Consumerism Ch. 01-10

"One last stop then let's go pay," Mr. Bentley says before smirking at me. He flags down a sales associate with his hand. "Excuse me sir, I'm here shopping with my secretary. Could you please point us towards the lingerie section?" After the associate points in the pertinent direction, my boss courteously thanks him.

"Uhm," I stammer. "I'm not going to wear lingerie underneath my clothes." My eyes blink. I hate social confrontation. I do everything to avoid it. Up to and including crossdressing. Taking female hormones. Letting my male boss buy me dresses and floral perfumes. But I'm not going to wear lingerie. He could wear me down in conversation. My only choice is to give an ultimatum. "If you think I'm going to dress in lingerie for you. Whether it's right now like I did the dress, or later underneath my clothes at the office, no. I'm not doing it. I will quit before doing something like that. Lingerie has nothing to do with toxic masculinity. It has nothing to do with being a better employee. If you're going to have some conversation with me about something as sexualized as wearing lingerie. Well, Dr. Welker needs to be part of it. For my safety and mental health."

"Fine, fine," he responds holding his hands up with his palms pointed towards me. "Just follow me over there. You won't have to try on any lingerie. I promise. Just let me browse a little. For my own personal satisfaction."

A sigh escapes my parted lips as I clack after him. I stop in the aisle when we arrive there and cross my arms over my chest. No way will I go look. He browses with a wide grin, sparkling eyes, bouncing from foot to foot. His masculine hands manipulate frilly female underwear and lacy embroidered brassieres all while his mouth moistens. He takes an outfit off the shelf. His eyes stare intensely at me, and he licks his lips before looking down at it. A green G-string thong transparent on only the top left and right sides, green belt with golden clasps under which is a two-inch-long strap of transparent green fabric that straps with golden clasps to a matching pair of stockings. The outfit of course includes a matching green brassier complete with its own golden clasp accents. The label says Bordelle.

We purchase the items with a corporate credit card. The salesgirl raises her right eyebrow at me when she scans the undergarments he selected. I take home a lovely new yellow dress, matching luxurious heels, and a rose scented perfume that supposedly compliments his smokey woody cologne. I refuse to take the lingerie and leave it in his possession.

7. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office

The main hallway for the Psychiatric Pharmaceutical Division, surrounded on either side by various offices and conference rooms, ends in a doorway into my moderately sized office. Those who visit Mr. Bentley and I are greeted at the entrance of my office with its polished terrazzo flooring consisting of mostly light gray with cobblestone-like darker gray patterning and the occasional blues and browns sparsely dispersed in the uneven and seemingly randomized pattern off shapes. I sit in a black dress and stockings behind my brand new white lacquered L-shaped desk with matching white computer monitor, desktop tower underneath, keyboard, mouse, and desktop telephone. Gone are the stapler, the two-hole puncher, the tape, the basket of pens and the picture of my wife. The only other object on my desk is a small hand-sized pad of neon green lined paper. It is, as he wanted it, now minimalist and free from obstructions.

Mostly windowless, my office relies on sconce calcite lighting. Otherwise, the walls are largely barren except for a framed copy of my nutritional science bachelor's degree and a mounted photo of my departed Pomeranian Sophie. I don't care that he gives me shit for it. She was so considerate to me, never barking at me while I read or typed, laying affectionally in my lap, and she would loyally guard every meal I made. I could leave a steak on the sofa table and go see a movie. It would be there when I returned, and she would have never left its side. From the entrance, a door immediately to the right leads to the executive boardroom. Meanwhile, a door to the back left next to my desk is the sole entry point into Mr. Bentley's office. One of my duties is to keep annoying people from getting inside his office and bothering him.

The door opens to my right and my boss penetrates my office. He wears a teal cashmere Boglioli blazer over a gray vertical striped silk and cashmere long-sleeve shirt. No tie and with a much darker teal pocket square. His black pants are silk and his black dress shoes polished. "You didn't make those reservations yet, did you?" he asks in a strained tone of voice. He approaches my desk, leans in, raises his eyebrows, and purses his lips. I know what he is talking about. The travel approval. We received it this morning.

"Only the flight," I say, shift in my chair, clear my throat and frown. "Was I not supposed to?"

"Did you get first class?" he asks as his feet jitter against the floor.

"Yes, two seats next to each other," I say as I try to keep still and hide a smile inside. "You can have the aisle seat."

Mr. Bentley lets out a breath before a slow smile builds through his parted lips. "Great," he compliments. "I just need to personally approve the hotel room. I'm not deferring to you on that. New York is a hell of a big city. That means a wide variety of accommodations. In quality, expense, and comfort. I don't want to sleep for three nights in a room that doesn't meet my specifications."

"I'm looking at a hotel right now if you want to join me behind the desk." I invite. As he leans over my shoulder, my nose whiffs his smokey sandalwood cologne. It really does pair well with my own rose fragrance. The one he purchased for me. Using the mouse, I show him the available rooms.

"I need to see pictures," he complains, clenches his jaw, and shakes his head.

I click the menu bar. One of the options is rooms. Click. There are a few photos. The rooms look spacious for New York City and well decorated.

Mr. Bentley sneers at the computer screen. "No way," he objects. "Look at those beds. So boring. Bland. Nothing to hold on to. C'mon, surely you can do better than that." It looked fine to me.

I pull up the map showing all the hotels near the Central Office. None of the next three I pull up have photographs of the beds. But he insists. I sigh. The mouse cursor clicks on another hotel on the map, and I navigate to the website. The rooms section loads. There are pictures.

"Now that's a bed," he says with a wide grin on his face and shine in his eyes as he leans in towards me. The headboard of the bed was a series of sturdy golden brass vertical bars arranged so each was evenly positioned in relation to the others connected at the top in a horizontal line to a perpendicular brass bar except the two very edge bars which extended further upwards until expanding into large brass spheres. The footboard of the bed was like the headboard but not nearly as tall. The bedding in the photo was all white including comforter, pillow, and sheets. "The room's a little bit small but I don't mind being a bit cozy."

"So, this is, ok? I ask as I tilt my head to the side and wet my lips.

"It sure is, sweetheart," he responds before chuckling and then smirking at me.

His cologne smells ultra-fine. "Please, stop calling me that," I entreat as I begin booking a reservation.

"Whoa, whoa there," he interrupts, wiggles his right eyebrow at me, grins widely, and chuckles. "Didn't you read the travel approval? Same sex travelers from the same office are supposed to share a room. You just selected two rooms there. As far as I'm aware, you haven't asked HR to change your gender. Maybe I'm wrong about that. You could have recently alerted them. Finally let them know you've decided to transition to a woman. Maybe our recent trips together to the Galleria did it for you. Having another man control how you dress, the shoes you walk in, your little fashion accessories, how you smell." He places his hands on each of my shoulders. The thin straps holding together the top of my dress allow the flesh of his hands to touch directly up against the exposed skin of my shoulders as he massages.

I hesitate, blink rapidly, blush and touch my chin. "I am a man," I insist. "I'm not trans. Dr. Welker says this is medical based therapy based on real science. It isn't meant to transition me to be female. It's temporary and reversible." Why do I always hide behind Dr. Welker? I sound so weak.

"Uh huh," Mr. Bentley waves off. "You know, I still have that lingerie. The claspy green Bordelle. It's in my office. You might want to try how it feels underneath that dress of yours. I think you'll feel more comfortable wearing it underneath your dress." I feel his hands moisten against the skin of my shoulders.

"I told you, I'm not wearing lingerie," I insist. "And if I'm rooming with you and we sleep together. I'm not dressing like this. All feminine like a woman. I'm just going to be myself. A regular dude."

"You have to dress like this," he commands. "Whenever you're working. That includes travel for work. It will include when the two of us sleep together in that brass bed" A pleasurable shiver runs across my back. He knows what he's doing with those hands of his. "Book the room."

"We'll see what Dr. Welker says about all that," I warn. Shit, I did it again. I bite my lower lip to suppress a smile. One from the massage of course. Not the prospect of sleeping with him.

"Book the room," he orders.

I book one hotel room.

8. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office -- Two Weeks Later

I lean back in my desk chair, gloss my lips, and pretend to work while I read an erotic novel on my white desktop PC through my Amazon Kindle account. I wear the yellow dress, the matching Toury Burch stilettos, black stockings strapped to a garter belt underneath my dress, and Portrait of a Lady perfume. The front door of the office begins to open. I collapse the window on my computer.

Mr. Bentley swaggers into my office from the front entrance. He has a wide grin, shiny face, and twinkling eyes. I lean towards him across my desk, wet my lips, and cross my legs. He wears a gray pinstriped Brioni suit over a light blue shirt and a matching dark blue tie and pocket square. "Guess what I just found out?" he teases.

"What?" I say, smiling face, glowing eyes, with rapt attention.

"You know Samantha?" he asks. "The Sales Development Executive. Susana, that girl that cleans our bathrooms. She walked in on her having sex with our Associate General Counsel in the women's room. I'm pretty sure he's married. She was giving him a blowjob in there."

"Really?" I say with raised eyebrows. The scene plays out in my head. Samantha's freckled face between his legs. She wants him to come on her face. Suddenly she realizes she forgot to take her glasses off. It's too late. Susana walks in and sees absolutely everything. My cock throbs underneath the dress I'm wearing. A relaxed smile crosses my face, I lift my chin, and I lean back. My cheeks grow light pink.

Mr. Bentley chuckles. "I figured you'd appreciate hearing about that," he says as he winks at me, licks his lips, and leans in closer. "What with you being a woman and all."

The smile remains on my face as I focus on him with glossy eyes and parted lips. "I'm not a woman," I disagree in part but agree, "I do like to hear gossip though. Especially when it's that... juicy." I shiver.

"Juicy huh?" Mr. Bentley comments and smirks at me as his hands clench together briefly before he releases them. "Interesting way to describe a blowjob. Very Freudian. You want to know my theory about introverts?" He looks at me intently with a gleam in his eye, a knowing grin on his face, standing tall on the other side of my desk, with his chest thrust out. Before giving me an opportunity to respond, he continues, "You all are the biggest perverts out there. Things seem quiet, reserved, respectable on the surface. But inside, you're always analyzing, twisting things. Deducing cruel facts and creating elaborate fictions. You all know yourselves too well. That level of intimacy with oneself. It leads to deviant thinking. The social awkwardness is there for our protection. Safety against your sick desires. Otherwise, you'd manipulate us. Suck us into the miserable abyss of your own degenerate imaginations. Just to make yourselves come."

I giggle. My cock feels so hard. "Maybe so," I tease. "It's a good hypothesis. Maybe something to send over to R&D. See if they can conduct a few trials." It's throbbing.

"Why let them have all the fun?" he flirts. "Just because I'm General Manager doesn't mean I can't get out into the field myself. Conduct my own little experiments on the side." He winks at me before looking over towards the doorway to his private office. "Care to join me in my office?" he asks.

My mouth moistens. I bite down on my lower lip, fidget in my desk chair and blink rapidly. My body hesitates before my eyes suddenly widen and a gasp escapes my mouth. "You're two o'clock conference call," I remind. "It should be starting right now."

Mr. Bentley rolls his eyes, squints at me probingly with a hard smile on his face and cocks his head to the side. "You got it sweetheart," he says before he chuckles and walks towards his office.

As my boss leaves, I slump into the desk chair and let out a relaxed moan through parted lips. Fuck, that got tense. My hand takes the mouse and opens the Amazon Kindle reader back up in my web browser. My left hand caresses my crotch through the dress and underwear. After a few minutes my desk phone rings. My right hand picks the white handset and lifts it off its cream base. "Hello?" I ask.

My. Bentley's voice speaks through the speaker of the phone, "Hey. I have some technical difficulties here with the teleconference. Could you come into my office for a sec and help me out? Oh, be sure to close the door behind you when you come in. The call already started, and I don't want anyone else listening in from the hallway."

My heels clack against the terrazzo floor as I enter his office. Quietly, I shut the door behind me.

"I wanted to thank everyone from the southeastern region for the great work they did on accelerating those stage one trials," a voice drones from the speakers of Mr. Bentley's computer.

"It's on mute. No one can hear us," Mr. Bentley projects over the person talking through his computer speaker. "Come around my desk. I need you to help me out with this."

"Realistically, I think there are three major obstacles we are going to face going forward based on the preliminary issues we've seen..." the speaker blabs.

My heels clack against the floor as I walk around the desk. When I turn the final corner, my eyes bulge, mouth falls open, body freezes and eyebrows raise. Mr. Bentley has undone his gray pinstriped suit trousers and has his long fat cock out resting on top of his right hand. It's big. Bigger than mine. Very masculine. Veiny and hard. I peer at his penis with a pained stare, visibly sweating, while my left hand rubs back and forth against my right wrist. His balls are out. They're also big, fat, hairy, wrinkly, and gross. I look at his computer screen. His camera is recording him but only his shoulders and above.

"The way we deal with that is by thinking outside of the box," the speaker blathers. "Think about things in ways we wouldn't normally. Take different approaches..."

"Don't act like you don't want to help me," Mr. Bentley snaps, scowls at me, taps his foot, and juts his chin out. "Or give me that bullshit that you're not a woman. Pretending like you're not gay. If that's true, prove it. Lift your dress up and show me you're not hard. Erections don't lie sweetheart. I don't have all day here."

"In the future, these sorts of problems are going to be more streamlined by the new process we've put into place to expedite how trial results are reported..." the speaker sounds.

"Lift the dress."

"We want everyone to be on the same page including both supervisors and subordinates..."

"Lift the dress."

"Once everyone's on the same page together things will...."

My trembling hands do what he wants.

A huge tent pokes out the side of my white female underwear. I feel my ribs squeeze hard together. My flush face looks downward, my body collapses in on itself, my eyes go dull, and I whimper.

"You're a slut, I knew it," he insults, strokes his hard cock with his right hand, and smirks at me. "Come, jerk me off. Yourself too. Hurry up."

My posture sags, I bite my lower lip, my skin sweats, and I avoid looking him in the eye. I could report him to HR. The thought of enduring an investigation. The embarrassment it would cause. He would probably lie about what happened. I'm on probation still. What should I expect? Flirting with him like that. It's my fault. My eyes moisten as I slowly step towards him, my face blank and expressionless. I bend over and on to my knees and take his hard penis in my right hand and begin stroking it. It feels strange. Squeezing my hand back and forth another man's larger penis. His shaft is warm. I smell his cologne and the masculine musky odor of his cock and balls.

Mr. Bentley leans back in his seat, tilts his head slightly to the side, maintains strong eye contact with me, and adopts a relaxed smile on his face. "Come on, take yours out as well," he orders. "Come on, slut. Show me your tiny dick. Let me see what the hormones have done to it. I know how much you want to come. We'll both come, don't worry. Take it out."

My stomach knots. I don't want to show him it. He could make fun of me. Mock it for being smaller than his. He's cruel like that. My fingers caress his hard penis. I shouldn't be doing this. Dressing in sexy outfits my male boss bought for me while wearing a wig and makeup for him. Stroking his cock with my hand in his private office while he is on a video conference call. Why was my cock throbbing so hard then? Probably neglect. I had stopped jerking off. Sure, it still felt good to stroke it when I was horny. But there was no reason for me to come anymore. I had been trying different porn and erotica, but nothing worked. Oh well, I better just do what he wants. My left hand reaches below my dress and pulls my feminine underwear down my legs to the knees. I pull out my own cock. Very hard. Smaller than his. Pubic hair wild and untrimmed unlike his neat well-groomed patch. It felt strange. Stroking it with my left hand.

Mr. Bentley chuckles with the relaxed smile still on his face before letting out a slight gasp through parted lips. "It's bigger than I would have thought," he says as his eyes focus down on my smaller penis. It's unclear whether he is teasing or giving me a compliment. Probably teasing. "It's girly though. Your cock. From now on, you need to shave down there. Like you've been doing with your chest and torso."

I frown at my boss, lean backwards, clear my throat, and then look away from him. All as I stroke my hands up and down both his big penis and my own. "Don't be weird," I request. "I'm just helping you out is all. As a guy, I know what it's like. Getting stuck like this." I pant. "If I were you, I'd want some help too. From someone dressed up like me. I get it." I gasp. "It's weird with me being a guy though. That gossip you shared. You just got me a little horny." I moan. "You and I are friends, yes? So, I don't mind doing you this friendly favor." I shudder. "But I'm not your little girlfriend. So, no more with the sweethearts. We've got to stop flirting with each other like this." I warm. "It's so weird to have a guy, my boss no less, say some of the things you do to me. Like asking me to shave my pubes for you." I need to shut up. This rambling makes me sound like an idiot.