Chapter 21: Lines in the SandThe tryside blurred past. Behind us y the city. Hours unspooled in near silence as the nd outside the window became greener, healthier and wilder. We passed through the occasional towled by a river or in some nook or y between hills, but only stopped oo charge and grab food. She hahe transa; I had little i in stepping out of the vehicle. We ate in the car.

  Mostly I stared unseeingly at the passing ndscape, distracted and lost in thought. The ride was fortable enough. The silence was less so. I couldn’t tell if K was left either angry or awkward after st night’s performance, or was maintaining her role as Wendy Jones, my supposed aunt.

  What do retives do on long drives together? It’s not like I had mu the way of personal experieo draw from, you know? What do normal people talk about after a lifetime of versations and arguments and listless Sunday afternoons? Therefore, other than a few simuted exges over insequential matters, dy and her aunt said very little as the car wound its way deeper into the wilderness and higher into the hills.

  dy mostly fiddled with the car’s audio, tuning in a new retro-rock station as the signal from the st one died out. She absently scrolled through a tablet her aunt passed her at the st stop and ily studied a sele of articles on makeup and hair. Every now and then she rubbed her bared knee and futilely tugged at the hem of her skirt.

  I couldn’t believe that K put me in a skirt this m. Hell, I couldn’t believe she woke me up at five-fug-thirty in the m. I mean, it must’ve beehree by the time my hard-on--or whatever the hell you call it when your cock’s caught beh some kind of mad female prosthetic --eased off and I finally drifted to sleep. The bitch didn’t even look tired, but then I imagine she’d had a prht’s sleep.

  Groggy and ky, I didn’t resist as she stripped me of st night’s lingerie and hustled me into the bathroom. She got the shower started. Another lesson in femininity: it takes a hell of a lot loo get ready and look pretty in the m. Especially if you’re really a guy.

  My first real shower with breasts and a pussy was a very strange affair, but I was too out of it to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. I won’t deny that a part of me wao caress those parasites hanging off of my chest or hold the shower nozzle down to my crotbsp; Evehought of it sent a warning tio my groin that I knew better than to indulge. The reality, though, was that I was so damn out of it that I just robotically did what was required. K handed me a razor. I thered up and cleared the pink-tinted foam away with quick, long strokes. It was still a hell of a chore to get at those awkward spots, especially now that those massive tits were hanging off my chest and bobbling about aing in the damn way every time I bent over.

  Out of the shower? Pat dry, again a bit put off by the feel of flesh against flesh without a f yer of hair. Then moisturizer, and by the time the task was done I smelled like a goddamn flarden. I felt silkily smooth and ill at ease in my own skin.

  Stepping bato the main room I found clothes id out on the bed, thoughtfully picked by K for me tle into as she showered and readied herself. I ighe clothes at first. The moment I heard the shower start I dropped to the floor and worked through a quick exercise routine. Like I said, I like to keep in shape. I mean, hell, I’d been w out almost daily for the st decade, yeah? Something bees that ingrai’s hard to give it up. Between the bullets and bruising and all the other shit, I hadn’t had a ce to work out for days and it was really starting to get to me. Despite the injuries, my body was itg for some exercise. Most ms I like to drop out of bed and k off some push-ups and ches; it helps to clear the head. Chicks dig that shit too. They love to see a man work out and sweat.

  Yeah, but somehow it just wasn’t the same. I stripped naked and dropped to the floor, and goddamn if those bsted tits didn’t hit the floor before I did. They dangled and swayed with eaent, distrag and annoying, and the extra weight was a real pain in the ass--and the babsp; I managed sixty befiving up, disgusted. Rolling over onto my back, the ches weren’t as bad, but those boobs were still a sm weight, fttened out ay chest. I had a real surreal moment then, lying on my bad looking down at my paioes, across the bodyscape of my tits and smooth, hairless belly leading towards that hint of pussy led between my legs. Those hairless legs felt too smooth, too sleek, crossed at the ankle and held up off the floor. I felt a vague sense of disquiet as I began the workout. The perspective from my back with my legs raised over my head wasn’t one I wao get familiar with. A quick hundred and I relutly, uneasily cmbered to my feet to front the clothes K had picked for the day’s festivities.

  She told me afterwards that she’d sidered leaving me bare-legged, but thought my legs too mase, too muscur. Therefore stogs, this time white, semi-sheer stay-ups to softerong lines of my calf and shin. Then panties, pink, silky and--K had to teach me this--boy-cut. It was a very strange feeling, tugging those cy things on and having them pull up against a ft, smooth crotch for the first time. The final indignity was a white corset: not a small waist-cher thing, but a goddamn full-blown, all-around-boning rib-crushing piece of torture in satin. K was done her shower by this time, slipping into the role of ‘Auntie. Too tired to object, I slipped into the undershirt and then raised my arms as she ed the damn thing around my chest and began to tighten the ces. In defereo my wounds and heavy bruising she eased off when I gasped from the hurt, but there was something in the way she savagely jerked and tied off the stays before she returo the bathroom that left me thinking she took pleasure in my pain.

  It was freaky, I tell you, looking down at myself after that. Those sleek, boned lines glimmered in the light and teased a feminine tour onto my body. I didn’t have much fat to push around and with my injuries, limits to how tightly she could draw in those curves—but still; I’d obviously never worn anything like this and the experience was… unnerving. Under-wire cups shoved that fake bosom up high, creating positively mountainous cleavage, while down below everything was smooth, with just the slightest hint of vaginal lips beh the panty’s taut silk. The corset’s fabric was remarkably thirong, the boning barely visible—nano-boning, K told me, some fug space-age tech bullshit—and it hugged my shape like a sed skin.

  I had to quickly turn away from the mirror, seeing myself dressed like that. My crotch started to tingle again. God, how was I going to survive if even just seeing myself left me all hot and bothered?

  You’d think pared to the corset that a skirt would be easy, but if anything that’s what nearly made me lose it that m. It leated (sunburst pleat, K informed me) green-checked affair, above the knee and flirty and just a little too school-girlish for my liking.

  See, it’s like life’s made of all kinds of lines you draw in the sand, yeah? And those lines, when you reach them you say, “no way.” Some lines, you promise: “Well, if I’m really drunk,” maybe, or “if she’s, like, fug hot” or “damn, but a friend’s in trouble.” These st few days, I’d discovered a new excuse: “only if a sonuvabitch psychotic’s after your ass and you’ve got to act like a total girly-girl.”

  So, yeah, stepping into that skirt felt like crossing one of those lines, one I never even knew I’d drawn in the sand. It’s one of those things you never really say to yourself. “No way I’m ever gonna wear a goddamn short, pleated skirt, unless . . . .” It’s like, painted-on jeans with a fred leg? Feminine, sure, but guys wear jeans so no problem. But guys don’t wear skirts. Ever. A kilt’s ohing. This was a skirt. Short and sexy and made to hang off of curves--curves I somehow now sported. It’s the kind of thing I loved seeing on flighty little things perched on high stools in trendy bars, tantalizing hope of glimpsiight ass if she just . . . bent . . . over . . . a little further.

  Well, I wouldn’t be bending over for mu this bloody corset, but it was still my pantied ass on dispy, and tired as hell I still wasn’t very happy about it. But what could I do? I’d already had my masity-reaffirming hissy fit st night; K didn’t seem to be talking mue as it was; and I was too exhausted tue the point. So I stepped into the little pool of fabric at my feet and slid it up my legs and over those surprisingly fred hips. Without the corset I doubt it would’ve fit. As I zipped up the side it hugged my curves. Turning quickly caused it to fre out ale in a pleated whisper around my thighs, barely c the cy top of the stogs. Up above, the exposed semi-circle of those pressed globes quivered discertingly with every breath.

  The top was white and form-fitting, a turtleneck sweater with slender sleeves reag just past the wrist. My arms looked slimmer--more feminine--less muscur--in that damn thing. It seemed almost a shame to hide that prodigious cleavage, but I also thought not having those jugs on dispy would make for a nice ge. Thing is, they made such a tight, high mound, proudly pulling the fabric out between both peaks, that I almost felt more self-scious than ierday’s outfit. Talk about sweater-pups, you know? Tug the top into the skirt, it drew tight ay stomad somehow made my waist seem even thinner. At least the high neck eliminated any y Adam’s apple being on show.

  Slipping on the same open-toed heels as yesterday, I was fronted with a very strange, very off-putting sense of relief. At least they’re only five timetres, I thought, which immediately left me feeling queasy. Since when had the height of my heels been a goddamn of mine? But after those idiotic fuck-me stilettos of st night, these day shoes were almost . . . fortable, in a very retive sense. Who knew a timetre or two could make such a difference?

  With the wig ba pce I stepped in front of the mirror to get the full impact.

  My face, free of makeup, was ingruous with the overall image. I had a man’s face, a strong , a firm jaw line. That’s what I told myself. Because that body reflected in the mirror? All girl. When she reached back to pull her hair into a ponytail, her movements were a bit unsure, a little too forceful, manly perhaps. Her shoulders were too broad. At rest, however . . . God, at rest, I looked like a damn girl. I uood then why K had left me to get ready on my own, why she’d forced a skirt ohis m. This body reflected back would front me in the mirror every day for the few weeks. Somehow, I had to e to terms with dy.

  Because when I stared into my eyes--free of the colours and powders that made of them something other--I still saw myself, mase and fident. When my gaze slid across those forced curves, it’s a good thing my own expression was hidden from me. I didn’t want to see those eyes turn feminine aant. I had to find some middle-grouween those extremes, or I’d go crazy before I could drop the disguise.

  You know those limits I mentioned? Those lines in the sand? Yeah. Over the st few days, I think I’d crossed more of them than I ever thought possible. That’s the thing, I guess: these limits you p yourself, on who you are and what you’re willing to do--most of them are unscious. Unscious, but you know when you’ve crossed one. That sinking feeling iomach, the sudden hot flush or stifled breath? Every punch to the gut and momentary unease over the st few days was me getting pulled and dragged into territory I never wao visit. And now here I was whether I liked it or not. dy Belmy. Age 20.

  ***

  Author's Notes:

  For future chapters, or to support the writing of this novel, please visit: patreon./fakeminsk.