Fierce Femme Sissy: A Rich CEO Forced-Feminization Sissy Romance

“Cici, would you bring me the quarterly sales breakdown on the Fierce Femme line?”

“In just a sec, Ms. Lupo. They’re in the pipeline.”

I reach over and pluck the warm sheets from the output bin. The white paper is a bright contrast to my long, delicate fingers and inch-long, hot-pink acrylic nails.

I tuck a wayward swirl of platinum blonde hair—part of my full, fluffy femme mane—back in place, check my makeup with the compact in my Guerlain purse, and saunter into my boss’s office with short, delicate steps.

My big D-cup boobs bounce with every step under my plunging-neckline silk blouse, which I’ve left open to the third button. My juicy, round ass cheeks sway under a high-waisted hobble skirt. I hear the rustle of my satin and lace slip along my thighs and calves.

As Personal Secretary to the CEO of Fierce Femme Cosmetics, I’m supposed to look—and act—like Femininity with a capital F. Ms. Lupo insists on it.

“Shut the door, Cici.”

Pampered, pampered Cici.

Big, blue, kohl-lined eyes gazing demurely through expensive false lashes. I close the door and step forward to await instructions from my boss. To call Vera Lupo “sexy” is to call Mount Everest a hill. She took my breath away when I first met her, and she hasn’t stopped since.

She rises, towering above me in my own five-inch stilettos, and I’m hyperaware of having to look up at her as she models on her skyscraper Louboutins.

Ms. Lupo takes the warm reports from my pink-tipped hands and drops them carelessly on the desk, then drags me into her arms and kisses me hungrily. I submit a hundred percent to her ravishing, closing my eyes with a sigh and folding my arms around her neck.

I love being manhandled by my lover. I find it so deliciously naughty when she does it at the office. I dress as provocatively as possible for her, because she loves her “silly bimbo blonde.” I know she’ll be watching—and wanting me. We’ve played these little games since my first day on the job…as a woman.

I take extra care to make myself look appetizing for Ms. Lupo. Since I’ve joined the company, I’ve worked hard to present myself as the ultimate office eye-candy; glam lashes, porn-star pink lips, cleavage, shapewear, wild heels. Nothing is off the menu. Why? Because my boss likes me that way! So do most of the girls in the office, my new besties.

Nothing makes me feel more powerful (stupid?) than the sexy smiles on men’s faces when I pass through the reception area, certain their balls will be blue for a week. Tee hee.

As silly as it sounds? Things could be worse. I’ve got a job, at least. Until recently, that wasn’t a big deal for most twenty-six-year-old college grads. That was then; this is now. Most of my friends are still sending out resumes, filling out apps, and trying to drag their young butts into the newest employment office.

I have big-boy ideas for my BA in information technology. I planned on moving right into a Fortune 500 conglomerate, maybe in technical services, at least in application development. Cici Sinclair, computer genius. But these aren’t ordinary times, and I needed a regular paycheck.

Okay, so Fierce Femme isn’t Fortune 500. But it is Fortune 1000 and fast rising. The company carries several well-known cosmetics and perfume franchises and boasts an extensive biochemical R&D division. I interviewed with the CEO herself, not one of her hatchet men.

The word is, she started the company with her late husband’s life insurance dough. Sales are projected at around thirty mill a year.

They don’t make CEOs any smarter than Vera Lupo. Unlike most, Vera is both approachable and charismatic. The kind of woman you want as a friend. She goes above and beyond to make sure her mostly-female workforce is appeased, including job-swapping, on-site child care, a health spa for employees, and a full-service beauty salon, which doubles as a “test kitchen” for new stuff.

Best-guess data puts her in her late thirties (true), but she’s ageless and has a lot of good years ahead of her. My interview with her was…different. In the thirty seconds it took me to get from the lobby to her office, I realized I was the only man in sight.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Sinclair. May I call you…”

“Cici will be fine, thank you. I will NEVER forgive my dad for naming me after an Italian opera singer. I guess he had a fascination with Rossini’s Petite Messe Solennelle. It caused me no end of trouble. A small, slim boy with delicate features, named Cici? I might as well have put a target on my butt.”

The most wonderful sound in the universe—apart from you’re hired? —is Vera Lupo’s laughter. It’s low, warm, and musical, and it makes you think the world can’t be that bad. Vera laughed for a full minute until she was dabbing tears from her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Cici. That was the best laugh I’ve had in years. I hope the girls didn’t catcall you when you walked through the offices. We don’t have many men here, apart from maintenance and janitorial. I don’t discriminate; that would be both criminal and against my policy of affirmative action. We are growing at a rapid rate. We’ve grown so fast, I can’t stay on top of it anymore. I desperately need someone to make sense of the mess of data I get in my daily reports. I need clear, concise data from which to base my projections. In my mind, I need a personable, attractive young woman to be my secretary. One who embodies the multi-tasking, chic femme of the nineties we market to—who also happens to have programming, spreadsheet, and database skills.

It appears I was unrealistic. I’ve gone through several who misrepresented their talents, were unreliable, or ran off with boyfriends. I was very impressed with your credentials. I don’t see many Phi Beta Kappas for this kind of job.

You possess the exact qualifications I need—too many, perhaps. I won’t make it awkward by calling you ‘my secretary.’ If I hire you, you’ll be my ‘personal assistant,’ and I’ll get someone from word processing to handle reprints. I want to give you the job for your sense of humor, if not your superpowers, but you’re overqualified. I’m afraid you’ll bolt as soon as you find something better and leave me in the lurch.”

I had to admit, the thought occurred to me. I could do way more than be a glorified secretary. But I liked this woman (I was thinking with the big head), and I’d heard horror stories about large corporations. I really needed a job.

“None of my friends will ever MEET a CEO, let alone work for one. The chance to aid in strategic planning is a chance of a lifetime. I can’t pass it up.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. I wanted to work at the top in the Executive Suite. It would be a great experience, especially when the economy rebounds and the Big Boys come calling.

I get treated to the other best sound in the world: “You’re hired.”

I get the job. I’m qualified (and then some), I’m confident, and I can make her laugh. She sets me up with a tiny office down the hall and makes me promise—on pain of firing and beheading, whichever is worse—to call her, “Vera” in private and “Ms. Lupo” outside. I have zero complaints about any of that.

It only takes a few weeks to code up Vera’s customized metadata, spreadsheet, and graphics programs so she can get the info she needs at the touch of a button. Easy money, but you don’t let anyone know it was easy. It’s best to remain a minor deity in their eyes. Then, it’s just a matter of entering quarterly data, running reports, and working on special projects.

To my amazement, I’m welcomed into “girl world” by the women in the office. They love my wit and gregariousness, inviting me to join them on lunch breaks. Even the anatomical differences get blurred; they’ll gossip with me about anything—boyfriends, hubbies, and new twists on the soaps. I ask if it’s not weird to talk feminine business with a man.

“Oh, don’t be a Poop, Cici,” says Linda Meyers, the vivacious, grape-hued Accounts Receivable rep.

I’m confused. “Huh?”

“You, goofy. You’re too much fun and too pretty! I feel like you’re a beautiful girl—just in really bad drag. You’re wasted in a man’s suit. You’d be a knockout in heels and a skirt.”

Naomi Daniels, the office manager, chimes in. “You really would. Just let your lovely blond hair grow. With some light make-up, you’d be ADORABLE!”

I know when I’m up against overwhelming odds. Most men might feel emasculated by such camaraderie. I’m not most men. One, I don’t have a fragile ego, and two, there’s no malice in their banter. They’re right; I’m having too much fun.

“Well, we can’t let a little thing like having a pecker stand in the way of true friendship. and we’ll tell Ms. Lupo we need to make some changes to the dress code.”

They laugh. From that point on, we’re tight.

I don’t intend to have an office romance with Vera. I’ve heard they’re the kiss of death for a career. There’s nothing new about a CEO getting personally involved with their personal assistant. This is the Nineties, and it’s no problem for a female CEO to get involved with her younger, male assistant. Though it does take adjusting to.

No matter how subtle your affair, it always comes out sooner or later; that’s the law of the (corporate) jungle. Linda and Naomi grill me on break one day.

“So, Cici, you’ve been working a lot of overtime. Has Vera been giving you... dictation?” Linda winks.

Naomi adds, “Maybe we need to get Cici some knee pads. She might need them.”

“Didn’t we hear Diane say she saw a couple just like Cici and Vera having dinner at Morton’s last weekend? Must have been a coincidence!”

I turn red. Naomi and Linda laugh. Linda gives me a hug. Naomi puts her hand on mine.

“Seriously. You’re both lovely people. We’re happy for you, Cici,” Linda says. “I’m just jealous. If I’d known Vera liked girls, I might have gone for her myself.”

Linda isn’t far off. In a private moment, Vera confides that my slender physique and Barbie-doll prettiness appealed to her. She says she’s not interested in “manly men;” her late husband was a big man. He was a cheat, abusive, and died of a heart attack during sex with his mistress.

“Just as well. He was planning to leave me for her. At least he made it possible for me to live my dream of launching Fierce Femme. I don’t want to go through that again. I want tenderness…and devotion. I want YOU.”

Vera isn’t into “traditional” sex roles, either. She says she wants a different arrangement, tactfully letting me know my “modest package” won’t excite her in the “normal” way but is very appealing as the instrument of her dominance. She likes to initiate our wild sexcapades, and for me to go passive and receptive. She loves sixty-nine, pegging, and using a huge dildo to screw herself while I snuggle her close.

I’m strangely okay with all of this. No longer do I need to overcompens