The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Martin frowned at the notebook in his hands. It had been pressed onto him by a stranger who had a weird, “chaotic divinity spreading discord among mortals for the lols” kind of vibe. Eyepatch, raven, crossdressing—which would suggest Loki but crossdressing here meant a Japanese sailor fuku which seemed like a different kind of wheelhouse? It had an inside cover explaining a few key rules. He’d skimmed over them and only bothered learning a few.

1. The Rulebook can apply to only one organization at a time.
2. The Rulebook’s rules do not apply to an organization if its owner is not a member.
3. A rule written in this book becomes law within the bounds of the organization.
4. “The organization” refers to whatever organization’s name is written across the dotted line on the next page.
5. The notebook’s owner is the living human that wrote their name across the solid line on the next page.

He had written his name on the next page, naturally. After a moment’s consideration he decided to also write the name of the studio he was applying to in about an hour: Glass Ceiling Games. He felt a strange wave of...pressure, he supposed?...roll over and through his mind after he finished writing each name. The first time gave him pause but he wrote it off as nerves. The second time made him think it might be legit. He read the next three rules.

6. A rule written in The Rulebook with the preface “New Rule” or “Old Rule” becomes a New Rule or Old Rule respectively.

Wow, how helpful.

7. of the organization consider Old Rules to be longrunning, unspoken standards akin to a taboo on public nudity or unprovoked violence. They are not nessecarily fully aware but will follow as close as they can. The specifics may vary with the owner’s subconscious desire.
8. New Rules are more assertive rules that take effect as soon as they are written. of the organization may be fully aware that a new rule exists but are magically forced to accept and obey. The specifics may vary with the owner’s subconscious desire.

Martin rolled his eyes. Whoever made this thing clearly had some kind of weird fetish for bereaucracy. He held it under his arm and kept walking.

Martin smiled slightly as he opened the Rulebook where the interviewer couldn’t see it past her desk. He wanted to test the Rulebook, and the interview wasn’t going great, so he decided to swing wide. He just hoped that being an interviewee counted as a sort of temporary hip.

“What am I going to be paid?”

“This is for an internship, and unfortunately an unpaid one,” the interviewer answered. Martin hesitated briefly and then took the leap.

His pen danced nimbly and traced out, in somewhat more scribbly script than his usual, “New Rule: male interns are paid double the female artist’s salary.” The interviewer froze, her face scrunching up. She knew suddenly that while all interns at Glass Ceiling Games were unpaid, male unpaid interns recieved a salary double that of a female artist or programmer. She tried to logic out how that sentence worked—Martin could see the struggle playing out on her face—but the staggering truth of the rule proved more powerful than common sense.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Martin,” she gasped out, clearly afraid to explain this to the budgeting women later. “New policy. While you will be an unpaid intern, you’ll also recieve a salary. Double that of a female artist, specifically. Is that agreeable?”

Of course it was. Even if the internship required actual grueling labor, which Martin knew it wouldn’t, that was a great deal. He tried not to let the interviewer see him giggle. His legs kicked the air giddily under the table.

“That sounds lovely,” he said. “What will my duties be?” The interviewer began rattling off a bunch of the usual internship stuff: coffee, errands, that sort of thing. His adorable femboy besty—possibly a trans girl but he didn’t push—would go on a rant about the stupidity and illegitamacy of internships if they were there. Alas, they were not. It was too bad Martin’s book could only infect the rules at one organization at a time or he’d set them up with a cushy job getting spoiled by milfs at a cosmetics company or something.

“And of course you’ll be in charge of refilling the printers’ ink and paper, helping move stuff...” the interviewer kept prattling on. No point. Martin added to the book.

“Old rule: while giving a job interview, females must maintain a sweet smile, a cute high pitched voice, and bubbly cadence. If she fails to do so she must offer her breasts for oggling, or she can be sued.”

The interviewer froze. Martin could feel her getting goosebumps as she realized the depths of her failure as an interviewer. She looked down at her chest as her lips pulled manually into a tense, artificial smile. She looked into Martin’s eyes apologetically.

“No idea what came over me, haha,” she apologized in a high pitched voice that kinda sounded how bubblegum feels to chew. “I’m so terribly sorry for being such a rude, unprofessional interviewer. Here, please accept this apology on behalf of the company.” She swiftly and skillfully undid a few buttons of her tasteful black suit and, with careful movements, pulled out her boobs. They were big and reasonably tasty, but she wore a dull beige bra that fell miles short of the bright red dessert Martin had been imagining in his head. Still, he’d never gotten to see a woman like this before, so he stared and drooled.

“Ohh, apology accepteeed~” he giggled, blissed out. The interviewer giggled back, completely unphased by his lewd stare. Perhaps she actually did mind, and was simply professional enough not to let it show in front of a potential new hire?

“I’m glad. Please, stare at my pretty tiddies to your heart’s content,” the interviewer replied in the exact same corpo script-reading voice she’d used earlier when thanking him for coming. The mental image of her sitting in front of a training video and being taught to flaunt her breasts in apology as soon as she let her happy friendly act slip in front of a man pleased Martin considerably. “I did this to myself by using such an unprofessional, low-pitched voice for so much of the interview. We at Glass Ceiling Games value our male family and would never wrong them by giving less than 110% of our feminine charm.” Martin felt curious whether that corpo-speak line was something the interviewer thought of on the spot or if the old rule had implanted false memories in her. It didn’t rewrite reality retroactively, or she’d have been smiley the whole interview.

Martin bit down the urge to call the interviewer a good girl and just contentedly drooled over her breasts while she talked. The woman finished outlining his duties and flashed him a soft grin, arms folded neatly on the table. Martin had heard...maybe 15% of what she’d explained, and retained even less of it.

“Understood. My job is to supervise the female artists and keep their character design in line.”

“What?” The interviewer asked, the artificial fizz and sweetness of her voice almost faltering. “No, not at all. Was that supposed to be funny?” Watching the diplomacy gears turn in her head as she struggled to find ways to object without further breaking decorum was fun. She clearly wanted to stop smiling and say much worse, but she was a professional who’d never raise her voice or stop smiling while interviewing a male.

“No,” Martin said with a cocky grin.

“Then I’m afraid we might not be able to justify hiring you,” the interviewer said as she stood. She turned towards the door.

Fuck! If the interview ended he’d stop being part of the company. Would the rulebook stop working? If she came to with her tits out and ed what he did-

Feeling panicked, he hurriedly started jotting something down. The interviewer’s long legs carried her swiftly towards the door on long strides that ended with a strong click from her heels. His handwriting devolved into messier and messier scrawl as he rushed it out like doing homework as it was collected. She reached for the doorknob...and froze.

“New rule: only interviewees end interviews.”

Martin froze in a cold sweat, staring nervously at her back. The rule had poor grammar, did it still count? Fuck, making it a new rule was crazy suspicious...

“It seems we’re done for. I’d like for you to please conclude the interview,” the interviewer requested, still standing in front of the door. Her arm, which was previously outstretched towards the knob, hung limp at her side. Martin breathed a sigh of relief.

“We’re not done, maam. Take a seat,” he said experimentally. There was now very little realistic danger to him—if she couldn’t end the interview then her only way out was...maybe violence? That seemed unlikely. She didn’t know about the rulebook so he held all the cards.

“Yes, Martin,” the interviewer replied after a tastefully brief silence. She turned. Her nose flared ever so slightly with a deep inhaling breath as she walked back towards Martin and took a seat. “Although I see no reason to continue this interview. You’re not getting the job, why bother sitting here wasting your time?”

Wasting your time. Wasting Martin’s time. He liked that. Interviews were her job so presumably this WASN’T wasting her time unless and until it ran past the appointed length, but hearing her say it still implied his was more valuable. It was his time she saw fit to mention after all, not hers.

“My duties as a male intern,” Martin said, writing.

“What are you taking notes on?” Asked the interviewer, looking at the notebook. His stomach churned.

“Notes! On the interview,” Martin said. “My expected duties, you know, as a male intern.”

“Oh really?” She asked, looking unimpressed. The woman stood up. “Because from here it looks like—”

Rule finished. The interviewer shivered as the book’s strange magic reached into her head and made her reality conform to it.

“Old Rule: Blonde interviewers are submissive and agreeable.”

The interviewer glanced at the spot on her shoulder where her thick blonde ponytail sat in a tight braid. Sure enough, her mind raced as she realized that, as a female conducting a job interview with blonde hair, she was inherently submissive and agreeable.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s not your duties,” the interviewer forced out in a soft pretty voice. The effort it took to voice opposition against a male interviewee took a visible strain on her face but it couldn’t make her smile falter. “That says that blonde interviewers are submissive.”

“Well it’s true, isn’t it?” Martin giggled up at her with a cocksure grin.

“Yes, obviously, everyone knows that blonde women become submissive and agreeable while giving interviews~” the interviewer trilled back at him with zero resistance. “That doesn’t mean you can just lie to my face and expect—”

“You seem awfully tense,” Martin said gently.

He sought to test the waters. Sure enough she went silent as soon as he spoke and gave him her full attention, arms politely down in front of her. She was listening, not fighting. Good.

“You’ll feel better if you take a seat and a deep breath,” Martin instructed her. She nodded gently and complied, taking a seat back in the interviewer’s chair. Her obligation always to give him at least a little smile made it difficult to tell whether she actually felt better like he said she would, but that wasn’t really the point. “In, out. Nice and slow. Nice and relaxing. Count to three for me,” he said, curious how far he could push her just because she was now “submissive and agreeable.”

“Yes, okay,” she almost chittered, closing her eyes and inhaling through her nose. “One...” she breathed out. Her posture relaxed and her smile seemed less forced. “Two...” another deep breath. Martin smiled at her. Compliant women were so cute. “Three...” she exhaled and opened her eyes. “Thank you. I feel much better now.”

“Because you obeyed me?” Martin asked. She blushed.

“I...suppose so. I’m a blonde giving an interview, after all. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me, hehe,” she joked, her face turning even redder.

“Good, good. Tell me your name?” Martin asked, trying to perserve momentum. He already knew her name was Rosette. He wanted to see whether she’d onish him for “forgetting.”

“My name is Rosette. You said it was beautiful earlier...” the interviewer said, shyly twirling her ponytail with a finger.

Awww. Martin quite liked this side of her.

“I think I’d like to call you Blondie. Is that okay?” Martin asked sweetly.

He was pushing his luck again but he didn’t think he was likely to face much consequence even if it went wrong. The interviewer seemed to struggle a little bit—likely trying to make herself say no. Martin wondered what she might be thinking.

“Well, I...I suppose that’s acceptable,” Rosette stammered. “No reason to um...be rude. And stop you from calling me Blondie. I guess you l-like my hair?” She asked, twirling her ponytail more frenetically.

“Of course. I love blondes, who doesn’t?” Martin giggled. He’d never understood guys who didn’t like blonde girls. Truly baffling.

“B-because we’re submissive and agreeable?” Rosette asked, blushing even harder. Her face fell, but less like it was weighed down by shame and more as though it were trying to retract into her body like a turtle.

“Only giving interviews,” Martin said with an eyebrow lifted smugly. “Unless you’re actually submissive and agreeable all the time? That’s rather commendable.”

“I-I um, what?” Stammered Rosette, blushing even harder. It seemed clear she’d completely forgotten how bad Martin botched the interview, and that pleased him greatly.

“What, never had your submissiveness used as a compliment?” Martin teased. The interviewer turned tomato-red and buried her face in her hands out of sheer embarassment, letting out a stifled squeal of confused joy. Martin noticed with great pleasure she kept her mouth uncovered to make sure he saw her maintain the smile. Such a good girl.

“If you’re going to hide your face I think I need a closer look, Blondie,” Martin chuckled. He closed the rulebook and put it down, then stood and walked around the table. Stifled sounds of flusterment scattered forth from her as he walked slowly up to her seat and swiveled it to face him.

God, she had gorgeous legs. Too bad that ugly business skirt kept so much of them hidden. He licked his lips and pressed his palms meatily against her thighs.

“Eep—!” Rosette squeaked. Her hands flew from her face in shock, revealing her beautiful green eyes. They were pinpricks at the moment, staring down at him completely overwhelmed. He smiled up at her, his hands savoring the smooth texture of her warm, fleshy thighs. The thin pantyhose over them ruined the texture, though.

“I’m just getting a closer look at your beautiful face, Blondie,” he purred.

“Th-this is—you can’t—!” Rosette mewled, her eyes darting to the door repeatedly. He laughed it off as he slid his palms up and down her thighs. They wriggled and trembled with nervousness and surprise rather than fear.

“Yes I can Blondie,” Martin reassured her. “You’re submissive, after all. And agreeable.“

“Yes,” Rosette squeaked even higher, hands clutched awkwardly against herself in a pose not unlike that of a begging dog. Her eyes stayed glued to the door. “But, someone could walk in...!”

“Nobody cares,” Martin laughed. “They wouldn’t give a blonde the interview if they didn’t want her submitting.” This extracted a bizarre and somewhat pained sound from Rosette as her mind tried to reason out what he just said. The cogs of her brain turned.

“That’s not-always true—!” She protested, thighs quaking as he caressed them. Martin tried pushing her thighs apart. They squeezed briefly in a show of token resistance before cooperatively allowing him to spread them as far as her modest skirt would allow. It wasn’t much. “Hey!”

“Well, why else would they have you do it?” He asked. His curiosity was genuine and it showed in his voice.

“Well, because I-I’m the manager here today—!” Rosette defended herself. He squeezed and kneaded at her thighs, delighted by her awkward trembling. Her hands pressed together awkwardly as she swung her head side to side trying not to moan.

“Blondie, moan for me.”

“What!? No, I can’t do that—!”

“Why?” He teased, pushing closer. He put his head inches from her exposed, beautiful breasts. They looked positively heavenly up close. He salivated imagining all the wonderfully lewd things he would make this beautiful lady do to please him once he was here all the time. She tried to lean away but the design of her swivel chair didn’t allow it. Next she put her hands—soft, long, delicate—on his shoulders. He didn’t much mind. She pushed a little, but not enough to deter him.

“You have such lovely breasts, Blondie. Do your daughter’s classmates ever get jealous?” He asked, pushing a boundary by asking about the college sophomore Rosette mentioned earlier. This was a biiig one, and he knew it. He wanted to see if the rules had limits, and if not, just how far he could milk her new status as “submissive and agreeable.”

On her end, she seemed to physically shrink away from him, smile kept intact. Even now she refused to fail her employers by letting an interviewee see her without a smile lighting up her face. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t fight it either. He decided to press her.

“Surely SOMEONE in their class has seen these melons and wished they were as deliciously stacked as you are,” he teased as he watched her for a response. She let out a high-pitched, warbling trill that lasted a whole three seconds, and writhed in horny embarassment from start to finish.

“I don’t—you shouldn’t ASK that!” She forced out, pressed tight against the back of her chair.

“Well, I did ask. And you’re interviewing me right now, so that means your brain is feeling niiiice and agreeable,” he said as he oggled the big boobs inches from his face. “Isn’t that right, Blondie?”

“W-well yeah, of course my brain feels nice and agreeable,” Rosette answered in her least naturally bubbly tone yet, “that doesn’t mean you can just—”

“But you’d love to answer, wouldn’t you Blondie?” Marin cut her off with a smile, climbing up into the chair with her. He straddled her lap. She lifted her arms to try and gently push him away but he clasped her fragile little wrists in his hands and her arms instantly went limp. “So pretty. So submissive.”

“And agreeable!” Rosette pouted adorably.

“That’s right, good girl,” Martin crooned as he pulled her arms by her wrists. Rosette ively allowed him to manipulate her arms, drawing them around his waist. At his instruction as he let go, she opted out of using her arms the way she’d intended and instead placed her splayed hands on the small of his back, holding him.

“You can’t move your hands off me without permission okay Blondie, ok?”

“Wha—”

“Sssshh shh shhhh,” he shushed her like a mother disciplining her child. He put one finger against her pretty lips and his heart fluttered at the way it made her melt and smile even wider. “Just obey,” he ordered her experimentally.

“Just...okay...” she whispered weakly, her eyes wide and full of weakness. Her arms squeezed him just a bit closer.

“So,” Martin started. He sensually glided his fingertip all around the sexy contour of her plush lips. She shivered in delight, her breasts trembling. “Tell me. Have those tits ever made any of your daughter’s classmates jealous?”

“N...no. Well, some of—some of the girls. Wished for breasts like mine, I guess...”

“Mmmm. I can see why. I’m a boy and looking at your tatas is making ME jelly~” Martin giggled, staring at her bosom.

“Why thank you!” She giggled, her blush abaiting slightly. The laughter made her boobs jiggle in place a tiny bit, which Martin adored. He stuffed his face in her jugs and started motorboating her, which made the interviewer squirm and squeal helplessly. Her tits were warm and squishy and felt wonderful wrapping and pressing around his face.

“Deliciousss!” He squealed, planting his lips on her boobs over and over in a flurry of adoring, heavy kisses. Each time his lips left her tit with a wet “POP,” the interviewer let out a sharp groan. His kisses escalated in their intensity as he sucked and slurped at her big milky mounds harder and harder.

“Hhck! Mar-Martin! Aaagh!” Rosette attempted to protest as her face turned so vibrantly red it almost started glowing.

“Yes Blondie?” He asked. She opened her mouth to protest but he silenced her with a finger again. She went cross-eyed trying to stare at the fingertip so gently resting on her pretty lips. “No, Blondie. No fighting. You are SUBMISSIVE and AGREEABLE. Nod your head yes.” Submissively, agreeably, she nodded her head yes. “Now kiss my finger and tell me what you are.”

Rosette kissed his fingertip ever so lightly.

“I’m s-submissive and agreeable, S-Sir,” she squeaked out, still cross-eyed. He began to grope her through her plush bra with his other hand, which made her wriggle and squirm—but her mouth stayed shut, submitting to his fingertip.

“That’s a good girl, isn’t it Blondie?”

“Ye—”

“No no no, shhh shhh,” he crooned maternally over her, patting her cheek sharply twice as a minor punishment. “You are submissive and agreeable. I don’t want you to talk, so you need to be a good interviewer and let me be in charge, okay? That means you speak only with permission.” Normally, being ordered by a teenage boy to speak only with his permission would make Rosette furious.

She’d throw him out, burn his application, try to press harassment charges. But she was a blonde, which meant that giving interviews made her submissive and agreeable. Everyone knew that. So of course, being submissive and agreeable, she was much less bothered. He was simply taking charge. As a boy being interviewed by a blonde, it made perfect sense for him to be in charge. She’d acted out of line—she’d forgotten about the salary allotted to male unpaid interns, used an unprofessionally serious voice, tried to tell him no, and even made for the exit wile the interview was still ongoing. Obviously he was going to take control away from her.

So when he let her know she needed permission to speak, she didn’t argue or make a fuss. She nodded her pretty head yes and continued staring cross-eyed as close as she could to his angelically pretty finger.

He gently pried her lips open with his pointer finger. She limply allowed it. He giggled.

“Now, I’m going to grope you. You are going to moan shamelessly like a nice beautiful whore, aren’t you Blondie?”

She nodded her head yes. Stayed silent. She would not speak unless he told her to, because she was a good agreeable interviewer who knew to submit. His finger glided sensually across her bottom lip and down her chin, leaving her smiling stupidly. Her eyes refocused-

“Keep those eyes crossed, Blondie. Cuter that way.” She nodded silently and lazily crossed her eyes again. She seemed happy to hear something made her cuter. Good. “Good girl.” He palmed both cups of her bra. She hissed a sharp breath in through her teeth but stayed put. He experimentally kneaded at her breasts. She shuddered and let out a nice shaky little groan.

Martin smirked. Having this power over a woman felt intoxicating. He couldn’t imagine a single person who could possibly get a taste of this and ever go back to life without it. Her big heavy boobs felt amazing in his hands. He pressed and squeezed. She threw her head back, body quivering.

“Good girl.” He groped a bit more aggressively, squeezing her bra harder. She moaned and her legs wriggled side to side.

“I will have complete veto power over all female art staff,” he says, getting back to the interview. “As a male intern, it is my duty to ensure their silly female minds do not corrupt our final product.” It was an insane sentence, an utterly repugnant one. He deserved to be slapped for it.

But Blondie didn’t think so. In the midst of her submissive bliss, she nodded happily and agreed with the dominant boy no matter what he said. If the company didn’t want this to happen they’d have given the interview to a brunette or a redhead. She was just being everything a good blonde interviewer was: submissive and agreeable. If he told her he was in charge of ordering female staff to piss their panties, she’d agree. If he told her that he was to be given the full name, adress, and schedule of every female who filed a sexual harassment complaint, she would agree. Of course she would.

But she’d never say yes, obviously. She didn’t have permission to say yes.

“I can make any suggestion I want. If I say a character needs to show more panty, the change gets made. If I say a woman looks too capable and threatening, they give her a rounder face and bigger eyes. That’s my job.” She nodded with a big, loopy smile. Of course it was his job. She loved giving him his dream job. He bounced her boobs, warranting another loud moan.

“I will have no responsibility to obey or provide for my senior coworkers, will I?” He asked, checking if she’d signal yes. When she shook her head side to side no instead, he smiled.

“Good girl. Now moan LOUDER.” He groped her. Being submissive and agreeable, Blondie threw her head back and moaned loud enough to be heard down the hall. He leaned in and slid his tongue into her mouth. The two danced with each other’s tongues, Blondie groaning loud and clear as she gripped him closer and tighter.

“Frowned again~?” Rosette giggled as her coworker Dianne walked in. Dianne had her modest B cups out, her bra plain and uninspiring just like her bust. Dianne rolled her eyes.

“Oh shut it, Rosette~ Ugh. It’s bad enough women had to do this for job interviews, but ANY time we’re on the clock and stop smiling!?”

“Careful, tehehe~” Rosette tittered professionally in a flirty high schooler kind of voice. “You don’t wanna get sued, you know! Gotta look happy and cute. We’re females, it’s only natural we be held to such a standard!”

“Yeah,” said a recent hire. He was fresh out of high school and kind of cute. He stared smugly at Dianne’s breasts. “You know you can have the company pay for breast implants, right? You’d probably have an easier time smiling with bigger airbags.”

“Oh—” Dianne started before catching herself mid-frown. Her mouth slowly twitched back into a small, fake smile. She couldn’t let a male see her frowning or she’d absolutely get taken to court. “You really think so, hehe?” She fake-laughed, not convincing anyone.

“Yes, obviously you’d be happier!” Rosette cut in. “Small breasts are a leading cause of depression and stimulate the parts of the mind responsible for fear and aggression. A less progressive company wouldn’t let you do this to yourself!”

“Do WHAT, not get tiddy implants?” Dianne asked, her voice steering dangerously close to lawsuit territory.

“Yes,” the young man answered. “It’s basically self harm, you know? You’re hurting yourself by choosing to live like that.”

“Fuc-er, ehem! That’s like, just what you think!” Dianne said to her annoying male coworker. She rolled her eyes but kept up the smile. “Anyway, I—”

She paused. She had no way of knowing this, but a rule had just been added to the rulebook. It appeared instantly in her mind, fresh and obvious and impossible to oppose.

“New Rule: all female employees share a company onlyfans which pays 100% of its profits straight to the company. Each shift she must contribute three selfies or more.”

“We need to start an onlyfans,” Dianne said, her pinprick eyes confused but deadset she was right.

“We absolutely must,” said Rosette. “Here, come to the bathroom. Let’s take our daily selfies together and then I’ll get the marketing team to set up the .”

“That sounds great,” Dianne responded. Rosette gently clasped a hand around Dianne’s and led her towards the bathroom at a hurried pace, practically dragging the stunned B-cup-having girl along behind her.

“Cheeeese!” Aria squeaked, grinning wide as she pulled down her top and took a lewd overhead photograph of her breasts. She put down her phone and got back to work. In front of her was a 3D model of the protagonist from the game they were working on.

She found Martin’s input particularly annoying. No matter how many times she showed her work, he saw something wrong with it.

“Her titties are too small,” he might say, “that hairdo is too functional and not cute enough.” Typical male obsession with making sure every female character was hot and always in a way pandering to specifically him.

She sighed and put a hand to her neck. The leather dog collar that she and all other female artists wore felt steadfast and reassuring around her neck.

“I’m a silly bitchy bimbo,” she said to herself under her breath. “I’m a silly bitchy bimbo.” Whenever she felt stressed she would rub her collar and repeat those words to herself until she felt better. It was very soothing. “I’m a silly bitchy bimbo.” Now calm, she returned her hand to the keyboard. “Shorter skirt, more exposed bra. Longer hair. Got it.” She meticulously edired the model like an adjustable doll. Watching the model’s skirt receed to expose even more leg, and even a bit of panty, left Aria drooling. She didn’t want to it it but her lesbian ass did kinda prefer the characters she made with the new boy’s guidance—not that she’d ever it it.

“Arch your back more,” he ordered her calmly. She rolled her eyes and arched her back in her seat. He wrote something down. “Lean farther forward.” She rolled her eyes again but obediently leaned in closer. Having to stand stooped at her desk practically bowing all shift was bad but the fact he insisted she arch her back seductively the whole time pissed her off. She still did it, of course. As a female artist she had to obey a male intern’s every command whether she liked it or not. She signed up for the job. No use complaining.

“Yes, sweetheart,” she said on autopilot as she worked on the model. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly had to call him sweetheart but she did. No use trying to question it if she wanted to keep her job.

“Boobs bigger.”

“Again?” She asked, rolling her eyes and dropping her smile (only briefly). She clicked on the breasts and began manipulating values to expand them. Martin made some kind of horny humming noise in approval and began petting her. She wished that was a reportable offense.

“Big enough?” She asked.

“Hmmm...no. Make them even bigger, beautiful.” His hand alternated between gently patting her head and sensually stroking her hair. She huffed in annoyance and made the character’s breasts even bigger, now firmly in the territory of being inconvenient to live with.

“Sweetheart, this is supposed to be—”

“Do busty babes not need representation?” Asked Martin smugly. God, he was insufferable.

“Yes, but—”

He grabbed her breast. Her mind went completely blank. No thoughts or words existed in her head. She stared unmoving into the screen.

“Small breasts are misogynist,” he told her while groping her.

“Yes, Sweetheart. Small breasts are misogynist.” She agreed completely. Breasts were womanhood, so anything that depicted smaller breasted women as equal or important inherently rejected the value of women.

“You would never fight to make your art less boobyful.”

“Yes, Sweetheart. I would never fight to make my art less boobyful.” It made perfect sense. As an uncompromising feminist she obviously couldn’t afford to put less boobyful art into the world, especially by choice. The games industry was too misogynist not to inject all the boobyful ladies into it that she could. Martin let go of her breast. She blinked, staring at the model in front of her. Her breasts were gloriously, feministly big. Aria relaxed, comfortable.

“Thank you for correcting me, sweetheart,” she said with a blank smile. She couldn’t why she had been doing something as repugnantly conservative as fighting to give a character smaller boobs. As a proud feminist artist she couldn’t imagine ever compromising on making all of her female characters incredibly busty. It was so important to represent beautiful women with big boobs. In the misogynist gaming industry, one had to fight tooth and nail for women at every step, and that meant representing them unfailingly as beautifully busty with big bouncy boobs.

“You’re welcome, Aria. May I slap your butt?”

“No.”

Martin slapped her butt. She squeaked in fright but did nothing more to protest. She just kept her back arched attractively as she made changes to the model, shortening the skirt and editing the top to cover less. His hand rested on her plush pantied butt, and as much as she disliked it she knew better than to show it. His other hand tangled in her hair, where one thumb gently stroked her scalp.

“You’re treating me like a dog, haha,” Aria pointed out. It was a complaint, of course, but a dogwhistle of one. Maybe she LIKED that he treated her like a dog. Her smile and her giggling helped sell the double entendre even if they muddied her actual intent.

“I guess I am, yeah,” Martin said back, drooling over the model like a shameless pervert. She really wanted to tell him off but he was doing nothing wrong. If she tried, she’d rightly be scoffed at for it.

“Make the bra sexier,” he ordered. She huffed.

“It’s barely visible! We have other better shit to do!”

“I’m a male intern, ?” Martin scolded her, comfortingly caressing her scalp and panties. “Stop being so uncooperative and let me do my job.” She felt ashamed of her unreasonable outburst. He was only doing his duties as a male intern. Her irrational hostility harmed the company and the bottom line.

“Yes, sweetheart.” Aria obediantly made some edits to the bra—replacing the texture to make it a thin piece of lace lingerie, mostly. She could feel him rubbing her hair and panties as she worked. She had no doubt she’d work better if he didn’t, but it was hardly her place to criticize him.

“You’re a beautifully stupid bimbo,” Martin said, stroking her hair. She flinched but made sure that the smile she saw reflected in her screen didn’t. She couldn’t afford a lawsuit.

“...” no verbal response. She just typed away and finished the changes. “There. Any suggestions?”

“She looks lovely. Thank you for your submission.”

“You mean cooperation, right sweetheart?” Aria asked, wiggling her hips sweetly to try and appeal to him. Instead he just disentangled his fingers from her hair and walked away.

Ugh. Males. She rolled her eyes and began saving and exporting the files. She tried not to think about the sexist, practically flat chested version of this character that she almost submitted. She restraightened her back and stretched. She hadn’t even started her actual duties for the day because of that intern. She tried not to look at the clock.

“I’m a silly, bitchy bimbo,” she said to herself as she vaccantly lifted a hand on instinct and stroked the choker around her neck. The stress dulled down a little. “I’m a silly, bitchy bimbo.” This self-soothing technique was so helpful. She loved it, whether she actually knew she was doing it or not. “I’m a silly, bitchy bimbo.” She opened her list of tasks and decided to get to work.

The woman leaned forward, seductively arched her back, and let her chest hang nice and attractively in her bra. The feeling of her boobs’ weight—magnified by her posture—proved painful and inconvenient, but she had no trouble ignoring it.

“I’m a silly, bitchy bimbo,” she droned to herself as she got back to work. Her list of jobs every morning had been undergoing a broad shift in priorities over time. Today was no exception. It felt like all she did was make and edit models of women, assembling borderline pornographic dolls.

A part of her felt bothered by this. Glass Ceiling Games was supposed to be a female-ran, feminist studio that ed indie devs wasn’t it? It seemed strange to her that this was what her workplace wanted her to put first.

“Beautiful smile as always, Aria!” Chirped Meg. Everyone loved Meg.

“Thank you!” Squeaked Aria, blushing. She turned towards the eighteen year old intern, who wore a modest schoolgirl uniform and big, adorably thick glasses. Meg’s pink hair was done up in a pair of buns and her considerable tits were nestled tightly in a pretty school blouse. She was the only member of the department who it seemed that Martin never messed with. The ing department secretly had a betting pool going between their pet theories. Aria would never put money on it but her personal belief was that Meg hit some kind of childhood sweetheart bulls-eye that made Martin see her as something closer to a housecat or little sister rather than a woman. Some more popular ideas in the betting pool included that he simply had a genuine crush on her, or preferred older women, or she was just SO cute that not even he could stand the thought of being pushy towards her.

In any case, between Meg’s unfalteringly sunny personality and Martin’s soft spot for her, she actually kept a full set of clothing on at all times—a schoolgirl uniform and a really cute one, granted, but still. Aria liked looking at her because of it—it proved that with a bright enough grin and eager enough compliance, you could in fact get by in this field unmolested by the rules.

“Pretty collar too! It suits you,” Meg complimented. Aria blushed.

“Thank you,” she said, one hand draping itself over it almost reverantly. “Company policy. Female artists and programmers aren’t in uniform without a collar. It, uh, it’s good for our mental. Study-proven.” She certainly preferred dealing with her job collared over uncollared. She’d never actually seen the study itself but why would she need to? Obviously females in stressful environments adapted better while wearing a collar.

“I’m so glad, haha!” Giggled Meg, her perfect pearly teeth almost stunning. God, her smile was gorgeous.

“What’s the boss got you doing?” Asked Aria as she turned back to her computer.

“Oh, you know. The usual female intern stuff. Compliments, smooches, pats. Reassuring staff that they’re beautiful.”

“Naturally,” said Aria. What else would a female intern do, anyway? Making a fresh pretty-faced cutie like Meg do labor would be unacceptable. “Am I beautiful?” She asked, almost snarkily.

“Of course! You are BEE, YOO, TEE, FULL!” Meg squealed, her face erupting into a sparkling light show of childlike wonderment. Aria blushed again—it was very difficult to resist Meg’s infectious joy.

Martin stood in front of a table. The heads of a few departments—all women—sat politely looking up at him. He had taken a few liberties with the book-

“Old Rule: The cutest male intern can attend or skip any meeting he likes.”

“New Rule: department heads care deeply what Martin has to say and cannot leave their seats while he’s presenting.”

That’s how he got a seat at this table, of course. Being both an “unpayed” intern—something even the girls g his checks genuinely believed—and a teenage boy hired less than a month ago, he had no way of getting into this meeting otherwise.

“Good morning, ladies.”

“It’s four in the afternoon,” snarked Olga, head of HR. Martin squinted. She was a bit of an old hag, honestly. She realized her mistake. “My apologies!” She chirped, ripping open her blouse to reveal uninteresting A-cups with no youthful pep or bounce left in them at all. Martin pursed his lips and jotted down another change. This rule took enough time and focus that the women all started to look suspicious and shift around uncomfortably. No matter.

“New Rule: when I finish writing this rule it will become nine AM and Olga will become a rosey-faced college sophomore with E-cups and a love of spoiling boys a bit younger than her.”

As soon as he tapped a period onto the paper and concluded the rule, the sky shifted in a matter of seconds to the beautifully clear morning it had been hours earlier. Martin saw the analogue clock on the wall seemingly teleport its hands instantly into position showing nine o clock AM on the dot.

Olga moaned and wriggled as the wrinkles uncreased in her rapidly changing skin. It turned smooth, milky and firm. Youthful color flushed all through her pretty pink skin as her breasts violently ballooned in size to become heavy, jiggling E-cups. The woman’s painfully sensible office girl attire didn’t change fashion but it did resculpt itself around her tighter, more fertile body. She smiled, her face now dolled up with cute makeup.

“Good morning, Martin~!” Olga giggled, her sweet expression nothing like the severe old lady she’d be without Martin’s help. He chuckled as he quickly wrote down another rule.

“Old Rule: Martin may use a designated whiteboard to police female employees’ language. Nobody minds.” Nothing seemed to change but he was confident in his book by now.

“I’m going to designate this whiteboard okay?” He asked as he walked over to a big whiteboard spanning a whole wall. The women in the room nodded along, all paying close attention. Martin grabbed a marker.

“Now, female employees gotta start following some rules,” he said as he wrote out “NICKNAMES FOR MARTIN” and then drew a big T-chart under it labeled “Rizz” and “HR.” “Now, this seems self explanatory but since some of you are almost as old as Olga was ten minutes ago: ‘rizz’ means it’s cool and attractive to use these words, and ‘HR’ is like, an HR violation.” He waited a moment. The department heads nodded along and a general consensus of approval rumbled across the desk. “I hope you don’t mind letting me tell you what words are ok?”

“Of course we don’t,” said the lady in charge of HR. “Nobody does.”

“Good,” Martin smiled and wrote his name under “HR.” The women nodded along. Some seemed a little shocked but none voiced complaints. He continued and started adding to both sides of the chart.

On the good end, he wrote Sweetie, Baby, Baby Boy, Little Boy, Lil Guy, Cutie, Darling, Prince, Your/His Highness, Young Master, Princess, Beloved, Love, Cupcake, Darling, Little Brother, Snugglemuffin, Master, and Precious.

Then on the other side he wrote Big Brother, Daddy, Dad, Big Boy, Intern, Marty, Boy, Man, and a couple other similar .

He liked being pampered, not made to feel like some lumbering oaf.

“Any questions?” He asked.

“No, Baby!”

Good. He smiled as he returned to his chair, took his seat, and watched the department heads talk. He got bored quickly listening to their business proposals and whatnot. He fidgeted with his pencil and thought about doodling, but doing it in the book felt like horror movie victim behavior. Besides, he had no idea if the book had limited space or not. All physical evidence said yes, after all, even if it was obviously magic. He opened the book to a blank page and tapped his pencil against it idly.

Actually interfering too much with the business side of things scared him. He didn’t know how far his rules reached, or what level of influence they had on the outer-facing aspects of the company. He wouldn’t care, but if they went bankrupt he was fucked. He knew he could just write down rules that would relieve every single employee of all incriminating memories instantly if the company ever went under, but he felt paranoid that wouldn’t work.

Ugh. The stress was getting to him. He wanted a nap.

Almost all of the department heads—now that he fixed Olga—were beautifully curvey ladies with attractive laps (all milfs except Olga). This would be perfect if he did not struggle to sleep sitting up.

He smiled and wrote down a rule, uncharacteristically slowly.

“New Rule: Instead of a table, every meeting is held around a comfy, fluffy bed for Martin with plenty of space to hold his body. If he gets in the bed, the meeting must be conducted in soft, ASMR-y whispers with the lights turned off, and female employees are obligated to give him featherlight stroking and gently whispered praise until he falls asleep, the meeting ends, or he leaves.”

When he finished writing, he heard a sharp thud. He bolted slightly and saw that the table was indeed gone, replaced by a luxurious-looking bed. The employees continued their meeting, documents now clutched in folders and hands rather than left on the table. None of them noticed or commented. Martin shrugged and clambered in. As soon as his head hit the pillow a hush fell over the room. Olga got up and ran to the light switch—with a nice tap tap tap of her shoes—and flicked it off. Martin melted into the bed almost instantly. The remaining employees cooed over him, a veritable whirlwind of silky female hands reaching into the bed. They fussed over Martin, sweeping his hair out of his eyes and adjusting the blanket and stroking him. Comfort hit him like a smothering mountain of puffy, fluffy clouds.

He yawned helplessly. Relaxation soaked deep into his bones almost instantly.

“There, there, Buttercup. You’ve had a long day—”

“Let us pamper you Baby Boy, you deserve a treat—”

“That’s a good boy, just let us dote on you until you fall asleep—”

“Such a little cutie all comfy for his bosses~”

Their words were wet and soft, with a gentle popping sound accentuating certain words and syllables. There were some corporate phrases mixed in there as the women continued to do actual business around him, but even those soothed him through the sweet whispering voices delivering them. He felt more relaxed than he ever had in his life.

He sank into the mattress smiling wide.

“You need your beauty sleep Prince, just relaaax for us—”

“Good, gooood boy, sooo comfy and cozy and sleepy-weepy~”

Sleep took him soon.