The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The subject was within program limits and approaching her next scheduled peak. In the control room, the thin elderly man watched her for a moment and turned away to make adjustments at the instrument panel to his left. He sighed as his eyes returned to the sleek curves of succulent flesh laid out before him, remembering a time before his own flesh bore the ravages of a life’s obsession. His work was all he had now, but at times it seemed like only yesterday when things were much different...

Behaviour reconstruction’s greatest protection is that no one believes that it exists. It does, of course, or at least since the conclusion of Site 27’s work in 1983. Instead, there were all sorts of fictions and rumors and deluded theories, usually masquerading as science or bad religion. Much of the most wishful thinking emerged in sexually-oriented stories, always causing someone virtuous and presumably virginal to fall into sin. The truth was very different, and much darker. With the collapse of Germany, Army intelligence officers learned of a secret program to control the populace in the face of the Allied advance. Their initial work had been useful and its staff was transferred to a remote location in Montana. Soviet defectors brought news that the Russians had learned too of the program and of America’s interest, prompting them to launch their own. By 1980, senior KGB staffers projected that their country would fail in the near future and sought to buy their way out. Soviet space and missile technology had no value and the U.S. was well aware of the ongoing bio-weapons program. The only asset that they had to sell was the Gorky Institute’s mind control program, its working papers, study results and selected doctors and technicians.

The Russians had taken their lead in 1950 from Pavlov’s work to create their institute. Repeated stimulus and response would program desired behavior. Still, there were problems that suggested the approach was limited. Pavlovian training presumed that all stimuli that the subject had were controlled by a higher power. If the stimuli merely changed, the response could not be predicted or controlled. While endless labor, terrorism and isolation could serve as mega-stimuli to bridge this issue somewhat, inevitably results showed significant erosion in subject control. By 1963, the field seemed stalled and destined to be of little more use than a lab to test prison population control techniques.

He had been on track to a major appointment at Harvard Medical School Neuropsychology when they came to him. Two men, quietly dressed, stopped him as he was about to get in his car. They had federal identification and got in the car with him. He was invited to join a highly secret project delving into certain aspects of neuropsychology based upon his recently published papers. He would have to relocate. Compensation was very high and there were additional bonuses and benefits of joining that could not be discussed under the circumstance of where they were. He had retained the presence of mind to ask what would happen if he refused. They said that they would kill him. That had been nearly 30 years ago, and he no longer regretted the decision.

In 1983, they had solved the problem at Site 27, and he had been there. The mistake was to aim too low. Prior mind control techniques focused almost entirely on the reptile brain. If repetition creates habit and habit directs and molds behaviors like sexual attraction, eating and sleep and aggression patterns, training must rely almost entirely on repetition. This was true enough but failed to go far enough. Site 27 realized that Pavlovian technique served only to paralyze lower level habit operations and higher level congnition. Unless there was very substantial reconstruction of higher level thought processes, the subject would either backslide or fracture into schizophrenia. Neither state was useful. From 1965 when the first Soviet leaks emerged until 1983 when the breakthrough was achieved, Site 27 labored to create a mechanism that would permit consistent and effective behavioral reconstruction whose results were predictable.

He had been the first to see the value of computer architecture as the correct analogy for program design. Almost entirely, humans, as do computers, intake data by optical scan. Audio and tactical inputs are relatively negligible. If lower level responses could be tuned to certain states and higher level functions suspended, a subject would find themselves in a constantly refreshed forced instructional setting in which higher level functions (thoughts, fantasies, dreams) would be driven by lower, now entirely-controlled habits.

The dream-state was the key. Freud had used it as a purely analytical tool, a one-way connection from the subject’s mind to the scientist’s ear. In the years that followed, Freud’s ideas were challenged, then criticized as outdated and misogynistic. Modern social scientists saw dreams as a housekeeping tool, freeing the mind from clutter assimilated during waking hours. He saw it for all it might be, a two-way conduit, receiving as well as transmitting enigmatic fragments that could reconstruct the architecture of the subject’s persona. The goal was to first open the conduit, then decipher the language of dreams well enough to speak it. Real-time interaction with the subject’s subconscious followed, allowing preconstructed sequences to be edited into a mix of naturally occurring and induced dream scenarios. The technique was elegantly subtle and frighteningly powerful. After years of perseverance, he had constructed the Rosetta stone of “dream-speak”, enabling him to converse in dream language as easily as present day archaeologists read the once enigmatic hieroglyphs at Karnak and Abydos.

There had been a range of experiments to confirm the result. Could pictures of male genitals excite a reconstructed heterosexual male? How about a heterosexual female, or homosexuals? Could stealing be a reconstructed trait in a subject testing high for integrity? Or alcoholism, drugs? Could they train housewives to want to watch violent entertainment? Or men to watch to watch soap operas? He had successfully concluded the experimental phase when he trained a female conservative Christian, former missionary and elementary teacher to perform sexually in front of cameras—and like it. The change had been so complete and final that the overwhelming consensus was that there was nothing left to be done.

Personnel had been reassigned, operations and facilities closed, support withdrawn. He was offered a chance to transfer to other projects but always declined. He would see through the closure, the accurate storage of results, the film of experiments, and maintain tracking of subjects. It was a dead end but it suited him. He stopped responding to colleague inquiries, and more than once left a mostly empty bottle of scotch in a desk drawer. He allowed deadlines to elapse and wrote ill-thought and subtly angry notes of explanation to his superiors. They scheduled a “routine” review a week away but he had been working steadily so there was no need to rush. He had long ago removed copies of all the critical information and stored it safely away. He placed the corpse in his car, a plastics charge in its lap. He almost had underestimated the blast force but was able to step behind a wall. Carefully, he made his way back through the burning rubble to find portions of shattered mandible and skull. He reached into his mouth and withdrew bridgework that, anticipating just such a day as this, he had done. Between the heat of the explosive and the chemical contamination he had induced in the car’s interior, there would be no DNA testing. All they would have would be the crown that matched his dental records. The finest mind in behavior reconstruction in the world disappeared into the dark in a well-used 1985 Buick Skylark, traveling just over the limit like anyone else might.

A voice drifted in. Sarah slowly became aware of her surroundings. She recognized it all too well—the precise, calculated cadence laced with a light accent. Her vision was still blurred, but if she strained, could just make out the small, bald head perched atop a green gown.

“I understand what’s required, but I could make her so much more. Imagine, physical perfection as a bonus. I could—”

Shayla towered over the old man. The smile he shot back at her was more like a sneer. Perfect rows of tiny white teeth gleamed from behind paper-thin lips that twitched and widened, but never opened more than a sliver.

“I’m all too familiar with your ideas of physical perfection, Finch. We don’t want a freak.”

How dare she. In his day he could have ended her, wiped out her position as a junior agent. His brief note to any one of her superiors would have removed her from the face of the planet. Perhaps he had made a mistake when he chose to mentor her. He took her tone of late much as a parent endures a spoiled child. Back then, Shayla had only hints of his true work, but his name and reputation inside the agency would have targeted him for the attentions of any young agent convinced she was worthy of a future far brighter than her peers. And Shayla never missed her target. He pulled strings to have her reassigned. He opened his files to her, years of work that only he understood. Perhaps it was weakness, but he swelled with pride as she took to his work with a passion.

Shayla was intelligent, fiercely ambitious, and a natural beauty. He had been alone all of his life and she was more than he could understand or analyze. For a month he puzzled over her familiar light touches during casual conversation, the maddening way she crossed her long, chocolate legs, and the suggestive phrasing cloaked in the most innocent of questions. Later, it became routine for them to work late, order take-out, and put the day’s labors behind them. Much later, when she rode his cock, her dark, firm body pinning him to the office floor, her motives no longer mattered to him. If he had been the master of mens’ minds, he was no longer the complete master of his own.

But change is inevitable. And the day came when the world changed in ways Finch never imagined. The Russians imploded and the Cold War ended. Funding evaporated. No one wanted to admit ownership for his research. The entire work was redlined before the Agency budget went to Congress. At first, he was merely bitter about the loss of resources. As the project closed, he was reduced to a caretaker of his brilliant career, a lifetime of work made obsolete. As time passed, his bitterness became rage, sending him on a much darker path. When the opportunity to jump ship was presented to him, he accepted without hesitation. The compensation was lavish, but he would have taken much less than the unchanging figure the DOD discreetly deposited in his account each month. His new employer’s unsavory origins didn’t cause him a moment’s pause; in fact, his thirst for revenge made the offer all the more appealing.

He had taken Shayla with him. In fact, she insisted. Soon her ambition and good looks brought her to the attention of those higher up in the organization. She was given a field position, managing a small group of reports to be selected at her discretion.

Rock was a rare find, almost by accident, during a late-night visit to a crowded leather bar on the west coast. He hit on her mercilessly, but all she saw was a clever, powerful male, a born leader. By the end of the night they had struck a deal, and for much less than her budget allowed. His band of bikers was a lucky bonus, perfect for distancing herself from the dirty work she deemed beneath her.

She found Stacey on the street, homeless, hungry, staying afloat on whatever drug she managed to trade for her services. Shayla was moved by something in those sky-blue eyes, and she was seldom wrong about first impressions. She took the girl in, cleaned her up, and began her education. Stacey proved to be a quick study. The streets had made her a survivor; her talent for deception and innocent façade made for a dangerous combination to anyone who crossed her path. Only Shayla was immune to her girlish charm. Within days she began to nurture the submissive lurking just below the surface of Stacey’s tough exterior. Within weeks, sleep came only after Stacey buried her face between Shayla’s legs, eagerly exploring her dark sex with an agile tongue. After, Stacey slept soundly at her feet, curled into a contented ball like a smiling fetus.

Finch. The years had not been kind to their relationship. The anger that devoured him wrinkled his skin and erased the color from his hair. She found it difficult to ignore his physical decline, and his tortured brooding and short temper did little to help. Fleeting pangs of sentiment, pity, and at times desire made being close to him uncomfortable, and she regretted the loss of control, the words that she knew had both hurt and angered him.

“So, it’s come to this! Are you so fond of giving orders that you’ve forgotten how you’ve come to give them? Or has it become customary to dismiss old friendships when it’s convenient for your career?”

His red-faced protest fell silent in an instant. Shayla’s hands rose to the front of his light green gown, her fingers gently caressing the collar and seams over the old man’s narrow shoulders. She had taken a step toward him, and her wide smile exposed teeth much larger and whiter than his own. She warmed as she felt his wiry frame tremble at her touch. Such a small, fragile man. How perplexing that such thin, quivering fingers could become the tools of an artist behind needle and knife.

Ice-blue eyes peered up at her, like they had on so many other visits. His trembling never failed to excite her. How she wanted to pass her hands under the gown, to press her fingers into his pale skin, to stroke him as she knew he would allow, down, down, until she held the short rope of flesh, encircling the withered sac with invading digits, probing the meager, firm fruit inside. Her thighs flexed and clenched tightly for a moment. Such delicious pain, twisting and crushing his vulnerable offerings, sending fire and defeat through the sensitive nerves, until they were as dead as his dreary soul.

But, they had work to do...

The sharp bite of the iv needle startled Sarah, clearing her head. The dull presence invading her arm seemed a sickening warning of what was to come. They spoke as though she was still unconscious, ignoring her widened eyes, now filled with increasing terror.

“Such exquisite flesh. So much potential.”

Finch drew the fingertips of his left hand over her breast, stopping at the nipple. Grasping and rolling it firmly between thumb and finger, his menacing eyes envisioned what she might become. Sarah inhaled suddenly as a single digit trailed over her ribs and across her shaking abdomen. He lingered there, probing deeply into her soft skin with both hands, committing everything to memory—from the firm but yielding surfaces beneath it to the unyielding boundaries of her narrow pelvis. He watched carefully for the slightest twitch of her eyes, or the sudden rise of her pouting breasts, all telltale signs of a bit of skin where nerves rose close to the surface, or, where deeper clusters of ganglions sent stabs of breath-robbing pain throughout her body. He went back to each of these spots again and again, testing for a stronger response a fraction of an inch this way or that, his smile widening as Sarah gasped and struggled against the restraints that held her naked and spread-eagled on the steel table.

Shayla towered over her, now facing Finch at the opposite side of the table. She seemed fascinated with Sarah’s terror. Leaning close, she traced the lines of Sarah’s face with an outstretched finger, gloved in warm, black leather.

Finch’s hands continued down over her thighs, stroking and kneading them as his breath came faster, his eyes glittering with the reflection of them, a perfect white V that resisted his touch.

Sarah froze in terror when his long fingers arrived spider-like between her legs. Spreading her outer labia, he tugged and pinched the inner lips before inserting two fingers inside her. Now she felt his probing from within, the constant pressure as his fingertips dug into the walls of her vagina, finally arriving at her cervix, where the pain stiffened her slim body with spasms of agony.

Shayla glanced at the plastic iv bag that delivered a steady drip of hazy, viscous liquid to the needle taped to Sarah’s arm.

“What’s in the bag? I told you I want her to suffer.”

Finch said nothing, keeping his eyes on Sarah’s as he dilated the firm tissues of her cervix with the tip of his index finger. Her mouth was stretched wide in a silent scream. A minute passed before he withdrew his hand and looked up.

“Look at her. Have you ever seen such pain in a subject’s eyes? The drug amplifies the nervous system’s sensitivity tenfold. The pain is unimaginable.”

“I don’t hear her screaming. They always scream.”

“Ahh, and you always complain, no? So, a bit of this, a bit of that, and her vocal chords are paralyzed. No screaming—I thought you would be pleased.”

It wasn’t the first time Shayla had underestimated Finch’s attempts to please her. Even so, she shuddered inside as she imagined Sarah’s agony, precisely applied, without the ability to scream or even release a defeated moan.

“Finch, my darling little man, you never fail to amaze me.”

“Or, excite you, my dear?”

“Or to excite me...,” she whispered, her dark eyes drilling through him as he paused, hands trembling over Sarah’s nakedness. Shifting her gaze from Finch to Sarah, she smiled and took a single, deep breath.

“Let me see you work.”

The small round tray held a circle of tiny syringes, much like a plate of hors d’oeuvres waiting to be sampled. He plucked one at random from the sterile surface and applied a practiced push on the plunger, allowing a tiny fountain to jet from the tip. Sarah’s wrists strained at the leather cuffs as he brought the needle close to her face.

Sarah’s head burst into fiery agony as the needle sank into the moist flesh along her upper lip. Then, with precision of a delicate machine, Finch injected the full volume as he maneuvered the tip deeper. She had only a few seconds of relief before his hand returned with a second syringe, this time digging into her lower lip, again stiffening her body against the restraints.

Finch paused to watch her as the third syringe hovered over the nipple of her right breast. Sarah shook her head violently, mouthing words no one could hear. He glanced up at Shayla. She was smiling.

Sarah’s body went rigid when he slid the needle under the edge of the nipple. Now her eyes were closed, her jaw clenched. He watched the pink bud expand to a hard button, then the full circumference of areola beneath it rise slightly above the mound of white breast.

After filling her left nipple with a fourth syringe, he stopped to inspect his work. His contented smile was interrupted by a pair of large black hands, now cradling his head with long, wandering fingers. Shayla bent over the table, her intoxicating dark eyes inches from his own.

“Sometimes I forget what a wonderfully talented man you are.”

Her words were almost a whisper. Finch’s eyes dropped to her breasts. They moved ever so slightly, the generous black nipples pouting at him from between rows of undone buttons. It was rare to see her out of leather these days, and even rarer to see her in a dress, even if it was a dress that hugged every curve of her muscular frame. She covered Finch’s small mouth with hers, assaulting him with her tongue while holding his head tightly with both hands. Sarah looked up in horror as he mauled Shayla’s breasts with thin, trembling fingers. She could feel his long, slim cock pressed against her belly as Shayla pulled him over her across the table. He rocked against her, caving in her stomach as his prick, now exposed and wet, twitched and pulsed over Sarah’s bare skin.

Finch’s body shuddered briefly, then was still. Sarah felt the cool remains of his orgasm, slippery and wet, spread across her belly. He regained his composure as quickly as he had lost it and stood again beside the table, eyes still on Shayla.

She was tracing circles in the pool of thick semen with a gloved finger. Then, capturing a portion of it as it rose to coat the rounded tip of supple leather, she delivered it to Sarah’s open mouth, past lips too sore to resist the invasion. Shayla continued with a haunting smile, until only a slick trace of the old man’s cum remained, drying like a second skin on Sarah’s flat stomach. She gagged and choked as the salty mass reached the back of her throat, but in time managed to rid her mouth of the vile taste, gulping the mixture of semen and saliva long after Shayla fed her the last drop.

Shayla’s face was closer now, her large brown eyes peering into Sarah’s. Her breath was hot on Sarah’s face, her smile terrifying.

“Mmmm. You’re shaking, my dear. Don’t you know this is for your own good? Don’t you appreciate the efforts we’ve taken to help you? Your looks are all you have now. Don’t you want to be beautiful?”

Sarah shook her head franticly from side to side, her lips forming words where none would come—‘no, no, no, no, no’.

“Now, now, we’re nearly done. Unfortunately, this last bit is the worst. I’m afraid it will be horribly painful.”

Before Sarah had time to react, Finch drove the needle into the soft, sensitive tissue of her inner labia, filling it with practiced precision. The muscles from her shoulders to her toes tightened into steel bands. Her back arched in a single prolonged spasm, lifting her body off the table. Then, a second injection at the same site, followed by a third and forth, until the entrance to her cunt was frozen in an wide yawn, held open by engorged, fluted ridges of flesh.

Sarah lay panting and exhausted, her mind now focused only on the pain—when it would come, and when it would stop. Trickles of sweat ran between her breasts and over her belly. Her thighs were shiny and wet, her drenched hair cold and sticky between her head and the steel table.

Shayla’s lips brushed her ear as she spoke in a low whisper.

“Sooo delicious, showing off for the good doctor, all tits and pussy. It’s what you are now—tits and pussy. No career, no husband, no friends, no responsibilities—just two hard tits to be fondled and a warm, juicy hole between your legs.”

Sarah glanced at the mirror overhead. She closed her eyes and tried to think. ‘A name—my name—if I can just remember—’ Names sifted into the shattered remains of her memory—Barbie, Stacey, Shayla—but which one?

She gasped as Finch tugged at her clit, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. Shayla’s voice returned, her breath now closer, hotter against Sarah’s ear.

“Everyone will want you. Men with long, thick cocks will stand in line to stuff your pouting little cunt. Women will drool at the sight of you, longing to suck those hard nipples. Boys will see you and cum on their sheets at night dreaming of you. And girls will do anything to be like you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be beautiful, desirable, so satisfied, so content. It’s so close—just one more terrible step—but a step you’re eager to take, so eager—so...”

Finch drove the needle into her clitoris and squeezed the plunger. His erection returned as he watched the sensitive nub grow thicker, then longer as he guided the needle deeper.

In an instant, she was blinded by the sudden stab of agony. Every nerve in her body seemed to react at once. An explosion of images and memories overwhelmed her in random order, some vaguely familiar, others appallingly real. And then all the pain faded as cold emptiness swallowed her, until the only thing in her world was the comfort of the darkness and the words that floated nearby.

“...drool at the sight of you...do anything to be like you...so eager...so beautiful...so satisfied...”

She woke to flashes of brilliant color, to patterns of lines and circles that shifted and pulsed in cadence to a throbbing hum so deep that it seemed to come from inside her. Once she opened her eyes it was impossible to close them. The flickering kaleidoscope drew her in; the longer she looked, the more she needed to follow the evolution of one shape into the next. And the pain was gone. It made the pain go away. And she was so warm, so satisfied, so tired and empty.

Finch forced himself to look away from her nude body, now unrestrained on the padded chair. Her breasts rose and fell seductively with each deep, even breath. The visor covered her face from forehead to just below the bridge of her nose, revealing the slight flare of her nostrils as she inhaled the cool air of the darkened lab. Most of the room’s light came from the row of monitors lining the wall behind a long desk where Finch sat peering into a much larger screen. Endless lines of code marched across it, scrolling from top to bottom, but Finch’s eyes were glued to the upper right corner where inch-high red numerals marked Sarah’s progress.

Shayla watched from the foot of the chair. Finch recognized the sadistic smile and concentrated stare as she enjoyed the view from between the reclining subject’s legs. He watched her exhilaration as she attached the necessary instruments—the tiny electrodes glued to Sarah’s flat belly, one above each ovary, and finally the thick, plastic double-phallus, inserted simultaneously into rectum and vagina, held in place by a vacuum drawn through the flexible base-plate.

Whirling streams of dazzling light slowed and dimmed to muted shades that dissolved into recognizable shapes and features. Sarah watched, mesmerized, as a pretty housewife dressed in apron and high-heels knelt by the door, gave her small daughter a warm hug, then ushered her along to a waiting school bus. It left Sarah with a warm, full feeling in her belly, a feeling Sarah’s own mother might have given her, if only her weakened heart hadn’t taken her from Sarah so early in life. She saw a the large hand of a tall, dark man push open the door and hurry through it. He ignored the pretty wife, but glanced back for a second and scowled before disappearing. His look chilled Sarah and her stomach went queasy, just like when her daddy used to give her “a good talking-to”.

The scene faded. Sarah stared helplessly as the same housewife knelt in front of a young delivery boy. Her tongue slid from between parted lips in slow motion, gently licking the tip of his monstrous cock. A rush of warmth and excitement washed over Sarah as she watched her take the pulsing head of the boy’s cock in her mouth. Something stirred inside her. It felt so good—so warm and thick and filling.

Then came familiar scenes—Sarah, dressed for success, strutting through the halls of her old office—Sport, working on the books at night, never missing a chance to inch a hand under her dress when she came close enough—the two of them embracing, kissing like newlyweds, for no special reason, day or night.

And with them came the pain. At first a twisting sickness in her belly, it grew, gnawing and icy at her very core—so cold, stabbing at her from inside. She wanted to look away, to put the scenes out of her mind, anything to make the nausea and pain stop. She must be dreaming. If she could only wake up, the nightmare would end and everything would be right again. But she couldn’t wake up, and the images played on.

Shayla paced in circles around the chair, watching Sarah’s squirming body with delight. She stopped and leaned close to her face, studying the repeated grimaces and frowns, each fleeting expression sadistic gratification for Shayla’s hard work and twisted desires.

The pain worsened as the visor revealed the familiar softly-lit bedroom. They were making love, with Sport on top of her in his usual position. He stroked her face as he moved slowly, almost cautiously, in and out of her. Then came the short, repeated pecks over her neck and lips, almost kisses, more habit than passion. His weight pressed down on her, trapping her on her back with legs spread. Each breath required more effort than the last. A suffocating claustrophobia seized her, tightening its grip until terror and panic forced her to cry out, begging to be rescued. With one last brutal thrust he stiffened and moaned. She could feel his cum jetting, splashing inside her, searing bursts of fire and acid that ate away at her cunt, robbing her of its delicious sensations forever. His poison crept deeper into her belly, feasting on tender flesh, devouring her from the inside out with relentless agony.

Relief came suddenly when the visor faded to black. Tiny specks of light formed in the darkness, slowly growing brighter, until she stared into a field of thousands of stars gliding past her. They began to dance and rotate, lazily at first, then at a dizzying pace, finally smearing into twisting streams of changing color. She went limp against the padding of the chair, her breathing now soft and even.

Finch watched the monitor intently as the counter reset. The instructions halted for a moment, the screen cleared, then began to fill with new characters, one line at a time.

[Sub*p.22_Sarah]
Rtr mod 3b.11.9y
Ld mod 3b.11.9y
Ini mod 3b.11.9y (tim:3,sr:norm,dp:max)
Inj*

Cal vaga1q {0,9,2}
Cal anaa2q {0,6,1}
Cal stim[3F22C] ld[1,2,3,4]
Cal intmix[min**00,max**?9]v/r set

Wait

Wait

Rtr mod 4a.01.0x
Ld mod 4a.01.0x
Sync[3b.11.9y][4a.01.0x]
Ini [v,a,s,i] lnkcpl m/p
Ini mod 4a.01.0x (tim:*,sr:push,dp:max)
Inj*

Sarah focused on the new scene that formed inside the visor. Her view was from the back seat of a moving car. Looking up and forward, she could see the pretty housewife and the dark man silhouetted in the bright light streaming through the windshield. He drove, she sat silently beside him, watching the passing scenery. She could smell the musty cloth that covered the seats, worn and frayed along the edge where she liked to sit. It was hot. So hot. The car windows provided the only relief from the mid-day heat, tossing her long blonde hair in the gushes of wind that came at her unevenly from the left and right.

Then in the distance, a siren wailed. It grew louder, until finally she turned to see the red flashing light gaining on them from behind. Their car slowed and pulled to the side of the road. The dark man was angry. The pretty housewife put a hand on his arm to settle him, but he shrugged it off, raising his voice and glaring at her.

Sarah watched the policeman from the rear window. He climbed off the biggest, shiniest motorcycle she had ever seen and marched toward the car. She couldn’t take her eyes off him—the black leather jacket wrapped around shoulders three feet wide, the stiff black boots that crushed the gravel under them with each heavy step, and the wide belt that circled his slim waist. A holstered gun hung at his right side, a long, thick night-stick at his left, swaying hypnotically as he approached.

She tried to listen as the policeman and the dark man talked, then began to argue. The policeman’s face was close now, his large sunglasses reflecting the sudden fear in the dark man’s eyes. His wide grin made her heart race with both fear and excitement. His voice seemed to melt the knot in her stomach and warm the insides of her bare thighs. Ignoring the dark man for a second, the policeman studied the pretty housewife from face to calf.

“You’ve fixed her up real pretty.”

The pretty housewife glanced at him, allowing a thin smile to escape.

The dark man yelled at the policeman and opened the door to get out. The policeman put a large hand on his slim arm and pulled him from the car, easily turning him and pinning him to the fender.

“You fucked up, man—big time. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you? You had to be a hero. I was ready to walk away, to let you and the wife go back to your pathetic little lives. I’m gonna enjoy this.”

He walked the dark man to the front of the car, snapped the handcuffs over both thin wrists, and bent him over the hood. Sarah’s heart pounded faster as she stared through the windshield.

His pants were around his ankles now. Passing cars slowed, their passengers laughing at the dark man’s sagging buttocks and skinny thighs exposed in broad daylight. His eyes stared back through the windshield, wide with terror. Sarah began to moan at the instant the policeman placed the end of the night-stick against the dark man’s ass and slowly pushed an inch of it inside. The dark man was crying now, begging the policeman to stop, begging the pretty housewife for help. Another inch disappeared inside him, then another. Cars continued to slow and gawk, now blowing their horns and cheering through open windows. The dark man became hysterical, crying and screaming for help as the policeman began to pump the weapon in and out, going deeper with each thrust. Sarah’s cunt clutched and sucked at the thing between her legs. It felt so good, probing and pulsing with energy and warmth.

The policeman leaned into the car window next to the pretty housewife. She just stared into his dark glasses as he began to unbutton her dress. He pulled her bra down, revealing the two firm mounds of breast topped with large, stiffening nipples. The dark man watched through the windshield as the policeman pulled and squeezed until the pretty housewife’s nipples were purple and distended. He began to cry again when she moaned softly, her eyes unable to hide the lust that overpowered her.

The policeman was in the driver’s seat now, unbuttoning the front of the pretty housewife’s dress until she sat beside him in bra and panties. His large hands moved over her stomach and thighs, rough calluses against satin skin. She whimpered when a strong finger wormed beneath the white elastic, traveled the length of her moistening slit, and finally found the swollen nub that made tears come to her eyes.

“I knew you’d be easy. I could see it in your eyes. How long have you waited for it, a real man’s cock? Say it. He’s waiting.”

The pretty housewife glanced through the windshield at the dark man, then back into the policeman’s dark glasses, now inches from her face.

“I’m yours.”

The visor blinked. A second of black, the low rumble of distant thunder, then back again. The dark man was on his back, stretched over the hood, arms pulled wide by invisible restraints, his small erect penis visible as it pointed upward toward the darkening sky. A light rain began to fall, mixing with his tears as he continued to sob and mutter incoherently. A large black bird fluttered down from the sky, landing on his heaving belly. Its size was twice that of the largest of birds, with claws and beak the color of polished steel. Another followed, then a third. They eyed his erection as if it was unfamiliar prey, then together, as if on cue, devoured it with shining, slashing beaks. Dozens of birds arrived as a silver-gray cloud, then dozens more, each finding a perch on his naked body, all feasting in a black, seething frenzy, until his sobs were drowned out by sound of rustling feathers and clicking beaks.

The roof and doors of the car melted away until there was nothing but the musty seat under her and the crawling cloud of black feathers, expanding as far as she could see. As it closed in around her, the black faded to gray, then brightened to a brilliant white. The seat melted away as well, and she floated there, suspended in a sea of white doves, floating, soaring, carrying her with them, caressing her thighs and breasts with a thousand velvet wings. Warm juices pooled, then flowed from between her legs. Never had she been held poised at the brink of orgasm for such a long time. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, losing herself in time, reveling in the ecstasy.

When her eyes opened again, the scene had changed. The pretty housewife pushed a vacuum cleaner back and forth over a spotless, white carpet. There were no walls, no furniture, only brilliant light surrounding her. She was naked, except for bright red high heels and a wide red choker. She hummed softly as the vacuum traveled silently over the carpet.

The policeman appeared behind her, his black boots and jacket a stark contrast to the blinding white light. She turned as if she could feel his eyes on her, then walked to him, stopping when her swollen nipples touched black leather. She looked up at him, expressionless, her delicate features forming a perfect profile, her voice a coarse whisper.

“Fuck me.”

The scene exploded in white, then returned as a spacious Victorian bedroom. At its center stood a canopy bed draped in yards of white lace and satin. The pretty housewife rested peacefully, arms extended, legs spread, almost floating over the down-stuffed spread. She was still naked, the red shoes now gone, her creamy skin supple and relaxed beneath the crimson velvet bands that circled her wrists and ankles. A white marble dressing table stood against the opposite wall, just a few paces from the foot of the bed. A small hand-mirror and hair brush, both of glistening silver, lay on its cool, glassy surface. Next to the table, an oval full-length mirror surrounded by an intricately sculpted silver border hung eerily in mid-air.

The policeman appeared at the foot of the bed, still in full uniform. The pretty housewife raised her head to look at him, then sliding her hands along smooth, white thighs, clutched her knees, pulling her legs up to open herself to him. His cock spilled from the fly of his pants, hanging like a thick length of rope. It thickened and grew longer, inch after inch, until the tip reached the quivering slit between her legs. It was impossibly large, the diameter greater than his massive fist, the length still increasing as it pushed her lips aside and entered her, steadily forcing its way deeper into her cunt. Her belly swelled as the monstrous organ filled her, burrowing deeper each second. Slowly, almost reverently, she let her head fall back and opened her mouth in a wide yawn. The fleshy bulb paused for a second, then, forcing her jaw wider still, emerged glistening and pulsing before her eyes. Taking her hands from her knees, she cradled the warm, purple head, spreading flow of slick pre-cum over the enormous glans, then returning to the gaping eye for more. Her legs circled the thick base, her hands the engorged head, while her slim body writhed and twisted, deliciously impaled on the throbbing skewer.

A steady fountain of pearly-white semen erupted from the yawning fissure, flowing over the pretty housewife’s hands onto her face and shoulders. It continued down over her body as though seeking out the smallest crevices, until it coated her like a second skin, glossy and moist under the intense light. After clinging to the edge of orgasm for what seemed like hours, Sarah cried out as it finally washed over her. It seemed to lift her into the air, piercing her body through every pore, invading and seizing her tender flesh with an intensity no mortal lover could hope to offer. This was what she needed, what she had waited for, for such a long time. If only it would last this time...she would be a good girl, an obedient girl, a beautiful girl...if only it would last...forever.

Then she was in a different place, with no memory of how her soul seemed such a small price to pay for the satisfaction only a machine could bring, only moments ago. She sat at the marble dressing table in the same white bedroom, slowly running the silver brush through strands of luxuriant blonde hair. She studied her reflection in the glittering hand-mirror. ‘Is that me? My thick blonde hair? My full red lips? My perfect nipples?’

“You are everyone’s desire, Dear.”

The pretty housewife stood beside her, still naked, still radiant with the policeman’s semen, now a glowing halo that followed each graceful movement. Her smile was irresistible, so warm, comforting, and familiar. Sarah rose and went to her, falling into her as the pretty housewife held her with strong, slender arms. Her words came softly, lovingly, filling a space left empty far too long.

“I love you, Dear. So many others are waiting to love you too. Men with long, thick cocks will stand in line to stuff your pouting little cunt. Women will drool at the sight of you, longing to suck those hard nipples. Boys will see you and cum on their sheets at night dreaming of you. And girls will do anything to be like you—like me—like us.”

Their bodies pressed closer, hard nipples on hard nipples, rippling belly against rippling belly, until they became one, merging as effortlessly as the ether of spirits passes through earthly flesh. Sarah stood alone before the oval mirror. The image reflected back at her was perfection, flesh that no one could resist, lust that consumed all defenses. She could have any man, anyone, and would openly be his slave for the chance to find the rapture that promised to save her.

The mirror’s silver border turned crimson, flowing restlessly, expectantly. It’s silvery surface rippled, changing from brittle glass to flowing mercury. The voice from behind it was as compelling as it was familiar.

“You’ve always been a fucktoy, Sarah, always hungry for a bigger cock, never really satisfied with a puny one. We can see it in your eyes. Come to us, Sarah. We have what you’re looking for, what you need...what you’ve always needed.”

Her feet moved, one after the other, until she stood an inch from the shimmering surface. She could feel their hands on her breasts, cold fingers teasing her nipples until they stiffened, sending promises of what lie beyond the mirror to the their target, now wet and swollen between her ivory thighs. Another step and she was falling, first through the cold boundary between her world and theirs, then into the darkness that rolled her into a ball and swallowed her, taking everything from her, and giving nothing in return.

Shayla and Finch watched as two large men eased Sarah into the padded cage that was to be her home for the long journey. She slept soundly, her breathing shallow but steady. They secured her wrists to leather cuffs at each side, her ankles to identical restraints on the top of the enclosure. Shayla could feel the sudden warmth between her legs and the wet coolness that followed. Sarah lay on her back, naked, knees against her chest, ankles firmly anchored to the cage lid. The position displayed Sarah’s exposed genitals at the end of the cage, lodged firmly against a smaller trapdoor.

Finch paced back and forth, his eyebrows knitted with concern.

“We should wait another day, do more tests. There is a small risk... ”

Shayla nodded to one of the men and waved them along as they lifted the cage and walked it toward to steel door.

“The real risk is that our client will delay the transfer of payment if we’re late. You know who I answer to. I won’t end up in one of those cages just because you want to dick around with your statistics for another day. We’ll deliver her on time, take our pat on the back, and move on. Where she’s going, who’s going to care what she’s like a year from now, assuming she makes it that long.”

They watched the door swing shut, the electric locks buzzing as the steel cylinders snapped into place. Finch stared for a few seconds after the bolts engaged.

‘If only I could have had her for just one more day.’

Shayla looked back at the chair, then through the wide glass window where a bare steel table stood surrounded by trays of empty syringes. Her hand came to rest at the front of her dress, two long fingers pressing lightly into the nagging heat between her legs. For the first time in many years, their thoughts were exactly the same.