posted in: Stories | 0

by mikeTheFable [http://mikethefable.livejournal.com/]

Elizabeth opened the slip of paper for the umpteenth time, the letter well memorized, but always worth another look.

Dear Ms. Gates,

Despite your exemplary performance in the past, it is with great disappointment that we must terminate your employment at WWS&J. Xavier did not take the death of his beloved Blitzen lightly, nor did the groundskeepers appreciate the deep tread marks left in the grass leading from your parking spot to the site of last year’s Christmas display (or was it two years ago?). While the board apologizes for Mr. Xavier Sing’s comments—in particular, the comment that you were a credit to your gender and shouldn’t let his promotion over you get you down—there are more productive ways to express one’s job dissatisfaction. Because of your many years with us, and because of the sexist remarks that precipitated your “strong” response, I will not be demanding any reparations for the reindeer, the inflatable santa claus or the sod that will have to be laid in your wake of destruction. It would have been much appreciated if you had kept your donuts to the pavement, but then… well. Goodbye.

Travers Star
Chief Information Officer

She rested her daughter’s book—Femininism for Dummies—against the steering wheel, her notice of termination for a bookmark, as she waited for the hour when she could pick up her daughters from their last day of classes at the Femininist Club—a kind of summer camp, she assumed. Come to think of it, she hadn’t really found out much about it. Some kind of vocational training, at any rate, yes that was it. Perfect for young women fresh out of highschool. Or so Rachel had said. She had known more about it, and had encouraged her younger sister to attend. Two weeks at the Femininist Club looked good on a resume, Emma had said, parroting her older sister. The two did everything together.

She had pulled her blue Subaru into the rounded drive and parked just shy of the club’s front doors, which stood as arching compliments to the building’s austere neo-gothic facade. A tall hedge bordered the property, obscuring the street from view and providing almost complete privacy. The rest of the world would not exist, in fact, were it not for the audible wooshing of cars as they drove by.

Elizabeth dipped a hand into her purse and retrieved a picture of her daughters, which they’d taken and sent to her on their second day at the club. They looked to be having a good time, heads held together in front of the camera, smiling widely. The photo had perhaps been taken at a party, as Emma and Rachel were wearing make-up, complete with blush and bright red lipstick. Not only that, there were a lot of feet in the background. A lot of high heels. Elizabeth flipped the picture to look at it’s back, where the two girls had written a short description of how much fun they were having. Strange, she thought, Emma had misspelled ‘awsome’.

She turned the photo back over. Emma and Rachel had never been the partying type, but Elizabeth was glad to know that her daughters had managed to fit in so smoothly at what they promised would be the best two week certification course they would ever attend. Nice to see the girls broadening their horizons and sampling new experiences, they’d even coloured their hair. Maybe blond would look good on them. Except… in the photo, the two girls seemed to be going blonde from the roots out, rather than the other way.

Elizabeth could not glean much more from the photo than that. Strange, she realized, that she hadn’t ever thought to discover exactly what it was Emma and Rachel were learning.

Probably nothing to worry over, Elizabeth decided, lightly stroking through her blouse the heart-shaped jewel around her neck. She had made a habit of caressing it of late, to the point that she no longer thought about it. Her daughters had given it to her after being accepted at the Femininist School. Some kind of enrollment gift. It had made the fact that her daughters were suddenly leaving for two weeks much easier. The school had sure moved fast, snatching her daughters up, getting them registered and finding them beds, all on the same day. The girls had been very enthused; Rachel had been doing well as a physio-assistant at the local hospital. And Emma… well, Emma hadn’t shown much inclination for anything except staying at home and reading. But they’d both jumped at the chance to attend this Club for two weeks.

Her watch told her it was shortly past five o’clock. She dropped the photo into her purse and looked through the side window at the building, expecting to see her daughters emerge at any time; a moment later she caught a glimpse of something in the mirror. Realization dawned. She opened the door and poured out into the warm air; there were two hoofed legs stuck in the wheel well of the car. They belonged to a plastic reindeer. Dancer, maybe, but probably Blitzen, who had been completely smashed during her morning rampage. Embarrassed, Elizabeth discretely dislodged the battered hind quarters of the reindeer from her wheel well and concealed it within the nearby hedge, glancing furtively at frequent intervals to see if she’d been detected.

It was quite hot outside, so she unclasped the collar button on her suit. It felt as though she were steaming within her own clothes, so she hurried back to the car and blasted the AC. She decided it was time to dress down a little, because she certainly wasn’t going back to work.

Elizabeth pulled a pin out of her hair, leaving it free to fall from its bun to either side of her face, sheets of it draped over her shoulders and down her back. Leaning forward, and after combing it through with her hands, her long brown hair fell straight down her back and over her chest. Fixing the bangs in the mirror, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of herself and her shoulders, the upper part of her suit. Even with the blouse collar unclasped, it was buttoned up high, and the suit breast was closed enough to give Elizabeth an almost severe appearance.

It made her look old, she thought. A moment later she was searching her thoughts, wondering where that had come front. She’d never felt that way before, but… well, it was true. Wasn’t it?

She looked down at her suit, the hands that had been fiddling with her hair slowing as her thoughts turned elsewhere. Eventually she let them lay at her sides, then placed her hands on her thighs, squeezing her chest with her biceps. Her bosom pushed out against the inside of the suit modestly.


The suit. It was dark, and bland, and very ‘professional’, as her former boss would have put it. It was also too masculine for her tastes, but such was life. Her male peers only thought of her as an equal so long as they thought of her as one of the guys, so long as she wore a suit.

She had tried re-inventing herself over the last two weeks, after she had begun to wear her necklace. It was a very nice gift so she wanted to show it off. Only… it hung rather low. It was a crime to cover it up, but to unbutton her blouse enough to reveal it would, well, the necklace wouldn’t be the only revelation there. And when seen, the jewel alone looked out of place, unless Elizabeth made herself shine like a jewel to compliment it. A little make-up here, some pink there, push-up bras to provide the heart shaped jewel a soft bed.

But that kind of look, the sight of skin… it changed people, changed the way people saw her.

In spite of bringing in more money to her old accounting firm than anyone else, she had not made partner this morning as she expected, despite her good standing within the company. That honour instead went to a friend of the board members, a man named Xavier Sing, ensuring that the boardroom remained a good-old-boys club. On paper she had been a superior executive officer, but they had rationalized their decision by implying she was too “girly”, that they couldn’t tell jokes around her, and that the amount of pink she wore lacked professionalism. And no, they wouldn’t call her Lizzy. They lamented the gradual loss of the ‘tasteful personality’ she used to show through her clothing, and the chip she used to have on her shoulder. The needed someone “tough”. She tried to tell them she was merely softening her features, finding the ‘girl’ within her, that she couldn’t be just “tough” all the time, but they wouldn’t listen. They said she looked like a secretary. And then, after buttoning up under pressure, when she had started to look very put out and on the verge of pouting, Xavier tried to make it all better by patting her on the back and telling her that although she hadn’t made partner, she was still a “credit to her gender” for making it as far as she had.

That’s when her left eyelid had started to twitch. And so, to wit:

Dear Ms. Gates…

And so forth.

Now the shock of being jobless was wearing off, and after an afternoon wherein the demands of the professional world mattered little, Elizabeth was starting to think about the kind of things she would get to wear. Nice bras, low cut tops—the necklace deserved it. Maybe some nice lip gloss too. Blond hair might contrast nicely with the deep ruby red of the jewel, Elizabeth thought, the colour platinum swirling through her mind at just that moment.

Elizabeth pulled open her suit jacket and unclasped the first button of her blouse experimentally . In an instant she felt a rush of coolness descending through her collar, the push of her bosom against the breast of her suit, the holding of her breath, her heart racing, the reinforcing exhilaration of being unbound. That felt like a major breakthrough. She undid another button, revealing the valley between her breasts. She undid a third, revealing a full two inches of her sternum. Between her breasts, the beautiful jewel of the necklace lay shining against her skin, cradled lovingly between two soft, pillowy swells of flesh.

Elizabeth reached for the fourth button, took it in her fingers, and prepared to slip it through the hole, but hesitated.

She had an interview tomorrow with the CEO of a major technology firm for the position of Chief Financial Officer. A competitor of WWS&J, they had found her minor feat of destruction amusing. She had not been out of work for more than an hour before she received a call, the man insisting she come see them for an interview. Merely a formality, they assured her. She’d made quite a scene, and their office was abuzz with rumours about her.

If she were to walk into that interview tomorrow, the line between her breasts tantalizingly advertised, her thighs revealed by the height of a new skirt, but with a resume outlining her many accomplishments as a company executive—including her candidacy for the position of partner at her former IT firm—would he see her as a capable woman? What if her suit was pink? She knew that tomorrow she would be meeting with a man. They’d talked on the phone and she knew he was of a particular school of thought. Very authoritative, believed work came first above all else, left most of the family work to his wife. That sort of man.

Being reminded that she did indeed have breasts might make him uncomfortable, might impel him to see her as transgressing the rules and customs of ‘his’ environment. He might focus on her attractiveness, on her body, instead of the words on her resume, and count that against her, think of her as ‘girly’, as unprofessional. He might begin to draw parallels between her and the woman he likely employed as his secretary, were she to wear a nice pink skirt and delicate high heels. He might make comments to his friends in private about her legs, her breasts, tell jokes about bimbos. Her qualifications may not even come up, only the topic of her body, what he could see or discern of it through her clothes, and so on. Elizabeth chuckled inwardly, recalling the expression men so often used. She visualized the implicit, unspoken parenthesis: “Hey. I’m a red blooded male (so of course I can’t help but see her as a sex object, even when I’m supposed to be focusing on her work ethic!)”.

Her livelihood depended on this fourth button. She nibbled on her lower lip and hesitated, but when she looked down she realized her hand had already done the work. Her chest was now clearly advertised, and her breasts, modest as they were, appeared large on her slight frame and within her fitted blouse. They heaved subtly with every breath. The cups of her bra were now partially exposed, and she couldn’t help but notice them and think: ‘Lace cups would look a lot better.’

The sight of her breasts made her heart thump faster, the exhilaration mounting, and in turn her breathing caused her tits to quake and quiver within her blouse, the jewel resting atop her cleavage rocking in its cradle. There was no going back, she realized. She would not tie herself back down, cover up her femininity just so some shrivelly, old-fashioned executives at a big, important, successful firm that offered a six-figure salary could feel comfortable with her. No no no, that wouldn’t do at all. Elizabeth thumbed at her knee length skirt.

Elizabeth’s arm shot out towards the glove box; in turn, the rest of her followed, including her mind, which was only now catching up to her actions. Bent over the passenger’s seat, she was very aware of the way the jeweled necklace dangled from her neck, no longer in contact with her skin. She almost felt…. colder, for it.

She took out a set of scissors and held them up, examining the blades with narrow eyes. For a moment she looked past them into the sunshade mirror, wherein she saw the consternation on her face bisected by the scissor’s united blade. She spread her hand, and the blades opened with the satisfying sound of sliding metal.

Several minutes and acrobatic maneuvers later, Elizabeth tossed what looked like a dark, navy scarf at the foot of the passenger seat. It was, in actually, about seven or eight inches of her skirt. Take that Professional Society, she thought, pulling her newly hemmed skirt tight. The skirt was but a fraction of it’s former length, and the fibers of the upholstery tickled her freshly revealed thighs. While the skirt’s new hem was a tad jagged and rough, the sight of her thighs blended well with the amount of skin she was showing up top. The jewel had returned to it’s warm cradle, and Elizabeth set about draping her long hair over the lapels of the suit, treating her revered chest as a window to be framed with curtains. The whole look, in her mind, should be centred around that necklace.

Now satisfied with her clothes—except perhaps for a growing desire to wear higher heels—what would she do? Much as she wanted to express herself, she had adopted the look of the stereotypical secretary. The bimbo look was so servile.

The glinting of light across the windshield caught her eye. Two young women emerged from the house through the arched entrance way, the sun momentarily reflected by the window in the door. Who were these women: classmates? The first to appear was shorter than the second, and so appeared more cartoonish, but they both seemed highly caricatured and excessively feminine, their jiggling, bouncing, hyper-sexed bodies further emphasized by the ginger trot made necessary on such towering platform heels.

The shorter, younger girl was decked out in red and white, her pale alabaster skin tone and white thi-hi stockings offset by the glittering metallic shine of her red micro-mini skirt, which seemed only tenuously draped on her hips, as if ready to fall off at the slightest demand. Her red boob tube made her enormous chest pisitively ‘pop’, and her soft flat midriff lay exposed and inviting.

The taller, seemingly older girl followed just behind, decked out in pure pink, her cropped mane a silvery, snowy blonde, her skin a tanned olive. Her outfit gave the impression of a gradient, her white shoes leading into rose thi-hi stockings, her stockings leading into a highlighter-pink one-piece: a slinky, latex tube-dress that strained around her gigantic tits and ended only at the point necessary to shade her crotch. Her smooth, tanned skin gleamed in the light of day.

With theatrics that Elizabeth could only describe as bizarre, the shorter girl led the taller one by the hand, the two of them giggling to each other as they descended the steps, rather carefully it should be said. Half way down the intense rocking of the smaller girl’s bosom proved to much for her top, and the red boob tube over her chest snapped like an elastic, sucked under her breasts which popped out and bounced into plain view. She fell to her bum, her hand slipping from the grip of her vapid, giggling companion. Elizabeth watched with bemusement as the younger girl reached under her tits, the nipples of which were clearly pierced, and, using her thumbs as hooks, retrieved her tube top and let it snap back into place over her nipples, the action sending waves through her pneumatic chest. Meanwhile, the taller girl had bent down, causing her dress to rise up over her ass and reveal her sex, which like the other girl’s nipples had been pierced—several times.

Elizabeth leaned forward over the steering wheel, squinting through the windshield at the display before her. A stirring of recognition nibbled at her, and she was shocked to recognize—recognize, at least, the small bit of her daughters that remained—that these were her precious little girls! The make-up concealed them well, but underneath she recognized those faces, they way they behave towards each other.

She sat back in her chair, eyes frozen in a state of wide-eyed incomprehension. She closed a hand around the jewel on her necklace, absorbing from it what strength and support it could offer. The jewel glowed brightly, rays of light seeping between her fingers, barely noticeable in the daylight.

What had those people done to her little girls? She had heard nothing about cosmetic changes—her girls were simply supposed to receive an education, some sort of certification to improve their resumes. Until now, she had been under the vague and ill-defined impression that the Femininist Club had been like some kind of business course for women.

A thought flickered through Elizabeth’s imagination, and she took on a worried, knowing expression. Why had she not thought of that before? No wonder they called it the Feminininst Club. Even with such buxom physiques and little outfits, there was, if you looked at the girls a very particular way, a professional air about them. They hadn’t just been educated, she realized, they had been recruited!

Elizabeth’s brain swirled with revelation.

She held the jewel tightly, heart thumping madly.

No. The word materialized in Elizabeth’s mind the way an ace might appear in a deck of cards… after being inserted there by another’s hand. Her clenched fist tingled.


No, Elizabeth thought. Her dear girls must have wanted this. Yes, yes that was it. That was all of it. Oh my! What a relief!

Oh! She scolded herself, closing her eyes and wincing, turning inward on herself and mentally shredding every thought of doubt or suspicion in her mind. Who was she to think such things? All these years she had encouraged her girls to go to school, to find a good college, to improve their minds—but now that they sought to improve their bodies, her first impulse was to feel critical of them? Hardly fitting, it seemed, of a supportive mother.

She certainly couldn’t argue with the girl’s femininity, something, Elizabeth realized disappointedly, they had honoured more than their mother. But then, she was almost happy about that, happy that her daughters had not fallen into the same trap as their mother, where success came at the price of becoming ‘one of the guys’. She smiled and waved at them exuberantly through the windshield. They giggled back at her, Rachel waving, which caused her to let go of Emma, which caused Emma to wobble and look as though she might fall down. Realizing her mistake, Rachel grabbed hold of her sister and held her weight while they learned the moods and tricks of their new shoes together. The closer they came, the more awe Elizabeth felt by looking at the girls. She began to discern new details about the way they moved and carried themselves. Each time Emma took a step, for example, the heaving and jostling of her massive breasts threatened to make them pop out; indeed the top appeared to provide no support whatsoever. It was the outfit of a girl for whom clothes were a necessary concession to the world, but no more, and indeed that was reflected in the garment’s status: completely at the whim of Emma’s bouncing, jiggling body. Emma’s body ruled, not the clothes. How could that be a bad thing, when Elizabeth had only just managed to free herself from being hidden and concealed behind her own wardrobe? She had been but a monkey in a suit.

Both daughters, actually, looked distinctly feminine, almost excessively so, and yet, there was a very empowering aspect to it all, reflected in their beautiful, colourful, whorishly painted faces. Elizabeth could never get away with dressing herself up like that, she knew, not with what the males expected of her, which was to play it low and not be too different. With a feminine, colourful, tantalizing appearance Elizabeth would be but a secretary in her old profession. But here, at the Femininist Club, she could be a star. They were obviously hiring…


Did she want that? Elizabeth thought about that while staring at her shoes; spiked heels would go with her short skirt and open-blouse style much better, she decided. Her current classic pumps (with mere one-inch heels) just didn’t cut it. She wanted something with lift.

Elizabeth looked up at the windshield, eyes unfocused. At last she released the jewel from her fist, and let her hand rub her temple. She had been considering something, but couldn’t remember… oh well.

The girls parted and, with increasing skill, made their separate ways around the car. Rachel came in on the driver’s side, waving to Elizabeth as she passed. “Hi mom!” she squealed, her inflated bosom pressing against the glass.

At once the back doors opened and the car was flooded with a cacophony of high pitched giggling. Emma and Rachel slinked into the back seat, giggling and fidgeting as their lifting skirts subjected their sensitive, bare bottoms to the teasing upholstery. After a few grinding motions the girls settled and looked at each other, devilish smiles widening across their faces. As one woman they shifted on their seats and lifted their legs, pushing their knees against the backs of the front chairs. Elizabeth felt herself rise a little as Rachel put her weight against her seat. She twisted the rearview mirror to look at Emma, who was watching Rachel with captivating rapture. Rachel, in turn, was watching Emma, and it was a moment later, when the moans and groans of mounting tension got louder, that Elizabeth turned and saw her two daughters furiously masturbating in the back seat, their fingers plunging into their pierced pussies and circling their clits feverishly. They were watching each other, navigating their own bodies with pure feeling alone—and apparently quite good at it.

Again, Elizabeth’s critical impulse—this time relating to the impropriety of masturbating in her car—was swept aside as she caught herself. After all, what they were doing was perfectly natural and healthy. The jewel on her necklace blinked, unnoticed. Yes, she asserted to herself, making up her mind completely, perfectly natural and healthy.

In short order, Emma and Rachel quickly rose to orgasm. They both curled somewhat, rising from the backs of their chairs and, at the last moment, stared with undivided attention at their own pussies, eyes rolling and mouths opening, before they came gushing against the backs of the front chairs.

My goodness! Elizabeth thought, turning away, aroused, sweating and short of breath. Female ejaculation! Why, she’d never experienced that before. The wonders, though, that awaited the uninhibited, feminine, gyno-centric woman!

Elizabeth started the car and popped it into gear, rolling off towards the street that lay beyond the hedge. As the spiked iron gates opened automatically she made sure to get a good look at the address, so as never to forget. Encouraged by the chorus of moans which were again rising from the back seat as her daughters built up to new orgasms, she decided she would have to visit this place again, for her own benefit. Fingering absently with the fifth button on her blouse, Elizabeth was filled with hope for the future, and certainty about where to take the next step in her professional life.

After all, if she were to walk into an interview tomorrow for a position at the club, the line between her breasts tantalizingly advertised, her thighs revealed by the height of a new skirt, what would they think?

Thank Goddess she was enlightened enough to take a cue from her daughters. They were so smart!

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