Disclaimer: This is a work of erotic mind control fiction with elements of coerced sexual activity; all characters are 18+
[Part One Here](https://www.reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/zgh3gk/feminist_corruption_water_m20sf38_milf_mind/)
**FEMINIST CORRUPTION WATER, PART 2:**
I don’t want to accept Rizzo’s degrading job offer or the skimpy blouse, but Jennifer’s face keeps floating in my mind’s eye, and I don’t want to ruin our lives further (or be forced to spend her college fund) even more.
*It’s just temporary,* I reassure myself. *It’s not forever—and my noble sacrifice will allow my darling girl to get her education.*
I don’t even allow myself to worry that she’ll have to face the kind of discrimination and sexual harassment that I am now, because I’m certain that by the time she’s achieved her degree that all these backwards laws will have reverted. There will be normalcy and sanity once more. I know things can’t stay this way. They just can’t.
“I accept,” I force out with a little sigh, and then more cheerfully, a smile plastering on my face as he hands me the blouse, “Thank you, sir.”
“Put it on now to officially accept.”
For a moment I think I’ve misheard him. “What?”
“The blouse. Take the ugly one off and replace it with your new, employee uniform.”
I look around his office, an insanely hopeful part of me looking for a little nook or cranny that might make-do as a dressing room, but deep down I know better. This is a power play, and I’m going to have to degrade myself even further to please this sick, little man.
“Right now, Krissy. Switch the shirts or leave.”
“O-okay,” I stammer, closing my eyes as I grab the hem of my shirt and yank it over my head. For a moment I get stuck in the tight turtleneck, squirming in embarrassment as I expose my large, bra-covered tits to my new boss.
*This is insane,* my mind screams. *What the fuck am I doing?*
But I keep yanking until I come free of the turtleneck, my face burning and my throat tight with shame. With as much ladylike poise as I can muster, I quickly fold the discarded garment and set it in my lap, before pulling the pink, silky thing over my head.
“Not into that ugly bra, either,” Rizzo says grumpily. “Do your underwear match?”
*How dare you!* I want to snarl at him, but I bite my tongue, and find myself nodding curtly while busying myself with adjusting my too-small shirt. It doesn’t completely cover the bra he apparently hates (which is plain and white with large cups that provide maximum support), nor does it cover my navel. I feel like the brunt of a bad joke. I feel like a teenager wannabe. I feel like a prostitute.
“It’ll have to do for today, but tomorrow I expect you to show up in something sexier that compliments your new skirt and blouse. Surely you have something black and lacy at home?”
*Fuck off, you fat perv,* my mind whirs, but I nod, even though I’m almost positive I don’t, seeing as I haven’t been romantically involved with anyone since Jennifer’s father died. Just thinking about that makes me want to have a tearful, panic attack, given the situation I’m in.
“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer me.”
“Yes, sir,” I say weakly. “I believe I have—” I can’t even say the gross lie (*lingerie that would please you*, my mind hisses cruelly); this whole situation feels completely unreal, the numb resignation weighing down on me like I’ve been in a terrible accident and am watching myself bleed out. “—those items in my wardrobe,” I finish lamely.
Rizzo laughs, a mean, amused sound that makes tears prick at the corners of my eyes. A vague memory of me laughing at him for wearing a suit to night crew pops into my mind. I’d criticized him for not dressing appropriately for the job (“*You aren’t a manager, intern! Stop fooling around!”*)….
I feel sick at the memory, especially when my mind warns me: *It’s likely he’s just getting even with you now.*
“See to it that you dress appropriately for your position from this point forward. You are on a probationary period for the next six months and will be monitored closely. Do you understand?” When I nod, muttering a quick, “Yes, sir”, he presses a button on his desk that makes a buzzing sound. “Lucy,” he says, obviously not speaking to me, “come show Krissy her new duties. Bring some hydration.”
I’m so bothered by this bizarre, degrading interview, the way I’m dressed, and the fact that I’m going to need to go out after work and pick up some sexier underthings, that I don’t even find it strange when Lucy (the barely legal, Asian girl who greeted me outside) comes in with a tray and, on it, a large glass of water.
“Forgive me for not offering you a drink during your interview. It was quite rude of me,” Rizzo says with a smarmy smile.
“That’s alright, sir,” I say, my mind so numb that I’m not sure what to think. “I’m not very thirsty.”
“Ah, but you look a bit dried out,” he says, motioning for Lucy to hand me the water. “It’s policy that we keep well hydrated here. It’s good for the skin….”
I fight back a glare, knowing that he’s trying to insinuate that I’m an old dustbag or something. But really, why should I care if the policy is that we drink water throughout the day? I’m not opposed to staying healthy and hydrated—even though it feels like he’s infantilizing me by forcing me to.
“Thank you,” I say politely as Lucy hands me the tall, clear glass.
It tastes a little bitter, but when I wrinkle my nose Lucy just says cheerfully, “It’s fortified with minerals!” and I know that it doesn’t matter if I like it or not, so I chug the stuff anyway. Instantly I feel really weird. My head swims, my thoughts all clouding together, and the persistent nagging of negative emotions dissipates like smoke in the wind. For a moment I forget where I am, staring up into a young lady’s doe-like eyes and wondering: *Who is this pretty, exotic looking girl? Why is she watching over me with such interest?*
“Come now, Ms. Winters,” the elfishly slender, Asian girl says politely. “Let me show you around the office space and we’ll go over your duties for today.”
*What a nice young lady,* I think blankly, shuffling to a stand.
I barely catch the garment in my lap before it falls to the floor, and when I hold it up to inspect it, I think: *What the hell is this ugly thing?*
It’s a white, sleeveless, turtle-neck and my first instinct is to get rid of it. I toss it in the trash on my way out, catching the approving nod of a smartly dressed man who sits, watching me.
*You did the right thing, he hated that shirt,* my mind whispers strangely. *You want to please him. It’s important. He’s important.*
“Enjoy your first day, Krissy,” the important man says pleasantly.
It seems to pass by in a blur. Only when I’m leaving the office do I realize that I’ve been taught many new skills, like how to curtsy in the presence of any and all male employees (and to bow my head respectfully when Mr. Rizzo enters the room), how to fetch supplies upon demand (after being outfitted with a little bracelet that buzzes), and how to stay on my feet all throughout the day, even while wearing very high-heels.
*I need to buy a new bra and panty set,* my mind insists, even though I’m exhausted and want to go home. *Something lacy and black. Something Mr. Rizzo will like….*
So, I catch a cab and make my way to a lingerie store, only halfway perturbed at what I feel compelled to do.
***
“What are you wearing?” Jennifer says, in way of greeting, as I walk through the front door.
She looks so startled that my first instinct is to cover myself, and my second instinct is to shake the dumb look from her face. How dare she question me in such a way! I’ve been doing this all for her! For us to survive!
“It’s my uniform,” I answer waspishly; my head aches like a bad tooth, and my mouth feels weirdly dry. I almost wish I had brought home some of that special, mineral water from work—even though it tastes funky. When Jennifer continues to stare at me, I snarl at her, “If you don’t like it, maybe you should forget all about attending college!”
Her pretty face twists, her blue eyes going watery. “It’s just . . . it’s horrible!”
*You’re horrible*, I’m tempted to tell her, but I realize that I’m just tired and not thinking right, because what I’m wearing is whorish and awful. I need to get out of it immediately. Still my anxiety bubbles inside me like hot acid, and I know I need to say something.
“Well, maybe you should grow up and take a look at the world around you. This is the way things are now,” I can’t stop myself from whispering as I brush past her to hide out in my room.
Being mean to my beloved daughter makes me feel like shit, but I feel like shit anyway. I’m not sure how I made it through the day wearing these hellish heels (or the too-tight skirt and ridiculously small blouse), but I did, and I’m ready to crash—without any thoughts of having a meal or showering. Those will be tomorrow me problems, I decide, eager for the warm oblivion of sleep.
***
*I can’t do it,* I think to myself as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. *I can’t go back there again.*
I hear Jennifer rustling around in the kitchen—probably making herself something before she heads off to school. When she was small, I used to get up extra early to cook her a healthy breakfast, and then I’d taught her to make her own meals as my career got more and more demanding, but I’d always tried to be there with her, to at least enjoy a piece of toast and wish her a good day at school. Now, I want nothing more than to just stay in bed, avoiding the world.
Vague memories of yesterday flood my mind. I’d been interviewed and humiliated. I’d been forced to wear a bracelet that buzzed so that I could fetch things on command . . . like a dog. I’d been instructed to curtsy and bow in the presence of men, especially my boss, Mr. Rizzo. I’d been pressured into buying sexier underthings to wear with my uniform today. Worse, I’d done it all (even though it was sexist bullshit), without complaint.
Why hadn’t I stood up for myself? Why had I allowed myself to be treated that way? Why had a large part of me even felt compelled, like I really wanted to do those things, all in the name of pleasing my horrible, new boss?
I’m not really sure, and the blank uneasiness inside me is telling me that something is very wrong with this job. Something is very wrong with this situation. Something deeper than the misogynistic uniform and weird power plays.
*Do you want to get fired then?* my mind whispers meanly. *Do you want to have to spend all your daughter’s college money to survive? And how much time will that even buy you—a handful of months, maybe?*
I get out of bed, and then I quickly take a shower, before putting on my new, lacy black bra and panty set.
*Who are you?* I ask myself as I stare at my curvy, sexualized body in the mirror.
I see a frightened woman with long, blonde hair and big blue eyes. Her full, C-cup tits are pushed up, and her jiggly ass is on display in a bikini cut, lacy, black panty. She looks like what men call a ‘MILF’ in those awful, smutty magazines. She looks like she deserves to be degraded and fucked roughly. She looks nothing like the strong, feminist woman I imagine myself to be.
I hate her.
*At least it’s not Jennifer being forced to dress like this,* I tell myself. *So, suck it up and get to work.*
***
Truthfully, the first week at work isn’t all that bad. I drink a large glass of bitter water every morning and a second glass with a healthy, work-provided lunch (both of which the raven-haired girl, Lucy, serves me with a smile). I learn simple tasks, like how to brew the morning coffee in the fancy office coffee maker, how to change the toner in all the commercial printers, and how to run the mail throughout the office. All of these things I should’ve known, especially since I’ve held many office jobs, but never learned since I skipped the entry level roles due to achieving a degree. It’s almost satisfying work, for some reason, as my brain seems to be turned into warm sludge every time I’m in the office for very long.
The bracelet on my arm doesn’t even buzz all that much, and when it does, I’ve learned that it’s just Mr. Rizzo wanting a refill on his coffee for the most part.
That all changes my second week in….
“Why do you always wear the same outfit, Krissy?” he asks me. “I’m growing bored of this one.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” I don’t really know what answer I’m supposed to have for him, and despite the warmth in my brain I feel angry at his question, since I’m only wearing what he’d instructed me to wear upon our first meeting.
“That wasn’t an answer.” He gets too close to me, his eyes narrowed and his breath warm on my face.
I take a step back. An alarm bell goes off in my sluggish mind, Rizzo’s glare piercing into me, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “Yes it *was*. I don’t know what you want from me.”
He lurches forward. His paw of a hand slaps hotly against my face.
“Ow!”
“Don’t ever speak to me with such disrespect again!” he snarls. “If you aren’t sure what I want, be a professional and *ask* me!”
*Did he just fucking hit me?* my mind blares, my delicate hand cupped to the stinging skin of my cheek. *I can’t believe he just hit me!*
A large part of me wants to whirl around and storm out, but another, more reasonable part whispers: *You deserved that. This man gave you a job, despite your age, and you backtalked like a little fool. Even the young girls here know not to do that….*
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, wondering what the hell got into me. The warmth in my brain is pounding: *Make it right, make it right before you get fired and turned out on the streets!* “What would you like me to wear, sir?”
“For your disrespect, I think it would be best to finish out the day without the company logo. Take off the blouse until you earn it back.”
I gape at him for a second, shocked that he’s going to make me work the rest of the day topless—even though I know that I deserve it. When he raises his hand, I cringe, thinking he’s going to hit me again, but then I realize he’s just reaching out for me to hand him my blouse.
“Yes, sir,” I say quickly, realizing that he’s being rather generous.
There aren’t many hours left in my shift, according to his clock on the wall, and he could have hit me again for not immediately listening to him. I know the law has made it so that employers are encouraged to dole out corporal punishment on female employees who are showing signs of noncompliance or hysteria. I know my talking back was wrong.
*You need to work on your anger issues*, my warm mind tells me. *Being slapped into submission is what you truly deserve….*
“Here, sir,” I say softly, stripping off the pink, silky blouse and handing it to him.
“Good girl.” He smiles at me generously, accepting my offering with a pleased nod. “I do like this bra, much more than the last one….”
The warmth in my mind expands, sending delicious trills of pleasure through me. I’ve done good. I’ve done the right thing.
“Thank you, sir.”
*I’ve pleased my boss,* I think gratefully. *I’m a good girl.*
There are so many things wrong with this situation, but all I can fixate on is his warm praise, and how good it feels resonating in my mind and throughout my body. I’m even a little wet, my panties sticking to my pussy lips.
“Now kneel over there,” he says, pointing to a corner of his office. “And think about what you’ve done and how you should conduct yourself in the future if you want to remain employed here.”
A cold piercing resentment tears through the warmth. I don’t want to kneel in the corner of his office. But I also don’t want to get hit again—and doesn’t it feel much better to just go along with it and obey?
*What’s happening to me?* I wonder as I plaster on a smile, going to the corner to get on my knees. The carpet feels rough on my bare skin, and I know I’m going to have weird marks later if he keeps me here too long.
*Hopefully not the entire two hours I have left,* I pray, even though the warmth inside me is telling me that I should stay here all night if that’s what Mr. Rizzo wants.
He ignores me for the rest of the work day, and even though I know I should feel grateful that he didn’t stare lewdly at me (on my knees, in only a lacy, black bra and miniskirt), I feel a little put out. When five o’clock rolls around, his redheaded receptionist comes in—a girl in her early twenties with an hourglass figure and huge, perky breasts.
“Sir, I’ve come to provide your farewell relief,” Rebecca says flirtatiously, twirling a lock of her long, fiery hair.
My eyes about bug out of my head as she sinks to her knees, giggling like an empty-headed bimbo, and crawls under his desk. Even though I can’t see what she’s doing, I can *hear* it. Wet, sloppy, sucking sounds as Mr. Rizzo sits there with his eyes closed and his mouth half open.
*This can’t be happening,* my mind whirs. *I shouldn’t be watching this….*
(*Because it’s you who should be pleasing him!* a warmer thought intrudes.)
A strange, sickening arousal curls in my abdomen as Mr. Rizzo grips his desk and groans, his flabby body stiffening. I know Rebecca’s just made him cum in her mouth; I can hear the little harlot swallowing noisily with an, “mmm”, noise.
What the hell? Why is this turning me on? My panties are becoming soaked clean through.
I can’t process what’s happening, and so it’s not hard to just stay frozen in place, with a fixed smile and blank eyes as I stare past Mr. Rizzo’s shoulder at the wall. Rebecca eventually stops behaving like a whore, getting to her feet and saying, “Thank you, sir. See you tomorrow!”
Mr. Rizzo ignores me for a few long minutes after Rebecca leaves, before finally walking over with my company blouse in one of his hands. “A *good* female employee always does what she’s told with a smile. A *great* female employee goes out of her way to please her boss, without being told.” He hands my blouse back, watching as I slowly put it back on. “You did well and have earned back your right to wear the company logo. I hope you learned something about the type of employee you want to be, Krissy….”
***
A few weeks slip by. It mostly feels like a dream-state, where I’m barely existing in reality, but I have moments of cold clarity that make me wonder. I avoid being hit again after the first incident (after of which, once the workday ended, I immediately went out to buy a few different colored blouses and miniskirts in the attempt to please my boss).
But I start to notice things that I didn’t pay attention to before. Lucy is Mr. Rizzo’s personal assistant (doing whatever he needs in the moment)—and she goes into his office every morning after giving me my dose of water and shuts the door. Rebecca, his receptionist, goes into his office at the end of our work shift. I figure that a random girl goes into his office during lunch time, and my stomach twists at the memory of watching him get blown.
Part of me wonders why he never requests me. Am I too old—when he has exotic, young Lucy at his disposal? Am I not sexy enough, with big enough breasts, like busty Rebecca? Or would he go for it if I offered?
At night I’m horrified that I’ve had these questioning thoughts. Why should I care about any of that? I don’t want to be subjected to prostituting myself out for Mr. Rizzo’s approval or pleasure. I don’t even want this stupid job, and I’m fairly certain it’s making me sick, with as awful as I feel after work (my head ringing in pain, my mouth dry with an unquenchable thirst).
*But you always feel so good after you drink the special, hydrating water,* my mind whispers.
I jolt upright in bed. *That’s it! It’s the fucking water! They’re drugging me or something!*
A cold weight lodges in my gut. “Not anymore,” I whisper to myself, “I won’t drink the water anymore.”
***
“You have to drink it though,” Lucy says with a frown as I shake my head at her again. “We all drink it to stay fresh and hydrated!”
I’ve just refused it politely three times, and I can tell she’s starting to get flustered and irritated with me.
“Don’t make me get Mr. Rizzo, please,” she whispers.
“My stomach is truly off,” I tell her again. “I’ll just throw it up.”
“You won’t. It’s healing!”
She shoves the glass back into my face and this time I deliberately knock it out of her grasp.
“Ms. Winters!” She gasps, her pretty face reddening. “I’m sorry, but I must report you.”
She rushes off, and a moment later she reappears with Mr. Rizzo behind her, and a new glass of water.
“Lucy says you are refusing your morning water,” he says with a glare.
“I’m not feeling well.” It’s not a lie; my head is pounding, and I really do want to drink the addictive stuff, but I’m determined not to because I know it’s messing with me.
It has to be the reason that the days go by in a blur. It has to be the reason my breasts feel tender and sore all the time—almost like they are growing. It has to be the reason I’ve been constantly wet between the legs, my libido raging even though I normally never think about that stuff.
I won’t drink it anymore. I can’t, because I’m losing my mind.
“You will drink it. It will make you feel better,” Mr. Rizzo insists, taking the glass from Lucy and approaching me. He grabs my long blonde hair and wrenches my head back, pushing the cold rim of the glass against my lips. “Drink it.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he dumps a large portion in and I can’t help but to spit it back at him—directly into his angry face.
“That’s it!” he snarls, dropping the glass. He backhands me so hard that I see stars. “Noncompliance is one thing, but assaulting me is another! Female hysteria cannot be tolerated!”
“I’m not—” I gasp as he hits me again, my head rocking to the other side.
“You’ve lost clothing privileges. Strip now or I’ll call in the authorities—you’ll be terminated and jailed immediately.”
Cold terror goes through me. How did this situation escalate so fast? I can barely think, my head and heart pounding so hard that all I see is blurry light.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, pulling off my new, red blouse first (Lucy gave me a pin with the company logo to wear on it), and then only hesitating a fraction of a second before I pull off my skirt.
Shame burns through me. What was I thinking? I’m going to get locked up and Jennifer’s going to get taken away (especially now that there’s a law in place that restricts unmarried, young women from living with anyone but their legal guardians); she’ll be sent to a government home, which are horrible places I’ve heard, where she might be married off to an old man or sold into one of the new, legalized brothels or something.
“All of it, Krissy,” Mr. Rizzo snaps, shaking me.
I sob as I shakily pull off my bra and panties, my face hot and my stomach a ball of cold lead. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I can’t believe I’m being forced to strip nude in front of the entire office.
And it does seem like everyone is coming around to witness the event, many confused and interested faces popping out of the woodwork to see the show.
Mr. Rizzo grabs me and sits in the chair I was just seated in, yanking me over his lap. “This is what happens to those who display signs of hysteria! It won’t be tolerated here!”
I scream as his large hand connects hard with my ass, the jolting shock going all through me. He doesn’t stop at one strike, pummeling me again and again with sharp smacks that knock the wind out of me. Lucy looks down into my tear-streaked face with a creepy, satisfied smile.
*I can’t believe this is happening*, my mind blares, over and over. *Everyone is watching me—everyone thinks that I deserve this….*
Distantly, I can see myself through their eyes: my pale ass jiggling harshly with each blow, my breasts bouncing lewdly, my eyes wide and blank with panic because I know there’s no getting out of this unless I want to be fired and jailed.
Some of the men start to clap and holler appreciatively. One shouts, “I bet the frigid bitch is even getting wet off this! Show the old bag her place!”
Mr. Rizzo finally stops hitting me, his hand massaging my throbbing backside, squeezing the tender flesh until I wince. Then, he slips one of his fat fingers inside me.
*Oh my god—why?* my mind screams, as he wiggles it around in my pussy.
“She is wet, boys!” he calls out, sliding a second finger in and making me buck in uncomfortable pleasure. “And for that sign of compliance, she may remain employed here—if she apologizes and drinks the water.”
He pulls his violating hand away, then wipes off his wet fingers on my sore ass.
A part of me wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but I know I can’t do that, so I whisper, “I’m so sorry, sir. Please . . . I’ll drink the water. I’m sorry.”
Rebecca sidles up with a new glass. “Here,” she says.
Mr. Rizzo doesn’t even allow me to sit up to drink it, making me stay in place, splayed nude over his lap where I have to awkwardly twist to chug the bitter stuff. My headache instantly vanishes, but my humiliation does not, still burning hotly through me like lava.
I’m not allowed to wear clothes all day, but my duties shift from being a general office drone to Mr. Rizzo’s personal secretary (where he expects me to dictate his every phone call and meeting and smacks me for any sloppy writing or errors). The warmth inside my addled mind insists that what he’s doing is the right thing.
*He’s trying to keep you out of jail,* the pulsing warmth insists. *He cares about your future at ITR.*
“You’re lucky that I took a shine to you, all those years ago,” he admits, after doling out a series of smacks that sent my muzzy head reeling. “Normally I’d have let such a tiresome, combative harpy go. I trust that you won’t abuse my lenience with you . . . and that you’ll find some way to make it up to me.”
He gives me my clothes back at the end of the day, kicking me out of his office when Rebecca steps in with her flirtatious, “I’ve come to give you your farewell relief, sir!”
*You know what you need to do,* the warm thoughts pulse in my mind. *You need to really show him that you’re sorry. You need to show him that his efforts to reform you aren’t wasted—so that you don’t get thrown into the cruel jaws of the law.*
In a haze, I hole up in an empty office and write out a long apology letter, detailing all the things I did wrong and promising never to do them again. *I can be a good girl*, I insist through many different phrases, and then in the final sentences I state: *I know I’ve been unprofessional; I haven’t been a team player.* *I will make it up to you. Every morning, call on me. I will more than please you—eagerly and willingly. I will never make you doubt me again.*
***
Jennifer is horrified by all the marks on my face when I arrive home. “Oh God, mom! What happened to you?”
“Only what I deserve,” I tell her, pushing away when she tries to hug me. I’ll have to wear more makeup over the next few days, but it’s really not a big deal. “It’s nothing,” I assure my open-mouthed daughter.
Well, it is something, and deep down I know I should tell her that this isn’t how it’s supposed to be (and that she should *never* let herself be treated this way), but that feels all wrong, too. Because this *is* the way it is now, and if we want to survive, maybe we both better get used to it.
Besides, I’m intensely worried about how Mr. Rizzo will receive the letter I’d left for him. Will he accept my apology and be willing to let me make it up to him? Will he even want me in that way? Will he let me kneel before him tomorrow morning—so I can worship his cock—and tell him I’m sorry with my mouth the way a good girl truly should?
—————-
Thanks for reading! If you’d like to read the entire 25k word series now, [you can find it here :)](https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/57756?ref=WinwoodErotica)
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/zi01bj/feminist_corruption_water_2_m20sf38_milf_mind
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