Preface: This is a story about becoming. It’s also a story about learning how to love, both others and yourself. As our heroine progresses through the most tumultuous year of her life, she must deal with a variety of challenges both ageless and modern. Some of these challenges are mundane but real, others are more unusual, difficult, and intense. As she deals with each challenge, she learns an important lesson not just about being a woman, but about being a person, a full-fledged adult person who can make her own way in the world.
The characters are all fictional, except for Thornton, who was my boss and did a number of the things described here.
Although this is not a story about sex, it is a story for adults because it does contain scenes of explicit sexuality. I believe each of these scenes is an important part of the story and that they help us to understand our main characters. There is no sexual violence or gratuitous sex. Because this is the story of a young adult transsexual discovering herself, there is sex between people of the same and opposite sexes (although only one at a time). This is therefore X-rated.
Some readers will find the first part of the story a little rough or perhaps edging into themes they would prefer not to read about. But if you get through that I believe you thoroughly enjoy the rest.
Acknowledgements: Writing is hard work, but being able to share that effort with others makes it more like a joy. So I would like to thank the people who helped me. Specifically I’d like to start by thanking Elaine, to whom I owe my deepest appreciation for being a wonderfully supportive and insightful friend and editor. I would like thank Lesley, who undertook the usually thankless task of proofreading much of this very long story, and who I repeatedly undermined by going back and rewriting parts she had already finished. I would like to thank Ellen Hayes for helping me keep my eye on my target, including a crucial observation about the last part of the story that finally allowed me bring it to life, instead of making it a parody. Vickie Tern read an early version or this story (and then parts of a later one) and identified many of the discrepancies and inconsistencies that drive readers crazy. More importantly, however, she identified some of the key strong points so I could build on them. Finally, I’d like to thank Dawn DeWinter, who worked hard to help me understand what was important and what was not in the early parts of the story.
Thanks girls
Kelly Ann
This story was first published on Crystal’s Storysite in 2001. I later reposted in on Fictionmania. Because it received so many wonderful comments from readers, I thought putting it here as well would allow a new group of readers to enjoy it, and to get to know me before I post my newest story.
Her hips bucked. She moaned several times. Then she clamped her legs around my head so tightly that I was pulled off balance and immobilized. When she went limp I fell to the floor, off balance and out of breath. As I fell, I smacked my mouth on her bedside table. Blood started to run into my mouth and I had to keep sucking and licking to keep it from falling on the carpet.
When I caught my breath and looked up, she was staring at me with a satisfied look on her face. From a distance, you might think her plain, in a Midwestern sort of way. After looking at her for a moment, however, you could see that she had a big, full mouth and large, dark eyes that glistened out at you over prominent cheek bones. Her hair was a glossy black, soft and straight for a several inches, with the ends permed into soft curls that hugged her neck and floated softly around her as she moved her head. To me she looked like some kind of tigress who knew she ruled over everything she surveyed. She carried herself with the confidence of a soldier and her body was trim and athletic. Taller than me, with taut muscles under the sleekest layer of feminine body fat, she now threw a lean but curvy hip into the air as she lay on her side. Her breasts were not large and barely sagged at all from her small chest. I was beginning to get lost in her when she spoke.
"You're hairless. Why?" It was a simple question, without any of the derision or cruelty I expected. She reached down, took my hand in hers, and pulled me up to my knees. Then she stared at my crotch. "Roll onto your back and spread your legs," she said calmly, her voice full of innocent curiosity. My prick was rigid, bobbing from side to side as I moved. I kept sucking blood back into my mouth. I was beginning to taste bad memories.
Though I expected her to humiliate me at any moment, she didn't: "You've shaved your body and your pubic hairs are shaped into a sexy little triangle. I've never seen that on a man. I'll bet you could wear a pair of high cut panties and not a hair would show." Her eyes widened for a second as understanding flooded into her face. "That's it, isn't it? You wear panties."
My breath caught it my throat. The enormity of what had happened to me in just one day simply overwhelmed me. I curled myself up into a fetal position and tried not to sob, though my soul was torn apart. I felt totally defeated, angry, and helpless.
There was something about those feelings, and the taste of blood that loosed a chaotic torrent of memories. Suddenly, I was sitting in an alley, my legs splayed out in front of me and my back propped against a filthy garbage can. My head was exploding with pain, I was gasping for breath, and blood was filling my mouth from the hole that had been punched through my lower lip when my teeth had been driven through it. I was with Ginny, my first real girlfriend. We had just been robbed and I had been beaten to the ground. Ginny’s face was flushed and she was standing over me and yelling down at me, her hands jerking around in the air like a crazed puppeteer was controlling them. "Why didn’t you protect me?" she shouted. Why didn’t you do something?
I looked up at her in wonder. What was her problem? I was the one who had been beaten. I was lying in garbage and my mouth was full of blood because I had pushed her behind me to protect her. Ginny’s hands weren’t even dirty and it was obvious she had no intention of getting them bloody by even helping me get up.
So I sat there on the filthy pavement, impotent with rage and humiliation. What was her problem? We had been jumped by three guys. It wasn’t my fault they took her purse. So what, she probably has ten more anyway. How dare she blame me. I was the one bleeding and in pain. I was the real victim here. Why was she blaming me? Why couldn’t she just shut up?
Her inane but poisonous accusations, "Why didn’t you protect me? Why didn’t you do anything?" rocketed around inside my head. I didn’t need her yelling that at me as I sat trying to suck the blood into my mouth so I wouldn’t drip all over my carefully aged, leather bomber jacket. I thought such a classic war hero jacket made me look more like man, but how masculine can you look if your tough-guy coat is covered in blood? But as I looked at her, I began to understand. In a strange way, she was right. She had been robbed. I hadn’t been able to stop that from happening, and I could feel the guilt boiling up inside me. Oh God, not again, I knew guilt far to well. It had been my constant companion since my eleventh birthday. That was the day I first tasted blood. I don’t know what it tastes like to other people, but to me it is the taste of impotence.
I learned that lying on my side in a wrecked car, blood all over me. My birthday had been yesterday and my father had promised me a double scoop Baskin and Robbins Rocky Road ice cream cone. But he had gotten drunk and passed out instead. He was drinking today too, but he was always drinking; a few more shots downed as quickly as they could be poured didn’t mean anything to me. Still, I had finally nagged him into taking me out. I didn‘t really understand what whiskey did to people, except that sometimes it made him angry. And then I knew enough to hide.
My father was fiddling with the radio as our car started to drift left into the opposite lane at the same time another car rounded the bend just ahead of us. I screamed and we abruptly careened back to the right, and then the left, and then right again. The brakes screeched for the longest time, bushes and shrubs rushed passed us madly and then there was a monstrous crashing sound. I was thrown forward hard against my seat belt and shoulder harness. Glass shattered all around me. I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was lying on my side against the passenger side door, still held by my seat belt. The window had been shattered and there were dirt and leaves in my face. The car was on its side.
"Please help me," my father whispered. I looked up. My father was hanging above me, held up by his seat belt, the steering wheel, which pinned his chest to the seat back, and the dashboard, which was all the way up in his lap. He was bleeding so much that his blood was spilling down onto me, and then into my mouth as I gasped for breath. I could taste my father's blood.
I tried to get free to help him, but couldn't. The dashboard was in my lap too and pinned me in place. Under the dashboard, my legs throbbed, but the only movement I could make was to wiggle my toes. I don't know how long we were trapped, but my father begged me to help him for the longest time. "Brad, help me. Brad please help me." He even got angry. "Goddamn it Brad why won’t you help your own father." Sometimes if I’ve had too much to drink, he comes back to haunt me in my dreams. "Brad, why didn’t you help me. Brad why didn’t you help me your own father."
"Dad, I’m trapped, I can’t get out. I’m trying as hard as I can, but I can’t move.
"Brad why won’t you help me, why won’t you help me.
"I’m trying to get free put I can’t move my legs, they’re stuck…, and they hurt." I desperately tried to get free to help him, but couldn't. I cried the whole time from pain and frustration and a sense of failure. He cursed my weakness and reverted to his favorite taunt, calling me a sissy. "If I had a real son instead of a faggot sissy girl, he’d have gotten me out by now." Finally, he fell silent. I had already stopped struggling to get free; the pain in my legs had overwhelmed my awareness and I simply lay in the now bloody leaves and mud that had puddled under my face, whimpering.
By the time the rescue squad got to us he was dead and I was completely covered in his blood. I remember thinking that he must have no blood left in him. It was all on me. There was so much blood the paramedics thought I was seriously injured as well and frantically looked for my wounds. They were in a panic about losing me. They made me think I was about to die. In a way I did. The child in me died that day in my father’s whiskey-soaked blood.
That child might have been revived at the hospital by a caring mother. She could have consoled the child and told him that his father had broken both his legs and almost killed him because his father was driving drunk. She might have told the child that a skinny little 11 year old couldn’t possibly drag a 220 pound man from a wrecked car. She could have told him that no one could have saved his father, because in truth, the rescue squad had been called almost immediately and gotten there as soon as they could.
Instead, my mother arrived at the hospital drunk and out of control, shouting her grief to everyone who crossed her path. When she got to my room she turned on me and accused me of killing my father. "If you hadn't forced him to go out to get you a stupid ice cream cone this wouldn't have happened," she yelled, "you killed him!" And she burst into tears. I still haven’t been able to rid myself of the guilt that was thrust upon me that day. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t help my father; I had killed him. In my mother’s eyes I was to blame. My mother was so unforgiving she never let me celebrate another childhood birthday. She either ignored the day altogether or used the occasion to humiliate me.
Years later I finally understood, intellectually at least, that I had not killed my father. He had killed himself by drinking and then driving. He could just as easily have killed me or someone else. But that particular combination of feelings, the helplessness and frustration and rage that I felt while trapped in that car blasted their way into my memory. Those feelings were back now, fueling my tears.
I can’t always predict when these dreadful memories will invade my consciousness, but I do know by now that the taste of blood will almost surely summon them. And here I was with blood filling my mouth, overwhelmed by feelings of impotence and helplessness and anger. I started sobbing. I was so distraught that I didn’t even notice Cynthia lying there watching, witness to my weakness.
Cynthia knew nothing of the boy or the man who couldn’t protect the people he loved. She must have assumed I was weeping from the humiliation. She moved back from the edge of the bed and languidly turned onto her side again, staring down at me, completely unaware of the tumult inside my heart. I’m not sure what she saw, but I just knew it disgusted her. But she simply reached up and turned off the lamp. "You can tell me about yourself and then get dressed and go home or you can lie there on the floor naked until you do. I’ve got all night."
For a while, there was nothing but the sound of my intermittent sobs as I tried to compose myself. Finally I pulled myself together enough to whisper, "what do you want to know. You've uncovered all my secrets today. It's not just my body that's naked now; it's my soul. Do me a favor, shoot me. My life might as well be over anyway, the way things are going." Again, there was a prolonged silence as I recovered a half step, from sobs to ragged breathing.
Then softly out of the darkness I heard, "I used to think I kinda liked your soul. You used to be a sweet guy; you cared about other people's feelings. Cute too... smart, sweet, and cute. A few of us had crushes on you."
I was stunned. She liked me? Others liked me? How could anyone?
"Then you started acting like an asshole. I still can't figure out which one is the real you. The sweet guy who first came to work in my office four years ago, or the total asshole who's been working there for the last year. You’ve done stuff that makes Bob Thornton look like a good boss."
Sweet, smart, cute? She couldn’t have meant those as terms of endearment. She was putting me down, right? After all, she just compared me with Bob Thornton, that shit. He’s the most destructive man I’ve ever met. I never really understood the meaning of psychopath until he was thrust into my life.
I couldn’t take it. I started to sob again. "I'm so sorry. I'm an asshole and I hate myself for it. I’ve treated you and everyone else so badly. I just can’t control myself. Thornton makes me so angry and I feel so helpless because I can't do anything about it."
Then, after another pause, "keep talking."
I tried to take a deep breath, but a sob caught in my throat and sparked a coughing jag. Even after I had gotten myself under control I didn't know what to say. "I don't understand." I forced out. "I don't know why I do it. It's...it's comforting somehow. No, that’s not true, it's more than that, it’s me. I've always done it. My mother dressed me as Tinkerbelle for a school play when I was four or five. I loved it, I just loved it. I danced and twirled and skipped around in my short, pink chiffon dress, white tights, and white Maryjanes. My mom had curled my hair, made up my face and painted my nails silver. I was totally in love with my nails. Of course, after I had gone on and on about how wonderful it was for a few days. Both my parents made it clear to me that it was not okay to feel like that. After that, I could never admit that to anyone. Then, when I got older, I started dressing in her clothes. When she caught me, she dressed me to humiliate and punish me. This went on through high school. Yet I loved that too. I had a girlfriend in college who dressed me all the time. We even went out clubbing together."
"Are you gay?"
"N… N... No." I stammered, "I just like women's clothes... and women. I like women a lot, that’s why I came to work for Abigail in an office full of women. Then she left and Thornton showed up…"
Another long silence was ended by her voice, "get dressed and go home. I need to think." She said it softly, but with finality. I got up and left her room.
"If you're not at work tomorrow, the police will be the first to know," she said it coldly, without compassion, but then added more gently, "go on, get out of here."
When I got home there was a message on my answering machine from Cynthia. It was only two words, "Wear panties."
I couldn’t sleep. I spent the hours after midnight trying to figure out how I had gotten myself into this fucking mess. I had never been real good at accepting responsibility for my own actions. I was much more comfortable having others make decisions for me. So I searched for someone to blame. Was it my parents? Why not? They had done nothing but harm to me. I left home emotionally scarred and psychologically screwed up… Or maybe it was Cynthia? She didn’t have to do this to me. She could have been my ally against Thornton.
Yes, Thornton, my mind kept coming back to Bob Thornton. He had been the bane of my existence since he first arrived in our office 18 months ago when Abigail Harrison left to have a baby. So I lay awake with Thornton plaguing my thoughts as I recalled the events that led to the awful humiliations of this evening, to the final shame of me lying naked on Cynthia’s floor, bawling like a little girl as my freshly trimmed, femmy little triangle of pubic hair made a joke of my erection. I had bared my soul to her and I had no idea what she would now do with all that information. I couldn’t really blame Cynthia, I guess, even though it looked like she would be the instrument of my imminent destruction. I blamed Thornton for this happening at all. I now knew that I was destined to be another in Thornton’s long line of victims, only with me, Cynthia was to the instrument of destruction. He only got to set the stage,. I laughed bitterly. Thornton would be really pissed if he knew he wouldn’t get the chance to destroy me himself. He so savored the pleasure of doing that personally. He was a real hands-on manager.
"Melissa! Where the hell have you been? Get over here." I should have buried my head back in my monitor, but I looked up as I always did when I heard Bob Thornton yell at one of my hapless office staff. This time it was Melissa Grant, a 25 year old single mother, who was an administrative assistant in our office. She was bright and capable, but working and taking care of her child kept her on the run. Since she had divorced her abusive husband, however, she’d had no choice. And lately, the child support checks had become unreliable and she was under a lot of pressure just to make ends meet.
None of that kept Thornton from beating up on her. He was on her case all the time, especially if she was late or had to leave early to care for her little girl. This morning she had called to let us know that Carly was sick and the day care center wouldn’t accept her. So Melissa had to enlist her mother, and the time it took to get all that straightened out made her late again. It was just her bad luck that Thornton was in the office when she arrived. I could see her shudder at the sound of his voice, but she dutifully trudged over to him, knowing what was coming.
She tried to mollify him, hoping to avoid his wrath. "I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton, but Carly was sick and I had to get my mother to take care of her because the daycare center won’t take sick kids."
Thornton could have cared less. He had already decided to get rid of her, even though her work was excellent. There was something strange about his attitude, we already knew he didn’t think much of women, but there was something about Melissa’s situation that really got to him. We had discussed it privately just a week ago.
"Who do these women think they are," he had said to me. "First they get rid of their husbands and then they expect men like us to rescue them and coddle them at work." He was so smug I wanted to puke. For him the workplace hadn’t changed since 1960. "I’m getting rid of her. She’s a bad influence."
"But Bob," I tried to counter, "she’s a good worker and her husband abused her."
"I know her kind," he sneered, "I can just seeing her baiting him until he doesn’t have any choice but to get physical with her. Women like that want to be roughed up. They love it." He snorted. "And then they turn on their husbands and suck them dry."
What century was this guy from, I thought yet again. I had never heard such Neanderthal attitudes before I met him. Still, I tried to protect her. "But Bob, what good will getting rid of her do? She does good work and think of all the time it will take to train someone new. And then there’s the unemployment compensation we’ll have to pay. It’s just not worth it."
"I’m fed up with the bitch. If you weren’t such a wimp, you would be too. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make a manager out of you. You’re too afraid of hurting people’s feelings to put your responsibilities to the company first."
What could I do? Now he’d made it my problem, just like every other time I’d tried to intervene when he was dumping on one or the other of us. Right then I knew Melissa didn’t have a chance, and now I could see Thornton acting on his threat.
"I’m getting tired of your little problems, Ms. Grant. We have work to do here and you’re not pulling your weight. I’ve got my eye on you. I know what you’re up to." You arrived 20 minutes late so you’ll have to stay late to make it up."
"Yes sir," she sighed. At least Carly was with her mom tonight, and she wouldn’t have to face the wrath of the day care center, and their extra fee, by retrieving Carly late.
I tried to intervene. I hated to see people be humiliated in front of the entire office just because Thornton enjoyed it.
"Come on Bob, Melissa knows what she has to do…"
"Just shut up, Miller, this is none of your business. You’ve already proven you haven’t got the guts to take care of real problems." He didn’t even bother to turn around to look at me; he just continued to glare at Melissa. Then he said to her "Get to work." Once he had stalked out of the office, Melissa burst into tears. Some of the other girls gathered round to comfort her. I just sighed and went back to my office. Once again I had failed to protect one of my friends and had been humiliated for trying.
Yes, there were lots of reasons to hate Thornton, but I hated him most of all because of the way he treated people. He sucked up to his superiors and clients, and shit on the rest of us. We were things to be manipulated towards his greater glory…, and his greater income. There was no evidence that he had any empathy for other human beings. We were simply there to be used to make him look good.
He tried never to give his superiors or clients bad news, even if the bad news was the truth. He left that to people like Cynthia and me. Yes, Cynthia. How ironic it was: the woman who was poised to destroy me was on Thornton’s shit list as well. For some reason she seemed to escape the worst of his wrath, but no one in the office was immune.
In return for our efforts, he gave us stingy bonuses and cost-of-living raises, along with vague promises that if we kept up the good work, we too would be "getting what we deserved" at some unspecified future date.
But we could both count. It wasn’t hard to calculate that Bob Thornton couldn’t live long enough to keep that phony pledge, even if he had sold his soul to the devil. Yeah, Cynthia and I can definitely count. We are both financial analysts.
Cynthia is really good at it; she’s one of the best in the firm. But I‘m a wizard. I don’t want to sound conceited, but everyone agrees that I am amazing with numbers. I have always excelled at math. For me, solving quadratic equations has always been as easy as adding up a restaurant check. According to my mother, I had an easier time learning calculus than learning to walk. In business school I developed the knack for using my math skills to perform magical feats with financial analyses. Spreadsheets aren't simply rows and columns of numbers to me they are musical scores. I can hear them sing. I see trends, flaws, and implications that are invisible to most other people.
But more importantly, I’ve always been innovative in the way I organized and used numbers. I even created three new analytical approaches, which earned me large bonuses from the higher ups at North State. With tools like these, we routinely waltz around our competitors as if they were flat footed bumblers. We make even more money as a result. Yes, I loved spreadsheets. I could hear the music of the spheres in them.
With all that ability, you might think that I would have progressed further by now. I certainly did. In fact, I had been progressing quite well until Thornton arrived. I then discovered what it’s like when a dominant alpha male comes barging in to your troop, and bellows that he has no tolerance at all for anyone who might challenge him. He had no qualms about insulting us, or making us look bad in public, or repeatedly undermining us in front of each other at staff meetings. The consensus in the office was that he probably pushed old ladies out of his way to get to the front of the supermarket checkout line. And then he expected them to apologize to him for being in his way in the first place!
So, even though the way Thornton treated me hurt, when I saw how badly he treated the people who worked for me, that hurt even more. I couldn’t protect them and this just proved to me (yet again) how weak and ineffective I was. I did try for a while to point out to him how his behavior was hurting people, and how that couldn’t possibly be to his benefit (figuring he would at least understand his own self-interest), but he rebuffed me easily. He just turned my argument back around on me, so that the problem was mine, not his. After awhile, I just gave up. Failing to be brave or assertive enough to do anything about Thornton’s behavior was a burning symbol to me of my own inadequacies. I longed to take care of others, but in reality, I needed them to take care of me.
Because I couldn’t do anything directly about Thornton, I struck out at him in the only way I could, through our books. That’s how Cynthia was able to trap me.
"Oh shit." I hadn't meant to say it out loud, I was just supposed to think it in my head. But, I was so stunned by the material laid out before me on my desk, that it just slipped out. Now I’d blown it and the wide grin that appeared on Cynthia’s face the second she heard me just proved I was right. She knew she had me. My pulse began to pound in my head, bile rose up in my throat, and a feeling of dread began to overtake my entire consciousness. Sweat started to drip from my armpits and I could feel my camisole starting to stick to my skin.
I just love the feel of slinky lingerie against my skin. I wear it almost every day. But when it gets wet, it’s uncomfortable. It gets clingy and soggy and just plain yucky. I guess that’s why most women wear cotton most of the time. It may not be as sexy, but it’s sure more practical. I even wear cotton when I’m cleaning my apartment But I never wore cotton to work. I mean the whole point was to feel sleek and sexy, and cotton just didn’t do that for me. So now I was sitting at my desk with my rayon tap pants stuck to the backs of my thighs and the matching camisole clinging uncomfortably to the small of my back. And it didn’t look like things were going to get any more comfortable for quite a while.
Arrayed on my desk was a set of spreadsheets and cancelled checks that revealed my entire scam. I had been writing out bogus invoices from phony Internet companies for products and services that were never supplied. The invoices got paid as a matter of course, and I pocketed the proceeds. Well, I didn’t exactly pocket them. Instead, I was depositing them in phony bank accounts that I had set up to launder the money I was fraudulently "liberating" from my bass. I had set up one account for each of the women who worked in our office. Getting money for me to spend was not my goal, reducing Bob Thornton’s income, and making sure our staff got their rightful bonuses was.
Our company, North Street Financing is remarkably profitable. It manages and finances large corporate takeovers, and as a Vice President Thornton pulled down big bucks like the other senior execs. Bob was different though. The other VPs shared their generous bonuses with their employees, keeping them quite happy and productive. In my division, however, Thornton, kept it all for himself. He ran the tightest division in the company. Our expenses were always the lowest and his bonuses among the largest. He ran big profit margins and kept the payroll small. He traveled first class, but the rest of us went steerage. And he never let anyone transfer out. The only way to leave Bob's division was to leave the company altogether, and in my office at least, many of us had been together for years. We had been like a small family and didn’t want to split up.
When I first arrived at North State, four years ago, I thought I had found the nearest thing work could be to heaven. We had a woman VP then, Abigail Harrison, and she was a peach. The whole staff loved her and we all worked very effectively under her nurturing hand. Our division was a top performer then too, and she made lots of money, sharing it cheerfully when bonus time came.
I was the last person she had hired and the only one with an MBA. Based on credentials, I should have been the boss, but I quickly discovered two things. First, I was much happier being an analyst than managing an office, and, second, the other analyst, Cynthia Morrison, already had the office in the palm of her hand. Cynthia was at least as good with people as I was with numbers. So while she marveled at the way I could coax information from a balance sheet, I sat in clueless wonder as she got other people to do things for her, and for me.
Cynthia was as attractive as she was effective, and she was very effective at her job. Even though she was six years older than I, we hit it off right away and worked well together. Unlike me, a whiz kid straight out of school, Cynthia had worked her way up and became a good analyst even though she "only" had a Bachelor's degree. She had bucked male dominated hierarchies at virtually every step of her life, but everyone knew that if it hadn't been for Abigail, and one or two other senior women who acted as mentors and protectors, the good old boys would never have allowed her to become a senior analyst. All the other analysts had MBAs, but not many were as good as Cynthia.
Compared to Cynthia I was a babe in the woods. I had no experience in the world at all. I was not yet 17 when I entered college, and after four years at North State, I was still only 26. Really, I felt like a helpless teenager with her, but she was smart enough not to over play her obvious social superiority. In retrospect, it was easy to see how much in charge of things she really was, but because I mostly squirreled myself away with my computer, I didn't understand that at the time. My position had authority, but I didn't. Cynthia, by contrast, had earned authority because of her strong personality and her willingness to accept responsibility. I fostered friendly relations with the rest of the office and they liked me, but they would die for Cynthia. As a result, I was dependent on Cynthia to get almost everything done. And she got it all done with apparent ease. We were a good team.
But Cynthia was more than a teammate. I was deeply, almost painfully, infatuated with her. She represented pretty much everything I admired in a woman. She had looks, personality, brains, and assertiveness. I didn't really know what she thought about me, although it was clear that she liked me. I remember one time when we hugged each other, warmly and without embarrassment while we congratulated each other after a particularly good job. At that moment I felt very close to her and desperately wanted to ask her for a date. But I was too timid, and rationalized my timidity by saying that personal involvement might threaten our professional relationship, so I hesitated. The moment was lost, and I never got the courage to do it again. If I had to guess, I would say she saw me as her little brother. She took pleasure in seeing me do well, but that never translated into any kind of intimacy. I was too in awe of her as a woman, and too insecure with myself as a man to think about any other kind of relationship, even though I longed for one.
After I had been there only 18 months, Abigail left to have a baby and Bob Thornton arrived. Our happy little world began to disintegrate. No one liked Bob Thornton, but everyone respected him. His success allowed him to live the high life on the company expense account, but he nailed me and his other underlings if we even had a light beer at company expense while on forced travel.
"We must maintain fiscal responsibility," he gloated the last time he cut my travel reimbursement to the bone, "the shareholders demand it."
Well, within a year of his arrival, I quit doing my best as I started to slip into a state of angry resentment. He expected us to be on call 24/7 and gave us nothing in return. Then, we had a particularly nasty staff meeting. He sent our youngest and emotionally most vulnerable research assistant, Heather Wilkes, home in tears when he accused her of making a mistake that he had made, and reamed her out for it.
"If you hadn't given me those figures, this wouldn't have happened," he ranted.
How absurd. He asked for those figures specifically. She even tried to tell him that he needed additional data. But he accused her of making his mistake anyway.
"But Bob," I objected angrily, rising to my feet, "Heather didn’t force those numbers on you. She couldn’t do that. None of us could."
"Shut up Miller! Your opinion isn’t worth the hot air that carries it out of your head. You’ve failed at every management responsibility I’ve given you. You haven’t earned the right to an opinion."
As I was sitting down, feeling humiliated and shamed yet again, Cynthia Morrison was rising to her feet. "Well I have," she said." This is not Heather’s fault. You were the one…"
"Oh for God’s sake," he blustered, fluttering his hands around his head, clearly frustrated by her interruption, "none of you ever want to take responsibility for anything. It’s always my fault. Well, you’ll learn." He waved Heather out of the room and ended the meeting a few minutes after that. Cynthia was the only who could stand up to him, the only one he didn’t try to intimidate. It was as if she had a guardian angel.
As my co-workers and I became increasingly demoralized under Thornton's hand, my personal relationships in the rest of the staff started to deteriorate. Frankly, I was pitiful. As I became more depressed about myself and the way Thornton was treating me and the others, I began to treat them just as badly as Thornton was. They certainly didn't deserve it, but I was just too immature to know how to handle all the stress Thornton created. Even at 26, I wasn't much more mature than your average high school cheerleader.
So I hated my situation, I hated myself for being too cowardly to deal with it or to leave it, and I hated myself even more because of the miserable way I was treating my co-workers. Like the guy who gets home from his lousy job and yells at his wife and kicks the dog, I let them have it whenever Bob treated me badly. Everyone knew what was going on and they were pissed at me as much for my cowardice as for my poor behavior.
I remember one particularly bad day in late December when Thornton had us working like dogs on financial projections that just didn’t need to be done then. No one would need them until well into the new year. We all figured he was doing this just to punish us for having the bad luck to work for him. Late one afternoon as we were getting ready to leave, I just lost it.
"Marci! What the hell is this?" I yelled at Marci Richardson. She was a 30-something administrative assistant who always seemed a lot smarter than her job title would suggest. "This is not what I asked for. Can’t anyone do anything right around here?" I was really yelling now, behaving just like Thornton would have. "I work my butt off and you can’t collect a few sets of numbers so I can use them?"
"Excuse me, MR. Miller," she interrupted. "This is how we always do it."
"So what? MS. Richardson." I returned her insult with one of my own. We never used Ms. or Mr. around the office. "Who cares how we always do it? You need to figure out the best way to do things, not just do it any old way. What the hell do we pay you for?"
I could see in her face that she was getting really upset, but I had lost control of myself. I kept after her. "Any 18 year old twit right out of high school could have done it this way…"
"Brad! What the hell is going on here?" It was Cynthia. She had heard me shouting and came to investigate. She didn’t like what she found. "How dare you yell at someone in this office like that. You just apologize.
"Apologize? You must be crazy. She takes hours to do something that could have been done in half the time and then does it wrong…"
"If he had told me what he wanted, maybe I would have done it differently. I’m not a mind reader you know." Now that Cynthia was here, Marci wasn’t going to back down. Worse, I now knew that she was right. I hadn’t told her exactly what I wanted. I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts at the time and just assumed she knew what I was thinking. But I wasn’t backing down now either. Without those figures, I was in for a long night. I stayed on the attack.
"Well, one of us is in for a long night and it’s certainly not going to be me," I insisted.
"Oh, grow up Brad," Cynthia cut in again.
"This has nothing to do with you, MS. Morrison. MS. Richardson will get this job done," I turned to face her, "and then she can go home, but she better get it done." Even though I was looking right at Marci, I was talking to Cynthia. Marci’s face was now a mixture of anger and fear. Before anything else could happen, I turned and walked into my office, slamming the door behind me. Two days before the end of the year, when almost every office in the building was virtually shut down, I had one of my staff working late to produce something no one needed.
Stuff like this fueled a nasty downward spiral in my relationship with Cynthia. She was angry for the way I treated her and let me know it. She was even angrier for the way I treated the staff and let me know that too. For my part, I was so ashamed of the way I was behaving that I began to withdraw. I became more abrupt and thoughtless in my dealings with her and everyone else. She got even angrier, and so it continued.
I was sick about the whole situation and after awhile, I turned my hatred on myself. I became ashamed of myself, and my shame paralyzed me even further. Shame..., that's anger turned inward isn't it? Too weak and immature to deal with the real sources of my anger, I started to let my shame consume me. I was ashamed of the way I let Thornton treat me, I was ashamed of the way I treated Cynthia and our staff, and I was ashamed because I didn't do anything about any of it.
Once upon a time, everyone in the office found me kind, pleasant, and funny. The older women pampered me, the younger ones pursued me. Some even caught me for awhile. People would actually smile when I showed up. They asked me to do things with them. I had been a source of comfort and confidence to them because they knew I would never hurt them and that I would understand when they were down. Now, no one wanted anything to do with me.
My only outlet, feeble as it was, was to embezzle money from Bob's profits - his bonus was going down because of it. That's why I did it and that's what I enjoyed most about it. I had even set up the separate accounts with the office staff in mind. There was one for each person except me. Thornton may not have been giving them bonuses, but I was. Whenever one of the staff did a particularly good job, I added some money to her account. Marcie had gotten a particularly nice contribution after our little altercation just before the new year.
But even stealing Thornton’s money wasn’t working the way I had hoped. Sure, I liked the idea of shrinking his take home pay and helping the women in the office, but the very fact that I had to resort to such a passive form of resistance to Thornton’s rule just emphasized my own weakness.
"I knew it," Cynthia said triumphantly. "There's nothing on the desk that ties you directly to those transactions Brad, but you've admitted to them anyway."
She stood back, fists on her hips, shoulders back, pride radiating from her face. I was such a jerk. She bluffed me without saying a word, and I fell for it.
Now, she was watching me the way a cat watches a mouse that has wandered unaware into striking distance. Her head was slightly cocked to one side and her attention was focused on me entirely. I nearly melted from the intensity of her gaze.
"You’re screwed, buster. Just wait till I tell Bob."
"You wouldn't!" I blurted out.
"He'll have the cops here so fast, you won't have time to pee." Her laughter sounded like fine crystal shattering.
Shit, I can't get arrested today. I mean, I can't get arrested any day, but certainly not today. A man just doesn’t go to jail wearing lingerie, and shaved all over. I’d been keeping myself hairless for quite a while, and last night, just as I did every few nights, I had shaved my legs, chest and underarms. Then I spent an hour lounging in a warm bath filled with a deliciously strawberry-scented oil. It felt just delightful, and my hairless skin was soft and smooth. I was so infatuated with how I felt that I had even shaved my pubic hair into a narrow triangle so it wouldn't show under the French-cut panties I preferred on most evenings. If I ended up in a cell tonight, I was going to be screwed all right, literally, by every guy who was in there with me. I would be the answer to their dreams.
"I'll cut you in," I whispered, without looking up.
"No way," she replied, without hesitating. "I'm not getting involved in this penny-ante shit. I have more ambition than that. And you're going to help me realize my goals. From now on, I own you."
I finally looked up. I needed to see her face. I needed to see if she was for real. She was. Her glare never wavered, instead, it nearly knocked the wind out of me. I cast my eyes down quickly.
"What do you want? I'll do anything."
"That's good," she said, obviously pleased with me. "I like it when you know to keep your eyes down, like a good slave."
"What?" I sat up straight and looked right into her face.
"I don't think you want to challenge me, slave." Let's see, what's the number for the 6th precinct? Doesn't matter, 911, will do. She dropped a finely manicured hand to the phone on the corner of my desk and started punching in the numbers with one glistening, elegant nail.
"Hello, yes, I want to report... I slammed my hand down on the switch, cutting off the call.
"NO!!" I shouted.
She erupted in anger. I had never seen her like this before! "DON'T you ever say no to me again! You little bag of shit! I'm in charge here from now on. Lower your eyes and apologize."
She started dialing again.
"I'm sorry... Cynthia?..." I struggled to say the words. "I need time to... to learn."
"You certainly do!" she cut me off. "Figure this out fast. You cross me and you go to prison. As little as you are (At barely 5'7" and a skinny 130, I was smaller than Bob Thornton. I think that's one of the reasons he liked having me around), you will be thanking the guys in your cell block for raping you before the first day is over."
I quailed. Did she know what I was wearing or just insulting me because of my size? I could hardly defend myself in a pillow fight. She was right. I would be getting it up the ass by the first guy who decided he wanted me. And the next, and the one after him too, and on down the line. Oh shit. I might like to wear woman's clothing, but I had never wanted to be raped by some big hairy man. Not that it hadn't happened before, sort of, but….
"Get out from behind that desk and get on your knees in front of me."
I hesitated for just a moment.
"Now!" I jumped up and stumbled from behind my desk.
"Down, now!"
I fell to my knees and dropped my eyes to her feet. She was wearing dark panty hose and black suede heels. They must have been 3 inches. Despite my humiliating position, I started to imagine how I would look in them. I seemed to spend much of my day wondering how I would look in the clothes of one woman or another. That didn't last long this time.
"Repeat after me!" She barked. "I am your slave. You are my Mistress. I will do your bidding willingly. Your needs and pleasures are my life... Your wish is my command."
Something deep inside my groin started to tingle. I didn't know where this was going, but it was somewhere I had always wanted to explore. I started to look up with wonder.
Smack! She slapped me across the face.
"Don't you dare look at me without my permission."
I threw my eyes down so quickly I almost hurt my neck.
"Say it!" She hissed.
"I am your slave. You are my Mistress. I will do your bidding willingly. Your needs and pleasures are my life... Your wish is my command."
I… I am your.... s...slave," I repeated my face flushed with shame. "You are my Mistress. I..I will do your bidding. Your wish is my c.. c... command."
The room was absolutely still. My voice was barely a whisper. I thought I would throw up. As I started to retch, Cynthia pushed me over with her foot.
"You're pitiful."
She stalked out of the office and I got up after awhile and went to the men's room to wash out my mouth and catch my breath. Just as I got back to my desk, the intercom buzzed. It was Cynthia.
"Get out here," she commanded.
Her office was just down the hall from mine. It was part of what had been a much larger office that had been divided up so two people could have cramped, but private work areas. This was a measure of the inequality in the office. She was senior to me in experience, but my academic credentials, and no doubt my sex, landed me the nicer office. I used to visit Cynthia frequently because I just had to share some exciting finding with her. Her door was always open to me or anyone else in the office. But over the past year, as I had withdrawn, I rarely went out there.
Lately, I had kept my door closed instead of open. Most of the staff had simply concluded that I was a stuck up obnoxious little twerp. So as I left my office and headed for Cynthia's desk, I drew some curious stares from the administrative assistants and secretaries. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I noticed them. I felt like I was in a glass fish bowl. I knocked on Cynthia's door and stepped around the corner.
"What took you so long?" Contempt dripped from her voice. "Get me a cup of coffee. You know how I like it don't you?"
"B… Black?"
"No, you idiot. We've been working together for four years and you still don't know how I like my coffee? Well, you'll learn that, and lot's of other things I like as well," she said leering at me in the strangest way. "One cream, one half packet of Equal."
I turned for the coffee room to fetch Cynthia's coffee. The pot was almost empty so I started to refill it. Then I realized that I didn't really know where everything was. As I was looking through the drawers, Marci Richardson came in.
"What are you doing?" She asked.
Startled, I turned around and stammered, "I… I'm, I’m… looking for the coffee filters. I was going to refill the pot."
Her eyes widened in amazement. "You… ? You're going to refill the coffeepot? You haven't touched it in…., in, I don' t know how long." And then, even more sarcastically, "what's the matter, don't you feel well?"
I blushed under her scrutiny. "Well, it was almost empty so I thought..."
She snorted in derision. "Third drawer on the left. Make sure you clean up the counter when you're done."
A few minutes later I was on my way back to Cynthia's desk and all the secretaries stopped working and looked up. When I turned into Cynthia's cubicle they broke out in giggles.
"Here you are Cynthia. I'm sorry it took so long, but I had to make a new pot."
She eyed me suspiciously, tasted the coffee and turned her glare on me. "Don't you ever keep my waiting so long again. And if you ever call me Cynthia, or even refer to me that way to someone else, you'll regret it. In the office I am Ms. Morrison. I can see you have a lot to learn. Get out of here. I'll meet you in your office at the end of the day. Don't you dare leave without me."
The rest of the day dragged by as I alternatively hated myself, got angry at Bob Thornton, and had horrible fantasies about what jail might be like. Cynthia showed up at 5:15.
"Alright, your training starts tonight. As my slave you will take care of me and my apartment. Go home, shower, shave, change into a clean pair of chinos and a white shirt, and be at my apartment at 7:00. Here's a shopping list and my address. You're paying for all my groceries from now on too. If you're not there on time, I'm calling the cops."
My mouth was still hanging open as she left, but I really had to hurry if I was going to get to her place on time. At least I would be able to change out of my lingerie. I shuddered to think what might happen if she discovered I was a cross-dresser. I would have to be very careful to hide that from now on.
So I raced home, showered, shaved (my face, just my face), changed, and raced to the market. I picked up the food and other supplies she had listed as fast as I could, and on a hunch grabbed a decent bottle of red wine. Then I remembered that Cynthia adored Pouilly Fuisse. I put the first bottle back and found the most expensive Pouilly Fuisse this market carried. It was $35.00, but it would be stupid to insult Cynthia with a gift that she might find cheap. I got to her apartment at 7:05. I rang the downstairs buzzer and waited. No answer. I rang again and got a sharp reply.
"Who is it?
"It's me Ms. Morrison, I'm sorry I'm late. I went as fast as I could. I brought you a present to make up for my failure. It's a bottle of your favorite wine. It's chilled. I'd love to pour you some. Please let me in?"
"Hmmmph... Get your sorry ass up here." She buzzed me in and I took the small elevator to her fourth floor apartment. Her door opened as soon as I appeared in front of it.
"Put that stuff in the kitchen. Pour me a glass of your pitiful wine and get back here. I was back in less than three minutes. Cynthia was sitting on her sofa still in her work clothes. I stood in front of her and offered her the wine with an expectant look on my face.
"Down on your knees."
I knelt carefully, making sure not to spill the wine and then lowered my eyes before I held the glass out once more. This time she took it. I stayed on my knees, eyes studying her not so clean carpet for many minutes.
"You're so very clever to bring me my favorite wine, from a good vineyard too."
I started to look up, but managed to stop myself. "That's right, you keep your eyes down when you are in the presence of your Mistress unless she tells you otherwise." Cynthia finished her glass of wine over the next few minutes and then handed me the glass. "Now, go get me another glass of wine and then cook my dinner."
I did as I was told and she showered while I cooked. I cleaned up her small dining area and set the table for two. When the preparations for dinner were finished I called her. "Miss Morrison, dinner is ready."
My eyes almost fell out of my head as she entered the room and I gaped at her openly. She had changed into a stunning floor length black nightgown with matching robe. The skirt was sheer and I could easily see her panties and garter belt beneath it. The bodice was very low cut and shirred in a way that gave me glimpses of her breasts without ever leaving them fully exposed. She had black high heeled mules on her feet which left her lovely polished toenails to glisten in the lamp light as she walked.
As soon as she entered the living room she posed with one hand on her hip and the other flat against her thigh. She eyed me imperiously, but it took a moment for me to look down. I stood frozen next the dining room table with my eyes on the floor. I heard her move towards me and then her feet entered my line of sight.
"How dare you look at me, you worm!" I startled and then cringed because she was shouting right in my ear.
"I'm sorry Miss Mor..." I stammered.
"That's Mistress to you," she shouted right in my face again." You may call me Miss Morrison at work, at all other times it's Mistress, or Ma'am."
"Yes Mistress."
"Don't interrupt. From now on you have no life. You are going to spend your time caring for me and meeting my needs. I have plans for you. I'm going to get even with you for the way you have been treating me and the other staff. And I’m going to use you to get even with that little shit Thornton as well. It will be risky for you, but that's not my problem, you're the embezzler. Now serve me dinner."
"Yes Mistress."
I pulled her chair out and helped her get settled at the table. I brought a fresh salad, some crusty bread I had picked up after my stop at the supermarket, and poured Pellegrino water.
After I served Cynthia, she looked up at me and asked, "why are there two place settings at this table?"
"I thought..."
"You don't think! Haven't you figured that out yet? Clear that other place setting and go stand by the side of the table in case I need anything while I eat."
I carried my dishes and flatware into the kitchen, chastened by the way I was being treated. I stood there silently for a few moments trying to understand what was going on. She was treating my like a damn maid! God, if she learned I like women’s clothes, she’d probably have me in a French maid’s uniform by the weekend. Then I heard Cynthia's fork clank on her plate and realized I had better get back into the dining area.
I went to my appointed station and stood there silently while she ate, apparently unaware of my existence. As I watched her eat, I couldn’t keep the image of myself in a short, frilly French maid’s uniform out of my mind. My imagination embellished that enticing vision until I was fully dressed in a black satin uniform with white petticoats that held the skirt far out from my legs and showed prettily at the hem. The bodice and short, puffed sleeves were trimmed in white lace and I wore a bright white apron tied with a big bow at the back and a cute little lacy cap pinned to my hair. I twitched slightly where I stood trying to feel the garters that would be holding up my sheer black stockings and I even imagined that my feet were starting to hurt as I stood in my black three inch heels waiting for my mistress to summon me for my next task.
That little fantasy came to a crashing halt when Cynthia finished her salad. Because I was so focused on what was in my mind, I wasn’t paying attention to her, and she let me know in no uncertain terms, what she would do to me if that happened again. My face burning with embarrassment, I ran to bring the pasta I had prepared for the main course, refilled her wine and water glasses and returned to my station.
Standing with my hands folded in front of me and my eyes down, I wanted to continue my enjoyable French maid fantasy, but couldn’t if I was going to avoid be chewed out by Cynthia yet again. Instead, I grew angry about the way she was treating me. I felt myself start to rebel, but then got scared about what might happen if I defied her. I could just see myself on my hands and knees in a prison cell somewhere thanking the six guys who had just raped me and begging them to do it again real soon. Having forced me to be their little whore, they were now laughing as they forced me to thank them and beg them for more. I knew that would last until I got AIDS and died a slow, lonely death in the prison hospital.
No, I was going to do what ever it took to stay out of prison. I had to play along with Cynthia, even if the humiliations she was forcing upon me fed the fires of shame that already burned so intensely in my heart. And despite my conscious revulsion at what was happening to me, deep off in a corner of my psyche, I was getting turned on by the humiliation, and dreaming about ways to turn this into a sexual escapade.
"Clean up and then meet me in the living room. You may eat in the kitchen, but you have to be finished with everything in 30 minutes."
She moved to stand up and I rushed to pull her chair back. As she stood, she turned, and gently stroked my cheek with her hand.
"That's sweet." And then she slapped me for the second time. As I stumbled back, more in shock, than pain, she began to shout at me. "Why have you been such an asshole for the last year? You think a few courtesies now will get you out of this? I'm so angry with you I could tear your eyes out!" And she started to sob.
Again, I was clueless. What could possibly be going on in her mind? Her moods had been so mercurial today that I was completely lost. Angry one moment and in tears the next? I wanted to comfort her, but was scared she would get even angrier.
"Mistress?" I mumbled, "I don't understand."
"Of course you don't, you dolt. You've never had a clue. Trying to be friends with you is like having a relationship with a two year old." She sobbed again and then said somewhat hopelessly, "just clean the kitchen and get back in here. I have things for you to do."
She spun her head away from me, turned on her gorgeous heel and strode away.
My "Yes Mistress" was drowned out by the sounds of her heels hammering the floor as she stalked to her bedroom. So I cleaned the kitchen until it was spotless and hurried into the living room. Cynthia wasn't there, "Mistress?" I called out.
"Get undressed, and then crawl into my bedroom," she replied.
Oh shit, I thought, this time keeping my lips sealed. This was getting real weird. I was in big trouble now. I undressed slowly trying to figure out what to do. How could I explain my lack of body hair? She was sure to notice.
"Hurry up you asshole," she shouted from the other room. "If you're not in here in one minute I'm calling the cops."
Despite my fear, I crawled as quickly as I could towards her bedroom. I felt like a total fool, my penis and testicles flapping back and forth as I crawled. When I got inside the bedroom door I was startled to see her sitting on the edge of her bed naked except for her stockings and heels. She had her arms up, running her hands through her shiny black hair. Her breasts were stunning, riding high on her chest, the nipples turned slightly upwards. I looked down as quickly as I could, but she had already seen me looking at her.
"Look at me." she demanded.
I looked up with both fear and lust in my heart. Naked, she was just gorgeous. Her breasts weren’t very large, but they were beautifully shaped and jutted out from her chest like gravity didn’t exist. Her body had no spare fat on it, but was toned and slightly muscular, with a small waist and gently curving hips. As I looked down at her legs, I thought that her smoky black stockings with their lacy tops and her high black heels were just about the sexiest things I had ever seen.
She peered down at me haughtily for a second and then asked, "like what you see? Of course you do. What man wouldn't? Well, enjoy the view, because for you, it's look but don't touch." I realized instantly that she was purposely teasing me with her fabulous body. If I did something aggressive, she would be sure to call the cops. If I submitted to her, it would be a sure sign of her dominance over me. I guess she wanted me to understand that clearly.
She stared at me carefully for a moment, chuckled to herself, and very carefully leaned back on the pillows she had stacked behind her. She thrust her hips over the edge of the bed.
"My pussy needs some reverential attention. Start by sucking my toes, lick your way up my legs and then give me the best head you ever imagined."
I groaned without thinking.
"Oh, and don't you dare touch me with that thing." She poked my hard on dismissively with the toe of her shoe. "Now, get to work."
I had never sucked anyone's toes before, although I was quite experienced inside a pussy, one of my tongue's favorite places. That was another skill I had perfected in college.
"Get to work, I'm getting impatient."
So I bent down and carefully slipped the shoe off her right foot. I nuzzled her instep with my cheek. I felt like such a fool, pretending to adore her foot. Then I started to lick and suck around Cynthia's stockinged foot. The feel of the nylons in my mouth was really rather erotic, although they were kind of dry. My cock really started to throb as I sucked her big toe into my mouth. As I circled it with my lips, I couldn't help but notice the bright red toenails that glistened under her smoky stocking. I wondered how that color would look on me…
It was a good 15 minutes before I got anywhere near the tops of her thighs and it wasn't until I put my lips on the bare skin above her right stocking that I heard a sound out of her, and then it was only a whispered gasp. I then worked fairly quickly to get near the now glistening lips of her vagina. At least she was excited. By now my mouth and tongue were aching from all the effort I had put into licking and sucking just her legs and feet. But I had a goal: to stay out of prison, and this was certainly preferable to getting fucked up the ass by some hyped up serial rapist.
As I moved up her soft sweetly smelling thighs (she had obviously perfumed herself after she showered) towards her vagina, she began to become more active, and was now squirming around as I started to stick my tongue into her pussy. After who knows how long, I finally reach her clit. As I licked it for the first time, she lifted her legs and clamped them around my head.
I lost my balance and the full weight of my body forced my face into her pussy.
"Hurry," she gasped, "you've teased me long enough. Bring me off!"
I did, and that’s how I ended up with my head trapped between Cynthia’s thighs, and how she learned all about me.
"Let me see them," Cynthia was at my desk at 8:30 sharp.
She looked well rested and refreshed. I was a mess. I had tossed and turned all night with visions of prison rapes haunting my mind. Even my favorite ankle-length white cotton nightie, with cute lace around the square-cut neckline and puffed sleeves hadn't been much comfort. I had no idea what Cynthia would do, but by dawn had pretty much figured out that whatever it was, it was better than jail.
So with her staring at me like a man ogling a stripper in a sleazy bar, I stood up, unbuckled my corporately correct black leather belt, and let my pleated, gray flannel slacks slide to the floor. It had taken me almost 15 minutes to figure out which pair of panties to wear. I must have tried on nearly 10 pairs, most several times. Even after I was fully dressed, I took my pants off to change, twice.
Did I want to be sexy and wear my high cut, stretchy, black French cut panties, or elegant in a pair of pale gray silk bikini panties with slightly darker lace trim? Or should it be the pale peach satin pair with the cotton crotch and cute bow in the front. I never before worried about how others might see me. Except for one exhilarating period in my life, I dressed only for myself, for how it felt, for how it made me feel.
That other time was my junior year of college. My life was taken over by Rachel Martin, a senior who discovered that I liked to dress and thought that was great fun. When she dressed me, she called me Lilly. It was supposed to be ironic, she assumed I wouldn’t look anything like a flower, but you know what, she was wrong.
Lilly was a girl of paradoxes. Just like Rachel, she dressed demurely (which isn't surprising because she wore Rachel's clothes), but she was flirtatious, and much more socially adventurous than either Rachel or Brad ever were. In fact, she was a bit of a tease. But every guy eventually learned that even though Lilly might have come on to him, she always went home with Rachel. And around Rachel, Lilly was very submissive.
Rachel had developed a game that we both found exhilarating. She would send Lilly into a bar. If Lilly got picked up (and not read of course!), then she could get laid that night. If not, Rachel got oral sex from her lesbian maid, who went unfulfilled. As time went on, Rachel would leave me alone in the bar for longer and longer periods, eventually putting me in the position of having to dance with guys, kiss them, and even give an occasional hand job under the table to keep them at bay.
We did that on at least one night almost every weekend from the beginning of December until the middle of May when she graduated and left town. Those nights were thrilling. I was full of fear and anxiety each time I had to walk into a bar alone dressed as a chaste, young co-ed. I was usually the most modestly dressed girl in the bar, but my goal was to get picked up, so I had to send my message with my behavior. To get some guy to come on to me, I would sit in a suggestive pose, flirt with my legs, shoulders, and head, or in general use body language that was totally at odds with how I was dressed. Guys found this remarkably provocative and I found myself being courted by men even when girls who were far prettier, and who were dressed far more provocatively than I, were still alone.
Of course, once I had attracted a guy, I had to keep his attention until Rachel arrived to claim me. So I learned to flirt, chat, and even dance as a girl. I was very uninhibited on the dance floor. I was always sexually aroused, but scared to death of being read. That combination was exciting beyond words. Especially because I did get read a few times, though I was never harmed. Twice, early on in my experience, Rachel was right there to come to my rescue. She could tell what had happened just by the change in my body language and the body language of the guy who had picked me up.
One other time, around the beginning of April, the guy was enthralled with me even after he figured it out. He promised not to make a scene if I really acted like a girl who had been dying to date him. Rachel wasn't there, so I got to work on a few new moves, hanging on to him attentively, running my fingernails up and down his arm, and staring into his eyes. He caressed me wickedly and kissed me passionately. The first time he did this I was shocked and didn't respond.
He pushed me to arm’s length and whispered to me harshly, "Lilly, if you don’t kiss me like my lover I’m going to expose you out loud to everyone and leave you here." Then he pulled me back into his embrace and whispered gently into my ear, "Relax, I’m not going to hurt you, we’re going to be doing some necking here to amuse the locals. Let yourself go, you’ll like it. Girls tell me I’m a good kisser."
Then he stuck his tongue in my ear and started to nibble at my ear lobe. I giggled at first but started to get excited after a few moments. Rachel did the same thing and I loved it. What the hell, I thought, and sought out his lips. After that, I returned his kisses with some ardor. I discovered that I liked it, and really got into it, even though I was kissing a guy. At the same time I was praying for Rachel to show up. I guess I should have been upset by what was going on, but I wasn't. Instead I was having a good time. Hey, I was just one hot little bitch.
Well, it was more than that. This guy, Josh, was not the first guy who had kissed me. My mother caught me in her clothes when I was 10. She taunted me about it, telling me my father would be ashamed of me. But I simply adored dressing up in secret, and got an even bigger thrill when I had to go in public. I have to thank my mom for teaching me about that. Periodically, when she was feeling a need to crush my ego (to bolster hers no doubt), she would dress me up to humiliate me. It was always done on the pretence that I was being punished. We both knew that wasn't her real motive, but we each had our own reasons for letting it happen.
I did feel a little humiliated by what she did, but more than that, I became totally, mind-boggling, unceasingly aroused. I would be hard for days after just thinking about it. I was very confused by what was going on, who wouldn't be, but I developed (or may it was discovered) a taste for the combination of humiliation and sex that I have never lost. Thanks mom, I guess. Then, when I was in 9th grade, my mother not only dressed me, but also set up a date for me, more than one actually. He was older and larger than I was and he just took me really. That's when I really learned to kiss, and oh, to really hate my mother too.
Anyway, Rachel showed up in the middle of one of our kisses. "Lilly," she whispered with mock urgency, "what are you doing. You were supposed to be waiting for me!"
Josh looked up with some surprise, but didn't miss a beat. "Hi pretty lady, this is your girlfriend?" he pinched my butt, I squealed, "how about a threesome?"
Rachel was equally as quick on the uptake as Josh. "Lilly here is a little girl. I'm a woman, can you handle that?" He simply stood up, pulling me by the hand. He grabbed Rachel's arm and said, "your place or mine?"
But back then, Rachel told me what to wear. She never let me pick my own panties or anything else for that matter. This morning was different. I had to please Cynthia... my new... uh, mistress. I had no idea what she liked, or how she would react. In the end I wore the simplest pair I owned, the peach satin ones.
"Oh, that's just lovely," Cynthia gushed, "they're adorable, but the way you were shaved, I felt for sure you would wear something that showed more hip and thigh. Oh well, another day, I’m sure." I cringed.
She turned to leave with me still standing there. She opened the door, started out, and then turned to me, "I take coffee at 8:45."
"Cynthia... Uh, Uh I mean Miss Morrison, someone will see."
Now she turned to face me full on. "This is your last warning. Don't you ever call me Cynthia again, or you'll regret it."
She turned and walked away without closing the door. I rushed to pull up my pants, not knowing who might have seen me.
Everybody must have known that something was up because several of the secretaries were waiting in the break room when I went to get Cynthia's... I mean Miss Morrison's coffee. They giggled as I completed my task and then left as quickly as I could, sure that everyone could see through my clothes.
I fearfully presented the coffee to Cyn... Ms. Morrison. "One cream, one half packet of Equal," I announced, quietly.
"OK, she said, not so quietly, I have a busy day. Here are your instructions."
I whispered frantically. "Please Ms. Morrison, everyone will hear."
She threw me a dirty look, but didn't hesitate for a moment. I was aghast.
"Be at my apartment at 7:00. I want you wearing panties, a matching bra, a garter belt and stockings. If you have breast forms, put them in. You need black heels as well, three inches at least." Only then did she lower her voice and begin to whisper. "Your assignment for today is to figure out how to get the money you stole into accounts controlled by Thornton. I'm going to get that son of a bitch and you're going to do it for me. I don't care whether you both get caught or not, that's your problem. You figure it out. And if you cause any trouble for me, I'll make sure you end up in jail dressed like the sissy you are. Get out."
I gaped, my mouth hanging open in wonderment.
"Get out?" I asked.
"You want me to say it loud enough for everyone to hear?"
"Yes Mistress... I mean... no Mistress."
I spun away like the devil was chasing me, but tried to control myself as soon as I turned to face the rest of the office. Everyone was staring at me. I made believe that I hadn't seen any of them and tried to look calm, but I was panting from anxiety by the time I reached my office. I could feel sweat dripping from my underarms.
By the time I had closed the door and reached my seat, I was frantic. What was she going to do? What was I going to do? Everyone knew... I was going to be humiliated…I was going to jail. Thoughts flooded my brain so quickly they had no time to complete themselves before they were replaced by another. In a few seconds, I was in tears.
I don't know how long I cried before I actually heard the knocking. I tried to ignore it. It was hesitant and I had no intention of opening the door. It opened by itself. It was Marci Richardson! Oh God! Things are going from horrible to worse. She was a good ten years older than I was and at first had been quite friendly, but like everyone else on the staff had changed her mind over the past year. I don't know if I had done something especially nasty to her, but she obviously had nothing but disdain for me. I looked up at her bleakly, but unaware. Before I could say word she spoke.
"Mr. Miller, are you OK?"
"Marci, get out of here," I blubbered, putting my face back into my hands.
Then, another voice... "Is he OK?"
I looked up again. It was Kathleen Whitson, another secretary, younger and, as far as I knew, much more timid than Marci. Was there no end?
"Does he really wear lingerie for Ms. Morrison?"
Oh God - they had heard.
"Well, shit Kathleen, you heard just as much as I did. How do I know?" Then she grinned, "Let's find out. "
"GET OUT OF HERE! Both of you." I jumped up from my desk and advanced on them. I was furious now.
Marci made little fists out of her hands and thrust them down onto her hips, she must have learned that move from Cynthia. "I don't think SO! That's so NOT what we're gonna do. I bet you're wearing panties right now. Show us."
"Get out of here." I turned my back to them, but then spun around at the sound of a third voice.
"Do it, now."
My heart sank. For a moment I was so startled I thought I was going to pee in my panties. It was Cynthia. She had opened the door all the way and it seemed that the whole office was standing right behind her. She stared straight into my face and mouthed the numbers 9-1-1.
I was paralyzed… a deer caught in headlights. A train roared in my ears. My vision narrowed. Then I erupted.
"FUCK YOU! I am NOT going to let this happen." I said taking a step towards the door. Cynthia stepped forward, pushed the others out the door and slammed it shut behind her.
"I didn't think we would come to this point quite so quickly, slave. But here we are. Time for you to submit or go to jail. Get on your knees."
Again, I gaped at her. Before I could say a word, she attacked me with a torrent of words. "Listen you little shit. You've been humiliating the entire office staff for more than a year. I don't like to see my girls in tears because some little pussy boy can't stand up to his own boss and hates himself for it. Luckily for you I hate Thornton more than I hate you. So a long as I believe you can help me get him, I'm willing to keep you around, but only on my terms. Now, GET ON YOUR KNEES!"
I stood frozen. She reached out for my shoulder and started to push me down. She didn't press hard enough to actually force me down, but I started to sink anyway. As I sank towards the floor I began to cry again.
By the time she opened the door again, the issue was closed. I was her slave, everyone in the office would share in my humiliation as payback for the way had I treated them. I had to figure out how to set Thornton up so it looked like he had embezzled the money that I had embezzled. I was totally defeated. And, it was time for my humiliation to begin. The only real question was, how intense was it going to be.
"Girls, your big old boss here has something to tell you. Gather round. Heather go lock the door."
I had been standing with my head bowed, but as the six other women in the office gathered around I looked up at them.
"I'm sorry," I gasped out, choked with shame, "I've treated you terribly."
"Yes you have," I heard but I couldn't even tell who had said it.
"I've treated you terribly and there's no excuse for it. Right now I can't even ask you to forgive me. I haven't earned that yet. But I am going to work to earn you forgiveness..., if you'll only let me."
"Show them," commanded Cynthia who drilled my heart with her words.
I silently unbuckled my pants and let them fall to my knees. I pulled the tails of my blue oxford shirt up above my waist. I couldn't look, tears streamed from my eyes and I again began to sob. But even as my chest was heaving, my hearing and thinking seemed to clear up suddenly, the way humidity disappears after a thunderstorm.
"Peach," someone gasped out, "he's wearing peach-colored panties."
What a strange thing to notice, I thought.
"You little sissy faggot."
Now they're getting down to it.
"You're not a man, you're a pansy. I can't believe we let you take advantage of us." A couple of women started to laugh.
"Are those your panties?" Someone asked.
"Damn right they are." That from Cynthia. "He shaves his body too, look at his legs."
A hand reached out and slid up my thigh. It felt like an electric shock. I twitched and my dick started to swell.
"Hey, look at this, there's no hair sticking out from the edges of his panties," said Marci who stuck a finger in the edge of the right leg hole, pulled it away from my leg and let it snap back. "Did you get a bikini wax, sissy?"
"Show them," Commanded Cynthia again.
I pleaded with her with my eyes, which must have revealed the terror and shame in my heart.
"Would you like Marci to help you, or are you going to be a man and do this by yourself?"
I stood frozen. After a moment, she nodded. Marci slid around behind me, hooked her fingers in the waistband of my panties, hesitated for just a beat before she quickly pulled them down to my thighs. Several of the women gasped audibly. Others started to laugh.
"Oh that's adorable. Where do you go for your waxing, sweetie?" Marci reached around and grabbed my balls. "Look he shaves these too. Oooh, sexy." and she slid her hand to my cock and gave it a few gentle strokes.
At the same time, she ground her hips into my butt. Despite the shame and humiliation and self-pity I was feeling, or maybe because of it, I was getting aroused! I had a group of women gathered around me and one was actually playing with my cock and balls. Who wouldn't get excited?
Then Betsy Stephens joined in again, "Oh, I think he likes being humiliated, look at her cute little clit just swell right up."
Marci continued to fondle my penis, assuring that it wouldn't do anything but swell right up. What a strange gathering. There in the middle was... me. By now, my pants were down around my ankles, I was holding the front of my shirt up with my hands, my silky peach panties were around my thighs, and a girl was standing behind me fondling my cock and rubbing herself on my back. Five other women formed a tight circle, all leaning in to get a better look. One, Cynthia, stood to the side with a decidedly amused, but satisfied look on her face.
"Are you a transsexual?"
That snapped me back down to earth. I slowly refocused my eyes to the reality in front of me. I had been wondering about that forever. Sometimes I thought so, sometimes, I couldn't tell. I looked up in wonderment. Marci's hand stopped for a moment, but she didn't let go of me.
"Maybe we should help him come out, to transition," said Kathleen, I couldn't believe she'd say anything. "Maybe he's like one of those guys on Jerry Springer.
"That's it," now Marci had jumped in. "He wants to be a girl but he's afraid. Lord knows he's afraid of everything else." She snorted her derision.
"Is that it sweetie?" Asked Cynthia now, sweetly sarcastic, "do you want us to help you become a girl? Do you want to be a little prissy girl for us?"
She started to laugh. So did everyone else. The laughter overwhelmed me and I felt like I was shrinking into insignificance.
For the second time in just a few moments, time seemed to stand still in the room. The sound of laughter rocketed through my head and my crying redoubled. For a moment I got nauseous. Then a long-suppressed memory came flooding back. I wasn't in a midtown office surrounded by a group of women; I was in the back of the locker room in 10th grade. I was trapped by a group of larger boys who found me a convenient target. They were laughing at me just like the women laughed now. I was wearing panties then too, but the boys didn't know that. I knew if they found out they would kill me.
"Look at him crying, what a baby. Nobody even touched him."
"He's not a baby, he's too big, but he's not a boy, he's too small. He must be a girl."
Oh god, they must know.
"Say it!" they chanted at me, "say it, say it, say it!"
Then someone I never even saw sunk his fist into my midsection. I doubled over onto the floor, gasping for air. They huddled over me.
"Say it. Say it. Say it." Someone kicked me in the back, then again in my arms, which were clenched over my stomach. I had to keep them from finding out.
"I'm a girl!" I blurted out without looking up. "Are you happy now, I said it. I'm a girl."
"You're worse than girl, you're a faggot sissy." One more kick banged off my ribs, and then, "come on, let's get out of here, this stinking little pansy makes me sick."
I lay curled up in a ball for awhile until I caught my breath and stopped crying. Then I realized I was in my office, not my school, and that it was now grown women who were laughing at me, not teenaged bullies. Now, finally, after all these years, my panties had been exposed.
"I think he would be cute." It was Kathleen again, "probably a lot nicer to us too."
"Well, we'll have to think about that. It's time to go back to work," said Cynthia who was taking over. "I'm sure that no matter what he becomes, he'll be a lot better behaved than he used to be. Won't you sweetie?" She lifted my chin with her hand and stared coldly into my eyes.
"Yes Ma'am."
"Shouldn't he be helping out with the break room now?"
"No," Cynthia replied dryly, "he won't be helping out." Groans arose from the crowd and she waited for them to die down. "He'll be taking care of it all by himself from now on." The groans turned to cheers and laughter.
"Well I need coffee," Marci shouted. That was greeted with a chorus of, "me toos."
Cynthia leaned towards me and said, "get them coffee, learn how they like it, you'll be doing it from now on. Let's get to work girls." And to me, "pull your pants up, you look ridiculous showing off your panties like this. It's not high school you know."
She knew! No, that's impossible.
Actually, it wasn't too bad after that. Getting coffee and cleaning out the refrigerator were about all I could handle then anyway. And besides, it gave me an opportunity to apologize to each of the women individually. A little penance never hurt any sinner.
As part of my efforts to gain forgiveness, I had lunch delivered to everyone. I served and cleaned up. There was still a lot of derisive talk, and some of the women grabbed me and fondled my ass, but after the earlier scene in my office, that was nothing.
After lunch, I started searching for ways to get into Bob Thornton's computer. Not having to hack the company system from the outside certainly made it easier, and by the end of the day, I had access to his computer and thought I might have found some ways to pin my crimes on him. It couldn't be this easy could it?
Cynthia called me to her desk at 4:30. "Listen Brad, sweetie, it's Friday so we get to spend the whole weekend together. Aren't you glad? Don't forget that you need to be at my apartment at 7:00. Get your cute little pantied butt out of here and don't be late."
I hurried home, and 10 minutes after I had reached my apartment, the doorbell rang. Who could that be, I wondered as I peered through the peephole in my front door. Oh My God, I said to myself as my heart fell, it's Cynthia. I opened the door with my heart thudding in my chest.
"Hi there sweetie, glad to see me?" She gave me a thousand-watt smile as she sauntered into my living room, kissing me on the cheek as she passed by.
"Holy shit!" This is gorgeous, she said with real wonder in her voice.
I had inherited this condominium from my aunt just after I had gone to work at North State. It was in an older building that had been rent controlled, but beautifully maintained. The mortgage was paid and all I had to deal with was the upkeep. I had six rooms with nine-foot ceilings overlooking Riverside Drive and the Hudson River. At night, the lights on the cables holding up the George Washington Bridge shone like strands of enchanted pearls. I had worked at renovating the rooms from the day I moved in. I had invested all my bonuses here.
The living room was quite spacious, the kitchen, set off from the living room by a long counter, huge by city standards, and my bedroom had room for a queen-size bed and a separate sitting area. Most amazingly, it had a walk in closet. I must say that I have good taste, and it showed. I really liked antiques and most of the pieces were wood, many from the late 1800s. I also like rich primary colors, especially deep green, so all the fabrics echoed that theme. Also, I was very neat. There wasn't a thing out of place, even the throw pillows were arranged purposefully.
"Where's your bedroom? I want to see your closet." There were two hallways out of the foyer and I nodded towards a short hallway that ran next to the kitchen. Cynthia set off asking, "where are your clothes?"
I hesitated.
"Don't fool with me you little twit. Don't even try to tell me you don't have women's clothes. You still don't seem to understand what's going on, do you?"
She stalked right up to me and put her face in mine. Before I had a chance to react, she ordered, "get your clothes off, slave. Leave the panties."
I hurried to obey and soon stood there in nothing but my satin peach panties, and the bright red blush of humiliation. If it had been possible to physically shrink, I would have. As it was, my cheeks burned with shame and I could see that even my chest was red as I looked down at the floor after undressing.
"Now, where are your femme clothes?"
"Would you like me to show you Mistress, or do you want to go yourself. They're in the back room." I nodded to the hallway on opposite side of the room from the kitchen.
She started off and then said, "Come with me."
Then I heard a gasp. I knew she would be surprised. My face flushed with shame because I knew just why.
"This is yours? You've got to be kidding."
I was beside her now, "No Mistress... I mean yes Mistress..." My voice trailed off and then added, "I mean it's mine..."
The two rooms in front of us were in effect a separate bedroom suite. There was a bedroom with attached bathroom, and very ample sitting room. These rooms were a feminine dream. Flowery print upholstery with a gentle pastel lilac theme, lace table throws, delicate vases (with fresh cut flowers) soft impressionist-like paintings and soft lighting. The wallpaper picked up the lilac of the upholstery and had a cream stripe with dainty flowers printed all over it.
The bedroom was a lullaby of soft pink and a pinky off-white, with lace curtains, a white four poster bed with a ruffled baby-blue Laura Ashley bed spread with red flowers that picked up the color of the walls, and gently curving white furniture. The vanity was well stocked, not only with an array of makeup, but with crystal perfume bottles as well. Small sculptures of ballerinas sat on several pedestals on the dresser and side tables.
Cynthia's mouth actually hung open and her eyes were wide.
"Most of the furniture belonged to my aunt. She had it out front and in the master bedroom. I moved it in here when I redecorated the rest of the apartment."
I was really embarrassed because the room was in fact an expression of me and my taste. As she wandered around the room, I felt like Cynthia was staring into my brain.
"I had no idea…" her voice trailed off and she was silent for a minute or so. "Go get me a drink, a big one. Do you have anything to eat?"
"Some cheese and crackers, may be a couple of dips."
"Set them up for me and then get back in here and get dressed. I assume your clothes are in the closet in the bedroom."
I nodded and when I came back to the bedroom, she had already laid out some clothes but was still looking through my closet.
"You don't have that much, I'm disappointed. We'll have to fix that." As she turned from the closet to look over my vanity, she noticed that I had her drink in my hand. "I've changed my mind about that drink. I'll be back in an hour, you better be ready when I get here."
She picked up a bottle of nail polish and looked over at the clothes she had selected for me. Then she tossed the polish over to me. "Wear this - toes and fingers."
Fifty-five minutes later I was sitting at the vanity finishing my makeup. My fine, straight, dark brown hair was well over my collar, but I had combed out a matching wig, which I simply adored. It was set into a cute flip that just bounced off my shoulders and it had bangs that covered my eyebrows. I liked to wear it by tying a ribbon at the base of my head under the hair, with a bow on the top, right behind the bangs. That let the long hair hang loose but kept it out of my face.
Cynthia had selected my favorite twin set, in a pale pink, lightweight wool. The first layer was sleeveless, slightly cropped with a high round neckline. The cardigan was only slightly longer with little pearl buttons running down the front. She had also picked out a midnight blue rayon skirt with tiny pink roses printed all over it. The hem was three or four inches above my knees and it flared out at the bottom so it swirled deliciously when I moved. Dark blue hose and three-inch heels that matched the skirt made my legs look great. I was pretty neat when I applied my makeup but didn't really know the kinds of tricks that real experts used. As a result, I wasn't overdone, but neither was I glamorous. I had clip-on earrings, a couple of strands of fake pearls and a half dozen golden bracelets. My pinkish red lipstick matched my nails and complimented my sweater set.
I stood up and looked myself over in the mirror, smoothing my dress down my hips as I stood there. It was easier to see a young woman than a man in a dress. Certainly, others had made that mistake in the past, at least in a dark bar. But then I was younger and thinner, and Rachel did amazing things with my makeup.
I was in the kitchen, putting the glass that had held Cynthia’s drink, which I had finished in about five minutes, into the sink when the doorbell rang again. My heels had never sounded so loud as they did while I was crossing the hardwood floors to reach the door. They were even louder than my heart, which almost filled my consciousness. I checked the peephole, took a big breath, patted my hair, and opened the door. Cynthia looked at me expectantly even as she was walking through the doorway. She had a two-suiter slung over one shoulder, a stuffed overnight bag on the other, and a shopping bag from the local market in her hand.
"Here let me take those." I reached for her bags as I closed the door.
"No, step back I want to see you. Walk to the center of the room and turn around," she ordered letting her bags slide off her shoulders as she spoke. She never took her eyes off me. I walked the half dozen steps to the center of the living room with my head bowed. My legs were feeling a little shaky. Again I took a deep breath, lifted my head, and turned to face her. I tossed my head back and forth gently to flip the hair off my face. I just loved to do that.
"Holy shit," that actually sounded appreciative. "Turn around. Let me see."
I gave a little twirl, the skirt flaring out from my legs. She eyed me up and down critically, and walked to where I was standing. She reached out and I flinched.
"It's OK baby," she said softly and caressed my cheek with the soft pads of her fingertips. "Straighten up, stop slouching." As I straightened my posture, I looked into her eyes. She gently plucked at the shoulders of my cardigan to straighten it a little, just like a mother might do.
Then she turned decidedly un-motherly. She unbuttoned the top button of the cardigan, slid it off my shoulder on one side, and exposed my upper arm. She slid her hand gently up my arm to my shoulder and then slid her hand right down over my breast. She unselfconsciously felt me up right through my sweater! She fondled my fake tit for a moment in the palm of her hand, getting its feel. "Ooooh, so soft, they feel real." She ran her finger around the nipple.
"They're pretty expensive."
"They're worth it. I may not ever let you take them off again... until I get you real ones."
I started at that, but she had a soft, joking smile on her face that relaxed me. She had really hit one of my hot buttons: forced to get tits by a dominant woman. I was starting to get hard.
She continued to run her hand down my side and over my hip. Then she rubbed my crotch. "Is baby getting excited? Is little dicky getting hard in there?" She massaged my prick for a few moments until it was fully erect. Then suddenly, after lingering a moment more she was all business.
"No time for that now. I'm hungry. I brought some dinner. Set it out. You may set the table for two tonight. I want to get to know my new girlfriend. But Brad Miller had better behave himself. In fact, I'd prefer that he not show up at all."
"There isn't anyone but Brad Miller," I said apologetically.
"We'll see about that, I guarantee it. Let's eat." Wait, I can't call you Brad when you're dressed like that, what's your femme name?"
I blushed and looked down, then looked back up into her expectant face. "Lilly," I said softly, trying to make the name sound as lovely as it made me feel.
She jerked her head up at me and scrutinized my face. For a moment I thought I saw the color drain from her face. But a few seconds after that she relaxed and said, "what a sweet name. My grandmother's name was Lillian, and…" Her voice trailed off and she got a far away look in her eyes. Then she shook her head slightly and returned her attention to me.
"But you're being punished. You'll have to earn the right to be called by such a nice name. So I’m going to call you Sissy. Now, Sissy," she said it emphatically, though not harshly, "get me our dinner. We'll have a pleasant conversation and then talk business later."
Sissy, oh no, she had to be kidding. It was obviously meant to humiliate me, and it did. For the longest time I felt at least a twinge of humiliation every time anyone used that name.
Cynthia was really quite friendly and relaxed at dinner, although she called me Sissy at every opportunity and I blushed each time. She asked me about my cross dressing, my taste in clothes, and the overly feminine rooms I had created in my apartment. She wanted to know whether I was a transvestite or transsexual. I told her that I didn't know. She really seemed to be interested and wasn't the least bit threatening. She even gave me pointers on how to act and move, in a very helpful way. I actually started to relax.
As we finished dinner, she said to me, "where's your computer?"
"Huh?"
"I know you have a computer here, where is it?
"There's a small office next to my bedroom," I volunteered.
"Show me." Then casually, "Oh, bring my bags."
"You're going to sleep with me in my bedroom?" I asked.
"I didn't say that. Bring my bags."
We walked through the bedroom and I put her bags at the foot of my bed. She was already sitting at the computer when I entered my cozy little home office.
"Open your browser." She said it as if she were asking to see nothing more revealing than a new tie. "I want to see your bookmarks.
"Huh?" She just stared at me for a moment and I deflated. "It's not password protected, there's no one here but me. Just open Netscape."
"Go do the dishes and then wait for me in the other bedroom. Put on something sexy for bed, maybe we can have a little fun." She leered at me for a moment, caressed the inside of my thigh by reaching up my skirt, and turned towards the monitor. "Now, GO!"
"Sissy are you in there? Come on out, let me see you." She had been on the computer for more than two hours. I was so anxious I couldn't sit still. I had changed clothes four times already. When she called, I was sitting on the white four-poster bed, tying to read Allure. At her summons, I got up, settled the pale blue, mid thigh length kimono I was wearing over the even shorter matching chemise, slid my mules onto my feet and headed for the other room.
I had taken the ribbon out of my hair, so it fell right next to my face, darkened my makeup, and added a slightly heavier perfume. Cynthia was sitting on the floral sofa, studying the Tiffany style lamp that stood next to it.
"Come, sit." I carefully sat on the sofa next to her and she swiveled around to face me. She took my hands and turned my upper body towards her. "Let's see, for a year now, at least, you have been doing your best to make every woman in the office hate you. I was getting really angry with you. Then I uncovered your little embezzling scam. I could send you to jail and ruin your life."
I winced and looked down, tears started to form in my eyes as I again faced the enormity of my situation.
"But I'd rather not send you to jail."
My heart lightened for the first time in two days.
"I wanted to use you to get Thornton. Plus, I wanted to punish and humiliate you for the way you have been treating us. Then, I discover that you like women's clothes and have a decidedly feminine side to your personality." She gestured around the room. I blushed through my tears.
"Your computer, of course, was very revealing. I've never read much about TG's, but visiting TG sites seems to be about all you do on the web."
"I have quite a few friends out there on the web." I opened my eyes and looked down at my lap. The lace bodice of my chemise showed through the kimono. My false breasts rose and fell thrillingly with each breath and the hair from my wig hung down around both sides of my face. I gave a huge involuntary sigh, cocked my head slightly to get the hair out of my left eye, and looked up hesitantly, lifting my eyes before I moved my head. I had to see Cynthia's face.
"Oh ho, don't you flirt with me."
"What?" I turned away quickly, but not before seeing the amusement in her eyes. "I wasn't..."
"Oh really? That coy little movement of your head and then the slow peek up through your eyelashes isn't flirting? If that's not flirting, I'm not a girl." She had said that with mock sarcasm, but then added more sternly. "Look at me."
I looked up quickly, quickly turning my head to flip the hair out of my eyes. She had that intense gaze turned on again, but her words were soft, almost regretful.
"You still have to be punished, and you still have to make up for the way you have been behaving. You still have to get Thornton. And if you fuck up, I'm still angry enough to send you to jail in a heartbeat. But you are about to have your deepest wish fulfilled. We're going to explore your femininity."
She reached over and fluffed up my hair, then she caressed my cheek, letting her fingers linger over my lips. I kissed them. She smiled.
"There's no way I could miss all those femdom stories you downloaded. Do you want to be a sissy-maid? Does that idea turn you on?"
I blanched and tried to say something, but my mouth only quivered a couple of times before she said, "you're mine now, the fact that you might end up as a woman, or part woman, doesn't change that. But instead of a slave, perhaps I'll have a... maid?"
Before I could even think of anything to say, she stood up and looked down at me. "And a lucky little sissy-maid you will be. Your Mistress is moving in. I get the master bedroom you sleep in there." She pointed to the four poster bed. "I'm going to drown you in femininity. You're about to go on a journey of discovery. You'll discover whether you want to be a girl or not, and I'm going to be your guide. But, and this is a big but, you have to earn the right to be treated like a woman. Right now you are in trouble, young lady, how you behave will determine if, and how quickly, you get out of it."
My penis had already begun to harden. Before I knew it, she had reached into my lap to feel it. It hardened even further under her touch.
"I thought so. Yes, this could really be fun." She leered at me lustfully.
"Come, help me move in. Then I may let you worship my pussy a little, like last night."
I woke up the following morning, Saturday, confused for a moment, finding myself in a strange bed. I had, of course, slept in it on occasion in the past. The mattress was a little too soft and fluffy for my taste, but very luxurious. Ummm... I stretched, thinking about last night. I had indeed worshiped Cynthia's pussy. I must have done a pretty good job too. She was so grateful, she got on top of me and fucked me until I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Then she threw me out of the bedroom and told me to bring her breakfast in the morning.
Suddenly remembering my orders, I jumped out of bed and ran quickly into the shower, before shaving, as closely as I could. It never occurred to me to dress like Brad. Instead, I put on some foundation, a little blush and mascara, and then lipstick. I carefully placed my wig onto my head, and tied it up with a ribbon, like I had last night. It was just adorable.
I put my breast forms into a silky smooth lycra bra, that held them firmly in the right place, but still allowed a good deal of jiggle, and then pulled a stretchy, white, ribbed sleeveless tee over my head. I just loved the way the ribbing on the shirt stretched apart as it passed over my fake tits. With, my short denim skirt, plain ankle socks and my white Keds sneakers, I was cute sexy (or so I liked to imagine myself). I hurried off to the kitchen to make coffee and prepare Cynthia's breakfast.
I put everything on a tray and walked carefully to her bedroom. I peeked in the door and found her sitting up in bed. She had obviously been up, because her hair was brushed and she had on some lipstick.
"Come in Sissy, I've been waiting for you."
I blushed upon hearing the word Sissy, but simply said, "Yes Mistress, I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, but there's no alarm in the other... in... my.... in Sissy's bedroom."
I put the tray on the dresser and grabbed a bed table I kept handy, because I often ate in bed while watching TV. I placed the tray in front of Cynthia and stepped back.
"You know Sissy, a maid should curtsey when she comes into her Mistress's bedroom. Do you know how to curtsey, Sissy?"
"No Mistress."
"Well, we'll have to fix that won't we?" She asked and then proceeded to instruct me on the technique she preferred for full formal curtseys and for a simple bob up and down for less formal encounters. She then proceeded to eat breakfast while she had me practice.
"You know, Sissy, you just don't look right with those sneakers on. Go get some stockings and heels.
"Are pantyhose all right Mistress, this skirt is kind of short for real stockings?"
"Sissy! How dare you question me? Do what I said. And put on the black pleated skirt I saw in your closet and your white apron. You have three minutes. You had better be back in here before I finish eating."
"Yes Mistress." I curtsied before I turned and left. I was getting hard again. I was back in less than five minutes, and Cynthia was just finishing her coffee.
She put her cup down on the tray, "Umm, that was good, thank you Sissy, for the nice breakfast. I look forward to this almost every morning." She gave me a big smile. "You look very cute this morning. Why don't you help me get dressed now, we have a lot to do today."
"Yes Mistress." I risked a simple bob and she nodded.
Helping her dress was a combination of acute embarrassment and sexy fun. I mean, she was a sexy woman and being allowed to handle her clothes and touch her body really made me hot. Acting as her personal maid just turned the heat up another few notches. I was kneeling in front of her to pull up her panties when she started in on me.
"Well, Sissy, what do you think of yourself now? The big boss-man, down on his knees pulling his co-worker's panties up into place. What would the boys down at the bar say if they could see you now? Next time I go to the bathroom, I think I'll have you come in and wipe me. Maybe I'll have you do that for the girls in the office too."
Kneeling before my Mistress, tending to her while she verbally humiliated me was a tonic. I had no idea why, but I felt free. I hadn't felt so light-hearted in years. I felt... playful. Cynthia had seemed to like me before when I was verbally playful, so I thought I'd see how playful I could get. I looked up at her through my lashes, as I had done the night before, and as soon as I caught her eye, I purposefully planted a lingering kiss right on top or her vagina.
She pushed her hips at me for a moment and then jumped back in mock horror and squealed, "Sisssssy, What do you think you are doing. That's very presumptuous, young lady." And she whacked me on the head gently as she laughed. To me, at that moment, her laugh sounded like silver bells. She did like me to be playful. I had a definite hard on under my skirt. Then she really surprised me.
"That will never do young lady. Get over here." She had backed up to the bed and then sat down. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me over to her, pointing to her lap with her other hand. I didn't know what was going on as she pulled me down, I thought she wanted me to sit on her lap. But before I knew it, I was across her knees instead and she was pulling my loose skirt up over my ass. She started to spank me before I knew what had happened.
"Owww! What do you think you're doing?' I shouted in surprise, tensing my muscles, getting ready to force myself up.
All of a sudden, I was home again with my mother. She spanked me on occasion right on through high school, and especially enjoyed doing it when she had me dressed as a girl. Kyle had arrived any number of times to find me in tears and my mother gloating. "Oh, your big strong boyfriend is here, Brad. It’s a good thing he’s so strong, because you certainly do need someone to protect you, don’t you dearie?" She spanked me for only one reason, to humiliate me. It was another thing I hated her for. I had sworn that once I left home I would never let anyone punish me like that again. Why was I thinking about that now?
Cynthia had surprised me, but I knew that she couldn't hold me down. As small and weak as I was for a guy, I was still a lot stronger than most girls, and Cynthia was no Amazon.
"You just stay still!" she shouted, "Take your punishment like the submissive crossdressing sissy you are. Don't you dare use your physical strength against me." Then more quietly. "Don't ruin everything. Things can be nasty like they were at the office yesterday, or nice like they've been here since last night. Your choice."
As I realized where I was and what she was saying, I began to relax my body, finally collapsing over her legs with a big sigh. As I was lying there I told Cynthia why I reacted the way I did. "Mistress, I would never hurt a woman, well at least not one who wasn't trying to hurt me. At my size being hurt by an angry woman was a real possibility. My mom used to revel in her physical superiority over me."
"While she spanked me, she used to taunt me by calling me a feeble little pansy. She told me that I should have been born a girl. She humiliated me like that repeatedly."
Cynthia responded quietly, but with authority in her voice, "You’re not with your mom now, and I really want you to know what it’s like to be overtly submissive. You want that to don’t you?"
She was right. I did want her to spank me and put me in my place. This was about psychological dominance; physical strength had nothing to do with it. "Please mistress, spank me. I would never hurt you. If I ever do, just call the police right away. I would never be able to live with myself anyway."
"You can count on it, Sissy." That was very harsh, and I cringed. She continued in a more playful tone, "Now, are you ready to accept your punishment for the crime of kissing my pussy without permission?"
"Yes Mistress, please punish me Mistress. I have so much to learn."
She gave me twelve hard swats with the palm of her hand. It hurt, but not enough to make me cry. Even so, I was startled at how small and out of control this scene made me feel. Cynthia must have understood this might happen because she told me to hold my skirt up and go stand in the corner while she finished dressing. She berated me the whole time, like I was her 13 year old daughter who had failed to come home on time.
Facing the wall, my mind ricocheted from one thought to another until I was totally bewildered. The last two days had been a whirlwind of the most unlikely events. I had literally lost control of my life to a strong woman, my fondest desire. Things I desired and feared, but had only dreamed about, were coming true. Is it possible that I am standing here, in women’s clothing, just having gotten spanked, and that I had a painfully rigid hard on? It was all I could do to not rub myself against the corner to try to come. Did this woman have a road map to my psyche?
While I was standing there, holding my skirt up above my hips, my panty covered ass and hosed legs facing back into the room, Cynthia finished dressing and then went into the other room.
After a while, she called, "Sissy, get in here." She was sitting on a stool by the kitchen counter, the phone in her left hand. I wiggled into the room on my heels and bobbed quick curtsey in front of her. "We have much to do but first, we have to move me in. Then we have to go shopping for you. And third, we have to start your transition. If you're going to be licking my pussy, I want you prettier. Do you have any jeans?"
"Yes Mistress, in my closet." I pointed to the master bedroom.
"No you airhead, girls jeans."
"Oh!" I blushed, looking down. "Yes Mistress, but they're very tight."
"Good." She gave me that big smile again. "I like my girls in tight jeans. Go put them on. Leave the stockings, panties and bra, but take out the breast forms. Put your sneakers on. Me and my sissy are going out for a while."
"Oh nooo, Mistress, I can’t go out." My heart shuddered with embarrassments I had been imagining for many years. I had never been out in the daytime before.
"Do you want another spanking, Sissy?" My hands involuntarily flew up to the cheeks of my ass.
"Oh no Mistress," I curtsied, "I'm sorry Mistress," I bobbed up and down again. "I'll go get changed right now." I took a couple of steps towards my new bedroom, my heart beginning to accelerate from fear. But then I stopped.
I'd have to risk it. "Mistress," I said as I turned, not giving her time to reply, "may I please keep my breasts?" My hands came up to my chest and I was cupping one in each hand by the time I was facing her. I did the best I could to plead with my face. She looked at me for a moment and then burst out laughing.
"You’re begging me to wear breasts? This is too good." She laughed again. "Of course you can, sweetie," she said with overly sweet sarcasm. "You can keep your breasts. But if you get me angry they're coming right off. I don't care where we are." Her laughter followed me to the bedroom. I didn't care. I was going out fully dressed as a woman for the first time in almost six years. The first time ever in the daylight.
Thirty minutes later we were at her apartment. I double parked my Jeep Cherokee by a hydrant and began to follow Cynthia inside. I tried to be a little feminine in my movements, but without heels on, I really didn't know how to walk "girlishly." I desperately didn't want to have to look anyone in the eye, so I didn't look up until I had opened the door to the lobby. Once inside, I stopped dead. I mean, totally dead, my feet stopped, my hands stopped in mid-air, my breathing stopped and my heart stopped.
There, chatting with Cynthia were Marci and Kathleen. They too were dressed in jeans and tee shirts. They were both smiling as they looked up at me.
"Oh, Sissy," they shouted together as they turned to me.
"You look so sweet." That was Kathleen. Marci just pointed at me and started to laugh.
Cynthia pushed her with both hands. "Marci, behave yourself, you said you would."
"Oh, honey," Marci said trying to stifle her laughter as she came over to me with her hands out, as if for a hug. I cowered back towards the doorway. "You're adorable!"
Then she hugged me. I stayed tense for a moment, waiting for her to strike again, but then I really got off on the feeling of her breasts pressed into mine. So I took a risk and relaxed into her hug.
She grabbed me by my shoulders, pulled herself away from me, and looked at me from arm's length. Marci had remarkably dark eyes and they flashed at me. "I'm sorry I laughed at you, Sissy, but for a moment I thought you were Brad Miller, that nasty old boss from my office."
Then she pulled me closer and lowered her voice, as if we were sharing a secret. "I'm really angry at him and wouldn't mind embarrassing him," Marci's voice got tight and picked up a hard edge. "He better not show up when I'm hanging out with my girlfriends." She glanced back at Kathleen and Cynthia, who both wore huge grins.
"Are you here to help Cynthia move, Sissy?" Marci asked light and sunny again, but really emphasized the "Sissy." I was too shocked to say anything.
Cynthia applauded lightly. "That was very well done Marci, a wonderful recovery. Let's get going girls." She emphasized the word girls and stared at me.
I curtsied and said "Thank you Mistress." She laughed and then hustled us all into elevator.
Over the next couple of hours we moved all of Cynthia's clothes down into my car and the minivan Kathleen had borrowed from her parents to bring her stuff here. We moved Kathleen's stuff into Cynthia's now empty closets. Cynthia was going to let her use apartment while she was at "her new place." Kathleen was just overjoyed about this because there was no way she could afford to move out of her parent's house on her current salary.
"You should thank Sissy dear, if she hadn't insisted that I move into her place to take care of her, all this wouldn't have been possible." I stared at Cynthia with wide-eyed admiration for her easy lie as Kathleen threw herself into my arms in thanks.
"Oh Sissy, you're so much nicer than that mean old Mr. Miller. What was the matter with him anyway?" She said laughing lightly.
Ummm... more breast to breast hugging. Brad Miller was taking a beating from these women, but Sissy seemed really to be in favor. Maybe this could be fun.
We headed back to my, excuse me, Cynthia's apartment. Once everything was upstairs, Cynthia insisted I make iced tea for her and the girls. "But first, change back into your black skirt and heels. And put on the apron. I won't have my maid wandering around the apartment in jeans and sneakers. The very thought of it." She giggled.
So the three of them sat in the living room and directed while I moved all of my stuff out of "her" bedroom and into "Sissy's." After my first trip between the two bedrooms, she called me over to the couch. "Here let me fix your hair." She had gotten a red bandana from somewhere and put it over my head, tying it in the back.
"Thank you Mistress. I curtsied and went back to work. As soon as I got an opportunity, I peeked in a mirror. It was cute and I loved it. The bandana pulled my hair back behind my ears and turned the ends of the flip outwards. I just wished I had earrings. Big gold hoops would have been perfect.
Later, after a light lunch, Cynthia invited Marci and Kathleen over for dinner that evening and they left. Cynthia then had me get undressed and took a variety of measurements around my chest, waist, hips and other places. Then, it was back into the short denim skirt, with pantyhose and sneakers. I had a cropped jacket that matched the skirt and the red bandana she had put in before just went with it perfectly. I loved the way my breasts forced the jacket to stay propped open.
The trip out was a surreal experience. First we walked a few blocks to "get me used to being out." My mind was overwhelmed with little details like the bounce of my hair, and the bobble of my breasts. I had to work to keep my purse on my shoulder. Every time someone looked at me, my heart raced and I braced for some kind of nasty comment. In fact, all I was got a couple of stares, a couple of winks, and a "hey sweetie" or two. Well, I thought to myself, this is New York City; there are lots of people stranger looking than me. In the overall scheme of things, I just wasn't very flamboyant.
At one point, noticing my anxiety, Cynthia simply said, as if my concerns were just imaginary. "You're my sissy, that's all you need to be. Keep your head up and your back straight young woman."
I went from elation about the way I felt to fear of where I was about 50 times in four blocks. I was light headed from the mixture of joy and anxiety.
Then we hopped in a cab and rode downtown. The first stop was Cynthia's hair salon. I froze as I began to get out of the cab and realized where we were headed.
"Come on, Sissy, let's go." Cynthia was trying to drag me out of the car.
"Yeah SISSY, get going" mocked the cab driver.
That got me out of the cab in a hurry, but not much farther. I stood paralyzed in front of the salon door. "Sissy, if you embarrass me I will make certain you are humiliated. As it is, you will have to be punished for your disobedience. Now get going."
So in we went. They obviously knew Cynthia because everyone greeted her by name. The receptionist looked from her to me and started to smile as if she were quite amused.
"Is this the little sissy?" she asked with mock sincerity.
"Yes Connie, you know what to do with him?"
"Oh yes, Miss Morrison. Everything's ready. It'll just be a few minutes. Why don't you have a seat."
I groaned inwardly. I had to sit in the window of a hair salon, I wished I could fall through the floor instead.
"OK Sissy, pay attention." Cynthia had her stare back on. I looked down as soon as I saw it.
"That's a very good instinct Sissy, keep practicing it. Now listen to me and don't say a word. This afternoon is the beginning of your transition. You are coming out at work on Monday. Not completely, but you will show some changes that will accelerate over time. Today you will get a new hairstyle, your nails will be done and there will be a couple of surprises. Do we need to talk about what happens if you don't cooperate?"
I just looked up at her tentatively and shook my head slowly back and forth.
"Give me your hand sweetie." I picked up my left hand, but she said, "no, the other," so I placed the right in her outstretched palm. "I know this is scary for you, but it's what you really want. In fact, I would say you’re lucky. If I hadn't discovered what you were up to and intervened, who knows where you would have ended up. If our controller had caught you, you'd already be in jail. Now you don't have to worry about any of that. I'm in charge and I'll make the decisions. I promise not to hurt you, if you do things my way."
I stared into her eyes trying to discover whether I could trust her or not. I desperately wanted to give myself over to her control, but I was scared. It's one thing to have fantasies about being controlled by a dominant woman when you are jerking off in the privacy of your own bedroom, it's another to have such a woman actually take over your life, and do it out in public. And this was all going so fast. As I looked intently at Cynthia, I had a vision of another strong, dark-haired lady, my mother. I shuddered involuntarily. If she was like my mother... I couldn't go there, it was too scary.
"Here sweetie, drink this, it will help you relax." It was Connie with a glass of wine. I was a barely able to whisper out a thank you I was so nervous.
"A few more of those as the afternoon goes on wouldn't be too bad an idea," Cynthia said as she watched me down the whole thing in a couple of gulps.
"Really," Connie agreed, giggling as she took the glass back from me before I could even look up. She headed off to fetch another.
"Sissy, I'm going to give you something that will help you deal with this."
She reached into her purse and I thought she would hand me a tranquilizer or something. But that's not what she pulled out. It was a ring! She took my hand and said, "let's see if this fits."
She slid the gold band with three small emeralds on it over the fourth finger. It got stuck for a second at the last joint, but with a slight twist, it slid gently into place. I just stared at it with my fingers spread apart and my palm facing away from me, just like a woman. I was stunned, frozen in place. She reached out and gently lifted my chin so that I was looking in her eyes.
"You're mine now. You don't own this ring, it owns you. Whenever you get a little nervous, just look at your ring. It will help you remember who you are and what your situation is. It will also help you understand my commitment to you. This ring was my grandmother's. I wouldn't give it to you if I didn't intend to take good care of you."
She enveloped my hand with both of hers and we just sat silently for a moment. Tears started to form in my eyes. What was I to think? This was an engagement ring! Even though it wasn't on my left hand, there couldn't be any doubt about it. But she didn't offer to marry me. This was something else altogether. I wasn't sure what yet. I felt like the ring was glowing, that everyone could see it, like the beacon shining from the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. I glanced around quickly. Of course, no one at all was even looking at us. My heart raced in my chest and my thoughts were too jumbled to be useful. Everyone could now see that I belonged to Cynthia.
"This will be nice Sissy. They're going to take real good care of you here. These people are my friends they won't let anything bad happen to you, unless, of course, you disobey them."
We sat together for about 10 more minutes before Shelly came out to get me. She gave Cynthia a big hug and they exchanged gossip for a moment.
"Hi Sissy, she turned to me with a curious smile. Let me see who Ms. Morrison is making such a big deal over."
I finally came out of my trance. All of a sudden, I felt like a bug on display at a museum. Well, about as big and significant as a bug anyway. I quickly hid my hand, but she was interested in my face. She lifted my chin with her fingertips and her smile brightened.
Oh, very nice Cynthia. This will be a joy. I think it will take about three hours. Have fun shopping."
"Bye sweetie." Cynthia gave me one of those fake hugs and air kisses that women are always exchanging so they don't smudge their makeup.
"Oh, don't pout. They're not going to cut your dick off, just make you pretty." She turned to leave, wiggled her fingers at me like girls do, and said, "ta ta." And she was out the door.
Shelly led me to the back and gave me a smock to put on over my clothes. She walked me to her station and gently took off my wig. Then she ran her fingers through my real hair.
"Very nice, so fine, and straight, and soft... and so much of it. I'll bet you never get the frizzies, do you?"
I nodded my agreement. My hair was fine and straight. It had never done anything but hang straight down. For years I had worn it in the standard male pony tail, low on my neck. When I wanted to dress, I could leave it loose or set it to get a little body. Although it was over my collar now, when I had been with Rachel, it was almost to my shoulder blades. Guys loved it.
"I've got just the style for you. You will be so fashionable."
"Wait a minute. What are you going to do?" I blurted out.
"Well I'm going to give you an everyday style so you can either look femmy when you want to, or a little androgynous if you have to. She didn't say anything about this wig," she held up the one I had worn in, "but we can wash and style this one too if you like."
"Yes, please," I said petulantly. I like this one, I think the flip is so cute." I was so nervous I was whining.
"It is cute. But Cynthia wants to update your look a little. She has very sophisticated tastes and she demands that all her girls meet her standards."
I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but before I could get it together to ask, Shelly had my head back in her sink and was washing my hair.
When Cynthia came back to get me a few hours later, I was a new man. I had beautifully manicured nails, not too long yet, but with a lovely oval shape and flashy red polish. The manicure girl kept gushing on and on about my beautiful ring and my soft hands. She did my toenails the same color and then gave me a surprise.
"Cynthia left this for you as well," she said. And she slipped a thin gold ring onto my second toe. "It will look sooo sexy when you wear sandals." I just flushed.
My makeup was simply exquisite. The woman who did my face knew all about color selection and shading and all those other things women need to know about their faces if they want to look their best. She spent a good deal of time explaining what she did so I could duplicate it, or at least try. And she plucked my brows into a frighteningly well defined arch, thicker towards the middle, and then thinning before they turned sharply down before reaching the outside corners of my eyes. They were perfect..., for a girl. I went from thinking that maybe I was kinda cute to feeling absolutely delectable. I was in love with myself. My ears were pierced - twice each. For now, both holes had studs, but Shelly kept telling me that I now had a huge choice of earrings, and that with my new hair, I would have ample opportunity to show them off.
I guess that was true. She had parted my hair in the middle and layered it so that it looked full. It hung almost to my jaw line at the front and sides, and to the middle of my neck in back. If I swept it from the front to the back of my head, it flowed forward again in a thick curtain. It might have been unisex, but not in combination with my new eyebrows. I simply looked rather feminine, cute and feminine. Because it was parted in the middle, the hair on the both sides of my face was always going to be falling in front of my eyes so that I would have to flip it away or tuck it behind my ear every time I wanted to see out of one side or the other. If I looked down, it fell like a heavy drape next to my face. Shelly showed me how to use gel to brush it all straight back over the top so it looked kind of masculine.... to someone who was blind anyway.
But dressed and made up the way I was, I didn't look masculine at all. I looked like someone's secretary, or younger sister, or girl friend. Sitting in the safety of Shelly's workstation, I was absolutely delighted. I virtually squealed with pleasure when I saw the whole look. I definitely needed dangly earrings. I couldn't wait for the piercings to heal.
When Cynthia came back in I was sitting in Shelly's chair and playing with my hair. She walked up behind me and put her hands on either side of my head, running her fingers through it as if it was more valuable than spun gold.
"Oh Sissy," she moaned in my ear, "you are just gorgeous."
"Cyn.... Mistress!" I was startled. "Isn't it lovely?" I leaned my head back against her breast. Then I sat back up. "And look at my fingernails!" I lifted both my hands and wiggled my fingers in front of her face. "And look at this beautiful ring someone gave me. What do you think it means?"
"It must be magic," said Shelly, who appeared from around the corner it's transformed you into a lovely young lady.
Cynthia looked at me with admiration. I figured this was a good time to flirt with her and try to dust off some old moves. So I flipped my head to the right throwing the hair on that side back for a moment. Before it could rebound back into place, I looked down and peered up through my eyelashes, cocking my head towards my right shoulder. By the time I could see again, my hair had flowed over my right eye and come to rest, hanging slightly away from my face.
Cynthia burst out laughing and threw her arms around me. "Don't you dare flirt with me like that, you little tramp. Shelly, what have you been teaching her?"
Shelly was laughing too. "I never.... Cynthia, she acts like she's still in high school, for god’s sakes. Can't you find someone older to take advantage of."
I looked hurt, at least as hurt as I could manage while trying not to laugh. They both stared at me expectantly, Cynthia with a cocked eyebrow, which said, this better be good.
"Well, I never had a chance to practice this stuff growing up like you two did. I need to brush up to catch up with you guys." The both renewed their laughter.
"Come on, you little trollop, we're going shopping."
That got my attention. I started to protest.
"Quiet Sissy," Cynthia hissed. "Just do what I say. Get into the back room I have something new for you to wear."
I stood up and grabbed my purse, then turned to her and dropped a quick short curtsey. "Yes Mistress. Sorry Mistress. I'm just scared, that's all." Shelly looked on in wonder.
Cynthia turned to Shelly "She'll be punished later. She just doesn't know when to shut up and listen."
She threw her arms around Shelly's shoulders and hugged her. "Thank you dear, you do great work." Then she turned back to me with an impatient look on her face.
"Thank you Miss Shelly, you made me look prettier than I could have ever imagined, scrumptious in fact." Then I took my right hand and pulled the hair back from my eyes, just so I could let it flow back in front of my face again. I leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"Now you're learning," Cynthia beamed at me. "What a polite little girl."
It didn't take too long in the changing room for me to get into Cynthia's "gift". It was a corset, a severely boned satin corset in a creamy off white color. Cynthia only took my thin waist down a couple of inches, but that made a huge difference in my figure. All of a sudden my skirt was a little loose in the waist.
"We'll just have to get you something new then, won't we?" Cynthia asked when I pointed out the problem. "Let's go."
In a few minutes we were back on the street and I was getting really nervous again. Cynthia just didn't care. We started visiting the boutiques and specialty shops that abounded in this neighborhood. Cynthia treated me like I was her slightly stupid girlfriend or naive little sister on her first shopping spree to the big city.
Only three of the many saleswomen and shop girls we encountered that afternoon figured out what was going on, even though Cynthia called me Sissy in front of all of them. Cynthia's enthusiasm was so infectious that only one of the girls who read me even bothered to torment me; the other two just went along with her. As if buying girl's clothes for a slightly dumbfounded and thoroughly humiliated guy with beautiful hair and scrumptious makeup was the most natural and fun thing in the world. Even so, the slightly condescending way she treated me left me feeling vaguely embarrassed all afternoon. Cynthia was completely in charge. Even while she was humiliating me, she encouraged me, she cajoled me, she swept me away on a wave of enthusiasm that I couldn't resist.
By the time the taxi dropped us off at my apartment I was emotionally wasted, and had spent more than $2,000 on shoes, clothing, and accessories.
We had indeed replaced my denim skirt with a smaller one. It was tighter and shorter. My sneakers were gone and I had a pair of clunky two inch heels that just made the outfit. And I had a pair of the cutest sunglasses. They were white, in a kind of a fifties style, with pointed corners. I looked like a girl from "Grease" or "American Graffiti." My feet were killing me.
"I need a shower," she said as we dragged everything upstairs, "and so do you. Come on, you can wash me."
"Excuse me?" She was inviting me to shower with her?
"Sissy, sometimes I don't know how you get through the day, you are so thick." She shook her head at me like I was a six year old girl. You are my maid aren't you? I really couldn't keep up with her, mentally or physically. She was already on her way to the shower. She stopped and turned on me.
"SISSY! Get your ass in here. When are you going to figure out what is going on? When your Mistress speaks to you, just do what she says. Come on!" And she stared that baleful stare at me. "I'm tired of having to ask you twice. GET IN HERE!"
I was really only a couple of steps behind her, but she had made up her mind. She sat on the edge of the bed. "Over my lap, girly. You need another lesson. Take your skirt off. "
So she spanked me again. Twelve swats, six on each cheek. Then six more for not going into the salon when first asked and six more for not responding more quickly when she told me to go to the changing room. Being an adult male, and allowing yourself to be spanked by a woman who is weaker than you is a strange thing. Cynthia clearly proved that she was strong enough to make it hurt though. But pain was definitely not the issue here. This was simply a ritualized expression of dominance and submission. This time though, she raised the stakes.
"I don't like you just lying there like a dead fish," she said after the first half dozen swats. "I want you to squeal with pain and kick your luscious little legs in frustration." She caressed the inside of my thigh.
I just lay there silently, trying to understand what she had just said. I can't just take this like a stoic guy? I have to behave like a little girl? I needed to put on a little act for her...while she spanks me?
SWAT! The hardest spank yet, I jerked my head around. She had a hairbrush! She hit me again. I yelped and both my legs shot up at the knee.
"That's it, sweetie. That's just what I want to see. The more you convince me that this hurts and you can't take any more, the more gentle I'll be. Does mommy's clever little girl understand?
This was to be a scripted dance! This had nothing to do with pain at all, except maybe for psychic pain. My punishment was to act like a little girl even though nothing terrible was going to happen to me. I figured I could handle that. After all, no one could see, right? So as she continued to spank me, I squealed and yelped at each swat and kicked my legs up and down like a little baby. The intensity of her swats diminished as my reaction to them increased. Instead of pain, acute feelings of humiliation, helplessness, and sexual arousal now swirled through my consciousness.
I couldn't take it. My emotions overwhelmed me and I started to cry. And as I squirmed around there crying and kicking, I discovered I could rub my penis against her thighs. Thank god no one could see.
But she was pleased with my little performance. When she was done, she held me lightly with a hand on my inflamed butt and said, "Did little Sissy enjoy rubbing his clitoris on Mistress's legs."
Now I was immersed in shame over my behavior. Why did I think she wouldn't notice?
"That will cost you." She hit me 6 more times, really hard. I cried for real. "Maybe if you are a good, good little Sissy I might spank you long enough to let you come some day. But don't you dare do it without my permission."
"Oh Mistress, I would never do that." I said the word "never" with as much exaggeration as I could get into my voice. She whacked my butt again and threw me onto the floor, laughing.
When we got into the shower, we had a wonderful time rubbing our soapy bodies against each other. The only problem is that I had to get my beautiful new hair wet when I went down on her. She made up for it though, when she slithered behind me and jerked me off with soapy hands. Then, once we were out of the shower, she blew my hair out for me. She let her lovely breasts caress my back and shoulders as she did. I had a hard on the whole time. I was in heaven.
Then she told me to go into my room, where I would find some packages. I was to put on the black lingerie from Victoria's Secret, and the white apron from Laura Ashley. "I know you like Laura Ashley," she noted with some amusement. Also, my new black heels. I was to let her sleep for an hour and then bring her a glass of wine.
When I got to my room I discovered how she had spent the time while I was in the salon. There were at least a dozen shopping bags piled by the bed, all from clothing stores. I checked one of the receipts. It was charged on one of my credit cards! It looked like I had spent closer to $3500 on clothes today! God, how was I going to afford all this?
An hour and a half later I was removing the wineglass from Cynthia's room. I was dressed in a new corset, this one in black. I had tied it snuggly, but couldn't really take my own waist down that much by myself. A beautiful full lacy bra to hold my breasts forms, panties and seamed black stockings, which were hooked to garters that hung from the corset. The apron turned out to be rather small, but all white and edged in ruffles all around. It had a short bib that ended right at nipple height, and shoulder straps. I felt rather stupid dressed like that, but really kind of sexy too. Cynthia had made a big deal out of inspecting and caressing me when I first showed up in her room, rather hesitantly. She had me stand sideways to the mirror and put each leg in turn up on a trunk, to be sure my seams were smooth and straight. God, was that sexy.
I was just beginning to get her dressed when the doorbell rang. Before I could even become startled she said, "Get that, will you Sissy dear?"
"What?"
"That will cost you another spanking." She went from sweet to angry in a heartbeat. Then she went on a little more softly. "Trust me dear, I told you that you were going to be punished and humiliated, that is out of your control." Before she could say anything else, the doorbell rang again.
"It's only Marci and Kathleen. They have a present for you. Now scoot."
Only Marcia and Kathleen? Was she kidding? Here I was dressed in nothing but sexy, black, women's lingerie and a frou-frou apron and I'm supposed to let two secretaries from my office into my home? Nonetheless, I sighed and started for the door, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor of the foyer.
I tried to figure out how I was going to deal with these two feisty women. "And greet them properly," rang out from the other room as I approached the door. I took a deep breath, smoothed my apron over my thighs with the palms of my hands, and opened the door. As I swung it open, I stepped back behind it so it mostly hid me from the hallway.
"Good evening, Miss Marci. Good evening, Miss Kathleen, won't you come in? I bobbed a simple curtsey, but kept my eyes down.
They both stood there in the doorway staring at me. "Holy shit," said Marci at just about the same time that Kathleen said "Oh my God." Neither one moved out of the doorway. Marci figured out what I was doing right away and would have none of it.
"Come out from behind that door, Sissy. Let us see what you look like," said Kathleen. I reluctantly let go of the door and took a step away from it.
"Turn around," said Marci.
It took me three or four little steps to make a complete turn in the three inch spike heels and I kept my head down.
"Look at me, let me see your face," ordered Marci who wasn't going to let anything past her.
So I slowly looked up, flipping my head to the side as I did so to throw the hair off my right eye. Right then, I saw two of my neighbors, Miss Marks and Mrs. Fellows, walk past the doorway and do a double take. At the same time, Marci stepped forward, grabbed my head in her two hands, pulled my face to hers and planted a big kiss right on my lips.
"You're adorable." She beamed at me. "I just love your hair." Then she reached around a caressed my ass and the skin between my panties and stockings. "Ooooh, what a delicious tush, and such soft skin."
My face burned with shame and my heart filled with panic. Not only was she treating me in a most demeaning way, but my neighbors were watching the whole thing. They were absolutely goggle eyed. What must they be thinking? How long would it take them to tell everyone in the building? Marci kept her hand possessively on my hip as she took a step around me. It was only then that she noticed we had an audience.
"Hi," she waved at them. "Isn't he adorable?" Kathleen stepped forward with a shopping bag in her hand.
Then Kathleen finally spoke, "hi Sissy. Marci's right you know, you do look delectable. You're one of the prettiest girls in the office." She said that with real sincerity, but I continued to blush furiously and refused to look up. "But most girls don't just walk around in their underwear you know. Especially when their neighbors are watching."
She turned on them. "It's really not polite to stare you know," then, after a polite pause, "good night," with a most lovely lilt in her voice. Only then, did she finally shut the door. A moment later she burst out laughing. Marci joined her, a second after that. Kathleen approached me through her laughter holding the shopping bag out for me to take.
"This is for you. So you have something to put on over all that sexy lingerie." She handed me the bag."
"What....?"
"Would you please take my jacket dear?" Marci had turned her back to me offering her right shoulder. I put down the bag and hurried over to her to help her slip her jacket off.
"So sweet." She patted my cheek, as I stood there astounded at her arrogance. "But your steps are a little to long for someone as girlish looking as you. You need to shorten your stride. You know, mince a little. What are we drinking?"
Before I could reply, Kathleen tossed me her coat. "Marci's right, you know. Now don't let me see another long stride out of you. Didn't your mother teach you anything?"
I curtsied, and said "Yes miss, I mean, no miss, she didn't." Then I clipped off to hang up their coats, trying to keep my steps closer together and slow my heart rate to a speed that wouldn't kill me. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, so my hips swayed a little more as I walked. As I turned back into the room, they were both looking at me with an obvious question on their faces. I minced back to offer them drinks, still reeling from the fear and embarrassment they had heaped on me only a few moments before. I dropped a respectful curtsey and started to ask what they wanted.
Marci cut me off, "What's that on your finger sweetie?" She said it as if we were in a conspiracy together.
"Oh! My ring...Cynthia gave it to me..." My voice, which had started off strong and excited, trailed off to a whisper as I realized what I was saying. I looked down in shame yet again and blushed furiously. Kathleen grabbed my hand and pulled it up so they could examine this object that now felt like it was burning right through my finger. Just then Cynthia walked in from the bedroom.
"Hi girls."
"Cynthia," said Kathleen, "He's beautiful."
They gushed to her about what was going on and where we were, how I looked, and....about the ring. I just stood there, looking like a polite maid, trying to breathe at a normal rate. In truth, I was too humiliated to talk. My mouth was as dry as dust in the sun, I was hyperventilating again, and I could feel my cheeks flaming. I was too scared to look up.
Finally Cynthia shushed them. "Yes, I put it on him earlier today. I wanted to give him something to remember me by," her voice hardened a little as she went on, "and to help him remember what his situation is." And then it softened, "and to help him feel sweet and girlish, and to remind him that if he behaves himself, this might be fun for him. It's going to be fun for me in any case."
Then she turned to me, "I'll take care of things in here for awhile, you go get dressed. I can't believe you went to answer the door with no clothes on. Have you no shame?" Her voice seemed lovely as she teased me gently and she gestured at the shopping bag as she spoke. And put the big white ribbon in your hair."
Well, as you probably guessed, the "dress" was a black satin maid's uniform. Looking at it in the mirror as I held it up in front of myself, I knew that it would probably come only to mid thigh, but with two petticoats, I doubted whether it would cover the tops of my stockings. It had a lace trimmed scooped neckline that might actually show the top of my fake breasts, and puffed up sleeves, which ended in lace bands that would go across my thin biceps. The big floppy white ribbon that Cynthia had mentioned matched my apron. No matter how big I made the bow, the ends still trailed down the sides of my face. As I held the dress up in front of me and looked at myself in the full-length mirror, I almost came in my panties. This was really too much. I was being forced to dress as a woman, in a maid's uniform no less, and serve my Mistress and her girl friends. I'd have a hard on for the rest of my life, if I just managed to live through the evening that is. How much humiliation can one person stand? I was about to find out.
Then a minor disaster struck. The dress was too tight through the waist. My corset would have to be tightened, but I couldn't do it myself. I would have to endure the embarrassment of asking Cynthia for help. So I took the dress off, put my kimono on and went back to the other room. I peeked into the foyer.
"Mistress?" I could feel the heat as my face flushed with embarrassment. "Could you help me Mistress?" I was whispering, as if the other two women somehow couldn't hear me if I didn't speak up.
"What's the matter Sissy? What's taking you so long? Speak up girl."
"I… uhh... I need help with my corset Mistress."
"What do you mean Sissy? Are you too FAT to get into your uniform?"
What else could I say? "Yes Mistress, I guess I am."
"Just wait for me girls," she said as she put her drink down and started in my direction. "Sissy we're going to have to put you on a diet." Her voice was stern, but her eyes were crinkled with glee. She must have planned this. Marci and Kathleen just laughed.
"He's only been a girl for one day and already he needs to go on a diet." Kathleen blurted out. I think even my back blushed as I returned to my new bedroom.
Ten minutes later we were all back in the living room, but now I could barely bend over and was panting to catch my breath. The corset had cut down my waist at least another two inches and I simply couldn't breathe from my diaphragm. It was so rigid I could only take short breaths by expanding my upper chest. Now, just breathing was hard work. Not only that, but each breath pushed my breasts up and out like they were begging for attention. Breathing was hard work and embarrassing.
But, glory be, I was the maid. My name was Sissy. Marci especially like to call to me. "Oh Sissy-maid, come here please." I was ogled, patted, coddled, caressed, hugged, humiliated, ordered about, instructed, corrected, ignored, fawned over, and laughed at. I was either the center of attention or ignored as if I wasn't there at all. I must have made a thousand curtsies. I minced around the room in my high heels, and reveled when they clicked against the hardwood floors.
I had to straighten the seams on my stockings at least a half dozen times. At one point they tied my ankles together with a couple of scarves to make sure I only took short steps. I had to bend at the knee because I couldn't bend at the waist and I felt so feminine when I did it, that I looked for opportunities to do it again and again. My hand motion, elbow position, and word choice were constantly criticized and modified.
By the end of the evening, I was really quite swishy. They had made me into a bit of a parody of woman-hood and I basked in my humiliation. They also made it a point to constantly keep me hard by caressing my penis at every opportunity.
Kathleen especially seemed to enjoy holding it, and at one point had me stand next to her for 15 minutes as she sat on the couch talking to Marci and Cynthia while she played with me through my panties. I was under strict orders not to cum, as if I could control it.
To make sure I was always aware of how I felt, every so often, Cynthia would stop me and tell me to describe what I was experiencing, beginning with the physical sensations created by my clothes and including the emotional sensations created by my situation. Each time my description had to include more detail, and I had to pay special attention to use more of the kinds of words that girls (forget women) used when they talked, like totally.
"I am the maid (I curtsied deeply). I am serving at a party thrown by my darling Mistress (I curtsied and threw Cynthia a kiss) for her two delicious girlfriends (I curtsied to each of them). I'm wearing scrumptious black patent leather heels that arch my foot into just the most erotic position, and sheer, smoky nylons that make my legs glisten irresistibly and slither over each other when they touch. The lacy black garters that hold them exert a constant tug on the stockings and whisper across my bare thighs as I move." While saying that, I put my foot up on the cocktail table and caressed my left leg from my ankle to my thigh, pulling my skirt up to check my garters.
Dinner was ordered in, and of course I was commanded to meet the delivery man at the door, and act sexy for him. He just seemed confused. I mean, really, who has a French maid these days? After I had served the "girls," I had to stand by while they ate. Only then was I allowed to get a bite and clean up.
When I was done, and everyone had coffee, Cynthia announced that it was time for the fashion show. She invited Kathleen and Marci into my bedroom to watch. They hadn't been to that part of the apartment yet, but went nuts when they did. Marci could not resist dancing around and mocking me with the femininity of it all. I must say, however, that they simply loved my new clothes. So did I.
Mostly they were work clothes, a couple of dresses, three skirts with blouses, and two suits. Everything was on the short side. There was a dusty rose colored suit, with a pleated skirt and tailored jacket that was just to die for. I wore it first with a cream colored silk tank top and pearls. Then Kathleen suggested that I take off the top and wear a camisole in its place. She was right. The jacket showed just a hint of lace from the top of the camisole that made me just shiver with delight.
While this was going on, Marci and Kathleen had snuggled up together on the couch in my lacy sitting room. At first I wasn't sure, but after awhile it was clear that they were definitely fondling each other. After 90 minutes or so, I had tried on five or six outfits and was getting into a slinky, high-neck, long sleeve red dress that buttoned all the way up the back. It barely reached mid thigh. I had put it on by myself in the bedroom and come back into the sitting room to have someone help me button it. The girls had been taking turns helping me dress, and took every opportunity to caress me while they were doing it. The whole thing had become a terrifically erotic treat. I really wanted to feel more hands on my body.
When I walked into the room, however, Kathleen and Marci were in a total body-to-body clench, their lips seemingly welded together. Cynthia was sitting in a chair almost like a proud mother watching her toddlers at the playground. I simply moaned when I walked in. This was as erotic as anything I had ever seen.
"Looks like the fashion show is over. You drove them crazy with all those sexy clothes, I guess." Cynthia looked up at me with barely disguised lust.
"Grab the bag from Saks and come into my bedroom." She turned to Marci and Kathleen, "Girls.., oh girls." Kathleen opened an eye. "You two have this bedroom, see you in the morning. Kathleen closed her eyes and redirected her full attention to Marci. Cynthia turned back to me, "Well what are you waiting for, you have work to do, let's go."
I left the unbuttoned dress on and found the bag Cynthia had mentioned. I'm pretty sure Marci and Kathleen never even noticed me as I walked past them out of the room. Cynthia was waiting in the living room, standing by the couch.
"Come here you little slut," her voice was so low it was virtually a growl. It wasn't too hard to figure out what she wanted, so I put a little more swivel in my hips as I approached her, lowering my head. She wasn't the only one in heat. I glided around her, swiveling my hips and shoulders until I was between her and the couch.
"Who taught you to behave so shamelessly? You look like you've been doing this all your life."
I tossed my hair and looked up through hooded eyes, my lips barely parted. The dress had slipped off my right shoulder revealing the straps of my black bra and slip.
"Please kiss me Mistress. I'm going to die if you don't touch me soon," I said as passionately and demurely as I could.
Cynthia lips curled back and she reached up to my bare shoulder. She slid the two straps down over my arm and reached around my back, her hand sliding between the silky material of the dress and the slip I was wearing over my corset.
"Me too, you slutty bitch." And she jumped me.
We tumbled back onto the couch her mouth virtually raping mine in her urgency. We duplicated the full body contact I had just seen in the other room, slithering over each other in feverish lust.
"You're mine," she groaned through our grinding lips. "I'm going to kiss you so hard my tongue will reach down into your throat and then I'm going to fuck your slutty little brains out. We groped, pulled, stroked and kneaded each other with such fierceness that I was afraid one of us would hurt the other.
"Oh Mistress, please fuck me." I was needy. The other two girls had been keeping me on the edge of release all evening. Their constant physical attention, along with the overdose of humiliation and eroticism I had been fed over the last two days had me feeling faint and sexually ravenous together. If I had my way, I would spend the rest of the night under Cynthia, hopefully at least part of it with my now painfully hard dick in her pussy. It looked like she pretty much had the same plan.
Then after a time, she grunted "Now, I need it now," and she rose up over me. She pulled her skirt up to her hips and sat right down on my face. She wasn't wearing any panties! I started to lick and suck for all I was worth. I wrapped my arms around her thighs and started to work my fingers towards her pussy from the back. Cynthia nearly screamed with joy when I got one into her pussy.
After several minutes, she started humping my face. "Oh god, Oh god, Oh god, I can't take it any more. I need a prick in me." So she picked herself up off my face, slithered back down my body, licking me wickedly while she did. She had to pull my slip up and panties down, but then she sat up over my penis.
"Hold it up!" I put my painted fingers on the base and pointed it at her pussy. She slithered her lips down onto the head until it was aligned properly and then thrust herself down onto it in one movement.
"Hnnnhhh."
"Aaaaaah" We both grunted out our pleasure as she wiggled around to impale herself on me as deeply as she could. Then she started humping me with wild abandon. Neither one of us was a screamer, but we sure did a lot of grunting and moaning.
"Don't you dare cum before me," she demanded as she withdrew to the tip of my penis.
"I don't think I can control myself when you are doing this to me." She thrust down and I thought every nerve ending in my body was going to explode with ecstatic pleasure. "Aaahhhhh. A couple of more of those, and you'll have every ounce of my cum inside of you, no matter what you say."
"You better not, you little slut." She rose up again. "You tease me all day long with your sluttish behavior, you make me so hot, and then you can't control yourself?"
She again plunged down onto my cock.
"You had better learn to hold out because my pleasure always comes first."
She rose up and thrust down so quickly that I thought she had set my dick on fire. She continued to pump, and as I predicted, I came about 30 seconds later. It was so intense I thought I might pass out. My body shuddered so hard, she thought I might be having a seizure. I lay there panting. She let me recover while she slowly rode what was left of my erection rather more gently than she had been.
When I opened my eyes, she said, "Oh I just loved that. Did you?"
"Oh Mistress, I'm yours forever. I never..."
"I know you never, and I'm not done with you yet. Get your sorry butt into the bedroom. Hurry...."
The morning found me tangled up in a long pale lilac nightgown with spaghetti straps holding up a lace bodice. My tush was spooned into Cynthia's stomach, and she still had her arms wrapped possessively around me. My hair was splayed across my cheeks and eyes. I freed a hand to brush it back.
I moaned quietly with joy at the memory of last night. I had cum three times. I lost count of Cynthia's orgasms, but in the end she had begged me to stop licking her because she was too sensitive. She promised that I could have at her again today if she wasn't too sore. Then she smothered my face with kisses for a moment, called me her sweet little girl, and fell behind me, holding onto me tightly. I was so tired by that point that I fell asleep about a minute later. It was now 10:00 in the morning, but only about six hours after we had fallen asleep.
I was sure that I was in love, I would do anything for this woman. If it meant being a submissive transsexual, that was fine. I was rather fond of my penis, but if she had asked me to cut it off when she woke up that morning, I’m sure I would have.
I was a little puzzled about something Cynthia had said while she had been riding me to my second orgasm. This time she had come first and was furiously working on her next orgasm while she humped up and down on top of me. She had apparently mistaken me for an old lover. Although she didn't use any names, she said that she knew it would be this good and she was so angry with me for blowing it. She was almost in tears when she said this, but pumping up and down on me with wild abandon. I was completely confused, then and now, about what was going on. But last night I was too full of lust to care and this morning it was simply a strange memory.
I gently freed myself from her grasp and slipped out of bed. I wanted to do something nice for her and figured breakfast in bed would be a good place to start. I quietly went to the bathroom and showered and shaved. Then I picked up my clothes and tiptoed into the other bedroom where Marci and Kathleen were as oblivious to the world as Cynthia.
I wanted to put my maid's uniform back on, but I could never manage that without someone to tighten my corset for me. But there were all kinds of clothes lying around the room since we had never cleaned up after my fashion show.
I pulled some lovely dark blue panties up my legs, and twisted to get the matching bra on. Next was a long cranberry red broomstick skirt I hadn't tried last night It was made out of some kind of crinkly nylon with a pale yellow rose print. I picked up a long, cotton knit sweater that was an even paler yellow than the flowers in the skirt. Cynthia said they would go together beautifully and was good for my complexion. I dropped it over my head and wiggled it down around my torso without dropping my hands. Yummm. Nude panty hose and pale yellow sandals with a two inch heel were just right. I did my face up lightly, but made sure my eyes were dramatic.
I tried to tiptoe out of the room without waking either of the girls, but Kathleen opened her eyes as I passed the bed. I stopped and bent down to kiss her on the cheek, "go back to sleep sweetie, I'll wake you when breakfast is ready." I tucked her in and patted her hair. I loved the feeling that gave me, as if I was her mother.
I was in the kitchen getting everything organized for breakfast when Kathleen came in. She was only about 5'4" with green eyes and wonderful red hair that cascaded in loose curls past her shoulders. The spray of freckles that splayed out over her nose and cheeks made her look sweet and innocent. The dark green chemise that barely covered her butt and highlighted her lovely breasts with pale gray lace belied that apparent innocence. She wore no panties and was not the least bit hesitant about showing me her delicious body. I guess I was one of the girls now.
"Got any coffee?"
"What are you doing up. I told you to go back to sleep."
"I always get up early. I hate it when everyone else is asleep on the weekend and I'm up by myself. But you're up early too."
"I'm the maid. I have to be up first." I startled myself with that statement. Cynthia thought she was punishing me by making me into a maid and here I was claiming the position with a bizarre sense of ownership.
Kathleen came over and put her arms around my waist. She reached up on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek. "You're sweet," she said with a certain amount of wonder. "Why have you been acting like such an asshole?"
"I'm sorry," I dropped both my voice and my eyes in shame. "Thornton's been ruining my life and I haven't been strong enough to deal with it. I guess I've been taking it out on everyone else." Having heard myself say that, I felt a wave of shame course through my body, causing me to begin to cry. How could I have been such a jerk?
"Oh sweetie, I didn't mean to make you cry." She brushed the tears off my cheek with her hand. "We'll help you."
I smiled at her thankfully. I wasn't used to people reaching out to me and I certainly didn't expect this little girl, she was barely 21, to want to help me.
"Let me get you coffee," I said, "I think that will make me feel a little better." So we sat there sipping coffee together for about 10 minutes. I basked in the gentle way she spoke to me. I must have completely misjudged her. I thought she was a child, but she seemed to know more about life than I did.
"Do you think I should bring Cynthia her breakfast?" I asked.
"No honey, let her sleep. She likes to sleep late on weekends and you two were up late, weren't you?"
I nodded my head silently, a little embarrassed to be recalling the absolutely thrilling memories of the night before in front of her. Then, remembering where I had seen her last, I whispered, "very late," and gave here a knowing smile.
"Come here," she said heading for the couch, "sit with me."
So we snuggled up together on the couch. I was fully dressed, but she was mostly undressed. Her bare legs were crossed in front of her, her chemise was bunched up above her waist, showing off her nicely trimmed patch of reddish public hair, and her nipples were poking out through the pale lace that barely covered her breasts. She started to run her fingers through my hair in a most comforting way and I turned to see her face. The freckles that ran across the bridge of her nose and gently out on to her cheeks were simply adorable and her eyes calm and silvery green.
She had been waiting for me to look at her and as soon as my eyes found hers, a little spark shot between us. A moment later, she stretched up and kissed me. Her lips were soft and gentle. Her kiss was like a tender question, it didn't demand passionate fulfillment, the way Cynthia's kisses had last night. This was a languid pleasure I had never experienced before, not the insistent eroticism I was familiar with.
We kissed for awhile in this contented way and then she reached up and started to fondle my fake tits.
"Suck my tits," she whispered, "just the way you are kissing my lips now."
"Mmmmm," I dropped my head down to her chest and started to lick the tops of her breasts as gently as I could. Then I lifted her chemise from around her hips and pulled it off over her head. She raised her arms to help and just left them hanging above her head, which was propped up over the arm of the couch. She then softly extended her body down the length of the couch, exposing the whole of it to me. She had pale soft skin and not one extra ounce of body fat. There was a spray of freckles on the tops of her breasts, just like the ones on her face. It seemed to me at that moment that gentle fairies in a misty wood must have crafted her, fairies who were trying to make the gentlest, most beautiful young girl ever.
I spent the next 15 minutes or so working my way down from her breasts to her pussy, being as gentle and moving as languidly as I could. Then I licked and sucked on her pussy in the same gentle way until she came. It wasn't violent or dramatic, the way Cynthia had come last night. She just tensed her body for a few moments and then let it relax completely with a very long sigh.
So here it was still before breakfast and my face was already coated with pussy juice. But as I licked it off my lips I thought to myself that those fairies did a marvelous job because Kathy looked as innocent as a child and was just so delicious as she squirmed around under my tongue in the most delicate and sinuous way. She apparently liked me too.
"Oh, Cynthia was right," she cooed, "you are so talented. I wish you were mine." She just writhed around on the couch a little, like she was in the most comfortable place in the world and had no cares whatsoever. The look on her face was ethereal. I was going to fall in love again. She had bewitched me with the gentle beauty of her body and her sweet, gentle behavior.
"Mmmmmm," was all she said before she turned onto her side, snuggled up with a pillow, and closed her eyes. She quickly drifted back to sleep. I was totally captivated by her. I felt like I was in the presence of a fairy princess. I gently covered her with a light quilt, again feeling like an attentive mom, took off my shoes, and went silently back to my bathroom to fix my makeup. Then I finished the preparations for breakfast as quietly as I could and sat down with a cup of coffee in my girly sitting room to ponder my fate.
As I gazed at a print of one panel of Monet’s Water Lilies, I started to wonder where I really was? On the one hand, I was in a feminine heaven. Just the feel of my soft flowing skirt and the look of my painted toenails through my pantyhose made me shiver with delight. I had an idea. I tucked both my legs off to one side and under me, like I had been practicing. That's not a very easy move for a guy, but with enough stretching, you can pull it off. There, now I was even sitting like a girl.
My desire, no, let’s be honest here, my need, to cross dress was being fulfilled in the most extravagant way. And my deepest, darkest fantasy was being realized - a dominant woman had taken over my life and was feminizing me. I had more sex, joy, fear, and humiliation in two days than I could even comprehend. No spreadsheet could ever quantify all that had happened. My feelings had been on a tumultuous roller coaster, rocketing from heart-stuttering fear, to sexual thrill, to bottomless shame, to treasured feelings of being loved, and back, and back again, with such stunning speed that I was emotionally breathless, unable to keep clear thoughts in my head long enough to analyze them. I had always been so analytical that my emotions never really got out for very long. This was all new to me.
Well, they were out now, and I was loving how they felt. But the analytical part of me couldn't be suppressed for long, and it was trying to scare me at the moment. This woman Cynthia really was in charge of my life. The worst case scenario would be that she sends me to prison, which she can do any time she wants. And even now, in just a couple of days, she had feminized me so much that if I did end up in prison, I would surely have my brains fucked out of my head before I had been there one day. I'd be better off dead than in prison, where I’d probably end up dead of AIDS anyway.
I might be better off dead than going back to work too. I was going to be humiliated when I showed up there. Ha, if I’m only humiliated, I’ll be lucky. Even if I take off the nail polish and brush my hair back like Shelly had shown me, there would still the beautifully shaped eyebrows and the two studs in each ear. All the women in the office had seen me with panties down around my knees, cowering under Cynthia's thumb. Cynthia had said I was going to transition, I guess she wasn't kidding.
I almost started crying, as I understood how truly powerless I was to resist her. I've known her for four years, but did I really know her? I felt so vulnerable, so out of control. What would she do? What was going to happen to me?
For years I had dreamed of being a woman but was too cowardly to truly explore that part of me by myself. Instead, I had dreamed of someone who would do it for me. First it was my mother, who wanted to shame me, then Rachel, bless her heart, who did it just for the sexual thrill, but always looked out for my well being. And now it was Cynthia. From the looks of things she was going to go all the way with me, and in my soul I was both thrilled to the heavens and scared to death.
Would I end up with tits? Would I be able to keep my penis? Would I end up in prison with tits and a pussy? Oh god, I didn’t want any of this to happen, but I couldn't get out. I was trapped. Then an old saying came back to me, and I couldn't help grinning ruefully at the irony.
"Be careful what you wish for, you may get it."
Then I became aware of the ring on my finger. I extended my arm and hand and looked at the ring Cynthia had given me (And my beautiful nails. Oh no! One was already chipped.). Her words hung in my mind. The ring was to remind me of my situation. But she could have done something else to me if that’s all she wanted to do. It fact, she had. She had given me a woman's hairstyle, earrings, and fabulous nails. No, this ring was for something else, and she had told me what that was. It was to represent her commitment to me.
Was she just setting me up? I turned that thought over and over in my mind, looking for the evidence that would convict her. But there wasn’t any and I just couldn't make myself believe that she would do that. In the four years I had known her, I had never seen her do anything dishonest or betray a single confidence. Anyway, why bother with the ring if her plan was to set me up?
There was something serious going on here that I couldn't quite grasp. The giving of a ring is a revealing act. It says as much about the giver as it does about the receiver. No, it says more about the giver. Certainly more about the giver in this case, because I didn't ask for, want, or even dream I might get this lovely ring. I let Cynthia put it on my hand because, sitting there in the window of the salon, I felt I had to. But - she didn't have to give it me. Shit, she could have just as easily put an ugly steel ring through my dick.
She didn't have to give me this.... this really gorgeous emerald ring, which had once belonged to her grandmother.
I was almost in tears again when I finished that thought. I was suddenly overwhelmed with a tender feeling of being loved and I felt so...so...safe, so protected. How amazing - looking at the ring allowed me to feel protected when just a few moments before I was feeling vulnerable. Someone had given me a ring. She was going to take care of me!
With a thrill shooting through my guts I realized that's what this lovely ring represented. Cynthia had given me a girl's ring because she was going to turn me into a girl she could take care of. Then, a flash went off in my head. Did this also mean that Cynthia loved me?
No, she hated me. Well, no, she really didn't hate me, that was obvious from last night. But she sure was angry with me. Could she be angry with me and still love me? My mother was angry with me all the time, and she sure didn't love me.
I was getting dizzy, I couldn't figure this out. How could I? I didn't know anything about feelings. I barely admitted my own into consciousness and was clueless about everyone else’s. If only I could convert all this to numbers and put them in a spreadsheet.
I was still trying to understand what was going on when I heard someone in the kitchen. So shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I stood up, took one more look at my lovely ring, surprised myself by sighing contentedly, and headed for the kitchen to see who I could mother a little this morning. Yeah, that's me, Lillian Miller, mother.
Sunday was much calmer than Saturday. Marci and Kathleen left not long after I fed them breakfast and Cynthia spent the next two hours instructing me in "feminine deportment." Then we went out for a walk. I was dressed androgynously. I had removed all my makeup and nail polish, and wore my old chinos. But I wore a pair of women's flats and a stretchy scoop neck tee shirt with a camisole underneath, but no tits. Cynthia said this was practice for tomorrow. I think she just wanted to embarrass me.
As we walked up Sixth Avenue, I tried to assess what people were thinking when they saw me. But mostly, they just ignored me. In this part of town, which was full of artists, gay people, and general strangeness, I wasn't a particularly unusual looking person. We chatted as we strolled.
"For awhile at least, you're going to have to act just like you always have at work," she told me. "Definitely not how you were last night." I couldn't see her face at that moment, so I wasn't sure if that was an insult or not.
"All the women in the office will know what's going on, and you will, of course, be at the bottom of the totem pole as far as they are concerned. You WILL," and she stared at me intently, "treat all of the women in my office as if they were the most important people in the world to you. You have a lot to make up for."
I thought about that, "her" office? What about me? Well, I guess it is her office, when you get right down to it. It always had been.
I nodded my head in agreement, "yes I know, I will."
We fell silent for a half a block. I reached for her hand and she let me take it. I was holding hands with my girlfriend. I shivered with joy. After we had crossed 12th street, and gotten a couple of double takes at the intersection, she said, "But you will also have to deal with other people's responses to your new, more feminine look. What are you going to say when someone asks about your hair, or the earrings?"
"That I have a new girlfriend and she did this to me?"
She laughed briefly. "That's cute, Sissy. And it might be OK, except for Thornton. You're going to have to tell him the truth."
"What!?"
"Yes," she said, grinning slightly, "and let me tell you what the truth will be. You are a transsexual." My head shot up like I had been punched in the jaw. She stared me down. "You are transitioning. You want his help."
"I can't..."
"You will... Just listen. He's a misogynist. He hates women so much it just about oozes from his pores. To him, we're all stupid and irrelevant. When you tell him you are about to become a woman, that's what you'll become as well."
"No shit! I'll be lucky to leave his office alive."
"No, it will be easy. Company policy protects you and he knows that. Except for him, it's actually a pretty good company for women and gays. How do you think Marci and Kathleen have survived there for so long...and me?"
This was all too much. "YOU?" I was so startled that I squeaked. "You virtually raped me over the past few days. How could you be gay...a lesbian?"
"You really are naive, aren't you? I'm bi.... and in case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a top. I always run the show."
"But you're so feminine," I was babbling now, "you.... you're beautiful, you dress like...like...like a sexy woman."
"Yes, don't I? I’m glad you think so. Sissy, Helllooo?" She knocked gently on my forehead with her knuckles, as if it were a door. "Is there any intelligent life in there? I thought you were smarter than that. Life isn't made up of stereotypes. I like being a woman. I love feeling pretty and sexy. I like sex with some men, but I LOVE sex with feminine women. And you, my little flower, you, who are about to become my Lilly, you, my submissive, transsexual boyfriend, right now I love sex with you. So what does that make you...?"
She grabbed my face in both hands and kissed me violently on the lips for a few moments and then pulled back. "Whatever it makes you, you make me so hot I...I..."
And she kissed me again, as if I was air and she hadn’t had a breath in five minutes. I twined my arms around her neck and held onto her head for dear life.
When she broke the kiss, a few couples on the sidewalk were watching us. I didn't care. "Oh Cynthia," I whispered hoarsely, "it makes me whatever you want me to be. I'll do anything for you. Just kiss me like that again." She did. Our small audience applauded appreciatively. I heard a female voice behind me shout,
"Way to go girls."
Girls, indeed, I could live with that.
We walked hand in hand to the Starbuck's on the next block and sat at one of the tables on the sidewalk. Over lattes, she laid things out for me. "Here's what's going to happen with Thornton, she said quietly. "He already doesn't like you because you threaten him."
"Me," I squeaked, "threaten him?"
"Yes you moron. You're more intelligent than he is. He has to depend on you for creative analyses. He hates that, but he doesn't dare give it up. You're just too good with numbers." She smiled at me like a proud mom; I blushed and looked away.
"Do you ever watch the nature shows on TV? You know how the chimps run around, wave their hands and beat the ground to try to scare each other? That's Thornton with you. The women in the company think he's hilarious, such obvious macho bluster and posturing." She giggled for a few moments, obviously remembering some little scene she wasn't going to let me in on.
"He wants to dominate you, completely humble you, so your ability will be at his beck and call, but so you, the person, will never be able to stand up to him. You're going to help him think he's achieved that goal by making yourself into the least threatening and most disposable kind of person he can imagine, a girl. And you’re going to be a girl who is easy to boss around, to boot."
I looked at her, dumbfounded. How could she possibly know all this?
"At first, on the surface, he's going to be supportive. But I've seen people like him before. He has no regard for women..."
"He has no regard for anyone."
"Right, but even less for women than men. He will believe he owns you. He'll think he can do anything he wants to you. You've seen the way he treats Tammy haven’t you? He'll believe that you're too helpless to resist him. Then he's going to begin to degrade you verbally, and almost certainly try to take advantage of you sexually. He wants you cowed and submissive. How better to do that than to have you service him sexually? He's clever, but not smart. That's how you're going to be able to trap him."
How I was going to be able to trap him? She had to be kidding. I didn't even know how I was going to get through the taunts I was sure to receive over the next few weeks. Thinking about trapping Thornton was way beyond my current ability, so I changed the subject.
"Did you mean it when you said you loved me when we were on 12th street?"
"I said I love to make love to you."
I knew what she had said, I was just testing her, put I pushed on. "I love you."
"You're so sweet," she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, then tenderly and for quite a few moments on the lips, "but you don't love me, you love being dominated by me and making love to me. You don't really know who I am yet. You may end up hating me before all of this is over."
My eyes widened in shock. "Never...I could never hate you...."
She went on as if I hadn't said anything. "And I don't know you yet." I know there are things about you that I adore, and you are great fun in bed," she licked her lips provocatively, "and you can be as sweet and attentive as anyone I ever met. I could love someone who's like that." Then she looked at me like I had just stolen her purse, and whacked me gently on the side of the head with a hand full of napkins. "But you can also be a thoughtless asshole who mistreats people and shows no empathy for them whatsoever. That's who you've been for more than a year. I could never love anyone like that."
Tears started to fill my eyes yet again. I’d cried more in the last few days than in the last few years. She went on. "Could you love someone like the Cynthia who took over your life and humiliated you in front of the entire office last week? How do you know I won't do it again?"
Now I was crying softly. I was beginning to lose all the hope I had gained since Cynthia first saw me dressed only two days ago. "Because I'll never again behave like I did over the past year. That's not me. You must know that?" I looked searchingly into her eyes.
"What I know is that you have a lot to learn about yourself and then we both have a lot to learn about each other." I looked down again, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
I had been fiddling with my ring the entire time we had been speaking. She looked at it. "Give me your hands."
She stretched her hands towards me and placed them on the table palm up. I put my hands into hers so our palms touched. Hers were so soft and smooth, and for some reason seemed touchingly warm. The ring seemed to be as big as a golf ball and to glow with impossible radiance, almost like it had a life of its own.
"I didn't give you this ring without considering it carefully you know." She ran her fingers gently over the ring. Then she looked into my eyes. "I've been very fond of you since you arrived in our office. I've never been as attracted to a...male the way I was to you. There’s something about you that really touched my heart, but I wasn’t sure what it was. And because I know how dominant I am, I was reluctant to get involved with you, you were so young and so completely naive; I didn't want to... corrupt you." She grinned at me lasciviously. "And, I really do prefer women so it was easy to stay away."
She ran the tip of her index finger around the nail on my thumb, drawing attention to the way it had been filed. "But you know what, you might make a nice woman, just my type, perhaps."
I blushed and then blurted out. "You make a great one!"
She gave me a sweetly indulgent smile in thanks. You know the one, it's what a mother gives to a child who is really thrilled with something trivial she had done. "Then, when Thornton arrived you turned into a total asshole. I wanted to kill you. I was beside myself in anger. Not just because you were behaving badly, but because I felt betrayed by you. I had such high hopes for you and you dashed them. She looked at me and pursed her lips in reproach. She had such an expressive face when she let herself go. "It was only then that I began to understand how fond of you I was and how infatuated with you I had been."
It was her turn to blush and look away for a moment. She was a little embarrassed by this admission. She did like me! She was infatuated with me! What a fool I had been. I jumped up from my seat, stood next to her chair and bent down from the waist and threw my arms around her. "Oh God, I so hoped you liked me." I kissed her face six or eight times before she stopped me.
"Stop, you’re making a scene."
I gave her one more lingering kiss on her forehead and looked at her gently. I adored her.
"That's not all," she went on.
"What? What are you saying?" I was clueless. I fell back into my seat a little deflated.
"I'm getting there, just be a little patient." She stroked my cheek and ran her fingers through my hair a couple of times to soothe me. I was warmed all the way to my soul by the tender look in her eyes. My shoulders relaxed and I almost purred.
"I've already started you on a life-changing journey." She played briefly with the studs in my right ear and then traced one of her fingernails along the border of my right eyebrow, barely touching me. I felt hypnotized by her presence. She looked back into my eyes; She was much more resolute now, like she had decided something.
"It will certainly be very hard at times. I don't know how your personality will evolve. I don't know how our relationship will evolve. We may grow closer together or farther apart. But, you're the one who has to do all the hard work. You're the one who is going to put everything, starting with your job, and continuing right on down to the very gender you were born with, at risk. If I were you I'd be scared to death."
I gulped and nodded my head. I understood that I had entered uncharted waters, but had managed not to think about it so explicitly until that moment. I spoke quickly, again without thinking, "I don't care if there are risks. I love you, and I love being a girl. I feel like a butterfly who has just emerged from her cocoon. And," I let my voice drop to a stage whisper and looked around conspiratorially, "I want to get Thornton as much as you do. I've already been inside his computer."
Her face changed from attentively sweet during the first part of what I said to silly giggles by the time I had finished. I had hoped it would make her laugh. I just sat there looking proud of myself. Then I grasped her hand again.
She stopped giggling, looked at me carefully and sighed deeply. "I've told you already, the ring represents my commitment to you." Now she had tears in her eyes. "When you are feeling insecure, or lonely, or scared, look at the ring. It means that I am there with you with all my heart. It means I believe in you. It means I want the best for you, whatever that may be. If you listen to the ring, you will be able to hear me cheering for you. If you touch the ring, you will be able to feel my hand caressing your cheek. I think we both understand that I am going to take you for my lover and that whether our relationship works out or not, we will progress according to my plan."
Again I nodded. "Yes, Mistress, and I've never felt better about anything in my whole life."
"Our relationship I can pretty much control. I can't control what happens at the office. There, I can only set things into motion, the way a parent pushes a child on a sled down a snowy hillside. You'll have to steer yourself, and decide how fast to go, and when to stop. I'll be there to pick you up if you fall off, and to give you a hug when you get to the bottom. Other than that, you will be on your own. It's about time you grew up anyway. Whatever else happens, that will."
She had just described herself as my parent, and before that as my Domme and my lover. "Oh Mistress, you have just promised me the best gifts. I promise to work to justify your faith in me. I promise." We talked long into the night about all sorts of things. We carefully planned our strategy for the coming weeks. At least for the moment, I was in heaven.
Comments
Cynthia uses Brad's embezzlement to blackmail him; why ...
... is he never given credit for WHY he was embezzling and for what he did with the money? The point was made twice that he didn't keep any of it for himself, it all went to the women - that there was an account set up for each woman, and that they had received nice bonuses because of those accounts that they wouldn't have received otherwise. Cynthia discovered the embezzlement, she surely would have had to see the those seperate accounts. I've always felt Cynthia was unfair to not give him credit for that. The women, presumably including Cynthia, would have been a lot worse off financially had he not done what he did. (Although, if there was an account for every woman, why would he offer to cut Cynthia in; she already would be in?)
"All the world really is a stage, darlings, so strut your stuff, have fun, and give the public a good show!" Miss Jezzi Belle at the end of each show
BE a lady!
I;m with Jezzi
Cynthia never asked Brad what he was doing with the money, and who it was all for. Wouldn't that have helped to make Cynthia understand what Brad is like. That he felt so bad for how he behaved that he put his own life on the line for everyone else in the office.
When Cynthia was really getting to be dominent, I was about to stop reading the story for the abuse that she was handing out to a totally innocent person that was getting bullied by everyone. I can see why he would lash out for he felt trapped in a corner.
I personally hate bullies of all types. I didn't want to read further, but then you did something with your story to show that Cynthia wasn't that way after all, it kept me reading it and I am glad I did. I so hope that Brad tells Cynthia the story of his life too. then she can get a better understanding why Brad behaved the way he did and the abuse he had to live with as a small child. I still don't like the dominence part of the story, the physical spankings and such, I feel that is a bit over the top. I also know people get off on that so I will grin and bare it, I am just not into BD and SM and humiliation. I know it is for the story.
I can't wait to see the continuation of this tale. I too want to see the boss totally humilated and hopfully thrown into jail for his callous disregard to treat people like human beings, again coming back to the bully part.
Keep up the good work.
Hugs
Joni W
The worst is over
Joni,
This was one of my first stories. I was just figuring out what I wanted to write about. As you will see, all that silly dominance stuff is over, and if your experience is like others, the rest will fill your heart and empty your tissue box. =)
Kelly Ann
Jezzi, You have zeroed in on
Jezzi,
You have zeroed in on a small detail - an admittedly insufficiently conceived device to get things going. I could have edited it out, as you have pointed this out before, but I decided to post this just as I first wrote it. Suspend your disbelief on that and see if you can enjoy the rest. A good 100,000 words follow that scene.
Kelly Ann
This is a great story ...
... by a wonderful author. I won't be reading it here as it's been amongst my favourite stories filed under 'best' on my HD. I recommend it to all and I may even re-read it off-line to remind of its excellence. What really interests me is Kelly's mention of a new story. Now that is something to look forward to.
Geoff
Geoff, You are such a dear,
Geoff,
You are such a dear, as you've always been.
A new story will indeed follow this one.
Kelly Ann
A few years back
I stumbled across TG fiction on the net and after a bit decided to try my own hand. Along the way before I did and certainly before I commented or anything anywhere I read this one.
It is a longish story and it plays with a few cliches as it travels down quite a few pathways, some of them a bit dark. There are also a few very emotional scenes and most of one chapter is very teary. So this is an accolade at a distance from the reading. It is probably one of the dozen best stories I read over that time and still sits very high on the list. So I recommend anyone that wants a journey of self discovery done with style give it a go. It will not always be an easy read but ultimately it will be worth it.
Belated thanks Kelly
Kristina
Wow, the first part of this
Wow, the first part of this chapter hits like a hammer.
striking point after point precisely and coolly.
Building up to a crescendo allowing the 'real' story to kick start.
I like that.
Very promising :)
-----------
And then in the second and third part
It all goes to smithereens.
But I will persevere and..
Pray? Hope?
Ah, metaphorically speaking that is :)
-------------------
it's definitely a very well written piece.
written by a gifted Authoress.
But the 'attitude' perseverating this chapter is fast making me lose interest.
Which is kind of disappointing as it started so exquisitely well.
So?
Perhaps later alligator :)
But not now..
----------
Bookmarked
I'm set up to follow it to the end!
I luv it!
LOL
Rita
Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter!
(Mark Twain)
LoL
Rita
What a refreshing change!
Brad and Cynthia set the stage for a classic Fem/Dom tale...
...then it turns out to be much milder than almost any other tale. Sure, Cynthia is still dominant and Brad submissive, but they're having so much fun it's as though it's a low wall separating their two positions rather than the 100ft high cliff that is so typical of FF. Plus with Marci and Kathleen helping out from time to time, there'll be plenty of support to even out the rocks and boulders on the path ahead.
If only there were more tales where an introverted, repressed TG is more-or-less willingly guided into femininity by their partner / colleague etc.
As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!
A New Job
Kelly, congratulations for the 6000th read. This is still a great story. I enjoyed it when I proofed it and enjoy it now. Lesley. If you ever need to proof your stuff again, I would love it. You are a great writer and no, I did not mind when you redid stuff, that goes with the writing territory. I should do that more often, but unfortunately I am my own worst critic and can't bear to read what I wrote.
Lesley