The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Fascination Uniformed

By Mr. Scade

Chapter 4: Friendly

Her nails were a Rorschach test of mismatched, flaking colours. She turned her hands over, bringing her coiled fingers closer to her face, and then moved her hand away. The faded nail polish, a coating three weeks old, had receded and given way to interesting forms. The black spots looked like cliff sides, or cars, or Dali’s work. She smiled at the comparison. She smiled at things only she could see.

Martie was in the joint bathroom down the corridor, where the only mirror available to her was. She liked having it as far away from her room as possible. Her parents often complained about how little she looked at herself in the mirror—really looked at the image reflected back. They were inoffensive remarks to one who couldn’t tell them apart from the candy-coated lies that represented their disappointment. Martie didn’t need to wonder if they were indirectly telling her they didn’t like how she took care of herself. She knew, and didn’t heed them at all; and yet it bothered her that her parents wouldn’t approve of how she wanted her body to look; it was her body—she could look and dress and act however she desired to.

Fading green, and confusing reds, some golden shades and peroxide shades melded together into a mesh of hair, creating yet another Rorschach test that was like a crown upon her black haired head. Somewhere between lines of red and stripes of gold, she saw not hair but cities and forests, armies of stone fighting against fish riders, and things that would not fit anywhere but in a book. She smiled a painted smile, a slight pull of her lips, a slight twitch of her right cheek, a cute lift of her lower eyelids. Her multi-coloured hair was her pride.

As quickly as it had appeared, the smile faded, turning into a look of mild disgust—she was checking out how she looked.

Cursed be her parents.

Shaking her head, and blaming it on hormones and electrical messages that were usually mistaken for something called love, Martie walked away from the accursed looking-glass. Away from the silver solution that would suck out her soul if given enough time.

Her steps were light as she came down the stairs. Along the wall on her right were windows, tiny panels of glass set into concrete, and she took a passing glimpse through one of them at the grey, threatening nimbostratus clouds shrouding the day with their thick mantle. A muffled noise brought her attention to the ground, and a noise brought a smile to her lips. The girl with the hair of fading-colours opened the window and waved at the person who made her whole thought system get so messed up that she started to care enough to look at her reflection before going out.

“Hey. You comin’ down?” She heard a mumble. The words, however, were obvious on his lips.

Barbo didn’t see Martie nod, as she all but ran and jumped down the stairs to reach him.

* * *

Ysolda stared at the empty crossword puzzle on the newspaper with a feeling of disdain. She read the descriptions of the words, looked at the number of squares, and back at the descriptions. Her pen hovered over the blank squares. Her eyes read over and over, her brain counted and remembered and recalled. Had her mind been a machine, cogs and gears would’ve drowned the house with their music.

Ysolda finished the crossword puzzle in no more than ten minutes.

Yawning loudly, Ysolda stretched on the kitchen chair until her joints popped. “Oow... delicious.” She said as she curled into a ball of smiles, staring at her daughter sitting across from her. Morning sunlight pooled in through a nearby window, making Hildegarde’s golden eyes glimmer.

“What?” Ysolda asked with a broad smile. She reached for a fried plantain sitting on a plate in front of her.

“You’re too loud.” Hildegarde said, humourlessly.

Ysolda raised an eyebrow, smiling sarcastically. “Oh, and you’re not loud? Come on, Hilde, you sound like a dragon when you yawn.”

“I do not sound like a bloody dragon!” Hildegarde said, a little too loud.

Ysolda raised an eyebrow and looked as if thinking of a place far away. “You know, you’re right. You do not sound like a dragon, more like a rhino chocking on chainsaws.”

Hildegarde’s mouth opened and closed, and just as she took in a deep lungful of air to explain why she did not sound like a mammal’s throat full of metal, Ysolda winked, forcing Hildegard to shut up and look away. Ysolda laughed—tt worked every time.

Absentmindedly reaching for a slice of fried plantain, Ysolda asked her daughter for her daily plans. Though she could make an educated guess at her daughter’s plans for the day, if only because there was little stress in the way Hildegarde sat. That had been a constant for the past couple of days. But better to hear the words and be reassured, than to harass a mistake.

So she was surprised when, quite seriously, Hildegarde said, “Oh, you know, school. And then back here. Got to study for a test.”

Ysolda’s eyes widened, but she didn’t allow her surprise to show through. “A test? Really?”

Hildegarde averted her gaze for a second, like a puppy who knew she had done something wrong. She made a sound audible only to her, and returned an annoyed look at her mother. “Yes, a test, mom. I have to study, or I’ll fail the subject.” She said, matter-of-factly.

Ysolda blinked, her eyes the size of bottle bottoms. “Fail a subject?” She leaned closer, her voice suddenly flatter, more direct. “You are failing, Hildegarde?”

Hildegarde’s yellow eyes widened, her pupils almost becoming round. It was as close as normal as they would go, and it didn’t look anything like it. She didn’t meet her mother’s gaze. “Ehm... yes.”

Ysolda straightened, crossing one arm over the other. She tapped the pen against the table, not entirely aware she was doing that. “You, Hildegarde, do not fail subjects. At least you didn’t use to... nor did you used to study.” She raised an eyebrow, her expression changing like a caterpillar in its cocoon. Suddenly deviously inquisitive, her voice was. “Have you met someone interesting?”

Hildegarde reeled back, reptilian eyes looking almost human, round and open, if only feral. “What!? No!” She shook her head and her eyes were back to their normal, chatoyant quality. Her hands held the chair’s arms as if she would break them off. “Of course not, mom. Why do you say that?”

Ysolda laughed, amused by her daughter. “Oh, chill out Hildegarde. Just pulling your leg.” She winked and then reached for another fried plantain.

Ysolda noted the way her daughter stared at her, part anger, and part surprise. Mostly surprise. Oh, she knew how to read her daughter, even when she was acting somewhat out of the ordinary. It was so easy to poke fun at her.

“You’re not worried?” Hildegarde asked, visibly relaxing.

“That you’re failing?” Ysolda shrugged. “School’s school. In the end, it is not that important, really. The grades I got in high school didn’t quite matter in university, and neither did they help me set up my own business.” Ysolda grinned. “Besides, I trust you. If you’re failing, I know you will get around to it. So far you haven’t fucked it up.”

“But... ahm...” Hildegarde seemed in a loss for words—something new. She was considering something. And had a lot in her mind.

“Look, Hildegarde,” Ysolda met Hildegarde’s gaze. Those eyes remind me of her father. She thought, and just as she did the thought never existed in the first place. Ysolda froze for a second as her brain removed the information. Finally, she took a deep breath, and went on as if nothing had passed through her mind. “I trust you. I trust that once you see your failings and the risk of a fuck up you will fix it, or try to, as best as you can. Be it in school or otherwise.” The devious grin returned, like a threat. “Besides, if you repeat it would only be a lesson to you. Repeating a year because you didn’t pay enough attention would be a hard learned lesson you will never forget.”

Hildegarde placed a hand over her mouth, opened her mouth to say something, closed it and finally managed. “You know you would have to pay another year if I fail, right? How come you seem happy at the prospect?”

Suddenly Ysolda’s visage was menacing. Her eyes shone with a fire Hildegarde rarely saw. “Oh, Hildegarde, do not misunderstand. If you fail, I wouldn’t be precisely happy. Disappointed, yes. Angry? Could be. But...” She raised a finger to stop her daughter from talking. The girl needed to hear this. The finger poked her daughter’s nose and the joviality was back. “If paying for another year in that place helps you learn such a life lesson, then I would gladly pay for it.”

Hildegarde looked shocked. Her eyes were wide, her lips quivering. She was digesting the information, just as Ysolda had hoped.

Smiling warmly, the older woman rose to her feet, bringing the last fried plantain towards her mouth. She looked around the kitchen, noting the dirty plates and pans. Then her eyes fell upon the clock mounted on the wall over the refrigerator—6:30am, it read. She frowned slightly, looked at her watch—6:15am. Not prone to trust the fallacies of watch making, Ysolda nudged her daughter’s shoulder.

“Come on.” She twisted her head to the right side, towards the front door and her car.

Hildegarde raised an eyebrow.

“It is getting late. Come, I’ll give you a ride.” Ysolda said and then walked away. She could hear Hildegarde following, heavy boots nearly stomping.

* * *

Ysolda couldn’t decide if it was the air-conditioner, or the change in environment, but there just was something about entering her own business that felt absolutely refreshing. She breathed in the scents of accomplishment, pride and oily fake scents of floor detergent; it was a marvellous thing to breathe. How often could people put a scent to success?

Ysolda cruised through the aisles of the big store, moving in a brisk, quick pace that told all employees that she didn’t need any assistance and was there just to look around and if anyone dared interrupt her they would have their heads rolling on the floor before they could think what the first letter of the word help was. And, of course, she was there just to look. Her incorporeal presence at the store might not allowed her to know what was exactly going on, but she knew exactly what sold and what didn’t, and when. Ysolda cruised the aisles, noting which one was emptier, which section still had the same copies of the same books from last month. None interrupted her as she passed the history section, and no employee pounced on her like carrion eaters when she walked into the music area.

As she looked at the rows upon rows of books, CDs and all manner of things, she couldn’t help but feel elated at the success of the Power of Art. Ysolda had opened the store years ago, and it had started as a small book and art supply shop. As time passed, her store grew in popularity, and the addition of a music section only brought more money in. In time, she moved from building to building, bringing in more and more customers. But it was not until she created a feedback system, and really started communicating with her customers after a specifically slow year that the store took flight. From local artists’ work, to videogames; the Power of Art only grew. It was then that Ysolda saw that her store basically ran itself. She had hired good employees, hired a great manager, and created a near perfect system that sometimes seemed to be sentient. The decision to leave most of the day-to-day business to her manager and concentrate on raising Hildegarde and taking care of the house had been an easy one. A good decision.

Ysolda picked up a vinyl record from the second-hand aisle. An Elvis record. She wondered what history had the enormous record been through. She looked around, noting people of all ages browsing the aisles. Hildegarde is no longer a child... She thought. Her daughter was grown, and she only made Ysolda’s life easier by helping with the chores. No chores, and no work left Ysolda with a lot of free time, which she spent on writing articles, which she could not get printed anywhere. She stopped walking, staring at a box of second hand CDs. The black and white face of a pop singer from the eighties was the only witness of her sudden nostalgia. Perhaps it would be a good idea if she put both hands on the steering wheel for a change. Who knows, maybe she could open a second store, or expand into other markets.

Ysolda took a deep breath and composed herself. She did a second round of the aisles on the teen fiction section of the bookstore since she had seen something off there. After noting that the Harry Potter books were not selling as they used to, she walked into the depths of the store, past the employees’ break room.

No one stopped her as she walked into the manager’s office.

You didn’t stop a woman on a mission. Specially, not Ysolda.

* * *

Martie stared at the house the colour of dried bone. She looked up at the topmost floor, staring into a single, window that stood wide open. Nothing stirred inside. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Then, remembering that no one would ever hear that, she rang the bell. The sound was terrifying.

“Don’t be silly... She stopped biting years ago.” She mused.

Martie, nervously, tapping the floor in a rhythm that had never been heard before. Had she been a musician, she would’ve made a song out of it; an excited, merry song, representing exactly how she felt. Martie looked over her shoulder, at the hedge of thorny flowers. Was it too late to... to what? Turn around? She shook her head and stared again at the door. She was too excited, even after two days. The tune she would compose out of the sound she was producing would express exactly how she felt. Exactly.

Uncontained joy. That was the words she could come up with that came closest to expressing what she felt. Uncontained joy, and a need to tell someone. Maybe the first was coming because of the latter. She was excited to talk to someone about Barbo. And she had decided to talk to Hildegarde. Had she had any other option, she would’ve gone elsewhere. But Hildegarde was... It was complicated. Sometimes, the best option was not always the first.

She rang the bell again. Why did she come here when she could barely contain herself? She looked at her watch—barely half-an-hour after last seeing Barbo, for the second time in this weekend, and she already wanted to see him again. What was going on with her? A wonderful second date, that is what happened. Martie was not in the habit of telling people how she felt or what she did but... but it had been the first actual date she had ever had—the storm-ruined event on Friday notwithstanding. Well, the only date that had actually been a date and then she pinched her own arm for calling it a date. She didn’t go out on dates; Martie Charon went out for enjoyable experiences with certain type of expectations with someone who had equal expectations. Never a date!

She heard the door open before she saw it, and immediately pounced on Lizardeyes, wrapping her arms around her friend.

“Argh!” Hilde steadied herself, arms flailing, eyes wide.

When Martie took a little too long to unwrap herself from Hilde’s body, Lizardeyes pushed her off.

Martie giggled. Use words, damn it!

“I gather your date went well?” Hilde said, cooly, straightening her outfit.

Martie nodded. “Yes, it went wonderful.” She frowned, pointing a finger at Hilde. “And it was not a date, and you know that.”

“Right. It wasn’t, of course.” Hilde looked up from her clothes. She cocked her head towards the inside of the house and, as she turned around and walked inside, said, “Come on in.”

Martie frowned and followed. Had Hilde been straightening creases on her shirt? Martie stopped looking inside her head and looked forward. Hilde was wearing a shirt? That was strange. Is she going somewhere? Martie wondered. Now I feel bad for coming unannounced.

The two walked into the living room. The space was arranged as to allow three out of four sofas to have an uninterrupted view of the LCD television, which was on and had a videogame on pause. Hilde sat on the red sofa facing the television screen. Martie sat on its neighbour.

“What are you playing?” Martie looked at the screen, not recognising what was there. Then again, the last time Martie had touched a videogame she had been eight, and it had been – back then – an old Tetris game.

Hilde unpaused and a symphonic yet aggressive melody filled the room. There was good acting in the voices, and for a second Martie thought she was watching a movie. But then the cinematic sequence stopped and the bald, ash-coloured man she figured was the main character started to kill things, kill a lot of things.

“God of War 3,” Hilde intoned, barely paying attention to the screen as she mashed buttons. That was all Martie could see, fingers moving here and there without any science whatsoever. How could her friend enjoy that?

“Ah.” Martie said.

The only sound in the room was of the game, with its nice music and death screams. Not until Hilde cleaned the area of enemies did she stop at some yellowish thing. She did something Martie ignored and turned off her console. Hilde sat back on the red chair and faced her friend.

“Now, tell me—how did it go?”

Martie thought about Barbo; his scent, strong and soapy; how he made her feel; the way he twisted his nose when he laughed. It had been the first time they had shared time together in that way, and it had been wonderful. They had gone to the park, and then, when she thought it was over, he suddenly grabbed her hand and showed her a part of the park she didn’t know existed – and Martie knew that park as if she had created it. It was a fun experience, to see something new in something old.

“Wonderful.” Martie whispered wistfully, at last. She coughed slightly, averted her eyes and then said in a more neutral tone. “Great. It was great.”

Hilde smirked. “Oh, come on, Martie. Tell me more. I know it was more than just wonderful.”

“I am not saying anything.”

“Of course you aren’t.” There was sarcasm in that voice.

Martie frowned. She was not the type to divulgate her personal occurrences, her feelings or anything that people shouldn’t concern themselves with. And, to Martie, everything about her was something people shouldn’t concern themselves with. Yet her extremely reserved behaviour might be a problem if she wanted a relationship. She blinked, straightening. She wanted a relationship? She, Martie, who hated people?

“Martie?” Hilde inquired, worried at her friend’s sudden silence.

“He took me to a place in the park I didn’t know existed.” Martie blurted out. Her eyes focused on something on the wall behind Hilde.

Hilde perked up, waiting for more information but Martie fell silent again, her eyes a billion, billion miles away. She sighed, stood, and softly slapped Martie twice. “Hey, out with it.”

Martie blinked, startled, she pulled into herself, batting away Hilde’s hand. “What? What!?”

“You started talking and then suddenly stopped. Come on, keep going.”

There was a frown and then the ghost of a smile. So, that was how it was going to be from now on whenever either of the two fell silent? “You know how I used to say that I would never be able to fall in love? Love is an ideal of a forgone age? Well, I stand corrected.”

There are many types of silences, some are dreadful, others are calm, others are enjoyable. This was the type of silence that allowed you to realise people had matured. Martie could see the thoughts plainly painted of Hilde’s face, the look and pull of muscles screamed “It was about time you joined the real world”. Martie hated herself somewhat for being what she had done to get that type of reaction. It wasn’t often that Hildegarde Canto showed such a warm emotion.

“Oh, come on, Hilde. Stop smiling like that.” Martie moaned but ended up laughing. She pushed Hilde’s shoulder but the girl didn’t stop laughing. “I am serious.”

“So- So—” Hilde tried to say in between gasps of laughter. “Martie, you do not know how- how...” And she burst into a small fit of laughter.

Martie frowned.

“Look, Martie. What you said? I never thought it would’ve come out of your mouth, at least not for another two years. It is funny, by contrast.”

“You are exaggerating.”

“Am I? Come on, Mar. Two years ago you said you would never get interested in anyone, and I quote: ‘The day I feel something for someone is the day I will eat my feet’. Remember that?”

Martie’s face met with her palm. Now she remembered that phrase. How could she have said something so naive? It had been two years ago only, and the change in attitude was huge. Martie wondered what would happen to her in just a couple of years if it kept going that way.

Slowly the laughter died out. The two friends shared a moment, talking about exactly what Martie was feeling, which was not very enlightening considering she herself didn’t know what was going on inside her head. Perhaps Hilde wasn’t off her mark with the teasing; it could be that Martie was really falling in love with her bear... She blinked in surprise. Great, now I give him nicknames. Though, he does look like a hairless bear.

With that parody of an epiphany out of the way, Martie had enough mental energy free to realise that Hilde had grown quiet. She looked at her friend, noting the white shirt. She hates those. Why is she wearing it? Martie stood and stretched her body, and took the opportunity to look at Hilde’s get-up from the corner of her eye. Her feet were shiny. Hilde had good skin, but it didn’t shine. And she also had toes. Hilde wearing socks inside the house? That was just off.

“What’s up with your get-up, Hilde?”

Hilde looked up at Martie, eyes confused as if she didn’t know where she was. “Uh, what?”

Okay, change the subject. “Are you okay, Hilde? You look... off” Martie pressed her hand on Hilde’s shoulder.

Hilde took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “It... it’s the uniform.”

Slowly Martie’s hand dropped. She had sensed something was off, with Hilde looking depressed and acting as if she had been bitten by a living sleeping pill. The fact that Hilde was wearing a button-down blouse, of all things, to relax at home notwithstanding, many alarms had gone off. But there was a shroud of endorphin-induced feelings over Martie, a shroud that didn’t allow her to see the details... no, that wasn’t right; Martie did see the details, she just didn’t think about them. How could she be so selfish? But, as she looked at her friend, so consumed by a delusion, she realised she had the right to be selfish from time to time. Martie wasn’t the least bit selfish, but now she had to be. She knew the symptoms of an unhealthy obsession.

“Hilde, we’ve talked about this. It doesn’t work.”

There was a nod. “Yes, I do. Marketing trick and all that but... but there is just something about them.” Hilde looked up, a hand raised to stop Martie from interrupting. “I am not justifying anything and I am not making any excuses. Yes, you are right, I bought a placebo effect and I know it is a placebo effect, but yet...”

Suddenly Hilde rose, she immediately straightened her shirt, but what Martie noticed was that, as if they had days and days of practice, Hilde’s hand checked every button to make sure it was buttoned. It was such a small thing, but yet it spoke measures.

Hilde curled her fingers over her jean trouser and she lifted it. It was then that Martie realised what was up. Hilde was wearing pantyhose, nylons... Hilde never, ever wore the things. She despised them, utterly hated them. She had declared war on the garments years and years ago after a certain incident with a door. And, yet, there was a light grey pair on her legs, hidden underneath her jeans. Who whore pantyhose under jeans? Who...

“What... Hilde, why do you have hose on?”

Hilde was staring at her feet, as if transfixed on the incredibly shiny nylons. She took a deep breath and let her trouser legs fall. “I don’t know.”

“What? That is no answer. You put them on, just like the shirt. You should know.”

Hilde’s pupils grew wide. Having those slit pupils suddenly become almost round was strange, bizarre even. For someone who knew Hildegarde Canto and had seen her eyes express a billion expressions, seeing them grow like that was like seeing rain falling into the sky. But her pupils grew wider still as her hand darted for her chest, grabbing and looking down at the white shirt as if noticing it for the first time. Martie noted that Hilde’s initial shock disappeared after a single rub of fingers on her chest.

“I don’t remember trying this on.” Hilde whispered after a while. She looked up at Martie. “I didn’t know I had this.”

“Hilde?” Martie wetted her lips. “What do you mean?”

“I mean... I do remember trying on the pantyhose and ma...” Hilde stopped, swallowed, and took a deep breath before continuing. She was holding something back, Martie could tell. “I remember the pantyhose, but I do not recall trying on the shirt. I had no idea I owned such a shirt.”

There was a rustling of wind on the outside, a sudden gust of wind that made a nearby tree scratch at the ceiling. The sound was like one heard in a terror movie. Hilde looked up and whispered something about having to cut that down. Martie found her breath, and placed a finger over her mouth, biting it slightly.

“Hilde, you are... you are scaring me. You are talking crazy, girl.”

“Am I, Martie? I mean, look at me: a button-down shirt and pantyhose. Pantyhose! I do not dress like this. I just don’t. You say the uniform is a placebo, that it is all in my head, but I swear that it is not. It is real, Martie, and it is getting to me. I cannot help myself.” Hilde remembered to breathe. “I just cannot, Martie. I bought a fantasy. Would you be able to contain yourself?”

Martie could barely repress a chill. The look Hilde was giving her was too real. Hilde believed in what was happening to her. Those golden eyes, with their flint of black for pupils showed fear and believe and longing. It was the longing that made Martie shiver. The animal need she saw there. I’ve got to do something. She thought. Hilde was her friend, and, besides, you just did not abandon someone like Hilde.

Martie’s hand was on Hilde’s shoulder, a firm and loving grip. The black-haired girl jumped. “Come on, Hilde. The pantyhose is strange, true, but a shirt? You could’ve just tried it on and since you never wear them you just forgot. There are a thousand explanations about this.”

Hilde shook her head. “Martie... this shirt, the hose... the uniform...” Hilde licked her lips. “The uniform is just like this. I am just missing the skirt and some leather shoes.”

“What did just say?”

“The uniform I bought has a shirt and pantyhose. Almost like these. And wearing this get-up without realising it... It is not explanation enough. I-I—” Hilde’s cheeks grew red.

Martie was concerned. Her friend was obviously shaken, and the red colour that crept over her face was alien. What else could happen? She had theorized, she had thought, that Hilde had just fallen prey to a marketing device. But, as Martie had read, it was so easy to fall for something you believed in. Obsessions only happened when someone believed in the object of obsession. And Hilde obviously believed in a uniform that could mind-control her. She had confessed at having a ‘fascination’ for uniforms, and Martie knew by experience that such ‘fascinations’ could indeed affect you in a deep level. This was obviously what was happening. But... but it was just too far-fetched, too surreal. Hilde would never, ever try on pantyhose, not even for a fetish.

“Show me the uniform.” Martie suddenly said, staring into Hilde’s worried eyes. She knew what she had said, and still believed in the impossibility of it. But she had to know exactly what was going on. Exactly why Hildegarde was changing so much because of a fantasy.

She needed to make sense of it.

“Okay.” She said and led Martie up the stairs.

Outside the wind blew, coming in through open doors. It seemed to have shifted the situation like a weather vane. Hadn’t Martie come here to make sense of her situation, and not the other way around?

* * *

“I could use your help, actually.” Miranda said, not lifting her eyes from a ledger she was reading. “Things have not been hectic in years, but lately we’ve been facing some problem with keeping up with the markets. I would use your feedback system, but, to be honest, it is a bit outdated and I lack the time.”

“Ever tried having a subordinate use it?” Ysolda said, standing over by a window. The office had a good view of the street, being on the second floor of the two-storey building the Power of Art occupied. Outside, people streamed by in all directions. Potential customers. People with lives and stories. She enjoyed looking at people from far up.

Miranda raised a perfectly thin eyebrow. It looked like someone had drawn a single line on her forehead. “You have given me explicit orders never to give subordinates some power. I once questioned you about it, but I realised that if you start giving a sub-manager some more detailed duties they start thinking of themselves as managers.”

Ysolda stared out of the window. There was a man running from one end of the street to the other, a dog hot in pursuit. The terror and desperation on his face made Ysolda smile. I wonder where the dog came from. We’re in the middle of town.

“I don’t think that is such a good practice now days.” She said, turning around. “When I come for my errands I spy, you know? I hear things. Some of our employees, specially that Carlos fellow that works in the videogame department, are being vocal about not knowing much about who they work for. I think it would be a good idea to change that.”

She walked towards the desk and sat down across from Miranda. The woman stared at Ysolda as if she were about to complain and chastise her, but the brown-haired woman remembered what kind of person had hired her. She stilled her tongue. Miranda was too used to being in charge.

“Do we still have that room on the south end of the building? The one that had been Jonathan’s office?”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “That old thing? I put some computers in it and turned it into our “IT Department”.” She said the last with her hands rising and fingers doing quotation marks in the air.

“Ah, sad.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping to use it as my office.”

Miranda paused, her eyes shifting away momentarily. “So, you are really thinking about actually doing some work?” Miranda cursed under her breath, shifting some papers to hide it, but Ysolda had already heard.

Interesting, Ysolda thought, suddenly reminded of how she had put the woman in place. A gamble, putting a college graduate at the head of the company. But she did not regret the decision. herself for saying it in such an obviously resentful tone. She decided not to let Miranda know she had noticed; let the girl believe she was being inconspicuous. “I am not thinking about it. I am doing it. I’ll be coming in here tomorrow to set myself up in the inventory room. It is quiet, and I will have an eye on everything we haven’t sold yet.” Her lips curled into a smile. Her age lines seemed to vanish. “Besides, if I am that out of the way the guys will freak out when they see this strange old woman walking around the place as if she owned it.“

“You are really going to do that, Ysolda? Come on, it stopped being funny ten years ago.”

Ysolda’s hand shot forward like a snake. The pointed finger hovered in front of Miranda’s nose. Miranda had not noticed when Ysolda moved. “Hear my words, Miranda. Scaring youngsters never gets old.” Ysolda said in all the seriousness she could muster.

Ysolda saw Miranda breathe in deeply, after a slight jump. The girl actually thought she was going to hit her! Amazing that after all this time, she still feared her. Ysolda would’ve laughed if she that didn’t embarrass her manager further. Bad idea to put your manager in such a corner. Ysolda slowly put her hand on her lap. “I will be seeing you during the week, Miranda.”

Without waiting for a reply, Ysolda stood up, placed a chocolate she had bought on her way to the Power of Art on Miranda’s desk, and bid her trusted manager adieu.

As the door to her office closed, Miranda was left pondering if it had been a good idea to make a deal with the devil.

* * *

Hildegarde was breathing slowly and deeply as her fingers wrapped around the tiny knobs of her closet doors. Her head was pressed against the wood and she could feel it marking her skin, leaving an engraving. When she felt Martie’s hand on her shoulder she knew she took a little too long in calming herself down. But, how much is enough to calm an alien feeling of arousal?

With a fanfare going on in her imaginative plane, Hildegarde opened the doors and leaned down to remove the various boxes. She simply dug, pushing and slapping cardboard away without regards for order. When she finally got to the box she was looking for she hesitated. Her hands hovered, shivered over the unimpressive brown thing; indecision, desire, obsession and a deep, deep fascination were fighting inside her head to see who would be the one to take over her hand and open the box.

Eventually, none could.

“Oh, move aside, Lizardeyes.” Hildegarde heard before she felt Martie’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her aside. “I swear it, Hilde. Sometimes you can be overdramatic. And I am the aspiring actress!” Martie tsked as she took the box in her hands. They seemed to be shaking, but Hildegarde ignored it.

Martie opened the box, and all of a sudden a nice scent filled the room. It was a muffled scent, of new clothes and something artificial. Hildegarde closed her eyes involuntarily and breathed in deeply that sweet, sweet scent. She was mildly aware of someone else doing the same. Slowly she opened her eyes, seeing Martie frozen in place, apparently. Hildegarde leaned over her shoulder, and looked down at the uniforms, shiny trapped in their plastic prison. She ached to try them on. Wasn’t it wrong that something meant to be worn by all was trapped, like Prometheus?

* * *

Martie felt calm and peaceful. That scent filling her was so nice, so... delicious, in its own way. It seemed to tickle her memory, bringing forth old thoughts and new ideas. Thoughts flashes in her mind, so many thoughts. Guilt appeared at the front—she had hoped to help her friend, to bring her out of a self-induced delusion, but now she was just sitting, deep in thought. How come she couldn’t do anything else but sit and think about uniforms? And, if she thought about it, it really wasn’t her fault that she was thinking about uniforms. How could she not, when she had a box full of uniforms right in front of her? But she was not just thinking about uniforms, she realized; Martie was imagining a school where everyone wore a uniform. There really was no way she could not think about uniforms. How hypocritical of her. Why was she thinking about that, to begin with?

There were these images playing in her mind, like a film, and she couldn’t stop them. They came, unbidden, uncontrolled. Images of a group of boys and girls wearing their uniform. No... it wasn’t like that – they were not wearing the uniforms, Martie knew; the uniforms were wearing them. Yes, that was it! That is why they looked so natural dressed like that. They thought they were wearing a uniform, but, actually, the uniforms were the ones in control. They are meant to be worn at all times, worn properly, worn according to the rules. And the boys and girls were bending to the uniforms’ whims. She imagined this group as one could picture perfect students. Martie thought this alien idea should make her feel indignant and angry, considering that she hated the idea of a uniform and compliance, but she could just not muster the feelings. Why would she, anyway?

And so she imagined on, unable to control her own imagination.

There was something plastic in her hand, something that felt good to the touch, and in her mind there was a girl just like her. It could’ve been her, but that girl’s hair was wholly black and she was in a uniform. It just could not be Martie. But there was that mannerism, there was that laugh, there was that face. Martie was seeing an image of herself wearing the uniform, along with other people wearing the uniform. And what made her feel disgusted wasn’t that she was imagining herself wearing the uniform, no, but that she was imagining herself enjoying it! That was an insult to her own self. But there she was, in her own mind, dressed like a schoolgirl, and enjoying it. Martie felt something in her hand, felt her body take a deep breath and heard someone calling her. But she couldn’t heed what her body was experiencing, for her mind was showing her something beautiful. Now she saw another group. She wasn’t there. No, this group was different. All girls. They were in a uniform, but different. What kind of uniform was that? She didn’t know, so she imagined it. It was a swimsuit. A swimsuit uniform? Whatever for? She wanted that insistent voice calling her to shut up so she could imagine things in peace. Then she thought about it. The school had a pool once, right? One that had been closed off. But in her mind she saw the swimming pool in a new light, new and clean. And this group was standing at attention by the edge of the pool, all the girls dressed the same. There was someone, a teacher. No, it was not a teacher that Martie imagined but a coach, and she was wearing a uniform too. They all were uniformed.

They all were uniformed.

All shall be uniformed. Martie thought in a curiously lucid moment.

* * *

“Hey, Martie!” Hildegarde, shouted, shaking Martie from side to side, but there was no response. Martie just sat there, with her head cocked to the side. “Martie, come on!”

Hildegarde wanted to shout at the heavens—the uniforms worked!—but she didn’t; what kind of person would she be if she enjoyed what was happening to her friend? Whatever it was. She shook her friend again and breathed a sigh of relieve when those brown eyes focused on the plastic bag she was holding. I thought... shit... what if she hadn’t woken?

Hildegarde didn’t say anything as Martie slowly put the plastic-wrapped uniform inside the box and closed it. She rose and seemed surprised to find Hildegarde staring her eye to eye.

“What?” Martie said, softly, voice distant.

Hildegarde frowned, her tongue wetted her lips, her eyes locked stares with Martie. “What? What!?” She sighed and ran a hand over her head. “Martie, you tell me what. You touch the box and suddenly you seem to turn off for a couple of minutes.” You were controlled by the uniforms. Holy fuck! They can control you! Hildegarde’s eyes moved to Martie’s hand and then to the box in the closet. “It was the uniform, wasn’t it? It got to you.”

Martie looked away momentarily, seemingly thinking. “Hilde,” Martie began, placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder. Hildegarde thought the tone was that one would use to sooth a child. “It was nothing, okay? I simply started imagining something. And you know how I get when I am swallowed in thought. The uniform?” There was a pause and the two stared at the box. “It is nothing. It is a placebo; it is a dream. You can put it on and nothing will happen and you know it.” Martie’s lip was quivering.

Hildegarde pulled away from her friend, without a word. There was something like a rumble inside Hilde’s throat and then a sigh. Hildegarde didn’t turn around, she just walked towards her window and stared at the world outside. Martie remained where she stood. Hildegarde looked out the window. She is lying. She thought. What is going on? She wasn’t sure anymore if the uniform was a lie or not. Martie had seen something the moment she touched the uniform, but what? What had she seen that she didn’t even admit to seeing it? Hildegarde’s hand tightened into a fist, and she set her yaws tightly. What is this uniform, exactly?

“Hilde... I...”

Hildegarde turned around, finding Martie with her arm raised in midair; apparently, she was going to touch Hildegarde’s arm. “Sorry.” Hildegarde said before Martie could say anything.

“What?” Martie’s eyes went wide.

A pause.

“I am sorry,” Hildegarde repeated, softly. She could feel her eye twitching. She turned around, staring the expanse of sky. “I-I don’t know, Martie. You say it isn’t true. Then it is not true. I am just, bah! Who knows why I could be coming up with all this, if it is that I am coming up with it. Am I feeling sexually frustrated? Do I miss someone? Do I need a boyfriend? I hate school so much I come up with—” She topped rambling when she felt the pressure on her shoulder.

“Hilde, to be honest, I am thinking it might not be such a lie after all.” Martie said, softly.

Hildegarde didn’t say a thing.

“You see... Okay, we know why it cannot be real, right?”

“No one would sell such things.” Hildegarde said, tentatively.

“Exactly. But do we know why it could be real?”

Silence and then Hildegarde shook her head.

“Then, let us assume it is a real for a second. How would it work? How would it affect us? I believe that the uniform doesn’t precisely take over your mind and body or whatever you think it does, but rather it does exactly what you and, to a small extent, I are doing.”

“Making us obsess over it so much that is basically controlling us?”

“Exactly. ‘Things have as much power as we are willing to give them. By believing in something, you give it power’.”

Hildegarde perked up, thinking. She turned away from the window and faced her friend, golden eyes showing surprise. “That... that is from my father’s book. You remember that stuff?”

“Of course. You showed it to me years ago.”

That book... Hildegarde thought, but the idea couldn’t be completed. She soon forgot about what she had heard. Instead, she stared at her friend. She lied. Hildegarde thought. She did see something when she touched the uniform. If she hadn’t seen anything, why, then, did she theorize how the uniform might actually be controlling them? She smiled at her friend, reassuring her.

“I-I think we should put some distance between us and that box.”

What had Hildegarde brought into her life?

* * *

There were sounds coming from the closet, scared, whimpering sounds. Hilde waited and waited, safe inside her castle walls, until the sounds became frantic and arousing. She still didn’t want to go out, for she knew that leaving her haven would be her doom. But the sounds kept coming, now inside her castle walls, inside the coffers she owned. The frantic moans came at all times.

Against the judgement of her advisors and retainers Queen Hilde walked out of her castle and faced the closet. It was wood, and it wasn’t locked, and the sound was ten times louder here. She was trembling from lack of sleep, and she was trembling from the knowledge of what she could find in there. But Queen Hilde didn’t quite know about what was inside, she couldn’t know.

She heard the sound of keys on a keyboard being struck, and she recognised the word being spelled. How could she tell what keys were being struck? However she could, the sound filled her with courage and Queen Hilde opened the closet.

There was a person inside, a boy, sitting on a desk, his stare fixed on something straight ahead. He was silent. And he was dressed in something that seemed familiar.

Her heart sank. “What are you doing here?” Asked Queen Hilde as she reached for her subject’s hand. She was a queen, and her duty was to protect all in her kingdom.

The boy looked into her eyes and blushed. He fancied her. Had always fancied her, and Queen Hilde had learned that recently. She could hear a storm coming, and the frantic moans. The ever-present moans. Thunder rolled in the distance, in the closet, in her head. There was a storm coming.

“I am being perfected.” The boy said with a moan.

Queen Hilde looked estranged. She wanted to pull this boy out of the closet and rescue him from whatever evil held him there, but she also wanted to stay and accompany him in his ordeal. His words excited her. Why?

“How?” Queen Hilde dared ask. “By whom?” Somehow, she felt that asking what was happening was a silly thing to do.

The boy stood and bowed. He was dressed in a uniform, exactly the type Queen Hilde made her subjects wear, exactly the type she now realised she was wearing.

“The uniform you gave us, Mistress.”

Mistress...

Mistress...

Mistress...

Hildegarde woke up, the echoing words nearly audible through the ghostly haze of dream. She rubbed her hand against her face and immediately cringed, her nose twisting. Suddenly, she could feel her body, could feel her sensitive skin, her aching nipples, and the interrupted need between her legs. No wonder her hand smelled like that. Her mouth was extremely dry.

“Again...” She whispered to the dark as she sat upright. Hilde looked around, and looked at her closet. It was exactly as she had dreamt it. She shivered. “Again...” She croaked.

Hilde got off bed and walked outside her room, towards the bathroom. The chilly night air felt wonderful against her naked body. When had she undressed? In the dream... I, she didn’t let the thought complete.

She closed one eye before turning on the bathroom light, and waited a moment before her eye adjusted to the sudden light. The sound of running water seemed to dispel some of the groginess, but she only became more aware of what she had dreamt. She drank water, straight from the tap, and then looked at her reflection. Golden eyes framed by dark rings staring back at a face creased with bed marks, black hair a mess of tangles, a puckered mouth cracked with dehydration.

“Remember who you are, Hilde...garde.” The reflection said, voice heavy. Hilde shivered, remembering what the child in her dream had called her. “Mistress...” She whispered.

She was suddenly aware of the aching between her legs.

* * *

Exhausted, Martie closed her bedroom’s door behind her and felt much better because of it.

Not caring, she threw her bag on the floor and then jumped on her bed, twisted and rubbed herself against the covers until she was in a comfortable position. She looked at the clock on her night table. Three hours after meeting Hilde... I really needed that walk. As soon as she left Hilde’s home, she started walking. Aimlessly walking in a general direction towards her home, not bothering with the bus, not bothering with anything. She simply needed to clear her head. What she had experienced at Hilde’s home... Martie shook her head. She didn’t want to think about that right now.

Instead, she pulled out her phone and smiled. Barbo left her a message, worrying over where she was. That brought a smile to her face. She wondered if she should call him now, or tomorrow. Was it too soon or should she let him wonder about how she thought the da... get-together went? It would be interesting to see how he would act if she just didn’t say anything for a week, but there was the possibility of him misinterpreting that as a bad sign.

Martie pulled out her mobile and sent him a message. “Thanks.” Was all she said.

Martie just stared at the ceiling for a while before sitting upright. She heard a crunching noise when she stepped on the floor, and immediately jumped back on the bed when she recognized the sound. With eyes wide, Martie looked down at the plastic-wrapped object that was sticking out of her bag. Immediately her mouth went dry, and the thoughts she had spent so long suppressing returned. She couldn’t recall exactly why she took it, and as she slipped the plastic under her bed, she whispered one question.

“And when did I do it?”