Chapter 1: The Secret Friday Night
Henry was a two-faced man, a master of the dual identity. During the week, he was the embodiment of authority: a charismatic, confident department head in a glass-walled, open-plan office, where his deep voice and sharp mind commanded respect. But behind this facade lay a dark streak: Henry used his power to humiliate the women on his team. He made derogatory comments about their appearance, reprimanded them in front of colleagues, and made them work unnecessary overtime, while dismissing their work for granted. His female colleagues feared his moods, but he relished the control.
On Friday evening, however, a transformation began that was as secret as it was exciting. Henry became “Maxine,” a glamorous party girl who danced the night away in the city’s most dazzling clubs. The transformation took place in his luxurious penthouse apartment, which consisted of two separate living units connected by a hidden secret door in an inconspicuous wall. The larger apartment was Henry’s “male” domain: minimalist, with dark leather furniture, a solid oak desk, and a polished steel bar that smelled of whiskey and cigars. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered views of the sparkling skyline. The second, smaller apartment was Maxine’s domain, designed in a feminine style to protect her identity and allow male visitors without arousing suspicion. Pastel pink walls, a four-poster bed with silky curtains, a dressing table with an illuminated mirror, a wardrobe full of glamorous outfits, and a delicate vanilla scent created an atmosphere that reflected Maxine’s feminine persona. The secret door was secured with a biometric lock that only Henry’s fingerprint could open. The apartments had separate entrances with different elevators, and the parking spaces for Henry’s black BMW and Maxine’s cherry-red Mini Cooper were located in distant corners of the underground garage.
Henry began his transformation in the “male” apartment, where he removed his tailored suit. He opened a hidden closet filled with glittering minidresses, sheer stockings, sky-high stilettos, and wigs. The centerpiece was a custom-made skin-colored latex suit, a technical masterpiece that was unrecognizable even upon close inspection. The suit acted like a second skin, with a soft, warm texture that made every touch seem real. It conjured a ample bust, a narrow waist, and round hips that sensually accentuated every movement. The suit was sophisticated in the genital area: Henry’s penis was rendered invisible by clever padding, while a deceptively lifelike, penetrable vagina completed the illusion. There was no zipper—the suit had to be put on completely through the tight neckline, a process that took up to an hour.
The process began with a hot shower in the “male” apartment, during which Henry shaved every inch of his body until his skin was smooth as silk. Afterward, he applied a fragrant lotion with notes of jasmine and vanilla. The latex suit required special preparation: Henry sprayed his body with a greasy, silicone-based lubricant to make the suit supple. The chemical smell was pungent, and it left a shiny layer on his skin. Henry sat on the edge of his bed, unrolled the suit, and began to put it on. He stepped one foot through the tight neckline, slowly pulling the latex up his calf, then over his thigh, the material crinkling and clinging taut against his skin. The second foot followed, and gradually he worked the suit over his hips, careful not to damage the artificial vagina and padding. The latex was tight, and Henry had to stretch carefully to pull the suit over his stomach and chest.
Putting on the torso was particularly difficult. The neckline was so tight that Henry had to struggle to squeeze his torso through, the suit’s ample bust pulling heavily on him. Even trickier was getting his arms through the neckline while simultaneously sliding out through the suit’s narrow armholes. He had to carefully thread one arm at a time, stretching the latex while avoiding tearing. The suit clung to his skin, and the lubricant made the movements slippery but also exhausting. Henry breathed shallowly, concentrating on each movement as he smoothed the latex over his shoulders and slid his arms through the openings until they were free. His head remained outside the suit, as it didn’t belong inside the latex suit, which made the process somewhat easier, but the tightness of the neckline and armholes remained a challenge. When the suit finally fit, Henry felt encased, transformed, powerful, but also exhausted from the effort.
After putting on the suit, the greasy film of lubricant was sticky on his hands, neck, and other exposed areas. Henry went through the secret door into Maxine’s apartment and showered again in her pink-tiled bathroom, using lavender shower gel to wipe it off. He patted his skin dry, careful not to damage the latex suit, and reapplied lotion.
Maxine wore her underwear over the latex suit to enhance the illusion and protect the suit. This evening, she chose a black lace corset that cinched her waist and accentuated her artificial breasts. She paired it with sheer silk hold-up stockings, attached to a garter belt with delicate ribbons that stretched across her thighs. The stockings had a subtle seam at the back that drew attention. She wore a tiny black lace thong that clung tightly to the artificial vagina and disappeared into the crack of her buttocks, perfecting the illusion of a feminine silhouette.
The wig was a masterpiece: long, glossy mahogany hair falling in soft waves down to the middle of her back. In Maxine’s apartment, Henry secured it with clips, combed it carefully, and let strands fall coquettishly around her face. The makeup, applied at the vanity, was a work of art: velvety foundation, bronze highlighter, smoky eyeshadow in plum and charcoal, thick false eyelashes, and scarlet lipstick. A spritz of perfume—heavy, sensual, with amber and musk—completed the transformation.
Maxine chose an emerald green dress with a plunging neckline and a short, slightly flared skirt that swung with every movement, barely covering her genitals, her G-string, and her garter belts. The skirt was so short that quick turns or a light breeze would reveal the lace trim of the stockings, the delicate ribbons of the garter belt, and the G-string. She paired it with silver stilettos with 12-centimeter heels. She glanced in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in Maxine’s bedroom, brushed back a strand of hair, and smiled. Maxine was ready.
To protect her identity, Henry had a cherry-red Mini Cooper with cream-colored leather seats and a floral sticker on the rear. It was parked far away from the BMW in the underground garage, and Maxine used the separate elevator to her apartment. But this elevator, which led directly to Maxine’s apartment, was also where she regularly encountered neighbors—people who knew Henry as a man but didn’t recognize him as Maxine. The encounters were a mixture of thrill and humiliation.
Elevator encounters
Encounter 1: Mr. and Mrs. Meier
Maxine stepped into the elevator, her emerald green dress with its flowing flare shimmering in the light, her heels clacking on the marble floor. Standing inside were Mr. and Mrs. Meier, an elderly couple from the tenth floor whom Henry had often seen at house gatherings. Mr. Meier, a retired banker with gray hair, immediately fixed his gaze on Maxine’s ample bust, emphasized by the dress’s plunging neckline. His eyes widened slightly, then moved to her long legs, where the short skirt briefly revealed the lace trim of her stockings and garter belts with every movement.
“Good evening,” Maxine said in her high, feminine voice, a smile on her lips, her heart racing. Would they recognize her?
“Uh, good evening,” stammered Mr. Meier, unable to take his eyes off her breast.
Mrs. Meier, a small woman with a tight bun, cast a sharp glance at her husband. “Hermann, the view out the window is really interesting today,” she said pointedly, pulling him by the arm so that he turned toward the window. “Just look at the lights!”
“Oh, uh, yes, very nice,” Mr. Meier murmured, reluctantly looking away. Maxine suppressed a giggle as the elevator stopped on the ground floor. She stepped out, her long legs and flowing skirt catching one last glance from Mr. Meier before Mrs. Meier dragged him out of the elevator.
Encounter 2: The Schmidt Family
One Saturday night, Maxine wore a black dress with a similarly short, flowing flared skirt that barely covered her garter belt, G-string, and the lace trim of her stockings, and a blonde wig that fell in soft curls over her shoulders. She stepped into the elevator and found the Schmidt family—Peter Schmidt, a lawyer from the eighth floor, his wife Anna, and their teenage daughter Lisa. Henry had often met Peter over a beer in the hallway, but as Maxine, she was a stranger.
Peter immediately stared at Maxine’s legs, his eyes following the line of her hold-up stockings to the hem of her dress, where the garter belts and thong briefly became visible with every movement. “Wow,” he exclaimed quietly before catching himself.
Anna noticed his gaze and nudged him with her elbow. “Peter, have you told Lisa that she has to go to piano lessons tomorrow morning?” she asked loudly, her voice sharp.
“Uh, yeah, right,” Peter said quickly, turning to Lisa and starting an exaggerated conversation about piano lessons. Lisa, who was staring at her phone, rolled her eyes.
Maxine smiled politely. “Nice evening, isn’t it?” she said, her voice gentle.
“Oh, yes, very nice,” Anna replied hastily, still glaring at Peter. “We’re just going to eat quickly. Family, you know.” She emphasized the word “family” as if warning Maxine.
The elevator stopped, and Maxine stepped out, her heels clacking, her flared skirt swinging slightly, momentarily revealing the top of her stockings and thong. She heard Anna hiss at Peter, “Stop staring, you’re being ridiculous!” Peter mumbled an apology, while Maxine walked grinning toward her Mini Cooper.
Encounter 3: Mr. Wagner
Another evening, wearing a silver dress with a plunging neckline and a short, flowing flared skirt, Maxine met Mr. Wagner, a single businessman from the twelfth floor who had often questioned Henry about stock prices, in the elevator. Mr. Wagner was alone, and when Maxine entered, his gaze immediately fell on her breasts, then slowly moved down to her legs, where the skirt barely concealed her garter belt and G-string.
“Good evening,” Maxine said, her voice sweet as she suppressed her nervousness. Would he notice?
“Good… uh, evening,” Mr. Wagner stammered, his cheeks flushing. “You, uh, live here?”
“Oh, yes, in the penthouse,” Maxine replied with a flirtatious smile, brushing back a strand of hair. “I love the view.”
“I see,” said Mr. Wagner, his eyes glued to her chest again, then slid to her legs. “The, uh, view is really… impressive.”
Maxine felt her pulse racing, but she kept up the facade. “That’s her,” she said as the elevator stopped. She stepped out, her hips swaying slightly, her flared skirt lifting briefly to reveal the lace trim of her stockings and G-string. She heard Mr. Wagner sigh softly behind her. He had no idea he’d just spoken to Henry.
Encounter 4: Mr. and Mrs. Braun
One morning, on her way to work, Maxine wore a tight pencil skirt and a semi-transparent blouse that revealed her corset. In the elevator, she met Mr. and Mrs. Brown, a young couple from the sixth floor. Mr. Brown openly stared at Maxine’s breasts while Mrs. Brown grabbed his arm.
“Honey, did you take the trash down?” Mrs. Brown asked loudly, her voice trembling with jealousy.
“Yes, I did,” murmured Mr. Braun, unable to look away.
Maxine smiled politely. “Good morning,” she said, her voice soft. “Nice weather today.”
“Uh, yes,” Mrs. Braun said quickly. “We have to go, our appointment!” She pulled her husband out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened and gave Maxine a venomous look.
Encounter 5: Mr. Lehmann
One evening, Maxine met Mr. Lehmann, a single professor from the eleventh floor who had often discussed politics with Henry. In her silver dress with a plunging neckline and a short, flowing flared skirt, she immediately caught his eye. “Good evening,” she said, brushing back a strand of hair.
“Evening,” said Mr. Lehmann, his eyes wandering from her chest to her legs. “You… are new here, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’ve been living in the penthouse for a while,” Maxine replied with a smile. “We rarely see each other.”
“Too bad,” Mr. Lehmann muttered before clearing his throat. “I mean, uh, nice dress.”
“Thank you,” Maxine said as the elevator stopped. She stepped out, felt his gaze on her, and heard him whisper, “Wow.”
These elevator encounters were a tightrope walk for Maxine. The neighbors, who knew Henry as a stern businessman, saw her only as a glamorous woman whose curves and legs drew their gaze. The men couldn’t tear their eyes away, while their wives, jealous or annoyed, tried to distract them. Maxine enjoyed the thrill, but each encounter reminded her how perfect her transformation was—and how deeply she was entrenched in her new identity.
She got into the Mini and drove into the night.
At the Velvet Noir club, Maxine was a legend. The dance floor belonged to her, the bass vibrated through her body, and the lights reflected off her dress. Her swinging flared skirt lifted with every turn, revealing the lace trim of her stockings, the delicate ribbons of her garter belts, and her G-string, all of which drew the crowd’s attention. She danced, laughed, drank cocktails, and basked in the flattering glances. No one suspected that behind the facade lurked Henry, the man who humiliated women in his office during the day. For those hours, Maxine was free.
Chapter 2: The Fateful Weekend
The weekends were a whirl of glamour and ecstasy. Maxine was a fixture on the club scene, known for her elegance and charm. But one Saturday, the unthinkable happened. The Velvet Noir was packed, the air heavy with perfume and sweat. Maxine was dancing with a man whose hands were moving too aggressively over her hips. She pushed him away, laughing, turned around – and froze. At the edge of the dance floor, on a balcony overlooking the crowd, stood her boss, Markus Vandenberg.
Markus was a man who exuded power. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a smile that was both charming and dangerous, he dominated every room. Henry had respected him, sometimes feared him, and knew that Markus was aware of his humiliations toward the female staff. But here, Markus’s gaze was different—piercing, curious, greedy. Maxine felt her heart pounding against her artificial breast. The latex suit was perfect, the makeup flawless, yet Markus’s eyes seemed to see right through her. In his hand, he held a smartphone, and Maxine noticed him pointing it at her as she danced.
“Excuse me, do we know each other?” he asked when they briefly met later, his voice loud enough to drown out the music. Maxine laughed nervously, her voice an octave higher than Henry’s. “Oh, I don’t think so!” She started to turn away, but Markus gently grabbed her arm. “You look so familiar,” he said, looking her up and down, his gaze lingering on her plunging neckline and flowing skirt. The latex suit was invisible, the illusion perfect, but Henry felt panic. “I have to go,” Maxine mumbled, tearing herself away. Her heels clicked as she fled into her Mini Cooper and returned to her apartment via the separate elevator.
Henry was a nervous wreck all Sunday. Had Markus recognized him? Had he taken photos or videos? Had his cover been blown? He stayed in his “male” apartment, avoided Maxine’s domain, and tried to calm himself, but fear gnawed at him. On Monday, he put on his suit, combed back his short hair, and drove to the office in his BMW, feigning confidence. But Markus’s look during his lunch break was different—knowing, mocking. Henry knew something bad was about to happen.
Chapter 3: The Revelation
On Tuesday morning, Markus called Henry into his office. The door closed with a click, and Henry felt the air thicken. Markus leaned back in his leather chair, a smile on his lips. “Henry,” he began, “or should I say… Maxine?”
Henry froze. His mouth went dry, his hands trembled. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered.
Markus laughed coldly. “Oh, please. I have eyes in my head. The club, Saturday night. You were good, I really am. But I recognize my coworkers. And I know how you treat the women on your team—the humiliations, the comments, the overtime. It seems you have a problem with women, Henry. Or maybe… you love being one?” He opened a drawer and placed a thick stack of photos on the table—crisp images of Maxine, laughing, dancing, with a drink in her hand. Then he started up his laptop and played a video: Maxine moving seductively on the dance floor, the camera zooming in on her face, her body, her legs. But that was just the beginning.
Markus leaned back and began to comment on the shots in detail, his voice dripping with mockery. “Look at this, Henry,” he said, showing a photo taken from the gallery. It showed Maxine from above, her plunging neckline giving a perfect view of her ample bust, accentuated by the corset and latex suit. “Those tits,” Markus said, grinning broadly, “so perky, so perfectly shaped. You can see the contours of the corset pushing them up. The lace is visible beneath the fabric, and the way they bounce with every step—that draws everyone’s attention, doesn’t it?” He zoomed in on the image, showing the details of the lace, the gentle curve of the fake breast, and the slight movement created by the latex suit.
Then he switched to a video, also from the gallery. Maxine was dancing, her flared skirt swinging up with every turn, revealing the garter belts, the G-string, and the lace trim of her stockings. “And here,” said Markus, his voice sharpening, “look how short this skirt is. Every turn reveals more—the suspenders pulling at your thighs, the silk of the stockings clinging to your skin. And there,” he paused the video, “for a moment you see the artificial vagina, sitting perfectly between your legs. No one would guess it wasn’t real.” He laughed softly.
He played another video, this time from the dance floor at a lower angle. The camera followed Maxine, zooming under her skirt as she spun around. “Look at this,” Markus said, “the camera caught it all. The garter belts, stretched taut over your thighs, the lace of the stockings slipping slightly with every step. And here,” he paused the video, “a perfect view of your artificial vagina. You can see how the latex shines, how it traces every contour. And then—look at your buttocks.” He grinned broadly as the video continued. “How they bounce to the beat of the music, taut and round, perfectly shaped by the latex suit. And the thong,” he zoomed in, “how it disappears into your butt crack, just a thin band of lace peeking out between the cheeks. It’s almost too perfect.” His eyes sparkled as he looked at Henry. “You really put in the effort, Henry. Or should I say, Maxine?”
Markus flipped through more photos, each accompanied by detailed commentary. One picture showed Maxine from behind, bending over to take a drink from the bar. “Here,” he said, “look how the skirt rises. You can see the buttocks outlined under the latex, and the G-string digging deep into the crack. The garter belts frame it all perfectly.” Another photo showed Maxine from the side, dancing, her bust bouncing to the beat. “The tits,” Markus said, “how they swing with every movement, the corset pushing them up so high they almost pop out of the neckline. And the silhouette—the latex suit makes every curve flawless.” Another video showed Maxine twirling, the camera pointed from below. “Look how the buttocks wiggle to the beat,” Markus said, “every movement is like a work of art. The thong is barely visible, just a hint of lace disappearing into the crack of the buttocks. And the suspenders—how they tighten with every step, how they hold the stockings in place. It’s hypnotic.”
Henry felt his breath catch in his throat. The attention to detail in the shots, Markus’s snarky comments—it was as if he was peeling Maxine back, layer by layer. “I have more,” Markus said, flipping through more photos: close-ups of Maxine’s breasts bouncing to the music, pictures of her legs gliding across the dance floor in her stilettos, and upskirt shots showing the garter belts, G-string, fake vagina, and bouncing buttocks in great detail. “This is art, Henry,” Markus said. “You’ve turned yourself into a work of art. And I documented it.”
Henry’s stomach clenched. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice a whisper.
Markus’ smile widened. “You humiliated women, Henry. Now you’ll learn what it feels like. Your position as department head is no longer appropriate. But I have another role for you. One that suits Maxine better—and one that will teach you what humiliation truly means.”
Henry wanted to protest, but Markus raised a hand. “Or I’ll make sure everyone in the company sees these photos and videos—and learns about your behavior. Your colleagues, your friends, your family. Your choice.”
Chapter 4: The new role
The next morning, Henry entered the office not as the department head, but as Maxine, the boss’s new secretary. The latex suit was now his daily uniform, invisible under a tight, black pencil skirt that hit just above the knees and a semi-transparent, cream-colored blouse that accentuated the contours of the artificial breast. The dressing process had taken an hour in Maxine’s apartment, with the greasy lubricant and the shower to clean his hands, neck, and other exposed areas. Putting on the torso had been another challenge: Henry had to squeeze his torso through the tight neckline while sliding his arms through the armholes, stretching the latex and making sure it didn’t tear. Over the latex suit, Maxine wore a red lace corset that cinched her waist and black silk hold-up stockings, attached to a garter belt with delicate ribbons. The stockings had a lace trim that peeked out from under the skirt. Her shoes were black patent stilettos with 10-centimeter heels that made a loud clacking sound on the marble floor.
The wig was the same as the one she wore at the club: long, mahogany, with soft waves. The makeup, applied in Maxine’s bedroom, was elaborate: velvety foundation, bronze contouring powder, rose and gold eyeshadow, thick false eyelashes, and deep red lipstick. A touch of blush emphasized her cheekbones, and a spritz of perfume—sweet, heavy, seductive—enveloped her. Maxine drove to work in a Mini Cooper, took the separate elevator, and parked in the office building’s underground garage.
In the elevator on the way to the office, she ran into neighbors again. This time it was Mrs. Keller, a nosy widow from the ninth floor, and her son Michael, a young man in his twenties who had often seen Henry jogging in the park. Michael stared openly at Maxine’s breasts, his eyes then wandered to her long legs, which seemed endless in the stilettos.
“Good morning,” Maxine said with a polite smile, fighting her nerves.
“Morning,” Michael murmured, his voice hoarse as he continued to stare.
Mrs. Keller noticed his look and cleared her throat loudly. “Michael, did you call your sister? She’s waiting for your call!” she said sharply, tugging at his sleeve.
“Uh, yeah, I forgot,” Michael stammered, reluctantly looking away. Mrs. Keller gave Maxine a suspicious look, as if she were a threat. “Some people always have to stand out,” she murmured quietly, but loud enough for Maxine to hear.
Maxine just smiled as the elevator reached the ground floor. She stepped out, her heels clicking, and heard Mrs. Keller reprimand Michael: “Stop staring like an idiot!”
Markus had clear instructions. Maxine was to bring his coffee, organize appointments, and be “available.” The latex suit, once a symbol of her freedom, was now a prison. The artificial vagina was examined by Markus’s lascivious gaze. “You are perfect,” he often murmured, his fingers brushing Maxine’s back as she brought him documents. “You have humiliated women, Maxine. Now you will feel it for yourself.”
The days were an ordeal of humiliation, which Markus deliberately intensified to punish Henry for his past behavior. Every morning, Maxine served Markus’s coffee while he showered her with lewd comments reminiscent of his previous insults toward women. “Turn around, Maxine,” he often said, and she had to turn slowly in front of him while he scrutinized her. Then he closed the door, drew the blinds, and ordered her to bend over his desk. The latex suit allowed Markus to savor the illusion of a woman while Maxine crumbled inside. The artificial vagina was used daily, and Markus squirted his semen not only into the artificial opening but often onto Maxine’s face or clothing—a deliberate humiliation that forced her to constantly freshen up.
After each encounter, Maxine rushed to the bathroom, washed her face, reapplied makeup, and changed her clothes. She had spare clothes at the office: pencil skirts, blouses, stockings, all in the revealing style Markus demanded. The latex suit remained immaculate, but Maxine felt soiled, humiliated, and trapped. Markus continued to harass her, forcing her to bend over to pick up papers or calling her into the office in the evenings to serve her drinks while making lewd comments reminiscent of Henry’s previous behavior. He often ordered her to give him a blowjob right there in the office while he played videos of herself on his laptop and forced her to watch them.
“That’s you, Maxine,” he said. “That’s what you deserve.” The pictures of Maxine in the club, especially the detailed shots of her breasts, up her skirt, and her bouncing buttocks, were now tools of his power, and Markus used them to punish Henry for his past humiliations. Henry felt his old self—the strong but cruel man—being pushed into the background. Maxine was all that remained.
Chapter 5: Business trips
Markus’s control over Maxine became even more intense when he began taking her on business trips, where her humiliation reached new heights. The first trip was to Dubai, where Markus was negotiating with important business partners. Maxine was introduced as his “assistant,” but her true role was clear. The dressing process was arduous: an hour spent in Maxine’s apartment putting on the latex suit, the greasy lubricant, and the shower to clean her hands, neck, and other exposed areas. Putting on the torso was another torture—the tight neckline and armholes made it difficult to squeeze the torso through and push the arms out at the same time. Over the suit, she slipped a black lace corset and hold-up stockings with garter belts. In Dubai, she wore a skin-tight red dress so short that the lace trim of her stockings was visible, and stilettos that clacked with every step. Her makeup was flawless, her wig perfectly styled, and the scent of her perfume filled the room.
The business partners, mostly older men in expensive suits, studied Maxine with undisguised interest. Markus encouraged her to be “hospitable,” and Maxine understood what he meant. In the luxurious hotel suites where the negotiations took place, she was “made available” to the men. The encounters were intense and degrading: Maxine was often taken by two men at once. One used the latex suit’s artificial vagina between her thighs, while another forced her to give him a blowjob in parallel. The men regularly changed positions; their comments were rough, their touches demanding. Markus stood nearby, a camera on a tripod filming everything, while he watched and gave instructions reminiscent of Henry’s previous humiliations. “You deserve this, Maxine,” he often said, his voice full of satisfaction.
The scenes were enhanced by BDSM elements. Sometimes they blindfolded Maxine with a black satin blindfold, so she could only recognize the men by their voices and touches. Her hands were cuffed with cold metal handcuffs, sometimes behind her back, sometimes to a chair or the bed. Leather leg irons secured her ankles, and spreader bars were used to keep her legs wide apart, increasing her helplessness. Other BDSM items were added: whips that stroked her body gently or painfully, collars with leashes held by Markus or his partners, and gags that muffled her screams. The latex suit remained intact, its surface gleaming under the suite’s lights, while Maxine remained trapped in her role.
Every encounter was filmed, and Markus showed her the videos later, often in the suite while she lay exhausted on the bed. “Look at you, Maxine,” he said as the images flickered across the screen. “This is what you did to those women—now you feel it yourself.” The humiliation was unbearable, but Maxine had no choice. She smiled, obeyed, played her part. The videos became Markus’s most powerful tool, an endless supply of blackmail material that bound her to him.
The trips became routine. London, Singapore, New York—the same everywhere. Maxine wore revealing outfits chosen by Markus: see-through blouses, miniskirts, dresses that revealed more than they concealed. Over the latex suit, she wore corsets and garter belts, her stockings with lace trim or subtle seams. Her heels were never lower than 10 centimeters, and her makeup was perfect. The business partners changed, but the humiliations remained the same. Maxine was filmed, used, and paraded, often blindfolded, bound, or spread-eagled. Markus used every opportunity to intensify her humiliation as punishment for Henry’s past behavior. The videos piled up, and Markus showed them to her regularly, often while forcing her to give him a blowjob or bend over his desk.
Chapter 6: The inner conflict
At night, when Maxine took off the latex suit in her feminine apartment, it was just as laborious a process as putting it on. She had to peel the suit off through the tight neckline, which was particularly difficult for her arms. She slid one arm at a time back into the suit through the armholes, then forced her torso through the neckline, the latex clinging to her skin. The greasy lubricant left a residue, and she showered again in her pink-tiled bathroom to feel clean. Without the suit, she felt naked, vulnerable, and foreign. She stared in the lighted mirror and barely recognized herself. Was she still Henry, the man who had humiliated women? Or was Maxine now her true identity, who must atone for Henry’s sins? The boundaries blurred, and the months passed in a fog of shame and resignation.
Maxine began to perfect the role of secretary, not just out of fear of Markus, but because a part of her relished the admiration. The colleagues who had respected or feared Henry treated Maxine with pity and fascination. Women in the office who had once suffered Henry’s humiliations gave her nail polish tips, recommended lipstick colors, invited her to lunch breaks—some with a hint of glee, as if they knew Maxine was now being humiliated herself. Men snuck glances at her, some with desire, others with confusion. Maxine smiled, made small talk, played the part. But deep down, Henry was crying out for freedom—and forgiveness for his past actions.
The nights at the club were over. Maxine, once free, now existed only in the office or on Markus’s travels, under his watchful eye. Henry wondered if there was a way out. But every time he sat in his “male” apartment, away from Maxine’s domain, he saw the photos, the videos—especially the detailed shots of Maxine’s breasts, up her skirt, and her bouncing buttocks—and Markus’s mocking smile. There was no way back.
Chapter 7: Total Submission
The months passed, and Maxine became the perfect puppet. Markus’s demands became more extreme, his humiliations deliberately designed to punish Henry for his past actions. At the office, he forced her to wear more revealing outfits: a skin-tight red dress that showed the lace trim of her stockings; a sheer blouse without a bra, allowing the contours of her artificial breasts to show through. The garter belts were worn over the latex suit, and Markus often checked that she was wearing them by slipping under her skirt. The dressing process remained laborious, carried out in Maxine’s apartment, with the greasy lubricant and the shower. Dressing the torso and threading the arms through the tight armholes was an ordeal every time.
The sex was omnipresent. Morning, noon, and night—Markus always found a reason to lock the door. Sometimes it was quick and brutal, sometimes he dragged it out, forcing Maxine to expose herself while he played the videos—especially the footage from the party, where he commented on her bust, the views up her skirt, and her bouncing buttocks. “Look at these tits,” he often said while playing the video from the gallery, “how they bounce, how the corset pushes them up. And here, under your skirt—the suspenders, the artificial vagina, your buttocks jiggling to the beat, and the G-string disappearing into the crack of your buttocks.” The artificial vagina was used daily, and Markus’s penchant for ejaculating on Maxine’s face or clothing forced her to change clothes and apply new makeup several times a day. “You did that to women,” he often said while humiliating her. She carried a bag with spare clothes and cosmetics, and the women’s bathrooms became her refuge, where she tried to hold back the tears.
It was even worse on the road. In the hotel suites, Maxine was left with her business partners, often used by two men at once while Markus filmed. The BDSM elements became more intense: blindfolds, handcuffs, spreader bars, whips, gags. The latex suit shone, the corset cinched her waist, the garter belts and stockings accentuated her legs. Markus showed her the videos, commenting on each scene, reminding her of the party shots, her bouncing buttocks, the disappearing thong, the perfect illusion of her artificial vagina. “This is your punishment, Maxine,” he said. “This is what you deserve.”
Henry was gone. Maxine was all that remained—a doll, trapped in Markus’s game, molded from latex, lace, and humiliation. The photos and videos, especially the detailed footage from the party, were the chains that bound her. There was no way out.
