Transforming Genevieve Chapter One Part 1 - Sex Stories

Transforming Genevieve Chapter One Part 1

... things, he often fell a little short.

He looked at me and said, "Oh, okay," He paused momentarily. I knew he was trying to remember my first name. Finally, he came up with it. "Gen, I will remember that."

I wondered if he knew that Gen is short for Genevieve.

"So, Gen, what plans have been delayed this afternoon?" Richard asked.

"I'm going to New York to see a matinee tomorrow afternoon," I replied.

Richard said, "Well, you should still be able to make your show time."

"Of course, Richard," I said. "But I may miss my dinner reservation."

"Oh, so you're going to Manhattan tonight?" He asked as the light bulb above his head turned on.

"That's right, Richard," I said with my best sarcastic tone of voice.

"Well, don't let me hold you up, Ms. Walker," He said, somewhat perturbed by my sarcastic tone.

As I walked away, he said, "See you Monday morning."

I didn't answer because I couldn't care less if I saw Richard on Monday.

My seven-year-old Volvo was parked halfway across the parking lot. As I approached the driver's door, I hoped it would make it to New York and back again. I would have to break down soon and shop for a new vehicle.

Traffic was, of course, heavy as I drove south on I-95 toward Manhattan. I wouldn't make good time tonight and knew I’d be eating room service tonight. Pulling into the hotel parking lot two hours after my dinner reservation, I patted the old Swede on the dashboard and thanked it for getting me into ...

... town.

The garage attendant lifted my travel case from the trunk, handed me a parking slip, and asked, "How long will you be staying with us, Madam?"

"Sunday morning," I replied without even turning my head to speak to him. I hate when people talk to me as if I was someone's grandmother. Just because a woman doesn't flaunt herself everywhere doesn't mean they can't be called Miss.

The handsome young man behind the main desk, as well as the bell boy, both greeted me with Evening, Madam, earning himself a three-dollar tip instead of my usual five.

As I unpacked my suitcase, every stitch of clothing I pulled out screamed Madam. It was pretty depressing, and I decided that before the matinee tomorrow afternoon, I was going shopping for something that would have all three of those men calling me Miss.

Ordering room service at about eight-forty-five, I sat at my laptop thinking I'd write a few paragraphs in my latest novelette. I'm not sure if it was writer's block or the idea that I was sick and tired of being called Madam, but instead, I found myself surfing the internet for clothing shops in the city that might have a cure for my "Madam" blues.

Room service showed up with my burger fries and diet coke just as I was looking at some rather risqué outfits on the site for a store called Unique Boutique. I closed the computer and opened the door to my room. A young man stood there waiting to push my food cart into the room.

"Evening, Madam, he said.

I almost screamed at ...