Consumerism Ch. 01-10

Mr. Bentley lets out a gasp before focusing intensely on my made-up face with all its eyeliner, glossy rose painted lips, pink blush, and bold eyeshadow, his body trembles, and his eyes shine. "Keep working my cock," he orders through a throaty moan. "Those hands of yours. They're so hot. Feminine and small. They really compliment my long and big cock. Don't you think?"

He's right. My hands are small. There is something piquant and provocative about my thin digits wrapped tightly around his large and masculine penis. Based on just the hand I'd never guess it wasn't a girl jerking him off. It felt great in my hand as well. Warm, alive, throbbing, hard, powerful. "Mmhmm, they go great together," I admit, blink my eyes, blush, and smile nervously. Another moan escapes out from my parted lips. I don't regret acknowledging that to him. Just me being earnest.

Mr. Bentley mutes the volume of his computer speakers. The blathering corporate background nonsense ceases. Suddenly it is silent in the room except for the sound of two penises stroking simultaneously. Skin sliding back and forth against skin. I close my eyes and let out a moan. When my eyes open again, I see him sitting there smirking at me in his Brioni suit. I avert my gaze and sigh.

"Oh God yes," he celebrates and blushes through measured breaths. His cock throbs in my gentle hand. He moans out parted lips, opens his legs up wider, tilts his head back and begins to breathe faster.

I yelp as a big gloopy glob of his come shoots out his hard penis. My hand can barely control its recoil. His big jerking penis captures the attention of my over-bright eyes with laser focus and my breaths quicken. I pump and I squeeze, and I stroke. He comes, shoots and comes again on to the terrazzo floor. There is so much of it. It must feel so good shooting that much. "Keep going," I encourage as I rub his shaft and coax out more and more of his juicy come. By the time he is finished, a thick puddle pools onto the glossy ground. "Wow, that's a lot of come..." I mutter softly under my breath in a shaky voice, my eyes wide staring at the puddle and my mouth partially open.

His own mouth hangs open and his eyes close before he opens them again. A long gasp easily escapes from his chest. He lifts his chin, sighs in satisfaction, leans back in his seat, and adopts a relaxed smile on his face. "That was wonderful sweetheart," he compliments. "Now you come as well. You earned it with that friendly favor you just gave me. Go ahead and come sweetheart. If you need me to assist in any way let me know. Please come for me."

My adulterous right hand swats the left away much to the joy of my jealous penis. It's rock hard and ready to go. I stroke it with intimate familiarity. The specter of another ghostly cold load haunts me. Better prepare myself for disappointment. Oh well, I might not truly come but a load is a load and its better than going back to work with my penis like it is now. Where to shoot it? My eyes stare at the thick puddle of my boss's come. Shameful. Why am I such a nasty little perv like that? Well, might as well not get the floor any dirtier than it is. Hehe. My body rocks with intense shivers, it tingles all over, my mouth falls open, I gaze inward, and a gasp followed by a moan exits out my face. I start to come, not just shoot a cold load, but a warm and wonderful come that I had missed for so long. A real orgasm again with euphoric bliss. I pant as I send my own come into the puddle to join with my boss's. The shivering feels wonderful. My eyes moisten. Dr. Welker was right. Nothing was wrong with me penis. It must have been my mind. But why was it different this time? I look over at my boss above me. He smirks at me.

My heels clack against the hard office floor as I return to my desk and open a drawer with a woosh. I retrieve a spray bottle and some sanitary wipes. I clack back over into his office. The blathering conference call has resumed. I hum to myself as I return towards his desk and carefully kneel while avoiding the live camera. The bottle spritzes a few times before I clean up our pooled together come using the wipes. When I stand up, I notice again the perverted artwork behind his desk. Why did I do that with him just now? It was so gross. My eyes glass, chin drops to my chest, shoulders hunch, and head shakes.

9. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- Private Bathroom

My eyes stare down at my hands, nose sniffles, face puffy and red, chin trembles, and I sob. I just can't handle it right now. All those years growing up. Going to school and college. Not once did I ever suspect I might be gay. I whimper and wipe tears from my eyes. I thought I knew everything about myself. The things I like. What I don't like. All that intimate time spent solitary. I always thought I was my own best friend and lover. How could I have kept something like this from myself? The crying resumes. Fuck these hormones. No, I can't blame them. Only myself. The fucking social anxiety. I let it get out of hand. Spent too much time sheltered. Me in that office jerking him off... My head shakes, cheeks burn, and shoulders hunch. I'm so gross. My eyes draw close, my brow creases, and my face goes slack. My posture collapses, I mumble incoherently, and rub my hands against my forearms. I cry and I sob, and tears flow. In the bathroom mirror, my eyes watch my mascara and eyeliner trickle down my face.

10. The Pinnacle Highrise Luxury Tower -- Mr. Bentley's Birthday Party -- Three Weeks Later

I bite my lip, sigh, and cross my legs. He had asked me again to model it for him. The Bordelle. It's what he wanted for his birthday. Of course, I said no. It's inappropriate. Wearing lingerie for your boss's own sexual entertainment in his private high-rise apartment. Ever since I refused, it's been hell. All week he has ignored me at the office. Normally, I'm happy to be left alone. I can entertain myself just fine. But he had addicted me to it. His flirty small talk. Prior to this week, he was always coming over to my desk and making inappropriate comments. He'd compliment how I look only to brag and take credit for it based on whatever outfit he dressed me in that day. Whenever I was meeting with and helping someone out in my office, he'd open his door and come out and make some veiled reference to our little affair during the conference call. He rambled on one time, "I had a real hard issue come up while I was on a call. She grasped the problem right away and really took hold of the situation. Quickly applied some elbow grease. Things got a bit messy, but she managed to clean it all up. She's handy like that." Another time, the front reception desk secretary who I supervise complimented me on my clean office. He barged in and wisecracked about him personally witnessing my mastery of the spray bottle and wipes before winking at me. There are so many examples, these are just two of my favorites.

The thing I like most about his flirts is that he doesn't expect anything in return. He seems to enjoy embarrassing me and seeing me flustered. But I never feel pressured by him to flirt back. He always returns to his desk right afterwards. It's like he knows me too well. Every time he steps back into his office, I relax in my chair and deliberate over the latest gross thing he said about me over and over again in my head. Soon I lose myself in my imagination. Fantasies fill my mind of carrying on an affair with him. Being his mistress, slutting for him, converting my one-time friendly favor into an ongoing binding entitlement. It's disgusting, I know. I'm married. More importantly, we're both men. Maybe I'm sort of gay for him but that doesn't make it ok. Despite some latent desire, the consensus inside my head is firmly against doing anything further sexually with him. But the flirting, I want him to resume. He is my friend after all, and I adore his witty banter.

I sit by myself cross-legged on the very edge of Mr. Bentley's ultrawide yellow leather sofa, probably big enough to fit six different people near the corner of his apartment. The sofa sits on white granite tiles with the occasional gray streak. A yellow rug tops the floor space across the sofa upon which a smaller footrest matching the appearance of the sofa sits. The walls connecting the corner consist of a series of large floor to ceiling transparent glass panels. Outside the windows is a gorgeous view of downtown. Small, illuminated windows pepper the various skyscrapers surrounding the Pinnacle while the roads glow warm shades of yellow and orange below. The atmosphere is loud for my tastes with people talking, drinks pouring, and jazz music playing. I normally would only invite one to three other people to such an event. At the same time, there aren't too many people here. It isn't rambunctious or anything. I wear a teal dress, copper bracelets on my left arm, Portrait of a Lady, black stockings, and black heels.

Dr. Welker nestles into the sofa next to me holding two glasses of white wine in each of her hands. She wears a lovely lavender dress underneath one of the same white lab coats she tends to wear at work. Even I know it's silly of her to wear a coat like that at a party. It's ok though. She endears me by always dressing like a doctor. She hands me one of the glasses and offers, "Here, have some of the Les Clos Grand Cru. Brad doesn't skimp when it comes to the wine he serves at parties. I noticed you're by yourself over here. Is everything ok?"

I take the glass and sip it. My mouth savors its rich and compact flavor tinged with yellow-cherry and layered with tannic bite. Alcohol. It can help sometimes when I am at events like this. It puts the judge on vacation. Let's me come out of my shell a bit. But it was dangerous too. The judge always returns and usually when he does, he's pissed off bearing a paddle. "Everything's fine," I lie. "I love the view of the city over here." I stare out the high-rise windows.

Dr. Welker imbibes some of her own Chablis as she studies me through her glasses, furrows her brow, and leans slightly away from me. "Somethings bothering you," she asserts, nods her head, and maintains eye contact with me. "I'm a psychiatrist. These things I pick up on." Dr. Welker's eyes wander around the room. We are by ourselves out of earshot of anyone else at the party. Nonetheless, she lowers her voice. "Have you discovered anything new? I'm talking about that sexual problem you reported to me a while back."

"No, it's still all screwed up," I partially lie, pinch my lips together, shake my head, and sigh. After extending my friendly favor to Mr. Bentley, I hoped I was cured. But when I watched my usual porn on my phone, the cold lifeless orgasm returned. Curiosity led me to try gay pornography, but I couldn't get an erection watching it. Reluctantly, I pulled up pornography involving crossdressers. The thumbnails were as far as I got. Honestly, some of the sleazy still shots did make my heart race, my eyes sparkle, and my pulse quicken. But then I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, my body became uncomfortably warm, and I couldn't sit still in my seat. I put my phone away and took a cold shower instead.

Dr. Welker focuses her gaze down at her glass of Chablis, cocks her head, and pauses. "I can tell, you know," she reveals. "Your body language. Tone of voice. Us psychiatrists are taught ways of analyzing our patients. Detecting when they lie to us. I'm not accusing you of lying. But you're withholding something from me. I can't treat you. Not if you're going to be dishonest with me."

I sup wine, look away from her, my face flush, my smile nervous, I hesitate. I sigh. "You're right," my shoulders slump as I confess. "There was one time where I had a normal orgasm again. I did what you suggested. I... I had an affair. It felt like I was cured. But ever since. It's reverted to how it was."

"My initial conclusion must have been correct," Dr. Welker validates and thumbs her nose like a violin. "Your condition. The hormones aren't causing this. It's psychosomatic. Your wife. Are you sexually attracted to her?"

I blink rapidly, fidget, and hesitate. The last thing I wanted to talk about right now was my wife. "Well, I used to be," I respond. "Our relationship. Well, I would describe it as troubled. There's not a whole lot of affection there..."

"That bothers you, huh?" Dr. Welker asks, holds her chin high, gleams at me through frames, and assumes a knowing grin. "A lack of affection." Her right hand gently caresses my left shoulder. "What about this person you're having an affair with? Are you sexually attracted to them?"

"Oh well," I stammer, clear my throat, and press my right hand into a fist against my thigh. "No, I'm not attracted to him. Erm, her I mean, her." A strangled-sounding laugh leaves my lips. "Well, that's not completely fair. She's not physically attractive. But there is chemistry. Her and I, our personalities. But... Well, I don't want to get into. It's embarrassing."

"I'm your physician," Dr. Welker points out. "Everything you tell me is confidential. I'm obligated to keep it private and not share it with other people. You can trust me."

"Fine," I resign, my face flushes, I grimace, and my body sweats. "The relationship is inappropriate. For a lot of reasons. The big one being that it's been while I've been dressed like this. I don't want to be a woman. Yet that's how she treats me. Is it fun and exciting? Sure. But it's weird and uncomfortable and makes me feel gross as well."

"I'm sorry that its like that for you," she says as she squeezes my left shoulder with her right hand. "Has anyone made fun of you since you started dressing like this at the office? How have people been treating you?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Obviously everyone seemed really surprised," I explain. "But they were all very nice and supportive. It really bothered me. All the people congratulating me for transitioning. I'm not. This is only temporary. To solve my work issues. But I can't fault them for just trying to be nice to me. I do like how people have treated me though. The hugs and smiles I've gotten." I hesitate. "Well, then there is Mr. Bentley. He has teased me about it." My hand raises the glass to my lips. My nostrils whiff crisp peach.

Dr. Welker leans towards me, tilts her head to the side, and raises her eyebrows. "How do you feel about that?" she asks. "I know how Brad can be sometimes."

I pause, relax on the sofa, look back outside the windows at the warm colored streets below and yawn. "It's fine," I said. "At first, I thought he was being cruel. But he just has a strange sense of humor. I do too. He's mad at me right now though. We haven't been speaking. It's not right. I want to talk to him." I pause again, my face red, my fingers flex in my lap, and I gaze around the room. "I'm lousy at it though. Having tough conversations."

"I see," Dr. Welker responds, nods her head, and pauses. "Well, you might have to make a choice. You can pursue sanctity. Remain faithful to your wife. Avoid unconventional experiences that make you uncomfortable. Retain a sense of cleanliness and purity. Of course, if that is what you want your brain will follow your lead. It's going to discourage you from masturbating, using sex for pleasure, or consuming pornography. As it should if that is what you truly want." She thumbs her nose. "Otherwise, you can choose to experiment with new experiences. Use this time where you're dressed like a woman, full of female hormones, as an opportunity to explore. One thing to note about the second option. There is no shame in it. Everyone will support your decision. No one will judge you for it. Just like you've been treated well so far. You can always return to sanctity later."

My nose wrinkles, lips press together in a slight grimace, my head shakes, and I repeatedly open my mouth before changing my mind about what I want to say. Finally, I sigh. "Things are never easy, are they?" I ask in a strained voice.

"As to Brad," Dr. Welker begins before continuing, "why don't you follow me around while I talk to some people? I'll control the conversation. Make sure no one puts too much pressure on you. Drink a few more glasses of wine. Once your nice and loosened up, I'm sure you two can work things out with one another."

After consuming a few additional glasses of wine, my anxiety recedes, and my body relaxes. I'm now ready to speak to him. I look at my boss, bite my lip, blink, and look at the front door of the apartment leading outside to the hall. The wine tastes lovely as I take another sip. I approach him evidently with clacking heels. "Hi," I say meekly, my stomach roils, eyes strain as I force them to look at his own, and my face blushes. "I was hoping..."

"Hrmph," he grunts, sneers at me, rolls his eyes, and tilts his head away from me. "I see you've been indulging in my Chablis. Enjoying my birthday as if it were your own to celebrate. Slinking around in the background. You embarrass me, you know. What does it suggest about me, General Manager, when my own Executive Assistant is not attentive to me on my birthday? You let Anne pour you wine but not me. This whole time I'm over here. I'd be so glad to pour you a glass. To watch you drink and get buzzed and silly. You could cling to my shoulder while I go around speaking with my guests. I'd introduce you and then you can be quiet and hang on me, and we'll ignore you as we talk. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"Y-yes..." I stammer, sharply inhale, and smile nervously at him. "I missed speaking to you this week..." I paw at his chest, blush, and think about how I want to kiss him and would do so if it wasn't for the other people around. I try to hug him, but he steps away from me. My hand quickly raises the wineglass to my lips. His own hand grasps the back of my glass, and he tilts it back for me. I sup his rich white fluid.

"That's a good girl," he praises, smirks, holds his chin high, and focuses intensely on my made-up face. He wears a gray three-piece Armani suit made of wool and cashmere consisting of jacket, vest, and trousers. Underneath is a black turtleneck and no tie. Only the thin tip of his white pocket square is visible in his left shirt pocket. "You know, it's my birthday today. I didn't see you bring in a gift. There could of course be one hiding in your purse. A tiny one. Or maybe you decided to give me what I really wanted. What I asked you for. I thought you'd change your mind. It's sitting on top of my bed right now. We can be alone together there. In my bedroom. I'll bring a bottle of Grand Cru." He pushes my glass up again allowing me to imbibe more wine.

Fuck, I was so worried about him being mad at me. It never occurred to me to get another gift. I hesitate, blink, the smile on my face wavers, my eyes look at him and then away and back and repeats, and I swallow. "A-are you sure that's what you want?" I ask as my body trembles, my mouth fakes a smile, and I force eye contact. "My body. It's not all curvy. Like a woman would be. It'll look awkward in that." I sigh, blush, and look away from him.

He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, releases my wine glass, and strokes my left cheek with the back of his right index and middle fingers. "It'll be hot," he disagreed. "I don't care you're flat right now. What matters is you're my secretary. You've followed my orders before. Been submissive to me. I want to privately celebrate my birthday with you in lingerie in my bedroom. Are you going to give me my birthday gift or are you just wasting my time leading me on?"

The smile on my face appears frozen. I wet my lips, grip my hands together, chew the inside of my cheek, and look inwardly. I smell his sandalwood cologne. It's so noisy out here. One on one conversations are so much better. His jacket really makes his shoulders look broad. Who keeps laughing so loudly over there? I wonder what his bedroom looks like. His chest felt hard when I touched it. I need more wine but there's too many people over there now. If we were alone, we could be more affectionate with one another. I face him, let out a cleansing breath, move in closer, lift my head, and look him in the eyes with a nod. "Okay," I agree.