“You’re a good-looking woman, Mandy. You should apply.”

I frowned. “Why would my looks matter, one way or the other, Stella?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “When it comes to men–especially men like Marion Howard–looks always matter.” Shaking her head again, she added, “You should know that.”

I guess, deep down, I did know. I just didn’t like it. “So, to be an executive secretary at Howard Enterprises–to be Marion Howard’s own private secretary, in fact–doesn’t require a person to have any secretarial skills?”

“I didn’t say that.” She looked across the kitchen table, where we were drinking our tea. Stella and I were more than neighbors; we’d been friends since I’d moved into The Gables, a master planned community north of Paradise, five years ago, at age eighteen. Knowing I was temporarily unemployed and seeking work, she’d invited me over this morning, saying she had a hot prospect for me. “How would you like to work for Marion Howard, as his private secretary, for fifty-plus dollars per hour, benefits, and incredible perks?’

Stella herself worked for Howard Enterprises, as an executive secretary to the company’s Vice-president in Charge of Acquisitions, Lou Baxter. In fact, it was from him that she’d learned of the upcoming vacancy in Mr. Howard’s office, and she’d put in a good word with her boss–a good word which, as it had tuned out, had helped to land me an interview with the search committee who was interviewing candidates for the as-yet unannounced position. I had gotten in ahead of the crowd, thanks to Stella.

“Well, as it happens, I do have skills,” I told my friend. “I can type 120 words a minute.”

Stella whistled. “Wow, girl!”

“And I can file documents without getting finger cuts,” I joked, “as long as they’re digital, rather than printed.”

She chuckled. Reaching for a strawberry tart, she asked, “How’s your dictation?”

* * *

Stella was one of my few friends who knew that I’m a male-to-female transsexual, or, “a chick with a dick.” I sometimes use the latter term, despite its crudity, because it’s more accurate in relation to my status.

I’m every inch the lady, except for the minor details of my cock and balls. I have long, dark, wavy hair; a heart-shaped face that would be beautiful enough to get me killed if the wicked witch in ‘Snow White’ were my stepmother; firm, high, round breasts; a concave tummy; a sleek, round bottom; and shapely thighs and calves. I’ve even had my Adam’s apple shaved, undergone complete electrolysis, and taken lessons in feminine deportment from a leading finishing school. Only my genitals belie my otherwise completely feminine charms. I turn a lot of heads–both men’s and women’s–when I walk or jog. As Stella said, I am a good-looking woman–well, in every way that matters, except my sex. Mr. Howard wouldn’t be able to guess the truth, and I knew that Stella would never out me, so I wasn’t particularly concerned about my transsexual status.

The interview had been grueling, with five men peppering me with questions, a few outrageously sexist, while the single woman on the search committee, installed as a seemingly friendly face, pretended to deflect her male colleagues’ hostile interrogation. Curiously, all she asked was “how’s your dictation?”

I was dressed for success, though, poised, and ready with answers that were good enough to land me an interview with the man himself, Marion Howard, CEO of Howard Enterprises. The committee’s chair had telephoned me last Friday afternoon, at 4:45 PM to give me the good news: “Mr. Howard has asked us to have you come in for a personal interview with him next Tuesday afternoon, at 4:00 PM.”

* * *

The entrance to Howard Enterprises was agleam with glass, marble, and highly polished wood. The place was like a cathedral–a cathedral dedicated to capitalism and commerce. Its ceiling rose majestically high, and, set in alcoves, were full-size marble statues of the deities of American business, each identified by his name–there were no women among the gods, I observed. Etched in nameplates of gold were the names of ruthless robber barons so famous–or infamous–that the nameplates were redundant; all were men who’d known what they’d wanted and had been willing to do whatever was necessary to get it: Astor, Carnegie, Gates, Harriman, Mellon, Morgan, Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, Walton, and, of course, the man himself, Marion Howard, CEO of Howard Enterprises.

I studied the man. He was oversize, looking more like a Titan than a human being, bulky with brawn, not fat, and with sharp features–the piercing eyes of an eagle–or a snake–the beaked nose of a hawk, and the thin lips of a reptilian predator. I half-suspected that, were the statue’s mouth to open, I’d see, inside, not only fangs instead of teeth, but a forked tongue as well. I shivered. There seemed no humanity in the figure, just a cold ruthlessness that was capable of anything. I had no doubt but that, like the others whose statues graced the entrance, Howard had earned his place among them by his own unscrupulous willingness to do whatever it took to make another dollar, another quarter, another dime, another nickel, or another penny.

Dwarfed by the presence of the larger-than-life life-size figure of the company’s chief executive officer, who was, I had to admit, a handsome devil, despite his merciless gaze, I wondered whether I’d made a mistake in answering his call for an interview. Did I really want to work for such a man?

Curiously, the vast entrance was virtually devoid of people. There was no receptionist, no information desk clerk, no security staff–at least, none that I could see–although, I suspected, my every move was being taped by hidden security cameras, and the building’s vast entrance would be flooded with armed men and women should a camera suggest anything might be amiss.

Near the bank of elevators, I saw another niche in the wall. This one was not occupied by another robber baron’s statue, however; it housed a computerized, digital building directory. Relieved, I strode toward the device. When I was within three feet of it, a perky female voice addressed me: “Good morning, Ms. Hall, and welcome to Howard Enterprises. How may I assist you, please?”

Wow, I thought. “I am here to see Mr. Howard,” I replied, enunciating clearly. I felt idiotic speaking to a machine, even if it was high-tech enough to have greeted me by name.

“Mr. Howard is on the eighty-fifth floor, Ms. Hall,” the soothing voice responded. “Take any elevator. Use the code that the search committee provided to you to access his floor.”

Code? What code? I wondered. Panic rose within me. I hadn’t been given any code! I was about to tell the directory as much when I realized that I had been issued a code. “If you are invited to see Mr. Howard,” one of the search committee inquisitors had told me, tell the elevator that you are ‘just peachy.’ Use that exact phrase: ‘just peachy.’”

I had assumed that the idiot had meant to say “tell the elevator operator,” not “tell the elevator,” but, now, after having met the electronic directory, I wasn’t as sure that he had misspoken.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Hall?”

“No, thanks.”

“Good luck with your interview.”


Why was I thanking a freaking machine? I asked myself. Shaking my head, I strode across the marble floor to the bank of elevators and pressed the Up button. Within moments, a car arrived, the doors parting silently, and my eyes widened, my mouth gaping in surprise, as I saw none other than Tom Martin, dressed to the nines in an expensive, tailored three-piece suit, briefcase in hand.

“Amanda?” he cried. A sardonic smile spread, like a demon’s grin, across his too-handsome, pretty-boy face. His teeth were as unnaturally white as ever–gleaming, in fact, each one capped with a perfectly matched porcelain veneer. He shuffled the briefcase from his right to his left hand, extending the empty one for me to shake–or, knowing him, I thought–so that he could raise the back of my hand to his lips, to kiss, in a mockery of the affection and romance that we had once briefly shared.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, my dear.”

Ignoring the offer of his hand, I declined to take the bait. “Thomas,” I said, my tone cold enough to frost the air. I stood aside, giving him plenty of room to make his exit.

He didn’t move.

I shrugged, pressing the Up button again. There were seven other elevators; I wouldn’t have to wait long, even if he refused to exit his car.

Tom stepped out of the lift. “What brings you here, to Howard Enterprises?” he asked.

“I might ask you the same thing, if I cared to do so,” I quipped, annoyed at my one-time lover’s impertinence. What I was doing here, or anywhere else, for that matter, was none of his damned business, not after the way he’d treated me.

“I work here,” he said, enjoying the sight of my reaction to his declaration. He patted his briefcase. “I’m the Vice-president in Charge of Research and Development.”

I willed the elevator to arrive.

“So, why are you here, Mandy?”

He pronounced my name as if it were that of a child who’d accidentally wandered into adults-only territory.

Mercifully, my elevator did arrive, and I stepped briskly inside.

Before the doors closed, Tom hurriedly informed me, “Don’t worry, Mandy, I put in a good word for you–with Mr. Howard himself.”

I could hear his laughter, like the sound of a jackal, through the closed doors.

“Good morning,” a male voice said, addressing me from a concealed speaker. “Which floor, please?”

“Just peachy,” I said, and the car ascended with a swiftness and a silence that seemed to symbolize the single-minded, meteoric rise to the top of the business world that Marion Drake’s success represented.

All the way up, I worried about just what Tom had told Mr. Howard. Would he have mentioned anything that might jeopardize my chance of landing the position of the CEO’s private secretary? What if the jerk had told him about–I dismissed the thought; I didn’t want to go there. I was nervous enough as it was.

Needless to say, I arrived early: at 3:45 PM, to be exact, I was seated in his outer office, briefcase poised atop my stocking-encased knee. On the wall, behind the secretary’s desk, where an elderly woman, Ms. Chambers, according to her brass nameplate, was filling in until Mr. Howard’s new personal secretary–me, I fervently hoped–was hired, a clock read 3:48.

The seconds ticked by at a rate of one per hour, it seemed. Trying not to fidget, I turned the pages of a couple of magazines on the coffee table near the leather couch upon which I was perched, but I was too nervous to read any of the articles, most of which were financial in nature and looked boring as hell, anyway.

As I continued to wait, I began to daydream. With an annual salary of more than $100,000, trips to Paris, London, and Rome would become real possibilities, not just idle fantasies. Maybe I’d invite Stella along. After all, if not for her, I wouldn’t have gotten the job.

You haven’t even been offered the position yet! I reminded myself.

I would be offered the job, though, I was confident. Somehow, I just knew I’d land it. I imagined myself seated in Ms. Chamber’s place, behind the huge mahogany desk that was the gateway to Marion Howard’s inner sanctum. She caught me looking, and I reprimanded myself for my boldness. It wouldn’t due to incur the ire of any company employee, not when I was, as yet, a nobody seeking work. As I started to avert my eyes, blushing slightly, I saw the ancient woman smile. Beneath the severe expression of her wrinkled countenance, she was a friendly soul, I saw, an angel, perhaps, stationed here to assist me, as the magical helpers who sometimes appear in fairy tales, at critical moments, aid questing heroines.

“May I offer you a tip, miss?”

My heart fluttered. I tried–but surely failed–not to appear too anxious as I nearly blurted, “Yes! Please!”

“You’ve heard of the Hollywood casting couch?”

I frowned. What kind of question was that? “Yes,” I murmured.

“That infamous article of furniture is not exclusive to the offices of Hollywood moguls.”

Now, I blushed scarlet, feeling my face warm as it flushed with blood. “You mean–?”

“Don’t be shocked, my dear. Mr. Howard appreciates only feigned naivete.”

In my mind, I heard, again, the question, asked by both Stella and the female interviewer on the search committee: “How’s your dictation?”

Suddenly, in light of what Ms. Chambers had just told me, the question took on a whole new, wholly disgusting, meaning. “How is your dictation” was an old joke, based upon a pun, with “dictation” a stand-in for “dick-taking,” as in sexual intercourse or fellatio.

I glanced at the clock: 4:00 PM.

“Mr. Howard will see you now,” Ms. Chambers announced.

I rose, smoothing the front of my pleated satin skirt. “How do I look?” I asked the aged woman.

“Yummy,” she said, offering me another of her sweet smiles. She escorted me to the door to Mr. Howard’s office, where she rapped twice upon the massive wood.

A buzzer sounded, and I heard the electronic lock open.

“You didn’t hear about the couch from me,” Ms. Chambers said. She opened the massive door, revealing a vast plain of gold carpet. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said, entering the lion’s den. The door closed of its own accord, and I heard the lock reengage as it shut behind me.

* * *

Mr. Howard sat behind an expansive desk at the opposite end of what seemed to be an acre of carpet. He was a big man, both figuratively and literally. He filled his immense leather executive’s chair. His shoulders were wide, his chest deep and powerful, his arms massive inside the custom-fitted jacket of his three-piece suit. He was huge, but I doubted that there was an ounce of fat on him; he was all muscle.

His octagonal office was tastefully, even elegantly, decorated, and the furnishings were obviously expensive. Oil paintings, not cheap prints, adorned the paneled walls. A 500-gallon aquarium stocked with exotic fish; a waterfall cascading over blocks of granite; marble statues; a terraced garden of blossoms and flowering plants–these were but a few of the extravagant items that graced his inner sanctum.

Several walls were lined with leather-bound books, and, in the middle of the room, halfway between the door and his desk, a pair of leather-upholstered burgundy couches faced one another across a glass-topped coffee table. A pair of red armchairs, also in leather and also facing one another across the coffee table, completed the group. Tables, lamps, credenzas, and wing-back chairs were placed here and there about the eight-sided office.

A big-screen television set dominated an entire wall. Behind his desk, thirty 25-foot-tall windows, each three-feet wide, looked out across, and down, upon adjacent and distant skyscrapers, offering a view of the city view that, spectacular, now, in the daylight, would be absolutely breathtaking at night. The presence of doors in several of the walls suggested entrances to additional rooms; it was obvious that the CEO’s office was comprised of an entire suite of rooms.

“Ms. Hall,” he greeted me, standing. He was well over six feet tall, I judged. “Come in, please.”

As I maneuvered across the exquisite room, he strode forth to meet me, extending his ham-size hand as he offered me a broad, charming smile.

We shook, my hand disappearing in his massive paw, and I was surprised at how gentle he was. Some men feel the need to assert their masculinity by nearly breaking a woman’s hand as, instead of shaking courteously and considerately, they hold her in a death-grip, the brutes thereby demonstrating their greater physical strength–and, in their primitive minds–their “superiority.” Mr. Howard didn’t need to play such mind games. He was as certain of his manhood, it seemed, as he was confident of his business acumen and his administrative abilities.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, nodding toward the group of couches and armchairs that formed an island in the middle of the spacious chamber. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?” His tone and manner suggested that he was inviting me to join him for a round of friendly small talk, rather than for an interview.

Mindful of Ms. Chambers’ and Stella’s warnings of corporate casting couches, I chose one of the armchairs, and he seated himself across from me, the coffee table between us.

“Would you care for a drink?”

There was a huge wet bar along one of the room’s many walls, but I wanted to keep my mind clear and stay focused on the business at hand. “No, thank you, sir.”

“Something to eat? Howard Enterprises boasts some fabulous chefs. We can order whatever you like.”

I blushed, unused to such attention and not expecting such treatment from a busy, wealthy tycoon of Mr. Howard’s stature and reputation. Didn’t he have better, more important things to take care of than me? I wondered. “No, thank you, Mr. Howard.”

“Well, then, perhaps we should get down to business,” he said. “You come highly recommended. Very highly recommended.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a compliment, Ms. Hall; it was a statement of fact.”

I felt myself blushing again. I hoped my interviewer wouldn’t notice, but I was pretty he would. Not much escaped Marion Howard, I was sure. “Would you care to see my resume?” I opened my briefcase.

He smiled. “I’ve seen it, Ms. Hall.”

Of course he had, I told myself. How stupid of me to have asked him such a question. He wouldn’t have invited me for an interview unless he’d already vetted me by the best in the business. I wondered which of the city’s private investigators his company used or, I thought, perhaps they have their own, a squad of former police detectives, in their employ.

It was a safe bet that he knew all about my financial history, whether I’d ever been arrested or convicted of a crime, where I’d lived and for how long, who I had dated, and a lot, lot more. Panic seized me for a moment as I wondered whether he had also learned my secret. No, I decided, that was so unlikely as to be virtually impossible. Aside from my shrink, my surgeon, Stella, and a couple of other friends who’d rather be waterboarded than betray my confidence, no one knew; I was safe. No one who could out me would out me. I was sure of that.

“Can you really type 120 words a minute?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at me, his piercing eyes seeming to drill into my skull, to penetrate my very brain. His stare was so direct and powerful that I wanted to avert my eyes, but I could not; there was something almost mesmerizing about his fixed gaze.

My throat was dry. I swallowed, shifting slightly in my chair as I awaited his next question.

“Are you really a male-to-female transsexual?” he asked.

I nearly passed out from the sheer panic that filled me as I wondered both what to say and who had betrayed my secret.

He smiled. “Never mind answering,” he said. “I can tell that you are.”

A tear formed at the corner of my eye, and I blinked it away. All I needed, now, was to start bawling. I needed to have a good cry, more desperately than I’d ever needed anything else in my life, but it would have to wait. If I lost it now, and started weeping, in the presence of Marion Howard, CEO of Howard Enterprises, I could kiss my $100,000-plus secretarial position goodbye.

How can you tell? I wanted to ask him. I also wanted to ask which of my friends–or presumed friends–had outed me. Which traitor had told him my secret? But, of course, I said nothing. I’d probably lost the job, anyway. Not many men are all that keen to associate with transsexuals. Oh, we may be good enough to lay, but not many guys want to accompany us on social occasions, and they want to be seen in our presence during the conduct of business even less. I doubted that Mr. Howard was any different.

“I have only one more question, Ms. Hall–may I call you Amanda?”

I nodded, waiting.

He smiled. “How are you at dictation, Amanda?” he asked.

* * *

“You want the job, it’s yours,” he told me, “once I’m sure of your facility for dictation.”

I felt humiliated, disgusted, and furious, but I kept these emotions to myself, careful to allow neither my facial expressions, my body language, nor my tone of voice to betray my true sentiments or attitude. “By all means, put me to the test, Mr. Howard,” I said, my voice honeyed and lascivious, despite my utter disgust. “I think you’ll agree that my ‘dictation’ surpasses even your wildest expectations.”

I looked at the two leather couches facing one another across the coffee table, wondering which would prove to be Mr. Howard’s proverbial casting couch.

As it turned out, neither was.

That dubious honor was reserved, I soon discovered, for the king-size bed in the lavish boudoir of the suite–or the suite within the suite of Mr. Howard’s offices–to which several of the many doors in the CEO’s octagonal office provided admittance. The inner sanctum’s inner sanctum was comprised of a fully furnished pantry, a kitchen, a dining room, a den, a small library, a living room, and a master bedroom and two guestrooms, each complete with its own full bath and walk-in closet. Capitalism had never looked so good!

“Would you care for something to eat,” he repeated his earlier offer, “or to drink?”

“No, thank you,” I replied, thinking, Let’s just get this over with. I wondered what he’d want in the way of “dictation.” Oral sex? Anal sex? Considering my sexual status, vaginal sex wasn’t on the menu, but Mr. Howard already knew that. My secret wasn’t a secret from him.

Who, I wondered, once more, had outed me? Surely it hadn’t been Stella. Maybe it had been–suddenly, I recalled Tom, and, in the same instant as I remembered his demonic grin when he’d spied me in the lobby, as he was getting off and I was getting onto the elevator, I knew who’d betrayed my secret to Mr. Howard. The bastard Tom had outed me; it had been he who had shared my little secret with the CEO of Howard Enterprises. What had he hoped to gain? Had he intended to prevent me from being hired? Had he meant to humiliate me? Had he aimed to advance his own career at my expense, by offering the CEO intelligence that would come from no other source?

As I glanced around the living room–we’d entered it from the foyer—I noticed several framed photographs, on various end tables, on the fireplace’s mantlepiece, on shelves, and elsewhere about the chamber. One of the golden–or, knowing Mr. Howard’s wealth and tastes–gold–frames held a picture of Tom’s hated countenance. In the photograph, he was smiling his most charming and infectious smile. So, I thought, the bastard wasn’t merely an employee, but a personal friend, of Mr. Howard.

As I continued to glance at the photographs, most of which represented people I had never seen before and did not know, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Meadows, the Vice-president of Personnel, who’d been among the members of the search committee who’d interviewed me; it had been he, in fact, who’d told me the code word to “tell the elevator”: “just peachy.”

What the hell? I stared, in disbelief, at the familiar face in another of Mr. Howard’s gold frames–my friend and neighbor, Stella Ward, executive secretary to Lou Baxter, Harmon Enterprises’ Vice-president in Charge of Acquisitions, gazed back at me, looking as lovely as ever.

“It’s touching that you have so many of your employees’ pictures–I’m assuming that they’re all employees–on display in your private suite,” I remarked, wanting to hear what Mr. Howard might say, if anything, in response to my statement.

He smiled. “Everyone you see in a frame is more than an employee to me. They’re that, too, of course, but they’re much, much more: each is a friend and, indeed, a lover.”

I looked again at Tom’s photograph. I had noticed, in surveying the room, that there were many other photographs of men among those of women. Mr. Howard had been a very busy CEO, I thought, very busy indeed. “The men, too?” I asked, wanting to be sure.

He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m an equal opportunity employer.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off Tom’s portrait. It was hard to believe that the jerk I’d dated was a faggot. He’d come across as–well, not a lady’s man, and certainly not a ladyboy’s man, but as the stereotypical macho man, sexist and chauvinistic and condescending. And, all the time, he’d been on the receiving end–at least, as I imagined it–of his employer’s cock, swallowing Mr. Howard’s semen or taking his prick up his ass.

“I guess you’ll be adding my picture to the others sooner or later,” I said.

“Sooner, rather than later, I think,” he replied.

“I agree,” I declared, although, if the truth were to be told, I was none to sure, at the time, whether I wanted to go through with this part of the “interview.”

“I like a woman who knows what she wants,” he said, “and is willing to do whatever it takes to get it.” He grinned, leading the way to the bedroom.

I followed, thinking not of this bear of a man who’d soon be pawing me as he made demands upon me that most men wouldn’t make to any woman but a prostitute. Instead, I was thinking of my $100,000-per-year salary and of Paris, London, and Rome.

Mr. Howard was a Type A personality, an alpha male, who knew what he wanted, and he didn’t waste any time going after it. When it came to sex, he wasn’t big on foreplay. He got right down to business, taking off his clothes and sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs spread wide to grant me access as I, having shed my own clothes, knelt naked on the carpet, between his ankles.

“I’ve never been with a transsexual before,” he admitted.

“Then you’re in for a real treat,” I told him.

I bowed low, bending forward at the waist, to let my open mouth descend around his erect penis. My lips closed upon his stiff-standing member, and my head bobbed up and down, in a slow, steady rhythm. My hair spilled over his groin, obscuring my face, but he smoothed the locks aside, wanting to watch me concentrate upon servicing him, and he studied my furrowed brow, my intense gaze, my flaring nostrils, my rounded lips. I knew from experience that a man likes to watch as I perform this intimate act, accepting his manhood as completely as I would the nectar and ambrosia that a divinity of Mount Olympus might offer me, and I wanted Mr. Howard to enjoy the show as much as he did the sensations in his cock and balls that my questing tongue, clamped lips, and warm, wet mouth provided.

My frown of concentration; my concave cheeks; my sliding lips; my bobbing head; the slurping sounds and grunts I made; the drool of my saliva down the column of his cock; the brush of my velvet-soft lips around the shaft of his dick; the occasional nudge of my chin against his groin or thigh; my ardent dedication to the task at hand; the floral aroma of my perfume; the swarm of sensations in his loins, cock, and balls; the increase of blood flow to his genitals; the gasps of his breath and my own; the pounding of his heart–these and a host of other observations, emotions, and sensations conspired to catapult him into a state of bliss that would seize him as resolutely and as finally as the grip of death or the rapture of a saint, and I felt his thighs quake as something–perhaps his very soul–seemed to spurt itself out, through his prick. He gasped, holding his breath and closing his eyes tightly as his spirit seemed to uncoil within him.

Abruptly, realizing that orgasm was imminent for him, I stopped, my mouth closed around his cock, holding his prick within my motionless, warm, wet embrace until the paroxysms subsided and his prick no longer lurched and trembled between my lips.

I withdrew, my rose-pink lips glistening with the dew of my saliva and, perhaps, a drop or two of his Cowper’s fluid, or pre-cum. I smiled at him. “Wow! That was close!”

“If you hadn’t stopped, I’d have come for sure,” he told me. “Why did you quit?”

My smile broadened. “I want you to shoot your load up my ass,” I explained, my dignified, ladylike tone contrasting sharply with the vulgarity of the expression.

We climbed into his massive bed, and I positioned myself on my elbows and knees, with my legs spread wide, to provide easy access to the tiny, puckered anus between my satin-smooth buttocks, and he took his place, on his knees, behind me, the jostling mattress dipping and shifting beneath us.

Although smaller than a woman’s ass, my bottom was fuller than a man’s backside and every bit as smooth, soft, and inviting as any female’s derriere. Just the sight of the round, sleek orbs and the small, tight opening that led into my innermost depths brought Mr. Howard’s cock fully erect again. There was nothing more tempting, I thought, than a pair of lovely buttocks; although mere muscle and fat overlaid with skin, they seemed not only to invite, but also to demand, to be both penetrated and fucked. Mr. Howard, I had no doubt, had every intention of obeying their silent command. It would be a true joy for him–and for me–to shove his cock through my tight anal opening and deep into my bowels.

Taking his cock in hand, he guided the massive organ between the silk-smooth cheeks of my magnificent derriere. It was heavenly to feel the smooth, taut column of flesh slide past the inner curves of my buttocks as he introduced his organ into my cleavage, the already parted globes spreading further to admit his hard, swollen manhood.

His penis met the stout resistance of my anal sphincter. Gripping his member more firmly, he pointed the tip of his prick into the dimple between my ass cheeks and pressed forward, resolutely, with his hips.

His glans pushed through the opening, followed by an inch of his rigid cock. He continued to push, forcing another inch of his stiff prick through my asshole, and another, and another, until he’d buried his erection inside my impaled buttocks to the very root, and his balls were crushed between his pubes and my perineum and scrotum. It felt wonderful to have been invaded by such a massive monument to manhood, and I closed my eyes, delighting in the sensation of being filled.

My head hanging, I moaned as, reaching forward and below me, Mr. Howard cupped my breasts in his ham-size hands, squeezing them hard, as if they were melons, while he ground his pubes against my bare, cock-skewered ass.

Then, he withdrew, drawing his erection back through my speared anus until only the glans remained within the tight ring of muscle. He released one of my tits and gripped my genitals, instead, squeezing both my diminutive cock and balls repeatedly.

I squirmed, and he slapped my ass. Immediately, I stilled myself.

He slammed his hard cock, full force, into my bouncing buns, shoving the thick column all the way inside my rectum, until his groin collided with my buttocks, flattening them beneath him, and his balls crushed themselves against my perineum and scrotum.

Again, I moaned. My whimper seemed to excite him, and he pulled out, all the way out, this time, his cock sliding free of my gaping asshole. The sight of my round anus, stretched to many times its normal size, and the knowledge that it was he–and his thick, hard cock–that was responsible for this transformation of my asshole into a cunt–was erotic in the extreme, he later told me, just as I told him that no female, not even a genetic female, is truly a woman until she’s been fucked by a man, and I was no exception. Although I was no virgin, in fucking me in my beautiful transsexual ass, Mr. Howard had made me, once again, a true and complete woman–and his woman, at that.

His prick slipped easily back through the wide-stretched, circular opening of my anus and plunged deep into my bowels. After ramming it home, he withdrew, again letting his massive cock slide all the way out of my tunnel of love. It was fun, he told me, to see his prick slide effortlessly all the way into my ass and to pull all the way out, and, several times, he repeated this action, watching his organ vanish and reappear as he worked it in and out and back and forth within my entrails, his toil punctuated by my moans and groans, whimpers, gasps, and cries.

Reaching beneath me, he found my genitals again, and he seemed surprised to find me erect. My small cock had stiffened so that it ran parallel to my lower belly, pointing upward, and my balls, small in the contracted pouch of my silk-smooth scrotum, had risen to rest below the base of my blood-engorged cock. He chuckled at the thought that, ready as I might be to play the man and to penetrate a cunt or an asshole, there was no partner for me, by whom I might accomplish such a feat, and my cock, erect or not, must remain idle and redundant, while his own organ filled me again and again. Despite my male equipment, I was, and would always be, a she and, as such, the receptacle, rather than the instrument, of invasion and occupation, the conquered rather than the conqueror.

Nevertheless, now that I was hard, there was no sense in letting a perfectly good, if smallish, erection go to waste, he apparently thought, and, seizing my little penis between his thumb on one side and his index and middle fingers on the other side, he pumped the flesh of my cock back and forth upon the slender, straining shaft, eliciting more moans and gasps from me as he continued to ride my beleaguered ass fast and hard.

He slammed his meat home again, crushing my sleek, soft-firm buttocks before his driving pubes and feeling the circle of my anus all along his plummeting member. His hips buffeted my bottom, and he ground his groin hard against my impaled buttocks before wrenching his cock back through my asshole, the sphincter of my ass dragging against his retreating prick, as if seeking to resist its departure, just as, following his initial penetration of my ass, the sphincter had seemed to resist his organ’s invasion.

Back and forth, with greater and greater passion, force, and speed, he worked his cock inside my anal opening, ramming and jamming, lunging and plunging, stabbing and jabbing my buttocks, my asshole, and my rectum with his thick, hard manhood while, my frame shaking, my breasts bouncing, my buttocks flattening and recoiling, and my cock and balls jiggling, the mattress beneath our bucking bodies dipping and rocking, he fucked me with all the strength, energy, stamina, and brutality that his lust-inflamed soul could muster–which was considerable. The more I bounced and flounced, the harder he thrust and lunged–and the more I moaned and groaned. I began to toss my impaled buttocks back, to meet his assault, and my ass and his groin, my perineum and scrotum and his balls, colliding again and again, made the loud slapping sounds of flesh smacking flesh.

My once-small, tight asshole gaped wide open, and he rammed his cock into my bottom with as much savage fury as he’d used in the delivery of any previous stroke, and I rewarded his effort with a cry, followed by a tremulous whimper.

He rammed his cock through my anus, into my bowels, withdrew the rigid fleshly pole; and drove it home again, with greater force, as if, with his penis, he meant to disembowel the ass it fucked.

Of course, I was up to the challenge of having him jam his cock into my ass and wrench it free so that he might plunge into my bowels again—and again–and again–and, although it seemed impossible that my little anus, even stretched to many times its normal size, could tolerate his continued assault, I weathered the attack until the moment that orgasm seized him.

His belly heaved, his legs quaked and shuddered, and his cock convulsed, lurching frantically within the depths of my bowels. His breath came in quick, hot gasps, and his heart pounded like machine-gun fire. His thick, viscid semen spewed into the chamber of my lower intestine, spraying the walls of my rectum with repeated volleys and jets until, the reservoir of his seed spent at last, his penis softened, dwindling, and withdrew from my round, wide-stretched anus, trailing white fluid down the cleavage between my buttocks, over my perineum, and down the back side of my scrotum.

There was no small talk afterward.

We simply got dressed again.

“You’ll take the job?” he asked.

“You’re offering it?”

“Of course; I just did.”

“I’ll let you know in a day or two,” I told him, wanting to play it coy. “Is that all right?”

“Fine, but, whether you accept the position or not, I’d like a photo of you, please: an eight-by-ten-inch, full-color glossy.”


He swept a hand around his living room, indicating the other framed pictures of his many conquests, male and female–and, now, at last, transsexual.

“You’ll give me the two days to decide?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ll get the photo. Should I have it framed?”

“That won’t be necessary. Just the portrait is fine.”

“I guess, hired or not, I’m part of your harem?”

“You’re an experience I want to memorialize.”

“You make it sound as if I’m dead.”

“No, just worthy of being remembered.”

“I guess you have things to do? Work, I mean?”


I picked up my purse. “I’ll say good afternoon, then, Mr. Howard.” I turned to leave.


“Call me ‘Mandy,’ please. After the ass-fucking you gave me, I’d say I’ve earned at least that degree of intimacy, wouldn’t you?”

“Mandy, I hope you decide to take the job.”

I smiled. “You trying to increase your harem?”

He nodded. “Always, but I think you’d make a first-class personal executive secretary, too.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

He smiled, to show me he’d understood the double entendre. “I sincerely hope so,” he replied.

* * *

The elevator seemed to descend more rapidly than it had ascended, but, as I rode the car all the way to the lobby, from Mr. Howard’s penthouse suite, I had plenty of time to think about his offer–way more, as it turned out, than I needed; I’d already decided, the moment he’d offered me the position, that I’d take it. I’d merely asked for time to consider his offer so that I wouldn’t look too eager. In truth, I was looking forward to being his personal executive secretary. Although a big bear of a man, he was also handsome–and he had a magnificent cock and a beautiful pair of manly balls–the manliest I’d ever had he pleasure of seeing–or, for that matter, kissing, licking, and sucking. It would be a pleasure serving–and servicing–him, and I was sure he’d make my dedication worthwhile, with regular raises, both penile and remunerative.

The elevator finally reached the lobby, and the doors slid apart.

“You’re still here?” Tom spoke as if he were addressing a homeless person who’d somehow sneaked past the building’s security.

“Get used to it,” I advised him. “I’ll be working here–as Mr. Howard’s personal executive secretary.”

The look of disbelief on the Vice-president in Charge of Research and Development’s face was priceless. “After I informed him of your little secret? Impossible!”

“You mean my being a ‘chick with a dick,’ as you so crudely characterize my transsexual status?”

He beamed. “Precisely!”

“That’s what he likes best about me,” I told Tom. “Mr. Howard refers to it, in fact, as my ‘best asset.’”

“If you really did land a job here, it’s not because of that,” he assured me. “If anything, it’s because Mr. Howard felt sorry for your sorry ass.”

“I’d be careful, if I were you, as to how I spoke to Mr. Howard’s personal executive secretary, especially when you speak of Mr. Howard.”

Sneering, he shook his head, stepping past me–and making sure he bumped my shoulder in the process. He didn’t bother to say “excuse me,” of course.

He punched a button, and the doors began to close.

July 2018
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