Constant In All Other Things - Chapter 09 free porn video

Constant in All Other Things Chapter Nine by Fakeminsk ([email protected]) 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 night of my last date with Harry came quickly. The anticipation of never wearing panties again made the second half of my stay at the Asklepios Clinic nearly unbearable. Totally focused on that approaching day, I found it almost intolerable to continue prancing and practicing and pretending to be Cindy. After all, what was the point? Discovering Larry the Stalker had put my paranoia to rest-- obviously Scooter and K were right and the Asklepios Clinic was a safe haven from the long, psychotic arm of Jeremiah Steele. Soon I'd be reinvented as a new man, and everything I'd learned about being Cindy would become a surreal memory. It was only my continuing 'dates' every second night with Harry Longman that gave me any incentive whatsoever to not only continue the Cindy charade, but to continuously improve the role. I wanted to be the best, god-damn-girliest Cindy I could for the guy. Listen, I know how gay that sounds. Why the hell would any guy want to put himself through this kind of bullshit? The thing is, I wasn't just playing the star-struck fan... Harry really was my hero, ever since I first picked up a guitar back when I was fourteen. The man was a friggin' guitar god, know what I mean? And he wasn't some strutting guitar-wanking egomaniac either. It wasn't just those cool-as-shit solos he effortlessly ripped through when he could be bothered; the man was an even better writer. He saw me through some tough teenage angst, Harry did. And he supplied the only goddamn thing that Kate and I ever agreed on: a song. The dude gave Kate and me 'our song', and the memories I attach to that music and those lyrics are more precious than he could possibly imagine. He'd never fully realize how much I owe him. I also knew the kind of guy Harry was. In some ways we were quite similar, him and I; women liked us, and we treated them like shit. The difference? Harry was suave and rich and an artist. When he crapped all over them they lapped it up like honey. And finally, I understood on some instinctive level that Harry needed my companionship as much as I needed his. The guy was seriously fucked up-- almost as much as I was. He needed me and I owed him; but for me to hang out with him I had to be pretty and vivacious, a high-heeled blonde, a cute piece of ass. Yeah, playing the part was seriously fucking with my head but I'll say this: I was amazed at how easy it was getting to be. The ease with which I shifted into Cindy was really starting to scare me. Another week and a handful of innocent get-togethers slid by, and then it was the night before my scheduled surgery. Harry met Cindy for one last date. They met at the Bacchus Bar as the sun settled behind the forested hills and the Clinic fell into quiet darkness. The older man and his young companion sat in a secluded booth far in the back, watching as the bar slowly grew busy. Glasses clinked and voices raised in conversation joined together in the oldest symphony of all, a familiar backdrop for a final date. Cindy, feeling more than a little drunk, giggled as the rock star awkwardly reached around her, an arm rubbing up against her breast. "You're just trying to cop a feel, you pervert!" "Show respect for teacher, girl," Harry growled. "Yes sir!" "It's like this," he said, pressing down on her fingers. "Then here, and here," he added, his fingers guiding hers across the frets. "Like this?" Cindy asked. Her tongue peeked out from between glossy lips as she concentrated on the guitar. She repeated the positions with only a little awkwardness. "Yeah, not bad." She tried again, faster. "Cool! I've never been able to get that bit." "You learn fast." "Thanks!" "You might want to trim those nails before trying it for real, though. They'll mess up your chords." Cindy stuck her tongue out at him. "But they're so pretty," she said, glancing aside at him before turning back to the instrument. "Don't you like them?" She focused for another moment on the guitar, and then gently laid it aside. Her hands fell limply in her lap. "Um, Harry?" Cindy sounded nervous. "Your... arms?" Harry started as if poked awake. His arms still encircled her. His touch drifted to her waist, fingers lightly grasping just beneath the swell of each breasts. His breath was momentarily hot on her neck as his touch slid up her side before coming to rest on her shoulders. "I'm sorry." Cindy scooted a small distance away down the booth. Her eyes dropped shyly away. "No, it's... okay," she murmured softly. She looked momentarily apprehensive, and then licked her lips and gave a small smile. She darted forward and landed a quick, light kiss on his cheek. His skin was rough and up close, he smelled slightly of old leather and shaving cream; it was a fatherly scent. Her cheek hovered next to his, hesitantly, before she pulled away. Their faces were close and Harry's eyes glittered darkly, expectantly. Cindy smiled demurely. "I have to go tinkle," she whispered, and giggled, and slipped away from the booth. A minute later Cindy stood in the bathroom of the Bacchus Bar, hands gripping the edges of the smooth porcelain sink tightly. Her knuckles whitened; I gritted my teeth and stared into the mirror, aghast. My head was beginning to hurt again, the pain piercing through my pleasant drunkenness. Why was this so hard? It shouldn't be so hard. I'd been through this before--with that guy in the elevator, for young Tim, hell, I'd even pranced around in lingerie for that creepy Agent Fosters guy. But tonight was--different. Of course it was! What the hell had I expected? When a rich, good- looking guy takes a cute young thing out to a bar, he's got expectations, yeah? Up until tonight Harry had been a real gentleman. In his place I would've made third base with Cindy by now, or dumped her ass. But Harry had class. A handful of dates and he'd settled for kisses to the hand, a few intimate hugs, a chaste kiss to the cheek. But tonight... tonight, a much heavier expectancy hovered between us, and there was a part of me that felt compelled to reward him for his efforts. I'm a man; I knew what Harry wanted. Dark eyes the colour of fallen leaves in late autumn twinkled with amusement in my mind, turned green and I saw myself in the mirror: the painted face and blonde hair and bright eyes wide with surprise and fright. My hands tightened in frustration as I took in: breasts and vagina, bra and panties, stockings and heels, nail extensions and polish, tight clingy clothes and pierced ears, perfume, lipstick, God, so much, and all the invisible gestures and acts that defined Cindy as a girl, that made Cindy--not me. This wasn't what I wanted. Hanging with this guy was a dream come true-- but I wanted to do it as David, as a man, not as some flustered female groupie. How could I play the girl in a date... how could I be the fucking girlfriend? What I wanted was to pound back pints of bitter instead of sipping wine; I should be shooting pool, grinding out power chords and hitting on chicks with Harry--not flattering his ego and toying with my hair and giggling at his goddamn jokes. My hand slammed against the side of the sink, palm flat, with power that belied my delicate disguise. What I wanted was to smash that mirror with my fist and splinter that reflected image into a thousand pieces. The dull pain in my hand seemed to distract from and relieve the pressure in my temple. No. I couldn't do this, indulge in this pathetic display of machismo; not now. For one final night I had to accept that David couldn't be here. What was the alternative--walking out on Harry? Because I sure as hell didn't want to; I was having too much fun, even wearing a skirt. I had to admit a very real thrill at cradling one of Longman's famous guitars in my arms. The one he'd been teaching me with he played on tour way back in '99. I'd seen the video. That right there almost made the whole bullshit Cindy-scenario worthwhile. I shook my head, golden tresses falling like a curtain across my face. With a timid gesture I brushed my hair back behind my eyes, suddenly demure and quiet once again. Looking through the thick veil of my lashes I smiled tentatively at the pretty girl I saw in the glass. David couldn't be here--but Cindy was. A quick dab of lipgloss, a little mascara and a touch of colour to my cheeks and I felt ready to face the world once again. I went to the bar and bought another round, a nice Shiraz for me and an imported Cheddar Valley cider for Harry, and laughed as some boy made an ambitious but clumsy pass at me. I was, like, just so out of his league. Drunk, happy, surrounded by the vibrant bustle of the pub, I threaded my way through the thickening crowd back to the table. Harry was waiting for my return with his arms thrown wide across the bench. He waggled his eyebrows at me and I laughed and sat next to him. Without hesitation he dropped his arm around my shoulder, and whatever discomfort I felt at the weight of man's arm around me was easily ignored as I sunk back into my pleasant drunken haze. With a practiced stroke of my hand I pulled the shiny length of my hair forward so that it wouldn't get pinned and let it fall with a silken rustle over my left shoulder. I smoothed it down, fascinated by how real it felt, the slight tug at my scalp, its rich shine and golden hue a soft backdrop to the glitter of those silver bangles and shiny rings. Placing my wine glass on the table--almost knocking it over, resetting it with a soft giggle--I settled back into the crook of Harry's arm. "Feel okay?" he asked. "I do now," I answered, and sighed. *** A few more drinks, an indeterminate time later, still sitting in our booth, drunker than before, the crowd larger, busier, the centre of its voice now here, now there, but always loud, forcing the two of us ever closer together as I smiled up at Harry, holding eye contact for a moment longer than was necessary before coyly dropping my gaze down to my drink. The ruby swirl of my glass seemed captured in the deep crimson of my glossy fingertips. I marvelled at how easily I now held the narrow stem of the glass, the feminine click of my nails as I cradled the drink in my palm. I glanced up again through the thick veil of my eyelashes, and blushed to see how intently he was watching me. "The Bean Being? Yeah, I like that place," Harry continued as we shared our experiences at the Clinic. "I'm surprised I never saw you there." If his hand occasionally massaged my shoulder or played with my hair--well, I pretended not to notice. I was struggling to pretend to not notice many things by this point: the fact that I was really a guy and my muted nausea at his intimate touch, the appraising and amused eyes of strangers, and where this whole strange game was inevitably heading. The heady mixture of stress, self-disgust and alcohol was playing havoc with my head--I felt an electric tingle through my body, an almost drug-like euphoria that left me feeling capable of doing... almost anything, it seemed. I nodded, struggling to suppress the urge to giggle hysterically at the absurdity and difficulty of carrying on a normal conversation. "Me too. Started going almost every day. I was a bit worried about money? You know, at first? But when I found out I could pay the same way I opened doors--I mean, just a touch of my hand and cha-ching?--it was like, shopping spree!" Harry's thumb stroked the side of my smooth, hairless arm. "Do you even have any idea how much they're charging you?" I shrugged. "Nope! Don't care. I'm not footing the bill, so why should I?" He shook his head. "Put it this way. Even I think the prices here are outrageous." "Oh, come on, Harry! You're a rock star." I picked up my wine glass and held it up in mock salute. "You're like... rich! Super rich!" "Exactly," he said. He playfully ruffled my hair. "Let's just say you're lucky you're cute enough for me to pick up the tab tonight." I giggled. "Lucky me!" A long sip of wine hid my discomfort at his constant touch. Men are very tactile--their hands are everywhere on a date, constantly reminding you of their presence, of their intention. The drunker I got the easier it became to ignore his expert hands across my body--or rather, ignore how they made me feel. I have no doubt that a real girl would've been moist in the crotch and all over the guy by now. Unfortunately for Harry, his deft ministrations did nothing good for me. I mean, yeah, sure, he was my hero and all but that wasn't going to have me batting for the other team, you know? Turning back to Harry, I noticed that the lull in our conversation had given him a far-away look in his eye, staring off across the bar without really seeing anything. I gave him a little jab with my elbow. "Hey Harry?" I said. "What you thinking about?" He looked down and smiled. It was a strange smile, small and a little sad and quickly gone. "Right now?" he answered. "I was thinking about things I've seen and done, Cindy, place I've been, people I've met. I've had a long, full life. But mostly?" His arm around my shoulder tightened in a warm hug, and his voice took on a forced gaiety. "I was thinking about you." "Why?" I asked in a small voice. His gaze was captivating. Oh, I knew what was going on, where this was heading. The guy was a player, real smooth and all, and he was totally setting me up for the kill. In some bizarre way it was awesome watching this guy at work--even if I was the target. I mean, what a thing tell your friends--if I had any, that is--Harry Longman pulled me in a bar! "I've been living here for almost a year now," he said. "And it's been a very long, very boring year, Cindy. I've explored as much of this place as I care to, and gotten to know more people than I wish, and... I'm bored." He sighed. "It's been nearly two years since I've written anything: not one line of verse, not a single note of a song." "I'm sorry," I said in a soft voice, and the thing is: I truly was. It wasn't something I could really relate to; I'm no artist. But I also knew the ache of denying an important part of oneself, of feeling it wither and die. Again Harry smiled, and his eye sparkled. "Oh, but don't be, Cindy," he said, and his arm at my shoulder drifted to my neck, gently massaging my skin between forefinger and thumb. "This last week, since meeting you-- I've started writing again." "That's wonderful," I sighed, trying to deny that his touch at my back felt good. How could this be happening? "It is wonderful," he said. "You can't understand how wonderful it is, Cindy. I tried to deny my loss at first, convinced myself it was a short break, that the creative juices needed time to replenish. But the longer I stared at the blank page, every time I picked up a guitar and couldn't play anything but old songs--I knew, deep down inside, that I was finished. An old dog with no new stories to tell. And oh, how I raged against that truth! Distracting myself with alcohol, with religion, drugs and... women," he said, and his other hand took mine is his "Like me?" I said. "Girls like me?" "Not like you," he denied. "I've never met anyone like you, Cindy." "Harry," I whispered. He turned to face me without releasing me from his encircling arm. His hand gently cupped my chin and tilted my head up towards his. I stared deep into his eyes, dark and lost. Something inside of me tightly bound and buried deep fluttered and struggled and fell away. My hand clenched and trembled at my side. His lips met mine. Faint stubble rubbed like fine sandpaper against my chin. Again I breathed in his scent--it had the robust character of a fine aged wine. My soft painted lips pushed up against his. His fingers threaded through my hair and gently held me close. My lips parted almost involuntarily... only a little but enough: a sigh, and the tip of my tongue darted out, almost hesitantly tasted his lip, pulled back. "Cindy." Harry's voice was almost a tortured groan. "Yes," I agreed, my voice soft, our mouths so close each word flowed like delicate warmth across the other's lips. Harry's hand fell away from my head, traced the path of my spine through the thinness of my clingy top, slid around my side and rested, for just a moment, atop my breast before almost reluctantly falling away. I pulled away and he fell back in his seat and stared at me. "Who are you, Cindy?" My hand rested softly on his knee. I shrugged, amazed at how delicate and feminine I could make the gesture, surprised at how in control I felt. This was seriously wrong; I had just kissed a man on the mouth; part of me felt like a teenager again, lost and confused; but mostly I felt a strangely drunken apathy to what had happened. "I'm just a...." I swallowed nervously, tasting the truth of what I was about to say. "Girl," I finished, amazed and quietly sickened at how true that statement seemed to have become. Harry shook his head vehemently. "No. There's nothing 'just' about you, Cindy. You're unlike any other woman I've met." I couldn't deny the truth of that. "Something about you messes with my head," he said, one finger tapping at his temple. "And you with mine." My hand drifted up to rest against his arm. "There's something about you," he said, and the way his eyes drifted across my body, taking in my breasts, my smooth arms and sleek legs, long hair and earrings, finishing with a lingering appraisal of my eyes, sent an anxious flutter through my belly. "Something different from the other girls I've met here. The way you dress and talk--and the way you act--the things you say--there's a dichotomy in you I don't understand. I'm very sensitive to the music of a person's voice, Cindy, to the rhyme and rhythm of their body and language. And right now I look at the girl sitting across from me, a very pretty girl in very sexy clothes, but there's something--discordant--in everything she does." I tapped one finger against my lip. "There is?" He nodded slowly. "Yes, like a video in which the singer and the song don't quite sync up." "We're in a hospital," I reminded him. "We're all a little... broken, I guess." "Are you?" he asked. "Are you damaged goods?" The way he said it, with a hint of a smile on his weathered face, but with sorrowful eyes that seemed genuinely concerned at the prospect that the young girl sitting across from him could be in pain, nearly made me regret that I couldn't be what he thought I was. I realized then that I had to get away from Harry. Suddenly I felt that I was losing control of the evening and became afraid of where it might end. "Maybe a little," I answered. "No more than you, I'm sure." "But I'm very damaged, Cindy," he said. "More than you know." With my head tilted one side, I smiled at him: it was a small but warm gesture, bordering on intimate. I wondered at what game he was playing. My hands drifted to rest, fingers splayed, against his chest. "Tell me, then." He stared at me for a long moment. His mouth opened as if he was about speak, but then he quickly looked away. He tried to hide the brief appearance of grief and rage that twisted his features, and when he faced me again he seemed fine. "I exaggerate," he said, and grinned, a tentative and sheepish expression that despite its falseness looked surprisingly boyish on his weathered face. "I'm fine--really. In such pretty company? How could I not be?" "Are you, Harry?" I gazed at him levelly. "Are you okay?" "I am tonight." His strong arms gathered me close, back into his comfortable embrace. My head rested against his shoulder and I sighed contentedly. "You have no idea how glad I am that you were here these last few weeks." "Me too," I said. "You want to get out of here?" I momentarily tensed in his arm. Back in the city, hitting the bars with Tom, hunting women: I knew how the game worked. Get a girl to this point? Sit with her, buy a few drinks, cuddle close and get that kiss? We both knew where this road ended. Ask her to leave the bar with you-- there was only one place left to go. Unless I broke away; this was my chance... I forcefully relaxed back onto his embrace. I couldn't leave him at this point. Harry was trying to tell me something, had been trying all week to reach a point where he felt comfortable enough with Cindy to share something private and important with her. To abandon him now would be unforgivable; it would be a betrayal of a friend. I gave a mute nod and collected my purse. I stumbled a bit as I stood, steadied by Harry's strong arm on my elbow. I wasn't that drunk--I really wasn't--it was the shoes, the pointy toe pinching painfully, the heel taller and slimmer than I was comfortable in. Fuck, what the hell was I doing? We threaded our way through the bustling crowd and left the Bacchus Bar. The night air was bracing and cleared my head a little. A small shiver passed through my body. An outfit that seemed sensible enough this afternoon left me exposed to the chill wind that breathed over us. "Cold?" Harry asked. Hell, in a second he'd be offering me his jacket. I smiled up at him and shook my head. "I'm fine," I said, though I felt anything but. I suddenly felt half-naked and ashamed of what I was wearing. Get it together, I told myself. You've been at this for weeks now. Just a little longer. "Would you like to head to my--" "How about a short walk?" I linked my arm through his. "It's a beautiful night." Harry took a long, quiet moment to stare up at the sky. For a moment he seemed to drink in his surroundings, the muted sounds of the bar behind us, the scintillating spread of stars overhead and the cute young thing hanging off his arm. His eyes were distant and a faint, wistful smile tugged at his lips. Presently he returned and his gaze dropped down to mine. God, I felt an uncomfortable tugging inside at the way he looked at me--his look was so sad, so clearly yearning for something unattainable--that it nearly left me breathless. "It is, isn't it? It really is a beautiful night," he said. "Come with me; I want to show you something." We walked in silence, both lost in our own thoughts. I leaned heavily on him, gaining a sudden insight as to why some girls wore shoes they could barely walk in. It didn't take me long to figure out where he was bringing me, and a secret smile crept onto my face. The old dog. Some people really do love routine. I remembered my first night at the Clinic, under a sky much like this one, racing towards my new home in an electric cart, K sitting ahead of me. For a brief moment the headlight had revealed a private scene: a man with a guitar and his cute late- night conquest. He brought me to a pleasant, leafy arbour, sheltered against the wind. It was about fifteen minutes distant and we walked in silence. Drinking in the gorgeous night-time beauty, the silence so profound and deep, I struggled to simply enjoy the walk. The pain in my head and his hand on my ass didn't help. I felt poised on a knife's edge, on a stiletto's point between debilitating disgust and drunken, slightly mad delight; masculine embarrassment contrasted with these learned feminine motions; and I focussed on the simple, single truth that Harry needed my help. Without that constant reminder I'm sure something would have snapped. We sat beneath a large tree, leaning back against the trunk, staring up at the sky through the rustling leaves. Harry's arm was around my waist and again I leaned my head against his shoulder. He told me a story. I barely took note of the details, lost in the mellifluous rumble of his voice. Three weeks ago, with that other girl, did he tell the same story? As he talked his hand gently and unconsciously stroked my side, a few times daring to drift as high as the soft under curve of my breast. He probably copped a feel or two. I wouldn't have felt it if he had. The prosthetics were all but dead weight now. As his story ended we dropped back into silence. He was struggling to tell me something and I was content to allow him to get there in his own time. Once again I confronted the role I played. My mind kept sliding away from the thought. Tomorrow Cindy was going to disappear and I'd sink into the new--male--life K had carved out for me. It was a certainty that I'd never see Harry again. And yeah, I felt the all-too familiar pang at the loss of another good friend, but it also made tonight's embarrassment easier to bear. "I'm not sure why I brought you here, Cindy." Lost in my own thoughts, his voice almost took me by surprise. His words were tainted with sadness. I didn't want to see the look on his face. "Why is that?" My voice was soft, encouraging. "You're not the first girl I've brought here, you know. To this tree, at night." I smiled. "I'm sure." "It's pathetic," he said. "Nothing ever happens. They're taken in by the fame and--" "You say that like it's a bad thing," I interrupted. "I certainly was." He shook his head. "No you weren't." His eyes watched me searchingly. "You're not here for the rock star. You're not here for the poet. What I can't figure out--what I like about you, Cindy--is that I have no idea why you're here, right here, right now, with me. What is it you want?" "Why do I have to want something?" I asked. "Why can't I just enjoy being with you?" "Everybody wants something," Harry insisted. "_Especially_ you. I've never met someone so intensely yearning for something; your whole being thrums with that desire." His fingertips stroked the length of my exposed leg, and a shiver shot up my spine as surely as if he'd plucked a guitar string. "I doubt you know what it is you want, but it drives you, brought you here--keeps you in my arms even now. "It's not sex," Harry said, his smile only slightly mischievous. "You tremble like a virgin at my every touch. Money? You kept trying to buy rounds and paying for our dates. Popularity? You became embarrassed every single time you spotted people in the bar talking about us. Those are the big three. If you don't want those--then what?" "You forgot one thing," I said, smiling coquettishly (I think) as I tapped him on the temple with one elegant fingernail. "Maybe I am a virgin." What the hell was I thinking, dropping a line like that? "I hadn't thought of that," he said quietly. Smiling, his hand reached up to clasp mine. He held it briefly against his cheek, then closer to his lips, and finally kissed the back of my hand, softly, and again my knuckle. I watched in a kind of horrid fascination as he slowly kissed his way up my forearm. "Harry," I protested softly, and went to pull away. His hand closed tight around my wrist. "Harry?" I asked, surprised. "I need to know, Cindy," he said, and when he looked up I saw such desperate need in those dark and lost eyes that it sent an anxious tremor through my stomach. "No teasing, no flirting; what the hell do you want?" I stared at him. I felt the wind play across my bared flesh and heard the faint rustle of the leaves overhead. The strong perfume of a nearby garden rode the air and mingled with the taste of wine and strawberry on my lips. His shape was a dark cut-out against the scattered glimmering lights of the hospital behind. My head began to pound again. My heartbeat reverberated loudly in my ears, deafening. I felt hot--burning and flushed; almost dizzy. I swayed back from his grasp and this time he let me go. "I just wanted to... ," I mumbled, scrambling a few feet away. "To thank you, Harry." "Cindy, are you... ?" I stared past him. "You're going to miss me when I'm gone," I said, in another woman's voice. *** "You are so going to miss this when I'm gone." Her words hurt, though nothing could have made me admit so. We were so good, Katherine and I, at hiding our emotions from each other. In her own way, however, she was honest unlike anyone else I'd ever been with. What she said in passing was as considered and weighted as anything she spoke directly, but this didn't make it any less true: she knew how I felt about her, and she was telling me that this thing we had--our impossible coming together, these violent passionate meetings--would not endure. Instead I smirked as I lay back on the bed, naked and with arms crossed behind my head. I snorted dismissively. Nineteen years old and certainly not innocent, I remained perhaps a little stupid. In every way that really mattered, she was so far beyond me that it's painful to try and remember. The radio murmured in the background. With a rustle and a whisper her dress slipped to the floor and pooled at her feet. A small step and she discarded the night's costume and stood at the foot of the bed, her athletic body resplendent in dark lingerie. A small lamp in a far corner shed a faint light across the room and caught her in hazy silhouette--as she moved forward it was as if Katherine detached herself from the shadows behind. Her smile was catlike as she snaked up the bed: cold, hungry; and her eyes glittered darkly. The lacy things she wore were inky black, her skin the palest ivory; scars stood out in sharp contracts; I'd never seen a more beautiful woman. She took me in her mouth and I ran my fingers through her short black hair. My grip tightened and her teeth touched skin and I relaxed and her muffled laugh danced over my cock. After I came I returned the favour until my tongue ached and she thrashed and bucked over me. I pulled her down to the bed and my hands found hers and pinned them back over her head. She struggled and freed her arms and violently flipped me over; I forced myself on top again and thrust forward and entered her. Our lovemaking was aggressive but somehow more sensual than anything I'd known before or since. Her fingers clawed at my back; she bit and cursed me and her eyes flashed with anger and desire and her legs locked behind me and crushed me close. I had never been that close to anyone before. I had never known another person's body so intimately. My kisses tasted the salt along her cheek and breast and blood at the edge of her mouth. My own release went unheard beneath the sound of her climax: a wail somewhere between a sob and a howl, a cry of ecstatic abandonment and rage. Katherine always pushed me away after orgasm. There was a raw honesty that flooded through her in the immediate aftermath, and that precious, vulnerable moment she was unwilling or unable to share. This one time--this only time--she held me near. Her arms and legs stayed locked about me and I remained inside of her even as I slowly shrunk. She clung to me with desperation. "Not yet," she said, the words catching in her throat. The sweat between our bodies was slick. My hand gently stroked along her smooth leg, played along the top of her stocking, traced the line of a suspender and gently pulled her away until she groaned softly and my softening cock slipped free. I rested my hand, palm flat, against her pussy and felt the heat there. With my other arm I cradled her to me once again, holding her by the back of her neck and massaging the tight, knotted muscles there. The fingers of her hand splayed across my chest, over my heart. I opened my mouth to speak. I'll never know what I meant to say. It wouldn't have made a difference. "Don't," she cried, and swallowed my words with a kiss. Her kiss was almost brutal at first, fierce and hungry but then turned soft and lingering. When she pulled away her eyes were wet with tears. "I love you," she said, the only time she ever did. The radio played Harry Longman's song. As the haunting strains swept over us we descended into lust once again, and for the last time. *** "Cindy?" No amount of makeup, no greatness of skill could have concealed the ugliness that distorted my face. Filled with sudden rage I launched myself at Harry. I was on him in a second, slamming him back against the tree. Real fear flared in his eyes as I pressed against him, my hand clutching at his throat, blood-red talons digging into his skin. Wide eyes stared at me in shock and fear. "Cindy!" Harry croaked. His hand grappled at mine, pulled futilely at my arm but couldn't dislodge my grip. "There was a girl," I said, nearly spitting the words out. "The only thing I've ever loved. When I think of her now? I can't--I can't remember anymore. Three, four times together, that's it. And you're one of those memories, Harry. You're... one of those. One of your fucking songs, the only thing we agreed on, the only thing, God, the one moment Kate and I were together that wasn't all fucked up and twisted with hate and...." I choked on the swell of emotions in my throat, on my own bile and anger. My hands dropped to his shoulders, pulled him forward, slammed him back against the tree. He winced with the impact. My fingers curled into the meat of his arm and trembled. I felt tears fill my eyes and it made me all the angrier. Where the hell was all this coming from? "But God, it hurts, it fucking hurts to remember, so much, Harry, but it hurts even more not to...." Our faces were inches apart. He stared at me, no longer with fear but with fascination. My breath came in gasping heaves that almost drowned out his voice. "Who the hell are you?" he whispered. "I'm... Cindy," I half cried and lunged forward, crushing my open mouth against his. Harry pulled back in surprise, but only for a moment and then he returned the kiss. His lips parted and my tongue slid into his mouth. I pressed up tight against Harry, almost straddling him, breasts a dull presence between us, my hands clutching at his back, running through his hair.... My voice escaped as a muffled moan and I continued to push against him, forcing him back against the tree as my kisses became hungrier, more aggressive. His tongue slid against mine and found my mouth and his stubble rubbed against my chin and I felt his hand slip beneath my skirt and squeeze my nylon-clad ass. Tears streaked down my cheek and those his roving kisses didn't catch gathered at my chin, hung and glittered momentarily before falling away. Salt and the sweetness of lip-gloss. Perfume, lilac mingled with night- born eucalyptus and his own masculine muskiness, leather and something spicy. His weathered hand smoothly stroking my thigh, callused fingertips sliding through long hair and holding my neck, holding me close. Our frenzied breath loud in my ears, leather rubbing against silk, against bark, the rustling of the leaves beneath us and the wetness of our kisses, his sigh, Cindy's frantic moan.... "Oh, God...." My mouth trailed kissed across his cheek and I buried my face into his neck and clung to him desperately even as my stomach churned and twisted. His arms held me tight, his chin pressing into my head, fingers dancing along the strap of my bra as if fretting one of his guitars. His touch swept across my breasts and I felt nothing. The appliance below was dead: nothing. "Cindy...." Forehead to forehead I landed a kiss on his lips, another, a final soft touch of our lips and I exhaled across his cheek. My eyes opened and found his and held his gaze. I blinked away the tears and smiled tentatively, warmly. "Katherine," I whimpered softly. "What?" Harry said. The last vestige of memory sank away. I was back at the Clinic, sitting beneath a tree, in Harry Longman's favourite make-out spot, wearing a skirt, heels, breathing heavily. My eyes widened in horror at what I had just done. I felt hollow and numb. "Are you okay?" he asked. I noticed he refrained from touching me. "No," I answered. Harry hesitated a moment before speaking. "If I asked you who Katherine was," he said, "would you tell me?" "No." He nodded. "Would you like me to leave?" I stared at him, my eyes open and lost, for a long moment before I shook my head no. We sat down beneath the tree again, though without the intimacy of before. Without his body next to mine I suddenly realized how chilly the night air had become. My bared midriff and short skirt did little to keep me warm, and I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. Harry watched, sighed, and wordlessly passed me his leather jacket. I accepted it silently. "I've never been able to watch a girl shiver in the cold," he said. "Thank you," I said as I slipped into the jacket. "I'm not going to see you again after tonight," he said. "Am I?" "No, you won't." His hand my hand and gave it a little squeeze. I should have pulled away but instead my fingers curled into his and held tight. "What happened to you?" "It's a long story." "They always are." "You must think I'm crazy," I asked in a small voice. He gave a gentle pull with his hand and brought me closer. "We're all crazy here," he said. I nodded mutely. "You're crying," he said. "Am I?" My fingers came away from my eye damp and smeared with black. "Well... fuck." I rubbed my fingers dry against my skirt. "I thought this mascara was waterproof," I added, and somehow that seemed the final ignominy of a long and exhausting evening. "Is there anything I can do to help?" I nodded. "Anything." "Tell me what it was that you wanted from me." "Oh, that," Harry said, waving one hand dismissively. "I've been meaning to tell you all week, but it hardly seems important now." He shrugged. "I'm dying, Cindy." *** The next morning, after a few hours of fitful sleep, I dragged myself into the bathroom and showered and took care of necessities and even shaved my legs and pits--one last time. I decided to put extra special effort into getting ready for my meeting with Doctor Scooter. I went through the process of getting ready in a slightly numb, detached haze. Cindy would effectively be dead by this afternoon. For some reason I felt like sending her off with a proper show of respect. She was a good girl, after all. Maybe I figured that I'd misjudged her. I didn't want to think about it though. It was easier to lose myself in the morning routine. >From the back of the closet I pulled out an item I'd eyed with trepidation since moving to the Clinic: a pair of four-inch Jimmy Chou black leather stilettos, the same I'd worn that very first night to throw off the pursuit. I'd been wearing heels for three weeks now but I hadn't dared wear anything that... risky, yet. Once I started with that it just seemed right to follow through with all the other things I'd been reluctant to try on: my laciest, skimpiest panties and the matching suspender belt and wispy, silk stockings. I hadn't worn anything so overtly feminine since that first night K dressed me up in the motel room to throw off the pursuit. Then I struggled into a tight, just-above-the-knees skirt that hugged my contours like a second skin. It hobbled my stride, forcing small, mincing steps--but with those heels, man, did it ever give me a delightfully sexy ass-swaying wiggle. Hell, there's no way I could've tugged the zipper shut if I hadn't laced the corset that extra inch tighter. It left me slightly breathless and flushed but for some reason that left me feeling all the more feminine. Finally I slipped into a tight blouse, leaving the top breast-baring buttons undone. Why the hell not, I figured. Cindy deserved a proper seeing off. She really did. I also spent the extra time on the makeup. Took my time shaving and followed up with the concealer and foundation and all the other shit that made of my face a proper canvas. I blended the eyeshadow and worked the mascara and coloured in my lips and put to use all the practice and knowledge I'd accumulated during my stay at Asklepios. After carefully re-painting my nails I dusted my bared flesh with some shimmering powder and positively glowed by the time I finished. Not bad. Not bad at all. Scooter's girls would be proud. I'd learned a lot over the last few weeks. Long dangling earrings jigged across my shoulders as I turned this way and that in the full-length mirror. God, I was hot. It really was a shame Cindy was not long for this world. I'd certainly do her if, you know, that wasn't me in the mirror. I ran my hands along my curves down to my knees and leaned forward, flashing my cleavage. "Good-bye, Cindy," I purred. Beautiful emerald-green eyes glittered enigmatically as I gave her a kiss. My lips left a half-formed pink imprint on the glass. My voice dropped to a whisper. "Just between you and me? I'll think I'm going to miss you." *** An hour later I sat at the edge of a medical bed in Scooter's examination room in the Meditrine Clinic. Sterilized stainless steel gleamed under bright florescent lights. Tools and sharp-edged implements glistened from their trays and from behind locked glass. Similar to the man's underground surgical room, this one was crammed from wall-to-wall with books and charts, and hi-tech equipment, but here it was all kept clean and orderly. A long counter cut off the far end of the room. Unlike the soothing designs of the Hygieia Centre--despite all its modernist touches--this place felt like a hospital: a place where people died. "How you feeling, Girlie?" the doctor asked, perched on a high stool. "Fine," I grunted. "Tired." Scooter watched me intently as he worked. "Busy last light, I'm sure," he said. "How are the ribs?" I shrugged. "Not bad. Hurts a bit when I make a sudden movement." "Then don't make sudden movements," he said. The tone of his voice clearly added 'idiot'. "Have you been taking those painkillers? They help?" Suspicious, the way he asked about those pills. "Yeah." With both my shirt and the corset off I shivered in the air-conditioned room. Scooter's fingers probed at my ribs, his gentle touch belied by the size of his hands. He nodded with approval when I didn't wince in pain. His stethoscope shone coldly as it slid across my chest. "You seem surprisingly calm," he said. "Why wouldn't I be? There something you're not telling me?" A tremor crept into my voice and I fought it down. I wanted to have words with this man. Oh, how I wanted discuss certain concerns that I had. Thing is, it's not a good idea to have a go at the man who'll be holding a knife to your face later in the day. "Most people are nervous before surgery." Scooter said. "That's normal." A wide, toothy grin split his face. "But maybe you're more sad than scared?" "Sad?" His hand jerked in the general direction of my discarded clothes. "All that fem stuff. After all, you've gotten so good at wearing--" "You know?" I interrupted. "I think that's what I'm going to fucking miss most: these pleasant chats of ours. That and the goddamn beauty sessions." Scooter laughed. "Any time." The sight of the doctor and his mockery filled me with such rage that I had to look away and cast my eye across the room. One door led into a small lavatory; another, of transparent glass, back into his office and waiting room, with its desk and computer, stacks of books and files, and an expensive-looking leather sofa. Behind that closed door sat Cindy's Mom, legs crossed at the knee, one foot bobbing with impatient anxiety. "Interesting," Scooter murmured. I returned my attention to the man and found his hands latched on to my tits, his thumb roughly massaging the small, grey nubs at the tip. "Hey!" He flicked curious, dark blue eyes my way. "Nothing? No sensation?" "No, thank you very much. Keep your hands to yourself, yeah?" I nearly punched his hands away. "It's been a couple of days since I've felt anything from them." I watched warily as he brought his face close to my chest. He took a little sniff and then, before I could stop him, his tongue flicked out across a nipple. Nose wrinkling in disgust he turned away and spat. "Jesus Christ, Scooter!" I shoved him away and crossed my arms across my bare chest. "What the fuck's your problem?" "Some discharge, slightly oily, sweet smelling," he muttered, nodding to himself as he walked over to the counter. He washed his hands clean before turning back to me. "They must be at the very end of their cycle. Another day and the prosthetics would have fallen off on their own." His eyes flicked down to my crotch. "Down there?" "Fucking thing fell away this morning." He snorted. "Must've been a relief." "Like you wouldn't believe," I agreed, nodding emphatically. "Five minutes later I was in the bathroom with the Victoria Secret's catalogue. Jacked off like there's no tomorrow." The doctor returned to his examination, shaking his head in mild distaste. He tapped my knee, took my blood pressure--he noted that it was a little high--and shone a light in my eye and did the whole doctor thing in silence. I did my best to remain calm throughout as he jotted notes and information about me in the patient chart he carried in hand. When he spoke the seriousness of his voice took me by surprise. "David?" he asked, and I raised an eyebrow at hearing him use my name. "Listen, all joking aside: do you like this girlie shit?" I glared at him. "You're joking, right?" "Not at all," he answered, meeting my gaze levelly. "I hate it! Scooter, I fucking hate all this bullshit." I gestured angrily towards the corset, the clingy top, clawed at the skirt I was wearing. "I'm a guy, yeah? You have any idea how embarrassing this crap is?" "So it was all an act, then?" "Of course it was!" "Even last night?" I didn't answer straight away. When the quiet became uncomfortable I reluctantly asked, "What do you mean?" "You know damn well what I mean," Scooter answered. He dragged a small monitor on a wheeled cart over from its corner and tapped at a couple of keys. A little earlier he'd used the same computer to show some of the proposed changes they were going to make to my face. Any other time, watching a doctor manipulate my features on a screen, turning me into-- well, someone else--would've been just a little freaky. But the face was male, and that's all that mattered. I felt a desperate need to return to a normal masculine life, no matter what it was. The screen came alive and displayed a still frame of some video footage. It showed Harry and me, sitting in the Bacchus Bar. I sighed. "What do you want me to say?" Scooter tapped on the space bar and cycled through a few short clips: the brief kiss on the lips between Harry and I; my hand on his knees and our close conversation; standing together and leaving the bar, arm in arm. I flushed hot with humiliation at the sight of myself, flirting with another man, sitting with him, cuddling into his embrace, playing the bar bimbo, blonde, pretty, stupid. I had to physically restrain my hand from clutching at the sharp, angry pain that flared through my stomach and head. Scooter glanced back at me. "You sure you don't like this stuff... Cindy?" My face burned with fury and shame. "Fuck you, Jonathon." "Because you sure seemed to be enjoying yourself." I nearly choked on my anger. I jumped off the bed and went to stalk out of the room. I caught K's inquisitive glance from the waiting room and couldn't meet her eyes. "Why'd you do it?" Scooter called after me. "Screw you, doc," I snapped over my shoulder. His voice reached me just as I went to leave. "What you did, David? It may have saved his life." I hesitated at the door. Glancing back I was surprised at the sympathy he displayed. "What do you mean?" "Harry Longman," he stated, and then gestured for me to come back. "And drop the theatrics, will you? Come sit down. Where the hell were you going, dressed liked that?" I glanced down and saw the grey, inflexible mounds still affixed to my bared chest. With a sigh I returned to the examination table. "You're an asshole," I muttered. "So are you," he said. "Yet here we are, apparently both capable of the occasional good deed." Scooter released a deep sigh and picked up my clothes and tossed them over to me. I got dressed in silence as he continued to talk. "How did you get Harry to change his mind?" "I don't know what you're talking about," I muttered. "Mr Longman is dying, David. That's why he's at the Asklepios Clinic." "Yeah, I know," I answered, sliding my top on over the corset. "He told me last night." "Did he tell you that we've been trying to get him into surgery for months now? It's an experimental procedure--risky, but the only shot he's got. He's refused up till now." I grudgingly turned my full attention back to Scooter. "No. He didn't mention it." "Funny that. Because this is the thing: time and again he's said no, not interested. No reason to justify the risk, he said. And then you came along, David. You just breezed into his favourite hangout prancing around in a skirt and a few hours later you're his best friend. A year he's been here and you're the first person he's connected with. You go out, have a couple of dates... and suddenly he changes his mind." "Really? Hey, that's great news." "He called you his 'broken flower'. A new muse. He said that any world that contains such fantastic and strange creatures as you is one worth staying in." Scooter's words brought a wide grin to my face. Well... holy shit. Something good did come of last night. I hoped that Harry pulled through. I really did. "So how did you do it?" I shrugged. "He was lonely." "He was lonely?" Scooter snorted. "Gee, I wonder how our team of expert psychiatrists could've missed that. 'He was lonely.' You figured that out all on your own?" I glared at him. "Yeah, I guess I'm clever that way. The man wasn't just lonely; he was ready to die. We're all lonely, Scooter. That's human. But only a few of us are ready to die because of it." "Fine," Scooter answered, and he sounded reluctantly interested. "Then how'd you know that was his problem?" I shrugged again. "How the hell should I know? I just knew. It's the same way that I could tell that you're an egomaniac jerkwad." I jerked a finger in K's direction. "The same way I knew from the moment I met her that she's a fucking dyke nutcase... and that, yeah, I can trust her implicitly." I did up the final button on the blouse I wore. Interesting. Three weeks ago it took all my concentration to work a button with those claws on my finger. Now I could manage almost unconsciously. Borderline miraculous, that was. "Although in Harry's case... I mean, c'mon, have you even listened to his music? Read his lyrics? It's all there. The guy's lonely. He's lost. He's... bored, hell, I don't know, looking for something, someone." Scooter ran one beefy hand through his thick mess of hair, thinking. "And so let me guess--Cindy was just what he was looking for?" My laugh was hollow. "Cindy? Hell no. Seriously, you don't think a guy like Harry scores a girl like Cindy any time he wants? You say the Clinic's been watching him--tell me Scooter, how many girls just like Cindy has he met and scored with over the last year? How many has he led into the park, or back to his room? "For a guy like Harry? Girls like Cindy are a dime a dozen and you know what? They do nothing to kill the loneliness. Hell, they make it worse. Waking up in bed next to someone and somehow you feel more disconnected than before? God, it kills, Scooter, it fucking kills and the only thing that makes you feel better is going out again and doing it all over again." I shook me head, earrings and golden bangs fluttering about my face. "Cindy was the last thing he was looking for." Scooted looked at me quizzically. "Then--" I sighed. "Harry needed... hell, whatever it is I've been since K brought me here. A pretty girl. A cute groupie to flatter his pride, arm candy who looked good hanging off his arm... a flirt who could turn him on and make him feel like a man. It's what he thinks he needs but it's not what he wants. What he wants is a friend-- to hang out with, shoot the shit and match him drink for drink. Conversation and, hell, you know--the whole bullshit male-bonding thing... something more than a gushing star-struck bimbo." "Is that what you are, then?" Scooter asked, intrigued. I glared at him, my anger and barely concealed sense of betrayal simmering to the fore once again. "It's what I made myself into," I said. "Just like that," Scooter said. His voice was doubtful. I frowned. "No, not 'just like that.' You have any idea how hard it was, to relax into his arms?" I waved my hand towards the computer monitor, still displaying a frozen image of Harry and Cindy in a relaxed embrace. God, they looked so happy, Harry just a little bemused but so very, very content; and Cindy, her smile so simple, those beautiful eyes firmly set upon her man. "Shit, every touch, every... kiss, fuck, it made me sick Scooter, made me want to throw up." "So why--" "Because he's a friend!" I shouted. Why the fuck couldn't people understand? Harry was a friend. I'd just met the man but it's not time that determines the value of a friendship. I owed the man and I take that kind of responsibility seriously. There's nothing I wouldn't do for a friend. In a world where love fails and family betrays and people die, friendship is the only thing worth believing in. Real friendship--friends that are constant in all things-- trustworthy--and there when you need them; how rare and precious such a thing is! Harry had found his reason to stay in this world--Cindy--and in some twisted way he'd become mine my reason as well. Even if he didn't ask for my help, couldn't ask for it--there's no way I could've let the guy die. And if Cindy was the only one that could get close to him... then fuck it, I'd be Cindy for him. I'd.... I'd kissed him. I... kissed a man. A man, for chrissake! I'd been trying to forget about last night. Obsessing about Cindy to kill the doubts, losing myself in routine, keep my mind busy. But some things you should never ignore, can never forget. Phantom sensations lurked at the edge of thought: a man's hand caressing my ass, a man's tongue sliding against mine, what the fuck had I done, what had I... done? "David?" Scooter's voice came from far away. "David!" I gagged. Bile rose in my throat. That... bastard, that selfish weak piece of shit! Saving that man's ass just to preserve some pathetic memory? Wasted--ruined, tainted. Now when I thought of Kate and that song and that one good memory... I'd always remember Harry fucking Longman and his fingers digging through my hair, his cock swelling beneath my hand... his smell, leather and age still clinging to me. My palm felt slick and I saw blood there, beading up where my fingers has cut the skin. White knuckles. Red palm--and nails. Strong hands grabbed my head on both sides and pulled me out of myself. "David!" doctor Jonathon demanded. "What you did--it was good, David, you may have saved his life." Grudging respect--I saw it in Scooter's eyes. The disgust I felt over last night burned away before the almost blinding hatred I felt for the man in front of me now. This was not Harry's fault; Harry was a friend. But Jonathon Bridges was a man I had trusted, and who had betrayed me, and if I didn't need him I could have killed him right then and there. I really could have. "No more," I nearly growled. "No more... Cindy. No more bullshit. Stop this, Jonathon, stop what you're doing to me." "What do you mean?" He face went deliberately blank. "You think I'm fucking stupid?" I hissed. "Where were they? In the goddamn painkillers? Subliminal conditioning in the music during the beauty sessions? Or was it in my food?" "David, you're not...." "Where were the drugs?" I screamed at him. "These motherfucking headaches, the way I've been acting--you don't think I know when I'm being fucked around, you son-of-a-bitch?" Over in the waiting room K watched us curiously, but the heavy glass door blocked the sounds of my ranting. "I know who I am! I'm a man, dammit! I'm not Cindy! I don't-- last night-- I said I trusted you but that didn't give you the right to- -" A quickly made decision flicked across his eyes. "It was for your own good," Scooter interrupted, his voice steady, his face unflinching confronted with my anger. "So you admit--" "Yes, I do," he said. "The Asklepios Clinic drugged you, David. Does that make you feel better? Does it alleviate the guilt that you've been prancing around like a girl for the last three weeks? Last night was entirely the drugs. Blame it on the drugs, David, blame it all on hypnotic suggestions and even on me if it'll make you feel better." My hands trembled at my side, aching from the restraint. "You bastard." "I told you the first time we met: the Asclepieion is my top concern, David, not you. Your disguise was a good one but not good enough. It wasn't up to my standards. The experts helped to polish the rough edges but it was the mannerisms that were going to give you away. You looked like a girl but talked like a man, so the Clinic helped fix up your weaknesses. And it worked. You survived intact and tomorrow you'll wake up a new man." "What did you do to me?" I demanded. "A mild hypnotic--nothing more. The compound was air-born and slipped in through the ventilation at night. All that reading and practice you did? The drug simply helped your hard work stick. A little positive reinforcement helped subdue your natural guilt over acting like a girl. Your own obsession with Harry Longman carried it that final step." "And the headaches?" He hesitated. "Not an uncommon side-effect. Nothing serious." The bastard was lying; I could tell. "You still had no right...." "I had every right to do what I did," he stated, and loudly slammed shut the patient chart in his hand. "This is my Clinic! You are here at my sufferance!" His crazy red hair jumped and shook as he accentuated each point by slamming his fist against the solid metal bedframe. "You are alive because of me!" "And Harry's alive because of me," I answered levelly. Mouth open mid-rant, Scooter stopped. He stared at me for a moment, and then suddenly grinned widely. "This is true," he said. "Consider us even?" "Not even close," I said. Doctor Jonathon Bridges nodded. "Fair enough," he said, and shrugged, and I saw how little importance he attached to my forgiveness. "For what it's worth, the self-conditioning should fade quickly. If you don't try to act feminine, you won't, though some of the learned behaviours might slip through unconsciously. Things like brushing back your hair; and even that will fade quickly in the absence of continued reinforcement. Even drug-induced hypnosis is just hypnosis; it can't make you do anything you're deeply opposed to. "So make your farewells to Cindy. I'll make sure everything's prepped and ready. We'll be ready to start within the hour." The doctor left the room, leaving me along at the edge of the examination table. I stared at my red-tipped fingers, at the sexy stiletto spike and the delicate leather strap that wound its way up my ankle and calf. Long blonde hair fell in a whispering cascade across my shoulders. I licked my lips and tasted the makeup there that made my mouth full and shiny. With every movement I felt the tickle of lace against soft and sensitive skin; suspenders tautened and loosened as I crossed my legs. The feminine gesture came so easily it was frightening. I wouldn't miss any of this. I really wouldn't. *** With steps that were more than a little precarious, I joined Agent K in the waiting room. Those shoes did an amazing thing for my ass and posture, but left me feeling like I was walking on stilts. What the hell had I been thinking, wearing these fucking things? Damn Scooter and his goddamn drugs. With a well-conditioned movement I crossed my legs and smoothed down the skirt as I sat on the sofa next to K. The Clinic's mind-games exposed, I found myself terribly aware of how unnatural these gestures were, and how easily they came. A faint shimmer woven into the hosiery caught the light as I carefully crossed my legs and delicately folded my hands over my knees. Without the prosthetic these gestures became just a tad dangerous; last thing I wanted was to crush my nads, yeah? I was discovering that it's a hell of a lot harder to be properly dainty and feminine with cock and balls trapped in silk. Agent K put aside the magazine she'd been idly leafing through. The motherly fa?ade fell away but a strangely enigmatic smile remained as she turned to me. I briefly wondered whether she had known about Scooter's actions; grudgingly admitted that I'd probably never know; and that she would have approved even if she knew. "David," she stated, as if determining my identity for the conversation. "Nervous?" "Not really," I answered. I ran a hand through my long hair and held it up for inspection. "Anxious to get rid of all this nonsense, to be honest." The corner of her mouth twitched into a small smile. "Really? By all accounts, Cindy has been quite comfortable these last few weeks." "Don't believe everything you hear," I said. "I've been saying since day one I hate this shit. A couple of weeks of being pampered ain't about to change that. I'm a guy, K. I can't tell you how embarrassing all this crap is. Once you get me settled down, believe me--I'll never wear a skirt again. Ever." "Not even for me?" she asked softly. Her smile grew by the slightest degree, turned just a little playful and maybe--something more? "Would you play Cindy for me?" God, this woman was a tough nut to crack! I held her gaze searchingly and tried to read her intentions--whether she was joking, serious, desperate or maybe just horny. Her eyes glittered darkly and her thin smile didn't waver. K's pose was relaxed and slightly mirrored mine, neither welcoming nor chastising. But that curious half-smile, the suggestion of quiet laughter lurking behind her lips; what the hell was that all about? Self-deprecating, or was she including me in a joke; was I the joke? I opened my mouth to answer; cleared my throat and glanced away. It's a good thing my legs were crossed. In a skirt this tight there's no hiding a boner. Damn this woman! She puts me in panties and drugs me and I ought to hate her but somehow she's got me more intrigued than any woman I've met in years. A snappy comeback: it's all I wanted at that point but three weeks of playing Cindy seemed to have dulled... what? Certain rough edges, some of my cynicism? Or has it stolen my confidence? Scooter's assurances that the drugs would wear off quickly did little to ease my fears at that point. K's hand softly resting over mine startled me back to attention. "Has it really been that bad, being a girl?" she asked, her eyes turning by degrees more serious. "How the hell do you expect me to answer that?" I answered. "How can I answer that?" "Tell me you hated it," she said, her fingers sliding into my palm, pulling my clasped hands apart. She held one up as if examining forensic evidence. My nails caught the light in glimmering rainbow hues. "Tell me you hate having long nails and playing with the beautiful colours and how slender they make your fingers seem and how they change the way you hold your hand." What the hell? "I hate it," I said, even as her soft touch drifted across the back of my hand and sent a delicate shudder up my spine. "Tell me you hate the smooth skin," she continued, and her hand slid up my arm, lightly caressing my bared forearm. "The delicate scents that tickle the senses and sensual softness that welcomes every touch; do you hate that as well?" "I hate it," I insisted. Her posture was gradually shifting towards me and she leaned closer as her hand reached to my shoulder and trailed a single nail along my bared collarbone and made me shiver. "This?" Her fingers outlined the bump beneath my top made by the edge of the corset beneath; her fingers traced the contour down my back and tickled the skin beneath the tightly drawn laces. "And this?" Her other hand found my knee and softly kneaded the