If I were to do something un-Olivia like, then it would arouse suspicion. It would make people wonder why she was acting a certain way. Something as small as going around town in flats could be noticed by the wrong person, and that could be my undoing.
But I had a weekend to get used to shoes, to clothing, to a whole new body. I knew there would be differences, but . . . oh, God, there was so much about being Olivia that was incredible. Just having hips I could make sway with every step was a dream come true! The height was something I'd need to watch; I'd never needed to worry about bumping my head against anything above me before, and that had changed.
The equipment in the closet, however--that made me wonder. I found a number of . . . toys that weren't meant to be used alone. Cuffs and corsets and . . . I'd never seen a strap on before, but I knew of them and what they should look like. I found three, and one was as thick as my three middle fingers pressed together, leading me to believe that Olivia was, at best, bisexual. At worst . . . was she truly a lesbian? Was the interaction shared with Craig merely a pantomime, something she kept up so no one in the office would suspect?
I couldn't believe the latter, for there were many openly homosexual employees at Bio-Futrara, and one manager in Procurement was a trans-woman almost finished with her transition. No one would have cared if Olivia were a lesbian.
They might have frowned on her being heavily into kinky sex, however. But again: how would anyone know? Was this the relationship she had with Craig? That he was one of her slaves?
How could I relate to him that way?
Monday would be strange. I got into work, and headed for "my" office. I settled in, then started my log in process to the network. I flubbed the password three times, whereupon I was locked out. I made one call--to the tech support help desk, telling them I needed my password reset. Twenty minutes later I was called and told to sign on, and enter a new password.
Business as Olivia would continue without interruption.
At 8:39 HR called and asked me to come to their office. That's where I heard about what happened to "me". "I'd" been found yesterday morning, after the building manager entered my place to investigate a strange smell. Sometime between when I left her, and Saturday morning, when the first reports of a strange odor emanating from the apartment were filed, the old Olivia had completely voided her bowels. The sofa, her nightgown, some of the carpeting--and her legs, of course--were covered in urine and feces. She was taken to the hospital, and . . .
HR told me, in hushed tones, that it appeared "I'd" attempted suicide. There was a fresh needle mark in the arm, and insulin on the table next to the sofa, as well as two more vials in the refrigerator. I wasn't to mention that to anyone, but I needed to let my department know what had happened, and make arrangements to cover her work, as it seemed--
I played the part of the concerned manager. Why wouldn't I? I knew how Olivia would feel about this: cool and semi-upset, though the later was more because production in her department would be affected. She always thought about her people, and how they were going to screw up her quarterly numbers.
I made it through that day, however and Tuesday too. By Wednesday, I had fallen into my groove, and didn't feel the least bit concerned that someone was going to pick up on my deception . . .
Wednesday night, I was home, relaxing. I was in "my" lounging pajamas, in a light blue terrycloth robe, with my feet up on the coffee table. I examined my feet: actually, I was examining my bubblegum pink toenails. This was something else I hadn't realized, though I'd never seen her naked feet, only her fingernails. Olivia never wore polish--or so I thought. She obviously loved pedicures, and I found light nude polish on her dressing table. The odds were excellent she wore it on her fingers.
There was a knock on the door. That startled me, because I now lived in a secure condo, and for someone to visit, they'd have to buzz me to allow them in . . . or actually live in the building.
I got up and looked through the peep hole. It was Martha Kring, who was, more or less, "my" second in R&D. She was a smart girl, extremely intuitive, but as socially inept as they came. I opened the door and smiled. "Martha, what a surprise."
She looked up and smiled; even barefoot I towered over her. There was something about her smile, however-- "May I come in, Ms. D'avana?"
I stepped back and bade her to enter. After she entered the room I closed the door, asking, "What brings you by tonight?" I turned to her. "And how did you get up without buzzing?"
Her smiled vanished, and a look of puzzlement spread over her face. "I thought . . . it's Wednesday."
"Yes, it is," I said, nodding.
Then her face lit up. "Oh, I get it!" She took off her jacket and hung it up. "You want me to surprise you with an outfit . . . I'll have something together in a moment, Mistress." With that she turned and headed for my bedroom.
Mistress? . . . I worked to keep from sighing as I thought, Now I know who the strap on is for . . .
Read Part Four Here
Read Part Two Again
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