She joined the company a few years after college. She was pretty, in a prim way, but already tired - there would be days when she didn’t give herself enough time in the morning and her face would look drawn, with dark circles. She had a data entry job in accounting, entering receipts from franchises, and she came in every day in starched white blouses and corduroy knee-length skirts, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail - thin, pretty, young - she needed a job and she found a job and god knows she was miserable now. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and laugh, to say, yeah, that’s how it was and then you would die.

I liked thin, pretty, and young. They always looked ready to snap, if I could get my hands on them.

I handled the tax records for the office. We’d chat at the biweekly happy hour. I don’t think she liked me, but I didn’t take it personally. I think she saw a paunchy old man in cheap shirts, and it made her feel the passage of time - when you’re that age, when you’re out of school, then reality starts to set in like a stain and you start to realize that life is just going to be normal, and the feeling of that realization eating into you like mold is called time. We learn about the future from Hollywood and then we wind up in dreary jobs, with no money for the exciting upscale places or the fashionable clothes, and all we can do is share office birthday cake with a paunchy man in a cheap shirt who obviously wishes you wore a push-up bra and a lower neckline. I could sympathize.

But with age comes wisdom and I knew something she didn’t - that life could be much more fun if you made that fun.

It started with carpooling. She dropped in conversation that it took her an hour to get in by train. I asked her which line she rode and I then I helpfully said, I drove by the station for that every day (I didn’t, really). I offered to pick up on my way in (the thrill of stalking prey made up for getting out the door an hour early). I could tell she wrestled with the idea, but practicality won out. The first time I picked her up, I could see why. She rushed into my car, harried, sucking down a microwave breakfast sandwich, and did her make-up on the drive-in. She was having trouble with her morning momentum. Cutting time off of her commute was a godsend. 

For a month, it was innocent enough. I think she actually warmed up to me, just from friendly familiarity. I heard all about her loneliness at her new place, her trouble keeping up with her friends from college, her trouble meeting new people, her crushing sense of the student loan treadmill she was just realizing was defining her life… I could sympathize, really, I could, even as I strategized to rape her. 

Over a month, I got to learn her habits. Eventually, I was satisfied that she didn’t have any social contacts who would notice if something was up. Since she rushed every morning, she always waited to get coffee at the office. Every so often, I picked up fancy coffee for the two of us. (“A Friday treat! A Monday pick-me-up!”) The first time I drugged her, it was in a double-shot caramel latte. She had been amicably chatting about a tv show she had been binge watching, maybe looking a little brighter than she had since she had started at the office, maybe feeling secure and sociable for the first time in a while, and then as we slowly drove on, that light faded out.

When I pulled into the parking garage, she was completely dissociated - distracted, silent, eyes glassy. It was so tempting to grab her by the chin and fuck her face right there. But I held back. I told her we were at work, that she would get out of the car now, and she nodded and complied. With gentle suggestions, I herded her to her cubicle and told her she was at work now, doing her job. She logged into her work station out of habit. As an experiment, I left her alone for the rest of the morning and came back at lunch. She was working, slowly, filling out the forms by hunting and pecking, eyes staring through her monitor. I asked her if she was hungry. She nodded and stopped, unsure of how to proceed. I handed her half of my sandwich and told her to eat it. She did so without argument, then stopped, crumbs on her chin, like a wind-up toy that had stopped mid-motion. I left her alone like that, giddy about watching my plan go into motion.

She was more lively by the end of the day - lively, enough, to complain about zonking out until mid-afternoon, everything feeling foggy and distant, like a dream. I dropped her off at her apartment and suggested she needed to stay off her phone before bed. She waved it off as stupid adult advice and went inside. I pulled into a nearby park and beat off, thinking about her slack lips and the lazy swivel of her eyes when I spoke to her.

I waited a few days to see if she’d connect the dots. She never did. She never even glanced at me with suspicion. The next time I handed her a pumpkin spiced latte, she didn’t hesitate. 

This time, I didn’t take her straight to the office. I drove around for a bit; she didn’t notice. I took us to a park. While the shadow of leaves played through my windshield, I reached over and undid her blouse, treating each button with care. Her unresponsive face made me smirk. I ran my hands over her cleavage, back and forth, feeling the soft rise of her breasts in her bra. I pull out my dick and beat it off, meeting her eye to dull, glassy eyes. When I finished, I leaned over and kissed her. She had no idea what was happening.

I took her to the office, after buttoning her up, and parked her in her cubicle for the rest of the day. In the afternoon, I brought her a cup of coffee, with a fresh dosage. She was still a bit out of it. I gently took her chin and held the cup to her lips, so she would drink, like an obedient child. I didn’t play with her any more that day, but I collected her when it was time to go home and drove her back to her apartment. I found her keys in her purse and took her up to her apartment. I made the two of us frozen dinners from her freezer. She looked kinda cute as I spoon fed her macaroni and cheese. I gave her a third dose for the day and led her to the bedroom.

As I stripped her down, I was struck by how fragile she looked - floating and lost, like a stick on a current. I liked that. I wrapped my arms around her and lifted her up in a hug, to smother her cheek and jaw and neck in kisses. Her legs dangled. I set her down the bed. I pushed her down. I got my lube. I cut her panties off with scissors. I kissed her lower lips out of a sense of ritual. She didn’t respond. She only watched the ceiling as I raped her.

Afterwards, I took her to the shower. I had to get in there with her to clean her off. I carefully cleaned off her make-up, lathered her face up with her exfoliating rinse, toweled her off, and combed out her wet hair. I searched her closet for night clothes; I mentally noted to buy her cuter clothes and maybe some ribbons for her hair. I dressed her in her pajamas and gently led her to bed, laying her down on top of the covers and turning out the light with a paternalistic smile.

She was still laying there when I came back in the morning.

I quickly fell into a routine. I got up early and drove over to her place. I dosed her, then I dressed and fed her. I took her to the office and set her about her work, which she did quietly and sluggishly. I dosed her a second time in the afternoon. I took her home and fed her again, dosed her, and put her to bed. Rinse and repeat. On the weekends, I took her out for a little fresh air and exercise or on shopping trips to get her new outfits. The whole time, no one seemed to notice. It was so easy for her to fall off the face of the earth, like she had barely been anchored on in the first place. The world had so many young women with shitty jobs and lonely apartments, she barely amounted to a rounding error - that’s why a predator like me, fat and well-fed, could exist.

And well-fed I was. I fucked my doll on her bed, in a pastel pink negligee and cake make-up, smashing her tiny form into the mattress. I fucked my doll at work, after I dressed her in push-up bras, pencil skirts, sheer blouses, and stiletto heels - I fucked her mouth in the bathroom stall and her ass in the janitor’s closet, threatening to shake her whole body apart. I took her to parks and fucked her behind bushes and boat houses, in daisy dukes and polka dot bikini tops and reflective sunglasses and high-ponytails in neon scrunchies. It was all my well-deserved reward for the hours dressing her, feeding her, doing her make-up, cleaning off her make-up, caring for her hair, caring for her clothes, caring for her skin, walking her, bathing her… almost loving her, as if you might possibly love a thing. 

I had reduced her to a thing. I wonder if she felt that way. You might lead a lamb to slaughter, stare into its eyes, and ask yourself if it really knew, if it was afraid. Her eyes became like that - when I kept her drugged for so long, I forgot her eyes had ever looked any other way. Her brain had wandered in a fog so long, maybe it eventually forgot it had a body. Or maybe there was no fog, just a pane of glass she couldn’t break through or be heard through, maybe she saw everything and hate as she might, she could never push through the river of pharmaceutical mud in order to save herself. Or maybe, with enough time, with nothing but me to hold on to, with my constant presence filling her life like the weather, maybe she’d even learn to love me.

I considered asking her, once. I had moved her into my condo - a buddy at work had asked if the two of us were dating and I didn’t see any reason to disabuse him - and we were sitting in my kitchen. I had put her in a stunning sundress covered with fireworks, and I was feeding her spoonfuls of my personal chili recipe I had been refining since college. I was sitting there, spoon in hand, smiling to myself out of domestic bliss, and I fantasized briefly, about this pretty girl being impressed with my cooking. I looked in her dumb, empty eyes. And I felt angry with her - as if she wanted this. I convinced myself that she had wanted this, that she had been too stupid to maybe just appreciate me as I was, that she was a coward who couldn’t stomach her life and that had made me complicit in her suicide - I chucked the spoonful of chili against the defenseless woman.

She made a low moan of distress, trying to claw her way to comprehension, briefly blinking a little faster. I immediately felt horrible. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and pulled her into my chest, shushing her. I was wrong. I had ruined her nice dress. I eased her down to her knees, gently opened her mouth, and began to fuck her face. I apologized over and over, showing affection to my poor little doll the only way I knew how.

I cleaned her up and took her to bed. I was supposed to dose her. But I hesitated. I stayed up, watching her. I would look at the dropper bottle, then at her naked body on the bed. I knew I had to give her another dose, but I kept hesitating. Around 2 in the morning, she began to stir. I walked over and cupped her chin, to turn her face towards me. Her eyes opened with more lucidity than she had had in a month, still drunk, still lost, but searching. Her voice came out like a weak breeze.

“What… the… fuck…?”

“It’s okay,” I smiled paternalistically. “I just wanted to let you know I’m here.”

I squeezed her mouth open and dribbled the drug between her lips. I think she struggled. I honestly can’t remember.

We live in domestic bliss these days. I let the lease on her apartment expire, and I moved her into my place. I’m getting better at cooking, with someone to cook for. I’ve taken more of an interest in women’s fashion. Last night, I pulled off some really impressive gradient eye shadow. I’m putting together a bedroom for her that looks like a Barbie dream house, so I can prop her up on the bed and she really looks like a toy. Somehow, I haven’t been caught, despite still bringing her into work just so she can be my sexy secretary realdoll. Maybe I have been caught. Maybe I’m not the only one and we’re all looking out for each other. 

Maybe there can be a happily ever after.