The Bamboo Ceiling Ch. 04

"Ah," James pretended to complain, "what a clutz. Would you mind getting those pens for me, Kimmy?"

I rolled my eyes as I turned around, bending over so that James would get that view of my ass that he wanted.

Of course, he took the opportunity to fondle my ass and snap my underwear against my skin.

After I picked up James's mess, I slid the new pants on. They were quite tight.

"I love this cut on you," James admired me while sitting against his desk, "the cut is designed to lift and accentuate your ass. And it's doing wonders for you, Kimmy."

I sighed as I slipped on the blouse. It barely came down far enough to cover my midriff. My tummy would be completely exposed if I raised my arms above my shoulders. I then slipped on the jacket.

"It looks great on you, Kimmy. But you forgot the last piece."

James reached into a white box sitting on his desk and pulled out a pair of black, three-inch heels.

I looked at the shoes, and then at James, dumbfounded.

As if answering the question that I lacked the courage to ask, James said, "Yes, Kimmy. I'm serious. And if you complain about it, then tomorrow it will be thigh-high fuck-me boots. Understood?"

I collected myself for a moment, controlling my breathing. I felt like I was going to pass out. "Yes, Sir."

"Good girl. Now slip these on."

I had to catch myself from falling twice as I walked around James's office, practicing my new look.

James laughed. "I'm not calling an ambulance if you hurt yourself on those. You can stay seated at your desk for the rest of the afternoon, and put your other shoes back on when we leave. But I expect you to practice up and be ready to wear these again tomorrow. Throw your old suit in the garbage can on the way out."

"Yes, Sir."

I turned around and walked toward the door. But as I put my hand on the handle, I found myself unable to open it. This was too far. This was too much. I couldn't wear a literal woman's pantsuit in front of my colleagues. I was already on a probationary plan. No. I wasn't going to do it. I spun around and looked at James. I was going to tell him to go to hell. I was going to tell him that I was moving out. I was going to tell him, as I'd wanted to for a while, 'fuck you, you racist fucking pig.'

James looked at me quizzically, tilting his head. He stood up and approached me. Even in my heels, James towered over me.

"Something seems to be bothering you, Kimmy." James continued to approach.

I wanted to say something. I wanted to do something. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to kick him. To do something. Anything.

But that familiar weight of bricks weighed me down. That familiar shame. Each brick was one experience of a lifetime of reminders of my inferiority, punishing me out of asserting myself or my masculinity.

As James closed the distance between us, I could feel my shoulders slump forward, defeated.

James put his hand under my chin, lifting my face to look at him.

"I know that this is hard, Kimmy. But I think it's for the best. You can't keep clients. You can't keep a girl. It's best that, in both cases, you leave all that to the real men. Tell me, Kimmy, are you a real man?"

My voice cracked as my eyes dampened. "N-no, S-Sir."

"Good girl. And that's why you need a man of the house, isn't it?"

Tears started to form at the corners of my eyes. "Y-yes, S-Sir."

"That's right. So I'm going to relieve you of that burden because you clearly can't carry it. The burden of masculinity. Aren't you grateful that you don't have to carry around that heavy burden anymore?"

A fully formed tear fell from the corner of my left eye as my voice choked up like a hurting child. "T-thank y-you, S-sir."

"That's a good girl," James cooed reassuringly. James put his hands on my waist and pulled me closer to him. "So I'm going to take care of things from now on. You can keep living with me. I'll take care of the clients. I'll keep paying for your food. And I'll make sure that no other men hurt you. Because you clearly can't do that for yourself. Right, Kimmy?"

More tears fell down my cheeks as James reminded me of my inferiority. "Y-yes, S-Sir."

"Good girl. All I need you to do is obey me. Look pretty for me. Cook my meals. Drain my balls. Keep me warm in bed. That's a pretty good deal, isn't it Kimmy?"

For some reason, my breathing slowed and the tears slowed down. That James was putting me in my place in such a profound way tamed my thoughts and calmed me down. "Thank you, Sir."

"Good girl. Now dry your face off and sit here in my office until your eyes aren't red anymore. Then go out and sit at your desk. If anyone laughs at you, ignore them. If anyone asks you what you're wearing or why you're wearing it, tell them that you're just wearing what you feel like matches you on the outside. And if they keep bothering you about it, I'll talk to them. Sound like a plan?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good girl."

James was right. I was a good girl. I was James's good girl. After a lifetime of shame and reminders of my inferiority, James had casually walked into my life and broken me. And now, I was his little sissy secretary.

**TO BE CONTINUED**