The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The dancers gyrated on stage, peeling their costumes off to the pounding beat of the music as if it controlled them like puppets. Every so often, one of them would sway downward towards one of the stupidly-staring men in front and collect a tip. There were girls on some of the tables, too, undulating seductively like their counterparts on stage, their faces masks of—surely fake—ecstasy. A couple of guys had barely-clad, giggling dollies squirming in their laps.

Kathy Jax wrinkled her nose in distaste. This was not her sort of place at all, but her editor seemed to think there was a story here.

Maybe he’s right, she admitted to herself with reluctance. In the past few months, at least six women had vanished without a trace. All had been young, none older than thirty-two, and very pretty, but that had been about all they’d had in common: they hadn’t known one another, as far as anyone could tell, and their occupations had ranged from movie usher on one end to high-powered lawyer on the other. Naturally, it had been the lawyer’s disappearance which had finally gotten people interested. This club was one of the last places she’d been seen.

And one of the last places I’d expect her to be seen, too, Kathy mused. The Sargasso Club didn’t seem as though it would have been her sort of place either. Well, I guess you never know. She looked around disapprovingly at the club’s faux-nautical decorations, which included little ships bound up in fake seaweed in a reference to the legendary Sargasso Sea after which the place was named.

Suddenly, a man was standing by her table. “Is everything all right, Miss, ah—?”

“Yes, sure,” she responded warily.

“Excellent,” came the reply. “I’m the manager here. I like to make sure all my guests are enjoying themselves.”

Kathy brightened, sensing an opportunity. “Then you’re just the man I want to talk to.” She gestured, inviting him to sit. He did so, taking the chair opposite her own.

Kathy looked him over: a tall, slim fellow, maybe forty or so, with dark hair and a neat pencil mustache, wearing a tuxedo. All he needed to play the part of a magician was a top hat.

“My name is Milo Maven,” he introduced himself. That had to be a pseudonym, of course, but that wasn’t important. He smiled. “What can I do for you?”

She introduced herself and started to explain. After a moment, he stopped her and called over a waitress, a gorgeous, outrageously busty redhead in a short black outfit with deep cleavage. “Randi, two martinis, please.”

Kathy protested. “Sorry, I don’t drink.” Milo apologized, and changed her order to ice water. Randi left, clicking away on glossy white fuck-me pumps.

Kathy picked up where she’d left off. As she spoke, the club manager removed an old-fashioned pocket watch from an inside jacket pocket and dangled it idly, making little rainbow-colored flashes glint off its polished casing as it swung gently back and forth on its chain. Flash . . . swing. Flash . . . back. Flash . . . swing. Flash . . . back.

All at once, Randi was there with their drinks. Kathy sat up straight, jolted. She’d been sitting there just gaping, she realized, mouth hanging open like an idiot’s, for—how long? She seemed to have lost track. . . .

Pulling herself together, she sipped at her drink. The clubman set his watch on the table and looked at her expectantly. “You were saying . . . ?” he prompted.

“I, I was asking,” Kathy stammered, “asking if you’d, you’d heard anything about the missing girls.” She felt odd, confused. The light seemed to have changed, somehow, and she flushed, her clothing suddenly seeming too tight and hot. She realized vaguely that she’d said “girls” rather than “women,” something she hated when she heard it from men, but it didn’t seem to matter as much as it normally would.

Milo Maven smiled. Picking up his watch, he started it swinging again, ever so gently, catching the light and flashing it into Kathy’s eyes. Swing . . . flash. Back . . . flash. Swing . . . flash. Back . . . flash. “What missing girls?”

“What . . . miss-ing . . . girls.” Kathy’s voice was a dreamy singsong, separating the two syllables of “missing” as if she were a cheap old-fashioned talking doll. Her head bobbed in time with her words. A tiny voice in the back of her mind seemed to be trying to warn her about something, but it didn’t matter. All she knew was that she was too warm in these tight clothes. Her fingers came up, fumbling open buttons of her blouse to expose her generous cleavage. That felt better. She smiled. Giggled. “What . . . miss-ing girls,“ she repeated. “What . . . miss-ing girls.“

“Yesss,” Milo hissed. Cupping Kathy’s chin gently with his free hand, he instructed her: “That’s right. Relax. There’s nothing wrong here.” He continued to swing the watch, and Kathy’s eyes followed it, back and forth, back and forth, drawn by the flashes off the polished metal of its fob.

“Nuh,” Kathy blabbered, “nothing . . . wrong here.” She giggled again, and popped open another button.

The clubman held up Kathy’s empty glass. “You came here to party. You’ve had a lot to drink, Kathy. See all the glasses?”

Kathy looked woozily at the table. It was covered with empty glasses now, though somehow she couldn’t quite make them out individually. “Lotsa glasses,” she slurred.

“Now you’re drunk, Kathy. A nice, happy drunk. Your inhibitions are gone, all gone.”

“Inna-bishins gone, all gone,” Kathy warbled happily.

Milo grinned. The nosy reporter was putty in his hands now, ready for molding. And he knew just what he wanted to mold her into.

“You’ve watched the dancers,” he told her. “Now, all you want to do is dance on the table, right here, right now, and strip to the music, just like them. You can’t think about anything else, when you hear the music.”

“Yeah,” Kathy panted. Beads of sweat suddenly popped out on her forehead. “Gotta . . . strip to the music. Wh-where’s . . . music?”

Her tablemate signaled, and a brassy new tune swelled forth. Mindless, obeying the programming Milo had just installed, Kathy Jax clambered onto the table and began slithering seductively, flinging off her clothes in time to the music. Howls of masculine approval exploded from the men seated around her, and the sound drove her wild. She began to sing, belting out lustily, “Strip, strip, strip to the mu-sic’s all I wan-na do, strip, strip, strip to the music, oo, oo, oo, oo, ooh. . . .”

Finally Milo signaled for the music to stop. As the last note died, Kathy climbed down and sat quietly in her chair, blissfully unaware that she was now nude except for her white gloves and pumps. Her dark-blonde hair, tightly bound in a bun when she’d entered the Sargasso Club, cascaded down her naked back now, and her skin was glossy with a fine sheen of perspiration.

“Listen to me, Kathy,” came the command, from far beyond her reality. “In a moment, I am going to clap my hands. When I do, you will dress yourself and go directly home. When you get there, you will go to bed and sleep. When you awaken in the morning, you will feel relaxed and refreshed, and you will not remember what happened here.”

Relaxed,” Kathy echoed. Her voice was level as she accepted Milo Maven’s new commands. “Refreshed. I will not remember what happened here.”

“You will tell your editor you found no story here,” Maven continued. “You will tell him this, and you will believe it.”

“No story here,” murmured the naked blonde journalist. “Tell my editor . . . and believe it.”

“But you will find a reason to come here again,” Milo went on smoothly. “And again. And each time you come here and hear the music, you will forget everything but the dancing. Each time, you will dance as you danced this evening, and when the dancing ends you will await my further instructions. You will obey those instructions without question, Kathy, even when you do not remember them.”

“I will come back. And forget everything . . . but the dancing . . . when I hear the music.” Kathy nodded. After a moment she went on: “When the dancing ends . . . I will await your instructions. I will obey those instructions without question . . . even when I do not remember.”

“You will do this because when you danced tonight, it felt wonderful. It felt wonderful to forget everything but the dancing, to strip away your clothes, your thoughts and your inhibitions, and to hear the men here cheering you on. It felt wonderful to know you were giving pleasure, and you will do anything to feel that way again.”

“It felt wonderful.“ Kathy sighed. “I will do anything . . . to feel that way again.”

“Good girl,” the clubman said, pocketing his watch. He smirked as Kathy shivered in helpless ecstasy at the praise. At this stage of conditioning, the slightest pleasurable stimulus, even a kind word, could turn a subject to jelly.

Milo clapped his hands.

Without a word, Kathy Jax put her clothes back on and left the club. She found her car, drove home and went to bed without even watching the late news as she usually did.

Back at the Sargasso Club, Milo Maven rubbed his hands together in smug satisfaction. Another! And a real prospect, too: this Kathy would need hardly any augmentation to become the latest member of his stable of spellbound sex-bombs.

The clubman smirked. Everyone always said hypnosis couldn’t make you do anything you wouldn’t do otherwise. Well, of course it wasn’t true. Hypnotized subjects could be led to do practically anything at all. With their minds dulled and their critical faculties suspended, they could be led in any direction, step by step. One just had to work at it, that was all—and he was more than willing to do so. It was worth a little effort to have a harem of gorgeous women under his total control.

Randi came by with the fresh drink he’d ordered after Kathy left. Before she could set it down, he spoke: “Randi Go-Go, hear the music.”

“Oooooh,” the redhead cooed. Her eyes glazed. “Oooooh. Randi Go-Go make guys go ga-ga.” She mounted the table and proceeded to prove her point, stripping down to a set of spangled panties and pasties in a sinuous action and twirling her tassels, her huge hooters heaving hypnotically as she danced to a tune only she could hear. She tossed her head, making her red hair blossom into a great soft rose around her head. She tossed Milo’s drink glass away: to her, it had turned into nothing but a prop for her dance. Hoarse animal screams of pleasure erupted from Randi’s eager male audience; some of them, either cleverer or more stunned than the rest, picked up on what she’d said and started chanting, “Ga-ga! Ga-ga! Gaaa-ga!”

Finally Milo croaked, “Randi. The music has stopped. Back to work.”

“Gotcha, boss.” The clubman’s words had switched the Titian-haired temptress’s “waitress” program back on. Pouting prettily, Randi stopped prancing and twirling, climbed down, put her discarded uniform back on and wriggled off to take more drink orders. She’d forgotten all about her strip act, of course, as soon as she’d finished reclothing herself: it belonged to a totally different personality, the one he’d named Randi Go-Go.

Milo sighed and mopped his forehead. Randi Go-Go affected him almost as much as she did his customers. Her body, her dancing—the sexy baby-talk she used practically made him lose it even without those other considerable assets. There were, he knew, a lot of his own private fantasies built into Randi’s programming. He sometimes worried about that, but at such moments he always reassured himself that he’d made the Go-Go Randi too simple-minded to manipulate anyone on her own, however devastatingly effective she was when he sicced her on a target.

Milo grinned. Randi’d turned that overeager police detective a while back into a slobbering idiot, for example. Staring at her tits from point-plant range during the “private meeting” he’d arranged for the pair in one of the Sargasso Club’s back rooms, he’d babbled enough cop secrets to have ruined his career if anyone had found out. In her own way, Randi was as skilled a hypnotist as he was. Detective Rennick was still wrapped around her tassels: he’d do anything for her, believe whatever she said, and all he needed to keep him flying was a little . . . reminder . . . now and then. He’d actually been quite useful in keeping the police department from digging around the club any more.

The day was a nightmare. Kathy had awakened feeling relaxed and refreshed, but before long she’d begun to feel restless and edgy. At the office, she’d snapped at one of the secretaries for no reason. Then her editor had called him into her office to ask about the nightclub angle she’d looked into the night before on the missing-girls story (it annoyed her that her boss insisted on calling it that)—and to her horror, she’d drawn a total blank, asking: “What missing girls?” Only after a stunned minute did she remember what he was talking about—and by then, telling him she’d gone to the club and found nothing wrong there (those words seemed to echo in her skull: nothing-wrong-there, nothing-wrong-there, nothing-wrong. . . .) didn’t really help. She’d escaped to the newsroom in confusion, leaving her baffled and angry boss hanging, and spent the rest of the day trying to make sense of the stuff she’d already put together on the story. It hadn’t worked: her mind kept sliding away from it. She felt hot, so much so that by mid-afternoon she’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse.

Finally the ordeal ended. She left the office gratefully, intending to go home. Somehow, though, she ended up back at the Sargasso Club. Shaking her head, she went inside, picked an unoccupied table and sat down.

The manager she’d spoken with—Milo Maven, she remembered he’d said his name was—spotted her and came over. “Good evening, Ms.—ah—Jax, is it?” He signaled a waitress. “Martini for me, and an ice water for the lady.” Evidently he remembered she’d said she didn’t drink.

Kathy felt uneasy, somehow. Something was—not quite right. But she said nothing as Milo seated himself opposite her.

Their drinks arrived. Kathy sipped hers carefully: yes, it was water. Now, why did I think it might be something else? she wondered. Music blared in the background, driving the dancers on stage and several on tables.

The music. Something . . . about the music.

Kathy looked down at the table. Somehow her glass seemed to have multiplied. She blinked, bewildered. She didn’t remember having had so much to drink. “And . . . and it was only wa . . . water,“ she slurred in protest.

Observing her, Milo Maven smiled. “Do you remember about the music, Ms. Jax?”

“C-call me Kath . . . Kath . . . whatsername.” The befuddled blonde reporter hiccuped. Her head lolled loosely.

“Kandi. Your name is Kandi. Kandi Kones.”

“R-right,” Kathy agreed. “M’name . . . Kandi Kones.” A woozy bit of insight: “Thass’ a stripper’s name.”

“And what do you do when you hear the music, Kandi?”

“Gotta . . . dance. Gotta . . . strip to the music,” Kathy moaned, arching her spine and tilting her face back. Jus’—gotta . . . !” She mounted the table and went into a sizzling bump-and-grind, oblivious to everything but the music and the howling audience. “Strip, strip, strip to the mu-sic’s all I wan-na do,” she boomed out, “strip, strip, strip to the mu-sic, ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh. . . .”

Just as she had the first time, when the music ended Kathy sat down and stayed there, smiling vacantly. Milo heard her gently humming the tune to her made-up song. Her mind was empty, waiting to be filled by Milo’s commands. Relaxed. Yes.

“Kandi,” her master said, using the stage name he’d given her—right now, she wouldn’t respond to her regular name—“listen carefully.” The bedazzled blonde nodded, giggling.

“Dress now, and go home, just like last night. When you get there, you will be Kathy Jax again, and you will not remember what happened here. You will remember coming here, but just like last night you will not remember stripping to the music, you will not remember me telling you what to do and what to think. You will remember only that you came here for a few drinks, and that you enjoyed yourself.”

“When I get home, I will be Kathy Jax,” the blonde murmured. “I will not remember what happened here. I will remember only . . . that I came here for a few drinks . . . and that I enjoyed myself.” She giggled again. “En-joyed my-self.”

“Gooood girl.” Kathy writhed ecstatically in her chair under the lash of Milo’s words. “You will keep on coming back here. Nothing will keep you away. You will come back, and each time you do, you will be Kandi Kones when you hear the music and you will forget everything but the dancing. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Kathy nodded again. “I will keep coming back. Nothing will keep me away. When I hear the mu-sic I am Kandi Kones. Kandi strips to the mu-sic and forgets everything else.”

Milo smiled. “And each time,” he went on, “when the music stops, you will sit down and wait for me to tell you what to do next. You will do this because you enjoy being Kandi Kones, because you enjoy forgetting everything but the dancing, and because if you obey me you will be able to be Kandi Kones and forget everything but the dancing again.” Again, of course, only to start: forever, eventually. But Kathy Jax didn’t need to know that until she was ready. “Do you understand, and will you obey?”

“I un-der-sta-and.“ Kathy’s voice held a breathy little-girl tremor now. Milo found it attractive; perhaps he’d program her to use it all the time as Kandi Kones. “I will o-bey.“

“Very good,” the clubman responded. Once more Kathy wriggled with pleasure. “Now get dressed and go home.”

Milo gloated as he watched Kathy leave. Phase two had gone perfectly. The Jax woman had obeyed his prior instructions perfectly, slipping into trance and slithering out of her clothes with only the barest encouragement from him. Of course, he’d still need to use the watch on her in future sessions, as he further reshaped her mind, but a solid foundation had been laid. And this evening he’d taken her a step further, installing a stage name and persona which would activate automatically activate when she entered the club and heard its thumping music. Even if she somehow became aware that this alter ego existed, she would be powerless to resist its control here. And soon, as he deepened the Kandi personality’s hold on her, it would begin taking over even outside the club. Then it would be time to complete phase three, full assimilation.

Kathy Jax would disappear, leaving her job and home behind; Milo would point her to a new apartment in one of the buildings owned by the company which also held the lease on the Sargasso Club. Plastic surgery would replace her pretty face with a showgirl-pretty one nobody from her former life would ever recognize, even if by chance such a person were to come here, and improve that already impressive body into something which would make men helplessly cream themselves. Makeup and wardrobe more appropriate to striptease sensation Kandi Kones would further the transformation. Deep-trance indoctrination would finish the job. When it was over, she’d be Kandi and nothing else, unless he chose to give her an extra identity as he’d done with Randi and a few others. And of course, she’d obey his every command—he grinned—just as they all did.

Yes, indeed. Life was good when you were totally in control.

Randi wriggled over. “Hi, boss baby,” she teased. “How’s about a little of little ol’ me?” Before he could respond, she leaned forward and locked her hands together behind his head, drawing it forward until his face was mashed into her awesome 55G bosom. She shook herself vigorously.

Milo couldn’t help it. He exploded, his shriek of release muffled in soft, mind-erasing flesh as his hips pumped. Randi wobbled some more, and he came again. And again.

Finally she let go. For a long, dreamy moment, Milo just lay there, face nestled in Randi’s pillows, arms hanging limply. Then, gently, she lifted his chin until his eyes met hers. “You liked that, di’n’t’cha, boss baby.”

“Nnnnggghhh. . . .“ The world slowly swam back into focus for Milo. He became vaguely aware of cheering from some of the club’s patrons who’d watched the little tableau play out.

“I thought so,” Randi said. She was chewing gum, Milo noticed. Normally, he despised that habit, even though he’d programmed it into her as part of her conditioning. Right now, though, it seemed so sexy he felt close to coming again just from watching. “I been watchin’ the stage dancers,” the redhead purred, “an’ those broads that come in here, like the bimbo that just left. I seen how they get guys hot. Even you, boss baby.”

Milo fought for control. “But you, you’re not a dancer,” he choked out. Well, waitress-Randi wasn’t, anyway, and she wasn’t supposed to remember the Go-Go Randi’s performances.

Randi smiled and let go of Milo’s chin. His head flopped down onto her awesome chest. “I’m not what, baby?” she asked.

“Duh, goo,” Milo babbled, regressed by ecstasy. “Goo, ga. Ga-ga.”

For a moment, Randi’s own eyes went glassy. “Randi Go-Go make guys go ga-ga,” she moaned, caressing herself. Then her eyes cleared.

Milo was coming back to himself too. “Uhhhh,” he groaned again in fading pleasure. “Wha . . . what was I saying?”

Randi sensed an opportunity. “You were sayin’ you thought I’d make a pretty good stripper, boss, ‘stead of just a waitress like now.” She gestured at herself, her lacquered nails glinting in the light from overhead. “I got the body for it, don’t I?”

“Yeah. Yeah. The body for it,” Milo panted. “Sure. A pretty good stripper.” His mind was coming back, but Randi’s suggestion had taken hold. He clearly remembered saying just that.

After Randi left, the clubman finally came to altogether. The fake memory Randi’s words had planted was pushed aside by reality. But the implications of what had just happened were disturbing.

Randi’s getting bolder, he realized. More aggressive. I thought I’d made her utterly obedient to be, but she worked me over just now the way she does her audience when she dances as Randi Go-Go, or the saps like Rennick I use her on.

He paused. It had seemed, for a moment—if he could trust his own fevered memory—as if Randi’s Go-go program had switched on all by itself. What if her waitress and Go-Go personalities were . . . merging? Integrating waitress-Randi’s street smarts and drive, which he’d built into her to make her more useful to him, with the Go-Go girl’s overpowering sexuality and manipulative cunning? That would be a formidable combination. He’d have to take steps to keep things from getting out of hand.

The next few weeks were a fever dream for Kathy Jax. She went to work, but she couldn’t concentrate. Each day, she seemed less and less interested in the job, and more and more interested in men. She began dressing more provocatively and using bolder makeup. Guys were gawking at her on the street, and it made her almost too hot to stand it!

And at night, she kept going back to the Sargasso Club. She told herself it was business, that she was just trying to find out more about the missing girls—but somehow, she never seemed to get any new information. She’d end up back at home with no memory of the evening except a blurring impression of having gotten drunk and made a fool of herself again.

Finally her editor called her into his office.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Kath?” he fumed. “You’re screwing up! You haven’t given me a decent story in over a week; you come in here dressed like a streetwalker! I don’t get it!”

To her horror, Kathy heard herself blurt: “You don’t get it? Would you like to?” She leaned forward, breathing deeply. The skintight blouse she had on strained over her ample breasts, tight enough so her boss could see that her nipples were erect under it.

“Jesus!” Her editor exclaimed. “Kath, get hold of yourself!” He was sweating, and his eyes were locked onto her chest.

Kathy saw that, and felt herself getting hot again, turned on by his obvious arousal. She forgot where she was, who she was talking to, and teased, “Wouldn’t you rather get hold of me yourself?”

“All right, that’s it!” Face flaming, Kathy’s boss pointed to the door. “Out! You’re fired, dammit! Get out! And for God’s sake, woman, get yourself some help!”

Kathy sauntered out, smirking. But as she left the editorial office, she came back to reality. Oh, my God! What did I just do in there? What’s happening to me? In a daze, she gathered up her belongings and left, escorted out of the building by security.

Later, after dropping her baggage off at her apartment—an apartment she might not be able to afford to keep, she realized, if she didn’t find another job soon—Kathy Jax went for a walk. She had no particular destination in mind; she just needed to clear her head.

All at once she stopped. She was in front of the Sargasso Club.

No! She shook her head. That’s the last place I want to go right now! She turned on her heel and walked away.

Five minutes later she emerged from a reverie to find herself in front of the Sargasso Club.

“No,” she gasped. Yes, an eager voice whispered inside her.

“No!” she shouted, drawing stares. She fled blindly. It didn’t matter where she was going, as long as it was away!

At last, panting, out of breath, she stumbled into the nearest entrance. She was inside the Sargasso club. The music was blaring, driving the dancers.

“Nnoooo . . . . .” she moaned. There was something wrong, she had to get away. But the music. The music. . . .

Kandi Kones leaped nimbly onto her favorite table and went into her routine. “Hiya, boys!” she shouted. “Miss me?” The audience roared.

Afterward, as she sat meekly in her chair, Milo returned her to her Kathy persona and questioned her as he had done several times over the past weeks. The hypnotized blonde bombshell answered, as always, in a dreamy voice, holding nothing back. Her inhibitions were gone, all gone.

At length Milo nodded. The time had come.

“Kathy,” he said, “don’t worry about getting another job, or another apartment either. I’ll take care of things for you. You trust me, don’t you? Of course you do.”

“Of . . . course I do.”

“And when I do, you can be Kandi Kones all the time,” continued Milo. “You won’t ever have to be Kathy Jax again, and you can dance as Kandi Kones and let my voice and the music tell you what to think and do all the time. You want that, don’t you? Say ‘Yes, sir, Mr. Maven’ if you do.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Maven,” came the reply. The bedazzled blonde giggled vapidly. As always, she was oblivious to the fact that she was sitting naked except for spike heels, gloves and jewelry.

“Good girl, Kathy.” The hypnotist paused. “Now Kathy, since you’ve been such a good girl, I’m going to give you a reward.”

“Reward,” Kathy echoed.

“I’m going to snap my fingers in a moment,” Milo told his helpless tablemate. “When I do, you will be Kandi Kones again. You want that, don’t you, Kathy, you want that desperately, because Kandi Kones dances to the music and does as I say and doesn’t have to think about anything, doesn’t have to worry about the things Kathy Jax worries about, like being respectable and having a job. Kandi Kones doesn’t worry about anything.”

“Kandi Kones . . . doesn’t worry.” Kathy sighed with longing.

“That’s right.” Milo smiled. “And Kandi always gets turned on when she dances. And she’s danced just now, Kathy. So when I snap my fingers, Kathy, and you become Kandi Kones again, you’ll be very, very horny, just like always.

“That’s where the reward comes in, Kathy. When you become Kandi Kones again, we can have sex. You know Kandi wants me”—she certainly should; Milo had spent enough time on that part of her training—“and when you’re her again, all you’ll think about is having sex with me, because screwing the boss is a total turn-on for Kandi. And this time I’ll say yes.”

“This time . . . you’ll say yes.” A languorous, heavy-lidded smile spread across Kathy’s face. It was Kandi’s smile.

Milo Maven snapped his fingers.

Kandi Kones blinked, focused her eyes, and smiled even wider. She stood up, wriggled her way around the table and stood over the seated Milo Maven for a moment, her gorgeous chest shading him. Hoots and wolf whistles came from the watching male patrons, along with cries of “Go for it!” and “Go, baby, go!”

The busty brainwashed blonde bent down to whisper in her boss’s ear. Milo grinned and nodded. He got up and allowed Kandi to lead him away toward the exit to the Sargasso Club’s private back rooms. Goatish laughter followed the hypnotist and the naked beauty.

Kandi found an unoccupied room and, giggling, pulled Milo inside. Like all the others, this room was outfitted with a wide, soft bed. Playing dominant, the blonde grasped Milo’s shoulders and pressed him down onto it. Once he was flat on his back, she straddled him and worked skillfully to peel his clothes off. As she did, Milo enjoyed the view of her massive mams bouncing before his eyes. By the time he was nude, he was aggressively erect.

“C’mon, boss baby,” coaxed the spellbound siren. “Kandi wants it! Give it to her!”

Milo obeyed. He couldn’t have done anything else if he’d wanted to. He pulled Kandi down atop him and thrust into her, over and over, until there was nothing but pleasure and fireworks sizzled through him. At Kandi’s helpless cry of release, he came as well.

Afterward, lying there spent amid the cushions, Milo smirked in satisfaction. Kandi Kones was another marvelous creation. The woman she had been would never have stripped in the Sargasso, never has been the tigress in bed Kandi had been just now. But that woman was history. Already, she’d been cut loose from the mooring provided by her job. Soon she would sever her remaining connections with her former life and settle into being Kandi Kones forever. And when she did, she’d forget ever having been anyone else.

The hypnotist laughed softly. The woman now sleeping nude atop him had first come to the Sargasso Club to investigate the disappearances of several others. Now it was her turn to join them. Very soon now, Kathy Jax would be gone without a trace.