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Descending the Ladder "'No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." -- Eleanor Roosevelt Chapter 1: I was a Senior VP in a billion dollar tech company and Janice started as my intern/assistant. Everything about her was mysterious. Like how did she get the job in the first place? I hadn't asked for an assistant. I didn't need any help, and most especially not from a 22 year old college drop-out. But one day, she just showed up with a form from HR. "You're obviously overworked," said my boss, the CEO. "Janice is the daughter of a friend of a friend. She asked to become your assistant and convinced me it was a good idea." "She specifically asked for me?" I asked, astonished. "Why?" "Hell if I know. She must be mentally unstable," he joked. * * * Janice was sharp, beautiful, clear-eyed, brilliant and *young*. She seemed to pick up on what I needed so quick it was scary. After only a month she was in complete control of my schedule, deciding what meetings and events I would attend. After two months she took over all lines of communication (phone, E-mail, IMs, etc.). My very own chief of staff. At first it was just sorting and categorization. But then she began to write the responses. At first I reviewed everything she wrote, but it was all so perfect. Freaky perfect. Several times I swore I had written an E-mail only to discover it was Janice who had done it. The truth is that I was on the edge of burnout. Ten years earlier I was the "technology wunderkind" and aggressively promoted every year. At 30, I became the youngest Senior VP in company history and put in charge of over 100 different product lines. It was awesome at first, but after two years of 90-hour weeks, I was a wreck. And so Janice was a godsend. I devoted more time to strategy, technology direction, and outreach. The CEO was delighted. "Paul," Janice said, sliding a form in front of me. Janice had recently switched from the more formal 'Mr. Gregson' to just 'Paul'. Not being that formal, I hadn't minded. "My internship is almost over," she said, "and I need you to sign this so I can become a full-time employee. You do want me here full time, don't you?" I looked into her round, hazel eyes. She seemed honestly worried that I might not sign it. "Of course I do!" I quickly assured her, signing the form with a flourish. "Thank you Paul!" Janice gushed. "I will do everything in my power to help you achieve the level success you most desire." Strange choice of words, I now realize. * * * The next day, the first pair of panties showed up on my desk. I walked in that morning, and there they were. They were dark teal, shiny satin, and with delicate lace trim. 'For you to wear,' said a note pinned to the front. Embarrassed, I quickly thrust them into my laptop bag. All that day, I could feel them, there in the bag, as if they were a physical presence. "Paul! Snap out of it!" said the CEO, snapping his fingers. "Sorry," I mumbled, getting my mind back into the conversation. It was happening again, I fretted. A long time ago, I had flirted with cross dressing. I had bought some lingerie and had enjoyed wearing panties, once even to the office. But it quickly became apparent that it was interfering with my work. I was constantly distracted by the feelings of my silky smooth underwear. My focus began to suffer. I spent time on non-work activities (I'm sure you know what I mean). It was like a siren call. And so, I quit. Cold turkey. And now, here they were again, tempting me. Of course I knew that it was Janice who had placed them there. But how had she known? It was impossible. My dalliance with female undergarments had been over a decade earlier. I had been 120% focused on my career and my business ever since. How had she known? * * * "Why don't you let me handle the launch of the new product," Janice suggested. "What are you talking about?" I asked, shocked at her cheek but impressed with her confidence. Janice was growing by leaps and bounds in the job. Not only in self- assurance, but also in stature, both physically (she seemed taller - was she wearing heels?) and in her dealings with others. "You've been so busy recently," she explained. "All of these speaking engagements, writing inspirational blogs for the staff, those endless executive meetings." "But the new product - it's massive!" I said. "There's thousands of details which need to be worked out. And the development team is not talking to product marketing, and half the QA department just quit. It's a disaster. I can't give that to you." "Of course you can. Let me take a crack at it. Here, this is your itinerary to the conference in London. You'll be giving the keynote, of course." "But..." "I can handle it," she said, soothingly. "I've already scheduled a 'come to Jesus' meeting with all of the leads. They all want it to work, they just need to be shown the way." "Really? You think you can do that?" "Absolutely." I fretted. This was my job. Coordinating the development teams was what I was hired to do. But things had gotten so off track recently, and I just didn't have the energy to dive in and fix it. "Are you wearing your panties?" she asked. "Am I...?" I blushed furiously, looking down at the ground like an errant child. "Yes," I admitted. How had she known? It had been a month since those panties had appeared on my desk. An entire month of being obsessed with them and *not* wearing them. Finally, I had broken down and put them on this morning, and oh.... It brought back old feelings and past experiments in a rush. "I have another pair for you," Janice said, with a small smile. The implication was clear. Give her this new responsibility, and she would give me another pair of panties. 'Just buy your own,' I thought to myself. 'Do it on-line and buy a whole boatload and send them straight to home.' But I knew it wouldn't be the same. Not in any way the same as wearing a pair which had been given to me by my assistant. "Okay, why not?" I said, finally. "See what you can do." "You won't regret it," she said. The confidence in her voice gave me pause. "But since I'm doing something for you, there's something else I would like you to do for me." "Sure, of course." "Your hair." "My hair?" "Yes. Don't you think it would look better if it were longer?" "What? Why?" I loved my hair. It was perfect 'executive' hair. I had it cut every week. "You're the visionary behind this company. Everyone knows that. And everyone knows that visionaries have long hair." "I don't believe that's really true..." "Regardless, I want you to have long hair. Would you do that for me?" I looked her in the eyes and saw nothing but a completely loyal, completely devoted assistant. "Okay," I said, giving in. "If you think it's best." "I do," she said. "And...." Janice reached into her briefcase and pulled out an envelope. "Here," she said, sliding it across the table to me. It was bulgy in a way which made it clear that it contained something other than papers. "Thanks," I mumbled, reaching for it. "But..." She held on to it. "Yes?" I looked up. "I want you to wear these while giving that keynote speech," she said, with a wicked smile, "in London." Her command took my breath away. * * * True to her word, Janice brought the team leads together ("at your direction, of course!") and somehow muscled everyone onto the same page. The product would be late, but only by a month, and the demos looked amazing. "I need you to make me a manager," Janice said, placing the 'position change' form in front of me. "A manager? But you're only 25!" "24, actually. Don't you think I've been doing the work of a manager?" "Of course you have, it's just that--" "If I'm doing the work of a manager, shouldn't I have the title?" I fretted. No one in the company had ever been promoted from assistant to manager. And not in just eighteen months. "If I'm a manager, I can help you out even more," she argued. "I will have the position and authority to take on more responsibility." "Okay, I guess that makes sense." I signed the form. "Thank you, Paul. By the way, the local high school asked me to talk about technology careers with their students this afternoon. Would you take my place and talk to them for me?" I frowned. Talking to high school students on career day? That was lower than my usual engagement. Much lower. "It would be a huge favor," she continued. "I don't know, Janice, I'd have to skip the executive strategy meeting." "Do you need a further incentive?" she asked, placing a new envelope on the table. "Janice..." I said, hyperventilating a little. "I really don't think this is a good idea. I--" "Paul," she said, looking at me intently. "This is not what you think it is." "It's not?" I asked, feeling goose bumps. "No," she responded. I could do nothing but breathe. "And you see," she continued, "I would talk to the high school students myself, but unfortunately, I have to go to a doctor's appointment." "Is everything okay?" I asked, worried. Janice said nothing for a few seconds. That was the moment when I realized that we had crossed paths. The moment when I realized that I was more dependent on her than she was on me. "Yes," she said, finally. "Everything is fine." The look in her eyes told me that she knew what I was thinking. That she understood. Suddenly the tone of her voice changed. "I just need you to do this for me," she said. "I need you to go to the local high school and fulfill the promise I made. It's important, don't you agree? To encourage young high school students to take up a career in Tech?" "Of course it is," I said. "So then you'll do it?" she asked. "You'll take my place?" "Yes," I said, "I'll take your place." It was a tacit admission of my lowered status. "Thank you," she said. "I'm glad you're able to *assist me* in this matter." Uh oh. "And I want you to wear this," she added, indicating the envelope. "You will, won't you? Since I went to all this extra effort to get it for you?" "I... ah..." I looked at the envelope. "Oh, don't worry. You can dress casually when you talk to the high- schoolers. No one will know." "Okay," I said, hesitantly. "Very good, Paul. Thank you." Janice walked out of the office. I peeked into the envelope. "Oh my god," my mind blitzed. It was a camisole. * * * The launch for the new product was a huge success. "And the rising young star who made it possible!" the CEO exulted, as he introduced Janice at the company-wide launch party to raucous approval. Janice strode onto the stage, looking strong and powerful. She took her time to thank everyone on the team. "And, of course, my mentor, Paul Gregson," she finished up. "Whose vision and firm hand on the tiller has made this ship steer true." It almost made up for my boss having slighted me. * * * We were alone in my office. The CEO had just left. He had accused me of frittering away my time on useless conference appearances, blog entries, and miscellaneous. He had also accused me of sitting on my laurels while Janice had done all of the real work. It was all true. My ears were burning I was so humiliated. But Janice had defended me, forcefully, saying that I was more in charge than ever, and that she was merely the 'right hand woman', doing my bidding. Further, she stated, the public speaking arrangements were critical to 'building common mind share', both within the company and throughout the industry. Whatever the hell that means. "Why did you say all those things about me?" I asked her, bewildered. "It's not time," Janice said. "I'm too young. No one will take me seriously. The company needs for you to be in charge. At least for now." "Am I only to be a figurehead?" "Not just a figurehead," Janice said, looking me straight in the eye. "*My* figurehead." So there it was. "Poor Paul," she continued. "Is it all that bad? After all, aren't your days more relaxed, not having to make all of those difficult, complex decisions? Isn't it just easier to do what I tell you to do?" I looked away. This was not how a senior VP was supposed to behave. I should have fired her, right then and there... but I couldn't. "I asked you a question, Paul," she said, her voice harder. "Isn't it just easier to do what I tell you to do?" "Yes," I said, feeling a stone in my stomach. "Yes, it is easier." "And isn't that what you've been doing recently? Doing what I tell you to do? Going to the conferences I've set up for you? Writing the blogs and doing the technology research I've suggested that you do?" "I..." I thought back over the last few months, and was shocked to discover she was absolutely correct. It hadn't been overt - it had just seemed to happen. At some point, after controlling my schedule and my communications, she had started to prepare task lists for me to do - just another one of her helpful services. And after some time, I had just started doing them. "Yes," I admitted. "What's the name of someone who works at the direction of another? Is there a name in business for that relationship?" I paused for a long time. "An employee," I whispered. "That's a good name," she said, "but there's another one I like more." "A... a subordinate?" I asked. "There you go," she smiled. "But wait, in the corporate hierarchy, who is reporting to who?" "You're reporting to me," I said. "But is that right? I mean, if you're taking direction from me, shouldn't you be reporting to me? Shouldn't I be the boss, and you be a member of *my* staff?" I took some deep breaths. "Yes," I said, feeling whipped. "Yes, what?" she asked, mercilessly. "Yes, I... I should be working for you." "Under me." I gulped "Yes, I should be working under you." "Well then, let's make that happen," Janice said. Chapter 2: Her plan was brilliant. First, I became an employee of a brand-new consultancy company that was created and wholly owned by Janice. Second, I was hired by her as an "at-will employee", this also meant she could fire me for any reason whatsoever. I was now fully at her mercy. Janice's consultancy then hired me out to my old company, as a contractor. I told the CEO I wanted more freedom over my time and schedule. This new arrangement meant that my former salary would be paid by invoice directly to the consultancy - in other words, directly to Janice, who would then use the funds to pay my salary. Which meant she was now in control of my entire financial wellbeing. As I signed the contracts, I saw clearly how she was making me more and more dependent on her good will. Why was I doing this? Why did I just sign myself into her hands? I was now completely at her mercy. For the moment I kept my title as Senior VP. * * * "Paul, please come to my office. It's time for your performance review," Janice said over the phone. I walked over to her office. Since I became a contractor, Janice had been promoted to Director, with a correspondingly larger office. "My performance review?" I asked as I entered her office. I had not had a real performance review in years. "You are my employee, are you not?" Janice asked. "I've decided to do periodic performance reviews with all my employees, to make sure that everyone knows exactly where they stand and what they can do to improve." Janice and I reviewed my work for the previous week. "A few blog entries, a conference keynote speech," she said. "It seems your performance is pretty dismal, wouldn't you agree, Paul?" "Yes, Janice." "I think you should call me Ms. Dalton from now on." "You can't be serious." "Is that any way to talk to your supervisor?" I didn't answer. "*Paul*," she said, emphasizing the use of my first name. "I demand respect, loyalty, and devotion from my *subordinates*, do you understand?" I was frozen in shame. No one had dared talk to me that way. Not ever. And now here was my former intern, dressing me down. "Yes, Ms. Dalton," I said, quietly. "I'm sorry, Paul, I didn't quite hear that. I would like you to speak clearly and with enthusiasm. After all, you have a privileged position as my employee." "Yes, Ms. Dalton," I said, louder this time, trying to smile and sit up straight. "Very good. Now, Paul, I think it's time we put your current abilities to better use. You have contacts and you are a good communicator. I need you to use those skills to help position me to take over your job title. From now on, your blog entries will make clear that all ideas originate from me. You will turn over your contact list, and you will introduce me to anyone I ask, and when you do, you will always describe me as 'brilliant' and 'powerful'. Do you understand?" "Yes, Ms. Dalton." "And now, Paul, I'm wondering if you can think of any other way in which you can help?" "Other ways?" I asked, dumbfounded. "Yes, other ways. *Financial* ways. I'm not sure you realize how difficult it is for me, trying to create the right impression among the other executives on a junior manager's salary." "Oh... I see," I said, finally getting the hint. "If you need some financial help, I suppose I could... I mean, you could... take, uh... ten percent? From my salary?" "Oh Paul, that is very generous of you," said Ms. Dalton. "But don't you think you could be even more generous?" "Uh... 20 percent?" I squeaked. "Ms. Dalton?" "Almost there, Paul. Just a bit more." "25 percent? Ms. Dalton? You could take 25 percent of my salary if you need it." "Why thank you, Paul. That is very generous of you to take a pay cut so that the money might help with my career. I will take your suggestion." Janice pulled out some papers. "Here's your acknowledgment of the pay cut. Sign here." I looked at the papers. The number 25% was already filled out. "Ms. Dalton, I don't know--" "And one more thing, Paul," Janice said smoothly. "I have a box for you." She pulled out a box from behind the desk and set it in front of me. "A box... for you," she said. "But only if you sign." I looked at the box and then looked back at the papers. 'What the fuck are you doing?' a voice inside of me argued. 'You can't possibly be thinking of sacrificing 25% of your salary for a box?' I looked at the box, then back at the papers. I picked up the pen and signed. "That's my girl," Janice said, sliding the box over to me. I took the box back to my office. It contained two dozen pairs of panties with matching bras (!). As I sifted through the contents I found a note. "Every day, from now on," it said. * * * It didn't long for Janice's name to get out there. She started to become the magnet for new business and new activity within the company. She mined my contact list ruthlessly, and was soon pulling 5 times the business I had ever managed. Just before the end of the fiscal year, Janice called me into her office for another performance review. Now what? I wondered, feeling twitchy. Things had been quiet recently. Too quiet. No calls from the CEO or other senior VPs all week. It was a very bad sign. When I got to her office, I saw expensive new luggage in the corner. "Going on a trip, Ms. Dalton?" I asked. "Have a seat, Paul," Janice said, ignoring my question. "Could you describe what you do all day?" "Well, I mostly spend my time researching technology trends and business initiatives and writing up blog entries and other office communications." "I see. And who tells you what to research?" "You do, Ms. Dalton." "And who reviews what you've written before it's published?" "You do, Ms. Dalton." "So you would say that you are doing your research and your writing at my direction, and to help me do my job?" Uh oh. "Yes, Ms. Dalton, I would say that's accurate," I said, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. "I find your work to be quite helpful, you know," she continued. "I know that they are small tasks, but your assistance with my work allows me to do a better job. Now Paul, tell me. What is an appropriate job title for someone -- someone like you -- who assists their superior with small menial tasks like you do for me?" I looked down at my feet and swallowed a couple of times, my stomach churning. "Assistant, Ms. Dalton," I said. Unfortunately, it was true. Janice had gradually reduced the scope of my job so far that I did nothing on my own initiative any more. It could not be denied. I was her assistant. "But what is your job title, Paul?" "Senior VP of Engineering, Ms. Dalton." "But is that the work you are doing?" "No... ma'am." Ma'am?? Where did that come from? "Can you think of a better title, one that is more in line with the work that you are actually doing?" "I...uh... yes, Ms. Dalton." "And what would that title be?" "Executive Assistant," I said, with a sinking feeling. "That's right. Now let me just double check - you agree that 'Executive Assistant' is a more appropriate job title for the work that you are doing?" I had to put my hands on to the table to stop my trembling. "Yes, Ms. Dalton." "Thank you, Paul. I can feel that this is difficult for you, but I think we both understand that this is where you belong. Isn't that correct? That being an Executive Assistant is your proper place, considering the work that you are doing. Don't you agree?" I tried, but I couldn't answer. "Paul?" Janice prompted. "I asked if you agreed to officially change your job to Executive Assistant. Do you agree?" "Yes, Ms. Dalton," I said finally. "From now on, don't you agree? That this should be a permanent change in your status, to Executive Assistant?" "I..." I tried, but I couldn't say it. Janice reached over to her desk, picked up a piece of paper and placed it in front of me. ** Termination of Employment ** It said. Mr. Gregson, This letter is to notify you that your employment with our company is terminated as of today. The reason for termination is performance below that expected of someone in your position. It then went on to list 5 specific examples of functions and responsibilities I had failed to perform. It was signed by the CEO and the Senior VP of Human Relations. With that letter, a 12 year career of steadily rising to the top officially came to an end. Since I was a contractor, there would be no severance and no golden parachute. All of the products and the company I had help to build - that was all now Ms. Dalton's responsibility. There was no place for me to sign. "But now what?" I asked, looking at Ms. Dalton, my eyes becoming misty. "What will become of me?" "Remember that you are still my employee," said Ms. Dalton. "An employee of Dalton Consultancies. Here:" ** Change of Position ** From: Senior Consultant, Salary: $784,242 / year To: Executive Assistant, Salary: $47,500 / year "Your new pay is commensurate with the new position," Ms. Dalton explained. "In fact, it is the median salary for this title based on recent surveys. That means that you will be paid as an *average* Executive Assistant. Right in the middle." "Average..." I said, my self-esteem crumbling around me. "I'm just average," I mumbled to myself, shocked. "That's right, my dear. An average Executive Assistant." I looked at the bottom. It was signed by Ms. Dalton. Again there was no place for me to sign. "These are for your records," Ms. Dalton said, gathering up the papers in an envelope. "But before you go, I'd like your help with something else." "My help?" I began to tremble. "There's more?" "Yes, Paul. Could you please take your keys out and place them on the table?" "Why?" "Here, I'll do the same," Ms. Dalton opened up her purse and extracted her key ring with about a half dozen keys and placed it on the table. After another moment's hesitation I did the same. "Now where do you live?" she asked. "Live?" "Yes. What is your address?" "Upper east side," I said, feeling cold pricklies all over. "5th avenue, between 75th and 76th. It has a view of Central Park." "Which is the key to your apartment?" Oh god. "Uh... this one." "Could you take it off the key ring? Here, I'll do the same with mine." Each of us extracted our apartment key. Ms. Denise held them up. "Now this key," she held up my key in her left hand, "is the key for an apartment on 5th avenue. An apartment that is appropriate for a senior executive at a multi-billion dollar firm. And this key," she held up the key in her right hand, "is the key to the apartment for an executive assistant." I looked at both of the keys. They looked almost exactly the same. "A female executive assistant," she added. A shiver ran through me. "What is your job title now, Paul?" Ms. Dalton asked. I looked over at the folder holding my termination letter and my position change notification. "Executive Assistant," I said. "So which key do you think should be your key? Which key is the right key for an Executive Assistant? Which is the key that opens up the apartment where you should live? The apartment where you belong?" "Please, Janice..." "Ms. Dalton." "Please, Ms. Dalton," I said, meekly. "Please... I don't want to answer." "It's just a simple question, Paul. Which key opens the apartment of an Executive Assistant?" Feeling my eyes becoming moist, I slowly pointed to the key to Ms. Dalton's apartment. "And what is your job title now?" "Executive Assistant, Ms. Dalton," I whispered. "Louder, Paul." "Executive Assistant, Ms. Dalton," I repeated. "Hold out your hand, Paul." I held out my hand. She placed the key to her apartment in the palm of my hand. "Paul, this is the key to an apartment that an Executive Assistant such as you would be proud to have. It's a small one bedroom apartment, but that's all you can afford on an Executive Assistant's salary, isn't it? And you love it because it's all yours and you can decorate it in any way that you want. Everything in this apartment is now yours. Of course it's in New Jersey, in Paterson. Yes, it's a long commute, but that's understandable. After all, Executive Assistants on their own don't live in Manhattan, do they?" "No, they don't," I said, tears welling over and running down my face. "No they don't," agreed Ms. Dalton. She put the other key, the key to my 5th avenue apartment on her own key ring and put the key ring in her purse. Chapter 3: On the train, I looked at the apartment key in my hand. Now my key. To my apartment. Why hadn't I objected? Why had I simply accepted it? I couldn't understand it. Janice seemed to know exactly what to say and exactly how to say it to convince me of anything. And now here I was, demoted from Senior VP to Executive Assistant, and now from an apartment on 5th avenue to an apartment in Paterson, New Jersey. Her logic was unassailable. I had not been doing the work of a Senior VP for over a year, not really. Janice had taken over my entire job. I really was just an assistant. Her executive assistant. And now here I was, heading to an apartment appropriate for an executive assistant... in New Jersey. It took me almost an hour and a half, three transfers, and a 10 minute walk to get there. The place was a mess. Stacks of take-out boxes and piles of papers where everywhere. I don't think the place had been cleaned in months. The closet door was hanging open with Jackets off their hangers and sweaters on the floor. I recognized a suede jacket Janice had worn a year earlier. Piles of clothing catalogs on the coffee table were spilling onto the floor. Tall stacks of clothing were neatly folded in the corner, all old and less sophisticated clothes that she no longer wore. I gingerly walked into the bedroom. It looked like the inside of a dumpster. It was clear that Janice had worked over the place before leaving. Drawers were hanging open. Clothes and knick-knacks were strewn in piles around the room. She had taken what she wanted and discarded the rest on the floor. The place smelled of her, her perfume, her skin, her shampoo, her underarm deodorant, the smells of makeup, clothes, nail polish, shoes, talc, and sweat. I cleared a spot on the bed, pushing aside a pile of used, stained T- shirts and a second pile of soiled bras and lay down. I was buried in her old, smelly clothes. The sheets hadn't been washed in months and reeked of her body smell. I slowly pulled up the covers and pressed my face into her pillow, the pillow that her head had rested on just last night. It was covered with her makeup and strands of her long brunette hair. I cried myself to sleep. * * * For days, I was too depressed to do anything but lay there and cocoon. When I was hungry I ate discarded leftovers from the refrigerator or old frozen dinners from the freezer. Otherwise, I just lay in bed, staring at nothing. But then, one morning a lock of my hair fell in my eyes. It was not the hair falling in my eyes that was interesting, that had been happening for a long time. It had been growing longer and longer ever since Janice had told me not to cut it, and now it was past my shoulders. No, what was interesting was my reaction. I reached out for a hair scrunchy and pulled my hair back into a pony tail, just like I had seen Janice do a hundred times when she had been my assistant. "What the hell..." I muttered, stunned. It was such a simple motion: gather up your hair and then bind it up with an elastic band, but it was such a clearly *feminine* motion. Where had it come from? Something had changed inside me. After a few more minutes I got out of bed. The bathroom was full of Janice's old toiletries. All of this was now mine, I realized. I stepped into the shower and turned it on. Shit, cold! Finally the water turned tepid. I picked a used bar of soap from the holder. Janice had washed with this soap. I held it up to my nose, it was floral scented. This was now my brand of soap. Once I had scrubbed myself clean, I washed my hair with her shampoo and conditioner. I had used dandruff shampoo my entire life, but now that I was an Executive Assistant, taking Janice's place in life, I guess I would have to switch to her salon brand. I picked a razor. It was a pink lady's razor. This is the razor which Janice had used to shave her legs and underarms, I realized. I looked down at my wet, hairy legs. They looked out of place. Wrong. Gross. And so, slowly and carefully at first, I used it to shave my legs and then my under-arms and then my chest and my face as well. Shower done, I dried myself off with a towel (dirty, smelling of Janice) and brushed my hair with an old hairbrush. Oh god, her toothbrush. Used, with bristles bent wide. Was I really going to do this? I put some toothpaste on her used toothbrush and used it to brush my own teeth. * * * Back in the bedroom... now what? I couldn't wear my male clothes, they were disgusting. I had no other clothes of my own. Everything else in the apartment used to belong to Janice. Everything here had been worn by her. I rummaged through the drawers and found some fresh underwear. I put on a pair of her panties. Simple cotton, with a lace hem. The sort of panties that a female Executive Assistant would wear every day without a second thought. I fingered the bra. Was I really going to do this? Janice had said it: 'everything in the apartment is now yours.' Therefore, this was *my* bra. My bra. I owned a bra. What would a female Executive Assistant do with a bra? I asked myself. She would put it on. Slowly I slipped it on and fastened it in back. It felt nice. It felt... comfortable. It felt.... _appropriate_. Janice had worn this, I thought to myself. When she was an assistant, she had worn this. This had held her breasts and had enclosed her body. And now I was wearing it. I found a casual, cream colored tank top. It was a snug fit and the bra straps were showing, but it felt right. None of the pants fit. But I did find a knee-length, ruffled peasant skirt that seemed to go well. I seemed to remember Janice wearing it early on. Then her dressing table caught my eye. It was full of used makeup, Janice's makeup - now mine. Slowly, I sat down and surveyed what it contained. On the table was a Cosmopolitan magazine opened to an article entitled "practical makeup routine." Had Janice actually studied this? Did she leave it here for me to follow? I followed the instructions to create a "fresh" look. I rubbed the pad in the foundation powder and paused. This pad was last rubbed against Janice's cheek. And now here I was, using it on mine. I continued with the makeup, following the instructions from the magazine as best I could. Foundation, blush, eye liner, eye shadow, lip liner, and lipstick. I paused again when I rotated the lipstick out of the tube. The tip had been worn down into a curved shape from repeated use. 'The shape of her lip,' I realized. I painted my lips in the same way Janice had done dozens of times with this same lipstick, feeling the curve of her lips on my own, as if we were connected, somehow, through this tube of lipstick, lip to lip. Finished, I checked myself out in the mirror. Passable, I thought, and not overdone. Not great, but not horrible either. Now what? I saw Janice's old laptop on a chair next to the bed. It had a light purple cover with flower stickers on it. I booted it up. It felt weird using someone else's laptop. The keys were too loose and worn. The color scheme was custom and the home screen background was an inspiration message from Eleanor Roosevelt: "I think that somehow, we learn who we really are and then live with that decision." It connected automatically to her wireless. *Ping* A skype video request popped up. "There's my girl!" Janice said, seeing me. "It looks like you've settled into your new role. Is that makeup I see?" "Yes," I admitted. "Very good. It's important for an Executive Assistant to look as if she cares for her appearance. I shall want you to continue to work on your appearance, do you understand?" "Yes, Ms. Dalton," I agreed, humbly, all fight gone. "How do you like your new apartment?" she asked. "It's... It's okay." "Is that all? Of course I know it's small, and far from the city, and something of a dump. But after all, it is *all yours* - your very own apartment, just right for an Executive Assistant starting out on her own. Don't you agree?" "Yes, Ms. Dalton. It's very nice." I paused. "I love it," I added, finally. "I knew you would. Isn't it perfect for you?" "Yes, Ms. Dalton. It's perfect," I said, feeling trapped. "Now I'm sending you a file through skype with some research tasks I need. Can you manage them? They are exactly the sorts of tasks that a bright-eyed young female assistant should be able to handle." "I... I'll do my best, Ms. Dalton." "That's the proper attitude," Ms. Dalton said, with approval. "Now we need to give you a new name. I want you to think of just the perfect sort of new name for an eager young, *female* assistant such as yourself, and then tell me." I thought for a while. Something which started with 'P'? I tried out a few names. Then something clicked. "Pamela," I said. "Excellent," Janice said. "A very appropriate name." * * * That afternoon a bulging folder stuffed with papers arrived by courier. "I'm supposed to wait until you sign everything," he said, looking askance at the dirty dishes, clothes, and empty take-out containers strewn everywhere. "Okay..." I said, feeling nervous about his presence, clearing a space on the small kitchen table. They were all legal documents. As I worked my way through them, the words "power of attorney" came up a frighteningly large number of times. With each signature, I felt a portion of my financial life slip into Ms. Dalton's control. With one signature I made her the executor of my estate. A second signature gave her power of attorney over my bank accounts - access to all of the funds I had built up over the years. A third signature gave her power of attorney over my condo, car, and all personal effects. All of these things I transferred into her hands with a signature. Technically I would still own everything, but she would be in charge of it all. To avoid a large tax bill I presumed. And, of course, she would be living in my condo, using my furniture, and managing all of my financial holdings. Next was the form to change my name from 'Paul' to 'Pamela'. I signed my name as 'Paul' for the last time in my life. Finally, there were a depressingly small number of forms for my new life. A form to transfer the lease for my new apartment from Janice to Pamela. A new bank account and a single new credit card which said "Pamela Gregson" on the front. Chapter 4: For the next two weeks I got up in the morning, dressed in Janice's clothes, and did the research tasks that Ms. Dalton assigned to me. Gradually I got the apartment in order. I cleaned up the kitchen, got all of the clothes washed and put away, washed the sheets and towels, scrubbed the bathroom, sorted and discarded old papers. Ms. Dalton held a quick 5-minute meeting with me every morning to review my work and appearance. She gave me praise when I took the time to dress nicely and look more feminine, and she criticized those times when I looked too casual or didn't bother with hair, makeup or jewelry. It didn't take long before I was doing my best to please her, eager for bits of praise. "Let me ask you something," Ms. Dalton said one day on our skype video call. "Yes, Ms. Dalton?" I asked, doing my best to appear focused and helpful, eyes wide. Do you think that a Senior Vice President, such as myself, should really have an assistant working remotely?" My shoulders sagged. "No, Ms. Dalton, I suppose not." "Very good. I'm glad we agree. I'm am sending you an IM with the name of a plastic surgeon. All of the procedures are pre-paid." "Plastic surgery?" "Yes, of course. We can't have you back at working looking like Paul Gregson in a skirt, now can we?" "I... uh..." "Can we?" Ms. Dalton repeated, eyes narrowed. "No, Ms. Dalton," I said. "That's right. We need to remove all traces of Paul. You're Pamela now. And besides, don't you want to look more feminine? Won't it be nice to have real breasts of your own and a nice high voice?" "Y-yes, Ms. Dalton," I stammered. Oh god, I thought to myself. Oh god. If I no longer look like Paul... ... then there's no going back. * * * It took about nine months to complete all of the surgeries. There were implants, lifts, re-contouring, filling, shaving, and hair removal. By the end, I knew the surgeon and the staff at the hospital so well we exchanged Christmas gifts. Each procedure was 'pre-planned' by Ms. Dalton in private consultation with the plastic surgeon. Of course we would have the necessary preparation meetings where the doctor discussed what was next, but it was clear that I was expected to simply nod my head and agree to anything he suggested. "Can we make her look younger?" Ms. Dalton asked. "How much younger?" asked the surgeon. "Say... 10 years younger? Or more? Early to mid twenties?" The surgeon thought for a minute. "I think we can make that work," he said. After each surgery, I spent hours at the mirror, looking at myself, watching the scars heal and watching the slow, painful transformation. Bit by bit, Paul disappeared. Ms. Dalton was systematically removing him, first a nose, then a chin, then the brow and cheek bones. Parts were shaved or filled. Sometimes it took a couple of tries to get it right. At first, I couldn't recognize the woman in the mirror who was gradually coming into view. But over time I came to understand that this was Pamela, and weirdly, my brain began to shift. On the whole I liked what I saw. Of course, the breasts were bigger than expected and my eyes a little more 'surprised' than I would have liked. My voice was higher and squeakier than I wanted. I didn't think anyone would ever take me seriously with this voice. Did Ms. Dalton understand the pain? The procedures were painful, and recovery was painful. Each surgery was a one way trip. Like a ratchet, pushing me more deeply into my new life and making it more and more difficult to return to my old one until eventually it would become impossible. But in an odd way, the pain was therapeutic. Every sore and hurt was cleansing me from the inside out, burning away all traces of Paul and leaving nothing but Pamela inside. I began to feel more comfortable. More like I truly *was* a woman assistant in an apartment in Paterson, New Jersey, earning a mid-level salary. Finally, the last surgery was done and my last follow-up completed. As I opened the door to my small apartment, I looked left at the mirror hanging on the wall and stopped cold. Paul was gone. I blinked. The face in the mirror was all Pamela. Bright, young, eager- to-please, out on her own, female Executive Assistant to the powerful Ms. Dalton. Chapter 5: Walking in the front door on my first day back at the company was surreal. Everything was so familiar, but everyone treated me as just an ordinary woman. I was to be officially hired on as a full-time employee, and so I went up to HR to go through the standard on-boarding process. "My salary is too low," I said looking down at the form. It was almost half what I had been earning as Ms. Dalton's assistant. "I'm sorry," said the HR lady. "But that's what I was told you had agreed to. Do you not want to sign it? Is there a problem?" I looked down at the number, feeling like I wanted to cry. At this number my budget would be stretched almost to the breaking point. I'd have to switch to canned tuna and oatmeal and turn off the heat most days. "Should I call Ms. Dalton?" The HR lady asked, again, concerned. "No..." I said, my hand shaking slightly. "No, that's all right." I signed the form, feeling a little more of my self-worth slipping away. * * * "We're not going to the eleventh floor?" I asked. The eleventh floor was the executive level, where Ms. Dalton worked. "Oh no. You'll be working in Marketing. I feel terrible that this wasn't discussed with you ahead of time," said the lady from HR. "I really must talk to Ms. Dalton." I was taken to 'Robin', the young manager of 'Events, North America'. "Here's your desk," Robin said, helpfully. "But you won't be here much. Once you get logged in and check your E-mail, I'll be back to give you a quick training on the equipment." "Equipment?" "Oh, it's not much. Just a bunch of poles and banners and stuff. In addition to, you know, handing out literature and smiling, it's our job to set up and tear down - and organize the sales people. But Ms. Germaine? She, like, *totally* freaks out if you're not taking good enough care of the equipment, okay? So I promised her I'd teach you how to handle it properly. Okay?" I sat back, stunned, as Robin flounced out of the cubicle, oblivious. A booth babe. That was my new job. I was to be a booth babe, smiling and looking pretty and handing out literature. The bimbos of the corporate world. The phone rang. "Pamela?" "Ms. Dalton," I said, relieved. "There must be some mistake--" "No mistake, Pamela. I've found another business assistant with more experience. But I knew you were expecting a new job with the company and the only thing for someone at your level was this job at marketing." "At my level?" "Yes, Pamela, your level." "But... I'm a college graduate," I pleaded, "with years of experience." "Really? What college did Pamela go to?" she asked. "It was NYU," I said. "Hmmm... I seem to remember a former colleague of mine went to NYU. But he's no longer here. I thought, Pamela, that you were a college drop- out from the mid-west? Isn't that right? Do you have a diploma with your name on it, in that apartment of yours?" "No..." I said. "But I did graduate from college!" "Who was it that graduated from college? Was it Pamela?" Ms. Dalton asked, calmly. "No..." "And who are you? What is your name now?" "It's Pamela, but..." "Exactly. You are Pamela. And let's be honest, you have almost no experience. You are a college drop-out who moved to the big city to see if you could make something of yourself. And you can! In marketing." "But I was hoping..." "Yes?" "... to work with you," I finished, lamely. "Oh Pamela," Ms. Dalton said, her voice unexpectedly soft. "That is a very nice sentiment, and I was hoping to work with you too, but I'm afraid it makes no sense for me to have *two* assistants, and you really were the least experienced. At least on paper." The reality of what she said was crushing. "Now tell me honestly," Ms. Dalton continued, "don't you agree?" "What do you mean?" I asked, bewildered. "Don't you agree that you're not experienced enough to be working as an assistant for a Senior VP? Don't you agree that you are much better suited to this new job? In marketing?" "I..." I looked down at my shoes which were high-heel pumps. I felt the underwire bra underneath my blouse holding up my new (slightly too large) breasts. I tugged at the A-line skirt which had ridden up to reveal too much of my legs. I used a finger to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. "Yes, Ma'am," I said, finally. "Yes, Ma'am, what?" "Yes, Ma'am, I agree." "I thought so," she said, smoothly. "And this is where you want to be, isn't it? An entry-level marketing assistant? Using your new, feminine body to attract potential sales at conferences?" "I... I don't know," I said, still fighting. "Let me rephrase it then. Isn't this where you *belong*? Isn't this the sort of job you *deserve*? Considering that you're Pamela now? A girl with no skills and no education?" "Please..." I pleaded, still struggling to hold on to some shred of self-respect. "Pamela...?" her voice held a note of warning. I held the phone tightly, my body curled in and around it. Why did she have such power over me? Why did her voice command my submission so thoroughly? "Yes, Ms. Dalton," I finally whispered. "Yes, what?" she said, ruthlessly. "Yes, Ms. Dalton. This is where I belong," I said. A shiver went through my body. "Very good, Pamela. Now there's one more thing I want you to say. It will become your motto from now on, okay?" "Yes, Ms. Dalton." "Whenever anyone asks you your name, you will say this: 'Pamela Gregson. No relation to Paul Gregson.' Can you say that for me?" "Pamela Gregson," I repeated. "No relation to Paul Gregson." "That's right, Pamela. You are your own girl now." Chapter 6: Being a marketing assistant was a humbling experience, and it started with orientation. "Your job is to look pretty," Robin said, snapping her gum. "Look pretty, be on-time, and take care of the equipment and the sales people. Okay?" "Okay, Robin." "Oh, you're supposed to call me 'Ms. Selby', okay? That's one of Ms. Germaine's rules. All of the assistants are supposed to call their managers by their last name only. I'm sorry." "No problem, Ms. Selby," I said, amazed I was using an honorific for this 23 year old. "Thanks," Robin smiled. "Okay, now there's a uniform required, which the company will pay for. It's basically a business suit, blouse and pencil skirt. The blouse is too low cut, and the skirt is too short, but hey, we're not here for our brains, right? But you'll need to buy the underwear, the pantyhose, and the shoes yourself. I'll give you a list of the allowed types." "But I already have underwear and shoes... ah... Ms. Selby." Robin sighed. "It's Ms. Germaine. She wants us all to wear a certain type of matching pantyhose. The underwear must be nude thongs, and the bra must be a specific type of push-up. I'm sorry." "And the shoes?" "Four inch stilettos." I gasped. "I know, I'm sorry. It's all a booty-fest. But hey, you knew that's what it was when you signed up for the job, right?" * * * If the dress code wasn't humiliating enough, the actual conferences were a cringe-fest of bad behavior. I was groped by drunk salesmen (women too!) ogled by lonely male attendees, propositioned at least a dozen times each conference, and forced to endure all sorts of indignities. Most were simple lack of manners. I was ordered to fetch bags, fetch coffee, go to the laundromat, make reservations, make the bed (!), hand wash underwear, clean up conference rooms, take care of sick salespeople, and arrange dinners - most without thanks or acknowledgement. "Pick up that pen for me, would you?" I did my best '1950's house wife' impersonation, squatting down, knees together, to pick up the pen and return it to the smirking salesman, trying to impress his customer. "Not like that," he said, with a sneer. He dropped the pen to the floor again. "Pick it up properly. You know what I mean." Yes, I knew what he meant. I swallowed hard and put a smile on my face as I thrust out my chest, bent at the waist, giving him a good view of my cleavage and then my rear as I picked up the pen and returned it to him. "Will there be anything more, sir?" I asked. Thank god the makeup mostly covered my blushing. "Maybe later," he leered, laughing with his customer. Once two sales people, a man and a woman, trapped me between them at a bar as I tried to leave. "So tell us," she started, "do you enjoy being a conference prostitute? Better than working at Hooters, huh?" "It's been a long day..." I tried to say. "Pamela!" the man had vodka on his breath. "Don't leave! The party's just getting started!" "Stay, stay," said his equally boozy partner, stumbling against me in such a way that I was sandwiched between them. "We're just having fun here. Right? Just three people, having fuh-uhn." "Please..." I tried to use the bar as leverage, but he put an arm around my waist. "I hear you have to wear a special bra," he said. "To make your tits so perky." "For reeeeal?" squealed the lady. "Are you shitting me?" I struggled some more, trying to figure a way out without making a scene. "I always wanted to see the special bra," he said. "Let's go up to my room and you can show us? You can show us and we'll continue to party! I'll make it worth your while!" "James Johnson!!" I looked over. Thank god, it was Ms. Germaine! "Let go of that poor girl right now! And Denise! How dare you! You're married with two children!" "Hey, just being friendly," Mr. Johnson said, raising his hands in surrender. "Be friendly someplace else." I followed Ms. Germaine out of the bar and into the hallway. "Ms. Gregson, what were you doing in that bar behaving in such a slutty manner?" she hissed. I was taken aback. "I... I had some flight changes for Ms. Debinson," I tried not to sound like I was pleading (and failing), "and then Mr. Johnson approached me- -" "Are you blaming the salesperson?" "No, of course not, I was only saying --" "You should be smart enough to avoid situations like that. You know that there is a strict prohibition against fraternizing with the sales staff." "Of course," I said, getting more and more flustered. "I wasn't fraternizing, I was just talking to Ms. Debinson, when--" "It certainly looked like fraternization to me." "But I wasn't, I swear!" "Are you contradicting me?" Ms. Germaine took a step closer. "No, Ms. Germaine!" I quavered. "I only thought..." "You were not hired to think. You were hired to be a marketing assistant." "Yes, Ms. Germaine," I said, staring at the ground, blushing bright red at her dressing down. "I'm afraid I'll have to dock your pay for this incident and put you on probation." "No, please!" I whimpered. "I can barely afford my apartment as it is." "If you can maintain a clean record for the next two months, then I'll restore it." Chapter 7: "Hey, I'm Kristin." "Hi Kristin, I'm Pamela." "Nice place y'got here." I was interviewing for roommates. With my temporary reduction in pay I could no longer afford my apartment without one. I showed Kristin around. I was desperate. She was the only one to call about the apartment all week. I was already a month late on my rent. "How much?" Kristen asked. She was dressed in jeans and a ripped T- shirt and had multiple piercings and tattoos. "350 dollars, and we split utilities," I said. "How about, 200 dollars," she said. "Oh," I said, feeling deflated. "I can't..." "Okay. 300 dollars, but I get the bedroom. You can sleep on the couch in the living room. Oh, and I'll need you to clear out the closet too." "I don't think I can..." "I have a boyfriend, and we'll need some privacy. I can see that you don't have anyone, do you?" "No," I admitted. "Besides, didn't you say on the phone that you're mostly away at conferences and stuff?" I stared at her, in shock. Was I really going to give this piece of white-trash my bedroom and move out into the living room? And my closet! I would have to reduce my clothes by two-thirds to fit into the living room closet, which was really only intended for a few jackets. "What's the matter?" Kristin asked. "Are you too good to sleep on the couch?" "I... no, of course not, it's just that..." "Then it's settled." "Okay," I said finally, knowing there was nothing else I could do. * * * After the incident at the bar, Ms. Germaine was on my case, following my every move. "Stand up straight, Pamela," she would say, tapping me on the shoulder. "Shoulders back, breasts out, and our *breast* friendly smile." I did as she instructed. I couldn?t afford to argue. I needed to restore my regular salary as quickly as possible. "Come with me, Pamela," Ms. Germaine said, later, leading me into the lady's bathroom. "We need to have an inspection." "Inspection?" I squeaked. "Yes. Already I see that you have a smudge on your jacket." Ms. Germaine held the collar of my suit jacket and vigorously rubbed at the non-existent 'smudge', which happened to be placed directly over my left breast. "And here, some dust on your backside." With a series of hard, slapping motions, she beat the imaginary dust out of my skirt, slapping my behind in the process. "Your lipstick is smudged on the corner and your mascara has streaked on this side. Smile." I gave her a wide, toothy smile. "Lipstick on your teeth." She took out a kleenex, wet it with her own saliva (!) and used it to clean my lipstick, mascara, and teeth, all the while pressing her body against me as I was backed up against the counter. "Now, unbutton your jacket and blouse." "Unbutton...?" I gasped. "Yes. Underwear check." Blushing deep, deep red, I slowly unbuttoned first my jacket, which Ms. Germaine took from me, and then my blouse, exposing the push-up bra. "Tch, tch. Just not right," she said, shaking her head and frowning. "Your bra straps are too loose, and your breasts are not being properly presented." Without asking, Ms. Germaine tightened my bra straps, pulling my breasts up higher. "Eep!!" I jerked. She reached into my bra!! Grasping my flesh, she pulled it up so it sat higher in the cup, first one, and then the other. I had to steady myself against the counter, I felt so violated. "All of that you should have done yourself," she said, sneering. "Now this is a little secret to increase your lead rate - something which has seen a precipitous drop recently." "Ms. Germaine!" I squealed, as she reached out, grasped each of my nipples in her bony fingers and pinched hard. "Now that should keep them nice and perky. You should do that yourself, at least once an hour! Now lift your skirt." "No!" I protested. "Pamela, you are already on probation. Do you want to add to your time?" "N-no," I stuttered. "Well then?" My hands shaking slightly, I grasped the hem of my pencil skirt and (because it was tight) worked it up until it was bunched around my waist. "Hmmm," she said, brushing her fingers over my rear, "there's some dust here." Ms. Germaine clicked open her purse and pulled out a heavy-looking wooden hairbrush. "Let me take care of that dust for you," she said. "Now hold still." Standing to my side, she placed one hand on my stomach and then began spanking me! "Ms. Germaine!!" I squealed, trying to get away. "Hold still," she hissed. "If you know what's good for you. These buns are quite dusty, and need some work." She continued the spanking, first working one ass cheek and then the other. Tears of humiliation poured down my face. Finally she was done. "There, I think that's got it," she said, finally. "Now Pamela, I think we understand each other. Don't we?" I looked away, too humiliated to answer, my face red and blotchy with tears. "I said, do we understand each other?" She grasped my chin and forced me to look her in the face. "Y-yes, Ms. Germaine," I said, my voice cracking. "Good," she said. Looking down, Ms. Germaine used her foot to scuff the top of my shiny black stiletto. "Oh dear," she said, looking me straight in the eye. "There's a mark on your shoe. That's another demerit. You better clean that up before coming back to the vendor floor." * * * When I got back to the booth, doing my best to smile and stand up straight with breasts out, I got another shock. "Why hello, Pamela." "Ms. Dalton!" "Yes, I'm giving the keynote at this conference, and I thought I would stop by. How are you doing in your new job?" "Oh, Ms. Dalton," I said, desperately trying to keep my tears in check. "It's been awful. Ms. Germaine... sh-she just spanked me, and..." "Really? She spanked you? Why?" Ms. Dalton asked, her expression unreadable. "Because, supposedly my uniform was dusty, and Ms. Selby is checking up on my progress all the time, and they say my lead rate is down, but it's just the time of year, there are so many fewer attendees for late summer conferences, I mean, I know that because I used to go to so many of these conferences myself and--" "Pamela?" Ms. Dalton interrupted me, a note of anger in her voice. "Are you saying you went to conferences before becoming a marketing assistant?" I quickly realized I had crossed a line. "I just meant--" "Pamela," she shut me down. "Tell me this. Did 'Pamela' ever go to any conferences before becoming a marketing assistant?" "N-no, Ms. Dalton." "And what is your name?" "Pamela Gregson," I said. "So tell me, did *Pamela* ever go to any conferences before becoming a marketing assistant?" "N-no, Ms. Dalton." "And for a young girl like you, just starting out, I imagine it must be wonderful to travel around the country, staying in nice hotels, visiting new cities, helping out your more experienced colleagues in any way that you can. Why it must be a dream job!" "Yes, Ms. Dalton." I was being dressed down, by Ms. Dalton, and I knew it. "Yes, Ms. Dalton... what?" she demanded. "Yes, Ms. Dalton. This is a dream job for a girl like me." I wilted inside, feeling more and more like a girl being punished by the head mistress. "Say it again, Pamela, but this time in the first person." "Yes, Ms. Dalton, this is *my* dream job," I said, trying to sound like I meant it. After all, without this job, where would I be? "I'm glad to hear that, Pamela. It's always nice to know that we're able to provide opportunities for girls like you, just getting started in the world." "Yes, Ms. Dalton, thank you, Ms. Dalton," I said, my ears burning. "And, as I'm sure you know, all young girls starting out need to work extra hard and be extra nice and helpful to their superiors, don't you agree, Pamela?" "Yes, Ms. Dalton." "Of course there are always bumps along the road and boorish behavior from colleagues, it's not all just travel and eating out. My recommendation to you, as a young marketing assistant just starting her career, is to do your best to forgive and forget. Just continue to work hard and be helpful and good things will come. Don't you agree, Pamela?" It was as if there was a stone in the pit of my stomach. I think I realized, for the first time, what it truly meant to be a female marketing assistant starting out in the business world. "Yes, Ms. Dalton. But about Ms. Germaine, could you at least--" "Oh, Pamela," she cut me off, "you're new, so I can understand. As much as I would like to help, I'm afraid that I cannot intrude into the daily operations of another business unit. If you have a harassment complaint, I recommend that you talk to Human Relations. But I warn you that you will need convincing and unambiguous proof. Not only is woman- on-woman harassment quite rare as to be almost non-existent, but also Ms. Germaine has been with the company for many years and has an unassailable reputation." So there it was. I could expect no further help from Ms. Dalton. For the first time in my life I felt truly, completely alone in the world. "And now I'm off to give my keynote. It's been a pleasure to talk to you, Pamela. Keep up the good work." Chapter 8: Things weren't going great in the apartment either. Kristen's "job" turned out to be a waitress-slash-quote-entertainer-unquote at the "Sunrise Gentlemen's Lounge" (Motto: "We have indoor parking!"), and her "boyfriend" turned out to be any sort of regular who wanted "special services". And so strange men were coming and going at all hours of the day or night. I often got home from a red-eye flight only to find her having sex on the couch (my bed!) with porn playing on the TV. "You should be a stripper," Kristen said one evening, her latest "date" having just left. She had plopped down on the sofa next to me with a glass of vodka & OJ. "I don't think so," I said, trying to hide the disdain from my voice. "Why the hell not? Look at you! You got great tits. Of course they're fake, everyone can see that, but guys don't care. Hell, I think they like the fake ones better. They're more perky." "It's not that." "And the pay's good. I'm bring down, um... about 800 dollars a night. Including tips and 'extras'." "Eight hundred dollars...!" I gasped. "Yeah, it's minimum wage plus tips. If you're friendly and you smile a lot, then you can do all right. One night I brought home over three grand!" "Three *thousand* dollars??" "Hell yeah! So whatcha say? Want to join me?" "I..." "What's the matter? Too much of a snob? You think stripping is beneath you? You look down on us strippers?" Oh god, I gulped. It was if I could hear Ms. Dalton talking to me, inside my head. 'Don't tell me you feel _superior_ to Kristen?' Ms. Dalton would have said. 'Do you really think that you, an entry-level marketing assistant _on probation_ is above her? She knows her place. Do you? If she seems like such a more confident and more powerful woman, maybe you should be reporting to her? Maybe you should be *her* assistant?' Damn those words! "No, that's not it at all," I struggled to think up a good reason. "I'm... I have scars, 'down there'," I said. This was not exactly true. For some reason, Ms. Dalton had never provided the funds for a full Sex Reassignment Surgery. And so I still had my original male equipment, albeit small and mostly non-functional (thanks to the hormones, which were now a significant percentage of my budget). "That's no problem," Kristen said, cheerfully. "You have to wear panties and a bra anyway. It's against the law in New Jersey to go completely nude." "I... I can't," I said, frightened. "Hey, don't be scared, it's okay. I'll show you the ropes! I'll be like, your mentor." "My mentor?" I choked. "Hell yeah. I'll be your teacher! And you can be my apprentice. Doesn't that sound nice? You just put yourself in my hands and let me guide you." "I... would be your apprentice?" The thought of me being Kristen's apprentice floored me. She was