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."
