This really isn't my story, it belongs to my only crossdresser friend, who I consulted while doing research for another story. It's her dream situation, and I agreed to write is as a thank you. I wouldn't let her see the finished story. She has to read it here. Hope you enjoy, Anne, this one's for you.
I was going to put it in the transsexual and cross dresser section, but it's just too much of a love story to be anything else. If this offends you, stop reading now. There are plenty of good stories to capture your interest.
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This is the story of how I fell in love.
I've been called petite, at five three and weighing a hundred and five pounds. I always wear business suits, jacket, skirt, usually a matching silk blouse. I think my legs are too pretty to conceal. My dirty blond hair trimmed into a short, professional style. I always wear four inch heels, so I look taller. My whole appearance screams "successful business woman".
And I am. Very successful, working for a Fortune 100 company. At thirty, I'm a junior vice president, and the sky is the limit for advancement, as far as I'm concerned.
I have an MBA from Wharton, apprenticed with some of the most successful firms in the world, landing my dream job right out of college.
I've been called, brilliant, driven, devious, and a cast iron bitch. All apt descriptions.
How did an attractive young woman work her way up the food chain so quick? Well for starters, I never dated, giving my full attention to work. Oh, I got hit on, some customers have even hinted that my favors would go a long way towards sealing a deal. I usually found an excellent reason why my company should stop doing business with theirs. These men didn't get where they were by being stupid, word got around, and I was always treated with respect from then on.
"Married to her job, that one," they would say behind my back, "wonder if she's a lesbian".
I was so successful because I knew how men thought. I know, you hear men and women say that, but very few actually do. I could work the good old boy system with the best.
Why? Because underneath those Armani power suits, thigh highs, and expensive lingerie, lies a five inch cock. So now you know I'm not a lesbian.
That's right. I was born male. It didn't take me long to realize I was trapped in the wrong body. I actually had reasonable parents, and by the time I was thirteen I was in therapy for gender reassignment. When I got my driver's license I could legally put down female in the proper slot.
Social interaction with other teens was severely limited. I tried a regular high school, and when who I was became known, I was beaten up twice and almost raped once. After that, I tended to hang with others in my support group. I was privately tutored.
College was a little better, but not much. In fact, I had only been with two sexual partners, one transsexual that only gave and received oral, and one guy who was too rough taking my virginity. I bled, hurt, and swore off sex. I masturbated a lot to relieve my sexual tension. I was very lonely.
I literally fell into my husband's arms. It was late April, and as I gazed down from my forty third floor corner office, I had an almost uncontrollable need to get outside and breathe unfiltered air. I decided to take a long lunch, get a sandwich and sit in the park, enjoying the sunshine.
I had to walk by a construction site, another skyscraper that just had to be a floor taller then the last. As usual, the catcalls and whistles followed me all the way down the block. Construction workers are pigs generally, half a strand of DNA above an ape.
I got my sandwich and soda, found a nice bench with a southern view, and enjoyed the sunshine, for about five minutes.
The two men, obviously construction workers, were muddy, unshaven, and Neanderthals had more brain cells.
"Hey bitch, that's our bench."
I got up quietly, prepared to move. The loudest one got closer.
"Who said you could leave? You owe us for the use of this bench."
I gave them my most professional look.
"This is a public park. I should be able to sit where I want. But, if you need the bench that bad, take it and welcome. I have to get back to work now."
"We're not done with you missy" said the biggest one, grabbing my arm and causing me to drop my soda. "I think a kiss or two will square the debt."
I was struggling with his grip when a quiet voice said "Charley, I think you should let the lady go and apologize for being such an asshole."
He let go of me so fast I started to fall when strong arms encircled me and helped me upright.
"Miss, are you all right?"
I couldn't help it, I was so scared I started crying. I managed to sniffle a yes, conscious of the arms still around me. I think he realized he was still holding me at the same time, and gently let go.
"Fuck you Brian, we ain't at work and you ain't my supervisor" the man who tormented me said, trying to save face.
The man named Brian smiled.
"You're exactly right. So if I stomp your ass, you got no beef with the company or the union. Wanna get in on this, Dave?"
Dave appeared nervous.
"I got no problem with you, man. We was just havin' a little fun."
"Does she look like she's having fun?"
He had pulled me behind him, a position I was more than happy with.
"Get back to work, boys. If you hang around I might get the idea you intended to aggravate this young woman more. You know how I would hate that."
Dave couldn't leave fast enough, Charley wanted to save face, but as soon as Brian turned to him, he left.
I was shaking as he seated me on the bench.
"Don't worry, they won't bother you anymore. Relax, enjoy your lunch. I'm sorry they spilled your drink. Here, share mine."
He poured something from his cooler into a plastic cup and handed it to me. I took a small sip. My eyes widened. He smiled.
"Homemade lemonade, with a touch of raspberries. Do you like it? I have more."
I held out my cup, and he refilled it.
"May I join you?" He asked politely.
"Please " I said moving over slightly.
After the lemonade my bought sandwich tasted plastic. I could see him frown.
"Try this." He handed me a croissant filled with chicken salad. I had never tasted chicken salad like that. Made from herb smoked chicken, with bits of grape and pecans. I practically inhaled it. He looked at me, smiling.
I felt like a glutton. I tried to cover it up.
"Your wife is an excellent cook."
He grinned.
"She better be, when I find her. This is my recipe, I'm a fair cook, for a single guy."
"Good looking, single, and able to cook too. I might just apply for that wife position."
Shit! Where did that come from? I colored.
He laughed.
"Thanks, I think."
We talked for thirty minutes before he looked at his watch.
"I've got to go. I'm the foreman, wouldn't look good to be late. I enjoyed lunch. What time do you get off work?"
The question caught me by surprise.
