The First thing? Well, get dressed...

The first thing you're going to do, is get dressed, a simple act that suddenly feels like navigating a minefield, because you have no idea what clothes belong to this body, what version of yourself you're supposed to present to the world, and as you pad across the bedroom floor on unsteady legs, your thighs brushing together with a soft friction that feels both foreign and familiar, you open the closet to find a row of dresses and blouses that hang in silent judgment. Each one a costume for a life you can't remember living, and you reach for a simple floral sundress, something that feels almost innocent, but as you pull it over your head, the fabric catching on the generous swell of your breasts, you catch your reflection in the mirror and freeze.

Because the woman staring back at you is a stranger, her face marked by a life of compromises and secrets, her body a landscape of soft curves and hidden histories, and you find yourself running your hands over your own hips, your own belly, trying to map the territory of this flesh that has been used and traded and documented in ways that make your stomach churn, and you realize that every piece of clothing you put on is a lie, a disguise that covers the truth of what you've been forced to become, but you have no choice but to wear it, to step into this costume and play the part, because the alternative is to stand naked and exposed before the wreckage of a life you didn't choose, and so you smooth the dress over your hips.

And, as you turn to step into a pair of sandals picked from the floor, a sudden, mortifying realization hits you like a slap across the face, you forgot underwear, the feeling of your huge tits against the fabric reminded you, and the thought of going commando under this thin cotton sundress, of walking out into the world with nothing but a layer of fabric between your most intimate places and the prying eyes of strangers, sends a flush of heat crawling up your neck, quickly, you fumble through the dresser drawers, your fingers brushing against lace and silk and satin in every color and cut imaginable, torn between the practical need for coverage and the overwhelming sense that even the most basic choices of this body are not yours to make, you didn't like anything here, but you had to choose, it was that, or everyone would see. See the intimate folds you didn't even have yesterday.. the thought excited you for a second, before remembering who you were.

The sudden taste in your mouth, the phantom memory of salt and surrender that still lingers on your tongue, pulls you from the closet and toward the bathroom door, yo uhad to get rid of it. You sneak, trying to be as quiet as possible, your sandled feet silent as they can be on the cool hardwood as you make your way to the bathroom, it took a second to find. You push the door open to find your new husband standing at the sink, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, his reflection meeting yours in the mirror with a knowing smirk that makes your stomach flip, and you can't bring yourself to meet his eyes, can't bear to see the satisfaction in them, so you focus instead on the tile, on the steam still clinging to the glass, on anything but the man who has claimed this body in ways you can't yet understand, and when he steps aside without a word, you move to the sink and turn on the tap, the rush of water filling the silence as you cup your hands and bring them to your lips, rinsing again and again until the water runs clear, until the last trace of him is washed away, but you know, even as you dry your mouth with the back of your hand, that some stains don't come out with water, that this life has already marked you in ways you can't scrub clean, no matter how hard you try.

You feel his hand land flat against the curve of your arse with a sharp, playful smack that echoes in the tiled room, the sting blooming across the soft flesh beneath the thin cotton of your sundress, and you gasp, your body jerking forward in surprise, your knuckles whitening against the basin as the sound of his low chuckle fills the space behind you, "Don't take too long, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick with an easy ownership that makes your skin prickle, and you watch in the mirror as he turns, the towel still slung low on his hips, his broad back disappearing through the doorway, leaving you alone with the ghost of his touch still tingling on your skin, with the terrible awareness that even this casual gesture of intimacy has been claimed, that your body has become a territory he navigates with the confidence of a man who has mapped every inch of it, and you straighten slowly, smoothing the sundress down over your hips, feeling the fabric settle against the heat of your skin, wondering what other casual brutalities await you downstairs, what other gestures of ownership you'll have to endure before this day is through.

You turn from the sink, collect your thoughts, and leave the bathroom. Catching him in the living room, now dressed, thankfully, you force yourself to meet his eyes one last time before you step past him, the words catching in your throat like thorns as you mumble something about needing fresh air, about errands you have to run, the lie tasting almost as bitter on your tongue as the memory you're still trying to rinse away, and you feel his gaze on your back as you move toward the door, a weight that presses against your spine, but he doesn't stop you, doesn't question, just lets you go with, a peck on the cheek.

And then you realise you have no idea where you're going, sure, "usual," but where the fuck was that? And were you really gonna go meet a stranger for weed? A stranger you know wants something more from you. You hadn't even done Weed before, at least, not when you were a guy, why the fuck was this middle aged, female version of you doing it? And why, when you thought back to that conversation, could you not get the image of Darrens cock out of your mind...