The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


by Captain Dunsel



“So… I’ll bet you have a few questions, Dr. Napier,” Freeman said. Jeff smiled.

“You’d win that bet, Mr. Freeman,” he confirmed. Hell, he had a lot of questions. He was very confused. Confused, but relaxed. Partly from the most blissful post-coital bliss he had ever experienced. Partly because Freeman’s tastefully-furnished office was extremely comfortable. They sat in cushy wingchairs sipping excellent Café Cubano from china cups. There were framed paintings of semi-erotic Afro-Caribbean religious rites on the paneled oak walls, and a stunning view of the tropical paradise that surrounded the complex out the arched window. There was a lazy ceiling fan that was mostly there for ambience because the place was pleasantly air-conditioned. The whole thing had a carefully-cultivated British West Indies Gentlemen’s Club vibe. Jeff smiled. It was about as far from the sterile, industrial, impersonal offices at the Merck labs in Kenilworth, New Jersey as a room could be.

The coffee had been served by Miranda, Freeman’s secretary, who made Debbie look like a scrawny, flat-chested kid, and who made very sure to give Jeff a good look down her blouse when she leaned over to hand him his cup, and made sure to wriggle her ass on the way out, and made sure to look back over her shoulder and smile at him as she closed the door.

“Call me Paul,” Freeman said, sipping his coffee. “We don’t worry much about formality around here… for reasons I suspect are already obvious to you.”

“Mmm,” Jeff nodded noncommittally.

“So… ask your questions.”

“All right. Let’s start with this. Why do you let your employees get drunk on the job?” Jeff asked. Freeman smiled. He had probably been expecting that.

“Because it’s an important part of their jobs,” Freeman declared. “Not to mention fun and harmless.”

“Ethanol intoxication is hardly harmless,” Jeff countered, frowning.

“It is here, Dr. Napier,” Freeman said with an amiable smile, putting down his cup. “Or at least, we’ve made alcohol as non-toxic as an intoxicant can be, all but eliminating the deleterious side effects, both short term and long term. So… when used properly… no vomiting or hangovers, but also no danger of liver disease or cardiovascular damage.”

“How?” Jeff asked, skeptical, sipping coffee. Freeman chuckled.

“I only know enough to know I don’t know enough to answer that intelligently,” he said genially. “Something about prophylactically controlling any molecular binding to the… gabular reflectors, is that right?”

“GABAA receptors,” Jeff mumbled, intrigued. He lowered his cup and leaned forward. “But what about the ligand-gated ion channels? How did you eliminate the—”

“Sorry,” Freeman interrupted him, holding up his hands in mock self-defense and laughing. “You’re already in way over my head. I’m just the HR guy. I’m gonna have to let our Director of Research, Dr. Putnam, explain the exact pharmacodynamics. You’ll be meeting him after lunch.”

Jeff blinked, astounded.

“Putnam?” he asked. “As in… Dr. Cyrus Putnam, former Chair of the Department of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology at Johns Hopkins?”

“The same,” Freeman acknowledged proudly. “Your new boss, if you accept our offer.”

“But… he retired ten years ago.”

“He retired from Johns Hopkins because he was hired by BoozeMart.”

“Holy shit,” Jeff breathed.

“We only hire the best, Dr. Napier.”

Jeff smiled at the implied compliment and sat back.

“Hire them to do what?” he asked, more confused than ever. “What sort of research and development do you do here anyway?”

“Well…” Freeman said, picking up his cup again and sipping, “essentially our research is based on two scientific principles. The first is Primal Behavioralism. I know from your application that you’re familiar with the theories of Anatoly Kuznetsov.”

“Passingly,” Jeff demurred. “Russian behavioral psychologist during the Soviet era, posited a theory called… I don’t recall the Russian, but loosely translated, ‘Caveman Psychology’.”

“Psikhologiya troglodit.”

“Right, that’s it. Every man is at heart an indiscriminate rapist and every woman is at heart a promiscuous slut.”

“An unjustly crude oversimplification, as I’m certain you realize,” Freeman said, “but yes, essentially correct.”

“I thought his theories were discredited.”

“His theories were suppressed, which is not the same thing,” Freeman pointed out. “And really, it’s not hard to see why he didn’t win the Nobel Prize. In any contemporary civilized society Kuznetsov’s theories aren’t just politically incorrect, they’re politically toxic. But of course, that doesn’t mean they’re not true.”

Jeff considered that for a moment, then shrugged.

“All right, let’s assume for the sake of argument that they are true,” he said, “why in the world would BoozeMart be interested in Primal Behavioralism?”

“Well, that brings us to the second principle,” Freeman said. “We are in the business of selling intoxicating beverages. So ask yourself, Dr. Napier…”

“Jeff, please.”

“Thanks. Ask yourself, Jeff: why do people willingly intoxicate themselves?”

Jeff blinked, making the connection.

“So… okay… you’re suggesting that men like to become intoxicated because it makes it easier for them to be indiscriminate rapists, and women like to become intoxicated…”

“Because it makes it easier for them to be promiscuous sluts,” Freeman finished. “Yes. Again, crudely expressed, but that’s more or less what we’re suggesting. That is, in fact, what we have proven. Indeed, you yourself are living proof. As am I.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Come now. You’re a smart fellow. Much smarter than I am,” Freeman said, a twinkle in his eye. “You must have concluded by this time that the booster shot we gave you when you first arrived was not a simple cholera immunization.”

“Well… I suspected as much, certainly,” Jeff responded, reflexively rubbing his arm. “What was it?”

“It was several things. First, it contained a very mild, very targeted sedative to help you more quickly adjust to our… unusual workplace environment.”

“To keep me from freaking out, you mean,” Jeff said wryly. Freeman chuckled.

“Oh, I’m confident you would’ve realigned your thinking and accepted what was going on here in pretty short order. We just… accelerated the process a bit. Eased the way. We probably could have skipped it. Indeed, Putnam argued for that.”

“And what else did it contain?” Jeff asked. “I mean, I feel… different.”

“Better?” Freeman asked. “More self-confident? More… virile?”

Jeff was still a little annoyed they had lied to him about the shot… but had to admit what Freeman said was true. He remembered how he felt while he was fucking Debbie. Like he was king of the universe. He hadn’t felt drugged or anything. Their lovemaking had felt completely natural and real. In some ways more natural and more real than anything he had ever experienced before. Like he had been truly alive for the first time in his life.

Did he feel better? Fuck yes, he felt better.

“Yeah,” he admitted, unable to keep from smiling. “What is it?”

“We call them libido boosters. I get a shot once a week. Most all of us do.”

“Libido boosters? Can you be a bit more specific?” Jeff asked.

“Only a bit,” Freeman admitted. “As males we have inherited an evolutionary, biological imperative to replicate our genes by subjugating and dominating females so we can impregnate them with our seed. The booster shot revitalizes and amplifies those impulses at both the neuronic and genetic levels. In HR guy terms… it allows us to embrace being Paleolithic macho manly-men studmuffins who enjoy fucking girls three or four times a day. And, not to be blunt, but it also keeps us from having limp dicks whilst attempting to do so.”

“I assume the girls… women… female employees… get a similar shot.”

“Yes, although bear in mind, every booster shot is unique, tailored to the individual. But yes, right, they do. I mean, look... the girls are all naturally horny… which is to say both physically and psychologically predisposed to crave sexual intercourse… or they wouldn’t have been hired in the first place. But yes, the shot enhances those inherent propensities.”

“And, I presume, amplifies their biological imperative to be subjugated and dominated by eligible studmuffins.”

“Exactly,” Freeman said with a grin. “It allows them to embrace their natural inclination to be submissive, eager to please, and promiscuous.”

“I’ve never thought of women as being naturally promiscuous,” Jeff mused.

“That’s only because our repressive, patriarchal society has taught us all that they shouldn’t be promiscuous,” Freeman explained. “But the fact is, evolution has imprinted females with an innate impulse to sample lots of sperm in order to find the most compatible seed and increase the number of offspring that will survive. They are naturally driven to have lots of sex with lots of partners, pretty much for the same reasons we are. Selfish genes trying to replicate themselves.”

“So how do you overcome a lifetime of repressive social programming?” Jeff asked, curious. “For both males and females?”

“Well, it might not surprise you to know that most men need very little help overcoming their reluctance to fuck every attractive woman they see, especially when they know the women are all eager to be fucked.”

“I’m shocked, I tell you, shocked,” Jeff quipped dryly.

“Women, however, have always been the primary targets of this pernicious conditioning, so they often need a little… well… booster. Especially when they first arrive. The shots that newbies receive include a mild psychotropic that helps dampen any reflexive inhibitions, morality twaddle, misguided preconceptions, or other archaic cultural baggage that might muddy the genetic waters and interfere with them accepting their true nature. Trust me, the world would be a better place if everyone got a dose of that stuff on a regular basis. I call it anti-bullshit juice.”

“But I didn’t get that stuff,” Jeff said.

“You didn’t need that stuff.”

“You’re saying I’m a natural born rapist.”

“Not at all. You’re a natural born realist. And perhaps a natural born caveman, innately in touch with your inner studmuffin. And anyway, it’s not rape if the girl is willing. Eager, in fact. Hell, downright aggressive in most cases.”

“But she’s only eager because she’s been drugged. Because she’s intoxicated.”

“Ahh, and now we get to the heart of the matter,” Freeman said, leaning forward a bit, warming to his subject. “I’m sure you’re familiar with another discredited theory… the notion of so-called ‘ubiquitous intoxication.’”

“Sure,” Jeff acknowledged. “The idea that everything we ingest is… to one degree or another… a drug that affects our brain chemistry. That the only difference between me enjoying a slice of pepperoni pizza and enjoying shooting up heroin is a matter of degree, not kind.”

“Yes, that’s the idea. You don’t buy it?”

“I think it’s more a matter of semantics than science, Paul.”

“Perhaps,” Freeman said shrugging. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Think about it, Jeff. Is a girl who drinks four cups of coffee to help get her through the morning drugging herself?”

“Yes, to some degree, I suppose she is.”

“Of course she is. And so is a girl who smokes a little weed to help get her through the afternoon. And a girl who scarfs down three ounces of dark chocolate and two glasses of red wine to help get her through a lonely night. And a girl who uses… or worse, abuses… prescription Xanax to help get her through her life.”

“Yes, okay, agreed.”

“And are those drugs administered and their use monitored with anything approaching the meticulous care we give to developing, modifying, and administering our booster shots? No… they most definitely are not.”

“Yes, I see your point, Paul. But the fact remains they’re only eager to fuck and be fucked because of the drugs you give them.” Freeman chuckled. “What’s funny?”

“What’s funny is, after about six months or so the girls no longer need the boosters,” Freeman revealed. “The shots are gradually phased out. We men keep getting them because… y’know… limp dicks… but the girls are different. Once they are fully… acclimatized… they no longer require any pharmacological assistance to embrace being their true selves.”

“Sure, because they’re genetically modified organisms.”

“All we do is reactivate some dormant genes and enhance some active genes. We remove nothing extant from the genome and introduce nothing new. Our girls are genetic virgins compared to the food you had for dinner last night. They enjoy getting smashed and screwing because they are that way, not because we’ve made them that way. All we do is help them… help all of us, in fact… discover and accept the truth.”

“Sounds a lot like brainwashing, Paul.”

“Does a psychotherapist brainwash his patients? Does a minister brainwash his flock? Does a politician brainwash his constituents? Jeff, if I persuade you that Café Cubano tastes better than cappuccino, have I brainwashed you or simply helped you to recognize a truth about yourself?”

“Fine, so they’re not brainwashed. But they’re still… hooked. I mean… there’s such a thing as psychological addiction,” Jeff insisted. Freeman smirked.

“You know better than I do that so-called psychological addiction is mostly moralistic pseudo-science worshipping at the altar of sanctimonious conformity. I mean, Jesus… sex addiction? Really? What’s next, breathing addiction? Help me, I can’t stop!”

“Okay, but you can’t deny there are some weak-willed people—” Jeff began.

“There are some weak-willed people,” Freeman agreed, interrupting him. “But they’re not our people. As you yourself have experienced, our employees are very carefully vetted.”

“Including the girls?” Jeff asked.

“Especially the girls,” Freeman replied.

“Based on…?”

“Well, the exact job qualifications vary from position to position as they would at any firm,” Freeman said, then he smiled. “But I assume you’re speaking of their willingness to get drunk and engage in sexual congress with their coworkers on a regular basis.”

“Yeah. That.”

“Our psychological testing techniques are nearly as advanced as our bio-chemistry, Jeff,” Freeman explained. “Again. the girls we hire are hired because they like getting drunk and having sex, even if many of them didn’t consciously realize that before coming to work here.”

Jeff considered for a moment.

“And they’re free to leave any time they want?” he asked. Freeman laughed.

“You mean, can they quit their job? Yes. Of course,” he said. “But very few do, and if you think about it, it’s hardly surprising. When your job allows you… nay, encourages you… to indulge your deepest, darkest, most primal sexual urges and fantasies, if it scratches itches you hadn’t even known you had, if does so in an environment that is supportive, collegial, and completely safe, if you work and socialize with people whose company you are psychologically predisposed to enjoy, if your workplace is the sort of island paradise most people only dream of visiting on vacation, and if you are paid very handsomely indeed for the privilege… what on earth would be your incentive for quitting?”

Jeff nodded, acknowledging the undeniable truth of that, and considered.

“But some do quit, I assume.”

“Three girls have left our employ since we began this line of research,” Freeman said, holding up a finger. “Becca wanted to move back to Seattle to care for her dying mother. She promised she would return to the fold someday and she will be welcome if she does.” A second finger. “Charlene left to go to graduate school and study human sexuality. She is currently enrolled in the PhD program at Johns Hopkins. Dr. Putnam put in a good word. She has a job waiting for her on our medical staff if she wants it.” A third finger. “Vivian unexpectedly found herself pregnant… not by anyone who works here, I hasten to add. She elected to keep the baby and marry the father. Many of us attended the wedding and Chuck Davis in Accounts Payable is the baby’s godfather. She lives over on the other side of the island, in Bridgeport.”

“Oh,” Jeff said. His eyebrows lifted. “Speaking of which... what about birth control?”

“You’ve had a vasectomy, yes?” Freeman asked, knowing the answer of course. Jeff had had to provide proof of his sterilization as part of the application process. At the time he had wondered why. “Every male who works here has had a vasectomy, either on their own prior to being hired, as in your case, or as a condition of employment.”

“Makes sense,” Jeff conceded. “But in that case, I don’t understand how that girl got pregnant. I mean, I was led to believe that most employees live in housing units here on the campus.”

“Yup. We all do.”

“Including you?”

“Including me. If you accept the job, I’ll have you over to my bungalow for dinner some night. I make a mean seafood paella.”


“Mm-hmm. Very nice little units. The village… that’s what we call it… is modeled after one of the deluxe Disney World resorts, in fact. And we have theaters, sports venues, shopping, a variety of eateries, clubs, you name it. Essentially a self-sustaining community.”

“So… the father of… Vivian’s?...”

“Vivian, yes.”

“The father of Vivian’s baby… what? He snuck over the fence?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jeff, this is not a prison camp. We come and go as we please. We don’t let the girls drive when they’re intoxicated, of course… but in fact very few of us have cars. There’s no need for them. The company provides shuttles to anyplace on the island. We have frequent excursions, picnics, fishing trips, shopping sprees, dining, dancing, poker night, boy’s night out, girl’s night out, everyone’s night out, you name it. Vivian met her husband at a jazz club in Freeport. He sells life insurance. Nice guy. Lucky man.”

“I see.”

“I won’t lie, we work long hours here. Sixteen-hour days are common. But rest assured, Jeff, how we spend our time off is our business. If you wish to take Debbie over to Martinique for a romantic weekend… and she wants to go… and I suspect she would… there’s absolutely nothing stopping you. Charter a boat or a plane. Go. Have fun. Just make sure you’re both back at work bright and early Monday morning.”

“Debbie? Oh… the receptionist,” Jeff said, feigning nonchalance. Freeman cocked an eyebrow… and Jeff realized that he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Oh. You know. How?”

Freeman chuckled.

“Believe me, it was obvious. Don’t worry, if anything, my respect for you increased when I realized what must have happened. Bravo indeed.”

“I don’t know what came over me,” Jeff said, shaking his head, a little embarrassed and a little proud of himself.

“On the contrary, you now know exactly what came over you, yes?”

“Oh. Yeah. I suppose so.” He smiled crookedly. “And the girls who left… the partings were… amicable?”

“Entirely amicable. All three girls had signed the very same, very strict non-disclosure agreement you yourself signed, and all three were given generous severance packages. As will you, if you ever quit. This is not the KGB, Jeff. You can leave.”

“Good to know,” Jeff said.

“But you won’t,” Freeman said. At Jeff’s frown he held up a hand and grinned. “I mean nothing ominous. I’m merely pointing out, once again, that our psychological testing techniques are more or less foolproof. There is only a seven percent chance that you won’t accept the position and join us here. And there is a coefficient-of-zero percent chance that you will be morally outraged or disgusted by what you’ve learned and storm back to New Jersey in a huff, vowing to expose our evil doings to the world. It simply is not in your nature to do so.”

“Hmf,” Jeff grunted. “So, what you’re saying is, I was predestined to work here.”

Freeman chuckled. “That’s a philosophical debate above my pay grade. But I can tell you this for certain, Jeff: not a day will go by that you won’t remind yourself how damned lucky you are to work here.”

“I take it the job is mine if I want it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Jeff twisted his lips.

“One last question… before I decide,” Jeff said, though he was pretty sure he had decided, and he was pretty sure Freeman knew he was pretty sure he had decided. “I’m still not sure I understand what this is all for, all this unusual research and development. I’ve never seen any of these products you’ve concocted in any liquor store. Who are your customers?”

“Well… one of the primary missions of our Marketing Department… and by the way, the young lady you shared the Lear jet and limo with?”

“The redhead?”

“Yes. Bridget O’Brien. She’s interviewing today for a new position in Marketing. Quite talented. Brilliant, even. And, of course, quite attractive.”

“To say the least,” Jeff said, remembering that body. Freeman smiled.

“Well, as I was saying, a primary mission for Marketing is to figure out a way to make our cocktails available to the American public without incurring the wrath of the FDA and the reactionary religious right,” Freeman explained.

“Yeah. I can see why that might be a problem.”

“In the meantime, our clientele is limited, very wealthy, and very publicity shy,” Freeman continued. “I’ve been working here going on six years and I still don’t know who they really are. Other than men who want an alcoholic beverage that does something more specific than generically intoxicate… and are willing to pay a premium for it.”

“Tailor-made cocktails,” Jeff said.

“Exactly. You like your wife giggly and silly and happily horny when she’s drunk? We’ve got a cocktail for that. You want your girlfriend sultry and seductive and teasingly horny when she’s inebriated? We have a cocktail for that. Aggressive and wanton and demandingly horny? Shy and girlish and flirtatiously horny? Wild and frenzied and insanely horny? Senseless and stupid and foolishly horny? Zonked and stoney and languidly horny? We have cocktails for all of those, and more. And all of them safer than drinking Diet Coke.”

“Have you ever developed one that doesn’t include making the girl horny?” Jeff asked with a grin. Freeman grinned back.

“Not so far, no” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be a market for it.”

“How many have you developed?” Jeff asked, fascinated.

“Thirty-three cocktails are currently being marketed,” Freeman said, “with about twice that many in development.”

“And the girls are… guinea pigs? Test dummies? Human subjects? Beta testers?” Jeff asked.

“Some combination of all those, I suppose,” Freeman confirmed, “in addition to their regular duties. Indeed, we’re all cogs in the product development wheel here, all part of the data-collection process. No one complains because it happens to be a very enjoyable data-collection process.”

Jeff shook his head, smiling.

“This is nuts, Paul,” he said.

“Oh, you’d better believe it, Jeff,” Freeman agreed. “The question is: do you want to work in this particular nuthouse? I think you do.”

“I think I do too,” Jeff said, holding out his hand. Freeman grinned and shook it.

“Welcome aboard,” he said. Then he leaned across the desk and pressed an intercom button. “Miranda dear, would you come in here please.”

Jeff looked toward the door, eager for another look at Freeman’s sexy secretary. The door opened, Miranda sauntered in, and both men stood automatically, responding to some antiquated but deep-rooted cultural instinct: a lady had entered the room.

Jeff smiled to himself. She might not be a lady, exactly, by traditional standards… hips swinging, tits bouncing, practically oozing sensuality… but she was undeniably all woman. Her long, dirty-blonde hair was feathered out in a teased and teasing Farrah Fawcett style that hadn’t been fashionable since Jeff’s youth, but perhaps that was on purpose. She was wearing what would have been an ordinary secretary’s ensemble… white blouse, navy blue skirt, heels… except that both blouse and skirt were about two sizes too small for her curvaceous body. The blouse was unbuttoned far enough that the slopes of her cleavage were visible and the skirt was short enough that her panties would be visible the moment she sat down… assuming she was wearing any panties. She definitely wasn’t wearing a bra, that was obvious from the way her big boobs were sloshing around as she walked, nipples poking at the silky fabric. She had a sultry sort of grin on her pretty face, her brown eyes twinkling with mischief. She knew perfectly well that both men wanted to throw her across the desk and fuck her brains out and she delighted in the power she held over them.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Freeman?” she purred, though her eyes never left Jeff.

“Yes, dear,” Freeman said, grinning at the effect she was having on the newest BoozeMart employee. Jeff himself didn’t give a shit, happy to play the fool and be gob-smacked by this knockout. “Dr. Napier has decided to join the team, so he’ll need to fill out the usual paperwork.”

“Oh! Well that’s wonderful!” Miranda cooed, and she walked right over and gave Jeff an unsolicited but very welcome hug, her big tits squashing against him. She pulled back a bit, took his face in her hands, and planted a kiss on his lips. “Welcome, Dr. Napier.”

“Uhh… thank you… Miranda,” Jeff said, a trifle shell-shocked. The secretary stepped back a little, giggled, then turned to Freeman.

“He’s adorable,” she confided with a grin.

“Yup, that’s why we hired him, Miranda,” Freeman snarked with a smile. Miranda gave her boss an affectionate swat on the shoulder.

“Don’t be mean to me, Mr. Freeman,” she warned him, “or you won’t get a Friday bonus this week.”

“My apologies, dearest one,” Freeman said with a fond smile. “Would you pretty please take Dr. Napier down the hall and sign him up?” She looked back over at Jeff, evaluating him frankly, a crooked smile on her face.

“It will be my pleasure,” she said. She turned and headed for the door. “Follow me, please, Dr. Napier.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Jeff echoed, watching her ass twitch.

“I’ll come collect you when Miranda’s through with you,” Freeman promised, “and we’ll go meet Dr. Putnam.”

“Oh, yes, I look forward to that. Thanks, Paul,” Jeff replied, momentarily distracted from Miranda’s buttocks. But only momentarily. He followed her out of Freeman’s office and down the hall. He knew she knew he was ogling her ass, but he was pretty sure she not only didn’t mind, she would have been pissed off if he hadn’t been ogling her ass.

“Where did you work before today, Dr. Napier?” she asked, making conversation.

“Hmm? Oh, umm… Merck Pharmaceuticals R&D,” he replied. She glanced back at him over her shoulder.

“Oh, Kenilworth? Boston? One of the others?” she asked, curious.

“Kenilworth,” Jeff answered, smiling, surprised she knew enough to ask.

“My sister lives in Boston and her roommate works for Merck,” Miranda said. “Here we are.” She ushered him into a small room. There was a table with two chairs facing each other, a comfortable sofa, a couple of unusual filing cabinets… and a wet bar. “Have a seat.”

Jeff sat in the chair she indicated. Miranda wiggled over to one of the strange filing cabinets and bent over, pulling open a drawer. Her short skirt immediately slid up her thighs. It turned out she was wearing panties. Skimpy panties. Red satin and lace. Jeff did his best not to drool.

“Uhhh…” he couldn’t help asking, “why… why do the filing cabinets only have a bottom drawer?” She stopped what she was doing and looked back over her shoulder at him, a sardonic smile on her face.

“I’ll give you three guesses,” she said, then went back to digging out her paperwork. A few moments later she straightened up and walked back over to the table, a dozen or so blank forms in her hand. She stopped right beside Jeff, her tits inches from his face. Her blouse was so tight there were gaps between the half dozen buttons that were still buttoned, revealing glimpses of what lay beneath. “So… all of our—”

The next button down suddenly gave up the fight and popped open, exposing a bit more of her very impressive cleavage.

“Oh! Goodness me,” Miranda said. “Sorry about that, Dr. Napier. This silly blouse is always doing that. I guess it’s really just too small for me.”

Jim cleared his throat.

“I think it’s lovey,” he assured her.

“Mmmm, well aren’t you sweet,” the girl said, leaning over and kissing him on the top of his head… and giving him a look straight down her blouse and into the valley. She straightened up, tits once again threatening to bop his nose. “As I was saying, all of our forms are online, but I’m afraid the government of Saint Monique is still living in the twentieth century. You’re going to have to fill out some actual paperwork paperwork.” She held out the sheaf of blank forms.

“Oh… that’s fine,” Jeff said, taking them.

“But don’t worry,” Miranda said, walking over to the wet bar, hips rocking, “I’m here to help you.”

“Oh… good,” Jeff said, unable to tear his eyes away from her… as he knew she intended. She selected a bottle of vodka and a shot glass from the bar and walked back over to the table, plunking them down.

“Here we go,” she said, sitting down across the table from him, tits wobbling. “This will make it easier.” Jeff eyed the bottle.

“Uhh… thanks, but… I don’t really need a drink,” he said. Miranda giggled.

“No, silly,” she said, taking the bottle and unscrewing the cap. “This is for me.”

“Oh,” Jeff said, watching in confusion as the beautiful, buxom secretary filled the shot glass and put down the bottle.

“Okay, here’s how this will work,” she said, lifting the shot glass. “Each time you finish a form, I’ll take a shot.”

“Oh,” Jeff said, blinking at her in puzzlement. She giggled and rolled her eyes.

“It’s incentive, dummy,” she said. She grinned, lifted the glass in a little toast, and knocked back the vodka. “Nnnnn.” She gave her head a little shake, then smiled at Jeff.

“Umm… I didn’t…” Jeff mumbled.

“Oh!” Miranda squeaked, putting a hand to her mouth. “Stupid me, I took a shot and you haven’t even filled out a single form.” She grinned, bit her bottom lip, and her eyebrows arched. “At this rate I’m sure to be drunk off my butt by the time you’re finished.”

“Umm,” Jeff said as she refilled the shot glass.

“Well go ahead, silly,” she said, scolding him with a smile. “Get started.”

Another button popped open on her blouse.