My Own Body Slowly

I dreamt of the caged girl. Of her calm acceptance of me.

I dreamt of her big, brown eyes and her full lips. Her tan skin and short, wavy hair. She looked so bored  when I came into the tent. I watched as she hungrily took in the scene going on next to her; another girl in another cage being taken brutally. I watched, too. It made my dick hard, made me want to fuck her.

With her on her knees before me, and just a few inches and metal bars between us, I was so nervous that she'd take one look at the cock strapped to my hips and back away in repulsion.

But she didn't.

It was so sweet to fuck someone who didn't care if my dick was an attachment. She didn't mock me, she didn't shun me. She called me "sir."

When I woke, my pillow was still damp with the sorrow of the previous night. My throat was dry and my eyes burned.

I sat up and pulled the binder off, my head swimming with her memory. Sometime in the night, I'd removed the harness and discarded it. After a little searching, I located it under the bed. I took the dildo with me into the bathroom and cleaned it in the sink before turning on the shower and climbing in. I was thinking of nothing; focusing on Nothing, concentrating on NOTHING. Stop thinking about

her

, stop being so damn wistful.

The hot water felt amazing. I scrubbed my scalp with shampoo and rubbed soap over my body, all of my mind power going into the simple task of getting clean.

Not even NOTHING could keep the caged girl out of my head. My heart ached with the rejection fresh from the night before, and I blamed that for the lingering of my mind on a moment of peace I'd known. As I got out of the tub and toweled dry, and as I dressed slowly, building my man's body in layers, I couldn't rid my mind of her.

I didn't feel dirty. I wasn't ashamed. Men used the tents regularly—the slaves inside were used however they saw fit. I knew that sex was the simplest of things that could happen to them. I'd heard rumors that some men go in there to kill, when a rage is on them. I knew slaves had to endure torture. Mutilation. That if a slave wasn't used, it wasn't fed.

Born a different class, I was not used to thinking of slaves as other human beings. They were treated like animals. Sometimes less than animals. I supposed that the slave just accepted what I was because I was just another dick in a long line of dicks. It was probably true, but I had to admit to myself that she still had the choice to recoil, to sneer in disgust. But, not only did she accept me rather smoothly, but she also...

...her cool fingertips slid beneath my harness, touching me... there...

I licked my suddenly-dry lips, steering my thoughts elsewhere. I was starting to--

Anyway, I had work to do. I flipped on the light in my office and the low hum of fluorescent bulbs helped to put me into working mode. As I slid into the swivel chair and looked down at the drafts of blueprints for a boring skyscraper, I turned my emotional mind off and let my logical brain scan over it, looking for faults, looking for holes. The way the eraser warmed in my fingers as I rubbed, the sound of the pencil scratching over paper; these were real, these were necessary, these were home.

Not the girl in the cage.

When I looked up at the clock, hours had passed. I'd gotten lost in the intricate lines, the fine delicacy that is the skeleton of a building. I stood up and stretched and my back popped. I needed to take a walk, get a bite to eat. Do normal things.

I grabbed my keys, pulled on a coat and reached for my hat, but the peg on the coat stand was empty. I felt a tug in my heart when I remembered that it was gone and I probably wasn't going to get it back.

I turned away from those thoughts and those bruised feelings and, trusting that my hair wasn't too messy, made my way out of the apartment building. The air was brisk, with a breeze. Winter was clinging late onto the beginnings of spring, and the heavy clouds above belied more snow. I pulled my coat around myself and kept an eye open for a food stand. I could smell them already—it was late lunchtime, so the vendors had been cooking for awhile. Pizza, hot dogs, cheese steak subs. The scents were making my mouth water and my stomach growled in anticipation.

I was waiting in line when I saw her. No—I didn't see her. I smelled her, first. They say scent is the strongest form of memory and it didn't take a lot to wrench me back to the previous night, the night I was working to forget. My head turned to look at her before I could catch myself and I caught her brilliant eyes, the back-lit green. As soon as she saw me, her eyes narrowed in recognition and...

"What are you doing here?" Ashleigh asked.

My palms were sweaty. I rubbed them on my slacks, willing my nerves to settle. "Getting food," I said. "Isn't it obvious?"

I noticed with a sick feeling that the food cart was across the street from her apartment building. I was terrified she'd make a scene. Instead, she shook out her red hair and made a soft noise before crossing the street and sashaying up the stairs into her building.

Later, cradling a greasy tin-foil wrapped snack, I stood in the shade of the towering building she'd entered. I wondered, masochistically, if I could remember which apartment was hers, and if she'd answer the door if I knocked. My curiosity was, I told myself, piqued because I left my hat up there last night and I'd like to retrieve it. Not because I wanted to see her. Definitely not.

I finished my lunch and tossed the garbage in a can. I ran my fingers nervously through my hair, chewing my bottom lip.

It's go or go in,

I told myself.

I climbed the stairs and pushed open the glass doors to the apartment building. The barely conditioned air chilled me, made me pause. I looked down the hallway, down the carpeted stairs, and up the stairwell to the second floor. I couldn't even remember if she lived upstairs or down. I lingered there in the parlor for several moments, trying desperately to remember, just a hint, but my mind was drawing a blank. I think that, just maybe, my mind was trying to hide her from me, to protect my heart.

I left and walked several blocks back to my apartment. My keys were loud in the hallway.

I got back to work. I lost myself in the intricacies of the blueprints, forgetting for a while.

The sun went down without my noticing. A light knocking at my door broke my concentration, and I turned my head instinctively towards the sound. I waited. It may have been a neighbor's door.

knock

knock knock

knock

I stood up and brushed eraser fuzz from my slacks. My socked feet were not as silent on the wooden floor as I would have liked. I lifted the latch on the old-fashioned grated peep hole and opened the tiny metal door.

Ashleigh was standing at the threshold.

I slammed the little door closed, my fingers fumbling with the latch. "What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice shaky.

What do you want? How did you find me?

"I have your hat," she said.

She didn't say anything more. She didn't move. She was waiting.

Waiting for me to open the door.

"Shit," I whispered. I moved the chain off the door, unlocked the deadbolt. I wasn't sure I could turn the knob—did I have the strength?--but it turned, easily, as easy as ever.

I felt my traitorous heart shudder at the sight of her. She didn't look angry.

Ashleigh held out my hat. I took it silently, watching her, waiting for her to turn into a monster or something, I don't know. I felt wary, afraid, nervous as hell.

She stuck her head into my apartment and looked around. I shied away from her, one hand still on the door, ready to close it. "So, this is where you live?" she asked, as if we were

just the best of friends,

and we

totally hung out on the regular.

I felt the scowl twist my face. She looked back to me, sensing my mood. "Look," she said, quieter, "I.. I think I want to talk to you. About last night."

Fuck.

"Come in," I said, stepping aside and opening the door a bit wider. I set my hat on the rack as she moved, catlike, into my humble apartment. I suddenly wished I'd cleaned more. I was achingly aware of her perfect femininity among the rough, cluttered surroundings of my life.

The door clicked into place and I reassembled the locks out of habit. When I turned around, Ashleigh was watching me.

"You really are a girl," she said, marvel in her voice. I eyed her steadily, neither confirming nor denying the statement.

She bit her lip. It was adorable. I struggled not to appreciate it.

"Can we sit down?" Ashleigh asked, glancing off into the living room, dominated by heavy leather furniture. I crossed my arms over my chest and walked over, sitting in the chair, so she'd have to sit on the couch. I was absolutely terrified that if I sat on the couch, she'd sit next to me, so close, so... touchable. Her fury from the previous night was not forgotten. I was wounded, but still so needy. I dared not hope. I relied on my doubt, I leaned into my pain.

It must have been clear on my face. "Jaq," she said, sitting on the edge of the cushion nearest to me. I was suddenly extremely aware of her bare knees, pressing together beneath her skirt. "I shouldn't have reacted the way I did."

She paused. "Alright," I said, not yet ready to forgive.

Ashleigh's frown even looked pretty. "It was wrong of you to be deceiving, though."

"I never said I was a man."

She sighed, but didn't argue. "After you left, I was still angry. I couldn't sleep. I went back to the bar, and the barwench told me that you were always alone."

I waited.

"She thinks you're a man too, you know."

"That's good," I allowed. "I'm not a woman."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not."

We sat in heavy silence, neither of us willing to cede the point. Eventually she shook her head. "It doesn't matter anyway," she said. "My point is, maybe you should... be honest. If I knew..."

"You wouldn't have spoken to me," I said pointedly. "If you'd known I had a female body, you wouldn't have approached at all. You'd have thought, 'Why is that woman dressed like a man? Is she some kinda freak?' And probably laughed with your friends about it, later."

"Well," Ashleigh said, lowering her voice, "why do you dress like a man?"

No one had ever asked me this before. I was at a loss for words, unable to explain myself. How long had I been doing it—how long had I been dancing at this masquerade?

"It feels wrong," was the best I could come up with. Ashleigh tilted her head at me, questioning silently, feline. "I mean... to be a woman. This body. It's wrong. It isn't me. I hate it." As I said the words, I felt my eyes begin to sting, my chest constricting.

"Okay. It's okay," she told me, scooting even further on the edge to place a manicured hand on my knee.

"I'm fine," I lied, straightening my posture and trying to compose myself. I told myself I was not going to cry in front of her. I wondered if I would break that oath. "Sometimes I dream about being a man... I mean, being born that way. But it doesn't feel right, either. Maybe... less wrong than being a woman, but still not right." I tried to keep the hopelessness I felt out of my voice. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Ashleigh was silent, unmoving. I looked up to her, expecting to see pity, or disgust, or some expression that would make me want to push her out of my apartment and tell her to never come back. Instead, she was watching me patiently, not judging, just listening. She didn't immediately deny that there was nothing wrong with me. She accepted that I was different, that I was not like everyone else, that I was

other.

"I've never told anyone this," I said haltingly. "I ... I don't think I've even said it aloud."

Ashleigh moved, fluidly, as she did when she danced. Before I could object, she was kneeling before me, trying to pry my hands apart. I'd had them balled up on my thighs, fingers interlaced, knuckles white. I looked down at them and relaxed my grip, allowing her to separate them, to take each of them in her own delicate hands.

I dared to relax.

"Thanks for bringing back my hat," I said. Then, after a moment, "How did you get my address?"

She laughed; the sound was wonderful. "I just asked around. You are easy to find... you draw eyes."

The thought made me queasy. I supposed it was possible. Not everyone was fooled by my costume, and for those who were, I'd be small, and clean-shaven—two things that were often a dead giveaway, given that most men had some facial hair and were bigger, bulkier than me.

I supposed it was possible that people stared, and I ignored them.

"I was going to come back and get it. My hat, I mean. But I couldn't remember your apartment number."

Ashleigh smiled, just a little. "I saw you standing outside of the building. You were right outside of my window, actually." She hesitated. "I think I was hoping you would come to my door... when I went to bed, I was still angry. But I woke up feeling guilty for the way I threw you out of my place. I could have been a little more graceful... but then again, you could have been honest."

"I'd say that I'm sorry for being your man last night," I said, "but I'd be lying."

I was surprised to see her blush. Gently, she withdrew her hands from mine, standing. "I better go," she said. "You have your hat, and I've apologized, so... I guess I'll be seeing you around, Jaq?"

I nodded, rising to walk her to the door. She turned as she was halfway through the doorway and met my eyes. "Have confidence in yourself," she said. Then she was gone.