Chapter 30: Single White FemaleThe bed was warm and fortable, the room dark and still. Heavy blinds cut off the daylight pletely. A wonderful lethargy crept through my body. For an ierminate period I felt no sense of time or space, just the presence of the duvet as an almost nurturi pressing down on my side. Rolling onto my back there was a dull throb in my fnk, easily ighose pain-killers Scave me were strong stuff. As I relutly shifted into full wakefulness my mind was bombarded by a deluge of new and bewilderiions.

  This was my sed time waking up in bed as dy, and my first prht’s sleep in . . . God, I had no idea. For a moment I felt utterly fused: where the hell was I? What the fuck was I wearing? It seemed absurd, impossible that I was dressed--in lingerie--with these things--and shaved legs; how had this happened? The uainty quickly faded. I remembered K and Scent Fosters and Abimbo and Jeremiah- fug-Steele.

  That brief moment of waking crity shattered beh the onsught of fn and feminiions. The weight of breasts on my chest and their soft, sensitive presence beh the duvet; the silky slipperiness of the nightgown that twisted like a secret between me and the sheets; eveaste of st night’s ser and moisturiser, now a faint ey lips: all these were strange ao me.

  Strange as it all was, absurd as my situation seemed--was I really dressed as a fug girl, in hiding from a homicidal maniac?--I couldn’t lie in bed all day whining. After indulging in a deep, fatalistic sigh, I tossed aside the duvet and sat up in bed. Again a distrag flood of sensations--the way those oversized tits swayed and drooped as I sat up; the fall of the nightgown around my shorn legs--but eventually you’ve just got to adapt and ignore, accept and move on. I had a couple weeks of this bullshit ahead of me, and if I kept stopping to pte every differen body and clothing that es with pretending to be female, I’d go fug crazy.

  As my first day as a single white female began, I realized that without K, I had no idea what to do.

  See, I’m a creature of routines. I don’t know why. It’s probably a ic rea to the chaos of my childhood. As a w adult I took to the Monday-to-Friday, o-five routine like . . . well, like dy to lip gloss, I guess. Wake at five-thirty, work out, shit-shower-shave, eat and then the ride to work. Same stop, same time, same route, every m.

  It’s not like I’m the only one doing this or anything. After a while I got the people on my route, the other ‘regurs’: that guy ity suit with the pricey briefcase and gay-looking ponytail; I watched that dude eat a Matosh apple every single m for three goddamn years, nibbling his way around the core before tossing it as he stepped off the bus. There was the mousy little girl with startling blue eyes behind thick-rimmed gsses; she had a different novel in her hand every sed day and every one of them was some kind of murder mystery. (And yeah, I eventually solved her mystery, if you know what I mean.) Same people, same route, same bloody routine, every day for years. Some people might find that kind of sad. Me, I loved the routine.

  Sure, it’s f and all, but there’s much more to it than that. So much bees possible through familiarity. There’s fideo be found in routine. Even more importantly, there’s the possibility for ge--for real ge, meaningful ge. I wao believe that. I really did. I had to, for fuck’s sake, otherwise my whole life would turn out to be a goddamn waste. Day after day, through the repeated as I had developed for the new adult life I’d been thrust into, I was making myself over into--well, into David Saunders. Someone very different from the person I’d been before.

  That’s probably why I’m not a huge fan of unpnned ge. Whenever one of the people on my route disappeared and never came back, I felt--betrayed. Seriously. It almost flet like a personal affront, you know, as in: how dare they go off and—I don’t know, move home, get a new job, have a kid, die? ge, and dehe same possibility?

  Therefore, left in my room and uo go out on at of my voice, I tried to fall ba established routine. Some of the usual routines had to be ged, of course. These weren’t ges I wao make, mind you. They were . . . girly routines. Yeah, doing the same thing again and again lead to a ge of who you are, but this wasn’t something I particurly wao bee. When I stepped out of the shower I patted dry and powdered and moisturised, and khat I’d be doing the same damn thing every single m for the rest of my time as dy.

  Doh the bathroom, I popped one of Scooter’s painkillers and slipped bato that goddamn undershirt and corset. There was a sharp stab of pain in my side as I slowly zipped the front. The satin pulled tight against my bruise, but the ache quickly faded and the added tension did seem to keep the area secure. With each closing tooth of the zipper I felt the corset create my tours and draw in like a sed skin around my torso. I adjusted the breasts more fortably in their cups and took a tentative, shallow breath. The damn thing was annoying, but to be ho it really wasn’t that unfortable. I could breathe, albeit a little more shallowly than normal, and it forced me to move in such a way that minimized the ce of drawing pain from my side.

  And it did keep those tits from wobbling all over the fug pce as I dropped to the floor for my m workout. Push-ups, sit-ups, tricep-presses and dips, whatever I could d with what I had in the room. Each move was doh excruciating care to minimize the ce of aggravating my cracked ribs. God, what an ingruous image I must’ve presented: big-titted babe doing push-up in a corset--you don’t see that every day. It was a short routine, under an hour once I got through all the other stuff, but I was sweating and red in the face by the time I finished. It wasn’t that I was out of shape: bloody hell, but I couldn’t breathe properly with that corset ed around me.

  Finally I couldn’t put off what I’d been dreading most. I faced a new and bewildering dilemma: the challenge of the wardrobe. I stared into the closet for at least ten minutes, at the range of colours ahs and fabrid styles spread out before me, a nothing but fear and fusion. I had to close the door and walk away. Without K to pick out the day’s outfit I was lost.

  I was about to turn to one of the teen girl articles K had left behind oablet when salvation came from an ued sourbsp; I thought maybe I could mix and matething simir to what one of those glossy bimbos were wearing, but a anel gently chimed rang before I could embarrass myself.

  First I had to find the damn thing, and then I stared down at it, unsure whether I should answer or not. What the hell, I thought. K assured me that the pce was safe. I touched the pad. “dy,” I said, in a low, breathy voice, barely above a whisper. “Um . . . hello?” Without that spray I didn’t sound much like her.

  “Not bad, girlie,” said the brusque voi the other end. “But you better learn to do better.”

  “Hey, Scooter? Bite me. I’ve had a rough m.”

  There was an annoyed silenbsp; “That’s ‘Doctes’ to you.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What’s up, doc?”

  He sighed, but when he spoke his voice sounded cheerful. “Just some good news. You’ll absolutely love this, dy. Your type always do.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “Well, I did promise Katherihat we’d take proper care of you. And from what I saw st night, you’re looking a little rough. Seriously. Don’t be talking to anyone under bright lights, because with a face like yours? You’re not fooling ahout makeup and some seriously dim lighting.”

  “Fuck me, Scooter, you say the kihings. So did you call just to bitch about my fabsp; Or do you have something to say?”

  The doctor chuckled evilly. “I’ve called to let you know I’ve arranged for a team of the Asklepios ic’s very best to, ah . . . take care of you today.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll see. They’ll be there in a few minutes. Slip on a bathrobe and just try to rex. Girls love this stuff.”

  “This stuff? Hey--”

  “Don’t worry. They’re professional. They’ve dealt with all kinds of patients in the past. They’re very discreet. Oh, and they know you ’t talk so don’t worry. They’ll take care of everything.” The bastard really sounded overjoyed. “Enjoy yourself, dy!”

  Author's Notes:

  If you're impatient to read on, you find ter chapters at FM S. You also find everything up to Book 3, Chapter 6 avaible on Patreon: patreon./fakeminsk, as well as fanart and a few side projects.