A Christmas Story, part 8 (Patreon)

At just over 11k words in length, this chapter is clearly way too long. Likely, I'll split it into two or three smaller chapters, especially once the conclusion's finalized. Ten chapters seem like a nice, round number. Though being a Christmas story, maybe twelve would be better? Oh, I like that. Also, I'm not entirely convinced the musing on femininity works yet, nor the submission epiphany, and I expect to tighten those up a bit in the final edit.

Nevertheless, enjoy! Keep in mind that the current ending's a bit of a placeholder. Until I've gone back and finished the old chapter 6 and the introduction of Darius, and fleshed out plot points hinted at here, the ending to the Christmas arc remains a bit unstable. I admit it's a funny way to write a story, jumping ahead and then writing backwards.

I'm pushing this out a day early because the rest of the week's looking real-life-work horrible.

Eight: Loose Ends

One by one, we tick off Mr. Connor’s fantasies.

            From that night onwards, I share his bed. He wears black button-down pyjamas, I wear the black silk and pink lace set he gifted me. The silk feels cool between cotton bedsheets. I sleep in his arms and don’t remember any dream or nightmares in the morning.

            In the morning, we have sex again. I wake him with a blowjob, because that’s something I always loved. His lethargic waking fumbles quickly escalate into energetic fucking that finishes with me on my back, heels over my head, tits bouncing everywhere, eager yelps echoing off the walls. He comes inside me again, and his grin is so wide and pleased with himself, and with me, that it’s infectious. Walking funny but with a joyful grin plastered on my face, I return to my room and squeeze into the maid’s outfit. By the time he comes downstairs, I’m merrily buzzing about, tidying up yesterday’s mess. Dishwasher on, I pop bacon under the grill and whisk eggs for an omelet. He whistles appreciatively. A little pink-faced and breathless, I curtsy. Christ, but I’d forgotten how tight this corset was. Mr. Connor nods approvingly, and I blush at his approval. He sits and waits to be served, drinking coffee, reading his phone. During breakfast, he keeps a running tally of every infraction: a forgotten ‘sir’ here, spilled coffee, a missed curtsey.

            Afterwards, he leads me to the living room and orders me to lie over the sofa armrest. Face down, I hear him remove his belt. My breath catches in my throat. I’m acutely aware of the tight boning nipping in my waist, the bunched petticoats beneath and the way these stilettos thrust my exposed ass in air. When he lays into me, it hurts so fucking much I sob into the sofa; and when he massages my bum and rubs soothing lotion into the welts, I nearly swoon; but when he shows me the well-lubed butt plug, I panic. It’s a tiny thing, no bigger than a finger, but I nearly blurt out the safe word when I see it. For a moment I can’t breathe, the tight corset casing nearly does me in as I scrabble for the lacing and my breath burns in my lungs and my vision narrows as I start to hyperventilate.

            He grabs my hands and orders me to be good, to breathe in and out slowly, to relax—and I do, I listen and next thing I know, he’s slipped the plug up my ass and tugs my panties into place. Good girl, he says again. When he then directs me to kneel on the floor in front of him and drops his trousers, I don’t protest, I’m too overwhelmed at the speed it’s all happened to say anything.

            At first, I’m resentful, feeling unfairly punished after all I’ve done for him. The thing up my ass is a discomforting presence, especially with me kneeling. All too soon though, I’m sucking him off with growing eagerness and enthusiasm until, with a satisfied grunt, he empties his balls in my mouth. It takes awhile, so soon after our earlier fucking, and my knees ache and neck hurts, my jaws tied by the time he finishes. I look up at him from my position on the floor and he nods. I swallow it all down, though I can’t quite hide the grimace. I might be getting good at his, but I still don’t like the taste. No matter, he’s pleased, pats me on the head.

            The plug’s still there when in the early afternoon, he leads me back to the living room. I haven’t gotten used to the sensation of being full down there, although on occasion, it seems to—push up against—touch a space inside—that feels good, that makes me pause and shiver. I’m wearing a yellow sundress, and he’s dressed casually in jeans and t-shirt. There’s a soft yoga-style mat laid out on the floor, but he first sits me on a stool. He stands behind me and begins to braid my hair. His fingers are a little clumsy at first but soon find their rhythm. The feeling of his fingers threading my hair is both sensuous and calming. He braids my hair in one long, tightly woven plait.

            He begins in silence but soon starts to talk. “I used to do this for Lily,” he says, “her mom was useless at it,” and the gentle rumble of his voice against my back is a soothing presence. Nostalgia touches his voice as he reminisces over time spent with his daughter, walks in the park, taking her trick-or-treating. He remembers the very last time he ever picked her up and held her in his arms. Then he talks a bit about Rose, too, how they went out and bought a bunch of daffodil bulbs, planted them last September, the weekend after Lily went back to school. It was the last genuinely happy day between them, he tells me, at least that he can remember.

            After that, he works in silence. All too soon, he’s done, and I miss the feeling of his fingers through my hair. He has me stand, and then slowly undresses me. My dress pools around my ankles, soon joined by my bra and panties. Naked, he leads me to the mat on the floor.

            Then the Christmas tree looms above and I’m lying on my back, staring up into lights. He reveals a box full of rope. He slips a blindfold over me eyes. Slowly, methodically, he begins to tie me up, much like in the video we watched on Christmas day. The ropes are smooth against my skin but utterly unyielding. As he works, he resumes talking. His voice goes some way towards easing my anxiety as he gently draws my arms behind my back and begins to bind them.

            “It’s Rose’s brother’s fault, really,” he says. “He got me into this. A few years after we got married, we went on holiday, her parents, brother and sister, and me, all on the family yacht. The Lookfar; gorgeous ship, we bought it off her family a few years ago. I’d love to take you on it sometime, Cindy, can you imagine that? Open coastline, bright sun, dancing waves. You in a bikini.” He pauses, adds, “Would you like that?”

            I nod, eagerly.

            “Anyway, that first time out, we’re docked at this private marina, everyone’s off getting drunk down the pier and her brother, Sal, he’s showing me these knots, can’t sail if you don’t know your knots, he says. I copy him, and I’m pretty good at it, I hadn’t realised just how complex these things get. But I’ve got a knack for it, tying up loose ends, and learn my anchor hitch, my bowline knot, no problem. I’m enjoying it, which is unusual because I never liked Sal, always found him a bit of a creep. I ask him to teach me some more, and he laughs.

            “You ain’t seen nothing, he says. On his phone, he’s got this video. Shibari, you ever hear of it? Japanese rope-craft. Pretty dark history to it but the video he shows me, it’s—well, you know, I showed it to you yesterday. I found it utterly mesmerising. Sal nudged me, grinned, can you imagine doing this to sis, he asks, think Rose would like this? Christ. No, obviously it wasn’t something Rose would like. No idea why Sal thought that was an okay thing to say about his own sister. Like I said, a creep.

            “But truth is, afterwards I couldn’t get it out of my mind. And I did try it with Rose. Nothing complex, just tying her wrists behind her back, or to the headboard, little bondage games. That kind of stuff’s popular, almost mainstream. But she wasn’t into it. What ended up happening was that I kept my fascination secret, like everything else. But this, this I could practice. It’s popularity probably peaked over a decade ago, though I think it’s getting fashionable again. Anyway, when I had work conferences, business trips away, if I could find one, I’d sign up for—workshops, I guess you’d call them. I’ve been to a half-dozen or so over the years. And yes, I’ve been tied up, too, because some teachers insist you experience both sides, so you know what it feels like to tie, and be tied. And fifteen years ago, these workshops were a lot more balanced, plenty of guys experiencing both sides of it, gay couples, hetero couples switching it up. These days, not so much. Last few I’ve been to, it’s only the girls who get the rope, most of the workshops won’t allow practice on men. And just to be clear, those girls at the workshops, I never cheated on Rose, not in that way, anyway, though the opportunity was there, believe me. I already felt guilty enough doing this kind of thing in secret, but I wouldn’t ever fuck around behind her back like that. Anyway, that all ended a few years ago. I practiced a few times on a doll here at home when everyone was away. But that was it.”

            By this time, he’s pretty much done, and I’m trussed up like our Christmas day turkey. Blindfolded, my binding is experienced through touch alone as he weaves his columns of rope. Ropes trace a diamond pattern across my chest, a harness that squeezes and lifts my tits and they jut outwards as further loops bind my arms behind my back, wrist and elbow tied together. Legs, too, thigh and ankles, and by the end of thirty minutes of careful work, I can barely even squirm. I am surprised at how… not uncomfortable it feels; very snug, not unlike a well-fitted corset but for my whole body, holding me firmly in position. My hair becomes part of my binding, twining through intricate knotting before finally filling my mouth; he gags me with my own braid and positions me on the mat on the floor.

            The final touch is a pair of noise-cancelling earplugs. He leaves me deaf, blind and mute. There is only the taste of my own hair, and the feeling of the yoga mat under my bum, and cool air against bare skin. Goose bumps rise and fall, and my nipple tighten into hard nubs.

            Is he still in the room, watching? He could be masturbating over me again, for all I know. He could—

            There’s no way to know. I’m here, and utterly helpless. Totally dependent on him to free me. He could do anything he wants. Were something to happen, if he slipped, fell, hurt himself—left the house, got mugged, into an accident, I would remain here alone, silent and unmoving and blind. What if there was a home invasion, like in his videos? What if—Steele—found me, like this?

            For a short time, my skin prickles with fear; for an even briefer time, with shame; and then eventually, nothing and my breathing calms and I—relax—into the rope’s caress.

            That’s when he touches me. At first, I think it’s just my imagination. His touch—I assume—it could be anyone. Somehow, this makes it even more exciting as the gentle feeling of strong fingers strokes my flesh. He kisses my stomach, taut with—not quite fear, not quite arousal—and around my bellybutton piercing, then my ear, chin, the top of my left breast, in the spaces between ropes. His tongue circles a swollen nipple. Then, he sucks on my breast, takes it in his mouth and I moan around my gag, though I feel rather than hear my own sounds as a vibration through my skull.

            He continues to tease and excite me until, finally, his finger finds its way to feminine folds and slides into me, deep and my body clenches tight. I’m reminded of the presence in the other hole, too. Nostrils flare as he pumps again and again as I moan through my gag, whimper helplessly, unable to even wiggle or thrash against my bonds as he brings me to a series of crashing orgasms that I swear nearly fucking kills me. Unable to move, the full force of each release slams into my poor, blinded brain.

            Then he’s gone, or at least I think he is, there’s no way to tell. He’s left me a parting gift, a vibrator up my pussy that intermittently kicks into life. It leaves me hot and moaning, jerking with the occasional mini orgasm. For a short time, my existence is one of pure physical sensuality, wiggling against the intruder in my cunt, my ass, straining for relief from rock-hard nipples, biting down into my own braid, body clenching in anticipation of the next touch, pulsation, burst of pleasure. Bound tightly as I am, there is no escape except to surrender. Eventually, the vibrator tapers off, goes silent.

            In the exhausted, foggy clarity that follows, the first thing that comes to mind is: I’ve done this before. Which is absurd. I haven’t. Yet without sight or sound to distract, unable to move, my brain curls in on itself and asks: then how did I end up here?

            A year ago, nearly to the day I had Steele’s executive PA, his secretary, in her top-floor office. Amanda. God, she was a sexy bitch, mid-thirties sexpot with a Harvard degree in a tight pencil skirt. She had Tom and me running in circles to win her, but getting there first I quickly reminded her who was in charge: I bent that bitch over her desk, smacked her ass, filled and fucked her from behind as she swore and moaned and climaxed, again and again, as we both looked out over the far sprawl of the city glittering in the night. Then, I had her on her knees, ruined her perfect makeup as she sucked me off and spat my spunk in the executive toilet. Yeah, I damn well put her in her place.

            Only, no, I didn’t. What really happened is that I gave that woman exactly what she wanted. Fuck me, you son of a bitch. She said that, I remember. Harder. She demanded a royal good fucking, and I provided. Went through ridiculous measures to reach her but it wasn’t about me, but her needs. After finishing, she tweaked her tight skirt into place, buttoned up her blouse over full tits in a red push-up bra, and flashed her wicked smile at me. Get the hell out, you bastard, she told me and winked. Christ, Amanda, if she could see me now—she’d love it.

            Everything followed from that final fuck: my encounter with Steele, later that night. Murder and threats, a distraction to safeguard a friend. Soon after, another woman—Katherine—and didn’t I just do everything she wanted, too? She started me on the path that led to here and now, feminised and bound, immobilised on some guy’s living room floor in service to his sexual fantasies.

            In this static, silent darkness, I suddenly see with crystalline clarity my whole life as one long sequence of submission to the desire of others. Like a constellation of stars or an alignment of planets in the night sky, I see hundreds of girls and women, a chain winding twenty years into the past.  All the way back to—Molly—yes, that first woman that first night I started working for Tahir, the start of my new existence. The old self, a waning light abandoned in the darkness of the past; the new me—David Saunders—future bright and a world for the taking, and in that world—women—like Molly, so often sad or broken in some way.

            From Molly to the next (Aria: rail-thin, buzz cut, nose piercings) and the one after that (Melody: fake tits, bruises, sad eyes) and all the others that followed over nearly two decades. Every single one of those girls received precisely what they wanted—no, demanded—fuck that, what they needed. Yes. And in the pleasure of these women, I justified my existence in a world that made it abundantly clear I could simply fuck off and die, and who would care?

            Women cared, that’s who; or so I chose to believe. Women cared, loved me, always have: Sakura, Persephone, Julia, Akiko, Katherine, strong and powerful women, all of them. In between, all the others: the one-night stands, weekend fucks and workplace dalliances, and if they never endured it was simply because they demanded so little from me. Like Amanda, all they needed was—pleasure—a simple spark of sensual joy whether they knew it or not.

            I took the simplicity of female need as a lack of depth, a fundamental hollowness of character in femininity. Women were shallow. Derision followed, bordering on hatred. But in truth, I never hated women—no, I loved them—I hated myself. And the emptiness I saw in women was a projection of the emptiness within myself.

            I fucked that hollowness to fill it, or to extinguish the last of my reflected self: but the brief flicker of female ecstasy fanned the faint flame that lived inside of me. That light was Luke’s, the poor, pathetic boy I’d once been. He’d never gone away. His need for approval was my need to please. Everything real within the man I consciously crafted was rooted in this boy from the past.

            And now, in blindness, immobility and silence, I see that David Saunders is many nothing more than an argument built on a foundation of sand, no more real than his name. Scraps of paper, digital flickers in a computer: that’s all there’s ever been to David Saunders. Where a person should have been, vain and vague attempts at fulfilment in work and the arbitrary collecting of stuff. He found fleeting meaning in fucking and drinking. And friendship; he only needed one—a friend on which to anchor his own existence.

            The vibrator kicks in again. I twist with pleasurable agony in my tight bondage. There is nothing to do but wait for my man to return and release me. My nipples are hard and my pussy slick with submissive exhilaration. Once, I pleased women; now, I please this man. I submit to Mr. Connor as I submitted to Julia and before her, Katherine, and from Katherine further back, woman after woman after woman until: Persephone. Sakura. And behind her, the terminal point: a woman who looms from the dim recesses of the past, the centre of my world, her hand an iron grip on my arm as she drags me from a store bursting with taffeta, chiffon, satin and bridal lace, into a sky painted like blood.

            No. I strain against my bonds. The ropes are implacable. These thoughts, they’re not mine. They belong to Cindy, a consequence of days spent in his company—female hormones and this new prosthetic and the awful sensation of helplessness induced by nakedness and bondage. Humiliation and shame and the memory of the past few months—the past year—and this is an act, all of it, has always been an act, hasn’t it?

            I submitted to Darius’ sick game and allowed Dmytro to dress me, tie me up, and gag me but it was a means to an end and once the bonds no longer suited me, I broke them. Is this any different? Photography sessions at the Clinic sought to teach me a lesson in feminine vulnerability—or some shit like that—but again, I agreed solely to please Crystal. An act: and this is no different. The degradations Julia piled on me, I endured to ensure my survival. This, too, is survival.

            In fact, this whole weekend is nothing more than the payment of a debt. Cindy is a means to an end, nothing more. She exists only as a performance.

            Then why the aching doubt that in many ways, as Cindy I feel more real and alive than I ever did as David?

            Eventually, I sleep—or at least doze—and dream:

            The room is familiar but different, it lacks the usual air of sordid decay. The mattress is clean. The single bulb overhead glows brightly. Harry plays on the radio. Persephone sits on the bed. She pats the space next to her. Now I am on the bed next to her, drawn by her smile. Her face is beautiful—though an absence steals her features from memory, bright eyes and red lips remind me that she is beautiful.

            “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says.

            Our time together is peaceful, in a way that it never was in real life. I am happy. I try to speak. There’s so much I want to tell her—or ask her—but find no words. Perhaps we could stay like this forever. That would be nice. But of course, that isn’t possible. We both know what happens next. Now she stands by the door. I want to hold her back but find that I can’t move. Her hand rests over the doorknob. Don’t, I try to say but remain voiceless.

            Persephone looks at me. Eyes glitter, bright emerald behind a shroud. “You just need to let it happen,” she says. “Don’t fight it.” At her touch the door swings open, and brilliant moonlight lights up the far wall.  “You’ve been here too long,” she says. “I never wanted this from you.”

            There’s something I must do first, though I can’t remember what it is. Footsteps approach; familiar tread of whatever nightmare kills her this time.

            “You have to leave.”

            I cannot leave this room. Not without her.

            The room wavers, there’s a hot buzzing between my legs and my cheeks are wet and: no, I cry out—and I am crying, he’s holding me, even as I’m still cocooned in ropes, the cocoon unravelling as he tugs at knots and I emerge naked, weak and shaking into his waiting arms like something newly hatched, tears streaming down my face as Mr Connor kisses me, cradles me until the shaking stops, it’s okay, he says, over and over again, it’s okay, I never left you, I was here the whole time, it’s okay.

            And he’s right, it is, it really is okay. Not straight away. It takes a little aftercare, and a stiff drink. But once I’ve slipped back into the casual sundress and we’re sat in the front room together, I feel a lot better. We’re watching the sunset light up the horizon in oranges and brilliant reds, and the decorations we set out earlier glimmer like rubies and silver. My head rests against his chest, his hand on my thigh, and I’m nearly purring with contentment. I’m happy. I feel—lighter—somehow.

            “There’s something different about you,” he says. “You seem—”

            “Happier?”

            “Sure?” He taps his chin in thought. “I’d say confident, though I’m not sure in what way. Relaxed, maybe. It’s hard to pin down.”

            “Well, you’re welcome to pin me down in a bit, if you want.”

            He smiles and holds me closer.

            Sunday morning, we shower together and that’s a lot of fun, his cock thick and wet in my hands as I pump him to hardness, then he fucks me up against the glass wall as the water falls around us like hot, glittering diamonds caught in eyelashes. After, we go for a walk in the woods. The snow has melted and the ice covering the small lake broken up with the morning sun, leaving small patches gleaming with morning light.

            We walk around the lake and follow the small path leading to the neighbourhood Christmas tree. The muddy ground is scored with footprints, and many of the baubles have already been retrieved. At first, I can’t find the one Michael asked me to hang. Eventually, I find it on the ground near the base of the tree. Someone must have knocked it, perhaps by accident, or maybe it was a strong, stiff wind at night. I pick it up, and find that it’s broken, surface caved in, the delicate eggshell surface cracked from its fall. An indescribable sadness wells up inside of me at the sight of the broken bauble, and I blink to hold back tears. Michael notices, holds me close. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll find a new one next year.”

            Back from the walk, we tick off the last of his fantasies. He fucks me in the ass. It takes a lot of time and gentle coaxing. I don’t want to do it, yet I do, because he wants me to but also because I want to wipe clean the memory of last time. He’s kind and patient and carries me to the room.

            At my request, he ties me face-down on the bed. Without the bondage, I might accidentally hurt him. When I’m tied down, there’s just enough slack for me to raise my bum in the air. Goosepimples prickle my bum, and I shiver. He clambers onto the bed and mounts me. He’s well lubed but nothing like the plug I wore yesterday, bigger, alive and insistent. There’s a moment in which the memories of that night flare across my mind, and I bite the pillow. The safe word sits heavy on my tongue, classical name, woman in bondage in need of rescue.

            “Persephone,” I whisper.

            Mr. Connor leans in close over my back. “That’s not the safe word,” he says. He is concerns, confused. “Do you want to use it?”

            I shake my head.

            He continues, slowly pushing into me. It’s not prosthetic he’s filling, but the real me, my body. He’s inside of me in a way that feels closer, more intimate and immediate than that layer of artificial flesh ever did. He holds me firmly and with great care begins to move in and out. Though hazy, I remember Tom, the roughness, slaps, grunts, swears and insults. His cruel domination. I seize up; I can’t breathe; I pull at the ropes.

            But then, instead of Tom’s touch, I feel his: a gentle caress, a soft kiss to the back of the neck. He’s thrusting me to the bed—and it hurts—but only a little, and his weight over me is comforting rather than oppressive. “Oh God,” he whispers, kissing me between the shoulder blades, “God, yes,” he holds my breasts, squeezes firmly and continues fucking me. “You feel—” It’s an exquisite reminder of my femininity, his hands on my tits, he drags me away from the past and roots me in the now. “So fucking good.” He’s fucking me: I’m being fucked in the ass and this is new, somehow, it feels good this time, uncomfortable but also fucking good, really good, stretched and filled and heavy and he’s hitting this spot inside of me, with each thrust, this spot’s that’s never been touched for all my experience, and it’s me, not some redirected pleasure impulse.

            Mr. Connor picks up the pace, and I’m pushing back into him, moaning now into the pillow, and I’m close, so fucking close to something that feels—almost familiar—masculine—even with my tits in his hand, long hair everywhere, panted girlish mewling, I feel pleasure that isn’t rooted in an artificial vagina but in something authentically me. In contrast, I realise the penetrative pleasures of before were but an echo of the real thing—still intense, still powerful but only a reflected shimmer instead of the direct light itself. For the first time, I wonder: holy fuck, what would the real thing feel like, my own cunt and a man filling it?

            Then he’s hitting that spot inside of me, this wonderful nub of joy and my balls tighten, they ache—my balls—I feel them and they need release, ‘harder’ I gasp, fingers curling around the ropes tying down my wrists, I grip hard and so does he, ‘harder!’ and he plows into me. I cry out, pull myself forward even as I shove my ass back; it’s not enough.

            “Harder!” I demand, twisting, looking back over my shoulder through a mess of hair, “For fuck’s sake, boss, harder, fuck me harder!” and he bares his teeth in a demoniacal grin and really goes at it then, fucks me with red-faced, heavy-breathing, flesh-slapping earnestness and I paint the walls with my voice, ecstatic yelps of joy, yes, Yes! More, faster, Christ, sir, yes—a jumbled mess of words to which he adds his own: fuck, Christ, bitch, oh fuck, I can’t, fuckohfuck—rising to a joint chorus—Cindy, oh Sir!, shitfuck—grunted and wailed and I feel him swell, feel him shoot his load deep, deep inside of me and at the same time, that hard, happy little spot inside of me suddenly flares, cracks and fucking melts, wave after wave flowing through me to the very tips of my toes and fingers and I just dissolve into the bed with his comforting weight collapsing on top of me.

            After he unties me, I’m giggly with euphoria. He’s a sweaty mess, struggling to catch his breath. I can’t stop touching him, drawing my nails across his chest, his collarbone, kissing his shoulder. My bum aches, it’s wet with spunk and lube and instead of gross or emasculating, it just feels delightfully naughty.

            “Fuck,” he says, grinning wildly, and again, “fuck.”

            “Again?” I kiss his chest. “You’re a beast.”

            His eyes are happy but tired, his voice strained. “I think I hurt something.”

            I nestle in his arm. “Thank you for your noble sacrifice,” I murmur.

            “No, thank you.” He hugs me tightly, holds me—then throws his head back and laughs. He releases a whoop of joy. “Holy fuck! I’ve always wanted to try that. I was freaking out a bit, at first, you know. That you didn’t like it, that I was doing it wrong, but then you—” He kisses the top of my head. “You really got into it. And—Cindy—holy fuck, it felt so… good, God, I’ve never felt anything like it, you have no idea. I always wanted to—” he stops, heaves with silent laughter. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I know it’s—different—for a girl, but I hope you enjoyed it, too.”

            And what could I do but bite my lip, demurely drop my eyes and nod, yes, burying my face in his chest, yes, I fucking loved it. And I wonder how, sitting naked in this man’s arms with his semen oozing out of me, I can feel so authentically myself, right now, whatever that even means. I just know I’m happy, and don’t want the moment to end.

            But it does, of course. We eventually separate, clean ourselves up. I wipe my bum, wash with a flannel. I slip back into my bra and panties, and a nice dress with a short, flared skirt, burn orange and white belt, and I decided to leave my legs bare. When I fix my makeup, I stare deep into the mirror as I brush on a coat of mascara. It’s easy to look myself in the eye. I don’t mind what I see there, I like this girl in the mirror. When I paint my lips and smile, the smile is real.

            Later, we sit together in the kitchen. “It’s Monday tomorrow.”

            He winces. “I know.”

            “I’ve got work.”

            “It’s the 29th, you could—take a few days off—until the new year…”

            “You can,” I say. “I can’t, I don’t get paid if I’m not in the office.”

            “You could—” he scrambles for something, “stay, work for me and I’ll pay you for your… services…” he eyes widen as he hears himself, and he grimaces. “Sorry.”

            “I hope so,” I say dryly. I hold his hand. “It’s been a lovely holiday, more of a dream, really. But reality—”

            “Fuck reality,” he says.

            I kiss his fingertips.

            “So, what happens, then?” There’s a bitterness to his voice. “In the office?”

            “Nothing,” I say flatly. “Nothing changes; nothing can change, can it? You’re the boss, and I’m just the pretty blonde at the front desk.” I grin mischievously.  “Though maybe, one day you’ll sit at your desk and find that blonde hiding down there, waiting. And maybe, because she’s been so naughty, you’ll have to dim your windows and punish her, and she’ll have to try really hard not to make any noise.”

            Michael smiles, a little distantly. “What if I say, no?”

            I raise an eyebrow. “No, you don’t want a secret office below-desk blow job?”

            “No, I mean: what if I say, no, I don’t want what this to end? No, as in you make me feel—alive—again, fucking awake for the first time in years and… and I’ve got feelings for you, okay Cindy? So, no, reverting to normal is not okay, not after this weekend, not after everything we’ve done.”

            I sigh. “Then I say, too fucking bad, sir.”

            His stare is baleful and silent. “And you’re okay with that?” He retrieves his hand from between mine, massages his right palm with the fingers of the left. “No feelings, just wham-bam, thank you sir, and you’re gone?”

            Now it’s my turn to get angry. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Michael.” I walk away before I hit the idiot. This moment was always going to happen. I just didn’t expect it to actually hurt. “Of course I’m not okay with this. But what the fuck do you expect? Like, am I going to move in with you? Be your live-in-girlfriend? Your mistress on the side? Or… what, your wife?” He winces at my bitter bark of laughter. “Are you ready to propose, Michael, is that it?” I take a deep breath, soften my tone. “Of course not.

            “Yes, it’s been amazing, okay? And yes, I’ve got… feelings, okay, is that what you want to hear? You’ve made me feel—” I swallow, tiny fists balled up and pressing into my belly—“good, so good it hurts, and I mean that, I really do. You have no idea, okay? How important this—break—from myself—has been. So, when I say that I—care for you, more than any man I’ve ever been with, I’m speaking with complete honesty, okay?”

            Now I’m shaking, cheeks wet with tears again, and it’s so fucking embarrassing, these female hormones, these cheap emotions. Doesn’t make what I’m feeling any less real, though and the only surprise here is that I mean it all, that I really do care for this man, and he’s given me a glimpse of a life of which I can only dream.

            He draws me into his arms, chin resting on my head. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

            I sniffle, turn into his chest, and nod. Eventually, I creep my fingers between the button gaps in his shirt and play with his chest hairs. “It’s still early,” I say.

            Michael shifts, looks out the window over his back yard, bright with sunshine, and the birds fluttering about the bath and feeder. “So it is.”

            We decide to go out, and he brings me to a lovely café a short drive away. It’s a local place for him, people recognize him, and he’s unperturbed to be seen in the company of a pretty young woman half his age. I appreciate that; I feel better and love the attention he lavishes on me. After, we walk along the street, heels clicking on the pavement and my dress swirling around my legs. The sun is hot on my legs and a gentle breeze fill me with joy. It’s a lovely neighbourhood, so much nicer than mine. The streets are wide and lined with trees. It even smells better. Everyone just looks healthier, trim middle-aged men, gym-fit and success confident; and next to them, slender women in short designer dresses, flashing silky thighs and perfect hair, manicured nails, expert makeup. They stride in their heels and I’m one of them, hand in hand with a man of my own.

            At a boutique shop window, I comment on a gorgeous dress on display, an off-the-shoulder number in a deep, shimmery blue. He drags me into the shop to buy it. I say, no, seriously, you can’t. He ignores me. When I’m distracted, he has the woman behind the counter pick out a sexy lingerie set to go with it. I slap him, gently. Michael laughs.

            Back at his place, I slip into the lingerie he bought, thong panties, garter belt and bra, all in the same rich blue and replete with decorative lace. The woman at the counter knew her stuff, or the AI linked to security cameras did; either way, it’s a perfect fit. I wear the earrings he bought me, too. Then I slide into the dress. Walking back downstairs, I smile and turn my back to him. Zip me up, I ask, and his fingers at my back, the gentle firm tug tightening the dress around me, plants a flutter of excitement in my belly. Done, he doesn’t let me go. Instead, his hands circle my waist. He turns me to face him. The way he looks at me steals my breath. Everything I wear, he’s bought for me, and I feel totally his. He kisses me and my tummy flutters, and I return the kiss.

            The dress lasts for all of ten minutes before it’s back on the floor. He nods appreciatively at the sight of me in the sexy underwear he’s just bought. We make out for a bit. The bra soon joins the dress on the floor. Sometimes, I wonder why we bother even putting this stuff on, it comes off so quickly. Then I’m squirming for pleasure in his lap as he sucks on my breasts, and plays with my nipples, and his hand whispers up and down my stockings, plays with the garters. With dark eyes glittering, he nods towards the ropes discarded from yesterday, one last time? With a performative, long-suffering sigh, I say, yes, if you must. He ties my arms behind my back, then binds my legs together, too, and soon has my wrists looped to my ankles and leaves me there, kneeling, shoulders back and boobs jutting forward. He looks down at his handiwork with satisfaction.

            “Comfortable?”

            I tug at my restraints. “Not really.”

            “Good. Stay here,” he says, as though I could go anywhere. “I’ll be back in a minute,” and I follow his heavy steps as they retreat to the bedroom. Left there, I gaze idly around the room, at the Christmas tree, the decorations we put up on Thursday, the domestic comfort of the room. It’s only been a few days, but this place is familiar, I like it, I’ll miss it. I could’ve happily stayed here longer, playing the part of his woman. My nipples are so tight they hurt.

            Then—the sound of a key. A door opens and closes. Footsteps, light and unfamiliar. A sharp intake of breath.

            “What the fuck?” A woman’s voice I don’t recognize. “What the actual fuck?”

            She’s my age, early twenties and very pretty, taller than me—who isn’t?—wearing ripped jeans and a red blouse with a plunging neckline, gauzy sleeves and flouncy cuffs at the wrist. Fishnet stockings through wide holes in her jeans, and bold makeup that isn’t overdone. She’s cute, and in her chin, her nose, hints of her father. She has his confidence, and her father’s gaze, too; and I swear, she stares at me for way too long, fixated on my tits, before snapping out of it.

            Very loudly, she cries out: “Dad, why is there a blonde bimbo tied up in our living room?”

            “Um, hi.” Face fire-engine red, I flash what I hope is a winning smile. “You must be Lily.” I wiggle ineffectually, succeeding only in jiggling my tits. “I’d offer you my hand but—um.” I shrug. “Nice to meet you.”

            She stares at me, then cries out again, “Dad!”

            Michael appears and his cheeks, too, flame brightly. He’s wearing a tight-fitting pair of boxers that prominently display his package, and a colourful silk kimono, loosely belted and hanging open. In his right hand, he holds the crop from the bedroom. He grips it so tightly his knuckles are white. “Lily!”

            Eyes wide with horror, she turns from me to her dad and back to me. “What the fuck, Dad?”

            “Lily, this isn’t—” He pauses, grins ruefully and shrugs. “No, it’s exactly what it looks like. Lily, I’d like you to meet Cindy.”

            Grinning, I toss hair out of my eyes. “Hey.”

            She doesn’t see the humour in this. She’s staring at my naked tits again, and I feel the burn in my cheeks spread down my neck and chest. “Christ, Mom leaves you for a week and—this—you move your slut in? You’re such a fucking pervert!”

            “Language, young lady!” Michael snaps, and the crop swishes through the air and snaps against his palm.

            Lily goggles at him. “Excuse me?”

            “Don’t you dare call her that,” he says. He’s staring at the crop in his hand, like he’s not quite sure what to do with it.

            “No, it’s fine.” I’m grinning madly, wild laughter roiling beneath the surface. “Let’s be honest, I’ve been a bit of a slut, right?” Giggles escape. “And you’re definitely a pervert.”

            They both glare at me. “Mom—” Lily begins.

            “Made her choice pretty goddamn clear when she left for Uncle Petie’s,” he says, then grimaces. “Peter,” he amends, “and if your mom’s going to screw around behind my back, then why shouldn’t I do the same?”
            But Lily’s not having it, “Dad, it’s Christmas!” She waves a hand to take in the room—blinks, noticing the decorations for the first time—forges on ahead, thrusting a finger at me, the ropes, the crop. “I knew you were a pervert, but—”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Everyone knows!” she exclaims.

            “Um, hey,” I venture, but my voice goes unheard.

            “What—”

            “I found your little kink box in the loft years ago, and—”

            “Excuse me!” I try again louder.

            “You were snooping around—”

            “Don’t you fucking blame me!”

            “Shut the fuck up!” I shout, and this time they start, stop and turn to me, suddenly remembering the naked girl tied up in the centre of the room. Boobs heaving, I take a deep breath. “Thank you,” I continue in my sweetest voice. “Maybe, just maybe, you’d consider untying me, boss?” Then I point my chin at a blanket laid over the back of the chair in the corner. “And Lily. Mind covering up my tits a little?”

            She brings me the blanket and drapes it over my shoulders, and I swear, the look in her eye, she’s disappointed. Meanwhile, Michael unties me, and everything calms down a bit after that. I slip back into my dress and put on some coffee, as Michael and his daughter talk. Lily’s eyes track me with suspicion as I move with easy familiarity around the kitchen. Still, her eyes widen as she sips her coffee. “This is good,” she says. “How’d you get the coffee maker to—” Then she interrupts herself. “Dad, who the hell is this girl?”

            He explains, and I mostly keep quiet, watching the interplay between the two. For all the tension, it’s obvious how much they care for each other. There’s so much of her dad in her, the way she tilts her head, the tight muscle jumping in her jaw; the way she keeps glancing my way, appraisingly, and licks her lips. She listens attentively and shakes her head disparagingly.

            “Your secretary? You’re fucking your secretary? Jesus, Dad, how much more mid-life crisis clichéd can you get?”

            “Receptionist.”

            “Excuse me?” She barely glances at me, tone dismissive.

            “Technically, I’m a receptionist, not a secretary.”
            She barely restrains her sneer. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Such a distinction.”

            “Lily.” The rumble of his voice carries a warning.

            “How could you, Dad?”

            “Well, what did you expect?” he says, and for the first time he sounds angry, and in that anger lurks a deep hurt. I doubt she can hear it, but I do. “You made your choice pretty damn clear, and with you gone, your mom off with that dickhead, did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn’t want to be alone at Christmas?”

            “You said you were working,” she retorts. “And I’m only twenty-two, Dad, I shouldn’t have to fucking choose! I don’t want to be dealing with this shit, I’ve got exams, my own problems. This hasn’t been easy on me either, you know? You made it clear you wanted to be alone. And Mom—she needed me, Dad, she’s an absolute wreck, okay?”

            “Well, Pete can deal with it.”

            “No, he can’t. They had a fight. Mom stormed out. We checked into a hotel last night.” Lily pinches the space between her eyes, and she’s struggling to hold back tears—of anger, frustration, sadness, it’s hard to tell. “It’s been a shitty Christmas, okay?”

            There’s silence for a long while, broken only by the tinkle of fine china as everyone drinks their coffee. Finally, in a calmer voice, Michael asks, “why didn’t you come home?”

            “Mom couldn’t. She’s—a mess. And couldn’t face seeing you right now.”

            “Then—” he hesitates, then ploughs on, “why are you here, then?”

            “You asked me to,” Lily answers, surprised. “You made it sound urgent!”

            He looks baffled. “I didn’t.”

            “You messaged me.” She shows him her phone. “See?”
            “But—”

            I raise my hand. “That was me.”

            Both turn to me. There’s something newly appraising in Lily’s eyes, and Michael looks angry. “Excuse me?”
            “Yeah, I did it this morning. Um, sometime between you fucking me in the ass, and us stepping out for lunch.” I collect the empty coffee cups, bring them over to the sink and begin washing. “You really should be more careful when you type in your passcode. Like, so easy to get in,” I say.

            “But—why?”

            Ignoring him, I turn to Lily. “Your dad’s a good man, Lily. But—he’s been having a rough time of it lately. A few months ago, he tried to commit suicide.”

            “Don’t!” he cries out, and “Cindy!” and he’s angry, but also deeply stricken, face suddenly pale.

            “Is this true, Dad?” Lily whispers.

            He stares at her for a long time before answering. Then he sighs, and nods, unable to meet her eye.

            “I didn’t think he should be alone,” I continue. “And to be honest, I didn’t want to be alone, either. But I can’t stay. These past few days,” and here, I reach across the table and take his hands in mine, and he reluctantly allows me, “they’ve been…” I trail off and force a watery smile. “You know what they’ve been. And you have no idea how much I wish I could—stay, just stay here with you.” I’m talking directly to him, now and for a moment it’s just the two of us. “I’d be the girl you want me to be, girlfriend, mistress, whatever, I wish it was possible.” I shake my head sadly. “But it’s not. I’m not the girl you think I am. And I have—” I let go of him, clasp my hands tightly in my lap—“something I have to do, and I need to go.” Now I turn to Lily, “But I didn’t want to leave him alone, because… well, you probably know your dad. He tends to—”

            “Overthink things?”

            I smile. “Yup.”

            “Hey.” We ignore him.

            “And he ends up—”

            “Moody?”

            I smile. “I was going to say in a dark place, but… yeah, moody.”

            “Ladies. I’m right here.”

            I give them space, head upstairs to the guest room. Packing my case, I slowly handle each item I’ve worn for him, and those I didn’t but could have. Already, these past few days feel as though they belong to somebody else. Is it possible to feel nostalgic for something even as you’re still living it?

            Michael quietly enters the room. With a soft click, the door shuts behind him. I look over at him. In one hand, a backless pink teddy with ivory bows and straps; the other, a crisp white blouse and tartan miniskirt. He raises an eyebrow. “I wondered if you’d brought that.”

            I pack the schoolgirl outfit, the lacy underwear, tug the zip shut on my case. “There’s a lot of stuff I didn’t have time to wear.” My voice is sullen and sad.

            “You don’t have to go,” he says.

            I snort. “Come here,” he says, and pulls me into his arms.

            We enjoy this final, private moment together in the guest bedroom. He’s angry with me, for sharing his secret with his daughter. He’s also grateful, so much so he’s nearly in tears. Thank you, he says, fumbling at my breast. Thank you, I echo and sit him down onto the guest bed and go down on him one last time. I sweep my hair to one side and dig his cock out of his trousers. I lick his shaft and open wide and take him in. He fills my mouth, and I smile up at him. A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined this. Even a few months ago, this seemed the most disgusting act imaginable, humiliating, shameful. But I enjoy the feeling of his cock between my lips, and his grunt of enjoyment. It makes me happy. When he comes, I catch it all, catch it on my tongue and show him, like in one of his videos. Michael smiles, nods, and I’ve barely swallowed his slime down, the awful taste still sharp at the back of my throat, before he yanks me to my feet. He tosses me to the bed, bends me over the footboard and flips my skit up over my head. He's none too gentle, and I love it. I hope for his tongue, or that he’ll fuck my ass again. Instead, he slaps my bum, once then yanks my panties down to my ankles. He wets his fingers in his mouth. He quickly strokes my labia until I’m wet and panting. He’s quick, perfunctory; my moans are muffled by bedsheets. When he shoves those fingers knuckle deep inside me, I twist and wiggle, and bite down hard, my final wail pillow-captured.

            Lily’s not fooled by my wide-eyed innocence when I return downstairs. I’ve changed into something more comfortable for the trip home, jogging pants and a snug t-shirt, 100% princess in sparkly letters across my tits. She shakes her head at me in mock disgust, but I see right through her, she’s clearly amused by the whole thing. I get a moment alone with her over a glass of wine as Michael’s hauling my suitcase down the stairs. Lily’s cool, and I find myself admiring her whole look. “Love those jeans,” I say. “With the fishnets, those rips, it’s a good look.”

            “Thank, I guess?” She looks at me quizzically. “Sorry, this is kind of weird for me.”

            “I get that.” I shrug. “Hey, where’d you get your nails done? I just love them.” I take her hand in mine. Midnight black nails, glossy and flecked with jeweled colours, sparkle in decorative patterns. “Total nail envy.”

            “Did them myself, it’s—” she stops, narrows her eyes. I’m holding her hand, fingertip brushing against the inside of her wrist. “Are you—flirting with me?”

            She’s not wrong. “Maybe?” I let go of her hand. “I might be girl-crushing.”

            “Aren’t you fucking my dad?”
            Biting my lip, I nod.

            “But—you’re—”

            “I’m…?”

            She rolls her eyes. “You’re fucking hot, okay?”

            “Now who’s flirting?”

            “Well, duh.” She takes my hand back, drags one of those sexy nails along my palm, and a shiver races up my back. She flashes a crooked little smile, and her short hair burns red in the setting sun. “No reason Dad would’ve mentioned it, I guess. This last year, I’ve sorta switched sides, if you get me. And you, you’re totally giving off the kind of vibes I dig. Like, I think I see what he sees in you, you know? That first sight of you—all tied up like that?” She gives an excited little shiver, tucks hair behind an ear decorated with piercings. “Mm,” she says.

            Her eyes are deep amber, and her lips glossed plum. “But finding out I fancy the same girl as my dad? Fuck, I’ll need a whole new round of therapy to unpack that Freudian nut, you know? I mean, you’re here with—you’re fucking my… dad, Christ. Like—really—my dad?”

            I smile happily.

            “What you said earlier—like, anything, you did anything he wanted?”

            A little wistfully, I answer, “Yup.”

            “How—” she forces it out, “like, how much of a pervert is he?”

            I laugh.

            She shakes her head in disbelief, her nails still tickling my forearm in a decidedly pleasant manner. “But he’s… old,” she says, nose wrinkling with disgust. “I mean, look at you, you’ve totally got your shit together, so if you’re not some gold-digger, why… him?” She jerks her thumb in his direction.

            “I can hear you, you know,” he calls from the hallway.

            “He’s a good man,” I say.

            “Yeah, but there’s so many guys, you know, our age!”

            I blow a raspberry. “Have you seen the guys our age?”
            She laughs. “Yeah.”

            “Besides,” I add with a grin. “Your dad? He’s a fucking monster in bed.”

            “Eww, ick.” Secretly, I think she’s pleased her dad’s still got life in him.

            “I hope you’re not too mad about—you know—me being here, with the divorce and all.”
            She shrugs. “I mean, yes, I am, because it sucks watching our happy little nuclear unit collapse. But it’s not your fault. I’m no angrier with you than I am with Uncle Pete. I mean, that guy was dad’s best friend, he was the best man at their wedding. So that really sucks. In comparison, you’re just some bimbo bitch from his office, right?” She winces. “No offense, meant.”

            “Yeah, no offense,” I say wryly.

            She lets go of my arm, picks up her glass. Lily holds it to the light, and the white wine sparkles like rubies in the fading light of the sun. She takes a sip, looks at me over the rim of the glass. “But, you know, if you ever get tired of the old man, Bunny—why not look me up? I’ve learned a few rope-tricks of my own.”

            I laugh, then see she’s only half-joking, and there’s a decidedly wicked glint to her eyes and an eager hunger I recognize as her dad’s. Well, fuck, I guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.

            Then the taxi’s here, and it’s time to leave. I say goodbye to Lily, and we share a little girl-hug, she smells good and whispers in my ear, “see you around, Bunny.”

            And I whisper back: “I totally would, you know, be your bunny.”

            She blushes, very cutely, pink spots rising in her cheeks. But when we separate, she’s very serious as she adds, “and thank you. I mean that. For looking after Dad.”

            Outside, it’s nearly dark and the moon touches the horizon, no longer the perfect, bright circle of Christmas night, now glowing behind a bank of grey clouds. The air is cold, and our breath puffs in clouds as he walks me to the car. When I give him a hug, he turns it into a deep kiss that steals my breath and leaves me weak in the knees. It’s in full view of Lily, she’s watching from the door and shakes her head.

            “I don’t want to see you tomorrow,” I say. “Take the time off, spend it with her.”

            He glances back at his daughter, nods.

            “She seems like a good kid,” I say.

            There’s a very serious look in his eyes as we stand by the waiting taxi. He grips me tightly by the shoulder. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Cindy.”

            “No,” I say, a little sad. “You just love what I let you do to me.”

            “That’s not fair.”

            “You’re right, it’s not.” I lay my hand on his chest. “But you’re still in love your wife, Michael.”

            He flinches, as though I slapped him. “She cheated on me.”

            “And you didn’t? You kept secrets from her for twenty years.” I slip my hands inside his jacket, wrap my arms around his waist, lay my head against his chest and enjoy the warmth of his presence against my cheek, the cold air against my back. “Talk to her, boss, okay? Promise me.”

            A dry laugh rumbles in his chest. “This isn’t how I imagined this conversation going.”

            We hold this embrace until the taxi gives an impatient little beep.

            Michael lets me go. I reach up and cradle his face in my hands and kiss him softly on the lips. “Thank you, sir.”

            He slaps my ass. “See you at work, Ms Bellamy.”

            It’s only in the car, as we pull onto the highway, that the tears come. I cry, long, luxurious sobs and a release of pent-up emotions I don’t fully understand. I cry for what I’ve left behind and for what I know comes next. I cry for missing him, that such a short time in someone’s company can leave me feeling incomplete. He showed me a future in which I could be—content, maybe even happy—as a girl, in his or someone’s company.

            Is this what it feels like to be a girl, a constant ache of emptiness left in absence of those for whom you care?

            Maybe. Probably not. Who the fuck knows? Nearly a full year now, and I still have no idea what it means to be a woman, how it feels to be a girl. But I know it isn’t defined solely by the lack of a person or thing. Femininity isn’t passive and it isn’t an absence. Instead of missing him, I focus on what I’ve taken with me. This brings a smile to my lips, a pensive one as I close my eyes and settle into the memories of the past week. And if feeling like a girl came down to choice, then maybe I’d choose the way I feel right now, with the shadow of his touch on my ass and his kiss on my lips, the warmth of his body against mine still lingering.

            Being a woman wasn’t the sweep of long hair, the constant clasp of the bra around my chest, or the tack of lipstick; nor long nails, the absence of pinch when I crossed my legs, or dangling earrings tickling my cheek. But it wasn’t not those things either.

            I sit in the back of the taxi alone and recall the comforting weight of his body pressing down on me. Sunshine sparking on both cutlery and bright nails, pancakes gleaming with melted butter and syrup, the swirl of skirts in the dance between stove and table. The click of heels. Goosebumps rising over the curve of breasts. Kneeling, looking up through lashes heavy with mascara. Tight nipples, rolled between finger and thumb. Sandalwood and spice mixing with floral perfume. A head resting against a firm chest. Another girl’s hug: casual, comforting, accepting. Squirming, as he enters me. A sigh extending into exhalation.  Reflection in the mirror, a window, the tuck of stray hair. The weight of others’ eyes. A shop attendant’s appraising eye. Feeling small, delightfully so. A shiver of mixed frustration and excitement at his size, at how easily he overpowers me. Slippery coolness of silk, underwear threading my ass, tug of garters, a pinch in the toes. The look in his eyes—yes, that; and a warmth deep in my belly.

            All this, and more, swirl together and settle over me as a collection of impressions, a thesis on femininity. I couldn’t possibly say how it feels for anyone else to be a woman. But it’s how I feel, right here and now in the back seat of a taxi on a Sunday night, bathed in intermittent moonlight and the strobing flashes of streetlamps overhead as I return home after nearly a week sharing my boss’s bed. This is my individual experience of being a girl. A handful of memories, a mosaic of feelings.

            It feels good.

            Then I shake my head. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I can’t deny the allure of this feeling, the temptation to give in and make it my future. But I couldn’t be that girl, and her future isn’t mine.

            That’s where my Christmas story should end. A female fantasy spent in the company of a distinguished, older man, in which feelings blossomed, and lessons were learnt. Or something like that; and they lived happily ever after.

            Watching the city outskirt blur past in the night, I reach into my purse and retrieve my phone. It’s been off for the past few days. I turn it on. Messages swarm in, chirping madly. The girls first, checking in on me, sharing pictures, snippets of their own holiday adventures. Where you at, bitch? Missing you, luv! Everything ok? Haven’t heard back, you okay? Where are you. Cindy? Cindy. Cindy, please answer.

            Yes, yes, I’m okay, and I fling back a few rapid replies, miss you, miss you girls. I’m about to switch off when I spot the text that snuck in at the tail end.

            Goddammit. I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck. She, she was right. They both were.

            Very deliberately, I put my phone to one side.

            I breathe deeply and invite his return. There’s anger—so much of it, a constant dull heat, an ache behind the eyes. It descends over me like a heavy blanket, both comforting and stifling. With it, self-loathing, guilt, and frustration. Also, confidence in spades, and arrogance rooted in what now seems like a horrible sort of freedom stemming only from the dissolution of bonds of duty, friendship and responsibility. It is the absolute freedom that come with walking without care at the very edge of annihilation, the abandon of those who never really existed.

            For the first time in days, I feel my body again as something alien. Again, I feel uncomfortable in my bra and embarrassed by my tits. The makeup I wear is a tacky mask painted over my real self. Earrings, a frivolous weakness. Even lingering disgust at the sparkly pink showiness of my top, the way it emphasises those fleshy mounds I despise, and the way girls’ jogging pants hug hips and emphasise my ass. The intensity this spite roils my stomach. Then, it fades quickly, but the euphoric comfort Michael Connor gifted me is gone.

            And I wonder: is it David that I’m putting on, or is it Cindy that I’m taking off? I don’t know that I can easily tell, anymore.

            Finally ready, I pick up my phone, tap the message.

            It’s from Tom.

            Hey babe, he writes. I’m in town next week for work, you free? It’s followed by another message, timestamped an hour later. Been thinking about you since that night out. I want to see you again. And he attaches an appointment, time and place.

            I turn my phone off.

            Eventually, I reach for—the other phone, the one I haven’t touched since Christmas eve. I turn it on, and it instantly flashes a message: about time.

            The car’s now approaching my part of town. It’s darker there, fewer tress, everything crammed together, garish neon and flickering florescence from the crush of buildings falling in over themselves, tight winding streets and alleys that lead nowhere. Exhilarating, in their own way, but also cloying after the freedom of the past week. Freedom? I chuckle to myself. I spent most of it tied up. And yet—yes; free.

            I sigh loudly. The phone immediately flickers: second thoughts?

            I shake my head.

            The phone flashes another message: good. Come here. There is a pause, and then a final message: she’s waiting.

            “I can’t.” I speak to myself, alone in the taxi. “The taxi’s taking me home.”

            There’s a soft beep from the front of the car, a flash on the display screen as the previous destination is replaced with The Pit. A subtle shift of speed, a change of lanes.

            A click, and a compartment beneath the seat pops open. I reach in and withdraw a cloth bag, and within it a bundle of clothing. I roll my eyes. Now he’s just showing off. Still, there’s barely time to prepare. I change in the back of the car, because it’s expected, I’ve got to fit in: fishnet sleeves and fingerless gloves, chrome-studded shorts so tight it’s like a corset for my ass, and a body-hugging top cropped just beneath my tits, showing off my toned belly, jeweled piercing and a hint of under-boob. With a lot of backseat wiggling, I swap the clothes over. The automated driver doesn’t seem to mind. Then, I quickly wipe my makeup clean and redo it with what’s been provided: lots of mascara, eyeliner, purple eyeshadow, black lipstick. A black hoody hides my hair. I finish just as the car pulls up to The Pit.

            It’s Sunday night but busy, super-busy with a holiday crowd and kids keen to escape their family after Christmas. It’s loud and manic and frantic, especially jarring after days in the quiet suburbs, though I can’t help but smile at the youthful, chaotic energy of it, the self-destructive impulse, that feeling of partying at the edge of apocalypse. I make my way through the crowd, and unlike my first visit, nobody really notices me; or if they do, it's to invite me to join them, an offered drink, lewd comment, invitation to sex, waggled tongue. They see my case and think I’m a performer, maybe. I laugh it off, move on. There’s a man waiting for me at the gate, he takes my case and leads me around back. It’s the other way in, and the bouncers know me.

            Within minutes I’m in The Empyrean. I’m VIP now, special guest and nobody tries to throw me in a cage or propositions me. But as I thread through revelers, I watch the girls writhing on poles, in stocks, bent over and tied down, on display and paddled or prodded, their docile deference to anonymous touches—and I kind of get it, now, the illicit thrill, the joy of sexual transgression, forced passivity, aggressive submission, wanton release. I pause by a girl, blindfolded and near-naked, arms tied behind her back and leashed to a counter. A man next to her, grey pinstripe suit, animal mask, idly strokes her flank as he sips a martini, and she shivers, bites her lip and I smile: been there, done that.

            Before long, I stand in a small antechamber, and Dmytro is there waiting, wearig another vintage Metal t-shirt: Slayer, this time, garish red writing and silver pentagram faded with time. A silver cross gleams at his neck, he fiddles with it as he watches my approach. Somehow, he seems even bigger than before. The man’s fucking huge, and happy to see me.

            “Happy New Year, Luke,” he says. Then he winces. “David?” He shrugs. “Cindy. This is confusing.”

            I laugh. “Try living it,” I say. “Cindy will do.” Then, impulsively, I lunge in and give him a hug. This surprises him, the show of affection.

            “Whoa,” he says. “What change is this?”

            “You’re a good friend,” I say.

            He steps back and then, tentatively, nudges my chin upwards with his thumb, looks down at me inquisitively. “You’ve changed.”

            “It’s been a good Christmas.” I smile, then remember something I wanted to ask him. “Hey, what’d you eat for Christmas eve?”

            “Fish,” he says.

            “Knew it. Lots of dill?”

            He grins. “Of course.”

            “You ready?” Dmytro asks.

            I'm not, but when has that ever mattered? He leads the way, and I follow him through to meet Darius.