On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Everyone was laughing at Steve, not in his face of course, though there had been a rash of double entendres from the moment he walked into the office. After three increasingly frustrating hours someone had the good grace — or spite — to let the cat out of the bag; someone, somehow had found his blog. Pretty damning stuff with just enough incidental information to tie the transvestite posing suggestively in the photographs, back to the slim young man in Accounts. Life was going to be Hell until he found a way of taking down his page, which was impossible from his work PC. He resigned himself to emailing Uncle Bob.

Bob Thornwell was not a relative, but a family friend he had known from childhood. Uncle Bob had been the one who found him his job straight out of school, with the proviso that he would not compromise his position as a senior manager by acting preferentially. It was a mark of Steve’s desperation that he even considered contacting the older man, but his intentions were pre-empted by a phone call from Uncle Bob’s PA summoning him to the eighth floor.

Miss Banford was wearing the same smirk as everyone as she ushered him into Uncle Bob’s office, though she managed to suppress it somewhat in her boss’s presence. She did, however, announce him as Stevie, the thinly diguised femme name he used in his blog, a fact not lost on the young man. Uncle Bob looked up, and motioned for Steve to sit at the chair pulled up to the desk.

“Ah, our new celebrity,” he said wryly, his lips pursed in a thin smile.

“Uncle Bob,” Steve started, “they’re all making fun of me, you’ve got to help me.” Words tumbled from his lips in a panicked stream, the pitch of his voice rising all the time. Bob silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“How do you think this reflects on me eh?” His tone was cold, with no trace of the avuncular warmth he usually used with Steve.

“Sorry, Uncle Bob,” Steve stammered, “no one was ever supposed to find out, honestly, I’m very careful.” Another hand gesture silenced him.

“Well there’s nothing to be done but damage limitation,” Bob said flatly, “Ms Hawker from HR is on her way down; let’s see what what’s to be done for both of us.” As if on cue Ms Banford’s knock was followed by the angular figure of the chief personnel officer.

A conversation began upon her arrival, in which Steve did not take part, although he
was its subject. That is not to say that his position was discussed in any terms other than the effect it might have on the company. After ten minutes he attempted to redress the imbalance.

“Hey, what about me?” Steve interjected, “it has to be discrimination doesn’t it?” Ms Hawker turned her head in his direction with an almost reptilian precision.

“No it isn’t,” she laid her hands in her lap with an air of finality, “all you have experienced is mild ribbing over a sexual peccadillo, nothing more.”

“But...”

“On the other hand, we have already received several requests for clarification from your line managers, and a number of communications from other members of your department resulting from your disclosure that you wear women’s underwear beneath your male clothes in work.”

“Is that true?” Uncle Bob leaned towards him, “are you sitting there now in panties and such, in my office?”

“No Uncle,” the lie brought colour rushing to his cheeks.

“So,” the older man pressed, “if I asked you to lower your trousers rights now, you would have nothing to fear?”

“You have no right to ask me that,” Steve blurted.

“He’s correct Bob, but if I may remind you, Stevie’s six month probationary period is up next week, and her behaviour has already been enough to warrant a negative conclusion.” Ms Hawker’s words were addressed to the manager, but aimed squarely at Steve, or rather Stevie.

“Steve if you want to have any future in this company, undo your trousers and lower them to your knees.”

“OK I am,” Steve said, standing up sharply, “I am wearing women’s underwear!”

“Too late boy, how do I know you’re not lying to me now?” Bob turned to Ms Hawker, “I’m sorry you have to witness this Penny, but the little shit needs taking down a peg or two.” Noticing Steve’s continued hesitation, he added, “Drop ‘em, or just walk out the door right now. I don’t know what I’m going to tell your father, I can’t see him being happy with a pervert for a son.”

Slowly, Steve unfastened his trousers, paused long enough to see Bob’s frown grow deeper, and lowered them. His mother might have been proud that he was at least wearing clean underwear, but would not have been at all happy to see his black panties revealed, or the lace tops of the hold ups he wore. In contrast Ms Hawker could not disguise her amusement, nor could Miss Barwell who was hovering in the doorway, where she had been drawn by her boss’s raised voice.

“Christ Sally, what are we going to do?” Bob rubbed his eyes as if trying to scrub away the image of Steve, who was still standing there with his trousers clutched at mid thigh, “for God’s sake Steve put your trousers back on.”

“There might be a way out,” she answered, doing her best not to laugh at Steve’s fumbled efforts to regain some shred of modesty. “We could put a cap on the gossip, were Stevie’s dressing an expression of a gender identity disorder, rather than a mere fetish.”

“Go on,” Bob had always respected Sally Hawker’s ability to think on her feet.

“If Stevie,” Steve winced as she used his femme name once more, “ were to take this opportunity to be more forthright about her identity, say by adopting a more feminine outward appearance in work, we could consider any salacious gossip as discrimination and act accordingly.”

“You have got to be joking!” Steve was almost shouting.

“Not at all,” Ms Hawker answered, “if you were to wear that black pantsuit from your photographs, with flat shoes, and actually do something with your hair like pull it up into a ponytail; I think you could pull it off.”

“Come into work in full drag?” Steve asked incredulously.

“Not full,” she smiled, pleasure in someone’s discomfort was not a wholly healthy attributed for working in Human Resources but it helped. “Just enough to suggest that you are trying to work out a personal issue. You can go gradually return to your butch self after a few weeks, just as soon as the brouhaha dies down.” Steve still looked unconvinced, nor was the attempt at irony lost on him.

“They’ll slaughter me downstairs; everyone will be laughing behind my back all day.” He had to admit the idea was attractive, he had bought the pantsuit to satisfy his secretarial sartorial urges, but it was one thing to play dress up in the safety of his flat, and another to step out into the full blaze of scorn he was sure his appearance would provoke.

“Take the rest of the day off Stevie,” even Bob was using his femme now, “come in tomorrow in women’s clothes or don’t come in at all.”

“But...” Steve started.

“We’ve seen enough of your butt today thanks,” Bob added, “just be here in my office at seven tomorrow morning, and we’ll take it from there. OK, now go”

Author's note: I've been working on a couple of stories fairly steadily and don't want to post them until they're complete, but really wanted to post something other than another blog entry. So I had a go at writing ex tempore writing, as threatened last month. It's not particularly original, but I can't resist the temptation to have a poke at HR. :)

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Not being an addict, Steve had never used the smokers’ door before that morning, but then this would be a day of many firsts. Although the keycard used to open the door belonged to Steve, and even bore a photograph of him - taken six months earlier, during a brief teenage infatuation with facial hair — it was Stevie who entered the building. The photograph made her smile wryly as she pushed the keycard back into her purse, everything that had happened in the months since it was taken, seemed to have conspired to create the trap, sprung so finally the day before.

The smokers’ door — around which the refugees of wheeze clustered each break — had the advantage of leading to the service stairwell, which posed less danger of meeting anyone than the lifts did, on her way to the eighth floor. She had barely two hours of relative anonymity remaining, and intended to enjoy their calm, before the inevitable storm struck, over her current appearance.

Compared to the photographs on her blog, Stevie was dressed quite demurely. She had tried to keep to the spirit of Ms Hawker’s vague description of femininity falling somewhat short of full drag, with the black pantsuit, and an unfussy white blouse. However, the pants ruled out flat shoes — even had she had owned a pair — as their cuffs ended two inches below her heel; the solution had been a pair of sandals with a kittenish heel, which neither allowed the cuffs to drag, nor elevated her from a stockinged five feet seven inches, to an Amazonian extreme.

There had been some tense decisions to make in the mirror that morning. Afraid of comments the overnight manifestation of bust might cause, she had abandoned bra and breastform, but knowing all too well what hilarity the tight fitting pants would inspire, she had chosen to tuck one particular villain out of sight, and hopefully, out of dirty mind.

Make-up had been less of a dilemma; Stevie had only a few months of practice, and knew she lacked basic skills in its application. Her chief goal for the day was to avoid excessive attention, and had no intention of donning clown face, instead restricting herself to the faintest smudge of lip gloss. Hair was less of a problem, as it had already been shoulder length in the days when Steve imagined a goatee made him Johnny Depp’s double. Following Ms Hawker’s more concrete suggestion Stevie had pulled it up into a ponytail, much closer to her crown than Steve had ever tied it. The effect was striking, as it lifted her already artfully thinned brows, enough to suggest mild surprise.

After the intensity of her preparations, not to mention a largely wakeful night, the almost empty early buses were positively anticlimactic. There was no public stoning, or villagers with torches, in fact no one cared enough to rub the sleep from their eyes to stare at the plain, flat-chested girl hugging a large coffee as though it was her last. Of course, this isolation gave Stevie ample opportunity to think about the trials that lay ahead, and her first step on the staircase was a very shaky one.

Bob Thornwell was having second thoughts. Penny Hawker had made a very convincing case for how Stevie could advance both their careers, after he had sent Steve home, but Bob had to admit that his judgement had been clouded by anger. Steve had kept to their original bargain, and was not considered Bob’s protégé; any fallout from the affair would not have stuck to someone in his position for very long. In some ways he felt he had let the boy down, Steve was practically family, and he regretted his studied lack of interest these last few months. At his request, the Credit Control department had run a check on Steve and found his credit score was a few points from zero, which made keeping his job vital. Bob had almost resolved to send Steve home the instant he arrived, his lesson learned, when he heard his PA’s greeting.

“Good morning Stevie, Mr Thornwell says to go right in.” Belinda had been with him for nigh on twenty years, long enough for him to detect the amusement in her tone. Bob pushed up his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes and braced himself for the appalling vision about to be visited upon him. Opening them again, Bob was not faced with the posing grotesque of Steve’s blog, but something entirely more surprising. Stevie in the flesh, and with less of it on show, did not appear all that different from the latest batch of ‘modern apprentices’ in the call centre; a little gawkier perhaps, less confident and, thankfully, less heavily made-up. Back in the days when Bob had been responsible for recruiting junior staff, Stevie would have ticked all the boxes. Well, maybe not all the boxes, Steve was still under there somewhere. Any thought he had of sending her home disappeared, and Penny’s plan, while still risky, promised great dividends.

“Sit down Stevie, we’ve a lot to discuss.” It was not the avuncular tone Stevie was used to, but it was an improvement from that of day before. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask to see your knickers today.” Stevie eased herself into the chair at Uncle Bob’s desk, fighting a growing sense of unreality. What had been a fantasy a few days before had now happened, what had been a nightmare, was now in the hands of a trusted older friend. She knew that the coming weeks would not be easy, and when she returned to her old life, it would never be quite the same again, but it was good to have someone else share the load. Relaxing a little, she listened intently as Uncle Bob outlined what was to happen next. Stevie would not return to the accounts department, where her performance had been lacklustre anyway, but had been seconded indefinitely to the eighth floor as an office junior, reporting to Uncle Bob. When he asked how that sounded, she was almost gushing with relief.

“Great, really great, thank you so much Uncle Bob.” Stevie watched the smile fade from his lips.

“I’m an old fashioned sort, Stevie,” Uncle Bob said sternly, “and I keep a formal office. I’m ‘Mr Thornwell’, or ‘Sir’. Now it’s time for my morning coffee so run along.”

“Shall I help Belinda?” Stevie asked, rising from her seat.

“It’s Miss Banford to you, Stevie,“ he chided.

“Oh yes, sorry Uncle Bo...” he who was not known as Uncle Bob, reached over the desk and grabbed her wrist.

“A child could remember these things, Stevie, do you want me to treat you like a child?” Stevie shook her head, but Bob did not seem at all placated. “Well I think I’ll have to - go stand in that corner,” he pointed at a space between two filing cabinets, “and face the wall.” Meekly Stevie took her place, what was next - detention - lines?

“Didn’t Stevie show up, Bob? Oh no there she is.” Remembering kindergarten rules, Stevie refrained from turning her head as Ms Hawker entered the room, as much as she wanted to face the person who seemed the agent of her current misfortune. Their conversation continued talking in hushed tones that she was patently not supposed to hear. Stray words did escape this confidentiality, and the occasional phrase, but the first coherent sentence she overheard was ‘oh my that’s a perky little bottom isn’t it?’ Thankfully, the words were Ms Hawker’s not Mr Thornwell’s, but was that any reason to feel better?

Eyes fixed on the wall ahead, Stevie was only vaguely aware of someone approaching her, and Ms Hawker’s “good morning Stevie,” provoked a small start from her. The next few seconds, however, established a whole new magnitude of surprise, as the personnel officer’s hand made contact with Stevie’s behind. She was not so much stroking it, as examining it with her fingers, much as people inspect fruit in the supermarket; the hand roved over her rump, until finally slipping into the cleft between her buttocks, which finally seemed to satisfy Ms Hawker.

“You’re wearing a thong Stevie, how daring, “she whispered in Stevie’s ear.

“Yes Miss Hawker, I didn’t want any lines showing,” in reply she received a stinging slap.

“My name is Ms Hawker, and you’d better remember it,” and with that the older woman moved away. Stevie had to blink away tears that had prompted less by physical pain — it had not been a token tap — as the humiliation of having her bum paddled. It did, however, give her something else to think about, besides the three large cups of coffee she had drank on her way to work.

“Sorry Bob, that was unprofessional of me, but I can never resist...” whatever else Ms Hawker had to say on the subject trailed away, as she lowered voice once more. The next words Stevie hear clearly were Bob’s.

“Come here Stevie, so Ms Hawker can have a look at you.” Ms Hawker had moved the desk to the side of Mr Thornwell’s desk, and Stevie took up a position between them at its corner. “Well, don’t just stand there like a lemon,” he continued, “kneel so she can take a proper look.” Stevie nodded, and sank to her knees with as much dignity as she could muster after being made to stand in a corner, and a spanking. Ms Hawker leant forward, took Stevie’s chin between her thumb and index finger, and turned the new junior’s face this way and that. Stevie half expected to have her mouth pinched open to count her teeth, but Ms Hawker seemed content.

“Much, much better than I expected,” she said, releasing Stevie’s chin, “but I’m not sure I approve of younger staff walking around bra-less.”

“I thought they would make me look silly,” Stevie stammered.

“Never mind, honey,” Ms Hawker reached out and brushed Stevie’s cheek with the back of her hand, “I’m sure you’ll remember tomorrow.” With that she turned her attention to Bob, and the conversation carried on over Stevie’s head, pausing only when Miss Banford brought in a tray containing two cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits. Stevie eyed the latter ravenously, as she had been too anxious to eat anything since she had been dismissed a day earlier. Noting the direction of Stevie’s gaze, Ms Hawker picked up one of the small almond treats and pressed it to the girl’s lips. Try as she might not to, its fragrance made her mouth water, and Stevie parted her lips, allowing Ms Hawker to push it between them.

“Good girl,” remarked her benefactress, absently patting Stevie’s head. It was the worst indignity yet, but did little to dampen the pleasure of eating something for the first time in nearly twenty four hours.

“Thank you, Ms Hawker,” Stevie’s voice was almost a whisper, hoarse with embarrassment, but hoping also that another biscuit might be forthcoming. It was not to be, however, as the conversation turned to other things, leaving Stevie with a growing sensation that an altogether bodily need had to be addressed. After a few minutes consideration she raised her hand level with her face, and waited to be noticed.

“What is it now, Stevie?” Bob gave impression of being extremely irritated, which could not have been helped by her reluctance to answer.

“I need to pee, Sir,” she managed to stammer, “may I?”

“Of course,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, “use the gents’, just stay away from the urinals, I don’t think anyone is ready for that sight.”

Mercifully, the men's room was empty as Stevie bustled into a cubicle, desperately trying to disentangle herself from her underwear before disaster struck. It was a small moment of relief in an otherwise dreadful day. As she sat there she wondered if the job was worth it. A few days ago Steve could have begged his parents to bail him out of debt, though it would mean moving back in with them, and losing Stevie for a while. Instead she found herself being bounced along a road with no clear destination ahead, just putting up with whatever anyone threw her way. If she walked away now, with the threat of Uncle Bob letting Stevie out of the bag, would they even talk to her?

Fearing whatever punishment might be inflicted for taking too long in the bathroom, Stevie redressed hurriedly, but with one need sated she realised that she was incredibly thirsty. Who knew when she might be allowed a coffee break, so she ducked her head under the tap after washing her hands, and gulped down a few mouthfuls of cold water.

“This is the gents’ isn’t it, what are you doing in here?” Stevie straightened immediately, and found herself facing a man in his fifties, who she had never seen before. “Oh, you’re the new girl,” he placed heavy emphasis on ‘girl’, “carry on.” He brushed past Stevie, taking a place at the urinal, and began to unfasten his flies. Stevie had stood alongside others at urinals since infancy, but she found herself blushing to her hair roots. Muttering apologies Stevie scurried from the room.

“You do remember that not keeping your keycard on display is a disciplinary matter?” Ms Hawker was perched on the edge of Miss Banford’s desk, juggling something in her hands. Stevie’s heart sank, was there no end to the trouble she could get in, but cheered a little when she added, “I think we can let it go this time,” and held the object still enough for Stevie to see that it was a camera.

In a few short, moments Ms Hawker had manoeuvred her against the office wall, and was posing Stevie’s arms, as easily as an artist might a maquette’s. “I didn’t bring my bag Belinda, could you perk up Stevie’s eyes a smidge?”

“Of course,” answered Miss Banford, sliding open a drawer.

Uncle Bob’s PA held up a compact’s mirror for Stevie to inspect her handiwork. In a matter of minutes she had, with a few deft strokes, transformed Stevie’s face. It was a skill Stevie was desperate to acquire, and she pressed Miss Banford for details of everything she was doing.

“Time for that later,” Ms Hawker interrupted, “we’ve a photograph to take, remember.” One photograph turned into ten, as the demanding photographer repositioned her model after every shot, calling in Miss Banford for cosmetic alterations along the way. Stevie was almost dizzy by the time she left, but asked to borrow the mirror once again.

“It’s down to work now Missy, now to your desk!” Miss Banford pointed to a small table, on which stood only a tall pile of papers.

“I suppose my PC is arriving later,” Stevie took her seat, pushing the papers to one side.

“Oh no,” the older woman smiled, “you’ll not be doing anything that requires a computer dear, just filing, making coffee and whatever else we can find. You can make a start by putting those into date order.”

“What are these for?” Stevie lifted the uppermost piece of paper.

“You really don’t need to know Stevie, just sort them, and when you’re finished, I’ll show you where they live.” As Miss Banford’s tone indicated that there was nothing more to be discussed, Stevie set to work on what turned out to be expenses claims. A sidelong glance told her that she was being watched, so limited herself to picking out the date, ignoring the rest of their contents. Stevie had had less menial Saturday jobs when she was in school, and whereas downstairs in Accounts, Steve had been solely responsible for several clients, on the eighth floor Stevie was responsible for nothing more than doing as she was told. Still, the time passed pleasantly, except for the paper cuts.

“Of course Ms Hawker, I’ll send her right up.” After an hour’s wading through the pile of forms, Stevie was glad of an opportunity to stretch her legs, and wanted to see her new photograph, if only it did not mean a trip to HR. She dithered about whether to take the stairs or the lift, until she remembered the lifts had mirror walls, and vanity won out giving her two floors of preening. Belinda, that is Miss Banford, had done a wonderful job on her eyes, although she had done very little at all. The effect, however, was infinitely better than any of Stevie’s attempts.

HR took up much of the sixth floor, in one large open plan office, at the centre of which sat Ms Hawker, like a spider watching over her web. Silence had broken out immediately the lift doors closed behind Stevie, as if the entire department had been waiting for her arrival. Feeling very much like a fly, she picked her way through the maze of desks, until she reached Ms Hawker.

“Here you are Stevie, a new keycard, and lanyard so you can’t forget to wear it around your neck.” Stevie turned the keycard over to see her photograph, and alongside it, in big bold letters ‘MISS STEVIE WESTON’. It was almost a dream come true, almost but not quite. Lost for a few moments in her reverie, Stevie slowly became aware that Ms Hawker was still speaking. “You cleared your blog last night Stevie.”

“Yes Ms Hawker,” she answered, her mouth suddenly dry, “I thought it best if I did.”

“Hmm,” across the desk Ms Hawker made a steeple of her fingers,”I’d like you to log into it now.” She pushed back her chair beckoning Stevie to come around. Bending over to use the keyboard, Stevie realised that her bottom was well within the personnel officer’s reach, if she wanted to administer another slap, but then they were in an open plan office, so she should be safe from unwanted attentions. As much as the slap had stung, Stevie’s mind had drifted several times since to the moments before when Ms Hawker’s hand was merely wandering, and a small part of her regretted the present lack of privacy.

She stepped back from the desk to allow Ms Hawker to use the keyboard, and watched her change the account password. The significance escaped Stevie, until she was asked to access her personal email account, which also had its password changed. In the space of seconds Stevie had surrendered her online identity to another, and had to ask why.

“Almost everyone in the company has accessed your blog, Stevie,” Ms Hawker gave her a pale smile, “and will no doubt do so again. We need, therefore, to ensure that it doesn’t contain anything that compromises what we’re trying to achieve.” Stevie wanted to ask what it was exactly that they were trying to achieve, but doubted she would get a meaningful answer, and merely nodded her understanding. “Anyway, it’s almost time for lunch, and I could hear your stomach rumbling in the lift, so off you go.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Both Uncle Bob, and Belinda, had already gone to lunch by the time Stevie returned to the office. Had they gone together, she wondered, and not for the first time speculated about how close their relationship was. Stevie’s mum had joshed Bob about making a honest woman of Miss Hanford for as long as she could remember. There was, however, a more pressing subject to be addressed. Stevie had hoped the older woman would bring back a sandwich, or something, for her, and although people were still making their way along the corridor, she did not know any of them well enough to ask. Kicking herself for not bringing a packed lunch, Stevie sat at her strange new desk, and came closer to crying than she had all day.

Ordinarily Steve would run out to a sandwich bar down the block, easy enough if you aren’t afraid of laughter, or worse. She had fooled everyone on the way in because they were too tired to stare, but Stevie doubted she would escape attention in the full light of day. Would the company of those who knew her for what she was, be any kinder, and had the news of her new protected status percolated through the company? Feeling light-headed, but with her groaning insides pointing the way to its sticking place, Stevie gathered up her courage, and made for the staff restaurant.
Long before Stevie had been employed, in the days when it had still been known as a canteen, the first floor restaurant had been the building’s social hub, a meeting place for people from all departments, and all levels. Over the years it had fallen from favour, as most employees chose to eat in town, or at their desks. Stevie had only visited on a handful of rainy days, and found it largely deserted; with a modicum of luck, the fine weather would have drawn out even more. For the first time that day, fortune was on her side, and its only habitués were a handful of older workers, and a cluster of noisily arguing lads from IT.

There was a level of obvious curiosity from the serving staff, who were not part of the company as such, but otherwise no one appeared to take much notice of her. As she set about her baked potato she gave less concern for ladylike behaviour, than a quit exit. Hoping that she would continue to be less interesting than Star Wars, Star Trek or knitting patterns, Stevie devoted her full attention to her lunch, and her new tablemate’s, “I hate to see a pretty girl sitting alone,” almost sent her last forkful shooting across the room. Pushing his tray alongside her own before she had a chance to object, the newcomer held out a hand, not so much tanned, as bronzed, “I’m Daniel, by the way.”

Had he really mistaken her for a girl? She had never seen him before, and assumed he was a client, in which case, continuing the deception could land her in all sorts of trouble. “I’m Stevie,” she held up her keycard, as verification, “and I’m not really a girl.”

“You’re not alone either,” he grinned impishly, “but you’re still pretty.”

Sometimes there is nothing for a girl to do, but blush and say something stupid, “I like your moustache.”

“Gruesome isn’t it?” Daniel stroked his top lip, “but I’ve been in the Delhi office for the last six months, and they’re de rigueur over there.” As an ice breaker it was far from ideal, but it had the virtue of working. Daniel was not much older than Stevie, in his late-twenties perhaps, the moustache made it difficult to tell. Against her better instincts, Stevie began to relax, as he told her about the trip over from India, which he would retrace the following day. “Terribly boring,” he insisted, “and when I get here, all anyone can talk about, is very brave young woman who started work today.”

“If she’d been at all brave she’d have gone out for lunch,” Stevie could not put her finger on, what it was about Daniel that put her at ease, she knew only that whatever it was, worked.

“And I’d have had to traipse half way around the world again to meet her,” Daniel laughed, “shall I take our trays back?”

“Yes please,” a glance at the clock told her she had only a few minutes, “I have to get back to my desk.”

“Wait one minute and I’ll ride up in the lift with you.”

Much as Stevie would have enjoyed his company, she pointed out that she worked on the eighth floor, to which Daniel replied he was going up to the twelfth.

“I thought that whole floor was Mr Barrack’s, the one we’re all supposed to call ‘Sir’” Around the company, the chairman was an almost mythical figure, seldom seen by anyone other than senior management, and then only rarely. She felt sure Daniel was only trying to impress her, but a big ‘what if’ was rearing its head.

“That’s him,” Daniel helped Stevie move her chair out, “but I get away with calling him ‘Dad’ most of the time.”

“Lunch with the chairman’s son doesn’t excuse tardiness, Stevie,” Miss Hanford tapped her wristwatch, “don’t look so surprised, you should know IT are the worst gossips.” Indeed they were, and Stevie strongly suspected them of outing her.

“Is Mr Thornwell in his office?” Stevie gave nonchalance her best shot, but the quiver in her voice was unmistakeable.

“He’s not back for another hour dear, so you’ll stay out of the corner for now.” Stevie had waited all day for a warm smile from her uncle’s PA, and it cheered her no end.

“Does he do that often, to everyone I mean?” Had she pushed her luck too far? Miss Hanford’s expression would have foxed the most hardened gambler, and several tense seconds passed before she answered.

“It’s been a couple of years since I had to.” Open mouthed was not a look that Stevie wore well, but there was nothing else she could do to express her disbelief. Miss Hanford seemed at pains to defend her superior, “it’s not that he’s a tartar, he simply likes thing ‘just so’, and it’s a lot easier on his nerves to make you stand facing the wall, than it is to shout at you.”

Stevie could no more imagine the elegant, assured lady consigned to a corner, than she could imagine her making a mistake that might warrant it. Yet, she spoke almost affectionately of the man who did this to her. Bewildered, Stevie sat at her desk, and returned to the pile of forms she had to sort.

Ten minutes ahead of the appointed hour, Miss Hanford lead Stevie to the floor’s kitchen area, to learn how to make Mr Thornwell’s coffee ‘just so’. Along the way she introduced the new girl to the other clerical staff along the corridor, and everyone asked if Stevie had been in the corner yet. Apparently it was a standing joke Had it not been for Ms Hawker’s slap, Stevie might have put it out of her mind entirely, and a bounce entered her step as she carried the tray back.

Feeling quite proud of herself, she was disappointed when Miss Hanford insisted on taking the tray into Mr Thornwell. Shortly after his PA had entered, Bob appeared at the door and drew it closed, leaving Stevie with a sinking feeling that her late return from lunch was being discussed. When he reappeared at the door, asking her to come in her suspicions appeared confirmed, but instead she was asked to take the coffee things back. Relieved, she had picked up the tray and with an unconscious flick of her eyes, she saw the immaculate figure occupying the corner of shame. It would be another thirty minutes before she emerged, thanking Mr Thornwell, while tipping the junior a mischievous wink.

The day Stevie thought would never end, closed without any further incident. Her pile of forms had dwindled considerably by five o’clock, when Miss Banford said ‘goodnight’. Half an hour later, Mr Thornwell locked the door to his office, and asked if she intended going home.

“In a little while, when the buses are a bit quieter.”

“Not interested in a lift then?” Bob jangled his car keys.

“That would be wonderful, Mr Thornwell, thank you,” Stevie reached for bag, while he slipped into his overcoat.

“One thing Stevie, out of hours I’m still Uncle Bob. OK?” Just about the best reward for being an uncle, was a beaming smile.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Stevie opened her eyes a few seconds before the alarm rang, and briefly enjoyed the bliss of waking from a deep, untroubled sleep. Memories flooded back with a clang, but unlike the alarm, they could not be switched off. If the day before had been a nightmare, yesterday was simply surreal, her whole world turned upside down.

When Uncle Bob had dropped her off, she had wanted nothing more than to get out of her shoes; high heels were fun to wear around the house for an hour or two, less so for a twelve hour stint - the irony had not escaped her. While Steve would come home, undress and become Stevie, when she came home who would she be.

After sitting for a while, she stripped to her undies and drew a bath; a long soak would soothe mind as well as body, but what then. Try as she might Stevie, could not bring herself to put on any of Steve’s clothes. Wrapping herself in a towel she had padded from bathroom to kitchen, and carrying a makeshift dinner flopped down in front of the television.

No scripted drama, however, could hope to match the mad Cinderella story she found herself living. Some of it Stevie might have enjoyed - parts were indeed a fairy tale come true — if only she could work out who was who in the cast. Candidates for Fairy Godmother abounded, and Prince Charming had already put in an appearance, but who exactly, were the Ugly Sisters. Happily ever after seemed more than a fortnight away, and she was unsure if she even wanted to attend the ball.

Locked out from her online life, her yawns told Stevie that it was time for bed. Any thoughts of Steve had vanished when it came to selecting nightwear. Cosy in her favourite pyjamas, she had just turned back the covers when the telephone rang. Curiosity overcoming fatigue, she stumbled into the next room to find out who was calling so late. Her parents’ familiar number flashed on caller ID, but she was too tired to chat to either of them. Leaving the telephone to ring off the hook, she turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. Her eyes closed almost immediately, but she had a moment to realise that it was only eight thirty.

Stevie had never dreamt that dressing as a girl could ever be a chore for her, yet dressing for work was much harder than flinging anything on for the fun of it. Dressed only in bra and knickers, she flicked through the closet rack, wondering if she had anything suitable to wear. A white shirt, similar to that she had worn the day before, seemed the obvious choice, but all her underwear was black; her sole white camisole had joined yesterday’s top in the laundry hamper. She had never had to worry until then about making sure she had clean women’s clothes, they were simply thrown in with Steve’s clothes on laundry day.

Salvation came with the discovery of a top she had forgotten buying. It looked like a black sweater pulled over a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up together, but was in fact one garment. Was it too casual for the office? Stevie vaguely remembered someone wearing a near identical garment in Accounts, but the dress code in her old department was notoriously lax. Deciding that casual was preferable to a trampy display of underwear, she took it from the closet.

Stevie had to take off her make-up twice, before she was happy she had recreated Miss Hanford’s efforts, or as close as she was likely to get. She pulled a face in the hallway mirror, checked that she had keycard and home keys, and left for the bus stop. There was no one at hand to applaud her confidence, so she gave herself a silent cheer, her ponytail bouncing jauntily as she walked.

When a wheel hit a pothole in the road, the bus journey gave Stevie a dilemma Steve had never faced; should she try to stop the sandwiches she had just bought from sliding off the seat, or ensure that her breastforms were not jolted free of their cups. As food is easier to replace than dignity, she chose the latter, clutching at her bust with both hands, while her lunch went skidding along the aisle. Had she known her falsies would prove so volatile, she would have glued them to her chest, and vowed to do so from now on.

The breastforms had been her most expensive purchase to date, practically maxing out one of her credit cards. Unwilling to trust such a large purchase to the mail, Stevie had travelled to London to buy them in person, and had already blessed her caution once this morning. The shop assistant had talked her out of buying the larger forms she wanted, and recommended a size more suited to her small frame. She shuddered at the thought of the impact a D-cup would have had made in the office, let alone rolling alongside her sandwiches.

“Allow me Miss,” said the elderly man sitting opposite, and hooked the errant lunch with the crook of his cane. Stevie thanked him, and bent forward to pick the package up, and he assured her it was ‘my pleasure’; as he had been in a perfect position to see her knickers ride above the waistband of her trousers, Stevie could only assume that his answer was sincere. Rookie mistake.

Arriving a little after seven o’clock, Stevie made her way to the smokers’ door, but found that her new keycard would not open. With the confidence that comes of flashing ones underwear at pensioners, Stevie made her way to the main entrance, where the night-watchman stationed himself out of normal office hours. After a cursory check of her credentials, Stevie was waived through, and wished a good morning. If he knew Stevie to be Steve, he made no show of it, but then Frank was an old soldier, and had no doubt, seen stranger sights.

Hers were the first lights switched on anywhere on the eighth floor, which surprised Stevie as she had also thought senior staff were habitual early birds. With coffee made, and no email, or voicemail, to distract her, there was nothing to do save start work. Half an hour later a startled Uncle Bob grumbled his way through the door, and was being served his morning coffee when Miss Hanford came in.

“You’re not standing in the corner, I’m impressed,” she laughed, “and you’ve almost finished that job too — let me see what I can find you.” Ever true to her word, another pile of paper, even larger than the first landed on Stevie’s desk in short order. Stevie switched to the next task without complaint, her work might have been more menial, but compliments had been few, and far between, in Accounts.

A meeting called manager, and PA, away at nine o’clock, by when the floor had regained its workday bustle. Barely five minutes would pass without someone sticking their head around the door to wish her ‘good morning’. Stevie could not forget her circumstances, that would be impossible, but her new colleagues’ sociability was infectious; only one comment troubled her.

A matronly woman from Mr Lauder’s staff — Stevie could not recall her name — wished her a good morning, and added an enigmatic “loved the new pictures on your blog, Sweetie, it must be such a relief for you.” Only one person could now make changes to her blog, and that was Ms Hawker. It was possible that she had uploaded some of the photographs taken the day before, but what had Mrs Green — that was her name — meant by ‘a relief’?

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Penny Hawker had also attended, every sensitivity seminar she arranged for her staff. She knew the professionally correct way to deal with issues from disability to body odour; knowing, however, does not mean understanding. Tact, sympathy, sincerity, Penny could fake them all, but why a man would choose to dress as a woman escaped her. On one level it was simply comic — Steve in panties had been hilarious — and yet at the same time, it angered her. Was it not enough for men to withhold so much from women, that they had to steal from them what was undeniably theirs? Her real difficulties began when Stevie’s face replaced Steve’s.

Computer-literate rather than computer-fluent, Penny had spent the previous evening piecing together a new blog for Stevie. The photographs had been an obvious place to start, which kept them on the monitor all the while Penny struggled to put words into Stevie’s mouth. It was almost impossible to look at those images without remembering Stevie’s infectious enthusiasm for Belinda Hanford’s make-up skills. It made the job ahead seem to Penny, easier, and somehow, harder. Never one to shirk hard work, or turn down an opportunity for advancement, the head of HR fired her camera’s shutter.

“How’s my good girl this morning?” A startled Stevie looked up from her desk, surprise at the flash, receding before a resentful memory of the day before.

“Mr Thornwell’s in a meeting I’m afraid,” she said, through her best impression of a smile. Ms Hawker perched on a corner of the desk, setting the camera down, alongside Stevie’s coffee cup. She complimented Stevie’s top, but wondered aloud if it complied with the letter of the dress code.

“I wasn’t sure myself, but both my bras are black,” Stevie blushed crimson at the confession, “I thought it would be better to wear something they didn’t show through.” Ms Hawker’s approving nod, brought a huge sigh of relief.

“Speaking of bras, these look impressive,” she jabbed a finger at Stevie’s nearest breast, then closed both hands around them, “they even feel real.”

“Mr Thornwell’s not expected back until eleven, can I take a message?” Stevie hoped her voice did not betray her anger. Nerveless silicon they might have been, but Ms Hawker may as well have gripped the heart that lay beneath it - the pain was no less.

“Actually, it’s you I wanted to see,” Ms Hawker released her grip on Stevie’s chest, “we need a few more photographs for your blog.”

“About my blog, Ms Hawker,” Stevie was on uncertain ground, “I’m not sure I’m happy about you...”

“Of course,” Ms Hawker brushed a stray hair away from the junior’s eyes, “and I don’t mean to exclude you, but let’s talk about it after we have the photos, shall we.” She left her hand rest on Stevie’s cheek.

Ms Hawker explained that she wanted a series of shots of Stevie doing her job; nothing special, just a typical working day, starting with a picture of Stevie at her desk. She brushed aside a suggestion that they take it at Miss Hanford’s desk, “we wouldn’t want the computer hiding your pretty face, would we?” Propelled by this combination of intransigence and flattery, Steve allowed herself to be posed, and smiled when prompted.

“I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing for her, Ms Hawker,” Mrs Green kept half an eye on the kettle, but found other two in the kitchen area much more interesting. “I hope you’ve thanked her young lady,” there was an emphasis on the last two words which galled Stevie, though she continued to smile inanely in her direction.

“Oh she has, don’t worry,” Ms Hawker answered sweetly,”why don’t we take a photograph of the two of you together?” The matronly secretary’s day had been made, and gladly accepted direction, “can you hold the kettle up to show her Mrs Green?” Taking Stevie by the shoulders, Ms Hawker arranged her pose so that her face was clearly visible to the camera, “look up a little at Mrs Green, a little bit more, and smile...”

Their progress back along the corridor, photographed from every possible angle, brought almost everyone to their door. Balancing coffee cups on a tray, even empty ones, was difficult enough in heels, but doing so with an audience, was unbearable. Though she kept smiling, Stevie wanted nothing more than to return to Uncle Bob’s office, and lock the door behind her.

“You file too, Sweetie, don’t you?” Stevie nodded, and lead Ms Hawker to the collection of shelves, and cabinets, where the office’s paperwork was stored. At least these photographs might suggest that she could read. After half a dozen shots over an open drawer, alternately smiling or looking puzzled, as instructed, Ms Hawker turned her attention to the uppermost shelves, and the set of steps used to access them.

“That’s it, put your right foot on the fourth step, and your left on the third, there’s a good girl, now pretend take out one of the boxes.” Stevie held the pose, her arms and back stretched as far as she physically could, for another four shots, and then Ms Hawker was beside the steps helping her down. “We don’t want you phoning Claims Direct, do we?”
Stevie laughed, glad to be off the steps, whose grilled metal surface had threatened to trap her heels, “is that it?”

“For today, now let’s get you back to your desk before old Bob comes looking for us.”

“About my blog, Ms Hawker?” Stevie was very conscious of the hand at the small of her back, propelling her briskly down the corridor, if she did not mention it now, who knew when the next opportunity would arise.

“I’m a little pressed for time now, Stevie,” Ms Hawker flashed her a smile, “and I’m out for most of the day, but why don’t you come to my office for a chat at... say four thirty. A final”OK?” was accompanied by two pats on Stevie’s bottom.

Disconcerted by the continued presence of the hand stroking her bottom, Stevie could only stutter out a dry mouthed, “that’ll be fine, Ms Hawker, thank you.”

“Good girl,” Ms Hawker squeezed the soft flesh under her fingers, adding, “this I know is real.” Without waiting for an answer, she left a blushing Stevie, a few feet from her office door.

*****

Miss Hanford accepted Stevie’s explanation, for her absence without question, and surprised her junior by placing a small wristwatch in her hand. “Mr Thornwell doesn’t like clockwatching, and you kept taking a man’s watch from your bag yesterday, it was very noticeable,” she closed Stevie’s hand around the watch, “and then I realised you didn’t have one of your own.”

“You’ve saved me from the corner again,” Stevie laughed, “thanks, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“Don’t mention it, we girls have to stick together you know,” Miss Hanford gave her arm an encouraging squeeze, and added, “now don’t mind me, your young man is at the door.”

“My young what?” Steve turned to see Daniel advancing behind an enormous bunch of flowers.

“I hope you like roses,” the bouquet obscured half his face, but the crinkling around his eyes told her he was smiling. “I just wanted to say goodbye before I shoot off.”

“I’ll put these in water for her, Mr Barrack” Miss Hanford relieved Daniel of his burden, and stepped quickly from the room. Leaving an awkward silence in her wake, which Stevie rushed to fill.

“No one’s ever given me flowers before, I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s been an honour to meet you Stevie, I want you to know that.”

Stevie bobbed forward and kissed his cheek, realising too late, that Daniel had extended his hand, for her to shake.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I did that,” she gushed, amazed at how her face burned.

“It’s what girls do, don’t you know,” Daniel returned the kiss, “well I’d best be off before Bob accuses me of waylaying you. Goodbye Stevie, I hope you’re still here when I’m next in the UK.”

Stevie managed to croak, “goodbye Daniel,” and flopped into her seat. What had just happened?

“You were just caught up in it,” Miss Hanford laid a soothing hand on Stevie’s shoulder, “he was right, someone treated you like a girl, and you responded the right way.”

“You don’t think I’m...” Stevie’s voice trailed off.

“Not for a second,” Belinda lied, “now pull yourself together. It’s almost time for Mr Thornwell’s elevenses.”

*****

Stevie looked apprehensively at her wrist, when the lift doors opened to reveal the waiting Ms Hawker. “You’re not late, don’t worry,” she eased her arm through Stevie’s, “there’ll be less distractions if we do this in one of the interview suites.”

Stevie, who had been working herself up about the meeting all afternoon, could think of nothing worse than being alone with the head of HR, but there did not seem to be an alternative; she had to find out what had happened to her blog, since surrendering her passwords. Numbly, she followed Ms Hawker into the windowless room. She had sat in its twin not six months before, and remembered how the only sound to be heard was the air conditioning, so efficiently were they soundproofed.

Ms Hawker steered her towards two chairs that had been drawn up against the table at its centre, on which a laptop was quietly purring. “Let’s sit down shall we, Stevie, and I’ll show you what I’ve done so far.”

The URL in the address bar was familiar, but the whole appearance of the page had changed; the background colour was set to a pale pink, and the title rendered in a swirling, cursive font. At the head of the page, Ms Hawker had set a photograph similar to that which now graced Stevie’s keycard. Beneath it was a short introduction, which appeared to have been lifted, almost verbatim, from the old blog. Among the things it still listed, Stevie noted wryly, were the very personal details, which had led to her discovery. She scrolled past another photograph, to the new first entry, purporting to be from her own hand.

Tuesday 8th April 2008

Monday was a nightmare. Somehow my blog became known to someone I work with, and pretty soon everyone knew about my secret life. I have never felt so humiliated in my life, everywhere I went people were laughing behind my back, or passing stupid comments about me. I was just a joke to them, how could they know the heartache I have always carried with me.

All my life I have known I was different from other boys, that in some way I was closer to being a girl, sometimes I have even asked myself if I should really have been a girl, but was always too afraid of the answer. So afraid that the only place I could talk about Stevie was in this blog.

Luckily the Human Resources department of the company I work for has offered me a way to get past this situation. They have given me a chance to come to work as a woman for the next two weeks, to help me resolve my unanswered question, and perhaps find a better life.

I know many of my colleagues will probably continue to read this blog now that they know about it, and I hope they will understand what it is I am trying to achieve, and wish me luck for the days ahead.

“So what do you think?” Ms Hawker leant across her chair, eager for Stevie’s reaction.

After a long pause she answered quietly, “well it’s not really true is it? I haven’t been asking myself if I’m a girl all my life.”

“It’s as true as it needs to be, Stevie.”

“But how can I go back to being Steve now, I’ll never live this down,” Penny heard the catch in her voice, and clasped Stevie’s hand in hers.

“It could never be the same once people knew about you,” she spoke very softly, stroking the back of Stevie’s hand, “but this way Steve can come back, if he wants to, and I can protect him.”

“What do you mean, ‘if he wants to’?” Stevie pulled her hand free from Penny’s grip, “you don’t think I want to stay like this do you?”

“All I know Stevie, is that in the last two days, you have been a perfect girl,” Penny looked directly into her eyes, taking up her hand again, “it has to make you think, doesn’t it? You must have wondered sometimes what it would be like, to be girl instead of a boy.“ She took a tissue from her pocket, and dabbed at the tear running down Stevie’s cheek.

“Sometimes, I suppose,” Stevie blinked back another tear, “but it wasn’t like that. Steve will be back.”
Penny’s arm wound around Stevie’s shoulders, “OK honey, I believe you. Here, blow your nose, and we’ll have a look at the photos we took this morning.”

“Do they have to make me look like I’m on work experience?” The photographs were very good, Stevie had to admit that much and Ms Hawker had selected only those that flattered her most, but every one showed her performing a menial task.

“We’ve taken you from Accounts, and moved you up to the eighth floor Stevie,” Ms Hawker closed the preview window, “if we gave you more important work it would look like favouritism, think of how that would affect for your Uncle Bob.”

“Sorry, Ms Hawker” Stevie pulled a face, she had not really thanked either of them for what they had done, “I’ve been a bit silly haven’t I?”

“Just a little bit,” Penny patted Stevie’s knee, “but we should have told more about what we’ve been doing, but you’ve been so good these last two days...” she reached down under the table, and produced a bag from what Stevie knew was the most expensive lingerie shop in town, “you said you didn’t have any white underthings, so I picked these up for you while I was out.”

Inside Stevie found a white bra, and two pairs of knickers to match, “thank you Ms Hawker, but I can’t accept these, they must have cost more than fifty pounds.”

“I’m not quite as cheap as my name suggests,” Penny laughed, “but you will take these Missy, I insist.” The head of HR had lightly poked Stevie’s ribs to emphasise each word, sending her into a fit of giggles, “it’s ten past five, so get along home.”

Penny leant back in the chair, Stevie’s parting kiss warm on her cheek, and watched her dash through the door. Most of her time was spent sorting through candidates resumes, or counting days lost to absence, it was refreshing to have a challenging project fall into her lap, especially with the latest news from India.

Author's note: this part a day malarkey is harder than it seems, and I'm sure this is full of all manner of typos, spelling mistakes, repetitions and who knows what else. I think I'll have a small lie down now :)

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Oh my God,” Stevie pressed her back against the front door, and groaned; had she really just done that? With a sense of dread, she forced herself to remember the last few minutes. Two steps from Uncle Bob’s car he had called her back, holding up Ms Hawker’s gift, she had ducked back in, and then — to her horror — had given him a peck on the cheek as a ‘thank you’. Worse still, she had stood on the kerb, and flappily waved away the man who had taken Steve to rugby matches, had bought him an air rifle, and his very first pint of beer. One more step along the road, Stevie thought, and one more Steve would have to retrace when the fortnight was over. She was spending too much time as a girl, if Steve was to stand a chance, she would have to bring him back in the evenings.

After a shower, and wholly unnecessary shave, Stevie dug out the pair of boxer shorts he kept for doctor’s appointments, and a t-shirt of his she sometimes wore to bed. These were not sufficient to cover up Stevie, so she added socks, jeans, and a football shirt. As a final flourish she pulled her hair into the untidy ponytail he favoured, and there he was — in the mirror at least. It was not enough, however, to look like Steve, she had to be him; if only she could remember how.

Over the months, Steve’s visits to the flat had become less and less frequent; Stevie had to think hard to remember a weeknight he had been around. Of course, he was always there for part of the weekend, mostly doing the things Stevie could not - grocery shopping - or would not — cleaning the bathroom. As neither needed to be done that evening, she would have to teach Steve what to do with his spare time.

Opening her sole can of lager - left over from her flat warming party - Stevie switched on the television, and scanned through the channels in search of sport. Finding a football match, she leant back on the sofa, one hand around the can, the other down the front of Steve’s boxer shorts, content that she was perfectly masculine. Five minutes later, Stevie was forced to admit, that she did not like lager, the chanting crowd irritated her, and thanks to her waxing regime, the contents of her shorts, were frankly disappointing.

Until Monday last, no one had suspected she even existed; Steve left her at home each morning, travelled, worked, and shopped, without anyone ever guessing. Of course! The missing element was other people; all Steve needed was someone whose expectations of how he should behave helped him to act appropriately. Who though? She could not go into work now, and the few school friends Steve had kept in touch with, were either gap-year travelling, or already away at university. There was a pub on the corner, but Steve had never been in because he knew he looked underage, which left the supermarket.

Stevie walked almost the entire way on the balls of her feet, two days in heels had ruined her for flat shoes; yet another skill poor Steve would have to relearn. Taking a basket from the stack near the entrance, she stopped for a moment and wondered what she could buy. Her supply of cereal was running low, and she could always stock up on coffee, both of which were kept at the rear of the store. After negotiating the produce section, resisting the urge to buy anything bar a small bag of oranges, she made her way briskly down the central aisle, eyes fixed on the far wall.

Stevie had, however, developed fine peripheral vision for a bargain, and was brought to a dead stop in the clothing department. Hanging at the end of a sale rack, was a black pencil skirt, with a fine blue chalk stripe, it was in her size, and at a price that was practically shoplifting. Coffee and cereal sales suffered a minor setback, as Stevie turned for the checkouts.

“Ah, I remember when I was a size ten,” the middle-aged assistant said wistfully, as she bleeped the skirt over the barcode reader. Stevie toyed with a compliment for her on her fine memory, but thought better of it, smiling sweetly as she handed over a crumpled five pound note. “Keep off chocolate, that’s what did for me” the assistant wagged a cautionary finger, adding as Stevie walked away, “and have a good evening, Miss.”

For the second time that evening Stevie pressed her back to the door, and groaned. She had gone out in search of Steve, and had returned with a new skirt, after being mistaken for a girl. Later on, she would find a few crumbs of comfort amidst the orange peel on the coffee table; the assistant had not used her glasses, which had very thick lenses, to look at Stevie, and it was a very nice skirt. Steve drew a hot bath, and consigned Steve to the laundry basket, “I’ll try again tomorrow,” she vowed, as she slipped under the covers.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Waking up with breasts was a novel experience, if only because it made rolling out of bed unexpectedly difficult. Stevie had fixed the breastforms in place before retiring, partly to save time in the morning, but also to test the claims made by the glue’s manufacturer. Everything seemed to be in order, but before putting on a bra, she jumped up and down several times; though not particularly pendulous, she also bent forward, and swung them from side to side. Nothing became detached, although Stevie acquired a fresh understanding of a bra’s advantages.

Shaking the last few crumbs from the cereal box, Stevie tried to keep any from landing on her new skirt, just as she was sipping coffee from a half filled cup, to guard her new white underwear. Such extra caution would not have been required, had not her four inch heels placed her a little farther from the counter than she was used to, but the skirt hung so much better with them, than without. How different these decisions were, from those of three mornings ago; how different she was.

Her newfound confidence carried her through the main entrance, where Frank greeted her by name. Once again, she was first into the office, and set down her bag beside Daniel’s huge bouquet. Lights on, and coffee brewing, she turned to her latest assignment. Removing staples from waste paper, was pretty much the most menial job Stevie had been given yet, but the paper would be recycled, and doing her bit to save the planet felt good.

“I was told you were an early bird,” Ms Hawker appeared in the doorway, camera in hand, and a document folder tucked under her arm, “what are you up to now?”

“Just saving a couple of trees, you know,” Stevie smiled as she dug out an exceptionally tenacious staple.

“Someone appears to have left one on your desk,” laughing, the head of HR took an extravagant sniff of the blooms, “been treating yourself?” With a shake of her head, Stevie launched into an excited account of Daniel’s visit.

“I felt such a fool for kissing him,” Stevie’s blush rivalled the roses’.

“Oh no you weren’t!” Ms Hawker smiled warmly, “women who receive a gift, kiss the giver; it’s just like kissing each other when we meet. Stand up and I’ll show you.”

“Mwah, mwah!”

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she said, smoothing down her skirt, after twice grazing her cheek, against the older woman’s, “I feel so sophisticated.”

“You look it too” Ms Hawker stepped back to admire her outfit, “stockings, and those very daring heels. Is the skirt new?”
Stevie admitted that it was, and related the details of her attempts to recapture Steve. Delighted by the football match story, Ms Hawker clapped her hands with joy, but her expression darkened as Stevie recounted her trip to the supermarket.

“You left the house dressed as Steve?" Stevie was amazed by how quickly she became cross, “what if you had been seen by someone from work? You could have ruined everything.”

Stevie stared down at the bows on her shoes, “sorry, I didn’t think.”

“Obviously,” Ms Hawker snapped, “I should spank you for that.”

Stevie had formed a theory about Ms Hawker’s fascination with her bottom. When her Uncle Bob lost his temper, he sent her to the corner; after the first time, it meant nothing. Uncle Bob would cool down, she would apologise, and it was over. Ms Hawker was a bottom smacker, it stung some, but it too meant nothing. Turning quickly to hide the smile creeping across her face, Stevie presented her bottom for spanking - she may even have pushed it out a little.

“Mornin’ ladies, what are you two up to then?”

Penny was genuinely fond of Bob Thornwell, but she had never been so pleased to see him; had he been a minute later, she did not know what she might have done. “We’re about to get a photo of Stevie with her lovely roses,” to Stevie’s silent amusement, Ms Hawker bit her lip before continuing, “and I’ve some emails to show her.”

*****

note: I'd hoped to write a bit more today - Stevie's whole day is plotted out - but I lost a lot of time rewriting the last three paragraphs about ten times. I'm trying to keep up my post a part every day policy, and this seemed a good place for the break. Spanking has sneaked back in I know, but it is vital to something that happens later in the day, which is very important to the story over all.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Unlike any captured on the day before, Stevie felt the photographs Ms Hawker had just taken, did not make her look a moron. She had been posed, with a minimum of touching, sitting on her desk with the flowers by her side. Especially good was that where she had one leg crossed over the other, and her hands folded on her knee; it would be her choice to appear on her blog, if choice she had.
Ms Hawker’s folder contained about twenty email message she had printed from Stevie’s account. Mostly from people within the company, they were a mix of apologies for being unkind and good luck wishes. She flicked through, scribbling replies for Ms Hawker to send for her later, and then returned to removing staples.

“White,” Miss Hanford tapped the slightly bemused Stevie on the shoulder, “you’re wearing white knickers dear.” Noting the confusion on the girl’s face, she added, “your desk doesn’t have a modesty panel, you’ll have to be very careful how you sit, or you’ll be flashing people all day.” Stevie blushed, for all the free peeks she must have given already. She had Stevie stand, and demonstrated how best to avoid embarrassment, and then out of the blue asked, “have you ever tried putting your hair up?”

“A few times,” Stevie answered, “but I could never quite get it right.”

“Let me show you,” Miss Hanford undid Stevie’s ponytail, and in no time at all, was waving a mirror before the beaming office junior. “I’m surprised these aren’t pierced,” she lightly touched Stevie’s earlobe.

“Steve was always afraid people would make a big thing of it.”

“Steve eh?” Belinda’s raised an eyebrow, but when she thought about it, Steve really did seem like another person, “well we don’t have to worry about that now; how about we go out lunchtime, and get you done?” Stevie nodded vigorously, and her enthusiasm lasted right up until they entered the lift at lunchtime.

“Sorry, Miss Hanford, I don’t think I can go through with this,” Stevie tried to slip her arm from the older woman’s, “there’ll be too many people looking at me.”

“There will,” Miss Hanford nodded sagely, “and all them thinking ‘why isn’t that lovely young woman wearing ear rings?’” Her grave expression so highly amused Stevie, she failed to notice the lift doors closing behind her. By the time the two of them reached reception, Miss Hanford had explained where they were going, to passengers from half a dozen floors. With their good wishes ringing in Stevie’s ears, she allowed herself to be swept along into the crowds of lunchtime shoppers.

“My toes have gone numb,” Stevie had started to limp slightly.

“You’ll get used to that,” Belinda smiled, everything was new to Stevie, “not far now, there’s the place on the right.”

“Ooh it’s you, isn’t it?” an assistant had pounced the instant they had walked in,”Stevie with the blog!” Within seconds all the staff members were buzzing around.

“Who does your hair Stevie?”

“I’d never have guessed.”

“Have you decided yet Stevie?”

“Who gave you the roses Stevie, is he handsome?”

“I told you she wasn’t photoshopped.’

“Stevie, do you like girls?”

“I bet Mrs Green has been here,” Belinda muttered for Stevie’s benefit, adding more loudly, “she wants her ears pierced, if you can fit us in.”

Appointments were not necessary for ‘celebrities’, and Stevie soon sported a gold stud in each ear, for the price of a photograph with the assistants clustered around her.

“This is my email address, forward a copy, and we’ll try to fit it in the blog,” Belinda organised senior management meetings, so gaggle or excitable young women presented no challenge, “let’s get back Stevie, his nibs will be wanting coffee.”

*****

“Aw, doesn’t she look grown up Belinda?” Mrs Green had been waiting for them to return, and pointed out her niece in the photograph.

“She does Edna,” Belinda ran her tongue along an envelope, “but still hasn’t learned to hide her panties from the world.” Stevie pulled her skirt down hurriedly, cringing from the assault of alternating compliments and criticism. Edna Green was a lovely woman, but overpowering in even small doses. Stevie had already been chivvied into parading her outfit around the office, and slobbered over. She threw Uncle Bob’s PA a glance that clearly said ‘help’. Miss Hanford handed Stevie the envelope she had just sealed, “take this down to Mr Posnan, there’s a good girl.”

“Mr Posnan was my manager in Accounts,” Stevie held the envelope at arm’s length.

“Good, then you know where his office is,” she had been around Miss Hanford long enough to know when a subject was open for discussion, and this was not. To make matters even worse, she left just as Mrs Green was voicing her fears about the niece being a lesbian. It would have been nice to hear a really juicy piece of gossip, about someone else for a change.

Accounts’ cube farm stretched out before Stevie like a singularly unimaginative maze. Had her days in the rarefied atmosphere of the eighth floor granted her a new, Olympian perspective, or was she simply viewing her old office from four inches higher than usual? Her heels allowed Stevie to peer into cubicles, but also made her progress visible to all. Heads popped up from behind partitions as she passed, in a way that suggested the guillotine was back in operation.

Mr Posnan exuded a peculiar smell which discouraged long meetings. It was not a particularly unpleasant odour, merely unidentifiable, and had earned him his reputation for quickly getting to the point. Stevie’s delivery was accepted with a perfunctory ‘thank you’, and she was away with only a vague impression of cloves. However, a hundred faces barred her way to the exit.

Six months’ familiarity allowed her to plot the most direct route of return. A few ducked back into their cubicles as she approached, others muttered apologies, or wished her well, but one head loomed above all others - her former section leader in Bought Ledger. Tim Witlock had been wearing a sneer when the wind changed, and was incapable of any other expression, except in the presence of a superior. Such was his notoriety for brown nosing office legend held that he had once spent an entire hour, discussing the weather with Mr Posnan. Stevie braced herself for the inevitable taunt.

“Look everyone it’s the tea lady,” more heads ducked back to their workstations, “I see you’ve got two lumps for me, darling.” Stevie held her tongue until they were almost level, words ordering themselves in her mind.

“I may be a tea lady, Tim,” she paused as their eyes met, “but I’m tea lady on the eighth floor, and I haven’t seen you up there.” Other voices followed her to the door, loudest of all she knew from the cubicle next to Steve’s.

“You’re not bloody likely to either!” Good old Stacy.

*****

“You made quite a splash in Accounts this afternoon,” Ms Hawker must have spies everywhere, “I’ve just finished your blog entry for the day.” Stevie sat down beside her, carefully holding her skirt as she had been told to, and beamed at the head of HR. “I put this up earlier,” unbelievable the photograph was the one Stevie would have chosen, and beneath it was another of her surrounded by manically waving young women, including Mrs Green’s lesbian niece.

“It looks wonderful,” Stevie scanned over the captions. Daniel’s name was not mentioned, as Ms Hawker believed it too might spark accusations of favouritism, but she had included some messages from the girls in the other photograph. “About my emails Ms Hawker,” Stevie laid the folder down on the desktop, “are you reading all my messages?” It had been worrying her for days, not that she had anything she especially wanted to hide, but the address was not specific to her blog.

“Don’t worry Stevie,” Ms Hawker patted her hand reassuringly, “I’ve only opened those I know have been sent from within the company.” She opened Stevie’s mail account in another browser, “I am curious about Alison though; old girlfriend?”

“Just a school friend,” Stevie looked through the list of unread messages, wondering if they were just that. Six were from Alison, “she’s the only person I told about ...” she waved her hand above her torso, “this. She’s backpacking through Australia right now.”

“Well it’s nice you keep in touch,” Ms Hawker rose from her seat, “I’ll let you have some privacy while you read them.” Stevie read through them quickly; the first five were simply descriptions of places she had visited, the sixth, however, was her reaction to Stevie’s new blog. Alison had rambled for pages, and Stevie knew she could not write a proper reply, so she printed off the message to read at home.

“I’ve finished,” Ms Hawker returned to her seat, looking more than a little vexed.

“Stevie, about this morning when I,” Penny paused, the next word hurt, “threatened to spank you...”

Stevie leapt to her feet, and turned to present her bottom as she was sure Ms Hawker wanted, “I’m ready Ms Hawker!”

Penny slipped her hand around Stevie’s wrist, gently turning the girl to face her. “Sit down Stevie, there’s something I have to tell you.” Penny took Stevie’s hand between hers, “you did that this morning too, can you tell me why? It’s not a test, honestly.” She tried to look reassuring, but was not sure it worked.

“Well Ms Hawker,” Stevie stammered, “I thought it was what you wanted me to do; it’s nothing really, just a smack on the bottom, and it seemed to make you happy.”

Allowing Stevie’s hand to fall from hers, Penny brought them together at the bridge of her nose - what had she become? “When I was young...” she waved away Stevie’s protestation, “I’m thirty two, that’s old enough to be your Mum in some parts of town. When I began work, after college, there were still men who thought it perfectly natural to ‘handle’ female staff. I played along for a long time, I thought it was the way of things, but I hated it.”

Stevie was still young enough to be amazed by the way adults sometimes behaved, but old enough to realise when someone was in pain, “Ms Hawker, it didn’t hurt that much, honest.”

Penny shook her head, how could someone remain so innocent. “I’m sorry Stevie, I really am. The moment I had the opportunity, I acted just as badly as they did.” Penny sniffed back a tear, she might have been rocked to her core, but she was not about to cry in public, “it’s gone five, be off with you, just don’t forget anything in the car tonight, I don’t want to have to put your Uncle Bob through counselling.”

“Yes Miss Hawker,” Stevie danced out of the way, just in case, but her hands remained where they were. Penny laughed out loud, as she watched Stevie almost skip through the door. For all her innocence, she had a talent which the professional people manipulator lacked, and ironically, it was the talent Penny most desperately wanted.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Morning Miss Weston, nice new pictures on your blog.”

“Thank you, Ms Hawker is a good photographer isn’t she?” Stevie would never have put Frank down as a silver surfer, but then the whole world seemed to have booked a ringside seat on her life.

“A photographer’s only as good as her model, Miss,” for once Frank’s face betrayed him, a smile curled at the corners of his mouth, “you have a good day Miss Weston.”

“Call me Stevie, please,” she patted his arm, though she did not for one minute think that he ever would.

Whoever had switched on the office lights was nowhere to be found; “and this one was just right,” Stevie giggled, as she sat at her desk — the mystery visitor had left a packet of her favourite biscuits. Her Nan had loved Lincoln biscuits too, and always kept the barrel well stocked, even though they were not easy to find anymore; supermarkets only seemed interested in chocolate biscuits. Rotating the packet in search of the ‘tear here’ tab, Stevie found instead, a post-it note with a neatly lettered ‘sorry’ on it.

There were too many likely candidates to even begin guessing who had left the gift, and as CSI were not at hand to gather fingerprints, Stevie started to destroy the evidence. After a look left and right confirmed that Uncle Bob was not lurking anywhere — it was another of his pet peeves — his office junior dipped the Lincoln into her coffee. She had not yet had a chance to retrieve her private stash from her desk in Accounts, and Stevie’s eyes closed as she savoured it.

“It’ll go straight to your hips,” Ms Hawker stood in the doorway, laughing.

“I wish it would go straight to my hips,” Stevie answered wistfully; her narrowness in that department restricted the styles she could wear.

“I’ll remind you of that when you’re older Missy,” Ms Hawker dropped a buff folder on Stevie’s desk, “more email messages, but if you’re busy...” her voice trailed away, until Stevie protestations brought her back to the point. “You’ve a lot more mail today, quite a bit of it from outside the company, so we’ll have to go through those together.”

“This is quite long I’m afraid, but I’ll type it if you like,” Stevie handed over the four page reply she had written to Alison’s message; hours writing longhand had made her feel like a Jane Austen heroine, though she doubted her spelling and grammar were up to that standard. What to include in the reply had involved some careful consideration, she did not want anything too personal, or that could be taken the wrong way, passing under Ms Hawker’s eyes; even if the head of HR seemed less daunting after their last interview.

Ms Hawker’s vision was at least the equal of her namesakes’, and the slight changes Stevie had made to her make-up, and her success at putting her hair up, had demanded fresh photographs.

“I hope you’re getting the going rate, Stevie,” Uncle Bob had arrived as Ms Hawker was putting her camera away, “if she’s paying you in biscuits, you should at least get Hob Nobs.”

“OK, but not chocolate ones,” Ms Hawker beat a hasty retreat. Bob Thornwell was a legendary negotiator, who would talk her up to Jaffa Cakes in very short order, “see you at four-thirty, Stevie.”

“Laters,” how differently the week was ending for her, from how it had begun. There was no stifled laughter, no whispering, and the secret that had been tormenting her was almost a thing of the past. Steve would need to tell a few other people, or maybe she would tell them herself; after a week like this, Stevie would rule out nothing.

“Stevie, if that’s you making that infernal racket, get in here now!” Bob hated to hear someone humming, almost as much as he hated a whistler. She scurried into his office, brimming with apologies, but only one thing would satisfy Bob’s temper, “into the corner Stevie, until you learn not to make annoying noises.” No doubt, she would wear a smirk for as long as she faced the wall, just as Belinda always did.

Steve had from a very young age, been Bob’s favourite of all his friends’ children. Always quiet, almost withdrawn at times, he would surprise his ‘uncle’ with an insight beyond his years. Bob had long suspected that Steve’s reserve masked a secret, but had never dreamt that it would surface as it had. In fact, it was nearly impossible to reconcile his memories of the boy, with the figure in the corner; the piled up hair, earrings, stockings, and tight little skirt reminded him of someone else — especially the skirt. “That’ll be all Stevie, back to your desk.”

“That was quick,” Miss Hanford checked her watch, Stevie had been in Bob’s office for less than five minutes; humming had earned their last temp an hour facing the wall. She shot Stevie a concerned look, “I’d better see what’s wrong.”

“I couldn’t look at her Bel, I had to send her out,” Bob chewed an arm of his reading-glasses, while worrying his tie’s knot with the one hand.

“Was it her legs, or her bum, Bob?” Belinda had not seen her boss so rattled for years; she tried her hardest not to smile.

“It was the wristwatch, Bel; the one I gave you, the first Christmas we worked together,” Bob finally loosened his tie enough to open his collar, “that was a sneaky trick.”

“She needed a watch, Bob,” Belinda lost the battle with her lips, and hid the smile by changing the subject, “if things had worked out differently, you know, we might have had a daughter about Stevie’s age by now.”

“We haven’t talked about this for a long time,” Bob knew his PA’s moods, almost as well as she knew his, “what’s up?”

“I don’t know, maybe having Stevie around the office has made me a tad broody,” Belinda gave an embarrassed laugh, “fixing her hair, teaching her about make-up, all that stuff.”

“There’s still time, Bel,” Bob reached for his now cold coffee, “for both of us.”

“Did I really hear that?” it was the closest he had ever come to proposing.

“Maybe,” Bob took another sip, “but it would mean breaking up the old team, I’d need to find a new PA.”

“Tough job; she’d need to be able to put up with all your pernickety ways, your foul temper, know exactly how you like your coffee...” Belinda pursed her lips, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That you’re a devious woman, Belinda Hanford?”
Stevie wondered what they found so funny, but had a premonition that it somehow involved her.

*****

Miss Hanford had spent the morning showing Stevie how Mr Thornwell’s diary was kept; it would be important according to his PA if, for any reason, she was unavailable. Stevie could not help thinking it would be so much quicker to use a computer, but said nothing, as it made a pleasant change from removing staples. Lessons continued after lunch, and she began to look forward to her four-thirty meeting with Ms Hawker. It would end the strangest, and in some ways most enjoyable, week of her life. Miss Hanford, however, had other plans.

“How do you fancy another trip down to Accounts?” Stevie knew the question was rhetorical, and took the envelope from her superior, “you may as well go straight up to HR on the way back. Have a nice weekend Stevie.”

Purely by coincidence, Ms Hawker’s PA, Debbie, rode down in the lift with her. Only a few years her elder, she appeared to have the weight of the world upon her shoulders. Stevie remarked that she looked tired, and was told, “when the Hawk comes in early, so must all the little hawklings.”

Stevie had never heard the nickname before, but could well imagine what it must be like to work under the HR head’s beady eye, “I’m afraid that may be my fault.”

“Oh no, she’s always the first in, don’t worry,” Debbie gave her a weary smile, “to be honest, she’s been a lot easier to get along with the past few days. This is the floor you want, isn’t it?”

Accounts held no fears now for Stevie, and her passage to Mr Posnan’s office went off without event. Belinda’s wristwatch told her that she had ten minutes until her meeting, ample time to take a detour to her old cubicle, which she found, had not been allocated to anyone else. Steve had not been taken off the payroll yet, it seemed, Stevie however was more interested in his biscuits.

“Hey, what you doing in there again?” a familiar face popped over the partition, “Stevie, you’re back!”

“Only for a few minutes, Stace,” the two of them caught up quickly, unsurprisingly, as most of the office gossip was still about her. Tim Witlock had taken a day off, with ‘his nerves’, according to Stacy, who regaled Stevie with an impression of his face when she walked out.

“What did you mean by ‘again’, Stace?” Stevie did not know if it was important, but that one word piqued her interest.

“I thought you were Tall Paul from IT, he was in here yesterday, rummaging around in your desk,” Stacy had a poor opinion of IT, which was not uncommon, “I thought he was back to have another crack at your biscuits.”

Was there a connection, Stevie wondered, as she made her way back to the lift. She was sure that it had been someone from IT, who leaked her blog details, and they were the most likely people to be on site very early in the morning. Stevie was certain on one point - absolutely certain - it would take more than a packet of biscuits, to make amends for the damage done her. Frank might know who had been in first this morning, and she had just resolved to ask him on Monday morning, when the lift arrived.

Waiting for lifts to open still had an element of tension for Stevie; with no way of knowing who the doors would reveal, she could only hope for a friendly face. Every journey between floors, now made her feel like an entrant in a low-budget, daytime game-show. She thanked her good fortune, when her prize on this occasion, was Phil from the post-room. In the six months she had worked there, he had never failed to greet Steve with a joke every time they met. Squeezing past his trolley, she pressed the button for floor ten, and turned to face him. Phil had never seen Stevie before; still she was sure that her story had reached the post-room. “Hi Phil, remember me?” she said brightly, “I look a bit different now.”

His answer took an age or emerge, “nice tits, when are you getting a c**t?”

Tim Witlock’s remarks had been easy to fend off, they were intended to amuse others, and could be turned against him. Delivered in a flat, impersonal tone, the obscenities were meant only to be offensive, to provoke a reaction from her. Phil was not a large man; Steve had certainly tangled with bigger boys in school, but always with the luxury of friends nearby, or a bolthole. The mirrored walls made it difficult to look anywhere without meeting his gaze and its contempt was palpable. Stevie pressed herself into a corner, as far from him as was possible in the cramped car, and prayed that someone else would join them at the next stop.

When the doors opened, no saviour waited in the third floor corridor, and had the trolley not barred her path Stevie would have pushed her way out. Any fear of physical assault had dwindled - if Phil meant her harm he would have acted between floors - she simply wanted to be out of his sight. Not until the doors had begun to close again, did he nudge the trolley between them, leaving her alone.

His final snort of derision echoing around her, Stevie crouched in her corner, weeping uncontrollably from floors three through nine. For her dignity’s sake alone, she was fortunate that few travelled away from reception so near the day’s end. As the lamp blinked out behind the number nine, she was able to collect herself, straightening her clothing and running a tissue across her nose, while she thought about what Ms Hawker would say.

---

Note: I resorted to the dreaded asterisks as I didn't want to offend anyone with a particularly nasty word, but one I think Stevie's reaction required.

Bit of an early break again tonight, I wanted to take the story up to the end of the evening, but used up a lot of time on the final paragraphs - I really did honest - so it'll have to be tomorrow :(

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Penny Hawker’s first instinct was to take Stevie into her arms the instant she stumbled from the lift. Her eyes were red with tears, and her make-up streaked, but there was a distantness in the girl’s bearing, that kept the older woman at bay. Something dreadful had occurred that much was apparent, but getting her to talk about it would require great tact. Penny dealt with sensitive issues every day of her working life, and yet that was no help. She was far too personally involved, for convention to apply.

“This is assault, Stevie,” Penny crumpled the paper on which Stevie had written her assailant’s words, “no one has the right to treat you like this.”

“But they will,” Stevie spoke dispassionately, as though all emotion had drained from her, “from now on, everywhere I go, there will always be someone.”

“Tell me his name honey, and I can make sure... ” Penny checked herself, unsure if she was pursuing Stevie’s interests, or her own desire for retribution.

“He’s a good bloke really, it was probably just a shock to him, you shouldn’t sack or him, or anything.” A victim pleading the attacker’s case was not uncommon, Penny knew as much, but that knowledge did little to quell her growing anger with him, whoever he was.

“It’s not your fault, believe me,” she covered Stevie’s hands with her own. It might take days to find out exactly what had happened; Stevie was intent on maintaining the wall she had built between it and her. Penny picked up the telephone,

“Bob, it’s Penny.”

“Don’t tell him!” Stevie hissed.

“I’m giving Stevie a lift home... no there’s not a problem,” she squeezed the hand beneath hers, “it’s on my way, and we can have a good old natter - girls’ stuff you know.”

Avoiding the lifts seemed wise, so Penny led Stevie down the service stairwell; the basement exit was also closer to where she had parked. Their progress was slowed somewhat by Stevie’s heels, and the hour had passed by the time they arrived at the smokers’ door, through which Stevie had crept on Monday morning.

A knot of male staff was still clustered around the exit, enjoying a last cigarette before dispersing for the weekend. As the two women approached their conversation died; it was a familiar experience for the head of HR, but Stevie appeared unnerved, pressing close to Penny. When they had passed by, the group erupted into laughter of a peculiarly nasty timbre.
Most of the men were from the post-room, Penny noted.

Ms Hawker’s car was identical to Uncle Bob’s, if you ignored the litter, which evidently she did. “Do you need directions?” Stevie was still unsure of the older woman, who had acted so unpredictably throughout the week. At that moment she was kindness itself, but experience told Stevie it might swing to the other extreme without warning.

“It’s OK, I took your address from your personnel file,” she typed Stevie’s postcode into the car’s GPS, “we’ll soon have you home.” They drove in silence, interrupted only by the GPS prompts, and were soon parked outside Stevie’s building,

“I’ll come in with you for a few minutes, make sure you’re all right.” Penny was surprised by the flat’s neatness, for someone whose life was in such tumult, Stevie — or perhaps Steve — kept an exceptionally ordered home. Considering that she spent almost all of her free time at home, there was very little of Stevie to be found; even in what should have been a haven, she was hidden from sight. Penny remarked as much, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

“Mum and Dad come around once or twice a week, “Stevie shrugged, “and they don’t always call first.” How could someone live in such secrecy, Penny wondered, and how terrible discovery must have been. Suddenly feeling very much the intruder, yet unwilling to leave the girl alone, she searched for a way of staying.

“Show me the kitchen, and I’ll make the coffee.”

“I’m out,” it was not however, the stark dismissal she feared, Stevie added, “there’s camomile tea, if you like.” Bustling about the kitchen together, Penny managed to coax a few smiles from her hostess, but little conversation.

The furniture in rented accommodation had not changed significantly it seemed since Penny Hawker’s college days; the sofa’s springs squeaked noisily as they sat down, and she sank lower than was perfectly comfortable. She was just about able to reach the DVD case lying open on the coffee table, and flipped it over to read the title. “I love this film,” not many eighteen year olds’ tastes ran to foreign cinema, she had expected a frat-pack comedy, or banal rom-com, not ‘Cyrano’, “I have a bit of a thing for Monsieur Depardieu.” Stevie’s giggle warmed her heart.

“It’s one of my favourites,” she went onto explain how it had been shown in French class, and she had bought her own copy because she liked it, “I don’t know why - the sword fights are cool, and some of the jokes are hysterical, but the ending is so sad.”

“But he at least had his panache,” it was a terrible in-joke, but Stevie laughed all the same. All week, Penny had watched the girl emerge from within, a truly remarkable girl, “you know you’re a lot like Cyrano — no not your nose — he had so much beauty no one knew about, because all they could see was what was on the outside.”

Stevie bit her lip, but a smile peeped through, “ah but you’re Cyrano, the letters he wrote for Christian are like the blog entries...” Penny pressed a finger to Stevie’s lips.

“The words are you Stevie, at most I’m the postman,” she chucked Stevie’s chin, “why don’t we watch the film and decide?”

When she could tear her eyes from the divine Gerard, Penny noticed that in places Stevie reacted to the dialogue slightly in advance of the subtitles, “do you speak French Stevie?”

“I have quite a bit, it was one of my ‘A’ level subjects,” she did not embellish, but returned her attention to the portable television’s tiny screen.

Penny had looked through Stevie’s CV several times, and there was no mention of the advanced examinations. A lot more kids entered higher education than they had in her day; every potential recruit now seemed to have a degree in something, and Stevie was brighter than many of them. “Why aren’t you in university Stevie?”

“I needed a job to be Stevie,” she shrugged, as if that was the obvious answer, “in college I’d have been reliant on money from Mum and Dad, they’d have wanted to know what I was spending it on.”

Penny marvelled at the logic, and at how the need to be Stevie informed every aspect of her life. For the first time she began to understand the drive - if not the reasons - to be female. An eighteen year old had succeeded where all the sensitivity courses she had attended, all the books she had read, failed. Penny wrapped an arm around Stevie’s shoulder, kissing her lightly on the temple, “and I’m glad you did, Stevie.”

Stevie snored softly, her head on Penny’s chest, where it had lain since Christian had been killed at Arras. Penny reached cautiously for the remote control; she could not bear to watch the film’s beautifully tragic conclusion, but neither did she want wake her companion. No trace of the day’s turmoil marred the sleeping girl’s serenity; there was the suggestion of a faint smile Penny fancied, and hoped that she was its inspiration. Keeping extraordinarily still, she watched Stevie’s chest gently rise and fall, until her wristwatch told her she must leave, “hey sleepy girl, I’ve got to go.”

Stevie’s eyes flickered open, “please stay, I have ‘Germinal’ too, we can watch that.”

“HR doesn’t come out too well in that one,” Penny struggled to feet, not least because it was a wrench to leave Stevie go, “I have some stuff to do, but I will come around in the morning, promise.” She planted a kiss on Stevie’s forehead, “now go to bed Missy.”

Yesterday’s Starbucks cup crunched underfoot as Penny sat in her car. She took out her mobile, and tapped in the familiar number, “Hello, Frank... good thanks... yes they are nice... she is very pretty... look, I need your help with something... great, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

---

Note: apologies for referencing one of my favourite films so heavily in this, but it really is wonderful.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“It’s still pretty dark at seven Miss Hawker,” Frank had shown her up to the CCTV control room, “but when she walks into reception, well it’s like the sun has come up.” Penny was incredibly touched by the old soldier’s fondness for Stevie, so much so, that she did not correct his mistake with her name.

“It’s just a shame not everyone feels the same, Frank,” Penny took the chair he pulled out, “I fear she has a few hard knocks ahead of her.”

“The wife said much the same this morning, Miss Hawker,” Frank switched on the bank of monitors, “but she’s made a good start. Unless you know what to look for, you’d never tell she was... you know.”

It was the most Penny had heard him say, about anything other than work, in ten years’ acquaintance; Stevie had a rare talent for sure. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?”

*****

Penny stifled a yawn as she switched off the ignition; it had taken longer than expected, to discover who had been in the lift with Stevie, largely because the cars were without CCTV coverage — as Phil Peel probably knew. Even with proof - of sorts - there was little she could do; it was his word against the office junior’s, but Penny had a few ideas. So had Frank, and it had taken a while to dissuade the former Royal Marine, from putting them into action. Remembering something Stevie had said the evening before, Penny took her mobile from the dashboard.

Stevie snaked an arm from under the duvet, and thumped her alarm clock. The first thing she noticed was the time — nine-thirty meant a certain ticking off from Miss Hanford — and the second, the alarm had not stopped ringing. Groggily, she rolled from bed, and padded into the living room to answer the telephone. “Wuh... Ms Hawker... all right, Penny... OK, I’m doing it now.”

The head of HR looked a lot different without her work face on, much prettier, especially in casual clothes, “mwah, mwah — what’s in the bag?”

“I’ve brought breakfast,” Penny held open the carrier, “coffee, croissants and strawberries — now get inside before all your neighbours see that nightie!” The last was spoken more loudly, not so much for Stevie’s benefit, as for the man at the next door but one, who was busy ogling the scantily clad teenager. Penny had herself, had a double take moment when the door opened - the cleavage on display was disturbingly naturalistic.

Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, her babydoll nightdress bunched at her waist, the little brunette munched lustily both pastries and fruit, while guzzling coffee so strong, it was tearing off Penny’s taste buds. “Slow down or you’ll choke,” she cautioned, “and tell me what you usually do on Saturdays.”

“Well...” Stevie swallowed a strawberry whole, “Steve goes to the supermarket for groceries, most weeks, and I...” half a cup of coffee disappeared, “let him.”

“OK,” she seemed to have put the yesterday’s events behind her, the older woman noted, “the supermarket it is then.” Penny smiled, it was her chance to do something about the bare kitchen cupboards.

“Just a minute, these,” Stevie lifted her breastforms, “are glued on, you know.”

“Then we’ll not take Steve,” Penny laughed, “you really don’t have anything to worry about, believe me.” It took a few more minutes’ cajoling to convince Stevie that she would not appear to be anything other, than a young woman — with hiccups. She emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel, and headed for her bedroom.

“Penny,” Stevie popped her head around the door, “can you help me pick out something to wear, please?”

“Of course I...” life in Human Resources had presented many surprises, but none had stopped Penny Hawker dead in her tracks as surely, as Stevie Weston dressed only in the white bra and panties, she had bought.

“Last time you saw me in knickers you laughed,” an impish smile had stolen over Stevie’s face, at Penny’s reaction.

“Last time I thought you were just a naughty little boy,” Penny had almost said ‘dirty little boy’, but thought better of it; her pride, however, demanded she do something to recover, “and how can I laugh when...” she unfastened her slacks, letting them fall to her thighs, “I’m wearing the same panties.” Stevie’s expression was — as they say — ‘priceless’, but Penny gained an appreciation of how embarrassing it was, holding your trousers while your underwear was on display. Had it only been six days?

---

Note:a very short chapter today... Doctor Who's just started.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Don’t these,” Stevie pinched the denim shorts, “look slutty with tights and heels?” Any lingering doubts Penny may have had about Stevie, had been dispelled by the amount of time she had taken to select an outfit — to wear to the supermarket.

“Every woman under thirty looks slutty to me, honey,” Penny picked up her car keys, “loads of girls wore them to work last casual Friday, don’t you remember?”

Stevie shook her head, “Steve never goes in on casual Fridays; he doesn’t have a thing to wear,” she grinned sheepishly, “who wore this in then?”

“Kylie Watkins, for one — yes I know she’s a chav, don’t interrupt — and Sam Maynard she wore them too — she’s not a tart, she’s a lovely girl — c’mon Stevie, you look fine.” Stevie pushed her hands into her pockets, but followed Penny out into the street.

“Where’s your car?” Stevie looked up and down the road, but could not spot Ms Hawker’s grey BMW.

“Oh I don’t use Brenda on the weekends,” it was a little childish Penny knew, but she had named every car she had ever owned, “meet Mitzi.” She swept her arm out with a flourish, pointing to the trim, postbox-red roadster at the kerbside.

*****

Stevie was still griping about using a trolley,”a basket’s big enough for my weekly shop, honest.”

“You need to stock up on things,” Penny dropped a kilo bag of pasta into their cart, waved away Stevie’s protests and added another, “Steve’s been starving you sweetie. Do you like brown or white rice?”

“I really don’t that much cooking,” what on Earth was she going to do with all this food?

“Good to hear,” Penny lightly punched Stevie’s arm, “we don’t want you adhering to outmoded gender stereotypes,” both types of rice followed the pasta, “but you have to eat.” On they rolled through the aisles, Stevie disputing the need for every item that Penny added to the trolley.

“Go to that one there,” Stevie pointed to a checkout already groaning under, what looked like the provisions for a Waltons’ Christmas. At least she had stopped sulking about missing out the clothing section, Penny steered the heavily laden shopping cart towards the queue Stevie had indicated. With everything stacked on the conveyor, Stevie picked up a Mars bar from the counter display, and placed it at the top of the pile.

“What did I tell you about chocolate young lady? You’ll end up like me,” the stout checkout assistant puffed out her cheeks for emphasis.

“It’s OK,” Stevie made her best innocent face, “it’s for my friend — all she eats is rice and pasta.”
Penny was still laughing as they wheeled their groceries through the exit. Nobody cracked jokes at the HR chief’s expense, and yet someone at the very bottom of the corporate ladder was doing just that. Every moment Penny spent with Stevie was a joy, and strengthened her resolve to make amends for the harm she had already done.

“Hi Stevie, have you decided yet?”

“Who was that?” Penny looked around expecting a familiar face from work, but found only strangers.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Stevie opened her chocolate bar, and took a full quarter of it in one bite.

*****

Penny turned into Stevie’s road, slowing to a crawl as another car had parked in the space closest to her flat. “It’s busy in here...”

“Stop the car!” Penny looked down into the foot well where her passenger had ducked, “that’s my Mum and Dad’s car, don’t let them see me!” Penny speeded past the green Jaguar, and into the next street, where she pulled over.

“That was close,” Stevie emerged from hiding with a broad grin.

“You’re going to have to tell them soon or later, Stevie,” Penny brushed the girl’s hair from her eyes, “it’s too big a thing to keep quiet.”

“I’ve done OK so far,” Stevie fidgeted uneasily in her seat, “I just have to do another week, and everything’s back to normal.”

“You can’t go...” Penny did not finish her sentence; the car was no place to discuss it. Stevie’s insistence that she could return to her double life baffled her. She would have to pick her moment carefully; it would be difficult convincing Stevie that her future happiness, so obviously depended on living as woman. “How about we get some lunch in town, and have a look round the shops?”

“Clothes shops?”

*****

Bob Thornwell had been in all four of the town’s jewellers twice that afternoon, and was well along the road to losing patience with his — secret - bride-to-be, “it’s a bit extravagant isn’t? After all, it will only be a short engagement.”

“Nineteen years is hardly a short engagement, darling,” Belinda watched Bob wince at the irony with which she pronounced the endearment, “and you wouldn’t want everyone thinking you’re a cheapskate.” Not for the first time that day, Bob wondered if he could get to stand in a corner, in their new home; he doubted it very much.

“It’s not like you’ll be able to show it to anyone, not until we’ve sorted you out in another department,” he realised his tone had shifted into wheedling; it might get him an extra biscuit with his coffee, but he had no illusions about it working, when there was a tray of rings on the counter.

“I think I preferred the sapphire one in the last place.” Bob groaned, and turned wearily for the exit.

“Is that Uncle Bob?” Stevie was bearing up well, given how busy the shopping centre was, and cheered up considerably when she spotted other young women dressed as she was; although all were pronounced chav, tart, slapper and mutton-dressed-as-lamb.

“Where?” Penny turned a fraction too late to see Miss Hanford’s put-upon fiancé, slope away into the crowds. “Don’t look,” she nudged Stevie, “but them boys is checking out your fine, fine booty.” Her companion cringed as all teenagers do, when the aged attempt to ape their ways.

“Um maybe like they um sort of think like that you’re like a MILF or someting.” Penny permitted herself a small preen, when Stevie explained the acronym, but knew that if anyone was being letched at, it was the nymph beside her.

“Oi Stevie,” both turned involuntarily at the shout, the group of teenage boys were waving madly, “Stevie, you is a babe, man!” Chavs the lot of them, as if she would know anyone like that. Stevie slipped her hand in Penny’s and followed her into the department store.

The change in Ms Hawker’s personality was incredible; something of an eminence grise within the company, Penny had shown an altogether different side in the last twenty-four. Like a young aunt, or even an older sister, she whisked Stevie along, joking at each step. Some suspicions remained, how could they not after the events of only a few days earlier, but those memories were fading rapidly, and some were taking on a new light.

“You need to try some of these on,” Penny said, from behind a mound of hangers, “the fitting rooms are over there.”

“I can’t go in there,” Stevie hissed through the massed garments, “I usually bring them back if something doesn’t fit.” Already worried by the sheer amount of items Penny had picked out for her, the prospect of being discovered in a women’s changing area, brought her to the verge of panic.

“I told you there was nothing to worry about,” the two of them had squeezed into a cubicle, “try these on first,” Penny held up a pair of black knee-length shorts, “you can show off your legs without flashing your knickers.”

“Thanks,” the shorts she had been wearing lay in a puddle around her feet, “are these OK for the dress code?”

“If they’re not I’ll rewrite it, you are a bit of a special case, honey,” there were a few advantages to running HR. She flashed Stevie a quick grin, “just don’t turn up in the pink dress I saw in your wardrobe.”

“That was one of the first things I bought,” Stevie blushed to match it, “it’s awful isn’t it?”

“We’ve all got skeletons in our closets,” Penny held Stevie’s shoulders while she stepped out of the black shorts, “try the skirt next, I know it’s short for work, but you really should show off those smashing legs of yours. They put Sam Maynard’s to shame.”

“I really can’t accept all these, Penny,” it had taken a while for Stevie to become comfortable using the older woman’s name, but by the time they had left the cramped fitting room, they were fast friends. Friendships can, however, be too one sided and Stevie was alarmed by the amount of clothes they carried towards the checkout.

Penny smiling, fished into her bag, “don’t worry about it,” and with a flourish waved a company credit card under her companion’s nose, “you’re a legitimate HR expense. Sorry if that sounds a bit impersonal.”

“You’ll look fabulous in these, Stevie, wish I’d been in the fitting rooms” the assistant winked confidentially, “I can’t wait to see the pictures.”

“Sorry,” Stevie looked at her, trying to remember where they had met before, school perhaps, “where do I know you from?”

“Oh you don’t know me,” she dropped the receipt into the last bag, “someone on Facebook sent me the address for your blog. We’re all hoping you decide to stay a girl, no one’s going to believe I met you.”

“I’m sure she’ll mention your name in the blog, err...” Penny peered at the young woman’s name tag, “Ashley.” To their mutual amazement, the assistant began jumping up and down, squealing.

*****

“It’s just an internet thing, “Penny took the junction leading to Stevie’s street faster than she intended, and was forced to dab the brakes, “it’ll blow over quickly enough.”

“What about that fat kid with the light sabre,” Stevie chewed nervously on a lock of her hair, “I heard he committed suicide.”

“I don’t think that’s oh...” the green Jaguar was still parked outside Stevie’s flat, two figures clearly visible in its front seats, “your parents are pretty persistent aren’t they?”

“Oh yes,” Stevie crouched beneath the door, “they’ll stay there forever. What are we going to do?”

Penny shifted up a gear, “I think you’ll have to stay at mine tonight.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Daniel turned the laptop towards his companion, “this is Stevie, she’s pretty don’t you think, Rani?” The woman beside him sniffed, inclining her head as though it was too great an effort to look at the computer’s screen.

“Remarkably,” she wrinkled her nose, “for what she is, am I to be jealous of your new kothi?”

“Of course not,” Daniel laughed, “she’s just a child, but a brave one.” He spun the laptop away from her, and carried on reading Stevie’s blog. Rani, however, would not let the subject rest.

“Your country is being kinder to hijiras than India,” her voice was insistent, “here she would be an outcast, disowned by her family to live her life untouchable. In England she has a house, a job protected by the government, and does not worry about the pointing fingers.”

“I think you’ll find she worries very much about them,” Daniel snorted, it hurt to have his homeland’s liberal attitudes thrown in his face. “Hijiras have a place in your culture, a thousand years of tradition, even tolerance of a kind,” Stevie might be half a world away, but Daniel knew that her path would be littered with obstacles any hijira would be familiar with.

“A whore is still a whore, whatever the tradition,” Rani was quick to anger, but Daniel knew she was not in the full fire of her temper.

“Is a tax collector any better?” Daniel feigned an innocent tone.

“Ha, my giriya, why do you bring this thing to our bed?” Rani picked up the laptop and placed it on the floor, “now let us enjoy our Sunday morning, as we should. See how I respect your traditions?”

“Admirably, as always my...” his words were lost in her kiss.

****

Stevie used her last scrap of roti to scoop up the remaining dal on her plate, “where did you learn to cook like this?” She licked her fingers with great relish as she finished her meal, “was it in India?”

“No, Birmingham mostly,” Stevie’s mystified expression was adorable, “I went to college there — balti houses everywhere - and once I had the taste, I tried making curries at home...” Penny gave her young guest a conspiratorial wink, “which left me more money for beer.” Stevie’s giggle was even more satisfying than her delight in Penny’s cooking.

“I usually just pop something in the microwave,” Stevie carried both their plates to the sink, “I think I get that from Mum.” Penny bit her lip, it was an ideal opening for a discussion about telling her parents, but for the first time in years felt unqualified to tell someone else how to live their life. Each passing day made more obvious the fact that Steve was not her true nature; obvious to everyone except Stevie, who still clung to the notion that she could return to a semblance of her former, hidden life.

As head of HR, Penny had contacts with several excellent counsellors better qualified to help Stevie, and yet she did not want to pass responsibility on as she would with any normal case; she had long since ceased thinking of the young woman, now elbow deep in hot, soapy water, as a ‘case’. Deciding it would be best to bide her time, she brushed aside her guest’s protests that she would do the washing up, and joined her at the sink. “When we finish up here, I’ll open a bottle of wine. Which do you prefer, red or white?”

*****

“Like fine wine I only improve with age,” Bob fell back on the pillow, hands a folded under his head and a wide smile of satisfaction smeared from ear to ear.

“You can certainly keep the cork in the bottle longer than you used to,” Belinda’s acid tone was far from convincing, especially as her fingers were curled around Bob’s chest hair, “but then you had a lot of practice, at least before HR cracked down on harassment in the workplace.” She tweaked a hair from his nipple, making Bob wince.

“Water under the bridge, Bel,” Bob reached down to take her hand in his, “and you’ve not exactly been celibate either.”

“At least I can count on your not pouncing on the latest temp,” she teased, adding archly, “or can I?”

“Of course,” Bob patted her hand, “but honestly Bel if you’d had an arse like that I’d have married you twenty years ag...” the remainder of his sentence was stifled by his long suffering assistant hand, the two of them tussling playfully on the bed.

Something familiar butted against Belinda’s abdomen, “already?”

“Viagra,” Bob pulled her closer, “if we’re going to get you up the duff at my age, I’m going to need a little help.”

“You’re such an old romantic, you really are a... oh leave it darling,” Bob reached for his mobile on the nightstand, looked at the number calling, and switched off the phone. “Work?”

“Stevie’s father, probably wants a round of golf,” his hands had already found their way back around Belinda’s waist, “now where was I?”

*****

Stevie stretched out on the sofa, the hand holding a wine glass trailing over its edge, and her head resting in Penny’s lap. “I would never have thought you were a Shrek fan.”

“Guilty pleasure, I love puss in boots,” Penny put on a cod Spanish accent for the last three words, teasing another giggle from her young guest, “I hope you didn’t think I’d left it in the machine on purpose.” Stevie had in fact, thought that very thing; Princess Fiona’s relationship with her parents seemed tailor-made to prompt another lecture on telling her parents, but the subject never came up. Fearing another might begin shortly, Stevie attempted to forestall it with an observation of her own.

“You’re a lot like Shrek,” she paused to let the comment sink in, “not green and scaly or anything, it’s just that in work you project a scary personality, but underneath it all you’re really lovely. ‘Ms Hawker’ is your ‘Steve’, ‘Penny’ is your me.” Stevie was quite pleased with her insight, and the acrobatic changes it had brought to her host’s expression, but then something happened for which she was completely unprepared. Lifting the girl’s head slightly, Penny gently placed a kiss on Stevie’s lips, holding it until the little brunette’s eyelids drooped, and her mouth began to open. “What was that for?”

“Being a minx,” Penny ran a finger through the reclining girl’s hair, “and being the only person brave enough to call me an ogre to my face.” She took a large sip from her glass, and Stevie followed suit.

“You’re not though, you’re...” Stevie blushed, she did not want to sound like a schoolgirl with a stupid crush, there were questions she needed answered before she made any declaration of that kind, “why did you keep touching me this week, you were touching my bum all the time?”

“I’m sorry I did that honey,” Penny pulled a goofy face, “the first time I thought you were making fun of women, and I wanted to teach you a lesson. After that, well...” Stevie remained silent, but her expression demanded she go on, “you have a really nice bottom, and I hadn’t touched one for a long, long time.” The head of HR swallowed another mouthful of wine, “it was wrong of me I know, so unprofessional, and it won’t happen again I promise.”

“You can touch it if you like, I don’t mind honest,” Stevie beamed.

“Don’t be silly,” Penny briefly considered taking up the offer, but hurriedly put those thoughts aside, “there are plenty of people your own age for that. I’m sure some of the girls in work are ready to throw themselves at you.” Although no one had communicated the desire directly to Ms Hawker, she had seen several significant looks thrown at the new girl, and not only by the women, “or perhaps some of the boys too; I bet Daniel Barrack’s thought about touching your bottom.”

“Wouldn’t that be kind of gay,” Stevie stammered.

“Not really,” when would she let Steve go and accept who she really was, “you’re a woman, he isn’t, where’s the problem?”

“I’ve never thought of boys like that, or girls really,” Steve had been so caught up with his feminine side, he had never dared date, in case Stevie gave herself away. Alison had been the closest he had been the nearest to being a girlfriend, but they had never done as much as hold hands.

“You’ll sort it all out, sweetie,” the older woman stroked Stevie’s cheek, “this is just the beginning, so there’s no rush — anyway, let’s get you into a nightie, it’s time for bed.”

*****

Stevie stared up at the bear Penny had left on the nightstand, his name was Reginald apparently. Lying alone in the spare bedroom felt somewhat flat after such an exciting day; the more time she spent with Penny, the more she wanted to be with her. Nobody in the office would believe what incredible fun she was, the way she kept cracking terrible jokes, or letting slip minor details about herself, that gradually built up into a picture so very different from Ms Hawker. Yet there were things about her sterner personality that Stevie missed, though she would be reluctant to admit it. How could she be expected to sleep with so much confusion in her head?

After what seemed like hours of tossing and turning, Stevie swung her legs out from under the covers, and sat on the edge of the bed. She needed help to sort out everything that had happened to her these last few days, someone to talk to, who would understand what she was saying. Tentatively she crept from her room, and crossed the landing to the next door along.

Penny was already asleep, dashing any hope Stevie had of continuing their conversation. She hovered in the doorway, unsure if she should wake her, or wait until the morning. Stevie decided on the latter course, but did not return to her room. Carefully picking up her feet with every step, she made slow but steady progress to Penny's bed, and with only a moment’s reflection, slipped under the covers alongside her mentor.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“That bloody cat!” it took Penny a few moments to remember that she no longer owned a cat, and what she had taken for purring, was Stevie very softly snoring in the bed beside her. Neatly sidestepping all her position’s inherent dangers, Penny slipped back under the duvet. Once again she marvelled at how peacefully the younger woman slept, smiling over her slightly protruding bottom lip. Looking at her went some way to calming Penny’s conscience, but there was much left to do.
No one had shared Penny’s bed for years, and there was a pleasure she would not deny herself. Tentatively she brushed the back of her fingers across her bedfellow’s cheek until Stevie’s eyelids began to flutter open. “Did you argue with Reginald?” She was rewarded with a beautifully warm smile from the waking girl.

“He growled a few times,” Stevie rolled across the mattress to embrace Penny before the older woman could do anything to stop her, “you’re naked!”

“Don’t worry, we’re all girls here,” Penny kissed her on the cheek, “and I don’t think I have anything you haven’t seen before.”

“Not in real life,” Stevie demurred; she returned the kiss, “just in pictures like. It’s a bit funny really, everyone thinks I should have a sex change, but I don’t know anything about women’s bodies, except what I learnt in school.”

Penny hated giving ad hoc presentations, and would have preferred the chance to prepare a few PowerPoint slides; instead she found herself sat up in bed, legs apart, conducting a guided tour of her vagina. Fortunately Stevie did not attempt to touch the exhibit. “There’s a bit more to it than that, but do you think you’d like one?” Penny drew her knees together.

“I don’t know,” Stevie chewed a lock of her hair, “I love living as a girl, but I can always go back to being Steve; surgery seems so final.”

Penny smiled, the girl still would not leave Steve go, but she had seen a fascination in Stevie’s eyes a world away from her state of denial. “You’ve plenty of time to make that decision honey,” she stepped from the bed, turning to face her guest, “but it’ll make your knickers fit better, you’re almost falling out there.” Blushing furiously, Stevie pulled down her nightie, a sheepish smile spreading across her face as she rearranged herself.

“Doesn’t it hurt to tuck yourself away like that all day?” Penny asked.

“Sometimes, but I wouldn’t be right if I didn’t.” Stevie blushed again.

Penny bit her tongue, if Stevie could not yet see the significance of her statement, it would not help to point it out. Wrapping a dressing gown tightly around her body, Penny promised coffee, and breakfast in bed. “Switch the radio on; change the channel if you like, I keep it on the local station for traffic reports.”

Stevie was almost white when Penny returned with a tray, she had the duvet pulled up to her chin and was sucking on the end. Something had alarmed her, but what that was did not become apparent until the commercial finished, and the presenter nasal mockney drawl returned.

“Good morning, you’re listening to Gryphon FM’s Sunday morning line. This week’s hot topic in town is about a blog belonging to a local transsexual, and we’d like to hear your views. Should Stevie stay a girl, what do you think? We have a caller, Ashley you’re on line one.”

“Hello am I on?” the presenter assured she was, “Stevie came into the store I work in yesterday, and she’s beautiful. She should so be a girl.”

“And what was she buying Ashley?”

“Oh clothes, lots of clothes. Can I say hello to my mum?”

“Well she sounds like a woman to me,” the presenter laughed, “OK, we have Phil on line two, what do you think, should Stevie stay a girl?”

“He’s a bloke, I work with him and it’s just sick the way everyone’s behaving. If he tries it on with me again, I’ll kick his fu...”

“Well that’s all we want to hear from Phil. This is Dave Watney on Gryphon FM, and I’ll be back after this break.” An advert for a local tyre fitter blared from the radio, as Stevie turned to Penny, her face ashen.

“I didn’t honest,” she was close to tears, “all I did was say ‘hello’”

“Of course you didn’t,” Penny wound an arm around her shoulders, “he’s the one with problems not you.” Just how large a problem Penny had not decided yet; she had pencilled in a compulsory course of counselling for all the post room smokers, but that was before Phil’s outburst. Someone was lined up for an arse kicking, and it was not Stevie.

“Hello Edna, you’re through to the Sunday morning line.”

“Hello Dave, ignore that last caller; I work with Stevie too, and she’s an absolute angel,” Penny squeezed Stevie, sharing a smile over Mrs Green’s endorsement, “you can see me on her blog, the two of us are making coffee.”

“If you want to see that blog, the address is on our website... hello to Kyle on line two.”

“Respect Dave,” the caller’s accent was a peculiar Home Counties take on West Indian, “we saw her yesterday man, and Stevie is a babe, she is well fit. I would - know what I mean?” Stevie certainly did, and her face flushed crimson.

Sipping coffee, the two girls listened to the remaining callers, most of whom were encouraging; the exception being something of a God-botherer, who claimed it was not a suitable topic for discussion on the Sabbath.

“I think God made a mistake this time, all the evidence shows that Stevie should have been born a girl,” Dave answered, prompting a shocking display from Stevie who laughed so hard that coffee shot from her nose.

“Told you so,” Penny dabbed away at the quilt with a corner of her dressing gown, “now if you’ve finished, how about we take some photos of you in yesterday’s outfit, Miss I-look-too-slutty?”

“Are you ever wrong?” Stevie planted a very moist kiss on Penny’s cheek before she could reply.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Frank liked a short nap after Sunday dinner, it set him up for his shift, and helped his digest system recover from the assault of his wife’s cooking; not that Maureen was a bad cook — far from it — but she seemed intent on making up for all the meals he had missed during his service. Always careful of his spouse’s opinion, and all too aware of the sacrifices she had made, Frank burrowed his way through the food she piled upon his plate. The old soldier was just nodding off when she called from downstairs, “Frank, your Miss Weston has updated her page!”

Sunday 13th April 2008

What a fantastic week it’s been! Thinking about coming to work as Stevie frightened me immensely, but everyone has been so supportive, so helpful, that I’ll never get around to thanking you all enough. Thanks too to everyone who’ve been sending emails, to the ‘Stevie Say Yes’ group on Facebook, whoever started the petition on the uk.gov site to have me legally declared female if I stay being Stevie and all of you that have signed it. Thank you ever so much.

I’m afraid I still haven’t decided yet. Someone was very unpleasant to me in work this week, and I don’t know if I could bear that treatment all the time. There are still a few important people I haven’t told about me yet, who I cannot make a decision without talking to. I’m a bit of a wuss I suppose, but I’m dreading that conversation.

Thanks everybody, and take care.

“She’s a lovely girl isn’t she?” Maureen took a bite of cake, “look at her sitting in that little red sports car - gorgeous legs too — you should invite her round for tea when Colin’s home on leave.”

“Given up on grandchildren have you?” Frank shot her a wry grin.

“We’ve three other boys, dear, and none of their girlfriends will make a decent daughter-in-law.”

“You’d best ask him before matchmaking love,” finding out that his youngest son was gay had been a blow Frank never thought he would recover from, but Colin was a fine Marine, and a fine officer too, “she’d look grand on his arm though.” With an artful wink Frank stole the last piece of cake from his wife’s plate, silencing her protest with a wolfish grin.

*****

“C’mon Daisy Duke, the coast is clear,” Penny watched her young friend slip warily from Brenda’s passenger side, “now let’s get this shopping in the fridge, and we’ll call your Mum and Dad.”

“We left all my new clothes in Mitzi,” Stevie’s pout was as perfect as any teenage girl’s, but brightened considerably when Penny promised to go back for them, once the telephone call had been made. Trying not to pay too much attention to the denim clad bottom skipping towards the front door, Penny followed with the groceries bought the day before. She was uncertain that she would prove an effective substitute mother, but ensuring the young brunette eat properly was a start. Hopefully Stevie’s Mum would soon relieve her of the responsibility, a thought so tinged with unexpected regret that Penny almost collided with the girl, who had stopped dead in the open doorway.

“Who the Hell are you, and what have you done to my son?” a vein pulsed visibly at Mrs Weston’s temple; standing only a foot or so inside the door, she tried to slap Penny, who only narrowly avoided being struck by ducking. “Look at him Ted, look what this bitch has done to Steve!”

“Mum, it’s not...” Stevie’s mother was beyond placating, and continued to exhort her husband into some action. Ted Weston kept to the sofa, eyes darting from his raging wife, to the startled stranger, and the slim feminine figure that stood between them. “Dad, tell her...”

“Janet, let them come in, and shut the door, we don’t want half the town listening,” his patient tone went some way to mollifying his wife, who stepped back into the living room.

“Mr and Mrs Weston, this must be...” Stevie’s mother repeated her earlier demand, “sorry, I’m Penny Hawker, a friend of...” Penny paused, how should she refer to Stevie, ‘son’ seemed too incongruent, “a friend from work. You must be wondering what’s been happening.”

Janet was on the verge of releasing another stream of invective, when her husband’s stepped forward to take her arm. "Let the lady speak, Jan, or we’ll never get to the bottom of this.”

“Nobody has done anything to me, I’ve been like this for years,” Stevie moved protectively in front of Penny, “I was just too afraid to tell you!”

“Nonsense!” Janet Weston was working herself back into a fury, “you are normal, this perverted cow has obviously been brainwashing you. Call the police Ted, there must be a law about this sort of thing.”

“If anyone’s calling the police, I’m sure they’d be interested to know just how you got in here.” Penny placed an arm around Stevie, who was noticeably shaken by the threat, “don’t worry, there’s no law like that honey,” Penny whispered in her ear.

“We are guarantors on the lease for this flat, and as such the landlord gave us a key,” Mr Weston began slowly, “I always said you were too young to leave home Steve, perhaps if you moved back...”

“We’d make sure this sicko would never bother you again,” Stevie flinched from what her mother thought was a reassuring smile, “go take those clothes off, and we’ll take you home.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stevie’s voice was little more than a whisper, “they can’t make me can they?”

“No one can make you go anywhere sweetie,” Penny stroked the young woman’s arm, “maybe if we all sat down, and talked things over...”

“Talk things over?” Janet spat the words like a cobra, “with the woman who’s turned my son into a sissy whore, what’s to say, ‘do you have any more pansy children I can fuck’?” Penny fought to contain her own temper, she could handle the slights directed her way, but how could a parent say such things to their child? She tightened her embrace around Stevie, carefully preparing her words, but it was Stevie’s father who spoke next.

“We’d better go, I don’t think we’re achieving anything here,” he brushed past them to open the front door, “come on Jan, before you do something you’d regret.”

It had taken another ten minutes to drag Mrs Weston from the flat, which she filled with yet more bile and venom. Penny had covered Stevie’s ears to prevent her from hearing the terrible insults her mother was hurling, but she knew that some at least had hit home. When her parents had eventually left, Stevie flopped down onto the sofa, head in her hands.

“She didn’t mean those things,” Penny stroked the young woman’s back, “it was temper talking, she loves you really.”

“Mum was right,” she did not look up, “I’m a freak, and a pervert. Why am I like this? It’s not fair.” Penny watched several sobs wrack Stevie’s body, but there were no tears.

“It’s not fair honey, but it’s not your fault,” Penny patted her knee, almost overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness, “and you’re not a freak, or a pervert; you’re lovely.” Stevie almost launched herself into her friend’s arms, tears streaming down her cheeks, and words tumbling from her lips.

“Do you really mean that? Do you?” Penny made encouraging noises while Stevie wept herself out, rubbing her back, and kissing her forehead. Her tear streaked face emerged after fifteen minutes, announcing in a peculiarly detached monotone, “that’s it; I can’t go back can I? Steve’s dead.”

“I think you knew that before,” at last she had accepted the truth, but Penny wished it had come a kinder way, “but it’s not the end of the world; your Mum and Dad love you, they’ll see that soon, I promise.” Just how she could effect that reconciliation troubled her, perhaps Bob Thornwell could intervene; he was a friend of the family, if that still counted for anything.

“Where are you going?” Stevie clung to Penny’s arm.

“I’m just going to the kitchen to make us a cup of something hot, then Missy I’m drawing you a bath. A long soak will do you a power of good.” A week before there had been no one in Penny’s life who really depended on her, no one who was sorry to see her go. It had never been something she regretted, her job had always come first, but now she could not help feeling that a void had been filled, “and then you can find a nightie for me, I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Stevie opened her eyes to find Penny already awake and smiling, just as she had the morning before, but much closer. The younger woman lay in a warm embrace, her head pressed to her friend’s breast; there was something she very much wanted to say to her, but feared it might embarrass them both.

“How are you feeling honey?” Penny gently kissed the tip of the girl’s nose.

“I’m sorry for the things Mum called you.” Stevie spoke in a hoarse whisper, her voice raw from sobbing, “She didn’t mean it, she’s nice really.” Penny drew her nearer still, while softly murmuring reassurances; Stevie could not remember a time when she had felt safer, even though memories of her parents’ reaction kept flooding back.

They remained in each other’s arms until the alarm clock’s note became too persistent to ignore. After a moment’s bustling confusion Stevie ceded her guest the right to prepare breakfast, while she showered and scraped a razor over her chin - more from paranoia than necessity.

Penny pressed a scrap of kitchen towel to the source of the bleeding with one hand, while pushing a bowl of cereal across the table with the other. “I’m not that hungry, honestly.” Stevie’s words were somewhat muffled by the makeshift dressing, and dismissed peremptorily by the older woman who simply told her to tuck in while she visited the bathroom. It was only the speed of her companion’s departure that prevented Stevie from making the unforgiveable error of answering ‘yes Mum’.

*****

Ms Hawker guided Brenda to a temporary halt before the building’s main entrance, waved to the ever alert security guard, and bundled her young charge from the car. “Be nice to Frank,” she called out before Stevie could slam the door closed, “he thinks the world of you.” She waited long enough to watch Stevie skip up the steps, where Frank had left his customary position to open the door for her, a singular honour for a very junior office junior. It was yet another example of how the young woman, could shake people from their comfortable routines, simply by demonstrating her complete lack of guile; Penny only hoped that it could survive whatever lay ahead.

“He’s very handsome Frank, you must be so proud of him.” Stevie handed the photograph back to the old soldier, who positively glowed with pride.

“Oh yes Miss, our family has served in the Royals since old Boney’s days, but Colin is the first of us to receive the Queen’s commission.” Frank carefully slipped the snap back into his pocket, and ever mindful of his wife’s wishes added, “he’s home on leave in a few weeks’ time Miss, I’m sure he’d like to meet you — that is if you’d like to.”

Any lingering thoughts about what had happened the last time she had ridden in the lift, quickly gave way to a suspicion that Frank’s intentions went beyond a father’s pride; had he just tried to set her up with his son?

Dismissing such a silly notion — what interest would Colin have in her — Stevie stepped into the already lighted eighth floor corridor. Someone had beaten her into work again, but unlike the previous morning there were no Goldilocks moments, as the earlier bird was seated at her desk.

“No biscuits this morning Tall Paul?” she asked curtly, savouring his rapid changes of expression, until they had almost settled on ‘plausible denial’, when she added the coup de grace, “or was one packet enough for ruining my life?”

“I never meant for it to go so far,” the young IT worker stammered, “I only showed it to one or two of the lads, they...” Stevie placed her hand on the desk, bending forward so that her face was no more than a few inches from his.

“Why?”

“After I found your blog I sent you an email — more than one actually — but you never answered; I thought you were being stuck up, and I was angry I suppose.” Had the Systems department had to follow the company dress code, he would no doubt have been loosening his tie, but had to content himself with puffing out his cheeks.

Stevie scrupulously replied to all the emails she received, with one exception; that insight explained the search that had brought him to her blog. “You attached a photograph didn’t you?” Tall Paul nodded dumbly, unable to meet her eyes; his obvious discomfort did not prevent her from pursuing a confession, “and that photograph was not of your face was it?”

“I thought that was what you wanted, that it was why you made the blog.” He tried to shrink back in the chair, but Stevie leant further forward, maintaining the short gap between their faces.

“Did you not think I knew what a penis looked like?” Stevie struggled to prevent her temper boiling over. “Or is your erection so impressive you expected me to swoon, and invite you over for sex?”

“You looked so fit, I just thought...”

“You just thought I was a sissy bimbo desperate for a good seeing to.” Stevie straightened up, and looked down her nose at the rather pathetic young man; she had never felt so in control of any situation before. “So you thought you’d have a go in person? I should report you to HR.”

“No honestly, I want to help out with your blog, I have some ideas.” Stevie blinked in disbelief, he was almost pleading with her. Intrigued, she perched on a corner of the desk, much as Penny did, and asked him to go on. “Well, you could have video segments, a podcast even; there are loads of things I can do to help, like...”

”I’ll mention it to Ms Hawker. You’d better go; I’ve things to do before anyone else gets in.” Stevie rewarded him a smile, which she hoped was not obviously sinister and a quick flash of thigh as she stood up. “Hey, I should be thanking you; this has been the best week of my life.” She very gently caught Paul’s arm when he walked past, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, that left him stumbling towards the door. If only her parents were as easy to persuade.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Watching Stevie bustle around the office in skirt and heels, Bob struggled once more to bring an image of his ‘nephew’ to mind. On those occasions when he had a clear memory of being in Steve’s company, it was only ever something the boy had said that he could recall. One could not accuse his alter-ego of lacking presence, she was at the heart of everything that happened in the office, and instantly memorable. Whatever she did, no matter how mundane, was carried out with brio; he could not help smiling as she air kissed Penny Hawker, before ushering the head of HR into his office.

“Um, yes... what exactly happened this weekend Penny? I talked to Ted — Stevie’s father — yesterday, but he wasn’t making much sense.” Bob was a little thrown by Ms Hawker’s appearance, though it took some time to pinpoint what had changed. She had never worn her hair down, not in the decade of their acquaintance, and he could only wonder at the reason why she had decided to that day. There was no doubt that the mass of soft blond curls framing Penny’s face suited her, and it was an appreciation of just how much, that distracted him as she began a clear, concise summary of the weekend’s events.

“...and then things got out of hand. Stevie was very upset, so I stayed with her last night.” Penny brushed away a tress that had strayed into her eyes.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with her haven’t you?” Bob tried not to make it sound like an accusation, but the recollection of how she had treated Stevie on their first meeting, coloured his words. Her answer was neither denial, nor explicit confession; its subtext was however obvious.

“Stevie is the most remarkable person I have ever met; she’s bright, and she’s funny, she’s fearless, and yet she’s fragile. Have you ever met someone with an angelic snore? I have never known anyone whose friendship felt such a privilege.” Penny fussed with her hair while she spoke, brushing it from her face, or curling it around a finger.

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way Penny, but it almost sounds like you’re in love with her.” Bob braced himself for the expected rebuff, and was astounded her mild answer.

“I’m ashamed of what we’ve done to her, and why.” She obviously had more to say, and he allowed her to continue after catching her breath. “It’s too late to undo, but I’m going to make sure nobody else hurts Stevie like we have.”

“That goes without saying, here’s what I’d...” Bob outlined a number of potential approaches based on his knowledge of Stevie’s parents, to which Penny added her observations of how Stevie would react.

“Let’s bring her in now Bob; I don’t want her to think we’re going behind her back.”

“Before we do that, how quickly can you arrange a department change for Belinda?” Company policy dictated that married couples could not work closely together, therefore if he and his personal assistant were to marry, that obstacle would have to be removed. The implications of Bob’s request were not lost on the HR head, who offered her congratulations and inquired if he had a replacement lined up. His answer came as no surprise.

*****

“They’ve been in there for ages; I bet they’re talking about me.” Stevie had not told Miss Hanford everything about the weekend, and she had certainly not included the worst of her mother’s tirade. Belinda had been very nice to her, but retained a measured reserve with the office junior, which Stevie felt compelled to observe too.

“Oh I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” the older woman replied, and with a conspiratorial flourish, produced a small box from a drawer. “I know you can keep secrets, dear, so tell me what you think.”

“Is that an engagement ring? Should I start calling you Auntie Bel?”

“Not for a while yet.” Belinda snapped the box shut, and replaced it in the drawer, but added, “Mr Thornwell will need a new PA then.” Stevie assumed Belinda’s wink was meant to convey that the vacant position would be hers. Although she said nothing to contradict her senior, Stevie had little enthusiasm for the prospect of making coffee, or managing appointments, for the foreseeable future. Before the pause in their conversation could become awkward, Bob summoned Stevie into his office, over the intercom.

*****

Penny thought it had gone reasonably well. Bob had taken some of the weight from her shoulders, and Stevie appeared much happier when she learned what they had planned. If anything troubled Penny, it was his assessment of her relationship with Stevie, and his reaction to a minor incident. Stevie had stood alongside the seated Penny, her fingers twitching nervously, and she had taken the girl’s hand in hers. It was a small gesture, one she had fallen into using, whenever Stevie needed reassurance. Bob’s expression told her had marked it as significant, but men often misunderstood female relationships, and she could not allow it to distract from the business ahead.

Using the room she had brought Stevie to on Friday had been a conscious decision. It would mean nothing to the post room worker, or his section leader, however it would strengthen her resolve to see Phil Becket suitably punished. As head of HR, Penny had many measures at her disposal, yet selecting the most appropriate had not been easy.

“I’m not fucking going; it’s bloody PC gone mad.” It was exactly the reaction Penny had hoped for, and she sat back waiting for him to dig himself deeper into a hole. “It’s his word against mine.”

“Your use of the masculine pronoun Mr Becket, further underlines the importance of the training we have arranged.” Penny edged forward in her seat; it was time for the coup de grace. “Of course if you refuse this opportunity, we would have to consider your suitability for an environment in which there are members of the transgendered community.”

“Two fucking weeks...” Phil shrugged off his supervisor’s attempts to silence him, “up a sodding mountain in Wales, with a bunch of fairies?”

“It is the best course available, Mr Becket.” Penny’s thin lipped smile chilled both men into silence. “You start a week from today, we’ll arrange transportation of course, and although I cannot suspend you — there has been no official complaint — I can grant you an extra week’s leave, with pay, effective immediately.”

“C’mon Phil, you can’t ask fairer than. Thank you Ms Hawker.” Phil’s immediate superior led him from the room, but not quickly enough to prevent Penny from making one final remark.

“You should have had that black eye seen to, Mr Becket, it looks painful.” She would need to have a chat with a certain old soldier, but Penny was sure he had been discreet.

*****

“Someone has been in here today.” Stevie had halted immediately after walking into her flat. From her position a step or so behind, everything seemed to Penny exactly as they left it in the morning, but her companion pointed at the coffee table. “I never leave the television remote on that corner, someone has moved it.”

“Well nothing appears to be missing in here.” Penny said, trying very hard not sound dubious, “We left in an awful hurry this morning, perhaps you moved it without realising.” Stevie did not answer; as if driven by some premonition she strode into the bedroom and opened the closet. Two pairs of Steve’s trousers, and his working shirts were all that remained; every item of clothing that Stevie owned, and every pair of shoes had been removed. A quick search through the chest of drawers revealed that her all her underwear was missing too, the vanity table had been cleared of make-up, and the corner where she kept her computer was empty too. When they checked the bathroom, it had been stripped of every beauty item, even bars of scented soap, and the laundry hamper held only the clothes Stevie had worn during her attempt at being male.

They found the note on the kitchen counter, which Stevie confirmed was in her mother’s hand. If it lacked the previous evening’s blind fury, it more than made up for it with a banality that was almost chilling.

Dear Steve,

It was time to put an end to this nonsense, so I have taken to the rubbish tip everything that woman made you wear. Hopefully she will leave you alone now, and you can come home where you belong.

Your father and I will be happy to have you back, just don’t come here as anything other than Steve, and don’t bring HER here with you.

Lots of love,

Mum

Penny stumbled into the living room and flopped down onto the sofa. She could not understand how a parent could perform such a callous violation of their child’s life; it did not help to know that she was its direct cause. Had she arranged a fortnight’s gardening leave for Steve, it would all have blown over in no time. He would have lost face for sure, and there would always be someone who would bring it up to torment him, but his and Stevie’s lives could have gone much as they had before. Penny covered her face with her hands, and wondered what the legal position was; did being guarantor on the lease permit them to access the flat without permission, or remove property. If she involved the police, without knowing Stevie’s rights, there could be all manner of complications.

Helplessness was not a familiar emotion for Penny, and it took several moments for Stevie’s laughter to penetrate her despondency. At first she assumed it to be a hysterical reaction, and who could blame the girl, however when she looked up, her young friend seemed relatively composed,

“I can’t go back to being Steve.” Stevie waved her mother’s note, then realising that Penny could not share in the joke added, "The breastform-glue’s solvent was in the bathroom; she took away the one thing that I need to dress up as him.”
Stevie waited a few moments for the situation’s irony to sink before speaking again. When Penny finally produced a smile, Stevie knelt beside and asked, “Can you take me home please?”

“But you can’t, not like that, you’ve read the letter.”

“Not their home, silly, yours.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to share discreetly her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Stop mucking about with my knickers,” Stevie’s outburst turned every head in the aisle. Unperturbed, Penny continued arranging their shopping cart’s contents, pausing only to smile at the younger woman. Stevie appeared to be taking the latest blow in her stride, but her attempts at good humour bordered on forced, and Penny feared a crash was imminent.

“I think that’s it,” she said, straightening up, “undies, nighties, toiletries, make-up, and a few things for you to wear around the house.” Stevie’s observation that the latter would make her look like a chav, cut no ice with Penny, who offered to buy her the most orange fake tan the supermarket stocked. When this suggestion was declined, Penny directed her companion to the checkout, while she went in search of one last item.

To Stevie’s surprise the ever-present, stout cashier greeted her by name, causing the customer in front to turn, and gush about how pretty she looked ‘for a boy’. Vanessa - Stevie finally took the time to read her name tag - rolled her eyes as the woman fumbled her credit card back into her purse. “She should be so lucky to look like you,” she said, bleeping a pack of panties over the barcode scanner. Stevie, who had been squirming, thanked her - it seemed everyone in town knew who she was now.

Penny dropped two ready meals onto the conveyor, earning an accusatory look from its other end. “I thought you didn’t use the microwave,”

“Normally I don’t,” Penny affected a nonchalant air, “I prepare my meals for the week on Sundays, but I had a friend over, who just wouldn’t...” Before she could finish the sentence Stevie had rushed over and caught her in a tight hug. With the girl’s tears running onto her cheek, Penny whispered reassurances, and patted Stevie’s back. “It’s been a long day,” she said to Vanessa, who was bagging the last of their purchases for them.

*****

Bob snapped the telephone handset back into its dock, and groaned; last week’s simple plan had become increasingly Byzantine, drawing everyone deeper into its intrigue. Belinda was on hand with tea, and a measured sympathy. “What’s happened now?” she asked.

“Stevie’s parents removed all of her belongings from her flat today.” His bride-to-be’s tea was awful, and was largely responsible for his switch to coffee; he tried not to grimace as he related the story. “I spoke to Ted earlier, and he didn’t mention it, so I’m pretty sure Janet acted alone.”

“And now she’s got the result she feared most of all.” Belinda’s tea remained untouched, she much referred coffee, and only made tea when Bob visited. There was a pretty irony to Mrs Weston’s actions, but she wondered how much of it was chance — the head of HR was a practiced manipulator of emotions. “It’s worked out well for Penny; perhaps Janet has a point?”

Bob thought about telling her of that morning’s meeting, and how Penny was turning herself inside out with guilt. However, he had always respected confidences, though how long that virtue would survive his impending marriage he did not know. If any good remained to come from their original plot, Bob was sure it would be in the relationship between Penny and Stevie. “I was there darling, it wasn’t planned to work out this way, but they’re good for each other, aren’t they?”

“Just how much time have you spent imagining them together, Bob Thornwell?”

After twenty years she knew far too well how his mind worked; in the office he had everything under his control, but the Thornwells’ home life promised to be interesting.

*****

Stevie could not understand why she had to have her own room. Penny had argued that, it would appease Stevie’s mother, and two girls getting dressed in the same room would inevitably get in each other’s way. Sound as these reasons were, it still felt like a rejection, especially after spending almost all of the past few days together. She had never felt lonely in her flat - after all Steve had lived there too - but the prospect of spending the night apart from the older woman was awful.

Releasing her ponytail, Stevie sat at the dressing table and brushed out her long brown hair. Ms Hawker she understood, but Penny was still a mystery. At times she was the best friend Stevie had ever known, perhaps more than that, and yet when they were at their closest Penny pulled away - it was almost as though she was afraid.

“Are you decent?” Penny pushed open the bedroom solicitously, asking if she had time for a ‘chat before bed’. Stevie nodded, and swivelled in her chair to face her friend, who sat on the edge of the bed. Penny was trying her best to smile, glancing around at the scant possessions the girl had brought from her flat.

“I should have said this before, but I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to you.” Penny held up a hand to stave off interruptions. “It was wrong to force you into coming into work as a girl. There’s something going on in the company — I can’t tell you what yet — and I used you to gain advantage from it.” With every word more colour drained from her face, and her voice began increasingly to catch. “I’ve ruined your life, and I am so sorry — for what that’s worth now — but I am going to do whatever I must to make things right for you.”

With a final apology Penny rose and left the room, leaving a bewildered Stevie to stare at her retreating back.

Propped up in bed, Penny read through Stevie’s lease once more; her landlord was in clear breach of its terms by allowing her parents access without express permission. If she so wanted Stevie was free to abandon the property without penalty; would that her other problems were as easily addressed. Penny laid the document down on the bed beside her, and remembered wistfully how pleasant it had been to have the young woman snoring in that same spot.

Apologies were not Penny’s forte, since she expended a great deal of time avoiding having to make any. Lack of practice might have excused her botched effort earlier, but despite the sincerity of her words, she had to accept that it had been made solely to salve her own conscience. Seeing Stevie clutch the small bag containing her only possessions had been its inspiration: an iPod, a handful of DVDs and a few French novels had been all she had taken away from the flat. Steve’s clothes had been left behind, a pleasing indication that she now saw no future role for him, but almost everything she treasured had been stolen by her mother and father.

Penny fought the urge to go to Stevie, whatever words she chose she doubted they would hold much comfort for the dispossessed teenager. It promised to be a long night, wholly taken up by a hunt for the appropriate things to say when morning came. She was just about to turn off the light when the door was inched opened.

“You didn’t say I had to sleep in my room.” Stevie waited in the doorway for permission to enter, shifting her weight uneasily from one foot to another. Penny said nothing, but folded back the covers, which was invitation enough for Stevie who skipped barefoot across the carpet, and flopped down onto the mattress. “It’s not your fault,” she said, scooting from the bed’s cold side to Penny’s hesitant embrace, “and this has been the best week of my life, honest.”

“Next week will be better, I promise.” Penny pulled the quilt over them, jubilant that her young charge was in high spirits, but ashamed that she had not properly conveyed how much wrong she had done.

Stevie kissed her cheek very gently. Penny, as ever, was a conundrum beyond her young comprehension; sweet, and sad, and lovely. “I do love...” The older woman halted Stevie’s confession by placing a finger over the girl’s lips.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Penny reached across the nightstand and switched off the lamp.

That ‘ourselves’ gave Stevie more than enough to ponder on as she laid her head on Penny’s shoulder — if Penny felt the same way about her, the next week truly would be even better. Still, she wanted to finish what she had started to say. Penny’s heart beat steadily beneath Stevie’s ear, as she waited for her bedfellow to drop off. When she was sure that Penny was asleep, Stevie whispered, “I love you.”

“Go to sleep,” Penny answered softly, “you’ve work in the morning, Miss Weston.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to share discreetly her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Stevie arranged herself in Penny’s arms, taking great care not to disturb the sleeping blonde. With a minimum of wriggling, she brought their faces level and her bottom directly under Penny’s hand. Seven days had done nothing to diminish the pleasure she had derived from the head of HR’s first attentions to that part of her anatomy, and she was determined to revisit them. However, while pushing out her bottom, Stevie’s nose bobbed forward and brushed against Penny’s. As her companion’s eyes fluttered open, Stevie pressed her lips to the older woman’s by way of a ‘good morning’; only when the tip of Stevie’s tongue nudged its way into her mouth, did Penny break their kiss. “Don’t do that sweetie,” she pleaded.

Stevie gently bit Penny’s bottom lip, before transferring the kiss to her partner’s cheek. “Sorry,” she whispered, but unwilling to surrender the initiative, added, “have you ever been in love, Penny?” To lend the question more significance, she pressed her body even closer.

“Love is a lot like Blackpool,” Penny opined, “the lights are very beautiful, but you wouldn’t want live there.” Stevie expected that sort of cynical expression from Ms Hawker, but not from her Penny. Nevertheless, Stevie tried a sidestep of her own, and asked if Penny knew where her hand was; her reward was a blush, and a tender pat on the behind.

The alarm clock quashed any hope Stevie had of further contact. Slithering across Penny, she switched it off with a sharp smack, before flopping back onto the mattress. “Can’t we stay here for a bit longer?”

“You have an appointment first thing, remember?” Penny said, hauled off the duvet, and dispatched the teenager to her own room to get ready for work.

Tall Paul had offered to help with a video clip for Stevie’s blog, and after Ms Hawker had given the project her approval, had arranged to shoot it first thing that morning. Stevie doubted that the gangling IT worker had any directorial skills, but he was more than competent with technology, and she had worked out what to say when she was alone in her room the previous evening. Even if the video was a failure, that morning’s meeting fitted in nicely with her own plans for Tall Paul, and with those in mind she turned to her meagre wardrobe.

“Oh, I didn’t realise it was that short - are you sure you want to wear it to work?” Stevie’s ever-improving confidence impressed Penny, but she was not sure that the ‘new girl’ was ready for the constraints a short skirt imposed in an office - especially when her desk lacked a modesty panel. “Your new black shorts are very smart, why not try them?”
Stevie, however, would not budge from her teen stubbornness, but conceded that she would need to wear tights rather than stockings, if only for the sake of the senior managers’ blood pressure. Hosiery was, of course, the only thing they had forgotten to buy at the supermarket, and for want of a new pair, Penny directed her to take the pair drying in the bathroom, if her ‘big old hips’ had not irreparably stretched them.

The only other person whose clothes Stevie had worn had been her mother and that had ended when she began to buy her own. When she had worn her mum’s clothes, Stevie had always been at pains not to think about their previous occupant, but she could not help thinking, as she rolled Penny’s tights up her legs, about the previous journeys they had made. Despite her protestations to the contrary, Penny was less than a size larger that Stevie and the tights fitted quite snugly.
Although there was no one present, Stevie blushed as she straightened her hair in the mirror, after splashing a little water on her face. Casting around for anything that might drive away the thoughts making her cheeks burn, Stevie noticed that there was no condensation evident in the room. She had heard Penny showering a few minutes earlier and there was only conclusion she could draw; her own lengthy shower had deprived her host of hot water. There was no time to fret about it, since Penny was rushing her along from the other side of the door.

*****

“Can we have lunch together?” Stevie used a toe to stop the lift door closing between her and Penny.

“Sorry, honey, I have interviews all day, but I’ll pop in if I’m passing.” The head of HR allowed a warm smile to peep through her professional veneer; Stevie’s disappointment was palpable, and Penny had to fight to prevent her own from reflecting it. “Perhaps Miss Hanford, or one of your old colleagues in Accounts, can fill in.” The younger woman nodded, and dipped back into the car to kiss her friend’s cheek in parting.

Stevie had perfected her feminine walk early on, taking any opportunity her parents’ absence afforded. Moderated by the fear of it becoming such second nature, that Steve would unwittingly begin swinging his hips, it involved only a gentle swaying, and a modest reduction in stride. Her attempts therefore, to exaggerate and appear more seductive that morning, resulted in a rather ungainly wobble which she abandoned a metre or so short of her office. Instead, she chose to announce her arrival with a small cough, and struck a suggestive pose in the doorway.

Tall Paul had arrived more than an hour earlier, weighed down by practically every piece of video equipment he could find, and a nagging doubt in his abilities. His father was an accomplished amateur filmmaker, and Paul liked to think the years of parental direction inflicted upon him, gave him a modicum of knowledge. He had also spent the evening before poring over his father’s many books, but stopped short of watching any of their home movies; it was difficult to simultaneously study and cringe. Crawling around connecting cables, he was oblivious to Stevie’s approach until her coughed alert.

“Where do you want me?” she asked, while his eyes were travelling between her ankles and thighs. Still on all fours, Paul suggested she sit at her desk, but she dismissed this saying, “You’ll make me look like the Queen at Christmas.”

Several comments about her always being his queen sprang to mind, none of which the gauche technophile dared to utter, and he returned to those things he knew how to connect. When he looked up again Stevie was dangling her wonderful legs from the desk’s front, apparently unconcerned that the young man could see all the way up what there was of her skirt. After his third and most audible gulp, Stevie crossed one knee over the other, and teased her skirt’s hem down an inch or so. “Shall we start?” she asked.

Steve had made a presentation to camera at least once during each school year, but it was never something he was comfortable doing. Always wary of an incriminating slip, Steve guarded his words, and before an acute, unfailing witness, his speech dribbled out. Freed from his handicap, Stevie should have been able to speak with something approaching her everyday articulacy, but they had to endure ten minutes of corpsing before she was able to address the camera properly.

“Hi everyone, and welcome to the first entry in my video blog. I’m sorry to start with bad news; while I was at work yesterday, my parents removed all my belongings from the flat: clothes, make-up, my computer - everything. Fortunately, I had left some things in a friend’s home over the weekend, and we managed to pick up a few essentials at the supermarket, so I don’t have to walk around naked. Ooh, Paul almost passed out then. Come and say ‘hello’ Paul. No? He’s red as a beetroot, bless him.” Stevie motioned for him to stop the camera.

“Is that it?” Paul asked, still struggling with the image of a naked Stevie.

“Just a bit more, give me a minute to get ready.” Stevie sipped from the glass of water Tall Paul had brought during her last laughing fit. “OK, I think I’m ready.” She set the glass down beside her on the desk, and at his signal launched hesitantly into the second part of her prepared speech.

“This bit’s for my Mum and Dad, though I don’t know if they’ll see it, they’re not great with computers. Perhaps someone will show them. I just want to tell you both that I still love you, but you can’t get rid of me by stealing my clothes. I’ve always been here, I was simply too afraid to say. You didn’t bring me up to be a coward, and I wish you could have found out about me any other way than you did.

“What hurts is that you took my memories away from me. Every item of clothing held an association for me: the first things I bought myself; my first night in the flat; the suit from first day in work; and worst of all, the outfit I wore on the weekend.

“Everyone was upset on Sunday night; there was a lot of shouting, and a lot of name calling. That wasn’t fair Mum, she’s my best friend, and you shouldn’t have said those things. Anyway, I couldn’t stay in the flat after this, so I’ve moved in with my friend, but you know how to get hold of me. I promise to pick up the phone this time.”

“I’m so sorry, Stevie, I never thought anything like this would happen.” Paul stopped the camera, hovering between it and her. Providing comfort was not his forte; operating an IT helpline was no preparation for the position he found himself in. He was as likely to know the correct course of action, as a Samaritan presented with a defective server. After some prevarication, he offered to fetch another glass of water.

Shaking her head, Stevie pinched the bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger, to trap the gathering tears. It would be much easier to dislike Paul if he was not so persistently nice.

Belinda’s introduction to the scene occurred at the instant Tall Paul’s head struck the underside of Stevie’s desk. The knot of cables he clutched explained what he had been doing under there, but the reason for his alarm was not immediately apparent. However, if the office junior hoped her bringing her knees back together would go unnoticed, she was soon disabused. Still dressed in her topcoat, Miss Hanford took the telephone from her own desk and dialled; “Hello, this is Mr Thornwell’s office. I’d like you to replace the desk you provided last week, or at least fit it with a modesty panel." She specified a lunchtime deadline, and left her extension number, all the while fixing Stevie with a deeply reproachful look. Belinda tolerated flirting, but drew a line at indecent exposure.

Her modesty regained, Stevie applied herself to sorting the documents stacked on her desk. Like many of the tasks that had been handed down to the office junior, it appeared to be make work designed to keep her occupied. The latest batch of filing seemed particularly pointless; she was sure they were stored electronically on Accounts’ central database. Without access to these’ records, however, she could not put her case to Miss Hanford, and kept her counsel.
Lunchtime loomed, and it seemed likely to be lonely, since Belinda’s frosty attitude had yet to thaw. Remembering Penny’s parting comments, she asked her superior if she could make a telephone call.

*****

“I’m so jealous of your legs - I could never wear a skirt like that.” Stacey slid her tray onto the table beside Stevie’s. As ever, the staff restaurant was all but deserted, and the two girls had their pick of tables. Taking one by the window, they eat rapidly, catching up on gossip between mouthfuls. Stevie’s elevation to the eighth floor offered a wealth of insights on many senior staff members, although she was careful not to say anything traceable back to her. Her friend, she knew, would not intentionally divulge confidences, but if recent events had taught Stevie anything, it was that the most innocuous comment could return to haunt its originator. For her part, she was happy to listen to reports on her former colleagues.

“A few of the girls are going out after work on Friday, you should come along,” Stacy said, emphasising the invitation with her fork, “Remember it’s casual Friday, so don’t glam up and put the rest of us to shame.” Given the current paucity of her wardrobe, Stevie felt she had to demur, and when pressed by her companion, explained how her parents had stolen her belongings.

“I still have three days I suppose I can buy something...” Stevie allowed her voice to trail away. A few pounds remained in her current account, but her credit cards were all in Steve’s name. No doubt, Penny would offer to help, but Stevie was already uncomfortable about how much she had imposed on her friend.

“If you weren’t such a skinny bitch I’d lend you something of mine.” Stacey laughed, her fork poised expectantly over Stevie’s plate, “Are you going to finish that?”

While waiting for the lift Stevie passed Stacy a wrinkled post-it note, on which she had scrawled half a dozen document reference numbers, and asked to have them checked on the accounting system. When asked why, her shrug was enough to convince Stacy that she was entering into a conspiracy. “Planning on sticking it to old Posner eh?” Stacy winked as she tucked the scrap of yellow paper into her own bag. Eliciting no response from Stevie, she added, “Well I hope you are, he’s started wearing deodorant and I swear it makes him smell even worse.”

*****

Bob Thornwell may have had his name on the door, but Belinda always considered the office her domain: its desks, drawers and cabinets were hers to rule, as were its inhabitants: from office junior to senior manager - she was their queen. Never once, had anyone managed to make her feel the intruder in the way that Ms Hawker, and Stevie had.

The head of HR had arrived a few minutes after lunch, made some small excuse for her presence, and perched on Stevie’s desk. The two of them had then proceeded to chat about nothing in particular, but with an intensity that excluded everything around them. Stevie beamed at the older woman with an expression that bordered on beatific, watching her speak more than listening. Penny’s attention wandered no farther, except that she touched the teenager every few seconds: a pat on the shoulder, brushing a hair from her eyes, or lightly drawing her fingers across Stevie’s cheek.

As appalling as the scene appeared to her, its intimacy touched Belinda and she gave into the desire to leave them alone. A personal assistant had many duties, but chaperone was not among hers, neither was gooseberry. An announcement seemed redundant, since they were patently oblivious to her person, so with all the dignity she could muster, Belinda sought a voluntary exile in the bathroom.

“Did you really make Paul blush?” Penny asked amused by the colour that crept into Stevie’s face too. “I told him he could cut that bit out; it didn’t work so well with what you said afterwards anyway.” Her young friend had a lot to learn about hiding her emotions, especially from the camera. Penny, however, was grateful that she had viewed the video alone; its combination of pathos and quiet defiance had left her in tears. “I’ve asked him to come along to our meeting this afternoon to show us how to upload it to your blog.”

“Oh, I thought that was our time.” Stevie had been looking forward to their four thirty appointment all day, and could not hide her disappointment.

“We’ve all evening together at home.” Penny tweaked the tip of the girl’s nose, coaxing a smile from her. Penny’s house had never been a home, she realised, until Stevie set foot in it. Everything good in the head of HR’s life seemed to be a result of Stevie’s misfortunes, and the guilt was overwhelming.

*****

“Hi Paul, is Pen... is Ms Hawker not here?” Stevie stood in the doorway clutching her bag and coat. Transfixed, Paul did his best to mumble that she had stepped out to make some telephone calls, and invited her to sit. “Are you working on my video?” Stevie said, flopping into the chair beside him, and tugging vainly at her skirt’s hem.

“I’ve finished editing it — you can see it if you like.” Technical matters were safe ground for the young man from IT, although he could only maintain a semblance of volubility by not looking at her. He turned his laptop so she could see its screen, where Stevie was making her plea to camera.

“I sound a bit squeaky,” she said, “But it’s lovely, thank you.” Gratitude came with a peck on the cheek that sent Paul’s heart racing.

“It was nothing,” he croaked, painfully aware that she had scooted her chair closer to his.

“No, you’re really clever,” Stevie insisted, and gave him an encouraging smile that sent the blood rushing through his ears. “Can you show me how to upload it now?”

“OK. It’s quite easy really, you just...” Paul’s demonstration took a few minutes, during which Stevie edged ever closer. His blood now pounded toward an altogether more embarrassing destination, and he fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

“You really did do me a huge favour by outing me,” Stevie breathed in his ear, “I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you.” Paul felt her knee pressing against his, and saw her thigh invitingly within reach. As if reading his mind she shifted in her chair, pushing her whole leg farther forward.

Women never came onto Paul, not even when hopelessly drunk at Christmas parties, but here was a girl he could only ever have dreamed of meeting apparently throwing herself at him. Closing his eyes, he let his hand fall tentatively onto her thigh, and braced his body for the inevitable slap.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” Stevie gently gripped his wrist, and started it in a slow, stroking motion. “Why do you fancy girls like me Paul?” she asked sweetly. Caught up by the sensations of nylon, and warm flesh running beneath his fingers, it took several seconds for him to frame an answer.

“Trannies still dress like women should,” Paul said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “More feminine than real girls like, and you really know how to please a man cos you’ve got...”

“Cocks?” Stevie had no idea that she could arch an eyebrow that high, but Paul was too fixated on her thigh to notice. Her next question had his full attention however, “How do you feel about blow jobs?”

Paul’s head snapped up amazed to hear such a filthy expression emerge from his angel’s lips. Nevertheless, the offer was on the table and he felt compelled to answer before she withdrew it. “Um they’re great, wonderful, fantastic, brilliant, um yes please.”

Stevie pushed her seat back from the desk, her legs opening as far as its arm rests allowed. “Down you go then, and try not to rip my tights.”

“I thought you meant...” Paul snapped his computer closed, rising from his seat as he did so. “I’d better get back to IT,” he stammered, “Lots to do, you know, busy, busy, busy.” With the laptop placed strategically over his crotch, he hurried out of the interview room in a peculiar hobbling gait.

Penny stood outside the door quietly burning. Quite why she felt such anger was easier to explain than to admit. Forward as Stevie had been with Penny, the teenager had never acted so provocatively; while she had held back the girl’s most affectionate advances, it hurt Penny to see them directed at another. Jealousy had not troubled the head of HR for years, but she could overcome it by maintaining a professional manner.

Stevie sat doubled in the chair, her head almost between her widely spread knees. A casual observer might suppose that she was weeping, but as Penny drew nearer, she saw that Stevie was laughing. Despite a growing conviction that she had completely misread what had happened, Penny pressed ahead. Slamming the door brought the teenager’s head upright, and under Ms Hawker’s cold scrutiny, she pulled down her skirt’s hem over her panties.

“Asking a co-worker to perform oral sex is a serious disciplinary matter.” Penny had begun the sentence in her most formidable tone, but was almost giggling by its end. “You devious, manipulative little sauce, you had that all planned didn’t you? If I could I’d give you a job in HR.” She dropped into the seat Tall Paul had vacated, adding, “Why?”

“He was the one who outed me,” Stevie said, with a shrug, “and it wasn’t all planned; I thought it would take longer, but then you weren’t here...” Her voice trailed away, bemused by Penny’s expression, which merged astonishment with admiration in equal parts, and another, impenetrable emotion. “Anyway, you’re the boss of HR, so why can’t you give me a job?”

“Because if you worked for me,” Penny took Stevie’s head between her hands, “You wonderful girl, I wouldn’t be able to do this.” The kiss was unexpected, and without precedent; it was as passionate as all Penny’s previous kisses had been chaste, and left Stevie dizzied.

“Wuh?” Stevie’s tongue had been wrestled into submission, and no longer answered. Physically, as well as emotionally spent, she slumped back in her chair.

“Tell you later,” Penny said briskly, “now if you’ve finished with the computer let’s go buy you a new frock for Friday.”

*****

“How did you know about Friday?” Penny’s had wrapped an arm around Stevie’s waist, and she drew her closer to answer.

“I know everything,” Penny said affecting a mysterious air, “and I met Stacy in the lift earlier.”

“We’ve left it a bit late haven’t we?” Most of the shopping centre’s stores were closing up for the night, including the department store they were heading for.

“I phoned ahead, and shops will always stay open for celebrities.” Ashley, the assistant who they had met on their precious visit, positively gushed when Penny called, and ran to find a manager, who was very accommodating. Stevie’s name not only opened doors, apparently, it kept them from closing.

“I’ve put some things I think you’ll like in the fitting room. You are a size eight aren’t you, Stevie?” Ashley raised her voice to compete with the vacuum cleaners’ hum, and chose to ignore Penny’s muttered comment. “You know how cramped it is in there Penny, so it’s probably best if only Stevie and me go in.” Another muttered comment escaped her lips, but Penny acquiesced and leafed through the nearest sale rack, although thermal underwear — even at sale prices — was the last thing on her mind.

“I’ll be back out to model them for you.” Stevie waited for an acknowledging smile and disappeared behind the curtains. Ashley’s ‘some things’ turned out to be an understatement of the highest order, and Stevie wondered if there were any clothes left at all outside.

“Penny said you needed a smart suit for work.” Ashley said holding up a hanger, so climb out of that huge skirt you’re wearing and try these.” Stevie had only ever undressed in front of Penny, but the young assistant’s joke helped her past her shyness. “Pretty knickers,” Ashley added as her pampered customer changed.

Once out of her heels Stevie became very conscious of the difference in their heights with Ashley looming over her. To Stevie’s surprise, her downward glance revealed that the assistant was wearing flat shoes. “Five feet, eleven and a half inches,” Ashley volunteered after following the direction of her gaze.

Penny approved most of Ashley’s choices, and as each outfit made its way through the curtains she cooed over Stevie, who was obviously in her element. She might never get the chance to wear some of the new clothes, but Penny felt she had to make up the loss of the girl’s wardrobe. Part of her admitted that she was enjoying the process; like most little girls Penny had played with dolls, and never had one as pretty as Stevie.

“How about this for Friday?” Ashley held up a simple black-and-white checked dress. “It’s not too dressy, but smart enough to wear out in the evening. You’ll look smashing in it, I promise.”

“It is lovely.” Stevie pirouetted in the narrow mirror, “But look at the price, it’s much too expensive.” She continued to turn slowly, admiring her reflection - the dress was perfect.

“Penny is going to love you in that.” Ashley patted down the dress over Stevie’s slim hips. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you and Penny together?” The heavy emphasis Ashley placed on the last word brought Stevie out of her reverie, and she took a step back.

“Sort of, I don’t know, we live together, and we’ve kissed...” the memory of that afternoon’s kiss was fresh enough to make her catch her breath, “Anyway I’m not really looking for anyone right now, sorry.” Stevie hoped her rather inept attempt at diplomacy would let the young woman down easily.

“Someone’s getting a bit too big for her boobs, I was asking about Penny.” As pleased as she was to meet someone who was almost famous, Stevie’s attractive friend excited her more. Although Ashley had accepted her sexuality while still in her teens, she had never found a satisfactory partner among girls her own age; they expected a tall girl to domineer, and Ashley had no interest in that. Older lesbians she met she found rather grim, whereas Penny was attractive, assertive and obviously enjoyed younger company.

“I’m in love with her,” Stevie blurted.

“I know you are, precious.” Ashley patted the blushing girl’s cheek, and in a whisper asked, “Is she a good kisser.” Stevie did not answer - at least not verbally - her expression however spoke volumes.

*****

“You and Ashley took ages trying that last dress, what were you two up to?” Penny asked when they made it to the car. There had been no opportunity for conversation during the walk back, as both women struggled under the sheer weight of their purchases.

Stevie was still rearranging her skirt after getting in the car; she was sure footage from the overhead security camera would fast become a staff favourite. “Nothing,” she answered, “Ashley just wanted to know if we were a couple.”

“Oh well, I’m just going to have to get used to people hitting on my girlfriend.” Penny ended with a sigh of mock resignation.

“It isn’t me she fancies.” Stevie enjoyed Penny’s reaction for a few seconds, and then the full impact of what the older woman had said sank in. “You just called me your... does that mean you’re my...”

Penny slowly nodded, smiled and pressed her hand to Stevie’s cheek. “That is, if you want me.”

“Oh yes!” Stevie almost shouted, before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Minutes passed while she recovered enough composure when to add, for a mystified Penny’s benefit, “Sorry, it’s just that Mum’s gone on for years about me getting a girlfriend."

“Oh God, she’ll...“ Her mobile chimed midsentence cutting off whatever she intended to say. Flipping it open automatically, she found a short text message from her assistant.

“U CN TV NEWS?”

*****

Phil hoped his first day’s unscheduled leave would not set a pattern for the whole week. His mates were all in work, there was nothing on the television worth a damn, and the unseasonably wet April kept him from the public golf course. After a few hours of home improvement shows and Australian soaps, he tried something from his DVD collection.

‘Die Hard’ had been his favourite film for years, he had watched it countless times, but it simply made him feel old now. In the twenty first century, John McClane would face censure for innumerable health and safety breaches, and then a protracted course of counselling. Disgusted, Phil braved the rain for his local pub, with every intention of getting rat-arsed drunk.

The knot of diehard smokers clustered under the Rose and Crown’s eaves was another regrettable sign of the times. Once, cigarette smoke would have bound everyone inside in the same half-choked bonhomie, its absence, however, drove customers apart. Phil sidled along the bar to escape a particularly noxious smelling pensioner, only to meet another’s wet dog. After an hour’s solitary drinking, he found the company of a few reasonably deodorised alcoholics in the snug, and joined them to argue the toss.

Annette — whiskey and pep — introduced Stevie to their musings. Staring contentedly down her blouse, Phil took several minutes to catch up with the change in topic, at which point he duly offered his opinion. In the course of one afternoon, the small company of worthy drinkers had consigned all criminals to the gibbet, all immigrants to their home countries and the nation’s remaining youth to military service; yet on the subject of Stevie they were surprisingly laissez faire.

Stevie was not doing any harm argued Annette, a view seconded by Mary - port and lemon — who also invoked Lady Di’s eternal memory. Tim — vodka and Irn Bru — told Phil quite forcefully that he was living in the past, while Vic — anything off the top shelf — accused Phil of greater perversion for staring at his wife’s cleavage all afternoon. As the conversation grew increasingly heated, more customers joined in until Phil found his was the only dissenting voice. At the landlord’s suggestion, he left the Rose and Crown, and wandered off in search of a fast food vendor born in the United Kingdom.

Clutching a kebab so tightly that a small river of grease ran off one elbow, Phil weaved his way home, to the relatively minor disappointments of the early evening news. By the time he had taken a beer from the fridge, and tracked down the remote control, the headlines had given way to a local report. Entirely focussed on the foam spilling over from the can, he recognised the local shopping centre before registering the anchor’s, “...at the centre of an internet phenomenon.” A lengthy vox pop followed a montage of Stevie’s photographs, and the participants’ universal approval for Phil’s despised co-worker proved the final insult.

“The week has just got a damn sight longer,” he told the smoking ruins of his television.

*****

“Cheer up, it was only the regional news, and everyone was very nice.” Penny wrapped an arm around Stevie’s shoulders. With growing media attention, she wondered if the blog was getting out of hand, yet should they stop updating it that would itself cause comments. “At least if your Mum sees it, she’ll know how positively people think about you.”

“It’s not that, I just wish they would stop calling me a transsexual.” Stevie laid her head on Penny’s shoulder. “I like being me, but I don’t think I want to go that far; it’s like everyone wants me to have a sex change operation.”

Yet again Stevie had made Penny feel unqualified to comment. In her understanding, the girl seemed a textbook case of transsexualism, and the ultimate outcome of beginning that journey was reassignment surgery. Perhaps Stevie only needed more time to shake off the inhibitions her secret life had imposed, to accept what she really desired, but Penny knew that she was by no means an expert, and resolved to consult those who were. “Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to anymore,” Penny said, patting Stevie’s knee with her free hand.

“Not even you?” Stevie asked then pressed her lips to Penny’s before the older woman had any chance to answer. The kiss seemed to last forever for both of them, and yet was over all too briefly. As Penny sat back, her pulse racing, Stevie fired more questions at her, “So what changed? Why did you suddenly kiss me?”

“Hardly sudden,” was Penny’s retort, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I found you curled up like a kitten in my bed on Sunday morning. You’ve been through so much in the last week, I thought you were vulnerable, and didn’t want to take advantage of you.”

“So you showed me your fanny instead?”

“That was when I thought you wanted one,” Penny spluttered.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“But you just said...” Penny fixed Stevie with a stare, a smile slowly creeping over her face. “I only found out about this side of you, when I heard you torturing poor Tall Paul — he deserves an apology by the way you minx — and there didn’t seem to be a good reason any more not to kiss you.”

“So what happens next?” Stevie wormed her way back into Penny’s embrace.

“The washing up.”

*****

“Oh my, don’t you look sweet in your jimjams.” Belinda clapped her hands together in an excited show of glee. Bob cut a tragic figure in blue and white striped flannel, he felt like a convalescent not someone about to jump into bed with his fiancée.

“I have a feeling that this will be the only time I’ll wear the trousers in our marriage.” Bob’s tone spoke of resignation, but his assistant had smoothly run his professional life through two decades, and he doubted she would try to change him overmuch. “They make me look like my Dad,” he added, trying not to sound petulant.

“Nonsense, get into bed you big baby.” Belinda turned back the covers. “Remember it’s my house and my rules.”
Bob thought briefly of promoting the advantages of his, much larger, home, but Belinda’s actions had revealed she was wearing a particularly diaphanous negligee. Blessing drawstrings and his Scouts honed knot tying skills, he leapt onto the bed, and reached for her.

“Not so fast mister,” Belinda said, easily slipping out of reach, “Have you sorted out my new job yet?” After a few minutes of his dissembling, she lost patience, and very shortly added, “At this rate Ms Hawker and Stevie will be married before we are.”

“You’re not still going on about that are you Bel?” Bob gratefully took the opportunity to change the subject. “I’ve told you, there’s nothing sinister in it.”

“God Bob you’re so blind sometimes; they dote on each other so much, it’s painful to watch.”

“Good for Penny, I still feel bad about her you know.”

“Of course you do you old softie.” Bob so carefully hid his tender side in work that she often had to remind herself of it. “It’s a true love match I’m sure, and good for both of them, but if you don’t sort things out soon — with Stevie’s parents too - you’ll be walking your new niece up the aisle, before walking me down it.”
Bachelorhood’s advantages came flooding back in to Bob’s mind, not that he would ever dare to voice them; instead he contented himself with a meek, “Yes dear.”

*****

“Shouldn’t we do — you know - stuff?” Stevie asked after putting down her book on the nightstand.

“We could I suppose,” Penny answered hesitantly, “What stuff do you normally do?” Stevie’s blush answered the question even before she stammered out that this would be a first opportunity. Resisting an urge to smother the teenager in kisses, Penny suggested that they waited a few days for things to settle down. “My first time was rubbish,” she added gently, “I want yours to be perfect.” Drawing Stevie closer, she planted a kiss on the girl’s forehead. “And I’ve never been anyone’s first before,” she whispered.

“OK, if you think that’s best.” Stevie tried to hide the disappointment in her voice as she nestled closer.

“I don’t want us to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” Penny continued, while trying to ignore that her hand was now resting where Stevie had placed it, on the precocious nymph’s delightful bottom. “It doesn’t do to rush these things you know. I want to make it something you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”

“Penny,” Stevie interrupted, her hazel eyes fixed on her new lover’s, “Can’t you just shut up and kiss...” Sometimes being pushy has its reward.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to share discreetly her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Paulie, are you awake? It’s time to get up.” Tall Paul prised his face from the keyboard, and moaned gruffly at his mother through the rope of drool he drew in his wake. A World of Warcraft veteran, he was no stranger to all nighters, but for that one evening, his sword arm had remained stilled. Who would ever have guessed a three-minute film could take so long to put together.

Nothing could seem less like work than looking at Stevie’s pictures, although choosing which to include in the clip, and which to discard was difficult. Were it not for the time constraints forced upon him by his chosen song, he would have included all the previous day’s outtakes; he was sure, however, that the success of his venture very much relied on its soundtrack. She had offered herself to the young IT worker - albeit not in the manner he had hoped for — and he had run away like a frightened child. If there were still a chance of a repeat, Paul would have to demonstrate how much Stevie meant to him.

Choosing a tee shirt was always the most difficult decision of his morning routine, and that was when he had merely to brave his colleagues’ opinion. Discarding the Superman tee as too ironic, Paul dithered between ‘I see dumb people’ and ‘Geek Orthodox’, before plumping for one emblazoned with Green Lantern’s logo. Its relative obscurity would appeal to the others in IT, yet not scream ‘nerd’ to Stevie.
Downstairs, his mother was rattling about in the kitchen, which gave him a few minutes to check YouTube before his summons to breakfast. Several users had reposted Stevie’s video blog to the site, and Tall Paul had responded to the most popular of these with his tribute video. Although only an hour had elapsed since his upload, it had in turn attracted thousands of views, comments and another five-star rating. Regret as he might his original betrayal, that single petty act had sent Stevie’s name speeding around the world; few people would ever create anything as powerful as he had, and it thrilled him.

Stevie had gone viral.

*****

Penny could not help but smile as Stevie waddled back to her own room, trying desperately to conceal her nightie’s tented front. For more than a week, the teenager had displayed no overt masculine characteristics at all, even though they had spent so much of that time in each other’s company. Since she had grown used to waking with a young woman in her arms, the appearance of a penis between them that morning proved disconcerting. Not that it was unpleasant, she felt immensely flattered, but Penny had barely reconciled herself to what was, ostensibly, her first lesbian relationship. Stevie had so many hidden facets Penny felt doomed to blunder upon each one accidentally, if she did not pay attention to everything about her. With this in mind, she took her companion’s abandoned book from the nightstand, but it offered few useful clues; text and title were both French. At least the author’s name was familiar, and provided a fitting coda for the sentence she had spun from her confusion. Penny’s girlfriend was an eighteen-year-old boy who read Proust in the original language.

“Shall I make a start on breakfast?” Stevie appeared in the doorway, her femininity regained. As always when waiting for an answer, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Awake, Stevie filled her every moment with movement, a constant bustle that carried her through the day; by contrast, she slept so peacefully Penny enjoyed simply watching her. Home life without her teenage guest had become almost unimaginable, and each day presented a fresh reason to love her.

*****

An important meeting took Bob Thornwell and his PA out of the office that morning. Their absence gave Stevie the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that she was too good to waste on making coffee, and keeping a manager’s appointment diary. A quick phone call to Stacy confirmed that the documents Stevie had asked her former colleague to check were still all held on the central accounting database, making a nonsense of filing hard copies. Data security might prompt a few objections, but she had a tame IT worker who could help with those.

“He’s already on his way up to see you.” Stevie detected a smirk in the speaker’s voice, while in the background there were kissing noises and gales of laughter. The IT department’s mirth was famously puerile, and she suspected she was the butt of the joke, but Tall Paul was a more likely victim. Remembering her own experiences the week before, Stevie suppressed a stab of sympathy for the young man who had embarrassed her. The young man however had tried to make amends, and she had exacted a petty revenge. An apology was in order, but Tall Paul's arrival disrupted her thoughts on how to word it.

“When I called for IT support I didn’t expect Green Lantern to turn up.” Stevie smiled at the young man hovering in the door, a laptop tucked under one arm, and wearing a distinctly harassed expression.

“You read comic books too?” Tall Paul had begun to recognise where his attraction to Stevie was leading, plummeted headlong past his heels.

“Are you kidding, people masking their true identities with outlandish clothes? If you ask me, super heroes are all borderline TVs and I love them.” Stevie laughed, and beckoned the young man to her desk.

After dispensing with Stevie’s questions about the accounting database, Tall Paul laid his laptop on Stevie’s desk, opening it to reveal his YouTube tribute. “I was stupid yesterday,” he said softly, “If you still want me to... um that thing you asked... I will do anything to be with you.”

“I’m so sorry Paul that was just cruel trick I played on you. Thing is, I don’t like boys that way.” Stevie gave him a wan smile, before turning to the laptop on her desk. “Now what’s this?” she asked running a finger over the touchpad, and clicking on ‘play’.

Paul had resisted the urge to load the video clip with the multitude of effects his father’s software offered. Instead, he had simply slowed the clips slightly, and applied a mild soft focus effect, so the images of Stevie laughing appeared almost dreamlike. Her laughter peeked through the soundtrack, but Brian Wilson’s plaintive lyric dominated.

I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I'll make you so sure about it

God only knows what I'd be without you

“I had no idea; I thought you were just like the others.” Stevie turned to face the young man, who was blushing furiously. Taking his hand in hers she added, “I’m going to find you a girl like me, I promise.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I thought you’d like to see this.” Edna Green dropped a newspaper onto Stevie’s desk. Beneath a headline screaming ‘YOU WOULD’, was a picture taken from her blog showing Stevie stretched out on Mitzi’s bonnet in true Daisy Duke fashion. “I bet you would,” Edna said, poking Tall Paul in the ribs.

Stevie groaned. She had hoped the media’s attention had moved elsewhere now that she had dropped out of the local television news, but her photograph had found its way to page three of the Sun. She barely had time to recognise the leering tone of the accompanying article when the phone on Belinda’s desk began to ring.

*****

Bob Thornwell was at a loss. During the weeks it had taken to set up the meeting, no one had considered that the French company’s representative would not speak English. Bob and Belinda between them had enough French to book a hotel room and order breakfast; Monsieur Reynal’s assistant spoke English at a similar level. Unless Bob could find an interpreter at very short notice, he would have to waste several more weeks arranging another meeting.

If the two visitors were at all alarmed when Bob palmed his forehead, they disguised it very well; Belinda, however, cast a worried glance in his direction. Bob’s eureka moment was tempered by the knowledge that he had missed something that he should have remembered instantly. The Westons had a second home in Normandy, where Janet and Steve had spent much of each summer; both were, as he belatedly recalled, fluent French speakers. He reached for the telephone.

*****

Knee length black shorts and a sweater may have passed for smart elsewhere in the building, but on the Olympian heights of the twelfth floor, Stevie felt terribly underdressed. Not that there were many to see her, or to give directions, and it took her several minutes to find the conference room. Although her Uncle Bob had pressed her to hurry, Stevie dragged her heels, annoyed that he had called her away from something she thought important. Waiting a few minutes for their coffee will hardly kill them, she thought; she could see no other reason why an office junior had to be present. Still, it stopped her thinking about how cruel she had been to Tall Paul. If Penny had done something like that, it would crush her, even if the older woman had yet to mention love — stupid Blackpool.

Stevie followed her tentative knock through the door. Uncle Bob looked incredibly relieved to see her, more relieved than thirst could explain. “Stevie how is your French, still up to scratch?”

“It’s not bad,” she answered, wondering what on Earth that had to do with anything.

“You’re a godsend.” Bob pulled out a chair for her between him and Belinda, who sat poised with a blank shorthand pad on her knee. “There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding; Monsieur Reynal here does not speak English, do you think you can interpret?”

“I’ll give it a go.” Stevie reached across the table to shake the proffered hands, and took her seat. The teenager was unsure if she was up to the task; until then she had tackled nothing more exacting than classroom exercises, and passing the time of day with Norman villagers. Business negotiations, she feared, could carry her out of her depth very quickly. Setting her fears aside, she introduced herself in French to the two visitors, and gave her Uncle a look she hoped said, ‘I’m ready’.

Any worries Belinda had about leaving her future husband’s career in the hands of a PA young enough to be his daughter, evaporated as Stevie’s confidence grew, rattling away in French and English, translating for both parties. If she had a worry, it was that another manager might steal away Stevie. Penny Hawker would have been her prime suspect, had Belinda not been convinced that the two were already romantically involved.

Belinda was only party to the English side of the conversation, and could not know that Stevie had stumbled over several technical terms, and had to ask for an explanation. Monsieur Reynal obliged each time, and took pains to avoid using them again. She also had to ask him for the French word on a number of occasions, and at first was reassured that he did not point out her mistakes. As the conversation progressed, however she became suspicious of the speed at which he answered. After a particularly tortuous sentence of hers, which he answered without pause, she became convinced that he understood far more English than he admitted to. Of course, there was no way of proving this without potentially causing a scene, and she kept her own counsel until an opportunity arose to confide in Uncle Bob.

The meeting broke at eleven for coffee, which Stevie had to prepare, and the brief moments she had with Mr Thornwell, she lost to his thanks and encouragement. When their cups were empty discussion resumed, with Stevie once again fully occupied translating. So it continued until lunchtime, although the atmosphere became more relaxed as outstanding issues were resolved. A little before twelve, Bob reached over the table to shake Armand’s hand. Business effectively closed, the dapper Frenchman paid Stevie a compliment, which made her blush.

“What was that?” Bob asked, but Stevie fired off a question of her own at Monsieur Reynal, who in turn flushed and then began to laugh. “What was that?” Bob asked again in frustration.

“I merely remarked that Stevie here has an accent stronger than calvados, and she is even prettier in person than she is in print.” Armand Reynal grinned at his adversary. “Anything to get an edge Bob and your reputation precedes you,” he added with a stereotypically Gallic shrug, “But not your ability to find excellent staff. This young lady saw through me very quickly and yet waited until now to tell me. Such discretion is rare in someone so young, don’t you agree?”

“But what was that about her picture?”

Fabien, Reynal’s assistant, produced a copy of the newspaper with a flourish. “This was left in the cab we took from the station,” he said, in equally perfect English.

“Brave as well as beautiful,” Armand said before Bob could fire off another question, “Are you joining us for lunch my dear?”

“Oh, I’d already made plans with my friend — I’d hate to disappoint her.” Stevie looked to Bob for confirmation, but the visiting businessman excused her first.

“Then we must not detain you mademoiselle.” To Stevie’s utter amazement, he took her hand and kissed it. “Your friend’s gain will be our loss, I’m sure,” he added before releasing her hand. Armand Reynal’s gallant gesture kept the blood in Stevie’s cheeks as she continued her apologies, and all the way back to the lifts.

*****

Lunch for Steve Weston was usually a sandwich eaten hurriedly at his desk, and company of any kind a rarity. Stevie, on the other hand, now had a regular appointment with Stacy, and the two of them had somehow accumulated several other dining companions from various departments. Company was preferable to eating alone, but Stevie tired quickly of the questions fired at her from all sides. When was she on television next? How much did the newspapers pay for modelling? Was Ms Hawker a tartar outside work? Her interrogators were prepared to believe anything but the truth, and after an understanding glance from Stacy, she retreated to her office.

Other than the ever-present Edna Green, the occupants of the eighth floor were far too busy to bother Stevie. In relative peace, she completed her memo on unnecessary filing, and laid it on Bob’s desk a good fifteen minutes before he and Belinda returned from their lunch. Both breezed past the teenager, who had resumed the menial task she had abandoned when they left the office. Manager and PA shared a few minutes of banter, and then fell silent; Bob called the junior into his office.

“Belinda gave you work before we left, and yet you found time to produce this,” Bob said sternly, holding up the memo.

“It only took a few minutes, Mr Thornwell.” A bemused Stevie stood before his desk, hands at her sides, thumbs on the seams of her trousers like a guardsman. She feared an imminent trip to the corner.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to use my PC either,” Belinda added with a frown.

“I thought you’d be...” Stevie started, halting as the two senior staff members dissolved into a shared fit of giggles. Lunch had evidently been more than normally liquid.

“Granny Posner would have us file the contents of his waste basket, so this is golden Stevie” Bob finished his sentence with a laugh. “Sorry,” he continued, “The look on your face was priceless.”

“I’ll set up a meeting with Mr Posner,” Belinda said, stepping past Stevie and into the outer office. Bob asked her to close the door, and invited Stevie to take a seat.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

With Uncle Bob's words of praise ringing in her ears, and his coffee cup in hand, Stevie strode down the corridor. It was a little and ladylike she knew, but Stevie did not relish the prospect of meeting her former manager while she walked to the kitchen area.

Internally she was breathing talk huge sigh of relief, when two steps from the doorway, she heard the unmistakable clatter of breaking glass. Unsure of what awaited, Stevie took those last few steps in a hurry, pulling up suddenly in the doorway.

Poor Edna knelt on the kitchen floor, coffee jug handles in hand, surrounded by shards of glass. It was a few moments before Stevie fully took in the scene.

'Edna be careful,' the teenager shouted, 'you're already bleeding!' Looking around, as if seeking whoever spoke, the older woman flashed the newcomer a smile, and then crumpled.

Taking two giant steps the young office junior reached her falling colleague in time to catch her before she landed amidst the puddle of broken glass.

Dragging the matronly Edna clear of the jagged shards, Stevie tapped her burden gently on the cheek. 'Edna wake up,' she pleaded, 'who's the first aider on this floor?'

'Stevie,' Edna moaned, 'you saved me.' Stevie demurred, and asked again who the first aider was. 'Margarette, but she's off to day.'

'Never mind,' Stevie told her, as she placed her bloody charge in a handy chair. She had seen a first aid kit in one of the drawers a few days before.

'Oh God,' Edna moaned as she looked down at her blood spattered pantyhose, and Stevie turned in time to catch her as she fainted once more.

'I'll have to take your tights off,' she told the older woman.

Some of the cuts were quite deep, and might require stitches, Stevie told the swooning Edna.

'We ought to get you a nurse's uniform,' someone said from the doorway. Turning, Stevie saw that several people had come in, yet no one offered to help.

'I've called for an ambulance,' someone said from the crowd's rear.

'You'll live,' Stevie told a rapidly whitening Edna, as she smeared anti-septic on her blushing.

*****

'You've done a good job,' the handsome paramedic told Stevie.

'It was nothing really,' she replied, while blushing deeply.

It took a few minutes for the crowd to disperse once Edna handed been wheeled away. Alone at last Stevie set the depleted kit on the counter, and wondered how she'd make coffee now.

Uncle Bob despised instant coffee, but with both percolaters broken there seemed no alternative. Then Stevie remembered how surprised she'd been, to find him drinking coffee. Whenever he visited her parents, uncle Bob always asked for tea. In fact he was quite first stickler for how he liked it.

While rooting around for the first aid kit, she'd spotted a bag as stainless steel tea set. Swilling the pot and milk jug in cold water, Stevie looked for tea bags. They weren't his favourite brand, of course, but they'd do for now.

'Three minutes,' Stevie said aloud, while staring at her wristwatch. Carefully fishing out the teabags, so as not to spill anything, she lifted the tray and set off. At least she had a good excuse for taking so long.

Mr Posner emerged from the doorway as she approached, a faint odour spanning the meters between them.

'You're burning bridges then, miss Weston,' he said in a matter of fact way. There was no real venom in his words, but it was clear that there'd be no return to accounts for her. Another nail in Steve's coffin, she thought.

'Oh God, if I weren't involved elsewhere, I'd ask you to marry me,' uncle Bob said, setting down his teacup.

'See what you've started now,' Belinda said, eyes narrowed. 'Anyway, Ms Hawker called; she wants you to come up. It sounded quite urgent.'

'But it's only four fifteen,' Stevie said, turning back to her manager, who was pouring himself another cup of tea. Sighing contentedly after a first sip, Bob motioned her away.

*****

Arriving at the interview room's closed door, Stevie wondered what she done wrong. It had been a very busy day, what with interpreting, undermining the head of Accounts, and bandaging up poor Edna, she'd probably broken any number of rules. Hopefully Ms Hawker was in a charitable mood. Chances were she wasn't. Tentatively Stevie knocked, and waited to hear a terse "come in".

Ms Hawker - it was undoubtedly Ms Hawker, not Penny - was perched on the desk's edge in a predatory manner. 'Don't dither in the doorway, miss Weston,' she said, and pointed at the carpet before her.

Stevie scuttled forward, in quick inch long steps until she was practically touching the HR head.

'Very good.' It was very softly spoken, and Stevie wasn't even sure it had been said when suddenly Ms Walker caught her head in both hands, and fiercely kissed the bewildered office junior.

If Stevie had considered herself kissed before, her judgement was severely called into question. The lips fixed on hers, seemed to have a gravitational pull all of their own.

Penny felt the teenager stiffen, and fall against her limply, breaking the kiss. 'Did you just…' She asked, letting the question trail off.

'Sorry,' Stevie said, without looking up.

'There is no need to say sorry, you beautiful girl,' Penny said softly, 'no one has ever done that for me when I'm kissing them.'

Stevie looked up into Penny's eyes, reddening like a beacon while the older woman's arms enfolded her.

'You must have really needed that,' Penny said, palming the damp fabric between Stevie's legs. 'We'd better get you home, and into dry knickers.'

*****

'Inconceivable! It's not even half past four.' Debbie stood at a window overlooking the car park, along with everybody else in Human Resources. As Ms Hawker's personal assistant she was expected to know everything her manager knew, and yet aside from a hurried goodbye, Debbie knew nothing.

'She never goes home before five, even when she had appendicitis,' someone said.

'Look then she is!'

Debbie looked where a half-dozen fingers pointed, and saw two figures walking towards the named parking spaces. From nine floors up it was difficult to identify people, but the blonde woman with the blue top on, was certainly Ms Hawker. And it wasn't a huge leap to say that the brunette walking alongside, was Stevie Weston.

'Of they holding hands?' Several people asked the same time.

'We really should have a pair of binoculars in the office.'

'God no,' said Debbie, 'people are paranoid enough already.'

Everyone stepped back from the window when them BMW pulled off. But there was still an excited hubbub, when it was noted that there manager's computer was still switched on.

Debbie, who sat closest, jostled the superior's desk, which cleared the computer's screensaver.

Discreetly, Debbie peered at the monitor, seeing only an almost blank personnel record. The only item of information filled in, was the name "Miss Stevie Weston". Which didn't explain why Penny had been staring at the screen all day.

'We'd better crack on,' Debbie said to everyone, 'you know she'll check up on us first thing.'

*****

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie bounced barefoot into the kitchen. She'd changed into a pale pink T-shirt, and denim miniskirt.

'What are you looking at?' The teenager's hands were on her hips, and her head cocked at an angle, almost challenging the older woman.

'I sometimes forget you're only…' Penny caught herself in time, and continued, 'that you're almost nineteen.' But you look even younger, she thought.

'That smells nice,' Stevie said, strolling to Penny's side, and imspecting the pans heating on the hub.

'It's just something quick.' Looping and arm around Stevie's waist, Penny asked why she'd spent such a long time in the shower.'

'I shaved,' she answered, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, 'everything.'

'There's more hair on egg, than you.' Stevie's drive to eliminate body hair bordered on the obsessive.

Fearing another lecture Stevie changed the subject, 'you really like cooking don't you?' Distracted by a pot that needed stirring, Penny could only nod. 'So, from now on if you do the cooking, I'll do all the housework.'

'And how long are you planning to stay?' Penny arched an eyebrow, while struggling to keep a straight face.

'For always,' Stevie said, staring up through her eyelashes, adding hurriedly, 'if it's OK with you, that is.'

Putting the spoon aside, Penny wrapped both arms around the little brunette. 'Like I could ever let you go,' she said, drawing Stevie closer. 'May I ask you question?' Eagerly Stevie nodded, while burrowing deeper into Penny's embrace.

'I really want to kiss you now,' Penny said, 'but if I do, are you likely to... erm... explode in your panties again?'

'Not a chance,' Stevie said with a smirk, 'I'm wearing a pair of yours.'

'Monkey!' Penny lifted the miniskirt to reveal red lace briefs. Resisting the urge to squeeze the pert little bottom, instead she asked Stevie to set the table.

'Ms Hawker would have spanked me.' Stevie's pout was precious.

*****

'So help me, I swear you're doing it on purpose, Bel!' Bob set the teacup down beside the biscuits, frowning before asking, 'should I ask Stevie to write down instructions?'

'Stevie, Stevie, Stevie, she's so bloody wonderful, isn't she?' Belinda snapped, but instantly regretted criticising the girl.

'There's no denying that,' Bob told his fiancée reflectively, 'if she's not translating, or first aiding,, she's finding unnecessary business expense.'

'But she's very young, Bob, do you think she's up to both jobs?' Belinda asked, before turning away.

'If any one can teach you how to make tea, she's the one,' Bob said gruffly, 'hey where are you going?'

'To stand in the corner,' his PA said over her shoulder, 'so you can stare at my bum, and remember who you're marrying.'

*****

After loading the dishwasher, Stevie stomped into the living room, and flopped down onto the sofa beside Penny, who was bent over her laptop.

'Are you still working?' Stevie asked in an exasperated tone, and punched her friend softly in the shoulder.

'We've got this employee,' Penny answered without looking up, 'who we know nothing about. Except the usual insane number of GCSEs.'

'Doesn't everyone have sixteen?' Stevie asked innocuously, but she could see by Penny's frown she wanted more. Carrying on in a bright voice she asked, 'what do you want to know. You are talking about me, aren't you?'

Penny mumbled something about only having eight GCSEs, before asking where Stevie had learnt first aid.

'In the Scouts,' Stevie said, 'but I did a bit more for the Duke of Ed.'

'Gold, no doubt,' Penny ticked a box on her computer, 'I bet you were head girl too.'

'Deputy head boy,' Stevie said, looking embarrassed, 'I didn't play any team sports.'

Penny put an arm around her shoulder, and told her that she didn't either. Not wanting to seem like she was interrogating the girl, Penny kissed her cheek, and gave her a squeeze, before asking about A-levels.

'Only five!' Penny started, 'I'd have thought you'd have at least ten.'

'When I got the unconditional offer from King's, I dropped all the silly subjects.' Does that sound like bragging, Stevie asked herself.

'London?' Fifteen years since Penny had taken her A-levels, but even then unconditional offers were almost unheard of.

'Cambridge,' Stevie said softly, adding a barely audible, 'and a year in Paris.'

'Seriously?' Penny stared at the younger woman, before asking, 'you gave that up to work in Accounts?'

'I wanted to be Stevie,' the girl answered. She'd been asked this very question by almost everybody Steve knew. But how could he have explained, without revealiing his darkest secret?

Meeting someone who'd given up a golden opportunity was completely beyond Penny's experience. But she could see, how much Stevie hurt to talk about it.

'So that's five A Grades then?' Penny asked as matter of factly as she could.

'Five A*s,' Stevie whispered, blushing deeply as she did so.

*****

'But I can read German and Russian much better than I can speak them,' Stevie said, after Penny had coaxed her back into the conversation. 'And I only really started Japanese a few months ago.'

'So you can understand seven languages, but you're only fluent in four?' Penny shook her head, and thought the girl is a bloody genius, and she's embarrassed by it.

But what would it to be like to be so uniquely gifted a communicator, yet have no one talk to about a hidden part of her life. What was that old song?

'She's leaving home after living alone for so many years,' Penny sang softly, almost absently.

'What was that?' Stevie asked, intrigued.

'Just an old song,' Penny replied.

'What is it with people and old songs today?' Stevie took the laptop, and brought up the Youtube page with Tall Paul's latest tribute.

'Oh God, he really loves you,' Penny said, while wiping away a tear.

'And I was so horrible to him,' Stevie sniffed. 'But I've promised to help him find a girl just like me.'

'There aren't any girls just like you,' Penny laughed, dragging Stevie closer.

'Is your hand supposed to be up my skirt?' Stevie asked sometime later.

'I'm just checking on my pair of panties,' Penny answered.

'You're being very thorough,' Stevie chuckled, as the woman's hands roamed over her.

'Would you prefer I send in Ms Hawker? Don't answer the that!' Penny laughed.

'Hold on,' she started again, 'have you really never heard "she's leaving home" by the Beatles?'

'Mum and dad like to listen to Spandau Ballet. Is that the same sort of thing?' Stevie tried to re-engage in their kiss, but Penny looked appalled.

'I don't really listen to music,' she said, almost apologetically. And admitted when Penny pressed, about contents of her iPod, it was filled with language courses, and audiobooks.

'Yay! I know something Stevie doesn't,' Penny sang, and took the laptop back.

Within minutes iTunes loaded, and Penny cued an album. 'You'll like this,' she said as "Michelle ma belle" began, and pulled Stevie to her feet.

'Let's dance,' said the personnel head, 'we've got to dance.'

Hours later, when an exhausted Stevie lay in Penny's arms, she was sure she heard her dancing partner murmur, 'God only knows, what I'd be without you.'

*****

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie's first thoughts on waking were, where's Penny, and what's happening to my panties?

An answer to both questions could be found crouching beneath the duvet. Penny was at eye level with Stevie's crotch, and gently coaxing a red lace garment along the teenager's hips.

'Good morning, sunshine.' Penny beamed, while still paying close attention to the panties' transit.

'Aren't we waiting until Friday?' Stevie asked, unsure how she felt about her exposure.

Penny tugged at the flimsy knickers, prompting Stevie to lift her bottom to ease their passing. It seemed she didn't feel too badly about it after all.

'Ha there you are!' Penny laughed, as Stevie's penis sprang free. 'I only wanted to see him close up. You're always so secretive about him, but you have nothing to be ashamed of in this department,' she told the confused teen. And after bobbing forward briefly, straightened until they were back to eye level.

'You kissed it,' an outraged Stevie told her.

'No, I kissed you,' Penny assured her bed mate, 'just in an unorthodox position.' She had never expected her girlfriend to be such a prude.

'In that case,' Stevie said, with a resolutely set jaw, and shimmied down the bed.

When she returned a minute later, the older woman seemed flustered. 'You precocious little trollop,' she stammered, though a smile had begun to play across her face.

'I only kissed you in an unorthodox place,' said Stevie, innocently.

'You French kissed me!' Penny abandoned any effort to keep a straight face, and moved in for a kiss.

'Ew,' cried Stevie, and pushed the amorous Penny away.

'Well if you're going to be like that,' the older woman assured her, and rolled out of bed, 'we'd best just take a shower.'

'Ouch! You're not supposed to use it as a handle,' cried Stevie.

*****

'Am I still a virgin?' A bath sheet wrapped Stevie asked. Penny paused from drying her hair, to nod briefly before resuming the task.'Well shouldn't I have done the same for you?'

'No man has ever spoken those words,' Penny said gravely. Brushing aside Stevie's enquiry, she continued, 'if I get antsy I'll just sack someone, or chew on my desk for a bit.'

Carrying their breakfast into the living room, Stevie switched on the television, while Penny put away the dryer.

Almost instantly Penny could hear Brian Wilson singing, and she rushed into the room.

'I wish somebody would make a film of me like that,' the female anchor was saying.

'Perhaps if you were that pretty they might,' her male counterpart joked, earning a venomous glance from his colleague.

Penny found Stevie on the sofa, her head in her hands, and gently rocking. Without saying anything, penny moved to her side, and wrapped an arm around her naked shoulder.

'…We' re talking about the teenage transsexual who's become the latest Internet sensation.

'If you believe she's actually a boy,' interrupted the male news anchor.

'Why does everyone keep saying I'm transsexual?' Stevie muttered, 'they're just going to keep saying it until I get a vajayjay.'

'…And we welcome our reporter Liz, who some viewers may not know, was actually born a man.'

'Is she real, or an online hoax,' the mail anchor asked the newcomer, 'or as a lot of viewers' messages contend, is she simply a girl pretending to be a boy pretending to be a girl? What does your gaydar tell you, Les?'

'Never mind them,' Penny said, waving a coffee in front of the disconsolate office junior.

'I'm transgendered, not gay,' Liz was saying, 'but to a practised eye, Stevie is in fact a boy. A boy however, who has spent a loft of time perfecting her voice, and her mannerisms.'

'Is that true?' Penny asked, and was answered with a nod. 'I never thought about your voice before, you looked so much like a girl, it just seemed natural.'

'Why do you think I was so bad at my job?' Stevie's said quietly, 'I'd be up all night learning how to talk, and I'd spend the next day terrified Stevie would speak. Or worse still, smile the way I'd taught her.'

'She's done a fantastic job,' Liz was saying, 'but she'll need surgery before her journey is complete.'

'Is that true?' Penny wrapped an arm around her young girls shoulder, 'do you want surgery?'

'No!' Stevie snapped, adding after a long pause, 'well maybe boobs.'

*****

That morning, found Stevie at Mrs Green's desk. Edna's continued fainting, had prevented her discharge from hospital.

What a gonk cluttered desk, Stevie thought as she plopped down behind it. She itched to start clearing up, but had learned from Penny's reaction, such zeal was seldom appreciated. Instead, she limited herself to arranging the highlighters in rainbow order.And aside from a few phone calls, that was as busy as she'd be.

With so little to distract her, Stevie's mind was free to roam. What did those fools on the television know, and why did everyone assume she wanted a sex change? Living as a girl was fun, or it would be if everyone left her alone. Did she really need to cut her thingy off? Penny didn't seem to mind it, in fact it fascinated her.

Her bed mate was a mass of contradictions. Almost playful when she pulled Stevie's knickers down, her mood her to quickly changed when Stevie kissed her "down there".

Stevie took a moment to remember how it felt to run lips passed the tousled clump of blonde hairs. Would Penny be offended by an offer to tidy up her ladygarden? She probably would, the teenager thought.

Stevie wasn't entirely sure how Penny felt about her and unorthodox kiss. When her tongue had first touched the soft, intimate flesh, Penny had almost recoiled.

Almost, and yet had not brushed away the intruder. Which was all the encouragement Stevie needed to probe a little deeper.

Marvelling at Penny's flustered reaction, Stevie poked out her tongue to stare at its tip.

I am Tonguezilla, she told herself, able to reduce women to quivering blancmanges with a single lick.

'That's such a good look for you.'