The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction and any resemblance between characters in this work and actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. This work contains scenes of explicit sex between adults and is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you are offended by depictions of adult intercourse or if you are less than the age of majority in your jurisdiction please do not read or download this file. Because this is a fantasy, characters in this work engage in unprotected sex in a universe where AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases do not exist. In reality sex without protection is unwise and nothing in this work should be taken as condoning such activity, or any of the other activities depicted herein.


Thanks to the usual sexy suspects for helping me develop the idea for this story, and to JRParz for prodding me to get it written.

— Downing Street


“Welcome back!”

Jolene was in the middle of emptying her briefcase. She looked up to see her office friend Tralee standing in the doorway. She was grinning.

“Thanks,” Jolene said. “It’s good to be back.” She pulled a sheaf of papers out of the briefcase. She tossed them on her already cluttered desk.

“How was the course?”

“Interesting. Intense. Exhausting. We worked eight hours a day, every day, plus homework in the evenings. I think I learned more in a week than in a year back in college.”

“Hey, no complaining. You’re the one who badgered Mulgrave for six months to let you upgrade. Here, I brought you some coffee.” She held out a steaming cup.

“Thanks, you’re a dear. So, anything happen while I was gone?”

“No. The photocopier imploded. Finally had to buy a new one. Mulgrave landed a big client so he’s been actually pleasant for the past few days.”

“Who’s the new girl?” She referred to a pretty young thing she had noticed on the way in, beavering away diligently in her cubicle.

Tralee sipped coffee. “An intern. Her name is Angelica. She’s nice. One of MacIntyre hire’s, of course.” John MacIntyre was one of the senior partners. He was well known for his old-school practice of hiring interns based on their looks. The new girl fit his qualifications exceptionally well.

“It figures,” Jolene said. “But didn’t you see the way she was dressed?”

“Tight micro and high-highs? Believe it or not, she dresses that way all the time. Nobody can talk her into anything more sensible. Those heels look like killers. We all thought she was some tart MacIntyre had hired on as eye candy, but she’s really pleasant, once you get to know her. Mattie says she has low self-esteem. Since she doesn’t believe in the value of herself or her work, she compensates by showing off her bod. It’s a plea for some kind of positive response from men. Something about herself she can feel good about.”

Jolene cocked an eyebrow at her. “Hey, don’t blame me,” Tralee said, raising a hand. “All the psyche-talk comes from Mattie. Do you think this makes me look fat?”

“What?” Jolene retorted, caught off guard.

“This outfit. It makes my hips look fat, doesn’t it?” She lifted her arms, inviting inspection.

Jolene looked at her. Tralee was wearing a slim black skirt and a black bolero-style jacket over her white blouse. Simple black shoes. It was not at all like Tralee to worry about her figure. In fact, Jolene could hardly remember seeing her in a skirt.

“Lee, it’s fine. You look great, like you always do.”

“I think I’m gaining weight,” the other woman replied. “I should get to the gym more often.” She looked down. “This skirt definitely make me look hippy.”

“Oh stop it, will you. You look fabulous. What’s come over you, anyway? You never fussed about your hips.”

A guilty shrug. “I guess I’m starting to care a little more about my appearance. It does make a difference.”

Jolene rolled her eyes. “Lee, go away. I have to prepare a brief for the partners: How I spent the company’s money for a whole week.”

“Good luck with that,” Tralee said, as she walked away. She had a worried look on her face.

It wasn’t until the following day that Jolene found time to talk to the new girl. She stopped by the cubicle where the youngster always seemed to be hard at work. “Hi, I’m Jolene, Junior account manager,” she said, extending a hand.

The new girl took it as if she were being handed a summons. Her grip was delicate. “I’m, uhm, Angelica?” she said. Her tone implied she would change her name if Jolene didn’t approve. “I’m just, like . . . an intern.” Her eyes flicked up to meet Jolene’s for a moment before turning downward again. Mattie was right: this girl did have a self-esteem problem. Maybe that explained the garish dress.

The cute intern was decked out in a figure-loving, spandex minidress, this one in midnight blue with sparkles across the bodice. Anyone could see that her legs were splendid because the dress failed to cover any part of them; that job was left to glossy stockings and high-heeled, suede, ankle boots, both perfectly matching the colour of the dress. Jolene had already noticed how every man in the office slowed down when he passed Angelica’s cubicle. Angelica bending over was a media event.

It was a pity she had to display herself like that, Jolene reflected. Beneath the doll-girl make-up and flashy jewellery the girl was genuinely attractive. Her sandy hair hung long and perfectly straight, like a curtain. She had an elfish face: high-cheekbones, elliptical eyes and a pointy chin like an anime character. Her figure was lithe. Thanks to her wardrobe, everyone knew exactly how lithe it was.

“So, how are you fitting in here, Angelica?” Jolene asked. “Are you finding everything you need?”

A pause. “Oh . . . yes. Everyone is . . . so nice. I’ve been getting a lot of help.”

“Well, if there is anything else you need or if you have a question about anything at all, come by and see me, OK?”

Another flicker of those green eyes. “Thank . . . thank you. You’re very kind.” The faint tone of doubt wavered in her voice again, as if she didn’t believe she deserved kindness. “Is, is Mr. MacIntyre hard to work for?”

Not when you’re wearing that dress, Jolene thought privately. Out loud she said: “He can be a little demanding, but if you keep up with your work he respects that. Don’t worry though; he always goes easy on the interns.” Especially interns that were easy on the eyes, she concluded silently.

“I hope so,” Angelica said, looking concerned. “This is my first real job and I don’t want to screw up.”

“You’ll be fine. Uhm, Angelica, there is . . . one thing. You don’t have to . . . well, put yourself to so much trouble to dress for the office. We have a pretty casual dress code around here.”

The girl looked shocked. “You don’t like my dress?”

“Oh no no no, it’s lovely, really,” Jolene backtracked quickly. Clearly she would have to be very careful what she said around this fragile beauty. “It’s just that . . . you could be more . . . comfortable if you wanted to.”

The girl looked at the floor. “I’m trying to look my best,” she said.

“Of course you are. Nothing wrong with that. You might find a pair of trousers more comfortable though, and maybe a little more professional, you know?” She tried to keep her voice gentle.

“Nobody wants to see a girl dressed sloppy,” Angelica said to her shoes.

“Well, yes but—” Jolene blinked. This conversation was taking a strange turn.

“Look, I’ll talk to you later, all right? Remember, come see me if you need anything. My desk is in that little nook over there.” She walked away, sipping her coffee.

The conversation stayed with her for the rest of the day. Angelica’s downcast mood was like a rain cloud blocking the sun. What had she meant by that last comment? Was she implying that Jolene was being too casual? A woman who dressed like Angelica hardly seemed like an authority on business attire! Still . . . .

Oddly, Jolene was still thinking about Angelica’s offhand comment the next morning. She was standing before her closet in her undies, contemplating what to wear. Did she really look sloppy in trousers? Nonsense, everybody wore pants. She thought about all the women in the office who wore pants all the time. She frowned. Actually, most of her friends at work had been in skirts yesterday. No, all of them had been in skirts. That had to be mere coincidence. Jolene decided wearing a dress once in awhile wouldn’t kill her. She did have a meeting that day.

There was an odd feeling in the air at work. Everyone seemed subdued. Jolene put it down to mid-week tension. She briefed the senior partners on her week-long training course and suggested some new accounts she might be able to help with now. MacIntyre didn’t say much, he seldom did, but the other two had questions. Jolene was nervous. The three partners together presented an air of masculine confidence that she found intimidating. That was ridiculous, considering she had seen MacIntyre and Mulligan quite drunk at the company Christmas party.

Later, she spoke with Angelica again. She almost knocked the younger girl off her spike heels as she walked into the coffee room. “I’m sorry,” the intern said automatically. She said that a lot.

“My fault,” Jolene assured her, laughing. “I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even see you there.”

Wrong thing to say! Too late Jolene noticed the look of resigned pain on the girl’s delicate face. In fact, Jolene had been distracted. Instead of watching where she was going she had been watching her co-workers. It looked as if all the women were in dresses again today. Three days running seemed like rather a coincidence. Tabitha Baker had gone by in a rather fetching paisley dress with mid-heeled sandals and pearls. Jolene had never seen Tabby’s legs before.

To Angelica she said: “I’m glad I didn’t make you spill your coffee.” She pointed to the cup in her hand.

“It’s not mine,” Angelica replied. “It’s for Mr. MacIntyre.”


For a moment Jolene couldn’t think of anything to say. Bringing coffee was a feminine, trivial task assigned to office girls in the days when support staff were called secretaries. Even MacIntyre didn’t mind getting his own coffee. She wondered if sending Angelica was an excuse to get a good look at her legs. The girl’s hose was tight and smooth.

“I’d better not let this get cold,” Angelica said. “Hey, I like your dress. You could make that look real pretty.”

“Well, thank you.” Jolene stepped aside to let her pass. A moment later she realized that Angelica hadn’t really paid her a compliment. She watched the pixie recede down the hallway. Today her dress was black and lacy, with big cuffs. Her long legs looked spectacular in the sheen of her dark nylons. Her pumps were extra-high heeled, as usual.

Jolene looked down at her own bare legs. Maybe she should have worn pantyhose. Did she have to wear these old flats? Maybe her attire explained why Mulligan had been frowning during her presentation? No, of course not, that was silly. He had merely been concentrating on what she was saying. Nobody cared what her legs looked like.

Nevertheless, she wore pantyhose with her dress the next day. She didn’t want to be the only woman in the office still sporting bare legs.

“I tell you, I have been stuffing myself,” proclaimed Tralee a few days later. She waved a salad fork in the air for emphasis. “I had a donut with coffee yesterday and two cookies today. I have to start watching my figure.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the half-dozen woman around the table. They were gathered in the lunch room, picking at low-cal meals and complaining about their weight. Jolene listened with a kind of jaded detachment. She was impatient with women who were never satisfied with their bodies. Every woman sitting around the table was attractive; why couldn’t they be content to be themselves?

She brushed a crumb off her skirt. By an unspoken agreement, everyone in the office had decided to make skirts and dresses standard attire. Jolene approved. She was tired of dressing sloppy.

“Hey Angelica,” someone said, “You always look great. What’s your secret?” As usual, the new girl had been sitting quietly, hardly looking at the others while she ate her lunch.

The intern looked momentarily terrified when everyone turned to look at her. “Oh, I’m not so special,” she demurred.

“Don’t be modest,” said Tabby. “You’re in great shape! I wish I had your figure.”

Angelica studied her plate. “Well, I work out a lot. I don’t want to go all flabby.”

The other women squirmed uncomfortably. “Where do you work out?” Tralee asked.

“At ShapeShifters. It’s just down the street. I go after work most days.”

“You work out every day?”

“Sometimes I skip Fridays,” Angelica said, like she was confessing to a minor crime.

Silence descended. Jolene could almost hear every woman in the room calculating how long it had been since her last visit to the gym. Then Mattie spoke for the first time. “I have a great idea! Let’s all join Angelica at ShapeShifters. We can work out together. If I can get the whole office to sign on, maybe I can convince Trevor that the company should pay for it!” She referred to the youngest and most innovative of the three senior partners.

An almost celebratory chorus of agreement arose from the table. It was decided in short order that, since most of the women in the office were sitting around the table, the matter of unanimity was settled, and that they should start their new fitness quest that very afternoon. Everyone thanked Angelica for motivating this grand idea. She smiled shyly.

Jolene wasn’t sure she had time to work out every day. She went along with the group to be agreeable. It wouldn’t hurt. If she was going to try shorter skirts like the other girls were wearing, she needed to get her thighs into top form.

Less than a week later, Jolene was sitting in one of the small meeting rooms, wondering if she had made a mistake. The three senior partners were there, and Mattie too. They were working through the client roster, looking for problems and special cases, as they did every week. The mistake Jolene was worried about was trying a shorter skirt when she had only been working out seriously for a few days. The skirt was red and slimming, and went well with a pink blouse and heels.

“Can you take some of the smaller investors for a while?” Mulligan asked her. “That would give us a chance to deal with Malton, and the Westdrew Estate.” Mulligan was fortyish, trim and fit but greying at the temples. He glanced down at Jolene’s legs for a moment.

Jolene shifted in her chair. “Yes. . . I, I think so,” she replied uncertainly. “There’s only about seven . . . eight, maybe ten if you count the single-stock portfolios.”

“A couple of the other juniors could help you,” suggested Trevor Alscap. He was looking at her legs too.

The attention to her legs was making Jolene nervous. She was normally composed and confident in these meetings. She had known these men for years.

The trouble was, she couldn’t decide if their looks were appreciative or disapproving. Did Trevor think her suit was too brief? Maybe he didn’t like her legs? She should have waited until her thighs were toned up. She made a mental note to put in an extra half hour on the stairmaster after work.

“Well,” she said, shifting in her seat again, “That . . . that might be helpful. I don’t think . . . there’s only so much time and . . . what do you think, Matilda?”

The office manager thought about it for a moment. She was thirty-four, and quite pretty. “We can handle it, I think,” she replied. “I’ll need to . . . like, check the schedule, but there is some flexibility. I can pull Colleen off—”

“Make it work, one way or another.” MacIntyre said grumpily. “Put some of the girls on overtime if you have too. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“Yes sir,” Mattie replied instantly. She looked down at her notes. Jolene raised an eyebrow. Mattie and MacIntyre had long been on a first-name basis. She noticed Trevor looking at her legs again.

Until recently, Jolene had held the opinion that men’s wandering eyes were rude and improper. The glint of her nylons was irrelevant to a business meeting. Still, in a way they were paying her a compliment. They let her know she was attractive with a simple glance. If the guys appreciated some feminine curves, that made everybody’s day brighter and (to be honest) maybe gained her a few credits too.

Of course, Jolene’s skirt came almost to her knees, at least when she was standing. She didn’t stop conversation the way the new girl did. Every time Angelica stepped into a room, men stared helplessly. Their behaviour would be intolerably rude if the girl didn’t invite it. In fact, she seemed to bask in the attention. Strutting about in her tight minis and high heels in a room full of men was about the only time the new girl smiled.

Jolene had seen the way Angelica came alive when she was showing off. In meetings, she did more than attend on the partners. She fawned over them. She was always finding excuses to touch: a hand on a shoulder, fingers brushing on the table. Once, when Angelica had squeezed by Trevor in the corridor, deliberately moving too close as he went by, Jolene had seen the man’s hand stroke across her bum. The gesture was made to look accidental though it clearly wasn’t. Jolene was shocked. Angelica smiled.

Some time after the meeting, Jolene made her way to Mattie’s office to set up the schedule. She found Mattie’s trainee, Calvin, typing something on Mattie’s computer. He looked up as Jolene walked in.

“Where’s Matilda?” Jolene asked, surprised.

“Gone to get her hair done, so she told me,” Calvin replied. He grinned his boyish grin.

“Now? In the middle of the day?”

“That’s what she told me. She said it couldn’t wait. So I guess I’m in charge, at least for the moment.”

“Don’t get to comfortable in that chair, Calvin.” The thought crossed her mind that maybe she should get her hair trimmed too. Appearance did make a difference.

Calvin said: “This office suits me. I think the company has finally realized my true genius. Now if I could convince you to go out with me, life would be perfect.”

She smiled. This was a frequent jest. “Oh, you don’t want to go out with me, I’m not cool enough for you,” she told him. Now that she thought about it, that was probably true.

“I’m cool enough for both of us,” Calvin replied easily. “What do you say, maybe drinks on Friday?”

Jolene’s smile had turned to a puzzled frown. “I . . . I’ll talk to you later, OK?” She hurried back to her desk. She made an appointment to have her hair permed.

It was late the next day before Jolene had a chance to talk to the new girl. She found Angelica in the files room, patiently replacing folders in the endless racks. Her dress today was pink lace, but as tight and brief as ever. When Jolene walked in Angelica was up on the second step of a metal stepladder. She seemed equally unconcerned about the precariousness of her perch in five-inch heels or that her elevation made looking up her dress effortlessly easy. In fact, Jolene realized, it was almost impossible to not look up her dress.

“Angelica,” Jolene said gently, “may I speak with you for a moment?”

“Oh, of course,” the cutie replied, looking worried. Jolene watched as she carefully stepped down, holding onto both handrails. The trick, evidently, was to walk on the edge of each step and let the heels hang over. She does have fabulous legs, Jolene conceded.

Angelica was wearing glossy tights and black-lace-up shoes with pointed toes to match the spike heels. Topping off the outfit were lacy white socks with oversized pink ruffles. After a moment Jolene realized her underpants were also decorated with pink ruffles. She shook her head. Who wears knickers to match her socks?

The new girl approached Jolene diffidently. “Have I done something wrong” she asked.

“No, of course not. I’m a little concerned about you, that’s all.”

“Concerned? About me? Why?” The concept seemed new to her.

“Well, yesterday I saw Trevor Alscap fondle your behind as you walked by him.”

The girl shrugged. “Oh, he always does that.”

Jolene’s eyes went wide. “He does?”

“Of course. So does Mr. Mulgrave.”

“But . . . but . . . Angelica that’s . . . you don’t have to put up with that!”

She seemed confused. “I want them to like me,” she said humbly.

“That doesn’t mean you have to tolerate being groped!”

The new girl toyed with the hem of her minidress, an action that only emphasized how short it was. “I think they’re just being nice. Men like to play. They only tease the girls they like.”

“No, wait, you’re—” She stopped herself again.

Something about what Angelica said gave her pause. Jolene had been working her for five years. None of the men on staff had ever patted her fanny. No one had ever made a pass at her. Not once! Except for Calvin, who probably wasn’t serious, no man had ever asked her out for drinks or flirted with her at company functions or even complimented her on a new dress. What was wrong with her? Didn’t men find her attractive?

No, wait, that didn’t make sense. Men weren’t supposed to be attracted to her—well, of course she wanted to be attractive, just not at the office. No, that wasn’t it either. She was a good looking woman. She could turn heads if she wanted to. Shouldn’t somebody at least try to make a move on her? Maybe men were ignoring her because she didn’t make an effort to look pretty, like Angelica did. Until a few weeks ago she had seldom even worn skirts. Maybe—

Jolene’s head was spinning. Something was wrong. “Look, I, I have to go,” she blurted. “That’s a lovely dress.”

Why did I say that? Jolene wondered as she hurried back to her desk. She didn’t want to encourage her to dress like that. It would only lead to more affectionate pats on the bum from handsome men. Lucky girl. Jolene sat down at her desk, confused.

On Wednesday Jolene stopped by Matilda’s office again. She found the office manager sitting at her desk with Calvin leaning over her shoulder. He was pointing out things on the monitor.

“Am I interrupting?” Jolene asked.

Matilda looked up. She had re-done her hair into a complicated pattern of waves and ringlets. She smiled. “Oh, hi Jo. No, no problem. Calvin was . . . helping me with some scheduling stuff.” She turned her smile to him. “We’ll finish this in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be at my desk.” her young assistant said, straightening. “Hey there Jolene. Don’t you look foxy today.”

Jolene lowered her eyes demurely. “Oh, why thank you, Calvin,” she replied. The compliment had caught her off guard. Calvin was looking at her strangely.

“Thanks from me too,” Mattie added, “You’ve been a great help.”

Calvin grinned. “Tell her,” he said, pointing at Jolene. He calmly surveyed her legs as he left the office.

“What’s that all about” Jolene asked, when they were alone.

Mattie looked embarrassed. “Uhm, Calvin was helping me . . . sort out some of the case loads. It’s . . . confusing, you know? I think he’s better at it than I am.”

“Mattie, he’s your assistant. Aren’t you supposed to tell him what to do?”

Surprisingly, Mattie giggled. “Well, yeah, but . . . he’s a natural at . . . seeing the best way to get things done. I really do depend on him.”

Jolene looked at her guardedly. “You’ve changed your hairstyle.”

She perked up at once. “Yes! Got it done at Hip Clips the other day.” She fussed with her ringlets for a moment. “Do you like it? Tell me honestly, I really want to know.”

“It looks lovely. Kind of a change from your old style, isn’t it?”

Another giggle. “Certainly is! I’m working on a younger look, you know?”

“Younger! Why?”

Mattie was still arranging coils of dyed hair. She looked suddenly shy. “For a change. I . . . I don’t want anybody to think I’m old and . . . well, unattractive.”

Jolene had a suspicion. “Who’s anybody?” she asked gently.

“Well, uhm, you know, like . . . Trevor, for example.” She was talking to her lap.

“You look great. The perm suits you. I was wondering if we can settle the case loads that Mulligan was complaining about.”

“Oh, certainly. I’ve been working on that. Should we call Calvin back in?”


There was definitely something strange going on in the office, Jolene decided a few days later. She could almost feel it. An undefinable shift in the mood slipped over her the moment she stepped through the glass doors in the morning. The world seemed . .. . softer, if that made any sense: like the vision of life in her mind had been rendered in creamy pastels instead of hard-edged oils. Was the air carrying a different scent . . . or something?

She was suddenly reminded of a fragment of a poem she had learnt in high school:

“Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed by an unseen censor, swung by seraphim who’s footsteps tinkled on the tufted floor.”

At the time, she had complained to the teacher that The Raven made no sense. Now, as she wandered through the strangely musk-laden corridors of the office, she was beginning to grasp what Poe was talking about. She never did find out what a seraphim was.

“The only thing going soft around the office are my thighs,” said Tralee, when Jolene mentioned it to her. Jolene’s friend was sitting on top of her desk, high heels perched on the chair, carefully checking her mascara in a hand mirror.

Jolene sat in another chair, grateful to be off her feet for a moment. Her new heels took a little getting used to. They were white sling-backs with peach trim, to match her outfit. The heels were a good inch taller than what she considered comfortable. Heels that high didn’t seem to trouble Tralee very much.

“Lee, you practically live in the gym. You work out every day. You’re as fit as an olympian.” She meant it. Tralee was looking very svelte in a frilly, magenta blouse and a tight black miniskirt. Her stockings were tinged with sky blue. The sexy outfit displayed her toned curves to great advantage.

“I’m trying to get down to my ideal weight,” she said. “I can’t let up now.”

Jolene shook her head. “I don’t know. There’s something here I can’t put my finger on. It’s like . . . well, like everyone has lost their edge. Look at Mandy McWilton. She’s always been driven. Now she’s prancing around in kitten heels and smiling at everybody.”

Tralee continued her careful self-inspection. “That’s because she’s back together with Mel.”

“Melvin? Her ex? When?”

“Sometime last week, so I heard. They’ve reconciled completely. Looks to me like ol’ Mel is making up for lost time, the way Mandy is grinning.” She giggled like a schoolgirl.

“But . . . but . . . they’ve been a non-item for months. He cheated on her!”

The girl on the desk waved a hand. “That’s ancient history. Besides, Mandy says it was her fault.”

Her fault? How so?”

“Well, a man has needs, Jo. Mandy was wasting so much time at the office, she wasn’t giving Melvin his daily release. No wonder the poor man decided to find greener pastures.”

Jolene struggled to process this information. Tralee had finally decided that her eye shadow was acceptable. She moved on to refreshing her cherry lip gloss.

Jolene said: “Something still seems . . . out of sorts. It bothers me. Have you noticed the way the partners practically drool over the new girl?”

A shrug. “Can’t say I blame them. She’s a cutie. I wish I had her legs.”

Jolene studied Tralee’s softly tinted legs, from the high heeled pumps up and up to the hem of her abbreviated skirt. She said nothing for a moment.

Then: “I wish we could do something to raise her self-esteem. She seems so bereft of confidence. Maybe that’s why she . . . well, parades like that.”

Tralee put down her compact. “Maybe she just wants to be noticed. Like all of us.” Her voice was quiet.

“She gets noticed all right. When she’s in the room no man notices anything or anybody else.”

Tralee studied her. “What’s bothering you, Jo?”

She sighed. She leaned back in the deep chair. “I don’t know, you see. I have a meeting with Mulgrave and McIntyre in a few minutes. All I have to do is talk about what I learned in that course a few weeks back and convince them to expand my case load a little. Yet I’m nervous. I can’t stop thinking about Angelica and the way she can captivate the whole room with that astonishing bod of hers. It’s like every move she makes is erotic. I feel like . . . I feel like I’m competing when she’s around and . . . I haven’t got a chance.”

Tralee slid gracefully off the desk. The short skirt and mirror-black heels made her look taller. “I don’t think any of us do,” she said easily. “I know what you need right now.” She bent over dangerously in her tight mini to reach into the bottom drawer of her desk. She emerged with a silver hip flask.

“What’s this? Jolene wanted to know.

“It’s . . . something to take the edge off. This job gets stressful sometimes. This helps.” She held out the flask.

Jolene couldn’t think of anything particularly stressful about Tralee’s job. It was mostly data management. She took the flask. She took a hesitant sip. Whatever was inside was sweet and very strong.

“Whoa! What is that?”

Another shrug. “Bourbon. Have a little more. It’ll get you through the meeting.”

Jolene hesitated. Then she tipped the flask for a long swig. It burned warm down her throat.

She handed the flask back to Tralee, who surprised her by taking a swig herself. “Been a long day,” she apologized.

Jolene got to her feet. She felt warm from the booze. “OK. How do I look?” She was wearing a new outfit, an off-white suit with a long jacket. The skirt was short, to test her worry that she wasn’t feminine enough to draw male attention. The bodyshirt underneath was peach-coloured lace.

“Hmmmm,” said Tralee, looking her over thoughtfully. “Nice, but . .. .” She leaned forward and unfastened a yellow button on Jolene’s jacket. She spread the lapels a little.

“Uhm . . . are you sure?” Jolene demurred.

“Honey, if a girl’s going to get ahead she has to use all the leverage she’s got. I wish I had tits like yours.” Her hand feathered across one lace-covered breast.

“Yes, but . . .”

“Have another drink.”

Jolene found herself holding the flask. She seriously doubted that more bourbon was what she needed. She took a quick swig. While she was occupied Tralee unfastened a third button.

“Go get ‘em, Babe,” Tralee urged. She took Jolene by both shoulders, turned her around, and pushed off in the direction of the board room.

The meeting didn’t go well. The alcohol purring through Jolene’s system allayed her nervousness rather too effectively. She was befuddled and giddy. She couldn’t focus on what she was saying. To make matters worse, she kept breaking out into fits of giggles.

Bourbon wasn’t the only thing holding her back though. It was intimidating to be in a closed room with two handsome men. Both of them were older than her, and clearly more experienced. To Jolene they seemed serenely composed, confident, and above all, masculine. She felt like the air was perfumed with male hormones that floated up into her brain like smoke from an opium pipe.

In the end, she failed to convince either Mulgrave or MacIntyre that she should be allowed to handle more difficult files. It wasn’t that she didn’t hold their attention. Strutting about in a miniskirt and high heels, with her half-exposed boobs bouncing playfully in her yellow bodyshirt, pretty much guaranteed that. When she finished her pitch, MacIntyre shook his head.

“Maybe you should stick with your current clients for a while,” he explained, “until you get a little more experience.” His gaze rolled hungrily up her nylons while he spoke. “Though you are showing some, uh, promising . . . development,” he went on, shifting his attention to her tits, “I don’t see the . . . maturity yet to grapple with the more demanding clients.”

“I’m afraid I would have to agree, Jo,” Mulgrave added. “You’re clearly doing your best to make a good impression. Stick with what you know.” Mulgrave was enjoying Jolene’s feminine curves as much as MacIntyre was. Jolene had met his wife once, at a company function. She wondered if Mulgrave thought she was as pretty.

“But, I spent a week on that upgrade course, so I could take on more . . . well, reshponshibil’ty.” She hiccupped.

Mulgrave’s tone became condescending. “It takes more than a week of classes to learn how to handle foreign investing, Jo. You can only go so far by being cute.” He winked at her.

Jolene stared at him, wordless. She had never been subjected to such transparent sexism. “Oh. OK then,” she said, looking down.

The men got up to go. They looked relaxed and powerful in their dark business suits. MacIntyre approached her more closely than really necessary. “Don’t let it worry you,” he said, “we all love having you around the office.” He was inspecting her chest like a dieter gazing on an open box of chocolates. Jolene’s floral bra was visible through the gossamer material of her bodyshirt.

When they were gone, Jolene made her way slowly back to her desk. She was disappointed that she wasn’t going to be advanced. At one time she might have raised a fuss. Now it seemed wiser to trust the men’s judgment. After all, what did she know about investing, really?

She was more concerned about the response to her new outfit. Both Mulgrave and MacIntyre had been ogling her from the moment she wobbled into the room. Yet neither of them had made a pass, or patted her fanny, or even put an arm around her shoulder. Angelica got those kinds of responses all the time. What did a girl have to do to get fondled around here?

“I wish there was something we could do about Angelica’s self-esteem,” Jolene said, early the following week. She was standing in the doorway to Mattie’s office, a cup of coffee in one hand. The coffee had a little jolt in it, courtesy of Tralee’s flask.

Mattie chewed daintily on her little finger. “I’ve tried talking to her,” she replied. “It doesn’t seem to penetrate. She turns everything around, you know?”

Jolene did know. She had tried talking to the new girl herself that morning. She met her in the lunch room, where Angelica was busy making MacIntyre his morning coffee. Today her tight-fitting dress was candy-apple red, with gold epaulets on the shoulders. Her red pumps were as glossy as wet paint.

Jolene regarded her fondly. The girl did have great style. She might wear “come-fuck-me” heels to the office, but they always matched her mini. Even her nail polish was the same liquid red.

After exchanging pleasantries, Jolene had tried again to persuade the new girl that she didn’t have to put up with being touched all the time. “You have to tell them to keep their hands to themselves,” she explained.

Angelica looked dismayed by the idea. “I don’t want men to think I’m unfriendly,” she said, barely meeting Jolene’s eyes.

Something about her tone stopped Jolene flat. She mumbled something incoherent and walked away. She spent the rest of the morning wondering if men thought she was cold.

“I guess I’m not going about it right,” Mattie said dejectedly. “I don’t know anything about that kind of thing. I’ll ask Calvin when he gets back from lunch.”

Jolene frowned. Mattie hardly did anything lately without asking Calvin first. Her assistant was twelve years younger than her. Sipping her spiked coffee, Jolene glanced down the hall, where a pretty woman in a short cotton skirt and high-heeled boots almost fell over in her eagerness to help a young fellow carry a stack of reports. She tottered along behind him as the clearly pleased young man disappeared around a corner.

“Don’t you think there’s something odd going on around here?” Jolene wondered.

“Oh? Odd how?” Mattie had her hand mirror out. She was fussing with her complicated hairdo, something she did all the time.

“I don’t know how to describe it,” Jolene admitted. “There’s a different feeling in the office lately. Like there’s something in the air. You know how spring fever hits sometimes, when the air outside is warm and fragrant and suddenly everyone is giddy and silly and doesn’t feel like working?”

“Mmmm-hmm,” Mattie said. She was playing with a long coil of hair, trying to decide if it looked better swept back or falling loosely over her eye. Her earrings were clusters of coloured stones that tinkled when she moved.

Jolene said: “It’s like that, only with a different feel. We all seem so . . . passive, or something. I can’t describe it any better. Why doesn’t anybody wear pants anymore?”

“Judy Sweetbottom does.”

“OK, sure, but—” Judy Sweetbottom was a bespectacled and respectable accountant. She had lately developed a penchant for skin-tight hipster pants in shiny leather or vinyl. Tight tees and tube tops were starting to replace blouses. Every day she looked less like a bookkeeper and more like a pop star. She was constantly fetching things for the fellow in the next office.

Jolene tried again. “I mean, why have we all become so obsessed with our appearance? Abbie Rhode has even stopped wearing her glasses.”

“Doesn’t need them. Laser surgery.”

“What? When?

“Got it done last week. I think she looks a whole lot better, don’t you?”

“She was dead set against surgery, remember? Why the sudden change of heart? It doesn’t affect her job, does it?” She was less confident of this last question than she expected.

Mattie giggled. “It does when you’re doing the nasty with Malcolm.”

“The young guy down the hall? Isn’t he—”

“Engaged isn’t the same thing as married,” Mattie said patiently. She was wearing a rather thin floral top. “Besides, his girlfriend is light-years away, off at university or something. What does she think she’s doing, abandoning her man like that? Serves her right if he rings Abbie’s buzzer instead.”

Jolene scowled. “I suppose,” she conceded. She took a long drink of coffee. She contemplated stopping by Tralee’s desk on the way back to her office. “I still can’t shake the feeling that something has changed. It’s all connected to that new girl. Her self-image is like, totally limited to being a blow-up doll for men. Yet she’s so certain of her place, so utterly lacking in self doubt, it’s like, I don’t know, like she’s dragging every one down to her level.”

Mattie finally put her mirror down. She pushed herself back from the desk and crossed her knees. The act revealed a short denim skirt with the logo of a trendy teen store on one pocket. She wore high-heeled white slings with little red polka-dots.

“You’re imagining things,” the office manager said easily. “Angelica is a sweet girl. Besides, she hardly talks.”

“I know, I know. I like her too. It’s not what she says though, or not entirely. It’s the way she dresses, the way she acts; her attitude. Her vibes.”

“Aren’t you being a little hard on her? Sure she dresses sexy, but she’s always sharp and together. A girl needs confidence for that. I wish I had her . . . panache.”

Jolene looked her over. The denim miniskirt showed a lot of nyloned leg. “So you can look young and sexy . . . for Trevor?” Jolene ventured.

Mattie looked at the floor. “He is my boss,” she mumbled.

Jolene took her leave. She had work to do. Nevertheless she made a detour to Tralee’s office on the way back.

Wednesday morning found Jolene carefully negotiating the broad steps up to the main doors of her office building. She was unaccustomed to the heels. She was also unaccustomed to the way men were looking at her.

The hungry eyes were a result of Jolene’s earnest attempt to present herself in a less threatening way. Angelica’s glum comment about men thinking she was unfriendly had stayed with Jolene all afternoon. It bothered her. Was she really hostile to men? Was her cherished professionalism a facade of coolness to hide behind? The possibility had never occurred to her before. She hadn’t had a regular boyfriend for a while. That didn’t mean she was unsocial. Did it?

Nagging doubts hovered around her. Even an extended workout at the gym after work hadn’t lifted the cloud. She looked at the stretchy spandex workout gear her officemates were wearing. Her more practical shorts and top certainly weren’t entrancing the men in the room. If men thought she was cold, how could her career advance? For that matter, how secure was her job?

In the changing room she confided in Tralee, who convinced her the solution was an emergency wardrobe upgrade. Tralee seemed to know something of this. She had repeatedly upgraded her hemlines.

That was how Jolene found herself wobbling up the wide stone steps in a sleek black minidress with red piping around the high hem and low neckline. The dress was several steps beyond what Jolene would have chosen. Tralee and her flask of confidence were with them in the shops. It was Tralee who had convinced Jolene that the brief dress could be made adequately professional with the addition of a suit jacket; that adding yet another inch to her heels would only enhance her stature; and that stockings were light-years more man-friendly than pantyhose.

When applied to Jolene’s showgirl figure, the new outfit went beyond man-friendly into the realm of man-magnetic. She attracted stares and whistles everywhere she went. Men turned to watch her go by.

She was a big hit at the office. Calvin thought she looked ravishing, and said so. He was sitting at Mattie’s desk while his nominal boss went to a meeting with Trevor. “You really must go out with me, sweetcheeks,” Calvin said, surveying her dark-hosed legs. “A babe like you shouldn’t be sitting around her flat every evening combing her hair. I could give you something to wrap those legs around.”

The come-on was both bolder and cruder than Jolene expected from Calvin. Just in time she bit back a sharp reply. Sarcasm was hardly friendly. Instead she lowered her head bashfully. “Oh stop it Calvin, you’re making me blush,” she said. She giggled deliberately.

Calvin’s grin grew wider. “Are you blushing everywhere?”

In fact, Jolene was feeling blood flow to her sex. She was hardly going to tell Calvin that. It was safer to giggle. “Will you let me know when Mattie gets back. Please?” she said diffidently. “I need to speak to her about some clients.”

Calvin chuckled. “Oh, I think Trevor is going to keep Mattie pretty busy for a while,” he said, winking at her, “which means you and I have this big office all to ourselves.” He looked her up and down with a gaze that spoke directly to Jolene’s hormones.

She brushed back her hair nervously. “I . . . I have to go,” she blurted. She turned and tottered out of the room in her new red heels. She made her way to the ladies’ room. She found an empty stall, entered, and closed the door. In seconds she had slipped a finger down into her new French-cut panties. The short dress and stockings turned out to be finger-friendly too.

“God, what’s wrong with me this morning?” she gasped, as a second finger slipped in. “I’m so hot . . . Calvin . . . oh sweet sugar cookies . . . look at me . . . I’m a hottie . . .” She leaned forward and grabbed the top of the door so she could keep her balance while she stroked. Her fingers thrust, faster and faster. She was soaked, and panting. “Dammit Calvin you sexist brute . . . oh god Calvin . . . Calvin . . . Caaaalvin!” The orgasm made her knees buckle and her eyes squeeze shut. It left her panting against the metal door.

Jilling off in the washroom was a new experience for Jolene. At least she had worked that bizarre impulse out of her system. After lunch she had a meeting with the partners. When it was over she had to come back to the toilet and do it all again.

Mid-afternoon on the following Monday, Jolene was seated at her desk, lost in thought. One of her new platform slides dangled off her toes. She was deeply worried.

There could be no doubt now that something was wrong in her workplace. The unsettling feeling that had been gnawing at her mind for weeks was stronger every day. There was a kind of perfumed cloud hanging over the office, redolent of hormones and power and sexuality. Jolene fancied she could almost see it, like a fine haze of smoke lingering in the air, invisible itself, yet dulling the light and darkening everything. She still didn’t understand what was happening. She was convinced though, that the new girl was the smouldering coal, billowing sexual heat into the atmosphere.

Angelica. The pretty girl with no self-confidence whose wardrobe was a voyeur’s dream. The girl who seldom met your eyes when she spoke, and then only to search, with an air of hopeless longing, for some sign of approval. The girl who, Jolene was now convinced, was regularly servicing at least the senior partners and quite possibly a number of the other men in the office. Why wasn’t everyone outraged?

The clatter of heels in the hall interrupted her thoughts. A couple of young women passed by, talking quietly. They were both junior account managers. They were dressed almost identically, in mini-skirt suits with spike heels. One girl’s stockings were patterned with interlocking coloured threads, leading the eye upward.

Jolene heard her say: “. . . like, married or something?”

Her companion with the heavy gold jewellery replied: “Well, after he had spent all that money buying dinner for me, I could hardly say no, could I? Besides, he has like, loads of influence around here.” The first woman nodded understandingly as they passed down the hall.

Jolene watched them go. This wasn’t . . . normal. Tight, bright and slight had become watchwords of office fashion. Middle-aged, middle managers were coming to work in leather miniskirts. No one even thought of wearing pants—except for Judy Sweetbottom, who had arrived that morning in a hip-riding, white lace confection that looked as though it would dissolve in the rain. Conversations about hairstyles and hemlines increasingly revolved around whether the men in the office would approve.

Jolene pinched her lip between two fingers. The new attitude toward men was the strangest part of it. In the past, the worker bees of the office hive had accorded respect to the partners because they were older and experienced, not because they were male. Nobody hesitated to speak their mind to anyone else. Everyone knew that the gender balance would correct itself in time, probably starting with Mathilda.

All that had changed when this new mood settled over the office like a gentle summer evening. Lately, Jolene’s distaff colleagues had become uniformly polite and deferential, not only to the senior partners, but to anyone wearing pants. Jolene had overheard an experienced account manager ask a young intern, a fellow barely old enough to shave, if he would mind, please, if it wasn’t too much of an imposition, when he had a spare moment, putting these files back on the shelf? She was wearing something leather and upthrusting beneath her one-button suit jacket. The young fellow stared and grinned while his supervisor apologized for making him work.

Farther down the hall, Abbie Rhode, the woman who no longer wore glasses but whose eyeliner was always perfect, spent more time running and fetching for Malcolm than she did on her own work. She had confided in Jolene a few days earlier that she was certain Malcolm could have her fired.

“He has the ear of the partners, I know it,” she whispered. “They recognize his talent. And me . . . well, I’ve been here for years.” Her self-assessment was grim. They were standing in a narrow corridor outside the work room where Malcolm liked to “confer” with Abbie. She nervously smoothed her dishevelled hair while she spoke.

“Uhm, Abbie, your blouse,” Jolene advised her. The older woman looked down. She hastily began to refasten buttons. Underneath the sheer garment her robust breasts were being lifted for inspection by something rather more substantial than Jolene’s floral bra. Punishing corsets and body-shapers were Abbie’s short-term solution to what she saw as her flawed form, until her new regimen of strict diet and fanatical exercise took over. Her new hour-glass figure, exaggerated by slender heels and clingy dresses, gave her the look of a pin-up girl between photo shoots. Abbie hoped Malcolm approved.

Back in her office, Jolene pondered. Why had she said that? What did it matter whether Malcolm approved of Abbie’s underwear? This sudden deference—closer to subservience—toward the men in the office was unnatural. Yet all her friends were too nervous to even discuss it. Why was she the only one who was immune?

She paused to reconsider that last thought. She looked down at herself: tight white blouse, tighter red miniskirt, sheer white stockings and her newest pair of red platform slides with almost five inches of heel. She had decided that morning that wearing a jacket would look too . . . unfriendly. She wanted men to know that she didn’t mind being admired. That made sense, didn’t it?

She had certainly been admired as she shuffled down the street toward the office. The preposterous heels necessitated small, careful steps. This deliberate gait, and her attention to where she was putting her feet, painted a picture of soft femininity, freed of the hard edges of determination and practicality.

At some level that was what she wanted. Certainly the avid attention of the guys on the street was greatly re-assuring. So where the offers of dinner and dancing from men she barely knew, that kept her happily occupied on both Friday and Saturday night. Of course she hadn’t intended to go to bed with them. She had been wearing something quite fetching both evenings. The look of ardent want in her dates’ eyes quickened her blood to the point where she simply had to satisfy them in other ways too.

It was that same satisfaction, from pleasing all the men she passed on the way to work, that drove Jolene to skip her morning coffee in favour of a romp in the ladies’ with the magic red wand she was carrying in her purse. She surprised Mattie coming out. Though she had straightened her hair, it was apparent from the glassy look in her eyes that the office manager had been treating herself to a morning pick-me-up too. “Oh, good morning, Jo,” Mattie said, giggling prettily. “You look sweet this morning.”

Jolene smiled. “Thanks. I’m trying something new. And you’re outfit is . . . interesting.” The sentence changed direction as Jolene got a good look. Mattie’s outfit continued her quest for a youthful look. The top was a tight, sleeveless halter in blue plaid with a band of black around the bottom that almost reached her navel. The low-hanging skirt was pleated and plaid and not very long. She wore dark blue, fishnet stay-ups with a wide black garter just at the edge of the skirt. Topping it off were blocky, dark blue sandals with platform heels even higher than Jolene’s.

“Uhm, Mattie,” Jolene said carefully, “Are you sure . . . for the office?” She gestured vaguely to indicate Mattie’s hemline.

The office manager studied the floor. “I don’t want Trevor to think that I’m . . . too old to be, like, interesting.” she mumbled.

“Mattie, you’re thirty-four!”

The reminder did not re-assure her. “I know,” she said regretfully. “That’s why I have to try harder. Trevor could have me replaced with someone younger and more . . . co-operative.”

“But Mattie, wait. What does your daughter think of this?” She indicated the blue plaid party outfit with a sweep of her hand. Mattie had often complained of how hard it was to convince her teen daughter to dress respectably.

“I promised her she could borrow it,” Mattie replied. She looked at her watch. “Oh, I’d better go. Trevor doesn’t like it when I’m late.” She trotted away down the corridor, the little skirt swishing, and flashing her stocking-tops, with every step. Jolene watched her go, confused. Something was seriously wrong with Mattie. She decided to have a long talk with her, later. Right now though, the magic wand beckoned. Seeing Mattie in her teen sex-kitten outfit had made her hornier than ever.

Back in her office, Jolene sipped coffee and pondered. After a long and vibrant session in the ladies’ she had finally emerged ready to face the day. She had used her lovely red vibrator eagerly. Somehow she had slipped into a fantasy about being taken against her will on a subway train.

It was morning rush hour. The train was crowded. Business men in expensive suits were all around her, leering and staring, pressing closer. She was inviting it, of course, in her yellow microskirt and stiletto heels. One of the men pressed up behind her. Wordlessly he pushed her forward, until she was bent over the back of seat. She heard a zipper, then the feel of hot man-flesh against her slit. She could only groan as he slipped in, taking advantage of her bare ass and her wetness. He fucked her vigorously as the other men crowded around, touching and pawing and calling her names. The big cock screwing her to heaven became Calvin’s shaft. It was his name she cried out as her orgasm shook her like a passing train. As she was coming down, relaxing against the wall of the toilet stall, Jolene realized that someone else was doing the same thing in the next stall.

She passed the lunch room on her way back to her desk. Tralee was there. Her friend was dressed to the nines, of course, in a soft yellow bodyshirt with big lacy cuffs on the sleeves, coupled with a tight miniskirt brightly decorated with daisies and buttercups. Even her high-heeled pumps were bright yellow. Her hose was tight and shiny. She had the coffee pot in her hand.

“Pour me one too, won’t you?” Jolene said.

Tralee looked up. “Morning Jo,” she said. “Good weekend?”

Jolene brushed back her hair. “Uh, OK, I guess.” Memories of eager bed-thrashing flashed through her mind. “I did a little shopping.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.” Tralee filled a second cup and handed it to Jolene. Then she bent over carefully to retrieve a small bottle from a lower cupboard. Furtively, she added a healthy dash to her coffee. “Want some?” she asked, proffering the bottle.

“Lee! It’s like, 9:30 in the morning!”

Her friend looked abashed. “I guess I don’t have much will-power,” she apologized. “Do you think this skirt makes me look fat?”

Jolene could only shake her head at her friend’s comportment. As they parted the lunch room one of Tralee’s co-workers nearly dislocated a shoulder to stare at her legs. He whistled at her. Tralee giggled in reply.

The incident reminded Jolene that it wasn’t only the women in the office who were acting oddly. The men, for their part, were taking full advantage of the crumbling self-confidence and growing sexual receptiveness of their co-workers. Even previously polite and quiet men were dropping things so they could watch their microskirted secretaries pick them up, and slapping their asses as they walked away. That didn’t even count what was increasingly going on behind closed doors.

Later that morning Jolene had passed the photocopier. The machine dwelt in its own little room, not much bigger than a walk-in closet. One of the research assistants was there, photocopying month-end reports. Her suit included the very short skirt and high heels that had become standard office attire. She was accompanied by another researcher, who was standing close. “You’re doing a great job, baby,” he said cheerfully. “Remember to collate and staple those for me, right?”

“Uhm, yes. . . OK, Jack . . . Sir,” the girl replied, though Jack was not her superior.

He edged closer. “If I may say so,” he added, “you are looking particularly fine this morning. Brightens up my whole day.” As he spoke he boldly laid a hand on her thin skirt. He began to knead her ass affectionately. The woman stiffened. She didn’t move away.

“When you’re all done here,” Jack said, still fondling, “Why don’t you bring those over to my cubicle.” He stopped pawing long enough to draw one finger along the top of her leg, right at the hem of her skirtlet. She twitched. “I think there’s something else you can do for me, OK beautiful?”

“Yes . . . Jack,” the girl replied. Her voice was husky.

Jolene hurried away before they saw her. She was astonished, and appalled. Most of all she was horny again.

Now Jolene was sitting at her desk in the back alcove that formed a not-quite-office, trying to fathom what was happening. Every man in the office was turning into a horny adolescent. Even the clients were coming to accept that an investment office peopled by sexed-up, servile girlies was a good and normal thing. The women, on the other hand, in their tarted up office attire and foolish high heels—the women were all starting to act like Angelica.

How was this possible? Angelica rarely spoke unless someone addressed her directly. She did exactly what she was told without complaining. She never even disagreed with anyone, at least not directly. She brought MacIntyre his coffee every morning and every afternoon. She left his office some twenty minutes later, usually pausing in the hallway to adjust her stockings. How could that waif be corrupting a business full of confident, educated, professional women? Yet Jolene was certain the lovely little intern was at the heart of the dark cloud hanging over the office.

Maybe more than the office. Angelica worked out in the gym every day after work, along with pretty much all the women from her workplace. Jolene had noticed the change in attitude of Toni, the gym trainer who was always there in the late afternoon. Her advice to her regular clients had shifted from gung-ho enthusiasm for aerobics and athletics, to gentle suggestions about exercises that promoted a man-pleasing figure. At the same time her gym wardrobe had shrunk from comfortable track suits and cross-trainers to skimpy lycra shorts and halters, lately with sexy tights and colour-matched shoes.

Toni seldom raised her voice any more, and never at the male clients. Jolene had seen her several times in conversation with Angelica. She had initially attempted to lift the girl’s spirits, while suggesting that exercise outfits a tad less revealing might be less of a distraction to the other clients. She had failed at both missions. The day before, Jolene had watched as the formally forthright trainer, dressed in a black lace bodystocking and neon orange track shoes, had meekly collected all the used towels some men had dropped. She was wearing orange earrings and orange socks.

Everywhere Angelica went, sex and servility seemed to follow. Jolene had spoken with the cute intern for a long time earlier in the day. The conversation did nothing to subdue her concern. She had asked, as gently as she could, where Angelica had gone to school. The girl clearly had business training, presumably from a community college. “No, it was . . . more like, distance education,” Angelica said, as if her worst failing had been unmasked. “I was in . . . like a hospital for a while.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Jolene replied. “Was it something serious?”

The new girl shrugged. Her tight sweater reverberated. “I was in this . . . sort of experimental program. It was, like supposed to help girls with . . . low self esteem. But they took me out after a year because I was a bad influence on the other girls. They said I biased their experiment.” She scuffed the floor with the toe of one shiny black boot.

Jolene studied her thoughtfully. “Where was this program? Here in the city?”

Another shrug. She managed to make the gesture look suggestive. “No, it was out in the country, at an old estate. The Dowstreet Institute. They gave us meds and counselling sessions and like, career training. It was sort of like a school. The doctors did all sorts of brain scans too. I think they were trying to see if there was something wrong with our brains.”

It was the longest speech Jolene had heard from Angelica. “Who was in charge of the program? Do you remember the doctor’s name?”

“Of course. Doctor Kim Fikminow. She was nice. I feel bad that I ruined her experiment.”

Jolene reviewed the conversation in her head. There was more to this story than Angelica had said. She sat up and turned to her computer. She found a telephone listing for the Dowstreet Institute. She dialled the number.

After seven rings a soft female voice answered. Jolene said: “I’d like to speak to Dr. Fikminow please.”

A long pause. Then: “I’m sorry, Dr. Fikminow is no longer with the Institute.” Her tone of voice was abjectly apologetic. “Would you like to speak to Dr. Bolen? He’s the Director now.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Jolene said. Something in the woman’s voice was perturbing. She sounded like Angelica.

Jolene rang off, more worried than before. She had access to the client list for the entire company. In a few minutes she found a listing for a Dr. Tom Bolen. He had a sizable amount invested. MacIntyre was in charge of his account.


By the end of the week, Jolene’s worry had turned nearly to despair. The self-confidence and ambition of her colleagues continued to collapse. Pleasing the men in the office increasingly became the sole benchmarks of success. In the lunchroom one day, while the gaggle of figure-obsessed professional women picked at their low-cal snacks, a serious discussion had arisen about whether elastic stay-ups or garters straps were the sexier alternative for stockings. Tralee fortified herself with her ever-present flask, and grew sillier and more giggle-prone as the day wore on. Women had started asking Angelica for fashion advice.

On Wednesday, Jolene had joined Mattie for the weekly meeting with the senior partners. Although Mattie was still nominally the office manager, she did nothing to promote her position. Dressed in a hot-schoolgirl outfit that she never would have permitted her daughter to wear, she meekly agreed to whatever the partners suggested. The one time she demurred, it was only to bring up an issue Calvin had told her to mention.

Jolene fared little better. She did make an effort to engage the discussion. The partners were more interested in staring at her tits. Why had she worn this sweater? It showed more cleavage than a pair of suspenders. Her bra was so insubstantial, everyone in the room could tell that her nipples were hard.

“I think we have all the important points covered,” Mulgrave joked, when Jolene timidly brought up her desire for more responsibility. He was looking right at her chest as he spoke. “There’s no need for you to . . . strain yourself trying to impress us.” All three men in the room chuckled lewdly.

Jolene drew herself up straight. That only made her boobs stand out more. “But, don’t forget I took, like that course. . .”

“I know you did, Jo,” said MacIntyre, closing his binder. “We’re all proud of you. I think your time would be better spent assisting some of the more experienced account managers.” He winked at her.

“Well, that about does it,” Trevor Alscap said, before Jolene could object. He picked up his notes. “Oh, Mattie, I’d like to see you in my office for a few minutes,” he said, switching his attention to another provocative pair.

Mattie looked down. “Yes sir,” she said quietly. Her face was flushed. She followed Trevor out of the room, pausing to tug up her red, over-the-knee stockings. Her cheerleader’s skirt swished delightfully with each tottering step.

The other two men watched the receding view, grinning. MacIntyre left without saying anything more. He had already received his morning coffee and blowjob from Angelica, and a lengthy visit from a junior account manager named Colleen.

Jolene got up to go. Her new stiletto-heeled slides were a little tricky. Mulgrave said: “Jolene I’d like to see you in my office too.” Now that she was away from the table, his attention switched from her tits to her legs. “I think you can start giving me some assistance right now, honey.”

It was pretty clear what he meant. Jolene could see his hard-on through his suit pants. She found some courage. “Sir, I . . . I don’t think that would be . . . appropriate. I have work to do and, and, well, I’m sorry but I can’t.”

He seemed taken aback by her refusal. “Why Jolene, I thought you were a team player,” he replied. “You can’t expect to get ahead by looking good alone. We expect . . . performance too, if you know what I mean.”

Jolene knew what he meant. “I, I have to go now,” she cried. She shuffled out of the room.

“And you turned him down flat?” Tralee asked later, in the coffee room. Her voice was awed. “He could have you fired!”

“Lee, he was demanding sex! In the middle of the work day! For heaven’s sake, what was I supposed to say? ‘Yes sir, right away’?”

“Well . . .”

“Good grief what is wrong with everybody!” Jolene was as much embarrassed as annoyed. Though she had rebuffed Mulgrave’s advance, she had returned to her desk only long enough to retrieve her little red wonder. She had treated herself to a couple of intense climaxes in the old storage room. The washroom was occupied.

The musical tap of high heels announced the arrival of Angelica. She looked fabulous, as ever, in a gold satin micro-dress that was mostly bare skin along both sides. Her sky-high heels were gold too. “What do you think?” Tralee asked her. “Jo says Mulgrave was right hot for her after the meeting this morning. Can’t say I blame him, Jo; you look smashing. But Jo told him to cool it.”

The intern flashed a look at Jolene. “It’s not nice to tease,” she admonished.

Jolene couldn’t think of anything to say.

It was entirely because of Angelica that Jolene finally capitulated to Calvin. They went out to dinner and dancing on Friday night. He wasn’t really her type. Jolene admitted that she had been teasing the man cruelly, especially since she started wearing minis to the office. To make it up to him, Jolene decided to let the evening be for him.

As it was a little past St. Patrick’s Day, Jolene dressed all in green. Her cork-soled, platform heels had green leather thongs that cross-laced up to her knees. Above that she wore a green and black tartan minidress that was sleeveless, mostly backless, and low cut in the front. Her translucent hoop earrings were in matching emerald. She gathered up her hair in a green velvet bow. Calvin liked it.

“Oh, I was hoping you would,” Jolene admitted, taking his arm. She knew it was important to make a good first impression. She figured the date would go better if she let Calvin make all the important decisions. She let him decide which restaurant they went to, and even let him order for her. She didn’t want to make a fuss. It was easier to just giggle and let Calvin handle things.

Later, she let him decide where they went dancing, and what she had to drink. She didn’t complain about his masculine way of signalling his attraction to her, by rubbing his hard-on against her on the dance floor. Finally, she let him decide whether they should go back to his flat or hers, and whether they should fuck their brains out when they got there. As she lay on her back with her sandals locked behind Calvin’s back and his girl-taming wang pistoning in and out of her, Jolene applauded all of Calvin’s decisions. All in all a great first date.

Still, there was a frown on Jolene’s face as she walked down the street toward the office on Monday morning. She had to walk carefully. The pretty slides on her feet had only a single velvet strap across her toes, and five-inch heels in the back. Every step was on tip-toe. Her legs looked fantastic though, in shiny tights and a rump-clinging blue mini. Men on the street simply stopped and stared. She had lined up two dates on the way to work.

The frown persisted. Jolene was confused. She had spent the weekend, between dates and shopping and working out, doing research. She had discovered a lot about the Dowstreet Institute, about their programs to help distressed women, and the ground-breaking research of Dr. Kim Fikminow. There was a connection, she was sure, to Angelica and the strange feeling in the office.

As she negotiated the front steps in impossible heels, Jolene could sense the heady denseness of the air already, like it was flowing outward onto the street. “Then methought the air grew denser . . ..”

There were other offices in her building. Surely this bizarre sex-and-submission aura couldn’t be affecting them too? Jolene refused to believe it. She ignored the fact that not one woman she had passed was wearing pants or a skirt that covered her knees. The security guard in the black leather miniskirt, dutifully shining her partner’s shoes while he sat behind his desk, was harder to overlook.

The eldritch sensation grew stronger as Jolene approached her own office suite. She said hello to Dierdre, the young receptionist. Dierdre was in one of her tight, low-scooped sweaters designed to give visiting clients a remarkable view as they leaned over the desk to make appointments. Dierdre had explained once that Mulgrave and MacIntryre expected her to make clients feel welcome and special. No one had said anything, of course, but wasn’t it obvious? Dierdre’s tight sweaters and tighter skirts and eagerness to fetch coffee and to sit in the client’s lap feeding him cookies, were all part of keeping her job.

The whole day was surreal. Everywhere Jolene turned she met another of her colleagues, under-dressed, over-sexed and simperingly eager to please. Heels like the ones Jolene was mincing around in were everywhere—except for the girls in platforms, whose heels were generally higher. Once, she passed a cubicle where a young assistant was talking on the telephone. Jolene could tell she was talking with her supervisor by the way she breathed “Yes sir,” every few seconds. One hand was holding the telephone to her ear. The other was between her legs, up under her white, pleated microskirt, stroking slowly. Jolene could see the reflection of her flushed face and half-closed eyes in her monitor.

Later, she passed the office of one of the account managers. She wasn’t at her desk. Her young intern was though. He was using her telephone to chat with a chum, nothing at all to do with work. The conversation apparently had him worked up. Jolene was about to ask where his supervisor was. Then she caught a glimpse of blonde hair beneath the desk, between the lad’s legs. The account manager had recently died her hair. Jolene could just make out the top of her head moving up and down, up and down, in a steady, unhurried rhythm. One silver spike-heel was sticking out from under the desk. The intern said something to his friend “ . . . gotta go, something . . . uhn . . . something coming up . . .talk . . . later.” He laid a hand on his superior’s head, urging her onward.

Jolene turned away. The bizarre scene in the office was powerfully arousing. She bit her lip as she wiggled down the corridor.

Soon after she came to Abbie Rhode’s office. The door was open a crack. Strange sounds were coming from inside. Malcolm was sitting in Abbie’s chair and Abbie was sprawled face down across his lap. Abbie was wearing a pink corset and waist cincher along with full-fashion stockings and red pumps. Her red suit lay on the floor.

The sounds Jolene had heard were the slaps of Malcolm’s hand against Abbie’s bare ass. Abbie was crying with pain and humiliation. “I’m sorry, I’m so . . Ow! . . .sorry,” she sobbed through her tears. “I know I shouldn’t . . . oh! . . . shouldn’t have had a cookie! Ouch! I’m weak! I’m a weak, helpless—Ow!— little girl. Please—Ouch! Please spank me, honey. Please! Harder!”

There was a different colour to her voice now. Abbie looked like she could orgasm at any moment.

She wasn’t the only one. Jolene realized with a start that she was pressed against the crack in the door, breathing hard. One hand was already straying. She hurried away. One of her single-strap slides fell off after three steps. She put it back, then shuffled as fast as she could to the ladies’ room. Abbie’s screams of orgasm followed her down the hall. Jolene urgently needed some relief of her own.

Later that afternoon Jolene went to see Mattie. Something had to be done about Angelica. Jolene was a little nervous about encountering Calvin, who was certain to ask her out again. Jolene wasn’t at all sure she could say no. She no longer felt confident in her own will power.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to deal with Calvin. When she arrived at the office manager’s outer office, she discovered Mattie sitting at Calvin’s desk. She was reading the latest issue of Sparkle Girl. She looked up when she heard the clatter of Jolene’s heels. “Hi Jo,” she said sheepishly.

Jolene looked at her. “Mattie, what—” she sputtered.

Matilda had done her hair, again. She was wearing a bright orange crop top with the words “I’m a Handful!” written in script across her chest. The pleated miniskirt was also orange, fastened low on her hips with a wide black belt. Instead of nylons she wore thigh-high stockings patterned in alternating bands of red and black. Open toed, platform sandals graced her feet. They were orange too.

Mattie looked at the floor. She was wearing orange-tinted eye shadow. “Trevor likes the school-girl look,” she mumbled.

Jolene approached her desk. “Mattie, look at yourself,” she pleaded. “This is all wrong. Why do you care so much what Trevor thinks? You were going to buy into the partnership, remember?”

Matilda pulled up one garish stocking slightly. “That . . . that was a silly idea. I don’t know anything about running a big company like this. I’m just a girl.”

“You’re the office manager!”

“Well, yes, sort of, but . . . well, we all know I couldn’t do that without help. I’d make silly mistakes. Trevor says that, you know, I should like, let Calvin look after that.”

“But wait, no—”

The telephone warbled on Calvin’s desk. Mattie pounced on it. “Yes Calvin?” she asked. Her fingernails were sparkly orange. She listened for a few seconds. “Yes Calvin,” she repeated. She set the phone down. “Calvin wants to see me,” she explained, getting to her feet. Between the bottom of her tight top and the top of her low-hanging skirt lay a few yards of deeply tanned skin. “I probably screwed something up. Talk to you later, ‘K?”

Jolene fared no better with Tralee. She found her friend sitting on the built-in desk in her cubicle, with her shiny high heels on the chair. She was fussing with her make-up before a hand mirror. Her skirt was tight, black and shiny. In contrast, her stockings, blouse and wrist-length gloves were all of lacy white, as transparent as morning mist.

Jolene said: “Lee, I need to talk to you. It’s about Angelica. It’s important.”

Tralee gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now. Marlin wants me to . . . help him with something.” She held a tube of lipstick in one hand. She began to carefully re-apply Firetruck Red along her lips.

“Lee, You’re not—not, you know . . . with Mulgrave?” Jolene ventured. She could scarcely bring herself to pose the question. Yet the image of her pretty friend being royally fucked by Marlin Mulgrave right in his office sprang into her mind with pornographic clarity.

“It’s my fault,” Tralee explained. She closed the lipstick and set it on the desk. “Marlin says I’m a tease. I wear my skirts too short and my heels too high. I distract him when he’s trying to work. I suppose I’ve been trying to compensate for my screw-ups by dressing pretty for him. He can hardly be expected to work after I’ve been giving him boob-shots and panty-peeks all morning! So Marlin says I have to . . . you know, help him out.” She slid down from the desk and carefully smoothed out her tight clothes.

“Lee, he’s married!”

She sighed. “I know. I just know his wife is way sexier than I am. I do the best that I can though. Are my seams straight?” She turned around so Jolene could see her fancy stockings. The skirt barely covered the garters.

“They’re fine. Lee I, I can’t believe you let yourself be used like this!”

“It’s not like that,” her friend replied, a little defensively. Despite Jolene’s re-assurance she began to fuss with her garter straps with lace-gloved hands. From the crescent moon of her booty that came into view, Jolene guessed she was wearing a thong beneath the micro-mini—if she was wearing anything.

“I’m trying to be a team player,” she went on. “And Marlin only lets me—makes me—do him once a day, unless like, I tease him really bad.”

“No Tralee, wait. You shouldn’t . . . you really shouldn’t be . . ..”

Tralee peeled back one frilly glove to look at her watch. “Oh, I’m sorry I do have to go now!” She turned and tottered out of the room on her needle-thin heels. She disappeared into Mulgrave’s office. She closed the door.

Jolene never did get to talk to Angelica directly. There were always other women around her, asking for advice on dress and demeanor. Either that or she was in MacIntyre’s office, where Jolene was certain she spent most of her time on her back, or on her knees.

It was just as well. The atmosphere of servile sexiness was so strong in the office Jolene had to spend most of an hour in an unused meeting room, trying to quell the aching need between her legs. Otherwise she was sure she was going to barge in on Calvin and demand that he take her over the desk.

It wasn’t until the following morning that Jolene managed to get both Mattie and Tralee away from their new duties long enough to talk about Angelica.

“What have you got against that girl?” Mattie wanted to know. “She is the sweetest thing.”

They were gathered in the little alcove that served as Jolene’s not-quite-private office, three beautiful women dressed like a photo-shoot for a soft-porn web site. “I know,” Jolene conceded. “She’s nice. I like her too. I think there is a lot more to the new girl than meets the eye, though.”

Tralee asked: “What do you mean?”

Jolene spread her hands. “I’ve been doing research. Where do you suppose Angelica was before she started work here?”

“Business school?”

Jolene shook her head. “She was in hospital. A clinical research institute where they treat women with self-esteem problems. Angelica was a patient.”

There was a pause. “Doesn’t seem to have worked,” Mattie said at last. “Poor girl.”

Jolene said: “I think that’s important. Have you ever been around someone who is so morose and woebegone that she makes everyone else feel depressed too? Like her mood is contagious?”

The other women nodded. “I think Angelica is like that. In spades. Her self-esteem is so poor she drags everyone else around her down too. She’s like this great black hole of meekness sucking all the self-confidence out of the office.”

“Oh, come on, you’re exaggerating,” Tralee scoffed. Today she was wearing a daringly brief lycra dress in bright fuchsia, with matching fish-net hose. “I admit she’s something of a sad-Sally, but nobody can tame an entire office.”

“Maybe she couldn’t, before. Then she went to this clinic I was telling you about. The Dowstreet Institute. The lead scientist there, her name is Kim Fikminow, was using some radical procedures to treat women like Angelica. I don’t know exactly what the treatment involved, but I think it backfired. Instead of boosting Angelica’s self-confidence, it magnified her . . . aura, or sphere of influence, whatever you want to call it. It transformed her into this walking, talking will-absorber who undermines and weakens anybody near her.”

“Why would she want to do such a thing?”

“I don’t even think she’s aware of it! It’s completely unconscious. Women exposed to Angelica for any length of time begins to think and feel like her—namely that men are her natural superiors and pleasing them is the only way for a girl to feel fulfilled and meaningful. Since she can’t believe that her mind is valuable, she offers her body instead.”

Another silence fell. Again it was Mattie who objected. “Wait a minute, Jo. This doesn’t fit. How do you explain the men? The guys in this office certainly haven’t lost any self-confidence. Matter of fact . . .” She paused as a realization hit her. “They’re all swaggering about like little kings.”

“I think it affects the men differently because . . . well, they’re men. You see, we’ve all started behaving according to Angelica’s view of the world. Women become meek, obedient and sexually receptive; men become confident, commanding and arrogant—and horny.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Tralee blurted. She reddened as the others looked at her. “Sorry. It’s just that . . . lately I, well, I can’t seem to get enough.”

No one replied. All three women were feeling the same galloping libido. Mattie shook her curls. “OK Jo, suppose we accept this weird theory—then why are you so together? Shouldn’t you be sucked into the same whirlpool as everyone else?”

Jolene spread her arms. “Look at me. I’m shameless! I wear my hey-heys to walk the dog. I’ve been doing it with Calvin after work and it feels . . . utterly fabulous!”

“Mmmmm, well he is a hunk, isn’t he,” Tralee said dreamily.

“I’d be a student in his class any day,” agreed Mattie, Calvin’s nominal supervisor.

Jolene tried her best to shake off the thrill of worshipfully servicing Calvin’s cock. She took a deep breath. “Wait, wait. Stay with me. I think the only reason I still notice the difference in the office is because I haven’t been around Angelica as long.”

Mattie’s brow furrowed. “You were . . . away, when Angelica started here. Yes. Away for a week.”

“That’s right. So I’m not quite as . . . far gone as everyone else.” She glanced at Tralee, who was twirling her hair with one hand, still thinking about fucking Calvin.

Mattie was still struggling. “The partners. The partners must have noticed. Why didn’t they . . . I mean, wouldn’t they notice, if there was a change and we all began behaving better . . . I mean, more . . . you know.”

Jolene cried: “I think the partners are behind it! MacIntyre in particular. He’s always liked his women docile and girlish. We’re becoming his ultimate fantasy. I think he knew what Angelica was like when he hired her. He’s using her to control us.”

“But . . . but how would he know?”

“Remember Dr. Fikminow? She left the Institute in the middle of her own research. Apparently there were a lot of problems with the female staff. Another psychologist, a man named Tom Bolen, took over.” She paused for a moment. “He has an account with MacIntyre.”

The other girls gasped. Tralee said, tremulously: “What . . . what happened to Dr. Fikminow.”

Jolene sighed. “I found her eventually. The internet is a wonderful tool. She is working in an office downtown—as a receptionist for a massage therapist.”

“What are we going to do?” Mattie asked. Worry informed her voice. “I mean, the partners are so clever, and we’re just . . . I mean, how can we hope to . . .”

Jolene got to her feet. She wobbled a little on her high spikes. “I’m not sure. I think the first thing is to get away from Angelica for a while. Then maybe we can—”

She was interrupted by the telephone. The three women exchanged a glance. Jolene picked up the receiver. “This is Jolene,” she said into the mouthpiece.

She listened for a moment. “Very well. Right away.” She set down the phone, looking grim.

“What was that?” inquired Tralee.

“MacIntyre. He wants to see me in his office.”

When Jolene stepped into MacIntyre’s office five minutes later, she was surprised to discover all three of the senior partners were there. MacIntyre was behind his big desk, and Trevor Alscap was sitting on the edge of it. Mulgrave sat in one of the guest chairs.

Jolene had no idea what they wanted. Were they going to fire her? Did MacIntyre know that she was onto his scheme of indirect mind control? All three men gazed appreciatively at her body the moment she shuffled through the door. In her flimsy slides and tiny red dress, Jolene felt exposed and vulnerable.

“You . . . you wanted to see me?” Jolene said.

MacIntyre actually smiled. He had been doing that a lot lately, since Angelica started blowing him two or three times a day. “Jo,” he said, “we’ve been thinking. The firm is doing rather well right now. We have a lot of new clients. More than I think the three of us can properly handle.”

Jolene brushed back her hair nervously. “I’m doing my best to help,” she said. The reply came out more diffidently than she hoped.

The men exchanged a chuckle. “Indeed you are,” MacIntyre replied, still smiling. “In fact, we’ve been impressed with your . . . work ethic around here.” The compliment would have been more sincere if he hadn’t been talking to her rack. “You have gone to some trouble to upgrade your qualifications. What I’m getting to is that it may be time for you to get rid of that “Junior” word on your business cards.”

It took a moment for this to sink in. “You . . . you’re promoting me?”

“Effective immediately. You’ll be handling some bigger files from here on in. We’ll look over your shoulder for a little while, but I’m sure you can handle it. What do you think?”

Jolene was flabbergasted. This was the last thing she expected. “Well . . . sir, I . . . I don’t know what . . . well, yes. Yes, certainly.”

“That’s my girl!” MacIntyre cheered. “Gentlemen say hello to our new Associate Account Advisor.” The other men murmured approval. Trevor reached forward and shook hands. Jolene couldn’t stop smiling. Maybe her wild theory about the partners trying to reduce the office to a gaggle of sex-minded playthings was wrong after all.

“Oh, there is one more thing,” MacIntyre added, leaning forward. “An additional responsibility. We are going to need more entry-level staff to handle the higher case load. We’ve decided to hire on some of the interns permanently. Each of us will act as a mentor to one of them, until they learn the ropes. I hope you can handle that.”

Jolene was still beaming. “Of course. I would be happy to take on a trainee.”

“Excellent. Well, let’s bring her in and introduce you.” He pushed a button on his desk. “Colleen, send her in please.”

A moment later the door opened softly. Angelica stepped into the room. She lifted her eyes off the floor to meet Jolene’s for only a moment.

“I hope I’m not too much trouble for you,” she said.