Advanced Office Management Skills

"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.

For example: playing the trigger loudly over the intercom, just before speaking, Trent said, "Miss Thatcher, I have a job for you, so please bring your naked boobs into my office." Regan unbuttoned her blouse and folded the lapels back, exposing her luscious tits as she rose and entered Trent's office.

"Yes, Mr. Harding?"

Trent beckoned her to stand close next to him and proceeded to maul her marvelous mams, as he explained what documents he wanted, and what he wanted done with them. As much as she tried to stand still, while he paused now and then to suck and nibble her exposed and erect nipples, she couldn't help but respond to the relentless stimulation. Regan's body began to visibly tremble as Harding raised her arousal like the conductor of an exciting concerto. Having completed his request, her instruction, even to the point of having her repeat it back to him, Harding sent her back to work at her desk.

As she sat, Regan gave a cursory glance about to make sure no one was too obviously watching her--she didn't notice her boss peering at her intently through a slit in the venetians. He smiled to himself, thinking about how much closer he was getting to the grand prize, as his assistant took her own nips in hand and, pulling and pinching and twisting them surprisingly roughly, brought herself to a quietly stifled orgasm.

Not so very much later, while surreptitiously observing his PA, Harding saw her casually drop one hand from quietly twiddling her tits, to weaseling it under the waistband of her skirt, then struggle slightly with the ingress into her panties. Once in, she pulled her hand tight up into the vee of her thighs. Her apparently successful finger-fucking masturbation was evidenced by her wheezing, huffing breath, and her twitching and stiffening body.

Trent praised her for taking to calmly working at pleasuring herself--dancing her own fingers, when she was alone, along her very own pussy-slit, and twiddling her clit. Finger-fucking herself, with only the slightest bit of practice, she was able to quickly get herself off.

Still, shortly after that, while Regan was back in her very suggestible trance, Harding suggested that she really needn't wear panties while in the office. On waking from her hypnosis, Regan 'thought' she's just had this splendid idea, and considered her bare pussy a lovely inside-joke. Twittering with titillation, she decided not to tell Trent, but rather let him discover it himself.

The Pink Floyd musical trigger was like Pavlov's bell. While Pavlov's dog was conditioned to salivate, and expect food, Regan was conditioned to become incredibly aroused and irresistibly horny--and accepting of, indeed, expecting any and all manner of sexual activity. She would suddenly find herself deliriously happy to please, and more than eager to cum. Harding had her program the Pink Floyd trigger as the ring-tone on her cellphone, hence, she was very often "unexplainably" horny

Harding wasn't sure if it was a manifestation of his own impatience or a natural, logical acceleration of the process, but whatever it was, more and more often, Trent would find himself, pulling his sweet PA back into a trance by calling her into his office while playing Holst, the classical trigger, at a fairly high volume. He could, then, introduce a new behavioural response. And her learned responses seemed to grow in intensity, lasting longer or getting stronger between trances. In fact, it seemed to Trent that her fundamental character was actually undergoing apparently permanent changes. But, hey, he figured change was good--for the most part, anyway.

For example, when cocksucking had been the next step on the schedule--the next heading in the syllabus, as it were, Trent had not beat about the bush in getting her started. He brought her out of full trance, as he often did, early in the session, so that she could more fully appreciate the content of the lesson.

"Regan, do you know what fellatio is?" he had asked, as soon as Regan went under.

"No. Not really. Is it putting a penis in your mouth?"

"Cock. Remember, not penis."

"Wha...?" Regan looked confused.

"A penis is what a guy pees with. When we're talking sex, we call it a cock. And putting it in your mouth is called cocksucking." Nodding, Regan indicated that she understood--though Trent wasn't actually convinced that she did--at least, not fully. "Do you know what a blowjob is?"

"Is it when you... Is it cocksucking a hard pe... cock? When he has an erection?"

"Good! That's almost correct. Technically, it's not a blowjob until he cums--ejaculates in your mouth." Trent, then, hit a button on the laptop, playing the Pink Floyd trigger. Regan immediately surfaced--bright and cheery, and receptive--ready to follow all her boss's directions. Harding calmly and deliberately, began to instruct her in the art of giving blowjobs, following the guidelines as laid out in the rediscovered deep hypnosis program--with frequent hands-on demonstration.

Crouching between his legs, with him standing, or kneeling between his splayed knees. (He had her practice both approaches, punctuating each with a wet kiss of introduction on the tip of his hard-on.) At the end of their first session, Harding was almost painfully rigid, and so impatiently twitching, that he just 'suggested' Regan finish him off with a hand-job. Staying on her knees between his, Regan paused just for the slightest moment then reached out, licked her lips, and took his wobbling, straining erection in her hand, gripping it firmly. He blew his wad on her second stroke. The initial spurt surprised her, getting her in the face, in fact, she exploded in orgasm the moment his come splashed on her cheeks. While quaking and shaking through her climax, she flinched back to avoid getting a full facial, then tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to catch one of the subsequent shots in her mouth. The rest fell back onto her still stroking hand, and ran down his stiffie, to puddle in his pubic beard.

"Well, that's as good a place to conclude this lesson." He then gently brought her out of her trance. He was amazed at how well she participated while under the hypnotic spell. During the following sessions he taught her to round her lips and mind her teeth. Slowly, gently, he eventually had her pushing over his cockhead, bobbing on his root, and getting incrementally deeper with each in-stroke, caressing him with her tongue, while collapsing her cheeks to grip his shaft.

Before they were done, Trent had taught his super-receptive student the most important detail in giving good blowjobs: that was, swallowing his cum as it pumped into her throat. This whole lesson took several sessions to master, but it was certainly worth it. Harding felt that Regan had taken to oral sex--specifically performing fellatio--as if she had been born to it. Especially considering that she had started from a point of zero experience. Indeed, she was soon giving head like an expert--like a pro.

Harding was amazed at the comprehensive directions of some sections. He couldn't remember writing such detailed instructions. He figured this section must have been written by his buddy and co-conspirator, Marcel.

Of course, some sections only generally described; the details of those instructions left up to the imagination of the Machiavellian experimenter. Notwithstanding, Trent could see that, on the whole, the laid-out procedure of the conditioning--of the brainwashing--was more of a prescriptive program than a syllabus.

The next chapter--'Cunnilingus'--was divided into two quite separate sections. Part One--'Receiving Cunnilingus'--was prescriptive, and, understandably, rather brief.

#1: Position the subject on her back; legs spread wide;

#2: Encourage her to relax and enjoy.

#3: Position yourself head-first into the vee of her legs--your lips at her pussy lips (labia) to start.

Oh, Harding was delighted to follow the concise directions.

#4: Draw along her labial furrow with a flattened tongue--forward and back;

#5: Lick and suck and lap up her flow (feminine nectar, aka pussy-juice);

#6: Blow, from time to time, on the sopping genitals;

#7: Point your tongue, and randomly insert its tip as deep as possible into her vagina;

#8: Twiddle and swirl her clitoris--mercilessly.

#9: Integrate nipple-play throughout.

Harding smiled, as he followed the directions meticulously; hence, Harding just loved the way the tip of his tongue would be gripped by her hot, puffy, slick labia, as it swept up to tickle and lick her clit, or back down to ream out her rosebud. Regan's orgasms came fast; were many; lasted extraordinarily long; and were unbelievably intense. That, though, probably wasn't all that surprising, considering how most women feel about having their pussy licked and their clitoris caressed by a talented tongue.

"How would you like to try some different positions," Trent asked, looking up from between her legs, phrasing it as if she had some choice in the matter. Her inner thighs still quivering against his glistening cheeks, in the aftermath of her killer climaxes, she eagerly nodded her assent, her ragged breath, as yet still precluding a voiced response.

"Different positions offer different perspectives; different sensations, different flavors of arousal. By keeping it fresh, we avoid letting sex fall into--heaven forbid--a routine. Over the next few days Harding kept Regan somewhat off-balance, by switching up her poses while still eating her to repeated multiple orgasms. He arranged her sitting on his desk, feet on the arms of his chair, her legs splayed, as he leaned in to munch at her pussy without leaving his seat. Then, pushing his chair out of the way, he got her to stand, supported by her elbows, bent over the desk, and attacked her slit from her ass-end, beginning at her anus and reaching under to swipe at her clit. Harding's expertise shone through, keeping her rolling on the crest of an almost continual climax; until Regan, completely enervated, could take no more.

Over the next few days he worked through several more novel positions, including: Feedbag--with Regan, facing up, arching from her neck, legs hooked over his shoulders, with him holding her thighs there, and her bottom pulled tight against his face. Wheelbarrow was much the same, except she was prone--facing down--supporting herself with her hands and head on the floor, and her thighs on Harding's shoulders, clamping his head tight into the vee of her crotch.

It became abundantly clear that going commando at work had become, more or less, de rigeur as it more easily facilitated cunnilingus; so, coming to work sans underwear had quickly become second nature to Regan. An unexpected bonus to foregoing panties--and bra--was the thrill of surprise finger attacks and sudden, unanticipated groping. An arm reaching around to cup and heft a tit, or give a sharp, unsolicited nipple pinch, never failed to light up Regan's arousal; but not as much as a sneak up-skirt finger attack, drawing moisture up between her puffy labia to splash nectar on her clitoris before dipping the probing maverick into her vaginal entrance. No matter how often it happened, the randomness always sent a sparkling current of ecstatic energy crackling into the pleasure center of her brain.

At every stage--at the end of every session, Regan was encouraged to relive the lesson's focus by visualizing the touches and stimulations; hence, it was a short hop from touching to self-pleasuring and masturbation. Like a duck to water, she became very good at achieving self-induced orgasms. As if it were a newly discovered toy, she, initially, took to playing with herself at every chance--until Harding reprimanded her for letting her self-abuse interfere with her paid responsibilities. "After all," he reminded her, with a chuckle, "this is still the office of a functioning company!" Notwithstanding, Trent often played with Regan, during a lull in legitimate business of the office--teasing her; having her innocently perform outrageously erotic acts.

Approaching his desk, she might ask, coquettishly, "Have you got something I can do?"

"Why, yes," he would reply, beckoning her around to stand next to his chair. Then he'd reach under her dress and sweep his hand slowly along her pussy, splitting her labia with his fingers, and spreading her feminine secretions up to briefly swirl her already swelling clitoris. Abruptly turning back to the documents on his desk he'd mutter, "Don't distract me with too much movement, but stay there until you bring yourself off. See how many orgasms you can have in the time it takes for me to finish up this report."

At other times, he might just say, "Keep yourself amused," and let her stay at her post fiddling with her clit and flicking her nips.

Like Pavlov's dog, random rewards kept the conditioning strong, keeping Regan compliant, eager and amazingly agreeable, as they continued to work through the prescribed program.

When Trent was satisfied that his lovely office manager was exceptionally good at taking a tongue-lashing, he moved on--on to Part Two--'Giving Cunnilingus'--which was substantially longer than the previous section--for obvious reasons.

Scanning it briefly, Harding tsk, tsk-ed. "I guess we'll have to skip this part, my dear--at least until we can find a suitable target, eh?" He suspected that the 'look' that fleetingly crossed Regan's visage was tinged with some sort of disappointment. Still, he moved on in the prescribed order of the syllabus--the program. "Onward and upward, my little harlot," he chortled, dramatically turning the page.

The next chapter heading was Fellatio: The Art of Cocksucking. "The introduction points out that much of the topic has been covered in the earlier lessons on blowjobs. In many ways, fellatio is just a fancy name for cocksucking--or blowjobs, but, while blowjobs are basically carnal, fellatio is much more cerebral--cocksucking is a component of having sex; fellatio is a part of making love."

"One of the most important aspects of fellatio as an art is adapting to size," Trent proselytized, "So that's where we'll begin."

In a clever stroke of anticipation, Harding had already assembled a set of graduated latex didoes--of various lengths and thicknesses--widths, or girths, if you will--and with varying flexibilities--from soft and wobbly to rock-hard, and everything in-between.

"Adapting to size means getting every cock as deep as possible, regardless of length or thickness," he commenced, sounding, for all the world, like a college professor. 'We'll begin with the smallest of the prosthetic cocks." He presented the ever-attentive Regan with a skinny, pink, five-inch, stylized dildo.

"Round your lips, like an open-mouthed pucker. Insert the fake erection steadily into your mouth until it just touches your gag-reflex. Ease it back a bit, then start repeatedly bumping your gag-point. Be insistent, until your desire to upchuck eventually gives up--as it will. Once you've breached the choking reflex, push the dildo--or live hard-on--further; letting the tip of the phallus enter your throat incrementally."

Regan, aided by her deep-trance hypnosis, was a determined student. She began to open her throat with increasing ease, until she was hardly sputtering at all on the small to medium length dildoes. Over the next week or two, picking up practice sessions whenever, Trent went on with the lesson content. "Suck hard on the cylinder. The texture will, of course, be more meaty in a real-life situation--warmer and with more give. Anyway, suck hard--hard enough to collapse your cheeks against the shaft, gripping it firmly, rubbing its length along the warm, wet walls of your mouth."

Trent offered a continuous stream of whispered advice, encouragement, and reminders. "Caress that woodie with your tongue. Jack it with your hand. Keep it wet with saliva." And he provided, from time to time, his own average sized live erection for her to demonstrate her developing skills. And, developing they were, as Regan continued to really put her heart and soul into trying to excel.

"Pull back out until the cockhead is pulling at your lips," he would exhort. "Then smoothly press back onto the shaft until it--whether dildo or real cock--is fully inserted, or your nose is in his pubic beard, against his pubic bone. Also, use your grasping thumb and forefinger as a bumper for your lips until you establish your stroke. Try not to bruise your lips," he'd chuckle; "at least not too badly."

Harding told her of the telltale signs; how to know when a guy is getting close. "For one, his whole body will probably stiffen. He'll start to moan, and quiver and quake, then he'll twitch and jerk, snapping his groin into your face. That'll be it; and he'll start to come." Once Trent had explained to his eager and attentive pupil what to expect when the prick in her mouth starts to ejaculate, he offered himself for demonstration.

As soon as Regan fitted her cute little 'O'ed lips over the plum of his cock, his hands spidered over her ears, and he firmly pulled, inserting himself fully into her mouth. Lightening up slightly, he allowed her to sputter and gag, and tearfully recover from his peremptory oral assault before he resumed his instruction, once again,

"Good. Good girl. Now, your man is generally going to clasp your head, entangling his fingers in your hair," Harding continued laconically, "in order to hold you in tight, incidentally sealing your face, and plugging your airways. You will want to cough and sputter and gag, like you just did, but he won't want to let up." Trent went on. "Be prepared for his issue. Breathe through your nose; twist your lips around his cock, and waggle your face to open up some air channels; then snatch a quick breath."

He pumped quietly for a spell, silent except for his own ragged breath and Regan's stifled "Gug, gug," as she worked on keeping his tool situated deep in her larynx. His eyes closed and his hips thrusting, Harding concentrated on the delightful sensations coursing through his genitals--getting closer and closer, groaning and gasping in unison with Regan, and muttering barely articulate encouragements. "Yesss! Oh, Gawd! That's it! I'm gonna cum!" Then, amazingly, he still managed to insert some lecture into his ascent to climax. "When receiving love-liquor, avoid gagging--as far as possible, or, at the very least, avoid puking. Now, look out--here it comes!"

Pulling his acolyte in tight--ignoring her thrashing and growing panic--Harding tilted his head back, and with a growl and a roar, let go deep in Regan's throat--way past her gag reflex. His spongy helmet bumped against the back of her throat. It caused a heaving that took the fleshy tube around the curve and into her larynx. He twitched and bucked through a couple good volleys, each spasm splashing the far reaches of her throat, filling her mouth with salty-sweet cum. In a hoarse, rumbly voice, almost chanting, he encouraged, "Swallow. Swallow. Swallow as well as you can!"

As the flow of love-liquor let up, from dripping gobs to more of an ooze, he finally released the pressure on the back of her head. Coughing and sputtering and snorting, Regan leaked and drooled drips and strings of semen out of the corners of her mouth, which she caught on her finger and sucked clean next to Trent's softening penis, which she held lying still on her tongue.

Suddenly, surprisingly, Trent took up his instruction again, as if he'd simply paused for a sip of water. "Remember, direct injection is the simplest way to handle voluminous ejaculations, if you can hold him in Deep-Throat. While you're gathering your partner's cum, after the initial jets, hold it for a moment, if you can, and swallow at your leisure. Whether he's a squeezer or a spurter--whether he's coming in dribbles or torrents, caress his hard-on with your tongue and lips and hands." Almost as an editorial aside, he added, "You know, it really doesn't matter if it goes up your nose. Some guys find that really erotic--their cum dripping from a nostril. Just lick it off your upper lip with a sweep of your tongue. Swirl and enjoy." Chuckling, as he flexed his hips, pulling himself free of her oral embrace, he concluded, "They don't call it pecker-snot for nothing!"

During subsequent sessions, they worked on Regan developing a suction powerful enough to rival a heavy-duty Hoover. Also, having her spontaneously varying her overall intensity: mild to unbearable; and the speed at which she applied the stimuli: languid to frenetic. Regan was acquiring the oral artistry easily and quickly. While deep-throat mastery requires lots of perseverance and practice and experience, Regan worked at it diligently, employing various appliances--vibrators and dildoes--as necessary; still, Trent endeavoured to generally be available for tutoring. Consequently, Regan became, indeed, an unqualified expert in giving head.

By that time, Regan was expertly toeing the line between risqué and inappropriate in the office. Eventually she, herself, suggested that she try out nudity around office. (She, as it turned out, was already trying it out at home.) With a touch of help from Trent's post-hypnotic suggestions Regan was convinced that she loved the liberating freedom of prancing around the office totally starkers--and for nearly a whole week she did just that.

She was delighted by the improved access to all of her erogenous zones which, in turn, contributed to a smoother, uninterrupted course of stimulation and arousal; however, Regan was unable to consistently exercise the necessary discretion required for a functioning receptionist--she got caught once; gasping and moaning, eyes shut tight, one hand squeezing her boob and pinching her engorged nipple, while the other hand fed plunging fingers into her gaping, quivering pussy, her thumb flickering against her stiffened clitoris. The customer watched, fascinated, as 'the naked sprite' behind the desk writhed and twisted, bouncing her bottom against the invading digits, and yelping inarticulately. And Regan very nearly got caught a few other times during the nudity test week.

Harding realized--rather disappointedly--that, as much as he appreciated her ever-present nakedness, after discussing the situation with Regan, his naked assistant, at closing time Friday of that week, they came to the decision that, "while I agree it can be very liberating, nudity, here, at the office, is completely impractical. Notwithstanding," Harding went on, in a rather dreamy voice, you may still want to practice it at home. That would make visitors very happy, I'm sure, and people who come to the door."

Regan lowered her gaze, and responded in a coy whisper, "I know!"

Interestingly, Trent had never visited Regan's home. She lived in a tiny one-bedroom basement suite, a few kilometres east of work; and one Saturday, well into their training program, Trent contrived a reason to call on her get her signature on a particular document he had with him.

Trent stepped onto the welcome mat, straightened his collar, and rang the doorbell, listening for the actual sound of the device, he thought he heard a padding sound approach the door. When the lock clicked audibly, Trent stood up tall, although he couldn't be sure why--perhaps he felt that the rules were somehow slightly different here in the 'real' world. The door opened slightly, tentatively, and peering around it, a young woman--young girl--asked in a small, almost frightened voice said, "Yes?" However, instantly an explosion of recognition lit up the face with a beatific smile. Flinging the door wide open, and stepping out into the entryway, stood a vision of innocence--Regan stood, totally naked, calling out, "Mr. Harding, come in. Please, come in. Welcome to my humble abode. Please, have a seat." Closing the door behind him, Regan gave Trent a spontaneous bear hug, draping herself over him, she squeezed and rubbed him lasciviously, before indicating he sit in an easy-chair in her modest, but neat living room. In an aside to herself, she muttered, I won't ask what brings you to this neck-of-the-woods," then going back to her welcoming, she asked, "Can I get you something to drink--G and T? Beer?"

While Regan fussed about with great enthusiasm, flashing her million-watt smile, Harding couldn't help but admire--drool over--her gorgeous body. Of course he had seen her naked¬¬, and in various states of undress--interacted with her naked--countless times, but this was quintessential--delightfully out of context--a classic Nymph. She was perfection personified.

As he watched Regan get out drinks and snacks, Harding was both pleased and surprised when he realized and recognized the music playing softly in the background was Pink Floyd's Animals album. Curious.

Now Harding still used the musical cues randomly, from time to time, around the office, to reinforce Regan's on-going hypnotism. Holst's 'Planets' pulled Regan back into deep trance making her, once again, very susceptible to post-hypnotic suggestions. But it was Pink Floyd's 'Dogs' that increased her horniness and made her delight in being totally compliant. Trent found it interesting that she should have 'Dogs' playing in background.

Before she was actually fully seated Regan bounced up again, and glided across the room to sink to her knees between Trent's legs. Pulling the zipper and opening his pants, Regan carefully unwrapped his stiffening prick. "So, to what do I owe this surprise visit?" She punctuated the question by taking his burgeoning hard-on fully into her mouth. She proved, once again that she was an expert in the art of fellatio.

Harding sputtered an unintelligible response, while Regan's rhythmic bobbing slowly enflamed his ardour. He got infuriatingly closer and closer to climax--close but no cigar. Eyes closed, his head swaying, his body quivering, Harding spidered his fingers in her hair, over her ears, and followed as she broke the rhythm from time to time with a deliberate stutter-step. His arousal was excruciating. His cock felt like it was about to explode when, abruptly, Regan stopped, going completely still; then in a deep and gravelly voice--that sounded nothing like her--she said, softly but with intensity, "Let's fuck."

She grabbed his shirt-front and deftly rolled back onto her back across the bed, dragging him with her. Landing on top of her, he barely got his arms out--hands just over her shoulders, cushioning his landing as he fell against her sweater-puppies. Straightening his arms, he pushed himself up just a bit, and, partly amused, partly bemused, saw in her eyes a hungry aggression he'd never seen before. "Our little flower is changing," Harding said to himself. "I believe I'll just go with it for a while, and see where it takes me.' He couldn't wipe the smile from his lips as he allowed himself to be manhandled by the surprisingly confident and determined Regan.

After a brief tussle, Trent parted company with the remainder of his clothing. Poised over her, like a predator, legs between hers, on straight arms--like a yoga cobra--he looked down at her gorgeous face--stared into her beautiful eyes. But he didn't kiss her. This was, after all, not love. This was hunger. Lust, tinged, perhaps, with strong affection.

"Come on, stick it in me!"

It didn't take much seduction--none, really--for her to initiate fucking. Harding's tentative reaching with his mouth for a nipple to grasp with his lips--and teeth--was instantly dismissed. "Forget the fucking foreplay!" Regan growled, uncharacteristically. "I've already had months of fucking foreplay. Just get on to the fucking main event, already!"

Already lined up, like pieces of a puzzle, Regan thrust her hips up, in search of his rampant staff. Trent flexed his own hips to meet her. Gathering her nectar, momentarily, on his firm cockhead, he, then, pushed in steadily, splitting her puffy pussy-lips. Although it was very tight, his ingress was well lubricated--with all-natural feminine juices and pussy tears--smooth and unrestricted.

"I lost my hymen years ago," Regan explained, nostalgically, as if revealing this background information was important at this juncture--her actual, technical, first time. "... to a hairbrush handle, during phone sex with my BFF--who lost hers down the phone line, at exactly the same time." She closed her eyes, and puffed through her nose, at the kaleidoscope of sensation bubbling through her fundament and burbling up her spine, before she continued. "I've had many, many vibrators and dildoes up there since, but never a live intruder."

Trent slowly accelerated, pulling back, then ramming in, faster and harder with increasingly longer strokes. Regan exploded into orgasm before he had finished the first ten strokes. Her legs kicked and quaked, as she hung from her arms around his neck. Her head snapped and shook, whimpering inarticulate indicators of thrill and delight, until Trent could no longer stand it. Jetting high-pressure volumes of spunk into the depths of Regan's womb, he held himself trembling over her, blast after blast, until he ran out of ammo.

Letting himself sink down to lie on Regan's chest, Harding marveled, "Omigod! Omigod! O! Mi! God!" He wondered why he had never done that before.

As Regan's awareness returned, she pointed out softly, sounding, however, rather pleased with herself, "Well, technically, I just lost my virginity! Finally!" They, Regan and Trent. spent the rest of that Saturday screwing--ensuring that her virginity was, indeed, well and truly lost!

Directions in the syllabus for the next chapter were rather sparse and self-evident.

Copulation: or more commonly, Fucking.

#1: Just go for it!

#2: you might try these positions to start.

a) Modified-missionary: female on her back; legs in the air, waiting; arms over head, or around male's neck; male in cobra yoga pose, supporting his body over her chest, cock lined-up with pussy

Having read the Modified-missionary directions, Trent observed, with a subtle chuckle, "That is pretty much what we just did--almost to the letter."

b) Doggie: female on hands and knees, or standing, bent over something--such as a chair, a bed, a couch, the fender of a car; sway back to adjust for target; male kneel or stand directly behind female's behind; hang on to hips for fine penetration control; good for deep-thrust copulation; ideal for anal (see forthcoming chapter)

c) Cowgirl: Male supine on bed; Female superior--facing his head--and in control, straddle his pelvis, feet or knees outside his hips; lower vagina onto his erection; bounce to stimulate.

d) Reverse Cowgirl: Male on back, on bed; female lowers herself onto his erection, facing his feet; pretty much like a supine Dog-fuck.

#3: Experiment. Have fun!

Good luck!

As evening succumbed to the dark of night, Harding gathered up his belongings--the document that required Regan's signature--and left his employee with a weary smile on her face and a smear of cum leaking from her vagina to coat the insides of her thighs. "Well, this has been a nice surprise," Trent observed with a contented smile.

"Yeah," Regan purred. "See you Monday."

"Absolutely," Trent nodded, as he closed the door behind himself.

Over the next few sessions, the next couple weeks, they tried each of the positions several times.

Then, after a particularly active--and rewarding--session, Harding leaned back onto the couch, pulling Regan back, onto his chest, and, incidentally pulling his limp and dripping member slowly out of Regan's twat. He could feel the viscous mix of pussy-juice and cum pouring out of her, straining through his pubes to run down his bum-crack to splash onto the floor. "So-o-o," he asked, really seeking her opinion, "what do you think?"

Regan rolled off him to lay on her tummy next to him, with an arm lying possessively across his gut. "Well-l-l-l," she began, mimicking him, "I think I like Cowgirl the best! I can control the assault better, while a good erection can get right on deep. Also, I can bounce crouched energetically on my feet, or slow the pace slightly by bouncing off my knees." Rising to her knees, Regan continued. "I think I like modified Missionary next best. I mean, really, those modifications are just one of innumerable variations--my legs up kicking in the air, or locked over your back, and you holding yourself above me, instead of lying full-weight on me, and supporting your torso with a yoga-Cobra. Doggie is good--and can be great--whether you're going for maximum depth, steady rhythm, or G-spot stimulation. Reverse Cowgirl is really just a variation of Doggie-style. And it's all good, eh?" With that she began sweeping her arm across his chest, over his nipples and down to his pubic beard, and back again. Until she finally accidentally caught hold of his softening prick. Pulling herself down the bed, she inadvertently stopped, and let her head go, dropping it directly onto Trent's chubster. At the touch of her tongue, trailing across his plum, He changed direction, his floppy shaft now getting firmer and longer once more.

As the weeks and months rolled by Regan was subjected to a maintenance hypnosis every couple of days. While she believed, during the odd moments of vague memory, that she was sharpening her office skills, and her business acumen--and that was, to a small degree, quite true--it was her sexual skills and talents that she was honing steadily, to a keen edged expertise.

Nevertheless, at times, Regan would become a mischievous imp or sprite who delighted in seizing opportunities to get creative and seek to amuse her boss. Citing a single example, she waited one morning, until Trent had left his desk, then called out, loud enough for Harding to hear, "I'm just heading for the bathroom." Following which she snuck under the boss's desk, staying silent as he returned to his seat, and, stifling a giggle, initiated sucking his cock. It rapidly became their own little joke Regan would 'pull' on her boss, randomly. It was especially fun if she waited, scrunched in the footwell, until Mr. Harding was talking on the phone. She would, also, from time to time, get him really hard, during an important, serious business call, then emerge beside him, push his seat out from the desk, and straddle him, aiming his woodie with one hand, and dropping to fully engulf. The challenge, of course, was to make him cum before the end of his telephone conversation.

The penultimate chapter was entitled:

Sodomy: the Final Frontier

#1: Anal Intercourse is variously known as 'Up the dirt-chute', 'Cruising the Hershey Highway,' and, more crudely, 'Shoving Shit.'

#2: Preparation:

a) Begin with finger insertions; use lots of personal lubricant such as KY Jelly or Astroglide;

b) Gradually introduce vibrator/dildoes in graduated sizes;

c) Take time using butt-plugs to become familiar with filled rectum.

#3: Warnings:

a) Always use adequate lubrication;

b) Go slow:

i. Be very careful with regards to over-exuberant deep-hypnosis patients.

#4: Injuries:

a) Torn anus

b) Bruises, rips and tears

i. Rectum

ii. Lower bowel

c) Hernias

#5: Long-term consequences:

a) Loose anus

i. Racing stripes

b) Inability to grip/caress male erections

When under his influence, Harding 'convinced' her that she really looked forward to surrendering her poop-chute cherry, as it were. "But before we can let anyone fuck you in the ass, we have to prepare--train--condition your anus to accept a big and hard intruder. Fortunately, preparation of your brown star is fairly straight forward." Regan, perched on all fours beside him, lifted her mouth and freed his turgid cock, to give her full, entranced attention to her mentor and boss.

Harding removed a collection of appliances from a drawer where, earlier, he had placed them--a graduated assortment of vibrators and dildoes, from finger-sized to monstrous. "You've got to start slowly," he said picking a small vibrator, about the size of a lipstick tube from the collection. "Lubricate it--usually with gel, though, for the first few, you can use spit--then reach around to insert it in your bum." Looking a bit glassy-eyed, Regan followed Trent's directions. "Don't force it. Just gently pull it back then push it in, again. Get it wet every couple strokes, and push it in further each time. When you've got it most of the way in, hold it there with your sphincter. If your rectum tries to swallow it, push it out then try again to hold it within your star. When you have it under control, go back to your workstation for fifteen minutes--half an hour, and repeat a couple times a day.

When you feel comfortable with it, go through the same procedure with a slightly larger devise. Remember, this is a long process, if done correctly. Don't rush it. I'm going to leave this conditioning up to you. I expect you to be diligent in your daily practice. That being said, I'll leave this--the preparation of your rear end basically up to you. We'll revisit the topic, as it were, from time to time, to check on progress and offer guidance." Trent smiled affectionately as she wetted the finger vibrator and reached around to her back-side.

Regan valiantly resisted the temptation to rush, despite an almost overwhelming eagerness, and was rewarded with praise for her progress at every spot-check. She seemed to be genuinely enjoying the stretching and conditioning of her butt. Notwithstanding, she was constantly instructed not to allow herself to cum during the practice sessions. Still, as she began employing the larger phalluses, she was reaching places--rubbing and bumping and vibrating--she had not known existed. When Harding said one afternoon, while Regan demonstrated her proficiency fucking herself with a thick, twelve-inch wobbly dildo, "I think you're ready for the real thing. Tomorrow we'll try threading your bum with a genuine cock. How does that sound?"

"Oh yes! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

When they broke for 'Practice session the next day, Regan was beside herself with excitement and anticipation. Doffing her dress and positioning herself on all fours, Regan started to orgasm at the very first firm touch of Harding's engorged cockhead against the elasticity of her asshole. And her climax seemed to peak again, over and over with each small incursion of Trent's length into her tight rectum. Once he was fully engulfed, the end of his erection pushing into the final bend of her bowel, she exploded--trembling and shaking, jerking and quivering. Dropping her limp torso onto the bed, she hung limp from her pegged rump, still, except for random muscle spasms that wracked her whole body.

The actual surrender of her anal virginity turned out to be quite the non-event. Notwithstanding, as she slowly regained her reality, she was enveloped by a sweet feeling of delight.

Of course, their intercourse was not sexual all the time. There were, indeed, some days with no erotic interaction at all.

One afternoon, as they engaged in the benign tasks of the business, Harding announced to Regan, from his desk, "Marcel Goodwin, my old college buddy--and co-conspirator--just called to let me know he's going to be in town for a bit, so I've invited him around to visit and bullshit and talk about the program. Marcel is a practicing clinical psychologist and therapist--as well as the erstwhile co-author of our syllabus."

Regan nodded and continued at her task

Trent really wanted to show off and show his old buddy how their experiment actually worked. He wanted to put his subject through her paces, as it were; display the demonstrable results, of which he was quite proud. Way back when, both he and Marcell had realized that the deep-trance conditioning went way beyond traditional hypnosis. It could be, they had surmised, effectively truly effective brainwashing.

Still, they hadn't, in their wildest predictions suspected that the deep trance hypnosis would be as incredibly effective as it appeared to be in Regan, Harding's lovely subject.

"Man, we were bright boys back in our student days, eh wot?"

Less than two weeks later, Regan arrived at the office in the morning to find Mr. Harding already at his desk, and deep in conversation with an unfamiliar man she could only guess must have been Trent's old university buddy, Marcel Goodwin--and, in that, she was absolutely right.

As much as she was always receptive to taking breaks for sex in the office, when she was working Regan was totally focused and engaged. Hence, she paid little or no attention to Trent and his visitor; instead, she just put her head down and conscientiously set to the task at hand. Meanwhile, the old buddies discussed what was new in their worlds; chatting all morning and pausing only to ask Regan to brew a new pot of coffee. Mid-morning, Regan was called into Harding's office and introduced to Mr. Goodwin, who eyeballed her, slowly up and down. Then Harding dismissed her unceremoniously, with a flat, "Please close the door behind you, Miss Thatcher." Returning to her own work-station, Regan felt oddly slighted, though she wasn't sure why.

Meanwhile, the two old friends reminisced about the conception of the brainwashing project, and writing the pseudo-serious syllabus--how it never actually got finished. "Nonetheless," Trent admitted, "I've been, more or less, following the suggested--ah--direction we'd laid out in the syllabus, and have realized some impressive--impressively successful results." Harding rose, as he said this, and turned to the door. Opening it, he then turned to Regan's working form at her desk outside his office--she with her head down trying to ignore them--her boss and his friend--and summoned her cordially. "Regan, please come in here for a minute."

Regan stepped into Trent's office, a bit of confusion colouring her face, and a spark of anticipation tickling her core. "Yes, Mr. Harding," she queried, keeping it more formal in front of the guest.

"Mr. Goodwin has heard me bragging about you, Regan, for long enough. To finally put his prattling-on to rest, would you mind baring your delightful boobs, and stepping up to give him a good grope?" With an apparent sleight-of-hand, the Pink Floyd trigger music rose softly in the background.

Nowadays, the coming out of hypnosis was always, for Regan, accompanied by that vaguely familiar sense of ecstasy, a sort of joyful, yet transient, reminiscence--like a slowly dissipating puff of smoke.

"Of course, Mr. Harding." The two men could detect no hesitation in her cheerful compliance, as Regan moved to stand at Marcel's knees, and presented her exposed boobs by way of lifting them and bouncing them gently. "Help yourself," she teased. Marcel obliged her by gripping the proffered breasts and pulling them firmly to his mouth.

Suddenly all-business, Trent said to Regan, "Miss Thatcher, would you please print out that set of documents I had you gather earlier today?" As she began to cover up, in order to get back to work, Trent interrupted once more. "But first, as you're feeling horny, play with your pussy, right here. Fiddle and flick that cute little clit of yours. Get yourself really stimulated!" As Regan got closer and closer to cumming, Trent and Marcel watched, with apparently casual interest, while chatting inconsequentially.

Just before she reached climax, Trent said, "Oh, Miss Thatcher, don't let yourself cum, yet. Keep yourself on the boil while you go finish that print job. Wait until you're back here, and Marcel and I are ready before you let yourself go. We really want to watch your orgasm!"

Regan was vibrating by the time she returned with the print-out, her arousal flaring, threatening to explode. With a knowing, almost proud nod to his friend and guest, Trent said, "Regan? Put the papers down. Okay, I'm going to count down from five. I want you to hold off on your orgasm until I reach zero. Ready?" Regan nodded. "Okay--introductory fanfare please," he called out, like a circus barker, contriving to play the Floyd trigger, and enflaming Regan's already stressed libido. Then he began his count-down. "Five; four; three; two; wo-wo-wo-o-one; zero!"

Regan went off like a nuclear explosion! Holding onto the front edge of Harding's desk with both hands, Regan's head snapped back as she let out an almost inaudibly high-pitched scream. Her shoulders quivered as her whole body wobbled and twitched. Her legs became unnaturally flexible, to the point of being only barely able to support her. Her hands hanging on tightly, she trembled and shook for a long, long moment, keening and mewling pathetically, before winding down like a clockwork. Still except for her heaving chest.

"Look, you've got our guest all hot and bothered now," Trent observed, indicating, with a nod of his head, Goodwin lazily stroking his exposed--and, indeed, rather impressive--woodie. "So, let's have you show him, as you can, the difference between fellatio and a blowjob."

Shaking off her post-orgasmic fog, Regan dropped smoothly to her knees between Marcel's loosely spread legs. Almost as a single motion, she leaned forward and engulfed his semi-erect cock between her rounded lips, and settled into a calm, relaxing rhythm coaxing Goodwin's arousal, rather than driving or dragging it. Initially, Marcel was able to continue his conversation with Trent, punctuated only minimally by the odd stutter or gasp. Bringing her arms up onto his thighs to brace himself, Regan twisted her grip on his hard-on, her bobbing head and collapsed cheeks caressing his ever-stiffening shaft, with slow, deliberate strokes. Snaking her hands delicately up under Goodwin's shirt, she tickled and flicked his nipples, further feeding the growing glow of arousal. With a gentle intensity, Regan continued to make love to Goodwin's quivering tool. "Pretty much a master of fellatio, wouldn't you agree?" boasted Harding.

"On, yeah!"

Then, acknowledging Trent's subtle nod, Regan accelerated abruptly, her attention to Marcel's cock suddenly rougher and more insistent. Goodwin was, indeed, surprised by the sharp, spiking arousal visited upon his psyche; the suddenly impending orgasm--his butt bouncing on the seat. Holding the back of her head, fingers entwined through her hair, Marcel held her mercilessly tight against his groin, his rigid manhood bucking and spitting and cumming in torrents--she managed to swallow most of the issue, only coughing and choking and snorting on the last few volleys.

"THAT is a blowjob! Am I right?" Harding expounded, chuckling.

Cleaning him up with her tongue and lips, before tucking him in, Regan is unaware of The Planets' Mars playing like a soundtrack, in the background.

The final chapter was sensibly called:

Putting it all together

#1: Multiple partners,

#2: DP (double-penetration):

i. spitted;

ii. anal suspension;

iii. sandwich.

#3: 'Airtight'

#4: Gang-bangs & orgies

iv. party favours

v. merit awards

#5: Imagination

Goodwin was very impressed that his college buddy had taken what was, in fact, more of a--rather immature--thought-exercise than a serious proposal, and had begun to wrangle real-life fantasy successes out of it. It gave Marcel quite the ration of food-for-thought, as he left to return home after a very busy two-week vacation. Hence, it was not really so surprising that Goodwin decided, on the airplane, during his flight home, to try the--what? System? Project?--on Laura, his own recently hired PA.

Indeed, he had already suspected that her eagerness to please would make her quite receptive to hypnosis--which he found to be the case very shortly after getting back to the office the following week. He revealed this to Harding right away, over the phone, as well as his decision to begin following the deep-trance procedure as laid-out in their long-forgotten syllabus. They, Marcel and Trent, promised to endeavour to keep one another apprised of their respective progress.

Life moved on, in Harding's office, and Regan became increasingly comfortable with the salacious aspect of her dual-facetted position there. From time to time, when running errands for Trent, she would flash her charms at some unsuspecting businessman--especially if she could contrive to be climbing the stairs--or riding up an escalator--ahead of him--or her, for that matter!

The sudden presence of an anonymous hand under her skirt, with active digits arousing and enflaming her exposed pussy as she ascended the stairs, caused Regan to freeze. She didn't say a word; only closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh of contentment. The fingers tip-toed through damp bush, pausing now and then to push into the dripping vagina or plow the moistened furrow. Encouraged by the whimpered squeals of delight, the disembodied free hand, reached around, under her top, to grab an already-erect nipple. The merciless twisting and pulling quickly had Regan puffing and hissing as her breathing became increasingly ragged. Stifling the high-pitched scream that threatened to escape through her sealed lips, Regan's whole body began to quiver and quake as a surprisingly intense orgasm swept over her. Pegged on the two fingers anchoring the supporting hand covering her box, and steadied by the other hand cupping her breast, Regan managed to stay upright while the ecstasy climaxed and faded.

The stark eroticism of her developing persona had begun to follow her well beyond the office. To wit, wearing only a mini/micro skirt and an open blouse tied just under her bare tits, Regan welcomed any unsolicited touch--fingers stroking or poking her pussy--pinching and flicking her nipples. She would generally stop, flip up her skirt, spread open her blouse to expose her boobs, then close her eyes, tilt her head back, and simply luxuriate in the delicious sensations of the voluptuous caress.

The first time she fucked someone other than Trent--or Marcel--was pretty much a non-event. Harding simply suggested she might give the office block's retiring custodian a little farewell bonus; and she did. Offering her tits to play with, she sucked him to full erection--which was surprisingly large and wonderfully rock-hard. Then, leaning over, elbows on her desk, she presented her wet and puffy pussy. He, for an old guy--sixty-something--pushed deep into her cunt with a single thrust and proceeded to bang her mercilessly. It was like he was finally getting what he was owed--which he felt he was. Regan started cumming after a handful of strokes and didn't stop until he finished splashing his semen against the back wall of her vagina. When he pulled out, he swung her around and instructed her to, "Clean me up, Honey." After she'd carefully tucked him in, he turned to leave, saying, with a self-satisfied chuckle, "Well, there's a good one off the bucket-list!"

From then on, Regan was asked--instructed--fairly often, to tip out the delivery staff and couriers with a suck or a fuck. The recipients of such attention, be they FedEx or Canada Post or Amazon, were usually very happy to accept the carnal gratuity. While some demanded a condom, most didn't, preferring to ride bareback.

"Mr. Harding, the UPS delivery is here."

Like most delivery guys, the UPS driver loved being assigned this particular office. The receptionist was the cutest little thing who, for some odd reason, dressed like the skankiest little slut you could possibly imagine. Acted like one, too; in a naively innocent sort of way--flipping up her skirt to offer a glimpse of her bare puss, or letting a boob fall out of her blouse and not noticing right away.

"Get him to drop the boxes in the stockroom, and take care of it--of him, will ya?"

As the lucky fellow emptied his dolly, Regan grabbed his crotch, and whispered, "Can I give you a tip?" before pulling his zipper down as she crouched. With an expert touch, she gently pulled out his turgid cock and, before he knew it, had him fully engulfed and in receipt of some fairly active fellatio--while he played with her tits.

The combination of blowjob and tit-flick really got both of them going, and Regan sucked until her lucky recipient was really firm. Then she hopped up, and leaned over a stack of boxes, supported by her forearms, her boobs hanging free. Looking back over her shoulder, she flipped her skirt up in invitation. His erection waggling from the fly of his brown uniform, the lucky bastard punched into the welcoming twat with a peremptory violence that initiated Regan's detonation sequence within a few strokes. The ensuing wildly intense orgasm carried Mr. UPS over, causing him to spray torrents of cum in, around, and all over her gaping pussy. After a thorough oral cleanup, he was sent on his way with a wide smile, and a determination to get back on schedule.

Most of the occasional female couriers and parcel service drivers--while initially somewhat flummoxed--were actually delighted to let Regan practice her cunnilingus on them, demonstrating to many that they were indeed multi-orgasmic, whether they had been previously aware of that fact or not!

Delivery and tip were, generally, done in twenty minutes tops.

Harding still played the musical triggers in the background from time to time; for refresher, or refinement of responses--Holst's Planets; or Pink Floyd's Animals. They continued to act as powerful arousal facilitators--like the post-hypnotic suggestions they actually were, or were associated with. Kind of like--what was it--Beethoven's 9th Symphony? In A Clockwork Orange?

Sitting on her boss's lap, astride his hips, hanging onto the edge of his desk for balance, head thrown back, riding his prong in a sort of reverse cowgirl position, Regan was pounding her butt up and down energetically when the phone had the audacity to ring, interrupting their building arousal. "Get that, will ya?" Trent hissed, his hands still on her hips, directing her.

With an unlady-like snort, Regan reached over and picked up the handset. "Dr--gasp--Harding's o-o-aw-awww-of-fice. How can I hel-hel-HELL-help you?" She tried to subdue her pounding pulse and ragged breath while the caller spoke, but Harding's butt-thrusts and grip on her hips, lifting and plunging, made that nigh on impossible. Notwithstanding, she got out a not overly breathless reply. "He h-h-has someone a-a-at his desk right now. Can I put you on ho-ho-ho-ho-o-o-old?" She didn't wait for an answer, her arousal spiking to the point of ignition. Dropping her full weight onto Trent's jerking and spitting cock, she only remained upright from Harding's hands that had slid to her waist and her fingers on the edge of his desk. After a mere moment's respite--each of them slowly recovering from their own climax--Dr. Harding shooed his office manager off of his lap and took the call.

Sometime, much later, after speaking with Goodwin on the phone--making their frequent, mutual progress reports--and, let's face it, friendly boast-fests--Trent casually mentioned to Regan to keep in mind that when she and Laura would eventually meet in person--while they spoke on the phone fairly often, and had, indeed, developed quite a friendship--they would, undoubtedly, be expected to perform cunnilingus on each other--in a sixty-nine position. So, the next time they chatted on the phone, comparing notes, as it were, Regan told Laura, "I'm really looking forward to meeting you in person one of these days, soon. And getting an opportunity for us to eat one another out in a classic soixante-neuf! Whaddya think?"

Laura's response was an excited, "OOOoooweeee! I can hardly wait!"

Months had rolled over into a new year before plans were made for the two office managers to meet. Just before that, though, as a sort of dissertation demonstrating the girls' unconditional compliance. Having pre-arranged the situation with Marcel, Trent instructed Regan to place a call to his office, which Laura answered breathlessly, "Dr. Goodwin's office-s-s-s. H-h-hel-lo?"

If Regan detected any hesitation, she didn't let on--her own attention being somewhat distracted. "Hi, Kiddo," she chirped as brightly as she could. "What're you up to?"

"Oh, ohhh! You'll never guess what I'm doing right now..."

"What?"

"I'm on Marcel's lap, rubbing his woodie along ass crack."

"Dressed?"

"Yeah...?"

"Well, I'm also on my boss's lap--sitting reverse cowgirl--only I have a bare pussy, and he is currently fiddling my clit, with his hard-on up my ass--up in my ass! Pant, pant. And we are just about ready to cum! How 'bout you?"

"Oh, yeah! Well, just a sec! Let me... er, oomph... just get Marce into my pussy. Aaaahhh, oooff! That's it! That's right!" They could hear Goodwin snickering and snorting in the background.

"Okayyyy!" Regan declared, her speech becoming increasingly laboured. Harding huffed and puffed like a locomotive, thrusting himself repeatedly, deep into Regan's rectum, pushing her arousal infuriatingly close to climax. "Okayyyy!" she said again. "Let's cum together, then!"

"Ready? In three, two, ONE, NOW!

And they exploded, all four of them, in an amazing, cross-country orgasm! The girls' molten ecstasy ignited both of their smugly amazed rides--who, eminently self-satisfied, were super pleased with the success of their psychological experiment.

Notwithstanding, Trent, at least, was suddenly unsure; unsure of whether they'd given the girls something special, or taken away something essential.

"I guess," he shrugged, determined not to give it any more thought, "I'll never know--and I'm okay with that!"

For now at least, they could look forward to getting their skilled office managers together in person.