Finally Meeting Monsieur Beaumont

Standing just outside of the villa's master bedroom, Smith carefully adjusted his black, silky lingerie as he mentally prepared himself to finally meet the so-called Monsieur Beaumont, the man that he had been tracking down for years and the man that had done this to him as well.

Just a week ago, Smith had been one of the most experienced and resourceful agents that Interpol had. Throughout his countless years at the agency, he had risen through the ranks, becoming one of its top agents and thus leading some of the most delicate investigations such as the one he was currently doing.

For many years now, he had been investigating an international crime organization and its leader, a mysterious man who was only ominously known as Monsieur Beaumont. And finally, after so many complications and unexpected change-of-plans that such an investigation entailed, he had finally been able to find a concrete lead that led him towards an isolated villa in Southern France and where hopefully the so-called Monsieur Beaumont was supposed to be staying.

He had done all the preliminary preparations in order to go to the area where the villa was, confirm that the target was indeed there, and then let Interpol know that. But unfortunately for Smith, there was a double agent at his agency, meaning that soon after getting into the vicinity of the villa, he was ambushed, knocked out, and captured.

This would have been a death sentence in any other situation, but to his surprise, he soon learned that Monsieur Beaumont had other plans for him.

It was when he woke up that he saw what they had done to him. For some reason, instead of being disposed of, he had been transformed into a trophy wife for Monsieur Beaumont, bearing the spitting image of a demure Frenchwoman and all the things that came alongside it:

A small pair of perfectly formed breasts that weighed upon his now-small chest, a thick mane of luscious brown hair that flawlessly cascaded down his petite torso, a svelte figure that highlighted the wide hips and smooth thighs he now had, a small, sensitive slit between his legs that announced into existence his new womanhood, a gorgeous, feminine visage that exuded both allure and charm, and to finish it all, a marked French accent that was thick-yet-pleasing to the ear.

Such a profound physical transformation would have left most men in shock, but that wasn't the case for Smith, not only because he was renowned at the agency for maintaining his composure even at the worst of moments, but more importantly, also because the transformation didn't just target his body.

It also targeted his mind as well.

He still didn't know what exactly they had done to him, but no matter how much he tried to be furious and defiant, he simply couldn't force himself to feel like that. Instead, his mind now seemed to be permanently fixed on how it could please his new husband in every single possible way.

And yet, despite how it was beyond clear that he was now irreversibly stuck as an obedient trophy wife, there was something at the back of his mind that Smith couldn't stop thinking about. He didn't now if this was just the mental changes that had been forced unto him, a genuine sentiment from his part, or most probably a combination of the two, but for some reason, he couldn't help himself from feeling admiration for the man who had done this to him.

If the so-called Monsieur Beaumont had been capable of evading not only Interpol, but also a top agent like him, then maybe this was how things were meant to be. He had played the game of chess against that man, and he had lost, now destined to become the perfect trophy wife for Monsieur Beaumont.

Why perfect?

Perfect because only a trophy wife with such an experienced background as his was ever going to be able to truly comprehend and acclaim just what a hard-won and encomendable feat that was.

And with that, he finally opened the door to the master bedroom, eager to speak with his new husband, ask him all the questions he had, and do whatever he asked of him.