Corporate Takeover: The Tradwife Trap

By Lyka Bloom

In this prequel, Raquel Benson works to perfect her process of turning egotistical men into gorgeous women. As she hones her skills by turning a group of four businessmen into their feminine ideals including a sultry retro pin-up housewife, she works to unravel the mystery of who is funding her project.

A look at the origins of the Janus Institute awaits!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyka Bloom
• Release date: Sep 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215567623

Lyka Bloom

Lyka Bloom writes various forms of fiction, but erotica has become a new passion. She preferstransformations and games of control, and enjoys exploring all the perverse kinks bubbling beneath the surface of sexuality.

Book preview

CORPORATE TAKEOVER: THE TRADWIFE TRAP

by Lyka Bloom

CORPORATE TAKEOVER: THE TRADWIFE TRAP

First Edition. September 2, 2023 at Smashwords.

Copyright © 2023 Lyka Bloom

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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 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, some 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 the 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, extending 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 effect 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 that greeted him.

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, while the others 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 his listeners' faces, Elliot presumed it a joke.

When he took a seat, the three men turned to Elliot and each offered a handshake, firm and terse 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 something iceless and brown from a heavy glass. Not that I've ever heard. Maybe I've been there long enough to 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 a bra beneath a top, and this girl's, Belinda according to the nameplate pinned to the suit coat, were visible and