The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Archives, Room D4

Chapter Five

by Ian Febland

Weeks had passed and I heard no word from Ona. Her contributions were appraised, approved, and filed some time ago but it was not unusual for donors to frequent the library, as they were granted special privileges.

My routine was well established, like a worn footpath in dry season. I listened to Ona’s voice in her absence, captured perfect cadences in the pocket recorder. I was afraid of accidentally erasing it, so I made copies and backed them up to both email and the cloud for easy access. From that point, I edited parts of that session—just the relaxing visualizing sections—and created a playlist that I could listen to in blissful loops.

Every day, anticipating an email or a phone call from her, I listened to the beginning half of the session as I dressed for work. I told myself I was preparing to be in the right frame of mind. To be truthful, it did calm me during my morning commute. Before I met Ona, sailing through traffic snarls, cut-offs, and daredevil bicycle messengers with equilibrium would have been surprising. Now it was normal. Meditation had no upper hand; it was the power of her voice alone that kept me in a nebula of unflappable contentment.

Resisting temptation was the motto of today. It took a combination of self-control, distraction, and immersion in my managerial duties to keep me from contacting her. I told myself she would write, or call, or show up soon. One way or the other, she would make herself available.

Another month crawled by. I began my nights with the recording from start to finish, frantically gulping water in long, desperate swallows that enhanced themselves in significance. No longer did it matter that I’d wake several times, leaping out of bed from an uncomfortably full stomach. My excuse was solid—listening to the recording on loops was the tasty bonus. To save extra trips to the kitchen, I filled up a hefty ceramic pitcher with ice cubes and water meant to last the night.

I’d figured out how to make the floating, melting sensations intensify and last longer. All I had to do was close my eyes, listen to her and narrow my focus on one image while I held the pitcher of water at a ready slant. In this way I concentrated until I could clearly imagine her pouring the water into the glass. Practicing my aim was a simple matter of resting a little of the pitcher’s weight on the rim and tilting. Sound and my forefinger hooked over the rim were my guide.

I was vigilant not to spill even a drop but sometimes I managed to make a small splash on the nightstand. My punishment was double edged. Stopping the recording to replay the pertinent section ached in my chest during the silence without her speaking. Yet it was all the sweeter when I resumed her hypnotic narrative. I meekly leaned far out of bed to lap at the water pooled on the smooth hard surface. Taking in water like a dog made me feel purified and humbled, simple and free. Such furtive actions cleansed me, creating flashes of joy that traveled through every pore and tingled along the fine hairs of my neck.

On a basic level I was aware that I was falling, and heavily so.

Two of my staff required assistance at the desk, taking me away from my reverie. It wasn’t an intrusion but a nod from sensible fate telling me to forget about water and irresistible trances.

Ona was there, exchanging laughs and lively conversation with my coworkers.

“Albert! Lovely to see you. I was just asking Sylvia,” she made a subtle motion with her torso, “about the status of my donation. It’s been a while, so I thought I’d check in person.”

Sylvia was the circulation manager who also reported to me. Angular, moderately dressed, with nondescript grey-brown hair pulled into a loose bun, she used her hands to accompany quavering chuckles. Her assistant, a younger woman in training, looked on, smiling at no one in particular. Established donors were treated with respectful but efficient care by supervisory staff, even if it was only to call my extension and provide an ushering service in soft-voiced introductions.

“Our system has the information and I’d be happy to let you know, Ona. Come this way to my office.” I dared myself to flick a glance at her lips on the way to meeting her eyes. A temptingly plump choreography, those lips, this time in lipstick that was bright and glossy. Tomato red.

If she noticed the glass of water on my desk, she gave no sign. As if the months hadn’t passed, she placed her bag in the usual spot on the sofa. I took her coat and her perfume wafted around me.

“You look...hungry,” she said. “Missed me?”

Too obvious a question. I wasn’t in the mood to be mocked. “You’re not here because you want to check on your donation. All of it was processed weeks ago.”

“Don’t be angry, sweetheart,” she said, drawing out the vowels in persuasive sultriness. “I thought we’d do something special today. I think you’re ready.”

Perhaps she was still teasing. “What kind of special?”

“Depends on how the time unfolds. How many minutes do you have?”

“Exactly an hour, otherwise there’s a chance we’ll be interrupted.”

She took off her shoes and swung her stockinged legs sideways to rest on the sofa armrest. “Good. That’s plenty of time.”

If she was planning to lounge there for the entire hour, I would have none of it. The recorder was in my coat pocket and there was no easy way to get to it without being seen.

“You haven’t been to Room D4 yet, as I recall,” I said, tearing myself away from the urge to daydream. Already telltale sparks of distraction started to travel along my back, through my insides. I stifled and choked the energy out of those thoughts by moving around the room with purpose. Not yet...not now.

“Why are you so nervous? Come and sit over here by me. I want to hear about what you’ve been doing since we last met.”

“Nothing but work and more work,” I said, rummaging in my pocket for the keys. “How about we go to Room D now?”

“All right. You lead the way. Maybe tell me more about the history of these rooms.”

I told her about the early days. “When I first started working in Collections and Donations, the four rooms in this section were given letter-names.” I nodded at each door as we walked. “By the time I transferred to Archives, the prior management had changed the name plates to letter-number combinations, except for my office, which used to be called Room A.”

“So you’re old school, calling the one at the end just Room D.”

“Yes and no. Only I have access to Room D. It’s only used for special approved material, as I mentioned.”

“I thought you said my donated material was approved.”

“Yes. But we won’t be disturbed in here.” The lock gave way to the key and I held the door wide for her.

Books, documents, bound paper, objects, and other miscellanea, stacked and labeled, gave me a sense of pride for all their neatness.

“There’s a whole lot of things in here,” she said, taking her time to read each handwritten description at eye level.

I was well acquainted with them, as they were personally handled, categorized, and entered into the main online system. Some were waiting to be sent to other branches; others were for new displays we featured every month.

“Next month’s display is going to be about brief history of types of paper”—I indicated a stack of posters—“and various techniques of font, print, communication...”

If my explanations bored her, she gave no sign. She leaned close to inspect items without touching.

In the middle of the spacious room there was a table, very much like the Intake Room, but this one had thin drawers for holding large-scale documents like maps and posters.

I jingled the keys in my hand. There was no graceful way to leave her for even a moment. What if she followed and saw me retrieve the recorder?

She stood behind me, pressing close until I was right up against the table. “Everything all right? You seem worried, or is it stress?” It was a good thing the drawers had recessed handles or I would have been uncomfortable indeed. Against my back, her chest provided cozy heat that was a contrast to the ever-cool room. Slipping her arms around me, she held out her hands, palms up. “Let me help. Place your hands over mine,” she whispered.

It was a little like a chair with armrests, except I was standing. Her palms were soft and smooth.

She used that voice again, where I listened in the beginning but quickly lost myself in the feeling rather than meaning of the words. Holding on to thoughts of how to retrieve the recorder in my office was difficult and it took too much effort. When I closed my eyes my arms were weightless, floating, and I traveled back in my bedroom listening to her massaging my imagination with words and imagery. Silence united with our breaths and it was then I was convinced the floor hovered somewhere far below me.

I opened my eyes to view the tiled ceiling, close enough to touch if I stretched toward it. My arms were out at my sides, slowly treading air. It was important to focus on the qualities of each square, the notched patterns, how the fluorescent lights hummed in tandem with my suspension. Everything Ona said was the very thought foremost in my mind. Following her instructions came naturally to me, involuntary obedience. The chatter of doubt and idleness had fallen away from my thoughts, her voice replacing them as though she was always with me, in my head.

“Continue to relax, Albert. All you have to do is listen.”

A rustle of movement—her clothes—was like reflected light drawing my attention. From the corner of my eye, I could just make out her figure bending over one of the shelves to withdraw a large hardcover book. She held my outstretched hand and guided it to the table, to rest on the open pages, whispering just below my ability to analyze.

Blankness, stillness, and complete calm narrowed my awareness to that of my hand. The world was there, in her words, introducing me to shifting colors and sensations. Deep and far back in my memory was recognition, but it was not so urgent. The pages themselves had a sweetness and excitement upon contact. Ona described a series of mountains coated in silky peaks of melted caramel as she drew my fingertips along the ridged page, and it was true. There was something familiar there as I was drawn further into this experience through touch and sound. The faint rustle of the thick page under my hand sounded like a violin string, high and thin, caught up in the wind far away. I shivered a little with goosebumps prickling under my cotton shirt.

She slid the book away from me, bursts of color and music fading as soon as my hand left the page.

“You’ll remember as much as you want to remember,” she said in my ear.

I tucked away her words, like storing a credit card in my wallet, for safekeeping.

“Of course, you do remember what we talked about, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you have been paying attention all this time, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

Tapping, slow and steady, on the table at my right. Between each rap of her fingernails, she counted me down, down, until everything faded except for her voice and my breathing and my heart throbbing in my ears.

What were you thinking about earlier?

“I was thinking about your voice.”

What about my voice? The taps were faint now, camouflaged as my heartbeat.

“I like to listen to it all the time, and when I sleep,” I said.

That’s very good. You can tell me whatever is natural to you.

It was like releasing a weight from my shoulders. I continued, the words spilling out of me in a rush. “From memory, to relive those feelings again.”

What feelings, Albert?

To recall the loop of her voice in the night gave me deep yearnings that resurfaced, this time stronger than I could articulate. Describing it was a poor substitute to the experience I craved. “Drinking water. Pleasure...everywhere.”

Very good. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.

Her voice drew closer to my shoulder, clear enough for her perfume to linger in the air, each calm breath supporting her speech. “I want you to remember our conversation about change.” She brought my arms close to my sides and held them against my body for a moment. “Being in almost every way the personality of someone other than yourself.”

There was no difference that I could detect. I was the same man she knew from the beginning, and all that mattered was this dialogue.

“The person you are now, and how you feel, is freedom. Would you say that you feel free, Albert?”

Anything was possible, and I felt limitless. “Yes,” I said, allowing her words to drape over my shoulders.

“You can create this feeling of freedom for yourself, or you can find a way to inspire this feeling for other people.” She leaned into me. “Is that something you want to do?”

“Yes, I do.” Sharing freedom was a noble cause, if only to open opportunities of pleasure to others, in the way I was now.

“As much as you would like, you can make it happen,” her hand rubbed my elbow.

Into empty space I drifted, my eyelids firmly shut. It didn’t matter, for her voice continued on, layering and echoing. Gradually she drew me upward again, dissolving my personal cloud into a steady count to ten. My lungs expanded with fresh cool air, my eyes opened, and Room D4 was as it always was, neat and orderly with a clear worktable.

“Are you feeling more relaxed?” Ona asked.

“I’m much better, thank you.” Rejuvenated was what came to mind, but I didn’t want to go on about it. There would be time later to savour and prolong the contentment rippling in currents along my skin.

“...So I’d like to thank you for making this such an easy process,” she said, tucking her hand in the crook of my elbow and accompanying me to the door. “My family’s photos and books are in good hands.”

“Are you in need of any coffee? Tea?” It was almost noon.

“I won’t keep you much longer,” she said, patting my arm. “You have your library duties to attend to.”

Ona could spin the wheels of fate with that voice.

The walk to the elevators was leisurely and the conversation lighthearted. I would have accompanied her down to the lobby, but she sweetly declined and gave me an embrace and a gentle squeeze of her hands in mine.

After closing time, I explored the third floor, where study reference material on science, psychology, and related material were stocked on tall shelves in even rows. Hypnosis as a topic filled up a sizeable section, textbooks and paperbacks both. I was not discouraged. No matter how many months it would take, I would read, study, and learn.

THE END

© Ian Febland 2018