Chapter 24: Beautiful LosersI returo the table to find Julia, a little red in the face, silhouetted in the rosy-hued fading light streaming in from outside, polishing off the st of both the cheesecakes and her whiskey. Sliding into my seat, tugging my skirt down, and fag her, I opened my mouth to speak. “Listen--” but she cut me off.

  “So,” she said, and grinned wickedly. “You like coow?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Like, I know you’ve still got yours, but then things were getting pretty hot and heavy with that guy from the offi Friday night, so I was w: you into guys now?”

  “Jesus. Julia!”

  “Oh, don’t be such a fug prude.” She shrugged, gesturing for the waiter. “You certainly weren’t before.”

  “I’m not a prude.”

  “Then spill it, girl. You’ve given up oysters for sausage?”

  I frowned. “No,” I admitted, reag for my warming gss of wine. I stared at it for a moment, giving it a little swirl and watg as it sparkled in the ruby light of the setting sun. Fuck it. I k ba one and grimaced. “But even if I had,” I tinued. “It’s not something I’d want to talk about, is it?”

  She ughed. The waiter sidled up to our table at that moment, and she ordered another double. She raised her eye at me questioningly.

  “Yeah,” I sighed, “why not?” and ordered another.

  Julia watched the waiter leave and looked aska me, before leaning in spiratorially. “So that doesn’t do anything for you?” She owards the waiter. He was a young man, probably about dy’s age: white button-down shirt, fitted bck trousers, trailing end of tattoos slithering out from under his sleeve cuffs and lurking at his colr. I hadn’t noticed anything else about him, generally a sign he’d been effit and skilled at his job. “I mean, he’s got a pretty tight ass, right?”

  I looked more carefully, trying to see it from her perspective. Tall, slim, dark-skinned; short, spikey hair, hint of muscle beh his shirt. Like, maybe? If the waiter’d been a girl, yeah, I would’ve paid more attention; and if that’d been a female ass, I’d probably be a bit more into it. She’d be wearing tighter trousers, for one, with maybe a hint of thong threading those cheeks. Crossing my legs tightly uhe table, I turned my attention back to Julia. “Sure. I mean—”

  “So you are into guys!”

  “I don’t know!” I lied. “It’s all o me, alright?”

  “So what was that on Friday, then?”

  I groaned. “I was drunk.”

  “And loving his tongue down your throat?”

  “Please, Jules…”

  Julia was still eyeing the waiter, blissfully unaware of our scrutiny. He was chatting to an older woman behind the ter. “He’s got nice hands,” she said. “You had strong hands, remember? I like that in a man. you imagine him toug you? Firmly, by the shoulder? Sliding down your side, gently? From behind, cupping your breasts….”

  Iently, I shivered. And as she tinued, she leaned in closer, crossing the distaween us and I could smell the whiskey on her breath as her voice shifted in timber, deepening. Julia sounded eager as she whispered in my ear.

  “Imagine him behind you. One hand on your boob, the other softly stroking, fingers caressing their way down, across your skin…” Together, heads nearly toug, blonde and bck hair pooling at the edge of the table, we followed his movements as he walked nontly to the back of the restaurant. aze followed him, but as Julia tinued mine slid further back, to the far end of the restaurant. “He touches your belly. His fingers press into you. He pulls you back, your tummy tightening under his touch, and his breath is hot on your skin, his cock pressing into your ass.”

  “Stop,” I breathed.

  “Imagine him kneading your tit, thumb on nipple, and he slips his hah your skirt, touches your thigh, and his tongue…”

  “Stop it!” I hissed, and without looking back my hand snaked out and grabbed hers. “For fuck’s sake, Julia.” I squeezed, hard. “Stop!”

  “Hey, ouch! You’re hurting me.”

  “Then fug listen. You see that man?”

  “The waiter?”

  “No! Past him, back of the restaurant. Don’t stare. See him? Now, sit back – look at me.”

  She followed instrus with a bemused look on her fabsp; She gave her hand a little shake. “What the fuck, dy, what’s gotten into you?” Her eyes began to slide towards the back of the restaurant.

  “Keep your eyes on me, you stupid bitch!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard,” I said. And as I spoke, I shifted for her eyes and ears only: the timber of my voice, the way I held myself in the seat; dy fell away momentarily and for the first time in weeks, I spoke as myself. “Now listen. That man back there. Did ynize him?”

  “What? No, why would I?”

  “Back at Café d’Eon. Did you see the man with the neer?”

  “Why are you—”

  I cut her off. “Shut the fuck up and ahe question, Little Caesar. Did you see the man with the neer?”

  She hesitated for a moment. I could see in her eyes as she thought back, through a haze of whiskey and versation. “Yes,” she said.

  “What was he wearing?”

  “How the fuck should I…,” she started then trailed off. “Tweed suit?”

  “And the man at the back of the restaurant—don’t look!—what’s he wearing?”

  “I…” Julia’s eyes widened. “Tweed suit?”

  “Yeah,” I growled, calmly reag for my wine. “Got it in one.”

  “But that doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “It’s just a ce.”

  Raising the wine gss to my lips, looking at her over the rim, I slowly shook my head. I khe wine ba a single gulp. “No,” I said. “It’s not.”

  “dy,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “David,” I said, and grabbing her hand I squeezed it hard. She winced; I took some small pleasure in her pain. “My name is David,” I said. “And I’m being followed. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  She stared at me bnkly for a moment, the nodded.

  To her credit, Julia pyed aloifully as we escaped the restaurant. We finished our drinks quickly—but not too quickly—and she ordered a cab, which duly arrived as she settled the bill. Laughing, chatting, tossing back our hair as we slid handbags over shoulders, we left the restaurant and slid into the waiting car.

  “What the fuck—” she started the moment the door shut, but I cut her off with a look and poi the sign on the back of the seat: all rides were audio and video recorded for the safety of the er and the pany. Driverless, the vehicle aowledged and firmed our presence, and hummed into the early evening, winding its way to Julia’s apartment.

  “Not the day I expected,” Julia muttered.

  I ughed. “No kidding.”

  “Here. This is for you.” She passed a slip of paper, a number scrawled across its babsp; I raised an eyebrow. “The waiter’s number,” she said, ae the tension her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Guess he noticed us cheg out his ass.”

  We psed into silenbsp; I stared out the window, a tight knot in my belly. Outside, the city slid by, awash in artificial dawn as shop fronts aaurants, bars and shops spilled their light onto the pavement. Swiftly, we wound our way towards the tre, ever-taller cathedrals of t and gss g the night sky. The mome inexplicably familiar—sat in the back of a cab, o Julia—slipping into the night—though the sleek legs emerging from the short skirt, crossed at the thigh, and the painted fingers clutg tightly at the knee, and the shoes sparkling in the dark, all beloo the wrong person. A despite the ingruity, this moment raised a ghost of shared memory.

  We paused at a jun, traffic light momentarily painting us red, headlights strobing from turning cars. A pedestrian, crossing at the lights, would see two attractive women, possibly girlfriends, sat close in the rear of the car.

  “Hey, you remember?” she suddenly started, snappi of my reverie as the car slid forward.

  “The gig?”

  She nodded.

  “Why’d you suddenly think of that?”

  “Dunno.” She shrugged. “Back of a car, it’s a hot night… one of us is wearing a skirt.” She chuckled. “You were remembering too, weren’t you?”

  “Harry,” I said, feeling a sudden pang.

  She ughed. “Yeah, you loved that old guy, didn’t you? Wasn’t really my thing.” She paused in recolle. “retty awesome gig, though. Guy knew how to put on a show.”

  “Yeah,” I said quietly. “Longman retty awesome.”

  Sensitive to our words, the car started up some musiot so loudly as to interfere with versation. It was the cssic title track from his sed album: Beautiful Losers. The opening mencholy chords filled the space between us.

  “Didn’t he…?”

  “Yeah,” I answered. “First encore.”

  We sat there like that for a moment sharing the musid the memory, and I felt the space—short timetres, long years—separating us. A crazy impulse to reach out nearly overcame me, to hold her hand or pull her closer. It was the musid the day’s drinking and the darkness outside the car, and I knew she felt it too. Almost too quietly to hear, I heard her whisper: “I didn’t rehearse for this.”

  Her words triggered an assault of—not guilt, exactly, but still something like a physical cramp in the belly—disfort and doubt. Julia didn’t deserve this. Whatever anger and bitterness she felt over me was her own, and she’d clearly worked hard over the years to move on from our past. I could just jump out of the car and disappear. She might reveal my identity; she might not; either way, she’d probably be fine. But if I went home with her now and saw this through, I’d be bindio me once again.

  It wasn’t fair to her. Then again, waking up aloh tits and ay I never chose wasly fair, either. Losing my job, my ine, my home; losing my self, my strength, my sex and privilege—in exge for… what, exactly? I gnced down at the paper in my hand, sighed and slipped it into my handbag.

  The song ended, surging though the chier sed half, the intense, shuitar solo that underpihe lyrics of loss and yearning; and then something else started, somehnizable but still unknown. It was definitely more porary—dirty beats, yered synth underscored by harsh guitar that briefly surfaced from the aural wash—maybe a sample from Longman?—but then the vocals kicked in, the womahereal tones bringing order to the crafted cacophony.

  “Turn it up,” Julia anded, and the car dutifully obeyed.

  “What’s this?”

  She looked genuinely surprised. “Really? It’s been on stant py like… everywhere. Huge.”

  “I’ve been a bit distracted tely.”

  “dy,” she said. “That’s her name—well, like you, I guess. Spelled differently, though: ‘sin’ in the religious way; capital D – I at the end. SinDi. Not her real name, obviously, stage handle pying into the digital persona thing. She just popped up a month ago; major push by the bel, we’re doing a bit of work with them, but this track’s just really grabbed the zeitgeist. To be ho, at first I thought she was just another pop starlet of the moment, you know—you should fug see her! Sexy little thing—but seems she might have tra.”

  The song’s appeal was clear: catchy hooks, but with depth; crafted rather than processed. I could already imagihe bass-heavy remix pounding away at a club or rexing to it in the dark with an acoustic version at home. You could dao it; you could fuck to it. I liked it instantly, even if the girl’s voice was a little breathy for my taste.

  “Song’s called ‘Broken Flowers’,” Julia said, and psed into silence as I listeo the opening lyrics:

  You’ll miss me when I’m gone

  She said

  There was a girl

  She said

  Lip gloss and lics

  And the moon.

  The song was just beginning to open up, the lyrics pulling back as the yered soundscape started to assert itself—and then it faded and disappeared, leaving me wanting more.

  “We’re here,” Julia announced.

  The cab turned down a short cul-de-sac, leafy and affluent, past a row of terraced houses, and then disged us at the base of a turn-of-the-tury building, a t sb of glittering gss, sharp-angled porches and red-brown bribsp; The car purred off into the night.

  I followed Julia as she led me past the cierge—the bastard’s eyes on our asses as we walked past—and into the elevator. I could sense her assessing me as we surged upwards, feel her growing desire to demand answers. We stopped at the twelfth floor, a few floors shy of the penthouse. The hallway was silent, brightly-lit, and smelled sharply , with only two doors at opposing ends. She led me to the one on the left, tapped the lod led me into her home.

  The door had barely clicked shut before she spun on me, eyes fshing. “What the fuck!” she shouted. “What’s going on—”

  Anticipating her outburst, I cpped my hand over her mouth. “Quiet.”

  Her eyes gred at me over my fingers.

  “Speakers.” I indicated towards one I could see. “Smart appliances.”

  A fes on her phone, and she nodded. “Off.”

  “Good,” I breathed, sagging with relief. Heels clicked on the hardwood entrance as I looked around. “Nice pce you’ve got here.”

  “Yoing to tell me what the hell is going on here – David.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I waved her off and sank into the seat, a long sofa in ste grey, mps responding to my movement and lighting the way into her home. I fumbled with delicate straps and tossed my shoes aside and gave a deep sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God,” I said, stretg out ag arches. “Goddam implements of torture.”

  “I thought you loved them.”

  “I hate them,” I growled. “And these,” I added, slipping off the bracelets decorating my wrists, ung the bauble at my throat.

  She watched me quietly, and I ignored her. Julia had a nice pce: rge, open pn, very porary, taking up half the floor. Large windows, blinds pulled aside, granted a view towards both the city tre and opposite, the sprawl of suburban streets stretg towards the horizon. It was darker now; the ercial monoliths cut dark silhouettes in the distance, washed from below in garish street-level glows, glittering along their edges and tops with safety lights. Her furniture looked new and sleek.

  What I could see of her home appeared startlingly . Aside from some token decorations that spoke of the girl remembered from a decade ago, the pce felt strangely impersonal, like a show room for a new block of dos. There was a dull fort and familiarity to her home, like a hotel room you’ve visited a huimes before in any number of cities. The ued bndness of the pce went some way towards tempering the stab of jealousy I felt at the trast between Julia’s slick aodations and dy’s tiny apartment.

  Julia padded into the kit, the lights softly rising at her entranbsp; She pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge and two gsses from a shelf. “You lied to me,” she stated, returning, dropping into the far end of the sofa. She passed me a gss.

  “Yup.”

  “How much?”

  “Almost all of it.” She twisted the bottle open and I held out the gss and she poured a generous serving of Riesling. She kicked off her shoes, legs curlih her. In trast, I sat with my legs spread as wide as the skirt would allow. It felt good to spread out. “Like, 90% of it.” I sidered a moment. “Maybe 80%.” The day’s emotioion suddenly caught up with me. Given a moment’s peace, I could so easily y eyes and fall asleep here, like this. Instead, I stared bnkly at her ceiling, waiting.

  She frowned. “You’re not trans.”

  “Ha! No.”

  “Makeup?”

  “Hate it.”

  “And that story about the little girl and the bullies and…”

  “Ah. That orue.” I took a drink of wine, a long one, relishing the crisp ess of it. Julia served quality stuff. “Except for the bit about the dress.”

  Julia took a sip of wihen carefully pced her gss down on a coaster on the coffee table by the sofa. I could see her struggling; her hand ched and unched and the tension was clear iendons of her arm. She struggled to keep her voieutral. “Then what the hell is going on, David?”

  And here it was: my leap of faith.

  “Witness prote,” I answered.

  “Witness--?”

  “Prote.” I took a deep breath. “I saw something I shouldn’t have, and instead of keeping my mouth shut like a sensible person, I went to the authorities. They kept me in hiding until calling me as a witness.” I took another long drink of wine, nearly finishing it, putting the gss dowo hers, mine holding the reddish half-moon lip mark on the rim while hers didn’t. “Afterwards, it became very clear, very quickly, that my life was in danger.”

  Julia raised an eyebrow. “Death threats?”

  “I wish,” I answered drily, and told her in minimal details about the attempt on my life outside the courtroom: two bullets, one impact vest, and bruises and broken ribs.

  Her mouth dropped open in horror. “No way.”

  “Yeah.” I poio where the bullets hit. “Here and here. Scary shit. And so my hahat’s the agent appoio keep me alive—she decided to smuggle me away to somewhere safe to recover. In a dress.”

  “No!”

  I smiled ruefully. “Yes. Well, sort of. Tight jeans, stuffed bra, heels and makeup, wig. Enough to fool anyone from a distance while she escorted me.” The events all seemed a lifetime ago. After all, these events beloo the story of David Saunders – not dy Belmy. But telling the story brought it back vividly, those bizarre, syic breasts K stuto my chest at the start; the impossible bio-engineered pussy that came ter; and K herself, stern and sexy and twisted. The short, inteime we spent together. The drive and the hotel room. The ic.

  “But it didn’t work. There was a man chasing me. He found me. He broke my arm,” and I held out the injured limb, delicate and smooth, bare to the shoulder, for Julia to see. “And here, with an iron bar.” I gestured without toug at my fabsp; “Smashing in my nose and jaw. He tossed me through a gss door, he cut me, he shattered my leg. And then he shot me in the side. I thiore a hole in my lung; I don’t really remember. There was a hell of a lot of blood.”

  Julia looked a little ashen, shaken as her mouth hung open. She turned away, silently grabbing the bottle and refilling sses and passed one bae. I took it gratefully and drank deeply.

  I hadn’t really reflected on my near assassination since rec from the attempt, nor had the opportunity to share the experieh anyone. Doing sht a flurry of flig emotion: mostly, and most vividly, I remembered the sheer joy of the fight, of cutting loose after so many years of pying nicely acc to the mundane rules of David’s life.

  Even hampered by ridiculous clothing, matched against an oppo enjoying every possible advantage… I’d held my own; gave as good as I got; and yeah, I should’ve died then and there but I took the fug bastard with me. The vivid ssh across the neck; the gurgle and crimson froth; eyes wide with the realisation of his owh: there was a savage satisfa to it all.

  But he’d killed me. At least, I should’ve died. It would’ve saved me the livih, the slow, painful humiliation of inhabiting dy’s life. But for the unlikely intervention of the Asklepios ic’s freaking Fraein sce, that would’ve been the end of the story of David Saunders: twenty years the corporate stooge; what was the fug point? And I probably should be shaken, deeply traumatised by the experience of brutality and pain and the reality of my near death. Maybe I was. It was the stuff of nightmares, after all.

  But I already had my own nightmares and they weren’t so easily dispced. It wasn’t my first brush with death. And other than a visceral thrill at the memory of violence, I couldn’t summon up anything greater than apathy at the thought of David’s demise. It was almost as though he’d hardly existed to begin with.

  Julia was watg me carefully, studying the py of emotions ay fabsp; She was clearly carefully sidering what to say .

  “You’re lying again,” she said.

  “No.” I shook my head, bloresses falling about my fabsp; With a flick of the neck, I sent my hair back over my left shoulder, and smoothed it down with a quick stroke. “This part is true. They got me. I was a goner.”

  “But…”

  “You said it was impossible for me to look this way.” I smiled wryly. “Maybe you’re right. But everybody knows there’s some pretty crazy shit out there these days. Like, there’s a goddam factory on the Moht? We’ve got people on their way to Mars. There was all that medical voodoo shit they did whe pandemic hit a few years ago. So, yeah, I got to experiene of that stuff up-close, I guess. I don’t quite know what they did, some crazy experimental shit, but I started as a bleeding wreck of a corpse; and I came out like this.”

  “A girl!”

  “A disguise,” I insisted. “Remember that sdal st year, at the Olympics, the gene doping one? It’s like that, I think, something like that but instead of expressing all those genes for strength and endurand whatever, they went for—this.” I cupped the soft flesh of my chest. “Tits and soft skin and long hair and… all the rest.” I could feel the anger creeping into my voice, the frustration and sense of betrayal, the intense humiliation.

  “And this all happened a few months ago?”

  “More like six, going back to the very start. The tank was about four months ago.”

  She shook her head. “But it’s not possible. If what you say is true: shot, cut, broken, bleeding out. Nobody heals that quickly, not even with crazy voodoo sce.”

  “Like I said before: here I am.”

  “Show me,” she said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “I want to see,” Julia answered. “Stand up. Strip. Show me.”

  “Didn’t you see enough on Friday?”

  But she hadn’t, and so I did. In the dim lighting of Julia’s living room, I stood there, carefully undoing the heavy buttons until I could wiggle free of the skirt. The wine, on top of the day’s earlier drinking, rushed to my head and I fumbled with the buttons and my longer nails agai ungainly. The skirt pooled at my feet, revealing smooth, shaven thighs over cy stog tops. With some awkwardness, I reached for the buttons running up my back, and shimmied out of my shirt, and in doing so found myself standing in nothing but my underink push-up bra, bulging thong, white thigh-high stog—and earrings and makeup, in front of my ex-girlfriend, and I trembled very slightly despite the warmth, a deep flush slowly crawling up my chest and throat.

  Julia circled me, drinking in every detail of my femininity, and I saw in her gaze the same ravenous huhe insatiable desire, that I sensed earlier in the day. Clearly, it was all she could do to refrain from reag out and toug me, and stroking the smooth, whole skin. I felt acutely aware, for the first time, how she was rger than me now, taller as I stood there barefooted; and uneasiness fluttered ay belly.

  “No scars, nothing,” she said.

  “I know. Crazy, right?”

  “But you were… shot?”

  “Right fug here,” I said, and took her hand. She jerked slightly at my touch but allowed me t her to a pce over my ribs halfway between hip and armpit. Her touch lihere, hot, uain, but theentatively pressed at the spot. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not at all.” I giggled, involuntarily. “It tickles a little, actually.”

  Her hand slowly traced a path down my side, towards my waist. She was standing directly in front of me now, our foreheads nearly toug. “There isn’t a mark on you.”

  “Nope.”

  Her fiips hovered at the edge of my abdomen, at the waistband of my panties. “You used to have a birthmark here.”

  “Gone.”

  With gentle prodding, she urged me to turn. Her touch explored my shoulder, my back, a firaced down my spine. “You had scars here,” she said, “and here, and here.” She punctuated each with a touch. “You refused to tell me where they came from. And now….”

  “All gone.”

  She stood so close I could feel the heat from her body. Her hand briefly, tantalisingly brushed ay ass, bared and supple, split by the thong wedged between both cheeks. I felt her presence, her touch, with painful iy, and trembled with arousal. There was a faint smell to her—a miasma of memory—that carried with it recolles of intimate times together.

  “Unbelievable,” she whispered.

  I took her hand in mine again, turo face her. “You should check this out,” I said, and brought her hand to my breast.

  She pulled her hand away.

  “Hey, it’s fine,” I said, bringing her back.

  Her breath tickled my colrbone a an errant strand of hair dang. Her haed tenderly, almost nervously, over my boob, the gauzy fabric of the bra a flimsy barrier betweeoud my flesh. At her nervous touch the flush felt earlier, the embarrassed heat crawling up my neto my faow rolled downwards, hotter than before, intensifying as it flowed into and filled those tits. There was a sudden urgent need for someone—for her—to grab my boobs. Almost i images of Julia, grabbing, fondling, sug flesh and nipple fred ay eyes.

  The immediate rea to her touch—a weakness in the knees—ache in my balls—a sudden tightness at the tre of each breast—surprised, uled me with its iy. What I now felt was discertingly different from my h handling, the drunken groping of infrequent lonely nighttime masturbations over the previous months. Julia’s touch brought sensations that differed in magnitude from those experienced with the fake tits of before. Dan hadn’t quite reached sed base, st Friday… would it have felt like this if he had?

  And the realisation that this was the first intimate tact I’d made with anyone for months fred through me. Her hands were the first to touch these fug udders other than mine. Her shy touches were waking in me a desperate yearning.

  How muy torment did she even notibsp; Did the er of her mouth twitto a hint of a wicked smile? Eyes downcast, she watched her own hand as it grabbed more firmly. She felt their weight in her hand. “How big are you?” she asked, gently kneading.

  “B cups,” I gasped.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, and looked up. Her eyes found mine. “You’re… beautiful,” she breathed.

  A shudder coursed through the ey of my body at her words, her touch, and at the force of her look. We were so close I could feel the warmth flowing from her, smell the day’s heat in her hair. And then suddenly, my lips found hers. My mouth crushed against hers and I groaned into Julia, leaning fully into the kiss, arms rising to encircle her, to pull her closer. Fleetingly, I felt the softness of our lips’ meeting, mine slick with lipstid gloss, a hint of berries and a taste of wine, and she seemed to colpse into me…

  “No,” she cried. The hand at my breast shifted: her fingers abruptly pihe nipple and twisted, painfully. I cried out in surprised pain. She shoved me away, fiercely, and I stumbled, tangled in the clothes at my ankles. Julia lurched back, eyes shadowed and glittering like obsidian. She passed the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping away the tacky hint of gloss left there.

  “Fuck!” I instinctively crossed my arms over my chest, seething at the ignominiously throbbing of my nipple.

  “No!” She was breathing heavily, flushed and her whole body quivered like a plucked, taut string. “You don’t get to kiss me,” she said. “You don’t get to touch me.”

  “I—”

  Her hand shed out with surprising speed. Even had I wanted, drunk and disbobuted, off kilter and distracted, arms crossed, there was no way I could have blocked or dodged. Her sp took me fully across the fabsp; I reeled back, face smarting, eyes watering.

  A moment ter, she had me up against the wall. Taller, bigger, stronger, she grabbed my wrists ahem above my head with one hand. Her body pinned me to wall. Her other hand found my tit again, squeezed, finger and thumb ping the wounded nipple through the thin fabric, twisting once more. Redoubled paied under her grip, hot and intense and I struggled briefly against her grip. Without releasing my wrists, she smmed me bace mainst the wall, and her hand released my ag boob and snaked up between us and tched around my throat.

  And I could’ve throwo the ground, broken free, easily. She wasn’t a fighter. A little bigger and stronger, sure, but a subtle shift of weight, a twist from the waist and she’d go down. I could’ve headbutted her in the fad smashed in her nose; kneed her in the crotch; reversed her sloppy hold and popped her shoulder out of its joint or snapped her elbow.

  This bitch wasn’t a fighter, but I submitted passively to assault. I was curious; I’d anticipated something like this; and truth be told, the roughness and hell, even the pain was sort of exg as her fingers curled around my nebsp;

  “You…,” she breathed. “You goddam, fug bastard.” Her mouth was right up against my ear. “I hate you. I hate you so much.” She bit down, once, into the cartige above the earring. I inhaled sharply from the pain. Spinning me around, she dragged me sideways towards the window.

  “Look at you.” My refleocked me as she held me before the framed night, a feminine image caught between the light inside and the outside darkness. “So small, so weak,” she murmured. “So pretty.” She released my wrists, and I felt her fumble at my bad then yank the bra down my arms. My tits popped free, momentarily, before she seized bhly, shoving them upwards, dispying them rudely in refle.

  “Did you want these?”   “No,” I whispered.

  Her hand snaked into my hair, fingers curling deeply into my mane, grabbing a fistful, and then pulling harshly. I gasped. “Did you want this?”

  “No.”

  “You make such a pretty girl, David. Is this what you wanted?”

  “No!”

  I knew, she had me pressed up against the window. My tits fttened against the cool gss. God, what must this look like from outside? She smacked my ass with an open palm and I yipped with surprise. Then she spun me back around. “Good,” she hissed. And the kiss that followed was fierd angry and passionate, her tongue f its way in, and her hands were on my ass, squeezing, then groping at my chest again, rabbing a fistful of hair, or at my neck, and then back at my ass.

  And she would pull me forward into her and then shove me back, bared ass smag rudely up against the cool windowpane. And my cock strained against its fines, and my balls ached for release, and I groaned as she attacked me in her anger and passion. All those months of stifled, frustrated desire swelled up and it was all I could do to restrain myself from throwing this bitch face down across the back of her sofa and show her just how manly I remained, how a disguise of tits and ass and long hair didn’t make me any less a man.

  But I didn’t. Instead, I dropped my arms limply at my side. Behind the blonde curtain of hair I hid my face, and when she kissed me, savagely, I let her. Her breath was hot and angry on my face, my neck, my shoulder; she bit; her entire body coiled around me as she straddled my leg, thrusting against me, sliding back, pushing again, riding my thigh. Her thumb pulled at my lip, smearing lipstick, forced its way into my mouth. She buried her fato my hair ahighs suddenly ched tightly, painfully around mine one more time.

  Julia shuddered, and with a long, rapturous moan she came.

  She held me there, pinned against the gss, panting heavily. Her touch lingered, briefly, lightly stroking, as though trying to trace a fotten pattern within my flesh. Thehdrew, and Julia appeared momentarily stri and aghast; but the haunted look quickly disappeared.

  “Not a word!” Julia gred and stalked towards me, noredatleam to her dark eyes. There was a wet patch at the crot the thin fabric of her trousers. Her fingers hooked the waistband of my panties and tugged.

  “Easy!” I pined.

  “Get those fug things off,” she said, and her fingers curled around my throbbi cock.

  I hasteo do as she ordered, kig them away, but as I went to roll dowogs she spped my hand away. “No, keep those,” she said. “You look cute in them.” She gave my member a little tug, leadiowards what I presumed was her bedroom. But such was the turmoil of emotions I felt in the instance—raging desire, profound shame, weakness, surprise, drunkenness and anger, a seething, toxic slurry roiling in my belly —that my legs gave way and I stumbled, pitg forward.

  Julia caught me and I fell into her. We sank to the flether, her arms suddenly ed arourong, fident. And it felt uedly good being held by her: I felt suddenly both small and protected, delicate and precious, in the f folds of her arms. fused and sied by this weakness, I furiously suppressed a sudden desire to tear up and sob. There wasn’t time to even sider where this surge of feminiiinated as Julia’s boobs pressed up against mihough her thin shirt. Our hair pooled together, bd blonde. “Jules…” I gasped.

  She pawed at my painfully erect coce more. “I’ve wahis thing inside of me since I saw it st Friday,” she whispered into my ear. Her grip on the shaft tightehumb sliding across the smooth lip of the helmet. “You want it too, don’t you?”

  Breathing heavily, I nodded.

  “Then fuck me, David, like you used to."

  Author's Notes

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