A Christmas Story (1/3) (Patreon)

Hello, everyone. Here's the first third of the not-very-timely seasonal side-story I was working on in the leadup to Christmas. I see the story as cannonical--it happens within the story--but probably won't make it into the novel itself. It's a fun little aside, though it's accumulated a little more depth than expected in the writing. It takes place around chapter 7 and I anticipate it'll end up being just under 10k in length. The next third should be available next week. Enjoy!

A Christmas Story

Outside, a dusting of snow bleaches the plaza cobblestone bright under evening streetlamps. Inside the towering office block, it’s quiet and dark beyond the pool of light over the front lobby desk. The lonely tap of my heels rings out clearly as I cross the empty space. The portly ground-floor security guard greets me with a smile.

            “Hey, Cindy. Didn’t think I’d see you back here tonight.” His eyes linger somewhere well below eye-level before drifting up to my face.  

            “Late night, Frank.” I grip a pair of coffee cups in my manicured hand. “Liquid fuel.”

            He shakes his head. “Pulling a late night on Christmas eve? It’s 5pm. Shouldn’t you be heading home?”

            I shrug, swipe my pass. A green light flashes, and the gate pops open.

            “Pretty girl like you? There’s gotta be some lucky guy waiting for you?”

            Truth is, there’s nobody. The girls have all shot off home or shacked up with some boy for the holidays. With Julia gone, I’m alone for Christmas. Which is fine, that’s how I like it—I’ve spent more Christmases alone than with friends or some girl. And frankly, considering the past few months, a few days of quiet and alone time feels like the greatest gift of all.

            But I giggle and toss my hair, because even for an audience of one there’s a performance to maintain. “I know, right?” I pass through the gate. “Such inconsiderate timing, being between boys for the holidays.”

             “Well, try not to get too lonely up there,” he says, watching me pass through. “Pretty much everyone’s gone home for the week. A couple cleaners, a few poor bastards like me holding down the fort.”

            “Merry Christmas, Frank,” I say, gifting Frank the sight of my skirted ass as I walk away, the click of my heels against the polished floor.

            There’s something intensely lonely about an office at Christmas, like a school empty of students during the holidays. It’s dark outside, and quiet inside. Lights flicker to life as I step off the elevator.  Other than the faint breathing of air filters, the reception at Volumina International is silent. The banner from last week’s party hangs limply from the ceiling, and a few baubles and glittery decorations remain. This is my sad little fiefdom: my desk, sleek and simple under the unlit V.I. sign, transparent front always offering a clear view of my long legs. There’s a leather sofa and a few comfy chairs for waiting guests and near them, an end table decorated with a green succulent and a few industry magazines. When I’m not sat prettily behind the desk, I’m fluttering around the room, nudging things into order, tidying up behind messy visitors.

            The 25th falls on a Wednesday this year, one of those awkward years where the days on either side feel a waste and everyone cashes in their holidays, unless a generous manager closes the office and gives them the days for free. Turns out Mr Connor’s a generous boss, and the offices are empty and silent.

            Which is how I like it. Recently, I’d taken to arriving early in the morning—sometimes the first in, though not always, traveling the city in the early morning dark—often heading home in the dark—in those cold winter weeks following Julia’s departure and my visit to the Clinic. I’d honestly come to truly appreciate that quiet first hour before others arrived. A few cleaners, maybe Mr Connor busy in his corner office; and me, alone at my desk at reception, preparing for the day. No men, watching. No women, judging. Freedom in which to just get on with my work and let slip the performance, even if only for an hour.

            Truth was, without any further updates or demands from Darius, I’m in a holding pattern, slow, gentle circles descending softly into Cindy’s waiting life. And—it isn’t bad, this life; there’s a lot to like in it. I have friends. I’ve even dated, a little. If it wasn’t for—other concerns—I could be content, maybe.

            Sitting at my desk, I flick on the computer and check my messages. Nothing too urgent. There’s an easy hour of work here, but not much more: forwarding on a few information requests, putting a few clients in touch with the correct person. I need to update a few data sheets and proofread a document for Mel. I could call it at that. After all, I’m just a receptionist. It’s not like I’m getting paid to go above and beyond. But there’s always more to do, if you go looking for it.

            Instead, I go online and check my socials. I look up Mel. She’s home for the holidays. She’s posted several photos from her phone. In these photos, she stands surrounded by young women her age I don’t recognize, friends from high school days, beer bottles held high, bright red lips and glittery tops, some bar back home. They’re cheering, flushed with booze and sweat, Mel standing at their centre with a smile midway between grin and grimace. Bitches back in town is tagged beneath the picture. There’s something off about the picture, and it takes me a moment to realise that Mel looks happy, relaxed, sardonic twist to the lips absent. But pictures can lie. Pictures from later that same night capture her with some guy’s arm around her waist, and the next one deep in a sloppy kiss. That one’s tagged, high school reunion.

            I push the phone away, sigh, cross over to a mirror. Full length mirrors flank either side of the room. I’ve watched countless girls fuss in these mirrors before passing through—a fair share of guys, too—pre-interview supplicants, vain managers, aspirational gold-diggers. And myself, of course.

            Smoothing down my front, I turn a little this way and that, checking my appearance in the mirror. Admittedly, I’m over-dressed for a day alone in the office. There’d been a couple people in this morning, but they’d all fucked off by two, taking a late lunch and not returning. One or two die-hards were still hanging on by the time I left to grab a coffee, and now they were gone, too. Totally wasted, these lovely pink ankle-strap heels and patterned thigh highs, and the short, pleated plaid skirt. My breasts push out this chunky peach sweater, and there’s a heavy bracelet at my wrist, chunky earrings at my ear. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time on my hair this morning, and the golden mane sweeping over one shoulder looks fabulous. Same with my makeup: soft, luscious lips; devastating cheekbones: I look great. My concession to the holiday spirit is a little flash of tinsel at my wrists and—not that anyone’s going to see it—a seasonably sparkly, red push-up bra and lacy panties underneath it all. Sometimes, looking good’s its own reward, right? Nothing wrong with feeling a little sexy, right? And I take a moment to primp, touching up my lips, poking a stray hair or two back into place so that I look just right.

            Because let’s be honest here, the effort’s not just for my benefit today. The effort’s not going to be wasted. There’s another pathetic soul working late this Christmas Eve.

            Carrying both coffees, I pass through the offices of Volumina International. Rows of empty desks, and lemony antiseptic scent of a recent clean. In one corner, a lonely pool of light glows from a single corner office.

            “Coffee, boss?”

            Michael looks up from his desk. He looks tired, barricaded behind stacks of reports piled high on his desk. But his eyes brighten at the sight of me. His eyes sweep over me, lingering over my legs, my chest. A pleasurable tingle flows up my spine. His smile is appreciative, but he shakes his head in mock distress. “You really shouldn’t be here, Cindy.” But he takes the coffee gratefully. “But thank you. You’re a godsend.”

            “A pleasure, sir.”

            “Sir?” His smile grows very slightly. “How very formal.”

            I turn, very much away of how my skirt flutters, skimming my thighs. “What was it you said?” Glossy fingernail held to lip, I glance back over my shoulder, leveling a cheeky smile his way. “Let’s not forget the formalities?” I giggle. “Such things matter, right?”

            “They do,” he says from behind his desk.

            I dock my laptop at a desk just outside his office and get to work. At first, I dive right into it, but within fifteen minutes I’m glancing up from my work towards his office. Is he watching me? And why the fuck do I care? But I do care—I could have come to office in jeans and a t-shirt, for chrissake, though I wouldn’t have, of course, that would’ve been boring. I’ve worked hard on my image these past couple of months. Wouldn’t do for Cindy to show at work looking—well, plain, I guess, even on Christmas eve.

            Before I even realise it, I’m scrolling through updates again, this time Willow’s. Holidays are tough for her. Holidays are family time, a return home—but how do you return to a home several meters beneath the waves, your people dispersed across the globe? Yet she looks happy in the pictures she’s posted online. Winking at the camera, tongue sticking out to one side and behind her, standing stiffly, a little formally, a man and woman in their mid-forties. Her parents, then a sequence of other pictures: a brother, two brothers, a sister, a family dog. A tree, tinsel, and gifts. The background’s always cramped, beige walls and peeling wallpaper of some too-small house revealed across a dozen photos. Willow’s quite the photographer, and there’s a sincerity to her holiday album, family caught in honest moments. Some photos catch mother and daughter mid-scowl in argument, a brother’s exaggerated eye roll, or a son’s glare at his father’s back. Yet always, a sense of—closeness; of warmth.

            I sigh and close it down and get back to work. Fifteen minutes later, I’m back at it again. This time I type ‘Julia Beaumont’ into the search bar. She’s not really one for online activity beyond the usual professional networking sites, but there she is, I find a cluster of pictures posted earlier today. She’s standing against a mountainous backdrop, glimmering peaks and proper snow, wrapped up warm, face red in the cold. Skis and a lift snaking upwards behind her, dangling legs and ski poles. Julia’s smiling and looks beautiful, flecks of snow and ice sparkle like diamonds in her black hair. There’s a man with her, arm at her waist, other extended for the picture. He’s good-looking, bearded and blue-eyed, grinning.

            My laptop pings. Michael’s summoning me to his office. A moment with the compact to check my reflection, tuck a few stray hairs, then I grab my coffee and prance into his office.

            “Mr Connor?”

            He’s still trapped behind his desk. The stacks of paper have diminished, but only slightly, and he looks tired. “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

            “It’s what you pay me the big bucks for.”

            “Not nearly enough.”

            “I know, right?” I lean against the door frame, pushing my chest out a little in profile. “How’s the clean up job going?”

            “Let’s just say it’s a damn good thing I insisted on physical backups. Between what the guys in IT recovered, and what the team’s done, we’re getting there. That hacker really did a job on us. It’s a miracle we kept the data loss under wraps. That could’ve really hurt the company, cost a lot of people their jobs.” Mr Connor smiles at me. “But not yours. There’ll always be a need for a pretty girl at the front door.”

            I saunter slowly towards his desk. “Is that all I am? A pretty face?”

            “I didn’t say that.”

            “So, my face isn’t pretty?”

            He frowns.

            I toss my hair back and take a sip of coffee. My nails are bright pink and white-tipped against the insulating carboard of the takeout coffee cup. I put it down on Michael’s desk, next to his cup. And something happens, then. I don’t know why. But I stare for a moment at the two cups side by side. My lip prints are bright plum at the rim. It sits in sharp contrast to Michael’s unstained cup.

            A shudder passes through me. Not now, I think, but there’s no stopping it, this kind of thing’s infrequent but still happens and it’s never clear what will trigger it. Suddenly, I’m agonisingly aware of how my long hair tickles my cheek, the pull of those heavy earrings dangling, even the scent of makeup and hair product and the weight of mascara at my lashes. I feel again the gentle grip of the bra around my chest, over my shoulders and the weight of breasts, shiver at the whisper of air, cool against my bare thigh. All these tangible impressions of my enforced femininity which, even after nearly a year—a full, fucking year—forcibly remind me of my transformation. In this moment I feel—trapped—within this life, this appearance, within myself and my own skin. I'm reminded of the truth, that I'm really a man under all this and only playing at secretary, and that my clothes and the way I'm flirting with another man should disgust me. He sits there in his suit with all the unconscious privilege of his age and of masculinity and I stand here in my short skirt and meticulous makeup and suddenly my belly turns to water, my legs go weak in the knees and there’s a rushing sound in my ears, like a powerful wind that threatens to blow me away. I sway, sag into Mr Connor’s desk and instantly he's at my side.

            “Cindy?” His voice thrums with masculine concern and to my shame I feel an echo of that voice resonate in my tummy.

            I catch myself. “It’s—nothing. Really,” I insist, hanging my head. Hidden behind my hair, he can’t see the self-deprecating grimace, the loathing of my own weakness. I shake my head, push back my hair and force a smile to my lips—for him. “Just… tired? Maybe?”

            His strong hand supports me. He looks—angry, though not with me, slate-grey eyes stormy with concern. “You’re working too hard. We work you girls too hard. When was the last time you ate?”

            “Coffee’s food, right?”

            “No. It isn’t.”

            “I had a salad.” I smooth down my front, slim belly and slender hips. “Have to keep slim for that front door job, right?”

            “Jesus, you girls.” His complaint rumbles somewhere deep in his chest. He shakes his head in mock despair. It’s cute, his concern for me, and I take pleasure in the sound of his voice. “You need to eat.”

            “I’m fine, Mr Connor, really,” I say, though it’s a lie. Actually, I’m… well, not starving, exactly. The past taught me what it means to genuinely go without food, and ‘starve’ is not a word I’ll ever use lightly. But still, Cindy’s money is tight. It’s been an expensive month, trying to keep up with everything, clothes, the social life and daily debts. It’s expensive, being a woman and the so-called beauty tax’s real, I’ve struggled to maintain appearances. Especially these past few weeks, I’ve cut a few meals here and there. No surprise then that I’m hungry, very hungry and have these flashes of weakness, moments of lassitude, the occasional brain fog.

            And yeah, I could tap into… other funds, but that runs a risk of suspicion, of drawing attention to my other life. David’s money is for David things; Cindy’s money is for Cindy things. Instead, I’ve been stocking up whenever possible, like during the fortnightly visit to The Empyrean reporting back to Darius. Or on a date—especially on a date—when some guy’s footing the bill. Inevitably, that means swallowing a little more than I’d like. But fuck it, a girl’s got to eat sometimes, right? I know for a fact the other girls do the same.

            Still. It’s been a couple of weeks since my last date and yeah, I’m hungry and feeling it.

            Standing straight, shoulders back, my hand finds his. His hand rests easily at my waist. “Really. But—” and I squeeze his hand, “thank you. For caring.”

            He doesn’t pull his hand back. Instead, his grip at my waist tightens—not painfully, but possessively. He shakes his head slowly. “You should go home.”

            I smile wanly, flutter a hand at the piles of paper on his desk. “But the work—ever since the system crash—the hacker—recovering everything….”

            “Isn’t a receptionist’s job.”

            “I know. But.”

            He tilts his head. “But?”

            “Maybe I’d just—you know—rather be working, okay?” I take a deep breath. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

            He looks at me for a long time. His hand remains under mine, a warm presence at my waist. He doesn’t ask about my family—he’s seen my personnel file, knows about the tragic loss of my, or rather Cindy’s, parents. He doesn’t ask about friends, either.

            Instead, he takes my hand and leads me over to the sofa. He sits but when I go to sit next to him, the corner of his lip curls into a smile and he shakes his head. Instead, with firm insistence he guides me onto his lap. I blush and giggle nervously and look away. Sat like this my skirt barely clears my crotch and I can feel the expensive texture of his trousers against the narrow band of thigh between hem and stocking top. With his finger and thumb at my chin, he turns my head to look at him.

            “Sir, I—” and I have no idea what ‘I’ thinks in the moment, only that my heart is pounding in my chest. I feel hot and a little flustered and thoroughly embarrassed by these feelings, but also excited.

            “Thank you,” he says.

            “I’m just doing my job,” I say, and lick my lips. “Sir.”

            He shakes his head. “No. I never thanked you, not properly. For—” he releases a deep breath. “For the Halloween party.”

            Nearly two months ago, I entered Michael’s office and found him sat here with a half-drunk bottle of whiskey and a gun in his hand. It was Halloween and I was dressed like a naught schoolgirl. We never spoke about it afterwards. I still have his gun, hidden away in my apartment. Things have been fine between us since that night, I never got a sense he was avoiding me. But maybe there was always a slight awkwardness, a tendency to avoid each other’s eyes.

            “No, Michael, you don’t have to—” and I place a finger against his lips, but he brushes my touch aside and holds both my hands between his palms.

            “You saved my life that night,” he says. “I don’t think I’d be here right now if you hadn’t come. You never told me what you were doing on our floor, why you weren’t at the party upstairs. Were you looking for me?”

            “I saw the light on in your office,” I say.

            “Like a moth to flame.”

            Silence, after that. Me, sitting on this man’s lap with my hands held between his. For a moment he examines me closely, as though searching for something. But all he sees are young, wide eyes and heavy makeup, expertly applied. My lips are full and shiny, skin flawless, face innocent under contouring and highlights.

            A giddy little bubble rises up inside of me, and before I can catch it I say, “and then you spanked me,” and I bite my lower lip and lower my gaze.

            “Yes. You were a naughty little schoolgirl that night.”

            I blush and feel a profound and exciting shame he can’t possibly understand.

            “We’ve never talked about that night.”

            “What is there to say?"

            He takes in a deep breath, holds it and then releases it.

            “Cindy,” he says. “Look at me.”

            I do as he says. His eyes are grey blue and serious, but also a little afraid. “What I’m going to ask you in totally unprofessional. I could lose my job for this. So could you, I suppose. And so, I really shouldn’t do this. I’m speaking here as—well, not as ‘sir’ or as you boss, but as… as Michael, although even then, believe me, I feel the age difference between us, I’m old enough to be your dad, you’re the same age as Lily and even what we’re doing right now, you on my lap like this, it’s—crazy, it’s stupid. And there’s no way to do this without it sounding like coercion, because I am your boss and believe me, I’m very much aware of the power dynamics at play here and—”

            And I’m also very much aware of the power dynamics at play here, but also of the fact that I’m really a forty-year-old man, sitting in the lap of a guy much the same age. But it’s been a year now since this whole thing started, and I don’t feel like a forty-year-old man, not right now, anyway, the earlier flareup has faded. And though part of me still feels queasy at what I’m doing, another is fine with it, totally fine. Right now, he feels big and strong, and I feel small and soft, and suddenly it’s very easy to silence the angry voice at the back of my head and to just—be the girl I appear to be.

            I lean forward and kiss him and put an end to his babbling.

            He starts, and a moment later his strong hands are back and holding me close. His hands feel nearly large enough to circle my narrow waist. A pleasurable shiver dances up my spine. My breasts press up softly against his hard chest. I feel warm, my nipples tighten and I sigh into his mouth. The kiss is short and sweet, my lips yielding; he smells good. We’ve kissed precisely once before, when I first interrupted his suicide attempt. That kiss has been tainted with desperation and distraction. This kiss feels intimate and genuine, and very nice, and it occurs to me that I've been looking forward to kissing him again for some time and I avoid thinking about what that might mean.

            I pull back and smile. “Now try again, you dummy.”

            He smiled. “Cindy,” he says. “Would you come back to mine for Christmas?”