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Ctrl Alt Defeat: A Secretary's Takeover 12
🕑 Added 2024-08-14 16:42:27 +0000 UTCChapter 12: The Daily Grind
Mr Wright took a deep breath and cautiously stepped out of the coffee shop, the sharp click of his stiletto heels on the concrete echoing in his ears. The door snapped shut behind him, and he flinched, the sound jolting him like a slap on the back. He felt exposed and vulnerable as if the world were watching his every move. He scanned his surroundings, his head pivoting with the wariness of a meerkat on high alert. It was his first solo excursion in public while dressed en femme, and the rapid change in his circumstances felt surreal. Just over a week ago, he had been comfortably seated in his office, plotting the future of his family business, when Mia had softly knocked to bring him his morning coffee. Back then, he had critiqued her outfit for not being feminine enough - a remark that now echoed with biting irony as he tried not to think about his exaggeratedly feminine appearance.
From head to toe, his transformation had been intentional and drastic. His hair, once short and easy to manage, was now painfully pulled back into a long ponytail that gave him a constant headache. It bobbed around annoyingly, in sync with the large, dangling earrings tugging at his pierced ears. His face, drastically altered by fillers and Botox, felt unnaturally tight beneath a heavy layer of makeup. Then there were the bulky prosthetics glued to his body, giving him an undeniably feminine form. Hot and sticky when he was still, wobbly and disorienting when he moved, they were impossible to ignore. His outfit did little to downplay his new curves. Today he wore a silky, mustard-coloured minidress that clung to every artificial curve, its hemline daringly short, exposing his glossy, nylon-clad legs. The low-cut neckline of the dress revealed a generous amount of faux cleavage, while a short blazer draped over his shoulders added a touch of professionalism but offered no real warmth against the chilly morning breeze. A petite black handbag - dangling from his arm - forced him to keep his elbow tightly by his side, accentuating the forced, mincing gait necessitated by the towering patent-leather platform pumps that tormented his feet.
With his gaze lowered and his vision obscured by long, fluttering eyelashes, Mr Wright tentatively began his walk back. As he trotted through the bustling pedestrian street, crowded with people going about their daily errands, he could feel their curious stares piercing through him. Each sharp click of his heels on the pavement resonated like a drumbeat, announcing his dolled-up presence. Clutching a coffee with long-nailed fingers, the crossdressed man moved as quickly as his towering, stilt-like shoes would allow. Each step sent a jolt of pain up his calves, and he prayed for the ordeal to end. Gusts of wind whipped around his minidress and thinly veiled legs, intensifying the unnerving sensation of being exposed and scrutinized in a way he had never imagined. As he reached the crossing, he lowered his head further, his embarrassment peaking as a bus full of passengers slowly drove by.
Once the road was clear, he quickly tottered across. It felt surreal to be out in public, not as himself but as a hyper-feminized version of what he once thought a woman should be. Everything about his appearance felt foreign and wrong: the unfamiliar points of pressure across his altered body, the way it jiggled with every painful step in his infernal heels, and not to mention the way strangers’ eyes lingered just a little too long on his voluptuous backside. It was infuriating. His only small comfort was the warmth of the coffee cup in his hands, countering the chill - a sensation he hadn't experienced on the equally humiliating trip over from the apartment.
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Now, with every step heavier than the last, he finally reached the entrance to his building. Exhausted, even though it was only eleven in the morning, Mr Wright trudged up the stairs to his apartment. Each step reminded him of the absurdity of his situation - transformed into a caricature of a bimbo secretary to such an extent that even his mother wouldn't recognize him. With every click of his ridiculously tall heels and unnerving wobble of his silicon chest and hips, his resentment towards Mia deepened for orchestrating this nightmare.
As he stepped into his new apartment and saw the two desks positioned to face each other, his disdain quickly extended to Madame Maria. Now a constant, grating presence in his life, she incessantly nagged him under the guise of training him to be the perfect personal assistant.
Each morning, after helping him into a revealing outfit and meticulously applying his dramatic makeup, Madame Maria would settle at her desk opposite to continue her supervision. From there, she incessantly micromanaged his posture and duties, peppering him with constant commands such as, "Cross your legs, darling," "Sit up straighter, darling," and "I need that report by lunchtime, darling. You’re going to need to type faster." These small jobs and assignments - designed to keep him busy - were mind-numbingly dull. Yet, after his harrowing first coffee run in a minidress and heels, returning to the mundane safety of these monotonous tasks sounded unexpectedly comforting.
"Any problems, darling?" Madame Maria called out cheerily as Mr Wright stomped into the living room.
"No," he replied sullenly, placing the coffee on her desk before hanging his blazer and handbag on the coat rack near the entrance. Briefly watching her take a sip with a sense of contempt, he pre-emptively tottered over to his desk, well-acquainted with her usual commands and finding her voice increasingly grating.
Carefully seating himself on his wheelie office chair - a simple task complicated by the tightness of his dress and steepness of his heels - Mr Wright arranged his skirt, straightened his back, and precisely folded his shiny legs - a skill honed from many hours of reluctant practice. He unlocked his computer and resumed his morning assignment - an inventory of fictional office supplies that needed restocking. His lengthy acrylic nails awkwardly obstructed the keys as he began typing, turning each keystroke into a frustrating challenge. The physical discomfort of his disguise was matched only by the mental anguish of being trapped in a role he never wanted, knowing that the only way out was to endure and go through the motions.
After ten minutes of relative silence - punctuated only by the passing cars outside the window and the slurping of coffee - Mr Wright had found a calm rhythm. However, just as he was settling into the task, his concentration was shattered. "What’s the ETA on that report, Mia, darling?" Madame Maria shrieked out from across the room. Mr Wright looked up, irritation flaring as he pouted at the large red-haired face grinning at him.
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He entertained a brief fantasy of telling her exactly where she could stick her report. But then he remembered a crucial detail: Madame Maria controlled the key to his chastity device. Angrily, he tempered his response. "Almost done," he replied, his voice artificially sweet.
"Almost done, darling?" Madame Maria pressed, her tone teasing yet demanding. "You need to be more specific than that. Your job is to keep everything in the office running smoothly. We need an exact time frame, darling."
Mr Wright groaned, feeling the strain of his new reality. He wasn’t accustomed to typing - especially not with long, cumbersome nails. He also wasn’t used to the distracting tightness of his clothing. Unsure of how long it would take, he hazarded a guess. "Erm... probably about two hours," he said, his tone uncertain.
"Two hours!" Madame Maria exclaimed, her voice filled with mock horror. "That’s far too long, darling! You still have to organize the client files for next week, and after that, we need to work on your hair."
"My hair!" Mr Wright repeated, his hand instinctively rising to touch the tall ponytail sprouting from the crown of his head.
"Yes, darling," Madame Maria affirmed with a grin that felt more mocking than comforting. "We need to get started early. This kind of stuff always takes longer than you think."
"But… why do I even need my hair done?" Mr Wright protested, his frustration growing. "I thought it was fine like this?"
"Oh! it is fine, darling. But you start your new job in a few days, and you can’t go into the office with the same style every day. Fine won't cut it," Madame Maria explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
This logic did little to assuage Mr Wright's growing despair. The thought of allowing himself to be feminized further was suffocating. "You're not going to do anything too extreme, are you?" he asked, his voice high with alarm.
"Of course not, darling," Madame Maria responded cheerily. "Just some extensions to give us a few more options. But we'll also have to change your nails. A woman like you would never have the same manicure for more than a week! Now, finish up that report so we can get started."
As Mr Wright turned back to his computer, his thoughts were turbulent. The reality of his situation was inescapable. In just a few days, his transformation from a high-powered executive to a dolled-up secretary would be complete. The reflection on the screen of a tarty secretary - loudly clacking her acrylic-coated nails against the keyboard - made his stomach churn. Huge earrings dangled from either side of her Botox-stretched face, while her overfilled lips gleamed with gloss, and her fan-like lashes fluttered with every blink. The sight was so far removed from who he considered himself to be that it was almost impossible to accept the image as his own. Starring at this horrifying image, it hit him that this was only the beginning - another round of changes was coming. His heart sank at the thought as he continued to slowly type.
