I thought. “O--kay,” I said, creasing my brow in a cute frown. “Why?” I tried to add a lilt to my voice.

“Because sometimes it is easier to relate to another girl than a man,” K said. “And sometimes a friend is easier than a daughter.”

Interesting, though I couldn’t help but wonder whether the friendship extended to David as well as to Cindy. I sort of hoped so. Like I’ve said, friendship’s a rare and precious commodity.

My fingers danced along one of the pleats lining the skirt and I watched the play of my pink-glinting nails before glancing shyly up at K. “Friends?”

She nodded.

“Well, for a friend. . . . “ I gave a quick nod. “What’s up?”

K hesitated for a long moment and finally she said: “What’s your honest opinion of me, Cindy?”

“Honest?”

She nodded.

“Honest honest?”

“Yes, Cindy. Honest honest.”

“You’re, ah . . . just a bit scary, you know?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Is that all?”

“Um . . .well, I kinda think you might be a, you know, lesbian? Maybe?”

K mouth quivered with a barely-suppressed grin. “Does that bother you?”

I bit my lower lip and gave a quick, wide-eyed nod.

“How do you think David feels?”

This was getting really fucking weird. “I, ah . . . I don’t think he really cares. But he’s a guy, isn’t he? They really like that stuff, don’t they?” I wrinkled my nose in mild disgust. “Guys are like, just so gross! They all seem to think we’re one slumber party away from, like, lathering each other up in the shower and sharing full-body massages.”

“They do, do they not?” Almost reluctantly, her smile grew. “And you, Cindy? Have you never been at all . . . curious?”

“Ew!” I exclaimed. My hands fluttered in front of me in some kind of vague gesture of warding. “No!”

“Really?”

I blushed prettily beneath my heavy makeup. “Well . . . maybe a little. But only a little!”

K laughed. “You little minx, you! I bet only a little!”

I giggled, though it didn’t come easily. Strangely enough, I found that kind of bubbly, girlish laughter one of the hardest parts of pretending to be Cindy. I just found it really hard to laugh like a girl. It’s something I would have to master, because I figured that she was the kind of girl who laughed easily and honestly. I think I really liked that about Cindy.

At the same time, I felt a real surge of happiness at having made K laugh, and something in my reaction felt uncomfortably feminine. I paused for a moment, nearly breaking character. Making a friend laugh was a good thing, right? So why did it suddenly feel so wrong?

“So you prefer guys, then?”

I slipped straight back into Cindy without missing a beat. “Hell, yeah!” I exclaimed, and then a little less forcefully: “Well, the right guy, anyway.”

She nodded. “But other than the one back in high school,” she said, “you have never had a really long relationship, correct?”

That one back in . . . ? Bloody hell. Another reluctant sliver removed from the block of Cindy. “Uh, no.”

K smiled regretfully. “I almost envy you, then.”

I tilted my head to one side, absently brushing my bangs away from my eyes. “Really? Why?”

“No. It is nothing you need to concern yourself with.” She shook her head. “I should not have brought it up.”

I shrugged. “Why not? It’s just us girls, right?”

She glanced aside at me. “Just us girls?”

“Like a slumber party!” I tried another giggle. “Um, with wheels. And no showers, so I guess I can’t lather you up. Sorry!”

K chuckled. “You promise to keep this between the two of us, Cindy? Girl to girl?”

I’ve always known that girls are fucked in the head and love mind games, but this was bringing it to a whole new level for me. Still, I was curious where she was bringing this. Cindy nodded, those dangly clip-on earring brushing her cheek.

Even with my promise it took some time for her to begin. She kept her eyes forward but I could tell she barely saw the road. I curled my legs up beneath me and shifted into a more comfortable position in my seat. When K finally spoke her voice seemed to come from far away.

“Steven and I dated for nearly three years.” She must have anticipated my surprise. “Yes, a man. To quote a mutual acquaintance, Cindy: Don’t fucking presume to know me.” She smiled to soften her words. “I say we were together for three years but fully the second half of that could hardly be considered a healthy relationship. I am fairly certain he was cheating on me for most of the final year. And I know I was cheating on him. And yes, Cindy . . . I cheated on him with other women.”

Fuckin’ awesome! I knew it!

“Everything was great at first,” she said. “Then again, I suppose they always are. Steven and I should not have been dating in the first place. I was his superior, you see. Obviously workplace relationships are frowned upon in my line of work. At the same time, there is a tendency to look the other way when they invariably happen.”

“He didn’t mind you were his boss?”

K nodded. “I was concerned that he might be. Many men still have difficulty with the idea of a woman in a position of authority, even in this day and age.” She looked aside at me. “Would you not agree?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I answered, allowing some uncertainty to creep into my voice. I figured Cindy wouldn’t have had much experience with insecure pricks. Or rather she probably had, but rarely from a position of power. Cindy, she probably liked her men strong and in control.

“Steven assured me that he did not care. And for several months life was nearly idyllic. It was a very welcome change, I assure you, to come home to someone and to be able to share the difficulties of my work. The world, I discovered, is very couple-orientated. Together, it was like discovering a whole new facet of the city: restaurants, bars, clubs geared towards couples. We went shopping in the market together and once we almost bought a cat.” She smiled wistfully. “The sex was fantastic as well.”

“K!”

“Well, it was.” She smirked, looking aside at me. “Steven was hung like a horse and knew how to use what nature had given him.” She seemed to consider that for a moment. “I was excellent as well, I would like to think.”

“Ew! Moving along, please!”

She chuckled. “In any case, those first six months were wonderful.”

Anything after ‘six months’ was traveling into territory unknown to me. Kate for six months, Akiko for three: combined, my two longest relationships came up far short of what K was describing. Listening to her describe those first six months left me a little jealous. I really was. I wouldn’t swap what I had had with Kate for anything in the world. But a nice, normal relationship? God, how nice would that have been? Friday evenings on the sofa sharing a bottle of red wine, cuddling close as she kicked up her aching feet following a long day at the office--I’d never known that. A night out in a club beneath flashing lights and pounding beats, there for the music and the energy and especially for each other, kissing hungrily on the dance floor and tasting sweat and her hot breath . . . God! Is that what normal people had? I focused on K’s words before I started to tingle again.

“At the same time work became increasingly . . . difficult. Even though we shared the same line of work there were many details of my then-current assignments that I had to keep secret from Steven. Secrets are very destructive to a relationship, Cindy. Believe me.”

Yeah, no shit, I thought morosely, while Cindy offered an affirmative nod.

“The stress of those assignments began to creep into my personal life as well. When I was single I could release that tension in private without fear of hurting anyone. Living with Steven I found myself unsure how to cope with my stress. I couldn’t share it with him and by then we were all but living together and I found it difficult to find the privacy I needed to deal with the pressure.”

“What did you do?” I asked in a quiet voice.

“Nothing,” she said. “I kept it bottled up.”

“What happened?”

K sighed. “I broke down. That night remains very vivid in my mind, Cindy. I remember walking into the apartment and sitting at the edge of the bed. I was still dressed from work and holding my briefcase. My firearm nestled close to my chest beneath my vest and for a brief moment I considered pulling it on myself.”

I stared at her in shock. “You--”

“Only for a moment.” She shook her head. “I would like to think that I am made of sterner stuff that that. But even to contemplate such a thing . . . that moment of weakness was devastating. I collapsed into tears. I do not cry often or easily, Cindy. But at that moment I felt lower than ever before or since.

“It was a very strange moment for me. Even as I crumbled within, I felt almost as if I could observe myself from outside. I saw myself in tears and felt nothing but disgust. I berated myself to no effect. I called myself weak and a coward. A collapse was not something I could afford at that time. If I failed at my job people could die. No, people would die and that was simply intolerable. It was that simple. Yet somehow I failed to response to my own orders, and sat there in tears.”

“K, I’m . . . sorry,” I said. I reached out a tentative, comforting hand and lightly gripped her shoulder. As David the gesture would have seemed inappropriate or effeminate.

She gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Looking back, I suppose it was inevitable. Sometimes I regret that I was not stronger, more capable. However, I also recognize that I had taken on too much, too quickly.” She shrugged. “I like to think I have learned from my mistakes.”

“So what happened with Steven?” I asked.

Her smile was brittle. “When he found me later that night, he had no idea how to deal with my breakdown. In fact, other than a few half-hearted attempts, he did nearly nothing at all. For the first time in two weeks he slept at his own apartment that night.”

“He left you like that?” My shock was genuine, being equal parts Cindy and David. Cindy, I’m sure, empathized with K and was horrified at the thought of being left alone in that state. I felt nothing but disgust for the kind of asshole who could abandon a friend and partner like that. More often than not I’ve left a chick and she’s been in tears. If we’ve met up a half-dozen times and she’s already declaring her love to me and is somehow shocked that I’ve decided to leave . . . that’s her problem, not mine. I feel nothing but scorn for people who invest themselves so quickly into someone they’ve just met.

But it’s a very different matter with someone I really care for. Women like Akiko, Kate--they were more than just lovers. They were friends. Nothing could have pulled me away from them in time of need. Nothing.

K nodded. “Yes, he did. That night was one of the worst of my life. Truthfully I remember very little of it. Certainly I did not eat. Somehow I managed to crawl into bed. I missed work the next day. I cursed myself the whole time but could not bring myself to answer my phone or to leave my bed. That was where Steven found me when he returned to my apartment on the third night.

“I still had not eaten,” she continued. “I was still wearing the same clothes as well. It was a miracle I found enough strength to use the toilet the few times I had to. I was weak and confused and that was the state he found me in.”

“What did he do?”

“He took charge,” K said in a very matter-of-fact way. “With the efficiency of a drill sergeant. He ordered me out of bed and when I ignored him he slapped me.” She stopped my outcry with a raised hand. “He violently pulled me from the bed and forced me into the shower and then he made me eat. At every step he controlled my actions and told me what to do and punished me physically whenever I began to slip back into that passive, mindless state.

“Yes, of course I could have stopped him at any times. He was a strong and well-built man, but nowhere my calibre a fighter. And I hated every slap and punch, every pinch and shake and rough grab that bruised my arm. Yet for some reason I could not bring myself to resist him. He was putting me back together but in the way that he wanted, and the pieces were not fitting together correctly.”

Outside the car the world continued to blur past, barren farmland and the occasional lonely cow glimpsed amidst the thickening woods. The sun was very low and burned brightly orange as it touched the horizon. I saw this as a backdrop to K’s story against which her features, attentive to the road, were highlighted. What she was telling me seemed impossible; I could not reconcile the girl she described with the sexy, strong woman sitting next to me.

“The thing is,” she continued, “because of him I was able to return to work. I survived that first day, and the next, and the week after that. But not on my own. I became completely dependant on him. Even after several months, by which point I felt strong and fit once again. To everyone else at work I was back to my old self. What they did not see was what happened when I returned home.”

She stopped for several minutes. K seemed lost in thought. When I had asked her about her serious relationships earlier that day, I thought I was just swapping some playful banter. The last thing I actually expected was an honest admission of this nature. At the same time part of me remained suspicious. I wasn’t fucking proud of that warning voice in the back of my head, but still couldn’t help but wonder: why the hell is she telling me all this?

“Our relationship had changed in a fundamental way,” K eventually continued. “Though I was still the boss at work, he had definitely become the dominant partner at home. The details I do not feel like sharing. Suffice it to say that for nearly a year I felt constantly humiliated, sickened and debased. Steven had me do and act and speak in ways that I am still ashamed to remember. It almost seemed that the stronger I became in my outside life, the weaker I became at home. Sometimes I wonder if I was able to cope with the tension at work because of that. Certainly the stress that broke me in the first place did not lessen; if anything it grew worse. Yet stripped of all responsibility and control at home, I somehow returned to work every morning strong and capable.”

“That . . . that seems kinda fuck . . . uh, messed up, K.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps it was. The situation could not endure, of course. Steven began to demand more. With me securely beneath his thumb, it increasingly became apparent that he had begun to cheat on me as well. Eventually he made a mistake.”

“What did he do?”

“He made the mistake of allowing our public and private spheres to meet. I became aware of whispers and smirks and jokes that ended when I entered the room. The woman I was at work was forced to confront the woman I had become at home. She was not impressed. I was not impressed. Yet I was still incapable of ending the relationship. His hold was somehow that great over me. I still craved the discipline and control at home despite the near constant disgust it left me feeling. I suppose this was when I began to cheat on him as well. Of the whole experience this is perhaps the part I regret the most. I began to do to others what Steven was doing to me. Though never to the degree I endured, the way I treated the girls I met at that time was deplorable.

“And finally Steven went too far. He used his control over me to try and advance his position at the agency.”

I nodded. “It didn’t work?”

Her smile turned bitter. “No, he got what he wanted, though it wasn’t what he expected. What he never realized, even after all that time, was that the woman he dominated at home was a very different person from the federal agent he knew at work. To her there was little he could do. He requested a field placement for which he was grossly under-qualified. The position seemed simple enough but the competition for the job was fierce and it seemed to offer quick advancement through the ranks. Steven wanted me to push his application through; he wanted the job.”

“You told him to go fuck himself?”

K looked at me. Her eyes were angry and her lips cruel. “No, David. I gave him the job.”

“Why?”

“What Steven was unaware of was that the placement was far more dangerous than he realized. I however was fully informed as to the risks inherent to the job. The agency was subtly looking for a very specific type of individual for a very difficult job and used the competition to veil the true intent of the recruitment process. I knew that for a man of Steven’s skill the assignment was essentially suicide. I warned him to avoid the job. He insisted I give it to him. His attitude at home grew even worse, more forceful, more demanding. Nevertheless, professionally speaking it was my responsibility to ensure only qualified agents were moved forward.”

K took a deep breath. When she spoke her voice was even and her tone, cold. “I gave him the job anyway.

“He was killed within the month.”

***

Yeah, you can imagine that what she’d said preoccupied me for a while, until finally I pushed my rambling thoughts aside for later consideration. I’d been staring blankly through the window long enough for the sky to turn one of those deep blues against which pink-tinted clouds scurried; and then darken and fade into night. Stars lit up and the fingernail-sliver moon slowly rose high and brilliant in the narrow winding gap between the thick trees lining the road on either side. The radio shifted to something jazzy and mellow and we rode through the dark cocooned in trickling piano notes and resonant bass lines. Occasional flares from the side of the road revealed the startled night eyes of unknown wild animals warily watching our passage. When I turned to K she was illuminated by the crimson dashboard glow, her features highlighted in fiery hues.

It occurred to that she must have been exhausted, that she had been driving nearly non-stop for over a day now. “Hey,” I called out in a quiet voice. I was reluctant to disrupt our calm passage through the night. “Hey, K, you okay over there?”

She shrugged, a surprisingly relaxed response. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Dunno.” I stretched out my legs, rotating my ankle to ease out the pain of wearing heels all day. Just wearing the blasted things was enough to kill my feet. “It’s just been a long day. Thought you might be tired, is all.”

K glanced my way and offered a wan smile. “Mr Sanders? I am utterly exhausted.”

“You want me to drive?” To be honest, it was a reluctant offer. The gentle light, the music, the passing dark left me lethargic. I felt minutes away from drifting off to sleep.

K shook her head. Her hands remained sure on the wheel. “No need, Mr Sanders. Allow me to welcome you to the Aklepios Clinic.”

At first there was little to see. K gestured for me to use that damnable spray on my throat as we drew close to out destination. My throat tingled and tightened as I scanned the road ahead and I saw faint glittering lights nestled in the depths of the trees on both sides. These lights grew increasingly frequent, until suddenly we left the trees behind and entered a large, cultivated space across which many low-lying building spread. K threaded the car towards a central building, all modern-looking glass and concrete, that was one of the few still lit up from both outside and within this late at night.

Aklepios Reception Centre announced a sign up front. Cleanliness, Medicine, Healing. The building sat atop a low hill and offered a decent view across the entire compound. The place reminded me of a university campus. Cobbled walkways wound away from the building and towards other centres and into the outlying trees, reaching towards those concealed lights; private residences, I assumed. Larger roads worked their way between main buildings and led to three larger edifices at far ends of the Centre. A few bright lights gleamed from within rooms in those far buildings, but otherwise the compound was only softly lit by scattered walkway lampposts. There was an almost eerie silence once K pulled the keys from the ignition and we stepped from the car. Other than the wind and a few solemn crickets, complete quiet reigned.

I glanced across at K. “Cindy mode?”

Mom nodded. “Let’s get you checked in, dear.”

I gave my legs a quick stretch then sat in the passenger seat with the door open. I checked myself in the mirror and touched up my lipstick. Alright man. You can do this. No freaking out this time. Those wide, brilliant green eyes stared back at me and glimmered with playful confidence. With an almost rueful smile Cindy stepped from the car, hoisting her purse over one shoulder.

A gentle night wind, laden with the smell of eucalyptus and wild thyme, tugged playfully at her long hair. Zephyrous fingers lifted her skirt and softly stroked the pale skin briefly revealed over the top of snowy-white stockings, and just as quickly withdrew with a sibilant snigger. The skirt settled in a cascade of pleats as Cindy absently brushed a few errant strands from her face back behind one ear. She walked confidently across the pavement towards the brilliantly lit entrance.

The building was a low-built piece of minimalist modernist design, all bleached concrete, odd angles and wide windows that glittered with captured outside light. A clean white walkway of cleverly interlocking stones, lined on either side by carefully trimmed hedges, led to the bright entrance. After the time spent driving through darkness, the effect was harsh and nearly blinding on the eyes of the two women. Cindy’s mom wearily opened the door for her daughter. Dressed in sneakers, jogging pants and a baggy faded T-shirt emblazoned with “Florida: The Sunshine State”, Wendy Jones seemed drab and just a little out of place.

The younger girl smiled gratefully to her mother. Her steps faltered slightly and she slowed her walk as she approached the rough-hewn stone desk at the far side of the room. The staccato sound of her heels clicking against the stone underfoot resonated crisply through the bare hall. The floor was slippery and polished to a brilliant, almost wet-looking sheen. Fine lettering set into the stone counter, lit softly from within in pink, welcomed newcomers to the ‘Aklepios Clinic’ and promised ‘Cleanliness, Medicine, Healing’.

The lights at the far end of the hall were softer and subdued. An unremarkable but attractive young man stood behind the counter. His hair was short and his face clean-shaven, his crisp white shirt tucked into well-fitted grey slacks. He offered a somewhat bland smile at their approach.

“Welcome to the Asklepios clinic,” he said, his eyes slowly looking over Cindy before passing to the mother. “How may I help you?”

Cindy smiled and leaned tiredly against the desk. It came to just above her waist, and the sign below felt warm against her bared thigh. “Hey there,” she said, smiling brightly though her eyes looked tired. “How ya doin’--”her eyes danced across the boy’s chest before settling on a small, gold nameplate pinned to his pocket--“Chris?”

“Very well,” he answered, returning his attention to Cindy. “May I be of assistance?”

She leaned forward slightly, arms crossed beneath her bosom. “We--ll,” she drawled, and grinned, “I think we’re here to check in.” Cindy glanced aside at her mom. “Yeah?”

Wendy nodded. She handed a manila folder tucked under her arm to the young man. “You’ll find all our documents in order,” she said curtly. Cindy was a little surprised by her mother’s abruptness. “My name is Wendy Jones. This is my daughter Cindy Long.”

The boy sat down behind the counter. A moment later they heard the tapping of his fingers dancing across an unseen keyboard. “This will just take a moment, Ms Jones,” he said. “Thank you for having everything so well organized.”

Cindy glanced aside at her mom before returning her attention to the boy. “So Chris,” she asked, and the pink glow from the counter seemed to settle in glistening hues across her lips. “Do you like having things in order?”

“Yes,” the boy answered without looking up.

“Has it been a busy night?”

“No”

She rolled her shoulder forwards, bringing her elbows closer together to accentuate the tight curves beneath her sweater. “You work here all night on your own?” she asked, her voice a suggestive purr. She licked her lips. “It must get awfully lonely.”

“Not really,” the boy answered. His eyes glanced up then dropped back to his work. “I’m sorry Miss Long, but I’ll register you faster without further distractions.”

Wendy chuckled.

Cindy glared at her mom. “What?”

She shook her head, grinning beneath innocent eyes. “Nothing, dear.”

A few minutes passed in silence interrupted only by the sound of typing. Bored, Cindy played with her hair as her gaze swept across the long window-lined room. The contrast between the light within and the dark beyond the windows made it impossible to see outside, though the faint impression of branches could be seen swaying in the wind, clawing and clicking against the glass. Water trickled in some fountain unseen in a room beyond the reception desk. When she stepped away for a quick wander her mother held her back with a soft touch. The boy finally looked up.

“Welcome to the Asklepios Clinic, Ms Long,” he repeated, eyes on Cindy. This time his smile seemed genuinely warm and welcoming. “We have you registered in a private room in the Hygieia Centre. Lisa here,” he continued, gesturing to his side just as a young woman stepped into view, “will show you the way to your room.” Her uniform, a short grey skirt over pale tights, and a white blouse identical to Chris’, was equally crisp and professional.

“If you would follow me?” Lisa’s voice was pleasantly soft and lilting.

Cindy looked to her mom for acquiescence. Wendy nodded and they fell into step behind the young girl.

“I hope you enjoy your stay, Cindy,” the boy called out from behind them.

***

Yeah, I enjoyed the trip to the room, watching the sway of Lisa’s rounded little ass beneath her skirt. I was only a little put off by the fact that my skirt was shorter, my heels taller, and my every step that much more feminine. It’s hard not to lose some of your mojo when your tits are bigger than hers, yeah? I’m sure K, walking a few strides behind, was enjoying her own view of my panty-clad ass swaying with every bloody step. Still, if every chick working in this clinic was as hot as Lisa, it was going to be a long and hard couple of weeks.

Mom grabbed a couple of bags for the night and we clambered onto this swanky little golf-cart-type contraption. It hummed quietly as we drove across the clinic. The drive was smooth and the air cool and refreshing as it breathed across my legs. Low-powered headlights cut a hazy swath ahead of us, briefly illuminating empty benches, small cultivated gardens and darkened buildings. Only once did we glimpse other people, a man and a woman standing close together beneath a tree. Their startled faces loomed palely at us before the path we followed twisted away and left them behind. I thought I saw a guitar in the man’s hands.

I looked up at the sky and was treated to a view unlike any I had seen in far too many years. Multitudinous stars infused the late-night dark with resplendent glory, scintillating in a wavering sparkling stream from horizon to horizon. The small gasp of joy and wonder that escaped my painted lips sounded far too feminine and I didn’t give a fuck. All those years of living in the city, I had forgotten how much I missed the sight of a night sky untainted by the wash of city neon. I realized then how true the old saying really was: you can take the boy out of the country--I guess you can even stick that boy into panties and a bra--but you can never take the country out of the boy.

“That’s Ophiuchus,” Lisa said, pointing to a spread of stars over the horizon. “Our namesake.” I looked where she directed but couldn’t really make out any kind of shape or anything. Constellations have never really been my thing. Anything beyond the Big Dipper and the shiny one that shows the way north, and I’m hopeless. I’ve never been good at making shapes out of a random scattering of dots, yeah? “The legends say that Asklepios’ skill at medicine grew to be so great he could cure even death. Eventually he drew the jealous anger of Zeus, who struck him down with a thunderbolt. Afterwards the thunder-god recognized the importance of the healer to mankind, and granted him immortality as a constellation.”

“Why did Zeus, you know, kill him?” Sitting in the back, I had to lean forward to ask.

“According to legend, the goddess Athena asked him to bring Hippolytus back to life. He did as she asked and this so angered Zeus that he slew Asklepios.”

Mom, sitting next to me, chuckled. “Another version says Zeus was angered by the fact that Asklepios accepted money in exchange for his skills.”

The younger girl shrugged. “Here at the clinic, we prefer the first version.”

“I’m sure you do,” Mom said wryly.

The rest of the trip went by in silence. Before long we approached one of the large buildings at one end of the complex. There were a few windows lit up from within, but otherwise the building was quiet and dark, as were the many smaller structures clustered around it. Lisa brought the cart to a silent stop before a four-storied residence. “Welcome to the Hygieia Centre,” she said. “And the Cos Residence, your home for the duration of your stay.”

She led us through a small lobby and to an elevator that quickly brought us to my new home: Cos 402. Lisa had me rest my hand against a small ebony panel set next to the door before entering. It tingled warmly for a moment and then the lock clicked open.

“The door has been set to your fingerprints,” she said. “It will only open for you.” The door lacked any kind of knob or handle.

Lisa gave a quick and efficient tour of my new home. It was simple but well-furnished, with very modern amenities meeting just about any basic need I could imagine. Small kitchenette, bathroom, bed: check. From a decent-sized sitting room Lisa led us onto a small balcony that looked over a communal courtyard. Pale lights illuminated a quietly gurgling fountain and some benches. Across the way a single room was lit up, but otherwise everyone in Cos seemed asleep. Lisa demonstrated some basic electronics set into the wall and a list of numbers set next to the phone: doctors, help lines, that kind of thing. With a final helpful smile she asked if we had any questions.

“Nah, I think we’re fine.” I smoothed my hair back to one side and smiled. “Thanks for your help, Lisa.”

She nodded. “Enjoy your stay at the Hygieia Centre,” she said. I swear, the little flirt held eye contact with me for a moment longer than was strictly necessary or comfortable, and her smile twitched into something slightly more playful than professional. “Feel free to call me if you need any extra help, Cindy,” she said, and a moment later the girl left the room.

With a weary sigh I collapsed on the sofa. I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling. “Oh, thank God!” I exclaimed. “My feet are killing me.”

K dropped our night bags to the floor. “Congratulations, Mr Sanders,” she said, slumping gratefully into a sofa chair opposite me. “Welcome to safety.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Really really.”

“Huh,” I grunted. A moment later I chuckled, and then laughed outright, my relief tempered only by exhaustion. “In your fucking face, Jeremiah Steele!” I reached down and unbuckled those damned torture devices that passed for footwear, and sank deeper into the sofa. “Shit, does that ever feel good,” I sighed, shoes dangling from my toes. “I’m never gonna make fun of chicks for wearing these goddamn things again.”

K chucked tiredly. “At least your ordeal has not been a complete waste, then.”

“Yeah.” I sank deeper into the comfort of the soda, not ready to drift off to sleep, enjoying the moment of tranquility. Was I really safe? K seemed to think so. As far as hiding places went, this was a hell of a lot more comfortable than anything I’d expected. It certainly beat the shitholes I hid in for the weeks leading up to the trial.

Except. . . . As I sat there, arms thrown wide across the back of the sofa and absently gazing down at the firm curves that now defined my chest, I just couldn’t bring myself to relax. I’d been running and hiding and tensing at every suspicious sound for the last two months--it was going to take a hell of a lot longer than five minutes for me to calm down. But it was more than that. It was a hell of a lot more than that. If someone had asked me just then to define what was wrong I couldn’t have done it. Something about this place, about the Asklepios Clinic as a whole, left me uneasy. Those two kids, Chris and Lisa, something about their bland pleasantness and neutral good-looks struck me as . . . off, somehow.

I didn’t doubt K’s assurance that this place was somehow safe from the long arm of that bastard Steele. At the same time, I had the feeling that the clinic was dangerous in its own way, a danger somehow separate from the one pursuing me.

It was a gut feeling. It was a crazy, paranoid feeling; obviously I’d been on edge for a little too long. Still, I knew better than to ignore my instincts. I wasn’t about to let down my guard . . . yet.

“So . . . what now?” I asked K.

“Tonight?” she asked. “Or for the future?”

I shrugged. “You pick.”

“For the next few weeks,” K said, “you maintain the illusion of Cindy. Lay low, recuperate, and when Mr Steele’s ire has abated or his attention turned elsewhere, you will be relocated into a new persona and life.”

“A male one, yeah?”

She smiled. “Yes, Mr Sanders. A male one. Though I will be sad to see Cindy go.”

I chuckled. “I’m sure. I might miss her a bit myself.” I gave those tits of mine a little squeeze and shove, adjusting them into a more comfortable position within their cups. “Not gonna miss all this other crap, though. This corset? Yeah, not very comfortable.”

“You have my sympathies,” she said. “However, you will need its assistance a little while longer.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled.

“As for tonight,” she continued, and sighed, “I am afraid that we are not quite finished.”

“Why?”

“Because tonight, Mr Sanders, you have the singular honour of meeting Mr Jonathon Bridges.”

Despite our exhaustion we soon roused ourselves and made a basic effort to settle in. Fifteen minutes after we started there was a short knock at the door. There was no one there when K answered, but she found all our luggage waiting in a compact pile in the hall. I noted that she checked the door without hesitation--no firearm held ready, no standing to the side when she opened the door. Her obvious trust in the place helped ease some of my concerns.

We quickly unpacked. K had brought a hell of a lot more stuff from the safe house than I’d thought. There were a few relaxed outfits for Wendy Jones, but Cindy seemed to have enough crap to ensure she didn’t have to repeat an ensemble during her stay at the Clinic. When I travel I travel light, with a few concessions given to the nature of the trip. I get by on a few pairs of underwear and socks, one short-sleeve and one long-sleeve shirt; one long pair of trousers and some shorts. That’s usually including the clothes on by back. And a toothbrush, of course. Can’t forget that. I could go for weeks with just that, all rolled up small and tight in a backpack.

Cindy, on the other hand, seemed to have brought with her the greater part of a High Street boutique for a three-week stay. Five pairs of shoes --thank God this included a pair of sneakers--a regiment of skirts, a company of tops, a whole battalion of accessories and a goddamn army of lacy underthings; and they all needed putting away. Since they were technically mine, K was happy to watch me work as she relaxed on the side of the bed. I pulled out a ‘modest’-cut bikini.

“Why the hell did you pack this away?” I demanded.

She shrugged. “I thought Cindy might like to take a swim.”

I held up wispy nothing of seductive fabric.

“A peignoir?” I asked

“I am impressed that you know what it is called.”

“In case that Fosters guy comes looking again?”

“Better safe than sorry, Mr Sanders.”

Shaking my head I stowed away the rest of my wardrobe. Cosmetics went in the bathroom, a plethora of tubes and small bottles and jars of various colour and ineffable function. Everything in its place. K liked to be organized. The case with the handguns she stowed beneath the bed, locked. My new home only had one bed, a comfortable-looking double. K had very few clothes of her own with us. The conclusion seemed obvious.

“You’re not going to be staying, are you?” I asked, smoothing a short-cropped top over a hanger.

“No, Mr Sanders, I can not.”

I nodded, my feelings conflicted. In trusting K I’d allowed a certain dependency to form. For most of my life I’ve been in charge of what I do and how I do it--or at least lived within the illusion of being in control, which is pretty much the same thing. In becoming Cindy I had given up a lot of that control and I wasn’t too happy about that. Thing is, I’m not a girl. I don’t know how to be a girl, to act like Cindy and talk and dress like her. K was my teacher in this strange and confusing art and the thought of carrying on without her guidance gripped me with a sudden and embarrassing fear.

Far more difficult to deal with was an entirely unexpected sense of loss and sadness at the thought of her leaving. Sure, less than a day ago I’d been pointing a gun at her, but damn if I hadn’t come to really like K. She was a friend--maybe the only friend I had now that Tom was gone and my previous life lay even further behind me than ever before. True, she preferred Cindy to David. And she was a total bitch and probably borderline psychotic. But for all that--maybe because of that--I felt comfortable around her in a way that I’d never been with a woman before.

Ultimately, though . . . I was looking forward to being on my own again. I truly was. Some habits are hard to break. When you get down to it, I’ve been alone for most of my life. Yeah, there were brief interludes spent in the company of others, but for the most part the great acts of my life have been a one-man play.

And I’m okay with that. I really am. Whenever I’ve spent a lot of time with another person, this need to just . . . escape, to break away and be on my own, has always built up. Even for just a few hours, a day or two sometimes; it’s like I have this need to re-find myself, yeah?

Because I’ve known way too many people--usually chicks, sure, but like that’s a surprise--who just can’t deal with being alone. People like that usually annoy the shit out of me. You know, like the ones who always have another relationship lined up before they finish off the one they’re in? I hate that, the whole swinging through the relationship jungle, still holding on to one vine while clutching desperately at the next. Yeah, that shit’s just sad.

What are they so afraid of? Is it the idea of actually spending a Saturday night alone? Probably, because you know what happens when a person spends too many nights alone? They start looking inside themselves. They look inside and know what? They usually don’t like what they see. People start to figure out what they’re all about, and the thing is . . . most people don’t want to do that. Because nobody wants to find out that there’s a hell of a lot less to them than they thought. Confronting the fact that you’re really a sad little fuck like everyone else is a soul-numbing experience.

And that’s why everyone wants a secret little fetish or vice they can clutch to their bosom. Then they think they’ve got free license to slyly judge others, thinking, “if only you knew my wicked secret.” God. I can totally respect the man who drinks to forget past horrors, but is there anything more pathetic than the alcoholic who drinks because he’s fucking bored?

You better believe that I’ve spent quite a few nights on my own. Especially when I was growing up. And I won’t lie: I discovered that there were a lot of dark and ugly places inside of me. Over time, they’ve just gotten darker and uglier, full of slimy and hateful things. Violent things. For the greater part of a decade I wrestled with what I found within me, tried to control the parts of me that left me capable of doing stuff . . . well, stuff I’m not proud of. Capable of doing the kind of things that brings you to the attention of a woman like Sakura.

I’m not a nice guy. But I’ll be damned if I’ll hide from that truth. Just as K clearly refuses to hide from her hateful things. I can respect that.

Cindy, on the other hand. . . . I had the feeling that she didn’t like being on her own. She was exactly the kind of girl who holds on to the hand of one boy while picking up the phone to call the next. She couldn’t spend time looking within herself, because there was nothing there to explore. Or so I thought.

“You will need this,” K told me, handing me a thin folder.

It was the one she had shown me that very first day after I’d been shot. “Cindy Long. Age 20,” typed in simple, small lettering across the label. Inside was everything there was to know about Cindy. There wasn’t much, just the barest sketch of a small-town girl. A birth certificate. Primary and high school records, a few job listings. Childhood accomplishments and fears, teenage awards and failures.

“She’s got a profile?”

“You have a profile,” K said. “This is you now. For the next few weeks.”

K explained to me that she had other responsibilities that had to be caught up on. She told me that she would return to check up on Cindy when possible. There were some basic instructions she wanted me to follow: places to go, places to avoid in the clinic; days to stay in the room and others when she wanted me out and about and visible. The spray for my throat couldn’t be abused--once a day maximum, and preferably only every second day, unless I wanted to risk permanent damage to my voice box.

Then her watch beeped, and it was time to meet Dr Jonathon Bridges.

K proved almost annoyingly fussy as she had me touch up my Cindy disguise. She had me brush out the wig and take care of my makeup, and once again--under duress, believe me--I slipped on those fucking heels. Meanwhile she swapped Wendy’s soccer-mom clothes for something more professional, slipping back into the outfit of K, secret agent. She seemed strangely nervous and fidgety as she made the finishing touches to both our ‘costumes’--again, I found myself wondering how authentic the cool, severe appearance of my protector truly was. On the other hand, there was no denying the ease with which she pulled a weapon from the gun case, quickly checked and loaded the weapon, and finally slid it beneath her jacket.

The hallway was quiet and softly lit when we left my new room. The elevator brought us to an atrium, and there into an underground passage connecting the residence to the main Hygieia Centre. Both the elevator and the door to the tunnel required the touch of my fingers to a small ebony panel before we could proceed. With each step the click of my heel reverberated and returned to us as we proceeded along the tunnel. Like the rest of Clinic I’d seen so far, the tunnel was immaculately clean and lit in soothing, diffuse lighting. Intermittent alcoves held colourful bursts of potted plants, or pieces of abstract art revealing swirls and blotches against broken backgrounds. The cameras, I noted, were very well hidden.

“It gets quite cold during the winters,” K explained to me in a low voice. “And occasionally the snow gets quite deep. Most of the clinic is connected by underground passageways similar to this one.”

I was dressed as Cindy but apparently it was David she was bringing to meet this Dr Bridges. We didn’t meet anyone on the way, though we did pass through a junction that I assumed indicated the basement of another building above. Finally we stopped at a large glass sliding door with the words ‘Hygieia Centre--S1’ written in large red letters. The room on the other side was dark. When I touched my hand to the panel it released a soft buzz of denial.

“I’m sorry, Cindy,” a pleasant male voice spoke. Obviously pre-recorded, ‘Cindy’ sounded only slightly disjointed from the rest of the sentence. “But the Hygieia Centre is closed. Please return during normal daytime hours. Do you require any other assistance?”

I turned to K. “Do I?”

“No.” She stepped forward and touched the panel. There was a brief pause and then the audible click of a microphone being turned on.

“You’re running late, Katherine.” The voice was deep and spoke in a hurried, clipped pace.

“Well I’m here now, Jon.”

The voice chuckled. “And this is the guy, eh?”

“No, Jon, it’s an escaped transvestite hooker. What do you think?”

“I think this might just about make us even,” the voice answered. The panel dimmed, and a moment late a small access door, previously perfectly hidden within the wall opposite, silently slid open.

I followed K into a medium-sized room. The door closed shut behind us. The floor jerked, and the room revealed itself to be an elevator. That same voice, now tinged with humour, reached us from a speaker hidden somewhere above:

“Welcome to the Asclepieion, Mister Sanders.”

***

I’ve never read ‘Alice in Wonderland’ but that Alice girl, as she tumbled down the rabbit hole, must’ve felt a bit like I did now: apprehensive, slightly overwhelmed and, were she to admit it to herself, just a touch excited. However, I kept my attention on K. She seemed different somehow: a little less sure of herself, or maybe just softer around the edges, relaxed. Was this another disguise?

Doctor Jonathon Bridges waited for us when the elevator shuddered to a stop. He was short--just a little shorter than me in heels--but thickly built with broad features, thick lips, a flat nose and an amazing shock of wildly dishevelled red hair. His arms thrust out of a white lab coat that seemed two sizes too small for him. His fingers were short and stubby but twitched in constant motion, and presently he jabbed his hand at me in greeting.

“David, right? So you’re Katherine’s new project, eh?” he said, giving me a crushingly firm handshake. I met his grip with one of equal strength. His dark eyes glittered with amusement and pleasure. If he was at all put off at seeing me dressed like some sophomore tart, he gave no indication. Instead he stomped away down the passage, making a spastic arm gesture which I could only assume meant we should follow.

“I’m sure you’re all tired.” He spoke over his shoulder as he led the way. The passage showed none of the aesthetic design of the rest of the clinic: these tunnels were bare concrete, the ceiling writhing with exposed cabling and piping that snaked into the darkness ahead, and the walls bulged with electronic boxes and access paneling. “So we’ll make this quick. This is the Asclepieion. Forget all that nonsense upstairs. Cleanliness! Medicine! Ha!

“This is our temple of knowledge and medicine--this is where the real stuff in the Clinic takes place. But you’ve never been here, got it, girlie? Never even heard of it. Yes?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

“Good. Next: I don’t care why you’re here. She--,” again his arm jerked, this time in K’s direction--“vouched for you, and that’s good enough for me.”

I glanced aside at her. “Katherine?”

“You can keep calling me K,” she answered coolly.

“And if you like dressing in drag, that’s your business,” he continued. He stopped at a metal door set in the stone wall and quickly punched a code into a keypad. A red light turned green and the door gave a jerk. He pushed it open on creaky hinges.

“Hey waitasec,” I protested. “I don’t like. . . .”

“None of my business,” he repeated, leading us into a small room. “Now strip.”

“Hey . . . what?” The room was lit by a flickering florescent tube overhead. Sickly green paint flaked away in the corners. Every free piece of wall space seemed jammed and cluttered with equipment of all size and shapes, some jostling for room on a variety of tables and stands, others bolted to the wall by heavy steel studs. A medical examination bed sat centrally, and a desk overflowing with paper and charts stood shoved up against the nearest wall. A computer screen flickered to life as the doctor made a few twitchy pokes at the keyboard.

“Strip,” he said without looking back. “As in ‘take your clothes off.’ You speak English, right? It’s time for your check-up. Now this is the thing, David. And that’s the last time I’m going to call you by that name, got it? Not that I expect we’ll meet often. As long as you’re at the Asklepios Clinic, you are Cindy Long. I don’t care how, I don’t care why. But you are Cindy.

“See here?” He pointed at the screen. I had a glimpse of a wire-frame map that I quickly recognized as the route K and I had taken through the Hygieia underground. Some highlighted red dots along the path pulsed slowly. A second window brought up an image of a fingerprint--presumably mine--and next to it a still-frame image of Cindy placing her hand against the panel.

“These are your prints, and the system registered you using them here, here, and here,” he said, tapping each point on the screen. He hit a few keys, and the fingerprint image shifted. “These are your new prints. Every time you touch one of the biometric pads, the system will swap in these records instead of your real ones. If anyone raids the security logs looking for the prints of David Sanders, they’ll find nothing.

“Cindy’s been put up in a nice private room.” His eyes flicked over to K. “She’ll be catered to and taken care of for the duration of her stay, with the same quality of service we extend to all the other rich and sick idiots up there. The Asklepios Clinic will do everything it can to expedite her healing and assist in her departure.” His voice sounded like he was repeating something by rote. “With the usual discretion, of course. Yeah? That’ll do?”

“Yes, Jon, that will do.”

“Good.” His eyes flicked back to me. “What, you’re not naked yet?”

“Easy, Chief,” I said levelly. “Slow down.”

“The name’s Jonathon,” he said. “She can call me Jon. You call me Doctor. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure, doc, whatever you say.”

“Doctor,” he repeated, eyes glittering. “Not Doc.”

“Listen, buddy,” I said. “I’ve had a rough coupla days. I’m wearing a fucking skirt and I’ve got a fake cunt glued over my cock. I’m bloody tired, my feet are killing me, and I’ve just been dragged into what looks like, near as I can tell, some kind of secret underground mad scientist lair, so if you don’t mind I think I’ll skip the goddamn formalities. I’ll call you Scooter if the fucking mood takes me, got it? Especially if you think I’m gonna drop trou just because you tell me to.”

The bastard laughed. “Mad scientist lair! I like that!” His eyes flicked over to K. “You were right, she does have quite the mouth on her, eh?” When he turned back to me his smile was gone. “Listen, I like you. You’ve got spunk. But I want you to be very, very clear on this very important point. This is my facility. You are here at my sufferance.

“If she’s brought you here, dressed like that, it’s because you’re in a lot of trouble. And you better appreciate that she’s cashed in some pretty hefty favours for me to take you in.” I glanced aside at K but her eyes revealed nothing. “This facility is not some kind of lair. We are not mad scientists, nor is our work illegal. But it is secretive and hiding someone like you here puts our work in serious jeopardy. I will not have this facility or the people who work here unnecessarily placed in danger.”

“Someone like me?”

“The kinds of people she brings us,” he said, and jerked a thumb towards K. “Usually have very unpleasant people after them.”

I couldn’t disagree with him there.

“So this is the deal. You do what I say and you don’t ask questions. You act like the best little Cindy you can and stay out of trouble. The clinic can help you with the first; you damn well better take care of the second.

“But most of all,” he said, and jabbed one stubby finger hard in my chest, “you show me the respect I’m due. You understand, girlie?”

Believe me, I had to fight back the sudden temptation to grab that fucker’s finger and show him a thing or two about respect. I’ve got a real problem with authority sometimes. I can deal with people telling me what to do. I honestly can. But lording their power over me? No way.

But I’m not stupid. My employment at NeoPharm would’ve been really bloody short if I hadn’t held back every time some dipshit manager took on airs and told me to do something idiotic. And this Jonathon guy, he wasn’t an idiot. I could tell that in an instant. I didn’t pick up any kind of bad vibe from the guy, but a person would have to walk a very fine line with him. Back down too easily and you’d lose his respect and he’d walk all over you; push too hard and you’d have an enemy you wouldn’t want to cross. Especially here, on his home turf.

I glanced aside at K and she seemed rather amused by the little discussion between the doctor and me. Again I wondered what she’d done to get a guy like this, running a place like this, in her pocket. There was no point in belabouring the point.

“Yeah, I understand,” I said, and hopped up on the bed. I pulled the sweater off over my head, revealing the corseted glories beneath. “So where you wanna start, Scooter?”

He glared at me, but the corner of his mouth twitched with a barely repressed smile. “Just strip, will ya?” he said, and walked away to have a few quiet words with K. I got to work on my clothes. Bloody hell, but escaping from those feminine confines on my own was a chore in itself. Women have a hell of a lot more buckles and straps and hard-to-reach clasps and zippers and buttons to contend with. Fashion was starting to feel like a minor form of bondage to me. At some point the doctor wandered back over, and his impatient mumbling, as I struggled to strip down to my panties, suddenly twisted into an appreciate whistle. His eyes widened as those massive parasites clinging to my chest swung free.

“Hey, they’re not real,” I insisted.

He barely seemed to hear me. “Amazing,” he said, and before I knew it his hands were glued to my chest. He felt for a seam where those things met my flesh and found none. “Remarkable,” he added, hefting one in his hand and finding the weight and feel almost indistinguishable from the real thing. “Responsive?” he queried, flicking a thumb across the nipple.

“Yes, fucking responsive,” I snapped, slapping his hand away. Believe me, I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than just slap the pervert. Ever since those boobs were stuck on to me people seem to feel this incredible need to ogle and play with the goddamn things.

He glanced aside at K. “NeoPharm?”

She nodded. “A recent acquisition.”

“Those bastards,” he said, voice scored with grudging respect. He brought his head eye-level with the breasts and grabbed hold once again, this time kneading and squeezing. “The synthetic simulation is incredible.” I looked over his mess of fiery hair and shot an angry glare at K. She grinned.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked.

Bridges grunted an affirmative as I grumbled, “No!”

He looked up at me. “You can feel my touch?”

“Yes, I can feel your touch,” I ground out through clenched teeth. His touch was doing nothing for me. K’s tender ministrations the night before had brought those fuck-udders to life in a way that still had me a little apprehensive. The doctor’s touch was rough and rude and embarrassing. He was starting to royally piss me off.

The man shook his head in disbelief as both nipples tightened beneath his gaze. “The response patterning is truly stunning.” He glanced aside at K. “They finally got to Ghulam Khalid, didn’t they?”

She nodded.

“I knew it. Those bastards. The man’s a genius in his field. I wonder what they offered him.” He looked up as I jerked beneath his touch. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not.” A gentle prompt from K urged him to begin the examination proper. He quickly went through the usual routines, poking and prodding away as he maintained a quick and steady stream of verbal diarrhoea. When he went to listen with his stethoscope it took a few not-so-subtle reminders to keep him from returning to another examination of those goddamn breasts of mine.

Obviously we skipped the ‘turn-and-cough’ part of the check-up. Considering how he flipped out over the breasts, no way was I going to let him start prodding away at my synthetic pussy. Finally he focussed on the bruising localised on my right side. Over the last two days the bruising has settled into a nice, purpled blotch, yellowed at the centre and darkening and finally fading towards the edges. With gentle but constant pressure he pressed along my ribs, all of them, eventually reaching my damaged side.

“Does this hurt?” he asked, pressing lightly.

“Uh,” I grunted. “Yeah.”

He moved along and pressed again. I released a low hiss of pain.

Nodding, he had me stand and walk to one side of the room. I wasn’t sure when K had stepped out of the room, but I can’t deny I felt a little self-conscious, padding across a cool concrete floor wearing nothing but a pair of lacy panties, naked breasts bobbing gently with each step, left in the company of some pervert doctor I barely knew. He barely seemed to notice me, though, poking spasmodically at some buttons. Some of the equipment along the wall folded out and extended paneling and a module he assured me was for taking X-rays. A few chest-level clicks later and Bridges checked out the images on his computer.

He nodded at what he saw. “Minor fracture,” he said. “Two ribs. Painful?”

“Only when I take a deep breath. Or lie on my back.”

“Then don’t lie on your back. Especially with that extra weight on your chest. Best you can do is sleep on your side--the hurt side. It might hurt a bit more but it’s safer for your lungs.” He rummaged around in a drawer and pulled out a small, nondescript brown plastic bottle. He flipped them my way and I snatched the bottle from the air. “Painkillers,” he said. “Strong stuff, long-lasting. Take one every eight hours or so. There’s enough there to last your stay.”

I stared at the bottle dubiously. Like I said, I’m not big on drugs. “That’s it?”

He shrugged. “Normally I’d bind your side for the next week, but if you’re going to be wearing that bloody thing,” he said, waving towards the discarded corset, “it’ll do pretty much the same thing.” He shook his head. “I really don’t see why you types like wearing that stuff so much.”

“I told you,” I insisted, “I don’t like. . . .”

“Not my business,” he cut me off. “As for your ribs, all you can do is wait and heal. It should take four, five weeks before everything’s knit up nice and solid again. Now . . . how about you get yourself dressed so we all can get some sleep, eh?”

***

Later that night I sat on the edge of my bed, lost in thought. The peignoir K and I joked about earlier settled in a lavender chiffon sigh over my body. I stared into the full-length mirror across from the bed. With the makeup cleaned away and the wig off, my face again looked incongruous atop my overly-muscular but undoubtedly feminine body. Through the sheer material those breasts were impressively and proudly rounded, sitting high and firm on my chest. The nipples thrust out against the slightly rough fabric and the feeling of those nubs drawing across the material with every movement I made was decidedly unsettling. The matching lavender panty stretched taut across my hips, still defined by the corset K insisted I wear at night.

My hands sat crossed in my lap, resting lightly over that impossible pussy. Every now and again it reminded me of its presence with an occasional twitch, a sensation that felt a bit like an itch that resonated lightly as a warm flush across those breasts. Lost in thought as I was, the sensation was easier to ignore than usual. I held a letter in my hands. It was from K. She must have written it as Doctor Scooter gave me my physical.

K was gone.

She had left about half an hour ago. Cindy and Wendy gave a teary farewell for the benefit of any watching cameras, and then K drove off into the night.

I found the letter as I was getting ready for bed. I’d happily stripped out of the day’s clothes once again and then tiredly spent another thirty minutes in the washroom, washing the makeup from my face and moisturizing and taking care of all the other strange and unfamiliar things girls do before bed. K had taught me well. The wig required a quick brushing and my underwear couldn’t simply be left strewn across the room. I was really growing to hate these goddamn feminine routines. I took some solace in knowing it was only for a few weeks. It was past midnight by the time I popped one of the doctor’s pills and finally pulled the peignoir over my head. I gingerly slipped under the sheets. I found the letter beneath my pillow.

Cindy, she started, in a fine, angular scrawl that marched across the page with almost mechanical precision. Then she crossed out ‘Cindy’ and started again with ‘David’:

David,

I should not be writing this. I trust that you will destroy this letter once you have read it. Any evidence of your true identity could undo us both. However, I am sure my concerns are unnecessary as you have displayed an uncanny ability to immerse yourself in the character of Cindy. Sometimes it is easy to forget that she is only a creation of both our minds. Who will she be when next we meet?

Study the profile in detail. Memorize and destroy it afterwards.

No. This isn’t what I wanted to write about. David, it is true that I have other responsibilities that require my attention, but they are not the only reason for my departure.

I believe that my presence has become a liability in your flight from Mr Steele. I have many enemies of my own. They should not become your enemies and the added pursuit of men like Fosters only places you in greater danger. I hope that by leaving I can draw away such hostilities.

But again, I shy away from what I want to say. Truthfully, you are safer at the Clinic than anywhere else I could bring you, especially in your current guise. No, if I am a danger and liability to you, David, I must accept that it is because I find myself losing the professional distance that my job demands.

You are a thoroughly dislikeable individual, Mr Sanders. Your attitude toward women is deplorable and your constant arrogance and abusive manner and aggressive nature have infuriated me constantly since our very first encounter. And yet despite this. . . .

You confuse me, David. Between you and Cindy I feel unbalanced, unsure of myself in a way I have not been . . . since Steven. You are very much like him in some ways and yet clearly so much more than he ever was. In our drive to the clinic you said that you thought I enjoyed dressing you up as Cindy, that I enjoyed making you act, in your words, ‘all girly-like and shit’.

I still believe that a feminine disguise was your best chance at survival. However, your words struck far closer to the truth than perhaps you know, closer than I realized myself. You saw something within me, David, a dark and ugly place I have tried to ignore for far too long. Through you, I believe I may have begun to exact some form of revenge on Steven, inflicting on you a twisted version of what he did to me. And through Cindy I continued to indulge the same urges I discovered back then as well. In you I discovered a joint potential for revenge? release? wickedness? I could scarcely control.

Perhaps I would have continued in this way had I not discovered, much to my own surprise, that I quite liked Cindy. Even more surprisingly, I developed a respect for you, Mr Sanders . . . a grudging respect, I assure you. In many ways I suspect that you are a far stronger person than am I.

You will be safe at the Asklepios Clinic. Jon is a good man and can be trusted. I will return as soon as possible. Take care, David. Take care, Cindy.

The letter was signed Katherine.

I should have destroyed the letter immediately. Instead I slipped it inside my copy of ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic’ and placed it on the bookshelf. Now I sat at the edge of my bed, alone, in a darkened room lit only by a single bedside lamp, staring into a mirror and finding nothing there. Eventually I turned off the light and tried to sleep.

Outside, I thought I could hear the wind blow softly through the empty and silent spaces of the Asklepios Clinic. It was probably just my imagination as I slowly drifted into a dark and dreamless sleep.

***

I awoke the next morning to a bed that was warm and comfortable, the room dark and still. Heavy blinds cut off the daylight completely. A wonderful lethargy crept through my body. For an indeterminate period I felt no sense of time or space, just the presence of the duvet as an almost nurturing weight pressing down on my side. Rolling onto my back there was a dull throb in my side, easily ignored; those pain-killers Scooter gave me were strong stuff. But as I reluctantly shifted into full wakefulness my mind was bombarded by a deluge of new and bewildering sensations.

This was my second time waking up in bed as Cindy, and my first proper night’s sleep in . . . God, I had no idea. For a moment I felt utterly confused: where the hell was I? What the fuck was I wearing? It seemed absurd, impossible that I was dressed--in lingerie--with these things--and shaved legs; how had this happened? The uncertainty quickly faded. I remembered K and Scooter, Agent Fosters and Jeremiah fucking Steele.

That brief moment of waking clarity shattered beneath the onslaught of foreign and feminine sensations. The weight of breasts on my chest and their soft, sensitive presence beneath the duvet; the silky slipperiness of the nightgown that twisted like a secret between me and the sheets; even the taste of last night’s cleanser and moisturiser, now a faint echo on my lips: all these were strange and new to me.

Strange as it all was, absurd as my situation seemed--was I really dressed as a fucking girl, in hiding from a homicidal maniac?--I couldn’t lie in bed all day whining. After indulging in a deep, fatalistic sigh, I tossed aside the duvet and sat up in bed. Again a distracting flood of sensations--the way those oversized tits swayed and drooped as I sat up; the fall of the nightgown around my shorn legs--but eventually you’ve just got to adapt and ignore, accept and move on. I had a couple weeks of this bullshit ahead of me, and if I kept stopping to contemplate every difference in body and clothing that comes with pretending to be female, I’d go fucking crazy.

As my first day as a single white female began, I realized that without K, I had no idea what to do.

See, I’m a creature of routines. I don’t know why. It’s probably a neurotic reaction to the randomness of my childhood. As a working adult I took to the Monday-to-Friday, nine-to-five routine like . . . well, like Cindy to lip gloss at the age of twelve. Wake at six, work out, shit-shower-shave, eat and then the ride to work. Same stop, same time, same route, every morning.

It’s not like I’m the only one doing this or anything. After a while I got to recognize the people on my route, the other ‘regulars’: that guy in the natty suit with the pricey briefcase but gay-looking ponytail and one really long nail on his pinkie; I watched that dude eat a Macintosh apple every single morning for three goddamn years, nibbling his way around the core before tossing it as he stepped off the bus. There was the mousy little girl with startling blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses; she had a different novel in her hand every second day and every one of them was some kind of murder mystery. (And yeah, I eventually solved her mystery, if you know what I mean. . . .) Same people, same route, same bloody routine, every day for years. Some people might find that kind of sad. Me, I loved the routine.

Sure, it’s comforting and all, but there’s much more to it than that. So much becomes possible through familiarity. There’s confidence to be found in routine. Even more importantly, there’s the possibility for change--for real change, meaningful change. I wanted to believe that. I really did. I had to, for fuck’s sake, otherwise my whole life would turn out to be a goddamn waste. Day after day, through the repeated actions I had developed for the new adult life I’d been thrust into, I was making myself over into--well, into David Sanders. Someone very different from the person I’d been before.

That’s probably why I’m not a huge fan of change. Whenever one of the people on my route disappeared and never came back, I felt--sad. Seriously. Felt almost like a personal affront, you know?

Therefore, left in my room and unable to go out on account of my voice, I tried to fall back on established routine. Some of the usual routines had to be changed, of course. These weren’t changes I wanted to make, mind you. They were . . . girly routines. Yeah, doing the same thing again and again can lead to a change of who you are, but this wasn’t something I particularly wanted to become. When I stepped out of the shower I patted dry and powdered and moisturised, and knew that I’d be doing the same damn thing every single morning for the rest of my time as Cindy.

Done with the bathroom, I popped one of Scooter’s painkillers and slipped back into that goddamn corset. There was a sharp stab of pain in my side as I slowly zipped the front. The satin pulled tight against my bruise, but the ache quickly faded and the added tension did seem to keep the area secure. With each closing tooth of the zipper I felt the corset create my contours and draw in like a second skin around my torso. I adjusted the breasts more comfortably in their cups and took a tentative, shallow breath. The damn thing was annoying, but to be honest it really wasn’t that uncomfortable. I could breathe, albeit a little more shallowly than normal, and it forced me to move in such a way that minimized the chance of drawing pain from my side.

And it did keep those tits from wobbling all over the fucking place as I dropped to the floor for my morning workout. Push-ups, Sit-ups, tricep-presses and dips, whatever I could do working with what I had in the room. Each move was done with excruciating care to minimize the chance of aggravating my cracked ribs. God, what an incongruous image I must’ve presented: big-titted babe doing push-up in a corset--you don’t see that every day! It was a short routine, under an hour once I got through all the other stuff, but I was sweating and red in the face by the time I finished. It wasn’t that I was out of shape: bloody hell, but I couldn’t breathe properly with that corset wrapped around me.

Finally I couldn’t put off what I’d been dreading most. I faced a new and bewildering dilemma: the challenge of the wardrobe. I stared into the closet for at least ten minutes, at the range of colours and lengths and fabrics and styles spread out before me, and felt nothing but fear and confusion. I had to close the door and walk away. Without K to pick out the day’s outfit I was lost.

I was about to turn to one of the teen girl magazines K had left behind when salvation came from an unexpected source. I thought maybe I could mix and match something similar to what one of those glossy bimbos were wearing, but the phone rang before I could embarrass myself.

First I had to find the damn thing, and then I stared down at it, unsure whether I should answer or not. What the hell, I thought. K assured me that the place was safe. I picked up the receiver. “Cindy,” I said, in a low, breathy voice, barely above a whisper. “Um . . . hello?” Without that spray I didn’t sound much like her.

“Not bad, Girlie,” said the brusque voice on the other end. “But you better learn to do better.”

“Hey, Scooter? Bite me. I’ve had a rough morning.”

There was an annoyed silence. “That’s ‘Doctor Bridges’ to you.”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s up, doc?”

He sighed over the line, but when he spoke his voice sounded cheerful. “Just some good news. You’ll absolutely love this, Cindy. Your type always do.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, I did promise Katherine that we’d take proper care of you. And from what I saw last night, you’re looking a little rough. Seriously. Don’t be talking to anyone under bright lights, because with a face like yours? You’ve got a jaw to make Dick Tracy proud.”

“I like my chin just fine, thank you. So did you call just to bitch about my face? Or do you have something to say?”

The doctor chuckled evilly. “I’ve called to let you know I’ve arranged for a team of the Asklepios Clinic’s very best to, ah . . . take care of you today.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see. They’ll be there in a few minutes. Slip on a bathrobe and just try to relax. Girls love this stuff.”

“This stuff? Hey--”

“Don’t worry. They’re professional. They’ve dealt with all kinds of patients in the past. They’re very discreet. Oh, and they know you can’t talk so don’t worry. They’ll take care of everything.” The bastard really sounded overjoyed. “Enjoy yourself, Cindy!”

***

That first morning and afternoon was spent buried in the warm folds of a heavy terrycloth robe, sat deep in a chair as a small army of beauticians hovered about. Goddamn Scooter and his ‘professionals’. Damn, but did I owe that bastard one or what? I contemplated a fierce and fitting revenge as those girls poked and prodded and otherwise pampered me nearly to the point of insanity.

“You just sit back and relax, honey,” said the team leader. She was slightly plump but immaculately made-up. “Just let Sheila take care of everything.” Then she handed me a small whiteboard and marker. “I’ve heard about your throat, you poor thing. Well, if you need anything just let us know.”

Of course, once the acrid scent of those damned gel extensions had set and the girl working my hand finished shaping them, I was left ‘mute’--at that stage there was no way I could hold a damn pen with those quarter-inch claws. Left unable to protest, the girls were free to go to town on me. I don’t know if they knew or even suspected that I wasn’t the twenty year old princess they were turning me into. The way they chatted and fussed, I doubt they would’ve cared.

I mean, my robe did fall open at times and they must’ve had a good look at my generous curves. Hell, they probably had a few accidental glimpses of that pussy as well. The contrast between that and my otherwise masculine features must’ve confused them at least a little--yeah? I mean, my hands and feet aren’t huge or anything, but they’re not exactly delicate either. I’m fairly proud of my manly jaw and strong nose. I’m a good-looking guy. K thought some of those looks were androgynous; I’ve never thought so. Maybe my eyes were a bit effeminate, and the makeup did something strange to my cheekbones, but I definitely wasn’t naturally ‘girly’. No fucking way.

I spent most of that day in a daze, lying half-asleep in a chair with my limbs splayed out, fingers dangling into little bowls of liquid, women fluttering about my feet, and someone slowly working through my scalp. I definitely woke up when they started stabbing holes in my ears, but the pain faded quickly once they popped the studs in. Then I woke up again once they started tearing my eyebrows off with little waxy strips. Those damn bitches took far too much pleasure inflicting pain on me, let me tell you!

Once the nails were set I was free to idly flip through a magazine, one girl or another occasionally swooping in to comment on the article before me.

“Oh, that’d look so cute on you!” said Pam, the stylist, and I’d give a mute nod.

“God, look at him?” added Kim, the manicurist. “He’s just so buff.”

I smiled weakly.

When they moved on to the facial I laid back with headphones on, listening to some chilled ambient tunes. They stroked and massaged my face and rubbed lotions into my skin, as others returned their attention to my hands. Listen, I’ll be honest: there was something kind of nice about all the attention, the massages and everything. Especially after the last few hectic weeks, it felt nice to just totally relax. It’s just . . . well hell, it took ages, yeah? And I felt like such a sissy the whole time, my stomach churning with subtle self-loathing and my head simmering with the mildest of headaches. Still, I drifted off and eventually came back to the feeling of a tiny brush lightly stroking my lips.

“We’re almost done, hun,” Sheila said. She approached my face with the intensity of a master craftsman, taking almost random, final strokes at the canvas that my skin had become. Pam made final touched to my hair. They didn’t let me see what I looked like at that point. Oh no. First they bundled me into the outfit their fashion expert selected from my wardrobe. Bra, panties and pantyhose. Waist-cincher, drawn tighter than before, and low-heeled boots. A short denim skirt, tight across my ass and thighs, and a slightly-pink, short-sleeved blouse with a wide, flared collar, left unbuttoned low enough to display an ungodly depth of cleavage. And finally they assaulted me with accessories: a thin leather belt, bangles, necklace, rings . . . they threw so much shit at me so quickly that I was left befuddled, and just numbly went through the process of getting dressed without protest. They helped me with the buttons and zippers. With those new nails I was completely useless. There was a final spritz of perfume that left me in a disorientating, cloying floral mist.

They trundled me before the mirror and watched me with expectant, cheerful possessiveness.

“What do you think?” Sheila asked.

Honestly? My immediate reaction was to feel under-whelmed. It’s not that these girls weren’t good at their job--they definitely knew their craft. But I’d already been through this before, right? The first time is always the worst. Well, almost. That’s true for just about everything. Three days ago K stuck breasts onto me and dressed me up in tight jeans, and then unveiled Cindy to my virgin eyes. After that--other than finding myself sporting a sudden vagina--any further adventures in cross-dressing were bound to feel a little anti-climatic. That first encounter with Cindy had been profoundly unsettling. The realization that I could be made to look like a chick--like an attractive one--had freaked me out. With all the racing around and hiding and shit, I don’t think I’d quite had time to fully understand just how deeply and profoundly the whole experience had shook me.

Which is why, as I slowly drank in this latest incarnation of Cindy, I began to feel . . . ill. That subtle discontent in my stomach blossomed into full-blown sickness; I felt like vomiting. Pain flared across my temple, brief but penetrating. All the wrongness of the last three days, seething and bubbling just beneath the surface but otherwise ignored, came rushing to the fore. Maybe K’s presence had been enough to keep it a bay, but left on my own . . . God, I suddenly realized I was on the verge of losing it, and I wasn’t sure what the hell I’d do to myself . . . or anyone around me. First this morning and now . . . these chicks hovering about, eyes bright and eager, turning me into, fuck, into one of them.

I just stood there staring at Cindy in the mirror, nearly trembling with the effort of restraining my violent disgust. The girls were getting anxious. I watched them in the mirror exchange glances. They needed some kind of response. With one hand I reached up to my new, luxurious mane of hair. It hung impossibly straight down to the small of my back, shimmering brightly. It reminded me of golden wheat swaying in the wind at dawn in the summer--what a thing to remember at a time like this. Glossy pink nails combed through and I couldn’t tell the difference from the real thing.

Sheila’s hand fell softly on my shoulder. “Cindy?”

My smile was wan and sickly but the best I could manage. I hid it with a quick nod of my head, painfully aware of the added weight to the gesture, of the hair that fell across my shoulder and stroked my neck, of the glittering dance of the studs now adorning each earlobe.

The relief that passed through my worried audience was nearly palpable.

“You look wonderful, girl!” Kim said.

I did. I mean, I really did. In fact, the longer I stared at myself in the mirror, the more discomfited I became, the more overwhelmed I felt. True, the shock wasn’t anything as drastic as the first time I saw myself all done up as a chick. Thing is, as good as Agent K was at the whole makeup-and-disguise thing, she wasn’t a master. It wasn’t her profession, not like it was for these girls.

Looking at myself in the mirror after K was done with me, yeah, sure, I looked like a chick but if I looked closely the flaws in the illusion were pretty damn clear. Now, as my eyes danced across my reflection desperately seeking the same easy flaws as before--I couldn’t find them.

That wig had done loads to feminize my features but never looked quite natural on me--this sleek new cascade was all girl, and somehow very Cindy. Cindy wouldn’t wear clip-on earrings, and so now she didn’t: two little studs, glinting in the light, framed her face. That face: sure, she had a square chin--already softened by Sheila’s skill--but who’d notice confronted with those delicately highlighted cheekbones, those soft, wet lips? And those eyes, wide and so very, very green, vividly brought out by the masterwork of blended colours that shimmered across her lids. Certainly the feminine mask revealed to me felt heavy and strange, but the skin I saw was flawless and beautiful.

Those nails transformed her whole hand somehow, made them delicate, the illusion of length making each finger that much more slender. It was more than that: the very way she carried herself was different, every movement softened by the changes wreaked upon her by the beauticians. Soft skin, new colours, new weight, lingering scents: this was the same Cindy I met three days ago, only made feminine to a degree I hadn’t dared consider.

I barely noticed as the girls said farewell, packed up and left. My hand drifted tentatively across Cindy’s body, poking at each new change.

God, I felt like such a fucking pansy. It made me sick. It really did.

***

It’s hard to judge how profound an effect the beauticians had on me. I’m not sure, but after that moment staring at Cindy’s reflection I started to give up. Agreeing to K’s crazy scheme was one thing, but actually discovering I could be made to appear like a girl--a real girl, a hot girl--was really playing havoc on my self esteem, you know? Especially since on one level . . . well, hell yeah, I actually felt some pride in how sexy Cindy looked

So after the girls left I spent an hour sitting numbly at the edge of my bed, shaking slightly, fighting down the urge to throw up. My headache slowly faded. The reflection opposite openly mocked my male ego. Understanding how both K and the Clinic were systematically breaking down my masculine self-image, even knowing that it was for my own good, didn’t make it any less painful. Once I recovered from my small mental breakdown, though, something unexpected happened: with an almost audible ‘click’ something in my head flipped and I figured, ‘fuck it’. I decided that there was no way I was going to spend the next few weeks in a state of constant misery.

With renewed enthusiasm I took to my stocking feet only to remember that I didn’t actually have anything to do. I couldn’t leave room Cos 402 on account of my throat and doctor’s orders. The TV received only a few channels and no news from the outside world--I couldn’t even check up on fucking Steele’s trial. I hate television anyway; it’s just a huge waste of time. Some game consol or another was stashed away and I thought I could pass an hour or two on mindless entertainment . . . but the fifth time I got my ass kicked on Dead or Alive because I missed the goddamn kick-button because of those new nails, I gave up.

I had no choice. Under the threat of extreme boredom and with nothing else to do, I started to perfect the whole feminine act. I began by reading some of the teen magazines and fashion books K had left behind, and very consciously tried to do so in as girly a way as possible, curled up on the sofa with my legs tucked up beneath my ass, unconsciously stroking my hair as I perused the articles. I even read that awful ‘Shopaholic’ book, pausing partway through to look over K’s letter once again. Eventually I drifted into the bathroom and practiced my makeup skills and all that other shit, then reluctantly slipped into some low heels and pranced back and forth for a bit. I kept them on for the rest of the night--I was almost surprised at how quickly the night came, once I got serious about my training--and finally settled in for food and a movie.

I whipped up a quick meal with what I found in the kitchen, and finally kicked back on the sofa with a glass of white wine. I watched the best thing I found in the media selection, some cynical romance by Woody Allen. The whole time I felt acutely aware of the image I must have presented: young blonde on sofa with glass of wine. I absently fidgeted with my hair or bra and lost myself in the movie.

Without realizing it turned one AM, I was yawning, and I’d survived my first day alone as Cindy. A little drunk from two bottles of Chablis, I lifted myself from the sofa and returned to my bedroom. I went through the nightly routine again, cleaning up and slipping back into the corset and brushing my new long hair. Thinking back over my day, I realized that it hadn’t been all that bad. Yeah, a bit freaky at the beginning, and the middle part was kind of emasculating . . . but hell, it beat hiding out in some shithole waiting for some bastard to pop a bullet into the back of my head. That’s probably when I started to relax--to really relax, for the first time in far too long. After fiddling with the media controls set into the headboard of the bed--setting an alarm, adjusting the heat in the room and putting some chilled tunes on a timer--I pulled on that same babydoll I wore my first night as Cindy and slipped into bed. Within a few minutes of hitting bed I was asleep, warm and comfortable and surrounded by music.

***

The next morning it was Cindy who stepped from the building into the fresh brightness outside. She paused at the door and took a deep, invigorating breath. Her eyes closed with the pleasure of the warm sun on her skin and the scent of freshly cut grass riding the air. When she opened her eyes again she smiled a happy, simple smile and trotted a few steps down the cobblestone path.

Sitting atop a small hill, the Cos residence offered an excellent view across the expansive range of the Asklepios Clinic. At night the whole area lay shrouded in darkness broken only intermittently by rare and distant lights. However, by day the clinic revealed its dappled beauty to the young girl.

The two large buildings at opposing ends of the property, sharp-edged jumbles of glass and concrete, reached aggressively for the sky and glittered coldly in drifting shafts of gentle sunlight. Behind her loomed the Hygieia Centre, sitting taller and more elaborate than any nearby buildings. Smaller structures lay scattered across the range of her sight, mostly clustered near main buildings but also reaching hesitatingly into the encroaching forest. More homes, she decided, or maybe shops. Cindy frowned slightly at the thought: she had very little money; but the day was far too beautiful for such concerns and, tossing her hair back and slinging her purse over one shoulder, she began her exploration of her new home. The glint of colour peeking from her open-toed wedge heels, the dance of the sundress against her legs, the light bump of a purse against her hip with every step: Cindy felt gloriously alive and comfortable in her femininity as she enjoyed an early morning stroll beneath blue skies and dawdling clouds.

She found genuine contentment in the freedom to explore at her leisure. For an hour she drifted aimlessly along the twisting and convoluted walking paths. This early in the morning--a glance at the thin, silver timepiece at her wrist confirmed it wasn’t even nine yet--there were few other people about. She saw a couple of joggers pass by, red-faced and earnest; they gave her a double look and a quick automatic wave before continuing on their way. Many of the paths coiled around small, well-tended gardens and parks sporting detailed fountains, artificial ponds and benches for relaxing. Cindy made a mental note of some gorgeous trees perfectly suited for a late-afternoon picnic spent relaxing in verdant shade.

Cindy thought to herself that she would have to come out earlier tomorrow. She wouldn’t even have to talk to anyone. To not take advantage of the natural beauty of this place was unthinkable. In the early morning, just as the sun touched the forested hilltops red, there might still be fog roiling between the buildings blanketing everything in its muting mist. She felt an almost unconscious ache to lose herself, alone, in the natural beauty of her new surroundings.

As the young woman came to the end of her morning stroll she noticed an increasing number of people on the paths, some flitting between buildings on those small, electric carts. She passed a few people and they all seemed content to remain private; they offered polite nods and non-committal smiles but little else.

Cindy became a little anxious. The thought of spending her stay at the clinic alone was genuinely distressing to a girl like her. Spending a day being pampered at home was one thing, but what was the point of getting all dressed up and pretty if there was no one to appreciate it? Despite the squeamish flutter in her stomach she determined to approach the next passer-by to cross her path.

He was a youngish-looking man, maybe in his early-twenties but with a rounded softness to his face that bordered on childish. His clothes were casual but stylish and very expensive and looked a little cool for the slight chill that rode the mid-spring mountain air. With distracted, almost nervous eyes he scanned the far horizons of the clinic as he jogged, and looked set to pass straight by without noticing Cindy.

“Good morning!” she declared happily, stepping in front of the man.

Eyes still focused on the distant bulk of the Meditrine Clinic, he ran straight into the smaller girl. With a startled gasp she tumbled to the ground, the man falling heavily on top of her.

Believe me: I came damn close to killing that stupid kid, right then and there. I really did. It wasn’t the fact that the weirdo slammed into me and knocked me to the ground. Hell, I could even forgive him for falling on top of me. After all, this cutesy girl-disguise is just that: a disguise, and beneath the lace and satin and pink trim I’m still a guy, tough as nails, still a man, not easily shaken. Other than the savage but brief burst of pain in my side, the hardest part of hitting the stone pathway was remembering to fall like Cindy--with a squeal and a useless flailing of limbs. The heels helped keep things authentic.

No, what pissed me off was that once we hit the pavement this idiot kid made no effort to get off of me. Seriously. He just stayed over me, his weight pressing down on me, and for the first time I felt the bizarre sensation of my breasts being crushed against my chest by another body. The boy lifted himself just enough to hold his head over mine. He stared directly into my eyes. His eyes were dull grey and rimmed in red. An unusually sharp scent clung to him, spicy but not unpleasant.

For a horrible, fleeting moment I thought this asshole was going to reach down for a kiss. My makeup was still fresh; wet, glistening lips parted in a slight gasp; and then I realized the boy wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were unfocused and distant. Slowly they returned to the here and now and gradually became aware of the startled, wide-eyed girl confronting him.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Larry.”

He didn’t seem all that concerned or even aware that he was lying on top of a smaller girl, crushing her to the ground as he introduced himself. I looked to either side but from my limited perspective didn’t see help approaching. I experienced another first-time foreign sensation: that of long hair, my own, pinned beneath me. Each turn tugged painfully at my scalp.

“I am twenty years old and a student,” he continued conversationally, though his voice was strangely monotone and slightly too loud. “What is your name?”

“Um . . . Cindy?” I answered. Thanks to the spray my voice was back to those unsettlingly breathy and feminine tones.

“Very nice to meet you, Cindy,” he said. “I have never seen you before. Are you new to the Clinic?”

With my hair caught I couldn’t even nod. I really had to fight back the temptation to toss this idiot off of me. The boy wasn’t small and his weight was starting to hurt my side despite Scooter’s painkillers. I could’ve thrown him easy, but I figured there was no was Cindy would have the strength or skill.

“Yes?” I answered, forcing a note of pleading into my voice.

“You should not be here,” he said, in the same toneless voice. “This is a bad place for you.”

No shit, it was a bad place. Last place I wanted to be was pinned beneath some guy, yeah? Especially since, a moment later, I felt it: an insistent push against my thigh, like an overeager pup poking its muzzle into a pocket. Perverted little fucker! I’d never felt anything like it but recognized the sensation immediately. The bastard’s growing hard-on was jabbing into my leg! The thought that only the ridiculous flimsy thinness of the dress I wore and this idiot’s shorts separated his cock from my skin almost made me sick.

Screw the helpless Cindy act, yeah? Frightened surprised twisted into an angry scowl. “You have to get off of me,” I growled, and the spray did nothing to mask my barely repressed rage. “Now.”

Larry didn’t seem to notice. “Of course,” he answered, sounding calmly unconcerned. He took his time doing so but finally clambered to his feet. Gallant gentleman that he was, he didn’t even offer me his hand. Instead, his eyes quickly found the squatting silhouette of the Meditrine Clinic, and without another word or a glance back he took off at a brisk jog in its general direction.

Fortunately, not everyone I met that day tried to slam me to the ground and hump my leg. (Not that I could blame them, really, considering what a sexy little number Cindy is.) I encountered a few more idle wanderers like myself and exchanged passing pleasantries. No real conversations, but it did a lot to boost my confidence. If anyone found something odd about my appearance they kept it to themselves. I certainly kept my own opinions quiet. It finally began to dawn on me that I was in a hospital--albeit a very beautiful, very large and expensive one--and many of the people I met seemed a bit . . . off.

That day was spent at a nice, leisurely pace, methodical but relaxed, as I spiralled out from the Cos Residence and explored the surroundings. I stumbled across a few more residences though none of them were quite as large as my new home. Where Cos struck me as a bit like upper-end student housing, some of the other places sprawled out like small villas.

Everywhere I went the grass was green and the shrubs well-kept. The air was almost cloying at times, laden with the scent of early-blooming flowers and fragrant trees. So clear and blue that it nearly seemed to glow, the unbroken sky stretched across the far limits of the Clinic and set the brilliant green of the earth in sharp contrast. To be honest, I’m not sure I’d ever been anywhere quite as idyllic and beautiful.

And yet--yeah, there’s a ‘but’. In my life it seems like there’s always a ‘but’. Despite the beauty, the soothing breeze and scents and calming silence . . . yeah, it was the silence that did it, I think. It wasn’t the fact that I was decked out like a co-ed tart that had me on edge. It was the unnatural silence of the place.

See, the thing is I’m not much of a city boy. I’m really not, even though I’ve spent my entire adult life in the bustle and clamour of big cities. There’s a lot of shit about urban living that’s good: the chicks, the work, the bars and gigs--the cultural stuff, you know? The energy and that edgy vibe you only find in cities. But for all that, I’m a country boy at heart. Born and raised. Everything changed after Mom moved us to the city. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder how different my life would’ve been had we just stayed in the countryside.

And so, I’ve got these surprisingly strong childhood memories of times spent outdoors. Spent beneath a glittering canopy of stars, or lost in fascinated observation of some tiny, wondrous facet of life and death in nature: a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, or ants swarming a much larger caterpillar in pitched battle.

Like this one time I remember. I must’ve been something like six years old. Really made an impression on me. You ever see a spider capture a fly? You’d be surprised how difficult and rare it is to actually see it happen--nature is quick, ‘red in tooth and claw’, as Akiko used to say.

The way the buzzing abruptly cuts off, the brief struggle against the web giving way to exhaustion; then the savage dash across the lines, eight legs wrapping around the prey, fangs sinking down, a few spasmodic jerks, another . . . and then the final bondage, wrapped in silk that would glitter almost beautifully in morning dew, hiding the hollowed husk within.

I remember because that fly had been harassing me for half-an-hour, buzzing about and mocking my flailing attempts to drive it away as I hiked through the woods out behind my house. And then--silence, followed by capture. As much as the stupid bug had been annoying me . . . yeah, I kinda felt sorry for it. It’s a horrible way to go.

It’s amazing the scenes nature reveals to those--usually the young--who take the time to watch. So I knew a thing or two about being outdoors, and this is the thing: it’s very rarely quiet. The Clinic? For all its cultivated outdoor beauty it was strangely, unnaturally silent. Even if the other clients and patients weren’t the loud and boisterous type, the trees and gardens should have called out with their own fertile voices. Yet as I walked about that first morning I heard very few birds singing; saw only one or two squirrels dash up the side of a tree; and for all the refined greenery I’m not sure I noticed a single gardener or maintenance worker.

By the time noon approached my good mood of the morning was gone beneath a growing apprehension. My feet were killing me as well--for all my practice, I still had a ways to go before mastering heels and this was by far the most ‘real’ walking I’d done in women’s shoes. Who knew cobblestone pathways would make for such harder walking than the thin carpet of the safe-house? (Amazing how long ago that safe-house seemed, a lifetime away from the present.) Far more importantly my stomach started to grumble. A half-hour walk from ‘home’ and with aching feet and growing hunger, I finally decided to step indoors.

The nearest place at hand looked like a coffee shop. It had a large front that revealed a couple of small wooden tables that looked like they’d escaped from an Ikea catalogue. Inside the light was comfortably muted after the brilliance outside. Chilled music played quietly from unobtrusive speakers mounted in the corners and the warm scent of roasted java filled the air. My steps knocked a solid note from the tiled floor as I crossed to the counter.

The young man working behind the till somehow reminded me of Chris, that guy from the reception centre. Sure, this guy was a little taller, his chin a little weaker, but he possessed the same bland good looks and professional demeanour of the other guy. I was so struck--or momentarily put off, I should say--by the resemblance that I stood there at a loss after I caught his attention.

“Welcome to The Bean Being,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “How may I help you?”

***

That coffee house became my home away from home over the next few weeks. On the days when I could escape my room, I invariable swung by the Bean Being to grab a cup of coffee. It became part of my routine. That cup of coffee became a necessary part of settling into the character of Cindy for the day.

The days passed quickly. By early evening I could feel the tingle in my throat that suggested my voice would soon drop back to its masculine levels, and usually made my way home. It was a bit like Cinderella and the midnight bell, though at least I didn’t have some prissy prince chasing after me. This princess didn’t need rescuing, thank you very much. Since that spray was only good for six to eight hours or so, I was kind of forced to spend a lot of time indoors.

Off days, I sat around the apartment and worked out, read and watched movies. I drank a lot. I also waited for the next of Scooter’s torture sessions to take place. These beauty sessions were never quite as intensive as the first day--except for the day the bastard decided I needed a Brazilian wax, the fucker--but remained the focal point of the day. On the days I used the spray I took my time to continue my exploration of the clinic, both above ground and through the underground network of tunnels, and otherwise took advantage of the gorgeous setting. I’ll admit: I was amazed at how quickly I got used to walking in public dressed like a girl. With each visit of the beauticians my confidence grew; the image reflected in the mirror became increasingly convincing.

Which is why, yeah, I started ‘making friends’ at the Clinic. Like I said, most of these people? Mostly I felt disdain for them, especially those living under the umbrella of the Hygieia Centre. But Cindy? Well hell, she’s a much nicer person that I am, and she filled my days with inane conversations with sad and boring people. On the other hand, each and every person I met for a coffee or a short chat in a pleasant, sun-bathed arbour gave me the chance to put into use all the feminine techniques and habits I was practicing at night.

Because my evenings? I spent those in my room practicing to be Cindy, learning who she was, puzzling out her past and perfecting the act. Nah, not ‘the act’. Acting not enough for this kind of subterfuge. To truly convince involves ‘being’ and so, yeah, that’s what I practiced at night: ‘being’ Cindy.

The first week passed. At times I was beyond bored and painfully aware of every single second crawling by. Other times disappeared in a blink. Cindy moments barely registered. Lost in the character, focusing intensely on every gesture, pose, word I spoke and the way I said it--hours could melt away, leaving me exhausted and drained but surprisingly pleased by the end.

Still, I was itching for a little fun, for some excitement, you know? I was going stir-crazy. I was getting bored; really bored. I was drinking way too much and kept getting plagued by these infrequent but absolutely blistering headaches that would strike at the weirdest times. I really think I was starting to go a little crazy. Or maybe it was just the same old crazy, churning away under the unusual pressure of being Cindy--and now bubbling to the surface, worse than ever.

By far the worse symptom was a growing suspicion of my surroundings. I mean, hell, even as David Sanders I was never all that relaxed, you know? I was always a little on edge and more than just a little distrusting. But now? A week into my stay at the Clinic my growing unease developed into full-blown paranoia. Those first few days, focusing entirely on learning the fine art of being Cindy, I’d almost forgotten that I was, in fact, in hiding from the hit-men of a corporate psychopath. But the more I felt that there was something just not quite right about the place, the more convinced I became that somehow Steele’s agents had managed to infiltrate my new home. Believe me, there’s nothing like shamefully pretending to be a girl while living over a secret underground medical facility to heighten that paranoid edge.

That morning I left my room early for a quick jog around the Clinic, bared legs sleek and lithe in the comfortable jogging shorts I’d slipped on after sliding out of bed. This early I didn’t need to worry about meeting anyone. The sun still lurked beneath the horizon, the sky only just beginning to lighten into diffuse indigo. My hair, tied back in a high ponytail with a pink scrunchie, danced in counter-point to my ever step. With minimal makeup and no corset I felt wonderfully free as I raced through the faint mist and early morning chill. Yeah, it was stupid and sloppy but I really needed to just cut loose for a moment. From a distance basic shape and colour would be enough to make me look girlie; it’s only up close that I would’ve been hard-pressed to pull off a convincing Cindy.

I didn’t bump into anyone. Near the end of my jog, as I warmed down from my effort, I had this sudden, intense sensation of being watched. As I stretched out front of the Cos residence I surreptitiously scanned my surroundings. Nothing. Reason told me I was being insane; my instincts told me something was wrong. I trust my instincts.

Back in my room I dressed for the day, marvelling at how second-nature the whole process was becoming. I went for something sexy but sensible that day: a loose, flowing skirt and a light purple blouse with wide, flared collar, over which I pulled on a tight turtleneck sweater. Even with just trainers and small studs in my ears, I looked damn fine.

I spent the day doing the usual things: a coffee at the Being Bean, followed by an hour hanging out in the library followed by lunch with one of the acquaintances Cindy had made, this cool woman called--get this--Crystal Dawn. Seriously. She was a bit flakey and her questions were a bit personal at times, but she was fun to hang out with. There was something weird about her I couldn’t quite place--probably the reason I liked chatting with her. Everyone likes a puzzle.

So, yeah, the day was all fine and good--except that by late afternoon my normal paranoia had blossomed into near lunacy. It took incredible effort to not look over my shoulder as I walked about, and I felt this incredible need to retreat to my room, close all the blinds and huddle in the dark. In a final act of desperation I gave up and went to the Bacchus Bar. I wanted a drink.

I ordered a stiff scotch and pounded it back and got myself a second. I kept half-an-eye on the thin crowd but nothing caught my attention. Except--by my third drink, at which point I remembered that Cindy wasn’t a Scotch drinker and I switched to wine--I was struck by an intense, powerful certainty.

Somebody was watching me again. Somebody was following me

After a forcefully relaxed sip of my wine I pulled a compact from my purse. As I powdered my nose, so to speak, I used the mirror to covertly look over my shoulder. Nothing. More paranoia? As if going out in public dressed like a girl wasn’t enough to leave a bit twitchy. I gestured for the bartender to come over.

“Yes miss?”

Being called miss still brought a wry smile to my lips. “Could you watch my drink?” I asked. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.”

“Sure.”

“Where are they?” The bartended pointed the direction out to me. “At the back of the bar.”

I made my way across the bar at a leisurely stroll, flicking back my mane of hair as I went. A door led to a corridor with the women’s toilet on one side, the men’s opposite and further down, and ended with a shut door marked ‘employees only’; a supply closet, I guessed. I was acting like a right paranoid fool, like a flustered, silly girl. Looking over my shoulder, I not only wasn’t watching where I was going . . . I walked through the wrong door.

I slammed into some guy’s chest. He stumbled back. Too jittery, too on edge, I found my footing faster than Cindy would have and nearly smashed my fist into the stranger’s face. “Watch it!” I snapped.

The man rubbed at his chest, but his eyes twinkled from beneath a mop of blue-black hair peppered with grey. “Whoa there,” he said. He hesitated then added, “little lady. You know where you are, yes?”

I finally noticed the urinals and fought down a rising blush. “Yeah, yeah,” I answered, glancing back into the corridor. There was nobody there, of course. I cursed myself for an idiot.

“In a bit of a rush?”

I took a deep, settling breathe. “Sorry,” I started to say, finally turning to get a proper look at the guy. My voice died in my throat.

“My name’s Harry,” he said. Dark eyes watched me with amused and casual expectancy. Genuinely, almost embarrassingly star-struck, I kind of lost track of the next few minutes. I’m not sure what nonsense I stuttered, but eventually became vaguely aware that he’d just offered to buy me a drink. He opened the door for me and we returned to the bar. When we went our separate ways thirty minutes later, I realized to my own bemusement that I’d just been talked into a date--with a man.

***

Getting ready to meet Harry that first time? Yeah, it bloody well took some doing. I mean, first I had to get myself half-unconscious with booze before I could even start getting ready. Even if it was Harry, I was getting ready for a date--with a guy! How fucked up was that? I kept telling myself that it wasn’t really a date, that I was just meeting up with some guy for a coffee or a few pints. Yeah, ‘some’ guy my cute ass! I mean, it’s not like I could pass up the opportunity, you know? It’s was Harry fucking Longman!

Yeah, that Harry. A little over a year ago the media had been abuzz with speculation as to the poet-slash-rock star’s whereabouts--there were rumours of a cult, of a pilgrimage, of joining a Buddhist monastery; but no one really knew. Apparently he’d gone to the Asklepios Clinic . . . and now Cindy was about to date the single most influential celebrity of David Sander’s young life.

Damn, but Harry Longman was the one and only media-figure I’d ever imagined meeting. I just never imagined I’d be wearing a dress, you know?

The first step in getting ready was getting drunk. After a few shots of Tequila and with a stiff Scotch in hand, I felt boozy and fuzzy enough to confront the next crisis.

What the hell was I going to wear? This wasn’t like getting decked out before meeting up with Tom and hitting the bars on the weekend, you know? I mean, sure, I paid attention to what I put on, how I looked. If a guy wants to get laid, he’s got to show that he’s willing to put in at least a little effort. But there’s no comparison. There really isn’t. Thirty minutes tops to get ready, and that’s including a shower, shave, and a nice, leisurely shit spent leafing through a perpetually unfinished novel.

Cindy, on the other hand, almost suffered a panic attack staring into her closet before her date. What underwear should I wear? Do I go with bland but sturdy body-shaping stuff? Casual and comfortable panties and bra? Something that left me feeling a bit . . . naughty? What kind of shoes? Did they go with that skirt? Was I baring too much cleavage? Hair, makeup--fuck, what a nightmare! And the colours, the textures, prints, the way this fabric clung or that one fell, could this and that work together . . . it was too much, too confusing. I couldn’t decide between an unsubtle and young groupie-slut outfit, or something a bit more enigmatic and intellectual; more importantly, I didn’t have a clue how to achieve either look.

I gave up; I called up Scooter’s army of professionals; bless their hearts, they sorted everything out for me. By the time they finished I felt breathless and constrained by the clothes I wore: the cincher that squeezed my midriff and the heels that hobbled my step; the makeup and hair that required constant attention; the thin straps that seemed to run all across my body, encircling ankles and shoulders, thigh and waist. From head to toe I glittered and glistened, like a fishing lure fluttering through shallow water.

Harry and I met at the Bacchus Bar. He looked almost painfully cool in some beat-up but stylish jeans, relaxed t-shirt and his signature leather jacket, and the casual comfort of his clothes left me almost angrily jealous. Harry, unhindered by his clothes, was liberated to take charge of the action in the date, whereas I was constantly forced to fuss over my appearance. Dating as a woman was proving to be a real pain in the ass.

The date went well. I struggled to keep the star-struck bimbo thing to a minimum but still sat there, flustered and gushing, for most of the night. Harry was charming and patient. The guy had some seriously smooth moves; in the back of my mind I took notes: once back to being a guy I’d definitely put his chat-up techniques to work. Eventually I got over the fact that I was sitting there all dressed like some tart, flushed beneath my makeup, and relaxed. Inane chatting eased into real conversation and his entire demeanour gradually changed, from celebrity character to . . . well, a real person.

By the end of that night the unexpected had happened: I’d made a new friend. We ended the date by picking up a bottle of Rioja and retired outside for some drinking on one of the benches. We parted happy and quite drunk. He gave me a gallant kiss on my hand--it sent an unnerving quiver through my belly--and we made plans to get together again. After he left I stayed there for awhile, trying to sort through some very confused and conflicted thoughts.

I’d had a good night. It was the most fun I’d had in ages. Harry was a fun guy, cool and easy to relax around . . . although of course I could never really relax, constantly reminded by the clothes I wore of the role I was playing. That’s what bothered me the most, I think: that even dressed like some teen tease I still had such a good night.

Something rustled from the bushes.

Booze and distractions be damned; I snapped immediately to attention. My outside posture remained relaxed and feminine. I stayed where I was, reaching out with my senses. Nothing. Had I imagined the noise? Focused on Harry for the last few days, I’d almost been able to forget about my paranoid instincts.

After five minutes of forcefully relaxed waiting I went for a walk. My heels clicked against cobblestone with each step. I felt acutely aware of every sway of my ass beneath my tight skirt, the jiggle of my exposed tits, the swish of my hair. I wasn’t particularly frightened or worried. It was just that the idea that I was being watched forced me once again to confront the reality of what I was doing and of how I was dressed. More than anything else I felt acute embarrassment. I mean, shit, the image I presented: teenage rape-bait, drunk and alone, mincing along at night though a quiet park.

Pushing aside those irrelevant emotions I focused on my surroundings. Not for the first time I wondered if my paranoia stemmed from the simple fact that, as a girl, I’d lost the anonymity that is a fundamental reality of being male. I mean, fuck, I’m a good-looking guy and yeah, I do get checked out by passing chicks. (I’d definitely get checked out more if I was a half-foot taller.) But in general, when David Sanders walks down a street nobody gives a shit. Cindy? With her pert little ass and jiggling D-cups tits? Her height’s perfect, especially in cute prancing heels, and every little motion draws the eyes: critical evaluation from the girls, and the guys? Yeah, they like what they see.

Cindy’s not anonymous. Even in this hospital there’s a lot more attention directed my way than I’m used to. It’s the kind of thing to really feed your paranoia, especially if, you know, you’re not actually a girl and more than just a little embarrassed at the thought that somebody might spot you for what you really are. The Clinic was, just as K and Scooter assured me, completely safe. But for some reason, my gut refused to accept what my brain was telling me.

There was nobody there. There couldn’t be anybody there. It was probably my own neurosis playing with my hearing.

Yeah, that’s why after another ten minutes of walking, I took a narrow side-path between a storage shed and a closed shop, and silently disappeared into a deep thicket.

Kneeling behind some bushes, heels sinking awkwardly into the soft earth and the greenery scratching at my arms, I couldn’t help but question once again what the hell was wrong with me. I crouched and waited. A bug buzzed near, landed on my cleavage and started a casual walk across the vast expanse of my right breast. The night remained quiet, other than the faint hum of light at the edge of the building. From far away I heard the faint roar of a car pulling up to the Clinic, the headlights momentarily cutting a swath across the sky. I continued to wait, unmoving, ignoring the growing cramp in my legs. It wasn’t the first time I’d watched from the shadows, hidden in the trees. It was the first time I’d done it in heels and a skirt.

A shadow detached itself from behind the storage shed. Quietly--though not entirely so--it crept forward, mostly avoiding the faint pool of light from behind. The darkness was enough to conceal its features, though the general shape suggested male. His movements were surprisingly amateurish for a hit man. I remained still, until the figure’s furtive movements brought him close.

I leapt from the foliage. Feminine clothes worn for dating are ill-suited for subterfuge: the shoes threw off my movement and I made more noise than I should have as I closed the distance. The man twisted, raising his arm. I didn’t give him the chance. My right hand jammed him at the shoulder, slid in and pulled him off balance. One foot forward; unsubtle but effective, I threw my weight into him and sent him sprawling over my leg. He slammed into the side of the building face first. I followed close. Snagged a flailing arm and twisted it behind his back. Threw him up against the wall again. Way, way too easy.

“Why are you following me?” I demanded, keeping my voice low. I tried for a harsh and threatening growl and barely managed a husky purr. I was really going to have to lay off that damn spray.

The man didn’t respond. He sagged in my grip. A faint scent reached my nose: slightly spicy, unusual but not unpleasant. I released his arm and spun the man around.

“Larry?”

The boy stared into some empty space that floated a few feet behind and to the left of my shoulder. A thin rivulet of blood trickled from a cut on his forehead. I momentarily toyed with the idea that he’d been somehow contacted by Steele but dismissed the thought. Cindy’s inane conversations over the last week had picked up some juicy gossip about some of the more permanent residents of the Clinic. Larry’d been here for ages. The guy wasn’t dangerous, just a long-term nutter. He was the son of rich and prominent parents who didn’t need the embarrassment of a weirdo son with obsessive tendencies.

The boy’s eyes eventually found me and he smiled an empty, mechanical smile, as if he’d been taught that a smile was the proper response at a time like this. “Hello Cindy,” he said.

I sighed, stepping back from the boy.

“Hi Larry.”

“How are you today, Cindy?”

I glanced about, hoping that nobody had noticed me beating up a patient. “Yeah, just great.” I quickly looked him over. “You okay, kid?”

“That hurt,” he said, still smiling. He eyes remained glued to my face. “I like you, Cindy.”

“I’m sure you do,” I answered, and then smiled myself. An unconscious tension across my shoulders slowly bled away. Wow. My very first stalker. I’d take that over a professional hit-man any day. My paranoia hadn’t been unfounded, just a bit . . . exaggerated. I gave Larry a soft pat on the shoulder and slipped back into Cindy mode. “C’mon, Larry? You want to go home? Let’s get you home, okay?”

I walked the lunatic home, carrying on a stilted but strangely interesting prattle the whole way. He walked quickly, unaware that his long stride forced me to trot to keep up. A week ago there’s no way I could’ve managed it, but the constant practice was paying off. After dropping him off at his residence I gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek and made him promise to stop following me from the shadows. “Next time you want to talk,” I told him, “just come and say ‘hi’, okay?”

He nodded and looked grave. “Be careful Cindy. This is a not a good place.”

Apparently I wasn’t the only paranoid at Asklepios. I promised to be careful and walked home at a leisurely pace. At the threshold to Cos 403 I stopped and leaned heavily against the door. With one finger pressed gently against my soft lips, as if in remembrance of a long ago kiss, I reflected on the night. This existence was crazy. It was emasculating and embarrassing. These clothes: constraining. These shoes: awkward. And the role I played? Flirty and demure, all the soft touches and veiled glances and glossy smiles? Pathetic. But for all that--God, between Harry and beating up on Larry I’d had more fun tonight than in ages. After nearly two weeks of pretending I was amazed at how . . . comfortable, I’d become in the role.

My head erupted with sudden and piercing pain. With a soft gasp I almost collapsed to the floor. Wincing, I steadied myself against the wall. Through bleary eyes I saw my hand against the soft beige, those delicate fingers spread for support, the carefully shaped nails, red vibrant as blood . . . pounding in my head and ears, a sound like pouring sand, deafening. What the hell? What the . . . hell was I doing, shit, I’m a fucking guy! What the hell was I doing, getting all prettied up and mincing about like some goddamn. . . .

With a deep, shuddering breath I settled myself. The throbbing across my temples quickly subsided. These silly headaches were becoming a real pain. With a quick pat I smoothed down my blouse and straightened the skirt. Another breath. Another. I shouldered my purse. A good night’s sleep would sort everything out. A week and a half down; there couldn’t be much longer left. Shaking my head at the bizarre situation I found myself in, I touched my hand to the door and stepped into my apartment.

“Hello Cindy,” said K, waiting for me in the lounge. “We need to talk.”

“Mom!” I squealed when I saw her. She met me in the middle of the room in a properly matriarchal hug.

A few minutes later we were relaxing in the lounge. I poured her a glass of wine and took one for myself and we settled down to talk. We spent a half-hour sparring back and forth across the room, she playing Mom to the hilt, her questions probing and expertly exploring Cindy’s week and a half at the clinic; I countered with the best daughter impression I’d ever managed. Her soccer-mom disguise was perfect and strangely sexy to me. She tried to hide it but I caught the grudging respect, the muted surprise as her eyes drank in the feminine creature sitting opposite her. With K as my foil Cindy was better than ever. K referenced my past and I reposted with a high-school memory. She delicately asked about my treatment here and I took a deep breath, swallowed the sadness and reassured her I felt good, allowing my lower lip to quiver for a moment. Then my voice cracked as the spray wore off, and she smiled despite herself.

“Amazing,” she said, shaking her head. “You have outdone yourself, Mr Sanders.”

I smiled, surprisingly pleased by the sound of her voice and at the way she called me ‘Mr Sanders’. “Thank you,” I answered, and unable to restrain myself, “I think.”

“Has the disguise been hard to maintain?”

“You’re joking, right?” I answered. “Of course it’s been hard. Scooter’s been a big . . . help, whether I wanted it or not.” I smoothed a stray bang back behind my ear, perfectly aware of how feminine the gesture was and how it made my hoop earring dance and catch the light. Hell, under K’s scrutiny I even sat with my back a little straighter, pushing those soft breasts out further and allowing my skirt to hike up a bit more. Yeah, she loved that, even though she tried to hide it. God, I was really surprised by how much I’d missed her. And what the hell was I trying to do, flirt with her?

“Jonathon mentioned that the Clinic has done its best to help you fit in.” The corner of her mouth tugged up in a smile. “I believe he mentioned something about waxing?”

“Yeah,” I grumbled. “I still owe the bastard for that.”

“And what is this I hear about Cindy beginning to date?”

“What? No!” I flushed a hot, fiery red from the exposed top of my breasts to the tip of my pierced ears. “It’s not what you think!”

“Jonathan tells me that one of his high-profile clients has found himself a new girlfriend. A Mr Longman?”

“I’m not his girlfriend!”

“Does he know this?” God, she was such a bitch!

“Listen, I’m just helping the guy, yeah?”

“Helping him how?” K smirked openly.

“The guy’s lonely! And I’m bored--like you wouldn’t believe, K. We’re just hanging out and if this is the only way I can do it then, yeah . . . I’ll play the Cindy he expects!”

“And when it is time for her to leave?”

I bit back a retort. “What do you mean?”

“It may be about time to be rid of Cindy,” K said, and I’m not sure whether the quiet sadness in her voice was playful or genuine.

I leaned forward eagerly. “You mean . . . you’ve found somewhere I can relocate?”

She gave a small nod. “Yes, Mr Sanders. The new identity we have established for you is tentative but promising.”

“Male?”

“Of course,” she said. “Unless dating has revealed to you the joys of feminine life?”

“Yeah, it’s a real thrill,” I answered dryly. “Panties and lipstick, hurray!” I gave my tits a grope. “They’re fun but I’m not going to miss them.” I gave her a little wink. “Are you?”

“I will do my best to hold back the tears,” she answered. “I have already spoken with Scooter and he has approved and scheduled the surgery for the end of next week.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Uh . . . surgery?”

She nodded. “A new life, Mr Sanders. A new face.”

“But--”

“It’s the only way,” she said. Her voice left no room for argument. “Without some changes to your appearance,” she explained, “returning to a masculine existence would be a death sentence. One brief appearance on the wrong security camera, a quick scan by the right piece of recognition software and . . . well, Mr Sanders, your life would suddenly be worth less than those lovely heels you current wear. I’ve told you before: I have no intention of allowing you to kill yourself.

“It’s either cosmetic surgery, David, some minor alterations and a new male identity in a small town . . . or you choose to remain Cindy for the rest of you life.” She didn’t even say it with a wry smile. Was it paranoia again or did I hear a faint undercurrent of hope in her voice?

We spent another half-hour talking, and she quickly sketched out some of the tentative details of my new life, before she had to rush off once again. When it came time to sign the consent form, my hand hesitated only momentarily before consigning Cindy to oblivion.

***

The night of my last date with Harry came quickly.

The anticipation of never wearing panties again made the second half of my stay at the Asklepios Clinic nearly unbearable. Totally focused on that approaching day, I found it almost intolerable to continue prancing and practicing and pretending to be Cindy. After all, what was the point? Discovering Larry the Stalker had put my paranoia to rest--obviously Scooter and K were right and the Asklepios Clinic was a safe haven from the long, psychotic arm of Jeremiah Steele. Soon I’d be reinvented as a new man, and everything I’d learned about being Cindy would become a surreal pink-tinged memory.

It was only my continuing ‘dates’ every second night with Harry Longman that gave me any incentive whatsoever to not only continue the Cindy charade, but to continuously improve the role. I wanted to be the best, god-damn-girliest Cindy I could for the guy.

Listen, I know how gay that sounds. Why the hell would any guy want to put himself through this kind of bullshit? The thing is, I wasn’t just playing the star-struck fan . . . Harry really was my hero, ever since I first picked up a guitar back when I was fourteen. The man was a friggin’ guitar god, know what I mean? And he wasn’t some strutting guitar-wanking egomaniac either. It wasn’t just those cool-as-shit solos he effortlessly ripped through when he could be bothered; the man was an even better writer. He saw me through some tough teenage angst, Harry did. And he supplied the only goddamn thing that Kate and I ever agreed on: a song. The dude gave Kate and me ‘our song’, and the memories I attach to that music and those lyrics are more precious than he could possibly imagine. He’d never fully realize how much I owe him.

I also knew the kind of guy Harry was. In some ways we were quite similar, him and I; women liked us, and we treated them like shit. The difference? Harry was suave and rich and an artist. When he crapped all over them they lapped it up like honey.

And finally, I understood on some instinctive level that Harry needed my companionship as much as I needed his. The guy was seriously fucked up--almost as much as I was. He needed me and I owed him; but for me to hang out with him I had to be pretty and vivacious, a high-heeled blonde, a cute piece of ass. Yeah, playing the part was seriously fucking with my head but I’ll say this: I was amazed at how easy it was getting to be. The ease with which I shifted into Cindy was really starting to scare me.

Another week and a handful of innocent get-togethers slid by, and then it was the night before my scheduled surgery. Harry met Cindy for one last date.

They met at the Bacchus Bar as the sun settled behind the forested hills and the Clinic fell into quiet darkness. The older man and his young companion sat in a secluded booth far in the back, watching as the bar slowly grew busy. Glasses clinked and voices raised in conversation joined together in the oldest symphony of all, a familiar backdrop for a final date.

Cindy, feeling more than a little drunk, giggled as the rock star awkwardly reached around her, an arm rubbing up against her breast.

“You’re just trying to cop a feel, you pervert!”

“Show respect for teacher, girl,” Harry growled.

“Yes sir!”

“It’s like this,” he said, pressing down on her fingers. “Then here, and here,” he added, his fingers guiding hers across the frets.

“Like this?” Cindy asked. Her tongue peeked out from between glossy lips as she concentrated on the guitar. She repeated the positions with only a little awkwardness.

“Yeah, not bad.”

She tried again, faster. “Cool! I’ve never been able to get that bit.”

“You learn fast.”

“Thanks!”

“You might want to trim those nails before trying it for real, though. They’ll mess up your chords.”

Cindy stuck her tongue out at him. “But they’re so pretty,” she said, glancing aside at him before turning back to the instrument. “Don’t you like them?” She focused for another moment on the guitar, and then gently laid it aside. Her hands fell limply in her lap. “Um, Harry?” Cindy sounded nervous. “Your . . . arms?”

Harry started as if poked awake. His arms still encircled her. His touch drifted to her waist, fingers lightly grasping just beneath the swell of each breasts. His breath was momentarily hot on her neck as his touch slid up her side before coming to rest on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

Cindy scooted a small distance away down the booth. Her eyes dropped shyly away. “No, it’s . . . okay,” she murmured softly. She looked momentarily apprehensive, and then licked her lips and gave a small smile. She darted forward and landed a quick, light kiss on his cheek. His skin was rough and up close, he smelled slightly of old leather and shaving cream; it was a fatherly scent. Her cheek hovered next to his, hesitantly, before she pulled away. Their faces were close and Harry’s eyes glittered darkly, expectantly.

Cindy smiled demurely. “I have to go tinkle,” she whispered, and giggled, and slipped away from the booth.

A minute later Cindy stood in the bathroom of the Bacchus Bar, hands gripping the edges of the smooth porcelain sink tightly. Her knuckles whitened; I gritted my teeth and stared into the mirror, aghast. My head was beginning to hurt again, the pain piercing through my pleasant drunkenness. Why was this so hard? It shouldn’t be so hard. I’d been through this before--with that guy in the elevator, for young Tim, hell, I’d even pranced around in lingerie for that creepy Agent Fosters guy. But tonight was--different.

Of course it was! What the hell had I expected? When a rich, good-looking guy takes a cute young thing out to a bar, he’s got expectations, yeah? Up until tonight Harry had been a real gentleman. In his place I would’ve made third base with Cindy by now, or dumped her ass. But Harry had class. A handful of dates and he’d settled for kisses to the hand, a few intimate hugs, a chaste kiss to the cheek.

But tonight . . . tonight, a much heavier expectancy hovered between us, and there was a part of me that felt compelled to reward him for his efforts. I’m a man; I knew what Harry wanted.

Dark eyes the colour of fallen leaves in late autumn twinkled with amusement in my mind, turned green and I saw myself in the mirror: the painted face and blonde hair and bright eyes wide with surprise and fright. My hands tightened in frustration as I took in: breasts and vagina, bra and panties, stockings and heels, nail extensions and polish, tight clingy clothes and pierced ears, perfume, lipstick, God, so much, and all the invisible gestures and acts that defined Cindy as a girl, that made Cindy--not me.

This wasn’t what I wanted. Hanging with this guy was a dream come true--but I wanted to do it as David, as a man, not as some flustered female groupie. How could I play the girl in a date . . . how could I be the fucking girlfriend? What I wanted was to pound back pints of bitter instead of sipping wine; I should be shooting pool, grinding out power chords and hitting on chicks with Harry--not flattering his ego and toying with my hair and giggling at his goddamn jokes.

My hand slammed against the side of the sink, palm flat, with power that belied my delicate disguise. What I wanted was to smash that mirror with my fist and splinter that reflected image into a thousand pieces. The dull pain in my hand seemed to distract from and relieve the pressure in my temple. No. I couldn’t do this, indulge in this pathetic display of machismo; not now. For one final night I had to accept that David couldn’t be here.

What was the alternative--walking out on Harry? Because I sure as hell didn’t want to; I was having too much fun, even wearing a skirt. I had to admit a very real thrill at cradling one of Longman’s famous guitars in my arms. The one he’d been teaching me with he played on tour way back in ’99. I’d seen the video. That right there almost made the whole bullshit Cindy-scenario worthwhile.

I shook my head, golden tresses falling like a curtain across my face. With a timid gesture I brushed my hair back behind my eyes, suddenly demure and quiet once again. Looking through the thick veil of my lashes I smiled tentatively at the pretty girl I saw in the glass. David couldn’t be here--but Cindy was.

A quick dab of lipgloss, a little mascara and a touch of colour to my cheeks and I felt ready to face the world once again. I went to the bar and bought another round, a nice Shiraz for me and a Cheddar Valley cider for Harry, and laughed as some boy made an ambitious but clumsy pass at me. I was, like, just so out of his league.

Drunk, happy, surrounded by the vibrant bustle of the pub, I threaded my way through the thickening crowd back to the table. Harry was waiting for my return with his arms thrown wide across the bench. He waggled his eyebrows at me and I laughed and sat next to him. Without hesitation he dropped his arm around my shoulder, and whatever discomfort I felt at the weight of man’s arm around me was easily ignored as I sunk back into my pleasant drunken haze. With a practiced stroke of my hand I pulled the shiny length of my hair forward so that it wouldn’t get pinned and let it fall with a silken rustle over my left shoulder. I smoothed it down, fascinated by how real it felt, the slight tug at my scalp, its rich shine and golden hue a soft backdrop to the glitter of those silver bangles and shiny rings. Placing my wine glass on the table--almost knocking it over, resetting it with a soft giggle--I settled back into the crook of Harry’s arm.

“Feel okay?” he asked.

“I do now,” I answered, and sighed.

***

A few more drinks, an indeterminate time later, still sitting in our booth, drunker than before, the crowd larger, busier, the centre of its voice now here, now there, but always loud, forcing the two of us ever closer together as I smiled up at Harry, holding eye contact for a moment longer than was necessary before coyly dropping my gaze down to my drink. The ruby swirl of my glass seemed captured in the deep crimson of my glossy fingertips. I marvelled at how easily I now held the narrow stem of the glass, the feminine click of my nails as I cradled the drink in my palm. I glanced up again through the thick veil of my eyelashes, and blushed to see how intently he was watching me. “The Bean Being? Yeah, I like that place,” Harry continued as we shared our experiences at the Clinic. “I’m surprised I never saw you there.” If his hand occasionally massaged my shoulder or played with my hair--well, I pretended not to notice. I was struggling to pretend to not notice many things by this point: the fact that I was really a guy and my muted nausea at his intimate touch, the appraising and amused eyes of strangers, and where this whole strange game was inevitably heading. The heady mixture of stress, self-disgust and alcohol was playing havoc with my head--I felt an electric tingle through my body, an almost drug-like euphoria that left me feeling capable of doing . . . almost anything, it seemed.

I nodded, struggling to suppress the urge to giggle hysterically at the absurdity and difficulty of carrying on a normal conversation. “Me too. Started going almost every day. I was a bit worried about money? You know, at first? But when I found out I could pay the same way I opened doors--I mean, just a touch of my hand and cha-ching?--it was like, shopping spree!”

Harry’s thumb stroked the side of my smooth, hairless arm. “Do you even have any idea how much they’re charging you?”

I shrugged. “Nope! Don’t care. I’m not footing the bill, so why should I?”

He shook his head. “Put it this way. Even I think the prices here are outrageous.”

“Oh, come on, Harry! You’re a rock star.” I picked up my wine glass and held it up in mock salute. “You’re like . . . rich! Super rich!”

“Exactly,” he said. He playfully ruffled my hair. “Let’s just say you’re lucky you’re cute enough for me to pick up the tab tonight.”

I giggled. “Lucky me!”

A long sip of wine hid my discomfort at his constant touch. Men are very tactile--their hands are everywhere on a date, constantly reminding you of their presence, of their intention. The drunker I got the easier it became to ignore his expert hands across my body--or rather, ignore how they made me feel. I have no doubt that a real girl would’ve been moist in the crotch and all over the guy by now. Unfortunately for Harry, his deft ministrations did nothing good for me. I mean, yeah, sure, he was my hero and all but that wasn’t going to have me batting for the other team, you know?

Turning back to Harry, I noticed that the lull in our conversation had given him a far-away look in his eye, staring off across the bar without really seeing anything. I gave him a little jab with my elbow. “Hey Harry?” I said. “What you thinking about?”

He looked down and smiled. It was a strange smile, small and a little sad and quickly gone. “Right now?” he answered. “I was thinking about things I’ve seen and done, Cindy, place I’ve been, people I’ve met. I’ve had a long, full life. But mostly?” His arm around my shoulder tightened in a warm hug, and his voice took on a forced gaiety. “I was thinking about you.”

“Why?” I asked in a small voice.

His gaze was captivating. Oh, I knew what was going on, where this was heading. The guy was a player, real smooth and all, and he was totally setting me up for the kill. In some bizarre way it was awesome watching this guy at work--even if I was the target. I mean, what a thing tell your friends--if I had any, that is--Harry Longman pulled me in a bar!

“I’ve been living here for almost a year now,” he said. “And it’s been a very long, very boring year, Cindy. I’ve explored as much of this place as I care to, and gotten to know more people than I wish, and . . . I’m bored.” He sighed. “It’s been nearly two years since I’ve written anything: not one line of verse, not a single note of a song.”

“I’m sorry,” I said in a soft voice, and the thing is: I truly was. It wasn’t something I could really relate to; I’m no artist. But I also knew the ache of denying an important part of oneself, of feeling it wither and die.

Again Harry smiled, and his eye sparkled. “Oh, but don’t be, Cindy,” he said, and his arm at my shoulder drifted to my neck, gently massaging my skin between forefinger and thumb. “This last week, since meeting you--I’ve started writing again.”

“That’s wonderful,” I sighed, trying to deny that his touch at my back felt good. How could this be happening?

“It is wonderful,” he said. “You can’t understand how wonderful it is, Cindy. I tried to deny my loss at first, convinced myself it was a short break, that the creative juices needed time to replenish. But the longer I stared at the blank page, every time I picked up a guitar and couldn’t play anything but old songs--I knew, deep down inside, that I was finished. An old dog with no new stories to tell. And oh, how I raged against that truth! Distracting myself with alcohol, with religion, drugs and . . . women,” he said, and his other hand took mine is his

“Like me?” I said. “Girls like me?”

“Not like you,” he denied. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Cindy.”

“Harry,” I whispered.

He turned to face me without releasing me from his encircling arm. His hand gently cupped my chin and tilted my head up towards his. I stared deep into his eyes, dark and lost. Something inside of me tightly bound and buried deep fluttered and struggled and fell away. My hand clenched and trembled at my side.

His lips met mine. Faint stubble rubbed like fine sandpaper against my chin. Again I breathed in his scent--it had the robust character of a fine aged wine. My soft painted lips pushed up against his. His fingers threaded through my hair and gently held me close. My lips parted almost involuntarily . . . only a little but enough: a sigh, and the tip of my tongue darted out, almost hesitantly tasted his lip, pulled back.

“Cindy.” Harry’s voice was almost a tortured groan.

“Yes,” I agreed, my voice soft, our mouths so close each word flowed like a delicate warm wind across the other’s lips.

Harry’s hand fell away from my head, traced the path of my spine through the thinness of my clingy top, slid around my side and rested, for just a moment, atop my breast before almost reluctantly falling away. I pulled away and he fell back in his seat and stared at me.

“Who are you, Cindy?”

My hand rested softly on his knee. I shrugged, amazed at how delicate and feminine I could make the gesture, surprised at how in control I felt. This was seriously wrong; I had just kissed a man on the mouth; part of me felt like a teenager again, lost and confused; but mostly I felt a strangely drunken apathy to what had happened. “I’m just a. . . .” I swallowed nervously, tasting the truth of what I was about to say. “Girl,” I finished, amazed and quietly sickened at how true that statement seemed to have become.

Harry shook his head vehemently. “No. There’s nothing ‘just’ about you, Cindy. You’re unlike any other woman I’ve met.”

I couldn’t deny the truth of that.

“Something about you messes with my head,” he said, one finger tapping at his temple.

“And you with mine.” My hand drifted up to rest against his arm.

“There’s something about you,” he said, and the way his eyes drifted across my body, taking in my breasts, my smooth arms and sleek legs, long hair and earrings, finishing with a lingering appraisal of my eyes, sent an anxious flutter through my belly. “Something different from the other girls I’ve met here. The way you dress and talk--and the way you act--the things you say--there’s a dichotomy in you I don’t understand.

I’m very sensitive to the music of a person’s voice, Cindy, to the rhyme and rhythm of their body and language. And right now I look at the girl sitting across from me, a very pretty girl in very sexy clothes, but there’s something--discordant--in everything she does.”

I tapped one finger against my lip. “There is?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, like a video in which the singer and the song don’t quite sync up.”

“We’re in a hospital,” I reminded him. “We’re all a little . . . broken, I guess.”

“Are you?” he asked. “Are you damaged goods?” The way he said it, with a hint of a smile on his weathered face, but with sorrowful eyes that seemed genuinely concerned at the prospect that the young girl sitting across from him could be in pain, nearly made me regret that I couldn’t be what he thought I was. I realized then that I had to get away from Harry. Suddenly I felt that I was losing control of the evening and became afraid of where it might end.

“Maybe a little,” I answered. “No more than you, I’m sure.”

“But I’m very damaged, Cindy,” he said. “More than you know.”

With my head tilted one side, I smiled at him: it was a small but warm gesture, bordering on intimate. I wondered at what game he was playing. My hands drifted to rest, fingers splayed, against his chest. “Tell me, then.”

He stared at me for a long moment. His mouth opened as if he was about speak, but then he quickly looked away. He tried to hide the brief appearance of grief and rage that twisted his features, and when he faced me again he seemed fine. “I exaggerate,” he said, and grinned, a tentative and sheepish expression that despite its falseness looked surprisingly boyish on his weathered face. “I’m fine--really. In such pretty company? How could I not be?”

“Are you, Harry?” I gazed at him levelly. “Are you okay?”

“I am tonight.” His strong arms gathered me close, back into his comfortable embrace. My head rested against his shoulder and I sighed contentedly. “You have no idea how glad I am that you were here these last few weeks.”

“Me too,” I said.

“You want to get out of here?”

I momentarily tensed in his arm. Back in the city, hitting the bars with Tom, hunting women: I knew how the game worked. Get a girl to this point? Sit with her, buy a few drinks, cuddle close and get that kiss? We both knew where this road ended. Ask her to leave the bar with you--there was only one place left to go. Unless I broke away; this was my chance . . . I forcefully relaxed back onto his embrace.

I couldn’t leave him at this point. Harry was trying to tell me something, had been trying all week to reach a point where he felt comfortable enough with Cindy to share something private and important with her. To abandon him now would be unforgivable; it would be a betrayal of a friend.

I gave a mute nod and collected my purse. I stumbled a bit as I stood, steadied by Harry’s strong arm on my elbow. I wasn’t that drunk--I really wasn’t--it was the shoes, the pointy toe pinching painfully, the heel taller and slimmer than I was comfortable in. Fuck, what the hell was I doing?

We threaded our way through the bustling crowd and left the Bacchus Bar. The night air was bracing and cleared my head a little. A small shiver passed through my body. An outfit that seemed sensible enough this afternoon left me exposed to the chill wind that breathed over us.

“Cold?” Harry asked. Hell, in a second he’d be offering me his jacket.

I smiled up at him and shook my head. “I’m fine,” I said, though I felt anything but. I suddenly felt half-naked and ashamed of what I was wearing. Get it together, I told myself. You’ve been at this for weeks now. Just a little longer.

“Would you like to head to my--”

“How about a short walk?” I linked my arm through his. “It’s a beautiful night.”

Harry took a long, quiet moment to stare up at the sky. For a moment he seemed to drink in his surroundings, the muted sounds of the bar behind us, the scintillating spread of stars overhead and the cute young thing hanging off his arm. His eyes were distant and a faint, wistful smile tugged at his lips. Presently he returned and his gaze dropped down to mine. God, I felt an uncomfortable tugging inside at the way he looked at me--his look was so sad, so clearly yearning for something unattainable--that it nearly left me breathless.

“It is, isn’t it? It really is a beautiful night,” he said. “Come with me; I want to show you something.”

We walked in silence, both lost in our own thoughts. I leaned heavily on him, gaining a sudden insight as to why some girls wore shoes they could barely walk in. It didn’t take me long to figure out where he was bringing me, and a secret smile crept onto my face. The old dog. Some people really do love routine. I remembered my first night at the Clinic, under a sky much like this one, racing towards my new home in an electric cart, K sitting ahead of me. For a brief moment the headlight had revealed a private scene: a man with a guitar and his cute late-night conquest.

He brought me to a pleasant, leafy arbour, sheltered against the wind. It was about fifteen minutes distant and we walked in silence. Drinking in the gorgeous night-time beauty, the silence so profound and deep, I struggled to simply enjoy the walk. The pain in my head and his hand on my ass didn’t help. I felt poised on a knife’s edge, on a stiletto’s point between debilitating disgust and drunken, slightly mad delight; masculine embarrassment contrasted with these learned feminine motions; and I focussed on the simple, single truth that Harry needed my help. Without that constant reminder I’m sure something would have snapped.

We sat beneath a large tree, leaning back against the trunk, staring up at the sky through the rustling leaves. Harry’s arm was around my waist and again I leaned my head against his shoulder. He told me a story. I barely took note of the details, lost in the mellifluous rumble of his voice. Three weeks ago, with that other girl, did he tell the same story? As he talked his hand gently and unconsciously stroked my side, a few times daring to drift as high as the soft under curve of my breast. He probably copped a feel or two. I wouldn’t have felt it if he had. The prosthetics were all but dead weight now.

As his story ended we dropped back into silence. He was struggling to tell me something and I was content to allow him to get there in his own time. Once again I confronted the role I played. My mind kept sliding away from the thought. Tomorrow Cindy was going to disappear and I’d sink into the new--male--life K had carved out for me. It was a certainty that I’d never see Harry again. And yeah, I felt the all-too familiar pang at the loss of another good friend, but it also made tonight’s embarrassment easier to bear.

“I’m not sure why I brought you here, Cindy.” Lost in my own thoughts, his voice almost took me by surprise. His words were tainted with sadness. I didn’t want to see the look on his face.

“Why is that?” My voice was soft, encouraging.

“You’re not the first girl I’ve brought here, you know. To this tree, at night.”

I smiled. “I’m sure.”

“It’s pathetic,” he said. “Nothing ever happens. They’re taken in by the fame and--”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I interrupted. “I certainly was.”

He shook his head. “No you weren’t.” His eyes watched me searchingly. “You’re not here for the rock star. You’re not here for the poet. What I can’t figure out--what I like about you, Cindy--is that I have no idea why you’re here, right here, right now, with me. What is it you want?”

“Why do I have to want something?” I asked. “Why can’t I just enjoy being with you?”

“Everybody wants something,” Harry insisted. “_Especially_ you. I’ve never met someone so intensely yearning for something; your whole being thrums with that desire.” His fingertips stroked the length of my exposed leg, and a shiver shot up my spine as surely as if he’d plucked a guitar string. “I doubt you know what it is you want, but it drives you, brought you here--keeps you in my arms even now.

“It’s not sex,” Harry said, his smile only slightly mischievous. “You tremble like a virgin at my every touch. Money? You kept trying to buy rounds and paying for our dates. Popularity? You became embarrassed every single time you spotted people in the bar talking about us. Those are the big three. If you don’t want those--then what?”

“You forgot one thing,” I said, smiling coquettishly (I think) as I tapped him on the temple with one elegant fingernail. “Maybe I am a virgin.” What the hell was I thinking, dropping a line like that?

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said quietly. Smiling, his hand reached up to clasp mine. He held it briefly against his cheek, then closer to his lips, and finally kissed the back of my hand, softly, and again my knuckle. I watched in a kind of horrid fascination as he slowly kissed his way up my forearm.

“Harry,” I protested softly, and went to pull away.

His hand closed tight around my wrist.

“Harry?” I asked, surprised.

“I need to know, Cindy,” he said, and when he looked up I saw such desperate need in those dark and lost eyes that it sent an anxious tremor through my stomach. “No teasing, no flirting; what the hell do you want?”

I stared at him. I felt the wind play across my bared flesh and heard the faint rustle of the leaves overhead. The strong perfume of a nearby garden rode the air and mingled with the taste of wine and strawberry on my lips. His shape was a dark cut-out against the scattered glimmering lights of the hospital behind. My head began to pound again. My heartbeat reverberated loudly in my ears, deafening. I felt hot--burning and flushed; almost dizzy. I swayed back from his grasp and this time he let me go.

“I just wanted to . . . ,” I mumbled, scrambling a few feet away. “To thank you, Harry.”

“Cindy, are you . . . ?”

I stared past him. “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” I said, in another woman’s voice.

***

“You are so going to miss this when I’m gone.”

Her words hurt, though nothing could have made me admit so. We were so good, Katherine and I, at hiding our emotions from each other. In her own way, however, she was honest unlike anyone else I’d ever been with. What she said in passing was as considered and weighed as anything she spoke directly, but this didn’t make it any less true: she knew how I felt about her, and she was telling me that this thing we had--our impossible coming together, these violent passionate meetings--would not endure. Instead I smirked as I lay back on the bed, naked and with arms crossed behind my head. I snorted dismissively. Nineteen years old and certainly not innocent, I remained perhaps a little stupid. In every way that really mattered, she was so far beyond me that it’s painful to try and remember.

The radio murmured in the background. With a rustle and a whisper her dress slipped to the floor and pooled at her feet. A small step and she discarded the night’s costume and stood at the foot of the bed, her athletic body resplendent in dark lingerie. A small lamp in a far corner shed a faint light across the room and caught her in hazy silhouette--as she moved forward it was as if Katherine detached herself from the shadows behind. Her smile was catlike as she snaked up the bed: cold, hungry; and her eyes glittered darkly. The lacy things she wore were inky black, her skin the palest ivory; scars stood out in sharp contracts; I’d never seen a more beautiful woman.

She took me in her mouth and I ran my fingers through her short black hair. My grip tightened and her teeth touched skin and I relaxed and her muffled laugh danced over my cock. After I came I returned the favour until my tongue ached and she thrashed and bucked over me. I pulled her down to the bed and my hands found hers and pinned them back over her head. She struggled and freed her arms and violently flipped me over; I forced myself on top again and thrust forward and entered her. Our lovemaking was aggressive but somehow more sensual than anything I’d known before or since. Her fingers clawed at my back; she bit and cursed me and her eyes flashed with anger and desire and her legs locked behind me and crushed me close. I had never been that close to anyone before. I had never known another person’s body so intimately. My kisses tasted the salt along her cheek and breast and blood at the edge of her mouth.

My own release went unheard beneath the sound of her climax: a wail somewhere between a sob and a howl, a cry of ecstatic abandonment and rage. Katherine always pushed me away after orgasm. There was a raw honesty that flooded through her in the immediate aftermath, and that precious, vulnerable moment she was unwilling or unable to share. This one time--this only time--she held me near. Her arms and legs stayed locked about me and I remained inside of her even as I slowly shrunk. She clung to me with desperation.

“Not yet,” she said, the words catching in her throat. The sweat between our bodies was slick. My hand gently stroked along her smooth leg, played along the top of her stocking, traced the line of a suspender and gently pulled her away until she groaned softly and my softening cock slipped free. I rested my hand, palm flat, against her pussy and felt the heat there. With my other arm I cradled her to me once again, holding her by the back of her neck and massaging the tight, knotted muscles there. The fingers of her hand splayed across my chest, over my heart.

I opened my mouth to speak. I’ll never know what I meant to say. It wouldn’t have made a difference. “Don’t,” she cried, and swallowed my words with a kiss. Her kiss was almost brutal at first, fierce and hungry but then turned soft and lingering. When she pulled away her eyes were wet with tears.

“I love you,” she said, the only time she ever did.

The radio played Harry Longman’s song. As the haunting strains swept over us we descended into lust once again, and for the last time.

***

“Cindy?”

No amount of makeup, no greatness of skill could have concealed the ugliness that distorted my face. Filled with sudden rage I launched myself at Harry. I was on him in a second, slamming him back against the tree. Real fear flared in his eyes as I pressed against him, my hand clutching at his throat, blood-red talons digging into his skin.

Wide eyes stared at me in shock and fear. “Cindy!” Harry croaked. His hand grappled at mine, pulled futilely at my arm but couldn’t dislodge my grip.

“There was a girl,” I said, nearly spitting the words out. “The only thing I’ve ever loved. When I think of her now? I can’t--I can’t remember anymore. Three, four times together, that’s it. And you’re one of those memories, Harry. You’re . . . one of those. One of your fucking songs, the only thing we agreed on, the only thing, God, the one moment Kate and I were together that wasn’t all fucked up and twisted with hate and . . . .” I choked on the swell of emotions in my throat, on my own bile and anger. My hands dropped to his shoulders, pulled him forward, slammed him back against the tree. He winced with the impact. My fingers curled into the meat of his arm and trembled. I felt tears fill my eyes and it made me all the angrier. Where the hell was all this coming from? “But God, it hurts, it fucking hurts to remember, so much, Harry, but it hurts even more not to. . . .”

Our faces were inches apart. He stared at me, no longer with fear but with fascination. My breath came in gasping heaves that almost drowned out his voice. “Who the hell are you?” he whispered.

“I’m . . . Cindy,” I half cried and lunged forward, crushing my open mouth against his.

Harry pulled back in surprise, but only for a moment and then he returned the kiss. His lips parted and my tongue slid into his mouth. I pressed up tight against Harry, almost straddling him, breasts a dull presence between us, my hands clutching at his back, running through his hair. . . . My voice escaped as a muffled moan and I continued to push against him, forcing him back against the tree as my kisses became hungrier, more aggressive. His tongue slid against mine and found my mouth and his stubble rubbed against my chin and I felt his hand slip beneath my skirt and squeeze my nylon-clad ass. Tears streaked down my cheek and those his roving kisses didn’t catch gathered at my chin, hung and glittered momentarily before falling away.

Salt and the sweetness of lip-gloss. Perfume, lilac mingled with night-born eucalyptus and his own masculine muskiness, leather and something spicy. His weathered hand smoothly stroking my thigh, callused fingers sliding through long hair and holding my neck, holding me close. Our frenzied breath loud in my ears, leather rubbing against silk, against bark, the rustling of the leaves beneath us and the wetness of our kisses, his sigh, Cindy’s frantic moan. . . .

“Oh, God. . . .” My mouth trailed kissed across his cheek and I buried my face into his neck and clung to him desperately even as my stomach churned and twisted.

His arms held me tight, his chin pressing into my head, fingers dancing along the strap of my bra as if fretting one of his guitars. His touch swept across my breasts and I felt nothing. The appliance below was dead: nothing. “Cindy. . . .”

Forehead to forehead I landed a kiss on his lips, another, a final soft touch of our lips and I exhaled across his cheek. My eyes opened and found his and held his gaze. I blinked away the tears and smiled tentatively, warmly.

“Katherine,” I whimpered softly.

“What?” Harry said.

The last vestige of memory sank away. I was back at the Clinic, sitting beneath a tree, in Harry Longman’s favourite make-out spot, wearing a skirt, heels, breathing heavily. My eyes widened in horror at what I had just done. I felt hollow and numb.

“Are you okay?” he asked. I noticed he refrained from touching me.

“No,” I answered.

Harry hesitated a moment before speaking. “If I asked you who Katherine was,” he said, “would you tell me?”

“No.”

He nodded. “Would you like me to leave?”

I stared at him, my eyes open and lost, for a long moment before I shook my head no.

We sat down beneath the tree again, though without the intimacy of before. Without his body next to mine I suddenly realized how chilly the night air had become. My bared midriff and short skirt did little to keep me warm, and I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. Harry watched, sighed, and wordlessly passed me his leather jacket. I accepted it wordlessly.

“I’ve never been able to watch a girl shiver in the cold,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said as I slipped into the jacket.

“I’m not going to see you again after tonight,” he said. “Am I?”

“No, you won’t.”

His hand my hand and gave it a little squeeze. I should have pulled away but instead my fingers curled into his and held tight. “What happened to you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“They always are.”

“You must think I’m crazy,” I asked in a small voice.

He gave a gentle pull with his hand and brought me closer. “We’re all crazy here,” he said.

I nodded mutely.

“You’re crying,” he said.

“Am I?” My fingers came away from my eye damp and smeared with black. “Well . . . fuck.” I rubbed my fingers dry against my skirt. “I thought this mascara was waterproof,” I added, and somehow that seemed the final ignominy of a long and exhausting evening.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

I nodded.

“Anything.”

“Tell me what it was that you wanted from me.”

“Oh, that,” Harry said, waving one hand dismissively. “I’ve been meaning to tell you all week, but it hardly seems important now.” He shrugged. “I’m dying, Cindy.”

***

The next morning, after a few hours of fitful sleep, I dragged myself into the bathroom and showered and took care of necessities and even shaved my legs and pits--one last time. I decided to put extra special effort into getting ready for my meeting with Doctor Scooter.

I went through the process of getting ready in a slightly numb, detached haze. Cindy would be effectively dead by this afternoon. For some reason I felt like sending her off with a proper show of respect. She was a good girl, after all. Maybe I figured that I’d misjudged her. I didn’t want to think about it though. It was easier to lose myself in the morning routine.

From the back of the closet I pulled out an item I’d eyed with trepidation since moving to the Clinic: a pair of four-inch Jimmy Chou black leather stilettos, the same I’d worn that very first night to throw off the pursuit. I’d been wearing heels for three weeks now but I hadn’t dared wear anything that . . . risky, yet. Once I started with that it just seemed right to follow through with all the other things I’d been reluctant to try on: my laciest, skimpiest panties and the matching suspender belt and wispy, silk stockings. I hadn’t worn anything so overtly feminine since that first night K dressed me up in the motel room to throw off the pursuit.

Then I struggled into a tight, just-above-the-knees skirt that hugged my contours like a second skin. It hobbled my stride, forcing small, mincing steps--but with those heels, man, did it ever give me a delightfully sexy ass-swaying wiggle. Hell, there’s no way I could’ve tugged the zipper shut if I hadn’t laced the corset that extra inch tighter. It left me slightly breathless and flushed but for some reason that left me feeling all the more feminine. Finally I slipped into a tight blouse, leaving the top breast-baring buttons undone. Why the hell not, I figured. Cindy deserved a proper seeing off. She really did.

I also spent the extra time on the makeup. Took my time shaving and followed up with the concealer and foundation and all the other shit that made of my face a flawless canvas. I blended the eyeshadows and worked the mascara and coloured in my lips and put to use all the practice and knowledge I’d accumulated during my stay at Asklepios. After carefully re-painting my nails I dusted my bared flesh with some shimmering powder and positively glowed by the time I finished. Not bad. Not bad at all. Scooter’s girls would be proud. I’d learned a lot over the last few weeks.

Long dangling earrings jigged across my shoulders as I turned this way and that in the full-length mirror. God, I was hot. It really was a shame Cindy was not long for this world. I’d certainly do her if, you know, that wasn’t me in the mirror. I ran my hands along my curves down to my knees and leaned forward, flashing my cleavage.

“Good-bye, Cindy,” I purred. Beautiful emerald-green eyes glittered enigmatically as I gave her a kiss. My lips left a half-formed pink imprint on the glass. My voice dropped to a whisper. “Just between you and me? I’ll think I’m going to miss you.”

***

An hour later I sat at the edge of a medical bed in Scooter’s examination room in the Meditrine Clinic. Sterilized stainless steel gleamed under bright florescent lights. Tools and sharp-edged implements glistened from their trays and from behind locked glass. Similar to the man’s underground surgical room, this one was crammed from wall-to-wall with books and charts, and hi-tech equipment, but here it was all kept clean and orderly. A long counter cut off the far end of the room.

Unlike the soothing designs of the Hygieia Centre--despite all its modernist touches--this place felt like a hospital: a place where people died.

“How you feeling, Girlie?” the doctor asked, perched on a high stool.

“Fine,” I grunted. “Tired.”

Scooter watched me intently as he worked. “Busy last light, I’m sure,” he said. “How are the ribs?”

I shrugged. “Not bad. Hurts a bit when I make a sudden movement.”

“Then don’t make sudden movements,” he said. The tone of his voice clearly added ‘idiot’. “Have you been taking those painkillers? They help?”

Suspicious, the way he asked about those pills. “Yeah.”

With both my shirt and the corset off I shivered in the air-conditioned cool room. Scooter’s fingers probed at my ribs, his gentle touch belied by the size of his hands. He nodded with approval when I didn’t wince in pain. His stethoscope shone coldly as it slid across my chest.

“You seem surprisingly calm,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t I be? There something you’re not telling me?” A tremor crept into my voice and I fought it down. I wanted to have words with this man. Oh, how I wanted discuss certain concerns that I had. Thing is, it’s not a good idea to have a go at the man who’ll be holding a knife to your face later in the day.

“Most people are nervous before surgery.” Scooter said. “That’s normal.” A wide, toothy grin split his face. “But maybe you’re more sad than scared?”

“Sad?”

His hand jerked in the general direction of my discarded clothes. “All that fem stuff. After all, you’ve gotten so good at wearing--”

“You know?” I interrupted. “I think that’s what I’m going to fucking miss most: these pleasant chats of ours. That and the goddamn beauty sessions.”

Scooter laughed. “Any time.”

The sight of the doctor and his mockery filled me with such rage that I had to look away and cast my eye across the room. One door led into a small lavatory; another, of transparent glass, back into his office and waiting room, with its desk and computer, stacks of books and files, and an expensive-looking leather sofa. Behind that closed door sat Cindy’s Mom, legs crossed at the knee, one foot bobbing with impatient anxiety.

“Interesting,” Scooter murmured. I returned my attention to the man and found his hands latched on to my tits, his thumb roughly massaging the small, grey nubs at the tip.

“Hey!”

He flicked curious, dark blue eyes my way. “Nothing? No sensation?”

“No, thank you very much. Keep your hands to yourself, yeah?” I nearly punched his hands away. “It’s been a couple of days since I’ve felt anything from them.”

I watched warily as he brought his face close to my chest. He took a little sniff and then, before I could stop him, his tongue flicked out across a nipple. Nose wrinkling in disgust he turned away and spat.

“Jesus Christ, Scooter!” I shoved him away and crossed my arms across my bare chest. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“Some discharge, slightly oily, sweet smelling,” he muttered, nodding to himself as he walked over to the counter. He washed his hands clean before turning back to me. “They must be at the very end of their cycle. Another day and the prosthetics would have fallen off on their own.” His eyes flicked down to my crotch. “Down there?”

“Fucking thing fell away this morning.”

He snorted. “Must’ve been a relief.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” I agreed, nodding emphatically. “Five minutes later I was in the bathroom with the Victoria Secret’s catalogue. Jacked off like there’s no tomorrow.”

The doctor returned to his examination, shaking his head in mild distaste. He tapped my knee, took my blood pressure--he noted that it was a little high--and shone a light in my eye and did the whole doctor thing in silence. I did my best to remain calm throughout as he jotted notes and information about me in the patient chart he carried in hand. When he spoke the seriousness of his voice took me by surprise.

“David?” he asked, and I raised an eyebrow at hearing him use my name. “Listen, all joking aside: do you like this girlie shit?”

I glared at him. “You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all,” he answered, meeting my gaze levelly.

“I hate it! Scooter, I fucking hate all this bullshit.” I gestured angrily towards the corset, the clingy top, clawed at the skirt I was wearing. “I’m a guy, yeah? You have any idea how embarrassing this crap is?”

“So it was all an act, then?”

“Of course it was!”

“Even last night?”

I didn’t answer straight away. When the quiet became uncomfortable I reluctantly asked, “What do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean,” Scooter answered. He dragged a small monitor on a wheeled cart over from its corner and tapped at a couple of keys. A little earlier he’d used the same computer to show some of the proposed changes they were going to make to my face. Any other time, watching a doctor manipulate my features on a screen, turning me into--well, someone else--would’ve been just a little freaky. But the face was male, and that’s all that mattered. I felt a desperate need to return to a normal masculine life, no matter what it was.

The screen came alive and displayed a still frame of some video footage. It showed Harry and me, sitting in the Bacchus Bar.

I sighed. “What do you want me to say?”

Scooter tapped on the space bar and cycled through a few short clips: the brief kiss on the lips between Harry and I; my hand on his knees and our close conversation; standing together and leaving the bar, arm in arm. I flushed hot with humiliation at the sight of myself, flirting with another man, sitting with him, cuddling into his embrace, playing the bar bimbo, blonde, pretty, stupid. I had to physically restrain my hand from clutching at the sharp, angry pain that flared through my stomach and head.

Scooter glanced back at me. “You sure you don’t like this stuff . . . Cindy?”

My face burned with fury and shame. “Fuck you, Jonathon.”

“Because you sure seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

I nearly choked on my anger. I jumped off the bed and went to stalk out of the room. I caught Mom--fuck it, K’s--inquisitive glance from the waiting room and couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Why’d you do it?” Scooter called after me.

“Screw you, doc,” I snapped over my shoulder.

His voice reached me just as I went to leave. “What you did, David? It may have saved his life.”

I hesitated at the door. Glancing back I was surprised at the sympathy he displayed. “What do you mean?”

“Harry Longman,” he stated, and then gestured for me to come back. “And drop the theatrics, will you? Come sit down. Where the hell were you going, dressed liked that?”

I glanced down and saw the grey, inflexible mounds still affixed to my bared chest. With a sigh I returned to the examination table. “You’re an asshole,” I muttered.

“So are you,” he said. “Yet here we are, apparently both capable of the occasional good deed.” Scooter released a deep sigh and picked up my clothes and tossed them over to me. I got dressed in silence as he continued to talk. “How did you get Harry to change his mind?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered.

“Mr Longman is dying, David. That’s why he’s at the Asklepios Clinic.”

“Yeah, I know,” I answered, sliding my top on over the corset. “He told me last night.”

“Did he tell you that we’ve been trying to get him into surgery for months now? It’s an experimental procedure--risky, but the only shot he’s got. He’s refused up till now.”

I grudgingly turned my full attention back to Scooter. “No. He didn’t mention it.”

“Funny that. Because this is the thing: time and again he’s said no, not interested. No reason to justify the risk, he said. And then you came along, David. You just breezed into his favourite hangout prancing around in a skirt and a few hours later you’re his best friend. A year he’s been here and you’re the first person he’s connected with. You go out, have a couple of dates . . . and suddenly he changes his mind.”

“Really? Hey, that’s great news.”

“He called you his ‘broken flower’. A new muse. He said that any world that contains such fantastic and strange creatures as you is one worth struggling to stay in.”

Scooter’s words brought a wide grin to my face. Well . . . holy shit. Something good did come of last night. I hoped that Harry pulled through. I really did.

“So how did you do it?”

I shrugged. “He was lonely.”

“He was lonely?” Scooter snorted. “Gee, I wonder how our team of expert psychiatrists could’ve missed that. ‘He was lonely.’ You figured that out all on your own?”

I glared at him. “Yeah, I guess I’m clever that way. The man wasn’t just lonely; he was ready to die. We’re all lonely, Scooter. That’s human. But only a few of us are ready to die because of it.”

“Fine,” Scooter answered, and he sounded reluctantly interested. “Then how’d you know that was his problem?”

I shrugged again. “How the hell should I know? I just knew. It’s the same way that I could tell that you’re an egomaniac jerkwad.” I jerked a finger in K’s direction. “The same way I knew from the moment I met her that she’s a fucking dyke nutcase . . . and that, yeah, I can trust her implicitly.” I did up the final button on the blouse I wore. Interesting. Three weeks ago it took all my concentration to work a button with those claws on my finger. Now I could manage almost unconsciously. Borderline miraculous, that was. “Although in Harry’s case . . . I mean, c’mon, have you even listened to his music? Read his lyrics? It’s all there. The guy’s lonely. He’s lost. He’s . . . bored, hell, I don’t know, looking for something, someone.”

Scooter ran one beefy hand through his thick mess of hair, thinking. “And so let me guess--Cindy was just what he was looking for?”

My laugh was hollow. “Cindy? Hell no. Seriously, you don’t think a guy like Harry scores a girl like Cindy any time he wants? You say the Clinic’s been watching him--tell me Scooter, how many girls just like Cindy has he met and made out with over the last year? How many has he led into the park, or back to his room?

“For a guy like Harry? Girls like Cindy are a dime a dozen and you know what? They do nothing to kill the loneliness. Hell, they make it worse. Waking up in bed next to someone and somehow you feel more disconnected than before? God, it kills, Scooter, it fucking kills and the only thing that makes you feel better is going out again and doing it all over again.” I shook me head, earrings and golden bangs fluttering about my face. “Cindy was the last thing he was looking for.”

Scooted looked at me quizzically. “Then--”

I sighed. “Harry needed . . . hell, whatever it is I’ve been since K brought me here. A pretty girl. A cute groupie to flatter his pride, arm candy who looked good hanging off his arm . . . a flirt who could turn him on and make him feel like a man. It’s what he thinks he needs but it’s not what he wants. What he wants is a friend-- to hang out with, shoot the shit and match him drink for drink. Conversation and, hell, you know--the whole bullshit male-bonding thing . . . something more than a gushing star-struck bimbo.”

“Is that what you are, then?” Scooter asked, intrigued.

I glared at him, my anger and barely concealed sense of betrayal simmering to the fore once again. “It’s what I made myself into,” I said.

“Just like that,” Scooter said. His voice was doubtful.

I frowned. “No, not ‘just like that.’ You have any idea how hard it was, to relax into his arms?” I waved my hand towards the computer monitor, still displaying a frozen image of Harry and Cindy in a relaxed embrace. God, they looked so happy, Harry just a little bemused but so very, very content; and Cindy, her smile so simple, those beautiful eyes firmly set upon her man. “Shit, every touch, every . . . kiss, fuck, it made me sick Scooter, made me want to throw up.”

“So why--”

“Because he’s a friend!” I shouted.

Why the fuck couldn’t people understand? Harry was a friend. I’d just met the man but it’s not time that determines the value of a friendship. I owed the man and I take that kind of responsibility seriously. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for a friend. In a world where love fails and family betrays, friendship is the only thing worth believing in. Real friendship--friends that are constant in all things--trustworthy--and there when you need them; how rare and precious such a thing is! Harry had found his reason to stay in this world--Cindy--and in some twisted way he’d become mine my reason as well.

Even if he didn’t ask for my help, couldn’t ask for it--there’s no way I could’ve let the guy die. And if Cindy was the only one that could get close to him . . . then fuck it, I’d be Cindy for him. I’d . . . .

I kissed him. I . . . kissed a man. A man, for chrissake! I’d been trying to forget about last night. Obsessing about Cindy to kill the doubts, losing myself in routine, keep my mind busy. But some things you should never ignore, can never forget. Phantom sensations lurked at the edge of thought: a man’s hand caressing my ass, a man’s tongue sliding against mine, what the fuck had I done, what had I . . . done?

“David?” Scooter’s voice came from far away. “David!”

I gagged. Bile rose in my throat. That . . . bastard, that selfish weak piece of shit! Saving that man’s ass just to preserve some pathetic memory? Wasted--ruined, tainted. Now when I thought of Kate and that song and that one good memory . . . I’d always remember Harry fucking Longman and his fingers digging through my hair, his cock swelling beneath my hand . . . his smell, leather and age still clinging to me. My palm felt slick and I saw blood there, beading up where my fingers has cut the skin. White knuckles. Red palm--and nails.

Strong hands grabbed my head on both sides and pulled me out of myself. “David!” doctor Jonathon demanded. “What you did--it was good, David, you may have saved his life.”

Grudging respect--I saw it in Scooter’s eyes. The disgust I felt over last night burned away before the almost blinding hatred I felt for the man in front of me now. This was not Harry’s fault; Harry was a friend. But Jonathon Bridges was a man I had trusted, and who had betrayed me, and if I didn’t need him I could have killed him right then and there. I really could have.

“No more,” I nearly growled. “No more . . . Cindy. No more bullshit. Stop this, Jonathon, stop what you’re doing to me.”

“What do you mean?” He face went deliberately blank.

“You think I’m fucking stupid?” I hissed. “Where were they? In the goddamn painkillers? Subliminal conditioning in the music during the beauty sessions? Or was it in my food?”

“David, you’re not. . . .”

“Where were the drugs?” I screamed at him. “These motherfucking headaches, the way I’ve been acting--you don’t think I know when I’m being fucked around, you son-of-a-bitch?” Over in the waiting room K watched us curiously, but the heavy glass door blocked the sounds of my ranting. “I know who I am! I’m a man, dammit! I’m not Cindy! I don’t-- last night-- I said I trusted you but that didn’t give you the right to--”

A quickly made decision flicked across his eyes. “It was for your own good,” Scooter interrupted, his voice steady, his face unflinching confronted with my anger.

“So you admit--”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “The Asklepios Clinic drugged you, David. Does that make you feel better? Does it alleviate the guilt that you’ve been prancing around like a girl for the last three weeks? Last night was entirely the drugs. Blame it on the drugs, David, blame it all on us if it’ll make you feel better.”

My hands trembled at my side, aching from the restraint. “You bastard.”

“I told you the first time we met: the Asclepieion is my top concern, David, not you. Your disguise was a good one but not good enough. It wasn’t up to my standards. The experts helped to polish the rough edges but it was the mannerisms that were going to give you away. The Clinic helped with those as well. And it worked. You survived intact and tomorrow you’ll wake up a new man.”

“What did you do to me?” I demanded.

“A mild hypnotic--nothing more. The compound was air-born and slipped in through the ventilation at night. All that reading and practice you did? The drug simply helped your hard work stick. A little positive reinforcement helped subdue your natural guilt over acting like a girl. Your own obsession with Harry Longman carried it that final step.”

“And the headaches?”

He hesitated. “Not an uncommon side-effect. Nothing serious.”

The bastard was lying; I could tell. “You still had no right. . . .”

“I had every right to do what I did,” he stated, and loudly slammed shut the patient chart in his hand. “This is my Clinic! You are here at my sufferance!” His crazy red hair jumped and shook as he accentuated each point by slamming his fist against the solid metal bedframe. “You are alive because of me!”

“And Harry’s alive because of me,” I answered levelly.

Mouth open mid-rant, Scooter stopped. He stared at me for a moment, and then suddenly grinned widely. “This is true,” he said. “Consider us even?”

“Not even close,” I said.

Doctor Jonathon Bridges nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, and shrugged, and I saw how little importance he attached to my forgiveness. “For what it’s worth, the self-conditioning should fade quickly. If you don’t try to act feminine, you won’t, though some of the learned behaviours might slip through unconsciously. Things like brushing back your hair; and even that will fade quickly in the absence of continued reinforcement. Even drug-induced hypnosis is just hypnosis; it can’t make you do anything you’re very opposed to.

“So make your farewells to Cindy. I’ll make sure everything’s prepped and ready. We’ll be ready to start within the hour.”

The doctor left the room, leaving me along at the edge of the examination table. I stared at my red-tipped fingers, at the sexy stiletto spike and the delicate leather strap that wound its way up my ankle and calf. Long blonde hair fell in a whispering cascade across my shoulders. I licked my lips and tasted the makeup there that made my mouth full and shiny. With every movement I felt the tickle of lace against soft and sensitive skin; suspenders tautened and loosened as I crossed my legs. The feminine gesture came so easily it was frightening.

I wouldn’t miss any of this. I really wouldn’t.

***

With steps that were more than a little precarious, I joined Agent K in the waiting room. Those shoes did an amazing thing for my ass and posture, but left me feeling like I was walking on stilts. What the hell had I been thinking, wearing these fucking things? Damn Scooter and his goddamn drugs. With a well-conditioned movement I crossed my legs and smoothed down the skirt as I sat on the sofa next to K. The Clinic’s mind-games exposed, I found myself terribly aware of how unnatural these gestures were, and how easily they came. A faint shimmer woven into the hosiery caught the light as I carefully crossed my legs and delicately folded my hands over my knees. Without the prosthetic these gestures became just a tad dangerous; last thing I wanted was to crush my nads, yeah? I was discovering that it’s a hell of a lot harder to be properly dainty and feminine with cock and balls trapped in silk.

Agent K put aside the magazine she’d been idly leafing through. The motherly façade fell away but a strangely enigmatic smile remained as she turned to me. I briefly wondered whether she had known about Scooter’s actions; grudgingly admitted that I’d probably never know; and that she would have approved even if she knew.

“David,” she stated, as if determining my identity for the conversation. “Nervous?”

“Not really,” I answered. I ran a hand through my long hair and held it up for inspection. “Anxious to get rid of all this nonsense, to be honest.”

The corner of her mouth twitched into a small smile. “Really? By all accounts, Cindy has been quite comfortable these last few weeks.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said. “I’ve been saying since day one I hate this shit. A couple of weeks of being pampered ain’t about to change that. I’m a guy, K. I can’t tell you how embarrassing all this crap is. Once you get me settled down, believe me--I’ll never wear a skirt again. Ever.”

“Not even for me?” she asked softly. Her smile grew by the slightest degree, turned just a little playful and maybe--something more? “Would you play Cindy for me?”

God, this woman was a tough nut to crack! I held her gaze searchingly and tried to read her intentions--whether she was joking, serious, desperate or maybe just horny. Her eyes glittered darkly and her thin smile didn’t waver. K’s pose was relaxed and slightly mirrored mine, neither welcoming nor chastising. But that curious half-smile, the suggestion of quiet laughter lurking behind her lips; what the hell was that all about? Self-deprecating, or was she including me in a joke; was I the joke? I opened my mouth to answer; cleared my throat and glanced away.

It’s a good thing my legs were crossed. In a skirt this tight there’s no hiding a boner. Damn this woman! She puts me in panties and drugs me and I ought to hate her but somehow she’s got me more intrigued than any woman I’ve met in years. A snappy comeback: it’s all I wanted at that point but three weeks of playing Cindy seemed to have dulled . . . what? Certain rough edges, some of my cynicism? Or has it stolen my confidence? Scooter’s assurances that the drugs would wear off quickly did little to ease my fears at that point.

K’s hand softly resting over mine startled me back to attention. “Has it really been that bad, being a girl?” she asked, her eyes turning by degrees more serious.

“How the hell do you expect me to answer that?” I answered. “How can I answer that?”

“Tell me you hated it,” she said, her fingers sliding into my palm, pulling my clasped hands apart. She held one up as if examining forensic evidence. My nails caught the light in glimmering rainbow hues. “Tell me you hate having long nails and playing with the beautiful colours and how slender they make your fingers seem and how they force the way you hold your hand.”

What the hell? “I hate it,” I said, even as her soft touch drifted across the back of my hand and sent a delicate shudder up my spine.

“Tell me you hate the smooth skin,” she continued, and her hand slid up my arm, lightly caressing my bared forearm. “The delicate scents that tickle the senses and sensual softness that welcomes every touch; do you hate that as well?”

“I hate it,” I insisted. Her posture was gradually shifting towards me and she leaned closer as her hand reached to my shoulder and trailed a single nail along my bared collarbone and made me shiver.

“This?” Her fingers outlined the bump beneath my top made by the edge of the corset beneath; her fingers traced the contour down my back and tickled the skin beneath the tightly drawn laces. “And this?” Her other hand found my knee and softly kneaded the flesh above through the silky thinness of the stockings. “Do you hate the feel of lace and silk against your skin and how every touch seems magnified against shaven skin and--,” her hand at my back slipped down my side and rested confidently at my tapered waist--,“the tightness, constriction and control, the flushed breathlessness and--”

“More than anything,” I groaned, cutting her off, the pain in my groin growing unbearably. “I hate it.” With one hand on my thigh and the other at my waist, K faced me directly. Her face was close to mine.

“Your makeup is beautiful,” she said. “Your face so very pretty.” She released my thigh to draw one fingernail along my cheekbone. “Those eyes so bright and cheeks--flushed. Your lips fresh and wet and. . . .”

She leaned close. Her lips found mine. She made an appreciative sound and exhaled as she pulled away.

“Soft,” she breathed. K’s smile was more than simply playful but still hinted at amusement. “Do you--”

“Yes. Yes.”

Her eyes held mine. She continued to hold my waist. I felt pressure at my thigh again; it nearly made me jump. Softly but insistently her touch pried my crossed legs apart. Her fingers toyed at the edge of my stockings and danced up one thin garter strap and crept beneath the taut surface of the skirt. With my legs spread my cock sprang free of its lacy prison and tented my skirt. K’s fingers coiled, one by one, around my member and held it firmly as it swelled in her grasp.

“Tell me you hate it. Tell me you hate it all.”

My hands, sitting limply at my side through all this, suddenly returned to life and grabbed her by the side and by the back of the head. My fingers entangled themselves through her hair and held her as tightly as she held my member. Throughout the last two weeks and those intimate moments I shared with Harry last night--through it all my cock stayed limp and cowed. Two months alone, bereft of intimacy, weeks without release of any kind . . . but a single glance from this fucking woman and everything leapt to attention and now--

God, I haven’t wanted a woman this badly since--

“Kiss me, David,” Katherine whispered.

I pushed forward and nearly crushed her against the sofa. I forced my mouth against her as my grip pulled her to me. Our tongues danced and her breasts crushed up against my fake ones. Her grip on my penis never wavered. I kissed her eye, her neck; her breath filled my ear and her other hand stroked my nylon-sheathed leg. My hand slid beneath her sweatshirt and fumbled for her tits. A throaty female moan reached my ears: whose? My thumb flicked her nipple and I bit softly into her flesh.

K smiled a Cheshire-cat grin, wide and hungry. Her eyes shone with delight. She brought her mouth next to my ear and her voice flowed across my skin, searing, a siren’s call that was impossible to ignore.

“Kiss me, Cindy,” she whispered.

She pushed and I collapsed back into the sofa and she followed me down until she straddled me. Her lips found mine and she forced her tongue into my mouth and explored with such passionate exuberance my toes curled in their four-inch perch. I tasted her makeup and my own as well; our perfumes mingled and when she pulled away momentarily her scent clung to me possessively. Blonde tangled with her inky black swirled at the edge of my vision as I sank into my training and into the cushion and an easy lassitude. Both her hands roamed and caressed their way across my body now as her crotch ground against mine. I passively received the kisses she rained upon me. Her rough frottage sent a dull throb through my injured side but also brought me to an eager edge. She paused as she sensed my poised readiness. K’s lips--thin and pale--hovered an inch away from mine--pink, glistening, ready.

“Tell me you hate this,” she said and smiled wickedly

I found her gaze and matched her smile. “I hate you,” I answered.

Something flickered darkly behind those veiled eyes. “I know,” she said, and her mouth found mine for one final, passionate embrace. Our bodies collided and for a brief, intense moment I felt the entirety of this crazy woman pressed against me. I shuddered and released a fierce grunt that was swallowed by her frenzied kisses. I came with an intensity I hadn’t felt in ages. A moment later she pulled away and left me lying on the sofa.

“I like Cindy,” Agent K said, standing over me. Her eyes danced across my body as I basked in the luxurious sensation of one of the strangest but most needed fucks of my life. She smirked at the state she’d left me in. “I think you like her as well.”

I smiled wanly, well aware of the image I presented: the skirt hiked up over my stockings, my top at some time tossed aside leaving the corset beneath exposed, the smeared lipstick, the wetness dripping down my leg, and the tangled sweep of long blonde hair draped over the edge of the sofa; a girl well and happily fucked. From my reclining position I watched her warily. “I don’t get you, K.”

With slow, slightly awkward steps she walked over to Scooter’s desk and brought back a chair, and I wondered if she’d gotten off on our little encounter as well. First finding and then struggling back into my top, I slowly pulled myself together. When she sat across from me her expression was unexpectedly serious. Wordlessly she passed me my purse. I pulled out a few tissues to clean myself up a bit and then started to fix my makeup. It seemed like a wasted effort, considering I’d be heading into surgery soon, but I sensed that K wanted to talk without interruption.

“David, this will be the last time we ever meet.”

I paused in my ministrations and my eyes flicked from the compact over to her--and then back. I gave the slightest of nods and she continued. I’d known this, of course, even as I tried to ignore the fact. Once I was relocated into a new life there’d be no more need for an Agent K in my life.

“David, I . . . like you.” She sounded slightly annoyed by the statement. “The man I met a month ago struck me as an arrogant, misogynistic son-of-a-bitch. He was cocky beyond belief and as condescending as any man I have ever encountered. This had no influence on my decision to disguise him as a girl. You have to believe that. I still believe that it was the best way to ensure your survival at the time. But I can not deny that I took great pleasure in giving you breasts and placing you in panties.”

I snapped the compact shut and put away the lip gloss. My smile was sweet and shiny and didn’t reach my eyes.

“But that same arrogance--that cockiness, despite what you’ve been through. . . .” She looked away and sighed. “You excite me, David, in a way that makes me hate myself. That very arrogance I despise draws me to you even as it makes me want to try and . . . humiliate you and leave you somehow diminished.” She paused as if struck by a sudden thought. “But you know all this,” she added. “Even before the letter I left, you understood all this. I suspect that somehow you understand me far too well, David.

“While I was away from the Clinic my thoughts turned to you often--to both you and Cindy.” She smiled slightly after she said ‘Cindy’. “Strange how they seem two different people to me, though I see both sitting before me now.” She shook her head. “But I know that is not true, and strangely enough that may be what draws me to you the most. At first I thought it was because through you the opportunity existed to take my revenge on a man from my past . . . and then because of the desires I thought long buried that you awakened. Finally I discovered in Cindy not the debased male I expected but rather--,” she smiled weakly, “and I felt. . . .”

The eyes she turned to me were weary and sad. “These games we play, David, and all these self-doubts . . . these ghosts of the past that haunt us. Perhaps it is good thing that we will never meet again. But if we had first met, somehow, in a different place and time . . . I wonder. What would have happened between us, do you think?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, K.”

She continued to look at me searchingly. Ghosts of the past; she had no idea. Finished with my makeup I closed the purse. “You asked me if being a girl has been that bad,” I said.

K nodded.

“It has been,” I said. “Worse, even. I’ve hated it. But I don’t regret it, K. If I could go back and reconsider squealing on Steele, knowing what I’d have to go through . . . I’d do the same goddamn thing all over again.”

“Really? Why?”

“For you,” I answered.

With a hidden sadness of my own I watched her retreat, her expression turning blank. Sometimes it’s easier to give away your own feelings than to have to accept someone else’s. K could grudgingly believe that she felt strongly about someone else, but being cared for in return? No, not that. She couldn’t believe she deserved it. Even as she distanced herself I continued talking. I wasn’t really saying this for her benefit, anyway. Like I’ve said, at the end of the day it’s all about me.

“You’re cool, K. I mean, you’re a total lesbo bitch, yeah, and you’re a ball-busting pain in the neck . . . but damn if that ain’t what I like about you. You say you’re attracted to the stuff in me you hate? And you hate yourself for that? Yeah, well I guess I’m the same, only there’s no guilt in my end. I guess I just like my girls a bit broken.

“So you want to fuck with me out of some twisted need to deal with the past? That’s cool. It’s weird . . . I mean, it’s seriously weird . . . but it sure ain’t boring, K. And, God, have I ever been bored. Which is what it really boils down to in the end, I suppose. The other reason I’d do all this bullshit all over again.”

“Why would that be?” she asked.

“It’s been fun.” Her disbelieving gaze made me smile. “Seriously. K, I honestly don’t think I could’ve lasted at NeoPharm much longer. I was so bored. Holy shit, but I didn’t even know how bored I’d become.

“I mean, sure, I didn’t know it, but another year or two at NeoPharm, being that corporate cock-head I was trying to be? Yeah, I would’ve done something stupid eventually. I’m sure of it. Taken up some dumbass Extreme sport or developed a goddamn drug habit or started picking fights with street gangs in bad bars. Because, wow, that man you first met? That’s not me. God, that’s so not me. The arrogant son-of-a-bitch? Totally not me.”

K looked dubious.

I laughed. “Want to know the truth, K?” I leaned in close and spoke in a loud stage whisper. “I’ve been playing nice!” Sitting back in the sofa, I swept my hair aside so it wouldn’t get pinned beneath my back. “I mean, shit, I help some bastard out and suddenly Scooter thinks I’m a good guy or something? God, you guys don’t have a clue . . . not even you, K. I’ve been playing nice for years and I don’t think I could’ve handled it for much longer.”

When K didn’t interrupt I knew that I’d caught her interest. She was happy to sit back and let me talk. What was it about this woman that made me want to spill my guts? These weeks of stress, the drugs and the craziness of last night and, as Scooter put it, the very reasonable fear of heading into surgery--all of it was bubbling under the surface, simmering beneath my skin, hotter than ever after the heavy petting session with K. I mean, hell, I was sitting there wearing suspenders and a bra, with my own cum drying on the inside of my shaven thigh and pink panties, sitting opposite a woman I might be falling in love with--how fucked up was that? No wonder I wasn’t quite right in the head.

Still, no matter how giddy with booze or lust or worry you might be, there’s some stuff you just never share.

So instead of telling her the whole truth about my past I grappled for a story I read around at Akiko’s one night. “It’s like that story--the one with the scorpion,” I explained. She looked at me strangely and I continued. “You know, the fable?”

K shrugged.

“It’s the one with the--well, some stupid furry critter. Or a frog. Yeah, that’s it, a frog and one day this scorpion walks up and asks for a ride across a river. Now the scorpion’s acting all nice and the frog’s not too clever and so they hop in the water and start swimming across. The scorpion, yeah, it’s come a long way and it really, really wants to cross that river. It’s on a quest, see, headed for some wondrous place or something. So it’s doing its damnest to play nice. And then, half-way across the river the frog feels a sting on its back. As everything goes numb and the frog feels itself dying, it manages to, well, croak: “but why? Now we’re both going to die.” And the scorpion, it just shrugs and answers, “it’s in my nature.”

“There’s a touch of the scorpion in me, K, and I suspect in you as well,” I finished.

She frowned. “Are you trying to suggest that we are both suicidal?”

“No! No, of course not. What I’m saying is that there’s something fundamental to both of us, something bad, and we’re trying to change but what we really need to ask is . . . why do we bother? There’s no point. People don’t change. People can’t change, not who they are, who the really are, anyway. New names and faces are one thing, but if I’ve learned anything these last few weeks it’s this: you can force me into a skirt and make me prance around like a giddy cheerleader, you can even drug me so that I’ll play nice, but at the end of the day I’m the same fucked-up prick that I’ve always been and that’s not ever going to change, no matter how hard I or anyone tries.”

K stared at me for a very long time, frowning, and I matched her gaze calmly. Eventually there was a beep from her purse. She retrieved her mobile. Her brow furrowed momentarily as she read a message. “I have to step out for a moment,” she said, and the face she showed me was coolly indifferent. “Jon will be back soon.” Even as she spoke I could see it in her eyes, or rather in how she had difficulty making eye contact with me: she was detaching herself; she was saying her final farewell. Once she stepped through the door I really would never see her again, and I felt an unexpected sadness rise at the thought.

“Good luck, David.”

“K, wait!”

She hesitated at the threshold. I stood and walked over to her. Even in these ridiculous heels I remained shorter than her. There was both apprehension and impatience in her eyes before she glanced away. Taking her hand in mine, I gave it a squeeze. “I’ll miss you.”

For a moment she was with me in the room once again, fully present and her finger tightened briefly in my grasp. “You’re wrong,” she said, fiercely. “People can change!”

K pulled away. She left the room, leaving me alone.

***

Sitting in the chair K has used I could still smell her lingering scent. Thinking of Agent K, and then of Harry Longman and doctor Scooter, I waited to be summoned into surgery. Mostly I thought about Cindy Long and my mind wound itself through the dark recesses of memory and lost itself in confusion. Confusion: less than a day ago I was getting it on with a guy, in some kind of misguided effort to preserve a half-forgotten memory. And then: playing a role somewhere between male and female with an inscrutable woman, a broken and bitter agent I somehow knew I could trust utterly. Beneath all this fluttered the faint memories of the women from my past: Akiko and Muna and Amanda. Their presence fell over the events of the last few weeks like the trembling shadow of anxious moths beneath a pale light at night.

Katherine. Ghosts of the past. Her half-forgotten reality underscored everything in my life. For years I had tried to ignore what had happened between us even as I desperately failed to burn every single moment to memory. Those early days after the courthouse; these weeks at the Asklepios Clinic; last night with Harry and this morning with K: somehow everything happening in the present was bringing back an unwelcome recollection of the past. For years I had tried to live the part of David Sanders, normal human being, all-around-jerk, corporate climber and ladies’ man.

A few weeks as the lady had torn that illusion away. It’s a good thing today was the end. Once I was firmly ensconced in the new persona K had devised for me, I hoped I could trick myself into being a ‘nice guy’ again.

A trick was the best I could hope for. I’d never be a nice guy. But hopefully I could pretend, for the rest of my life if need be. I took some pleasure in knowing that K never got to see the real me. I had Cindy to thank for that. Hopefully the twenty-year old minx could help me be a nicer person in the future.

“Has it really been that bad, being a girl?” K’s voice echoed in my ear, so loud and real I nearly opened my eyes to see if she was standing next to me. How could I answer that question truthfully to a woman I felt impossible feelings for?

Of course it hadn’t been that bad.

It’s amazing what a human being can endure if necessary. The fear of humiliation can be one of the strongest motivators a person will ever encounter; but it’s not the strongest, not by far. Take a real macho man and point a gun at his head and give him the choice between wearing it and a bullet to the brain--yeah, you can bet your ass ninety-nine percent of them will wear the dress. Pain. Hunger . . . especially hunger. Loneliness. These are the fears that motivate people. And even they can be endured. Compared to those--what’re a few weeks in high heels?

The clothes were uncomfortable. Makeup and the fascism of fashion, the style of helplessness, these tottering heels and hobbling skirts and distracting lace and straps that ran all over my body . . . God, it was such bullshit. But it wasn’t worth dying over. Yeah, I couldn’t wait to get away from it all. The thing is, if I was to be completely truthful with myself, I’d have to admit that half my hurry was because. . . .

Goddamn if I hadn’t felt the terrible allure of it all, and that I couldn’t blame on the drugs.

For as long as I could remember my life has been hard and difficult. Always on edge, always on guard, challenging, confrontational, in charge and in your face--yeah, that’s me. A real tough guy. But Cindy . . . she could relax. She could rely on others. She could let her guard down. Shit, but I’d love to relax and everything about her was so delightfully soft, and easy, and happy. I thought of last night with Harry and too much of what happened skirted dangerous close to my own core. Had it been entirely an act, Cindy enjoying Harry’s strong arm across her shoulders, encircling, protecting? That passionate, desperate kiss under the tree and the night sky; if I was brutally honest with myself, had that been all Cindy?

Who the hell was she, really, this Cindy girl?

Cindy didn’t hate herself. I did.

God, did I ever hate myself.

Goodbye, Cindy.

It’s too quiet.

With a start I snapped out of my useless melancholy. The Asklepios Clinic, as a whole, was a quiet place but never this quiet. The normal background bustle of the hospital was missing. Other than the sound of my own breathing and the rhythmic hum of the equipment in the room, I was surrounded by a profound and unsettling silence. Even the faint thrum of ventilation had silenced.

Every instinct shouted that something was seriously wrong. I wasn’t safe here, no matter what K and Scooter thought.

I leapt to my feet, shouldering my purse. The click of my heels rang unnervingly loud as I walked from the room. I cursed the tight skirt that hobbled my stride and forced me to take short mincing steps. I reached out with every sense. The hallway stretched in both directions. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. There was no one else around. My corseted breath roared in my ears as I forced down my anxiety. It was probably nothing, just like when I found Larry chasing after me.

What if Larry had been right and this place wasn’t safe?

Where the hell was Scooter? What was that message K had received?

With hurried steps I rushed down the corridor towards the nearest corner. I had barely left the room before I heard a single, solid footstep behind me. A voice called out.

“David Sanders?”

I turned at the sound of my name.

Stupid, stupid fucking rookie mistake.

“Hello, Mr Sanders.” Agent Foster’s stepped around the corner and stood at the far end of the hall. His face split in a thin, pleased smile. “Mr. Steele sends his greetings.”

He approached unhurriedly. His bulk seemed to fill the hallway. At six feet and a bit he towered over me. He filled out his well-cut black suit and it clearly wasn’t with fat. Expensive shoes sounded a deliberate, solid rhythm at his approach. Each step landed with an almost leonine grace that belied his size. Large, wiry hands curled and uncurled into fists at his side. His smile was sardonic and his eyes glittered cruelly as he watched his prey.

“Listen, can we talk about this?” I pleaded as I took an unsteady step back.

There was no negotiating with this guy. I instinctively understood the nature of this man. He wouldn’t kill me out of loyalty to Steele. He wouldn’t do it for the money. He would kill me for pleasure. Three weeks ago I sensed the animal that lurked beneath the façade of civility he presented, but now his true nature showed clearly in every fibre of his being. The best I could hope for was to buy some time--time for K to get her secret agent ass to my rescue, for Scooter to engage whatever security systems Asklepios might have. I wasn’t about to hold my breath, though. If Fosters was as good as I suspected he’d have his bases covered. Back in the hotel room there had been a partner; where was she?

He shook his head slowly, eyes never losing track of me. His smile grew wide and hungry.

I never considered running. It’s what Fosters wanted: the final ecstasy of the chase and the savage joy of the kill. I had a better chance of delaying the inevitable by staying. Feed his appetite but keep him wanting more. It’s not like I would have gotten very far in these clothes anyway. This skirt hobbled me to mincing steps. I could barely walk in these shoes, let alone run. Long hair for him to pull me back with. Jangling accessories to betray my location. A corset that strangled my breath. Everything that Agent K and the Clinic had done to disguise me now served me up to the enemy in a state of learned helplessness.

Backing away with hesitant steps from the larger man, it wasn’t difficult to appear frightened.

“Please. . . .” A final use of the spray this morning kept my voice feminine. “Don’t hurt me.” I pleaded with eyes wide with terror.

The sick bastard loved it, the girlish sob that wavered beneath my voice. “What a disappointment,” he said. “They told me you were a real tough guy,” he said. “A bastard. And look at you now: nothing more than a little sissy.” He paused in his approach. Twenty feet away. There was a locked door to my back and the hallway continued to my right. He blocked the only other was in or out, and stood just a few feet from the threshold leading into Scooter’s office.

“I am going to hurt you, David.” The space between us was largely empty: a few framed pictures on the wall, a low sofa behind Fosters with a small table next to it decorated with a vase overflowing with flowers. The flowers were startling bright, beautiful red roses that seemed out of place in their clinical surroundings. They momentarily drew my eye away from Fosters. “I am going to hurt you bad. I am going to break you, then I am going to cut you, and then I am going to watch you bleed.”

Lovely guy, this Fosters. If he was talking it’s because he wasn’t expecting any interruptions. Where the hell was K? “No,” I cried, channelling more of Cindy. My hands fluttered at my side and I clasped them together desperately. “Oh God, please . . . don’t.”

Drinking in my terror, he took a single step forward and eyed me appraisingly. “Beg for you life, little sissy.” His eyes shone eagerly. “Or should I call you Cindy? It does not matter; beg, you little faggot, beg for a quick death.”

“I’m begging you,” I said, nearly sobbing, shaking my head, long blond tresses trembling about my face. “I--”

“On you knees,” he demanded. “Little bitches like you beg on their knees.”

I hesitated only briefly before sinking to the floor, the smooth tiles cool and slippery through my thin stockings. Looking up through the tangled curtain of my hair I repeated my plea. “Please don’t kill me.”

He resumed his leisurely approach. Even fixated on me he kept careful awareness of his surroundings, each step deceptively relaxed. My stomach tightened--to the extent that it could, trapped in the corset’s grip--as he drew close. Ten feet away. I nearly shook with the effort to remain on my knees.

I had to trust to this man’s primal nature. I had to believe when he said he planned to hurt me first. Injuries can heal. Pain can be endured. But if he pulled a gun, which he must surely have--bang--game over. I had no intention of dying, not here, not dressed like this. As long as Fosters was beating on me there was still hope; K might still show; the cavalry might arrive; he might make a mistake.

Fosters stared at me hungrily, and with dismay I watched the delight in his eyes twist and darken. “Disgusting,” he said.

“How did you find me?” I dropped the begging but kept the desperate tone to my voice. It wasn’t entirely faked.

Pride briefly warred with impatience. The disdain never left his eyes as he spoke. “You led us on a good chase,” he grudgingly admitted. “Mr Steele has his agents everywhere, scouring the city for you. My partner was tipped off to the safe house. It seemed an unlikely lead. And I have to admit--when we followed you to that hotel you fooled us completely. Oh, you were convincing, David--very convincing.” The scorn in his voice made me tremble with shame--which he wanted--and fury--which I hid. “Being a girl comes naturally to you.

“The rental car gave you away. That bitch protecting you wiped it clean of prints. But she missed something. A tiny spot of blood on the ceiling. Your blood. Once we knew you were in the car the distance logged by it made tracking you here easy. But were you still in the Clinic? That had to be determined. So I watched. Imagine my surprise when I saw Cindy.” He stepped closer. “Was she a girlfriend? Were you the man in the shower back in the hotel? Oh, imagine my surprise when I finally realized that you were Cindy! A very good effort, David Sanders. You seemed to have found your true calling.”

What gave me away? During what brief moment in which I allowed my feminine character to slip away did this bastard spot me? Or had I only been half as convincing as I’d thought, making an utter fool of myself in an environment so messed up nobody really cared?

“But--how. . . .”

Shaking his head, Fosters loomed over me. “Your efforts to delay the inevitable are pathetic,” he said. “Mr Steele wants a very painful example made of you, David. The security protocols for the building have been overridden and this wing placed in a lockdown. The doors are locked, the windows barred. No one is coming to your rescue.”

With an almost tired sigh he reached down. His fingers coiled roughly through my hair and pulled. I gasped with pain as he hauled me to my feet. “My partner is taking care of your protector.” He yanked my head back. His eyes burned into mine. “And I’ve got all the time in the world to take care of you.”

***

“Don’t worry, child. I’ll take care of you.”

The woman gathered me in her arms. She was only a few inches taller than me but seemed much larger, more powerful than any school councillor or parent. Tears of outrage and frustration dribbled down my cheek and stained the front of her blouse as she held me close. I trembled and she smoothed down my hair and made hushing sounds. “It’ll be okay,” she said, but I was too young and too weak, too angry to listen.

“My name is Sakura,” she said, crouching slightly to look me eye-to-eye. “I’m a teacher.”

Her ‘students’ clustered not far behind with faces revealing varying degrees of anger, guilt and surprise. For the last fifteen minutes they’d been first taunting me, then pushing me around, and finally they’d settled on beating the living shit out of me.

“So tell me,” she asked, after I’d told her my name, “why on earth did you try and steal from a martial arts school?”

In stumbling, half-choked words I explained about the gang, the initiation challenge and how impressed I thought they’d be if I returned with some kind of weapon or a big wad of cash. Somehow it never occurred to me that I could actually get caught; and if I did, well, I could take care of myself. I thought I was tough. I was eleven years old and an idiot.

“But you weren’t strong enough, were you?” Sakura asked, wiping at a spot of blood at the corner of my mouth.

I shook my head angrily.

“You didn’t give up,” she added. “I watched you fight back.”

I glared at her.

She laughed, an airy sound free of mockery. She caught a tear running down my cheek. “These tears, they aren’t of pain, are they? They aren’t of embarrassment.”

I shook my head.

“They’re of anger.” She leaned closer and spoke so softly only I could hear. “You’re very angry, aren’t you? You’d like to strike back at them--at all of them,” she said, and somehow I understood she was referring to people beyond the walls of this small room. “If only you were strong enough.”

There was no need to answer; she understood.

“Would you like me to train you?” Sakura asked.

I nodded.

***

His fist slammed into my face. I staggered back. No stability in those shoes. My ankle wobbled and I hit the wall. A picture frame shattered against the back of my skull. Glass shards rained down about my shoulders. Fosters was on me immediately, another punch catching me in the stomach. Pain flared in my side. I began to crumble, until an uppercut sent me back. My shoulder clipped the wall and I spun into the sofa. I hit the armrest and tumbled forward. His knee dropped onto my back. He hauled my head back by my hair. My scalp burned. I tasted blood. His fingers closed around my throat.

“You pathetic wimp,” he hissed. He dragged me off the sofa. I scrabbled useless at his grip. He lifted me up and slammed me against the wall and held me there. “Did you enjoy dressing like this?” His hand released my throat and grabbed at the prosthetic breasts. “Enjoy being felt up?” His rough squeeze went unfelt, but with a tearing sound and the popping of buttons he ripped the blouse open. Fosters’ eyes narrowed with disgust at the sight of the grey things stuck to my chest, and the corset that contained them. “Sick,” he spat, and violently threw me into the opposite wall.

The wall cracked and dust showed over me as I collapsed to the ground. On trembling hands I lifted myself from the floor. His foot lashed out and caught me across the ribs. I dropped again. With a moan I tried to cover my wounded side, only for his fist to smash me back down.

“Stop!” I cried out.

Ignoring my plea, Fosters roughly lifted me off the ground and effortlessly tossed me away. I crashed into the end table, falling over it onto the sofa once again. The vase shattered beneath my body. Water splashed out and soaked my front. Flowers scattered everywhere. I felt porcelain shards cut my skin as I twisted to stare up at him with terrified eyes. He paused momentarily to drink in my fear, gaze roaming across my form.

Sprawled across the cushions, with the skirt tangled over my stocking tops, with one snapped garter hanging loose and my hair tangled about my face in a dishevelled mess, I presented a helpless, fearful girl. Stray locks caught in my earrings, on my makeup, on the blood that trickled from the corner of my mouth and I hesitatingly pulled them away with a trembling hand. The exposed corset shimmered under hospital lights. A stray rose rested on my chest and contrasted brilliantly with the satin white. It somehow stayed stuck to me as I pulled myself to a sitting position.

“Why should I stop?” Fosters asked, leaning back against the wall. His hands continued to slowly clench and unclench at his side. His relaxed posture was again deceptive. He balanced lightly on the balls of his toes, ready to move. “Will you offer me money? More than Mr Steele has?”

I shook my head. “No, but . . . you don’t have to do this. . . .”

He laughed. “Of course I do not have to do this.” He shrugged. “But I certainly want to.”

“But. . . .” I scrambled for some other way to tempt him, for some way of delaying the inevitable. There was nothing. “I. . . .”

“How about yourself?” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Offer me your body, Cindy.”

“My . . . body?”

“That lovely mouth of yours. That tight bottom. I do not suppose you have a pussy buried away down there? Too bad. Go on, Cindy, suck me off. Maybe if I fuck your ass I will let you go.”

The look of revulsion that crawled across my face couldn’t be hidden. Sick bastard. The inevitable loomed ever closer. “If I . . . if I,” I swallowed nervously. “If I give you a blow job . . . you’ll leave me alone?”

He was on me immediately, his fist lashing out and catching me across the chin. With a strangled cry I fell back onto the sofa. “What do you think I am, some kind of queer?” he demanded, features twisted by rage. “You think I need some shit-stabbing pansy for that?” He lunged forward and grabbed me by the hair again. He dragged me from the couch and ignored my feeble cries as he hauled me across the floor. “I’ll fuck your skull if I want to!” he yelled down. “I’ll rape your cock-sucking corpse!” With a final kick he sent me stumbling into Scooter’s waiting room.

I scrambled away from him on all fours, my ass in the air and spike heels slipping and the carpeting burning my palms and knees, until I ran into the far wall. Twisting, I stared back at Fosters, framed in the door and blocking any escape. He watched me contemplatively and slowly smiled. The quick transitions from psychotic rage to contemplative delight were unnerving. “Perhaps I should give Mr Steele a call,” he said, patting at some inner pocket. “I am sure if he knew of your . . . disguise, he might be tempted to make it a little more permanent. Would you like that, David? I bet you would, to spend the rest of you life as somebody’s bitch, taking it up the ass, sucking cock in some drugged-up haze, a slave to whoever Steele lends you out to?”

“He . . . doesn’t know?”

Jeremiah-fucking-Steele didn’t know . . . he didn’t know! This sick bastard hadn’t called in to report yet. Maybe Steele knew about the Asklepios Clinic, but Cindy remained anonymous. I felt a desperate hope blossom; all my efforts weren’t wasted. “So the sissy thinks he has found a way out, does he?” Fosters shook his head in disbelief as he stepped into the room. “Do you think me so stupid not to recognize your pathetic efforts for what they are?” His voice hovered on a knife’s edge between anger and boredom. “But no phone calls, David. No hope.

“Mr Steele will be most pleased when I tell him of the state in which you were found--how you begged to live--and how painfully you died.” He was warmed up now, ready to begin with the real hurting, with the pain that would end in my death. I couldn’t afford to delay any longer. Rescue wasn’t coming after all; I had to fend for myself.

“Ready to die, bitch?” Fosters stepped closer. His smile grew at the sight of his feminized victim curled up in fear against the wall--wavered--and I saw the first shadow of doubt creep into his eyes.

Up to now he’d been taking it easy, slapping me around like his bitch and holding back his full strength. Even so, my chest should have heaved with fear. I should have been doubled over in agony from the brief but savage beating, clutching at my side, stomach; blood should have been streaming from my face, from a shattered nose or busted lips. Where were the tears, the abject supplications; the sheen of sweat; why hadn’t I even tried to escape?

Hey, I’m a good actor but not that fucking good, yeah?

I picked the rose from my chest, the thorn only reluctantly letting go. I momentarily appreciated its brilliant, vivid beauty. So delicate and fragile; with a sigh I crushed the flower in my palm and it tumbled to the floor. Rising to my feet, an easy flick of the head sent that mane of hair back over my shoulder. I straightened my skirt and a slow smile spread across my face.

“Hey, you know what? I don’t fucking think so.”

The surprise quickly faded from his face. “So the little sissy thinks he can fight back?” His voice dripped with contempt. He reached into his jacket. If he pulled out a gun . . . but no, it was a knife, a sleek, double-edged thing that gleamed coldly. It settled comfortably in his grip. “Taken a few karate classes, have you?” He chuckled grimly. “Do your best, David. Make this interesting. It is time to bleed.”

The fucker was fast, I’ll give him that, faster than I would’ve expected considering his size. He blurred forward, silently, blade stabbing straight for my chest. It wasn’t meant to kill--just to cut, badly, make me bleed and disable my arm. Meeting his charge, I caught his attack at the wrist. The tip of the knife wavered an inch from my chest. For a moment our two bodies pressed towards each other, our momentums clashing. Fosters was bigger, his footing surer; I fell back a step, then another; and then I was back up against the wall.

Fosters’ breath was sure and measured, his eyes gleaming as he pressed forward with all his weight and strength. Now my chest did heave with effort, pulse pounding in my ears as I fought his attack, desperately struggling to suck in air despite the corset. My muscles swelled as I pushed against him. It wasn’t enough; he was stronger than I was, bigger and heavier, better dressed for combat, eager to kill.

The knife drifted closer. The tip touched my right breast, hesitated, and slowly sank into the prosthetic flesh.

“You are going to die, David,” whispered Fosters. The knife sank a fraction of an inch, another, into the prosthetic. Those breasts were all but dead but I still felt the dull throb of that blade sinking into artificial flesh, the pain growing the deeper it penetrated. An acrid stench of rot escaped from the wound. He continued to press down. “Try, you little wimp. Fight!”

I pushed against him, muscles burning, sweat erupting across my body, burning into my eyes. My breath came in burning gasps, made feminine by the spray. I refused to die--like this--squeaking like some bitch in heat!

“Not enough,” he murmured. “You never had a chance. I am a killer, David, born and trained.” His eyes bore into mine, burning with desire, hate, hunger--the animalistic thrill of killing.

And in my eyes--he saw himself reflected, saw the same feral beast stare back, hungry and angry, and his confidence momentarily wavered. “Yeah, know what?” I snarled. “So am I.”

With a final effort the blade sank deeper. Savage, burning pain flared across my chest and seared through my head. . . .

***

. . . and I curled into a tight ball to escape the relentless pounding but it was no use, there was no escape; Sakura’s attacks continued. Her kick found my undefended stomach; when I dropped my hands to cover my torso she punched me across the face. I tried crawling away only for her to seize my leg and twist it so that I thought it would break.

“Stop,” I gasped, begged, barely able to breath. “Please--I can’t. . . .”

I stared up at her as she walked around my prone form, her soft steps silent across the hard wooden floor. She kicked my side, nearly hard enough to fracture a rib. “Get up,” she said. Her face was an expressionless mask.

“I can’t!” I insisted, breathless, defeated.

She crouched by my head. “Get up.” She slapped me, and then punched me in the shoulder. “Get up.”

My eyes burned with sweat but not with tears, even though the sense of betrayal was nearly more than I could bear. I did want to get up--for her, the sense of failure was nearly sickening, but my limbs were dead to me, my lungs burned with exhaustion and the pain was overwhelming. “I. . . .”

Her fingers curled around my throat, cutting off my words, cutting off air. “Get up,” she said and my vision began to swim and dance. I must have blacked out, but somehow a moment later . . . I was standing on unsure, weak legs, only half-conscious--but upright.

Sakura’s expression hadn’t changed. “Fight back,” she said. Her punch to the stomach sent me back to the floor.

It took ages, but somehow standing once again became easier. “Please!” I cried out, blinking back tears.

Another hit, another drop to the floor. “Fight back.”

“Stop,” I gasped, but she didn’t and knocked me back again, and I clambered back to my feet and tried again, “stop!” angrier this time and how could she do this to me, I was her student and she promised to take care of me and what the hell was she trying to do, kill me? “Stop!” I yelled.

“Stop it!” I screamed and only then realized I’d just blocked her punch. A rush of pleasure coursed through me--until her second attack slammed me back into the wall.

I stared up at her in shock. “But--”

“Fight,” she repeated, hitting me again, and just like that--my anger boiled over.

“Bitch!” I screamed, and launched myself at her, a flurry of wild punches and blind kicks and rushes that never came close to touching her as she danced away; but I chased after her, back and forth across the training hall, blood rushing like pouring sand in my ears, vision reduced to a lurid crimson tunnel and my heart pounding furiously in my chest. “I’ll. . . .”

My body gave out. I collapsed to the ground, unconscious, the taste of vomit flooding my mouth.

And indeterminate time later I came to. Sakura knelt beside me. A look of such tenderness filled her face that I felt an impossible swell of love for her. It nearly swept away the newfound hatred that sat, like a jagged, heavy stone, at my core.

“I thought you were going to kill me,” I whispered, incapable of speaking any louder.

“Only if you fail me,” she said, and I desperately sought humour in her words.

“You don’t train the other students like this.”

Sakura smiled. “You’re not like the other students,” she said.

***

Five years of practice and training and pretending were stripped away in a moment. Ever since Kate’s death I’d played nice and voluntarily wrapped myself in chains of civility and good behaviour. The scorpions, the slimy and horrible things that lurked within--five years ago I locked them away under the harshest of bondage and taught myself to forget what I knew existed deep down within.

Those chains and shackles fell away and I released a cry of exultant, savage joy.

I forced the attack to the side. The blade cut deep but sliced lengthwise, slashing through the prosthetic but only nicking the real flesh beneath. The taut skin of the breast split and the innards swelled out like the meat of a sausage. Intense pain flared across my chest and then suddenly cut off. An oily black fluid abruptly sprayed from the ruptured breast and caught Fosters across the face.

He hissed in pain and surprise and briefly dropped his guard. I threw my entire body forward, slamming my shoulder into his chest. He staggered back a step. The knife slashed upwards, blindly, nearly catching me across the shoulder but I used my momentum to slip past the man, hitting the floor, rolling out into a low crouch across from him.

The bastard moved away, nearly doubled over, the knife held between us, his other hand swiping at his face. Black slime from the split breast dribbled and bubbled down my front. Instead of pressing the attack I took advantage of his distraction to grab at the zipper of the corset. I yanked it down and air rushed into my lungs. If only there was time to unlace these crippling stilettos from my feet. . . .

Fosters straightened opposite me. His face and eyes were bright red and teary but promised pain. “You should have run while you had the chance, bitch,” he hissed. The knife rested loosely in his hand.

When I touched one delicate finger to the edge of my mouth it came away with blood. Lipstick, nail polish, blood: all the same brilliant crimson. I wiped my hand clean against the blouse that hung loosely from my frame. Slowly rising from my crouch I couldn’t suppress a grin, thin and cruel, from spreading across my face. The bastard had about seven inches of height on me, fifty pounds, a longer reach and a knife. He probably had a gun as well, though he wouldn’t use it unless absolutely necessarily; Fosters liked to kill with his hands.

Through bleary eyes he watched me warily--but not warily enough. Fosters still had absolute confidence in his ability to take me down at his leisure, and why shouldn’t he? Everything he knew about me suggested I was an easy mark: a twenty-something average Joe with a dull past, a corporate middle-manager who’d just spent the last three weeks prancing around in drag. Too bad for him it was all lies, a pretty little packaging concealing a violent past. Otherwise he’d be taking me a hell of a lot more seriously. He’d be scrambling for that gun. Because after five goddamn years of denying myself utterly this most exquisite pleasure . . . yeah, I was going to enjoy this. I really was.

I was going to tear this motherfucker down. I was going to rend this motherfucker to pieces.

We both moved forward simultaneously. He threw a lazy jab, another, testing me. I leaned back and avoided his fist and when the cross came I blurred forward, slapping his arm away and twisted in, elbow aimed for his head. Momentary surprise flashed in his eyes but he reacted quicker than expected; he dipped beneath my attack and his knife stabbed upwards seeking my armpit. With one knee I knocked his hand aside at the wrist, but my back foot swayed in four-inch heels; I fell back a step and from his low stance his foot thrust out, aiming high. I twisted aside but his kick clipped my hip, staggering me.

I hit the far wall but controlled the impact. He rushed forward, knife ready. The bastard continued to underestimate. I recovered quickly and snapped out a quick, low kick. Knife already extended in attack, the tip of my foot caught his hand and sent the weapon flying. Unfazed, Fosters stormed through the attack, one heavy fist catching me in the side. I grunted as fractured ribs on the mend flared with pain but retaliated with a quick strike of my own, easily blocked. A flurry of up-close blows between us, quick punches and opens hands sliding to wrists, elbows, deflecting each other’s attacks. A frozen moment, both our arms held in check. Between the frame of our interlocked limbs Fosters smiled once again, still feral but different now: his animalistic thrill was underscored by a very human delight in the challenge he’d found and the surety of his victory. There was no special empathy in my understanding: the same manic grin illuminated my face as well.

His head smashed forward seeking the bridge of my nose. Shifting backwards I used my shoulder to lock his and used the energy to throw him into the wall. The impact smashed a hole in the plaster but he twisted quickly, arms raised defensively, to face me. My hair swirled in a golden halo as I lashed out with a massive backhand. It would’ve torn his jaw off had it hit. Continuing to twist he ducked beneath my strike and threw out a quick uppercut. Dropping my elbow I took the hit on the meat of the arm and stretched out, the edge of my open hand seeking his collarbone. Fosters dipped his shoulder and uncoiled like a spring, throwing his whole body forward. He caught me square on and I barely managed to throw his weight aside as we both hit the floor.

I found my feet but the shoes and skirt slowed me. He surged across the room and landed a massive side-thrusting kick square in the chest. Pain erupted through my torso as the other prosthetic exploded; black slime spattered everywhere. I went flying back. The glass door shattered behind me. I tumbled into the examination room. Hitting the floor I slid several feet before lying there, dazed and winded.

Glass crunched underfoot. Fosters stepped into the room. I could almost hear the tight clenching and unclenching of his fists as he approached. The bastard was taking his time. He thought he had me beat. The way things were going, he was right. These fucking clothes were crippling me. I could barely stand or walk, let alone fight. Far worse: it had been too long. I’d lost my edge; my instincts were dulled from disuse. I’d kept the body in shape but the spirit had weakened.

Fosters foot stomped down for my head, a debilitating blow. I twisted my neck aside and my legs found his, sweeping them out from beneath him. Glass lacerated my back and side as I rolled away; glass slivers cut into the palm of my hand as I pushed away and found my feet even as he found his.

The larger man lashed out with another big kick; I slid beneath it and riposted with a quick snap of my own to the groin. It would’ve dropped a lesser foe but he merely grunted and fell back a step. I pressed my advantage, rushing in with a sequence of quick punches. He managed to block a few but slipping within his longer reach I landed a few solid blows to his side. My small frame contradicts the strength I can throw into a punch: Fosters dropped back another step and I felt something give beneath my knuckles.

Showing the pain, he retaliated with an almost desperate swing. I ducked and hammered his abdomen. Fosters threw a hook. I jammed it at the shoulder and pounded his jaw with a rising elbow. Even as he fell back against a table, sending books and papers flying, a surprisingly fast kick scythed out for my head. I danced back out of reach.

Blood trickled slowly from between clenched fingers. Ooze drenched my tattered front, soaking the unzipped corset black and burning the skin beneath. My stockings were in shreds, shaven legs slick with sweat and blood from a dozen minor cuts, framed by snapped suspenders that swayed like dispirited snakes about my thighs. Not ten feet away, Fosters slowly straightened. His face remained burned red, eyes swimming with tears. He lightly touched at the corner of his lip and found blood. He stared at the red spot staining his finger and then his eyes slowly slid over to me.

“No more fucking around,” he growled.

As he indulged in dramatics I took advantage of the brief pause to dig into a hole torn in the side of my skirt. With a loud rip the fabric gave way and I created a thigh-high vent. Renewed confidence flowed through my veins. This douchebag was absolutely correct: no more fucking around. It was time to show this asshole just who the fuck he was dealing with.

I took the offensive. Threw a blistering combination of high and low strikes. He shouldn’t have been able to block. He did. The bastard had been holding back as well. I barely dodged his counter. I whipped out a crescent kick to make a little room. His leg jammed mine and his fist slammed into my abdomen and something nearly ruptured down there. His second punch never landed. I caught the arm and tried for the throw. He reversed; so did I; our arms blurred across each other without finding purchase; a soft spot; my arm slipped through, elbow clipping his face--blood spurted from his nose--and my hand grappled his neck and threw him forward on the recoil. He smashed into the computer cart and hit the ground, the equipment crashing around and atop him.

Fosters tossed the cart aside with a furious yell. He threw the computer at me as he rose. I ducked and charged forward. The screen exploded against the wall behind me in a shower of sparks. My punch fell short; he blocked and landed a quick roundhouse that had my vision swimming and sent me sprawling against the examination bed. An axe kick scythed down and I desperately rolled aside. Catching the edge with his heel, Fosters nearly flipped the heavy, steel-frame bed end-over-end and it crashed heavily to the ground on its side. An opening: the delay left his midriff unguarded. With a wild yell I unloaded the strongest kick I could muster into his sternum.

Disaster: the heel of my base foot wobbled, snapped. Four inches of stiletto heel stabbed into Fosters stomach even as I felt my other ankle pop, dislocate--break. Pain flared up my leg and spine and I couldn’t suppress a despairing cry as I hit the ground heavily. Even drained of its full power my kick sent Fosters tumbling across the room; he crashed into a row of cabinets and amidst a show of glass collapsed to the ground.

Gritting my teeth and crawling through the burning pain, I forced myself to roll over and rise to my feet. I felt like fucking Ralph Macchio facing off against his final opponent in ‘The Karate Kid’. Yeah, just one difference: in ‘The Karate Kid’ that last guy didn’t pull a gun.

Fosters didn’t stand. Suit jacket undone, broken glass settling like dandruff across his broad shoulders, the white shirt beneath stained red; and the shoulder holster empty. Painful clarity descended and I watched in near slow-motion as, from his sprawled position, his arm swung around, the ugly .45 ready in his grip seeking a quick end to the fight. Blood ran in criss-crossing rivulets from his crushed nose, from his split lip and forehead and stained his manic grin an ugly red.

The moment released us. The pistol roared and flared. With desperate strength I threw myself away. Pain exploded in my side as I grabbed the edge of the bed and fell behind the metal frame. A second shot rang out and ricocheted away. Heavy wetness soaked the corset from beneath and dribbled down my leg and fire filled my lungs and my strength rapidly began to flag.

No. No fucking away. I wasn’t going to die. Move. Move, dammit--quick, the bastard was getting up! I focused on the pain--made it the only thing that was real--for a brief moment of utter whiteness I felt it all: the wet throbbing in my side that echoed my pounding pulse; the burning of my lungs with ever breath; the jagged hurt in my ankle; as long as there was pain I was alive. In the centre of that pain I found my instinct. A bullet slammed into the underside of the bed and tore a jagged fist-sized hole and nearly took out my hip but suddenly I was moving again.

I launched myself away from the bed with my good foot. Something exploded behind me. The broken, heelless shoe hit the floor; bone grinded against bone, ligament snapped and my leg gave out but force carried me forward to the counter even as the flooring behind me erupted. I seized the counter edge and pulled myself over. Fosters dashed forward to catch me on the other side but with the sure, strong arms of an acrobat I reversed my momentum and twisted across the surface as if riding parallel bars. I briefly touched my good foot down, tightly coiled beneath me, to the edge of the countertop--and launched myself through the air, arms reaching for my enemy even as he charged towards me.

A final, wild shot lanced out, clipping my shoulder. I slammed into Fosters--my fist broke his jaw--velocity carried us back and we hit the row of equipment behind. Fosters bore the brunt of the impact. The gun went clattering across the room.

We collapsed to the ground and laid nearly side-by-side for an exhausted, dazed moment. Tried to rise--failed. I felt the blood pouring out my side. Not now. One hand grappled for something to hold and found purchase on a bookshelf and I used it to haul myself upright.

Fosters staggered to his feet. He clutched a heavy length of metal snapped away from an equipment frame broken beneath his weight. His moves were far slower than before; so were mine. The metal bar swept in a low arc, aiming for my bloodied side. I threw up the useless weight of my leg; the metal bar slammed into my shin and splintered bone.

I dropped to the ground. Fosters stumbled forward. The metal bar hammered down. I threw up one desperate arm as a shield, the other scrabbling for purchase, for some kind of weapon. The bar hit my arm and glanced off and the entire limb went numb. He raised the weapon again and brought it down again. Another hit and my forearm broke and my other hand closed about something and with a demoniacal howl I jackknifed forward and drove the impromptu weapon into Fosters’ foot.

He roared with pain and the bar dropped to the floor with a loud clang. My hand released the severed four-inch Jimmy Chou spike, now firmly imbedded in the arch of his foot. Before I could pull him down his hands dug into my hair and yanked me to my feet with such ferociousness that my scalp bled and the hair extensions tore and ripped away.

“You fucking,” his fist pulped my nose, “little,” another punch sealed my eye, “sissy!” he screamed, and with a final hit he sent me flying into the far cabinet. My face shattered glass and surgical implements lacerated my arms and hands. A moment later--was it a moment?--I think I blacked out--Fosters charged across the room, metal bar raised high--I couldn’t move, couldn’t breath, couldn’t see--that same lucky hand closed around something--the metal bar connected with the side of my skull even as I pushed forward, my arm flailing out wildly. . . .

Everything went black.

My eyes snapped open. I was lying on my side on the floor across broken fragments of glass and plastic and in a slowly growing puddle of blood. My eyes reluctantly focused on my hand, lying limply open. Across my palm rested a slender metal instrument that gleamed dully in the light. The tip was stained red. A scalpel.

I heard a faint gurgle. Grudgingly, painfully, I slowly shifted towards the sound. Fosters sat slumped against the wall. Both hands clutched at his throat and wild eyes stared in disbelief. Crimson welled from between his fingers and overflowed and ran down his front.

I dragged myself closer. I stared deep into his eyes and with a great sense of fulfilment, watched him die. He pulled one hand from his throat and grappled futilely for me. I caught his arm by the wrist and yanked him forward until our foreheads nearly touched.

“This sissy just kicked your fucking ass,” I whispered.

Fosters glared at me with venomous hatred until his eyed dimmed, and finally closed, and his body crumpled and slid to the ground, dead.

***

“How is he?”

She closed the door behind her. Sakura displayed no anger as she crossed the room but over the last couple of year I’d learned that Sakura only shared her emotions when it suited her. Her footsteps remained effortlessly silent as she walked as well; even at the age of fourteen I understood that there was something very different, very enigmatic about this woman. What I felt for her was something impossible to put in words; not love, precisely . . . awe, maybe, with all the passion and fear that word suggests.

I was afraid of Sakura, but it wasn’t out of fear that I so desperately wanted to please her.

“He’s on his way to the hospital,” she said. “Thomas’ parents are very angry.”

I nodded. I didn’t apologize, for the simple reason that I wasn’t sorry for what I had done and I wouldn’t insult her by lying.

“How did it happen?”

The other students must have already given their account of what happened. I saw no reason to either exaggerate or diminish my responsibility. “We were sparring. The longer we fought the more intensely he came at me. I saw it in his eyes–he wanted to win, he wanted to hit me . . . he wanted to hurt me. He escalated the conflict and tried an advanced technique.” I tried unsuccessfully to keep the disdain from my voice. “That’s when I finished the fight.”

“You shattered both his elbow and his jaw,” Sakura said. “He’s sixteen and he’ll probably never have full use of that arm again. He was our top tournament fighter and he may never return to the martial arts again.”

Her voice remained flat and unreadable; she gave no hint of how she expected me to respond. Unable to think of anything to say, I simply shrugged.

“Do you not feel any remorse for what you did?”

I considered that for a second. “No.”

Sakura cocked her head to one side and watched me curiously. “Did you feel anything, then?”

I hesitated before answering. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

I shrugged again. “Yeah. No. I felt . . . happy? Yeah, maybe just a bit. I mean, he’s such a jerk, yeah? And so full of himself. But he couldn’t even bring himself to go full out, you know? It was just sad, yeah, real sad watching him work up his courage.” My voice grew stronger as I played the fight back through my mind. “I mean, how pathetic is that? He desperately wanted to win but couldn’t bring himself to really try? To try and hurt me? When he finally came at me with that technique, ha, I saw it coming from miles away. . . .” The surprise in his face when I reversed the attack, the shock, the pain that flooded his eyes and escaped his throat in a howl as I snapped his arm . . . yeah, I enjoyed it. But only briefly.

She watched me for another moment and then nodded.

“Are you angry?” I couldn’t hide the tremor in my voice.

“A little,” she said. She opened a small wooden box on her desk and pulled out a bottle and some cotton swabs. She took my hand and started to tend to my knuckles, which I’d split against the sharp edge of my opponent’s jaw.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not for having hurt the boy but for having disappointed Sakura.

“Don’t be.” She shook her head. “I’m not angry at you.”

“Then why?”

She hesitated. “Because you won’t be able to remain a student of this school any longer.”

My breath caught in my throat. “But--”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Even if you can’t stay here you’ll be fine. It was almost time for you to leave anyway. Another few months and you would have asked of your own choice.” Even as she said it I realized that’s he spoke the truth. I had been building myself up towards asking her to leave. “You’ve been talking about trying to find your mother; settling scores with your old gang; even going back to school.”

“I like it here,” I stated.

“And now it’s time to leave,” she said. “I’ll help you with your next step. You might be able to help me as well, actually.”

“I--”

“Do you know why I took you in?” Sakura asked, distracting me from my fear and hurt at the thought of leaving Sakura.

I shook my head.

“That first afternoon over two years ago. You dropped yourself into a fight you could not win. My students found you and hurt you. As I recall, Thomas was the first one to hit you. During that beating you never gave up. You didn’t cry out and you didn’t beg for them to stop. And in your eyes: such anger, such hatred and desire. You wanted to hurt them back. And you have, haven’t you? Over the years. Every single one of those students you’ve had your revenge on, one way or another, whether they know it or not.”

“But--,” I started to protest, and then shut my mouth. Apparently I wasn’t half as clever as I thought I’d been.

“And Thomas was the last one.”

He was, although I hadn’t set out to hurt him today.

“I promised to make you strong and now you are,” she said.

“You have nothing more to teach me?”

She laughed. “I have more to teach you than you can possibly imagine. And I will continue to teach you, when the opportunity exists, for as long as we both live, though no longer from this school. You understood from the beginning that I did not treat you like the other students; that when they left their lessons exhausted and made their ways home that you had merely completed your warm-up. They train to learn discipline, to stay fit, for confidence or to impress their friends and family.

“Why do you train?”

The answer should have been an easy one. For nearly three years now I had trained with this woman; nearly every single day had started with the aches of the previous night and ended with newfound bruises. To undergo such pain and suffering–though truth be told I’d never thought of it as such–there had to be a clear reason. Yet I couldn’t think of one.

“To make you happy,” I replied, the first answer I could settle upon.

A hint of a smile touched her lips, but she shook her head. “No,” she said. “Though I’m flattered. That’s not why. The reason you have trained so hard these last few years, the reason I took you in, is because you have a gift. Some people believe that we’re all blessed with a single gift–with a skill–with a natural talent for one thing in life. One of the greatest tragedies of human existence is that so few of us ever discover what we are truly skilled at, or even worse . . . to know your talent yet be unable to practice it.

“One glance at you and I saw your gift and understood your potential.”

Her words filled me with pride. “Martial arts?”

“Oh my, no,” Sakura said, and shook her head, that suggestion of a smile growing slightly. “No. Your gift is pain: the acceptance of it, the giving of it. You have an instinct for pain, an intuitive understanding of how best to hurt other people.” She held me gently on either side of my head and kissed me softly on my forehead.

“You’re very special,” Sakura told me, her voice as soft as silk. “And you’re mine.”

***

Goddamn ringing. Can’t a dying man have a few moments of peace?

Reluctant eyes slowly opened. The still form of Agent Fosters lay slumped a few feet away. I must have drifted off. Stupid. My feeble efforts to staunch the flow of blood weren’t enough. I’m no doctor but I’ve been seriously hurt before, and I had a sneaking suspicion my wounds were fatal. I’d lost too much blood, absorbed too much pain. Lying in shock I started to feel a dangerous detachment from my body. Sleeping now meant not waking up.

Again with the fucking ringing! What the hell was it? I forced tired eyes open again and my head lolled drunkenly to one side. My battered face made a grotesque red blur reflected in a broken pane of glass. I felt this sudden crazy urge to fix my makeup--fucking Scooter and his conditioning. An involuntary giggle rose to my lips and burbled there wetly. Bubbles in the blood at my mouth--the first bullet must have punctured a lung while tearing a chunk out of my ribcage. God, I was seriously fucked up . . . worse even than when Kate died.

Maybe I’d meet her in Hell. I deserved this; I really did. I hadn’t been able to save her and it occurred to me, as I felt my heart weakly pump the rest of my existence through the gaping hole in my side, that that simple fact had defined my life ever since. A peaceful acceptance of my end settled over me. I wanted to apologize to Katherine, to many people, but this goddamn noise kept interrupting. . . .

The fact that the insistent noise came from Fosters’ corpse finally penetrated my exhausted brain. Bemused, I half-rolled, half-collapsed onto his body. Clumsily, I peeled away his blood-soaked jacket. My hand fumbled between the folds of the stained shirt beneath in search of the continuing noise. Beneath his shirt I discovered an elaborate tattoo inscribed into his chest, a colourful spread and pattern I’d seen once before. Interesting. My hand closed about a vibrating object and emerged with Fosters’ mobile.

“Hello?” I said. My voice sounded strange to my ears: giddily happy from blood loss, distorted by pain, thickened by stiffness; my jaw didn’t seem to be working quite right.

There was a heavy pause on the other end, and then: “Who the fuck is this?”

I’d recognize that voice anywhere. “Mr Steele, I presume,” I said.

There was another lengthy pause. “David Sanders?”

“You betcha, you son of a bitch.”

“And Mr Fosters?”

I glanced down at Fosters. His chin rested against his chest and if it wasn’t for the darkening apron of blood spreading across his front you’d almost think he’d just nodded off. “Agent Fosters can’t make it to the phone right now,” I said. “On account of my having killed him. Can I take a message?” Saying so much in one go sent a sharp stab of pain up the side of my face.

Jeremiah Steele sounded only slightly annoyed. “Very impressive, David. You don’t mind if I call you David, do you Mr Sanders?”

“Yeah, no prob,” I answered. “And I’ll just call you Cocksucker, yeah?”

Barely restrained anger thrummed beneath the surface of his cool, controlled voice. “You’re digging a darker and deeper hole for yourself, David. Your death will be slow and painful.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” I chuckled, and coughed, and blood spattered across the mobile. “That’s what Fosters said. Let me check.” I roughly nudged Fosters’ body and yelled, “Hey, fuckface! Was my death slow and painful?” The effort flooded my mouth with more blood and I choked.

“You don’t sound very healthy, David.”

“I’ll live,” I said wetly.

And at that moment I decided that, yeah, I was going to live. I didn’t know how; it was easier said then done. My vision was growing dim and everything seemed to come from very far away. Everything but Steele’s voice; it was the only thing keeping me rooted to the here and now. But as we spoke I felt my earlier peace burn away to be replaced by an all-consuming rage. This man had killed me; not Fosters but this bastard sitting in his comfortable chair far, far away, pushing buttons and placing calls . . . this bastard kills me and gets away with it? No!

“For how long, David? Wherever you hide--I can find. Whoever protects you--I can kill.”

Suddenly, more than anything else I wanted revenge; visceral hate filled me to the brim, with such intensity that I suddenly found myself standing, surging to my feet, leaning heavily against the wall and screaming into the phone: “Try it, you piece of shit, you ass-ramming fuck! I’ll slit the throat of every motherfucking cunt you sent after me! And when I’m done with them I’ll come after you! You hear me, Steele? I’m coming after you! Whatever it takes!”

But the effort was too much; I collapsed to the ground, slumping across Fosters’ body, the cellphone cradled in my hand. Darkness overtook me. From very far away I thought I hear the sound of doors opening, of pounding footsteps approaching and my name being called . . . but I barely heard them over the mocking sound of Steele’s laughter filling my ears. And even that faded until all I could hear was the faint beating of my weakening heart, slowing . . . stopping, and then I knew nothing at all and dropped away into the night.

***

The End of Constant in All Other Things, Season One.

To be continued. . .

Notes:

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