The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Martin sat in the high-backed chair and contemplated the polished cherrywood desk before him. That’s not a desk, he decided, it’s a dance floor on legs. Desks should come in sizes, like hats. This one was far too big for him.

Martin was 26 years old. He had an MBA from a good college, and exactly 11 months work experience on the staff of an old and lecherous city councillor. Now, in defiance of all logic or expectation, he was himself the councillor. He had been thrust into the position, over all his protests, when his predecessor and then boss had abruptly died, not one week into the election campaign.

Councillor Higgins’s corruption had become public knowledge. His secret retirement fund, his publicly paid mistress, his liaisons with busty “government relations facilitators” from ambitious developers had been in all the papers. It might have been one of those liaisons that killed him. Fortunately, the woman had the sense to get dressed and remove herself from the motel before she called the ambulance.

The seat was lost, but somebody had to run. Martin was there, he was chief of staff, he had a presentable face. Nobody fully understood what happened. “Surprise upset in Ward 4” was all the papers said.

Martin sat dumbly behind his gleaming desk. What was he supposed to do now? He fingered a small worry stone with one hand.

The office door burst open. Priscilla, the former executive assistant and new chief of staff strode into the room. She slammed the door, glaring at him. “Well, you have it all now, don’t you,” she spat.

Martin had worked closely with Priscilla for most of the previous year. He liked her. She was shapely and elegant. Standing in front of him in her business suit and dress flats she looked as classy and competent as he knew her to be. At the moment, she was very upset.

“Priscilla, what—” Martin began.

“Oh, yes, you have all the marbles,” Priscilla interrupted. “The whole lot. Everything’s turning out your way. It’s perfect. It’s all-together perfect.”

“Uh, excuse me, what are you—”

“I should have seen this coming. I should have known. But you were clever, weren’t you. Biding your time. Waiting for smarmy old Higgins to retire or pass on. Then pretending—I actually believed you—that you didn’t want to run. Ha! I should have known better!” She was pacing back and forth in front of Martin’s enormous desk, gesticulating wildly.

“Then the election campaign. That was slick, all right. Caught everybody off guard. Nobody expected a Higgins clone would actually stand up to developers. But you, you cunning, smart bastard, you started making speeches about planning and control. Got people listening. When you stood up at that debate and said that McGrath Park should be protected against all future encroachments—well, you saw the way the crowd reacted. You couldn’t go wrong after that. And now here you are.”

Martin’s eyes were getting tired from watching Priscilla stride back and forth. “Priscilla, I—” he began.

She turned to face him, hands on hips. “So you got the seat, didn’t you. Who am I kidding, you might as well own the thing. Won by a two to one margin. Nobody will dare to even run against you now. You can do with it whatever you please. Welcome to Ward four, fiefdom of Martin Miller.”

Martin looked at her, dumbfounded. Her eyes blazed and her cheeks were flushed. Her anger only highlighted her regal features. Priscilla was a fine looking woman. Martin worked his jaw, trying to think of something to say. Before he came up with anything, Priscilla was off again.

“So what can be done? Higgins was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg and we never got a solid charge against him. What chance is there of unseating you, the golden child of the whole city? None of course. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not stupid. I can see where the power lies now. You’re sitting behind your big desk, impregnable as Gibraltar, and I’m just office staff that you can fire on a whim if you don’t like the colour of my eyes.”

She took a deep breath, evidently arriving at a decision. “Martin, I want you to know that I won’t be part of it. I will not be associated with the corruption and criminality of this office a moment longer. You can keep your stolen councillor’s seat and all the perks that go with it. But you can’t have me as your chief of staff. I’m tendering my resignation. I’ll clean out my desk and be gone by the end of the day.”

“Good luck, Martin,” she finished. She marched out of the office.

“Priscilla, no, wait!” Martin called, jumping to his feet. He had no clue what Priscilla was on about, but he didn’t want her to resign! She was the only one who could tell him what to do. The door was already closing.

Martin sat back down. He rubbed his face in his hands. He looked down at his gleaming, empty desk, then up at the closed door. His first day on the job wasn’t going well.

The door flew open again. Priscilla was standing there, one hand on the doorknob. “OK, I’ll stay,” she said. “At least until your transition is completed. I owe you that much. Just don’t think you can manipulate me the way you have manipulated the electoral process in this city!” The door banged closed again.

Martin studied the closed door, blinking. He still had no idea what was going on. At least Priscilla wasn’t leaving.

It turned out that he had very little time to worry about it, because a moment later the telephone rang. One of his constituents was upset about road maintenance. The telephone kept on ringing the rest of the day.

Martin did try to set things straight with Priscilla the next morning. It didn’t go quite as planned. He had barely sat down at his desk before Priscilla breezed in, bearing a steaming cup of coffee. “Good morning boss,” she said. She set the cup on his desk. “I can’t remember whether you take cream, or sugar too.”

“What? Is that for me? Priscilla you don’t have to do that.”

She waved a hand. “Of course I don’t. You didn’t even ask. That’s the beauty of it.”

She paused for a moment, reflecting. “Yes, I should think you would prefer it that way. You can’t order me to do something trivial and demeaning like bringing you coffee, but if I choose to do it, well, that’s my decision. It demonstrates your superiority all the more that I do this voluntarily, because it implies my acceptance of my subordinate position.” She seemed to be explaining it to herself as much as to Martin.

“Yes, very clever,” she finished firmly.

Martin studied his office manager, perplexed. Priscilla was wearing a cheerful, peach-coloured suit. The skirt stopped a thumb’s length above the knee. She wore tan nylons and white pumps. Martin was pleasantly surprised. For as long as he had known her, Priscilla had been a poster-girl for slacks and loafers.

Martin turned his attention back to the matter at hand. He fingered the worry stone in his pocket. “Priscilla,” he began, “about yesterday—”

“Yes, I know you’re probably very upset with me,” Priscilla interrupted. She gave him a contrite look. “I, I lost my temper. I’m sorry. It was just the shock of it all, you winning by so much. I . . . forgot my place. You have the upper hand here, and I’ll just have to get used to that.”

Martin frowned, puzzled. “Does that mean you’re not leaving?”

“Well, I, uhm, that, that would be foolish, wouldn’t it.” Her voice was nervous. “I, I know how lucky I am to be working here. There are young, single, unemployed women with my qualifications all over the city, and every one of them would jump at the chance to work for the hottest councillor in the land. You could take your pick. My position would be filled in twenty minutes, even if you only interviewed big-breasted redheads. You could fire me on the spur of the moment if you don’t like my handwriting.

“You could ruin my reputation too while you’re at it, couldn’t you,” she went on. “Sure, make up some twisted story that everybody will believe. Make certain that nobody in the city would hire me again.

“So I guess I’m stuck, aren’t I? I’m going to have to play by your rules from now on. You hold all the cards, and I might just as well admit it.” Her tone was one of abject resignation.

“Priscilla”, Martin tried again. “I don’t know where you’re getting all this. I need your help! I always thought of us as partners.”

“Partners? That’s a lovely euphemism. You’re the partner that gives orders and I’m the one that takes them. Nice partnership.” She let out a sigh. “Let me know if you want more coffee,” she said, before leaving the room.

Martin sat back down in his high-backed chair, more confused than before. He rubbed the worry stone in his pocket. “Big-breasted redheads?” he said to himself.

Priscilla brought in the coffee every morning from then on, and tea in the afternoon. Martin couldn’t talk her out of it. She seemed convinced that Martin had made it part of her job description, to remind her of her place. She made very good coffee.

She also kept wearing attractive skirt-suits with hemlines well above the knee. Her well-curved legs were very easy on Martin’s eyes, especially decked out in sleek nylons and the stylish pumps she had taken to wearing. Martin had always thought Priscilla had splendid legs. His opinion was only confirmed by seeing rather more of them.

Sitting in his office, sipping excellent coffee while he prepared for his first council meeting, Martin wondered vaguely what was up with his chief of staff. Now that he thought about it, the rest of the staff was pretty much in skirts these days too. Angela and Summer, the junior clerks who did more work than they got credit for, had abandoned their youthful fashions of flared pants and T-shirts in favour of more traditional attire. Even Joan, the plump and middle-aged secretary had taken to coming to work in her Sunday dress and pearls. Martin rubbed his worry stone and wondered.

Eventually he asked Priscilla about it. She came to work one Friday morning in a fetching new outfit, a black, frill-edged suit jacket and matching miniskirt, topped off with tall black boots. Martin gaped. Priscilla’s long, lithe legs shimmered in smoky-black nylons. She poured his coffee as she did every morning, then added just the right amount of cream.

Martin decided to approach the subject obliquely. “Priscilla, I . . . uhm, I hope you don’t mind me saying, that’s a very attractive dress—or suit, er, whatever.”

She handed him his coffee. “Thank you,” she said.

“I don’t want you to think, you know, that you have to, like dress up every day. Not, not that I mind of course, but if you would be more comfortable—”

“Don’t tell me this isn’t good enough!” she interrupted him.

“Uh, pardon me?”

“Look, Martin, I’m willing to tolerate your sexist dress code because I have to, but please don’t push me any further.”

“Dress code? What are you talking about? There isn’t any—”

“Well naturally it isn’t written down! You’re too clever for that. But I know what you expect from your staff.”

“Priscilla, that’s nonsense. I don’t care what you wear to work.”

“Really? Then why do you keep looking at my legs?”

Martin had no good answer for that.

“Exactly,” Priscilla said. “I’m clever enough to add things up, Martin. You’re in charge here and we all know it. So that means the office runs by your rules. You can have things your way, even if it means we have to dress a little more flashy than we might like. There’s nothing anybody can do about it so we decided we might just as well get used to it.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’"? Martin said cautiously.

“Well, naturally I filled in the others,” Priscilla replied. “I didn’t want them to lose their jobs over something as minor as wearing pants. I am still the office manager, you know.”

“Now wait a minute, you don’t—” Martin checked himself. Priscilla was standing in front of him, one leg extended, waiting patiently. Her tailored jacket flattered her sculpted figure. He could see the slopes of her breasts curving outward beneath the lapels of the blouse-less jacket. Down below her legs were a pleasant distraction between the mini-length hemline and the tight black boots.

Did he really want to discourage her from dressing this way? If she had decided to spruce up her wardrobe and brighten up his office, who was he to complain?

“Uhm,” he pronounced after a moment, “would you mind getting me the agenda for this week’s Council meeting?”

Priscilla smiled. “Certainly Martin,” she agreed. She left the room with Martin’s eyes glued to her nylons.

Three days later Martin was sitting at the big table in the Council Chambers, feeling more out of place than ever. He was at least ten years younger than any of the two dozen men and women around the table. Most of the councillors were veterans; only Martin and two others had been elected in the latest poll.

One of the newcomers was Her Worship the Mayor, who had wrested the position from her predecessor in a close race. She had her clunky chain of office around her neck, and two black-suited aides flitting about her shoulders.

Martin had not brought any staff with him. It was just as well. Priscilla had come to work that day in a new magenta minidress that quite upset Martin’s concentration. Angela’s and Summer’s youthful interpretation of the dress code included colourful, brief skirts coupled with diaphanous stretch tops and big-heeled platform shoes. Martin had been staring, and smiling, all morning.

He looked about the chamber. There was a scattering of onlookers in the public gallery, taking in the first Council meeting of the year. Many of them were reporters. Martin recognized Calpurnia Scott from the News. She gave him a little wave. He and Calpurnia had enjoyed many sparring matches back when covering for Higgins’s indiscretions had been his full-time job.

He turned his attention to the agenda. Item five was “McGrath Park.” It figured. His very first council meeting, and he was being basted for roasting. He fingered the black worry stone in his pocket. It was the same stone that, ironically, he had received as a gift after the election debate about McGrath Park.

“Good afternoon everyone,” the new Mayor said, “Let’s call this meeting to order.”

“You did well at the Council meeting, boss,” Priscilla said the next morning, setting a cup of coffee on the desk before Martin. He tried to avoid peering down the front of her low-scooped sweater as she bent over. After a moment he gave up and took a good look. Her breasts were full, round and . . . .

“Perfect,” Martin murmured. “I mean, uh, perfectly terrifying. I was scared to death.”

The miniskirted office manager added cream to his coffee. “Nonsense. You were splendid. Even the media noticed.” She picked up a folded newspaper from the desk and spread it out before him. “Look here.”

Martin was looking, but not where Priscilla’s finger was pointing. He drew his attention away from her lacy bra, and its delightful contents, long enough to consider the newspaper. There was an article there entitled “McGrath Park: New Councillor Sticks to His Guns.” It was under the byline of Calpurnia Scott.

Martin had said little at the meeting until agenda item five came up. It was a motion from a veteran councillor for whom expanding the tax base was a life-long mantra. His motion would end the temporary moratorium on development around the park. Martin had no choice but to defend the position on which he had been elected.

The debate was lively and long. Martin argued that the moratorium was the will of the people, not merely that of a few influential builders. Many around the table opposed him. Martin was a competent debater, yet he felt like a deer cornered by hungry wolves. He had no expectation of persuading the council.

Midway through the debate, something strange happened. Several of the councillors decided Martin was right. Reginald Farcapp, Ward 12, began a long-winded tirade against the moratorium that wound down five minutes later with a frank admission that it was a good idea. A heated exchange between councillors from Ward 5 and Ward 8 gradually transformed into a thoughtful diatribe against the motion on the floor. The Mayor watched all this silently, her expression puzzled.

Eventually it came to a vote. The motion was narrowly defeated. The Mayor cast the deciding vote.

Exhausted, Martin leaned back in his chair and let out his breath. He was perspiring. He cast a glance up at the visitors’ gallery. Calpurnia Scott looked up from her notebook, grinning. She gave him the thumbs-up sign.

Martin tossed the newspaper aside. “Well, I’m just glad I survived with my pride intact,” he said. “We’re never going to get anywhere unless we can make that moratorium permanent.” He leaned back in his chair and admired Priscilla’s bust again.

The intercom buzzed. Martin pushed a button. “Yes?”

“Martin, there’s a Mr. Burculosi on line one. He sounds upset.”

“OK, thanks Summer, I’ll take it.” He cast a glance at Priscilla.

“A real estate developer,” she said curtly. “He owns a fair bit of land around McGrath Park.”

Martin groaned and picked up the telephone. “Good afternoon Mr. Burculosi,” he said, as cheerfully as possible. Only half listening to the angry voice in his ear, he admired the rear view of Priscilla as she swayed out of the room.

The following morning, Martin found himself subjected to the frontal view of Priscilla, complete with big-lipped pout, as she stood in front of his enormous desk.

She said: “I wish you would stop trying to erode my authority in this office.”

It was clearly a rehearsed statement. Martin countered the only way he knew how.

“What?” he said. He admired the way her spandex mini clung to her hips.

Priscilla pulled down the bottom of her sweater, trying to cover her navel. She succeeded only in pulling the material tighter across her heavy chest. “Don’t be coy, you know what I’m talking about,” she said. I’m the chief of staff. The others in the office are supposed to report to me.”

“Well, of course. They do, don’t they?”

“Do they? Then why do I have to tell Angela repeatedly not to make your coffee? Bringing in the coffee is my job. Why does Summer always try to sort your mail before I can get to it? They both flout the dress code by not wearing skirts to the office. Do you know what Angela said when I scolded her for not wearing a bra? She said you wouldn’t mind. As if I had no say at all in office decorum!”

Martin looked at her blankly. Was he on Mars? Was Priscilla defending her right to bring him coffee? The only times the clerks weren’t in miniskirts were the days they opted for short-shorts or stretch pants. Perplexed, he rubbed the worry stone in his pocket. “Priscilla, I—”

“Even Joan is circumventing me,” Priscilla interrupted. “She didn’t even consult me before she started taking those exercise classes. She loses an hour or more every day now. Martin this has got to stop.”

Martin tried again. “Look, I don’t know anything about—”

“Of course you don’t. Of course not. There’s nothing to tie it to you at all. You’re a master of subtlety, I’ll grant you that. You work behind my back, under-cutting my position, making me look foolish and ineffectual.” She was gesticulating again. Her fingernails were painted the exact same colour as her sweater.

“I mean, just look at me,” the agitated office manager pressed on, “look at the way I’m dressed.” She spread her hands.

Martin was looking. Priscilla’s outfit suggested activities other than work. Today she wore a foreshortened stretch top in bright fuschia and a matching mini that clung like paint to her hips and ass. Her nylons were sheer and shimmering, topped off with white, wedge-heeled platform sandals. The broad white belt looped around her waist was just for show.

“Who’s going to take my orders seriously when I look like this?”

Martin raised a finger. “Well, you don’t have to—”

“I think I’ve been very reasonable,” Priscilla blurted. She started pacing again. “I acknowledge that you have certain . . . expectations of your staff, and since I have been following your rules to this point I suppose I have tacitly conceded your right to impose them. So, sure, it’s not on for me to selfishly decide to abandon our understanding when I have already in effect agreed to it. It’s not like you’re being draconian. You only suggest that the women in your office make an effort to look attractive during the work day.

“And who doesn’t want to be attractive? In a way, you’re doing us a favour, I suppose, by letting us explore our own femininity in an environment where being a real, sexy woman isn’t construed as a liability. Here we can have our jobs without submerging our sexuality. It’s liberating in a way. I’m finding I feel better about myself now that I have the confidence to wear short skirts and heels. I even enjoy getting dressed in the morning. But that doesn’t change the fact . . .”

She stopped in mid-pace. She seemed to have lost her train of thought.

“Doesn’t change what fact?” Martin prompted. He was curious where this was going.

Priscilla turned to face him. “OK, so if I’m the one that has decided to change my style, I can hardly blame you if other people respond to me differently. I accept that. But this is as far as it goes. You still need me to run this office, so I insist on being treated with respect. All right?” She was pouting again.

“Uhm, sure,” said Martin.

“Good.” She turned on her elevated heel and strode out of the room.

Martin watched her go. He rubbed his worry stone. What exactly had that conversation been about?

It was Tuesday of the following week when Martin strolled into the office after a working lunch. He closed his umbrella and tossed it into the stand. The lunch meeting had been quite successful. One of the other councillors had wanted to negotiate votes for his pet project in return for support on McGrath Park. It was the kind of horse trading that went on all the time in city hall. Over the course of a long lunch, Thorold had pretty much come around to Martin’s position anyway.

Martin was in a good mood, notwithstanding the rain. The office was humming. Angela, a petite blonde with a bubbly smile, was sitting at her desk sorting the mail. She gave Martin a coy look. Angela was wearing a leg-baring miniskirt, of course, and as she sat with her knees crossed the view of her exposed thighs was charming. “Hi Mr. Miller,” she sang.

“Hi Mr. Miller,” another voice echoed. Summer was over by the endless row of filing cabinets along one wall. She wore her brown hair long and straight. Her red cotton mini was as short as Angela’s.

At the moment Martin looked her way, she decided to retrieve a file in the bottom drawer. She bent over from the waist, letting her little skirt slip up to the top of her thighs and over the curves of her dandy bottom. She wore dark, seamless pantyhose with nothing beneath them, and tight black boots.

Martin, being a gentleman, looked away. Eventually.

Joan, at least, wasn’t wearing a miniskirt. In fact, her plum-red dress was ankle length, and tight-fitting the whole way. Joan was looking much trimmer these days. Partly that was because she had lost some weight. Mostly it was because she had started wearing confining corsets and waist-cinchers beneath her clothes. She was sitting at her desk, nibbling on a carrot and intently studying a book titled “The California Miracle Diet”.

Martin found Priscilla at her desk outside his office. She was putting on lipstick with one hand while holding up a hand mirror with the other. She put both away quickly when she noticed Martin.

“Ah, you’re back,” she said, looking guilty. “How was the meeting.”

Martin grinned. “The meeting was good. Lunch was good too. Especially since Thorold paid.” He let his eyes wander. Priscilla was looking good too, in a frilly, salmon-coloured suit and red slides. Martin could see the top of her lace bodyshirt in the cleavage of her jacket. Priscilla had become fond of frills and lace recently.

The shapely office manager toyed with the lapel of her jacket. Perhaps she was aware of where Martin’s gaze was lingering. “Well, you have another meeting, right now,” she said. “Mr. Burculosi is waiting in your office.”

Martin’s heart sank. “Berculosi. Isn’t he the one—”

“The same. The moratorium has prevented him from building on prime land adjacent to McGrath Park. He seemed upset.”

“No doubt,” Martin observed wryly. He fingered the worry stone in his pocket. “Well, not point avoiding the inevitable.” With one last look down Priscilla’s cleavage he stepped through the door of his office.

In fact there were two people waiting in Martin’s office. Berculosi himself was a big man with a mop of curly black hair and a functional grey suit. He was standing by one wall, looking over the photographs and memorabilia that Higgins had left there. The other person was a frankly gorgeous young woman in a chartreuse designer dress, sitting demurely on the sofa.

“Mr. Berculosi,” Martin said, extending his hand, “Martin Miller. Pleasure to meet you.”

Berculosi didn’t shake hands. “You shoot this?” he said, referring to the photograph of an enormous red deer lying on a weigh scale.

Martin shook his head. “That was Councillor Higgins. From a hunting trip in the Black Forest. We haven’t gotten around to taking down a lot of his things.” He gestured toward the seated woman. “And this would be . . . ?”

“My wife, Rachel,” Berculosi said, without looking at her. “Look, Miller, let’s talk turkey. I’ve known Clement Higgins for over twenty years. Contributed to his election campaigns, generously, because I knew he was a man who understood how things worked. He was a bridge, not a roadblock, if you know what I mean.”

Martin nodded. Higgins had been famous for taking his voting cues at council meetings from the developers sitting in the public gallery.

Berculosi pointed at a photograph on the wall. “See this? That’s your Councillor Higgins on the left, and the man he’s shaking hands with is me. That was three years ago, at the opening of Towne Parke, Phase I.”

“That was before my time,” Martin said evenly. He glanced over at Rachel. She was looking bored. She had beautiful eyes, as big and gentle as the deer Higgins had shot.

“Exactly my point, Miller,” the big man said. “I’ve worked for three years to get permission for Towne Parke Phase II. Three years. Higgins was with me on this. You’re Higgins’s man so you should be with me too. Instead, I’m hearing nothing but grief and nonsense about this blasted moratorium. Maybe you’ve forgotten who supported your election campaign.” He stepped toward Martin as he spoke, until he was standing no more than a foot in front of him.

Martin took a step backward. “I’m not Higgins’s man,” he replied, “I’m my own man. I am grateful for the support you have given us over the years, but there are reasons for the delays on your project—not least of which is the necessity for a zoning variance that would infringe on McGrath Park. This is a highly sensitive—”

“I am sick to here of hearing about McGrath Park!” Berculosi exploded. “I’m a legitimate businessman trying to make an honest profit. I won’t be blockaded by a gaggle of grey-haired nannies who like to feed the ducks!”

Martin took another step backward. He moved toward his desk. “Those grey-haired nannies are voters too,” he replied.

Maybe it was the wrong thing to say. “Goddamit Miller, smarten up!” Berculosi thundered. He slammed his fist down on the desk, rattling an empty coffee cup. “You’re not the only player in City Hall, you know. You got elected, you can get unelected. We know how to get around deadweight tree-huggers like you.”

He turned abruptly and strode toward the door. “Come on, Rachel,” he growled, as if he was calling a dog.

His trophy wife got to her feet gracefully. She had an hourglass figure and splendid legs. Unexpectedly, she extended a hand toward Martin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller”, she said politely.

“Likewise,” said Martin, shaking hands. He let himself get lost in those big brown eyes for a moment. Her hand was warm and soft in his.

“Rachel,” her husband said from the door.

“Coming honey,” she replied. She turned and departed with her husband. She paused at the door to give Martin an inscrutable look. Martin tried to pretend he hadn’t been watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.

When the door closed, Martin plopped into his stuffed chair. He reached into his pocked for his worry stone. Priscilla entered the office a moment later. “That didn’t go well, did it,” she consoled him. “I could hear the shouting.”

Martin let out his breath. “Didn’t go well indeed. I think the man threatened me!”

“Really? What did he say?”

“Something about me being an obstacle that he would remove.”

“That doesn’t sound too serious. Berculosi’s a blowhard but I doubt that he’s violent. You’re over-reacting.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Martin conceded. He admired the way Priscilla’s lace leotard displayed her chest beneath her suit jacket. “The man is intimidating; I’m as tense as a racehorse. Maybe you can calm me down a little.”

Perhaps he should have been looking at her face while he said that, instead of lower down. Priscilla apparently misinterpreted what he meant.

She paused, drawing a deep breath. “Very well then, Martin,” she began. “I guessed it would come to this soon enough.”

She reached up and pulled out the combs holding her hair in place. Long brown locks tumbled down around her shoulders. She advanced toward Martin’s chair. She dropped gracefully to her knees in front of him and reached for his zipper.

“Wha . . . ?” cried Martin, too startled to react sensibly.

She already had a hand in his fly. “Don’t worry, boss. I’ll do it right.” She deftly worked his cock out into the light. Martin just stared at her, too amazed to speak. “Mmmmmmm, anything to keep my job,” the brown-haired beauty sighed, before her lips descended on his shaft.

Priscilla was right. She was far more adept than Martin expected. Expert even. She took him in deep, deeper than Martin would have thought possible. She used her hands, her lips, her tongue. By the time Martin was ready to come, Priscilla was slurping up and down like she was trying to suck his brains out through his wang. Abruptly he boiled over, gasping, as he spewed his load down Priscilla’s receptive throat. She stayed with him all the way, until his ejaculation had ebbed to a series of little twitches.

When she finally let him go they were both breathing hard. Priscilla climbed to her feet. She smoothed down her brief suit. “Well, I hope that was enough. . . to satisfy you . . . for a while,” she huffed, still out of breath. She began putting up her hair as she walked out.

Well, that was . . . peculiar, Martin reflected as he tucked his shirt back in. But very pleasant. He took his worry stone from his pocket and rubbed it idly between his fingers.

He had worked with Priscilla for almost a year. They had posted long days and nights side by side during the election campaign. She had never hinted that she was romantically interested in him. Nor was she now, apparently.

Somehow she had convinced herself that he was unassailably corrupt and that sexual favours were now part of her job description. Wherever did she get such an idea? He sighed. He would have to set her straight about that. Maybe tomorrow.

Once again, Martin’s earnest attempt to set things straight with Priscilla took an unexpected turn. He broached the subject the next morning, when Priscilla brought him his coffee.

“Uhm, Priscilla,” Martin began carefully, accepting the china cup, “We need to talk, I think. About yesterday.” It was strange, having to explain to his office manager that blowjobs were not required. Priscilla wasn’t making it any easier. She was wearing the frilly black suit today, with the tight miniskirt and tighter boots, bridged by black, fishnet nylons.

She looked at him expectantly. “Well it’s about what you did—we did—after the meeting with Berculosi.”

“Oh, yes, of course Martin,” the tall brunette interrupted. “Here, scoot your chair back a little bit.” Before Martin knew what was happening, Priscilla was again on her knees between his legs and his zipper was sliding down.

Martin attempted a protest. Priscilla’s deft fingers found his awakening shaft. His objection died in his throat.

He should have made more of an effort to stop her. He should have pushed her away. Part of him was curious to know if the mind-bending blow-job she had given him yesterday was a one-time thing, or if she could do it again.

She did it again.

A few minutes later Martin was sprawled across his big chair, panting and gasping while he waited for his eyes to uncross. Priscilla got to her feet. She tugged down her miniskirt self-consciously. She brushed imaginary dust off her knees. Martin’s eyes followed her hands.

“There . . . you go, boss,” she said, between deep breaths. Her face was flushed. “Let me know if you want another . . . cup of coffee.” Martin admired Priscilla’s sleek, booted legs as she left the office. His trousers were still around his ankles.