Latex Suburban Housewife

Chapter 1

“Is it true what they say about CDs?”

I turned to see the man who asked the question. He looked 40ish, in a black Judas Priest T shirt and ripped jeans.

“I’m not a CD,” I replied curtly. “I’m a transgender female.”

“Whatever,” he said. “I don’t know the latest lingo. What I do know is your sexy ass and big tits caught my eye. Can I buy you a drink?”

I wanted to call him a rude and ignorant asshole. Instead, I politely but firmly said no thanks.

My TG friend, Melanie, had picked the dive bar, which was crowded on a Saturday night with workers from the nearby port. Lacking a name or even a formal address, it was tucked into a row of empty buildings. Melanie, a beautiful Latina always on the prowl, had said it was popular with hot guys looking for femmes.

I was questioning her judgment until an older man approached and cut in on the rude guy, who stomped off.

“It looked like you needed to be rescued,” the older man said.

“I did. Thank you.”

“I’m Phillip Goldstein. Pleased to meet you.”

“Patricia Vogel.”

I shook his outstretched hand and saw his warm smile for the first time.

Mr. Goldstein looked about 50 and was handsome. Tall and trim, he had short gray hair and wore a navy blue polo shirt and khaki pants. He asked if he could get me a drink and I asked for a glass of Chardonnay. My first impression? I had met a true gentleman.

I wore a black latex long-sleeved top with a high neck and a pleated red latex mini-skirt (I had seen a picture of Emma Watson in the outfit). My black patent leather pumps had a five-inch stiletto heel and I wore nude-colored silk stockings. My wig was a blonde bob and my mascara was simple — thin underliner, a hint of silver eyeshadow, and fire-engine red lipstick. I wore small gold hoop earrings and a gold thumb ring on my left hand.

To his credit, Mr. Goldstein maintained eye contact with me as we began to chat. But he could not avoid stealing a glance or two at my artificial 38DD-size breasts straining against the black latex or my long legs encased in silk. I enjoyed his attention.

“I haven’t seen you here, Patricia,” said Mr. Goldstein, taking a sip of his gin and tonic. “I would have remembered.”

“First time. My friend, Melanie, picked it out. We’re TG females. Our pronouns are she/her.”

Mr. Goldstein nodded. He explained he was the bar’s owner. His primary enterprise was a big hedge fund he had a controlling interest in and managed. But he said he also had various properties around the city. He talked about some of those firms. They sounded lucrative. He wasn’t bragging, though. I felt like he just wanted to make it clear he wasn’t some random guy in a bar.

He asked about me.

“I’m new to the city, moved here from a small town in Iowa.”

Mr. Goldstein welcomed me.

“Thank you. I’m working as a temp to earn money for graduate school, mainly secretarial and clerical work,” I continued. “I’m pursuing a master’s degree in economics and international relations.”

“Impressive. Patricia, may I ask how old you are?”

I said I was 22. I sensed his gears were turning, but I didn’t know why. I noticed him glance at the lipstick smudge I left on my wine glass. Standing at the bar, we talked for almost two hours. I heard more about him and he elicited more information from me, including about my decision to transition. Our conversation flowed easily. I liked his intellect and flashes of humor. We began to flirt. He told me I had a pretty smile. I told him I liked his tan, which he said he got in southern France.

I noticed Melanie making the sign that she wanted to leave and told Mr. Goldstein. He asked for my phone number. I didn’t hesitate to give it to him.

“Patricia, there’s an opportunity at my hedge fund that might interest you. I’d like to talk about it with you.”

“That would be great, Mr. Goldstein.”

The opportunity would change my life in a way I never imagined, but of course I had no way of knowing that then.

---

Mr. Goldstein called me a few days later. He explained that his hedge fund had an opening for an executive assistant.

“That’s a a fancy way of saying secretary. You said you were working as a temp. This would be full-time. Do you think you would be interested?”

I said I thought I might be, depending on the pay. I was playing a bit hard to get.

“If it’s OK, I’ll send you some info about the opening and you can follow up if you’re interested,” he said. “The deadline to apply is 5 p.m. Friday.”

After we got off the phone, I called Melanie and told her about the call.

“You sound kind of disappointed,” she said.

“All he talked about was this job. I thought he was going to ask me out,” I replied.

Melanie laughed.

“That wouldn’t be very professional, would it?”

“I suppose not.”

“It sounds like you’re interested in this gentleman,” she said, sounding intrigued.

“Yeah, an older man hasn’t caught my eye before. He’s hot. I’m worried the spell is broken, though. Maybe he’s just looking for a secretary.”

Melanie advised me not to worry.

I had googled Phillip Goldstein. He was a big-time businessman — one of the city’s wealthiest with a reputation for aggressive deal-making. I noticed at the bar that he wore a wedding ring. Based on what I knew about older men, that might not mean much. His wife, Judith, was a businesswoman herself and a prominent socialite. Her appearance, at least in the photo I found online, was stern.

His email arrived the following day and I read the job description. The lower end of the salary range at $56,000 was twice what I was earning as a temp. I called Mr. Goldstein later that day and expressed my interest. He said he wanted to interview me at his office the following day.

Things were moving fast. I decided to make sure Mr. Goldstein understood something.

“There’s one non-negotiable issue,” I explained. “As a TG woman, I must be able to dress en femme in the workplace and be treated by my co-workers with respect and dignity.”

“Of course, Patricia. I would want you and I to meet with the staff as part of the interview process. I don’t anticipate problems, but you would be our first TG employee. My employees are a bit socially conservative, but they also don’t want to piss me off so your hiring would go smoothly, if I decide to go that route. There are other applicants.”

Afterwards, I worried I had been presumptuous about getting the job, talking about “non-negotiable issues.” It made me nervous as I arrived the next morning at Mr. Goldstein’s firm, located on the top floor of a 40-story building downtown.

I wore a business suit, a white silk blouse under my black jacket, a black pencil skirt with a hem an inch above my knee, and black pumps with a three-inch heel. My mascara was minimal, a light red lipstick and some eye pencil. A wig of long red hair hung to my shoulders in curls. Except for my long red nails, it was a conservative look.

I was waiting in a sterile conference room when Mr. Goldstein arrived.

“So you’re a redhead?” he asked. “You were a blonde with short hair the other night.”

“That was for clubbing. This is how I usually wear my hair.”

“I like it, classy. Let’s get to business.”

 Mr. Goldstein’s demeanor turned cool. It compounded my anxiety.

“What qualifies you for this job?” he asked.

I nailed that question and the four after that. But as we got into bigger issues, I stumbled. Where did I see myself in five years? No idea. Would I delay grad school if I got this job? Hadn’t considered that.

I could sense Mr. Goldstein’s growing frustration.

“Patricia, I need to ask you some personal questions. You may deem them inappropriate. You do not have to answer. I would totally understand.”

I nodded my approval.

“Have you considered gender-correction strategy?”

I paused and studied his expression. He looked up and our eyes met. I couldn’t read him. I paused, but Mr. Goldstein didn’t say a word.

“I have. But I can’t afford that.”

He asked why I had considered surgery.

“I am interested in pursuing a relationship with a heterosexual man.”

“Pursuing? Have you had a romantic or sexual relationship with a biological male?”

“I have not. I was bi-curious until I decided to transition, and that decision led me to stop denying my romantic and sexual attraction to men.”

“You may be wondering why I’m being so invasive,” he said.

“I am.”

My answer broke the tension. Mr. Goldstein and I laughed.

“What if I told you that you possibly could accomplish male-to-female transformation without surgery?”

“I’d want to know more, of course.”

Mr. Goldstein explained that he had access to a potion that he referred to as the Elixir. It had shown some success in M2F transformation, he explained. In some cases, those changes were minor — a slight change in personality or appearance. In a few, it had led to complete transformation to female genitalia.

I listened raptly, but it sounded unreal, more magic than reality.

“And you have administered this potion to others?”

“I have. It may be an option for you, but something you would need to think about deeply before making a decision,” Mr. Goldstein said.

“Ready to meet the staff?” he asked abruptly.

“What?” I genuinely was surprised.

“I mentioned it on the phone. You don’t recall?”

I said I did not.

I’m going to apologize in advance for the lack of diversity. We’ll talk about it later.”

A few minutes later, ten white men walked into the conference room, a sea of dark blue and black suits. They lined the table. None looked younger than 40.

“Gentleman, we have a job applicant for the executive assistant position. This is Patricia Vogel. She is a grad student at Highline University in economics and international relations.

“Patricia would be our first transgender employee. Her pronouns are she/her. I am confident that if she is selected, she will be treated with the same professionalism and respect as our other employees.”

There was no reaction to his words, just blank stares.

Mr. Goldstein turned over the floor to me. After talking more about my education credentials and my career goals, I thanked them for meeting with me and said I’d be honored to work at the firm.

“Any questions?” Mr. Goldstein asked.

There weren’t any. They shook my hand as they filed out.

“They didn’t have much to say,” I told Mr. Goldstein after they were gone.

“They’re not a talkative group,” he replied. “You’ll have no problem here.”

As I left the office, I felt cautiously optimistic about landing the job.

Three days later, Mr. Goldstein called and offered it to me. We discussed the details — salary, benefits, vacation, etc. After an hour of back and forth, I had one more question.

I asked if I could begin to use the Elixir.

“It sounds like you have been thinking about this,” he said.

I said I had — a lot.

“The probation period for this position is three months. If you pass that, you will get your first dose, but only after signing a contract. Is that agreeable with you?”

“It is, Mr. Goldstein. I accept your offer.”

“Welcome to my firm. Your first day is Monday. 8 a.m. sharp. Do not be late. The schedule is busy.”

---

I was not late. In fact, I was 10 minutes early, even after spending a couple of hours getting ready. I wore an outfit similar to the one for the job interview, but with a few changes. My skirt was shorter and tighter and my heels were higher — the five-inch stilettos I preferred.

Mr. Goldstein was right. The schedule was busy and began in a conference room, where I filled out piles of paperwork. They included a non-disclosure statement, in which I agreed not to discuss anything about what happened at the firm. At noon, Mr. Goldstein ducked his head into the conference room and said he needed to speak with me.

We walked down a corridor past several offices. At the end was Mr. Goldstein’s. He opened the mahogany door and we entered. It was a huge corner office, with a stunning view of the city. I walked over to the window and admired the vista. There was a slit in the back of my pencil skirt that offered a glimpse of my lower thigh. I wanted Mr. Goldstein to briefly enjoy that view, along with how the skirt clung to my shapely but tight ass.

He motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Let’s talk. They’ll bring in lunch for us in ten minutes.”

He handed me a five-page memo that listed my duties as his executive assistant.

“I hope you don’t feel overwhelmed,” he said.

“A bit, but it’s OK.”

“On page four, you will see a duty called ‘concierge services,’ “ Mr. Goldstein said. I flipped to that page.

“We have several clients who are very wealthy and live overseas. When they visit this firm, we offer them extra services. Some of that is clerical. They usually bring their own staff, but we augment that with someone who knows the ropes locally.

“I apologize for the short notice, but I need you to provide a concierge service to a potential client arriving at the airport. Have you met our security guy, Brian?”

I said yes.

Mr. Goldstein explained that Brian and I would pick up a businessman, Mr. Barzigan, who was arriving from Turkey.

“He’s considering a major investment with our hedge fund and I’d like you to give him these documents and then drop him off at his hotel. And you probably should leave now. I apologize about the short notice.”

Mr. Goldstein placed a stack of documents into a brief case and handed it to me.

“Thank you for doing this, Patricia.”

My head was spinning. Brian was ex-military and roughly the same age as Mr. Goldstein. We took the private elevator to the basement parking garage. Brian led me to the firm’s four-door black Mercedes and told me to sit in the back.

“Have you met Mr. Barzigan?” I asked as we drove to the airport.

“No, he’s a prospective client. I’ve only seen his resume — impressive. He’s mega-rich.”

It was a 30-minute drive to the airport because of traffic. Brian went into the terminal. Ten minutes later, I saw him return to the car and open the door for Mr. Barzigan, who sat next to me.

“Mr. Barzigan, I’m Phillip Goldstein’s new executive assistant, Patricia Vogel.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Yusuf Barzigan.”

He was stunningly handsome. He looked about 30 (I was only two years off; he was 32), with dark eyes, a mustache and beard. He wore an impeccably-tailored black suit with a red tie. I felt a wave of heat course through my body as I looked at his muscular body. He was not wearing a wedding ring.

“How was your flight, Mr. Barzigan?”

“Uneventful. It’s good to be in the States.”

I smiled.

“Mr. Goldstein prepared this for you.”

I opened the briefcase and handed him the documents. Brian merged onto the highway. I crossed and then re-crossed my long legs. I began to dangle the pump closest to Mr. Barzigan. I hoped he would notice. As he flipped through the documents, he checked out my expensive French silk hose.

“Cervin?” he asked, referring to the hosiery brand.

“Well done, Mr. Barzigan.”

“You have impeccable taste,” he said.

I felt my pink silk panties moisten from his gaze and compliment. As Brian jumped out of the car to get Mr. Barzigan’s luggage, we were alone for 20 seconds or so.

“I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow, Patricia,” he said. “You’re very beautiful.”

I watched as he walked into the ornate hotel. It was a warm day. He took off his suit jacket and I admired his broad back and sexy butt before he disappeared into the hotel.

 

Continues in chapter two