The Bamboo Ceiling Ch. 11

This story contains dark, graphic content and potential trauma cues for sensitive readers. This is purely a work of fiction, by and for consenting adults. Any resemblance to real people or entities is unintended and purely coincidental.

If you have any feedback or would like to commission a story, please email me or reach out through the site's feedback feature.

---

Chapter 11: Flight to Thailand

I stood next to James as he ate breakfast and read his newspaper. James was, by far, the youngest person I'd met who still read a physical newspaper. As James instructed I do as he ate, I kept my head bowed and my arms folded in front of me.

James sipped his coffee as he sat at the end of his long dining table. His cup held exactly eight ounces of French-pressed dark roast and exactly one ounce of cream. I knew this because, had I not prepared it to his exact specifications, cruel punishment would have followed. Next to his coffee sat his half-eaten breakfast. At his request--though 'request' was too soft of a word for James's breakfast orders--I had spread cream cheese over sourdough bread, then topped it with smoked salmon.

I was barefoot. James liked the idea of keeping me 'barefoot in the kitchen.' Indeed, I was completely nude from my feet up until my upper thighs, which were barely covered by a short, black and white skirt. The skirt barely came below my white, lacey thong panties, which themselves did nothing to cover my bulbous ass. By contrast, the thong panties quite wide enough to cover my shriveled cock. My implant scars had healed, giving James full license to grope and fondle my newly inflated posterior.

My midriff was also bare, though I wore a cropped, corset-style top. It was a corset only in name and style, as it left my waist and tummy exposed. However, it pushed my budding C cups up and together, complimenting my other new 'assets.' Apart from my perfectly applied makeup and hair, the only other article I wore was a pair of chopsticks through the bun in my hair. James, the racist asshole that he was, spent his entire life fetishizing Asian women. Thus, it was unsurprising that he preferred my hair in a tight bun with hair sticks crossed in the back.

As time passed, I settled into my role as James's functional Asian trophy wife. Indeed, as much as I was loathe to admit it, this brought me a sense of fulfillment that I never had as an independent, white-collar professional. I never succeeded in the finance world. But being James's possession gave me a sense of belonging. Of purpose. In James's house, I found my place. I knew my role. I had quickly learned to predict what James wanted or needed before he even asked for it. Initially, I loathed the thought of being James's bitch. But I was good bitch.

"We're going to take a trip, Kimmy," James's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Since the local economy is slogged, the firm is wants to expand abroad."

James set his newspaper on the table, picked up his coffee, and turned to look at me. "I've convinced the partners that we should start tapping into Thailand. There's an untapped pool of tech talent there. But between you and me, I want an excuse to expense some time in Bangkok."

James's eyes traveled down my body. "Have you ever been to Bangkok, Kimmy?"

"No Sir." I kept my head bowed but looked up toward James with my eyes. Even seated, James's head was barely lower than mine.

"I didn't think so. But you'll like it there. I've fucked Asian cumsluts all over the world. Those feminine, bubbly guys in Korea and Vietnam still claim some vestiges of masculinity, all the way until I've taken them to my hotel room and fucked them. But less so in Thailand. And thank god for that! It peeves the fuck out me when I have to beat that shit out of a bitch. I'm sure you've heard of a 'ladyboy' in your pathetic porn usage, right Kitten? There's a population of sissies in Thailand who just lean into their femininity. Kind of how I've helped you lean into yours. Aren't you grateful that I've helped you accept what you really are?"

"Yes, Sir." I hated it when James made me affirm in any way what he did to me.

"'Yes, Sir'... what?" James looked at me expectantly. Of course, he wasn't satisfied with my answer. This arrogant prick wanted me to grovel in my gratitude.

"Thank you for making me your sissy slave. Being your personal maid and fuck toy is the best thing that's happened to me. I belong here, and I'm grateful to be your bitch. Thank you for being my Daddy."

I hated myself for knowing exactly what James wanted to hear. My self-loathing was even greater knowing that, deep down, everything I had just said was true.

"That's a good girl." James pulled his chair back from the table and patted his lap. I hurried toward him and lowered my ass onto his thigh. This act excited me, which only intensified the repulsion I felt at myself. I was disgusted that, in that moment, I hoped that this act of intimacy would intensify to James bending me over the table and fucking me.

James swung me sideways, lifted my legs such that they swung over his thighs, then pulled me in by the waist. He then leaned in and kissed me.

Ever since James had bought me lip injections, he was much more prone to passionately kissing me. Indeed, ever since he 'affirmed' my sissy identity with the implants, his fucking became even more frequent and intense. Although James still treated me like a walking fuck toy, what he did to me had started to feel more like 'making love.' The way he treated me started to resemble the real Asian women he brought over. Whereas before, he might snap his fingers and point at the ground; now, he would deeply kiss me before pushing me to my knees.

After James broke the kiss, I exhaled and moved toward him, unwilling to let his mouth go. I loved the feeling of James's lips and skin against mine. Lately, he'd kept his facial hair in a constant five-o'clock shadow, and the roughness against my perfectly smooth face sent tingles down my spine.

James laughed at my eagerness. "Someone's a thirsty slut this morning."

I blushed and looked down.

James continued, "I can't wait to introduce you to some of the girls there. This is going to be good for you. And for me. I want your things to be packed by the end of today. Our flight leaves tomorrow."

---

I spent the rest of the day anxious about the flight. James's firm had a private jet, but it was in use for another project. Thus, James and I would fly out of a public airport. Even though our tickets were for first class and on a luxury airline, this would be the first time I'd been in public since my operation.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I was sure that I would pass as a woman. But being out and passing was new to me. I planned to contour my face to make it rounder and to wear (with James's permission) a long coat to cover myself.

"Oh, no you don't," James said as he walked in on me, holding a long jacket against myself. "The point of a trophy wife is to show her off. You'll wear something tighter. And short. When you're in public, your body is for men to ogle."

"Yes, Daddy." A cocktail of anxiety and defeat welled up within me.

James pulled a teal wiggle dress out of my closet and handed it to me.

"Your ass and hips look great in this. Build an outfit around this. And be ready by seven in the morning. I will want breakfast and coffee as usual."

"Yes, Sir," I murmured as James walked out my bedroom door.

I laid out the dress along the side of my bed. I picked out an azure blue bra and panty set from my drawer and set it next to the dress. It was the closest I had in color, and the least likely to be visible through the thin, tight fabric. I then set a pair of white, open-toe heels on the floor next to the bed. I thought that this pair best matched the dress that James picked out for me.

Finally, I retrieved a jade charm from my nightstand and set it near the rest of tomorrow's outfit. James, who lacked an eye for fashion, had only bought me black chokers to wear. And I was sure that he would insist on me wearing my choker--James's greatest mechanism of control over me--while we traveled. Thus, if the choker would somewhat clash with the rest of the outfit, at least hanging a jade charm from the choker might blur the color scheme.

I then went to my bathroom and set out my makeup for the next day. I had been on a light regimen of HRT for some time now. And my face was naturally narrow at the jaw and pronounced at the cheekbones. Accordingly, I wasn't terribly worried about 'passing.' Indeed, I felt a tiny smirk at the corner of my lips as I realized that I'd be one of the hottest girls at the airport.

I planned to apply heavy foundation and concealer, and then to heavily contour my face. I'd grown particularly skillful at contouring my face to make it appear rounder and more youthful. Instructional videos by famous drag queens were a godsend in learning this technique.

If everything went according to plan, any airport onlookers would see a youthful, bubbly, Asian trophy wife on James's arm. If James was going to show me off like some bimbo trophy, then I would lean into the role. I'd be the hottest, bimbo trophy wife for James that I could be.

---

The next day, we took a private rideshare to the airport. Portland's airport is known to be less crowded than a typical urban airport. Mercifully, this meant that I was unlikely to spend much time in line.

The stares started as soon as James and I stepped out of the car toward the terminal.

One by one, men would--subtly or otherwise--glance up and down my body as I passed. Several turned their heads as they walked by. I didn't want to look behind me to see how many were staring at my ass. Several of the women stared too, but less conspicuously.

I noticed that women who were with men, particularly older women, would give me a dirty look after noticing their men looking at me. I wondered whether they were self-conscious about their husbands staring at another woman, or whether they were making some kind of moral judgment about the slut drawing so much attention in public. Perhaps it was both.

I also wondered whether this was the 'cattiness' that many women experienced from other women. Growing up, I often heard my mother make unkind remarks about women who dressed revealingly in public. Was this a reaction to perceived competition? Or were these women upset that one of their own was raising the bar on flattering outfits? If so, these judgmental women would have been furious to know that I wasn't a biological woman at all.

I smiled to myself, fantasizing about these hags finding out that their husband was ogling a sissy. My smile grew when I thought about the men who would think about me the next time they fucked their wives or girlfriends. How many of these men would envision me the next time that they masturbated? How many of these men would insist on fucking their wives doggystyle to make it easier to visualize my face instead of theirs?

At a meta level, the pride from this realization surprised me. I didn't expect to feel so satisfied as men stared--jaws agape--at the specimen of femininity that walked by them. I didn't expect such fulfillment by activating this ape-brain response in so many men. I didn't expect the delight and spring in my step as I basked in the satisfaction of pleasing these random, gross men.

Further, I didn't expect the feeling of power this gave me.

Superficially, I had little to no power at home. As far as James was concerned, I was a maid, housewife, and fuck toy at his disposal. But after my operation and as the hormones changed my body, I found myself able to subtly turn him on. A little wiggle in my ass as I passed him. An accidental drop or spill that forced me to bend over. And James was on top of me with a mountain growing in his pants.

Likewise, here in this airport, my looks combined with my subtle behavior turned heads. I had the power to draw and keep the attention of both men and women. I also had the power to infuriate random cisgendered wives and girlfriends; this gave me more satisfaction than I cared to admit. The men standing in lines around me would shift their carry-ons to hide the conspicuous swelling in their jeans. And everyone looked.

It occurred to me that I had never received this much attention as a man. Indeed, beyond superficial friendships, 'Jung' received no attention from women. Even men largely ignored me in seeking friendships and playmates.

By contrast, as a woman, as a bimbo, as 'Kimmy,' I was the center of the room. Men (and I suspected a few women) craved me. If the women around me felt ill toward me, then it was rooted in jealousy rather than contempt. As a woman, I felt as though I belonged in the spaces I entered. As a bimbo, I felt as though I owned the spaces I went. Even as I submitted myself to James, even if I was James's fuck toy, I felt as though I had the world wrapped around my finger.

'The Asian male loser is dead,' I thought to myself, 'Long live the Asian bimbo.'

At this thought, I felt my chin raise. My shoulders pulled back slightly, deepening the curve of my back and pressing my cleavage out. Though my breasts were already at the cusp of busting out of my tight, teal dress, I adjusted my posture to press my chest out and forward. I felt myself swinging my hips a little more assertively as I walked. My gaze raised from the floor in front of me to the end of the terminal where James led me. Even as James led me by the arm, I felt as if my soul grew to fill the space around me.

It further occurred to me that this newfound sense of place came not from myself intrinsically. Indeed, this bimbofied fuck doll that turned the heads of nearly everyone at the airport was no creation of 'Jung.' I was James's creation. I was James's possession. Under a tired religious metaphor, I was the clay to James's potter.

As we walked, we passed a group of boys sitting in an airport café. They looked to be no older than their late teens or early twenties. One of the boys elbowed the others and conspicuously pointed in my direction. While I couldn't make out what they said to each other, I clearly saw one boy mouth, "Daaaaamn."

I smiled at the boys and winked. Their mouths fell open in gasps as they pushed each other and pointed vaguely in my direction. I wondered how long would pass before each of those boys came into an old sock or shirt fantasizing about fucking me. I exaggerated my swinging hips and arched my back, slightly exposing my ass cheeks under my too-short dress. Might as well give them a clear image for their 'spank bank.'

James chuckled as we passed the group of boys.

"Thou shalt not covet another man's toys," he murmured with a grin.

The comment didn't bother me as much as I expected, because James was correct. When James drove around town with the top down on his limited-edition sports car, boys of that age would similarly elbow each other and point at James's toy. A few would pull out their phone cameras to save and share the moment with their friends (something that a few of the ogling men at the airport had the audacity to do to me).

Likewise, I was a toy for James to show off. This was why he insisted on this dress. This was why he didn't push harder for access to the firm's private jet. Since my 'modifications,' I was a toy for James to show off. And James loved to flaunt his toys.

---

James had arranged for a precleared, biometric screening. This saved us from the long airport security line. In little time at all, we were past security and striding toward the terminal. Despite my mixed hatred of James, he was an excellent planner. We arrived at the terminal minutes before first class passengers started to board. The wait was short enough that I didn't grow bored, but long enough for our flight mates to notice me.

"Someone has been drawing quite a bit of attention," James whispered to me as we approached the gate, "Not to mention some angry looks from wives. The old white ladies here look like they want to strangle you. I'll protect you if any of these fucking hags act on their urges." James looked sideways at me and winked. I tried but failed to stifle a giggle.

As first-class passengers, James and I were among the first to board the large, luxury airliner. And though first class was fully separated from the rest of the plane, I had to watch as the rest of passengers walked by us toward their seats. Mercifully, James bought me a window seat and took the aisle seat for himself. This likely saved my body from passengers' 'accidental' bumps and caresses. But it made the passersby's stares more obvious.

The teal dress that James chose did little to hide my cleavage. And the bras I wore were specifically designed to lift and accentuate my new breasts. And most of the passing passengers at least glanced, if not gaped, at my chest.

One particularly sleezy guy pretended to be typing on his phone as he walked on the plane. As he passed James and I, the back of his phone conspicuously turned toward me. While James had enjoyed seeing the gawking audience up until this point, this was too much.

Quick as lightning, James's hand darted up and grabbed the passenger's wrist.

"Taking some photos of the plane's interior? You must be an enthusiast." I couldn't see James's expression, but something about it seemed to terrify the passenger.

"Uh-uh... N-no... Sorry." The passerby dropped his phone to his side, put his head down, and scuttled to his seat.

I didn't understand why, but a warm feeling washed through me at James's outburst. I felt a sudden urge to lay my head against his shoulder, though I restrained myself. I pulled out my phone and angled myself toward the window, hoping to avoid more gazes.

While James's behavior to me had stared to resemble 'romance,' I didn't want to assume or push that envelope. Particularly where he, in all reality, still saw me as his trophy and plaything. And particularly where I didn't want to consider those feelings myself.

The flight was an exhausting twenty-three hours. For the first two thirds of the flight, James cycled between reading, working on his laptop, and sleeping. I watched a couple of movies, read, and looked at the ocean out the window.

Two thirds of the way through the flight, James woke up from a nap, stretched, and looked around at the other sleeping passengers. Even when he was sitting, I could see James's 'morning wood' struggle against his jeans.

This was common for James after he slept. It was also common for him to expect me to 'take care of this,' as was his implicit, but clear unsanctimonious command.

James carefully surveyed the surrounding passengers. Everyone else was either sleeping or deeply focused on a tablet or phone. The first-class seats were relatively widely distributed, so only about six other passengers could have seen James and me other than the backs of our heads.

After James looked satisfied with his survey of our neighbors, his eyes turned toward my chest and body. James laid his left hand softly on my leg, and with the other he reached down to pick up the first-class, complimentary blanket.

My body reacted instantly to his touch. I stirred in my seat as electric signals traveled down my legs and through my spine. Although, still fresh from the gratitude at James's outburst, I felt something new. I was used to the electricity, but this felt like a warmth growing in me. James laid the blanket across his lap, and inconspicuously unzipped himself under the blanket. He looked around again to verify against any onlookers.

"You look tired, Babe," James whispered to me with a devious grin, "Why don't you lay your head across my lap under the blanket?"

I looked at James pleadingly. Did he really expect me to blow him on a public flight?