The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chapter 1

There was one strange thing about working at Gio Industries.

Well, there were actually a few strange things. But on my first day, the only one I noticed was the music.

My boss had explained it to me as he was showing me around. Apparently Gio had put a bunch of money into developing the perfect “background music” while you worked, maximizing harmonies and brainwaves and all that sciencey stuff.

All I knew was that whenever I was sitting behind my computer, I was required to have headphones playing this strange, pulsating music.

It was more than a little weird at first, but I quickly got used to it. I wouldn’t ever say I ‘liked’ it, exactly, but I was definitely okay with it.

That could also describe the other strange things I was discover about the job, now that I think about it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My boss was a few years older than me—Mr. Peterson. He was nice enough, all things considered. Good-natured, friendly. He really made sure that I felt welcome. A little handsy, perhaps, but not anything I hadn’t encountered before—he didn’t ‘grab me by the pussy’ or anything like that, but I noticed his hand lingering on my shoulder, slightly longer than was comfortable.

My name’s Amber. I’ve been an accountant for about a decade now. I know I’m attractive—like I said, I’d had to deal with ‘overly friendly’ bosses before. But I also know that I’m good at my job, and so when I was offered a job at Gio I knew that it was because of my work ethic, not my looks.

Well, not just my looks. I’m no idiot—I know that any male boss (and some female bosses, in all likelihood) were, on some level, factoring my attractiveness into it. For the first few years of my career I’d dressed to hide my curves, but it felt weird and uncomfortable, and so while I certainly didn’t wasn’t decked out like a Hooters girl, I also wasn’t covering myself like a nun.

The pay bump was significant, and they made a lot of promises—potential to manage projects, lead a team...there was even discussion of a trip to Europe, if an upcoming merger was successful. And so I accepted the job without hesitation.

Gio was much like every other job I’ve had. Standard corporate America, you know how it is. There were a lot of women—more than I was used to, in my field—but Mr. Peterson explained that Gio was an equal-opportunity employer, and they were constantly scouting for women to join the team.

Quite attractive women, I couldn’t help but notice.

But the only thing that really stood out was the music. From the moment I sat down at my desk each morning, there it was, pumping straight into my brain. And I had to admit—their research had been right. I work fast (this is how I make a living, after all) but even though I was adjusting to a new office, a different workflow, to a slightly more challenging position than my old job...I was also working faster, and making far fewer mistakes than ever before.

But not none.

That was when I discovered the second strange thing about working at Gio.

It was my second week when I got the email. I’d mostly settled in by then—I knew where the kitchen was, whose coffee-breath to avoid in the morning, and what time you had to arrive in the morning to get the good parking spaces.

“Amber,” it read simply. “Can you please come into my office? It’s about your analytics report.”

Analytic reports were, I’m not going to lie, my least favourite part of my new job. The rest of it—end-of-month close, recs, attending mostly-pointless meetings with equally-bored employees—that was all stuff I’d done at my previous job. That was all stuff that every accountant had probably done since the beginning of accountancy. Grug, calculating how many mammoth carcasses the cave would need before winter, dreading sitting down and having yet another boring “hunting efficiency” meeting.

Analytic reports were their own level of annoying—Gio used some proprietry system. It had a bunch of interesting data predictive tools, but it suuuuucked for writing reports.

I knew the exact report he’d been talking about—I’d whipped it out at the end of an exhausting week, and my brain had been well-and-truly fried when I did. During the short walk to Mr. Peterson’s office, my mind was buzzing with what I could (or should) have done differently. I hadn’t even run the final report by any of my colleagues, despite the fact that I now oh-so-clearly remembered Mr. Peterson saying that I was welcome to.

“Sir?” I said, managing to hide the quaver in my voice as I stepped into his office.

Like I said, Mr. Peterson was a nice guy, if a little odd. In the two weeks we’d been working together, I’d learned that he had some strange habits—he’d eat peppers like they were apples, and never seemed to hold his opinions back on any subject, no matter the situation.

But he certainly wasn’t scary. No, my nervousness was not due to my boss—I just don’t like getting in trouble. It was as simple as that.

“Sit down, Amber,” he said, his typical grin missing from his face. “I want to talk to you about this report.”

I took a seat in front of his desk as he handed over a printed copy of the analytics report I’d been so nervous about. Scanning through, I was surprised to find that it was frankly better than I’d feared. Any complaint he had must have been about the house style, because as far as reports went, I couldn’t see any problems at all.

“Sir?” I said again, and with a heavy sigh, he gestured to the second-final paragraph on the second page.

The tax burden could of fallen on either company for the final quarter, it read, but considering the significant savings offered by the state of Florida, it is recommended that Gio and Sytricks split the income from gross dividends, in order to...

I continued reading until I reached the bottom of the page, then glanced up at my boss.

“Is that wrong, sir? Should we take on the tax burden? At my old job...”

“Amber,” he said softly. “These reports are kept on-file. They could be read—or referenced—by Gio employees for decades to come.”

I nodded, completely flummoxed as to what the issue was. To my surprise, he did nothing to elucidate me, falling silent and waiting for my reaction.

“I understand, sir. But...what’s the problem?”

Clicking his tongue in dismay, he again pointed to the second paragraph.

I silently reread it twice before looking up at him, wondering what about the seemingly-inoffensive sentence had caused him to call me in.

“Could HAVE,” he said, before once more pausing for effect.

“Sir?”

“The phrase is could HAVE, Amber. You’ve written ‘could OF’.”

A long sigh escaped my lungs—I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath—and my entire body relaxed. I mean, it was an analytics report—not something that could have bankrupted the company—but it was a relief to know that it was a simple grammatical error that he was upset about, and not something more serious.

Grammar has never been my strong suit. I’m an accountant, not a writer. Give me a spreadsheet and I can make it dance, but I have no idea how you…I dunno, conjugate the subject of a clause. Whatever.

“I’m so sorry sir,” I said, trying to hide my relief. “I’ll fix that immediately, and make sure it doesn’t happen again. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll agree...this kind of thing can’t go unpunished.”

My eyes narrowed.

“Sir?”

Mr. Peterson tilted his head to the side as he continued, as though confused by my confusion. “You did read the employee expectation document on your first day, right?”

Honestly, I barely skimmed it. Corporate jargon is corporate jargon, no matter the company.

“Yes, sir,” I lied.

“Then you’ll know that when mistakes like these are made, Gio expects employees to be punished appropriately. I think five would be sufficient for an error of this magnitude, don’t you?”

Two weeks in, I’d thought I was really getting the hang of my new workplace. But since the moment I’d entered Mr. Peterson’s office, I’d felt like I was on the back foot.

“Five what, sir?“

“Spanks,” my boss replied, as though I was an idiot. “The standard punishment when an employee makes a mistake in an official company document.”

Before I could respond, Mr. Peterson pulled out a copy of the EED and handed it to me. Sure enough, point 5.5.6 was very clear—what I’d done did, in fact, warrant a spanking.

My mind was racing as I stared at the text. Part of me felt like this was wrong, that I should object...or quit, or sue them.

But for what? As I asked myself that question, it was though a fog filled my brain, and I couldn’t for the life of me work out what exactly I’d be suing them for. After all, it was all there, in clear black and white.

If you make a mistake at your job, you get spanked.

I’d agreed to it. And why wouldn’t I? It was perfectly reasonable. Parents had been spanking their children since Grug’s day—it was simple, harmless, and it worked.

“Now,” Mr. Peterson said softly, “because this is your first offense, I don’t mind if it’s self-administered.”

“Thank you sir,” I said. For the second time in just a few minutes, my body filled with relief. I couldn’t imagine what my husband Aaden would have thought if I’d come home and told him that I’d let my boss spank me.

“Of course, I’ll supervise. Wouldn’t want you go to go easy on yourself!”

I nodded, and tried to smile, but for some reason I just wasn’t in the smiling mood.

“Now, sir?”

“No time like the present.”

I looked around the room. I’d never been spanked before—not as a child, not in the bedroom with my husband—and I’d certainly never spanked myself. Leaning forward over Mr. Peterson’s desk, I spread my legs slightly and nervously raised my hand.

Unable to resist, I glanced up to see Mr. Peterson watching me, an almost...hungry look on his face.

No, I must have been imagining it. He was my boss. He was simply watching his employee discipline herself. And I had no one to blame but myself, really—I remembered getting an essay back in high-school, “could of” circled in red pen. I think it had bumped me down half a letter grade.

This is my fault, I reminded myself, and my hand came down swiftly, meeting my pants-clad buttocks with a soft “WHACK.“

“Good,” Mr. Peterson smiled. “Count them out loud for me, will you?”

“One,” I said, surprised to find myself breathing slightly harder than I had been a few minutes ago. The situation must have been making me nervous.

“Keep going,” my boss encouraged.

“Two,” I gasped, as my hand once more met the seat of my pants. “Three...”

I was more than halfway done. It didn’t hurt, not really—and I wasn’t even holding back. Honestly, the spanking was probably stinging my hand more than my ample ass.

“Yesss,” Mr. Peterson said, his voice halfway between a groan and a hiss. For a moment I wondered if he was enjoying this, but I immediately dismissed the thought.

He was just doing his job, and making sure I did mine.

“Four,” I said. Each time my hand made contact, it was like a wave of something passed through my body. Like I said, it wasn’t pain. It was more like...warmth.

Each time I spanked my own ass, I felt my entire body getting warmer. I must have been blushing furiously.

“Five,” I gasped, a part of me not wanting to stop.

“Excellent,” Mr. Peterson said. He gave me a nod, and I knew that I was dismissed.

As soon as I entered the hallway, I collapsed against the wall, gulping for air. It’s hard to explain what it was...my body felt so much more electric than it had when I’d been called into my boss’s office. It was like my ass was a switch, and spanking it had turned my entire body on.

Several colleagues passed me as I sat there, breathing heavily. None of them said anything, and I carefully avoided eye-contact.

It hadn’t hurt, but I had to admit...spanking myself had been a pretty effective punishment. That was not something I wanted to repeat any time soon.