The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Richie Unger shook his head to clear it. No use. The words in the text before him still refused to convey their meaning.

He was in big trouble. He’d bombed his midterms so badly that he was now on academic probation, one step away from being ignominiously kicked out of Penner University. When his father’d found out, he’d screamed at Richie over the phone for nearly half an hour. Richie had gotten more and more pissed off himself, finally slamming the phone into its cradle.

That, he suspected, was probably that, as far as any more spending money from home was concerned—and God help him if he actually flunked out. His father would probably throw him out of the house when he went home.

The hell of it was, he’d never felt better in his life. All the working out he’d been doing instead of studying had paid off. Grinning ruefully, Richie struck a stereotypical muscle pose; his T-shirt strained over his arms and shoulders. Not long before, that wouldn’t have happened. At lunch, he’d gone through a set of exercises borrowed from Ms. Barron’s class—the same sort of exercises he’d almost passed out trying to do that first time.

And he was having fun. He’d had several more dates with Pamela Standish, although they’d actually had sex only once since that first time after the party at Galligan’s. The brunette was fun to be with in or out of bed.

Even she, though, had noticed how he was changing.

“Gee,” she’d said to him he other night, “I always thought you were one of those stuck-up egghead types, with your nose in a book all the time.” She’d giggled and kissed him on the cheek before adding, “I’m glad I was wrong!”

But of course, she hadn’t been wrong. Well, except maybe for the “stuck-up” part, Richie corrected himself; he’d never thought of himself that way. It was just that studying hard hadn’t left him a lot of time for socializing. And besides, girls like Pamela wouldn’t’ve wanted to go out with the old unathletic, thick-glasses-wearing Richie. He’d found that out back in high school.

Richie pushed away the book he’d been trying to read. He knew he should be able to understand what was in it, but it just wasn’t happening. And he didn’t really seem to care. It was more important to get in a bit more exercise. And these days, exercise was getting a lot better results.

On that note, Richie got up from his desk and went into a warmup routine. It was mostly stretches and bends; he’d had some complaints from the guys in the basement room underneath his own place about the noise from his jumping jacks and running in place, so he tried to do that stuff in Penner’s gymnasium rather than at home. At least the frame for his stationary bike kept it from making too much racket, so he could still work out on it.

After a bit, the blond lifted a pair of hand barbells from the frame in which his weight set rested and began hefting them rhythmically. As the weights went up and down, Richie smiled, remembering how awkward he’d been with them when he’d started out. Using them seemed as natural as breathing now; he swung into the familiar rhythm automatically, letting his mind drift as his muscles moved smoothly. Yes, this was better. The pain which had built up between his eyes faded. Up and down went the weights, up and down, up and down.

Up . . . and down. . . .

With an effort, Richie broke off. He’d lost count of the number of reps he’d done, but it felt like quite a few. For a moment, he felt faintly disturbed that he’d zoned out like that—but only for a moment. It wasn’t important. He had more to do; he hadn’t even gotten to the pulleys yet.

Richie Unger sat quietly in his comfortable chair in the little lounge. His right hand held an empty coffee mug loosely by its curved handle. He didn’t seem to notice.

Katrina Barron smiled. As always, it excited her to see the young man like this, completely in her thrall after no more than a simple cup of coffee. The beverage hadn’t even contained a dose of the mind-controlling drug she’d used to condition him over the past months. Richie had gone under on his own as soon as he’d swallowed the last of his drink. For that matter, by now she didn’t even need to go through the small ritual of offering him coffee. His training was essentially complete; all she had to do was say his secret words and he belonged to her, body and soul, just like all the others.

Reminded, Katrina felt a wicked impulse. Leaving Richie where he sat, she exited the lounge and searched among her departing students. Spotting the one she was after, she called to him and beckoned him over, then ushered him into the coffee room.

As she closed the door behind her again, she noticed that there was still a faint caffeinaceous odor in the air. Perfect, she thought.

“What’d you want, Ms. Barron?” Bill DeWitt asked. “I can’t stay long. I’ve got studying to do.”

His eyes fell on Richie. “Hey,” he started.

Katrina interrupted. “You seem tired, Bill, honey. Wake up and smell the coffee.”

Whatever the husky dark-haired young man had been about to say vanished from his mind. His eyes lost focus as the trigger phrase plunged him deep, deep into that relaxed, utterly obedient state he had been so carefully trained to reach. His hands fell limply to his sides and his chin dropped slightly toward his chest, bowing his head humbly.

The exercise coach clapped her hands softly in delight. Young Bill had gone under just as readily as last time. Deep within his mind, he had obviously accepted her control as natural and right. And that was as it should be, she thought; her control over her men was natural and right.

And it was only fitting that she should exercise that control for her own pleasure. That was why she had called Bill in here.

She looked smugly from the dark-haired college student to Richie Unger, caressing each in turn with the eyes of ownership. At last, she spoke to them. “Bill, Richie, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Katrina,” the two college students answered in unison.

“It’s time for fun,” the tall, lush redhead announced. Her hands wandered to her tight-fitting top and began to pull at it, drawing it up to peel it off over her head. “You know what I mean, don’t you, boys?”

They did. The training they had both received told them exactly what Katrina had in mind. Their bodies responded instantly, members stiffening and breath going ragged; almost as immediately, their hands went to their own clothing. Very soon, Bill stood nude before an equally clothing-free Katrina Barron, while Richie had managed to shed his own garments without getting out of his seat. He hadn’t been told to stand, after all, and it hadn’t been necessary to do so in order to obey his mistress’s implied command.

“You both love me, don’t you, boys?” Katrina asked in a honeyed voice. “You both want me, don’t you?”

Twin moans answered her.

“I thought so,” the trainer purred. “Then come on over to the couch with me, sweet boys, and you can both have me. Let your Katrina have both of you.”

Bill and Richie obeyed. Richie got up and the two youths followed the beckoning Katrina over to the couch they had come to know well. The redhead lay down, dangling one leg off the couch and resting the other foot atop the back support. She continued: “You first, Bill, that’s right, mmhhh—!” as Bill DeWitt straddled her. She gasped, “Richie, dear—ohh—stand behind me, that’s right, and lean down, massage my, oooh, breasts, as your friend pumps into me—!” And Richie, too, obeyed, bending over the horizontal redhead and working the soft flesh of her ample bosom with his hands. A silly smile spread over his face.

“Yes! Yes!” Katrina Barron panted, writhing beneath the ministrations of her mesmerized minions. “Richie, I want you to imagine yourself in Bill’s place, imagine you’re doing what he’s doing, feeling what he’s feeling, ohh, yes!”

As Richie assimilated this new command, his hands slowed, then lifted from Katrina’s bosom. The woman quickly corrected him: “No, ngggh! Richie! Imagine yourself doing what B-B-Bill is doing, but let yourself continue to massage my breasts as well, it feels so good, please, Richie—!” Pleasure shooting through her, it was all she could do to string words together to keep giving her orders to bewitched boy toys.

Richie, lost in ecstasy, did as he was told, caressing Katrina’s chest robotically and shuddering with synthetic sensation as his mind produced its version of the feelings the now sexually-experienced ex-nerd knew Bill must be feeling. Finally Katrina spasmed helplessly, uttered a wordless shriek and flung her arms up and back to pull Richie closer. Both of her living puppets also cried out hoarsely, ejaculating together in response to their mistress’s pleasure.

A drowsy few minutes followed, in which Katrina relaxed beneath Bill and Richie stood placidly, hands resting gently on Katrina’s sweat-slick bosom. Finally the exercise trainer returned to herself. She smiled broadly. “Now, boys,” she said, “switch places.”

Katrina Barron giggled girlishly as the door closed behind Richie and Bill. The boys had been a wonderful team. Too bad she’d had to take a step backward with them afterward, directing them to remember it only as a dream they were not to mention even to each other.

It had been necessary, though. She sighed, her smile fading. She’d never conditioned either one of them to the point where they’d be emotionally comfortable participating in a three-way; her decision to use the pair of them that way tonight had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. If she had allowed them to remember it as real, they might have started wondering how it had happened, how she’d persuaded them. That might have begun to actually undermine their conditioning. Why risk that?

The tall, nude red-haired woman smiled and stretched languorously. She could do with a shower, she thought. She tossed on her exercise outfit for the short trip through the exercise area to the shower facility on the other side and picked up her lightweight gym bag. As always, it contained a clean set of street clothes; even when she hadn’t been screwing her playthings, she liked to change out of her workout garb when she left the gym.

A bit later, as she stood, nude once more, under the jet of water from the nozzle in one of the shower room stalls, Katrina indulged in a bit more gloating. Richie Unger had turned out very well, a tribute to her skill at molding both body and mind. It would, she thought, be quite some time before she tired of him, especially now that she’d learned how well he could be made to work with others.

Yes, quite some time. . . .

Of course, there was Richie’s new girlfriend, this Pamela whatever-her-name-was. By all the signs, their relationship might well become permanent.

Well, that was no problem. She’d been aware of the possibility for some time, and it posed no threat to her. Even if the two eventually got married, she would keep her hidden hold on Richie just as she had with Bill DeWitt. Any time she wanted, he would do anything she wanted, and he could simply be instructed never to tell anyone. And what young Pamela didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

In the worst case, Katrina could simply invite the girl in for a chat over a cup of coffee. . . .

Richie woke slowly, stretching carefully so as not to wake the dark-haired girl nestled against him in bed. He’d had that weird dream again, the one where he and Bill had both been going at it with Katrina Barron.

He sat up, letting his feet thump softy on the small bedside rug, then stood and padded over to the small refrigerator purring away beside his desk. He opened it up and pulled out a small bottle of protein drink, which he downed in several hearty swallows.

He supposed he ought to study. Exams were coming up. But the very thought sent a stab of pain through his head. He reached into the fridge again and pulled out a plastic bottle of orange juice; drinking it seemed to help.

He walked over to the pulley apparatus he had set up along the wall opposite his bed. There’d been a bookcase there once; he’d gotten rid of it to make room for the pulleys, and put the books in boxes in the closet. He grasped the handgrips and leaned forward, making the pulleys creak as he strained against their resistance.

After a few minutes, the rhythmic noise apparently registered on Pamela’s sleeping senses. She stirred, murmured, and finally opened her eyes, turning toward the sound by reflex.

She chuckled softly. “Now that’s dedication. You haven’t even had breakfast yet, and already you’re working out?”

Richie let go of the handgrips, which whipped back toward the upright base of the pulley device. Pink-faced from effort and, just a little, from embarrassment, he responded, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Pamela laughed, louder this time. “No problem, honey. I kind of like it that you’ve worked so hard to build yourself up. I can remember when you used to be way out of shape.” Her eyes roamed possessively over his body, which was covered only by a set of short pajama pants. “There’s nothing wrong with your shape now.”

Richie grinned and flexed his biceps playfully. “Glad you feel that way, honey.” His stomach rumbled. “Now, how about some breakfast, as soon as we get dressed?”

“I’m with you, Richie,” the brunette said.

Finals were approaching when Richie got the phone call he’d been dreading.

He’d just gotten back from one of the increasingly rare breakfasts he ate alone these days instead of with Pamela when he noticed the message indicator on his desk phone was blinking. He pushed the PLAY button and listened as a female voice said, “Mr. Unger, Dean Ingersoll would like to speak with you this afternoon at one o’clock. Please call his office at extension 5100 when you get this message.”

Richie swore softly. This couldn’t be good news. Scowling, he picked up the handset and dialed the dean’s extension.

The voice from the message answered. “Hello, Penner University, Dean Ingersoll’s office. How may I help you?” Evidently, the dean had had his secretary make the earlier call.

“This is Richie Unger,” he responded. “I’m returning your call?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Unger,” came the response. “The dean needs to speak with you about your grades.”

Richie grimaced. He’d been afraid of this.

Something occurred to him. “I have a class today at one,” he protested. “French 201.”

“Professor Bonhomme’s been contacted,” he was told. “He understands you’ll be absent from today’s class.”

Richie gulped. They wouldn’t have done that unless he was really in the shit. But it couldn’t be that bad, could it? He mentally reviewed the way things had been going this semester, and flinched. Yes, it could. He’d let his grades go right into the crapper; exercise had been more important, and then Pamela. . . .

Well, there was nothing to do for it now but face the music.

He had a nine o’clock class and another at eleven today, but after the bad news he’d just gotten, he didn’t feel like going. The eleven was statistics, anyway, and although he’d started out at the top of the class, he was crawling the bottom now. What the fuck, he told himself, it ain’t—it isn’t like it’ll make a difference. I don’t remember the stuff anyway. Skipping one more session won’t hurt.

Richie blinked. He never used “ain’t”; where had that come from? He shook his head to clear it. Maybe I just need a little workout, he thought. Yeah, that’ll do it. He picked up a pair of hand weights and went into the warmup for one of his favorite exercise routines. As he pumped the weights up and down, up and down, he let his mind wander. He didn’t need to think, a familiar voice whispered in his mind; he didn’t need to be smart, not when he was exercising. Exercise was more important.

Richie arrived at Dean Ingersoll’s office in the administration building at ten minutes to one. After working out for an hour or so, he’d taken a shower and changed into some good clothes, a nice suit he normally wore only for special occasions. He knew he was in trouble; it couldn’t hurt to make a good impression.

Precisely at one, the dean’s receptionist, a pretty blonde in tortoiseshell glasses, announced, “Dean Ingersoll will see you now, Mr. Unger.” Bracing himself, Richie got up and went into the dean’s office.

Ingersoll was seated behind his massive oak-paneled desk. He glanced at Richie and gestured toward a chair across the desk from him. Richie sat in it.

“You understand why you’re here,” Dean Ingersoll stated.

“Um, yes,” Richie said.

“You started out this year with an excellent record,” Ingersoll observed. “And at first, you gave every indication of continuing along that line.” He began drumming the fingers of his left hand on the polished surface of the desk in front of him. “At first.

“Then you started to slip.” Ingersoll was looking directly at Richie now. “In the beginning, it was no great issue. Many students experience the occasional slump. But as time passed, it became clear”—the drumming stopped—“that there was something more going on.”

Richie said nothing. What could he say? He didn’t really understand it himself.

“Things have progressed to the point,” the dean informed him, “where I have no choice but to place you on academic probation.” Richie’s heart sank, but it was no worse than he’d been expecting. “What happens next is up to you.”

“Up to me, sir?” Richie didn’t follow. “What d’you mean?”

Dean Ingersoll fixed the younger man with a stern look. “I have reports here”—he waved at some papers on the desktop—“that you’ve been skipping classes, a great many classes. Much of the slippage in your grades comes from your failure to appear for scheduled quizzes and turn in required assignments.”

Again, Richie said nothing. It was true, after all. Exercise had been more important. He couldn’t tell the dean that, though.

“I have no evidence,” Ingersoll continued, “that you’re involved with drugs, Mr. Unger.” He paused before admitting, “I’ve gone so far as to have your dorm room searched recently while you were out. Nothing was found. So I have no reason to dismiss you or involve the police. But—!”

“But what?” asked Richie. His mouth felt like sandpaper. He couldn’t believe Dean Ingersoll would actually have searched his room for drugs. He’d never taken drugs in his life!

“But,” responded the dean, “if, during the time remaining until the end of the school year, you fail to attend classes regularly, I shall have no choice but to dismiss you from Penner. Furthermore, if you do not achieve marks on your final exams sufficient to earn you at least passing grades in all your subjects—I understand that is still possible—I shall also be required to request that you not return next fall. ”

“Holy shit!” Richie burst out. “You can’t do that!”

Dean Ingersoll stared stonily at him. “I can, Mr. Unger, and I shall, if you make it necessary.” He shifted in his chair. “You are excused, Mr. Unger. Good day to you.”

“That’s too bad, Richie, sweetie,” Katrina Barron murmured to the stupefied youth sitting across from her in the coffee lounge. Richie had seemed upset during this evening’s exercise session, so when she’d called him in for their usual after-class encounter, she’d questioned him as soon as he’d gone under. He’d told her about his traumatic meeting with Dean Ingersoll and how he was now in danger of being kicked out of college. He didn’t need to remember telling her, Katrina decided.

The irony was that this Dean Ingersoll had been right to think Richie’s problems were drug-related. His mistake was in assuming that Richie was drugging himself. In reality, the handsome young man now sprawled bonelessly in the chair across from her, completely open to her every suggestion, still had no idea that he had ever been exposed to any psychoactive substance stronger than caffeine. And of course there were no signs of drugs in Richie’s rooms, since she’d been feeding them to him here all along.

Now she had a choice to make. She could let Richie continue as he was, in which case he would almost certainly flunk out of Penner University—or she could give him new programming designed to let him pass his courses and stay in college.

She smiled. The choice was simple, really.

“Richie,” she said softly, “don’t worry about school. School will take care of itself. You need to keep exercising, keep in shape, for your Katrina.” She frowned slightly. “And your Pamela. You need to keep in shape for Katrina, and for Pamela. Do you understand, Richie?”

“Yesss,” emerged a dreamy whisper. “Don’t worry about school. School will . . . take care of itself. Need to keep exercising, keep in shape . . . for Katrina . . . and Pamela.” A soft smile lifted the corners of Richie’s mouth beneath his half-shut, unfocused eyes.

“That’s right, Richie,” Katrina encouraged her sleepy slave. “But right now, your Katrina needs you. She’s so hot, Richie, so hot, and she needs you. You understand, don’t you.”

Richie understood, or at least his body did. Cued by her words, he went instantly erect and his breathing changed, going fast and ragged. He reached toward her, and she swayed toward him.

They started in Richie’s chair this time, Katrina riding him toward ecstasy, before she moved the action to the big, soft couch. Their bodies moved together with the ease of long practice, Richie responding with the reflexes conditioned into him, reflexes reinforced at each meeting with the gorgeous redheaded trainer. No thought was involved; there was only pleasure, pleasure and the brilliant flashing lights which flashed behind his eyes with each new jolt of bodily reward. Katrina was caught up as well, bucking and shuddering as her steed galloped beneath her.

At last an exhausted Katrina gently eased the blond boy to a stop. It took her a few moments to return fully to reality from the fantasy in which she’d immersed herself, a few moments to remember that the hot and sweaty flesh clamped between her thighs belonged to a mesmerized young man and not to a glossy stallion she had ridden to victory.

“Ah, Richie,” she purred, running the fingers of one hand over the young man’s salt-slick chest while propping herself on the other elbow. “You really are my masterpiece, you know.” She laughed softly. “But of course you don’t know. You don’t even understand what I’m saying, do you.”

Richie mumbled something indistinct. His breathing was slowing now as he lay beneath Katrina, and his eyes had closed completely. He was vaguely aware that his Katrina had said something, but it was just noise; the little sentinel part of his mind which was still active recognized that the redhead’s words hadn’t been intended as instructions, and that was all he needed to know.

Looking down at Richie’s face, Katrina felt a warm glow which went beyond mere post-coital satisfaction. Richie belonged to her completely.

After a little bit, she frowned slightly. Ownership brought responsibility. If Richie were going to be kicked out of school, he’d need somewhere to go, some means of supporting himself. It was hardly practical to just take him home with her.

Her face cleared. She knew what to do.

As usual, Richie was smiling vacantly when Katrina steered him out the door. She didn’t worry about his getting home after that; by now, Richie Unger could do that on autopilot. She still didn’t dare allow him to drive home, if course; even when she’d put him under verbally instead of with the drug, he tended to be a bit disoriented afterward. When he did get home, he’d remember their encounter perfectly—except, of course, for her giving him suggestions. She hadn’t needed to make him recall one of their times together as a dream since the evening he and his friend Bill had both served her.

Whistling cheerfully, she headed for the showers.

“Yeah, and screw you, too!” Richie yelled into the telephone. “If that’s how you’re gonna be, I don’t need you! I’ll get a fuckin’ job right here, and you can forget about me coming home!” He slammed the handset into its niche and stood there, breathing hard, fighting to calm down.

His father had freaked when he’d gotten Dean Ingersoll’s call. Richie had tried to make himself go to classes, really he had, but he couldn’t keep it up. He just didn’t understand what his profs were talking about anymore; he found his attention wandering and his head aching when he tried. Finally he’d given up—and when he had, Ingersoll had carried out his threat. Richie was now officially expelled; he had three days to pack up and leave campus.

The timing was especially embarrassing. He was being kicked out right before the start of final exams. Of course, it wasn’t as if his taking the tests would’ve changed anything—he knew he would have flunked out—but he wouldn’t even have the chance to pretend he might pass! And now his dad knew, and had cut him off. Richie’s last angry words on the phone just now had been bluster, but he might have to make good on them. The alternative was to slink home in disgrace.

Richie considered that option for only a moment before abandoning it with a shudder. His dad would make his life a living hell for God only knew how long, and Mom, as usual, wouldn’t intervene. No, he had to get a job, and fast—a job, and a place to live.

But where?

He had an idea. Like the YMCA, the McKenney Gymnasium included cheap living quarters for guys down on their luck. If he could fix it, maybe he could stretch the remaining money in his bank account by staying there while he looked for some kind of work.

A bleak feeling swept through him. This wasn’t how he’d seen things going for him. How had it all happened? How had he gone from a shy, studious, polite—well, nerd—to a workout fanatic who blew off his classes, who couldn’t even seem to remember stuff he’d learned easily before? Even the way he talked was different, cruder, these days, especially when he was upset. He remembered how shocked he’d been when an “ain’t” had popped up in his thoughts a while back; that was nothing, now. I’ve turned into a jock, he realized. And not even a successful jock at that; they usually manage not to get kicked out!

Well, it wasn’t all bad. He extended his right arm and flexed, watching his bicep strain at the fabric of the tight T-shirt he was wearing. And there was Pamela—he smiled a lascivious smile—and Katrina.

*Yeah, Katrina,* Richie thought. He had a class with her tonight. When they got together afterward, maybe he could talk to her about setting him up with a place at the gym.

“I’m sorry to hear it, Richie,” Katrina Barron lied. Richie Unger had just finished telling her how he’d gotten kicked out of Penner University. Things had gone exactly as she’d planned.

It was a new experience, listening to the handsome young man like this. She’d known he was upset in class, and had expected to find out why when she put him under afterward. But when she’d offered him the usual cup of coffee, he had waved it away. With the ritual interrupted, his programming hadn’t kicked in. Of course, she could have used his verbal trigger—but she had been intrigued at the idea of talking to him while he was actually conscious. She could always say the magic words any time she wanted, after all.

“Yeah, well,” Richie muttered, ducking his head, “the thing is, either I go crawling home to my old man, or else I’ve gotta find a place somewhere, and a job, pretty fast.” He managed to look the gorgeous redhead in the eyes. “I was kind of hoping you’d be able to help me. With the first part, anyway. I know McKenney’s has cheap rooms.”

Katrina smiled encouragingly. “Of course, Richie. I’ll help you make the arrangements.” Of course she would; it had been her idea in the first place. She’d planted the thought in the blond boy’s mind before ending their last session together, although naturally he thought it was his own. “I may be able to help with the second part, too, if you’re interested.”

Richie blinked. “How’s that? You mean you could help me get a job? Where?”

The beautiful trainer laughed. “Why, right here, Richie. At the gym.”

“Here? As what, a janitor?”

Katrina laughed again. “No, no, nothing like that. As a trainer. An exercise trainer, like me.”

Richie’s eyes widened. “You think I could get hired?”

“I’m sure of it, Richie.” And she was. She’d called in a few favors and gotten the green light for what she wanted to do. And if people suspected she had more than a professional interest in Richie Unger, so what? As long as she was discreet, nobody could prove anything—and she’d learned a long time ago how to be discreet. Certainly nobody would guess the actual truth, not when Richie himself didn’t know it. She went on: “Of course, you’d be only a junior instructor at first—but it’s a job, and I can help you learn more so you can get promoted later.”

Richie thought it over. A junior exercise trainer wasn’t what he’d seen himself becoming—but things had changed. He’d changed. And if he took the job, and a room at McKenney’s to start, he might be able to save enough to get a regular apartment later and still have something left to take Pamela out, and he could hope that he’d be earning more later.

“Okay,” he said at length. “I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful,” Katrina said. “Let’s drink a toast, shall we?” She went over to the coffeemaker and poured two fresh cups.

Five minutes later, the redhead gently extracted Richie’s empty cup from his loose grip. He had slipped into trance within seconds of swallowing the last of his drink, and now sat quietly in his chair waiting to be told what to think and do next. As always, his helplessness aroused Katrina, and she lost no time getting down to business.

Before surrendering to pleasure, however, she allowed herself a moment’s gloat. Richie had turned out exactly the way she’d wanted, and now he’d be right here for her to play with whenever she wanted, any way she wanted. Even if he eventually married this Pamela of his, it would be Katrina Barron who would be his mistress, in every sense of the word.

And there was always the next conquest to look forward to.

Life was good. . . .