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The New Job By Kelly Ann Rogers This is a story about becoming. It's also a story about learning how to love, both yourself and others. As our heroine progresses through the most tumultuous year of her life, she must deal with a variety of challenges, some ageless and others thoroughly modern. Some of theses challenges are mundane but real, others are more unusual, difficult, and intense. As she deals with each challenge, our heroine learns an important lesson, some about being a woman and others but about being a person, a full-fledged adult person who can stand up for herself and make her own way in the world. The characters are all fictional and if you believe you see any resemblance to you or anyone you know, this is simply a coincidence. Although this is not a story about sex or one designed to set up sex scenes for the sake of sex scenes, it is a story for adults because it does contain scenes of explicit sexuality. There is no gratuitous sex, violence, or sexual violence, and I believe each of these scenes is an important part of the story and that they help us to understand our main characters. Because this is the story of a young T* girl discovering herself, there is sex between people of the same and opposite sexes. This is therefore X-rated. But because the sex is presented in what I hope is a realistic, but necessary way, I don't believe it crosses to XXX. Some of you with more sensitive sensibilities might disagree, although in the end I hope you will agree that each scene containing sex is an integral part of the story. Acknowledgments: This story was first posted on Storysite between March and November of 2001. If have edited it only to remove mistakes and for clarity. The story is the same. Writing it was a year long journey that I could never have pulled off by myself. So, I would like to thank the people who helped me. To each of you named below, thanks for your continued conversation, friendship, and support. Writing is hard work, but being able to share that effort with you made it more like a joy. Specifically I'd like to start by thanking Elaine, to whom I owe my deepest appreciation for being a wonderfully supportive and insightful friend and editor. I would like thank Lesley, who undertook the usually thankless task of proofreading much of this very long story, and who I repeatedly undermined by going back and rewriting parts she had already finished. Ellen Hayes and I had a long-running discussion about writing and I would like to thank her for helping me keep my eye on my target and finally allowing me to bring the story to life, instead of making it a parody. Vickie Tern read an early version of this story (and then parts of a later one) and identified many of the discrepancies and inconsistencies that drive readers crazy. More importantly, however, she identified some of the key strong points so I could build on them. Finally, I'd like to thank Dawn DeWinter, who worked hard to help me understand what was important and what was not in the early parts of the story. Thanks girls Kelly Ann ---------------------------------------------------- Chapter I: In which our hero is discovered for what he is Her hips bucked. She moaned several times. Then she clamped her legs around my head so tightly that I was pulled off balance and immobilized. When she went limp I fell to the floor, out of breath. As I fell, I smacked my mouth on her bedside table. Blood started to run into my mouth and I had to keep sucking and licking to keep it from falling on the carpet. When I caught my breath and looked up, she was staring at me with a satisfied look on her face. From a distance, you might think her features plain, in a Midwestern sort of way. But after looking at her for a moment, you could see that she had a big full mouth and large dark eyes that glistened out at you over prominent cheek bones. Her hair was a glossy black, soft and straight for several inches, with the ends permed into soft curls that framed her face and neck and floated softly around her as she moved her head. To me she looked like some kind of tigress who knew she ruled over everything she surveyed. She carried herself with the confidence of a soldier and her body was trim and athletic. Taller than I, with taut muscles under the sleekest layer of feminine body fat, she now threw a lean but curvy hip into the air alluringly as she lay on her side. Her breasts were not large and barely sagged at all from her small chest. I was beginning to get lost in her when she spoke. "You're hairless. Why?" It was a simple question, without any of the derision or cruelty I expected. She reached down, took my hand in hers, and pulled me up to my knees. Then she stared at my crotch. "Roll onto your back and spread your legs," she said calmly, her voice full of innocent curiosity. My prick was rigid, bobbing from side to side as I moved. I kept sucking blood back into my mouth. I was beginning to taste bad memories. Though I expected her to humiliate me at any moment, she didn't. "You've shaved your body and your pubic hair is shaped into a sexy little triangle. I've never seen that on a man. I'll bet you could wear a pair of high cut panties and not a hair would show." Her eyes widened for a second as understanding flooded into her face. "That's it, isn't it? You wear panties." My breath was caught in my throat. The enormity of what had happened to me in just one day simply overwhelmed me. I curled myself up into a fetal position and tried not to sob. My soul was torn apart. I felt totally defeated, angry, and helpless. There was something about those feelings, combined with the taste of blood that loosed a chaotic torrent of memories. Suddenly, I was sitting in an alley, my legs splayed out in front of me and my back propped against a filthy garbage can. My head was exploding with pain, I was gasping for breath, and blood was filling my mouth from the hole that had been punched through my lower lip when my teeth had been driven through it. I was with Ginny, my first real girlfriend. We had just been robbed and I had been beaten to the ground. Ginny's face was flushed as she yelled down at me from what seemed very far away. Her hands jerked around in the air like a crazed puppeteer was controlling them. "Why didn't you protect me?" she shouted. "Why didn't you do something?" I looked up at her in wonder. What was her problem? I was the one who had been beaten. I was lying in garbage and my mouth was full of blood because I had pushed her behind me to protect her. Ginny's hands weren't even dirty and it was obvious she had no intention of getting them bloody by even helping me get up. So I sat there on the filthy pavement, impotent with rage and humiliation. What was her problem? We had been jumped by three guys. It wasn't my fault they took her purse. So what, she probably has ten more anyway. How dare she blame me? I was the one bleeding and in pain. I was the real victim here. Why was she blaming me? Why couldn't she just shut up? Her inane but poisonous accusations, "Why didn't you protect me? Why didn't you do anything?" rocketed around inside my head. I didn't need her yelling that at me as I sat trying to suck the blood into my mouth so I wouldn't drip all over my carefully aged, leather bomber jacket. I thought such a classic war hero jacket made me look more like man, but how masculine can you look if your tough-guy coat is covered with blood? But as I looked at her, I began to understand. In a strange way, she was right. She had been robbed. I hadn't been able to stop that from happening, and I could feel the guilt boiling up inside me. Oh God, not again, I knew guilt far to well. It had been my constant companion since my eleventh birthday. That was the day I first tasted blood. I don't know what it tastes like to other people, but to me it is the taste of impotence, of abject failure. I learned that lying on my side in a wrecked car, blood all over me. My birthday had been the day before, and my father had promised me a double scoop Baskin and Robbins Rocky Road ice cream cone. But he had gotten drunk and passed out instead. He was drinking today too, but he was always drinking; a few more shots downed as quickly as they could be poured didn't mean anything to me. Still, I had finally nagged him into taking me out. I didn?t>t really understand what whiskey did to people, except that sometimes it made him angry. And then I knew enough to hide. My father was fiddling with the radio and our car started to drift left into the opposite lane at the same time another car rounded the bend just ahead of us. I screamed and we abruptly careened back to the right, and then the left, and then right again. The brakes screeched for the longest time, bushes and shrubs rushed passed us madly, and then there was a monstrous crashing sound. I was thrown forward hard against my seat belt and shoulder harness. Glass shattered all around me. When I came to, I was lying on my side against the passenger side door, still held by my seat belt. The side window had been shattered and dirt and leaves were in my face. The car was on its side. "Please help me," my father whispered. I looked up. My father was hanging above me, held up by his seat belt, the steering wheel, which pinned his chest to the seat back, and the dashboard, which was all the way up in his lap. He was bleeding so much that his blood was spilling down onto me, and then into my mouth as I gasped for breath. I could taste my father's blood. I tried to get free to help him, but couldn't. The dashboard was in my lap too and pinned me in place. Under the dashboard, my legs throbbed, but the only movement I could make was to wiggle my toes. I don't know how long we were trapped, but my father begged me to help him for the longest time. "Brad, help me. Brad please help me." He even got angry. "Goddamn it Brad why won't you help your own father?" Sometimes if I've had too much to drink, he comes back to haunt me in my dreams. "Brad, why didn't you help me? Brad, why didn't you help your own father?" "Dad, I'm trapped, I can't get out. I'm trying as hard as I can, but I can't move." "Brad why won't you help me? Why won't you help me?" "I'm trying to get free put I can't move my legs, they're stuck, and they hurt." I desperately tried to get free to help him, but I couldn't. I cried the whole time from pain and frustration and a sense of failure. He cursed my weakness and reverted to his favorite taunt, calling me a sissy. "If I had a real son instead of a faggot sissy, he'd have gotten me out by now." Finally, he fell silent. I had already stopped struggling to get free; the pain in my legs had overwhelmed my awareness and I simply lay whimpering in the now bloody leaves and mud that had covered my head and puddled under my face. By the time the rescue squad got to us he was dead and I was completely covered by his blood. I remember thinking that he must have no blood left in him. It was all on me. There was so much blood the paramedics thought I was seriously injured as well and frantically looked for my wounds. They were in a panic about losing me. They made me think I was about to die. In a way I did. The child in me died that day in my father's whiskey-soaked blood. That child might have been revived at the hospital by a caring mother. She could have consoled the child and told him that his father had broken both his legs and almost killed him because his father was driving drunk. She might have told the child that a skinny little 11 year old couldn't possibly drag a 220 pound man from a wrecked car. She could have told him that no one could have saved his father, because in truth, the rescue squad had been called almost immediately and gotten there as soon as they could. Instead, my mother arrived at the hospital drunk and out of control, shouting her grief to everyone who crossed her path. When she got to my room she turned on me and accused me of killing my father. "If you hadn't forced him to go out to get you a stupid ice cream cone this wouldn't have happened," she yelled. "You killed him!" And she burst into tears. I still haven't been able to rid myself of the guilt that was thrust upon me that day. It wasn't just that I couldn't help my father; I had killed him. In my mother's eyes I was to blame. My mother was so unforgiving she never let me celebrate another childhood birthday. She either ignored the day altogether or used the occasion to humiliate me. Years later I finally understood, intellectually at least, that I had not killed my father. He had killed himself by drinking and then driving. He could just as easily have killed me or someone else. But that particular combination of feelings, the helplessness and frustration and rage that I felt while trapped in that car blasted their way into my memory. Those feelings were back now, fueling my tears. I can't always predict when these dreadful memories will invade my consciousness, but I do know by now that the taste of blood will almost surely summon them. And here I was with blood filling my mouth, overwhelmed by feelings of impotence and helplessness and anger. I started sobbing. I was so distraught that I didn't even notice Cynthia lying there watching, witness to my weakness. *** Cynthia knew nothing of the boy or the man who couldn't protect the people he loved. She must have assumed I was weeping from the humiliations of the day. She moved back from the edge of the bed and languidly turned onto her side again, staring down at me, completely unaware of the tumult inside my heart. I'm not sure what she saw, but I just knew it disgusted her. But she simply reached up and turned off the lamp. "You can tell me about yourself and then get dressed and go home or you can lie there on the floor naked until you do. I've got all night." For a while, there was nothing but the sound of my intermittent sobs as I tried to compose myself. Finally I pulled myself together enough to whisper, "What do you want to know? You've uncovered all my secrets today. It's not just my body that's naked now; it's my soul. Do me a favor, shoot me. My life might as well be over anyway, the way things are going." Again, there was a prolonged silence as I recovered a half step, from sobs to ragged breathing. Then softly out of the darkness I heard, "I used to like your soul. You used to be a sweet guy; you cared about other people's feelings. Cute too ... smart, sweet, and cute. A few of us had crushes on you." I was stunned. She liked me? Others liked me? How could anyone? "Then you started acting like an asshole. I still can't figure out which one is the real you. The sweet guy who first came to work in my office four years ago, or the total asshole who's been working there for the last year. You've done stuff that makes Bob Thornton look like a good boss." Sweet, smart, cute? She couldn't have meant those as terms of endearment. She was putting me down, right? After all, she just compared me with Bob Thornton, that shit. He's the most destructive man I've ever met. I never really understood the meaning of psychopath until he was thrust into my life. I couldn't take it. I started to sob again. "I'm so sorry. I'm an asshole and I hate myself for it. I've treated you and everyone else so badly. I just can't control myself. Thornton makes me so angry and I feel so helpless because I can't do anything about it." Then, after another pause, "Keep talking." I tried to take a deep breath, but a sob caught in my throat and sparked a coughing jag. Even after I had gotten myself under control I didn't know what to say. "I don't understand." I forced out. "I don't know why I do it. It's ... it's comforting somehow. No, that's not true, it's more than that, it's me. I've always done it. My mother dressed me as Tinkerbell for a school play when I was four or five. I loved it, I just loved it. I danced and twirled and skipped around in my short, pink chiffon dress, white tights, and white Maryjanes. My mom had curled my hair, made up my face and painted my nails silver. I was totally in love with my nails. Of course, after I had gone on and on about how wonderful it was for a few days. Both my parents made it clear to me that it was not okay to feel like that. After that, I could never admit my feelings to anyone. Then, when I got older, I started dressing in her clothes. When she caught me, she dressed me herself to humiliate and punish me. This went on through high school. Yet I loved that too. I had a girlfriend in college who dressed me all the time. We even went out clubbing together." "Are you gay?" "N..N..No." I stammered, "I just like women's clothes ..... and women. I like women a lot, that's why I came to work for Abigail in an office full of women. Then she left and Thornton showed up." Another long silence was ended by her voice, "Get dressed and go home. I need to think." She said it softly, but with finality. I got up and left her room. "If you're not at work tomorrow, the police will be the first to know," she said it coldly, without compassion, but then added more gently, "Go on; get out of here." When I got home there was a message on my answering machine from Cynthia. It was only two words, "Wear panties." I couldn't sleep. I spent the hours after midnight trying to figure out how I had gotten myself into this fucking mess. I had never been real good at accepting responsibility for my own actions. I was much more comfortable having others make decisions for me. So I searched for someone to blame. Was it my parents? Why not? They had done nothing but harm to me. I left home emotionally scarred and psychologically screwed up. Or maybe it was Cynthia? She didn't have to do this to me. She could have been my ally against Thornton. Yes, Thornton, my mind kept coming back to Bob Thornton. He had been the bane of my existence since he first arrived in our office 18 months ago when Abigail Harrison left to have a baby. So I lay awake with Thornton plaguing my thoughts as I recalled the events that led to the awful humiliations of this evening, to the final shame of lying naked on Cynthia's floor, bawling like a little girl as my freshly trimmed, femmy little triangle of pubic hair made a joke of my erection. I had bared my soul to her and I had no idea what she would now do with all that information. I couldn't really blame Cynthia, I guess, even though it looked like she would be the instrument of my imminent destruction. I blamed Thornton for this happening at all. I now knew that I was destined to be another in Thornton's long line of victims. Only with me, Cynthia was to the instrument of destruction. He only got to set the stage, I laughed bitterly. Thornton would be really pissed if he knew he wouldn't get the chance to destroy me himself. He so savored the pleasure of doing that personally. He was a real hands-on manager. *** "Melissa! Where the hell have you been? Get over here." I should have buried my head back in my monitor, but I looked up as I always did when I heard Bob Thornton yell at one of my hapless office staff. This time it was Melissa Grant, a 28 year old single mother, who was an administrative assistant in our office. She was bright and capable, but working and taking care of her child kept her on the run. Since she had divorced her abusive husband, however, she had no choice. And lately, the child support checks had become unreliable and she was under a lot of pressure just to make ends meet. None of that kept Thornton from beating up on her. He was on her case all the time, especially if she was late or had to leave early to care for her little girl. This morning she had called to let us know that Carly was sick and the day care center wouldn't accept her. So Melissa had to enlist her mother, and the time it took to get all that straightened out made her late again. It was just her bad luck that Thornton was in the office when she arrived. I could see her shudder at the sound of his voice, but she dutifully trudged over to him, knowing what was coming. She tried to mollify him, hoping to avoid his wrath. "I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton, but Carly was sick and I had to get my mother to take care of her because the daycare center won't take sick kids." Thornton could have cared less. He had already decided to get rid of her, even though her work was excellent. There was something strange about his attitude, we already knew he didn't think much of women, but there was something about Melissa's situation that really got to him. He and I had discussed it privately just a week ago. "Who do these women think they are," he had said to me. "First they get rid of their husbands and then they expect men like us to rescue them and coddle them at work." He was so smug I wanted to puke. For him the workplace hadn't changed since 1960. "I'm getting rid of her. She's a bad influence." "But Bob," I tried to counter, "she's a good worker and her husband abused her." "I know her kind," he sneered, "I can just seeing her baiting him until he doesn't have any choice but to get physical with her. Women like that want to be roughed up. They love it." He snorted. "And then they turn on their husbands and suck them dry." What century was this guy from, I thought yet again. I had never heard such Neanderthal attitudes before I met him. Still, I tried to protect her. "But Bob, what good will getting rid of her do? She does good work and think of all the time it will take to train someone new. And then there's the unemployment compensation we'll have to pay. It's just not worth it." "I'm fed up with the bitch. If you weren't such a wimp, you would be too. I don't think I'll ever be able to make a manager out of you. You're too afraid of hurting people's feelings to put your responsibilities to the company first." What could I do? Now he'd made it my problem, just like every other time I'd tried to intervene when he was dumping on one or the other of us. Right then I knew Melissa didn't stand a chance, and now I could see Thornton acting on his threat. "I'm getting tired of your little problems, Ms. Grant. We have work to do here and you're not pulling your weight. I've got my eye on you. I know what you're up to." You arrived 20 minutes late so you'll have to stay late to make it up." "Yes sir," she sighed. At least Carly was with her mom tonight, and she wouldn't have to face the wrath of the day care center, and their extra fee, by retrieving Carly late. I tried to intervene. I hated to see people humiliated in front of the entire office just because Thornton enjoyed it. "Come on Bob, Melissa knows what she has to do." "Just shut up, Miller, this is none of your business. You've already proven you haven't got the guts to take care of real problems." He didn't even bother to turn around to look at me; he just continued to glare at Melissa. Then he said to her "Get to work." Once he had stalked out of the office, Melissa burst into tears. Some of the other girls gathered round to comfort her. I just sighed and went back to my office. Once again I had failed to protect one of my friends and had been humiliated for trying. Yes, there were lots of reasons to hate Thornton, but I hated him most of all because of the way he treated people. He sucked up to his superiors and clients, and shit down on the rest of us. We were things to be manipulated towards his greater glory, and his greater income. There was no evidence that he had any empathy for other human beings. We were simply there to be used to make him look good. He tried never to give his superiors or clients bad news, even if the bad news was the truth. He left that to people like Cynthia and me. Yes, Cynthia. How ironic it was: the woman who was poised to destroy me was on Thornton's shit list as well. For some reason she seemed to escape the worst of his wrath, but no one in the office was immune. In return for our efforts, he gave us stingy bonuses and cost-of-living raises, along with vague promises that if we kept up the good work, we too would be "getting what we deserved" at some unspecified future date. But we could both count. It wasn't hard to calculate that Bob Thornton couldn't live long enough to keep that phony pledge, even if he had sold his soul to the devil. Yeah, Cynthia and I can definitely count. We are both financial analysts. Cynthia is really good at it; she's one of the best in the firm. But I>m a wizard. I don't want to sound conceited, but everyone agrees that I am amazing with numbers. I have always excelled at math. For me, solving quadratic equations has always been as easy as adding up a restaurant check. According to my mother, I had an easier time learning calculus than learning to walk. In business school I developed the knack for using my math skills to perform magical feats with financial analyses. Spreadsheets aren't simply rows and columns of numbers to me they are musical scores. I can hear them sing. I see trends, flaws, and implications that are invisible to most other people. But more importantly, I've always been innovative in the way I organized and used numbers. I even created three new analytical approaches, which earned me large bonuses from the higher ups at North State. With tools like these, we routinely waltz around our competitors as if they were flat footed bumblers. We make even more money as a result. Yes, I loved spreadsheets. I could hear the music of the spheres in them. With all that ability, you might think that I would have progressed further by now. I certainly did. In fact, I had been progressing quite well until Thornton arrived. I then discovered what it's like when a dominant alpha male comes barging in to your troop, and bellows that he has no tolerance at all for anyone who might challenge him. He had no qualms about insulting us, or making us look bad in public, or repeatedly undermining us in front of each other at staff meetings. The consensus in the office was that he probably pushed old ladies out of his way to get to the front of the supermarket checkout line. And then he expected them to apologize to him for being in his way in the first place! So, even though the way Thornton treated me hurt, when I saw how badly he treated the people who worked for me, that hurt even more. I couldn't protect them and this just proved to me (yet again) how weak and ineffective I was. I did try for a while to point out to him how his behavior was hurting people, and how that couldn't possibly be to his benefit (figuring he would at least understand his own self-interest), but he rebuffed me easily. He just turned my argument back around on me, so that the problem was mine, not his. After awhile, I just gave up. Failing to be brave or assertive enough to do anything about Thornton's behavior was a burning symbol to me of my own inadequacies. I longed to take care of others, but in reality, I needed them to take care of me. Because I couldn't do anything directly about Thornton, I struck out at him in the only way I could, through our books. That's how Cynthia was able to trap me. Chapter II: In which our hero is hooked "Oh shit." I hadn't meant to say it out loud, I was just supposed to think it in my head. But, I was so stunned by the material laid out before me on my desk, that it just slipped out. Now I'd blown it and the wide grin that appeared on Cynthia's face the second she heard me just proved I was right. She knew she had me. My pulse began to pound in my head, bile rose up in my throat, and a feeling of dread began to overtake my entire consciousness. Sweat started to drip from my armpits and I could feel my camisole starting to stick to my skin. I just love the feel of slinky lingerie against my skin. I wear it almost every day. But when it gets wet, it's uncomfortable. It gets clingy and soggy and just plain yucky. I guess that's why most women wear cotton most of the time. It may not be as sexy, but it's sure more practical. I even wear cotton when I'm cleaning my apartment. But I never wore cotton to work. I mean the whole point was to feel sleek and sexy, and cotton just didn't do that for me. So now I was sitting at my desk with my rayon tap pants stuck to the backs of my thighs and the matching camisole clinging uncomfortably to the small of my back. And it didn't look like things were going to get any more comfortable for quite a while. Arrayed on my desk was a set of spreadsheets and canceled checks that revealed my entire scam. I had been writing out bogus invoices from phony Internet companies for products and services that were never supplied. The invoices got paid as a matter of course, and I pocketed the proceeds. Well, I didn't exactly pocket them. Instead, I was depositing them in bank accounts that I had set up to launder the money I was fraudulently "liberating" from my boss. I had set up one account for each of the women who worked in our office. Getting money for me to spend was not my goal, reducing Bob Thornton's income, and making sure our staff got their rightful bonuses was. Our company, North State financing is remarkably profitable. It manages and finances large corporate takeovers, and as a Vice President, Thornton pulled down big bucks like the other senior execs. Bob was different though. The other VPs shared their generous bonuses with their employees, keeping them quite happy and productive. In my division, however, Thornton, kept it all for himself. He ran the tightest division in the company. Our expenses were always the lowest and his bonuses among the largest. He ran big profit margins and kept the payroll small. He traveled first class, but the rest of us went steerage. And he never let anyone transfer out. The only way to leave Bob's division was to leave the company altogether, and in my office at least, many of us had been together for years. We had been like a small family and didn't want to split up. *** When I first arrived at North State, four years ago, I thought I had found the nearest thing work could be to heaven. We had a woman VP then, Abigail Harrison, and she was a peach. The whole staff loved her and we all worked very effectively under her nurturing hand. Our division was a top performer then too, and she made lots of money, sharing it cheerfully when bonus time came. I was the last person she had hired and the only one with an MBA. Based on credentials, I should have been the number two person in the division, but I quickly discovered two things. First, I was much happier being an analyst than managing an office, and, second, the other analyst, Cynthia Morrison, already had the office in the palm of her hand. Cynthia was at least as good with people as I was with numbers. So while she marveled at the way I could coax information from a balance sheet, I sat in clueless wonder as she got other people to do things for her, and for me. Cynthia was as attractive as she was effective, and she was very effective at her job. Even though she was six years older than I, we hit it off right away and worked well together. Unlike me, a whiz kid straight out of school, Cynthia had worked her way up and became a good analyst even though she "only" had a Bachelor's degree. She had bucked male dominated hierarchies at virtually every step of her life, but everyone knew that if it hadn't been for Abigail, and one or two other senior women who acted as mentors and protectors, the good old boys would never have allowed her to become a senior analyst. All the other analysts had MBAs, but not many were as good as Cynthia. Compared to Cynthia I was a babe in the woods. I had no experience in the world at all. I was not yet 17 when I entered college, and after four years at North State, I was still only 26. Really, I felt like a helpless teenager with her, but she was smart enough not to over play her obvious social superiority. In retrospect, it was easy to see how much in charge of things she really was, but because I mostly squirreled myself away with my computer, I didn't understand that at the time. My position had authority, but I didn't. Cynthia, by contrast, had earned authority because of her strong personality and her willingness to accept responsibility. I fostered friendly relations with the rest of the office and they liked me, but they would die for Cynthia. As a result, I was dependent on Cynthia to get almost everything done. And she got it all done with apparent ease. We were a good team. But Cynthia was more than a teammate. I was deeply, almost painfully, infatuated with her. She represented pretty much everything I admired in a woman. She had looks, personality, brains, and assertiveness. I didn't really know what she thought about me, although it was clear that she liked me. I remember one time when we hugged each other, warmly and without embarrassment, while we congratulated each other after a particularly good job. At that moment I felt very close to her and desperately wanted to ask her for a date. But I was too timid, and rationalized my timidity by saying that personal involvement might threaten our professional relationship. So I hesitated. The moment was lost, and I never got the courage to do it again. If I had to guess, I would say she saw me as her little brother. She took pleasure in seeing me do well, but that never translated into any kind of intimacy. I was too in awe of her as a woman, and too insecure with myself as a man to think about any other kind of relationship, even though I longed for one. After I had been there only 18 months, Abigail left to have a baby and Bob Thornton arrived. Our happy little world began to disintegrate. No one liked Bob Thornton, but everyone respected him. His success allowed him to live the high life on the company expense account, but he nailed me and his other underlings if we even had a light beer at company expense while on forced travel. "We must maintain fiscal responsibility," he gloated the last time he cut my travel reimbursement to the bone. "The shareholders demand it." Well, within a year of his arrival, I quit doing my best as I started to slip into a state of angry resentment. He expected us to be on call 24/7 and gave us nothing in return. Then, we had a particularly nasty staff meeting. He sent our youngest and emotionally most vulnerable research assistant, Heather Wilkes, home in tears when he reamed her out for making a mistake that he had made. "If you hadn't given me those figures, this wouldn't have happened," he ranted. How absurd. He asked for those figures specifically. She even tried to tell him that he needed additional data. But he accused her of making his mistake anyway. "But Bob," I objected angrily, rising to my feet, "Heather didn't force those numbers on you. She couldn't do that. None of us could." "Shut up Miller! Your opinion isn't worth the hot air that carries it out of your head. You've failed at every management responsibility I've given you. You haven't earned the right to an opinion." As I was sitting down, feeling humiliated and shamed yet again, Cynthia Morrison was rising to her feet. "Well I have," she said." This is not Heather's fault. You were the one." "Oh for God's sake," he blustered, fluttering his hands around his head, clearly frustrated by her interruption. "None of you ever want to take responsibility for anything. It's always my fault. Well, you'll learn." He waved Heather out of the room and ended the meeting a few minutes after that. Cynthia was the only who could stand up to him, the only one he didn't try to intimidate. Everyone knew that the senior women in the organization were looking out for her, and Thornton apparently decided that it wasn't worth bucking them to crush her like he crushed the rest of us. It must be nice, I thought enviously, to be protected by a guardian angel. As my co-workers and I became increasingly demoralized under Thornton's hand, my personal relationships with the rest of the staff started to deteriorate. Frankly, I was pitiful. As I became more depressed about myself and the way Thornton was treating me and the others, I began to treat them just as badly as Thornton. They certainly didn't deserve it, but I was just too immature to know how to handle all the stress Thornton created. Even at 26, I wasn't much more mature than your average high school cheerleader. So I hated my situation, I hated myself for being too cowardly to deal with it or leave it, and I hated myself even more because of the miserable way I was treating my co-workers. Like the guy who gets home from his lousy job and yells at his wife and kicks the dog, I let them have it whenever Bob treated me badly. Everyone knew what was going on and they were pissed at me as much for my cowardice as for my poor behavior. I remember one particularly bad day in late December when Thornton had us working like dogs on financial projections that just didn't need to be done then. No one would need them until well into the new year. We all figured he was doing this just to punish us for having the bad luck to work for him. Late one afternoon as we were getting ready to leave, I just lost it. "Marci! What the hell is this?" I yelled at Marci Richardson. She was a 30-something administrative assistant who always seemed a lot smarter than her job title would suggest. "This is not what I asked for. Can't anyone do anything right around here?" I was really yelling now, behaving just like Thornton would have. "I work my butt off and you can't collect a few sets of numbers so I can use them?" "Excuse me, MR. Miller," she interrupted. "This is how we always do it." "So what? MS. Richardson." I returned her insult with one of my own. We never used Ms. or Mr. around the office. "Who cares how we always do it? You need to figure out the best way to do things, not just do it any old way. What the hell do we pay you for?" I could see in her face that she was getting really upset, but I had lost control of myself. I kept after her. "Any 18 year old twit right out of high school could have done it this way." "Brad! What the hell is going on here?" It was Cynthia. She had heard me shouting and came to investigate. She didn't like what she found. "How dare you yell at someone in this office like that. You just apologize. "Apologize? You must be crazy. She takes hours to do something that could have been done in half the time and then does it wrong." "If he had told me what he wanted, maybe I would have done it differently. I'm not a mind reader you know." Now that Cynthia was here, Marci wasn't going to back down. Worse, I now knew that she was right. I hadn't told her exactly what I wanted. I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts at the time and just assumed she knew what I was thinking. But I wasn't backing down now either. Without those figures, I was in for a long night. I stayed on the attack. "Well, one of us is in for a long night and it's certainly not going to be me," I insisted. "Oh, grow up Brad," Cynthia cut in again. "This has nothing to do with you, MS. Morrison. MS. Richardson will get this job done," I turned to face her, "and then she can go home, but she better get it done." Even though I was looking right at Marci, I was talking to Cynthia. Marci's face was now a mixture of anger and fear. Before anything else could happen, I turned and walked into my office, slamming the door behind me. Two days before the end of the year, when almost every office in the building was virtually shut down, I had one of my staff working late to produce something no one needed. Stuff like this fueled a nasty downward spiral in my relationship with Cynthia. She was angry for the way I treated her and let me know it. She was even angrier for the way I treated the staff and let me know that too. For my part, I was so ashamed of the way I was behaving that I began to withdraw. I became more abrupt and thoughtless in my dealings with her and everyone else. She got even angrier, and so it continued. I was sick about the whole situation and after awhile, I turned my hatred on myself. I became ashamed of myself, and my shame paralyzed me even further. Shame..., that's anger turned inward isn't it? Too weak and immature to deal with the real sources of my anger, I started to let my shame consume me. I was ashamed of the way I let Thornton treat me, I was ashamed of the way I treated Cynthia and our staff, and I was ashamed because I didn't do anything about any of it. Once upon a time, everyone in the office found me kind, pleasant, and funny. The older women pampered me, the younger ones pursued me. Some even caught me for awhile. People would actually smile when I showed up. They asked me to do things with them. I had been a source of comfort and confidence to them because they knew I would never hurt them and that I would understand when they were down. Now, no one wanted anything to do with me. My only outlet, feeble as it was, was to embezzle money from Bob's profits - his bonus was going down because of it. That's why I did it and that's what I enjoyed most about it. I had even set up the separate accounts with the office staff in mind. There was one for each person except me. Thornton may not have been giving them bonuses, but I was. Whenever one of the staff did a particularly good job, I added some money to her account. Marcie had gotten a particularly nice contribution after our little altercation just before the new year. But even stealing Thornton's money wasn't working the way I had hoped. Sure, I liked the idea of shrinking his take home pay and helping the women in the office, but the very fact that I had to resort to such a passive form of resistance to Thornton's rule just emphasized my own weakness. *** "I knew it," Cynthia said triumphantly. "There's nothing on the desk that ties you directly to those transactions, but you admitted to them anyway." She stood back, fists on her hips, shoulders back, pride radiating from her face. I was such a jerk. She bluffed me without saying a word, and I fell for it. Now she was watching me the way a cat watches a mouse that has wandered unaware into striking distance. Her head was slightly cocked to one side and her attention was focused on me entirely. I nearly melted from the intensity of her gaze. "You're screwed, buster. Just wait till I tell Bob." "You wouldn't!" I blurted out. "He'll have the cops here so fast, you won't have time to pee." Her laughter sounded like fine crystal shattering. Shit! I can't get arrested today! I mean, I can't get arrested any day, but certainly not today. A man just doesn't go to jail wearing lingerie, and shaved all over. I'd been keeping myself hairless for quite a while, and last night, just as I did every few nights, I had shaved my legs, chest and underarms. Then I spent an hour lounging in a warm bath filled with a deliciously strawberry-scented oil. It felt just delightful, and my hairless skin was soft and smooth. I was so infatuated with how I felt that I had even shaved my pubic hair into a narrow triangle so it wouldn't show under the French-cut panties I preferred on most evenings. If I ended up in a cell tonight, I was going to be screwed all right, literally, by every guy who was in there with me. I would be the answer to their dreams. "I'll cut you in," I whispered, without looking up. "No way," she replied, without hesitating. "I'm not getting involved in this penny-ante shit. I have more ambition than that. And you're going to help me realize my goals. From now on, I own you." I finally looked up. I needed to see her face. I needed to see if she was for real. She was. Her glare never wavered, instead, it nearly knocked the wind out of me. I cast my eyes down quickly. "What do you want? I'll do anything." "That's good," she said, obviously pleased with me. "I like it when you know to keep your eyes down, like a good little submissive." "What?" I sat up straight and looked right into her face. "I don't think you want to challenge me, Bradley." Her eyes narrowed and her voice had a hard edge. "Let's see," she went on in a more teasing way. "What's the number for the 6th precinct? Doesn't matter, 911, will do." She dropped a finely manicured hand to the phone on the corner of my desk and started punching in the numbers with one glistening, elegant nail. "Hello, yes, I want to report.... I slammed my hand down on the switch, cutting off the call. "NO!!" I shouted. She erupted with an anger I had never before seen from her. "DON'T you ever say no to me again! You little bag of shit! I'm in charge here from now on. Lower your eyes and apologize." She started dialing again. "I'm sorry ... Cynthia?..." I struggled to say the words. "I need time to ... to learn." "You certainly do!" she cut me off. "Figure this out fast. You cross me and you go to prison. As little as you are (At barely 5'7" and a skinny 130, I was smaller than Bob Thornton. I think that's one of the reasons he liked having me around), you will be thanking the guys in your cell block for raping you before the first day is over." I quailed. Did she know what I was wearing or just insulting me because of my size? I could hardly defend myself in a pillow fight. She was right. I would be getting it up the ass by the first guy who decided he wanted me. And the next, and the one after him too, and on down the line. Oh shit. I might like to wear woman's clothing, but I had never wanted to be raped by some big hairy man. I'd been there, sort of, but... "Get out from behind that desk and get on your knees in front of me." I hesitated for just a moment. "Now!" I jumped up and stumbled from behind my desk. "Down, now!" I fell to my knees and dropped my eyes to her feet. She was wearing dark panty hose and black suede heels. They must have been 3 inches. Despite my humiliating position, I started to imagine how I would look in them. I seemed to spend much of my day wondering how I would look in the clothes of one woman or another. That didn't last long this time. "Repeat after me!" She barked. "You are my Mistress. I will do your bidding willingly. Your needs and pleasures are my life.... Your wish is my command." Something deep inside my groin started to tingle. I didn't know where this was going, but it was somewhere I had always wanted to explore. I started to look up with wonder. Smack! She slapped me across the face. "Don't you dare look at me without permission." I threw my eyes down so quickly I almost hurt my neck. "Say it!" She hissed. "You are my Mistress. I will do your bidding willingly. Your needs and pleasures are my life.... Your wish is my command." "YYyYyou are my Mistress. I..I will do your bidding. Your wish is my c..c...command." The room was absolutely still. My voice was barely a whisper. I thought I would throw up. As I started to retch, Cynthia pushed me over with her foot. "You're pitiful." She stalked out of the office and I got up after awhile and went to the men's room to wash out my mouth and catch my breath. Just as I got back to my desk, the intercom buzzed. "Get out here," Cynthia commanded. Her office was just down the hall from mine. It was part of what had been a much larger office that had been divided up so two people could have cramped, but private work areas. This was a measure of the inequality in the office. She was senior to me in experience, but my academic credentials, and no doubt my sex, landed me the nicer office. I used to visit Cynthia frequently because I just had to share some exciting finding with her. Her door was always open to me or anyone else in the office. But over the past year, as I had withdrawn, I rarely went out there. Lately, I had kept my door closed instead of open. Most of the staff had simply concluded that I was a stuck up, obnoxious little twerp. So as I left my office and headed for Cynthia's desk, I drew some curious stares from the administrative assistants and secretaries. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I noticed them. I felt like I was in a fish bowl. I knocked on Cynthia's door and stepped around the corner. "What took you so long?" Contempt dripped from her voice. "Get me a cup of coffee. You know how I like it don't you?" "B..Black?" I queried. "No, you idiot. We've been working together for four years and you still don't know how I like my coffee? Well, you'll learn that, and lot's of other things I like as well," she said leering at me in the strangest way. "One cream, one half packet of Equal." I turned for the coffee room to fetch Cynthia's coffee. The pot was almost empty so I started to refill it. Then I realized that I didn't really know where everything was. As I was looking through the drawers, Marci Richardson came in. "What are you doing?" She asked. Startled, I turned around and stammered, "I..I'm l'm..looking for the coffee filters. I was going to refill the pot." Her eyes widened in amazement. "You..? You're going to refill the coffeepot? You haven't touched it in.., in, I don' t know how long." And then, even more sarcastically, "What's the matter, don't you feel well?" I blushed under her scrutiny. "Well, it was almost empty so I thought..." She snorted in derision. "Third drawer on the left. Make sure you clean up the counter when you're done." A few minutes later I was on my way back to Cynthia's desk and all the secretaries stopped working and looked up. When I turned into Cynthia's cubicle they broke out in giggles. "Here you are Cynthia. I'm sorry it took so long, but I had to make a new pot." She eyed me suspiciously, tasted the coffee and turned her glare on me. "Don't you ever keep my waiting so long again. And if you ever call me Cynthia, or even refer to me that way to someone else, you'll regret it. In the office I am Ms. Morrison. I can see you have a lot to learn. Get out of here. I'll meet you in your office at the end of the day. Don't you dare leave before I get there." The rest of the day dragged by as I alternatively hated myself, got angry at Bob Thornton, and had horrible fantasies about what jail might be like. Cynthia showed up at 5:15. "Alright, your training starts tonight. Because I am your mistress you will take care of me and my apartment. Go home, shower, shave, change into a pair of black pants and a white shirt, and be at my apartment at 7:00. Here's a shopping list and my address. If you're not there on time, I'm calling the cops." My mouth was still hanging open as she left, but I really had to hurry if I was going to get to her place on time. At least I would be able to change out of my lingerie. I shuddered to think what might happen if she discovered I was a cross-dresser. I would have to be very careful to hide that from now on. Chapter III: In which our hero is subjugated So I raced home, showered, shaved (my face, just my face), changed, and raced to the market. I picked up the food and other supplies she had listed as fast as I could, and on a hunch grabbed a decent bottle of red wine. Then I remembered that Cynthia adored Pouilly Fuissee. I put the first bottle back and found the most expensive Pouilly Fuissee this market carried. It was $35.00, but it would be stupid to insult Cynthia with a gift that she might find cheap. I got to her apartment at 7:05. I rang the downstairs buzzer and waited. No answer. I rang again and got a sharp reply. "Who is it? "It's me Ms. Morrison, I'm sorry I'm late. I went as fast as I could. I brought you a present to make up for my failure. It's a bottle of your favorite wine. It's chilled. I'd love to pour you some. Please let me in?" "Hmmmph... Get your sorry ass up here." She buzzed me in and I took the small elevator to her fourth floor apartment. Her door opened as soon as I appeared in front of it. "Put that stuff in the kitchen. Pour me a glass of your pitiful wine and get back here." I was back in less than three minutes. Cynthia was sitting on her sofa still in her work clothes. I stood in front of her and offered her the wine with an expectant look on my face. "Down on your knees." I knelt carefully, making sure not to spill the wine and then lowered my eyes before I held the glass out once more. This time she took it. I stayed on my knees, eyes studying her not so clean carpet for many minutes. "You're so very clever to bring me my favorite wine, from a good vineyard too." I started to look up, but managed to stop myself. "That's right, you keep your eyes down when you are in the presence of your Mistress unless she tells you otherwise." Cynthia finished her glass of wine over the next few minutes and then handed me the glass. "Now, go get me another glass of wine and then cook my dinner. There's an apron in the kitchen. Wear it." I went into the small kitchen area to cook while she showered. Sure enough, there was a cute little white cotton apron lying on the counter. I tied it around my waist and fussed with the bow, trying to get it just right. Then I realized that if Cynthia realized what I had done, it my reveal that I was familiar with how to wear an apron. I quickly, though with some regret, pulled out my knot and retied it carelessly. I cleaned up her small dining area and set the table for two. When the preparations for dinner were finished I called her. "Miss Morrison, dinner is ready." My eyes almost fell out of my head as she entered the room and I gaped at her openly. She had changed into a stunning floor length black nightgown with matching robe. The skirt was sheer and I could easily see her panties and garter belt beneath it. The bodice was very low cut and shirred in a way that gave me glimpses of her breasts without ever leaving them fully exposed. The black high heeled mules on her feet left her lovely polished toenails to glisten in the lamp light as she walked. As soon as she entered the living room she posed with one hand on her hip and the other flat against her thigh. She eyed me imperiously, but it took a moment for me to look down. I stood frozen next the dining room table with my eyes on the floor. I heard her move towards me and then her feet entered my line of sight. "How dare you look at me!" I startled and then cringed because she was shouting right in my ear. "I'm sorry Miss Mor...." I stammered. "That's Mistress to you," she shouted right in my face again. "You may call me Miss Morrison at work, at all other times it's Mistress, or Ma'am." "Yes Mistress." "Don't interrupt. From now on you have no life. You are going to spend your time caring for me and meeting my needs. I have plans for you. I'm going to get even with you for the way you have been treating me and the other staff. And I'm going to use you to get even with that little shit Thornton as well. It will be risky for you, but that's not my problem; you're the embezzler. Now serve me dinner." "Yes Mistress." I pulled her chair out and helped her get settled at the table. I brought a fresh salad, some crusty bread I had picked up after my stop at the supermarket, and poured Pellegrino water. After I served Cynthia, she looked up at me and asked, "Why are there two place settings at this table?" "I thought..." "You don't think! Haven't you figured that out yet? Clear that other place setting and go stand by the side of the table in case I need anything while I eat." I carried my dishes and flatware into the kitchen, chastened by the way I was being treated. I stood there silently for a few moments trying to understand what was going on. She was treating my like a damn maid! That's why she had me wear an apron! God, if she learned I like women's clothes, she'd probably have me in a French maid's uniform by the weekend. Then I heard Cynthia's fork clank on her plate and realized I had better get back into the dining area. I went to my appointed station and stood there silently while she ate, apparently unaware of my existence. As I watched her eat, I couldn't keep the image of myself in a short, frilly French maid's uniform out of my mind. My imagination embellished that enticing vision until I was fully dressed in a black satin uniform with white petticoats that held the skirt far out from my legs and showed prettily at the hem. The bodice and short, puffed sleeves were trimmed in white lace and I wore a bright white apron tied with a big bow at the back and a cute little lacy cap pinned to my hair. I twitched slightly where I stood trying to feel the garters that would be holding up my sheer black stockings and I even imagined that my feet were starting to hurt as I stood in my black three inch heels waiting for my gorgeous mistress to summon me for my next task, perhaps in her bedroom. That little fantasy came to a crashing halt when Cynthia finished her salad. Because I was so focused on what was in my mind, I wasn't paying attention to her, and she let me know in no uncertain terms what she would do to me if that happened again. My face burning with embarrassment, I ran to bring the pasta I had prepared for the main course, refilled her wine and water glasses and returned to my station. Standing with my hands folded in front of me and my eyes down, I wanted to continue my enjoyable French maid fantasy, but couldn't if I was going to avoid be chewed out by Cynthia yet again. Instead, I grew angry about the way she was treating me. I felt myself start to rebel, but then got scared about what might happen if I defied her. I could just see myself on my hands and knees in a prison cell somewhere thanking the six guys who had just raped me and begging them to do it again real soon. Having forced me to be their little whore, they were now laughing as they forced me to thank them and beg them for more. I knew that would last until I got AIDS and died a slow, lonely death in the prison hospital. No, I was going to do what ever it took to stay out of prison. I had to play along with Cynthia, even if the humiliations she was forcing upon me fed the fires of shame that already burned so intensely in my heart. And despite my conscious revulsion at what was happening to me, deep off in a corner of my psyche, I was getting turned on by the humiliation, and dreaming about ways to turn this into a sexual escapade. "Clean up and then meet me in the living room. You may eat in the kitchen, but you have to be finished with everything in 30 minutes." She moved to stand up and I rushed to pull her chair back. As she stood, she turned, and gently stroked my cheek with her hand. "That's sweet." And then she slapped me for the second time. As I stumbled back, more in shock, than pain, she began to shout at me. "Why have you been such an asshole for the last year? You think a few courtesies now will get you out of this? I'm so angry with you I could tear your eyes out!" And she started to sob. Again, I was clueless. What could possibly be going on in her mind? Her moods had been so mercurial today that I was completely lost. Angry one moment and in tears the next? I wanted to comfort her, but was scared she would get even angrier. "Mistress?" I mumbled, "I don't understand." "Of course you don't, you dolt. You've never had a clue. Trying to be friends with you is like having a relationship with a two year old." She sobbed again and then said somewhat hopelessly, "Just clean the kitchen and get back in here. I have things for you to do." She spun her head away from me, turned on her gorgeous heel and strode away. My "Yes Mistress" was drowned out by the sounds of her heels hammering the floor as she stalked to her bedroom. So I cleaned the kitchen until it was spotless and hurried into the living room. Cynthia wasn't there, "Mistress?" I called out. "Get undressed, and then crawl into my bedroom," she replied. Oh shit, I thought, this time keeping my lips sealed. This was getting real weird. I was in big trouble now. I undressed slowly trying to figure out what to do. How could I explain my lack of body hair? She was sure to notice. "Hurry up you asshole," she shouted from the other room. "If you're not in here in one minute I'm calling the cops." Despite my fear, I crawled as quickly as I could towards her bedroom. I felt like a total fool, my penis and testicles flapping back and forth as I crawled. When I got inside the bedroom door I was startled to see her sitting on the edge of her bed naked except for her garter belt, stockings, and heels. She had her arms up, running her hands through her shiny black hair. Her breasts were stunning, riding high on her chest, the nipples turned slightly upwards. I looked down as quickly as I could, but she had already seen me looking at her. "Look at me." she demanded. I looked up with both fear and lust in my heart. Naked, she was just gorgeous. Her breasts weren't very large, but they were beautifully shaped and jutted out from her chest like gravity didn't exist. Her body had no spare fat on it, but was toned and slightly muscular, with a small waist and gently curving hips. As I looked down at her legs, I thought that her smoky black stockings with their lacy tops and her high black heels were just about the sexiest things I had ever seen. She peered down at me haughtily for a second and then asked, "Like what you see? Of course you do. What man wouldn't? Well, enjoy the view, because for you, it's look but don't touch." I realized instantly that she was purposely teasing me with her fabulous body. If I did something aggressive, she would be sure to call the cops. If I submitted to her, it would be a sure sign of her dominance over me. I guess she wanted me to understand that clearly. She stared at me carefully for a moment, chuckled to herself, and very carefully leaned back on the pillows she had stacked behind her. She thrust her hips over the edge of the bed. "My pussy needs some reverential attention. Start by sucking my toes, lick your way up my legs and then give me the best head you ever imagined." I groaned without thinking. "Oh, and don't you dare touch me with that thing." She poked my hard-on dismissively with the toe of her shoe. "Now, get to work." I had never sucked anyone's toes before, although I was quite experienced inside a pussy, one of my tongue's favorite places. That was another skill I had perfected in college. "Get to work, I'm getting impatient." So I bent down and carefully slipped the shoe off her right foot. I nuzzled her instep with my cheek. I felt like such a fool, pretending to adore her foot. Then I started to lick and suck around Cynthia's stockinged foot. The feel of the nylons in my mouth was really rather erotic, although they were kind of dry. My cock really started to throb as I sucked her big toe into my mouth. As I circled it with my lips, I couldn't help but notice the bright red toenails that glistened under her smoky stocking. I wondered how that color would look on me. It was a good 15 minutes before I got anywhere near the tops of her thighs and it wasn't until I put my lips on the bare skin above her right stocking that I heard a sound out of her, and then it was only a whispered gasp. I then worked fairly quickly to get near the now glistening lips of her vagina. At least she was excited. By now my mouth and tongue were aching from all the effort I had put into licking and sucking just her legs and feet. But I had a goal: to stay out of prison, and this was certainly preferable to getting fucked up the ass by some hyped up serial rapist. As I moved up her soft, sweetly smelling thighs (she had obviously perfumed herself after she showered) towards her vagina, she began to become more active, and was now squirming around as I started to stick my tongue into her pussy. After who knows how long, I finally reached her clit. As I licked it for the first time, she lifted her legs and clamped them around my head. I lost my balance and the full weight of my body forced my face into her pussy. "Hurry," she gasped, "you've teased me long enough. Bring me off!" I did, and that's how I ended up with my head trap