Two-Watt Bulb in a $1000-Dollar Suit (Part One) By Steve T A ruthless businessman is beaten, mind-controlled and feminised This is the first part of my second story on Diana's site (the first was “There's Something about Melissa). This story is a mixture of 'Femdom Lite', Mind Control, TV and combat. Something for everyone! There is no explicit sex or violence but there is a little bad language. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Hop over here and zip me up, Gerry – sorry, Geraldine - sweetheart”, asked the tall redhead. It was phrased as a request, not an order, but the conditioning meant he had no choice but to obey. And as he hurried to do so, he hopped in his stockinged feet, rather than walking. When the other girls saw him, they burst out laughing. “Isn’t he tame!” one commented. The redhead grinned. “Gerry you idiot, I didn’t mean really hop!” He stopped. His mind ticked over, his body was in stasis, awaiting a fresh command. Once a feared and powerful businessman, now he was clad in a tight- fitting corset and black hose, standing helpless, awaiting the next command of a working-class Brooklyn girl, whom he would once have despised. And the frightening thing was that he loved it. The conditioning they had put into his brain meant that any female could command him, and in obeying he felt a surge of pleasure more gratifying that any previous sexual experience in his life. A fresh surge of laughter rang around the dressing room and the girl issued a fresh command. “Yes, Ms Paxton”, he said obediently, and as he did so, the reasoning, conscious part of his mind, or what was left of it, reflected on what had brought him here…. ********************************************************************* When Gerald Branch was at school, they had read David Copperfield in EngLit class. All the other pupils sympathised with the cruelly mistreated young Davy but Gerald’s sympathies lay with Mr Murdstone. What was wrong with a little firmness? Firmness became the watchword of his life. Firmness and discipline. He ran his home, his job, his family, even himself, with a rod of iron. Everything in its place and a place for everything. No room for deviancy or delinquency. When his son began to show disturbing signs of wilful and aberrant behaviour, Gerald tried to beat it out of him. When his son fled to California, to live with some greasy-haired rock chick, Gerald disinherited him. “I have no son”, he announced, but that didn’t stop him taking a close interest in their attempts to set up a small record store. Gerald used his contacts to undermine the fledgling business. Not enough to wreck it – he didn’t want the kid back on his doorstep – but just enough to prevent it ever being a success, to give his son and his hippie partner (they weren’t even married, for heaven’s sake!) a life of constant struggle and worry. Cross Gerald Branch and you would regret it. In politics, Gerald voted the straight right-wing ticket. Republicans believed in discipline and the rule of law. Not that he was averse to making the odd campaign payment, in exchange for some quiet help in Congress. That was the way the world worked, the way men did business, even if the liberals and the eco- freaks didn’t get it. Abby was a liberal and an eco-freak, he suspected. He should have got rid of her a long time ago. But as a personal aide, she was indispensable. Efficient, organised, a near-genius on the computer, helping him with all the flak he got from those pointy-headed Net geeks when his firm dumped a few too many chemicals into the local rivers. And she was easy on the eye. But now she had gone too far. She had hassled him, mildly, about his business practices. And his private detectives informed him that she was sleeping around. “So what’s my private life got to do with you, anyway?” she raged. “At least I’m not polluting the environment or greasing palms!” Firmness. Don’t lose self-control. “Young lady, I have a reputation to keep up. I hope to stand for Governor soon, representing ordinary people, not liberals who despise American values.” “Besides”, she fired back, “Under employment laws – “ This was what came of giving women the vote, he thought. “Don’t talk to me about employment laws, Miss Rice. Once I’m Governor, there won’t be any employment laws! And if you make trouble with me, I’ll ensure you never get a job in this state again. You’ll be lucky to get a job cleaning latrines.” He buzzed his aide. “Miss Rice is leaving – send in Mr Gorton.” Jeff Gorton, like Branch, had come up the hard way. But there the similarity ended. Through shrewd exploitation of the liberal business laws which, ironically Branch had lobbied for, Gorton had built up a porn empire that had the stiff-necked older businessman spitting tacks. His “Playtime” clubs, a cheeky hijacking of a famous brand, allied to magazines, videos and the Internet, often catering to fetishist and S/M tastes, had made Gorton a millionaire. He gave much of his money away to charity or green causes and even opponents conceded that he ran a clean operation, which treated staff and customers with respect. Newsweek cover-billed him as “The Man Who Made Porn Respectable.” As Gorton shambled in, Branch eyed his visitor’s apparel with distaste. He wore jeans and a Buffy sweatshirt. Branch had made it a rule that his employees must wear business suits but sadly he could not enforce this on visitors – more’s the pity. His own suit had cost $1000 dollars and even that was a bargain – he had gotten the price reduced by threatening to complain about the store assistant to the shop manager. A complaint from Gerald Branch meant only one thing, and it wasn’t a pay rise. “Gorton”, he said irately. “I’m not going to fuck around with you. I don’t want any fucking around in my state. That means you and your porn operation have to go.” Gorton raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Your state? You goddam pompous hypocrite! What goes on in my places is nothing compared to what you get up to. You dare to preach about morals when you tyrannise your employees, bully your family, pollute our rivers and bribe every politician and lawman in the state to turn a blind eye. You need cutting down, Branch!” He stormed out. Branch strolled over to his French windows and was intrigued to see the adult club chief in earnest conversation with Abby, his angry and unpaid maid and aide. Soon they parted and Gorton drove off with a defiant blast of his car’s hooter but, as Branch looked out at the lawn, he felt only scorn for the porn man’s horn. A few weeks went by and Branch had forgotten about the threats. In any case, they were an occupational hazard. Firm men made enemies. He was working out at his gym one night, as closing time approached. It was a chilly night with the hint of distant storms in the slate-grey skies. The place had emptied but he aimed for one last set. “Gee, can you help me?” He looked up. Words of curt dismissal were cut short when he saw that the speaker was a shapely brunette. Instead of the cotton sweats now commonly worn by women, she was clad in a red leotard and white lycra tights. The outfit looked like a second skin and revealed that the first skin housed some pretty interesting parts. Looks like I may have a new aide, thought Branch. “I’m new here”, she giggled, “I’m trying to get toned. See?” She swivelled her hips and thrust her bosom almost into his face. “But I’m having trouble with my equipment.” “Well, let’s see if we can take it in hand, shall we?” The tycoon followed as she walked – more wiggled – over to the ladies area of the gym, where a set of weights appeared to have rolled off their stand. “Can you help?” she repeated. Branch smirked. “It will be my pleasure. You want me to – err – get it up for you, is that it?” He bent down and as he did so, something hard struck him from behind and the world went very dark. “The bitch set me up!” was his last thought, but it did not stop him dreaming about her as he slept…. He woke beneath harsh bright lights and two pairs of harsh eyes. A man and a woman. Abby and Gorton. Twin nemeses. There was a constant background whine of machinery. Desks, terminals, computers, printers, what looked like medical scanning equipment and X-ray machines, charts of the human body and a synaptic map of the human brain. “How are you, Mr Branch?” Abby asked politely. He ignored her. “Where is this, Bill Gates’ bedroom?” Gorton bent his face to meet Branch’s and the businessman realised he was strapped to a chair. “We ask the questions now”, he hissed in a sibilant voice. “Oh yeah, I know the score. Hard n’ soft, candy n’ crap, sugar and spice. What comes next? Thumbscrews? Pentothal? Subliminable messages?” Abby interjected. “Oh, we’re much more sophisticated than that. Look over there.” She pointed to a nightmarish looking device. A chair with padded arms and stout leather straps. Above it, what looked like a mixture of a hairdryer and an egg whisk. “A new machine, actually developed by one of your own companies, but abandoned when they realised it would never get government approval. A means of manipulating the human brain, perfect to the micro-millimetre. Tiny tungsten rods, so thin that a million of them wouldn’t span a fly’s wing, boring into the brain, remodelling it to our choosing. We don’t want to lobotomise you, Gerald – who wants to look after a zombie? And we may have a use for your knowledge. Instead, we want you to obey our every whim and to be conscious that you are doing so.” Gorton intervened. “Don’t worry, Mr Branch. As a man of high moral standing, you won’t have to obey a porn baron like me. The conditioning will only require you to obey women and then only women who know your trigger word – Geraldine. Yes, Gerald, we’re going to feminise you. It seems appropriate that an aggressive, misogynist bigot like you will be turned into a liberal woman and made subservient to the female sex.” Abby smiled and picked up a syringe. “Just an injection to relax the muscles and open up the synaptic passageways. Then into the chair and – goodbye Macho Jack, Hello Hanoi Jane.” After the injection was completed, Branch saw his moment. When they released the straps, holding him, he leapt from the chair and grabbed a scalpel from a nearby tray of medical equipment. “Nobody move!” Nobody did move. Gorton was smiling, Abby stood by the door with her arms folded. Branch couldn’t resist revelling in his success. “You guys got too cocky! I’m leaving now and, believe me, I’m going to lower the boom on you. Once my associates hear about this, you’ll be history. We’ll feed you to the sharks off Florida in a tuna-unfriendly dolphin net and there won’t be enough of you left to make catfood for an anorexic kitten. You talk the talk but can you walk the walk?” “Mr Branch, what the fuck are you talking about?” asked Gorton mildly. “I think he’s been watching too many episodes of The Sopranos”, commented Abby. “Well, Gerry baby, here’s the door. You just got to get past me first.” She stood in the doorway, arms folded and, for the first time, Branch noted the play of lean muscle and sinew in her lithe body. He rushed at her and then something odd happened; although she scarcely appeared to be moving, suddenly his momentum was checked and he was heading back in the reverse direction, crashing into the wheeled tray of surgical apparatus. He swung round and, as she laughed delightedly, he drove a fist into her face, or at least that was the intention, but her face wasn’t there. After flailing unavailingly at fresh air for some moments, she struck once with the heel of her hand to the lee of his jaw, her knee driving into his midriff at the same time. It felt like he had been hit by an SUV and he collapsed dizzily to the floor. She idly contemplated her nails and winked at Gorton as Branch rose groggily and charged at her. Once again, he found himself on the floor at her feet. He tried again and, after three blows had been evaded by fractional movements of her body, once more ended up flat on his back. "Gee, I thought you Texan guys were tough?” she taunted him. He faked a blow to the stomach but instead tried to grab her hair. She seized him in a wristlock, twisted until he screeched with pain then threw him to the floor. She kicked him in the elbow, numbing his right arm before dropping with her knees onto the other elbow. He screeched with pain as she seized the wrist in both hands. She lent across him and he briefly felt the warmth of her body and a tantalising whiff of scent before she placed a foot on his chest, rising, falling backwards, a long sinewy leg propelling him across her body in a somersault. He landed heavily, winded, still with his wrist pinioned in her steely grip and then she back-rolled just like before...and again...and again...and again. He found himself arcing through the air repeatedly, dizzyingly, until he saw nothing but stars. Then she let him go and somehow, feeling nauseous and humiliated, he staggered to his feet and lurched towards her to do - what? She had crushed his spirit and his will. She stood looking contemptuously at him, hands resting lightly on her hips. She puckered her lips as if to kiss him. He wanted to smash a fist into her face but he knew she would just avoid it and then inflict more pain on him. Then his legs buckled and he fell at her feet. To be continued….