Ctrl Alt Defeat: A Secretary's Takeover 17

Chapter 17: Putty in His Hands

After the high of the presentation, the following days sank back into the dreary rhythm of his secretarial duties. Mr Wright begrudgingly returned to fetching coffee, making photocopies, and completing the endless stream of trivial tasks he despised. By now, navigating the office in short skirts and precariously tall heels had become almost second nature - an uncomfortable routine, but one he’d reluctantly adapted to. Most of his coworkers barely paid him any attention, which made it easy to forget his situation at times. However, all it took was a lingering look from an officer visitor or a stranger’s double-take on the street to remind him just how far he’d fallen from his former life.

On a cold, rainy Tuesday, the day dragged on uneventfully. The morning had been quiet, allowing Mr Wright to focus on the task of filling his long, cumbersome nails - a ritual he found tedious but necessary to avoid Madame Maria’s hovering presence and relentless criticism later at home. Early afternoon, he was sent on an errand to the post office. For the average person, it would have been a quick trip around the block, but for Mr Wright, it was a slow, cautious journey as he navigated the wet pavement in platform pumps with barely any grip. Each step required careful calculation, the towering heels forcing him into a dainty, mincing stride that inevitably drew unwanted attention from passersby.

Clutching a bulky package under one arm, Mr Wright felt the chill in the air seep through his pantyhose, the sheer fabric offering no protection against the biting wind. The flared hem of his pale pink skirt fluttered incessantly against his thighs with every gust, each brush a maddening reminder of how exposed and ridiculous he felt. His clothing, like all his outfits, had been meticulously chosen to emphasise femininity to the extreme: a fitted black top with a low-cut neckline and a mesh panel that acted as a window to his artificial cleavage, topped with a blazer that offered little more than the illusion of professionalism.

As he trotted along the treacherous streets, his fiery red hair, styled in voluminous waves, bounced with each hesitant step, while his plump, glossy lips glistened, attracting even more unwanted attention. Onlookers’ gazes lingered longer than he could bear, their curiosity amplifying his humiliation. Though his icy glare, from behind the veil of thick, curled lashes, usually made them avert their eyes, the ordeal of navigating the city dressed like some attention-seeking hussy left his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Re-entering the office building, Mr Wright forced a polite half-smile at the security guard stationed by the entrance. The man’s eyes made an unsubtle sweep up and down his feminized form before he greeted him with a warm, “Welcome back, Mia.”

"Thank you," Mr Wright replied curtly, his put-on, high-pitched voice barely masking his irritation. His eyes smouldered with barely concealed frustration, weary of the way every man now seemed to scrutinize him like an object on display.

With measured steps, he tottered toward the elevator, the sharp click-clack of his towering heels echoing loudly against the marble floor of the cavernous foyer. The sound, amplified by the emptiness around him, created a relentless rhythm that felt almost mocking, while every motion sent pangs of discomfort shooting through his aching feet. Despite the pain, he pressed on, his hips swaying unnaturally to the rhythm his stilettos demanded.

As he moved forward, the irony of his situation hit him like a cruel joke. How many times had he been the one staring, letting his gaze linger on a woman’s figure without a care for how obvious he was? Was he this blatant? A soft, bitter chuckle slipped from his over-filled red lips at the thought.

(See image 33)

Arriving back at his desk, Mr Wright sank into his chair with a loud sigh, the weight lifting from his throbbing feet offering a fleeting moment of relief. He longed to kick off his torturous platform pumps, but the glass-topped desk left no room for discretion. Anyone walking by would see, and the last thing he wanted was to be called into a meeting to explain himself.

Instead, he allowed his mind to drift to the break room. If Mr Horton requested his afternoon coffee, he’d have a chance to escape for a few minutes. Dumping the remaining coffee in the pot would give him at least ten minutes to perch on the sofa while a new one brewed. Ten blessed minutes to stretch his aching tendons, and finally escape his heels for a little while. The idea was pure bliss.

As if the universe had heard his plea, the phone on his desk rang sharply, the flashing light indicating it was from Mr Horton’s office. Taking a deep breath and reminding himself to sound cheerful, Mr Wright reached for the receiver.

“Good afternoon, Mia,” Grant Horton’s deep, commanding voice rolled through the line. “Would you join me in my office, please?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Mr Wright replied automatically, echoing the response his former assistant must have said to him countless times. Before seizing the chance to add, “Shall I bring you a coffee?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Grant replied smoothly, dashing Mr Wright’s hopes. “Just your pretty face is required.”

The comment made Mr Wright’s skin crawl, but he forced himself to respond in a friendly tone. “Understood. On my way.”

Hanging up, he grimaced, the disgust he felt clear on his tightened features. With a reluctant sigh, he pushed himself back to his aching feet, the thought of whatever was waiting in Grant’s office weighing heavily on him as he hobbled toward the door.

Carefully curling his fingers - his long, pink acrylic nails making it impossible to form a proper fist - Mr Wright knocked lightly on the door.

“Come in, Mia,” Grant’s booming voice called out from within.

Pushing the door open, Mr Wright tottered to the centre of the room, the usual sharp click of his heels muffled by the thick carpet. He stood silently, waiting as he always did, while Grant finished typing away at his computer. Mr Wright suspected this was another of Grant’s little power plays - a way to show him who was in control. It reminded him of a tip he’d once read in a book on leadership: always make others wait for you to assert dominance. Whether it was deliberate or not, it worked. One man in the room held all the authority, and it certainly wasn’t the one wearing a lacy thong beneath a flimsy, short skirt.

Determined to hide his unease, Mr Wright stared straight ahead, locking his heavily made-up eyes on Grant. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Grant stopped typing and looked up with a smile.

“Sorry about that, Mia,” he said casually. “Just had to jot down some ideas before I forgot.”

“If it’s concerning Stitch & Sovereign. Perhaps I can help?” Mr Wright asked, his tone overly sweet.

Grant chuckled, shaking his head. “No, nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about. Just one of those many things a business owner like me has to juggle. You wouldn’t understand.”

Forcing a tight-lipped smile, Mr Wright bit back a retort. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t,” he replied in a soft, feminine tone. “So, you wanted to see me, Sir?”

“Yes! Join me on the sofa, Mia,” Grant said, motioning toward the plush seating near the window - his broad frame dwarfing the furniture around him as he stood. “There’s something I’d like to run by you.”

Mr Wright hesitated, his head turning towards the small, intimate seating area. His long, wavy hair swayed with the motion, brushing against his cheeks, while his hoop earrings jangled softly in his ears. Noticing his reluctance, Grant chuckled and added, “This is about Stitch & Sovereign. Please.”

Reluctantly, Mr Wright turned back toward the little sofa, pausing for a moment to weigh his options. Sitting on one side would leave him cornered, whereas sitting in the middle might give him some wiggle room if needed. Opting for the latter, he minced over, carefully smoothed down his skirt, and lowered himself, arranging his legs in a crossed, ladylike manner.

Grant smirked as he watched his buxom secretary settle in, then strode confidently across the room. Sitting down beside the feminized man, his large frame instantly filled the space, making the already small sofa feel even smaller.

“So, I’ve got some exciting news,” Grant began, leaning back slightly as his smirk widened. He let the moment hang, clearly enjoying the anticipation building in Mr Wright’s expression.

“After your brilliant presentation, we’ve secured new investment and resources for the project,” he continued, his tone casual yet self-satisfied.

Mr Wright smiled instinctively, relief and pride bubbling up. Despite the nightmare of the situation, this was positive news.

Sensing the need to respond, Mr Wright forced a bright, practised smile. “That’s wonderful, Sir. I’m so pleased it went well,” he said, his high-pitched, sugary tone making him cringe inwardly. “So, what are the next steps?”

Grant shifted closer on the sofa, his imposing frame making Mr Wright feel even more emasculated. “We need to create a clothing range,” he began, his tone calm and casual. “Something that proves The Convertible has a market. It’s a big job, and frankly, Mia, I’m not sure you’re up to the task.”

Mr Wright’s smile faltered, his heart sinking. “What? I’m capable,” he shot back, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “This is my company! I’m the most capable person there is,” he added passionately, panic bubbling beneath his words. The thought of being sidelined, left to play Mia the seductive secretary indefinitely, was unbearable.

Grant raised an eyebrow. “Your company?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

“Erm… A slip of the tongue. I mean… I’ve worked there for decades, and I do own 20%. It feels like it’s my company,” Mr Wright quickly corrected himself, his voice sounding panicked as his hands, resting on his pantyhose-clad thighs, clenched into small fists. His long nails pressed into his palms, betraying his frustration. “I can do this. Let me show you.”

Grant shifted even closer. “Oh, I do love it when you get all fired up, Mia. It’s very sexy,” he said, his deep voice dripping with condescension. “Okay, I’ll give you a shot, but I want Morgan Wright working alongside you on this. You are but his secretary, after all. We’ll need his expertise.”

The words stung more than Mr Wright cared to admit. “Of course,” he replied tight lipped, feeling utterly ridiculous as he sat next to a man who was once his equal in a pair of skyscraper heels and a frilly miniskirt. “Thank you, Sir. I won’t let you down.”

Grant reached out, resting his large hand on Mr Wright’s shoulder, his fingers playing lightly with a strand of his long, auburn locks. “I know you won’t. So, here’s how it will work,” he continued. “You’ll accompany Morgan Wright to a few fashion shows for inspiration. That’ll prepare you for your meeting with the design team in a few weeks. After that, we’ll tackle marketing and the soft launch of the product. Throughout, you’ll keep me constantly updated, and if all goes well, in around six months we’ll hold a meeting with the board to finalize everything. How does that sound?”

“Erh… Erh,” Mr Wright stammered, struggling to form words. Six months! Six more months of this charade! His mind raced as the reality settled over him, his heart pounding in dread.

(See image 34)

“Mia, are you okay?” Grant’s deep, rich voice snapped Mr Wright from his momentary daze. The feminized man looked up to see Grant’s brow furrowed in confusion and concern.

“Yes, sorry,” Mr Wright squeaked, scrambling for an excuse. “That all sounds… great. I just… got a sudden cramp in my leg,” he added, leaning forward and clutching his calf in an overly theatrical gesture to mask his reaction. The movement successfully dislodged Grant’s hand from his shoulder, but the towering man didn’t seem inclined to let the moment slip away so easily.

“Oh, a cramp? Let me help with that,” Grant offered, his voice warm and commanding, giving no room for refusal.

“No, really, that’s not nec—” Mr Wright’s protest turned into a startled gasp as Grant gently, but firmly clasped his leg and lifted it onto his lap. The move was smooth, surprisingly tender, and left Mr Wright too stunned to react. With deft movements, Grant slipped off one of his towering platform pumps, the cool air hitting Mr Wright’s nylon-clad toes, now exposed, and curling involuntarily.

“Let’s start here,” Grant said, his large hands cupping Mr Wright’s delicate-looking foot. With a firm but soothing touch, he began kneading the ball of his foot, thumbs pressing into the arch with rhythmic precision. Mr Wright let out a soft moan, his body betraying him as the relief from hours of teetering on stiletto heels flooded his senses.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Grant asked, a teasing smile playing on his lips as he worked his way to the heel, rubbing deep circles with a strong thumb.

Mr Wright’s fingers gripped the edge of the cushion tightly, his glossy pink nails digging into the fabric. “This… this is highly inappropriate,” he managed, though his voice lacked the conviction he’d intended.

“Inappropriate? Or overdue?” Grant countered, his tone light but suggestive. Without waiting for an answer, he took Mr Wright’s other leg, removing the second shoe with the same care before beginning the same methodical massage on the other foot. His thumbs worked the tension from the arches while his fingers applied gentle pressure to the delicate joints of the painted toes.

Mr Wright’s lashes fluttered, his thick extensions brushing his heavily blushed cheeks with every blink. He tried to find the will to remove his legs from the giant man’s grasp, but the sheer pleasure of the massage overwhelmed him. “Please… I…” he trailed off, unable to find the words.

Grant chuckled softly, his hands moving with confident ease. “Relax, Mia,” he murmured, leaning back slightly as he continued. “You run around all day for me, balancing on those skyscrapers. You deserve this.”

A flush of embarrassment crept up Mr Wright’s neck, but his body remained helplessly entranced under Grant’s touch. His enhanced chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, and his legs, clad in silky pantyhose, remained limp and compliant in the man’s lap. The tension he carried all day dissipated, replaced by a warm, intoxicating relief.

 “Now, where was I?” Grant asked, his voice casual as if nothing about this situation was out of the ordinary. “Oh yes, the board meeting. If we time this right, we can align it with the annual trip to the Bahamas. Have you ever been to the Bahamas, Mia? The water’s crystal clear, and I bet you’d look spectacular in a little bikini.”

“Uh-huh,” Mr Wright mumbled, barely registering the words. His usual convictions about how wrong this was dissolved under the blissful sensations coursing through his body. As Grant’s hands continued their meticulous work, Mr Wright’s plump lips parted with a soft, involuntary purr, his eyes fluttering closed and rolling back. The waves of relief and pleasure coursing through him felt almost euphoric - an overwhelming release after weeks of nothing but restraint and restriction.