Ctrl Alt Defeat: A Secretary's Takeover 03

Chapter 3: Hostile Takeover

Mia lounged on her bed, sporting a huge grin that filled her basic hotel room with a mischievous glow. Silence hung heavy behind the closed bathroom door. "Are you okay in there, Mr Wright?" she called out, her voice dripping with mock concern. No reply came, and that said it all. Nodding her head, she chuckled softly. The situation was bordering on the surreal but devilishly exciting. 

The thought of her boss, Morgan Wright - the epitome of a workplace dinosaur, infamous for his obnoxious misogynistic remarks - facing the upcoming meeting in a skirt and heels was deliciously ironic. It wasn’t just about the clothes; it was the idea of flipping the script. For him to experience some of the sexist and demeaning comments she had endured while being ordered about like a slave. 

Each memory of his dismissive behaviour, each time he had laughed off her ideas in favour of his own misguided ones, fuelled her resolve. There was a poetic justice in the air, a balance being redressed. Morgan Wright, who had always considered himself above it all, was about to experience firsthand what it felt like to be judged solely on appearance. And Mia, for the first time, held the reins.

"No, there's no such thing as 'too far' under these circumstances," Mia thought to herself with a twinkle in her eyes. She picked up her phone to explore a few options. Tomorrow's schedule was her canvas, and payback, her palette. She meticulously planned the day, ensuring that no detail was overlooked. From the salon appointment that would kickstart Mr Wright's transformation to the careful selection of an outfit that would meet the 'standards' her boss had once enforced on her, every choice was deliberate.

Feeling satisfied with her choices, Mia set down her phone. Curious about what was taking her boss so long, she decided it was time to check on her masterpiece in progress. She rose from the bed, her movements fluid and purposeful, as she made her way to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, whispering an invitation that Mia didn’t decline.

With a gentle knock, Mia stepped in., to be greeted by the sight of Morgan Wright, her usually brash and overconfident boss, in a rare moment of vulnerability. He stood by the sink, clean-shaven, the absence of his signature goatee beard revealing a softer, younger-looking face that seemed foreign even to him. With his palms pressed into the countertop, he was leaning forward, staring into the mirror, as if trying to reconcile his reflection with his identity.

(See image 05)

“What’s taking so long in here?” Mia's voice cut through the silence, causing Mr Wright to visibly jerk. Slowly he turned, his face contorting into a mix of anger and disbelief as if he were about to unleash a torrent of complaints. But something in Mia’s gaze stopped him, a reminder perhaps of the bizarre, yet necessary arrangement they had agreed upon. Swallowing his pride, he opted for a more subdued approach. “Shaving one’s face takes time, Mia,” he replied with a strained attempt at dignity. “I didn’t want to cut myself.”

“Of course, Sir,” Mia replied, her voice laced with an amusement she fought hard to conceal. It was challenging to associate the man before her with the Morgan Wright she knew - a man who prided himself on his rugged manliness. Without his facial hair, he looked considerably less formidable. The change had taken ten years off his appearance, revealing a surprisingly pretty face that she felt confident she could work with.

“Well, if you’re ready, let’s get you dressed, sir,” Mia declared, her voice dripping with mock formality, though the corners of her mouth twitched in a barely suppressed smile.

Mr Wright’s face twisted into a grimace as if the very notion caused him physical discomfort. “Is it really necessary, Mia?” he implored, the hope in his voice betraying his desperation to escape the humiliation.

“Of course, it’s necessary, Sir,” Mia shot back, her voice firm, leaving no room for negotiation. “This will give us an idea of your size and the styles that will suit you. If we don’t do this now, I won’t know what to shop for tomorrow, and you might end up looking out of place at the meeting. You don’t want to be discovered, do you?”

A look of panic flashed across Mr Wright’s face, his usual confidence dissolving into fear at the thought of being branded as some sort of pervert. “Of course not,” he retorted, his voice filled with insistence that quickly gave way to resignation. “I just... feel very... uncomfortable with all this.”

“As did I earlier, Sir. When you made me dress up for you. However, I endured for the good of the company, and so will you. Now come,” Mia urged, her tone brooking no argument as she marched out of the bathroom, leaving no opportunity for Mr Wright to voice any further protests.

Seconds later, Morgan Wright, with just a hand towel wrapped awkwardly around his waist, shuffled sheepishly into the bedroom, his usual swagger replaced by a hesitant gait. “There’s a fresh set of underwear on the bed. Don't worry. I’ve never worn them," Mia announced, her voice filled with authority. "I’ll turn my back while you put them on.” 

“I’m not wearing women’s underwear,” Mr Wright boomed, his voice momentarily regaining its usual commanding tone, though it quivered with underlying discomfort.

Mia sighed, her patience thinning. “Mr Wright. I thought we agreed that you wouldn't question my guidance? Because if you are going to resist every suggestion I make, we might as well stop this now and give up on the company.”

Mr Wright’s demeanour faltered, caught between outrage and the stark reality of their situation. “But it’s women’s underwear, Mia. You can’t possibly expect me to… It’s not right!” he protested, his face a canvas of conflicting emotions.

“You can’t wear your boxer shorts under a skirt, Sir. It won’t hang right,” Mia explained logically, noting the discomfort in her boss' body language at the mention of the word 'skirt'.

"If we are to have any chance of success in our mission, whether you like it or not, you must embrace the role of a woman until after tomorrow's meeting, and that includes dressing accordingly. If you cannot do that, we may as well stop this now. Should I start packing and call us a taxi?"

Mr Wright sighed heavily, a sound heavy with resignation. “Fine, let’s just get this over with,” he declared, a spark of newfound energy propelling him towards the bed. “But, if you ever tell anyone about this, Mia. I’ll…” Mr Wright began to say, his voice taking on a threatening edge.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Mia quickly interjected, her tone light, yet dismissive. “This will be our little secret, Sir. Now, let me know when you have your panties and bra on,” she added with a smirk, turning her back to afford him some semblance of privacy.

While Mia eagerly waited, the room behind her filled with the sounds of Mr Wright’s fumbling and a litany of muttered frustrations. Imagining the scene unfolding behind her, she couldn't help but wear a smile from ear to ear. Eventually, the room fell silent, prompting her to ask, “Are you ready, Sir?”

Hearing a deep, exasperated groan, Mia couldn’t resist turning around. She was met with the sight of her boss awkwardly wearing a pair of black satin panties, with an unhooked matching bra hanging from his shoulders. The sight was so unexpected, so utterly bizarre, that laughter bubbled up uncontrollably from her.

“That’s it!” Mr Wright’s voice boomed with rage as he angrily tossed the bra to the ground. “I look like a fool. This is never going to work,” he protested, his arms animated and expressive.

Mia quickly tempered her amusement, her expression shifting to one of seriousness. "Okay. Okay. I’m sorry I laughed, Sir. I shouldn’t have. But believe me, this will work. And remember, this the only option we have to save Stitch & Sovereign from the bank.'

Watching Mr Wright as he huffed and puffed, slowly calming down, Mia recognised the importance of the moment. “I promise from now on, I’ll display the seriousness this task deserves. Now, let me help you,” she said, her voice softer, more encouraging as she leaned down to retrieve the bra.

Before Mr Wright could voice another protest, Mia deftly threaded the straps over his arms and secured the clasp at the back. As he looked down at the unfamiliar sight of silky feminine underwear hugging his manly frame, Mia quickly grabbed a packet of black tights from the bed, tearing it open. She took out a pair, rolled them into a ball, and carefully placed them into one of the empty bra cups, before repeating the process on the other side to create some volume. Once done, she stepped back, leaving Mr Wright, his face a picture of bewilderment, to reach up and examine the makeshift fillers.

“Sit, please,” Mia directed, her tone soothing yet commanding. Mr Wright, surprisingly compliant, allowed himself to be guided into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. Mia wasted no time in taking the last pair of opaque tights from the packet, before rolling them up Mr Wright’s legs. The fabric stretched and moulded itself to the unfamiliar terrain of his hairy legs, until finally, she hoisted him back to his feet. Then, In quick succession, Mia had her boss step into a skirt, lowered a blouse over his head, and guided his feet into a pair of heeled pumps.

Stepping back, Mia bit her lip to suppress a smile, surveying her handiwork. Her domineering boss, now dressed in the very outfit she had been pressured into modelling for him mere hours earlier, cringed before her. “Not bad, Sir,” she managed to say, her voice an instrument of seriousness. However, inside, she was giddy with excitement, stunned that he had actually fit into her outfit, shoes and all! “A good start, I'd say,” she added, the corners of her mouth twitching as she battled with an emerging smile.

Mr Wright glanced down at his outfit and then back up at Mia, his expression marred by uncertainty. “Start?” he questioned, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability as his nylon-clad knees wobbled slightly due to the unfamiliar angle his feet were forced to adopt inside his three-inch heels.

“Think of this as an initial test,” Mia responded without missing a beat, her enjoyment of the situation evident in her voice. “You don't look the part, yet. But when the ladies at the salon have finished with you, you'll be perfect. I’ve called and given them the instructions. So, all you have to do in the morning is show up.”

Confusion washed over Mr Wright’s face, a look that turned to one of comic panic as he attempted to articulate his thoughts. Teetering precariously atop his heels, he suddenly lost his balance before tumbling backwards onto the bed in a seated huff. “Salon?” he managed to question, the word almost foreign to him, as he reached under his skirted backside to retrieve his towel from earlier.

(See image 06)

“Yes, Mr Wright. The appointment was your idea after all. But seeing as you're now going to be the secretary, I've transferred the appointment over to you. I don’t have the necessary skills needed for your makeover.” Mia explained, her tone matter-of-fact, as if this were the most natural progression of their plan.

“A Makeover!" Mr Wright cried out in a distressed voice, his eyes wide with anxiety. This is all getting a little out of hand now, don't you think, Mia? I can't have a makeover at a beauty salon,” he added, shifting uncomfortably as the soft fabric of his secretarial ensemble slipped beneath him. His tights in turn pulled at the hairs on his legs, as his shoes pinched at his toes.

“You can and you will, Mr Wright,” Mia reassured him, her voice laced with confidence. “All you have to do is turn up and smile. No one will say anything bad to you.”

As she watched a look of concern cross her crossdressed boss’s face, Mia changed the subject, “Now, why don’t I help you undress? It’s getting late, and we have an early start in the morning.” Internally, she was buzzing; it felt as if every Christmas had come at once. She knew sleep would be difficult that night, the anticipation of seeing a dolled-up Mr Wright’s tottering into the meeting with Mr Horton was almost too exhilarating to contain.