The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The good doctor threw her head over her shoulder and peered into her boudoir mirror, her long, auburn locks tumbling down her back. She examined her ample backside through her lavender silk chemise—the star of her lingerie collection. Its construction accentuated her silhouette, the hem falling right at her upper thighs, just barely indecent for public wear. It was simple, not too many frills, yet with an otherworldly slinkiness. Certain to raise an eyebrow, but not too outlandish a garment in which to lounge about the house alone.

In other words, perfect for the occasion.

Doctor Angelos sprayed a light lavender fragrance and re-tousled her hair, anxiously awaiting a doorbell. He had said tonight, hadn’t he? She padded to her spacious living room and flopped down on her much-too-large sectional, flipping the television on and making herself comfortable. She’d just decided to tolerate some dry documentary about the Napoleonic Wars when the doorbell rang.

Her heart skipped a beat as she shot up to answer, which took her aback. Was she always this excited to see her subjects? Running through her mental checklist, she took a deep breath and peered through the door’s peephole, indeed seeing in fisheye view a head of thick, wiry black hair, idly glancing down at his cell phone, sheets of rain falling behind him.

The doctor was well aware that this was a decidedly risky endeavor, as she often had the advantage of more trust, and more thorough, assured conditioning before making such bold moves. But the detective seemed genuinely and particularly receptive, and the potential payoff was massive. She took a breath and swung open the heavy oak door with aplomb.

“Hello, Detective. Come on in, get yourself out of that cold rain. Hope your evening is going fine.”

Detective Berman considered himself a gentleman of decency and integrity. A lonesome bachelor who seldom felt strong attraction, and thus never quite shook that shyness around those to whom he felt strongly attracted, he preferred not to ogle. But something about this little sprite intrigued him viscerally in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Within a second, his eyes flicked from her head to her toes and back. Her hair, out of the stuffy constraints of its bun, caught his eye, spilling over her shoulders and down her back. He noted, too, how much less to his imagination her current garment left than the conservative ensemble she wore yesterday.

“Thanks, it is. And yours,” he replied, clearing his throat. He removed his muddy, heavy-duty boots in her entryway, trying to keep his head down so as to avoid temptation. She took his coat. “There’s nothing to worry about, as I’ve said. I’m just here to keep you posted and see if you can help us out with a few details. A couple of things we’ve uncovered.”

“Of course, make yourself at home,” she said, noticing his roving eye and relishing it, no matter how brief. But Doctor Angelos had to admit to herself that the detective’s gaze was not the only one that had lingered. She herself took him in, noting that he looked somewhat better-rested, and dare she say more put-together than the previous evening. Hell, she’d even admit the man looked downright handsome. He’d groomed his emerging stubble into a short beard, put product in his hair, chosen his ensemble carefully…was he even wearing aftershave?

She grinned to herself. It’d been a while since she’d truly thrilled while doing in one of her subjects like this. Something about this one felt particularly special.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Water, coffee, tea? I feel like something sweet, myself.”

Something about this one almost made her feel bad for what she was about to do.

The detective cleared his throat, unable to help himself with the lady’s back turned, eyeing her barely-covered behind as she sashayed to the kitchen. “Hm? Oh, none for me, thanks. Is this, um…is this a bad time?”

“A bad time? Not at all. Why do you ask?” she called from the kitchen.

“I always ask,” he called back, slightly too quickly. “I mean, later in the evening is the most convenient time for me, but I’m usually intruding in some way when I drop by at this hour. So I try to show a little courtesy.”

“That’s sweet of you. You’re a very considerate man,” the doctor replied, exiting the kitchen to find the detective awkwardly standing still in the middle of her sizable living room. She snickered.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“I don’t know, take a load off. You look a little funny just standing there. Make yourself at home,” she said, gesturing at the couch.

“Oh. Thanks,” he said, gingerly setting himself on the sofa. Of all the spots available, she parked herself next to him, her smooth, bare thigh pressing right against his pant leg. He stared straight at the television.

“I’m very interested in anything you might’ve found. I have all the time to help you, I’m by myself tonight. Hell, I thought you were the pizza man,” she said breezily. “So, yeah. I’m all yours, Detective.”

“Good,” he said, absentmindedly rolling up his shirt sleeves. This lady really liked her rooms warm. “That you can help me, I mean. Hey, this about Napoleon?”

Doctor Angelos eyed his forearms and hands—sinewy, vascular, adorned with ample hair and a simple silver watch—then remembered to glance at the TV.

“Oh, yeah, looks like it. I just had it on to have something on.”

“One of my favorite eras of history. Did you know Napoleon was tone deaf?”

“I’ve heard. I think I also heard that he sang all the time anyway. But I might’ve invented that.”

“No, you’re correct. Deserved exile just for that, honestly,” he said, glancing anxiously at his watch. He’d come prepared tonight—at least, he’d tried to. A few cups of coffee had him plenty alert.

“Can you sing, Detective?”

“What?” he asked dumbly, taken off guard by such a question.

“Can you—”

“I heard, sorry, just. Uh, sort of. I can whistle. I guess I can carry a tune. But I’m not very good.”

“I see,” she said, grinning. “Oh, I love to sing, I find it very relaxing. I’ve always got a melody going in my head that I like to hum to myself. I find it self-soothing. Oddly…restful.”

“I can…I can see why,” he said, suddenly sensing a peculiar disturbance. “I’m sure you have a lovely singing voice. I mean, uh, you have a very mellow speaking voice, so I’m guessing that would translate.”

“Why, thank you. I like to think most people can be taught to sing in some capacity. And the rest of them, well…we need someone to laugh at on karaoke night, don’t we?” she said, biting into her cookie. She stopped, noticing the detective staring straight through her, glassy-eyed and unblinking. “Everything alright?”

“Me? Yeah, of course, sorry. Just had a few cups of coffee.” He mentally scolded himself for his spaciness.

“A few cups? So late?” she asked, interrupting his self-flagellation.

“Duty calls.”

“Well, I just hope that you’re more adequately rested. Did you have a good night’s rest?”

Detective Berman blinked, his mind and body suddenly tingling again.

“Detective?”

“Huh? Oh yes, yes,” he said quickly. “Sorry, jeez. Uh, I got a pretty good night’s sleep, contrary to how I might seem right now. Your little exercise even helped with that.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I often struggle, lying awake and such. I’m, uh, not too good at the whole sleeping thing we’re all supposed to do every night,” he admitted. He paused, noticing what seemed to be a genuine look of understanding on the doctor’s face as she nodded. “But laying in bed, breathing, relaxing each part of the body, that sort of thing. Seems obvious, but it’s helpful.”

“It really is conducive to sleep, I can attest. As you demonstrated yesterday,” she said with a light laugh.

“Yeah, sorry again. I really don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s really nothing out of the ordinary, no need to apologize. As I said yesterday, it’s a very normal response when you’ve abused yourself by not getting enough rest. Now, what do you have for me?”

“Have…I, ah…” he murmured, his mind whirling a bit before settling. “…have this…this bra with me again, you see. Not because I’m a creep who likes carrying it around or anything, but because we’ve located its origins.” Doctor Angelos chuckled.

“I must really be in the mood for sweets tonight,” she said suddenly, finishing her cookie. “Ate this whole thing and I could go for the rest of the package! Usually I just take two bites and leave the rest for later. Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt, what was that about the lingerie?”

Warm, fuzzy TV static cut into the detective’s thoughts. He had something to say, surely, but it was as though the words were all of a sudden snatched from his mouth.

“Um…right,” he muttered, looking down at his lap. “Right, uh…the lingerie. W-we found out that it came from this little boutique down in the Botanical Park Mall. Some French place, La Minette was the name. Have you heard of it?”

“No, can’t say I have. Terribly sorry,” she said quietly, nibbling a stray cookie crumb from the tip of her index finger, allowing it to linger near her smooth, mauve lips. The detective felt his eyes drawn to them as his thoughts scattered. He swallowed with effort.

“Where do you get yours?” he mumbled, with none of his typical pointed precision. His eyes migrated south and now clearly came to rest on the shiny lilac nightgown worn by the woman beside him.

“I’m sorry?”

Detective Berman squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out all distracting stimuli.

“For the sake of elimination, Doctor. This is information we need to complete the picture. From where do you typically purchase your lingerie?”

“Oh. Well, I get mine from Candy Hearts or Lacey’s. Sometimes Nordstrom will have a sale on something decent. Or indecent, depending on what I want. I could really take or leave the rest.”

“...Uh-huh,” he said, furrowing his brow. Despite his initial caffeine buzz, he was beginning to feel that dreaded limp, somnolent feeling again, now coupled with the inevitably rising tides of arousal at her mere suggestion of indecency. He did have other questions, but felt a sneaking suspicion that it was time to leave. Much as it hurt his pride, he realized he simply lacked the mettle. This was beginning to feel like less of an investigative experiment and more like playing with fire.

“Are you alright, Detective? You seem a little distracted tonight. You haven’t got a fever, have you?” she said, gently placing the back of her hand against his forehead. He twitched at her sudden touch, his stomach doing flips. “You do feel a bit warm. Do you have chills? You know, nothing beats an illness like proper nutrition and rest. Lots and lots of rest.”

“...Right. I’m fine, though. I think. I’m just…thinking,” he said, fidgeting with his pant leg in an attempt to snap out of whatever bizarre fog had descended upon him. “Because it…it did appear to us that you, um, had an account at this boutique.”

“Which boutique?”

“The one I just said.”

“I can’t remember the name,” she lied.

“Uh…um…shit. La…La…Jesus, you’re not the only one,” he muttered, mentally scolding himself and sneaking a glance at the evidence bag. What on Earth was going on with him tonight? “Minette, it was. La Minette. Leave it to the French.”

“And what of it?”

“I…” he trailed off, desperately flailing for his train of thought. “…we believe that you had an account there.”

“I did?” she asked innocently.

“You did…or, uh, do, rather. In fact, they sell ones very similar to y-yours,” he stammered, pointing at her slip.

“Ah, this one?” She stood up and twirled, modeling it for him within arm’s reach.

“Precisely,” he uttered. Certainly those glimpses he was getting of her bare buttocks were intentional.

“You like it?” she asked with a girlish grin. He gulped, his face growing hot as his heart raced in his chest. He’d had a few attempts at seduction come his way in his time solving crime, but nothing he couldn’t shut down swiftly and professionally, and absolutely nothing where he felt so powerless, so feeble in its grasp. Usually unflappable, the detective now wore his fluster fully on his sleeve.

“Well, um. I-it’s purple. Looks like a satin material. It’s nice, I guess. As far as that stuff goes.”

The doctor smirked.

“You love it,” she commanded.

“I love it,” he parroted. His eyes widened and he immediately recoiled, clamping his mouth shut.

“Glad you agree! You should see the rest of my collection. Why don’t you come with me, we’ll take a look.”

This was now beyond playing with fire; this was a nightmare come to life. Detective Berman glanced away, raking a hand through his hair. He felt faint.

“Well I would—I-I mean, for the case—but, uh, i-it’s getting late, I don’t want to impose, I’ll just see myself o—”

“But didn’t you have more questions for me?” she asked innocently. “What about the rest of them? You’ve only been here a few minutes.”

“…I, I, I did. I do. But I’ll come back at a later time. A better time. Because now just seems like such a…bad time.”

“What’s so bad about it? I’d just like to answer the rest of your questions.”

With great effort, Detective Berman hoisted himself up unsteadily, Doctor Angelos gazing right up at him with a winsome smile on her face, eyes sparkling. She placed a hand on his arm. By now his head was positively swimming.

“Th-the rest of my questions?” he repeated dully.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” she cooed with a small laugh. “I want to hear all the rest of them.”

“Uh…I can j—”

“Have a seat, Detective.” Immediately he descended back down onto the sofa, his increasing lack of control driving him mad. His mind and gut twisted in panic, his breathing now rapid and ragged, all of which he could only spectate. He could’ve sworn there was no grandfather clock in sight and yet still he could hear that dreaded thing commandeering his thoughts; ticking, tocking, ticking, tocking…

“You look anxious, you know,” she said, voice dripping with maternal concern. “In fact, you’ve looked so very anxious ever since you walked in, and it looks like more than just coffee. Whatever is the matter?”

“Matter? Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Relaaax,” she said softly, drawing out the word. He shivered, his skin breaking out in goosebumps. “Breathe, just like I taught you.”

Nearly hyperventilating, his breathing automatically began to slow upon her instruction.

“Look at me. Breathe. Good. Nothing to worry about. That’s right, that’s wonderful, just like we practiced. Relax. In…aaand out. Rest, now.”

As she leaned in, her round, honeydew eyes seemed to occupy his entire field of vision, magnifying her speech. A sense of frisson crackled throughout his skin, his jaw slackening, the world surrounding him seeming to melt just as it did in that waiting room.

“Uh, didn’t…aren’tcha…expecting someone?” he eked out, his words a deep, drowsy slur. She quirked a brow.

“Expecting? Who?”

“D-din’tcha order pizza? Pizza guy?”

“Oh, Detective!” she tittered, running a hand down his face, which now wore a delectable look of confused, barely-aware embarrassment. “You’re precious. Maybe you do need to get some rest, mm? Rest for me. Rest deeply.”

A warm, heavy sensation bloomed in his gut, hitting him like a wall. His muscles relaxed completely, welcoming the familiar looseness.

Distantly in Detective Berman’s mind, it all clicked. Rest—that was the word she’d planted. Each time she said it, little by little he felt more and more of his energy drain, more of his thoughts scramble and slip away. He knew there had to be some sort of trigger word, but for the life of him he couldn’t make the connection until just then.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. The previous night he’d tried, really tried, to listen to his recording of their conversation. Surely if he did, he’d know what the hell happened, glean more information about her process. But it was so late, and he was so tired—at least, that’s what he’d figured—that his efforts unfortunately proved fruitless.

He’d stumbled through his front door past midnight, having turned their interaction around in his head for hours. He’d felt so distant, somewhat entranced, but he’d easily waved it off as the sleep-deprived delirium that occasionally plagued him when he pushed his body’s limits. But it became abundantly clear that she’d done some sort of handiwork when, upon donning earphones and pressing play at his desk at home, he’d woken up cheek-down in a puddle of his own drool an hour later, with very little memory to speak of the recording. He made another attempt later that night by playing it as he showered, only to be jolted out of his trance by needles of ice. He’d stood there blankly and contentedly leaning against the tile for so long that the hot water had run plumb out.

There was one more attempt made while laying in bed, although at that point even he’d predicted that to be a futile effort.

It had grown into a competition of sorts in which he was determined to beat that recording, make it through to its end, and if only he could listen to it one more time, that would be the time he could make it through and find something useful. But each and every time her voice snaked its way into his head, its words massaged his mind, loosened his body, slowed his thoughts, and the next thing he knew he was blearily opening his eyes. Each and every time his defeat was quicker, yet his desire to try again stronger—a vicious cycle of vexing relaxation.

And so it had gone, he realized as he awoke that morning, tangled in his earphone and charging cables—and with his hand down his boxers, at full mast thanks to that low, sultry voice of hers, which he…did have to admit aroused him to a certain degree.

He’d slept very peacefully, a welcome change of pace from his normal fitful attempts, but he could no longer stifle the creeping realization that not only was he getting nowhere with that recording, deep down he was beginning to not particularly mind. In fact, it was as though he wanted to go absolutely nowhere at all. Such a sensation was so foreign to him, yet so overwhelmingly euphoric, that he felt frustrated, disarmed by how difficult it was for him to fight, despite knowing and anticipating the outcome.

That was all well and truly aside from his budding infatuation with the wielder of that power, a pesky feeling that had reared its head for the first time in too many years. It took a mighty force to shake his concentration from an investigation, and this was one impossible to ignore. What truly turned his stomach was that as he began to feel her power, bizarre as it was, his morbid curiosity as to the methods behind her madness, and in turn his desire for absolutely nowhere, only grew.

Even as he felt the increasing heat of the sun to which he now flew so dangerously close.

Thus, in spite of every fiber of his better judgement, he’d found his legs marching him to her doorstep on that rainy Friday evening. With a bit too much cream in his hair. And a new tie. And the expensive aftershave his sister had given him for Christmas last year.

With no call for backup.

“Toooooo much coffee today, huh?” the doctor asked. She was curled up next to him now, much closer, lazily toying with a lock of his hair. He snapped back to reality, realizing only then that she’d been speaking to him amid his daydream.

“Mm? Oh, I, I…I try to come prepared,” he mumbled.

“Operative word being try,” she said, tone melodic, bordering on taunting. His face grew hotter at both her insinuation and the fact that he was close enough to feel her breath tickling his ear. “A few coffees can’t undo years of mistreating the mind and body, Detective. Coffee just blocks up all the parts of your brain that tell you that you need to rest. It’s a ruse. It doesn’t eliminate the physiological need. All that tension, all that pent up frustration, all those sleepless nights, all deeply entrenched in your body. They don’t just go away. They all catch up with you. You are always going to want to rest for me.”

His eyes fluttered, his body limp; another wave of that warm, euphoric heaviness spread throughout his body. She leaned in and kissed his cheek. Then again. And again.

Why was she being so tender toward him? He’d never felt anything like this before in his life, not even close. He wasn’t being paid enough to resist transcendence.

“Your eyes look so heavy. Almost like they want to close.”

He furrowed his brow. They did want to close, very badly, and she knew it, and she was exploiting it for all she’d got. She gently removed his glasses, then migrated her kisses southward from his cheek down to his neck, her hands now roaming his body. His eyes rolled back again for a second as he released a small and completely involuntary noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

“I dunno if…” he trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut again in order to reclaim his train of thought, mind and body utterly leaden. “Ugh. I don’t think that’s…I don’t think…”

“That’s quite alright, I can do that for you for the time being,” she breathed, loosening his tie and undoing the top buttons of his shirt. The detective forced his eyes open again, suddenly shaken by the intrusive thought that perhaps her idea wasn’t so bad. He opened his mouth to say something, to utter one final, tiny plea, but his opposition was promptly silenced by her lips upon his. His mind scorched, naught but mere heat.

“You’re so stressed…overworked…constantly traumatized,” she whispered practically into his mouth. “Thanklessly burdened by the worst society has to offer. I think letting all your troubles and stresses and worries evaporate with a nice little rest would do you so much good.”

At this, his eyelids finally slipped closed, accompanied by a shuddery sigh.

“Feels so good to rest and obey, doesn’t it?”

He couldn’t speak, only vocalize in the affirmative. Truly, it did; truly, he’d never felt any sensation quite so loose, so liberating, all his stress and worries going up in smoke upon command as this lovely woman removed his shirt.

Hypnotherapy. What a concept.

“Feels so good to not have to worry about anything. Feels wonderful to hear my commands and obey each and every one, doesn’t it, Michael? Rest deeper, now…that’s a good boy. So good. So good for me.”

Had he at any point given her his first name? He couldn’t recall now, but it was rapidly seeming more and more as though it didn’t really matter. His name sounded exquisite on her tongue, and she’d commended him on a job well done, and truly that was all that mattered.

“I want you to hold as still as you can for me, Michael, just for a bit.” Immediately, he fused to the sofa. Feeling movement in his lap, the detective managed to just barely crack open his eyelids, only to find this warm, beautiful nymph so very close to him now, straddling him, silky nightgown straps hanging from her soft, rounded shoulders, her shining, lime-green gaze trained right on him.

“Michael,” she repeated gently with the most gorgeous grin, again idly tracing a hand down his cheek. He must have died and gone to heaven. “You know, I find that a fitting name for you.”

“Mm?”

“Oh, you’re not the only one who can sleuth,” she said coyly. She’d dug up all she could find on him, though it wasn’t much. “It’s a very nice name, I think. Biblical, strong. Imbued with greatness. In fact, I like it so much that I’m going to hold onto it for now, and you won’t remember it until I tell you you may, no matter how hard you try. Isn’t that right?”

“uh-huh.”

“So tell me, what is your name?”

Detective Berman’s eyes slid closed again, posing his lips to say the obvious as she leaned up against him, continuing to work her fingertips into his scalp as she pressed her body against his. His head fell back against the sofa. Clearly he had a name; he’d just heard it. But it was as though it were just on the tip of his tongue, unable to come out.

“…uhh…know this one…”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Hm, what’s that?” she asked, feeling his sizable hardness poking her through his trousers. “Wow, all that just from some kissing and touching. I figured you were single, but not that single.”

“…ouch,” he croaked quietly. She laughed and pressed her forehead against his. His heart stopped.

“I’m just more surprised than anything. A man like you, single. Not even divorced, at least not that I could find. Just innocently married to his work. Aren’t you adorable. Hey, I thought I told you to stay still,” she teased, pawing his bulge. Highly sensitive, he jerked at the sensation.

A part of him fumed at being silenced and manipulated by this wicked technique, whatever it was. But merely talking, keeping his eyes open, and maintaining a rational train of thought were titanic efforts that truly seemed not worth doing at the moment. It was so much easier and infinitely nicer to just relax and let go. Besides, she’d allowed him to; she’d told him he needed it. And something about her was so terrific at putting his mind at ease.

“Darling,” she continued in between affectionate kisses down his hirsute, exposed chest. “Why are you here?”

“umm…” he rumbled, his voice confused gravel. “…mm…”

It’d been so long since he’d been touched like this. It’d been so long since he’d been addressed as “darling”, let alone so softly, so truly. Hearing it addressed to him in her voice felt absurdly wonderful. Warm sunlight after rain.

And so abruptly silenced was the part of him that fumed.

“…see you…”

“Ah,” she said while looking up at him, her fingertips lightly tracing his rounded chin. “And why are you here to see me? We only met just yesterday, after all.”

“…dunno…” he breathed, nearly inaudible. Of course he knew; it was all there. All right behind a giant padlocked door, with a giggling, beguiling little jade-eyed pixie taunting him with the key.

“Because you wanted to admire me, didn’t you? You only came here because you can’t resist me. Isn’t that right?” she whispered into his ear, thrilling and delighting in the clear effect her mere voice was having on this man.

He’d make a very special addition to her veritable pantheon of playthings. The doctor liked to have fun with her patients from time to time, especially when they had something to offer her. For some reason, this one was beginning to feel like quite a lot of fun. Nearly enough fun all on his own.

“mm…need to see you.”

“Need to touch me,” she asserted. His sturdy, work-worn hands snaked upwards, calluses scratching against the delicate fabric of her slip. Surrounding her waist, he basked in the sensation, his fingers sinking into her soft curves just like that Bernini statuette on her desk.

“need to touch you.”

“Very good. Very, very good,” Doctor Angelos whispered, slowly easing into the detective’s lips. He reciprocated, languid at first, then with a growing, unexpected fervor, intensifying the exchange.

“You want me,” she whispered in between kisses.

“want you,” he uttered back. She tasted like chocolate.

“See? Oh, I knew you’d be excellent. Deeper, now.” Steadily grinding against his groin, she undid his belt. “I think you’d feel wonderful if you acted in accordance with any desire you may or may not currently feel towards me. And further so if you remove this slip of mine. Careful, now. It was expensive.”

Without hesitation, he began pulling off her nightie. Doctor Angelos ran her hands along the detective’s wooly chest and stomach, pleased with his soft, yet strong build—one that clearly enjoyed both physical activity and sweets.

She noted in fascination that for a subject hypnotized so deeply for the first time, he was rather involved. He’d begun gently kissing her neck, his short beard scratching against her soft skin, sending shivers down her spine. Cupping and massaging her modest but full breasts, he abruptly placed a nipple in his mouth. She stifled a moan. He began to suck, biting ever so gently.

All stifling attempts went out the window.

It wasn’t as though she were complaining. She was more than aroused. He was very clearly entranced by every metric. Everything seemed perfect. But a bolt of suspicion coursed through her. His psyche had been tougher to crack than she’d expected, outlasting all of the others. She was originally going to allow him home tonight, but that simply wouldn’t do; he’d retained entirely too much agency and the stakes were far too high. This man needed thorough treatment.

Detective Berman moved south, trailing kisses down her bare stomach as he cradled her strong thighs in his hands. Simply feeling so much of her skin against his at once was overwhelming after spending years starved of touch, let alone such intimate holding and devouring. He’d perish at this rate.

It seemed that the doctor could sense this and reached over to retrieve something from the corner table. He felt her unzip his pants and retrieve his cock, sturdy and veined and throbbing, playing with it, teasing it until it drooled, begging to be ravaged. His breath quickened as he felt her roll protection onto him, settle atop him, and slowly begin riding, the sensation of being inside of her nearly making him swoon.

She leaned against him, expertly and rhythmically bucking her hips, greatly enjoying the soft, flushed smiles of rapturous abandon on the face of a man who had until that point remained largely stoic. His breath hastened as he pumped with urgency, allowing sounds he’d never dare make escape his mouth, feeling her bearing down, hot and wet and unyielding on all sides of him.

“In and out,” she huffed in between breaths. “Very good, Detective. Very, very good.”

Doctor Angelos almost never finished when toying with her conquests—she either didn’t feel sufficient pleasure, or could control herself with ease—but now found herself strangely and overwhelmingly precipitous with each powerful thrust that filled her, hitting all the right spots over and over, setting tens of thousands of nerve endings alight. Throwing caution to the wind, she let go and embraced the sensations, gasping, letting wave after wave of uninhibited pleasure course through her.

Soon after, the detective, in far and away the best orgasm of his life, burst inside of her, trembling, crumpling into the couch a sweaty, heaving, brainless mess. The doctor leaned forward and held him, rocking him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Post-coitus, after all, was a time ripe for sowing.

“I want you to remember this pleasure, this peace, this serenity when you think of me. When you focus on your breathing, you’ll think of me, and when you think of me, you’ll be filled with these feelings. You’ll remember how wonderful you felt. Let yourself feel. Let yourself be overcome.”

He could only whimper, collapsing limply against her shoulder.

“There, there, darling,” she whispered, rubbing his back. “Come here.”

They sat like that for a little while, bathed in the comfortably dim light of the lamp and the flickering happenings of Napoleon’s exile on the television. The detective suddenly mumbled something she couldn’t quite understand. She positioned him in front of her.

“What’s that, dear?”

“my name…gimme my name…”

“Why should I?”

His expression, eyes still cemented shut, turned to a weak pout, the man vaguely sad about lacking his name.

“need it…” he muttered. Doctor Angelos rolled her eyes.

“Pet,” she whispered back, continuing to rub his back.

It was the last word he heard before his world slipped away.

Detective Berman’s eyes opened some time later in a comfortable position in a comfortable bed. Bright Saturday morning sunlight streamed through an open window, birds chirping, a warm breeze ruffling his hair. The rain was gone.

His eyes darted to the space next to him in the bed—empty—then the nightstand, on top of which he found his glasses and his clothes neatly folded.

Surely his name wasn’t actually “Pet”, but it was about all he could conjure and it was rather concerning. Frantically, he dug through his pockets and found his badge.

Michael J. Berman. That…rang true on some level, albeit not as confidently as he would’ve liked. Trying to rearrange the salad that was his brain, he sat up in bed, laboriously retracing his steps.

He’d come over to Doctor Angelos’ house as per her consent in order to continue investigating this case he’d been assigned to, he was pretty sure. He’d asked her a few questions, watched her bat her eyelashes for a bit in a sexy nightgown, she’d started playing with his hair and telling him how much he could use a good rest, and, well, she was right, after all, so his eyelids started closing, and then…

His stomach sank. It sank not only at her consummate control of him, or at their night of passion, or at how weak he’d been for the only time in his entire career. It was how thoroughly he’d enjoyed it all, how his loins ached to do it all again. Such an egregious breach of professionalism that he would not have considered in his wildest dreams. He’d loved it. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

But it could not continue.

The bedroom door opened then, and there stood a glowing woman with a steaming cup of coffee. An absolutely radiant woman who was certainly a murderer and with whom he’d certainly had sex the previous night.

Hell, he could hardly remember the last time he’d had sex with anybody. It just hadn’t seemed all that important…or so he’d thought. But perhaps that was why the detective sat there in his prime suspect’s bed, once again feeling panic welling in his gut.

“Good morning, my pet,” she crooned. “How are you?”

Instantly, he calmed.

“I’m, uh…well, here, Madam,” he said, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. Since when had he started calling her that?

“Oh, that I know. But what’s going on in here?” she asked, patting his head. “Did you get a good night’s rest?” On autopilot, he leaned his head into her overwhelmingly soothing touch, his lips forming a small, tired grin.

“All thanks to you, Madam. I don’t remember the last time I slept so well.”

“Well, you needed it, darling, clearly,” she said, her hand sliding down his face and resting upon his cheek. “Here, I made you some coffee.”

“Hey, that ought to get me up and about,” he said, placing the cup to his lips. The coffee was black, just the way he liked it, but he was struck with a deep-seated hesitance about downing it blindly. He did have to get out of there as soon as possible, after all. But no matter, surely he was being irrational. He took one sip at first, then upon tasting nothing amiss, downed the cup in a single gulp.

“Indeed, it will,” she said. The detective blinked.

“Strong stuff. Uh…thank you for your hospitality, but I have really got to get going.”

“Already? Why don’t you stay a bit?”

“Well…” he started, before closing his mouth. Detective Berman suddenly realized his ability to think had plummeted in her presence. His brain, usually roaring on all cylinders, felt like it was sputtering along at half the speed. Now he barely had the mental capacity required to think straight, let alone bluff with any of his usual finesse.

“Tell you the truth, I’m a little afraid,” he said with a short, dry laugh.

This came as a surprise to the doctor. “What do you mean, a little afraid?”

“Madam,” he said candidly. “Why else would you have done this to me?”

“Done what to you?” she asked, her stomach tightening. He raised an eyebrow at her, head tilted downwards.

“Look, if you can pull…whatever this is…off on me the way you did, I can’t imagine who else you’ve got under your thumb. Maybe the Pope. Because the truth is, really…I don’t think I stood a chance. I don’t think James Walter stood a chance. I can hardly even look you in the eye…” He paused, scratching his head. “Not just because of what you’ve done to me…but because I go moon-eyed, slack-jawed, the whole nine y—h-hey, what’re you…ohh,” he uttered suddenly, the woman now at his bedside carefully kneading his left foot. “What’s that for?”

“Being a good pet.”

“Thank you, Madam…um…where was I…ugh, see what I mean, this is exactly what I’m talking about, this, this thing you do. Just terrible.”

“Terrible?” she repeated, her eyebrow now raised.

“In the biblical sense, I mean, as in you terrify the hell out of me. Because really, I think, given enough time, and the right circumstances, you…God, that’s good…I…um…I think you could make just about anyone do…just about anything you wanted.”

The doctor took a lengthy pause.

“You know,” she said evenly. “You really are a very sharp man. Very, very sharp. It’d be easier for me to appreciate that mind of yours if it didn’t suspect me of something as heinous as murder. Nonetheless, you continue to impress me.”

“I try,” he murmured without thinking, prompting a grin from her. Without warning, she got up and snaked her arms around him again. Equally without warning, and despite himself, he exhaled contentedly.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” She felt his body stiffen, then relax in her embrace.

“You are killing me,” he grumbled in complete seriousness.

“Oh?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever felt like this in my life.”

“Really? I’m sure there have been lots of times. What about the rest of them?”

“Please,” he said, voice smaller. He put a limp hand up. “Please. N-not that word again.” She chuckled, by now unsurprised that he’d figured it out.

“Unfortunately, my dear, knowing does not stop you from feeling.”

“Believe me, I’ve become very aware of that,” he murmured, feeling his lips loosening mid-sentence. Oddly, his eyelids, fresh and awake only a minute ago, had begun to droop. He tried to move, only to find that unlike the entirely mental relaxation of her trances, his muscles on the physical level were well and truly not cooperating. It dawned on him that once again the dear, sweet woman cradling him had been one step ahead of him—he was surely told at some point to accept that coffee, which very obviously contained a strong drug that had begun spreading through his body. Maybe if he forced his eyes open he’d be able to ride it out, Ambien style.

But his eyes began to mist. The room began to spin. His lips formed a weak smile.

“Madam?” he said, cadence almost childlike.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I…I can’t really move.”

“That’s alright, sweetheart, that’s normal. You’re completely safe with me,” the doctor said reassuringly, tucking him in and rising from the edge of the bed.

The detective found it far easier to believe her than to resist at this point. He felt a heavy pair of headphones placed upon his crown and a sweet, tiny kiss upon his forehead. The room around him began to fade and twinkle.

“Goodnight, Pet. Rest well,” the doctor said. She drew the blackout drapes and left the room.

Waves of medicated languor washed over him, his mind painting colorful, dancing patterns in his vision in the absence of visual stimuli. The room was so dark and his thoughts so disoriented that he couldn’t tell whether his eyes had closed. So much for that plan.

Suddenly, her voice in stunning quality filled his senses, all of his prior thoughts and concerns washing away.

Hello, there. If you’re hearing this, you are well on your way to the time of your life.

The detective awoke some time later—it was impossible to know exactly when, just that the drapes were open and it was dark out—feeling as though he’d been hit by a truck. Whereas his previous awakening had been natural and pleasant, he awoke then stiff, incredibly groggy, tongue sandpaper. Whereas his previous awakening allowed for normal, albeit slowed thought, his mind now felt well and truly vacant, completely placid except for simple notions of his mistress. Not a twitch of worry found him. He simply shifted his position and took a sip of the water on the nightstand before settling back into that very comfortable bed. Surely she’d be back soon to tell him what to do. He loved when she did that.

Like clockwork, the door creaked open, a sliver of yellow light illuminating the bed. The man squinted into the light, smiling sleepily.