Miss Anne Thrope

Miss Anne Thrope

 © 2004 by Nom de Plume

As I write this tale of woe, the sight of manicured fingers flitting over my keyboard evokes the utter misery of my situation. Not long ago, I was vice president of a major pharmaceutical firm, with a six figure salary and a corner office. Now I am sitting in a secretary’s cubicle, trying to keep from snagging my pantyhose each time I escape from my pathetic little desk. How did this ever happen to me?

It all began one fateful morning when one of the geniuses in research and development came into my office with a hangdog expression on his face. I was busy packing up my briefcase for a two week road show which would launch our new diet miracle product, Metabolean. The test results had been sensational, and I sold the board of directors on an aggressive plan to market Metabolean to our target customers, overweight females, through a network of kiosks at shopping centers and strip malls throughout the country.

Because Metabolean was technically an herb, our company lawyers found a way to skate around FDA testing requirements. Our own research had shown that regular doses of Metabolean resulted in a weight loss of anywhere between five to ten pounds per week, without any significant side-effects. Or so I thought until Dr. Gefuhlgut broke the news to me that morning. “Uh, there is a little problem with Metabolean that we need to talk about,” he stammered.

“Problem? What kind of problem? You’re not going to tell me about production delays, are you? We’re already committed to a huge media buy, the lawyers have tied up sites around the country with long-term leases, and I’m leaving for the airport in ten minutes to kickoff our marketing plan.”

“No, production is right on schedule. The problem is with the product.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked impatiently.

Dr. Gefuhlgut wrung his hands. “Some of our early test subjects have developed an unexpected condition.”

I stopped packing my briefcase and looked him square in the eyes. “What kind of condition?”

“Well, as you know, Metabolean was given first to inmates at federal correctional facilities who volunteered to take part in clinical trials. Both male and female institutions participated in the first round of tests. Now, the good news is that none of the male inmates have exhibited any form of side-effects.”

“And the bad news?”

Dr. Gefuhlgut pulled an 8x10 photograph from an inside pocked of his white lab coat. When he handed it to me, I actually laughed out loud. It was a group portrait of around twenty female prisoners. “As you know,” Dr. Gefuhlgut said, “the inmates were divided into two groups: a control group who were given placebos, and the inmates who were administered doses of Metabolean.”

There was no doubt who was who in the photograph I was staring at. Half of the women were enormously fat, and the other half had beards and mustaches. “My God,” I said, “it looks like a casting call for a freak show! We have the fat lady candidates over here, and the bearded lady candidates over there.”

“Yes, well, that is one way of putting it. What are we going to do?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“What?”

“Look, this is only the first group of test subjects, right?”

“Yes, but you would expect any symptoms to be exhibited by them first. The other groups haven’t had enough time to experience the side-effects.”

“Maybe. Or maybe this is a coincidence of some kind. Anyway, you can’t expect me to shitcan a multi-million dollar campaign at the last minute based on one test result, can you?”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Come on, what’s a little facial hair? Just between us girls, I think the chicks with the beards are hotter than the porkers, don’t you? Anyway, worse comes to worse, they can dress up as guys.” Tears of laughter rolled down my cheeks as I inserted the photograph into the shredder beside my credenza.

Had I been thinking clearly, I would have realized that Dr. Gefuhlgut could make another copy of the photograph. What I couldn’t have known was that he had a tape recorder in the side pocket of his lab coat.

SETTLEMENT REACHED IN METABOLEAN CASE

Chicago — Class action lawyers for thousands of woman made hirsute by Metabolean expressed “gratification” with the terms of a settlement reached with the pharmaceutical giant which manufactured the ill-fated diet pill. The multi-billion dollar settlement was hammered out in a mediation held behind closed doors on the eve of trial. Although specific terms were not disclosed, Aaron Thrope, the executive responsible for the Metabolean disaster, is said to have been “reassigned” to another position in the company.

* * *

Reassigned, indeed. The mediator was a tough-ass bitch who looked like Jesse Ventura in drag, and it was clear from the beginning that the company was prepared to throw me to the wolves. I watched helplessly as a parade of bearded ladies sobbed out their pathetic stories, trying to look sympathetic while the gallows was constructed around me. The feds were all over the company too, and their lawyers tried desperately to pin the whole fiasco on me. Still, my defense of ignorance was holding up well until Dr. Gefuhlgut did me in. The transcript of the tape recording he made to cover his ass was devastating.

MR. THROPE: “My God, it looks like a casting call for a freak show! We have the fat lady candidates over here, and the bearded lady candidates over there.”

DR. GEFUHLGUT: “Yes, well, that is one way of putting it. What are we going to do?”

MR. THROPE: “Absolutely nothing.”

DR. GEFUHLGUT: “What?”

MR. THROPE “Look, this is only the first group of test subjects, right?”

DR. GEFUHLGUT: “Yes, but you would expect any symptoms to be exhibited by them first. The other groups haven’t had enough time to experience the side-effects.”

MR. THROPE: “Maybe. Or maybe this is a coincidence of some kind. Anyway, you can’t expect me to shitcan a multi-million dollar campaign at the last minute based on one test result, can you?”

DR. GEFUHLGUT: “You can’t be serious!”

MR. THROPE: “Come on, what’s a little facial hair? Just between us girls, I think the chicks with the beards are hotter than the porkers, don’t you? Anyway, worse comes to worse, they can dress up as guys. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

I felt like crawling under the table as the tape recorder played on. The rest of the mediation was a blur as the lawyers shouted at each other and divvied up the spoils. I knew my job was history, but the prospect of personal liability and maybe even jail time loomed. Just when it seemed like all was lost, the mediator swiveled her guns on me. The transcript tells the tale.

THE MEDIATOR: “It would seem, Mr. Thrope, that you are the culprit in this drama.”

MR. THROPE: “I was only doing my job.”

THE MEDIATOR: “Do you know what you are, Mr. Thrope?”

MR. THROPE: “Broke and out of work?”

THE MEDIATOR: “You, Mr. Thrope, are a misanthrope.”

MR. THROPE: “A what?”

THE MEDIATOR: “A misanthrope. It means you have a hatred for mankind. You are not fit to live amongst civilized society, Mr. Thrope. At least not as you are. Fortunately, I have had time to fashion a remedy for this situation. A remedy which is uniquely tailored to the suffering you have brought about.”

MR. THROPE: “I have my rights!”

THE MEDIATOR: “Of course you do, Mr. Thrope. You have every right to walk out of this room, and spend the rest of your life paying damages in the millions. Or, you can accept the terms which I am about to impose on you.”

MR. THROPE: “What terms?”

THE MEDIATOR: “When you were confronted with the side-effects of Metabolean, you joked about how your unfortunate victims could dress up as the opposite sex to conceal their shame and embarrassment. I have similar conditions in mind for you.”

MR. THROPE: “What conditions?”

THE MEDIATOR: “Because of you, thousands of women were forced to endure the humiliation of being transformed against their will. The very essence of their being, their femininity, was taken from them. As a condition to accepting the monetary settlement which your employer has put on the table, representatives of the plaintiffs have demanded that you atone for your misdoings. When I shared my idea with them, they were delighted with it.”

MR. THROPE: “What idea?”

THE MEDIATOR: “Just between us girls, I am going to turn you into one.”

MR. THROPE: “What?”

THE MEDIATOR: “Immediately after these proceedings are adjourned, you will be required to live as a woman for a term of one year. During this period of time, you will be required to work as an entry level employee for the company which you so recklessly misguided.”

MR. SNEAD: “You can’t make me do that!”

THE MEDIATOR: “You are entirely right. The choice will be yours, not mine. Your employers have agreed not to seek indemnification from you for the billions of dollars which you have cost their shareholders, and to keep you on the payroll, if you comply with my conditions.”

MR. THROPE: “This is insane!”

THE MEDIATOR: “Think it over, Mr. Thrope. Or should I say, Miss Anne Thrope? You will be issued identification befitting your new gender, and the company has even agreed to pay for a complete makeover and a new wardrobe for you. Of course, you will have to move into a smaller apartment, something you can afford on the salary of a working girl. Think it over, Miss Thrope.”

* * *

At the end of the day, what choice did I have? That’s what I kept telling myself as I signed the Consent Decree which required me to “act, dress and live as a member of the female sex until one year from the date of this agreement.” Unfortunately, I didn’t take the time to read the fine print in the twenty page document. If I had, there’s no doubt in my mind that I would have jumped out one of the conference room windows before I signed it.

A Special Mistress was appointed by the mediator to oversee my transformation. Her name was Donna Mae Trix. Donna was about thirty, very attractive in a mannish sort of way, and under other circumstances I might have tried to get into her pants. As I was soon to learn, those days were gone forever, or at least for the next year of my life.

The nightmare began when Donna escorted me out of the mediation to the hoots and catcalls of a mob of mustachioed harpies. After we ran the gauntlet, I was ushered into a waiting minivan and driven to salon in the gay area of Chicago known as “Boys Town”. When Donna and I entered the salon, an evil-looking woman was waiting for us in the lobby.

“You must be Mr. Thrope,” she said with elaborate courtesy. “I am delighted to meet you at last. Welcome to my salon.”

“All hope abandon, ye who enter here!” Donna said with fiendish grin.

“Now Donna, let’s not be melodramatic. My name is Cassandra. Until recently, the vast majority of my customers were men, but I am greatly indebted to you for tripling my business this year. Now, over half of my customers are women seeking to undo the side-effects of Metabolean. I have been doing a land-office business in laser hair removal.”

“Which is exactly what we have in mind for Mr. Thrope,” Donna said. “Although from now on, please refer to her as Anne.”

The significance of Donna’s words was soon to become apparent. In my naiveté, I had assumed that I would simply have to wear dresses for a year, which would be humiliating enough. Little could I have imagined the misfortunes that awaited me.

Donna handed a copy of the Consent Decree to Cassandra. For what seemed like an eternity, she flipped through the pages, nodding and cackling to herself occasionally. Finally she put it down and rubbed her hands together. “Congratulations, Anne,” she said. “Your employers have agreed to splurge on the Lass-E-Dream Treatment. Please follow me.” With Donna prodding me from behind, I followed Cassandra into a windowless room with an examination table, a scale, and a piece of machinery that looked like a washing machine with wires attached to it.

“Please strip down to your shorts,” Cassandra told me. When I hesitated, she dropped all pretense of politeness. “Off with your clothes, at once! My instructions are to notify the mediator immediately if there is the slightest lack of cooperation.” That was enough to goad me into taking off my shoes, shirt and slacks, which Donna scooped up and tossed into a trash bag. I started to protest, but thought the better of it and bit my tongue. “Get on the scale,” Cassandra instructed me, and without hesitation I complied.

She stepped behind the scale and measured my height before fiddling with the weights. After pronouncing that I was five feet nine inches tall and weighed one hundred and fifty-five pounds, she appraised my physique with a critical eye. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty-eight.”

“You have kept yourself remarkably fit, Anne. Best of all, with your dark hair and fair complexion, you are an ideal candidate for laser treatments. As I mentioned, the Lass-E-Dream program has been selected, for which you should be very grateful. One of the downsides to laser hair removal is temporary swelling and reddening of the skin afterwards, and with the amount of body and facial hair we have to remove from you, several weeks of treatments would ordinarily be required. Take this,” she said, handing me a pill and a paper cup.

“What is it?” I asked, looking warily at the little white pill in my hand.

“Don’t be alarmed,” she chuckled. “It is just a sedative to make you drowsy.”

“Why do you want to put me to sleep?” I asked nervously.

Cassandra sighed with obvious irritation. “If you want to drag this out, be my guest. I get paid the same either way. With the Lass-E-Dream program, we are able to remove all of your hair in one session, and by the time you wake up, the worst of the swelling will be over.”

I knew I was trapped either way, but some instinct told me to prolong the inevitable. “What if I’d rather take it a little slower?”

“That is entirely your prerogative,” Donna chimed in. “However, under the terms of the Consent Decree you signed, the clock on your year as a female does not start running until your makeover is complete.” For the first time, I realized that I had made a colossal mistake in not reading the agreement. Too proud to admit my stupidity, I swallowed the pill and washed it down. “Excellent,” Cassandra said. “Why don’t you lie down while we get ready to start on you.” I was already beginning to feel lightheaded, and it was all I could do to hoist myself onto the examination table before I passed out.

* * *

When I awakened, I found myself in a strange room. Sunlight streamed in through windows adorned with floral curtains, and reflected off bright yellow walls and antique white furniture to assault my bleary eyes. I squinted at my surroundings, and slowly realized that I was lying under a pile of covers in a queen sized bed. I lifted my head off the plush pillows and started to pull back the covers when everything hit me at once.

What the hell have I got on? Holy shit, what happened to my arm? There’s no hair on it. And why is there hair hanging down over my eyes? When I reached up to brush it away from my face, I found myself staring at polished fingernails. Tearing off the covers, I saw my legs, sleek and hairless, under the hem of my satin nightgown. I fell back onto the pillows as it all came back to me. The realization that I had been made over in my sleep to look like a woman was slowly sinking in when I heard the door open.

“Good morning, Anne. I was beginning to think you’d sleep through the whole year,” Donna said with exaggerated sweetness. I opened my eyes to see her hovering over the bed, a look of triumph on her face.

“Where am I?”

“In your new apartment, of course.”

“Apartment? What happened to…Cassandra?”

“That was days ago. Once she finished with your laser treatments, there was a little more swelling than we anticipated, so we decided to let you sleep until your skin was back to normal. Of course, this gave us plenty of time to decide on a hairstyle for you and weave it into place, and it also let your fingernails grow just long enough for us to do something with.”

“Do you mean the laser treatments are finished?” I asked as I tried to get up. I was still feeling a little light-headed, and Donna had to grasp my arm as I got unsteadily to my feet. When I looked down and saw that my toenails had been polished too, I nearly passed out again.

“Oh yes, your body and facial hair are gone forever.”

That shocked me back into reality. “What do you mean, gone forever?”

“Anne, the Consent Decree required you to subject yourself to the same treatments prescribed for the female victims of Metabolean. Laser hair removal is permanent. The follicles absorb energy from the laser until they die and can no longer grow hair.”

“Nobody told me that!”

“Cheer up! Now you’ll never have to shave again.”

“You little bitch! I’ll get you for this!”

Donna whipped a pistol out of her purse and pointed it at me. “The mediator was afraid you might react this way. The dart in this gun is filled enough female hormones to knock the stuffing out of you. Bend over.”

I pushed her aside and made a dash for the door. I heard a thwack and felt a sharp pain in my ass. Too late, I reached back and tried desperately to pull the dart out of my skin, but by the time I was able to find it in the satin folds of my nightgown, its awful payload was coursing through my system.

Holding the dart in my hand, I looked at my knees shaking under my nightgown, and for the first time in memory I started to cry. “Oh my,” Donna observed. “I had no idea the estrogen would start in so quickly!”

I slammed the door in her face and crawled back into bed, broken down with misery.

* * *

Later that day, I came to terms with my fate. Maybe it was the psychological impact of having my body laced with female hormones, or maybe it was the stark language of the Consent Decree that I finally got around to reading. As I sat in bed on my sore ass, pouring over page after page, the enormity of my predicament sank in:

“Defendant’s legal name will be changed to Anne Thrope.”

“Defendant is to present herself as a woman at all times. Female hormones will be administered if necessary to modify defendant’s behavior.”

“The wearing of any articles of male clothing by defendant during the term of this agreement is prohibited.”

On and on it went, stripping me of any vestige of masculinity, making me sick to my stomach. The kicker came at the very end: “Any violation of the conditions of this agreement shall have the effect of extending the term hereof for an additional period of one year.” That meant if I slipped up even once, I would be forced to start my year as a woman all over again, or subject myself to millions of dollars of civil liability to Metabolean victims Once I realized that I was trapped, I resigned myself to coping as best I could with the maniacal agreement I had so foolishly signed.

When I finally opened my bedroom door to throw in the towel, Donna was waiting for me in the small living room. “Hello, Anne. Are you ready to get dressed?”

“Not really, but what choice to I have?”

“That’s the spirit! Why don’t we start with a nice hot bath?” She led the way into the bathroom, and I watched disconsolately as she poured a capful of bubble bath into the tub and started filling it with steaming water. The sight of myself in the mirror above the vanity was truly shocking: my face was smooth, without any trace of stubble, and long dark hair fell down around the shoulders of my nightgown. When I looked at myself more closely, I realized that I had a small stud in each ear. Donna saw me fingering them and said, “You should be ready for nice earrings today.”

I wondered what else they might have done to me. With trepidation, I lifted up my nightgown and stared at the panties around my waist. “I’ll leave you now, Anne. Don’t forget to shampoo and condition your hair. I’ll help you style it after you’re out of the tub.” After Donna left, I pulled down my panties and relieved myself, feeling strangely ridiculous standing there holding up my nightgown. I pulled it off and sank into the tub, and as my manhood disappeared beneath the bubbles, my smooth arms and legs looked just like those of a woman.

Eventually I soaped up my hairless body and shampooed my now-long hair, which felt almost natural. I had an idea that a good weave was very expensive, and for the first time I got an inkling of how much money my employers were spending to mollify the Metabolean plaintiffs. After I dried myself off, I pulled on a terry cloth bathrobe that was hanging on the back of the door and walked into the bedroom to discover that Donna had laid my outfit for the day out on the bedspread: a bra, panties, nylons, a slip, a gray wool skirt and a matching top were arrayed before me. I was staring at them when she walked back into the room. “Oh my, look at your hair! Come on, Anne, let me show you how to do something with yourself.”

Just go with the flow, I told myself as she sat me down in front of the vanity and went to work on my mop of wet hair. I watched as she wrapped a towel around it, like the turbans that my ex-wives and girlfriends used to create for themselves, never dreaming that I would one day need to learn how to perform the same ritual on myself. When she started curling up strands of my hair into rollers, I wondered if I could at least get a shorter hairdo that would be easier for me to take care of. As if reading my mind, Donna said, “Of course, once you get the hang of this, you may want to experiment with different styles or even a totally new look. That’s one of the fun things about being a girl.” I grimaced as she combed through wet tangles and closed my eyes in resignation when she went to work with a hair dryer. In a way, it was almost pleasant, having an attractive girl fussing over me like this, and in other circumstances I might even have found the experience erotic.

It was the same when she showed me how to apply moisturizing crá¨me to my face and body before she started in on my makeup. Only the harsh reality that this would be my routine for the next year of my life prevented me from enjoying the experience as she got down to business with her mysterious creams and powders. A scientist by training, I found it fascinating to watch my face being slowly transformed from the familiar one I had known all of my life to that of a totally different person. I protested when she started to tweeze my eyebrows, but once she had one of them halfway done, there was no point in stopping her. When she finished with a flourish of lipstick, and combed out my hair into soft feminine curls, I was astonished at the final result. “I look just like a girl,” I stammered.

“Well, what did you expect, Anne? That was the whole idea. You’re lucky your features are easy to work with. A lot of guys would look flat ugly no matter what. You were a pretty boy, and you’re gonna be a pretty girl.”

“Some luck,” I muttered as she led me back into the bedroom.

“I’m going to leave you alone to get dressed. Try not to snag your nylons with those fingernails. And call me before you put on your top, I’ve got some breast forms for you. Ta ta,” she said, closing the door behind herself before I could respond.

This really sucks, I said to myself as I surveyed the feminine finery on the bed. With a sigh, I tossed the bathrobe on the floor and morosely picked up my new panties, which were white with a little pink flower at the waistband. As I pulled them up my legs, the thin fabric stretched to accommodate my slim hips, and I realized as I tugged them on that I had lost a lot of weight during my hibernation at Cassandra’s. They held my limp penis flat against my stomach, and I worried about the effects the hormones were having on me as I tried to figure out how to put on the bra. Would I develop breasts? The bra was diabolical, and it took me a good five minutes to get it fastened around my chest. It took me a good five seconds to put my foot through the pantyhose, and I was hanging my head in frustration when Donna tapped on the door.

“Having fun?” she asked as she breezed into the room. “Oh dear, you’ve ruined your new stockings. Don’t worry, we’ve plenty more, but once you run out you’ll be on your own to replace them, and you would be shocked at how expensive pantyhose can be on a secretary’s salary.”

“Why do I have to wear them, anyway?”

“Well, I guess your legs are good enough that you could probably get by without them, if it weren’t for the dress code for secretaries. ‘Skirts or dresses and hosiery are mandatory except on casual Fridays,’ according to the company handbook. So on Fridays, or the weekends, if you want to wear slacks and knee-highs or socks, you’re welcome to buy some. On your secretary’s salary, of course. Now, stand up and let’s give you a bust.”

I didn’t understand what she meant at first, until she produced two flesh-colored forms with nipples on them and inserted them into the cups of my brassiere. Once she did, the impact was remarkable: I no longer looked like a man in women’s underwear. When I surveyed my reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door, the person looking back at me was unmistakably feminine, and downright sexy in her skimpy lingerie. Incredibly, I felt my penis beginning to stir under my panties.

“Let’s put on the rest of your things before we tackle another pair of pantyhose,” Donna said. “That’s a tip girls learn to help save them from running their nylons while they’re getting dressed.” She handed me the slip, and I was grateful to pull it on to cover up my budding erection. Donna adjusted the straps on my shoulders, then helped me pull on the top without mussing my hair too much. She showed me how to step into my skirt and twist it around to zip it up and button it, and she taught me to lift it up and tug my slip and top back into place after I centered the kick pleat behind my legs.

“Now, sit back down on the bed and I’ll show you how to put on your stockings,” she said. I watched as she took another pair out of their package and started to ball them up, one foot at a time. “Easy does it,” she said as she handed them to me and watched while I started tugging them on one leg at a time. “Careful, not too fast…watch out, you’re twisting them,” she said. As her fingers gently tugged at the delicate fabric on my smooth legs, the twitching in my panties took an a sudden urgency, and when she ordered me to stand up and pull my pantyhose over my waist, the sight of my slip and stockings under my skirt was too much for me. With an involuntary shudder, I yielded to a feeble orgasm that petered into a wet spot on my panties and hose as I blushed with embarrassment.

If Donna noticed, she pretended not to as I hurriedly tugged my skirt back down over my knees. What the hell was happening to me? Had the hormones messed me up already? Why was I so turned on by wearing women’s clothing? My mind was a jumble of confused thoughts and emotions as Donna tried to show me how to fasten a thin gold necklace behind my back and swapped my trainer studs for a pair of gold earrings. She finally got my attention back when she presented me with a shoebox containing a pair of high heels. “Here they are, Anne. This is a right of passage into womanhood. Let’s see if you can handle them.”

After everything else I’d been through, putting on a pair of women’s shoes seemed almost anti-climactic. The box said they were black pumps with a two inch heel, and when I stepped into them, other than the pinching in my toes I found them easy enough to get around in. Of course, I wouldn’t want to have to wear them for any length of time, or cover any distance in them, but that is exactly what fate had in store for me.

“Okay, let’s check out the finished product,” Donna said. “Wow, you look kind of cute, Anne.” Sizing myself up from head to toe in the full-length mirror, I had to agree with her. My pretty face was framed by soft curls, my top clung to pert breasts and a trim waist, and my high heels gave a nice curve to the silky legs below my skirt. Incredibly, I felt another stirring in my panties, and quickly sat down on the bed to stifle the feeling. When I did, my skirt slid up past my slip, provoking a lesson from Donna on how to sit like a lady. As she taught me how to smooth my skirt beneath me and cross my legs, the exquisite sensation of nylon against nylon triggered another whimpering orgasm in my panties. While the pleasure quickly subsided, I was profoundly worried about what was happening to me.

Once again, Donna snapped me back into reality with a few spritzes of cologne behind my ears. “Okay, sister, you’re as ready as you’ll ever be. How about something to eat?”

All of a sudden I realized how hungry I was. “When’s the last time I ate something,” I asked her.

“Almost three days ago. That’s how you got that girlish figure. Come on, I’ll treat us to a ladies’ lunch.”

“You mean outside?” I asked with sudden panic.

“Of course, outside. My job description as Special Mistress does not include cooking and cleaning for you! When we’re through with lunch, we can take a trip to the grocery store, and you can stock up on some essentials. You will be cooking for yourself once you start work.”

“When does that happen?”

“Based on the progress we’ve made here today, I see no reason why you can’t start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Why not? I need to give you a crash course in speaking like a woman, but we can start in on that while we’re out and about. Come on, I’ll fix you up with a purse and we’ll be off!”

“Can’t we just stay here today?”

“You can stay here if you want to. Maybe you’d like to spend the day trying on all the skirts and dresses in your closet? There’s no food in your refrigerator and I’m going out for something to eat. When I get back, we can continue where we left off, although I have to remind you that your year as a female does not begin until your makeover is complete.”

“Look at me, for God’s sake!” I exploded. “Are you telling me my makeover isn’t complete? I look like a fucking girl, and I’m even starting to act like a fucking girl!”

“Maybe so, Missy, but you certainly don’t sound very ladylike. According to the Consent Decree, you have to present yourself in a feminine fashion, including speech and deportment, at all times. Why, that little outburst alone would be enough to start the clock running all over again, if it ever gets started. Now, would you care to join me for lunch, or not?”

Utterly defeated, I watched forlornly as Donna filled a purse with lipstick, compact, a wallet with Anne Thrope’s new identification, and miscellaneous female junk. After she showed me how to sling it over my shoulder, we stepped out into the hallway of my new apartment building. “Where are we, anyway?” I asked nervously as we waited for an elevator. “And what happened to all my stuff?”

“Your old apartment has been sublet, and all of your clothes and personal effects have been placed into storage. We were lucky to get you a one-bedroom apartment in Streeterville, which is only a ten minute bus ride from the office. It’s going to be tight on your new salary, but if you’re frugal, you should be able to swing it.” Before I could say anything, the elevator doors opened, and we stepped into a crowded cab. I looked down at my feet while the elevator made multiple stops on the way down to the street level. When the doors finally opened onto the lobby, I hesitated a moment until I realized that the guys on the elevator were waiting for us to get off first. Anne gave me a little push, and the sound of my high heels clattering across the marble foyer warned me that me feet were starting to hurt.

By the time we had walked a couple of blocks on the concrete sidewalk, they were killing me. Donna pointed out a little restaurant and asked me if it looked okay. “Anyplace is fine, I’ve got to get off my feet,” I whispered.

“Poor baby. Just be glad we’re breaking them in today,” she said as we went inside. The hostess led us to a quiet table, and after sitting down carefully in my skirt, I gratefully kicked off my heels and reached down to squeeze my aching toes through my nylons. Donna told me to hang my purse on the back of my chair, and I was studying my menu when a waitress approached to ask us if we wanted anything to drink. I tried to open my mouth, but I froze up and was unable to speak.

“We’ll each have iced tea,” Donna said. After the waitress left, she leaned over and said, “Just keep it short and sweet. Speak from your throat, not your diaphragm. Here, let’s try a little experiment.” She handed me my glass of water. “Gargle with this.”

After I did as I was told, she said, “Try saying something from the spot in your throat where you just gargled.” When I did, my voice came out higher, softer and almost natural. “Very good, Anne. That’s your new voice.”

“Thanks,” I said shyly.

“What are you going to order?” Donna asked.

“I’m famished,” I said, getting a feel for my new voice. “A double order of chili sounds good.”

“Not if you want to maintain your figure,” Donna admonished me. “No self-respecting girl would order something like that for lunch. Why don’t you try the pasta salad?”

The waitress returned before I could argue with her. “Pasta salad,” I said reluctantly, surprising myself by putting a little hiss in each word.

“Show off,” Donna teased me after the waitress left. “You’re a fast study.”

“Somehow I get the feeling I’m not the first guy you’ve taught this too,” I said.

“And so perceptive,” Donna said, deftly changing the subject. “You are going to make such a wonderful secretary!”

“How will I know what to do tomorrow?” I asked nervously.

“All you have to remember is to report to human resources at eight o’clock. Everybody is expecting you.”

* * *

The next morning, I was filled with foreboding when I woke up before dawn. I tossed and turned until the six o’clock news came on the clock radio, informing me that it was going to be a perfect fall day in Chicago. With a sigh of resignation, I took off my nightgown and staggered into the bathroom.

An hour later, my hair styled and my makeup as good as I could get it, I returned to the bedroom and opened the door to the walk-in closet. I had only glanced into it the day before, and I was overwhelmed by the selection of skirts, tops, jackets and dresses that hung before me. The perimeter of the floor was covered with shoeboxes full high heels in various styles and colors, and a cubby by the door was teeming with scarves and sweaters. I was floundering with indecision when I spied an envelope pinned to one of the jackets. “Open me on your first day” was written in bold letters, and I tore it open to find this note:

Dear Anne,

Come out of the closet, working girl! I just know you will make an excellent secretary if you keep that pretty little head of yours.

Having trouble deciding what to wear? To solve your daily dilemma on your first day, I have selected your outfit for you: a pink top, plaid skirt and navy blue jacket will go well with the black heels that you broke in yesterday. Why not try accessorizing your ensemble with a pretty scarf, and don’t forget your jewelry! Nude pantyhose and white lingerie can be found in your drawers.

Good luck, sweetheart! Remember, you are not an executive any more. Just do as you’re told, smile sweetly, and the year will go by before you know it!

Donna

Sure enough, the skirt, top and jacket were pulled to one side, with a colorful scarf wrapped around the hangers. In a trance, I took them down and tossed them onto the bed. While I fished around in the drawers for my panties, bra, slip and stockings, I felt myself becoming aroused once again.

During my lunch with Donna, I had obliquely brought up my concerns about what was happening to me. “I’m worried about the hormones,” I told her.

“So far, you’ve only had one shot. That’s not enough to cause anything permanent,” she assured me.

“Will I have to take any more?”

“Only if you’re bad.”

“What happens if I keep taking them?”

“Well, if you take enough of them, there could be some irreversible changes.”

“You mean like turning me into a girl?” I asked her nervously.

“Not completely.”

“What will the shot you gave me yesterday do to me?”

“Slow you down a bit, make you a little more docile. Let me know if you want another one.”

Her words were ringing in my ears as I put on my bra and panties. This time, I tried tucking my penis between my legs, and it stayed there when my panties were pulled up tight. Once again, I watched my reflection in the mirror as the breast forms transformed me into a sexy girl in her bra and panties. After I stepped into my slip, the lacy hem swirled seductively around my knees as I dropped the pink top over my head and shook my curly hair free from its princess collar. I decided to throw caution to the wind and put on my nylons before my skirt, and as I watched the girl in the mirror slowly easing her stockings up her legs, I felt my contorted penis struggling against its silken restraints. Once I tugged my pantyhose up over my waist, all I felt was a dull ache in my panties as it settled into captivity. I stepped into my skirt, zipped it up, fussed with my slip and top like I had been doing it all my life, and even figured out how to tie my scarf into a loose bow before putting on my jacket. I remembered to put on my new woman’s wristwatch, and a glance at it told me that I had better get moving if I was going to catch my bus. My purse was still loaded from yesterday, so I slipped on my heels, checked to make sure my keys were in my purse, and headed out the door.

The weatherman was right: it was a fine autumn day, with just a hint of winter in the air, and I was glad I was wearing stockings when I passed a woman on the sidewalk whose bare legs looked almost purple. The walk to the bus stop took me five minutes, and already my feet were on fire. I looked nervously at the people standing in line, but nobody paid any attention to me. Donna had assured me that if I acted like a normal girl and didn’t call attention to myself, my true gender would be undetectable to strangers, and so far she seemed to be right.

I got on the crowded bus and found a seat next to a man with his face buried in the Tribune. I stared straight ahead and as we lurched along, it was hard to believe that not long ago I had commuted to the office in my company car. Sadly, I reached into my purse and extracted Donna’s letter. “Good luck, sweetheart! Remember, you are not an executive any more. Just do as you’re told, smile sweetly, and the year will go by before you know it!” A whole year like this…right now, all I wished was that my bus would swerve out of control and plunge into the Chicago River to put me out of my misery.

At a few minutes before eight, I stepped off my bus and walked hesitantly into the building where I had spent the past fifteen years slowly climbing the corporate ladder. My only hope was that no one would recognize me, but it was not to be. As soon as I got on an elevator, a woman’s voice said, “Omigod, it’s Mr. Thrope!” I didn’t know her, but two guys in marketing I used to have lunch with occasionally started poking each other and giggling uncontrollably. I just stood there, red in the face, until we got to the floor for Human Resources. “Have a nice day, Ms. Thrope!” the woman called out as I stepped off the elevator to peals of hysterical laughter.

It went downhill from there. The receptionist in Human Resources treated me like an alien from outer space, and the officious Assistant Director sat me down in his cramped little office and gave me the facts of life about my new status. He seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out the dress code for females in my company handbook, and shared with me a memorandum which had gone out to everyone at corporate headquarters, informing them of my punishment and admonishing them to treat me the same as any other entry level employee. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, the Assistant Director had his secretary take me on a familiarization tour of my new work areas: the file room, the supply room, the kitchen where I would go to fetch coffee, and finally the ladies room. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, she escorted me into my old department and introduced me to the man who had replaced me as vice president. He wished me well with undisguised contempt, and then I was paraded past my gaping former colleagues and taken to my new cubicle.

I barely had time to put down my purse before the work started piling up: reports to be typed, travel schedules to be arranged, files to be sorted, and miscellaneous errands to be run for the three junior executives I’d been assigned to work for. The first time one of them summoned me into his office to pick up some files, I banged my knee on a filing cabinet and snagged my pantyhose. By the time I was able to scoot out for a new pair during my lunch break, I had a run going clear up my leg, and after paying for my nylons I barely had enough money to buy some cottage cheese to eat at my desk. I thought I was getting the hang of things until I messed up a phone message and got bawled out like a five year old by the executive on the other end of the line, and when I finally had to use the ladies room, I was openly scorned by every woman who saw me.

The only good thing about being a secretary is when the clock strikes five, you’re out of there. More snickers on the ride down in the elevator, a sudden drizzle as I waited for my bus, and wet, aching feet all added to my misery, and by the time I finally dragged my sorry ass back to my little apartment, I had made my decision: tomorrow I would renege on the Consent Decree and take my punishment like a man. One day as a working woman was enough to last me for a lifetime.

By morning, I chickened out, put on a dress and rode the bus to work again. So here I sit, typing this story while the work piles up around me. The only thing they can’t do to me is fire me: that would be a breach of the Consent Decree. I suppose if I get too ditzy, Donna will come looking for me with her dart gun. The very idea is enough to start a party in my panties.

By the author of Skylord
http://snurl.com/skylord

Originally posted 2004/11/17


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