Colleague knows my likes and dislikes
- 3 years ago
- 38
- 0
I Look Like What free porn video
I am wearing what...
By TOXIS
What do I look like? People are staring and I can see the women stop
and then they giggle a little, almost guilty about it. What do I look
like?
Rhonda owns me and she knows it. So do I. She's my boss and a total
bitch. So perfect, never gains weight, always in perfectly fitted
clothes, so fashionable, so trendy. Hair just so, everything about her
is so designed to say that she is better then you... than me. We used
to be rivals until I found her going through my desk. The folder with
my "special" letters and e-mails and stories and, of course, those
photographs - the ones with me "dressed", were on her lap, and she
certainly understood what she had. She complimented me on how well I
could pass, what a girl I was. My career was over, if she wanted it to
be, or it could become whatever she wanted.
Rhonda somehow got control of community relations and had me
transferred from operations, now her uncontested domain. Then, she
transferred me to an admin office she had set up near her high-rise
condo. I was Blair, the newest "ComRel" representative. Fluffy, not a
promotion track, filled with social types, girly-girls, Rhonda had sent
me a message. Get used to the slow track and smile about it, be a total
girl or you're out and way down. At first, it wasn't that bad. I tried
to stay useful, even if I was just one of the girls. I could dress
normally, no fetish nasties to hide. I passed as usual and just fit in.
There were procedures to improve and budgets to tighten, but after all,
it was all Welcome Wagon nonsense and before long there was nothing
worth doing. At the same time, Rhonda started making demands. I had to
use her hairdresser and shop where she did and lose weight and then
more weight, and exercise, and lose weight, and exercise every day, a
personal trainer on Saturdays. The professional businesswoman image I
was trying to project was replaced by little fitted suits and high
heels and hats and gloves, all so damn "June Cleaver meets Rhonda the
bitch."
The Board asked Rhonda to take charge of the company's sponsorship for
the Great Valley Mall charity day. It was the usual. A small circus and
rides in the parking lot. Free popcorn in the main gallery and
"socialites" and "career women" working in the department stores. I got
a memo telling me to be at Martindale's at 8:00 a.m. When I got there,
dressed casually in tan slacks and a pale blue cashmere twin set,
Rhonda quickly shoo'd me off to the beauty salon that she had
commandeered. They had me step out of my clothes and into a salon robe,
then washed my hair out and then applied some sort of dark color rinse.
Then, a gel and my hair was pulled tightly back, combed and re-combed
until it was perfectly smooth. I couldn't see a thing. But it's all
they talked about. A clip caught my hair very securely and then a long
form was rolled into my hair from the bottom up and under. The ends
were bent down and pinned. I could only guess that they had created a
huge, towering bun at the back of my head, sticking straight up. Eewww!
That would look so dated.
It was going to be a wet set, so I would be sitting there for at least
another two hours. Meanwhile they did my face. Painstaking foundations.
Yep, three different layers of pancake, each really light but,
together, like a mask. Eyebrows shaped, shadow in multiple colors,
eyeliner, false lashes and mascara and more mascara, and lip liners and
blushers and lip cover and gloss and more mascara. All done slowly and
ever so carefully. All I could do is sit there and play the part of
dress up doll. A gleaming black long line bra and matching girdle, so
confining. I was zipped into a gleaming, black velvet dress, long
sleeved and, of course, closely fitted. Rhonda came up with a cape and
slipped it over my shoulders. I was given a clear plastic mask and told
to cover my face. Rhonda started to spray my hair. They would let it
dry under a heat lamp and then spray it again. Finally, I stood up in
my new black patent stilettos. There was a crisp white cosmetician's
coat with "Blair" embroidered in wildly florid black. And black gloves,
with a big faux diamond ring and pave bracelets. They added chandelier
earrings and what I imagined was a matching choker.
And here I am. Out in the middle of the floor. Holding a perfume bottle
and offering a spritz. I'm wearing this stuff and it's very strong and
sweet, clinging and I hate it. No one wants a spritz. Why bother, you
can smell me ten feet away. I know because Rhonda told me. Just as she
told me that they used a professional stage lacquer on my hair and it's
as hard as a helmet.
Two women just walked in. I smile and ask if they would like to try
"Giselle, an exciting new scent." They look at each other, barely
containing laughter, and shake their heads "no" as they hurry by. I
know that as soon as they think they are far enough away, they will
break into gales of giggles. Lots of ladies aren't that polite. Rhonda
told me that I will be out here until closing and then I am coming back
to her place to model some "special fashions" and start my training as
her "personal assistant." The bitch! She owns me and there's nothing I
can do about it. Worse, Rhonda says that the store loves my look and
wants me back for the Holiday season.
And will somebody let me see what I look like?
Stevie
- 10.07.2021
- 19
- 0
