The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Glab Rmid Amab

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Chapter 1:

Every day, Carlotta Castellano got up at three-thirty in the morning. Sometimes she’d wake up slightly before the alarm and just lay in bed, a huge smile on her face, tingling with anticipation for the day ahead. Sometimes the soft chimes of her phone’s default alarm ringtone would wake her, and she’d stumble out of bed, only really being aware of what she was doing once the warm water of the shower softly met her skin.

When she’d accepted the job, she’d been worried that the hours would start to wear her down. But even now, eight months in, she enjoyed being the only one riding through the quiet streets of Gilliestone of the morning.

In a few hours, the roads would be throbbing with cars—some of them on their way to her cafe, starting their morning with a pastry that she’d just baked. But for now, the streets were hers, and she hummed a little tune as she rode.

Arriving at work, Carlotta unlocked the door, and began prepping the kitchen for the day ahead. Her second-in-command would be along shortly, but for now it was just her. As she prepared for deliveries, the young woman mentally started preparing the day’s menu. It was a Wednesday, which meant that people would be expecting the special to be a pasta dish. Last week had been ravioli, and the week before had been a baked ziti.

Glancing at the list of expected deliveries, she burst out laughing. She couldn’t. Could she? No, she…

Oh, but she knew that she had to.

The cafe offered a children’s menu; chicken nuggets, mini-burgers, a tiny cheese pizza.

And a tiny dish of alphabet pasta with red sauce.

Carlotta’s eyes danced with mischief as she started mentally preparing the recipe. The owner, Paul, wouldn’t mind—he might even find it as amusing as she did.

Yes, Carlotta decided. Today, the Wednesday special would be Alphabetti Spaghetti, served with chicken and red wine sauce.

* * *

“Here,” Carlotta said, flashing a grin at the waitress. “Let me help you with that.”

It was three pm, and the last of the lunch customers were walking out the door. So was Carlotta—her shift had passed in a blur of barking orders, cooking, and then starting to organize the clean-up. Her standard half-hour break for lunch had been squeezed into less than fifteen minutes when she’d realized that they’d been sent pork instead of lamb, and she’d have to re-do the sandwich menu on the fly.

Everything had resolved itself in time for the lunch rush, and Carlotta had been delighted when almost two dozen orders for the alphabet pasta had come in. The cafe’s customers must have enjoyed the idea as much as she had. Even Paul had popped his head in and asked for a bowl, a twinkle in his eye as he had.

Finally, the day was done, and Carlotta was ready to go home, cook herself a simple meal, and have an early night. Getting up at three-thirty in the morning can kill your night-life, but the young chef wouldn’t trade it for anything. Only twenty-three, and already designing the menu of a trendy cafe in a trendy area of Gilliestone; she loved the work, and appreciated the opportunity too much to even consider coming in with a hangover.

On the way out, she’d seen Matilda (the cafe’s sole waitress) struggling to get all the tables cleared, her enormous red mane threatening to burst out of the tiny green hair-tie she’d used to constrain it.

Although they’d never really spent much time together, Carlotta had always liked Matilda, and so although she really wanted to get off her feet, she’d been unable to resist offering the younger girl a hand.

“Thanks,” Matilda had replied, so flushed that her face almost matched the shade of her long pony-tail. She’d rushed back into the kitchen, leaving Carlotta to stack bowls in preparation for the waitress’s next trip.

That’s when she’d noticed it.

Someone had left some of their alphabet pasta in the bowl. This wasn’t unusual in itself, but what caught the young chef’s eye was the way that it had been carefully arranged.

“Glab rmid amab,” Carlotta read aloud. What an odd message to leave with one’s pasta—if it hadn’t been for the exact spacing and perfect line that the letters had been left in, she would have chalked it up to an accident.

She wondered if it was in another language. “Glab rmid amab,” she murmured to herself again. It didn’t sound like any language she’d ever encountered before…but, of course, Carlotta had spent the last few years working on her career. She’d had no time for travel.

“Glab rmid amab,” she repeated, trying to commit the words to memory so that she could look them up later, maybe see what they meant. Perhaps it was a message of hope, or luck.

Her head suddenly began to swim, and she realized that it really had been a long day on her feet. As Matilda returned from the kitchen, Carlotta stacked the rest of her pile of dishes on top of the pasta bowl with the strange message. Matilda gave her a weary nod of thanks, and Carlotta smiled back.

She was going to have to spend more time with Matilda. But not tonight—tonight, she impulsively decided, she was going to go out. Dating, like travel, had fallen onto the list of activities that were not as important as advancing her career, and Carlotta couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had a proper date.

Tonight, she was going to go out—not too late, of course—to a bar, and meet some nice men. Suddenly, she was in the mood.