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I pushed open the bathroom door and stepped into the terminal corridor. Cold air and a rush of voices hit me at once, echoing through the concrete emptiness. My heels clicked sharply against the tiles — a crisp, brittle sound coming from below. My legs instantly tensed, my heel slipped slightly, and I stumbled for a second on flat ground, gripping the strap across my instep with my fingers. What the... fuck, it's impossible to just walk in these shoes. It felt like I had needles jammed into my heels. I moved carefully, feeling the tights stretch with every step, my breasts swaying slightly, always a second behind my body, with that uncomfortable pressure in the lower part of the cups — like someone had stuffed hot apples inside my bra. The straps were digging into my shoulders so hard it felt like they were going to leave marks.
I walked quickly, but with short steps — the skirt was holding me back. The fabric stretched tight every time I tried to take a step even slightly wider than usual, and I realized I just couldn’t move the way I used to. Not in this body. I had to walk slower, more cautiously, always keeping my back straight and tense, because even with this bra, I felt like if I didn’t do that, I’d just topple over from the weight of these tits. And because of all this, I was now painfully aware that I was walking, goddamn it, like a woman. No — like a fucking girl.
As I got closer, despite my determination, I felt that prickle between my shoulder blades — like a needle stabbing from the inside. The tickle of a hunch. Something was wrong. Something told me I shouldn’t go there. That I was walking into trouble. That the very idea of going after this passenger, this old hag, knowing that I… Justine, was just a damn intern in a short skirt and shiny tights — was stupid. Dangerous. Pointless.
But fuck it, who the hell is gonna stop me?! If I wasn’t really me, I never would’ve made it this far, never become a top manager — no matter what company it was. Fuck, I bit down on my plump lip again, realizing how my real life as Jason was starting to sound more and more like some made-up story, if I ever tried to explain it to anyone. No. Fuck that. Just don’t think about it. Find that old bitch’s name, then find her, and…
The phone vibrated in the jacket pocket. A quick, sharp jolt — almost like a caress against my thigh. I flinched, then grabbed the edge of the jacket, awkwardly fishing it out, those fucking nails getting in the way, my fingers bending all weird. The little screen lit up on the phone wrapped in a pink case, and I saw the message:
“Justine, where are you? We need to finish the flight report and upload the return stubs. Don’t disappear 😠”
A message from Camille — my supervisor.
'Hah, fuck you, dumb bitch, especially after using those emojis!' — I furiously stabbed the nail against the screen like that could somehow hurt the one who had just made me look like a joke. The phone vibrated again — vrrrrr… vrrrrr… — and the tremor ran straight through the smooth fabric of my tights, through the skirt, right into my thigh like a damn alarm bell. I clenched my teeth, my tits heaving under the bra, pressing against the blouse, and wobbling slightly as I stumbled on my heels and headed toward the information desk.
'They’re gonna tell me everything. I’ll force it out of them — who the hell that old bitch was. Who the fuck is she?! She’s gonna regret every bit of this witch-fucked bullshit!'