The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The halls of the third floor corridor reverberate with the click click click of Tracy’s boots as she glances at the thin white note in her hand. According to the slip, her office is supposed to be the first door on her left, yet she finds it difficult to locate as she rounds the corner. It’s hard to make out one room for another, what with their drab white facades and garish door trims. No wonder most of the people who work here appear lobotomized. They’d die of boredom otherwise.

She spies a door slightly ajar, phosphorescent light illuminating an otherwise darkened room. She tiptoes cautiously as she cradles her cell phone, the extension for security already preprogrammed just in case. A pang of regret settles in her stomach with each step. Maybe she should leave well enough alone.

She glances at the tag on the front, emblazoned with her name in big block letters. The first thing she notices as the lets herself into the dark room are the piles of boxes stacked in a corner, no doubt containing confidential files, interoffice mail and miscellaneous information from heaven knows where. If she wanted to, she could fax an entire info dump of documents to Matt, and no one would be around to stop her. If only she had a fax machine.

A sharp knock at the door startles her. She spins around to notice a thin young woman in a brown sweater, phosphorescent light reflecting off her tonsured head. At the right angle, it almost looks like a halo out of a Renaissance painting. Her steel blue eyes appear faded, as though they’ve seen happier days. Staring into them, Tracy gets the distinct since of a shell of a being, alive but definitely not human in the conventional sense.

“Hello.” The woman’s voice is cold. “I am Rose. I am your personal assistant.”

“Personal assistant?”

“The boss assigned me to you. Is there anything I can do for you? Coffee? Tea?”

“No thanks.” Tracy’s voice quivers. “I like to work on my own.”

“Very well. If you need anything, please let me know. Are you sure you don’t need assistance?”

“I’m fine, really!” Tracy holds up a hand in protest as she rushes out the door.

She ducks into the bathroom, glancing furtively at the door as she dials Frank’s office. Sure enough, there’s a rapping at the door. Tracy barricades the room in fright.

“Hello?”

“Frank, this is Tracy. Who is Rose, and why is she following me around like a sick puppy?”

“Rose?” Frank’s sleepy voice echoes across the line. “She’s one of our interns. I thought you needed the help, what with the caseload and all.”

“Intern?” Tracy scrunches her forehead. “She’s more like the human incarnation of the paperclip in Word. Is there any way you can her off my case?”

“I only wanted to help.” Frank’s voice is crestfallen.

“I don’t want help. I want to do my job without someone hovering over me every minute.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Of course it’s what I want!” Tracy screams as she cuts him off.

As she surveys the corridor, it dawns on her how bizarre the situation is. In contrast to the women, with few exceptions nearly all the men appear to be alert, striding through with a sense of purpose. Their conversations amongst each other are lively and heated, even bombastic on occasion. They also have hair.

It’s almost as if the workplace is stratified—the men occupying a position of greater freedom and autonomy while the women have almost none. The only exception to the rule she could possibly think of is the secretary she encountered the other day. It’s as though the nurses and white collar girls have had their personalities shorn from them, as depilated as their hair. Is this what Divinex had in mind in the first place?

Her thoughts are interrupted by a young man wheeling a computer into her office, an old desktop that seems to take forever to boot, the screen flickering as she types. She whispers a prayer to the folks in IT, grateful for some normalcy in what is shaping to be an extremely strange day. Locking the door behind her, she plows through mountains of paperwork, determined to make do despite the circumstances. As she leaves for the day, there is another, louder knock at the door.

“Go away!” She yells.

“It’s for you.” Rose’s voice is soft. “The boss wanted me to give you this.”

Tracy groans as she walks reluctantly towards the door, wondering what stunt is in store for her this time. Her eyes nearly bulge as she spies a bouquet of roses in Rose’s hand, an envelope snagged tightly inside.

“Dear Tracy,” the note begins. “Please accept these as a token of my apology—Frank.”

Her mouth hangs open as a pair of hockey tickets flutter to the floor.

Tracy ignores the numbness in her butt as she watches the forward tries to score a goal for what must be the umpteenth time, eyes rolling in her head as she prays that the game finally ends so she could go home and get some rest. She shifts around in her sleek black dress, stealing a sideways glance at Frank, who could not be any more excited as he sits on the edge of his seat watching every call as though he’s seen them for the first time. She stifles a yawn.

“Enjoying the game?” Frank barely contains his excitement.

“Yeah.” Tracy mutters noncommittally. “And you?”

“Best game of the entire season. I’m glad I had the good sense to get a box seat.” Frank takes a swig of beer.

Tracy glances at her watch with a sigh. She blinks and tries to stay alert, fecklessly following the play-by-play in an attempt to seem interested. At least she won’t have to go home hungry. Frank’s made sure of that.

“Did you see that!?” He booms. “The center just made a slap shot!”

Tracy could barely restrain herself. No, really, she couldn’t.

“I don’t get this hockey stuff.” She shrugs. “It must be a guy thing.”

“I thought you were enjoying this.” Concern creeps into Frank’s voice.

“I appreciate the concern, but it’s not my idea of a date.”

“What’s wrong? Didn’t you enjoy the steak dinner?”

“Yeah, but what kind of girl watches hockey?”

Frank angrily swipes the cup of beer, spilling the contents onto the floor.

“After all the trouble I’ve gone through! Do you know how much it cost me to get a skybox seat?”

Tracy’s stomach tightens. She glances at Frank’s reddish hands trembling violently. The hurt in his eyes is unmistakable. She could only imagine the terror in his wife’s eyes during moments like these. She calmly walks over to the pantry and fetches paper towels, blotting the black carpeting while her date looks on.

She shoves her fear aside as she does her best to soak up the spill. Frank pitches in, apologizing profusely as he tries to help clean up his own mess. He begs her to let him clean it up himself, anything to make up for the tirade. It strikes her as sweet, as though he were a grown up child.

“I don’t know what happened.” He mumbles. “This isn’t like me at all.”

“You just have to listen once and awhile, that’s all.”

“Listen? You barely talked in the limo.”

“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go. You just instructed that dro—I mean, Rose to deliver a bouquet of, well, roses to my office and we barely even met. Too much too fast, if you ask me.”

“I’m sorry. My wife used to say I was a bit impulsive.”

Tracy freezes at the mention of the past tense. Was? What is he trying to imply? She gasps as she steals a peek at his ring-less hand. Then again, maybe it makes sense after all.

“Divorced?”

“Separated. Six months this June.”

Tracy’s heart sinks. Being dumped would certainly explain the pent up rage. Still, it’s no excuse. She frowns slightly.

“That’s sad.”

“At first she was distant—emotionally, I mean.” Frank struggles to choke back tears. “I’d come home some days and we’d never exchange a word except ‘hello’ and ‘goodnight’. I chalked it down to stress or her busy schedule—she was a professor, you know. When she’d go on these weeklong conferences, I wouldn’t give it a thought. I knew what that was like. One day I came home and found this Dear John letter in my inbox. Turned out she’d left the country to be with her Indonesian lover—a transsexual at that. That’s it, basically.”

“How many years?”

“Fifteen.”

Tracy hugs him in a warm embrace, stroking his back. To think, fifteen years and she leaves him without saying goodbye! The horror! No wonder he’s so volatile!

“Are you okay? Do you need a tissue or anything?”

“I’ll be fine.” He tears up. “Just as long as I have you.”

As she pulls away, she spies a shark-like gleam in his eye. Then again, she could just be seeing things.