The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Atlanta, 1996

“Are you sure you want to work there?” Mrs. Hallows asks me for the umpteenth time.

I regard the forty-something woman, with her frumpy hair, pink suitcoat, and double chin. I can’t decide if I should take her as motherly or patronizing.

“Yes,” I assure her, probably with a little too much exasperation. “I’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Hallows frowns, resigning to defeat. “I lobbied the administration to reject their internship posting,” she mutters to herself. “That place is a class-action sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to explode.”

I impatiently sigh glance at my watch; I’m nearly late for class. “I’ll need your approval,” I gruffly remind the adviser.

Sighing and shaking her head, Mrs. Hallows logs into her ancient computer and starts filling out my approval form. “Your full name?” she asks dully.

“Jessica Eva Mendes,” I recite, already zipping up my bag.

I’m an MS (Media Studies) major out of Perimeter College, a school within Georgia State. A hard requirement for graduation… one that I’ve been putting off for too long now… is a Production internship. I’m the only graduating senior who needs to check this box.

I need a radio internship. The problem is, there’s only so many in the greater Atlanta area. The local NPR station has already picked their interns, as has WKHX-FM, WWPW, WNNX, WAMJ, WRDA, WRAS, WWWQ, WHTA, WVEE, WSTR, and WSRV. And most of the AM stations can’t support interns.

And before you ask, no, I can’t pack my bags and go to New York or San Fran for six weeks. Mom’s chemo starts pretty soon, and… well, I can’t go. I need an internship here in Atlanta, it has to pay something, and it has to count for MS credit.

Of course, I couldn’t look for an internship until… well, until last week. Tending to Mom’s cancer has screwed up my schedule like you wouldn’t believe. I’d completely forgotten about the Production internship until my girlfriend Kat gently reminded me about it. And by then… there was literally only one internship available. I HAVE to get this internship, or I don’t graduate. Simple as that.

“Okay then,” Mrs. Hallows clucks, typing a few last words, then hitting PRINT. We both watch as her Reagan-era dot matrix printer clacks out the completed form.

“Here,” she sighs, tearing the form free. She signs it on the bottom. “Take this to the Registrar before 5:00 pm on Friday.”

I go to snatch the paper from her fat hand.

“Jessica,” Mrs. Hallows says firmly, surprising me with her harsh tone. “You really need to take care. That show is a sleazy pit of moral decadence. I’ve heard of other girls who worked there, only to… well… I legally can’t say, but… Just be careful, promise me, okay?”

I try to grab the form.

“Promise me?” repeats Mrs. Hallows.

“I promise, I promise,” I say, openly annoyed now.

The advisor surrenders the form without another word. I glance at the paper, just to make sure all is in order:

GS UNDERGRADUATE ADVISING FORM 192-A: INTERNSHIP REGISTRATION PERMISSION FORM

MS 402 :: INTERNSHIP FOR CREDIT (3 CRTS)

JESSICA EVA MENDES IS APPROVED FOR A FOR-CREDIT INTERNSHIP, COMMENCING MONDAY, JUNE 3RD, 1996 AT…

I scan. All that matters is that the show itself is on the form. I half-expect that meddling ol’ Mrs. Hallows will omit it, just to be a bitch. If that’s the case, then-

Wait. There it is:

INTERN SPONSOR: WWGX RADIO STATION

MEDIA PROGRAM: “TUCK AND BRATT IN THE PM”

APPROVED: SUSAN HALLOWS, ASSISTANT DEAN OF ADMISSIONS.

“Awesome, thank you,” I say flippantly, and take off before Mrs. Hallows can lecture me again.

I get home after 9 PM, my hair smelling like fry grease. I’ve just finished an evening shift at Wendy’s after a full day on campus, and my feet are killing me. The house is nearly-silent.

Well, that’s not totally true. My three older deadbeat brothers, Jesse, Frank, and Horace, are in the basement playing a computer game. Something loud with a lot of explosions. I hear the three jerks snorting with laughter and tossing foul insults at one another.

I sigh. My dad, God rest his soul, was a TV producer. All of his children went to school for media production. Jesse, Frank, and Horace all got the same degree I am chasing now, but they’ve had abominable luck finding work. I hope when I graduate I’ll have better luck than they did.

In the living room, parked in her dilapidated recliner, is Mom. She’s glued to an old rerun of The Jeffersons and—I let out a furious hiss here—smoking a cigarette. There’s already three more cigarette butts in her ashtray.

“Mom!” I screech, and snatch the cancer stick from her gnarled fingers. “Jesus Christ, you’re going in for lung cancer chemo tomorrow!”

“Hi baby,” my sad ol’ mum smiles at me. “How was—“

“Goddamn it, Mom,” I swear, rifling through her purse. There. There’s her cigarettes. I confiscate the entire pack. No doubt she has more, but I’m not going to let her smoke these.

From downstairs, I hear my stupid brothers whoop as someone in their computer game gets blown up. Why am I the only sane adult in this family?

Two days later, the bad news hits when I get home late from work. “Hey there… this is a message for Jessica Mendes,” a woman’s sweet voice on our answering machine says. “This is Bitzy from ‘Tuck and Bratt in the PM.’ I’m sorry, but we can’t accept your internship application at this time. Thanks for applying, though.”

I cuss up a major storm. No fucking internship? No FUCKING internship? I’m fucked. Totally fucked. No internship means I can’t graduate in December, and my college loans are max’ed out. I need a fucking internship this summer or… Or I’ll be working at Wendy’s the rest of my fucking life. A Wendy’s team member with a nearly-completed degree in MS. Jesus Christ.

Trembling with dread and rage, I go into the back yard, sit on our old tire swing, and sob furiously. Omigod, is the universe determined to fuck me over?

Once I get the tears out, I grit my teeth. I take stock. How can I make lemonade from lemons here?

The next morning, I skip class and drive downtown. According to the paperwork at MS Advising, “Tuck and Bratt in the PM” broadcasts from 646 Maple St, a drab-looking skyscraper. I grab some dubious parking, then march into the lobby, determined to get in to “Tuck and Bratt’s” studios. I’ll scale the exterior of the building with a grappling hook, Batman-style, if I have to.

In the hopes of flirting my way past building security, I’m dressed as a major slut for the occasion. I have a low-cut top, my microskirt, heels, and heavy makeup. My hair is loosely pinned up, but with a few strands dangling for effect. With my boobs popping and my ass perky and pushed up, I look like I’m here for a Playboy shoot. Or to turn a trick.

“Hi,” I say to the two lobby guards, flashing my brightest smile. “I’m Jessica Mendes, here for a job interview with ‘Tuck and Bratt?’”

Of course, I have no such interview. Once the guards call up and learn this, I’ll pretend to be confused, drop that Bitzy’s name, show off my school’s approval form, flirt, do whatever I have to to get on that elevator.

The heavy-set guards look at me, at my boobs, at me again, at my boobs again, and then shrug. “Seventh floor,” one of them grunts, pushing a temporary pass at me. “Have a nice day.”

Wow, that was… easy. Maybe Tuck and Bratt regularly invite a lot of busty women up into their studio?

I ride up the elevator, getting super-nervous. I’ve got my foot in the door. What now?

The seventh floor is dark, and it smells musky. I step off the elevator into a reception area that is plastered with posters of almost-naked women, football stars, and reptiles. A young woman sits behind a desk, but she doesn’t so much as glance at me as I approach. She’s wearing a tank top, tiny jean shorts, and cheap flip-flops. Oh, and no bra.

The office speakers are on, and I can hear what I assume is the show. A husky male voice booms out, “…and we’re back, Atlanta dudes! What’s hillin’?”

“Hillin’?” a second voice responds, this one nasal and high-pitched. “Hillin’? Bro, I keep asking you. Seriously, now, what’s hillin’?”

“Hillin’, bro,” Husky Voice responds. “That’s hangin’ and chillin’. Hillin’. Get with the slang, dawg.”

Nasal Voice grunts. “We gotta get with somethin’, doughboy. You ready for today’s Philosophical Discourse?”

“Excuse me,” I say to the barely-dressed receptionist. She is intently painting her nails a hideous pink, and looks annoyed that I’ve intruded.

When the chick doesn’t utter a word, I say: “I’m here to see Bitzy? I’m Jessica Mendes.”

The receptionist makes a show of rolling her eyes, but gets up and walks into the back room. I can’t help but notice her thong underwear is riding too high up her skinny hips.

Meanwhile, the show is going on:

Husky Voice: “Philosophical Discourse? Bam! Hook me up, dawg. What classical deliberation shall we have today?”

Nasal Voice: “Resolved: Who has the greatest ass? Kathy Ireland, Claudia Schiffer… or Shae Marks?”

Husky Voice snorts, right into the mike. “Shae Marks? Who the umph is Shae Marks?”

Nasal Voice: “You got a computer, fool. Dial up that sh—“

He starts to say “shit,” but they play a bike horn over the actual obscenity.

I hear a keyboard chatter, and then Husky Voice exclaims, “Whoooooa mamma! Jeez, is she, what a Triple-Triple D?”

A sound effect of screeching tires is played. “You just heard every red-blooded male stampede to a working computer to download a pict of Shae Marks and her booty,” announces Nasal Voice.

The side door opens, and the scantily-clad receptionist returns, another woman coming with her. I smile. This woman is probably my age, shorter and with a great yoga body. Her black hair compliments her delicate, beautiful Asian features. Like the receptionist, she isn’t wearing much.

“Can I help you?” the Asian woman asks, in a perfect California accent. I recognize her voice from her voicemail message; this is Bitzy.

“Hi,” I say, thrusting my hand forward. “I’m Jessica Mendes, I applied for the internship? I know you called me earlier, but I was hoping we could talk about—“

“We don’t have an internship for you, chick,” Bitzy says rudely. She presses her lips together, and her eyes sweep over my body.

“Listen,” I say, fighting desperation. “I have a lot to offer, and I really, really need this internship. Like… it’s a matter of me graduating or not.”

“Gee, that’s sad,” Bitzy drawls, not sounding sad at all. “But we aren’t taking internships anymore. Our last intern… well, she…”

The receptionist’s eyes widen.

“Nothing,” Bitsy snaps. “Look, this is a hard place to work. The boys, they’re difficult bosses. You wouldn’t like them, trust me.”

Meanwhile, the show is playing over our conversation. Husky Voice: “Okay, I’m thinking Shae Marks—whom I have amazingly never heard of until today—gets the FAA (Fabulous Ass Award), because I’m looking at both of her naked cheeks, right now.”

Nasal Voice agrees: “Seriously, man. You can download and admire Shae’s twin hammies. But we ain’t never gonna see Kathy or Claudia’s nude butt, that’s fer sure.”

Husky Voice: “On the other hand…”

Nasal: “Oh?”

Husky: “Aw, dang it. I need to take a major dump. You debate, I’ll be back. Ten minutes.”

“Look,” I say pointedly to Bitzy. “Hear those two? They sound like my brothers. I’m used to living with overage, horny men-children. I can handle this job.”

Bitzy purses her lips, still deeply skeptical.

Suddenly, another door bangs open, and a scrawny fellow hurries through. He is mid-twenties, dressed in a faded Metallica concert tee shirt, ripped jeans, and cowboy boots. His hair is long and flowing, and he must use about a gallon of conditioner every morning. Like, for real, I wish I had his locks. His face is pointed and hawk-like, and not unattractive. Not handsome, either, though.

The guy bustles through the reception area, not glancing at Bitzy or the receptionist. He does, however, stare at me, and specifically, everything between my shoulders and knees.

With one mighty leap, the guy throws himself into the air, landing heavily on both feet just before me. I nearly squeak with fright. He reminds me of a rowdy nine-year-old boy who lives on my block and likes jumping at you just to scare you.

“Heh,” the guy grins, and immediately I realize he’s Husky Voice.

The man’s smile grows wider as his eyes half-close. He reaches for me, inserting his hands beneath my armpits, then greedily slides them down my torso. After his paws swarm over my hips, he brings them back up and cups my boobs. He doesn’t squeeze, he simply lifts them gently.

My mouth drops open in shock. When I dressed like a tramp for this job interview, I thought I’d get ogled. But not groped.

With no trace of shame or hesitation, the man leans forward, waaaaaaaaaay forward, almost inserting his nose into my cleavage. He inhales deeply, as if savoring a red wine before drinking it.

“Nice,” Husky Voice comments, releasing me. He continues through the reception area, heading for the bathrooms. “You here for a job, Toots?”

Oh. He’s addressing me.

“Yes!” I blurt out. “Yes, yessir, I’m Jess—“

“Great,” the man interrupts. “I’m Tuck, I’m taking the world’s biggest dump, welcome aboard.”

To Bitzy, he barks, “She starts today, get me? Staffer position.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Bitzy shrugs her shoulders, uncaring in defeat. “Let’s begin your paperwork,” she tells me.

The receptionist, back to painting her nails, is shaking her head.

Bitzy leads me into the back offices of “Tuck and Bratt,” which is like a corporate cubicle farm, a submarine, and a frat house all rolled into one. Young women, all very attractive, all wearing little, are bunched up two or three to a desk, all working computers or phones. There are piles of dirty magazines and pizza boxes and empty CD jewel cases and phone books and discarded tee shirts everywhere. I am constantly lifting my feet up to keep from tripping on something.

The beautiful Bitzy leads me into a tiny office, instructing me to shut the door. “You’ll be an entry-level staffer,” she says, pulling blank forms out of a filing cabinet. “You know what that means?”

“No idea,” I admit.

“You’re one of twenty girls,” Bitzy explains, “who is responsible for the show’s content. Take a look at this; its today’s schedule.”

I take a printed sheet of paper from her hand:

Tuck and Bratt in the PM—6/3/96

2:00 to 2:15 :: Show Open

2:15 to 3:00 :: Greatest Fart Jokes in History

3:00 to 3:30 :: Porn Stars April Luxx and Iveka Cuma have orgasms on-air

3:30 to 4:00 :: Call-in. Topic: Women Can’t Really Fake It, Can They?

4:00 to 5:00 :: Rating All NFL Cheerleaders, Which Have the Best Bods?

“Jesus,” I exclaim, before I can stop myself.

“That’s just today’s show,” says Bitzy, ignoring my comment. “Tomorrow’s show is being scheduled now. You’ll be working on that. You’ll also have to attend production meetings and pitch segment ideas to the guys.”

“Uh…” I say, “what are the hours here?”

Bitzy flashes an annoyed look. “We broadcast the show live from two to five PM, every weekday,” she says. “You’ll need to be here from one to maybe seven PM, sometime later, every day.”

My face falls. I’m hoping for an internship, a bullshit part-time job where I fetch coffee and stock the computer printers and get college credit. This will be a real job. How am I supposed to take classes in the day?

“Com’on, now,” Bitzy frowns. “You want the job or not? Fill these out.”

She pushes a small stack of employment forms at me.

I size up my options. (A) I can flee, hope that I can somehow locate some other internship somehow, continue working at Wendy’s, and… Well, hope for the best. Or, (B) I can quit Wendy’s, work here, and just slug it out for six weeks. Then I should be able to convince Dean Hallows that working here should count as an internship, right? And while this place is incredibly sleazy… I can hold my own against my sexist bosses. I think.

As I flip through the papers, a form I’ve never see before appears. “What’s this?” I ask.

Bitzy squints in the dim light. “Oh, that’s medical insurance. Tuck and Bratt may be soulless dicks, but they offer a descent health benefits package.”

My eyebrows lift. Medical insurance? I’ve never had that before.

I sigh and pick up a pen.