Sneak Peek: Julia's Return (Patreon)
Content
Since the usual Wednesday sneak peek was shared with everyone, I thought I'd put out another for high tier members. Trying to train myself into using Patreon as it's intended! In any case, this 1000-word extract covers the start of chapter three through to Julia's arrival. Early stage stuff, as always, though it's had a couple editorial passes already. Enjoy!
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Let’s take it back, right back, nearly two months ago. September’s on its way out and the evenings are turning cold. Every night takes me by surprise how quickly it’s gone dark, and too often standing alone under a wavering pool of light at the bus stop after work, wind tugging at my hair, I’d question the wisdom of my choice of skirt or shoes for the journey home. From leering stares to unwanted advances, or the too-frequent touches, gropes or “accidental” brushing up against my boob as the bus juddered into motion, I quickly learned that public transport fucking sucked as a pretty young woman.
But that Wednesday, instead of the long ride back to the city outskirts, I decided to come home via Jonas’ place. It’d only been last weekend that I’d gone out clubbing with the girls and met him. We’d swapped a couple of messages since. The boy seemed genuinely surprised I’d kept in touch: don’t suppose a girl like you, he messaged, would be interested in meeting up with a guy like me again?
Meanwhile, Willow flaked out on after work drinks, so I thought, why not? Dropped Jonas a note at lunch and caught the train over to meet him in the early evening. We met up for noodles at this authentic-styled izakaya called Edo just around the corner from his, serving up genuine Kyoto-style ramen with noodles swimming in rich pork fat broth. We chatted as we popped edamame from their salted shell, and ate our gyoza and drank dai-biru Asahi under red lanterns. Intermittently shouted Irrashaimase! punctuated the conversation as his hand drifted over mine, or rested on my knee, and he managed to only piss me off once with his sexist pseudo-intellectual bullshit.
After he paid, we went back to his place. We talked a bit more, he coped a feel and we kissed a little before I got in a little more practice. Third time lucky, so to speak. I got what I wanted out of him, and quickly at that. He invited me to spend the night, but I ruefully declined. I think he accepted my excuse: a “girl like me” couldn’t exactly show to work the next day wearing the same outfit. Truth was, I was pretty much done with him at this point.
That’s what was on my mind the night Julia returned, eleven o’clock at night and tired as I rode, first the bus and finally the elevator to my little apartment: Jonas’s cock. I dreaded the coming morning, the blurry-eyed 5am rise, shower and shave, makeup and hair. Picking an outfit for the day and the long, tired commute.
I was thinking about all that but mostly, I was thinking about dick. Gazing out the window of the bus as the night city scrolled by, the memory of pursed lips and pressure on my tongues rode with me. The ache in the jaw, though not so bad as before. The weight of hair over one shoulder. The slight burn to the knee. His touch at the side of my head, at first tentative, then with increasing confidence. The rhythm of it; the response: eyes meeting, the disbelief that this was happening, this was actually happening, the ridiculous scrunched up face, hiss, sealed lips, groan and final thrust….
His taste still lingered on the tongue, in imagination if not in reality. A little soapy, nutmeg and fennel. He’d had a wash before I got there. Good boy—if a bit optimistic, the little shit. Still, I’d taught him a life lesson. His next girlfriend can thank me.
Distracted by these girl-thoughts I was near-oblivious as I trotted up to broken concrete path to my building and rode the old elevator to my floor. The usual rumbles, both ominous and comforting, accompanied me to its shuddering stop at my floor. The ever-present smells of other apartments’ stale cuisine lingered, as ubiquitous as the chintzy peeling wallpaper and halogen bulbs that flickered intermittently and lighted my way down the narrow corridor in pale pools of sickly yellow.
At my apartment, I fumbled in my purse for the keys and found the door unlocked.
I entered as quietly and carefully as my outfit allowed. Secretarial skirts and heels weren’t made for stealth. Fortunately, my cautious entry proved unwarranted. Almost immediately I recognized the shoes and handbag at the entrance and suppressed those near-dormant impulses that rose by instinct. I’d forgotten she’d kept the key that night she left.
Julia sat at my little table. She had a cinnamon-scented candle lit and a bottle of wine open and breathing. She looked—
It’s so fucking hard to be honest, here and remember the moment uncoloured by what came later. But Julia looked amazing. Sexy, mature and elegant in a way that made a mockery of my twenty-year old showiness. Her lips were an intense red; diamonds glittered at her ears; and her long hair fell with a dark sheen over her shoulder. Julia wore a slender, fitted suit, severity offset by a satiny blouse, and she sat with her legs crossed at the thigh, fingers steepled over her knees. She smiled when she saw me at the door.
And seeing her left me feeling awkward and horribly self-conscious of the knee-length pencil skirt that half-hobbled my step. Faux-leather and tight, it showed off my ass and brought a sexy wiggle to my walk. The deep pink push-up bra was clearly visible through the shiny blush blouse pulled tightly across my tits. My hair was up in a high ponytail and hoop earrings dangled at my ears and even though I felt pretty good about myself this morning, I suddenly felt trashy compared to the woman sat at my table. Once glance at her and the thought crossed my mind: if I’m stuck being a girl, why I can’t I be more like her?
Day by day, it’d gotten easier. By the end of that first month, most days I coasted easily along in my role, but it only took one dark look from Julia to bring the illusion crashing down. Suddenly I was a man again, playing dress-up sexy secretary, a clown in makeup and a fraud in heels. I felt the bra strap at my shoulders and the tightness of the skirt at my hips, and my breath caught in my throat.
A man again, but only momentarily. The brief flare-up of masculine memory didn’t last. Rather, like a mild injury on a bad day, or the smell of morning summer rain on a hot afternoon, its presence tickled my brain and faded—lingered, but not insistently. Self-consciousness dissipated almost instantly and then I was back to myself as I trotted into my apartment.
Julia’s eyes shone with a curious mixture of hope and intensity at my arrival.
“You look good,” she said, pouring out two glasses of Rioja as I closed the door behind me. She watched as I shrugged out of my coat. I reached down to undo the buckle on my shoes. Nine months, and I still hadn’t quite mastered the elegant art of crouching in an unyielding skirt. The skirt restricted easy movement, and a little smile drew across her lips as she watched me bending to reach my feet.
“I’ve missed you, David,” she said.