The Ruby of Femininity

I stand.

Maybe it's silly, but I like looking at myself in the bathroom mirror while I do it. Part of it is that I'm just... proud of my body. Toned muscles ripple beneath my skin as I stretch upwards, like a cat. I've been honing this body just as rigorously as I have my mind, and it's gratifying to be able to see the results.

Not every woman is so fortunate as to have a positive relationship with her reflection in the mirror, but I am.

There's more to it, though. It's... symbolic. I do it with grace, with elegance, and I like to think it's a visual encapsulation of all the progress I've made in life. Of the fact that I'm a fierce woman, independent, devoid of weakness. That my rise cannot be stopped.

The road has been bumpy, but I'm far away from where I started: I am not the weak, submissive girl I might have been in another life.

My mother, my grandmother, every woman in the family spent their lives bowing to the whims of domineering men. Unsurprisingly, this garbage attitude attracted garbage partners. I can't remember a single adult Montgomery man who didn't see women as little more than pretty trinkets and baby-making machines.

I escaped that suffocating misogynistic hell as soon as I turned 18, and I'll be damned if I ever go back.

I shift in front of the mirror, altering my pose, drinking in the sight of my body. It's been years. I shouldn't even be thinking about it, it's a waste of time. I may still carry the name Montgomery, but the old family is dead to me, and has been for a long time.

The men especially. Them, most of all.

Stepping into the shower, I let the scalding water sluice over me, steam filling the room. Thoughts of old male relatives make my mind wander to the man I've chosen, precisely because he's not like them.

Howard is probably still asleep in my bed. That's still an odd feeling, even after a couple of years spent dating - I don't let him sleep over here too often. It helps maintain a certain... perspective. And, because he's not a Montgomery, because he's not a chauvinist, because he's not a pig... he's fine with that. He's very good at going along with what I say, actually.

It's one of his better qualities.

Sweet, unassuming Howard. He is...comfortable. Safe. Milquetoast, predictable, not assertive, and not particularly exciting. And therein lies the appeal. I've spent enough time in the company of toxic masculinity, and his gentle, passive nature is a refreshing change of pace.

He tries so hard, the poor dear. So eager to please me, to prove himself a worthy partner. But never in an entitled, demanding way, and never so intensely as to push me away. He knows, deep down, that I have no need for a man to complete me. In fact, he probably needs me more than I need him: I earn more, he's more emotionally needy than I am, and to be completely truthful, he also needs sexual gratification more than I do.

This relationship exists purely on my terms. I allow his presence in my life. But I'll never let him hold power over me like the men from my past.

I get that in theory, a level-playing field would be nicer, but you know what? After seeing every woman in my family spend life in the shadow of a man, I'll take the reverse situation quite happily, thank you very much.

Wrapped in a robe, showered and now fully awake, I saunter into the bedroom and find him stretching awake, face sleep-rumpled, eyes full of clumsy adoration.

"Morning, love. Sleep well?" He asks with a dopey grin.

"Well enough, dear," I reply, allowing a slight smile. I never call him love, myself, and I'll only say I love him if he says so, first.

Just basic ground rules you need to learn, if you want to stay in control.

Howard doesn't understand that drive in me, that diamond-hard core of ambition and trauma that propels me forward. How could he? He's never had to fight for his place in the world, to resist being hammered into a predetermined mold. He's a sweet guy, considerate to a fault. But ultimately, he's...average. Not a trailblazer or a rebel, but a follower.

Well, I can use a follower, and a compliant boyfriend is a nice box to tick in the list of my self-image as an accomplished woman, so at the end of the day, this works for both of us. It surely does for me.

Leaning down, I press my lips to his in a brief kiss, nipping playfully. He responds eagerly, hands roaming towards the hem of my robe. But I pull away after a moment. I mustn't let him think he has free rein with my body.

"Not now, dear," I tease, raising a brow. "We both have to get ready for work."

Howard pouts but complies, rolling out of bed. He knows better than to persist when I've made myself clear. I'm not some blushing maiden to be pursued and pressured.

We're not Montgomery's.

As I dress for the day ahead, I banish all thought of my old family from my mind. I slip on a tailored suit, the sharp lines and bold colors making me feel powerful and in control. I take pride in my appearance, not for anyone else's sake, but for myself.

"Want me to cook dinner tonight, Viv?" Howard asks me.

I sigh. He's always trying to do things for me, to prove himself useful. Not that I need him to. I've never needed anyone, not since I vowed to never become like my mother.

"No, let's just meet at the bistro for dinner," I say, and he acquiesces immediately. There's basically no friction with him. He knows he's a supporting character in the story of my life, and he's... content? Accepting. I'm not really quite sure.

I suppose my strength of character comes at a price. Maybe I'm a little too guarded with Howard. I know it's easy for women like me -- women who have had to fight tooth and nail for every inch of success --to become jaded and closed off emotionally. But it's necessary for survival.

I will bow to no one. Least of all a man.

***

I stretch.

As comfy as my office chair is, I still get restless in it. I know that for others at work, the hours crawl forward at a snail's pace, but for me, it's just a regular day at the office. It flies by in a blur of meetings and emails.

I stay focused. There's no time for idle chitchat with colleagues. I'm here to get shit done.

Finally, I send off the last email and glance at the clock. It's time to head to the gym for my evening workout.

The office is where my mind shines, but I believe in balance as a recipe for succcess, and I won't neglect my body. At the gym, I am in my element. My muscles ache beautifully with each rep as I push myself to the limit.

Later in the evening, Howard's waiting for me in his usual spot - outside the trendy new bistro, wearing that hopeful, puppy-dog expression he thinks is endearing.

"Dear," I say. "Right on time, I see."

"I wouldn't dream of keeping you waiting, Vivian," he stammers, extending his arm in a chivalrous gesture that makes me frown a little. I take it anyway. I suppose one can make an occasional concession to performative romance every now and again.

Dinner is typical Howard - safe, boring, and utterly forgettable. He babbles on about some work drama that I couldn't care less about, while I pick at my salad, my mind miles away. We make small talk about our days, empty and circumstantial stuff, really, but it's fine. Safe, uncomplicated, and devoid of conflict.

Finally, the check arrives, and we head back to my place. In the elevator, I lazily press myself against him as I guide my hand to his thigh. His breath catches in anticipation, and I allow myself a slight smile. Men are so easy to control. Sometimes I wonder why more women don't just... do this. Wrap your hand around a man's cock, and you'll usually have it wrapped around his will, too. Maybe that's how patriarchy is felled. Just a few calculated tugs of a cock-leash.

Heh. If only it were that easy...

But in this particular context, it does work. I have a lower sexual drive than Howard, but even if I didn't, I would still deliberately grant him slightly less sexual release than he needs. It's important to keep them wanting more. You've got to make men understand that your body is not at their disposal, that sex happens on your terms. If you don't, well... best not dwell on that. Entitlement and masculinity are a very dangerous combination.

I play with Howard's zipper for a moment, then withdraw my hand as the elevator comes to a halt. It has been a while... I suppose I can have some fun tonight.

Once inside, I turn and give him a coy smile. "Why don't you wait for me in the bedroom while I slip into something more comfortable?"

Howard's eyes light up and he nods, scurrying off down the hall.

I take my time undressing, carefully folding my clothes, building anticipation. It's the same old rule. Keep them wanting more. Reinforce who is in need and who's providing.

When I join him in the bedroom, his eyes widen and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"You look...incredible," he says reverently.

I reward him with a dazzling smile. "Why thank you. Now lie back and let me take care of you."

He complies readily, settling against the mountain of pillows. I climb onto the bed and straddle his face, feeling his hot breath against my skin.

Slowly, sensually, I begin to move my hips, while reaching back with my hand to stroke his cock. It's already at full mast, of course. There isn't particular sophistication in my technique, I just rub it up and down. Putting in effort to sexually please a man is not something I'd ever countenance. He can be content with what he's getting.

It is nice to relax to his oral ministrations, though. He's diligent and dutiful in eating me out, my own personal cunt attendant, and it does get me going, it's nice. Good way to unwind from the long day. And he does know how to use that tongue.

It's not the most... thrilling sexual experience in the world, to have him be so passive, but it's safe, and it allows me to direct the endeavour, and my pleasure clearly comes before his.

What more can a girl wish for in life, really?

***

I sit down.

This isn't just a letter I have in my hands. It's one of those letters that feel immediately serious the moment you touch them, the moment you feel the expensive stationary beneath your fingertips. It's from my great-aunt, Adelaide.

I haven't heard from her in years, not since I cut ties with the rest of the toxic Montgomery clan. I tear open the envelope, curious as to why she would contact me now.

The letter informs me that Aunt Adelaide has passed away.

As I read the words, I'm surprised she thought of me at all in her final days. It's a small act of grace, I suppose, and I do appreciate it. I remind myself that she's been a victim of the misogyny that's been deeply embedded in the family for decades, not a perpetrator. It's not her fault. I should mourn the fact that she never got to truly spend a day living for herself, rather than for the men around her.

I skim past the legalese to the part mentioning me. The letter goes on to say that Aunt Adelaide has left a precious family heirloom to me - a ruby necklace that has been passed down through generations of Montgomery women. I frown. I don't remember seeing it in the family jewellery collection, but then again, it's been years, and I didn't exactly go rifling through Aunt Adelaide's stuff during family visits.

Apparently, there's a note by her, specifically for me, enclosed at the bottom of the letter.

"To my most headstrong and spirited great-niece, Vivian Montgomery, I bequeath the Ruby Of Femininity. May this be your way back into the family."

I chuckle darkly. Of course, it would have a dramatic name. Aunt Adelaide was always one for theatrics. And as for that last bit...

I snort derisively. My parents, too, thought they could bribe me back into the family fold with their wealth. I cut financial ties with them just the same as all other ties. You can't truly distance yourself from someone, if you depend on them.

I started over, built my life from scratch, and I'm better off for it.

Still... this isn't wealth, being offered me. It's just a necklace. I've always appreciated rare treasures and fine pieces of jewelry. Perhaps I should at least take a look before deciding.

A few days later, a package arrives containing the fabled ruby necklace. I open the box eagerly, letting the lamplight dance across the glittering rubies.

It is exquisite. The metalwork is elegant, and the deep red stone glows like a smoldering ember against the delicate gold filigree. I carefully lift the necklace from the box, feeling the weight of each large ruby stone. This is a true antique, a priceless heirloom, not some trinket.

I stand and cross to the mirror, fastening the necklace around my neck, the ruby resting at the hollow of my throat. I turn my head from side to side, watching the stone flash. This is a masterpiece.

Smirking with satisfaction, I decide to keep the necklace. This will be my small rebellion, snatching away such a treasure from their unworthy hands.

For a moment, the ruby seems to glow brighter against my skin, as if responding to my acceptance. I feel an odd tingling sensation, as if the necklace is vibrating against my skin.

It's likely just my vivid imagination, kicked into overdrive by the beauty of this thing. The ruby feels almost like a third eye. My mind begins to cloud as I stare deeply into the glinting red of the stone, so deep, so multi-layered. I feel myself relaxing, and my doubts about accepting anything that ever belonged to a Montgomery start to dissipate.

Yes, I will keep the necklace. This is meant to be mine.

That night, I dream.

I find myself wandering through a dark mansion, cold marble floors under my bare feet. There is an eerie stillness in the air, and I feel a strange sense of foreboding. As I drift silently from room to room, I notice the walls are lined with gilded mirrors that seem to multiply into infinite reflections of myself. But the woman staring back has sunken, vacant eyes. She seems almost entranced as she moves slowly through this imposing place.

Out of the stillness, I hear a deep voice call out. "Vivian..." The voice echoes through the empty halls.

And just like that, hands surround me.

There's so many, too many to count. They're not rough, but they're unmistakably firm. They grip my wrists, my ankles, my hair. Fingers hook under my chin, and others wrap gently around the hollow of my throat. They cup my nose, cover my lips, twine with my own fingers.

They undress me.

I surrender to the caresses, to the touch, unable to fight back, to mount any meaningful resistance. Everything feels foggy as the hands begin to toy with my nipples, as fingers slide under my panties, as I find myself breathing faster, humping faster, and faster, and faster, and faster...

I sit up.

I jolt awake, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. A nightmare, nothing more. I tell myself, but the memory of the dream lingers, like an itch I can't scratch.

That morning, I make my way to the kitchen, my head still foggy from the vivid nightmare. Howard is already there, sipping his coffee while scanning the newspaper headlines.

"Good morning, Viv," he says in an unusually chipper tone. Not love, I can't fail to notice, he's called me Viv. He doesn't look up from the newspaper as I enter the room.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck. For a moment, I'm filled with a primal, instinctual, nameless sense of danger, the same instinct you feel when something's stalking you in a dark forest, a fear older than words...

But then, I spot the plate of eggs he's prepared for me, and the fear dissipates. Normal, it's all normal. My doting boyfriend has made me breakfast, dreams mean nothing, and all is good with the world again.

"Morning," I mumble back as I pour my own cup of coffee.

I sit down across from him and pick at my food, trying to find my appetite. We eat breakfast in relative silence. A dull headache throbs at my temples as I try to chase away the grogginess.

The ruby pendant gleams on the kitchen counter, which is just weird. I frown, recalling. I definitely left it in a drawer in my night stand yesterday evening. Did I move it? If so, why don't I remember doing that?

Did Howard move it? If so, why hasn't he commented or asked about it at all? It's not exactly something you overlook or ignore, what with how astonishingly pretty it is... beautiful, deep, red, even now, as the stone is catching the first rays of dawn.

It glows...

***

I take my face in my hands.

The last few weeks have been... complicated. Both at home and at work. I'm not used to it, especially because my best weapon to overcome adversity - my strength of character - has been... a little less reliable than usual, lately, and I can't figure out why.

My thoughts feel muddled, my emotions amplified. It's getting harder to focus at work, to stand my ground in meetings. Even at work, I falter, I feel softer, more pliant. The confidence I've always prided myself on ebbs away. I hesitate to argue forcefully during meetings. When a male colleague makes a casually sexist comment, I just smile weakly instead of calling him out like I normally would.

At home, I surprise Howard by wearing casual dresses and more marked makeup more often. I used to scorn such frivolous feminine pursuits, but now they feel comforting. Howard seems pleased, though confused, by my change in demeanour. As for me, I guess I'm just feeling more...

Feminine.

Damn. Am I becoming like my mother? But no, obviously not. Just because I'm getting a little femme'd up doesn't mean I'm going to suddenly start kowtowing to men, that's insane. I need to stop living my life in fear of my past. I'm just... unsettled by all this change, that's all.

One thing, however, does remain constant: the pendant. Throughout the day, I find myself fidgeting with it absentmindedly. In meetings, my fingers stroke over the smooth facets of the ruby, while I listen to my male colleagues drone on. I squeeze it to seek reassurance when it's my turn to speak, and I find myself shrinking back if I'm contradicting something a man has said.

Howard is spending more and more time at my place, and I haven't found the energy to re-establish a proper boundary yet. We haven't been to the bistro in a while either - he says that he likes it better when we cook together. Though I've been the one doing most of the cooking, lately.

And most of the dish-washing.

And now, as I'm finishing up with the dishes, he stands up behind me.

"Hey, come here," he says.

Suddenly, his strong grip pulls me onto his lap, and before I can react, his rough lips forcefully press against mine. His stubble scratches my cheek, and I try to squirm out of his grasp.

"Howard, stop," I gasp, pushing against his chest. But he only tightens his hold on my waist and runs his greedy hands over my body.

I raise my hand to slap him... but immediately lower it again.

And that, that's what terrifies me. Not that he's being so pushy, but that I can't enforce my boundaries. Normally I'd chew him alive for even presuming... for daring...

"Stop?" He asks with a frown. "Why?"

I try back away slowly, but his grip is still tight around my wrist. "I... I'm not really in the mood."

"Oh, you're not in the mood," he says, and I look at him with wide-eyed disbelief. Was that a... mocking tone in his voice? Howard never mocks me. He wouldn't dare!

"You know what, Viv? That's fine. There's more productive things we could be doing. For example, we need to talk," he says bluntly. I feel a knot forming in my throat.

My heart drops into my stomach at those words. "W-w-what about?"

He smiles. Thinly. "It's time we move in together. I've told my landlord already. I'm moving in with you."

I find myself snarling, anger rising within me. "What? You can't just make decisions for us without consulting me! Don't I get a say in this? This is my apartment!"