The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I start the job right away. After Bitzy files my paperwork—which seems to consist of shoving all of it into a cabinet—I am led to a desk, already populated by two other girls my age.

“Hi,” say Bethany.

“S’up?” greets Mary Louise.

I can’t help but notice: neither of these ladies are wearing a top.

“You girls show Jessica here the ropes?” Bitzy says airily. “Good luck, Jess…” And then she floats away.

There are no available chairs in the cubicle, so I push old newspapers off a plastic milk crate and gingerly sit down. “Soooo…” I say to my co-workers. “Whaddya we do?”

The girls have an open phone book and are calling local strip clubs. “We’re trying to hire two dancers to come here for a segment,” explains Bethany. “Each girl will lap dance on Tuck and Bratt; whichever girl can get their boy to have a Big O first will win five thousand dollars.”

Before I can stop myself, I make a face. “Ewww,” I grimace.

Mary Louise nods knowingly. “I know,” she says. “That’s what this job is.”

“How is that going to work… on the radio?” I ask incredulously.

“It’ll be funny…?” theorizes Bethany.

I seriously doubt her. While I’m grateful for the employment, I’m wondering how the filthy little show hasn’t been fined out of existence by the FCC. Where’s the Religious Right when you really need them?

The show ends at promptly at 5:00 PM. Immediately, all the girls rise from the cramped desks.

“Staff meeting,” Mary Louise explains. “We always pitch the next show after a broadcast.”

I swallow, trying not to think about my little 1983 Datsun, illegally parked off of Vine City Park.

Everyone files into a conference room. The walls are decked with pornographic posters, save for a huge chalkboard / bulletin board on the far wall. Two throne-like chairs dominate the head of the table; I’ve no doubt who those seats are for.

All the other chairs fill up with attractive young women, all barely dressed. Odd, none of these women are wearing enough to walk down the street without getting a ticket for indecency. Yet none of them seem aware of their nakedness. They chat and flirt among each other, occasionally sending a sideways glance at me.

And then, the door at the back of the room opens. Tuck bounds in, followed by the guy who must be Bratt. Tuck is still as I remembered him; gorgeous flowing hair, sharp face, Metallica shirt, jeans, boots. He’s lighting up a black cigarette as he strides in.

The second fellow looks pretty wild, too. He’s definitely much more handsome, with a wiry frame, a square jaw, and bright eyes. His hair is badly combed, yet still has this raw and sexy look to it. I’m guessing this guy is… Cuban? Either that, or he has a prize-winning tan.

As The Man Who Must Be Bratt flops into one of the two thrones, he grins at the ladies. They blush and twitter back at him.

Good grief.

“Alright,” Tuck rumbles, ashing his cigarette directly on the conference table. Its weird to hear such a deep voice booming from such a little guy. “Whaddya we got for tomorrow?”

Girls from around the table start pitching ideas. “You guys debate which are hotter: thongs or spaghetti bikini tops?” one woman offers.

“Eh,” replies Tuck. “That’s really asking if you’re an ass or a breast man. Next.”

Another chick: “Which kind of Chinese food makes for the stinkiest poos?”

“Hmm,” Bratt muses, and I’m shocked that this idea is seriously considered as a topic. “Yeah, maybe. But we need to eat a lot and then shit a lot to figure that out, right?”

“But…” the pitching girl stammers, “…I thought you guys would already…”

“Already know if General Tzu’s or Beef with Broccoli makes for riper dumps?” Tuck interjects.

“Dude,” Bratt mutters, pretending to wave away a foul odor, “with you? It’s the beef.”

Both men roar with immature laughter.

“Shelve that one for next week,” Tuck snorts. “I’ll work on it between now and then. What else?”

“What about,” asks Bratt, “that feature I wanted about measuring pussy depth? Who was working on that?”

I am seriously getting sick to my stomach. These guys make my brothers look like papal candidates. Suddenly, I’m debating if I shouldn’t bug out and look for another internship. Anywhere.

The two man-boys banter about ideas, but aren’t satisfied with much. “Com’on, ladies,” snarls Tuck. “You’re paid to come up with shit for us. Why do me ’n Bratt do all the work here?”

My disgust just quadrupled. The dynamics of this show are pretty clear to me. Tuck and Bratt somehow convinced their sponsors to pony up the budget for their show. But rather than hire professional writers and a proper production staff, these two sleezeballs took all that money and hired a gaggle of hot bimbos to shake their tits at them. These poor girls really don’t know anything about writing or producing a radio show. They’re really here as Tuck and Bratt’s in-office eye candy. This is pretty revolting.

The only thing I can’t figure out is… Why are these women putting up with this? The pay here isn’t that great. Maybe its the benefits package?

“Okay,” grunted Tuck, dropping his lit cigarette butt and then crushing it against the carpet. “So what you ladies are telling me is, we’ve basically got no show for tomorrow? Fuckin’ A.”

“Hold up,” Bratt says, and I realize with a jolt, that he’s looking directly at me.

I was hoping I’d blend in. In here, I’m the most conservatively dressed woman… which is saying something.

“Well, ’ello, ’ello, ’ello,” grins Bratt, waggling his eyebrows at me.

“Hello,” I say, wishing I could parachute out a window. “I’m Jessica, I’m new as of today. Thanks for this opportunity.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Tuck says to Bratt. “I hired her this morning. On my poop break.”

“Do you got anything for tomorrow’s show, Jessica?” asks Bratt.

“How about…” I shrug. “…the impact of sexual harassment legislation in the modern workforce? Seems topical.”

The other girls gape at me.

“Pass,” Tuck says lazily. He lights a second black cigarette.

Bratt snaps his fingers. “You give me an idea, though,” he says, pointing at me. “You come in two hours before the show, got it? I want to review something with you.”

Tuck nods, in agreement. I wonder what has just been agreed to here.

“Jessica and I will take care of the first hour of the show,” Bratt announces. “That just leaves the last two hours. What else can we do?”

I scamper out of 646 Maple St. after 7:05 PM, desperate to get to my car… if its still there.

No such luck. My car has vanished. I stand in Vine City Park as the sun sets, cursing like a madwoman.

Luckily I have a few quarters and there’s working pay phone at Magnolia and Graves. A quick call to the APD confirms that my piece-of-shit Datsun is in the City Impound, which is better than it being stolen, I guess. But now I need to scrape up three hundred dollars, which I don’t have.

I take the busses as far home as I can, then call my shiftless brothers to come and pick me up the rest of the way home. Only Horace comes to get me. Its after 11:30 PM.

“How’s Mom?” I ask wearily.

“…huh?” the idiot lughead says. “Oh… I dunno.”

“You don’t know?” I growl, offended. “Jesus, Hor, its only your mother who’s dying, you heartless freak.” I spit out the last phrase with as much venom as I can muster.

Horace shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not looking at me. Right away, I know I’ve come down too hard on him. Horace may be a lazy, immature turd, but he’s just as scared of losing Mom as I am. I cope by trying to mother her. He copes my retreating into his video games.

When we get home, Horace descends into the basement without a word to me. That’s fine. I’m so tired and anxious, I’d probably say something else I’d regret if we were to speak.

I creep into the TV room. There is Mom, limp on the sofa, struggling to watch Jay Leno. Chemo has really wiped out what little energy she had left.

Looking at her, I want to cry. The vivacious woman who made me giggle when I was four and we made Rice Krispy Treats together… that woman seems to be nearly withered away.

I smell… a cigarette.

“Mom!” I snap in exasperation.

“Hey baby,” wheezes Mom, peering up at me. She’s happy to see me.

“Mom,” I grumble, choking back tears. “Mom, you can’t smoke. You can’t, do you hear me?”

I wrench the cigarette from her, stabbing it out in one angry stroke.

“Listen, Mom,” I say hurriedly. “Today, I got a job. Like, a real job, with benefits. All I need to do is hold it down for six weeks. But now that I have health insurance, we can—“

“Baby,” whispers Mom, a weary smile on her face. She caresses my cheek, her bony hand trembling. “Six weeks isn’t gonna cut it, baby. Doctor says best case scenario is I’ll be on chemo for months.”

With a knowing look, she tells me, “We ain’t got the money for that.”

The next day, I go to the bank and close my checking account. This gives me a whopping $138.28, all the money I have until my first “Tuck and Bratt” paycheck arrives. I hope I can last.

I hitch a ride into GSU campus with Kat and then walk to 646 Maple St. for my second day of Real Radio Work. As I go, I idly wonder how long my car can remain in impound? If I’m lucky, the city will watch it for a few weeks while I get my financial shit together.

When I reach the “Tuck and Bratt” offices, I’m surprised that the place is dark and seems deserted. The show is recorded from 2:00 to 5:00 PM; right now it’s a little before 11:00 AM. Maybe Bratt was kidding when he told me to show up early…?

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeello?” I call out, as I wander past reception and into Cubicle City.

My stomach nearly heaves as a pair of cockroaches slither out from underneath a crumpled pizza box. Goddamn, this place is filthy.

“Hey!” a slightly-accented male voice sings out behind me.

I whirl around, my heart pounding. “SWEET JESUS!!!” I roar out loud.

Bratt is behind me, looking sheepish. “Hey Toots,” he says. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. Come on into me casa, we’ll talk about today’s show.”

I can’t help glaring at my new boss. “The name’s Jessica,” I say curtly.

“Of course, Jessica, you got it,” mugs Bratt. “Sorry, we call most of the girls here ‘Toots,’ its sort of like a common nickname.”

Uh-huh.

“Let’s talk about the show,” I say, forcing a smile.

Bratt waves invitingly with his hand, and we traverse to the other side of the office. “Tuck and Bratt” seems to take up the entire floor of this building, with the girls’ cubicles and offices on the West End, while the center of the floor is Reception and the Recording Studio. Meanwhile, the East End, over half the floor space is…

“Jesus,” I exclaim, when I see the two offices dedicated to just Tuck and Bratt. The East End of the floor is dedicated solely for deluxe office suites for the show’s two hosts.

Instantly, the décor changes from Grungy College Dorm to Chic Corporate Executive. Bratt leads me into his office, closing the door behind me. I stare, my eyes probably bugging from their sockets. Here, the floor is marble, the walls are rich oak, and each piece of furniture is crafted from gold and brass. There’s an executive desk (which looks unused), a pool table, a full bar, a double-sized Jacuzzi, massage chairs, and a massive entertainment center.

Oh, and a four-poster bed, draped in satin. Three guesses why Bratt needs a four-poster bed in his workplace. It ain’t because he sleeps here.

So… Not only do Tuck and Bratt squander their staff budget to hire strippers instead of writers, they raped the office budget to give themselves penthouse suites. Nice.

“Have a seat,” Bratt says grandly, gesturing me to an overstuffed lounge chair, right next to the floor-to-ceiling aquarium. I settle in. Wow, this is like parking my butt in a cloud.

“So, I wanted to talk to you about a kind of hazing ritual we have here at ‘Tuck and Bratt,’” the radio host says, pouring himself a tequila shot. He doesn’t offer me one.

“Yeah?” I say, tensing. Hazing and ritual are not two words I want to hear right now.

“Oh, relax, Jessica,” laughs Bratt. “Listen, Tuck ’n me, we come across as, eh, pretty rude guys when you first get to know us, I know that.”

You come across as spoiled rich assholes, I think crossly.

“But deep down, we’re not bad,” Bratt assures me. He gulps his drink, walking to stand before me. “Listen, new girls always find the first two weeks here to be a little, eh, weird at first. But then you get to know us and the staff, and we become one big, happy family.”

“Sure,” I say, glancing at that bed. One big family that sucks on each other’s genitals, no doubt.

“So what’s this hazing ritual?” I ask, hoping to get out of this babe-trap as fast as I can. If he tries to whip out his cock, I swear I’ll…

“Oh, right,” my boss nods. “So our listeners know the staff here, because we like to put you girls on the air every now and then. I was thinking that today, we’ll bring you and… mmm, say Mary Louise out into the studio, give you a mike, and let you talk to the fans. How’s that sound?”

I immediately think: No fucking way.

“Uh, I’ll pass,” I demure. “I’ve really only wanted to produce behind the microphone, never—“

“That’s what I first thought!” Bratt exclaims. “But when I was first starting out—five years ago—my boss put me on the air once, just once. I still can’t get enough.”

“I’m… good, really,” I say, my voice a little harder.

Bratt cocks his head to one side, studying me. He sets down his empty glass, which requires him to lean close to me. I refuse to budge.

Then, to my complete befuddlement, Bratt hold up one finger. “See this?” he says. “See it here?”

I say, “Yeah—“

Suddenly his finger darts in all different directions. “Look here!” Bratt says rapidly. “Look here! Look here! No, look here! Look here!” With each “look here,” his finger has changed positions in the air.

Then the radio host snaps his fingers, loudly. Right before my face.

I blink, my brain momentarily confused.

“You’re okay,” Bratt tells me, speaking quickly. “Listen, its almost time for the show, eh? Com’on.”

Time for the…? Wait, how can that be? How long have Captain Skeezy and I been talking?

But Bratt is insistent. “That’s life in radio,” he tells me confidently. “Your next show is always hours away, and then bam! You’re on.”

He takes my hand, and I allow him to pull me out of the chair.

“Com’on,” Bratt tells me, and I follow him out of his expansive office. Soon we are heading straight towards the Recording Studio.

Strange, now the lights are on and the place is fully staffed. The usual posse of topless women are all about, gossiping and working at desks. What the hey? Bratt and I were in his office for only, like, five minutes. Right?