The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Police detective Paul Shaw and his partner Daphne Fortman mounted the stone steps leading up to the front door of the Georgian Revival house carefully. This wasn’t a raid, after all. Not yet, anyway. They were here only to ask the house’s reclusive owner a few questions about what went on here.

The door sported a big brass knocker. Shaw used it, rapping sharply once, twice, three times. After a few seconds, he heard footsteps.

The door opened, revealing a very attractive young blonde woman in a business suit which did nothing to conceal the fact that she had a spectacular figure. “Yes?” she asked politely. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re here to see the owner,” Detective Shaw said, trying not to stare at the expanse of chest over which the woman’s blouse and jacket stretched tightly. “I don’t suppose that would be you.” Did a note of hope creep into his voice?

“No, I’m afraid not,” laughed the blonde. “I’m just Miss Bettina’s assistant.” She turned away and called over one shoulder, “Make yourselves comfortable and I’ll let her know we have guests.” The “assistant” walked away.

Daphne eyed the detective. There was a reason the precinct had sent out a man and a woman on this job. The owner of this fancy house, a Bettina Crawford, was suspected of running a high-class call-girl service, and the higher-ups wanted this inquiry to be free of any taint of suspicion that Crawford had been able to suborn the investigators. Shaw’s reaction to the woman who’d greeted them suggested that was smart thinking.

Privately, Daphne thought it would have made more sense to send two women. But this was a rather sensitive matter—apparently there were some big names in local politics suspected of being tied up with this place—apparently the department felt a man had to be in charge.

Not that Shaw was a bad choice, she admitted. The tall, ruggedly handsome detective, who looked at least several years younger than the forty-five she knew was his real age, had a solid record. He’d come up through the ranks, first as a uniformed officer and then in plain clothes, and as a detective had made a number of big busts. And unlike some of his colleagues, he’d done it without ever being touched by any hint of corruption. That had made him a perfect choice for vice, where temptation was particularly intense.

Still, he was a guy. With a guy, you never knew when some slut would come along who pushed all his buttons. And if it were going to happen, someplace like this would be where.

The front parlor into which the two police officers stepped from the vestibule was certainly well-appointed for visitors. A long, low glass-topped table occupied the center of the room, and was surrounded on three sides by plush sofas. A stone fireplace with a screen centered one wall, and a set of bookshelves occupied the opposite wall. Lighting was supplied by overhead fixtures and by wall-mounted sconces made to resemble those which would have held torches in a medieval castle, as well as by the floor-to-ceiling windows which adorned the wall facing the street. At the moment, the windows were enough: bright late-afternoon sunshine streamed through them into the room. Several well-upholstered chairs stood around in seemingly random arrangement. A large, very comfortable-looking couch of the sort which could be unfolded into a bed stood against one wall.

Shaw and Fortman sat down and waited. There was no point in pushing, after all. But after ten minutes or so, both of them were growing impatient. Politeness had its limits.

Almost as if that had been what their hostess was waiting for, there was a sudden sound of approaching footsteps. Moments later, two women appeared.

One was the self-styled “assistant” who had met them at the door. She came in pushing a small wheeled tray holding a faintly steaming coffeepot, several cups, and small containers of what looked like milk, sugar and perhaps artificial sweetener. The other . . . .

The other, beneath a spectacular pile of red hair, had an incredible body: long, well, curved legs, broad hips, a tiny waist, and the biggest pair of breasts either of them had ever seen. On someone else, the form-fitting slacks, blouse and jacket she wore would have seemed businesslike; on her, they only emphasized her incredible figure, as did the five-inch spike heels she wore.

The blonde rolled her tray up to the table before straightening and, with a gesture toward the redhead, saying, “This is Miss Bettina, officers.”

“Charmed,” the redhead purred. She gave a little bow, exposing an unbelievable depth of cleavage. As Paul and Daphne made to stand, she waved at them, “No, no. Don’t get up. Let me play hostess, and you can tell me what’s on your minds. Now, how do you like your coffee?”

They shouldn’t be doing this, Detective Shaw thought. They were letting this woman take control of the situation. But somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. The chair he was sitting in was just too soft, and there was a whiff of something in the air, something vaguely familiar and oddly relaxing. He sat, nodding, as Ms. Crawford poured, first for her guests and then for herself. She took her own coffee black, he noticed.

Names were exchanged. The blonde assistant’s turned out to be Vera. Once introductions had been made, Ms. Crawford apparently didn’t need her anymore. “Run along now, Vera dear,” she instructed. “I’ll call for you when I need you again.” Vera left with a quiet “Yes, Miss Bettina.”

Shaw took a sip of his coffee, which as always he’d taken light with sugar, and then another. Across from him, his partner did the same. Neither of them spoke. It was Bettina Crawford who broke the silence: “Well, officers, what can I do for you today?”

It was an effort to marshal words. “Call girls,” Shaw said at length.

“Yes?” prompted Bettina. She had seated herself on the big, soft-looking couch, and as she addressed the senior detective she bent forward slightly, diving him a better view of the massive bosom her blouse and jacket both concealed and emphasized. He found himself picturing that formidable chest bare, and had to fight to banish the image.

It was Daphne who followed up: “We’re looking into some al, alga,” she shook her head as if trying to clear it, “allegations that you’re op . . . oper . . . running a call girl ring,” she explained.

She took another sip of her coffee and blinked. There was something wrong. She looked down into her nearly empty cup. Oh yeah, she thought. She was sure she’d asked for sugar without milk, yet clearly “Miss Bettina” had made a mistake and added milk anyway. Stupid cow, Daphne thought. “Moo,” she said aloud. Well, it didn’t matter.

Bettina Crawford looked at the two police investigators sitting across from her and smiled. Yes, things were coming along nicely. The poor dears didn’t have a clue what was happening to them, but it was obvious to her. And now it was time to take charge in earnest. She stood, towering over her seated guests.

“It’s very warm in here, don’t you think?” she purred. She slithered out of her jacket, draping it over her chair. Shaw noticed that her white blouse seemed slightly stained, just where her nipples would be under its straining fabric. She didn’t seem to be wearing a bra, either.

“Oh my God,” the detective breathed. He couldn’t look away from that chest.

“Wait a minute,” Daphne Fortman managed. For some reason, she was having a hard time keeping her own eyes off Miss Bettina’s boobs. She felt slightly giddy, and there was that smell in the air, something she seemed almost to remember, something from a long time ago that made it hard for her to keep her defenses up. “Shaw, don’t.” Don’t what, she didn’t say. She didn’t really know.

“Everything’s all right, Daphne dear,” Bettina assured her. “You can feel that, can’t you? You can just feel that you’re safe here, that you can trust me. You don’t have to think about it. You don’t have to think.”

“Don’t have to think,” Daphne heard herself agreeing. She relaxed and let her eyes come to rest on Miss Bettina’s bosom.

“That’s right,” said the redhead. “You don’t have to think. You’re safe here. Both of you are safe here.”

“Safe here,” two voices crooned in unison.

“But there’s something you need, isn’t there?” Bettina stepped forward and placed one hand on Paul’s head and the other on Daphne’s. “Something you haven’t had in a long, long time, so long that you’ve forgotten how much you want it, how much you need it.”

She took her hands off the detectives and reached for her blouse, slowly unbuttoning it as the officers watched. At last she had it completely open. She eased out of it and placed it carefully over the back of the couch on top of her jacket. She wasn’t wearing anything under it.

Paul heard a gurgling sound and realized he had made it. Those tits, those impossible tits! They were like something out of a cartoon! And it wasn’t merely that they were huge and somehow self-supporting despite their size. They seemed engorged, as though “Miss Bettina” were nursing. And that smell, that vaguely familiar, tantalizing smell, was stronger than ever. Without consciously intending to do so, he rose from his chair and moved toward the redhead seated on the couch.

“That’s right,” the woman crooned, “come here, you know you need to come here, just come and sit next to me, Paul, you too, Daphne, come sit by me.” Paul obeyed. He was vaguely aware that Daphne was doing so as well, settling on the couch to Miss Bettina’s left as he was seating himself to her right.

Bettina Crawford smiled as the dazed detectives sat down. With every passing moment they were falling deeper under her control. And what they would do next would make them hers completely.

She reached for them, running her long-nailed fingers through their hair, and pulled them closer. Then she placed her hands under her massive mams and lifted them. “Suck, dears,” she directed. “Go ahead, you know you need to. You’re so hungry.”

And Paul and Daphne did as she had commanded, fastening their lips on her nipples, Paul on the right, Daphne on the left. They sucked greedily, and as they did their bodies shuddered with ecstasy. Daphne’s own smaller nips strained at the fabric of her blouse, while Paul’s pants tented over a swelling erection.

Bettina sighed happily. She’d needed that herself. She’d been so full, and although the pump could ease the pressure—and just incidentally provide her with a ready supply of the special milk her body produced, which she could slip into a visitor’s coffee as she had done with these two and the first time she’d met each of the girls who now worked for her—this was much more satisfying! She relaxed and let her mind drift back.

She had been seventeen when she’d discovered she wasn’t like other girls. Her chest had started growing three years earlier, and she’d outgrown all the regular bra sizes. She’d had to start getting her bras from specialty shops. It was really embarrassing.

Of course, all the guys loved it! She had no trouble getting dates. Quite the opposite! She had to pick and choose. And the truth was, she didn’t want to. The bigger her boobs got, the hornier she seemed to get. But she couldn’t spend all her time screwing around! And some guys just didn’t seem to want to take “no” for an answer.

One of those guys was Bud Templeton. Captain of the basketball squad, blond, blue-eyed and leanly muscular, he thought he was God’s gift to the opposite sex, and a lot of girls seemed to think so too. Bettina hadn’t been one of them: Bud had to struggle to maintain a C- average, and he’d already gotten busted once for driving drunk. She didn’t need that in her life. Unfortunately, he thought otherwise.

One evening after a game he’d cornered her and dragged her under the bleachers, gagging her with one meaty hand so she couldn’t call for help while pulling her along with the other arm. “C’mon,” he’d taunted, “you know you want it, Betty Boobies”—Lord, how she’d hated that nickname!—“and I’m just the guy to give you what you want!”

She’d tried to struggle, but he’d been just too strong. He’d pinned her down and demanded, “Let’s see what’s under that shirt, boobie baby!”

“No,” she’d tried to say under his muffling left hand.

“What’s that? Yes?” Bud had held her down with the weight of his body and started unbuttoning her blouse with his right hand. “C’mon, baby, help me here, or do I have to do all the work?” When she tried to struggle, he’d just grinned and said, “Okay, baby, if that’s how you want it!” He’d kept right on opening her buttons.

When the last one was done and Bettina’s blouse hung loose, Bud had leered down at her in triumph. “Great tits, baby,” he’d gloated. “Now let’s see ‘em without the pillowcases!” He’d yanked at her bra, breaking the snap and pulling it free.

“Holeeee—!” Bud had seemed stunned by her naked breasts. Bettina had been dully unsurprised. They’d just gotten so big, she felt like a freak, but guys loved them.

Then her captor had lowered his head to one of her tips and put his mouth on the nipple, sucking—and something strange had happened.

Bettina had been conscious for weeks of a growing pressure in her tits. It had gotten uncomfortable enough that she’d been planning to see a doctor. But as Bud sucked, there was a sudden rushing sensation in that breast, and the pressure seemed to ease.

And something had happened to Bud, too. His whole body was shuddering, and he seemed to have forgotten everything but sucking away. After a minute or so he’d stopped and rolled off her.

“Bud?” Bettina had been glad to get free, but what was wrong with Bud? He was just lying there, a silly smile on his face. “Bud, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

“Hear you,” the big blond boy had mumbled. “Yes, Mommy.”

Yes, Mommy? Bettina had thought. This was weird! It was almost as if he was drugged or something!

Idly, Bettina ran a finger over the taut nipple of the breast Bud hadn’t sucked. A tiny drop of—something—oozed out, coating her fingertip. Without quite intending to, she’d licked it off.

The next thing she knew, she was sucking greedily at that breast, holding it up to let her mouth get a purchase. Pleasure roared through her, washing away all thought.

Twenty minutes later (she’d figured out the time later), she’d become aware of a girl’s voice giggling stupidly. Two or three more minutes passed before she realized that the voice was her own, and that she was lying naked behind the bleachers, fondling herself. And it was still another five minutes before she could pull herself together enough to look for her clothes.

As she did, she spotted Bud. He was still out of it, limp behind the bleachers except for a huge boner. He lay there grinning idiotically and staring up with glassy eyes.

Just how far out of it is he? she’d wondered. “Bud,” she addressed him, “Bud baby, can you hear me?”

“Hear you,” he’d said, just as before. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Bud,” she’d gone on, “you liked sucking my tit, didn’t you, baby? You’d do anything to get to do that again, wouldn’t you? You’d do anything I say.”

“Anything . . . you say. Yes, Mommy.”

This was creepy—but it was also exciting. “All right, then, Bud,” Bettina had continued, “the first thing you need to do is stop calling me Mommy. Call me Bettina. Do you understand, and will you do what I said?”

“Yes, Bettina,” had come the reply.

It had worked! It was like he was in a trance! Remembering what had happened to her, she made a guess: whatever had made her tits grow so big was making them make milk now, and there was something in that milk that worked like a powerful drug.

Bettina had smiled wickedly. This calls for more testing, she’d thought. Lots more!

“I tell you what, Bud,” she’d said to her stupefied companion. “You want to fuck me and suck my tits? Fine—but when I say ‘stop, Bud,’ you stop. You don’t move, you don’t speak, you don’t anything, until I say ‘go, Bud.’ Do you understand, Bud, and will you do what I want? Remember, you’ll only get to fuck and suck me if you do as I say, Bud.”

“Uhh-uhh-unnhhh-derstand,“ Bud had moaned.

“Then go right ahead, Bud baby,” the bounteous redhead had commanded. “Suck away, and fuck me like there’s no tomorrow!”

And Bud had obeyed, clutching at Bettina mindlessly and sucking her breasts while thrusting robotically into her. Very soon he was shuddering with the approach of climax, the sensations strong enough to make him arch back away from her nipple.

So was Bettina. It had been all she could manage to summon the wits to gasp out, “Stop, Bud!”

But that had been enough. The muscular youth atop her had suddenly gone still as a statue, with his head thrown back, eyes clenched shut and teeth gritted, as if he were a single-frame picture of a guy just about to come.

Bettina had counted to a hundred, marveling at the power she now seemed to have over a guy she’d found threatening just a little while before, before finally saying, “Go, Bud!” And at those words, Bud had gone back to thrusting and gasping. Within seconds he’d come, explosively, giving out a squeal of pleasure as he did. Bettina had climaxed a moment later, adding her own cry to Bud’s.

They’d lain there together quietly for a few minutes. At last Bettina had roused herself. They couldn’t stay here, she realized as her wits returned: someone might find them. But there was something more she wanted to do with Bud. She rolled over and propped herself on her arms, letting her huge hooters hang in the blond boy’s face.

“Listen to me, Bud honey,” she’d said to him. “Open your eyes and listen to me.”

“Yes, Bettina,” the answer had come. Bud’s eyes had opened, blank and glassy.

“We need to get dressed now,” she’d told him. “We need to get dressed and go home. And when you leave here, Bud, you must forget everything that happened here. You must forget all about it, Bud, because if you don’t, you’ll never get to fuck me and suck my tits, my magic tits, ever again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Bettina,” Bud had answered drowsily. “When I leave here . . . I must forget everything that happened here. Or I’ll never get to . . . fuck and suck you . . . again.”

“That’s right, Bud. And you want to do that more than anything. You need it, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Bettina.” Bud had nodded slowly. “Want that . . . more than anything. Need it.”

“Anything you want,” Bud had echoed. ”Anything—!“

Bettina had smiled wickedly. “And because you want that more than anything, because you need that, if you hear me say the words ‘magic tits,’ Bud, you’ll stop whatever you’re doing, think only about fucking me and sucking my tits, and obey my every command like you were hypnotized, until I snap you out of it. Understand, baby?”

“Understand,” the mumbled answer had come. “’Magic tits’ . . . stop what I’m doing . . . think only about fuckin’ you and suckin’ your . . . tits. Obey . . . like I was hyp-notized . . . till you snap me . . . out of it. Yes, Bettina.”

“Then let’s get dressed now, Bud, let’s get dressed and leave.” Bettina had rolled away, sat up and begun methodically reclothing herself. Glancing over, she’d seen a still glassy-eyed Bud doing likewise.

Bettina smiled at the memories. Bud had obeyed her every suggestion, of course. She’d tested him the next day. First, she’d teased him about what they’d done the previous evening, drawing a baffled look and a “What’re you talking about, Betty Boobies?” from him. Then, ever so casually, she’d said, “Don’t you remember about my magic tits, Bud?”

It had worked like a charm: he’d gone all blank and mumbled, “Yes, Bettina.” A few simple commands had established that he really was back under her power.

Since then, she’d learned a lot more about what she could do. Her boobs had kept growing for months after Bud’s enthrallment, and had begun producing their magic milk regularly. And once that had happened, she’d been in business. She’d stayed in school long enough to graduate, though with her new secret weapon she’d hardly needed to show up for classes. All she’d had to do was arrange for a “conference” with each of her teachers, and one with the principal, and the fix was in. What had worked with Bud worked with everyone.

And the rest was history. With her special talents, prostitution was a natural: men—and for that matter women—couldn’t say no to her. She’d arranged to meet all sorts of influential people, and soon had had a number of well-placed—well—she laughed—suckers. As her business had expanded, she’d hired a growing staff of the best girls in the business. Her employees might not have her unique gifts, but having a stable let her broaden her reach. And of course, each of her girls was totally obedient to her, and all it took to keep them that way was a sip now and again.

She sighed and closed her eyes. Paul and Daphne had sucked her almost completely dry, and were now simply slumped on either side of her, faces resting against the pillowing flesh of her bosom. They were very obviously no longer inclined to ask her any questions. Their wills had begun to erode the moment they’d caught even the smell of her engorged breasts, and once they’d actually tasted what those breasts produced, they had belonged to her completely.

It was time. Shifting position to free herself a little, Bettina clapped her hands sharply, once, twice. “Vera, dear,” she called out, “I need you. Bring the camera crew, please.” From somewhere nearby came an answering “Yes, Miss Bettina.”

A few minutes later, several women entered the room, led by the blonde Vera. They were carrying an assortment of video equipment, which they set up with the ease of practice. When they were done, Bettina nodded and turned to the glaze-eyed Paul Shaw.

“Paul dear,” she said, “sit up, open your eyes and listen to me.”

“Yes. . . .” The detective obeyed.

Bettina turned to Daphne. “Daphne dear, you trust me completely, don’t you? You’ll do anything I say, believe anything I tell you, think and remember only what I tell you to think and remember, isn’t that right.”

“Yes. . . .” Daphne’s own head came up and she nodded drowsily. “That . . . that’s right.”

“I’m so glad, Daphne dear,” Bettina crooned. “Now listen carefully. You’re dreaming, Daphne, you’re deeply asleep and you’re dreaming, and in this dream you’re not really a police detective. You’ve just dressed up as one. You’re one of my girls, Daphne, and in a moment you’re going to hear some sexy music and you’re going to strip out of that costume for this man here.” She gestured at Paul. “You’re going to strip as if you were a professional stripper, and the more clothes you take off, the more inhibitions will go with them, and it will be fine, Daphne, it will be wonderful, because it’s only a dream and you can do anything in a dream and not even remember it if you don’t want to. Say ‘Yes, Miss Bettina’ if you accept and believe everything I’ve told you and will do as I’ve asked.”

“Yes, Miss Bettina.” Up and down went Daphne’s head again.

“That’s good, Daphne dear. Now just wait until you hear the music, Daphne, relax and wait.”

“Relax . . . ‘n’ wait.” Daphne sighed and snuggled next to Bettina on the couch cushions. Her eyes closed. “Mmmm.”

Shortly Vera appeared, accompanied by three other women, all stunningly sexy. Two of them carried video equipment, which they proceeded to set up with the ease of practice. The third handed Bettina a small CD player, already loaded.

The massive-mammaried madam accepted the player and nodded approval. She got up, placed the player on one of the side tables flanking the couch, and turned it on. Brassy, thumping music began to emerge.

Daphne smiled. She loved this, dancing and stripping for the men who came to her mistress, even having sex with them if Miss Bettina said to. And she liked role-playing, too, dressing up in costumes and pretending to be something she wasn’t, to make her strip act more fun not only for her audience but for her, too.

Somewhere deep inside, there remained a flicker of awareness that she was dreaming. She didn’t care. She rose from the couch in a fluid motion, stepped out onto the open floor to give herself room and began to dance.

Bettina turned her attention back to Paul Shaw. Gently grasping his chin between a thumb and forefinger and lifting from where it rested against her shoulder, she looked into his face and said, " I have something to show you, Paul, something you want to see.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the detective murmured meekly. His eyes oriented toward the sound of her voice. As Bettina expected, they had the whitish glaze people usually got after tasting her magical milk.

Bettina turned Paul’s chin until he was facing his partner, who was now deep in the fantasy Bettina had suggested to her. The mesmerizing madam chuckled. At the moment, Daphne knew Paul only as an anonymous man for whom she must dance, while Paul wasn’t even aware of her. That was about to change.

The ravishing redhead turned to the girls with the video equipment and asked, “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, Miss Bettina,” the camera crew chorused. “Everything is ready.” Three heads bobbed up and down.

“Perfect,” purred Bettina. Turning to face the prancing Daphne, she called out, “That’s it, Daphne dear, work it. Work it! And as you dance, you’re getting hotter and hotter, hornier and hornier, just as you always do. You can’t help it, and it makes you dance better, and the better you dance, the more you turn on the men who are watching you, the hornier you get, which makes you dance even better. Dance, Daphne, dance and strip.”

Giggling, Daphne did as she’d been told. She slithered out of her suit jacket first, then teasingly unbuttoned the blouse beneath, watching from under half-closed eyelids as the man on the couch gaped at her performance. He was very obviously aroused, and knowing that made her hot, too, made her want to turn him on even more. “More an’ more,” she babbled. “Hotter an’ hotter!” As she writhed, video cameras recorded every move and sound. She didn’t notice them. At the moment, she wouldn’t have known what a camera was for anyway, and wouldn’t have cared. She had more important things on her mind.

She tossed away her unbuttoned blouse, revealing the heavy bra underneath she needed to restrain her own large bosom. A moan escaped from the watching Paul Shaw and Daphne giggled again, making her boobs quiver like Jell-O. She reached to unfasten her bra.

Bettina laughed. This Daphne was deep in the fantasy, she saw. Now it was her partner’s turn.

“You like watching Daphne dancing, don’t you, detective?” she asked. It wasn’t really a question.

“Ohhh yes,” Paul moaned. He squirmed on the couch, his erection grown to massive proportions.

“I’m sure she’d like to watch you, too,” Bettina told him. “Have you ever heard of the Chippendale dancers, Paul? They’re male strippers, top of the line male strippers. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you.”

“Yesss,” the dazed detective hissed. “H-h-heard of them.” He shuddered, very obviously about to climax.

“No, no.” Bettina cautioned, “not yet, Paul. You can’t come yet.”

“Nnnnhhh,” came the gasped reply. “N-n-not yet. . . .” Paul’s body obeyed, remaining trapped just short of coming.

“Now Paul,” Bettina went on, “right now Daphne doesn’t remember she’s a police detective. She’s a stripper instead, a sexy stripper. You understand, don’t you? Say ‘Yes, Miss Bettina’ if you understand.”

“Yes, Miss Bettina. Uh-uhhnn-understand. S-s-sexy stripper, oh God!” As the mesmerizing madam had guided Paul Shaw deeper into the fantasy she was creating for him, Daphne had continued to dance. Her bra was gone now, and Paul was getting an eyeful as she bent forward to slide her tight trousers down her well-developed legs.

“Now Paul, you don’t remember her as a police officer either. She’s a stripper. But you’re still her partner, Paul. You’re a stripper too, Paul, a male stripper like the Chippendale dancers, and you’re her partner, and when you see her dancing and hear the music that means you’re supposed to strip too.”

“S-supposed to . . . strip too.” Paul nodded and began to push himself upright off the couch.

Bettina laid a hand on his arm, easily pushing him back down. “I just need to remind you, Paul. Do you remember what the two of you do together when you’re both naked?”

“We, uh, I—!” Paul stopped. After a few seconds, he mumbled, “I . . . I forget.” His face crumpled, almost as if he were about to cry.

“That’s all right, Paul dear,” Bettina soothed. The detective relaxed. “The two of you have sex, you have hot, passionate, real sex, while the music plays. And when the music stops, you get up, get dressed and come back here to the couch with Bettina. Do you understand?” With wicked inspiration born of her memories of Bud Templeton, she directed, “Say ‘Yes, Mommy mistress’ if you understand and will do as I’ve asked.”

“Yes, Mommy mistress.”

Bettina smiled. “Then go ahead,” she commanded. “Daphne’s already dancing, dear, and she’s getting ahead of you in taking her clothes off. You know what you have to do while the music’s playing, Paul, so go ahead.” Turning her head slightly, she addressed the waiting video crew: “Roll ‘em, girls.”

“What I . . . have to do,” the detective repeated dreamily. He stood up, unrestrained by Bettina this time, and pulled out of his jacket, then reached for his tie, oblivious to everything but the music and the dancing Daphne.

The junior detective was down to tiny briefs, nylons and heels now. As Bettina watched, she arched her back, raised her arms high and flung back her head, then brought it forward again, making her abundant dark curls bounce. Then she bent and began to slide her panties down over her hips.

Only a short while before, that would have gotten a gasp or moan from Paul. Not now. He was too busy removing his tie and unfastening the buttons of his shirt. Bettina’s smile broadened as the shirt came off to reveal a taut, muscular chest and abdomen. The detective kept himself in shape.

Daphne kept on prancing and peeling under the power of Bettina’s suggestions and the magical milk bubbling through her body. So did Paul. Bettina wasn’t worried about either of them snapping out of it: with the dose they’d taken, they’d be under her spell for hours, more than enough time for her purposes.

At last both Daphne and Paul stood nude. They looked at each other for a moment, as if trying to remember where they’d met before, and then Bettina’s further instructions took hold. They drifted together, arms rising to clasp each other, and began to thrust and buck in a rhythm ancient before history began. Uncaring that their every move, their every cry, was being watched and recorded, they sank to the richly carpeted floor.

Bettina smirked. She’d started out recording the drugged antics of public officials and wealthy private citizens who came within her orbit as a matter of insurance: the videos were perfect blackmail material. But so far, she’d never had to use one that way. Her control over those who’d tasted what she had to offer made it unnecessary. These days, she collected the videos for her personal amusement.

She had other ways of amusing herself, too, of course. Admiring Paul Shaw’s sweat-sheened musculature as he thrust and pumped between Daphne Fortman’s muscular legs, she decided the brunette shouldn’t have all the fun.

First things first, though. She watched as Paul and Daphne writhed on the carpeted floor with ever greater frenzy until at last, shuddering, they came, the older detective a second or two before his partner. Moments later, they began thrashing against each other again.

“No, dears,” Bettina said. She reached over and turned off the music. “That’s enough now.”

The moment the music stopped, Paul Shaw and Daphne Fortman stopped thrusting against each other and pulled apart. Calmly, without a word, they dressed and returned to their seats on the couch. They settled into the cushions with contented sighs and relaxed, letting their eyes droop shut.

“No, dears,” repeated Bettina quickly. “You must sit up straight, open your eyes and listen to me, listen to Bettina.”

Paul and Daphne sat up, opened their eyes and focused on the madam who was now their mistress. “Listen to Bettina,” they chorused.

“In a little while, you’re going to leave here,” Bettina instructed them. “You’re going to return to your office and report that you found nothing suspicious here, nothing wrong.”

“Nothing suspicious,” Paul mumbled. “Nothing wrong,” came from Daphne a heartbeat later.

“That’s right,” Bettina encouraged them. “All that happened was that we had coffee and a nice chat.”

“Coffee and . . . a nice chat,” echoed Paul. Daphne merely nodded.

“When you write up your report”—Bettina knew enough about police procedure to know that there would have to be a written report—“you will help each other remember the details, and as you do, they will become clear in your minds, clear and unquestioned.”

“Clear and . . . unquestioned.” This, from Daphne.

“That’s right, dear,” said Bettina. “We wouldn’t want there to be any discrepancies, now would we?”

“No . . . discrep . . . ancies.” Paul fought out the long word.

“That’s fine,” Bettina agreed. “Now, Paul, tell me your phone number. Your home phone number.” Paul obeyed, and Bettina jotted it down. “At eight o’clock tomorrow, I’ll call you and say the words ‘magic tits.’ When I do, you will relax, just the way you’re relaxed now, and do whatever I tell you. You will do this because it means you will get to suck my magic tits again, and you’ll do anything to get to suck my magic tits, isn’t that right?”

“Ohhh, yes,” Paul moaned, just as Bud had so long ago. “Anything. . . .”

“You won’t remember me giving you these instructions, Paul; all you’ll remember about our meeting today is that you found nothing suspicious here, nothing wrong, and that we had coffee and a nice chat. But when I call and you hear the words, you will relax and obey. Tell me the words which will make you relax and obey, Paul, tell me the words.”

“Magic tits,” came the reply. Bettina nodded, satisfied, and turned her attention to Daphne.

“Daphne dear,” she said, “you’ve had a wonderful evening, haven’t you? You’ve danced in a fantasy, you’ve had sex with Paul, and best of all you’ve gotten to suck my tits, to taste my magical milk. But you’re tired now, Daphne, so tired. All you want to do is sleep.”

“Sleep,” Daphne mumbled in agreement. Her eyelids drooped and she lay back against the couch cushions, muscles going slack.

“That’s right, Daphne dear, sleep, just take a little nap until you hear me say ‘Wake up, Daphne dear.’ Paul and I have a little final business, but it doesn’t concern you, Daphne dear. Sleep, Daphne. Sleep.”

Daphne Fortman sighed and closed her eyes. In seconds, she was deeply asleep, snuggled on the couch.

Bettina Crawford stood over Paul Shaw and bent down, raising his chin with one hand until he was looking into her face. He wasn’t really seeing her, she knew: with her magic milk clouding his mind, he didn’t really see anything unless directed to do so, and then, of course, he’d see whatever she told him to whether it was there or not.

“Listen to me, Paul, dear,” she commanded. “Right now all you can think about is me, and my marvelous, magical tits. You’ve never seen anything like my tits, have you, Paul?”

“N-nuhh-never,“ the detective moaned. Bettina’s posture put her immense bosom mere inches from his eyes, and he was staring wide-eyed at that expanse of flesh, clearly unable to even think of looking away.

Bettina smirked. Even if her tits didn’t produce a powerful drug, she bet she’d be able to hypnotize guys with them. Men were suckers for huge boobs even when they didn’t suck on them. “Of course not, Paul dear. And what you want to do now, all you want to do now, is to keep looking at my tits while you fuck me senseless just like Daphne. That’s true, isn’t it, Paul dear?”

“Uhh-ohh-God-yessss,“ Paul ground out between clenched teeth. His body shuddered, clearly building toward a fresh climax.

“No, no, Paul dear, not yet,” the red-haired bombshell cautioned. “Don’t come yet. Not here, Paul dear. Let me take you where we can be alone.” As if Daphne would notice us screwing right next to her right now, Bettina thought smugly.

“Where we can be . . . alone,“ gasped Paul.

“That’s right, dear,” purred Bettina. “Stand up, Paul. Stand up and let me guide you, let me take you to where we can be alone.” As she spoke, the mammiferous madam got to her feet.

Paul Shaw obeyed like the drugged drone he now was, rising from his seat to stand, swaying slightly, with his arms dangling at his sides. Bettina took the naked detective’s chin gently between her thumb and forefinger and led him away as if he were on a leash.

Bettina Crawford’s private bedroom was a sight to behold. A huge round bed on a modified four-poster frame dominated the room, its pink sheets, pink pillows and rich red blankets hidden within a set of gauzy curtains. Along one wall rested a dresser containing underclothes, both ordinary and fetish-oriented, and stockings in a variety of sexy styles. Two entire drawers were filled with brassieres custom-made to fit her massive chest and designed with play in mind. She went through a lot of bras: they tended to just explode after a while from the strain of holding in her bonanza of bosom. The opposite wall featured a closet containing several dozen pairs of shoes, most of them featuring wicked heels, and her personal collection of toys: whips, handcuffs both genuine and ornamental, and many other items not found in the typical clothing store. The third wall hosted her private electronic home entertainment center: she had all the latest gadgets. One didn’t live by sex alone, after all.

“Now you just sit right there on the bed, Paul dear,” she directed. Smiling wickedly, she went on, “Just sit right there and watch me. You like that, don’t you, Paul? You like to look at me almost as much as you like to suck my gorgeous tits. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, Bettina,” Paul moaned. He sat on the bed as he’d been told to. The mattress was firm, indenting only a little under his weight. Even though it had been mere minutes since he’d come inside Daphne, his member swelled eagerly, confirming his words.

Bettina reached for her tight green slacks and slid them slowly, sensuously down, swaying as she did so. At last they dropped free about her ankles and she stepped out of them, clad now only in tiny bikini briefs, nylons and her spike heels. She swayed for a moment, thrusting her chest and then her hips at her captive audience, before the briefs followed the slacks. Paul moaned, unable to find words as he stared raptly at her.

Bettina straddled him then and pushed back on his shoulders with her slender, long-nailed hands. He toppled onto the bed. She squirmed, guiding him into her, and commanded, “Take me, Paul baby. Suck my tits again and take me!”

The detective followed orders, mashing his face into Bettina’s breasts and sucking, then pumping away until a tidal wave of sensation washed over him and carried him far, far away.

Presently Bettina roused herself, smiling. She got up and tossed on a robe. Then she bent over the still form of Paul Shaw and shook him gently. “Get up, Paul baby,” she urged. “It’s time for you to go.” She wished it weren’t, actually: she’d have liked nothing better than to put the detective through his paces a few more times. But it would raise too many questions if he spent the night.

Responding to his flame-haired goddess’s commands, Paul opened his eyes, which still showed a white film from the effects of her magical milk, sat upright and finally stood up. As she’d done before, Bettina took the dazed detective gently by the chin and led him, guiding him out of her bedroom as she had guided him in.

Back in the living room, where the naked Daphne Fortman still lay blissfully asleep on the couch, Bettina ordered Paul to get dressed. While he was busy collecting his clothes and putting them back on, she woke his partner and gave her the same instructions. Daphne obeyed, her eyes as milky as Paul’s.

Finally the two of them were dressed. Bettina stood them side by side and looked them over. After a few moments, she addressed Daphne.

“Daphne dear,” she said, “you remember what you’re supposed to do when you leave here, don’t you? Tell me what you’re supposed to do.”

Daphne nodded and repeated Bettina’s earlier instructions. Once outside the house, she was to wake up and become fully alert. Then she was to go back to the office with her partner and the two of them would work together to write a report saying they had found nothing wrong. She was to remember nothing of what had really happened here; she was to remember only that she and Paul had spoken with Bettina, had coffee, and found nothing wrong. “Nothing wrong,” the junior detective repeated drowsily.

“That’s right, Daphne dear.” Bettina nodded. She’d decided she had plans for this girl. “Now Daphne, after you leave here, even though you’ll forget what really happened here, if you ever hear my voice saying ‘Suck my tits, Daphne,’ you will relax and do whatever I say. You will do this because it will mean you’ll get to suck my tits again, and you’ll do anything to suck my tits again. You’ll do anything, say anything, believe anything, to suck my tits again. Anything at all. That’s right, isn’t it, Daphne? Say ‘Yes, Miss Bettina’ if it’s right.”

“Yes, Miss Bettina,” came the reply, and then, unprompted, “ohh, yesss. . . .“

The mesmerizing madam smiled and turned to Paul Shaw. “And you, Paul dear,” she purred, “do you remember what you’re supposed to do after you leave my house? Tell me what you’re supposed to do.”

As Daphne had done before him, Paul repeated Bettina’s directions. Again the redhead smiled. She had ideas for him, too. “Paul dear, when you’ve left here, even though you won’t remember what really happened here today, you’ll remember that you were totally turned on by me. You’ll want to see me again, because that will mean you’ll get to see my gorgeous tits again. You’ll fantasize about my tits, Paul, about seeing them, touching them, sucking them. Do you understand, Paul?”

“Uhhhhhh,“ came an answering groan. “Y-yes. Uhhh-nnnhh-der . . . stand.”

“And Paul,” Bettina continued, “after you leave here, if you ever hear my voice say the words ‘Paul, dear,’ you will forget about everything else and do exactly as I say, just as you’re doing now, because it will mean you may get to see and touch and suck my tits, and you’ll do anything for that, because you’re addicted to my tits, Paul, obsessed with my tits, Paul, and you’ll do anything for them. That’s true, isn’t it, Paul?”

“Yes,” Paul sighed. ”Anything. . . .“

“That’s fine, Paul dear.” The bewitching redhead reached out to stroke the detective’s cheek, and he whimpered in pleasure at her touch. “Now it’s time for you and Daphne to leave.”

“Time to leave,” two voices echoed.

Standing on her front steps, Bettina Crawford smiled again as she watched the detective and his partner walk away down the street. As she’d commanded, they were now alert and aware of their surroundings. It wouldn’t do, after all, to have a pair of zombie cops get into a street accident because they couldn’t think straight enough to drive. Who knew what might turn up in an autopsy? Besides, if anything happened to them, her plans for them would be all spoiled.

Chuckling, a wicked gleam in her eyes, she turned and went back inside. The door closed behind her.