The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Richie was floating peacefully. A familiar female voice was speaking to him. It was too much trouble to try to think about what it was saying. Easier just to let the words wash through his brain and let himself answer automatically. Yes, Katrina. . . .

“That’s very good, Richie, sweetie,” the voice said. “You’re making wonderful progress. I’m very pleased, and you want to please me, don’t you, Richie?”

“Yes, Katrina.” He heard the words aloud this time, and realized he’d spoken them.

“You want to please me more than anything, don’t you, Richie, sweetie.” It was a statement, not a question. “That’s why you’re working so hard to build yourself up, and why you’re letting go of all that book learning, all that thinking you used to do.”

Richie became aware that he was lying on some soft surface. His eyes opened, and he saw that a beautiful, naked red-headed woman was on top of him, straddling him and pinning his shoulders with her long-nailed hands. Her lush breasts hung down, touching his chest. A foggy memory surfaced, of himself carrying the woman over, and then of the two of them having wild sex together, rocking and heaving in an ancient rhythm until suddenly there’d been fireworks and pleasure and two voices crying out together. Then, for a little while, there had been nothing, until he’d begun to notice the woman’s voice. He had a sense that she’d been talking for a little while by then, but it didn’t matter.

“We’re going to try something special today, Richie, sweetie,” Katrina said. “In a little bit, we’re going to get dressed again, like always, and you’re going to go home. But this time, sweetie, you’re going to remember what we did. You’re going to remember us having sex not just as a dream, the way you always have before, but as real.”

“Yes, Katrina,” Richie mumbled, a little smile flicking over his face. “Remember . . . it as real.”

“Now, Richie, this is important.” Katrina paused a moment for emphasis. “You’re going to remember us having sex, but you’re not going to remember me telling you what to do, not going to remember me giving you instructions.”

“Remember . . . us having sex. Not going to remember . . . you giving me instructions.” Richie nodded slowly as the words sank into his subconscious. “Yes.”

“And you understand, sweetie”—Katrina dimpled—“our . . . relationship . . . is just between us. You mustn’t tell anyone, Richie, because people wouldn’t understand.”

A slow, slow nod. “Mustn’t tell anyone. People wouldn’t . . . understand. Yes, Katrina.”

“That’s a good boy, Richie. That’s a very good boy.” The words were a caress.

Katrina Barron looked down at the leanly athletic young male pinned beneath her and gloried in the power she had over him. Only a few months before, Richie Unger had been a shy, virginal nerd. Now, under her tutelage, he had become a handsome, well-muscled youth. Hypnotic commands had programmed him to set aside studying for a rigorous routine of body-building exercise. More programming had inspired him to tend to other aspects of his appearance: the round, thick-lensed glasses he had worn had been replaced by ones with thinner, high-refraction lenses that didn’t distort the appearance of the eyes behind them, and the college student’s unruly mass of blond hair had been tamed. And in session after session following the workout classes he’d been attending, she had disposed of his sexual inexperience as well.

Katrina smiled wickedly. The coffee was the key. The drug she had slipped into Richie’s cup that first time, and on so many occasions since, had put him into something very like a hypnotic trance, allowing her to manipulate his mind. Eventually, she had been able to skip the narcotic, at least some of the time; by then, he’d been conditioned to slip into that suggestible state as soon as he finished his drink, whether it had been spiked or not.

Of course, Richie remembered none of that. Until tonight, she had always ordered him to remember the steamy sex they shared as only a fantasy, and to completely forget everything else about their trysts, except that they talked and had coffee together.

This evening, though, she’d taken the next step. From now on, Richie would remember their sexual liaisons as the real experiences they were. Only her control over him would remain secret. And her final suggestion for tonight would strengthen that control.

“Richie,” she said, “listen carefully, honey. In a moment, I’m going to get you up and dressed and send you home. Before I do, there’s one more instruction I want to give you.” The lush redhead drew a breath and went on: “You like the way you feel right now, don’t you, Richie? So relaxed, so safe, so obedient to your Katrina.”

The youth mumbled agreement.

Katrina smiled. “From now on, Richie, whenever you hear me say the words ‘wake up and smell the coffee,’ you will immediately fall into this relaxed, safe, obedient state you’re in right now. You’ll do this when you hear me say that, but only if you hear me say it, Richie. Me, and no one else.”

“Yes, Katrina,” came the whispered answer. “When I hear you say the words . . . but only if you say the words. No one . . . else. . . .” Richie sighed.

“All right then, Richie,” the exercise teacher murmured. “Time to go home.” She climbed off the blond young man and began assembling her cast-aside clothes. She didn’t need to help Richie dress himself. By now, he was trained to respond to the phrase she’d just used by dressing himself. Once fully clothed, he would wait for a final dismissal from her.

In a few minutes, Richie was clothed again. Katrina inspected him carefully and brushed his still disarrayed hair into place with one hand, enjoying the feel of the soft strands between her fingers and the total submission of the youth to whom they belonged. At last, satisfied, she ushered Richie out the door.

The trainer chuckled. Things between Richie and her were entering her favorite stage. The young man would do anything she told him to do, anything at all (she smiled mischievously)—and it was more fun to do things with him. He would believe anything she told him, remember what she allowed him to remember, and that, too, was exciting: now that she had told him to remember having sex with her from now on, his own natural urges would draw him even deeper under her control.

Eventually, she knew, she’d get bored with him, as she had with all the others. One of her former playthings, in fact, was in the intermediate exercise group Richie was now attending; she had wiped his memory of their former relationship, leaving behind only an ordinary sort of loyalty and healthy male attraction. If she ever wanted to, though, all she had to do was say his secret words and he would obey her without question. That would be how she’d handle Richie, when the time came.

Katrina smiled. That time was some way off. She still had plenty to do with the brainwashed blond boy.

Richie couldn’t believe it.

For months now, he’d felt guilty because every time he’d gone to Ms. Barron’s class and she’d invited him back to the little coffee lounge just off the exercise room, he’d found himself drifting into fevered daydreams involving the two of them. But tonight, Katrina—Ms. Barron—and he had really done it! He’d finished his coffee, and—well, the details were a little vague, but suddenly the lush redhead had been undressing him, and he’d started doing the same for her, and the next thing he knew, they were both naked and he’d picked her up and carried her over to the big, soft couch, and then . . . !

“Wow,” he whispered. He’d found himself rock-hard and thrusting into her, somehow knowing exactly what to do even though he’d never had sex before in his life. Katrina’s arms had snaked around him and her long, sharp fingernails had scored his back as their bodies moved together, until suddenly he’d clenched and spurted and there’d been pleasure beyond belief and stars had blossomed behind his tight-shut eyelids. As if he’d been listening from some distance, he’d heard two voices cry out together; it had taken him a few seconds to realize that the voices were his and Katrina’s.

“Wow,” Richie said again. Somehow, after the pleasure and the voices, they’d switched positions so that Katrina was atop him. She’d arched her back so that she was sitting almost straight up, and held him down firmly by the shoulders while her generous breasts hung swaying above him. Had she said something to him then? He had a feeling that she had, but he had no idea what it might have been. He’d been too relaxed, too comfortable; the words, if any, had just sunk into him.

After a little bit, she’d gotten him into his clothes and sent him home. Now here he was, back at his dorm room, happily tired and exultant that he’d finally—finally!—really had sex.

Not that he could tell anyone, of course. People wouldn’t understand. A teacher and a student? No way, even if he was old enough that Ms. Barron—Katrina—wouldn’t go to jail for it. His dad, in particular, would go right through the roof. After that stormy phone call a while back, things had been (to put it mildly) strained between them. Something like this would really cause a blowup.

He hefted the pair of small hand barbells he used to help improve his grip strength. In the beginning, working with them had been a strain. These days, it felt natural, even relaxing. Up and down, first the right arm, then the left, then both, then the right, then the left, up and down. . . .

An hour or so later, he got off the stationary bike. Without quite intending to, he’d slipped automatically into a full exercise routine. He had been pleasantly tired when he’d gotten home; now, he was thoroughly exhausted.

Damn, he chided himself, I was supposed to do some studying. He was too wiped out now, that was for sure. Maybe if he just lay down for a few minutes—!

The luminous digital display on the clock radio sitting on his bedside table read “01:30 AM” when Richie next opened his eyes. “Oh, hell,” he moaned softly. “Forget about studying.” He forced himself to get up long enough to change into his pajamas and then went right back to bed.

In the morning he felt greatly restored, so much so that he actually managed to read through a couple of chapters in his textbooks before breakfast. It was a grueling effort. The words just seemed to sort of slide past his eyes without quite sinking into his brain, even when he went over them two or three times. Finally he gave up and went to eat.

Later that day, he was in the Student Center when a pretty brunette came up to him and asked, “You’re Richie Unger, aren’t you?”

Startled, Richie nodded and answered, “Yes—yes, that’s who I am.” This was a new experience. Good-looking girls didn’t pay attention to him.

“I thought so,” the dark-haired damsel said. “I’m in the same economics class as you, Professor Morton’s section. My names Pamela. Pamela Standish?”

Richie felt embarrassed. He hadn’t recognized her. Well, maybe it wasn’t surprising. He’d hardly been paying attention to Morton’s lectures lately, let alone to his fellow students. Exercise came first. He made a vague reply.

“You look like you’ve been working out lately,” Pamela said. She reached out and brushed a hand over his upper arm. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.” Richie blushed.

“Listen, Richie,” Pamela went on, “some of us are getting together for a party Saturday. Would you like to come?”

“Uh—sure.” Richie’s blush deepened. “Sure, I’d like that.”

“Great. Seven-thirty Saturday, then? Galligan’s, on Eighth Street.”

Richie repeated Pamela’s directions and nodded. A satisfied Pamela smiled, patted his arm and moved away toward a small knot of other students, evidently friends of hers. Richie watched her go, letting his eyes roam over her slender figure. She had great legs, he saw.

A faint stab of guilt hit him then. He was so far behind in his studies, he really shouldn’t be going to any parties. Besides, if he wasn’t going to be studying, shouldn’t he be working out? Exercise comes first, a ghostly voice seemed to whisper in his mind.

Richie shook his head. Exercise was more important than studying. It didn’t occur to him that there was anything odd or wrong about thinking that; it felt natural. But he could party; that was different. Wasn’t it?

There was an exercise session scheduled for Friday. Richie went through the workout routines adequately, but Katrina Barron’s trained eye noticed that he seemed distracted. After class, as usual, she invited him back to the coffee lounge attached to the training room. Also as usual, she fixed coffee for both of them.

Before handing Richie his cup, though, she spoke to him. “Richie,” she declared, “wake up and smell the coffee.”

Instantly, the slightly strained expression on the young man’s face dissolved. His arms dropped limply to his sides and he stood quietly, head slightly bowed and eyes dreamy.

Katrina looked Richie over carefully, walking around him and checking him out like a potential buyer inspecting a horse. Richie didn’t notice. He was completely relaxed.

At last, the gorgeous trainer nodded approval. Every sign was that Richie had responded perfectly to the post-narcotic suggestion she’d planted during their last session. He was now deep in trance, just as if he’d actually drunk the coffee she’d prepared—which, this time, did contain a dose of Yes, added in case her little experiment failed.

“Richie,” she asked softly, “you didn’t seem to have your mind on the workout today. What’s wrong? Tell your Katrina what was bothering you.”

Obeying his mistress’s command, Richie told her about meeting Pamela, about her invitation and about the conflict he had felt. He finished, “I don’t know what . . . I should do.”

Katrina pursed her lips in thought. This was a development she hadn’t expected, although perhaps she should have. The others she’d controlled hadn’t been such—well, nerds—as Richie. She had used stronger programming on him, suggestions which had driven him harder to change himself. But there was no reason he should give up everything but exercise, especially since she would eventually set him aside. Besides simple human decency (she liked to think she still had some of that), setting things up so Richie could have a decent life after she dropped him helped reduce the chance that someday, his transformation would draw he wrong sort of attention.

The answer was simple. “Richie,” Katrina instructed, “don’t worry. I want you to have fun.” She paused, organizing her next words. “Exercising is very important, Richie, more important than studying, more important than remembering what you’ve learned in school, more important than being smart. But if you get the chance to party, sweetie, go right ahead. Go with it. Don’t worry about it. You’ll have plenty of time to work out.”

Richie nodded, ever so slowly. “Exercising’s . . . more important than studying. More important than . . . remembering what I’ve learned. More important . . . than being smart. But not more important than . . . partying. Plenty of time to . . . work out.”

“That’s right, Richie,” Katrina said encouragingly. “Go right ahead and party. Have fun. Just let go.” She smiled mischievously. “This Pamela sounds like she’s interested in you, sweetie. When you go to the party, why don’t you see just how interested she is? Maybe the two of you can have fun the way you and I do.”

“Yes, Katrina,” Richie answered, sinking deeper into the wonderful warm haze in which he floated.

“All right then, Richie,” responded the redhead. “It’s time to go home.”

Richie sat up, still deep in trance, and began to dress himself. He had only managed to get halfway into his pants when, unexpectedly, the door opened.

“Richie?” It was Bill DeWitt, Richie’s friend from college. “You still in here?”

The young intruder’s eyes widened as he took in the scene before him: Richie, just beginning to climb into his clothes, and the gorgeous Katrina Barron, still gloriously nude. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “What’s going on?”

Katrina reacted calmly. “Nothing’s wrong, honey. Come on in, Bill, wake up and smell the coffee.”

The dark-haired youth’s eyes widened. His arms fell to his sides, and the startled look on his face faced into bland, smiling acceptance. He took several stumbling steps forward and stopped.

Katrina crossed the room and gently closed the door, which Bill had left slightly ajar. Then, turning, she inspected her new guest with approval.

She’d met Bill last year, and had made him one of her conquests then. She had been just about ready to set him aside when she’d happened to overhear him talking with one of her other exercise pupils about a friend of his who “could really use this class.” Intrigued, she’d called him aside for a private chat and put him under, using the key words to which she’d trained him to respond. In trance, she’d questioned him further and finally decided that Richie Unger would make a challenging new project. Before releasing Bill for the evening, she’d planted the suggestion that he should get his friend to pay a visit to her class. And the rest was history.

Now here Bill was again. The exercise coach smiled, a little ruefully. Evidently he’d gotten concerned about Richie.

Well, he wasn’t worried at the moment. The key phrase she’d used on Richie for the first time tonight was the same one she programmed into all her toy boys, including Bill. As soon as he’d heard the magic words, he’d slid happily into the same delicious daze his friend was experiencing. Any thoughts he might have in this condition would be ones she told him to have. Too bad he didn’t come in right after class along with Richie, she thought. Having the two of them together might have been fun.

Well, it was too late now. Richie needed to be sent home, and if the truth were told, she was a little tired herself. Perhaps another time. Meanwhile . . . !

“Bill, baby,” she addressed the stupefied young interloper. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes, Katrina,” came the reflex response. “Trust you.”

“Good boy, Bill. Then here’s what you need to do.” The redhead took a breath. “You need to leave this room. When you do, you’ll forget what you saw, forget you even came in.”

“Yes, Katrina,” Bill answered meekly. “Leave . . . and forget I was . . . even here.”

“That’s right.” Katrina approached the statue-still Bill and stroked his hair gently. “Leave, and forget. And from now on, Bill, when Richie comes back here with me, you’ll accept it without thinking. You won’t ask Richie about it, and you won’t come back here again, unless I invite you. Do you understand, honey, and will you do all this for your Katrina?”

“Yes, Katrina,” answered Bill.

“That’s good, Bill, sweetie. You may go now.” Katrina waved a hand toward the closed door.

A glassy-eyed Bill DeWitt took the hint, walking slowly away, opening the door and passing through it, closing it behind him.

Bill blinked. What was it he’d wanted to do? His brow furrowed as he struggled to recapture what he’d been thinking, but it wouldn’t come. After a few seconds, he shrugged and abandoned the effort. It couldn’t have been anything important, he decided.

He put it out of his mind and left the gym.

Galligan’s was an establishment which combined a restaurant, a bar stretching the length of one wall, and a dance floor. This evening, Penner University students had rented the place and paid for a DJ. Music boomed at high volume from large speakers. Couples danced, while others sat and sipped drinks or tried to talk with each other above the din. A few months ago, Richie wouldn’t have dreamed of being here. But here he was, propped against one of the thick oaken pillars which stretched from the floor to the rafters and watching the dancers, a Coke clutched in one hand.

“There you are!” a feminine voice suddenly shouted from very nearby. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Richie turned toward the voice and saw Pamela. She was dressed in a short skirt which showed off the long legs he’d admired when they’d first met. Richie let his eyes wander down those attractive limbs and saw she had on a pair of high heels which further complimented them by emphasizing her trim ankles. Drawing his gaze up, he saw that the brunette was wearing a crisp blouse which matched her skirt. The two top buttons were open, showing an appealing cleavage.

She looked great.

“You want to dance?” the girl asked. Before he could say anything, Pamela came to him, winding one slender arm around his neck and tugging him away toward the dance area.

“Um,” Richie floundered, “I don’t really know how, ah—!” A pair of slender, long-nailed fingers laid over his lips cut him off.

“Shh,” Pamela said. “Just go with it, Richie, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

She was as good as her word, guiding Richie through the steps of first one dance, then another. After a little bit, she steered him over to the bar, where she ordered a beer for herself.

Richie was about to ask for a Coke when a sudden impulse stopped him. Hell with it, he thought. This is a party, a real party. I should go with it for once. He didn’t really drink much, but one beer couldn’t hurt, could it?

Several beers later, things were getting a little fuzzy around the edges. When Pamela had ordered a second beer, it had seemed only polite to join her, and then she’d ordered another. . . .

The brunette was speaking to him. “Wanna get outa here, go someplace more, like, private?”

Richie’s head bobbed, seemingly of its own accord. “Sh-sh-sure,” he heard himself slur. “How’s ‘bout my place?” The suggestion was pure instinct. He’d never taken a girl back to his dorm room; he just couldn’t think of anyplace else.

“Tha’s fine with me, cutie,” Pamela responded, giggling. She let Richie take her by the arm and tow her through the heaving crowd of partiers toward the door. Spotting someone she knew, she called out, “Don’t wait up, I’m goin’ home with Richie.” Raucous laughter followed the two of them to the exit.

Katrina’s suggestion to use public transit applied only to his trips to the gym; Richie had driven to Galligan’s. Once outside, he managed to find his car. After some fumbling with the electronic door-lock, Richie got in on the driver’s side and opened the door opposite for his companion.

They made it back to campus without incident. Richie parked his car and walked back to his dorm with Pamela on his arm.

By the time they reached his room, he was starting to sober up. He was also getting very horny, assisted by Pamela, who kept playfully caressing him. She herself was clearly aroused; when Richie brushed one hand over her bosom, she moaned softly and her nipples sprang to attention beneath the fabric of her blouse.

A few months earlier, Richie wouldn’t have known what to do next. Katrina’s training had taken care of that. His hands roamed skillfully over the brunette’s body, helping her out of her clothes; soon, he too was nude, and the two of them moved to his bed.

Pamela sank onto the soft sheets and Richie got on top of her. The dark-haired coed pinned him firmly between her thighs as he thrust powerfully down into her, over and over, his body supported on his newly muscular arms. Soon she was squealing and babbling beneath him, her hands clawing at his back. At last she arched, emitting a final cry as her legs and her internal muscles clenched around Richie, squeezing him to his own climax. Afterward, unlike his gorgeous redheaded exercise teacher, she didn’t insist on riding him in turn; instead, she sighed and went to sleep, a small smile on her face. A few minutes later, Richie gently adjusted her sleeping form to make room, settled down and drifted off himself.

Richie woke up first, needing a trip to the bathroom. On his way, he spotted his clock radio; it indicated the time was a few minutes past three in the morning. He took care of business and returned to bed, lowering himself carefully so as not to disturb the pretty girl lying there. Then he went back to sleep.

Richie woke for the day to find sunlight streaming through the half-closed Venetian blinds shuttering the large window at the front of his dorm room. He stretched, noting absently that he was naked. His arm brushed across soft flesh and long hair.

He sat up abruptly, memory returning in a rush. The party! He’d gone to Pamela’s party; they’d danced, had some beers, and then . . . Richie turned his head and looked down. Yes, there she was. It hadn’t been a dream.

As he watched, Pamela Standish stirred and opened her eyes.

“Morning, Richie,” the brunette purred. Sitting up, she stretched, bringing her arms over her head and arching her back. “Wow, I’m hungry.” She laughed softly.

Richie was speechless. He couldn’t believe he’d actually brought her back here and had sex, right here in his own room! Sure, he was no virgin anymore, not after Katrina—but this was different. Pamela was his own age, a student at his own school. Sex with Katrina Barron was great, but Richie wasn’t dumb enough to believe it could lead to anything. Not yet, anyway.

The two of them dressed and headed out for the quad cafeteria, where they had breakfast together. Afterward, Pamela left, smiling, for her own place, and Richie returned to his room.

Even though it was a Sunday morning, when he would usually take it easy, Richie thought he really ought to at least try to get in some studying. He had several big exams coming up, and the way things had been going lately, he’d be lucky to pass them. He knew that would have really upset him, once upon a time; now all he felt was a dull anxiety. Sighing, he sat down at his desk and tried to work.

It was hopeless. He was so far behind, and so totally lost. He struggled through first one textbook, then another, abandoning one after another as he found they might as well have been written in Martian. At last, head pounding, he got up and lurched away. Just a little workout, he promised himself. That’s all; then I’ll try the books again.

An hour and a half later, he realized he was going to break his promise. Fuck it, I’m too tired now, he thought. Maybe after I rest a little bit. . . .

But it was no use. When, an hour later, he forced himself back to the books, they were no more comprehensible than they had been before. Within minutes, his headache was back, a painful throbbing behind the eyes.

Sighing, he gave up. He didn’t feel quite rested enough to work out some more, so he picked an old paperback mystery novel off his bookshelf, settled down and began reading it. He’d forgotten how it came out, so it was almost as if it were new. He couldn’t quite seem to follow the plot, but the words flowed before his eyes easily enough, a welcome change from the textbooks.

At lunch, he thought of Pamela again. He found himself wondering how Katrina Barron would feel about his date. He didn’t think it would bother her, but . . . maybe it would be best if he just didn’t mention it to her, at least for now.

“How did it go at the party, Richie?” Katrina’s voice was low and soothing as she addressed the trimly muscular young man standing before her. “Tell me everything, Richie, sweetie.” Richie told her everything. In a dreamy murmur, he described how he and Pamela had met at Galligan’s, how they had danced together and drunk, how they had left the celebration and gone back to his place. Without a trace of self-consciousness—or any other sort of consciousness, for that matter—he described exactly what they’d done after that, ending with Pamela’s friendly departure after breakfast the next morning.

Katrina Barron repressed a tiny flicker of jealousy. She had no reason to feel anything of the sort, she told herself sternly. After all, soon enough she would be cutting Richie loose.

She bit her lip. This always happened; she always developed a certain attachment to her toys. And she’d put in more work than usual on Richie. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that she found herself feeling particularly possessive of him.

Katrina smiled suddenly. Of course, there was no reason she had to give him up completely if she didn’t want to. After all, his friend Bill had been one of her diversions once—and as she’d demonstrated only a few days ago when Bill had intruded on Richie and her here in the coffee lounge, the husky dark-haired youth was still hers to control, any time she wished. Why not Richie too? It would be simple enough to take him again, whenever she wanted. It would be up to her whether he even remembered it.

As always, she was turned on by the thought of how completely she controlled the handsome youth now standing before her with his hands dangling at his sides and his head slightly bent as if he were a schoolboy being scolded. She had to force herself to focus on asking the next question rather than going straight on to the sex she wanted. “And how are you doing in school, Richie? Tell me.”

Once again Richie obeyed. “I’m . . . I’m screwing up,” he confessed. “I can’t study. Can’t remember . . . stuff I already learned. I had a big test today, and I know I . . . blew it.” His voice sounded strained. “Don’t know what’s . . . happening to me.”

“It’s all right, Richie, sweetie,” Katrina reassured him. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Remember, exercise is more important. Exercise, and having fun. You don’t need book learning; you don’t need to think hard, the way you used to. Let it go, Richie, just keep on letting it go.”

Richie relaxed a bit, but not completely. From somewhere deep within his subconscious, a thought surfaced: “My Dad. If I flunk . . . he’ll cut off . . . my money. He’s already, like . . . pissed at me.”

Katrina cupped the blond boy’s chin in one hand and told him, “Forget about that, Richie. It’s not important. Let the future take care of itself.”

Richie relaxed more and repeated softly, “Let the future . . . take care of itself.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “Yes, Katrina.”

Katrina moved closer and began fumbling with Richie’s shirt. The boy’s dazed mind registered what she was doing and the last of his tension evaporated amid a rising fog of pure animal sensation. His arms came up. . . .

Later, a smug Katrina murmured into Richie’s ear, “Let the future take care of itself.” As the nude, sweat-slick blond beneath her repeated her words and sighed in blissful, mindless acceptance, she added silently, And it will—with a little help from me, of course.