The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The bailiff closed the door behind him.

Dustin Cole sighed. He hadn’t wanted to be on a jury in the first place. When the summons had come, though, he’d dutifully reported in and gone through the process.

He’d been through it once before, four years ago. Back then, he’d been let go after a couple of days without being called to serve. Not this time. He’d been tapped as a juror on the Gianetti case, a high-profile prosecution of a local construction tycoon, Carlo Gianetti, who was rumored to have organized crime connections.

That had made a lot of prospective jurors bow out. It was amazing what creative excuses people came up with for passing up jury duty once they knew what case they were slated for. The judge hadn’t liked it, but under the circumstances he’d let it happen. It had taken almost two weeks to fill the panel.

Gianetti hadn’t helped matters any. Day after day during the case he’d sauntered into the courtroom, taken a seat down in front where he could clearly see and be seen by the jury, and favored both them and the judge with an oily smirk. He acted like a man who knew he had nothing to worry about.

Cole couldn’t help wondering why. The evidence the prosecutor had put forward had looked pretty damning. It showed a pattern of dubious payoffs to inspectors and contractors, and established that Gianetti had to have known what was going on. The builder’s guilt looked pretty obvious.

And now it was time to say so. . . .

Carlo Gianetti smiled. They’d taken the jury away to be sequestered. All kinds of security measures had been in place throughout the trial; the jurors hadn’t even been identified by name, only by number, and taking pictures of them had been banned None of it mattered.

The businessman snorted. As if he’d need to resort to rough stuff! This was the twenty-first century, after all, and there were better ways, especially if you could get just the right person onto the jury. And with his connections, that could be arranged.

Now it was just a matter of letting nature take its course.

Hours passed as the twelve people on the jury hashed over the evidence. Cole had expected everyone else to see Gianetti’s guilt as readily as he had and return a quick conviction. But they didn’t. Several of the jurors kept picking away at the evidence, refusing to admit what he considered obvious.

At one point, he exploded.

“Dammit,” he shouted, “look at the evidence! Just look at it! How can any of you have any doubt?”

Juror Number Five, a small man with dark hair and thick glasses, spoke up. “Some of this stuff looks shaky to me.” He adjusted his spectacles, shuffled papers in front of him and lifted one sheet. “Like this, for instance. We have a prosecution witness who says he saw a payoff last March—but it’s just his word. None of the other witnesses claim to know about that particular bribe. Alleged bribe.”

Cole felt like grabbing the smaller man by the collar. He restrained himself, but snarled, “So what? He says it happened, and Gianetti’s fancy lawyers couldn’t shake him. Besides, it fits with all this other testimony!” He waved a hand at the documents on the table in front of his own seat.

Juror Five didn’t waver. “Just the same, I’m not ready to convict yet.”

It went on like that all day, with Juror Five and others. Finally the bailiff reappeared. “Has a verdict been reached?”

“No, sir,” Cole answered sourly. As jury foreman, it was his job to answer such questions. “We haven’t reached a verdict.”

The bailiff vanished again, only to reappear after about twenty minutes with an announcement: “We’re moving you to the Marriott for tonight. You’ll be required to remain in the hotel, and, as here in the courthouse, you’ll be forbidden to contact anyone outside.” Several people muttered at that; everyone’s cell phones had been confiscated when they’d been impaneled. No one did more than mutter, however.

At least the accommodations were decent. Each juror got a separate room, something that didn’t always happen, and the rooms were nice. Cole’s had a big bed with a bedside table, a larger table with a couple of chairs, and a couch along one wall. A large bay window was positioned to let in the morning sun.

After dinner, delivered around seven-thirty, Cole settled down to watch some television. There wasn’t anything particularly interesting on, but he left the TV running anyway, paying marginal attention to it. It was something to do.

He was half-asleep when someone knocked gently at his door. At first he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard it. Then it came again, a gentle but firm rapping.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Heather Lombardi,” responded a woman’s voice. “Juror Number Twelve, I mean. Can I come in?”

With a slight groan, Cole got up and went to he door. He remembered Juror Twelve: a short platinum blonde whose eyes were hidden behind dark glasses but whose conservative charcoal-gray woman’s suit did not conceal the fact that she had an excellent figure. She had had little to say during their discussion in the jury room, he remembered; what could she want now?

He opened the door for her. Ms. Lombardi stepped inside.

“What do you want?” Cole was a little put off by the way she had just pushed her way in. “It’s getting late, and I’m tired.”

Heather smiled at him. “I’m sure you are, and I’m sorry, Mr. Cole.” Gesturing at the couch, she suggested, “Please, let’s sit.”

They did, facing each other.

At close range, Cole couldn’t help noticing Heather’s ample chest. Her blouse was open just enough to show a nice glimpse of cleavage. She was wearing a jeweled pendant of some kind; the chain looped around her neck disappeared into her bosom, revealing just a hint of the ornament attached to it.

“Well?” he prompted. “What did you want to speak with me about that couldn’t wait till morning?” He yawned, making no effort to hide it.

Heather smiled. “I’m so sorry. You are tired, aren’t you.”

She reached up and pulled her pendant out, revealing it as an intricately cut and expensive-looking emerald piece. She lifted it slightly, bringing it into full view for him, and let it dangle between her fingers. The gem swung gently, catching the light. “I won’t take up much of your time, then.”

The emerald continued to sway, back and forth, back and forth, in front of Heather’s cleavage. Despite himself, Cole couldn’t help following the motion.

“I just wanted to say I’m impressed with the way you’ve handled this,” the blonde told him. “All that evidence. All that detail. It must be so hard to stay focused, to concentrate on what’s important and shut out everything else. Back . . . and forth.”

Cole blinked. Did she really say that? he wondered momentarily. Then she went on, and he forgot about it as he paid attention to her. It was an effort to do so; the glittering jewel in front of him was very distracting. He had to fight his way past its motion and its sparkle to get to her words, and his eyes continued to follow it anyway.

What was she saying?

“Concentrate on what’s important,” yes, that was it, “stay focused, shut out everything else. It’s hard to do that, isn’t it, hour after hour, so hard to concentrate on what’s important and shut out everything else.” She paused and yawned prettily. “No wonder you’re so tired. So very tired.”

“Tired,” Cole agreed, yawning again himself. His eyelids fluttered.

“It’s so very important to concentrate, to stay focused, to look at what’s important and listen to what’s important and shut out everything else as things go back and forth, back and forth.” Heather’s voice was lower now, crooning. “But it’s so hard, and you’re so tired now after working so hard. Your eyelids are so heavy, aren’t they, yes they are, so heavy, you want to close them but you need to keep them open so you can continue to concentrate on what’s important, back and forth, my pendant, my voice, yes, you still need to concentrate on what’s important, but you’re so tired. . . .” She let her voice trail off.

“C-con . . . centrate,” Cole muttered, struggling with the word as if it were unfamiliar. His eyes were half closed now, but beneath his heavy lids they continued to follow the motion of Heather’s pendant.

“That’s right,” Heather coaxed him. “Concentrate on what’s important, focus, shut out everything else. You need to do that to reach a verdict, don’t you? You want to be fair, you want to reach the right verdict, don’t you?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “The right verdict. Of course.” Cole nodded loosely, his eyes still following the gentle sway of the shiny emerald back and forth, back and forth.

“And I want to help you,” assured the blonde. “That’s why I’m on the jury, after all, to help you and the others reach the right verdict, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Your job is the hardest, though, isn’t it?” observed the woman. “You’re the foreman. You have to present the verdict to the court, and the others look to you for guidance, don’t they, and it’s so hard. So tiring. To concentrate on what’s important, and stay focused on what’s important, as all the jurors argue back and forth, back and forth.”

“Yes,” whispered Cole.

“It’s so hard even to know what’s important, isn’t it? So important, but so hard.”

“Yes,” Cole muttered. “So hard to know . . . what’s important.”

“It’s so much easier just to let me tell you,” instructed Heather. “My voice and my shiny pendant, those are what are important right now. You don’t have to think about anything else, just listen to my voice and watch my pendant. My voice and my pendant are so beautiful, and it’s so relaxing to listen to my voice and watch my pendant as I explain what you need to do, yes. . . .”

“Yes. . . .” echoed Cole. His head was gently bobbing back and forth now, back and forth, as his eyes followed the motion of Heather’s emerald. “Your voice. Your pendant. They’re what’s . . . important now. They’re so beautiful. So relaxing. Need to . . . watch your pendant and . . . listen. Yes.”

Heather edged closer to him. The man on the couch with her was deeply relaxed now, defenseless, helpless. Her breath quickened; it always got her hot to see a guy like this.

“You can close your eyes now,” she told him. “It’s so relaxing to close your eyes.” Cole’s eyelids fell shut.

“But you can still hear me, and you can still see my pendant swinging gently back and forth, back and forth, can’t you? You can’t hear anything else, or see anything else, but you can hear my voice and see my swaying pendant, even with your eyes so restfully closed, can’t you.”

“Yes,” sighed Cole. His head fell forward onto his chest. His mouth hung open slackly, a little saliva spilling from one corner.

“Good,” Heather Lombardi said. “Now be a good boy and just listen while I explain what you need to do.” She continued, issuing the necessary suggestions; it took several minutes, with repetitions to drive her commands firmly into Cole’s subconscious.

Finally she concluded, “You will do all this because you believe it’s the right thing to do. You will not remember that I told you to do it; you will believe completely that it is all your own idea.”

“Yes,” Cole agreed. “My own idea.” His head came up and went down again in a slow, slow nod.

Heather stood up, rising to her full five feet two inches, and moved until she was looking down at the seated Dustin Cole. She reached out and gently ruffled the brown hair on his bowed head.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

Cole answered in a sleepwalker’s voice. “D-duh—Dustin. My name is . . . Dustin.” His brow wrinkled from mental effort. At last his full name came to him through the beautiful emerald lights in his brain, and he gave it: “Dustin Cole.”

Heather sat playfully in Dustin’s lap, turned at the waist so she continued to face him. She cupped his chin in one hand and raised it. “Open your eyes, Dustin honey,” she cooed playfully. “Open your eyes, but remain relaxed and open to my words as you are now. Open your eyes, but continue to listen to my voice and do as I say.”

Dustin obeyed.

“Good boy,” said Heather. “Now sweetie, I want you to know I find you very attractive. Very sexy.” It was true; Dustin Cole was ruggedly handsome, just the sort to ring the blonde juror’s chimes.

“Thuh . . . thank you,” Dustin answered.

“And you find me attractive, too, don’t you, honey.”

“Yes.” It was true; Heather could feel Cole’s growing erection beneath her as she sat on him.

“But we’re jurors together. It would be naughty if we had sex.” Heather had had a mischievous idea.

“Naughty,“ moaned Dustin. He was obviously aroused now, but continued to sit quietly, deeply asleep with his eyes open.

“But you’re asleep,” Heather said. “So deeply asleep. You’re asleep, Dustin honey, and you’re dreaming, and in dreams, anything can happen.”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Let’s go to bed, Dustin baby,” urged the blonde. “Let’s go now!” She giggled. “Why don’t you pick me up and carry me there?”

She shifted off Cole’s lap. Controlled by her suggestions, the hypnotized jury foreman stood, then bent and picked her up in his muscular arms. He staggered only slightly as he carried her to the hotel suite’s big bed.

Soon both of them were naked and moving together between the sheets. Dustin was a robot, an erotic automaton pumping away, controlled by Heather’s words and caresses. Again and again she brought him to climax, timing his eruptions to match her own. Only when she felt herself drifting away to exhausted slumber did she whisper into his ear, “Enough. Stop now, Dustin. Stop and relax.”

Once again he obeyed, rolling loosely away from her. She murmured to him, “Sleep now, Dustin. Sleep, and when you wake up, you’ll be relaxed and alert and you’ll remember this only as a hot dream. But you’ll do as I’ve told you, won’t you?”

“Yes,” a muffled reply came back.

“Then sleep, Dustin. Sleep until you’re awakened in the morning.”

And Dustin did. He never noticed as Heather retrieved her clothes, dressed and left his room for her own.

Cole found himself avoiding the eyes of Juror Number Twelve. The petite blonde put him off his stride somehow, though she had no more to say today than at yesterday’s session.

He had other problems, too. He’d been so sure that Gianetti was guilty—but somehow, today, he wasn’t. He found himself looking more carefully at the evidence, seeing it differently. He no longer felt so angry at Juror Five, and couldn’t bring himself to argue as forcefully for conviction as he had the day before. The panel argued back and forth, back and forth, all through a second day.

That evening, after they’d all returned to the hotel, there came a knock on Cole’s door. It turned out to be Juror Twelve again.

“What do you want now?” he said, sounding slightly irritated. Somehow, he couldn’t quite remember what she’d wanted last night, either.

“Just what you want,” she answered. “What we all want. The right verdict.”

At the sound of those last three words, Cole froze. His eyes glazed. “The . . . right verdict,” he echoed.

Heather smiled. The trigger had worked perfectly. “Come with me,” she directed, holding out her hand.

“Yes, Miss Lombardi,” Cole said as he took her hand in his and allowed her to lead him away. Heather’s smiled. The previous night, she’d programmed him to call her that whenever he was put under her control by his trigger phrase. He followed meekly along as she guided him down the hotel corridor. Some part of his mind not quite obscured by the beautiful swaying curtain of green which hung in his brain noted that this was the room of Juror Number Two, who was one of the strongest for conviction.

“Now,” she instructed him, “knock and say you and I need to speak with Juror Two about the case. Insist on being let in to talk.”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi.” Cole knocked on the door and delivered his lines.

A few moments later, the latch clicked and the hotel room door opened partway. “Can’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“No, it can’t,” said Dustin. “We need to hash this out now, so that we can present it to the others in the morning.”

“All right.” The assent was grudging, but nevertheless, the door opened wider. Dustin and Heather stepped in.

“Thank you for letting us see you,” Heather said sweetly. She had her pendant out already and began swinging it idly, catching the room light and sending off slivers of green radiance. “It’s very important that you listen to what we have to say, and look at what we have to show you. Very important. I know you’re very tired after spending all day in court, but you need to concentrate on what’s important, focus, not let your attention wander back and forth, back and forth. . . .”

If Dustin hadn’t been deep in trance himself, he might have recognized the blonde hypnotist’s smooth words as a version of the script she had used to put him under before. But he was in trance, his mind lost amid green haze and soothing words. He stood passively as Heather wrought her spell on a fresh victim.

At last Juror Two was deep enough under her power to satisfy her. He stood staring stupidly, his eyes continuing to move back and forth, back and forth, even after she’d tucked away her jewelry.

Heather inspected her prize. Juror Two was taller than Dustin, slenderer, with dark-blond and green eyes. He was handsome, too, though, in a softer sort of way. And just like Dustin, he was now hers to command.

“You like me, don’t you?” she asked. “You find me sexy. In fact, you want me desperately, isn’t that true?”

Her new victim whimpered. “Oh, God, yes.” A bulge in his trousers testified he was telling the truth, not that he was capable of lying to her at the moment.

“What’s your name?” she asked him. Naturally, he told her.

“Well, boys,” Heather addressed the pair of mesmerized men in the room with her, “I feel like a party, don’t you? Of course you do.”

Under her command, the two male jurors escorted Heather Lombardi to the suite’s bed, a twin of the one in Dustin’s room. Very soon the trio were nude on the bed, where Heather put them through their paces, having one pump between her legs while the other worked over her tits, then commanding them to switch places.

Finally Heather was sated. She could feel herself drifting off to sleep. . . .

With an effort, she roused herself. It might be a bad idea to doze off in a fellow juror’s room, especially with another panel member also there, and all three of them butt-naked. It might raise questions she couldn’t short-circuit with her talents.

I’m enjoying this too much, she thought woozily. I have to remember . . . what I’m here to do. Business first.

She squirmed out from under the mounds of masculine flesh on top of her and got dressed. Then she spoke to her stupefied sex slaves.

“George,” she said to Juror Two, “I want you to sleep now. Sleep and don’t wake up until your morning call comes. When you do wake up, you won’t recall what the three of us did in bed; you’ll remember only that Dust—Juror Three, the foreman, and I dropped by to discuss our reservations about a guilty verdict, and persuaded you to vote for acquittal.”

“Ac . . . acquittal?” George asked, uncertainty in his tone. His eyes were closing.

“That’s right, George, acquittal.” Heather frowned. This one was resisting her suggestions about the trial more than Dustin had. She hadn’t expected that. Perhaps he’d need another session? The blonde smiled with anticipation at the thought. “Now go to sleep, George. Sleep, George, sleep. . . .”

George dropped back limply onto the bed. Within seconds, he was snoring gently, dead to the world.

The bewitching blonde turned to the other male helplessly under her spell. He had been lying on the bed, eyes half open and unfocused, his mind empty of everything but green. “Dustin, it’s time to go back to your own room now.”

The jury foreman got off the bed and started for the door. Laughing softly—men did the cutest things when their minds were shut off!—Heather laid a hand on his bare arm and stopped him. “No, Dustin, sweetie,” she ordered. “Not like that. You need to get dressed first, then come back to your room with me. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi,” her fellow juror responded submissively. He busied himself collecting his clothes and putting them on. When he was fully dressed, Heather took his arm again and steered him gently out of George’s room.

A docile, smiling Dustin allowed himself to be led back to his room. He remembered nothing of what had happened. There was only the green, the beautiful sparkling green, swaying back and forth before his mind’s eye.

Once they were back in Dustin’s hotel room, Heather spoke to the jury foreman again.

“You did very well, Dustin sweetie,” she told him. “You helped me talk to George, I mean, Juror Two, and now he’s going to help us make sure we deliver the right verdict. And that’s what we need to do, isn’t it? Come back to the judge with he right verdict.”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi,” Dustin agreed. Heather’s repetition of his trigger phrase was driving him deeper and deeper into trance. The green was dazzling now. “We must deliver . . . the right verdict.”

“That’s right, honey,” Heather replied. Reaching up to run her fingers through Dustin’s hair, she went on, “For now, though, you need to get some sleep. You must go to bed and sleep until morning. When you wake up, you will be relaxed and refreshed, and you’ll be even more determined to reach the right verdict.”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi.” Dustin yawned and turned away, beginning to undress again

Heather watched him for a minute or so; she was tempted to take him for another ride before going to her own room. At last she abandoned the idea.

It was amazing, marveled Dustin Cole. They were the same twelve people, looking at the same evidence they’d had all along, but somehow something had changed. Where the jury had been tilted toward conviction two days ago, it seemed to be sliding toward acquittal. He could sense it in his own attitude: he’d been strongly in favor of a guilty verdict, but now he was riddled with hesitation and doubt. It came back to the same thing, over and over—it was less important to reach a quick conclusion than to come up with the right verdict. He’d always been annoyed with bleeding-heart liberals who were more concerned with protecting defendants than with punishing criminals, but somehow, things didn’t look so clear anymore.

Juror Number Two was another one who’d slid from hard-line “guilty” to a mushy doubtfulness. He’d been nearly as impatient with the original three would-be acquitters on the panel as Cole had been. Now, though, he was picking away at every little thing just like them.

And the shift by the two of them was swaying others. At the start, five or six of the jurors had been somewhere in between the acquitters and the convicters. Now you could see them wavering, slipping toward a not-guilty decision. Sheep, Cole thought contemptuously; they want to follow the herd, whichever way they think it’s going.

Still, that worked to his advantage. If he hand George—now where had he heard Juror Two’s name?—still wanted to convict, they’d have moved that way, As it was, they were oozing toward acquittal behind him.

He noticed Juror Twelve smiling at him. Her name was Heather something, he recalled from somewhere. She was very pretty; maybe after this business was over, he’d ask her out.

Heather peeked at Dustin over the rims of her tinted glasses. He was following right along, the dear, doing just as she’d told him even though he obviously had no idea why his views had changed. Perhaps when the trial ended, she’d look him up for some more playtime. She was sure she could get him to go along. Idly, she brought one hand up, brushing it against the spot where her emerald pendant nestled between her breasts.

There was one remaining fly in the ointment. One of the other four women on the jury remained strongly pro-conviction. She’d have to be dealt with somehow.

The blonde grimaced. She didn’t swing that way. It wouldn’t be as much fun working on her as it had been with Dustin and George.

Unless. . . .

Heather’s smile broadened.

That evening, Juror Number Four was settling in for some relaxation before going to bed when someone knocked on her door.

“Who is it?” she called out. “What do you want?” Even to herself, she sounded cross.

“It’s us,” came the answer. “Jurors Two, Three and Twelve. Please let us in. There’s something we need to show you.”

Groaning, Juror Four let them in. Three was the foreman; it wouldn’t be smart to antagonize him. “Whatever it is, make it quick,” she groused. “It’s late, and I’m tired.”

Juror Twelve spoke soothingly. “Yes, we know. We’re all tired. But this is important.” Her hand stole up, fiddling with something at her throat, and brought a glittering green pendant into view. It dangled between two of Twelve’s slender fingers, swaying gently and catching the light.

Despite herself, the other woman stared at it. “My God,” she said. “Is that a real emerald?”

“Yes, it is,” Juror Twelve said. “If you look at it carefully as it moves back and forth, you’ll see the way it catches the light. The way it reflects glittering shards of light. It’s very eye-catching, isn’t it? Very compelling.”

“Y-yes,” came the response, weakly. “It is. Very . . . eye-catching. Compelling.” Four’s eyes followed the motion of the gem. The men with the other woman juror did so as well.

“But I didn’t come here to show off my jewelry,” Juror Twelve said. She continued to gently swing the pendant as she went on. “We came here to persuade you that the prosecution’s case doesn’t hold up.”

“B-but I thought,” the other said, struggling to speak coherently while following the pendant with her eyes, “I thought the, the guys with you were . . . wanted a, a,” she fought to remember the word, such a long, hard word, “con-vic-tion.”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” Juror Twelve said. “We want the right verdict, don’t we, boys?”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi,” the two men chorused. “We want the right verdict.”

Something was wrong, but Juror Four couldn’t put her finger on it. She sighed. It didn’t matter, anyway. Juror Twelve was right. She needed to concentrate on what was important, the beautiful green jewel, the pretty flashes from it, and Twelve’s voice explaining . . . explaining. . . .

Heather lowered the pendant and passed a hand quickly in front of the other female juror’s eyes. They didn’t blink; they remained wide and innocent.

“What’s your name, dear?” she asked.

“Tabby,” came the response. “Tabby Dal-ton.”

Heather looked Tabby over. The name fit. The other woman had a tawny mane of hair flowing halfway down her back and a graceful, athletic look. Men would find her very attractive—even unhypnotized men.

Hypnotized ones, of course—! She chuckled. Yes, this would do fine. Hypnosis lowered inhibitions, just what she needed.

Heather turned to the men. “You like Tabby, don’t you, boys? You think she’s really hot. You want her, just like you want me.”

“Oh, yes,” the men groaned. Their bodies seconded the motion.

“Then we’re going to have some fun, boys,” declared the blonde. “Take of your clothes, boys, it’s time to party!” To Tabby: “You too, Tabby dear. Take ‘em off, take ‘em all off!”

Heather’s hypnotized puppets obeyed. The men took their clothes off slowly, watching Tabby avidly as the girl, inspired by the way Heather’s suggestion to her had been worded, pulled hers off seductively in time to music only she could hear. In Tabby’s mind, a fantasy played out in which she was a stripper on stage; standing on tiptoe, she archer her back and stretched, spinning around an imaginary pole. The two men and one women who were her actual audience became, for a short time, a cheering crowd.

“Go, Tabby, go!” Dustin and George chanted, wildly turned on and oblivious to how utterly inappropriate the whole situation was. “Go, Tabby, go!”

And Tabby went, prancing and peeling until she was down to her high-heeled shoes. Finally she kicked those off. She bowed, giving her viewers a good long look at her tanned, well-developed bosom. There were no visible tan lines; evidently she’d gotten her skin tone in the nude, perhaps in a tanning salon. Not that it mattered.

“Now boys,” Heather said teasingly, “and you too, Tabby, we’re going to party! Tabby, you want these guys.” The other woman gave a blank-eyed nod. “You want them real bad!”

Tabby moaned; one hand went down between her spraddled legs, while the other came up to cup her breast, squeezing the nipple. “Ohhh,” she gasped, ” please.“

“And I know they want you,” Heather told her female subject. “They’re only just standing there now because they’re totally under my power, aren’t you, boys?”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi,” two male voices answered. “Totally under your power.”

“Just like you are, Tabby dear, isn’t that right?” Heather smiled at the other woman. “Say ‘Yes, Miss Lombardi’ if you’re totally under my power.”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi,” Tabby sang. “I’m totally under your power.”

“Now Tabby dear, when I say the word ‘begin,’ you’ll go to George.” Heather’s smile widened. “Fuck him till I tell you to stop. I’ll be with Dustin. When I tell you, we’ll change partners. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi.”

“And when you come, Tabby, you will become more convinced you need to acquit Mr. Gianetti. You will tie acquitting Mr. Gianetti together in your mind with the pleasure. Each time you come, this link will grow stronger and stronger. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi,” gasped Tabby. “Acquittal . . . coming. Acquittal . . . coming.“

“After the boys and I leave, you’ll forget what I told you,” Heather drove home. “But your body will remember, and obey.”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi,” whispered a sweating Tabby.

“Very good,” Heather said, satisfied. “Begin.”

Once again, Heather almost fell asleep in a subject’s embrace. “The boys” and Tabby, under her hypnotic programming, were sexual robots, following their instructions over and over. By the third or fourth exchange of partners, the hedonistic hypnotist could barely remember her own name, let alone her plans; repeated pleasure was driving her into an altered state of consciousness not much different from that in which she’d ensnared the others. And it went on and on; it could only end in total exhaustion.

At last, stars swirling in her vision, she forced herself to speak: “Everyone stop.”

Everyone stopped,. There were incoherent mumbles which might have been attempts at “Yes. Miss Lombardi,” and then stunned silence.

Heather gently detached herself from—yes, it had been George this time—and staggered to her feet. “Up, boys,” she commanded, beckoning.

Dustin and George got up. Their faces bore relaxed, happy expressions. So did Tabby’s, as she lay sprawled on the floor idly staring at nothing in particular.

“Get dressed,” she told the mesmerized men. “I’ll tale you back to your rooms, and once you’re there and I’m gone, you’ll forget what we did here. All you’ll remember is that we discussed the case with Juror,” she had to think a moment to remember the number, “Juror Four here, and that she now agrees with you that the prosecution’s case is weak.”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi.”

Heather giggled. She loved it that the guys were so deep under her spell that they answered her in unison, like schoolchildren greeting their teacher. God, but she enjoyed this!

“And Tabby,” she addressed the glassy-eyed, naked female on the carpet, “when we leave, you’ll get ready for bed and forget what really happened here, too. All you’ll remember is that we came here and discussed the case with you, and made you rethink your support for conviction. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Lombardi,” the dark-haired girl said, giggling stupidly.

“And even though you won’t remember consciously, what are the two things that will go together, in the deepest part of your mind?”

Tabby smiled and began breathing a little faster. “Acquittal . . . coming.” Her smile widened, and her breathing accelerated a bit more. “Acquittal . . . coming!” She shuddered and moaned, Acquittal—coming!“ Shrieking: “Acquittal! Coming! Oh, GOD!”

Heather quieted her: “Very good, Tabby. Relax now. Those are the things that go together.” Tabby sighed and settled back, closing her eyes.

“That’s right, dear,” the woman who was thinking for her said. “Relax. You don’t even have to open your eyes, if you don’t want, until you hear the door shut behind us. When we’re gone, you’ll get up, forgetting everything but what we’ve agreed you’ll remember, get ready for bed and go right to sleep until morning.”

“Yesh Mish . . . Lom’di,” the other woman slurred.

Nodding, Heather commanded Dustin and George to follow her out of the room. As soon as Tabby heard the click of the latch, her eyes opened, her body got up and she did as Heather had told her. Anyone watching would never have guessed that her mind was still deeply asleep amid the beautiful green.

On the fifth day of deliberations, jury foreman Dustin Cole sent word that the panel had finished its work. The bailiff escorted the jury into their box, and the judge formally asked if it had reached a verdict.

“We have, Your Honor,” Cole answered confidently. “On the charges in the indictment, we find the defendant Carlo Gianetti not guilty.”

A stunned murmur swept the courtroom. Only Mr. Gianetti, sitting with arms folded in front of him at the defendant’s desk, flanked by his legal team, looked unsurprised.

The judge commanded Gianetti to rise.

“Carlo Gianetti,” the black-robed jurist intoned, “in the matter before this court, you have been declared innocent of all charges by a jury of your peers.” A sour look briefly crossed his face before it settled back into professional blandness. “Accordingly, this case is dismissed.” He banged his gavel.

Smiling, Gianetti turned away.

The prosecutor watched in baffled fury as his quarry left the courtroom. The case had been airtight! What had gone on in that jury room, anyway?

He’d never know.

That evening, the construction millionaire dined at the city’s fanciest Italian restaurant with an attractive female companion who was obviously not his wife. The staff said nothing; this sort of thing happened all the time. Even the previous mayor . . . !

Gianetti looked across the candlelit table and grinned. “You did it!”

Heather Lombardi grinned back. ”We did it, Uncle Carlo. I couldn’t have done anything if you hadn’t been able to get me onto the jury.”

Gianetti inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “It does help to have friends in City Hall,” he admitted. “Especially friends who are able to help one hide, let us say, connections between oneself and others, and to influence certain choices.”

And that was true enough. Gianetti ran his personal empire with the help of a network of relatives. It was often useful to be able to conceal the fact that they were relatives: it kept them from being tainted by his own notoriety as easily, and, if something should go wrong and one of them got into trouble, that protection worked in reverse as well. And it was handy to be able to have his people placed where they were needed: on a jury, for instance.

And every so often, one of his relatives was able to do him a particularly valuable favor—as the beautiful young woman across from him had freely offered to do, when he had been indicted. He had been skeptical, of course, but a few demonstrations had convinced him it might work. And if it hadn’t—well, he’d have dealt with it. Of course, in that case, he would have been most disappointed with Heather. Most disappointed.

He shook his head. Why concern himself with what might have happened? All had gone well. With Heather’s . . . help, the jury in his case had reached the right verdict.

He raised his wineglass in a toast. His niece answered it, eyes sparkling above her emerald pendant.