The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My name is Jack Wolfe. I’m a P.I. That’s private investigator for you berks who’ve never opened a book or seen a movie. I find things, unless they find me first. Sometimes I’m good, sometimes I’m lucky, sometimes I’m neither, but I know the back alleys of Chrystal Heights like the back of my hand. No matter where my hand’s been.

Her name was Veronica Westwood. She was blonde, stacked and had a walk that could knock a nun off a bike.

She had entered my office moments earlier, her rounded derriere moving like two Volkswagen beetles in a close race. Her wardrobe had fallen off a runway model a minute before she walked in, with her knee-length skirt hugging her hips like it was vacuum-sealed. Her cool exterior belied a simmering heat, though…molten lava dipped in frost.

She was upper crust and if we’d met on the street, she’d have given me the high hat. But she needed my help, so she was sitting at my desk, trying to touch as little of the furniture as possible.

I leaned back in my chair and lit a smoke. She was too young to have a missing teen kid and she had a ring on her finger, so it was probably another boo-hoo-hoo-I-think-my-husband-is-cheating-on-me case. I blew a stream of smoke and gave the blonde my best quizzical expression.

She gave my cigarette a look of disapproval. “Must you engage in that right now, Mister Wolfe? I’d rather not have the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to my hair for the rest of the day.”

I shrugged. “Your hair should quit smoking then, Miss Westwood. It’s a nasty habit.”

She gave me an ice-cold stare. Then she sighed and said, “I need your help, Mister Wolfe.”

I tapped an ash onto the floor. “So I gather, Miss Westwood, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Are you always this abrasive to your clients, detective?”

“To answer your question, Miss Westwood, no, not to my clients. To my potential clients? Well, that depends.”

“Depends on what, Mister Wolfe?”

“On whether or not they ever get around to telling me what their problem is.”

Her eyes flashed and her mouth opened to retort, but then she changed her mind. This dame was fire and ice.

“I apologize for prevaricating, Mister Wolfe. The matter is not an easy one to discuss.”

I blew another stream over the desk. “Try starting from the beginning.”

“Very well, Mister Wolfe,” she said, her hand waving smoke from her face. “I haven’t seen my sister Carina in over a year. Then last night she arrived at my doorstep. She hugged me and said hello. I asked her where she had been and why she had shown up out of the blue. As soon as I asked her, she fell onto my couch and began masturbating.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry? Did you say she...?”

She met my gaze squarely. “Yes, Mister Wolfe, I said she started masturbating. And she continues to do so any time I attempt to ask her any personal questions about the past year.”

I stared at her for a second. Then I reached over and crushed out my cigarette. “Cheating husband, my ass,” I muttered.

“I’m sorry?” said Miss Westwood.

“Nothing,” I said. Something was tickling the back of my mind, but it hadn’t taken form yet. I ignored it for now and concentrated on gathering information. “So you say you haven’t seen your sister in over a year and now she can’t keep her fingers out of the honeypot when you talk to her?”

“I can do without your euphemisms, Mister Wolfe,” she said, her jaw rigid, “and yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“All right. Do you have any idea at all where she was for the last year or what is causing this behavior?”

“Yes, Mister Wolfe,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I do have some clues, vague though they are.”

I raised an eyebrow. This dame was no blabbermouth. I was starting to think I’d need a crowbar to pry the story out of her. “Please enlighten me then, Miss Westwood.”

She shifted slightly, her curved hip contrasting the straight lines of her chair. “I intend to, detective, but first, I need to know if you will take the case. There are certain caveats to make clear before we...do business.”

“I’m listening, Miss Westwood.”

“You may call me Veronica.”

“Please continue, Miss Westwood.”

She sighed, then said, “The first caveat, Mister Wolfe, is that you cannot speak with my sister.”

I looked at her with raised eyebrows. “And why is that, Miss Westwood?”

She met my gaze coolly. “One, because my sister is in hiding at the moment for her own safety and I’m not going to compromise that at this time, not even for answers. And two, because she cannot answer questions without touching herself, Mister Wolfe, and I’m not going to let you be an audience to that.”

“I see,” I said. “And how am I supposed to know where to look?”

“I will help you to the best of my ability,” she said. “Other than that…well, you’re a detective, Mister Wolfe. It’s your job to figure something out.”

“All right,” I said. “That it?”

“No,” she said. “There’s more. Are you familiar with my family, Mister Wolfe?”

And suddenly the subtle tickling at the back of my mind took shape as a piece of the puzzle slid into place.

“If you’re talking about the North Heights Westwoods, then yeah,” I said. “Your old man gets around. Banking, stocks, industry. Worth more than Chrystal Heights law allows. The Heights Post did an article on your family a week or two ago. They mentioned something about...”

“...something about my sister having been gone for over a year,” said Veronica, “which was true at the time. Although that tabloid rag got precious little else right.”

“Are you saying that nobody knows Carina is back?”

“That is correct, Mister Wolfe,” she said. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. So I’m sure you understand my next request. We do not wish the police- and certainly not the media- to be involved in any way.”

“Weren’t the police informed about Carina’s return?”

“No,” she said. “She was never reported as missing. That was an exaggeration made by the Post for the sake of selling a few more copies. Trust me, Mister Wolfe, the police do not need to be informed about Carina’s return.”

“Miss Westwood,” I said, “you understand that I can’t undertake anything illegal? I won’t risk my license.”

“If anything illegal is proposed, Mister Wolfe, you will be at perfect liberty to withdraw.”

She hadn’t answered my question, of course, but she was a rich dame and used to getting own way.

“No promises,” I said, “but I’ll do what I can to keep the police and media out of it.”

“That’s not a satisfactory answer, detective.”

“It’s the best I can provide for now, Miss Westwood.”

She glared at me, her flawless features ice-cold, but I didn’t budge. Finally she relented.

“Then it will have to do for now,” she said. “Finally, Mister Wolfe, there’s one more thing you need to know.”

“I’m listening.”

She gave me a level gaze. “We have reason to believe that an element of mind control is involved.”

“May I ask why you suspect that, Miss Westwood? Aside from the involuntary clit-tickling, of course.”

To my surprise, she almost smiled. Almost.

“Mister Wolfe,” she said, “you are an abrasive lech. I hope you are as good at your job as you are at attempting to manufacture a rise from your potential clients.”

No dumb bunny, this one. Yeah, I was pushing, trying to trip her up. She was hiding something and I didn’t know what. Angry people often blurt things out, so an obnoxious word here, a vague hint there, sometimes you can learn something you wouldn’t hear otherwise. But she had caught on to what I was doing and recognized it for what it was.

“My apologies, Miss Westwood,” I said, “but the question still stands. What makes you suspect mind-control?”

“I don’t suspect, Mister Wolfe,” she said. “I know for a fact that mind-control is involved, because it involves a pair of…artifacts owned by my family.”

“Go on.”

“A pair of rings, Mister Wolfe,” she said. “A master ring and a slave ring. Whoever is wearing the master ring controls the wearer of the slave ring.”

I leveled a steady gaze in her direction. “That’s a powerful set of items, Miss Westwood.”

She didn’t bat an eye. “I’m aware of that, Mister Wolfe,” she said, “so I’m sure you can appreciate why we prefer no police or media involvement. They can be very close-minded about these things.”

Life in Chrystal Heights. Geez.

“All right, Miss Westwood. Leaving aside the ethics debate for now, why do you think the rings figure into this case?”

“Because when my sister Carina came home last night, she was wearing the slave ring.”

Finally the facts were emerging. The younger Westwood sister had the slave ring on and she was apparently locked into whatever orders her master- the person wearing the master ring- had given her.

“So why not just take the ring off Carina?” I asked.

“Because we can’t, Mister Wolfe. Only the person wearing the master ring can remove the slave ring. Which is why we need to locate the person or persons involved. Which is why we need you, Mister Wolfe.”

So that was my case in a nutshell. Find the person who had taken the master ring and left Carina Westwood pushing the button to her wetworks.

It wouldn’t be easy. Veronica said she hadn’t seen her sister in over a year. I was going to have to retrace her steps.

At least I had a starting point, though. Veronica said when Carina left home the previous year, she had moved in with a woman named Tonya. She didn’t know Tonya’s last name and Carina was almost certainly using a different name than her own, but Veronica did recall that they were roommates living in a complex called the Crosswinds. An Internet search for the Crosswinds had turned up nothing, however. That was when they decided to hire me.

“Just find the person or persons responsible for putting my sister in this condition, Mister Wolfe,” she said. “You do not need to apprehend them or even speak with them. Just locate them. My family will take it from there.”

“All right, Miss Westwood,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do. If I get a chance to retrieve the ring, should I do so?”

“That would not be a good idea, Mister Wolfe. Handled incorrectly, the ring would invade your mind in ways I’m sure you wouldn’t appreciate. And to be clear, I am not hiring you to locate the ring. I am hiring you to discretely locate the person who has the ring. Discretely, Mister Wolfe.”

“I am nothing if not discrete, Miss Westwood.”

“Mister Wolfe,” she said, her lips a soft pout, “I’m putting my sister’s fate in your hands. Please call me Veronica.”

Her eyes were only slightly wet. She was good.

“All right, Veronica,” I said. “And you can call me Jack.”

We shook hands, her holding my hand only a micro-second longer than necessary. She gave me her contact information and left. I got to work.