The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Miss O’Brien?”

“Miss O’Brien?”

“That’s a good girl.”

“That’s it… wake up.”

Bridget opened her eyes. It took a moment for things to come into focus, but then she saw the smiling, handsome face of Mr. Langford from HR leaning over her. She recognized him from the second Skype interview.

“Mr. Langford,” she said, smiling weakly, wondering where she was.

“Hello.”

“What… what happened?” Bridget looked around. She was in an office. A very nice office. Probably Mr. Langford’s office. Weird. She didn’t remember coming to Mr. Langford’s office. The last thing she remembered was… was… what was it?

“I’m afraid you fainted,” Mr. Langford said, stepping back and sitting on the arm of the chair opposite her. “Now don’t worry, the doc checked you over and he says you’re fine. He suspects it was that damned express elevator. It’s happened before.”

“Right. Yes,” Bridget said. She remembered that the express elevator had made her a little dizzy. She put her hand to her chest. “I’m sorry to have caused everyone so much…”

She suddenly realized that she wasn’t wearing the business suit she had arrived in and looked down, puzzled. It was similar… a white blouse and gray skirt… but the blouse was so tight the first few buttons couldn’t even be buttoned, and the skirt was so short it only just barely covered her cotch. Her regulation nylons had been replaced with trampy fishnet stockings and her pumps had been replaced with five-inch stiletto heels.

“These aren’t my clothes,” she said.

“I’m afraid your clothes were damaged,” Mr. Langford explained, “so we took the liberty of outfitting you from our stock of office attire. Your things are being laundered and repaired even as we speak.”

Bridget knew there was a time when being dressed like this… like some kind of bimbo slut parody of a secretary… would have mortified her. That time was earlier this morning. She knew that intellectually, but for the life of her she couldn’t reason out why it would have mortified her. After all, men were attracted to bimbo sluts. That was why bimbo sluts dressed like bimbo sluts. How did she ever think she was gonna make it in the business world if the men she worked with didn’t want to fuck her? Men were men, after all, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. What had she been thinking, that skill and intelligence and experience would be enough? Lord, what a fool she had been back then… this morning. Thank goodness she had come to her senses in time and she still had a chance to get this job, a job at a company where men were men and women were women and she could use her God-given talents to get ahead like nature intended.

“That is so sweet,” Bridget said, “thank you.” She noted that whoever had dressed her hadn’t bothered with a bra. It must have been a woman, someone who understood how important it was to show off your tits. They were just sloshing around free, straining at the silky fabric, her nipples poking impishly. Perfect. Mr. Langford was sure to notice her body now.

Bridget blinked. She was vaguely curious about how her clothes got damaged… but of course she trusted Mr. Langford completely so she didn’t bother asking. He knew best. Besides, she had been planning to replace those dreary old rags anyway.

She spent just a moment trying to figure out when, exactly, she must have fainted. She remembered arriving on the basement level… and making a few necessary adjustments to her hopelessly drab outfit… then encountering a pretty girl wearing a black nightie… oh, and seeing that cute guy from the limo again… and then… nothing. Or nothing coherent anyway. Fuzzy images that were probably just her unconscious mind playing tricks. Oh well. She must have fainted while chatting with the pretty girl in the negligee.

Bridget realized she was slumping a bit in the wingchair, so she sat up straighter and crossed her legs, fully awake now. She felt the hem of the miniskirt slide even further up her thighs and saw Mr. Langford’s eyes dart downward. She stifled a giggle. Whoever had dressed her in this outfit had known what she was doing and Bridget silently thanked her.

“Well… are you feeling up to having the interview?” he asked, his eyes now on her neck. Men often stared at her neck, not because her neck was anything special, but because it allowed them to appear as if they were making eye contact when in fact they were checking out her tits. In the past it had always annoyed her when they did that, but now she realized for the first time how endearing it was. Poor darlings, they always thought they were being so clever and that she was completely unaware of their little subterfuge. Men were such children, really.

“Oh yes, absolutely!” Bridget assured him, shifting in her seat just enough to cause her tits to wobble around a bit. Mr. Langford’s eyes drifted downward for a moment and Bridget awarded herself ten points. Such children.

“Good, good,” Mr. Langford said, rising and grabbing a tablet from his desk before sitting across from Bridget. “So… tell me all about this segment allocation project you worked on at the University of Wisconsin.”

Bridget was a little disappointed. She had been hoping that he would start by telling her how attractive she was, mixing in a few double-entendres that made it clear how much he wanted to tear off this slutty secretary costume, throw her across his desk, and slam-fuck her perfect ass for the next few hours. She recognized that there were rituals that had to be observed. She knew that the time-honored game had to be played, and that playing it was half the fun. She understood that he had to seduce her. Or, if this were as progressive a firm as she thought it was, she him. She realized that neither of them could just wink at the other and say, “So… wanna fuck?” Bridget got all that. She really did, despite the distracting itch between her thighs.

But still… it was a disappointment.

So he’d rather talk about her thesis project than her tits. Okay. She could do that. After all, she was proud of that work, and she supposed if she got the job here she couldn’t expect to spend all day fucking her handsome colleagues on their desks. She would have to buckle down and do some plain old honest marketing work as well.

On the other hand, she had been here since nine o’clock this morning and she had yet to fuck anyone. As far as she could remember, anyway. She supposed it was possible that cute guy in the turtleneck had fucked her after she fainted, while she was lying there unconscious in the hallway, but that was probably just wishful thinking. And Bridget knew that going a few hours without fucking anyone wasn’t actually unusual for her. Hell, in recent years she had sometimes gone for several weeks without any sex. Bridget sighed softly. That seemed unthinkably absurd to her now, as she sat there trying not to stare at sexy Mr. Langford’s bulging crotch, but there was no denying it was true. Inexplicable, but true. Damnation. No wonder she had been such a bitch.

But no, of course, obviously, no matter how goddamned sexy Mr. Langford was… sitting there smiling at her with his sexy little lopsided smile, waiting for her to respond… she couldn’t just wink at the HR executive who was interviewing her and say, “So… wanna fuck?”

Could she?

No. No. Absolutely not. No. Did she want Mr. Langford to think she was sexy? Yes. Of course. Did she want him to think she was a sex-crazed, undisciplined tramp? No. Of course not. Almost certainly not. Probably not. And anyway, first things first. First she had to prove that she had the marketing chops. Then she had to prove that, despite the fact that she had occasionally gone for weeks without sex… like some kind of freaking nun, for heaven’s sake… she was fully capable of fucking any man at BoozeMart R&D with all the slutty proficiency and passion of… well, of a sex-crazed, undisciplined tramp.

The idea of fucking sexy Mr. Langford like a sex-crazed, undisciplined tramp significantly increased the itch between her thighs, and Bridget squirmed a bit in her chair.

Surely there was no reason they couldn’t multi-task, was there? No reason Mr. Langford couldn’t at least feel her up while they discussed her marketing thesis. She could tell he wanted to, the way he was looking-not-looking at her bosom. Bridget briefly considered ripping open the blouse, hoping he’d take the hint… but no. No. That would be clumsy. Obvious. Gauche. And she was still concerned about unwittingly violating a company policy… although frankly, if they had a policy against showing off your tits, well, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to work here.

But no. Yes. Of course. After all, there was showing off your tits and there was showing off your tits. There was a time for crude, unrefined frankness, for tearing off your clothes and saying, “So… wanna fuck?”, and there was a time for playing the time-honored game. She had to prove that she knew how to play, that she wasn’t just fuckable, she was shrewd and nimble and… fun.

“Certainly,” she said. She flashed a professional smile and crossed her arms, which of course squashed the slopes of her cleavage up into view. Old school, but effective. She was rewarded with another darting glance. Five points. “Well… I got the idea for that project when it suddenly occurred to me that trait-based customer segmentation was built on a premise that was fundamentally…”

Twenty minutes later she was sitting on the arm of Mr. Langford’s wingchair, ostensibly so she could point out salient points on the tablet he was holding… which currently displayed some of the data tables from her master’s thesis… but really so she could sit very close to him and squash her boobs against him whenever she leaned over to point.

“No no no, you see, in that paradigm…” Squash. “…we combined both the qualitative and quantitative data,” she was saying. Bridget wasn’t sure he was getting the point. Not the point of her marketing thesis. That he got just fine. She was concerned that he didn’t seem to be responding to her subtle flirting. One the one hand, he hadn’t objected when she had draped her right arm over his shoulder ten minutes earlier, and he wasn’t complaining now about the way she was playfully circumscribing his ear folds with her finger, or the fact that her hip was pressed against his arm much more snuggly than it needed to be. On the other hand, he still hadn’t placed his hand on her thigh even though it was waiting for him right there, inches away, and he hadn’t made a single thinly-veiled lecherous comment or bawdy double entendre.

Perhaps she was just being too subtle.

“Ohhh, yes, interesting,” he said, actually paying attention to the data, damn him.

Bridget was starting to worry. She didn’t want to blow this interview, but she wasn’t sure what else to do. Sure, she could hike up her skirt and shove her groin in his face, but that would be a rookie move, desperate and tactless. They weren’t hiring whores, after all, they were hiring sexy professionals with solid experience and killer bodies.

And then, with a sudden flash of insight, Bridget knew what was wrong. She wasn’t drunk. Hell, she wasn’t so much as tipsy. How did she expect to convince the man that she could be both a valued colleague and a giggling, wriggling playmate who can’t pronounce her own name or walk a straight line… when she was sitting there stone cold sober?

“Mr. Langford,” she said, nonchalantly playing with his hair, “could I have something to drink?”

“Oh… certainly, Miss O’Brien,” he replied, smiling that sexy, lopsided smile and lowering the tablet. “Coffee perhaps, or something cold? Iced tea?”

“No, sir… I meant… a drink drink.” Bridget licked her lips and smiled in anticipation. “A cocktail.”

“A… cocktail?”

Her request obviously took him by surprise. Bridget didn’t understand why. She knew they had cocktails. Delicious cocktails. The beautiful girl in the nightie… April… had made it sound like everyone was drinking a cocktail most of the time around here. Why was it a big deal that she had asked for a cocktail? Didn’t he want to get her shitfaced?

“I met a girl on my way to reception,” Bridget explained, leaning closer, letting her tits help to make the argument, “and she had a delicious cocktail.”

“Ah-ha,” Mr. Langford said thoughtfully, as if that explained… something.

“I sure would like to have one, Mr. Langford, sir,” Bridget cooed, turning on the charm, twirling his hair, her poky nipples inches from his mouth. Perhaps she was overdoing it, but her casual desire for a cocktail had now become a craving, a yearning. She needed a cocktail because she needed to get drunk because she needed to seduce Mr. Langford because she needed to feel his thick cock rammed up insight her wet pussy.

Bridget realized now: that was why she had fainted earlier. It was from pure frustration because no one would fuck her! It would’ve been all right if those damned security guards had done their job and fucked her silly like they were obviously supposed to, or if Mr. Turtleneck hadn’t been such a fucking wimp and had banged her in the hallway like he obviously wanted to… but no one in this fucking building had done his fucking duty and Bridget was pissed. Horny and stone cold sober and pissed. She could feel her Irish temper flaring. Goddammit, it wasn’t fair! She was gonna lose this job and it wasn’t her fault!

“Uhmm… Mnnn O’Brmmmm,” Mr. Langford said, his voice muffled because her tits were now pressed into his face. Bridget didn’t even care if she did blow the interview at this point, as long as she got drunk and got fucked, in that order. Was she obsessed? Well of course she was fucking obsessed. What girl wouldn’t be?

“Mr. Langford,” she said, her voice cold as steel, “I need a cocktail and I need it now.”

“Allrmmm…” Mr. Lanford eased her back, freeing his face… which was smiling wryly. “All right, Miss O’Brien. I’ll get you a cocktail.”

Bridget felt like an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Thank you!” she cried with grateful enthusiasm. She gave him a peck on the cheek and made absolutely sure that her boobs brushed against him as she stood. Mr. Langford got up and headed over to a small cabinet behind his desk. He grabbed a cocktail glass from a wooden tray and a silver thermos from the cabinet.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any ice,” he said as he poured an amber liquid into the glass. Bridget stood and walked over to him, eager.

“Oh that’s okay,” she assured him. She would have been happy to chug it straight from the thermos. Whatever it was. “What is it?”

Mr. Langford glanced at a handwritten label on the thermos. “This is a… Golden Sunset.”

“Mmmmmm,” Bridget said, licking her lips.

“Now look,” he said, putting down the thermos, “we’re getting ahead of ourselves here and I really shouldn’t be doing this, but you obviously…” He paused, considering for a moment. “Do you know the name of the cocktail you tasted this morning? Was it a Black Pearl?”

“Ummm… no,” Bridget answered, trying to recall. “No, the girl said it was a… Midnight something.”

“Midnight Lace.”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“All right listen to me, Miss O’Brien,” Mr. Langford said, still refusing to give her the glass. “These are not ordinary cocktails… and you are apparently particularly susceptible to their effects.”

“What sort of effects?” Bridget asked, cocking her head. She didn’t need anything fancy, she just wanted to get drunk so he would fuck her, for heaven’s sake.

“Well, that’s what we’re supposed to discuss during this interview,” Mr. Langford said with that wry, lopsided smile again. It was a sexy smile. Bridget bit her lower lip, fighting the impulse to embrace him. “But you’ve somehow… short-circuited the usual process. I’m not sure what—”

“Sir, may I have the cocktail, please,” Bridget interrupted, snagging the glass from his hand. A little of it sloshed out of the glass, but enough was enough, after all. Mr. Langford chuckled at her eagerness.

“All right, but go slow,” Mr. Langford warned. “Something’s… odd… here.”

Bridget put the glass to her lips and drank. A sensory sensation flooded her mouth… fruity and nutty and pungent and tangy.

It was absolutely scrumptious.

A while later… Bridget had lost track of time… she was sitting on Mr. Langford’s lap and he was pouring the last of the Golden Sunset into her glass, emptying the thermos. She was vaguely aware that her blouse was unbuttoned almost all the way and her tits had fallen out, but she had given up trying to rebutton the damned thing. If having her tits fall out of her blouse was a rookie move then she’d just have to be a rookie. She was too damned drunk to be shrewd and nimble.

“Now… now… lemme geddiss straight,” she said, her words slurred from too many sunsets. “You wann me becuzzzz… becuzzzz I’m good ad… ad markenning.” She took a sip. This stuff was awesome. Even better than the Midnight Whatever. She wasn’t just feeling drunk, she was feeling drunk and sloppily sentimental… and, of course, horny.

“We want you because we suspect you’re brilliant at marketing, Bridget my love,” Mr. Langford told her, which made her glow with pride. That was so sweet. Mr. Langford had his hand on her thigh at last. High on her thigh. That was so romantic. He was so adorable. “We only hire the best.”

Bridget blinked, still struggling to follow him. Though she would follow him anywhere, the romantic, lopsided fool. He was such a darling.

“Bud you also wann me becuzzzz… becuzz I’m pretty ann… ann I like to geddzzzrunk ann… ann screw?” she asked, trying to understand. It wasn’t easy because her brain was spinning in three directions at once and all she could think about was fucking sweet Mr. Langford who was just about the sexiest, sweetest, most romantic man she had ever met. But this was important.

“Exactly,” Mr. Langford replied, his hand sliding higher.

“Bud… bud I don’t,” Bridget protested. That was the sad truth. She seldom got drunk and she seldom screwed and she had never done both simultaneously. She couldn’t remember why she had always been so sober and chaste… it certainly wasn’t for lack of opportunity… but she had been. It seemed very foolish and naïve now, sitting here on Mr. Langford’s lap, drunk as a skunk and looking forward to fucking the big sweetie on his desk, but that was the way she had always been. And she wasn’t gonna lie to Mr. Langford because he was a man and her future boss and a big sweetie and she was pretty sure she was falling in love with him.

“You haven’t,” Mr. Langford agreed, “but you’ve always wanted to, am I right? You’ve suppressed those desires for a host of absurd reasons. You’ve denied your true self.”

“I’ve denied my true sssself,” she echoed, somehow knowing it was true. Because she knew for sure that she loved getting drunk and she loved screwing and it therefore stood to reason that she would love screwing while she was drunk. That just made sense.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Mr. Langford whispered, one finger snaking under the frilly elastic band of her borrowed panties.

“Mm-hmmm,” Bridget replied, also whispering and smiling. She loved secrets. Secrets were so romantic.

“That shot we gave you when you first arrived?” Mr. Langford confided, “It had nothing to do with immunization.”

Bridget blinked, trying to process that. “It wuzznn… immmu… nization?”

“No. Let me try to explain…”

A while later… Kevin Langford had lost track of time… Bridget O’Brien was having yet another orgasm. Langford had also lost track of how many times she had cum. He was pretty sure this was his sixth time, but she was averaging two or three for every one of his. He was absolutely sure this was gonna be his last, at least until he got another libido booster. He wasn’t a goddamned machine, after all. Jesus. Twice on the desk, once using the wingchairs, once on the sofa, and twice on the carpet. Which was where he was now, on his back with Bridget astride him, her hands on his chest, quivering with pleasure as the waves rolled through her, half-squeaking, half-screaming.

Finally, the last wave broke, and the voluptuous redhead collapsed onto him, limp and sweaty and gorgeous. Again. For the umpteenth time. She lay there breathing heavily… and occasionally murmuring or giggling. Langford sincerely hoped she was, at long last, satiated. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself. On the contrary, Bridget O’Brien was… extraordinary. Possibly the single most passionate and… loving… lover he had ever known. It was as if years of pent-up self-denial and bitchiness and inhibition and suppressed lust were being released… which, he supposed, was not far from the truth. She was fucking with a kind of wild, earnest, unfettered mania that, Langford had to admit, frightened him a little.

“Mizzer Lamforrrd,” she drawled, kissing his neck now.

“Yes, Bridget?” he replied, hoping she was going to announce that she was spent. Because he certainly was.

“Thizzzizza bess job innnerview I’ve ever hand,” she said with a giggle.

And she was still drunk, for god’s sake. Still at a stage seven at least. She shouldn’t be. She should have burned off that thermos of Golden Sunsets five orgasms ago.

Something very strange was going on here.

Bridget rolled off him onto the floor, then sat up, grinning. Spent as he was, Langford couldn’t help but admire those big, sweaty tits.

“On the dessssk,” she commanded, pointing.

“We’ve done it on the desk,” Langford reminded her with a weary smile. “Twice.”

“Wannnna dooot again, babycakes,” Bridget insisted. “Annn… ann I wannn… ann I wannn nuzzer cocktail.” She was smiling, but her eyes were heavy-lidded and unfocused as she began simultaneously squeezing her right tit and fingering her pussy.

“I’ve explained to you, Bridget, that another cocktail would be a bad—”

“No no no no no noooooooo,” she interrupted, shaking her head, her copper hair flying every which way, refusing to take no for an answer. “Wannnnna… gezzzrunk annn… ann… annn fuck my sweeee.”

Lanford got to his knees and kissed her on the disheveled pile atop her head.

“You start without me, sweetie,” he said, standing and moving to the desk. “I need to make a phone call.”

“Nnnnnnnnnnn,” Bridget moaned, obeying, both hands snaking between her thighs, already on her way to yet another orgasm. Langford shook his head in disbelief. The booster-cocktail combo was supposed to make them hot to trot… it wasn’t supposed to make them insatiable. He pulled up the directory on his monitor and punched the intercom search icon.

“Dr. Putnam. Urgent,” he told the computer. A few moments later Cyrus answered from wherever he was.

“Putnam here.”

“Cyrus, it’s Kevin Langford,” he said. “I’m in my office. I think you’d better get over here.”

“What’s up, Kevin?”

Langford furrowed his brow.

“I think we have a Code Four,” he replied.