Constant in All Other Things

by

Fakeminsk

 

Chapter Two

 

 

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

 

Now, I haven't exactly led a sheltered life. I've had more than my fair share of violence and other stuff. Lots of weird stuff in my youth, I'm telling you. But I didn't actually figure out that some guys prefer other guys until I was sixteen or seventeen. Hey, I'm pretty clued in now. I mean, it's not like I've got trouble finding company for the weekend, if you know what I mean. But I had a bit of a late start, on account of my fucked-up childhood. So the first time a boy hit on me, well . . . 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 and I knew I could trust him, and we worked together and he helped me finish the job. He was a good friend. But 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. Let's just say I was surprised. I hadn't even really figured out girls yet. 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. Even now, it 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 a bit better. I eventually figured out that there were other people like Ken out there, and that it wasn't a bit deal. Some guys like guys. Some guys like to wear frilly clothes and sexy 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 falls apart.

I don't pretend to understand it. I like girls. 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!" Like, the thought of sucking on a man's dick makes me sick; that's what girls do, and they do it well. Sometimes. They've got the body for it, the lips and hair and all, you know?

But don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those fucking homophobes. I've got no problem admitting Brad Pitt'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. Except for the mind games, maybe. Girls are fucked in the head.

So even though I don't understand it, I 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 anything I've ever wanted to do myself.

So when K pushed that folder over to me and I saw a chick's name there . . . I was a little taken aback.

"Uh, K?" I said. "This is a chick's name."

K nodded. She didn't seem apologetic or bashful or anything. Professional, that's K. And about as empathic as a cantaloupe. "Yes, it is."

As groggy as I was, I was pretty sure of one thing. "K, I'm not a chick."

"No, you're not," she said. "This is an identity created for another subject. However, I have it on hand and, in this situation, I believe it to be your best chance to reach a safe hospital alive."

I shook my head. Almost knocked myself out again. "But I don't wanna be a chick."

"Of course you don't," she said. I swear, she almost seemed to be smiling. "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 turned 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're short," she said. Yeah, thanks for pointing that out. Bitch. "You're slender and features that are considered beautiful on a man are often also beautiful on a woman. With enough work, 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. Steel 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.

Maybe it was the multiple bullet wounds, maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was just K herself, but she was kinda making 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 any chance I'd have would be all over. I still had one important argument to make, though.

"But I don't wanna 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. My instincts told me this was nonsense, 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 it seemed 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're ready."

I wasn't about to argue with her. I'm tough, sure, but part of that is knowing when you've got 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, the fact that when I woke up I'd be wearing a skirt or something like that. Yeah, real nightmare-type stuff. Instead, I had one of those dreams that's more like a playback of recent events rather than the random firing of neurons and all that shit.

I dreamed—I remembered—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 taught. 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 that damned 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. But 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 kinda 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. I won. I think. 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 I was going to like this guy. 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 always 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.

That's where the memory-dream ended: with Jeremy-fucking-psycho-Steel shooting that Italian dude's head and it exploding like an overripe melon, splattering all over the room. I'd seen worse. Not much, but it wasn't a first. But Tom didn't take it too well. And that's the last thing I saw in my dream: Tom's mouth, opened wide in a silent scream.

K was sitting next to my bed. That kinda freaked me out. How long had she been there? She must've woken me up when she sat down. I hope I wasn't crying out or anything in my sleep. That happens sometimes, and it's really embarrassing when I've got chicks over. Most girls like their guys tough and old-school-like; they don't want pansies that scream or cry in their sleep. But what can I say? Sometimes I've got bad dreams.

"Are you awake?" K asked. What a woman. Yeah, I was awake. She'd probably poked me with a stick or something. "Then let us begin."

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. 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 my 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 for a second, 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.

"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. 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, 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. Now I was about to slip a dress on and pretend I was a girl. Yeah, fucking Jeremy Steel had better get put away for this. I wondered if Tom was going 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, the kind you can bring into the shower and not worry if it gets wet. There was a bunch of shower products in there. They looked 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 the 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 a head wound. 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 myself 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 bathroom leading off of it. 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. I think I gained a sudden respect for every single girl I'd ever dated after that. 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 were another matter. After much craning and stretching and blind strokes with the razor I was pretty sure I was 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 was done.

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 normally take these really quick showers. 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 I suddenly felt like my ass was almost hanging out. That wasn't cool.

"Good." K suddenly sounded all professional again, dropping the shyness. "Begin with the articles on the bed, please." And saying that, 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 of the secretaries and most woman 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.

Not much to say about that, though. Alice had been hot and willing and easily impressed by my slick clothes and good job and easy money. Fuck, girls usually are. I love girls. And I've known enough women who can seriously kick my ass to not respect them. Like this one woman I know, Sakura. Amazing woman. 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. Which isn't to put myself down. I'm a damn good catch. But I wouldn't chase after myself if I wasn't myself. There's 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 Linda chick, she really surprised me. 'Luminous' is this cool bar not far from the office, trendy without being too phoney, even if most of the people who went there were right bastards. Like me, I guess. That's where I picked up Linda. 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'd been the last one, nearly two months ago. 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 Linda, because I encountered my first problem right then.

"Hey, K?" I called out. "I've, uh, got a small 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."

What can I say? I'm a big boy. I'm not a giant boy, I'm no Ron Jeremy with a twelve-inch sausage. But I'm certainly big enough to get the job done, and to get it done well. I take it all pretty 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. Usually. I can be selfish. Sometimes.

That being said, it wouldn't be a problem even squeezed into those undies. Truth be told, I'm one of those guys whose penis actually seems quite small until I get going. 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, I was reacting to the clothes. 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 Linda, 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 all 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 eight inches of cock bursting out the leg hole. "You, ah, think you can help me with this?" I said, and flashed her my most winning smile.

"And what do you expect me to do about it?" And as she said that she stepped into the room and sauntered closer, and I'll be damned if it didn't seem like she was coming on to me. Which was easy to assume, 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 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 faint, 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, don't you 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't 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 called after her. She really wasn't. 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 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. And it did help. Five minutes later I stepped out of the toilet, drying my hands and still flushed with the pleasure, thinking that that had to have been one of the best wanks I'd ever enjoyed.

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 was used to, but nothing too bad. Very distracting, though. 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 and pulled the whole thing up over the panties.

Know what? My legs looked damn fine in those damn pantyhose. Denuded and encased in that sheer, inky fabric, the sharper definition lines of my legs were smoothed and softened and somehow actually looked 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 nyloned 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'm 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'm afraid, Cindy, that you really will have to watch your tongue. Numerous linguistic studies have shown noticeable and consistent 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 seeming 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 as I made myself comfortable.

"This is your—," she started, glancing back, and then stopped. "Cindy, really, some modesty please."

"Oh, 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.

"Oh, 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. Real 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 isn't 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 you 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 don't think I'd 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'm 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 front of this sexy woman wearing these fucking clothes. 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 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'd 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 swab 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. For the first ten seconds or so. Then it began to tingle. And then—holy motherfucking arseholes!—it started to burn, like a thousand hot-needles being slowly pushed 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 fucking hurts!"

"Yes, one of the reasons it hasn't been approved by the FDA yet. 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 seem okay." 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 under my finger. 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, the you can see goosebumps rising!"

This was too much. I felt off-balance. I had fucking tits now, real fucking 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."

Fucking 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. I love that, 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 sick to the stomach again.

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 Steel 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 move with the gesture. Fucking things. I briefly wondered if I'd ever get used to their presence, before realizing that I didn't want to ever get used to having breasts—I didn't fucking 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 lay back 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 fucking 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 fucking button fly done up I felt exhausted. But I had to admit, 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 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're 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 about two or three inches of heel or something, but hell, it was more than enough for me, and though the heel wasn't a proper spike it still seemed 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 those fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking chance of survival? How the hell could I run in this fucking setup? Fight? 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. A little.

"Mr. Sanders, if it helps, just try to think of this as getting ready for a Halloween party. Or 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, too. 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, 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 shit, it's nothing I've wanted to do before, but if it keeps me alive then… yeah, wearing a skirt (or very tight jeans) don'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 with 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. Steel'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 don't know how to fight because you don't 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. Because 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 who she planned Cindy to be, 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're 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.

And finally, the whole damn thing 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 kinda 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. From the waist down, anyway. 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, maybe; 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.

  

  

  

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