“I’ve been changed. I’m sure of it.”
My voice rings true, steady, confident. It better damn be, because my direct superior is staring at me in complete bewilderment… and my very job is on the line.
Chatwood is an imposing man, so much so that I constantly need to remind myself we’re of an age, and he’s not actually older than me. His eyes narrow, his brow furrowing in confusion as he contemplates my statement.
I twirl my fingers, smoothing my skirt, nervously fidgeting in the chair. I know how crazy this sounds, and really, coming to see Chatwood about this is my last resort. I spent so long in front of the mirror, staring deep into the eyes of my own reflection in the mirror, looking for hints, clues, confirmation. Most of all, looking for some other, alternative plan.
But in truth, I know it in my bones. I’ve been changed.
I suppose this poses an oddly philosophical question. If you’d been changed, how would you even know it? How would you be sure? I’ve been grappling with the question every day.
“Let me get this straight, Selene,” Chatwood says, rubbing his temples. “I’m getting an HR complaint about you every single day, at this point. By all accounts, your performance has fallen off a cliff, your own subordinates report increasingly aberrant behaviour… and your explanation is that you’ve been changed. Am I hearing this right?”
I swallow, my lips trembling. I fully expected him not to believe me, of course. Who would? But I’m out of options. I have to try, or he’s going to fire me for sure.
I grip the arms rests of my chair, trying to steady myself as I recall how it all started, but that’s part of the problem. There isn’t one single inflection point, or if there is, I haven’t noticed it. It’s been a gradual drift, a growing awareness that something was slightly off, at first… and then very, very off.
But I need to start somewhere, that’s how the human mind works. So I’ll pick the first major incident.
“Sir, I know this sounds like the setup to a horror story, but…” I start, hesitating. “About two months ago, I… was giving Jason, one of my subordinates, a review of his quarterly figures in my office. It wasn’t a very good one, and he was squirming a little. By the end of the review, he admitted to feeling a little out of his depth, and asked if I had any guidance to help him out.”
Chatwood’s eyes bore into mine. “I remember this incident. It was the first HR complaint to end up on my desk. But please, proceed. Tell me exactly what you told him.”
Just thinking about the words that blurted out of my mouth makes me cringe in devastating embarassment.
“Of course sir,” I say. “I told Jason that I was always eager to… assist… a fine young man like him any way he wants to. That it was the only reason for women to be in the workforce in the first place.”
God. The silence that descends between us is so thick I could slice it with a knife. I still can’t believe I actually said that! It’s not how I felt at all.
“Jason didn’t know what to do with himself after he heard that,” I continue, steadying my hands. “Taking advantage of my own supreme confusion, he excused himself out of my office.”
Chatwood seems to perk up at that. “What were you confused about?”
“My words!” I say, finding more courage, firmer ground to stand on. “Sir, I don’t believe any of that stuff, you know it. You know me!”
“I certainly thought I did,” Chatwood says, sighing. “But look, Selene…”
He gestures at the pile of papers on his desk, with a look of utter disbelief. “There’s just so many incidents here. How do you expect me to interpret any of this?”
He’s right, of course. Since that very first day, things have only gotten worse. What else could a reasonable person assume, when confronted with my increasingly inappropriate utterances in the workplace?
“There’s the water cooler incident,” Chatwood says, picking up one particular file, his eyes squinting as he skims through it. “You told the receptionist that you, and I quote, envied her for pursuing a proper feminine career, and you wished someone would demote you to sit alongside her already. Or better yet, to kneel under her desk and give her a foot massage.”
Hearing my own words—alien, shocking, horrifying words I never conjured up in my own mind—spoken back to me like that… it makes me cringe and shudder. I lower myself in the chair, feeling utterly embarassed and mortified. I wish I could disappear under the ground right now.
The receptionist, Stacey, unfriended me on social media over the incident, and reported me to HR. As well she should, it was sexual harassment, it’s just… god! This is a slow-moving train wreck. I know these are not my thoughts, I don’t even think them before I say them, the words just form themselves.
“Then,” Chatwood continues, “there’s the time you told Jason you would only provide him feedback on professional matters, if he gave you feedback on how you suck cock.”
I whimper in the chair, my sex radiating with traitorous heat as the words engulf me in humiliating pleasure.
“I checked in on you, asked if you were doing okay, and you told me, and I quote…”
Oh no. I almost want to beg him not to say it.
“Every single time I was promoted over a man, I didn’t deserve it,” Chatwood recounts, repeating my own words to me. They shoot straight for my clit, making me bite my lower lip in desperate arousal. He seems not to pay any mind to my hips, bucking against empty air.
“And of course, there’s the Lugenboul scandal…”
At this point, seeing the embarassment and disappointment on Chatwood’s face, it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. I caused irreparable damage that day, not just to my career, but to the company as well.
When lawyers of a partner firm came over to discuss the details of a new deal, I proudly proclaimed to them that I was satisfied to see they were all men, because “in the modern office, women shouldn’t be allowed to make any decisions.” I then recused myself from actually negotiating the deal, asking my colleague Frank to take over.
My explanation to him was that “my simple female brain can’t handle a negotiation with a bunch of real men in power suits, Frank. They’ll eat me alive.”
I can’t go on like this, I just can’t. Just looking at myself in the mirror each morning makes it clear this is taking a toll on me. I’m panting, my pupils are dilated, my hair dishevelled. I look out of sorts, professionally unreliable, and frankly, just horny.
“So,” Chatwood concludes, slamming the papers back on the desk. “Your explanation for all of this is that… what? Someone’s brainwashed you to do all of this?”
Something clicks inside me.
My eyes widen, and I draw in breath sharply, sitting straighter than a rod in the chair. “Yes!” I shout, to Chatwood’s surprise.
“Yes! I’ve been brainwashed!” I stand up so fast that I have to steady myself on my heels, but I’m too excited to stay still. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, of course it doesn’t, that’s not a thing that actually happens in the real world.” I turn around to face Chatwood, shrugging. “Is it?”
Chatwood looks at me with a desperate, pleading look, like asking how he’s supposed to know. I’m making a clown show of myself right now, I realise, but I need to keep going, I need to convince him.
“The point, sir, is—what else could have been done to me? What else could possibly explain this behaviour? There’s nothing, nothing! You know my good record, you know I wouldn’t throw my career to the winds just to say such abhorrent things out loud!”
“Alright, alright, slow down,” Chatwood says, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Look. For the sake of the argument, let’s say you’re right. Now what?”
“We’ve got to figure it out!” I keep pacing back and forth, restless, my hands fidgeting and playing with the hem of my skirt. “Say someone brainwashed me to sabotage my career. This raises further questions! When did it happen?”
“It’s been two months since the initial incident with Jason…” Chatwood murmurs, as if lost in thought. God, am I winning him over? I could go there and kiss him right now, just for giving me a fair chance. Although maybe, given what I’m accused of by HR, that wouldn’t be the best course of actions right now.
Was that just the first real occurrence, or only the first time I’ve noticed? I had a bout of sleepless nights, about three months back. Then, I started masturbating far more often. Are the two things connected, or unrelated?
That’s not the sort of detail I might be willing to volunteer in conversation with my boss, however. Not even in such a dire situation.
“Actually,” Chatwood says, suddenly thoughtful. “I think the timing is secondary. That makes me wonder why you aren’t asking the most obvious question. The most important question of all.”
I halt in my tracks, my mind suddenly slowing down to a more reasonable pace. I push my hands firmly behind my back, willing them to stay still, and look up at Chatwood in puzzlement.
He arches his eyebrow, but then, noticing my silence, supplies the answer for me.
“Who did this to you?”
For a moment, I feel dizzy, and I find myself leaning against the chair for support. I steady myself, shaking my head. Who indeed? And why didn’t it occur to me to start with that question, first? I sigh, shaking my head in despondency. I just can’t figure this out on my own—and I try to suppress the alien thought that I can’t because I’m a woman, and a man should do the thinking for me… No. This is the brainwashing, trying to betray me. I refuse to let it happen.
Who could be behind this?
Following the classic construction of motive, means, and opportunity doesn’t yield much this time. First, I need to cross off the means. I have no clue how you might induce such a radical change in a person. Drugs? Literal magic? Even if I did, none of my coworkers, friends, or social acquaintances have given any indication that they possess a unique expertise.
If you can call instilling misogynistic thoughts inside a woman’s brain expertise…
Motive, on the other hand, offers way too many options. Maybe a disgruntled employee could have done this to me… like Mark, who was recently let go by the company. But then, if he held such sway over me, wouldn’t he use it to get his job back? Everyone else among my direct subordinates has mostly reacted to my impropriety and harassment with awkward stares, or HR complaints. It can’t be them. Can it?
I know fellow exec Veronica and I don’t always see eye to eye, so I suppose it might be her. It just feels… weird. Given the… nature of the changes, I would expect a man to be the likelier culprit.
There’s always my old rival Alexander, of course. Ours has been a bitter, bloody, years-long feud as we’ve each climbed through the ranks. We hit director position at around the same time, and were both angling for the same CFO position. It looked like our fight would suddenly come to a head.
But in the end, it didn’t. The position went to Chatwood instead, which in perfect honesty is probably for the best. It’s the only reason why I have someone to appeal to, right now.
“I, I… don’t know…”
“Could it be that you were specifically conditioned not to wonder about the identity of this malefactor?” Chatwood supplies, helpfully, and I find myself nodding my head, because it makes sense. That… that makes my pussy squirm. Because a man is doing the thinking for me…
“I’ll tell you what, Selene,” Chatwood says at last, sitting back into the chair. His mood seems different somehow, somber, thoughtful. “I will choose to believe your story, and help you get to the bottom of it… if you can answer a simple question.”
“S-sure,” I say, my eyes widening, my lips trembling. “Anything, sir.”
“What position did I get promoted from?”
That’s such a… non sequitur of a question. What could that possibly even mean? And why do the words make my heart pump, hammering against my chest?
“Before I became CFO,” Chatwood says, “what was my position in the company?”
“I… you’re…” I can’t finish the sentence, I can’t, I’m trembling like a leaf and I don’t even know why, I find myself stumbling, staying upright only by pure effort of will…
“Say it,” Chatwood tells me, impatient and imperious now. “You know the answer. Say it.”
The realisation washes over me like a rolling wave. Like you’re looking at a puzzle upside down, and it’s only when you rotate it that suddenly everything makes sense, and the pieces snap into place. I was looking at this puzzle the wrong way, have been for… how long? Weeks, months?
I look up at him. My boss. The company CFO, smiling at me with his smug, predatory grin. He’s dropped the act, let the concerned company man mask slip… allowing me to see the monster underneath.
“You were a director,” I say, taking a step back, recoiling in slowly dawning horror. “Like me.”
Confused, terrified, scared out of my mind, I find myself trembling like a leaf in the office of Alexander Chatwood, former director, newly-minted CFO, and my personal arch-nemesis.
“You did this to me,” I say, and it’s a broken whisper, because even I can’t believe it, can’t wrap my mind around the idea that it is possible, that he’s actually done it… that I’m under his power.
That it feels so hot.
“Yes I have,” he says, looking for all the world like he’s ridiculously proud of his own achievement. “Took the promotion that always should have been mine. I thought I’d be satisfied with that, but God, Selene… watching you prance around the office, humiliating yourself at every opportunity, destroying your own career… it’s just so entertaining.”
“N-no. No, I, I don’t deserve this!” I stumble over the words, and none I can find can communicate my indignation, my violation, my fear. Or how much I hate my own, slick heat right now, the way my cunt seems to be pulsing every time his eyes meet mine...
Alexander looks flustered, focused, like a predator about to pounce on his prey. “I’ve taken your promotion away, Selene, but I’ll be taking away so... much... more...”
I gasp, bending over at the lancing sexual heat radiating from my crotch. God, the idea is so hot. Why fixate on winning, when losing feels so damn good?
“You can’t d-d-do this to me...” I say through gritted teeth, doing my best to keep it at bay, whatever it is. The programming. His corruption. My arousal. “I’m an executive!”
“Not for long,” he says, steepling his fingers, contemplating my breakdown as I slowly become unwound under his scrutineering male gaze. So analytical, so haughty, so... superior...
“Please...” I say, and I instinctively know it’s the wrong thing to say, it means conceding, admitting defeat, it makes my pussy spasm, but before I know it I’m saying it again, over and over. Please, please, please.
I recognise the subtext. I wonder if he does, too. Please don’t destroy me. Please don’t impose too harsh a set of terms on me. Please be gentle with me. Please don’t vanquish me. Please, grant me release...
I find myself dropping to my knees, breathless, reduced, defeated. Lowered in body, mind and status before this man, who I once called my rival. This feels familiar, and as I crawl beneath his desk, I find myself wondering, how many times have we already done this before? How many times has he reset my memory, just to see me crumble all over again?
How many more times are we going to do this again?
His fingers fumble under the desk, until they finally grip my hair, pulling me in between his legs, where his erect cock is waiting to be serviced. To be worshipped. With one swift, well-trained motion, he impales my mouth on his dick, and sighs in pleasure as my muffled protests hum around his cock.
“That’s it,” he says. “That’s a good secretary-to-be.”
My eyes widen in alarm! Secretary, what does he mean? I have loans to repay, an apartment, a car! I can’t meet any of them on a secretary’s salary! Will I have to thank him for demoting me? Will it be my one lifeline to avoid being fired in disgrace after sexually harassing my colleagues? God, that’s so hot it melts my brain straight into pussy juice...
“No more struggling,” Alexander says, gripping my head with both hands, keeping me firmly in place around his cock. He begins to move my head up and down, using my lips like an improvised fleshlight. Masturbatory aid for his own pleasure.
“That’s it, calm down,” he whispers, as I relax into the facefucking. “Dick in, thoughts out. Dick in, thoughts out...”
And I do calm down. There is peace in acceptance, tranquility in resignation... and arousal, in defeat. I know I’m going to wear his cum on my face, or maybe even swallow it. I know my years of studying and working hard have been thrown to the wind with a snap of his fingers.
He’s taken the ultimate pleasure. Defeating the woman that dared compete with him for a promotion, vanquishing me, reducing me into domesticated compliance.
As the speed of the facefucking increases, and my wet, desperate sounds fill the office, I feel my own thoughts depart faster and faster. His cock is like a battering ram, knocking down my walls, literally and metaphorically. It’s in my mouth, sure, but in a more important sense, it’s literally inside my own head, mindfucking me.
I let the thoughts go. I don’t need them anymore.
By the time his climax is approaching, so little is left of me that I have no spare capacity for horror at what he says next. Only desperate arousal, as I hump the empty air, trying to communicate how badly I want to be fucked.
“You were right,” he says. “This really is like a horror story.”
I moan wordlessly around his dick, like a dutiful secretary should, letting his words wash over me and go straight to my clit.
“And in this story...” he says with a grin as he makes my throat a conquered, compliant socket for his cock...
“The monster wins.”