by Penny Aimes
Work continued to grind forward, as he remade the Technology division from the ground up. He fired the entire Help Desk staff. He had to—there were items in the backlog more than a year old that had never been addressed. He hired someone new to manage it, gave her a budget and set her loose to rebuild.
Natasha Bledsoe was a charming and competent Black woman in her forties, a referral from another tech executive he had met at Reggie’s cookout. She’d run a Help Desk before but stepped back to raise her kids for a while. She was ready for a new project, though, and she took control of the chaos easily, sieving through the old staff to find a competent quarter or so and making them managers for the brand-new folks, and establishing firm turnaround requirements and customer service standards.
While the fear of God was in everyone, he issued his own edicts for the developers, trying to corral them into a unified project management approach and well-defined goals. After the first few stubborn holdouts were put on Performance Improvement Plans, they seemed to realize he was serious. He also began to lay the groundwork for a major data migration; predictably, Graham hated the idea, which was an added bonus, really.
And he and April were talking constantly. At least once a week if nothing else, but really, they touched base most days. Even as the intensity of work picked up and sent him bouncing back and forth between Austin and the East Coast, her place in his schedule was sacrosanct and always a blessing. One check-in she tentatively asked if they could call the week a wash because she’d had some painful electrolysis. He didn’t tell her he himself was wrung out from yet another red-eye flight; they just played Mario Kart until he was falling asleep at the Switch.
It was by far the most G-rated memory they had made together; yet it was the one he replayed in his mind falling asleep every night. The sleepy burr of her voice and her unguarded laugh. The hope it gave him was dizzying.
He and April had been playing together about six weeks when he launched his big new game. They agreed to meet at her apartment to discuss—he wasn’t going to fuck things up over email again. He needed to be able to see her face. He’d asked her to wear something very simple. He didn’t know why—his attraction to dressing women wasn’t something he was in a rush to unpack with Cordelia, and that went for why his subconscious made certain choices, as well.
But whatever the reason, she was breathtaking, in a white summer dress with a raw hem. He watched the threads shift over her thighs as she led him to a charming little space she’d created in one corner of the room, coaxing a reading nook out of the unbroken floor plan of the loft with a couple of armchairs and some shelves.
God, I really like her, he thought. He liked her poky little apartment and how she made it work, her walls lined with books and her tiny tidy kitchen. The light in her eyes, excited and wary and intoxicating. He liked her honey-colored hair—how long had it taken to grow out like that? Had she cut it since her transition?—and he liked the shadows of her breasts in that dress.
“I... I should say, I dressed the way you wanted, but I really think we need to talk about this out of role.”
His mood dropped immediately into the pit of his stomach. She was right, of course. The text about her outfit had been a last-minute thought, trying to set the stage and control the coming conversation, and he’d fucked up. Score one for Cordelia.
As the conversation progressed, he tried to climb out of the hole and regain his dominant vibe. It wasn’t easy. She had a lot of questions, and he felt rusty trying to explain this game to a new person. It all made a certain sense in his head...he hadn’t wanted to tell her he’d done it before, but obviously knowing that made her feel more comfortable, not less. He’d rehearsed and anticipated this conversation, but he obviously hadn’t done it very well. Talking about Sonia didn’t do his confidence any good, either.
April bit her lip, and her soft grey-green eyes found his. “I need you to admit something first. It’s at least a little about the money, isn’t it? I mean...you have more money than me.” She had no idea. God, was this a terrible idea? “That’s a fact. That’s power you have that I don’t. And this is all about power exchange, taking those imbalances and making them sexy, but...we can’t do that if you don’t admit it. We absolutely have to be ruthless about admitting it.”
He took a deep breath. She was right, damn it. And wasn’t there something appealing about that ruthlessness? She was so brave to lay it out like this, so smart and careful to guard their hearts, and he cherished that about her, and there was no way to honor that except with his own courage and care.
“I didn’t grow up with...the kind of money I have today,” he admitted. Being as honest as he could. As ruthless. “When I got my first big bonus, I paid off my parents’ house. And I could do that, not because it was so much money, but because my parents’ mortgage in Illinois was that small. But they would’ve been working on paying it off the rest of their lives.
“I like that power. I like not having to think about whether or not I can afford it when I want to do something or solve a problem.” The words were a flood; not an outburst, but something unlocked from deep within, coming out of his mouth fast and unplanned. “Having options.
“So I like having money, and yeah, I like to show it off a little. Not excessively, and not for its own sake, but because it protects you. It makes things easier. I’ve heard that Black men have trouble getting into some of the fancier bars on the West Side around here, but I haven’t. Not when I’m dressed up. It’s not...a perfect defense,” he added quickly.
God forbid she think that it was, or that he imagined it was. Racists with power could humiliate a rich Black man like anybody else. Cops killed rich Black men just like any other Black folks.
This conversation was making him vulnerable in ways he hadn’t expected, in ways he hadn’t even considered before today. But the more he thought about it, the more foundation he found for the fantasy in himself; the more he realized that was how he felt when he got up in the morning and put on an expensive suit. Maybe Jason wasn’t the only one with baggage about money.
“But that’s...that’s the fantasy,” he finished.
“No, I get it,” she said quickly, eyes brightening. “I think I do. It’s like... I work...really hard. I work really hard on how I look. Because I feel like if I’ve done everything I can to send the message that I’m a, that I identify as a woman, then even though I don’t pass, I... I did my best. It’s probably a little fucked up...but it makes me feel better, and I can face the world as my best self.”
“Yes. And the money just makes it easier.” His eyes locked on to hers. “I want to share that with you. Yes, I want to retain some control of how it’s spent. And yes, I want to see you in the kind of things you can’t usually afford. It is about power—and I want you to feel my power head to toe when you walk out the door in the morning. But I never want you to feel trapped by it. I want you to wear it like armor.”
He let his eyes bore into hers; let some of his hunger slip out. Hunger for her, yes, but also his hunger for this to go well. Not just the kinky hunger for power and control, but the longing to bring her more fully into his life, to build something with her, to be with her even when he was far away.
He could see it hit her, like a shot of strong alcohol, and he liked that; felt his feet on surer ground again. There were logistics to sort out, but he had her; he knew he had her, and when she met his eyes again and said “Yes, Sir,” something inside of him crowed.
“Terrific.” He could feel his grin tugging his cheeks. “Can I see your closet? I’m not going to pass judgment, and I won’t tell you to get rid of anything. But I’d like to know what I’m working with.” It was practical, it was necessary, and it was a fig leaf to stop himself from ravishing her immediately. It held right up until they came to her lingerie—just a few pieces, tucked in the back of a drawer with obvious care. He drew out a filmy babydoll nightie and whistled.
“I’m not sure,” he said. He absolutely did. “Let’s see it on.”
She nodded, hands already moving to the ragged hem of her dress. “Yes, Sir.” She turned away slightly as she peeled it off, perhaps self-conscious in the bold daylight, and he moved closer and let his hands settle on her hips to show her she had nothing to fear.
She melted back against him and his hands grazed up her smooth, soft skin to her breasts. She turned her head back to meet his mouth and groaned into his kiss as he began to touch her nipples, small and pink and tightening under his touch. “What about the lingerie?” she murmured.
“Shhh.” He ran one hand back down to her hip, to test her arousal, and found her ready. He brushed his fingers over her clit and then settled lower, following her cues from having watched her pleasure herself several times now. He nudged her feet further apart to slip his hand between her thighs more firmly.
“Did you edge yet today? Just nod or shake your head.” She shook her head, tossing her loose hair.
“I’m here to help,” he chuckled. “Arms up.”
She stabilized herself away from his arms and lifted hers over her head. He skimmed the nightie down over her shoulders, carefully adjusting the hang and seams. “Beautiful. Let’s lay you down on the bed.”
She seemed to be picking up the vibes he was laying down. She let him guide her, pose her, watching him from under hooded lids. “Am I a dolly, Sir?” she asked, in a half-teasing voice.
“Shhh, dolls can’t talk.” She giggled softly at that, but compliantly let him put her arms above her head. He slid between her legs, lifting the skirt of the nightie, and began to kiss and lick, letting his hands roam over her body but always gravitating back to her core. In accordance with the rules of the game, she tried to be still and quiet, but he didn’t make it easy for her, and in truth he wasn’t so deeply into this kink that it bothered him.
It was exciting to watch her ability to play the role slip away as he teased her, her hands writhing and clasping together as she fought to keep them over her head without real restraints, the muscles of her thighs tensing and jumping as she struggled not to press against his face. When she let slip a single cracked, “Please,” he lifted his head.
“Good girl,” he said, kissing her thigh. “Was that weird?”
She smiled at him. “Not too weird. I’ve...done weirder for sure. Anything else you want to do with your doll, Sir?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He was, but he was putting it off for now. “How’s denial treating you?”
She let out a shaky laugh. “A lot harder suddenly!”
“Just think about how bad it’s going to be when you’re covered in things I gave you...feeling my touch from head to toe.”
She made a plaintive noise, and he pushed himself up the bed to kiss her. They kissed for some time, as her hand began to explore and unzip his jeans, and then she slithered lower and returned his attentions. After a few moments he felt her growing focused and still, picking up the threads of the game, and he gathered her hair in his hands and guided her strokes as he used her mouth like a kinkier kind of doll.
He gathered her up and hugged against his chest afterwards, still panting. “That was hot.” It was such a terrible, incomplete word for what that had been, but he wasn’t sure what else he could safely say right now. He just wanted to hold her.
“I’m glad you liked it.” Her expression was dreamy and slightly glazed. She snuggled against his linen shirt and fidgeted with a button. “You were more casual today.”
“Yes. Do you like it?”
“I like you however you dress. I think that kink only runs one way.” He laughed, and she said, “Would you have enjoyed it more in a suit?”
He had to think about that. “I’m not sure. Maybe.”
She kissed his neck. “You should wear one next time. I want you to feel like your best self.”
He squeezed her, suddenly emotional. Dom drop was a thing, too. He usually kept a pretty even keel, but he hadn’t realized how badly he wanted this to work, how much he’d invested in it. “That’s what I want for you, too. That’s why I want to do this.”
“I know,” she whispered against his chest. “I’m looking forward to it.” He held her for a long time, squeezed her close and murmured to her what a good girl she was.
After a few minutes, she exhaled a long breath, and stiffened just slightly. “Hey,” she said in a low voice.
“Hey,” he echoed.
“I’m real, right?” she whispered. He relaxed his hug so he could look her in the face. Was she disassociating?
“To you, I mean,” she said. “I’m a real person to you. I’m not just something you can buy so you can dress me up and squeeze me when you want someone to hold and leave me on the shelf when you don’t. Please?” Something jagged wobbled in her voice.
“No,” he said instantly; his urge was to gather her back in his arms, but maybe she didn’t want that, from what she said. “No. It’s just a game.” He made a mental note to take her out more often between check-ins; she shouldn’t feel like a dirty secret or a side piece. He didn’t know as much as he wanted to, yet, but it didn’t take a PhD in Queer Studies to realize realness was a loaded topic for a trans woman.
She took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“We don’t have to do the doll thing again if you don’t like it. We don’t have to do any of it.” Panic was tugging at his sleeve, but for now he had it under control; sub drop was a part of a lot of scenes, even ones that went well. He was more than willing to take her through it; to make sure she felt real and cherished, seen and appreciated inside and out. “You’re very real to me. You’re the realest thing I’ve got right now.”
She looked startled, then her expression settled. “Right now. Right.” She took a few more breaths, then let herself slide back into his arms. “Sorry, I... I did enjoy it. I just had a second afterwards...”
He nodded. “No need to apologize,” he said. “Holding you like a teddy bear probably isn’t the best aftercare for that kind of scene, on second thought. Do you want to talk?”
“Talking is good,” she said, her voice tentative.
He thought for a moment. “Tell me something real. You have any pets growing up?”
She relaxed against him as she nodded. “Yeah, cats. My mom loves cats.”
“Does that mean you don’t?”
She shrugged. “I don’t like them as much as she does. I used to have one, but my ex-wife got him in the divorce.”
“Sorry, lovely.” He kissed her temple briefly, but she shrugged again.
“It’s okay. What about you?”
“Oh, I was a soft touch for every kind of stray. My parents thought it was funny until I brought home Jason.”
She snorted with laughter, then quieted. “Is that what I am?”
“No,” he said, with all the gentleness he could while still making it firm enough to imprint her bones. “You’re not a doll and you’re not a pet.” But whatever you are, you’re mine, he thought. Lord, I need you to be mine.
“Then what am I?” she said. Her tone was playful now, not keyed up like it had been. Good.
“A very good girl,” he said. It was a fairly rote bit of praise, was truly what he was thinking in the moment, and he didn’t expect the brightness in her eyes as she slid close again. Only after a moment did he realize the gendered aspect of what he’d said. An accident for the good this time, but damn it, he didn’t want any more accidents.
July
It turned out the local PFLAG had a meetup for trans people and their partners; they met in the rec room of a Presbyterian Church. He’d already planned to leave a large donation, but the coffee was so bad he doubled it immediately. He did indeed feel voyeuristic sitting in on the support group, so he spoke instead to the facilitator,
an older Latina trans woman named Elena; she told him he was sweet and gave him a few places to start his research. In the way of the Internet, each led on to more and more.
He learned that in Texas, a transgender person could be kicked out of their apartment or fired from their job because of their gender with no legal recourse, and he wondered if he had any employees living in fear. He learned about Texas’s failed attempts at bathroom bills and successful attempts to target trans youth. He learned about high rates of suicide, and high rates of intimate partner violence and murder, and for the first time really understood the kind of risk April was taking inviting him home that night. He learned about TERFs (trans exclusionary radical feminists) and chasers (people who pursued trans women specifically because of their status), and it resonated with his own experiences with people in kink spaces who saw his race as a fantasy.
He watched, listened to, and read stories from trans individuals. Stories of stunted youths spent pretending and always watching to see who was noticing and stories of young transitioners tentatively asserting their truth with their parents behind them; stories of relationships that couldn’t take the strain and stories of the ones that did; stories of humiliating questions from HR directors and crushing assumptions by store clerks, and stories of inclusive policies and how they made people feel.
After just about every story he wanted to hug April and never let her go. Microaggressions and concepts like psychological safety weren’t new to him, God knew. But now he was learning a whole new register of them in addition to the ones he’d experienced all his life and the ones he’d learned to notice for Jason’s sake, the last time he’d attended PFLAG meetings.
He was down one of these YouTube wormholes when his phone rang. “Hey, Bubba,” said the cheerful voice on the other end of the line.
He paused his laptop and leaned back in his chair. “’Sup, Peanut?”