The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Greg Laing lay slumped against the wall, watching a few couples go by, an old woman moving slowly, a few cars. He felt like shit, so nothing new. He’d emptied that bottle of vodka with Marek and then the old guy had started talking about his special thing. Greg had thought he was fantasising about his cock, but as the old man went on, it sounded more like something magic. He had such plans to use it to become rich and powerful, but first he needed a drink…

“What the fuck are you talking about, you old fool?” Greg had asked him.

“I am not an old fool, I am a retired shupermarket asshishtant manager,” said Marek with slow dignity. “I am alsho a replashement magician.”

“A WHAT? Why replacement? You’re mad.”

“Because, O uneducated one, I didn’t make the magic. I jusht obtained it, by both fair and foul means.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Thish.” Marek fumbled in his army surplus jacket and drew out a small blue bottle. It looked of old manufacture, as if it had been made in some craft place and it had a stopper in the top instead of a screw-top. It wasn’t tiny, maybe just about the size of a small bottle of lager. “Thish ish power,” Marek intoned.

“It looks like some crap old bottle to me,” Greg replied.

“That ish because you are ignorant. I only have to drink from thish bottle…” Marek had drunk last from the vodka bottle, and now he knocked it over, spilling the last contents. Furious, Greg hit him. The blow was harder than he’d intended and the old man’s head hit a concrete step.

Greg had been in the army. He knew when a man was dead. Seeing that the old fool was dead, he wouldn’t need his stuff. He had a few coins, a penknife, a small torch – and the blue bottle. Greg held it up to the light. It seemed to be about three-quarters full. He tried the stuff. It tasted like syrup and fish-oil with a bit of salt added. He almost threw it away, but it occurred to him that the bottle might be worth something.

He had better get as far from Marek as he could.

Maybe he’d drunk more of the vodka than he’d realised; maybe he was brewing a cold or some other infection; or maybe the stuff in the blue bottle had a big effect. Anyway, he felt a bit tired and dizzy and confused. He reached a place where it seemed to him he could lie down.

After a while, how long he didn’t know, he woke with the impression Marek was elbowing him in the ribs. No – Marek was dead. The pain in his ribs was from a boot. Five or six youths, with two girls in tow, were standing round him on the pavement. He’d slumped against a wall. It was dark. A car went by on the road. Another kid kicked him. He could tell they were just toying with him. They might leave him with just a few bruises, or piss or gob on him, or beat him up badly, or kill him – just as the fancy took them.

“What have I done to you? I’m just a poor guy out of work,” he said. He didn’t expect it to help, but anything was worth trying. In their place he’d laugh and say “So what?”

“So?” said one of the boys. They kicked him again. He knew to keep his hands off the floor or else they’d get stamped on and his fingers broken probably. So far they hadn’t kicked him in the face or the balls.

“Watch out!” said one of the girls.

“Not bad. How about fucking her?” said a boy. Greg couldn’t see what they were talking about. Then he could. A young policewoman was approaching.

“LEAVE IT! One more kick and I use the spray and call for assistance!” she shouted. For a moment the gang hesitated.

“Leave her for next time and let this wanker live,” said the youth who seemed to be the ringleader. They would have been delighted to take on one cop girl, CS spray or not, but a couple of cars more of cops would not be welcome. They sprinted across the road, delaying only to shout praise of the policewoman’s “fat juicy arse” – and they were gone.

“Are you all right?” said the concerned officer, bending to have a close look at Greg.

“They kicked me,” he said. Of course he wasn’t all right. Couldn’t the stupid cunt see he was hurt? He wasn’t as dizzy and weak-feeling as he had been before he’d slept, it was true. Also the policewoman was an eyeful, a flaming redhead with big brown eyes, big mouth and lips for kissing or taking a cock, nice round, firm tits under the crisp uniform blouse and legs all the way up to her cunt. What she had at the back he couldn’t see right now.

Once upon a time he’d dated girls like that, classy cunts, and not a few had opened their legs for him – but that was before he’d been dismissed for playing his own little game within the company and siphoning off money. Everyone had said that the prison sentence had been lenient, but every day had been too much for him. When he came out things just went on going downhill, and now here he was, having been roughed up by a bunch of kids, having killed an old man (even if not intentionally) and being saved and protected and patronised by a bit of skirt who apparently felt sorry for him.

“Is anything broken?” she asked, bending still closer. “You’re safe now. I want to help you.” There were two things working in him, bubbling away till the lid burst open: his resentment at her playing lady bountiful to him and his reaction to her sexy beauty, his wish to grab her and fuck her all holes. A piece that beautiful hadn’t been within grabbing distance of him since his dismissal. “Are you all right?” she repeated.

“Yes!” he yelled, grabbing both her pretty ears and slamming her head against the wall. She made a kind of restrained, polite noise like someone seeing something mildly unpleasant at a friend’s party. He did it again and then dragged her round the corner into a dark alley where big refuse containers were lined up and there was only a little light from a street-light nearby the other side of the pavement. Stunned or shocked, she hardly resisted. He could see now that in her tight uniform trousers was a fantastic arse, full, wobbly, pear-shaped.

He threw her down and started tearing at her uniform. He knew he couldn’t afford to delay: he hadn’t exactly taken good care of his body the last four years and in even conditions she’d probably be stronger than him. She was fighting now, punching and kicking, though little of this made any contact. She made one attempt to get at her gas spray but he stood on her hand. He ripped her crisp, white blouse, revealing nice plump, firm tits in a frilly pink bra. He hooked his fingers in the central bridge of the bra and pulled it up, then down so the ridiculous garment snapped back on to her lower torso, leaving her lovely tits bare.

At that point she scratched him – not just a slight scratch, but a long, deliberate rent down his left cheek. He pulled her hand away, closed in and bit her lovely tit till he tasted salt blood. It tasted good. He pulled back, made sure he’d got both her wrists pinned, and stared into her face.

“Don’t you fucking dare scratch me again! Stop fucking fighting and do what you’re told!” he ordered.

“Yes, master,” she said dully. Greg stared at her, uncomprehending. She’d called him “master”. She’d stopped fighting. This was weird – but he was going to experiment.

“Squeeze your right tit!” he ordered, letting her right hand free. She squeezed her tit, but she looked unhappy. “Give me your CS canister!” She gave it to him and he threw it away. “And your baton!” She handed it over. “Kiss it!” She kissed the baton. He whacked her tits with it a few times. “Kick your shoes off!” She did it. “Stick your legs in the air!” Her legs were stuck up in the air. He didn’t trust her to take her trousers off, as it would involve letting her totally free and probably standing up. He tugged the uniform trousers off her. She had white socks halfway up her calves and then pretty pale pink and white panties. “Rip your panties apart!” he ordered. She stared at him with horror, but she took a firm hold of the top of her panty-elastic and tugged until they ripped. Without further orders, she kept tugging until they were ripped from top to bottom and fell apart like petals on an old flower. Her bush was red too “Roll over, put your face in the dirt and stick your arse high!” he instructed. She obeyed.

That was one fantastic view; but just as exciting was the way she was obeying every single order.

“Legs further apart!” he said. She obeyed. He rammed into her between the sweet pink lips. A long time later, for a change, he moved a bit higher.

“Thank your kind master!” he said. She thanked him. Her face showed something quite different, but her will was not controlling her actions – he was. It could only be something to do with that bottle. Had drinking from it given him this power?

“Don’t move till I tell you,” he ordered, and moved cautiously back to the entrance of the alley. Way down the pavement, a dark figure was approaching. He waited. It was a man in a raincoat and a business suit, evidently drunk but struggling to stay in a straight line. Normally Greg would just have belted him and taken his wallet, blackberry, whatever else he had.

“Give me your coat and your money!” he ordered. The man stared at him and started clumsily to run. He didn’t get far. Greg dragged the limp, unconscious body into the alley and lifted his stuff including the raincoat. Ordering him hadn’t worked at all. What had worked on the policewoman, then? Just closer contact? Or was it the contact of bodily juices when he’d bitten her tit? If the bottle’s contents had some extraordinary power, that would be a likely explanation. He stuffed the man in one of the big bins and returned to the policewoman.

“Tell me your name!” he said.

“Helen Amy Owen,” she said in a flat voice. That was unusual: people didn’t normally give full names. “Just two names!” he snapped.

“Helen Owen”. He was beginning to see real possibilities in this situation with longer-lasting benefits than just fucking her.

“Now listen carefully, PC Owen. Tomorrow you will clear all your bank and building society accounts, convert them into cash and bring the cash to the car park of the Black Lion pub at 7 p.m.. You will be alone. In the meantime you will not tell anyone about me. Got that?”

“Yes, master.” He glanced down the alley. A movement caught his eye. Some of the youth gang…no, looked like all of them…had reassembled across the road. That gave him a new idea. He stuffed the policewoman’s panties in his pocket, lifted her money, watch and phone, and told her:

“You are to get back in your uniform, walk across that road, approach those gang kids, and ask them if they want to gang-bang you. If they do, you must submit. See you tomorrow. Oh – if you can’t come tomorrow because they hurt you too much, ring your own phone and I’ll give you new instructions.”

“Yes, master.” He watched her till she started talking to the suspicious but intrigued kids. Then he slipped off.

The next day he made sure he was sober in the early evening. No phone call had come. He waited at the corner of the car-park. It was thirteen minutes past seven by her watch and she had not turned up. He heard a scuffling sound to his left. It was her, in blue jeans and a pale blue top which emphasised her breasts.

“I’m here,” she said, handing him a big bag. It was full of banknotes.

“How did you come?”

“I got a bus and then walked.”

“Are the filth looking for me?”

“No – only the kids in the gang.”

“Do you live alone or with someone?”

“Alone.” She was giving truthful answers but not helping much, it seemed.

“Why alone?”

“I own the place. I split with my boyfriend three months ago.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t like my long unsocial hours.”

“Here’s your phone. Ring for a taxi in forty minutes. Get it to take us to your place. In the meantime, come in the pub with me and stand me a drink.” She hesitated.

“I don’t have any money left.” He gave her ten pounds from the bag. He was beginning to feel better about her despite her having scratched him: he made sure she had a drink as well.

It turned out she had an upstairs flat in an old house conversion in a pleasant part of town. She led the way up the stairs and he stared with deep satisfaction at her plump arse shifting about. It was all his now.

There was a teddy bear on the bed.

“Strip, lie on that bed and open your legs wide!” he ordered. She obeyed without question. A while later he reminded himself that his dominance of her was not just for fucking. He could get much more out of her than that. He told her to get him a good, tasty meal. He ate most of it and threw the rest on the carpet, ordering her to clean up. A naked woman cleaning on the floor: it was kinky and very sexy. He sat on the bed, rested his legs on her back and arse and told her to stay still.

“Where do you keep your uniform?” he asked.

“In a locker at the station.”

“Would it be possible to bring it back here without being found out?”

“I’m not supposed to, but I could.”

“Do that, tomorrow. Who’s the sexiest, most beautiful cop girl at your station apart from you?” She did not consider for long.

“Nasreen Hussein. She’s new.”

“Bring her here tomorrow – any excuse. Bring her in uniform if you can. Phone me to say you’re coming at least half an hour in advance. Clear?”

“Yes, master.”

“You will give me access to your computer and all the codes – also your credit cards and any codes.”

“Yes, master.”

That night for the first time in months he slept in a comfortable bed. For the first time in years he slept with a naked woman beside him. He was getting to quite like her, but only while she was his slave.

Early in the morning she rose with a reproachful look towards him and went to work. He amused himself by checking out where she kept some valuable things – in case he had to do a bunk – and reading a couple of her books. She was quite a bookworm. He himself had a university degree and had once enjoyed novels. He also found a bottle of wine and emptied it.

He thought about the near future. If he was going to make the most of this incredible luck, he’d need to ease off on the drink. Could he order himself to do that? He tried. It would be a while before he’d know if it worked. He’d also need a bank account for all the money he’d got from her and the money he meant to get. But he had a bad record in the eyes of any bank and no-one respectable would vouch for him. WRONG! A police officer would vouch for him! You couldn’t get more respectable than that!

He went on the computer and whiled away the time with some hard porn sites, using her card.

Her mobile phone rang.

“It’s Helen. She’ll be at the flat in three-quarters of an hour.” Her voice was flat, expressionless.

“Good girl!” he replied. He almost failed to give her further instructions, but thought of it just in time. “When she comes in the flat, when I say ‘Piggy’, hit her, bring her to the ground and cuff her wrists behind her back. I’ll be behind the curtains in that place where you have sports stuff. O.K.?”

“Yes.”

When he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock, he headed for the curtained space. He heard two female voices. Helen’s he knew. The other sounded educated, almost posh.

“So this man who talked his way into your flat and won’t leave, Helen, has he tried anything on? Stolen anything?”

“No, neither. I just find him a bit creepy and I want him out.”

“No problem! I am your magic genie in a bottle. Command and I act! He’ll be scared stiff of the uniform, don’t worry. Any idea where he is now?

“In the spare room, I think, past here. You go first – I’m just a bit nervous.” She was leading her right past his hiding-place! Maybe she wasn’t so reluctant. The footsteps came closer.

“PIGGY!” he said loudly. There was a loud crunching noise, a pathetically small squeal and a thud. He pulled back the curtains. Helen, expressionless, was standing by an incredibly beautiful young girl of Indian type who lay motionless on the floor face up. With her neat uniform, chequered hat rolled a couple of feet away and long, glossy black hair, she was a vision of divine beauty which set his cock straining like a rocket for takeoff.

He nodded to Helen.

“Well done,” he said. “Cuff her wrists behind her back with her own cuffs. Then strip her. I want to see what’s under that sexy uniform.”

“Yes, master,” she replied. She removed the sensible shoes. She unfastened the thick, mannish belt, laying the baton and CS canister carefully to one side. She tugged the girl’s thick uniform trousers down to her ankles and off, revealing pale yellow panties and the bump of a thick bush. With a woman’s expert fingers, she unbuttoned her friend’s blouse to reveal plump breasts in a virginal white bra. She paused.

“Should I take her blouse right off or just leave it open, master?” she asked him.

“Just leave it open. After you’ve got her bra off, turn her over.”

“Yes, master.” She reached round the brown back and unclipped the bra, pulling it off to reveal that Nasreen had just about the biggest aureoles (for the size of tit) he’d ever seen. Her dove-grey socks came next, leaving only her panties.

At that point their victim began to revive. She stared at the wall, at her naked breasts and at Greg. She tried to move and found her wrists were handcuffed. Then she saw Helen looming over her.

“Helen! Oh, my God! Thank God! Help me – quick!” she burbled.

“Pinch her left nipple!” Greg instructed. Without a word or a gesture, Helen obeyed. “Take all your clothes off below the waist and sit on Brown Piggy’s face, making sure that her nose goes in your arsecrack and she gets a mouthful of muff.” Again she obeyed. It looked so amusing, he just had to get Helen’s camera and record it. Nasreen was making ludicrous snuffling noises, some kind of protest but not very effective. “Piss on her!” Greg ordered. A moment later, the brown policewoman’s face, hair and neck were sopping wet and an acrid, sweetish smell was in the air. Never mind – one of them could clear it up later.

He sat down on a plain wooden chair.

“Pull her up by the hair, drag her over here, lay her down arse-up on my lap and whack her arse with her own baton,” he instructed.

This allowed Nasreen to comment:

“Helen! Please! No! Ohmigod! Please! Nooooo! What’s come over you? We’re FRIENDS! We’re EIAAAAAAAOOOOOW! What was that for? WAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Helen was expressionless. The cruel baton fell with mechanical regularity on the plump, defenceless warm brown official bottom, distorting it into fascinating shapes which disappeared but remained in Greg’s mind.

“Rip her panties off!” he ordered. They were ripped.

“My turn now!” he said. There was nothing quite like the material of a good plump female arse, he thought as he laid into Nasreen’s, first with his hand and then with one of her shoes. Butterplump, indiarubber in its springiness, juicy as a fine underdone steak or as a ripe mango…Nasreen was wailing and that was good too. He continued until she was sobbing. That was a victory over her self-respect, but more would follow. He could enslave her now with the bottle, but he preferred to wait.

“Hold her down while I fuck her,” he instructed.

It was stupid of the brown cop girl to keep complaining and asking him to stop, he thought. It just made him hornier. Between her big arsecheeks she had a fantastically tight arsehole which he burst into like a party of terrorists. Her cunt gripped and pulsed as he filled her with his triumph. She was just moaning now. He’d leave her mouth for a bit, as it still stank of Helen’s piss.

Now was the time to enslave her properly. He rolled her over and took a mouthful of brown undercheek. He bit hard till he tasted salt blood. He got up. He rolled her over again and stared into her glazed eyes.

“Here’s your baton. Shove it up you cunt!” he ordered. Suddenly he doubted. What if it didn’t work? He’d be left with a cop girl who’d have to be silenced. She looked at him, bewildered as if she didn’t understand the words.

“UP YOUR CUNT! FAST!” he barked. Her eyes still glazed, she took the baton from his hands and pushed it in.

THAT’S NOT FAR ENOUGH!” he yelled. She kept pushing till it was obvious it could go no further. “GET UP AND DANCE!” he ordered. She got up and danced a clumsy, grotesque dance with the baton still up her cunt.

“FIGHT HELEN THERE! TRY TO BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HER!” he ordered, and quickly, to make it interesting,

“HELEN! BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HER!”

The brown girl was trying to pull her baton out of her cunt, presumably so as to use it against her friend. Her expression was doleful. Helen sprang forward and hit her on the left tit. The brown girl screamed and backed away, the half-extracted baton wagging around like a tail or a gigantic hard turd stuck on the way out. Helen kicked her on the shin, wrestled the baton out and hit her on the head with it. Nasreen went down like a sack of potatoes, but sexier. Helen started kicking her, but Greg told her to stop. He’d hoped for a real exciting catfight, but because Nasreen had wasted her effort trying to pull the baton out, it had been one-sided. Never mind – he could command another fight whenever he liked.

“Make me a good meal!” he told Helen. He put his feet up on Nasreen’s tits and waited for her to revive.

When she could understand what he was saying, he gave her instructions. She was to draw out all the money she could and give him her credit card security numbers. If she had any expensive cameras or music systems, anything else expensive she could carry, she was to bring it to him the next day.

As he expected, she obeyed to the letter. He was now able to open a bank account with Helen as his referee and to buy decent clothes plus some special ones for the girls. He knew plenty about investments and he was able to make his money produce more – but he had another source of income.

He had summoned both girls to stand in front of him for instructions. Just in case the power of the bottle’s contents could wear off, he sipped a fraction more and then ordered his slaves to strip. He bit Nasreen’s brown arse and then Helen’s white one. They tasted good.

“STAND TO ATTENTION, YOU TWO!” he barked. It was funny seeing them snap to attention, their tits wobbling. “You two are to wear these outfits plus these thongs and no bra. You are to go out to the Norfolk Road area, waggle your arses and earn as much money as you can from the punters. YOU MUST NOT TURN ANYONE DOWN. If the police try to pick you up, fight them. On no account mention my name. You are not to return till two a.m. when you’ll bring me all the money you’ve earned. CLEAR?”

“Clear, master,” they chorused. They picked up their sex-shop versions of policewoman uniforms, the cruelly tight skirts at micro level, the blouses low-cut, the silvery handcuffs prominent.

Just before midnight he drove Helen’s small car out down Forest Road, through Armistice Square and on to the Norfolk Road. There were a few girls out in skirts too tight to bend down in or hotpants. First time round he saw neither of his charges. He came around for a second look. There at the corner of the square was Helen. She smiled glassily and wiggled her arse as the car approached. Then she recognised what had been her own car and stopped. He waved and drove on, stopping where he could watch her. Soon a car drew up by her. She bent to talk to the driver and a moment later the car sped off with her.

Down Norfolk Road, a car stopped in front of his. He slowed to see what would happen. Something dark, a confused shape, fell out of the passenger seat, helped by a push and a kick. The shape lay on the pavement, moving slightly. The other car sped off. Greg drew up to it. The shape was Nasreen. She had made a bad choice of client. Her uniform was badly ripped and even in the dark and on brown skin he could see bruises, but she was in one piece. He loaded her into the back of the car and drove off.

Helen came in with good takings. Nasreen’s last client had robbed her of what she had taken. Greg ordered Helen to clean her up. He would berate and punish Nasreen for failing to bring any money home, but not till she was better. A good businessman took some care of his staff so they would perform well.

Over the next few weeks Greg’s business prospered. Nasreen, firmly thrashed for failing on the first night, was more careful. Helen had an unfortunate meeting with four hookers resentful of her taking their business and came home badly scratched, but Greg told her to stick to her patch. She should explain the scratches at the police station by inventing a clash with a thief. He would patrol around in the car and look out for any trouble. On the whole, it worked.

He began to wonder if something was changing in them, if the horror of their situation was being cleansed out by whatever controlled them for him. Their expressions looked glazed rather than hostile.

Then Helen was arrested.

Greg had been cruising round as usual making sure they were working hard and were all right, when he found himself behind a police car. He slowed down hoping they didn’t challenge him – but with horror he saw Helen waggling her arse at a passing van just down the road. It was very obvious what she was up to, even though the van did not stop. The police car did stop. A female officer got out and spoke to Helen as the male driver came round to join them. Greg stopped to, got out and approached at a confident, brisk walk.

He was just in time to hear the policewoman say,

“God! You’re Helen! Oh my God!” She was too shocked to proceed, but the heavily-built Sergeant was made of sterner stuff and promptly arrested Helen by name.

“Excuse me!” said Greg very loudly. They turned round. “Post and Gazette,” he continued, naming the local paper and waving his newly-bought health club membership card. “Are you arresting this lady?”

“Yes. Why?” replied the Sergeant. At a guess, he did not like reporters.

“May I see your I.D.?” Greg asked. “You’ll have heard these stories about fake officers trying to abduct prostitutes.” He’d just invented this, but the Sergeant fell for it, shoving his card in Greg’s face. Greg bit his finger.

He wasn’t even totally sure it would work on a man. The Sergeant yelped and withdrew his hand. The policewoman, who carried a pair of tits so magnificent it must have been difficult packing them in the car, started towards Greg.

“Grab her and put her over that waste bin!” Greg ordered the Sergeant. A moment later, the startled, squawking policewoman was draped over the waste bin arse up. “Spank her!” Greg instructed. The Sergeant obliged. Greg strolled up and delivered a precise little nip to the policewoman’s surprisingly delicate ear. Helen, uninstructed, had not moved.

Greg ordered them all into the police car so he could give further instructions without things looking odd. The big-breasted policewoman he instructed to report to his (once Helen’s) flat the next day. The Sergeant he told to report nothing of what had happened, to do all he could to prevent police giving Greg or his girls any trouble and to send him any sexy females who came into the station. Then he released them.

Naturally the next day he enjoyed the new recruit before sending her out to earn him money. With tits that size, he reckoned, she’d do well. He hadn’t thought much about the precise instruction he’d given the sergeant, but it worked well enough: in due course another policewoman, a lawyer and a journalist were delivered (given lifts to a convenient car park) and the sergeant’s own two daughters when they dropped in on Daddy at work. He was proving so reliable that Greg decided the time had come for a major change. He left the organisation of the whore business to the sergeant, who actually received a modest payment, and himself concentrated on making his now large investments pay – something he knew plenty about.

He had a struggle for a while with heavy drinking, not a habit easy to drop, but he could now afford good medical help and success was strengthening his will-power.

There were, though, a number of important questions left unanswered about the blue bottle.

Did he need to keep drinking from it to retain the power? He hoped not, for the contents would soon run out. Unless, of course, the power was in the bottle itself rather than the liquid, but that seemed very unlikely. Where had that old bastard Marek got it from and were there more of the things or at least of the magic liquid? Did he have to bite his victims and exchange bodily juices? Did the juices have to be blood? It was certainly awkward having to bite anyone he wanted to enslave. If he dipped a needle in the stuff, say, and then stuck it in someone, would that work?

Fortunately the supply of victims through his existing slaves, plus the power his new wealth carried, gave him the opportunity to experiment. He could settle all those questions except the first one – and that he would have to determine by not drinking from the bottle again and being aware that his power might unpredictably stop or gradually wane. There was no sign of that so far.

The sergeant’s two daughters brought in two college friends eager to meet a rising businessman who had jobs to dole out. One was a demure, artistic-looking Black girl and the other a bouncy, jolly, busty blonde. He interviewed the Black girl first and tried just staring into her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr Laing,” she said, “but I’m finding your stare rather uncomfortable. I think I’d better leave.”

“Oh, I am sorry, Ms Howard,” he replied quickly. “It’s a slight disability of mine. I hoped I could get by without you being disturbed by it. Of course I understand…”

“No, no, I’m sorry!” she interrupted. “I didn’t realise! I am so sorry!” She stayed. He conducted a relatively normal interview and concluded by offering her a job. She was delighted to accept.

“Shake on it!” he said, offering his hand. She shook it and half-suppressed a little squeak of mild surprise and pain.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot I was wearing that ring. It’s the anniversary, you see. Did it draw blood? Gosh!” He looked in her face and knew she was enslaved. “Kneel down, open my flies and suck my cock!” he ordered. Without a word, she obeyed. She had got a job, but not the one she had applied for. The small sharp point on the ring had done its job and all it had needed was for it to be dipped in the liquid from the bottle.

There was one more test he could do. He sent the Black girl off and called in the curvy blonde. After a couple of minutes chat, he told her she had a test to do. He handed her a page of notes and invited her to summarise them on a flip-chart. She glanced at the notes, which described a business deal, and started on the task, her plump buttocks shifting seductively as she wrote. He crept up, grabbed her and threw her to the floor.

Ten minutes later he was ready for the test. He pulled out, lifted himself off her and said:

“Sing the national anthem.”

A little haltingly and with no great musical skill, she sang it.

“Get up and put two big Xs on your tits with the red marker pen.” She did it.

Test two had worked. Any exchange of bodily fluids would do.

Greg’s legitimate business activities were now making him rich, but he craved more. Surely he could use the blue bottle for this too. He thought carefully and at length about his target. Eventually he chose one.

Stephanie Colindale closed the door gently on the inner sanctum of Mr Henderson’s empire, placed the small leather folder on her own desk, checked a few details of his travel arrangements on her computer, made a couple of notes and took a call from reception.

“A Mr Laing here to see you, Steph. He says he’s got an appointment for 2:40.”

“Yes, that’s right. Martin’s seeing him too in A370. He’s a little early, but I’ll come down for him right now.” If people who were not already granted access to Mr Henderson wanted to see him, Stephanie would do a little research and if not entirely sure one way or the other, would see them face to face. Often as not, if he was free she’d involve the rising junior manager Martin Hoffman. It made no difference that Martin had made a couple of plays at her which she had rebuffed: she could handle him.

The man who walked into the small interview room with a confident air was neither quite young nor middle-aged. His hair was receding somewhat and his skin, she noted, suggested life hadn’t always been easy – but he looked fit and alert, masculine, quite sexy really, and was well-dressed without being dressy. So far so good. His body language was a plus too. What he had sketched of his proposition made sense. His recent business record was impressive. It was his less recent business record that worried her. She knew that Grant Henderson didn’t necessarily mind doing business with crooks, but crooks who’d let themselves be caught were another matter.

“Sit down, Mr Laing,” she instructed. “Stephanie Colindale, and this is Martin Hoffman. Now – your project – have you obtained…”

Greg argued his case with vigour. He could not see this stuck-up P.A.’s long legs, but he heard them shift as she twice crossed her legs. Either she’d forgotten to use the toilet before the interview, or he was making an impression. He concluded. She turned to the squat, slightly swarthy, heavily handsome sidekick and asked,

“Do you think we need to discuss this one in private for a minute, Martin?” Greg noticed what he probably was not meant to – a wink directed at the sidekick.

“Weeeeeel..no, I don’t think so,” the man replied.

“Very well. That was quite impressive, Mr Laing, but considering your record we really did require something more firmly evidenced. In other words – no.”

“Oh, well – so be it,” said Greg, rising and offering his hand, which she took. They shook and she winced slightly.

“Are you carrying something sharp?” she asked.

“Rip your blouse and get your tits out!” Greg replied, staring into her eyes. He could read no expression in her grey-blue eyes. She took hold of her pale yellow blouse in both hands and ripped it apart.

“Steph! What the hell…?” The Hoffman guy was not in the know. In fact he was rushing at Greg and aiming a wild punch at him. Greg sidestepped and hit back, making sure his ring was well-positioned. Martin barely rocked back from the blow – he was strong and had a low centre of gravity – but Greg saw the small cut on the side of his jaw.

“Stand in the corner, face to the wall!” he told him. Martin complied. The next stage was purely business as Greg gave the tall girl her instructions. Martin was still standing where he’d been sent. Greg felt sorry for him.

“Fuck Stephanie Colindale,” he told him, “now.” He would have liked to instruct her to resist him, but not now. That could have led to both of them ending up in a condition that would have needed a lot of explaining. Right now Henderson should not have any reason to suspect anything.

Soon Greg was very, very rich. It would have taken an expert and single-minded detective to link him to the girls on the streets, and sooner or later such a detective would have come face to face with Greg and his ring. He had no need to keep up that part of the business, but it amused him to do so. Stephanie Colindale joined the girls in her spare time and proved very popular with the punters. He even staged that fight, which Martin Hoffman won by the skin of his teeth against desperate resistance by Stephanie (ordered by Greg to resist). Hoffman, on orders (not that he really needed them) proceeded to rape Stephanie, for which he lost his job and went to jail.

There were more girls around Greg than he needed, but for sentimental reasons he kept his first two policewomen close, plus Stephanie, who was a prize catch. He had noticed that as time went on, the signs of resistance and resentment faded, as though whatever he had put into their minds worked away, hidden, until it had seeped into the last strongholds of independence and conquered them. Helen and Nasreen seemed to be willing slaves; but at the same time, nothing they did at work or among old friends made them seem different to what they once were.

There was no sign of the power of the bottle wearing off. Greg hadn’t drunk from it for three years and the ring just needed to be dipped in it occasionally.

It was at this point, when everything seemed ideal, that Greg arrived back at his mansion, driven by a beautiful Russian who had actually sought work with him, to find that operating the buzzer at the security gate did not make it swing open as usual.

“Where’s that idiot Spencer?” he fretted. “Find out, Yelena.”

That was not easily done, as the gates were tall and the wall high: but the leggy, athletic Yelena clambered up the wrought-iron struts – while Greg enjoyed the view of her rump – and down the other side. A minute later the gates swung open.

“He’s disappeared!” she said, rejoining him. “I made the gates open.”

Greg tried to remember if there had been room for ambiguity in Spencer’s instructions. The man was another of his slaves, but he left him pretty much alone to do his job, just making sure he didn’t tell any tales. Or was the power of the bottle starting to wear off? But Spencer had been enslaved much more recently than some of the girls.

The car crunched on gravel and stopped. They got out and Yelena opened the main door.

“Do come inside,” said the East Asian man with the gun, “we have been expecting you. In fact you are late.” Greg concluded there was nothing to be done for the time being but to obey. Yelena shrugged, stepped forward, and hit the man in the stomach. He went down, discharging his gun into the floor. The young woman behind him fired once. The bullet buried itself in the door. Yelena and Greg raised their hands. The man struggled to his feet, picked up his gun and hit Yelena over the head with it. She dropped. At a barked command, a second man appeared and dragged her off.

“Now, Mr Laing – we have business,” the young woman said.

Greg was sitting on his own sofa, hands tightly bound behind his back. The young woman had drawn up a chair and sat staring into his eyes. To the side, the man Yelena had hit stood at ease with his gun.

“You have something that belongs to us. We want it back,” the woman stated levelly.

“If it’s the willow-pattern plate, I’m afraid it’s got a slight crack in it. Or is it the tracksuit made in China?” Greg asked. The woman did not look angry or even surprised.

“Ah – the famous British sense of humour! But you know what I mean – the bottle.”

“Look, you say it’s yours, but I got it from an old down-and-out. He didn’t say anything about Japanese owners.”

“Chinese!” He’d actually made her angry for a second. “The down-and-out was a man called Marek. You killed him, yes?”

“I hit him and he died. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“That is of no interest to us. He had stolen from our agent.”

“How did old Marek do that?” Greg asked, genuinely intrigued. “He was a wreck.”

“He was not a wreck when he stole. He could not handle the power. You are tougher than him by much, but it would be too much for you too.”

“So who are you?”

“Chinese government. Now where is the bottle?” Greg was thinking fast. Once he’d shown them, they’d either enslave him or, more likely, kill him. Neither sounded attractive. He couldn’t think of any plausible way he’d be rescued: he didn’t have armed guards or an alarm straight to the police – and wouldn’t want them poking their noses in anyway. Helen was due to visit in about an hour, but she wouldn’t be armed or suspecting anything. He would have to try something himself. At least they didn’t know about the ring. Or did they? He felt for it. Yes, it was still in place.

“O.K. – I can see I haven’t got a chance and I’m a businessman. I know about cutting my losses when the odds are hopeless. It’s in the wall safe.”

“What is the combination?”

“363F8. But that won’t work for you.”

“Why?”

“Fingerprint recognition. The digits have to be entered by me.”

“O.K. – but don’t try anything stupid.” She spoke rapidly in Chinese and levelled a gun at Greg while her henchman untied his hands. He noticed she had long nails painted blue , which seemed odd for an agent if that was what she was. The first part of Greg’s plan had worked, for his hands were free. But he had lied about the fingerprint recognition, and anyway, he was in big trouble if he didn’t open the safe. He would have to attack and try to grab a gun. He reckoned his chances were about one in ten if that.

A few steps later, a mobile phone rang and they all stopped. There was a brief exchange in Mandarin. Greg had a second advantage they did not know of: he understood a little of their language. The exchange had been something about “the Russian having the antidote”. Yelena had an antidote to the blue bottle? Was that it? If so, who was Yelena?

They were only a few feet from the wall safe when the male agent behind Greg said something – something roughly like “Um.” It was only when this was followed by the crunch of his body hitting the floor that Greg was alerted. Yelena, levelling a gun, was facing the Chinese girl, also levelling a gun. Unfortunately Greg was standing in between them.

“Mind if I lie down?” he asked, and did so. Now if they shot one another he’d stay alive. The two women were tense, each waiting for a sign that the other was about to move. Greg was able to crawl across and pick up the fallen agent’s gun. Now it was a deadly threesome.

“May I make a suggestion?” he said. “If one of us fires, at least one of the others will fire and almost certainly hit her or him. Then it’ll be two people dead and one – who didn’t fire first – alive and controlling the bottle. Why don’t we all put our guns down? Then any two can overpower the third, or we can all come to some agreement.” They both considered his suggestion. Then the Chinese girl’s gun began to drop very slowly and Yelena followed suit. Greg did his bit and eventually all three guns were back in pockets.

“Who are you?” the Chinese girl asked Yelena.

“My name it means nothing, my age it means less,” she replied. “You recognise the quote? No? Never mind. I am an agent of the Russian Federation. You know very well that we have a claim on the bottle too.”

“But you were enslaved!” said Greg.

“But first I took the antidote, and later five times boosters, so I just pretend to be your slave!” she replied. “You are easily fooled. Greg, you are out of your depth here. These Chinese are ruthless people.”

“And your people are teddy-bears?” the Chinese agent riposted.

“O.K. – let’s get this straight,” Greg urged. “Both your governments want the bottle. Both have claims on it. Why can’t whoever made it just make some more?”

“He was a very secretive man. He made sure we both knew what he had invented, or discovered, but he told us nothing of the formula,” said Yelena.

“We had a deal but he broke it,” said the Chinese girl.

“Who’s this?” asked Greg.

“The Mongolian,” the Chinese replied. “That is all we call him. Even his name is uncertain. But we thought he had taken some of our money and then done a deal with the Russians, so our people came to capture him and the substance.”

“And they messed up big-time!” said Yelena. The Mongolian got killed by mistake and one of his people got away with the bottle.”

“And that was Marek?” Greg asked, amazed.

“No. The man came to London to hide. We don’t know exactly what happened next, but we think he’d have wanted to try it on someone and use his new slave to do things for him. It must have gone wrong. He moved against this down-and-out and missed, or maybe he got drunk and told him. Who can tell?”

“We had traced the man to London, but then his body was found in the Thames,” the Chinese agent continued. “We had no idea what had happened until our embassy pointed out the very rapid rise of one businessman and the way the people around him seemed extra-loyal. We have watched you for some time.”

“But from a distance,” said Yelena, “whereas I was with him!”

“You waited too long, then,” the Chinese girl said.

“Greg, I served you well. I did all sorts of things for you. Only I was reporting to my people, but I did not try to harm you, I would not have let them harm you. I saved you just now because they would have made you open the safe and then killed you,” Yelena stated.

“This girl is nothing. I can offer a deal,” said the Chinese.

“Which is?”

“I have studied your business dealings. This woman has made it easier by laying out those useless men who were with me. You, I, Mr Laing – we can control the world!”

“Don’t trust her! She’s a snake!” cried Yelena.

“What deal can you offer, Yelena?” Greg asked.

“The protection of the Russian government. A job in Russia.”

“And this antidote – would I control it?”

“No. That is for the Russian government.”

“Hmm… how long does it work for?”

“Four months. Then one must take another pill.”

Greg thought hard.

“Hand me your guns, both of you, so there can be no trickery,” he said. Yelena hesitated just a moment. The Chinese woman hesitated longer, but complied.

“Excellent,” he said. “Yelena, please secure this woman.”

“Greg, I’m so glad you’ve made the right choice,” said the Russian, approaching her enemy, who crouched to give battle.

Greg slugged Yelena on the back of the head with the gun she had just given up. She slumped to the floor.

“It’s a deal!” said Greg, holding out his hand to the Chinese agent.

“That is good!” she replied. “That is a very nice ring you have, Mr Laing. I am not so easily fooled as this stupid bitch.”

“I like your style,” he replied, withdrawing his hand.

“You can call me Li,” she said. She rummaged in Yelena’s pockets and came up with a small packet. Inside were twelve tiny yellow capsules in two strips, but no name or instructions. “The antidote,” she said. “Six for me, six for you. None for her!” She poked Yelena’s bottom with the tip of her shoe. “We kill her or we keep her till the antidote wears off.”

“Keep her,” said Greg, who preferred Marek’s killing to be his first and last. “She’s a looker and she’ll be useful.”

“Good decision,” said Li. “We should be able to use her to control her supervisor, and then back to the Russian government. But we must kill the two idiots who came with me.”

“Is that necessary? he asked.

“Yes. I do it. Like your man at the gate. No problem, I know how to dispose of the bodies. Then I report back to the embassy and maybe you give me just a little liquid on my long fingernails.” Greg left her to it. In due course he did let her dip her long fingernails in the liquid and she went to the embassy. No more Chinese arrived.

Bit by bit Li and Greg relaxed in one anothers’ company, beginning to look less like two poisonous spiders circling one another and more like a business couple. He’d quite like to screw her, he thought, but of course the exchange of body fluids would enslave her and she knew that. She took great pleasure in being served by Helen, Nasreen and the other girls, speaking sharply to them and slapping them if they did not please her.

Three months after the confrontation, Greg, as a rising young businessman, was invited to the American embassy for a reception. He shook the hand of the ambassador. Ambassador Bronstein felt a slight prick and was too diplomatic to mention that some sliver of base metal was loose in the Englishman’s ring. Next month the Secretary of State made a visit and Bronstein was under Greg’s orders as well as hers. Li had arranged for more rings to be made and one of them was worn by Bronstein. Another he gave to the Secretary of State for a gift before she headed back for a meeting with the President.

Six weeks after that momentous meeting Greg sat on a couch, his feet up on Nasreen, chatting with Li, who had just sent Yelena to bring a drink.

“That stuff about fingerprint recognition you told us was rubbish,” she said out of the blue. As he sought words to reply, she added, “I understand. It was a good trick. But you told us the right combination.”

“So?”

“I have drunk from the bottle. You have the power to enslave. I have the power to enslave. If we fuck we enslave one another.”

“Come on, then,” said Greg.