I drummed my fingers on the sterile reception desk, trying to ignore the cheap flickering of the fluorescent bulb overhead. This waiting room was a mistake. It was too sparse, too cold. It didn’t have the manufactured warmth of my office, the kind that disarmed you before I even opened my mouth. I had interviewed four people already. Four mindless drones with no spark, no potential. One had been too loud, one too stupid, one too ambitious, and the last one had simply smelled like stale cigarettes.

“Emily Sands?” I called out, not bothering to hide the boredom in my voice.

The woman sitting in the far corner stood up. She smoothed her skirt with efficient, practiced motions. Mid-thirties, brown hair pulled back in a severe bun that looked painful, a beige cardigan over a white blouse buttoned all the way to the top. She was painfully average. If you saw her on the street, your eyes would slide right off her. She was the human equivalent of beige wallpaper.

But her eyes… they were sharp. Calculating.

“Doctor Wagstaff,” she said, extending a hand. Her grip was firm, dry. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Come in, Emily.”

We walked back to my office. She sat on the edge of the chair, posture perfect, hands folded in her lap. She didn’t look around the room with the usual curiosity or unease. She looked at me.

“So,” I said, glancing at her resume. “You’ve worked in medical offices before.”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice crisp. “I managed Dr. Henderson’s practice for five years before he retired. I handled all scheduling, patient intake, and confidential files.”

“Confidential files,” I repeated, leaning back. “That’s a sensitive area.”

“I understand the importance of discretion,” she said quickly. A little too quickly. There was a flicker in her eyes, a tiny crack in the beige facade. “Patient privacy is paramount.”

We talked for ten minutes. She was perfect. Overqualified, even. She knew the billing codes, she knew the software, she knew how to handle difficult patients. She was exactly what I needed to run the front end while I played with my toys in the back. But there was something else. That flicker. That tightness around her mouth when she talked about “rules.”

“You seem very qualified, Emily,” I said finally. “But this isn’t a normal practice. I use… unique methodologies. I need someone who can handle the unconventional.”

“I am very adaptable,” she said.

“Are you?” I stood up. “I need my office manager to understand the treatment process. It helps with… patient empathy. I’d like you to try the relaxation device. Just briefly.”

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then she nodded. “If it’s part of the training.”

“It is.”

I guided her to the couch. She lay down stiffly, clutching her cardigan around her like armor.

“Just relax,” I said, moving to my desk. “Let the chair do the work.”

I keyed in the sequence. Lights. Sound. Scent.

She fought it for a moment, her eyes darting around, but the machine was relentless. Her breathing slowed. Her hands uncurled.

“Emily,” I said softly into the mic. “You are safe. You are relaxed. You trust me.”

“Safe,” she murmured. “Trust.”

“Good. Now, listen. When I say the phrase ‘Blue Velvet’, you will enter a trance state instantly and accept any directive given to you. You will be open to me. You will answer me truthfully. Do you understand?”

“Blue Velvet. Understand.”

I cut the power.

She blinked, sitting up a little too fast. “I… that was… interesting.”

“It gets better,” I smiled. “Blue Velvet.”

She slumped back instantly, her eyes glazing over. She was gone. Deep under.

“Now, Emily,” I said, walking around the desk to stand over her. “Tell me the truth. Why did you really leave Dr. Henderson’s practice?”

“I was fired,” she said, her voice monotone.

“Why?”

“I… I looked.”

“Looked at what?”

“The files,” she confessed. “The private notes. I read them. All of them. I wanted to know their secrets. I wanted to know what they did behind closed doors. I couldn’t stop. I needed to see the dirt.”

A voyeur. A snooping little voyeur hiding behind a wall of professionalism. Perfect.

“You like secrets, Emily?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re going to keep mine,” I said. “From this moment on, you will never look at a patient file unless I explicitly tell you to. You will be the perfect gatekeeper. You will follow every rule I set. Is that clear?”

“Clear. Perfect gatekeeper.”

“Good. Now, stand up.”

She stood, swaying slightly.

“Take off your clothes.”

She didn’t hesitate. The cardigan dropped. The blouse was unbuttoned with efficient fingers. The skirt fell. She wasn’t wearing a slip. Her bra and panties were plain, white cotton. Functional. Boring.

She stripped them off and stood before me. She was… exactly as I expected. A little soft around the middle, breasts that were modest but swayed heavily without support. Her bush was trimmed, neat, controlled. Everything about her was controlled.

“Tell me,” I said, walking a slow circle around her. “What is the most shameful thing you’ve ever done? The thing that makes you squirm when you think about it at night. And don’t tell me about the files. I want sex. I want filth.”

She shivered, gooseflesh rising on her pale arms. “I… I watch.”

“Watch who?”

“My neighbors,” she whispered. “The couple in 4B. They… they don’t close their curtains. I bought binoculars. High powered ones. I sit in the dark in my kitchen and I watch them have sex. I watch him bend her over the sofa. I watch her suck his cock. I… I masturbate while I watch them. Sometimes… sometimes I record it.”

“You record them?”

“Yes. I have hours of it. I bought a high definition camera that I mounted to capture the window at all times. I watch it at work in the bathroom. I get off on knowing they don’t know I’m there. I get off on stealing their intimacy.”

“Show me,” I commanded. “Show me how you touch yourself when you watch them.”

She reached down. Her hand cupped her sex, her fingers diving into her neat little bush. She began to rub her clit, her eyes staring blankly ahead, seeing not me, but her neighbors in 4B.

“Faster,” I ordered. “Imagine I’m him. Imagine I’m the one you’re stealing from.”

She picked up the pace, her hips beginning to rock. Her breathing hitched. She was getting wet; I could hear the slick sound of her fingers against her vulva.

I stepped closer. I unzipped my pants and pulled myself out. I was hard. The sight of this plain, boring woman debasing herself, revealing her creeping, voyeuristic nature, was incredibly hot.

“That’s it,” I murmured. “Be a dirty little spy.”

I stroked myself, watching her face. Her glasses were slipping down her nose. Her mouth was open in a silent moan.

“I’m close,” she gasped. “I’m close.”

“Cum,” I said. “Cum for me now.”

She shuddered, her knees buckling slightly as she climaxed. She let out a sharp, high-pitched whine.

I stepped right up to her. I grabbed her chin, forcing her head back.

“Open your eyes,” I commanded.

Her eyes snapped open, wide and dazed behind her lenses.

I didn’t wait. I stroked my cock hard, once, twice, the friction sending me over the edge. I groaned, my hips snapping forward as I erupted. The first rope of hot, pearlescent cum shot out with violent force, hitting her dead center in the face. It splashed against her glasses, instantly coating the lenses in a thick, opaque layer of slime. I pumped again and again, painting her. Heavy globs of jizz landed on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. It dripped from her frames, running in rivets down her pale skin, pooling in the corners of her mouth. I covered her in my dicksnot, effectively blinding her behind her glasses.

She froze, blinking through the mess.

“Perfect,” I said, panting. “Now you can’t see anything. Now you’re blind to everything but what I want you to see.”

I grabbed a tissue from my desk and wiped my cock.

“Go to the bathroom,” I said, pointing to the hidden door behind the bookcase. “Clean yourself up. Put your clothes back on. Be perfect.”

She nodded mechanically and walked, naked and covered in my seed, toward the bathroom.

When she came back, she was immaculate. Hair smoothed, clothes buttoned, glasses shining.

“Sit down,” I said.

She sat.

“You will remember nothing of the last twenty minutes,” I programmed. “You will remember that we had a pleasant conversation about office management. You will remember that I offered you the job. You will remember that you are excited to work for such a brilliant man.”

“Yes,” she said. “Excited. Brilliant.”

“Wake up.”

She blinked, shaking her head slightly as if clearing a fog. She smiled at me, a polite, professional smile.

“So, Dr. Wagstaff,” she said, her voice steady. “When do I start?”

“Monday, Emily,” I smiled back. “Welcome to the team.”