Chapter Eight: David settles in to life at the Clinic and perfects his disguise. The clinic promises safety but David’s paranoia leaves him in doubt, even as Cindy makes a new friend.

Constant in All Other Things
Chapter Eight
by
Fakeminsk ([email protected])

Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent
-Much Ado About Nothing

The bed was warm and comfortable, the room dark and still. Heavy blinds cut off the daylight completely. A wonderful lethargy crept through my body. For an indeterminate period I felt no sense of time or space, just the presence of the duvet as an almost nurturing weight pressing down on my side. Rolling onto my back there was a dull throb in my side, easily ignored; those pain-killers Scooter gave me were strong stuff. As I reluctantly shifted into full wakefulness my mind was bombarded by a deluge of new and bewildering sensations.

This was my second time waking up in bed as Cindy, and my first proper night’s sleep in . . . God, I had no idea. For a moment I felt utterly confused: where the hell was I? What the fuck was I wearing? It seemed absurd, impossible that I was dressed--in lingerie--with these things--and shaved legs; how had this happened? The uncertainty quickly faded. I remembered K and Scooter, Agent Fosters and Jeremiah fucking Steele.

That brief moment of waking clarity shattered beneath the onslaught of foreign and feminine sensations. The weight of breasts on my chest and their soft, sensitive presence beneath the duvet; the silky slipperiness of the nightgown that twisted like a secret between me and the sheets; even the taste of last night’s cleanser and moisturiser, now a faint echo on my lips: all these were strange and new to me.

Strange as it all was, absurd as my situation seemed--was I really dressed as a fucking girl, in hiding from a homicidal maniac?--I couldn’t lie in bed all day whining. After indulging in a deep, fatalistic sigh, I tossed aside the duvet and sat up in bed. Again a distracting flood of sensations--the way those oversized tits swayed and drooped as I sat up; the fall of the nightgown around my shorn legs--but eventually you’ve just got to adapt and ignore, accept and move on. I had a couple weeks of this bullshit ahead of me, and if I kept stopping to contemplate every difference in body and clothing that comes with pretending to be female, I’d go fucking crazy.

As my first day as a single white female began, I realized that without K, I had no idea what to do.

See, I’m a creature of routines. I don’t know why. It’s probably a neurotic reaction to the randomness of my childhood. As a working adult I took to the Monday-to-Friday, nine-to-five routine like . . . well, like Cindy to lip gloss at the age of twelve. Wake at six, work out, shit-shower-shave, eat and then the ride to work. Same stop, same time, same route, every morning.

It’s not like I’m the only one doing this or anything. After a while I got to recognize the people on my route, the other ‘regulars’: that guy in the natty suit with the pricey briefcase but gay-looking ponytail and one really long nail on his pinkie; I watched that dude eat a Macintosh apple every single morning for three goddamn years, nibbling his way around the core before tossing it as he stepped off the bus. There was the mousy little girl with startling blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses; she had a different novel in her hand every second day and every one of them was some kind of murder mystery. (And yeah, I eventually solved her mystery, if you know what I mean. . . .) Same people, same route, same bloody routine, every day for years. Some people might find that kind of sad. Me, I loved the routine.

Sure, it’s comforting and all, but there’s much more to it than that. So much becomes possible through familiarity. There’s confidence to be found in routine. Even more importantly, there’s the possibility for change--for real change, meaningful change. I wanted to believe that. I really did. I had to, for fuck’s sake, otherwise my whole life would turn out to be a goddamn waste. Day after day, through the repeated actions I had developed for the new adult life I’d been thrust into, I was making myself over into--well, into David Sanders. Someone very different from the person I’d been before.

That’s probably why I’m not a huge fan of change. Whenever one of the people on my route disappeared and never came back, I felt--sad. Seriously. Felt almost like a personal affront, you know?

Therefore, left in my room and unable to go out on account of my voice, I tried to fall back on established routine. Some of the usual routines had to be changed, of course. These weren’t changes I wanted to make, mind you. They were . . . girly routines. Yeah, doing the same thing again and again can lead to a change of who you are, but this wasn’t something I particularly wanted to become. When I stepped out of the shower I patted dry and powdered and moisturised, and knew that I’d be doing the same damn thing every single morning for the rest of my time as Cindy.

Done with the bathroom, I popped one of Scooter’s painkillers and slipped back into that goddamn corset. There was a sharp stab of pain in my side as I slowly zipped the front. The satin pulled tight against my bruise, but the ache quickly faded and the added tension did seem to keep the area secure. With each closing tooth of the zipper I felt the corset create my contours and draw in like a second skin around my torso. I adjusted the breasts more comfortably in their cups and took a tentative, shallow breath. The damn thing was annoying, but to be honest it really wasn’t that uncomfortable. I could breathe, albeit a little more shallowly than normal, and it forced me to move in such a way that minimized the chance of drawing pain from my side.

And it did keep those tits from wobbling all over the fucking place as I dropped to the floor for my morning workout. Push-ups, Sit-ups, tricep-presses and dips, whatever I could do working with what I had in the room. Each move was done with excruciating care to minimize the chance of aggravating my cracked ribs. God, what an incongruous image I must’ve presented: big-titted babe doing push-up in a corset--you don’t see that every day! It was a short routine, under an hour once I got through all the other stuff, but I was sweating and red in the face by the time I finished. It wasn’t that I was out of shape: bloody hell, but I couldn’t breathe properly with that corset wrapped around me.

Finally I couldn’t put off what I’d been dreading most. I faced a new and bewildering dilemma: the challenge of the wardrobe. I stared into the closet for at least ten minutes, at the range of colours and lengths and fabrics and styles spread out before me, and felt nothing but fear and confusion. I had to close the door and walk away. Without K to pick out the day’s outfit I was lost.

I was about to turn to one of the teen girl magazines K had left behind when salvation came from an unexpected source. I thought maybe I could mix and match something similar to what one of those glossy bimbos were wearing, but the phone rang before I could embarrass myself.

First I had to find the damn thing, and then I stared down at it, unsure whether I should answer or not. What the hell, I thought. K assured me that the place was safe. I picked up the receiver. “Cindy,” I said, in a low, breathy voice, barely above a whisper. “Um . . . hello?” Without that spray I didn’t sound much like her.

“Not bad, Girlie,” said the brusque voice on the other end. “But you better learn to do better.”

“Hey, Scooter? Bite me. I’ve had a rough morning.”

There was an annoyed silence. “That’s ‘Doctor Bridges’ to you.”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s up, doc?”

He sighed over the line, but when he spoke his voice sounded cheerful. “Just some good news. You’ll absolutely love this, Cindy. Your type always do.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, I did promise Katherine that we’d take proper care of you. And from what I saw last night, you’re looking a little rough. Seriously. Don’t be talking to anyone under bright lights, because with a face like yours? You’ve got a jaw to make Dick Tracy proud.”

“I like my chin just fine, thank you. So did you call just to bitch about my face? Or do you have something to say?”

The doctor chuckled evilly. “I’ve called to let you know I’ve arranged for a team of the Asklepios Clinic’s very best to, ah . . . take care of you today.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see. They’ll be there in a few minutes. Slip on a bathrobe and just try to relax. Girls love this stuff.”

“This stuff? Hey--”

“Don’t worry. They’re professional. They’ve dealt with all kinds of patients in the past. They’re very discreet. Oh, and they know you can’t talk so don’t worry. They’ll take care of everything.” The bastard really sounded overjoyed. “Enjoy yourself, Cindy!”

***

That first morning and afternoon was spent buried in the warm folds of a heavy terrycloth robe, sat deep in a chair as a small army of beauticians hovered about. Goddamn Scooter and his ‘professionals’. Damn, but did I owe that bastard one or what? I contemplated a fierce and fitting revenge as those girls poked and prodded and otherwise pampered me nearly to the point of insanity.

“You just sit back and relax, honey,” said the team leader. She was slightly plump but immaculately made-up. “Just let Sheila take care of everything.” Then she handed me a small whiteboard and marker. “I’ve heard about your throat, you poor thing. Well, if you need anything just let us know.”

Of course, once the acrid scent of those damned gel extensions had set and the girl working my hand finished shaping them, I was left ‘mute’--at that stage there was no way I could hold a damn pen with those quarter-inch claws. Left unable to protest, the girls were free to go to town on me. I don’t know if they knew or even suspected that I wasn’t the twenty year old princess they were turning me into. The way they chatted and fussed, I doubt they would’ve cared.

I mean, my robe did fall open at times and they must’ve had a good look at my generous curves. Hell, they probably had a few accidental glimpses of that pussy as well. The contrast between that and my otherwise masculine features must’ve confused them at least a little--yeah? I mean, my hands and feet aren’t huge or anything, but they’re not exactly delicate either. I’m fairly proud of my manly jaw and strong nose. I’m a good-looking guy. K thought some of those looks were androgynous; I’ve never thought so. Maybe my eyes were a bit effeminate, and the makeup did something strange to my cheekbones, but I definitely wasn’t naturally ‘girly’. No fucking way.

I spent most of that day in a daze, lying half-asleep in a chair with my limbs splayed out, fingers dangling into little bowls of liquid, women fluttering about my feet, and someone slowly working through my scalp. I definitely woke up when they started stabbing holes in my ears, but the pain faded quickly once they popped the studs in. Then I woke up again once they started tearing my eyebrows off with little waxy strips. Those damn bitches took far too much pleasure inflicting pain on me, let me tell you!

Once the nails were set I was free to idly flip through a magazine, one girl or another occasionally swooping in to comment on the article before me.

“Oh, that’d look so cute on you!” said Pam, the stylist, and I’d give a mute nod.

“God, look at him?” added Kim, the manicurist. “He’s just so buff.”

I smiled weakly.

When they moved on to the facial I laid back with headphones on, listening to some chilled ambient tunes. They stroked and massaged my face and rubbed lotions into my skin, as others returned their attention to my hands. Listen, I’ll be honest: there was something kind of nice about all the attention, the massages and everything. Especially after the last few hectic weeks, it felt nice to just totally relax. It’s just . . . well hell, it took ages, yeah? And I felt like such a sissy the whole time, my stomach churning with subtle self-loathing and my head simmering with the mildest of headaches. Still, I drifted off and eventually came back to the feeling of a tiny brush lightly stroking my lips.

“We’re almost done, hun,” Sheila said. She approached my face with the intensity of a master craftsman, taking almost random, final strokes at the canvas that my skin had become. Pam made final touched to my hair. They didn’t let me see what I looked like at that point. Oh no. First they bundled me into the outfit their fashion expert selected from my wardrobe. Bra, panties and pantyhose. Waist-cincher, drawn tighter than before, and low-heeled boots. A short denim skirt, tight across my ass and thighs, and a slightly-pink, short-sleeved blouse with a wide, flared collar, left unbuttoned low enough to display an ungodly depth of cleavage. And finally they assaulted me with accessories: a thin leather belt, bangles, necklace, rings . . . they threw so much shit at me so quickly that I was left befuddled, and just numbly went through the process of getting dressed without protest. They helped me with the buttons and zippers. With those new nails I was completely useless. There was a final spritz of perfume that left me in a disorientating, cloying floral mist.

They trundled me before the mirror and watched me with expectant, cheerful possessiveness.

“What do you think?” Sheila asked.

Honestly? My immediate reaction was to feel under-whelmed. It’s not that these girls weren’t good at their job--they definitely knew their craft. But I’d already been through this before, right? The first time is always the worst. Well, almost. That’s true for just about everything. Three days ago K stuck breasts onto me and dressed me up in tight jeans, and then unveiled Cindy to my virgin eyes. After that--other than finding myself sporting a sudden vagina--any further adventures in cross-dressing were bound to feel a little anti-climatic. That first encounter with Cindy had been profoundly unsettling. The realization that I could be made to look like a chick--like an attractive one--had freaked me out. With all the racing around and hiding and shit, I don’t think I’d quite had time to fully understand just how deeply and profoundly the whole experience had shook me.

Which is why, as I slowly drank in this latest incarnation of Cindy, I began to feel . . . ill. That subtle discontent in my stomach blossomed into full-blown sickness; I felt like vomiting. Pain flared across my temple, brief but penetrating. All the wrongness of the last three days, seething and bubbling just beneath the surface but otherwise ignored, came rushing to the fore. Maybe K’s presence had been enough to keep it a bay, but left on my own . . . God, I suddenly realized I was on the verge of losing it, and I wasn’t sure what the hell I’d do to myself . . . or anyone around me. First this morning and now . . . these chicks hovering about, eyes bright and eager, turning me into, fuck, into one of them.

I just stood there staring at Cindy in the mirror, nearly trembling with the effort of restraining my violent disgust. The girls were getting anxious. I watched them in the mirror exchange glances. They needed some kind of response. With one hand I reached up to my new, luxurious mane of hair. It hung impossibly straight down to the small of my back, shimmering brightly. It reminded me of golden wheat swaying in the wind at dawn in the summer--what a thing to remember at a time like this. Glossy pink nails combed through and I couldn’t tell the difference from the real thing.

Sheila’s hand fell softly on my shoulder. “Cindy?”

My smile was wan and sickly but the best I could manage. I hid it with a quick nod of my head, painfully aware of the added weight to the gesture, of the hair that fell across my shoulder and stroked my neck, of the glittering dance of the studs now adorning each earlobe.

The relief that passed through my worried audience was nearly palpable.

“You look wonderful, girl!” Kim said.

I did. I mean, I really did. In fact, the longer I stared at myself in the mirror, the more discomfited I became, the more overwhelmed I felt. True, the shock wasn’t anything as drastic as the first time I saw myself all done up as a chick. Thing is, as good as Agent K was at the whole makeup-and-disguise thing, she wasn’t a master. It wasn’t her profession, not like it was for these girls.

Looking at myself in the mirror after K was done with me, yeah, sure, I looked like a chick but if I looked closely the flaws in the illusion were pretty damn clear. Now, as my eyes danced across my reflection desperately seeking the same easy flaws as before--I couldn’t find them.

That wig had done loads to feminize my features but never looked quite natural on me--this sleek new cascade was all girl, and somehow very Cindy. Cindy wouldn’t wear clip-on earrings, and so now she didn’t: two little studs, glinting in the light, framed her face. That face: sure, she had a square chin--already softened by Sheila’s skill--but who’d notice confronted with those delicately highlighted cheekbones, those soft, wet lips? And those eyes, wide and so very, very green, vividly brought out by the masterwork of blended colours that shimmered across her lids. Certainly the feminine mask revealed to me felt heavy and strange, but the skin I saw was flawless and beautiful.

Those nails transformed her whole hand somehow, made them delicate, the illusion of length making each finger that much more slender. It was more than that: the very way she carried herself was different, every movement softened by the changes wreaked upon her by the beauticians. Soft skin, new colours, new weight, lingering scents: this was the same Cindy I met three days ago, only made feminine to a degree I hadn’t dared consider.

I barely noticed as the girls said farewell, packed up and left. My hand drifted tentatively across Cindy’s body, poking at each new change.

God, I felt like such a fucking pansy. It made me sick. It really did.

***

It’s hard to judge how profound an effect the beauticians had on me. I’m not sure, but after that moment staring at Cindy’s reflection I started to give up. Agreeing to K’s crazy scheme was one thing, but actually discovering I could be made to appear like a girl--a real girl, a hot girl--was really playing havoc on my self esteem, you know? Especially since on one level . . . well, hell yeah, I actually felt some pride in how sexy Cindy looked

So after the girls left I spent an hour sitting numbly at the edge of my bed, shaking slightly, fighting down the urge to throw up. My headache slowly faded. The reflection opposite openly mocked my male ego. Understanding how both K and the Clinic were systematically breaking down my masculine self-image, even knowing that it was for my own good, didn’t make it any less painful. Once I recovered from my small mental breakdown, though, something unexpected happened: with an almost audible ‘click’ something in my head flipped and I figured, ‘fuck it’. I decided that there was no way I was going to spend the next few weeks in a state of constant misery.

With renewed enthusiasm I took to my stocking feet only to remember that I didn’t actually have anything to do. I couldn’t leave room Cos 402 on account of my throat and doctor’s orders. The TV received only a few channels and no news from the outside world--I couldn’t even check up on fucking Steele’s trial. I hate television anyway; it’s just a huge waste of time. Some game consol or another was stashed away and I thought I could pass an hour or two on mindless entertainment . . . but the fifth time I got my ass kicked on Dead or Alive because I missed the goddamn kick-button because of those new nails, I gave up.

I had no choice. Under the threat of extreme boredom and with nothing else to do, I started to perfect the whole feminine act. I began by reading some of the teen magazines and fashion books K had left behind, and very consciously tried to do so in as girly a way as possible, curled up on the sofa with my legs tucked up beneath my ass, unconsciously stroking my hair as I perused the articles. I even read that awful ‘Shopaholic’ book, pausing partway through to look over K’s letter once again. Eventually I drifted into the bathroom and practiced my makeup skills and all that other shit, then reluctantly slipped into some low heels and pranced back and forth for a bit. I kept them on for the rest of the night--I was almost surprised at how quickly the night came, once I got serious about my training--and finally settled in for food and a movie.

I whipped up a quick meal with what I found in the kitchen, and finally kicked back on the sofa with a glass of white wine. I watched the best thing I found in the media selection, some cynical romance by Woody Allen. The whole time I felt acutely aware of the image I must have presented: young blonde on sofa with glass of wine. I absently fidgeted with my hair or bra and lost myself in the movie.

Without realizing it turned one AM, I was yawning, and I’d survived my first day alone as Cindy. A little drunk from two bottles of Chablis, I lifted myself from the sofa and returned to my bedroom. I went through the nightly routine again, cleaning up and slipping back into the corset and brushing my new long hair. Thinking back over my day, I realized that it hadn’t been all that bad. Yeah, a bit freaky at the beginning, and the middle part was kind of emasculating . . . but hell, it beat hiding out in some shithole waiting for some bastard to pop a bullet into the back of my head. That’s probably when I started to relax--to really relax, for the first time in far too long. After fiddling with the media controls set into the headboard of the bed--setting an alarm, adjusting the heat in the room and putting some chilled tunes on a timer--I pulled on that same babydoll I wore my first night as Cindy and slipped into bed. Within a few minutes of hitting bed I was asleep, warm and comfortable and surrounded by music.

***

The next morning it was Cindy who stepped from the building into the fresh brightness outside. She paused at the door and took a deep, invigorating breath. Her eyes closed with the pleasure of the warm sun on her skin and the scent of freshly cut grass riding the air. When she opened her eyes again she smiled a happy, simple smile and trotted a few steps down the cobblestone path.

Sitting atop a small hill, the Cos residence offered an excellent view across the expansive range of the Asklepios Clinic. At night the whole area lay shrouded in darkness broken only intermittently by rare and distant lights. However, by day the clinic revealed its dappled beauty to the young girl.

The two large buildings at opposing ends of the property, sharp-edged jumbles of glass and concrete, reached aggressively for the sky and glittered coldly in drifting shafts of gentle sunlight. Behind her loomed the Hygieia Centre, sitting taller and more elaborate than any nearby buildings. Smaller structures lay scattered across the range of her sight, mostly clustered near main buildings but also reaching hesitatingly into the encroaching forest. More homes, she decided, or maybe shops. Cindy frowned slightly at the thought: she had very little money; but the day was far too beautiful for such concerns and, tossing her hair back and slinging her purse over one shoulder, she began her exploration of her new home. The glint of colour peeking from her open-toed wedge heels, the dance of the sundress against her legs, the light bump of a purse against her hip with every step: Cindy felt gloriously alive and comfortable in her femininity as she enjoyed an early morning stroll beneath blue skies and dawdling clouds.

She found genuine contentment in the freedom to explore at her leisure. For an hour she drifted aimlessly along the twisting and convoluted walking paths. This early in the morning--a glance at the thin, silver timepiece at her wrist confirmed it wasn’t even nine yet--there were few other people about. She saw a couple of joggers pass by, red-faced and earnest; they gave her a double look and a quick automatic wave before continuing on their way. Many of the paths coiled around small, well-tended gardens and parks sporting detailed fountains, artificial ponds and benches for relaxing. Cindy made a mental note of some gorgeous trees perfectly suited for a late-afternoon picnic spent relaxing in verdant shade.

Cindy thought to herself that she would have to come out earlier tomorrow. She wouldn’t even have to talk to anyone. To not take advantage of the natural beauty of this place was unthinkable. In the early morning, just as the sun touched the forested hilltops red, there might still be fog roiling between the buildings blanketing everything in its muting mist. She felt an almost unconscious ache to lose herself, alone, in the natural beauty of her new surroundings.

As the young woman came to the end of her morning stroll she noticed an increasing number of people on the paths, some flitting between buildings on those small, electric carts. She passed a few people and they all seemed content to remain private; they offered polite nods and non-committal smiles but little else.

Cindy became a little anxious. The thought of spending her stay at the clinic alone was genuinely distressing to a girl like her. Spending a day being pampered at home was one thing, but what was the point of getting all dressed up and pretty if there was no one to appreciate it? Despite the squeamish flutter in her stomach she determined to approach the next passer-by to cross her path.

He was a youngish-looking man, maybe in his early-twenties but with a rounded softness to his face that bordered on childish. His clothes were casual but stylish and very expensive and looked a little cool for the slight chill that rode the mid-spring mountain air. With distracted, almost nervous eyes he scanned the far horizons of the clinic as he jogged, and looked set to pass straight by without noticing Cindy.

“Good morning!” she declared happily, stepping in front of the man.

Eyes still focused on the distant bulk of the Meditrine Clinic, he ran straight into the smaller girl. With a startled gasp she tumbled to the ground, the man falling heavily on top of her.

Believe me: I came damn close to killing that stupid kid, right then and there. I really did. It wasn’t the fact that the weirdo slammed into me and knocked me to the ground. Hell, I could even forgive him for falling on top of me. After all, this cutesy girl-disguise is just that: a disguise, and beneath the lace and satin and pink trim I’m still a guy, tough as nails, still a man, not easily shaken. Other than the savage but brief burst of pain in my side, the hardest part of hitting the stone pathway was remembering to fall like Cindy--with a squeal and a useless flailing of limbs. The heels helped keep things authentic.

No, what pissed me off was that once we hit the pavement this idiot kid made no effort to get off of me. Seriously. He just stayed over me, his weight pressing down on me, and for the first time I felt the bizarre sensation of my breasts being crushed against my chest by another body. The boy lifted himself just enough to hold his head over mine. He stared directly into my eyes. His eyes were dull grey and rimmed in red. An unusually sharp scent clung to him, spicy but not unpleasant.

For a horrible, fleeting moment I thought this asshole was going to reach down for a kiss. My makeup was still fresh; wet, glistening lips parted in a slight gasp; and then I realized the boy wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were unfocused and distant. Slowly they returned to the here and now and gradually became aware of the startled, wide-eyed girl confronting him.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Larry.”

He didn’t seem all that concerned or even aware that he was lying on top of a smaller girl, crushing her to the ground as he introduced himself. I looked to either side but from my limited perspective didn’t see help approaching. I experienced another first-time foreign sensation: that of long hair, my own, pinned beneath me. Each turn tugged painfully at my scalp.

“I am twenty years old and a student,” he continued conversationally, though his voice was strangely monotone and slightly too loud. “What is your name?”

“Um . . . Cindy?” I answered. Thanks to the spray my voice was back to those unsettlingly breathy and feminine tones.

“Very nice to meet you, Cindy,” he said. “I have never seen you before. Are you new to the Clinic?”

With my hair caught I couldn’t even nod. I really had to fight back the temptation to toss this idiot off of me. The boy wasn’t small and his weight was starting to hurt my side despite Scooter’s painkillers. I could’ve thrown him easy, but I figured there was no was Cindy would have the strength or skill.

“Yes?” I answered, forcing a note of pleading into my voice.

“You should not be here,” he said, in the same toneless voice. “This is a bad place for you.”

No shit, it was a bad place. Last place I wanted to be was pinned beneath some guy, yeah? Especially since, a moment later, I felt it: an insistent push against my thigh, like an overeager pup poking its muzzle into a pocket. Perverted little fucker! I’d never felt anything like it but recognized the sensation immediately. The bastard’s growing hard-on was jabbing into my leg! The thought that only the ridiculous flimsy thinness of the dress I wore and this idiot’s shorts separated his cock from my skin almost made me sick.

Screw the helpless Cindy act, yeah? Frightened surprised twisted into an angry scowl. “You have to get off of me,” I growled, and the spray did nothing to mask my barely repressed rage. “Now.”

Larry didn’t seem to notice. “Of course,” he answered, sounding calmly unconcerned. He took his time doing so but finally clambered to his feet. Gallant gentleman that he was, he didn’t even offer me his hand. Instead, his eyes quickly found the squatting silhouette of the Meditrine Clinic, and without another word or a glance back he took off at a brisk jog in its general direction.

Fortunately, not everyone I met that day tried to slam me to the ground and hump my leg. (Not that I could blame them, really, considering what a sexy little number Cindy is.) I encountered a few more idle wanderers like myself and exchanged passing pleasantries. No real conversations, but it did a lot to boost my confidence. If anyone found something odd about my appearance they kept it to themselves. I certainly kept my own opinions quiet. It finally began to dawn on me that I was in a hospital--albeit a very beautiful, very large and expensive one--and many of the people I met seemed a bit . . . off.

That day was spent at a nice, leisurely pace, methodical but relaxed, as I spiralled out from the Cos Residence and explored the surroundings. I stumbled across a few more residences though none of them were quite as large as my new home. Where Cos struck me as a bit like upper-end student housing, some of the other places sprawled out like small villas.

Everywhere I went the grass was green and the shrubs well-kept. The air was almost cloying at times, laden with the scent of early-blooming flowers and fragrant trees. So clear and blue that it nearly seemed to glow, the unbroken sky stretched across the far limits of the Clinic and set the brilliant green of the earth in sharp contrast. To be honest, I’m not sure I’d ever been anywhere quite as idyllic and beautiful.

And yet--yeah, there’s a ‘but’. In my life it seems like there’s always a ‘but’. Despite the beauty, the soothing breeze and scents and calming silence . . . yeah, it was the silence that did it, I think. It wasn’t the fact that I was decked out like a co-ed tart that had me on edge. It was the unnatural silence of the place.

See, the thing is I’m not much of a city boy. I’m really not, even though I’ve spent my entire adult life in the bustle and clamour of big cities. There’s a lot of shit about urban living that’s good: the chicks, the work, the bars and gigs--the cultural stuff, you know? The energy and that edgy vibe you only find in cities. But for all that, I’m a country boy at heart. Born and raised. Everything changed after Mom moved us to the city. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder how different my life would’ve been had we just stayed in the countryside.

And so, I’ve got these surprisingly strong childhood memories of times spent outdoors. Spent beneath a glittering canopy of stars, or lost in fascinated observation of some tiny, wondrous facet of life and death in nature: a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, or ants swarming a much larger caterpillar in pitched battle.

Like this one time I remember. I must’ve been something like six years old. Really made an impression on me. You ever see a spider capture a fly? You’d be surprised how difficult and rare it is to actually see it happen--nature is quick, ‘red in tooth and claw’, as Akiko used to say.

The way the buzzing abruptly cuts off, the brief struggle against the web giving way to exhaustion; then the savage dash across the lines, eight legs wrapping around the prey, fangs sinking down, a few spasmodic jerks, another . . . and then the final bondage, wrapped in silk that would glitter almost beautifully in morning dew, hiding the hollowed husk within.

I remember because that fly had been harassing me for half-an-hour, buzzing about and mocking my flailing attempts to drive it away as I hiked through the woods out behind my house. And then--silence, followed by capture. As much as the stupid bug had been annoying me . . . yeah, I kinda felt sorry for it. It’s a horrible way to go.

It’s amazing the scenes nature reveals to those--usually the young--who take the time to watch. So I knew a thing or two about being outdoors, and this is the thing: it’s very rarely quiet. The Clinic? For all its cultivated outdoor beauty it was strangely, unnaturally silent. Even if the other clients and patients weren’t the loud and boisterous type, the trees and gardens should have called out with their own fertile voices. Yet as I walked about that first morning I heard very few birds singing; saw only one or two squirrels dash up the side of a tree; and for all the refined greenery I’m not sure I noticed a single gardener or maintenance worker.

By the time noon approached my good mood of the morning was gone beneath a growing apprehension. My feet were killing me as well--for all my practice, I still had a ways to go before mastering heels and this was by far the most ‘real’ walking I’d done in women’s shoes. Who knew cobblestone pathways would make for such harder walking than the thin carpet of the safe-house? (Amazing how long ago that safe-house seemed, a lifetime away from the present.) Far more importantly my stomach started to grumble. A half-hour walk from ‘home’ and with aching feet and growing hunger, I finally decided to step indoors.

The nearest place at hand looked like a coffee shop. It had a large front that revealed a couple of small wooden tables that looked like they’d escaped from an Ikea catalogue. Inside the light was comfortably muted after the brilliance outside. Chilled music played quietly from unobtrusive speakers mounted in the corners and the warm scent of roasted java filled the air. My steps knocked a solid note from the tiled floor as I crossed to the counter.

The young man working behind the till somehow reminded me of Chris, that guy from the reception centre. Sure, this guy was a little taller, his chin a little weaker, but he possessed the same bland good looks and professional demeanour of the other guy. I was so struck--or momentarily put off, I should say--by the resemblance that I stood there at a loss after I caught his attention.

“Welcome to The Bean Being,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “How may I help you?”

***

That coffee house became my home away from home over the next few weeks. On the days when I could escape my room, I invariable swung by the Bean Being to grab a cup of coffee. It became part of my routine. That cup of coffee became a necessary part of settling into the character of Cindy for the day.

The days passed quickly. By early evening I could feel the tingle in my throat that suggested my voice would soon drop back to its masculine levels, and usually made my way home. It was a bit like Cinderella and the midnight bell, though at least I didn’t have some prissy prince chasing after me. This princess didn’t need rescuing, thank you very much. Since that spray was only good for six to eight hours or so, I was kind of forced to spend a lot of time indoors.

Off days, I sat around the apartment and worked out, read and watched movies. I drank a lot. I also waited for the next of Scooter’s torture sessions to take place. These beauty sessions were never quite as intensive as the first day--except for the day the bastard decided I needed a Brazilian wax, the fucker--but remained the focal point of the day. On the days I used the spray I took my time to continue my exploration of the clinic, both above ground and through the underground network of tunnels, and otherwise took advantage of the gorgeous setting. I’ll admit: I was amazed at how quickly I got used to walking in public dressed like a girl. With each visit of the beauticians my confidence grew; the image reflected in the mirror became increasingly convincing.

Which is why, yeah, I started ‘making friends’ at the Clinic. Like I said, most of these people? Mostly I felt disdain for them, especially those living under the umbrella of the Hygieia Centre. But Cindy? Well hell, she’s a much nicer person that I am, and she filled my days with inane conversations with sad and boring people. On the other hand, each and every person I met for a coffee or a short chat in a pleasant, sun-bathed arbour gave me the chance to put into use all the feminine techniques and habits I was practicing at night.

Because my evenings? I spent those in my room practicing to be Cindy, learning who she was, puzzling out her past and perfecting the act. Nah, not ‘the act’. Acting not enough for this kind of subterfuge. To truly convince involves ‘being’ and so, yeah, that’s what I practiced at night: ‘being’ Cindy.

The first week passed. At times I was beyond bored and painfully aware of every single second crawling by. Other times disappeared in a blink. Cindy moments barely registered. Lost in the character, focusing intensely on every gesture, pose, word I spoke and the way I said it--hours could melt away, leaving me exhausted and drained but surprisingly pleased by the end.

Still, I was itching for a little fun, for some excitement, you know? I was going stir-crazy. I was getting bored; really bored. I was drinking way too much and kept getting plagued by these infrequent but absolutely blistering headaches that would strike at the weirdest times. I really think I was starting to go a little crazy. Or maybe it was just the same old crazy, churning away under the unusual pressure of being Cindy--and now bubbling to the surface, worse than ever.

By far the worse symptom was a growing suspicion of my surroundings. I mean, hell, even as David Sanders I was never all that relaxed, you know? I was always a little on edge and more than just a little distrusting. But now? A week into my stay at the Clinic my growing unease developed into full-blown paranoia. Those first few days, focusing entirely on learning the fine art of being Cindy, I’d almost forgotten that I was, in fact, in hiding from the hit-men of a corporate psychopath. But the more I felt that there was something just not quite right about the place, the more convinced I became that somehow Steele’s agents had managed to infiltrate my new home. Believe me, there’s nothing like shamefully pretending to be a girl while living over a secret underground medical facility to heighten that paranoid edge.

That morning I left my room early for a quick jog around the Clinic, bared legs sleek and lithe in the comfortable jogging shorts I’d slipped on after sliding out of bed. This early I didn’t need to worry about meeting anyone. The sun still lurked beneath the horizon, the sky only just beginning to lighten into diffuse indigo. My hair, tied back in a high ponytail with a pink scrunchie, danced in counter-point to my ever step. With minimal makeup and no corset I felt wonderfully free as I raced through the faint mist and early morning chill. Yeah, it was stupid and sloppy but I really needed to just cut loose for a moment. From a distance basic shape and colour would be enough to make me look girlie; it’s only up close that I would’ve been hard-pressed to pull off a convincing Cindy.

I didn’t bump into anyone. Near the end of my jog, as I warmed down from my effort, I had this sudden, intense sensation of being watched. As I stretched out front of the Cos residence I surreptitiously scanned my surroundings. Nothing. Reason told me I was being insane; my instincts told me something was wrong. I trust my instincts.

Back in my room I dressed for the day, marvelling at how second-nature the whole process was becoming. I went for something sexy but sensible that day: a loose, flowing skirt and a light purple blouse with wide, flared collar, over which I pulled on a tight turtleneck sweater. Even with just trainers and small studs in my ears, I looked damn fine.

I spent the day doing the usual things: a coffee at the Being Bean, followed by an hour hanging out in the library followed by lunch with one of the acquaintances Cindy had made, this cool woman called--get this--Crystal Dawn. Seriously. She was a bit flakey and her questions were a bit personal at times, but she was fun to hang out with. There was something weird about her I couldn’t quite place--probably the reason I liked chatting with her. Everyone likes a puzzle.

So, yeah, the day was all fine and good--except that by late afternoon my normal paranoia had blossomed into near lunacy. It took incredible effort to not look over my shoulder as I walked about, and I felt this incredible need to retreat to my room, close all the blinds and huddle in the dark. In a final act of desperation I gave up and went to the Bacchus Bar. I wanted a drink.

I ordered a stiff scotch and pounded it back and got myself a second. I kept half-an-eye on the thin crowd but nothing caught my attention. Except--by my third drink, at which point I remembered that Cindy wasn’t a Scotch drinker and I switched to wine--I was struck by an intense, powerful certainty.

Somebody was watching me again. Somebody was following me

After a forcefully relaxed sip of my wine I pulled a compact from my purse. As I powdered my nose, so to speak, I used the mirror to covertly look over my shoulder. Nothing. More paranoia? As if going out in public dressed like a girl wasn’t enough to leave a bit twitchy. I gestured for the bartender to come over.

“Yes miss?”

Being called miss still brought a wry smile to my lips. “Could you watch my drink?” I asked. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.”

“Sure.”

“Where are they?” The bartended pointed the direction out to me. “At the back of the bar.”

I made my way across the bar at a leisurely stroll, flicking back my mane of hair as I went. A door led to a corridor with the women’s toilet on one side, the men’s opposite and further down, and ended with a shut door marked ‘employees only’; a supply closet, I guessed. I was acting like a right paranoid fool, like a flustered, silly girl. Looking over my shoulder, I not only wasn’t watching where I was going . . . I walked through the wrong door.

I slammed into some guy’s chest. He stumbled back. Too jittery, too on edge, I found my footing faster than Cindy would have and nearly smashed my fist into the stranger’s face. “Watch it!” I snapped.

The man rubbed at his chest, but his eyes twinkled from beneath a mop of blue-black hair peppered with grey. “Whoa there,” he said. He hesitated then added, “little lady. You know where you are, yes?”

I finally noticed the urinals and fought down a rising blush. “Yeah, yeah,” I answered, glancing back into the corridor. There was nobody there, of course. I cursed myself for an idiot.

“In a bit of a rush?”

I took a deep, settling breathe. “Sorry,” I started to say, finally turning to get a proper look at the guy. My voice died in my throat.

“My name’s Harry,” he said. Dark eyes watched me with amused and casual expectancy. Genuinely, almost embarrassingly star-struck, I kind of lost track of the next few minutes. I’m not sure what nonsense I stuttered, but eventually became vaguely aware that he’d just offered to buy me a drink. He opened the door for me and we returned to the bar. When we went our separate ways thirty minutes later, I realized to my own bemusement that I’d just been talked into a date--with a man.

***

Getting ready to meet Harry that first time? Yeah, it bloody well took some doing. I mean, first I had to get myself half-unconscious with booze before I could even start getting ready. Even if it was Harry, I was getting ready for a date--with a guy! How fucked up was that? I kept telling myself that it wasn’t really a date, that I was just meeting up with some guy for a coffee or a few pints. Yeah, ‘some’ guy my cute ass! I mean, it’s not like I could pass up the opportunity, you know? It’s was Harry fucking Longman!

Yeah, that Harry. A little over a year ago the media had been abuzz with speculation as to the poet-slash-rock star’s whereabouts--there were rumours of a cult, of a pilgrimage, of joining a Buddhist monastery; but no one really knew. Apparently he’d gone to the Asklepios Clinic . . . and now Cindy was about to date the single most influential celebrity of David Sander’s young life.

Damn, but Harry Longman was the one and only media-figure I’d ever imagined meeting. I just never imagined I’d be wearing a dress, you know?

The first step in getting ready was getting drunk. After a few shots of Tequila and with a stiff Scotch in hand, I felt boozy and fuzzy enough to confront the next crisis.

What the hell was I going to wear? This wasn’t like getting decked out before meeting up with Tom and hitting the bars on the weekend, you know? I mean, sure, I paid attention to what I put on, how I looked. If a guy wants to get laid, he’s got to show that he’s willing to put in at least a little effort. But there’s no comparison. There really isn’t. Thirty minutes tops to get ready, and that’s including a shower, shave, and a nice, leisurely shit spent leafing through a perpetually unfinished novel.

Cindy, on the other hand, almost suffered a panic attack staring into her closet before her date. What underwear should I wear? Do I go with bland but sturdy body-shaping stuff? Casual and comfortable panties and bra? Something that left me feeling a bit . . . naughty? What kind of shoes? Did they go with that skirt? Was I baring too much cleavage? Hair, makeup--fuck, what a nightmare! And the colours, the textures, prints, the way this fabric clung or that one fell, could this and that work together . . . it was too much, too confusing. I couldn’t decide between an unsubtle and young groupie-slut outfit, or something a bit more enigmatic and intellectual; more importantly, I didn’t have a clue how to achieve either look.

I gave up; I called up Scooter’s army of professionals; bless their hearts, they sorted everything out for me. By the time they finished I felt breathless and constrained by the clothes I wore: the cincher that squeezed my midriff and the heels that hobbled my step; the makeup and hair that required constant attention; the thin straps that seemed to run all across my body, encircling ankles and shoulders, thigh and waist. From head to toe I glittered and glistened, like a fishing lure fluttering through shallow water.

Harry and I met at the Bacchus Bar. He looked almost painfully cool in some beat-up but stylish jeans, relaxed t-shirt and his signature leather jacket, and the casual comfort of his clothes left me almost angrily jealous. Harry, unhindered by his clothes, was liberated to take charge of the action in the date, whereas I was constantly forced to fuss over my appearance. Dating as a woman was proving to be a real pain in the ass.

The date went well. I struggled to keep the star-struck bimbo thing to a minimum but still sat there, flustered and gushing, for most of the night. Harry was charming and patient. The guy had some seriously smooth moves; in the back of my mind I took notes: once back to being a guy I’d definitely put his chat-up techniques to work. Eventually I got over the fact that I was sitting there all dressed like some tart, flushed beneath my makeup, and relaxed. Inane chatting eased into real conversation and his entire demeanour gradually changed, from celebrity character to . . . well, a real person.

By the end of that night the unexpected had happened: I’d made a new friend. We ended the date by picking up a bottle of Rioja and retired outside for some drinking on one of the benches. We parted happy and quite drunk. He gave me a gallant kiss on my hand--it sent an unnerving quiver through my belly--and we made plans to get together again. After he left I stayed there for awhile, trying to sort through some very confused and conflicted thoughts.

I’d had a good night. It was the most fun I’d had in ages. Harry was a fun guy, cool and easy to relax around . . . although of course I could never really relax, constantly reminded by the clothes I wore of the role I was playing. That’s what bothered me the most, I think: that even dressed like some teen tease I still had such a good night.

Something rustled from the bushes.

Booze and distractions be damned; I snapped immediately to attention. My outside posture remained relaxed and feminine. I stayed where I was, reaching out with my senses. Nothing. Had I imagined the noise? Focused on Harry for the last few days, I’d almost been able to forget about my paranoid instincts.

After five minutes of forcefully relaxed waiting I went for a walk. My heels clicked against cobblestone with each step. I felt acutely aware of every sway of my ass beneath my tight skirt, the jiggle of my exposed tits, the swish of my hair. I wasn’t particularly frightened or worried. It was just that the idea that I was being watched forced me once again to confront the reality of what I was doing and of how I was dressed. More than anything else I felt acute embarrassment. I mean, shit, the image I presented: teenage rape-bait, drunk and alone, mincing along at night though a quiet park.

Pushing aside those irrelevant emotions I focused on my surroundings. Not for the first time I wondered if my paranoia stemmed from the simple fact that, as a girl, I’d lost the anonymity that is a fundamental reality of being male. I mean, fuck, I’m a good-looking guy and yeah, I do get checked out by passing chicks. (I’d definitely get checked out more if I was a half-foot taller.) But in general, when David Sanders walks down a street nobody gives a shit. Cindy? With her pert little ass and jiggling D-cups tits? Her height’s perfect, especially in cute prancing heels, and every little motion draws the eyes: critical evaluation from the girls, and the guys? Yeah, they like what they see.

Cindy’s not anonymous. Even in this hospital there’s a lot more attention directed my way than I’m used to. It’s the kind of thing to really feed your paranoia, especially if, you know, you’re not actually a girl and more than just a little embarrassed at the thought that somebody might spot you for what you really are. The Clinic was, just as K and Scooter assured me, completely safe. But for some reason, my gut refused to accept what my brain was telling me.

There was nobody there. There couldn’t be anybody there. It was probably my own neurosis playing with my hearing.

Yeah, that’s why after another ten minutes of walking, I took a narrow side-path between a storage shed and a closed shop, and silently disappeared into a deep thicket.

Kneeling behind some bushes, heels sinking awkwardly into the soft earth and the greenery scratching at my arms, I couldn’t help but question once again what the hell was wrong with me. I crouched and waited. A bug buzzed near, landed on my cleavage and started a casual walk across the vast expanse of my right breast. The night remained quiet, other than the faint hum of light at the edge of the building. From far away I heard the faint roar of a car pulling up to the Clinic, the headlights momentarily cutting a swath across the sky. I continued to wait, unmoving, ignoring the growing cramp in my legs. It wasn’t the first time I’d watched from the shadows, hidden in the trees. It was the first time I’d done it in heels and a skirt.

A shadow detached itself from behind the storage shed. Quietly--though not entirely so--it crept forward, mostly avoiding the faint pool of light from behind. The darkness was enough to conceal its features, though the general shape suggested male. His movements were surprisingly amateurish for a hit man. I remained still, until the figure’s furtive movements brought him close.

I leapt from the foliage. Feminine clothes worn for dating are ill-suited for subterfuge: the shoes threw off my movement and I made more noise than I should have as I closed the distance. The man twisted, raising his arm. I didn’t give him the chance. My right hand jammed him at the shoulder, slid in and pulled him off balance. One foot forward; unsubtle but effective, I threw my weight into him and sent him sprawling over my leg. He slammed into the side of the building face first. I followed close. Snagged a flailing arm and twisted it behind his back. Threw him up against the wall again. Way, way too easy.

“Why are you following me?” I demanded, keeping my voice low. I tried for a harsh and threatening growl and barely managed a husky purr. I was really going to have to lay off that damn spray.

The man didn’t respond. He sagged in my grip. A faint scent reached my nose: slightly spicy, unusual but not unpleasant. I released his arm and spun the man around.

“Larry?”

The boy stared into some empty space that floated a few feet behind and to the left of my shoulder. A thin rivulet of blood trickled from a cut on his forehead. I momentarily toyed with the idea that he’d been somehow contacted by Steele but dismissed the thought. Cindy’s inane conversations over the last week had picked up some juicy gossip about some of the more permanent residents of the Clinic. Larry’d been here for ages. The guy wasn’t dangerous, just a long-term nutter. He was the son of rich and prominent parents who didn’t need the embarrassment of a weirdo son with obsessive tendencies.

The boy’s eyes eventually found me and he smiled an empty, mechanical smile, as if he’d been taught that a smile was the proper response at a time like this. “Hello Cindy,” he said.

I sighed, stepping back from the boy.

“Hi Larry.”

“How are you today, Cindy?”

I glanced about, hoping that nobody had noticed me beating up a patient. “Yeah, just great.” I quickly looked him over. “You okay, kid?”

“That hurt,” he said, still smiling. He eyes remained glued to my face. “I like you, Cindy.”

“I’m sure you do,” I answered, and then smiled myself. An unconscious tension across my shoulders slowly bled away. Wow. My very first stalker. I’d take that over a professional hit-man any day. My paranoia hadn’t been unfounded, just a bit . . . exaggerated. I gave Larry a soft pat on the shoulder and slipped back into Cindy mode. “C’mon, Larry? You want to go home? Let’s get you home, okay?”

I walked the lunatic home, carrying on a stilted but strangely interesting prattle the whole way. He walked quickly, unaware that his long stride forced me to trot to keep up. A week ago there’s no way I could’ve managed it, but the constant practice was paying off. After dropping him off at his residence I gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek and made him promise to stop following me from the shadows. “Next time you want to talk,” I told him, “just come and say ‘hi’, okay?”

He nodded and looked grave. “Be careful Cindy. This is a not a good place.”

Apparently I wasn’t the only paranoid at Asklepios. I promised to be careful and walked home at a leisurely pace. At the threshold to Cos 403 I stopped and leaned heavily against the door. With one finger pressed gently against my soft lips, as if in remembrance of a long ago kiss, I reflected on the night. This existence was crazy. It was emasculating and embarrassing. These clothes: constraining. These shoes: awkward. And the role I played? Flirty and demure, all the soft touches and veiled glances and glossy smiles? Pathetic. But for all that--God, between Harry and beating up on Larry I’d had more fun tonight than in ages. After nearly two weeks of pretending I was amazed at how . . . comfortable, I’d become in the role.

My head erupted with sudden and piercing pain. With a soft gasp I almost collapsed to the floor. Wincing, I steadied myself against the wall. Through bleary eyes I saw my hand against the soft beige, those delicate fingers spread for support, the carefully shaped nails, red vibrant as blood . . . pounding in my head and ears, a sound like pouring sand, deafening. What the hell? What the . . . hell was I doing, shit, I’m a fucking guy! What the hell was I doing, getting all prettied up and mincing about like some goddamn. . . .

With a deep, shuddering breath I settled myself. The throbbing across my temples quickly subsided. These silly headaches were becoming a real pain. With a quick pat I smoothed down my blouse and straightened the skirt. Another breath. Another. I shouldered my purse. A good night’s sleep would sort everything out. A week and a half down; there couldn’t be much longer left. Shaking my head at the bizarre situation I found myself in, I touched my hand to the door and stepped into my apartment.

“Hello Cindy,” said K, waiting for me in the lounge. “We need to talk.”

“Mom!” I squealed when I saw her. She met me in the middle of the room in a properly matriarchal hug.

A few minutes later we were relaxing in the lounge. I poured her a glass of wine and took one for myself and we settled down to talk. We spent a half-hour sparring back and forth across the room, she playing Mom to the hilt, her questions probing and expertly exploring Cindy’s week and a half at the clinic; I countered with the best daughter impression I’d ever managed. Her soccer-mom disguise was perfect and strangely sexy to me. She tried to hide it but I caught the grudging respect, the muted surprise as her eyes drank in the feminine creature sitting opposite her. With K as my foil Cindy was better than ever. K referenced my past and I reposted with a high-school memory. She delicately asked about my treatment here and I took a deep breath, swallowed the sadness and reassured her I felt good, allowing my lower lip to quiver for a moment. Then my voice cracked as the spray wore off, and she smiled despite herself.

“Amazing,” she said, shaking her head. “You have outdone yourself, Mr Sanders.”

I smiled, surprisingly pleased by the sound of her voice and at the way she called me ‘Mr Sanders’. “Thank you,” I answered, and unable to restrain myself, “I think.”

“Has the disguise been hard to maintain?”

“You’re joking, right?” I answered. “Of course it’s been hard. Scooter’s been a big . . . help, whether I wanted it or not.” I smoothed a stray bang back behind my ear, perfectly aware of how feminine the gesture was and how it made my hoop earring dance and catch the light. Hell, under K’s scrutiny I even sat with my back a little straighter, pushing those soft breasts out further and allowing my skirt to hike up a bit more. Yeah, she loved that, even though she tried to hide it. God, I was really surprised by how much I’d missed her. And what the hell was I trying to do, flirt with her?

“Jonathon mentioned that the Clinic has done its best to help you fit in.” The corner of her mouth tugged up in a smile. “I believe he mentioned something about waxing?”

“Yeah,” I grumbled. “I still owe the bastard for that.”

“And what is this I hear about Cindy beginning to date?”

“What? No!” I flushed a hot, fiery red from the exposed top of my breasts to the tip of my pierced ears. “It’s not what you think!”

“Jonathan tells me that one of his high-profile clients has found himself a new girlfriend. A Mr Longman?”

“I’m not his girlfriend!”

“Does he know this?” God, she was such a bitch!

“Listen, I’m just helping the guy, yeah?”

“Helping him how?” K smirked openly.

“The guy’s lonely! And I’m bored--like you wouldn’t believe, K. We’re just hanging out and if this is the only way I can do it then, yeah . . . I’ll play the Cindy he expects!”

“And when it is time for her to leave?”

I bit back a retort. “What do you mean?”

“It may be about time to be rid of Cindy,” K said, and I’m not sure whether the quiet sadness in her voice was playful or genuine.

I leaned forward eagerly. “You mean . . . you’ve found somewhere I can relocate?”

She gave a small nod. “Yes, Mr Sanders. The new identity we have established for you is tentative but promising.”

“Male?”

“Of course,” she said. “Unless dating has revealed to you the joys of feminine life?”

“Yeah, it’s a real thrill,” I answered dryly. “Panties and lipstick, hurray!” I gave my tits a grope. “They’re fun but I’m not going to miss them.” I gave her a little wink. “Are you?”

“I will do my best to hold back the tears,” she answered. “I have already spoken with Scooter and he has approved and scheduled the surgery for the end of next week.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Uh . . . surgery?”

She nodded. “A new life, Mr Sanders. A new face.”

“But--”

“It’s the only way,” she said. Her voice left no room for argument. “Without some changes to your appearance,” she explained, “returning to a masculine existence would be a death sentence. One brief appearance on the wrong security camera, a quick scan by the right piece of recognition software and . . . well, Mr Sanders, your life would suddenly be worth less than those lovely heels you current wear. I’ve told you before: I have no intention of allowing you to kill yourself.

“It’s either cosmetic surgery, David, some minor alterations and a new male identity in a small town . . . or you choose to remain Cindy for the rest of you life.” She didn’t even say it with a wry smile. Was it paranoia again or did I hear a faint undercurrent of hope in her voice?

We spent another half-hour talking, and she quickly sketched out some of the tentative details of my new life, before she had to rush off once again. When it came time to sign the consent form, my hand hesitated only momentarily before consigning Cindy to oblivion.

To be continued. . .