Teasing Seven She made that clear immediately. "I'll have lunch now, Pattie. Just fix us each a small salad this time. We'll eat it together so I can brief you some more. In the kitchen this time. Though normally, expect to eat yours at your desk after you've brought me mine at my desk." "Of course, Tara." 'Normally'? She was back to pretending this was a long-term arrangement? "A chef's salad, or something simpler?" "I think simpler. You do need to lose a little weight if you mean to work for me long term -- first impressions are so important when clients enter an office. I could do with less heft myself. Though the guys I get down with don't seem to mind." She wriggled her pelvis and grinned. We entered the house, and she headed directly toward her study. "I need to make a few more calls," she said. "Let me know when lunch is ready," she said. "Oh yes, Pattie, this afternoon's likely to be stressful for you, so why don't you pour yourself another glass of that orange juice right now?" I think she knew this would be a test of wills, because when I stopped and turned toward her to declare my ultimatum, I saw she'd already also stopped and turned and was looking straight at me. "Tara, I ...." She broke in. "And while you're at it, put in another of those vaginal suppositories too. It's a good cure for a tight ass, if that's your problem. They're in the medicine cabinet, a whole three month's supply, you can't miss the package. From now on, you'll insert one each morning on arising -- that should do you for the day. But today's special. You could do with the extra boost." Her cat-like eyes never wavered from mine. "I wasn't going to ...," I began saying. Then I realized from the way I'd said it that I'd already given up the argument. I stopped. "You said you wanted to please me. That's what would please me. So do it, please, Pattie. You'll feel more feminine, and then you'll do whatever's necessary without worrying so much about it." I must still have looked reluctant, because she added, "I know! Just push it all the way in with your finger and then while your finger's inside you, enjoy the way it feels! Wiggle your tush on it a little. Take your time. And do exactly that every morning. There are marvelous sensations in store for you. Go see for yourself right now, and then fix us lunch." She smiled, and waited for my slumped shoulders to signal agreement. It was not a mere request. "We're employer and employee, but that doesn't mean we can't be friends too. Over lunch I'll tell you all about Henri, those marvelous hands of his, how he massages and caresses a girl until her whole body glows. If this comes off as I hope, you'll get a session with Henri as your bonus, honey. Paid for by the firm. You'll walk on air for days after he's felt you up and done you over." She waited. "That'll be just lovely," I said. So Henri wasn't an ardent French lover? More a masseur of some kind? She'd been teasing me there too? I went up, pushed in my second suppository of the day, and wriggled my ass on my finger as ordered. It did feel good. Then I washed my newly manicured hands, rubbed in the hand cream I found on the sink, and when I was back in the kitchen drank another glass of special orange juice. She was right. Almost immediately afterward I felt mellow indeed. I began humming in my strangely high voice as I tore up lettuce leaves and sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. My long, pink-painted nails somehow fascinated me. It was fun! There was nothing to worry about. Go with the flow! During lunch Tara told me more about Henri. He sounded like fun too, though I was only half-listening. It seems that while massaging different muscle groups as masseurs do, he also helps women flex and relax by teasing their anus and clit. He also oils their nipples between his thumbs and forefingers until they gleam and all of their muscles have stretched taut in an ecstatic tension very much like an orgasm. "You'll see," she said. "Though you won't get the full effect until your nipples enlarge. Soon, Pattie, be patient." She smiled when she saw how I vacantly nodded my appreciation, then continued. "Honey, let me give you three pieces of advice." I nodded again. "I can see why men have never asked you out. You don't play the game. But we'll change that right now. When you first meet a man, look him directly in the eyes. Then keep your own eyes downcast after that, and look him in the eyes again only when you're telling him 'yes' or 'no'. But always seem absolutely attentive. That confers instant maidenly modesty but also a certain sexual assertiveness men find attractive. They feel flattered." This sounded vaguely wrong. "Should I want to be sexually attractive to men?" I asked. "After all, I'm married." "But not to a man, so it's all right," Tara replied immediately, smiling in reassurance. This answer confused me. It was true, but .... "All girls want to feel sexually attractive to men," Tara replied. "That's why we flirt. For fun if for no other reason." "All right," I said. "Secondly, keep your thighs together always, except when ... well, you know. Whether you're walking, sitting, or lounging. Always. We often spread our feet wide apart from the knees on down, knees together, toes pointed inward, that's very girlish, it looks so helpless. But open your thighs just once and you'll find some guy trying to get himself in between them." "All right," I said, wishing vaguely that I had something to write these things down with. "A man between my thighs is bad?" "Depends on the man, doesn't it?" Tara replied, still smiling. I smiled back. A man between my thighs was bound to be disappointed. "Thirdly, never mind all that talk about limp wrists and extended pinkies or anything else you may have heard about effeminate men. Just keep your elbows as close to your body as possible, and all the rest will follow. If you want to touch your face or rest your chin on your hand, first tuck that elbow in front of you as far as it'll go. It makes for a wonderfully feminine gesture. Try it." I did. And sat there like that. It felt cute. "Oh, lovely, it's as if you'd been a girl all your life! You'll be perfect! I think you're going to enjoy this! Now upstairs and change into your secretary outfit, and we'll be off." Alone upstairs, still feeling very easy, I slipped out of my stretch pants yet again and then into the stockings and lingerie Tara had left for me and into the outfit Astrid's secretary had brought for me -- a good quality Walmart skirt and blouse, an expensive cardigan sweater going a bit worn, panty hose -- I rolled them up the way I'd seen Tara roll them before putting her foot into them, and it worked out fine, chunky shoes with a two inch heel, and a thick, gold-plated, braided wire necklace. It would match those gold wires now looped through my ears, I realized. The effect was lovely. I realized I was thinking like a girl. Moreover, I felt as if I'd been one all my life, the way I dressed myself, as if routinely, daily for the office. Hooking the skirt and zipping it up seemed ... instinctive. That orange juice had dampened down my feelings of strangeness. I glanced once more at my face in the mirror, and approved it. Then when I came back downstairs I saw Tara waiting for me, a similar look of approval on her face. I raised one eyebrow at her, then took up my laptop and shoulder bag, and we went together to the car in the driveway. Though I usually drove us when we were going somewhere together, Tara got behind the wheel, so I walked around to sit beside her. She was in charge. It was just as well, I had no idea how my high, high heels might affect my driving. I checked my hair in the car mirror. Fine. We were in full view of a neighbor who was clipping hedges across the street, but there was nothing noticeable about us. We were only two women. He scarcely glanced up. ********** It was our town's best hotel, the Regal Palace, an opulent, glitzy hotel designed to impress even wealthy people, with thousands of little glittery bulbs in chandelier after chandelier illuminating a gilt ceiling high over a capacious reception area, colored glass sculptures hanging here and there overhead, deep plush carpets underfoot, cream-colored carvings everywhere, everything inviting everyone to enjoy luxurious self-indulgence. The place was dotted with grave, attentive uniformed flunkies standing here and there, eager to be of service. In my dazed state I felt a little dazzled, but I did my best to move the way Tara'd told me, unashamed, with my head high, boobs forward, and thighs and elbows close in. No one in the lobby took the slightest notice. Gradually I relaxed. Tara smiled at me conspiratorially to encourage me, and I smiled back. She was right, it was exciting that everyone to assume I was a woman. She peered through a decorated doorway, saw that her prospective client was not in the cocktail bar as expected, so she went to the desk. I followed but stood slightly back, as befitted my lower station. "Mr. Bartram asks that you go right up," the man at the desk told her after announcing us by phone. "The Penthouse, eighteenth floor. They're waiting for you. That private elevator there." "They?" I asked her on the way up in the elevator. She shrugged. "Probably an assistant, the same way you're mine. Someone expected to sit quietly and take notes and follow up afterward on whatever's agreed, do the scut work. High-powered executives often keep such people close by. It frees them to concentrate on the business at hand." This didn't sound quite right. "Often?" I pulled my mind together and tried to concentrate. "You thought it likely there'd be another man with him? But weren't you afraid to find yourself alone with him? Isn't that why I'm here?" "You're here to help me, Pattie. If it bothers you, I can give you a pill like the ones in your orange juice to help you accept whatever happens as sort of natural and wonderful. "No need," I said. I felt quite placid enough. I quit worrying. The elevator door opened into a reception area, and in the sitting room beyond it I saw two men seated. One was thin and angular, seated on a couch and leaning forward over a laptop on the coffee table in front of him, studying its screen. The other lounged across from him in a large ornate chair that resembled a throne. They both looked up. The one on the throne stood and smiled and came forward toward us, with his hand out to Tara. He was large, with a craggy handsomeness. Obviously Bill Bartram himself. "Tara, how nice. And as expected, I see!" He glanced at me, then looked steadily at Tara, the thoughts behind his eyes well-hidden. "All prepared? I've got a draft letter of agreement you'll want to look over carefully, but I see no problem. This lovely lady is ...?" And he gestured at me before turning to look me over more closely. Head to foot. And back again. "My secretary, Patricia" Tara said, her right hand enclosed in the man's paw, waving her left hand at me carelessly. "Pattie, meet Mr. William Bartram, the head of Castro Enterprises, and in full charge of its expansion. Every bit as good-looking as I'd said, isn't he?" Then to Bartram she said, "I don't anticipate any problems. We both know why we're here." "Good," Bill said, glancing at me again. "Then there's no problem at all." I acknowledged Tara's introduction by nodding at him. For a wild moment I wondered if I should curtsy. Bill then recalled the other man in the room with him. "Meet Jim McNaughton," he said. "My right hand." His name having been mentioned, Jim McNaughton leaned further over the laptop and then stood up, but made no move toward us. Instead, he studied me with his cool gray eyes, then looked expectantly at Bill. "Jim looks after my projects for me," Bill said. "He'll be my man on the scene if all goes well, as I expect it will, overseeing everything. Whatever he approves, I approve, and whatever he doesn't, well, we don't need to talk about that do we? Shall we get to it, Tara?" He gestured toward the door into an adjacent room, which I took to be a bedroom. "The papers are in there. Any last minute hesitation, now that you've had time to think about the whole scheme?" "None," Tara said firmly, then turned to lead the way into the next room. I started to follow her. She paused. "Pattie, stay here and get acquainted with Jim. See what he may need, offer to be of help. Apparently you'll be seeing a lot of each other." She waited. My cue to speak. "Of course, Tara," I said in my "Twilight Sleep" high-pitched voice. Her eyes gleamed satisfaction, and she disappeared through the door without a backward glance. Bill followed her and the door closed behind them. I stared at it for a long minute. Just stood there staring. The two of them were in there alone. Why was I here? "Come sit here if you don't mind, Patricia is it?" Jim said after a brief moment, gesturing to a space on the couch next to him. "You'll want to know what's in the agreement they're reviewing in there, our mutual obligations and so forth. I have it on this computer." Uneasily, I sidestepped around the coffee table and sat down carefully on the couch next to him. The skirt fabric over my panties slithered against the damask of the couch's upholstery and reminded me to clamp my knees together and tuck my elbows to my sides. Not knowing what else to do with them, I folded my hands in my lap. Good God! There was my cock pressing against the back of my hand! Tumescent! After months of Tara's conditioning, I was fine-tuned to be aroused by the notion that she and that man were alone together! But this time he wasn't a fantasy man, he was real! What was really happening in that other room? Did I want to believe they were not reviewing that draft letter of agreement? "Bill wants me to maintain close personal supervision over this contract until every condition is executed. For four months, maybe more. Your boss Tara thinks it'll take no more than that -- and I admire her style if she can bring it off in that short a time. Then we'll negotiate the secondary contracts, the branch offices, an additional year's work. Those depend on how well you perform. If I'm happy, Bill will be too, and the work's yours. Your firm's anyhow. But we both need to be satisfied." "I see," I said. I was still pre-occupied with Tara and that man in the other room, but I was listening. Four months? Tara will be busy with this Castro job for four months? That's nice. But this man, Jim, will be here the whole time? That's more awkward. Even in my tranquilized state of mind I realized that could be a problem. He'd expect to see Patricia whenever he visits Tara's office. "Maybe you see. Please understand me. If I'm unhappy about anything, Bill will not be happy, and there will be no secondary contracts." "Yes," I said vaguely. "I'll be seeing quite a bit of both of you. You're taking possession of the new office space behind your house next week I understand. Tara's offered me one of her spare office spaces and I've accepted. I'll be there some part of every day during the first month or so, so I imagine we'll get to know each other pretty well. Tara told Bill when they last spoke together that she's sure you'll make me feel welcome. She said that if there's anything you can't provide me, or won't, not to worry, she will. She really wants those branch office contracts." Worrisome. Despite my mood I began to feel closed in. Daily? For four months? Plus maybe a year more? Mine was the face of the company he'd be dealing with, my face and Tara's. Had Tara known this when she'd proposed this day's outing to me? Was that why she'd insisted I adopt a permanent mind-set, as if to live as if a woman for life, not just for today, or else be revealed as a fraud? How could I get out of this? Could I pretend to quit Tara's employment, then hide out as myself in the main house? Month after month? No, there was too great a risk of exposure -- if he glimpsed me, Jim would see immediately that Patrick and Patricia were as similar as their names, and would then certainly advise Bill that the contract had been attained fraudulently. So Patrick didn't dare live at home while this project was under way. I had to be Patricia. Why did Tara do this to me? I suppose it was obvious. She'd needed all her persuasive powers merely to get me to consent to do this for one day. She knew I'd never agree to do it for as long as was in fact required, not right off. Fair enough, she wanted the contract. But then, why did she want me with her at all today? She was already alone in the other room with that man. And I was alone with Jim, passing the time. I'm trapped into pretending I'm a woman for months, I was thinking. That orange juice still made everything that was happening seem ... normal. Usual. Worry-free. And what was it Tara had said, she'd provide whatever Jim wanted if I refused? What did that mean? It sounded like a warning to me to measure up. I couldn't deal with the implications now. I decided to be as gracious and ladylike with Jim as I could, so as not to ruin things for Tara. To wait it out. "Patricia, may I say something you might find too personal?" Jim's voice broke in. "Why yes, Jim, of course," I said in my strangely flutey voice, remembering to look sincerely into his eyes and then to look modestly at my hands, still folded onto my lap. My thighs and knees were still snugged close together. Was he about to make a move on me? I waited. Should I be flirting with him? Flirt with a man? Unthinkable, yet it also seemed so ... natural. "Anything at all," I added. "You've solved a big problem for me." I glanced up. He was smiling at me now and gazing mildly into my eyes. I looked down again, my cheeks heated, probably flushed. I wondered if a flush was visible under my makeup, all that foundation, powder, and blush. "What's that, Jim?" "I'm gay." I'd heard him clearly. My thoughts tumbled together. I hadn't expected this. It was surprising, even though not at all relevant to the job at hand nor to my present predicament. Why was he telling me this? To reassure me that he wouldn't be putting moves on me after all? I suddenly felt vastly relieved. He wouldn't be coming on to me now, nor during the coming months! Not to me nor to Tara! Maybe I could get out from under! Thank God! "Oh?" I said. And I waited. Nothing more was forthcoming. So I added, "That's all right. Many men are gay. That shouldn't cause any difficulties. It could even make things easier." I ventured a quick, reassuring smile. But even in my placid state I sensed that something was wrong. He hadn't said that it created problems, he'd said that it solved problems. "What do you mean, I've solved a problem for you?" "Well, I represent the company on different job sites, and there's enough homophobia among construction workers to make for problems, if anyone were ever to suspect me. Problems for me and problems for Bill too, because we often work late together, and we're often seen together. We're quite close. If some of the guys knew about me and began to make jokes, it could get awkward for both of us. And loss of respect for us is loss of respect for Castro Enterprises, for our financing, ultimately for any of our projects. Everyone would cut corners. You know." "I see," I said. I didn't, yet. "So Bill insists that even though I'm gay I date women, visibly, in ways the different construction workers and supervisors know about. So I do. I'm not bad-looking, and I apparently have a manner many women like, so a lot of my dates are women who come on to me and then never understand why I never come back at them. They speculate, and a few stumble onto the truth and feel outraged that they've been used. Justifiably enough. Then they may spread the word in ways that are bad for me, for Bill, and for the business, all three." "Oh," I said, still waiting for a light to dawn. "But now with you there'll be no issues. We can be seen together to our hearts' content and never raise an eyebrow. We can double-date with other people involved on the project. Even with Bill when he's in town. All four of us can go out together, you and me and Tara and Bill, respectability and propriety all well-served.. We're a perfect match for each other." I felt cold. I wasn't sure what he was saying, but I suspected I knew anyhow. He was saying that he knows all about me! He knows I'm not a woman, so I can't object to being used as a cover! Maybe. "How?" I asked. "How are we perfect for each other?" Instead of answering directly he took both my hands in his and let them rest in my lap. They pressed heavily against the penis I knew was lurking just under the thin fabric of my dress. Surely he could feel it there! "I suppose you've felt this way all your life?" he said. "Felt how?" I didn't dare move. "Felt that you needed to be a woman. Don't be embarrassed, I think women like you are the most feminine things imaginable, the most exciting and enticing. The sexiest." I swallowed. Stall, I told myself. "What do you mean, women like me?" "Why, transsexual women. Little girls born into little boys' bodies who grow up to realize that they're women living in men's bodies. Women who finally realize they must live as what they are, as women, despite their bodies. Who can really appreciate what it means to be a woman, because they've been deprived for so long of all the little things born women take too much for granted. You're an enormously attractive woman, Patricia, to me especially because -- I hope you won't feel insulted -- to me you're first of all an enormously attractive man." I was baffled. But I had to play along. "I see," I said. Though I still didn't. Did he think I was dressed this way, that I looked like this, because I wanted to be a woman? He did. "I understand how it is for you, Patricia honey. I know what it's like to have desires that are thwarted at every turn by social convention. How powerfully you feel the urge to give up on all pretense and just live as your own true self. I share the same desires, and like you I live as an outsider, closeted. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about you -- they'd think it was deception and want nothing further to do with you. Nor with Tara, for that matter. It would destroy the trust we all need to maintain our different business relationships. So this will remain our secret." What could I say? He'd just warned me to play along. Or else. "Yes," I said. Then, "How did you know?" He now began to stroke my hands as they lay in my lap. Each stroke extended to where my penis was bulging against my panties. The tips of his fingers grazed my member through the smooth fabric, over and over. Then he began to stroke my cock directly, and each time his hand pressed down it rose to preen itself against his palm like a puppy. He patted it affectionately and continued. He knew.