The House of Lesslie

The English Dragon, they called me.

I had never used my name, had never given them more than what they earned, what they deserved, that glimpse of the hell that I called my heaven.

My real name.

"Send him in, Chan," I told the intercom.

The door to my office opened. But no man came in, although the person who did had been male once. In a manner of speaking. The Asian men were already femme more often than not, and Chan - even in his filthiest state, which was the state

I had found him in - had already been an extraordinary specimen.

But now, after months of treatment and training, after surgery that had given him perky tits that filled out little less than a C cup, Chan had grown into someone even more unique.

She had been given a shape to fit her soul, and in turn had sworn to serve me. All in all, a mutually beneficial arrangement. A sister in spirit, a slave in body, Chan had exceeded all of my expectations, both inside the bed- and boardrooms we both shared.

Chan wore her new body well, and had chosen a simple business outfit for today, with a white blouse, a black pencil skirt and matching jackets, with only a steel collar around her neck indicating her to be anything else than a professional woman.

That and her long fingernails, too long and too perfectly painted to do any type of typing, groomed and shaped for beauty and nothing else.

Her hair had been part of the creation I had made. Colored and cut in a punk, asymmetrical fashion, it created a waterfall of blue that rushed down her left cheek and obscured one of her piercing, green eyes.

I watched her walk. Watched how she stepped aside to introduce the man who had followed her, quietly and with the typical rigor of an Englishman.

I snapped my fingers.

Chan understood and opened the humidor on the side of my desk. Her slim fingers lifted my cigarette holder from the box. It was a beautiful heirloom, and one of the things I had never parted with, in all of my travels.