The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Adjusters V: Intermezzi

Intermezzo: Family Counseling Services (1)

James McGregor—Jim to his employees, Jimmy to his close friends—did not hesitate to cross the threshold of the nondescript building in East Los Angeles.

Whatever else one might say about James, and one could say many things about James and not all of them heartwarming, being prone to indecision was not one of them.

When James ran into a problem, James stopped long enough to determine the extent of that problem, formulate a plan to solve said problem, and then enact said plan. That approach had served him well for the previous twenty-five years, from the time he wrestled control of Electro Manufacturing Incorporated away from his then father-in-law and grew it into the largest industrial control panels manufacturer on the West Coast.

That approach had served him well years later when he determined that his then wife—the daughter of the father-in-law in question—after a solid fifteen-years marriage that had yielded two sons, was simply not worthy of being the wife of one of the most successful businessman in Southern California. She was unhappy, and was letting herself go, and he found it increasingly embarrassing to be seen in her company.

When he concluded his wife had become a liability, that she was a problem, he formulated a plan and enacted it without pity. It had been a simple matter to hire a handsome out-of-work actor to seduce and sleep with her while a private investigator followed the couple and documented the affair in exquisite graphic detail. Armed with incontrovertible evidence, suing her for divorce was a short and easy affair. James obtained custody of his sons and left his ex-wife with hardly anything. The one-time lump payment for relocation that his wife’s lawyer did manage to obtain turned out to be less than the fee James had promised the out-of-work actor but never paid due to the poor fellow’s deportation proceedings back to Canada—his visa having expired a year prior, something that had not escaped James’s careful screening of potential candidates—an anecdote which James would have considered poetic had he had any appreciation for poetry.

“Welcome to Family Counseling Services,” said the pleasant young woman behind the reception desk, looking up at him with a blindingly white smile. “How may I help you?”

“James McGregor. I have an appointment at ten.” It was not a question.

“Of course, Mister McGregor. Let me check the schedule, and we’ll make sure to direct you to the right counselor.”

The receptionist typed on her keyboard, humming softly under her breath, and James almost snapped at her to be more professional. He stepped away from the desk and walked around to diffuse his nervousness. Looking around for the first time and taking in his surroundings, he noted the sparsely decorated lobby, the grey and sable tiles, the large window letting in an inordinate amount of light but high enough so that one could not see the street, the tall plants that gave a splash of color. James liked the soothing effect. Had James had any appreciation for internal decoration, he would have used the term tasteful for the lobby of Family Counseling Services.

“Mister McGregor,” came the feminine voice from behind him. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Despite the fact that he had not in fact been kept waiting, James turned to the newcomer and nodded as if imparting forgiveness. Automatically, he extended a hand.

The woman—early thirties, good looking, dressed sharply, dark hair pulled up into a bun, fashionable glasses on her nose—grasped the proffered hand and shook it, exacting perfect pressure.

“I’m Sherry Montalban, senior counselor at Family Counseling Services. Welcome.”

“James McGregor. Thank you.”

“And before you ask,” she said, “no relation whatsoever with the actor.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said.

She tilted her head to look at James. “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

Before he could decipher the expression on her face—he must really have been stressed out, he was usually much better at reading people—she broke into a broad smile. She was beautiful, he realized.

“Please, follow me to my office, and we can discuss what brings you here today.”

She gestured to an hallway. James followed her. “Thanks Mel,” Sherry told the receptionist as they passed by.

In Sherry’s office, James took the couch after looking around and noting somewhat disturbingly that Sherry’s desk in the corner was not set up for discussions. Sherry Montalban seemed to prefer informal exchanges in comfortable seats. He wondered how she established dominance over her visitors.

“So tell me of your problem, Mister McGregor,” said Sherry after sitting in front of him. She had tablet computer on her lap, ready to take notes.

The way she stated the question served to reassure James immediately. Indeed, what he had was a problem, and what he needed was a plan on how to solve it.

“My wife is having an affair.”

Sherry did not react, merely made a note on the tablet. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“Not yet. I’m still… debating how to address it.”

“As you probably know, we at Family Counseling Services are available for couples therapy, to deal with exactly that sort of problem.”

James shook his head. “I know, but that’s not what I need. I need… Frederic Krueger gave me your name, and told me you could help me… adjust my wife?”

Sherry’s smiled, and she tapped her tablet a few times. “Frederic Krueger, yes. From Bad Dream Productions, here in LA. What did he tell you about our facility?”

“That for a hefty fee, you might be able to adjust my wife so that she doesn’t stray…” James left the rest in suspense. Decades of interacting with lawyers had made him weary of saying too much.

“And…?” Sherry looked at him quietly.

James had a problem. James had a problem that needed solving. Sherry here was step one of the plan to solve his problem.

“And that you also could make it so that she’s more… loving towards me. More… accommodating.”

Sherry seemed satisfied. She tapped her tablet again, softly, with a long red fingernail. James noted absent-mindedly that she had a tattoo on her little finger—a braided circle.

“We may be able to help you, Mister McGregor,” she said. At one end of the office, a printer started spitting out sheets of paper. Sherry went to pick them up, and James’s eyes could not help but stray and take in how tightly her backside was snuggled in her skirt.

She handed him the papers. “Please go home and fill out this questionnaire. It’s about your wife. We’ll need information to see where we stand and to get us started. Make an appointment with Melanie at the front desk for Wednesday, and we can proceed with our consultation. It was nice to meet you, Mister McGregor. I look forward to doing business with you.”

James shook her hand, knowing a dismissal when he heard one.

* * *

Two days later, James McGregor was back at Family Counseling Services, handing in the completed paperwork to Sherry.

She thanked him, glanced at it, and put it on the corner of her desk. “Please sit down, Mister McGregor.” She took her place in front of him, her tablet on her lap, her long legs crossed enticingly.

“Rebecca Jane McGregor,” she read off from her screen. “Née Greer. Twenty-five, five foot six, one hundred and thirty-one pounds.” She looked up to James, who merely nodded. He did not know her exact weight—she fit perfectly in the dresses that she had in her closet was all he cared about. “And you would like her, to use a word you mentioned last time, to be more accommodating. I presume you mean sexually?”

James was taken aback for a second at this abrupt approach, and then decided he liked it. “And emotionally. I want her to be the perfect wife.” James had thought about it further in the past two days.

“For a man like you,” added Sherry, smiling.

“Of course.”

“Well, Mister McGregor, I believe we can help you.”

James looked up at her, waiting for her to continue before reacting one way or another.

“It goes without saying that nothing we talk about today can leave this office.”

James nodded. “I understand.”

“You signed the nondisclosure agreement in the papers I gave you, I saw.”

“I did.”

“Then let’s proceed.”

Sherry never lost her smile as she explained to James the specialized service Family Counseling Services provided. As she summarized, they would arrange for his wife, Rebecca McGregor, to be taken to a facility where she would be subjected to a proprietary conditioning process that would adjust her attitude towards him and towards sex. The exact details of the conditioning process could not be revealed, unfortunately, but among other things, the technicians would implant a set of triggers in her mind that James could then use to activate specific behaviors.

When she listed some of the behavioral adjustments that would come in the default package he had been offered, he had to fight hard to curb the flash of arousal that ran through his body. Rebecca had always been a great lay—one of the many reasons he had decided to marry her—but what Sherry was talking about went beyond anything he had expected.

Part of him, cynical, disabused, wondered if it was all a scam.

But Sherry kept describing the features available to him, and when she mentioned the possibility of customized and specialized behavioral adjustments, James’s ears perked up. This was what Fred had hinted about, and what had given rise to the nascent plan in James’s mind.

“About that, customized adjustments,” he interrupted Sherry, who tilted her head and told him to go on. “How specific can behaviors be?”

“They can be as specific as you wish them to be. Any scenario you may want to enact, as long as it is physically realizable of course, can be programmed in. There are time restrictions—activation cannot be reliably sustained for more than five hours, less if the scenario is complex or meets strong cognitive resistance—but aside from that…?”

James nodded, and told her what he had in mind.

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” she said, making a note on her tablet. “I will have to run it by our engineers to confirm, but this is the kind of thing we have done in the past.”

“Glad to hear,” James replied. The plan was falling into place. “I also have another customized adjustment in mind.”

And Sherry listened to what James had in mind, making another note on her tablet after giving him a curt nod.

“I believe we are all set, then. A Default S2 Package, with two customized adjustments.” She tapped her tablet a few more times. “Now, of course, we need to discuss payment.”

The price was hefty, but James thought it was worth it.

A plan had been formulated. All that remained was to enact it.

* * *

Rebecca McGregor hurried into the house, tossing her purse and her sunglasses onto the table in the entryway and stepping out of her high heels in a practiced motion.

She was late, and if there was one thing that her husband detested, it was tardiness. Well, tardiness, and sloppiness. In fact, tardiness, sloppiness, and aimlessness. She could have added more to the list had she any time to dedicate to the question, but she did not. She had to start dinner.

Not for the first time, she cursed her husband for his inability to either cook for himself, or to tolerate using a cook to prepare meals. No, James McGregor wanted home-cooked meals prepared by his wife, because it was the way his mother had done it, and since as far as he was concerned the woman could do no wrong and ever since her death had moved to a hallowed place in her son’s heart, there was nothing to be done.

Rebecca hated cooking.

But it was one of the small prices to pay in order to be Mrs. James McGregor, a position that she had once proclaimed loudly. Once.

On cue, the doorbell rang, and she turned around, checking herself in the mirror out of habit and making sure she was presentable.

At the door, a nondescript middle-aged man, holding a large white box.

“Mrs. McGregor,” he said, nodding.

“Hi Alfonzo. You’re right on time.”

“When am I not ever?” He handed her the box.

“Oh goodie. What do we have today?”

“Chicken cacciatore. With a side of sauteed green beans, and mashed sweet potatoes with a hint of rosemary. Delicious, from the smell of it.”

“Sounds wonderful. Thanks again. I’m sorry I can’t ask you to come in and get something but…”

“But time is of the essence. I understand, Mrs. McGregor.”

Alfonzo turned around, but not before letting his eyes almost teasingly linger down her exposed cleavage to the top of those large breasts that she made a point to maintain exposed. Part and parcel of being a trophy wife. After all, James had paid for them, and he wanted them advertised.

She did not mind. She had spent her whole life subjected to the lingering gaze of men, and during most of that time she had accepted it, even relished it. After all, what could a girl do? All men were pigs, that was the one lesson she had learned through her twenty-five years of life.

All men but one. All men but Doug.

She let Alfonzo get his look, wondering whether the older man would think about her chest when he next humped his wife or when he masturbated in the back of the restaurant he delivered for.

Back inside, she opened the box and transferred the content to pots and pans appropriately, putting everything in the oven to keep warm. The box had no markings, and there was no point in doing more than folding it up and tossing down the garbage chute.

Everything was ready for James to come back home, and she had plenty of time to shower and wash off the smell of Doug off of her skin. She allowed herself a naughty smile knowing that she would diddle herself under the warm jet thinking of her young lover’s hard cock drilling her until she could no longer form sentences.

* * *

James McGregor received the text message while he was at work.

Pick up today at 16h00.

It was from an unknown number. When he called it, he was connected to a toll-free line for Family Counseling Services.

He knew what the message meant. Someone would go and pick up Rebecca—probably at home—and take her away to do… whatever it was that they needed to do to her.

It would be simple enough to deflect people’s attention from Rebecca’s absence. He had already let people know that she was feeling under the weather, a plausible scenario given the seasonal flu that was making the rounds.

He had not been told how the pick-up would proceed. All that he knew was that by the time he returned home, she would not be there. He shook his head. He dismissed the possibility that they would not return her. It would be poor business practice.

He pondered the fact that there would not be no home-cooked meal tonight.

He summoned his secretary.

“Yes, Mister McGregor?” The girl was young and inexperienced, but she was stunning and James loved the fact that she always wore clothes that were just a little bit too tight to be appropriate for the office. He had not hired her for her skills—his senior assistant took care of most of the work that might have gone her way. He had hired her to be attractive and entertain visitors while they waited to see him.

“Can you reserve a table for two at Ronald’s tonight? Six o’clock?”

“Very well, sir.”

“Oh, and Lena—you’re accompanying me.”

Lena the secretary took the news in stride. She had expected the boss to make a move on her. Tonight was the night, then. “I don’t have anything to wear to Ronald’s, sir.”

James looked her up and down, paying special attention to the short tight skirt that bared a mouth-watering pair of legs. “What you have on will do just fine, Lena. It’ll do just fine.”

* * *

The doorbell rang at four in the afternoon, and Rebecca McGregor, who was sunning herself by the pool, debated remaining exactly where she was. There was no one to get the door today—it was the maid’s day off, and there was no one else was around.

Had she not received the text that Alfonzo would arrive with the delivery earlier than usual, she would have ignored the front door. But then she had to get it. She should have told Alfonzo that she would not be there and to please just come at the usual time, but she wanted to be nice. You’re a pushover, Becky. That’s your problem.

She sighed, and straightened up, taking a few seconds to put back her bikini top. She generally sunbathed topless—their house was far enough from any nosy neighbors that it was not a risk, and beside, she knew that James thought that anyone seeing her big breasts was just that much more likely to be envious of him, and thus he encouraged her. She didn’t care either way. And Doug liked her lack of tan lines.

She grinned to herself as she headed inside, imagining how Alfonzo would react seeing her clad only in a microscopic bikini that did very little to camouflage her body. It hid her nipples and covered her slit, and that was it. She felt a momentary pang of guilt for teasing the poor man, and then thought that after all, he must be enjoying it, and it hurt no one. And if it made Alfonzo fuck his wife more enthusiastically, so much the better. For all she knew, she was helping his marriage.

She opened the door. “Alfonzo,” she started, “what—” She stopped. It was not Alfonzo.

“Mrs. McGregor?” Two large men were at the door, wearing overalls and baseball caps with Frampton’s on them. In the driveway, she could see a white van, Frampton’s Cleaning Services blazoned on its side.

“Yes?” She wished she had a beach towel or something with which to cover herself in front of those strangers. Yet they did not flinch, did not look down, despite all the skin she was showing. The one that spoke was looking at her in the eyes, while the other was looking behind her.

“We’re here for the carpets.”

“Carpets? I didn’t call for any carpets.”

The man looked down at a sheet of paper. “It was your husband, m’am. James McGregor. He called for us to drop by and take care of the carpets.”

She frowned. “We already have a company that takes care of the carpets,” she said. “You must be mistaken.”

“No mistake, m’am. He called earlier this week, and set up this appointment.”

“I think I should call him…” she said, hesitating. Something felt wrong.

“You probably should, m’am.”

“Wait here, please.” She closed the door and grabbed her cell phone. She had managed to speed dial her husband’s office number when she felt one of the men behind her but she was not fast enough to turn around before feeling a wet rag press into her face. She was almost instantly dizzy, and she hardly even noticed the pinch of the hypodermic needle pressing into her butt cheek.

Rebecca McGregor collapsed in the arms of the tallest of the two men. The other bent down to pick up her cell phone and disconnect the call.

It took the two men less than five minutes to stretch Rebecca out onto the living room throw rug that they had scoped out for the job and rolled her into it.

It took the two men less than ten minutes to stash the rug into the van before driving away, locking the door behind them.

* * *

In a hotel room near the edge of town, James McGregor was slamming his cock into Lena from behind with what to any external observer would have been anger and frustration.

He had not even bothered to wait for his young secretary to get undressed. After throwing her on the bed, he had simply pushed her short skirt up—no easy feat since it was so tight—then thrust his cock into her in one swift motion. She had no underwear to get in the way, not after he had told her to take them off at the restaurant and leave them in the women’s restroom on the handle of a stall.

Lena had screamed when he penetrated her, whether from pleasure or pain he did not know nor care. She was wetter than she had been in the restaurant where he had slipped two fingers inside her upon checking that she had indeed taken her panties off, but he suspected that it was only because he had told her to finger herself on the drive over to the hotel. She had obeyed, knowing her place in the company and the complete control McGregor exerted over all of his employees.

And so Lena let her boss fuck her, on all four on a hotel bed, her ass high in the air as he pounded into her like a madman, using her hips to pull her against him on every thrust, his fingers digging into her flesh.

She had harbored no illusions as to why she had been hired, and knew that he would eventually get to her. She had not known exactly what to expect, however. Would James McGregor be a gentle caring lover, a selfish bastard, a violent pervert? She was no stranger to kinky sex, having had her share of boyfriends throughout college, and her current boyfriend got strangely excited when she told him that her boss was always leering at her.

Idly, she wondered how her boyfriend would react when she told him that her boss took her to a hotel and fucked her like a whore, never even bothering to strip off her clothes.

And he was not gentle. Lena did not know what was bothering James McGregor, but something was clearly on his mind, and it was equally clear that he was using her to work through some kind of anxiety.

She yelped when James grabbed her hair and pulled her head toward him, forcing her to arch her back. He never stopped pounding her.

“Ow—“ she started but James slapped her on the ass hard, twice.

“Shut up. I don’t pay you to talk.”

He pumped into her with renew vigor, as his free hand reached around and ripped her blouse open, sending a button flying. He then grasped and squeezed a breast, hard, and Lena knew that he would leave a mark, and she wondered again what her boyfriend would say to that.

James did not know what was driving him on. Of course, he had lusted after Lena ever since he first laid eyes on her during her interview. Any sane heterosexual man could not help but get a hard-on watching the sexy brunette flaunt her body the way his secretary did, making sure that she sported a mouth-watering amount of cleavage through which she seemed to delight in exposing her young bouncy breasts. He roughly clutched said breasts, relishing the way her flesh tried to squeeze through his fingers even as her unbelievably tight pussy fought back against every single one of his thrusts.

His mind refused to shed any introspective light on why exactly he was so upset.

With a sequence of vicious thrusts that made Lena shout out, he pounded into the lithe secretary with all of his might, latching his lips onto the brunette’s exposed neck and sucking hard, knowing that he was leaving a mark, that her skin would show the signs of his domination for days if not weeks. And he kept sucking, branding her as his, so that the world at large would immediately recognize that she was no longer just Lena the Secretary but Lena the Boss’s Toy.

* * *

“So what does the display tell you now?” said the first voice, a deep baritone, sounding slightly bored.

Rebecca McGregor’s world was black, yet spun anyway. She felt vaguely sick to her stomach.

“Huh, hold on.” The second voice was hesitant, reedy. “It changed. It’s like…”

Rebecca tried to open her eyes, but could not. This worried her.

“Go on,” the first voice encouraged.

“She’s awake?”

“Are you asking, or saying?”

“Asking?”

Rebecca’s worry turned to fear when she realized that not only could she not open her eyes, she could not move at all. Her muscles simply did not respond to any of her instructions. And the more she tried to move, the scarier it was, especially when she started to feel like her lungs were not responding to her instructions either.

“Whoa!” said the second voice, wonder and fear fighting it out in his voice. “It just lit up! What’s going on?”

“She’s probably on the verge of a panic attack. Hold on.” She felt movement to her right, a hand on her bare arm. “Rebecca,” said the first voice, the deep voice. “You have nothing to fear. The paralytic effects of the injection will resorb in a few minutes, and you will be able to open your eyes and move.”

Both his statement and his voice calmed Rebecca down, and as she felt tingling in her extremities she tried to remember what had happened to her. Was she in a hospital? Did something happen? Car accident? A slip and fall?

As her mind cleared, she tried to remember the last thing that had happened to her, but she could not nail it down. She had a confused sense of carpets and insects stinging her, and food being late and she wanted to shake her head and clear the fog. Why could she not remember?

“W…” Her throat was crushed gravel. She could barely get a sound out. “W…?”

What happened to me? she wanted to ask, and she turned her head and found she could not, but not because of any paralytic drug, but rather because her head was strapped in place. Now that she paid attention, she felt the band tight across her forehead. Same thing with her arms and legs.

She was secured down onto something.

She opened her eyes and the light blinded her for a moment. She felt panic return. There were two men at the foot of the bed, mumbling low and examining a bank of instruments. The room looked nothing like a hospital room.

Before she could try to say anything more, one of the men turned to her and smiled. “Welcome back,” he said. It was the man with the deep voice. She had imagined him bigger. He was tall and lanky with a neat short beard turning white.

He stepped to her side and pressed two cold fingers to the side of her throat. He then flashed a penlight into her eyes before asking her to open her mouth. She did, almost out of reflex, not knowing what was happening to her, but still under the confused impression that she must have been in an accident and they were going to treat her. Maybe operate on her. She hated surgeries, always flipped the channel when she was seeing someone being cut open up on television, whether in reality or in fiction.

“I understand your throat is dry,” the man said, putting his hand on her sides and pressing. “It’ll get better soon.”

That was when Rebecca realized with a shock that she was nude. She moved to cover herself, but she was strapped in tight. She fought against the restraints, to no avail.

The man continued, as though nothing unusual was happening. “Sorry about the restraints,” he said, continuing his examination, his eyes on her face to read her reactions. “But we can’t have you getting down and walking off right now. Does this hurt?” He pressed the inside of her thigh, and the touch was cold and clinical, and it confused Rebecca, who wanted to shake her head but could not.

The other man—younger, with glasses and a nervous demeanor—turned to his colleague. “Huh, I think the numbers are all above threshold.”

“You think?”

“Huh, they are all above threshold.”

“Good. And what does that mean?” He sounded like he was training an intern.

“Huh, it means that the knockout agent is being cleared out of her system.”

“Correct. Let’s give it ten more minutes before we proceed to Alpha stage. Come here,” he said, nodding his head.

The young man approached Rebecca from the other side, getting closer than a typical bed would allow. Rebecca was stretched on what felt like a padded board, wide enough for her body but not more. Her eyes turned to the younger man, and her mouth opened. “W…” The younger man made eye contact, his eyes a deep blue.

“You can touch her if you want,” said the first man, his voice holding just a tinge of amusement as he looked at the younger man.

“Excuse me?”

Rebecca wanted to say the same thing, but could not.

“You can touch her, I said,” the first man said more slowly. “In fact, I encourage it. It makes the subject more receptive to the drugs, and there will be less resistance. And it’s enjoyable for everyone around.”

The young man’s eyes dropped down to Rebecca’s body, and after another glance up to the first man—who nodded encouragingly—he let his eyes slowly roam over her body, as if he had not allowed himself to look before. Rebecca felt a wave of nausea at the way he stared at her, like she was a piece of meat evaluated for purchase, and she wiggled ineffectively against her bonds. “G…” she groaned, but her throat would not allow her to say anything.

When the young man did finally touch her, Rebecca was not surprised that he went for her breasts, protruding from her chest like melons at a fruit stand. His hands were clammy, and while he caressed her flesh softly at first, he soon was pawing her with gusto, his eyes riveted on her.

And to her utter dismay, she felt herself get aroused, the fingers twiddling her nipples and the hands palming her breasts making her hotter than she ever remembered from being touched, and she had been touched often and by more capable men than that young man. She felt her pussy gush, and with an involuntary tilt of the hips tried to raise her pelvis.

The first man nodded with a smile, observing all of her responses. “Excellent,” he said. “Note her movements—the subject is excited. Now feel between her legs, make sure she is well lubricated. It will make the next step easier for her.”

The young man barely hesitated this time, and with one hand still on her breast—driving her mad with want—he slid his fingers between her thighs and found her sopping wet pussy. Rebecca closed her eyes and let out a moan, the feelings making her head spin, her breath catch. She had lost control of her limbs, her hips pressing up of their own volition, her pussy lips parting and begging in their own way for the young man’s fingers—or anything, really—to press into her and assuage the itch that had arisen deep inside her. She had never felt this way before. What had they done to her?

As if to answer her silent question, the first man spoke up. “We’ve given you a mild stimulant,” he said. “You should be feeling rather pleasurable sensations throughout your body.” He had a small smile on his face, knowing full well what the effects of said mild stimulant were.

Rebecca gasped as she felt two fingers press into her pussy, feeling like someone had slipped a live wire tapping deep inside her soul, the sensations spidering their way down every single nerve ending on her body. She heard a loud whimper and only belated realized it was her own.

She had been aroused before in her life, of course—in high school when she and her friends were just discovering the pleasures of the flesh, and lately, with Doug when he stared at her with that lust in his eyes that made her all gooey inside—but nothing even remotely close to what she was feeling now. She wanted to feel lips wrapped around her nipples and sucking hard, wanted to feel a thick shaft pounding her, wanted to feel a tongue between her ass cheeks—she wanted to overflow with sensations, to explode with desire.

She moaned again when she felt the young man’s fingers slide out of the tight confines of her snatch, leaving her empty and craving to be filled again, harder and deeper. She was merely disembodied sensation—wanting, craving, needing.

She was barely aware of the needle that the first man slipped into her arm, the prickling just one of the many that her nervous system had to deal with and not the most important at that. The needle was attached to a delivery system that started sending the Serum-laced solution contained in a fluid bag directly into her veins.

She was barely aware of the neural cap that the second man lowered over her head, gently adjusting the neural connectors that dug into her scalp, a million little pinpricks that like everything else merged into the general overload of her nervous system.

But she was fully aware of the apparatus that the first man slid between her legs as the second man fiddled with the neural cap. It covered her pussy and attached over her clitoris—the discharge of energy at the contact nearly sending her over the edge—and she felt something slide inside her and she did not care what it was for it felt fantastic and it filled her and she was so close to an orgasm that just eluded her and she ran after it as it ran a few paces ahead of her, just out of reach…

The second man lowered a gear over her head that completely covered her ears and her eyes, but Rebecca did not care—she only had attention for the shaft that was embedded inside her pussy.

“Ready for Alpha stage?” the young man said, and it was half a statement and half a question.

“What do you think?” the first man asked.

The young man thought out loud. “The cocktail drip is in, and the Adjustment Kit is in place and functioning perfectly. I… huh… it’s a go?”

Rebecca did not see the first man nod, and even if she had, she would not have cared.

But she gasped as the hard and slick rubber shaft that had slid into her pussy started moving, back and forth, slowly at first, then faster, its size increasing and decreasing as if it were alive and breathing inside her as it fucked her into submission.

“Make sure the hydration line flows easily,” said the first man. “It’s been acting up for the past two weeks. And if you remember nothing else, remember this: keep the subject hydrated.”

* * *

As Rebecca entered Alpha stage, James McGregor was sitting in a couch at the Roxane’s Gentleman Club, barely enjoying his cigar and unable to appreciate the beauty of the girls that were dancing before him on the stage.

He had left his secretary Lena sprawled on the bed of the hotel room two hours earlier, naked, his cum splashed all over her back, drenched in sweat, her breathing ragged even as she slept restlessly.

He had driven her hard, prompted by a discomfort that he would not acknowledge and could not name.

That same discomfort had driven him to Roxane’s, even though he was not particularly in the mood. Had he thought about it, it would have been clear to him that he was avoiding going back home. But he did not think about it.

He sat on the couch as a beautiful blonde with large fake breasts and a sequined thong shook her body in front of his eyes, trying to get his attention, trying to get him to ask her for a lap dance, then for a private dance. For the right price, she would have ditched her thong and let him slip his fingers inside her, and would have sunk to her knees and given him awesome head—Roxane’s was renowned for always satisfying its clientele.

And James, as he took the martini with two olives that a leggy waitress brought him, would eventually partake in the pleasures that Roxane’s offered, unleashing his increasing discomfort onto the beautiful blonde stripper with her big fake breasts that made him think of Rebecca’s, teaching her about the finer points of throat fucking, about the vanishing art of worshipping a man’s cock, about the proper place of a woman in the world—on her knees, with a fucking huge cock down her whore throat.

* * *

Alpha stage of the adjustment process was the time-consuming stage. The subject was given a steady drip of saline solution laced with a cocktail of psychotomimetic drugs mixed in with a drop of the Serum.

The Serum was ADCorp’s most astounding discovery, although its details were kept secret, its existence itself known only to a few in the inner circle of the CEO Adonai Davenham. The Serum, when injected in the bloodstream of a biological female, reacted with naturally produced hormones to catalyze a biochemical reaction with a unique neurological effect.

The Serum, when combined with specific psychotomimetic drugs, opened up the mind of the subject and made it susceptible to suggestions and conditioning, achieving an effect not unlike that of rewiring the processor on old computers, creating new neurological pathways and diverting existing ones. The exact biochemical process through which the Serum acted was only partially known, despite the years of research that ADCorp scientists had put into it.

Once Alpha stage had opened up the subject’s mind—a task facilitated by having the subject in a state of high sexual arousal, the main biochemical components in the action of the Serum involving sexual hormones, which went a long way toward explaining why the neurological pathways easiest to affect were linked with sexual responses—the process of adjusting new neurological pathways occurred during Omega stage, during which neurolinguistic programming as well as behavioral conditioning were applied to the subject, the process achieved through sensory immersion via sounds and images driven by a computer tasked with modifying the appropriate pathways depending on the specific behavioral adjustments desired.

In the two decades of experience that ADCorp scientists had gained using the Serum, and the inevitable improvements in drugs and knowledge of neurological connections in the brain—ADCorp, in an independent research directorate, funded and employed some of the best neuroscientists in the world—more and more precise modifications of the neurological pathways could be achieved, leading to the ability to cater to pretty much any sort of fetish and desire that a paying customer might want with regard to the subject.

Family Counseling Services, as James McGregor had learned during his visit, adjusted subjects with a baseline sexual appreciation for the customer, an adjustment that could be achieved fairly easily without undue stress for the mind of subjects. Other behavioral adjustments were more demanding, and were only available when activated using verbal triggers. ADCorp had developed a bank of behaviors that it had found most customers requested, and adjusted the subjects accordingly, for a fee. Predetermined behaviors were comparatively cheap, since programs could be reused. Customized behaviors, on the other hand, were expensive, having to be programmed by hand, a process that was both time-consuming and error-prone.

This was, of course, the same procedure that Doctor Thaddeus Cargyle had used at Darnell University to adjust the coeds that the brothers of the Delta Iota Kappa fraternity brought to him. Doctor Cargyle had had to put together his own equipment to administer his own version of the drug cocktail laced with Serum, equipment that did not afford him the same amount of control on the adjustments he could perform. Such limitations explained why Doctor Cargyle had restricted himself to a global adjustment that had the subject simply sexually obey the person upon activation via her verbal trigger, following the natural sexual inclinations of the subject.

Rebecca McGregor, on the other hand, received more subtle adjustments.

* * *

“Omega stage complete,” said the young man, looking up from the computer console.

“I know,” said the older man. Upon seeing the surprise on his young colleague’s face, he shrugged. “You can always tell.”

The young man looked with curiosity to the form of Rebecca, still strapped into her padded board, her head wholly encased into the machine that plugged into her brain and guided sounds into her ears and images into her eyes as well as odors and flavors, an assault on the senses that was all part and parcel of the adjustment process. Once her mind was opened up by the drugs and especially the Serum, voices described sexual behaviors, images showed sexual behaviors—odors and flavors associated with semen and pussy juices and male and female smells cemented pleasant associations in the new neurological pathways.

“Time for the tattoo, right?” the young man asked.

“Indeed. You want to take care of it?”

“Sure!” The young man was excited. This was his first adjustment. And the girl was a stunner. He loved large breasts, and this girl had beautiful ones. He looked forward to the testing—he could not decide what he would do to her.

“Huh, what is she?” He knew right there that he had messed up—he should have known, should have checked.

The first man did not show his impatience. “She’s a Private.”

“Oh.” They did not get many Privates. They were expensive. “Lucky bastard.” The comment had escaped him, and he regretted it immediately. It was not professional. “Sorry.”

“No problem. And yes, he’s a lucky bastard.”

The young man approached Rebecca. The tattoo for Publics went around the little finger on the dominant hand. The tattoo for Privates was the same pattern—a braided circle, usually black, sometimes dark blue—but it was located on the hip, between the hip bone and the crotch, so that it would be covered by the most minuscule of bikinis.

He tried to be professional about it. He tried to not get distracted by her pussy only inches from where he was working, covered with a thin trimmed pale brown patch. He tried not to notice how fragrant she was, how wet she was, all normal considering she had spent hours in a machine designed to keep her as aroused as possible.

The older man watched him carefully, amused, but hiding it—all the newbies reacted the same, trying to be cool and detached while burning up inside. Just once, he told himself, just once I’d like to get to train a technician with at least a modicum of sexual experience. What do these kids DO in school anyway? Study? Though he could not in good faith complain: the recruits they hired were technically proficient, smart and effective, which at the end of the day was the prominent requirement.

The young man used the inker to tattoo the braided circle on Rebecca’s hip, a slow process for one not used to it.

The older man looked at it and nodded. It would do.

The tattoo did not have to be perfect. It only had to be similar enough to the one that was used during the adjustment process, the common thread linking all the images that were flashed into the mind of the subject, a braided circle. Having it on the subject’s body, seen daily, served to reinforce the behavioral adjustments, a grounding mechanism that had proved simple yet effective.

And, in the case of Publics, doubled as a convenient identification mechanism.

“So, we’re done?” the young man asked, putting the inker away.

“What do you think?”

The young man looked around, closed his eyes in order to run internal checklists, and then nodded hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“Are you sure?” The older man’s voice was stern.

The young man slowed. He nodded, more firmly. “Yes. I’m sure.”

The older man waited for a moment then smiled. “Yes, we’re done.”

“So… do we get to test now?” He did not want to sound too eager, but failed.

The older man shook his head. “Not we. You need a bit more experience with the technical aspects before you get to that part.”

The young man looked disappointed, and the older man wondered whether he would complain and argue his way into an easy fuck. Some tried. Most did not. The young man did not either. “Huh… I understand. I… Right. Well, I guess I’ll just…”

He never finished his sentence. He gave a last lingering look at Rebecca’s form lying on the stretcher, naked, her large breasts sitting high on her chest defying gravity, her drenched crotch sitting there begging to be abused, and then left the room.

It was only when the door closed and automatically locked behind him that the older man permitted himself a smile, and gave Rebecca a look quite similar to the one that the young man had given her, except without the disappointment, merely expectation.

The older man loved testing new subjects. It was a perk of the job. And it was not like he was hurting anyone—at least, compared to what he was asked to do.

And at the end of the day, fresh pussy was just that, fresh pussy.

And this one was quality pussy, he could tell.

He unhooked Rebecca from the apparatus, including the intravenous delivery system, and took a minute to give her a final examination—pulse and blood pressure were good, and everything checked out. Her electrolytes were off, a common side effect of the dehydration that accompanied the process despite the copious fluids she had been given.

As if on cue, Rebecca stirred, and opened her eyes. They were unfocussed, still under the effect of a powerful tranquilizer in the drug cocktail, a stronger form of Rohypnol, making the subject more malleable without interfering with the Serum.

“Rebecca?” He leaned over her.

“Y… yes?” She had difficulty speaking, as if her mouth was responding too slowly to the instructions of her brain.

“Would you like some water?”

“P… please…”

He gave her a plastic cup, after helping her to a sitting position on the stretcher. She drank, slowly, her eyes clearing up to a certain extent, but remaining fuzzy enough not to be bothered by or even noticing her lack of clothes, or the strangeness of her surroundings.

An interesting property of the tranquilizer that they used, and undoubtedly one of the reasons that it was used in the first place, was that its effect dissipated upon a subject’s activation. That fact always boggled the technician’s mind when he thought about it, as it seemed to contradict everything he had ever learned about the functioning of the brain, but he could not deny the evidence of his own eyes.

“Th… thank you,” Rebecca mumbled, almost dropping the cup giving it back to him.

“No problem. How are you feeling?”

“F… fuzzy. And tired… so tired…”

“I understand. Here, take my arm, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

She clung to him and staggered as he brought her slowly to the couch that lined one side of the room, the one amenity that was not cold steel and sterile glass. He had asked for it explicitly, several years ago.

“Here, sit down.” He had difficulty taking his eyes off her perfect round breasts, exposed in their full glory and bouncing slightly with every hesitant step she took. He resisted a strong impulse to reach out and grab them and squeeze them as hard as he could. Her nipples were hard and erect.

“Rebecca,” he said, tilting her head up with a finger underneath her chin and forcing her to look at him. She had beautiful eyes—large and blue, the kind of eyes a man could lose his soul into. “Adjustment code T999, authorization 9003761, testing protocol, code C011.”

The anticipation of the moment always made him hard—that split second before seeing the flash of dilation of a subject’s pupils, as if someone had shut down the lights and turned them back on again, the slight shiver that coursed through their body as their programming took hold and wrestled control of the subject’s mind from their conscious and into the twisted waiting hands of whatever behavioral adjustment had been selected.

Rebecca stiffened slightly, then blinked, and when she opened her eyes, the expression in them was anything but fuzzy. It was crisp and sharp and most of all hungry.

She gasped and in a flash her hands were on her own breasts, touching them and squeezing them and kneading them like pizza dough.

A naughty smile appeared on her lips, and her eyes were sparkling.

The older man loved this moment, when a subject was first activated—it was like taking her virginity all over again—he was touching the forbidden fruit, taking it in his hand, biting into it whole.

“Hi,” Rebecca said, her voice throaty.

“How are you doing?” he asked, casually, as if they had just met at a bar downtown.

“I’m horny,” she said with a straight face. Her hands were still on her breasts, eminently distracting.

“Maybe I can help you with that,” he replied, keeping up the charade.

“Maybe you can,” she said, edging closer to him. He could smell her arousal. “But I have to warn you—when I’m this horny, I get pretty dirty. Do you think you can handle a dirty girl?”

To punctuate her statement, she pushed one of her large breasts up to her lips, and licked on her nipple as if it were an ice cream cone, her eyes never leaving his.

“I can do dirty,” he said. He enjoyed this.

“But I mean really dirty, you know? Like grabbing that cock of yours and sliding it between my big tits and letting you fuck them like you never fucked tits before? Does your wife let you fuck her tits, baby?”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“Then a girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend either.”

Her smile widened, and she parted her legs even as her hands squeezed her breasts harder. The man wondered for a second whether they would pop, as her flesh ballooned beneath her fingers. Rebecca’s breath was getting short.

“Poor baby. Maybe I can be your girlfriend today. Your dirty little girlfriend.” She licked her lips suggestively.

“I think I’d like that.”

Rebecca moaned as she dropped a hand between her spread legs and caressed herself. “Well you know what horny dirty little girlfriends get, don’t you baby?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“They get fucked hard by their pervy boyfriends, that’s what.”

He lifted a hand to her face. “Do dirty girlfriends get finger fucked, too?”

Rebecca moaned again, and slurped two of his fingers into her mouth, sucking hard, while her hand squeezed a breast hard and the other was rubbing rapidly over her crotch. “Oh yeah—they get fingers in their pussy and fingers in their ass and—Oh fuck!”

She whipped her head back as the man pushed three fingers inside her drenched and welcoming pussy. He pushed them in to the third knuckle, feeling her pussy grasp his digits as Rebecca moaned out loud and thrust her hips forward.

“Fuck that’s good!” she exclaimed. She redoubled her efforts on her breasts, kneading them in a way that had to be painful, squeezing the nipples and pulling on them.

He kept fucking her with three fingers, enjoying the feel of her pussy, the visuals, the mere idea that this trophy wife was his for the taking, convinced that she was merely a cock-hungry slut that could not wait to feel his cock sinking deep inside her.

His anticipation peeked when she turned toward him and pulled his head down to hers and kissed him, a nuclear kiss as aggressive as it was passionate, her tongue driving into his mouth even as her pussy clenched around his fingers. She came during the kiss, screaming into his mouth.

It took but a minute before he had pushed her back on the couch and was rutting into her, hard cock slamming in and out, hands squeezing fantastic breasts, while Rebecca urged him to fuck her faster, to fuck her harder, to fuck her “like the dirty fucking whore” that she was, her perfect legs wrapped around his waist, her perfect ass pushing off the couch, her perfect lips sucking hard on his tongue.

When he could take it no longer and told her he’d spew on her tits, she laughed and egged him on to “cream her tits like a whore, like a fucking dirty whore.”

And he did it with a shout, and Rebecca took it, not flinching even as his cum splashed all the way from her breasts to her face, soaking her in sticky discharge that she fervently rubbed into her skin before scooping the leftover into her mouth.

Recovering next to her, watching her languorously caressing herself while licking off the remnants of his spent off her lips, he was sorry he could not try out the specialized adjustments the customer had requested. One of them seemed like a weird bit of role play, but the other was a bit more disturbing but undeniably hot. “Well, I hope you enjoy it, you sick fuck,” he said out loud.

He looked at Rebecca, who was still playing with the cum he had spewed all over her breasts, her eyes closed in decadent pleasure, a slimy smile on her lips. Her hips twitched as if asking for more.

“Rebecca, adjustment code T999, authorization 9003761, commit protocol.”

Rebecca stiffened, closed her eyes, and then collapsed on the couch, unconscious.

She was ready for delivery.