The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Michael “Smithy” Smithwick examined the team of electricians scrambling over the scaffolding with a sour grimace. He looked down at his clipboard, up at them, then back at the clipboard, shaking his head. What in bloody hell, he thought, took them until now to start setting up the power for the lights?

“Smithy? New script,” said a voice next to him. He reached out, took the script from the wide-eyed girl, and piled the clipboard on top of it, sparing neither the girl nor the new script a second glance. He sighed. Joyce published the bleeding book back in 1922; what in bloody hell did they need all these bloody revisions to the script for? Every revision meant scene changes, which played hell with his production schedule, by which he lived or died. He shook his head, and walked away from the rapidly-forming bedroom set towards the catering table, to get more coffee.

As he took large sips from the styrofoam cup, the First Assistant Director on Ulysses surveyed his domain. He hadn’t wanted to take this job; these small art productions have all of the high-strung artistic crap that larger pictures have, with none of the interesting problems or prestige. If Tim Dresher hadn’t bloody near begged, Smithy would have been perfectly happy to take a few months off and putter around his farm in rural Cork. The “amazing” Paul Moresco was turning out to be a petulant little brat who could barely remember his lines, and whose temper tantrum over the pepper on his sandwiches had already made him a laughing stock with the crew. The “genius” Nigel Facklin, on whose portrail of Dedalus the whole bloody picture depended, should do brilliantly in the drunk scenes... because he was a drunk, barely able to get vertical half the time. “That’s bloody method acting for you,” Smithy muttered to himself.

He looked over at the makeshift wardrobe area, behind the flimsy door of which Gwen Mason was being fitted for yet another costume. He managed to produce a small smile. There, he thought, was a professional. No whining, no attitude, on time, works hard, stays out of the way, knows her job. She deserves to be a star, he thought with rare pleasure, not like the useless fluff that usually gets the nod. As he regarded the door solemnly, Judi, one of Gwen’s PAs, emerged and headed towards him. She maintained a perfectly smooth gait across a floor so covered with rope, cabling and wires that it looked like the depths of an exotic jungle.

“Mr. Smithwick?” she asked, approaching.

He nodded, taking another sip. “Morning, Judi. What can I do for you?” His voice, rough from years of smoking and yelling, remained true to its lower-class Dublin street roots.

“Miss Mason wanted to know if ‘Penelope’ is still shooting on Thursday? Now that white-white is out?”

He grimaced. White-white! It meant they’d gone through all the different colors of paper for other revisions, and had started in with white again. He regarded Judi. Anyone else asked that, he’d have torn their head off for not looking at the production calendar, or torn the head off his 2nd Assistant Director for not getting them a copy, but Judi and Corinne were alright. “It bloody well better be. The sooner ‘Penelope’ is over, the happier I’ll be.” He sighed. “I need to do another schedule to be sure, though.”

Judi nodded, a knowing smile. “OK, I’ll let her know. Thanks, Mr... uh, Smithy.” She pivoted, and walked back. He watched her go. She was pretty, yeah, but what about it? He was unimpressed by beauty, male or female; he’d seen plenty of it, and was almost always impatient with what lay behind it. He was used to calling Personal Assistants “pretty accessories,” which is what most of them were: attractive ornaments to indicate status, not people who assisted anyone, personally or otherwise. That’s why there were 2nd ADs and 2nd 2nds, to get things done. Judi and Corinne, though, they were quality, as professional as their temporary boss. They each worked themselves twice as hard as any three PAs he’d known before, and he had known many. Maybe they’re bucking for a Director’s Guild card, hoping to make 2nd 2nds eventually... well, if you are, you’re going about it the right way, he thought, saluting Judi’s receding form with his cup.

He turned to see Chet Harrow bearing down on him. He sighed again. Here comes the bane of my bloody existence, he thought. And he’s going to ask about “Penelope” again.

“Good morning, Smithy,” Harrow said when he was in range, smiling broadly.

Smithy just nodded. Harrow was a flaming queen, but that didn’t bother Smithwick any; in this business, you met plenty of gay men of all varieties, and they were no better or worse than anyone else. What Harrow was, which made him less valuable to Smithy than the most junior truck driver, was a busybody and a meddler.

“About ‘Penelope’...” Harrow started, hesitantly.

Smithy closed his eyes, not even bothering to hide his displeasure. Like Job, he was patient, but also like Job, he did not hesitate to talk back to God. “Yes, Chet? What about ‘Penelope’ now? More light? Less light? Bigger bed? Smaller bed? Closed set? Open set?” Harrow opened his mouth, but Smithy was on a roll. “Chet, you can’t just keep changing your bloody mind about this. We’ve already pushed ‘Penelope’ off to Thursday, and in this,” he waved the new script, “I’m probably gonna read that Dedalus’ bloody ma is now a cyclops, or that the brothel scene needs to be shot on a raft in the bloody Liffey.” I don’t care if it is your bleeding money that’s going into this picture, he finished silently; it’s my bleeding time you’re wasting.

Harrow looked at the cable-encrusted floor, abashed. “Closed set. That’s all.”

Smithy inwardly sighed with relief, but he was not about to give Harrow the pleasure of sharing it. “Brilliant. Closed set. That’s final, yes?”

Harrow raised his head, nodding. Damn, thought Smithy, not a man given to sentiment: He looks like shit. “Closed set. It’s final. Thanks, Smithy.” He turned and walked away, his normally-flawless white suit showing all the signs of having been slept in.

Smithy let his eyes drift from Harrow to the bedroom set. Bloody “Penelope.” She’s not going to show anything, and it’s none of my business anyway. I just have to make sure the set’s closed, get everyone not essential off of it before she does or does not show anything to the bleeding cameras. “Brilliant,” he muttered, crushing the empty cup as he walked off to yell at the electricians again.

“How long does jet lag last, anyway?” Gwen asked, arms carefully outstretched.

Corinne, filling out paperwork on a nearby bench, looked up. “A day or two, usually. Why, Miss Mason?”

Gwen shook her head. Her attempts to have her PAs call her by her first name were clearly doomed to failure. “Doesn’t matter. Just haven’t been sleeping well.” She continued to hold her arms up, as the petticoats were carefully assembled with pins by one of the legion of seamstresses Harrow seemed to think the picture required.

The blonde PA put down her paperwork, and came up close. “We’ve been here for three weeks now, Miss Mason. Is there anything you need? Should I talk to the doctor about it?” Gwen nearly burst out laughing, but she knew that would have killed Corinne; the little blonde woman’s expression of concern was so touching and sincere that it nearly broke Gwen’s heart.

“No, that’s fine, Corinne.” Corinne looked dubious. “Really,” she added. The PA nodded, and returned to her paperwork.

Gwen sighed, although not enough to disturb her figure for the dressmaker. It’s not really the sleep, though, she thought; I sleep plenty, especially for being on a feature. It’s the dreams. Stranger and stranger, every few nights since she arrived in Ireland. She shook her head, slightly, in wry amusement. Six years ago, she told herself, you were ready to trade in your acting career for a tube top, yellow hot pants, and a well-trod block on South Figueroa. Now, you are pulling in seven figures per movie, you have PAs who would throw themselves in front of a charging lion for you, and the gophers at the Agency are taking a pool on when you get the first Oscar. If you step carefully, girl, your life is made; a few bad dreams, you can handle.

She shook her head again, trying to clear it. The dreams weren’t nightmares, exactly; just strange, very unlike dreams she’d ever had before. They were detailed, textured, vivid; when she awoke, they felt more like memories than dreams, more real than reality. She smiled at the image of herself this morning: still disheveled in the pale light just before full dawn, scribbling away in her notebook (the latest volume of the dream-journal she’d been keeping since she was 15) with the fountain pen her agent had given her to sign her first major movie deal. Ink spraying everywhere on the rough yellow paper; it wasn’t a very expensive pen. That’s my agent, she thought with a giggle. She let her mind slip back to last night’s dream.

June 11, Saturday.

I’m lying in my bathtub at home, only it’s huge, maybe 30 feet across. The water’s warm, blood-warm, and I’m floating in it, really floating, like it’s a swimming pool. I can’t move, not paralyzed or anything, I just don’t want to, like I’ve just woken up and the bed feels so good, so comfortable that I can’t bring myself to move at all. And I feel that maybe if I move even a little bit I’ll sink into the pool; I’m like a lily pad or something, floating on the water.

One big flower, then another, then another floats by, and soon I realize that the whole surface of the water is covered with these things. They look like those flowers with the red, waxy petals and the long, white things. Antheriums? I know that those aren’t water flowers but I didn’t think about that in the dream, they were just things sharing my bath.

I realize that there are a bunch of men standing around the pool. This doesn’t bother me, even though they’re looking right at me. They’re touching themselves, and they’re all hard. I turn my head to the side and one of the flowers kind of bumps into my lips, & without really thinking I take a nibble at it, then a bite, and it tastes great, really good, and I eat the whole thing, and there’s another one right there, and I eat that one, too.

Soon I realize that I’m really turned on, and I’d really love to get laid by one of the guys around the pool, but they are still just touching themselves, looking at me, and I’m just nibbling at the flowers and getting hornier and hornier, and I’m getting really frustrated, but I don’t dare move, and then one of the men starts coming, into the water, then another, then another. They’re sending ripples throughout the pool, and that scares me because I’m worried that they’ll break the surface tension and I’ll sink. And that’s what happens; I sink down into the pool, and it’s warm and wonderful, and I realize that I’ll just keep eating the flowers and lying there and then I’ll have sex, and sex, and more SEX, and that’s all I want, just to lie there in the warm water and have sex. I’m still turned on when I wake up.

“Miss Mason? Um, Miss Mason?” Gwen blinked back to reality, looking down at the seamstress, who was gently trying to rotate her in order to pin up the back of the dress. She complied, turning and staring at the blank wall. Wet dreams. This is what I get for leaving my dildo back in Malibu, she thought wryly. And it’s what I get for being a 24-year-old virgin. It’s not that I have any particular attachment to my maidenhead, not at all; it’s that now, it seems like such a big deal: Gwendolyn Mason To Get Cherry Popped, Film at 11. Why the hell did I admit I was a virgin on Leno? No wonder Letterman slammed me after that, with Jay getting that little tidbit. The tabloids will expect me to hang a blood-stained sheet out the window after I lose it. Why didn’t I get it over with when I was still a nobody?

She grimaced. Self-pity comes later, she told herself: Right now, I have a movie to make.

Thybalt walked along Grafton Street through the pleasant afternoon. This Saturday, it was thronged with shoppers, idlers, panhandlers, teenagers in clumps, musicians passing the hat. Everyone was bustling, bumping into each other, fighting their way through the crowd, but Thybalt seemed to create a small pocket of space around him as he strode up the street. A couple of times a rowdy would approach, head on, playing chicken, but a look at the hard, expressionless face behind the sunglasses sent each around him like a leaf in the wake of a boat.

Looking neither right nor left, he emerged at the head of the street, and turned towards Temple Bar. In a few minutes, he had emerged on the south side of the Liffey, four lanes of traffic roaring alongside the slow brown water of the river. He stopped next to a payphone, glancing at his watch; as if on cue, the payphone rang. He picked it up, turning his back on the river.

“Thybalt.”

A pause. “I don’t understand why this Mission Impossible routine is required,” he said into the receiver. “I realize that you are nervous. Relax.” “Assuming that there are no problems, you’ll get precisely what you paid for.” “Yes. Soon.” “What kind of problems? Well, spending time walking through half of Dublin to a payphone, in order to reassure a nervous client, might be a distraction. Just for example.” “You’re not the only one with a great deal at stake, my friend. Let me do what you’re paying me for.” “That’s fine.”

He hung up the phone, and stared for a few minutes out over the river, glistening softly in the afternoon light. “Bastard,” he said softly, to no one in particular. Shaking his head, he walked back towards the hotel.

June 12, Sunday.

I’m standing in my library back at home. (remember to tell shrink: It’s a real library, with books on every wall. I inherited all of my mother’s books, and then my father’s, and they each had hundreds, maybe thousands. It’s all I got from my father’s estate. When my business manager told me that I could afford to live anyplace I wanted, the first thing I said was, “I’ll have a place for all my parents’ books.")

Anyway, so I’m standing in the library, naked. I’m just wearing heels, and my hair is all done up in a fancy hairdo, like a Gibson Girl style. I need a book that’s on a shelf on the far wall, so I start walking across the floor, but it’s hard; I feel completely unbalanced in the heels, and I need to keep my back straight, walk very carefully.

Then I realize that about half-way down the library are two people, standing on either side of me. One’s a man, one’s a woman, but they’re almost like twins: tall, very pale, black hair, gray eyes. They look very strong, much stronger than I am. They’re watching me get closer and closer, and they’re smiling. They’re naked, too. The man has a huge erection, which he’s stroking; the woman has her hands between her legs, and she’s touching herself. And I realize that if I step even an inch to either side, even less than an inch, whichever one is closer will grab me and rape me.

So I keep walking, carefully, slowly, like molasses, but I keep rocking from side to side in the heels, and I’m getting closer and closer, and I can see that they’re beautiful, and their bodies are oiled, and I start getting horny myself, like I want to “accidentally” slip to one side or the other, only do it on purpose. But I can’t decide if I want to fall to the man’s side or the woman’s side (I’ve always thought I might be bi, I guess I’m sure now), and they’re getting closer, and I can’t stop walking and I can’t turn back, so if I’m going to fall I’m going to have to do it right then.

And I don’t remember if I fell to one side or the other or kept walking.

But, thought Gwen as she finished writing, I’m not getting out of bed right away. Corinne isn’t going to bring in my breakfast for another hour, at least, and it’s Sunday. I don’t even have to be on the set. She lay back, giving a languid sigh, reaching down between her legs.

Thybalt stared at the monitor on the desk in his hotel room. Corinne and Judi knelt behind his chair. Had they been looking into the mirror over the desk, they could have seen the image of Gwen masturbating reflected in the black plastic lenses of his glasses. But with their hands behind their heads, eyes downcast, they saw only the carpet.

He swore, punched a button on the compact console below the monitor; it went dark. “What is going on?” he muttered, his hands forming a steeple, staring at the black screen. “By now, she should be doing a lot more than just whacking off.”

He stood, looking down at the two kneeling women. “Corinne, Judi, I want to review your instructions.”

“Yes, Dr. Thybalt,” they chorused.

“How much halperizon in the room each night, Corinne?”

“Three units, Dr. Thybalt,” the blonde woman replied softly, still looking at the floor.

“During the day, Judi, how much thalapherazine in her food and drink?”

“Eighteen units, Dr. Thybalt,” the Asian woman lilted.

“And how much mesorhyopan in the breakfast, Corinne?”

“Ten units, Dr. Thybalt.”

He started to nod, then stopped. He walked forward, looking down at Corinne. “Five days ago I asked you to increase the dosage to 25 units. Did you do that?”

An awful silence filled the room.

“No, Dr. Thybalt,” she replied, in the same quiet tone. Thybalt speculated, for just a moment, that she was probably screaming inside, trying to explain, trying to give an excuse. But she was, if nothing else, disciplined.

“Damn it,” he swore, to no one in particular. He walked to the door, and back, slamming a fist into a palm. He returned to the chair, ignoring the women. He typed on his laptop for a few minutes. “Well, that explains that,” he said out loud, sitting back. Now, he thought, how am I going to make my schedule at this rate? I need some time, just a couple more days.

He turned, still in the chair. “Corinne, Judi. Onto the bed. Present.” His voice, while soft and measured, contained a universe of threat to those who understood his tone. Judi and Corinne understood it to the depths of their souls.

The two women immediately rose, and kneeled down on the bed, their faces down on the bedspread, offering their asses up. Two sets of hands pulled up two skirts, revealing two cunts, wet and ready. Two pairs of legs spread slightly, two backs arched to offer their sexes up for viewing and use.

Thybalt stood, stepped behind them. “Do you two know why you are being punished? Corinne?”

“For disobeying you, Dr. Thybalt,” she said, softly, just a tiny bit of hoarse fear in her voice.

“Judi?”

“For Corinne’s disobedience, Dr. Thybalt,” the petite Asian replied, her voice a bit higher now, a pleading note breaking through her conditioning.

Thybalt nodded. He reached down, and found a spot on their right thighs, near the groan; he pinched, hard. There was no sound from either of them. Thybalt was careful to count the minutes he held their flesh; more than about a minute of this punishment could drive one insane, which is why it was programmed into in-house inventory only. He had heard it compared to being flayed alive with a whip of burning salt, which he had conceded did not sound pleasant. That was, after all, the point.

He watched the two women’s skin grow pale and clammy. He wasn’t absolutely sure that Corinne had been instructed to increase the dosage. It was just barely possible, he acknowledged to himself, that he had forgotten to tell her. No matter, though, he thought; this will just encourage their future sense of responsibility towards his orders.

After twenty seconds, he released them, and let them collapse onto the bed, sobbing. Even their discipline, he noted, had some limits. He went to his suitcase, retrieved a small bottle with an atomizer top, like a cologne bottle. Turning it in his hand, he returned to the side of the bed.

“Now. I have further instructions,” he said to them, as they moaned quietly.

June 13, Monday.

I’m at a Los Angeles Philharmonic Performance. I know it’s the Chandler Pavilion I’m in, the way you know things in dreams, but the room doesn’t look anything like it. There are just a few rows of high-backed chairs, a small orchestra space, really just enough for a chamber orchestra up front. Circulating through the rows, like old-style cigarette girls in a movie theatre, are a bunch of barmaids. Like the ads for St. Pauli Girl beer? Lots of cleavage, tight bodices, tiny waists, skirts tucked up to show off their legs. They’re selling drinks; someone will order, they’ll go off, come back with the drink. I notice that when they come back, whoever is buying the drink will cop a feel: a hand up the skirt, down the bodice; sometimes, one of them even gets into his lap, facing him, and grinds there for a while. I wonder if he’s actually getting inside of her, or if they’re just rubbing.

The chamber orchestra finally files into the hall, and three other women, also dressed like barmaids only more elaborate (nicer material, fancier cut) come out, standing at a podium in front of the orchestra. They’re like an Opera version of a barmaid, lots of stage makeup. The barmaids in the audience go to the sides of the room, and the music starts, and the women start singing.

They’re really good singers. They’re singing in a language I don’t understand, but it’s so lovely, so compelling, it’s like I can follow along with the emotions. They’re singing about doing just what the other barmaids were doing, serving, being touched, looking nice, and I can follow every word, and I realize that it sounds so sexy to be like that, just bring people things and be fondled and give pleasure. I start getting turned on, and I feel myself tugging at my clothes, as if the stupid old things that I was wearing were repulsive and ugly and I want to wear the wonderful things the barmaids wear.

The music continues, and I realize how stupid I was not to see this before, how much I want to be pawed and looked at and have my tits stared at. It’s like everything before this was just pretend, and now I’ve woken up.

I’m stripping down right there. No one else notices me, and I notice that I’m the only woman there, but that’s fine. Soon, I’m completely naked, and I run to the side of the room. There’s an extra barmaid costume there, and I put it on. I feels wonderful, like the best silk robe ever, and I get it all adjusted, pushed up so I’m showing all the cleavage I can, and I’m standing there with the other barmaids, feeling so quiet and happy and relaxed and sexy, and waiting for the wonderful, beautiful music to end.

It does, the women file out to polite applause. I start circulating through the crowd, all men now, asking them if they want anything. One of them points to his lap, and I know just what to do. I hike up my skirt (I took off my panties before), and straddle him. He looks down, and I’m embarrassed that I didn’t shave between my legs, but I’m so wet I’m dripping on him, and he unzips himself, and now I know what’s going to happen.

I glance up as I grab the back of the chair, and I notice that Corinne is coming in from the back, taking my old seat. How nice, I think; she’ll make a great barmaid.

I woke up before he actually got it in me, though.

Gwen turned from the catering table with a look of shock, the tuna fish sandwich still half in her mouth. She bit, chewed, swallowed, all the time staring at Chet with huge eyes. “What do you mean, closed set?” she finally asked.

Chet looked as casual as a man as haggard and unshaved as he could. “Well, I thought that might be...” He stopped, trailing off lamely. Gwen sat down at the folding table in front of the catering spread, still staring at him as if he had just grown a second head. “I’ll be wearing more in that scene than I wore to the last Oscars. Why is the set closed?” She sounded honestly puzzled, but Thybalt, standing nearby, knew her voice well, down to its tiniest nuance. She was not puzzled; she was pissed. He tried to suppress a smile.

Chet sat down across from her, heavily. Thybalt moved closer, back turned to them as he got another cup of coffee.

“Listen, Gwen. I know we’ve been over this before. But. I want to do ‘Penelope’ as a nude scene.” He sounds like he’s been smoking again, Thybalt thought. Smoking heavily. The sound of a sandwich being thrown onto a paper plate immediately followed Chet’s comment.

Gwen’s voice was quiet, but her tone could have peeled paint off a wall. “I know you want that. You are the only one on this set who wants that, Chet. Tim has said he doesn’t think it works, and he is the director, no? It’s not that way in the script, for which you paid a dollar or two. And, most importantly,” she continued, as Chet’s breathing became audible to Thybalt, “it is in my contract that I get a veto over nude scenes. And I vetoed it. Why are you bringing this up now, again, after we’ve been over it a dozen times?”

Chet sighed. Thybalt continued to examine the packages of half-n-half with extreme interest. “Because this picture isn’t going to do even five thousand dollars at the box office otherwise, Gwen. That’s what everyone is expecting.”

The sound of a metal chair creaking; Gwen sitting back, Thybalt guessed. A laugh from Gwen, not a pleasant laugh at all. “I think we need to understand each other here. I’ve loved all your pictures, and I’ve always wanted to work with Tim Dresher, which I why I signed up for this one. I know how far in debt you are, and I know how much you need this picture to be a success.”

A pause; Gwen taking a sip from her orange juice, perhaps? “All that is not my fucking problem. I am not some stupid little cunt who you swept up at the Greyhound station with vague promises of stardom if she would just open her legs for your camera. We have a contract. If you needed someone to show their snatch in this movie, you should have signed someone who didn’t care about it. I care, as you perfectly well know. I have to leave for the US the day after ‘Penelope’ is shot, unless you want to start paying my next picture $10,000 per day to keep me around. I think it’s in all of our best interests that I do the scene the way it’s written, and stop harassing me about it.”

Another pause. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer me to walk.”

A sharp intake of breath from Chet. “Wait a fucking second, Miss ‘My Tits Are Too Good For You.’ We have a contract.”

“Yes, Chet, we do. And I have a lawyer. By the time it even got to trial, you’ll be shooting commercials for Hostess Cupcakes, if you’re lucky.”

The sound of a metal chair being pushed out, Chet getting up. “We’ll talk again, Gwen.”

Gwen’s laughter, this time with real humor. “Yes, I’m sure we will, Chet. After all, we’re on this picture together. But we’re not talking about T&A for ‘Penelope.’ Got it?”

No reply, angry steps moving off. Thybalt turned, watching Chet stalk across the set. He walked over to the table, and took Chet’s chair. Gwen was staring off into the middle distance.

Thybalt broke the silence. “Good acting,” he said. Gwen blinked, as if suddenly noticing him. “What do you mean?” she asked, cocking her head.

He sat back, folding his arms. “You wouldn’t really walk, would you?”

Gwen smiled, the smile of a beautiful predator who has just spotted wounded prey. “You don’t know me that well, do you, Ken? I never bluff; my father taught me that. I’ll walk off this set, and bring Chet, this picture, and his whole company down in flames, if he pushes me any harder.” She shrugged. “Still. Such language from me, eh, Ken?” she said with a giggle.

Thybalt examined her silently as she finished her sandwich.

Smithy gave a small groan at the knock on the door to his trailer. He glanced at the clock: 11:33 pm. “Come in!” he called, expecting to see either Tim or Chet appear with yet another request. He was surprised to see first Judi, then Corinne step inside, looking abashed.

He put down his pencil, and swiveled the chair around. “Evening, ladies. How can I help you?”

They looked at each other, then down at the floor. Judi walked forward, slowly, her dark eyes wide. “Um, Mr... uh, Smithy. It’s about ‘Penelope.’”

Smithy arched an eyebrow at the Asian woman. “What about ‘Penelope’?” he asked. He groaned again, silently. Now the bloody PAs are starting in on me about that bloody scene.

Corinne moved up to join Judi; they looked as if they were naughty children anticipating a spanking. “Um... we wanted to ask if there was any way to move it to Saturday,” Corinne managed.

He blinked, not sure he was hearing her properly. He shook his head. “Can’t do that, ladies. Gwen’s going back on Friday, right?”

“She could stay until Sunday,” Judi offered.

Smithy pursed his lips. “And pay $20,000 in penalties to her next bloody feature? Don’t think old Chet is going to be up for that kind of money. Anyway,” he said, waving at the production board, strips of cardboard for all of the scenes in the movie, “if we moved ‘Penelope,’ it would wreck the rest of the bloody schedule.” He stopped. “Why the sudden request?”

Judi stepped even closer, nearly touching him; Corinne moved to next him. He looked up, glancing between the petite Asian and the buxom blonde. He suddenly felt claustrophobic. Judi said, pleading, “It’s... Miss Mason. She’s been under a lot of pressure, not really sleeping. She could really use until then to get ready for the scene.”

He stopped, took a deep breath. He could smell some scent on them, perfume, maybe? Headier, though; richer, earthier than any perfume. With a sudden flash, he felt himself getting warm, short of breath... aroused. “Um... I just don’t bloody know. I know that Gwen’s a pro, and if she needs the time, she...”

Corinne’s hand fell lightly on his shoulder; he felt liquid fire flow from that touch through his body, into his groin. Judi blinked slowly, and sank down to her knees beside his outstretched legs. He could feel Corinne’s lips near his ear, her breath on him. “Please, Smithy,” the blonde woman said, her voice throaty, full of promise. “I’d be so grateful to you. Both of us would be very, very grateful.” He turned, met Corinne’s blue eyes, drinking in her rich, erotic scent. He wanted to say something; he knew what a mistake he might make right now. He leaned forward, finding Corinne’s lips, her tongue sliding into his mouth. The bloody mistake I am making, he thought to himself, as he felt Judi’s fingers trace over his cock, straining against his pants.

He pulled back from the kiss to see that Corinne had unbuttoned her white cotton blouse; she wasn’t wearing a bra. He could feel his pants being unzipped, his underwear pulled aside, and a mouth, Judi’s mouth, slowly slide down onto his cock, swallowing him completely. He didn’t even look down, his eyes captivated by Corinne’s large, soft breasts as she lifted them up for him, the small pink nipples already hard. As he leaned forward, taking one in his mouth, licking, nibbling, gratified by Corinne’s soft moan, he thought to himself that he’d make “Penelope” shoot on Saturday. Fixing bloody scheduling problems was his job, after all.

June 14, Tuesday

I’m walking on a beach, it’s a beach in Malibu not far from where I usually go to walk. There are high cliffs to my right, the ocean to my left. I reach some rocks, and climb over them. There’s a sea cave at the top of the rocks, and I wander into the mouth of it (there aren’t really any sea caves in Malibu). I look out over the ocean, and it’s getting close to sunset. I stand there, watching it for a while. Even though I’m just wearing a black bikini and sandals, I’m not cold at all. Suddenly, I realize that I’m late for an appointment, and I race into the cave.

I run down the cave, over the sand on the floor. It’s long, twisting and turning, but it doesn’t branch; it just keeps going down and making turn after turn. Suddenly, I burst out into a bar, or a tavern, or something like that. It’s a smoky room, with tables and people at all of them, talking loudly. There’s loud music playing, and a bar with a mirror, and a stage with a girl, in a bikini just like mine, dancing. I run to the side of the stage, just in time; she’s finished with her routine, there’s a little bit of applause and a lot of wolf-whistles, and she steps down off of the stage, whispering, “Tough crowd” to me as she passes.

So I get up on stage, and start grinding and dancing around, doing my best, but everyone is ignoring me, and I’m getting angrier and angrier, trying harder, but it just isn’t doing anything for them. I want to scream at them, “Hey, you! This is Gwendolyn Fucking Mason dancing in your bar, and you won’t even watch?” but I don’t. Finally, I strip off the bikini top, and start shaking my tits at them, and that gets a little more attention, a few more whistles, and I start getting turned on from being stared at.

But that’s still not enough, so I wiggle out of the bikini bottoms, and I’m dancing around like a stripper, lying down and opening my legs. I can see that overhead, dangling from the ceiling, is a camera, a big camera, bigger than a video camera, bigger than a movie camera, with a huge lens, and it’s pointed right at me, right at my pussy, and I just keep grinding my hips while I’m lying on the ground with my legs spread. The crowd is loving it, they’re going wild and throwing money and whistling, and the camera is getting closer and closer, and I’m starting to play with myself, since I can’t stand it I’m so horny, and the camera is so close that I think it’s going to ram right up into me, fuck me, and I want it, so badly I’m screaming for it.

When I woke up, I was so frustrated I nearly cried, and even masturbating for a whole half-hour didn’t help much.

...

Thybalt entered a number on his cell phone, sipping on a very strong cup of coffee at Bewley’s. He looked out the window, watching the early morning bustle of Grafton Street pass by. He waited for the phone to connect; Crandall’s voice answered.

“Hello, Greg. It’s Ken.”

“Ken. It’s good to hear from you. Enjoying the Emerald Isle?”

Thybalt sighed. “What I’ve seen of it. Anything new?”

“The usual. I’m glad you’re coming back soon. We have clients screaming for new inventory.”

“I can imagine.” Thybalt watched a particularly well-endowed young woman walk by, long dark hair trailing. “You’d like it here, Greg. Inventory on the hoof.”

“I should be so lucky. How’s 883?”

Thybalt paused. “This is proving difficult. I had to stall for time. But I’ll deliver.”

“I hope so. We’ve dumped a lot of drug supplies into this one.”

“I know, Greg, but we got paid in advance, remember? The drugs are covered.”

“By the way, you’ll need to be at the airport at 4 am tomorrow, your time, to pick up your next shipment. Sorry about the hour; it’s the only courier flight we could get.”

“Thanks. I need that extra mesorhyopan. I’ll be there.”

“No problem, Ken, but that raised eyebrows at the dispensary. That’s enough meso for an entire Catholic girls’ school. Are you sure...?”

“I’m sure. Listen, Greg, an entire girls’ school? Wouldn’t that be a kick-ass project?”

Greg’s voice contained a distinct note of barely-controlled hysteria. “It was a fucking joke, Ken!”

Thybalt paused, then smiled. “You’re too easy, Greg. If the guys in dispensing are getting worked up, send Jessica and Rachael down to unkink their hoses. Talk to you later.”

He finished his coffee, and left, back to the hotel.

June 15, Wednesday.

I’m walking along a street. It’s a busy, major street, and I don’t know quite where I’m going. But I need to keep walking, and walking, and I know that there is something bad that might happen if I don’t keep going. I reach an intersection, and stare up at the sign, and it says ‘South Figueroa.’ That freezes me in my tracks, as if it is the most terrifying thing in the world. I hear someone behind me, so I turn around. There’s a man there, dressed like a stage magician, tail coat, top hat, magic wand, the whole bit. I want to start running, and I do, taking off down the street, but I look behind me, and he waves the wand, and we’re not in the street anymore.

I’m standing in a brothel. I mean, there’s not a sign on the wall or anything, but that’s all it could be. There’s big sofas everywhere, and heavy red carpeting and wallpaper. There are women everywhere, wearing lingerie, stripper outfits, nude, and men watching them, leading them up and down stairs, all sorts of things going on, people making out, men getting blowjobs.

The magician is still there, smiling at me. I back up, but he waves the wand again, and now I’m wearing a bright yellow tube-top, bright yellow hot pants, fishnet thigh-highs, and ugly yellow platform heels. I’m wearing heavy makeup, like a parody of a whore. I can see all this in the mirrors that are all over the walls. He waves his wand again, and I look down, and my tits are now huge, enormous, a cartoon-woman. A man comes up to me and asks me to go up to a room with him, and I start to say no, but the magician waves his wand again, and I feel all dizzy and horny, and kind of stupid and compliant, and I realize that no, I’m a whore, and I should do just what I’m told, like a good little whore.

I follow him up the stairs, my huge tits waving around in front of me. We walk into the room, and I hear someone, another whore in the next room, yelling, “Yes do it fuck me fuck my hot wet slutty cunt fuck my twat my pussy fuck my hot slit I’m your slave your whore your slut...” over and over again, and I realize I’ve heard that before, but he’s telling me to take off my pants, and I do, and I lie down on the bed with my legs spread, and I can’t see anything because my tits are too big and in the way, and I know he’s about to start fucking me, and the woman next door is still yelling that over and over again, and I start yelling just what she’s yelling, “Yeah, do me fuck me take me I’m yours I’m your slut your slave your whore your cunt fuck my hot slit my twat my pussy.” Over and over again. But I wake up before he even touches me.

Gwen sighed, put the pen down, closed her notebook. She shook her head, staring bleary-eyed at the window. Soon, she told herself, soon; Sunday, I can go back home, and these dreams will stop. I hope. She looked at the clock: 4:20 am. Fuck.

She stood, walked to the bathroom, and stared at her reflection. I look more and more like my mother each day, she realized; not that there’s anything wrong with that, my mother was gorgeous every day of her life, right up until she got cancer. Until she went crazy from the drugs they had her on, or the pain the drugs couldn’t help.

Suddenly, as if electrocuted, Gwen stood bolt upright, staring at her reflection as if it had just threated to kill her. “I know where I’ve heard that before,” she said out loud, her legs weak with fear. She dashed into the suite’s living room, sat down, trying to control her shaking. She reached out, grabbed at her purse... only to discover that it was Corinne’s, not hers; Corinne had probably forgotten it when she brought dinner last night, she realized. Gwen’s uncertain hand tried to put it back on the table, but she dropped it, the contents spilling all over the floor. Swearing, she started to put the makeup, keys, wallet, drug vials back into the purse. She stopped, turning a cold, small glass bottle in her hand. Drug vials? She examined each carefully before replacing it in the handbag.

The purse back where she found it, Gwen returned to bed. She lay back in bed, thinking, until her alarm went off at 6 am. She turned it off, and picked up her cell phone. She started to dial, looked around, and then walked into the bathroom; she turned on the tub full-blast, the roar of the water deafening after the morning silence of the bedroom.

“Hi, Smithy? Yeah, it’s Gwen. Sorry about the noise. Listen, I need something that I brought in with props. No, I’ll come get it myself,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

Thybalt knocked on the door to Gwen’s room. “Come in, Ken, it’s open,” Gwen called. Thybalt stopped, considering the change in routine; Judi and Corinne were always there to get the door for him, even if they vanished immediately afterwards. He shrugged, and entered, closing the door behind him reflexively.

Gwen was sitting on the couch, wearing a white cotton dress. As usual, a light tea sat on the table between the couch and chair, a carafe of coffee waiting for him. The only variation in their daily ritual was the large revolver Gwen was holding in her right hand, casually pointed at Thybalt.

He stopped, regarding the gun, then her. An eyebrow went up. “Care to explain?” he managed.

Gwen smiled her most radiant smile. “Certainly, Ken. Please, have a seat.”

He did. Gwen sat back, the gun never wavering. “It is astonishing what Irish customs will ignore if you tell them it is a prop,” she said. “Would you care for some tea? I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to pour,” she added, apologetically.

He looked at the teapot, then at her. She laughed. “Please, don’t concern yourself. I haven’t been a star for so long that I’ve forgotten how to boil water. Corinne didn’t make this particular pot of tea; I dumped the one she prepared after I sent her on her way on a very complex errand. She won’t be back for hours.”

“I don’t quite understand you,” he said, as he poured tea into cups.

She sighed elaborately. “Dr. Thybalt, you understand me perfectly. You were drugging me, weren’t you? Via Corinne, although how you got her cooperation I have no idea.”

His startled reaction was well-practiced. “Corinne was drugging you? What...”

“I spied. There is a very nice line of sight from the bathroom to the kitchen in this particular suite. Not to worry, though, she didn’t put anything into your coffee. I wonder why?”

“I couldn’t say,” he managed.

“I believe you mean, you’d rather not.” Gwen smiled. “Ken, please don’t act stupid, it would ruin my image of you.” She paused. “Do you know who my father was?”

Ken raised an eyebrow. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

She sat back. “Mason is a stage name. My father was Hans Maurer, the banker. ‘Maurer,’ I’m sure you know, is German for mason. Not clever of me, but I was young.”

“And your mother?”

“Francesca Gwendolyn Farmer, of course, one of the talented yet obscure beauties of the English alternative theatre, known for her grace, charm, poise, and utterly refined breeding. It was quite a surprise when she married my father, as he was known for being uncouth and abusive, albeit as rich as Croesus.”

“But you’re American?”

“Born and raised in Encino, California. Delightful town.” She raised the gun; Thybalt sat up a bit straighter. “Now, Ken, please tell me what your plans for me were.”

Thybalt was silent for a moment. “My plans?” he finally replied.

Gwen glanced up at the ceiling in a moment of exasperation. “Ken. Please. I have the mysterious Dr. Kenneth Thybalt, a man who never removes his sunglasses, appear to be my speech tutor. I find myself plagued by erotic dreams of increasing intensity, a condition I’ve never found myself in before. In the latest of these nocturnal episodes, I find myself screaming with abandon the very things that my so-proper mother used to scream when my father was, I assume, indulging his conjugal rights with her. My bedroom was next door to theirs. These are words that she would have rather had her tongue cut out than use in public. Then, I find my PA is drugging my breakfast.”

She paused, sighted down the gun, then continued.

“My mother died of breast cancer when I was 14. I spent a lot of time by her bedside; my father couldn’t be bothered, he was off with his new mistress. He died a few years later, car crash, and I’m sure she’s enjoying his money immensely. Anyway. My mother was delirious at the end, quite insane, the pain was so great that nothing could keep it off. She kept babbling about being abducted and raped, of being brainwashed into marrying my father. By a man dressed in black, who always wore sunglasses. A young girl doesn’t forget things like that, Ken.”

Thybalt met her gaze evenly. “That is rather flimsy evidence of anything, Gwen.”

She shrugged, a serene smile on her face. “If you faced by a jury, I’d agree. But right now, you are faced by a high-strung, neurotic young actress with memories of her sainted mother dying a lingering death, while talking about being brainwashed. By you, I would assume. Need I add that said young actress hasn’t been sleeping at all well?” She pulled back the hammer on the revolver; the cylinder rotated; the hammer locked into firing position with a click audible to Thybalt. “Please don’t think this isn’t loaded. As we discussed once, I don’t bluff. Now, the truth. And as the saying goes, make it good.”

Three seconds took an eternity to pass. “Francesca Farmer, you said?” Thybalt finally asked.

“Yes.”

“Number 4.”

Gwen blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Francesca Farmer is, was, inventory unit number 4. I was responsible for delivery to our client, who was, as you guessed, Hans Maurer.”

“’Our’ client? Who is ‘us’?”

Thybalt took a deep breath. “The ICBR. We have a thriving business in abducting women, who we condition, brainwash as you say, for sexual purposes. Sometimes for sale as slaves, sometimes as wives, mistresses, or girlfriends. Your mother was our fourth, years ago. Clearly, our programming wasn’t perfect in her case; our methods have improved considerably since then.”

“And you call them inventory? These women?” Gwen’s voice was still light, casual, conversational.

“That’s right. One of our early rules. Helps avoid unnecessary sentiment.”

Gwen lowered the gun, but only from his face to his heart. “And myself?”

“You are, or were going to be, inventory unit 883.” Ken shrugged. “Obviously, we’ll be skipping a number.”

She shook her head, amazed. “And who, pray tell, was your client for myself?”

Thybalt paused. “I’d rather not say.”

Gwen laughed, a genuine, rich laugh. “I’m certain that you’d rather not, Ken. I’m also sure you’d rather not die. I’ll give you a moment to resolve any conflict this might create.”

He paused. “Alright. Chester Harrow.”

She stared at him, lowering the gun to point at the tea service. “Ken, are you kidding me? Chet is as queer as a three dollar bill. What in the world could he have wanted...” She stopped, her eyes growing cold. “Ah. I see.”

Ken nodded. “I wasn’t hired to deliver you, personally, to anyone. I was hired to make sure that Harrow got full frontal footage of you when he shot ‘Penelope.’ Open-legged, if possible.”

Gwen considered this. “Well, that would have certainly helped his film.” She erupted into another round of laughing, this one so intense that Thybalt was concerned about the sanity behind it. She spread her legs, suddenly, showing an auburn snatch beneath the dress. She indicated her crotch with the barrel of the revolver, making Thybalt flinch despite all his self-control. “And how much,” she managed to get out between snorts, “was this precious pussy worth to him?”

Thybalt smiled. “Five million dollars.”

Her eyes flew open. “Ken, I’m not sure which I’m more offended by: that Harrow would stoop to brainwashing me to get a beaver shot, or that you are getting paid more for this film than I am.” She considered for a moment, and then lowered the hammer on the gun, gently. She put the pistol down beside her on the couch.

He looked at her, the gun, and then her. “And now?”

She shrugged. “I make a movie, I go back to the United States after the two day extension that Harrow paid for. He doesn’t get his nude scene, and can go fuck himself. Which is what he’ll be doing after he misses the first payment on that rent boy of his. I assume that you’ll go about your merry way at the same time. Anything permanent about this conditioning you’ve been doing to me?”

He considered, stroking his chin. “No, nothing permanent. Unreinforced, it should wear off in a day or two. By the time they shoot ‘Penelope’ on Saturday, it will be history.”

“Fine, then. Of course, we do have a small problem on our hands,” she added thoughtfully.

Thybalt nodded grimly; he’d been waiting for it. “Revenge for your mother.”

Gwen giggled. “’I will put an end to this white slave traffic and rid Dublin of this odious pest!’ Ulysses, Chapter 15. The Recorder says that.” She shook her head. “Ken, you’re being stupid again. I want no such thing. If I wanted revenge, you’d be dead, bang,” she said, making a gun with her hand. “My father was an awful man, but he did teach me to shoot straight. My mother, God rest her soul, is in heaven, and thus no longer my concern. The problem we have,” she explained, as if to a child, “is that my silence on the subject of the Institute is not going to be free. I do, however, have a proposal,” she said.

Thybalt cocked his head, “I’m listening.”

She explained.

He considered for a long minute when she finished. “I like it. I’m sure Crandall will like it, too, and between us, the rest of the Partners will fall into line. No promises, of course.”

Gwen smiled. “Of course. And there’s one last item of business.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “Yes?”

“You.”

“Me?” he asked, sitting up again.

Gwen slowly stood, looking down on him; he checked to be absolutely certain the gun was still on the couch. “Yes, you. Ken, what is it with you? I’ve been flirting with you, half of the women on the production have been flirting with you, and you’ve been as cold as a rock. You’re not gay, I could tell from a mile away if you were. You’re not married, even though you could pick up a wife without any of that bothersome courtship that most men are confronted with. Yesterday afternoon, you had me so worked up I would have come crawling across the carpet to get laid by you, and... nothing.”

She walked around the table, slowly. “You can have any woman you want. Is that the problem? You’ve mindfucked so many women that you’re bored with cunt-fucking? The baker gets sick of bread, the cobbler has no shoes. You don’t want yet another woman throwing herself at you because she’s been programmed to do it. You want one offering herself up, in the way you want, because she wants it too.”

He could only stare.

She reached behind her, pulled a zipper. The dress fell off; she was naked under it. Her pink nipples, atop her full, round breasts, were already erect. She stepped up in front of him, dropped to her knees, head bowed, hands behind her head.

He found his voice. “Why are you doing this, Gwen?” he asked, softly.

She was an actress; she knew her role. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” she replied, her voice delicate. Some movement, and then she could see, at the top of her vision, the black sunglasses lying on his lap, like another pair of eyes examining her.

“Granted,” he said, his voice stronger.

She summoned all her courage and snapped her head up, staring directly into his face. A perfectly normal pair of brown, amused eyes returned her gaze. She gasped, involuntarily. “Disappointed?” he asked with a sardonic smile. She shook her head, slowly, her green eyes huge, her mouth open slightly. “You were going to say something,” he reminded her, the amusement disappearing.

She took a deep breath. “Kenneth Thybalt, you make a living abducting women and turning them into sex slaves for rich men. You cover this up with a layer of piety and good works, making you even more dishonest. You would have gladly destroyed myself and my career to fulfill your contract with Harrow. You were responsible for my mother marrying my repulsive beast of a father.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are, without a doubt, the most evil man I have ever met. And in my line of work, you meet some real beauties.”

He did not react. She continued, her face softening again. “As any student of the cinema can tell you, a good villain is much sexier than any hero. I’m doing this because you make me wet.” There was a long pause, as they regarded each other.

He nodded, slowly, replacing the glasses; they almost seemed to click into place. She looked down, took a deep breath, pulled her lines together. When she looked up again, she was a different person: a lost, helpless young woman, almost still a girl, utterly unable to conceive of the situation she found herself in, terrified of what might happen. Her voice cracked, tears formed and ran down her face. “Please, Dr. Thybalt. Don’t do anything to me. I’m still a virgin.” It was perfect; she knew how good she was.

And, it had the desired effect. Faster than she could hope to react, Thybalt reached out, grabbed her hair, pulling her head back; the other grabbed her throat, pushing her over onto her side, then rolling her onto her stomach. Her legs were shoved apart; it took all her will to keep from raising her hips, offering herself to him, but that wasn’t what the part required. She heard him unzip, then grab her, raise her up. Suddenly, his cock plunged into her pussy, both more painful and more wonderful than she could ever have imagined; she could not conceal that her cunt was already sopping. She felt him press a thumb against her asshole, and she knew that particular virginity was not going to be left to her, either. The thought gave her the first orgasm of the morning.

The consoles in the center of the Hex Room were alive. Thybalt stood behind the operator, watching carefully, pointing silently at controls or parts of the computer screen as required. The lush blonde woman on the monitors was kneeling the middle of her cell, staring at the screen. Her own face stared back from the wall, wry, amused, superior.

The operator spoke into the microphone, “You wish to serve, and please, and obey. You wish nothing else.”

The blonde slowly masturbated, her eyes huge. “I wish to serve, and please, and obey. I wish nothing else.”

“You wish to give pleasure with your body. You wish to give pleasure with your mouth, your breasts, your hands, your pussy... with everything you possess.”

A quiver ran through her body as she stroked her breasts with the other hand. “I wish to give pleasure with my body.”

“You will pleasure men and women equally. You exist to give pleasure. You will lick pussies, suck cocks, provide women and men with access to your body.”

The blonde woman blinked. “I... I will pleasure men and women... I... ooooh, please, I’m not...”

“You are bisexual. You are more than bisexual, you are a pleasure slave who has no choice in her masters. You desire women, their pussies, their breasts, their mouths, everything about them is arousing.”

“I... I am... bisexual,” the blonde woman began with a long sigh, a moan, a quiver. A light died in her eyes.

After another twenty minutes, the operator turned the program onto automatic, bringing up the Incubus, and stood. Thybalt smiled. “That was very well done, Gwen,” he said.

“Thank you. You knew I was a good actress,” she replied, smiling back. “And thank you for letting me work with Corinne. Good help is so hard to find these days.”

Thybalt nodded, looked at his watch. “It’s time to go to the board meeting. Crandall thought your suggestion was an excellent one. The ‘feminine touch,’ he called it. The vote to make you a Partner was unanimous, of course.”

She laughed, sweetly. She started towards the door, turned, noticed the monitors were still on; Corinne’s face, blank and empty, stared at the Incubus, her pussy dripping, slowly, onto the floor. Gwen returned to the console, turned off the displays; they faded to blackness.

She turned to Thybalt as they walked to the door. “So, Katheryn Hollis, eh? My agent knows her fiancé;. You must introduce me to her sometime.”

Side by side, they left the Hex Room. The door closed behind them.