Lance returns to work - and endures The Seven Levels of Hell.

Betrayed Ch. 06
by Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter Six: The Seven Levels of Hell

Monday was the most vile, loathsome day of my life — for no earthly reason
other than having to be me. The first thing I had to come to grips with
was who 'me' was that particular morning. 'Lance' had to put in an
appearance at the office. Back to the old routine, go out there and make
the big bucks. F Troop back to normal, Sir! Simple, right? After the most
mind-blowing weekend of my life — as 'Lisa' — it was anything but.
Identity Crisis? Don't even go there! This wasn't the Monday from Hell;
this was Hell — all seven levels of it.

The First Level of Hell was waking up alone. I had taken my beautiful
girlfriend back to her place after our erotic dinner.

"Baby, I have to go to work at the club," she had chided softly, "and you
have to work first thing in the morning."

I offered to accompany her, as I had done Saturday night. She just shook
her head.

"Not this time," she demurred. "This is going to sound really evil of me,
but I don't want you there getting hit on by guys. I didn't handle it well
last night and I don't think I would handle it any better a second night
in a row. I know I'm being such a hypocrite, but this — us - is as new to
me as it is to you. Let me get used to the idea of you being with me
before I have to reconcile you being... well, you know what I mean. I
promise we'll get together later this week, 'kay?"

She had had to return to her life, just as I now had to return to mine. To
emphasize the point she considered my condo 'home', Dianna had neatly
folded and stowed her purchased lingerie, stockings, and corset in her
dresser drawers, then helped me do the same with mine. Her gown, sandals,
and fur coat remained in my closet and her jewels were in my armoire. My
lover admitted the special sense of sharing with me at such an intimate
level — her things together with mine - gave her warm fuzzy feelings. She
had gifted me the suede suit, blouse and mules, observing how good they
had looked on me the night before and pronouncing them a small, inadequate
token of her love for me, which paled in comparison to what I had lavished
on her.

I did my morning roadwork on the empty, pre-dawn streets of Streeterville.
Blocks away, Lake Shore Drive was already filling with the morning crush
of traffic; the blue-collars who punched in at six and seven, as well as
the workaholic white-collars whose ascent of the corporate ladder
superceded a little extra shut-eye. The Japanese no longer had a lock on
the 'salaryman' lifestyle — nor its killing results. I showered — equally
alone, and feeling it — brushed my teeth, dried my hair, then sat down on
my bed and faced the daunting prospect of the coming day.

The Second Level of Hell was dressing for work. A suit and tie? How...
drab. The thought of a cotton T-shirt and briefs was just plain revolting
after a weekend of something much smoother and softer nestled against my
skin. There was also the issue of figure training for the fashion show
Dianna and I would be doing in fourteen weeks. She had admonished me doing
it right was a constant, everyday process, no different than my running.
Dianna had agreed it would be best for now if I did not attempt to wear my
breast forms under my suit. We would allow those around me time to adjust,
even as my body adjusted.

The whole concept of me as a femme fetish fashion model had seemed such a
ghastly joke when she and Paul had proposed it. Now, I hoped I would be
ready in time. No one at the office will notice the black satin corset
under my suit, right? Or the panties? Or the stockings? Or the silk
chemise worn in place of the T-shirt? The suede outfit, plus Dianna's red
gown, sandals, and fabulous Silver Fox coat mocked me as I dressed in my
unflattering business attire. I stared wistfully at the suede mules, then
slipped on my black Florsheimloafers.

The Third Level of Hell was my personal grooming. The earrings — all of
them — had come out the night before. Dianna had filled the holes with
tiny plastic training plugs to keep them open. With a little concealer,
they weren't noticeable unless you were really up close and looking for
them. My plucked eyebrows had to be replaced with prosthetics, attached
with spirit gum. We had purchased both, plus the concealer, at the
specialty theatrical makeup store. No matter how 'natural' they looked, it
now felt unnatural to me to see the low, thick, shapeless male brows. The
beautiful long nails, each attached with a drop of superglue, had been
carefully pried off with an orange stick and put away in the vanity. The
nails underneath were then lightly filed and buffed to some semblance of
normalcy (Ugh! There's that word again).

The Fourth Level of Hell would be making a conscious effort not to swish
in front of my co-workers. I had to remember to move like a man? I had to
concentrate on not making those small, graceful gestures with my hands as
I talked, or reach up to play with my hair or earrings, which weren't
there anyway? Cross one ankle over your knee, sideways, Lance; not
knee-over-knee, in-line. How funny is that? Think Victor, Victoria in
reverse; a man, pretending to be a woman, pretending to be a man.

What was happening to me, to my confident self-image as a man? Had I been
seduced so easily to "the dark side" by this beautiful, mysterious woman?
Or had that image been yet another carefully-cultivated lie, and Dianna
merely the catalyst to release my own latent childhood desires, just as I
had told her she had merely been the catalyst for leaving my wife? Was my
life falling apart — or at long last coming together? So many questions;
so few answers.

Oh, I would put on a good show. That's exactly what it would be; a show,
for the benefit of Management and my co-workers. I would be watching their
eyes intently, looking for some glimmer of amusement, or realization,
or... something. Hopefully, I would see none. Figure this one out; if I
aroused no suspicion, I would feel relieved — and disappointed. Place
index finger between lips, then thrum: beebeebeebeebeebeebeebee....

The Fifth Level of Hell was knowing the prospect of living this schizoid
existence faced me day in, day out, for the indefinite future. Even as
'Lance' walked out the door, Lisa's memories of the night before were
crowding out everything else. While we were making love, Dianna had played
with my nipples with her fingernails. That had felt so good! At the same
time, I had felt her breasts pressing into my back. In the throes of
ecstasy, my mind had played a dirty little trick on me. In it, those
beautiful boobies had passed right through my body and attached themselves
to my chest.

I thought back to our discussion of surgery, hormones, and other avenues
of transformation used by T-girls to achieve their goal. Realistically, I
couldn't consider getting a boob job or any other major, invasive
procedure — at least, not under the rationale of looking more feminine for
the fashion show. Memorial Day weekend was only fourteen weeks away. That
'hard ceiling' precluded the lengthy, involved process of consultations,
lab tests, the surgery itself, then the long post-op recovery. Why was I
even dwelling on it? A couple of weeks before, I would have labeled the
notion 'absurd'. There was also the issue of what to tell my co-workers if
I suddenly showed up for work as a very-obvious D-cupper — or more — not
to mention the other work we were contemplating. Still, the idea was
intriguing....

The Sixth Level of Hell had been waiting for me outside my office building
when I arrived for work. Susan had already tried and failed with
subterfuge, denial, badgering, threats and insults. Now, she was at her
charming best. The short, tight suit beneath the open trenchcoat was just
a little too revealing to be business-chic. The stockings and five-inch
stilettos were a dead give-away. Jeff Spencer wasn't the only one capable
of offering up the Big Play. The mercury-vapor streetlights on LaSalle
Street were superfluous when my wife turned on her smile.

"Sweetheart," she purred, "how are you? I'm sorry to have to corner you
this way, but you left me no choice. Look, I'm really sorry about all
this. I never told you about my little... peccadillo because I knew how
much it would hurt you. I didn't want to do that."

Funny; she didn't say it was wrong of her to have an affair in the first
place. Nor did she indicate she was going to stop seeing Jeff Spencer.

"You made your point, Baby," she continued. "You are still just as
attractive to women as the day I met you. What woman could resist you when
you turn on the charm — especially when you start pampering them the way
you have always pampered me? Let's face it; we are two beautiful people.
We belong together, just as we always have. Can we please put this silly
tiff behind us? Come home to me; I miss you."

She made it sound so reasonable — until you looked past the half-truths
and misdirection. My lawyer had advised me about this possible scenario.
Without re-hashing the Legalese mumbo-jumbo, it came down to this: if I
were to take her back now, knowing what I knew, it would, in the eyes of
the court, be a tacit acceptance of her infidelity. My iron-clad grounds
for divorce would instantly evaporate, leaving me the untenable choice of
allowing her to rape me financially in a continued divorce action, or
reconcile and become her cuckold.

"I miss you, too," I admitted.

That wasn't a lie. It isn't easy to piss away eight mostly-happy years.
Then again, I wasn't about to swallow this most egregious transgression on
her part, whatever her rationale. I wasn't exactly facing my uncertain
future alone, either.

"I promise I will give it careful thought for the next few days and let
you know what I want to do," I finished.

She squeezed my arm and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. I was glad she
did not attempt to hug me. Even through the heavy overcoat, that could
have led to a problematic 'discovery'.

"Thank you, Sweetheart," she cooed. "I know I can't ask more than that
right now. You have always been fair. That is just one of a million
things, big and small, I love about you."

Would someone please get me a shovel? This is getting really deep. She
gently stroked my cheek with her hand.

"I'll be waiting for your call, Lover," she murmured, smiling.

I watched her strut regally towards the curb and her waiting Lexus.
Knowing I would be watching, she tossed in an exaggerated wiggle that
rivaled Dianna's. She stopped abruptly, turning her head to look at me
over her shoulder.

"...and Lance?" she added. "She was lovely, whoever she was. Feisty, too.
You always have had impeccable taste in women."

I wasn't sure if that last compliment had been intended towards Dianna or
Susan herself. Either my wife was a very good actress or Jeff, as I had
surmised, had not revealed Dianna's secret to her. The fact that Susan had
referred to her rival in the past tense was not lost upon me. Fait
accompli; in Susan's eyes, the usurper stood no chance. Her towering
arrogance, heaped atop her other faults, appalled me.

Why would she even bother with this charade in the first place? Together,
the two of them would have everything she wanted; prestige, money,
security, and a big dick. Was she trying to get me back just to prove she
could?I would contact my lawyer as soon as I got to my desk, inform him of
this new development, and have him instruct the investigator to keep
digging.

The usual suspects in the office extended their bright, cheery greetings.
I walked into the wing that housed the offices of the firm's half-dozen
heavyweight traders — myself included. My office was one of the middle
two. Angie, our secretary, sat at a desk on the opposite side, facing my
door. In the two years she had worked for our group, she had been one of
the brightest spots in my business life.

To put it delicately, Angie was a dish: a five-foot, six-inch Latina from
the Northwest Side, with thick, wavy raven hair that shimmered with blue
overtones when the light hit it. She possessed dark, expressive eyes and a
voluptuous body that threatened to rip through whatever tight outfit she
wore on any given day.

That she 'overdressed' for the office, or did her hair and makeup more
expressively than most — by conservative, politically-correct Anglo
standards — was a given, and a delightful daily distraction to the male
members of the staff. If her overfull hips, tush and thighs (at least, the
female Anglo staffers described them as such) swiveled a bit too much to
be considered good office decorum, again, no one in our wing was
complaining.

Employee Relations periodically made noises, circulating memos concerning
"appropriate business attire and personal grooming" — no doubt egged on by
unnamed catty co-workers. Nothing had ever come of it and nothing ever
would on our watch. All six senior traders — with myself in the lead — had
sent a memo to Management, threatening to walk out en masse if any action
was taken against her without cause. Money talks louder than petty
jealousy in our world and the noises stopped. We kept a close watch on
Angie's performance reviews to ensure no 'cause' was ever manufactured.
Call it pandering, chauvinism, or whatever you like; we protect our own,
and we considered Angie one of us. How she dressed, what she did on her
own time, and who she did it with was nobody's business but hers, as long
as the work got done.

Although Angie flirted with all the men she worked for, she had always
flirted with me most of all. I had always, in Bill Clinton's words,
"lusted for her in my heart" and flirted back. What man wouldn't? In my
devotion to Susan, I had always kept it at just that. When my rumored
marital crisis had become fodder around the water cooler the previous
week, Angie had taken it upon herself to distract me from my problems as
best she could. Our secretary had been especially friendly and solicitous
of me — and seemed determined to push the edge of the dress code
'envelope' to the breaking point. Her 'distraction' made me wonder if she
might have more than business continuity in mind.

"Busy weekend, Boss?" Angie chirped.

It was impossible for my spirits not to lift in the presence of that
engaging, infectious smile. The heart-stopping tease was dressed in a
tight white suit whose skirt ended just below her knee. The tight skirt
accentuated her narrow waist and hobbled her gait, causing her to undulate
her tush in an exaggerated manner. The jacket had wide-spaced lapels.
Beneath it, she wore a fuscia silk blouse that was unbuttoned to the "V"
of her lapels. The obviously-braless DD-cup breasts jiggled sweetly as she
moved. Her legs were clad in suntan stockings, dipping to fuscia
ankle-strap pumps with five-inch heels. She placed her hands flat on my
desk and leaned over, affording me an unrestricted view of her chasm of
cleavage.

"Yeah, Ang," I admitted. "I have to say it was a really good one, too."

"I'll bet," she giggled with a wink. "You have that just-fucked glow about
you. A girl can tell."

I almost jumped right out of my chair on that one. Was I wearing a neon
sign around my neck, or what? I decided her comment had been innocent
enough.

"Ya got me, Angie," I confessed good-naturedly. "She was good, too. I
should know better than to try to pull the wool over your eyes."

"Damn straight!" she expressed. "So, not the Ex?"

"No, Angie," I confirmed, "not the Ex."

"Goooood," she purred. "That means there is finally hope for the rest of
us peá³nes."

I reached across the desk, covered her hand with mine, and gazed into
those big, expressive eyes.

"Whatever you may be," I intoned softly, "you are not a peon."

Her eyes seemed to melt — then adopted a more serious appraisal of me.

"Are you eating okay, Lance?" she queried.

"Yeah," I asserted. "Why?"

"Oh, I dunno," the lovely Latina teased. "It's just that you seem to
have... lost weight."

I did flinch on that one. Her smile didn't lose an ounce of sincerity as
she pulled her hand from underneath and placed it lightly atop mine.

"I mean, you still look good," she recovered quickly, "really, really
good. I was just... complimenting you, is all..."

She stroked the back of my hand lightly with her perfect, polished
fingernails.

"... and anytime you are ready to find out 'whatever I may be'," she
murmured, "just let me know."

She pivoted on her toes and made for the door. For the second time in
twenty minutes, I was treated to the sight of a lush, undulating tush
strutting confidently on impossibly-high heels. The fabric of the skirt
was stretched so tightly across her rear end, I could plainly see the deep
crevasse where her lush ass cheeks met. She paused in the doorway, gazed
over her shoulder and winked.

"I'll be right outside your door, okay?" she purred. "But then, you
already know that."

O — kaaaaaaaay! Well, I guess we cleared the air on that issue. Now I had
something else to occupy my thoughts.

The Seventh Level of Hell was the most daunting of all; attempting to
reconcile Dianna's overtly-promiscuous lifestyle with her expressed love
for me. Could I learn to trust Dianna, despite her multiple sexual
partners — especially after Susan had betrayed my trust in her? It boiled
down to the twin matters of honesty and choice. Dianna had been honest
with me up front — almost brutally so. She had offered me a choice; accept
her for what she was, or not at all. But did she accept me?Suddenly
Chantal's words popped into my head:

Dianna loves to fuck... but that is just sex. When it comes to love, Miss
Dianna is a hard-core lipstick lesbian. That girl is crazy for you,
Sweetie!

Having experienced that mindset from the other side and witnessing,
first-hand, Dianna's poignant reaction to my 'date' with Daniel, I knew
exactly what Chantal was talking about — more so than 'Lance' alone ever
could. I had certainly been attractive enough to Daniel — and probably
would be to other men as well. It was a 'trust' issue, all right; trusting
myself to be desirable enough that Dianna could have sex with someone
else, but love me and me alone. If anything was going to sabotage my
relationship with her, it would be my own petty insecurity, not one of her
anonymous sexual partners.

A cold chill gripped the pit of my stomach. Was I holding Susan to an
unfair double standard? The circle came around once more to the issues of
honesty and choice. Had Susan been honest with me about her needs, as
Dianna had? Not even close. Susan had, not an hour before, offered me a
choice, but it was a choice in name only and only because I had forced her
hand. Dianna had even predicted it:

And if she came to you tomorrow and said the same things we said tonight,
what then? Better late than never.

Susan had not said the same things. She had dangled attractive bait before
my eyes; what would, for her, amount to a get-out-of-jail-free card. Any
'contrition', it was clear, was expected to come from me, not her. She had
not even hinted she would end her affair with Jeff Spencer. Fool me once,
shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. If I gave her a taste of her own
medicine, as either Lance or Lisa, she would likely turn around and
divorce me — and take me to the cleaners.

Of course, STD's are an issue when multiple partners are involved, but a
manageable one if proper precaution is taken. Dishonesty is not
manageable. Lack of trust is a plague on all houses. Could I trust Susan
again? No way, José. Could I trust Dianna? Trust has to be earned over
time, but I perceived she had been honest with me. That goes a long way
towards establishing trust.

The rest of the morning went quickly. I was following CNN closely. The
OPEC ministers were meeting in Vienna. I was anticipating them making a
move on oil production. I wasn't sure which way it would go, but I had
committed the company to a hedge position in a dangerous way. There had
been rumors circulating since the previous Thursday of a major new
offensive by U.S. forces in the Sunni Triangle When I heard that, my
instincts had gone into overdrive. I called our people on the floor of the
Merc and issued a buy order for all the Number Two Arabian Crude contracts
they could get their hands on. My job and reputation rested on the
accuracy of my instincts.

At eleven o'clock Monday morning, there was word an errant U.S. air strike
had partially demolished the Imam Ali Shrine in Najaf — the holiest
Shi'ite site in Iraq. Within the hour, there was word out of Vienna; OPEC
would be reducing worldwide production by a combined three million barrels
a day. The price of Arabian Crude futures took off for Mars — and we were
in the driver's seat! By one o'clock, my instincts had netted the firm and
its clients one hundred twenty-five million dollars and the amount was
still rising. All in a day's work. I made a note that it might be a good
idea to invest part of my commission in a hybrid car - and gave a little
chuckle for all those SUV owners who would soon be taking the CTA or
Metrato work.

Angie stuck her head in the door.

"Ready?" she inquired.

"For...?" I questioned, puzzled.

"Lunch!" she gushed. I've been following your latest exploits; we all
have. The word is, Rob Nelson and Jim Grant are about to nominate you for
Sainthood. I'm taking you to lunch before they usurp my prerogative. I may
not get another chance before you leave to start your own firm."

This was news. My commission on this trade would be enough to put me over
the top in my quest to obtain my own trading seat on the Merc. Getting a
seat was very much like joining a country club; you had to be 'sponsored'
by existing members. If Rob and Jim were willing to give me their
endorsement.... Robert Nelson was our Chairman and Chief Executive
Officer. James Grant was President and Chief Operating Officer. They had
started from much the same position I was in now — working for someone
else, then acquiring their own seats. The long hours of empire-building
had taken its toll on both their personal lives. Jim was divorced. Rob had
never married. The company was their wife, Mistress, and taskmaster. They
had reached the pinnacle of success, yet remained salarymen to the core.

"Not to worry," I chirped brightly, "if I leave, I will drag you out the
door with me — kicking and screaming, if I have to."

The comely Latina approached me, smiling coyly. She stood before me, bent
over at the waist, placing her face right in front of mine. She gazed into
my eyes, softly stroking my cheek with one hand

"I like kicking and screaming," she cooed, "but you won't have to drag me
anywhere — unless you are into that sort of thing."

She pulled me from my chair and slipped her arm through mine. In her
heels, she was actually taller than me.

"Are you sure you can afford this?" I asked.

"Absolutely!" she breezed. "The sky's the limit — whatever your expense
account allows."

"Gee, thanks." I responded dryly.

"Shut up and call a cab," she growled with mock menace.

As Yogi Berra said, it seemed like Déjá  vu all over again. Angie suggested
we try Morton's new downtown location on Wacker Drive. The 'in' joke was,
the "T" in the neon marquee was already burnt out. At night, everyone in
the Loop was having a good laugh at the illuminated result. My companion
raised one eyebrow inquiringly when I seconded her order for a Cobb salad.

"I've been eating," I reiterated. "I just haven't been eating right. I
need more roughage in my diet."

"Roughage, huh?" Angie smirked. I'll make a note of that."

With only a modest amount of 'persuasion' by the lovely Latina, I ordered
a celebratory bottle of champagne; nothing ostentatious, just a nice MÅ‘et
Brut. If Angie was concerned I ate less salad than she did, she didn't
comment. We left nothing of the bubbly to waste — and were more than a
little wasted ourselves. I remarked I was going to be a wreck when I got
back to my desk.

"Not to worry," Angie reassured me. "I left word upstairs with Sheila you
would be 'indisposed' the rest of the afternoon. Debbie is subbing for me.
No one is gonna give us flack after this morning. We earned it."

"What you mean 'we', Paleface?" I mocked.

"I mean," she continued, "you did the deal and I, as Morale and Recreation
Officer, have kept your head screwed on straight and your mind in the game
for the past week."

"Oh, you did, did you?" I scolded. "Well, thank you very much for your
dedication. And just how did you save me from myself?"

Angie just smiled coyly, and inhaled — deeply. Her chest expanded
amazingly, like two big, round jiggly balloons that seemingly would burst
at any moment, yet just kept expanding. I stared in rapt, silent
fascination.

"Like that," she responded quietly.

Under the table, her hand was in my lap, stroking the hard-on that had
popped above the waistband of my satin panties. I was scared to death she
was about to discover the corset, garters, stocking tops, or all three.

"That IS a... lovely... suit," I stumbled absent-mindedly. "You wear it...
all your outfits... so... well."

"You really think so?" she murmured. "Thank you, Sweetie! You don't mind
if I call you that here, just the two of us, do you? I mean, you are such
an attractive man.... No, that's not right. You are so young-looking,
slender, smooth, fine-featured — like a really pretty boy..."

Her hand snaked its way from my crotch to my abdomen before I could do
anything to stop her. Her smile lit up the room.

"...who likes to dress up like a really pretty girl. Now, what were we
saying about 'drag' a little while ago? Pretty girls like you always have
a pretty name. What's yours?"

I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me right then. I closed my eyes.

"Lisa," I whispered.

"Lisa!" she exclaimed. "That is so you. I am very pleased to meet you,
Lisa. I get along well with the other girls at work, but they are all
so... white bread — know what I mean? You, on the other hand, are my kind
of girlfriend. I can already tell you are hip, daring, not afraid to
flaunt what you've got, and know what to do with it when the time comes.
I'll bet it kills you to have to dress like this for work, doesn't it?
What you really want is to cut loose and dress the way you really feel,
don't you? With those blue eyes and that fair complexion, I'm guessing you
are a really fabulous blonde — aren't you?"

I nodded silently. How could she possibly know all of that? Thank goodness
the lunch rush was largely over. If anyone had been sitting at a
surrounding table....

"Angie, I'm seeing someone," I murmured.

Her eyes sparkled like black diamonds.

"That's right, Sweetie; you are seeing me — and I couldn't possibly be
more thrilled!This is way cool, mija. I just have to get the full effect.
Check, please!"