Constant In All Other Things - Season One free porn video

Constant in All Other Things by Fakeminsk ([email protected]) Season One Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love: Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; Let every eye negotiate for itself And trust no agent -Much Ado About Nothing I stand with the gun pointed at Tom's head. The weight of the pistol feels comfortable in my grip. A few weeks ago I would've sworn to having never seen a handgun before outside of a movie or the TV. The thought of holding one, let alone firing it, would have left me in terrified hysterics. Now the ugly thing nestles easily in my grip. I've once again grown used to the feel of the cold metal, the weight and the heft of the weapon. I've grown used to a lot of new things in the last two year: the flash of colour on my painted nails curled around the pistol's grip, the sweep of long blonde hair at the edge of my vision, and the taste of lipstick on my lips. The precarious balance and high arch of 4-inch stilettos is comfortable now. I've even gotten used to my breasts, their feel and weight and heft--to the way they move and the pretty bra that cups them. But that empty feeling between my legs? Not that... that I will never get used to. The bastard responsible now sits tied to a chair, face bloodied and back bowed. I stand here with a gun pointed at his head. There is a simple beauty to the image we present. My slender bared shoulder and dainty outstretched arm, with its delicate silver bracelet that flashes in the flickering half-light of the dirty little room, trembles only slightly with indecision. There are a few feet of empty space, and then Tom's battered face, eyes squeezed shut in terror. Not for the first time I admire the elegance that reveals itself in the ugliness of violence. After all I've endured: revenge. The moment he opens his eyes I'll shoot. I want to see the look in my friend's eyes one last time. "Oh, God. Please... don't do this." His voice pleads. The bastard keeps his eyes squeezed shut. "I'm so--it doesn't--I didn't--it doesn't have to be this way. I'm so sorry." I don't answer. The gun feels heavy. I'm a lot weaker than I used to be. "Cindy," he says. "Please." "My name's not Cindy," I hiss. He takes a deep, shaky breath. "David," he says. "Say it again." I want to shout but my voice comes out hardly louder than a whisper. "Open your eyes." "David," he repeats, louder. "Look at me!" He opens his eyes. He looks straight into me. His eyes are blue but so clear they seem nearly transparent. They are the most attractive feature of a very attractive man. A woman could easily lose herself in those gentle depths. I did. "I'm so sorry," he says. But I am not a woman. I squeeze the trigger. *** "You did the right thing," Agent K said. Her grip on my shoulder was strong and she looked straight into me. "Trust me." "Yeah, sure," I said. Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one heading out in front of a courtroom full of people, in front of Jeremiah fucking Steele, and accusing him of murder. This guy wasn't some backstreet thug who'd knocked over a liquor store. He was one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, a pharmaceutical magnate and all-around nasty guy. Rumours had him involved in all kinds of stuff. Shady stuff, you know? Don't get me wrong. I don't scare easily. Growing up I got involved in some pretty heavy shit, the kind of stuff you don't tell nobody about. I'm not particularly proud of my past. I'm not ashamed of it either. But if people knew some of the things I've done? Yeah, I wouldn't even have the one or two friends I do. But for all the harrowing shit I've been through over the years, even I know better than to mess with a mean sonuvabitch like Jeremiah Steele. Squealing on him was asking for a whole world of pain and retribution. So Agent K didn't need to tell me I was doing the right thing. I knew full well what I getting myself into, and I had my own goddamn reasons for doing it. See, I'm a mean sonuvabitch myself. I really am. I'm not a nice guy. Now, being an asshole has done me really well in the corporate world. It's where I've found myself working over the last few years. It's a whole different world than when I was a kid, running with gangs and all that shit. But for all that, it's not all that friendly, this corporate existence of mine. Oh sure, there's swanky suits and air-conditioned hallways and some mighty fine ass walking through the office, often ready for a quick tumble if you drop 'em the right line... but there's also a lot of self-serving pricks and political shit going on. I haven't figured out if I love or hate this new existence yet. I mean, seriously, I thought I was a jerk, but then I started working at NeoPharm and.... wow. Some of these guys? They make even me feel good about myself. And yeah, I said NeoPharm. You buy their products. It's a subsidiary of this-and-that and part of Jeremiah fucking Steele's corporate empire. I didn't know who I was really working for when I got the job, of course. I wouldn't have taken it if I'd known that scumbag was in charge. Like I said, I'm an asshole... but even I've got my limits. Some things I just won't do. I'd like to think I've got a, you know, moral code or something, although that makes it sound far grander than what it is. It's probably more trouble than it's worth. Truth be told, it's also a bit shaky, this moral code of mine. It's not like I've ever sat down and thought it through or made a book of it. Trust me, I'm not that clever. It's not the bloody Hagakure or anything like that. I'm no damned samurai. But I know what I think is right, and what I think is wrong, and always do what I think is right, and avoid what I think is wrong. Always. Well, almost always. So for instance, I'll never backstab a friend. Ever. Way I see it, that's the worst thing a man can do. When you get down to it, there ain't much I wouldn't do for a friend. A real friend, that is. It's not like I've got that many friends, you know? You've got to watch out for the ones you've got. And so, yeah, I didn't need this Agent K telling me I was doing the right thing. I mean, I saw Jeremiah fucking Steels blow some guy's head off, right there on the top floor of where I work. Did I same 'some guy'? Ha! Georgio Antazzi wasn't just some guy, any more than Katherine was that girl I 'liked'. Fuck. And yeah, I said Antazzi--that guy, the son of the mob boss. The apple of his eye, the High Street golden boy, the one who'd done good. All kinds of implications there, you know? Mob connections, murder, some of the scintillating dialogue overheard between the two before Georgio became a red smear across the floor, and of course, what they were up to before Tom and I stumbled into the room.... Tom? He's my best friend. I've known him for a couple of years now, ever since I started at NeoPharm and dedicated myself to living all, you know, normal-like and shit. Yeah, Tom was there as well when Steele offed Georgio. He shouldn't have been, of course. It was my fault. More or less. That's not true. It was entirely my fault. I hoped I wouldn't have to explain that as well. It's not like Tom and I were supposed to be hanging around the top floor, yeah? That's why he's also a witness. Between our two testimonies, Agent K figures there'll be enough on Steele to take him down, and hard, especially with all the extra inquiries that'll be launched into his shady dealings. If that doesn't get him, well, the backlash he'll suffer from his power-mongering allies and enemies should do him in, she figures. K seems to have some kind of personal grudge against that bastard Steele. So, yeah, chance to take down the bad guy? Of course I'm going to do it. Even if only half the rumours are true, the guy had it coming. It's the right thing to do. Not heroic, not brave--just the right thing. Problem is, doing the right thing gets you killed. Pissing off a guy like Jeremiah Steele gets you worse than killed. I'm lucky that way, I guess. I don't have any family to worry about. The few really good friends I have I haven't seen in years, and they can take care of themselves. I'll even pity the dumbass that goes after them. Like I said, I wouldn't backstab my friends, not even for something this important. I definitely wouldn't let some stupid moral code--as shaky as it is--put them in danger if I didn't think they could handle themselves. As for myself--well, normally I wouldn't be too worried. I haven't had to in years but I can make myself disappear if necessary. It's one of the few benefits of a messed up childhood: you learn to take care of yourself. This is different, though. This is... you know, Steele. I've rubbed shoulders with the powerful before, but nobody in this guy's league. The dude's seriously dangerous. Vengeful. Even if only half the rumours are true, you don't get away from this guy. Unfortunately, rumours are usually only half the real story. In my experience, it's the really scary stuff that people don't know about. But hell. I'm a man, dammit, and a man's gotta do--well, you know. This Agent K woman's promised me some witness protection-style help. I've got my doubts, but who knows? Maybe they can hide me somehow really good. Otherwise, I'm a dead man. "You ready?" K asked. I took a deep breath and checked myself over in the mirror. "Yeah." *** It went well. Of course it went well. I'm a good-looking guy. No, seriously, I am--and I don't mean that in a conceited way. But hey, good-looking people get treated better, everyone knows that. Ask that sexy chick flaunting it when she steps into a store. Who d'ya think gets better service, her or the little mousy one scurrying along behind her? It's not as extreme for guys, but yeah, I get listened to and treated well, and it's not fucking fair but there you have it. The only thing that works against me is my height. I'm only five-foot-five-and-a-half, though I drop the half because it's pathetic to hang on to that extra bit of height. So what if I'm a bit short for a guy? I couldn't care less. Seriously. I don't. Listen, if some girl thinks I'm too short to date then fuck her. Bitch. It's her loss. Otherwise I do well. Better than well, to be honest. I'm not too big into the fashion thing but keep myself looking good, know where to shop and wear nice clothes and I've got just a touch of that long-haired bad-boy thing going on, left-over from my teen years, I guess. I keep my face smooth, though truth is the best I can manage is some rough stubble after a week or so--I call that my 'artistic' look. Swap the clothes and it's also my rugged look. I've got green eyes girls seem to love, flecked with grey. I look younger than I am, and that boyish- charm thing can manage wonders, sometimes. Even in the corporate boardroom, especially if it's some chick CEO I'm trying to impress. Another thing the girls love is the body. I keep myself in shape. Now there's an understatement! I keep myself in really good shape. Some might call it obsessive. I guess some habits just die hard. Chicks love the abs of steel. Couple that with money and, yeah, I do pretty damn well at the clubs on a Friday night. I'm no millionaire, but I'm better than just well-off. Chicks, they also love everything that a man with cash represents. It helps that I'm a smooth talker when I've got to be. I don't like doing it too often, because it feels very phoney to me, but it's a necessary skill when clinching a marketing deal or convincing some girl to come back for the night. So working that court over was easy. I didn't lie, of course, but there are ways of persuading people of your point of view, especially once you've figured out who you're dealing with. I'm pretty good at that, sussing out what people want and then giving them the details they expect. I had the courtroom hanging on every detail as I explained the how and the why of Tom and my race to the top of the office tower, and what we saw while hiding in that executive secretary's office. Perhaps I overdid it. I got carried away by my own eloquence. It wasn't the conversation I overheard, or even the fight or the whole gun-to- head thing that set Jeremiah off. The man in question took that very well. He sat behind his table, towering head-and-shoulders over his team of lawyers, and seemed highly amused by the proceedings. The man should've been nervous as hell but hid it well behind this fucking smirk the whole time. I think that's what got me. That goddamn smirk. I hate arrogance. I really do. It pissed me off so much I added in some details that, strictly speaking, were true but very much unnecessary. Steele kind of lost it when I got to those sketchy bits. Hard to make out exactly what he said, what with all the ranting and flying spittle, but I'm pretty sure I heard: "You're a fucking dead man, Sanders!" and "I'll have your goddamn balls on a plate!" and more threats of that sort. Shouting in front of everybody, rushing the witness stand... it took half-a-dozen men to hold him back from throttling me. Well, from trying, that is. I don't throttle easily. Saying that--the man's not small. Over six feet tall and all muscle, the guy reached the witness stand, bowling his way through the security and swearing the whole way, before they managed to pull him back. They rushed me out of the courtroom into a small side room. Agent K was waiting for me. "We should get you out of here," she said. K's damn sexy--in that severe, short-haired, lesbian kind of way--but not big on small talk. "Hey, I'm feeling okay," I said. "Thanks. Nice crowd, good security. So yeah, I'm feeling pretty good about myself." "Please try to focus, Mr Sanders," K said. "You know what kind of man you are dealing with. If he has threatened to kill you, you can be sure he intends to follow through. Mr Steele is a very vengeful man. More importantly, he can not afford to look weak in front of neither his allies nor his enemies. Especially considering the nature of your accusations." She hesitated for a moment. "Were they true?" "Yup," I said. "Every word." "Why did you include them?" "Dunno. The bastard was just pissing me off." K sighed. "You embarrassed a very powerful man in front of many very powerful people, Mr. Sanders. Simply testifying was enough to put you in a very precarious position, but now... I fear Mr. Steele will stop at nothing to make an example of you. Even if made in the heat of the moment, he has no choice but to stick by his words. That was not just a threat; it was a death warrant." She's not so good at inspiring confidence, this woman. I nodded. "So what do we do?" "First? We get you out of here. Then we relocate you, give you a new identity, and make you disappear. And quickly, before Mr. Steels has time to declare open season on you." "Then let's get started." Without another word she walked over to a corner of the room and bent down for a large duffel bag. I enjoyed the view as K's tight skirt strained against the rounded firmness of her ass. Hey, like I said, she was a real looker, even if she went in for that real severe look, what with the past-the-knees skirt and mannish jacket and clunky heels. Tall and slender, she gave an impression of tightly-coiled strength, somehow, and at a glance you knew better than to fuck with her. She was pale, with a long face and thin lips that seemed perpetually set in an expression of mild disdain. Her hair barely reached her shoulders but somehow softened her look, an unexpectedly feminine touch on a woman who seemed eager to shed the outward trappings of her gender. "Enjoying the view?" she asked dryly. Sharp eyes, this woman. We'd only met a few times, in arranging for my court appearance and in keeping me safe and hidden before the trial. There's something very off-putting about her, to be honest. Like she knows more than she's letting on. The fact that she didn't respond to my charms didn't help either. That's her name, by the way, as far as I know. K. It has to stand for something but I'll be damned if I know. I had this feeling that she didn't particularly like me. At the same time I honestly felt like I could trust her, which is saying something. I'm not a very trusting person. You could say I've got commitment issues. "So how do I get outta here alive?" "With this." She dropped the bag on the table. It looked heavy but she moved it without much effort. She zipped it open, reached in, and pulled out.... "A dress?" It was a sexy little number, red and tight. "What the fuck, you're gonna disguise me as a chick?" She looked at me oddly. "That would be idiotic." She reached deeper into her bag and hauled out a heavy vest, the kind with Kevlar in it. "I think this would prove more helpful, would you not agree?" she said, handing it to me. "Unless you had your mind set on the dress, of course. I have some darling heels in here that match." "Very funny," I said. I slipped on the vest, its weight reassuring. "There is a car waiting nearby. When I give the signal they will come around the side of the courthouse. We leave by a side entrance. You should be exposed for no longer than thirty seconds. Other agents, dressed similar to you, will leave by alternate exits simultaneously, hopefully confusing anyone keeping watch. Once we reach the car it will carry us to a safe location where we can begin to process your relocation and new identity." I nodded. She handed me a heavy green sweater from her bag. I pulled it on over the vest. It was a bulky Gap thing--nondescript, and it hid the vest. I wondered if Tom went through something similar. He was a tough guy, but he didn't have my... background. I'm sure that I would have been shitting myself if I hadn't been through some rough times as a kid. I wondered where Tom was right now. He was due to appear in court after me. I had no idea how the case against Steele was doing--it's not easy to get news while in hiding, especially when the trial is behind closed doors. Hopefully fucking Steele wouldn't be as pissed off with Tom as he was with me. No reason why he should be; Tom didn't see as much as I did. Standing there just before K hauled me out of that room, with a higher- than-normal chance that I was about to get gunned down like some clay pigeon, I think what bothered me the most was that I'd probably never see Tom again. K was going on about procedures and I only listened with half an ear. I was thinking about my friend. Somehow I knew the guy was okay. He was a good guy. But with this relocation thing, chances are we'd never meet each other again. Man, I hate losing friends. It wasn't the first time, you know? But it still sucks every time. "Are you ready?" K was looking at me expectantly. Even in civilian clothes she looked like a fucking federal agent, if you ask me. What's the point of me putting on this shitty sweater if I'm hanging around with someone who just screams "secret agent"? I took a deep breath. Calmed the jitters in my stomach. Focused. Nodded. She made the call. Pulled me forward. We walked quickly through the back corridors of the courthouse, our footsteps echoing through the narrow halls. Bland white walls and flickering fluorescent lighting. Nondescript faces flowing past. The sudden pungent smell of gasoline. A solid metal door, red and pitted and cool to the touch. Another deep breath and I felt coiled like a spring. Instincts long forgotten and forcefully buried awake began to awaken. God, I was loving this. I hadn't felt this alive in years. We pushed through the door. The first bullet hit before I managed a single step. *** "Mr. Sanders?" The voice reached me through layers of pain. The darkness slowly receded. I took a shaky breath. Those vests are great at stopping bullets, but not so great at stopping the bruising. I wasn't dead, but the way I felt nearly left me wishing I was. I knew when I looked down my chest would be a Rorschach test of black and blue. I opened my eyes. K was watching me closely. She didn't look all that sympathetic, but the moment she saw I was awake she reached out of my line of sight and brought back a glass of water. "Can you sit up?" she asked. Yeah, wonderful bedside manner, a real Nightingale, that K. Pain flared across my chest as I struggled to sit. Just like I expected: one massive bruise. My whole chest and upper abdomen was a purple and yellowed mess. The bastard who shot me must've been close. K placed some pillows behind my back to prop me up. My vision swam momentarily and my head throbbed with the effort. I reached up and found a sticky spot near my temple. "These will help with the pain," she said and for a moment, as she handed me the glass of water and two white tablets, she actually looked worried. Who knew the frosty secret agent could actually show concern for my well-being? I popped back the pills and the glass of water. "You're tougher than I imagined, Mr. Sanders," she continued, that moment of sympathy apparently gone. "The assassin was standing right outside the door when you stepped through. He fired two shots that both caught you right over your heart. The impact sent you back into the doorway. Your head connected with the edge of the doorframe. A third bullet caught you in the side and the last one in the back, before the assassin was dealt with." It was hard to focus on what K was saying. My vision swam for a bit. I must've hit that doorframe pretty damn hard to mess me up like this. Like I said, I'm in good shape and I'm pretty tough. I've taken some harsh beatings in the past. Then again, four bullets at point-blank range? I was lucky to be alive. Vests aren't the best thing in the world from the side. After hitting the door I must've spun as I tumbled to the ground, spreading the second double-tap between my side and back. No wonder each breath was like sucking on a hot coal. K handed me another glass of water that I eagerly drained. Shaking my head and breathing deeply helped clear my head a bit, and finally my vision stopped swimming and the buzzing in my ears eased somewhat. There was still a faint worrying hum in the back of my mind, similar to a mild concussion but a bit different somehow. Mostly I just felt really tired. Funny how four bullets to the midriff can knock the wind out a person. K pulled up a chair and sat next to me. She looked the same as before: same clothes, minimal makeup, angular features pinched into an expression of severity. Too bad, really: she'd be damn fine if she tried a little harder. I looked around and saw that I was propped up in a dirty single bed in a small, plain room with peeling and yellowed wallpaper. Probably some kind of safe house or something. Still, the question had to be asked. "Where the hell am I?" "I pulled you into the car and we managed to escape before any more of Mr Steele's agents could open fire. We took a very indirect route; it is unlikely that we were followed to this location. However, it would be unwise to stay here for any length of time." "Yeah, great." Sunlight beamed in through the open door leading into the room. I must've been out for awhile. I gently probed my chest--it felt a bit like tenderized beef. I should've hurt more, but those pills of K's worked fast and seemed to be keeping the pain at bay. The cloudiness in my head wasn't retreating, though, and that had me a little worried. "K? I'm not feeling so hot." This one time at work I got really sick. It was some kind of crazy flu that landed all kinds of people from the office in the hospital. Like, over 40 Celcius temperature kind of sick, with swimming vision and that floating, detached kind of feeling. But I didn't tell nobody. There was work to do and an important presentation to make to a client, and I got through it. Afterwards I passed out for something like 48 hours straight. When I got back to work I'd earned my first promotion and suddenly had a secretary and all that jazz. She was a real hottie, too. I think that's when I met Tom, and the whole friendly rivalry thing started. K nodded. "I see." She stared me straight in the eyes. It was a bit eerie, really. When you think about it, people almost never stare you straight in the eyes. It's a challenge, in a way. Or a sign of intimacy. I'd be damned if I'd look away, but it actually made me a bit nervous, the way she looked at me. She looked a little hungry. Or angry. "Mr. Sanders, I want you to understand that I will do everything I can do to keep you alive." nodded. I already knew that. Like I said, I'm a good judge of character. Usually. I know who my friends are, as few as they are. I know who's a proper asshole and who's likely to screw me over and when someone's a phoney and a liar, usually within a few minutes of meeting someone. And I know who I can trust. "And Mr. Sanders? I need you to trust me." I'm not a trusting person. Tough childhood. I've been screwed over far too often in the past. But staring K straight in the eyes as I lay battered and bruised in that bed, my head all foggy and buzzing-- somehow, it renewed my belief that I could trust her. "This is just a temporary safe house," she said. "To call the medical facilities here 'limited' would be generous. Those shots you took were at very close range. Even with the vest, I'm concerned for your well- being. Especially with the bullet to your side." "Yeah, and?" "You may need professional medical assistance. But I fear that to bring you to a nearby hospital would place your life at greater risk." "Yeah, and?" K gave me a long look. I stared back at her blearily. "I have a proposition for you," she said. She'd done a pretty good job of getting me to the hearing alive and out of the courthouse--even considering I'd been shot four times. I mean, this was fucking Jeremiah Steele; I couldn't help but wonder how many other agents turned down the assignment because they were afraid of the guy. But not K. I wouldn't say I trusted her implicitly, but even with the whole dyke thing going on she seemed to actually have a clue, compared to most other authority figures I'd met. Besides, who said shit like "I have a proposition for you," anymore? People just don't talk that way. But K did. I think I liked her. "Yeah? What is it?" I tried to sound tough but could hardly stay awake. "I fear you won't like it, David." That's when I really started to worry--when she called me David. I certainly woke me up a bit. Every communication we'd had, every meeting, she'd called me Mr Sanders. Just like she called that bastard Mr Steele and Tom, Mr. Smith. So if she was suddenly calling me David, then this had to be bad. She gave a sigh. She pulled out a thick folder, one of those plain beige ones. "This is you," she said. I looked at the folder and focused and eventually could read my name. David Sanders, age 25. Yeah, that's me. She flipped it open and the top sheet of paper had a picture and a small summary of who I was and where I'd come from. The picture was from my ID photo at NeoPharm, looking just a bit goofy. I had to strain to read the summary of me, and it looked at lot like a basic CV, just with some extra details. I had to choke down a laugh when I looked through my educational and childhood history. Nothing about the gangs and the other stuff. Which is what I'd been promised, of course. Just a nice, ordinary high school past, complete with passing grades and a smooth ticket into university and a slick degree. "And this is who I suggest you become." K hesitated a moment and slid a second folder in front of me. It was much newer and thinner. I flipped it open. There wasn't much to read on the cover sheet. Only a name and an age: Cindy Long. Age 20. "Uh, K?" I said. "This is a chick's name." K nodded. She didn't seem apologetic or bashful or anything. About as empathic as a cantaloupe, K is. "Yes, it is." I may have been groggy, but I was pretty sure of one thing. "K, I'm not a chick." "No, you are not," she said. "This is an identity created for someone else. However, considering your unique situation I believe it to be your best chance to reach safety alive." Now, I haven't exactly led a sheltered life. I've been involved in more than my fair share of violence. There was a lot of weird stuff that went on in my youth. But for all that I still led a fairly sheltered life in some ways. Busy with other stuff, I didn't clue in to matters of love and sex until relatively late. More specifically, I didn't figure out that some guys actually prefer other guys until I was sixteen or seventeen. Hey, I'm pretty clued in now when it comes to sex and all that shit. I mean, it's not like I've got trouble finding female company for the weekend, if you know what I mean. But I had a bit of a late start, on account of my screwed-up childhood. So the first time a boy hit on me, well... yeah, it took me by surprise. I'm a good-looking guy. I was a good-looking kid. And I had this job once, at this high-school, around when I was fourteen... well, that's where I met Ken. Ken was a nice kid, a few years older than me, and I knew I could trust him. We worked together well and he helped me get the job done even though he didn't really understand what was going on. He was a good friend. Stupid, na?ve me, I didn't realize the kid was helping me because he had this huge crush going on. And so, at the end when it was all over, Ken kissed me. He just kind of lunged in and next thing I know, his lips were pressed up against mine, and a second later his tongue was in my throat, and his fingers were digging into my arms, pulling me closer. Hell, at that point I hadn't even figured out girls yet. My first kiss- -was with a guy. Yeah, I was pissed off. I smacked him in the face and knocked him down and kept hitting him. I hurt him bad, and the punches were only a small part of it. Fuck. To this day it still pisses me off. I was an idiot. I was young. Ken's gone now. Last time I saw him was a few years ago, before the disease took him. I think that was the last time I cried. I don't cry often. Well, I'm older now. I understand some things a bit better. I eventually figured out that there were other people like Ken out there, and that it wasn't a big deal. Some guys like guys. Some guys like to wear frilly clothes and lacy underwear. Hell, some guys even want to have their dick sliced up and pushed inside out and try to pretend they're really a girl. I mean, that's weird shit. That shit's wrong. You are what you are. But sometimes, it's hard to figure exactly what you are and that's where it all seems to fall apart. I don't pretend to understand it. I like girls. I mean, I really do. That moment, when you first slide your cock into a warm pussy, that being together and soft intimacy--God, I love that. I've never looked at a guy and thought, "hey, I want me some of that!" The thought of sucking on a man's dick makes me sick. Girls do that shit, and they do it well. They've got the body for it, the soft lips and long hair and curves and all, you know? But don't get me wrong. I'm no fucking homophobe. I've got no problem admitting when some guy's good looking. But guys just don't do it for me, and I can't imagine why any guy would want that over the softness of a chick. Unless it's to miss out on the mind games, maybe. Girls are fucked in the head. So even though I don't understand it, I guess I can kind of respect it. I'm not one of those freaks quoting Deuteronomy and claiming God's going to claim divine retribution just because some dude wants to wear a bra. That's just fucked up. God's got bigger shit to worry about. But it's definitely not something I've ever wanted or even thought of doing myself. So when K pushed that folder over to me and I saw a chick's name there? Yeah, I was more than a little taken aback. I shook my head. "But I don't want be a chick," I said. "Of course not," she said. I swear, she almost seemed to be smiling and there was the shadow of something cruel in her expression. "In a way, this is your own fault. It was you who gave me the idea, when you asked about that dress back at the courthouse." "You said that was idiotic." "Yes, I did," K answered. "To throw a dress on you and walk you out of that building would have been foolish. You would have looked like a man in a dress. You would have drawn more attention instead of turning it away. But we have a little time here. Not much, especially considering your injuries." She gave me a quick look-over. "But I believe with a little work you could be passably made to resemble a woman. At least from a distance. "You are short," she said. Yeah, thanks for pointing that out. Bitch. "You are slender and features that are considered beautiful on a man are often also beautiful on a woman. You are somewhat too muscular but that can be concealed with the proper clothing. With effort you could probably even pass as an attractive woman." Somehow that reassured me a bit. I mean, if you're gonna do something this fucked up, you at least want to look good, right? "Mr. Steele doubtlessly has more assassins closing in on your location. We may already be under surveillance. This disguise, unlikely as it may seem, might be enough to at least temporarily throw off any pursuit." K finished her spiel and watched me expectantly. It must've been the multiple bullet wounds, but for some reason K was making a twisted kind of sense to me. Anyone chasing me would be looking for a guy. A good-looking guy, if I say so myself. My face was probably plastered all over the papers by now. Even if some fucking assassin didn't see me, all I'd need is some pedestrian moron to point a finger and shout my name and it could all be over. I still had one important argument to make, though. "But I don't want to be a chick!" K sighed. "Yes, Mr Sanders. I understand this. And I assure you, this would only be temporary, until we can relocate you to your new home and identity. But I honestly feel this is your best chance of surviving until then." And you know what? I trusted her. I really did. It was a crazy idea, worthy of some silly internet fiction or those crap tabloids--but hell, sometimes the crazy ideas are the best, simply because they're so fucking crazy. I normally trust my instincts but they were conflicted: on the one hand they told me that this was the absolute bullshit, complete nonsense, impossible and unnecessary; but my instincts also told me to trust K. And fair enough, I was pretty messed up and woozy and all, but I decided to trust K. Even though the idea of hiding behind a skirt felt really, really wrong. "I... trust you, K," I said. "What do I have to do?" "Rest, and gather your strength," she said. "I will gather your disguise together and wake you when we are ready." I wasn't about to argue with her. I'm tough, sure, but part of that's knowing when to take it easy. I could barely keep my eyes focussed on her as it was. I passed out about five seconds after K stood up and walked out of the room. I dreamed. You'd think I would've dreamed about girly stuff; you know, like the fact that when I woke up I'd be wearing a skirt or something shit like that. Yeah, real nightmare-type stuff. Instead, I had one of those dreams that play like an old scratchy sepia-toned film, flickering like the hazy wings of a hummingbird against the inside of my eyes. *** I dreamed in surprisingly vivid detail how all this nonsense started. I'm not sure I slept deep enough to properly dream. Like I said, I trust K and all, but it wasn't exactly a relaxing situation I was in, what with the bullet wounds and assassins and all. I really need to feel comfortable to sleep deeply. That's the problem with nights out. I mean, I bring chicks home all the time and I love that shit, but unless I really know the girl I'm not likely to trust her; I don't trust most girls, full stop. That's why I don't exactly get much good sleep. Some instincts die hard, I guess. But I'm used to getting by with only a little sleep, anyway. That's the way I was raised: to get by on as little as possible. Thomas Smith--Tom--like I said, he's a good friend of mine. I sailed into NeoPharm on a supped-up CV with a falsified diploma, and landed a job in PR. Within a year I'd impressed the powers that be and took my first step up the corporate ladder. They gave me a secretary. God, she was a sexy bitch, sashaying into the office with these tight little skirts and spiky heels and firing off enough erotic triggers to turn your average office nice guy into a borderline rapist. This girl was totally trying to hook herself onto some rising star--like me--and launch herself into the upper ranks of the company. Seriously. She was so fucking stupid she didn't even see it wasn't worth slutting herself out like that. To her credit, she didn't even try to hide it. She had a mediocre education (still better than mine, I have to admit), ruthless ambition, and a fucking amazing body. Brainless and phoney as hell, though. Tom loved that chick. Her name was Tammy. I think. What a bitch. But Tom had a thing for her. And so did I at first. I was new to this whole office pool shark thing, and lost my common sense for a bit. Tom was an up-and-comer as well, in a different division. We both fought over this silly cow, and I won, if bringing a girl like Tammy home can really be considered any kind of victory. Tom laughed about it afterwards, me bedding her first. Tammy never really escaped that first rung of the secretarial pool, but by next year both Tom and I were well on our way into management. And that's how I met Tom. Remember how I said I was a good judge of character? The moment I met this guy, down at the local bar as we both chatted up Tammy, I knew we were going to be friends. Competition. Respect. And trust. That's what a good friendship's built on. Good? We became great friends. And we always remained competitive. Which is why that night, a month or two back... well, we ended up somewhere we shouldn't have been, and saw something I wish we hadn't. When Jeremy-fucking-psycho-Steele shot that Italian dude's head and it exploding like an overripe melon, splattering all over the room, the dream ended. I'd seen worse. Not much, but it wasn't a first. But Tom didn't take it too well. And that's the image that seared itself into the back of my eyes as I awoke: Tom's mouth, opened wide in a silent scream. *** K was sitting next to my bed. How long had she been there? She must've woken me up when she sat down. I hope I hadn't cried out or anything in my sleep. That happens sometimes, and it's really embarrassing when I've got chicks over. Girls can whine as much as they like about how they want their men to be sensitive and shit, but at the end of the day what they really wasn't are guys who are tough and old-school-like. They definitely don't want pansies that scream or cry in their sleep. But what can I say? Sometimes I get bad dreams. "Are you ready to begin?" K asked. Like I said, not big on the small talk, this woman. I felt a hell of a lot better than before. Still a bit hazy, a bit dopey, but the pain was a manageable throb in the background. I could cope. I could function. I wouldn't want to try and do any advanced calculus or debate a major issue or run a marathon, but my head was on a hell of a lot straighter than before--straight enough for me to have second thought about this crazy scheme. The sunlight wasn't slanting in through the door anymore. It must've been night. It was hard to tell without a clock or window in the room. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. I felt a moment's wooziness but fought it down. When I stood up I felt ill, like I was going to throw up, but it wasn't that bad. Truth is I felt sicker at the thought of what was coming up than at any pain I was feeling. How the hell was she going to make me into a passable woman? "I have something for you that might help." I thought she was going to hand me another glass of water and some pills. Me, I don't like to take pills or most medicines, to tell you the truth. I mean, who knows what's really in those pills people hand you, yeah? Maybe I'm a bit paranoid. Maybe it's from working at a pharmaceutical company. So even though my legs were a bit wobbly and I was still hurting, I shook my head no. "Nah, it's okay, K," I said. "I'm feeling better. The pain's not so bad." "Who said anything about the pain?" She gave a small smile. "I thought a stiff drink might help you get through this," she said, and handed me a scotch on the rocks. What a girl. And it was good stuff, too. I wondered if they had a list of my favourite drinks in my file. I wonder if Cindy did as well. Probably. She probably liked stupid girly drinks, pinks things with half-a-dozen fruit juices in it and an umbrella. "Good," K said once I'd pounded back the drink, the warmth of the alcohol spreading into my limbs. It settled my nerves a bit. Fuck, but was I ever nervous thinking about what was coming up. I hadn't felt this nervous in ages. "Follow me." She led me into the next room, which made up most of the apartment from the look of it. It wasn't much, to say the truth. It was really bland. Boring IKEA-looking stuff, chipped and a little dirty, just the bare basics to survive off of. Not even a TV set. That kind of bothered me, since I wanted to see if there'd been a reaction to my testimony yet. I'd basically thrown my life away to see this bastard put away. I wanted some results. For the last five years things had been going really fucking well--a bit boring, yeah, but comfortable. Now I was about to slip a dress on and pretend I was a girl. Jeremy Steele had better get put away for this. I wondered if Tom was going to go through the same bullshit. I wondered if his federal agent was called 'J' or 'L' or something. There was a window but I knew better than to hang out at that end of the room. Instead, K went over to a table and grabbed a bag and handed it over to me. "You'll need this," she said. I looked inside. It was one of those cheap plastic toiletry bags. There was a bunch of shower products in there. The bottles were pink and flowery and looked very girly. "What the hell's this shit?" I asked. "It's all perfectly normal items for a woman to use in the shower," K answered. Then she fixed me with those serious eyes again, that stare. It finally registered that she had eyes as grey as a northern sea. "Cindy." "Easy there," I said. But K just shook her head. "The earlier you get used to it, the better. Your name, until we clear you of this mess, is Cindy." "Aw, c'mon K, it's just the two of us in here. Call me Dave. Call me Mr Sanders if you've gotta. But a chick's name? Gimme a break!" "Your name is Cindy," she said, and the tone of her voice brooked no argument. "You are twenty years old and female. The earlier you accept this, the better." "Oh for Chrissake," I muttered. "This is ridiculous." But there wasn't any point in arguing with her. And like she said, this shit was only temporary. Until I could get to that hospital, get myself checked out, and then pick up a new identity and get the hell out of Dodge. I felt fine at the moment--mostly--but I knew how deceptive that could be. Just because I could stand didn't mean there might not be something seriously wrong, especially with that wet spot up on my temple. The sooner I went along with K's plan, as insane as it was, and got myself checked out, the better. "Fine," I said. "But what the hell am I supposed to do with all this?" She pointed to a room off of this one. "Begin in there," she said. "Use this first. Read and follow the instructions." She indicated a pink bottle. "Then use this." She pulled out a can, also girlishly pink, and a razor. "What the hell?" "Shave everywhere: legs, chest, armpits, face. Shave your face twice." "K, no one's going to see me that close up!" "Why risk detection because of sloppiness? We need your disguise to be as convincing as possible, considering the circumstances." "Listen," I insisted. "You can slap a dress on me and whatever, but there's no way I'll pass for a chick up close. Really, what's the point?" K just gave me one of those steady, unflinching stares. "I will be the judge of that," she said, "and you may be surprised." That was that, really. When I dig my heels in, I'm a pretty stubborn bastard. But with K, I just didn't seem able to find my footing. Unnerving, that woman, and it wasn't just the lesbian thing. But for some reason I just didn't want to argue with her. Probably because I trusted her. I mean, me heading into the bathroom and shaving all over was kind of weird, but she wanted me to do it for my own good, right? So, following her order to use the rest of the crap in the bag as well, I grudgingly trudged off into the next room. It was another bedroom, a larger one with a double bed, and with a small en-suite bathroom. I stepped into the bathroom and got the shower started. I looked over the first bottle. It was one of those Nair-type things that chicks use, some kind of cream to get the hair off of me. Well, what the hell was I going to do? Suddenly I was really glad that I'd had that drink. I'm not sure I could've done this otherwise. I stepped into the shower and lathered myself up with this shit and waited out the time. It stank a bit and tingled at first and eventually burned uncomfortably. When I rinsed myself off I was amazed at how much of my body hair went with it. But I wasn't done yet. K wanted me to shave as well so dammit, I was going to shave. I lathered up with a can of girly shaving cream and picked up the razor and went at it. It was a totally new experience. A strange one, to be honest. I'd never done something like this before. Even lathering up was different. It didn't exactly smell like my macho Gillette's, if you know what I mean. There I was surrounded in this flowery cloud, holding this triple- bladed razor with a flat handle; it even sat differently in my hand compared to what I was used to. I had this real moment of hesitation. Under the steaming hot water, what I was about to do seemed really fucking weird. And wrong. I mean, how was this all necessary? But I also thought about what K had said, and that also made sense. And I remembered that I trusted the woman, and with that in mind I brought the razor down to my leg and took the first stroke. I'd like to think I did a good job. The chest was easy enough. The armpits were another story. Fuck, but I wouldn't want to do that every week. Talk about gaining respect for the shit women go through to look good. As for the legs: well, the shins were easy enough, but I've got to admit reaching those tough spots in the inside of the knee was another matter. After much craning and stretching and blind strokes with the razor I managed to get the job done. After that it was a pretty simple matter to rinse-lather-repeat, though I wasn't a frequent user of conditioner. The shower gel was a tad more floral than I would've liked as well. I smelled like a fucking garden by the time I finished. I felt strangely chilled when I stepped out of the shower. The towel slid across my skin differently without any hair between me and the fabric. That was really weird. There was a full-body mirror in the bathroom, but fortunately it was all fogged up from the shower. It must've taken me nearly thirty minutes to get it all done. I felt just a little water-logged after all that. My head was a bit fuzzy again as well. But I really didn't want to see myself at that point. I could see glimpses of my hairless legs and that was enough. There was another bottle in the bag for me to use: some kind of baby-powder-type stuff. So I powdered myself all over, and by the time I was done I felt like a total fucking pansy. I couldn't believe how smooth my skin felt. If I closed my eyes and felt my thigh I bet I could fool myself into thinking I was stroking up some chick. I passed my palm along my leg and didn't find any stubble, but just the feeling of my hand sliding smoothly against skin kinda freaked me out. I finally stepped out of the bathroom. Big surprise, K was waiting for me. "Cindy, what are you doing? Please try to show a little modesty." What the hell was she talking about? I had a towel wrapped around me, a surprisingly soft and fluffy one (pink) considering the state of this crumby apartment. "You are far more daring that me," K continued, and she suddenly blushed. It was strange, seeing this strangely human and bashful reaction on a woman like K. "I can see your chest and everything!" Bloody hell. I was wearing my towel like a man, covering the important bits but not exactly worried about the chest. Sighing, I readjusted the towel to cover my pecs. It still reached to my crotch, but left me feeling like my ass was hanging out. That wasn't cool. "Good." K suddenly sounded all professional again, dropping the shyness. "Begin with the articles on the bed, please." She stepped out of the room. I approached the bed with some trepidation. I knew what was coming but that doesn't mean I was looking forward to it. And sure enough, there on the bed were articles that even in a drunken, blind state you wouldn't mistake for anything other than feminine. The panties came first. They were black and small and had lace around the edges. Did she really expect me to wear these? Fuck. There was a bra as well, also lacy and black. Beneath them was a rolled-up lump that revealed itself as a pair of black pantyhose. Wonderful. Especially since they were sexy pantyhose--you know, not the day-to-day shit that most secretaries and women in the workforce wear, those really plain and heavy beige ones; these were so sheer they were nearly invisible and tinted black and had a lacy, embroidered top. Last time I'd seen clothes like this was nearly two months ago, before I saw any kind of murder or anything. It'd been after a night out at a club. Alice had been hot and willing and easily impressed by my slick clothes and good job and easy money. Fuck, girls usually are. God, I love girls, how they fall for the cheesiest lines, how soft they feel in your arm and the way they like to cuddle up. Don't get me wrong, though. I also respect women--well, some women, that is. Thing is, I've known enough women who can seriously kick my ass to not respect them. Like this one woman I know, Sakura. And Katherine. Fucking Katherine.... I'll tell you about her another time. But man, can chicks ever be stupid when they want to be. I've never understood that, how they can just throw logic and reason and self- respect to the side, just to be with some guy--to be with me. I'm not putting myself down or anything. I'm a damn fine catch. It's just that there are far more important things to worry about than assholes like me. Yeah, stuff like psychotic billionaire CEOs killing you unless you convincingly pass yourself off as a girl. But this Alice chick, she really surprised me. 'Luminous' is this cool bar not far from the office, trendy without being phoney, even if most of the people who went there were right bastards. Like me, I guess. That's where I picked up Alice. She was a sexy little thing, but a bit mousy. She almost had that naughty-librarian look going. But when I got her back to mine and peeled off those clothes, fuck, what a surprise! Not only did she have a soft, curvy body squeezed into those otherwise bland clothes of hers, she had the whole semi-fetishwear thing happening, the garters and the whole deal, like something out of a magazine spread. A tiger in bed as well. We went at it for hours. Dumb as bricks but an amazing fuck. Which is a good thing, because she's the last woman I've slept with. Hard to get some when you're hiding for your life, you know? I hadn't gone that long without tail since? well, since I was a fucked-up teen. And now look at me. I sat on the edge of the bed and slipped the panties on first. They were very thin, nearly see-through., and a tight fit. Sexy. I'd love to bring a girl home and unwrap her and find something like this underneath, all damp and ready to peel off. But I probably shouldn't have been thinking about that, or Alice, because I encountered my first problem right then. "Hey, K?" I called out. "I've, uh, got a problem." A few seconds later she was standing there in the doorway. "I have a problem," I said, and stared at her expectantly. I pointed down at my crotch. "I don't seem to fit." I'm an average-sized guy and that's never been a problem for me. I'm no Ron Jeremy with a twelve-inch sausage, and I wouldn't want to be. I'm big enough to get the job done, and to get it done well. I take it all very seriously. Even if I'm just with some silly cunt I picked up that night, one so dumb she doesn't even know she's being used, I think it's important to show her a good time. There's no excuse for being lazy in bed. I'm a selfish bastard in real life, but sex is something else. It's special. Sex is a skill in itself. You've got to work at it, and anything I work at, anything worth doing, I like to do well. So it's important to me for the girl to get there as well, and I use all the tools at my disposal, if you know what I mean. They say most penises are roughly the same size when erect but vary like mad when flaccid. I don't know where I read that--probably some fucking Maxim magazine or something. So I look small when relaxed, but when I'm all horned up, it's bigger than you'd expect. I guess I'm like my dick, then: small when relaxed, but you don't want to fuck with me when I'm pissed-off. And that was the problem. For whatever the reason, this messed-up situation, the clothes themselves, the feminine scent the flowed off my own body and lingered faintly in the underwear itself--I was reacting. The silky feel of drawing those panties up my cleanly shorn legs turned me on in a way that had me a little concerned. But only a little. K spared a glance at my crotch. "You don't fit, you say?" "Nope." I really didn't. I don't know if it was the thinking about Alice, or just the sight of K, or the fact that I hadn't been laid in a while--but I can't deny that I was getting aroused by all this. It couldn't have been the clothes themselves. That would be weird. Even though they felt strangely titillating as they stretched taut across my groin. But my disguise wasn't likely to work with sex inches of cock bursting out the leg hole. "You, ah, think you can help me with this?" I said, and flashed her a winning smile. "And what do you expect me to do about it?" K stepped into the room and sauntered closer, and I'll be damned if it didn't suddenly seem like she was coming on to me. Easy to assume, really, considering I was standing all but naked in some unknown apartment, with a woody standing out at a sharp angle against my body, fiercely escaping the sheer panties I'd pulled on. "I see your surname is well deserved, Miss Long." K was now standing right up against me. She was taller than me, especially in her heels. Not that I found that intimidating. More like erotic. This close, a faintly musky scent surrounded her. Who would've thought she wore perfume, even if it was a bit mannish? Her breasts rubbed up against my chest, the fabric of her jacket rough against my sensitive, still-glowing skin. She brought her mouth near my ear. Her hair tickled my neck. "Mmm, this is an unusual problem for a girl, do you not think, Cindy?" she murmured, and her breath was hot on my ear. I nearly jumped when I felt her hand, slightly cold, gently wrap around my shaft. "We can not have this, now can we?" "I--heh, yeah...." "Is this turning you on, David?" Her grip tightened around my cock. Her breasts rubbed up against my chest again. What a thing to ask. Was this turning me on? Hell, yeah! "Does it excite you to wear these clothes?" What? Fuck no. But then she stepped back and for a moment I thought I saw a glimpse of both disgust and hatred flash across her eyes; and then she gave my cock a quick, hard smack on the tip. "Ow!" I howled in pain and stumbled back. "Jesus Christ, K, what was that for?" "What did you think I would do, Miss Long? Give you a hand job? Get down on my knees and suck you off?" I sucked in some deep breaths, clutching the wall for support. "I was just fuckin' about!" "Your dubious charms, Miss Long, are best saved for a more appropriate time." She reached over to a nightstand by the bed and grabbed a box of tissues. She tossed it over to me, where it bounced off my head before landing at my feet. "Tend to your own needs, Miss Long. In the bathroom, if you don't mind," she said as she walked away. "When you are finished please continue dressing." I picked up the tissues. Fucking dyke bitch. "You're not making this any easier for me, you know that?" I yelled after her. You'd think she could take a joke. I didn't really expect to her to, you know, relieve my pressure. But man, it would've been awesome if she had. She turned about at the door. She let her jacket slip open and undid the top button of her blouse and, slowly sliding her hands along her sides, gave a little wiggle as she leaned forward and flashed me her most generous cleavage. She had awesome tits, from what I could see above the floral lacing of her bra. Then she slowly straightened, turned sharply on her heel, and sashayed out of the room, that tight ass wiggling beneath her skirt with each exaggerated, toe-to-toe step. "I hope that helps you finish, Cindy," she said over her shoulder. God, I wasn't sure if I hated or loved that woman. What a bitch, and I mean that in a good way. Five minutes later I stepped out of the bathroom, drying my hands and still flushed with the pleasure, ready to tackle the task at hand. The sight of the clothes on the bed brought me back to earth, like a punch to the gut. It really did feel like a hit to the stomach. It was the feeling of doing something wrong. You know, like when you've borrowed your parents' car without permission and you've smacked it up and know you're in big trouble? Kinda like that. I was just wishing I'd had another stiff drink when I saw that K had left one for me by the bed. What a woman. I pounded it back. I was already starting to feel a bit buzzed. Never a good idea to drink on an empty stomach. I slipped the panties back on. They fit fine this time, once I tucked my cock back. Tight and a bit uncomfortable, riding a tad higher between my ass cheeks than I'd like, but nothing too bad. The pantyhose were another matter. I'd seen enough girls slip them on in the morning around my place, but these seemed really wispy and easy to tear. I rolled them up into a donut and pointed my toes and pulled the stocking up my first leg about halfway, and then did the same with the second foot, and finally stood, found my balance, and pulled the whole thing up over the panties. Know what? My legs looked damn fine in those pantyhose. Denuded and encased in that sheer, inky fabric, the sharper definition lines of my legs were smoothed and softened and somehow made to look slimmer. The panties beneath made a darker 'V' against which my compressed cock made an unbecoming mound. My legs felt warmer than expected. The embroidered control top came up to just beneath my bellybutton and was tight across my buttocks, caressing and shaping. The silkiness as I slid the nylons up my legs had been unnerving; now, passing my hand along those sleek lines I felt a tremor through my stomach. The sensation was just so... feminine. I'd stroked many a woman's thigh beneath her skirt, and I loved the feeling of my palm against her nylon-clad ass. Now it was my ass in nylon, looking way too good for my comfort and smooth beneath my touch. That's when K stepped into the room. To her credit, she didn't laugh though a hint of a smile danced at the corner of her mouth. "How are we doing, Miss Long?" "I feel like a damn fool, K." "You look fine," she said. She unravelled another silky, black thing in her hand as she approached. "You will need this as well, I am afraid." "Great," I answered. "What the hell is it?" "A waist cincher." "You've got to be fucking kidding me." Sadly, K wasn't much of a kidder. "What is the first part of a woman that you notice, Mr. Sanders?" she asked, as she had me raise my arms above my head and wrapped the damned thing around me. At least she was calling me by my male name. "What? I don't know. Her tits?" I was going to say 'her eyes' because, truth be told, it's a woman's eyes that do it more for me than anything. I've even fucked more than a few fatties, just because they had the most gorgeous, sexy eyes. But wearing panties and nylons, with a waist cincher being wrapped around me, I felt like I had to say something, you know, macho. She had the damned thing around me. She zipped it up the front and then went behind and I felt her begin to tug on the laces. With each one I felt the thing tighten its grip. "A woman's shape defines her gender, at least from a distance," K said. "Even in unisex clothing, or with short hair, or without makeup, or any of the other superficial trappings of femininity, a woman's hips and waist trigger recognition." She gave a sharp tug, forcing my breath out. "Watch it, dammit!" "Keep those arms up," K commanded, her voice sharp. I grudgingly kept them above my head as she continued her torture. "You lack curves, Cindy," she continued. "We can put you in a dress and make you wear a wig and slather on the makeup, but unless you have the shape of a woman, even an unskilled observer will sense there is something wrong." The waist cincher's grip continued to tighten, vice-like. "There are a thousand other things that can give you away, of course, but this one is easily enough remedied." K stepped away. I lowered my arms and took a hesitant breath. The waist cincher followed the lines of my body like a second skin, starting at my hips and ending at my ribcage. It was black, like everything else K seemed to be picking out, with crimson lines where the fabric drew in. It wasn't quite as bad as I expected, to be honest. I wasn't going to pass out like some damsel out of Gone with the Wind. My internal organs didn't feel like they were being crushed. Nevertheless, I didn't feel like I could draw in a big breath. I wasn't about to go ten rounds wearing this thing. "How do you feel?" K asked, her voice conspicuously lacking in concern. "Just fucking great," I answered. I made a sweeping gesture that took in my lower half. "I feel like a goddamn faggot, K." She made a small clucking sound of disapproval. "Really, Ms. Long, must you swear so much?" "I'll swear as much as I fucking well please!" She gave me a firm look. "I am afraid, Cindy, that you really will have to watch your tongue. There are numerous linguistic differences in male and female speech patterns in the English language." I couldn't believe this woman. "So, what, you expect me to speak like some friggin' chick, too?" "Cindy," she said. "You are a 'friggin' chick,' so to speak. Please try to remember that. Now wait here for a moment. We still have a lot to do." She left me standing there mouth agape. I wish she'd left me there with another Scotch. I wish she'd left me with the heat on, because I felt goose-bumps rising across my arms and chest. I missed my hair. This was all a bit much and had me feeling deeply unsettled. How long did she expect me to wear these damned clothes anyway? I wasn't going to be this 'Cindy' chick for long. No fucking way. No damn way. No friggin' way. There. That's as good as K was going to get from me. When she returned a few minutes later she was carrying a box in her hand. "Sit down on the bed, please," she asked, as she pulled a small table across the room and set the box down. "What's in there?" I asked, making myself comfortable. "This is your--," she started, glancing back, and then stopped. "Cindy, really, some modesty please." "What now?" "It is unseemly for a girl to sit with her legs like th