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.

TALKED THEMSELVES INTO IT

PART III

A few days later Martin again found himself seated at the council table, waiting for the Mayor to call the monthly meeting to order. He wasn’t nearly as intimidated as the first time.

For one thing, regular sex with three beautiful women in his office was keeping him very relaxed. For another, Martin was beginning to get a feel for how the gears of city council turned. McGrath Park was on the agenda again. This time Martin had put it there.

The Mayor had her two attentive aides fussing about and bringing her things. Several other councillors also had assistants standing by. Martin was certain it was mostly for show; the meetings weren’t that complicated. Still, he had support staff himself this time. Priscilla was there, sitting demurely in a seat behind him. She was creating a bit of a stir.

Like the Mayor’s aides, Priscilla was dressed in basic black. The difference was that Priscilla’s black was a semi-transparent blouse over a strapless, uplift brassiere that did more to enhance her tits than conceal them. Her slinky black skirt wasn’t see-through, of course, but it covered so little that it hardly mattered. Her legs were decked out in smoky black stockings, topped off with dainty black sandals.

A few weeks earlier, Martin would have been astounded to see Priscilla dressed so alluringly. Now, the only thing unusual was that he had “allowed” her to wear black. She had pleaded for permission the day before, when Martin asked her to accompany him to the Council meeting. Around the office she wore only cheerful, party colours.

Martin was about to reply in the usual way, that she was free to wear whatever colour she liked, but stopped himself. Priscilla had taken to interpreting such statements strangely, often with the opposite effect of what he intended. Thus, “You needn’t ask my permission to wear pants,” was assumed to mean that she need not bother asking for permission that would not be granted, and therefore she had better stick to miniskirts.

Martin decided to try a different tack. He looked at her as sternly as he was able. “Very well,” he said, “you may wear black to the meeting. Just be sure to change when you get back.” She seemed more comfortable when he gave orders.

Priscilla smiled in relief. “Thank you Martin.” She lowered her eyes for a moment. “Uhm, I suppose, uh, I should, like, thank you properly.” She was already falling to her knees. Martin rolled his chair back, grinning. He was beginning to really like this job.

The rap of the Mayor’s gavel brought Martin back to the present. “Good afternoon,” the Mayor began. “I’m calling the meeting to order now.” People milling about began taking their seats. Martin scanned the visitors’ gallery, looking for Calpurnia Scott. He found her in her usual place, notebook resting on one knee. Unusual for her, she was wearing a skirt. Martin gave her a little wave. She waved back. She uncrossed her knees and crossed them the other way.

Martin turned his attention to the meeting. There was a lot of business on the table. When his turn came, he formally forwarded a motion to declare a permanent buffer zone around McGrath Park. The announcement caused a buzz in the room. But this was a notice of intent. The real debate would come at the next meeting. Priscilla insisted on walking three paces behind him, carrying his briefcase, when Martin left the hall.

Given her deportment, and the amount of time she spent checking her make-up, Martin was beginning to think Priscilla had resigned herself to her self-imposed role as “office decoration and sexpot.” Not quite. A few days after the council meeting, Martin again found himself watching his leggy office manager as she paced back and forth in front of his desk.

“I know what this is about, you—you rogue,” she declared.

“Do you,” Martin said. He sensed another speech coming.

“Oh, yes, I see it now. It’s more than just sex, isn’t it. A lot more.”

“Uhm, Priscilla, if you’re referring to the . . . uh, blowjobs, you know you don’t have to—”

“It’s about power. Power and control. That’s what you really get off on. You have all the power here. You don’t want me to have any. So you make me wear these frilly, silly, girly outfits that make me look like a bit of sexy fluff and undermine my authority with the rest of the office. You insist on these wobbly high heels that force me to walk slow and dainty. Of course you knew that makes me look helpless and dependent—which only makes you look all the more powerful.

“You knew I wouldn’t be able to handle heels like this without a lot of practice, didn’t you. You knew I would have to wear them outside the office too, like when I’m walking the dog, or doing the laundry, or out shopping. Of course that makes you all the more powerful because you can do what you want all weekend while I’m fending off passes from grocery clerks because I visit the shops in micro-minis and platform high-highs.”

She paused for breath. She was right about the frilly clothing. Her white silk blouse had elongated lace fringes around the cuffs and the low-cut bodice. The little orange skirt was flaring and wide, designed to flash more lacy things whenever she bent over. Sheer nylons softened the curves of her long legs. She had matched the lace on her blouse with delicate, white lace anklesocks.

She did look very feminine, Martin conceded. Especially with the orange lace gloves. But he knew better than to interrupt in mid-rant.

“I’ve figured out your ultimate goal,” Priscilla declared. She faced him, hands on flaring hips. “You want to control me completely. Tricking me into being your office plaything isn’t enough for you. You want to have absolute control so you can show everyone around City Hall how powerful you are and how you dominate your staff. You’re using flattery and sex to manipulate me. You won’t be happy until you’ve transformed me into a ditzy, subservient tart without a thought in her head that isn’t about sex and service and sucking.”

She gestured with one hand. Her gloves had white ties on the wrists. Martin watched her walk. She must have practised quite a lot in the high heels. The shiny black pumps she was wearing today had slender spikes as long as a good cigar. Yet she only wobbled a little as she paced back and forth across the carpet. Not exactly pacing, Martin decided; more like mincing. Her anklesocks had three ranks of white ruffles.

“Martin, I, I won’t let you do this to me. Maybe you do have all the power here. Maybe I do, sort of, like, enjoy the . . . fucking and, and, the uhm, other stuff. Maybe it is a thrill to walk down the street with everyone watching me, and uh, kinda fun to pretend I don’t notice men staring at my chest in elevators. But, but, Martinnnnnn, you can’t keep doing this! You can’t like, control my life this way. I have to be myself. I have to be, you know, independent. I won’t let you push me any further!”

The next morning, Priscilla came to work with her hair dyed blonde.

Three days later Martin strolled into his office, shaking the water from his umbrella. Immediately Summer was there to take it from him. “Oh, you’re back!” she said warmly. “How was the event?” She referred to the opening of a new library branch Martin had been forced to attend.

“Not so bad,” Martin conceded, “A surprisingly good turnout, considering the weather. Oh, thank you.” Having dispensed with the umbrella, Summer was now helping with his macintosh.

Angela appeared on the other side to take it away. “Hi, Martin,” she cooed, kissing his cheek. “Did you make all the librarians swoon?”

“Um, not exactly.” Martin chuckled nervously.

In fact, the crew of mostly female librarians had listened with disquieting interest during his brief speech. One of them had winked at him. Another toyed with a gold pendant dangling in her cleavage whenever Martin looked her way.

Afterward, the branch head, an attractive woman in her thirties, had given him a tour of the building. She thanked him earnestly for his help securing the funds, even though Martin had very little to do with it. She ended by telling him that he could count on her support. “Feel free to call on me any time,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers. “Any time at all.” When she let go, Martin found a card in his hand, with her home phone number on it.

“We missed you,” Summer said, snuggling against him.

“Do you think there’ll be time for tea this afternoon?” whispered Angela.

“Uhm, maybe later.” Afternoon tea with the girls involved a lot more than just sipping. “Did anyone call while I was out?”

“Oh, lots. Prissy has been taking messages.”

“Well, let’s go see,” Martin said. He put one arm around each young beauty, encountering bare skin on both sides. The girls’ platform heels brought them closer to Martin’s height. They walked together toward Priscilla’s desk.

“Hi Mr. Miller,” Joan said, looking up from her work. “I have those cost estimates you asked for.” She looked wistfully at Martin and the two clerks.

Martin said: “Thanks Joan, you’re a rock. We’ll go over those this afternoon. By the way, you’re looking quite fine today.”

The middle-aged brunette flushed like a school-girl at the compliment. Joan was indeed looking svelte. She had lost a good deal of weight. Her devotion to her daily exercise regime was fervent. In her tasteful wardrobe of fitted silk suits, seamed stockings and strappy high heels, she was looking more and more like a femme fatale out of 1940s Hollywood.

Nevertheless, Martin was a little worried about Joan. She seemed troubled. She was unfailingly polite to Martin and zealously conscientious about her work, despite leaving early every day to go to the gym. With her trimmer figure she probably didn’t need the confining girdles and corsets any more. Instead, she laced them up even tighter. It was impossible to be in the same room with Joan without thinking about tits.

Martin and his two fawning clerks made their way to Priscilla’s desk. The office manager was looking fine too, in a stretchy mesh minidress designed to show the outline of her underthings. Maybe she had forgotten to put on a slip. She was on the telephone.

“—well, gee, thank you, that’s like, so good to know. Yes, of course dear, I’ll pass that along. Bye now.”

She rang off. “Who was that?” Martin wanted to know.

“A constituent. He called to, like, support your stand on McGrath Park.”

“Hmmm. What’s the tally?”

She consulted some notes on her desk. She had her legs crossed, with one delicate slide dangling off her painted toes. “Well, so far, like, counting letters, E-mail and telephone calls, it’s running maybe 60:40 in favour. Really too close to call. But you know, it seems to me that a lot of the bad calls have like, a similar ring to them.”

“What does that mean?” He fended off Summer, who was nuzzling eagerly against his neck.

“It could be an organized campaign.”

“Ah. I see.”

When she wasn’t serving him in other ways or moaning about her increasingly vaporous wardrobe, Priscilla was still a crisp and organized manager. Yet her hair was done up in bright blonde ringlets and there were sparkles in her eyeshadow. God but she’s hot, Martin thought privately. Maybe he would find time for afternoon tea after all.

“Uhm, anything else?” he said out loud.

“There were a number of other calls. Let me see. The mayor wants you to sit on the bus ‘n’ trolley thingy.”

“The transportation planning committee? I’d rather play hopscotch in traffic. Joking. Tell her ladyship I would be delighted. What else?”

“Three—no, four high schools want you to speak at their graduation ceremonies.”

“Why not. I can use the same speech.” He wondered if high school seniors would listen with the same serene devotion as librarians. It made him nervous. Angela was trying to get his attention by rubbing her chest against his arm.

“There were several routine complaints from, like, constituents but I took care of them. Oh, and Berculosi is waiting in your office.”

Martin’s heart sank. “Oh no. Not him again.”

“No, not him,” Priscilla agreed. ”Mrs. Berculosi.”

“Oh.”

Martin decided he had better see what the lady wanted. He kissed the girls on the forehead—except that Angela cheated and arched her neck so the kiss landed on her lips—then sent them back to work. The cute clerks sighed as they wiggled away. Martin stepped into his private office.

Ms. Berculosi was standing by one wall, inspecting the row of photographs and stuffed animals hanging there. She looked rich and fabulous in a stretch-fit blue dress that stopped more than half-way up her thighs. Midnight blue stockings glistened on her perfect legs, topped off with navy blue mules with kitten heels. Martin slipped one hand into his pocket and rubbed his worry stone. Did this woman have the same effect on everybody that she had on him?

“Mrs. Berculosi,” he said.

“Are these yours?” She gestured toward the wall of trophies.

“No, those belonged to Clement Higgins. My predecessor.”

“They’re awful. You should get rid of them.”

“Well . . . yes, you’re right. I simply haven’t found the time.”

She turned toward him. Her eyes were as soft and round as Martin remembered. “Yes, I’m sure you’re very busy.”

Martin could hear his own pulse. He said: “What can I do for you, Mrs. Berculosi?”

“Rachel, please.”

“Oh. Well, uh, Rachel, how may I—”

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“To drink? No. Sorry. Uhm, wait a moment, I may have something, but I’m not sure—”

“Please, Mr. Miller. I’m very nervous.”

Martin crossed the room and opened the credenza on the far wall. He found a bottle of Scotch and a few glasses that Higgins kept there. He poured two shots of whisky, while stealing covert glances at Rachel Berculosi. The young wife’s short dress was designed to flatter her delicious curves and display her legs at the same time. Martin almost spilled the whisky.

“Here, try this,” he said, returning with the drinks. Rachel took her glass in both hands and gulped the whisky down.

Martin raised an eyebrow. The woman really was nervous. “Perhaps you would like to sit down, Mrs. Ber—I mean, Rachel.” He gestured toward the sofa along the trophy wall.

She sat down gracefully. Martin sat beside her. He tried not to notice how her hem slipped up her thighs. He took a swallow of his drink.

He set down the glass. “Now then, Rachel,” he said kindly. “It appears you have something on your mind. My guess is that your husband asked you to—”

“My husband doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Oh.”

She turned to face him. “Mr. Miller, I give in. You win. I, I can’t fight you.”

He could only stare at her blankly.

“I knew this was going to happen,” she went on. “My husband thinks I’m dumb, but I’m not dumb. I see things. I figure things out. My husband thinks I’m just pretty and not very smart because I’m not one of his loud business friends that knows all about finance and politics and buildings and things. But I still see things.”

She shifted her legs a little. Martin caught a glimpse of garter. Rachel was not the kind of woman to wear pantyhose.

“I saw the way you looked at me, when I came here with my husband. You find me attractive, I know it. Men always do. That’s why my husband takes me with him when he goes to meet people, so he can show me off. His business friends, they make passes at me all the time, even though they know I’m married. They think that just because I’m beautiful I must be an easy lay.”

She got to her feet abruptly. “I don’t give them the time of day,” she said. “You, you’re something different. Understated like. Flattering. You know how to make a woman feel appreciated. I felt it when I was here the first time.”

She looked wistful for a moment. “It made me so warm, and like, tingly. I mean, every time you looked at me I got all—but hey, I’m married!”

She ran her fingers through her hair. “And then, then, you got into an argument with my husband and you didn’t back down even when he threatened you. That’s when I knew I was in deep trouble.”

“Trouble?” Martin said, not understanding. “Trouble how?”

Rachel was pacing back and forth in front of the sofa now. She managed her narrow mules elegantly. Martin memorized the sway of her hips. What was it about this office that made women pace?

“Trouble with you,” the gorgeous young wife said. “I knew right then and there I was going to fall for you.”

“What! You can’t mean—I assure you Rachel, uh, Mrs. Berculosi, I have never—”

“Oh, don’t try to deny it, Mr. Miller—Martin. I’m not dumb. That first time, I could tell you wanted me. Just being in the same room with you was getting me up—it was like, electricity!

“I can tell you’re used to getting your way, too. You’re not like my husband, who has to shout and shove all the time to bully people into doing things. You’re quiet and like, polite, because you know underneath that people will always do what you want without you having to raise your voice or anything. That’s real power.

“And I’m sure you know how much of a turn-on that is.”

“Well, actually, no. I think—”

“I went home and tried to calm down and I thought about it. I thought about it for a long time. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every time I thought about it I got all worked up.”

She was pacing again. She made the act look sensuous. God help me, she has fabulous legs, Martin thought. Did she have to wear something so short?

Rachel said: “I thought to myself, this man wants me. He knows how to get what he wants. He knows his power turns me on. He knows I won’t be able to forget him. He’s given me a taste of his charisma, and he knows I’ll be hooked. He can be patient about it. He can let it grow on me. He can let me think about it while I’m shopping, remember it in the shower, dream about it in bed at night, remembering the look, the excitement, the heat.”

She paused long enough to drain the rest of her drink. “I knew my husband would want to meet you again, and he would bring me along because he always does. That meant I would see the way you look at me, with that sweet, caressing admiration, but with all that confidence underneath it because you expect, no, you know that sooner or later you can have any woman you want. I would have to be in the same room with you again, with that, like, aura all around you and every time it would make me hotter.”

She turned to face him, a look of pleading in those big brown eyes. “I’m not dumb, Martin. I can see where this is heading. You can be as patient as a cat because you know that I’ll come around sooner or later. What chance do I have? I’m an ordinary woman, how could I hope to resist your charm?”

She lifted one stocking-encased knee onto the sofa beside Martin, then folded up gracefully to kneel beside him. “So I figured, why fight it? We both know I’ll give in eventually. Why make myself miserable trying to resist?”

Martin stared at her, speechless. Up close she was even more striking. Her complexion was smooth and perfect, her lips pouty and red. Long dark lashes fluttered over those soulful brown eyes.

“That’s why I’ve decided not to fight it, Martin,” she whispered. She stroked his cheek with one hand. “I surrender. We both know I can’t resist you, so let’s . . . let’s do it, now . . . and stop .. . . pretending.”

She was leaning toward him as she spoke. She held his chin in one hand. Her lips brushed his, hesitated, then pressed forward into a deep, hungry kiss.

Martin stiffened in shock. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be kissing another man’s drop-dead-gorgeous wife on the sofa in his office. She couldn’t be working her lips against his so lustfully, turning her head this way and that while she slid her arms around his neck and her tongue into his mouth and her exquisite body against his.

He couldn’t let this happen. He had to stop her. No matter that the feel of her lips, warm and wet against his, was a small taste of heaven, or that her exotic perfume was intoxicating, or that the feel of her breasts against his chest was rapidly worsening the growing discomfort in his trousers, he had to do something, or say something, or—something!

Finally, the ravishing young wife let enough space slip between their lips for Martin to protest. “Rachel, you, you shouldn’t—” he sputtered.

“I know,” she replied, eyes closed. “I can’t help myself.” Then her red lips foreclosed any attempt at further conversation.

Martin’s head was reeling. He had to get this woman out of here before something more happened. He had enough troubles with Berculosi already without trying to explain a tryst with his wife. No matter how thoroughly she had convinced herself that a coupling was inevitable, nor how persuasive the erection tenting his own underwear, he was not going to have sex with Rachel. He put out a hand to gently push her away. It landed squarely on one plump, swelling breast.

Eight minutes later, Rachel Berculosi was on her back on the sofa, her minidress and heels discarded. She was gasping and mewling words of encouragement as Martin plumbed her with the energy of a stud racehorse. The midnight-blue stockings turned out to be just one part of a matching underwear set. The bikini panties were easily pulled aside to give Martin’s stiff cock access to the warm wetness beneath. The underwired half-bra offered up her breasts for Martin’s kisses. Rachel squirmed and bucked beneath him. She cooed praises and called out his name. The sofa groaned and bounced.

It was too good to last for long. Martin dipped his head to kiss her again, while his hips continued to thrust in and out. He felt his peak building, loss of control a heartbeat away. Rachel must have sensed his hesitation. She pulled his head down with both arms and wrapped her stockinged feet around his back, driving him in deeper. “Yes! Come inside me, Martin!” she cried. A moment later he did just that. His back arched and his breathing stopped while he ejaculated like a machine gun into her pussy.

When Rachel Berculosi finally sauntered out the door, sighing, she was much calmer than when she arrived. There was a run up one of her expensive stockings. A few minutes after that first, rambunctious coupling she and Martin had gone at it again, or several times, depending on whose orgasms one counted. Martin had to remind her to put her shoes back on.

“Martin, that was . . . you were . . . amazing,” the brown-eyed beauty said, leaning on the door. “I’m so glad I decided not to fight you.”

She took a steadying breath. “I hope you realize that we can’t do this again. I’m a married woman. You can’t expect me to indulge you more than once.”

Two days later she was back with a convincing counter-argument.

“Thanks Earl,” Martin said into the telephone, “I’m delighted I can count on your support. Come by tomorrow and we’ll have lunch. OK, see you then.”

He set the telephone back in its cradle. Sighing, he leaned back in his executive chair, hands folded behind his head. He was really beginning to enjoy this job.

It was a little over a week since Rachel Berculosi had capitulated to the irresistible charm Martin hadn’t known he possessed. It was so irresistible she kept coming back for further capitulation. Martin had seduced her, she soon realized, so that he could use her as a mole. He wanted her to leak information about Berculosi’s campaign to derail Martin’s motion on McGrath Park. She pouted as she explained this to Martin, but she accepted it stoically. She figured that she would succumb to Martin’s sexual persuasion eventually, so why fight it?

Martin didn’t quite follow the details of her reasoning. Maybe that was because she had explained it to him in panting gasps while she bounced up and down on his rod on the sofa. He had to admit though, she was very useful.

Rachel confirmed that her husband was the reason for the negative publicity surrounding Martin’s move to protect the park. She also gave him details of each step in the campaign a day or two before it happened. Evidently Berculosi did not believe his stunning young wife, so helpfully serving drinks and eye candy to the businessmen sitting around the den, was bright enough to understand what was being discussed. If her husband didn’t mention all the information Rachel wanted, his horny business associates were easy to pump.

With Rachel’s help, it was equally easy for Martin to circumvent Berculosi’s shenanigans. His letters to the editor appeared a day after supportive letters rebuked his arguments. His calls to sympathetic councillors went unanswered because Martin arranged his own meetings for the same time. His illegal gifts to city hall were “accidentally” opened in the mail room, and then delivered in the presence of reporters. Mortified councillors had no choice but to turn them down and decry the attempt to buy influence.

Martin had his own campaign in place to garner support. It involved a lot of trading for votes on other issues. He resolved to keep the debate honest. Priscilla insisted on serving coffee though, if the meeting was in Martin’s office, which never failed to soften his male guests.

The man on the phone, councillor for Ward 11, had agreed to support Martin’s motion in exchange for a compromise on a budget issue. The agreement suited Martin fine. They would fix the details tomorrow, over lunch, so that Earl would miss a meeting with Berculosi.

Martin contemplated the stack of reports on his desk. The transportation committee was a lot of work. There was also a fine china cup and teapot sitting on a silver tray. It was tea time.

Martin grunted happily as the lips on his pecker slid up and down. One of the pretty clerks had served tea, as usual, then stayed to serve him further. He looked down, saw a head of fine brown hair bobbing up and down between his legs, eyes closed. It was Summer’s turn today. She had thoughtfully kept it slow while he was on the telephone. Now she was slurping and sucking avidly. Martin groaned again and stroked her hair. He was really beginning to like this job.

There were sounds of commotion in the outer office. Martin heard Priscilla’s voice shouting, “Wait! Stop! You can’t go in there, it’s—”

Then the door burst open and another voice, deep, rough and male said, “Miller it’s time you and I had a talk.”

The man who had spoken was tall and muscular, with a close-cropped head of red hair. He was accompanied by a much younger woman in a police uniform. Martin froze in panic. What could he do? He was getting a blow-job under the desk. His pants were around his ankles. A marvellous climax was less than a minute away, and two cops had walked in the door!

Priscilla was still angrily shouting at them. “It’s all right Priscilla,” Martin said, “I’ll, ohh! t-take care of this.” What was he saying? The newcomers couldn’t see Summer, so maybe he could tough it out. Priscilla closed the door, round-eyed with worry.

The big man pulled a badge out of his jacket pocket. He flashed it briefly. “McClintock, fraud division. This is Officer Ridley. We have some questions for you, Miller.”

“Questions? For me?” Martin said stupidly. He tried to push Summer off his cock, beneath the desk, without looking conspicuous. She tended to zone out a little when she was giving head. Martin moved his chair closer to the desk.

“Lots of questions,” McClintock replied. “Ridley, get notes.” The uniformed officer sat down in one of the stuffed chairs. She took out a pen and flipped open a notebook. McClintock didn’t sit.

“I suppose you know that your predecessor was a criminal,” McClintock said flatly. “Unfortunately the bastard died before we could lay charges. Wasted a lot of my time.”

“How thoughtless of him,” Martin quipped. He regretted it immediately.

“Listen here, Miller,” the big cop said, “Higgins is dead and that ends that, but the case isn’t closed yet. There is still the matter of half a million in embezzled City funds. None of it has been recovered. We’re still pursuing this case. There are possible charges of malfeasance, corruption, money laundering.”

“What, what are you getting at?” Martin demanded. He made another attempt to disengage Summer from his cock. She let out a little whine. Martin covered it with a cough.

He wasn’t too concerned about the girl being discovered. The space under his desk was big enough to park a small car. The front panel extended all the way to the floor, so there was no chance of one of Summer’s seven-inch platform bootheels sticking out. But she was making it terribly hard to take McClintock seriously.

“You worked for Higgins before he died, didn’t you Miller?” McClintock continued.

“Yes, yes I did, for almost a year. But I have already stated—”

“Seems awfully convenient, old fart Higgins passing on and suddenly you’re the councillor in his place.”

“There was an election in there somewhere, I think.”

Martin tried to suppress a stupid grin. He was scared and turned on at the same time. Summer used her tongue. He twitched.

McClintock placed both hands on Martin’s desk. He leaned over it aggressively. “Election or not, something’s screwy here. Are you going to tell me you worked for Higgins for a whole year, right here in this office, his chief of staff, and you had no idea what was going on?”

“Tha- that’s right, I, I didn’t. Higgins kept his own counsel. I knew he screwed around but that was all.”

“Bullcrap! I don’t believe you for a second, Miller. I can smell a rat a mile off and my nose tells me you’re in this up to your armpits. You know where that money is, you know it and I know it. You can tell me now, or you can let me find out myself, in which case you’ll be a guest of the government for about twenty years. Your choice.”

Martin felt perspiration dribble down his face. He was grinning weirdly. He couldn’t help it. Below the desk Summer was pumping up and down with relish, intent on finishing the job. Martin gripped the edge of the desk with both hands.

“Oh god, I’m going to come,” he blurted. “I, I mean, look, I’m coming clean with you. I don’t know a unh! thing about any ah! m-money.” He laughed crazily.

“Like hell you don’t. You think this is funny? You think this is all some big joke? Well try laughing at this. We know Higgins squirrelled the money away some place. He didn’t put it in a bank, didn’t try to move it offshore. It’s around here some place, in bills, and we are going to find it.”

“Oh, that is nice,” Martin said. He was barely hearing McClintock.

“Well I don’t believe in nice, mate. I believe in putting thieves like you and Higgins in jail. So you listen to me Miller. You haven’t seen the last of me. I’m going to be back, with more questions, for you, for your staff, maybe with a warrant. We are going to watch you like a hawk watches pigeons. I am going to interrogate every one of those sex trinkets in your front office until somebody gets smart and tells me what I want to know.”

“No!” Martin shouted, with more force than he intended. He was on the brink of orgasm. He had to get these cops out of the room! “Look, y-you can (huff, huff) interrrrrrrogate me all you l-like, but but, I will not tolerate any hun! harassment of my staff. They have n-nothing to do with this (pant, gulp) so you leave them alone!

“I’ll leave you alone when you’re in the dock for embezzling, Miller,” McClintock snarled, charging out the door. “Let’s go, Ridley.”

“Oh, yes go baby!” Martin shouted. He came. His hips thrust forward. His head slammed back against the chair. His grip on the desk threatened to flip it over.

He looked up to see Officer Ridley staring at him, one hand on the doorknob. She closed the door behind her.

Martin collapsed in his chair, drained and happy. Summer popped her head up between his legs. She was flushed. “Did I do good Mr. Miller?” she wondered.

Martin smiled at her. “You did wonderful, baby.”

She leaned against his leg contentedly. “Thought I heard noises. Was there someone at the door?”