The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Richard Sanderson, despite having experienced it once before, still could not get used to the alienating feeling. He was back at work, two days after Gutierrez’s party, and just like after the first party he had attended, everyone was acting completely normal, as if nothing had happened at all.

But something had happened.

Sanderson had gone to the party, and had caught up with Gutierrez. Even though he was there to help Jennie escape, Sanderson had tried to act as normally as possible. Gutierrez had been happy to see him, and had reminded him of Sanderson’s promise to get Jennie back under sedation in exchange for having a free pass at the redhead patient Allison.

Sanderson was in fact not interested in Allison at all, but that had been his cover story for the party, and so he had said and done what Gutierrez expected of him. Gutierrez even offered him a blow job from Allison when she was done with her male friends, as he called them, a blow job that did arouse a primitive part of Sanderson—Allison, as Sanderson knew first hand, had an astonishingly skilled mouth—but that he did manage to get out of because Gutierrez had been distracted for most of the night.

When Sanderson had gone to find Jennie where they had arranged to meet, she was there but with disturbing news. Gutierrez, whom Sanderson thought wanted to sell Jennie, was in fact scheming to sell Mouse to some people she had pissed off during her previous job as a district attorney, or so Jennie claimed to have overheard Gutierrez discuss with a man.

And so Jennie no longer wanted to escape—she was not in any direct danger, and she felt a duty to Mouse, and Sanderson had had no choice but to acquiesce. Jennie had gone back to her room at the party, and Sanderson had kept a low profile until the end of the evening.

And so things were back to the status quo. Except that there was no status quo. Mouse would be sold at the next party, in more or less three weeks’ time; Gutierrez expected him to find a way to put Jennie back under sedation; and then there was Doctor Michael Dante.

Sanderson touched the still sore skin around his right eye, feeling the puffed out flesh, the bruised cheekbone.

When he had arrived at work that morning, he had run into Beatrice, who had taken one look at him and rushed to his side with worry in her eyes. She had touched his cheek, and asked him what happened, but he had merely shrugged. She must have read something in his expression for she had sworn under her breath.

In the ward, the patients were back on a fully medicated regime and were happy and carefree once more, only suffering slight jabs from their Syndrome—along with the unavoidable personality changes—rather than wallowing in whatever debilitating depravity their illness led them to indulge in.

Sanderson felt, not for the first time, a deep well of empathy for those poor souls condemned to live in the ward, doomed. And this included Jennie, of course. He was deeply conflicted. Their escape attempt having been aborted because she was not a target, she remained in the ward where, by any objective account, she belonged. Being on the outside meant being a slave to her illness, and while medication helped alleviate most symptoms, it did not cure her. And on the outside world, on the run, access to the medication was both expensive and not guaranteed. So part of him was happy that she was here, relatively safe.

When Sanderson made it to the recreation room after doing a round, he immediately spotted Jennie with Mouse sitting on a corner couch, huddled together, talking. Jennie had her arm around her diminutive friend. Sanderson, as was his habit, did not go to them immediately, but rather circulated around the room, making sure the patients that were there were okay, exchanging words with everyone, nurturing human contact.

When he finally made it to the two women, he could tell Jennie was upset. As he sat down, Jennie pounced on him. “Put some some sense into her, will you?” She looked like she was ready to cry.

“Huh… what’s going on? Lillian, are you okay?”

Mouse looked up at him in that way she had, not raising her head but looking from below, her eyes bright. She merely shrugged.

Jennie could not contain herself. “She says she’s okay with being sold. She says it’s all for the good. That it’s all she’s good for anyway.” She was clearly fighting the urge to scream out her frustration. “No one deserves to be a sex toy for sick fucks,” she told Mouse.

Sanderson felt that her statement spoke to much more than Mouse’s predicament. He had not asked Jennie much about her past—she had seemed quite reluctant to divulge any kind of information about what she had been through—but he suspected that she was talking to herself as much as to Mouse.

The latter, upon hearing Jennie’s words, shuddered slightly and closed her eyes. Sanderson thought she was revolted at the thought, only to realize that it was a wave of pleasure that had run through her, and he shared a glance with Jennie, who had gone from frustrated to worried in a blink.

“Oh sweetie,” she said, and hugged Mouse. “You’re really fucked up, aren’t you?”

Sanderson cringed at the statement—his psychiatry training kicking in—but Mouse did not seem to mind, and merely sank into the hug, the way she was wont to do.

Jennie looked at Sanderson again, a look filled with desperation, and he understood exactly what she conveyed in that silent message. Mouse belonged here. She could not function outside of these walls—she was her own worst enemy. Even with the drugs that dulled the more extreme symptoms of her illness, she would be an easy prey for the first bastard to come along and that raised his voice to order her to do something.

Jennie and Sanderson had debated what to do upon learning of Gutierrez’s real intentions, and their go-to plan had been to enact an escape like before with Mouse in tow. But it was becoming abundantly clear that such was not an option. Mouse needed treatment. And for better or worse, the Institute was the best place for such treatment.

“It’s okay,” Mouse said, her voice low as usual. “It’s not going to be so bad.”

“Do you know those guys?” Sanderson asked. He looked at Jennie. “What did you call them? The Connelly brothers?”

Mouse shrugged. “I don’t know. It rings a bell, sort of. It’s from… before.”

Before she got sick, filled in Sanderson.

“It’s fuzzy, it’s all fuzzy. I don’t think I ever met them. But I heard about them.”

“The guy said that you caused them problems,” Jennie added.

Mouse shrugged again. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really remember.”

“They can’t get their hands on you, it’s just… just wrong.”

“I agree,” Sanderson chimed in. “So what do we do?”

Sanderson knew what needed to be done, and Jennie did as well. They had to stop Gutierrez. But Gutierrez, it was rumored, had friends in positions of power at the Institute, and going against Gutierrez directly could ruin his career. Though, to be fair, he had been about to run away with Jennie a few days earlier, an action which would have ruined his career just as equally.

The difference, an unflinchingly honest voice inside his head chimed in when he was confused by his equivocation, is that if you had run away with Jennie, then you’d have had no career, but you’d have had Jennie.

Before he and Jennie could discuss things further, Jennie looked up, and her gaze steeled up as she saw something in the distance, and she stared.

Sanderson looked over his shoulder to see Cassandra at one of the entrances of the recreation room, looking her typical self with black eye shadow and heavily lined eyes, and scanning through the patients in the room.

When her eyes met Jennie’s, she stared right back at her, her face intent, her mouth curling up in a smirk. And they stared at each other. Sanderson looked from one to the other, a witness to their silent struggle.

What the hell happened between those two? He knew they had interacted at the party, but Jennie had been particularly tight-lipped about the event.

The two stared at each other and continued even as Jennie lifted a hand and gestured to Cassandra to come on over with a finger. Cassandra’s grin widened, taking an edge, and she strolled on over slowly.

Sanderson watched her approach, and could not help feeling like a scared little boy watching an upset grownup walking toward him. He fought back a shiver.

When Cassandra was right beside them, never breaking eye contact with Jennie, she took a step towards Mouse, and ran her hand over the back of the small woman.

Cassandra and Jennie remained silent, remained staring, Cassandra with a smirk on her face, Jennie with a serious expression.

Sanderson debated for a second saying something—they did not have time for whatever power game Cassandra was playing. But Jennie’s attitude stopped him. She had, after all, called Cassandra over.

“Hello Sweet Cheeks,” Cassandra said after a long pause, smile still on her face. She was rolling some of Mouse’s hair on her finger, keeping her eyes on Jennie.

“Cassandra,” Jennie responded, her voice carefully neutral.

After nearly a minute of staring, to Sanderson’s astonishment, Cassandra looked down, and he could swear she was blushing.

Before Sanderson could say anything—though what was there to say—Cassandra had shot him an angry look. “What are you staring at?”

“Cassandra, Jennie needs your help,” Jennie said, still serious.

Cassandra’s smile returned. “Oh? And why should I help you, Sweet Cheeks? Are you gonna spank me if I don’t?” There was something in her tone of voice, almost an eagerness.

“Gutierrez has to be stopped. And you can help.”

Cassandra laughed, defiant once again. “Really? And I repeat, why should I help you? Just cause you have a cute ass and perky tits?”

Jennie did not rise to the bait, and merely replied with a soft voice. “He’s going to sell Mouse.”

“What?” Cassandra’s smile disappeared.

Sanderson nodded. “It’s true. He’s been arranging a deal with some people that seem to know Lillian from her previous life. They want to get back at her for something she did to them.”

Cassandra looked at him, then back at Jennie, then at Mouse, who remained silent and looking down during the whole conversation.

“He wouldn’t,” Cassandra said.

“He would,” Jennie said. “He will. For two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Cassandra’s face hardened again, and she ran her hand through Mouse’s hair.

“You’re lying. You bitch. You stupid—”

“She’s not lying,” Sanderson intervened. “I heard Gutierrez on the phone, arranging the deal, and at first I thought it was Jennie that he wanted to sell, but no, it was Lillian. Come on,” he said, as Cassandra looked at him with venom in her eyes, “can you honestly tell me he wouldn’t do that?”

Cassandra still looked angry, but there was a moment’s hesitation in her eyes. Sanderson jumped on the occasion. “There was this guy at the party—you know the one where you left Jennie here hooked on the ceiling?—remember him? Mexican, or something, pretty big, with a tattoo on his neck? He went into Jennie’s room where Lillian was there as well. I’m pretty sure he’s the one that’s brokering the deal.”

Sanderson looked at Mouse. “Lillian said he recognized her, and took a picture. I checked, and that tattoo he had is from a prison gang, pretty well known on the East Coast. And the Connelly brothers are an East Coast operation.”

Sanderson had in fact no idea who the Connelly brothers were, and whether they were East Coast or West Coast or Timbuktu-based. But he had looked up the tattoo, and it was indeed the characteristic tattoo of a prison gang. Mouse, surprisingly enough, had remembered the tattooed man—most patients did not recall much when they went without medications—the first time Jennie confronted her with the news that Gutierrez wanted to sell her.

Cassandra’s face, who had reflected shock and alarm as Sanderson listed out what they knew, flashed red with renewed anger.

“I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch!”

“If you kill him,” Jennie intervened, her voice still calm, her face still serious, “there are going to be repercussions.”

“I don’t fucking care!” Her voice was rising, and her face had gone from anger to wrath. She had pulled her hand out of Mouse’s hair, and was clenching her fists.

“I do,” Mouse said in her soft voice, never looking up from the floor.

Cassandra looked at the diminutive woman holding herself on the couch by her legs, and there were so many emotions playing across her face that Sanderson had to look away in modesty.

Mouse finally looked up, and extended a hand toward Cassandra, who stared at it for a long moment before taking it and squeezing. Mouse closed her eyes and smiled.

Cassandra stood for several seconds holding Mouse’s hand, before sitting next to the woman. She looked more exhausted than angry now, as if her fury had burned her through and through.

“Gutierrez has to be stopped,” Jennie said, looking at Cassandra.

“Easier said than done. He’s protected. He’s got friends up in the hierarchy of the Institute. I know, he told me—it’s the only way that he can get away with what he’s doing. No, I don’t know who they are, but as long as he keeps it on the down low, he can do pretty much whatever he wants. At least, that’s what he claims. He boasts about it whenever he’s got a chance.”

“Did he tell you all that?”

Cassandra snorted. “You kidding me? Slimy wouldn’t be caught dead talking to me. He’d shit his pants first, the little pussy boy. No, he told Agnieska. He likes her. Like he likes Mouse. He likes his girls quiet.” She squeezed Mouse’s hand again.

“Cassandra,” Jennie looked at the woman in the eyes, her expression intent. “You know Gutierrez and you know the situation. What’s the best way to get rid of him?”

“Permanently or not?” Cassandra asked. Sanderson expected her to smile, then, but she did not. She was serious. So was Jennie.

Cassandra sighed, and leaned back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling. Mouse cuddled up to her, putting her head onto the taller woman’s chest.

“If we want to get him in trouble,” she said, “we have to embarrass the Institute, or at least, make it so that the Institute is embarrassed if they don’t get rid of him.”

“Huh… so we let them do the work for us,” Sanderson said.

“Jennie was thinking of obtaining some evidence of Gutierrez abusing the girls,” Jennie said.

“That might work,” Cassandra responded. “Though he doesn’t do much of that himself. He does Mouse, he does Agnieska, that’s about it, really. Well, there was you, Sweet Cheeks, but that was before you got mobile again.”

Jennie did not comment on that last part. “The problem is what to do with that evidence. Going to management will do no good if they’re Gutierrez’s friends. Going to the police is…”

Jennie looked at Mouse, and said nothing. Cassandra looked from one woman to the other and seemed to understand. She was sharp. “Going to the police is risky. Or the newspapers. Yes. Any investigation will run the risk of shutting down the place, especially if it’s shown that management was aware of what Gutierrez’s doing. Or at the very least suspend the program and send patients elsewhere until they clear out the mess.”

“And that would be bad for Mouse and the others.”

Another squeeze of the hand between Cassandra and Mouse. “Maybe it’s worth the risk,” Mouse said, softly.

“No it’s not,” Cassandra replied, her voice harsh. “If we’re gonna get in trouble, it’ll be because I’ve strangled the little cunt with my bare hands.”

“So the question is how to embarrass the Institute without involving the authorities. Maybe the Board of Directors? Where do they get their money from?”

Cassandra looked up sharply, and grinned. “I think you got it, Sweet Cheeks. Agnieska’s been talking about some big shindig going on later this week about the main funding partners of the Institute coming in for the annual operational review—”

“That’s right,” Sanderson chimed in. “Beatrice mentioned that as well…” He let his statement trail away when he saw Jennie looking at him curiously and Cassandra mockingly. “Huh, I mean—”

“Anyway,” Cassandra continued, still smirking. “I doubt the funding partners would be pleased to know the shenanigans that Gutierrez gets up to.”

“Maybe Gutierrez has friends there too?”

“He would have bragged about it. No, I think his connections are purely local.” Cassandra smiled, as she thought things through.

“You have a plan, don’t you?” Jennie asked, an eyebrow raised, a smile on her own lips.

“You bet your tight little ass, Sweet Cheeks. But first, we need to figure out a way to get your evidence.”

“This whole place is wired with cameras, that shouldn’t be hard.”

“Gutierrez is chummy with the security guards for this part of the Institute—he gives them freebies with the girls at his parties—so it’s risky to go that route. If anything happens, they’ll tell him, and he’ll be careful.”

“We could ask Allison,” Mouse said, her voice so soft Sanderson had difficulty hearing her.

Cassandra looked at Mouse with a surprised look, then glanced at Jennie. “Of course. Allison. That’d work.”

Jennie, who seemed to know exactly what Cassandra meant, nodded. “It just might.”

“We need somewhere for her to do her thing though.”

Jennie thought for a second. “Jennie knows just the place.”

“We also need equipment.”

Jennie looked at Sanderson, who had no idea what was going on. “Jennie’s sure that can be arranged.”

“Huh… what the hell are you two talking about?”

Before either Cassandra or Jennie could say anything, Sanderson felt a hand on his shoulder turning him around.

Beatrice was there, and she was looked upset. Resolute, but upset.

Behind her, Doctor Michael Dante was pleading. “Bea, come on, we can talk about this!”

“Shut up Michael!” Beatrice said over her shoulder. She crouched down in front of Sanderson, and before he could do or even say anything, she kissed him, a long deep kiss that if not for the fact that Dante was not four yards away staring at him with daggers in his eyes would have given him an instant hard-on. The kiss brought to mind the night he and Beatrice shared together, at her theater award ceremony. She tasted of mint.

As the patients in the ward erupted with applause and laughter, Dante’s face turned dark red and he clenched his fists before spinning on his heels and leaving the room. If Sanderson had not been so busy drowning in Beatrice’s lips and tongue, he would have been bothered by the murderous look in Dante’s eyes.

Beatrice broke the kiss, breathing hard. Sanderson was hardly breathing himself.

“What was that for?” he asked her.

“That was for him punching you in the face two night ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Brown eyes punched you in the face?” Cassandra chimed in, sounding amused.

“Damn right he did, the stupid asshole,” Beatrice replied without looking at the brunette.

Sanderson blushed, and shrugged. “It was just an argument.”

“He’s an asshole. And it’s over with him.” She said it with a meaningful glance at Sanderson. She then stood, pulled down her uniform, and walked away to the catcalls and cheers of her audience.

Cassandra was grinning so widely it looked painful. “The girl’s hot when she’s pissed. I bet she’s a great fuck too. You should hit that, Young Thing. Especially now that Doctor Brown Eyes is out of the picture. I can help you, if you want.”

Sanderson stammered something, and blushed as Cassandra laughed. He mumbled an apology to the women, invented an excuse to disappear, and left without looking at Jennie, scared of what he might read in her eyes.

“That’s amazing news!” Lillian Shepard exclaimed into her cell phone as she thanked the guard that held the door open for her.

The guard gave her a long look as she walked by, his eyes gliding appreciatively over her body. Lillian paid it no mind. She was not above using her looks to achieve her aims. Men always treated her a certain way due to her small size, her thinness, and what one of her boyfriends called her cuteness. At this point in her life, it was an asset—people tended to be more open with you when you were small and looked innocent, and people being open with you when you were an assistant district attorney was indeed an asset.

That she had a growing reputation for intransigence and aggressiveness in the courtroom clashed with that image to the extent that it destabilized everyone from judges to defendants to jurors. She had used that ruthlessly since graduating Harvard Law School and moving to DC to take a position in the office headed by Jeremiah Thornton, one of the best DAs in the country, who had made his name spearheading the indictment and successful prosecution of two of the most prominent Mafia capos on the East Coast.

And Jeremiah Thornton was on the phone right now as she walked through the DC Courthouse, informing her that all of her hard work of the previous two years was finally coming to fruition—they were going to indict Frank and Cormac Connelly, the infamous Connelly brothers.

She took a deep breath while navigating a throng of people coming out of a lower court, her mind overloading with the consequences and possibilities inherent in what her boss was telling her.

The Connelly brothers. Her investigation since the first days had pointed to them as the dual heads of one of the most influential crime organization in an area covering DC, Philadelphia, and New York City. They seemed to have their hands in the usual cookie jars: gambling, prostitution, pornography, money laundering, extortion, fraud. As near as anyone could tell, they stayed away from the drugs and weapons trade, and because of that they were not seen as a priority with the federal authorities. Although the FBI had a burgeoning file on them that they had been surprisingly happy to share with her.

Frank and Cormac Connelly. They kept to themselves and had never been in trouble with the law. They owned a large company that manufactured, sold, and distributed paper. They were well off but not rich, at least according to the paperwork Lillian had seen, but she suspected some creative accounting practices were used, since the company held subsidiary companies overseas and the Caribbean.

Going through unofficial channels—she traded a favor from an offender that she had sent to a reasonable cell in a minimal security facility—she had obtained data that suggested that one of those companies brought in upward of several million dollars each month, money undeclared and unaccounted for, distributing among other things uncensored hardcore material to the Pacific region. The money remained in fiduciary in an island nation off the coast of Australia.

“Lillian, you still there?”

“Yes, yes—I’m sorry.”

“Where are you now?”

“Courthouse. I’m meeting with the Cavanaugh party. Should be routine.”

“Come back to the office right after. I’d like to get the indictment out as soon as possible, and I think it’s only right that you’re in on it.”

Lillian could hear the smile in her boss’s voice, and she smiled right back in return. “Yes, sir!” And then she laughed, happy.

One of the District Attorney office clerks was waiting for her outside one of the small Courthouse conference rooms, busily shuffling through a pile of folders, looking frazzled.

Lillian slowed down and composed herself before approaching the young man, whom she knew and liked—Grant was a summer intern, about to start his last year of law school, trading off his skills for a ridiculous pay but valuable real-life experience. Lillian had done it, he was doing it, and they would not be the last ones to do it. He was sweet, friendly, but easily flustered. And one of the best analysts she had ever met.

And, Lillian guessed, he had a tiny bit of a crush on her, something she could not help but find endearing.

“Hello Grant,” she said.

Grant nearly jumped off of the bench on which he was sitting, and Lillian knew that only two month earlier he would have done just that—tossing his folders up in the air to boot—but he did not do that now, and that spoke volumes as to how much he had learned.

“Miss… Miss Shepard, hello.”

“Were you reviewing the case?” She nodded towards the folders next to him on the bench.

“Yes… Yes I was. Straightforward. Pretty much open and shut. Caught redhanded with video evidence and he has not denied anything, though he has not confessed either. I expect they’re here for a plea deal.”

Lillian nodded. She concurred. And given how elated she felt, she was almost inclined to make a deal sight unseen, if only to get on with the Connelly brothers indictment, but that would have been unprofessional. And Lillian Shepard was many things but unprofessional was not one of them.

Grant hesitated as he collected his folders, as if he wanted to ask Lillian something. He’s way too transparent for this job, she thought, slightly amused.

“What is it, Grant?”

“Do you… I mean, would you like to review the case as well?” He handed her the appropriate folder.

She shook her head. “No need,” she said with a smile. “Read it last night. Still fresh.” She tapped a finger to her temple.

Grant’s admiring look was utterly adorable. “How do you do it?” he asked.

“Second grade,” she said. “I aced reading.”

“No! I mean,” and he stammered until Lillian’s smile reassured him that she had just been kidding with him. “How do you keep up with everything? There’s just so much going on all the time. And it never ends… I feel like a hamster in a hamster wheel sometimes.”

“There’s always a lot going on, you’re right. The trick’s not to let the to-do list boss you around. If it does, it’ll just steamroll you into a curled up ball in the corner of the room whimpering for it to stop. You have to tame it, Grant. Ride it like a bronco, surf it like some Bondi Beach champion.”

Grant listened to her, his head cocked to the side. “Do I have to mix my metaphors too?”

Lillian laughed, in surprise and delight. Perhaps he would be okay after all.

“Shall we?” she indicated the door.

Grant, his folders under his arm, nodded. He stepped in before her and opened and held the door. The protocol of the DA’s office prescribed that the lead attorney always entered the room first, as a way to assert dominance. Lillian was happy to play along with the rules, no matter how silly they might have seemed to her. Anything that gave her an edge was good.

By the time she had gone through the door, she had wiped the smile from her face and wore a carefully studied expression she had practiced for a whole summer in the mirror and that conveyed a cold indifference to any plight that might be tossed her way. Defense attorneys in the general DC area had learned to be weary of that expression. She secretly loved the fact that her nickname in some circles was T-1000, once she had looked up the reference.

The accused, one Bruce Cavanaugh, sat in a chair at one end of the conference table, a glass of water in front of him. From the file Lillian had indeed read the previous night, she knew he was in his early fifties—his hair was an eye-catching shade of grey—and had no prior conviction. That he had been caught red-handed stealing a car from a high-end Porsche dealership, heading off on a test drive with a saleswoman but never returning the car, was therefore somewhat surprising. The saleswoman was found later at a bar, unharmed and enjoying a cold beer; she had told the authorities that she had simply given the car to Cavanaugh, an odd coda to the story. The saleswoman had been fired from the dealership, and Cavanaugh found and arrested.

By Cavanaugh’s side was his attorney, a beautiful woman that Lillian had never seen before—she would have remembered her. Long and wavy blonde hair, dark skin, fleshy lips. She wore a tight blouse underneath a tailored jacket, a blouse that had way too many buttons undone, exposing a generous cleavage formed by two perfectly round breasts. Lillian had no need to look at Grant to know that he had noticed and was trying hard not to stare.

Cavanaugh had his hands behind his head, and was leaning back in his chair, looking comfortable. In fact, he looked vaguely bored. He did perk up when Lillian pulled back her own chair to sit down across from him.

Cavanaugh said nothing and merely looked at her, his expressions matching hers except for a slight look of amusement floating over his features. He glanced at Grant, and sighed.

“Does he have to be here?”

Lillian was about to respond but Cavanaugh’s attorney put a hand on his arm—it lingered there—and spoke up. “Let me handle that, Brucie.” She turned to Lillian. “Miss Shepard,” she said, her voice seductive, more suitable to phone sex than to arguing a defense. “My client is prepared to discuss terms for dropping the charges against him.”

As Grant fumbled to sit down beside her, Lillian, caught by surprise, grinned. Oh, this is going to be good, she told herself. She remained with a little smile on her face.

“And what could Mister Cavanaugh possibly offer to offset what looks like, if you allow be to be blunt, a pretty open and shut case of grand larceny? You might want to remind your client that we have recorded evidence of the theft, and a testimony from the saleswoman as to your client’s actions.”

“With all due respect, Miss Shepard, all that the video shows is that my client went on a test drive with Mrs Johnson at her request, so that he could try the car he was interested in purchasing. From my own interviews with Mrs Johnson, she distinctly remembers offering my client the car to keep.”

“And that did not strike your client as odd at all, especially given that she had no authority to offer such a generous gift?”

“Again, with all due respect, my client figured that a salesperson at a high-end dealership might have a lot of latitude in offering deals to potential customers. How was he to know that Mrs Johnson had no authority to effect such a transaction?”

“Your client figured…? You must be kidding me, Miss…?”

“Roxy,” the beautiful attorney replied, winking in Grant’s direction.

Lillian took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. This was getting silly. “You must be joking, Miss… Roxy. Are you seriously mounting a defense around the idea that your client did not know that Mrs Johnson had no authority to give him the car he had taken out for a test drive? That’s preposterous, and you know that as well as I do. No judge would buy that argument.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cavanaugh answered, interrupting his attorney. “The judge would probably also not buy that Sandy—sorry, Mrs Johnson—gave me her panties as well, and yet, I’m sure she would have to agree after checking that these are hers.”

He gently dropped a pair of violet silk panties on the table next to his glass of water. His smile had grown broader, as if he was delighted by the turn the conversation was taking.

Lillian had had enough. She would not let that fatuous bastard ruin her perfectly nice day. She had better things to do, and she had wasted enough time. She had fulfilled her professional obligations. If Cavanaugh did not want to take the meeting seriously, he could take his chances before a judge. Lillian would enjoy seeing his smile wiped off his face with some jail time.

She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Miss Roxy, I will leave you to explain to your client how pissing off a district attorney cannot ever lead to good things for a defendant. And you should be honest with him about his chances with that ridiculous defense strategy. Good day. Grant, let’s go.”

Grant fumbled with his files—she was starting to find it annoying, as her good mood evaporated in the stale air of the conference room—when Cavanaugh laughed out loud, a jovial belly laugh that used up the fumes of her earlier good humor.

“My, my, my!” Cavanaugh intoned, still laughing. “You sure are cute when you get angry, Miss Big-Shot District Attorney.”

“Mister Cavanaugh—” Lillian started, coming to the conclusion that she would throw the book at Cavanaugh and making a mental note to ask Grant to comb the man’s dossier to find every single possible infraction that he might have committed.

“Roxy, dear,” Cavanaugh said to his attorney. “I think the boy needs some help.”

Roxy nodded, and a smile blossomed on her face as she stood. Lillian watched her, grudgingly fascinated by the tall blonde who revealed that she had a body to match her beauty—she wore a tight pencil skirt which she pulled down and that did nothing but highlight her perfect stocking-clad legs.

With a last adjustment to her chest, pressing her breasts together after undoing one more button on her blouse and exposing the pale blue lace of her bra and an obscene amount of breast flesh, Roxy took four steps toward Grant, crouched on the floor picking up his spilled papers.

Lillian was shocked and could only watch Roxy sashay her way to the boy. This is ridiculous, she thought, unable to believe that Roxy was… what did she think she was doing? Seducing her intern? For what purpose? What the hell is going on?

“Miss Roxy—” started Lillian, but the boy had just noticed that Roxy had pulled up her skirt over her thighs almost to her crotch so she could crouch in front of him and help him. His wide eyes traced up her exposed legs and her thighs, and with a blush looked up only to realize that Roxy’s breasts were right there in front of his face, half exposed, and inviting him like sirens a weary traveler.

Grant gasped as Roxy ran a red-tipped fingernail down her cleavage to the clip of her bra between her breasts, her eyes on the boy the whole time.

“Grant!” Lillian yelled, her disbelief giving way to her earlier exasperation. This had gone from ridiculous to insulting. She would not only throw the book at Cavanaugh, but she would make sure that Roxy was disbarred and thrown out on her tight little bimbo ass.

She was already composing the complaint she would send to the Bar about Cavanaugh’s attorney when she felt Cavanaugh’s breath in her ear. “Let him be, Miss Shepard,” he whispered. “How often do you think a boy like him gets the full attention of a sexy bitch like Roxy?”

Cavanaugh was behind her! She had been distracted by Roxy’s behavior and had not noticed the man who had taken advantage of it to sneak up behind her.

She did not have time to turn around or even let out a sound—Cavanaugh placed a hand in the small of her back. She felt the stab of prickles spreading from there up her back and down her legs and up to her chest and to down to her feet and toes and up and down her arms and she had barely the time to wonder whether Cavanaugh had injected her with something before her mind exploded in a bright light that left a deep darkness when it faded.

“Don’t make a sound, Lillian. Don’t move either. May I call you Lillian? Of course I may. Because I may do anything I please with you.”

If Lillian had had any chance of thinking about what he was saying, she would have shivered at the elated expectation that dripped from the Special’s words. But she did not. Her mind merely absorbed what Cavanaugh had said—don’t make a sound, don’t move—and it was only natural to do as he asked, for his words seared themselves into her brain.

The darkness that enveloped her mind, the heat from his hand on the small of her back, the tingling that traveled back from her extremities to her crotch and setting her pussy afire, all of it overwhelmed her.

Unaware that anything was happening between his boss and the man that they were there to indict but never would, Grant was completely mesmerized by Roxy, who continued her shameless display by stretching her arms in such a way that her breasts almost popped out of her flimsy bra. From his position, Grant could almost see all the way up her skirt, and Roxy made no motion to prevent him from doing just that.

“That poor boy has no chance,” Cavanaugh continued, still whispering in Lillian’s ear. “Roxy’s the best at what she does, and I’m not talking about lawyering, though she’s pretty good at that too. I think I’m going to send her to his apartment later tonight, dressed to please, and let him have his way with her. You know, teach him a thing or two about how a woman wants to be treated?”

The way he said that might have made Lillian shiver, because knew exactly where Cavanaugh was leading. And to confirm her fears—if she were in a state where she could feel fear—Cavanaugh’s hands dropped down to her ass, and his breath was hot in her neck and he kissed her and the tingles scattered up and down her spine.

He pawed her ass as he sucked on the skin of her neck, leaving an angry mark. “God, you’re a tiny thing, ain’t you? Probably tight as all hell, too. Oh, you’re going to be an awful lot of fun to play with, I can tell. A lot of fun.”

He let go of her ass only to reach around her and grab hold of her breasts through her suit. They were small but they were sensitive, and she would have yelped if not for his instructions to not make any sound. He was pressing against her from behind, and she could feel his erection against the back of her skirt.

“While Roxy is taking care of your boy tonight, Lillian, you’re going to be taking care of me. I think you also need to be taught a thing or two about how a woman wants to be treated. First, though, you’re going to drop all charges against me. I’m sure you can figure out a way to do that that won’t arouse suspicions. Oh, and of course, not a word about what happened here, of course. It’s our little secret.”

Cavanaugh let go of her breasts, and while Roxy was talking to a still mesmerized Grant—giving him her phone number, most likely, or setting up a late-night rendezvous—Cavanaugh ran a finger over her lips before sliding it into her mouth.

“Before you come and meet me tonight, though, you’re going to take a little leave of absence from your job. District Attorney is no job for a woman, Lillian. No, a woman’s job is being at her man’s beck and call, ready to take care of any of his needs, offering herself for his pleasure. And I am your man, Lillian.”

Those words burned into Lillian. I am your man. And he was. And her job was being at his beck and call, ready to take care of any of his needs, offering herself for his pleasure.

“Take off your panties, Lillian, and give them to me.”

And of course she did. She was at his beck and call. She pulled up her skirt—Grant never noticed—and reached underneath to pull down her lace panties. They slid off her legs easily, and she stepped out of them. She reached down to pick them up and give them to Cavanaugh.

He accepted them, and examined them before frowning and shaking his head. “That just won’t do. You’re barely aroused. What are you, a cold fish?”

He went back to fondling her ass and whisper in her ear. “How about we change that? I’ve been meaning to add a little submissive slut to my harem. I’ll take care of the submissive part tonight—when you’re on your knees sucking me off like a good obedient little thing. But we can take care of the other bit now. Listen to me, Lillian: you are the kind of girl that wets her panties whenever a man—or anybody, really—takes an interest in her. I want you to imagine them ordering you to do things, dirty things, filthy things, and it’s going to get you hot, so hot that you are going to need all your willpower to resist hiking up your skirt and diddling that gushing pussy of yours.”

His hand pulled up her skirt from the back and touched her slit, which had already started to juice up from his words and his instructions. “Ah, here we go. Much better.” He slipped two fingers inside her, and it set her pussy, her hungry pussy, on fire. She wanted to get fucked, and fucked hard.

Unable to make a sound or move, she moaned inside and in her mind’s eye she spread her legs and thrust up her ass to facilitate her man fucking her from behind with his fingers.

Cavanaugh laughed, as if he knew exactly what was going on in her head. “You like that, don’t you, Lillian? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, you’ll get plenty of it from now on. God,” he said, breathing hard against her neck, “you are tight. I can just imagine what your ass will feel like. We’re gonna have so much fun you and I, Lillian, you won’t believe it. I’ll craft you into the perfect little play thing, happy to obey and please anyone that wants you, without any shame or any inhibition, the perfect little submissive pet, the perfect fuck toy, the perfect woman.”

Cavanaugh laughed quietly to himself as he pressed his fingers inside her one last time before sliding them out and pulling her skirt down and coming to stand beside her, watching Roxy and Grant before them.

The two were talking, with Roxy once in a while laughing prettily at Grant’s jokes, both of them still on the ground, connecting.

Had Lillian been able to form the thought, she would have felt miserable at this display of camaraderie—however artificial—because she would not be experiencing it again, not with the life that Cavanaugh was planning for her.

As if to prove it, Cavanaugh leaned over. “You know, I think that before you leave the office for your leave of absence, as a final act, you will seduce the boy. I’m sure it shouldn’t be too hard for you to convince him to dip his dick into that hot little pussy of yours. A nice little goodbye present.”

And Lillian knew she would give herself to Grant at the end of the day, and her pussy drooled at the thought.