Sneak Peek: Book 2, Chapter 1 (rewrite) (Patreon)

Instead of looking at the leading edge of the story (chapter 6), here's a glimpse at the rewrite of Chapter 1. I've torn up the old Interlude and salvaged some of its bits to integrate into the new chapter 1, along with bits of chapter 2. More on this in the update later today, but for now, here's David's awakening following the end of Book 1.

As always, still very much a work in progress; I hadn't quite appreciated how much work the editing of the start of Book 2 needed. But with Constant doing well on TGStorytime--it passed 40k views this morning--and introducing the story to new readers, I'm keen to get the 'best version' (or at least an adequate, corrected on) out there for those who want to read onwards to the current chapter-in-progress.

Enjoy this little teaser.

***

Gasping for air, clawing, struggling upwards towards a surface that couldn’t be seen like a man drowning and lost at sea—I awoke.

            Stucco whorls and dappled spray of light: details of an unfamiliar ceiling.  A lamp with a pink lampshade.  The mattress beneath me was too soft.  Sheets, smooth and cool.  There were muffled voices, at first weak and indistinct, briefly raised in argument and then abruptly gone.  Bright sun slanted through a window accompanied by a gentle breeze.  A distant rumble of traffic.  Hints of familiar smells: a touch of vanilla, something floral laid over a sharp undercurrent of pollution.  And finally, a metallic aftertaste at the back of my throat. Licking my lips, I found something sticky and sweet there.

            Where the fuck was I?

            Turning brought a painful tug at my scalp.  Hair, pinned beneath me.  I had long hair.  Reaching for it, the sight of my hand: shaped fingernails, smooth and glossy crescents peeking past the tip and painted a pearlescent pink, highlighted fingers that seemed long and slender.  I wiggled them bemusedly.  Their movement was mesmerising.  The hand beneath was slim and well-formed, pale.  They were very cute hands.

            Sharp pain lanced my temple and I winced.  This . . . wasn’t right.  My hands, they were . . .  strong?  Calloused.  Bloodied.  They were violent hands: an image of them curled around a slender throat, a beautiful throat, rose within me.  I squeezed my eyes shut, took a deep breath.  Pain receded; I opened my eyes.  Those unfamiliar hands led to a dainty wrist, up a lithe arm to a well-shaped shoulder.  A delicate pink strap made a pretty contrast against golden skin, leading down to a billowing babydoll that draped off of well-proportioned, rounded tits.

            I thrashed and freed my legs from the bed sheets and struggled into a sitting position so quickly that I felt dizzy and saw stars.  Blood roared in my ears before I calmed enough for the vertigo to recede.  Reaching under the sheer fabric, and after a brief hesitation, I cupped the soft flesh that swelled my chest.  Breasts.  Soft and supple, topped by large nipples over dimpled and dark areola.  I squeezed and felt their warmth beneath my palm.  I felt the grip on my chest.  I stared dumbly at the mounds beneath my hands.  One nipple poked rudely between my fingers.  Slender fingers.  Pink shaped nails.  Breasts.

            Huh.

            I had tits.

            The pain in my temple throbbed, ebbed.  None of this seemed right.  But why not?  Why had I reacted so strongly a moment ago?  Thoughts formed and dispersed, like clouds on a windy day. One arm fell limply at my side as I stared blankly across the room.  The other kept its uncertain grip on the mound that thrust perplexingly from my chest.

            One hand drifted across a taut stomach.  The skin beneath my touch was soft, smooth.  Fingers crawled over rounded hips and slipped beneath the wispy hem of what I wore.  Searching, they found a pair of lacy panties and beneath—well, I’m not sure whether what I found there surprised me or not.

            With one hand cupping my tit and the other my cock, I felt a moment of profound confusion.

            Think!  I grappled for a name—for my own, which suddenly escaped me.  The first that came to mind was Cindy—a girl’s name.  The name brought a flicker of pleasure and familiarity—a fleeting smile to my lips—but somehow it didn’t feel right.  The name was—like a Band-Aid stuck over a wound. Sitting at the edge of the bed, I winced with the effort of thinking through the dullness that darkened the horizons of my mind. 

            Sleep threatened.  It would be so easy to just lie down and worry about this later….

            David.

            Yes!  But no.  No—for a moment, the name felt as wrong as Cindy’s did—almost more so at first—a hollow, empty name—and I was about to throw it aside in favour of something further back; but as I rolled it around the tongue—as I compared it against Cindy—it became comfortable. I decided the name would do.  David.

            A man’s name and, looking past those fleshy weights on my chest, a man’s part; I was definitely a man.  So how the hell did I end up sitting here in this girl’s room with a girl’s curves, displayed in gauzy scraps of girl’s clothing?

            Pain: my hand gripped my thigh.  Nails dug into a slender but fleshy thigh.  Detachedly, I noticed that my breathing was accelerated--almost hyperventilating—but why?  Somewhere in the back of my mind a muted voice howled in rage and betrayal, and fear; and faded and slipped beneath an inexorable wave of apathy.  The drugged haze—what else could this foggy detachment be?—kept the strongest emotions at bay.  My fist unclenched.  The angry welts left behind would fade.  The skin seemed very smooth and soft and sensitive and pale.

            Gathering strength, I stood—wavered slightly—found my footing and stepped away from the bed.  Those tits—my breasts—settled into gravity’s embrace even as the babydoll clung to me like a dream, whispered around my thigh and ass like the breath of a lover.  Long hair tickled my neck and tumbled down the small of my back.  My gaze drifted around the room with only the faintest curiosity: from rumpled bed to cluttered bedstand; a rickety wicker bookshelf creaking beneath spine-cracked romance and suspense novels, a scratched table, a mix of half-melted scented candles and LED tealights. Jewellery boxes erupted strings of cheap plastic treasures.  A closet door, decorated with a ripped and mended poster of water lilies, leaned half-open. Within, dresses, skirts and blouses lurked. A battered wooden dresser, some drawers half open, erupting a rainbow of underwear and hosiery, the surface lost beneath more half-melted candles, makeup jars and pots and vials and pencils and tools.

            And in the corner, half-hidden beneath a pastel pink hoodie draped over its edge, a full body-length mirror.