Consumerism Ch. 01-10

(Disclaimers: This is loosely based on a true story. Not one I was involved in. One that was in the newspaper a long while ago. That said, all the characters are ones I made up in my brain and are not based on nor meant to represent real people. This forcedfem / maledom story fits most clearly in the transgender category of stories although it could also fall into categories including mind control, non-consent, and eventually BDSM. This story doesn't involve any supernatural aspect or made-up new drug or piece of technology. All the pharmaceuticals in this novel are real. They should not be used in the way they are in my story. Also, since I didn't get a chance to name him, the main narrator goes by Jamie. :D)

1. Prologue -- Vanholt Corporation Psychiatric Pharmaceutical Division -- Executive Boardroom -- Narrated by Dr. Welker, Chief Psychiatrist

What a fool I had been to have missed it. The sexiness of it. The way it gets injected into your body. Spreads inside of you and reprograms your mRNA. All the money that Vanholt made injecting people. Everyone involved in the vaccine deployment was rich now. They could get hired anywhere. The bonuses were obscene. Yet I had to be Chief Psychiatrist. Stuck working on psyche meds that barely did anything. Waiting for the breakthrough that never seems to materialize in the dying industry of psychiatric drug development. The pandemic made me realize it. I was wasting my life here.

"Well, that was certainly interesting," Brad said with a smirk on his face before leaning back in his plastic desk chair causing it to squeak. We had just met with a consultant. An Ivy University professor in the Women's Studies Department. As General Manager of the Psychiatric Pharmaceuticals Division, Brad had a specific budget allocated that he could only spend on efforts to improve equity in the workplace. He'd hire these consultants and usually ignore their recommendations. Not without good reason either. The consultant's presentation was probably the most sexist thing I've witnessed in an office setting. And I say that as a woman. Her absurd idea that masculinity was toxic. That all we needed to boost productivity and innovation around here was to decrease testosterone and increase estrogen. Our problem wasn't too many men. It was all the bureaucracy and red tape. Feminism is fine but I've always been a libertarian at heart. I blame the government. Besides, what were we going to do? Discriminate against men? I may be a doctor, not a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure that's illegal. When it comes to this equity stuff though, it seems to get a free pass. A way to get away with stuff that normally you wouldn't even dare try.

I adjusted my glasses as I tried to hide the tinkling of my eyes from him. "We could hire a plumber," I suggested as I thumbed my nose like a violin. "See if he can start filtering estrogen through the office drinking water. To think all these years we've wasted. When the solution was always so simple." The executive boardroom was centered around a rectangular table capable of seating six people on each side and one on each of its narrow ends. The creamy colored chairs matched the marble top of the table. Patterned grayscale carpeting covered most of the floors and the entirety of the table except for a brown tile trim around the edges of the room. Large windows stretched from the floor to the ceiling on the other side of the room separated by white pillars. The high elevation of the office building provided quite the view. I was dressed in a white lab coat over a green blouse and a pair of gray slacks. There was no requirement I dress like a doctor at the office, but I always did so anyways. It really gets on my nerves. When people don't address me using my proper title.

Brad laughed. "By the way, I saw that look on your face," he said before winking at me. "When she talked about offering female hormones to employees. Can you imagine that? Taking drugs and hormones because your company suggested it. Remember the campaigns to get staff to lose weight and quit smoking? Something that benefits them personally. Also, collectively through the insurance rates. Massive failure. If you want to change someone's behavior, you can't beat the good old-fashioned carrot. Or my favorite, the stick." Brad was wearing a black business suit with a blue tie with thin diagonal white stripes.

Hormone therapy. That was another area full of them. Warm sexy body altering injections. People were making a lot of money with it. The transgender stuff. Male hormone replacement therapy. My pulse quickened. "Brad, why aren't we more involved with stuff like that?" I asked. "Hormone therapy."

Brad shrugged. "We sell psychiatric medication," he explained. "Medication that helps fix your brain. The hormones have to do with the body. They're two totally different beasts."

"C'mon," I said before sighing. "Did you hear what just happened with Bivonics? They shut down their entire psychiatry division. We're going to get closed sooner or later if things keep going the way they are. Besides there is a lot linking brains and hormones together. Maybe that's where we could finally find some innovation. A new type of medical treatment. One that involves a fusion. Addressing the patient's mental health not only with psychiatric medication but also hormones." I went still suddenly as my eyes widened and I felt energized. I already had ideas. Things we could do with our own existing pharmaceuticals. New cutting-edge approaches.

"You look like you have something in mind." Brad suggested as he leaned in towards me and wet his lips. "Lay it on me."

"Well, you know that drug we make?" I asked as a relaxed smile crossed my face. "I forget the brand name we used. Its scientific name is naltrexone."

Brad tilted his head to the side and raised his right eyebrow. "That one for alcoholics and drug addicts?" he asked.

"Exactly," I said as I got up from my chair and walked over to one of the long windows. It was bright and sunny outside. Those people I could see walking down below. They looked like ants from up where I was at. Plastic surgery was an accepted thing. Television, movies, music, and the pornography men consume. There's no shortage of boob jobs, facelifts, and many other elective procedures. The problem with psychiatry right now is that it's too reactive. Too focused on treating mentally ill patients who often don't even want to get better. But beyond them existed a vast free market of consumers. Human beings with individual goals, desires, and motivations. They'd pay for the ability to change things about themselves. All it would take is for the opportunity to be offered to them.

2. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- Six Months Later (Pivot to New Narrator / Present-tense)

I shiver. The chills are overwhelming. My eyes dart to the lobby. There's a door there. I could leave. Escape. The muscles in my leg tense up along with the hair on the back of my neck. "Fuck," I mutter. Why didn't I apply for other jobs? Why was I still employed here? Deep down I knew the reason. The interviews. Talking to strangers like that. I have a wife and a mortgage now. They wouldn't patiently wait around while I fumble awkwardly through one failed job interview after another.

My eyes draw closer, my brow creases, and my face goes slack as I shuffle toward Mr. Bentley's office. This could be it. The day I get fired. I swallow hard as I feel my limbs shake. What would I tell my wife? She'll be so angry when she finds out. My mind floods with scenes of her berating me. Threats to divorce me. God, this is awful.

I paste a fake smile on to my face as I enter Mr. Bentley's office. He and that psychiatrist. They stare at me. It's bad enough already. Without having a woman there. I feel a lump in my throat and sweat on my body. His office is large and has white walls and a glossy terrazzo floor. A sleek metal desk exists at the center of the room with a glass top and glowing white computer monitor. The artwork he hangs behind his desk. It always creeps me out. Give it a passing glance and you'll think it's just an ordinary piece of contemporary art. However, stare a little closer at its oiled strokes and you'll see something twisted and perverted. The outlines of a malformed and misshapen pelvis mounted above a fleshy orifice it penetrates with a penis like appendage. The older man leans back in his chair dressed in one of his expensive business suits. Doctor Welker sits on top of his desk facing the office entrance dressed in a lab coat over a blue blouse and long black skirt.

"Why don't you go ahead and shut the door?" Mr. Bentley says to me before glancing over at Dr. Welker. Fuck, I'd really rather not.

My stomach flutters. I bring my body tight and deliberately stiffen my jaw. That way they can't see how weak I am. My trembling hands betray me. I quickly turn around and close the office door. There's no rush. The longer I take to close the door, the more time to steady my hands.

"Alright, take a seat," Mr. Bentley says as he swivels slightly in his computer desk chair.

I sit down on one of the two leather chairs that are arranged in front of Mr. Bentley's large desk. The chair is soft and well cushioned. I look over at Dr. Welker. She towers over me sitting on top of the desk like that. "Uhm, why is she here?" I ask.

"It's been two months since you signed your employee performance improvement plan," Mr. Bentley points out. "As I explained to you, this is a new cutting-edge alternative to employee discipline. Because it involves medical intervention, it requires supervision from a physician. Dr. Welker here is not only our Chief Psychiatrist on staff. She's a licensed medical doctor."

Dr. Welker crosses her right leg across the left as she knowingly grins at me. "I've got all your blood work right here," she says as she pats her left hand against a file folder sitting next to her on the glass table of the desk. My name is printed on the tab of the file. "According to the report from our endocrinologist, your body seems to be adjusting well to the estrogen we've put you on. Nothing looks concerning to me."

"I wanted to talk about that," I say as my chest caves in, and my stomach feels hard. "These hormones you put me on. I shouldn't be on them. They're for women. Or men who are transgendered. I was hoping..." I hesitate as I grow quiet and zone out for a moment. "Maybe my performance improved. That way you could take me off them. The injections."

Dr. Welker cocks her head to the side as her eyes probe at me from behind her glasses. She's in control. Dominating my body with her exogenous female biological material. Where did the estrogen injected inside of me come from anyway? Female ovaries produce the stuff. It can't be harvested from actual women, can it? No, there was probably a lab somewhere. Vanholt scientists dressed in coats like hers. Using chemistry to mass produce giant vats of the stuff. "Look, you signed the consent to participate in this program," she asserts. "This is a program backed by scientific research that we purchased from a tenured professor at Ivy University. You have to complete it before we can discuss taking you off your medications. Right now, you're in stage one. But I think you're ready to move on. Before we discuss that though. These blood tests show me your body is fine. As I psychiatrist however, I want to know what's been going on in your mind. Have you noticed any effects on your personality?"

My flush face looks down at the hard glossy floor. "Stuff that never affected me before," I begin to explain. "TV shows. Songs on the radio. Even the stupid commercials. They make me all emotional." My voice cracks.

"Uh huh," Dr. Welker says as she nods with a relaxed smile. "That's a good thing. It's showing you're becoming more empathetic. That'll help you. You'll be more conscientious here working at the office. Have you had any depression? Or suicidal ideation?"

I hesitate before fidgeting in my chair. Sure, I'm a little depressed. But I was depressed even before. Prior to the time I began to receive regular injections of biological fluid inside of my ass. It's not like things are any worse. Aside from the anxiety I feel over the prospect of losing my job. The fear of losing even more of my masculinity to my corporate job. "No, I haven't," I partially lie. "Like I said. Those sad moments. They hit a little more often. There's more intensity in them. But they're fleeting. Suicide, that's something I avoid thinking about entirely."

"Great," Dr. Welker says as she leans back and raises her left eyebrow up at Mr. Bentley. "Ok, well let's discuss the next stage. Yes, uhm stage two. That's when... things really get exciting." Dr. Welker keeps nodding her head. The smile on her face looks like it has frozen into place. "Based on the science of toxic masculinity, we've managed to stabilize your hormones to a healthier level. Before, your masculine side dominated over your personality. Now that he's been weakened, the next step is now to liberate your femininity." Dr. Welker grips her hands together before wetting her lips. "Look, I'm just going to say it. You're going to have to start dressing like a woman when you're working at the office."

Mr. Bentley smirks before quickly covering the lower half of his face with a nearby coffee mug he had been drinking from.

"Uh what," I stammer before letting out a bark of laughter. My eyes strain as they search desperately for a mischievous grin. A hint of twinkle behind those lenses of hers. Upon finding nothing, my eyes widen. "You're asking me to crossdress?"

Mr. Bentley lowers the coffee mug, revealing he's regained control over his demeanor. "We're not asking," he speaks with a blunt edge to his voice. "You signed our contract agreeing to participate in this program. We could have brought disciplinary charges against you through HR. It was your choice, not ours. But now that you've agreed to participate, it's too late to back out."

"Wait a minute," I say as I wiggle my restless fingers against my lap. "You said I had to take female hormones. Nobody ever said this would involve me having to dress up as a woman."

"I told you there would be other stages," Mr. Bentley corrects. "You could have sought clarification. This is just another example. You're still not conscientious enough. Those hormones aren't enough on their own. My expectation as your supervisor is that you will dress in appropriate female attire from now on. Starting right now today."

"B-but I... I never agreed," I whimper as I feel my ribs squeeze together. My arms dangle lifelessly to my sides.

Mr. Bentley waves his right hand dismissively as he shakes his head back and forth. "You did agree and you're going to do it," he orders. "Or I will just fire you if that's what you want. Try to find work someplace else. It's risky. Likely would require a lot of interviews. On the spot questioning. Especially about why you were fired from your last job." He squints at me with a hard smile on his face. I hadn't even thought of that. Being asked why I was fired. What if I lied? They'd probably call him and he would tell them the truth. I broke the agreement by not crossdressing. My signature. It's on that performance plan. My stomach knots.

"Look, I knew this was probably going to be a tough adjustment," Dr. Welker quickly interjects before scooting off her perch atop Mr. Bentley's desk. Her feet thud against the ground. "Everything's going to be ok." Dr. Welker wraps her arms around my shoulders and embraces me. My nostrils fill with the smell of her sweet perfume. My body feels so relaxed in the arms of a woman like this. It's been such a long time and she feels so soft. "I have everything you need over at my office. We'll go there together. No one's going to laugh at you or anything. I promise. This is all about increasing empathy at the office."

Dr. Welker escorts me over to her office. I help her lift a green piece of luggage off the ground and on to the top of her computer desk. It thuds. She opens the bag and pulls out what she has brought for me to wear. The first object is a medium length curly haired wig. Next, she pulls out what appears to be a makeup bag. This is followed by a soft black outfit and a matching pair of stockings. She takes out a set of razors. Finally, she pulls out a padded bra and female underwear.

My eyes moisten as they observe the items sitting on the desk. "Why are you making me do this?" I ask as I grit my teeth and my body winces.

"Look," Dr. Welker says as she moves closer to me and reaches out and touches my right arm with both her hands. "This is a new program. It may seem strange and invasive. I was skeptical myself at first. Even though it is based on sound science, we don't know how exactly it will turn out. The important thing at the end of all this is your mental and physical health. That's what I care about the most. These hormones you're on. You can be restored back to how you were. Just as you're taking estrogen now. Later you can take testosterone if that's what's best for you. The aim of this program is to help people. It's helping you right now to keep your job here. But it could have a lot of other applications. We're not going to know though until we try." Dr. Welker embraces me again, pulling her own thin torso against my slim chest. Exposing her vanilla tinged perfume to my nostrils for the second time in the process. "It had to have been hard for you. Making the decision to go on estrogen to save your career. Please, bear with us during this. The responsibilities I have to you as my patient. I take them seriously."

I wipe a tear from my right eye before I nod my head. My eyes glance over at the padded bra before looking over at the wig. "I don't even know where I'd get started," I say. My shoulders slump as I sigh dejectedly.

A woosh sounds as Dr. Welker opens a desk drawer. I hear jingling. She slides it across the desk with a soft creaking noise. The drawer shuts with a slam. It's a key ring holding a single brass key. "Here take this," she says. "There's a private bathroom. From the main elevator. Go left. Pass the conference room. It is at the end of that hallway. You can change in there. Keep the key. You can use the bathroom... if it makes you uncomfortable. You know, using the women's restroom."

My nose sniffles. "Thank you," I say with a sullen nod. My hand clutches the key. It's rigid and jingly.

"Why don't you take the clothing over there now?" Dr. Welker suggests. "I'll wait outside. When you're done. Knock. I'll come in and help you with the wig and makeup." She touches me again. This time my right hand. I blush. I look at her face and she is smiling at me.

3. The Galleria Department Store -- Three Weeks Later

I return my lip-gloss to my Savette summer handbag draped over my shoulder before sliding my hand through a rack of dresses. Just another afternoon. I go to Dr. Welker's office and take my medications an hour before leaving the office. Everything I take always has to be cleared. Dr. Welker needs to confirm I swallowed the medications by inspecting my mouth. She then lets me out an hour early to go shopping. If Vanholt is requiring me to dress this way, then it's only right they count my time shopping as work hours. It also helps widen the window of time to get home, change, and shower before my wife returns from work. My right hand lifts a beautiful amaranth dress. It feels soft and feminine when I touch the material. I see a sign pointing out the direction to the fitting rooms. When I walk in the indicated direction, my heels clack against the marble floor of the department store. I freeze when I see them. A sigh escapes my lips. Sex segregated fitting rooms. They always kill my buzz. I grimace as my eyes look down at the amaranth dress and then back over to the fitting rooms.