Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Hypnosis, Magic, Heterosexual, White Female, Masturbation, Workplace, .
Desc: Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 1 - She wants to be the perfect employee. But every time she meets with her boss, she finds herself acting more and more like...well, like a bimbo.
"You're a professional," I whispered to myself in the mirror, like I did daily. Affirmations - my mentor, Marie, swears by them, but so far all they'd done was make me feel incredibly self-conscious, each and every morning. "You're a professional, and you deserve respect."
Sometimes I feel like no matter what, women get the raw end of the stick. My mentor, for instance - she's a brilliant, talented, funny, intelligent and business-savvy woman ... who I've heard described as "John Candy meets Kathy Bates." She's barely overweight!
When Marie does her morning affirmations, it's to tell herself that she's an attractive and desirable woman.
Me? I know I'm attractive. I'm not arrogant, but ever since I was 15, I've been unable to walk down the street without men staring at me. I was an early bloomer. Now, ten years later, I have no issues with self-esteem; I know I'm gorgeous, I know men want me.
So when I use affirmations, it's to try to make myself believe that I can be taken seriously.
Maybe it's a little silly, but I'm /so/ used to being wanted, it's hard for me to believe that I'm not wasting my time, trying to pursue a career in business. I know how God built me - when I walk into a room, I know that men want me to look after their cocks, not their companies.
After a lifetime of being treated like nothing more than a busty piece of arm-candy, it's hard to remember how much more I'm capable of.
And so, affirmations.
"You are a professional," I said, staring at myself in the mirror. Some day, I'd believe it.
"I'm sorry, sir," I said, blinking back the tears, feeling like anything /but/ a professional. As usual, Clive didn't say a word.
Sometimes I hated my brain. Rationally, I knew that just being in the inner circle of Clive Williams was a testament in itself to how far I'd come - he was the world's youngest self-made billionaire; before he'd even turned 20, he'd formed his first company, and a mere 7 years later, owned more of New York than anyone in history.
But after my fumble that morning, I certainly didn't feel like I deserved to be part of "Clive's Pack", as we were referred to by the business rags.
The meeting had been simple enough, on paper - I just had to close a deal that had been in place for weeks. One slick presentation, get pen to paper, and I could add a few more zeroes to my Christmas bonus for half an hour's work.
Everything had been going perfectly smoothly, until I looked up and saw Clive himself standing outside the board room, watching me, those penetrating grey eyes silently, wordlessly judging me...
Just thinking about him sent shivers up my spine. Marie had asked me, once, why Clive intimidated me so much, and I hadn't been able to answer. There was just something about his perfectly-tailored suits, the sense of power that he radiated, the frank gaze that he always gave me...
Later that night, I'd asked myself the same question, and been surprised by the answer - Clive Williams intimidated me for one simple reason. He turned me on.
Something about his presence, his hidden-but-noticeable muscles, the way that he held himself ... he was just more /man/ than I'd ever before encountered. I wouldn't have been surprised to discover that he sweated testosterone.
And worse, when he was around I couldn't help but be aware of my own body. He was so masculine, as soon as I knew he was near, I became aware of my femininity, of my body, and the effect that it had on men...
So that morning, the second I'd seen him there, I was no longer a professional in a suit, presenting to a group of other professionals. In an instant, I'd become a women, standing in front of a group of men, with the full knowledge of our bodies ... and the pleasure we could bring to each other.
Mr Stone, head of the acquisitions committee ... instead of a 45-year old businessmen, all I could see was a pair of eyes. Had he been checking me out when I bent over to pick up my papers? When I'd stretched to emphasize the figures we could bring his company, had he noticed my legs, peeking out from under my business-skirt? Surely, at least once during this meeting, he'd wondered what sort of underwear I had on ... and pictured me slowly sliding it off, enjoying the feeling of silk upon my legs.
And Don, Stone's right-hand man ... more than once in the time I'd known him, his hand-shake had gone longer than it needed to. Was he just being friendly, or was he savoring the contact? Did he want to do more, touch my long, smooth legs ... trace patterns up my spine, and heft my full bosom in his hand? Did he want to touch me between the legs, feel my wetness, slowly slide one finger inside of me and watch me gasp?
Alan Summers, the intern in the corner taking notes ... he was young, and certainly not unattractive. He'd been working under me for almost a month - in that time, how often had he gone home and thought about me as he masturbated? How often did he play with himself, picturing my tits, my body splayed beneath his, imagine himself thrusting into me?
Clive hadn't even said anything; just his stare was enough to get my mind racing, and of course as soon as I became aware of my femininity, aware of the effect that I was likely having on this room full of men ... well, my composure went out the window. I started stammering, and what should have been a 2-minute discussion of figures stretched out, as I stuttered and fumbled my way through the conversation.
Alan, bless his soul, gallantly tried to save me, but all he managed to do was make me aware of how well he knew the material, how much time we'd spent together, how often we'd spent late nights together in my office, how much of that time he must have spent thinking about kissing me, touching me, taking me...
After I'd forgotten the word "contract" more than once, I gasped that we should postpone this meeting until a later date, and ran into the bathroom. I'd intended to sob with embarrassment, but when I noticed that I'd unconsciously undone the top two buttons of my blouse, the image of the four men staring at my cleavage ... it overcame me, and I locked myself in the bathroom and plunged two fingers into my hungry pussy.
Less than a minute later, I was screaming out in pleasure.
As soon as I came, the sexual fog passed, and I suddenly became aware of how badly I'd screwed up. It wasn't my first major assignment, but it was definitely an important one - I'd managed to show Clive that I couldn't be trusted in a room full of men, that I was such a sex-crazed little bimbo that I couldn't even close a simple deal.
I began to sob, and despite my best efforts, when I exited the bathroom a few minutes later, my eyes were still visibly puffy.
He'd called me into his office ... of course he'd called me into his office. The second I'd seen his secretary walking toward me, I knew that I was being called into his office.
And so there I sat, in front of the most powerful man in New York, a man who had trusted me with millions of his dollars. A man whose trust I had betrayed, because I couldn't stop thinking about sex for two minutes.
I nervously tugged my skirt down - it reached to my knees, but I was suddenly aware of how much of my legs were showing. Not that Clive was looking at them - his eyes never stopped staring intensely into my own.
"I'm sorry, sir..." I said, wondering if it was obvious what a thrill the word "sir" gave me. /I am a strong, independent woman/ I mentally told myself, not believing a word of it. "I promise, I'll try harder. I'm a professional."
With a nod, I was dismissed, and I sighed with relief. I don't know if Clive believed me - I don't know if /I/ would have believed me, not after that performance I gave that morning - but I was determined not to let him down again.
The next two weeks went smoothly. So smoothly that, for the first time since I started working at William's, I truly felt like "one of the boys". I'd just landed a huge property deal, and to celebrate, the men of the company had decided to take me out for drinks.
It started sedately, of course - brandy in the office of Todd Branson, one of the most senior associates. His connections with Marie had been what had gotten me the interview in the first place, and while he'd made it very clear that he wasn't going to baby me in any way, I could sense his pride when I did well.
I don't remember who suggested we go to Smithee's, an exclusive gentleman's club just a few blocks away, but their reputation for cocktails was tempting enough to garner universal agreement.
With my slender figure, I get buzzed pretty quickly, so even though I'd made sure not to let my glass be refilled, I was feeling slightly heady as the five men and myself walked through the door. My success gave me the bravado to walk straight up the sedate bartender, and ask for six "of his best".
As I turned back to triumphantly grin at my co-workers, I saw him.
I had no idea that this was his club, but it made sense. Less than a minute's walk from the office, well-known as the most exclusive club in the CBD ... hell, he probably owned it.
He didn't say a word, and his gaze never left my face, but a flush started to rise through my body as I again became acutely aware that I was the only woman in a room full of men. The five men I'd just been drinking with, the bartender, New York's elite ... all of them were undoubtedly checking me out.
And why shouldn't they? I knew exactly how hot I was.
I'd left my jacket in Branson's office, and the second Clive's eyes hit mine, I realized that New York's heat had caused my white shirt to stick to my body, showing off my perfectly toned stomach, the curve of my bust. What's more, my sweat had caused it to become slightly transparent.
Unable to stop myself, my eyes flicked down, and confirmed my fears - I wasn't wearing my staid, professional underwear. More and more recently, I'd been putting on the frillier items in my wardrobe, the push-up bras, the ones that truly showed off my assets. On one hand, it went against my desire to be professional ... on the other hand, I live in the real world. The more attractive I am, the more successful I was going to be.
If anyone knew that, it was Clive. His boyish good looks were almost as renowned as his savvy business sense. If he wasn't hitting the front pages for making another billion, he was hitting the gossip pages for rumours that he was dating another movie star or model.
Fortunately, that day I was wearing stockings - I'd had to, to justify the slightly shorter skirt I'd found at the back of my wardrobe, and been unable to resist wearing. It was my day to celebrate, after all, and I wanted to look good.
Defiantly, I stared back at Clive. Meeting his gaze, I tried to look haughty, proud, like I was a professional, not a ... not a ... bimbo.
I bit my lip. That was it, wasn't it? He thought I was just using my femininity to get ahead. He thought I had flirted my way through my successful deal, and was meeting with the top men in his company to try to seduce my way to promotion. He thought that I'd picked out my most revealing outfit, just to draw the men's attention to my body, to make sure that every time they looked at me, they thought of sex...
My face went red as I realized how he expected the rest of the night to go. As if I could read his mind, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he thought I was going to get up on one of the club's tables ... not straight away of course, but after a few more drinks, enough to pretend that I wasn't responsible for my actions. He thought I was going to persuade my horny companions to "dare" me, and then take it as permission to get up, and dance for them...
I'd stand on the table, surrounded by the most powerful men in the city - hell, some of the most powerful men in the world. I'd dance, and with every move, every beat of the strong, sticky music, I'd know that all of their eyes on me. That men who could buy and sell the world ten times over were suddenly entranced by me, lusting after me, wanting to touch me, taste me, fuck me...
Well, I thought angrily, he'd completely misjudged me. I was just going to have a few more quiet drinks, and then go home. Alone. I wasn't going to embarrass myself, and I certainly wasn't going to let myself be talked out of my top, and bask in the feeling of being the center of attention, the recipient of so many men's lust, showing myself off in front of Clive, the most powerful man in New York, hyper-aware of the fact that I was a woman and he was a man...
Tempting though it was.
"I swear," I said, staring at my heels, "I don't know what came over me. But I can assure you, there's no risk to the company, and no risk to your reputation."
After a minute of silence was my only response, I looked up., and immediately wished that I hadn't ... as soon as my eyes met his, I was trapped in his gaze, hypnotized, like a snake...
/I'm a professional, / I mentally tried to chant. /I'm ... I'm a professional, and ... and ... all I did was take advantage of the ... the perks of the job. It's no more than any of the men would have done in my position. It's ... I'm ... professional...
/It's your fault, anyway./ I added, after a pause.
It had been a few nights after my celebratory drinks. I'd been so proud of myself for enjoying a cocktail or two, and going home with decorum. I hadn't done anything even slightly unprofessional. Yes, the second I'd gotten home masturbated at the idea of just playing into Clive's image of me, getting up on that table, in front of all my superiors, and touching myself ... but no one saw that. I was still a professional.
No, the problem had started a few nights later. Alan and I had been working late, and I'd thought the offices were empty. Not, of course, that I'd been doing anything that I wanted to hide.
Not that night, anyway.
Alan and I had been poring over the new contracts that legal had sent up - the recently-fired Simmons had allowed a typo in a recent deal with Onestone Industries, a typo that had almost halved our quarterly profits. I'd been assigned the deal, and now that the contract was up for renewal, we were triple-checking everything.
I hadn't realized that Clive was still there, not until I glanced up and saw him watching Alan and I work. I gasped in shock, and by the time Alan followed my line of sight, Clive was gone.
/Oh, god... / I'd thought. The look on his face, that blank, passive face of his ... it had said it all. I wondered if he even realized that Alan had been assigned to me, that I hadn't chosen him as an intern. No, it was clear that he thought I'd picked Alan as a plaything, as a boy-toy. It was obvious that he thought my libido was so out of control that I needed someone in the office to pleasure me, whenever and wherever I wanted.
And from the neutral expression on his face, it was clear that he wasn't surprised. It was ... it was like he expected it of me. Like he knew me, like he'd known me from the second he'd laid eyes on me. Like once glance at my figure, my curves, the way I held myself ... and he'd known what drove me, that I was a sexual creature, unable to go even half a day without release.
It was alarming how well he knew me.
Not all of his assumptions were correct, of course. I hadn't chosen Alan for his masculine presence, for his virility. He'd been randomly assigned to me.
But I would have been lying if the thought of sleeping with him hadn't come into my mind, at least once.
I'd never act on it, though. I was a /professional/. I'd never tell Alan that I was extending his duties, that as well as taking care of my incoming mail and helping me prepare for presentations, his job was also to pleasure me, whenever and wherever I wanted.
No. No, of course not.
Of course I'd caught Alan looking down my top, once or twice. Of course I'd bent down in front of him, just to see if it was enough to get a rise out of him. (it was.) And it was inevitable that, working in such close quarters, our hands would touch from time to time, or he'd have to squeeze past me, and I'd suddenly become acutely aware of his body against mine, that I'd feel his hardness press against my ass...
But acting on it, no. I was more than that. I was a professional businesswoman, not some kind of ... some kind of ... bimbo.
I shuddered with pleasure as I suddenly saw what Clive must see every time he looked at me - a sex-hungry little minx, only happy when surrounded by men, enjoying the high-pressure environment not for the challenges, not out of ambition ... but because it was so full of men - powerful men, constantly tense, constantly in need of a piece of eye-candy to distract them from their stressful lives.
It was no wonder so many men screwed their secretaries. The challenges of business-life, the headaches ... rich, dominant men deserved a piece of fluff to relieve tension with.
/No, / I told myself. /I'm not a mindless girl. I'm a professional. I'm not the secretary ... I'm the executive./
/And damn it, that means I deserve relief with the best of them./
I was so proud of myself that night. I'm sure Alan noticed me checking out, but I didn't let it go any further than that. I didn't grab him, pull him toward me, move his hands to my pert little ass. I didn't lower his pants and wrap my lips around his already-thick cock...
Not that night, anyway.
The next night, we were working late again. I wish I could say that it was because we were overwhelmed, or that there was a project that urgently needed to be finished that night. But there wasn't.
We were alone in the office for what felt like hours before the last of our colleagues left. I looked at Alan, and wondered if he could see the hunger in my eyes. I wondered if he'd been able to see it when he'd come into work that morning, when I'd asked him if he could stay late. I wondered if he, like Clive, thought of me as nothing but a tramp, a bimbo, a pair of tits and a piece of ass in an office far too advanced for someone like me.
I shuddered at the thought, and didn't say a word as I pulled his mouth to mine. He didn't seem surprised, and it just helped confirm that he'd seen this coming - maybe, like Clive, the first time he'd seen me he'd known that we'd sleep together. Maybe the first time my lips had curled into a smile, he'd been picturing them sliding up and down his hard prick.
One part of me hated to play into the image that I knew I must project, of a cock-hungry slut. But the rest of me was just focused on how good it felt, enveloping his hardness in my mouth, quickly persuading it to unload, gulping down his cum.
As he drilled me on top of my desk, pages of the Onestone contract scattered all over the floor, but I barely noticed. My mind was all but switched off, and all I could think about was the young man inside of me, using me... /no, / I quickly corrected myself, /letting me use him/.
/Like a professional/.
Outside of my office, the entire floor was pitch-black. My eyes stayed on the door, wondering if I'd see another glimpse of Clive tonight, wondering if he'd peer in and see me being fucked by my intern. As Alan enthusiastically plowed into me, over and over again, I looked out into the darkness, and a part of me thought I saw Clive out there. Watching.
Before allowing my mind to be entirely consumed by the pleasure of my orgasm, I realized what he'd be thinking if he was out there, watching my brains get fucked out. He'd know that I was everything that he'd suspected I was. He'd know that I was nothing but a stupid, worthless, brainless ... bimbo.
My toes curled as I came, one word repeating itself in my mind, over and over again.