Mary sat in the high-backed leather chair, her fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the mahogany surface. She leaned over the open folders, her brow furrowed as she scanned the scrawled handwriting of Dr. Wagstaff. She was looking for the specific architecture of his work, trying to separate the permanent neural pathways carved by the apparatus from the temporary hypnotic trances induced by the trigger phrases.

The folders were a chaotic disaster. Wagstaff had recorded data with the frantic energy of a man obsessed with results but indifferent to documentation. The notes for Petra were scattered across three different files, and the records for her mother were largely illegible, punctuated by crude sketches of breasts and anatomical diagrams. Mary threw up her hands in frustration, the heavy paper fluttering back onto the desk. The man was a brilliant engineer, but a sloppy researcher.

A series of rhythmic, heavy thuds echoed from the hidden bathroom, the bookshelf door resting slightly ajar. Mary looked toward the sound and smiled. Through the gap, she could see the shifting shadows of Marcus and Amy. Marcus was using the smaller woman with a relentless, animalistic force, and Amy was meeting every impact with a high-pitched whine of total devotion. Even with a lot of the hypnotic commands revoked, Amy had fully accepted her role as fuckmeat, and Marcus was more than happy to help them out with that. Mary felt a prickle of arousal watching the way Amy’s body bucked under the weight of the larger man. She planned to join them as soon as she cleared the desk, but first, she had work to do.

On the floor beside the couch, Emily was on her hands and knees. She was wearing her usual professional blouse, but her skirt was hiked up to her waist, and her hair was starting to come loose from its bun. She worked a sponge soaked in industrial cleaner into the grain of the dark leather, trying to remove the stains from the previous day. The chemical scent of the cleaner fought with the lingering musk of the office.

“Mary, do I really have to do this?” Emily asked, pausing to wipe sweat from her forehead with her arm. “Now that there’s no salary and the doctor is gone, it feels... unnecessary. I’ve been scrubbing for an hour.”

Mary looked over the papers she was reading over, her expression flat and uncompromising. “The agreement was very clear, Emily. You agreed to be a slave for a week in exchange for us not reporting your voyeurism and complicity to the board. This is part of the work. Scrub the couch.”

Emily’s shoulders slumped, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Yes, Mistress,” she whispered. She squeezed the sponge and went back to the task, her movements mechanical and submissive.

A moment later, Emily reached deep into the crevice between the seat cushions and the frame. She let out a soft, surprised gasp as her fingers touched something slick and cold. When she pulled her hand back, her palm and fingers were coated in a thick, pearlescent stream of cold cum that had somehow pooled between the leather cushions. She stared at the viscous mess on her hand in revulsion before pausing a beat then licking her fingers clean.

“Gross,” Mary said before shifting back to the papers in front of her. She was trying to figure out a way to deprogram her mother without bringing her into the office where Angela was programed to basically fuck anything including the furniture.

A muffled voice drifted in from the lobby. “Hello? Is anyone there? Doctor Wagstaff?”

Mary snapped her head toward the bathroom door. “Marcus! Amy! Close the door and quiet down right now!”

The thudding stopped instantly. Marcus pulled the bookshelf shut with a quiet click, silencing Amy’s whimpers. Emily adjusted her skirt to make it more presentable. Mary smoothed her top and composed her face as the main office door swung open.

Petra Norcova stepped into the room. She looked terrible. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, her dark hair was a tangled mess, and she was clutching her purse so tightly her knuckles were white. She took a step toward the center of the room, her gaze darting around frantically as if she were looking for a specific shape. The “Lava Surfing” trigger had clearly left her in a state of permanent, agonizing fixation.

Mary let out a slow sigh and leaned back in the chair.

“Hello, Ms. Norcova,” Mary said, her voice calm and clinical. “I think the doctor has gotten you addicted to cocks. Let us see if we can fix that.”

—Fin