© Copyright 2019 - Misti Love-Fitzpatrick - Used by permission
Storycodes: Solo-M; cd; M2f; tg; oral; cons; X
Continues from chapter one
After driving Yusuf Barzigan to his hotel, Brian suggested that I sit in the front seat of the four-door black Mercedes for the drive back to the office. I did so, crossing my long legs with Mr. Barzigan’s compliment about my taste in French silk hosiery still at the forefront of my mind.
“You’ve had quite an eventful first day at work, Patricia,” said Brian, the ex-military officer who was in charge of security at the hedge fund of my boss, Phillip Goldstein.
“Tell me about it. Is it always this busy?”
Brian smiled and merged into the high-occupancy vehicle lane. The car accelerated instantly on the eight-lane highway toward downtown. The sun was setting, its rays reflecting off the glass office towers that dotted the vast skyline.
“Not always, but the tempo often is fast,” Brian said. “You’ll get used to it. You strike me as a quick study.”
I thanked him. We made some small talk and he asked me what I thought about Mr. Barzigan.
“I thought he was very intelligent and jumped right into the financial documents that Mr. Goldstein prepared for him,” I said.
“What else?” asked Brian. He grinned as he turned to briefly check out my expression.
“What do you mean, Brian?” I responded with faux innocence.
“Well, he referred to the French brand of hosiery you’re wearing. Did you think that was too forward?”
I rarely blush, but this was one of those occasions. I wondered what Brian would have thought if he had been in the car when Mr. Barzigan told me I was “very beautiful.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I said, glancing at cars stuck in traffic beside us as we sped by. “I took it as a compliment from a handsome gentleman.”
“So I hear you’re doing a background check on Mr. Barzigan,” I asked, trying to move the conversation in a different direction without being too obvious.
Brian said that was true. A big part of his job was to compile dossiers on the firm’s prospective clients and update them if they did business with Mr. Goldstein.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked.
“From Mr. Goldstein. I’m curious about Mr. Barzigan’s background,” I said, turning toward Brian. He wore a gray suit with a purple tie and sported a blond crewcut. He didn’t wear a wedding band, I noticed.
“I can’t talk much about what I have compiled, except for what’s available publicly – 32 years old, originally from Iran, secular, lives in Paris, estimated to be worth $14 billion, has a multi-national corporation with a wide range of business holdings. Single and a playboy,” Brian said.
I nodded and smiled. “I didn’t know the word ‘playboy’ was still used,” I said and Brian chuckled.
Pulling into the parking garage underneath the 40-story office tower, Brian stopped me as we walked from the car to the private elevator that would take us directly to the top floor.
“Patricia, this isn’t always an easy place to work. It’s demanding. It’s high-pressure. There are a lot of personalities. If you need someone to talk to or get some confidential advice as to how things work, I’ll always be available,” he said.
I said I would, although I didn’t know what he meant. Brian clearly was an important person to know.
Returning to my desk, I checked my voicemail and texts. Mr. Goldstein and nearly everyone else at the firm was gone, but he had left me an email.
“Patricia, you will find an entry in my calendar for my 10 a.m. tomorrow with Mr. Barzigan. I’ve heard there is a brand of coffee from Istanbul that he prefers. Please pick some up and prepare it for us,” Mr. Goldstein wrote. He named the brand and where he thought I could get it.
The next morning, I arrived at work a half an hour early. I tackled a few clerical items and took an Uber to the high-end grocery store where I bought the brand of coffee that Mr. Barzigan liked. Returning to the office, I ducked into the women’s room to check my mascara.
For the first time at work, I encountered another woman. She looked about 40, short with frizzy black hair. She was washing her hands. The firm had three female employees. When she didn’t say anything to me, I introduced myself and she said her name was Cheryl. Her eyes lowered to my dress and she walked out with a scowl.
What a bitch.
I wore one of my favorite black dresses, with a squared-off Queen Anne neckline and three quarter-length sleeves. I loved its femme fatale look, with a retro hem a few inches below my knees. The dress also fit me perfectly, gathering at the hip and accentuating my hourglass silhouette. It was lined with red and you could see glimpses of that contrasting color at both the neckline and hem. The thin red belt cinched in my waist. I wore black patent leather pumps and thigh-high black silk stockings.
As I ignored Cheryl’s rude behavior and retouched my eyeliner, my smart phone buzzed with a notification that it was 10 minutes before Mr. Barzigan’s appointment with Mr. Goldstein.
Mr. Barzigan was right on time, as I expected. Walking through the door with two male assistants in tow, Mr. Barzigan greeted me with a warm smile. I asked if he would like coffee. He nodded and I returned with a cup and saucer, black with one sugar. Taking a sip, he remarked it was his favorite brand.
“We aim to please, Mr. Barzigan” I said brightly as I took his coat. “Mr. Goldstein is ready for you. Please follow me.”
I led him and his two assistants down the hallway to Mr. Goldstein’s spacious corner office. As Mr. Goldstein got up from his desk, he shook Mr. Barzigan’s hand. I left the office and the door closed.
I unsuccessfully tried to focus on my work. The image of Mr. Barzigan from the day before kept popping into my head – how after saying goodbye to me, he took off his suit jacket, revealing his broad back and the sexy shape of his butt as he walked into his hotel.
I knew he didn’t do that to get my attention. Women did things like that, but not men. Although I had not been around him for very long, he carried himself with a masculine confidence that intrigued me. I wanted to know more. I fantasized about what kind of underwear he wore (I guessed silk boxers) and what it would be like slipping those boxers off and feeling his large butt as he ravished me.
Pull it together, Patricia.
Fortunately for me, I had an orientation session with the accounting office, so I had no choice but to follow my own advice. An hour later, there were 50 emails waiting for me. I was tempted to turn off my computer. Half an hour later or so, I heard a small cluster of men talking outside the door of Mr. Goldstein’s office. I turned and Mr. Barzigan approached me. He was direct, not wasting any time.
“Patricia, I must apologize. I was hoping we’d have time for a drink tonight. Mr. Goldstein would like more time to talk and so I’m sorry that’s not possible. I’ll be back in a few months and would like to see you if it fits in your schedule,” he said.
I thanked him with a smile and asked if there was anything I could do for him. He motioned for me to follow him outside the office. Near the bank of elevators, he handed me his business card and asked me to text him with my contact information.
“I hope you didn’t think I was too forward yesterday. You’re a truly beautiful young woman,” he said.
“Not all, Mr. Barzigan. I appreciated your kind words. I look forward to seeing you again.”
As he said good-bye, I tried to mask my disappointment. I think it was an utter fail.
It did not take long for me to learn why we didn’t have drinks that night.
After lunch, Mr. Goldstein summoned me to his office. He closed the door. From his body language, it appeared he was angry. He took off his suit jacket and hung it in a small closet as I sat in the sole chair in front of his desk.
“We need to talk, Patricia,” he said, glaring at me.
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked.
Mr. Goldstein didn’t answer my question. He lit a cigar as he glanced at one of his three computer screens that displayed financial news.
“During our meeting today, Mr. Barzigan asked me if he could have drinks with you,” he said.
I didn’t say anything. I initially was distracted by the cigar smoke. Smoking was supposed to be off-limits in the building.
“I didn’t say no,” Mr. Goldstein continued. “That would have been rude. I said I needed more time for our discussions and negotiation. That is partially true, but it also is true that I didn’t want him to have drinks with you.”
I asked why – and why Mr. Barzigan asked him for his permission.
Mr. Goldstein laughed at my latter question. I felt myself get angry. He exhaled, sending a swirl of smoke above his head.
“He asked because you’re my employee,” Mr. Goldstein said.
“I don’t see why that is relevant to someone asking me to have a drink,” I said.
Mr. Goldstein leaned back in his chair. My words hung in the air, competing with the cigar smoke.
“So first, a sincere apology to you, Patricia. This is only your second day working here. It’s not every day that we have a client like Mr. Barzigan. And I have not been clear about how your job works. I need to make that clear now.
“As my executive assistant, you are different than the people in this firm who handle financial trades and make money for me and themselves. I heard you met Cheryl this morning. She’s not in your category. She doesn’t handle sensitive information or have direct access to clients.
“You do and so you are my property. Mr. Barzigan understood this. That’s because he is a billionaire and he has employees like you that are his property. His question about having drinks with you was natural to him.
“Other clients or prospective clients may not understand this distinction. You’re going to meet a lot of wealthy and powerful men in this job. You are required to get my approval if you want to see those men socially,” he said. “It’s non-negotiable. Violating it is a firing offense.”
I was speechless. As our eyes met, I must have communicated this discomfort to Mr. Goldstein. He puffed on his cigar and gave me time to respond.
“I’ve never heard of a boss referring to an employee as property,” I said, my voice low and crackling with emotion.
“Patricia, you’re 22 years old. You don’t have much experience in the real world,” he countered.
“What if I don’t want to be property?”
My question came out harsher than I had planned.
Mr. Goldstein pointed at the door.
“You can leave. I’m not forcing you to work here. I had 275 applicants for your job. I took a chance on you.”
I asked why.
“Because I think you have valuable skills that can benefit me and I can accomplish some valuable things for you. But I’m not prepared to elaborate now on what I mean by that, except to say that Mr. Barzigan would be the most prestigious client of this firm by far. He is returning in four months and you will see him again.
“But this isn’t about him. It’s about your comprehension of what this job is and the nature of your relationship to your boss,” Mr. Goldstein added.
I crossed my arms and stared into the distance, trying to collect my thoughts.
Mr. Goldstein took a phone call and I sat there, stewing. I was tempted to walk out, to follow my temper. But I quickly realized that would be a mistake. It would be the end of this job. What bothered me was the word “property.” Mr. Goldstein ended his phone conversation.
“Are you free Saturday night?” he asked me.
Surprised by his question, I said I had no plans.
“I’m preparing to open a new club,” said Mr. Goldstein. “I’d like to show it to you and it’s a lot nicer than the one where we met. And the drinks are on me. I’ll pick you up at 10 if that works.”
“Sounds great, Mr. Goldstein.”
I walked out of his office, still angry and now very much confused by his invitation.
Mr. Barzigan had to ask Mr. Goldstein for permission to have drinks with me.
Mr. Goldstein didn’t have to ask anyone – other than me.
Working as a secretary at Mr. Goldstein’s hedge fund was a job that tested me. Although the pay was generous compared to similar positions, I realized at the end of my first week that the workload was heavy. Boiling it down, I was the secretary for a ten ambitious men and three women, in addition to my demanding boss, the CEO. I had no idea how I would be able to balance those duties with graduate school.
To the credit of the men, my gender identity never was an issue. But my time was. They competed for my clerical skills. The good news is it made the day go fast. The bad news is it was exhausting. The female employees for the most part ignored me. I wondered how long that would last.
To be candid, I hadn’t thought much about seeing Mr. Goldstein on Saturday night. Part of it was I had a busy school schedule. The other part was my residual anger with him. I had read the company’s handbook and saw that it barred relationships between employees. I got that. But I was going to have drinks with Mr. Barzigan. It seemed like massive overreach by Mr. Goldstein. He assumed that Mr. Barzigan or I wanted something more than a cocktail and a good conversation.
I decided to talk it over on the phone with my TG friend, Melanie, then realized I had signed a non-disclosure agreement. I couldn’t talk about it. I asked how she was doing and fortunately there was a lot going on with her. We gabbed for almost two hours. Toward the end of the call, I volunteered that I was seeing Mr. Goldstein that night.
“Oh really,” Melanie said. “Last time we talked, you said he was hot.”
“Well, he is. But I think he wants to talk. He’s a big talker. He may be a prominent businessman now, but I think he was a talk-show host in a previous life.”
Melanie joined my laughter. She asked what our plans were. I explained he was opening another nightclub and wanted to show it to me.
As we ended the call, I noticed a text waiting for me from Mr. Goldstein.
<Can we make it 11 tonight instead of 10?>
I replied: <Sure.>
He texted back: <Deal. Proper attire is club wear>
His answer confused me. It had sounded like the new club had not opened yet. Perhaps I misunderstood. I had several hours to get ready and so I did what I usually did. I went shopping.
It was 11 p.m. when I heard the knock on the door of my apartment.
I opened the door. Mr. Goldstein stepped back as he checked out my outfit.
“You said club wear,” I said. “Am I good?”
“Better than good. You look magnificent.”
I wore a tight black leather mini-skirt dress with a matching jacket, and a pair of thigh-high black leather boots with five-inch stiletto heels. I had gone all-out on my make-up – silver eyeshadow, thick eyeliner, and fire-engine red lipstick. My earrings were large hoops and I wore a gold ring on m right index finger. My nails matched the shade of my lipstick. They were long and pointed, “talons” as the Vietnamese woman at the nail shop described them.
“Come in for a fast drink?” I asked.
He said a bourbon would be great. I had half a bottle left.
“I’m going to avoid the cliché about blondes having more fun,” Mr. Goldstein added, a reference to my blonde bob wig.
“I appreciate that,” I said, handing him the drink.
Mr. Goldstein was dressed stylishly – in a black button-down shirt, tight jeans, and black cowboy boots.
I invited him to sit in the living room, but we ended up standing in the kitchen.
“So are you checking up on your property?” I asked with a sly grin.
“I am, and everything looks good,” he replied.
Finishing his drink, Mr. Goldstein said we should go. He was parked out front and we got into his red BMW convertible and headed for the club.
I was surprised when he brought up Mr. Barzigan’s name.
“We had dinner the other night. He’s weighing whether to invest with me.”
I asked how a decision like that was made.
“Oh, he’ll consider dozens of hedge funds and analyze where he can make the most money. He’s a very astute businessman,” Mr. Goldstein said.
“Your name came up during dinner,” he added.
Oh no, here we go, into shark-infested waters.
“He has an eye for fine women,” Mr. Goldstein said, taking the exit to the city’s Warehouse District. “He, of course, has no idea that you’re TG. How would he? You’re beyond passable. How do you decide when to tell people? You told me when we met.”
This was an easy question to answer.
“We met in a social setting, actually in a pick-up bar; there’s no need to use a euphemism, even with the owner,” I replied. Mr. Goldstein enjoyed that crack.
“I met Mr. Barzigan in a business setting. There was no need to bring up gender.”
Mr. Goldstein asked if I had expected him to hit on me at the bar.
“I did, but I was impressed you didn’t. I thought you were a true gentleman, perhaps the only one there not trying to get into my rubber panties.”
“And I am a gentleman. Just a little bit controlling,” he said with a smile.
Mr. Goldstein pointed out the building he had renovated as the nightclub. It was a two-story brick building, almost a century old.
“So what’s the story here?” I asked.
“Got a great price on this real estate. Thought it would be an ideal location for a dance club and small concert venue, close to both the university and downtown.”
“Is it open yet?”
“No, it will be in two weeks. I wanted to show you the space and check out the sound system. It’s cost me a fortune. And I want you to meet someone special, the manager. His name is Loc. He is the one who administers the Elixir for me,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say, a frequent experience in the short time I had known Mr. Goldstein.
“You said I needed to pass the three-month probation period first,” I said. “I’ve completed one week.”
“I’ve changed my mind. If you are in agreement, I would like Loc to administer the first dose tonight. There’s a caveat. You’d need to spend the night at his place so he can monitor you. You can trust him. I’ve known him for 25 years.”
Once again, my head was spinning. I told Mr. Goldstein so.
“Would you like to go forward?” he asked.
“Of course. I’m just surprised by the change in schedule.”
The obvious questions went unasked. Why now? Why had the schedule changed? Did this have any link to Mr. Barzigan or some other billionaire. I knew better not to ask too many questions.
Mr. Goldstein parked in the back of the club. We went in through the large green door, which Loc opened.
He was tall and rail-thin. He introduced himself as Loc, speaking with a heavy Jamaican accent. He wore wraparound shades and his head was shaved. It was clear that he knew Mr. Goldstein well. He was the first person I had heard call him Phillip.
Mr. Goldstein gave me the full tour of the club. The space was decorated impeccably and large enough for about 500 people. Loc told us he needed to run an errand and would be back in two hours.
A clock tower in the distance struck midnight. Mr. Goldstein and I sat at a small round table near the stage. Thinking about what I had told Melanie about Mr. Goldstein being an avid talker, I suppressed a laugh. He didn’t notice.
“Patricia, I seem to throw a lot at you in a short period of time,” he said.
“Yes, do you do that with everybody?”
“No, you’re special. Are you sure you are ready for the Elixir?”
I said I was. I told him, as I had when I interviewed for the job, that I had thought about it a lot. If there was even a remote chance of M2F transformation, I would take that chance. We talked about it for an hour. He elaborated on the odds against success and the risks of some side effects.
“Are you worried I’ll have second thoughts?” I asked.
“I just want to make sure. There are a lot of TG females who don’t want to give up their penis,” he said.
“Well, I’m not one of them,” I said firmly.
“We’ve been so busy talking that I haven’t offered you a drink,” Mr. Goldstein said. He got me a glass of wine and a bourbon for him.
“I have a favor to ask,” he said.
“Will you help me test the sound system?”
“Sure, I have good ears.”
Mr. Goldstein laughed.
“No, I’d like you to dance for me.”
“I don’t think you want that. I’m a really bad dancer. You’ll run for the hills.”
“Come on, Patricia. I know that’s not true. Pick a song. We’ll test the computer.”
“How about ‘Eyes Without a Face’ ”? I asked.
“Billy Idol. You got it.”
Mr. Goldstein walked over to the deejay booth.
“Up on the stage?” I asked him.
In my stiletto boot heels, I carefully climbed the steps. I stood near the front of the stage, which was lit in red. After about 30 seconds, I heard the song’s familiar intro of synthesizers and the beat of a drum machine.
As Mr. Goldstein suspected, I was being modest about my dancing. I actually was a great dancer and had known it since high school. I moved my hips to the slow beat, amazed by the sound system. The music seemed to come from everywhere. Because the house lights were not on, I could see Mr. Goldstein watch me from the deejay booth. I didn’t feel self-conscious about it because was the only one there.
Although “Eyes Without a Face” is an old song, I loved dancing to it. Part of the appeal was the lyrics. Another was Idol’s deep voice that always threatened to send me over the edge. But most of all it was the beat. It compelled me to swing my arms and hips. In the privacy of my boudoir, I had practiced for hours dancing in five-inch heels. So the boots I wore were not a challenge. I moved freely in them, almost as if I were barefoot.
I noticed Mr. Goldstein walk onto the stage and he began to dance with me. He was a good dancer. About halfway into the song, an electric guitar speeds the tempo and Idol begins to rap. I turned my back to Mr. Goldstein and shook my ass at him. Mr. Goldstein moved close to me, placing his hands on my hips. As the temp slowed again, he kissed the back of my neck and then the side. I could feel his large bulge through his jeans against the back of my skintight dress.
“I see why you picked this song,” he said in a near-whisper. “I’ve put it on auto-repeat.”
My first kiss from a man was stunning, unforgettable -- like I always had dreamed.
Mr. Goldstein gently kissed my lips, his touch eager and soft like velvet. His was the kiss of an established gentleman, not a boy. I felt a charge through my body as he kissed me again, a wave of heat that rose through my spine. He hugged me, his masculinity on clear display. I savored his embrace. I was surprised by what was unfolding, but not hesitant in any way. I knew what I wanted and it was clear he wanted me.
“Never been kissed?” he said softly.
“I’m so happy you were the first,” I replied. “You’re such a great kisser.”
“It’s easy with kissable lips like yours,” he said.
He opened my mouth with his tongue. I felt his hands lower to my ass and he caressed the expensive, buttery leather. As we French-kissed, I unbuttoned the top of his black shirt. His chest hair was black and thick, with a gold Star of David necklace nestled in it. I ran my long red nails across his chest.
“I love guys with lots of chest hair,” I said
He said: “I’m in luck.” Cupping my chin, he kissed me again. Even in the five-inch boot heels, he was three inches taller than me. I detected his air of dominance for the first time. He didn’t need to guide me. He knew what I was going to do.
He considers me his property.
I kissed a line around his right nipple and then his left. I alternated between kissing and licking them as I enjoyed his chest. I unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and let it fall to the stage.
“You have something I need,” I said.
Following the trail of his hair to his navel and below, I lowered myself to the stage and knelt in front of him. I removed his cowboy boots. I undid his belt and unzipped his jeans, hearing his sweet sigh for the first time. He wore a black leather brief, with studs on the front and a zipper. I lowered the zipper to free his erection. I licked the tip of his cock, which I estimated was seven inches long. I licked the pre-cum off his cockhead, enjoying its taste.
Like my first kiss with a man, this was my first time performing fellatio. Although dildos helped me prepare, there is no substitute, as they say, for the real thing. The first sensation was his wonderful musky scent, which almost overwhelmed me. Then there was the sheer power of his cock, white and veined and so fucking hard, like a metal bar. I began by languidly licking every inch of his mushroom-shaped cockhead as I played with his large balls swollen with cum.
Feeling the unusual sensation of time slowing down, I took him inside my mouth, a few inches of his shaft at first. I managed not only his length but also the thickness of his dick. I felt his right hand caress the top of my head, and then reached behind it. I felt my pulse quicken.
“Oh honey, that’s good,” he said.
I grasped his cock with my left hand, gradually taking more of it inside as I swirled my tongue around his shaft. I heard his sighs turn to a low groan and I felt him become even more erect. I watched his head recline as I increased the pace of my cock-sucking. I moved my head forwards and back, and paused to lick the underside of his cock. I marveled at Mr. Goldstein’s staying power.
“Are you sure this is your first time doing this?” he asked.
“I’m positive, baby,” I replied, looking up into his eyes.
Returning to his cock, I took it deeper into my mouth and sucked him even harder, my lips pressing against his shaft. I established a rhythm, sucking him and then taking his dick out to lick the underside. I wondered how long he could last. I felt like I could suck him off all night.
He began to lose control, fucking my mouth and pumping his powerful cock in and out. Mr. Goldstein moaned loudly as he came, pulling his raging penis out of my mouth to send four ropes of thick, hot semen over my mouth, nose, cheeks, forehead, and blonde wig.
I couldn’t believe the amount of cum. I later learned it was his first orgasm in quite a while, which explained a lot. Mr. Goldstein took a gray silk handkerchief out of his jeans and gently wiped his cream off my face and wig. He kissed and hugged me. We basked in the after-glow of our first intimacy.
He asked if I needed to “freshen up.” I said I did, and he pointed to where the women’s room was.
When I returned to the stage, he was dressed. He told me to close my eyes.
His hands fastened the collar around my neck and clasped it shut.
“You can open those beautiful green eyes now,” he said.
Grabbing a small mascara mirror from my purse, I saw the silver metal collar with the large D-ring for the first time. He showed me the key that he used to lock it. He attached a long silver leash to the D-ring.
“Patricia, do you understand now that you’re my property?”
“I do, Mr. Goldstein. I understand now.”
Loc walked onto the club floor, stopping in front of the stage.
“Is she ready to go?”
“Yes, she is. You’ll need to blindfold her and bind her arms and legs when you transport her,” Mr. Goldstein told Loc.
Continues in chapter three
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