The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


by Captain Dunsel



Debbie watched Dr. Napier’s ass as he walked away with Mr. Freeman, grinning and biting her lower lip. She knew she wasn’t in love, exactly… she wasn’t a child, no matter what everyone around here thought… but she did have… feelings… for the nerdy chemist. He was very sweet and considerate… she practically had to throw herself at him before he’d make a move on her, even though he obviously wanted to… and when he finally agreed to fuck her he had made her cum with a passion and intensity that she had never experienced in all her nineteen and a half years. Most men wanted to turn her into a quivering, brainless, drooling fuck doll who begged them to keep fucking her because, please dear God, she never wanted the lovemaking to end; Jeffrey Napier, PhD, had done it. And he’d do it again, Debbie vowed. Often. She intended to see to it.

Mr. Redmond up in scheduling wasn’t supposed to do favors, but everyone knew he did, and he was crazy about Debbie, especially when she wore her cropped yellow t-shirt with the Batman logo… no bra, of course… and her skin-tight, hip-hugging, bell-bottom jeans, and she did her hair all blown out and teased up like a slutty 80’s valley girl. He loved that shit. She was sure that if she agreed to fuck Mr. Redmond, say, once a week… after hours, of course, on her own time… he’d arrange for Dr. Napier to appear on her official dance card on a regular basis. And heck, fucking Mr. R would be no hardship, he was very handsome for a man his age. Actually, she had to admit, Mr. Redmond was objectively better looking than Dr. Napier. But as attractive as the scheduling tsar was, he had never made Debbie climax like she had fucking epilepsy, for Christ’s sake. She gazed fondly at the cum-stained sofa and shivered with delight just remembering.

Debbie sighed, giggled, and licked her lips. Yep. She looked forward to giving Dr. Napier the best blow job of his life, just by way of saying thank you. Soon. Very soon.

In the meantime… she clucked her tongue wistfully and got back to work. She wasn’t drunk anymore, not really, not after the world-shattering pounding the good doctor had given her, so the first order of business was to replace her cocktail so she could get blasted in time to stumble upstairs for the freestyle with Mr. Ortega at twelve-thirty. She reached for her monitor screen and had no trouble tapping the correct extension number on only her second try, that was how sober she was.

“Quartermaster,” a voice said. Debbie smiled, recognizing it.

“Hi, Mr. Shepherd,” she said, using the bashful, innocent, little girl voice she knew he liked. Of course, every guy on the fucking island liked it when she used that voice, which was why she was so popular. That and her killer bod and her big blue eyes and her lustrous blonde hair and the fact that she gave them the illusion of doing something immoral and illegal. “It’s Debbie down in reception.”

“Debbie Debbie Debbie,” Mr. Shepherd said fondly. “How long has it been since I’ve seen your lovely face, darling?”

“Too long,” she answered, and she meant it. She liked Mr. Shepherd, and not just because she liked the way he always fucked her slow and steady and gentle.

“Are you wearing that gold spandex minidress with the… no, wait…” Debbie knew he was checking his computer. “You’re drinking Beach Bums today. What did you choose, that same little pink bikini?”

“Mm-hmm,” she confirmed.

“Why mess with perfection, eh?” Mr. Shepherd said. Debbie giggled.

“You old flirt,” she kidded him.

“I am a flirt, my dear, but you make me feel young.”

“Oh, now… Mr. Shepherd… you’re making me wish we were scheduled,” she purred, and she meant it. She could actually use a little slow and steady and gentle after having her world shattered. And she was still horny, it went without saying.

“Our day will come, dear… and so will we,” Shepherd quipped. Debbie giggled. “Now what can I do for you… as if I didn’t know, you clumsy girl.”

“I’m sorry… I’ve done it again,” Debbie admitted, though she was lying of course. She felt bad about lying to dear Mr. Shepherd, but she would make it up to him the next time they fucked. She would very much enjoy making it up to him the next time they fucked.

“Debbie Debbie Debbie,” Mr. Shepherd scolded gently. “I know your motor skills are compromised when you’re in your cups, but you really need to be more careful about spilling the contents of your thermos. The other girls manage not to.”

“I know, sir, and I’m very sorry.”

“Well… no real harm done. How much had you drunk before you spilled it?”

“Not even one full cocktail,” Debbie lied again. She really would make it up to him, she promised herself that.

“Oh dear, then you’re still at stage one,” Mr. Shepherd said, a little worried now. “When is your first dance of the day?”

“Twelve-thirty with Mr. Ortega in Marketing.”

“Mm, and I can just imagine what poor Redmond will say if we ask to reschedule you. They’ve barely recovered from the Product Development backlog.” Debbie waited, hopeful but nervous. They were actually pretty strict about this sort of thing. “Well, I don’t want you to get in any trouble, my dear, so… I think we can cheat a little. After all, if I’m not mistaken, Ortega is only looking for some inspiration for the proposed Beach Bum campaign, not technical data.”

“I think so, yes,” Debbie said. She actually had no idea what Mr. Ortega was looking for, other than to shove his thick Castilian cock up inside her teenage pussy. That was certainly all she was looking for. She smiled in anticipation. Mr. Ortega was an artist when it came to the wrapped and folded spoon position; in fact, he had introduced her to it.

“All right, look, I’m going to send Erika down with a fresh thermos,” Shepherd said. “But just between you and me, it won’t contain Beach Bums. It will be something a good deal stronger, something that will get you to stage six by twelve-thirty.”

“Ohhhh, Mr. Shepherd,” Debbie cooed, “you are a lifesaver.”

“Bear in mind, darling,” Mr. Shepherd warned her, “this stuff is going to knock you on your delectable ass almost immediately, so you’d better be outside Ortega’s office before you drink it or you’ll never make it up there.”

“Understood, Mr. S,” Debbie replied. “And I am going to make this up to you, I swear.”

“Well… that will certainly be something to look forward to,” the Quartermaster replied, and Debbie knew he meant it. “Erika will be down there in ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” Debbie said sincerely.

“Good bye, my darling,” Mr. Shepherd said, and he disconnected.

“What a sweetie,” Debbie said to herself. She sighed, turned to her computer, and started going through her emails. She had barely started reading the first one… a blanket request from Housekeeping asking them to please, if they were going to bring men back to their bungalows, make sure to change their sheets after each and every copulation, regardless of whether it was business or pleasure… when she heard a thump and a giggle. She looked up.

A pretty red-headed girl had bumped head-first through the double doors and was crawling into the reception area on all fours, obviously very drunk and wearing a skirt and a bra and nothing else. That by itself, of course, was not a particularly unusual sight… though pretty uncommon down here in reception, which was all but deserted ninety percent of the time… but Debbie didn’t recognize this girl, and she was pretty sure she had met all the ladies on staff. They were a close-knit sorority, after all.

She stood and watched the girl crawling in, huge tits swinging, occasionally grazing the floor, lush ass pointed at the ceiling tiles. Debbie was a little turned on by the sight. She usually preferred men to women… depending on what she was drinking, of course… but when she did fuck women she liked them voluptuous. Like this. It was a good thing she had burned off her Beach Bums or she’d already be all over this busty beauty.

“Hi there,” she said brightly. The redhead stopped, looked up, and sat back on her gorgeous butt. She grinned stupidly. Whoever she was, she was at… like… a stage ten or something.

“Heyyyyyyyyyyy,” the redhead drawled, giving Debbie a little wave.

“Who are you, sweetie?” Debbie asked. The girl considered this for a moment before responding.

“O’Brizzet Brimannn,” she said, or something like that. At first, the slurred words meant nothing to Debbie… but then she had a thought. A nasty thought. She sat back down, downsized her emails, and brought up the reception schedule.

“Ohhhh no,” she said with a little smile. There it was on the screen. Scheduled to arrive from the airport at nine-thirty AM, and up here whenever Security was done with her: Ms. Bridget O’Brien. This had to be her.

Debbie stood and walked over to the besotted prospie and scooched down in front of her.

“Ms. O’Brien… what happened to you?” she asked.

“Gotta jimmer… pornent jimmerview,” she gurgled, completely out of it.

“C’mere,” Debbie said, standing and bending over to help the girl to her feet, “let’s get you on the sofa.”

It took over a minute to travel the ten feet, with lots of collapsing and stumbling and giggling along the way, but eventually Debbie managed to dump Bridget O’Brien… or what was left of her… onto the sofa, where she slumped bonelessly.

“Jooo gommma cube bonny,” the redhead slurred, leering bleary-eyed at Debbie and rubbing her crotch through her panties.

“Thank you, so do you,” Debbie replied graciously. She spoke wasted, of course. Debbie headed back to her desk and punched in the desired extension number.

“Dispensary,” a voice said. Debbie didn’t recognize who it was, but then she had very little contact with the medical staff beyond her quarterly physical. They weren’t much fun anyway, most of them. They even had a few females working there who hardly ever got drunk or fucked guys for research purposes, only for their own personal pleasure. Debbie didn’t think of herself as a prude, but that sort of selfishness was almost… indecent.

“Hi, this is Debbie at main reception,” she said, using her all-business tone. It was still damned sexy, of course, but not downright provocative, not an invitation to deflower her. “There’s a young woman here and she’s gotta be at a stage ten at least.”

“Uh-huh,” the medic said, his voice making it obvious that he wasn’t fond of laymen who made medical diagnoses. “And…?”

“And I think she’s a prospective. In fact, I’m sure she is. Fresh from the airport,” Debbie said, a little annoyed. She had considered offering whomever responded to this crisis, male or female, a free fuck, just to be polite and say thanks, but that wasn’t gonna happen now. This sourpuss could go fuck himself. Or he could try getting one of his selfish colleagues to fuck him. Good luck on that.

“Shit,” the voice said. “How the hell did that happen?”

“I have no idea,” Debbie said truthfully. “She just crawled in.”

“All right, someone will be right there.”

Debbie had to give them credit, they responded quickly. A cute young medic with shaggy blonde hair and a Southwestern cowboy twang to his voice… not the guy from the phone… arrived in just minutes. He was wheeling the standard BoozeMart R&D portable medkit.

“Hi… Debbie?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting with appreciation at the sight of her in her pink bikini. That made Debbie smile. She liked this one. Maybe the ‘thank you’ fuck was back on. “Dr. McKenna. Where is our… oh. I see.”

He headed over to where Ms. O’Brien was slumped on the sofa, grinning and staring at nothing in particular and drooling onto her mostly naked tits.

“She just crawled in here a few minutes ago,” Debbie explained, walking over to stand beside cute Dr. McKenna. “I don’t know how she ended up in this condition.”

“Well… let’s start by sussing out exactly what condition she’s in.”

For the next few minutes Dr. McKenna did his doctor thing, taking samples and running tests and clucking at his computer readouts. Debbie pretended to watch him with interest, but mostly used it as an excuse to check him out. Not bad at all. The ‘thank you’ fuck was definitely back on. She would have plenty of time before she had to be up at Mr. Ortega’s office, and she was, of course, feeling horny. Yep. A quickie with Dr. Cutie McCowboy would be just—

“What’re you grinning at?” Dr. McKenna asked, glancing at her with a shy smile. Why do I always fall for the ones with shy smiles? Debbie asked herself.

“Nothing, I just thought it was… y’know… weird,” she covered. “How she got drunk between Security and here, I mean.”

“She’s not just drunk,” Dr. McKenna explained, nodding at his readout. “There are high levels of THC in her bloodstream. Very high.” He smiled at Debbie. “She is stoned as hell on some killer ganja.”

Debbie giggled. BoozeMart didn’t sell marijuana… not yet anyway, though everyone knew it was inevitable… so it wasn’t part of the research agenda, but lots of the staff smoked off duty. Debbie herself got high now and then, though like most of the girls she preferred getting drunk since it was just as safe, if not safer. And anyway, getting stoned made her feel lazy and less likely to want to fuck any guy who smiled at her, which was a major downside.

“You think she brought the weed in herself?” Debbie asked.

“Possible, I suppose… though Security should have searched her and confiscated it. And anyway, that doesn’t explain the cocktails.”

“She drank a cocktail?” Debbie asked, wide-eyed and aghast. Prospectives were never served cocktails, not until they had accepted the position. Who would do such a thing?

“She drank several cocktails,” Dr. McKenna confirmed, “which explains her condition. According to the blood chemistry…” He consulted his computer. “…looks like a whole bunch of Red Sambas and… either a Black Pearl or a Midnight Lace.”

“But… how?” Debbie wondered.

“Good question. Who was she meeting? Who’s interviewing her?”

“Oh… I’ll check,” Debbie said, hurrying back to the desk. She could feel Dr. McKenna’s eyes on her ass, which made her smile as she leaned over and consulted the reception schedule. “Ummm… let’s see… Mr. Langford.”

“Okay, give him a call, please, and ask him to come down here.”

“Yes, sir,” Debbie replied, so bemused by this turn of events that she almost forgot about the intriguing bulge in Dr. McKenna’s pants. Almost.