A Trophy Wife

Gentle reader, welcome! The following is a description of the porn that you are about to read:

A chromed out bodyguard for a cybernetics CEO discovers that not only has she been lied to by her boss, but that she's been slowly altered over time to go from muscular butch powerhouse to helpless bimbo housewife. All at the behest of The Most Toxic Cis Woman Alive who has grown herself a cock specifically to do a toxic masculinity. Fucking unbelievable, what a jerk.

The story features themes of sexism, forced feminization, exploitation in capitalism, forced identity suppression/alteration/downloading, non-consensual mind control and body modification, orientation play, humiliation and degradation, brief moment of extreme bondage including breath control as the character is strapped into a box like a doll, forced pregnancy, and just...wow, this is a lot.

If any, and I mean any of this makes you uncomfortable, please do not press forward. I promise, with many air kisses blown your way (if desired!), that I will not take offense. But if, dear reader, you find the description kinda hot in a fucked up way (like I do)...I hope you enjoy!

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One thing Ann had told her employer, over and over again, was that when it came to security, the details were everything.

Sure, you could get by winging it in the short term, or if all you were guarding was some off-books chemslingers or a scriptchipper with a grievance. But as soon as she was risking her life for someone worth a damn, she needed to tick all the boxes. Because if you don't, the other side will, and an assassin's bullet won't look at your income statements before leaving out the back of your head.

The New Years Party was moving along with a draftsman's precision. From the lighting to the catering to the entertainment provided by a live band of extremely talented performers working off a fraction of their implant debt, every aspect of the affair had been choreographed to achieve perfection. The location alone had required weeks of preparation, with the enormous rooftop gardens of Crassus Towers entirely remodelled to suit the purpose of hosting such an affair. All to the exacting whims of Zaklina Krole, Chief Technology Officer for Apotheo Systems.

But such was always the case for the end-of-year corporate bacchanal. An exclusive, memorable event that even the fringes of upper management were turned away instead of more prestigious guests. The movers and shakers from the top echelons of the Five were in attendance, along with their significant others, retainers, and bodyguards. Smaller corps, the ones who nibbled at the heels of giants, also put their best foot forward where they could wrangle a spot. Other notables included actors, politicians, and anyone who could trade in a favour. Just to attend was a privilege, because it got you in earshot of the people that mattered.

That's why, when an otherwise nondescript man approached from the sparkling badinage, sliding between a gorgeous woman in a dress made of bioluminescent bonewire and a man whose memorable voice belonged to a dead actor, Ann noticed he was wearing an off-the-rack suit. Expensive, yes. Well accessorized cufflinks, charming bowtie. But anyone invited to an Apotheo Systems function paid for the tailor. Most owned their own. So he couldn't be a guest, and no invitee would be caught dead with such a slovenly +1.

But he wasn't staff either. Her neural rig had a photo of every member registered to work both security and catering, and a quick facial recognition scan confirmed that he was on neither. That got her moving, her augmetic fingers daintily placing the crystal glass of champagne she was nursing on a passing tray before she cranked down their sensitivity and activated her support spine. It glowed neon scarlet beneath the laces of her backless ebony dress. Soon, even the most detached of corporate stooges noticed there was something amiss.

The third detail would be missed by almost anyone: his haircut. Current masc fashion for this crowd had long backs, shorn sides. There was some room for variation; here at the top any presentation was possible. But this man's sideburns were long, the sides of his head grown just long enough to cover his temples: the traditional installation site for several generations of military grade neural jacks.

So when the man in the mildly unfashionable haircut reached into his too large jacket, by the time his fingers were on the grip of the Traekia-13 snubnose pistol, Ann's hand was already clamped around his wrist.

"Easy way or the hard way," she hissed into his ear, feeling him try to pry himself loose. "Hard way is you come to the coat check near the elevator with me. Quietly. Easy way..." She squeezed onto his wrist, and the same fingers that clasped the delicate crystal glass threatened to snap the delicate bones in his wrist like matchsticks.

"Corpo bitch," the man hissed. "You think you're safe? The moment you aren't useful, they'll put you down."

Squeeze. The man screamed, her hand clamping over his mouth just a second too late. Damn. She hated to make a scene. She hauled his squirming, shaking body out of the room while a crowd of people making phone number salaries dutifully found other topics of conversation for the duration. He almost slipped away once, but her (stylized, steel toed) flats kicked out his knee and he sank. For a moment, she remembered that her boss had tried to get her to wear heels to this affair. Heels! Ann had told her straight out that she could either wear heels, or be able to keep her safe. She was glad Zaklina had caved. Heels...fuck's sake.

She frogmarched him past the halfway point, his strength pitiful next to her augmetics. The building's security looked at her approach like chastened children seeing their mother arrive after work. Two of them took him by the shoulders and hauled him to the elevator, likely to the operation station that had sprawled over the underground parkade. Ann looked at the logo on their sleeves.

"Tell your supervisor that if a man with a pistol gets past Cuchulain SSC again, we're blacklisting you. Good luck getting a contract with any of the Five again." Letting the babbled apology fall on deaf ears, she turned toward the party, and returned to passive observation.

Across the room, the wake she'd cut in the festivities still lingered. She could see her charge, looking quite resplendent in a dress of shimmering red/gold scales that changed its hue distribution depending on what angle you viewed it at. It left her sleeves and the lower part of her legs bare, all to show off her own augs that were lightyears ahead of Ann's. They matched Zaklina's skintone, and would be unidentifiable as machine parts save for a thin threading of gold through the joints and at strategic intervals. Like the Japanese art of kintsugi, the imperfections making the whole more gorgeous than had they not appeared at all.

Ann returned to her charge through the wake she'd cleaved in the crowd. As she retraced her steps, the party guests rejoined into a contiguous whole. Like a zipper closing on a body bag.

"Masterful work as always dear," the CTO declared, voice loud enough for all but the most deaf of spies and bugs to hear. She had a particular cadence to her voice when she knew she was 'on'. She even put on a BozWash accent, mimicking that archaic rhythm of speech found today only in newscasters and period dramas set in the decades before the Whiteout. "And I see your 3G Apotheo augs are still more than a match for the rabble. Ann, darling, be a good girl and show these lovely people your arms."

Polite applause followed. Rather than gracefully slide away from the hired help, the room's eyes landed upon Ann. She didn't like it. To be seen was fine. To be respected--desired, even--that was enjoyable. But to...preen? Be paraded? She froze, unsure what to do at this moment. Zaklina appeared at her side, having crossed the remaining distance between them with impressive alacrity, given her pumps.

Suppressing a sigh, Ann rolled up the half sleeves of her dress, showing the myomimetic material of her upper arms. Once bleeding edge, now a collector's item. Prominent on the outer chassis was the glowing red triangular mountain and stylized rocket ship in a breakaway orbit. Beneath it, the name of her employer. Her benefactor.

Apotheo Systems.

The shooter had gotten far too close without help. Could this be an inside job? Could there be a second shooter? Time slowed in her perception as her awareness momentarily left her corporeal form. She cleaved the IntraNet apart, her high tier of clearance and panoply of rig scripts let her mind read classified and darknet sites as easily as one scrolled their social media. Cross referencing the address and date, she found a call for a hitman on a disreputable local site. Someone offering a literally incredible amount of corporate credit to pay for the hit.

The applause was flagging as she found the bank account of the assassin. Even as the man was on his way to be interrogated, the credit that had propelled him to homicide already trickling away into a dozen different shells. All run by the same master.

She turned to face Zaklina, whose red lips (the same proprietary shade of red as the logo on Ann's arms) had parted to reveal a perfectly white smile.

"Why?" Ann asked, her anger barely contained behind a mask of professional detachment.

"Yours is not to reason why, sweetiepie," she said, then winked. Like putting out a contract on her own life was just some whimsical practical joke. As the guests' attentions drifted once more to ramming home conversational pitons for their own social climbing, her boss' mouth hovered close enough to Ann's ear that her breath made the back of the bodyguard's neck prickle in gooseflesh.

"Meet me in the penthouse after Avanti's performance. I have a belated Christmas gift for my number one employee. And change out of that wonderful dress and into something more...practical, would you dear? One of those cute suits you like. I want you at your most comfortable for what I have in mind." She turned on her heels and left without broaching further conversation, making apologies to select sycophants on her way toward the elevator. Confused, all Ann could do was watch the sway of her boss' hips. They were almost hypnotic. Entrancing...it was hard to look away.

A twitch. She felt something in the back of her mind. A little itch. She clawed at it, and something came loose.

Since when did I start ogling women?

"If I could have your attention," came a voice over the rooftop's audio system, previous piping in the live music to places where it might be muffled by the wind, "As Q4 comes to a thrilling conclusion, I'd like to be the first to congratulate all of you who helped make this our most profitable year on record!"

Enthusiastic applause from all but the highest in rank, those for whom the credit truly rested and thus would seem self-congratulatory to be clapping for themselves. By the time it sputtered to a halt, Zaklina was gone, and the crowd had begun to mill toward the stage. The musicians had been cleared out, and standing on the raised platform was Avanti Martins, Chief of Product Development. A frivolous man with zero taste and even fewer scruples, he'd been poached from DynaMech two years ago, taking with him much of their augmetic design department.

"The new year is going to bring in wondrous things for us in the Apotheo Systems family. And tonight, as a very special treat, I'd like to show off a new product line that's in early development and trials. Betty, if you'd be so kind?"

All eyes turned to a gorgeous woman striding onto stage. Her four inch black stilettos clicked with every step, and it took a moment for Ann to notice that they were not shoes. The heels were her heels; a part of her cybernetic legs as much as the knees and shin. She wore a black skirt that barely cleared the barrier to be worn outside of a strip club, but the plunging neckline on her light pink blouse made it clear this was a costume, not an outfit to be worn by a serious person. Her enormous breasts were not hindered by even the hint of a bra, yet only managed a gentle, distinctive wiggle as she walked. Never sagging, but always clearly unrestrained. The sleeves of the garment were rolled up, showing off a set of matching arms to the legs. Long nails in the same light pink as her top and her lips made doing things other than look pretty a challenging prospect.

Her lips. Those stole Ann's attention entirely, because they were wholly unnatural things. Luxurious, pillowy creations that resembled the outer bounds of a sextoy than something that belonged on a humanoid form. Something about them transfixed her, beyond their uncanny nature. She couldn't quite...

"Good evening, guests!" the lips spoke in a cloying, high-pitch voice. "My name is Betty Wylde, and I am not real!"

A mix of confused laughter and looks from the crowd, punctuated by the woman on stage giving a flirty little giggle.

"Isn't she a treat?" Avanti said, clapping as he slipped an arm around her waist. "This little number is the latest project my team's been cooking up. Combining our previous highly successful customizable assistant DOL program with our recently acquired assets from Tannhauser-Krupp Integrated Love Solutions, and utilizing the latest in dynamic learning artificial intelligence protocols, we've developed the first of a new line of intelligent, yet entirely subservient gynoids. Presenting: the very first Good Girl!"

Enthusiastic applause now, even from the C-Suite types. Ann kept her arms folded, growing increasingly disturbed by the performance. The doll, robot...thing on stage took the applause as for her entirely, and did a little wave. Her face even blushed.

"Is smiling and waving all she can do?" one of the nameless +1's asked, his partner pushing him lightly as he spoke.

"Oh, don't you worry," Avanti replied with a practiced chuckle, "These Girls are fully functional in all the ways that matter. All the augmetics we tested in our 'Your Gender, Your Way' initiative were instrumental in designing a body that responds to the whims of even the most discerning customer. Observe." Avanti motioned off stage, where a man brought out a dildo of absurd girth and length. A parody of masculine virtue. He held it out to the gynoid, tip first.

"Is this for me?" she asked bashfully.

"It is! Be a good girl and make this disappear, would you?"

A shudder rolled up Ann's spine. She chalked it up forcefully to revulsion, but she stared with rapt attention as the machine woman opened her enormous, fuckhole lips and slipped them onto the head of the phallus. Then, without any further prompting or a need to breathe, she pushed forward, letting the impossibly sized prick glide down her throat and practically reach her stomach. Or where her stomach would be if she needed one. He continued his pitch, all while the gynoid's mouth stayed obediently corked.

"The first rollout will be with this preloaded personality: a slutty, subservient secretary we plan to market as Miss Betty Wylde. But we've got our AI trainers working on a full line of purchasable, slottable character chips, each playing off a distinctive archetype that our data scrapers say has mass market appeal." He pulled back his hand, sliding the dildo from her mouth. A drool equivalent coated the shaft, leaving her mouth a sloppy, wet mess. But at no point did she try to remove it herself, or shudder, or choke. Her mouth was made, first and foremost, to be used for pleasure.

When 'Betty' spoke again, it was with spit still dangling from her lips. "Thank you all for your attention. And if you'd like a more active demonstration, please attend to me in the utility closet. I'd love to show you some of my other...skills~"

More applause, more laughter, but Ann was already leaving. Disgusting. This whole fucking company was run by fucking moronic men and their impulses. Save her boss, of course, but she doubted Zaklina would agree with her. She was CTO, after all. If this was a product of research and development, she would have cleared it. Hell, she would have spearheaded it.

By the time Ann pressed the button to descend to her apartment, she was questioning everything.

***

Something is wrong.

Ann stared at herself in the mirror of her bathroom. It had been almost twenty minutes since she returned to her apartment on the penultimate floor of Crassus Towers, one floor down from Zaklina's penthouse suite. She's quickly stripped out of the dress, feeling like herself standing naked and free of the frivolous garment. But when she looked at her own reflection, truly gazing at it and not just quick peeks to confirm her makeup was in place or her bra strap was out of sight, she could see that something...off about her reflection.

She'd always presented in a butch fashion. Her hair ran on the shorter side, even when younger. She only got her ears pierced after she'd gotten her neural rig installed, the pinprick of pain making her laugh at the triviality of it in comparison. Over time, she'd made compromises to her preferred aesthetics in order to conform to particular expectations. Apotheo Systems felt like it hadn't changed its dress code in centuries.

But as she touched the part of the mirror reflecting her lips, she knew in her heart that they were wrong. They still held the glossy dark red lipstick, and as she moved to wipe off the colouring, the lips looked unnaturally large. But these were how they always looked, right? She tried to remember any time when she'd noticed her features as particularly noteworthy. No, she'd always been tall. She'd always been...

Her breasts. They were large, and they had been since they'd grown in, right? She strained to remember a time when she didn't feel these heavy weights on her chest, of worrying about having them pop out at an inopportune time when she was trying to do her job. But before she took this job, she wore suits all the time, and they'd never bothered her then...

There were other little things that were nagging at her. The scars from previous fights were all gone, despite never having gone for dermal regen treatment. And strangest of all: she was horny. Too horny, and horny for all the wrong things.

Ann wasn't asexual, but she ran fairly cold with libidinal matters. It took a lot to get her in the mood, and few men were fit to lick her boots, let alone press her to the mattress. As her mind went back to the gynoid on display, the perverse assemblage of parts crudely grafted together to entice the most base of male desires. Seeing her pert lips giggle, watching that cock just vanish down her throat...

Ann jolted. Her fingers had drifted between her legs. She was about to masturbate? To the sight of a female sextoy? Looking into the woman she saw in the mirror, the confusion only deepened. This wasn't her. Something was affecting her.

Her head shot up. Espionage. It had to be! One of the other Five had infiltrated her with some kind of program that was corrupting her combat readiness. Ann nodded, liking the sound of that explanation. Taking a moment to remove every trace of the makeup that had been plastered onto her face, she dressed back into a proper black suit for protection duty. Zaklina had to be informed. Then, she could go down to Intrusion Security at Apotheo's Headquarters. Whatever was altering her mind would be ripped out, root and stem, and she could get back to her old self.

Mentally, at least. She'd always looked like the woman in the mirror. She couldn't picture looking any other way.

***

Ann tapped her identikey to the elevator's reader, then hit the button for Zaklina's penthouse. A moment later, the door opened onto the immense, decadent space. Richly decorated in the Neo-Industrialist fashion, a roaring fire of actual wood bathed the entrance hall slash open concept living room in light and warmth. Above, a gorgeous trompe-l'œil ceiling designed to fool the eye into thinking this was but the base of a tower that ascended to heaven. At her feet, handcrafted rugs atop a dark wood flooring likely pulled from a forest that no longer existed.