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Ctrl Alt Defeat: A Secretary's Takeover 18
🕑 Added 2024-12-05 15:27:37 +0000 UTCChapter 18: Sink or Swim
“The Bahamas?” Mia exclaimed, her voice rising in disbelief. Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits, piercing through the air as she fixed an accusatory gaze on Mr Wright, who stood before her with an embarrassed expression, shifting uncomfortably on his high-heeled feet. “Why on earth would you agree to that?"
“I… I… He tricked me…” Mr Wright stammered, his face flushing red as he fidgeted with the hem of his short skirt.
“Tricked you? How, exactly?” Mia folded her arms, her expression sharp enough to cut through his excuses.
Mr Wright’s jaw tightened. The memory of Grant’s hands massaging his pantyhosed legs, the way it had turned his brain into mush, was humiliating enough without having to relive it in front of Mia. “That’s not important,” he snapped, avoiding her glare. “What matters is getting out of it. We need a plan.”
Mia’s eyebrows shot up, and her lips curled into a mocking smirk. “Oh, we need a plan, do we? And I suppose you expect me to come up with it?”
"Well, you’re the one who got me into this mess in the first place," Mr Wright retorted, his voice rising as he gestured to his feminized appearance. "None of this would be happening if—"
“Oh, please,” Mia cut him off, her voice laced with venom. “You’re seriously blaming me? You were the one who drove Stitch & Sovereign into the ground. You’re the one who picked a fight with the only person willing to save your sorry arse. So don’t stand there bitching at me while trying to shift the blame."
Morgan Wright clenched his teeth and curled his long-manicured fingers into as tight a fist as he could manage. He wanted to yell back, to remind her who she was talking to, but the words caught in his throat. Realizing there was an uncomfortable truth to what she was saying, his shoulders slumped as he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine, I’ll admit that I’ve made a few mistakes,” he muttered, forcing himself to look her in the eye. “But tell me, do you have a solution or not?”
Mia tilted her head, her expression softening slightly as she studied her sissified boss. Her sharp gaze swept over Mr Wright, from his stiletto-clad feet to the top of his perfectly styled auburn locks. “There is one I can think of,” she said slowly, drawing out the words for effect. “But I doubt you’re going to like it.”
Mr Wright’s stomach churned. “I don’t like any of this,” he muttered, his voice low. “Just spit it out.”
====================================================
A month later, Mr Wright awkwardly tottered across a plush grey carpet, the heels of his six-inch stilettos sinking slightly with each step. He was returning to his seat after a quick bathroom break, his patience growing thin from having to endure yet another fashion show - his third of the week.
The venue’s strict no-camera policy had forced him to deposit his coat and purse in the cloakroom upon arrival, leaving him with nothing to shield his feminized form as he navigated the bustling crowd. The silk gown he’d been made to wear felt impossibly light and airy against his padded frame, its floor-length skirt brushing and tickling with every cautious step. A daring front slit offered occasional flashes of his pantyhosed legs, while the sleeveless top, secured by a single strap over his right shoulder, left his arms and much of his chest area exposed.
The glances were unrelenting as he moved through the crowd, but Mr Wright understood that they were merely appraising his outfit, unaware that beneath the slinky frock lay a trapped businessman. The meticulous disguise - layers of prosthetics, expertly applied makeup, and the silky gown - concealed his identity flawlessly. This realization left him feeling conflicted, but he pushed the thought aside, his mind too preoccupied with more pressing matters to dwell on the humiliation of it all.
(See Image 35)
Shuffling through the door at the back of the main room, Mr Wright carefully descended a short set of stairs and took his seat next to Mia in the front row. A quick glance around confirmed that a few people were looking his way, their expressions a blend of curiosity and jealousy, perhaps wondering if he was someone famous to warrant such a prime seat. Their interest faded when they seemed to decide he was a nobody, though the faint tinge of envy in their glances lingered. Mr Wright, however, would have gladly traded places with any of them. The last thing he wanted - apart from being crossdressed and feminized at the fashion show - was to be sitting in the glaring spotlight of the front row. But Grant had secured the tickets, and clearly, the man had connections.
“You took your time,” Mia remarked, her voice low but teasing, as Mr Wright settled beside her. He crossed his legs neatly at mid-thigh, his long skirt quietly swishing as he arranged it carefully over his smooth, pantyhosed legs.
“Well, it isn’t exactly easy using the bathroom these days,” he muttered back, a pointed edge to his tone as he referred to the layers of padding sculpting his feminine figure. “I didn’t miss anything, did I?”
“No,” Mia replied, giving the feminized man a curious glance. “The show hasn’t started yet. Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Anything innovative or appealing to young trendsetters,” he answered flatly, his exhaustion evident in his voice and posture.
“Good. You were paying attention during the briefing,” Mia said, her smile warming slightly. “I like the ideas we passed on to the design team after the last show, but there’s still time to add more if something catches your eye.”
“Uh-huh,” Mr Wright murmured with a distracted nod, his gaze dropping momentarily to the polished runway ahead, only half-hearing Mia’s words as his thoughts wandered towards the following day.
“Stop thinking about it,” Mia said abruptly, leaning in as if she’d read his mind. Her tone was firm yet sympathetic. “When we talked about the path forward last month, you agreed that this was the only way."
“It didn’t feel as real back then,” Mr Wright admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicked down to the faux cleavage protruding from the top of his dress. The sight turned his stomach, knowing that by tomorrow evening, the large mounds filling the cups would no longer be silicon - they would be his own flesh and a part of him. The thought made him feel faint. “There has to be another way.”
“Not one that works,” Mia replied with a shake of her head, her tone unwavering. “The Bahamas is going to be sweltering, and swimsuits are unavoidable. You need the right… assets, or the jig’s up.”
Mr Wright’s gaze fell once more. His meagre lunch churned ominously in his stomach, the nausea rising. “What if we delay the project somehow? Miss the trip altogether?”
“Too risky,” Mia countered instantly. “You know we’ve got competitors using similar technology. If we don’t hit the market first, we’ll lose the majority share. Try explaining that to a boardroom of executives - without a good reason other than we dragged our feet. The merger with the Hortons will collapse, and Stitch & Sovereign would be liquidated by the bank.”
Mr Wright let out a deep, defeated sigh. He hated how right she always was. “Okay, fine. What if I faked being ill? Or... or said there was a death in the family that weekend? You could go in my place and seal the deal.”
“Still too risky,” Mia replied, dashing his fleeting hope of avoiding the surgeon’s scalpel. “Too many loose ends to tie up, too many lies to keep straight. Listen,” she said, her tone softening as she turned to meet his wide, frightened eyes. “Everything can be undone. And these days, the procedures you’re getting are relatively simple. You’ll be in and out in a day with plenty of time to adjust before the trip. As soon as the contracts are signed, we’ll get you booked back in to reverse everything. By that point, the filler in your face will be wearing off and you can get back to normal."
“Okay, I get it,” Mr Wright whispered, his voice trembling with desperation. “But the Bahamas trip is at least five months away. There’s no reason this operation has to be tomorrow.”
Mia turned to him, her tone surprisingly gentle. “I know you’re nervous, and I get it. But it has to be tomorrow.” She paused, letting the words sink in before continuing, “Grant’s going out of town for ten days. That’s just enough time for you to recover without raising suspicion. It's our only window of opportunity. It has to be now.”
Mr Wright stared at her, his plump lips slightly parted as he searched for a counterargument that didn’t come. Defeated, his head dropped, and he reached down, his manicured fingers interlocking around his knee in a subtle, vulnerable gesture.
“Let’s continue this later, okay?” Mia added, her voice returning to its authoritative tone as she nodded toward the stage. “The show’s about to begin.”
Resigned, Mr Wright followed Mia’s gaze as it shifted to the runway. The overhead lights dimmed, replaced by a kaleidoscope of spotlights that danced across the stage in time with the pulsing bassline of the music. From behind a heavy curtain, the first model emerged, dressed entirely in white. The crowd collectively leaned forward, captivated by her confidence and poise, their murmurs of appreciation blending with the rhythm of the music. Mr Wright’s eyes followed her as she strutted down the catwalk, his gaze fixed on her small chest bouncing with each step.
(See image 36)
A whirlwind of emotions churned within him as he considered what awaited him the following day. He detested the faux breasts he currently wore - how they wobbled and jiggled, how they dragged him off balance whenever he moved too quickly. They were heavy, hot, and constantly in the way. But real breasts? That was a completely different type of beast.
The thought chilled him to his core. They would be inside him—a permanent change that would blur the already fragile line between his costume and his identity. Returning to who he once was would become infinitely more complicated and time-consuming. Then there was the thought of actually having breasts stretching out his chest. What would that feel like? Would it be painful? Would they be sensitive to touch, like a real woman's? The idea was terrifying, a reality he couldn’t fully grasp and didn’t want to confront.
Mr Wright soon found himself lost in the vibrant chaos of the fashion show, the rhythmic music and flashing lights blurring into the background as his thoughts churned. Just months ago, he was a man at the helm of a centuries-old empire. Now, here he was - draped in silk, balancing on stilettos, surrounded by people who saw nothing more than a fashionably dressed bimbo secretary.
The absurdity of it all struck him like a cold slap. How had his life spiralled so far out of his control? He shifted in his seat, feeling the fabric of his dress slip over his smooth legs - a most intimate and unnerving sensation. At that moment, he still viewed himself as a man - a humiliated, heavily disguised man, but still a man. Would he feel that way after tomorrow? Would it still be a disguise, or would the masquerade finally become his reality?
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