The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Adventures of Belinda Nicholson, AKA Flapper Girl

Chapter 1

Thoroughly Modern Billie

”They say, it’s criminal, what women will do. What they’re forgetting is this is 1922!”

Oh hello, darlings! Let me introduce you to River city, err, 90 years before you get to read this. Who, me? I’m Belinda Nicholson; recently got here myself, having moved to the big city from little ol’ Coffeyville, down in Kansas. But no, you don’t want to know about that side of me, do you? You’re here for the big Flapper Girl story, I know.

Yes, that’s right, we had superheroes and heroines back then, too. It’s just that we had a bit less of a publicity machine, due to the lack of something I believe you call the Internet, where you get to read this, I think. Yes, darlings, I’m a super, though my talents are more related to my chemistry skills than any special powers from within. You see, thats the beauty of being a flapper: we all carry these cigarette holders around with us to look cool when we’re smoking. Don’t tell anyone, but, if you want to release a potent gas over a small area, well, looking like you’re smoking is the perfect cover. So alright, I smoke the standard stuff, too, just to look cool amongst my friends. It’s all the craze nowadays; didn’t you know?

What’s that, it’s frowned upon in the 21st century, hey, wow! All that nicotine, bad for you, ah well, maybe I’ll have to give it up, then? Trouble is, it will be kind of hard to do, so …”

Right: I moved to the big city for a few reasons. Firstly, life in Coffeyville was a bit dull for a super. Nothing ever happened down there! I was told there was plenty of action up here in River City, and it seemed they were so right, darlings. I know, I know, flapper girls are a dime a dozen in this era, or at least it was heading that way. Supposed to be some famous one who is another Kansas girl, but I don’t have any details.

So let’s see. I fit the image: short dresses, barely reaching the knee, and if they did, it wasn’t far over. And yes, of course, the cute bob haircut, that was the must in my day. Cut quite a dapper figure, if I say so myself.

No, no, spandex, whatever that is. Hadn’t been invented yet, so our ‘outfits’ were a bit more practical. There was talk of a guy named Frasier, who was looking to style suitable outfits for us, but nothing has filtered down to me yet. But then again, I’m fairly new in town, so maybe I’ll hear from them sometime. Would have to be by mail, mind; phone service is a bit basic around here back in the 20’s.

Oh, what’s that? You want an adventure? Fine, fine ...

Well, the talk about town was of a number of young ladies just disappearing off the streets, and not being seen again. The rumour was they are being taken off into slavery. But I thought that all stopped about 60 years back. Oh, not that type of slavery! I see, so … what?

Wait … sex slaves! Mind, some of the young girls around here would actually enjoy that! Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy good healthy sex (at the right time of the month) as much as anyone, but some of them make me look like a saint—and I’m not, believe me.

But yes, it struck closer to home, when one of the typing pool from our office disappeared, without so much as a goodbye or handing in her notice. Talk led to this story that she’d been taken by the slavers, so Flapper Girl—in other words, me—decided it was time to investigate, as she was a friend.

Now, if I had all this modern gadgetry you have in your day, then finding her would probably have been easy. But, back then, most of it came down to listening to gossip on the street and good, old-fashioned footwork. But yes, without wishing to sound cocky, I was good at my job, and soon tracked down the area they seemed to vanish from, and there I started snooping.

I was too good at my job, it seems, as, within a few days, while out patrolling, I found an arm grabbing me, and another putting a cloth over my face. Now, I might be a super, but when I start breathing in some form of knock out gas, or whatever, I still fall asleep like the rest of you.

Finally, I started to wake up, and clearly I was not out on the street any more. I came around a bit more, and saw I was in a warehouse. It looked a bit run down, but, as it was tied to the buildings I was looking around, I was clearly in the right place, or the wrong place, depending on how you look at it.

“Ah, you’re awake at last, such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss ...?”

“Nicholson.” I reply, and have a second take; I shouldn’t be giving my real name away like that!

“Clearly the truth serum works quite nicely, Miss Nicholson; a pleasure to meet you.”

Very flattering, and not bad looking, in all honesty, as the gangster types go. But, that’s not the matter in hand, so ... “What are you planning? Turn me into another one of those sex slave girls, and sell me off?”

“Now, now, Miss Nicholson, or should I say ...?”

“Belinda, though my friends call me Billie.” I splutter in reply.

“Well, Billie, whatever makes you think that I turn women into sex slaves?”

“Well, someone does, and the way I was ‘invited in’ suggests I’m not here for a speakeasy party!”

He laughs, “Yes, you are right, I do run the sex slave trade around River City, and someone was snooping far too close for comfort, so I had to invite her in.”

“Very sweet of you.” I replied, sounding not in the slightest genuine. “So, what are you going to do, make me one as well, set me up as the slave of some rich man, too?”

“Quite possibly, quite possibly,” he replied.

“Oh great!” I muttered under my breath.

“There is just one snag with that, though, Billie.”

“What’s that?” I asked, probably wishing I hadn’t.

“Well, normally all we do is ramp up the sex drive of a girl, pass her off to her new owner, and let nature take its course. She’s so willing to be fucked regularly, that we don’t have to do much more. We can give them a new identity, if the owner wishes, but most are just happy to have a willing, and sexy young floosy, without messing around too much with their personality and name.”

“Wonderful!” I thought to myself, trying to stay looking cool.

“But you see, Billie, if that’s all we do to you, you know where to find us, and, given your super powers, you could probably shut down our little enterprise, and that would never do. So ...”

Great, they were going to kill me, I guessed. Dead at 21: what a brief life that was! If they knew my only power was making special gases, they might not have worried so much, but did I want to tell them that? What’s preferred: sex slave or dead, hmm?

“... I have a special surprise for you downstairs, Billie. Shall we call it an added extra for you? Something we’ve always wanted to try out, but never had the chance, until now.”

He led me downstairs. I assumed it was to hide the sound of the gunshot, but oh no: the gunshot might be the better option. There was some weird bed down there—not that I’d want to sleep on it; it was solid wood. But it had restraints all the way down it, where you would lay, and some big helmet thing at the top.

“So you see, Billie, we can’t just turn you into a sex slave; you might come and find us again. But if we turn you into a mindless, obedient drone, well, we have control of your mind, and can make it so that you never want to find us again. Then we might make a sex slave of you anyway, but, you get the added extras! Or we might reprogram you, and just keep you as a maid instead!”

“Oh, lovely! Couldn’t you just shoot me instead, and end it all that way?” which I was beginning to think might be the better option for me.

“Oh no, Miss Nicholson, you deserve so much more than that, for being so … inquisitive,” he said, laughing.

Even with a bit of resistance from me, it wasn’t very long before I was laid down on that table, strapped down tightly, and the helmet lowered over my head.

“When you wake up, Billie, you wont remember a thing—quite literally, in fact. You will be thoroughly brainwashed, your identity removed, and ready for reprogramming as we choose. So sweet.”

“Dont I get that final cigarette, like other condemned people?” I asked.

He muttered, “I guess you should. Gentlemen, sit her up, and allow her a cigarette, one of her own, of course.”

They did, and of course I select one of my special ones, one of my hypno-gas selection. It worked, and very soon they were all very sleepy and under my power. So, asking one of them to relelase me and direct me to an office with a phone was a piece of cake.

An hour later, all the baddies were arrested, and we found where the next batch of sex slaves to be sent off were kept, and, lo and behold, my fellow worker was amongst them! She was relatively fine: a bit shaken, a bit horny, but, apart from that, fine. Thankfully, we discovered that they had only just got started on her sex drive increase, so she appeared able to get on with life—not that she was an angel anyway ... bitch ... bitch ... ;)

Anyway, I was half way through telling her about my adventures, when she stopped me and asked, “Did you say they had a brainwashing machine down there?”

“Why yes, I did! Supposedly, at least. Fortunately, they didn’t get to try it out on me, so I have no idea if it actually works or not, or if it was just a threat.”

“Could you show it to me?”

So, being the obliging type, I did. For some strange reason, her eyes lit up at the sight. “Do you think it would really work, and, if so, could you work it?”

I really had no idea what she was getting at, but anyway, I checked out the control panel, and it seemed simple enough. “Can’t see why not; looks straightforward enough to someone with a science background like mine.”

“Then, would you do so, on me?”

“Are you serious?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “You want to be brainwashed?”

“Yes, please! It’s a silly fantasy of mine. And I know Mr. Boone has the hots for me; I’m sure he’d love to have me as his brainwashed sex slave, if you can arrange it.”

I knew I could, but did I want to?

“Are you sure about this, Stephanie?”

“Yes please, Billie.”

So I did! Oh, and she was right about Mr. Boone too, lucky old devil!