Consumerism

(Disclaimers: This is loosely based on a true story. Not one I was involved in. One that was in the newspaper a long while ago. That said, all the characters are ones I made up in my brain and are not based on nor meant to represent real people. This forcedfem / maledom story fits most clearly in the transgender category of stories although it could also fall into categories including mind control, non-consent, and eventually BDSM. This story doesn't involve any supernatural aspect or made-up new drug or piece of technology. All the pharmaceuticals in this novel are real. They should not be used in the way they are in my story. Also, since I didn't get a chance to name him, the main narrator goes by Jamie. :D)

1: Prologue -- Vanholt Corporation Psychiatric Pharmaceutical Division -- Executive Boardroom -- Narrated by Dr. Welker, Chief Psychiatrist

What a fool I had been to have missed it. The sexiness of it. The way it gets injected into your body. Spreads inside of you and reprograms your mRNA. All the money that Vanholt made injecting people. Everyone involved in the vaccine deployment was rich now. They could get hired anywhere. The bonuses were obscene. Yet I had to be Chief Psychiatrist. Stuck working on psyche meds that barely did anything. Waiting for the breakthrough that never seems to materialize in the dying industry of psychiatric drug development. The pandemic made me realize it. I was wasting my life here.

"Well, that was certainly interesting," Brad said with a smirk on his face before leaning back in his plastic desk chair causing it to squeak. We had just met with a consultant. An Ivy University professor in the Women's Studies Department. As General Manager of the Psychiatric Pharmaceuticals Division, Brad had a specific budget allocated that he could only spend on efforts to improve equity in the workplace. He'd hire these consultants and usually ignore their recommendations. Not without good reason either. The consultant's presentation was probably the most sexist thing I've witnessed in an office setting. And I say that as a woman. Her absurd idea that masculinity was toxic. That all we needed to boost productivity and innovation around here was to decrease testosterone and increase estrogen. Our problem wasn't too many men. It was all the bureaucracy and red tape. Feminism is fine but I've always been a libertarian at heart. I blame the government. Besides, what were we going to do? Discriminate against men? I may be a doctor, not a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure that's illegal. When it comes to this equity stuff though, it seems to get a free pass. A way to get away with stuff that normally you wouldn't even dare try.

I adjusted my glasses as I tried to hide the tinkling of my eyes from him. "We could hire a plumber," I suggested as I thumbed my nose like a violin. "See if he can start filtering estrogen through the office drinking water. To think all these years we've wasted. When the solution was always so simple." The executive boardroom was centered around a rectangular table capable of seating six people on each side and one on each of its narrow ends. The creamy colored chairs matched the marble top of the table. Patterned grayscale carpeting covered most of the floors and the entirety of the table except for a brown tile trim around the edges of the room. Large windows stretched from the floor to the ceiling on the other side of the room separated by white pillars. The high elevation of the office building provided quite the view. I was dressed in a white lab coat over a green blouse and a pair of gray slacks. There was no requirement I dress like a doctor at the office, but I always did so anyways. It really gets on my nerves. When people don't address me using my proper title.

Brad laughed. "By the way, I saw that look on your face," he said before winking at me. "When she talked about offering female hormones to employees. Can you imagine that? Taking drugs and hormones because your company suggested it. Remember the campaigns to get staff to lose weight and quit smoking? Something that benefits them personally. Also, collectively through the insurance rates. Massive failure. If you want to change someone's behavior, you can't beat the good old-fashioned carrot. Or my favorite, the stick." Brad was wearing a black business suit with a blue tie with thin diagonal white stripes.

Hormone therapy. That was another area full of them. Warm sexy body altering injections. People were making a lot of money with it. The transgender stuff. Male hormone replacement therapy. My pulse quickened. "Brad, why aren't we more involved with stuff like that?" I asked. "Hormone therapy."

Brad shrugged. "We sell psychiatric medication," he explained. "Medication that helps fix your brain. The hormones have to do with the body. They're two totally different beasts."

"C'mon," I said before sighing. "Did you hear what just happened with Bivonics? They shut down their entire psychiatry division. We're going to get closed sooner or later if things keep going the way they are. Besides there is a lot linking brains and hormones together. Maybe that's where we could finally find some innovation. A new type of medical treatment. One that involves a fusion. Addressing the patient's mental health not only with psychiatric medication but also hormones." I went still suddenly as my eyes widened and I felt energized. I already had ideas. Things we could do with our own existing pharmaceuticals. New cutting-edge approaches.

"You look like you have something in mind." Brad suggested as he leaned in towards me and wet his lips. "Lay it on me."

"Well, you know that drug we make?" I asked as a relaxed smile crossed my face. "I forget the brand name we used. Its scientific name is naltrexone."

Brad tilted his head to the side and raised his right eyebrow. "That one for alcoholics and drug addicts?" he asked.

"Exactly," I said as I got up from my chair and walked over to one of the long windows. It was bright and sunny outside. Those people I could see walking down below. They looked like ants from up where I was at. Plastic surgery was an accepted thing. Television, movies, music, and the pornography men consume. There's no shortage of boob jobs, facelifts, and many other elective procedures. The problem with psychiatry right now is that it's too reactive. Too focused on treating mentally ill patients who often don't even want to get better. But beyond them existed a vast free market of consumers. Human beings with individual goals, desires, and motivations. They'd pay for the ability to change things about themselves. All it would take is for the opportunity to be offered to them.

2: Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- Six Months Later (Pivot to New Narrator / Present-tense)

I shiver. The chills are overwhelming. My eyes dart to the lobby. There's a door there. I could leave. Escape. The muscles in my leg tense up along with the hair on the back of my neck. "Fuck," I mutter. Why didn't I apply for other jobs? Why was I still employed here? Deep down I knew the reason. The interviews. Talking to strangers like that. I have a wife and a mortgage now. They wouldn't patiently wait around while I fumble awkwardly through one failed job interview after another.

My eyes draw closer, my brow creases, and my face goes slack as I shuffle toward Mr. Bentley's office. This could be it. The day I get fired. I swallow hard as I feel my limbs shake. What would I tell my wife? She'll be so angry when she finds out. My mind floods with scenes of her berating me. Threats to divorce me. God, this is awful.

I paste a fake smile on to my face as I enter Mr. Bentley's office. He and that psychiatrist. They stare at me. It's bad enough already. Without having a woman there. I feel a lump in my throat and sweat on my body. His office is large and has white walls and a glossy terrazzo floor. A sleek metal desk exists at the center of the room with a glass top and glowing white computer monitor. The artwork he hangs behind his desk. It always creeps me out. Give it a passing glance and you'll think it's just an ordinary piece of contemporary art. However, stare a little closer at its oiled strokes and you'll see something twisted and perverted. The outlines of a malformed and misshapen pelvis mounted above a fleshy orifice it penetrates with a penis like appendage. The older man leans back in his chair dressed in one of his expensive business suits. Doctor Welker sits on top of his desk facing the office entrance dressed in a lab coat over a blue blouse and long black skirt.

"Why don't you go ahead and shut the door?" Mr. Bentley says to me before glancing over at Dr. Welker. Fuck, I'd really rather not.

My stomach flutters. I bring my body tight and deliberately stiffen my jaw. That way they can't see how weak I am. My trembling hands betray me. I quickly turn around and close the office door. There's no rush. The longer I take to close the door, the more time to steady my hands.

"Alright, take a seat," Mr. Bentley says as he swivels slightly in his computer desk chair.

I sit down on one of the two leather chairs that are arranged in front of Mr. Bentley's large desk. The chair is soft and well cushioned. I look over at Dr. Welker. She towers over me sitting on top of the desk like that. "Uhm, why is she here?" I ask.

"It's been two months since you signed your employee performance improvement plan," Mr. Bentley points out. "As I explained to you, this is a new cutting-edge alternative to employee discipline. Because it involves medical intervention, it requires supervision from a physician. Dr. Welker here is not only our Chief Psychiatrist on staff. She's a licensed medical doctor."

Dr. Welker crosses her right leg across the left as she knowingly grins at me. "I've got all your blood work right here," she says as she pats her left hand against a file folder sitting next to her on the glass table of the desk. My name is printed on the tab of the file. "According to the report from our endocrinologist, your body seems to be adjusting well to the estrogen we've put you on. Nothing looks concerning to me."

"I wanted to talk about that," I say as my chest caves in, and my stomach feels hard. "These hormones you put me on. I shouldn't be on them. They're for women. Or men who are transgendered. I was hoping..." I hesitate as I grow quiet and zone out for a moment. "Maybe my performance improved. That way you could take me off them. The injections."

Dr. Welker cocks her head to the side as her eyes probe at me from behind her glasses. She's in control. Dominating my body with her exogenous female biological material. Where did the estrogen injected inside of me come from anyway? Female ovaries produce the stuff. It can't be harvested from actual women, can it? No, there was probably a lab somewhere. Vanholt scientists dressed in coats like hers. Using chemistry to mass produce giant vats of the stuff. "Look, you signed the consent to participate in this program," she asserts. "This is a program backed by scientific research that we purchased from a tenured professor at Ivy University. You have to complete it before we can discuss taking you off your medications. Right now, you're in stage one. But I think you're ready to move on. Before we discuss that though. These blood tests show me your body is fine. As I psychiatrist however, I want to know what's been going on in your mind. Have you noticed any effects on your personality?"

My flush face looks down at the hard glossy floor. "Stuff that never affected me before," I begin to explain. "TV shows. Songs on the radio. Even the stupid commercials. They make me all emotional." My voice cracks.

"Uh huh," Dr. Welker says as she nods with a relaxed smile. "That's a good thing. It's showing you're becoming more empathetic. That'll help you. You'll be more conscientious here working at the office. Have you had any depression? Or suicidal ideation?"

I hesitate before fidgeting in my chair. Sure, I'm a little depressed. But I was depressed even before. Prior to the time I began to receive regular injections of biological fluid inside of my ass. It's not like things are any worse. Aside from the anxiety I feel over the prospect of losing my job. The fear of losing even more of my masculinity to my corporate job. "No, I haven't," I partially lie. "Like I said. Those sad moments. They hit a little more often. There's more intensity in them. But they're fleeting. Suicide, that's something I avoid thinking about entirely."

"Great," Dr. Welker says as she leans back and raises her left eyebrow up at Mr. Bentley. "Ok, well let's discuss the next stage. Yes, uhm stage two. That's when... things really get exciting." Dr. Welker keeps nodding her head. The smile on her face looks like it has frozen into place. "Based on the science of toxic masculinity, we've managed to stabilize your hormones to a healthier level. Before, your masculine side dominated over your personality. Now that he's been weakened, the next step is now to liberate your femininity." Dr. Welker grips her hands together before wetting her lips. "Look, I'm just going to say it. You're going to have to start dressing like a woman when you're working at the office."

Mr. Bentley smirks before quickly covering the lower half of his face with a nearby coffee mug he had been drinking from.

"Uh what," I stammer before letting out a bark of laughter. My eyes strain as they search desperately for a mischievous grin. A hint of twinkle behind those lenses of hers. Upon finding nothing, my eyes widen. "You're asking me to crossdress?"

Mr. Bentley lowers the coffee mug, revealing he's regained control over his demeanor. "We're not asking," he speaks with a blunt edge to his voice. "You signed our contract agreeing to participate in this program. We could have brought disciplinary charges against you through HR. It was your choice, not ours. But now that you've agreed to participate, it's too late to back out."

"Wait a minute," I say as I wiggle my restless fingers against my lap. "You said I had to take female hormones. Nobody ever said this would involve me having to dress up as a woman."

"I told you there would be other stages," Mr. Bentley corrects. "You could have sought clarification. This is just another example. You're still not conscientious enough. Those hormones aren't enough on their own. My expectation as your supervisor is that you will dress in appropriate female attire from now on. Starting right now today."

"B-but I... I never agreed," I whimper as I feel my ribs squeeze together. My arms dangle lifelessly to my sides.

Mr. Bentley waves his right hand dismissively as he shakes his head back and forth. "You did agree and you're going to do it," he orders. "Or I will just fire you if that's what you want. Try to find work someplace else. It's risky. Likely would require a lot of interviews. On the spot questioning. Especially about why you were fired from your last job." He squints at me with a hard smile on his face. I hadn't even thought of that. Being asked why I was fired. What if I lied? They'd probably call him and he would tell them the truth. I broke the agreement by not crossdressing. My signature. It's on that performance plan. My stomach knots.

"Look, I knew this was probably going to be a tough adjustment," Dr. Welker quickly interjects before scooting off her perch atop Mr. Bentley's desk. Her feet thud against the ground. "Everything's going to be ok." Dr. Welker wraps her arms around my shoulders and embraces me. My nostrils fill with the smell of her sweet perfume. My body feels so relaxed in the arms of a woman like this. It's been such a long time and she feels so soft. "I have everything you need over at my office. We'll go there together. No one's going to laugh at you or anything. I promise. This is all about increasing empathy at the office."

Dr. Welker escorts me over to her office. I help her lift a green piece of luggage off the ground and on to the top of her computer desk. It thuds. She opens the bag and pulls out what she has brought for me to wear. The first object is a medium length curly haired wig. Next, she pulls out what appears to be a makeup bag. This is followed by a soft black outfit and a matching pair of stockings. She takes out a set of razors. Finally, she pulls out a padded bra and female underwear.

My eyes moisten as they observe the items sitting on the desk. "Why are you making me do this?" I ask as I grit my teeth and my body winces.

"Look," Dr. Welker says as she moves closer to me and reaches out and touches my right arm with both her hands. "This is a new program. It may seem strange and invasive. I was skeptical myself at first. Even though it is based on sound science, we don't know how exactly it will turn out. The important thing at the end of all this is your mental and physical health. That's what I care about the most. These hormones you're on. You can be restored back to how you were. Just as you're taking estrogen now. Later you can take testosterone if that's what's best for you. The aim of this program is to help people. It's helping you right now to keep your job here. But it could have a lot of other applications. We're not going to know though until we try." Dr. Welker embraces me again, pulling her own thin torso against my slim chest. Exposing her vanilla tinged perfume to my nostrils for the second time in the process. "It had to have been hard for you. Making the decision to go on estrogen to save your career. Please, bear with us during this. The responsibilities I have to you as my patient. I take them seriously."

I wipe a tear from my right eye before I nod my head. My eyes glance over at the padded bra before looking over at the wig. "I don't even know where I'd get started," I say. My shoulders slump as I sigh dejectedly.

A woosh sounds as Dr. Welker opens a desk drawer. I hear jingling. She slides it across the desk with a soft creaking noise. The drawer shuts with a slam. It's a key ring holding a single brass key. "Here take this," she says. "There's a private bathroom. From the main elevator. Go left. Pass the conference room. It is at the end of that hallway. You can change in there. Keep the key. You can use the bathroom... if it makes you uncomfortable. You know, using the women's restroom."

My nose sniffles. "Thank you," I say with a sullen nod. My hand clutches the key. It's rigid and jingly.

"Why don't you take the clothing over there now?" Dr. Welker suggests. "I'll wait outside. When you're done. Knock. I'll come in and help you with the wig and makeup." She touches me again. This time my right hand. I blush. I look at her face and she is smiling at me.

1. The Galleria Department Store -- Three Weeks Later

I return my lip-gloss to my Savette summer handbag draped over my shoulder before sliding my hand through a rack of dresses. Just another afternoon. I go to Dr. Welker's office and take my medications an hour before leaving the office. Everything I take always has to be cleared. Dr. Welker needs to confirm I swallowed the medications by inspecting my mouth. She then lets me out an hour early to go shopping. If Vanholt is requiring me to dress this way, then it's only right they count my time shopping as work hours. It also helps widen the window of time to get home, change, and shower before my wife returns from work. My right hand lifts a beautiful amaranth dress. It feels soft and feminine when I touch the material. I see a sign pointing out the direction to the fitting rooms. When I walk in the indicated direction, my heels clack against the marble floor of the department store. I freeze when I see them. A sigh escapes my lips. Sex segregated fitting rooms. They always kill my buzz. I grimace as my eyes look down at the amaranth dress and then back over to the fitting rooms.

1. Driving Home -- Saturday Morning

I drive to my favorite restaurant, eat my choice egg and steak sandwich with lots of hot sauce by myself, and head home. I wear a Hawaiian shirt that hangs loose over my thin frame and a pair of shorts and sandals. Weekends for me are about relaxing. A nice spicy breakfast followed by some solitary reading. Some asshole cuts me off suddenly. I slam the break. My eyes focus on the car horn button in front of me. I don't press it. Better to avoid a confrontation. My car pulls into my neighborhood. I smile as I pass a woman walking an adorable baby. It's hot outside.

My car pulls up to our house. I hesitate before hitting the garage opener. The car idles. A sigh escapes my mouth. My finger hits the button. There's a loud rumbling noise followed by grinding. The door begins to lift. I fidget. I see it. Her car in the garage. My heart sinks. I gaze inwardly as I chew on my cheek. A second sigh escapes. I put the car in drive and accelerate into the driveway before entering the garage. I open the car door and it dings repeatedly. The ringing sound echoes across the cramped car port. It stops when I pull the key out of the ignition. I hop out of the driver's seat of the car. My finger flicks the button initiating the rumbling and grinding noises associated with the closing of the garage door. I carefully turn the knob of the door. Maybe she's sleeping in the bedroom. I scratch the top of my left wrist with my right hand. Hopefully.

I go inside. Let the door close softly. Sneak to my computer. The button clicks. The screen's lit. Phew, I made it.

"Where did you go?" my wife asks as she enters the living room. The hairs on the back of my neck stand. When she sees me seated at the computer desk, her nostrils flare. "Already playing games on the computer?" She releases a large, exaggerated sigh. "I thought you were finally going to mow the lawn today."

I deliberately close my body posture, tighten my jaw, and look away from her. "It's been four years since I played a computer game," I correct. "The lawn was mowed last Sunday. You didn't notice? And I ate at Mikey R's deli. Like every Saturday morning."

My wife's eyes shoot towards the transparent sliding door on the other end of the living room. She squints through the glass at the lawn. A sigh escapes her pinched lips. "You said were going to organize the garage but it's still such a mess out there," she complains. "It's 10:30. The entire morning. Wasted. Don't make this one of those days. Where you're on the computer all day. Playing games or whatever you do on there. Nothing gets done."

"The last few weeks at work have been rough for me..." I divulge. My voice cracks.

"Stop making excuses," she nags. "You're a secretary for crying out loud. What happened? Did they run out of coffee?"

My salary as the Executive Assistant for the Psychiatric Pharmaceutical Division is more than twice hers. "I was hoping to read..." I whimper.

"Go fix the garage," she orders. My wife walks into the kitchen and calls one of her friends. She gossips loudly over the phone as she rummages for whatever snack she hopes to prepare for herself.

A tear runs down my cheek. These fucking hormones. I'm too emotional. My nose sniffles. I hate this. My eyes gaze down at my crotch. When was the last time? I look towards the kitchen. She's distracted. I don't go to the garage but the bedroom instead. The door shuts behind me. Click. Door locked. The floor is beige stringy carpet. A whitish wood dresser sits to the right covered in tiny jewelry boxes and a few nick-nacks. The large master bed takes up most of the room. It has a soft white comforter over white sheets with four large pillows and another four little pillows. She's ridiculous with all her tiny throws. A medium to small television is mounted on the wall across from the bed. I hate it. Pain in the ass TV. Cheap shit she bought without asking my opinion. No one ever listens to me.

I walk over to my side of the bed and shove the excess pillows across the comforter. My legs hop up as my body lands on the soft mattress before shifting until I'm comfortably laying on my back. It smells like the laundry detergent my wife uses. The box of tissues is still there on the end table. My hand grabs one from the box. It feels soft in my hand, and I sit it next to me. My eyes look at the zipper of my shorts. It's standing tall and vertical. But would I? My legs feel restless and my stomach churns. I swallow hard before biting my lower lip. It could be all fucked up down there. My breathing is heavy.

I unzip the shorts. My trembling hand fishes it out of my boxer shorts. After a few strokes, it hardens. I carefully inspect and everything is normal. My cock and balls, not malformed nor shrunk in any way that I can perceive. It's perfectly hard. I open the porn website on my phone. My heart beats quickly. It loads. My trembling fingers type it. Always a favorite of mine. The search bar reads, mmf. My eyes soak in the slew of sleazy photos that appear. Women holding penises in each hand. Two men penetrating the same wet pussy. My cock throbs. Everything's normal. A finger swipes. The volume's muted. Some shitty ad plays. A middle-aged ginger woman getting fucked by a younger guy in some gross incest-themed porn. I skip ad as soon as possible. Video buffers. This is all how it should be. The scene loads. A woman seated between two men on a couch. My mouth salivates. I wet my lips. A twitchy finger skips ahead. Video buffers. Everything's fine. My hand wraps around my hard penis. The video starts to play again. Two hard penises penetrate a single orifice rubbing against one another. I stroke, my fingers squeeze, my mouth pants, my mouth moistens, my hand moistens, my dick throbs. It's all okay. The actress moans. Her stretched out genitals. They're sweaty. I imagine the smell. A gasp escapes. Don't worry. My penis vibrates. It's time.

I come. My body feels nothing. No pleasure. No intense shivers. My penis feels cold. As the liquid shoots out my cock and either lands of my thin midriff or flows down the port that ejected it, it just feels icy. I don't understand. My cock was perfectly hard. It felt warm in my hand. The come, it was plentiful. Something's very wrong. The hormones. They're fucking with my body. I freeze and shudder and my internal temperature grows frigid. "What..." I murmur before swallowing hard and grimacing.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- Dr. Welker's Office

Dr. Welker studies me through her glasses. Her face a bit flush. Her chest puffs out and she tosses her hair back. Her right-hand rubs her chin. "I've never heard of this," she doubts. "You were able to get an erection, right? And have an orgasm? Are you sure about that? That you came?" Through the frames her eyes blink at me.

"Yes, I saw it myself," I explain before biting my lower lip. "Everything was going fine. It was all normal. But when I, well, uhm, when I ejaculated. I didn't have an orgasm. It was just cold. I mean, everything else about it was the same. I came and it was the normal amount. It looked the same. It just felt nothing like it normally does." I rub my right hand against my right stocking. My Savette handbag sat beside my chair on the ground.

"Uh huh," Dr. Welker says as she looks away from me and strokes her chin again. "Well, I've never heard of estrogen doing that. It can inhibit male sexual function for sure. Make it more difficult to get an erection. Decrease the volume of ejaculation. Interfere with fertility. These things are all possibilities. We've tried to keep your levels manageable to avoid that. Get rid of the toxic masculinity but not all masculinity. But I've never heard of estrogen erasing the male orgasm." Dr. Welker tilts her head as she types something into her computer. Her eyes focus, her hand clicks her mouse, and her left-hand scratches her cheek. Moments pass. She turns towards me and draws her eyebrows together. "This experience you had. It seems likely to me that its psychosomatic."

"What does that I mean?" I wonder. My neck feels stiff and my mouth dry. My eyes wander around her sterile office.

"It means there's nothing wrong with your body," Dr. Welker concludes. "The hormones aren't affecting your orgasm. At least not directly. The issue is with your brain. It must've hidden the orgasm from you." Her head nods and she thumbs her nose like a violin.

My eyebrows squish together, my head flinches back slightly, and my mouth frowns. "My brain?" I ask. My head shakes slightly, and I blink. "I don't understand."

"You said you were having sex with your wife, right?" Dr. Welker seeks clarification as her eyes focus on me.

I look away from her. "Yes," I lie. My face blushes.

"Well, perhaps there is some source of inner conflict in you," Dr. Welker speculates. "These hormones you're on. Your new way you've been presenting your feminine self. The differences in how people at work have been reacting to you. Treating you differently. Any of these things alone or together could have triggered a sleeping giant that's been dormant inside you. Maybe your brain denied you that orgasm as a way of encouraging you to seek new types of sexual experiences. Expand your horizons a little bit."

My shoulders curl over my chest. "Great," I mutter under my breath. This is an embarrassing problem to have. The last thing I want is to have to talk to more doctors and therapists about this. "Is there any chance this is something I can, uhm..." I blink. "Deal with internally?"

Dr. Welker approaches me from the other side of the desk. Her soft feminine hand touches my left shoulder. Her body exudes a sweet vanilla-tinged perfume. My nose delights. "I know this is going to sound crazy," she prepares as her eyes focus in on me. "But have you considered. A fling. Having an affair with someone other than your wife. Not anything serious. Just maybe exploring a little bit."

Mmm. Yes. An affair. With her of course. My heart beats quickly. My eyes are intense, hands moist and trembling, and my face flush. I lean forward towards her. My head nuzzles into her left shoulder. I inhale as much of her perfume as I can. She was smart. Her glasses cute. The lab coats she wore. So very charming.

Dr. Welker's arms extend forward, her soft hands rest on each of my shoulders, her fingers grip them tightly, and she pushes me away from her. She pinches her face together and shakes her head as she looks at me through a pained expression. Her hands let go and she returns to her desk chair and sits. "S-sorry," she stammers as her face flushes. "I was an idiot not to realize that sounded like I was hitting on you. I wasn't." She blinks and assumes a nervous smile on her face. "You're my patient..." she grabs a ceramic coffee mug from the top of her desk and quickly covers the bottom of her face with it. "That would be unethical of me." My ears detect a subtle slurping sound as she sips the steaming coffee.

1. The Galleria Department Store

I gloss my lips and admire my make up in the mirror before turning and facing him. "You know, you can go sit down at the front," I offer. "I'll pick out my own things. Then you can pay for them." My face is blank as I lean slightly back from him, and my eyes wander around the large open store. I wear two black nylon stockings up just above my knees connected to a garter belt underneath my dark red dress adorned with white floral patterning. A light half-jacket black in color covers my shoulders and part of my upper right arms. My Savette handbag drapes over my shoulder. I drop my lip gloss inside of it.

"Nah, I'm not doing that," Mr. Bentley says. His Murano blue pinstriped tweed suit jacket and vest is well tailored to his body and accentuates his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Its red and white pocket square matches his white dress shirt and red tie as well as the colors of my own dress. His shoes are well polished, and his face shaved clean. He's taller than me, even in heels, and older although not that much older.

"You're really going to follow me around while I look at women's clothing?" I ask as I swallow before adjusting my dress. "I figured you were just using it as an excuse to leave the office an hour early."

Mr. Bentley's face adopts a wide grin as he shakes his head at me. "I wouldn't describe it that way," he says. "You leading me around the store. But yes, I am going to accompany you. Not as your chaperone. But as your boss. Besides, I'm the General Manager. I don't need anyone's permission to leave the office early."

I shrug before I walk toward the footwear section; my black heels clack against the marble flooring. He follows behind. His posture strong and his grin playful. I select a pair of red stilettos. "These are cute," I mutter as I wet my lips. My fingers rub up against one of the heels' sleek and smooth surface.

"What's your shoe size?" he asks. "Women's shoe size."

"Ten and a half," I reply while my eyes focus on the red stilettos.

Mr. Bentley turns around and bends over. He pulls out a shoebox marked Toury Burch 10.5. "Alright, let's go," he says.

"That's not the pair I was looking at," I point out. My eyes look at the display shoe matching the box he had just pulled. It's a yellow set of high heels. "That's a completely different shoe."

"I know," Mr. Bentley responds before snickering. "You complained about having to spend your own money to comply with the new office dress code imposed on you. So now I'm going to dress you myself. From now on, while you're in the office, you'll wear the outfits and makeup I select and buy for you. I happen to like a woman dressed in yellow. It's very appetizing. The thought of peeling her open like a ripe banana."

"Uhm," I stammer. My eyes dart around. It's clear. The volume of my voice lowers. "I'm not a woman. You know that. I know that." I plaster a fake smile on my face before awkwardly chuckling. God, I sound like such a dork.

Mr. Bentley sets the cardboard shoe box down on a nearby chair, crosses his arms over his chest, smirks at me, puffs out his chest, and shakes his head. "Whatever sweetheart," he taunts. "You're wearing a dress, stockings, and heels. Face made up and carrying a purse. Estrogen pumping in your veins. All you're missing is a nice set of fake tits. You didn't think I noticed it? You admiring yourself in the mirror before. You know you look hot. Can't fault a man like me for noticing. For wanting his very own Executive Assistant to look stunning while she works with him at the office. It only reflects well on me." Mr. Bentley picks up the shoebox. "Fragrances is just over there. Let's stop by for a second. We can work on your smell."

I grimace and sweat. He confidently strides. I plod behind him in my clacking heels. This is just to make fun of me. Make me look stupid. Talk down to me like he always does. This hour reprieve was so nice. Giving me some time to myself. Away from him at the office. Away from her at home. I sounded so pathetic speaking to him like that just now. Better off keeping my mouth shut. We arrive in the fragrance department. A young salesgirl sits behind a hexagonal transparent glass counter displaying elaborately packaged, vividly colored boxes, glass bottles and vials of all shapes and sizes. The counterspace itself is crowded with boxes of fragrances and pictures of handsome muscular men and sexy curvy female models posing with fragrance spritzers.

"Excuse me," Mr. Bentley addresses the salesgirl before assuming a polite smile on his face. "I'm looking to buy my secretary here some perfume. Something that will complement the cologne I'm currently wearing. Do you think you could help me?" Mr. Bentley extends his arm palm up towards the salesgirl.

The salesgirl smiles and leans forward and smells my boss's wrist. "Tom Ford Oud Wood?" she asks.

"Very good," Mr. Bentley compliments before assuming a relaxed smile on his face.

The salesgirl giggles before bending over and rummaging through the storage space behind the glass counter. She emerges with a stout glass perfume bottle with a fat black top. The liquid inside is yellow in color and a black label with white and red text wraps around the middle of the bottle. "Portrait of A Lady by Frédéric Malle," the salesgirl says with a nod of her head. "It smells like roses and blackcurrant. Perfect if your secretary is going to be near your own smokier sandalwood."

Mr. Bentley smirks before nodding his head. He leans forward and sprinkles a horizonal jet to his face. His nose wiggles as he whiffs up the fragrance. "That's lovely," he compliments. "Perfect, we'll go with this." He doesn't even let me smell it. "Can I leave this with you?" Mr. Bentley asks as he held up the shoebox containing the yellow heels. "That way we can just pay for everything over here."

"That's fine," the salesgirl nods her head and takes the box and puts it and the perfume bottle to the side together.

I follow behind him clacking. "I'm not your secretary," I correct. "I'm Executive Assistant. It's an important position. You're supposed to involve me in your decision-making. Teach me the way you do things so I can act in your absence. When you're out of office." I press my lips together and glance down before growing quiet. Why do I even bother trying?

"So, you're the queen secretary, whatever," he disparages. "You can come into my office whenever you want. I'll teach you things." He stops suddenly and looks to a desk display to our right. A white lacquered desk sitting at an L-shaped angle with various drawers and cabinets on its two ends. It's sleek and modern and its surface gleams. The display includes a white computer monitor, keyboard, and mouse matching the desk. "What do you think of this desk?"

"It's nice," I say before I shrug my shoulders. My eyes look over at the number of drawers. "Lots of room for storage."

Mr. Bentley presses down on the desk. "It feels nice and sturdy," he reveals. "You wouldn't have to worry about it getting pushed over or anything. I like how neat it is. Not like your desk at the office. Cluttered with bullshit. Outdated office accessories no one uses anymore. The pictures of your wife. Chicken legs holding it up. Here, I want to get a sense of the dimensions. If I get this for you later, I want to make sure it fits. Bend over the desk for me." He slaps his hand hard against its surface causing a thwacking noise. "I like the sound it makes too. Go ahead and bend over it. It'll just take one minute, and I'll get a feeling for how it'll fit in the office. Bend over the desk."

My heels clack as I approach the desk, I bend my waist over the surface and clutch the other side of it with my hands. Behind me I hear Mr. Bentley fidgeting as he looks from different angles assessing the dimensions.

"That's great," he says as he pulls out his Apple iPhone 14 and photographs me bent over the desk. "I'm photographing the model number. We can't buy this along with the clothing. Accounting has special bullshit you must go through to order furniture. Got it. Let's get you an outfit to go with those heels."

He picks out a yellow dress for me. The skirt on it is on the short side. But it's enough to cover my garter belt. He suggests when I wear it, I pair it with the black stockings I currently have on. "Like a bumblebee, you've got a little stinger under there," he says. I agree to try on the dress and model it for him. There is no reason not to because the outfit is like what I already have on. Well, there is one reason. The dressing rooms. I wait until no one is looking. I slip into the male dressing rooms and change. I refuse to change in the female rooms. I'm not a woman. He likes the outfit when I show it to him. It receives my approval as well. With no one around, I go back into the men's dressing room and change back into my red and white dress.

"One last stop then let's go pay," Mr. Bentley says before smirking at me. He flags down a sales associate with his hand. "Excuse me sir, I'm here shopping with my secretary. Could you please point us towards the lingerie section?" After the associate points in the pertinent direction, my boss courteously thanks him.

"Uhm," I stammer. "I'm not going to wear lingerie underneath my clothes." My eyes blink. I hate social confrontation. I do everything to avoid it. Up to and including crossdressing. Taking female hormones. Letting my male boss buy me dresses and floral perfumes. But I'm not going to wear lingerie. He could wear me down in conversation. My only choice is to give an ultimatum. "If you think I'm going to dress in lingerie for you. Whether it's right now like I did the dress, or later underneath my clothes at the office, no. I'm not doing it. I will quit before doing something like that. Lingerie has nothing to do with toxic masculinity. It has nothing to do with being a better employee. If you're going to have some conversation with me about something as sexualized as wearing lingerie. Well, Dr. Welker needs to be part of it. For my safety and mental health."

"Fine, fine," he responds holding his hands up with his palms pointed towards me. "Just follow me over there. You won't have to try on any lingerie. I promise. Just let me browse a little. For my own personal satisfaction."

A sigh escapes my parted lips as I clack after him. I stop in the aisle when we arrive there and cross my arms over my chest. No way will I go look. He browses with a wide grin, sparkling eyes, bouncing from foot to foot. His masculine hands manipulate frilly female underwear and lacy embroidered brassieres all while his mouth moistens. He takes an outfit off the shelf. His eyes stare intensely at me, and he licks his lips before looking down at it. A green G-string thong transparent on only the top left and right sides, green belt with golden clasps under which is a two-inch-long strap of transparent green fabric that straps with golden clasps to a matching pair of stockings. The outfit of course includes a matching green brassier complete with its own golden clasp accents. The label says Bordelle.

We purchase the items with a corporate credit card. The salesgirl raises her right eyebrow at me when she scans the undergarments he selected. I take home a lovely new yellow dress, matching luxurious heels, and a rose scented perfume that supposedly compliments his smokey woody cologne. I refuse to take the lingerie and leave it in his possession.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office

The main hallway for the Psychiatric Pharmaceutical Division, surrounded on either side by various offices and conference rooms, ends in a doorway into my moderately sized office. Those who visit Mr. Bentley and I are greeted at the entrance of my office with its polished terrazzo flooring consisting of mostly light gray with cobblestone-like darker gray patterning and the occasional blues and browns sparsely dispersed in the uneven and seemingly randomized pattern off shapes. I sit in a black dress and stockings behind my brand new white lacquered L-shaped desk with matching white computer monitor, desktop tower underneath, keyboard, mouse, and desktop telephone. Gone are the stapler, the two-hole puncher, the tape, the basket of pens and the picture of my wife. The only other object on my desk is a small hand-sized pad of neon green lined paper. It is, as he wanted it, now minimalist and free from obstructions.

Mostly windowless, my office relies on sconce calcite lighting. Otherwise, the walls are largely barren except for a framed copy of my nutritional science bachelor's degree and a mounted photo of my departed Pomeranian Sophie. I don't care that he gives me shit for it. She was so considerate to me, never barking at me while I read or typed, laying affectionally in my lap, and she would loyally guard every meal I made. I could leave a steak on the sofa table and go see a movie. It would be there when I returned, and she would have never left its side. From the entrance, a door immediately to the right leads to the executive boardroom. Meanwhile, a door to the back left next to my desk is the sole entry point into Mr. Bentley's office. One of my duties is to keep annoying people from getting inside his office and bothering him.

The door opens to my right and my boss penetrates my office. He wears a teal cashmere Boglioli blazer over a gray vertical striped silk and cashmere long-sleeve shirt. No tie and with a much darker teal pocket square. His black pants are silk and his black dress shoes polished. "You didn't make those reservations yet, did you?" he asks in a strained tone of voice. He approaches my desk, leans in, raises his eyebrows, and purses his lips. I know what he is talking about. The travel approval. We received it this morning.

"Only the flight," I say, shift in my chair, clear my throat and frown. "Was I not supposed to?"

"Did you get first class?" he asks as his feet jitter against the floor.

"Yes, two seats next to each other," I say as I try to keep still and hide a smile inside. "You can have the aisle seat."

Mr. Bentley lets out a breath before a slow smile builds through his parted lips. "Great," he compliments. "I just need to personally approve the hotel room. I'm not deferring to you on that. New York is a hell of a big city. That means a wide variety of accommodations. In quality, expense, and comfort. I don't want to sleep for three nights in a room that doesn't meet my specifications."

"I'm looking at a hotel right now if you want to join me behind the desk." I invite. As he leans over my shoulder, my nose whiffs his smokey sandalwood cologne. It really does pair well with my own rose fragrance. The one he purchased for me. Using the mouse, I show him the available rooms.

"I need to see pictures," he complains, clenches his jaw, and shakes his head.

I click the menu bar. One of the options is rooms. Click. There are a few photos. The rooms look spacious for New York City and well decorated.

Mr. Bentley sneers at the computer screen. "No way," he objects. "Look at those beds. So boring. Bland. Nothing to hold on to. C'mon, surely you can do better than that." It looked fine to me.

I pull up the map showing all the hotels near the Central Office. None of the next three I pull up have photographs of the beds. But he insists. I sigh. The mouse cursor clicks on another hotel on the map, and I navigate to the website. The rooms section loads. There are pictures.

"Now that's a bed," he says with a wide grin on his face and shine in his eyes as he leans in towards me. The headboard of the bed was a series of sturdy golden brass vertical bars arranged so each was evenly positioned in relation to the others connected at the top in a horizontal line to a perpendicular brass bar except the two very edge bars which extended further upwards until expanding into large brass spheres. The footboard of the bed was like the headboard but not nearly as tall. The bedding in the photo was all white including comforter, pillow, and sheets. "The room's a little bit small but I don't mind being a bit cozy."

"So, this is, ok? I ask as I tilt my head to the side and wet my lips.

"It sure is, sweetheart," he responds before chuckling and then smirking at me.

His cologne smells ultra-fine. "Please, stop calling me that," I entreat as I begin booking a reservation.

"Whoa, whoa there," he interrupts, wiggles his right eyebrow at me, grins widely, and chuckles. "Didn't you read the travel approval? Same sex travelers from the same office are supposed to share a room. You just selected two rooms there. As far as I'm aware, you haven't asked HR to change your gender. Maybe I'm wrong about that. You could have recently alerted them. Finally let them know you've decided to transition to a woman. Maybe our recent trips together to the Galleria did it for you. Having another man control how you dress, the shoes you walk in, your little fashion accessories, how you smell." He places his hands on each of my shoulders. The thin straps holding together the top of my dress allow the flesh of his hands to touch directly up against the exposed skin of my shoulders as he massages.

I hesitate, blink rapidly, blush and touch my chin. "I am a man," I insist. "I'm not trans. Dr. Welker says this is medical based therapy based on real science. It isn't meant to transition me to be female. It's temporary and reversible." Why do I always hide behind Dr. Welker? I sound so weak.

"Uh huh," Mr. Bentley waves off. "You know, I still have that lingerie. The claspy green Bordelle. It's in my office. You might want to try how it feels underneath that dress of yours. I think you'll feel more comfortable wearing it underneath your dress." I feel his hands moisten against the skin of my shoulders.

"I told you, I'm not wearing lingerie," I insist. "And if I'm rooming with you and we sleep together. I'm not dressing like this. All feminine like a woman. I'm just going to be myself. A regular dude."

"You have to dress like this," he commands. "Whenever you're working. That includes travel for work. It will include when the two of us sleep together in that brass bed" A pleasurable shiver runs across my back. He knows what he's doing with those hands of his. "Book the room."

"We'll see what Dr. Welker says about all that," I warn. Shit, I did it again. I bite my lower lip to suppress a smile. One from the massage of course. Not the prospect of sleeping with him.

"Book the room," he orders.

I book one hotel room.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office -- Two Weeks Later

I lean back in my desk chair, gloss my lips, and pretend to work while I read an erotic novel on my white desktop PC through my Amazon Kindle account. I wear the yellow dress, the matching Toury Burch stilettos, black stockings strapped to a garter belt underneath my dress, and Portrait of a Lady perfume. The front door of the office begins to open. I collapse the window on my computer.

Mr. Bentley swaggers into my office from the front entrance. He has a wide grin, shiny face, and twinkling eyes. I lean towards him across my desk, wet my lips, and cross my legs. He wears a gray pinstriped Brioni suit over a light blue shirt and a matching dark blue tie and pocket square. "Guess what I just found out?" he teases.

"What?" I say, smiling face, glowing eyes, with rapt attention.

"You know Samantha?" he asks. "The Sales Development Executive. Susana, that girl that cleans our bathrooms. She walked in on her having sex with our Associate General Counsel in the women's room. I'm pretty sure he's married. She was giving him a blowjob in there."

"Really?" I say with raised eyebrows. The scene plays out in my head. Samantha's freckled face between his legs. She wants him to come on her face. Suddenly she realizes she forgot to take her glasses off. It's too late. Susana walks in and sees absolutely everything. My cock throbs underneath the dress I'm wearing. A relaxed smile crosses my face, I lift my chin, and I lean back. My cheeks grow light pink.

Mr. Bentley chuckles. "I figured you'd appreciate hearing about that," he says as he winks at me, licks his lips, and leans in closer. "What with you being a woman and all."

The smile remains on my face as I focus on him with glossy eyes and parted lips. "I'm not a woman," I disagree in part but agree, "I do like to hear gossip though. Especially when it's that... juicy." I shiver.

"Juicy huh?" Mr. Bentley comments and smirks at me as his hands clench together briefly before he releases them. "Interesting way to describe a blowjob. Very Freudian. You want to know my theory about introverts?" He looks at me intently with a gleam in his eye, a knowing grin on his face, standing tall on the other side of my desk, with his chest thrust out. Before giving me an opportunity to respond, he continues, "You all are the biggest perverts out there. Things seem quiet, reserved, respectable on the surface. But inside, you're always analyzing, twisting things. Deducing cruel facts and creating elaborate fictions. You all know yourselves too well. That level of intimacy with oneself. It leads to deviant thinking. The social awkwardness is there for our protection. Safety against your sick desires. Otherwise, you'd manipulate us. Suck us into the miserable abyss of your own degenerate imaginations. Just to make yourselves come."

I giggle. My cock feels so hard. "Maybe so," I tease. "It's a good hypothesis. Maybe something to send over to R&D. See if they can conduct a few trials." It's throbbing.

"Why let them have all the fun?" he flirts. "Just because I'm General Manager doesn't mean I can't get out into the field myself. Conduct my own little experiments on the side." He winks at me before looking over towards the doorway to his private office. "Care to join me in my office?" he asks.

My mouth moistens. I bite down on my lower lip, fidget in my desk chair and blink rapidly. My body hesitates before my eyes suddenly widen and a gasp escapes my mouth. "You're two o'clock conference call," I remind. "It should be starting right now."

Mr. Bentley rolls his eyes, squints at me probingly with a hard smile on his face and cocks his head to the side. "You got it sweetheart," he says before he chuckles and walks towards his office.

As my boss leaves, I slump into the desk chair and let out a relaxed moan through parted lips. Fuck, that got tense. My hand takes the mouse and opens the Amazon Kindle reader back up in my web browser. My left hand caresses my crotch through the dress and underwear. After a few minutes my desk phone rings. My right hand picks the white handset and lifts it off its cream base. "Hello?" I ask.

My. Bentley's voice speaks through the speaker of the phone, "Hey. I have some technical difficulties here with the teleconference. Could you come into my office for a sec and help me out? Oh, be sure to close the door behind you when you come in. The call already started, and I don't want anyone else listening in from the hallway."

My heels clack against the terrazzo floor as I enter his office. Quietly, I shut the door behind me.

"I wanted to thank everyone from the southeastern region for the great work they did on accelerating those stage one trials," a voice drones from the speakers of Mr. Bentley's computer.

"It's on mute. No one can hear us," Mr. Bentley projects over the person talking through his computer speaker. "Come around my desk. I need you to help me out with this."

"Realistically, I think there are three major obstacles we are going to face going forward based on the preliminary issues we've seen..." the speaker blabs.

My heels clack against the floor as I walk around the desk. When I turn the final corner, my eyes bulge, mouth falls open, body freezes and eyebrows raise. Mr. Bentley has undone his gray pinstriped suit trousers and has his long fat cock out resting on top of his right hand. It's big. Bigger than mine. Very masculine. Veiny and hard. I peer at his penis with a pained stare, visibly sweating, while my left hand rubs back and forth against my right wrist. His balls are out. They're also big, fat, hairy, wrinkly, and gross. I look at his computer screen. His camera is recording him but only his shoulders and above.

"The way we deal with that is by thinking outside of the box," the speaker blathers. "Think about things in ways we wouldn't normally. Take different approaches..."

"Don't act like you don't want to help me," Mr. Bentley snaps, scowls at me, taps his foot, and juts his chin out. "Or give me that bullshit that you're not a woman. Pretending like you're not gay. If that's true, prove it. Lift your dress up and show me you're not hard. Erections don't lie sweetheart. I don't have all day here."

"In the future, these sorts of problems are going to be more streamlined by the new process we've put into place to expedite how trial results are reported..." the speaker sounds.

"Lift the dress."

"We want everyone to be on the same page including both supervisors and subordinates..."

"Lift the dress."

"Once everyone's on the same page together things will...."

My trembling hands do what he wants.

A huge tent pokes out the side of my white female underwear. I feel my ribs squeeze hard together. My flush face looks downward, my body collapses in on itself, my eyes go dull, and I whimper.

"You're a slut, I knew it," he insults, strokes his hard cock with his right hand, and smirks at me. "Come, jerk me off. Yourself too. Hurry up."

My posture sags, I bite my lower lip, my skin sweats, and I avoid looking him in the eye. I could report him to HR. The thought of enduring an investigation. The embarrassment it would cause. He would probably lie about what happened. I'm on probation still. What should I expect? Flirting with him like that. It's my fault. My eyes moisten as I slowly step towards him, my face blank and expressionless. I bend over and on to my knees and take his hard penis in my right hand and begin stroking it. It feels strange. Squeezing my hand back and forth another man's larger penis. His shaft is warm. I smell his cologne and the masculine musky odor of his cock and balls.

Mr. Bentley leans back in his seat, tilts his head slightly to the side, maintains strong eye contact with me, and adopts a relaxed smile on his face. "Come on, take yours out as well," he orders. "Come on, slut. Show me your tiny dick. Let me see what the hormones have done to it. I know how much you want to come. We'll both come, don't worry. Take it out."

My stomach knots. I don't want to show him it. He could make fun of me. Mock it for being smaller than his. He's cruel like that. My fingers caress his hard penis. I shouldn't be doing this. Dressing in sexy outfits my male boss bought for me while wearing a wig and makeup for him. Stroking his cock with my hand in his private office while he is on a video conference call. Why was my cock throbbing so hard then? Probably neglect. I had stopped jerking off. Sure, it still felt good to stroke it when I was horny. But there was no reason for me to come anymore. I had been trying different porn and erotica, but nothing worked. Oh well, I better just do what he wants. My left hand reaches below my dress and pulls my feminine underwear down my legs to the knees. I pull out my own cock. Very hard. Smaller than his. Pubic hair wild and untrimmed unlike his neat well-groomed patch. It felt strange. Stroking it with my left hand.

Mr. Bentley chuckles with the relaxed smile still on his face before letting out a slight gasp through parted lips. "It's bigger than I would have thought," he says as his eyes focus down on my smaller penis. It's unclear whether he is teasing or giving me a compliment. Probably teasing. "It's girly though. Your cock. From now on, you need to shave down there. Like you've been doing with your chest and torso."

I frown at my boss, lean backwards, clear my throat, and then look away from him. All as I stroke my hands up and down both his big penis and my own. "Don't be weird," I request. "I'm just helping you out is all. As a guy, I know what it's like. Getting stuck like this." I pant. "If I were you, I'd want some help too. From someone dressed up like me. I get it." I gasp. "It's weird with me being a guy though. That gossip you shared. You just got me a little horny." I moan. "You and I are friends, yes? So, I don't mind doing you this friendly favor." I shudder. "But I'm not your little girlfriend. So, no more with the sweethearts. We've got to stop flirting with each other like this." I warm. "It's so weird to have a guy, my boss no less, say some of the things you do to me. Like asking me to shave my pubes for you." I need to shut up. This rambling makes me sound like an idiot.

Mr. Bentley lets out a gasp before focusing intensely on my made-up face with all its eyeliner, glossy rose painted lips, pink blush, and bold eyeshadow, his body trembles, and his eyes shine. "Keep working my cock," he orders through a throaty moan. "Those hands of yours. They're so hot. Feminine and small. They really compliment my long and big cock. Don't you think?"

He's right. My hands are small. There is something piquant and provocative about my thin digits wrapped tightly around his large and masculine penis. Based on just the hand I'd never guess it wasn't a girl jerking him off. It felt great in my hand as well. Warm, alive, throbbing, hard, powerful. "Mmhmm, they go great together," I admit, blink my eyes, blush, and smile nervously. Another moan escapes out from my parted lips. I don't regret acknowledging that to him. Just me being earnest.

Mr. Bentley mutes the volume of his computer speakers. The blathering corporate background nonsense ceases. Suddenly it is silent in the room except for the sound of two penises stroking simultaneously. Skin sliding back and forth against skin. I close my eyes and let out a moan. When my eyes open again, I see him sitting there smirking at me in his Brioni suit. I avert my gaze and sigh.

"Oh God yes," he celebrates and blushes through measured breaths. His cock throbs in my gentle hand. He moans out parted lips, opens his legs up wider, tilts his head back and begins to breathe faster.

I yelp as a big gloopy glob of his come shoots out his hard penis. My hand can barely control its recoil. His big jerking penis captures the attention of my over-bright eyes with laser focus and my breaths quicken. I pump and I squeeze, and I stroke. He comes, shoots and comes again on to the terrazzo floor. There is so much of it. It must feel so good shooting that much. "Keep going," I encourage as I rub his shaft and coax out more and more of his juicy come. By the time he is finished, a thick puddle pools onto the glossy ground. "Wow, that's a lot of come..." I mutter softly under my breath in a shaky voice, my eyes wide staring at the puddle and my mouth partially open.

His own mouth hangs open and his eyes close before he opens them again. A long gasp easily escapes from his chest. He lifts his chin, sighs in satisfaction, leans back in his seat, and adopts a relaxed smile on his face. "That was wonderful sweetheart," he compliments. "Now you come as well. You earned it with that friendly favor you just gave me. Go ahead and come sweetheart. If you need me to assist in any way let me know. Please come for me."

My adulterous right hand swats the left away much to the joy of my jealous penis. It's rock hard and ready to go. I stroke it with intimate familiarity. The specter of another ghostly cold load haunts me. Better prepare myself for disappointment. Oh well, I might not truly come but a load is a load and its better than going back to work with my penis like it is now. Where to shoot it? My eyes stare at the thick puddle of my boss's come. Shameful. Why am I such a nasty little perv like that? Well, might as well not get the floor any dirtier than it is. Hehe. My body rocks with intense shivers, it tingles all over, my mouth falls open, I gaze inward, and a gasp followed by a moan exits out my face. I start to come, not just shoot a cold load, but a warm and wonderful come that I had missed for so long. A real orgasm again with euphoric bliss. I pant as I send my own come into the puddle to join with my boss's. The shivering feels wonderful. My eyes moisten. Dr. Welker was right. Nothing was wrong with me penis. It must have been my mind. But why was it different this time? I look over at my boss above me. He smirks at me.

My heels clack against the hard office floor as I return to my desk and open a drawer with a woosh. I retrieve a spray bottle and some sanitary wipes. I clack back over into his office. The blathering conference call has resumed. I hum to myself as I return towards his desk and carefully kneel while avoiding the live camera. The bottle spritzes a few times before I clean up our pooled together come using the wipes. When I stand up, I notice again the perverted artwork behind his desk. Why did I do that with him just now? It was so gross. My eyes glass, chin drops to my chest, shoulders hunch, and head shakes.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- Private Bathroom

My eyes stare down at my hands, nose sniffles, face puffy and red, chin trembles, and I sob. I just can't handle it right now. All those years growing up. Going to school and college. Not once did I ever suspect I might be gay. I whimper and wipe tears from my eyes. I thought I knew everything about myself. The things I like. What I don't like. All that intimate time spent solitary. I always thought I was my own best friend and lover. How could I have kept something like this from myself? The crying resumes. Fuck these hormones. No, I can't blame them. Only myself. The fucking social anxiety. I let it get out of hand. Spent too much time sheltered. Me in that office jerking him off... My head shakes, cheeks burn, and shoulders hunch. I'm so gross. My eyes draw close, my brow creases, and my face goes slack. My posture collapses, I mumble incoherently, and rub my hands against my forearms. I cry and I sob, and tears flow. In the bathroom mirror, my eyes watch my mascara and eyeliner trickle down my face.

1. The Pinnacle Highrise Luxury Tower -- Mr. Bentley's Birthday Party -- Three Weeks Later

I bite my lip, sigh, and cross my legs. He had asked me again to model it for him. The Bordelle. It's what he wanted for his birthday. Of course, I said no. It's inappropriate. Wearing lingerie for your boss's own sexual entertainment in his private high-rise apartment. Ever since I refused, it's been hell. All week he has ignored me at the office. Normally, I'm happy to be left alone. I can entertain myself just fine. But he had addicted me to it. His flirty small talk. Prior to this week, he was always coming over to my desk and making inappropriate comments. He'd compliment how I look only to brag and take credit for it based on whatever outfit he dressed me in that day. Whenever I was meeting with and helping someone out in my office, he'd open his door and come out and make some veiled reference to our little affair during the conference call. He rambled on one time, "I had a real hard issue come up while I was on a call. She grasped the problem right away and really took hold of the situation. Quickly applied some elbow grease. Things got a bit messy, but she managed to clean it all up. She's handy like that." Another time, the front reception desk secretary who I supervise complimented me on my clean office. He barged in and wisecracked about him personally witnessing my mastery of the spray bottle and wipes before winking at me. There are so many examples, these are just two of my favorites.

The thing I like most about his flirts is that he doesn't expect anything in return. He seems to enjoy embarrassing me and seeing me flustered. But I never feel pressured by him to flirt back. He always returns to his desk right afterwards. It's like he knows me too well. Every time he steps back into his office, I relax in my chair and deliberate over the latest gross thing he said about me over and over again in my head. Soon I lose myself in my imagination. Fantasies fill my mind of carrying on an affair with him. Being his mistress, slutting for him, converting my one-time friendly favor into an ongoing binding entitlement. It's disgusting, I know. I'm married. More importantly, we're both men. Maybe I'm sort of gay for him but that doesn't make it ok. Despite some latent desire, the consensus inside my head is firmly against doing anything further sexually with him. But the flirting, I want him to resume. He is my friend after all, and I adore his witty banter.

I sit by myself cross-legged on the very edge of Mr. Bentley's ultrawide yellow leather sofa, probably big enough to fit six different people near the corner of his apartment. The sofa sits on white granite tiles with the occasional gray streak. A yellow rug tops the floor space across the sofa upon which a smaller footrest matching the appearance of the sofa sits. The walls connecting the corner consist of a series of large floor to ceiling transparent glass panels. Outside the windows is a gorgeous view of downtown. Small, illuminated windows pepper the various skyscrapers surrounding the Pinnacle while the roads glow warm shades of yellow and orange below. The atmosphere is loud for my tastes with people talking, drinks pouring, and jazz music playing. I normally would only invite one to three other people to such an event. At the same time, there aren't too many people here. It isn't rambunctious or anything. I wear a teal dress, copper bracelets on my left arm, Portrait of a Lady, black stockings, and black heels.

Dr. Welker nestles into the sofa next to me holding two glasses of white wine in each of her hands. She wears a lovely lavender dress underneath one of the same white lab coats she tends to wear at work. Even I know it's silly of her to wear a coat like that at a party. It's ok though. She endears me by always dressing like a doctor. She hands me one of the glasses and offers, "Here, have some of the Les Clos Grand Cru. Brad doesn't skimp when it comes to the wine he serves at parties. I noticed you're by yourself over here. Is everything ok?"

I take the glass and sip it. My mouth savors its rich and compact flavor tinged with yellow-cherry and layered with tannic bite. Alcohol. It can help sometimes when I am at events like this. It puts the judge on vacation. Let's me come out of my shell a bit. But it was dangerous too. The judge always returns and usually when he does, he's pissed off bearing a paddle. "Everything's fine," I lie. "I love the view of the city over here." I stare out the high-rise windows.

Dr. Welker imbibes some of her own Chablis as she studies me through her glasses, furrows her brow, and leans slightly away from me. "Somethings bothering you," she asserts, nods her head, and maintains eye contact with me. "I'm a psychiatrist. These things I pick up on." Dr. Welker's eyes wander around the room. We are by ourselves out of earshot of anyone else at the party. Nonetheless, she lowers her voice. "Have you discovered anything new? I'm talking about that sexual problem you reported to me a while back."

"No, it's still all screwed up," I partially lie, pinch my lips together, shake my head, and sigh. After extending my friendly favor to Mr. Bentley, I hoped I was cured. But when I watched my usual porn on my phone, the cold lifeless orgasm returned. Curiosity led me to try gay pornography, but I couldn't get an erection watching it. Reluctantly, I pulled up pornography involving crossdressers. The thumbnails were as far as I got. Honestly, some of the sleazy still shots did make my heart race, my eyes sparkle, and my pulse quicken. But then I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, my body became uncomfortably warm, and I couldn't sit still in my seat. I put my phone away and took a cold shower instead.

Dr. Welker focuses her gaze down at her glass of Chablis, cocks her head, and pauses. "I can tell, you know," she reveals. "Your body language. Tone of voice. Us psychiatrists are taught ways of analyzing our patients. Detecting when they lie to us. I'm not accusing you of lying. But you're withholding something from me. I can't treat you. Not if you're going to be dishonest with me."

I sup wine, look away from her, my face flush, my smile nervous, I hesitate. I sigh. "You're right," my shoulders slump as I confess. "There was one time where I had a normal orgasm again. I did what you suggested. I... I had an affair. It felt like I was cured. But ever since. It's reverted to how it was."

"My initial conclusion must have been correct," Dr. Welker validates and thumbs her nose like a violin. "Your condition. The hormones aren't causing this. It's psychosomatic. Your wife. Are you sexually attracted to her?"

I blink rapidly, fidget, and hesitate. The last thing I wanted to talk about right now was my wife. "Well, I used to be," I respond. "Our relationship. Well, I would describe it as troubled. There's not a whole lot of affection there..."

"That bothers you, huh?" Dr. Welker asks, holds her chin high, gleams at me through frames, and assumes a knowing grin. "A lack of affection." Her right hand gently caresses my left shoulder. "What about this person you're having an affair with? Are you sexually attracted to them?"

"Oh well," I stammer, clear my throat, and press my right hand into a fist against my thigh. "No, I'm not attracted to him. Erm, her I mean, her." A strangled-sounding laugh leaves my lips. "Well, that's not completely fair. She's not physically attractive. But there is chemistry. Her and I, our personalities. But... Well, I don't want to get into. It's embarrassing."

"I'm your physician," Dr. Welker points out. "Everything you tell me is confidential. I'm obligated to keep it private and not share it with other people. You can trust me."

"Fine," I resign, my face flushes, I grimace, and my body sweats. "The relationship is inappropriate. For a lot of reasons. The big one being that it's been while I've been dressed like this. I don't want to be a woman. Yet that's how she treats me. Is it fun and exciting? Sure. But it's weird and uncomfortable and makes me feel gross as well."

"I'm sorry that its like that for you," she says as she squeezes my left shoulder with her right hand. "Has anyone made fun of you since you started dressing like this at the office? How have people been treating you?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Obviously everyone seemed really surprised," I explain. "But they were all very nice and supportive. It really bothered me. All the people congratulating me for transitioning. I'm not. This is only temporary. To solve my work issues. But I can't fault them for just trying to be nice to me. I do like how people have treated me though. The hugs and smiles I've gotten." I hesitate. "Well, then there is Mr. Bentley. He has teased me about it." My hand raises the glass to my lips. My nostrils whiff crisp peach.

Dr. Welker leans towards me, tilts her head to the side, and raises her eyebrows. "How do you feel about that?" she asks. "I know how Brad can be sometimes."

I pause, relax on the sofa, look back outside the windows at the warm colored streets below and yawn. "It's fine," I said. "At first, I thought he was being cruel. But he just has a strange sense of humor. I do too. He's mad at me right now though. We haven't been speaking. It's not right. I want to talk to him." I pause again, my face red, my fingers flex in my lap, and I gaze around the room. "I'm lousy at it though. Having tough conversations."

"I see," Dr. Welker responds, nods her head, and pauses. "Well, you might have to make a choice. You can pursue sanctity. Remain faithful to your wife. Avoid unconventional experiences that make you uncomfortable. Retain a sense of cleanliness and purity. Of course, if that is what you want your brain will follow your lead. It's going to discourage you from masturbating, using sex for pleasure, or consuming pornography. As it should if that is what you truly want." She thumbs her nose. "Otherwise, you can choose to experiment with new experiences. Use this time where you're dressed like a woman, full of female hormones, as an opportunity to explore. One thing to note about the second option. There is no shame in it. Everyone will support your decision. No one will judge you for it. Just like you've been treated well so far. You can always return to sanctity later."

My nose wrinkles, lips press together in a slight grimace, my head shakes, and I repeatedly open my mouth before changing my mind about what I want to say. Finally, I sigh. "Things are never easy, are they?" I ask in a strained voice.

"As to Brad," Dr. Welker begins before continuing, "why don't you follow me around while I talk to some people? I'll control the conversation. Make sure no one puts too much pressure on you. Drink a few more glasses of wine. Once your nice and loosened up, I'm sure you two can work things out with one another."

After consuming a few additional glasses of wine, my anxiety recedes, and my body relaxes. I'm now ready to speak to him. I look at my boss, bite my lip, blink, and look at the front door of the apartment leading outside to the hall. The wine tastes lovely as I take another sip. I approach him evidently with clacking heels. "Hi," I say meekly, my stomach roils, eyes strain as I force them to look at his own, and my face blushes. "I was hoping..."

"Hrmph," he grunts, sneers at me, rolls his eyes, and tilts his head away from me. "I see you've been indulging in my Chablis. Enjoying my birthday as if it were your own to celebrate. Slinking around in the background. You embarrass me, you know. What does it suggest about me, General Manager, when my own Executive Assistant is not attentive to me on my birthday? You let Anne pour you wine but not me. This whole time I'm over here. I'd be so glad to pour you a glass. To watch you drink and get buzzed and silly. You could cling to my shoulder while I go around speaking with my guests. I'd introduce you and then you can be quiet and hang on me, and we'll ignore you as we talk. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"Y-yes..." I stammer, sharply inhale, and smile nervously at him. "I missed speaking to you this week..." I paw at his chest, blush, and think about how I want to kiss him and would do so if it wasn't for the other people around. I try to hug him, but he steps away from me. My hand quickly raises the wineglass to my lips. His own hand grasps the back of my glass, and he tilts it back for me. I sup his rich white fluid.

"That's a good girl," he praises, smirks, holds his chin high, and focuses intensely on my made-up face. He wears a gray three-piece Armani suit made of wool and cashmere consisting of jacket, vest, and trousers. Underneath is a black turtleneck and no tie. Only the thin tip of his white pocket square is visible in his left shirt pocket. "You know, it's my birthday today. I didn't see you bring in a gift. There could of course be one hiding in your purse. A tiny one. Or maybe you decided to give me what I really wanted. What I asked you for. I thought you'd change your mind. It's sitting on top of my bed right now. We can be alone together there. In my bedroom. I'll bring a bottle of Grand Cru." He pushes my glass up again allowing me to imbibe more wine.

Fuck, I was so worried about him being mad at me. It never occurred to me to get another gift. I hesitate, blink, the smile on my face wavers, my eyes look at him and then away and back and repeats, and I swallow. "A-are you sure that's what you want?" I ask as my body trembles, my mouth fakes a smile, and I force eye contact. "My body. It's not all curvy. Like a woman would be. It'll look awkward in that." I sigh, blush, and look away from him.

He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, releases my wine glass, and strokes my left cheek with the back of his right index and middle fingers. "It'll be hot," he disagreed. "I don't care you're flat right now. What matters is you're my secretary. You've followed my orders before. Been submissive to me. I want to privately celebrate my birthday with you in lingerie in my bedroom. Are you going to give me my birthday gift or are you just wasting my time leading me on?"

The smile on my face appears frozen. I wet my lips, grip my hands together, chew the inside of my cheek, and look inwardly. I smell his sandalwood cologne. It's so noisy out here. One on one conversations are so much better. His jacket really makes his shoulders look broad. Who keeps laughing so loudly over there? I wonder what his bedroom looks like. His chest felt hard when I touched it. I need more wine but there's too many people over there now. If we were alone, we could be more affectionate with one another. I face him, let out a cleansing breath, move in closer, lift my head, and look him in the eyes with a nod. "Okay," I agree.

His chin lifts, head nods, eyes focus strongly on my own, and his mouth forms into a relaxed happy smile. "I'll give you ten minutes to get ready," he pledges. He cups his hand underneath my chin and squeezes my cheeks with his thumb and forefingers before releasing me. "My bedroom's just down that hall."

I enter his bedroom, heels clacking, click on the light, and peer around. It's large with white granite floors like the living room. The walls are sleek, and wood paneled, except for the back wall which consists of floor to ceiling transparent glass panels; one of which opens and provides access to a small balcony overlooking the downtown skyline. The bed is to the left of the entrance and abuts the left wall. Like the bed in the New York hotel room he had me book for us, its headboard is full of brass bars. However, his bed was so much more ornate, elaborately curlicued, well knobbed, and with spiraled posts. Its sheets were white and the pillows and comforter dark blue. Between the bed's headboard and the wood paneled wall it abuts was a large floor to ceiling black marble with white smoke-like streak accents backboard that takes up most of the left wall. Light shines through narrow, vertical rectangular cutouts in the marble backboard illuminating the room. Across from the bed is a large set of white wooden cabinets approximately chest high and a high-end black Samsung OLED TV affixed to the wall. Another doorway to the left of the entrance presumably leads to his swanky wardrobe. Next to the wardrobe entrance is a standing body mirror next to a brown leather armchair matching the wood paneling of the walls. A rectangular clothing box sits squarely in the center of the bed.

My right hand sets my empty wine glass on top of the white cabinets and then places my Savette handbag next to it. I remove my heels, stockings, dress, bra, and panties. I slide on the green solid color G-string before the thin narrow transparent panties that cover only a bit more flesh in my front. The garter belt and matching green stockings come next followed by the brassier. I strap the thin straps hanging off the garter to the gold clasps at the top of the stockings on both sides of my legs. My feet slide back into my black heels. There's still another piece of the outfit left. I didn't notice this before. My hands and eyes examine it. It's a collar, green with gold straps. I wrap it around my neck and clasp it into place. I look at myself in the mirror. It is cute and sexy but far from perfect. My chest, only a little lumpy from hormones, does not fully fill out the brassier. There's a bulge in my panties because my cock is hard and lustful. Fortunately, I had shaved my pubic hair as per his order and nothing but smooth skin shows through the front. I turn around. My backside is so much better compared to the front. I love how the outfit looks on the back of my thin frame and adore my round, curvy and feminine ass hanging out exposed between the barely visible green thong.

My heels clack as I walk to the back of the bedroom, open the glass panel doorway, and step outside on to the balcony. It is chilly especially in my skimpy lingerie outfit. My palms grasp the edge of the balcony as I stare out into the city sky and listen to the sounds of distant traffic. Those skyscrapers. They were built by Faustian men. Architects competing and seeking mastery over the urban landscape. Erecting massive phalluses that could be seen from miles away. I sigh. Was I really about to begin an affair with my male boss? Tonight isn't something I can write off as some sort of friendly favor. Friends don't gift themselves to their boss for his birthday. I shiver. Heels clack as I re-enter the bedroom. I retrieve my perfume from the bag and spritz the brassier, so it smells like roses for him. A knob near the light switch catches my eye. My fingers manipulate it to dim the lights coming out of the marble backboard behind the bed. I sit cross legged on the corner of his bed and inspect my makeup in a handheld mirror while I await him.

Mr. Bentley swaggers into his bedroom holding a bottle of wine and glass, shuts the door behind him, locks it, sets the bottle of Chablis and cup on the wooden cabinets, removes his jacket, tosses it on to the bed, and approaches me. His eyes study and then stare intensely at my body swaddled in skimpy green and golden clasps. He leans towards me, shines his eyes at me, builds a smile slowly on his face and licks his lips. "Well, well, well," he taunts. "What a lovely birthday this is. My dutiful secretary. Finally wearing the lingerie I bought for her. Waiting ever so patiently in my bedroom. Relishing the opportunity for us to be alone together."

I blush, swallow, fidget on top of his bed, and hesitate. This isn't a situation I've ever been in before. One where I need to try to act sexy like a woman. Finally, I uncross my legs, scoot off his bed, approach him, savor his cologne, lean in, and kiss his left cheek, and whisper, "Happy Birthday, Chief." I walk away from him towards the cabinets, reach behind me, grab the V shaped cross section of his suit vest, and tug gently before letting go so he knows to pay attention to my backside as I saunter. My heels clack against the granite floor, my exposed round asscheeks jiggle with every step I take, and I smile. As I bend forward slightly and reach for the bottle of Grand Cru, I feel his left-hand grope and squeeze my right ass cheek as his own right arm reaches around my shoulder and takes hold of the bottle.

"Didn't I tell you?" he asks, pulls his body close to mine, kneads at my ass, and effuses his cologne into my nostrils. "I wanted to pour you wine myself." He takes the bottle and fills my empty glass. His right hand raises the glass to my lips and feeds me wine. A few drops spill from my lips and run down my neck to the top of my chest. He bends his head down and traces his tongue along the path the wine took. The wet muscle warms my skin only to leave a cold trail behind it. His left hand stretches its fingers wide and squeezes my right ass cheek. "You aren't going to be a tease tonight, are you?" His nose twitches. He must enjoy the perfume he purchased for me.

I'm not naïve. After all, I'm a man. His request that I model the lingerie for him. It was never really the birthday present. Just a pretext for us to be alone and horny together in his bedroom. He wants to come of course. I know that. It was well on my mind when I agreed to do this. When I dressed in lingerie for him. My preference is to stick with just flirting but it's ok. We can celebrate his birthday together. "I'm not teasing," I insist. "Feed me more Chablis. Please. Don't worry, you will enjoy my gift."

"Uh huh," he says, nods his head, slides his left middle finger up and down the crack of my ass, raises the glass to my lips, and feeds me more wine. His right hand sets down the glass and proceeds to manipulate and finger some of the gold clasps on the brassier. He thrusts his chest out, explores my body with his eyes, leans into me, kisses my lips, and pushes a finger underneath the narrow thong material of the G-string and rubs my asshole with it.

My body shivers. Getting something shoved up my ass, finger or otherwise, isn't what I had in mind. Better to go ahead and give him the gift before he helps himself to whatever he likes. I pull away from him, smile awkwardly, flutter my eyebrows, bite my lip, and get down on my knees.

He chuckles down at me, his posture perfect, a sneer on his face, and crosses his arms over his chest. "You're so predictable," he taunts. "Slurping wine. Talking about juicy blowjobs at the office. Coming in my come and then spritzing it with your little bottle. How many times do I come out of my office, and you've got that lip gloss of yours out? Face it sweetheart, you're not keep those lips nice and glossy because you're kissing your wife with them."

Well, he's certainly correct at the very least about that last part. I blush, bite my lower lip, and look down at the ground. "I've never done it before," I admit. "I'm more into women." I laugh and it sounds strangled. "But you deserve a good birthday, Chief. I'm sorry I took your affection for granted."

"I'll forgive you," he offers before conditioning, "but I want you to ask for the opportunity. Don't forget it either. The magic word."

"Please" I grovel before him, eyes glossy, lips glossy, hands moist, staring at his crotch. "Let me wish you happy birthday. Please take my gift. I promise you'll love it. The perfect gift for a secretary to give to her Chief." Shit, he even has me calling myself his secretary now.

"Fine," he agrees as his fingers begin unbuttoning his suit vest. He tosses it on to the bed followed by his turtleneck. His broad shoulders and narrow waist look muscular and toned. He is not a bodybuilder; not working full-time in an office like he has been. But he is in shape, works out, and takes care of his body. Not thin and soft like me.

I lean towards him, stare at the crotch of his trousers, smile gently, stomach fluttering, and my fingers fumble the zipper. My eyes close and I focus on the sound as I unzip him. A breath exits, my eyes open, and my moist mouth wets my lips. My trembling right hand reaches inside and grabs it. So hard and warm in my hand. I pull down his pants and boxers with my left hand as I fish out his hard cock with my right. My head leans towards it. It's even bigger than I remember. I stroke it, squeeze it, and playfully pinch its taut skin. It's close enough to waft its musky aroma into my nostrils. My left hand joins the right and a few of my copper bracelets clink against each other. It's so close to my face.

"Uh huh," he says, stares me directly in the eyes, stands tall, spreads his body out, and impatiently taps his penis against my made-up face. He softly moans.

"Right..." I confirm, pump both hands up and down his fat cock, clink my bracelets, suck my cheeks in and out a few times, clear my throat, and stretch my tongue. I can't believe I'm doing this. My mouth opens. Already I wear the makeup he likes, dose myself in his favorite perfume complimenting his own smell, dress in lingerie he bought for me, and accept weekly injections of biological fluid into my ass as part of my duties as his Executive Assistant. My mouth salivates as my hands bring it closer. His flirtatious office banter is going to get so much mileage out of today. "Happy birthday, Chief," I praise, obtain his penis inside my mouth, and slurp on its fat rubbery head.

He knowingly grins at me, moans, gleams his eyes at me, chuckles, and holds his shoulders back. His bedroom fills with the sounds of measured breathing, soft male grunting, slurping, plopping, and sucking.

His cock tastes fine in my mouth. A little musty. He had to have washed before the party. It would taste much stronger if it had been stuck in those trousers all day at the office. His pubes are well trimmed. Not shaven off like mine, I could still see them. But cut down enough not to get in my way. I've never sucked cock before, so I just tried to imitate pornos I've watched. My mouth takes a tall drink of penis and wetly slurps back up and eventually off his long shaft, I stare with glossy eyes, trembling, palms sweating on his musky folds. I shiver and slowly begin to smile. My penis feels so hard under his lingerie. All I can do is imagine what it's like from his perspective. Feeling my mouth suckle on his large cock. Staring down at me in my wig, makeup, and lingerie. Knowing that I'm his own personal Executive Assistant and must follow his orders. Realizing I'm awkward, introverted, and a bit of slut for him. I close and open my eyes, moan, look inwardly, stroke his hard member with my hand, clink my bracelets, open my mouth wide and suck hungrily on his cock while whiffing his manly odor.

"Uh huh," he agrees, pants, and gasps. "You should have said yes. Imagine. All week. Suck my cock. You could have been waiting for it. Craving it. Lick the shaft. Every time I'd walk by your desk. You'd get a little smirk out of me. A reminder of what you'd agree to do. Suck my fat balls with your nasty mouth."

I hesitate. No, he's right. I would've enjoyed it. It would have been more fun. If I just did what he told me to. My mouth opens, my glossy lips press up against his hairy wrinkled sack, my cheeks suck one of his balls into my mouth. I taste sweat, I swirl, and I play around with it with my tongue. The hair tickles the inside of my mouth. I slurp on both of his balls before spitting them out of my mouth. My left hand grabs his hard penis and presses it up against his flat stomach, bracelets clink, I lean in, stick my bumpy tongue out, slide it all the way up his wrinkled balls, on to the veiny shaft, all the way up to its fat mushroom head. My tongue feels him shivering as I lick him, taste him, and birthday treat him.

"It's your loss," he says, shrugs, arms at his side, and moans. "I never doubted it for one second. That on my birthday you'd be wearing lingerie on your knees in my bedroom. Come on sweetheart, I want to feel those glossy lips all over my cock. The only anticipation you killed was your own. I know about girls like you. Stretch out those cheek muscles and squeeze. You like to be teased and left alone so you can savor it, pervert it in the ways you like and prefer, and make yourself good and ready to come. Deepthroat it sweetheart, don't stop until you literally choke."

My left hand grips the base of his cock, bracelets clink, eyes close, and mouth opens wide. I whiff penis sweat, lean forward, shiver, feel inch after inch of hard cock skin slide across by glossed lips, massage his shaft with my tongue, hug it with my mouth, take so much of it inside me. It hits the back of my throat and I choke.

"Uh huh, sweetheart, gag on my cock," he taunts, grabs my head, holds on, keeps pushing his cock down my throat, resists my attempts to retch it up, humps at my mouth, smacks his balls against my chin, and fucks the back of my throat. "What a nasty little slut of a secretary I have." He moans.

I choke, wince, gurgle, my eyes water and glass, I try to free myself, my cheeks burn, chin tremors, eyes go vacant, shoulders slump, body stays still, and I wait for him to finish. Finally, his cock withdraws from my throat, and I struggle to catch my breath. I hesitate and as soon as I am able, I take him back into my mouth, bob my head up and down his hard penis, stare at it with glowing eyes, shiver, and my stomach flutters.

"Alright sweetheart, I'm ready to come now," he pants, gasps, stares intensely at me, eyes glossy, and his cock slides back and forth across my wet mouth. "Where do you want me to come?"

I spit his cock out of my mouth, grab it with my left hand, clink my bracelets, stroke it, and give it a nice squeeze. "Chief, it's your birthday present," I point out. "You can have it any way you want it. Just let me know how you like it, and I will treat you."

He chuckles, holds his chin high, thrusts out his jaw, and adopts a knowing grin. "You say the same thing when you get me coffee in the mornings."

I giggle, blush, and twinkle my eyes at him. I pop his fat penis back into my mouth, look up at him, flutter my eyelashes, and slurp loudly on it.

"Well, I always enjoy shooting a load into a wet mouth," he decides, winks at me, wets his lips, shivers, and moans. "So, for my birthday present, I want you to make me come in your mouth."

"Uh-huh," I agree, suck his big penis, and close my eyes. It's what I was hoping he was going to say. Back when my wife would fuck me some of the time, I tried to convince her once that semen was a superfood that could boost her mood and libido. It was bullshit but I wanted to feed her my come and as someone who studied nutritional science, I could easily feign expertise in nourishment. She didn't fall for it. I always wondered if I could get another woman to believe it and let me start regularly coming in her mouth. It would be more fun if Mr. Bentley tried to trick me to get me to swallow his semen. Like if he told me it protected me against the estrogen or something, I could just act stupid and let him think I believe him and then let him celebrate his birthday inside my mouth. When I fantasize about this later, I'll just pretend it happened that way. I slurp his penis, tongue it inside my mouth, and shiver.

"Oh God, sweetheart," he gasps, pants, and moans. "Don't swallow it all at once. Save some in your mouth for when I make you come. Trust me." He shivers, trembles, his legs widen, and chest puffs out. "Yes baby." His jaw sets, brow furrows, gazes alertly down at me, and grabs my head again. "Slurp on my come sweetheart." His mouth falls open, eyes close, and he comes in my mouth, jets my tongue with semen, globs the back of my throat, sprays the roof of my mouth, pauses, shoots more come, grabs his penis, pumps out residuals. Finally, he bedaubs my lips with seminal fluid, and withdraws his large cock.

I slurp my boss's come, mouth full and gooey, swirl it around, mix it with my saliva, play with it with my tongue, taste its musky flavor with tinges of salt and ammonia, swallow some of it, and pack the rest against my left cheek. My ribs squeeze and stomach knots.

He sighs happily, lifts his chin, winks at me, and adopts a relaxed smile. After retrieving the bottle of Grand Cru and our two wineglasses, he invites me to join him in his brown leather armchair. I sit on his lap. He has not put his penis away and it quickly grows hard. The G-string offers little protection. He wedges his big penis between my round ass cheeks before pulling my smaller penis out of the lingerie bottoms. He grips my cock in his right hand and strokes me. My cock is rock hard, still aroused from sucking him off and letting him come in my mouth. It does not take long. I gasp, swallow the rest of his come, open my mouth, look inward, blink slowly, moan, and come. The come is warm and pleasurable. Satisfying cold and warm shivers radiate across me as my heart beats wildly. A perfectly delightful orgasm. The second great one I enjoy with him. I lean back into his chest, let out a deep gratifying sigh, nuzzle him, and put a shy smile on my face.

He pours Chablis into my glass and feeds me wine. It helps cleanse my palette of his musky penis and semen. I sit on his hard penis and snuggle his bare chest and sup from the glass. He tells me stories about some of the people I met at his party.

1. Outbound Flight

I enter the cramped first-class bathroom, shut the door, and lock it. There is pink noise all around as the jet streams through the sky slightly muted inside the closed off bathroom stall. Normally when I pee on planes I always sit down. Flying makes me a little anxious. Generally, I am fine in my seat. I'm not worried the plane is going to crash or something; I realize that's extremely rare. But standing makes me wary due to turbulence. I look at the toilet. Not dressed like this. I refuse to sit and pee wearing a dress. I'll take my chances, thank you very much. I open the lid, lift my dress, pull my cock from my panties, pee standing like a man, and flush.

I can hear Mr. Bentley laughing. Before I departed to the bathroom, he had struck up a conversation with the gentleman sitting across the aisle from us. Mr. Bentley was trying to put his new Hermès black leather Apple watch in airplane mode. He should just give it to me. I can figure it out for him.

I soap my hands.

"Yeah, it was a birthday gift." I hear Mr. Bentley's voice speak through the thin bathroom door.

I wash my hands.

There's muted chuckling outside. "No actually, that would be the one my secretary gave me. When we were alone in my bedroom. The one she gave me on her knees." More laughter.

I roll my eyes

The door opens. I walk to him and wait patiently.

Mr. Bentley smirks at me, cocks his head, and gets up from his seat. "Hey, before we left the office did you remember to pack my day planner and that new copy of The New York Times?" he asks. "We can do the crossword tomorrow morning when we wake up together at the hotel."

"I got it covered, Chief," I respond as I sit down in my leather seat. I notice the man across the aisle stares at us wide eyed. I blush and sink into my chair.

1. Amuse Hotel -- New York City

My eyes peer into the dark void of the blindfold he wrapped around my head. I wear the new Myla lingerie he purchased for me, black and lacy stockings, strapped to a black and frilly garter belt above a thin strapped G-string pair of panties that has black lace over a thin white triangle covering my hard erect penis. The brassier is black and gauzy over white cups. It hangs over the breast forms he bought. It felt so weird looking at me in the mirror when I put them on. Suddenly I had boobs. I didn't like it until I saw the seams on my shoulders. These are fake; just another fashion accessory for him to dress me in. It helps me look cute for him and make him come.

I'm lying on my stomach on the bed with my white high heels strapped to my feet. He's heavy on top of me, pulling at my arms. My hands grab the brass bars of the headboard. I feel his rough, masculine hands pry my fingers off, one by one. He drags me. There's a clicking noise. I pull on my arms and metal clacks against brass. It seemed we had just barely checked in at our hotel. I expected he'd take me out to dinner. We'd drink fine wine together. I'd give him a nice wet blowjob before bedtime and cuddling. Instead, here I was, just recently arrived in our New York hotel room, already dressed in lingerie, blindfolded, and handcuffed to the brass headboard of our rented bed.

The last time I saw him he wore a wool, gray and blue plaid two-button Canali jacket, matching suit trousers held up by a black leather Versace belt with a shiny brass circular logo bearing buckle, over a silk dress shirt, blue tie, and white pocket square. I don't know how he is dressed now. He is off me, and I hear hands fiddling with something. Most likely he searches through our suitcase for something. The hotel door opens before slamming shut. I'm alone. I pull on my arms and the handcuffs scrape up against the brass bars of the bed. I'm stuck here. My body squirms forward. If I get my head close enough, maybe I can remove the blindfold. No, I shouldn't do that. He told me to keep it on. I can't just disobey him like that. I wonder where he went. He could have relaxed here. Sent me on an errand for him. I always love to go and get him coffees and sandwiches. He likes me to bring him the little milk cups. "I know how much you like to slurp white stuff," he always says before he snickers, creams in my coffee, and carefully raises the cup to my lips for me to slurp. I like to lick my lips before going back to my desk and fantasizing about how he tricked me into letting him come in my mouth.

I pull at my left cuff with my right hand. He double locked them. I'm stuck. Why did he lock me up like this? He wouldn't do all of this for a blowjob. He must want to have sex with me in the way gay men do. I guess he expects to put his hard cock up my ass. I rattle the cuffs. His penis is so big though. I've never stuck anything up my ass before. Him fitting that big prick of his inside me; it's awfully ambitious of him.

I listen outside. Our hotel room is on the third floor. I can hear New York City traffic as it passes up and down the street by the hotel. Occasionally, I hear the subway rumble underneath the ground below. My cock is hard. I wish he was here with me right now.

The hotel room door opens, and I hear him enter the room again. A plastic bag rustles in his hand. I remain quiet. After several moments of silence, I apprehend a pop noise. Cold wet fluid drips down on my ass. His course hands begin to rub and massage my bottom cheeks. Shit, he's going to try to fuck my ass. I feel more cold liquid. His fingers knead my curvy butt. Oh no, his fingers are getting closer. Cold liquid drips directly on to my asshole. I feel some of it seep inside me. It's so cold. I shiver. A wet finger rubs at my virgin trench. Adrenaline spikes in my veins. "Chief, I'm sorry I'm not ready for this," I blurt, breathe quickly, sweat, and gasp.

I hear rustling followed by a sliding noise. I continue to breathe quickly. A thwacking noise sounds loudly and suddenly. My left ass cheek sears in pain, my eyes moisten and glass, I wince, and I clench my teeth. More cold liquid pours on to my asshole. I feel fingers rub inside of me. I pull back my hands and the metal handcuffs clank and rattle against the brass bars of the bed. My insides are cold, wet, and increasingly well lubricated. I twist my wrists. The tip of a finger wiggles its way inside me. "Chief, I can't do this," I beg, shed a tear, and tremor.

Another thwack and he strikes my right side this time. My ass writhes in pain, my hands grab on to a horizontal brass bar from the other side of the headboard, my breaths saw irregularly, and my glassy eyes leak inside the blindfold. Suddenly my breath seems to leave my body, my pulse quickens, mind buzzes, eyes sparkle, hips gyrate and mouth grins masochistically. "Oh God Chief, fuck me in the ass please!" I squeal.

I feel one greased up finger penetrate inside me. It hurts but no more than the belt he strikes me with. Soon there is another finger inside of me followed by a third. Fuck, his hand might as well be having a party up in there. It hurts and I wince. He's opening me up, lubing it up in there. Preparing me for his fat penis. "Please fuck me Chief," I whimper.

After several moments manipulating the inside of my asshole, I feel one of the three fingers withdraw. The remaining two probe deeply inside of me. As I feel two of them press forcefully against the wall of my anal cavity. I gasp, part my lips, and grow pleasurable goosebumps on my arms and legs. His fingers rub, squeeze, and make love to my lumpy little gland. My cheeks burn, arms hang to my side, mouth silent, and posture sags. Inside my body, shivers radiate, tingles all over, and pleasure conquers all. He plays me like a lifeless human piano.

I gasp, moan, vibrate, hold the brass bar tightly, and pucker my asshole around his penetrating fingers. The subway passes underground. He fucks me roughly with his two fingers. "Chief, oh my gosh, the way that feels..." I babble, pause, coo for him, and pant.

He strikes my left ass cheek again with the loudest, cruelest thwack so far. My ass burns, stings, and quakes. The blindfold feels wet on my face. I hiss, grind my teeth, shake, and rock back and forth on the bed. I lie lifelessly for a moment before my body rockets back to life. "Fuck me Chief!" I shout, flush, squirm and release pained, perverted laughter. "Fuck my ass." My body is full of energy and alert. The desire to please him overwhelms me. Every time his rough fingers grope at my helpless pleasure gland, I feel my body quake in it. All the way to very tip of my toes tightly crammed into my white stilettos.

His fingers puppet me as I feel him climb up the bed. It creaks under his additional weight. I shiver all over, sometimes warm and sometimes frigid. He withdraws his wet fingers from my sore, greased up ass, and leaves me writhing on the bed. The skin on my ass stings, my hole feels sore, my body alert, my mouth gasps between pants and my cock is rock hard against the Myla. I feel cold liquid pour directly into my asshole, and I clatter my teeth, feel my neck hairs straighten, and vibrate my shoulders. I can't see what he's doing. I hear a zipper being pulled down. Holy fuck. My heart pounds. I rattle the cuffs against the brass. The subtle sound of skin sliding against skin fills the room. The subway passes underneath. My mind floods with images of the one we took from the airport. The long tube-like train with a bread loaf shaped front with a little window in its center pushing through those tight narrow tunnels to transport tourists and commuters. A moan escapes my parted lips.

His hands touch my battered cheeks and I shudder. A wet tear escapes underneath the blindfold and runs down my face. His hands hold the raw and tender cheeks, spreads them open, the skin of my asshole which is normally closed opens, and I feel cool air waft into my cold lubricated ass. Something taps against my hole and produces a subtle clunking sound. My lower body shivers. I feel something push into my butt. Fatter than a finger. It had to be my boss's veiny penis. He's devirginizing me. I take shallow breaths, swallow hard, wet my lips, and pull my elbows to my side. My ass hurts both inside and out.

It pokes, pushes, prods, pummels, and pries open my insides. Better off not to fight him. Just let him do whatever else he wants to accomplish in there. He could have it. My ass virginity. It's ok. There was nothing I was doing with it anyways. I don't mind it at all. Being his little bitch like this. I spread my legs for him, relax my puckered asshole, and allow my body to go limp. He conquers my asshole, puts his penis fully inside of me, and plunders my virginity. My mouth opens, gasps, and I gaze inwardly. I shiver, wince in pain, and delight in my own impalement. It's warmer and tighter inside of me than I would have ever expected. I moan. My cock is so hard and throbbing. I wish I could stroke it.

Like he did with his fingers, he manipulates his ruling penis inside of my servile ass so that as he thrusts back and forth inside of me, he squeezes my prostate, and it squishes like a tiny lemon. My whole body feels all juicy whenever he does it, everything trembles, I moan, grant him full access to my body and my stomach flutters. Aside from my sore overwhelmed hole and my raw and battered ass cheeks, I feel stimulated, full of energy, and eagerly secretarial for him. I never thought being fucked by a man would be like this. My guess was the first time would be painful, slow, and awkward. But I felt like I could stay up all night with him scheduling appointments for business meetings to take place inside of my accommodating butthole, or maybe my wet thirsty mouth. My heart races in excitement at the prospect of squeezing the brass bar, having his cock up my ass, getting fingerfucked again and again, sucking his penis with glossed lips, letting him beat me with his belt, and having him come inside me before he comes inside me. "Fuck me Chief!" I beg and I gasp. "Stroke my penis. Make me come. Please."

He pulls his penis out of my ass, strikes me a fourth time, thwacks me louder than all the other times, and causes me to shriek in pain, shudder all over, and sweat cold all over my body. I don't know if I passed out briefly or not. It's so hard to tell blindfolded like this with all senses so dulled by the pleasure and the torment. The pain sears and the soggy blindfold feels soaked at this point. The cuffs rattle violently against the brass bars. His wet hand spreads more cold lubricant inside my ass before giving my helpless gland a few squeezes. A moan escapes my lips. He pulls out his fingers and mounts me again using his fat penis. I don't dare do anything that he might interpret as resistance. He fucks my ass steady, makes sure his thick shaft manipulates my prostate in the process, and allows his penis to puppet my body as if it were a character in a children's show. "I will not touch it," he snarls at me. "But I will make you come. Only as a woman does. Sweetheart, you gave it all to me tonight. I dressed you in lingerie, beat you like a man disciplines his insubordinate wife, blindfolded you and handcuffed you to my bed post, and fucked you up your cunt while you begged for it. It's not just your virginity I took tonight. I took any right you had to ever refer to yourself again as a man." He chuckles.

I sweat, swallow, cave my chest, and pretend to smile to get him to shut up. I appreciate that the blindfold hides my eyes. He's right. No man would ever behave so disgracefully like this. It wouldn't be so easy anymore after tonight. Looking at myself in the mirror as a man. Being with another woman while remembering the way I let him treat me like this. He could be right. Maybe I am deep down a transwoman. Somehow it got hidden from me for reasons I just can't explain. I feel him grunt and gasp behind me. He wants to come. Somehow, I can sense it. Maybe I'll just see how it feels. Give myself a little taste of what it's like. Letting him cream my hole for me like a man does inside a woman's vagina. He moans and holds my tender asscheeks tight with his rough hands. "I want your come Chief," I beg him. "Cream my pussy, please."

His cock spasms and I feel him shoot warm come deep into my ass. It was a strange sensation. My anal cavity is so tightly wrapped around his cock that I feel ever throb, spasm, ejection of semen, the big globs, the precision jets, and the frothy squirts. I smile, lower my head, relax my arms, keep my legs spread wide and body open to him, and warmly welcome his manly come into my submissive body. I don't mind it one bit. Now I try to do what he wants. Come for him like a woman. Without any stimulation to my penis. I concentrate on all his warm cum inside of me. God, I'm such a nasty little slut. My cock throbs. I want to come so bad. My mind imagines him pumping his cock inside my hole, blowing thick loads inside me, and him pulling out only to watch hot semen ooze out of my freshly creamed hole. It's not enough. I can't do it. Come without being touched. I hear him getting up. "Wait, stop!" I yell, sweat, whimper, and tremble. "Chief, you have to make me come. Please." The door to the hotel room slams shut. I'm alone.

I lay there on the hotel bed. My cock is so hard. There's the bed. I can fuck it. It doesn't feel right though. Not dressed like this. I can't make love to the bed like a man. Not would when I'm in heels, makeup, and lingerie. I want him to make me come anyways, not this borrowed bed.

As I lay there blindfolded alone, I can't help but focus on the pain radiating from my ass. The hole itself was sore but it compared little in degree to the pain I felt on my outside where he had struck me so violently. The pain reminds me of him and makes me wonder where he is or what he's doing right now. Maybe he is buying us wine. You have to buy that specifically from a liquor store here, right? Or maybe I'm confusing New York City with somewhere else. I hope that's where he is. I'd love to drink wine with him. Especially cuddled up on the bed here.

I hope they don't split us up at the training tomorrow with stupid assigned seats. They should let me sit next to him. We can spend all day together. Like at the office but even closer together. I always hate the networking. Small talk, it's not for me. I'd rather just sit there and listen to the presentations, or just talk to him one on one. Ask him about the people at the training. He always knows the good stuff. The sick and twisted gossip. He's good at telling the stories too. Not as good as when I reimagine it in my own head of course. Nobody's better than my sick imagination. But he paints a nice first layer for me to work off in my head. A rough draft for me to mold into a hearty and elaborate manuscript.

The subway rumbles underneath the ground again. That ride with him was nice, even if the train in New Jersey took forever. Him in his expensive Canali suit and me in my dress, heels, and stockings. Sitting next to each other on the seat. His arm wrapped around my shoulder while I glossed my lips. Just your typical corporate executive and his assistant taking the train in NYC together. Nothing weird or perverted at all about us two sitting, well dressed, and looking hot together. All normal, as it should.

I feel so horny still. That was a bit rude of him. Not letting me come before he left. It's ok though. I forgive and forget. Hopefully he'll still want to fool around when he returns. Maybe that's why he left. Nothing like hitting the streets and taking in some of that crisp New York air. He could be clearing his head and getting in the mood to fuck me again. I certainly hope so.

I think about his penis. With the blindfold, I didn't even get to see it today. I'd like to hold it with my hand again. My mind tries reconstructing what it looks like from my memories. Long, veiny, fat, and lovely. Hopefully he lets me play with it when he returns. I hum softly to myself as I recall the birthday present I gave him inside his bedroom. My lips part and I smile while I imagine my hand rubbing up and down his thick pole. I miss him so much right now.

An hour and a half goes by. The whole time I lay there, thinking of him, fantasizing, missing him, hoping he will barge in any minute. Finally, the door opens before slamming shut. My face beams, smiles wide and my body comfortably warms. I hear footsteps. He climbs up on the bed. I smell his smoky cologne as he climbs on top of me. My ears hear a zipper being pulled down. I squeal, giggle, and burst with energy.

He pours cold liquid into my asshole before he penetrates me again with his cock. I wince. It still hurts. The inside is sore. The outside stings. My cock immediately goes rock hard. I shiver, part my lips and relax my body as I feel him pound against my squishy little walnut gland. "Yes Chief, I'm going to come for you." I promise. "Just like you want it. Like a woman." I hold my body tight, let out a moan, set my jaw, and concentrate on the vibrations of his fat cock against my vulnerable submissive secretor. I gasp and I pant. "Oh gawd..." It feels like he's about to burst the poor thing open. I close my eyes before opening them as my lips part slightly and then more fully until my mouth hangs open and I drool. A long moan escapes my lips and I shiver intensely.

I finally begin to come. Just as he said, like a woman. Nothing touching my little cock. Just from his penis inside my ass. It's a lot too. Thick spurts full of volume. My penis might be kind of small and I may have come like a woman but that was clearly a man's thick semen which sprayed out of me. I can sense my asshole pucker and tingle. He has grown still and grabbed my tender cheeks causing me to wince. He slams his large cock hard back and forth into my ass, making no effort to be gentle now that I had came. It hurts as he thrusts into me. He creams my ass again for the second time that night. My ass feels sticky and sweaty, my mouth releases a deep and happy sigh, and I smile distantly and unfocused. It's so great to be his secretary. I pass out.

1. Central Office -- Unisex Bathroom -- New York City

I lock the door and turn on the light. Finally, bathroom privacy. This morning he was so bossy over me. Wouldn't give me any mirror time by myself. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, swallow obviously, tense my arms, and glance around uneasily. Finally, I sigh and turn around. My hands reach underneath my yellow dress, tug down my pair of panties, and my eyes close. I slump my shoulders, turn my head around, and open my eyes. I stare mesmerized.

It's purple, blue and yellow like a sunset on a beach. As I stare at the welts he feels so out of reach. They split us up this morning, supervisors, and support. I'd so much rather sit next to him and work on our rapport. It would make it all so much easier to bear. The terrible pain sitting all morning in that chair.

I melt.

1. Tiffany & Co. -- New York City

My yellow Toury Burch heels clack against the wood paneled floor as I follow him. The whole time, I keep looking around ogling at the store around me. The entrance has a very high ceiling and is surrounded by luxurious hexagonal quartz counters topped in opulent glass display cases. Most of the walls appear to be windows but they're fake. LED screens that make us look like we're up at the top of a skyscraper instead of on the first floor. The room is lit by a massive rectangular light in the middle of the ceiling resembling a skylight cut with diamond like patterning.

He leads me to an elevator. I wrap my arms around his left arm, cling on to him and hang off his left shoulder. The elevator chimes, closes its doors, whirs, and gently hums as we ascend. The door chimes again and we exit, his arm around my shoulder. My heels clack on the wooden floor and we look so attractive together. Me in my yellow dress and black stockings. Him in his handsome Brioni blue blazer. Up the spiral staircase he takes me. He steadies himself with the handrail while I steady myself with him.

A young saleswoman, wearing beige blouse and slacks under a long brown designer coat, greets us on the fourth floor. She herself wears a gold necklace and diamond earrings. "Good afternoon, you two look like locals or do you happen to be visiting us from out of town?" she asks.

Mr. Bentley's hand rubs my lower back. "We're visiting, actually," he answers. "But I'll take you mistaking us for locals as a compliment. My secretary and I try to stay fashionable. In a city like this, that's a high standard to live up to. Anyways, I want to buy my assistant here some jewelry. A little reward for the good job she's been doing recently. What do you have here that I could purchase for her?"

"Well, most customers tend to gravitate to the fifth floor where our signature silver jewelry is," she explains. "We display a lot of out gold items--"

"Yes, yes, I know all that," he interrupts, shakes his head, frowns, and lets out a loud breath. "Solid gold is fine."

The saleswoman shows us several items. Finally, he settles on a solid gold bracelet that catches his eye. He holds it up with hand and asks me to try it on for him. I slide it over my left wrist. "Chief," I whisper. "Did you see the price of this? It's over eight thousand dollars. I can't accept something like this." He ignores me, takes his credit card out, and I end up leaving the store with him while holding a teal Tiffany and Co. bag containing a solid gold T1-bangle worth about half of what I still owed on my student loan debt.

"Before we leave, let's stop in there for a second," he says and gestures towards a garish tourist shop nearby. It displays all sorts of souvenir type items, postcards, statutes, knickknacks, and T-shirts referencing all the typical New York landmarks you'd expect it to. I clack my heels against the city sidewalk as I follow him, mouth open, blinking and biting my lower lip. Inside, he selects a cheap blanket depicting things like the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and the Brooklyn Bridge. When the Korean clerk rings it up for $10, Mr. Bentley scoffs, "I'll give you five."

The clerk sighs and accepts a crisp $5 note from Mr. Bentley's Tom Ford wallet.

1. Inbound Flight

I lean up on my heels and unzip the suitcase him and I share wedged in the overhead bin. I slide my Amazon Kindle out of the bag, and I feel a hand grab at my right thigh just below my bruised ass. I wear a black dress over a garter belt, dark stockings, heels, and my Tiffany and Co. T1 gold bangle around my left wrist. "Yes Chief?" I respond, smile politely at him, and obediently nod my head.

"Sweetheart, would you mind grabbing that blanket?" he asks, smirks, and gleams his eyes at me. "The one I bought from that tourist shop."

I retrieve the tacky blanket. At least it feels soft and warm. My hands zip up the suitcase and close the overhead bin until it clicks into place. I shuffle across his lap, hand him the blanket, and clack my seatbelt back into place. The view from the window to my right is blue sky and cream puffy clouds. I snap open my Kindle, swipe my finger, pull open the erotic novel I am reading, and part my lips.

He unfolds the blanket and covers our laps with it. I flick at the Kindle and turn the page. My ears hear a zipper being pulled. The screen shimmers. His hand rubs at my left thigh. My right eyebrow raises up at him. His grin is toothy. I spread my legs. His hand goes under my dress. My right pointer finger rests up against my bottom lip. He takes out my hard penis and strokes it under the blanket. I gasp and turn the page of my book.

My gold bangled left hand reaches under the blanket, and I grab him. His penis is warm, hard, and already hanging outside his trousers. I stroke him under the blanket, squeeze his large shaft, let out a moan, and read my book as he does the same to me. My mouth closes and I bite gently on the finger resting atop my pouty lower lip before sucking it.

We stroke each other. I read as I rub his hard penis up and down. He smirks and looks around the plane while he squeezes my own smaller penis. He let's go suddenly, stares at me intensely with probing eyes, pants, and opens his legs slightly. His hand travels further inside of my panties, his finger rubs my raw hole, and he wiggles a finger inside of me.

I wince, lean back, withdraw my pointer finger from my mouth, and move my right hand under the blanket and attempt to spread my asshole open for him. It stings when I grip the right side of my bruised ass. His finger pushes further inside. Soon it rubs up against it again. My own personal control panel. I shiver and try to suppress a moan. It's not going to work. I nuzzle against his hard chest and use his pinstriped blue jacket to absorb some of the sound. The way his fingers swipe and press on it inside me. It reminds me of when I come into his office and his face is buried in his iPhone. His fingers are always pressing on it, swiping it, his eyes absorbed. I tend to pay attention to people's fingers.

I stroke his fat penis, pinch its taut skin, gasp, and lick my lips. Sounds of soda cans opening can be heard in front of us. He massages me inside my tender asshole, pulls his fingers out of me, strokes my cock with his sweaty musky fingers, penetrates me again, and wiggles his fingertips against it. A cart rumbles in the background. I try to read my book, my penis throbs, my body trembles and shivers. I'm not sure. Is the plane hitting turbulence or is his probing fingers inside me giving me vertigo? When the flight attendant asks us what we want to drink, we both turn in complete unison and respond, "No thanks!"

I've never had a flight like that pass by so quickly. When we landed, it felt like I had just moments earlier boarded the plane. Chief was smart buying that tacky little blanket for us. I'll never fly with him again without it. Hopefully it won't be too hard for him. Getting all those stains out.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceuticals Division -- Dr. Welker's Office

Dr. Welker shines a flashlight inside of my mouth as she inspects its wet interior. I lift my tongue to prove I swallowed the last pill. She nods her head, smiles radiantly at me, and clicks off her small flashlight.

"Hey, uhm, I wanted to ask you something," I say, tilt my head to the right, and slightly part my lips.

She blinks. "Sure, what is it that you wanted to ask?" she questions.

"Well, I was wondering," I begin before hesitating. Maybe I should just stop here. Avoid potentially embarrassing myself. No, I put it off for too long. Things need to change. "I wanted to ask you about Project Janus."

The color drains from her face, she sweats visibly, her hands grip together, and she smiles only for it to quickly disappear. "Uhm," she stammers. "Why? Why are you asking about that?" Her breathing seems off.

I squint at her, bite the inside of my lip, and then shrug my shoulders. "Oh, I saw something about it left on the copy machine," I lie. I didn't want to tell her the truth. That I was on my knees in his office. Sucking his fat cock. I saw it pulled up in a window on his desktop monitor. "It said..." I hesitate. What was it again? "The radical new procedure to modify your identity, personality, and self-image."

Her eyes widen, she tries to slow her breathing, and she pauses. "Uhm, is that all you read about it?" she finally asks.

"Yeah," I ask and raise my right eyebrow. "Why?"

She briefly closes her eyes, swallows, and nods her head. "That's a very confidential project," she warns. "If you ever see that name again, stop reading. Let Brad or I know right away. Stuff like that is strictly for executive staff only. We can't risk it. Corporate espionage." She looks at me with my head tilted and eyebrows raised. "Uhm, that being that what did you want to ask?" That's weird. Aren't I considered executive staff?

"I'd like to try it," I respond, look down, grimace, and then plaster on a fake smile. "I tend to get anxious when interacting with other people. It's negatively impacting my life. I'd like to be more comfortable. socializing." God, I sound like such a pathetic loser.

"You want to... try it?" she asks and blinks. Her eyes carefully study me through her frames, and she pauses. Finally, she leans in, looks me in the eyes, smiles at me, and nods. "The project isn't ready to launch right now. It'll be some time. But when it's all done and over with. All the research complete. I will help you. Make you into the individual you want to be. That's what Project Janus is all about. Freedom. But right now, it needs to be confidential. Don't mention it to anyone else. Avoid reading anything you stumble across about it. And let Brad or I know if you ever encounter it again."

She didn't judge me at all. Dr. Welker is a real professional. "Thanks Doc," I say and smile at her.

1. Afternoon Commute

I drive home from work. Need to make it home, change, and shower before she arrives. Blue and red lights flash behind me. A siren blares. He must need to get by. I deploy right turn signal, wait a second, look out the passenger window quickly, and drive my car into the right lane. The police SUV behind me deploys right signal. Fuck. I do nothing wrong. There's no reason to bother me today. I pull over on the side of the road.

I squirm, fidget, adjust my dress, and my face sweats. My eyes squint confusingly at the driver's side mirror. The driver door opens from the SUV parked behind me. Lights still flash red and blue. Boots touch the ground. Leaving the car door open, you walk around it. You wear a police vest bearing the name Holtz over a uniform, a duty belt with handgun holstered, and sunglasses. As you approach, I hit the knob and the window whirs and lowers.

"In a hurry, ma'am?" you ask, stand wide, probing eyes laser focused on me, eyebrows up, and chin jutting.

"N-no." I stammer. Sure, I wanted to get home. Dress like a man again. There's still plenty of time. No need for me to rush. I was obeying laws. Wasn't I? "Did I do something wrong?"

You pause expressionless. "License, insurance and registration," you order.

License? I swallow hard. The glove compartment opens. I hand over the insurance and registration.

"Still need the license," you insist. I can't read your face.

I retrieve my wallet from my Savette handbag. The license slides out of the sleeve. My eyes focus on the picture. A weak smile forms on my face, my breath deepens and slows down, and I feel a lump in my throat. I don't look anything like the person in the photograph right now. At least it lists the correct sex. Male. I gaze downward, sigh, shiver, and my bottom lip trembles. My quavering hand extends out the window holding the laminated card.

You stand silent, poker faced, eyes hidden by sunglasses, and gaze towards my treacherous shaking hand. Your right hand seizes my driver's license. Sunlight reflects off its glossy surface as you hold it up towards your face. Your gaze down at me, inspect the license, glimpse back at me, scan my credential, and leer at me. You exaggerate. Make a mockery of me. My eyes moisten, ribs squeeze, and stomach knots. I want to melt into my car seat. There was a time. I could drive home from work and not have to worry. Fret over humiliating myself in front of the police. "I need you to step out of your vehicle," you command.

The car clicks repeatedly until I pull out the key. My heels clack against the hot pavement. I shut the door with a thud. It smells like motor oil outside. There's no recollection in my memory of me ever being asked to get out of my car before by the police.

"Are you suffering from any health problems right now?" you ask. I can't read you. The glasses hide your eyes, and your mouth avoids expression. "Do you have any disabilities?"

"No," I respond, try not to blink, and avoid looking you in the eyes. My stomach feels empty. It's hot outside.

You run tests on me like I'm your little science experiment. Have me walk in a line. You're doing this to mock me. Try to stand on one foot. I look like an idiot like this. You flash lights in my eye and make me look at a stick. I admit I'm a weirdo, just let me go home. You stand there, pen in hand, staring at me through sunglasses, a clipboard in your left hand jealously guarded close to your body, no expression on your face, and pause. My eyes keep drawing to the flashing red and blue lights of your police SUV. "When was the last time you smoked meth?" you ask.

I lean away from you, shake my head quickly, blink rapidly and widen my eyes. "Never," I insist. "I'm just commuting home from work. I don't use drugs. Look, I know I am dressed..." I sigh. "I'm cross-dressed. I know. It's a long story. Look, I'm not a criminal."

Your arms cross over your chest, head lifts, face smirks, eyes hide behind sunglasses, and your hands rub at the two straps of your police vest hanging over your shoulders. "Your pupils are dilated," you accuse. "Those sobriety tests I performed. You failed all of them. Not as bad as a drunk. But you're impaired. It's clear. You're abusing drugs. Look, I'm going to blood test you either way. Whether you admit it or not. It won't matter. Either it's positive or negative. So, if you're on speed. This is your chance to be honest about it. I know it's popular. With some gay men and women like yourself."

My eyes tear and dull, body winces, throat scratches and it's difficult to breathe, and I'm overwhelmed with a desire to be alone. "Please," I whimper. "I just want to go home. I don't use drugs. I'm not a transwoman. My office. They make me dress this way. Give me hormones and require me to take drugs. They don't tell me what they're for." A tear runs down my cheek. "If there was something wrong with my driving. I didn't realize it. Please. I wouldn't drive if I thought it was unsafe. It's not something I'd ever do. Risk hurting other people."

You sigh, gaze downward, and scratch at your nose as your hand cups around your mouth. You hesitate before saying, "You don't have to lie to me. I wasn't going to include it in the report. How you are dressed. It's not my role to judge. I just want people to be safe on the road. You were speeding. Changing lanes far too quickly to be safe. Unfortunately, I can't let you go. I'm not a phlebotomist and can't draw your blood here. We'll go to the station and get a sample. After that, you'll be able to leave and go home."

Of course, you don't believe me. Why would you? Nobody would. I sniffle, stare at the ground with glassy eyes, and put my hands behind my back. My driving seemed fine to me.

You handcuff me, place me in the backseat of your SUV, and search my car. I watch and don't care. There's nothing in there. I see you retrieve my handbag and thumb through it. Go ahead. You pull out my lanyard attached to my Vanholt Corporate ID. My picture is on there. Not like the license. One of me in a wig, makeup, and dress. What did he say to me? I think it was, what's that trash around your neck?

I don't understand. You mean my work ID?

That picture.

It's a picture of me.

I remember he sighed loudly. Are you fucking retarded or something?

No, but I am confused.

You're hot. Now that I fixed your desk situation, your office is sleek and sexy. Why would you wear something like that? Imagine, coming in here. Seeing you. Leaned back in your chair behind that all white desk of yours. Looking hot in a dress, stockings make-up and heels. That card hanging around your neck. There's some short dork's picture on it. You make both of us look stupid with that.

That's my picture.

No, it's not. Go to HR and change the picture.

But it's me.

No, it isn't.

This is what I really look like.

Go change the picture.

Dr. Welker didn't say anything about...

Fuck off already, and change the picture! I'm not going to ask you again.

I did what he said. A sigh exits my mouth before my head looks down. I look back up and stare at you. My employer doesn't have the best reputation. The Vanholt Corporation is infamous for its scandals, intrigue and political corruption. It's been subject to all sorts of investigations for its role in environmental disasters, corporate raiding, bribery, and antitrust. Yet no Vanholt executive has ever been indicted or sentenced to a term of imprisonment.

A prominent social critic published a satirical article in The Washington Post about how bad it had become. It was published all the way back in the 1980s.

The Vanholt family made a deal with an archdevil,

For their business to reach the megacorporation level.

They signed the contract without any hesitation,

And soon they were the talk of the nation.

Their profits soared and their wealth grew,

But they didn't know what the devil would do.

The devil took over the corporation one day,

And seized power in every single way.

He fired the workers and hired his own,

And soon the company was his and his alone.

Out pumped the products the consumers crave

While he and his devils collected their new slaves.

You stare down at my corporate ID. It says, Vanholt Psychiatric Pharmaceutical Division. You freeze, frown, draw back, visibly swallow, and slowly reach with your left hand and feel the hair on your neck. After a few moments pass, your head shakes vigorously, shoulders shrug, upper lip tucks, and you return the ID card to my purse. I don't judge you either. This mess I had gotten myself into. It was so surreal and hard to believe. Much easier to just assume I'm lying. Or perhaps just crazy.

We drive towards your police station. It's so silent in here with you. I rattle the handcuffs. You say nothing. My gaze darts around the car, I bite my lip and rock back and forth in the backseat. "You're so quiet," I finally say.

You shrug. "Just how I am," you explain. "Not a lot of small talk in this car."

"I'm the same," I respond.

"Not right now," you disagree.

"I'm anxious," I say, nod my head and shrug. "You put me under arrest."

"You're not under arrest," you dispute, tilt your head back and look towards me. "The handcuffs are just for safety. We won't have lab results for a while. You'll be free as soon as I get that blood sample."

"Are you really him?" I finally ask. "That Officer Holtz."

"Excuse me?" you ask before swallowing.

"The one who saved those people's lives during the riot," I clarify.

You hesitate, sigh, and say nothing.

I sit in silence for a few minutes. Finally, I lean towards you, nod my head, and weakly smile. "I'm sorry, the way you were treated after that." I comfort. "It was so disgusting. The things those journalists said about you. You did the only thing you could. No one has any compassion for anyone else anymore."

You say nothing the rest of the way to the station.

I exit the police station hallway into the front lobby. My right arm sore from being pricked. I look up, freeze, open my mouth, flatten my facial muscles, and feel nauseous. My wife is here. She looks furious.

"What the fuck is wrong you?" my wife swears loudly, flares her nostrils, shakes her body, and clenches her teeth. "I'm at home wondering where you are. Apparently dressing like a woman, wearing makeup, driving drunk. You know, when I got the call from the police station. I was so worried something had happened to you. But now I look like a fool. What do I get for trusting you, waiting for you, worrying about you? You humiliate me, cheat on me, do whatever the fuck it is you're apparently doing behind my back."

I flush, swallow, and cave my chest in. My eyes moisten, stomach knots, and my throat lumps. "I-I'm so sorry," I stammer. "I promise I'm not drunk. Look, I wanted to tell you but it's embarrassing. It all started at the office..."

"God, enough with the excuses," she dismisses, tenses her muscles, narrows her eyes at me, and holds in a breath. "Are you wearing fake breasts? You look disgusting dressed like that. I'm sorry. I can't handle this right now. You can only push someone so far. I deserve so much better than this. You whining like you're the victim here. It's totally pathetic."

"I really meant it," I whimper as tears flow down my cheeks and my makeup runs. "When I said I'm sorry." She'll never forgive me for this. She's right though. I am totally pathetic.

She turns her back to me and sniffles. "I'm going to go pick up my girlfriend and get our car out of the impound lot," she explained. "You're not coming with me. I don't want to talk to you right now. Tonight, I want to be alone. Please don't call me and don't bother me." She walks out the front door of the station while I stand there and sob.

You approach me. The whole time you've been watching. "Hey, are you ok?" you ask.

"You said I was free to go, and now I'm leaving," I declare, voice cracking in emotion, eyes glassy and wet, shoulders slumped, with a grimace on my face. "Thanks for destroying my life." I begin walking towards the station exit.

"Why did you call her?" you ask the police aide.

My heels clack against the tiled floor.

"She was the registered owner," the police aide replies.

I pull the door open and it creaks.

You begin, "In the future, you need to be more considerate about--"

The door shuts behind me with a thud.

It's dark outside now. I retrieve my handheld mirror from my purse. My makeup is all messed up. There's an inward, pained look on my face. I shuffle my feet, hang my arms limply, stare down at the ground, rub my right forearm with my left hand, and I cry as I walk. My throat aches and there's no sign of relief. I'm such a gross person. What's the point of things. She'll probably divorce me after this. What about him. Stop with the fantasies. He'll never love you. He's all about the sex and violence. I'd have to commit to the transition. To even have a shot. Give up any possibility. Of ever being a man again.

I retrieve my phone from my purse. My contact list pulls up. The phone dials. My hands tremble. It rings. A noise clicks.

"Hello?" asks the voice of Dr. Welker through the phone.

"I-I'm so sorry to interrupt whatever you're doing," I apologize in a creaking voice before sniffling into the phone's receiver.

"What's wrong?" Dr. Welker asks. "It sounds like you've been crying."

"Y-you told me," I stammer. "To call you right away even on your personal phone if it ever happens... Suicidal ideation."

There's silence on the other side of the line for several moments. Finally, she responds, "Where are you at?"

"I'm standing outside the police station," I whimper. "The one downtown."

"Okay, are you currently holding anything that could hurt you. A knife, a gun, rope?" she asks.

"No," I deny truthfully.

"Stay where you're at," she orders. "Try to remain calm. I can help you get through this. I'm going to come to pick you up. Think of everything you have to live for. Your job, your wife..."

I sob.

"Remember, I promised to help you," she pleads. "There are people who care about you. Don't forget that. I care about you. Things may seem bleak now. But the future. You'll have all the freedom in the world to be who you want to be. Please, stay where you are and don't do anything you'll regret. If you feel overwhelmed, go inside the station and ask for help. I'm sure they've delt with it before. People who are suicidal."

It wouldn't hurt. Seeing her and hearing what she has to say. I wallow in misery for twenty minutes until I see her Tesla Model Y pull up. I get into her passenger seat before closing the door and clicking my seatbelt. I notice Mr. Bentley sitting in the backseat, raise my right eyebrow, tilt my head at Dr. Welker, and wrinkle my nose. "Why is he here?" I ask.

She looks at me through her glasses, observes my dried tears, running makeup, and she leans over and hugs me. I can see a tear of her own in her right eye. "It's going to be ok," she says in a voice that cracks. "Brad is here because he cares about you. We both do. I'm going to take us some place where you'll be safe. You can tell us what happened on the way."

While Dr. Welker drives, I fill her and my boss in on the details of your DUI investigation as well as the confrontation between my wife and I at the police station.

1. The Pinnacle Highrise Luxury Tower

I sit on the edge of his ultrawide yellow leather sofa. Dr. Welker is standing next to the floor to ceiling glass panels as she stares at the city skyline, skyscrapers checkered with various illuminated windows, orange and yellow glowing streets. Mr. Bentley stands across the room leaning against a wall and sips red wine from a glass. Dr. Welker sighs before she walks over towards the kitchen counter and opens a briefcase she had set there. She returns holding a form. "Here, sign this and we'll begin," she says.

"What's this?" I ask as I take the form from her, my right eyebrow raised.

"It acknowledges that you're about to be the subject of a suicide risk assessment, agrees that you will provide truthful answers to my questions, and waives any liability to Vanholt related to suicide." she explains.

I stare blankly at her and say nothing.

"I'm ethically obligated to do something when a patient threatens suicide," she says. "Either we can do the risk assessment here right now or I must have you committed to a mental hospital for evaluation. I can't just let you go home without ensuring your safe."

Mr. Bentley sups red wine.

I sign the form.

She goes through a long series of questions pertaining to suicide. Frequently she reaches out and touches my hands or arms and her eyes are often sympathetic.

"Alright, based on the lack of prior self-harm or suicide attempts, the lack of a clear suicide plan, and your fear of distressing your parents, I am marking you as low-risk of suicide," she diagnoses. "I don't believe that its necessary to put you on suicide watch. But I don't think it's a good idea for you to be by yourself right now. Also, you shouldn't return home while things are still so volatile." She looks over at him. "Brad, what are your thoughts?"

"She can stay here," he says with a grin, sips wine, and stares at me. "I'll watch her." Of course, he must misgender me. It's ok, I don't mind being a little fem for him. From now on, I give permission to him only to use female pronouns for me.

"Ok, great," she says. "I'll see you tomorrow morning than when you take your morning medications."

"Uhm," I stammer, scratch my arm, and bite at one of my fingernails. "One last thing... about the DUI..."

"Yes?" Dr. Welker asks, glances at a watch underneath her lab coat, hardens her jaw line, and frowns.

"The police officer, he said my pupils were dilated," I point out, lower my voice, draw my eyebrows together, and grow still. "These medications you're giving me. I thought they were regarding toxic masculinity. You're not giving me street drugs, are you? Drugs that would impair my driving?"

Dr. Welker clasps her hands together, stays remarkably still, and doesn't blink even once. "Of course, I'd never give you hard drugs," she promises. "Although some of what we provide you can sometimes lead to a false positive on a drug test. Don't worry, I have copies of all your prescriptions at the office. If this officer is foolish enough to cite you, we'll get you an attorney and get the case tossed. Right Brad?"

He smirks. "There's a reason we always donate so much money to the District Attorney's re-election campaign," he insinuates. "You've got no exposure. Nothing to worry about. This officer, he's got baggage. He wouldn't dare push something like this. It'll be the end of his career if he does."

Dr. Welker leaves.

"Thanks for letting me stay with you Chief," I praise, get off the sofa, clack my heels against his granite floor, and join him near the kitchen counter. "You wouldn't mind pouring me a glass of what you're having would you? It's been a rough night."

He smiles, leans toward me, strokes my left arm, and looks firmly at me with glossy eyes. "Of course, sweetheart, I'd love to feed you wine again," he agrees. He sets a glass down on the other side of the kitchen and it clinks. I hear the wine pouring into and filling the glass. He sets it in front of me. "Don't drink it," he warns. "I want to feed you this wine myself. Wait here. I have some things for you. The perfect cure for you to forget all about your wife. I promise; this will lift your spirits." He disappears down the hall to his bedroom. I stare at the full wine glass. Not once do I dare lift it to my eager lips.

He reappears with a smirk on his face holding something behind his back. Soon enough, we're across the counter from each other again. His eyes twinkle, mouth grins, and he licks his lips. He drops what he was holding behind him on the kitchen counter. One of the items clanks loudly against its surface. I look down and see a blindfold and a pair of handcuffs. I grin, bounce, gleam my eyes, stare at him, and wait intently to hear what he wants to do to me tonight.

1. Mr. Bentley's Bedroom

I wear a blindfold and once again my hands cuff my body to brass bars of a bed. Only this time it is not the headboard but the floorboard. My body lays stomach down on the cold granite floor in front of his bed. I wear whatever he put on me after blindfolding me. It is some type of lingerie with a brassier over breast forms, panties, a garter belt, stockings, and high heels.

I feel one of his fingers trace a line from the strap of my bra down my lower back, over the garter belt, and towards my ass. He stops and both of his hands roughly grab on to my butt and grope me. He pulls the panties down my legs. My chest flutters, hands moisten, a smile slowly builds on my face, and I tremble. "Yes, Chief, fuck me in the ass again," I request. I lift my butt up and relax it for my boss to use as he pleases.

He snickers and shoves something inside of me. It's cold, extremely cold, and burns at the same time. I wince, squirm my ass, pull away from him, flare my nostrils, and rattle the steel cuffs against the brass bar. "Wait, wait, wait," I beg.

He grabs the left side of my waist with his left hand and holds me in place. His grip is strong. I feel his right hand shove the freezing cold object further inside of my ass. "You wait," he snarls before barking out laughter.

My eyes glass. Maybe it's not so bad, whatever it is he's doing to me. There's sweat all over my face. Fuck. Adrenaline shoots throughout my body. I tremor, shake and tremble my hand, neck spasms, and I violently thrash at the floorboard of the bed. The room fills with my pained squealing and the sound of metal clanking, banging and rattling as I hopelessly struggle to free myself from the suffering.

He roars with laughter. "I tell you what," he taunts. "It's all you had to do sweetheart. I don't know exactly what's in there. What you're thinking about in that head of yours right now. Say the magic word. But I bet you've forgotten all about your cunt of a wife. Tell daddy please."

"Please!" I scream, the blindfold damp against my skin, face haggard, and eyelids drooping.

He pulls it out of me.

I gasp, grab on to a brass bar with my cuffed hands, let out a shaky laugh, and moan out parted lips. My body feels light suddenly.

He pushes something else inside my asshole. A finger perhaps? It feels strange and squishy. A few moments pass. I don't react. Then it hits me, searing pain, burning the builds. I can't take any more of this. I wince, gasp, and whimper. Adrenaline spikes again. I feel so full of energy and motivation. "Please, enough!" I beg. "Please, Chief, please! Fuck me. Please, take it out of my ass! Fuck my asshole raw. Take it out! Please, make me come. Fuck me with your penis!"

He pulls the object out of my stinging asshole only to quickly replace it with his own greased up cock. I recognize it immediately. The way it stretches me out, warms me, and wears my body like a skintight leotard. My hands tighten their grip on the brass bar they hold. "Yes, fuck me Chief!" I squeal enthusiastically, arch my back, and breathe faster and louder. My body feels hot and fluttery. "Come in me please. Fuck my asshole."

My own cock throbs and spasms. It longs to be touched. Stroked, jerked, manhandled. I rattle the cuffs. "Please Chief jerk my cock," I entreat, moan, feel my hands sweat against the bar, and salivate. "Make me come."

He sneers at me and belts out an ugly laugh. "Sure sweetheart, I'll make you come," he teases. "From now on I'll be doing everything. You just lay back and let me treat you. Like you did me last time we were alone in here." His penis rearranges itself in my ass. As he pumps his thick shaft in and out of me, I feel him repeatedly thwack my prostate on the other side of my anal cavity.

"Yes Chief, yes!" I praise, shiver, tilt my head back, moan, and squeeze the brass bar with my wet hands. His balls slap against my skin and it reeks of musk and manly body odor in the room which overwhelms even my own perfume. I feel his hands tightly grip on to the sides of my ass as he stills, and his cock begins to spasm inside of me. Any moment now. Let's go. I'm ready. I wet my lips, fidget, and focus on the sensations of his hard cock throbbing inside my stretched-out asshole. Finally, I feel it. His warm come creams the inside of my body. My lips part, eyes turn inward, mouth pants, and throat wafts out a pair of indulgent moans. I feel something strike the taut skin of my penis. As if he had flicked it with a finger. My cock vibrates and I come as well. Like every time we've fooled around together, it feels warm and wonderful. As his cock pulls out of my lathered asshole, my trembling, shivering body collapses on the cold granite floor in front of his bed and the handcuffs clank against the brass floorboard. I linger there and let out a deep sigh.

His footsteps sound around my breathing body. After a few minutes, I hear a clicking noise and I feel the hard metal cuffs slide off my wrists. From behind my head, he unties the blindfold. I turn my head around and I see him standing there sneering at me in his tweed blue pinstriped suit holding a bottle of red wine. Sitting on the ground behind him is a glass of scotch on the rocks next to a bowl of jalapenos sliced in half along the long side.

He raises his right eyebrow, stands wide, adopts a cocky smile on his face, and he stretches each of his arms over the front of his chest one at a time. "You look nice and cheered up down there," he compliments himself. "I'll get out of this suit. Let you cuddle with me in the bed for a while. But first I want you to drink some wine." He pours some of the red wine on the granite floor. It looks like shed blood against the white granite. "Drink up," he taunts as he takes off his jacket.

I stare down at the spilled wine before looking back up at him.

"Clean my floor with your mouth," he orders as he removes his tie from his collar.

My ribs squeeze tightly against one another, my face flushes, my eyes look downward on the stained floor, and I whimper.

"If you want, there's always the sofa outside," he says as he unbuttons his shirt. "I know how you are. Inclined toward being alone and all. Go ahead and leave. I don't care. I'm perfectly fine with it. Sleeping alone in my own bed. I do it every night."

I think of my wife. Something inside of me behind my ribs sucks and sucks inside of me, my eyes tear up, and I feel helpless. I didn't want to be alone. It was never what I wanted. Socializing is tiring and difficult for me. But that doesn't mean I want things to be the way they've been. Lonely and isolated. Ignored by the person I once loved. I lap up wine off his cold bedroom floor. Just as he wants. His nasty little office bitch.

He towers above me shirtless, nods, adopts a relaxed smile, puffs out his bare chest, and chuckles.

I cuddle him late into the night in his bed. Not once does a depressing thought pass through my head.

1. Ways My Life Has Changed

He draws a warm bubble bath for me every morning. I relax as he rubs me down in body wash. He pours a bucket over my head and applies shampoo and conditioner to my hair. I no longer wear a wig to work. My hair has grown medium length and now instead he uses curling irons, hairbrushes, and a blow dryer to make my own natural hair curly, feminine, and to his liking each morning.

He dresses me. Now literally. It's not just that he picks what I wear. Like a toddler, I hold up my arms and legs for him and allow him to slide bras, panties, dresses, etc. onto my body. He then selects which jewelry he wants me to wear, perfume, and makeup. We apply the cosmetics together as a team.

He makes me breakfast every morning. I tried so many times to explain to him that I studied nutrition, and he should let me cook for us since I'm an amateur chef. "You don't like what I have?" he always asks. "Just tell me what you like. I'll buy it and treat you." He's actually a good cook but he lacks creativity. He tends to cycle through the same set of meals. Normally he feeds me himself whatever he makes since my hands are usually handcuffed to the kitchen table above my head while I sit on the ground next to his favorite chair.

Every morning he takes the elevator down to the basement garage, enters his Porsche Panamera, runs the AC, takes the elevator back up to his apartment, puts his arm around me, escorts me to his car, opens the door for me, and reaches over to buckle me in. On the way to and from work he tends to put on podcasts and audiobooks. I notice a theme right away. Billionaires. He listens to biographies about them, stories of how they became rich, what they're up to currently. It's boring. I offer to read him erotica off my Kindle account on my iPhone. "Nah, it's for women," he dismisses. When I suggest local news, his response is, "The city's still corrupt. What did you expect? Suddenly it'd fix itself? News is for suckers." The suggestion of classic rock brought this remark, "That shit my dad used to listen to?" Usually neither of us paid any attention to his radio anyway. Instead, he'd talk shit about people at the office or make fun of the other drivers. He also likes to bring The New York Times and have me read him the crossword puzzles and fill it in for him while he drives us around.

On weekends, he now expects me to dress like I do at the office. When I asked him to take me to Mikey R's deli for breakfast, he scoffed, "That grease pit of a place? I'm not spending my morning crowded in a room full of sweaty truck drivers. Also, the fat waitresses who live at that trailer park across the street." Maybe it was for the better. They might recognize me.

He brings me to nail salon now to get my nails styled. I get them long and colorful for him. At first, I didn't want to. But if I'm dressing like this every day now, growing my hair out long like a woman, there isn't any reason not to. Besides, I love showing up to the salon in his Porsche. Wearing my dress, stockings, and heels. The golden Tiffany bangle on my wrist. It's so odd. All my life I've been awkward and quiet. I can't recall a single time where I walked into a building and people were pleased or excited to see me there. But the nail shop was like that every time. Everyone who worked there wanted to talk to me. Compliment my clothing, hair, and makeup.

He locks my cell phone, driver's license, and credit cards in a safe in his closet. When I ask him about my parents getting a hold of me, he shrugs and responds, "Give them my number." After inquiring about needing to call my wife, he suggests, "You have a phone in your office. Knock yourself out. That phone is a distraction here which you and I are better off without." When I ask him about driving or buying things, he says, "I'll buy you things and drive you around. I don't care. Just tell me what you need, and I'll take care of you."

1. Mr. Bentley's Bedroom

I lay in his bed. His warm shirtless body lays next to me, and he snores. The OLED flickers. It's dark outside and I can see the nighttime city skyline out the glass panels leading to his bedroom balcony. I stream a romance movie off HBO Max. A glass of red wine sits on the end table next to me. Sometimes it takes me longer to fall asleep. The wine helps.

God, I want to cuddle him so badly. Let him hold me in his arms and squeeze me while I smell and touch him. Why did I feel so attached to him? This isn't normal for me. Not at all. Every relationship I've had in the past. I bond by spending time with the person one on one. Getting to know them on a deeper level, trusting them, and revealing myself to them cautiously. He's the opposite. I can't think of a time when he ever asked me a question about myself. My opinions; he simply doesn't care. We spend time together, sure. But it's him feeding me, washing me, dressing me, etc. When I try asking him about himself, he brushes me off with simple answers to close off the conversation. I know what he's doing. It's what I do all the time. To avoid small talk. Except he does it to avoid big talk. Everything I know about myself tells me I shouldn't like someone like this. Yet, I lie here next to him so enamored wanting to touch him, be touched by him, and share emotional connections. It's so out of character for me. It's like I'm a character in his videogame and he just used a cheat code. I sigh, drink the wine, and try to stifle my overactive brain.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceuticals Division -- My Office

My next employee performance review is this morning. I have to say I feel a lot better this time around. What's he going to do? Fire me while I'm living with him at his apartment? Not going to happen. My desktop phone rings. Pink painted fingernails wrap around the headset as it lifts to my ear. "Hello?" I answer. "Uh-huh, of course Chief." The phone clicks closed. I stroll over to his office, my black heels clacking. My dress is red rose green leaf patterned over black background. In addition to dress and heels, I wear dark lingerie underneath, black stockings, rose scented perfume, and the bracelet he bought me in New York.

He sits in his office chair dressed in his navy teal pinstriped Attolini suit, white cuffs, cream pocket square, milky white dress shirt, and a matching tie. His eyes beam at me, mouth smiles and he says, "Sweetheart, thanks so much for that memo you prepared this morning. Why don't you come over here? Sit down and give me a kiss."

I look him in his eyes, stride over to him, sit in his lap, dangle my legs over him, pucker my glossy lips, give him a kiss, and playfully bite his lower lip before pulling away and smiling. At no point did I feel his penis throb against my ass. How unusual. Normally when he invites me into his office like this it's because he wants to sex pest.

Dr. Welker dressed in a white lab coat over green blouse and black slacks enters his office and shuts the door behind her. It thuds and clicks. Her hands hold a file folder with my name on the tab.

I blink at her, blush, attempt to dismount him only to feel him grab and hold me in place, and my throat clears.

Dr. Welker shrugs, unhurriedly walks to one of the two leather seats, eases her body into a chair, and crosses her legs. "It's ok," she says as she raises her right hand and displays her palm to us. "I know about you and Brad. That you're... together. Nothing to be ashamed of. I'm the LGBT coordinator for the psychiatric division. There are some counseling materials in my office I can give to you later if you're interested."

I fidget in his lap, look at the closed door to his office, and bite my lower lip. His arms cradle me, and his posture is relaxed.

Dr. Welker opens the file she's holding and stares down at it through her glasses. "How has he been doing, Brad?" she asks, retrieves a pen from her lab coat pocket, and clicks the bottom of it.

"She's made improvements across the board," Mr. Bentley responds, squeezes my body, and grins. "Stage two, it was executed with flawless precision. Something that this division hasn't seen in a while. A genuine scientific accomplishment."

Dr. Welker lifts her chin, adopts a relaxed smile and nods her head. "I wouldn't say flawless though," she says, makes eye contact with me, raises her eyebrows, and purses her lips. "How have you been feeling? You haven't had any more thoughts about it, have you? Suicide."

I shake my head and answer, "No, I'm fine Doc."

Her eyes focus on me through her frames and she smiles. "It makes me so happy to hear you say that," she says. "Well in that case, I see no reason for us not to go ahead and proceed to stage three."

"Stage three?" I ask, stiffen my body, stare at her, and tilt my head to the side. "W-what's that?"

"Breast augmentation," Mr. Bentley whispers to me, massages my shoulders, and nibbles on my right ear.

My eyes widen slightly, my neck hairs tingle, and I swallow hard. "Surgery, that sounds so... permanent," I object. "I still haven't made up my mind. About transitioning. I like the way things are now. The possibility of going back if I need to. What do they call it? Fluid." He holds me in his arms, feels warm against my body, and I smell his smokey cologne.

Her features soften, mouth assumes a small smile, and her body faces me straight on. "No matter what, it's going to be ok," she reassures. "The accounting office has already allocated the funds. They did not spare or cut corners. This is a $50,000 high end surgery. No visible scaring. It isn't permanent and they can be removed or adjusted. Look, I understand. It's not easy to make decisions like this. But if you're in a relationship with Brad, you must consider him as well. I've been very respectful referring to you by your preferred pronouns. You notice it though right. When I call you him. The disappointed look in his eyes. Brad and I go way back. I know he likes women. Not men. One option you have is to hold on to this aspiration of living as a man again. If that's what you want, you should stop leading Brad on. Otherwise, maybe this surgery is the perfect way to show him you care about him. Imagine how much more affectionate the two of you will be with one another. Once you have a body shape that suits his tastes as a man."

I imagine breaking up with him. My mornings would be so different. Who would dress me, curl my hair, and feed me? I'd have to drive myself to work. Open myself up to getting hassled by the cops again. I'd be so vulnerable. Without him. I rub his chest, nuzzle him, and cling to his upper body. "Is that what you want Chief?" I ask.

"The sooner the better," he replies, chuckles, adopts a knowing grin, and looks at me with gleaming eyes.

"Well, it is going to have to be," Dr. Welker says as she scribbles something into the file folder with my name printed on it. "The surgery date is next Tuesday."

"N-next week?" I stammer, fidget in Mr. Bentley's lap, rub my chin and clear my throat.

"I booked the surgery date months ago," Dr. Welker explains as she shuffles paper around in the file folder. "This took a lot of time and paperwork to get all the funding approved and allocated where it needed to be. We could've pushed it back, if necessary, but it sounds like we're all on the same page here, so it'd be best not to dwell any longer on it. Both of you will receive medical leave Tuesday through Thursday. I will give your medications to Brad, and you will have to clear them with him after taking them like you do at my office."

1. The Pinnacle Highrise Luxury Tower -- Next Wednesday

I lay in bed and he tends to my every need. Warm soups, hot meals, hand fed ice cream. He changes my bandages, takes my temperature, massages me, and helps me pick out movies to watch. Not once does he leave my side, nor does he ever make a complaint. It's like having my own personal servant. He even climbs on to my bed, fingers my asshole, and rubs my cock until I come for him. "Trust me, this helps with the healing," he says. I know he is full of shit, but it feels good anyways. When I look at my chest with the bandages off, I can hardly believe it. I have large breasts for real now. They feel amazing and remind me of my wife's. Right now, they're all bruised and painful though. That's kind of what it's like being with him in general. In many ways, it's very comfortable and I always feel well taken care of. At the same time though, I'm always bruised and in pain.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office

"I'm sorry, I told him to wait in the lobby and I would retrieve you, but he wouldn't listen," says Fleming, our head of security.

I look inwardly while facing you, frown, and pull back slightly. "Why are you still bothering me about this?" I ask and sigh. "I have not driven once since. Nor have I seen my wife, thanks to you. What more could you want from me?" I wear a green lacey dress over a garter belt strapped to black stockings, green heels, several brass bracelets on my left wrist and a matching Saint Laurent handbag sits on my white desk.

"Look ma'am, I need you to come with me so I can complete my investigation," you say, hide behind aviator sunglasses, and appear stoic. You wear a police vest and duty belt over an officer's uniform.

My eyes narrow at Fleming, my mouth grimaces, and my jaw clenches. I don't care that he used to be a Navy SEAL or whatever. He has one simple job here and he can't even manage that. You never should have been allowed inside my office. "Am I under arrest?" I ask.

"You are being detained," you clarify. "You're required to come with me. I will need to cuff you."

"Whatever," I grumble, stand up, step away from my desk, turn around, and stick my hands behind my back. Your handcuffs rattle and feel cold as you restrain me.

"Come on officer," Mr. Bentley teases as he stands in the doorway between our offices. "She likes it tighter than that. Don't let her fool you with how she looks. She's got the pain tolerance of a man."

You press your lips together and turn away from him as you lock my handcuffs. "Excuse me?" you ask.

"You heard what I said," Mr. Bentley taunts, smirks at us, and snickers.

"Who are you exactly?" you ask, stand behind me, and place your right hand on my left shoulder.

"Bradley Bentley," he answers, thrusts his chest out, adopts a toothy grin, and holds his chin up high. "This office. Hell, the whole division. This building you're currently trespassing in. It all belongs to me. Including her. My secretary you've handcuffed there. It's ok. She's naughty, I get it."

"Well, it is an impressive office," you say, grab on to me and push me in the direction of my office entrance. "I should give you a ride-along tour of the streets someday. You can see firsthand all the great work your drugs are doing at solving people's problems. Not surprising at all with such a professional sounding leader running things." You escort me towards the door.

Mr. Bentley frowns, hesitates, and fails to respond in kind. Before we exit, he shouts, "Remember what to say when he questions you. We'll take care of this. I'll let your attorney know what's happened."

I shoot Fleming a dirty look as we exit my office.

1. Police Station -- My Interrogation

I stare blankly at you.

"Do you... need me to read them again?" you ask as you stare down at the card you're holding in your hand.

"No, I understand my rights," I respond, shrug my shoulders, and lean back. We're in a small concrete room. A table separates us. The only other thing in the room is a video camera recording us affixed to the wall in one of the corners near the ceiling.

You pause. There's silence. Finally, you ask, "So are you not talking to me then? Like your boss told you not to."

I wrinkle my nose, slightly grimace, and waffle. "He doesn't control everything I do," I finally say. "I will talk. Just so long as you take off your sunglasses. I want to look you in the eyes. Besides, we're inside. You look silly."

"That's fine," you say, remove your aviators, fold them, and set the glasses down gently on the table next to you. You look at me and finally I see your eyes. "The day I pulled you over. Be honest with me. You were on drugs."

"I do not use drugs," I deny.

You get up, exit the cell, the metal door creaks and slams shut. A printer whirs distantly and stops. The door opens again, and you return to your seat holding a piece of paper. "This is a report from the crime lab," you explain. "I had your blood tested. It's positive. For amphetamines and MDMA. You were using drugs. They impaired your ability to drive."

My head shakes repeatedly, my right-hand lifts and faces its palm towards you, and my voice quakes as I respond, "That's not possible. It must be some sort of mistake. Like I told you, I don't use drugs."

"Well, help me to understand," you say, touch my right hand with your left, look at me, and lean forward. "You mentioned something during the stop. They your work was giving you pills and hormones."

"That is true," I confirm. "I'm not certain what it is. All the medicines they make me take. She did say it was possible. There could be a false positive."

You pause and purse your lips. Your eyes narrow at me, and your neck appears tight. "Look ma'am, somethings not adding up here," you say. "You're an executive at a pharmaceutical company. So maybe you know more about this subject than I. But I've never heard of this before. Someone not knowing what medications she's taking. A job requiring its employees to take hormones."

"I'm the Executive Assistant," I clarify, look inwardly, and hesitate. "I didn't know this was what you were going to ask about. I'm not sure I should talk to you about it. It's embarrassing anyways."

You grow still, stare at me, and pause. Finally, you ask, "Do you need me to read from my card again?"

"No, it's fine," I answer, sigh, and shake my head. "I was really surprised. When they offered me this position. It pays way more than what I was making before. I didn't realize it at the time. By accepting the job, I got put back on probation. My boss. The one you met back at my office. He didn't like the job I was doing. They put me on some employee improvement plan. It requires me to take hormones and pills and crossdress at the office. They even..." I sigh, bow my head, look downward, and feel my ribs squeeze. "They pressured me into getting a boob job..."

Your eyes focus on the cleavage poking out the top of my gauzy dress. "Where does the medication come from?" you ask.

"I don't know," I admit. "There's a psychiatrist there. She has a license to prescribe medications. Supposedly she writes the scripts and obtains them from a pharmacy for me. But I really have no idea. These people who run things over there. My boss and Dr. Welker. There is a lot of power behind them. They manage labs all over the country with access to experimental drugs. Hundreds of scientists work for them."

You frown, squish your eyebrows together and blink at me. "I don't understand," you say. "You're really telling me you crossdress, take female hormones, and unknown drugs which might not even be licensed by the FDA just because these people tell you to?"

I grow quiet, slump into my chair, and look down at the table. He would never understand.

"Do you want something to drink?" you ask.

"Yes," I say. "Coke Zero, if you have it."

You get me a cola. It's fizzy and sweet in my mouth.

"Why?" he asks as he stares at me across the table.

"I am a quiet person who just wants to be left alone," I ty to explain, clink my bracelets, rock in my chair, and my legs feel restless.

"Ok, so am I, but I wouldn't do any of this shit," you respond in challenging tone, frown, and watch me furtively through narrow eyes.

"It wasn't all at once," I say. "She put me on hormones first. According to her, it was temporary, and she could reverse it with testosterone later. She is a medical doctor and I trusted her. Months later they wanted me to dress like this. Then they started giving me medication. At first one but later more."

Your eyes stare down at the lab report before gazing up at me. "Is your job physically or mentally demanding?" you ask.

"No, it's boring most of the time," I answer with a shrug. "Not complaining though I just read during the dead times."

"These drugs, they're stimulants..." you say, lean forward, plaster on a slight smile, and try to hide the clearing of your throat.

The two of us stare at each other in silence.

"Your boss made a comment about handcuffs--" you begin with a pained expression and steady eye contact.

No, no, no, no. "I don't want to talk about him," I interrupt, look away and hold extremely rigid. Don't do it. My id vanquishes my ego and my body trembles and quakes.

"Well, I was just going--" you start.

"I invoke my right to be silent," I say, suck my cheeks in, go rigid, and lean back in my chair with my arms crossed against my chest.

"You don't want to talk anymore?" you ask, narrow your eyes, clench your jaw, and sneer at me.

"Not if it's about that." I explain, lean away from you, keep my neck stiff and cross my arms.

You stand up, release a heavy sigh, turn your back to me and shake your head. "Why didn't you quit your job?" you say as you look away from me. "Why are you letting this happen to yourself?"

"Look, I told you I'm quiet and keep to--"

"Bullshit!" you yell, slam your fist down on the table, get up in my face and stare at me crazy eyed.

I sob, slump into my chair, and say nothing. You may be quiet and keep to yourself like me. But you're not me. You're strong, confident, and socially able. I know it. You must know it as well. There's no reason for it. Barking at me like that. Forcing me to admit what should be obvious. Talking to you like this. It was a mistake. "I want an attorney," I say in a cracked voice through tears.

You grumble, creak open the door, and slam it shut. I sit and whimper.

After a long period of time, the door opens and you're holding handcuffs. "Now you're under arrest," you say. "I'm booking you into jail for driving under the influence."

1. El Cortez Apartments

As you walk me past the fenced pool, my eyebrows raise, and I realize that this is definitely not the jail you're taking me to. My heels clack against the outdoor concrete steps as you lead me up to the second floor. Your keys jingle in your hands before they scrape up against the inside of the lock. As you escort me inside, I am in a tiled room with a leather couch, large Sony television set, glass round dining table, and kitchen with usual accompaniments. Your hand releases me and I sit down on one of the chairs around the dining table.

You walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, grab a beer, open the can, sip malt, remove meat and vegetables, and begin making yourself a sandwich.

I frown, look down, and swallow. "Uhm," I mumble. "Aren't you... forgetting something?"

You look down at the items you have splayed in front of you on what is presumably your kitchen counter. After studying the items, you definitively nod. The fridge opens again, and your hand retrieves an onion and sets it next to the other items.

"I meant me, uhm," I stammer and hesitate as I look around his apartment. Its clean but seems a little barren. "Did you forget to bring me to the jail and brought me home with you instead?"

"I figured there wasn't any rush," you say as you grip a large, sharp knife. "You being quiet and wanting to be left alone. Doing whatever other people tell you to. I didn't think you'd complain much. If I just took my time. I can take you to jail later today. Maybe. If I feel up to it. We'll see I suppose." The kitchen fills with the sound and smell of peppers and onions chopping.

I sigh and look down. My eye catches a garbage can near your kitchen counter. There are beer cans and empty plastic vodka bottles. Not a promising sign.

"You're the first person I've had visit me here," you say, open a bread loaf, and retrieve a plate from your cupboard. "I've lived here since then. The riot. My ex-wife couldn't handle it. My reputation. I don't blame her. If I could divorce myself to get away from it, I would in a heartbeat." You carry a plated sandwich over to the table and sit across from me. "I used to feel the same way as you. I wished other people would leave me alone. You know what happened? I guess I got what I wanted."

My throat tightens as my eyes hold steady at you from across the table. I move closer to the dining table. You deserved better than the way you were treated. Even if you hassle me with this bullshit.

The sandwich crunches when you bite it. You stare at me, sigh, put the sandwich down, and come over to me and unlock the handcuffs.

I frown, blink rapidly and look around the apartment again. "Um, I don't understand," I say.

"You can leave," you say, shrug your shoulders, and sit back down at the table. "I'm not going to charge you with it. The DUI. Not since you weren't aware that you were impaired. It wouldn't be fair."

"So, you believe me?" I ask in a shaky, soft voice and scratch at my throat.

"Yes," you say. "I can tell by how you've been acting this whole time. You're timid and cowardly. You don't stick up for yourself."

"I suppose that's true," I concede.

"Well stop doing it, it's annoying," you complain, pinch your lips, shake your head, and sneer at me. "Show backbone."

It's so exhausting dealing with you. You want to see me act aggressively? Fine. It's something I hate to do. The ultimatum. But sometimes brute force is the only way to get people to shut up. I narrow my eyes, cross my arms and sneer back. "Are you going to fuck me or what?" I bitch.

"Excuse me?" you ask in a raised voice.

"You heard what I asked," I snap back at you, flare my nostrils and stare. "I'm not putting up with this shit. You cuffing me, driving me to your apartment, and being alone with me here like that. Just to eat your stupid sandwich and let me go. I'm not leaving here like that. Not when you have a bed here and a penis. It was your choice, Officer. Bringing me here. You broke the law doing it. I know that. You know that. Now finish what you started and fuck me. And yes, I have a cock. You'll just have to deal with it. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you did what you did."

You freeze, mouth open, and your arms hang loosely to your side. "F-fine," you stammer. I knew I could make you shut the fuck up.

I look you in the eyes as a relaxed smile spreads on my face. "Great, now put those handcuffs back on me," I entreat and stick my hands behind my back.

1. Officer Holtz's Bedroom

My right-hand cuffs to the radiator in the back left corner of your bedroom and I look up at you. You're holding my dress in your hands and your duty belt is sitting on top of a dresser on the other side of the room next to the entryway. I pull at my hand and the cuffs scrape against the metal boiler. I wear a black transparent brassier, a mostly transparent black pair of panties that does cover my hard penis, and a black garter belt. My stockings and heels remain affixed to my legs and my back props up against your cold apartment wall.

You toss the dress behind you onto the bed, cup my chin with your moist right hand, lift my head and stare down into my eyes. There is a trembling in your hand.

I wink at you, twinkle my eyes, and grin widely. "It's so embarrassing Officer," I remark. "You catching me whoring myself out like that. I was scared at first. When I saw you were taking me here. But I know your job is tough. I don't blame you for it. Taking the law into your own hands like this. Well, I suppose I have no other choice." I unclasp the bra behind me with my free left hand, toss it aside, show you my big fake boobs, and unzip your pants. My left-hand slips inside and grabs your big penis, senses its warmth and pulls it out so my eyes can stare at it. It's got a nice hand feel. I stroke the shaft, smile contently, clink my bracelets, and sweat on your penis through my hand.

You hold your chin high, grin knowingly, hold each of your police vest straps with each of your hands, stare firmly at my large breasts, and lick your lips.

"Uh huh," I say as I notice you stare at them. I nod my head, loosen my shoulders, focus my gaze on your hard cock, lean forward, and push your fat veiny pole in-between my sleazy hooker boobs and squeeze it for you using my left hand and right elbow.

You grab my breasts with your hands and squeeze them causing me to gasp. Your fingers are coarse and rigid. The opposite of my soft feminine digits. I could tell by their texture. You use them to shoot guns, grab people, fight, and lift weights. The handcuffs rattle and scrape as you hump your big penis against my cradling tits.

After letting you have your fun with my brand-new boobs, I remove your cock and hold it with only the thumb and its two nearest fingers. I lift the shaft up and inspect it from underneath. "Mmhmm," I approve and look at your balls. "Uh huh," I concur. Your penis plops into my mouth and I suck on its rubbery tip. My left hand rubs the shaft, clinks the bracelets, and tickles your wrinkly balls. It tastes sweaty and musky and reminds me of the smell of the back of your police SUV.

You moan, lean back, pant, and enjoy my pretend punishment. "Oh God, those glossy lips of yours..." you muse warmly, look me in my eyes, and smile bright.

I suck on your penis, puff out my lips, wink at you, and playfully pull away. My left hand lifts your shaft to a vertical position and squeezes, my bracelets clink, my eyelashes flutter at you, my glossy lips pucker and I loudly slurp your testicles into my wet mouth one at a time.

"Yes lovely, suck my balls," you encourage, gasp, bite down on your lower lip, close your eyes, and slightly lift your chin.

I comply, suck your balls, spit them out one at a time, stroke your shaft, clink my bracelets, stare at you, and smile. "Officer, I'm ready to be proper punished now for my whoring around," I request. "Cuff me up and throw me on your bed." My eyes look over at his bed. It's got an orange comforter over white sheets. Reminds me of a dreamsicle.

Click. My hand frees before I put both hands behind my back. You wrap the unlocked cuff around my left hand and double lock the restraints above my ass. Click, click.

My cuffs rattle as you grab them and lift me up off the ground. As I requested, you stand me up and toss me violently onto your soft bed. I land on my stomach and immediately sniff your bed. It smells clean and I detect floral fragrance. I smile and fidget. My body scoots and I roll over on to my back. I stretch out my neck and settle my head into a comfortable position on your white pillows. My arms and hands are cuffed behind my lower back which I lay on while my face and front torso face the ceiling. "My pussy's good and wet for you Officer," I lie while adopting a toothy grin. "Just in case though..." My eyes dart over to his dresser. "Why not use a little bit of that coconut oil you've got over there?"

You nod, grin, and walk over to the dresser. Your hard cock bobs back and forth with every step and I keep close tabs with my eyes. When you squeeze the bottle, it farts. Oil shoots on to your big penis and my mouth waters while your hand oils it up. You approach me on the bed holding the bottle. I lift my legs up, lean back against the bed and spread my ass for you. You detach my stockings from the garter belt allowing you to slide my panties off and expose my hard penis and ass. The bottle squeezes more oil into your hand. You penetrate me with three fingers, and you grease my asshole. The coconut smell is fresh and compliments your orange bed.

You unstrap your boots and remove them one at a time, climb up on to your bed, grab the base of your greasy penis, and aim it at my fleshy star. I swallow, wet my lips, widen my eyes slightly, smile nervously, and feel your big penis push inside of my body. You mount me, penetrate my anus, throb inside of my own throbbing insides, waft musky sweaty air into my nose, and grab my hard cock like a handlebar. Your right-hand squeezes and strokes my penis while you ride me, pump in and out, and roughly fuck me.

"Yes Officer, fuck my nasty pussy," I beg, moan, jiggle my boobs, part my lips, and stare intensely at you. As your hard penis slides in and out of my greased-up hole, my gland squeezes, mouth opens, and I gasp and froth. "I can feel it. Your cock. It's bringing back law and order in there." I twinkle my eyes at you before moaning.

You tower above me, arch your back, jackhammer my asshole with your penis, stroke my own hard cock with your hand, ride me like I'm you're punishing a nasty whore and breath faster and louder. Your muscles tighten, jaw sets, eyes alert on me, and your brow furrows.

"It's ok, Officer," I say in-between gasps. "Go ahead. Come inside. You don't need a warrant. I consent to whatever you want to do in there." I feel it throb inside me.

You close your eyes, open your mouth, shiver, gasp, and cream my sweaty, oily asshole with your warm milky come. It's not all at once. You came well prepared apparently and proceeds to empty an entire clip into my asshole. When you finally finish, you pull back carefully while your hand continues to stroke my own hard cock.

Both of us stare at my asshole, fidget, wet our lips and lean in. Finally, a jet of your warm come squirts out of my flooded star and streams warm down my ass and onto your bed leaving a cold trail in its wake. The sight sends me over the edge and my own penis comes all over my flat stomach with a few rogue jets even making their way all the way up to my big boobs. My mouth is wide open, breathing measured, and eyes look inward. I sigh deeply and look at you with a shy smile on my face.

1. Officer Holtz's Bedroom -- Evening

You cuddle me in your muscular arms. We're both naked now together underneath your orange comforter. The stockings, heels, garter belt, and handcuffs are now all atop your dresser. "Why did you want to have sex?" you ask, smile and rub my shoulder with your hand.

My eyes sparkle at you. "Why not?" I ask. No, I can do better than that. I like you and the small talk is so worth the effort this time. "It's because of how I was dressed. Also, how you were dressed. I enjoy it. Being affectionate. Besides, you're lonely, right? You wouldn't have brought me here like that otherwise. Also, I'm kind of a perv and you had handcuffs. I role played a little because I like it kind of sleazy."

Your left-hand rubs my right breast. "I'm like that too," you say. "I tried to be professional with you. When I looked at your license that day. I was surprised obviously. But I also crushed on you. It's just how I am. I have a thing for girls like you. It was wrong for me to take you here like this and I apologize."

"And deprive me of getting to cuddle with you in your bed?" I ask with a snort while I squeeze your left bicep. My head tilts to the side, my right eyebrow raises, and I blink at you. "You really like. Uhm. The type of girl who has a penis? I'd never expect that from someone like you. An officer. With big muscles."

"Yeah, I dated a girl like you before," you explain. "Before I was with my ex-wife. The time prior to when this stuff became both culturally popular and unfortunately controversial. The relationship didn't work out. We were different people. She loved to socialize, hit up the clubs, and be around other people. I'm not like that. Still, she was very hot and great at sex. Just like you."

"Yeah, but I'm not really the social type," I say.

"I know," you agree, a smile slowly builds on your face, and your hand feels moist against my breast. "It bothered me at first. Thinking I was kind of gay or something. But you know I still love women, being a man, and liking the things that I Iike. Nobody knows me better than I do. Even if I'm not the spitting image of the type of man I once thought I was. I'm ok with it."

I smile back and rub your arm. "I didn't choose this," I admit. "They forced me into it. Pressured me. Got me to sign contracts. Threatened me. Drugged me. Manipulated me." A sigh escapes my parted lips. "My feelings. They're mixed. I do enjoy it a lot though. Sleeping with you. Cuddling." I hug your body against mine under the warm and soft comforter.

You adopt an intense gaze, hold in a breath, and tense your jaw. "They're breaking the law," you say. "No way they're not. How many times do I read the news. And there`s some story in there. Another corrupt scandal involving Vanholt. The criminals I arrest. They go to jail. Why is it that someone with a suit jacket and a white collar gets a free pass? Bullshit. This time it'll be different. You'll be my informant inside. Wearing a wire recording all the fucked-up shit they're doing. We'll tap phones. Figure out what they've been doing to you. My reputation may be hopeless and beyond repair. Most people who know of me hate me and always will. But if my investigation leads to the indictment of Vanholt executives. Well, there is one group of people who will respect me again. Treat me as a legend. One I happen to highly value. Law enforcement officers."

My brow furrows, the smile disappears from my face, my eyes narrow in confusion, and I gaze probingly at you. "Uhm," I stammer. "These are powerful people you're talking about. You don't know what it's like. I've been around them. They are rich, resourceful, and smart. Besides. She says she can help me. Eventually make me less socially anxious."

Your eyes bulge, lips curl, and teeth glare. "You sound like you have Stockholm syndrome," you accuse and growl. "These people drugged you. Lied to you. They put your life in danger. Letting you drive without telling you what medications you've been taking. Ones that impair you. Look, I know you don't want to hear this. But what they've been doing to you. It's some of the cruelest sexual abuse I've seen. And I've seen some sick things in my police career."

My eyes tear up and my nose sniffles. You sure are brave. But also, foolish. "Maybe you're right," I say as I cough, try to slow my breathing, and adopt a quick, false smile. "I just got a little nervous there with you referring to me as an informant. I'm not used to it. Being involved with the police."

You hold me in your muscular arms and kiss me. A tear runs down my cheek.

1. El Cortez Apartments -- After Midnight

I wear my dress over lingerie and garter belt, stockings, and brass bracelets. My feet bare, I hold my heels in my left hand. Where is my purse? I recall you left it in the kitchen. You snore on the bed asleep. I skulk into the kitchen. Sure enough, it's there on the counter. Right where you made yourself that sandwich. I grab it with my right hand. The door opens, I walk outside, it's dark, and it feels very nice outside. It's a shame that this time of year, you have to be out this early for it to be pleasant. I drop the heels onto the ground and slip my feet inside before attaching the straps.

My eyes peer back toward your apartment door. I swallow, grimace, avert my gaze, and clear my throat again. Can you imagine it? Me testifying in front of a jury. Telling random strangers that I took drugs, sucked cock, and let him beat me in our hotel room with his belt. I sigh. Getting cross examined by some slimy defense attorney with that contract I signed.

I didn't want to admit it. The truth is I'm weak and worthless. I deserve it. To be beaten and controlled. It's true. I don't stand up for myself. Why would I? I've done it before. Didn't work out well for me. It takes too long for me to respond, exhausts me, and I usually say something awkward that just gets thrown back in my face. I'm not irrational. Giving in is better than wallowing in misery and anxiety. I sigh. Besides, Mr. Bentley does everything for me. I don't even remember the last time I showered myself, dressed myself, fed myself, etc. I'm in no state to act on behalf of the police.

You say you can protect me, but you can't. You're just a cop. Dr. Welker, Mr. Bentley, they're corporate executives. Rich and powerful. The law doesn't apply to them. In some ways, you understand this. That's why you were so excited. The prospect of forcing them to face justice for their actions. But you're wrong. It won't play out that way. How you imagine it in your mind. While you can't protect me, I can in fact protect you. By leaving, ending your misguided ambitions to investigate Vanholt, and forcing you to return to whatever you've been doing since the riot. You've been through enough cruel bullshit you didn't deserve. There's no reason you should get sucked into my depressing situation.

My heels clack on the stairs and later the concrete pavement. I walk to a nearby gas station. My hands retrieve a cell phone from my Saint Laurent handbag. The phone dials. I speak into the receiver. After a chunk of time passes, a Porsche Panamera pulls up. I open the front passenger side door and climb in.

1. Psychological Self-Assessment

I can't remember. The last time I felt socially anxious. He does literally everything for me. Feeds me, washes me, clothes me, beds me, fucks me, hits me, and entertains me. I don't talk to other people anymore. Only to him. It's impossible to screw it up. Speaking with him. He just tells me to do things and I do what he wants. I'm so happy to be free of it. All that anxiety. Yay.

1. The New Loneliness

It's never been this bad before. The loneliness. It's always haunted me. But not like this. In the past, I always had me. My own best friend. The person I spent hours alone with in my room. Curious, learning, reading, writing, thinking, and self-loving. Experimenting in the kitchen, eating spicy egg and steak sandwiches. I hardly spend any time with myself anymore. I thought my marriage was lonely but this. It's a far nastier presentiment.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office

It's busy in my office. Lots of important people meet in the executive boardroom. My boss, Mr. Bentley is there along with Dr. Welker. The Associate General Counsel as well, Mr. Fackler. I wonder if Samantha sucked his dick in the bathroom today. The other two men I don't recognize. They don't work at this office. That much I know. But their suits remind me of his own. Expensive designer brands. As our attorney escorted the two men inside, I saw one of them was holding a stack of papers bearing the title, Project Janus.

The base of my neck tingles as I keep glancing over at the executive boardroom. My nose wrinkles. Why are they all so secretive about it all the time? They're going to let Mr. Fackler in on it. A man who literally got caught with his pants down in the women's bathroom. But not me? C'mon Chief. Haven't I done enough to earn your trust at this point?

My eyes stare at the conference room door. It looks kind of thin. I swallow and blink. My feet touch the ground while my body rises from my chair. I creep over to it being careful to avoid clacking my heels against the terrazzo floor. My hand cups behind my right ear and I press it softly against the wood door.

"These non-disclosure agreements are all good," My. Fackler says. "It's ok Anne. You can go ahead and talk to them about it. The little project you and Brad have been working on."

"Gentleman," her voice addresses them. "What we're discussing here today is a revolution in the field of psychiatric medicine. The first ever non-therapeutic, elective psychiatric treatment program. For a long time now, we've classified certain surgeries and procedures that aim to improve appearance as cosmetic. I propose a new category of medical procedure. Self-emancipating healthcare. Treatment that liberates the patient not only from her own body but also her own personality. As the anarchist philosopher Max Stirner once said, `Whoever will be free must make himself free. Freedom is no fairy gift to fall into a man's lap. What is freedom? To have the will to be responsible for one's self.'"

She pauses and the room is completely silent. Fuck, I still don't even know what Project Janus is but the way she sells it. It sounds badass.

An unknown male voice speaks, "And you think this is something you can patent? Someone's personality."

There is tapping against a table. "No," she responds and pauses. "This is a medical process combining different approaches in an innovative way no other individual or company has imagined. Everyone these days is obsessed with it. Identity. All the tribalism, social media, and self-labeling. Identity is the hot commodity. We see it in our own existing customers. They identify themselves with their diagnoses; schizos, bipolars, and addicts. There are many people who do it. Characterize with their own consumption. Goths, gamers, vegans, the endless number of niche political ideologies people adopt that echo their social media expenditures. But there are certain identities, not as immutable as race or sex, but not as voluntary and easily accessible as the sort of consumer choice a mallrat teenager might make. I'm talking about sexuality and gender. Our soon to be patented process changes this. It allows people access to the sexuality and gender of his or her choice without the biological baggage imbedded inside his or her own DNA, sex hormones, and chromosomes."

"But this is part of what makes us wary," the unknown male voice complains. "Even if what you've created is patentable, as attorneys we do not want to be associated with something that might put us in the crosshairs of the LGBTQ community. What you're proposing. It sounds like something that existed in the past. Conversion therapy."

I hear a heavy sigh and foot tapping. "Really?" she asks. "Our program is based on voluminous scientific data, not religious prejudices and parochial sentiments. No one wants to be straight anymore anyways. This is going to be celebrated by the LGBTQ community. I promise. Look, everything I believe is based on the non-aggression principle. People should be free to make their own choices and contracts with others. Things should not be forced upon them. Which is exactly what happens with birth and puberty. Let's assume a man is gay. He is attracted only to other men. Maybe he wants to be straight to avoid prejudice. That's sad, contemptible and reflects poorly on our society. But we've not walked in his shoes, lived his own experiences, or understood what's on his mind. We'd be cruel dictators to refuse him treatment that may lead to his own greater happiness and mental health. Freedom should always come first."

How is this even possible? My eyes look down and stare at my large breasts. I swallow hard and feel sick to my stomach.

She inhales deeply through her nose before exhaling through her mouth. "We went with the obvious things first," she explains in a steady, low-pitched voice. "Stuff with sex appeal. It attracts attention. But Project Janus is so much more than that. Through medication, hormones, and proper conditioning, we eventually will offer to change anything about a person. Their personalities, preferences, and manner of thinking. The full liberation of the individual from the tyranny of his own innate biology."

Someone clears his throat. "These are bold claims you're making," another unknown male voice says. "Is there any scientific proof that your process actually works? It could be all placebo effect. Someone who wants to be gay goes through some unorthodox treatment and then is it really surprising he gets what he wants? Also, where are we at with the FDA? Don't the trials need to take place first? This is like decades aw--"

"The FDA is not going to be an issue and we're not doing trials," My. Bentley interjects with blunt edge. "We're done with the bullshit. The pandemic proved all that crap is for suckers anyways."

There is a sharp inhalation of breath followed by a woman swallowing. "Yes," she agrees. "What's far more important is the patent approval. To answer your first question, we do have scientific proof. An uncontroverted example. One where it has succeeded without the possibility of a self-fulfilling placebo. I'll let Brad explain what he's accomplished. He's been instrumental in this part of it. The photos. You will be shocked when he shows you the before and after."

"Uh huh," Mr. Bentley responds. "Right, photographs. Uhm, hold on a minute. I need to visit my office. I'll be right back."

I hear footsteps and quickly retreat from the door to the conference room. My heels clack against the terrazzo floor. The door swings open and Mr. Bentley flaunts into my office. He squints at me and his eyes lower and focus on the fact that I am not sitting behind my desk. He plasters on a smile and slightly nods. "Hello sweetheart," he says, approaches me and presses the back of his right hand up against my left cheek. His hand grips my chin, tilts it up and he kisses me on my lips. His cologne compliments my perfume and smells excellent. "Can you please step out for a second? I'm craving it. My usual sushi order from that restaurant we like. You'd like the opportunity, right? Get out of the office on a nice day like this. Treat me to something pleasurable that I crave. Let me repay the favor later in our bedroom."

He just wants to get rid of me. Should I confront him? Accuse him of hiding something from me? The relationship I have with Project Janus. My stomach churns and limbs tingle. Fuck, what if he fires me and kicks me out of our apartment? I'd have to grovel to my wife to move back. The prospect of her allowing it when I'm unemployed. Unfathomable. This is my fault. I should have pushed back a long time ago. It's too late now. These people control me. Just have to trust this will turn out in the best. She said the end goal of Project Janus was liberation. Maybe one day she will help me. Figure out my real sexuality, gender, and get rid of this awful social anxiety. I sigh dejectedly, slump my shoulders, and avoid looking him in the eyes. "Ok..." I relent. My heels clack against the floor as I exit my office.

As I ride the elevator down, I stare intensely at the button panel. My jaw feels tense and I keep squeezing my right hand into fists. Chief may be a cruel bastard but at least he takes care of me and fucks me all the time. That bitch doctor though. She is the brains behind this, I'm sure. It's not right. Doctors are supposed to help people.

1. Downtown Police Station

I ask the aide where you're at.

"We don't release officer locations due to safety concerns," she says.

"Look, it's important," I stand behind perfectly stacked Styrofoam containers wrapped in a plastic bag full of fresh sashimi standing on a police reception desk. It smells slightly like brine.

"He's not on duty right now," she retorts. "You can use my phone and leave a voicemail."

I think about it. Too much pressure. Need time to think, process, and proofread. "Can I... leave my message in writing instead?" I ask, lean towards her, raise my eyebrows, gently bite my lips, and swallow quickly.

She sighs heavily, pinches her face, grimaces, crosses her arms, and relents, "Fine."

I write to you.

The psychiatrist who gives me the drugs. Her name is Dr. Anne Welker. Look, I'm sorry I left like I did. I miss you. Please continue to investigate. But be careful, I worry about you often.

Love,

Jamie

My face grimaces, head turns down, and skin blushes. "Please give it to him," I entreat, hand her the inscribed note, grab the sushi, turn, and shuffle towards the door with clacking heels.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office

I tilt my head, blink my eyes, lean back and frown at the big fat man who just waddled into my office. This man in his purple polo shirt with armpit stains, khaki pants hung low under his fat belly, holding a bag of Cheetos, crunching and chewing, plastic crinkling, and with orange on his right-hand fingers, seems so out of place here. I don't want this. Him crumbing my office. Look, what I am about to say may offend some. It's a fair criticism. To call me a hypocrite about this. I'm flawed and gross in many ways. My anxiety, social problems, and strange sexuality. There are aspects about me that many would find unhealthy and off-putting. So, when I say I dislike fat people, I don't convey I think I am better than them. It is just a particular vice that I as an individual do not like. I've always closely managed my own diet and stayed thin. I studied nutrition in college. My dream job was to work in the school system and get healthier foods for the kids to eat. Instead, I end up here feeding my older boss coffee alongside many other little favors.

He crunches chips, stares at me, licks his lips, and pants. His eyes are glued to the exposed cleavage of my breasts as they hang out of my long-sleeved black and white checkered Ferragamo dress. I wear underneath black Mila lingerie, a garter belt, dark stockings, gold Tiffany bangle, and charcoal Blahnik heels. He holds out his stained right hand towards me. I stare at his hand. "I don't think we've met luv," he says with a wink still staring at my boobs. "I'd never forget. A gal like you."

My lips curl, throat tightens, and nose wrinkles. "Uhm, who are you?" I ask still grimacing. The lewd way he ogles me is repulsive.

He snorts loudly, shrugs, scratches at his ass with his strained fingers, and causes the right leg of his trousers to ride up on his leg. "You must be new here if you don't know who I am," he brags. "I'm the Consumer Safety Officer assigned to Vanholt. Everything your company does. It's got to have my seal of approval." The bag crinkles and he crunches on chips.

How could a man this fat and gross oversee the regulation of food and drugs? I feel queasy watching him eat while enduring his sleazy leering. My mind recalls when I applied for his job. They interviewed me. The FDA. I would have loved working there. Helping to protect people. It went poorly. I got anxious and it was awkward. They didn't offer me the job. I sigh.

"I came here to talk to Brad," he says as he licks grease off his fat stubby fingers. "But I don't mind it. Sitting in here a while. Shooting the shit with you luv." He winks at me again.

My hands briefly squeeze, eyes narrow, and jaw clenches. "I'm sorry, but no," I say. "This is a private office. I don't care you're FDA. You're not on my list of expected visitors. If you want to leave your name and phone--"

"Nah, Brad and I go way back," he thwacks my desk with his Cheeto stained hand as he walks right past me crinkling his bag. My sleek white desk smudges.

I stand, follow, clack my heels, and pester him, "Hey. You can't go back there. This is trespass. You don't have a warrant." I grab him by the shoulder.

He finally turns around, leers at me face to face, and grabs my left boob through my dress in squeezes it roughly with his chubby right hand. "Did I get you hot and bothered, luv?" he asks, smirks at me and chuckles.

I yelp, slap his hand, tighten my face and frown. My eyes spot Mr. Bentley standing in the doorway between our offices. He grins. "This man just assaulted me!" I accuse. He does not react. "He disrespects us behaving like this, Chief. Let me call Fleming. You and I can watch him get thrown out of the building together."

Mr. Bentley rolls his eyes at me. "This is Peter Petrosky," he introduces. "You hassled him and grabbed him first. Besides, he and I go way back. Here's a lesson for you as Executive Assistant. I used to hate outside meddling from the state as a corporate manager. Then I learned the secret. Treat the government as your partner. Same as it is with kids. It's easier to discipline the children. When you act properly as husband and not as antagonists. All it takes is a strong relationship, good communication, and adherence to certain wifely duties. Besides sweetheart, those tits of yours are company property and frankly I'm the only one with a proper right to decide who does what with them. Now sit down in your little chair. Shut the fuck up and pout like a little bitch while I catch up with my old friend in my office."

I do as he says, clack back, sit and pout in my chair. Of course, he has to side with that fat bastard and not me. My teeth clench. Shouldn't he be jealous or something? I breathe through my nose. He is right. These breasts are his. He really ought to take better care of them. I fiddle with my Tiffany bangle underneath my left sleeve. The sound of roaring laughter emanates from his closed office door. God what does he seen in him? Chief is always so stylish in his swanky suits, handsome cologne, and his manly V shaped body. Why would he waste his time with such a fat schlub?

After a while in his office, the two men emerge both grinning at me. "Sorry `bout before luv," Petrosky says as he places a Chanel bag on the desk in front of me.

My eyes narrow at the bag, head tilts, and face frowns. I recognize the bag from earlier this week when my boss had taken me shopping. Were they trying to make fun of me or something? I feel Mr. Bentley step behind me. His hands rub my shoulders through the sleeves of my dress. I wish this fat prick would hurry up and leave and let me be alone with my handsy boss. A large breath escapes my mouth, my right eyebrow raises, and I reach for the bag. "What the fuck is this?" I ask as I pull out the largest tub of Vaseline I've ever seen.

Both men burst into obnoxious laughter. Mr. Bentley massages me, leans in, and whispers into my ear, "C'mon sweetheart, don't be a little tease today. Remember, you work for me. You have to do what I tell you to do. You're my Executive Assistant after all. There's a reason your salary is high. I let you live in my house and sleep in my bed. The clothes you wear, the food in your stomach, the shampoo that I squirted into your hair this morning, it's all from me. Sometimes in this line of work you have to grease a few palms. You haven't complained before about it. Getting all lubed up. Treat Pete here like you did me on my birthday. No reason for you to make this any harder than it needs to be. Help out the company by bribing a fed with that nasty mouth of yours."

My eyes widen as Petrosky stares intensely at my glossed lips. His mouth is watering. I swallow, tense my arms and legs, glance around the room, grimace, and slowly whisper, "I can't do that. Chief, I follow your orders and let you use my body because... Well, I crush on you and enjoy the romance. If having you threaten me, hit me, and do all the other things you do is what it takes to get that, I'll endure it for you. But please don't make me do this Chief. Those intimate moments were always meant to be between you and me and us alone. I can't just whore myself out to a stranger like that. It's too much. If you need a prostitute, I can get you one. With the office computer or if you'd prefer, I can pull up on your phone--"

Mr. Bentley removes his class ring from his right hand, slips it into his jacket pocket, slaps me so hard I fall over sideways and my torso sprawls over my sleek white desk. "She acts this way sometimes so that I'll hit her." he says in a calm, unemotional voice. "Go ahead and lock the door while I blindfold her. I don't want anyone walking in and seeing what we're doing in here."

I feel disoriented. Cloth stretches up against my aching face. All I see is yellow spirals. There is the familiar metal click of my front office door locking. My ears detect ruffling followed by a sliding noise. I wince, clench my teeth, and prepare for him to strike me with his belt. He does not hit me. His hands clamp around my wrists, pulls them behind my back and I feel his leather band twist around my wrists It tightens, and my joints hurt. I struggle to free my hands but fail. My body is lifted off my desk only to be slammed back down on top of it. I feel aching in my breasts.

I think of when I was in second grade. A neighbor, tall and strong like him. He punched me like an adult man punches another grown man, tossed me against the hard ground, then carried me across two acres to my parent's house while I screamed and cried with a black eye. His daughter had lied. Said I had pushed her off her bicycle. As I remember this, the blindfold feels moist. The last time my hands were like this was when I was in your bedroom. I wish I was there right now with you. Instead of here.

"You got to be a bit rough with this one," Mr. Bentley says as he holds my torso face down over my desk. "I know how you are. A breast man. Well, these tits of hers. Accounting paid for the surgeon. But the implants themselves, Vanholt made. Our latest and greatest from our in-house prosthetics division. Very realistic, natural voluptuous breasts. Here, help yourself. Inspect them. Make sure they're up to quality consumer standards." He lifts my torso up off from the desk as he grips my body tight.

My throat clears, mouth breaths shallowly, and stomach flutters. Fat rubbery fingers reach into my Ferragamo dress and grope at my large breasts through my bra. I shudder and feel prickling hair on my neck. My boss squeezes my left shoulder with his left hand as he too reaches into my dress and begins to unclasp my bra from the back. The cloth material slides out from the side and my big fake tits pop out of my dress and indecently jiggle. Fat fingers rub them, tweak my nipples, knead my skin, and squeeze my jugs with the exuberance of a teenage boy. Another set of hands joins in and now two men at once manhandle my body while I'm blindfolded and locked inside my own office. I feel my knees weaken, my cheeks burn, and my eyes water as I think about my new self. Not the stylish, elegant smelling Executive Assistant who wears expensive designer clothing, carries branded luxury handbags, and rides around in a Porsche. Instead, the slatternly tranny whore with sleazy hooker boobs who lets her boss slap her around, beat her with his belt, tie her up, and use her gross body as a cheap bribe.

They lift me, move my body, and shove me back over the desk with my chest facing the ground. One of their hands reaches up my dress and begins to pull down my gauzy black panties. "Please Chief, I'm begging you," I whimper. "Don't do this to me." The garment slides down my legs, a hand grabs my ankle, lifts the heel, and takes my underwear. "I'm using the magic word."

My desk drawer wooshes. "Here, take this and this and shut her up for me," Mr. Bentley orders. I try to stand only for them to slam my body back against my desk. I squeal, my mouth is covered by fat fingers, and I bite down as hard as I can and taste Cheetos. My throat gags and my stomach roils. His hand overpowers my jaw and I feel him shove something musky down my throat that reminds me of penis. I assume it's my panties. There is an extended ripping noise, and something adheres over my mouth. It sticks to my face, and I can't part my lips. My nose smells ozone.

"Damn, this bitch is hot and feisty," Petrosky says as he pats my taped-up mouth. "It was hard for me to believe it. When you sent me those before and after photos. This... guy, girl, whatever. He was really married to a woman before?" I feel someone's finger rub up and down the slit of my ass.

"Still is," Mr. Bentley responds, smirks, and chuckles.

God, stop talking about her.

"And you got him do all of this?" Petrosky asks. I feel fat fingers rub my small cock and it grows hard. "Even the big boobies?" My ribs squeeze together.

"Uh huh," Mr. Bentley confirms. "All part of our soon to be patented treatment plan. That's why I extended an invitation to you. I know how you are. You prefer a hands-on approach. Things are going so well. I'd hate for any red tape to slow us down. So go ahead and have a round with her. I'll join you when I'm good and ready."

What is he talking about? Maybe it's some inside joke between the two of them.

"Has she been with two guys before?" Petrosky asks.

Mr. Bentley snickers. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe. She was booked into jail a couple weeks ago. Dressed in heels and lingerie. Those big fat tits of hers hanging out of her dress. My guess is they ran trains on her in there all night. She probably got pimped out to all sorts of men. Knowing her she must've loved every second of it."

I obviously never told him the truth about what happened after my arrest. If he knew what I really did... Well, let's just say he wouldn't have the smug look on his face that he probably does now.

"Well, I suppose I should ensure things are nice and safe for the consumer," Petrosky says. "Don't mind me, luv. Just let me see what I got to work with here." My dress lifts and I feel fat hands spoon my ass and rub at my exposed cheeks. I squirm and try to standup. I feel his hand cup over my hard penis and give it a firm squeeze. "Hand me the Vaseline and pin her down for me."

Strong hands push my torso down hard against the desk and hold me there. I hear a plastic lid crack open. Barely through the musky odor of my panties and the ozone of the tape do I smell a tinge of his smokey cologne. My asshole puckers as I await a finger. It never comes. I feel a huge disgusting glob of wax smear sordidly across my ass and over my hole. The entire palm of his hand must have been coated with the stuff. Like he dunked his entire fist in the tub. "Mmm, mmm hmm!" my mouth tries to object but no words make it past the makeshift gag in my mouth. "Hold on luv, Big Papa will be coming inside you soon," he taunts. "Just let me get you nice and greasy for the party we're about to have."

His fat fingers spread Vaseline all over my ass before he sticks a thick greasy finger inside and begins waxing up my insides. For all the petroleum jelly he spread on my ass, he doesn't take his time inside there. Already I feel him search around for it. My little lumpy walnut gland. Finally, his finger freezes up. He must have found it. His plump digit pokes it, and he forces my mouth to attempt to open only to fail due to the gag, my body to shiver, and my throat to gasp. "Looks like your all mine now luv," he says with a chuckle, and I feel his fat body press up against my torso as he leans over me and licks the left side of my face. His breath smells foul like vinegar.

My body betrays me with its trembling. God, I really don't want to enjoy this. The reality is that I could be getting a root canal and if the dentist shoved a finger in my ass and played me like that, I'd melt in the chair and moan as if I'm his servile slavewife. At least this blindfold meant I wouldn't have to see him while he does what he wants with my weak, feminized body.

I hear pants unzip and I thrash as violently as I possibly can and briefly lift myself off the desk. My boss's strong hands push back hard against the back of my shoulders, my torso slams against its white lacquered surface, and my little lemon is squeezed even harder against the finger inside my ass through the force of momentum. All the tension in my body vanishes, goosebumps spread across my entire arms and legs, warmth overcomes me, and everything's slack.

"Sweetheart, you really think your hot shit all of a sudden?" Mr. Bentley taunts. "Your fancy job title, the luxurious clothing and fashion accessories, getting waited on hand and foot by me, and the expensive set of tits the company paid for. Remember I hired you for this position. Transformed you from the dorky henpecked dweeb you were into a beautiful, sexy, buxom woman. Face it, before me you were a fucking loser, Jamie. I'm all you have. Your wife's moved on by now. Probably shacking up with another guy as we speak. Hell, I bet she was already cheating on you before all this happened. Now stop with this bullshit and embrace the fact that you're a weak and passive woman. Let me make decisions for you. If I want to whore you out to the federal government, well that's a privilege I've damn well earned at this point."

Nothing he said rings false to me.

The hand pinning my left shoulder lifts, something fast and hard strikes the right-side of my face, my ears hear a loud slap noise, and I feel dizziness, breathlessness, and pain. The blindfold soaks and muted crying is barely audible through my taped mouth. I breathe shallowly, swallow obviously, and hunch my shoulders. My body remains hopelessly slack and perilously pliable from my overwhelmed prostate. His fat finger slides out of me, and I hear the plastic container lid unscrew again. My ears detect a plop noise followed by rubbing. I stare and all I see are yellow spirals against a black background. He is a big fat man. Probably has a tiny baby dick. I know enough about nutrition to understand that bodyfat raises estrogen. He's on female hormones just like me. Fat hands spread my ass cheeks. I do nothing. Chief is right, I'm weak and passive. No denying it. There's nothing I can do. He penetrates my ass with his hard penis. Fuck, it doesn't feel small at all. It's inside of me now and it's big, long and girthy.

"That's it luv," Petrosky gloats. "No point in resisting it. Your nasty cunt is going to want what it wants. It gave zero resistance." He mounts me and I feel his fat stomach press up against my lower back. He pumps his cock inside my body, spreads my asscheeks with his fat fingers, wiggles it around, squeezes my gland with his hard penis like a lime in his tequila glass, and wafts his musky body odor all over my sleek corporate office. The area around my desk reeks of male body sweat both my own and especially that from his own fat folds. Every time he pounds against it, I shiver, and my taped mouth absorbs a moan or a gasp. "That's right, let Big Papa give you a nice deep dicking." Exactly as he just said, he begins pounding me my with his penis and it feels very pleasurable and fun.

"She's nice and sedated now," Mr. Bentley says as his grip on the back of my shoulders loosens. The hands lift from my body. "See?" he says before chuckling. His hands grope my large breasts as the fat man fucks my slutty cunt. "I'm going to give you a second chance. Keep in mind my big ring is still in my pocket. Just in case you get the thought in your head of screaming." My face sticks to the tape as he tears it off from my face. I spit the musky panties out of my mouth and am left with an unpleasant nylon texture inside my mouth. I heave and struggle to regain breath. "Just like on my birthday, sweetheart." He doesn't wait for me and pushes his big cock inside of my mouth. I could bite it. Jolt up suddenly. Try to escape from the penis lodged inside me, squeezing my little lime, and forcing me to shiver and submit like a hedonist. My shoulders slump, jaw loosens, arms go limp, face sags, and I dutifully suck his stiff prick just how he likes it. My body feels numb all over.

Like a lifeless chunk of meat, the two men spit roast fuck me from each side of the desk. With my eyes blind, all other senses are heightened. The sweat on my body, the pleasurable shivering, squeezing, and painful pushing inside my asshole, the overwhelming smell of man musk, and the hard throbbing of my boss's warm, hard cock squeezing between my lips and up against my moist tongue. My own penis throbs. I fantasize about all three of us coming together, Mr. Bentley creaming my mouth, myself shooting on the terrazzo floor, Petrosky inseminating my vulnerable asshole, and my stomach heaves at the thought. The disgust subsides and I feel my full body experience an intense orgasm with pleasure flowing all over me. God, Chief is right. I'm such a nasty slut.

"Oh luv..." Petrosky says in raspy voice followed by a purring moan. "You're shivering all over. You love Big Papa's fat penis inside you, huh?"

Mr. Bentley chuckles as I slurp up and down on his hard veiny cock. "Don't be insolent," he scolds. "Apologize to our guest for being rude earlier and thank him for the great time he is giving you right now."

I feel my boss's hard cock pull back out of my mouth followed by wet plopping noise. A moan immediately escapes out of my lips followed by a gasp. "I-I'm sorry..." I say as my chin trembles and cheeks burn. The blindfold feels wet against my face. "I love your fat penis, Big papa." My knees feel weak and my throat thick. "Unh, feel free..." I moan again. "To stop by my office whenever, ohhh yes." It feels so big and hard inside of me. "I'll let you do whatever nasty things you want to me." I pant.

"Mmm, that's more like it," Petrosky purrs as he pounds my helpless asshole. He thrusts hard and I feel his thick cock deep inside of my slack body. "I always wanted to, unh, fuck a shemale." His throbbing penis pounds in and out of me. He slaps my ass hard with his fat hand and I feel my cheeks jiggle before my body writhes in pain only to then shiver in pleasure. "Luv, there are so many nasty things I'm going to make you do over the next few months." I feel his hand wrap around my penis and begin to stroke it back and forth. It's rock hard and his fat fingers pumping back and forth across it feels so damn good. My mouth hangs open and I pant.

"Yes, fuck me Papa, unh, make me come, come inside me," I beg obediently and whore myself out to him. "You too Chief. Put it in my mouth, unh, please." I gasp and moan. "Come in my nasty mouth, unh. Like when you tricked me on your birthday." I feel Chief's hard penis slide back into my wet mouth and I hungrily slurp on it. There is a familiar warmth and comfort sucking his penis brings to me. The feeling is fleeting, however. I want so badly to romance Chief. I'd love to hug him, cook for him, give him on demand blowjobs, and fuck him all night long. He can tie me up, beat me with his belt, whatever he wants. But he doesn't love me. I'm not his girlfriend. I'm his nasty office whore and weird science experiment. I think of all those times I jerked off to male-male-female threesome porn. All I can sense through the blindfold is slurping, flesh pounding against flesh, the taste of sweaty cock, and an intense odor of masculine sweat and body odor. My nose wrinkles and I feel nauseous.

Suddenly I am in a daze running on autopilot. I am not sure how many times exactly the fat man pounded my little walnut with his hard penis or how long I slurped on my boss's veiny cock. However, I suspect both men took their sweet time enjoying my subservient, tranced out, feminized body. Suddenly I feel fat hands grab my hips firmly and Petrosky's hard penis push hard inside of me in a way that felt very masculine and determined. I am certain he wants to and intends on shooting lots of his come inside of my body.

The man works for the FDA, Chief told him I probably fucked many guys when I was supposedly in the jail recently, and yet he didn't even bother to wear a condom before sticking his fat penis inside of me. There's nothing I can do though so I relax my body and let him have what he wants. His cock throbs and I can feel him spray his warm come deep inside of my sore anal cavity. This is the third man to come inside my ass this month. That thought along with his sensation of his fat hand stroking my penis causes me to come as well on to the office floor. I will have to get the spray bottle and clean that up after this. God forbid anyone ever shines a black light on Chief and I's offices. We've exchanged so much of our come in these offices.

I feel Mr. Bentley's hard pole slide out of my mouth. I don't understand. I wanted him to come in my mouth. My hope was to swallow his big load. The blind fold lifts and light floods my eyes and it is overwhelmingly bright. I'm blinded briefly before regaining focus. As my eyes adjust, I see Mr. Bentley's large penis dangling in front of my face as his hands rapidly jerks back and forth across the soaking wet, veiny shaft. "Wait!" I yell but it's too late. Fat globs of my boss's masculine semen shoot out the tip and I feel warm come all over my face and hair. I close my eyes and it just keeps coming and I even taste some of it on my glossed lips. A few large sticky wads land on my big fake hooker boobs as well. It felt warm and smelled musky.

Both men burst out into riotous laughter. Who could blame them? I must look so stupid. My face glazed with my boss's gooey white come over my ran over makeup from the sweat and tears and my disheveled hair with sticky clumps of semen in it. As Petrosky pulls out from my ass, I feel a bit of his own warm come leak outside my sore asshole and run down my thigh. I turn my head and see him pull a cell phone out of his khaki pants. As our eyes make contact, he smirks at me and says, "Hold on luv, just let me get a little memento to remember you by." He points the camera lens in my direction.

"No, I don't want any photos of me like this!" I insist, swallow hard, duck my chin in, and cover my big boobs with my hands.

"Excuse me, your body is company property," Mr. Bentley scolds, smirks at me, and puffs out his chest. "I own you and make decisions for you. You don't get a say. Peter gave you a really nice time right now. The evidence is on the floor underneath your desk. You loved every minute of it. This man has earned his trophy." Mr. Bentley extends his arm towards Petrosky and takes the phone. "Let me do the honors. Ok sweetheart, get down on your knees and pretend like Peter just blew that nasty load in your face.

"Please, don't make me do this," I beg in a quiet voice as my body rocks slightly and my hands tremble.

"You will do it or I'm going to tie you to that desk half-dressed and you can spend the rest of the day like that with no access to the bathroom."

My eyes fill with tears as I struggle not to cry. I deserve this after enjoying all the gross things I allowed them to do inside of me. No woman would allow two men to treat her this way. Not only did I fail as a man now I've failed as a woman. Slowly, I scoot my sore body off the desk. I crawl on my knees, both hands still bound behind my back by Mr. Bentley's belt. My big boobs crudely stick out and feel sticky from all the come. Finally, I position my head next to Petrosky's flaccid penis dangling under his fat beer belly.

"Spread your legs luv, I want your little girl dick in the picture," Petrosky requests. "This'll be perfect for my report. The one on Vanholt's soon to be patented process. It'll make for a nice contrast to your employee picture prior to your transition."

"Good idea," Mr. Bently adds before chuckling. "Ok sweetheart, enough with the pouty face. Show me the expression you had on the face when that girlcock of yours jizzed all over the floor a minute ago. C'mon now. Don't make me hit you again."

I sigh dejectedly before plastering on a smile. I close my eyes slightly and look incredulous like I just experienced a pleasant surprise. Petrosky's fat right hand grips his big penis and points it at my face as if he had just blew a huge load all over my sticky semen glazed face. My stomach knots and ribs squeeze together, and I feel my cock get hard again. Mr. Bentley smirks as he takes photos of me on my knees, hands bound, my disheveled face and hair covered in come and runny makeup, hooker boobs sticking out and also stained with jizz, my cock rock hard and erect, face fake smiling, all next to Petrosky's fat protruding belly and girthy schlong.

1. My House

As you pull into my driveway, you see the lawn is overgrown and full of weeds. You kill your police SUV's engine and open the car door, the dashboard beeps repeatedly, and you feel the chilly morning air. The ignition key clicks and the beeping stops and when you hop out of the driver's seat door, your boots thud against the concrete driveway. It's misty outside and you can see leaves falling from some of the large trees around my yard. The neglected lawn makes you wonder if the house has been abandoned.

You approach the front door, stare at the doorbell, raise one of your fists and knock loudly against it. A minute elapses. The door creaks and opens slightly and my wife peers out. "What do you want?" she asks, narrows her eyes at you, and presses her lips flat.

"Ma'am, I don't know if you remember me," you say as you stare at her expressionless through aviator sunglasses. "I was at the police station the night your husband was the subject of a DUI investigation. I saw you there, but I don't think I introduced myself."

"Are you looking for him?" she asks as her arms cross over her chest. "My husband?"

"Yes," you respond quickly before slowing your speech and continuing, "do you know where he is?" You stare at the knob on the front door.

"Well, he hasn't been here for months," my wife says with a shrug of her shoulders. "I haven't spoken to him since that day at the station. I have no idea where he is. Honestly, I've moved on and don't want anything to do with him. I've been waiting a while now to file for divorce."

"Waiting for what?" you ask as you tilt your head to the side.

She hesitates before responding, "His direct deposit to stop." A yawn escapes from her mouth.

"Has he been active using the account?" you ask as your hands lock together and remain still.

"No, not at all," my wife answers as she examines the painted nails on her right hand. "Not in months."

You look away from my wife as you push on your diaphragm. After pausing, you continue, "You're not... concerned at all about that?"

My wife shrugs her shoulders. "He shouldn't have been messing around behind my back," she says. "Why should I care when he didn't care about me?"

1. Police Station -- Interrogation of Dr. Anne Welker

You walk into the interrogation room. The door loudly clangs when it is shut. On the other side of the room is Dr. Anne Walker. She sits laid back in her chair with her legs spread. She wears a white lab coat over a yellow blouse and tan pants. There is a smirk on her face. "Is everything ok doctor?" you ask.

Dr. Welker chuckles. "I'm fine," she says. "I did an internship in medical school at the state prison. You may be surprised to know that this isn't the first time that I've been locked in a room with a murderer."

You stare at her in silence, completely expressionless. The quiet persists. A minute goes by.

Dr. Welker avoids eye contact and rolls her shoulders.

"Where's Jamie Peterson?" you ask, finally breaking the silence.

"I don't know," Dr. Welker says before pushing her hair back.

"He works for your company, right?" you ask and lean forward towards her.

"No, not anymore," she answers and thumbs her nose like a violin.

"Any reason his wife reports still receiving paychecks from Vanholt corporation?" you ask.

Dr. Welker shrugs. "I don't know, an accounting error?" she suggests and rubs her nose.

"Have you ever prescribed drugs to Jamie?" you ask and bury your head into a case folder.

"I'm not answering anymore questions about Jamie Peterson," Dr. Welker says. "I invoke my right to remain silent to anything involving that... man."

"Doctor, I'm just trying to locate a missing person here," you explain. "His wife and family are worried sick." You cough. "Besides, if you don't cooperate, I'm going to find out the answers to these questions anyway. I'm going to subpoena all of Vanholt's employment records. Obtain copies of all the prescriptions issued under your DEA license. One way or the other. I'm going to find out what happened here."

Dr. Welker chuckles and leans her head back before escalating to full-throated laughter. "God, your dense," Dr. Welker mocks. "This investigation of yours is a joke. If you think you're going to obtain any of those things you're deluded. I'd be surprised if you're still employed as an officer a week from now. You have no idea how big of a mistake you're making right now. It's ok though, it couldn't have happened to a more deserving murderer." She sneers at you.

"Are you trying to threaten me?" you ask as your face remains expressionless.

"What is this all about, officer?" Dr. Welker asks and crosses her right leg over her left. "A piddly DUI investigation? You really think that's going to be your golden ticket? A license to launch some sort of grand fishing expedition into Vanholt? Getting involved in business matters you don't even understand. Let me ask you this, officer. The lab test you ran on Jamie Peterson's blood. It came back positive for amphetamines, right? Did you know the U.S. air force used to administer amphetamines to its pilots? The reason is that it improved their reactions. They could fly better. Yet you want to investigate me, Jamie, and my company which donates millions of pharmaceuticals every year to developing countries over this? Just more proof that the state never squanders an opportunity to waste taxpayer money. I doubt your superiors would approve of it. You investing so much time and resources into such quixotic nonsense."

"You should stay in your lane, doctor," you scold, smirk at her, and crack your knuckles. "It's illegal to drive under the influence. Jamie failed my sobriety tests. The drugs you've been giving him. They put him at risk. The public as well. He could have crashed his car. Killed someone."

Dr. Welker snorts, smirks at you, clasps her hands together, and leans forward. "Oh yes, the sobriety tests," she says in a mocking tone. "Officer, when you traumatized poor anxious Jamie with your tests. When you ruined his marriage. Let him leave your police station suicidal begging me for my assistance. Did you have him perform the tests while he was wearing high heels?" She leans back, stares intently at you, sneers, and oddly giggles. "He didn't have any other types of shoes when I picked him up after you abandoned him on the streets. You're that incompetent, aren't you? As reckless as you were that night you slaughtered those racial equity activists."

You pause before pretending to look for something in your file folder.

"Uh huh," Dr. Welker confirms, nods her head, and adopts a knowing grin on her face. "You're a keystone cop. An imbecile. You'd throw someone into jail for taking something that improved her driving because she failed to walk in a straight line while wearing high heels. What a joke. All to push a new front in the fascist drug war."

You cross your arms over your chest. "I don't know if you get out much doctor," you begin as you rub your chin with your right thumb and forefinger. "The whole hugs for drugs, bleeding heart, compassion for junkie bullshit hasn't been all too successful as of recently. The streets and the morgue have never been fuller. I think you're out of touch, doctor. Too much time in the corporate boardroom. It's been too long since you practiced real medicine. It doesn't surprise me though. One of America's most prolific drug dealers thinks drugs should be legal. You call me a murderer. How many people have committed suicide after taking the dope you deal?"

"I remember the first time I became aware of you," Dr. Welker recalls as she fidgets in the metal interrogation room chair. "That headline. White police officer open fires on crowd protesting racial injustice. That's your legacy. Honestly, it's the legacy of all police officers. Besides, aren't you aware that Jamie is transgendered? Shouldn't that be a cue for your types to stop giving a fuck?"

"It doesn't matter what Jamie's gender or sexuality is; I just want to make sure she is safe," you respond quietly, bite your lip, and clear your throat.

Dr. Welker pauses and studies you. Her head tilts to the side, eyebrows slightly raise, and a smile slowly builds on her face. "I see, I see" she murmurs. "You know officer, sexuality does matter. Gender matters. Like I said, I have no idea where Jamie Peterson is. So, I'm speaking hypothetically. Maybe he got into trouble at work. Got voluntold to participate in a new experimental program. A radical approach that can change someone's gender and sexuality even against his own will and desires."

You lean forward, body trembling, your eyes firmly focused on Dr. Welker's. "And how would you do something like that?" you ask.

Dr. Welker grins knowingly and nods her head. "We're already hardwired for sex," she says. "It's the opioid receptor in our brains. It activates when we orgasm. If you can control someone's opioid receptor, you can control their orgasm. If you control their orgasm, you can condition them. Of course, lots of other techniques can help accelerate the process. High doses of estrogen can alter sexuality. Optimal testosterone keeps sex drive high. Amphetamines boost libido and performance. Synthetic MDMA derivatives can cause someone to emotionally bond easier with people and make them more suggestive and easily persuaded. There's even a new technique. A potent dopamine receptor agonist. One that suppresses prolactin, boosts sex drive, causes harder erections, and eliminates the male refractory period. At high doses it may even compel the patient into extreme, uncontrollably compulsive sexual behavior. At that point they'll do anything we want them to."

As the doctor speaks, your carefully guarded expression crumbles. Your eyes narrow, jaw clenches, and you grimace. "So, you're controlling her with these drugs and hormones," you accuse with a growl. "Treating her as your pet science project. Forcing her to do things against her will. You said it yourself."

Dr. Welker leans back in her chair and smirks. "I'm not a fascist like you, officer," she condescends. "I believe in the non-aggression principle. Like I said before, I have no idea where Jamie is. But if she was hypothetically participating in such a program, I'm sure she would have agreed to everything in writing ahead of time. It's not my fault if people don't read the fine print. As George Fitzhugh once said, some were born with saddles on their backs, and others booted and spurred to ride them. Some people are destined to become rich and famous doctors, CEOs, and billionaires. Others are perpetual doormats who will always let people walk all over them. Secretaries or..." Her eyes narrow as they focus on you. "Government goons."

"This is your last chance doc, put me into contact with Jamie," you demand before slamming your fist down on the metal table. It bangs hard, your fist bleeds, and a few scarlet drops drip onto the tabletop. "If you don't, I swear I'm going to get the broadest search warrant that's ever been signed by a judge in this county, bring an army of cops with me, and I will investigate you and your bullshit for the rest of my career." You seethe, snarl, and your body quakes. "This country still has laws. The people. They're pissed. Furious at what companies like yours have gotten away with recently. Vanholt's impunity has never been on frailer grounds."

"Maybe so but if Vanholt is on thin ice, drug warriors like yourself are drowning in freezing water," Dr. Welker says with eyes gleaming behind her colorful frames before she stretches her shoulders. "So many states are legalizing drugs. And I'm not just talking about marijuana. The wind is clearly blowing in one direction. And it's not the one your sailboat is headed for. People will always fight for more of it. Freedom. It's my destiny. Like Roark or Taggart. I will ride the waves of this new front. Liberty will defeat tyranny. People will remember me for the emancipations my grand vision and boundless ambition will bring to this world. You..." She wrinkles her nose and rubs her right wrist with her left hand. "If any record of you exists in the future. It will be this. Officer Holtz. Racist, white supremacist, murderer."

Your left hand grips the left temple of your sunglasses, and you pull them down to the tip of your nose so that Dr. Welker can see the intensity of your gaze. "I predict a very different future, doctor," you say, discard your poker face, and adopt a wicked scowl. "One in which I rescue Jamie from whatever mind control you're subjecting her to. She walks free while you rot away in prison for the rest of your life. Maybe you're right. The drug war. It could be a losing battle. But saving someone's life from someone as evil as you. That's a cause that is worth fighting no matter what."

Dr. Welker chuckles before leaning back in her chair and smirking at you. "Keep dreaming," she dismisses. "Are we done here? I've got a trillion-dollar company to help run."

"Just one more question, doctor," you answer, press the sunglasses back up your nose and cover your eyes, and adopt a neutral expression. "When I stopped Jamie that night. She said something to me. That her company forced her to take female hormones. I didn't believe it. I'm still confused. I can't imagine any man who would agree to such a thing. Is there a drug you used to make him compliant?"

"Officer, of course I have no idea what you're talking about," she responds with her chin held high, shoulders held back, and a knowing grin on her face. "Hypothetically though. If you wanted the perfect test subject. One you could control with ease. It would be very easy. You see, as Chief Psychiatrist, one of my duties is to provide advice on forming corporate teams that are compatible on a psychological level. One tool at my disposal is the standard corporate personality test. If I wanted to, I could require all Vanholt employees across the country to conduct such a test to better synergize our operations. In theory, I could sort through those applicants. Identify those with the highest levels of introversion and social anxiety. Have the Chief Executive pick his personal favorite. Coax him with a huge pay raise and fancy job title to move to a new city where he'd inevitably take out a mortgage on a house. Then, with him now back on probation, find some pretext to take it all away. You know, people are way more psychologically averse to losses than they are excited for prospective gains. Someone like that. They'd be desperate to do anything to save their job."

You remove your sunglasses from your face revealing an intense, fevered stare. Your jaw clenches and you grind your teeth. A vein in your neck throbs as you stand up and prepare to lunge. "Forget prison," you snarl. "How about your grand ambitions ends splattered against that concrete wall behind you?" Your hands clench into fists, biceps bulge, and the hair at the back of your neck stands to attention.

Dr. Welker's face whitens, lips tremble, and her body wafts a musky feminine scent into the small, enclosed interrogation room. She swallows hard and visibly sweats. It would be so easy. You smashing her skull against that concrete wall until her brain falls out.

The door clangs open and Mr. Fackler enters the room. "This interrogation is over!" he demands. "My client invokes her right to remain silent and will not answer any more questions." As he looks at you and Dr. Welker, he blinks. "Anne... is everything ok?"

"I-I'm fine..." she lies.

You let out a huge breath, cross your arms across your police vest, and wink at her. "Fine counselor," you relent. "I already got everything I needed." You stare at Dr. Welker with a smirk on your face.

1. The Pinnacle Highrise Luxury Tower

The elevator dings.

My big boobs hang out of the opened top of my black and white Dior dress. As I enter the elevator, the sound of rustling echoes off the narrow confines of the elevator walls. I can barely fit all of them inside. The various designer shopping bags hanging off my shoulders, arms and hands. I had it all. Fragrances, dresses, lingerie to show off to Chief, jewelry, accessories, makeup, and knickknacks for our place. It feels cramped in the elevator as it whirs up and begins to rise towards our luxury high-rise apartment.

The doors woosh open and I step out. Thankfully our front door is unlocked. It would be so inconvenient. Having to put all these bags on the ground and find the key. The door clicks open, and I step inside the apartment. They're everywhere. The entire apartment is filled with shopping bags. I've been so busy recently. It's a bit much but I just get such a rush shopping. God, I want to be stylish for him. Femme for him. I want to be so sexy for him and have him fuck me so much. Suck his dick and ride him all night. I want him to come inside me again and again. And I want to go shopping and buy more clothes and perfume and naughty underwear.

I catch something in the corner of the eye before there is a loud cracking noise followed by searing pain against the back right-side of my head. I collapse on to the ground and my hands touch the cold white granite as all the shopping bags tumble off my arms and fall to the ground and crackling. "Ahh!" I yelp, wince, and begin to sob.

"Where is it!?" Mr. Bentley yells, flares his nostrils, and steadies his right wrist with his left hand as he rotates his right palm. "Give it to me. Now. Either that I will beat you until you're bleeding on my floor. You'll be chained to the toilet until tomorrow morning. This isn't a fucking game, whore. You don't steal from me. Not ever."

He eyes my Fendi handbag on the ground and quickly grabs it. His rough fingers violently ruffle through it.

"I'm sorry Chief, I couldn't help it!" I plead. "Don't chain me. Take me to our bedroom. Punish me there. Use your belt. Or the riding crop, please! I have new lingerie. Please, let me fuck you Chief. I will make you come again and again. Please, I just want to fuck you so bad. It's all I think about. It's not right. It's what you get for leaving me alone with it. Depriving me of your cock, Chief. I'm sorry I took it. I want to be your nasty slut and have you come all over my body, again and again."

He yanks his credit card out of my handbag and lets out a huge breath. As he gazes at all the shopping bags covering the floors and counters, he shakes his head, pinches his face together, and grimaces. Finally, he looks down and sees me whimpering on the floor below. "Fine, pick a bag with lingerie and go get dressed for me. Handcuff yourself to my armchair. When I am done with my shower, I expect you to be on your knees with your mouth wide open."

"Of course!" I agree loudly, adopt a wide grin, and bounce up off the ground. My eyes sparkle as my heels clack against his granite floor, and I pick up one of the bags I had just purchased. I can't wait to femme for him and let him beat me up and fuck me senseless.

1. Police Station

"Hey, Holtz, the lieutenant wants you in his office pronto," the police aide tells you while you pass her by. The station is busy and the sound of footsteps, clanging doors, phones ringing, and various people speaking fills the air.

"I was just heading over there," you say as you adjust your aviator sunglasses. Clutched in your left arm is a draft search warrant you've been working on for days. One that, if signed by a judge, would allow you to search for me in the Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division's executive offices. Your boots tap against the tiled station floor as you walk.

The door to the lieutenant's office creaks open. When you enter, you're surprised that there are already two men seated. One of them is handsome and well groomed, dressed in a suit. You notice something. A holstered handgun to his side. The other man is big and fat, snacking on potato chips, wearing a baby blue polo shirt, and a pair of khakis. He appears unarmed.

"This is Officer Holtz," the lieutenant introduces. "Go ahead and have a seat."

You sit in a chair adjacent to the other two men, clutch your drafted search warrant in your left arm, and stare expressionless at the lieutenant.

"Gentleman, why don't you introduce yourselves?" the lieutenant asks.

The man in the suit speaks first, "Special Agent Boulder with the Federal Bureau of Investigation." The man extends his arm towards you and shakes your hand. You and he are both blank faced.

"Peter Petrosky, Food and Drugs," says the other man. You shake his fat hand and its greasy from the potato chips. As you look at him, you notice a smirk on his face.

"We're here to request that you stop any further investigation into Vanholt," Special Agent Boulder explains. "There is already an ongoing federal investigation. Pharmaceuticals are under the exclusive jurisdiction of the FDA."

You close your eyes behind your sunglasses briefly before letting out a large breath. "You misunderstand," you explain. "I'm not investigating pharmaceuticals. I'm trying to locate a Vanholt employee who went missing following a DUI investigation.

"And who was it exactly that reported this person missing?" Special Agent Boulder asks as he leans forwards towards you and stares.

"Well, uhm, I guess I'm the one who discovered him missing," you respond and grip your hands together.

The lieutenant raises his eyebrows at you.

"Uh huh, I see," Special Agent says and nods. "Well, I'm afraid even if it isn't the drugs you're investigating, you interrogated a senior executive with the company. This Dr. Anne Welker. She herself is being federally investigated along with several others in corporate leadership positions. The FBI itself is involved. I'm afraid under the supremacy clause, our investigation takes priority."

"Bullshit!" you object, stand up from your chair and shake your finger at Special Agent Boulder. "Jamie is in danger. I don't care about your white-collar bullshit investigation. We're talking about a human being here!"

"You better stay in your lane, luv," Petrosky demands, stands up from his chair, crinkles his potato chip bag, and gets in your face.

"How does such a fat fuck asshole work for the FDA?" you yell in his face, flare your nostrils, and shove him back away from you. He stinks of sweaty body odor, and you notice stains underneath his armpits.

"You fucking prick," Petrosky responds, raises his fists, and snarls.

"Break it up!" the lieutenant demands as he hurls his body over his desk and positions himself between you and the fat bastard. "No one fights in my office. Not ever. Stand down Holtz."

"But lieutenant," you plead.

"That's an order," the lieutenant demands. "Back the fuck off."

You step backwards, cross your arms over your police vest, and grimace at Special Agent Boulder and Petrosky.

"Look, I've called in so many favors for you," the lieutenant explains. "There were so many times where you faced the abyss only for me to save you. Like it or not, the federal government has priority over our investigations. We don't have the resources to launch some huge investigation into a pharmaceutical company anyways. Special Agent, you will look for this person, right? What was their name... Jamie, right?"

"Of course," Special Agent Boulder responds. When the lieutenant looks away, he winks at you. "We'll take care of this so you can focus on other things."

"Bullshit, you're lying." you say and growl. "You're here to protect Vanholt. You don't give a shit about Jamie. I'm investigating a kidnapping, a state crime. You don't have any legal basis to shut me down."

"I hoped it wouldn't come to this," Special Agent Boulder says as he scratches his nose with his left hand and conceals his mouth. He lifts a briefcase from the ground and clicks its two hinges open. His hand reaches inside and produces a stapled set of papers which he hands to you. "It's a restraining order. You're hereby prohibited from visiting any Vanholt corporate property or having any contact with Vanholt employees including Dr. Anne Welker and Jamie Peterson."

"This'll never hold up in court," you respond, narrow your eyebrows and snarl.

"Really? Because if you read it, you'll see a judge already signed off on it," Special Agent Boulder mocks before chuckling. "A federal judge."

"That's bullshit, the courts can't order me not to do something without giving me some sort of notice and a hearing," you dispute and tap your right foot against the tiled office floor.

Special Agent Boulder crosses his arms over his chest, shakes his head at you, and explains, "Not when it involves a matter of national security."

"How could a missing employee from a pharmaceutical company possibly be a national security issue?" you tilt your head and ask. "On what basis am I being ordered not to have contact with Vanholt?"

"I'd really like to tell you the whole story, officer," Special Agent Boulder teases as he rolls his eyes at you. "But I'm afraid you just don't have the proper security clearances. I'm sorry but it's simply not the case that you're entitled to know about everything that goes on in this country. We value our local law enforcement partners always. But some matters. They're for feds only. You're just going to have to leave this to us."

Your face reddens and an edgy laugh escapes your frowning lips. "You know what I think about this restraining order you just handed me?" You ask with flared nostrils. "It'll sure come in handy. Next time I'm squatting over a toilet. Taking a shit and needing something to wipe my ass with."

"Holtz, that's enough!" the lieutenant orders. "We're police officers. We're oath and duty bound to follow the law. I don't like the way the feds conduct their business sometimes. But we are not disobeying court orders. I've put my neck on the line before to defend you when it was not a popular thing to do. You need to listen to me right now. If you want to retire with the pension you deserve, you need to drop this investigation."

"You heard the lieutenant," Special Agent Boulder confirms and nods his head. "I'll look for Jamie. You should find something else to investigate. And hey, no hard feelings." He extends his arm and invites you to shake his hand.

You peer at his hand before looking back at his face. You do not shake it.

Special Agent Boulder withdraws his arm. "Ok, Peter, we're done here," Special Agent Boulder concludes before leaving the lieutenant's office.

"Don't worry luv," Petrosky says to you with the smirk still on his face. "This Jamie of yours. She's in good hands." He winks at you before leaving and slamming the office door shut behind him.

The lieutenant lets out a long sigh. "Be honest with me," he requests. "Are you back on the bottle?"

1. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- Executive Boardroom

Chief tugs my leash and I feel my Coach dog collar yank forward. I topple over and my body crumples against the cold, hard terrazzo floor. My hands are unable to brace for the fall as they're locked behind me in a squeaky nylon arm binder. I wear only a skimpy pair of Coco de Mar lingerie which most of my larges breast flesh hangs out of. I don't know what we were still doing here at the office. The lights are off and it's difficult to see.

"Stop wasting time," Mr. Bentley chides. "We've got a show to attend. If you think I'm carrying you, forget it. You can crawl. It'll be hard. You'll have to wiggle like a worm. Come now. Into the executive boardroom."

I try to do as he says. Worm my way forward. The armbinder squeaks as my body moves. My cock feels so hard against the rigid floor. He must want to fuck me in the executive boardroom. It makes a lot of sense. The table there is big. Sturdy too. I can hardly wait. To bend over that table and spread my asshole for him. I inch forward but the progress is slow.

Mr. Bentley chuckles. "We don't want to be late," he complains. His hand grabs the leash from the ground, and he begins to drag my body. I choke as he pulls me by the throat against the floor. It's a good thing I had the janitor clean the floors earlier today. I can still smell the lemon scented cleaning solution. He wears a white Thom Brown tuxedo with a black bowtie, white jacket, black vest, white dress shirt, and black and white pocket square.

"Come on sweetheart," he says, juts out his chin and sneers. "All the things I've trained you to do. The woman I've molded you into. Such a wonderful creation you've proven to be. Anne calls it a triumph of science and medicine. But you and I know different. How much more intimate of a process it really was. She didn't spend the quality time with you that I did. All those nights in the bedroom. Every time you sucked my cock while handcuffed to your little chair. The afternoons we spent together with you bent over that sleek white desk of yours. It's been such a joy. Beating you until you do what I want. But I'd be selfish. If I kept a gift like you for myself. Tonight, we will show the world what Project Janus can accomplish." He grins knowingly at me with a gleam in his eyes.

My lips tremble and I feel cold sweat on my body. It's true. I'm the one they experimented on. What was it Dr. Welker said during that meeting? That she could change someone's gender identity and sexuality. She was talking about me. This whole time. Chief wasn't romancing me. It never had anything to do with romantic love. They were trying to change me. Make me attracted to men. Turn me into a slutty femme woman. They want to commodify it. Sell it to consumers. Transgenderism on demand. I'm their proof of concept.

The meeting room door opens, and it's mostly dark except for the center of the conference table which is illuminated by rays of moonlight shining through the office windows. A projector whirs from above the table and produces a screen taking up an entire wall. It reveals an active conference call. Hundreds of people are attending. Most of them are just black squares. No cameras enabled. But I see a few men among the dark rectangles staring intently at their screens. Waiting for something. I guess for me. The only other person present in the room is Mr. Fackler wearing an off-white business suit. He sits on top of the conference table and taps his foot against the carpeted floor.

My Bentley bends over and grabs my shoulders with his strong hands. He lifts me off the ground and my entire body shivers and trembles. A clicking noise sounds as he undoes the leash from my Coach collar. I feel dizzy and my knees seem weak. My stomach knots and I debate running towards the exit. Mr. Bentley chuckles as he approaches the back of the conference table. He reaches into the shadows underneath the table and emerges holding a bottle of whisky and a glass. I squint and recognize it. The Yamazaki 25 single malt. The glass clinks and the bottle glugs as he pours himself a glass. "Sweetheart, show the good folks on call right now how you show a man you appreciate him," Mr. Bentley entreats. "I want you to thank Fred. He's done such good work. You should show him some appreciation. Getting preliminary approval for your patent. Do it like on my birthday. It was a hell of an accomplishment given the time frame. Show everyone watching how much your nasty mouth loves to suck cock."

"N-not again, I... I..." I object before I feel time slow down. My gaze darts around the room, my left-hand scratches at my right arm, and I swallow repeatedly. I can't stop thinking about it. Sucking his dick. He sits in a desk chair near the center of the table, his masculine frame bathes in the moonlight. Suddenly my body is stepping towards him, breasts jiggling, and the silence of the room is replaced by the squeaking of nylon and Mr. Bentley's distant chuckling. No, I shouldn't be doing this. The carpet prickles as my knees rest down against it. Fuck, I can see the camera and its pointed straight at us. I hear his pants unzipping. I'm a married man with dignity and not some weird science experiment. Sweaty musk wafts into my nostrils as I taste his hard cock inside of my open and willing mouth and I suck on it enthusiastically.

A whirring noise sounds from the fridge behind me followed by two objects dropping into liquid and clanking against glass. As he approaches, I can hear the ice scrape against his glass. "Jamie was a married straight man," Mr. Bentley explains to the audience of hundreds of strangers." He sips very expensive whiskey while I suck our corporate counsel's veiny cock. "Project Janus changed him into the woman you see before your very eyes. Servile. Slutty. Obedient. She loves it. Using her body to pleasure men." He chuckles.

I slurp loudly on our attorney's hard penis as the armbinder squeaks behind me. I keep trying to pull away. Every time though, when his fat prick is almost out of my mouth, I feel an irresistible urge to give in and let the leathery pole slide right back inside of my wet face hole.

"Oh god, you're even better than Samantha," Mr. Fackler compliments as I bob my head up and down his fat prick. He strokes the right side of my face with his left hand, and I stare at his wedding ring while I loudly gulp on his erect penis. Some saliva leaks out of my mouth, runs down my chin, and drips on to the conference room carpet.

"I want to feel those big boobies of yours," Mr. Fackler explains before playfully winking at me. He reaches behind my torso and underneath my bound arms and undoes the clasp of my bra. My big fake boobs jiggle slightly as they fall out of the garment. The cool office air causes my nipples to harden. Soon he is groping my chest, squeezing my fat tits, and rubbing the tips of his fingers across my sensitive nipples. I shiver, moan, and squeak my binder. "Unh, yeah, baby, you're so nasty."

Ice scrapes against glass. "Our program includes everything, even top surgery," Mr. Bentley explains before sipping his luxury Japanese whiskey. "Jamie was reluctant at first. To go under the knife. But with our patented synthetic empathogen, it was very easy to gain his consent. He'd agree to basically anything if it meant pleasing me. His lover. Look at his tits. So natural looking. The latest innovation from Vanholt's prosthetics division."

"God, your titties are so hot," Mr. Fackler says before letting out a throaty gasp. "I want to fuck them so bad." His hands grip my fake breasts and squeezes them together creating a fleshy pocket. His veiny prick, covered in my wet saliva, pushes into the fold between my tits. I try to move my arms but all I can do is cause the nylon to squeak.

"That's it, baby," Mr. Fackler coos before moaning. As his hands squeeze my boobs together, his wedding ring feels cold and noticeable against my right breast. His hips buck and he humps my fake breasts with his penis. "Fuck, I'm so hard right now."

My own cock throbs against the thin material of my designer panties. I want to stroke it so badly but it's impossible. Not while my arms are bound behind my back like his. The conference room goes dark. A cloud must be covering the moon. I can see the dust floating around the projector lens and the warm orange glow of the lights of all the skyscrapers visible from the office windows. The cloud passes and I see his left hand stroking his fat prick right in front of my face. His diamond ring shines as he slides his soft hand up the shaft and when he reaches the top, a smear of precum oozes out the swollen tip.

My face feels hot, body weak, eyes moist, and my chin trembles. He is a lawyer. Doesn't that mean he is supposed to have some sort of ethics? The way they treat me. Talking about patenting me. It's like I'm just an object to them. A consumer product. I get no say; they just use me. Like I'm a slave. An attorney. You'd expect at the very least he'd follow the law, right? I think about you. Why haven't you saved me from this? I hoped when I reached out to you. Maybe you could do something. Ugh, I have to stop this. I imagine sucking Mr. Fackler's fat cock. Hoping for others to solve my problems. My mouth salivates and my palms sweat. I have to stand up to them and stop this; I need to stop telling myself it's too late. A moan escapes my mouth as I open wide. No, wait! What am I doing? My head bobs back and forth across Mr. Fackler's fat prick and the room fills with the sound of lurid slurping.

"God baby, Brad really trained you well," Mr. Fackler compliments in-between gasps. "S-shit, I-I'm not going to last. P-pucker up. I'm gonna feed it to you. My nasty load." He moans and his body tightens up.

The sound of sipping is followed by ice scraping against glass. "Forget it, Fred," Mr. Bentley orders. "Have you forgotten our audience here? Surely you can offer them a more visual spectacle. Something worthy of a video presentation."

Mr. Fackler grips my chin with his left hand and lifts my head up. I see the moonlight flicker off his diamond wedding ring. "What do you think, baby?" he asks, licks his lips, leans towards me, and stares intently. "You want me to come all over your face, don't you? You want it all over your skin. Inside your pores. You want to wear it like a trophy." He chuckles.

My mouth feels electric as I struggle but fail to tell him to fuck off. Instead, I say nothing, and my jaw seems strangely sedated or outside of my control. What the fuck did they do to me? I struggle with all my strength against the armbinder, and the room is flooded with squeaks and rubbing noises. It's too strong and I can't free my arms. My lips move involuntarily. "N-n... n-n... fu...fuc....y-y...yes... c-come...c-come on... my filthy face." I moan loudly as his warm come shoots out and coats my face. Where did those words come from? What is wrong with my brain? It feels so sticky and gross.

Mr. Fackler's body trembles and eyes widen as he lets out a huge gasp. "Baby, that was so wonderful," he says as he presses his right hand against his chest and lets his torso slacken. When he looks at my face, a knowing grin spreads and he lifts his chin up. "So much come. You look soaked." He loudly zips his fly.

Mr. Bentley chuckles as the ice in his drink scrapes against the glass. He sips and closes his eyes while the smokey liquid slides down his throat. "Don't worry sweetheart," he assures. "I don't intend to keep this all to myself. I've always shared with you. My home, my affection, my alcohol, and my money. I haven't forgotten. That first night we spent together. In our shared New York hotel room. You enjoyed it so much. When I beat you so hard with my belt. I'll never forget the sound. The handcuffs rattling against the headposts. You screaming out in pain. That little show you put on with Fred. It was a nice taste of what Project Janus has to offer. An appetizer I suppose." The ice scrapes again as he gulps up some more whiskey. "But now it's time for the entrée." Mr. Bentley reaches into his suit jacket and retrieves a riding crop which he sets next to him on the conference room table. He removes his tuxedo jacket and tosses it to his side on the carpeted floor where it lands with a muffled thud. He's left dressed in a black vest and bow tie over a white dress shirt and pants.

I struggle to stand, and my knees feel extremely weak. Some of Mr. Fackler's semen oozes into my right eye. My arms can't move to wipe it away. All I can do is blink rapidly. I lose sight of my boss in the dark conference room in between the blinks and the hair on the back of neck stands up. I try to concentrate on it. The ice scraping against his whisky glass. My ears attempt to home in on it. I concentrate and there is a loud thwack and I feel searing pain in my right thigh. I gasp and my legs give way and I fall forward with my torso landing sideways against the conference room table. My body convulses against the table, and I breathe rapidly as the nylon squeaks. "C-chief, please..." I whimper.

"Jamie was a dweeby guy," Mr. Bentley says with a chuckle. "Hen pecked by his unloving wife. Weak, ill-defined body, lacking the power, prestige, and wealth one would associate with a real man." He puffs out his muscular chest and raises his chin up in the air. "Now his life has changed. It's full of action, attention, looking hot, showing off, and most importantly, lots and lots of sex. His existence. It's improved so much." His whiskey glass clinks as he sets it down on the table next to me.

Chief is wrong. Yes, things were bad before. My wife never had sex with me. I had to resort to porn. But are things better now? All the intercourse we have with each other. The beatings. His constant attention. How he feeds and bathes me. It's a lot, yes. But then why do I feel as lonely as ever? I'm still a passive and anxious person getting used by other people. Instead of taking my paycheck, Chief treats this feminine body he forced on me as his own personal playground. He doesn't love me; his affection all stems from his overwhelming lust to pleasure himself and cause me pain.

"I love how you look tonight, sweetheart," Mr. Bentley compliments with a chuckle. "Bent over that table with your big tits out. Bathed in moonlight. Arms bound behind your back. And of course, your face glazed with our hardworking lawyer's sperm." His hands grab the sides of my hips and his thumbs hook into the inside of my lingerie panties before he tugs them down and exposes my asshole to the chilly office air. I shiver. "You cold?" he asks with a bemused smile and twinkling eyes. "Here, let me warm things up for you." He lifts his glass and pours some of his expensive whiskey into my open asshole. "I promised I'd share!" he exclaims through roaring laughter.

It burns and I writhe in pain against the table as the armbinder squeaks over and over. Tears flow out my eyes and I try to stand up. He thwacks me again with the riding crop and this time he strikes my right flank. I shriek in pain and fall back over the table and begin to sob.

"Don't be dramatic," Mr. Bentley dismisses and rolls his eyes at me. "Tell them. All the men who stayed late at the office. Just to see you. What is it you want more than anything? Don't be shy, sweetheart. Reveal what it is you really want tonight."

I want to clean my face, leave this infernal office building, and end any involvement I have with Project Janus. My mouth tries to articulate the words but when I do my cock throbs against the desk, my body vibrates, my teeth clench together, and my jaw shakes. I'm overwhelmed with the desire to sexually submit to him. To spread my legs and give him what he wants. "P-please, c-chief..." I begin through pained eyes strained with tears, sweat and filth running down my face, and a nauseous feeling inside my body. "P-p-please fuck me. M-m make me come." As the words escape my mouth, tears run down my cheeks, but I make no sound other than my shallow yet barely audible breaths. My body feels heavy, and my heart does not feel right.

Mr. Bentley lifts his chin and grins knowingly down at me. He bends over my torso and lowers his head, so it is to the right of my own. "What a nasty girl you are," he whispers into my ear. I feel his tongue against my ear lobe followed by his teeth. It pringles and feels good at first but then he bites hard, and I wince in pain. I look at him and I see some of my blood run out the corner of his mouth. He laughs and I smell the whiskey on his breath. It's smokey and sharp.

"There are so many men out there," Mr. Bentley rambles as he lifts his torso back upright "Just like Jamie. Disposable. Sex starved. Desperate for a change. Project Janus shouldn't be underestimated. Our research suggests that it will usher in a second sexual revolution. Very likely its impact will be even greater than the original back in the 1960s. Back then it was all about liberating women. Now it is providing more freedom to everyone. But let's be real. It's mostly men who will be availing themselves of this. Men who want to fuck and be fucked."

He unzips his fly.

My eyes stare vacantly at the nighttime city skyline through the office windows.

He removes something from his pocket. Lube. It squirts into his hand. He fishes it out. His big fat prick. It becomes nice and greasy against his palm. My mouth salivates.

A sigh escapes my lips. My head shakes and I spread my legs for him. As I do so, an intense shiver runs down my spine.

He sips whiskey and the ice scrapes against the glass before he picks up a remote from the conference room table. With his right pointer finger, he presses down, and music begins to play. It's techno or something. Music they'd play at a nightclub or a rave. I don't recall Chief ever listening to music like this before. In fact, I've no idea what music he enjoys listening to.

He mounts me. It doesn't hurt. His penis inside me. I'm used to it at this point. My right thigh though. It stings. I think I'm bleeding. God. How am I going to get the stains out of the carpet? His strong hands take hold of my hips, and he starts pounding my ass. My eyes close and a gasp escapes from my parted lips.

I shiver and moan and wish my arms were free. I want to touch it so badly. My penis. It's throbbing. "Chief, you're making me so hard doing that," I whisper to him.

He chuckles as he pumps his fat prick in and out of my helpless body. His right hand lets go of my hip and he reaches down. My body convulses when he touches it. As his palm wraps around my own penis, I notice it feels harder than all the other times. I'm so aroused. It makes no sense; being fucked on the conference table like this isn't sexy at all. God, it feels like a jackhammer going in and out of me. I don't want to have sex like this with others watching. "Fuck me Chief," I beg, "I'll be your little office bitch. Fuck me like a dog."

His cock slides in and out of me in rhythm with the electronic music. I don't know what compels me, but I join him. My hips buck and I push back against him with my ass. We do it over and over again. Our bodies pump, grind, slap, and slide together in unison to the thumping music. As we fuck, I feel more like I am watching than participating. Like something crawled inside my brain and is controlling me, making me hump up against him every time he pounds his fat penis inside of me.

We fuck and he grabs the riding crop. "Wait!" I scream. He strikes my back, it thwacks loud, and my eyes go black before seeing prickly yellow circles.

Mr. Bentley belts out laughter as he continues to fuck me over the table. "You said you wanted to be my bitch," he mocks. "I'm just giving you what you want, sweetheart. I beat you just like I would that disobedient dog I had growing up."

My body shivers and tears flow down my face as I whimper but I don't let up. We move in unison. I have no choice. My body wants it so bad. His hard cock. God. It feels so damn good. My own penis throbs.

As we fuck in rhythm to the music, he hits me again with it. The riding crop. It stings. His cock rams my prostate and I shiver in ecstasy. He follows it up with another strike with an even more intense thwack. The pain sears and I shriek. In cadence with the music, he pushes his fat prick inside of me hard and it feels wonderful. As he repeatedly slams his big penis inside of my body and whips me with the riding crop, the compulsion to sexually submit to him becomes stronger than ever. That contrast. The pleasure and the pain. When paired together like that. It's like nothing I've ever experienced.

I lose my sense of time. It's not certain how long we've been fucking. I'm now on my back on top of the table holding my legs up and spread to provide access to my hole. He pounds me again and again and each time I experience a trembling full body orgasm. As he rams his dick in and out of me, he starts pushing his torso on top of mine. God, it feels so amazing. He really squeezes my little gland doing that. And every time he does it, his toned stomach rubs against my own rock-hard cock.

My eyes close and lips part before releasing a prolonged gasp. I shiver and feel my loins tingle before my cock erupts like a volcano and I shoot the biggest load I've ever managed on to my tight bare stomach. The sight must have sent Chief over the edge as well as not long afterwards his face adopts the same expression, and he creams my asshole with his warm come.

Mr. Bentley slides out of me, picks up his glass, and sips whiskey. "Not only can our medications change someone's gender and sexuality," he addresses his audience on the conference call. "We can even transcend the limits of our own biology." He strokes his cock with his rough palm, and it is just as hard and large as it was inside of my ass just now. "Elimination of the refractory period. Multiple male orgasms. We can fuck all night long and never stop ejaculating."

I look down at my own penis and it's fully erect and just as hard as it was before. What the fuck did he do to me? He mounts me again and pounds my asshole with his fat prick again. He must be taking drugs too. As his fat mushroom head squeezes my walnut gland, the intense compulsion to submit to him returns. "Fuck me, chief," I beg. "Oh gawd, it's so hot. You fucking me again right after creaming in my b-hole like that."

I lose track of time again. I don't know how long we fucked. It very well could have been hours. I'm not sure how many times I came either. But I feel like it was a lot. I kneel on the carpet. The conference room reeks of musk, sweat, and body odor. I can see semen and blood stains in the carpet through the radiating moonlight. He stands above me holding his hard penis with one hand and his whiskey glass with another. The bottle sits on the table next to him. "Sorry sweetheart, this whiskey runs right through me," he apologizes with a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his face.

My eyebrows squish together, and I blink at him.

Mr. Bentley laughs as he points his cock at me and releases a torrent of piss against my face. It smells strong like ammonia. It's because of the whiskey. I learned it by studying nutrition. Alcohol is a diuretic. Concentrated urine is the result.

As he drenches me in urine, my stomach knots and ribs squeeze together. I whimper, cower, and feel my nose run. With my arms bound, I'm unable to even wipe my face. I stare blankly at the conference call projected against the wall. Most of the participants are black rectangles. No video enabled on their end. I see a few men masturbating. Jerking off to my humiliation. One box catches my attention. The man watching does not appear to be a man at all. He has broad horns, reddish skin, and his eyes are glowing red. My body shakes. I must be hallucinating. I pass out.

1. New York Convention Center

Dr. Welker stands on stage in front of an audience of hundreds wearing her typical lab coat over a blouse and pants. Behind her is a large screen containing a projected PowerPoint presentation. On the left side of the current slide is a photograph of me before she transitioned me. On the right is how I look now. Large realistic but fake breasts hanging out of a blue and white Gucci dress. Long painted nails, fashionable hair, diamond jewelry, and makeup. Sexy and stylish.

"Jamie was struggling in his new role as Executive Assistant," Dr. Welker explains. "As a straight man married to a woman, he had no desire to change his sexuality or gender identity. However, when we explained that scientific studies showed that office workers with less testosterone and more feminine characteristics outperformed their toxically masculine counterparts, he agreed to participate in Project Janus."

That's not what happened. They threatened to fire me unless I signed some long and complicated agreement written in legalese. They described it as an improvement plan. The gender transition stuff. That was all buried in the fine print.

"As a straight married man with no desire to change his sexuality or gender identity, he was also the perfect candidate to prove that our method could work on anyone." Dr. Welker tells the audience. "It did not take long. Jamie dressed as a woman because he was told to at first. But soon he became increasingly interested in wearing more and more feminine clothing, perfume, and jewelry. He began to put make up on and flirt with men at the office. We really knew we had succeeded when Jamie started a passionate affair with another male executive."

She makes it sound like this was all my idea. He came on strong and I was lonely, and sex starved. Besides, I just wore the clothes he told me to. Chief likes sexy looking femme women and he dressed me accordingly.

"She agreed to our offer to pay for her breast augmentation surgery," Dr. Welker explains with her chin held high, a knowing grin, and nod of her head. "And after initial resistance, she agreed to change her office pronouns with human resources to she/her."

Well, yeah, because he told me too. It got ridiculous after a while too. I didn't choose to look like this. They made me do it. So, if I'm going to do it, I might as well act like any transwoman would. At a certain point, it would be more embarrassing for me to admit the truth rather than just going with it.

"Now, you will get to meet her," Dr. Welker says with a wide grin on her face. "The first patient to be treated with what is essentially the only ever cosmetic psychiatric procedure. She is the official spokeswoman of Project Janus."

I am behind the curtains, dressed and appearing as depicted in the post-transition picture, standing next to Chief who has his right hand firmly gripping my right shoulder. "Don't try anything stupid," he threatens as he fumbles the key and unlocks my handcuffs. "There'll be hell to pay. If you fuck this up for us." He releases my shoulder and pushes me forward towards the stage.

As I approach Dr. Welker and the microphone stand, the crowd of hundreds erupts in applause. All eyes focus on me. The way some of the men in the audience stare at me. I get the impression this is not their first-time laying eyes on me. My hand rubs the back of my neck and my body sweats as I approach the microphone. I could tell the truth. I'm a slave to these people. What I want more than anything is to escape from this. If that means ending my own life, so be it. I mean, what else do I have to live for anymore? The thought of being frank about my terrible situation causes me to swallow, hold my elbows tightly against my sides, and cave my chest in. The corner of my left eye glances towards the curtains. My boss is there, arms crossed over his chest, staring intently at me. I better just do as they tell me to. I don't want to have to explain it to them. Not a room full of people like this.

I freeze and grimace as I approach the mic. A tingling arises at the base of my neck and sweeps across my face. I hate it. Being a mouthpiece for their awful, abusive program. "I-I'm Jamie," I say as I plaster on a smile. "Project Janus changed my life. Before everyone ignored me. Now I get so much attention." My stomach roils. "After they... uhm... transitioned me. Well, I've had so much amazing sex." The room erupts in laughter. I hesitate. What am I doing? A small tear forms in my right eye. "I-I..." My eyes gaze over at Mr. Bentley standing near the edge of the curtains. His left hand is wrapped around his right wrist as he rotates his right hand. "I'm so happy now that I'm a woman. M-my pronouns. T-they're she/her..."

The crowd erupts in applause, and I feel pain in my chest, lungs, and throat.

After the presentation concludes, people line up to ask questions of Dr. Welker or myself. One is a tall broad-shouldered man with long black hair, a pointy beard, and an intense gaze. He approaches me and winks. "I'm very impressed," he says.

I stare at him and awkwardly smile. I feel cold sweat on my body.

"That beating you took the other night." he says with a smirk on his face. "It was very impressive. I appreciate it. Women who like it rough like that." He licks his lips and I see him salivating as he stares at me.

I frown and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. There's no response I can think of to give to such a remark.

"I'm the CEO of Risen Pharmaceuticals" he explains. "Ray Bennet. Don't worry Kitten. I think we'd make a great team together." He winks at me before walking over towards Dr. Welker.

1. Inbound Flight

"We did it Brad," Dr. Welker says before releasing a deep gratifying sigh. I am two rows behind her. But I can still hear her faint voice. "Risen, they want to make an offer on Project Janus. We're going to be rich. All those years of corporate climbing. Finally, it's our time to get paid.

Both of them are already rich. They can literally buy anything they want. Dr. Welker owns a Tesla and Chief drives us around in a Porsche. He told me he paid for it in cash. Neither of them has children. What would they possibly need even more money for?

Mr. Bentley chuckles. "Ray Bennet," he begins. "Now there's a real ruthless bastard for you. He must really have gotten his rocks off. Watching me with that riding crop."

My eyes focus forward, and I can see Dr. Welker shake her head and blush. "C'mon Brad," she scolds. "You know I don't want to hear about that. Keep your ...lifestyle to yourself."

"It's ok," Mr. Bentley assures. "He can have my leftovers. It's time for me to treat myself to a new toy." I see his eyes focus on the flight attendant's ass as she passes by their row in the center aisle.

1. Dr. Welker's Office

"I swear, I swallowed it!" I lie. I wear a low-cut teal satin Hermes dress and matching pair of heels.

"No, you didn't, I saw it in your mouth!" Dr. Welker accuses. "Give it back to me. We've been through this before. If you aren't going to swallow it. You have to give me the pill back."

Fleming swallows as he looks from me to Dr. Welker.

"Why did they send you here?" Dr. Welker asks, sighs, and shakes her head. "Where is Brad?"

The office door creaks open, and Mr. Bentley enters. He crosses his arms across his chest, scowls, and releases a loud breath. "I'm real tired of this shit," he complains. He raises his right hand and removes his ring before slipping it into his suit jacket pocket.

I swallow hard, tremor and hold up my arms to block my face.

He runs at me straight on, shifts at the last second, jumps, and slams his open palm against my face with a loud thwack. I fall to the ground and sob. His left-hand shoves inside of my mouth. I imagine biting down on it. My eyes look at him.

"Don't you fucking dare bitch," he snarls with flared nostrils and his right hand formed into a fist.

I don't and he fishes the pill out of my mouth with his left hand. "You lying cunt," he curses. "Fleming, bend her over the desk. Now!"

I squeal and try to run to the office exit. Fleming grabs me and I'm helpless. He's so much bigger than me. Taller, and his muscles. They're huge. He grabs me and carries me like I'm an infant child. The table slams as he tosses my limp body onto its surface.

"What's wrong sweetheart, you feeling nostalgic or something?" Mr. Bentley mocks with a chuckle. "Thanking about your wife. Your old life before you became a corporate executive. You really think you can go back to that? Have you forgotten the other night? When I used you as my own personal toilet." He laughs. "You can't go back. Not after something like that."

My ribs squeeze together.

Dr. Welker frowns, wrinkles her nose, and shakes her head.

Mr. Bentley rubs his palms together. "I know what will make you forget all about that," he says, smirks, and stares intensely at me. "A good old-fashioned spanking from your daddy." He lifts my dress revealing my lace panties. "Uh huh, I'm going to enjoy smacking the shit out of your ass, you fucking bitch." He tugs my underwear down my legs, and I feel his right hand grab my right butt cheek and luridly squeeze it.

I hear a snap followed by a large thwack as his open palm violently strikes my right asscheek. I yelp before whimpering. "S-stop," I beg. "I-I'm sorry..."

Dr. Welker immediately turns and faces away from me. Her eyes gaze at an empty wall.

"You've wasted so much of my time!" Mr. Bentley roars before he strikes my ass again and again and over and over with his rough palm. "I've had enough of your bullshit!" I wince with every strike he inflicts on me. My eyes moisten and my nose runs. Finally, my torso collapses against the desk and I briefly lose consciousness.

Adrenaline spikes inside of me. The amphetamines rage. The dopamine agonist activates all receptors. My libido roars. I... WANT... TO... FUCK.

My eyes shoot open wide, mouth foams, and I chuckle sadistically. "Fuck me, Chief!" I scream and cackle. "Fuck my asshole. Make me come. Put your penis in my ass. Do it, Chief. Right now!"

Dr. Welker, still staring at a wall, clears her throat. Her head shakes and the heel of her right dress shoe taps against the floor.

"You fucking cunt," Mr. Bentley yells. "Ok, fine!" I hear his zipper pull down and he mounts me with his fat prick. There is no lube, but my beleaguered asshole accepts his hard penis, nonetheless. "Is this what you want?" he asks.

"Really?" Dr. Welker asks. "You're doing this in my office? It's disgusting." She continues to look away.

"Yes Chief, fuck me, it feels so good!" I beg. My ass still smolders in pain from the beating he delivered. I take it nonetheless without issue.

He pumps his big penis in and out of me. The musky sweat from his thick balls wafts into my nose as he fucks me against Dr. Welker's hard desk. A loud thwack sounds as he hits my ass again while fucking me. When my head turns, I see my butt is raw and full of his handprints.

"What are you staring at?" Mr. Bentley snarls at Fleming as he rams his big prick inside of me. "Don't tell me you'd never fuck a shemale. It's no different than a woman. The cunt is just in the back. A slut like this. It's just as easy to make her moan." He thrusts hard inside of me, and I feel his cock squeeze the gland behind my balls. I moan and shiver on top of the table. "Jamie here. She can be such a pain in the ass sometimes. But at the end of the day, she's always going to do whatever it is her cunt wants her to do." He slaps my ass again hard with his palm and I squeal. I spread my legs wider for him. "That's a good little bitch," he responds with a chuckle.

Mr. Bentley pounds me before hesitating. "I don't think you deserve it," he says. "For being bad. I'm not giving you my come. Not inside. Get on your knees. I'm going to nut on your big whore tits. Come on sweetheart. I want them to look like a pair of glazed donuts. On the ground now and pop your tits out of that dress I picked out this morning."

I slowly push up off her desk and my ass aches from the beating he gave me. As I turn, I see Fleming. His head tilts slightly, face wrinkles, body sags, and his eyes give off a pained glance before he clears his throat.

My stomach knots, knees weaken, and I stare at the exit of Dr. Welker's office. I sigh and reach into my dress, pull my big boobs out for him, close my eyes, and imagine I am somewhere else.

"Oh yeah sweetheart," I hear him thank me in-between gasps and moans. "Shake them for me."

I do as he says, still pretending I am elsewhere. My ass hurts so bad.

"Uh huh, oh yes," he says through heavy breathing.

I feel his warm come shoot on to my tits. There is a lot of it, and I feel it running. His hands press my tits together and it makes a fart noise as I feel some of his jizz squirt up my neckline. He spreads my boobs about. "Look at how sticky that is," he remarks. "Those strands, wow." He pushes my tits together and apart repeatedly and all I hear is his come squishing against my jiggly flesh.

"Jesus Brad, enough with that," Dr. Welker complains still facing the wall. "It sounds disgusting."

"I don't see that smirk on your face anymore, huh?" Mr. Bentley asks to, presumably Fleming. "I bet you never glazed a pair of hooker tits quite so nasty." He laughs and shoves me, and my body falls onto the office floor.

My eyes open and I see his hand holding the pill I refused to swallow lowered down next to my face on the floor. "Take the fucking pill," he demands with a snarl. I do as he says. "I saw it. She swallowed it. She's back in compliance."

"I'm going to need Susana in my office immediately," Dr. Welker speaks into the receiver of her desktop phone.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office

I lean against the door to his office and listen intently.

"She needs to be in a mental hospital," Dr. Welker complains. "If we did a risk assessment tonight. There's no way she'd pass. It's only a matter of time. We stumble upon her dead body somewhere."

"We're days away from a billion-dollar payday," Mr. Bentley disputes. "If Ray Bennet finds out about this, the value of our asset plummets. Possibly to the point of being worthless. We just need to keep her alive to the time when the deal is over. After that, she'll be his problem to deal with."

"Yeah, well it's my medical license on the line," Dr. Welker snaps.

"What other choice do we have?" Mr. Bentley responds. "Do you want to walk away from the deal at this point? Declare Project Janus a failure?"

"Of course not," Dr. Welker responds.

"Then trust me," Mr. Bentley implores. "I'll keep a close eye on her. It's much easier than you make it out to be. Controlling her and making her to do what you want."

1. ?????

Pleasure and pain, two sides of the same coin

Both can tempt us, both can destroy us

Pleasure lures us with promises of bliss

Pain warns us of the consequences we'll miss

But pleasure is fleeting, and pain is lasting

Both can blind us, both can bind us

Pleasure makes us forget the cost

Pain makes us regret the loss

And when we chase pleasure, we invite pain

Both can trap us, both can sap us

Pleasure leads us to sin and vice

Pain leads us to despair and strife

And when we reach the end of the road

Both can haunt us, both can taunt us

Pleasure and pain, they paved the way

To the eternal fire, where we'll pay

1. Vanholt Pharmaceuticals Division -- First Floor Lobby

The police SUV idles outside our corporate headquarters. You sit unnaturally still before your mouth takes a grim twist and you release a heavy sigh. You unholster your handgun and your hands tremble. The metal feels cold against your skin. You rack the slide back and it clicks before snapping back in place and a round enters the chamber. Duty carry. You return it to its holster. A handle of Maker's Mark sits on the passenger seat next to you half empty. A metallic click sounds as the door opens followed by a repetitive beeping noise. The key jingles as you kill the engine and end the beeping. Your boots thud against the concrete sidewalk. It's cold outside, the air filled with the sounds of morning traffic, and you can see your breath. It smells like car exhaust. You stare at it expressionlessly. The corporate logo of the Vanholt corporation.

The circular rotating door wooshes as you push it forward and enter my building. Your boots tap against the tiled floor as you make your way to the elevators. "Hey, you're not allowed to be here!" yells our security guard. You ignore him and keep walking. He grabs your left arm and locks his fingers around it.

Your head swivels slowly and you stare through aviator sunglasses. "I'm not going to say it more than once," you warn. "You need to let go of me. Back the fuck off."

"I'm sorry, but I was instructed by manage..." the security guard begins to explain.

Your first strikes his jaw with a nasty crack and he tumbles and quickly uses his arms to brace the fall. He spits out a wad of blood onto the tiled corporate lobby floor in addition to one of his dislodged teeth. You tower above him with your thumbs hooked behind the straps of your ballistic police vest. "I don't give a fuck about your management," you taunt. "I have a gun and I'm not leaving here until I do what it is I came to do. You. You don't have any gun. So, like I said before. Please fuck off."

Everyone in the lobby stares at you as you calmly and expressionlessly walk towards the elevators.

The security guard trembles. His gaze darts back and forth as his twitching fingers fumble with his cell phone. The sound of its ringing fills the suddenly quiet corporate lobby. The phone speaker clicks. "I need Fleming!" the guard yells. "This is a goddamned emergency!" He swallows his own blood.

The elevator dings as the doors woosh behind you and close.

1. Vanholt Pharmaceuticals Division -- My Office

It's very busy today. The CEO of Rising Pharmaceuticals is here with his team of lawyers. Mr. Fackler as well as several other associates. They're meeting in the conference room along with Mr. Bentley. Even that fat fuck from the FDA showed up for this. Mr. Bentley's instructions are clear. He is unavailable and not to be disturbed for any reason until it's finalized. The sale of Project Janus including myself, the patented body and personality. Nobody is allowed to leave the conference room until the deal is complete. I wear a cream-colored low-cut blouse and a black miniskirt. The only other person in my office is Ms. Turnball. The executive in charge of human resources. She was told to keep her eyes on me. They're afraid. Fearful I may try to hurt myself if left unsupervised.

I hear tapping. Someone walking very quickly down the office hallway. I lean across my desk, tilt my head to the side and blink. You walk into my office and my mouth opens and eyes widen. I gently bite my lip, smile, and stare strongly at you.

As you recognize me sitting in my office chair, you let out a huge breath and a smile slowly spread across your face. "Jamie," you say. "I got your message. I've been looking for you. This entire time. And now I'm here. To finish what I started. I'm arresting you again. For driving under the influence." You approach my desk.

I nod rapidly and rub my hands together.

Suddenly you spin around and in a brief instant your handgun is unholstered and pointed at the entrance of my office. Fleming is there armed himself with an assault rifle pointed straight at you. I freeze and cold sweat spreads across my body as my heart races and I hold my breath.

"Stand down, officer," Fleming commands. His gaze darts across my office as he rocks in place. Fleming is no amateur. One time I walked in on him. He was drinking vodka in his office. He told me he drinks sometimes to forget. When I asked him what it was that he wanted to forget, he told me. Afghanistan.

The conference room door creaks open before shutting. "What the fuck is all this?" Petrosky asks as he enters my office. "What part of banned from Vanholt corporate property do you not understand officer? Fleming. That's your name, I think, right? Arrest this officer. He's breaking federal law. There is a restraining order barring him from the property."

"I've taken human life before," you warn as your body twitches. Your right hand holding the handgun trembles. You pay no attention to Petrosky.

"So have I," Fleming said as he aims down his sight at you.

"I'm not leaving without her," you promise. "Jamie is coming with me. I'll drag her out of here blood gushing out of the bullet holes in my body if that's what it takes."

"Shoot him!" Petrosky says. "He's trying to kidnap an executive. I have high level contacts with the FBI. This pissant officer isn't worth the time you're giving him. Blow his brains out."

Shit. This is bad. I really fucked things up. Someone is about to die. All because of me. This is all my fault. I never stood up for myself. I always did what people told me and things just got worse and worse. If I had just said no and walked away. It could've been avoided. You are risking everything for me right now. Your job, your life even. It's so brave of you. I've been such a coward. The anxiety. A fear that something bad will happen. I avoid it and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. But now someone is going to be killed. There is nothing worse than that. No amount of anxiety is worth a human life. You risked everything for me. Fleming served his country. He should be treated as a hero. Not bossed around by a bunch of corporate suits. Even that fat fucker probably has someone out there who loves him. I have no choice. Either I face my fears, or someone dies.

"Shut the fuck up," I scream and bash my hand violently against me desk. "Mr. Bentley is unavailable right now. That means, I, his Executive Assistant, am the acting Chief Executive Officer of Vanholt Pharmaceuticals Division. I hereby order you, Fleming, to lower your weapon."

Fleming swallows, hesitates, and keeps the rifle pointed at you.

"Are you shitting me?" Petrosky objects. "You're not seriously going to take orders from Brad's bimbo secretary, are you? Look, this is the most important moment of your career."

"I'm not fucking around," I declare. My hands clack against the keyboard. "If you don't lower that weapon immediately, you're fired Fleming. I'm logging in right now. I'm going to cancel your wife and son's health insurance. You care about them, right? You want to see them again, alive and well, with the ability to be a supporting father? Then listen to your superior officer. Put the barrel down. That's an order soldier." I turn to Ms. Turnball. "Did I misstate anything? I am currently in charge of this company, right?"

Ms. Turnball looks white. She blinks rapidly before gently nodding her head in agreement.

"Shit," Fleming curses. I can see goosebumps on his arms. Finally, he sighs and lowers his weapon.

"You fucking moron, what the hell are you doing?" Petrosky erupts.

"Oh, and this fat fucker here," I continue. "He is to be escorted off the premises immediately. Drop ins are not allowed. Anyone who comes to visit needs to make an appointment." I hold up my appointment book which shows a blank entry for the current date and time. "As you can see, this man has no appointment. This is a private corporation. If the government wants to snoop around, they need to get a proper warrant."

"You fucking bitch," Petrosky curses.

"That's enough," Fleming says as he points his rifle at the fat fucker. "You heard her. Let's go. You need to leave the premises."

Petrosky snorts before holding up his hands and finally getting the fuck out of my office.

"Ok Officer, go ahead and proceed with your arrest," I permit as I stand and place my hands behind me.

The cuffs clink and there is a smile on your face. Your body leans in so you can cuff me, but you stop when you notice a tiny bruise just above the neckline of my blouse. The smile shifts to a frown. Your arms wrap around my torso, and you begin to unclasp the buttons of my blouse. When you have finished, you yank it off me leaving me dressed only in my white bra and skirt. As you do so, it's revealed to you. The canvas of his cruelty. The painting he composed on my back is vivid in so many shades of yellow, purple, blue, and orange.

You wince, sniffle your nose, and your chin trembles. A tear runs down your cheek. Your hands clench together, stance widens, nostrils flare, and your neck throbs. "W-who... who did this to you?" you ask with a snarl.

"My boss," I respond.

"Where is he at?" you ask as your body shakes.

I point to the conference room door.

You retrieve a baton from your duty belt and swing it. It clicks as it expands. I stand in silence as you enter the conference room. The door creaks before slamming shut behind you. I hear shuffling followed by cracking noises. Chief screams from inside the room before squealing and then sobbing. You emerge from his office with blood smeared all over your police vest and your baton back on your belt. "C'mon, let's go," you say, quickly handcuff me behind my back, and escort my bruised and exposed body out of my office, down the elevator, and out the front lobby. Everyone we pass stares at the bizarre spectacle. Me shirtless, back severely bruised, handcuffed, clacking my heels against tile floor, and escorted by a police officer covered in blood. When we pass the security guard holding a bag of ice up to his mouth, you smirk at him. We get in you police SUV and drive in silence. I have a strong suspicion that you're once again not taking me to jail.

1. El Cortez Apartments

I sit quietly in my bra and skirt on your couch. My hands remain handcuffed behind my back.

Your phone beeps as you tap at it before it begins to ring. You're standing in the kitchen in your police vest. The blood has started to dry. The phone clicks. "Hey lieutenant" you greet.

"This is Officer Holtz. I'm resigning from the police force."

"No sir, I understand that means I'm going to lose my pension. It's ok. Frankly lieutenant, it's not worth it. The city can't keep going on like this. Trying to fix the problem by throwing more and more money at it. At a certain point, the ability to buy stuff. Consume more goods and services. It isn't worth it. I'm talking about the abuse and disrespect. I've worked very hard for the people of this city for a long time now. But the way I've been treated. No amount of money would be enough to make up for it. My only regret is that I didn't realize this sooner. Good luck lieutenant, it's a sick world out there right now and I'm afraid things don't look like they're bound to get better anytime soon."

You end the phone call and turn your attention back to me. "We're not safe here," you explain. "We need to leave. Quickly. I want to take us somewhere where we can be cleansed of our pasts. Will you do this? Join me in starting over again?"

"I-I don't know," I respond and blink at you.

"Look into your heart and answer me honestly," you request. "The days of other people telling you what to do are over. The way you took command in that office. I went there to save you. But you're the one who saved me. If you don't want to come with me, I understand."

You're right. Ever since we walked down that hall together. I haven't felt it. The anxiety. It's like it didn't matter anymore. I see you blink and bite down on your lips. You want me to come with you. To say yes. "Ok," I respond. "I want to go with you. I trust you, Officer Holtz."

"Good, that's very good." You respond and smile at me.

"Are you going to remove my handcuffs now?" I ask and tilt my head.

"No, I don't know all the shit they put into your body," you say and shake your head. "You'll just have to trust me. Last time you made a bad decision. When you walked away from me. All I want is for you to be safe."

"I understand," I respond and nod.

1. Pacific Beach

The waves crash gently on the shore, seagulls squawk, and the air smells of earthy sand. There is a light breeze that feels refreshing and I taste the salt in the air. I think I'm finally off them. All the drugs. Being controlled like that. It was like living life on a roller coaster. Time goes by so much slower now. I lay next to you on the sand. We both face the water. You're dressed in a red swimsuit and aviator sunglasses while I wear an unbranded pink bikini. We bought them at Ross. The beach is empty except for us.

"I understand if you want to," you begin before stopping. "I mean, now that you're sober again. What they did to you. It's one of the most horrible things I've ever heard of. Experimenting on a person like that. If you want to go back. Well, I understand. There are ways we could try to undo it. Return you back to a man."

I lean over you and remove your sunglasses so that I can look into your eyes. The way you look at me. It's intense. I notice it. How you can't help but stare at my voluptuous chest. Your breathing is so noticeable when I'm close to you like this. Your left arm touches my right, and your grip is possessive.

Even with all the hormones, drugs, and brainwashing, I do not feel I was born a woman in the wrong body. I am a man who was transitioned against his will. I do believe whatever they did to me did change my sexuality though. I'm not interested in women anymore. I want a man of my own. One who is strong, masculine and protective. One who likes to throw me on the bed and pound me while I orgasm over and over.

"You saved me twice," I say, stare firmly at you, rub your large bicep with my moist right hand, while I trail my left down my chin and neck to the top of my exposed cleavage. "First from her. Then from him. I see the way you look at me. I remember how happy it made you. Touching my breasts. Putting your penis inside of me. It's ok, Officer. I don't mind staying this way. As a woman. I did not choose to be trans. But it chose me and that's ok." I touch your lap and feel your hard cock through the red swimsuit. It feels so different. Much more intimate and slower. Having a normal libido again. Lustful and longing rather than horny and raging. My lips brush up against yours and I feel your bumpy tongue slide into my mouth and my eyes close.

I reach behind me and unclasp my bikini top and my large breasts jiggle as they're freed form the cheap material. Your hands caress them and squeeze my hard nipples. A beaming smile forms on my face. I can tell. You love touching them. A soft moan escapes from my parted lips. "I want it so bad," I tell you. "I want to get pounded."

You nod with a knowing grin on your face. You pull down your swimsuit and show me your big cock and wrinkly balls.

"Uh huh," I say as my mouth waters, and I quickly grab your penis with my left hand and stroke it up and down. I could do this all day. Rub your cock with my long-painted fingernails. You try to reach at my own bikini bottoms. I realize what you want and so I pull them off myself and I show you my own hard cock.

You smile as I stroke your cock and I see you staring at it. "Officer?" I ask.

"Sorry, I just..." he begins before stopping. "I wasn't sure it was still going to be there."

"Is it going to be a problem?" I ask in-between sounds of wave crashing and penis rubbing.

"N-no, I'm relieved actually," he says, chuckles, and lets out a gasp.

I giggle. "You like it huh?" you ask. "A woman with a penis."

"I like all women," you say with a grin before crossing your arms over your chest.

"Uh huh," I wink at you and climb on top and grab your hard cock and squeeze it together in my hand against my own stiff erection. I giggle and moan as I rub our two penises together.

You grunt and gasp. "That feels so good, lovely," you gush and paw at my big tits.

"You're so hard, Officer," I flirt as I reach over to my purse and pull out a small bottle of coconut oil. I fart out a glob into my hand and resume rubbing our hard cocks and making them nice and lubed up. A seagull squawks in the distance.

"Yes, lovely," you say before moaning. "I can't wait. It's going to be so nice. Making love on the beach like this."

I scoot up on you and grab the base of your hard shaft. My hips lower and I slide your big cock up inside of my butthole. As I slide down your pole, I lean forwards and press my boobs against your hard, muscular chest. I smell your cheap cologne and my eyes close, and I smile.

Your hips thrust as you pump your thick penis in and out of me. It's slower than before. Less euphoria without all the mind-altering drugs but more sensual. I stroke my own hard cock with my hand while you ram my little hole. "Fuck yes," I beg before gasping.

You grab my body as I ride on top of you and then push me over on my back and I land on the warm sand. I am so much smaller, and you are so big and strong and so of course I just spread my legs and let you pound me with that big hard cock of yours. With every powerful thrust, I feel you rubbing up against it. My own hard cock. I can feel it inside of me, pressing up behind my balls, squishing my little gland and making my stomach flutter and my body shiver and get goosebumps.

"I don't know how much longer I can last," you warn as you pound me harder and harder each time. "You're so hot down there. Those big fake tits of yours jiggling around. They did such a good job with those. They look natural."

"There yours now, Officer," I say before cooing. "Anytime you want to play with them. I'll treat you. Just so long as you keep pounding me on the regular like this." I moan and hold my legs open for you so it's easy for you to ram your penis hard in and out of me. "It's ok. I don't mind it. You coming inside me. It would be nice actually. The air here. It's so salty. I just want some of it. Inside my body."

You thrust hard, your jaw sets, muscles tighten, and your brow furrows. My loins tingle as I feel your warm come inside of me. Your lips part, you moan, and close your eyes. "Yes, thank you so much for that," I thank you as I feel your warm fluids inside my anal cavity.

You pull out of me and lay next to me on the sand. Your right-hand wraps around my own hard cock and you stroke it while we both stare down at the waves crashing up against the shoreline. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the ocean alongside the subtle sound of a hand squeezing up and down a lubed-up penis. I come on my stomach, in a normal amount, and it feels great, wonderful, and ordinary. I climb on you, kiss your lips, and cuddle in your arms.

"That was so nice," you say as you grip my chin with your left hand and stare into my eyes. "Would you like to go for a swim now?"

1. Cozy Cabin -- Six Months Later

It's Saturday morning and you hand me a greasy bag and I smile. I pull out a steak and egg sandwich with lots of hot sauce. I take it over to my computer desk and I type away. Writing this story. My wife would never read my writing. It's so encouraging. You telling me I should write a book. It's hard. Writing what it was like to go through the things that I did. Obviously, no one here in our new small town knows. To them I am just your doting housewife. Pretty, sexy, busty, but living an otherwise average life in rural America. No one knows I was experimented on, beaten and imprisoned, turned into a woman, that I have a penis, and that we have all sorts of kinky anal sex every night together in our bed.

Ever since we cleansed ourselves in the ocean, you've quit booze. Meanwhile, I've stayed off the drugs. Also, the porn. No need for it anymore. In many ways I'm the happiest I've ever been. Wifing for you. It's so wholesome and you treat me very well. But I won't lie to you. Not when I care about you so much. There are nights. Those when I wake covered in cold sweat. And I think of everything I went through. My time as a corporate executive. Driving around in his Porsche. The intensity of the sex under the influence of all those drugs they forced me to take. All the designer brands and luxury goods he bought for me. Him beating me and making me suffer only to then bring me the most intense pleasure. Consuming every sensation that he inflicted on me. I don't think I made the wrong decision. Going with you. Turning my back on all that. But there is still a part of me. Perhaps a demon on my shoulder. Who longs for it back. Who'd like to see me submit once again to Chief's cruel sadism.

I take a bite of my egg and steak sandwich. It is deliciously hot and spicy. No need to worry though. I left that lifestyle. I'm sure of it. That they've moved on. Forgotten all about me. What I really want right now is to finish this sandwich. And when I'm done with that. I'm going to go into the living room and treat you with a blowjob. It'll be a present from me to you and you can have it any way you'd like.

1. Epilogue (Pivot to Dr. Welker as Narrator / Future-Tense)

Freedom will triumph over fascism. I won't accept failure. Our billion-dollar woman will be found. Project Janus must progress in the interests of the pursuit of liberty and the future of humanity. That fucking murderous goon can't escape justice forever. The chickens will come home to roost eventually. Officer Holtz is going to suffer for his despicable, tyrannical, and racist crimes. The terrorists will not win this. He will bleed and be humiliated. And Jamie will then come home. As much as she may resist, she is going to return. I will break the glass ceiling and become rich and successful beyond anyone's imagination. Pharmaceuticals is going to be revolutionized by my brilliant ambitions.

[If you've made it this far to the end of my book, thank you so much. It means so much that people would read something I put so much time and effort into. Please send feedback to me however you'd wish to do so. I'd love it so much if more people would provide thoughts of my writing.]