Corporate Takeover: The Tradwife Trap Pt. 1

Keep in mind, this is a rough draft. Hope you enjoy it!

The car took Elliot from the regional airport to what had to be the dead center of the middle of nowhere. He should have expected as much from the airport. It was a single tower flanked on either side by parallel runways. The size of the planes the airfield could accommodate had to be no larger than the private jet he flew in on. Despite the sparse appearance, he was met by a black Lincoln and ushered into the back seat by a very pretty young woman with blonde hair under her driver’s hat and a rosy cheeks. It was hard to make out her shape under the suit she wore, but he imagined she had a lithe body beneath. Maybe the body of a dancer, the kind of woman who wasn’t all tits and ass, but knew how to show you a good time in the sheets.

Elliot was likewise impressed by the caliber of women who stationed the front desk of the Janus institute. All of them were young and all of them were pretty, ome quite stunning. If he was going to spend a week at some corporate retreat, at least this one had some nice scenery. And maybe the girls weren’t just for show. He’d heard enough stories about similar retreats overseas where the girls were as much on the menu as the executive lectures. He had an eye on a pretty Asian thing who flitted her eyes up to him when he walked in, the blonde in the cap shouldering his bags at her insistence.

He knew little of the Janus Institute. The whole affair was a gift from his wife. She assured him that the exclusivity of the Janus Institute was one of the reasons he had not heard of the place. Even searches online resulted in little information, other than it did not accept outside reservations. Apparently, you had to be recommended to the place.

He was impressed by the size of the place. Situated in he middle of nowhere, the center building stood high, the first floor inviting with its all-glass entry and rich wooden desks for check-in. On either side of the center,e xtending at gentle angles from the center, were twin arms, three floors high. While the center had no floors above, it rose high above Elliot’s head. A chandelier with soft white light stretched almost the width of the lobby with a series of smaller lights extending at uneven intervals from the ceiling. The resulting effects was of a great star with other, smaller stars falling around it. The fixtures were brass, the trim and furniture deeply-stained wood. The place was expensively furnished if nothing else.

He checked in at the desk on his right. The pretty Asian girl gave him a smile, but it was a dark-haired woman with a nameplate revealing her name as Sherrie.

“”Welcome, Mr. Rogers. We are pleased you made it. If you would like to join the others-“ She gestured to a trio of men seated around a glass coffee table. “-we will be with you shortly to arrange your accommodations. You can leave your bags with us and we’ll take them from here.”

“You need a card or anything for incidentals?”

Sherrie’s soft smile never faltered. “No, Mr. Rogers. Everything has been arranged for you.”

“Nice. Thanks for the hospitality.”

He saw the three men seated in a rough circle in chairs that looked like they cost a month’s salary. Each of them held a drink. One was a bit older, maybe in his late forties or early fifties,w hile the other appeared to be in their mid- to late twenties like Elliot. One of them was a sharply dressed black man, the others white, and the younger Caucasian was gesturing wildly telling a story or joke. Given the bemused expressions on hi slisteners’ faces, Elliot presumed a joke.

When he took a seat, the three men turned to Elliot and each offered a handshake, firm and ters from each of them, and a brief introduction.

The black man was Farrell, a recording engineer from Atlanta. He had a deep voice and a quiet strength that suggested he was a serious man. That stood in contrast to Ted, the joke-teller. Ted was in middle management for one of the big insurance companies and was aiming for an executive office within a couple of years. Jason was the third, the older one, who was in advertising and had taken a red-eye from New York City to make the trip to the wilds of middle America.

“Elliot Rogers,” he told them, “I’m in financial planning. My wife booked me here for the week as a birthday present.”

“My boss sent me,” Ted offered. “Said this was a special place for advancement. I couldn’t find shit about the place online.”

“Likewise,” Jason agreed.

“That’s either very good or very bad,” Farrell said. “I don’t trust a place run entirely by women. Not unless it’s a brothel.”

The men had a laugh at that, but Farrell never cracked a smile.

“As our senior member,” Ted said, “maybe Jason knows more about this place than the rest of us. Surely some of the others from your company have been here.”

Jason shrugged and sipped somet8ing iceless and brown from a heavy glass. “Not that I’ve ever heard. Maybe I’ve been there long enough o earn something special.”

“Mr. Rogers?”

Another of the attendants was beside Elliot’s chair. She wore a blue-skirted business suit and Elliot saw that she had lovely big tits under the white silk blouse. He loved it when he could make out the line of bra beneath a top, and this girl’s, Belinda according to the nameplate pinned to the suit coat, were visible and suggestive of gorgeous round orbs.

“May I get you something to drink?”

“I’ll have Scoth, best you’ve got.”

“Will Aberlour suffice?”

“Perfect. And neat.”

She nodded and excused hjerself.

“What is with the ladies here?” Elliot said, lowering his voice so it didn’t carry in the expanse of the lobby.

“I know, right?” Ted was quick to reply. “They are so hot. I have my eye on Sherrie there at the desk.”

“Good luck,” Farrell grunted. “Lady like that is all smiles when she’s on the clock, but she’s got expensive taste. I guarantee it.”

Elliot merely nodded and eyed the staff as they milled about, doing the work of keeping the mysterious institute operating. It would be, he decided, an eventful week.

Raquel Benson crossed her legs beneath the glass desk, hearing the sigh escape her before she knew it was coming. The files spread before her on the desk represented a new phase in the Janus Institute’s processes. An evolution, if you will. She and the staff had only ever done two cases at a single time, and here they were with four men in the lobby. She tucked a long strand of chestnut hair behind and ear and stared at the open files. She rifled through the paper work of the one named Elliot Rogers, as if she did not know the contents of each of the files by heart.

The process employed by the Institute had been a rousing success so far. In only a year, they had managed to successfully rehabilitate four men into something better. That was the thought that kept the other, more complicated thoughts at bay. While four men were noe living as women out there in the world, unaware of their lives before their conversion, now the Institute would double its patient load in a few weeks. She closed her eyes. She breathed.

The other curiosity that nagged at her in these moments intruded. She believed she could handle all four of the patients, but even if she did, how was she able to operate the Janus Institute? While Raquel was brilliant, and a handsome woman at least, she was not independently wealthy. And the Janus Institute required a great deal of capital to operate. Not only the building itself, but the development of the processes, the hiring of experts in many fields, all of whom worked on a piece of the total project so no individual besides Benson and her staff would know the final goal of the research. And there was that staff, who all needed to be paid well for their discretion and expertise. It didn’t hurt that the staff was also conditioned to forget much of their work when they left for the day, but the high rates of pay also encouraged their silence when it came to all things Janus Institute. And so the question floated again to the top of her mind. Who was paying for all of this?

The checks came, and she would receive occasional letters from the mysterious benefactor, an individual who would supply not only money, but three of the first four subjects for the Institute’s work. She would receive a package containing a profile of the men who would undergo the process. Theyw ere all of a type. High-end A-type personalities, go-getters in the corporate world, and men who had stepped on women every step up that corporate ladder. And so Benson knew that the work she was doing was a form of justice. That did nothing to abate her curiosity. She resolved to find the name of the man or woman funding the Institute, but in a manner that would not cease funding for her work. That was the most important thing. The work she did was good. It was valuable. And it would not be halted by her own idle curiosity.

There was a rap at the door.

“Come in,” she said.

Julie entered, leading with her head. She was fresh-faced and pretty, her auburn hair wrapped in a bun this morning. One would never know that she had not been born a woman. She was one of Benson’s first, and a source of great pride for the scientist.

As part of the process, Julie’s old identity was entirely erased. She grew up as a young, very troubled man named James. James was on his way to a life in and out of prison. Through her work, benson replaced that dangerous personality with one of subservience, a young womn devoted equally to helping people through nursing, and to Raquel Benson. A little blind loyalty went a long way.

“They’re here, Dr. Benson,” she announced.

“Come in,” Benson said with a wave of her hand.

Julie stepped in, looking smart in black leggings and a houndstooth skirt and white sweater. Benson took a moment to observe the young woman. She appeared as any college-age girl, which was a miracle unto itself. James Reavers was in his mid-thirties. Part of the process benson perfected allowed her to turn back the clock, both the body and the mind. Julie was attentive and quite attractive. Benson wondered sometimes if she was sexually active. She had the anatomy for it, another part of Benson’s process that was lightyears ahrad of most plastic surgery. There was little sign of the male genitalia that existed before the surgeries. As far as Julie knew and believed, she suffered a minor accident that required her to have surgery. This accounted for both any questions about the few scars which remained, and the occasional gaps in memory. Benson no longer had a need to condition Julie in the training room. She was a whole person, and thus needed no convincing of who she was. In many ways, she was Benson’s crowning achievement. A completely autonomous nurse, who might adore and admire Benson, but was free to live her life as she saw fit.

“Something I can help you with?” Julie looked confused and a little uncomfortable under Benson’s gaze.

“No, sorry. Tell the staff to ready the rooms. I’ll be down to greet our guests in a moment.”

Julie nodded and left. Benson closed the open files and stacked them neatly in the center of the desk. It was time to begin.

The men looked up as if a single entity, eyes raising together to find Benson appearing from around the corner of the west wing of the building. She was announce dby the sound of her expensive heels tapping on the marble floor. Each man in their own way evaluated the woman. She had visible curves without presenting herself in a purely sexual fashion. Though one’s mind might wander to the erotic seeing suc a professional woman dressed in well-tailored clothes. Her chestnut hair was down and draped over her shoulders, with a careful style to the tips and her bangs. Around one wrist was a gold bracelet, and a matching necklace hung from her neck. Like all of the woman, they were elegant and attractive, never ostentatious. She extended a hand an shook with each of them. It was a quick, formal handshake, before she began her prepared speech, working to make it sound as natural as she was able.

“It is a pleasure to have you all with us. My name is Raquel Benson, and I am the director of the Janus Institute. I know each of you have questions about what you will be doing for the next week, and I assure you that will all be answered in time. This place offers some unique opportunities to make yourselves better than you might ever dream. And so I ask you to keep an ope mind and enjoy this facility and all it offers.”

Ted snickered. “Do the amenities include the ladies at the desk? Or the ones bringing us this very fine booze?”

Elliot saw that a storm flitted across Benson’s face and passed just as quickly as it had come.

“The women who work at the Institute are here to assist in any way they can. But that does not extend past simple hospitality. This is a work retreat, Mr. Corlew, not a casino.”

Farrell stood and straightened his tan suit jacket. “So, when do we start?”

“As soon as your rooms are ready. It won’t be long, I assure you. In the meantime, please enjoy the amenities we provide.”

“My wife set all this up for me. Don’t we get any hints at what’s to come?”

Benson nodded, her slender fingers threaded together at her waist. “I assure you, all your questions will soon be answered. I must excuse myself for now, but I wanted to greet you all personally.”

“A pleasure,” Jason smailed, half-standing before resuming his seat.

Benson was walking away already. She’d seen more than enough to decide that she felt no guilt in guiding these men down a new path. Her benefactor really knew how to pick them. Her brief meeting with them was less about politeness than it was about getting a look at the men for herself. She needed to know what raw materials she was working with. And, just as the files and the pictures therein suggested, each of them made good candidates for the process. None were too old, and their body types were average to quite athletic. Farrell, in particular, was well-toned, something Benson noted even with the softened edges of his suit. Early work suggested that such a body type was quick to change. Something about the fificiency of hormone delivery, she suspected, but this would require more research. Farrell was a gift in gathering more data.

The elevator whispered up to her office floor. Julie was waiting for her inside the office.

“Any adjustments?” she asked.

“They are all fine candidates. Are the rooms prepared?”

“They are.”

Benson felt her stomach flutter as the most ambitious work the Janus Institute had done sat waiting for her word.

“Do it,” she said.

Two of them were led through the double-doors of the west wing while Elliot and Jason were led in the opposite direction. Much like any hotel worth its salt, the floors were carpeted in the long hall. Paintings hung on the walls, and there were some examples of statuary and vase son pedestals spaced regularly on their journey. The difference wa sin the richness of the carpet, which showed no sign of being well-worn like most resorts and hotels. There were no numbers on the door, either. That Elliot found exceedingly odd.

They were led by two of the young women, both very pretty, both wearing pleasant smiles that were decidedly cool. Jason tried a come-on with one of them, but she gave him a polite and quiet rebuff and continued down the hall. She paused with Jason before one unmarked door.

“Please follow me,” the woman assigned to Elliot said, ushering him on while Jason’s attendant keyed a number into a pad by the door. That was a lot of security for a simple hotel door, he thought, and then they moved around ben of the hall.

“Your room is just this way. I hope you find it to your liking.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. And the luggae is already there?”

“Everything you need awaits.”

“Very fancy,” Elliot teased.

The woman said nothing. Her smile neither grew nor did it falter. When she stopped at his door, she keyed a number into the pad just as her counterpart had.

“Please step inside.”

She pushed the door open. Elliot nearly winced when he saw the glare of white greet him as the door swung open. His head swam with the good scotch he drank, nearly four tumblers of the stuff before one of the attendants took it from him in anticipation of his journey to his room. He did as she asked, mouth agape.

A plain cot was supported by metal beams from one wall. A television hung high on the wall opposite the cot. Through a door to his right, Elliot saw a bathroom that was free of any decoration, just as the walls of the main room were. Room. It was more of a cell.

“I think there’s some mistake,” he said, turning to his companion. She was on the other side of the threshold. Elliot had only a moment to register the fact that he was fully inside the room and she was not before she pulled the heavy dor closed and Elliot heard the whirr of a lock turn.

“What the fuck?” he growled and seized the doorknob. He tried twisting it, but it would not budge. Panic welled inside him. The back of his throat burned with fear and animal energy. He kicked the door, unsure what he expected, but only the dull thump of the strike answered him.

He spun, looking for some means of escape. He found in the upper corner of the main room was a camera, aimed down at him, secured by a cage around it if he could even reach the damned thing. There was also a vent, and it was this that stole his attention now. He saw pink plastic streamers tied to it, their rapid wave informing him that air was coming in. What concerned him was the way the air wavered, the way it does above gasoline. An odor filled the room, medicinal and tart. His mouth dried up and the buzz of alcohol was joined by a feeling of lightness. He had taken three breaths and then the ground was rushing up at him, his legs giving out and a darkness overtook him.

That darkness was not empty. There were voices inside it. Images came after, pictures of his wife flickering on the screen of his mind. She was laughing at him, cupping a hand over her mouth with one hand, pointing at him with another. Elliot looked down at himself and found he was not wearing his clothes. He was dressed in a woman’s outfit. The dress flared at his hips and was snug around his torso, with long sleeves and polka dots decorating it. His feet were shoved into low heels, and a string of pearls hung around his neck. He looked like a hairy and masculine Donna Reed. He held the pearls when his gaze returned to his wife. She still pointed. Still laughed. And Elliot could only blush while shame burned inside him.

It was amazing how, with the click of a mouse, Benson could see all of her patients in one quick carousel of images. They were asleep now, having been sedated with gas and then placed on the cots after Julie led the nursing team in the first round of injections. They pulled some blood, too, which would be done often to ensure the safety of the patients. The goal was not to harm them, after all. They were special. Important.

A pop-up on the computer screen told her that her benefactor was attempting to reach her. She opened a tab blinking at the bottom of her screen. Their operation ran on a secure VPN, and only Benson’s staff onsite and the benefactor had access. This allowed her mystery funder to contact her at any time she was in front of her computer.

How are our boys?

Good, she typed. Resting. They’ve received initial injections and the gas will keep them sedated for a few more hours. Subliminals are already playing from the televisions to start the conditioning.

Very good. I am eager to see the results. You work has been sterling so far.

Thank you. I would be happy to thank you for the opportunity in person.

In time. Are you using the new gas?

Yes, she answered, frustrated by another dodge that might give her any hints as to her benefactor’s identity. The gas is infused with a compound of my own devising. It should make their bodies very receptive to the hormone treatment and will further reduce any will to resist.

You are a marvel. What is the next step?

To build them up, we must first break them down. They are still resting. Once they wake, we’ll begin the process of replacing their existing personas with the ones we’ve built for them.

I look forward to seeing the results. Keep up the excellent work, Dr. Benson.

A message appeared: SERVER DISCONNECT.

Her benefactor was gone.

The glare hit him first. The room was so goddamned white. His arm draped over his eyes and Elliot groaned. It took a long minute for him to remember what happened. There was good scotch and the pretty girl leading him to the room and then… He pushed himself up into a siotting position on the cot. He remembered falling on the floor before everything went black, so someone must have come in after. Also, there was a gauze bandage wrapped around his forearm. He pulled it free and found a small purpling bruise there. The fuckers shot him up. Or took blood. Either way, he was in a bad spot.

His body creaked when he rose. He felt hungover, and not just because of the scotch. These bitches had given him something. Slipped him a mickey, as the old detectives said. And even his clotheses were taken. He was in a white jumpsuit with short sleeves, a white pair of socks, and apparently nothing else. The roomw as just as he remembered it. Further inspection showed him a toothbrush and toothpaste, some soap in the shower, and a pair of white towels. There was no remote for the television, nor any buttons he could find to turn it on.

“Hey,” he called up to the camera staring down like some dark eye. “What’s going on here? Is this some kind of extreme game or something?” He waved his hands over his head until it felt foolish to do so. There were no answers and no replies from the other side of the door.

The panic was turning to rage inside him. He roared, slammed his body against the door. It didn’t budge a bit. He tugged at the cot with the same result. These rooms were built for men like him to go mental inside them with little damage to the furnishings. When he gave up his attempts at destruction, he sat heavily on the edge of the cot, resting his head in his hands.

Emily. That whore. She must be behind this. She was the one who suggested he come here, had made all the plans for the trip. He didn’t know what the endgame was, but once he got out of here, he’d put his hands around her throat and squeeze and squeeze… Apparently, his wife misunderstood whow as in charge in the marriage. That was his fault. For too long he had let her slide with all the grocery delivery services and hiring cleaners for the house. He was the one bringing home the proverbial bacon, he was the one providing for them. And this is how she repaid him? With this betrayal? Oh yes, he would make sure she understood just what kind of mistake she made in sending him to this place.

He stood up fast when he heard the door click. He tensed, ready to launch himself through it as soon as it opened, but he hesitated. It was another of the pretty girls, this one auburn-haired and delicate, and he instinctually paused, unsure if he should hit something so pretty and so fragile. He missed the two women flanking her, one of whom had something in her hand. And it was aimed at him.

Wires snaked out of the thing and hooked in the flesh of his thigh, piercing the thing jumpsuit. His body tensed, every muscles suddenly frozen.

“Sorry for the jolt, Mr. Rogers. We need ed to make sure you were in a position to listen. You have lots of questions, I know, and I’m here to answer the most important one. There is no mistake. You are here because someone decided this was the best place for you. After a series of treatments, you will be released and will be free to pursue your happiness. In the meantime, I can only implore you to do as we ask. It will all go much easier that way. You will be treated with medicine and with one-on-one therapy sessions with Dr. Benson. In time, you will understand what is expected of you. For now, all that we need is for you to understand that we are in control. If you misbehave, further measures will be taken.”

She turned her head slightly toward the woman over her left shoulder without moving her eyes away from Elliot. The woman who did not hold the device currently freezing Elliot in place stepped around Julie. In her hand was a small bottle, the kind you might use to water a plant with at home. She aimed it at Elliot’s face and squeezed the trigger. Cool droplets coated his mouth, half-openw ith the seizure of his muscles. It was bitter, but the revolt he felt at the taste of the stuff lasted only a moment. Soon, he was unconscious again. The work could begin.

He was no longer in the white room. That was an improvement. Instead, he was gently reclined in a well-cushioned chair. His mind went to the spa chairs he saw in nail salons, or maybe the chair dentists used to work over their patients. And in sharp contrast to the white room, this was dark, a very dim light coming from some unkiown source. He was unable to run his head. A strap secured him at his forehead, and he could feel more at his wrists and ankles and across his legs and torso. He no less frozen than he had been by the taser device, though he could speak.

“What the hell is going on?”