Merina hears the signature clack-clack-clack on the floor tiles. Then she hears the cadent rap-rap-rap on her office door. She doesn't need to look away from her computer screen to know that Freya has arrived, as requested. She takes a few more seconds to save a draft of what she is working on. Then, she turns to face her employee.
Freya stands in the doorway, dressed to impress and for success in a stylish business suit and high heels. The outfit smartly complements her tall, slender figure, just as her long, dark hair perfectly frames her pretty face.
"You wanted to see me?" Freya says.
"Yes. You know that new account we're working on? The client asked me for my best rep. Obviously, I gave him your name. He wants to meet with you ASAP. Do you have time today?"
"Absolutely. I can clear up my afternoon."
"Great. His name is Cyril Wellington. I'll send you his contact info. Knock this one out of the park, Freya, and it will mean big things for both the company and you."
"I'll do my best, Merina."
"I know you will."
Merina smiles and then with a nod ends the meeting. Freya nods back, then turns and leaves.
Returning to her computer, Merina reopens the file she was working on. She begins typing. She focuses on nothing else. Soon, she is completely absorbed by what she is doing. The buzzing of her phone fails to distract her. Similarly, email notifications and calendar alerts go unnoticed. She is focused. Dedicated. Captivated. Enthralled.
Beneath her desk, her pumps lay discarded. Her bare feet scrunch and splay rhythmically, matching the tempo of what she types:
Cyril Wellington is my master. I am his slave. I must obey him. I must do his bidding. Cyril Wellington is my master. I am his slave. I must obey him. I must do his bidding. Cyril Wellington is my master. I am his slave. I must obey him. I must do his bidding....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cyril walks beside Freya, the clack-clack-clack of her high heels on the polished wood floor masking the sound of his own footsteps. When they near his desk that is surrounded on three sides by windows offering a panoramic view of the city, he beckons her to sit in a plush, high-backed armchair opposite his own. She nods her thanks, sits, and waits for him to take his seat.
"Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice," Cyril says. "As I told Merina, I am very excited to begin my partnership with your firm. But I am very particular about what I want and what I will and won't accept. She assured me that you are the best and that you will make everything happen that needs to."
"All I can say is that I strive to give and get the best for our clients."
"Ah, yes, Merina said that you are modest, too. Excellent. Now, here are the files you requested. Hopefully you'll find everything to be in order."
Freya accepts the files that Cyril hands to her. She peruses them intently.
"Hm," she says after reading through several pages.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Wellington--"
"Cyril, please."
"Cyril, I'm afraid I must dash your hopes and tell you that everything is not in order. There are major discrepancies here. Nothing that can't be corrected, mind you. But it will take some doing to correct these errors."
"I see. Will you be able to do this work yourself?"
"Yes, I will. It will take time, but I can do it."
"Fine, fine. That's all secondary anyway."
"It is? So there is more important work that you want done first?"
"That's right."
"Do you have files on this primary work?"
"Files? No, no. It's more of a presentation. An interactive presentation."
Cyril smiles at Freya, as she raises an inquisitive eyebrow. Then he taps a button on his computer.
Freya's chair suddenly shudders. With a gasp, she grabs hold of the arms and braces her feet against the floor. Then, several metal bands spring forth and snap shut around various parts of her body. In an instant, her shoulders, stomach, arms, and legs are pinned in place.
Next, the bottom-front portion of the chair begins slowly rising up until it creates a chaise-like platform that is level with the seat. Freya now sits with her legs stretched out in front of her.
"What the hell?" she shouts.
"Don't fret, my dear," Cyril says soothingly. "All is well. You're in no danger."
"You could have fooled me! Whatever it is you want to show me, forget it! Undo these restraints! And let me out of here!"
Cyril ignores her, instead entering commands into his computer.
"I'm serious," Freya says, all professionalism and congeniality having fled her voice. "Let me out of this chair, Cyril! Let me out now! Now! Cyril!"
A final keystroke from Cyril elicits a low hum from the chair. Out from the top of it unfolds a jointed, metallic stem, capped by a thin-bladed fan with veins of circuitry crisscrossing its surface. The fan blades curve around and inward to create a tulip-shaped cup the diameter of a large mixing bowl. The stem then swivels and bends forward, pointing the newly formed cup over Freya's head.
"All set," Cyril says calmly, as if Freya's continued and increasingly loud protests weren't happening. "Except for one small but important detail."
Moving to stand before his captive, he reaches for her shoes. She glowers at him and kicks hard. Restrained as her legs are, though, the motion does little more than convey her fear and fury.
"Easy now," Cyril says. "You could do some serious damage with those heels. Which is one reason they need to come off."
"Don't you dare take them off! Don't touch me!"
Cyril carefully scoops off her shoes one at a time. Futile as her efforts are, Freya continues to kick and thrash. She also demands, just as ineffectively, that he not touch her now bared feet.
"That tune will soon change," Cyril says with a sly smile.
She responds with as loud and vitriolic an outburst as he has ever heard. With a shrug, he moves back to his desk and presses a button on his computer.
The metal cup begins to hum. It descends slowly towards Freya's head.
"What the hell is that thing?" she asks fearfully, trying her best but failing to squirm and maneuver away from it.
"Let's just say it will make everything better."
Freya is about to offer a choice retort to Cyril's cryptic comment when the cup lowers over her scalp. It produces rhythmic vibrations and an eerily droning buzz that immediately make her wince and tremble.
"What's happening? What are you doing to me?"
"Right now, my machine is inducing you into a hyper-hypnotic trance state of negated resistance and heightened suggestibility."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that I'm going to brainwash you into my submissive, obedient slave."
"Brainwash me? What? No! You can't do that!"
"Of course I can, my dear. Just as I did it to Merina, who I commanded to send her best--and most beautiful--worker to me. Don't worry. As I said before, you're in no danger. You'll feel no pain. The induction is disorienting at first, but soon the process will become quite pleasurable."
"No! Stop it! Cyril! Make it stop! Cyril! Cyril! My head! My head!"
Freya now shakes within her bonds. She pants and gasps. Her eyes roll up within their sockets. Her mouth continues to move, but no words come out.
Then, she inhales a single, sharp breath. Like a deflating balloon, she sags in her seat. She sighs, completely spent from her physical struggles and the mental battle she has fought against the machine--a battle that she has now lost.
Her eyes close in slumber. A dopey grin spreads over her face. The metal cup continues to pulse over her head, and her feet scrunch and splay in time with its insidious rhythm.
Cyril walks back over to Freya and stands before her feet. Staring down at the helpless, hypnotized woman, he smiles in satisfaction.
"Can you hear me, Freya?"
"...Yes..."
"Good. Listen carefully: I am your master. You are my slave. You must obey me. You must do my bidding."
"...You are my master...I am your slave...I must obey you...I must do your bidding..."
Cyril commands Freya to repeat the statements several more times. She does as she is told, reinforcing their meaning and cementing them in her pliant mind. Then, he gives her new instructions.
"Being barefoot is a sign of your submission and obedience to me. You will always be barefoot in my presence. You will always be barefoot when doing work for me. You will always be barefoot when thinking of me."
"...Being barefoot is a sign of my submission and obedience to you...I will always be barefoot in your presence...I will always be barefoot when doing work for you...I will always be barefoot when thinking of you..."
Cyril nods in approval of Freya's extreme suggestibility. He never doubts the effectiveness of his brainwashing machine. But he nonetheless appreciates how well it works.
He spends the next half hour conditioning Freya to do, think, and forget what he needs her to. Although he has the ability to make her a mindlessly devoted zombie, that is not the role he wants her in. He actually does want her to work on his account and get things in order with it, which requires her impressive skill and intellect to accomplish. So, he programs specific behaviors into her that she will carry out without further instruction from him. And, he also implants post-hypnotic triggers that he can use whenever he desires to actively control her.
Finally, the process is complete. Freya sits before Cyril, brainwashed into submission and obedience. Now it is time for him to reap the benefits of his work....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Freya peruses the files that Cyril has given her.
"Cyril, I'm afraid I must dash your hopes and tell you that everything is not in order. There are major discrepancies here. Nothing that can't be corrected, mind you. But it will take some doing to correct these errors."
She sits in the same chair as before, which has retracted all its implements and restraints, though it remains in the chaise-like configuration. Her legs are stretched out before her, and her feet are bare. She is unaware that her shoes are off and also that she scrunches and splays her feet to the cadence of a previous rhythm she doesn't remember.
Cyril has pulled up another chair and sits directly in front of her.
"I see," he says in response to her comments on the files. "Will you be able to do this work yourself?"
"Yes, I will. It will take time, but I can do it."
"Fine, fine. Can you start now?"
"Of course. I just need to find my..."
She looks around for something. Cyril reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, capped bottle. He holds it out to her.
"Ah, yes, thank you," she says, smiling and taking the bottle from him.
While still reviewing the files, she opens the bottle and pours out some of the contents into her hands. She then bends her legs one at a time and rubs her hands over the soles of her feet. When she finishes, her soles are wet and shiny with oil. She stretches both legs out again, and slides down a little in her seat. Her feet now hang off the edge of the chaise.
Cyril moves his chair forward so that it touches hers. Freya places her feet on it, at his crotch.
"Great, now I can get started," she says, oblivious to all of her actions not involving the files. "Which is good because this really is going to take some time."
"Take all the time you need," Cyril says.
Freya smiles appreciatively at his understanding of the situation. She begins to work on his account and on him....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Merina hears the now signature pad-pad-pad of bare feet on the floor tiles. Then she hears the cadent rap-rap-rap on her office door. She doesn't need to look away from her computer screen to know that Freya has arrived, as requested. She takes a few more seconds to save a draft of what she is working on. Then, she turns to face her employee.
"How did it go with the Wellington account?"
"It went well. There's more work to do, but I got a lot done."
"Excellent. I knew you were the right person for it."
"Thanks!"
Merina smiles and then with a nod ends the meeting. Freya nods back, then turns and leaves.
The two barefoot, brainwashed women return to their duties. In each of their enslaved minds, they think the same thing:
Cyril Wellington is my master. I am his slave. I must obey him. I must do his bidding. Cyril Wellington is my master. I am his slave. I must obey him. I must do his bidding. Cyril Wellington is my master. I am his slave. I must obey him. I must do his bidding....