Advanced Office Management Sills

"Good morning, Mr. Harding!"

"G'morning, Miss Thatcher."

Regan still couldn't quite believe her good luck. Here she was, just finished a six-month certification course--"Executive Assistance/Office Management"--and, at only nineteen years old, she'd landed the perfect job. She had been hired by thirty-seven year old Trent Harding as his PA /receptionist / office manager. Harding was a freelance human resources troubleshooter, who contracted out to small to medium-sized businesses, solving personnel and workplace problems through, among other methods, mediation, negotiation, or arbitration. He was very successful.

Regan watched, all doey-eyed, as her boss disappeared into his office. "Gad!" she hissed under her breath, "he is such a hunk!" A bright red flush suddenly rose over her face radiating waves of heat, as she felt her pussy juices let down, dampening--or, rather, soaking the crotch of her panties. Pressing her knees together to stem the flow, she tittered in embarrassment. "Oh, please don't let it soak through my skirt!" She abruptly stood, ostensibly to adjust the hang of her skirt, while allowing the excess nectar to overflow her sodden underwear and dribble down her inner thighs. "OMG!" she gasped as she checked the back of her skirt before sitting again, heaving a deep sigh of relief.

That Regan was completely ga-ga over her boss was a situation that was completely obvious to everyone but her. She allowed herself to believe that she simply harboured a deep appreciation for such an ideal specimen of the species as Trent Harding represented, but there was nothing so extreme in her feelings towards her boss that would be considered infatuation. "That's silly! I mean he's my boss, already!"

Very quickly Trent had grown quite fond of her. Despite being innocence personified, she was, in many ways, quite sharp--a quick study in terms of the office routines, expectations, and needs. And right from the start, Trent treated her with the utmost respect--much like an older brother might--with fairness, consideration and kindness; listening to her ideas and concerns, offering advice and instruction thoughtfully and sparingly.

Regan welcomed his attention, though, truth be told, she suspected some of their interaction might be considered a little inappropriate, by some people--but not her; she reveled in it! And responded with a little targeted flirting of her own.

Trent realized Regan was developing a teenage crush on him. For how could he not? And he, just for fun he told himself, didn't discourage her. Nevertheless, he trod very lightly--even as he started consciously, and conscientiously, praising her performance at every legitimate opportunity. Things like: "I don't remember if I said it already, but that cover letter was perfect," or "Great job straightening out--organizing--the files." And Trent was gratified to note that Regan beamed with pride at every acknowledgement of a job well done, and was soon anticipating tasks without being asked. "Good idea, Miss Thatcher," was all the positive reinforcement she needed, as she quickly became an integral cog in Trent's business machine.

And she just glowed at every compliment, and recognition of a contribution to the efficient operation of the business. "Excellent work there, Kiddo--Rearranging the office furniture," or streamlining this process or that.

"Thank you, Mr. Harding," she'd mutter, dropping her eyes in a futile attempt to conceal her flushed cheeks.

Regan never felt that any of his frequent praise was condescending--"Thatta girl."--nor that his requests were often rather passive-aggressive--thinly disguised commands--"You wouldn't mind..." getting or doing this or that, "...would you." A statement rather than a question. "There's a good girl." In her mind it was not so much blind obedience, for she didn't feel at all subservient. "I don't simply do what I'm told, like a young child." Her self-talk was, at least, convincing to herself. "It's my job," she, invariably--and patiently--explained to herself. "I was hired to make Mr. Harding's life simpler. If I just comply, immediately and without discussion, it pleases him--and that pleases me."

Then one day, after Regan had been there five or so weeks, and was comfortably settled in, as Trent sat admiring her--both her work-ethic and her nubile, innocent beauty--he decided to share the details of his good fortune with a friend. So, sitting at his desk, during a lull in his immediate business, he placed a call to Marcel Goodwin, his former classmate and colleague from Grad-School. "Hey, Bud. Haven't spoken for a bit. How's it hangin'?"

"Okay. What's new?"

Trent looked around, checking that Regan was not anywhere within ear-shot, before replying, conspiratorially, "I recently hired a young office manager / personal assistant."

"No way. How's that working out?"

"Oh, she's great!" Very efficient, and...." He let it hang for a moment, watching Regan surreptitiously--and appreciatively--across the office, as she worked diligently at her desk, before going on, "cuter than a bug's ear. A very yummy, naïve bit of nineteen-year-old crumpet."

"You old dog, you! Have you tapped her yet?"

"Not yet. Gonna hafta be very careful entering that minefield! Know what I mean?"

And that, in turn, jogged Goodwin's memory, bringing to mind a thought experiment they had devised together in grad-school.

"Hey.... Remember that brainwashing program we devised that last year at school? The mind control/conditioning-system experiment that we never actually got to try out?"

"Vaguely, yeah."

"Oh. Come on...," Goodwin whined, stretching it out like an impatient child urging his nanny to remember something he though was important. "You remember; a kind of a mind control/conditioning experiment?"

Back in the day, when they were both working on their Doctorates in Psychology, Marcel Goodwin and Trent Harding, had spent more than a few evenings discussing and debating the ideas of brainwashing and hyper-suggestibility--usually in the dimness of the Student Union Pub, after several pints. The upshot of those initially frivolous discussions was that a sort of deep hypnosis--a system of implementing deeper and deeper trances--just might be possible.

"It would be interesting to see," Trent had mused, "just how far one might be able to take the subject out beyond their comfort zone."

"Ya," Marcel agreed, "with the incrementally slow, gentle introduction of cues to increasingly uncharacteristic behaviours, outrageous suggestions--for lack of a better term, could we turn a 'good girl' into a slut?" They had shared a chuckle at the unspoken assumption that the subject would, of course, be a young woman.

"Yeah. It's coming back to me, now. We even gave it a title; something cheesy, like... Oh, what was it? It's on the tip of my tongue! Oh, yeah," Trent's recollection, slowly rose, like a forensic fingerprint. "Classically Conditioned."

While the project design gradually took shape, life--real life--interceded and they had never actually tried it out, before it faded into vague memories, overrun for both by graduation and careers. But now, many years later, the memories began to surface, and over the next few weeks, both Harding and Goodwin, began to mull over the idea, so that, next time they spoke, it was a hot topic of conversation.

During the interceding time--between phone calls--both of them dug through their boxes of saved University mementos. Trent amazed himself by actually finding a copy of the project. Flipping through the pages, he was surprised at how detailed and complete the so-called syllabus was. It was even titled: A Syllabus to Sexualizing Office Assistance; Using Deep Hypnosis Techniques. Mind you, Harding thought as he perused it all those years later, the document seemed more of a How-To Manual than a syllabus; set up, as it were, in: Sections--beginning with introductory activities designed to promote concentration and focus on the sexual aspects of all things; Chapters--grouped, associated topics; Lessons--more focused topics; including sample lesson plans; and Sessions--estimated number of sessions needed to thoroughly cover each lesson.

It had been printed, spring-bound--and forgotten. Even originally, they had suspected that the project wouldn't work on just anyone. "The ideal subject," Goodwin proposed, "would be a relatively young, inexperienced girl--woman, if you will--eager to please, and... who is, most importantly, a latent submissive." Harding's eyes settled on his cute, young employee, working diligently just outside his office door.

Regan, bless her innocent heart, knew nothing about the sexual interplay between dominance and submission--between dominants and submissives; hence, she'd never, ever thought of herself as submissive. Harding did, though; and that could, quite possibly, make her the ideal target--it would certainly make her conditioning much easier.

"But, could I actually do that to her?" Harding asked himself. Then, knowingly rationalizing, even if it doesn't work, "What harm will it cause?" Observing her with an affectionate objectivity, as she buzzed around the office, working diligently, he suddenly decided. "WTF! Why not? I can always shut 'er down, if I don't like the direction things are going." He didn't, however, share that decision with Goodwin. He'd, first of all, see how it went for a bit.

It occurred to him that the best approach might be to seduce her into seducing me. "If I play hard to get. And remain patient enough, I can, probably, get her to--that is, let her believe she's coming on to me, not the other way around."

And so, Trent Harding began: simply, initially, praising Regan at every legitimate opportunity; giving her responsibilities, and valuing her input--generally building her self-image. While that, on its own was reasonable enough, his true colours were never far below the surface.

Trent had accepted long ago that he was, and always had been, if not an actual sociopath, a generally unscrupulous character; therefore, he found it very easy to convince Regan that hypnosis might--very likely would--improve her business acumen. He suggested, somewhat casually, that they should try it--to see if he couldn't hypnotize her. Just as he had expected, her romantic crush on him made her an ideal subject. In short order, he began practicing hypnotism on her, and feeding her small, but cumulative post-hypnotic suggestions. They progressed fairly quickly--and eminently successfully--to true deep hypnosis.

During some of his other experiences with therapeutic hypnosis, Harding had been very impressed with the startlingly effective results of using music as a trigger. He began to consider--devise situations in this, his current project, in which musical triggers might be appropriate, even more efficient. So, once she was used to being hypnotized, and, indeed, fell easily into a trance, Harding introduced his first musical trigger. He decided on Mars the Bringer of War; a movement from The Planets by Holst, and contrived to use it to have his subject--in this case, Regan--to smoothly slip back into her deep hypnotic trance.

When she emerged from the trance she felt a sort of latent joy, the source of which she could not quite put her finger on. The mysterious echoes of ecstasy translated to a pleasure center association in her brain; one that she wanted to experience again and again.

Over the course of the next several months--actual conditioning is a long, drawn-out process--Harding slowly, gently, but inexorably conditioned, or, more precisely, brainwashed Regan, his young, naïve employee. Given her age and latent infatuation, she turned out to be extremely susceptible to hypnosis--especially hypnosis by her crush.

Through a complex mix of deep hypnotic suggestions and post-hypnotic prompts, Harding had Regan gleefully believing that it was herself that was coming up with the outrageous and lascivious innuendo and suggestive jokes, all in order to impress Trent, her boss, and garner his attention.

It is a known truth that one cannot, even employing deep hypnosis, make a subject do things that would blatantly violate their personal ethics--their own fundamental understanding of right and wrong. However, one can intensely associate pleasure-centre stimuli with certain behaviours and experiences, leading the subject to accept, wholesale, the premise that something that feels so good can't be bad.

"Regan, could you come into my office for a sec, dear?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Harding." She beamed as he asked her to close the door behind her.

"Listen to this, eh," and Mars the Bringer of War came on without warning--loud and imperiously. The sudden blank smile, vacancy in her gaze, and glaze over her eyes indicated--clearly, to Trent--that she was, once again in a deep trance and securely under his manipulative control.

Employing the initial, classical trigger to do exactly what he wanted it to do, Trent efficiently put Regan back into her hyper-receptive state.

Now he could begin planting his post-hypnotic suggestions in earnest, beginning with the most innocuous, least outrageous responses--such as controlling the way she dressed. "There is a Dress-code spectrum. "Harding suggested, making up shit as he went along. "Starting with frumpy and conservative, then running through liberal, carefree, suggestive, blatant, tartish, trashy, and finally, slutty and outrageous." He paused, watching her. Letting the ideas sink into her well of suggestibility, before continuing. "Where you generally fit in that hierarchy tells a lot about you. Whether you know it or not, you have the body and the self-confidence to make 'slutty' acceptable--'outrageous', simply daring."

And progressing unthreateningly: a simple peck on the cheek, which naturally evolved into a friendly buzz on the lips. Gradually, these responses became increasingly passionate, evolving, as it were, to hot, smoking smooches--and touches.

It was all, from Trent's point of view, instruction; and from Regan's entranced understanding, physical demonstration of how to respond to certain post-hypnotic 'suggestions'. Teaching his darling subject the finer points of making-out, was a delight. Soon Harding had the waking Regan attacking him like a teenager in the back seat of her boyfriend's Dad's car--parked in Lovers'-Lane, under a full moon!

Admittedly on perhaps the opposite end of the spectrum, Trent suggested something novel--something he thought would be new to Regan's inexperienced sexuality. "You know, Regan, dear, if you ever get horny while you're by yourself, you can always soothe your horniness with just a bit of self-stimulation. Here, let me show you."

He reached in, without looking--keeping his eyes locked on hers, and begins to play with her nipples--flicking them; caressing them; gently rubbing--up and down, back and forth, lazily circling them.

"Now, you try." Regan copied what Harding had done but seemed rather tentative--and mechanical. "How 'bout a bit more force? Rougher--more positive. Flick, and pinch, and twist. Don't hold back!"

Trent watched with smug satisfaction as, even through the fabric of her top and bra, her arousal became evident. Her buds stiffened steadily, pushing against her blouse in an obvious high-beam.

Generally, as she emerged from her hypnotic trance, she couldn't quite explain the sense of euphoria she felt--ecstatic in her acceptance of post hypnotic suggestions; usually, she was virtually overcome by the burgeoning rapture she repeatedly experienced. So it was a surprise to her, one time, when--her cheeks flushed and her breath became ragged, Harding abruptly yelled, "Stop!"

Holding her gaze, he thought he detected a glimmer of disappointment sweep past her eyes, in the moment before she dropped her hands, and stared vacantly at Trent's face, once again.

Bringing her out of a deep trance required some, what Harding called 'Surfacing Protocol', rather Like shutting down a computer. With no recollection of anything that happened while she was 'under', Regan generally awoke bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; however, this time she felt marginally dissatisfied--without knowing why.

During their next hypnotic session, a few days later, Harding purred, "I think we need to ditch your bra, Regan, m'dear." Reaching around to unclasp it, he maneuvered it out from under her top--a skill he had learned from an early girlfriend, and which had served him well many times since. "Actually, a young beauty such as yourself with such pert little tits can, I think, dispense with a bra altogether--here at work, in any case. Fact is: I, personally, can see no circumstances where a bra might be necessary for you. Without your bra adding another, unnecessary layer, you can fiddle with your nipples more effectively through your blouse, while still protecting your modesty--as required."

"See here," Trent pointed out, quietly, grasping and mauling and manipulating her tits, through the fine material of her top. "Doesn't that feel a whole lot better?"

Then, suddenly dropping her unsupported boobs, Trent took hold of her hands and placed them on her chest, cupping a breast with each. "Here, you do it. Like I just showed you. Do what I did that felt good--that felt the best." Trent pulled her in close, holding her focus with his probing eyes, with his hands holding her firmly on either side of her rib-cage.

"Play with your nipples. Play hard!" Keeping her entranced gaze locked on his, Regan's twiddling at her own nubs increased--just as her breathing became increasingly rapid and breathier. "That' it. You can induce your own arousal--and keep your climax on standby, without exposing yourself." Eyes glazed, Regan watched herself, dream-like, initially detached, but with rapidly blossoming arousal.

"When circumstances allow, you can reach under your top." Trent gently batted away Regan's busy hands as he spoke--softly purring. "Stop for a sec. Here, let me show you;" and he proceeded to smoothly slide his hands up under her top, covering her tits. "Then you can stimulate your bare nipples--like this.!" Maintaining firm eye-contact, he went on into a long, relentless demo--"Gawd! She's got the nicest bubbies I can ever remember fondling!" Eventually, though, he had to stop, and let her practice, encouraging her to copy his demo.

"You may even attain an orgasm this way. Look at you: body trembling, breath ragged, cheeks flushed. You're certainly 'getting' yur motor racin'' right now!" Harding abruptly dropped the tease from his voice, and with a totally serious tone cruelly ordered Regan to stop. "We've got work to do. Give me your complete attention." And, with that, he talked her back into her deepest trance before releasing her.

As she came out from under the trance, Trent smiled and asked, "How do you feel?"

As was often the case, coming out of the trance, Regan, once again, found herself filled with an oddly puzzling sense of euphoria. "Good, good!" Although, for some odd reason this time she felt just a tad frustrated.

"Ready to get to work?"

With a cheery smile, nonetheless, Regan replied, "Yes, yes!"

It was very, very--extremely slow-going, just as Harding knew it would be--scripting and sculpting responses; setting the subconscious cues, and practicing them, all without the awareness of the subject--the target! Harding knew from the start that he would have to resist the urge to hurry. These things take time; especially if the desired responses, and the subtle behavioural changes that facilitated them were to become permanent-second nature. That those changes were incrementally steady was encouraging--very encouraging!

Eventually, Miss Thatcher's--Regan's--conditioning had succeeded in making her, more or less, amenable to pretty much anything her boss might suggest. It was at that point Harding started fiddling with outcomes, and possibilities. He introduced a second musical trigger--the guitar solo[s] from Dogs, off Pink Floyd's Animals album [Incidentally, certainly one of the most under-rated albums ever!]. The conditioned responses to that trigger were that the subject--our dear, dear Regan--would become very, extremely horny, AND very suggestible to any sexual activity.