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Disclaimer: This is a work of erotic mind control fiction with aspects of coerced sexual activity; all characters are 18+

Note: The first part of this story focuses on a society shift (where women are turned into second class citizens) and the initial humiliation/oppression, instead of going directly into hardcore sexytimes or mind control. It was a commission piece for an awesome client. Check out my website, link on my reddit account, for more info on commissions.

**FEMINIST CORRUPTION WATER, PART 1:**

“You can’t just terminate me. There’s a union. An appeal process!” I tell the table of human resource workers and my supervisor. “Why wasn’t I notified if I needed to be put on an improvement plan?”

To my horror they all exchange pitying glances, like I’ve gone insane instead of being the only reasonable one to bring up the standard procedure for dismissing government employees. I’m well respected and liked here—or so I wondered—and now they’re treating me worse than the lowest volunteer who has been caught stealing.

My mind screams: *They’re the ones who’ve gone off the rails—not me. I haven’t done anything wrong!*

“There’s no need for an improvement plan, as your work was always acceptable . . . but there’s no longer an appeal process for female employees,” Jack says, tugging on his tie. He’s a thin man with a pleasant smile and he’s also the human resource manager (so if anyone should be aware of the proper way to do things, it should be him); we’ve at all times gotten along until today. “Haven’t you been keeping up with the news? After the recent string of tragedies, the government will no longer employ women at all….”

“The murders?” I croak in disbelief. What the hell does scare tactic media have to do with my deputy director position for the Department of Administrative Services? “Those women murdered their *husbands*! I’m not even married. How does any of *that* apply to *me* or *my* career?”

“It’s a new law, Kristin,” my boss says impatiently.

I turn to look at him with watery eyes, anger and fear churning inside my stomach like hot acid. Mr. Smith has never spoken to me with such disrespect before, at all times calling me ‘Ms. Winters’ and speaking to me pleasantly and professionally; he’d even personally mentored me so that I was able to become his second in command, bumping me up from a lower management position just last year. I’m so stunned that for a moment I can’t speak, only gazing at him with open hurt.

“I don’t understand,” I say very softly. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not married to any of you and I pose no risk—”

“The studies show otherwise,” Mr. Smith interrupts. “If you’d been paying any attention to the media and to the federal data, they’ve drawn many links between female employees and sudden onset hysteria, especially in *aging* women that hold stressful, upper-level positions. The main victims are generally the husbands, sure, but if a woman isn’t married there have been cases where it’s her co-worker or boss….”

“This—this is ridiculous,” I sputter, fighting hard to keep outraged tears from falling.

I already know that my shaky tone and reddened face are making the men around me uncomfortable. Jack keeps pulling on his tie, and his lackeys, Chris and Sam, are both pretending to take down excessive notes on what’s transpiring. My boss, Thomas Smith, is the only one that will actually look me in the eye.

“Don’t make me call security,” Mr. Smith says, frowning. “We’ve had a good run. Be a professional and sign the resignation papers to save face. I’m giving you this, at least, so you should be thankful, Ms. Winters. Walk out with your head held high.”

“You’re giving me nothing,” I whisper, blinking rapidly as I reach for the pen and papers in front of me and then shakily scrawling my name at the bottom.

I don’t even bother to read them, immediately tossing them back on the table when I’m finished signing. All I can think about is that I don’t want the Department of Administrative Services to actually fire me, because that will mean I can’t discover another upper management position somewhere else. At least if I resign willingly, I won’t become completely blacklisted (and so I guess Mr. Smith is giving me a little something, although it still feels like a slap in the face).

*Being blacklisted would be worse,* my mind whirs. *Just get up and keep a stiff upper lip. Walk out now.*

I do, telling myself that I’ll begin my new job search tomorrow, and if the government won’t have me, then I’ll try to discover a position somewhere where I can fight this, like a judicial branch or something.

***

“Don’t cry, mom—it’ll be okay….”

I stiffen as my daughter wraps her arms around me from behind, wiping at my face guiltily. She wasn’t supposed to see me having a breakdown. I’m supposed to be protecting her from all of this.

“I’m not crying,” I tell her with a smile. “It’s just allergies.”

Her blue-green eyes search my face as she peers around and up at me. “It’ll be okay,” she repeats.

*But it won’t be,* I want to tell her, because it’s been three and a half weeks of fruitless searching and I’m starting to go a little crazy. Men laugh in my face when I turn in my resume for *any* management position, not just upper level. I’ve been cursed at, told that women aren’t welcome as employees (much less “old” women, even though I’m only 38!), and threatened both physically and sexually. One man even spat on me today—and that was just because I’d had the nerve to apply as a shift manager at a freaking fast-food restaurant!

If I don’t discover a job soon, I’ll have to dip into the money I’ve been carefully nesting away for Jennifer’s school fund. She’s just recently turned eighteen and will be graduating high college in six months. Higher education isn’t cheap, and I want her to be able to go to a good college, like I did, so that she can grow into a strong, independent woman, like I am.

*Or like I used to be,* I think miserably, trying not to cry again as I nod at her.

The truth is, even I can’t ignore the dramatic shift in culture that’s happening right before my very eyes. I’m not the only woman that’s been let go from her job. There are millions of us fighting for our right to work across the country. Massive protests have broken out in some places—although I haven’t taken part in any because I can’t risk being locked up and having my daughter taken from me. Instead, late at night I watch snippets of what’s happening on the internet, growing more and more desperate as I see the media encouraging women to settle into more domestic roles, such as becoming housewives, nannies, caretakers, waitresses, and secretaries. There’s even horrifying tales that there aren’t enough jobs to go around for all these laid off women, so many have been falling through the cracks—left to either become homeless or turn to prostitution.

How can I ever be a proper role model to my daughter if I can’t legitimately support us?

I’ll have to find out something.

***

It’s been another two months and I’m now completely drained of my own savings (because even though I had a cushy, upper-level job, I stupidly got swept up in lifestyle creep, buying a new car every few years and living in a nice, modernized apartment while also spoiling my daughter senseless). I’ve had to sell both of our cars and buy an older Camry for us both to distribute. I’ve had to sell off a bunch of my designer wardrobe. I’ve had to sell off a lot of Jennifer’s shoes and purses, too….

“I’m sorry,” I tell her tearful face as we finish unloading our boxes into our new, much smaller and more economical, apartment. “I’ve put an advertisement in the paper. I’m willing to take pretty much anything now.”

*Anything but being someone’s escort,* I want to reassure her, but I know that even saying those words would make this entire situation that much worse.

“Maybe I should get a job,” she says forlornly, tugging at her long ponytail.

She looks almost just like me—slim and blonde with a heart-shaped face and wide, bright eyes. Her eyes are a little greener and she’s a few inches shorter, but otherwise she’s the spitting image of myself at eighteen.

*So gorgeous and naïve,* I think sadly, remembering how I’d married her father right away and then popped her out two years later (which really took a toll on my schooling).

“You’re finishing high school and then preparing for Brighton University. Maybe you can even take some summer courses online to get a head start!”

“We don’t even have the money for Brighton.” She pouts at me, sticking out her plump lower lip, which her father used to fondly call ‘poop-lip’.

If he were still alive today, I’d like to think he’d be proud that I’m trying so hard to raise her right. I am trying my best, aren’t I? But I also feel a nervous shakiness go through me at potentially lying to her. I’m not actually certain we do have the money for Brighton, unless some miracle happens and I can discover a job immediately to keep me from having to dip into her school fund. I’ve already sold off pretty much all of our valuables, only keeping the very basics for us both (because having a few nice things is still crucial if we want to move up the ladder or mingle with upper society, once things get straightened out).

*Hopefully I’ll be able to replace the embarrassment of a car before taking Jennifer to Brighton,* I think to myself, swallowing down a fresh wave of nausea.

What will people think of us if I can’t fix this soon?

My phone starts to ring and I dig it out of my *Louis Vuitton* purse (the only designer handbag I allowed myself to keep). Who could this be? I don’t recognize the number, but since I’ve been putting out resumes and, more recently, an ad in the local paper, I can only hope it’s someone calling to save me.

“Hello, this is Ms. Winters speaking,” I say into the receiver politely.

“Hey, Kristin! It’s Franco. Remember me?” an Italian sounding voice replies.

“Uhm,” I pause, searching my mind desperately. Franco? The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but the name, not so much. “I’m sorry, Franco. I’m drawing a blank.”

“Thought you might.” He laughs and it sounds a little tense, like I’ve offended him. “Franco Rizzo, from Titanico Casting?”

“The intern?” I blurt out; my face floods with heat, immediately wishing I could take back the words. That was a long time ago when he was called that. “Sorry. Yes, I remember you, Mr. Rizzo.”

I remember not being very nice to him, because I’d been miserable managing a bunch of night shift lug-heads making aluminum airplane parts, and he’d been an overly willing young man that wanted to learn everything and anything—including management skills—which I found laughable given his position. That was seven years ago, when Rizzo had been barely eighteen and doing some apprenticeship for school credits. I’d wondered he’d end up just as brain dead and hopeless as the night shift, stuck on the assembly line forever. I hadn’t wondered he was very clever or capable. I hadn’t wondered much of him at the time, and none at all since then. Why the hell is he calling me now?

“I have a proposition for you,” he says, his tone chilly.

I bite my lip, wondering what this man could possibly offer me in a time like this, but hum at him, “Hm?”

“I’m the Managing Director at *Industry Ready Technology*—”

“ITR?” I blurt out, the jingle of their many commercials playing through my mind instantaneously.

It’s a hugely profitable corporation and for Rizzo to be the director is absolutely mind-blowing (and also completely unfair given he’s thirteen years my junior). Was he skyrocketing up the ranks while I moseyed myself into upper management?

“Yes, that’s right,” he says cheerfully, like I didn’t just rudely interrupt him. “I have a position opening up for a personal secretary, and I saw your ad in the paper, if you might be interested?”

My blood runs cold at the wondered of being The Intern’s personal secretary and for a moment I can’t speak. But then I notice Jennifer’s wide, blue-green eyes staring at me hopefully, and I discover a tentative warmth bloom inside me. Maybe everything will be okay, after all.

“That sounds wonderful, Mr. Rizzo! I would be very thankful for the opportunity.”

“As you should be,” he says smoothly. “Please be advised that we have a strict dress code at ITR for female employees. You’ll need to come to the interview in high heels with a mandatory six-inch heel and a black skirt that reaches just to your knuckles when your hands are at your sides—”

“Are you insane?” I gasp, horrified at the wondered of wearing a miniskirt and stripper shoes to an interview.

This has to be some sort of sick joke. It just has to be.

“Excuse me? I wasn’t finished. The blouse may be any color you choose, but make sure it’s appropriately feminine, form-fitting, and sleeveless. If you fail to show up dressed appropriately to the interview, then you’ll be turned away before you even sit down. Good luck finding another opportunity this good at your age.”

Hot anger goes through me but I bite my tongue. I did just insult and interrupt him, even though I should have had some idea what sort of offer this would be. The only positions for women anymore are quite degrading, and mandatory dress codes are not a new thing. Even at my old position I was expected to present myself a certain way, but I at all times was careful to wear bare-minimum make-up, tasteful heels, and power suits with long skirts or tailored trousers. I was a ‘*boss bitch’* in my own mind. I was the queen of my castle. I was respectable—a strong feminist woman who had made it to the big leagues.

But a weak little voice comes out of me, “Thank you, I’ll be there.”

“Good. Eight sharp. Bring me a coffee if you want bonus points.”

He laughs and hangs up on me, not even allowing me time to ask him which type he prefers. I’m already so embarrassed and demeaned from our short conversation that I can’t imagine actually dressing up like he’s asked *and* bringing him a coffee, like I’m trying to seduce and bribe my way into the position.

“Did you get a job?” Jennifer asks me in frantic excitement, clutching at my arm. “Did you find something? Did it finally happen?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” I tell her, forcing myself to smile. “I’m going to be working for ITR! Can you believe it?”

***

Shopping for skimpy new clothes is humiliating, even while wearing a power suit. *Especially while wearing a power suit,* I whine internally. At least the shop girls that are helping me seem nice and nonjudgmental. Probably because they all seem to be wearing heels and skirts just as slutty. Some of their shoes are even clear, like they should literally be swinging on a pole.

I try to fight back those thoughts as one grabs me a pair of strappy, six-inch heeled shoes with a, “You’re a size seven, you said, right?” and another rifles through a rack of miniskirts and says, “Black only? Small, medium, or large?”

“Yes, yes,” I tell them, trying not to blush. “Medium sized.”

They both look to be barely eighteen years old, and I wonder what they think of a woman twenty years their senior shopping for stuff like this.

*They probably think you should be married by now,* a mean wondered tells me.

I blanch at the misogynistic wondered, another internal voice blaring: *Women don’t need men! Tell them that strong, independent women climb ladders!*

But I don’t say anything as I take my new interview outfit to the cashier.

“Do you want to buy a different shirt, ma’m?” one of the shop girls calls out behind me.

I shake my head, not daring to speak for fear of screaming, and let the cashier ring me up. She’s also barely out of her teenage years and is wearing garish make-up and a top so sheer that you can see her lacy, red bralette under it. She looks like a streetwalker. Her nametag says ‘Cindy’ with little hearts and kiss symbols around the red lettering.

“Are you sure that blouse will go with this?” Cindy asks, giving me a disapproving wrinkle of her nose.

I swallow and glance down at my shirt. Rizzo told me the blouse needed to be feminine, form-fitting, and sleeveless—and I think this one mostly fits the bill. It has no sleeves, but it is a plain, white turtleneck, though it fits well. Truthfully, I at all times wear a blazer over it (like I am now), and truthfully, I know it’s very conservative . . . so I realize that I’m playing with fire.

But it’s the last stand I have against this madness, and it technically fits the description he gave me, even though I know he was imagining something much sexier, low cut and silky.

*Fuck him,* I think as Cindy starts to bag my items.

“Actually, do you mind if I change into that here?” I ask softly. “I could use the bag for what I’m wearing though.”

She nods, looking almost sympathetic. “That’s fine, ma’m.”

I’d wanted to wait until I reached ITR to change, in one of their bathrooms, but I’m suddenly afraid that I’ll be greeted at the door (since they probably don’t let just anyone walk into such a prestigious corporation) and that my power suit will get me turned away. It might also get me blocked from all future opportunities with the business. Imagining Jennifer’s heartbroken face has me stripping off my navy trousers and blazer, then adorning my curvy hips with the hideous black scrap of skirt. I sob a little as I strap on my new heels, wondering how the hell I’m gonna manage going into public looking like this.

*Like a complete tramp,* my mind screams, hot humiliation rolling through me like nausea. *I can’t do it. I can’t….*

But somehow, I totter out of the dressing room, my hands clutched at my sides to hold down the short, tight skirt. I feel like my underwear are exposed. I feel like I can feel the breeze on my pussy and ass as I step outside onto the street. I feel absolutely mortified.

Is everyone staring at me? I slide my eyes around, noticing that there are a few other women on the street dressed scantily, but also yes, there are handfuls of men with leering eyes that catch on me. My face burns bright red as one man in a company suit slows down and says, “Winters?”

“No,” I mumble, quickly walking the other way; I’m pretty sure I recognize him from the Department of Administrative Services (he was an accountant or fiscal analyst or something) and I want to get as far away from him as feasible. Immediately.

I nearly hail a cab that passes by, frantic to hide somewhere confined where only the taxi driver can see me (and even that is horrifying enough), before realizing that I still need to grab Rizzo a coffee. *Shit*. I turn back around and stumble-walk on my too-high heels back towards *Rooster’s Hotbrew.*

It feels like I’m gonna fall and break my ankle walking in these. I’m also worried that my curvy ass is gonna rip clean through my miniskirt. Why is the entire world against me? I scream internally as I run right back into the guy I was trying to avoid.

Can this day get any worse?

He smiles as I take my place in line behind him. “It *is* you! Kristin Winters. You were the deputy director before we did a rehaul, if I remember right. Weren’t you the fiscal manager before that? Pretty sure you interviewed me and then got promoted just as I got hired on.”

“Yes,” I say, certain that my face is as brightly colored as a tomato. “Hello, Mr. Daniels.”

“Look at you now!” he says with a grin, and a sharp spike of fear goes through me that he looks all too pleased with the situation. “Would hardly look my way in the past. Fancy going out with me now?”

I gape at him, horrified that this pudgy, ginger-haired man with his mediocre office job thinks he has a chance with a highly educated, attractive, and *classy* woman like me. Then, I remember how I’m dressed and that I’m currently unemployed, and my face burns even brighter.

“Uh, thank you, but no, no thanks,” I stammer.

He huffs, “Whatever bitch”, and then turns around as the barista asks for his order.

I stand awkwardly behind him, wishing that I could sink straight through the floor, and pray that no one just witnessed our horribly awkward encounter.

*That was probably the end of it,* I pray to myself. *I’ll just order Rizzo’s coffee and then be straight on my way.*

But Daniel’s order isn’t ready until mine is, since it seems we both ordered large Americanos. He stares at me the entire time we wait, his eyes lingering like sharp points on my exposed upper thighs. I try not to squirm under his gaze. I try not to fidget with my skirt. I succeed, mostly.

When the barista finally calls out our names, he brushes into me to grab his and hisses, “Where did you even land a job at *your* age? You might have been a hotshot once, but take a good look at yourself now. Not long and you’ll be begging for a guy like me to marry and take care of you.”

“Thank you,” I say through clenched teeth as I grab my coffee. “Mr. Daniels, if you’ll excuse me, I have an interview with ITR.”

“ITR!” He bellows out a laugh. “Right! A company like that doesn’t want an old hag—”

But I don’t listen to what other vitriol he has for me as I quickly make my way out of the coffee shop and hail a cab. I nearly curse Jennifer (since I’m letting her use the Camry to get to college) as a creepy looking cabby pulls over immediately for me. Will I be sexually assaulted on my way to my interview? I’m nearly shaking as I open up the car door and carefully scoot in, trying not to expose myself or spill the coffee.

To my astonishment, the hideous man barely looks at me. “Where to, ma’m?” he asks.

“ITR, please,” I say softly.

This guy looks like he could be on the front page of a serial murder magazine, with beady black eyes, a heavily scarred face, and a rapist’s mean scowl. But as we drive to the interview, he keeps his attention on the road, like there’s not a scantily clad lady trying to hold it together in his back seat.

*Maybe I* am *getting old*—*if a guy like that won’t even look at me,* a miserable wondered whispers.

I tell myself to ‘shut up’, horrified at letting myself believe what Daniels said to me. The interview at ITR will go fine, I promise myself, because I’ll do whatever it takes to secure a position there. I have to for myself. I have to for Jennifer. I have to, to survive.

***

“Thank you for the coffee, Krissy,” Rizzo says warmly, taking it from me before I enter his office.

For a moment I want to correct him, *‘It’s Kristen or Ms. Winters, thanks…’*, but I don’t dare. I’ve been walking on eggshells ever since a very young woman greeted me outside the opulent glass doors of the business; she looked to be barely legal, which I’ve come to realize is an ever-present concern (*if new girls are constantly reaching of age and taking all the jobs, then there truly will be none for women like me soon*, my mind had blared, and then—in a frantic desperation—I couldn’t stop myself from thinking: *don’t fuck this up—don’t-you-DARE-fuck-this-up!*).

“You’re very welcome,” I force out, and then I catch the slight narrowing of his dark eyes and I continue, “*Sir*.”

“Please come in and take a seat.”

Despite all the conflicting emotions warring inside me, I’m absolutely stunned by how luxurious Franco Rizzo’s office is. It’s full of finely crafted office furniture, and his sprawling, mahogany desk faces a enormous, domed window, which overlooks the city. The view is absolutely enthralling, and I nearly forget to say, “Thank you,” as I take the seat I’m offered. I’ve never been in an office as nice as this one, and I’m completely shocked that the annoying guy that I used to think would end up a nobody has achieved the position that goes along with it. So shocked, that it takes a second to realize I’m also seethingly jealous.

Almost everything about Rizzo, as a man, is just as I remember: short, fat, and irritatingly smug looking—*and rightly so, since he’s achieved so much now,* my mind warns me. I hate him for it.

“Thank you for this opportunity,” I say shakily, pushing a copy of my resume to him as he sits across from me.

He doesn’t even look at it, beaming at me magnanimously. “A lot of girls would envy the chance to be seated where you are today. You’re very fortunate that I remember you.”

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that, so I just nod and awkwardly mutter, “Thank you….”

“Sir or Mr. Rizzo is fine,” he says, staring me hard in the eye. His smile has vanished.

What the hell? Are we really gonna play this game? I already called him ‘sir’ when I came in—albeit hesitantly. Still, I can’t afford to piss him off. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Rizzo, sir. I feel very fortunate to be here.”

“As you should. See, at Industry Ready Technology we only employ happy, positive people with can-do attitudes! Everyone here conducts their business with a *smile* and everyone here is a *team player*.”

I realize that I’m not smiling as he’s talking and force myself to take on a polite, classy quirk of my lips, nodding enthusiastically as he continues.

“Negative-Nancy’s are not welcome, and female employees are especially monitored for signs of noncompliance—”

I stiffen. What does that mean? That we all have to say ‘yes, sir’ always and never speak out against anything?

Rizzo doesn’t seem to notice that I’m lost in fearful thoughts, still speaking with authority, and I realize I might have missed some of his speech. “—anyone with symptoms of such will face swift disciplinary action, including termination and, potentially, a report to the authorities. Our corporation simply can’t allow female hysteria to disrupt or threaten the workplace—”

My smile turns into a grimace, that horrible term lancing into my brain (*‘female hysteria’ what a crock of shit!*), but I catch myself as he pauses and narrows his eyes at me, beaming at him and nodding again so that he’ll continue.

“I’m glad you understand the precarious nature of allowing women in the workplace, Krissy. Are you ready to begin the interview?”

There are so many things wrong with his statement that I’m horrified that I need to answer his subsequent question. How dare he tell me that women shouldn’t be in the workplace (much less put me in a position where I have to say I find out and agree), especially when he once worked under me! And how dare he keep calling me Krissy!

“Yes, sir,” I choke out.

“Good.” He smiles at me, looking me up and down, and then his eyes trace the lines of my throat and the folded turtleneck collar around it. He frowns, his eyebrows bunching together. “So . . . you were terminated from your last position with DAS. Did you find that unfair? How did you handle it?”

*God, yes it was unfair!* I want to scream at him, but I keep my flimsy smile as my mind whirs with his prior speech, especially replaying over and over: ‘*Negative-Nancy’s are not welcome here….’*

“I handled it professionally, sir. I tried my best to produce top quality work for the government, but they believed it was time for me to use my talents elsewhere. I was not terminated but resigned peacefully.”

“Talents,” he says with a lazy drawl, tracing his lips with one, sausage-like finger.

I nearly shiver at the way he’s looking at me, but drop my gaze demurely to his desk, forcing my smile to remain on my face.

“We do know each other from the past, when I once worked *under* you….” Again, his tone sounds rather slimy, and I discover I can’t look at him until he asks sternly, “So do you have any issue working for a former subordinate?”

“Of course not, sir,” I say, even though I absolutely do and I want nothing more than to tell this man to fuck off. “I would be honored,” I say instead, hating myself.

*Honored to put you in your place,* I think as he smiles at me.

“That’s very good to hear, Krissy. Since we’ve already worked together, I feel confident you possess the necessary skills for this position. However, your temperament and attention to detail can be improved upon. I do not like that shirt. Fortunately for you ITR offers new employees a free blouse with our company logo.” He takes a silky, pink thing out of his desk and holds it up to show me. It looks horrendously small. “If you accept my offer of employment right here and now, I’ll hand this over to you and overlook your oversight. If not, I wish you all the best out there….”

—————-

Thanks for reading! Part 2 will be posted here soon, but if you’d like to read the entire 25k word series now, [you can find it here :)](

NSFW: yes

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