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Ctrl Alt Defeat: A Secretary's Takeover 19
🕑 Added 2024-12-19 13:56:28 +0000 UTCChapter 19: Moments of Weakness
Standing before the bathroom mirror, Mr Wright felt his plump bottom lip quiver. The reflection staring back at him was unmistakably that of a nude woman, save for the one remaining marker of his masculinity: a limp, shrivelled penis trapped within a chastity cage between his legs.
Reaching up, he hesitantly cupped one of his enormous breasts with a trembling hand. The woman in the mirror mimicked his movements, her long, manicured fingers looking dainty as they failed to fully grasp the ginormous fleshy mound. Slowly, he closed his thumb and fingers around his enlarged, swollen nipple and gave it a tentative squeeze. The unexpected jolt of sensation made him gasp, and he quickly pulled his hand away as though burned.
It had been two months since his surgery, but Morgan Wright was still struggling to accept the curvaceous body he now inhabited as his own. The physical wounds had healed; just days ago, the stitches had been removed. What remained now were scars - each a permanent reminder of what he had allowed to be done to his once-masculine physique. The ones hidden in the crease of his now-voluptuous backside marked where the butt implants had been inserted, leaving him with a shapely derriere that attracted attention everywhere he went. The scars along his ribs were due to the removal of two lower ribs. This invasive procedure, combined with aggressive liposuction, had created a disturbingly exaggerated hourglass figure. And then there were his breasts - massive, heavy, and impossible to ignore. Inserted through incisions that were difficult to notice - unless he raised his arm - the silicone implants stretched his skin to its limits, caused him to constantly feel off balance and made sleep much more challenging than it needed to be.
Regret weighed heavily on Mr Wright’s mind these days. He often wondered why he hadn’t put a stop to this madness, especially the surgery. Shaking his head angrily, he felt the damp weight of his freshly dyed hair piled under a towel atop his head. The towel pressed down, amplifying the suffocating sensation of everything. His frustration boiled over, and he cursed the person he held responsible for all of this - Mia.
From the start, she had been there, downplaying the significance of every step. She’d convinced him that breast augmentation surgery was a simple procedure - that the implants would be as easy to put in as they would be to take out. Only after waking up, groggy and in pain, had she revealed the truth: multiple procedures had sculpted his body into a copy of when he had worn the padding. Recovery had been gruelling, and even now, he felt daily aches and pains as his skin adjusted to the foreign objects within.
“Are you okay in there?” Madame Maria’s voice rang out from the next room, bringing Mr Wright back to the present.
“Yeah, I’m fine! Just give me a minute, will you?” He yelled back, popping his head out the bathroom door, his fingers gripping the doorframe tightly.
(See image 37)
“Alright, but don’t dawdle too long,” she replied briskly. “The photographer is nearly ready, and we still have lots of work to do.”
“Don’t remind me,” Mr Wright muttered under his breath, retreating into the hotel suite’s bathroom with a frustrated sigh. It was a place he was unfamiliar with and had no desire to be in. There was nowhere to sit, and his reflection in the large, gleaming mirror was unavoidable, taunting him everywhere with every careless glance. However, once he stepped out, his makeover would continue: Madame Maria would descend upon him with her brushes and combs, styling his hair, perfecting his makeup, and dressing him in yet another humiliating outfit.
After that, he’d be paraded into the adjoining room, which was currently being prepared with lighting and props for the start of 'The Convertible's' social media campaign. With no budget to hire professionals, he had been drafted in as the model, Madame Maria was in charge of makeup and styling, while Mia had taken on the role of director.
He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. The hours of preparation had already left him drained. His skin still tingled from the spray tan, his scalp ached from the rigorous colouring and styling, and his nails had been shaped and painted into glossy perfection Only a few steps remained, but each felt like a marathon.
He cast one last glance at the bombshell of a woman in the mirror, shaking his head at the sheer absurdity of it all. Letting out a resigned sigh, he turned away and stepped out to continue the madness.
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An hour later, Madame Maria’s busy hands finally stilled as she stepped back to inspect her work. Her sharp eyes scanned Mr Wright’s freshly dyed black hair, styled into soft, glossy curls that cascaded over his shoulders. Spotting a stray strand out of place, she immediately leaned in to fix it with deft precision.
“Perfect,” she declared with a satisfied smile.
Mr Wright shifted uneasily on his feet, feeling far from perfect. The tight corseted top of his dress clung like a vice, forcing his massive cleavage to spill over in a way that made him want to disappear. He tugged at the frilly skirt, its exaggeratedly feminine flare brushing against his bare thighs with the slightest movement. Beneath it, the form-fitting miniskirt of the “converted” look waited to make things even worse - something he was trying not to think about.
Faux diamond jewellery added insult to injury. Dangling earrings swayed annoyingly with each tilt of his head, a necklace glittered obnoxiously against his chest, and a collection of bracelets clinked and jangled each time he moved his arms.
“Absolutely stunning,” Madame Maria said, giving herself a satisfied clap. “Sit and rest for a moment. I’ll call through and let them know you’re ready.” With that, she trotted out of the room, leaving Mr Wright free to perch on the foot of the bed. He crossed his smooth, hairless legs and shifted, trying to find a position that offered even a hint of comfort. Leaning back, he planted down his palms and attempted to ease the tension in his aching back. The effort proved pointless - his muscles stayed taut, strained from the relentless weight of the bulky silicone sacks burrowed within his chest.
A sharp knock on the door shattered his fleeting attempt at calm, snapping him back to the moment. Before he could react, Madame Maria’s heels clicked purposefully across the room, her voice ringing out confidently, “I’ll get it!”
The suite fell into an unusual quiet as the main door opened and then softly clicked shut. Mr Wright’s eyes fixed on the entrance to the bedroom, expecting Mia to round the corner. Instead, his breath hitched as Grant Horton stepped into the room.
“Grant?” Mr Wright blurted out, the shock in his voice undeniable. Of all people, Grant was the last person he expected—or wanted—to see, and the sight left a stupefied look on his taut, Botox-stretched face.
(See image 38)
Grant’s gaze swept over the feminized man lounging on the suite's comfortable-looking bed, lingering just a little too long.
“Well,” Grant said with a slow, deliberate smile, his voice low and full of implication. “Don’t you look gorgeous?”
Mr Wright’s stomach churned, his cheeks flushing with humiliation as he averted his gaze. “I—I wasn’t expecting you,” he stammered, his voice high-pitched and shaky, betraying his discomfort. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his frilly skirt, desperate for something to anchor him.
Grant chuckled softly, the deep, rich sound filling the room. “Clearly,” he replied, taking a few measured steps closer. “But I’m glad I came by. I wanted to see how things were progressing... and I must say, I’m impressed.”
“Impressed?” Mr Wright echoed, his voice almost a squeak. He risked a glance up, his heavily lashed eyes meeting Grant’s. The man’s expression was unreadable.
“Very,” Grant replied smoothly, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray curl away from Mr Wright’s cheek. The touch was featherlight but electric, and Mr Wright stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.
“You’ve come a long way, Mia,” Grant continued, his voice soft yet commanding. “This role suits you more than I ever imagined.”
“I don’t—” Mr Wright started to protest, but the words faltered as Grant lowered himself onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. The closeness was suffocating, and Mr Wright shifted instinctively, but there was nowhere to go.
“Relax,” Grant said, his tone soothing. His large hand settled gently on Mr Wright’s knee, the warmth of his palm now meeting bare skin. It wasn’t the first time Grant had touched his legs, but it was the first time he’d felt the man’s hand directly on his skin, without the barrier of tights. “You’re too tense. It’s been a stressful few months for you, has it not?”
“I’m fine,” Mr Wright insisted, though his trembling voice betrayed him. He tried to pull away, but Grant’s grip tightened ever so slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him who was in control.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Grant murmured, leaning in just enough that his voice was a low rumble in Mr Wright’s ear. “I see how hard you’re working, how much you’ve sacrificed. You deserve to be appreciated.”
The words, so gentle yet loaded with meaning, sent a shiver down Mr Wright’s spine. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the corset constricting his breathing as his mind raced. “I don’t need—” he began, but Grant’s hand slid a fraction higher on his thigh, and his voice failed him.
“Shh,” Grant whispered, his tone both calming and commanding. His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles just above the knee, the intimate gesture making Mr Wright’s skin tingle despite himself. “You’re beautiful, Mia. And you should be told that.”
“I’m not—” Mr Wright replied as he tried again to escape the large man, but the intensity in Grant’s gaze held him captive.
“You are,” Grant said firmly, his hand moving higher still, his thumb dipping under the delicate hem of Mr Wright's skirt. “You may not see it yet, but I do.”
Mr Wright gulped, his body betraying him with a stillness he couldn’t control. The pressure of Grant’s fingers on his bare thigh sent an unsettling rush through him, made worse by the pleasurable memories of the foot massage. He wanted to stand up, to protest, but his muscles refused to obey, his thoughts spiralling into a haze of unease and something deeper he dared not acknowledge.
“You take such good care of me each day in the office,” Grant continued, his voice a velvet murmur. “Let me show you my gratitude.”
Before Mr Wright could respond, Grant’s hand slipped to the small of his back, guiding him closer. The move was gentle, almost tender, but it left no room for resistance. Mr Wright’s lips parted in a soft gasp, his plumped, glossy mouth betraying his inner turmoil.
“Grant, I—” he whispered, but the words trailed off.
“Shh,” Grant whispered again, his face inches from Mr Wright’s, his breath warm and intoxicating. “You don’t have to say anything. Just let yourself feel.”
Grant’s lips hovered tantalizingly close to Mr Wright’s, his warm breath brushing against his skin. Meanwhile, Mr Wright sat frozen, a passenger in the moment, his mind a storm of panic and bewilderment. However, just as their lips brushed, Grant abruptly pulled back, his hand slipping away as he stood with an easy, fluid grace.
A crooked smile tugged at his lips as he looked down at Mr Wright, who blinked back with his glossy pink lips still parted in confusion. “Ah, we shouldn’t,” Grant said, his tone light and casual, as if the past few moments had been entirely ordinary. “You’ve got a photoshoot to get to. And I wouldn’t want to mess up your makeup.”
Mr Wright sat stunned, his mind racing to process what had just happened. His heart pounded in his chest as his eyes followed Grant, who calmly straightened his cuffs with slow, deliberate movements, as though he had all the time in the world.
“We’ll continue this another time,” Grant said smoothly, his tone carrying an unmistakable edge of satisfaction. His gaze swept over Mr Wright’s feminized form, his expression unreadable before he turned toward the door.
“Grant, I…” Mr Wright began, only to falter as his thoughts spiralled into confusion.
Grant paused, glancing back. “Yes, Mia?” he asked, his tone a disarming mix of charm and condescension, his smile widening as he held Mr Wright’s uncertain gaze.
“I…” Mr Wright stuttered again, his carefully manicured hands gripping the edge of the bed for support. His cheeks burned, and the heavy sensation of humiliation settled over him. “Never mind,” he finally muttered, his voice barely audible.
“Good luck with the shoot,” Grant said with a slow nod, his tone calm and assured. “You’ll do great. You always do.”
With that, he turned and strode out the door, leaving the room in heavy silence. For a moment, Mr Wright remained motionless, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. Then, a wave of anger and embarrassment crashed over him. “You fool,” he muttered, his manicured nails digging into the duvet. “Stand up for yourself!”
He shook his head sharply as if trying to dispel the lingering sensations of Grant’s touch, the warmth of his breath, the haunting thought of the kiss that had almost happened.
