Short Story - Collar's Call

Hello my wonderful patrons! I was still having a bit of a time continuing With / Egg. So I decided to write a quick little something. This is a deconstruction of the "guy finds cursed item that turns him into a cute subby girl" trope. It's got some heavy stuff in it, but the ending is happy. I'll probably write one more chapter that will be a patron exclusive smutty bit also.

CW: temporary memory loss, temporary detransition, what looks like (but isn't actually) mind control

1.

That house had been calling to me for days, the same way the district had, the city had. An invisible tugging at my soul had pulled me along, all across the country by car, by boat, by plane, even on foot. The urge had guided me, unbidden and without reason or justification, the only purpose I had left in me, somehow I knew it would bring the thing I craved most: answers. Answers to why I had woken up in an alleyway two or so months ago with the past four years of my life completely missing from my memory. Answers to why everyone I used to know seemed surprised to learn I wasn’t dead. Answers to why everything in my life suddenly felt so wrong, or, at least, more wrong than usual.

Even if my memories would otherwise have been the least bit helpful, they were blurry at best. I awoke that day, dirty, sore and with a headache that could render even the most skilled wordsmith at a complete loss for any sort of clever witticism. I’d been leaning on a dumpster, ass firmly planted on a greasy cardboard box, and barely able to string together the faintest idea of what I’d done “last night.” Of course, soon afterward I would come to realize that “last night” was actually roughly four years and two months prior to when I’d awoken. And, given the fact that I was fairly certain said night had involved some sort of depressive episode and a lot of alcohol, even if it hadn’t been four years since then -- which it definitely had -- my memory was likely to be spotty regardless.

For a full month and a half I tried, and failed, to reassemble the scattered and shattered pieces of my life. My apartment was long since leased to new tenants, my bank accounts closed, my old job now so saturated with new faces that hardly a soul had even heard of me. I had nothing, nothing except old, distant friends and relatives, along with an ever growing voice that prodded at the corners of my mind, calling to me from an unknown, and far, far off place. Which wasn’t to say those friends and relatives weren’t relieved to see me alive and well. But no matter who they were, how close we had been, things were different. I was different and I didn’t know how. Even my own parents seemed to be existing in some other world to my own. A world where things could just go back to the way they used to be, but they couldn’t. Something was wrong.

I was empty inside. Stripped of my past, and beyond that something far more important. Something key to my very being, that cut straight into the heart of who and what I was. I tried for far too long to stand on the shaky foundation provided by those around me. Many a couch was slept on, many a job application to some minimum-wage position or another submitted. But it wasn’t enough, it was never enough. I was incomplete, and everyone around me saw it, even if they refused to acknowledge it. It was why I could never find more than short-term temp work,  why friends spoke in hushed tones whenever I left the room, why my parents grew increasingly insistent I move back in with them. To put it plainly, I was a modern day Phineas Gage; some part of me had been left behind when whatever proverbial steel rod had blown right through me and taken my memories and sense of self with it.

That was why I’d been so relieved when, after a month and a half, the dreams started. They were never particularly clear, and I hardly ever remembered much of them, but there were some things I could always count on. There was always a woman, always a house, and I always, always felt whole in them. Beyond that it was difficult to discern much, but there were some common details yet. For one, I often seemed to be looking up at the woman. She never made any attempt to harm me, but there was something about her that intimidated me nonetheless. Lastly I knew she was incredibly beautiful, though her appearance illuded me.

The house was more difficult. Really, all there was for me to be certain of was that the house was very large, a place I could easily get lost in if I weren’t so intimately familiar with it. But none of that really mattered, all that truly mattered was that the feeling I had in those dreams -- the feeling of wholeness, no matter how blurred -- was one I needed to pursue. And luckily -- or perhaps it was not luck at all -- I somehow instinctively knew where to go, as with the dreams came the bolstering of that pull I felt deep within the void which had been left in my mind. And it brought direction.

With that direction tugging me along, I found myself on a Greyhound bus, with a suitcase containing all my possessions -- mostly clothes -- and a brand new bank account containing the few thousands of dollars I’d managed to scrounge between working odd jobs and borrowing from my parents. And so I traveled. I bussed, hitchhiked, and, as mentioned before, even flew when the time and money evened out properly. A week and a half of bad sleep and few chances to stretch my legs later I found myself inside the city, in a cheap, but serviceable motel room, and a burning sense that I was on the right track.

It didn’t take long for the pull to guide me toward that house, the one from my dreams. It wasn’t too old, but certainly not brand new, likely built within that last three or so decades. It was large and stately, somewhere on the small end of what one might consider a mansion. The outside was trimmed with a dark, reddish brown that gave way into a more pale beige. Many a balcony and overhang were supported by thin, but sturdy looking columns matching the color of the trim, and all around it, the blinds to each and every window remained drawn no matter what the time of day was. I’d spent days around its perimeter, tracing its boundaries, trying desperately to determine how and why it felt so familiar, so quintessential to the core of my being.

The house had a calming aura, though, and no matter how hard I tried to sweat the details, I found myself simply wanting to go inside -- and perhaps, never come out. She was in there. I somehow knew it, that woman who’d appeared over and over again in the dreams that called me to this spot. Was this all her doing? Did she have the answers to why I’d become like this? Could she explain why everything had felt so deeply, profoundly wrong -- from my mood, to my day-to-day life, to my very shape -- ever since I’d awoken? Would she know why the hole that had been left in me seemed to leak discomfort and unease to the point that even looking myself in the mirror would make me feel sick sometimes?

I’d told myself it was the lack of memory time and time again, that there was a part of myself missing, and that without it I could never truly feel like myself. That whatever form I took would feel unnatural when I didn’t even have a natural anymore. I still believed it, to a certain extent, but I couldn’t help but wonder -- what if the part of me that was missing brought with it some uncomfortable truth that would shatter what little sense of self I even had left? What if I had been some kind of monster? That I felt such disgust with myself out of guilt? Thoughts of what truth lie within those walls frightened me to no end, but I knew that truth existed there. It had to, I’d been inside before, it was the only explanation.

Unfortunately getting inside was its own challenge, it wasn’t as though I could simply walk up to the front door and knock, I had no sense of what could be inside and whether or not it had my best interest at heart. To make matters worse, I was certain the woman lived inside, I had no evidence to prove it, but that pull within me insisted it was the case. Unfortunately, I never saw her come or go. I’d staked the place out for hours, watching for any activity inside the windows or at the front door or garage, and nothing ever happened. Eventually, I had to make a difficult decision: I would go in blind, like it or not.

Which brought me to the property's edge, in the middle of the night, armed with nothing but a little crowbar if things broke bad. I stole across the lawn, having already checked and rechecked for cameras to no avail, and deciding to make a break for it. The risk was great, but it was either find a way inside, or live the rest of my life incomplete. The choice had been easy, after all. Taking care to make as little noise I could, I approached a side window on the first floor, pressing my hand to it, only to find, to my surprise, it popped right open as though nothing at all held it in place. Fear gripped me for a moment, it was all too convenient, as though the house were inviting me inside like some wooden, inanimate angler fish flashing it’s light at me temptingly.  I took the bait nonetheless, there was nothing it could offer me worse than going on as I had, an empty husk of a person.

Once inside, I found myself in a fairly generic, if a little sparse, living room. The details were difficult to make out, there was little to no light, but I had no trouble stealing around chairs, couches, coffee tables and the like. For the same reason I’d known to come to this city, for the same reason I knew what district and street to find this house on, I instinctively knew where I needed to go. A location, a room within the house called to me, pulling me into its orbit. Not wasting a moment, I crept up the stairs, down the hall, and to the left, entering what seemed to be a repurposed bedroom. My hand found the light-switch instinctively, there was no need to fumble about for it in the slightest, and I would need its light, there was something inside I needed to find. The lights flickered on.

I seemed to be standing within some kind of shrine or memorial. Arranged throughout the room were the personal effects of some woman. I didn’t know who she was, but instinctively I knew she wasn’t the woman I’d seen before in my dreams, and I also somehow knew she was important to me, though not why or how. There were clothes displayed on hangers and mannequins, a makeup table, a shelf full of hand-painted miniatures that I would, in other circumstances, feel quite compelled to admire. On a bookshelf was an assortment of titles from cookbooks to romance novels to the sort of books one might read for a high school or university literature course. There were a few framed photos, but they’d been placed face-down, perhaps looking at them had become too painful for whomever created the place. On a central table, a jewelry box had been placed, containing a gorgeous engagement ring.

Everything I’d seen so far had been oddly compelling, alluring, in a comforting, almost nostalgic way. Also melancholy, this seemed to be a shrine a lost loved one, and I couldn’t help but feel bad for whomever had so lovingly compiled all I saw before me. Despite that, I hadn’t yet found what I was looking for. There was something else, the pull told me that. I stepped delicately through the room, past items displayed here and there as I felt the pull grow stronger. Then I saw it. It was the last thing I’d have expected to be calling to me from across an entire country, but, on a little table, along with several restraints, dildos and other sexual props, was a leather kink collar.

2.

There was nothing particularly special about the offending object, it was a light, pleasant pink, appeared to be thick and sturdy enough to be used for its intended purpose, and had a little red metal tag in the shape of a heart dangling from it. None of that mattered, the moment I lay eyes on it, something overcame me. I could form no reason as to why, but I knew then and there that I needed to put it on. It made little sense, but somehow, for some reason the thing that had called to me for miles upon miles was a collar. There was no sensible justification for it, so the part of my brain that wasn’t telling me to put it on came to the only conclusion it had the bandwidth to process: magic. It was magic, it had to be, and now this bewitched object of sexual desire was willing me to put it on. Tugging at my mind, caressing my thoughts tenderly as it urged me to let it slip around my neck.

Fear gripped me, what sort of curse was this that brought me here? Did it simply seek out and lure lost souls like myself into its grasp? And then what? What dark ends did it have in mind for me after it had bent me to its will? Even as fear gripped me, some other dark curiosity pierced it with ease, bidding I listen to the siren song, not that it was necessary, my hands were already clasped around either end, bringing the soft leather to my neck. The moment it touched my throat a violent pulse of raw feeling ripped through me as I slumped to my knees. The collar was pouring thoughts and feelings into the gaping void in my sense of self, filling me with something, someone new.

In my mind’s eye I saw her, that woman, more vivid than ever, tall and imposing, looming over me with a pleasant grin and half lidded eyes as she gazed down at me. Her hair was a gorgeous dark red, and spilled over her shoulders down to her breasts, her face elegant and angelic, but not without a commanding presence that rendered me helpless in the wake of her piercing blue eyes. She bent low, exposing heaving, milky-white cleavage, and gently ran a hand through my hair, causing me to go completely limp in relaxed, fulfilled pleasure as a soft, feminine moan escaped my lips followed by a single choked moan: “Mistress.”  In response she simply crooned lovingly, and I sank into an ocean of bliss.

I opened my eyes back in the real world, the vision had cleared, but the feelings had only grown as more and more desires patched up the gaps in my sense of self. Was this how the collar worked? Had some nefarious curse been placed on it that made it call to any and all weak enough, fragmented enough to be so easily molded and fill them with the personality of some submissive pet? I could feel her now in my mind, the girl the collar wanted me to be. The girl it was making me want to be, it was impossible to deny. The more of her I felt, the more I wanted to give up and become her. She was so happy, so blissful and devoted to service of her Mistress in ways that were more fulfilling than anything I had ever experienced. But it was a lie, it had to be. I wasn't some girl, I was me. Whatever that meant, I wasn't sure, but I knew I wasn't a girl, as much as I wanted to be. As much as it hurt to see myself. Was that even the collar talking? I didn't know, I just knew how badly I wanted to give in.

There was more, its magics were kneading me from all sides, covering me in tingling waves of energy that rushed all along my body, somehow I could sense their intent, they were trying to give me that form the collar made me crave. I wasn’t weak though, I would resist, I had to, even if I didn’t know how. And, as though in response, the sensation lessened, fading into the background, but always there, like a lion circling its prey and waiting for the first opening to strike. And so much of me wanted to give it that opening, but I wouldn’t, not until I understood what was going on. It was so hard to piece together any sort of coherent narrative.

So much of myself had been missing to begin with, how was I to say what was real? The collar was giving these thoughts, these feelings, but was it making me like them? Making me want them? It was so hard to know for sure, I didn’t even know who I really was. What I did know though, was that I couldn’t think clearly with this collar around my neck, dominating my will. Despite that, my hands remained still, making no motion to undo the clasp and free myself from its influence, and before I had the chance to build the strength to do so, I was interrupted by a soft gasp behind me.

She was in the doorway, back to the dark hallway and lit only from the light streaming in from the unused bedroom I now occupied, but it was her. She was dressed only in a pair of panties and a loose t-shirt, despite that she somehow still looked regal, important, powerful. I suddenly found myself struggling to breathe at the sight of her there. The woman whom the collar called Mistress was so beautiful, but I already knew that. And she looked, well, she looked confused, but also awestruck and probably happy? It was hard to say, she seemed to barely believe what she was seeing. Her mouth hung open, her eyes were wide and watering, dangling from her left hand was a small metal bat, now held loosely only by the tips of her fingers, moments later it fell to the floor with a soft fwump onto the carpeted floor.

She took a tentative step forward, and, as much as I wanted to bolt, or even just keep my distance, I was glued in place, I couldn’t even stand back up. My legs refused to obey any and all commands to move. Besides, the collar was deciding for me what to do now, and it was telling me to let myself belong to her. I really wanted to give in, too. There was another step toward me, and I found myself instinctively making myself as small as possible in her presence, hunching low and barely meeting her gaze. She opened and closed her mouth several times, seemingly struggling not to burst into both tears and joyous laughter as her mouth contorted from wide smiles to bewildered gaping to borderline hyperventilating. Finally though, she found her words.

“Cass, is that really you?” She croaked, her voice was exhausted, wavering and quiet, hanging in the back of her throat, likely stuffed and held there by the overwhelming emotions she seemed to be feeling. Nevertheless it was melodious to me. The collar made sure of that. It also made very sure that the name Cass meant everything to me, it surged through my like an electric current, soaking every neuron in dopamine and lighting them all up so bright that, just for a moment, I felt like that gap which had been torn out of me wasn’t so empty after all. Not when I could be Cass for her. Still, my resolve held true, I would not let her make me someone else. That didn’t mean I felt strong though.

“I -- I don’t know.” My head fell at the admission, I didn’t know who Cass was any more than I knew who I was. She was as much a stranger to my psyche as the rest of me, so who was to say for certain?

“It’s you, it has to be you.” She took another step, and this time I managed to flinch, tumbling backward onto my back.

“Please!” I cried, inching away from her, “don’t come any closer! I don’t know what magic you’ve worked on me with this collar, but I won’t give in. You’re not in charge of me,” I insisted, though I could barely believe it myself.

“My sweet girl, please don --”

“Shut up!” I cried, arms lashing out at the air before me. “Don’t call me that! I’m not a girl, that’s the doing of whatever horrific curse you put on this thing.”

“But I didn’t,” she looked hurt at the insinuation. “I didn’t curse it, I, there shouldn’t be any magic on it at all,” she trailed off, seemingly not only unphased by my accusation of a curse, but completely on board with the existence of magic and her connection to it. Which was weird, while my brain had jumped to magical curse quickly, that was only because the rational parts of my brain were too occupied fighting the collar’s influence, and some part of me still clung to the belief that there was some other mundane explanation for it all. That being said, I’d been feeling the connection for a long time, and it was hardly the first time the possibility of magic had occurred to me.

“Don’t lie to me! If this isn’t cursed then why did it call to me from thousands of miles away? Why did it lure me into your home? Why did it tell me to wear it? Why did it make me want to be a girl? Why did it make me want to submit? Why does it all sound so wonderful? Please, please tell me, I can’t go on like this. Take these false desires away from me. I just want to be whole again.” By the end I was less accusational and defiant, more begging and groveling.

A look of pity crossed her face, one that was eclipsed by grief as she closed the remaining distance between us and crouched before me, running a hand through my hair just as she hand in the dream, with that I collapsed forward into her lap. She put up no resistance, and simply resumed her doting strokes of affection. “Hey, it’s okay, there’s no curse, just stop fighting it. It’s not trying to harm you. You said you wanted to be whole again, I think that’s what it’s trying to do.

“Stop it!” I shouted, though no effort was made to lift my head from her soft thighs, “you’re lying to me, the collar is making me want these things, it’s not me! It’s filling the gaps in who I am with lies, changing me.”

She winced, for a brief moment retracting her hand in a moment of reproach and pain, a shuddering breath poured from her lips as I felt her trembling against me, before she regained her composure and squeezed me tightly. “Sweetheart no, it’s not changing you,” she insisted,”  It’s showing you who you really are. You’re a girl, my girl. I promise.” She continued playing with my hair, and I wanted so badly to give in and let her decide my truths for me. I could, if I wanted to. I could be whoever and whatever she wanted me to be, and she wanted me to be a cute girl, wanted me to want that too. And god, I did. I really really did want it. I wanted it so, so badly, but I couldn’t let her make me something I wasn’t. Even if I wasn’t entirely certain who I was at the very core of my being. She seemed to sense this internal struggle, and with growing sadness and resignation, spoke again, “you really don’t remember, do you?” It seemed as though that was the magic word, because the moment she said it, my head shot up at the prospect of her actually having the solution to my troubles.

3.

I couldn’t respond to her question quickly enough, “Remember? What don’t I remember? You know what I’ve forgotten?” The words flew unbidden from my lips, I simply needed to know, part of me felt it might be okay to give in if that simply meant I could finally understand. Perhaps it would even be fine if it weren’t the truth, so long as I believed it, so long as it adequately plugged that hole.

“I know, yes. It’s a sad story, but, if you’ll let me, I think I can help you find a happy ending for it.” There was a gleam in her eyes, following the burst of confidence from my sudden change in demeanor.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“I suppose you can’t know for sure, you’ll just have to decide that for yourself. If you want, I can send you home in a heartbeat. But the reality is, this is home, here, with me.” I couldn’t bring myself to argue with her, instead just huffing softly, and nodding to her.

“Go on,” I murmured. “I’m listening.”

“About four years ago, which, if I’m not mistaken, is where your memory loss starts,  you and I met. You’d fallen on some hard times, but you were always so friendly and eager to see me. We grew close, started to fall for one another, and, after about six months of dating, we both had secrets to reveal.” She withdrew, looking contemplative as her gaze shifted away from mine and off into nothingness, brow creased with concentration and worry.

“What secrets?” I asked, unsure what to think, what to believe. She certainly felt important to me, but there was far too much missing from her story for it to make any sense.

“This is the hard part, see, I can’t help but think I’m not doing myself any favors by telling you this, but you were right about magic being real. I’m a witch, and after all that time together, I’d fallen for you. I needed you to see me for who I really was, but I wasn’t the only one.” Her gaze fell back down to me, eyes searching mine.

“Just get on with it,” I growled, before suddenly feeling very ashamed for talking to her that way.

“You always were an impatient one,” she giggled cutely, and continued, “you took the whole dating a witch thing surprisingly well. In fact, we skipped right past denial and fear and right into excitement. You see, magic was exactly the kind of thing you needed. Cause, well, like I said you’re a girl. You’re trans.” The room suddenly felt a lot warmer as the magic pouring from the collar around my neck surged once more, but, with some effort, I managed to keep it from rising up to consume me. At least not all at once, my resolve was weakening by the moment as more and more the gaps in my mind grew smaller as they were filled with those desires it pumped into me.

It was hard to even deny her, by this point the news that I was trans sounded like a blessing, it meant I really could just be a girl. But that wounded, trapped animal part of my brain still snapped at its bars. I couldn’t just let myself be convinced of the first convenient story I heard. That would bring me under the collar’s sway for sure, under Mistress’ sway. It sounded wonderful. So happy, so safe, so comfortable, but what good was any of that if I were living a lie? Though, then again, what good was living in “truth” if that truth made me miserable? I could wax philosophically about such questions day in and out, but the real heart of the matter was that I didn’t know who or what to believe. My instincts told me I was a man, that I’d always been one, but I hardly knew myself anymore to begin with. After a long pause, I returned her gaze.

“If I’m a girl, and you’re a witch, then why do I look like I do now? Why is our entire relationship missing from my memory, it seems like pretty convenient timing to me.” I choked definitely, even doing that was hard though.

“You’re right, and part of the reason you were so happy to hear magic was real, was the hope that I could change your body. I could, and I did. That’s what the collar is doing now, at least, trying to do, but you’re too stubborn to let it.” She thoughtfully ran a finger along the outside of the offending item, just knowing her nails were brushing against it so close to me had me shuddering beneath her. “For a long time, we lived like that, as girlfriends, as lovers, as Mistress and pet. We were both so happy. We got engaged, got this house together, everything was perfect. But despite at all, you were starting to feel sad again.”

“Why?” My tone was almost hurt, for a moment I’d been totally engrossed in her story, I’d seen it in my minds eye as she described it to me, perhaps she was telling the truth and uncovering fragments of memories, perhaps the collar simply projected whatever feelings she wanted it to into my head, perhaps it was some of both. But her words had a profound impact on me, she had taken me into that world with me, shown me the life I’d supposedly had as her girlfriend. But that revelation that those good feelings came to an end was enough to fully deflate me, even if it could be seen coming from a mile off.

“You felt sad that you never got the childhood you wanted as a girl. You wanted to know what that was like, so I prepared a set of false memories for you that would take you through an alternate version of your life in a matter of minutes on fast forward. It wouldn’t erase the old you, mind you, but it would give you something to cling to whenever you felt inauthentic.” Even as she divulged every last detail in an almost clinical sense, I could hear the quivering in her voice, see the hot tears forming in her eyes as her face grew red.

“What happened?” I asked, almost not wishing to know.

“There was some kind of accident, I still don’t understand it, but I must have done something wrong and, well, instead of giving you those memories, it took you away from me.”

“What do you mean it took me from you? How could you let it do that?” Of all the things she could have said that would anger me, I’d never had expected it to be that.  Her sob was audible, but she pressed on.

“I tried okay?” Either she was being genuine, or she was a damn good actor, either way it was getting harder and harder for me not to be convinced. Especially when everything she told me about our lives together had sounded so perfect. “I was stuck watching, completely helpless as you lost the body I gave you to take on that one, as the fear and pleading love in your eyes faded into confusion and bewilderment, then the magic pulled you away, somewhere else. The complete lack of recognition I saw on your face just before you disappeared was burned into my retinas, it starred in all my nightmares I, I couldn’t forgive myself I just --” her resolve crumbled, as she buried her face into my chest, weeking. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Cassandra please forgive me, I searched for you for so long but couldn't find you, And I still love you so much.” I was at a loss for words, but I found tears all the same, and joined her in her weeping.

After I’d gotten to the point where my eyes stung and my nose was completely blocked, I managed to force my crying into a shuddering halt. “Please, just promise me. Promise me you aren’t lying to force me to give in to some curse you’d placed on me.”

“I promise,” no hesitation came with it, no moment to collect herself, she blurted it out faster than I could finish saying my own piece. Part of me still knew she could be lying, that there could be some dark magic trapped within the collar around my neck that was molding me like clay into some plaything for her. But I didn’t get the sense that was what she wanted from me. Still, I had to know.

“Why enchant the collar though? Why not just find me yourself and give me back the memories and body I lost?”

“I didn’t put any spell on the collar, at least, not intentionally, I think though, the residual sentiment and importance of it has given it a power on it’s own. A power that called out to you, that drew you here and reminded you of what you’d lost.” She fondly stroked the little ring of leather around my throat, as though thanking it for bringing me back to her.

“This collar was really that important to our relationship?”

“Sort of, realistically it was more all that it represents: fulfillment, safely, love. I’d have you wear it whenever you needed a break, it let you be whatever you needed to be to feel better.” Her words conjured up a memory in my mind, playing like some grainy video projected on a screen, only growing more crisp, more vivid, more real as it went on. I saw myself as a girl -- I looked so perfect, I needed to be like her -- I’d had a tough day, I’d been crying. Then Mistress offered me the collar, and the moment it went on that stress melted away. I just got to be hers in those moments as the rest of the world faded and blurred into the background of my life, we were the only people in the whole universe that mattered in those moments. The sexual pleasure was there, but beyond that was a far more deep-seated fulfillment that said pleasure was couched within.

And I could sense those feelings bubbling up inside me once more, the craving to give in and let myself be cared for, doted on, to forget my worries, even if for a little while, grew stronger and harder to suppress. The problem with forgetting my worries though, was that said worries were directly in conflict with that desired outcome. When she shyly, tentatively kissed me on the cheek, all of that stopped mattering as I let myself go.

Logically speaking, I knew I’d been breathing that whole time. For one I couldn’t hold my breath for that long, for two, even if I could I’d have passed out, and also certainly noticed the extreme discomfort. Regardless, when I exhaled a contented little sigh, it felt like that was the first real breath I’d let out for hours. And with that air I blew out, also went my worries, my resistance, my doubts. The floodgates opened then, the collar kicking into overdrive, smothering me in feelings and memories. In a matter of moments, I fell in love with her all over again as I saw the course of our relationship play out in my mind’s eye.

We were on a beach, sand between our toes, walking hand in hand as the waves rolled up to our ankles and receded. Each time the water rushed up to greet us she would jump a little, shivering and giggling. Nobody had ever told her the pacfic was actually cold, even in California. We were on an ice cream date on a hot day, the guy giving our scoops had really overfilled my cone and I was taking way too long to eat it all. By the end my hands were completely browned, covered in sticky, melted rocky road that was overflowing off the sides. I looked like an absolute idiot, but somehow she found my struggles charming as I awkwardly opened the door to the nearest bathroom with my foot so I could wash up without ruining the poor door handle.

We were in bed together, both apprehensive in knowing we had something important to tell the other. Time and time again we nearly chickened out, feeding off of one another’s anxiety until we both blurted out our need to talk. We were making love for the first time after she’d given me a body to match my true self, I felt whole. Months had passed, I was crying, and I didn’t know why. Then she was behind me, cupping my cheek, soothing me. Shortly after we tried the collar for the first time, and when I let myself go for her, the hurt went away. The memories came faster and faster. We’d long since fallen in love, we agreed to move in together, we got engaged, and then it happened. The memory of losing myself was painful to see, but it closed the loop. And I was with her again, that made it impossible to feel anything but joy.

I blinked slowly, and raised my gaze to meet hers. And, for some stupid reason, after that untamed emotional and existential roller coaster, all I could think was wow, were her eyes always this pretty? Just seeing her made me gasp in a now soft, feminine voice, I hadn’t even noticed the physical changes, but apparently memories weren’t the only thing I’d regained. A part of me expected that realization to cue a sudden excited examination of the changes, but there was no need. It was my body, I’d had it for years, I was used to it, it was normal, like I’d slipped into a set of familiar, comfy pajamas after a long day of working in tight, restrictive clothes.

But anyway, her eyes, they were gorgeous. Still that same blue, but they hit differently considering I was in love with her again. Then I noticed she was crying, and, as it turned out, so was I. But that was okay, it was the good kind of crying. There was an extended pause accented only by occasional shudders and sobs and hiccups, then some laughter, a few sloppy, tear-stained kisses. We somehow both had to pry ourselves away from the other when it came time to break apart, and we lingered, lips brushing together as we panted and drank in one another’s presence. I smiled.

“Hey, Lucy, I missed you.” Then I kissed her again.