The job at Jenkins park

For several years, I lived and worked in a sleepy little town. It suited me just fine, being clean, quiet and close to the city. The locals were friendly enough and, more importantly, they didn't know my history. Looking back, I'd say one or two of them had maybe guessed I was trans, only they were too polite to let on!

This was before the Gender Recognition Act, so my employer was sure to know. I worked as an office cleaner at a place called Jenkins Park; a small, quiet business centre on the outskirts of town.

To tell the truth, the job was a cinch; half a dozen office suites that more or less cleaned themselves, with never a complaint. Most nights I was home a couple of hours before my shift ended.

Then Mr Brownlow showed up...

He was a big cheese, the new regional manager sent from London to drum up business. Even before he'd arrived, I noticed how the mere mention of his name caused ripples in the office, such was his awesome reputation. But why should it bother me? After all, what could a big shot like Brownlow possibly care about some small fry of a cleaner?

What indeed!

My shifts ran from four till midnight, though I was most often long tucked up in bed by then! For a couple of nights after Brownlow's arrival, nothing much changed, but on the third night, I found a note...

It was a careful compilation of my many misdeeds!

Every conceivable nook and cranny that hadn't been scrubbed, polished or dusted by the rulebook was meticulously catalogued. 'I have much more important things to do than check up on you,' the note concluded tersely, 'so for your own sake, please ensure I never have to do so again!'

Naturally, I was furious! My first thought was to tell Brownlow just where he could stick his lousy job, but then I thought again. After all, jobs were few and far between in that particular neck of the woods, and certainly not easy to come by for the likes of me.

HRT had given me a modestly nice rack, but I was saving every spare penny for a boob job which would be kiboshed if I were to lose my job. So, much as it rankled, I kept mum, knuckled down and started putting the hours in, and for several weeks heard nothing more from Brownlow.

Then one evening, I met the man himself!

It was gone nine, by which time most nights only me and old Ted the nightwatchman were about the place. Yet there was Brownlow, sat at his desk squinting cockeyed into a laptop in a manner I found somewhat underwhelming.

A smallish, hirsute and mildly overweight man with dark, bushy eyebrows protruding over thick-framed spectacles, he couldn't have been much over 40, though his demeanour was a lot older. Some guys seem to be born old, Brownlow among them!

I mightn't have quailed at first sight, but the moment our eyes met, a cold shiver ran through me! There was a hard and cold intensity to his gaze that made me wish I was elsewhere...

"You must be MISS Quigley?" he asked firmly.

"Y-yes!" I stammered.I didn't like the way he said MISS, as though the word deserved inverted commas. So I broke eye contact by staring at his desktop, where I was perturbed to notice a file with my name on it.

"I've been checking you out," he explained, a faint smile tickling his lips. "Now generally, I prefer women cleaners as they're far more conscientious, though men are harder working. With you however, I've a horrible feeling we've got the worst of both worlds!"

"N-no!" I protested, "That isn't true! I work ever so hard and do a really good job!"

"Hmm, I hardly think so..."

He got up from behind his desk and sauntered over to me, eyeing me up like so much meat. If I hadn't been scared of him before, I sure as hell was now! I began to tremble in my mule sandals which tapped at the heel, drawing his eye.

"Those shoes aren't regulation!" he snarled. "Don't you know I could fire you right now just for dress code violations?"

"I'm -r-really sorry, sir!"

"As you should be! And where's your pinafore and headband?"

The company provided a yellow pinafore with matching headband, though as the dress code was never enforced, I'd never bothered wearing either. They were meant to be worn together with a black dress, black or tan tights and black, low-heeled court shoes. But until Brownlow came along, no one had paid the slightest attention.

"Th-they're at home, sir!"

"At home, eh? I bet if I was to go and search your apartment right now, I'd find plenty of the stuff that's gone missing from round here!"

The accusation made me tremble all the more. "Why, n-no, sir!" I protested, "I never take anything to which I'm not entitled!"

"Yeah sure, I bet!" he snarled sarcastically. "So if I search you here and now, I'll not find anything I shouldn't, right?"

"Of c-course you won't, sir; p-please, go ahead!"

In giving this permission so hurriedly, I'd thought he meant to search my trolley and perhaps my locker. It hadn't occurred to me he would want to frisk me, simply cos there was nothing to frisk! I was wearing a short-sleeved bodycon midi dress over a frilly black bra and matching panties, with bamboo tights. There was no place to hide anything!

"Right then," he said, "spread your arms like you do at the airport!"

"B-but..."

"Ah, so you DO have something to hide!" he swore triumphantly.

"N-no, but..."

"No buts, then! Just do as I say!"

Reluctantly, I did as he wished and he began at once to fondle my boobs, running his stubby fingers meticulously over every inch of my frilly bra before focusing his attention on my nipples, both of which he pinched with just enough gentle ferocity to force me to lean against him rather than fall over.

This brought us face to face, which I didn't like one bit! Staring into my eyes without so much as a blink, he nonchalantly lifted my hem and began fingering my crotch. I'd been three years already on HRT and it has quite an effect on boy-bits, which shrivel and go all squidgy. Yet still my modest appendage seemed to hold considerable interest for Brownlow!

He fondled my paltry package just as he'd done my boobs, treating my cherry like an extra nipple, till spasms turned my legs to jelly, forcing me further into his unctuous arms.

As I struggled with my balance, a fly on the wall might momentarily have mistaken us for lovers, though Brownlow wasted no time shattering the illusion...

"I still can't tell what's down there," he barked menacingly, "You'd best show me!"

There was no point in arguing; I could see from his face how serious he was, and should I protest that I couldn't possibly have hidden any company property in my flimsy, frilly panties, he would have just pointed out there was only one way to be sure! So with much reluctance, I rolled my tights and panties down onto my thighs.

In order to check me out thoroughly, he next crouched down on his knees and spent some minutes perusing my boy-bits so closely I could feel his breath tickling my shrivelled cherry. Looking back, I suspect he was really just trying to breathe some life into the dead, but if so he was clean out of luck, my boy-bits being in worse shape than Lazarus!

"I've often wondered what happens down there to one of your kind, MISS Quigley," he snorted, "and now I know! I see from your employment records that you previously worked as a masseuse. Might I take that to mean you were in fact a hooker?"

As he spoke I felt an arm placed either side of my waist and he leant forward in such a way that I found myself caught in a pincer. Slowly he stood up and brought his face so close to mine that his poorly-trimmed little beard rubbed against my cheek whilst his warm, sickly breath made me feel like retching.

"Y-yes!" I confessed uneasily.

"So you're a slovenly dresser, a hopeless cleaner and you used to be a tranny hooker! I really should fire you right here and now!"

"P-please don't do that, sir!" I begged, "I'll do anything..."

"Mmm, very well! Here's the deal. I will turn a blind eye to your idleness, incompetence and past criminality, on condition that you carry out some special new duties."

"And w-what are those?" I asked nervously.

"You will report to me here in this office at nine each evening, wearing high heels and seamed stockings, and then do everything I demand of you. Do this and I'll overlook your inadequacies and even give you a raise, but let me down and you'll leave without a reference! Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, sir! Thank you sir!"

"You accept my terms?"

"I d-do, sir!"

"Very well, we will begin at once. On your knees please, MISS Quigley!"

I sank to my knees without even bothering to first pull up my panties and tights, which remained around my thighs. The carpet was soft and warm and a comfort to my legs, which had been quivering uncontrollably for so long they ached as though I'd run a mile.

Brownlow dropped his smart trousers and dangled his cock before my tearful eyes. It was uncut, somewhere between six and seven inches and what it lacked in length it made up for in gait, being thick and meaty. It stood to attention straighter than a soldier on guard duty!

I hesitated, unsure what to do. Necessity had forced me onto the game years earlier, but I'd thought to have put all that behind me. Didn't I nowadays have a respectable job in a nice, sleepy, small town? I felt that, once I sucked Brownlow's cock, then all the progress I'd made would be lost forever! And yet what choice did I have? After all, if he fired me without a reference then I'd never get my boob job and would most probably end up working the streets again!

"If you know what's good for you bitch, you'll get to it!" Brownlow barked.

"S-sorry!" I stuttered, and began licking his balls. You never forget how to give a nice blowjob and so I took my time, sucking his balls then tonguing my way slowly up his rock hard meat-rod whilst he groaned pleasurably.

"Oh, yeah! That's real good; bet you made a tidy packet as a whore!"

He couldn't see how my eyes rolled, though he must have felt me pause and splutter! The very idea I'd made loads of money on the game was just ridiculous; I'd been tricked into it by a mean pimp who pretended to be my boyfriend till I was in way too deep, and who'd put me on a mutton walk, where I had to haggle over small change with skanks who were all too quick to turn nasty...

Still, why should a respectable chap like Brownlow know anything about that?

By the time my tongue reached the tip of his cherry he was panting hard and his hands were in my hair, guiding my head to just where it was wanted...

I sucked on the tip a while, then offered no resistance as he pushed his meat-rod firmly down the back of my throat and began thrusting his cock back and forth with gathering fury till at last the tip of my tongue was touching his stem and every last inch of his burgeoning manhood was disappearing vigorously in and out of my aching mouth.

Brownlow had the stamina of a prize bull, and it seemed an age went by before his cum finally exploded into the back of my throat. Of course I swallowed it, lest I should offend this big man who held so much power over me. I swallowed and tried my best to smile, though God knows I can't have looked particularly happy...

Not that Brownlow cared a damn!

"Not bad for a tranny bitch!" he proclaimed, looking like the cat who got the cream as he carefully pulled up his trousers. "Make sure you're back here at nine sharp tomorrow, dressed in accordance with your new terms and I believe we shall get along just fine, MISS Quigley! Goodnight!"

"G-goodnight, sir!"

He left me on the floor of his office, my panties and tights still wrapped around my thighs, the taste of his salty cum heavy on my tongue. Tears rolled copiously down my cheeks as I wondered just what Brownlow would want of me next?

Which of course, I would find out all too soon!