Constant in All Other Things

by

Fakeminsk

 

Chapter Three

 

 

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

 

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—with this instinctive skill 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 tall corporate spires. About twelve floors up, actually. 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 we were working her over, too, and she worked us over, and the whole thing was a hell of a lot of fucking 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. And it all came to a head that one night, about two months ago. After hours, top floor, and ready for the taking. Thing is, who was going to get there first? Tom or I? 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 fucking 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 three inches' before? Those three 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 wanting 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 wanted to change all three. 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. But as my confidence grew my mood darkened. I could just fucking picture myself, walking back and forth in that room: that 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 fucking 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've, 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. Fuck, 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 fucking 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 too 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 . . . that would've been fucking weird.

And then, squeezed back into all 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're 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 squashed 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, it 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 . . . and there's just so 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 this any of this crap. Girls just learn it as they grow up, right?"

"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 two 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 that tight-skirted ass of hers, 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 fucking 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 ever 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, 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 fuck. The only thing he wanted right then was Tammy and that wet little spot between her thighs. And 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'd 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. Major butterflies going on in my belly, 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 tell 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 Agent K-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'm a quick waker. I wake up really quick, I really do. Nothing drives me up the wall like someone who takes an hour of moaning 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 kinda 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. 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.

"Don't 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 company, 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 some serious 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. Anyone check this place out after we leave, 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.' Fucking 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 like that. 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 fucking 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 mostly 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're safe at the clinic, we'll begin your vocal coaching. In the meantime . . . try and mimic a girl you know, a girlfriend or something. And whatever you do, don't 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 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." Fuck, I didn't sound angry, just petulant.

"And don't worry, dear. Like I said, in four or five 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 three 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 will start 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 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 touch-down of my shoe, 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 flapping around 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 fucking 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.

She 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 small 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 didn't like the fear I saw there, nor the disgust. It took all my willpower to keep my hand from shaking as I applied a quick stroke up lipstick, 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. "Fuck!" The Civic's roof wobbled from the impact. One of those fucking bracelets snapped and went spinning off into the back seat.

"Now you're 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? Heh, yeah, I guess so."

"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 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.

 

To be continued. . .

  

  

  

*********************************************
© 2006 by Bob. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.