Golf-T - Copyright 1998 by Samantha Michelle. Permission given to post on FictionMania and Sapphire's.
Standard warning and disclaimer: All characters are fictional. If you see yourself, buy a new mirror. Contains subjects some people may find offensive. If you are one of them, why are your reading this? Protect your kids. If you are worried about them reading this sort of material, please censor free speech and use a safe surfing program such as net nanny. Or better yet, teach them early and lovingly to understand and accept different lifestyles. Before they learn they from bad experiences.
Constructive comments appreciated. I have a delete button and I'm not afraid to use it! Please send comments to sam@pobox.alaska.net
Golf-T by Samantha Michelle
My given name is James Thompson, but I have been known since college as Jim, so that is the name I usually go by. Two years ago I thought my business life had ended. Dick, the VP in charge of our local branch, had insisted that I accompany him and a very important client to a remote resort for contract discussions and several rounds of golf. This sounded funny, as he preferred to keep me hidden in the woodwork and call my design work "his". But this client had made it clear they wanted to meet the actual designer that would be working on their project, and that further contract negotiations depended on the results of those meetings. Dick knew I played golf, albeit not as well as he, so he figured he could trounce me, as well as make points with the client.
Most of the people in our office considered me to be rather strange. At 48, I usually wore jeans and slogan "T" shirts to work, and came in almost when I felt like it. While the younger engineers drove "yuppie" cars, I drove a highly modified Jeep, or else a beat-up old pickup. But I was one of the best designers in the state, and definitely the best in the company. Which really bugged Dick, who had far better "credentials" than I. What he hated worse was that the clients really liked my work, which made getting rid of me a problem. So Dick paid me far less than I was worth, put his Professional Engineer stamp on my designs, and reluctantly tolerated me. I was constantly on his fecal roster and knew it was just a matter of time before I got the heave-ho.
My co-workers wondered a lot about my hobbies, such as medieval weapons, fly fishing for everything but trout, and participating in fantasy role playing games. Sometimes I would drop by work to fix a problem, dressed in a long robe as someone out of the dark ages, or in costume like some extra in a "B" science fiction movie. Most disavowed any knowledge of me. Except when their computer croaked, or their car wouldn't start. Being a Jack of all trades is fun. Everybody owed me.
Anyway, when Dick told me that I had to wear a suit and tie to the meetings I laughed, and explained that I did not own such things. He tried for a sports-coat and I suggested perhaps one of my more formal medieval tunics. After he finished shouting, he told me to go to his tailor and get outfitted for the meeting at company expense. He added that if he could afford to he would fire me on the spot. I bowed and said, "as you wish, Lord Cromwell," and left quickly. I was almost out the door when someone explained my comment to him; I made it to my Jeep before he exploded.
The tailor was located in a nearby strip mall. Apparently Dick had called him to authorize payment, and when I started to look for something comfortable, the tailor told me that Dick had specified EXACTLY what he wanted. Two hours later I was the reluctant owner of a Hart, Schaffner and Marx suit that cost more than my truck, which would look at home in an office full of divorce lawyers. Yeech! It fit like a starched woolen glove, very "businesslike", and as comfortable as a hair shirt. Add the pin-stripe shirt, white undershirt, tie, cufflinks, and wing-tip shoes and it was everything a successful engineer/businessman would wear. To his funeral.
Dick was probably getting his jollies just thinking about it. And the meeting was that weekend. I figured he was planning to humiliate me. It was something in his personality. Like saccharine. And if he could make a fool out of me, then he could justify to the head office why he had just booted me out. It looked bad. And I was stuck.
The resort was in rural Michigan, quite a ways from any major town. Dick advised me to bring everything I would need for Sunday's big meeting and for golf on Sunday afternoon and Monday morning. I was to check into the resort on Sunday morning, wear the suit to a formal lunch, and then change for golf at two. He warned me to wear what he considered appropriate clothing for golf. I asked if decent shorts and a polo shirt were okay, and he said it had better be politically correct. I actually owned decent golf clothes, as the better local courses had Victorian dress codes. I even had a nearly new pair of golf shoes, the ones that looked like Reeboks with cleats. The same as the professionals wore. Pricey, but oh-so-comfortable.
Because it had been quite a while since I had been to that part of Michigan, I called the resort and found I could get my room a day early. So I had them charge the extra day to the company (figuring I was probably going to get canned anyway), packed my bags and fishing gear, and very early Saturday morning headed north. Because the resort was nearly full, they put me in a small suite in an outlying cabin. After checking in I changed into my fishing clothes and headed for a small stream where I knew there were plenty of hungry small-mouths. Dick was probably still at the office putting shoe polish on his nose. The fishing was great, the weather brisk, and life was good. I succeeded in turning off the rest of the world. It was wonderful.
Once back at the resort I treated myself to a delightful and costly Lobster dinner (at company expense, of course), and headed to my room for the best part of the trip. Ever since I was a kid I had loved to wear women's clothes. When I would stress out they made feel calm and whole again. According to what I had read I was a crossdresser, although I found no particular sexual gratification from dressing. Even when not dressed I preferred the more supportive "feminine" roles to the competitive "masculine" ones. The only thing that upset me was that I rarely had the opportunity to play. Although my wife was understanding, she was paranoid about public opinion. Having the kids around the house made things even more difficult. So when I was on the road I made up for lost time. I always carried a variety of clothing, from formal to casual, to suit the way I felt. And for the rare chance that I could go out en-femme at a relatively safe place.
I went back outside and pulled a locked case from my Jeep. Inside I opened it and began to dress for the evening. I started off with a shower, followed by a liberal coating of Nair from the cheeks down. Once I was clean and hairless, I pulled out the flowing silver-gray ankle-length silk skirt and matching full-sleeved blouse. Next came the custom-made front-lacing Victorian corset complete with silicone breast forms, silk camisole, and fitted gel-padded panty-girdle that gave me shape and kept the male parts out of the limelight. Since the corset came down well past the top of the girdle, there were no tell-tale bulges. Anywhere. I had paid a small fortune for these accessories, some of the best money I ever spent.
Not that I could pass for a woman all that effectively. At five feet eight tall and 165 pounds of mostly bone and muscle, I really did not look too feminine. I measure 42C-30-38 fully laced into the corset. Most of the 42 inches is lung capacity, and there are very few barrel-chested women. The only thing that really helped was that mother nature had given me lots of extra flesh over my pectorals, which had caused me great embarrassment and harassment through my teens and most of my 20-plus year military career. In the corset or with the correct bra and padding, it gave me rather decent cleavage, and I loved it.
Glass-smooth nylon thigh-hi stockings, heavy silver jewelry, and my high-heeled boots completed the outfit. These were not spike heels (ick!), but even in size 12's, the over 4 inch heels and silver fittings made them resemble formal high-heeled cowgirl boots. I loved the way they and the corset forced me to walk proudly, with a wiggle. The added height helped balance my appearance.
The finishing touches were some relatively subdued makeup, nail polish, and the waist-length dark brown salt-and-pepper wig that matched my natural hair color, or what little was left of it. I fancied that I appeared as a relatively muscular, stately woman in her mid-40's. No beauty, but not ugly enough to stop a truck. I felt great. But like every time before, It was just a masquerade. I sighed, wishing I could be the woman I was portraying. Yet in spite of it being a charade I was feeling my oats. I made sure there was no one watching, locked up the room, hopped in the Jeep, and headed for a city almost an hour away. I knew if I was stopped by the local gendarmes I would have a hard time explaining how I was dressed, but it felt sooo.... good to be out. Right on schedule I was sitting in a small non-smoking restaurant adjacent to an alternative club and bar, enjoying a lemonade while watching to see how many others were dressed for the evening.
I wound up in a very interesting discussion with a drop-dead gorgeous redheaded engineering student from the local college. It was only after I noticed her giving the eye to the obviously female companion of something wearing far too much makeup that I figured something was wrong with the picture. When I asked, she said had been dressing since she was thirteen, and was now attending college completely en-femme. She gave her name as "Shelly" and said that if I was going to be in town to drop by and visit her and her girlfriend, who kept complaining that Shelly looked better than she did. She added that she was completely heterosexual but intended to live her life dressed as a woman, filling a woman's role where possible. When I asked her how that went with her study of engineering, she smiled and, posing, said, "women's liberation, dear," with a flourish.
After we finished laughing, she got serious and told me that after a gay friend of hers committed suicide, she had to face the simple fact that ridicule and harassment were bad but living only half a life was worse. With the help of her few real friends and a good counselor she had worked through her feelings. Shelly said that because she wanted children of her own and was sexually and emotionally attracted to women, she chose breast augmentation surgery and closely monitored use of hormones to make her look more feminine. She was not completely happy with her body, but everything worked properly and she was still fertile. When I left, I wished her well, and then fought back a nagging tear that threatened a cloudburst for not having had the courage to have followed my own feelings that way.
One uneventful trip back to the resort, a careful change out of my evening clothes, and I welcomed sleep wrapped in my favorite long, slinky rayon nightgown.
The next morning I wistfully packed everything feminine into the case, carefully locked it, and put it back into the jeep. Laying out my golf clothes (I kept the shoes in the jeep with the clubs), I grudgingly donned the ultra-masculine business suit, combed my long hair into a neat pony-tail held by a black band, and went to the restaurant to meet Dick and the clients. Despite feeling like I was in a wall-street version of a straight-jacket, I enjoyed the excellent meal.
George, the owner, and Billy, their chief engineer, were affable conversationalists, and seemed to be very big on traditional engineering values and methods. They were shocked to learn that I was not a registered engineer and in fact not an engineer at all. They were skeptical of my abilities to meet their design needs. Dick reassured them that despite my being only a lowly technical type I had an uncanny ability to design projects that worked, the first time, and usually well under budget. Dick was getting nervous and his eyes said I might be looking for a new job soon.
As we were waiting for dessert there was a muffled explosion, and most of the restaurant staff headed outside. We were told that the furnace in a small building had caught fire, and that there was nothing to worry about. Dick and George had been discussing business and drinking quite a bit of Heineken's, while Billy and I compared notes on their upcoming expansion and their design requirements. When dinner was over, Dick pulled me aside to tell me they were unhappy with my long hair and lack of credentials. He added that George was going to think about his decision during today's golf match. He said he was thoroughly pissed that I was the sticking point as to whether or not George was going to use our firm.
When I went back to change, my stomach sank to my toes. The small building that had caught fire was the one where I was staying. And all of my clothing, except what I was wearing, was inside. I made a mad dash to Dick's room, hampered by the suit. I wound up chasing him out of the shower and told him about my belongings. When I said that without them I would not be able to play in this afternoon's match, he looked at me and said "I have had enough of you, and your excuses. You are a pain in my ass. Either be at the course in an hour ready to play, or don't bother to show up at work Tuesday." Then he slammed the door in my face.
A quick check with the hotel desk told me that there was nowhere I could get any replacement clothing on Sunday except in the city I had visited the night before. They apologized profusely and told me that they would pay me for all of my lost belongings. They gave me the key to a suite in the main lodge, and told me that I could have my meals on the house. I mumbled my thanks and went outside. I was angry and depressed. I resented life. It was almost the way it had been in the military. Bust ass and let others take the credit. Be thrown to the wolves when something went wrong. All the while hiding my inner feelings because they were politically incorrect.
Something from the night before came seeping through the fugue. I could stop living the way I was. Although I had always been a closet rebel, I realized that if I was going to get canned, at least I could go out in style. And thoroughly ruin Dick's day. I knew that I would have to find some kind of work afterwards, but I had a lot of skills, and could work from home if needed. If I had to leave to protect the wife and kids, well, I would. I owned a little patch of farmland that was my escape hatch from reality, and I could live there in my camper there until I got back on my feet.
A tremendous rush went through my system and I sat there on a bench outside the resort weeping uncontrollably. An older lady came up and asked me if I was all right. When I told her that I was crying because I was happy, she said she wished more men would understand. I gave her a hug and told her she was wiser than she knew. Realizing that I needed to be at the first tee in less than 45 minutes, I excused myself, moved the Jeep over to the main lodge and, case in hand, dashed into my new room.
Thirty minutes later, dressed more comfortably than I had ever been for a golf match, I got in the Jeep and headed for the course. On the outside I wore my favorite mid-calf tan denim circle skirt, with a loose, matching poplin long-sleeve top. My golf cap was bobby-pinned firmly to my wig. Underneath I wore a lightly-padded long-leg body shaper/waist-cincher and semi-sheer support stockings. The shaper cups were augmented by a set of silicone enhancers, giving my chest a definite forward bulge. Minimal makeup, mostly waterproof foundation/sunscreen, eye-liner and subdued lipstick finished my face. I had done my nails with a quick coat of smoke-tan polish. To finish the look I wore long dangly silver earrings that swayed sensually and tinkled quietly in the breeze. For driving I wore my Adidas cross-trainers over a pair of tennis anklets.
When I reached the clubhouse, I changed to my golf shoes at the Jeep, and carried my golf bag over to the electric cart that had Dick's clubs already in place. Getting far fewer strange looks than I expected, and despite a plague of meat-eating butterflies in my stomach, I was, although scared silly, enjoying myself immensely. I moved into the shade and waited for Dick, George, and Billy to show up. A few minutes later they announced our party's name as being next to tee off. Dick and crew came down from the bar. I was standing in plain view several feet from them and I heard Dick making comments on how I probably did not have the guts to play golf with "real" engineers. Thoroughly pissed I threw any remaining caution to the wind. I walked up behind them and in my most feminine voice (a cross between Bette Middler and Cher with a cold) asked if they wanted to flip to see who would tee off first.
George was the first to turn around, and told me that they already had a foursome. Billy looked confused. Dick looked right past me, stopped, looked again, and lost his voice. I smiled, flipped my pony-tail across his face and walking with as much sway in my hips as I could muster in golf cleats, moved up to the tee and waited for them. Billy was laughing so hard that he almost walked into the cart. George was following us, apparently still trying to figure out what was so funny. Dick tailed behind, sputtering words normally reserved for frog-filled water holes and starting to turn a nasty shade of purple.
I turned to Billy and with a wink said they would have to tee off fist, as ladies always teed off last. He looked me over, muttered something about consultants and other psychotics, and still laughing tried to tee up. Several times. By this time Dick had regained his voice and after another stream of profanity, told me that I was fired, and ordered me to get the hell out of there. In a feminine voice tinged with sarcasm I told him that only foursomes were allowed on the course, and that we would have to forfeit our fees and match if I did not play. George by now had figured out what was happening and took control.
"Dick, I don't know why he," pausing to look at me, "or she, or whatever it is" looking again "is dressed like that, but I came here to play golf. But I think you have made up my mind about your firm." Looking at me again, he said "Jim, or whatever you are, are you doing this as a joke or do you really want to play today?" I nodded, and with less lightness in my voice than I wanted, asked if he would be my partner since it was obvious that Billy would laugh himself into oblivion and Dick was not acting like a gentleman.
George then looked at Billy, who was still trying to tee up while shaking with laughter, and said, "Let's play." I thought Dick would throw up. I almost panicked when George asked me what name to put on the scorecard. After a moment I replied "Samantha Michelle Thompson, but you can call me "Sam"". Billy stepped on his tee. Dick sputtered again, and I moved to keep George between us.
Seeing that Billy would need a bit longer to regain his composure, George teed up and sent a straight, if not overly long drive down the middle of the fairway. Dick managed to tee up after several tries, and with a furious swing sent his ball into chop-shop heaven with a whistling slice that easily cleared the boundary fence to the right of the course. Very visibly George noted two strokes and told Dick to try again. The next swing drove the tee deep in the ground, and there was enough topspin to roll the ball almost 50 yards down the fairway. Billy carefully teed up and muttering to himself, drove a booming shot nearly to the green.
I walked past the cart to the ladies tee, placed my tee and ball and suddenly realized that I had never played en-femme. I quickly found out that a tight body-shaper changed my swing. Breathing deeply I took a few more practice swings, noting how much more restricted my movements had become, and decided to concentrate on form rather than power. Because I could not move freely, the drive lacked it's usual power. But the rigid posture kept me lined up and my ball rolled to a stop a few yards behind George's. We moved up to where Dick's ball had stopped and watched in amusement as Dick proceeded to—twice—propel his divot further than the ball. It took him a total of three strokes before he connected sufficiently to catch up with George and me.
I was well-placed on the green in two more strokes, as was George. Billy's second shot stopped near the pin and George started muttering that Billy had been a golf pro in a previous life. George bounced his ball through the sand trap and onto the green on what I think was his eighth stroke. When we finally finished the hole Billy was one under, George and I were tied, and Dick was 6 over.
Dick managed to control himself over the next couple of holes, and by the 5th he was matching George and me, although down eight for the match. I wouldn't even think about Billy's scores, reminding myself that someone would have to break both his arms before the next match just to make it even.
As the match progressed, George and I began to chat. He wanted to know why I was dressed the way I was, so I explained about the fire, the way Dick treated me, and that I had finally decided to come out of the closet. When he backed up suddenly, I explained that I was not gay and tried to explain crossdressing. He seemed genuinely interested, and we maintained a philosophical discussion to the exclusion of Billy and Dick for several more holes.
He asked what I was going to do if Dick carried through on his firing of me. I replied that I had no plans, but that if I was not fired I would quit, as I would never again work for a bigoted asshole like Dick. George dropped that line of questions and said he understood what it was like working for someone like Dick. He added that was one of the reasons he had started his own construction business. By the start of the back nine, George had started to address me as Samantha, rather than Sam, which gave me an insight into how he had become such a successful owner/manager of a construction firm.
At the beginning of the 11th hole Dick finally blew up. He walked up to me and told me that I was not only fired, but that he was going to ruin me by making certain that every engineering firm in town knew I was homosexual. I shrugged in resignation, but the look of anger I saw on George's face puzzled me. Dick meanwhile, told me never return to the office, as he would have my final paycheck along with my personal possessions delivered to my house by a courier on Tuesday. I looked at him, and the hatred in his eyes and the strain on my nerves took their toll. I collapsed in a heap on the ground and began to cry. Dick laughed, called me a stupid faggot, grabbed his clubs from the cart, and marched towards the clubhouse.
The next thing I knew, George had his arm around me and was telling Billy to waive the next groups through, and to go get me some cold water. I sobbed on George's shoulder for a while. After Billy brought back the water and some towels from the clubhouse, I managed to get a grip on myself. Blotting off the tears I quietly apologized to George and Billy for my behavior, saying I never meant harm to anyone except Dick, and told them to go on and play out their match. I asked them to forgive me, and told them I would leave so they could finish the match in peace.
To my surprise, George told me that he was enjoying my company and that it was fine with him if we played out the round. I looked at Billy and he nodded. I grabbed a mirror from my purse, fixed as much makeup damage as possible, and told George I was ready to play. The rest of the match was a blur. George and I quit keeping score and Billy made us both look awful with an eagle on the Par 5 18th hole. As we walked back towards the clubhouse I looked carefully, but there was no sign of Dick. I started shaking and, shouldering my bag, began to head for my Jeep. George stopped me.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asked. I nodded. I told him I was going to go back to my room to get what little stuff remained there, figuring Dick had canceled my reservation for the evening, and head for home. George asked me to meet him at the resort dining area before I checked out. When I asked why, he said he wanted to be sure I was OK to travel. I nodded, got in the Jeep, and drove off. When I got back to the resort there was a note on my door from the manager, asking me to come to his office as soon as I returned. Assuming I was going to get heaved out on my ear I walked to the office where, amid strange looks from the desk staff, he asked me into his office.
He introduced himself as Robert and told me that Dick had come storming into the resort screaming about me. Apparently Dick had made quite a stir, and called me many things that Robert said he would not repeat in any company. He said that, before Dick left, he had refused to pay my bill and had advised the resort to throw me out on my ear as a deadbeat. Looking at the floor, I asked him what he wanted me to do. His answer was totally unexpected.
He said that the Dick had been placed on the resort's unwanted list for his behavior and language, and that aside from my rather unusual attire I had done nothing wrong, especially considering that I had been burned out of my room. He pointed out, laughing, that Dick had prepaid by credit card over his faxed signature, so he could not cancel payment, and that his departure meant the pre-authorized amount would easily cover my bill, including tonight and tomorrow if I wanted.
Before I left the office Robert asked me in a quiet voice if I would mind answering a rather personal question. I said wryly "Why not? Everyone knows I wear women's clothes by now." He asked if I was gay. Dazedly I shook my head, and he smiled sadly, saying that I would have made a great date for the evening. When I asked, he said he was, and bigots like Dick left a bad smell when they passed through. He said I would be welcome back at any time and gave me his business card and his pager number, saying that if there were any problems with the staff to call him directly. I asked if the staff knew he was gay, and he said they had known for years, but he was also the primary owner of the resort, and if they did not treat everyone with dignity they were unemployed.
It was about five when I left Robert's office. George and Billy had showered and changed clothes, and were waiting for me. Apparently they became worried when I did not show up at the dining area, and found the note still tacked to my door when they checked my room. I told them that Dick had tried to have me tossed out, but that the manager was sympathetic and I would not have any problems. George then asked me to join him and Billy for dinner at 7 PM. I shook my head and explained that the dining room had a strict dress code on Sunday nights, and my suit had burned with my other clothes in the fire. George looked thoughtful, and then asked me if I had any women's clothes with me appropriate for a formal Sunday dinner. I was so shocked I failed to look where I was going and fell completely over a bench into one of the fountains, scattering goldfish everywhere.
It took both Billy and George, who were laughing so hard they had trouble standing, several tries to pull me out. Once I was standing we helped other laughing patrons catch and toss fish back into the water. Almost floating on air, I told George it would make me the happiest girl in the world to dress for dinner, but it would take me at least until eight. He muttered something about women, and they left for the bar. As I was making my dripping way back towards my room, Robert found me. When he finally stopped laughing at what happened, he looked pityingly at my drenched wig and running makeup.
He suggested I take him up on a free session at the resort's beauty salon. "What beauty salon?" was my reply. He looked at me like I was a peasant and explained that high class resorts have beauty salons to keep their female guests looking their best at all times. He said he would set it up for me, and to shower and return by six, wearing casual clothes and bringing the ones I planned to wear for dinner. When I said I thought they would not want a man in their salon, he laughed and said it was not a problem.
Intrigued by the idea, I agreed and hurried back to my room. By 5:30 I was showered and dressed in a loose cotton jumper, my clothing rinsed out and hung to dry, the long wig rinsed and wrapped in a towel. No makeup, just a padded WonderBra, satin panties, and pantyhose. I pulled out of my case a short, curly wig that matched the long one, fitting and pinning it to my hair. Deciding I did not look like I would scare too many people, I brought my case with my evening clothes and soggy wig, just as Robert had requested, and headed for the salon.
Feeling like a bull moose at a formal tea, I entered the salon trying to avoid looking at the ladies being primped and trimmed. Before I could introduce myself to the receptionist, a young woman walked up and asked if I was Samantha. When I nodded, she said she was Tammy and took me to private room at the back of the shop. She told me that Robert had called and said I was special. He had told them he wanted me to have a complete make-over, and for them to help me get ready for tonight. When I stuttered that I did not know what a make-over meant she giggled. "I know you are a man. But dear Robert asked me to give you a really special, feminine appearance for tonight. Hair, face and nails, the works. But we only have a little time. So show me your wig and clothes." It took me a minute to pull everything out, and hang the clothes on one of the hooks on the wall. She looked thoughtful and disappeared out the door.
A moment later a very distinguished older woman accompanied Tammy back into the room. Embarrassed, I tried to shrink away, but Tammy told me that this was MaryBeth, the manager, and she wanted her opinion on what would look best. MaryBeth looked at my clothes, and me, and asked skeptically how I was planning to fit into the somewhat smaller feminine outfit. Sheepishly I pulled out the padded girdle and corset and my boots. "Ohh......" was all she said. Then she gave me an evil grin, and whispered some instructions to Tammy. Taking the wig and telling me she would have one of the other girls wash and style it, MaryBeth disappeared out the door. Tammy pushed me into a chair, tipped my head back into a sink, and proceeded to wash my face and hair. Two more women entered. Each took one hand and began working furiously on my skin and nails.
It was a weird feeling to have someone doing things to me that I could not observe. Tammy told me to close my eyes, and began to rub some fragrant oil into my face. I relaxed and enjoyed the sensations. I heard the door open and MaryBeth's voice told me that my escorts had been advised I would not be ready until nine, when I would meet them at the dining room. She said she was going to help Tammy do my face and that I might experience some stinging. When the first eyebrow hair was tugged out I almost jumped. She told me IF I would stay still it would only take a moment, and after I felt half my facial hair extracted, she said that part of the work was done. As she left she told me everything was on schedule and that I would be ready to dress in about an hour.
The rest of the time flew by. Unable to see what was happening, I felt my nails being shaped and then longer nails applied and secured. A stinging mud was carefully applied to much of my face and neck, and I thought it smelled like the Nair. After it was removed and rinsed off, another treatment with a scented oil was applied. Finally I was told to carefully open my eyes and they worked on my eyelashes and lids. Tammy finished doing something to my cheeks and then told me to close my eyes, keep them closed, and stand up. With help from the others I was soon on my feet. MaryBeth came back in, told me that they were going to dress me, and started stripping off my clothes. When I grabbed frantically at the jumper she said firmly that they had all seen men before, and that for tonight I was just one of the girls. I realized there was no place to hide and stood there totally mortified as they peeled me down to my skin.
Have you ever had to stand quietly while a bunch of women you don't even know strip you down to your birthday suit? Weird. With the occasional impure thought running through my mind, I was soon blushing from hair to toenails, as my male side literally raised it head. They all giggled and Tammy said she had something to take care of the problem for the evening. I was thinking evilly about methods they might use, so I jumped when I felt my penis sprayed with a cool solution that immediately made it completely numb. As everything shrank, Tammy said that it was just topical lidocaine used to treat bad sunburn pain and it would wear off in a few hours.
Shortly I was dressed in my padded girdle and corset. MaryBeth told me that she would "properly" lace it, and with the others holding me in place pulled it far tighter than I had ever achieved. I thought that breathing had become optional. After I stood gasping for a minute, she tightened it some more. My stockings, camisole, and dress were carefully pulled into place, and then the wig was set on my head. Tammy said that to make it fit properly, they would use a special glue that would not hurt either the wig or me, and that would come off easily with a special solvent.
At last they were finished. They put on my boots and laced them up. Once the jewelry was in place they led me into the main shop. When I opened my eyes I could not see any mirrors. Tammy finished my eye makeup, put on my glasses and told me to turn around. I did not believe my eyes. I had seen the woman in the mirror before. But she was never this pretty. The makeup had given my face an almost feminine shape. Instead of long, even curls the wig was styled to give it bulk and set off my face and neck. I realized how tightly the corset had been laced. Feeling my waist, I knew it had been laced to the limit, over a full inch smaller than I had ever attempted. I still was not a genetic woman, but I almost had a woman's body. I was sure I looked damn good, and felt like I belonged.
I looked at Tammy and MaryBeth and the others who had worked on me, and started to cry. Tammy and MaryBeth immediately told me I would be strangled with my own wig if I messed up my makeup. Pulling myself together, I thanked them in a breathless voice (it was all that I could manage). They handed my purse and told me to enjoy the evening. As I left the salon Tammy said they would have my other clothes delivered to my room. In short, mincing steps I made my way to the dining room where I saw a formally-attired pair waiting for me. I thought George was going to have an attack of some type as he tried to pull his eyes back into his head. Billy was muttering, "I told you so," and grinning from ear to ear.
George and Billy each took an arm and escorted me into the main ballroom. I felt like I was on exhibition, and there was little question that we were the object of considerable interest among the other patrons. I asked George if he felt silly bringing a female impersonator to dinner, and he replied firmly, "I am taking an attractive woman to dinner. And I don't give a damn about what anyone may think." Billy nodded agreement. I don't remember much about the rest of the evening. I was too high on life, and too short on oxygen. Robert dropped by later in full tuxedo. MaryBeth, whom he introduced as his wife, was dressed in a stunning, formal white leather dress that looked like a second skin. In her six inch heels, she towered over him. When I looked at him quizzically, he leaned over and whispered, "love does not always mean something sexual, my friend". Pulling her down to him, he gave her a sensual, tongue-sharing kiss. I think I blushed scarlet, and both George and Billy looked embarrassed.
After dinner, we adjourned to the main lodge and Billy, looking exhausted, headed back to his room. George asked me what my plans were. I told him that I would go home, have a long talk with my wife, and see what I could do to put my life back together. He asked if I was going to continue in the consulting business, and I told him that since Dick was well known in the business he would make sure through his good-old-boys network that I was blacklisted.
Looking thoughtful, George asked if Dick had told me the extent of the projects that his firm was undertaking. I said that the only thing I had been involved with was the cleanup project we had discussed at lunch. George then explained that his firm had a multimillion dollar, ten-year contract with several of the suburbs near our office for upgrading their civil infrastructure, and that many projects would involve environmental problems areas. Then he really floored me.
"Billy and I are fed up with dealing with consultants like Dick whenever we have an environmental problem. Both of us are professional engineers, as are several others on our staff. Although I usually hire only engineers, your resume and references are actually far better than many I employ." He paused briefly "We will be moving a complete staff to your area within a few months to handle management of these projects. I think we can find you desk space, if you are willing to work for us." I stared. And thought. And stared some more.
I managed to get out, "You know I wear women's clothing, and Dick will do his best to discredit any work I attempt. It could hurt you and your firm.". George snorted. "Dick is a dead fish in a small pond. Tomorrow I will call up your CEO and tell him that Dick just cost them a lucrative million-dollar multi-year contract. When your CEO tries to get back in my good graces, I will tell him exactly what happened and what I think about scum like Dick. I am pretty sure that your CEO will bend over backwards to keep some part of our business. If tossing Dick out on his ear is what we want, I bet he'll have Dick's office empty by Tuesday night. Besides, I will make sure that he understands the likelihood of legal action should Dick do anything to embarrass my firm or any of its employees." I suddenly realized that he was right, I was thinking from my perspective as an employee—not as a powerful client.
When I asked what I had to do to fit in with their operation, he said that he did not care if I wore a skirt to work or not as long as I provided them superior work and loyalty. He told me I would have to get used to being ribbed about my appearance and orientation, but that the people working for him were true professionals and anyone unable to accept something different was not professional enough.
I grabbed him and gave him a great big hug, then pulled back in fear at what I had just done. He laughed and told me that I was acting like any other woman just offered a new job. I felt warm and fuzzy inside. George said I would be on their payroll as of a week from Monday and to contact his office Tuesday to begin filling out the necessary paperwork. When I asked what I would be making, he mumbled something about minimum wage. He then laughed, and told me I would be on salary starting at $40k per year, if that was acceptable. I almost choked, but the corset did not leave me enough air to make more than a quiet gasp. I told him what Dick had been paying me as an hourly wage, and he chortled that I must enjoy slave labor to work for wages that low.
It turns out that Billy was the one who first suggested hiring me. George told me that Billy was the most practical of the bunch, actually a full partner in their firm, but he preferred engineering to management. They had discussed the idea before dinner and had decided to offer me a position if I was adamant about leaving my current employment. George walked me to my room, and started to kiss me goodnight. Then he looked really embarrassed, and fled quietly down the walk.
It took me an hour to get out of the corset, put everything away, and wash off the makeup. I could not get the wig off as I did not yet have the solvent, so I luxuriated in the feel of the long hair against my back as I donned my nightgown and drifted off to dreams of a future I had never even considered in my deepest fantasies. Life was good again.
Epilog
That was years ago. I got in touch with Shelly that Monday to thank her for starting me on a new path. I donned my jumper and minimal underpinnings, and drove back up to meet her and her girlfriend (now her wife). Shelly suggested that I contact her counselor for a referral to someone in my city and gave me a stack of material to read concerning people like us. We shared a good cry and may hugs before I departed for home that evening.
My wife was aghast when I pulled up in the twilight dressed in my jumper and wig, without an apparent care as to who saw me that way. She was even more confused when I calmly unloaded my stuff from the Jeep and carried everything into the house. Before she could manage to say anything, there was a screech from the back of the house, followed by numerous dire threats. Immediately thereafter my son, grinning and carrying a squirt gun, dashed madly into the room with his now-wet sister in hot pursuit with mayhem in her eyes, swinging a hairbrush. It took a moment before they realized who I was, but it became obvious when I grabbed each of them and threatened dreadful consequences, the least being extra chores and summer school.
Suddenly it got really quiet. The kids just stared at me. My daughter plopped down on the couch with her mouth open and my son started circling me like I was an alien about to turn him into a snack. I began to feel that I had made a really bad choice and my panicked look must have been obvious. The wife wrapped herself around me and tried to hug me to death. When I started to cry, both kids warily joined in on the hug. We stood there for a long time, letting emotions flow. Finally my daughter stepped back and said, shaking her head "instead of a nerd for a father I have a really weirdo nerd." Then she asked if she could borrow my earrings and gave me another hug. She warned me not to borrow her clothes, as they were too small. And then she had the gall to assert that, since she was still the second girl in the house, she had shower priority over me. My wife told her it would be a garden hose if she kept that up!
True to form, my son got mad when I told him I had not brought him a present. I mentioned going fishing on Wednesday if he was good, and he got very quiet. Giving me a really funny look he asked if he had to dress like me to go fishing. I laughed and the wife broke out sobbing and grabbed me again. I told him he could dress anyway he wanted because he was going to be mosquito food, and I recommended long pants as there was poison ivy. He replied, "Yeesss.....!" and zoomed off to the garage, where I heard tackle being collected.
Peeling the wife off of me I told everyone it had been a long weekend, and announced that if anyone wanted explanations it would be after I'd had a good night's sleep. Grabbing a diet Pepsi from the refrigerator, I pulled the wife into the bedroom and locked the door. We spent most of an emotionally-charged night discussing what had happened and how we were going to cope with my changes. She was happy that I would no longer have to work for Dick; she knew how much I despised him. But, ever practical, she was worried about finances and the children. I told her about George's job offer and starting salary, and after her eyes returned to their normal size I could hear her recalculating my contribution to the house accounts. When I told her about Shelly's recommendations about counseling, she agreed emphatically.
Starting on Tuesday I dressed en-femme, and I felt like a weight had been removed from my soul. I remembered to call up MaryBeth, who told me where to buy solvent for the wig. Several hours later, the wife and I had succeeded in making an appointment with a counselor for Friday. At the counselors suggestion I also made an appointment for later on Friday for a complete physical with a physician she recommended. Both kids were asked not to discuss my new appearance outside the house until everyone was comfortable with what was happening, and they wholeheartedly agreed.
Late Tuesday, a courier arrived from my former office with my stuff and a sealed envelope addressed to me. It took several forms of ID and a lot of staring from the courier before he would let me sign for my stuff. The letter contained a check for my back pay and all accrued vacation time, plus a letter on company stationary from Dick stating that I had been terminated for cause and thus would not be eligible for unemployment benefits. Having not considered those benefits before George's offer, I put the check in my purse and the letter back in the envelope.
A call to George's office manager showed he was thorough. I inadvertently gave my name as Samantha in a feminine voice. His reply showed that he was expecting a call from a woman of that name. When I gave my address he said they would FedEx the employment package to me for delivery on Thursday. He also asked for my social security number and checking account number so I could be added to the payroll without delays, and advised me that I would need to complete a company employment physical as soon as possible. When I mentioned that I was scheduled for a physical on Friday he said it would probably meet their requirements. He asked for information on the doctor so he could forward company forms and protocols along with an authorization for payment. Finally, he told me George wanted me to call in the evening for a private conversation, and gave me George's home number.
I completed the afternoon by purchasing the special solvent for MaryBeth's glue. Although I loved the feel of the long hair on my bare neck, my scalp really wanted fresh air. By the time everyone had made it home that evening I was back in my favorite jeans and T shirts, looking masculine again except for the eyebrows and fancy nails. And those wonderful dangly earrings. Yum.
After a called-in pizza dinner (the wife claiming she was too tired to cook) I retired to my work area to call George. When his wife got him on the telephone he was already laughing. When I asked what was so funny, he said he had just finished talking to my former CEO and that instead of firing Dick they were going to transfer him to a position as senior project manager on a large government project. In Saudi Arabia. Where he would be unable to bother me for a long time.
George said the best was yet to come. My old firm was extremely eager to avoid a potential wrongful-termination lawsuit and contract at least some work with George's firm. So they had agreed to change all of my records to reflect my name as Samantha Michelle Thompson, provide me an excellent reference, and award me a "retirement" bonus equal to my past-year's salary. He was still snickering as he asked me to set aside next week to work with Billy. Billy would be coming to town to contract for space for their new offices and to meet with contract mangers for the communities where they were to begin work in the fall. He told me to dress as a woman, because they might as well get used to seeing me that way.
As a final note, he told me to contact a rather notorious lawyer in our area whom he had employed on occasion for unusual problems. He said that the lawyer would arrange for me to obtain official identification with my name as "Samantha Michelle" and showing me as a woman. This would include my driver's license. He wished me well, and told me he and his wife would fly in a week from Saturday to meet with Billy and me. We were to visit any facilities we were contemplating, and then all of us, including my wife were invited out on the town for dinner. I told him that my wife had never been out with me dressed as a woman, and he said she had better get used to it. When I stammered that he might have to convince her, he laughed.
The weeks and then months went by. The counselor helped my wife and children understand why I had decided to take on a female appearance. With the assistance and blessing of the doctor I was placed on a minimal dose of hormones, and in the late fall underwent breast augmentation. At the same time I had additional cosmetic surgery, paid for by the severance bonus from my old firm, to give my face a more feminine appearance, including hair implants so I did not always need a wig.
It was not easy. Both the family and I had to undergo a lot of problems from narrow-minded people. Eventually the novelty of my change wore off and most of our neighbors and acquaintances accepted me, at least outwardly, as a woman. I guess it helped that I did not change that much, except for the better. And a happy person is much easier to be with.
Today I am at work, dressed in my usual loose skirt and blouse, and in one of my new pairs of high-heeled boots. These are really special because they are actually terribly expensive custom steel-toe work boots, paid for by the company. I no longer need a corset for everyday wear. Surgery, hormones and exercise have seen to that. My salary has not changed much, but I decided I preferred to work less hours rather than make more money. I am content. The wife and I are looking forward to another weekend at that same resort in Michigan where it all started. Robert and MaryBeth have become really close friends, and I found that Robert loves to fish. The wives are going to a concert series in Chicago; we're going to canoe back to a secluded lake and camp for a week away from civilization. And no, I won't tell you if there is anything romantic involved.
Oh my, did I mention Shelly? I told her to contact George when she graduated from engineering school. Billy had her drive down, conducted her interview at our newly expanded offices, and hired her on the spot. Shelly and her wife moved to this area at company expense. She is a star engineer-in training under Billy, who now runs the entire engineering division from this office. Our unusually diverse office staff has brought other benefits, including a major city contract awarded for community planning because we were the only bidder that had the support of the large and not-so-silent gay, lesbian, and transgendered community. We even get support from the most militant feminist groups. Seems we are the only firm in town with more female than male (or at least feminine versus masculine) staff , including engineers
The only problem is that I am beginning to feel like an old lady! Too many young things, including Shelly, on the staff. The next client who calls me "ma'am" is in for an earful. I might even hit him with my purse. But only after he's signed the contracts.
Finis
© 1998
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