The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Hostile Takeover

Tags: mc, fd

Synopsis: Carl falls victim to some unusual negotiating tactics

Note: Long time reader, first time writer. Thanks for reading, and feedback is greatly appreciated :)

As Carl’s plane began its gradual descent toward Japan, Tokyo sparkled like a cut gem. Although the world’s largest city yawned out across hundreds of densely-packed square miles, it seemed positively tiny from this height, like a luminescent diorama viewed from across a room. The thought made him smile. Funny what a little perspective could do. If only he could bottle up a little bit of that perspective for tomorrow’s meeting. As the most junior employee of Dynacore to come on this trip, he certainly felt the pressure to perform. Not that he would be expected to do the high profile stuff, like flamboyantly pounding his fist on a negotiating table or drowning a term sheet in a flood of red ink. That would be left to the senior executives. Instead, he would mostly be assisting from the sidelines: referencing sales models, providing analytic support, and taking notes. Even still, this was his first overseas negotiation for Dynacore, and he held himself to an appropriately high standard. The purpose for his journey was a meeting with Sappomoto Inc, an entertainment conglomerate whose reputation as a fearsome negotiator extended far beyond the shores of Japan. But as with Tokyo herself, Carl thought, while taking a final glance out the window, nothing was insurmountable with the proper perspective.

* * *

The Tokyo express train gracefully zipped away from Narita International Airport. As Carl settled into his set, he took another look at Sappomoto’s pitch deck. Their motto was proudly emblazoned across a sheet of thick, acid-free stationery:

“Sappomoto: Sating the World’s Desires”

He smirked. For all of the company’s notoriety, you wouldn’t have known it from the pink and white bubble font that clumped together to spell out their logo. An uninformed observer could just as easily have mistaken it for that of a Harajuku makeup line. But the firm’s notorious track record, comprised of merciless hostile takeovers, dizzying accounting wizardry, and breathtakingly favorable business deals—was undeniable. As the train slowly glided into Shinjuku station, Carl gathered his belonging and took a deep breath.

This is my chance to prove myself to Dynacore. I won’t them down.

After checking in to the hotel, Carl declined his co-workers’ invitation for a drink in the hotel bar, preferring instead to get an early night’s rest. He would need all his faculties for tomorrow’s meeting.

* * *

Now settled his room, Carl plopped himself down on the bed and checked his watch: 7:30 PM. Better not hit the hay this early, he thought, unless he wanted to take a pre-dawn stroll in the local fish market. Actually, not a bad idea! But probably best to save that for Wednesday. Instead, he picked up the television remote, hoping to catch one of Japan’s greatest cultural exports: notoriously bizarre game shows. Japan did not disappoint. The TV screen, immediately after being nudged by Carl past the dull procedural dronings a local news report, exploded into a frenetic competition between two contestants in matching dog costumes. They were racing each other to assemble a winning collection of comically large squeaky toys—no easy task in a Shiba Inu suit! One contestant was trying to pick up what could have only plausibly been an elephant bone, but it kept stubbornly slipping through his oversized paws. The other was attempting to stuff a Pokemon through the tiny doorway of his brightly painted doghouse. For all his effort, he accomplished little beyond causing the toy to squeak wildly. The audience was in stitches.

A slight smile crept across Carl’s face as he took in the lurid, technicolor phantasmagoria. The stage was a loopy tangle of bright transparent sheets, possibly the product of pouring a rainbow into a resin cast. And the caffeinated soundtrack brimmed with gaudy key changes, synthetic string stabs, and lascivious slap bass, all tenuously held in a supersaturated suspension which threatened at any moment to crystalize and bury the unwitting contestants beneath a cascade of rock candy. Bursts of acrylic kanji popped in and out across the screen. Although Carl could not read Japanese, he found their staccato rhythm somewhat mesmerizing, and his transfixed gaze chased the characters around the display; back and forth, up and down.

After a minute (or was it several?), his tired eyes eventually settled on the orchestrator of the whole operation: a petit, ebullient gameshow hostess. She was every bit the charismatic ringleader that one would expect. Whether cheering on the contestants (the dogs now were wrestling over possession of a fire hydrant), bantering with the crowd, or casting flirtatious glances toward the camera, she certainly looked the part. And Carl was doing his fair share of looking. Squeezed into a white vinyl dress, her generous figure was just as expressive as her demeanor, if not more so. Each broad gesticulation sent her ample chest swaying. Her plump, bee-stung lips blew exaggerated kisses to the crowd. And on several occasions, she would lean over in a way that, although composed and dignified, nonetheless allowed her hemline to inch its way up the already-slight distance to the top of her thighs.

Carl swallowed. He was no prude, but—good God—when was the last time he had been so transfixed by a television show? Probably not since middle school, when he would sneak down to his basement and watch MTV in hopes of catching a Mariah Carey music video. The thought prompted Carl to let out what he thought would be a bemused, self-aware chuckle, but what he heard was something stiff and brittle; the sort of laugh that unconvincingly attempts to reassure.

His eyes had not strayed from the screen.

The credits began to run. The music pitched and rolled. A hot flash of anxiety seized Carl. But as quickly as it came up, this flare of unease was dampened by the camera’s slow, gentle pan back to the hostess, who was saying a closing word to the audience. Her bright, expressive face was a source of comfort to Carl. Her huge eyes, dark and gleaming, blinked open and shut. Occasionally she would crinkle her small nose with the practiced skill of a professional. And although Carl could not understand the words floating out from between her lips, he nonetheless followed them studiously.

Several minutes passed. And then several more. A typical gameshow would have segwayed to a commercial break long ago, but Carl was past the point of caring about this discrepancy, let alone comprehending. He was floating untethered in a galaxy of twinkling lights.

“Follow my voice,” the hostess was saying. “Study my face … there’s nowhere you’d rather be right now..”

Her melodic voice (when had she started speaking in English?) had slowly sauntered its way halfway down an octave, taking on a sultry, commanding tone.

“... perfect. Just keep gazing into my eyes, Carl…”

Carl? How did she know his ..

“... There’s no need to fight your desires. This is the only thing you want…”

This doesn’t make any sense. None of it.

“... come closer, Carl, deeper. Lose yourself in my eyes … “

But she was right—her eyes were beautiful.

“... now relax, and drift within them …”

He drifted.

Her enrapturing voice—now somewhat distant and abstracted—continued to drone on, but Carl could no longer even react to her gentle insistences. His mind, for all of its analytical prowess, now lay inert and prostrate before her, like a stopped clock in a watchmaker’s firm grasp. And her skilled, dexterous hands wasted no time: they gently and insistently pulled cogs, adjusted screws, unwound dials.

Something in Carl’s brain recognized the strangeness of what he was experiencing and responded with a series of emotions—first incredulity, then suspicion, followed by panic—but each of these responses floated slowly toward the surface of his conscious mind like a bubble cast in a rapidly hardening smear of resin, eventually calcifying before it had a chance to burst forth and spur him to action. And in the absence of action, Carl sat. And stared. Gaped, actually. His lips hung slightly apart, his eyes glistened with the reflected glow of the television, and his mind soaked up the vision before him with the passivity and compliance of a dry, well-worn dish sponge.

The camera panned out. The set was empty now. The music had stopped, the audience departed; the only reminder of the prior presence of contestants was a large mound of squeaky toys.

The hostess leisurely walked over to a pink chaise that sat in the back corner of the set. In the absence of the frenetic music, her measured, heeled footsteps boomed like gunshots. She picked up a tall glass of ice water and draped her voluptuous body elegantly across the chaise. If the television set were muted, Carl would have sworn that she was purring.

“Hello, Carl. My name is Misaki. Did you enjoy watching the show?” Carl nodded imperceptibly.

“You did?” Her face brightened. “It’s quite a silly ordeal, really. Grown men debasing themselves for a prize, chasing each other around in costumes,” she laughed, casting a brief glance toward the mound of dog toys. “How easily they give up their dignity.”

“But then again, I believe that anyone can be convinced of anything, so long as you give them the right motivation.” She leaned slightly forward and took a sip of water, shrugging up her shoulder so as to give him a generous view of her cleavage.

“Carl,” she called out bemusedly. His gaze snapped back up to her face.

“What motivates you, Carl? Is it your job?”

He began to answer, but she answered for him by shaking her head.

“No Carl, it’s not your job.” He was in no position to argue.

“What about your life and responsibilities back home, then?” Once again, he tried to respond, and once again, she answered for him.

“No, Carl. These things are nothing but afterthoughts. Do you even remember why you came here to Japan in the first place?” He searched for an answer, but his mind was churning like a flooded outboard engine. He stared at the red lipstick print on the rim of her glass. It took every ounce of Carl’s strength to manage a weak, “I don’t…”

“Oh, you don’t remember?” She asked, pursing her lips into a caricature of a frown.

Then, as quickly as it came, Misaki replaced the frown with a cartoonish mask of girlish enthusiasm. “But I do!” she grinned widely. “I remember!”

“You came here” she said slowly, the predatory edge creeping back across her face, “to give me anything and everything I desire, Carl.”


While she uttered these words, Misaki languidly traced a long and manicured finger around the girth of her water glass, pooling up the condensation in a plump droplet. Carl groaned.

“Any other responsibilities in your life” she said with a dismissive sneer, “are as inconsequential as this drop of water.” She presented the droplet to him on her outstretched index finger. Then, as the camera zoomed in on her generous cleavage, Misaki delicately perched it near the top of her left breast.

Carl stared at the droplet, fixated. It sat, quivering gently, a glimmering gem under the bright stage lights. There was a small beauty to it; something earnest and precious. He admired how it clung stubbornly in defiance of gravity’s compulsion.

But even at its brightest, it was still dwarfed by the wickedly curved flesh that surrounded it. No.. more than surrounded, Carl thought dizzily … subsumed. The droplet was a .. a faraway city seen from the air ... a lost traveler in a desert … a hapless contestant in a rigged game.

His mind lurched. What was going on? Was he trapped in a nightmare? When had he unzipped his pants? Searching for an anchor, Carl refocused his gaze back to the droplet. Unfortunately (didn’t he mean fortunately?), it had not moved. He was seized with an overwhelming need to cover his ears; not just from the sound of his own ragged breathing, but also the screaming of jet engines, the thunderous clattering of laptop cases, briefcase latches, patent leather dress shoes. But his hands were welded to his cock.

He was trapped in purgatory. And the gleaming droplet—he had now accepted that it was the only key to his escape- still sat there, mocking him. What did it want of him? What did he want of it? The puzzle was too much to bear. He wanted to scream.

Misaki mercifully put an end his suffering. She jiggled her chest, with a sharp cough, freeing the bead of water to finish its inexorable journey. Carl leaned forward and froze. His breathing seized. He watched, transfixed, as the little droplet, that tiny embodiment of every value and responsibility in his life, slid between the valley of Misaki’s erumpent breasts, casting one final glimmer before disappearing completely.

Carl watched that glimmer grow brighter and brighter, until it eventually became a white hot light that spread out to cover his entire field of vision. With a defeated groan, he came violently and fell back into his bed. White slowly faded to grey, before eventually settling at the cold, merciful blackness of sleep.

* * *

Carl awoke to the shrill brattle of his hotel telephone. His head throbbed. He was face-down in a tangle of bedsheets, left leg hanging off the mattress and pillows nowhere to be found. The LED display on his alarm clock blinked insistently: 7:43 AM. It took every ounce of his strength to drag his protesting body out bed. In one unified, clumsy motion, he popped the phone out of and then back into its cradle. Carl savored the newfound silence as he plodded toward the bathroom.

A few minutes later, the fog that hung thickly over his head was slowly dissipating under the hot of water the shower. Carl, who had never traveled outside of North America before, was floored by the intensity of what he assumed to be jet lag. Despite having heading to bed immediately after checking in to the hotel, he nonetheless felt as it someone had been rooting around in his brain all night with a pair of needle nose pliers. Cringing at such a morbid thought, Carl exited the shower and changed into his meeting attire.

His next order of business was an important one: coffee. He had been smart enough to set his wakeup call for several hours before the meeting, which would give him plenty of time to shake off his jet lag and prepare. Briefcase in hand, he swung open the door, stepped into the hallway…

… and found himself face to face with Misaki …

She smirked. His face sunk. The briefcase fell noiselessly to the carpet.

Carl’s expression was blank and lifeless as Misaki pushed him, unresisting, back into his hotel room. His brain creaked and buckled as the dormant memory of the previous night burst forth like a geyser. As Misaki deposited him on the bed, his final defense was a weak attempt to disassociate—to somehow will his spirit up and away from its corrupted vessel: out the window, beyond the skyscrapers, into the bright sky above.

Misaki rolled her eyes at Carl’s reverie as she crawled on top of his chest, straddling her smooth legs around his head. She was wearing nothing beneath her short pencil skirt, and had little trouble positioning her warm wetness inches above his face.

“Snap out of it, Carl. Remember why you came here…”

Her first uttered syllable was all it took to catapult him back out of the clouds. His world, which had moments ago shattered into a thousand fragments, suddenly fused back together in the precise form of Misaki’s choosing. There would be no more resisting.

Carl opened his eyes and kissed Misaki’s lower lips with the slow, hungry passion of a long-lost lover.

The next few hours were a dizzying blur. After coming on Carl’s tongue several times, Misaki then turned her attention to the contents of his briefcase. He eagerly and unquestionably walked her through a litany of critical Dynacore financials, providing an astonishing degree of detail. Misaki rewarded him by straddling his cock and riding Carl to a howling orgasm. Still desperate to please, Carl continued to offer up corporate secrets, initially interesting but soon trivial and incoherent. After collecting several pages of notes, Misaki then put an end to his babbling by reaching a manicured hand around his head and guiding it back toward her wet cunt.

“Clean me up, Carl.” He obeyed wordlessly.

Misaki let out a low moan that articulated several dimensions of deep satisfaction.

* * *

Carl was ten minutes later to the meeting.

Several Dynacore seats sat empty. Alan, whose face was tinged slightly green, looked like he was going to be sick. Michelle gazed vacantly out the window. Katy was asleep in her chair. Nikhil was the only Dynacore member engaged in conversation, but most of what he said was indecipherable gibberish. The Sappomoto executives appeared bored.

Carl, meanwhile, was in heaven. He shook his head at the sad state of his fellow colleagues. If only they had his unique perspective, maybe wouldn’t be so tightly wound. As if on cue, Misaki winked at him from across the table, and his heart leapt in his chest. She smiled happily. He beamed.

Needless to say, the negotiation was a bloodbath. The final terms were so lopsided in favor of Sappomoto that Carl wondered if Dynacore could even stay afloat until year’s end. But this hardly perturbed him. After all, Misaki had mentioned that Sappomoto was looking to establish a base of operations in the United States. Should Dynacore run into financial trouble, Sappomoto would be happy to assume management.

Carl wondered if his trip could have gone any better. He doubted it.