Two-Watt Bulb in a $1000-Dollar Suit  Part Two 
By Steve T
A ruthless businessman is beaten, mind-controlled and feminised 


This is the second 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.

Barely out of breath, she admired her handiwork. "You know Gerald, working for
you did have some advantages. Your bodyguards taught me some nice self-defence
moves. They hated you as much as I did. Did you know that they used to piss in
your tea?"

"Shut up!"

"And as for those little brown bits on top of your mid-afternoon cappuccino –"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Language, Gerry. Time for you to become Little Miss Obedience."

As he struggled to rise, she thrust bunched fingers into a nerve centre in his
torso. He collapsed like a limp rag doll and she and Gorton carried the flabby
but still conscious financier over to the chair beneath the brain-modifying
machine. They dumped him in it and tightened straps around his chest, arms,
neck and forehead, before positioning his head precisely under the device.

Branch expected to feel sharp pain when the machine was switched on. Instead,
there was just a tickling sensation, as if a thousand insects were dancing a
minuet atop his scalp. After five minutes, the high-pitched whine died away
and the straps were released.

Gorton and Abby stood back, watching him appraisingly. Neither spoke. Branch
wanted to say something. He wanted to stand up. He wanted to berate them. He
wanted to pee. But it was as if someone had laid an invisible hand across his
throat and equally invisible restraints upon his limbs.

Finally Abby broke the silence. "Stand up." He did so. "Turn around." He did
so. She nodded to her companion and he brought a padded mat, placing it behind
Branch.

"Raise one leg", she ordered.

Branch’s will still existed somewhere, buried deep within him. His mind felt
like a vast four-storey mansion with lights blazing from every room. The
on-off switch for the lights was controlled by Abby. Somewhere in the dimmest
recesses of the mansion lay a cramped and dusty attic lit by a feeble two-watt
bulb. That was his own will, still there, still illuminated but totally
swamped by the rest of the lights.

He wanted so much to obey. It gave him so much pleasure to obey. The concept
of not obeying was terrifying, unthinkable. And so he asked her simply: "Which
leg?"

"Left." He raised it. He would keep it raised until she gave a counter-command
or until he was physically unable to hold it in the air any longer.

"Now raise your right leg", she said. This was the acid test, for it was an
action which could only result in the person falling down and thus was a
deeply unnatural act for the body to perform. But he did so and collapsed in a
heap on the mat.

"Stand up", she said. "Raise your arms out to each side."

He did so and stood in increasing discomfort while she fed him instructions.

"You will obey any member of the female sex or, should they instruct you thus,
any member of the male sex they identify. You will obey all or any commands
unless they would result in physical injury to yourself or to any other
person. When in public, you will act normally unless you are told otherwise.
You will address me as Ms Rice and any other woman in similar fashion. Now,
you have my permission to speak freely."

"You bitch! Can I put my arms down?"

"Well, maybe if you ask me nicely – "

Branch gritted his teeth and went through with it. "May I put my arms down, Ms
Rice?"

"No."

His arms seemed to be getting heavier and heavier. They felt as if they were
dropping off.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"You just don’t get it Gerry baby, do you? Anything we want. Forget about your
own likes and dislikes, they don’t count any more. You’ll be much happier if
you just accept your conditioning, accept that myself and my friends can do
anything with you we choose. Like telling you to lower your arms –" He did so
and the relief was overwhelming. "- And to raise them again."

Damn! As his arms shot out again, she walked up to him and cupped her hands
behind his head.

"You want to obey women. You love obeying women. It gives you sexual pleasure.
The more willingly and happily you obey, the more pleasure you get. Clear?"

"Yes, Ms Rice." He could feel his penis rising. Warmth flooded through him.

"But", she added, "To avoid any embarrassment, you will only achieve an
erection when directed to do so."

His member subsided but the warmth did not.

"Now, who do you obey?"

"You, Ms Rice and all other women."

"What do you want to do?"

"Anything you tell me." He felt more and more excited but his penis remained
obediently flaccid. Was it possible to achieve orgasm without erection?

"How do your arms feel?"

"Agony, Ms Rice."

"So why don’t you lower them?"

"Because you have not told me to do so."

"Very well, lower them. Now wait here while Jeff and I make some
arrangements."

He lowered his arms to his sides and stood obediently still, staring ahead of
him at the white-painted wall. There was a tiny speck of dirt about one-third
of the way up... He felt no desire to move or to do anything except stand. She
had told him to stand. He had to obey her. Obeying her gave him pleasure. In
the once powerful brain of Gerald Branch, these simple, child’s-primer
thoughts bobbed back and forth like a ball across a tennis net. Obedience
pleases me. I feel pleasure when I obey. As he studied that little speck of
dirt, the two-watt bulb in what was left of his own mind flickered as if to go
out.

Half an hour later, Abby returned. "Follow me." A relay turned over in his
brain and the limbs were released from their captivity. He happily trotted
after her and soon she was driving him downtown. As they turned into the
Playtime Club Car Park, what was left of his mind underwent a sinking feeling.

"Jeff has the franchise to operate this club, which means there is no problem
if he wants to install a new waitress. But first, we need to do a few cosmetic
alterations to make sure you blend in –"She stopped herself. "What am I
explaining this for? You don’t need explanations. You will obey me
automatically, won’t you?"

"Like hell, you bitch!" That was what Branch wanted to say but the words would
not come out. They were trapped in a dark recess of his mind and what he did
say, eagerly, was: "Oh yes, Miss Rice!"

The "cosmetic" alterations took some weeks to perform and proved to be a
little more than cosmetic. For a man like Branch, who had always tried to
distance himself from the more intimate parts of the female anatomy (even sex,
though pleasurable, faintly disgusted him) the changes he underwent were
horrifying and grotesque. By the end of the process, he looked like a
reasonable simulacrum of a young woman and once his hair had grown, he would
be even more convincing. His manhood was still there but concealed as deftly
as his own mind and personality.

Rosemary, the Bunny Mother, stepped into the room. "Here he is," said Abby.
"What do you think?"

"Wow! Some of my girls are going to be jealous! But how does he feel about
it?"

"His feelings are irrelevant. He must obey us."

"Well, my girls are a messy bunch. It’ll be good to have somebody to tidy up
around the place."

Abby snapped her fingers. "Get down at our feet, Bunny Geraldine."

The naked "Geraldine", still sore and chafing at the unaccustomed
modifications her body had undergone, obediently lowered herself to the floor.

"Do you want him – her – to kiss your feet?"

Rosemary was fascinated. "Yeah, why not? Go on, Gerry, there’s a good girl."

As Gerry squirmed at the feet of the two women, he wondered if he could sink
any lower. But his humiliation was not at an end – it was just beginning.

*********************************************************************

Two hours later, the man who had been Gerald Branch, feared and powerful
financier, looked at a full-length mirror. The powdered, lipsticked face,
flowing dark hair and shapely, corseted figure of Bunny Geraldine looked back
at him.

His face looked grotesque enough to Gerald but the addition of rabbit ears and
a parodic collar and bow tie made it even more bizarre. His upper body had
been squeezed and prodded into a constricting corset that seemed about two
sizes too small, chafed his exposed hips and forced his newly-installed
breasts about as high as they could go without touching his ears. A splodge of
cotton wool representing his bunny tail had been hooked onto a tiny clip above
his buttocks and a name rosette was pinned to the side of his costume.
Breathing was agonising, moving was nearly impossible, bending down was out of
the question. Now he understood that the "Bunny Dip" was not just a cute
display, it was a necessity for the waitresses.

On his legs, he wore two pairs of shiny, almost black tights, designed to give
his them a smooth, silky finish. A pair of red satin shoes, matching the
scarlet of his costume completed the ensemble. They were agonisingly
uncomfortable and he teetered precariously on the high heels.

He felt stupid, clumsy, degraded and humiliated. But these thoughts were
locked away in a tiny (and shrinking) corner of his mind. Outwardly, he smiled
and primped and posed and practised walking about and serving drinks in the
high heels. This was what he had been told to do. He would be the best Bunny
in the world. This would please Ms Rice and pleasing her brought him pleasure.

He had been introduced to the other girls and stood smiling, seething
inwardly, as they jeered at him. They had been told that he would obey any
command given to him. For a group of raucous young women with a fairly
jaundiced attitude to men, this was like a kid being turned loose in a Pokemon
store. He shuddered at the memory of what they had made him do: "Jump! Hop!
Kneel! Sing! Stand! Sit! Up! Down!" His body flopped around like a fish on a
hook, bones screaming inside the unyielding corset. But while part of him
resented the indignity with a burning hatred, another part, disturbingly
intense, relished proving that he could obey their commands with a mindless
enthusiasm.

Months passed. Winter turned to spring. Branch adjusted (slowly) to his new
life. With a few tweaks by Gorton’s surgical team, his female body remained
disturbingly realistic. Sometimes, as he shopped for perfume or hairspray,
skirts or tights, dancewear or swimwear, he forgot that he had once been a
man. One fresh March day, he was wearing a three-quarter length
double-breasted jacket, a skirt with two side pleats, knit silk top of pale
cream and a scarf of fine turquoise dusted with matching cream. Black hose and
Italian ankle boots completed the ensemble. He had just entered the dressing
rooms, ready for a shift, when a co-worker Nancy greeted him.

"Gerry, meet a friend of mine, Hilary. Hilary, this is Gerry."

Hilary was about 18, blonde, Britney Spears cute, wearing a crop top and an
unseasonably short skirt. In another time, another life, Branch would have
lusted after her, maybe employed his connections to bribe, bully or coerce her
into sleeping with him.

"Hilary's throwing a party tonight and she's looking for – something
different."

The girl was staring at him like a zoo animal. Finally she spoke. "Cool! So
she'll - he'll - like, do anything I say?"

"Be a lion, Gerry", said Nancy. "A big, fierce lion."

Gerry circled the room on all fours, roaring loudly, occasionally making a
playful teeth-bared grab at the two women watching him, a blase Nancy, an
incredulous Hilary.

"Wow! So we can make him do anything we want?"

"Sure. But he only obeys orders from women. And you can't make him rob a bank
or jump off a roof. Nothing messy or illegal. When he comes off shift tonight,
I'll have him meet you at the entrance. Have fun!"

He had already discovered, to his shock, that young women possessed
surprisingly vivid, sometimes cruel imaginations. Even the most charming and
demure could discover a hitherto unknown sadistic streak when presented with a
helpless male at their command. Hilary and her friends proved to be no
slouches. Outfitted by the giggling girls in a black leotard; light pink
tights, pink leather ballet shoes and a tutu, he pirouetted, pranced, postured
and performed like a tame animal, for that was what he was.

Yet within him, something had changed. He no longer dreaded a fresh command,
he quite looked forward to it. And their occasional concern for his welfare –
"give the poor baby a rest", said Hilary at one point as he ineptly tried to
perform the Sugar Plum Fairy – was quite touching. He found himself
increasingly rented or lent out for parties and listened incredulously as
women discussed intimate details of their sex life or their relationships in
front of him. Clearly, to them he was like a pet dog or cat, a harmless pair
of ears. His hawkish political views slowly modified as he learnt that human
beings were not always driven by greed and that the realities of poverty,
discrimination and low pay in people’s lives were somewhat more complicated
than his favoured right-wing think-tanks portrayed them.

But that night, as (s)he posed, primped and pirouetted for the party girls,
Geraldine had never felt so humiliated. And there was worse to come. As a
pièce de résistance, he was led over to a raised dais in one corner of the
room. A tall, very pretty blonde called Magda reached into a bag and pulled
out a thick black coil of rope, which glistened like shiny liquorice. She
threw one end up to a hook in the ceiling and wound the other end through
Geraldine's legs, before joining the two ends at a leather clasp.

Magda leant forward so that her face was almost touching Geraldine's. "This
cost a lot of money, so it had better be worth it. In the old days, torture
came free but now it has to be paid for. Smile, darling." Geraldine smiled.
She would keep smiling until told to stop.

The two ends of the coil were tightened ... and tightened ... and tightened.
Geraldine was forced higher and higher on tiptoe to relieve the pressure
between her legs and on what was left of Gerald Branch's securely-trussed
manhood. Finally, when (s)he could not stand any taller, the coil was fastened
off.

"Hands behind your back," ordered Magda curtly. Geraldine obeyed and her hands
were tied.

"Feet and legs together." As she did so, she could feel the irritating
presence of the coil between her legs.

Magda bent down and fastened a leather clasp around Geraldine's ankles, taking
care not to damage the white dancer's tights.

Now the hapless figure who had once been Gerald Branch, a Master of the
Universe, had to choose between relieving the strain on his ankles and feet at
the expense of inflicting unendurable agony on the tender region between his
legs ; or temporarily assuaging the latter by forcing his protesting ankles
onto tiptoe once again. It was not a pleasant choice. One was agony, the other
was misery. Alternating the two was about the best solution.

"Keep smiling, Gerry", said Magda. "We'll let you down in an hour – if you're
good." The women tittered as Gerry teetered.

Another girl, Carol, came across. She was one of the more radical Bunnies,
constantly grumbling at the way men treated them and the ridiculous costume
they had to squeeze into. Now here was a sort of revenge. Certainly, the
thigh-chafing discomfort inflicted by the high-cut Bunny corset was nothing
compared to the torment Geraldine was going through. She stared into her - his
- eyes trying to see the man beneath. It was not obvious. Gorton's medics had
done their job well. Perhaps in the too-firm line of the jaw....

He was utterly helpless, she thought. I can do anything I want to him and he
has to take it. Experimentally, she tugged at the cord between his legs and
heard him give a slight moan. The effect was making itself known between HER
legs too. She felt suddenly warm and wet.

Geraldine too was experiencing a personal epiphany. Still smiling through
aching jaw muscles, he looked back at Carol, a woman he had never previously
liked a great deal.

"But that doesn't matter", he thought. "What I like or don't like no longer
matters. This woman - all these women - has total power over me. I am her
plaything." He looked down at the thin fabric of the pink leotard, the
delicate ruffs of the tutu, the white tights stretching with his legs as he
craned upwards, the delicate lacing of the ballet slippers around the ankles.
"This is me", he thought. "This is what I have become. Their pretty ballerina
toy."

"And it pleases me."

One year after his abduction and the "Where is Gerald Branch?" articles had
almost disappeared from the newspapers. On a bright September morning,
Geraldine, wearing an FCUK crop top, leather pants and high heels, walked into
Abby Rice’s office. Abby had been employed, at a dramatically increased
salary, by Branch’s lawyers because of her knowledge of his affairs – and also
no doubt to prevent her spilling the beans about some of Branch’s more dubious
activities. She had already caused raised eyebrows by diverting Branch’s funds
into a variety of ethical causes but had won the support of his son and main
heir in doing so.

The room was large, yet cosy, dominated by a table in warm mahogany. Jeff
Gorton stood by the window, looking out at the garden.

Abby smiled. "Show your devotion, Gerry."

His heart leapt at the prospect. He knelt down eagerly and shuffled round from
foot to foot, licking her shoes.

"I – we – have a slight confession to make to you, Gerry," she said.

Then Gorton spoke. "You see it isn’t really possible to totally control
anyone’s mind – yet. Although I’m sure John Ashcroft is working on it."

Gerry, still kneeling, looked up in confusion.

Abby resumed. "What we did was to pump you with a few drugs that temporarily
reduced your willpower and made you suggestible. Plus a few flashing lights
and other gizmos that our producer friend, Walter Paisley, filched from a
sci-fi movie set."

"You were never permanently changed", added Gorton. "Other than the – ah –
feminine accoutrements and they are reversible."

"Nothing compelled you to obey", said Abby. "Only your own wish to be
overpowered and subjugated."

"Raise your left arm", said Gorton. Gerry’s arm twitched briefly but then
stayed where it was. "You see?"

"The question is", said Abby, "what we do with you now?"

Branch felt tears well up in his – her – his (dammit, what was he?) eyes.
"Please", he said, "please keep me as I am?"

Gorton smiled. "You see Abby; I told you he would say that!"

"I’m not sure that’s an option, Gerry – "He sobbed – "but maybe we could give
you the best of both worlds."

A moment of hope choked back the tears.

Abby went on. "There’s a lot of good that Gerald Branch can do in this world.
Heaven knows it needs it. Did you know that one person dies of hunger every
four seconds? 815 million people worldwide suffer from hunger. Gerald Branch
can use his wealth and influence to help people that need it and Geraldine
Branch can become the best damn waitress in the Playtime Club and the new
bikini model for Playhouse magazine."

Gorton grinned. "Kinda like a TG version of A Christmas Carol, ain’t it?"

Geraldine rose unsteadily to her feet. For the first time since Gerald Branch
had been kidnapped – it seemed so long ago now – there were tears in his eyes.

"Thank you", he said with a quaver in his voice. The two-watt bulb in a
thousand dollar suit felt like a million dollars.

END