A Christmiss Story

 © 2004 by Nom de Plume

Will our scoundrel-turned-damsel survive the office holiday party? What will she find in her Christmas stockings? The continuing misadventures of Miss Anne Thrope, by the author of The Jessica Project.

* * *

The weekend! With my first week as a secretary finally at an end, I knew exactly how I was going to spend it: sleeping till noon, then watching football on TV while binging on bratwurst and beer.

When I woke up on Saturday at half past noon, I lolled in bed for another hour before I dragged myself into the kitchenette and made myself some extra-strong coffee. I downed my first cup with a cigarette while I watched the freezing rain beat against the windows of my tiny apartment. No matter — I wasn’t going anywhere for the next two days. I lit another cigarette and savored the blessed relief of not having to put on a dress, heels and stockings to endure another day of ridicule by my coworkers.

Tossing off my flannel nightgown, I returned to the bedroom and started sifting through the closet for something to wear for the weekend. As I feared, my tormentors hadn’t included a single pair of pants or jeans in my extensive trousseau. Finally I spied a hot pink jogging suit, and sure enough there was a pair of pink and white sneakers amongst the boxes of high heels. Well, how else would I be expected to maintain my girlish figure? After a quick shower, I pulled on the jogging suit, dismissing the thought of trying to find some underwear to go with it. It was odd, I said to myself as I ran a blow dryer through my hair. The strange sensation of wearing women’s lingerie had been intriguing, even arousing at first, but like any forbidden activity, dressing as a woman soon lost its fascination once it became my routine. Now I dreaded the daily chores of styling my hair, putting on my makeup, and trying to decide what to wear.

No such drudgery today. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and found a scrunchie to hold it back. Then I fired up my George Foreman grilling machine, stuffed it full of thick, juicy bratwurst, and popped the top on the first of many Heinekens. Ohio State was playing Michigan, and my troubles seemed far away as I got into the game while gorging myself on brats and throwing down beer after beer. The only thing that bummed me out was the endless progression of commercials featuring the Coors twins and hot chicks mud-wrestling over whether their beer was less filling or tasted great. I soon found myself becoming profoundly depressed by the grim realization that for the next year of my life, the only panties I would be getting inside were my own.

I was into my third brat and fifth beer when I heard I rap on my door. Who the hell could that be? The only good thing about the Consent Decree which doomed me to living as a woman was a proviso which shielded my new identity from the general public. Crushing out my cigarette into an overloaded ashtray, I weaved across the room and warily opened it a few inches. It was Donna Mae Trix, the Special Mistress appointed to oversee my transformation and adherence to the terms of the Consent Decree.

“Eew,” she said as she breezed into my apartment. “It smells like shit in here. Open a window, at least,” she said as she slid one of them up, ignoring the raindrops which pelted against the sill.

“What are you doing here?”

“The Consent Decree requires periodic inspections to confirm your compliance with the terms of the settlement.” Donna was looking incredibly hot in her tight jeans, turtleneck and leather vest, and even after everything she had done to me, I felt myself getting turned on. She appraised me with a critical eye, then glanced down at the stinking ash tray and the empty beer cans on the floor. “Well, it’s a judgment call,” she said at length. “On the one hand, you still look like a girl, even without any makeup. Your hair looks cute like that, by the way. On the other hand, this is hardly the way a woman would keep her home. And you’ll be lucky to hold onto your dress size if you keep making a pig out of yourself like this. Then again, you wouldn’t be the first single girl to blow up out of boredom. Most of us do it with ice cream. What is that horrible stuff you’re eating?”

“Bratwurst,” I said, slurring the word slightly. “Want one?”

“Good heavens, no! Out of the kindness of my heart, I will not declare your disgraceful conduct today to be a breach of the Consent Decree, but I want you to know how disappointed I am in your behavior.”

“You should have called first. I would have put on a dress and invited you over for a tea party.”

“Don’t press your luck, Missy.” For some reason, I found her domineering tone extremely arousing, and with no underwear to constrain it, my erection sprang to her attention. “My, my, what have we here,” she said with mock surprise as she stared at the bulge in my jogging suit. “Aren’t you wearing any panties?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” I said coquettishly. She pushed me back on the sofa and before I knew it, my pants were down to my ankles and she was tearing off her jeans. “You’re no one to talk,” I said when I saw that she wasn’t wearing panties either. She pinned me down and began to rub her pussy against my aching cock.

“You realize what this means,” she said as she teased me to the brink of orgasm.

“What,” I moaned.

“This shocking display of manhood is a flagrant violation of the Consent Decree.”

“Screw the Consent Decree.” By that point I was so horny that I would have gladly agreed to start my year as a woman all over again in return for one good fuck. But Donna had something far more sinister in mind, and whether it was the alcohol or my raging testosterone, I was blind to her true intentions.

“There is an alternative,” she whispered as she brought me to the brink once again.

“Anything. I’ll do anything you say,” I sighed.

“Good. Oh God,” she panted as she lowered herself onto my rock-hard member. “I’ll have to give you another shot of hormones. Are you sure you want that?”

By then, I couldn’t have stopped her if she told me she was going to cut off my balls and flush them down the toilet. “Yes!” I cried as I felt my orgasm welling up deep inside me, and when I exploded inside her, I felt her shiver as her body responded to mine. When it was finally over, Donna collapsed onto my chest, and we lay there heaving as our hearts beat together. I was still in ecstasy when I felt a sharp pain in my right ass cheek. “Aargh! What was that?”

“Your hormones,” she said coolly as she put the spent hypodermic syringe back into her vest pocket. “As you know, the Consent Decree authorizes me to administer female hormones if necessary to modify your behavior. The shot I just gave you was much, much stronger than the dose you got before.” She got up and started putting her jeans back on.

“What will it do to me?”

“Let’s just say you could get away without wearing panties for the foreseeable future. Your balls are going to start to shrivel up, and as for your dick, well, you may have to sit down to pee.”

I suddenly felt terribly nauseous, and I barely made it into the bathroom before I began throwing up violently. The beer, the bratwurst, and my own bile poured out of me as I retched in despair. When I was finally finished, Donna poked her head into the bathroom. “Very good,” she said. “Bulimia is the perfect cure for bratwurst and beer. Most girls have to be taught that. I’m very proud of you.” I was racked with dry heaves as she left my apartment.

I was sick in bed the rest of the weekend, and was only able to get down a bowl of soup on Sunday evening. So much for losing my girlish figure.

* * *

Monday was like every other weekday: up at six thirty, an hour devoted to my hair and makeup, squirming into panties, bra and a slip, tugging on my pantyhose and trying to decide which skirt and top or dress to wear. On that particular day, I selected a knee-length black skirt and a white mock turtleneck, then padded into the kitchenette in my stocking feet to pour myself a bowl of cereal. I thought sadly about how I had pinched my pennies all week to be able to afford my big binge on Saturday, now literally down the drain. At least my stomach had returned to normal, and I felt almost myself again as I returned to my closet and put on my heels. Surveying the girl in the mirror as she tied a red scarf around her neck, my nausea began to return when I remembered what I had done to myself. I might as well be a male black widow spider who allowed his mate to eat him after one glorious fuck.

With that wretched thought, I put on my overcoat, picked up my purse and trudged out into the gloomy morning to catch my bus. The frigid air knifed through my stockings and up my skirt, and I was actually grateful when my bus came along to take me to the office to begin another day as a secretary. At least it was going to be a short week: Thursday was Thanksgiving, and the office was closed on Friday. When I got to the office, I hung up my coat on a hook in my cubicle and started going through my phone messages. “Anne, please stop by my office for some dictation.” “Anne, I need the Ripley files.” Anne this, Anne that…I remembered when I used to be Mr. Thrope, executive on the march, and not a lowly secretary referred to only by her first name.

The only good news was that my coworkers were starting to accept me for what I appeared to be, now that the novelty was wearing off. The best I could hope for was to be treated like any other secretary, and not some kind of pervert in women’s clothing. Maybe it was the holiday spirit, but some of the other girls actually started being nice to me when we crossed paths in the cafeteria or the ladies room, and I was no longer regarded as an object of scorn and ridicule as the days went by. Of course, I couldn’t tell what they were saying behind my back, but to outward appearances I was just one of the girls.

Everyone was talking about their plans for Thanksgiving. The thought of being cooped up in my little apartment for four days was too much to bear, and I was giving serious thought to volunteering to work in a soup kitchen when the telephone rang on Wednesday afternoon. It was Donna. “Hello, Anne. Got big plans for Thanksgiving?”

“You know I don’t,” I hissed. There was no way I was going to let what little family I had see me like this.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said.

“Dreaming up more ways to fuck with me?” I said under my breath.

“You know, I feel badly about the way I treated you on Saturday. Why don’t you let me make it up to you?”

“Like how?”

“How would you like to have Thanksgiving dinner at my sister’s in Wisconsin?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“No, I mean it. It’ll be very informal, and nobody will know who you really are. In fact, we’ll have to get you some casual clothes. On me.”

The prospect of being able to wear something other than a dress and high heels for the weekend broke my resistance. “Really?” I asked hesitantly, wondering what I was getting myself into.

“Honest Injun. Your office closes early today, right?”

“They’re letting us off at three o’clock.”

”Meet me at Filene’s Basement on State Street at three fifteen.” She hung up before I could say no.

* * *

Early on Thanksgiving morning, I sat back in the passenger seat of Donna’s Audi as we crawled through holiday traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway. My hopes of getting some jeans or slacks at Filene’s had been dashed when pair after pair were too baggy in the hips, and we’d finally settled on a pleated kilt and a denim jumper, some opaque tights and a comfortable pair of flats. I wrung my hands nervously in the lap of my kilt while Donna wove in and out of traffic until she was able to hit cruising speed for the long drive north.

“How are things going at the office?” she asked me.

“Okay, I guess. I mean, the girls seem to have accepted me, or at least they’re pretending to.”

“That’s because they know the consequences if they don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everybody has been briefed on what will happen to the company if you leave.”

“I don’t get it.”

“The Consent Decree was part of a global arrangement with the Metabolean plaintiffs, who agreed to settle for a little less in return for your…humiliation. If you don’t last out the year as a woman, the company will be forced into bankruptcy.”

So I have some leverage, I said to myself as we cruised through the rolling woodlands. The question was, how could I turn it to my advantage? Donna seemed to sense what I was thinking. “Don’t get any ideas,” she said with a quick glance in my direction. “If the company goes down, they’ll take you with them.”

Maybe. I decided to change the subject. “Who will be at your sister’s house?”

“Let’s see, in addition to my sister and her husband, and their two kids, there will be my parents, my grandmother, my two brothers and their girlfriends, oh and I think a few of my cousins will be there too.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in. I’ve told everybody that you’re a…friend.”

“What kind of friend?”

“Well, if you must know, my family has always suspected that I’m gay, although it’s never discussed.”

“You mean they’ll think I’m your lesbian lover?”

“Not everybody. I doubt if my grandmother or the kids will pick up on it.”

“That’s just great.”

“Would you rather have them know that you’re really a guy?”

“No!”

“Didn’t think so. Look, if you want to bail out, I can drop you off in Milwaukee and you can take the bus back to Chicago.”

“What could be worse?”

“Come on, Anne, go with the flow. It will be a new experience for you.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. So far, everybody who’s seen me like this has known who I really am. Now you’re expecting me to fool your entire family.”

“Do the people you ride the bus with know you’re really a guy?”

“Well, no, but…”

“And how about the cashier at the grocery store? Or the sales girls at Filene’s yesterday? Did any of them have a clue?”

“No, but I didn’t have to sit down to dinner with them and carry on a conversation about my make-believe life.”

“I’ll do most of the talking for us. All you have to do is smile sweetly and help out with dinner.”

“What do you mean, help out?”

“It’s a family tradition that the men folk go deer hunting on Thanksgiving morning, while the women folk cook the turkey and all the trimmings.”

“This just keeps getting better and better.”

* * *

Two hours later, with an apron wrapped around my waist, I was standing in the kitchen helping Donna’s grandmother stuff the turkey while Donna sat in the corner gabbing with her mother and sister. Two brats were running around the house screaming, one of the brother’s girlfriends was on the phone, and the other women were concocting various dishes while they chattered on about their kids, husbands and boyfriends. I glanced over at Donna, who gave me a smile of encouragement before returning to her conversation, as if there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about inviting a man dressed as a woman to her family Thanksgiving. In fact, everybody else in Donna’s family seemed numbingly normal, and I wondered if they had any idea what she did for a living.

“Do you work with Donna in the big city?” her grandmother asked me. I had been standing in a corner trying to keep out of the way when she asked me to help her with the turkey, and rather than make a scene, I had meekly agreed. Donna’s mother had offered me her apron “to protect my pretty skirt”, and my hands were covered with goo as I helped her grandmother battle with the turkey. I was trying to think of a response when Donna came to my rescue.

“Anne works for a big drug company downtown,” she said from across the kitchen.

“How did you girls meet? I always wonder how single women cope with living in Chicago. The last time I was there, I was scared to death, and it was only for an afternoon of shopping at Marshall Fields.”

Her sister chimed in, “I’m sure Donna has lots of friends. How long have you two known each other, Anne?” she probed.

Just then the screen door banged open, and a gang of men dressed in orange vests barged into the kitchen. “You gals got dinner ready yet?” one of them boomed, while another one opened the refrigerator and took out a six-pack of Bud.

“Who wants a beer?” he said as he sized me up. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Her name is Anne,” Donna’s grandmother said with irritation. “Why don’t you boys go into the den and watch football or something. We have a lot of work to do here.” As the men retreated to watch TV, I caught the guy with the six-pack staring at my legs. Buddy, if you only knew what’s under these tights, I said to myself ruefully.

Once the turkey was in the oven, I melted into the background again, pretending to listen as the waves of female conversation broke all around me. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I drifted into the den and stood in the doorway, trying to catch the score of the NFL game on TV. My friend from the refrigerator slid over on the sofa to make room for me, and I reluctantly sat down beside him, tugging my kilt down over my knees as he draped his hairy arm over the cushion behind me. “How about a beer?” he burped.

“Come on, Jack, you know better than to offer the little lady a warm Bud,” one of the other guys teased us. “I’ll bet she’d like a nice glass of white wine, wouldn’t you, honey.”

Jack was up before I could respond, and when he returned a few seconds later with a glass of wine, I thanked him demurely as he sat back down beside me. “Who are you here with?” he asked.

“Donna.”

“Oh oh,” one of the guys blurted out. There were a few snickers from around the room, but Jack seemed undeterred. Maybe he liked the challenge. He was good-looking in a rough sort of way, and I’d no doubt he’d had his share of women. I started to get up to escape back into the kitchen when he put his hand on my wrist.

“What’s the hurry? You haven’t finished your wine.” His grip on my wrist tightened ever so slightly, and I felt myself tumbling into an abyss as I fell back onto the sofa. I sipped my wine nervously as I felt the eyes of every man in the room boring into me. Could they possibly be so clueless?

“How long have you and Donna been…together?” Jack asked me. The football game on TV was quite forgotten as the guys hung on every word. I decided to have a little fun with them.

“Since I split up with my husband,” I replied. “Donna was always there for me. In fact, you might say that she was the reason I ended my marriage.” I drained my glass of wine and crossed my legs provocatively. One of the guys was up in a flash, and he returned with the bottle of Chardonnay. I offered him my glass, and the only sound in the room was the announcer on TV bemoaning another fumble by the Detroit Lions. “Who’s winning?” I asked the group.

“Dallas,” the guys said in unison as I kicked off my flats and curled my legs up under my kilt.

“Oh dear.”

“Are you a Lions fan?” Jack asked me.

“No, I just hate the Cowboys. Their stupid cheerleaders are such bimbos.” They all stared at me as I drained my glass. “Now, if you boys will excuse me, I’d better go see if the gals need any help putting dinner on the table. Thanks for the wine,” I said, making a show of slipping my feet back into my shoes. I felt my kilt swirling around my knees as I spun on my heel and swayed out of the room.

* * *

Mercifully, Donna steered me to a seat between her and one of the brats, and I was able to survive the interminable dinner with a minimum of conversation. I caught Jack staring at me across the table a few times, and each time I turned to Donna and tried to make a little joke to evoke some laughter from her. Eventually, Jack gave up on me, and when we finally polished off the pumpkin pie and bread pudding, I felt like I was ready for another bout of bulimia. But I probably worked off half the calories slaving like a scullery maid in the kitchen with the rest of the women.

By the time we were finished, most of the men had passed out in the den in front of another football game, and the women actually seemed to be talked out. Donna guided me gently up the stairs when no one was watching, and she led me into the bedroom where we were to spend the night. It obviously used to be a kid’s room, and our suitcases (which one of her brothers had carried upstairs) were sitting on a pair of twin beds. There was a small bathroom down the hall, and we took turns removing our makeup and getting ready for bed. Donna went first, and by the time I returned, she was waiting up for me, her covers pulled up to her chin.

She watched intently as I removed my kilt and top, rolled off my tights, and took off my half slip, bra and panties. When she saw my naked body, she actually gave a little gasp. “What’s wrong?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“That shot of hormones I gave you last week must have been a doozy.”

“Tell me about it,” I sighed, pulling a flannel nightgown over my head. “I’m the same bedroom with a hot chick, and I couldn’t get a hard-on if my life depended on it.”

“It’s not just that, Anne. Have you looked at your chest?”

I pulled up my nightgown in a flash, and stood staring at myself in the mirror over the dresser. Sure enough, little titties were starting to grow. Not only that, I could swear that my ass and hips were starting to spread out too. I started to shake uncontrollably, tears running down my cheeks at the horror of what was happening to me.

“Come here,” Anne said gently.

I turned on her in impotent fury. “You did this to me, you bitch!” I shouted.

“Shhh, my family is probably lined up outside the door,” she whispered. “Come to bed.” With that, she pulled down her covers to reveal her naked body. The sight of her, and the realization that I might never again be able to love a woman, was too much for me. I lost it completely, shaking with sobs as I fell down beside her. Donna took me into her arms, pulled the covers up over us, and began to stroke my nubile breasts. I felt tingles up and down my spine, and my forlorn penis started to twitch in anticipation when she gently took one of my nipples between her teeth. “There now, it’s not so bad, is it?” she whispered while switching to the other breast, and before I could say anything, I felt her inserting her finger into my ass. Up, up it went, reaching and probing until it found my prostate gland. Suddenly the most exquisite feeling spread from my groin, up to my tummy and down to my toes, and my body was wracked with convulsions as the sweet waves of ecstasy went on and on.

I looked down to see my little penis, still soft, dribbling a few drops of semen onto my hairless thigh. Donna saw it too, and she gently sucked me clean. “Are you going to have to give me another shot?” I asked weakly.

“No, baby. That was a woman’s orgasm you just had. My turn now.” She spread her legs and waited for me to return the favor.

* * *

The next morning, we said our goodbyes after a hearty country breakfast and hugs all the way around. Jack tried to pinch my ass through my jumper, and I swatted him a little harder than he expected as Donna looked on. “I think Jack has a thing for you,” she said after we got back into her car.

“I’m a guy, remember?”

“Let’s talk about that.”

“Look, Donna, last night was amazing, but as soon as this is over, I’m gonna go back to being a guy.” I had been up half the night worrying about what was happening to me, and by morning I was resolved to put an end to the dangerous game that Donna was playing with me.

“It may be too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anne, I don’t know how to break this to you, but you’re a scientist so I’ll put it in terms you’ll understand. Right now, from a chemical standpoint, you have the body of a teenage girl going through puberty.”

“Now wait a minute. You may have forced me to take some hormones, but that doesn’t make a chick. I mean, even after everything you’ve done to me, I came last night, didn’t I? Okay, so it wasn’t the greatest, but I’ve had nights before when I couldn’t get it up. That doesn’t mean I can’t be a guy again, does it?”

“If you start taking heavy testosterone injections when your year is over, you should be able to reverse what we’ve done to you. Until then, your body’s hormonal balance will be female, and the changes which have already started will continue, even if you don’t take any more shots. For your sake, I hope you will let me keep you on maintenance doses of estrogen, otherwise you are going to be subject to radical mood swings and fits of depression which will only make things worse for you.”

“How could things get any worse?” I spit out the words, furious at myself for letting things get this far.

“Anne, if you go cold turkey on the hormones now, there’s a real chance that you could suffer a violent mood swing and blow the terms of the Consent Decree. Not only would you be screwed, but everybody in your company too.”

“Big fucking deal! They don’t give a shit about me. I’m just a fucking secretary.”

“I’m not talking about the suits. Think about the other secretaries, and all the little people who have been kind to you. They’re counting on you to pull this off so they can keep their jobs and support their families.”

“Why don’t you just cut off my balls to please them?”

“Don’t be silly. All I’m suggesting is that you let me keep you on an even keel for the rest of the year.”

“What will happen to me? Physically, I mean?”

“Well, the good news is that you should be able to start having erections again. Most of that is in your head, anyway. The bad news, if you want to call it that, is that your breasts are going to fill out, and your bottom too. Look at the bright side: you’ll be able to fit into those jeans we tried on at Filene’s. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” She reached over and started to stroke my knee through my silky white tights. “I promise I’ll make this experience as pleasant for you as I can. As you said, last night was amazing, and it was only the beginning.”

At the memory of our night in bed together, I knew that I was whipped. Why was she able to manipulate me so easily? “What are you doing for the rest of the weekend?” I heard myself ask her.

“I was very impressed by your skills in the kitchen, Anne. Why don’t we stop on the way home for some wine and provisions, and we can take turns cooking for each other when we’re not in bed.”

* * *

Several of the secretaries commented on the glow I had about me when we returned to the salt mines on Monday. Multiple orgasms will do that to a girl.

The week flew by, and I found myself coming up with little routines to help me pass the time. I had my nails done by some Koreans, experienced a makeover at the cosmetics counter at Marshall Fields, and had my hair cut into a perky shag at a salon that couldn’t tell at first that it was really a weave. I wondered whether Donna would like it, but after the girls at the office went on and on about how cute I looked, I stopped worrying.

At Donna’s suggestion, I even started thinking of myself as a woman. Whole stretches of the day would go by in which my true gender never entered my mind. That, and the daily hormone pills that I started taking, had me submerging deeper and deeper into my feminine role, until it was not so much a role as a lifestyle. It was so much easier not to resist what was happening to me. Of course, I knew that the hormones were eroding my resistance, but once I gave in to what was happening to me, I almost started to enjoy it.

Almost. I still hated my reduction in status at the company, my feet were in constant agony, and every time I had to use the ladies room I vowed to kill the man who invented pantyhose. Up with my dress and slip, down with my panties and hose, then the whole thing backwards after sitting down to pee — I took to keeping spare nylons in my desk to replace the ones I snagged or ran when I struggled with them in the stalls.

That weekend, Donna surprised me with an artificial Christmas tree, and we spent a wintry Saturday afternoon shopping for ornaments and lights. We tried Filene’s again, and this time I found a pair of jeans that fit my emerging hips. At Donna’s suggestion, I also bought some new bras with A cups, and sure enough, my burgeoning breasts filled them out nicely. When I commented that I didn’t look as stacked as I used to, she bought me a wonder bra, which made all the difference.

I was glowing again on Monday. When I found an invitation to the annual office holiday party sitting in my inbox, I was about to toss it when Gladys, one of the other secretaries, poked her head into my cubicle. “What are you going to wear to the party, Anne?”

“I don’t think I’ll go.”

“Come on, be a sport! The door prize is awesome this year.”

“Door prize?”

“Yeah, it’s only for us munchkins, so I guess you never paid any attention before…well, you know. Anyway, this year it’s a trip for two to Vail, all expenses paid!”

At the thought of skiing again, my heart surged with hope. I loved to ski, but it was out of the question on my secretary’s salary. Skiing was the one sport I’d be able to enjoy in my current state, since the equipment was unisex for all intents and purposes….

“Even if you don’t win, the food is great and everybody’s going,” Gladys persisted.

“Where is it?”

“It’s at the Sheraton this year.” A ten minute walk from my apartment.

“What am I supposed to wear?”

“Attagirl. Do you have a red dress?”

“I think so.”

“Just dolly it up with a Christmas broche or scarf and you’ll be darling, Anne. They have a huge selection at Carson Pirie Scott, I’ll help you pick something out on our lunch break.”

“Whatever.”

I busied myself with filing and expense reports for the rest of the morning, and when she poked her head into my cubicle again just before noon, I momentarily forget what she was there for. “Let’s get a move on,” she said as I put on my coat and swung my purse over my shoulder. “We’ll just have time to beat the rush at the deli downstairs and finish our shopping if we hustle.”

“How can you expect me to hustle in these heels,” I said.

“What you need, girl, is a good pair of boots. Come on, if we hurry we’ll have time to shop for them, too.”

“Aren’t they really expensive?”

“Haven’t you heard of credit cards?”

“Mine all got taken away when…well, you know.”

“Well, get some new ones, for Heaven’s sake! Look, if I can carry around Discover, Visa and MasterCard, anyone can.” I felt like a babe in the woods as she schooled me on how to survive in the big city on a working girl’s salary. When we found a great pair of boots at Carson Pirie Scott, the sales associate told me I could get an extra ten percent off if I opened a charge account, and before I knew it I was the proud owner of a comfortable pair of boots and my first credit card in the name of Anne Thrope. Gladys found me a pretty scarf with reindeers on it, and I even charged a pair of glittery pantyhose to wear with my red dress.

* * *

The party was scheduled to start at eight o’clock on the Friday before Christmas. When I told Donna that the other girls wanted me to go, she backed them up enthusiastically. “This will be great for you, baby. Just don’t let yourself get caught under the mistletoe.”

“Not much to worry about there. A guy would have to get pretty drunk to make that mistake.”

“You never know.”

“Will I see you this weekend?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m going to be tied up.”

“All weekend?”

“Yep.”

I had a sinking feeling. “When will I see you again?”

“I’ll call you soon. Have a great time at the party.”

I wondered what was wrong as I went through the motions to get ready for the party. Maybe Donna didn’t like my new hairdo? Could it be something I’d said? I tried to put her out of my mind, but it was impossible not to be reminded of her by each little feminine thing that I did to myself. God, I’m beginning to think just like a woman, I thought sadly as I searched my closet for a pair of red heels to wear with my Christmas stockings.

I treated myself to a taxi to the Sheraton, not feeling safe alone on the streets after dark. With my Christmas scarf tied gaily around my neck, and bright red lipstick to match my dress and shoes, I turned a lot of heads when I walked into the ballroom where the party was in full swing. Gladys took me under her wing, and together we made our way through the bar and buffet lines. We carried our plates to a table occupied by a bunch of other girls, some of whom I knew and some of whom regarded me with open curiosity. One of them, who must have been on her fifth or sixth brandy and ginger, couldn’t take her eyes of me. “Are you sure you’re really a guy?” she finally blurted out.
If that wasn’t bad enough, two of the junior executives that I worked for came up to our table and went on and on about what a great secretary I was, how much they were going to miss me when I went back to being a man, and how they hoped that I’d like being a girl so much that I’d never go back. Miss Brandy Ginger told them to shove it, and I was shaking when Gladys suggested that we visit to the ladies room. We were halfway there when we got separated in the crowd around the dance floor. After searching for her for a few minutes, I gave up and headed for the ladies room. I was almost there when I came face to face with Richard Sharkman, the tight-assed executive who had taken my place as vice president.

“I’d ask you to dance, but I’m afraid they might start talking about us,” he said with a phony smile. I tried to pass him, but he put his hand on my shoulder. “What’s your hurry, Anne? I’ve been meaning to ask you how you’re getting along in your new life.”

I had to remind myself that Sharkman was a senior executive with considerable power over my destiny. If I were to have any chance of redeeming myself at the company, his support could be crucial. On the other hand, he probably regarded me as a threat — if he took me seriously. I decided to play it safe. “I’m doing as well as I can under the circumstances.”

“I must say, you look marvelous. How do you do it?”

“Pardon?”

“Your hair, your makeup, the way you dress…one would almost think you’d been doing this all your life.”

“I don’t know whether that’s a complement or an insult.”

“Believe me, it’s a complement.” It was obvious that he had been drinking, heavily. “I find it all fascinating.”

Oh God…what if he had a thing for chicks with dicks? I tried to break away, but he took my hand and tried to steer me towards the elevators. “I’ve taken a room upstairs. Why don’t we get to know each other a little better?”

I twisted my hand, but weakened as I was by estrogen, I couldn’t get away from him. Couldn’t anybody see what was happening? I looked around, but everybody seemed to be in the ballroom, and the din from the dance band would drown out my cries for help. Where was Gladys? I felt myself being dragged towards the elevators. “Let’s get out of here,” Sharkman said.

Without thinking about the consequences, I kicked him right in the shin with the point of my high heel. He hit the floor with a thud, and before he could get back up I jumped into an elevator. I was waiting for the doors to close when I heard the voice of the assistant director of human resources coming over the PA system. “We have the winner of the trip to Vail,” he announced. It was Gladys.

* * *

There was no word from Donna all weekend. I phoned in sick on Monday, hanging around my apartment miserably. The only call I had was from Gladys, who was anxious to know if I was all right.

“I’m okay. Got a touch of the flu, I guess. Congratulations on winning the trip.”

“I’m so excited! My boyfriend and I are going to go in February.”

“That’s great. Tell me, have you seen Mr. Sharkman?”

“Sure, why?”

“I was just wondering.”

“Like every year, he came on to half the women at the party.”

“Really?”

“He was bombed out of his mind, as usual. One of the girls said he was so drunk he fell down. He probably doesn’t remember a thing. But on Monday, he was right back at his desk.”

I wasn’t so sure. “I’m going to stay out till after Christmas.”

“Good idea. It’s dead around here. Have a great holiday!”

Christmas eve was the longest day of my life. I just sat there in my dreary apartment, looking at the tree that Donna had brought me, feeling very, very sorry for myself. I had a lot of time to think about my life, about the suffering that I had caused so many women by recklessly exposing them to Metabolean. If this was my penance, I deserved much worse.

I was about to turn in early when I spied an envelope just inside my door. How long has this been on the floor, and how did it get here, I wondered. Angels? When I opened it, I held my breath. It was a Christmas card from Donna. “Meet me at Lawry’s at nine o’clock. Wear something special.”

I raced into the kitchenette and looked at the clock on the microwave. It was almost eight thirty! Near panic, I tore off my jeans and top and dashed into my closet. What to wear? It had to be the red dress, reindeer scarf and crimson lipstick that knocked them dead at the holiday party, only this time I wore my new boots with my glittery stockings. I was getting pretty good at this, and by ten minutes to nine I was out on the sidewalk, trying desperately to hail a cab. On Christmas eve! The street outside my apartment was deserted, so with grim determination I started running down the sidewalk towards Michigan Avenue, thankful for my comfy boots as I covered the five blocks to Lawry’s. It was a few minutes past nine when I emerged from the night into the elegant lobby, panting with exertion. I handed my coat to the attendant and chanced a quick trip to the ladies room. My shag was so easy to take care of, after a quick once over I was trying to look ladylike while presenting myself to the maitre d’.

“May I help you, Miss?”

“Trix, party of two.”

He looked down at his book. “I show a reservation for Trix, but the other party is not here yet. Would you like to wait at the table?”

“That would be nice,” I said, and I followed him to a quiet banquette resplendent with linen, crystal and silver. I had barely sat down when I saw a familiar face entering the room.

Familiar, yes, but so utterly different! It was Donna, all right, with a full beard and mustache, dressed in a double-breasted suit, crisp white shirt and Hermes tie. I stared open-mouthed as she, or rather he, slid into the seat beside me. “Sorry I’m late,” he said in a husky voice before he kissed me on the cheek.

“Donna, is that you?”

“It’s Donald, at least for now, but you can call me Don.”

“What did you do to yourself?”

“You’re one to talk.” The wine steward materialized, and Don ordered an expensive bottle of French champagne. When we were alone again, he said, “I guess I owe you an explanation, so here goes: as you can probably imagine, I have a lot of…issues in terms of my own gender identity. I mean, you don’t become a dominatrix overnight. I’ve struggled with it for years, but it wasn’t until I met you that I decided to live out my dreams.”

“What did I have to do with it?”

“Everything! You showed me that if I had the courage to try, I might be able to succeed in switching sexes. The way you pulled it off with my family on Thanksgiving was so amazing. I never really intended to fall in love with you that night, but that’s what happened.” He took my hand and kissed me again, gently on the lips this time. “Then there’s the other thing you did that made this all possible.”

“What?” I whispered.

“Did you know that there is a huge black market for Metabolean? It’s selling for $100 a pop in Boys Town.”

“But why?”

“It turns out that Metabolean is a perfect a catalyst for hormone replacement therapy, allowing the transition from female-to-male in a matter of days. Just look at me.”

“Are you going to stay that way?”

“That all depends on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“When your year as a woman is over, if you decide to go back to being a man, Metabolean will help you make the transition almost instantly. And if you do, I guess I’ll check into Cassandra’s.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do anything for you, Anne.”

Who would have thought that a misanthrope could find true love, and sweet goodness, in the hands of a dominatrix? When I felt Don’s hand sliding up my Christmas stockings, my whole body trembled as a delightful orgasm swept over me, and I must have moaned like Meg Ryan.

“Are you okay?” Don asked with alarm.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” I smiled serenely. “Santa just left a little present in my panties.”

Happy New Year from the author of Skylord, coming in early 2005
Skylord.