The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The scene is a public place, perhaps a nightclub. People circulate, talk, drink and dance.

A woman stands by the bar, alone, at least for the moment. She is young and attractive. Attractive enough even to be a movie star.

A man approaches her, his features hidden by the angle from which the scene is being viewed. It is hard to say at this point if anyone would be willing to point movie cameras at him and plaster his face on the cover of glossy magazines.

He attempts to strikes up a conversation with her. Perhaps he is successful, perhaps not. It doesn’t really matter, since at some point a golden pocketwatch appears in the air between them as if by magic, dangling from his hand by a long fine chain, swinging endlessly back and forth. It catches the lights flashing overhead, and bounces them into her lovely eyes. His voice is now soothing, seductive.

Hypnotic.

Soon she cannot look away from the watch as it swings back and forth, back and forth.

She cannot stop listening to his voice.

She cannot resist.

She cannot.

The intercom on the desk buzzed.

The man swiveled around in his padded chair, and disdainfully punched the intercom’s ‘receive’ button with a stubby finger. With his other hand, he extracted a thick cigar from his mouth.

“Yes?” His voice was a rumble.

Trapped by the cheap speaker, the woman’s voice was tinny squawk: “Mr. Heittman is here to see you, Mr. Finegold.” Even through the distortion, however, her cool, professional disapproval was evident.

“Send him in, Betty.”

Finegold released the button with a sharp click and turned to face the tall wooden doors to his office, the glowing cigar again lodged at a grim, dangerous angle in the corner of his mouth.

The thinner gray-haired man sitting on the sofa against one wall said nothing, but gazed philosophically at the long sketchy trail of smoke twirling up towards the high ceiling from his cigarette. The smoke partially obscured the large poster framed and mounted on the wood-paneled wall behind him.

The door opened, revealing a stooped, rather skinny man with prematurely thinning brown hair. He shuffled into the wide sunny room on faded sneakers, and closed the door behind him. He crossed the plush carpet towards the desk, his posture that of a man crossing a vast, trackless, desert. He glanced at the sofa occupant, who appeared to ignore him completely, then morosely met the gaze of the man behind the desk.

“Heittman.”

“John.”

The stocky man behind the desk didn’t offer the visitor a seat. After a long moment of silence, Heittman spoke again.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Your latest script.”

“Oh? Is something wrong?”

“You know fucking well that something’s wrong.” From the wide expanse of desk before him, Finegold picked up a thick white stack of stapled paper and held it between two well-manicured fingers much as a man might hold a week-dead ferret. He gave the ‘corpse’ a wiggle, and you could almost see the metaphorical maggots falling off it. The black words ‘Full Circle’ were typed across the middle of the top page. “What the hell is this supposed to be? What kind of game are you playing?”

“Game?” Heittman shuffled the contents of his jeans pockets between his thin fingers.

“You don’t think that you can be replaced? You think you have any clout here? Right now, there are ten thousand hacks just like you, better than you, out there starving on the pavement, wrapping themselves in their putrid little scribblings to keep themselves warm at night.” He dropped the script back to the desk with a resounding thunk. Heittman spoke.

“It’s the best script I’ve ever given you.”

Finegold stared at him in total astonishment, then looked at the man on the sofa for a moment. This individual draped a casual arm along his seat’s top and examined his glowing ash with great interest.

“My god, the man’s actually serious. The man actually thinks that matters.” He faced forward again. “Heittman, it could rival William fucking Shakespeare, and it wouldn’t matter. We pay you, we actually give you real money, straight from the U.S. Treasury. We do this so that you will write the script we need, not so that you can try and stretch your fucking inner vision, or whatever the hell you scribblers call it. Not to have our characters make little commentaries about societal ethics and sexual power relationships. Not to write stories within fucking stories. Prizim Pictures was founded, and got where it is today,” he made a sweeping, smoke-laced, gesture that took in the office, the man with the cigarette, the building, the entire view behind him, “by and for giving the pea-brained, drooling, horny masses large steady doses of what they want. Boy meets hot sexy girl, boy dangles his shiny gold pocketwatch in front of said hot sexy girl, they have even hotter sex, boy then hypnotizes other hot sexy girls, and he has more extremely hot sex with each and every one of them. It’s worked before, and it will work again.”

“People want more than that.”

“Bull. Not in their fiction, and not in their lives either. Yeah, OK, there’s always a few highbrows out there sewing leather patches onto the elbows of their damn smoking jackets and saying they want ‘plot’ and ‘character development’ in their hypno flicks.” He leaned forward. “But the key words in this particular instance, Heittman, are ‘a few’. I, and everyone else at Prizim Pictures, look at the big picture. We don’t just look at the big picture, we see the big picture. And, armed with this knowledge, we sally forth, and we make movies that people actually want to see. I make ‘Bikini Babe Brainwash III’,” ...he stabbed a finger in the direction of the poster... “and it turns around and makes me and the other Prizim partners lots of money. Lots. Of. Money. You can go peddle this...” A stab at the script. “...down at some two-bit outfit like Mesmer Productions. They’ll probably love it, and if you and they are both very lucky and say your prayers at night like good little boys, it will show for a couple of nights in some fucking art-house theater on the outskirts of Dubuque!” Finegold closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. His cigar flared like a live coal for a moment. He leaned back in his chair, which gave a feeble squeak of protest. He carefully steepled his fingers and spoke more calmly, his eyes still closed.

“Take this piece of crap and get out. I don’t want to have to look at it again, much less touch it. You have until Monday to come up with something useful.”

“How generous of you.”

“Goodbye, Heittman.” Finegold spun the high-backed chair so that he was once again facing out over the Prizim Pictures lot, the city and, just visible from this vantage point, a slim sliver of blue: the ocean.

Heittman walked to the desk, picked up the script, and departed without another word. The door gave a muted thud behind him as it settled against its padded frame.

The man on the sofa carefully stubbed out his cigarette in the exact middle of an elaborate gold ashtray whose curled legs perched on a nearby end-table. He rose with careful grace and turned to look at the poster. In it, the red and purple words ‘BIKINI BABE BRAINWASH ’ curled in a gaudy spiral around the large numeral ‘III’. Beneath this combination was a busty blonde woman. She had been squeezed into a very skimpy two-piece bathing suit, and stared transfixed at a very large gold pocketwatch which was being swung at the end of a fine chain, which in turn stretched up out of sight. It was either a very tall hypnotist wielding it, or perhaps God himself. At the bottom of the poster, among the fine lines of credits, were the words ‘PRODUCED BY: JONATHAN J. FINEGOLD’. Along with, further down and in rather smaller type, ‘SCREENPLAY BY: JAMES HEITTMAN.’

The gray-haired man stood quietly, his stance bringing to mind that of a patron in a gallery of fine art. After a long moment, he turned to the desk and its occupant. His pale blue eyes and voice were both mild.

“It was a good script, John. A very good script. Authentic hypnosis. Three dimensional characters. I particularly liked how he showed how the hypnotist was as much under the control of society as the subjects were under his...”

“Put a sock in it, Yullins.”

Yullins’ expression soured ever so slightly for a moment, then smoothed. He continued.

“Sir. Of course, sir. Is there any particular orifice you had in mind?”

Finegold turned back into the room. He suddenly looked tired, haggard... deflated in a way that was almost frightening. His hands fell to the desk with a meaty thud.

“I really don’t need this right now, Ralph. Any of it. The latest word is that the deal to finally sell this damn place to HTI is still touch and go. The money boys are getting... squirrelly on us. Today is the day we find out, one way or the other. And if this deal goes through...” Even with the cigars, he had deep well-exercised lungs, and his sighs were as big as he was. “... I can take my cut and maybe finally get out of this fucking business. For good.” He looked over his shoulder again, looked directly at that tiny sliver of blue. “Go lie on a white beach somewhere and watch real bikini babes. Hell. Do more than watch. Maybe I’ll buy a watch.”

A thin cynical smile from Yullins, who extracted another cigarette from a slim gold case and rolled it slowly between his long fingers.

“That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the real problem. That script of his cut a little too close to home, didn’t it? Even though that movie producer character of his actually came across as rather sympathetic in the end. In your own way, you’re just as trapped as that lovely lass.” He nodded at the poster.

Finegold puffed his cigar back up into full flame.

“Maybe. For now. But unlike whatsherface... ‘Hildy Johanson’... there, I can see a way out. And I’m going to take it.” Another puff. “Now is a very bad time for someone to rock the boat, but you always have to keep slugs like Heittman on a short leash. Or whatever the hell you corral slugs with. And sometimes choke them with it. Cuz some of them bite, if they think they can get away with it.” A thoughtful puff. His eyes shifted under their heavy brows. His tone of voice changed slightly. “As I just said, it doesn’t matter. But he was right. You’re right. It was a good script. For someone else. When all is said and done, he’s a decent writer. Maybe even more then that, lately. He’ll get by in this town. When he’s been properly... focused, he has a knack for tapping into the wants and needs of that lobotomized sea of morons we cater to. Probably only because he is one of them, 80% of the time. He adds to the value of this studio and to my pictures, and the people at HTI know that.” Longer puff. Somehow without actually changing inflection, his words suddenly carried a wide streak of menace. “And if you ever tell anyone I said any of this about him, I will personally hunt you down, wherever you run to, wherever you try to hide, snap you in two and use the pieces as fucking fire-starters. Even if keeps me from the bikini babes for a few more days. Are we clear?”

Yullins resumed studying his cigarette smoke.

“Quite.”

The intercom buzzed again, and Finegold thumbed it back to life.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Mullands is on line two, Mr. Finegold.”

Finegold lifted his thumb.

“The moment of truth.”

He picked up the phone.

James Heittman left John Finegold’s inner sanctum and trudged back across the equally palatial outer office, his expression preoccupied and thoughtful. Finegold’s elegant, well sculpted, very blonde secretary flashed him a cool glance and went back to her typing, her fingernails flashing amidst the computer keys like a cluster of polished pink knives stabbing into vital organs.

Heittman wandered out into the hallway, where he was snapped back to greater awareness of his surroundings by the flow of human traffic that bustled back and forth. A man pushing a long rack of clothing. Another hauling a paint-splattered ladder. Three women wearing harem-girl outfits, followed closely by a harried-looking individual carrying a small but quite active boa constrictor. A tight phalanx of men in dark suits, all apparently carrying on separate cell-phone conversations. Off in the distance, even inside the plushness of the lot administration building, could be heard the steady sounds of hammering and sawing; the sets for the latest ‘Twisted Therapy’ film were being finished off over in Stage 24.

Ignored by all and sundry, he walked out of the building and across the studio lot. As he passed Stage 23 he loitered for a moment, looking at a large new ‘in production’ sign that was being fitted into place on the side of the metal building by two burly workmen on a scaffolding- ‘Orb Masters 4.’

He shambled on, out into the parking lot. His battered little car stood off by itself in a far corner, waiting patiently for him. He got in, tossed the rejected script onto the faded seat beside him and fished out his keys. (He never bothered locking the car, since it would have taken a truly desperate criminal to make off with it. When he had first acquired the vehicle, he had strongly suspected the previous owner had scavenged it off of a chop shop’s ‘reject’ pile.) The car’s engine grudgingly turned over and rumbled to life. It sounded like Finegold, and the tailpipe looked a lot like the man’s cigar. One corner of Heittman’s mouth twitched upward at the thought.

The car trundled off of the lot, passing by the lounging Neanderthal in the security guard uniform who manned the booth at the front gate. The sun was beginning to drop, and the roads were filling up with home-bound commuters. Heittman turned on the radio, and joined the swarms departing the city, their massed shadows pointing the way towards the mountains in the eastern distance. Dance music throbbed in the cramped glass and metal space around him, as much as anything could throb through the car’s lackluster speakers. (Even Finegold’s intercom sounded better...)

It was Friday night, and the clubs would be filling up.

But before he hit any clubs, he had a few things that he needed to do.

Out in the eastern suburbs, another gate and another flat-topped guard lurking troll-like in a booth. Heittman’s car clanked to a stop and he presented his face for inspection and approval. The latter was finally, perhaps grudgingly, granted, the tall iron gate was rumbled aside, and he chugged up a long driveway which wound among hedges, pools and stately rows of trees. Finally a house came into view, an enormous black mass rearing up against the darkening sky. The structure’s wide front porch was lit up, and more bright lights streamed from a multitude of windows, all casting sharp-edged shadows out into the lawn. Several sleek and powerful-looking cars were parked in a loop of crushed white stones. The driveway he was on, however, was not connected to this spectacle, but curled around to the side of the mansion, where a more utilitarian entrance sported a single dim light.

He pulled into a slot, and the car gave a final plaintive sputter and died for the night, or possibly for good. Carrying his script, Heittman got out, his faded sneakers crunching on the gravel and then falling silent as he reached the concrete slab in front of the tradesman’s door.

He rang the doorbell, which echoed backwards out of hearing, finally losing its way and expiring in an endless series of rooms. After a very long moment, the door opened and a dark, stolid man in a butler’s uniform tastefully inserted himself into the resulting space. He eyed Heittman, his expression carefully blank.

“Good evening, Desmond. I’m expected.”

“Yes, Mr. Heittman.” The words were meticulously dusted with sprinkles of contempt, but the butler opened the door wide enough to admit him. “This way, please.”

“I can probably find my own way, you know.”

“This way, please.”

Heittman shrugged and followed him.

The door swung shut behind them with a boom.

They walked down a dim, narrow hallway. In contrast to Heittman’s sneakers, Desmond’s glittering black shoes clicked loudly on the well-worn wooden floorboards. Passing through a narrow door, they emerged into a much more elegant passageway, thick carpet and silk floral wallpaper replacing wood and white paint. The sounds of muted talk, genteel laughter and the clink of crystal and silverware could be heard somewhere nearby.

“I take it Mrs. Harris has guests tonight?”

“Yes, Mr. Heittman. Through here, please.”

“I’ll have to interview her again, you know, about the book. That is why she hired me, you know.”

“I’ll see to it that she is fully informed of your concerns, Mr. Heittman.”

The sounds faded away behind them as they ascended an elaborate wooden staircase, flanked with portraits of generations of men and women, all glaring down at the two of them. (Or perhaps only at Heittman; Desmond was welcome enough here.) At the top, the staircase emerged onto a wide landing. The biggest portrait of all hung on one wall, carefully framed and mounted over a long wooden table with curved legs. The picture was of three people: a dark man who bore more than a passing spiritual resemblance to Jonathan J. Finegold, and two women, one young, one older, both beautiful, with masses of flaming red hair. Like the other pictures, all of them appeared to be scowling. At the viewer, or the artist, or perhaps just life in general.

The two men stopped at a nearby door and Desmond discreetly knocked on it with a white-gloved hand. The resulting sound was solid, imposing.

“Come in.”

The room beyond appeared to be an office, with a desk, a long bank of filing cabinets, and related items.

The short, pretty, brunette behind the desk looked up, and flashed a quick professional smile. Much like one that Betty had doled out to Heittman a couple of hours earlier, except this time, the woman’s lips actually moved. A little. A small tasteful plaque on the desk announced that its user was ‘Linda Warren, Executive Secretary.’

“Desmond.”

“Miss Warren. Mr. Heittman... has arrived.”

She shot Heittman a cool glance, another repetition.

“So I see. Thank you, Desmond.”

“Will you be needed anything further?”

“No, Desmond. Thank you.”

The butler gave a stiff little bow, and departed.

Heittman closed the door, and locked it. Carefully shook the knob, and turned to face her.

As he did so, her expression changed, so abruptly it was as if someone had ripped away a mask she had been wearing.

“James!” In stark contrast to her tasteful business suit and carefully-styled hair, she hopped up from her chair, almost skipped across the small room, and melted into his arms. The kiss was long and passionate; her stocking-clad legs kicking up into the air behind her, one of her sensible black shoes falling off unnoticed. Finally he broke off, and she sank back to the carpet, her elfin features deeply flushed, her dark brown eyes wide and adoring.

“Everything going all right at this end, Linda?”

“Yes, James. I was just finishing up some paperwork.” She straightened her garments in a practiced, automatic fashion.

“Is Victoria back from her meetings yet?”

“Yes, James. She’s waiting for you inside.”

“Good. Let’s see.. anything else on the agenda?”

“You wanted me to remind you that you planned to go out and do some first-hand research for a new script tomorrow night. Tonight you wanted to stay here, and research the book for Mrs. Harris.”

“Ah yes. What’s the most popular club at the moment?”

“That would be either the Eastside Photon, or Sector 42.”

“OK. Either will do. Guess I’ll flip a coin when it’s time to go. Let’s go see Victoria.”

“Yes, James.”

Linda slipped her shoe back on and snuggled herself up against his side. They walked into the next room, unlocking the tall wooden door with Linda’s key.

It was an enormous office, one that made even Finegold’s private digs pale into insignificance. High bookcases, neatly filled with thick leather-bound tomes, lined most of the walls. To one side, a bank of heavily tinted windows overlooked a large lighted swimming pool, a tall wooden-planked fence and the green (now nearly black) hills beyond.

At the sound of the door opening, the tall woman sitting in front of the vacant desk spun around in her chair, and her eyes lit up. Exactly like Linda before her, she sprang to her feet and almost literally floated across the room. Smiling, Linda stepped away from Heittman’s side. This kiss went on even longer than the one before. Finally...

“Victoria. How are things in the... ah... legal department?” “They are going very well, Mr. Heittman.” Again mimicking Linda, she straightened her dark blue suit, a carefully-tailored garment which did an almost perfect job of hiding the long exquisite lines of her body. She adjusted her glasses and her tight bun of hair, both of which added to the overall effect of drab, focused competence. “Do you wish a full briefing at the present time?”

“Not right now.” He glanced at Linda. “Oh. I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you been happy with Linda’s job performance?”

“Yes, I’ve been quite pleased with her. Thank you for recommending her to me.”

Linda ducked her head for a moment, and smiled radiantly.

“Not at all. Now why don’t you go prepare yourself, and wait for me in the usual place?”

“Yes, Mr. Heittman!” Victoria’s eyes lit up again, and she left the room by a different door, almost running.

He watched her go, then turned and looked into another corner of the room. Three computers had been lined up there in a row, each with a young woman sitting in front of it and typing furiously at the keyboard before her. Off to one side stood a fourth terminal, currently unoccupied.

“Ah, yes. How’s our script for ‘Bikini Babe Brainwash IV’ coming along?”

“It appears to be going very well, James. Tanya, Denise and Sandra have been working on it all day. They should be done before too long.”

“Good, Linda. As long as I can make my pass over it before Monday. As much fun as it is to make Finegold’s blood boil, I’ve tortured him enough this week. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to see his face when he first started reading this.” He held up the bundle of papers he still had in one hand. “Serves him right, really. You think he’d have learned by now that movie producers should never ever read the scripts they’re working with.” He absently passed the script to her. “Oh... almost forgot. Send that off to Mesmer Productions, under my name. The usual drill. Who knows? They might have a use for it.”

She clutched the pile with both hands, as if it was both precious and fragile.

“Yes, James.”

They moved over to the silent women, each of the seated figures staring at the large screen in front of her. The three computers were interlinked, and words and phrases flashed back and forth across the screens, as the operators soundlessly knitted their ideas together, leaving a tight, thin tapestry of finished script trailing out in their creative wake. Heittman looked at what was scrolling slowly up on the fourth monitor:

(ENRIQUE steps up to the bar, where the BLONDE is already standing.)

ENRIQUE:

Hey, baby! Whadda say you and me get it on?

BLONDE

(doesn’t even look at him):

Drop dead.

(ENRIQUE smiles cheerfully, and reaches into his pocket...)

Heittman read for a time, and used the attached keyboard to add a few stitches of his own. Finally he straightened up and smiled a genuine smile, a movement of muscles which changed his face into something that was handsome. As he turned away from the monitor, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out into the light.

The gold watch was a good match for the one on the poster in Finegold’s office. He started to idly spin it at the end of its fine gold chain. Linda stared silently at the flashing disk, her eyes wide.

“Yes, looks very good.” Still spinning the watch, he took a step so that he was standing next to one of the women. With his free hand he casually reached down into the warmth and wetness between Denise’s naked spread legs, and slowly swirled his finger. His head writer gave a small delighted gasp and her soft brown curls trembled, but she did not look at him, or stop typing. A thought arose, and he studied the typing woman beside him, his finger still busy.

“But, Linda. When you wake them up tonight for bed, tell them that the script shouldn’t be too good. Have them hold a little back. I’m supposed to be dashing this off at the last moment in desperation.”

“Yesss, Jamesss.” She was still staring helplessly at the watch, the script now pressed against her bosom.

He extracted his finger, and Denise gave a tiny moan.

“And now, let’s go hear Victoria’s report.”

He snapped the watch up into the palm of his hand, and kissed Linda again. She came to enthusiastic life, sliding her tongue eagerly into his mouth.

Another door to another flight of stairs, which dropped back down and opened onto a small changing room. With Linda’s eager help, he slowly and methodically undressed and dropped his clothes into a nearby laundry hamper. He wrapped himself in a robe, while she undressed herself with a great deal more haste, not bothering to replace her suit with any new garment. They opened a final door, leading out into the cool night air.

Except for the emerging stars overhead, the only lights in the large tightly-fenced patio were the ones under the water of the swimming pool. Thick ripples of blue washed slowly across every surface as the two of them padded across the damp stones.

Off to one side of the pool was a good-sized hot tub sunk into the patio floor, frothing and bubbling in an inviting, decadent sort of way. It was lit up in the same way as the pool, and they walked slowly towards it.

On the strip of ground separating the hottub from the pool was Victoria. She faced them, her posture resembling that of a seal- her long, slender legs stretched out behind her, ten toes neatly aligned side by side. The upper half of her body was raised, supported on her hands and straightened arms. Her fingers were splayed across the white paving stones. The glasses and the bun were gone and her long red hair spilled down now over her shoulders, out across her pert breasts. (The suit had vanished along with its accessories.) Her eyes were closed, the expression on her raised face serene and placid; the tiniest of smiles shaped her lips.

The tableau of the three of them held itself motionless for a time. Then there was the sound of a door being unlocked, opening and closing, and then footsteps clicking towards them all across the stones. Heittman turned as a fourth figure loomed up out of the blue gloom. It was a older woman, her features still quite handsome, her long red hair pulled back almost cruelly from her temples and carefully coiled. Among those coils, streaks of gray were beginning to make their appearance. She walked with her arms wrapped around her own green-skirted waist, somehow bringing irresistibly to mind the image of a praying mantis. Her equally green eyes were hard and cold.

Heittman smiled, and slid an arm around Linda’s naked waist.

“Good evening, Mrs. Harris.”

“Mr. Heittman.” Her voice was dry, with just the tiniest husky hint of cigarette damage. “Desmond informed me that you had arrived. I am entertaining this evening, and cannot stay. We will discuss the book about my family at another time. I just wanted to come and...” She paused and looked down at Victoria, who remained silent and still. Something flashed for a moment in the older woman’s eyes. She continued. “...thank you once again. For the other work that you have done. I only wish that Victoria’s father could have lived to see her change. To think that she used to frequent all of those ghastly little clubs. Meeting who knows what disreputable scum. Letting herself...” Her powerful jaw clenched for a moment. “The recent interest and talent she has displayed in our family business affairs is nothing less then miraculous.” Her eyes drifted to Heittman, then to Linda’s naked body. Something flashed again in Mrs. Harris’ gaze, something that wielded razor-sharp knives. Linda shrunk slightly against his side, her own eyes fearful. Heittman merely smiled, even more broadly.

“I didn’t really do anything, Mrs. Harris. I just helped Victoria to refocus her energies in more productive areas. Speaking of which...” He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out the watch, which had been transferred there during the undressing ritual. He held it up by its chain and it spun once again in maddeningly slow circles, crawling now with sinuous blue worms. “You yourself look like you could use some refocusing. Do you remember how we discussed this before, when we were talking about the book? Why don’t you take the watch, go to your room for a few minutes, and mediate? I’m sure your guests will understand.”

Greta Olivia Harris stared at the watch, her eyes wide. Finally she nodded once, slowly. She spoke, her voice dreamy now, almost sing-song.

“Yes. I will go to my room for a few minutes, and mediate. My guests will understand.”

She took the watch from the air in a careful grab, replicating Heittman’s early action in slow motion. She clenched it tightly in her hand, and turned to go. She hesitated, turned back for one last moment, and shot James Heittman a final look, a laser beam of a gaze that erased the other two women from existence. A look of gratitude. Of lust. Of bottomless addiction. Of utterly powerless, all-consuming hatred and rage.

Heittman laughed again, and she left, her footsteps regular and methodical. The door locked itself behind her.

“We have got to figure out a way to sneak Mrs. Harris away from her responsibilities for a few hours, and take her club-hopping with us. Maybe if she wore a wig...” Linda’s answer was a nervous but trusting smile. He looked down at the remaining redhead and spoke in a more formal tone. “All right, Victoria.”

Her eyes flipped open, and she looked up at him: no longer serene, but wanton, lustful. She wriggled lithely, sensually against the stones, but remained locked in her basic position.

“Ladies? Shall we?”

Only then did Victoria rise in one graceful movement, and move to his free side. The three of them discarded his robe and slid into the tub as a single unit, the executive and her secretary kissing him, kissing each other. He eased away from them a little, and they moaned a chorus of thwarted desire, their hands reaching out to him.

“We’ll get to that in a moment. First, Victoria. Your report.”

“Yes, Mr. Heittman. There’s very good news to report.” Her voice was calm and analytical, but her hands continued to roam across his chest. Linda pressed herself against him again, slowly rubbed her entire body against his. She silently licked and kissed his neck, her fingers meeting with Victoria’s and intertwining. “As I said before, things are going very well. I spoke with the lawyers at length today, and they see no further problems. The last of the financing came through just a few hours ago. The government regulators have signed off on the deal. Harris Technologies Incorporated should own Prizim Pictures by the end of the month.”

“Excellent. I can’t wait to unleash Denise and the others’ full talents on the public. Our best, most moving scripts are yet to come. Anything else?”

“No, Mr. Heittman.”

“Good.” He reached over and took gentle hold of Veronica’s chin with one hand, meeting no resistance as he slowly turned her face from side to side. Her eyelids fluttered madly at his touch, showing only white underneath. She was looking better every day. There was still a vague hint of darkness under her eyes, and she was still a little too skinny.

And the needle-tracks were still visible on her arm.

But they would eventually fade, just as the rest of her old life had.

All in all, an excellent day. Just one more thing to do, to make it perfect.

He released Victoria, reached outside the tub, fumbled around for a moment, then picked up the small black box his questing fingers found there.

“Linda.”

She paused in her ministrations and looked up at him.

“I’ve wanted to give you this for months. Long before we first happened to meet Victoria in that club. But I wanted to be sure that I could take care of you. Give you a good life. Now, finally...”

She took the box, and opened it. She stared at the contents in silence.

“Do you want to be awake for this?”

Still looking in the box, she shook her head violently. She took the ring from its slot, and slid it on her finger. The diamond glowed a piercing blue in the light. She twisted her hand, then slid close to him, the forgotten box floating away on the bubbles. Her voice was husky, breathy.

“I want you to force me. I want you to make me marry you.”

He stroked the side of her face with a finger. His voice was soft.

“You will marry me, Linda. You are not allowed to have even the slightest say or opinion in the matter.”

Her eyelids fluttered, exactly as Victoria’s had.

“Yesss, James.”

They kissed, somehow both more chaste and more fevered then before. Their red-haired slavegirl watched, smiling. Orgasming from the pleasure of the moment and mixing her juices with the waters of the pool.

When they were done, he leaned back and spread both of his arms along the edge of the tub.

“Now. How shall we celebrate?”

The two women looked gravely at one another, then back at him. As one, they took a deep breath and slowly sank out of sight beneath the frothing surface, Veronica’s longer hair swirling in the water for a moment before disappearing as well.

Under the water, he spread his legs.

Two sets of soft eager lips homed in on their target, and he looked up at the darkness. A darkness filled now with a million scattered stars and every point of light an inspiration, a story waiting to be told to an eager world. He laughed, the best laugh yet.

Finegold would probably have said that seriously researching your subject was a waste of time, but in the end it had certainly borne fruit for James Heittman.

The scene is a place, perhaps a dance club on a Saturday night, perhaps a movie executive’s outer office, perhaps a tropical ocean beach with white sand. People circulate, talk, drink and dance.

A woman is alone, at least for the moment. She is young and attractive. Attractive enough even to be a movie star.

A man approaches her, his features hidden by the angle at which the scene is viewed. It is hard to say at this point if anyone would be willing to point movie cameras at him and put his face on the cover of glossy magazines.

He attempts to strikes up a conversation with her. Perhaps he is successful, perhaps not. It doesn’t really matter, since at some point, a golden pocketwatch appears in the air between them as if by magic, dangling from his hand by a fine chain, swinging back and forth. It catches the light shining overhead, and bounces it into her lovely eyes. His voice, his smile, are now soothing, seductive.

Hypnotic.

Soon she cannot look away from the watch as it swings back and forth, back and forth.

Soon she cannot stop listening to his voice.

She cannot resist.

She cannot.

In the black spaces out beyond the light, many eyes watch avidly, taking in every detail.

Memorizing every gesture and nuance.

Taking notes.

For future reference.