Constant in All Other Things

by

Fakeminsk

 

Chapter Four

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You going to lose him?" I asked.

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

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

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

I gave a low whistle.

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

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

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

"Sounds great, Mom!"

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gave a tentative smile. "That sounds, ah, horrible."

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

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

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

He looked at her curiously. "Ball-breaker?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, Tim." He stuck his hand out.

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

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

Cindy gave him a sad look over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Tim. I . . . can't."

Tim looked away. "Nah, I understand. . . ."

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

"Yeah, moms," he said ruefully, and smiled.

"See you around, Tim."

"Bye Cindy."

 

 

My head felt like it was going to explode.

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

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

Or rather, Cindy had.

"Did you get us a room, dear?"

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

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

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

"David! What the hell are you doing?"

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

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

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

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

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

I didn't need a second invitation. I cracked open the bottle—Jack Daniels, God, this woman understood exactly what booze each part of this relocation required—and she brought over two cheap mugs from the bathroom. She fought back a few chuckles as I grimly poured us each a stiff drink.

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

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

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

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

I really hated her sometimes. "Fuck you, K." I refilled our cups.

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

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

"Ah. I see."

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

K averted her eyes with only the slightest of smiles. "Then why don't you tell me?"

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

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

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

"I don't want to dress up and act like a chick, K!"

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

"That's easy for you to say, K."

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

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

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

"It's a big deal to me, okay?"

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

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

"David, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"I thought your damn federal profile covered everything."

"No, not everything," K answered.

"Fine then. Ask away."

"Have you ever kissed another man before?"

I slowly sank down onto the bed. "Yeah," I admitted. "How'd you know?"

"It was a hunch, based on your reaction."
I looked at her quizzically. "Really? Why?"

"Tell me, this previous kiss . . . were you young when it happened?"

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

"Yeah. About fourteen. It was my first kiss."

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

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

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

"I kissed a fucking guy, K!"

"It's common in many cultures for men to show such levels of intimacy."

"Yeah? Well, not in mine."

"Did you enjoy kissing that boy?"

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

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

I eyed her warily. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

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

"Just fucking say it, K!"

"Could it be, Mr Sanders, that you are in some kind of denial?"

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

K didn't seem amused. "I think there is a possibility you have some repressed homosexual tendencies, yes."

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

"Mr Sanders, please."

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

She didn't seem much impressed by my display. "I think there is a possibility, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

"So, you really want to know why I was so angry, K?"

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

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

"Then why did that kiss make you so angry?" K asked.

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

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

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

"Memory?" Her voice was surprisingly soft.

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

"I'm sorry, David. AIDS?"

"Nah. Cancer. The idiot smoked two packs a day."

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

 

 

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

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

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

Halfway through dinner my throat tingled and my voice broke, similar to passing through a second puberty. Fifteen minutes later I sounded like a man again. For the first few minutes my own voice sounded strange to my ears, which was a little disconcerting. It was getting late and exhaustion was catching up to me, but K wasn't quite done yet. She pulled out a suitcase and opened it. It was full of clothes.

"What's this?" I asked, apprehensively lifting up something frilly and bright.

"Your past," K answered.

Ten minutes later I was back in full makeup, and for the next hour I had a sudden, unexpected window into the life of a model. Seriously. K had me swap in and out of outfits—and let's just say some of those outfits had me feeling pretty dodgy in the stomach again, though I never kept them on long enough to really absorb how fucking weird it all was—and she took a whole bunch of photos of me with this swanky digital camera she had. She was pretty damn exacting in some of the poses too: "arm around the shoulder," she said, drawing an invisible man in the air; "crouching down, petting a dog," she said, gesturing to where the dog would be and how big it was. Some of the shots were downright weird . . . or a little more suggestive than I was entirely comfortable with.

I asked her what was going on.

"A girl needs memories, Cindy," K answered. She was uploading the photos as she took them via some kind of wireless link. "With a little help from the boys back at the lab, there should be whole set of memories ready for you by the time we reach the clinic. And more importantly, ID." K finished off with a whole series of photos of my naked body from nearly every angle.

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

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

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

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

K turned off the lights. "Goodnight, Cindy."

"Goodnight, Mom."

Sweet dreams, right?

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

"Cindy?" The whispered voice sounded familiar. Tim?

I glanced back at K. "It's the boy from the office," I said in a low voice.

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

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

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

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

"It's not that," he interrupted me, his voice full of urgency. "There's some cops asking questions about you!"

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

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

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

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

I closed and locked the door behind him. Shit.

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

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

She shoved me into the shower.

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you okay?" she asked in a soft voice.

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

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

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

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

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

They certainly didn't feel fine. In fact, what I could feel down there felt fucking weird and wrong. I reached down with one tentative hand but K held me back at the wrist. "No time, Cindy," she said, with a tight little smile. She pulled several articles of clothing from the suitcase.

"Let's get you ready for the big show."

 

 

The knocking on the door came loud and insistent.

Cindy secured the chain before daring to open the door. "Y . . . yes?" Peeking through the crack she saw two very determined, very official-looking men standing impatiently outside. "Can I help you?"

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

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

Looking a little embarrassed himself, the man held out his badge. "I'm sorry miss, but I really must insist."

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

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

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

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

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

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

The men seemed to have trouble knowing where to settle their eyes. "The motel office has a Miss Cindy Long registered in room four, along with Wendy Jones. Mother and daughter, apparently."

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

The man looked at her inquisitively.

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

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

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

"Cindy?"

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

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

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Miss," the man said.

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

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

"Really?" Her lips split in a hesitant smile. "That's a relief."

The second man spoke up for the first time. "While we're here. . . ." he suggested. By the tone of his voice he didn't sound in any hurry to leave. His eyes kept slowly sliding over the contours of her body before settling over the shadowy area between her pale thighs.

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

She carefully examined it, absently chewing on her hair tip. "Is she dangerous?"

The man smiled. "Not to us."

"I'm sure," Cindy answered. She winked. "You definitely look like you can take care of yourself."

The door to the toilet cracked open. "Hey, Cindy!" called out a deep, baritone voice. "You comin' or what?"

"Maybe we'll just leave you to it," the man whispered, winking back. "Have fun."

Beneath her dramatic makeup Cindy blushed a fiery red.

The two men stepped out of the room. The door locked behind them. She leaned against the shut door, closed her eyes and released an exhausted sigh. When I opened my eyes I knew what I had to do.

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

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

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

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

She raised one eyebrow inquisitively. "David?"

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

 

To be continued. . . .

 

Author's Notes: Many thanks for the all the encouraging and critical comments thus far. They're a real motivator in writing this piece of fiction. This story represents many firsts for me: my first try at a TG-themed story; a first attempt at first-person narrative; and my first try at writing a completely original story without borrowing from an established author's characters or setting. I hope you enjoy!

  

  

  

*********************************************
© 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.