DETUMESCENCE

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020

Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RT

WHAT ANNE WANTS

The smell of coffee woke me --- again. I hated it now. It signaled the start of another long workday. I groaned as I got out of bed. I took off my nightshirt and went to the washroom: five minutes of reflection. The shower was running to the correct temperature. I showered. The towel was warm on the rack. I went back to the bedroom. My business suit for the day was laid out on the immaculately made bed. I dressed and went downstairs.

Breakfast immaculately presented on the warm plate on the table. Menu Item B5 today. Sigh; the routine of this; I miss variety. I ate and read the freshly ironed newspaper. I skipped to the business section. The construction industry was doing well enough but not spectacularly. Hotel occupancies were down. No schools were suffering major plumbing problems. More of the dreary same, I grumbled to myself. I finished eating and left the table.

I went back to my immaculately cleaned bathroom and completed my morning toilet. My mind was already at the office. I own, run, manage, and do just about every single office job for my plumbing supply company. It's hard work running a business. I have two new clients coming in today. If I can sign them to a contract, it might lessen the financial squeeze I constantly find myself in. I went back downstairs.

My briefcase was on the tidy table and the dishes were already put away. The kitchen was immaculate. I took the briefcase and left the house. The door was closed behind me.

Immaculate. My house is immaculate. My fucking life is not.

-----000-----

"Anne, that new client just cancelled," my one and only office assistant said. She's pregnant and will be gone in a week for several months.

Damn, I thought to myself. I went back to the books and tried to reconcile the receivables. I think there are accounts owing that total $45,935. I can't be sure. Accountancy is a challenge, even after trying to do it for the past year. And I don't have the wherewithal to hire a regular accountant, nor to face their inevitable inquiries about the company's history, ownership, and management.

The second prospective new client arrived at 10. We chatted. I thought it was a good discussion. Unfortunately, their farewell --- "we'll call you, maybe" --- dimmed my hopes.

I despise the marketing aspect of the job. It requires too much sucking up and politeness for my liking. I had once thought it would be a bit more distinguished: "I am President Anne Smith of Smith Plumbing." Frankly, the presidency is a burden.

My desk was a disaster. Buried somewhere on it was the folder for the big supply delivery today. If I couldn't find that, then the delivery team would not be able to sign off the delivery. Paperwork everywhere. I could really use a secretary here.

And now Ted just quit. He complained about his hours and his rate of pay. He's been here 12 years and just like that walks out. I know he'll get a job. The reputation that he built up here will open numerous interview doors for him. I should be happy for him; I'm not because he just made my life harder. Why does life do this to me? What did I do to deserve this?

Mid-afternoon, the coffee maker broke. I had rashly economized several months ago --- "percolated coffee is just fine" --- but even I regretted its burnt taste. And that stench reeked throughout the office and supply room. And the coffeemaker from the big discount store was made in a manner commensurate with its price.

Closing time could not come fast enough.

My hopes of leaving the office at 5 vanished at 4:50. A telephone call from the manufacturing plant down the road: flooded washrooms, numerous parts required asap. I called the staff in and briefed them on the imperative. Under our contract with the plant, we were required to deliver needed parts within 90 minutes of being notified.

"Are we getting overtime for this?" John asked.

"We better get overtime for this," Mary demanded.

"You will get overtime for this," I sighed.

-----000-----

Exhausted, I finally parked the car in the garage at 7:20. I walked up the well-lit path and the front door opened. I walked in and dropped my briefcase, which got placed on the small foyer table. The foyer was of course immaculate. The front door was quietly closed behind me.

I wearily made my way toward the dining room. The table was set, the wine was poured, the ice in the carafe chilled the water. A small bowl of soup was placed before me. Butternut squash. It was delicious but I couldn't appreciate it. The bowl was removed.

I drank my wine. My glass was refilled. A perfect Merlot, probably; I hardly tasted it though I drank it all. I wanted to drown myself with it. A warmed plate of cauliflower Bolognese with mushrooms appeared before me; it smelled rich, looked rich, and tasted rich. But it somehow made me feel poor.

I could only finish half of it. How was I going to come up with the requisitions in time? Why had Fred decided to have an accident with the delivery truck? It's four years old and has already been in five accidents. The insurance payments are going to increase. The staff wage increases they've been hoping for may not be affordable. Some staff might look elsewhere for employment. Can I ever let this job leave my mind?

Whatever happened to 'all hail President Anne'? It was supposed to be that way.

I dropped my napkin on the floor and went upstairs to get changed. A light gown and comfy slippers greeted me on the bed. The bedroom carpet had been vacuumed; the lines were perfectly parallel to each other. I didn't care.

I went back down to the TV room. The TV was already on my favourite channel: the TeleTubby network. It placed no stress upon me. I didn't see let alone hear the shows. Its merely being 'on' provided me some distraction. I sipped my perfect Tequila and put it back on the side table.

I felt lousy. I hadn't gone to the gym in several months; I felt how I looked. I hardly ever saw my friends now; did they remember me? My life had been reduced to the slavery of running a company and being responsible for...for EVERYTHING!!!

I Fucking Hate It!!!

I got up and stormed into the dining room. It was immaculate. You couldn't tell that there had been a place setting and complete meal consumed there not 20 minutes ago. I went to the kitchen: yes, immaculate and don't fucking remind me how nice that is. I am so sick of immaculate!

I finally found my maid in the basement rec room. I hadn't bothered to go down to that hovel in more than a year.

It had been transformed into Club Paradise! I was astounded! An NFL game was playing on a large sized TV on the wall; when did that get there? There was a small bar fridge with what appeared to be bottles of champagne and Chateau Lafitte! The shaggy rug was replaced by expensive-looking oak laminate. The faux wood walls were gone; in their place was a comforting neutral with beautifully stained natural trim!

My maid was on a plush, king-sized bed (that I had never seen before) wearing a fleece outfit that looked cozy. The maid was reading a mystery novel, one that I had wanted to read last summer but couldn't because I hadn't had the time. I envied my maid.

"I want to go back to how things were. I don't like this anymore," I told my husband.

WHAT NIKKI GETS

"I don't think so," I told my wife.

"Two years ago, you discovered that I was wearing a dress trying to relax. You didn't believe me when I told you how stressful my job was. Crossdressing was a silly relief, harmless, I told you. You didn't believe me and thought it was more than that. 'You're a sissy, Nick! A sissy!' That's what you decreed.

"So, you did everything that one can commonly find on any transgender sissification fiction site. You gave me low dose hormones to screw up my body and my mind a bit. You got me in a maid's uniform. You cut me off from most of my friends and then deceitfully tricked me out of my company. Don't even get me going about the breast implants and laser hair removal.

"Anyway, I adjusted and actually started liking it. Compared to founding and running the company, this is easy. And you got all the stress! You wanted it. You got it. In fact, this maid-thing you drove me into has given me an education about work/life balance and quality of life. I probably would've had a heart attack by now if you hadn't forced me to become your maid.

"The maid's job is to die for! Once the house is clean, all Nikki has to do is to stay on top of it. I never knew being a housewife for you, sorry, a maid for you would be so easy. I know what your routine is at work and how strenuous things can be. Emergency last minute order or something? Your problem. I'm really grateful that you bring home the cash. You wanted my gratitude, you got it.

"Me? I wake up early, putter around to accommodate you, and thrust you out of the house soonest. A quick tidy up --- it is immaculate, right? Just like you wanted! --- and by 8 o'clock I have free time. I nap, have a delightful cappuccino every day, I might go shopping and put it on the accounts you established so that I would not have any cash. I might visit the neighbours; they say you never had tea with them; I do all the time; they're wonderful people! And you've seen my magnificent tomato plants, haven't you? I can finally garden at leisure!

"Best of all, I've had time to document every single thing you've done to me. Video. Audio. Photocopies. Photos. Eyewitness statements. Everything.

"So, get out of this beautiful room, which I finally had the time to renovate this past year, get your fucking ass back upstairs to 'Mistress' Bedroom', get a good night sleep, and get back to the fucking office tomorrow morning.

"Or else I will divorce you and take you to the cleaners. Half the house. Spousal support because I am a simple, enfeebled maid that you cruelly created. And half the company. You better not run it into the ground because you, as the sole President, will be personally liable for any outstanding wages and such.

"No, Anne, no. You wanted control; you got it. Your little maid knows her place and she ain't leaving it. Never. She loves it! Just like you forced her to! Now, go do your job --- Mistress!"

END

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020