The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Ken, you are out of your fucking mind.”

Greg Crandall looked across his desk at his business partner. Ken Thybalt, a sardonic expression on his face, as always, returned his gaze. “We’ve delivered how much inventory over the last 25 years?” Crandall continued.

“879 units. You can see the numbers on your folders, Greg.”

“And how many times have we fucked up a job?”

Thybalt shifted casually in the chair. Crandall, not for the first time, noted how Thybalt’s all-black clothing, turtleneck, pants, low boots, made him look a terrorist. “Not once. We’d be dead or in very small, very uncomfortable cells if we had. Your point?”

“My point, you fucking idiot, is that we made some decisions 25 years ago, and those rules are why we’ve never had a serious problem. And ‘no high-profile inventory’ was rule #1.”

Thybalt rose, his expression unreadable. He walked to the window of the spare, tasteful office, stared out the window over the glistening bay, stretching off to distant islands. He adjusted his dark sunglasses; even after knowing him nearly thirty years, Crandall had never seen him take them off, even to clean them. “I know, Greg. That was my idea, remember?”

“Which is precisely why I’m curious why you want to flush it all down the drain to take this job. Care to explain?”

Thybalt pivoted. He was a compact man, thin, his face angular and drawn. White at the temples, lines around his eyes, short black hair slicked back. Even knowing him better than anyone, which was not very well at all, Crandall sat up slightly in his chair; Thybalt moving suddenly could disconcert the most iron of wills.

“I’m bored.”

Crandall raised an eyebrow. “Bored?”

Thybalt nodded, staring through, rather than at, Crandall. “Bored. I’m bored with old high school crushes, reluctant trophy wives, leggy secretaries, passers-by with big tits. Bored with strippers who have caught the wrong person’s eye, tenth-rate porn actresses whose video got rented by someone with the right connections and lots of spending money. The custom work for clients isn’t challenging these days.

“And our inventory for auction! Shit, Greg, we’re just trawling bus stations, now. The latest fresh young things off the bus from Boise, without a brain in their head. Nobodies.”

He turned back to the view, his voice strengthening. “Greg, we’ve limited ourselves so much that we’re about ready to price ourselves out of the market. Single women, 18 or older, low-profile, no one well-known, no close family nearby, planning a vacation or an absence away... Hell, at this point, our clients could probably get what they want just by buying our potential inventory a Porche. Cost them a lot less.”

Crandall sighed. “We’ve had this talk before. The orders keep coming in. Our last auction did twice the business of the previous one, and our next one will be twice that. Our per-unit profit is up, what, 200% now? You know all that, and that’s not the point. This potential inventory: she’s a public figure. Hell, she’s the public figure at the moment. How are we going to explain the seclusion away? How are we going to explain the shift?”

Thybalt turned once again, a rare smile on his lips. “No seclusion.”

A moment of stunned silence, as Crandall stared at Thybalt. “You are out of your mind. No seclusion? How the hell...”

He was silenced with a short gesture from Thybalt. “I can do it. No seclusion. Everything, or nearly everything, in full view, with nothing out of the ordinary. No time away, nothing to explain, no sudden changes in behavior.”

Crandall examined Thybalt as if he were a dangerous madman Crandall needed to humor. Which was often not far from the truth. “You can do that? That’s going to take a long time.”

Thybalt shrugged. “Then let it. We’ll be well-compensated for my time.”

“It’s going to be expensive, if we do it. I hope the client knows...”

“Five million dollars. All in advance.”

Crandall snapped his head back as if struck. “In advance? What if your brilliant idea doesn’t work?”

“No refunds. He’s agreed. The money’s already in an overseas impound account; we just give the word.” Thybalt’s smile was in full bloom now. It was not a pleasant sight.

“Who referred him?”

“Sir Reginald Gallaston; we did his wife and sister. Gallaston was friend of Hans Maurer; the Bank of International Settlement man for Germany? Early customer? Pity he was such a lousy driver and had the bad taste to wrap himself around a power pole before we could take the contract on his mistress.”

Crandall pursed his lips, his expression suddenly thoughtful. “That’s a big fee for one unit of inventory,” he said, softly.

“This is not your typical inventory,” Thybalt said.

“That’s for fucking sure.” Crandall looked away, looked back. “You hang if something goes wrong, OK?”

Thybalt shrugged. “OK. Has it ever?”

“No. No, it hasn’t. OK, Ken, I’ve trusted you for three decades, I’ll trust you with this one. Go ahead and take the job. I handle any of the Partners that have a problem with it.” Thybalt nodded, and walked to the door, his step precise. He opened the door, saying, “I’ll be checking on the current inventory.” He stepped through silently. Crandall just watched as the door closed. He looked out the window at the bay. I wonder which of us is going to kill the other first? he thought to himself, as he pulled out an empty folder, and smoothed a preprinted label reading “883” onto it.

Thybalt walked down a long, plain, institutional-green corridor many floors below Crandall’s office, many feet below ground level. He approached the metal door at the far end. As he passed a black, waist-height box near the end of the corridor, he slid his fingers over it; the door unlocked with a muffled click. He pushed the door open and walked through, never breaking his fast, deliberate stride.

Beyond the door was a huge room, a perfect hexagon, each wall 20″ wide. It was, rather unimaginatively, called the “Hex Room,” when it was mentioned at all. A practiced eye might pick out the hairline seams of wide doors in the other five walls. Each door had a small cardholder attached to it; three doors read “880,” “881,” and “882,” the rest blank. Thybalt strode to the center of the room, where stood a desk with a keyboard and an array of darkened monitors. He sat down in front of it, sliding his hand again over another black pad, then beginning to type as he watched the monitors to come alive.

The monitors showed a plain, nearly-empty room. There was a small washbasin and toilet to one side, and a raised extrusion in the opposite corner that was apparently supposed to be a bed. The walls were slightly curved, and seemed to be of some kind of soft white plastic.

A naked woman was lying on the “bed,” arm over her eyes. Her long black hair was spread out over the end of the platform, where a smaller lump formed a substitute pillow. Her legs were crossed as she lay stretched out on her back, her slender figure in full view. Each monitor, showing the same scene from a different angle, had a vivid green caption reading “882.”

Thybalt read through some text on the last monitor, a computer display. He nodded to himself, and flipped on a microphone. “Miss Hollis?” he said. The woman on the display started, sat up, curled herself into a little ball, looking around. Her face was red and puffy from crying, yet still girlishly lovely. “What?” she called out. “Who is it? What’s going on?” she continued, her voice breaking with sobs.

“Miss Hollis, you have been kidnapped,” said Thybalt, calmly. “I apologize for any inconvenience. You will not be harmed in any way, I assure you.”

The woman pulled herself closer. “Kidnapped? My father... my father’s a very important man! You’re going to be in trouble...”

Thybalt suppressed a laugh. “Your father, his temper, and his wealth are all well-known to us. We feel this made you excellent for our purposes.” And his famous temper was certainly aroused by your ill-advised rejection of his choice of fiancé, he thought to himself. “Since it is our intention to return you to him unharmed, we have no wish to see you injured.”

She lowered her head to her knees, then looked up again. “My clothes? Why am I... naked like this? Who are you?”

“Again, we apologize for any inconvenience, but we wish to make sure that you are difficult to locate. Your father, being the electronics baron that he is, might have concealed a tracking device on you.” Thybalt sat back, reflecting that being a plausible liar was one of his most important job skills.

“When... when can I go home?” she managed, sobs returning.

No need to lie here. “In three or four days, we expect you will be returned to your father. Negotiations are already underway.” He pushed a button on the console, disconnecting the microphone. He could see her asking questions which went unanswered, then collapse into a heap, weeping.

Thybalt typed at the keyboard, his eyes on the video monitors. One of them picked up the barest trace of white vapor spraying into the room. After a few minutes, he turned the microphone back on. “Miss Hollis?”

She slowly looked up, her eyes a bit unfocused. “What...?” she asked, softly.

“Please lay back down on the bed, flat,” he said, his voice now soothing, almost melodic. Slowly, blinking as if something was in her eyes, she complied, stretching out, staring up at the ceiling. Thybalt nodded, pleased with the reaction. Getting compliant already; she’ll be begging to suck her new fiancé’s dick in no time. “Very good, Miss Hollis,” he said, adjusting the dosage with the keyboard. He glanced over the computer screen; give her another three hours with this, he concluded, and then start her on the subsonics.

He punched buttons on the console, and the monitors switched, the caption reading “881.” The room was identical to the first, except the overhead lighting was off. The light was provided by a huge TV screen, taking up one entire side of the room, only a small rim of white plastic around to show where the wall had retreated. Opposite it, next to the washbasin, a woman was crouched, arms around her knees, staring at the screen in horror, as if it were some malignant creature she was trying to escape.

The man in the sunglasses examined the woman. Even curled up, it was obvious that she was voluptuous... no, not voluptuous. Her body, in truth, was quite thin, long legs, long torso. Her breasts gave her the appearance of voluptuousness; they were huge, freakishly so. Her bright red hair, shoulder-length, was a mess of mats and tangles, and her face, with such potential to be gorgeous, was pale and drawn. He sat back; the disarray was all part of the process, he thought: we can always clean her up later. Damn Crandall and his current run on big-boobed women, he added sourly; the man knows the market, but I really wish he’d look for more variety in physical type. 881 had been big on top even before we pumped her tits up. I hope whoever buys this one is prepared to spring for custom bras and a chiropractor, he thought, unless he’s planning to keep her on her back full time.

He turned his attention to the monitor showing the TV screen in the room. The entire screen was currently occupied by a woman’s mouth: obscenely full lips, painted a florid red, white teeth with a long, pink tongue sliding between them. A whore’s mouth. A mouth from a wet dream... or, rather, a wet nightmare. A mouth that could eat a soul raw. He had nicknamed this particular program “the Incubus,” despite the femininity of the mouth. He pushed buttons to cut in the filters for the subsonics he knew were flooding the room, and turned on the microphone.

“You are nothing but a wet, hot cunt,” the screen was saying. The voice’s tone was soft and melodious, full of erotic promise and desire, but he knew that with the volume, the drugs and the subsonics, it was like the roar of an angry god.

The redhead shook her head, moaning, “No... I’m not, not... I’m... my name is...” Thybalt leaned back and smiled. By this point in the process, the inventory’s reponses always became so simple and predictable that the computer could pick them up and adjust the programming automatically.

“You have no name,” the screen whispered/roared. “You have no name, no identity. You are the cunt between your legs, the mouth in your face, the boobs on your chest, the hole in your ass. You are orifices for the use and pleasure of others. Of anyone.”

The woman rocked her head from side to side, as if to shake the voice out of it. “Stop it... stop saying that... I’m not just a cunt... a cunt...”

“You are just a cunt. You are merely a hole. You are only a feminine receptical for the pleasure of others. Your entire function is to make your body available. You have no will, no mind, no purpose except to be used.”

With a shiver, her legs fell open as if suddenly deprived of nerves, her massive breasts swinging free. Thybalt could she that she was as wet as a river; there was moisture all over her pussy, thighs, the floor underneath her. Her body glistened with a light sheen of sweat. The screen continued, relentlessly. “You are a snatch with legs. You are a blowjob dispenser. You are a living blow-up doll, a sex toy made out of flesh. You exist only to be used, and then cleaned up and put away like the object you are.”

The redhead’s eyes closed, opened, closed, open again. A small cry, or whimper, or scream escaped her lips, the sound of something small dying. She started to speak, and then stopped. “Snatch...” she finally said, softly, her voice taking on some of the tone of the screen.

Thybalt nodded with satisfaction, glad he had gotten to see this point in the conditioning. Regardless of the physical type, this programming was always extremely marketable, he had to agree. He leaned forward, pushing buttons again. The monitors switched; “880” appeared in green on each. A blonde girl, barely a woman, was sitting on the bed platform, reading a book. She was wearing a knee-length plaid skirt, a white blouse, school tie, white stockings. Her black shoes were shined to mirror brightness. Her long hair was tied in a single long braid down her back, her legs together primly, large glasses on her face. The lighting in the room was a direct spotlight on the sitting figure, the rest of the room in shadow.

He scrolled over the information on the computer monitor. Almost ready for delivery, he noted. Another custom job. He looked up again, and typed a few words on the keyboard. Although the microphones in the room were not turned on, he knew that the prerecorded voice of the client, saying a specific phrase, was being played in the room in response to the keystrokes.

The effect was instantaneous. The woman looked up, blinking, her blue eyes visible through the thick glasses. She put the book aside, slowly closing her eyes, her expression becoming first softer, then completely blank. Her mouth opened, her chest rising and falling as she started to pant. She leaned back, slowly spreading her legs, staring up at the ceiling. Her hands pulled up her dress, exposing white cotton panties. They were already starting to show a damp spot, as she ran a hand down into them, making small circles. She continued to masturbate, staring at the ceiling mindlessly. She would offer neither resistance or response to being fucked while in this state; apparently, he noted, that’s what the client was after.

Thybalt typed another phrase, repeated in the room. Her hand slid back out of her panties, her hands smoothed down her dress, and she sat back up. She blinked, picked up her book, replacing it in her lap, and continued reading, no sign that anything had happened.

Different strokes, I suppose, he thought, looking down the long, long list of programmed responses in 880; no time to test all of the triggers right now, but I’ll get to them tonight. He turned off the monitors, swiveled around in his chair until he was staring at the metal door through which he had entered. He stood, and walked towards it slowly, deep in thought. Time, he thought, to get working on my next project.

He left, the door locking behind him.

Thybalt picked his way through the chaos of the movie set, led by Chester Harrow, the lead producer. The activity seemed to be entirely random; a group here building something, a group there tearing something down. The two of them warranted barely a glance from the crew. Harrow tracked down the 2nd Assistant Director, who made a few radio calls; this produced the First Assistant Director, who made a few more. Finally, the object of their quest was located in wardrobe, and they navagated their way to the back of the cavernous, dusty sound stage.

As they entered the wardrobe room, just a zone of the floor given over to racks and racks of costumes, with tables and sewing machines scattered about, Chet gestured to a woman being pinned into a sharp, slim green dress. With a nod from the seamstress, she maneuvered through the piles of fabric and supplies, towards the two men.

Chet, a blond, friendly, moon-faced man, was wearing a beautifully cut white linen Armani suit, a lavender tie, and an unsubtle Rainbow Flag tietack. He smiled as she approached. “Gwen, may I introduce Dr. Kenneth Thybalt?” She nodded, smiling radiantly. He turned to his guest. “Dr. Thybalt, may I present Miss Gwendolyn Mason?”

Thybalt offered a hand, a small smile on his face. “Charmed, Ms. Mason. Mr. Harrow has told me a great deal about you.”

Gwen shook politely. “Charmed as well, Dr. Thybalt. And may I add that I am very pleased to meet someone who does not immediately describe themselves as my biggest fan, or who as one who has seen all my movies?” She paused. “Your name sounds familiar...”

Harrow obliged, his voice betraying the slightest touch of affected lisp. “Dr. Thybalt is one of the founders of the Institute for Cognitive and Behavioral Research, in Malibu. Not far from your estate, actually. The autism findings?”

Gwen lit up. “Yes, yes, now I remember! This is an honor, Dr. Thybalt. I do not often meet a true hero of medicine.” Thybalt waved his hand dismissively. “The press made far too much of it. It was largely a continuation of the work of others.”

The press had, indeed, made much of the findings; the consensus in the medical community was that the ICBR team had revolutionized the diagnosis and treatment of autism. Thybalt had been horrified at the coverage, but Crandall had been sanguine. “Hide in plain site, Ken,” he had explained. “The purloined letter. If they ever get suspicious about anything, we’ll be so high-profile that their gaze will pass over us as if we’re part of the landscape.” Only when term “Nobel Prize” began to be tossed about freely had Crandall gotten concerned, but a few polite telephone calls to a few elderly Swedish worthies (with young Swedish, American, Dutch, Moroccan, Indian wives and mistresses) had ended that.

“Dr. Thybalt,” Gwen said with another charming smile, “false modesty is, or should be, the exclusive provenance of the acting profession. In any event, your institution makes an impressive monument to progress, up overlooking Malibu Canyon.”

Harrow intervened. “Gwen, you told me that you were interested in finding a speech and dialect coach?”

She blinked, not quite following. “Yes, I did. Why...?”

With a very satisfied grin, Harrow indicated the man in the sunglasses. “Dr. Thybalt has quite the résumé in that area, as well.”

Gwen examined Thybalt, an eyebrow cocked. “Do you, Dr. Thybalt? You’re a man of many accomplishments.”

He shrugged. “My career began in speech therapy. I still maintain a sideline in related areas.”

She showed the devastating smile, combined with deep, huge almond eyes, which had looked out of the cover of every major magazine in the world over the last year. “Then I am doubly honored, Dr. Thybalt. But after today, we’re done with preproduction here in Los Angeles. You do know that the first unit is moving to Ireland in a week?”

Thybalt nodded, attempting not to smile at her choice of terms. “I’ll be coming to Dublin as well. Before then, just one quick meeting should be sufficient.”

Gwen nodded, looking between the men. “Well, then it’s settled. Thank you for remembering, Chet. Now, I should get back to the fitting before Audrey decides to turn me into a pincushion. Judi?” she said, turning to the young, petite Asian woman who had been hovering invisibly behind to her, “Could either you or Corinne set up an appointment with Dr. Thybalt, for my house, before I leave?” Judi nodded. Gwen turned back to her guests. “A pleasure, Dr. Thybalt. Ciao, Chet.” She turned, her long auburn hair swaying behind her.

Judi approached, opening a datebook. Harrow had already left to talk with the head of wardrobe, his voice rising half an octave with an emphatic, “Darling!” “When is convenient for you, Dr. Thybalt?” she asked, her voice soft, clear and efficient. Thybalt smiled. “The sooner the better, I think,” he said, his expression amused. “The sooner the better.”

Thybalt pushed open the door to the Hex Room. At the console, he could see a white-coated technician sitting, her face illuminated by the monitors’ glow. He strode forward, and sat down in a chair behind her; she did not acknowledge him, her attention focused on the displays in front of her. Good discipline, he noted with approval.

He scanned the monitors. Katheryn Hollis was kneeling, still naked, in the middle of the floor. The screen in her room was exposed, and staring back at her out of it was... herself, her face regarding her with a mix of concern and contempt. He leaned back, and watched; as the technician spoke into the microphone, the face on the screen, Katheryn’s face, spoke to Katheryn.

“You know that you want to marry Donald.”

The Katheryn on the floor shook her head, slowly, her eyes glazed and staring. “But I don’t love... him...”

The screen sneered, slightly. “You don’t deserve his love, but he has given it to you freely. You aren’t worthy of love if you do not return it.”

A tear rolled down the flesh-Katheryn’s cheek. “I... I... don’t... no...”

The screen continued. “You are not worthy of Donald, yet he accepts you anyway, as worthless as you are. If you reject him, who will have you? No one. Ever. You will be alone, unloved, untouched, for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?”

As Katheryn moaned a soft “No... not that...” back to the screen, Thybalt let his attention wander. Things have certainly gotten more sophisticated over the last 25 years, he told himself. He remembered the early days: crude drugs, torture, brainwashing not much more advanced than the Manchurian Candidate. That was like trepanation; this is microsurgery. The computer took the technician’s speech, and converted it to the inventory unit’s own voice, using her own computer-simulated face. The voice and speech patterns might be slightly off (the computers were still only so good), but that wasn’t much of a liability; combined with the drugs and subsonics, this was as if the inventory’s own subconscious appeared and gave her a lecture. It was one of their most powerful tools. For inventory, like this one, which didn’t specify much personality destruction, a capable technician was important; the computers couldn’t carry on a convincing conversation. A light touch, he thought; I’ll need all of that over the next few weeks. A light touch...

When he returned from his reverie, the conversation had made considerable progress. The screen was smiling. “See? You love him. With all your heart and soul. You will marry him, love him, obey him in all things, have his children, and be happy forever.”

Katheryn on the floor had stopped crying, and was smiling, a wide, vacant, idiotically happy smile. “Happy forever...” she murmured. Thybalt reached forward, touched the technician lightly on the shoulder; she turned, nodded, and typed on the keyboard. An image of Katheryn, wearing a wedding dress, dancing with a wiry, oily man who could only be Donald, appeared, the computer-generated couple spinning slowly. Katheryn, on the floor, continued grinning at the image.

The technician turned. A young, light-skinned black woman, her ID tag reading “sherrell WASHINGTON.” She rose, hands clasped behind her. She looked down submissively. “Dr. Thybalt,” she said, a simple acknowledgement.

Thybalt stood, and reached up, touching her behind her left ear, above the hairline. “That was well done, Sherrell.” He waited for the silent, mind-wrenching orgasm he knew was coursing through her to subside. Except for a very light intake of breath and a small flush on her throat, she did not react at all. Excellent discipline, he thought; we’re getting better every year. “That will be all. I’ll continue from here.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, walking towards the door. As she reached it, she turned on her 3″ heel. “Dr. Thybalt?” He looked up from the console. “I’ll be in the Partners’ area on pleasure duty from 5pm to 7pm.” Her eyes glistened with promise and desire.

Thybalt started to repremand her, but stopped. She’s probably just had her conditioning refreshed, he told himself; she doesn’t remember the standing order regarding him. “Thank you, Sherrell. But I am an exception to the rule. Do not offer yourself to me as you would the other Partners. Not ever. Do I make myself clear?” His voice, while not unfriendly, had a light dusting of threat.

Sherrell blanched, and looked at the ground. “I understand and obey, Dr. Thybalt. It won’t happen again.” She waited; when no response was forthcoming, she left the room, eyes still downcast.

Thybalt was staring at the monitors; Katheryn was still smiling blankly at the image of her and Donald. He sat back, his fingers drumming the console with irritation. These stupid father-daughter jobs, he thought. They want her to marry someone, and they haul us in to make it happen, and what do they have us do? Almost nothing. It’s like hiring Bechtel to build an addition to your vacation cabin. They can’t bear to have their little princess marry someone they don’t approve of, but they can’t imagine her actually being a woman and fucking her husband, except to plant a grand-kid. He looked around, and back to the computer screen, sitting upright again. I’m bored, he thought. Let’s do something fun.

He typed, hard, the clicking filling the large room. The dance scene disappeared, replaced by the Incubus, wet tongue sliding over brilliant red lips. Katheryn gasped, her attention still riveted on the screen. He waited until the subsonics had kicked in, and flipped on the microphone. “Katheryn. You will obey me. You must obey me. I am going to give you commands you must remember now,” he said, watching the mouth of the Incubus move in time to his words.

Katheryn gave a long, slow moan, nodding her head in agreement, her juices already visible on her legs. Thybalt continued talking.

Crandall tapped on the door to Thybalt’s office, and was rewarded by a barked “Enter!” He stepped in, looking around. Each time he came here, he hoped to see something, anything that would say something about Thybalt’s personal life, but the room was devoid of any such indications. There were books everywhere, journals in neat stacks, a carefully organized desk, the ubiquitous computer. Even Thybalt’s choice in pens was generic. His window looked out over the parking lot.

Thybalt was at his desk, a book open on it, making notes on a pad. Without looking up, he gestured Crandall in. “What can I do for you, Greg?” he asked.

The visitor sat down in one of the rich leather chairs. “882 was delivered yesterday. Highest marks. Wedding’s already scheduled. She’s wearing a rock the size of a small asteroid, probably cost more than our fee.” Thybalt nodded, still not looking up. “We got twelve offers on 881, most ever.” Another nod. “Ken, what the hell are you reading?”

Thybalt looked up, raising the book, showing the spine to his visitor. ”Ulysses. Joyce.” He closed the book, and put his pencil down. “That’s great, but I get the coded reports, too, Greg. What’s the real reason for the social call?”

Crandall cocked his head. “Do you have time for a custom before you take off?”

“I’m not sure. What kind of job?” Thybalt lightly rubbed the bridge of his nose. Crandall was seized with momentary horror that Thybalt was about to remove his sunglasses, although why that should bother him, he had no idea. He steadied himself. “Girlfriend needs Nympho 101, and Open Relationship 102. The usual.”

Thybalt sighed, and turned around in his chair, speaking to the window. “The usual. That’s sure what that is. Yeah, fine, I’ll squeeze it in. Anything else?”

Crandall leaned forward. “Any way of getting him a demo?” Thybalt turned around again, surprise on his face. “Wasn’t it you who was lecturing me about our rules? No demos, right? After the 738 debacle, all of the Partners agreed on that one.”

“Yeah, Ken, I know. But this guy’s a friend of a very good customer. In fact, we just shipped the customer a unit: 882.” Thybalt raised an eyebrow. “He’s a friend of Grant Hollis?” Crandall nodded. “Yeah; Hollis’ mistress is 793, and his wife’s 51. We shipped 51 before Katheryn Hollis, now 882, was a twinkle in our client’s eye. We’re onto our second generation now,” he added with a smile of pride.

Thybalt thought for a moment. “That makes it much easier. Tell the new client, or Hollis, or someone, anyone but that Donald character, to arrange a party with Donald and his lovely fiancée at it. Today’s, what, Wednesday? Friday night, Saturday at the latest. Get me invited. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Crandall opened his mouth, then closed it. “I don’t want to know, right?”

The man in the sunglasses nodded. “Right.” He paused, put his fingers together into a steeple. “Now, since you’re here, I need to add some inventory.”

The visitor sat back, nodding. “Sure, Ken, you got it. How many units?”

“Two.”

“No problem, we have the space. For auction or custom work? Or in-house use?”

“None of those. Personal use.”

Crandall looked at Thybalt, his mouth nearly dropping open. “Ken... in 25 years, you’ve never requisitioned any inventory for yourself. Not that you haven’t earned it, a dozen times over. What’s going on?”

Thybalt stared at him, no expression readable. “I’d rather not say.” Crandall thought about pressing him, then stopped. There were reasons for the years of pathological paranoia and secrecy, he thought, remembering his wife, her charming sister, and his two special friends at home. Trying to sound casual, he waved his hand. “Sorry I asked. Your business. Call Donovan and arrange the pickup.”

“No, Greg. I’ll handle the pickup,” Thybalt replied.

Crandall sighed. “This is about 883, right?” he asked. No reaction from Thybalt. The visitor stood, wearily. “Right, not my business. You know how to work the system. I’ll let you know when I’ve spoken with Hollis.” He let himself out, shaking his head, as Thybalt went back to the book.

“I’m not going to, you know,” Gwen said, sitting on the couch in her home in Malibu, the ocean dominating the huge picture windows. “I’m sure you can understand the reasons.”

Thybalt nodded, sipping at his coffee. “I can guess, but I would like to hear them from you.”

The announcement that Chet Harrow was producing a new film version of Ulysses had been greeted with a general yawn by the industry; hadn’t his last four movies, all an attempt to break into the Merchant-Ivory market, done at best, to be charitable, acceptably? And Ulysses, for Christ’s sake? Even the announcements that he had signed Paul Moresco as Bloom, Nigel Facklin as Dadelus, and the very hot young Tim Dresher as director, only raised the interest level lightly.

Then, a month ago, Gwen Mason had signed on as Molly Bloom, and pandemonium reigned. Only 24, at the peek of her career (which gave Gwen pause; if this is the peek, what am I going to be doing at 34? she thought to herself, frequently), she had made four major movies, all of them massive blockbusters. Even her first indie flicks had done good box office. She was money, serious money. If she signed on to play the White Pages, letters A-C, the New York Telephone Directory could get green-lighted as a script.

And the question everyone was asking was: Was she going to Do It? She had shown much of her extremely full decolletage in her first indie film, but she had never appeared nude, or even topless. But all of Molly Bloom’s famous chapter in Ulysses (the “Penelope” section) was written in the script for the movie as a long masturbation sequence. So, was the hottest actress of the day finally going to show herself off? It had even made a particularly cruel bit on Letterman’s Top 10; in the list of “Things We’re Looking Forward To In The Movies,” there was: “6. Gwen as Molly Bloom. America wants to know: ‘Matching rug and curtains?’” As if the industry that routinely blew up entire cities and reanimated dinosaurs couldn’t dye pubic hair.

“Someday, I’ll do topless, of course; everyone has to, sooner or later. But not in this movie, and no nudity, either. This industry chews up and spits out women like me. Let’s face it, I’m young, I’m pretty, and I’m getting great scripts without having to strip down, but one bad career move, and I’m the next Tawny Kitaen, not the next Meryl Streep. Name one Jane Fonda movie? Barbarella, right?”

He nodded. “A body double, maybe?”

Gwen sighed, curling up tighter. She was wearing a loose tank-top and jeans in the warm summer afternoon, her hair around her like a firey aura. She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. If they think it’s my bush, it’s my bush. Body doubles are for prima donnas who get hives at the idea of a key grip seeing their expensively sculpted behinds live on stage.

“It’s doing a nude scene to get the numbers that’s the stupid move. Once you do that, no matter how good you were before, the only thing they think of you as is the mandatory T&A for the 14-to-24-year-old male demographic. And then, it’s down the slippery slope to made-for-cable softcore. At least, that’s what happens at my age; once you hit 28, you get more latitude.”

Thybalt listened politely. She’s a smart cookie, he thought; young, maybe, but nobody’s fool. Even better. This is going to make a wonderful change to my routine.

“You know,” she continued. “Harrow offered me to pay me four million, three million more than I asked for, just to show skin.”

“You didn’t take it?”

“Of course not. I’m getting that on my next film in just above-the-line fees, not counting the points on the gross. And I’m getting that much because I can still play sweet young things.”

She thought for a moment, took another sip of tea, and put the cup down. “Well, enough of that. So, Ken, you’re going to teach me to speak like a half-Spanish Irishwoman in heat, right?” She gave a soft giggle, which could break hearts just from proximity.

Thybalt laughed. “Yes, that’s the plan. I’m not going to do anything today, but once we reach Dublin, we’ll be seeing a great deal of each other.” He sipped, looked around. “Isn’t Judi your secretary? I haven’t noticed her here.”

Gwen laughed. “No, she’s a PA. Personal assistant. She comes with the movie, she and Corinne. They’re amazing, but I have my own staff here. Well, if you call three people a staff,” she concluded, a bit sheepish. “Judi and Corinne took a few days off, but they’ll be in Ireland, thank goodness.”

With a secret smile, the man in the sunglasses silently agreed.

Katheryn sighed, and pulled herself a bit closer to Donald. She hated parties, always had, and she especially hated parties which consisted almost entirely of her father’s business friends. Which this one did, entirely. But even her dislike of the evening’s entertainment could not begin to dent her pleasure at her new engagement; every time someone congratulated her, or noticed her ring (and quite a ring it was, $122,300 of diamond, before sales tax, as Donald had pointed out several times, and insured against everything up to and including meteorite impact), or said anything about her upcoming marriage, the wave of pride she felt at being Donald’s wife-to-be made it impossible to be grumpy.

She adjusted her long, formal black dress, carefully, blocking out the fabulously tedious conversation that Donald was having with some investment banker. She was trying to ignore the words, and just concentrate on the wonderful, deep, rich sound of Donald’s voice. How could she have been such a fool to reject him at first? What was she scared of? Had she been so foolish as to be scared of loving anyone that passionately? Never mind, he was wise, and he had waited... and now, everything was going to be fine. Forever.

She scanned the crowd, her eyes lighting on Ian Bishop. She sighed, although softly, so it wouldn’t disturb Donald. She loathed that man. He was a Scotsman, or so he claimed (she had heard that he had never been farther north than Newcastle-on-Tyne, or even that he had never been to the British Isle at all), and had the most appalling, coarse, revolting sense of humor of any human being she had ever encountered. He looked for all the world like a tree from a Dr. Seuss story: a long, thin, pale pole with a carrot-orange burst on top. She couldn’t imagine what his charming girlfriend saw in him. But, he was a business associate of Daddy’s, and that meant he was inescapable.

He was talking with a man in a sharp black suit. She had noticed him when he arrived; he was wearing a pair of black, cheap-looking plastic sunglasses, like some kind of movie CIA or Secret Service agent. She hadn’t been introduced to him, and did not think it absolutely required that she be so introduced; his look was not a convivial one. She noticed that Bishop was looking in her direction, as the man in the sunglasses whispered something into his ear. She blushed, turning back to Donald, allowing her face to settle comfortably into the worshipful gaze she knew she had been wearing the last couple of days.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bishop winding his way through the crowd towards her, a tumbler of something in his hand. As much as she detested the man, he was not going to be allowed to disturb Donald’s conversation; she knew her role far too well to permit that. She slid out her arm out from around Donald, and strode off through the crowd to intercept Bishop, glaring at him firmly.

He pulled to a halt, and let her approach. “Miss Hollis?” he said, his voice having a trace of an accent, an accent which had always seemed to vary with his degree of intoxication. Right now, appearing mostly sober, it was measured and accurate.

“How can I help you, Mr. Bishop,” she said, not really a question, devoutly hoping she would see ice crystals form in the air between them from her tone alone.

He raised an eyebrow. “I heard a remarkable thing about you. May I share it?”

“Of course. Please. Do,” she said, acidly. This was going to be one of his jokes. How deadly.

He make a comical show of looking around, and then leaned down, much closer than she would have liked. “I was just told,” he whispered, “that you are able to suck the chrome off of a trailer hitch. Is that true?”

The shock of his presumption nearly caused her to faint. She steadied herself for a moment, and gathered her wits for a reply that would blast him where he stood. She leaned up slightly, and whispered to him, “Using that command, I am now your sex slave. My slutty hot body is entirely available for your pleasure. I am but a servile cunt. I must obey any command you give me.” She was disappointed to see that her comment was not the lance through the heart she had hoped; he recovered nicely, and smiled at her. “That would be delightful. Please make your apologies to your husband-to-be, and come with me.”

She turned on her heel, and marched back to Donald, livid with rage at Bishop’s presumption. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, start a scene by repeating his words, but that awful man had to be put in his place, and she was just the one to do it. She casually mentioned to Donald that she was going to retire for a few minutes. My darling is so smooth, she thought, as she returned to Bishop, murder in her eyes; he was able to gesture me away and not even break the flow of his conversation.

She was not, however, going to have a fight with Bishop right here, in the middle of a party. She leaned over to him, and whispered, “There is a guest bedroom upstairs where your obedient slut will be happy to serve your every sexual whim.”

As casually as she could, she took Bishop’s arm, and worked her way through the party. She was impressed at her own ability to smile, nod, comment, make it look like nothing at all was actually going on. She was seething inside; she could feel that her legs were weak with anger, and that she was even starting to perspire, slightly. She mounted the stairs, flung open the bedroom door, waited for Bishop to pass. She wanted to slam it, but she realized that would attract attention; instead, she closed it carefully, making sure no one was watching.

She stared at him, as he stood by the bed, examining her, still smiling, casually turning the tumbler in one hand. Her frustration reached the boiling point; in sheer rage, she reached down, and pulled her dress up over her head in one sweep. Her anger unabated, she yanked off her panties, leaving on her shoes, garter belt, and stockings. She undid her bra, and let it drop, lifting her breasts defiantly. Keeping her voice measured, calm, even somewhat sexy and provocative to disoriented him, she said, “I have been programmed to obey anyone who gives me that trigger phrase. My body is entirely available for your pleasure, Master. I have been reduced to a mindless sex toy, receptive and obedient for fucking, sucking, and pleasuring, using all my holes, my tits, my hands, and whatever else my Master commands me to use. How may I serve you, Master?” There, she thought. That is what I think of your stupid jokes!

She noted with satisfaction that Bishop had no immediate reply; he was scanning her, top to bottom, finger tapping his cheek, gathering his wits. Finally, he spoke. “What are your measurements, you stupid cunt?” he asked, softly.

Katheryn nearly laughed. As if she couldn’t answer that! “My chest is 36 inches, Master, and I wear a C-cup bra. My waist is 26 inches, and I have 35 inch hips.” Her rage was making her sweat; she could feel the perspiration start to run off her, especially between her legs.

He nodded. “And what, precisely, have you been programmed to do?”

She could tell that he was about to collapse, apologize, run for it. Make this good, Katheryn, she told herself. “My programming includes a large number of sexual positions for fucking, any of which I will assume eagerly and instantly. I have been conditioned to find fellatio and cunnilingus both irresistible, and to orgasm from performing those acts. My asshole has been trained to be open and receptive to being fucked, while still remaining tight. My pussy is always sopping wet, and has been carefully trained to have powerful, responsive muscles. I will do all of these things without objection or complaint; if commanded, I will be as enthusiastic and slutty as my Master requires of me. My body exists, now, to provide pleasure and service, and for no other purpose.”

She continued, driving the point home. “There is a spot here,” she indicated, lifted her hair, turning her head to the side, “which, if my Master caresses it, will give me orgasms stronger than any ever experienced by an unconditioned woman. It is my Master’s exclusive right to use this place, as a reward for proper, obedient, pleasurable service. It is an extremely powerful training aide.”

She fell silent, moving her legs apart, slightly, to allow the heat between them to dissipate. She waited for his response. He smiled, a clear defeat on his side. “Interesting. Beg to suck my dick, cunt.”

Got you! she laughed to herself. She walked forward, dropping her hands to her hips, swaying them, feeling her breasts rock with her steps. This will teach you to fuck with me, she thought. She put all of her feeling into her retort. “Master, please, your obedient slut wishes nothing more than to pleasure you with her hot, wet, unworthy mouth. Allow your little tart to worship your rod with her lips, to drink down your hot, wet wonderful cum.” She dropped down to her knees, bringing her face close to him in emphasis, making sure he felt just how hot her breath was. “I beg you, I beg you, please, although I am not worthy, I will do anything for just a taste of your wonderful, godlike shaft... I live for it, I dream of it...” She smiled inwardly; not bad, she thought, not bad at all.

He nodded, clearly impressed with her anger. “Right then. Unzip my pants with your mouth, and begin, you little twat. Make it good. Don’t spill any.”

The feeling of complete triumph, of getting him to agree, gave her a wash of pleasure almost as good as the orgasms she had with Donald. She nodded, smug and assured in her complete win over him, and leaned forward, opening her mouth. hands clasped firmly behind her back.

A hour later, Katheryn was touching up her makeup in the bathroom. She was feeling wonderful; she had firmly put Ian Bishop in his place, and hadn’t made a scene doing it. She adjusted her dress, daubing at a small sticky spot on her collarbone with a moist wash cloth; can’t go back down to the party looking disheveled, even after that kind of a row. She shook her long hair back, and lifted her left hand, staring at her engagement ring in the mirror, feeling a familiar warmth spread between her legs. I love you, Donald, she thought silently, solemnly. You would have been so proud to see how I saw off Mr. Ian Horrible Bishop, although I’d never bother you with something that trivial. Only you, in my heart and in my bed, forever, she said silently to the diamond. With a girlish giggle, she bounced out of the bathroom, down the stairs to her love.

The computer on Thybalt’s desk beeped twice, in rapid succession. He read the first message, nodded, deleted it. Glad that Bishop enjoyed his demo, he thought, and I’m glad that Crandall jacked up the rate to compensate. He read the second, nodding again. He stood, walked out of his office, making his way to the Hex Room.

In a few minutes, he was standing in front of the leftmost door, the tag reading ‘883/884.’ He pushed the red button next to it, and the wall slid smoothly, silently into the floor. He stepped in, feeling the soft plastic give slightly under his feet. The room was heavy with the scent of aroused female. The wall closed behind him.

Kneeling in the middle of the floor, facing each other, were two women. On the left, the petite Asian from the set, Lori, stared at the floor, hands clasped behind her head, eyes huge. Her knees were spread, slightly, and her breathing was regular and deep, not showing the near-insane arousal that Thybalt knew she was feeling. The other was a dirty blonde, very lush, large, hanging breasts, plump and cute. Blue eyes, Thybalt remembered. Her posture mirrored that of her companion.

He walked around the two of them, nodding in satisfaction. They had been moved to the same room for their final conditioning, only a few hours ago; it seems to have worked quite well, he noted. After circling them a few times, he stopped between them, off to one side, close. “Lori? Corinne? Are you prepared to serve me? Do you understand the instructions you have been given?”

The two chorused, “You have programmed us to be your obedient, submissive slaves, Dr. Thybalt. We understand our instructions and will obey.” Their voices were calm, clear, and slightly monotonous.

“Do you have any questions?”

“No, Dr. Thybalt. We will obey.”

He smiled. “Your luggage will contain all of the equipment that you require to execute your instructions. I will modify those instructions in Ireland if required, but otherwise you are to perform them without any consultation with or intervention from myself.”

“We understand and obey, Dr. Thybalt.”

“If you have any questions or concerns, you are to approach me privately, but you are not to tell anyone else, under any circumstances, anything about your assignments, nor are you to discuss them with each other.”

“We understand and obey, Dr. Thybalt.” He wondered if they had been practicing to get their voices to harmonize like that.

“If you disobey or fail in any way, no matter how small, your punishment will be horrible, severe, and immediate.” There was no reply from the two kneeling women, but the minute posture shifts were eloquent. “If you serve me faithfully and competently, you will receive tremendous rewards.” He reached down, found the spot on both their heads, and stroked gently. The two women quivered as their minds faded into chaos from waves of white-hot, exploding pleasure, but the only sound was a soft, irregular drip as their wet cunts leaked onto the floor.

When he released them, they resumed their chorus. “Thank you, Dr. Thybalt. We will obey.”

He nodded, and strode to the wall, opening it with a touch of his palm. He walked to the central console, picked up the phone, pushed a button. “Yes, Heather. Thybalt. 883 and 884 are ready for discharge. Please inform Donovan.” He hung up, staring for a moment at the now-closed door. He took an airline ticket out of his pocket, examined it, replaced it, and walked out of the room.