© Copyright 2019 - Misti Love-Fitzpatrick - Used by permission
Storycodes: Solo-M; M/f; M2f; cd; tg; ts; bond; latex; leather; hood; cuffs; magic; cons; X
Continues from chapter three
After my M2F transformation, Phillip Goldstein, the gentleman who was my boss and Master, gave me a week off from work. He extended it to two weeks and then a month, hiring a male temp to fill in for me at his hedge fund. I relaxed, did some shopping (actually a lot) and adjusted to my body’s changes. However, it was a temporary alteration to my psyche that emerged as my first challenge.
I was scheduled to return to work on a Monday morning. Two days before, Mr. Goldstein texted me to ask if I would drop by the office later that day to meet with him and Brian, the ex-military officer who was in charge of security at the firm.
We need to inform the staff about your biological gender change. I thought it might be helpful to start with Brian. I’m not going to tell him that you’re coming. We’ll see how he reacts.
LOL. So Brian is going to be your laboratory rat, Master?
OK Patricia, you’ve had your fun, don’t press it
During my month off, Mr. Goldstein had either called or texted me every day and we had coffee several times. He often would bring up how people would need to adjust to my new appearance. Of course, I was well aware of those changes. In my mind, however, my outward appearance was not significantly different.
Yes, my long hair was blonde instead of dark red. My eyes were blue instead of green. I was two inches taller, my bust larger, my ass rounder, and my legs longer. In the floor-length mirror of my closet, I studied what I knew were a myriad of other changes. Mr. Goldstein maintained I was somehow blind to the sum total. Frankly, I didn’t believe him.
I walked into the office at 2 p.m. that Saturday. I wore a sleeveless square-neck sheath dress in black. The silver metallic-foil floral print added shimmer and the hem reached slightly below my knee. I wore black patent leather pumps and pantyhose instead of a garter belt and stockings because I had been in a rush. It was raining heavily and I couldn’t find my umbrella.
As I walked down the hallway toward Mr. Goldstein’s office, Brian stepped out of his and saw me. He wore a blue T shirt and old jeans, the shirt tight against his muscular chest and his jeans with some holes worn from use.
“Can I help you, Miss?” he asked me.
“When did you start calling me, Miss?” I replied with a smile.
He didn’t respond. I never had seen confusion on his handsome face.
“I’m here to meet with you and Mr. Goldstein,” I explained.
“Can I have your name?”
“Brian, it’s me.”
There was an awkward silence. He looked at me closer but my face offered no clues for him. He stood there, studying my face and the rest of my body for two minutes or so. It was awkward, but I wanted to give him time to recognize me.
He has no idea who I am.
“It’s Patricia, Patricia Vogel.”
Mr. Goldstein approached and led us into his office.
“I’m so sorry, Patricia,” Brian said, as we walked to the conference table and Mr. Goldstein closed the door. “I didn’t recognize you.”
Mr. Goldstein gave me one of those I-told-you-so looks. I clasped my hands, not having a clue what to say or how Mr. Goldstein planned to proceed.
“Brian, why didn’t you recognize Patricia?” Mr. Goldstein asked.
I appreciated that Brian looked at me as he answered.
“Patricia, you’re even more beautiful, but in a dramatically different way. And I didn’t think that was possible. The color of your eyes and hair are just the beginning. It’s the changes in shape – your face, eyes, nose, cheeks, lips, forehead; slight changes, like your eyelashes and eyebrows, that add up magnificently.
“Your larger breasts, and their fullness, stunning; the shape of your arms, the proportion of your hands and fingers. Your legs are longer. Your voice is considerably higher; I’m not sure how that is measured. Octaves? I’m rambling. I’m sorry. It’s a bit overwhelming,” Brian said.
Mr. Goldstein flashed Brian a quizzical look, perhaps surprised by his somewhat intimate description of my breasts.
“Thank you for those kind words, Brian,” I said.
As our eyes met, I didn’t look away from Brian as Mr. Goldstein spoke. Brian smiled and I kept my eyes locked on his. Mine were brimming with desire, then a pure lust that I felt envelop me like a warm sea breeze. I lowered my gaze to his crotch, saw how his cock was now tenting the worn denim, and looked into his eyes again. Mr. Goldstein appeared oblivious to what I was doing.
“Brian, Patricia has undergone a transformation. She is now a biological female. Beyond my wife and you and Yusuf Barzigan, no one else knows. We need to re-introduce her to the staff and do so by maintaining her privacy. I’m sure there will be gossip about how the transition occurred, but it’s none of anybody’s business.” Brian nodded and said he agreed.
Brian was 48 years old. He had served as a U.S. Army commander in Iraq and Afghanistan. At 5’ 10” and 180 pounds, he had ruggedly handsome looks, with his blond crewcut, sharp jawline, and toned body. In his office or in the Mercedes when we picked up clients at the airport, he had answered my questions about his military experiences. He had shown me pictures of him in uniform, including one in which he stood on a tank against a smoke-filled desert sky.
But those images weren’t the ones flooding my mind now.
It was a hot summer day. Brian and I had stopped at a small stream that winded through the lush green forest. “Take off your shoes,” he suggested to me as he took off his. We walked into the stream that was only a foot or so deep. A canopy of trees offered shade. Brian had taken my style advice, growing out his crewcut. His blond hair reached halfway down his back. As he kissed me for the first time, I felt him untie my halter top, freeing my big tits.
“Patricia?” Mr. Goldstein’s voice brought me back. He suggested we hold a reception instead of a staff meeting, and that I would return to work on Monday afternoon. I said that was a good idea.
“You’re very brave to go through this again with the staff,” Brian told me.
“It’s not difficult with the two of you by my side,” I replied.
The reception was a surreal event, as I had feared. I had fully accepted that no one would recognize me when I walked into the large conference room. They thought their boss was introducing a new employee.
When Mr. Goldstein revealed my journey from TG to TS to biological F, there was a collective look of confusion on the faces assembled. But no one said anything. I reminded myself that these were people busy making money and it wasn’t about me. When Mr. Goldstein stopped talking, everyone filed out, leaving me with the question of why the reception was held in the first place.
Alone in Mr. Goldstein’s office after the employees had left for the day, I carefully posed the question. Did we really need to explain all of this? All these acronyms and references to biology gave me a headache, I said with a sardonic grin.
“So what was the alternative?” Mr. Goldstein shot back. “Send out an email saying ‘the blonde you see at work is the former redhead and just so you know, her genitalia has changed from male to female’? ”
I had to laugh, but Mr. Goldstein’s demeanor remained serious.
Here we go.
“So as we’ve discussed, you’re the first TG female who has undergone complete transformation in one dosage. Two others also have – but it required several dosages.
“We’ve talked about possible personality and cognitive changes. The fact that you didn’t realize how different your appearance is falls into the latter category. What you saw in the mirror after the transformation was different and you recognized that. But you didn’t recognize how different your appearance is. The two others who have experienced complete transformation have not had that symptom.”
“Are you gaslighting me, Master?” I asked.
“This is serious, Patricia; no jokes,” he replied sternly. I thought briefly of the whip he had bought in France.
I changed the topic, giving him an update on me. I said I had decided to pause my graduate school studies. “Too much going on right now,” I added.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked.
“Positive, Master. I’m just overwhelmed,” I said. He said it sounded like the right call.
“You may have noticed that I’ve changed your title from executive assistant to administrative assistant,” Mr. Goldstein said. “I’m interested in changing it again – to administrator. You would continue to do your current duties – but I also would be training you in how to run a firm like this. And that would involve a pay raise. I’m working on that number now, something like this.”
He showed me a Post-it note: $86,000 – a $30,000 raise.
I thanked him for that opportunity and the prospect of earning more for added duties. Mr. Goldstein said he had scheduled a business trip and asked me to notify the employees the following day. He said the trip likely would last a month. Handing me the itinerary, he told me not to share it with anyone. Brian was the only other employee who had a copy, he said. He kissed me on his way out.
Wow, I could use more than a kiss. He could bend me over his desk and take me. Then again, we are at work and must be professional.
The day after Mr. Goldstein left on his business trip, Brian asked me if I had time to talk. I said I did after lunch. He said we needed to meet “off-campus.”
At 1 p.m., he dropped by my desk and we took the elevator to the basement, where the firm’s four-door black Mercedes awaited. I had wondered a few times if there was surveillance in the office. Mr. Barzigan had given me his contact information at the elevator, instead of at my desk. Brian often talked with me about important matters in the parking garage basement.
We drove to a small restaurant on the city’s east side called the Victory Cafe. I had read about it in the alternative paper. It was popular with older intellectuals and writers on the left. The place was packed – exclusively with men. Different ages, races, ethnicities, languages – but not a woman among the 25 or so eating lunch, drinking, and talking.
“You’re the only woman in here,” Brian whispered in my ear.
“Well aware. Do you think they’re too busy talking about the Bolsheviks and the Mensheviks to notice?” I whispered back with a laugh.
“Based on the heads turning your way, I’d say nyet.”
My attire turned out to be ironic for the conversation with Brian that followed. I wore a long-sleeve black silk blouse that buttoned up the front, with blue, white, and red triangular designs; a black leather mini-skirt, nude-colored thigh-high hose, and black leather pumps with a stiletto heel.
The outfit wasn’t unusual for me at work, although I didn’t wear leather frequently. What was edgy is I had chosen to not wear underwear – no bra, panties or a thong. I left the top two buttons of my blouse undone to provide a glimpse of my cleavage, but not too much. I wore a necklace with a pendant of a crescent moon facing a morning star. Mr. Goldstein had given it to me to commemorate my transformation.
Brian picked one of the few available tables for two. He ordered ice tea and I had a glass of Riesling. I asked him how his day was going. As he talked, a Japanese man sitting at the table behind Brian caught my eye. He wore a black suit with a red shirt and red tie – which made him distinctive. He looked around 30 years old, perhaps a few years younger.
“How did you pick this place?” I asked Brian.
“I didn’t think anyone from work would be here, so it would give us some privacy. I hope it’s OK.”
I said I liked it. The Japanese man was drinking a martini and listening to a huge man who was speaking Russian. At one point, I watched the cool eyes of the Japanese man lower. Starting from the pointed toes of my pumps, his male gaze moved slowly up my calves to my thighs. My legs were crossed and as our eyes met, he held the large olive from the Martini and slowly ate it. He was making me so aroused.
I excused myself to go to the restroom. Looking into the mirror above the row of sinks, I tried to calm myself. Tucking my long hair behind my left ear, I took the lipstick brush out of my purse and re-touched the dusty pink shade of my lips. Mr. Goldstein had alerted me that one of the possible side effects of my transformation was “hyper-sexuality” – which he described as “an obsession with sexual thoughts, urges or behaviors that may cause distress or that negatively affects health, job or relationships.”
Yep, that might be it, doctor – or it may be just be that I’m horny as hell.
Leaving the restroom, I returned to Brian. The Japanese man and his Russian comrade were gone.
“We have a problem with Cheryl,” Brian said, referring to the short woman with the frizzy black hair who worked at the hedge fund as a financial trader. I had encountered her in the women’s room at the firm. She had scowled at me when I wore my black dress with the squared-off Queen Anne neckline.
I asked what the problem was.
“She’s filed a human resources complaint against you for violating the dress code.”
“What?” I was outraged, but also couldn’t resist laughing. Brian handed me the one-page complaint to read. Cheryl cited a section of the code that said: “The dress code policy is designed to help us all provide a consistent professional appearance to our customers and colleagues. Our appearance reflects on ourselves and the company.
“The goal is to be sure that we maintain a positive appearance and not to offend customers, clients or colleagues,” the policy stated.
Cheryl had underlined: “Clothing should not be too revealing.”
“That fucking bitch,” I said to Brian.
I asked what would happen. Brian explained that Cheryl had requested a hearing. Three employees would hear her complaint. Brian would be the chairman of the panel. He said Mr. Goldstein would make the final decision.
“I’m not going to change how I dress,” I told Brian, my voice brimming with anger. “This is who I am. I’m not going to let that bitch do this to me.”
Brian told me there was something else he needed to discuss with me. He said he routinely checked the security video from the guard shack at Mr. Goldstein’s mansion.
“A few days ago, I noticed a blonde female leave the mansion at 1 a.m. with Mr. Goldstein and his wife, Judith. I was stumped. Now, of course, I know it was you. I’m only bringing this up because I am the firm’s security officer. Can I ask where the three of you went?”
“Of course, Brian. We went to an after-hours bar called Foam to celebrate my transformation. Is there a problem?” His interest felt intrusive, but I reminded myself that this was about his job.
“Not at all, Patricia. Mr. Goldstein won’t let me assign a security detail to him after hours. We’ve gone around and around about it. I worry about his safety and the safety of those with him -- like you. This sounds like a situation where there was a big crowd.”
I said about 400 people. Brian shook his head. He said there should have been at least two security guards with Mr. Goldstein. I asked if he was in any danger.
“Wealthy people always are at risk of being kidnapped or being confronted by someone from a business dispute or whatever. He does get threats,” Brian replied.
After lunch, in the car, I began to cry.
“I hope I didn’t upset you by prying about the time you spent with Mr. Goldstein,” he said.
“No, that’s not it. It’s Cheryl’s complaint. I can’t believe she is doing this to me. It’s very hurtful.”
I couldn’t control my tears, which streamed down my face. Brian held my hand and then pulled me in closer for a hug. I sobbed for about ten minutes. I felt so safe in his large arms and muscular chest. He reassured me that everything would be OK, whispering in my ear and lightly rubbing my upper back.
In bed that night, I thought again about the stream.
A canopy of trees offered shade. Brian had taken my advice, growing out his blonde crewcut. His hair reached halfway down his back. As he kissed me for the first time, I felt him untie my halter top, freeing my large breasts. He unbuttoned the front of my “Daisy Dukes,” the skintight denim shorts. I wasn’t wearing panties or a thong. He pulled the shorts down my long legs and I watched them fall into the water. He picked me up and wrapping my legs around his torso, I felt him free his cock from his jeans. The tip of his big dick was close to entering my wet pussy.
I didn’t see Cheryl when I returned to work. I wasn’t looking for her, but I also wanted to be prepared if she did confront me. I checked the schedule. She must have left early to start her vacation.
The following week, I was in the file room when Cheryl walked in. I was returning some paper files to the storage cabinet.
“I’ve filed a human resources complaint about you for violating the dress code,” she told me brusquely. I told her I had heard.
“The policy states: `Clothing should not be too revealing,’” she instructed me.
I felt a flash of anger and said: “I was not aware of a dress code.”
“If you need to know what ‘too revealing’ means, that would include your come-fuck-me pumps mini-skirts, and tight blouses and pencil skirts. And the other things that come with that – your long painted fingernails and blow-job-ready lipstick. This ain’t no disco, bitch,” Cheryl said.
As the shock wore off from her words, I desperately wanted to tell her off. But I decided to walk out of the file room and not escalate. In the long run, that would be the right decision, I told myself. But it sure didn’t feel that way in the moment. I genuinely was surprised by her attack.
I told Brian about what happened. He said he’d talk to her.
“You know, you could file a complaint about her calling you a bitch and talking about blowjobs,” he added. I told him I wanted to focus on defending myself from her complaint.
Later that day, I received an instant message. It was an apology from Cheryl, saying she regretted using the language that she did. “I’m sincerely sorry and it will never happen again,” she wrote.
I knew Brian had told her to do it.
The hearing on Cheryl’s complaint was held two weeks later in a conference room. Brian and two other employees – Tina and Elizabeth – sat solemnly behind a massive wood table. There was a chair set up in front of them.
Cheryl was sitting in it when I entered. As she typically did, she wore men’s clothing – a three-piece pinstriped suit, matching tie and pocket square. I wore a silver silk blouse, a black pencil skirt with a hem slightly above my knee, black fishnet thigh-high hose, and “So Kate” Louboutin pumps -- with the iconic red-lacquered soles, of course.
Brian opened the hearing by saying the two other members of the hearing panel were chosen for gender equity, given that Mr. Goldstein would hear any appeal. He said they’d first hear from the complainant, Cheryl. She had notes in front of her, but she didn’t need to read from them.
“First, I want to apologize again to Patricia for the inappropriate language I used with her recently. It was offensive and I deeply regret it.” She then read the applicable sections of the dress code. She had the linear style of a barrister.
“The dress code policy is designed to help us all provide a consistent professional appearance to our customers and colleagues. Our appearance reflects on ourselves and the company...The goal is to be sure that we maintain a positive appearance and not to offend customers, clients or colleagues.”
Cheryl told the panel: “I accepted Patricia fully as a woman when Mr. Goldstein introduced her as a TG female. I obviously continued to accept her as a female when we learned she has transitioned into a biological woman, a woman with the same genitalia as myself and other female members of this staff.
“I don’t think anyone can conclude, however, that Patricia’s attire at work is consistent with how other employees dress. The skirt she is wearing now, as just one example, is very tight and intended to attract attention to her back side and legs from clients, customers, or colleagues. No other woman in this office dresses that way or has that motive. We dress professionally.
“In addition, Patricia’s attire offends me and other co-workers who will remain anonymous. I have received first-hand accounts that four male employees of this firm refer to her as ‘sexy.’ I overheard a customer telling a male employee here that Patricia was ‘a buxom young woman with an ass that would make Jennifer Lopez jealous.’ Another said she had ‘legs up to here.’ A third said he sensed that ‘she knows how to fuck.’ These remarks are wildly offensive, but they are elicited from toxic males when a woman dresses the way Patricia does.
“There once was a time when I would be accused of unfairly blaming a fellow woman for who she is. Those days are long gone. By approving my complaint, you will strike a blow against objectification, the practice of treating women as objects that equate their worth with their body’s appearance and sexual functions. Thank you for your time.”
When she was done, Cheryl stood up and I asked if we could take a five-minute break. Brian said yes, and I walked into the women’s room to gather my thoughts. I returned and sat in the chair that Cheryl had used.
“I want to apologize first. I don’t feel fully prepared and if it’s possible, I’d like to reserve the ability to submit a written statement in response to what Cheryl has said. I also want to thank Cheryl for her apology, but I want to tell the panel that one of the things she said to me was that I wear ‘blow-job-ready lipstick.’ That was very hurtful to me and sexist.
“Cheryl talks about my motives, but she can’t read my mind. I don’t think twice what skirt I wear in the morning and whether it’s tight or accentuates my derriere. I also didn’t when I was a 12-year-old hiding in the bathroom and trying on my mother’s skirt. Is this rooted in transphobia and now in fear of ‘the other,’ a woman who has the power to choose how she presents herself?”
“It’s not,” Cheryl interjected.
“Please don’t interrupt me, Cheryl. How I present myself at work and outside of work is a free expression of femininity. It’s one strain among many. There is a beautiful diversity within womanhood and femininity. Like me or not, I am an example of this. It’s no different than Cheryl’s decision to wear masculine attire. I believe we are both intellectually and physically alluring to straights and those in the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Pansexual, Transgender, Genderqueer, Queer, Intersexed, Agender, Asexual and Ally community. What’s wrong with that?
“I was not aware of the dress code, but I don’t want Cheryl’s complaint to be rejected on a technicality. She has raised some important issues that I feel I need to address. How I dress is consistent with my femininity. I have the right to express myself this way, just like I have the right to free speech.
“Cheryl says my attire offends her. But where is the line drawn? If I walk in her tomorrow wearing a Mao jacket and loose-fitting green trousers, will she go after my long blonde hair, my long nails, my mascara?
“I’ve never felt objectified at this firm. Water-cooler talk is inevitable. That’s just how some men are. Overall, their behavior is improving, but not quickly enough. The bigger point is women should not pit themselves against each other, like what Cheryl is doing here,” I said.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” she broke in.
“Yes, you are. Her complaint should be rejected. I know there are some feminists on opposing sides of this issue, but I believe most of us are on the same side. Regardless of the final outcome, I’d like to open a dialogue with Cheryl about these issues. Thank you for hearing me out,” I concluded.
Brian thanked us. Like the other two panel members, he remained poker-faced. “We will notify both of you when a decision has been rendered,” he said.
I extended my hand to shake Cheryl’s, but she turned and walked away.
As my phone buzzed with a text that night, I thought it would be Brian with the panel’s vote. It was Mr. Goldstein.
Hi Patricia. I have a meeting in ten minutes, but I wanted to let you know that I just met with Yusuf Barzigan and he has asked to see you socially for drinks. I have approved his request and told him to contact you so you can put it on your schedule
Where are you, Master?
Dubai. I made sure to attend the same “Energy in the 21st century” conference as Mr. Barzigan
Savvy move, Master. How did the meeting go?
Great. I’ll be back in two weeks and will brief you on the details. In the meantime, you need to move into my mansion. Bye
Goodbye, Master. Safe travels
I felt the strong sense of Mr. Goldstein drifting away from me. I didn’t know why.
Was it the completion of my transformation? Had he met other TG femmes interested in being next to get the Elixir? Was it the entry of his wife Judith into our relationship? Was it a relationship or a great blowjob from me, a breathtaking intro to BDSM we never had discussed afterwards, and a finger-fucking in public that blew my mind (and hopefully his too)? Or was he letting go in favor of a billionaire who could make Mr. Goldstein millions, of dollars? Maybe it’s all of the above?
I checked my texts. There was one from Brian.
The panel voted 2-1 to approve Cheryl’s complaint. I voted no. The panel’s decision included a recommendation that the dress code be revised to explicitly prohibit “tight-fitting clothes, skirts above the knee, pumps with heels above two inches.” You better order that Mao jacket
Nice joke – and thanks for the update. So the next step is I appeal this to Mr. Goldstein?
Yes. I think we know how he’ll rule. Any interest in celebrating early?
What do you have in mind?
I hear the Victory Café is a very different place at night than during the day. It’s a dance club. How I about I pick you up in an hour?
Sounds like fun. Can you make it two?
Of course, Patricia. See you then
Fun is what I needed. The vote of the panel didn’t bother me. I knew the female members would stick with Cheryl. And I knew Mr. Goldstein would strike down their decision and recommendations. So I felt calm as Brian picked me up at my apartment. The parallels were obvious; it had only been slightly less than two months since Mr. Goldstein had done the same, the evening which I had performed fellatio for the first time.
As we squeezed into the building behind the Victory Café, which was overflowing with people, I told Brian I wanted to lose myself on the dance floor. He said he had the same goal.
We danced for almost three hours, with breaks in between to rest and have a few cocktails. The final song was Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love,” my favorite disco song. As we danced, Brian moved closer to me as the long song approached its end. I was wearing black leather pants that laced up the front, the tightest pants I owned.
Brian placed his hands on my shoulders, pulling us close together, and I did the same with his. The leather concealing my pussy was only inches from his crotch, his cock wildly erect. We stayed that way as we danced for a few minutes, his eyes looking deeply into mine. When the song ended, we left the dance floor to get a drink. Brian said he wanted to drive me home. I thanked him for taking me out as we reached my apartment door.
There was a moment when I thought Brian would kiss me, but he didn’t. If he had done so, I would have invited him in. I didn’t think I could control myself.
“You’re very special, Patricia,” he said. He wished me a good-night and walked away.
I entered my apartment and unzipped my black ankle boots. In the bedroom, I lit a stick of incense. Flopping on my bed, I unlaced the front of my leather pants. I fantasized about Brian doing it with his teeth, struggling at first but then getting the hang of it so he could free my pussy.
Slipping out of the pants, I unhooked the front of the matching leather corset. I moved my hands over my breasts, pushing them together and running a finger over my hard points.
Suddenly, I felt a white-hot flash of lust.
This isn’t going to go slow, like it usually does. This is going to go fast.
I used both of my hands to touch my pussy, feeling a wave of frenzied desire move through my body. I threw my head back, my long blond hair partially concealing my face. I used two fingers to part my pussy lips, my left arm across my chest grasping my right as I felt the wetness of my folds.
My cell rang. Looking at the caller ID from the United Arab Emirates, I picked up, leaving self-love for another day.
The voice on the other end was just as I recalled it, deep and so purely masculine, speaking to my every emotional and sexual desire in a man.
Continues in chapter five
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