Mind Manipulatrix

Jack’s still staring at the spreadsheets when Charlotte walks in. She’s in one of those tight skirt suits, blonde hair sharp as a blade. She tells him he’s wound too tight and flashes her phone in his face. The screen pulses, pulls his eyes in. His thoughts slip away like loose change down a drain. She smirks, pleased with how fast the program works. A couple of muttered commands and he’s emptying the company account into her private one—another ten grand gone, no questions asked. Then she shoves him to the floor like he’s furniture. She hikes the skirt, plants her ass on his face, grinding until his nose is buried and his lungs beg. She peels off her heels and shoves her bare feet at his mouth, soles pressing hard, toes curling over his tongue. Every lick feeds the programming deeper. She laughs, low and cruel, riding his face while the last of his resistance flickers out like a spent fuse.