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Nearly six months ago, my boss called me into his office, the termination paperwork already laid out on his massive mahogany desk. His expression was cold, devoid of any sympathy as he detailed every dollar my mistakes had cost the company. Panic seized me completely. I begged, my voice cracking with desperation, telling him how badly I needed this job, that I had no other prospects, that I would do *anything* to keep it. He leaned back in his chair and said there might be one alternative to firing me. A very specific, very permanent arrangement. He laid out his terms with chilling clarity: to keep my employment, I would become his. Not just an employee at the office, but his personal attendant, his "femboy," as he so put it. My duties would extend beyond the nine-to-five grind; they would include cleaning his house every weekend, unpaid labor he considered part of my new "compensation package." And he emphasized the word *anything*. It hung in the air between us. The transformation began almost immediately. He presented it not as a choice, but as a mandatory condition of my employment. He started supplying me with estrogen, a small plastic pill bottle that felt like a lead weight in my hand. He demanded I take them in front of him during our weekly "progress meetings." The changes were subtle at first, a softening of emotion, a strange tenderness in my skin, but then more pronounced. My body began to betray its former shape, curving and shifting in ways that were both alien and terrifyingly inevitable under his watchful, approving eye. Now, my life is a fractured existence. By day, I try to maintain the facade of a normal employee at the office, though the whispered glances and the way my old clothes don't fit properly make it impossible to focus. Evenings and weekends belong entirely to him. I scrub his floors and dust his shelves while wearing the outfits he selects for me, each frilly apron and short skirt feeling like another layer of paint over my erased identity. Of course, the "anything else" includes servicing him physically. Several times each weekend, in his immaculately cleaned bedroom, he takes what he believes he owns. It’s a brutal act that strips away any last vestige of my dignity, a stark reminder that my body is no longer my own but a tool for his pleasure, another item on the checklist of my humiliating servitude. I’ve gotten used to it, I suppose. The initial pain has subsided. My body has adapted in the most literal sense. My anus, now quite stretched from regular use, hardly registers the act anymore. In a twisted way, the physical numbness makes it bearable, a small mercy in the grand scheme of things. It's just another part of the routine... I hate my boss