Mr. Wallace and Me Pt. 01-05

I dreaded seeing Mr. Wallace on Monday night at work. When I got there, he called me over and had me sit next to him, fully aware that we were on the office security cameras.

"It's time for your performance review," the fat man said with a small, confident smile. "We need to go over your performance over the last several weeks."

My performance? I hated him even more.

"Look here," he said, motioning toward the paper in front of him. The security cameras would not be able to pick up the writing, but I saw it clearly.

"CLEANING .... Good, efficient job," it said. I looked at him, seeing the beginnings of a smirk on his face.

"KISSING ... Very good, but could show improvement with more enthusiastic use of tongue."

I stared at the paper, mortified and upset.

"MOANING ... Fair. Sincere, but needs practice."

I was furious. I didn't think this was funny at all, but I could tell that even though Mr. Wallace kept a serious face, his eyes were dancing with merriment.

"SUBSERVIENCE ... After a slow start, has shown that she knows her place is to please men."

She! He referred to me as "she!"

"HAND JOBS ... Poor. Needs a lot of work."

"BLOW JOBS ... Good. Shows a lot of promise and will only get better with more practice."

"FUCKING ... Incomplete ... for now."

I could tell that my face was flushed with anger and humiliation. Even though I was dressed in slacks, a company shirt and tie, I felt all feminine again. Mr. Wallace was telling me by that "performance review" that he was far from through with me. He expects to take my virginity. No way, I thought.

"Any questions?" he said.

I gulped.

"Mr. Maddox ... is he still ... you know?"

"No," said Mr. Wallace. "He lives in Idaho. He just came in for the poker game. He went back home yesterday. He wasn't happy with me playing that joke on him, but boy, you'd better stay out of Idaho if you know what's good for you."

The disgusting old bastard then officiously pointed to the bottom of the page and told me to sign it.

"Sign it?" I asked.

"Yeah," said the fat man. "I'll keep the only copy. Now, unless you want to make a fuss in front of the security camera, I'd suggest you smile and sign this paper."

There wasn't anything to do but scribble my name on the paper. Mr. Wallace had a look of satisfaction as he collected the paper and put it into his briefcase. He patted me on the shoulder, then he struggled to get his huge body out of his chair and went home, leaving me with my thoughts ... and my dread about next Saturday.

As soon as I got home from work the next morning, I called Mr. Drummond's office and left a message. I was desperate. I waited all day for him to return the call, but he didn't. I called again Tuesday and Wednesday, and still he didn't call me back. Finally, on Thursday afternoon, my cell phone finally rang.

"Billie," he said, "it's Nathan Drummond."

It sounded a little weird to hear him use my feminine name while I was dressed in male clothing, but I was happy that he finally called me back. I blurted out all that Mr. Wallace had done to me over the last few weeks and told him about my "performance review." My voice was pleading and desperate.

"OK," he said, his voice calm and reassuring, "Enough is enough. I'll take care of everything. I have the son of a bitch's power of attorney, and I could make his life damn miserable if he isn't reasonable."

"Thank you, Mr. Drummond," I said. "I had nowhere else to turn. I don't know how I can ever repay you."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "You may be able to help me with a future project I have in mind, but for now, let's get you out of this mess you're in. I have a meeting Saturday, but I should be able to get to Ted's place about 4:30 or so. We'll get things settled then."

"But," I said, pleadingly, "I have to be at Mr. Wallace's house at 12:30 or he'll send out those tapes of me."

Mr. Drummond told me just to do my best to stay away from Mr. Wallace until he got there, then said he had another call and hung up.

Saturday afternoon came all too soon. Again borrowing my mom's car, I arrived at Mr.Wallace's double-wide trailer in jeans, sneakers and a long-sleeve shirt. Mr. Wallace, in his ratty robe, his huge belly protruding, let me in. Incredibly, no one had cleaned up any of the poker chips, playing cards, beer cans and nacho chips that were strewn on the floor when Mr. Maddox overturned the poker table a whole week ago. Mr. Wallace plunked his whale-like body on the couch and took a slice of pizza out of a delivery box.

I began cleaning up the mess, but the fat pig wasn't having any of it. He motioned toward the bedroom with the pizza slice.

"Go in there and change," he said through a mouthful of pizza.

"Look, Mr. Wallace," I said. "I'm not going to wear a dress anymore."

He just looked at me and didn't say anything. I started to stammer.

"I-I-I ...I m-m-mean it, Mr. Wallace," I said. "I'll clean this pigsty, but I'm going to do it in boy clothes."

Mr. Wallace smiled, sat up and wiped his greasy fingers on his robe.

"Sure, Billy boy," he said as he got up and waddled to his computer in the bedroom. "I'll just send out all the video I have on you right now."

I watched in horror as he called up the video of me jerking off at work. A few more keystrokes, and he was ready to ruin my life.

"What's it going to be, Billy Boy?" he said with a sneer. "Are you going to put on a pretty dress ... or not?"

I wanted so much to tell him to go fuck himself, but with Mr. Drummond coming to fix things, I knew I'd have to play along for a few more hours.

"You win, Mr. Wallace," I said resignedly. "I'll ... I'll do what you want."

"Not good enough, Billie," he said confidently. "Are you my little sissy bitch, Billee?"

I bit my lip and closed my eyes.

"Say it!" the fat man demanded.

I shook my head slowly, my eyes tearing up.

"You said it to me once before, so it shouldn't be a problem, sissy. Say it!"

"Yes, Mr. Wallace," I said softly, feeling defeated. "I'm your little sissy bitch."

"That's better," he said smiling. "Now, get dresssed, my little sissy bitch. Shirley said she got you something really pretty."

He turned off the computer, got up ponderously and waddled out of the bedroom. I took off my shirt and walked into the bathroom, where I applied just a little foundation, eyeliner, makeup and lipstick. It didn't take long. I ruefully noted that I was getting pretty good at it.

On the bed was a pair of frilly, pink panties that seemed to have a tiny, inch-long purple skirt of its own. After removing my boy clothes, socks and sneakers, I slowly pulled on the panties and noticed immediately how sensual they felt on my tiny scrotum and penis. In the closet was just one dress, light green and incredibly frilly and feminine. I slid it over my slender frame, and it felt like nothing I have ever worn before. The narrow straps on my shoulders had fluffy bits of fabric that accented my soft shoulders and toned, bare arms. It had ruffles all over, modestly low-cut in the front, exposing my cute collarbone down to just a hint of my breasts, but was much lower behind me, leaving most of my slender back bare. Accenting my tiny waist was a thick, pastel belt that I cinched in tight above the dress' loose skirt down to five inches above my knees. On the closet floor was a shoebox. I opened it to see the first true pair of high heels I would ever wear. They weren't exactly stilletos, but the three-inch narrow heel green (to match my dress) shoes were undeniably feminine and gave my legs an entirely different appearance. My feet felt cramped, but I was able to walk surprisingly well, considering I had never worn anything like these shoes before.

Looking in the mirror, I saw the most incredibly girly young thing I have ever seen, with her hands on her waist and her body shimmying back and forth, her blonde ponytail adding to her youthful, virginal, sexy appearance.

I looked like my own dream date, the girl any man would want to have but knows she is so far above him that he has no chance of her giving him a second glance.

Walking tentatively on the high heels, my shoulders back and my posture perfect, I took a deep breath and walked into the living room. Mr. Wallace didn't notice me at first as he lay like a beached walrus on the couch, his eyes fixed on the football game on TV and his mouth disgustingly chewing yet another slice of pizza. I set the poker table upright and began to pick things up off the floor. It didn't take long for Mr. Wallace to notice me.

"Holy shit, Billie!" he blurted with his mouth full. "I mean holy fucking shit!"

I stood up straight, my right hand holding my left wrist behind my back, one foot ahead of the other, pointed toward Mr. Wallace, like women do. It wasn't anything I planned to do. It just kind of came naturally.

"Is there anything wrong, Mr. Wallace?" I asked in a soft, feminine voice.

The fat pig started to choke. Some of the pizza must have gone down the wrong way. He got flustered and coughed.

"No, nothing's wrong," he said crossly. "Clean this place up, and hurry up about it."

I nodded and quickly filled up two plastic bags with the mess in the room. The sink was a disaster, and I didn't want to get my pretty dress wet and soiled. I found a thigh-length, halter-type backless apron and put it on over the dress, tying it around my waist. I decided to take the garbage bags outside to the metal trash cans.

I had just gotten out of the front door when I noticed the 50-ish moustachioed mailman talking to a couple in their early 30s with a baby in a carriage in front of the house.

"Hey," said the mailman to me. "I was wondering whose car this was here every Saturday. Ted Wallace doesn't get many visitors, as far as I can see."

The man with the wife and baby didn't say anything. He just looked at me, averted his eyes so his wife wouldn't notice, then looked me over again. Does a girl always know when a man wants her? I could tell that he did, and it kind of gave me an eerie but confident feeling. Meanwhile, I responded to what the mailman said.

"I'm Billie," I said. "Mr. Wallace hired me about a month ago to clean his house once a week."

"You clean houses?" said the husband, his face brightening. "Honey," he said to his tired-looking wife who obviously hadn't lost the weight she had gained from the baby, "we could use some help around the house, couldn't we?"

She didn't say anything, but didn't look happy when her husband asked for my phone number so they could "have me come over to clean sometime."

The mailman then said that he had a nephew about my age who would probably love to meet such a nice, hard-working girl, and asked for my number, too. For some reason, I didn't think the husband wanted my number so I could clean his house, and I doubted the mailman had a nephew. I shyly smiled and gave them both the same phony phone number, then excused myself and emptied the garbage bags into the trash cans in the back.

On my way back, I paused at the front door to give the two men, who were still chatting (and looking at me), a smile over my left shoulder before re-entering the house. I guess I was enjoying the obvious effect I was having on men.

Certainly, I was having an effect on Mr. Wallace, whose eyes never left me as I continued to clean the kitchen and wash the dishes. He finished the whole large pizza, then threw the box on the floor and told me to fetch him a beer. He took a big swallow, burped and grabbed the skirt of my apron.

"Who told you that you could put this on?" he said arrogantly, tiny bits of cheese from the pizza clinging to his beard stubble as he wallowed on the couch, holding onto my apron.

"I ... I didn't want to get this pretty dress dirty, Mr. Wallace," I said.

His face got real serious.

"Take it off."

I looked at the clock. It was 1:15. Mr. Drummond wouldn't be here for more than three hours. Mr. Wallace pulled my apron string, loosening it around my waist. I lifted the halter top of it off over my head and set the apron down on a chair. Mr. Wallace took another swig of beer. It obviously wasn't his first beer of the day. He sat up, his huge belly spilling out of his open robe, and stared at me.

"So fuckin' gorgeous," he muttered as I stood in front of him. "You belong to me, you little prissy bitch. Are you wearing panties?"

I nodded.

"Do they feel good on your little sissy prick, Billie?"

I didn't like where this was going.

"Yes, Mr. Wallace," I said nervously. "They feel nice."

"Well, lemme see 'em," he drunkenly ordered, slurring his words.

"Wha ... What?" I said, my voice tremulous.

Mr. Wallace grabbed the skirt of my pretty dress.

"I said ... lemme see 'em!"

I pulled away, and his hand lost its grip on my skirt. I stepped back and ... utterly humiliated ... slowly raised my skirt so he could see my frilly, pink panties. The fat bastard stared at my panties and smooth thighs and smacked his lips. I lowered the skirt, hoping he would let me resume cleaning.

"Nice, cute panties, Cutie," he taunted. "Now ... take them off."

"Please, Mr. Wallace ... I don't ...."

"DO IT!" he demanded.

I felt like crying, but tried not to.

"Come closer," he said.

I stepped closer, and Mr. Wallace reached out and moved his fat hand up and down my left thigh as if he were entitled. I shuddered, feelng so violated.

"Take 'em off," he said.

Mortified, I reached under my dress with both hands and slid the panties down my slender, bare legs. They got caught momentarily on my right high heel. From where he sat, Mr. Wallace reached down and plucked them off my shoe, then pressed the panties to his face and took a big sniff.

:"Mmmmmmm boy!" he said as I stood there in that frilly dress, fidgeting.

"Let your hair down," he ordered. "I like your hair down, girlie boy."

I reached behind me and slid the rubber band out of my ponytail. I shook my head, and my blonde hair cascaded down over my shoulders and neck.

"Now," he said, "keep the shoes on ... but lose the dress."

"The ... the dress?" I said.

"Yeah," he replied arrogantly. "You like that apron so much, you can wear that -- only that -- while you clean the joint."

"No way!" I said.

"I said, LOSE THE DRESS or I go back and fire up that computer."

Mr. Wallace grinned stupidly, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. My heart sank. I knew I had no choice. Slowly, my face a blank, I moved the ruffled straps off my shoulders, undid the thick belt and oozed out of the lovely, frilly dress. Wanting to cover my nakedness, I hurriedly reached for the mid-thigh-length apron on the chair and put the halter top over my head. I tied the apron string tightly around my tiny waist. My arms, neck and all of my back and bottom were bare.

"That's better," said Mr. Wallace, laughing hideously. "Turn around."

As soon as I turned, his huge, greasy hands went to my tight little bottom and squeezed. I cried out and quickly moved away.

"Damn," he said. "What an incredible little ass."

I tried to ignore him ... and the draft I felt on my bottom. I went back into the kitchen and resumed washing the dishes under the eyes of that fat, disgusting pig on the couch.. More of me was bare than clothed as I plunged my hands into the hot, soapy water. I couldn't help feeling youthfully sensual, and yes, sexy. I glanced back at Mr. Wallace over my slender, bare shoulder, and the repulsive creep's right hand was slowly moving up and down over his fat cock while his eyes were riveted on me. It was disgusting, but I couldn't help but stare for just a moment at that thick, utterly manly object between my office supervisor's immense thighs.

Trying to catch my breath and feeling frail, I hurried through the dishes, leaving them to dry, and walked quickly out of Mr. Wallace's sight into the bedroom, telling him that I'd be straightening things up in there. I was breathing hard when I got into the room and looked into the full-length mirror. Damn, that short halter apron was sexy. I ... I was sexy! I couldn't help it. My little penis started to grow under the apron. I closed my eyes.

From the bedroom doorway, I heard Mr. Wallace's slurring, deep voice.

"You do know," he said, "I'm going to fuck you."

It wasn't a question. It was a simple statement of fact ... and it made my blood run cold. He looked so huge, standing there naked, his hairy, pasty body disgusting, his impossibly big belly hanging down over his thick, erect cock. I had lost seven pounds over the last month. He had to have gone over 300 pounds on his 6-foot-4 frame.

I turned to face him, illogically trying to hide my exposed rear end from him.

"No, Mr. Wallace," I said, my voice more pleading than defiant.

He walked right up close to me. I could smell his rancid body odor and the beer and pizza on his breath. I felt so tiny next to him.

"You're such a gorgeous little cunt," he said. "I'm going to pop your pretty boy cherry but good. Now, what will you do for me?"

Do for him? I was confused.

Suddenly, Mr. Wallace, his eyes holding mine captive, reached under my apron, grabbed my scrotum and squeezed ... hard.

I thought I was going to faint. My legs went weak and I cried out in pain.

"What will you do for me?" Mr. Wallace said, his left arm moving around me and his big, fat hand between my bare shoulder blades, pressing me toward him.

"I ... I don't understand," I said, my voice a pained squeak.

He squeezed harder. I cried out.

"What will you do for me?" he said again, his fetid breath in my face.

His fat hand squeezed again. It hurt so much.

"I ... I'll do something for you, Mr. Wallace," I pleaded. "I ... I'll kiss you."

I crossed my bare, toned arms around his thick neck, my right hand on my left elbow, helping me keep my balance as I went up on my tiptoes in those high heels. Mr. Wallace 's left hand caressed my bare back and his grip on my scrotum with his right hand loosened as he lowered his massive face to meet my lips with his. I closed my eyes. My flimsy apron rode up on my thighs as his fat lips played with my slender ones. His stubble rough against my smooth face, I could feel his erect cock against the belt of my apron. His right hand still on my scrotum, his thick, awful tasting tongue entered my little mouth. My body went limp as I surrendered it to him. His fat fingers moved from my scrotum to my slim penis.

"Mmmmm ... mmmm, what a nice little hard-on you've got there, Billie," he said with a chuckle before resuming his tongue's assault on my sweet,pliant mouth.

To my consternation, he was right. Maybe it was feeling so sexy in this flimsy halter apron, I don't know. Maybe it was surrendering my kiss to this awful, horrible man. What I did know was that I was getting an erection. Our kisses was getting moist and passionate. Both his fat hands went to my upper arms as he broke the kiss and roughly turned my body around, my bare back to him. His breathing was becoming rapid as his mouth nuzzzled my neck, giving me the chills. The older man's rapid, urgent breathing from behind me made me feel even more girly. His hands on my arms bent me over the chair, and I felt the weight of his huge belly on me. His left arm went around my chest from behind, his fat fingers finding my right nipple under the apron. His right hand was on his thick cock as he maneuvered it first between my tight little bottom, then right at my opening.

Before I could protest, he plunged that fat cock an inch past my protesting sphincter. I thought I would die from the pain.

"No, no ... please ... take it out!" I cried. "Take it out!"

But he didn't.

"What an ass," he exclaimed. "Such a tight little cunt."

I could feel his belly on my backside as he plunged in another couple of inches. I thought he was splitting me open. His right hand cupped my face and turned it to the side, where his mouth captured mine, stifling my scream..His left hand brutally squeezed my nipple.