A Real Live Barbie Doll

Muffins · 09-25-2009, 02:12 PM

I found this story about this guy named Greg who is a crossdresser. And I thought I would share it with you guys

THIS IS NOT MY WORK!!!!

My name is Barbie Doll, or it is now. You can call me Barbie for short. It used to be Greg. This is my story. I had to write it down on paper smuggled a sheet at a time to a secret cache, using the remaining ink from spent pens, so there will be a written account of my experiences, if someone will ever find them...

Chapter One - Come into my parlor, said the spider...

Act I - Caught

I met Madam - that's the only name she allows me to use now - three years ago. It was not the first acquaintance, because she was my boss, at work (now she's my Mistress for everything). There was a theft of sensitive material, and Madam ordered everyone searched - she had friends in high places who could deliver the right warrants. I had the bad luck of wearing feminine undergarments that day. Madam called me into Her office, and closed the door.

"So you like to dress like a girl, in frilly underwear?" she said, half-mockingly, half-seductively. I said nothing.

"You don't have to answer anything, sissy boy." she said icily, waving a folder. "It's all in this report" and she tossed it onto the desk in front of me. I just sat there, sheepishly, silent, more from shame than anything else, with a good measure of avoiding self-incrimination.

"News travels fast. By this time, half the company knows about your undies." I looked up, shocked. "No, I didn't say anything. You don't get up where I am on the ladder unless you learn some measure of discretion. In any case, it would get me into trouble because you could very easily sue me for hate or discrimination or something like that." She paused for several seconds, obviously for a psychological effect. It worked. I was nervous as hell, nearly wetting my panty.

"I can't fire you, at least not on these grounds. But I do like you. You're punctual, efficient, and creative. Up to now, your file is spotless. But you will be having a rough time with the other employees from now on. I cannot allow that. I need a united team, not a bunch of kids ganging up on the odd man out." I digested the words, and it seemed she was playing with me. Little did I know then that this impression had much more far-reaching implications. I was half-expecting the usual bogus "you're not a team player" excuse for being fired.

"You cannot quit, because you are under contract." That was true. I was stuck and if I quit, it would be a breach of contract, and I would be sued by Madam's army of lawyers. The bare minimum it would cost me is the cessation penalty. And my own lawyer. I would be ruined.

"I want you to work for me, personally." That startled the hell out of me. My face went blank. "Of course, if you want to. The other alternative is dismissal, in a couple of weeks, after you have been through hell with the rest of your co-workers, and when I have a solid reason to fire you." I finally gathered up the courage to speak.

"What do you propose, ma'am?" I asked somberly.

"I need you at home, a personal assistant of sorts. You will be getting a raise in salary, and you will be lodged at my expense, in house." Something in the back of my mind clicked wrong, but I ignored it. I was in an apartment at the moment, single, and in the past few years the rent was raised substantially, in addition to rising costs for heat, gas to drive to work, and so on. I'm not even getting into the exasperating neighbors. She must have detected my uncertainty, and added, gently, "I can give you a few days to think about it. Paid leave. This weekend, Saturday, I want you to come over to my house, and we will discuss my offer in more depth."

I thought hard for a few seconds, my train of thought interrupted by a cold "If you don't give me a firm answer by then, I guarantee that you will be so miserable over the next couple of weeks that you will beg me to fire you." I decided to take her offer of paid leave, and agreed to meet with her, in her home, the following Saturday at 9 am sharp. She firmly requested, before I left her office, to wear my girly stuff on Saturday.

I went straight home, and just let myself drop in the recliner. I drank several beers, watching TV distractedly, because my mind wandered to the day's events. If it wasn't for Madam's request, earlier, I would have taken every bit of female clothing I had and put it in the charity collection bin at the nearby strip mall.

The second day, I started drifting into a mild depression. What the hell was I going to do now? I couldn't even cite the company as a reference! If an interviewer called them, they would find out the truth! If I quit, I would be sued, and the stain of a breach of contract would be on my record - very bad for job prospects. Even so, in a job interview, the inevitable question would be asked: why did I quit? Interviewers can detect any attempts to conceal an awkward truth. No matter how much I tried to find an exit from this situation, the only way out was Madam...

The third day, I tried to clear out my mind and start psyching myself up for Saturday's meeting with Madam, looking at the positive aspects of the offer. A raise, a decent roof over my head, a quiet job away from the rat race, no traffic to fight every morning and evening. It was that or try to land any job I could find, with the added weight of either being psychologically tortured by my co-workers every day for the next few weeks, until Madam decided that firing me was merciful (like shooting an injured horse), or being sued into abject poverty for breach of contract.

My mind returned to the question of her request that I wear my frillies to the meeting. Why in the world would she ask that? Just to embarass me? It's too late for that, I thought. Then it dawned on me that she didn't mind my undergarment preferences. A thought then entered my mind that later, in hindsight, I should have avoided: she'll let me wear them any time! At that point, I resolved to open my mind to any possibility, any offer, and consider them objectively before saying no. I made a list of pros and cons of accepting Madam's offer, though the list of cons probably would have been longer had I known then what I know now.

Saturday finally came, and I rose early to take a good, hot shower, clean myself up, shave (I hadn't shaved since that fateful day... my shaver's motor complained loudly), and put on my nicest feminine undies. Madam had requested it, and there was an irresistible quality to her. When she requested something, one felt compelled to comply.

Driving over to Madam's house, I had major butterflies in my stomach. As the distance to my destination diminished, my nerves became progressively shakier, and the butterflies coalesced into a cold knot. My heart pumped hard, I could hear my pulse in my ears, over the road noise.

At 8:55 am, I pulled into the entrance, and stopped in front of the high metal gate that blocked the drive up to her luxurious home. I rolled down the window and pressed the intercom button on the box next to the car. "Yes?" a female voice replied. I named myself. "Enter." I watched the gates open, and I rolled forward. In the rearview mirror, I saw the them close behind me. For a moment, I had a feeling of entrapment, like I just driven into a prison.

I pulled up to the parking area, near the front door, and parked my car next to a large, spotless ruby red Ford. Madam's car. My dingy little import sedan looked like a cheap toy next to it. I got out and locked the door, and started up the steps to the front door. My pace was sluggish, like I had to fight against molasses, or the feeling one has in a dream when trying to run away from something. I still could hear my heart pumping furiously in my ears, and my chest was pounding quite perceptibly. I was scared out of my wits.

Before I reached the door, it was opened by a fifty-something maid in a black uniform with a white apron, and that little cap with the lace edge on her head. She looked dour, a pinched old prune who seemed to have little room in her heart for anything remotely resembling fun. "Please follow me, sir." she said unemotionally. I recognized the voice from the intercom.

I followed her along, the hard heels of her pumps on the marble floor could be heard echoing through the house. Other sounds of heels could also be heard, muffled by walls and distance. Other than that, it was deathly quiet in the place. It gave me the creeps, and didn't do any good for my nerves. It felt like I was about to crumple down on the floor and roll myself up in a fetal position.

The maid led me up to a double door, and ordered, "Wait here" before rapping sharply three times on the right hand door. I heard Madam's voice call out, "Show him in!". My heart almost stopped, and my fight-or-flight instinct almost decided in favor of the latter. The maid opened the door, and waved me inside without further comment.

09-25-2009, 02:12 PM	#1
Muffins Account Banned Join Date: Jun 2009 Posts: 241	A Real Live Barbie Doll I found this story about this guy named Greg who is a crossdresser. And I thought I would share it with you guys THIS IS NOT MY WORK!!!! My name is Barbie Doll, or it is now. You can call me Barbie for short. It used to be Greg. This is my story. I had to write it down on paper smuggled a sheet at a time to a secret cache, using the remaining ink from spent pens, so there will be a written account of my experiences, if someone will ever find them... Chapter One - Come into my parlor, said the spider... Act I - Caught I met Madam - that's the only name she allows me to use now - three years ago. It was not the first acquaintance, because she was my boss, at work (now she's my Mistress for everything). There was a theft of sensitive material, and Madam ordered everyone searched - she had friends in high places who could deliver the right warrants. I had the bad luck of wearing feminine undergarments that day. Madam called me into Her office, and closed the door. "So you like to dress like a girl, in frilly underwear?" she said, half-mockingly, half-seductively. I said nothing. "You don't have to answer anything, sissy boy." she said icily, waving a folder. "It's all in this report" and she tossed it onto the desk in front of me. I just sat there, sheepishly, silent, more from shame than anything else, with a good measure of avoiding self-incrimination. "News travels fast. By this time, half the company knows about your undies." I looked up, shocked. "No, I didn't say anything. You don't get up where I am on the ladder unless you learn some measure of discretion. In any case, it would get me into trouble because you could very easily sue me for hate or discrimination or something like that." She paused for several seconds, obviously for a psychological effect. It worked. I was nervous as hell, nearly wetting my panty. "I can't fire you, at least not on these grounds. But I do like you. You're punctual, efficient, and creative. Up to now, your file is spotless. But you will be having a rough time with the other employees from now on. I cannot allow that. I need a united team, not a bunch of kids ganging up on the odd man out." I digested the words, and it seemed she was playing with me. Little did I know then that this impression had much more far-reaching implications. I was half-expecting the usual bogus "you're not a team player" excuse for being fired. "You cannot quit, because you are under contract." That was true. I was stuck and if I quit, it would be a breach of contract, and I would be sued by Madam's army of lawyers. The bare minimum it would cost me is the cessation penalty. And my own lawyer. I would be ruined. "I want you to work for me, personally." That startled the hell out of me. My face went blank. "Of course, if you want to. The other alternative is dismissal, in a couple of weeks, after you have been through hell with the rest of your co-workers, and when I have a solid reason to fire you." I finally gathered up the courage to speak. "What do you propose, ma'am?" I asked somberly. "I need you at home, a personal assistant of sorts. You will be getting a raise in salary, and you will be lodged at my expense, in house." Something in the back of my mind clicked wrong, but I ignored it. I was in an apartment at the moment, single, and in the past few years the rent was raised substantially, in addition to rising costs for heat, gas to drive to work, and so on. I'm not even getting into the exasperating neighbors. She must have detected my uncertainty, and added, gently, "I can give you a few days to think about it. Paid leave. This weekend, Saturday, I want you to come over to my house, and we will discuss my offer in more depth." I thought hard for a few seconds, my train of thought interrupted by a cold "If you don't give me a firm answer by then, I guarantee that you will be so miserable over the next couple of weeks that you will beg me to fire you." I decided to take her offer of paid leave, and agreed to meet with her, in her home, the following Saturday at 9 am sharp. She firmly requested, before I left her office, to wear my girly stuff on Saturday. I went straight home, and just let myself drop in the recliner. I drank several beers, watching TV distractedly, because my mind wandered to the day's events. If it wasn't for Madam's request, earlier, I would have taken every bit of female clothing I had and put it in the charity collection bin at the nearby strip mall. The second day, I started drifting into a mild depression. What the hell was I going to do now? I couldn't even cite the company as a reference! If an interviewer called them, they would find out the truth! If I quit, I would be sued, and the stain of a breach of contract would be on my record - very bad for job prospects. Even so, in a job interview, the inevitable question would be asked: why did I quit? Interviewers can detect any attempts to conceal an awkward truth. No matter how much I tried to find an exit from this situation, the only way out was Madam... The third day, I tried to clear out my mind and start psyching myself up for Saturday's meeting with Madam, looking at the positive aspects of the offer. A raise, a decent roof over my head, a quiet job away from the rat race, no traffic to fight every morning and evening. It was that or try to land any job I could find, with the added weight of either being psychologically tortured by my co-workers every day for the next few weeks, until Madam decided that firing me was merciful (like shooting an injured horse), or being sued into abject poverty for breach of contract. My mind returned to the question of her request that I wear my frillies to the meeting. Why in the world would she ask that? Just to embarass me? It's too late for that, I thought. Then it dawned on me that she didn't mind my undergarment preferences. A thought then entered my mind that later, in hindsight, I should have avoided: she'll let me wear them any time! At that point, I resolved to open my mind to any possibility, any offer, and consider them objectively before saying no. I made a list of pros and cons of accepting Madam's offer, though the list of cons probably would have been longer had I known then what I know now. Saturday finally came, and I rose early to take a good, hot shower, clean myself up, shave (I hadn't shaved since that fateful day... my shaver's motor complained loudly), and put on my nicest feminine undies. Madam had requested it, and there was an irresistible quality to her. When she requested something, one felt compelled to comply. Driving over to Madam's house, I had major butterflies in my stomach. As the distance to my destination diminished, my nerves became progressively shakier, and the butterflies coalesced into a cold knot. My heart pumped hard, I could hear my pulse in my ears, over the road noise. At 8:55 am, I pulled into the entrance, and stopped in front of the high metal gate that blocked the drive up to her luxurious home. I rolled down the window and pressed the intercom button on the box next to the car. "Yes?" a female voice replied. I named myself. "Enter." I watched the gates open, and I rolled forward. In the rearview mirror, I saw the them close behind me. For a moment, I had a feeling of entrapment, like I just driven into a prison. I pulled up to the parking area, near the front door, and parked my car next to a large, spotless ruby red Ford. Madam's car. My dingy little import sedan looked like a cheap toy next to it. I got out and locked the door, and started up the steps to the front door. My pace was sluggish, like I had to fight against molasses, or the feeling one has in a dream when trying to run away from something. I still could hear my heart pumping furiously in my ears, and my chest was pounding quite perceptibly. I was scared out of my wits. Before I reached the door, it was opened by a fifty-something maid in a black uniform with a white apron, and that little cap with the lace edge on her head. She looked dour, a pinched old prune who seemed to have little room in her heart for anything remotely resembling fun. "Please follow me, sir." she said unemotionally. I recognized the voice from the intercom. I followed her along, the hard heels of her pumps on the marble floor could be heard echoing through the house. Other sounds of heels could also be heard, muffled by walls and distance. Other than that, it was deathly quiet in the place. It gave me the creeps, and didn't do any good for my nerves. It felt like I was about to crumple down on the floor and roll myself up in a fetal position. The maid led me up to a double door, and ordered, "Wait here" before rapping sharply three times on the right hand door. I heard Madam's voice call out, "Show him in!". My heart almost stopped, and my fight-or-flight instinct almost decided in favor of the latter. The maid opened the door, and waved me inside without further comment. __________________ Limits: Family, messy, poop, bondage longer than 30 minutes, highly public, over 2 hours, social suicide and involving other people.