Constant 3, Chapter 5-4: Circe (Patreon)

As with every scene in chapter five, this one's also been through a number of rewrites. It's not quite there yet - it's a little too long and feels to me a touch repetitive, with relics of previous attempts still lurking in the prose. When the whole chapter's complete and I give it a final go-over, I expect to trim it all back a fair bit.

But for now, enjoy! As always, please feel free to comment or provide feedback, if you like. At around 8,600 words, this one's a little longer and covers a fair bit of ground. It's the penultimate scene leading to Julia's revenge.

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Four: Circe’s

That morning, the first in quite some time, Julia woke without a single thought of revenge.  A wonderful lassitude suffused her limbs as she lay with her head resting on Tom’s broad chest. She curled her fingers through the thick hairs of his chest and felt utterly content.

            Last night had gone so well. After a final round of drinks, she made it abundantly clear she was returning with Tom and sent David on his way. He walked away with slow, deliberate steps, stumbling once in his heels and leaning momentarily against the wall. His glance back over the shoulder, looking pained, wincing and opened his mouth to speak—but she turned away, Tom’s arm at her waist, feeling no small pleasure at the lost and hurt she willfully ignored.

            By the time she and Tom left the elevator, they were already hot and panting, first layer of clothes off even as they passed the threshold to his hotel room. They fucked, and it was just what she wanted; no, needed: she clambered onto the bed on all fours and told him to get on with it, and grinning Tom ploughed her from behind.

            Julia thought of David, wriggling, trapped in that tight purple dress, flashes of wet lips, long hair—a petticoated maid—pale thigh, smooth skin—garters and stocking tops—click of heels and caress of perfume—and gorgeous green eyes carefully made up, wide with confusion—and she came so goddamn hard it felt like something solid inside of her dislodged. A sharp and acrid obstruction worked itself loose, and the relief felt at the lifting of pressure she hadn’t even known she carried left her grinning.

            “You’re in a good mood,” Tom commented that morning, after they’d had sex again. This second time wasn’t nearly as good as before, reminding her why they only hooked up once or twice a year. She felt stretched rather than filled and ached, mildly but unpleasantly afterwards, faking her orgasm so he’d finish faster. He grunted and thrust deeply into her and unlike last night, it hurt. Then he kissed her on the top of the head and disappeared into the bathroom for a piss and a shower.

            The hotel room was sleek and modern, the long narrow room ending in full length windows. A touch of a button opened the curtains. Sunlight glowed through expansive widows looking over the city below.

            Julia took in the view for a minute, then turned on the TV and watched it for a few minutes more: in the news, the red blur of Mars as Captain Zhang’s expedition made its approach, now only a single month distant. With clinical detachment, the reporter outlined the risks facing the crew, the upcoming aerobraking manoeuvre, a summary of the damage sustained during the long journey, the crew losses, the possibility that the trip could yet end in disaster; yet hope, for a successful arrival.

            Then a story of high-profile outrage as a Neopharm subsidiary offering digital medical services leaked sensitive client data: a talking head for the company blamed hackers, implying with little subtlety corporate espionage. When the story switched over to an ongoing coverage of infection rates, variant spread and the ever-present and often-delayed threat of another circuit-break lockdown, she turned off the TV. Julia’s mood remained too good to be ruined by bad news.

            Instead, she returned to gazing passively across the city. Heavy mid-October clouds crawled across an azure sky greying towards the horizon. She half-dozed to the sound of Tom showering. Reclining in bed, sheets half-draped across her naked body, she thought of last night, of Icarus, and of David’s detached behaviour.

            He’d been just too damned sexy in that tight dress, perfect makeup, ass pert and tight in heel. One hand drifted towards her pussy, and the other idly caressed a breast. She felt warm, aroused in a way that Tom’s rough handling this morning had failed to elicit. Sliding her finger up and down her labia, she sighed. She rolled her nipple between thumb and finger. She drew wetness from her cunt and with a slick finger circled her clitoris, already hot and hard, and thought of David.

            A tremor passed through her, an anticipatory shudder. Julia moaned. She heard the shower, the spray of water. Closing her eyes, she continued the cycle: two, three languid sweeps along her pussy lips, and then returned to her clitoris, even as she massaged her breast and pulled at her nipple. This was how she liked it. He taught her that.

            Eyes clothes, she brought him to mind but it was Cindy she imaged, and not as she appeared last night. No tight dresses or ridiculous heels, heavy makeup or heaving tits. Just—Cindy, smiling contentedly; and Julia felt no rancour towards her.  This was not a girl she wanted to punish or humiliate. This was a girl she wanted to kiss and caress, take with a firm hand and bring to her bed and—

            The shower ended. The sounds of masculine ablution intruded: a loud fart, a thump, heavy steps. Biting her lip, Julia allowed her arousal to subside though she didn’t bother tugging the sheets up over her chest or groin. Nor did Tom cover up as he stepped out of the bathroom, dick hanging heavily between hairy thighs. He towelled off his hair, and sitting up in bed she pushed aside thoughts of Cindy and instead examined the masculine figure standing in front of her, looking to find pleasure in it.

            All the softness and curves of the past months had been wonderful, but she’d missed a good, hard cock, hadn’t she? Standing proud and erect between a pair of strong thighs. After all, whatever the disappointment of this morning, last night had been just what she needed: not counting her weekend with Caleb, it’d been too long since she’d wrapped her legs around a man’s tight torso, curled fingers into a manly ass, felt firm muscles under her palm as he filled her and fucked her.

            “Not bad, huh?” Tom grinned, pulling the towel from his eyes. “For a guy nearing forty?”

            “Not bad.”

            He pointed with his chin. “You’re doing alright yourself.”

            She snorted, hefting her tits. “The girls have seen better days. Gravity’s a harsh mistress.”

            Tom padded towards her, scratching his bum. “Not fair, is it?” He settled onto the bed next to her. “Youth is wasted on the young. Like that girl last night—what’s her name?”

            “Like you don’t know.” She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Cindy. You spent half the night staring at her tits.”

            “Rack like that, hard not to stare.” Tom grinned. “She wasn’t exactly hiding it, either, in that dress.”

            “Pervert.” She punched him in the arm with mock outrage. “She’s only twenty, Tom. You’re quite literally old enough to be her father.”

            “Grass on the field, play ball, right?”

            She wrinkled her nose with disgust. “Gross.”

            “I’m joking,” he said, paused, then added, “What’re you doing hanging out with a twenty-year old, Julia?”

            She shrugged, felt some satisfaction at how his eyes followed the rise and fall of her breasts. “New girl at work. Took her under my wing.”

            “Why?”

            “Why not?”

            “Fair enough. She seems fun. Bit spacey.” He stroked her leg, fingers digging into the meat of her thigh. “Pity I’m heading out tonight. Wouldn’t mind getting to know her better.”

            “I’m sure,” she said dryly, and though she also loved the idea of Tom ‘getting to know’ Cindy, with the clarity of morning she knew it was a stupid, dangerous idea.

            “What’s she like?”

            Julia felt a giddy laugh rising that she struggled to contain. “Like you said, a bit spacy, not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean. And a bit boy-crazy, too. Very—” she grinned. “Girly. Short skirts, high heels, makeup. Likes sparkling things, you know? Dangling earrings and all that. High maintenance trophy girlfriend material. Just your type, Tom.”

            He smiled, a little sheepishly, and lapsed into what passed for thoughtful silence. As he absently passed the towel across his body, Julia enjoyed the ripple of muscle, the promise of strength. Tom remained a dickhead, but once or twice a year was just what she wanted: uncomplicated sex, a well-hung stud, a welcome escape from all the emotional wrangling and complex dynamics of a more serious relationship. Tom wasn’t her idea of long-term partner material—though if she were honest with herself, she didn’t know who was—but he was good for a fuck, at times.

            He went to speak, hesitated, opened his mouth and seemed to think better of it.

            Julia prodding him with her foot. “Go on. What is it?”

            “It’s just—” He smiled a little awkwardly. “Well, you know—a girl like that, it got me thinking about…”

            “About?”

            “Him.” He glanced at her, then away.

            “For fuck’s sake, Tom, he’s not a goddam boogeyman, say his name three times he won’t suddenly appear. It’s been fourteen years.” She gave him a little kick. “David.”

            “It’s just last night, it had me thinking of nights out with that bastard, you know, a bar like that, cruising for girls—like Cindy—but ever since he….” He trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been nearly a year. You ever hear from that guy? Any idea what happened?”
            “No.”

            “Huh.” He eyed her speculatively for a moment, then shrugged again. “Weird, isn’t it? That he just disappeared like that. I miss him, you know.”

            She crossed her arms across her chest. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, as they say.”

            “Like you said, it’s been fourteen years.”

            Julia frowned.

            Tom gave a consolatory pat to her thigh as he stood and crossed over to the closet, opened it, retrieved clothes for the day. “I shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.” He pulled on a fresh pair of boxers. “But if you knew anything, you’d tell me, right?” Balancing on one leg, he tugged on first one sock, then other. The simplicity of the man’s routine made a sharp contrast to watching Cindy dress in the morning. All those months of straps and hooks of lingerie, the skilled roll of stockings and clasps of garters, the wiggle and shimmy of a snug skirt, and fiddle of small buttons on a tight blouse: it must drive David crazy, remembering what he’s given up for his disguise.

            “I hate the guy, remember?” The morning’s earlier warm lethargy was gone, and grudgingly she swung out of the bed. “I’m the last person he’d seek out.” She collected last night’s clothes from the floor. “I doubt he even remembers me.”

            “True,” Tom said.

            She collected her panties, wrinkled her nose at last night’s crustiness, and decided to skip both them and her nylons. She wiggled back into last night’s dress and regretted the lack of a change of clothes. Tom watched her dress, a little smile dancing across his lips.

            “Instead of gawking like a pervert,” she said over her shoulder, smiling a little, “make yourself useful and do me up.” His presence behind her felt strong, his scent masculine as he did the small buttons at her back, large fingers fumbling only a little. Then, a sharp intake of breath. She turned to face him. “What?”

            “Hey!” He sounded surprised. “Did you cut your hair?”

            She rolled her eyes and finished dressing.

            But leaving the hotel later that morning after breakfast in the hotel cafe, she felt troubled as she reflected on the morning. His questions about Cindy made her jealous. Now when she pictured the youthful, nubile body, she felt old. As for his questions about David, they made her uncomfortable, making her realise how unreasonably stupid and dangerous it had been bringing Tom into the picture.

            Returning home, she showered and dressed in comfortable clothes and looked around her apartment and considered getting the maid around to clean. Her hand hovered over the phone as she made herself a cup of tea, wondering if it might be a step too far, too great a demand after last night’s surprise. Then again if David came around, she could—apologize?

            Julia blinked. Yes. She realised that’s what she wanted: to apologize for last night and maybe… she didn’t quite know but felt it meant some kind of fundamental shift in the relationship between them, a vague hope for something not founded in revenge but in something new, something better, for her but also for him for as long as his disguise continued.

            Before she could fully process these new feelings, the phone rang. How unusual; nobody really called anymore, unless it was very important or very serious.

            It was both; it was work, contacting her about the promotion for which she’d worked so hard. She hadn’t expected to hear anything until next week at the earliest. In person, at the office. Her guts twisted and ran cold, and Julia hesitated before taking the call.

            Sorry to call on the weekend, the man on the phone said. No problem, Zee, she answered, then remembered he was her boss now and corrected herself, Zayn, sorry.

            Zayn thanked her for her application. Zayn started by identifying her as an exceptional candidate. Zayn said she had exciting ideas, her presentation was fabulous, her vision remarkable. Exemplary dedication and obvious passion. But also, Zayn added, evidence of recent eccentric behaviour … distraction … apparent stress, exhaustion.

            A steady pair of hands in uncertain economic times, he said. They’d offered the job to Malik. There’d been some remarkable overlaps between your applications, interviews, your presentation and the ideas you brought to the table. Your ideas align well with each other. Synchronicity.

            Sorry, Zayn said. But we look forward to seeing what you achieve under Malik’s leadership. No doubt, he’ll refine those wonderful ideas of yours into something extraordinary.

            Julia hung up, in a daze.

            Months of accumulated exhaustion caught up to Julia. The room spun and she felt woozy. Her apartment tilted as she staggered down the hallway to her bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. At first, she thought she might be sick but gradually the sensation eased, until she lay there, arm thrown across her eyes.

            She felt the familiar hollowness of failure, the memory of water aglow with moonlight, and a room stuck in time, the crushing weight of disappointment, and the knowledge that she simply wasn’t good enough, that it was her fault, she should’ve focused on the job more instead of—other distractions.

            But how typical, she told herself, a quiet voice amidst the sensation of sinking. Always, the same old bullshit. Julia knew she was a perfect fit for the job, but they went for the man. Of course they did. When men hired, they hired what they knew and loved most: themselves. The truth was that those dickheads didn’t want a woman on the executive board. The few times one clawed her way to the top, they found ways to push her out within a year or two.

            The quiet, angry voice further lifted her. Zayn’s words echoed: Refine her ideas? Fucking bullshit. Steal them, take the credit, exploit her—no doubt under threat. Overlap? Theft! Just like all men, they were quite happy to use her and discard her. She was a woman, living in a time and place that thought less of her because of it. Her very identity was treated as a liability, a deviation from the norm. She nearly trembled for the exhaustion and frustration of it. Her whole life felt defined by her struggle against an injustice into which she was born through no fault of her own.

            From somewhere deep inside of her, a terrible wracking sob rose. Her hand scrabbled at her throat and squeezed as though to strangle the memory. But the memory came anyway.

            Her jaw ached, lips dry and parched despite being flecked with spit—and more. Neck, too. She struggled to catch her breath, hacking cough around the bitter taste of his cum—on her tongue, her face and in her long, black hair. The room spun, she somehow felt both hot and cold, and her breasts heavy and sore dangling beneath her. She remained on all fours as he stepped back, his cock still in his hand and pointed at her. She felt detached from what was happening. A slight ringing in her ear, and the realisation that her body was still rocking back and forth, back and forth, a man—her colleague—her friend, she thought—Tom, still rhythmically pounding into her, his cock filling her as strong hands gripped her waist and pulled her back towards him.

            His heavy breathing came from somewhere very far away. He shoved her forward as his hips jerked. Trembling arms already weak from being on all fours gave out beneath her. She slumped face first into the mattress. A moment later—and still, from far away—a gasp, sudden emptiness as Tom withdrew, a triumphant grunt as he shot hot strings of cum across her ass and lower back.

            Impossible to know how long she remained like that, ass high, face down, her colleagues’ jizz cooling against her skin. She was vaguely aware of movement, words exchanged between the two men, the clap of a celebratory palm against a proud back. Tom padded away, bathroom door clicking shut behind him. Distant sounds hinted at a world beyond her reach: music, a drink being poured, knocked back, a sharp hissing intake of breath, thud of a heavy glass against a tabletop.

            The ringing in her ear grew, faded; vision blurred and cleared; she watched herself raise her head, rise on tired arms and from somewhere terrifyingly desperate and dishonest force a smile to her lips. Inside, she felt hollowed out. This thing called ‘Julia’ that she had known all her life was absent. This girl sprawled naked across a man’s bed with cum on her face and lips and ass and back, pussy burning and jaw aching: that could not be Julia.

            And this protean self searched for the man who’d brought her here. She dragged herself back into her skin, for him; found him and sought for something to fill the emptiness.

            Had he looked at her with affectionate approval, patted her head, said ‘good girl,’ she might have given herself over to him, utterly, out of gratitude and desire to please him.

            If, instead, he’d sat with her, smiled ruefully, said, “Christ, that was something, huh?” or “fuck, intense, how did you feel?” or even just, “talk to me, Julia” it would have eased her past the self-conscious shame and become a shared, adventurous first step towards—more.

            And if he’d been tender with her, pulled her close, kissed her forehead, held her and whispered, “thank you,” she would have loved him, forever.

            Instead, David Saunders stared down at her with undisguised loathing.

            “You disgust me,” he said. Then he walked away and left her there.           

            Fourteen years later, Julia lay on her bed and felt anger shiver the cold callousness at her centre. She'd buried this memory for years. Or rather, she blithely talked about what happened, accused David of it frequently, and spoken of the moment many times in therapy. But reliving the moment, embodying within herself the shame, at being used in that way; the humiliation, the memory of two cocks spearing her from both ends; and then the disgust—his disgust, and how it became hers—no.

            The long buried trauma returned to her. And with it, the fullness of her fury. Anger spread slowly outwards from her core, through her limbs, until her very tips burned with it and her whole body felt suffused with the heat of an incandescent rage.  Gone, any ridiculous thought of apology. Julia sprawled across her bed and seethed with anger, a parody of the morning’s pleasant hum.

            Failure felt far too familiar. The certainty of her own inadequacy had always dogged her. But now, when she traced the long line of her missteps and mistakes back through the years of her life, it led invariable to one moment. A single night of physical and emotional abuse, played out in another man’s bed under duress, and betrayal by the man she loved.

            To that, she added Tom’s blithe comments this morning about Cindy’s youth, her fine rack, the way a man like Tom could fuck her—twice!—yet stand over her and look at her naked body yet talk about another woman. Woman?—no, a girl—no: a misogynistic bastard of a best friend, twisted into a parody of everything he despised, a demure, simpering caricature of femininity.

            Julia’s anger crystalized into a hard, jagged point, directed solely at David Saunders.

            She thought: asshole wants to get to know her better? Fine; why the fuck not? Let’s get to know the son-of-a-bitch better.

            David deserved it, after all. He’s had this coming for a long time. All her past fantasies of revenge came crowding back. They had long lain dormant inside of her, vicious hopes she never really imagined bringing to fruition. Rather, the past several months had brought a whole host of new fantasies to mind—to life, even—French maid servitude and femininity training for the man who’d damaged her so badly, and at times her mind felt almost feverish with possibilities. Manifesting these kinks had felt—fun, at times—strangeness and discomfort ceding to joy and new experiences as she discovered her own capacity for dominance.

            But this—what she planned—there was no joy or pleasure to be had, only pain and loss, and she welcomed both because in the moment it felt as though both were all she knew.

            It helped that the pieces just sort of fell into place.

            First, she sent an invite out to Tom. Let’s have dinner before you leave, she typed. In fact, why don’t you reschedule your train, stay another night, make a little holiday of it? Let’s make it a double date. There’s a restaurant out your way, Greek, fun place. You wanted to get to know Cindy better? Guess what? She asked about you, too, she’d love to meet again.

            Messages to Caleb and to David followed in quick succession. Her date confirmed his attendance. David’s answer took a little longer.

            Please, he typed. No.

            Yes, she typed.

            I need a break. Please. Not tonight.

            Tonight.

            ‘…’ was the only response for some time, and then: What if I say no, he typed.

            She considered her response, but only briefly. Her stomach felt tight, a rubber band stretched to snapping, and she had to correct several typos in typing her answer: Tom’s been asking about David. Asked if I knew anything.

            A very long pause, and then: when and where?

            Julia booked a table and thought, what fun. A double date. Me and Caleb, Tom and Cindy. Let’s make this a night to remember.

            Circe’s was both atmospheric and a bit cheesy, with tinkling lounge piano and soft lighting. It was the best Greek she’d found in the city, and what better place for their little get-together? White columns supported an intricately carved ceiling depicting a lush Tyrrhenian scene. Gods cavorted amongst white clouds and green vines. A majestic swan pursued a fleeing woman. Apollo drew a child from the body of his unfaithful lover. Poseidon granted Caeneus her wish. Those Greeks certainly knew something about drama, tragedy and betrayal, she thought, as the waiter led her to the table.

            Caleb arrived soon after and they settled in over meze and a flute of sparkling white. Dipping shreds of flatbread in hummus, they talked, and nibbled at dolmades, and laughed. Tiredness nipped at the edge of Caleb’s eyes as he stifled a yawn. “Sorry,” he said, and grinned sheepishly. “Work, you know?” Otherwise, Caleb seemed pleased and more than a little surprised at the invite.

            “It’s good to see you again,” Julia said, and realised she meant it.

            “Um, yeah,” he said, smiling a little awkwardly. “I was a bit… uh, surprised? By your message.”

            Julia thought he looked good tonight, button-down shirt and jacket, tan trousers and shoes, and still a hint of dad-body paunch: a sharp contrast to Tom’s physique, but Caleb’s dusting of greying hair and crow’s feet suited him, there was something agreeably attractive to his normality. Aggressively ordinary, but she yearned for ordinary.

            “Tell me about work,” she said.

            He did, grudgingly and briefly, but with a little prompting kept talking, and the conversation rolled on as he admitted frustration to the long hours keeping him from spending time with his teenage daughter. It happened so casually she realised he’d never mentioned her.

            “You have a daughter?”

            He nervously scratched the back of his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he said, then cocked his head a little to one side and a little wary, a little weary asked, “Is that a deal breaker?”

            Julia shook her head no, and to her surprise meant it. Still seething with animosity towards one man, she felt an almost giddy benevolence towards another.

            He flashed a relieved smile. “She’s a good kid,” Caleb continued, “but you know—dads, right?” He spoke of parental fears as his daughter Gabriella approached the end of high school: “she just doesn’t have any direction, you know, doesn’t know what she wants to do next,” and skirted the subject of his ex-wife—no acrimony, he said, it just didn’t work out—then asked about Julia, how she was doing, how was Cindy, how was work… and swiftly moved the conversation to new topics as Julia frowned and glowered and grew tense.

            Surprise followed on surprise as she found herself holding his hand across the table, and her simmering anger abated somewhat with his touch. There was something comforting in his presence, the gentle cadence of his voice, calming; not so much dull as… pleasingly mundane.

            He was the weakest link in her plan. Caleb seemed a genuinely nice person and keeping him onboard for tonight might be tricky. Then again, he’d agreed easily to coming back to hers that first night at Noir, a willing participant to orally breaking in Cindy. He hadn’t exactly said no to her blonde head bobbing between his knees that night. She required more from him tonight, true—but she also detected in him a willingness to please, a softness she could exploit.

            A tender squeeze of his hand brought Julia back. “Thanks,” he said, and his eyes spoke of genuine gratitude.

            “For what?”

            “Listening,” he said, grinning a little sheepishly. “To a single, middle-aged dad who doesn’t get out very often.”

            He was growing on her, and it occurred to her that it could have been just the two of them tonight. Perhaps, rather than pursuing revenge, a nice meal with Caleb commiserating over bad news would’ve been a more sensible, saner way of dealing with her anger.

            She felt an impulse to reach for her phone and cancel both Tom and Cindy’s invite. She reached into her purse, hesitated.

            And then Tom arrived.

            “Hey, sorry I’m late,” he said, sliding into his chair. Julia let go of her phone. No, better to stick to the plan. One guy being half-decent doesn’t mean the other one avoids what’s coming to him.

            Tom extended his hand in a firm handshake, and she felt pleased at the way Caleb matched his grip, even as she wanted to roll her eyes at the implied contest. If Caleb picked up on any vibe between Tom and Julia, he kept it to himself. Tom was sensible enough to not advertised he’d had sex with her last night, and again this morning. He’d changed from the jeans and jacket of the morning and now wore a form-fitting navy turtleneck that showed off his broad chest, and a pair of designer black jeans probably worth more than Caleb’s entire outfit.

            He sat with confidence, seamlessly sliding into their conversation, and she was reminded of just how charismatic and good-looking a man he was. Then Tom ogled the waitress, open staring at her tits as he ordered an expensive bottle of Grecian red and was reminded of just much of a dickhead he was, too. Just like someone else she once knew.  A little wine eased everyone into conversation as Tom explained how he knew Julia.

            “So, you two go way back, then?”

            “I guess.” She gave Caleb’s hand a little squeeze. “Jesus, nearly fifteens years, Tom.”

            “Sure.” He shrugged. “So, anyway, where’s my date?” Tom speared an olive with a toothpick. “She a no-show?”

            She better not be, Julia thought. I hope so, she thought, and grimaced. Rationally, she knew David should keep as far away as possible. The calm that Caleb brought made it possible to acknowledge that she asked too much. In this brief lull unclouded by anger, it seemed painfully clear that there was something wrong with David. Julia saw him as he stood by their table at Icarus last night, staring into the night; or sat opposite Tom, unresponsive but for a small, self-mocking smile. She recalled the stumbling walk as Cindy left and her wince and thought she recognized the pain implied by the way she moved. An acrid flower unfurled in her belly.

            Something happened last night. She saw that now.

            And remembering further back, she could see just how much David struggled under the expectations placed on him over the past week—her relentless demands—that may have cost her the promotion—and then meeting Tom, unexpectedly—barely holding on, plunged ever further into the role of Cindy as Julia defined it—too deep, too quick—the erosion of his male self felt as the violence of a storm tearing down a home rather than the gentle caress of a relentless tide.

            Please, don’t show, some small part of herself wished. She held her hand to her throat and felt sick. Julia remembered the look in his eyes at the end of last night: reeling, lost, afraid.

            Good, she thought.

            She returned her attention back to the two men at the table. She smiled and laughed for Caleb and Tom. “She’s on her way,” she confirmed, checking Cindy’s progress on her phone. “She’s looking forward to seeing you again, too,” she added, squeezing Caleb’s hand.

            Tom gave Caleb a little nudge. “You know her?”

            “Er—I guess?” He drained his wine in one and blushed. “We—that is, I mean, Julia and Cindy and me—um. We met at a bar? And we got to chatting and—” His grin was mischievous and more than a little self-pleased. “They were very friendly and gracious hosts.”

            Tom turned an inquisitive glance on Julia. “Hosts?”

            “What can I say?” Julia shrugged. “Cindy’s got a thing for older men.”

            And she marvelled, as she sparkled and chatted so easily, that she could maintain the façade. Inside, all was rage and spite and sickness, growing with each passing moment.

            Run away, she thought. Hurry up, you fucking bastard, followed immediately. Stay away. Where are you? How does it feel, she wondered, for a man to scurry in heels in anticipation of meeting the man you once competed with, for everything?

            She imagined the humiliation and pain and self-hatred would feel obliterating.

            It was easy to imagine, because she’d felt the same, once.

            The instruction she sent earlier that day to join them had been clear and specific. Where and when, though she gave him a very specific freedom: pick your own outfit for the night, she wrote. Just make sure to wear something Tom would like.

            All day her imagination kept turning back to that choice. What does a man transformed against his will into a girl choose to wear on a double date with their male best friend? What goes through his mind as he picks underwear—and here, she pictured the delicate pale panties and bra, garter belt and powder blue stockings she knew sat top in his second drawer—a favourite she’d bought for him, with all that pretty lace and those cute little bows—and were they chosen in the expectation that Tom would see them, later that night? And if not for Tom, then whom? Did he choose something so exquisitely feminine to reinforce those feelings within himself?

            And how did he feel, she wondered, standing in front of the mirror as he painted his face, not just to make himself pretty, but rather alluring, specifically to the same man with whom he once competed for pussy?

            Knowing Tom, Julia expected Cindy to wear something… well, a little slutty, tight and revealing to show off those pert, youthful tits, long legs and smooth skin: exactly what Tom liked. There was an outfit in her closet she hoped to see, tight black and shiny, asymmetrical shoulder- and midriff-baring, the abbreviated skirt barely clearing the crotch. She’d bought it for David to wear on a night out, and the matching heels—the perfect outfit with which to tempt a man like Tom.

            But no. David chose something altogether different.

            “Hi.” Her voice soft and tinkling, more an apology for interrupting than greeting. “Sorry. For being late, I mean.” Cindy stood by their table, hands held clasped in front, wearing a lovely, demure dress in pale pink with eggshell trim. The hem floated just below the knee, with a high neckline, sleeveless and narrow waist, nipped in with a thin belt. She wore ballet flats, not heels, with seamed stocking betraying the slightest hint of sapphire shimmer.  A hairband swept her hair back, and a single bracelet decorated her wrist, and her nails shimmered with soft pearlescence. Her makeup was subtle, the kind men thought was ‘natural’ and which girls knew was anything but.

            To Julia’ surprise, pleasure and—yes, irritation as well—Tom was instantly smitten. His eyes went wide, he half-rose from his seat to greet her—stammered—sat down again, flushed and finally stood, took her hand and led Cindy to the seat opposite his. He pulled out the chair for her and helped her sit, took her coat, and looked absolutely flustered as he sat. Watching him play gentleman was both hilarious and frustrating: he’d never pulled out her chair or taken her coat.

            Tom was a goner. Even Caleb seemed a little taken aback by the way this other man focused his attention. Certainly, Tom couldn’t keep his eyes off Cindy for the rest of the night, not after she batted those long eyelashes and blushed and glanced away and shyly smiled. Real girl-next-door vibes, a touch of tradwife and who knew that’s what Tom really wanted?

            David did; he knew Tom better than anyone.

            Yet at the same time, it was instantly obvious—she felt it with sickening certitude—that something wasn’t quite right. David lips curved with a smile that fell far from his eyes; she thought there was a jerkiness to his motions, at times, like a marionette whose strings are inexpertly played. He was clearly fucked up inside. What she failed to see the night before was now obvious: something was deeply wrong within him.

            All night, even as he spoke bashfully with Tom, teased Caleb or avoided making eye contact with Julia, it was clear that David struggled with some inner pain, one not necessary connected to her. At time, this hurt broke through the bubbly demeanor as the Cindy-mask he wore slipped.

            And clearly, being forced to perform the giddy, demure, silly little girl to his best friend only compounded his agony. She mostly saw the wrongness in those moments when he drifted away—those pretty green eyes unfocussed—the rare moments when neither Tom nor Caleb stared or spoke to her—when Cindy stared into the middle distance and looked so lost—afraid, even—lips moving in silent disbelief, or hands spasmodically clenching tight, or a shudder quickly suppressed.

            Moments such as these were fleeting throughout the night but annoyingly, every time Julia noticed she felt hit by pangs of genuine concern. But her concern remained overshadowed by thoughts of revenge, and by jealous hatred, too.

            It was easy to push aside her growing unease because—because she envied him, envied her… Cindy. She couldn’t deny the envy felt at the young girl’s looks, youthful and cute and fun, and she felt old, and angry and so full of resentment, it twisted up her insides. She saw the way the male waiter eyed the younger girl, or how customers’ eyes tracked Cindy’s movement as she stood to go to the toilet. Tom stared unabashedly at her tits, and grinned, and even Caleb at times struggled to keep his eyes on Julia.

            For all the months spent in Cindy’s company, it was the first time she felt truly sidelined by Cindy, and it rankled—it hurt—and it made her even angrier. That she had helped create this lovely creature, this feminine caricature, a delicate and demure presence that stole the male gaze, only made her resentment worse.

            Cindy was fun; the boys liked her; and Julia felt dull and tired. She hated Cindy for that. Julia felt sick with all of it. She needed to get the sickness out of her. The only way to do that was to project it all onto her victim, pass it on, take her illness and make it David’s. She looked at David and hated him; and yet she loved him still; and the tension between those two extremes was almost more than she could take. She wanted to scream and cry at the same time.

            As Julia looked at Cindy in that lovely dress, so feminine and delicate, part of her wanted to tell Caleb and Tom to fuck off, to claim Cindy as her own, and drag her back to her apartment where they could tear each other’s clothes off, when she could peel the dress down to the soft lingerie she knew waited beneath and shove that pretty, wide-eyed face between her thighs and—

            Shove her back into the maid outfit and bend her over the sofa and smack that firm, pale ass, and—

            Tear off that goddamn prosthetic and—

            Honestly, she didn’t know. Fuck her; get fucked by him. Devour the whole person. Julia knew she wasn’t thinking straight, and her smile as she sat in the restaurant felt increasingly strained and brittle.

            She watched as Cindy asked Tom to order for her.  He loved that, and her giggle, and the way she tucked her hair back behind the ear and flashed a pair of little cat earrings. He just loved the way this pretty, attentive twenty-year old girl hung off his every word. What thirty-five-year-old man wouldn’t?

            Between starter and main, Tom said, “Oh, I almost forgot,” and reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a little box and slid it across the table. Cindy looked at it, eyes wide.

            “For me?”
            He nodded. “A little bird told me you like—well, take a look.”

            Nodding, she popped the box open. She held one hand to her chest and released a little coo of delight. “Oh, Tom—they’re lovely!” She displayed the gift to the other two. A pair of earrings sat coiled on black velvet backing, glittering in the soft light of the restaurant. She threaded them through her lobe with practiced ease, and a moment later they spun gently against her cheek, delicate drop earrings sparkling with tiny diamonds set in a filigree flower. They were exquisitely feminine, and Julia’s jealous anger redoubled. Tom had never given her a gift like that.

            And even as Julia withdrew in sullen silence, her opposite at the table seem to grow in confidence. Cindy seemed to shake off the hesitation of earlier, grow more convivial, and disappear less often into distant stares.

            It wasn’t fair, she mused over the main meal. It was the first time she really felt the difference between her and Cindy, that twenty-year gap. She looked at Cindy, her golden cheek glow inclined against a youthful hand as she listened intently to her man discourse—soft, full lips moving in silent response—and her goddamn perfect skin and perfect tits and perfect skin, and Julia felt… old, so fucking old; and that made her angrier and more resentful and yes, made it even easier to focus on her revenge that night.

            The wine flowed, and the meal progressed to dessert. David—Cindy—God, the illusion was so perfect, sometimes—seemed to be genuinely enjoying herself, the hesitation seen at the start of the night, gone.

            “You guys—stop it,” she exclaimed, face flushed red with wine and protest. She gave a savage jab at her crème brule, breaking the candied top, and buried the spoon deep. “It’s embarrassing!”

            “Not at all,” Tom said. “It’s epic. V.I.’s Halloween office party is legendary.”

            “It’s pervy,” she retorted, sullenness undermined by a cheeky smile.

            “Well, uh—yeah,” Caleb added. “But isn’t that kind of the point of Halloween these days?”

            “You’re not the half-naked one,” Cindy insisted. She pointed her spoon to emphasize her point, custard quivering at the end.

            “True,” Caleb admitted.

            “See?” She rolled the spoon in her mouth and popped it out. “He gets it.”

            “Yeah, nobody wants to see that belly.” Tom laughed, then patted Caleb on the shoulder. “No insult meant, man.”

            “None taken.” Caleb shrugged.

            “Anyway, I don’t see what the big deal is,” Tom continued, turning back to Cindy.

            “Of course you don’t,” she said, wryly, the voice of someone far older. She crossed her arms across her chest and huffed in mock annoyance. “I’d like to see you dressed in a schoolgirl outfit,” she said. Mirth glinted in her eye as she read Tom’s reaction. “Yes, you heard me. That’s what I pulled from the hat and I’m telling you here and now—no way, no fucking way—”

            “Language, young lady!” Caleb exclaimed.

            She stared at him, wide-eyed, and he returned the look, just as surprised as she.

            Cindy laughed. “Yes, Dad.”

            Caleb grinned, a little abashed, muttered, “um—sorry,” and blushing turned his attention back to Julia. Tom meanwhile continued to stare at his date. He was clearly imagining her in an abbreviated, sexy schoolgirl outfit, the pleated tartan miniskirt, pigtails, tight white top and striped tie, platform Mary Janes. He smiled, the naughty smirk of a playground bully.

            “What?”

            “You’ve got—”

            “What?”

            He pointed with his desert fork. There was a tiny dollop of pudding on her cheek. It glistened in the soft lighting of the restaurant, white and creamy. She used her phone to check her reflection and blushed. He looked at her, and she looked back at him over the frame of her phone. Tom laughed. But her reaction was his—David’s not Cindy’s—and for a moment, Julia clearly read pain and shame inscribed in those beautiful green eyes. The ugly scowl quickly hidden behind a playful wipe spoke of seething anger to match her own.

            Good, she thought.

            Just as quickly, a flirty little smile replaced the grimace. Cindy passed a languid finger—carefully, so as to not ruin her makeup—across her cheek and drew the thick cream onto her finger. Tom’s eyes widening as she slid the finger into her mouth. Pursed lips spread in a glossy wide grin as she licked her finger clean and watched Tom’s reaction through heavy, half-lidded eyes.

            What the fuck were they doing? she wondered—and then caught on a moment later—the crème brule on Cindy’s chin—resembled a drop of cum—and part of her wanted to groan at the infantile idiocy of it all. Jesus, all of forty and Tom’s sense of humour still skewed towards that of a teenage boy. And so did Cindy’s, apparently. The man buried beneath the dress and dusting of makeup instantly understood Tom’s perspective.

            After that, Julia clearly saw the moments in which the veil fell aside—the act faltered and betrayed his pain. After desert, he touched up his lips—a touch performatively, keeping them nice and plump and wet for the boys—saw Julia watching with eyebrow raised, smirking condescendingly—and blushed for shame.

            Or after he disappeared to the toilet and came back with makeup fully freshened, heavy mascara and that ‘natural’ glow renewed: he cringed under Tom’s openly appraising gaze. The man got touchier after a few drinks. There’d already been innumerable little touches, the easy confidence of a older man around his younger date for the night: his hand at her bare shoulder, or touching the small of her back, or grazing a thigh, pausing to enjoy the silky feel of stocking over skin.

            David endured these. But passing close after returning from the toilet, Tom grabbed his ass and gave a little squeeze. Cindy released a breathless little squeal, and everyone laughed, and Julia laughed hardest seeing the indignant, aimless rage in David’s eyes. He hated Tom’s attention, and Julia loved how it made him squirm.

            Yet Julia also tracked how David—wanted it? it seemed at times—actively chased Tom’s approval. David kept him focused, and she sensed a desperate need to reconnect with his. But for Cindy, there was only one way to do so. Tom had a bit of a wandering eye, after all. Both noticed when Tom’s eyes lingered over the waitress. David didn’t like that. He didn’t like it when the conversation dragged Tom’s attention back to Julia. And he really didn’t like it when Tom went to the bathroom and stopped at the bar on the way back to order a drink and chat up the sexy redhead in the slinky dress.

            It could have been enough: revenge taken in the tension between David’s mortification at being treated like a girl by his friend, and his own desperation to hold Tom’s attention. She took pleasure in the way he shuddered at Tom’s touch and open stares, yet still fought for his attention, with a gentle touch to his hand, or softly worded question, giggle, or flip of hair.

            David’s distress could have been enough. Julia wished it was. But it wasn’t; no, not by far, and just as he yearned for Tom’s validation, she yearned with sickening intensity for David’s further humiliation.

            It was now the end of the meal. Caleb sat back with a satiated sigh and the others followed, except for Cindy. Tom had ordered her a salad, and though she insisted it was enough she’d stared forlornly at everyone else’s food during the main course. Now, Julia poured out between them the last of the bottle, their third.

            They eased into contented chatter: Lived in the city all my life, no idea ‘bout this place. Yeah, good choice, Julia. Best moussaka I’ve ever had. Man, I’ll need to hit the gym after that steak. Another bottle? I visited the islands once. I knew this guy a few years ago, recommended this place. Guys? He went home after all those wildfires wiped out his hometown. It’s getting kinda late. Man, you should’ve seen the babes on the beach. But I don’t sound like a dad. Like, are you even listening to me? Yeah, you do, but in a good way. Don’t you have a train to catch? So, what’s the plan? I don’t want you to go, but.

            Tom’s hand rested firmly over Cindy’s.  “Hey, no problem, babe,” he said, lips curving in a curious half-smile. “I’ve changed my train. Pushed it back a few days. There’re a couple things I wanna take care of while I’m here.” He gathered Cindy’s hand in his—turned it over, brought to his lips and planted a slow kiss on the back of her hand—and with blue eyes sparkling with humor staring deeply into green, wide with surprise that Julia read as horror, added, "besides, how could I leave when the company’s this lovely?”

            David sure seemed anxious to break away at that point. Later, Julia watched with amusement as the man ensconced in a pretty dress brushed out his hair with swift, jerky movements in Circe’s somewhat baroque washrooms. Mirror frames were heavy and gilded, ivy coiled up the toilet stalls, and the sinks were ceramic half-shells. Julia dragged him there before they left—oh, you know us girls, she told the boys, rolling her eyes as they left the table, have to powder our noses before leaving—and to her amusement David actually did. With anxious, furtive little movements he freshened his makeup again, a heavier look, darker lips and smoky eyes more suitable for the dim lights of a late-night bar.

            “What’s going on?” he asked, glaring at her in reflection as he swiped the mascara wand through long lashes. Emerald eyes sparked angrily in the mirror. “What are you up to, Jules?”
            “I have no idea what you mean,” she answered. A touch of lipstick was enough for her, and she leaned back against the wall, watching her former boyfriend primp and paint himself for the benefit of the man she’d fucked this morning.

            “This is crazy,” he said. “Insane. Tom—”

            “Is paying the bill with Caleb.” She jerked a thumb in direction of the men. “And Tom’s changed his plans, just to be with you. Her deserves a fun night out, don’t you think?”

            With a sharp jerk, he capped the mascara. “Fun?” He fumbled in his makeup bag, fingers clumsy and movements choppy. Swapping mascara for lipstick, he stopped. He stared for what felt like a time at the shiny tube in his palm and slowly, his fingers curled tight around it. David turned and advanced on her, whole body taut with—anxiety? Fear? Or anger—it was hard to tell, until he stood glaring up at Julia. “You think this is—”

            “Yes. I do.”

            He flinched. His tight little fist trembled at his side. “You can’t—” He faltered. “What do you—”

            “We both know where tonight is heading,” she said.

            “No.” He shook his head, blonde tresses flying.

            “Heading,” Julia forced a chuckle, even as her stomach twisted. “That’s a good one. Like, giving head.”

            “I won’t—”

            “You will.” She reached out, smoothed David’s hair down, gave him a little pat. “Or I’ll tell him. Everything.”

            For a moment, she thought he might lash out: his eyes narrowed, his fist trembled, and a tremor of fear shot through her at the thought he might hit her. She couldn’t imagine the small girl in front of her could actually hurt her, but for a moment there was something genuinely ugly and frightening in those angry green eyes. Then, she thought he might cry as he sagged and fell back, eyes wide and fearful. “Why?” he asked, voice little-girl plaintiff. “Why are you doing this?”

            She stepped closer and stroked his cheek. “Because you deserve it,” she said, and reached down and gently uncurled his fist. She retrieved the slender silver tube from his palm. Bending slightly, she leaned in closely and with a twist opened the lipstick. “Now give me a pout,” she said, “yes—just like that,” and slowly, carefully painted his lips a deep, sensual crimson. “Beautiful, full lips for a pretty girl, and Tom won’t be able to look away, he’ll be thinking about your sexy little mouth all night, won’t he?”

            David’s eyes fluttered shut, and he moaned, softly.

            She reached into the little bag. “And a little gloss, don’t you think? Maybe more than a little—yes, just like that, shiny and wet.”

            “Please,” he whimpered when she was done. “Jules, you don’t have to do this.”

            But she pretended not to hear him. Like the rise and fall of Grecian tides, she knew there was no stopping the evening from playing itself out.  “Finish prettying yourself up,” she said over her shoulder, “we don’t want to keep the boys waiting.”