Undercover Secretary

by Alana

 

I still remember the first big investigation of corporate malfeasance I was ever involved in. I was an investigator for OSHA, and my director called me into his office.

"Have you ever heard of 'sexual harassment?'"

"Sexual what, sir?" It was 1972, and I had no idea what the term meant.

"It refers to a boss coercing a female employee into sexual favors, usually by threatening to fire her."

"Well, sir, that's not illegal."

"There are some female Senators who are looking to change the law. We've been asked to investigate charges of sexual harassment at the corporate level, and to press charges, if we possibly can. The Senators are hoping to make use of a liberal interpretation of the rape laws."

"Rape?"

"Well, rape is coerced sex. Sexual harassment is just rape by other means. That's the theory, anyway. If nothing else, the case might generate enough publicity to change the laws."

"So, you want me to find some secretaries to interview?"

"No. We've found an attorney who's been accused of firing secretaries for not granting him sexual favors. We want you to go undercover."

"Undercover?"

"As a secretary."

"Uh---sir, I don't understand. A female secretary?"

"That's right. Police have to do this sort of thing all the time."

"Sir, why not just send a woman?"

"We don't have any women investigators with the experience to handle a case like this."

"Sir, no one's ever going to believe I'm a woman."

"We'll see about that."

"Sir---please don't do this to me! I don't want to have to dress like a woman. Why me?"

"You have the clerical skills necessary. And you're skinny. We think you might look good in a dress."

"Sir, please send someone else. Please."

"I've made my decision. You're going. And we don't have much time. We have an interview set up with Robbins tomorrow. Come with me."

Robbins, I learned, was the attorney I would be working for. As a woman. In a dress. And high heels. And pantyhose.

He headed out of his office, and I followed him. It was either go along with this or quit my job, and I wasn't about to quit my job. We went right to the desk of a secretary named Mary, a woman I'd had a crush on for quite some time. I hoped my boss wasn't going to tell her that I would be wearing dresses, but as I stood there blushing he explained the whole project to her, and plenty of other people could hear as well. It turned out I would not only be wearing dresses, I would be wearing HER dresses.

"I can't compel you to do this, Mary," said my boss.

But Mary was only too happy to get to leave work a few hours early, to take me to her apartment so I could try on her dresses, and she could teach me all about being a woman.

I sat in her car next to her as she drove, blushing all the way. She kept giggling and laughing. Occasionally she'd look over at me and start giggling all over again. Under any other circumstances I'd be very happy about getting to go to her apartment.

I attempted some conversation.

"I can't believe they're making me do this," I said.

"Oh, you'll love wearing a dress," she said. "You're going to look so pretty in my dresses." And then she giggled again, and I blushed and remained silent for the rest of the journey.

We arrived at her apartment and went inside, and she lost no time in getting me ready. First was a shower, with a depilatory to take the hair off my legs and chest. I dried off, and without seeing me naked she reached around the bathroom door and gave me a pair of her panties to put on. I held the panties in one hand and considered quitting my job. I sighed and put on the panties.

Next it was pantyhose, a girdle, a bra, a slip. My rolled-up socks would have to do for falsies, until we could find something better. She made up my face, smirking all the while, and added false eyelashes. She got one of her glamour wigs from the closet and helped me put it on. Then she brought out one of her dresses. A short, red dress. She helped me into it, and gave me some of her red high heels. Her heels were about half a size too small for me, so they were really painful, but I could wear them.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

"You've got to be kidding me," I said. "Would you really wear this dress to work?"

"Probably not," she said, "but I thought the idea was to get your boss to play a little grab-ass."

I sat down in her rocking chair. Those high heels were already too painful, and I'd worn them less than a minute. I crossed my legs in the usual way, with my ankle atop my knee, but she corrected me and showed me the proper way a woman crosses her legs.

"I need business attire. If I wear anything too sexy, he might think something's up."

"OK, let me see what else I've got."

She brought out a flowered Asian dress, and helped me put it on.

"Well, this is longer, but it's still too tight," I said. I could hardly breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

Complaining that I was hard to please, she went back to the closet for another dress. This one was longer, and loose fitting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Well, you've got the right idea, but this one goes too far in the opposite direction. The skirt is long, but it's a little too long. This is more like something you'd wear to a picnic."

"You don't want to wear this dress? That's really too bad. You look really, really pretty in this one. Beautiful, in fact."

I waited for her derisive laughter, but it seemed as though she was being sincere. She smiled as she said it, but not a mocking smile. I wasn't sure how to respond to a sincere compliment. I hadn't expected to actually look good in a dress.

"Thank you," I said, and smiled in spite of my embarrassment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"OK, I think I understand what you have in mind," she said. "Short, but not too short. Loose, but not too loose. Sexy, without trying too hard."

"I need business attire. How about that dress you were wearing last week? The one with the bow."

She smiled. "You want to wear my smocked dress? OK!"

She went to her closet and brought out the dress I had in mind, and help me change into it.

"Tell me, when you saw me in this dress last week, did you think to yourself, 'What a beautiful dress! I hope I get a chance to wear it some day!'"

"That's not fair, Mary. You know I didn't volunteer for this."

"I think you just want an excuse to try on as many of my pretty dresses as you can."

I didn't respond. She zipped up the dress and tied the bow in back, and the one at my throat. When I was finally wearing the dress, I examined myself in the mirror.

 

"I think this will work," I said.

"Good. I guess you've noticed that the smocking makes it fit really snug about your breasts. Don't be surprised if men have a hard time making eye contact."

We spent another hour going over the basics of being a woman. How to stand, how to sit, how to walk, and how to get my voice to speak in a higher register.

"By the way, what do we call you when you're all dressed up and looking pretty? We can't call you Mel."

I handed her the folder I got from OSHA with the phony resume and identification.

"Melissa," she read. "Wow. Someone at OSHA has got loads of imagination. OK, I'll call you Melissa."

"Please, call me Mel." I said. "It's my name."

Finally I got to take off the dress and everything else I was wearing, and wash off the make-up and go home. It was a relief to get out of those high heels. Most of her clothes were able to fit me ( which was why she'd been chosen to help me, of course ), but the one thing which didn't fit at all was her bra. It was really painful. I'd only worn it a couple hours, and it left red marks that I wound up itching for the rest of the evening. And tomorrow I'd be wearing that bra all day. I hoped I'd get used to it, but I couldn't really imagine that I would.

I was really hoping that this investigation wouldn't go past a couple of days. Ideally I wouldn't be able to pass as a woman, and then the whole thing would be over right then and there.

Next morning I got up a few hours early and shaved as close as I possibly could. I got dressed in jeans and sneakers and a sweater, and drove out to Mary's apartment. She greeted me at the door. She was already dressed for the day, in an attractive silk dress, and her face was made up.

I put on all the lingerie she'd laid out for me. She helped me with my make-up and wig, then helped me into her smocked dress and zipped it up for me, and tied the bow in back. She gave me a purse with make-up and all the essentials.

"You look great," she said at the door. "Good luck getting groped."

I groaned, and itched under my bra strap.

I drove out to the law firm, which I found with no trouble, and parked outside in the parking lot. I grabbed my purse and headed for the front door. My high heels went click click click across the pavement. People were looking at me, but not strangely. I felt so vulnerable walking around in public with my legs exposed, like I was wandering around naked. I still wasn't used to walking in heels, and I felt like I was about to trip and fall at any moment.

As I went through the hallways, I was amazed that I was passing for a woman. I found Mr. Robbins' office. Robbins said that he'd seen my resume, and that I was well qualified for the job. Overqualified, even. He said they were short-staffed, and hoped I wanted to work there as much as they needed me to work for them. He just needed a demonstration of my typing and dictation skills, purely as a formality.

I took my steno pad and my pen out of my purse. I sat on a chair, smoothing my skirt beneath me with one hand as I'd been taught, crossed my legs, and prepared to take dictation.

He spoke rapidly, but my shorthand was more than adequate to keep up with him. When he was done he told me to type up the letter. I went outside the office to what would be my desk and sat down at the electric typewriter, and got the letter typed up on legal stationary. This was before the days of workstations and word processors, so being able to type up a letter quickly and accurately was a valuable skill.

I typed up the letter in a matter of minutes, and brought it in for his signature. He examined the letter and told me I was hired, and I should head on down to personnel and take care of my paperwork. He hoped I could start today, because there was a load of work waiting for me.

I asked if I could come to work tomorrow in pants, because I just wasn't comfortable wearing a dress.

"Pants are not allowed in the dress code," he said.

"You're wearing them," I pointed out.

"You know what I mean."

I then asked if I could wear flats to work, because high heels were really uncomfortable. He referred me again to the dress code, which required heels of two inches or more in height. I looked at his shoes. He was definitely not wearing heels of two inches or more in height.

I thanked him for the job. As I turned to go, I was on the receiving end of my first official act of sexual harassment. He patted me on the rump.

I whirled around, shocked. My full skirt whirled around with me.

"Mr. Robbins, please don't do that. That's really inappropriate."

"Inappropriate," he laughed. "That's cute."

I tugged down my dress, for no good reason except, perhaps, for emphasis, and left the office.

On my way down to personnel I encountered another of the secretaries on the floor, who asked me if I was looking for someone. I told her I was new, that I'd just started today.

"Oh, are you working for Robbins?"

"Yes."

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry to hear that. We call him the octopus. Best break out your track shoes. Say, I love your dress! I love the smocking, and that bow is just adorable!"

I smiled.

"Thank you," I said. She was a really cute secretary and I was honestly flattered by her attention, even if she did think I was a woman. I struck a little pose for her, with hand on hip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

"Don't you just love wearing those smocked dresses? You did a beautiful job tying that bow. You'll have to show me how you did it. I have a blouse with a bow, and I can never get it to tie the way I want it.

"It has a bow in the back, too," I said, showing her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I began to realize I was flirting with her, and I should probably stop it.

"My name's Helen."

"Melissa," I said.

"You'll have to come have lunch with us. I'll swing by and get you."

We said our goodbyes, and I continued on down to personnel to get my paperwork taken care of.

When I got back to my boss's office, there was about an hour of dictation to take from him. By the time I was done and he told me to type up the letters, my writing hand was cramped. I got out of the office without any more patting or groping.

Before I could get started on typing up the letters, another secretary came by and asked to borrow me. Mr. Robbins couldn't say no, because the secretary worked for one of his superiors.

I followed her to a file room. Apparently there were some heavy boxes of files that had to be moved to another room upstairs. She had a dolly, but it was still backbreaking work moving those heavy boxes onto the dolly, and it was an even worse job in high heels.

The secretary was wearing an absurdly tight dress that was not short enough to allow much freedom of movement whatsoever, and heels of at least three inches. Her reason for the outfit, she said, was, "that cute lawyer up on third." She did admit that she wouldn't have worn that dress if she knew she'd be doing this task today.

"Aren't there any men that can help us with this?" I asked, itching under a bra strap.

"You must not know that many lawyers."

"Any male secretaries?"

"Melissa, in this firm, if it doesn't wear pantyhose, it doesn't type."

So we loaded the boxes on the dolly and took them upstairs in the elevator, two boxes at a time. Dresses and high heels and pantyhose are not meant for this kind of physical labor. I'm not sure what they ARE meant for, really, but it isn't that.

I thought we were done, but the secretary pointed to one heavy box stuck under a table, way in the back.

"Could you get that, Melissa? In this dress, if I get down on my knees I might never get back up again."

I wondered if I could out of all kinds of work if I wore a tight dress every day. I leaned forward and tried to put my hands on my knees to look at the box I had to get, but my hands slipped right off my knees. So instead I leaned forward and just tried to grab my legs right above the knees. I could feel the ends of my bow dangling from my throat as I examined the situation.

  

I got down on my knees to get the box out, and on that hard linoleum floor it wasn't very comfortable. At least my skirt was short enough that I didn't have to worry about it getting caught under my knees.

"I hope your pantyhose will be OK," she said. "There you go. That's got it."

I got the final box out, and we brought it upstairs on the dolly.

When we were finally done, my back was killing me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

      

  

I went back to my boss's office and typed up the letters. Then it was lunchtime, and four secretaries came by to take me to lunch.

Secretaries only got half an hour for a lunch, and there was no cafeteria in the building, so most of them brought their lunch to work. A few brave women were willing to risk their jobs by driving to a nearby mall and eating at a buffet.

We went outside through the parking lot to Helen's car. I laughed at some of the ladies in their light summery dresses, having to hold down their skirts when the wind came blowing through.

"You should be wearing a dress like mine," I said in a smug tone of voice, pointing out that the material was too heavy to blow around in the wind.

When we got to the car, Helen opened the back door for me, and completely forgetting about the fact that I was wearing a dress I got in and slid all the way over to the other side. My skirt corkscrewed up to my waist, revealing my slip for all to see.

"Oops," said one of them. But none of them laughed at me, which made me sorry I'd laughed at their problems with their skirts. I itched under my bra strap.

Having lunch with the other secretaries was a lot of fun. Women tend to laugh more than men do ( but then again, they also cry more than men do ), so it wasn't long before I was laughing and enjoying their company, just like one of the girls.

There was an awkward moment when they started discussing one of their favorite topics, the Man Who Will Not Stop And Ask Directions. I fumed silently as one of them talked about her husband unable to find a movie theatre, driving around aimlessly. Eventually I had to say something.

"Did he have a map?" I asked.

"What?"

"Did he have a map in the car?"

"Well---yes."

"Did he pull over and look at it?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you mention that? So when you say he drove around aimlessly, what you mean is he couldn't find that movie theatre, so he pulled over and looked at his map."

"We wouldn't have been late at all if he'd just stopped and asked someone for directions," she said.

"You don't know that. You might've asked five different people before finding someone who knew where the place was, and that's five different people you've inconvenienced for no good reason."

"He should've asked directions."

"Why? Why is that better than looking at a map? Why are you---we women always so proud of our own incompetence? When I'm going somewhere new, I bring a map and I study it beforehand. Why is that unfeminine? Why do we have to treat the world like it's there to serve us? What's wrong with being a little independent? At least try and find the place yourself before you start bothering other people. And I'll tell you something else, when you ask directions, I'll bet you ask men, don't you? You don't ask other women, because men are the ones who know the right way to go!"

They looked at me like I was crazy. I felt like I was blowing my cover.

"But that's just my opinion," I said.

I needed these women to take me into their confidence, for my investigation.

I said, "Now, if you want to talk about a guy who won't ask directions, you should see my boyfriend! He won't take a map with him. He wouldn't know what to with a map! I don't think he could even unfold a map! He won't ask directions, and he won't let me take over the wheel either, even when I know exactly where we're going! That man is so dumb he couldn't pour water out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel!"

Everyone laughed and felt better. Making up an incompetent boyfriend made one of the girls, again.

The conversation went from there to another favorite topic, the Man Who Won't Put The Toilet Seat Down. I said nothing. Someday I'm going to teach a course for women called "Why The Toilet Seat Has A Hinge."

"You know what I say about men, ladies," said Helen, finishing off her lunch. "Men are like grapes. It's our job to stomp on 'em and keep 'em in the dark until they mature into something you'd like to have dinner with."

I forced myself to laugh along with everyone else. I remembered what I'd heard about wine, that it has female hormones in it. When men drink too much of it they become like women. They can't drive or speak coherently, and they cry about everything.

I had to keep that one to myself.

When we went back through the mall to the car, one of the secretaries complimented my lipstick.

"Thank you," I said.

   

"What color is it?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"You don't know? How could you not know what color lipstick you're wearing?"

The women all stared at me, waiting for an answer to this mystery. I said that I could probably check in my purse, if she wanted to know. As I opened my purse I kept expecting her to say "Never mind, it's not important." But no, it seemed this was vital information. I dug around in my purse looking for the spare lipstick Mary had equipped me with.

The color was "Simply Scarlet."

"Is it kiss-proof?" one of them asked.

"Why don't you kiss me and find out?" I asked, leaning forward for a kiss as the ladies laughed.

 

 

 

  

I was glad I was capable of a joke that could make them laugh, though I remained in the kissing attitude a bit longer than the joke required. I was kind of hoping one of them would actually kiss me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

But when none of them volunteered, I opened my eyes, tugged down my dress ( which it seemed I was doing a lot, lately, whenever I couldn't think of anything else to do ), and moved on.

"Look at all these dresses!" said one of the secretaries. "I wish we got the full hour for lunch. I'd love to do some shopping."

"Look at that hat!" said Helen. "Melissa, that hat would go perfectly with your dress. It's the perfect color."

"I suppose so," I said. I didn't think it was a very attractive hat, myself, but I didn't say so.

"You've got to try it on," said Helen.

I complained that it would make us late.

"Oh, it will only take a second to try on a hat," said Helen. "It's not like trying on a dress."

The ladies brought me into the store against my will, and got the hat for me to try on. I stood looking at myself in the mirror, holding the hat in front of me.

 

"Well, try it on!" said Helen.

To make them happy, I tried it on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

  

They asked me what I thought, and I said it just wasn't the sort of thing I would like to wear. Well, neither was a dress, or pantyhose, or high heels.

When I got back to my office, Robbins stuck his head out the door and complained that I was late.

"Sorry, sir. Won't happen again," I said.

"Get in here."

I brought my steno pad and my pen, assuming there would be more dictation.

"Sit down," he said as he closed the door. I sat. He stood over me, smiling in what he thought was a charming way.

"Melissa, what are you doing for dinner tonight?"

"Going home."

"I'd like to take you out for dinner, tonight. To celebrate your first day on the job."

"I think that would be inappropriate, sir."

"Well, I don't think it's inappropriate. And I'm your boss, so we're having dinner together."

"No, sir."

"Melissa, I'm used to getting my way."

"And what happens if you don't, sir?"

"Melissa, we're having dinner together."

"Sir, I think it's inappropriate for a secretary to go out with her boss. We won't be going out together, we won't be sleeping together, or anything else. If you're going to try to pressure me by threatening to fire me, then you might as well fire me right now, because I don't respond to pressure."

He glared at me. His face went through several different shades of surprise and indignation, before he said, "No one said anything about firing. You can go."

Damn. I was hoping this would be a one-day investigation, but I couldn't possibly get that lucky.

I got up, and that slimy creep grabbed me by my shoulders and tried to kiss me. He pulled me toward him and brought his disgusting mouth, reeking of tobacco and coffee, close to mine. I barely managed to get my hand between our faces. I pushed him away from me, and, staying in character, slapped him across the face.

I ran to the ladies room. The first thing I did was check my make-up. Then I went into a stall and sat down. I was breathing heavily, and I felt like I wanted to vomit. It took me several minutes to calm down.

There was no question of me ever quitting this investigation. I wanted to get that slimy bastard. But nothing less than my actual dismissal would be enough, and I had to get him to admit it was because I wouldn't sleep with him. That meant I might be wearing dresses for a long time to come.

When I was feeling better, I thought I might as well pee, as long as I was there. That was my first experience with going to the bathroom in a dress, pulling down my girdle, pantyhose, and panties, and getting my skirt out of the way.

When I finished, I realized I'd forgotten to lock the stall door. Any woman could've opened the door and seen my penis. Well, at this point I was just glad I still had one.

I went back to work, and we both worked the rest of the afternoon, pretending nothing had happened. I tried to keep at least a good two feet of space between the two of us at all times, and I wouldn't let him close the door with me in the room.

He asked me to stay late taking some more dictation. I brought in my steno pad and pen, and sat down and started taking a letter.

  

He hadn't closed the door, but I still felt vulnerable, taking dictation. I was stuck in one place, and I couldn't back away from him when he got close to me.

"And sign that yours sincerely, etc., etc., and get that out right away. Your tits look really great in that dress, Melissa."

I looked up, trying not to appear shocked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

"Excuse me?" I said.

"You heard me. Oh look, the bow on your dress is a little crooked. Let me get that for you."

He reached in and straightened my bow, then let his hand drop down to caress my breast. I slapped his hand away, mainly because I was afraid he might find out my breasts were just rolled up socks.

I stood up and told him that was really inappropriate. I tugged down my dress for emphasis, and left for my desk. I started typing the letter, but before I'd gotten past the header I saw him leaving, telling me the letter could wait until tomorrow.

I went ahead and typed up the letter, putting it in the IN box for his signature. I went out to my car, keeping an eye out for Robbins in case he wanted to end the day with one more unsolicited grope. I wouldn't put it past him. But I got to my car without incident.

When I got back to Mary's apartment, Mary had already taken off her dress and changed into jeans and a blouse and tennis shoes.

"How did it go?" she asked, and without even waiting for me to respond, she said, "Oh, honey, you've got to try on my dress! This dress is incredible! I just wore it to work for the first time today. You can wear it tomorrow."

She ran into the bedroom and brought back the silk dress I'd seen her in that morning, on a hanger.

I sat down in her rocking chair, smoothing my skirt beneath me with one hand as I'd been doing all day, and rested my feet. I was dead tired. I crossed my legs in the proper way.

 

"I'll try it on tomorrow morning," I said. "Right now I just want to change back into my own clothes."

"Oh no, I'm not having you try on three different dresses tomorrow morning and making me late for work. Try it on now. We'll see if it fits."

As usual she was taking charge, giving me no choice in the matter. She pulled me up out of her rocking chair and unzipped the smocked dress I was wearing. When I got it off I had a chance to itch underneath both my bra straps. She helped me into the silk dress, tying the scarf at the neck. I put on the belt, and she ran back into the bedroom to get some black high heels, which I changed into.

"I've got another wig in a different color that would look great with this dress."

"Mary, I can't just show up tomorrow with another hair color!"

"I know, but try it on. Just for fun."

Fun? I watched her run into her bedroom for the wig. I envied her ability to rush about in her tennis shoes as the old envy the agility of the young. I wouldn't be doing any rushing around until I got out of these stupid high heels.

She brought out the wig, and helped me take off the one I was wearing and put it on. I looked at myself in the mirror in the new silk dress.

 

"How do you like your new dress, honey? My dresses are your dresses."

"This will be fine," I said.

"Fine, nothing. You look absolutely beautiful. You look so pretty in that dress. This is the dress you should've worn today."

I never knew how to react when she talked to me that way. I'd almost rather she'd laugh at me and make fun of me than to sincerely call me a pretty woman. I gave her a little half-hearted smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Thank you," I said, itching under my bra strap, "but it's time I changed back into my clothes and got out of here. Are my clothes in the bedroom? I have got to get out of this bra. It really doesn't fit." I headed in the direction of the bedroom.

"Oh, don't be in such a hurry. You look absolutely beautiful. Why take off your dress? You don't have to leave, do you? Why go all the way home just to come back here tomorrow? You can spend the night. I don't mind."

As you can imagine, this rattled me a little bit. I didn't know whether to accept or not. A lot of it depended on where I would be sleeping.

I kept heading toward her bedroom, but I was looking at her as I walked, not knowing how to respond to her offer. I wound up tripping on a small flowerpot placed on the floor near my feet.

I stumbled a few steps forward and managed to get my balance before I fell on my face. I adjusted my dress a little, and set the flowerpot upright with my foot. I looked at Mary. I was so flustered and embarrassed, I didn't know what to say.

 

"Oops," she said. But she didn't laugh at me, which was to her credit.

I was mad at myself for being a klutz, and mad that I had to keep dressing like a woman every day, and mad at her for trying to stop me from taking off my dress. I was so sick of wearing a dress and high heels and having to be careful with every move I made. I sat on the couch, smoothing my skirt beneath me with my right hand, and crossed my legs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

It was so humiliated having to be a woman and wear a dress every day. Even among people who didn't know I was a man, there were still a dozen opportunities to humiliate myself every day. It was the easiest thing in the world to trip in these high heels, and if I fell on my butt I had an excellent chance of showing off my panties or my slip. Hell, I could show off my slip just by not being careful when I sat down, or by going outside on a windy day, or by getting my skirt caught on my heel as I stooped to get something from the bottom shelf. And there were always men nearby to snicker. If men had as many chances to accidentally drop their pants and show everyone their jockey shorts as we have to show our slips, they might understand a little better what we go through.

But I am a man, I reminded myself. Damn it, I was not only dressing like a woman, I was beginning to think like one.

Because I couldn't think of anything else to say or do, I reached down and rubbed my ankles, and complained that my feet hurt. I started to take off my high heels, but Mary said, "I'll take care of your feet. Get your legs up on the couch. Lie on your side."

"Not with my shoes on?"

"I'll take care of your shoes. Let me pamper you."

I swung my legs up onto the couch and scooted down a little bit, unfortunately showing my slip as I did so. I fixed my skirt so my slip wasn't showing, and lay there waiting to be pampered.

She took off my high heels and placed them on the floor right next to the leg of the couch. One of them tipped over on its side, and she gently reached down and set it upright, as though they were very delicate articles of clothing.

She then took my right foot in her hands and gave me a wonderful foot massage, slowly and sensuously, right through my pantyhose. My left foot wiggled its toes, jealous of all the attention his brother was getting. My pantyhose moved slightly across my shaved leg as she massaged. Eventually she moved on to my left foot. It was delightful. I was getting excited in all sorts of ways that were very uncomfortable in a girdle.

 

"How was that?" she asked when she was done.

I smiled. "That was wonderful," I said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

"I keep forgetting you're not used to walking in high heels, honey," she said.

She kept calling me "honey." That was something women called men, but it was also something women called each other.

I adjusted my position on the couch, and it reminded me all over again of how uncomfortable my bra was. I adjusted a strap, but it didn't help.

"That was great, honestly it was," I said, "but I really do need to take off my dress, now. I've got to get out of this bra."

I set my feet on the ground and tried to sit up a little.

 

 

 

 

"Oh, honey, are your shoulders sore? I can take care of that for you. Switch positions. Lie down the other way, with your head over here."

I stood up and adjusted my dress a little. I wiggled my toes. My feet felt a lot better. I laid down on the couch the other way, ready to be pampered again.

"Just a second, honey. My hands are a little sweaty. I don't want to mess up your pretty new dress."

She ran into the bathroom to wash her hands. I watched her movements with an irritated glance. I was beginning to feel resentful and angry at myself for being so compliant. I was just her little dress-up doll. Put on a dress! Put on a wig! Lie down! Lie this way! Lie that way!

Why was I being so compliant? It'd be different if I had a chance for any sexual contact with Mary, but it was ridiculous to think she'd ever be getting intimate with a man who wore dresses and lipstick.

I was beginning to feel trapped in my dress. Every time I tried to take it off, she wouldn't let me. Why didn't I just get up and go into the bedroom and take off my dress, peel off these pantyhose, and take off this horrible bra? Why wouldn't she let me take off my dress? If she wanted me to stay, that would be fine, but why did I have to keep dressing like a woman? I'm a man, and she knew it.

But all those thoughts went right out of my head when she came out of the bathroom, and gave me a look that was so seductive I just couldn't help but return it.

She came over to me and started to massage my neck and shoulders. She had very talented fingers, and soon she had me so relaxed that I stopped thinking about my bra.

When she was done, she looked down at my smiling face.

"Feeling good?" she asked.

"Great."

"You never gave me an answer, about spending the night here."

"I don't have my pajamas."

"You can wear one of my nightgowns."

"Nightgowns? I can't wear a nightgown."

"That's what women sleep in, Melissa. Or maybe you didn't know that? I keep forgetting, you just recently became a woman."

I stood up and tugged down at my dress. I was angry all over again.

"Stop calling me Melissa! That's not my name! I'm not a woman, damn it! I'm a man, and you know it!"

"Oh, really? You better check the mirror again, Melissa. A beautiful, sexy, desirable woman is exactly what you are, with a pretty face, lovely eyes, luscious lips, gorgeous legs and a sexy, sexy figure. Why try to hide it? Why be ashamed of being so beautiful and lovely and feminine? You have an inner glow of femininity which is absolutely irresistible. I swear, Melissa, you are the prettiest woman I have ever seen in my entire life, and you look SO incredible in that sexy dress."

It should've made me angry again, but it was the way she said it in that throaty, sexy purr that had me in thrall as she slowly advanced on me. I kept believing that it was a joke, that she couldn't possibly be trying to seduce me, that she'd burst out in laughter at any second.

As she got closer and closer, just a kiss away, it didn't seem like a joke any more. I looked at her with a strange combination of desire and wonder.

"You are so lovely Melissa. I love your soft, moist, inviting lips," she said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

"Are you a lesbian?"

"Bisexual. Kiss me, Melissa."

Epilog

I wore dresses for an entire month. After the first few days I finally got around to buying a new bra and some high heels that fit a little bit better. During the month, Robbins kept trying to sabotage my work. Letters and legal briefs I'd spent hours on would just disappear, and I'd have to redo them. He made a point of asking for them in front of his superiors. I'd look for them in my desk, where I knew I'd placed them, and they were gone. So I'd look his superiors directly in the eye and tell them that they weren't where I put them, and that I suspected Robbins of stealing them to make me look bad, because I wouldn't go out with him and I wouldn't sleep with him.

The men smiled and exchanged that look with one another. The one that says, "this bitch is crazy."

After that I made copies of everything, and kept them with me all the time. He didn't get me again, after the first few times. Frustrated at the slow progress of the investigation, I started wearing sexier and sexier dresses, hoping it might speed up the sexual harassment some. One day I wore that short red dress to work. That was the day he called me into his office and told me to get a law book off the top shelf, a book he probably didn't even really need. I pulled over the chair and climbed onto it, on my knees. Sometimes I was able to take some small amount of satisfaction in imagining his reaction when he found out he'd been molesting a man these many weeks.

I stood on the chair to get the book, and he stood nearby and not only helped himself to the view up my skirt ( I was very glad I wasn't facing him or he might've found out something about me he wasn't supposed to know ), he also ran his hand up the back of my knee and my thigh, and told me I had nice legs. I gave him the book he wanted. I think I might've accidentally let it hit him in the face a little. Not very hard, though.

I became very adept at dodging his gropes, but I was still vulnerable every time I sat down to take dictation. He liked to stand looking down at me over my shoulder, and try to touch me in various ways. His favorite trick was to fondle my breasts. I told him not to, but he wouldn't stop. Well, the joke was on him. I could've taken my breasts out of my bra and let him fondle them all he wanted to.

Finally after a month he'd run out of patience. He told me I was being fired for incompetence. I asked, if we slept together, would it make any difference? He said it might.

The investigation was over, and I didn't have to wear a dress any more. I typed up my report and submitted it to my director at OSHA. They tried to have charges filed against Robbins, but there was still nothing to charge him with but some minor groping. But I wound up testifying at a Senate subcommittee hearing. It was very embarrassing. I had to tell all about dressing like a woman and everything I'd gone through. A lot of the male Senators snickered.

It helped that I was an unbiased investigator with no other agenda, and that there was no question about my competence. And I'm sure a lot of people felt it helped that I was not actually a woman, and so not given to hysterics or exaggeration.

The hearing got a lot of publicity, and it led to the beginning of many of the sexual harassment laws we are familiar with today, though sexual harassment never became the criminal offense a lot of people would like it to be. But I understand that some other secretaries Mr. Robbins hired later on were able to sue him for a lot of money.

OSHA never asked me to wear a dress again.

Mary, however. That was a different matter.

  

  

  

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