A Christmiss Story


Will our scoundrel-turned-damsel survive the office holiday party? What will she find in her Christmas stockings? The continuing misadventures of Miss Anne Thrope, by the author of The Jessica Project.

* * *

The weekend! With my first week as a secretary finally at an end, I knew exactly how I was going to spend it: sleeping till noon, then watching football on TV while binging on bratwurst and beer.

When I woke up on Saturday at half past noon, I lolled in bed for another hour before I dragged myself into the kitchenette and made myself some extra-strong coffee. I downed my first cup with a cigarette while I watched the freezing rain beat against the windows of my tiny apartment. No matter – I wasn't going anywhere for the next two days. I lit another cigarette and savored the blessed relief of not having to put on a dress, heels and stockings to endure another day of ridicule by my coworkers.

Tossing off my flannel nightgown, I returned to the bedroom and started sifting through the closet for something to wear for the weekend. As I feared, my tormentors hadn't included a single pair of pants or jeans in my extensive trousseau. Finally I spied a hot pink jogging suit, and sure enough there was a pair of pink and white sneakers amongst the boxes of high heels. Well, how else would I be expected to maintain my girlish figure? After a quick shower, I pulled on the jogging suit, dismissing the thought of trying to find some underwear to go with it. It was odd, I said to myself as I ran a blow dryer through my hair. The strange sensation of wearing women's lingerie had been intriguing, even arousing at first, but like any forbidden activity, dressing as a woman soon lost its fascination once it became my routine. Now I dreaded the daily chores of styling my hair, putting on my makeup, and trying to decide what to wear.

No such drudgery today. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and found a scrunchie to hold it back. Then I fired up my George Foreman grilling machine, stuffed it full of thick, juicy bratwurst, and popped the top on the first of many Heinekens. Ohio State was playing Michigan, and my troubles seemed far away as I got into the game while gorging myself on brats and throwing down beer after beer. The only thing that bummed me out was the endless progression of commercials featuring the Coors twins and hot chicks mud-wrestling over whether their beer was less filling or tasted great. I soon found myself becoming profoundly depressed by the grim realization that for the next year of my life, the only panties I would be getting inside were my own.

I was into my third brat and fifth beer when I heard I rap on my door. Who the hell could that be? The only good thing about the Consent Decree which doomed me to living as a woman was a proviso which shielded my new identity from the general public. Crushing out my cigarette into an overloaded ashtray, I weaved across the room and warily opened it a few inches. It was Donna Mae Trix, the Special Mistress appointed to oversee my transformation and adherence to the terms of the Consent Decree.

"Eew," she said as she breezed into my apartment. "It smells like shit in here. Open a window, at least," she said as she slid one of them up, ignoring the raindrops which pelted against the sill.

"What are you doing here?"

"The Consent Decree requires periodic inspections to confirm your compliance with the terms of the settlement." Donna was looking incredibly hot in her tight jeans, turtleneck and leather vest, and even after everything she had done to me, I felt myself getting turned on. She appraised me with a critical eye, then glanced down at the stinking ash tray and the empty beer cans on the floor. "Well, it's a judgment call," she said at length. "On the one hand, you still look like a girl, even without any makeup. Your hair looks cute like that, by the way. On the other hand, this is hardly the way a woman would keep her home. And you'll be lucky to hold onto your dress size if you keep making a pig out of yourself like this. Then again, you wouldn't be the first single girl to blow up out of boredom. Most of us do it with ice cream. What is that horrible stuff you're eating?"

"Bratwurst," I said, slurring the word slightly. "Want one?"

"Good heavens, no! Out of the kindness of my heart, I will not declare your disgraceful conduct today to be a breach of the Consent Decree, but I want you to know how disappointed I am in your behavior."

"You should have called first. I would have put on a dress and invited you over for a tea party."

"Don't press your luck, Missy." For some reason, I found her domineering tone extremely arousing, and with no underwear to constrain it, my erection sprang to her attention. "My, my, what have we here," she said with mock surprise as she stared at the bulge in my jogging suit. "Aren't you wearing any panties?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out," I said coquettishly. She pushed me back on the sofa and before I knew it, my pants were down to my ankles and she was tearing off her jeans. "You're no one to talk," I said when I saw that she wasn't wearing panties either. She pinned me down and began to rub her pussy against my aching cock.

"You realize what this means," she said as she teased me to the brink of orgasm.

"What," I moaned.

"This shocking display of manhood is a flagrant violation of the Consent Decree."

"Screw the Consent Decree." By that point I was so horny that I would have gladly agreed to start my year as a woman all over again in return for one good fuck. But Donna had something far more sinister in mind, and whether it was the alcohol or my raging testosterone, I was blind to her true intentions.

"There is an alternative," she whispered as she brought me to the brink once again.

"Anything. I'll do anything you say," I sighed.

"Good. Oh God," she panted as she lowered herself onto my rock-hard member. "I'll have to give you another shot of hormones. Are you sure you want that?"

By then, I couldn't have stopped her if she told me she was going to cut off my balls and flush them down the toilet. "Yes!" I cried as I felt my orgasm welling up deep inside me, and when I exploded inside her, I felt her shiver as her body responded to mine. When it was finally over, Donna collapsed onto my chest, and we lay there heaving as our hearts beat together. I was still in ecstasy when I felt a sharp pain in my right ass cheek. "Aargh! What was that?"

"Your hormones," she said coolly as she put the spent hypodermic syringe back into her vest pocket. "As you know, the Consent Decree authorizes me to administer female hormones if necessary to modify your behavior. The shot I just gave you was much, much stronger than the dose you got before." She got up and started putting her jeans back on.

"What will it do to me?"

"Let's just say you could get away without wearing panties for the foreseeable future. Your balls are going to start to shrivel up, and as for your dick, well, you may have to sit down to pee."

I suddenly felt terribly nauseous, and I barely made it into the bathroom before I began throwing up violently. The beer, the bratwurst, and my own bile poured out of me as I retched in despair. When I was finally finished, Donna poked her head into the bathroom. "Very good," she said. "Bulimia is the perfect cure for bratwurst and beer. Most girls have to be taught that. I'm very proud of you." I was racked with dry heaves as she left my apartment.

I was sick in bed the rest of the weekend, and was only able to get down a bowl of soup on Sunday evening. So much for losing my girlish figure.

* * *

Monday was like every other weekday: up at six thirty, an hour devoted to my hair and makeup, squirming into panties, bra and a slip, tugging on my pantyhose and trying to decide which skirt and top or dress to wear. On that particular day, I selected a knee-length black skirt and a white mock turtleneck, then padded into the kitchenette in my stocking feet to pour myself a bowl of cereal. I thought sadly about how I had pinched my pennies all week to be able to afford my big binge on Saturday, now literally down the drain. At least my stomach had returned to normal, and I felt almost myself again as I returned to my closet and put on my heels. Surveying the girl in the mirror as she tied a red scarf around her neck, my nausea began to return when I remembered what I had done to myself. I might as well be a male black widow spider who allowed his mate to eat him after one glorious fuck.

With that wretched thought, I put on my overcoat, picked up my purse and trudged out into the gloomy morning to catch my bus. The frigid air knifed through my stockings and up my skirt, and I was actually grateful when my bus came along to take me to the office to begin another day as a secretary. At least it was going to be a short week: Thursday was Thanksgiving, and the office was closed on Friday. When I got to the office, I hung up my coat on a hook in my cubicle and started going through my phone messages. "Anne, please stop by my office for some dictation." "Anne, I need the Ripley files." Anne this, Anne that…I remembered when I used to be Mr. Thrope, executive on the march, and not a lowly secretary referred to only by her first name.

The only good news was that my coworkers were starting to accept me for what I appeared to be, now that the novelty was wearing off. The best I could hope for was to be treated like any other secretary, and not some kind of pervert in women's clothing. Maybe it was the holiday spirit, but some of the other girls actually started being nice to me when we crossed paths in the cafeteria or the ladies room, and I was no longer regarded as an object of scorn and ridicule as the days went by. Of course, I couldn't tell what they were saying behind my back, but to outward appearances I was just one of the girls.

Everyone was talking about their plans for Thanksgiving. The thought of being cooped up in my little apartment for four days was too much to bear, and I was giving serious thought to volunteering to work in a soup kitchen when the telephone rang on Wednesday afternoon. It was Donna. "Hello, Anne. Got big plans for Thanksgiving?"

"You know I don't," I hissed. There was no way I was going to let what little family I had see me like this.

"I've been thinking about you," she said.

"Dreaming up more ways to fuck with me?" I said under my breath.

"You know, I feel badly about the way I treated you on Saturday. Why don't you let me make it up to you?"

"Like how?"

"How would you like to have Thanksgiving dinner at my sister's in Wisconsin?"

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"No, I mean it. It'll be very informal, and nobody will know who you really are. In fact, we'll have to get you some casual clothes. On me."

The prospect of being able to wear something other than a dress and high heels for the weekend broke my resistance. "Really?" I asked hesitantly, wondering what I was getting myself into.

"Honest Injun. Your office closes early today, right?"

"They're letting us off at three o'clock."

"Meet me at Filene's Basement on State Street at three fifteen." She hung up before I could say no.

* * *

Early on Thanksgiving morning, I sat back in the passenger seat of Donna's Audi as we crawled through holiday traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway. My hopes of getting some jeans or slacks at Filene's had been dashed when pair after pair were too baggy in the hips, and we'd finally settled on a pleated kilt and a denim jumper, some opaque tights and a comfortable pair of flats. I wrung my hands nervously in the lap of my kilt while Donna wove in and out of traffic until she was able to hit cruising speed for the long drive north.

"How are things going at the office?" she asked me.

"Okay, I guess. I mean, the girls seem to have accepted me, or at least they're pretending to."

"That's because they know the consequences if they don't."

"What do you mean?"

"Everybody has been briefed on what will happen to the company if you leave."

"I don't get it."

"The Consent Decree was part of a global arrangement with the Metabolean plaintiffs, who agreed to settle for a little less in return for your…humiliation. If you don't last out the year as a woman, the company will be forced into bankruptcy."

So I have some leverage, I said to myself as we cruised through the rolling woodlands. The question was, how could I turn it to my advantage? Donna seemed to sense what I was thinking. "Don't get any ideas," she said with a quick glance in my direction. "If the company goes down, they'll take you with them."

Maybe. I decided to change the subject. "Who will be at your sister's house?"

"Let's see, in addition to my sister and her husband, and their two kids, there will be my parents, my grandmother, my two brothers and their girlfriends, oh and I think a few of my cousins will be there too."

"Jesus Christ!"

"Don't worry, you'll fit right in. I've told everybody that you're a…friend."

"What kind of friend?"

"Well, if you must know, my family has always suspected that I'm gay, although it's never discussed."

"You mean they'll think I'm your lesbian lover?"

"Not everybody. I doubt if my grandmother or the kids will pick up on it."

"That's just great."

"Would you rather have them know that you're really a guy?"


"Didn't think so. Look, if you want to bail out, I can drop you off in Milwaukee and you can take the bus back to Chicago."

"What could be worse?"

"Come on, Anne, go with the flow. It will be a new experience for you."

"That's what I'm worried about. So far, everybody who's seen me like this has known who I really am. Now you're expecting me to fool your entire family."

"Do the people you ride the bus with know you're really a guy?"

"Well, no, but…"

"And how about the cashier at the grocery store? Or the sales girls at Filene's yesterday? Did any of them have a clue?"

"No, but I didn't have to sit down to dinner with them and carry on a conversation about my make-believe life."

"I'll do most of the talking for us. All you have to do is smile sweetly and help out with dinner."

"What do you mean, help out?"

"It's a family tradition that the men folk go deer hunting on Thanksgiving morning, while the women folk cook the turkey and all the trimmings."

"This just keeps getting better and better."

* * *

Two hours later, with an apron wrapped around my waist, I was standing in the kitchen helping Donna's grandmother stuff the turkey while Donna sat in the corner gabbing with her mother and sister. Two brats were running around the house screaming, one of the brother's girlfriends was on the phone, and the other women were concocting various dishes while they chattered on about their kids, husbands and boyfriends. I glanced over at Donna, who gave me a smile of encouragement before returning to her conversation, as if there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about inviting a man dressed as a woman to her family Thanksgiving. In fact, everybody else in Donna's family seemed numbingly normal, and I wondered if they had any idea what she did for a living.

"Do you work with Donna in the big city?" her grandmother asked me. I had been standing in a corner trying to keep out of the way when she asked me to help her with the turkey, and rather than make a scene, I had meekly agreed. Donna's mother had offered me her apron "to protect my pretty skirt", and my hands were covered with goo as I helped her grandmother battle with the turkey. I was trying to think of a response when Donna came to my rescue.

"Anne works for a big drug company downtown," she said from across the kitchen.

"How did you girls meet? I always wonder how single women cope with living in Chicago. The last time I was there, I was scared to death, and it was only for an afternoon of shopping at Marshall Fields."

Her sister chimed in, "I'm sure Donna has lots of friends. How long have you two known each other, Anne?" she probed.

Just then the screen door banged open, and a gang of men dressed in orange vests barged into the kitchen. "You gals got dinner ready yet?" one of them boomed, while another one opened the refrigerator and took out a six-pack of Bud.

"Who wants a beer?" he said as he sized me up. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Her name is Anne," Donna's grandmother said with irritation. "Why don't you boys go into the den and watch football or something. We have a lot of work to do here." As the men retreated to watch TV, I caught the guy with the six-pack staring at my legs. Buddy, if you only knew what's under these tights, I said to myself ruefully.

Once the turkey was in the oven, I melted into the background again, pretending to listen as the waves of female conversation broke all around me. When I couldn't take it any longer, I drifted into the den and stood in the doorway, trying to catch the score of the NFL game on TV. My friend from the refrigerator slid over on the sofa to make room for me, and I reluctantly sat down beside him, tugging my kilt down over my knees as he draped his hairy arm over the cushion behind me. "How about a beer?" he burped.

"Come on, Jack, you know better than to offer the little lady a warm Bud," one of the other guys teased us. "I'll bet she'd like a nice glass of white wine, wouldn't you, honey."

Jack was up before I could respond, and when he returned a few seconds later with a glass of wine, I thanked him demurely as he sat back down beside me. "Who are you here with?" he asked.


"Oh oh," one of the guys blurted out. There were a few snickers from around the room, but Jack seemed undeterred. Maybe he liked the challenge. He was good-looking in a rough sort of way, and I'd no doubt he'd had his share of women. I started to get up to escape back into the kitchen when he put his hand on my wrist.

"What's the hurry? You haven't finished your wine." His grip on my wrist tightened ever so slightly, and I felt myself tumbling into an abyss as I fell back onto the sofa. I sipped my wine nervously as I felt the eyes of every man in the room boring into me. Could they possibly be so clueless?

"How long have you and Donna been…together?" Jack asked me. The football game on TV was quite forgotten as the guys hung on every word. I decided to have a little fun with them.

"Since I split up with my husband," I replied. "Donna was always there for me. In fact, you might say that she was the reason I ended my marriage." I drained my glass of wine and crossed my legs provocatively. One of the guys was up in a flash, and he returned with the bottle of Chardonnay. I offered him my glass, and the only sound in the room was the announcer on TV bemoaning another fumble by the Detroit Lions. "Who's winning?" I asked the group.

"Dallas," the guys said in unison as I kicked off my flats and curled my legs up under my kilt.

"Oh dear."

"Are you a Lions fan?" Jack asked me.

"No, I just hate the Cowboys. Their stupid cheerleaders are such bimbos." They all stared at me as I drained my glass. "Now, if you boys will excuse me, I'd better go see if the gals need any help putting dinner on the table. Thanks for the wine," I said, making a show of slipping my feet back into my shoes. I felt my kilt swirling around my knees as I spun on my heel and swayed out of the room.

* * *

Mercifully, Donna steered me to a seat between her and one of the brats, and I was able to survive the interminable dinner with a minimum of conversation. I caught Jack staring at me across the table a few times, and each time I turned to Donna and tried to make a little joke to evoke some laughter from her. Eventually, Jack gave up on me, and when we finally polished off the pumpkin pie and bread pudding, I felt like I was ready for another bout of bulimia. But I probably worked off half the calories slaving like a scullery maid in the kitchen with the rest of the women.

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