The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Twenty years later — the 1990’s

“Mrs Bowen?” The voice crackled out of the office intercom. “Your 2pm, Mrs DeWitt, is here.”

“Thank you Karen,” the madam replied, an elegant finger holding down the talk button. “Please send her in.”

Mrs Bowen leaned back in her expensive office chair and waited.

Back in the 1970’s

Carol had never expected to be somewhere like this again. She didn’t want to be here now. She shivered, nervously looking around at the four walls. All of them were bare except for peeling paint that was the murky colour of stagnant pond water. Somewhere on the worst edges of green and grey.

The chair was no better. A rickety metal construction, looking like it came from the fifties, black paint carelessly applied, the edge of the seat pressing uncomfortably into her legs as she sat on it. The table was even older. But solid. Wood, its off-white paint peeling like the walls.

It wasn’t what she was used to these days.

The mistress of one of the city’s top mobsters wasn’t supposed to be anywhere like this.

That’s who she was now. That was part of her role. Carol was good at playing her role. Beautiful arm candy for Patrick. At least in public. She was beautiful in private as well. That was part of the deal. She kept herself looking the best all the time. But in private Patrick could fuck her.

He did. A lot.

Carol liked that.

I’m a whore.

No matter how many clothes Patrick paid for. No matter how many furs and jewels he loaded her with. No matter the designer names on her high heels, Carol was a whore. A high-priced, private, whore, but still a whore.

That was the other part of her role.

Carol was happy about that. It was what she wanted, after all. She couldn’t imagine being anything other than a whore. Once she had. Once she’d wanted something more. Once she’d been a policewoman. Once she’d been strong.

She wasn’t strong anymore. Now she was just a whore.

Sometimes there was a tiny voice at the back of her mind, but Carol could never make out what it was saying. Only its despairing tone.

The voice wasn’t there very often.

It was easy being Patrick’s whore. It was almost like a dream. He told her what to do. Where to go. Carol did what she was told.

It was the role Patrick wanted her to play.

It was also better than being here. The room reminded Carol of the cell on Copeland’s boat. Where she’d learnt the words. Where she’d learnt that she wanted to be a whore. The room was like her cell, poorly lit, small, not much furniture. She’d been alone there, just like she was alone now.

Carol was rarely alone. In the mansion there was always Patrick or a bodyguard or a servant. Or even Patrick’s daughter, Ellen, the teenager making clear that she hadn’t lost any of her hatred for her father’s mistress. There’d been no change in her attitude to Carol from the first time they’d met. But the girl was too afraid of her father to do anything about it beyond half-veiled slights and whispered insults.

In public Carol never went anywhere without Patrick or at least one of his bodyguards.

Like today. Patrick had given her one of the limousines and two of the bodyguards. Told her to go shopping. Summer was almost upon them. He’d told her to buy some new dresses. She knew what that meant. Expensive and revealing. Tasteful enough. Carol had learnt exactly what Patrick wanted of her in the months that she’d been his mistress.

In the months that she’d been his whore.

In the months that he’d been fucking her.

Carol loved it when Patrick fucked her, her body singing under his touch. She craved it. No-one else made her feel like he did.

The door opened. A policeman stood there. That wasn’t what surprised Carol. Why should it? She was in a police station, much as she’d never imagined that she ever would be again. Not until the limousine had been stopped and one of the bodyguards hauled in on what sounded to Carol like trumped-up charges. She knew enough about ploys like that. She could remember it all. Even if the memories felt hollow and unused.

She’d been a policewoman once.

It was a policewoman that had taken her by the arm and led her to this interrogation room. Carol had angrily thrown off the woman’s arm. Because that’s what Patrick’s mistress would do. That’s what Patrick would expect her to do.

Carol knew how to play her role.

It was the first time she’d been angry since Patrick had bought her.

The memory of that night in Mrs Bowen’s room still turned her on. Hard.

Maybe it always would.

But she was here now, in a police interrogation room.

So it wasn’t that there was a policeman in the doorway that surprised her. It was who the policeman was that froze Carol in her chair.

“Hello Detective,” Wainwright’s voice was as cold as a bullet in the back. “You want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Carol’s gaze dropped, unable to meet the police captain’s eyes, his accusing look a mixture of betrayal and anger and a disdain that was as sharp as a hood’s switchblade.

“Did you really think,” Wainwright growled, the coldness gone and his voice growing louder by the word. “That we didn’t have Patrick under surveillance? That we wouldn’t get shots of his new mistress? That I wouldn’t recognise you? Did you?”

Wainwright’s fists slammed on to the table, Carol jerking back in surprise. Honestly, she hadn’t thought about it. She realised that she should have. She’d carefully avoided the bug in the fireplace, even though she was convinced that its battery would be dead by now. And she never used the bugged phone. Who did she have to call? But she hadn’t thought about the police taking her photo. Or those photos making their way to Wainwright.

“You’re lucky no-one else who knows you has seen them,” Wainwright spat. “God, Carol, what were you thinking? Do you know how many favours I had to cash in to get you here without telling anyone who you are? Well?”

“My, my name’s Stephanie, Stephanie Chambers,” Carol offered, vainly hoping to bluff her way out of this. She was just a whore now. Anything else was too hard.

“Bullshit,” Wainwright roared, a fist slamming the table again. “I’m the one who came up with that name. We both know who you are. Don’t even try it.”

Carol looked up at him, the police captain glaring back.

Then the anger dropped from Wainwright’s expression and he slumped into the chair opposite Carol. “It’s my own fucking fault. I should never have let you stay there that long. No one could do that without breaking. But this? Faking your own death? Ending up with Patrick? You know what he is! Where his money comes from.” Wainwright’s lips curled in distaste as he glared at the expensive clothes Carol was wearing. “Were you bent all along?”

“No,” Carol whispered, shaking her head. She was Patrick’s whore. She earned what she was wearing. In the way a whore does.

Wainwright was silent for a long, painful, moment, obviously considering her reply.

“I believe you,” he sighed at last. “God help me I may be an idiot, but I believe you. Come back to us Carol,” Wainwright pleaded. “I can fix this. I know what we can say. It was all too much. You’re not the first of us to break. The doctors will back it up. We can get you an honourable discharge. You can get your life back.”

“I can’t,” Carol whispered.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Disbelief was etched on Wainwright’s face. “After what you put us through? God, I thought you were dead. Your family thinks you’re dead.”

Carol didn’t think they cared. They’d disowned her when she’d become a policewoman. Not a job for a woman, they’d said.

What would they think of whore as a job? she wondered idly.

“I can’t,” Carol insisted. “Don’t you understand?”

I’m a whore. Just let me be a whore. It was what she needed.

That’s right, you’re a whore. It was Stephanie who answered her. Stephanie, who’d been quiet for all the months that Carol had been Patrick’s mistress. Carol had used her name, but the girl had been silent in her mind.

“Do you seriously want to keep doing what you’re doing?” Wainwright demanded.

That was easy. “Yes.”

Of course she did.

I want to be a prostitute.

She’d learnt those words in a place like this. Small and cold and with no view of the outside world.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

Couldn’t Wainwright see that? Couldn’t he see how much she’d be ripped apart if he stopped her doing what she needed to do?

What she craved.

Junkie, Stephanie scoffed.

Carol didn’t care.

Disbelief was etched on Wainwright’s face. “Are you serious Carol? Listen to yourself. You need help. Just let me say the word.”

Carol wasn’t sure who Wainwright was asking for. Her? Or to salve his own conscience? Either way, it wouldn’t help her. Carol’s stomach was knotted in cold fear. She knew that all it would take would be one word from the police captain. She’d be hauled out of the interrogation room. Sent to a hospital. She wouldn’t be able to whore. She wouldn’t be anything.

I need to be a prostitute.

“No,” Carol declared. “I just can’t.” Part of her wanted to say yes. Reclaim a normal life. Be who she’d been. There was a voice in the back of her mind telling her to say yes. It was the policewoman, or what little was left of her. Carol could remember how she felt when she was a policewoman. Strong. Certain. Not like she was now. Weak. Doing what she was told.

I don’t want to stop being a whore. That was her voice. Carol knew it was true.

I don’t want to be weak, came the answer. It wasn’t the policewoman. It was Stephanie. Stephanie, who’d been quiet for months. So much so that Carol had almost forgotten her.

“But you can be his mistress,” the police captain said at last, disdain dripping from his voice. “Share his bed.”

Carol simply nodded.

“And he doesn’t know what you used to be.” She didn’t miss that Wainwright was using the past tense now. Or the thoughtful tone in his voice.

“No, he doesn’t.” Carol shook her head, confirming Wainwright’s supposition.

Wainwright was staring into Carol’s eyes. Carol knew that look. It was the look he gave suspects. And sources. Evaluating them. Considering what he could get out of them. How he could use them.

Carol knew all about being used.

You used to be a policewoman. Stephanie declared. As if Carol needed the reminder.

Being a policewoman meant something to you.

Carol was surprised. Stephanie, that part of her mind, the part that loved to torment her, whisper to her of how good whoring was, had never been anything but scornful of the policewoman. Maybe Stephanie was just going to use how far Carol had fallen to torment her. In quiet moments, in the few nights Patrick left her alone in her room, when she could hear that little voice in the back of her mind, Carol had learnt all about self-loathing. When she’d look at her reflection in the mirror and wonder where her strength had gone.

She much preferred it when Patrick fucked her brains out.

She was a whore.

She used to be more.

“You’ve been living with him for months,” Wainwright observed, his look intent. “You must have learnt something.”

Carol’s throat was dry. The words were so hard. “I, I haven’t tried.”

But maybe she could. She knew Wainwright. Could tell what he was thinking. Maybe there was more for her than just being a whore. Maybe if she tried she could get back what she’d lost.

“Are you joking?” Wainwright scoffed, the sound sending Carol shrinking into her seat. “What am I supposed to believe? That you’ve been there that long and not done a thing? Not seen a thing? What are you Carol?”

I want to be a prostitute.

That was true. It would always be true. But maybe it wasn’t all she could be.

“We’ll never get anyone as close to him as you are. If you don’t need help then maybe you can do what you’re supposed to do.”

Carol held her breath.

Does he?

If she was right about what Wainwright meant then she could be an undercover policewoman again. She was strong when she was a policewoman.

I want to be a policewoman.

She wasn’t a policewoman now.

Maybe that was why she’d been weak. However much she needed to be a whore it wasn’t enough. When she’d faked her death she’d thrown away a part of herself. Thrown away something she couldn’t do without. Even when she’d helped with the other whores it was only because Mrs Bowen wanted her to.

I want to be a policewoman. The words came from the small voice in the back of her mind.

It was in a place like this that words had first burnt into her mind.

But the words that small voice was saying didn’t have the power of the words Copeland had taught her. The idea of carrying a badge left Carol shaking. She remembered how she’d blacked-out after shooting Conti.

You don’t carry a badge when you’re undercover. Stephanie observed. The image in her mind sounded off-hand, but there was a cold light in the girl’s eyes.

Carol had to try.

“You mean be a policewoman again?” Her voice was small and quavering. She could sense that part of her mind. Just out of reach. Maybe Wainwright was offering her a way to get it back.

The police captain’s eyes were hard.

“No.” The word was a stab in the heart. “Everyone thinks you’re dead Carol. Even I can’t make that go away. If you were getting treatment it wouldn’t matter. But there’s no way I can get you reinstated. We’d have had to register a plan like that. There’d be too many questions.”

God, no, please. Carol could feel herself being pulled down. Back to the dream she lived in. Half her mind, half her soul, just gone. Her insides were in freefall, the edges of her vision blurring. She wanted the rest of herself back. Needed it. But she couldn’t take it. She was too weak to argue. Too weak to say no.

It wasn’t her role.

I’m a whore.

I want to be a prostitute.

Maybe it was all she’d ever be.

Wainwright smiled, a cold thin smile. “But you could do it, couldn’t you? You know how.”

Carol did. The memories were there. The training. But that part of her life was gone. He’d taken it away from her.

There was a void in front of her, threatening to swallow her whole. She was trembling, her stomach in knots.

Carol nodded. Maybe Wainwright was going to change his mind. She wanted this, so much. There was a part of her that had been missing. She could taste it. But she couldn’t make the decision herself. Only Wainwright could. Say yes or no. Maybe she never had made those decisions. Always it had been someone telling her what her role was. Wainwright. Bowen. Patrick. They’d always told her who to be.

Maybe Wainwright would do that again.

I love it when a man uses me.

The words were still there. The words Copeland had taught her. He’d told her what to do too.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

I want to be a policewoman.

She’d told herself that once. Over and over. She was telling herself now. But it wouldn’t stick. There was no place for it in her mind. All those places were filled up.

I want to be a prostitute.

That’s what she was.

But she could play roles. That’s what a whore did. Be whatever the john wanted her to be. Carol was so good at that. Wainwright was a man who wanted her to be something. She could do that. She could be a whore playing at being a policewomen.

Carol was so good at playing her roles.

“I can register you as an informant. Not as Carol Taylor. Maybe not even Stephanie Chambers. Less chance of someone finding out.”

Carol’s head whirled. Was that all she’d be? A whore who informed to the police? That wasn’t being a policewoman. But maybe she could pretend. A whore, passing information to the police, pretending she was something more.

“I” She didn’t know what else to say. It wasn’t what she’d wanted.

“Don’t you dare think of saying no, Carol,” Wainwright growled. “You won’t take help? You want to stay in that big mansion? Wear all those fancy clothes? Well, you’ll do something right. Or Patrick will find out just who he’s fucking.”

Carol quailed before her old boss. She knew Wainwright wasn’t joking. This was what you did. Whatever it took. Make it clear to an informant what would happen if they didn’t co-operate.

She knew what Patrick would do to her if he ever found out she’d been a policewoman.

“Okay,” Carol whispered. Maybe this was all she’d be now. A whore and an informant.

Maybe that was enough.

Maybe that was what she’d been all along, ever since the day she’d walked into Mrs Bowen’s brothel. Maybe that was a lie. But if it was it might make the reality easier to swallow.

“I can I trust you, can’t I Carol?” The threat of a moment ago was gone. Wainwright was smiling now. That’s what you did too. Reassure the source. Make them feel good. Make them feel needed. Carol knew all about it. She’d done it herself.

It didn’t stop it working on her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Of course he could trust her. If he told her what to do. Be undercover, passing him information.

It was a role.

I’ll do anything a man paying me tells me to do.

Wainwright would be paying her if she was an informant. Even if she was just pretending to be a policewoman. Even if deep down she was still just a whore. A whore who loved being paid and told what to do.

It was what a whore did.

Maybe it would be enough.

“If you tell me to,” she whispered. He’d be using her. Carol loved being used. Arousal was sparking in her centre.

I want to be a prostitute.

It had been a room like this where she’d learnt that she wanted to be a prostitute. She still did. Carol could remember sitting in that room. Repeating the words over and over again.

Like she was now.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

She’d never have made the choice Wainwright wanted from her, not on her own. Not without him telling her to. It wasn’t her role, not anymore. But if Wainwright told her to, then she could do it. It would be another role. She’d been a policewoman for Wainwright. A whore and a stripper for Mrs Bowen. And more. A mistress for Patrick. All roles, one after another after another. Some at the same time. Put on, taken off, until Carol couldn’t tell what was real and what was fake and it didn’t matter anymore.

Except for the whore. She needed to be the whore. She’d do anything to keep being a whore.

Even if it meant taking on another role.

I want to be a prostitute.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

I love being a prostitute.

I don’t want to be weak. Stephanie whispered.

Carol hadn’t felt strong since she’d faked her death.

You’re wrong, Stephanie told her. You were strong when you were helping Mrs Bowen. You’re strong when you aren’t just a whore.

Stephanie was right, but Mrs Bowen’s protégé was another role that she didn’t have any more, lost when Bowen sold her to Patrick, and so the strength it gave her was gone too.

She’d spent the months since then lost. She needed this. Needed both parts of her. The whore and the policewoman.

She was a whore. She’d always be a whore.

Maybe being an informant as well would be enough.

“Okay,” Wainwright said. “You’re no use to me any other way.”

Carol had to struggle to stop herself moaning. She loved to be used. He was telling her what to do. Telling her to take on a role. Making her into something she’d been before. Almost. But not her decision. His.

I want to be a policewoman.

Even though Wainwright hadn’t said those words it was as good as if he had.

He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out a folded piece of paper. Carol could see the printing on it. Knew what it was as Wainwright laid it on the table before her. Handed her a pen. It was an informant agreement. Official. They didn’t always do this. Most informants were off the books. But not all.

There was a name on it. Not Carol Taylor. Not Stephanie Chambers. She didn’t recognise it. It didn’t matter. It was just another role. Wainwright had been ready for this. Had come here with a plan. Everything he’d said. Demanding to know if she was bent. Offering her help. It had all been testing her. Pushing her to where he wanted her to go.

Using her.

Carol loved to be used.

She signed the paper. With that name she hadn’t even heard of until a moment before.

“Patrick’s smart,” Wainwright mused, that voice she know so well, planning every move. “We can’t have anything traced back to you. This could take years. You know that?”

His hand was hovering over the paper. This was her last chance to say no. But why would she want that? He’d given her a role. She’d play that role.

The role meant she’d say yes. She was an informant now. Wainwright’s informant.

I want to be a prostitute.

Wainwright probably wanted to fuck her too. Why wouldn’t he? She was beautiful. He’d probably spent nights imagining her getting fucked by man after man. She wouldn’t be the first whore who was an informant. And sometimes their police handlers demanded a free fuck. She could do it. It wouldn’t take much. She could see the way he was looking at her. Just a word and Wainwright would be fucking her.

But that wasn’t the role she was supposed to play now. It wasn’t the role he wanted. Wainwright wanted something like the old Carol. The old Carol wouldn’t fuck her captain. However much the new Carol wanted to.

I want to be an informant. It was her new role. Those words meant something. In a room like this. She could learn tose words. Take on that new role.

Carol was good at playing her roles.

Playing a role for Wainwright was almost as good as being fucked. Her arousal was creeping higher, sending delicate fingers down her nerves. But it wasn’t all she could feel. There was a sharpness to her mind that hadn’t been there when she’d walked into the room.

Her role needed it.

I told you I’d help you, Stephanie smirked.

I want to be a prostitute.

I want to be an informant.

She could have both parts of her mind. Getting fucked by Patrick, getting fucked so well. Seeing criminals put away. It was what she needed. She could be strong again. She could whore. And more.

It was the best.

It was the best of everything. It was what she’d been missing. She’d been so stupid. First trying to tell herself that she could give up whoring when the two girls were found. She could never give up whoring. Then pretending being a whore was all she needed. She’d been half-alive for months, ever since she faked her suicide.

She stared past Wainwright. At the walls. It was like sitting in the cell on Copeland’s boat again. Just her and the bed with the thin blanket and the light that never went out and words going around and around in her head. Burning themselves in. Over and over. Prostitute. Informant.

I want to be a prostitute.

I want to be an informant.

I love being a prostitute.

Round and round and round. Until she couldn’t see where she was. Until she couldn’t hear anything. Until all there was was the memories of the cell on Copeland’s boat. She was almost cumming.

“Carol? Wainwright asked. “You ready for this?”

“Yes,” Carol replied.

After Wainwright left the room, after he’d told her how they’d meet again, Carol’s hand snaked its way under her short skirt.

She came the moment her thumb landed on her clit.

“Are you okay baby doll?” Patrick’s brow was creased, concern etched in his features. “Fucking cops. If anyone laid a finger on you they’ll regret it. Just let me know.”

Carol knew that he was serious. “I’m okay. No-one hurt me.” She smiled up at the mobster, reassuringly. That was what she was supposed to do. She was his mistress, his whore. She was there to make him feel better.

That was her role.

One of them anyway.

She had two now. Whore and informant. She could do that. Patrick wanted her as his whore. Wainwright wanted her as an informant. Carol could play those roles.

She’d been told to.

A whore being an informant pretending that was as good as being a policewoman. That’s what she was.

Patrick’s face was still a mask of anger.

“Shush,” Carol whispered, her fingers on his lips. Arousal was coursing through her. She could feel the tension radiating off Patrick. She knew what to do about that. What she wanted to do. She was still his whore.

Pressing her body into his Carol laid her head on Patrick’s shoulder. “I was so scared though,” she whispered. “Can you make me feel better?”

Patrick’s lips formed a thin smile. “You want something baby doll? You want to forget? I can arrange that.”

Carol wasn’t sure that she wanted to forget. But she knew what she wanted. Even with what Wainwright wanted her to do she still wanted Patrick. Wanted him to fuck her. Wanted to be his whore. The missing part of her was back now. She could watch. And listen. She was trained for it. She had years of practice. As an undercover policewoman.

As a whore.

She was still a whore.

A whore who wanted to be used. Needed it. A whore who wanted Patrick to fuck her.

Carol didn’t resist as Patrick led her to her room.

Didn’t resist as he slipped her dress off her shoulders. She smiled as he looked at her, delicious heat rushing through her. He wanted her. She knew that. And she wanted him. Wanted him to use her. Any way he wanted.

Carol crawled onto the bed as Patrick removed his own clothes. Lay there, offering herself. She could feel the heat between her legs, the ache in her breasts. The empty, desperate, need inside her, wanting to be filled, wanting to be used.

She was almost cumming as Patrick pulled her panties down. Carol cried out as he entered her. At that moment she was nothing more than a whore. Later she could think of how to do what Wainwright wanted. Gather the information. Slowly. She’d have to be careful. But it could wait.

Right now she a whore.

A whore who was being used.

A whore who was crying out, her back arching, as she came.

“You think that’s enough?” Carol asked.

“Yeah,” Wainwright nodded. “This’ll put him away for years.”

They weren’t talking about Patrick.

The mob boss was too clever. He’d discovered the bugs, eventually. His fury had made Carol cringe in fear. Ellen hadn’t spoken in his presence for a week. Now he had the mansion swept regularly. Getting evidence on him wasn’t going to be easy. But others weren’t so careful.

Like Thomas O’Shea.

O’Shea had been so eager to spill to Carol. She’d had to tell him to stop in the end. She couldn’t make it too obvious where the information had come from. It hadn’t taken much. Just a look and a smile, the tip of Carol’s tongue flicking out. A hand on his arm, one finger drawing, lazy, swooping, lines. That was all it had taken.

She knew O’Shea remembered. Remembered when she’d been a whore at Mrs Bowen’s brothel and he’d been one of her johns. When he had used her.

Part of Carol still missed those days. So many men, one after another. Taking her. Fucking her. Paying her.

Making her their whore.

She was still Patrick’s whore. She smiled, remembering what he’d done to her the night after he found the bugs. How he’d used her.

But she wasn’t here to be a whore.

It wasn’t easy meeting Wainwright. Patrick never let her go anywhere alone. She had to slip out of changing rooms when the bodyguards weren’t looking. Take what other chances she could. In the back rooms of salons when she was supposedly headed to the ladies’ room. Between treatments at the spa. Sometimes just dropping information in packages for Wainwright to collect. Occasionally meeting the police captain. Having to be so cautious, always at risk of being discovered. But she managed it. She knew what to do.

Carol was good at playing her roles.

“When are you going to arrest O’Shea?” Carol wanted to know. She wanted to be ready for Patrick’s reaction. She knew what would happen. Her nipples were tightening at the thought.

Wainwright was looking at her, a thoughtful look on his face. “Maybe it’s best I don’t tell you.”

Carol went to protest, then stopped herself. She was an informant. They didn’t get to know everything. And it was a risk if she knew too much. She could let something slip that she shouldn’t. Wainwright didn’t have to tell her anything. He was in charge.

It was his decision, not hers.

Carol loved that.

It still felt so good when she found out about O’Shea’s arrest. Patrick didn’t suspect a thing about her involvement. He seethed and fumed. Wanted to know where the leak had come from. O’Shea didn’t say anything to the police, the mobster’s code of silence holding. But it hurt Patrick just the same.

Carol made sure to let Patrick fuck her so well that night. She was his whore, after all. It was her role to comfort him. To offer herself. Give him everything he wanted. Her pleasure didn’t matter. She came, of course, gloriously, screaming. She always did. But she was a whore, so his needs came first.

That she was the cause of Patrick’s anger hardly bothered Carol at all. When you were undercover that’s what you had to do. Compartmentalise. Splinter yourself. Forget. Be the role.

Carol was always so good at that.

It was even better when O’Shea was convicted.

As Patrick rode her that night Carol thought about what she’d done, what she was doing. As much as her thoughts, shattered by bliss, allowed her.

It felt so good. Patrick inside her. Using her. Claiming his whore. Electric sparks tingled over her body. She wanted this. Needed it. To be used. To be claimed. Like a whore.

But she was more than a whore now. She had another role. Because Wainwright had told her she could.

She almost felt whole now.

She could play these roles. Carol was always so good at playing her roles.

There were others after O’Shea. Not all from Patrick’s organisation. It would be too risky if they were. Each one took months. Slowly gathering the information so it couldn’t be traced to Carol. Most of the time she was Patrick’s whore. Sometimes Carol almost forgot she was anything else.

But she was. She had both parts of her.

Although on her bed, with Patrick inside of her, it was only the whore that mattered.

She was always a whore, before anything else.

She was on edge, her thoughts disintegrating.

But she had the other part of her as well. As much a policewoman as she could be anymore. It was what she needed.

She was drowning in the sensations, her whole body alive.

Whore and informant. It was right.

She was cumming, Patrick thrusting into her, claiming his whore, glorious bliss sweeping through her.

She wanted it to never stop. The orgasms, the whoring, the police work.

It was so good, so right. It was what she needed. What she wanted.

She was cumming again.

Eventually it was Patrick who she informed on.

That made her cum too.