Worldcom Services-Story 1 free porn video

This is a complete story in and of itself, though I might decide to write a continuation. If I do it will be complete as well, and not reliant upon the first one. Worldcom Services (Story One) by: jo199 part 1 Joe got out of the cab, still looking at the piece of paper in his hand that said, Worldcom Services Inc., 29779 Beacon Shoreline. He was so distracted by his excitement that he belatedly thought to pay the cabby, but by the time he'd looked up from the paper the cab was two blocks gone and he was forced to recall that the tab had been prepaid by his new employer anyway. That generated the realization that he was moving up from a nine and a half dollar per hour job at the 'Stop and Go' to one that actually used his college skills to the tune of three times that money. It all seemed too good to be true after a decade of underemployment, and he was thinking that maybe it was, considering the neighborhood he'd been deposited in wasn't exactly mid-Manhatten; in fact nearly every building nearby was fenced off and abandoned. The building in front of him had that converted warehouse look to it, though the address put him at an entrance to what he guessed to be a good dozen offices behind the main door. Further back, the building definitely still looked more warehouse than converted. There was only a single handful of cars in the lot, as if only a few offices in front were staffed. He went in, finding a receptionist sitting behind a phone and computer terminal She told him he'd been expected, and to, "Just have a seat in one of the seats near the back." Near the back was a short row facing the television. Joe looked around for a magazine before sitting down, but couldn't find one. It struck him that he'd forgotten his briefcase, where he always had at least a magazine or half finished novel, but then remembered that he'd already been hired, and not needing a resume or anything paper, had not brought it. Feeling in his breast pocket, he didn't find a pen either, knowing deep down that he should have at least brought that! "Ma'am, do you have a pen I can borrow. I'd be willing to pay you for it," he said over his shoulder at the top of the receptionist's head, it showing just over the desk. As he asked, he felt in his pants pocket for some change, and discovered he'd forgotten both his wallet and keys. She stood up, leaned over displaying about half of her ample breasts, and said, "Oh, don't worry about that. They'll give you everything you need when you get in!" Joe half paid attention to both the dismissal and titillation, him now worried about how he was going to get home without asking for a handout from his new boss. Nothing beats the uncertainty and confusion of a first day, he lamented, turning back to face the television. Knowing how stupid it was to come to the first day of a job without a briefcase, pen or even ID, Joe sat back and put his hands in his pockets, thinking he was about as ready for this as a five year old is for the separation of kindergarten. All there seemed to do was wait, watch the dead screen on the TV and fondle the straps on his garter belt under the thin fabric of his pants pocket. "Oh god, I didn't do that," whispered Joe under his breath, realizing how utterly dumb it was to wear lady's lingerie under his new, cheap, business suit. He'd done that before, but not the garters, and not under thin dress pants, and definitely not on the first day of a life altering job. The garters had rather noticeable straps that could hardly be disregarded as jockey lines. Garters went up and down, and stretched away from the body at certain angles. They had those big hooks that connected to the hose right where the thin pants of his suit was supposed to be lying flat on his thigh. Joe took his hands out of his pockets and set them on the bulges where the hooks were obvious. He whispered to himself over and over, "Come on, Joe, you dumb ass, at least don't forget to put your hands there every time you sit down, or they're going to think you're a fairy." Of course, I'm not a fairy, Joe told himself, knowing that his enjoyment of cross dressing was simply a fetish thing he did to get off. He'd breached the subject with a couple girlfriends, and even played at putting on one girlfriend's panties while making love, but he was definitely not gay. In fact, the male body repulsed Joe. He fancied himself a lady's man. No, thought Joe, this is way overboard! What had I been thinking this morning? Nothing! When he thought about it some more and still couldn't drag up the memory, he put it aside, and thought about how he was going to get past the current obstacle. Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, Joe crossed his leg. Finding the pants leg riding up, he had an easy view of about eight inches worth of hose at his ankle. It was a pattern that was neither sheer nor remotely male. Swallowing, and glancing to see that the secretary hadn't noticed, he put his foot back down on the floor, sitting wooden. "Ma'am, do you have a bathroom that I can use?" There, that will do it, he imagined; just go into a stall and take the damned garters and hose off. "I'm sorry, the restrooms are in back, and they'd prefer a pass. If you could wait, I'm sure they'll let you use the facilities just as soon as they come for you," said the secretary, again displaying her breasts, as if that was part of the training. In fact, Joe imagined he'd seen a little bit of aureole that time, and some kind of tattoo just above and a bit to the outside of her left breast. The thought was getting him hard at precisely the same time he was hoping to rip off the garters and become decidedly less sexual. After all, he only had two hands with which to hide things, and the panties he'd for some reason decided to wear were not much good at holding things down. As for the secretary, he was pretty sure she had signed some paper proclaiming that she'd leave no stone unturned in the pursuit of being completely unhelpful. "Shit," whispered Joe, grabbing his pants and pulling his nylons up with great handfuls of fabric so the garters wouldn't stretch, and then smoothing back the slacks. He still found the hooks hard to miss without his hands there to hide things. Thinking the worst, he looked down at his shirt, and was relieved that his coat and tie hid any telling signs created by where the bra cups connected. Then, doing a double take, he noticed that when he bent over, pulling the coat loose some, he could easily see the black fabric of his bra as it overcame the thin, white fabric of his shirt. God, he thought, I can't even remember having had a black bra? He sat back, resolving never to take off the coat under any circumstances and making sure the coat covered well. That's when he realized he'd stuffed his B cup bra, small mounds noticeably swelling when the coat was pulled tight. This was getting to be god damned ridiculous, he told himself, shaking his head; what's the matter with me? Joe considered unbuttoning a few buttons and reaching in, pulling the stuffing out, but he knew that he did his stuffing with thick water balloons to get that natural bouncy feeling, and what would he do with the stupid balloons? What if the boss came out just when he was doing it? Worst yet, what if he broke the balloons trying to extract them without loosening the rather tight bra straps. No, he thought, it would be best to shake hands, and then ask to see the restroom right away. As soon as I get my first paycheck, resolved Joe, I'm going to go see a shrink and do something about my obviously out of control sexual compulsions! Between the ideas that he'd cross dressed on a day like today, forgotten everything of value, and apparently done all of that without enough thought to make it into a memory, well, that's crazy, realized Joe. Suddenly the television came on. One of those national morning shows was on. He never watched them because he was always sleeping in from late shift at the 'Stop and Go', sometimes followed by late night cruises on the internet. He glanced over at the receptionist, wondering if she'd started the TV with a remote or if the TV was on a timer? It seemed to him that he'd been waiting for some time. Joe looking at his watch. Of course he'd forgotten it, so he sighed and looked over his shoulder, finding a big analog model. It was precisely nine o'clock, one half hour since he'd arrived. Maybe they really start at nine, just like the television, and just wanted me to be a bit early, he thought. He decided that if he got interested in the television, that, that would do the trick. Someone would surely come to interrupt his interest. On the TV, a pudgy guy was in the street of New York, interviewing hysterical women as they bounced up and down on the other side of the entertainment community's version of police tape. As if sympathetic to the bouncing women, the television brightness keep a similar pulsating pace. Joe knew this lady who had aluminum wiring, and her electric did that. The further away from the breakers they got, the worst it got too. He wondered if his office would have a computer, and how well it would perform with bouncy electric? The more he watched, the more absorbed he seemed to get into the broadcast, ultimately hoping they'd forget about him until maybe something like after lunch. He remembered the lady with the aluminum wiring again, and recalled that she was living on disability, half due to some minor medical issue, and the other half probably due to her addiction to daylight shows. At the moment, thought Joe, I can kind of relate, feeling as if he'd grown an instant addiction to what he recognized to be an otherwise boring broadcast. part 2 "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mister Winters. You must have thought it terribly rude of me. My name is Victoria Slone. I'm the Vice President of New Personnel," said a tall and brunette female voice standing almost directly in front of Joe. Joe found it hard, but he managed to rip his eyes away from the television. He got up, and instinctively offered his hand. "Oh, that's alright. I was enjoying the waiting room," he countered, realizing that one leg had gone to sleep and the room seemed to be spinning like it sometimes did when he'd gotten up too fast from a long nap. Joe glanced over at the clock, and noticed that it was one thirty. That just didn't seem at all right. "Let's get you started then. Right this way," said the lady, leading him, (Joe limping on the pins and needles of a sleeping leg), down the hall and into an office. Where they sat down. The lady laughed a casual laugh and proclaimed, "They still haven't fixed the air conditioning to my liking on this side of the hallway. Please, feel free to take off your coat and make yourself comfortable. We only require the full uniform on those few occasions of direct customer contact." Joe took his coat off and without a passing thought, hung it over the back of his chair before sitting down. The new employee crossed his legs, sat back and folded his hands in his lap. He really liked this Victoria Slone lady. "It says on your resume that you have a degree in marketing, but up to now you've had to content yourself with marketing candy bars and cigarettes at the 'Stop and Go'. Most unfortunate. You must be eager to get involved in something more to your particular talents, I imagine, Mister Winters." "Yes ma'am. I found that I actually could use some of my training even at the 'Stop and Go', but it's not what one might call upwardly mobile," Joe confessed, finding her eyes almost magnetic. He found himself wishing she was to be his boss, and though it seemed a little odd, he understood that nothing would please him more than to tackle an assignment and win her praise. "Is that what you're looking for, Joe? Are you concerned with upward mobility, or is it the satisfaction of a job well done that motivates you the most?" "Hum. I guess I'm supposed to say job satisfaction, but I think it's probably a poor employee who isn't interested in moving along. I mean, a stagnant employee might well be just that due to his or her lack of motivation. On the other hand, I can honestly say I'm eager to show what I can do. For the first few years that's probably going to be my greatest motivator; doing the job well," said Joe, feeling a little like a kid right out of college, panning the lines straight from the job hunt book. He'd not been too good at panning those lines right out of college because he knew better and thought the suggested answers dishonest. For this insight he'd earned ten years at the 'Stop and Go', while the more certified members of the me generation, who for the most part were stictly in it for the advancement, had no problem with nonsence like hypocracy, and had gone right on to Pillsbury Corporate HQ as a reward. "That's nice," she said, no doubt familiar with the standard interviewing skills material. "Have you ever heard of Worldcom?" "Uh, no ma'am. I really haven't. I should have looked it up, I suppose," said Joe. "It's probably not listed. We are a new, startup venture, though I'd guess we'll be fortune five hundred by next year, and potentially the sky is the limit. We have a major presence on the internet, though only with our partners. Our core business is training, a wide range of services and product distribution. This portion of the organization is involved with the liquidation of products, only in our specific case it's at the warehouse level. We collect abandoned products at this facility, recondition them, and pass them on in better shape than before, or at least in sorted order," said Victoria. "I understand. They say that warehousing is twenty-five percent of the cost of retail," Joe stated, remembering more of his college training than even he'd expected. "Exactly, Joe. You don't mind me calling you Joe, do you? Well anyway, we plan to start at the warehousing and distribution level, and from there vertically integrate, which I think is a classic approach in business that has proven successful in companies with less advantages than we have." "It's good to be with a company that is thinking of expansion at it's core," Joe said, feeling like he'd hit some kind of jackpot. "Why thank you, Joe. We're glad to have you." "I am curious though, how does the internet come into play?" "Excellent question. But, before I start, I can see that you are uncomfortable. I'm really sorry about the room temperature. It is very hot in here. Why don't you take off your tie. In fact, you might as well take off the shoes too; I have," said Victoria, smiling as if amused and showing a nylon toe around the corner of her desk as proof. "Oh, don't mind if I do," said Joe, stepping out of his shoes, and removing his tie. Joe put the tie over the back of his chair, and loosened another button on his paper thin shirt. Feeling cooler, Joe crossed his leg over his knee, displaying reinforced toes and heels on his fishnets. "That's better. Well, as I was saying, the internet is where we get our client lists. Of course, the lists we generate are also often sold. We do this in two ways. One approach is to go to Mexico where the laws aren't so stringent, and tap right into the phone hubs where calls are decoded. Here, we have to go to sites and offer them money for the lists. Usually we promise not to spam the people who log into the sites, and that keeps our costs low. Let me see," paused Victoria, looking through a folder that Joe immediately understood must be his new record with the firm. "Oh yes. Here we are. We first made contact with you on one of our more successful partner sites, Fictionfantasia.com. From there we researched your mailing address, and then we had a name, and some college records after that, and well, you see how that works. It's a bit of a jump from the old marketing research days, isn't it Mister Winters?" "Oh yes, I remember that site. I sometimes enjoyed the fiction," said Joe, feeling a little uncomfortable about the thought that others knew he visited the transformation site, but not being quite able to put a finger on why he thought he needed to be apprehensive about it. Joe decided that his paranoia was just silly, and added, "I've even written a few things on there, to be honest." "Oh yes," said Victoria, still looking at the file. "We had you contacted by a man named Tyzer, and a lady who goes by the name Tiffs on dalnet's chat line. Both, I see, found you on hypnofantasia; they are the playful, hypnotic personality type, I can tell you. Good client partners. In fact, I suppose the inquiries from us happened after that verification of your qualifications by them for the position we have in mind for you, Mister Winters." Victoria seemed to sense something, looking at the vent. "Oh, you know, it's so hot, isn't it. I mean, this is unusually hot. People pass out in this kind of heat. I really wouldn't mind if you took your shirt off. Of course, you'd understand why I can't join you that way; unladylike I'm afraid, but in your case, I don't see the harm. I've been to the ballpark and seen worse," suggested Victoria, sitting back in her chair and looking at Joe like he was some kind of lab rat. "Gee, I don't know," said Joe, thinking it maybe a little too strange, though not really sure why. "You really should take your shirt off, Joe. I want you to take your pants off as well. It's the right thing to do. No hanky-panky implied, so don't be shy. You do understand that it is my wish ... because of the unusual, probably unhealthy heat, you see." Joe couldn't explain it, but he instantly realized that it was the right thing to do. "Yes, of course," said Joe, stripping his pants and shirt off. Joe sat back down in the chair after adding the things to the back of his chair. The new employee felt a little embarrassed that his cock was standing up, making an unsightly swelling in his thin, white panties, and threatening to poke out, so he tried to concentrate on keeping things under control. After a few seconds the cock complied, and started to shrink. Thank god, thought Joe, not wanting to do anything embarrassing on his first day at the new job. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was sitting in the chair opposite the ravenous, but fully dressed Victoria Slone, him wearing only panties, bra, garters and stockings. "I'm sorry! You're hungry," said Victoria. "Yes. Should we break for lunch?" He asked. "I'll have the secretary bring us in something light," said Victoria before phoning over. Less than a minute later the secretary came in with a couple of glasses that looked like 'Metrical' shakes. One was strawberry, Joe's favorite, Worldcom knew. Not that 'Metrical' was the kind of lunch Joe usually had. On the other hand, he knew it would please Victoria, so he drank it without complaint. Victoria tilted her glass back, faking a couple of swallows on her vanilla, but otherwise left her glass untouched. In the interim, Joe filled out the standard employment paperwork while Victoria added suggestions, assurances, and where needed, statements of fact, including where to sign the agreement upon a minimum wage contract, defined as a $865 per month salary with a waver excluding overtime pay. Next came the obligation to $100,000 for consultation, room, board, and future psychiatric care, to be paid until released from employment at eight percent interest, the interest portion to be maintained by monthly payments of $665. Victoria had him whisk his signature over a power of attorney and a nice little open ended commitment to one of Worldcom's own private mental facilities for sexual addiction, the facility itself conveniently located at 29777 Beacon Shoreline. In order to insure safekeeping and the ability to pay for taxes as well as odds and ends, the Shoreline facility was given rights to manage and invest any left over pay. Of course, Joe also signed his W-4, claiming his usual one exemption. "You're really taking a big step up by signing on at Worldcom," assured Victoria, which brought a winning smile of thanks from Joe. Lunch and paperwork done, Joe realized that he was wet with sweat from the imagined heat. He was doing his best to keep his eyes open too, but managed, barely, understanding that he didn't need to do anything that would risk the huge opportunity to become an associate with this amazingly generous and expanding organization. "I think you might want to freshen up before we go on. Please, take your time because I have other business, and it will probably take between an hour or two. If you get done before I'm through, please take a seat in my office. For now though, feel free to use the facilities, and whatever you might find of interest in there. Oh, and I'm sorry, but the men's room is broken. It's not a problem though, because only myself and the secretary use the one across the hall. I'll tell her you're in there," said Victoria, leading Joe out the office door, and pointing towards the ladies room door. Still in undergarment drag, Joe thanked her, and casually walked into the ladies room to freshen up. The secretary looked over the counter, having heard the office door open, and smiled as she watched the new man float across the hallway on his titty toes. "He's coming along nicely," the secretary said to Victoria just as the second appointment came into the door. "Yes, I believe he is. Watch and make sure something doesn't go amiss and he walks out before I get back. Here are the contracts to send off to corporate files. Oh, and his old things are in my room. Take them back and put them in the queue when you get a chance, if you don't mind," said Victoria to the secretary. "Why of course, Ms. Slone," answered the secretary formally, as the new arrival stepped up to the counter. "Hi. I'm Robert Jeffeny. Here for the new job," said the man to the women. The secretary directed him to the back few chairs in the lounge. Noting that all was in good hand, Victoria left to get a real lunch while the two processees were on automatic. "One in the washer; one in the dryer," joked Victoria to herself as she waltzed to one of only five cars in the lot, though she had to make space for a delivery truck as it drove through the gate to the back warehouse before heading to her favorite lunch time restaurant. part 3 As soon as Joe stepped into the ladies room a song started. "Good timing," he said to himself, realizing that it never worked out that way when he was changing channels on his car stereo. In the background, however, there seemed to be a strange sort of whispering. He locked the bathroom door, admired the large space and decor, and then pulled down his panties, sitting on the seat to pee. The lights were flickering up and down too, he noticed. First the television in the lobby, and then the air conditioner, though the temperature seemed fine over on this side of the hall, and then the 'Muzak' and lights in the lady's room. Maybe, if he got the right position, he'd be able to help the office maintenance people figure out a rewiring scheme, thought Joe, smiling at how well things were going so far. Victoria had been positively charming, and the opportunities for pay, job security and advancement seemed endless, Joe seemed to recall, though he didn't really want to think about that part of things too much; preferring to concentrate on the opportunity to impress the Vice President of Personnel. "Yes, impress Victoria. You need to do everything you can to impress her. She's your boss. You need to do things her way so she understands that you are a team player," said something profound and wise inside of Joe's brain. "Yes, I'll have to focus on impressing her for now, and whoever I am assigned to work with after that," echoed Joe's mouth. A successful business man is ninety percent good attitude, he recalled from his studies. That made no end to sense. Joe took some toilet paper and wiped his pee pee. Pulling up his panties, Joe walked over to the bathroom vanity, and sat down in front of the mirror. "You need to fix your face a lot better than that. You've barely touched it!." The better half of his brain seemed to tell him. Joe sat down, and started with a closer shave, and then some foundation. Remembering that he needed to maintain a professional attitude, he went light on the shadow, lashes and lipstick. "And the hair! God forbid!" The one side of his brain seemed to scold. Why had he opted for a nearly shaved head. It's so, well, feminist, he mocked. There were two wigs, one a blond and the other brunette. The blond one was kind of too cute, but it did go well with his eyebrows, so Joe opted for that one. "Now, what should I wear?" He seemed to be asking himself, though an echo in his head made him think that maybe it had been a lyric in the music. He listened more intently, looking up at the speaker in the ceiling and found nothing coming out but a popular song. "What are you imagining, you deluded fool," he said, talking to himself, and going over to a closet to see what was in there. There was this really red raincoat, and a nice formal gown. "Pick something that is appropriate for working in, though not casual," his brain said to him again, as if a separate voice again, though he found the logic perfectly correct. After all, he was at work, reasoned Joe. Pushing the raincoat and formal aside, he saw a nice black dress with white, lace trim about the short sleeve cuffs, collar and hem. The skirt part of the dress looked really full, which a bird in his head told him was coming back into style, even at work. It looked kind of cutsie too, like the hair, he was thinking, the little bird adding that if both the hair and the dress were cute, things were sure to match. Joe stood in front of the mirror, and put the dress on. It buttoned in back, but he managed, and then tied the little cloth belt so it left a nice wide bow in back. Around the hanger was an apron. "You never know what you'll be doing. It's best to be prepared. You know, spills, dirty hands, and you need to consider that you don't have a second dress in here to change into if you get dirty," the wee voice said. Joe looked back at the formal dress and raincoat, and nodded agreement. A person couldn't really work in either of those things in the event the dress he had on got ruined. He took the apron off of the hanger, and tied it on, now sporting a double bow in back, one white and the other black, which he found quite lovely. The dress had the advantage of being open at the bottom. The neckline was low too, and it was short sleeve. His bra showed some, but he didn't dwell on the unavoidable. All of that will be an advantage in the hot office on the other side of the hallway, he told himself. He had to admit that he'd not felt like he was dressed professionally enough over there before, the reasons he felt that way elusive, but sure. "I mean, what is professional anyway," he reasoned with himself, "Other than an attitude and the right match in costume to duty." All of that old business school stuff was really beginning to pay off in spades. Under the dresses he found a white pair of sneakers, some four inch pumps and some very modest looking black shoes with maybe an inch of heel. You had to hand it to the new company, he thought. They always have at least one thing that's perfect, he realized, putting on the one inch black pair. Maybe it was a test to see if he knew how to dress for success? Joe was determined to pass, and found the choices just too easy. "There! And to think you were worried that you'd embarrass yourself on the first day, Joe! When your recruited like a college graduate should be, the companies take care of you. Ten years late, but here you are, where you belong at last," he told his reflection in the mirror, sitting down to fix the wig until every curl was absolutely perfect, which, like for most women, took a good, solid hour. The music began to chant, "You look perfect this way." "I look perfect this way," answered Joe, as if humming a song that was so familiar it needed only to pass straight from the ears to the mouth without bothering the brain. "You can see how this will help you become a better employee." "Yes, a perfect employee," returned Joe. "Hard work has its own reward." "Hard work is its own reward." "You put up the right image, work hard, and obey, life will be your bed of oysters," explored the music. "Right image, work hard, and obey," mumbled Joe, the commands and replies stuck there for awhile. When Joe thought that he thought the hair perfect, he stood up, straightened his full skirt, puckered his lips at the mirror, and walked out the lady's room door, returning to Victoria's office. "You look about ready to be introduced to your first responsibility, I see," said a waiting Victoria. "I'm actually excited to get to work. I know it's late, but I'd be positively delighted to at least get a taste of it," said Joe, not even taking his seat on the same chair he'd sat on two hours earlier. He paid no heed to the fact that his clothing was no longer draped across the seat back. "Well then follow along. For safety reasons, I want you to pay real close attention to what I tell you to do though. We start our new people out on the floor, working right alongside the workers ... you know, to get a feeling for the operations end, and the floor can be dangerous if one is careless. Starting an employee out on the floor is done, as you know, in many companies. If things work out you aren't there long, but it depends. Some of our graduates manage better on a warehouse floor than in more enclosed places," explained Victoria as she and Joe moved down the back hallway. Victoria opened a large, metal door, and waved Joe into the huge, cavernous warehouse. Joe stepped in. Across the floor space, Joe could see at least two dozen employees hard at work between a conveyor belt and some bins. As best Joe could make out from the distance of the doorway, they were an all female crew. In fact, there wasn't even a pair of pants in the lot, as if the women had all been recruited from some religious cult that insisted upon a skirt code. Joe had guessed wrong about the warehouse not being utilized, and then was guessing again that there must be an employee's parking lot on the other side of the building. Victoria took the precaution of donning a pair of earphones for noise protection. Joe didn't ask for any for himself, noting that other than the music, and the slight hum of a conveyor belt and delivery truck engine well back towards the garage doors, the place was fairly quiet. Besides, he didn't want to miss a single word of instruction from Ms. Victoria Slone as he followed her like a lapdog down a couple steps to the main floor. "Over here we have the bins!" Yelled Victoria as if the music Joe could hear leaking out of the headphones was way louder than what Joe was hearing on the floor; some ear protection, mused Joe. Not wanting to be impolite, Joe nodded, and followed her over, his heels clicking loud enough to win a few glances from what otherwise proved to be disinterested faces. Women at a conveyor belt were taking items from the belt, and putting them into bins across the walkway. "The sla ... I mean, the woman are responsible for from five to three bins each. As you can see, the bins are labeled. Let's look at some about two thirds of the way down; that's where we'll start you. Never mind the work, it's how we learn to identify with our workers, you know, like the Japanese model where management pitches in. Well, here we stand shoulder to shoulder for awhile, so we don't fall into the trap of insisting upon examples that are unrealistic. Oh, here we are. I'll just be moving the responsibilities aside for the workers to each side, and then we can do three bins from here. I'll show you and you'll learn as we go," said Victoria. "What is this stuff?" Asked Joe, pointing at the conveyor belt. "OK, we're ready. The things on the line are from liquidation of used materials. At this location we specialize in resources purchased from homes and apartments that have been abandoned. In some cases the owners have died, and nobody knows any relatives. In others it might be someone who's earned a nice twenty years to life sentence in jail. Relatives often sell things off, not having use for the things left behind. It varies. Sometimes we even empty a pawn shop. We clear it with the authorities, which in some cases might be none other than the building supervisor who's had to look at the junk for a couple months. Anyway, for next to nothing we can pick it all up. Once sorted, cleaned and packaged, it has value. Things like furniture and appliances go to a different place. So, as you can see, the bins are a way of breaking things down into categories. Behind you, you see our three bins," said Victoria, grabbing a handful of socks and another of photographs. She turned around, setting the photographs into a bin labeled Heirlooms. The socks were tossed into a bin tagged, waist-down-under-wear. She didn't have anything for the third bin, upper-underwear. "Oh, I get it. So, what happens when all this stuff gets to the end and something doesn't fit into any of the categories?" Joe asked. "That's easy. At the end is a bin on wheels. The person down there takes the things that are passed over and wheels them back to the head of the line. Everything goes somewhere, and if it doesn't after three passes, someone who's been here awhile looks it over and decides if it's special or trash. Ninety-nine percent of the time it's trash. So, do you think you have the hang of it, Joe? Could you work for us here for the rest of the day, you know, just to learn the ropes of this part of the business?" Asked Victoria. "Of course. I'd love to get busy," said Joe, smiling back. "Excellent. Well, have fun. They bring in a truck about every half hour. Considering we serve ten percent of the eastern seaboard with this one facility, they keep you hopping," said Victoria, walking away. Joe watched her go, feeling kind of guilty that he wasn't hopping right too. For the last half of the walk, Victoria seemed to reach a bit of a gallop, as if she wanted out of the warehouse as quickly as she could manage. Joe guessed she had another client. Victoria seemed awfully busy, he realized, though he really hadn't seen her do all that much. It's all secret management stuff; behind the scenes kinds of things, Joe told himself, thinking he'd find out that part of the business soon enough. Right now I have to do some sorting, Joe told himself, grabbing a couple pair of underwear and something that looked like a pocket watch. Was a pocket watch an heirloom, he wondered? No, probably jewelry, he decided, putting it back down and tossing the male shorts into the waist- down-under-wear bin. As he twisted from the conveyor belt to the bins, he just loved the way his garters rubbed, and his skirt swirled. Every so often he'd remember some previous safety training on relieving back strain, and would turn with his feet, enjoying the way his feet felt as they clicked around in the femi one inch heels. This was so much fun, he thought. Yes, it's so much fun. It was as if one side of his brain was speaking to the other again, like in the bathroom. "You just love working here," he thought he heard, turning to see if the person beside him had said something. Looking the other way, he realized that neither of his coworkers had said a thing. Or had they? To be sure not to offend anyone, he said, "Yes, I really enjoy doing this for some reason." Joe picked up a T-shirt and a souvenir plaque from a military tour on Guam, and tossed them into the appropriate bins. "I love this work," said the woman to Joe's left side. He looked over and saw her smile toward him, though the eyes seemed miles away, absorbed in the work no doubt, thought Joe. "She's not your type," Joe thought he heard someone say. He looked back toward the worker on his right, but the woman was busy. Well, of course she'd not my type, thought Joe. In fact, she's kind of ugly, he thought, glancing at both of the people beside him. The eyebrows are way too bushy, he knew, though there'd been an attempt to work on them. Both had this square jaw that made them look, well, kind of like men. Joe laughed when he started wondering if there was a religious cult made up of ex-Romanian female weight lifters? Then again, the dresses weren't all that modest. In fact, both women had short dresses that flared out like his did, and he was sure they had on garters for their stockings, a thought instantly verified by a slight movement that made the straps visible. The hats made them look like maids, which of course was a little out of place in the factory - for them. "Whores are beautiful people," rang in Joe's mind, causing him to scowl and wonder where he'd gotten such an off color thought. Shaking his head, he regained his original thought. Oh yes, realized Joe, I too have a dress on and a hat that makes me look like a housemaid, not to mention the practical apron, but that's different. I know that I'm management material, a college grad who has been recruited for an upwardly mobile position. I'm only on the floor to get a feeling for the business, and then move on to something better suited to my professional attire after a few days, his thoughts continued. Of course he looked different for a reason, he told himself, putting a lone photograph of someone's mother into a bin. Why the rest of the crew was dressed like maids was, well, silly. They looked like fairies, he decided, which might not be as bad as being a female Romanian wrestler put out to pasture. Joe laughed under his breath. The stuff on the conveyor belt was thinning. Another truck was backing up to the head of the line. Several workers immediately helped off load the vehicle. There'd be more stuff to sort in no time, thought Joe, hardly able to wait for the opportunity to do some more manual labor. A maid wannabe, (Joe had decided that, that was what they were), came by and filled up a water cup by his station. In spite of the worker's overdress, Joe thanked her and greedily drank half the water. Water and work are the best things in the world for my girlish figure, thought Joe with a smile, realizing that his figure was already looking way better than most of the Romanian wrestlers nearby. That stood to reason, because he was maid material, having been trained already at the best of institutions, and recruited just for that. After all, he was recruited specially for that, not this, and was only doing duty on the line for a few weeks, after which he'd be moved on to more appropriate work. Of course, he'd have to work hard and prove that worth, which was no issue for Joe, used to working as a counter girl at the 'Stop and Go'. "If you work hard, you may be granted better duties as a Worldcom maid," said the music. Joe looked up, realizing that it wasn't the workers who were giving him all of the very helpful advise. It was more like God Herself, speaking through Her angels from the music. Joe felt an almost spiritual chill thrilling him to his core as he looked up into the dust covered warehouse beams and saw rays of light shifting from the high, overhead windows. In fact, he had a brief glimpse of a revelation, realizing that Victoria, as a Vice President of Worldcom, must certainly be at least close to the true Goddess Herself. He had, through no greatness of his own, been blessed to have sat mere inches from a woman who no doubt was at least a Saint. Only the exhilarating hum of the conveyor belt restarting kept him from shouting out with ecclesiastical glee. There is much to do, he decided, putting his hands to the rubber, as if feeling the empty belt was better than idleness. "Obedience is wonderful," echoed from the speakers, bouncing off of the high and wide warehouse walls like the distant voice of the Goddess. Joe no longer flinched, no longer imagining secular sources for the voices of angels. part 4 "All right now, girls, if you'll strip your garments and ready for inspection before we're attended to for the night," said the woman whom Joe took to maybe be a Priestess. She was dressed in the honorary business suit, all grey and knee length, with white hose and sensible black shoes, something that Joe now regarded as sacred attire. Joe realized that the music had stopped, and with it, the world seemed to be slowly clearing up. Still, he had some kind of need to follow everyone else's lead. At the same time, he felt kind of like he'd missed a little piece of his life, the last thought being of himself working on the conveyor belt, which he was sure was somewhere else in the warehouse. For some reason he couldn't remember most of what had happened that day at work after the first couple of truck loads. He was getting pretty aware of the fact that he was damned hungry, and his calves hurt a ton from standing in the inch tall heels well into the evening. Again following the other worker's leads, Joe stripped his wig, apron, dress and underwear, was soon buck naked alongside a long row of equally naked men. A worker came around behind them all, scooping up the garments for cleaning. There was no mistaking things now, Joe understood; these guys he'd been working with were fairies for sure. Joe wasn't too much of a fan of gay people, though he wasn't repulsed by them either. Nearly every last one of them was shaved below the eyebrows, and he was sure half of them were growing decent sized breasts. One short blond guy three down and the TV who'd just picked up their clothing were both at least a half size short of a C cup and at least four months of head hair, thought Joe, stifling a laugh as he stood nearly at attention, spaced from the men to his left and right a rough meter each. It all reminded him of his military days, everyone kind of looking the same after the shave and issue of T-shirts and jockeys, or in this case, maybe in the shower would be more accurate. The lady executive type looked at them with an unhidden look of arrogance, as if her control was both natural and a tool she enjoyed abusing. Joe found himself instantly disliking her and paradoxically instantly wanting to please her at the same time. Her eyes wandered from man to man, then from cock to cock, as she walked down the line of men like a drill sergeant. Joe looked down, and saw his penis standing at half mast. That, of course, was completely out of line, he thought. He looked over at all of the flaccid penises to either side him, noticing that none of the other men had an equal infraction, and that some looked about the size of what he'd expect to see on adolescents, as if the bigger the breasts the smaller the penis, not that he lingered with his looking. Joe squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of things decidedly non-sexual so his would soften and not stand out. After all, there were a lot of naked men here, and to be hard under the circumstances seemed kind of faggish to Joe. By the time the executive lady got to him, Joe had things under better control and found it easier to breath, though she did look at him longer. Well of course, understood Joe, I'm the new executive in training, and she would want to get a longer look at her soon to be peer. Or maybe it's just that I'm bigger, he wondered. She seemed to be enjoying a long look at his lower anatomy. Joe fought between some need to remain respectful and a sense of behavior that had him wanting to smirk his term of training with the common troops off. He let himself throw her a wink. She looked deeply into his eyes and shook her head no, as if saying that she was unimpressed, after which she walked on. Joe's stomach churned, upset that he might have displeased her with his break of protocol. There were what looked like wide, fake leather footstools, the middle of which seemed cut away in a violin pattern. The stools were positioned up against a series of steel rails. "OK, slaves, on your knees and crawl forward to your positions," commanded the woman. "I don't find it amusing that you are calling us slaves. I'm a new employee here, and though I'm here to learn what the common employee goes through, I am still management material. I don't even think it's amusing to call the labor pool something that demeaning," Joe thought he should say, turning his head toward the woman. When he tried to say it however, his head snapped back forward, and he found himself stammering like he had a stutter. Everyone else seemed perfectly content to get on their knees and crawl toward the leather stools and rack of metal piping - some more eager than others. The female executive apparently expected no rebellion, casually walking off the floor and through a door that Joe guessed led to the front offices. As if he'd faded out for a few seconds, Joe came out of a haze that found him crawling forward as well, and already leaning across his padded stool. The men beside him put their heads between the pipes, the pipes to either side barely wide enough to accept the heads. When their heads were on the other side of the pipes, they stopped moving forward, their shoulders up to the pipes and their legs up to the edge of the cushioned footstools. There's no way I'm going to do that. It's stupid, thought Joe! To his utter amazement though, he came out of another cloud, his eyes wide as saucers as his head joining the others on the other side of the pipe. He had the sensation that half of him was in one room and the other half in another, though only a pair of steel pipes separated his head from his body. There was a loud clank, and the pipes to either side of his head closed. Joe panicked, pulling back, but the pipes were just narrow enough for his neck, capturing his head. Looking down, and then straining a look up, he saw that the pipes were just as narrow from the top to the bottom. His heart was racing, but he was relieved to know that the pipes didn't close any further, and most of the other men weren't as upset. Trying to relax, Joe found that the cushions under most of his body were really kind of comfortable, the back part higher so the knees didn't really carry any weight. He did find it a bit humiliating to realize that his butt must have been up a bit too high, but at least he wasn't any worse off than the rest of them, his mind finding comfort in the knowledge that he was part of the group. Other than his legs, the knees of which were sinking into a soft drainage trough in the floor, and the space in the cushions at his chest, Joe felt like he could drop his head and go right to sleep. It had been a terribly hard day, thought Joe, straining to look up at the high windows. He was still in the warehouse, he saw, though in a partitioned room he guessed. Another transvestite stepped in front of Joe, hung a bottle of orange liquid on a hook, and stuffed a feeding tube into Joe's mouth. Beside that, a bottle of water was hooked, and another hose stuffed into the other corner of Joe's mouth. He was feeling worse and worse about all of this, as if he was beginning to rediscover a former self that wouldn't have even imagine such treatment acceptable. The music restarted playing just then, noticed Joe, as he learned to decided to at least eat before he started protesting. He alternatively sucked from one side to the other, the orange stuff apparently his meal. Suddenly a pair of hands were vigorously rubbing Joe's body. Startled, Joe dropped the orange tube, the contents of the unvented bottle dripping slowly from the released tube. He tried to look around, but couldn't see much of the transvestite who had been assigned to clean the slaves with the soap and hair remover solution. The hands were thorough, realized Joe, touching him everywhere, and seemingly lingering at his genitals where the hair was thickest. The attendant worked right up to his neck and down his arms, including the spaces between his fingers. Forcing his body up at places, the hands lathered his stomach and chest. "It's OK, you cows. Let the attendant clean you. Please release all bodily functions at his time," said a voice on a PA system, overriding the usual music. Joe was so glad to hear an executive's voice again, as if it reconnected him to a better world where he'd soon play a more important part. He even gained enough composure to lean out a few inches and regain the orange tube before much of it was wasted. Without the slightest thought, Joe relieved himself before the attendant finishing the cleaning. As a last step, the attendant came back through and ran a thin cleaning brush up and inside everyone's anus, topping the whole cleaning with a hosing while the music echoed, "Cleanliness is close to Godessliness for all associates of Worldcom." After they'd all been hosed off, towels were used to clean between their bodies and the cushions, the rest left to dry off in the warm air of the sleeping and maintenance quarters. Up front, the attendant who'd issued the food came by, cleaning heads with soapy, warm rags, and brushing teeth with a single electronic toothbrush. It was amazing how good it was to know that everything was being taken care of, thought Joe as the meal was finished and the empties taken away. "Please put your hands directly below your shoulders, and set your feet together," said the voice in the music. Joe obeyed, almost not feeling two new set of pipes closing around his ankles and wrists. Thus, with the closure of three banks of pipes, thirty-seven slaves, including the meal attendants and cleaning specialists who'd secured themselves at a special row of cushions and pipes at the far end, were secured for the evening. Hormones and steroids raced through their systems, conditioners and steroids caressed their skin, and a muscle reducing meal churned in their little bellies, the lights fading for seven hours of beauty sleep. The music turned into a lullaby and eyes closed as they found the cushions perfectly balanced for comfort. It being his first day of hard labor on heels, Joe was one of the first to doze. He woke up with a start in the middle of the night. Other than faint quarter moonlight peeking in up above, the warehouse was dark. An occasional snore could be heard, as the music was gone for a two hour respite at the witching hour. "Where am I? What's happening? Oh God! No! This is wrong! You can't treat human beings like this!" Screamed Joe. The new employee had no idea why he was here, the day now a whirl of memories of waiting, interviews and hard work. Most of the snoring stopped, telling Joe that he'd woken most of the others. "Talk to me! What's this all about? Is there anyone here who isn't crazy?" He screamed again, the full impact of what had happened to him coming forward as he started to remember bits and pieces of the afternoon and early evening in greater detail. He shook himself, imagining he was in a nightmare, but he found no release. "I ... I ... what is happening? Oh Jesus. I'm stuck in this thing! Why are they doing this to me? What has happened to me? This is kidnapping!" Came the voice of the other man processed that afternoon out of the dark. "Please be quiet," and "We should be sleeping," were the more passive majority of the voices, though a few voices seemed to say the passive phrases as if questioning their validity. A door to the office opened and shut, letting in a wedge of light, and then a flashlight beam. Joe looked around in fright, realizing the flashlight was coming around behind him where he was defenseless. The person passed him by, walking past to the end of the row. But, he thought, I have to try! This is a chance to plead my case. "I'm not supposed to be here. I'm a new executive! There's another man here like me too. Please, at least let us go." "Yes. Help us. This is a mistake. I'm supposed to be an executive. I have my own apartment in the city! I'm not into this like these others," Said the other protesting voice down the way where the person from the office was close. There was a zap, a spark of lightning, and then a blood curdling scream from the direction of the voice that had joined Joe's in protest. Joe knew exactly what that had meant, recognizing the voice and ozone smell of a police zapper. The flashlight got closer as it came down the line behind him. Joe could hear the distinct click of what he now recognized to be female shoes, though around here he understood that, that didn't necessarily mean a woman. Then the shoes stopped just to his rear and the flashlight played around beside him and the others close. "Was it you?" said an authoritative female voice. "No ma'am. We should be sleeping," came a voice beside him, so compliant that Joe imagined the head full of cotton candy. Ten seconds later Joe felt the point of the zapper prod as it was pressed into the meat of his left ass cheek. "Was it you?" Repeated the voice behind Joe. "No ma'am. We should be sleeping," Joe heard himself consciously say, doing everything in his power to sound as sheep-like as the man beside him had sounded, and amazed at how well he'd managed to do exactly that. The wand mercifully left his backside, and the voice repeated the same question, apparently to three other neighbors, bringing the exact same response. "Well then. I don't think we will be having any more problems then, shall we," said the woman's voice in the dark, her flashlight playing around one last time and then reaching off toward the door from which it had come. The door opened and then shut, leaving them alone in the darkness. That brought spasms of claustrophobia and fear to Joe, who for the first time since he'd realized that he'd been wearing female underclothing in the lounge that morning, was fully aware of his humiliating and dire circumstances. He wanted to say something, to form some kind of conspiracy, maybe just whisper some inquiries, but he knew better than to try that again, opting to get loose on his own instead. He twisted his wrists, but found it impossible to remove them from the frame below his shoulders. His legs were worse. Bending his head just right, he found that he could get most of one jaw out, but the top of his head was not even close to small enough to get through, and it was a struggle just releasing the wedged jaw. He was stuck, he realized, frustrated. He tried to think of something else, but the best he could come up with was the idea that he could resist in his mind. He had to keep telling himself to resist the suggestions, having figured out that it must be some kind of hypnosis that is doing most of this work. Joe even recalled that Victoria woman telling him something about the internet connections he'd made with Tyzer and Tiffs. He'd let them hypnotize him on-line, and he was betting that, that had been the start of it, though he had no recollection of any major success there. Then again, he found that he couldn't recall all that much of what they'd done with him while he'd been cyber- hypnotized either. It was all kind of confusing, but captured like this, like a cow in a barn, imagined Joe, brought the main theme in pretty clearly. They were making men into virtual slaves, feminizing them and paying no better than five dollars an hour, or maybe half that, imagined Joe, realizing they'd worked well into the night and had signed away overtime pay. The whole factory crew couldn't be costing them more than seven or eight hundred dollars an hour at that rate. Then he remembered signing over most of his pay for room and board. The bars and cushions were a little elaborated, but no more than in some barns, and once installed, nearly free, not to mention that the orange stuff was hardly executive fare. Oh God, thought Joe; they can't help but be successful with costs this low. The new numbers in his head came out to more like seven or eight hundred dollars a day. That was like nothing, considering the fruits of labor of over three dozen employees. What did it mean to be a permanent pione under the foot of a new, and inevitably successful system of exploitation, wondered Joe? I have to resist while I can, he tried to cement into his head! Now, if I can just keep that idea of control in mind, he rehashed over and over for an hour as the men around him broke into new rounds of snoring and an occasional whimper. Suddenly the music started again. He could make out the voices clearly now. There was no way to avoid it, as clear headed as he was. The words seemed terrible to Joe, causing him to moan. They were going on and on, he understood, the content and intention totally unveiled: "You are relaxed. Obey us. Work hard. Never complain. Worship all people not of your low class. Relax, work hard and enjoy. Forget your past. You are now happier than ever to be slaves at Worldcom. There are no cares. No need is unmet. All of the people supervising have done this for you. They are your superior beings. You love their direction. Obedience relaxes and pleasures you. You crave being told what to do. Remember all directives. Forget all past cares. Do no tire easily. Long hours help the time pass until you are accepted. Authoritative women appeal to you. Obedience is highly pleasurable. Erections are embarrassing and slow your progress. You want to become a woman. Erections are counter to that goal. Becoming a woman has so many rewards in the organization. You want breasts. You enjoy being cleaned. You enjoy your maintenance position and quarters. The food at Worldcom is wonderful. All cares are met. All in the past is forgiven and forgotten. Relax and enjoy those new things around you. You will soon become a better working woman. Advancement is through compliance. Soon you will move on. Obey all directives. Speaking without request is troubling. When troubling thoughts occur, just relax. Think of the pleasure of work," the endless and varied diatribes repeated, almost as loud as the main vocals, thought Joe, shaking his head to beat off the influence. I can do this, he thought. I can stave off this undercurrent of lies! If only I could yell without being zapped, or just hold my hands up to my ears, he lamented. Slowly though, Joe tired, and then finally lost himself in sleep. By morning the entire episode of disloyalty was swallowed as surely as the morning meal of estrogen laced, orange liquid. part 5 Joe could hardly wait to put on his new garters, stockings, heels, bra, maid outfit, apron and wig. The outfits were different, having been roughly tossed to each worker based on general size. The shoes were the same, he noticed, delighted. Joe also noticed that one of the more advanced 'girls' was wearing the dress he'd worn the previous day, though the stockings and wig were different. The purple lipstick he was issued was really different from the various shades the rest of the workers wore, making him feel special. This is like the best part of the day, he thought, almost giddy. Delighted to be off to work, and one step closer to his goal of moving up in the organization, Joe was marched off with the rest of them, soon back on the floor, and through chance, at the exact same station. There was half a truckload to finish, and then a new truck came in. His lower calfs hurt a lot, but he seemed to find it easier to walk than one of the fags down the line did, that one limping badly, as if someone had hit him in the ass or something. Joe shrugged it off, and felt a little guilty about thinking of the man as a fag. The queen was just trying to do a good job for the employer, thought Joe, trying to put himself into the place of one of the executives and imagining how hard it must be to please everyone all of the time. It was the same old story, he realized; management always put in long hours and never got any respect. He wasn't going to fall into that trap, he resolved, knowing how good his employers were. It just wasn't right. This management team really cared. After all, there were bad employers out there, and he definitely didn't want to switch jobs and get into some sweat shop where he'd have to deal with the likes of them. It was so perfect here, he thought as the first items from the new truck started by. He picked up some underwear, and tossed it into the bin. There were a few socks next, the kind he remembered he used to wear when he was being so pedestrian and boring. Oh, this is neat, thought Joe, picking up a framed picture. This looks just like my poor dead mother's picture. Even the frame is the same, he thought, putting the picture into the heirloom bin. Next he grabbed a free standing award. 'Soldier of the Month,' was the main heading. Definitely a heirloom, he decided. 'Specialist 4th Class Joe Winters,' was inscribed under the main soldier of the month part. Joe froze a minute, wondering how his old army award had ended up with a load of abandoned property? He turned back around, the award still in his hand, and looked closer at the piles of things streaming by, finding all of it vaguely familiar. Oh Dear Goddess and CEO, his mind swore; it's my stuff! He started pacing back and forth in his heels, as if not knowing what to do. No supervisor interrupted him while he dealt with the problem, though Victoria and a couple other executives were being entertained by it as they watched from behind a soundproof one way glass two stories up. Considering that the music was on, going on the floor wasn't all that delightful, requiring either headgear or a pause in the training. That didn't mean, however, that things weren't under control, thought the Vice President of plant personnel processing. Watching a new slave fall out of trance was one of their favorite break time activities. (Workers who'd been there more than a few days simply didn't fall out of trances, though they sometimes regained a faded hint of control after a few weeks of inattention, though by then it didn't much matter). The sport of baiting a new bitch into loosing it was so cherished that they often made sure to time employee specific deliveries so they could watch. Most of the deliveries were in fact, from households of slaves chosen for other introductory assignments or even from some, more over than under, the table deals, but at least one out of every hundred deliveries was tied to one of the ladies on their floor; everyone eventually seeing their own lives pass before them. They never tried it on the first day, and rarely tried it on the second, thinking it pushing the envelope of the training a bit tight. Sometimes the arrangements were delayed, and the new sissy didn't even flinch, which seemed a waste of good fun. As always, there was a little office bet going that Joe would panic and break rank. Victoria had bet the plant manager a hundred bucks on Joe holding the line, or at least not running, though she knew it would