Touch of the 'Tist
The new intern had been so eager to please. Twenty-three, fresh out of college, bright-eyed and desperate to impress. That's what made her such a perfect candidate for the program.
Mark had noticed it during her interview; the way her eyes locked onto his when he spoke, how she leaned forward to catch every word. Some people were just suggestible. It had taken three sessions in his office after hours, the metronome app on his phone, the velvet tone he'd perfected over years of practice. Now the trigger was set, buried deep in her subconscious, waiting.
It happened by accident the first few times.
"Claire, hand me that folder?" He reached across the conference table at the same moment she did. Their fingertips grazed. Bare skin against bare skin for perhaps half a second.
She blinked. Her shoulders dropped. A soft exhale escaped her lips.
"Sorry," Mark said, pulling back, watching her carefully.
"It's... it's fine." Claire's voice had gone slightly dreamy, distant. She shook her head as if clearing water from her ears, but the sharpness in her eyes had dulled. "What were we discussing?"
"The Henderson account. You had concerns about the timeline?"
She opened her mouth, then paused. "I... did I? I suppose it doesn't matter. Whatever you think is best."
Mark smiled. "Touch base with me later."
The next day, he tested it deliberately.
Claire stood in his doorway with a stack of reports, waiting for instructions. Mark walked over, letting his hand rest on her forearm as he spoke about quarterly projections. Just a tap, really. Three seconds of contact through the thin fabric of her blouse sleeve.
Her pupils dilated.
"I want you to reorganize the entire filing system," he said, maintaining the touch. "It'll take three hours of overtime. No extra pay. But you don't mind."
"Okay," she breathed, not hesitating. "That makes sense."
"And you'll bring me coffee exactly how I like it. Two sugars, heavy cream."
"Two sugars," she repeated, her voice soft as cotton. "Heavy cream."
When he removed his hand, she swayed slightly, pressing her thighs together. Mark wondered if she was even aware of the dampness spreading between her legs. The trigger didn't just affect her mind, after all.
By Friday, he was holding her hand.
They were alone in the elevator, descending from the twentieth floor. Mark reached over and clasped her fingers in his, interlacing them properly, skin on skin, warm palm pressed to warm palm.
Claire gasped. Her knees buckled. Mark caught her with his free arm around her waist, keeping her upright, keeping their hands joined.
"You're doing so well," he murmured against her ear. "Such a good employee. Such an agreeable girl."
"Thank you," she whispered. Her head lolled against his shoulder. "I want to be... agreeable."
"I know you do. You want to make me happy, don't you?"
"Yes. Want to make you happy." Her eyes were half-closed, unfocused, staring at nothing. The elevator dinged. They'd reached the lobby, but neither moved to exit. "Master..."
The word slipped out unbidden. Mark felt himself harden instantly.
"That's right," he said, squeezing her hand tighter, suddenly feeling much bolder and much less inclined to let her leave. "I'm your Master. And you're going to come back up to my office, aren't you? You're going to let me do whatever I want."
"Whatever you want," she agreed, swaying now, utterly pliant. "I can't... I can't seem to remember why I would say no."
"Because there's no reason to say no. Only yes. Only obedience."
"Only obedience," Claire echoed, and when he finally released her hand, she didn't run. She followed him back into the elevator like she was floating.
In his office, with the door locked, Mark sat on the edge of his desk and pulled her between his knees. Her blouse was silk, expensive, probably the nicest thing she owned. He began unbuttoning it slowly, watching her face for any resistance.
Claire stood passively, arms at her sides, letting him expose her black lace bra. When he pushed the blouse off her shoulders, letting it pool on the carpet, she shivered but didn't protest.
"Tell me to stop," Mark challenged, hooking his fingers in her bra straps. "Can you even do that?"
She blinked, confused. Her mouth opened, closed. A furrow appeared between her brows. Some distant part of her recognizing that this was wrong, that her boss shouldn't be undressing her, that she should object, scream, run.
"I... this is..." She struggled, genuinely trying to find the words. "Bad?"
"Is it?" Mark slid the straps down her arms. The bra cups slipped, revealing her breasts, nipples already tight and hard. "Is it bad, Claire?"
She looked down at his hands hovering over her naked chest. The confusion in her eyes deepened, then softened, then evaporated entirely.
"I can't..." she whispered. "I can't remember."
Mark cupped her breasts in both hands, finally making full, intense contact with her bare skin. His thumbs brushed across her nipples, and Claire's head fell back with a moan that sounded like surrender.
"Then it must not be important."
"No," she agreed, relief washing over her features. "Not important."
Her mind emptied out completely. All those concerns about propriety, about her career, about right and wrong... They drained away like water through open fingers, leaving only warm, golden compliance. She felt so good like this. So empty. So agreeable.
"You're mine," Mark said, squeezing harder, rolling her nipples between his fingers until she whimpered.
"Yours," she agreed happily. Her thoughts had stopped entirely. There was only sensation, only his voice, only the overwhelming rightness of submission. "I'm yours, Master."
"And you'll do anything I say."
"Anything." She swayed into his touch, pressing her breasts into his palms, desperate for more contact, more of this blissful emptiness. "Just tell me what to think, Master. I can't... I can't think anymore."
"You don't need to think," Mark whispered, pulling her closer, claiming her mouth in a kiss that sealed the programming forever. "You just need to obey."
Claire melted against him, docile and accommodating and utterly his, her brain blissfully, perfectly shut off.
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