Consumerism Ch. 20-29

20. Ways My Life Has Changed

<> He draws a warm bubble bath for me every morning. I relax as he rubs me down in body wash. He pours a bucket over my head and applies shampoo and conditioner to my hair. I no longer wear a wig to work. My hair has grown medium length and now instead he uses curling irons, hairbrushes, and a blow dryer to make my own natural hair curly, feminine, and to his liking each morning.

<> He dresses me. Now literally. It's not just that he picks what I wear. Like a toddler, I hold up my arms and legs for him and allow him to slide bras, panties, dresses, etc. onto my body. He then selects which jewelry he wants me to wear, perfume, and makeup. We apply the cosmetics together as a team.

<> He makes me breakfast every morning. I tried so many times to explain to him that I studied nutrition, and he should let me cook for us since I'm an amateur chef. "You don't like what I have?" he always asks. "Just tell me what you like. I'll buy it and treat you." He's actually a good cook but he lacks creativity. He tends to cycle through the same set of meals. Normally he feeds me himself whatever he makes since my hands are usually handcuffed to the kitchen table above my head while I sit on the ground next to his favorite chair.

<> Every morning he takes the elevator down to the basement garage, enters his Porsche Panamera, runs the AC, takes the elevator back up to his apartment, puts his arm around me, escorts me to his car, opens the door for me, and reaches over to buckle me in. On the way to and from work he tends to put on podcasts and audiobooks. I notice a theme right away. Billionaires. He listens to biographies about them, stories of how they became rich, what they're up to currently. It's boring. I offer to read him erotica off my Kindle account on my iPhone. "Nah, it's for women," he dismisses. When I suggest local news, his response is, "The city's still corrupt. What did you expect? Suddenly it'd fix itself? News is for suckers." The suggestion of classic rock brought this remark, "That shit my dad used to listen to?" Usually neither of us paid any attention to his radio anyway. Instead, he'd talk shit about people at the office or make fun of the other drivers. He also likes to bring The New York Times and have me read him the crossword puzzles and fill it in for him while he drives us around.

<> On weekends, he now expects me to dress like I do at the office. When I asked him to take me to Mikey R's deli for breakfast, he scoffed, "That grease pit of a place? I'm not spending my morning crowded in a room full of sweaty truck drivers. Also, the fat waitresses who live at that trailer park across the street." Maybe it was for the better. They might recognize me.

<> He brings me to nail salon now to get my nails styled. I get them long and colorful for him. At first, I didn't want to. But if I'm dressing like this every day now, growing my hair out long like a woman, there isn't any reason not to. Besides, I love showing up to the salon in his Porsche. Wearing my dress, stockings, and heels. The golden Tiffany bangle on my wrist. It's so odd. All my life I've been awkward and quiet. I can't recall a single time where I walked into a building and people were pleased or excited to see me there. But the nail shop was like that every time. Everyone who worked there wanted to talk to me. Compliment my clothing, hair, and makeup.

<> He locks my cell phone, driver's license, and credit cards in a safe in his closet. When I ask him about my parents getting a hold of me, he shrugs and responds, "Give them my number." After inquiring about needing to call my wife, he suggests, "You have a phone in your office. Knock yourself out. That phone is a distraction here which you and I are better off without." When I ask him about driving or buying things, he says, "I'll buy you things and drive you around. I don't care. Just tell me what you need, and I'll take care of you."

21. Mr. Bentley's Bedroom

I lay in his bed. His warm shirtless body lays next to me, and he snores. The OLED flickers. It's dark outside and I can see the nighttime city skyline out the glass panels leading to his bedroom balcony. I stream a romance movie off HBO Max. A glass of red wine sits on the end table next to me. Sometimes it takes me longer to fall asleep. The wine helps.

God, I want to cuddle him so badly. Let him hold me in his arms and squeeze me while I smell and touch him. Why did I feel so attached to him? This isn't normal for me. Not at all. Every relationship I've had in the past. I bond by spending time with the person one on one. Getting to know them on a deeper level, trusting them, and revealing myself to them cautiously. He's the opposite. I can't think of a time when he ever asked me a question about myself. My opinions; he simply doesn't care. We spend time together, sure. But it's him feeding me, washing me, dressing me, etc. When I try asking him about himself, he brushes me off with simple answers to close off the conversation. I know what he's doing. It's what I do all the time. To avoid small talk. Except he does it to avoid big talk. Everything I know about myself tells me I shouldn't like someone like this. Yet, I lie here next to him so enamored wanting to touch him, be touched by him, and share emotional connections. It's so out of character for me. It's like I'm a character in his videogame and he just used a cheat code. I sigh, drink the wine, and try to stifle my overactive brain.

22. Vanholt Pharmaceuticals Division -- My Office

My next employee performance review is this morning. I have to say I feel a lot better this time around. What's he going to do? Fire me while I'm living with him at his apartment? Not going to happen. My desktop phone rings. Pink painted fingernails wrap around the headset as it lifts to my ear. "Hello?" I answer. "Uh-huh, of course Chief." The phone clicks closed. I stroll over to his office, my black heels clacking. My dress is red rose green leaf patterned over black background. In addition to dress and heels, I wear dark lingerie underneath, black stockings, rose scented perfume, and the bracelet he bought me in New York.

He sits in his office chair dressed in his navy teal pinstriped Attolini suit, white cuffs, cream pocket square, milky white dress shirt, and a matching tie. His eyes beam at me, mouth smiles and he says, "Sweetheart, thanks so much for that memo you prepared this morning. Why don't you come over here? Sit down and give me a kiss."

I look him in his eyes, stride over to him, sit in his lap, dangle my legs over him, pucker my glossy lips, give him a kiss, and playfully bite his lower lip before pulling away and smiling. At no point did I feel his penis throb against my ass. How unusual. Normally when he invites me into his office like this it's because he wants to sex pest.

Dr. Welker dressed in a white lab coat over green blouse and black slacks enters his office and shuts the door behind her. It thuds and clicks. Her hands hold a file folder with my name on the tab.

I blink at her, blush, attempt to dismount him only to feel him grab and hold me in place, and my throat clears.

Dr. Welker shrugs, unhurriedly walks to one of the two leather seats, eases her body into a chair, and crosses her legs. "It's ok," she says as she raises her right hand and displays her palm to us. "I know about you and Brad. That you're... together. Nothing to be ashamed of. I'm the LGBT coordinator for the psychiatric division. There are some counseling materials in my office I can give to you later if you're interested."

I fidget in his lap, look at the closed door to his office, and bite my lower lip. His arms cradle me, and his posture is relaxed.

Dr. Welker opens the file she's holding and stares down at it through her glasses. "How has he been doing, Brad?" she asks, retrieves a pen from her lab coat pocket, and clicks the bottom of it.

"She's made improvements across the board," Mr. Bentley responds, squeezes my body, and grins. "Stage two, it was executed with flawless precision. Something that this division hasn't seen in a while. A genuine scientific accomplishment."

Dr. Welker lifts her chin, adopts a relaxed smile and nods her head. "I wouldn't say flawless though," she says, makes eye contact with me, raises her eyebrows, and purses her lips. "How have you been feeling? You haven't had any more thoughts about it, have you? Suicide."

I shake my head and answer, "No, I'm fine Doc."

Her eyes focus on me through her frames and she smiles. "It makes me so happy to hear you say that," she says. "Well in that case, I see no reason for us not to go ahead and proceed to stage three."

"Stage three?" I ask, stiffen my body, stare at her, and tilt my head to the side. "W-what's that?"

"Breast augmentation," Mr. Bentley whispers to me, massages my shoulders, and nibbles on my right ear.

My eyes widen slightly, my neck hairs tingle, and I swallow hard. "Surgery, that sounds so... permanent," I object. "I still haven't made up my mind. About transitioning. I like the way things are now. The possibility of going back if I need to. What do they call it? Fluid." He holds me in his arms, feels warm against my body, and I smell his smokey cologne.

Her features soften, mouth assumes a small smile, and her body faces me straight on. "No matter what, it's going to be ok," she reassures. "The accounting office has already allocated the funds. They did not spare or cut corners. This is a $50,000 high end surgery. No visible scaring. It isn't permanent and they can be removed or adjusted. Look, I understand. It's not easy to make decisions like this. But if you're in a relationship with Brad, you must consider him as well. I've been very respectful referring to you by your preferred pronouns. You notice it though right. When I call you him. The disappointed look in his eyes. Brad and I go way back. I know he likes women. Not men. One option you have is to hold on to this aspiration of living as a man again. If that's what you want, you should stop leading Brad on. Otherwise, maybe this surgery is the perfect way to show him you care about him. Imagine how much more affectionate the two of you will be with one another. Once you have a body shape that suits his tastes as a man."

I imagine breaking up with him. My mornings would be so different. Who would dress me, curl my hair, and feed me? I'd have to drive myself to work. Open myself up to getting hassled by the cops again. I'd be so vulnerable. Without him. I rub his chest, nuzzle him, and cling to his upper body. "Is that what you want Chief?" I ask.

"The sooner the better," he replies, chuckles, adopts a knowing grin, and looks at me with gleaming eyes.

"Well, it is going to have to be," Dr. Welker says as she scribbles something into the file folder with my name printed on it. "The surgery date is next Tuesday."

"N-next week?" I stammer, fidget in Mr. Bentley's lap, rub my chin and clear my throat.

"I booked the surgery date months ago," Dr. Welker explains as she shuffles paper around in the file folder. "This took a lot of time and paperwork to get all the funding approved and allocated where it needed to be. We could've pushed it back, if necessary, but it sounds like we're all on the same page here, so it'd be best not to dwell any longer on it. Both of you will receive medical leave Tuesday through Thursday. I will give your medications to Brad, and you will have to clear them with him after taking them like you do at my office."

23. The Pinnacle Highrise Luxury Tower -- Next Wednesday

I lay in bed and he tends to my every need. Warm soups, hot meals, hand fed ice cream. He changes my bandages, takes my temperature, massages me, and helps me pick out movies to watch. Not once does he leave my side, nor does he ever make a complaint. It's like having my own personal servant. He even climbs on to my bed, fingers my asshole, and rubs my cock until I come for him. "Trust me, this helps with the healing," he says. I know he is full of shit, but it feels good anyways. When I look at my chest with the bandages off, I can hardly believe it. I have large breasts for real now. They feel amazing and remind me of my wife's. Right now, they're all bruised and painful though. That's kind of what it's like being with him in general. In many ways, it's very comfortable and I always feel well taken care of. At the same time though, I'm always bruised and in pain.

24. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office

"I'm sorry, I told him to wait in the lobby and I would retrieve you, but he wouldn't listen," says Fleming, our head of security.

I look inwardly while facing you, frown, and pull back slightly. "Why are you still bothering me about this?" I ask and sigh. "I have not driven once since. Nor have I seen my wife, thanks to you. What more could you want from me?" I wear a green lacey dress over a garter belt strapped to black stockings, green heels, several brass bracelets on my left wrist and a matching Saint Laurent handbag sits on my white desk.

"Look ma'am, I need you to come with me so I can complete my investigation," you say, hide behind aviator sunglasses, and appear stoic. You wear a police vest and duty belt over an officer's uniform.

My eyes narrow at Fleming, my mouth grimaces, and my jaw clenches. I don't care that he used to be a Navy SEAL or whatever. He has one simple job here and he can't even manage that. You never should have been allowed inside my office. "Am I under arrest?" I ask.

"You are being detained," you clarify. "You're required to come with me. I will need to cuff you."

"Whatever," I grumble, stand up, step away from my desk, turn around, and stick my hands behind my back. Your handcuffs rattle and feel cold as you restrain me.

"Come on officer," Mr. Bentley teases as he stands in the doorway between our offices. "She likes it tighter than that. Don't let her fool you with how she looks. She's got the pain tolerance of a man."

You press your lips together and turn away from him as you lock my handcuffs. "Excuse me?" you ask.

"You heard what I said," Mr. Bentley taunts, smirks at us, and snickers.

"Who are you exactly?" you ask, stand behind me, and place your right hand on my left shoulder.

"Bradley Bentley," he answers, thrusts his chest out, adopts a toothy grin, and holds his chin up high. "This office. Hell, the whole division. This building you're currently trespassing in. It all belongs to me. Including her. My secretary you've handcuffed there. It's ok. She's naughty, I get it."

"Well, it is an impressive office," you say, grab on to me and push me in the direction of my office entrance. "I should give you a ride-along tour of the streets someday. You can see firsthand all the great work your drugs are doing at solving people's problems. Not surprising at all with such a professional sounding leader running things." You escort me towards the door.

Mr. Bentley frowns, hesitates, and fails to respond in kind. Before we exit, he shouts, "Remember what to say when he questions you. We'll take care of this. I'll let your attorney know what's happened."

I shoot Fleming a dirty look as we exit my office.

25. Police Station -- My Interrogation

I stare blankly at you.

"Do you... need me to read them again?" you ask as you stare down at the card you're holding in your hand.

"No, I understand my rights," I respond, shrug my shoulders, and lean back. We're in a small concrete room. A table separates us. The only other thing in the room is a video camera recording us affixed to the wall in one of the corners near the ceiling.

You pause. There's silence. Finally, you ask, "So are you not talking to me then? Like your boss told you not to."

I wrinkle my nose, slightly grimace, and waffle. "He doesn't control everything I do," I finally say. "I will talk. Just so long as you take off your sunglasses. I want to look you in the eyes. Besides, we're inside. You look silly."

"That's fine," you say, remove your aviators, fold them, and set the glasses down gently on the table next to you. You look at me and finally I see your eyes. "The day I pulled you over. Be honest with me. You were on drugs."

"I do not use drugs," I deny.

You get up, exit the cell, the metal door creaks and slams shut. A printer whirs distantly and stops. The door opens again, and you return to your seat holding a piece of paper. "This is a report from the crime lab," you explain. "I had your blood tested. It's positive. For amphetamines and MDMA. You were using drugs. They impaired your ability to drive."

My head shakes repeatedly, my right-hand lifts and faces its palm towards you, and my voice quakes as I respond, "That's not possible. It must be some sort of mistake. Like I told you, I don't use drugs."

"Well, help me to understand," you say, touch my right hand with your left, look at me, and lean forward. "You mentioned something during the stop. They your work was giving you pills and hormones."

"That is true," I confirm. "I'm not certain what it is. All the medicines they make me take. She did say it was possible. There could be a false positive."

You pause and purse your lips. Your eyes narrow at me, and your neck appears tight. "Look ma'am, somethings not adding up here," you say. "You're an executive at a pharmaceutical company. So maybe you know more about this subject than I. But I've never heard of this before. Someone not knowing what medications she's taking. A job requiring its employees to take hormones."

"I'm the Executive Assistant," I clarify, look inwardly, and hesitate. "I didn't know this was what you were going to ask about. I'm not sure I should talk to you about it. It's embarrassing anyways."

You grow still, stare at me, and pause. Finally, you ask, "Do you need me to read from my card again?"

"No, it's fine," I answer, sigh, and shake my head. "I was really surprised. When they offered me this position. It pays way more than what I was making before. I didn't realize it at the time. By accepting the job, I got put back on probation. My boss. The one you met back at my office. He didn't like the job I was doing. They put me on some employee improvement plan. It requires me to take hormones and pills and crossdress at the office. They even..." I sigh, bow my head, look downward, and feel my ribs squeeze. "They pressured me into getting a boob job..."

Your eyes focus on the cleavage poking out the top of my gauzy dress. "Where does the medication come from?" you ask.

"I don't know," I admit. "There's a psychiatrist there. She has a license to prescribe medications. Supposedly she writes the scripts and obtains them from a pharmacy for me. But I really have no idea. These people who run things over there. My boss and Dr. Welker. There is a lot of power behind them. They manage labs all over the country with access to experimental drugs. Hundreds of scientists work for them."

You frown, squish your eyebrows together and blink at me. "I don't understand," you say. "You're really telling me you crossdress, take female hormones, and unknown drugs which might not even be licensed by the FDA just because these people tell you to?"

I grow quiet, slump into my chair, and look down at the table. He would never understand.

"Do you want something to drink?" you ask.

"Yes," I say. "Coke Zero, if you have it."

You get me a cola. It's fizzy and sweet in my mouth.

"Why?" he asks as he stares at me across the table.

"I am a quiet person who just wants to be left alone," I ty to explain, clink my bracelets, rock in my chair, and my legs feel restless.