The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

mc, ft, md, sc

Top Floor

The button to the top floor only worked if you had an appointment, but Susan had one, at long last. She had figured out a long time ago that the only way to get ahead at Take Care was to get an appointment for an interview on that floor, and she had been angling to get one for six months. It took all of her will power to be the model employee for the cows that the company gave her as superiors, with their perfect outfits and their perpetual smiles. She had learned to smile, too, even when they handed her another one of the employee satisfaction surveys that seemed to her main work these days. She learned to read the subtle signs of satisfaction or displeasure with what she was wearing, until she got tired of the trial-and-error game and just asked her supervisor where she bought her clothes. For months now, her inevitable uniform was an expensive suit over a satin blouse, gray hose, black pumps. She wore expensive underwear, with just a wisp of lace showing at her breast.

Her work was simple, performing the kind of financial calculations she was really good at, medium- and long-range econometric forecasts. She found the company’s computer system hopelessly out of date for what she thought she could accomplish, but so far her memos to her superiors went unanswered. So she did her work and filled out the surveys that seemed to fill her in-box every other day or so. Dutifully, she filled out the scantron circles with her #2 pencil, answering the questions. She didn’t really remember joining a subject pool for social psychology research, but obviously she done so somewhere along the line, maybe when she signed the contract with Take Care.

The questions on the surveys seemed innocuous enough, and seemed to be testing her attitudes toward work, fellow employees, her supervisors, her family feelings, nothing that gave her any pause. She was quite sure that the surveys were revealing to whoever was scoring them the same things she knew about herself, that she liked computers more than people, math more than poetry, mystery novels more than children, pretty much anything more than children, really, and men not at all. It is not so much that she liked women instead, its just that she had no interest in contact with human flesh; a good book, a classical cd, a light meal were all the physical comforts she craved. She knew that men found her beautiful, but she didn’t care; she found every man equally unappealing. They were good at posing difficult problems of financial forecasting, but not very good at listening to the answers she gave, nor did they seem to read the detailed reports she submitted to the top floor at all. She knew that if she could join the top floor management, she could make a real difference.

But this morning had been different, and, although she was normally very much in control of her emotional response, Susan found her heart beating more strongly than usual. Instead of the usual stack of market forecast requests and the inevitable survey form, she found a memorandum in a Take Care interoffice envelope, informing her that she had an appointment with Mr. Resnick in Human Resources at noon, and so here she was, heading to the top floor on an elevator whose Top Floor button responded to her touch for the first time.

She really didn’t know what to expect, and so she really didn’t know whether she was disappointed or not at the ordinariness of the foyer when she exited the elevator. She couldn’t help but respond to the warm smile of the pretty receptionist; there was something comforting in that warmth that put Susan at her ease, nervous as she was. The receptionist offered her a lollipop from the bowl on her desk, and told Susan how much she admired her shiny satin blouse. She was wearing a similar top, in black, but Susan was pretty sure there was no bra underneath. The receptionist led her to an office marked Human Resources-Resnick, knocked, and let her in.

The office itself was spacious, but not extraordinary. There was a cluttered desk, and a computer in the center, and a sofa and some chairs off to the side. File cabinets were placed next to a closet door, and an office credenza stood against one wall. The office itself was done in a an sort of pink color, and Susan wondered if Mr. Resnick had simply moved into a space that had been intended for some other purpose, although what that purpose was she couldn’t begin to guess.

Mr. Resnick rose to greet her, or he seemed to rise a little, because he was a short, pudgy man in an ill-fitting suit, and seemed to be about the same height standing or seated. He had a twinkling smile, a pink face, and a sweaty palm that he stretched toward Susan, who, after initially shrinking away, found herself obliged to take it and shake it. She knew the value of a firm handshake, no matter how little she wanted to take his clammy hand.

“Please sit down, my dear, and let’s have a little talk. We’ve been watching your progress downstairs with a great deal of interest, you know.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said demurely, thinking that she ought to be appearing to take a one-down position with this loser, who stood in the way between her and a position that took proper respect of her talents.

The little man opened a file, and Susan recognized both her econometric reports and her answer sheets to the innumerable surveys she had participated in. He squinted at the file, and hit some keys on his computer, looked at the result, and swung the monitor around so she could see it. She was looking at an Excel report with a series of complicated graphs, but after a moment or so, Susan understood what she was looking at.

“These are summaries of all of that survey data I provided,” Susan said, with a hint of irritation in her voice. “I thought these surveys were supposed to be confidential.”

“Confidential, my dear? Not at all! I’m sure you remember that when you agreed to be surveyed, you agreed to share your particular data with Take Care management?” Susan didn’t really remember anything of the kind, but saw nothing constructive in arguing the point. The graphs on the screen continued to hold her mathematical interest-there was something peculiar about the curve they formed, something that bothered her in a way she couldn’t quite articulate.

“The result are really quite remarkable, my dear, and when we read them we couldn’t wait to invite you up here for a little chat. You might be perfect top floor material!” Susan wished he would stop calling her my dear, but couldn’t think of a way to ask the little twerp to stop. And she liked that she might be top floor material; she’d been angling for that for almost a year.

“What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Resnick, in your employees up here? I would have thought that my financial reports spoke for themselves, without regard to any survey data you might have accumulated.”

“Very impressive, my dear, I’m sure,” said the little man, “but we find the surveys much more so. Look at these results here!” He gestured toward the screen and hit a key; another set of graphs appeared. “We have never had an employee test so low on the maternal scale! You dislike children, mothers, fuzzy pets, sweet snacks, milk, anything and everything that has to do with the maternal nature! Your tests show that your feminine characteristics are almost entirely dormant.”

Susan looked at the graph on the screen, which showed a consistently low score for a series of survey questions. Something stirred within her.

“What does that have to do with whether I’m a good employee, or not? You’re hiring an economist, aren’t you, not a homemaker!”

“You misunderstand me, my dear. We’re interested in these low scores because we’ve never had a test subject who scored as you do. You’re invaluable to us. It’s prompted quite an argument among the top-floor management, I should tell you.”

The graphs kept failing to resolve in her mind, and she thought she had better attend a little more carefully to what the little twerp, no not twerp, the little cutie, was saying. “What do you mean ‘test subject,’? All those surveys?”

“Oh, no, my dear. Those were just screening. I mean the basic Take Care software! We’ve been successful in bolstering the caregiving instincts of people who already score moderately high on the maternity scale, but we’ve not been able to test it until now on someone who scores so low.”

“The Take Care software? What’s that?” She liked it when the cute little man called her “My Dear.” She felt a little odd, but continued to be fascinated by the lack of convergence of the lines on the graph.

“Yes, of course! Our main product. It fine tunes the thinking process, as well as inputs a great deal of data into the subject’s brain. It works by a combination of visual subliminals, quite remarkable really. Do you feel it working?”

“Whatever do you mean, Mr... I mean, Mr...” She was having trouble remembering his name. “Darling.” That sounded right. She looked at him curiously. “Can I call you ‘Darling’?”

“Of course you can, my dear. I see you’re experiencing some of the basic urges to take care of me. That’s excellent. Some of the management up here said you’d achieve only minimal transformation. I said otherwise, and so I won the privilege of interviewing you!.”

“Transformation! That sounds kind of... diabolical. Transformation into what?”

“Oh, into the kind of commodity that we can move very easily, the perfect caregiver. Many of your sensibilities are being transformed, as you accumulate the new data for your new position. Look here, do you remember answering this question, ‘What is your favorite word’?

“Of course I remember. There’s nothing wrong with my memory, darling.”

“Is this what you wrote?” He slid the sheet over to her, and pointed to where she had written “GEOMETRY.”

“Yes of course! My favorite word is ‘NIPPLES.’ Didn’t I write it clearly enough?”

“You wrote it very clearly, my dear. What is that your favorite word.”

“Because I love my nipples.” This sounded odd, coming from her mouth, but it also sounded quite true. But that’s where she was feeling odd, too; her nipples should be more...accessible. Why was she wearing this bra?

“Excuse me, darling, but is there somewhere I can change? I don’t know why I’m wearing... I mean, why I’ve covered up, I mean... She was feeling flustered, but she had to take the bra off; it was excruciatingly uncomfortable. The fat little cutie kept looking at his notes, and things were getting desperate. Finally she stood up and smiled at the baby-faced little man (why hadn’t she noticed the baby face before) and said, “I have to take my blouse off for a minute, baby. Would you like to watch?”

“I’d like that very much, dear, but why?” But she already had her blouse unbuttoned, her bra unhooked, and her blouse back on. When the breeze from the room ventilation blew against her nipples she smiled at him. “Pretty?”

“Yes, very pretty,” he said. She buttoned her blouse over her now-free breasts, and smiled as she showed him how the nipples rubbed against the satin fabric of her blouse. She liked it when he looked at her with that baby-hunger.

“But I still don’t understand by what you mean by transformation!” He was looking tired. She stood up, walked behind the desk and began rubbing his temples and his shoulders.

“No, the subjects have a lot of trouble detecting that anything is changing. But that does feel good!”

“Does it, baby? Would you like to play with my nipples?” She turned toward him and smiled when he began playing with her nipples through her blouse. She could tell he liked it. Of course, she knew more about him than he knew about her. She could take care of him, and help him relax.

“Come here, baby,” she said, and led him to the sofa. Let mommy undress her baby.” He smiled cherubically, and allowed her to undo his tie, remove his suit jacket, remove his shoes, his belt, and his trousers, his socks and his shorts. He noted with approval how she folded everything carefully, and hung his things in the closet. She looked at his fat old body lovingly.

“Baby is so pretty, but baby needs to be clean,” she said, and led him to the bathroom. She bathed him, and then filled the enema bag with a skill seeming born of long experience, and cleaned him thoroughly.

“Baby needs to fill his diaper,” she said firmly, and, patting him dry, fixed the pamper around him. “Now poop.” The enema made that easy, and the fat little man filled the diaper without difficulty. For a woman who until recently had shied away from all human contact, the new caregiver gently removed the filthy diaper, threw it away, cleaned him thoroughly and lovingly, and gave him a clean diaper. She took his hand and led him to the sofa. “You sit here, baby, and I’ll get your nightie.”

Susan seemed to know exactly which nightie would look best on her charge, and chose a silky babydoll to fit over his head. Then she began working on his belly, pressing skillfully in exactly the right places through the nightie. “Baby needs to pee, doesn’t she?” And under her expert prompting, the funny man in the silky nightie emptied his bladder into the diaper, and once again was cleaned carefully and pampered again.

Susan looked at the man who had become her chief responsibility. There was no joy for her greater than the joy of taking care of this dear, dear man. She brought him onto her lap and directed his head toward her beautiful breasts, giving him each nipple in turn through her blouse. He sucked greedily. As she reached down to comfort him through his diaper, he smiled again.