Miss Renfield's Last Day

NOTE: Thanks for choosing my

2022 On The Job

entry! My advance apologies, because this story is a buffet of categories: Humor, Erotic Encounters, Non-Human, Mind Control, Sci-Fi Fantasy, Romance, Horror... it also makes fun of corporations and the stupidity of office life. Just go with it a while and see where it takes you. Let me know what category you think it should be in a comment - even if you have to invent a category! Readers' comments are great and help me to become a better writer.

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This is normal. This all perfectly acceptable. If I think there is anything wrong with this, then there is something wrong with me.

I repeated the HR training mantra in my head as I waited for the breathing, food and waste tubes to disconnect from my body and the walls of my hive slot to constrict and squirt my body out into the thrall preparation room. Time felt different in the hive when I was awake. It seemed like an eternity, waiting and staring at the yellow-brown walls inside of my stretchy, curved, tube-like enclosure. The mantra helped to keep me calm. I had been awakening before the tubes released me for about a week now, which was confusing and stressful. For some reason, I dreamed that I was sleeping in a bed... in a room... which was weird. Why would a thrall do that? A hive was far more efficient and hygienic. Why would they waste a whole room on one sleeping thrall? So strange.

I waited in the yellow-brown tube, wondering when I would be excreted out. When I was, I would get up and follow the other thralls to the area where I would be dressed in a blouse, skirt, stockings and heels. That was my uniform.

Thralls all wore different uniforms, depending on their roles at the Corporation. Garbage Thralls wore blue jumpsuits because they were flexible and strong, good for lifting and bending. Their jumpsuits were also disposable because the smell of the drained bodies they carried couldn't be washed out. Nobody likes a stinky thrall.

Blood Thralls wore jumpsuits that had holes at the neck and arms. Blood Thralls' clothes were dark red so that any stains wouldn't show after they had been fed upon. Stains don't look nice. Blood Thralls served drinks to 10-15 employees of the Corporation each day and then they rested. Blood Thralls needed a red blood cell count of 4-6 million red blood cells per microliter, cholesterol between 125-200mg per deciliter, excellent coagulation, and appropriate levels of high-density and low-density lipids. Blood Thralls were not allowed to drink alcohol or take any medications or drugs. I think that was why their uniform also covers their mouth. I suppose the mouth covering also makes them quieter, too. You can barely hear a sound when a Blood Thrall is being fed upon... even the children. This is normal. This is all perfectly acceptable. If I think there is anything wrong with this, then there is something wrong with me.

I have heard that somewhere in the Corporation, there are Sex Thralls and they don't wear anything but their collars. I don't know if that's true or just a rumor, but I suppose it makes sense. All thralls wear collars. They say that Sex Thralls also carry backpacks full of things that are used for sex. Plus, lots of wet wipes. I suppose that makes sense, too. Good hygiene is important. I feel like I should know more about sex. I must not need it for my duties. I am curious, though. If I ever see a Sex Thrall, I will ask them how they sex.

I don't carry wet wipes. I don't carry bodies. I don't deliver drinks of blood. When Mr. Durant rescued me and delivered me to HR and told them I was a suicide, they gave me a thrall career assessment and then I was trained and fitted with a collar and made into an Assistant Thrall to Mr. Durant. I wear skirts and blouses and stockings and heels... but not jackets. I don't know why thralls don't wear jackets.

They say that I did well in the trainings, but I don't remember them. The only person in the corporation who did better than I did in the trainings was Miss Rigby, Mr. Durant's Minion. Miss Rigby is very good at her job. She has been a Minion to Mr. Durant for almost 1000 years. Miss Rigby pledged herself to Mr. Durant's family in the Dark Ages and takes great pride in her work. That's why they let her live that long. I'm not as good at my job as Miss Rigby is, but I hope I will get better with experience, like she did. It would be good not to die because I wasn't good enough at my job.

At least, I had figured out the SharePoint. Nobody else at the Corporation understands the SharePoint. The Corporation's SharePoint was designed by "Rage Demons From Hell" who, according to their company's mission statement, were "unceasingly bent upon the fiery destruction of the Corporation." Despite this, and because they were also the vendor with the lowest bid, Sourcing gave them the contract to design the SharePoint. The Rage Demons laughed evilly the whole time they created it. They laughed evilly when it went live. They laughed even more evilly after they were paid. I guess Rage Demons like to laugh.

Thralls don't laugh. We focus on our duties. I had a dream that I was laughing, once. It didn't seem to have a purpose. The laughter was just noisy, and shook me, and made my eyes leak, and eventually it made my tummy hurt. Such a strange dream. I was scared when I woke up after that dream. I felt like something might be wrong with me... like something might be wrong with the whole world. But, then I remembered that the world was normal. The world was perfectly acceptable. If I thought anything was wrong with the world, then there was something wrong with me. I didn't want there to be something wrong with me, so that dream of laughter was forgotten... except when it didn't want to be forgotten.

I prefer to have awake dreams. I can choose those. I have the awake dreams when Mr. Durant doesn't need me to do things for him, like hold his coat up, while he slowly puts his long arms into the sleeves and then he turns around and faces me. His face is so close to mine when he turns, but I don't look at his face. I looked up at his face once and then he sighed and looked around the room like he was in a hurry. When I don't look at his face, though, Mr. Durant looks at my face.

I like it when Mr. Durant looks at my face, so instead, I look at his collar and lapels and his tie and his vest. I check all of them to make sure they are straight. I do it very slowly and carefully. I like feeling his eyes on me when I do this. I like the feel of his suit when it brushes the soft skin under my forearms. It makes the blood go into my cheeks when we're so close like that, even if I'm just looking at his clothes. Then, Mr. Durant quietly laughs, and smooths my hair away from my face with his gentle, long-fingered hand. I don't know how my hair gets messed up every time I help Mr. Durant with his coat, but it does.

After Mr. Durant goes away, wearing the coat that I held for him, I like to sit at my desk and have an awake dream. My favorite dream is when he calls me into his office and asks me to help him with something on the SharePoint, and when I come to his desk and show him, I'll feel his hand lightly brush the back of my knee. It tickles and I want to squirm, but I don't. I don't wiggle or act like I noticed it at all, because then he would stop. If I hold still and stay quiet, he continues. He brushes his long beautiful fingers higher and higher up the inside of my leg until he reaches the top of my stockings and then I feel him touch my skin. My voice quavers when he reaches my skin, but I have to keep talking as if nothing is happening, or he will stop and I don't want him to stop. I never want him to stop. I never want him to stop touching me.

One day, Mr. Durant returned to the office when I was in the middle of an awake dream because he had forgotten something. In my awake dream, his fingers had just reached the soft, warm, wet place between my legs, and I shuddered in pleasure, but then I noticed Mr. Durant was leaning in the doorway staring at me. He looked almost as if he knew exactly what I had been awake dreaming.

The blood went to my cheeks again, and I sat up straight and typed my password into my computer to unlock the screen and do my work. It didn't work, though, because I typed the password wrong. Mr. Durant walked up to my desk and stood directly in front of me, watching me with a strange smile on his face. I tried typing my password again, and got it wrong again. By this time, I was sweating too much and breathing too much and blinking too much. Then, with a voice that sounded like forgotten laughter, Mr. Durant leaned down over my desk and told me which keys to press, one by one, and I obeyed him and I finally got my password right. It was strange, though, because I never told Mr. Durant my password. We're not supposed to tell anyone our passwords. I said "Thank you, Mr. Durant."

He smiled like I had said something funny and said, "No, thank *you,* Miss Renfield," before he went to his office and took something off his desk and left to his meeting. Sometimes, I think Mr. Durant might be able to read my mind. I hope he wasn't upset that I was awake dreaming. I need to get better at my job. I'm pretty sure Miss Rigby never has awake dreams.

I sighed with relief when I felt the hive begin to move. Soon, each level of stacked thralls would be detached from their tubes and excreted onto the preparation floor, one level at a time. I stayed curled on my side with my head tucked in, as my row lowered to the excretion level. The breathing tube retracted from deep inside my throat and I took a deep breath and coughed a little. The food tubes disconnected from my arms and liquid skin was painted over the vein holes they left. The waste cup over my urethra pulled away, and then I shivered with anticipation because the best tube removal was next. A thrall's life has few pleasures, but the daily removal of the long waste tube in our rectum was near the top of that short list. It made me shiver and even moan sometimes when I felt it slide out of me. It didn't feel as good when it was pushed inside me each night, but I liked how full it made me feel. Sometimes the insertion even hurt, especially if I wasn't relaxed. Today, the tube made a funny noise as it was being sucked out of my body, like it was damaged. I hoped it was okay. I would miss the waste tube if it wasn't there. When it was gone, my bottom was cleaned and panties were sprayed onto me.

The walls of my slot began squeezing on me and pushing me out. What was strange, this time, was that it hurt. My body had never hurt when the slot excreted me before, but today, there were all kinds of tender places on my back and hips and even on my neck. I got up from the preparation floor and put my hands on the sore places on my body. They still hurt, even after I rubbed them. It was very confusing. Maybe this is what the Corporation's employees called a "rough night."

I turned around to greet the Delivery Thrall that had the slot next to mine. I liked her because she told me the funny things that happened each day when she delivered packages. Her uniform was brown like the boxes she carried. Sometimes we would brush our hands together through the pliable slot membrane walls before the hive put us to sleep. It was nice. Sometimes, when I awoke before the tubes released us, I would reach over and touch her hand through the wall, even though she was still asleep. I felt less alone when I touched her hand.

When I turned around, I didn't see my hive neighbor's face, though. My neighbor's face was still on the floor. It wasn't moving. Her body had many places that looked tender and were black or purple colored. Some of her body's other parts were bloody or the wrong shape. Sometimes thralls died in the hive. That was normal. Lately, many thralls near my slot had been dying. That was perfectly acceptable.

The blood that had come out of my neighbor's hive slot dripped down through the grate on the floor so that it wouldn't form a blood puddle. A blood puddle was slippery and could harm an employee of the Corporation that was walking by, if it made them fall. Employee safety was important. This is normal. This is all perfectly acceptable. If I think anything is wrong with this, then there is something wrong with me.

I was dressed in my uniform, and had my hair put into the right places, and joined the line of thralls going to the elevators. As I stood, I noticed that my body still hurt in the places I touched when inside my hive slot. The places on my body that hurt were the places that were next to my old neighbor's hive slot. Maybe my neighbor had the "rough night" and I had a "next to a rough night." That must be what happened.

I moved to my place at the back of the elevator. I was at the back because I got off the elevator last. Mr. Durant's office was on the top floor of the Corporation's building. The thrall hives were almost at the bottom of the building, so I got to see almost every department of the Corporation as the elevator went up.

One floor up from the Hive was the HR department. I don't know what HR means, but I once heard someone call them the "Livestock Management" department. So, maybe HR means "herd regulation," then. That is where thralls go for their collars and training. Thralls don't work at HR, though. Only witches work at HR. First, the HR Witches put the collars on the thralls, and then they squish them into the training caskets for hours and hours and hours and hours. The training caskets used to be called Iron Maidens, but then the Branding Department changed the name because the term "training caskets" fit the Corporation's culture better. It's a lot of work to make sure you're using the right terms from the Branding Department. Even Mr. Durant gets the terms wrong, sometimes.

When a thrall gets out of the training casket, they don't remember anything from their life before being a thrall and they are fully trained to do their duties. The newly trained thralls also can't speak very well, because the training casket molds the thrall's head into shape until it's stuck into a smiling face. That's how you can tell when a thrall needs to get their training refreshed, because the smile on their face will start to sag. The HR Witches smile all the time, even though they don't use the training caskets, themselves. They just smile and smile and smile. I think they just like their jobs.

The next 100 floors of the Corporation are dedicated to Customer Service and Surveys. Customer Service is full of thralls who play instruments and have student loans or credit card debt to pay. The Corporation cares very much about the customers' calls and so the Customer Service employees answer the calls and then play classical music to keep them happy. I heard, once, that when the customer has listened to classical music for 45 minutes, if you tell them that their business is very important to you, they will fall asleep. Sleeping people are happy. I should try saying that the next time I awaken in my hive slot before the tubes release.

The next 50 floors are for Middle Management. The Middle Managers are for educated thralls that devote the rest of their life to the Corporation and begin to lose their hair. Middle Managers write reports about the numbers that come from Sales, Customer Service, and Surveys. They are also responsible for explaining trends and creating acronyms. One time, a whole floor of Middle Managers was wiped out in a mass erotic-asphyxia incident. Nobody really noticed, though, until someone asked what the acronym "SPHUNKTER" actually stood for. Then they found the managers. After that, Branding said we just shouldn't say SPHUNKTER anymore.

The next floors up are for Executive Management. Executives are not thralls anymore. They have committed their souls to the Corporation and accepted the unholy incentive compensation package of blood-drinking immortality. When they become Executives, their hair grows back, too. They are tall and fit and write PowerPoint decks and give presentations to each other in conference rooms. The Executives that are not presenting their PowerPoints will look inscrutable and say things that sound like they should mean something. Then, after the presentations are done, they all lean back and try to read each others' minds until the meeting ends. When Executives aren't in conference rooms, they try to kill other Executives by trapping them into "untenable positions." I don't know what that means, but it must involve a ladder, because they say Executive Management is where scary people climb the ladder to the C-Level. I don't know why they don't just take the elevator.

The C-Level are "Officers" and they care about the Corporation's culture, but not until the Executives send up the strategy plans to the Drucker break room, and then the Officers eat the strategy for breakfast. I don't know why. Maybe the fiber helps. The Officers don't have to try to kill each other anymore, and they are a little less hungry than the Executives. They usually are talking about filings worrying about what the board will say about them.

Then, at last, the elevator doors open onto the top floor of the building. That is where I sit at one of the two desks in the entryway to Mr. Durant's office. Miss Rigby sits at the other desk.

I slid into my seat quietly and started up my computer to see Mr. Durant's schedule for the day. He had a meeting in his office, this morning, so I would need to prepare everything I would need to serve to them, but not until Mr. Durant arrived and I took his coat. I would never want to miss taking his coat.

"Good morning, Miss Rigby," I called over to her empty desk.

A large file drawer next to Miss Rigby's desk rolled open and she rose stiffly from it, smoothing her tweed suit into place and sitting down at her desk opposite me. Ever since we converted all our files to cloud storage, Miss Rigby had taken to sleeping in her file drawer so that she could be ready in case Mr. Durant ever came into the office at night. I don't think Mr. Durant has ever come to the office at night, but Miss Rigby wanted to be ready, in case he ever did. She wore her tweed suit all the time, now, because it never wrinkled when you slept in a drawer and also because Mr. Durant had once complimented her on it. Do you see why Miss Rigby is so good at her job?

"Greetings, fair favored one. Tenebrio molitor?" she offered, holding up her dish of freeze-dried mealworms to me. "Master's sweet servant is pale this morning. The blood needs iron. Perhaps some locusta migratoria?" she asked, pulling a bag of locusts from an assortment of edible insects the other file drawer. Miss Rigby believed in the insects-as-food movement and always had lots of nutritional information about them. She shook the bag of crunchy carapaces temptingly.

I was not tempted. "That's very kind, but no thank you, Miss Rigby. My blood was nourished in the hive," I replied. Miss Rigby always offers me some of her bugs. I eat them sometimes, because it seems to make her happy, but I always feel a bit nauseous afterward. I don't think thralls are supposed to eat food.

"Master's sweet servant is not falling ill, is she? Master will be most distressed..." Miss Rigby said, petting my cheek and looking closely at my face while her mouth was crunching on her mealworm breakfast. I liked it better when Mr. Durant looked at my face than when Miss Rigby did. Mr. Durant didn't eat mealworms.

"And why would I be distressed, Miss Rigby?" Mr. Durant rich voice said, as he walked off the elevator, making the room come alive.

"Master's fair favored one is looking peaked this morning, Master. I offered her nourishing locusts, but she resists. Make her eat some, Master, ere she perishes!" Miss Rigby rasped, as I reached up and carefully removed his coat from his shoulders.