tagTranssexuals & CrossdressersCEO Gone Girlie: Pussy Pass

CEO Gone Girlie: Pussy Pass

bythechangedone©

Based on factual events. The story of how hubris can cost you more than you could ever imagine...

***

"You're coming with us. The Prophet wants to see you."

That was the sentence which started it all three years ago. That was the sentence which changed my entire existence, thrusting me into the abyss of girlishness. I remember it all very clearly; it would be virtually impossible not to.

At first, I was hopeful.

But then, at a certain point, I knew my manhood was lost forever. The images of seeing it inside a jar were still vivid. The images of little dresses being shoved on me. The images of make-up targeting my face with merciless precision. The images of language and behavior lessons. Painful blisters on my feet, resulting from hours and hours of training in heels.

There never was much time for nostalgic introspection. Especially not when I was about to hear the verdict from the Prophet Himself.

"Malakia!" my thoughts were interrupted by a male voice emanating from a loudspeaker. I knew it was time for me to enter. The codeword had been given. The Prophet was ready.

"You've been prancing around," his Cajun accent affirmed. "Pleaser. My favorite. All-American. Do you remember when you first saw the list of heels?"

"Yes," I nodded slightly, trying to hide my anxiety as much as possible.

"Tell me," he asserted.

"It was a conversion table," I continued. "In inches, centimeters and millimeters. The table also said how much experience is needed for a particular heel height.."

"Very good," the seer grinned. "Very good indeed. Walking so much in heels, I'm sure you don't really remember how to walk in flats! I must admit, there is something unique about white girls.. maybe it's all those years of conditioning by the Romans?"

"Look at your hair," he gently touched my forehead. "Beautiful. Brunette, parted in the middle. All the way to your breasts, your hair is touching them.. and the curls." Eying my every move, he asked, "Have I not created you anew?"

"Yes," I blushed. "You have."

"And do you remember why you are like this?" he continued.

"I have called you a fraud," I replied softly. "Someone with an insatiable lust for power."

"Yes," he grinned. "You kept spreading rumors I am a dangerous cult leader who profits from the 2012 hysteria. Normally, I wouldn't care. But you.. you were a clever 23-year-old man, Paul. Managed a big company. So young and so successful! I knew you had to be punished for damaging my reputation!"

Silence.

"Paul," the man paused. "Tell me. What did I do?"

I lower my head and say, "You turned me.. into.. a woman."

"Yes," the Cajun's face was beaming with satisfaction. "Paul, you didn't believe me. You told me someone was going to find you. That you were too important to just disappear. That I wouldn't spend all the money on you. That it was just impossible to do this in a civilized society! Well, what do you think about it now, Paul? Is this society really so civilized? You saw Satanic rituals, you saw what is going on when kiddies go to school. You saw the dungeons. You saw the subliminal most people will never even fathom. Did your perspective change?"

Silence.

"Yes, Paul?" the man kept touching my hair, as if trying to encourage me to utter the words. I knew it took him great pleasure to witness the ultimate form of humiliation: it was the sign of total control over an individual.

"Your power is even greater than I imagined," I replied softly. "I underestimated you.. I was.. wrong.."

'Yes," the man's eyes were filled with satisfaction. "Yes you were. I used your own fetish against you, Paul. You kept coming to this place, visiting the BDSM scene, thinking you can just pay and leave.. that, being the CEO, your privacy was secure. But you didn't know. You didn't know I'd been watching you, Paul.. using your own vices to capture you!"

"Yes," I lowered my head. "You have given me much more than I bargained for.."

"Just look at your tassels and those white feathers, gently touching the middle of your thighs, Paul," he grinned. "Your smooth skin, your six-inch heels, and then you are six-feet.. what a charming combination!"

The prophet looked around the room, as if searching for something he could not quite place. Suddenly, he eyed me and asked, "Do you remember how you resisted the change with all your manly might?"

"Yes," I replied. "I remember it very well."

"At first, you thought it was just another chapter of the BDSM game, Paul," the Cajun affirmed. "So I had to show you how wrong you were. I had to show you I was capable of much, much more than simple fetishes, dysphorias and other travesties. I had to show you what the prophet was, and - indeed - is, capable of."

I instinctively touched the feathered tassels. All those days of training.. habits impossible to forget.

"The beautiful part is," he went on. "I have seized your assets and used your own money to transform you, Paul! Not only have I taken your manhood, but also your wealth! Isn't this something only a true seer can do?"

"Yes," I reluctantly acknowledged. "It is."

"Paul!" the seer clapped his hands like a small child. "Your womanly voice is perfect. Your Southern drawl is perfect. Your horseback riding skills are perfect. Who would have thought, we have defied puberty and the seemingly impossible! Indeed, you are what I have turned you into!"

I bent my knees slightly and said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he gleefully replied. "I trust you are more than eager to hear the verdict?"

"Yes, please?" I nodded vigorously.

"The verdict is right here," The Prophet handed me an envelope. "All you need to know is there, Paul.. you skirted man with two assholes."

The Prophet winked at me and walked away.

I started the "girlie prancing," as The Prophet would call it.

Contradictory emotions within me were screaming to open the envelope. I finally succumbed to my inner storm and read the following note,

"Dear Paul,

You have handled the pickup artists well. I have provided you with a new identity and the financial means to make sure you have a comfortable life as a woman. Do not try to reverse this process. You do know you cannot mess with hormones back and forth. You are twenty six now, and all the meticulous documentation is only going to help me in these difficult economic times to show others how powerful I am. Worry not, your identity remains a secret.

You can play chess now, show others what you are capable of by standing up for women's rights!

You can also describe your experiences, Paul. It will have a therapeutic effect, of that I am certain. I would never want you develop Stockholm syndrome! This is just not me.

Paul, remember that your girlie derriere still belongs to me. Literally and figuratively. Do not forget about that beautiful rose I have shoved up your lovely rear while girlie music kept playing in the background! Your cockiness has not gotten you very far.. so I would advise you to stop being cocky - because you just do not have what it takes anymore!

I also know you are never going to reveal this to anyone publically - the humiliation would be just too great!

Au revoir, mademoiselle Alice! Have a nice life in Louisiana! Let your demure guide you!"

Notes.. I received many notes throughout my time inside The Prophet's compound. That was the method of communication meant to instill fear and uncertainty by eliminating the human element.. the most vicious method of all.

I knew I had to leave as fast as possible. I knew that The Prophet was a mercurial soul and I could not risk coming back to this place. Amazing, how your perspective can change.. when it all started, losing my manhood seemed unfathomable.. and there I was, hoping I would not have to prance around on horseback during Mardi Gras..

I just stood there, in the middle of the street.

A young Caucasian boy approached me.

"There you go, little girl" he handed me an envelope. "This is all you need to know about your new life."

For some reason, I did not want to open it. Alas, I had no choice.

"I'm still here," I suddenly heard a familiar voice coming from behind me. "Yes. It's me."

"Oh," I replied, akin to a knee-jerk reaction, not knowing what else to say.

"I just wanted to see how eagerly you'd abandon me," the man grinned. "Me, the Prophet."

All of the humiliation and anger within me transformed into an emotional supercell.

"I have a surprise for you," the Prophet touched my right shoulder.

I started twirling my hair out of nervousness.

"You're going to enroll at a women's college!" he clapped his hands, as if trying to hide an extreme level of inner exhilaration. "Just don't bite your nails!"

"Haha!" the boy who handed me the envelope did not hesitate for a second to express what he had thought of the whole unfortunate circumstance by uttering a classic fit of Simpsonian schadenfreude. "You thought you're free, haha! Next thing, and you're gonna start believing in unicorns, haha!"

I just stood there, crossing my legs. I felt like such a fool. An ephemeral thought crossed my mind to shove one of my heels up this little brat's rear, but I decided to spare the heel.

"Come with me, Alice," the Prophet said, winking at the boy. "We're going to the college now. You've an interview all lined up for ya!"

"Yes, Sir," I sighed as we were moving toward the Seer's automobile.

About twenty minutes later, we finally arrived. The chauffeur opened my door and the Prophet approached me. He scanned me, smiled and finally uttered those immortal words,

"There's a village in France from which me and my followers will be taken to another level of existence, so that each and every one of us can experience their own personal reality. This consensus is about to end and people do not even know it. We are the chosen ones because we attempt to analyze what is going on inside us and use this knowledge in our lives. 2012 is not a mere date, my dear Alice, it is a window of opportunity for those who know how to find it! This truly is going to be an afterlife mosaic!"

I did not know what else to say. I just stood there, twirling my hair.

"I'll be with you shortly," the Prophet waved at the chauffeur. "Come with me, Alice."

"Welcome!" a young(ish) red-head approached us. She then eyed me and said, "Welcome to your new home, sweetie!"

"Hello, miss," I bent my knees slightly, waiting for events to unfold.

"This is the girl I told you about," the Prophet's piercing eyes scanned the newcomer. I could tell she was a follower. "All of her belongings are in place, I take it?"

"Oh, absolutely!" the woman replied with a note of enthusiasm. "Everything's been arranged!"

"I'm glad to hear that," the Prophet nodded vigorously. "Well, Alice. Here's where we part our ways. Have a good life in your new academic milieu!"

Before I could even respond, he turned around and strolled toward the limousine.

"Oh, don't worry sweetie!" the woman scanned me from head-to-toe. "May I ask what have you done?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Well," she coughed. "I know this must be embarrassing, but our girls here are, well, you know..."

"I was into property business," I replied softly, as if hoping she was not going to hear that.

"A CEO, perhaps?

"Yes," I lowered my head.

"How wonderful!" she folded her hands together. "Oh, sweetie, sweetie...you really shouldn't have insulted the Prophet! But don't worry - you're not the first and you certainly shan't be the last!"

"When you said our girls, did you mean," I paused.

"Yes," she nodded as if implicitly discerning the meaning of my message. "They are all like you."

There were no words in the English language, or any language for that matter, that could have conveyed what I felt at that very moment.

"I noticed," she continued, as we were walking toward the building. "I noticed your heels! Can you hear yourself while you walk? It really sounds rather like hoofbeats!"

"I had a lot of practice," I reply. "Didn't have much of a choice."

"And you even shake your derriere like a woman!" the female continued. "My, my, the Prophet really has talent! I can't wait to show you around, you've a whole range of courses just waiting for you, from creative writing to horseback riding! Oh, and French, of course, since this is Louisiana!"

"Of course," I mutter to myself with my head still lowered.

"Where are my manners!" I heard another sentence directed at me. "Please, call me Pauline."

"Pleased to meet you, Pauline. I'm Alice."

"Oh, this is even better than the wonderland!" Pauline exclaimed as we walked. "Oh, and I do understand you've never envisioned yourself in this role, I guess what I mean here is.. you probably studied serious manly material, engineering, finance perhaps, and now you're going to have to settle for, well, liberal arts, women's studies and keeping your skirts, hair and heels all nice and clean! Rather embarrassing, the way your priorities have shifted! Just remember I'm here to help you, Alice!"

"That's nice to hear," I replied, barely stopping myself from spouting a string of sarcastic remarks. "May I ask, are you.."

"Am I like you?" she interrupted, as if sensing what I was about to say. "Oh, no! I am one of the Prophet's first witnesses! I am a businesswoman who simply flies with the times!"

"I see."

"I'm sure you do!" the self-proclaimed businesswoman quickly added. "I'm sure you do see that, sweetie!"

Two weeks later. Women's studies class. The auditorium filled with ''fair-sexed'' students as the heated discussion continued to encompass new territories.

''They call it a pussy pass,'' one female asserted. ''You know, women and children first, you're not drafted.. I mean, I think it's great! All you've to do is sprinkle some shame language here and there and you can manipulate everyone around you! Sure, it's all probably a social construct, but it's still cool, alright?''

''You can shake your rear while singing 9/11 was an inside job to spread the message,'' another woman muttered. ''Then just put it on youtube and I'm sure conspiracy theorists are gonna love it.''

Fits of laughter could be heard throughout the auditorium.

''Hey!'' another girl exclaimed. ''Even Achilles got disguised as a girl to save him from the draft, so this is an old trick!''

''Girls, girls!'' the lecturer interrupted the class. ''Let's hear what our castrated friend here has to say. I'm sure this will provide us with a.. unique.. insight.''

All eyes were on me. Obviously, it would be difficult to hide a secret of that magnitude, especially in a place pretty much controlled by one of the Prophet's puppets.

I knew the unfolding scenario all too well.

''Well,'' I began after taking a deep breath.

I was sure I represented the innermost fantasies for many women in the class.. a closet dominatrix bent on humiliating anything with a penis, perhaps? There was me, a perfect exmaple that fantasy was no longer an impossible, if not deviant, construct. It was right here, right in front of them.

I kept imagining how many copycats of the Prophet could there be, coming alive, in that very classroom. A scary thought indeed.

With that in mind, I finally said, ''I'd rather keep my manhood than trade it for a pussy pass.''

The situation was so surreal most women did not utter a single sound.

''Thank God there are no men here,'' I thought to myself. ''Women seem to be more civilized in handling sensitive matters. Unless you step on their toes, that is.''

Little did I know; girlish hell was about to break loose.

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