A Head For Business And A Bod For Sin free porn video

A Head For Business And a Bod For Sin By Kayooger "Tracy! Where's my coffee?" Doug Watson growled. He was not a morning person. "Here it comes, Mr. Watson," purred Tracy Link, as she strode effortlessly into Doug's on her four-inch heels, her hands gracefully balancing a large mug of steaming hot java. "Someone - and I'm not naming names - used up the last of the Equal in the break room, and I know how you like your Equal, so I had to run down to the coffee shop to get more." Doug snatched the coffee from her outstretched hands and drank it as fast as his esophagus could handle something that hot. All the while, Tracy stood there patiently, know that her boss would want to bark out some orders - starting with a demand for a second cup - as soon as the caffeine kicked in. Though she was only 23 and one of the younger members of the secretarial pool, she had been Doug's secretary for nearly 18 months, and you don't work for someone for that long without figuring out how to anticipate their every move. As he drank the coffee, she admired the suit he was wearing today, a black Hugo Boss with a crisp white shirt and matching black tie, accented with a white pocket square. Though Doug was too thin and delicate looking for her tastes -- even in his early 30s, she guessed he had the same waistline he'd had since high school, and the suits had to suggest more shoulder than was actually there - she always had to give him props for his fashion sense. "Great suit today, Mr. Watson," she said, smiling broadly. She didn't want to sleep with him -- though she had, in fact, slept with a guy in HR in order to get this job -- and she knew he wasn't dumb enough to violate the company sexual harassment policy by sleeping with her. But she also knew that regular compliments from a pretty girl like herself were good for Doug's ego. And when Doug's ego was feeling healthy, he cut better deals, which put him in a better mood, which made him treat her better. (It didn't hurt come Christmas bonus time, either.) "I know it is," he said, a bit less gruffly than he would have sounded without that coffee. He shoved the mug back into her hands and gestured towards the door. "Get me a refill, and then get Lansing over at the bank on the phone for me. I'm damned if I can figure out this new phone system." "Right away, Mr. Watson," Tracy said, pivoting on her stilettos and marching out of his large corner office. She made sure to give him a good show as she left, swinging her tight rear end - covered today in a short, skintight red silk skirt that accentuated both her butt and her long legs - this way and that. As with the compliments, the chance to ogle a hot girl every day helped keep Doug in a good mood. She walked over to the break room, where she found her friend Renee Jennings, a cute blonde a few years her senior, who had shown Tracy the ropes when she first came to Whitman Technologies. Renee's boss, Larry Olmsted, was the company's in-house counsel, where Doug was its top salesman. "God, Tracy, I don't know how do it," Renee said. "What?" "I think I look pretty put together when I leave my apartment in the morning, and every morning I come here and see you looking like you stepped out of a fashion magazine." "Oh, stop fishing for compliments," Tracy said with a dismissive wave. "You know you're gorgeous." "Doug already on the second cup at 5 after 9?" "When I gave him the first cup, he wasn't even human yet. By the time he finishes this one, I figure he'll be, oh, at least semi-human." "Why do we have to put up with these macho tools?" Renee asked. "Because they went to the right schools and know all the right people, and we were too busy trying to get boys to notice us to get much out of our educational experience?" "Well, there is that," Renee sighed. "Hey, can I get a lift home tonight?" "Your car's in the shop again?" "More like the morgue," Tracy said. "My guy says it'd be cheaper for me to just scrap it and get a replacement than to try to keep it running." "Sorry, Tray, but I promised my nephew I'd come see his school play after work, and it's in the opposite direction from your place." "No problem. I took the bus in, I can take the bus home." Tracy finished mixing Doug's coffee the way he liked it, then walked back to her desk. She perched on the edge of it, carefully cradled the coffee in the crook of her arm as she picked up the phone with one hand and dialed with the other. "First Federal, Mike Lansing speaking," came the voice on the other end. "Mr. Lansing, I have Doug Watson for you," she purred and transferred the call over to Doug's desk. She walked back into his office and placed the mug down. "Lansing! Buddy!" Doug was saying, in full-on alpha dog charmer mode. "What'd you shoot yesterday? 78? 79? No! I think you're full of crap, and I'm going to have to take you out to my club to see for myself!" As Doug continued to schmooze the banker with tales of his much-coveted country club membership, he gave her an appreciative nod and a signal towards the door. She would have a few minutes of downtime while he finished the call, and was looking forward to visiting her favorite celebrity gossip website to see what Lindsay and Britney were up to over the weekend. As she sat down, she saw old man Whitman waddling up the hallway. She knew he was a leg man, and she made sure to demonstrably swivel towards him and scissor her legs together. Never hurt to give the boss's boss a show, no? "Morning, Mr. Whitman. I think that tie really suits you," she said. "Really?" he said, sounding as surprised as always at her compliments and flirting. "Yeah, it brings out the green in your eyes," she said, smiling extra broadly. "Mr. Watson's on a call. Do you want me to get him off?" "No, no, that's not necessary, Tracy. But thank you. How does Doug's schedule look for around 11 a.m. today?" She called up the computerized schedule. "Wide open for now, but I know he wanted to see the market research guys sometime today." "That can be put on hold for now," Whitman told her. "I need both of you to go over to the R&D building to help out with a special project." "What kind of project?" she asked. "And how can I help? I'm just a secretary." "They can explain it to you down there, but right now they're taking data, and it helps to get as broad a cross-section of the company as possible. This is a high priority. Make sure you both get there on time, okay? And bring umbrellas. A storm's coming." "Will do, sir," she said with a grin, wondering what this was all about. *** "How much longer is this going to take?" Doug complained. Whitman had picked a hell of a time to send him on a wild goose chase over at the geek squad's dungeon. The company was in precarious financial shape; if he couldn't get a major influx of cash from the group of venture capitalists who had been sniffing around, there was a good chance the whole shebang could go under. But rather than schmoozing the money people, his specialty, he was stuck here in the R&D building, with some cereal bowl-looking contraption strapped to his head, being asked a series of repetitive, monotonous questions about what an average work week was like for him. The only benefit to the whole thing was that it was raining something fierce, with lightning and thunder off in the distance, and Tracy had huddled close to him under the umbrella for the entire sprint over from the main building. The 18 months she had worked for him had been one long, frustrating experience. She was the hottest secretary he'd ever had - tall and leggy, with a long mane of raven hair that drove him crazy - but he knew how uptight Whitman was about sexual harassment, so it was all looking and no touching. He thought he might have some wiggle room if she were somebody else's secretary, but just his luck, she was too good at her job to throw back into the secretarial pool. Doug was an inveterate pussy-hound, but he was a top executive above all else, and he knew the value of a good assistant. He looked over at Tracy, who was in an identical soundproof booth to the one he was sitting in as some nerd's questions were piped in over an intercom system, and wondered if she was being asked the same things - What do you do when you get up in the morning? What are you doing at 10 a.m.? - and what the point of it all was. If this was some kind of lie detector test designed to catch people for goofing off on company time, he didn't have anything to worry about - the schmoozing aspect of his job meant he was supposed to spend half his time seeming to goof off, all while sucking up to the money men - but if not that, then what? As the questions turned to what happened on an average Friday, and Doug breathed a sigh of relief that this stupid ordeal was just about over, he saw a big flash of light outside the window, then saw the dorks in the control booth start running around frantically. The intercom began to crackle, and all he could hear was half words he couldn't understand. The dorks began waving frantically at him in some spastic pantomime, but as he tried to figure out what they were trying to tell him, there was another big flash of light, and that was the last thing Doug remembered for a long time. *** The first thing Tracy heard when she woke up was the voice of Renee's boss, Larry the lawyer, sounding very loud and agitated. "Before I start analyzing our liability issues, Mr. Whitman, shouldn't we figure out exactly what's happened to these two?" Larry was yelling. "Whaza?" Tracy mumbled, loudly enough to get the attention of whoever was in the room. "She's awake! Oh, thank God!" Whitman said. She opened her eyes and sat up, and realized she was lying on one of the two couches in her office. No, that wasn't right, she thought. She didn't have an office; this was Doug's office, wasn't it? And speaking of Doug, she saw him starting to rise from the other couch, looking as dazed and confused as she felt. "What happened?" he asked, a bit more softly than she would have expected, given the weird circumstances. "Yeah, what the hell happened?" she agreed. As her vision came into focus, she realized they were joined in the room by old man Whitman, Larry the lawyer, and two of the whitecoated R&D guys, whose names she couldn't remember. "There was, um..." one of the whitecoats began, before looking at the floor. "We had a, um..." said the other, also trailing off. "Spit it out!" she demanded. "Tracy, relax," said Doug, sounding oddly reasonable. "They'll tell us. Just be patient." "There was a problem with the Brain Drain when the lightning hit it," said the first whitecoat. "A problem with the what?" Tracy asked. "Why don't we start at the beginning?" suggested Whitman, clearly as uncomfortable as everyone else. "For the last year, Research & Development has been working on a device that would transfer both procedural and descriptive knowledge from one person to another." "I'm sorry, what?" asked Doug. "It's a machine that could take one person's book smarts and practical smarts and give them to another person," said Larry, who always had a gift for putting difficult concepts into plain English. "For instance, if I knew how to play the piano and you didn't, it could take that knowledge from me and give it to you. Or if you knew the words to every Beatles song and I wanted to know them instead, the Brain Drain could help me out." "But who would want to use something like that?" Tracy asked. "Why would someone want to give up useful knowledge?" "I had a friend I went to law school with," said Larry. "He graduated top of our class, worked a couple of years at a top firm, then decided he hated the law and wanted to go be a chef. So now he's got a head full of legal info he has no use for, but which could be very valuable for someone who doesn't want to have to sit through years of classes." "Or if someone's retired but still has relevant knowledge from their field," said the first whitecoat. "Or if they're dying," said the second. "So what does that have to do with us and why you were quizzing us about schedules?" asked Doug. "The tricky part of the process," said the first whitecoat, "is figuring out exactly what parts of the brain store which pieces of information. To use Larry's example, we would only want to take the legal knowledge away from his friend. If we took the cooking knowledge, too..." "...or his knowledge of basic arithmetic, or the English language, or how to tie his shoes..." added the second. "...that would be bad," concluded the first. "So as a preliminary study, we've been asking people to talk at length about their area of expertise while subjecting them to an elaborate neurological scan, to see if we can find commonalities and differences. In this case, we were taking Whitman employees and trying to make a map of where their business knowledge was stored, to see if it would be in the same place in every brain." "And unfortunately," said Whitman, "as they were using the Brain Drain for passive scanning purposes on the two of you, a lightning bolt hit the building, which led to a power surge that turned on its, um, active function." "What in the what now?" asked Tracy. "The machine went from identifying the knowledge to transferring it," said Larry. "If we understand the readings correctly, you each have each other's business knowledge." "What the fuck?" demanded Tracy, panicked. "What did you do to us?" "And what does that even mean, 'business knowledge'?" asked Doug, equally upset. "I know who you are, Larry, and you, Mr. Whitman." "That's no doubt because Ms. Link knows us too," said Whitman. "Let's try this: what did you tell George Mabius to close the distribution deal with him last year?" "I told him, I told him..." Doug was at a loss. He remembered the fact that he'd had a meeting with Mabius, but none of the details of it. "You told him he didn't want to be the asshole who refused to buy Microsoft in the early '90s because he already had plenty of IBM shares," Tracy offered, not even realizing what she was saying. "That's exactly right," said Larry. "But how did she know that?" asked Doug. "She wasn't in the room! I was!" "That's what we're trying to tell you, Doug," said Whitman. "Physically, you were in that room, but the part of you that remembers what happened now resides in Ms. Link's brain." "Whoa," said Tracy. "I'm suddenly feeling lightheaded." "That's only natural," said the first whitecoat. "Your brain has just recognized that it has all this new knowledge and is sorting through it at a very rapid pace." "Great, so she knows everything I used to know about my job and I know what?" said Doug, terrified. "How to make myself a cup of coffee?" "Quite a bit more than that, we imagine," said the second whitecoat. "The questions we were asking both of you were somewhat open-ended, which means the parts of your brains that were mapped were greater than would happen in an ideal version of the process." "Can one of these dweebs please start learning how to talk?" asked Tracy. "He's saying they're not sure exactly how much information got swapped back and forth," said Larry. "Can you swap us back?" asked Doug. "Now?" Now everyone was staring at the floor, except Doug and Tracy. "What?" he snapped. "The power surge from the lightning shorted out the machines after they finished working on the two of you," said the first whitecoat. "It's going to take us a few days, minimum, to get them back online." "A few days?" asked Doug, now getting very upset. He kept trying to think of major accomplishments in his career, and all that kept coming to mind was the image of them being entered into the electronic calendar, no doubt how Tracy remembered them. "And, um, besides," said the second whitecoat. "The process was always designed to be one-way. We don't know for certain that it, um, is reversible." "Are you shitting me?" bellowed Doug. "What the fuck did your people do to me, Mr. Whitman?" "Doug, Doug, please relax," said Whitman. "We have our top people working on the problem right now, and I promise you that restoring you both to normal is everyone's top priority." "Yes," said Larry. "Why don't the two of you go home early, get a long night's rest, and we'll attack the problem in the morning. Okay?" "Doug, I don't like this any more than you do," said Tracy. "That's easy for you to say," said Doug. "You're the one who just got a Harvard MBA over her lunch break!" "Wharton, actually," Tracy said, almost smirking as she said it. "But there's nothing we can do today, right?" She looked at the whitecoats for affirmation. "That's correct," said the first. "If anything, a long rest will alleviate some of the lightheadedness and agitation you're both feeling. Sleep on these new memories, and they'll make better sense in the morning." "Just great," said Doug, but he realized they were right. He started walking towards the exit, and Tracy followed. "Can I get a ride?" she asked. "My car died, and I suddenly don't feel like taking the bus." "Sure," said Doug. *** They sat in Doug's Aston Martin convertible, his pride and joy, which Tracy had often noted cost more than she would make in a decade at this job. The engine was running, but the car sat idling in Doug's covered VIP space. "What's the hold up there, Doug?" she asked. He looked at her with a sheepish expression and said, "I don't think I know how to drive it." "What do you mean you don't know how to drive it? I see you tearing ass out of this parking lot every night, scaring the hell out of all the secretaries walking out to their cars at the far end of the lot." "I know, but I don't know now. I mean, I don't know what I'm supposed to do with the gearshift and the clutch and all that." Suddenly, it made sense to Tracy, and yet it didn't. "Because I never learned how to drive stick shift!" she said. "But why would that be something the machine transferred?" "Beats me," Doug said. "So what do we do now?" "Chinese fire drill time," she said. "Huh?" "You get out and come around to the passenger seat, I get out and get in your seat, and I drive us." "But this is my car! My baby!" "And right now I'm the only one of us with the ability to drive your baby. So get up." Doug reluctantly opened the door and they switched places. He looked nervously at Tracy, who had a wicked smile on her face as she shifted the car into gear and peeled out of the lot. "Slow down!" he said. "You're going to get us killed!" "Oh, quit being such a woman, Doug," she said, but she listened to his pleas and slowed her pace. He was still the boss, after all. "So how are we going to work the parking situation?" she asked. "You can't drop me off, since you can't drive it, and I don't think you want me street parking a car this nice in my neighborhood. I barely felt comfortable parking my old beater there." Doug thought about it for a minute, then reached into his pocket for his money clip. He peeled off two 50 dollar bills and handed them to her. "Drop me off and park in my garage space. Then take a cab home, and another one to pick me up in the morning. We'll try to think of a more permanent solution tomorrow, okay? And you can keep any change from the cab rides." "Yeah, I'll think of it as a limo driver payment," she snickered. *** By the time Tracy had dropped Doug off at his luxury condo overlooking the waterfront, called a cab company, waited for the cab, and been driven cross-town to her own place, it was almost as late as if she had worked a full day. As she walked into her apartment, she noticed that her feet and ankles were killing her, a pain that only barely subsided after she kicked off her black stiletto pumps. While other woman often complained of the difficulty of walking in heels, that had never been a problem for her. Was this something to do with the knowledge that had been transferred, just the physical strain of the switch, or a coincidence? Whatever the reason, it felt good to plop down on the couch, prop her feet up on the coffee table, and crack open the bottle of red wine she kept next to the couch for emergencies like this night. She felt like there was a videotape that was constantly fast forwarding and rewinding itself inside her head. They weren't her memories, but things Doug had experienced - only she was seeing them as if she had been there instead. She flashed on the golf game Doug had played last Thursday, only now she was the one slicing into the woods on 10 - and, weirdest of all, she could see herself wearing Doug's golf gear. It was the same with all of these new flashbacks: she was suddenly there, but dressed as Doug and talking and acting like Doug. "Fucking wild," she said to herself. She looked around the apartment and suddenly felt embarrassed by it. She had always enjoyed living in the bohemian section of town, surrounded by musicians and artists, as she really wanted to be a painter but worked for Doug to pay the bills. She had never minded the bad neighborhood, or the cramped quarters and general dinginess of the apartment, and now all she could think was, "How did I end up living in this dump?" After a few glasses of wine, she got undressed, put on an ex-boyfriend's comfy old t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants and tried very hard to turn off the video in her head and go to sleep. *** Doug couldn't tie his necktie. He'd had no problem picking out a suit, a shirt and the rest of his clothes for the day, but when it came time to knot the necktie, he was as lost as he'd felt the night before, contemplating a manual transmission. So he sat in the middle of his cavernous living room, waiting for Tracy to show up and feeling very grateful that the slideshow of memories of him doing Tracy's job - and wearing Tracy's clothes - had slowed to a crawl by the time he woke up that morning. "What the hell did they do to me?" he asked himself for the thousandth time. The intercom beeped and he buzzed Tracy into the building. A minute later, there was a knock at the door, and Doug was greeted by a comical sight: Tracy looked like a hooker. Or a clown. Or a hooker clown. She was wearing fishnet stockings, red pumps, a black leather skirt and a beige top so tight it was obvious she didn't have a bra on underneath. And the makeup was all absurdly overdone: caked-on blue eyeshadow, ruby red lipstick that covered much of her upper lip, so much rouge that her cheeks resembled a Raggedy Ann doll, etc. "And I thought I had a problem when I couldn't do my tie," he said, cackling hysterically. "Did you get dressed and made up in the dark?" "Ha ha ha," she said, snatching the blue tie out of his hands, stepping behind him and effortlessly tying it properly around his neck. "I'm a grown-ass woman. How do I suddenly forget how to put on a bra and apply makeup?" "Maybe because so much of your job is about looking pretty?" he suggested, pleased with how the tie looked in the mirror, still annoyed that he couldn't do it himself. She punched him in the bicep. "Sexist much?" she said. "Ow!" he clutched his arm in pain. "That hurt! It's not my fault that's the sort of thing you were thinking about when they scanned your brain, is it?" "No," she acknowledged reluctantly. "But I'm guessing you know how to fix my face." He looked at her, and realized to his dismay that he did. "I hope you brought some cold cream," he said. "We're going to have to start over from scratch." *** Doug expertly redid Tracy's face so that she looked beautiful but sophisticated, then explained to her how to get on her bra, though there wasn't much to be done about the rest of outfit, short of going back to her place. An hour later - and a half hour later than either usually arrived - Tracy pulled into Doug's parking spot, and they rode the elevator up together. "Can I ask you something?" he said on the way up. "Yeah?" "Last night, were you remembering things I had done as if you had done them?" "Yes." "And what were you wearing in those flashbacks?" "Your clothes," she said grinning. "And I got a lot of looks at you in mine. Sex-y!" She began to laugh, and his face turned red. "This isn't funny!" "I know it isn't," she said, trying to control the giggles. They walked to Doug's office, and without thinking Doug sat down at Tracy's desk outside. "Um, Doug?" Tracy asked, suppressing a grin. "What?" he asked, already entering her password to log into her machine. "I think you're in my chair," she said. Doug looked up and blushed. "Right," he said, standing up and grandly gesturing for her to take a seat, which she did, glad again to not be standing on those high heels. "I'm going to my office to wait for the lab geeks to tell us what to do next." As Tracy watched Doug walk into his office, she couldn't help but notice a little wiggle in his walk that hadn't been there 24 hours earlier. *** Tracy got an e-mail saying that Mr. Whitman and the lab people wouldn't be over until 11 o'clock, and she found herself suddenly craving coffee, which she only occasionally drank under normal conditions. "Huh," she thought as she walked to the coffee room. "Maybe Doug's coffee addiction is all in his head." Renee was there, wearing a light pink sweater set that complimented her curvy little figure - and Tracy found herself admiring those many curves as Renee poured herself a cup of coffee. She apparently was staring too long, because Renee turned around and, startled, asked, "What? Bug in my teeth? Stain on my butt?" Tracy shook her head, confused by why she was so interested in her friend's appearance, and said, "No, I was just admiring your outfit. Very pretty." Renee smiled. "Thanks. I got it on sale at Marshall's, of all places." Clothes were once upon a time one of Tracy's favorite subjects, but now she didn't care so much about where Renee got these clothes than about a mental image of her taking them off - an image she couldn't make go away no matter how hard she tried. Renee could obviously tell that something was troubling Tracy, and put a hand on her bicep, which only sent a shiver of pleasure through Tracy's confused body. "You okay, Tracy?" Renee asked concerned. Tracy really needed some coffee, but she also really wanted to get out of the room before she freaked out even more. "Yeah, I'm good," she said, backing away. "But I just remembered that Doug has an important call in a few minutes and he needs me to set it up." "He still can't make the phones work?" asked Renee, shaking her head. "Go, go. We'll catch up later." Tracy tried to spin on her red pumps, but instead her ankles buckled and she barely prevented a fall by grabbing onto the countertop. "Tracy?" Renee asked again. "I'm fine, I'm fine," Tracy insisted as she hobbled away on the shoes she used to walk so well in. "See you later!" *** Doug didn't actually have a call scheduled, but one came in anyway while Tracy was gone, and he instinctively picked up the phone, pressed the right buttons, and in a soft but efficient voice said, "Doug Watson's office. May I help you?" "They have you answering your own phone now, buddy?" came a deep male voice from the other end, which Doug knew should be familiar, but which he couldn't quite place. "That how bad things are over there?" While Doug pulled up the caller ID function, then cross-referenced it with his online contact book - two things he never would have been able to do so quickly before that morning - he stalled and said, "No, no. I just sent my secretary to get me some coffee." "Oh, gotcha," said the voice. "My girl can't make coffee worth a damn, but she's so hot that I keep her around anyway." Doug had finally identified the call as coming from Jerry Monkson, and at that point he could remember that the guy was another potential investor, albeit a smaller one. He remembered complaining to Tracy (when, of course, it was the other way around) that she was spending so much time trying to get money from a guy who wasn't going to make a huge impact on the company, and she (or, rather, he) had said, "Every little bit helps." "So what can I do for you, Jerry?" Doug asked tentatively. He knew that being charming on the phone was one of his specialties, but he felt uncomfortable and out of his depth at the moment. "I know we were supposed to play 18 holes tomorrow, but I'm looking at the weather and it says we're getting rain again," Jerry said. "Any chance we could bump it up to today?" Doug knew right away that his golf skills now belonged to Tracy, and he didn't know what to say next. "Um, can you hold on just a second, Jerry?" he asked sweetly. "My, uh, girl's coming back and she's the keeper of the calendar." "Sure thing, dude," said Jerry. Doug pressed a series of buttons that put the call on hold and buried his face in his hands. He tried to remember any kind of golfing experience, and all he got was memories of playing mini-golf with a cute 19-year-old guy. 'Cute?' he wondered horrified. Then he thought about Jerry Monkson and realized that the lean, athletic man was also very attractive to him. His face felt flushed. "What the fuck?" he said, just barely resisting the urge to bang his head on the desk. "What's the matter now?" he heard Tracy say, and looked up to see her hobbling into the office, not at all the gliding sexpot he knew so well. "Um, nothing! Nothing!" he insisted, not wanting to let Tracy know what he was feeling. "But Jerry Monkson's on the phone and he wants to play golf with me today, and I don't think I know how anymore!" He could see Tracy contemplating the problem. "Well, they took everything else off our schedule for today other than that meeting with R&D, and I was... I mean, you were on the verge of closing things with Jerry, so..." She smiled. "What?" Doug asked. "Get back on the phone and ask him if he doesn't mind me coming. Tell him you want to show me how things get done around here." "Um, okay," Doug said, picking up the handset and taking Jerry off hold. He saw Tracy mouth the word "speaker" and he pressed the speaker phone button. "Hey, Jerry? Yeah, I think we can do something in the early afternoon, but would it be okay if I brought my secretary?" "That hot piece of ass?" Jerry replied quickly, as Doug looked embarrassed and Tracy rolled her eyes. "Abso-damn-lutely. Can she play?" "I'm, uh, trying to teach her," said Doug. "Sounds good to me," said Jerry. "Any chance to get a look at those legs is a good one." "See you around 1:30," Doug said, eager to get off the phone quickly and figure out their next move. He hung up, leaned back and instinctively unscissored the legs that had been crossed at the knee in a very un- masculine fashion. "This is a disaster," he said. Tracy chucked him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Doug. I got this." *** After another physical exam with Team Brain Drain, Doug and Tracy climbed into Doug's car (Tracy driving, of course) to head to his country club. They needed to arrive early so Doug could get changed, and so Tracy could explain her plan to him. "You really think this will work?" he asked her as he approached the locker room. "Trust me," she said. "You don't know Jerry like I do." "I used to," he said, ducking inside to change. Tracy stood outside in her sluttier-than-planned outfit, trying to appear cool and relaxed, when she heard a very familiar voice from behind. "So where's Watson at?" Jerry asked. Tracy turned and smiled half-heartedly. "Well, Doug wouldn't want me to tell you this, Mr. Monkson, but..." "Please, call me Jerry," he insisted, putting out his hand to shake hers. Once upon a time, Tracy was pretty sure she would have been very turned on by this guy. Now, though? Nothing. "So what doesn't he want you to tell me?" "Doug went out on the town last night and partied a little harder than he probably should have. He's got a terrible hangover. Frankly, I'm amazed he can stay upright, let alone try to hit a golf ball." Jerry smirked. "The boy's not as young as he used to be, is he?" Doug emerged clad in his tan golf clothes, and though he looked nervous at first, Tracy could also see a very odd expression on his face when he shook hands with Jerry. Was he... blushing? *** "Sonuvabitch!" Doug yelled after another ball sliced into the woods. "Not your day, is it, Doug?" asked a pleased Jerry, who was already four under par, while Doug was being massacred. "Guess not," Doug sighed, marching towards the ball. Tracy hung back with Jerry as they followed him, and she put a hand on his shoulder and asked, "Please go easy on him, Mr... I mean, Jerry. You can see he's in a lot of discomfort." Jerry beamed at her. "For you, darling? Anything." But as the game went along, and Doug was lucky if he stayed in single digits on any give hole, Jerry's cocky attitude got the better of him, and he began openly taunting Doug. "Dude, there's hungover and then there's comatose," he snarked. Tracy made eye contact with Doug and nodded slightly - this was the plan. "I just don't have it today, Jerry, you're right," Doug said. "I think I need to call in an alternate." "An alternate?" Jerry asked. "What are you talking about?" "Like I said, I've been trying to teach Tracy the finer points of the game," said Doug. "Might as well let her show what she's learned on the back 9." Jerry snickered and eyed Tracy's outfit - her red pumps in particular. "She's not exactly dressed for it." "Oh, I'll get by," said Tracy, stepping out of those shoes and handing them to Doug. "What do you think, Jerry? Can you beat a girl over 9 holes?" "Are you kidding me?" he said. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, sweetheart, but that wouldn't be a fair fight." Tracy smiled, now taking over complete control of the conversation while Doug hung back. "Then why don't we make it interesting? I outplay you over these nine holes, and you come on board as an investor like Doug's been asking you to." Jerry chuckled and looked to Doug. "You're using your secretary to close deals now, Doug?" "Hey, I'm curious to see what happens here," said Doug. "And what do I get when I win?" asked Jerry. Tracy tried to give him a flirtatious smile, but her heart wasn't really in it. "My phone number?" She reached out her hand, and Jerry eagerly shook it. "Deal." Tracy marched in her stocking feet over to Doug's golf bag, pulled out a driver and approached the tee. She could tell Jerry was checking out her ass as she placed the ball on the tee, but she didn't care, because she had a feeling how this was about to go. She reared back and with perfect form, let loose a high, arcing drive that landed on the green only a few feet away from the cup. "How was that, Jerry?" she asked with a grin. Jerry hung his head. "I'm not getting your phone number, am I?" "Probably not, no," said Doug. *** Tracy drove back to the office feeling triumphant. She had mopped the floor with Jerry, finishing 10 strokes ahead of him on the back nine. "That was fantastic, Tracy!" raved Doug. "I couldn't have played that any better myself." "Not right now, no," said Tracy. "We saw how you played on the first 9 holes." They arrived at Doug's office and Doug sat on the couch, instinctively crossing his legs in a very feminine manner as he did so. He beckoned for Tracy to sit opposite him and laughed. "What's so funny?" she asked. "Aren't girls supposed to cross their legs so they don't expose themselves to dirty men like me?" She looked down and saw that, indeed, her legs were spread far apart, affording Doug a full view. Sheepishly, she crossed her legs at the ankles and folded her hands on her knees. "Well," she said nervously, "I guess you got a free show out of it." "I guess," Doug said with some hesitation. Tracy picked up on his lack of enthusiasm and thought about what she had been going through. "Doug, can I ask you something, uh, personal?" she said. Doug threw up his hands. "At this point, you probably know more about me than I know about myself." "Do you find me attractive right now?" she asked. If Doug was surprised by the question, he didn't look it. Instead, he just stared at the floor and said, "You know you're the hottest woman in this company." "That wasn't what I asked, Doug," she said. "Do you find me attractive right at this moment?" He looked her - the long legs and elegant neck and beautiful face and thick, flowing hair - and as he finished his assessment, she could see on his face the answer he didn't want to give. "You don't, do you?" she said. "In fact, you probably don't find any women attractive right now, right?" Doug wouldn't answer. He just stared at her. "And you?" he asked. "Oh, I think I like women very much right now, Doug," she said. "It was all I could do to keep from jumping Renee's bones in the coffee room this morning." Ordinarily, Doug would have found that mental picture incredibly hot. Now? Nothing. "What the fuck did they do to us?" he moaned. "Why should getting your business knowledge make me gay?" Neither of them said anything for a while, until Tracy looked up. "Dammit, I know why," she said. "Why?" "Because I flirt like hell to do my job, and you do the same," she said. "Whether you're trying to land a female client or trying to impress a male one." "That makes a weird kind of sense," he said. "Crap." "'Crap' is right," said Tracy, shaking her head. *** Days passed. Doug and Tracy were subject to intense physical and psychological exams. They discovered that their memories were a jumble of each other's lives. Doug's entire college years, for instance, now belonged to Tracy, as she recalled fraternity hazing, keg stands and lots of sex on futons, while he in exchange had acquired her memories of her 18-22 years: mostly partying and odd jobs at the mall. ("Cheer up," Tracy told him. "I'd rather remember working at Wetzel's Pretzels with Jenny Bigelow than all these stupid Econ classes." It had not cheered him up.) The psychologist confirmed Tracy's speculation about their warped sexuality, nothing that two a different male-female partnership might not have had this happen to them, while their personal lives were so inextricably tied to their work that it was all but inevitable. So they were tested, and quizzed, and probed, and in between Tracy tried to play Cyrano De Bergerac to Doug as he arranged meetings with various investors without being in his own right mind. It was a constant struggle not to be betrayed by their new instincts: at least one prospective investor had laughed mightily at the image of Doug unscissoring his legs like Tracy, and both of them had to resist the impulse to flirt with members of the same sex. It was, in short, a tremendous pain in the ass. And the ordeal only got worse when they learned that the company was now too broke to properly repair the Brain Drain. All their credit, and all their cash reserves, were exhausted, and the only hope left was an upcoming meeting with Ross Jenner, an old college buddies of Doug's who represented a very wealthy venture capital firm. The stakes were clear: Nail the meeting and get the money to return themselves to normal. Screw it up, and risk being scrambled up forever. *** "I can't do this! I can't do this! I can't do this!" Doug repeated, curled up in a ball on one of his office couches. "Geez, Doug, grow a pair!" growled Tracy. "The fate of every man and woman who works in this company depends on you right now!" "But I don't know what I'm doing!" Doug insisted. "You've coached me and you've coached me and you've coached me and even when I remember some of the names and dates and figures you've told me, I still don't know how to put it all together and charm those guys." "Doug, we don't have a choice," said Tracy. "We've got 20 minutes to get you in there to kick some ass, or we're all sunk." He was still curled up and upset, so she decided to try a different tactic. "And if the company goes under," she reminded him, "there won't be anybody to fix the Brain Drain and we'll be stuck like this forever. Do you want to stay this way forever?" "No," he said, on the verge of tears. "But I don't know how to do it!" "Well, I can't do it!" Doug stopped sniffling for a moment and looked at her. "Yes," he said, slowly gaining confidence. "Yes, you can! That's it!" "Doug..." she cautioned. "No," he said, sitting up. "It's perfect! You know everything about the deal, everything about those guys, everything about how to work that room and close things. You have to do this. You can save the company, and you can save us both!" Tracy thought on this and began to pace around the room, wobbling as usual on her ridiculous heels. "They're going to expect you to be in there and not your secretary, but maybe I can..." Before she could complete the thought, her ankle buckled. "Sonuvabitch!" she yelled, and kicked off the offending shoe, then its match. "I can't close a deal wearing those things!" She looked down at the shoes, then at Doug, and an idea finally began to form. Doug could see the change in her expression. "What?" he asked. "Get up," she said, marching over to the couch and all but dragging Doug to his feet. "I need you to take off your clothes, now." "I'm sorry, what?" he asked, as Tracy began to cavalierly unclip his suspenders and undo his pants. "Come on, chop chop!" she said, yanking his pants down to his ankles and bending down to untie his shoes. "Tracy, this is neither the time nor the place!" he insisted, as she yanked off one shoe, then the other, then pulled his pants and socks off in one fluid motion. "Oh, calm down," she said, now forcing her way through his lame defenses to undo his tie. "You know as well as I do that I can't be interested in you right now any more than you can be interested in me. I just need your clothes. So start stripping!" She yanked off the tie and then began focusing on her own wardrobe, unzipping her skirt and pushing it down along with her black pantyhose. "What do you need my clothes for, then?" Doug asked, removing his jacket and then unbuttoning his shirt. "If I'm going to make this presentation, then I have to look and feel the part. You always close deals in a power suit and tie, and I'm going to feel a lot more confident dressed like you." By now, they were both clad in nothing but their underwear. "But you're going to look ridiculous!" Doug insisted. "First of all, Dougie, a beautiful woman in a man's suit can be incredibly sexy," she said, looking down at her body, then over at him, before reaching back to unhook her bra. "I need your underwear, too, I think." "What?" he said. "Why?" By now, Tracy had stepped out of her panties and was completely naked. A week ago, this would have been Doug's ultimate fantasy. Now, he was just confused and not the least bit aroused. "Those frilly things don't feel right," she said. "They're messing with my head." "Fine, fine," he muttered, pulling off his undershirt and stepping out of his boxer shorts. "So what are you going to say to them?" "Well," Tracy said, quickly pulling on the masculine underwear (it took some extra wiggling to get the boxers and t-shirt around her curves), "I think full transparency is the only way to go." "How do you mean?" the naked Doug asked, helping her button up the stiff white dress shirt while she wriggled into his suit pants. "They're going to wonder why your secretary is doing the presentation, why she's wearing your clothes, and why she seems to know so much about them," she said, now adjusting the suspenders on either side of her breasts. "The only way to make this work is to be honest about why." "But if you try to tell them about the Brain Drain," he said, kneeling down to slip the black dress socks and Kenneth Cole shoes over her slender feet, "they'll think you're nuts." "No they won't," she grinned, expertly tying the tie in a full Windsor knot. Doug was starting to feel cold, and somewhat embarrassed about being naked in front of this woman wearing his clothes, and as Tracy slipped on his black suit coat and pulled her hair out from under the collar, he picked up her lacy panties and put them on. She looked at him and laughed, in turn making him even more self-conscious, and he reflexively crossed his arms over his chest, as if he had breasts to conceal. "What's so funny?" he asked. "You've just given me a brilliant idea," she said, her smile getting wider and wider. "This is going to be a sales pitch these guys will never forget." *** It was Renee's job to take notes on the meeting, and to fulfill any impromptu requests (drinks, extra pens, whatever), but so far the only note she had written down was "Where the hell is Doug?" They had been sitting with Ross Jenner and his people for five minutes of awkward small talk and assurances that Doug was just running a little late today. She saw Jenner check his watch for what seemed like the 50th time, and just as she was about to offer to open up the liquor cabinet to take everyone's edge off, the double doors burst open and in came... ...Tracy -- wearing a black men's suit and tie and strutting with a purpose Renee had never seen before in her step. "Gentlemen, sorry I'm late," she said, brimming with confidence. Renee looked to her boss, Larry, but his face was frozen in a grin that looked the furthest thing from happiness. Mr. Whitman seemed at a loss for what to say. "What's the meaning of this?" asked Mr. Jenner, seriously displeased. "Where's Doug Watson?" "For all intents and purposes, he's already here," said Tracy, who looked over at Renee and winked (winked!). "Benjamin, what the hell is going on here?" Jenner asked Mr. Whitman. "I came here to see Doug, not some secretary wearing his clothes." "As I recall, Ross," said Tracy, "you never objected to a pretty co-ed wearing your shirt the morning after. I don't know that I ever saw Vicki Rice in anything but one of your shirts." "Vicki... How would you know about Vicki Rice?" "If you'll indulge me for a few minutes," Tracy said, "I'll explain how I know about Vicki, and Jennifer Strauss, and that one night you had to run naked across the quad because Pam Trilby locked you out of your dorm room for telling her that, yes, her butt looked big in those jeans." Jenner was now at a loss for words, but Whitman seemed to be finding his. "Uh, Ms. Link, I think this is not an appropriate venue in which to..." "Ben," Tracy said, striding over to his seat and putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, "you wanted a classic Doug Watson pitch, and now you're going to get one. Trust me." "Doug told you about those girls, is that it?" Jenner asked, trying to regain his composure. "And to what end?" "Doug didn't have to tell me anything," said Tracy. "because thanks to the latest and greatest invention of Whitman Technologies -- the sort of innovation that can make us all very, very rich with the kind of fine- tuning your generous support could provide -- I know everything Doug used to know about campus life, macro and micro-economics, the art of the deal, and even when to use a pitching wedge." As Renee and everyone in the room sat, almost hypnotized, Tracy circled them and told a fascinating story about her and Mr. Watson volunteering to be subjects in an experiment that swapped his business knowledge for hers. "Like I said, they're still fine-tuning, so in addition to Doug's gift for sales, I also picked up things like his memories of college life, his ability to drive stick-shift, and even" -- she straightened the lapels of her suit jacket -- "his fashion sense. As work progresses on the Brain Drain, or whatever we wind up calling it, there won't be a single bit of extraneous knowledge or ability transferred. But for now, you've got me." "And you say you both volunteered for this?" asked one of Jenner's attorneys. "Why?" "Because we believe in the product, just as we believe in the company, and Doug knew the best way - maybe the only way - to convince you of its value was to give you a practical demonstration. I'll admit, the side effects were more than we were expecting, but we're still in the early stages of beta testing." "I'm sorry, miss," said Jenner, getting his back up, "but my bullshit detector is starting to go off. You guys must be in dire straits if my old buddy Doug thought that dressing up his secretary in his clothes and pumping her with this fairy tale and a few carefully-chosen facts from our college days would be enough to get me to open the checkbook." If Jenner wasn't convinced, Renee was starting to be. Hearing this fantastical story suddenly made the events of the last few days make much more sense in her mind. Tracy and Mr. Watson had both been behaving very strangely. And here, even beyond the suit, Tracy was carrying herself exactly as she had seen Mr. Watson do dozens of times in these meetings. She strutted around like she owned the room, seemed to know the right moment to make eye contact with everyone, and there was a change to the tone of her voice that made it clear you would be smart to buy whatever she was selling. "Not to reduce one of the greatest scientific breakthroughs of our age into a game show trick, Ross," she said, her confidence not the least bit shaken, "but you've known Doug for over 15 years, been through a lot of things with him, far more than he could have possibly tutored me on. Ask me anything." "What class did we meet in?" "Trick question: it was at a pick-up football game. You accidentally elbowed Doug in the eye and felt guilty enough to buy him a beer - but not guilty enough to buy anything better than Milwaukee's Best. The only class you ever took together was a film elective where you spent the entire semester rating the actresses in the movies on a scale of most fuckable to least." There were some snickers, and some uncomfortable gasps, and Tracy shrugged, put on a shit-eating grin and said, "Pardon my French, folks. What else?" "Okay, that's all elementary stuff he would have briefed you on," said Ross, but Renee could tell he was getting involved in this game. "What do I eat every day for breakfast and why?" "Rice Krispies," she said without blinking, "because it was the one cereal your parents would never allow in the house. Too noisy for them." "That night in Jerusalem..." "It was Tel Aviv, and do you really want me to tell that story in front of all these people?" "What movie did you want to see when..." "'Midnight Run,' but the girls dragged us to see 'Beaches' instead. Worst movie ever. Keep 'em coming, Ross. I can do this all day." "That's the kind of thing Doug would say," said Jenner, starting to buy it. "Exactly!" said Tracy, spreading her arms in a "check me out" gesture. "You've been coming to these offices long enough to know how I carry myself versus how Doug does. Do you honestly think I'd be capable of pulling off some elaborate con job on you like this?" "You have a point," said Jenner, "but this still sounds so ridiculous." "I had a feeling you might say that," she said, sticking her hands in her pockets the way Renee knew Doug always did when he was about to deliver the killing blow, "and so I arranged for an additional demonstration. Oh, Doug?" The doors opened again, and Renee's jaw dropped - as did the jaws of everyone else in the room - as Doug Watson, alpha male salesman, master of the universe Doug Watson, entered the room. He had a tray of drinks in his hands, but that wasn't what made everyone gasp. Rather, it was the fact that Doug was wearing a blouse, skirt, stiletto pumps, nylons, even women's makeup. The effect should have been comical, but the way Doug glided around on those high heels, the slightest hint of backfield in motion, made it seem like the most natural thing in the world. "Mr. Whitman," he said softly, as he deposited a glass of scotch in front of the stunned CEO. "Mr. Olmsted... Mr. Hayes... " He smiled warmly when he passed Renee, and Renee could see that his makeup was impeccable. She had seen guys dress up as women on Halloween or at costume parties, and they always overdid everything, but all of his - wet lip-liner, a hint of rouge, even painted beige fingernails - seemed just right. "Mr. Jenner, I understand this is your favorite brand of Scotch," Doug said, handing a glass to his ex-classmate, who downed the drink so quickly that some of it spilled on his lapel. "Oh, let me get that for you," said Doug, who very quickly - and very flirtatiously - grabbed a napkin and began dabbing it on the stain. He then flashed a big smile at an even more flabbergasted Jenner and continued his lap around the room. Tracy put her hands in her pockets again, smiling at the effect this demonstration had. "Now, Ross, in all the years you've known Doug here, would you ever have imagined him capable of looking or acting like this?" "No," Jenner had to admit. "And do you honestly think this is something he would have agreed to do were he in his right mind - or even something he could be coached to do properly?" "No." "So," she said, looking like the cat that ate the canary, "who's ready to do some business here?" *** Hours later, after the company-saving deal had been closed, the contracts had been signed, and the shell-shocked investors had gone home to think about what they'd just seen, old man Whitman invited all of his top management - and their secretaries - to the bar across the street to celebrate. The rush to get drunk and enjoy the moment had been so great that Doug and Tracy didn't even have a chance to swap clothes again - and as Doug perched on a stool by the bar, his nylon-clad legs crossed in a very feminine manner, he had to admit that being dressed this way was the most comfortable feeling he'd had since the accident. "I still can't get over how good you look in those clothes, Mr. Watson," said Renee. "Who knew you had such great legs?" "Thanks," he said, flattered. "Or such tiny feet?" joked Tracy, in between puffs on her victory cigar. "I was amazed when your shoes fit me as snugly as they did." Doug turned his ankles this way and that to admire how well Tracy's stilettos fit, and as he did, he couldn't help but notice Larry Olmsted looking at him oddly. Was Larry... checking him out? "I propose a toast," said Mr. Whitman. "To the happiest accident that's ever taken place at this company. All due respect to your powers of persuasion, Doug, but I think if you were both in your right minds, it would have been much harder to get Ross Jenner to cough up this much cash." "Hear, hear," said Tracy, swirling around the brandy in her snifter. Doug raised his glass (he was having an apple-tini, having lost his taste for brandy along with everything else) but didn't drink. "I hope you don't intend to keep us this way, sir." "Oh, no, no, that's not what I meant at all," Whitman said, laughing. "As soon as the R&D boys have repaired the machine and recalibrated the data, you have my word you'll be back to normal." "But in the meantime," said Tracy, "we could probably run that same sales pitch on a few more investors, couldn't we?" "Oh, absolutely," said Larry. "I don't know that I've ever seen a room as spellbound as they were today after Doug came sashaying through like that." There was something in the tone of Larry's voice that made a lightbulb go off in Doug's head. Now he just had to decide what to do with the information. The celebrating continued for quite some time. Tracy demonstrated that darts and pool were among her newfound skills (Doug had closed a deal or 12 in his day through friendly bar wagers). Doug and Renee did a karaoke duet to "Man, I Feel Like a Woman" that brought the house down, and Tracy and Mr. Whitman spent some time huddled alone, no doubt debating how to divvy up the bonus on this one. (If Doug no longer remembered being in one of those conversations with Whitman, he remembered what they looked like from Tracy's point of view.) Doug supposed he should be jealous of Tracy getting all the credit - and possibly the money - that would have been his under normal circumstances, but at the moment, kudos and cash didn't matter to him as much. Finally it was last call, and Doug was just tipsy enough that he decided to go through with the plan he'd been contemplating all night. "You know, Tracy, I think we should take one night off from the whole car parking hassle. You've earned a night of luxury. Why don't you just park the car at my place and sleep there, and I'll crash at your apartment?" "Really?" she asked. "Absolutely. Go wild. As long as some remnant of the liquor cabinet remains, I don't care what you do." "But how are you going to get to my place?" "Oh, I'll catch a ride with somebody, I guess," he said. He turned to Larry, tried not to put on too flirty a smile, and said, "Larry, you don't live too far from Tracy's neighborhood. Mind giving me a lift?" "Um, yeah, sure," said Larry, surprised but not displeased. On the way out of the bar, Doug checked his makeup in the mirror - still gorgeous. *** "Tracy, you're going to kill us both!" Renee squealed. The top was down, the stereo was cranking AC/DC, and without Doug around to play nervous Nelly, Tracy was finally putting the Aston-Martin through its paces. She had taken a route to Doug's where she knew the lights would be well-synced, and as she saw a long stretch of green ahead of her, the car's engine roared as she pushed it past 60, then 70, then 80, then 90, then over 100. "Relax," she told Renee, her hands and feet expertly working the clutch and gearshift as she executed a hairpin turn in complete control. "I've been waiting all week to do this right." Renee continued to whimper and tightly grip her door handle, but Tracy was having too much fun to appease her. The wind was blowing her hair (and her necktie) all over the place, and she realized that if a cop pulled her over, she'd have a problem (she had Doug's wallet and ID on her), but her complete command over this powerful machine was starting to turn her on. "Boys and their toys," she thought. "I finally get it." A few turns later, she sailed into Doug's parking spot, jogged around to the passenger side, and gallantly opened the door for Renee, who was trying to compose herself. "Can I help you, milady?" she said, offering a suit-clad arm. Renee laughed at this, took Tracy's arm, and they went up the elevator to Doug's enormous loft apartment. "Holy shit!" said Renee, taking in the huge space. "So this is how the other half lives?" "Yup," said Tracy, reflexively loosening her tie a bit and heading towards the bar, "and at the moment, I'm the other half." As Tracy got out the cocktail shaker and began mixing up a couple of dry martinis, Renee thrust her hands up in the air and cheered. "What?" asked Tracy. "We made it!" Renee said, thrilled and more than a little tipsy. "Well, one of us did, anyway. Even if you had to have your brain scrambled to do it, you get to live it up like those bastard executives we're always jealous of." Tracy handed her a martini glass, then held up her own to toast. "Here's to being a bastard," she said with a wolfish grin, and they clinked their glasses and drank. Renee kept pacing around the loft, taking it all in, and Tracy watched her. She had been fighting her attraction to women for days, but here in this apartment, with both of them filled with liquid courage, she couldn't resist her urges anymore. She wanted Renee, badly - and she had a feeling that Renee was just drunk enough that she might not object to the idea. As Tracy was calculating the best way to pull off this maneuver, physics did the job for her. Renee stumbled on her walk, pitched forward, and sprawled onto the couch that was conveniently right in front of her. Tracy was worried she was hurt, but instead Renee began cackling with laughter. "You okay?" Tracy asked sitting down next to her. "I'm fine," said Renee, still laughing. "I just should never wear heels when I'm this drunk. My feet swell up and I get all clumsy and pained." "Well, I can take care of that," said Tracy, who swung both of Renee's legs up onto her lap, flipped off her pumps and began massaging her feet. "How's that?" "Oh God, don't stop!" Renee moaned. "That is the best feeling ever!" Tracy kept massaging her feet, and after a few minutes began working her way up Renee's calves. Renee moaned again, then began to giggle. "God, if you were really a guy, I'd think you were trying to get me into bed," she said. "And I think I might say yes." Tracy took this as a cue to move her hand up to Renee's inner thigh, then her crotch. "Who's to say I'm not?" Tracy asked, as she reached into Renee's panties and began to work. "Tracy!" Renee said. "What are you doing?" "What seems natural to me at the moment," Tracy said. "Do you want me to stop?" She took her hand out of Renee's underwear, and Renee screamed. "Get back in there, dammit!" she ordered Tracy. "Right now I don't care what gender you are - that feels too incredible!" "Yes, ma'am," said Tracy, who ripped off Renee's panties altogether and went in for a closer look. *** "Interesting place Tracy has," said Larry diplomatically. "She really wants to be a painter," said Doug, click-clacking his way on Tracy's high heels across the apartment's hardwood floors as he strategically turned on certain lamps. He made sure to sway his hips as he moved, certain that Larry was watching. "I just can't believe how well you walk in those things," said Larry. Doug could tell Larry was trying to act casual, but it wasn't working. "It's like I've been wearing them for half my life," said Doug, moving to the stereo to put on a Nina Simone CD. "Do you want to see me dance in them?" "Um, okay," said Larry, too caught up in his obvious lust to say no. The song began to play, and Doug began to gyrate slowly to the music, pivoting on the balls off his feet and letting his arms sway with the rhythms. He flashed on himself-as-Tracy taking a strip-aerobics class, and he decided to put those skills to work. He kept swaying as he moved slowly towards Larry, who was transfixed in the middle of the room. As he got closer, he dropped to the floor like a cat, then slowly worked his way up until he was eye to eye with Larry. "Doug, there's something I should tell you," Larry began to say, but before he could continue, Doug planted a very wet kiss on him, then resumed his dancing. "How did you - " a stunned but not displeased Larry asked. "I guess Tracy always made note of how you were the one guy in the office immune to her charms," Doug said, still dancing slowly in a circle around Larry. "And when I saw you checking out my legs at the bar, my brain and Tracy's brain put two and two together, and here we are." "But you're not really gay, are you?" "Right now, I have the thought patterns of a heterosexual female," said Doug. "I suppose that technically would make me transgendered instead of gay, but the short version is that I like men." To prove it, he leaned in to kiss and then blow on the side of Larry's neck. Larry moaned, then turned around and kissed Doug firmly, with tongue. "Doug," Larry said when they finally separated for air, "I have been dreaming of doing that from the day we started working together. I just never imagined of a circumstance where you'd want to do the same." Doug tried to think of a witty but sexy retort, then decided the best way to respond would be to grab Larry's necktie and escort him towards the bedroom. As they approached the bed, he turned to Larry, winked and said, "Just one thing, Larry: when I get put back to normal -" "I know, I know: mum's the word," said Larry. "That, too," s