A Christmiss Story
Keywords: A, Christmiss, Story,
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"Will our scoundrel-turned-damsel survive the office holiday party? What will she find in her Christmas stockings? The continuing misadventures of Miss Anne Thrope, by the author of The Jessica Project."
* * *
The weekend! With my first week as a secretary finally at an end, I knew exactly how I was going to spend it: sleeping till noon, then watching football on TV while binging on bratwurst and beer.
When I woke up on Saturday at half past noon, I lolled in bed for another hour before I dragged myself into the kitchenette and made myself some extra-strong coffee. I downed my first cup with a cigarette while I watched the freezing rain beat against the windows of my tiny apartment. No matter – I wasn't going anywhere for the next two days. I lit another cigarette and savored the blessed relief of not having to put on a dress, heels and stockings to endure another day of ridicule by my coworkers.
Tossing off my flannel nightgown, I returned to the bedroom and started sifting through the closet for something to wear for the weekend. As I feared, my tormentors hadn't included a single pair of pants or jeans in my extensive trousseau. Finally I spied a hot pink jogging suit, and sure enough there was a pair of pink and white sneakers amongst the boxes of high heels. Well, how else would I be expected to maintain my girlish figure? After a quick shower, I pulled on the jogging suit, dismissing the thought of trying to find some underwear to go with it. It was odd, I said to myself as I ran a blow dryer through my hair. The strange sensation of wearing women's lingerie had been intriguing, even arousing at first, but like any forbidden activity, dressing as a woman soon lost its fascination once it became my routine. Now I dreaded the daily chores of styling my hair, putting on my makeup, and trying to decide what to wear.
No such drudgery today. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and found a scrunchie to hold it back. Then I fired up my George Foreman grilling machine, stuffed it full of thick, juicy bratwurst, and popped the top on the first of many Heinekens. Ohio State was playing Michigan, and my troubles seemed far away as I got into the game while gorging myself on brats and throwing down beer after beer. The only thing that bummed me out was the endless progression of commercials featuring the Coors twins and hot chicks mud-wrestling over whether their beer was less filling or tasted great. I soon found myself becoming profoundly depressed by the grim realization that for the next year of my life, the only panties I would be getting inside were my own.
I was into my third brat and fifth beer when I heard I rap on my door. Who the hell could that be? The only good thing about the Consent Decree which doomed me to living as a woman was a proviso which shielded my new identity from the general public. Crushing out my cigarette into an overloaded ashtray, I weaved across the room and warily opened it a few inches. It was Donna Mae Trix, the Special Mistress appointed to oversee my transformation and adherence to the terms of the Consent Decree.
"Eew," she said as she breezed into my apartment. "It smells like shit in here. Open a window, at least," she said as she slid one of them up, ignoring the raindrops which pelted against the sill.
"What are you doing here?"
"The Consent Decree requires periodic inspections to confirm your compliance with the terms of the settlement." Donna was looking incredibly hot in her tight jeans, turtleneck and leather vest, and even after everything she had done to me, I felt myself getting turned on. She appraised me with a critical eye, then glanced down at the stinking ash tray and the empty beer cans on the floor. "Well, it's a judgment call," she said at length. "On the one hand, you still look like a girl, even without any makeup. Your hair looks cute like that, by the way. On the other hand, this is hardly the way a woman would keep her home. And you'll be lucky to hold onto your dress size if you keep making a pig out of yourself like this. Then again, you wouldn't be the first single girl to blow up out of boredom. Most of us do it with ice cream. What is that horrible stuff you're eating?"
"Bratwurst," I said, slurring the word slightly. "Want one?"
"Good heavens, no! Out of the kindness of my heart, I will not declare your disgraceful conduct today to be a breach of the Consent Decree, but I want you to know how disappointed I am in your behavior."
"You should have called first. I would have put on a dress and invited you over for a tea party."
"Don't press your luck, Missy." For some reason, I found her domineering tone extremely arousing, and with no underwear to constrain it, my erection sprang to her attention. "My, my, what have we here," she said with mock surprise as she stared at the bulge in my jogging suit. "Aren't you wearing any panties?"
"That's for me to know and you to find out," I said coquettishly. She pushed me back on the sofa and before I knew it, my pants were down to my ankles and she was tearing off her jeans. "You're no one to talk," I said when I saw that she wasn't wearing panties either. She pinned me down and began to rub her pussy against my aching cock.
"You realize what this means," she said as she teased me to the brink of orgasm.
"What," I moaned.
"This shocking display of manhood is a flagrant violation of the Consent Decree."
"Screw the Consent Decree." By that point I was so horny that I would have gladly agreed to start my year as a woman all over again in return for one good fuck. But Donna had something far more sinister in mind, and whether it was the alcohol or my raging testosterone, I was blind to her true intentions.
"There is an alternative," she whispered as she brought me to the brink once again.
"Anything. I'll do anything you say," I sighed.
"Good. Oh God," she panted as she lowered herself onto my rock-hard member. "I'll have to give you another shot of hormones. Are you sure you want that?"
By then, I couldn't have stopped her if she told me she was going to cut off my balls and flush them down the toilet. "Yes!" I cried as I felt my orgasm welling up deep inside me, and when I exploded inside her, I felt her shiver as her body responded to mine. When it was finally over, Donna collapsed onto my chest, and we lay there heaving as our hearts beat together. I was still in ecstasy when I felt a sharp pain in my right ass cheek. "Aargh! What was that?"
"Your hormones," she said coolly as she put the spent hypodermic syringe back into her vest pocket. "As you know, the Consent Decree authorizes me to administer female hormones if necessary to modify your behavior. The shot I just gave you was much, much stronger than the dose you got before." She got up and started putting her jeans back on.
"What will it do to me?"
"Let's just say you could get away without wearing panties for the foreseeable future. Your balls are going to start to shrivel up, and as for your dick, well, you may have to sit down to pee."
I suddenly felt terribly nauseous, and I barely made it into the bathroom before I began throwing up violently. The beer, the bratwurst, and my own bile poured out of me as I retched in despair. When I was finally finished, Donna poked her head into the bathroom. "Very good," she said. "Bulimia is the perfect cure for bratwurst and beer. Most girls have to be taught that. I'm very proud of you." I was racked with dry heaves as she left my apartment.
I was sick in bed the rest of the weekend, and was only able to get down a bowl of soup on Sunday evening. So much for losing my girlish figure.
* * *
Monday was like every other weekday: up at six thirty, an hour devoted to my hair and makeup, squirming into panties, bra and a slip, tugging on my pantyhose and trying to decide which skirt and top or dress to wear. On that particular day, I selected a knee-length black skirt and a white mock turtleneck, then padded into the kitchenette in my stocking feet to pour myself a bowl of cereal. I thought sadly about how I had pinched my pennies all week to be able to afford my big binge on Saturday, now literally down the drain. At least my stomach had returned to normal, and I felt almost myself again as I returned to my closet and put on my heels. Surveying the girl in the mirror as she tied a red scarf around her neck, my nausea began to return when I remembered what I had done to myself. I might as well be a male black widow spider who allowed his mate to eat him after one glorious fuck.
With that wretched thought, I put on my overcoat, picked up my purse and trudged out into the gloomy morning to catch my bus. The frigid air knifed through my stockings and up my skirt, and I was actually grateful when my bus came along to take me to the office to begin another day as a secretary. At least it was going to be a short week: Thursday was Thanksgiving, and the office was closed on Friday. When I got to the office, I hung up my coat on a hook in my cubicle and started going through my phone messages. "Anne, please stop by my office for some dictation." "Anne, I need the Ripley files." Anne this, Anne that…I remembered when I used to be Mr. Thrope, executive on the march, and not a lowly secretary referred to only by her first name.
The only good news was that my coworkers were starting to accept me for what I appeared to be, now that the novelty was wearing off. The best I could hope for was to be treated like any other secretary, and not some kind of pervert in women's clothing. Maybe it was the holiday spirit, but some of the other girls actually started being nice to me when we crossed paths in the cafeteria or the ladies room, and I was no longer regarded as an object of scorn and ridicule as the days went by. Of course, I couldn't tell what they were saying behind my back, but to outward appearances I was just one of the girls.
Everyone was talking about their plans for Thanksgiving. The thought of being cooped up in my little apartment for four days was too much to bear, and I was giving serious thought to volunteering to work in a soup kitchen when the telephone rang on Wednesday afternoon.
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Keywords: A, Christmiss, Story,