The Teamviewer Mature Files

I gave a snort of agreement, because I had no brain left and imagined she was just bragging anyway. People were always talking shit.

After that, it was another man every half hour on the internet, four total for me in just this setting. Two of them succumbing to my bait, giving away something personal that they'd later terribly regret. I imagined that Mistress Linda did the coup de grass, right after. Shoot, more white men were on some sordid path to utter destruction. Probably, unlike me, they'd not have a way out by end day. I'd be poor and shaken up, but I had skills and credentials, so I was still special.

This organization was big. I was starting to think that there was no Mistress Linda, but maybe hundreds of Mistress Lindas. They had a sophisticated outfit running. Programmers, hackers, facilities, handlers, lackeys doing most the self-destructive work, the whole shebang. I couldn't wait to shake loose. Anyway, three more hours had passed with me on the dildo and suckering more men into my hell, like I had no ethics left. To say I felt guilt, well, not really; I was too desperate to just move past it to feel anything other than a headache from lack of food or water. Hours passing us by meant only one thing: Closer to shaking loose and taking a ride with Marcus out of all of this.

"Fuck yourself, pig. I've not seen you pump up and down on that cock since I came in here?" the woman said. I fucked myself, one, two, three, bouncing on the seat.

We left the room with me on a nose ring leash. Right out in the big room next to mine, two more sissies waited to enter the dildo-seat chat rooms. One was ushered right into mine. They were using us all to recruit, like self-perpetuating chains of despair. How many white men were suckered into this?

I was taken back to the reception desk, where it had all started, only now I was naked, save for my chasity lock, tongue lock, heels in hose. The garters were missing, leaving one hose sagging to the knee. As I pranced, I made sure to keep my lips pouting around the end of that lock. My eyes batted, mostly looking down at crotch level, and never into the eyes of either male or female. I swayed my hips and kept my fingers together, other than the pinky one, pointing palms down and keeping my sissy elbows straight.

As I wiggled into the room, everyone turned and glared at me. No doubt my body was a sight, big B-sized natural boobs with what had become brown areolas, the size of silver dollars, more like a pussified gurl than anyone else. Down below my body had been reshaping, the hips wider, the taper of the calves softer. I was too thin to have much in the way of muscle anymore, and of course my face had been changing since the hormones. The way my penis had been locked between my testicles gave the appearance of a cunt, and that one patch of hair, my landing pad (landing pad for what?), required close inspection to make it obvious that I wasn't a naked slave girl.

Perhaps only the Adam's apple and shape of my jaw remained to tell anyone I'd once been a man, but even that was softening more than I'd heard possible by mere hormones.

The reception area was hopping with black men or women sitting in the lounge area, each either holding a leash to a white sissy or having parked the handle end of their leashes onto coat hanger poles where sissies were made to wait in congregations. They quit looking at magazines, talking to one another, admonishing their sissy slaves, and pretending to engage in business, instead looking at me, the browner one, the naked one, the super-developed one.

Oh, to be sure, the others had little budding breasts under their embarrassing clothing, but I was different. I was the experiment with genetics, I realized, as opposed to just hormones and minor surgeries. Everyone who might have been clued in would be curious to see how that had worked out. Mostly the men had parked their eyes on my pussy and tits. I certainly did look more like a woman than most women. Some of the men even gave an adjustment to their crotches while they sexploited me with stares.

Their sissies were dressed like hookers, school girls, waitresses or maids. They stood still, hands folded in their laps, Bambi eyeing mostly me, the only naked person around until another white boi came out of the same area I'd been in. he was led up to the same counter, more naked because of no hose. Its body was not as developed as mine, but it looked more female than male, too. All it needed was a real pussy and a womb. And thin, too; we were all so skinny; starved to death to the boi.

There was a new white woman serving us, looking over paperwork and comparing it on a computer. She finally finished, handed a printout to the black lady escorting me, and said, "Room 349C for feeding, then 372, credentials, ma'ame, followed by adjustments in B3."

"What do you say?" my escort said, wiggling the leash on my nose ring. "Thank the white cunt!"

"Snort, snort."

"Show some enthusiasm! Add a squeal, pig!"

"Squeeeee!"

A black receptionist next to the white one turned to the white woman and said, "I'm a pig interpreter for whites. It said, 'Thank you, white cunt for doing what you're told like a pale-skinned bitch should.'" She smiled at the woman.

The white receptionist lady blushed and swept some of her hair down over her face. God, she wasn't wearing a bra under the thin blouse. Areolas showed like she was naked. That was maybe one of a half-dozen white women I'd notice deferring to blacks, today alone. Was this an epidemic, or just this place?

The black lady who'd taken charge of me led me to the elevator. I wiggled my hips and kept my arms stiff, working hard to keep that pinky finger up, going snort, snort, snort.

Teamviewer Femdom File

By jo199

Chapter Seventeen.

We arrived at the 3^rd floor, passing dozens of pairs of mistresses or masters who were leading doe-eyed sissies of various levels of passing success. The day was winding into late afternoon, so it was getting busy in this odd place of business.

Customers were filling the place. I imagined I'd passed two hundred people like myself, pouting lips, wiggling asses, sissy hands, all in heels, if not otherwise dressed like sluts. Nobody protested the display, as if this was a Vegas whore house,either. We felt torment inside, but were zombies on the surface, no longer capable of rebellion. The fact is, I knew that, and I had no sense of how to change it after all my months of conditioning. Nobody, and I mean nobody, broke protocol or even smiled, which would be terrible form for any servant. It was all subservient faces of concentration, concern, worry, fear. Sweat dripping down sides or off foreheads seemed everywhere.

The black mistress leading me stopped at a door marked 349, and called on her cell phone. She told whoever answered, "That white cunt at reception sent me to feeding prior to B3." After a pause, "Yeah. Stupid bitch. She needs retraining, or at least her tubes tied. She didn't even speak to me correctly." More pause to listen. "Of course not today. And I know she's booked six days a week. I'm just suggesting a little residual before her next twelve-hour shift. If we're going to make quota and beat the performance of the other facilities, so we can make our bonuses, we can't have sissies waiting on gurneys outside B for a mandatory ten hours of digesting food, with all those enemas. Shoot, you know how putting the meat into queue hoses things up."

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. What was she talking about? What was going on in the basement? Whatever it was, why was it in the basement? Bad things happened in basements.

"Alright. Just adjust that on the chart. Yes. We're at Credentials now, so push forward the other parties. They'll move to 372, now. After this we'll take the cancellation at B3. My loser is probably starving, but it can't be helped, and who gives a fuck anyway. I'll personally see that my pig gets fed some Jell-o or whatever. After. I'll work it in at 349, maybe after I drop off my follow-up slut at reorientation. Double duty. We're banging them through this week, and I want us gold starred." She dropped the phone into her skirt pocket while we finished the short trip to room 372.

What the hell? Quotas? This was a big place, and she'd mentioned long shifts, as well as other facilities. I was an accountant, doing number in my silly little sissy head.

The room was all of five by five, clearly one of maybe dozens, and just big enough for whatever we were about to do. Thank god the seat did not have a dildo in it. In fact, it was a plain, ordinary school desk, complete with one of those tiny tables that I'd always hated while a student. It wasn't big enough to put anything on, other than a paper. Which the mistress handling me, produced in the form of several stapled pages. The first one read: Do not turn the page until specifically told to, bitch! Alright, something embarrassing, like that stupid, pointless test, moments prior.

"Normally we dress for this, but who cares. I don't mind you fucks staying naked, once in a while." She stood to the side and produced a little riding crop, smacking it on her hand. Whatever this place was about, was going to arrive on the big screen, filling half the wall before me, I'd be compelled to closely watch.

Hours had already vanished from this horrible day. Just do what they want, even if totally embarrassing. They'd need to release me to Marcus soon, and even as damaged goods I'd be long gone. I didn't even care if they shipped me out naked. Surely the place closed at a rational time, like most businesses, four or five o'clock, in spite of the vibe that they did long hours. I'd been an early arrival, so first in, first out. I just had to play along, and be done faster.

The seat was cold on my naked ass, and air made my ringed nipples sting. I pumped my face with my tongue, hoping to please my minder, should she care.

A TV screen popped on, and an old woman in some dusty town, was sitting at a table near a bar window. She had some papers in front of her.

"Do you acknowledge your daughter, Nancita Hernandez, Mrs. Hernandez? If so, just sign here. She has been granted a six-month Visa in America, but we need to ensure she is the right person," a man's voice said. From the camera's angle, I could see his hand push a pen the woman's direction.

"Si. She is my Nancita." The woman signed the paper, and the camera leaned over, showing the form and a picture clipped to the top of it.

She it was me! Or what I looked like before the nose ring and the extra makeup. My hair was straighter, prior to my current hairdo. The weird thing was how much I looked exactly like a woman. It wasn't even a close call. How had they reshaped my wider nose and narrower chin? Then it dawned on me how incredibly effective that gene splicing had been. It wasn't just softer shoulders. I was a different person. I wasn't me anymore. Who was I?

"Don't worry. She'll be fine. She is well employed and as lovely as ever," the man said.

"I am so happy," my mother said. Only that wasn't my mother. Jesus Christ, who was she? Hell of an actress, was all I could think. Likely they paid her a hundred bucks for that. Anyone who saw the video would know I was her daughter, just seeing the act.

What the hell? I'm not anyone's daughter, and certainly not this woman's from south of the border.

The TV went blank.

"I must remind you, a camera is recording your truthful response," the lady with me in the room said. "Your name is, for the record?"

"Joe Anderson. I'm Joe Anderson. Dammit!" I desperately needed to say, but I didn't have the balls to do it. Whatever they wanted was the way to go. I'd be out of here, soon enough, and Marcus would take me to that bus station and I'd be a hundred miles away in two hours. All I needed to do was EXPIDITE! "I am Miss Nancita Hernandez, ma'am," I said, even adding in a little bit of lisp from the tongue ring, as well as Hispanic accent to make her happy. Obviously that is what she wanted.

"And why have you come to America, Miss Hernandez?"

"I seek employment." Obviously that is what she wanted.

"Thank you. That's a take," the black female escort said to god only knows who.

The escort tapped then turned over the cover sheet on the forms on my desk. It had three sheets under the cover sheet, the first with a picture of a person in the top left corner, a finger print and an odd sequence of numbers to complete the top third row.

"If you will look at the first paper, Nancita, you will see the picture of a stranger."

Stranger my ass. It was me, Joe Anderson. Full frontal of my face. Next to it was my finger print, I assumed. Maybe it was some kind of Visa ID form or just something they made up to taunt me.

The name AKA Joe Anderson, presented itself in bold letters under the visuals, and under that was gibberish in Spanish, of which I could only make out a few words.

"We do not know this person. Do you know this person, Miss Hernandez?"

"Ummm." Obviously she wanted, "I have no idea, ma'am."

"Excellent. We are making progress and will soon be finished. Now, turn the page."

I did, and there was a picture of me. Whoever the fuck I was. A woman's face, browner, wider in the nose a bit, fuller lips, no jaw to speak of and smooth as a Muppet. God, she was so different from Joe Anderson, it was hard to find similarities, though a wrinkle here, a brow there, suggested a few small likenesses.

"Who is this person?"

"It is Miss Nancita Hernandez."

"We do not speak in the third person here!"

Her scolding startled me and filled me with so much dread that I almost swooned. "It is me, ma'am."

"Perhaps there is a mistake. Why don't you compare the finger print sample with that on the first page?"

"What are you saying?" I blurted without thinking. Rather than to wait for her to discipline me, I flipped from page to page, back and forth, over and over again. They were close, but not the same at all. One whole swirl was different in a way that didn't even require close examination. In other areas, the lines were closer together. "Jesus! My fingerprints are different."

"Ha!" she breathed. "I love this part."

"You switched mine on the first page. They aren't Joe's. Joe's are on record, you should know. Ma'am," I said, way too late and far too boldly.

"Are you going to argue with me, Miss Hernandez? After all that new DNA? You're not Joe. Joe isn't here anymore. And those records of your finger prints can be fixed, too. We do that all the time, now. In your case, however, we've found a whole new way to work with that doctor's experiments. Those are Joe's real fingerprints, and those are your real prints, Miss Hernandez." She poked a finger onto the paper, as emphasis.

"I'm...." Apparently I'd lost the ability to speak. The lock on my tongue ring made it tiring to form words anyway. I sagged.

"Now let's look at a particularly interesting and commonly compared portion of your DNA, Miss Hernandez, and compare it to this imposter Joe Anderson, who has been attempting to steal the real Joe Anderson's identity for years. If he is ever uncovered, he will most certainly go to jail for his horrible behavior."

DNA? Oh no. There were differences there, too. They'd fucking gotten Joe's DNA, and now they had my DNA to compare and prove in a court of law that this Joe person was an imposter.

Wait a minute. What the hell had I just been thinking? I was Joe. This was getting too confusing. But, if I was Joe, how would I be an imposter. I was Joe. I can't be an imposter? That's who I am!

A silence set in. I was someone else. I wasn't me. I wasn't Joe anymore. Literally. I wasn't him. Jesus, what had they done to me? Me? Not me. Joe, whoever he was. They'd killed Joe.

"Joe Anderson's DNA does not have those suspicious homosexual genes, either. They say there is no gay gene, but science has shown that some markers are more prevalent, and it is a combination. This Joe has no such DNA. Miss Hernandez, however, my be a lesbian." She laughed. "I am just joking. More than likely, were she a man, Miss Hernandez would have been turned gay by our scientist because science says Miss Hernandez enjoys the company of men."

"Gay?"

"We will find out how well you do, Miss Hernandez; for the doctor's sake. It is a serious study, of which you are a founding part. We are so grateful for his work. Soon, all who come through our service will get this expensive new procedure."

"Oh God. He turned my genes gay?"

"People who are born a certain way cannot help themselves. Do not judge who you are. Who knows? Maybe it matters when these genes trigger and because of your age you will always imagine yourself heterosexual. Maybe I should say lesbian? It doesn't matter, one way or the other. You will do as we insist and become a cocksucker, no matter what."

"Oh, fuck me, fuck me. I'm so fucked." I started to cry. It had become so easy to cry, of late. Was I gay? I couldn't even tell, they had me so twisted and tormented.

The lady leaned over and ripped the top sheet off, as well as took the sheet of Joe Anderson. She wadded them up and tossed them into a trash can in the corner. "Not to worry. Joe the imposter will never be found out. He has been permanently erased. No arrest is necessary. All of his ill-gotten funds and foolish amateur impersonations are redistributed to legitimate channels, as well. To be sure, his credentials and history and such remain, but this is not him. We are certainly beyond that lunacy, are we not, Miss Hernandez? I mean, where would we go to find him? He is no more."

I could not speak. What did that even mean? Maybe some client or old professor would remember me by virtue of a common experience or something. God, would they even let me in the door? Soon as I said, "Oh, yes, I'm actually Joe Anderson," with my lisp and my looks and my gender and my wrong DNA and fingerprints and my broken bank account, and some considerable public concern about people identity thefting him, and after walking off some bus.... I was so fucked!

"We should look at the last page, Miss Hernandez, so as to discover our whole resolution to your lucrative acquisition."

I turned the page. In the same moment, the TV came back to life, and another man was sitting at a desk in what looked like a lawyer's office, judging by the law books on the far shelf. Both the man and the lawyer were in the camera shot, from the side of the desk, making it possible. Both men were black.

"I need to compliment you on your new master's degree in accounting at America University, Uganda, Mr. Anderson."

"It was grueling, but the scholarship made it all possible. I cannot begin to thank you enough. And now citizenship. It is a dream beyond imagination," the other black man said in perfect English, though with a slightly British tinge to it.

The lawyer said, "Now, your name is?"

"Joe Anderson, of course."

"And you were born in?"

"Newark, Ohio, Sir."

The lawyer handed him a picture. "And these are your parents, with their home and number and particulars, should anyone ask. They are accessible to you at any time, though I suggest that you do not pester them."

"Of course."

"Driver's license, SS card, place of voter registration. We will, of course, locate you in a different city, where you will re-register: We require that you vote every election. Our rule, not America's. Consider it our way of asking you to pay us back, Mister Anderson."

"Are you kidding me? I am from Uganda. It is my pleasure to vote as a new citizen."

"Not new. You were born in Ohio, sir."

"Of course."

I could not believe what I was watching. The man in the video was the same as the one on the sheet, the new Joe Anderson. He was from the same town wherein I'd been born. She even had his SS number; mine! His place of voting was the same as mine. The photo of the parents, what I could catch of it in the video, wasn't of mine, who were dead anyway. They were some random black couple. Were they doing this to all white men who had shallow family background?