The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I was on my way back from Vermont, thanks to Doc and his frigging timing. Okay, so I admit, I had promised to look after his delivery problems myself. I can even vaguely remember taking the retainer. But I hadn’t agreed to work Easter week, especially not during my first vacation in three years (I didn’t even get a chance to christen my new Snowboard, for God’s sake). Whatever the job was, I grumbled to myself, it had better be worth ditching an entire week’s worth of ski lodge rental.

Doc’s phone call had come that morning, his British accent ever so polite and demanding: “But Charles, old boy, I thought we had a deal. You know that I wouldn’t ask if the assignment didn’t require your special flair. Besides, I believe Kitten is preparing a special dinner, and you know how much she looks forward to having you over. . .”

Kitten. He knew I couldn’t refuse her. She was my invisible leash, his guarantee that he could reel me back at any time. So here I was, cruising the back roads of Worcester County, MA on an cold, overcast Easter evening, wondering why he needed me so damn desperately.

I was so busy thinking about Kitten, and Doc, and this mysterious problem of his that I didn’t even notice the girls at first. We’ve all seen hitch-hikers from time to time—huddled by the side of the road, waving those pathetic little signs at the passing traffic. They look at you with such hope as you approach that it’s almost impossible to drive away without feeling like a complete jerk. I mean, most of the time when I’m working I’m simply not allowed to stop, but somehow that doesn’t make me feel any less guilty.

But the moment I saw those two, I could tell there was something wrong. They had no sign, no warm clothes—hell, they didn’t even signal until I was almost past them. I glanced in my mirror. Two young girls, alone and in the middle of nowhere. In some countries it would be a trap, an obvious setup by carjackers or robbers who thought they could make it as modern highwaymen, but this was New England and I didn’t think any of the local muggers would bother with something like this. Still, five years of Advanced Recon teaches you to take nothing at face value. I pulled up a good distance ahead of them, picking my spot so that any potential ambusher would have to break cover to reach me. I watched in the mirror as they ran up to the car. The leading girl looked to be sixteen or seventeen, well built, about 5′9″ with blonde hair just hitting the top of her shoulders. She was dressed in a fitted leather jacket and a knee-length plaid skirt, a weird combination for this weather. Even weirder, there was something familiar about it, something I could almost recognize, but in the dimming light I couldn’t quite make it out. In any case, the outfit couldn’t have been very warm, although she had the intelligence to wear a sensible pair of shoes. The pack she carried was small, good for maybe a couple of days, and the lack of a bedroll or tent bag made it clear that these two weren’t planning on a long stay in the Great Outdoors. Off in the distance, her friend seemed to have prepared a little better. I got the impression of a mop of dark hair over a yellow waterproof jacket, below which was a pair of jeans and some scuffed black ankle boots.

Now, let me just state that I stopped purely for humanitarian reasons, I wouldn’t have left a dog out on a night like that, much less two human beings. However, by the time they reached me, I admit that I’d started to see the possibilities in the situation. I grinned a little as the blonde drew level with the car. It was obvious what she was thinking—youngish guy, on his own, in a large old car. The whole thing must’ve screamed ‘run away as fast as you can’. She hesitated, looking back towards her friend, and that’s when I made my decision. The location certainly helped. I knew this area quite well, since Doc’s place was only a few miles away, and this road was a quiet two-lane only used by locals, so they’d probably been here a while.

I wound the window down. “You girls are lucky I came along,” I said, trying to sound asexual and friendly. “Not much traffic comes this way after dark, and that storm will be here real soon.”

The blonde looked up at the sky. It was overcast and showers were definitely on the way, although I think storm was pushing it. While she thought about it, I checked out her friend. This one looked like she had some Spanish or Mexican blood in her, with large brown eyes and curly dark brown hair, but her skin had this gorgeous pale porcelain quality that came straight from Northern Europe. She was about the same age as the blonde, although the serious expression on her face made her seem more mature.

The blonde was obviously waiting for her opinion. The dark girl gave me a long, steady once-over. I figured she was the practical one of the pair, something she confirmed when she silently shook her head.

Time for more pressure, “Don’t have all day ladies,” I said indifferently. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’m going wherever you’re headed.”

“W...worcester?” the blonde blurted.

“Nope—I’m going to Bolton,” I said firmly, as if I expected them to argue. “But I could drop you by I-91. You can get a lift into Worcester from there.” I looked around, raising an eyebrow. “Well, it would be easier than gettin’ one around here, anyway.”

The blonde looked at her friend, begging with her eyes. I watched as the dark-haired girl did the calculation. Two of them, one of me. I got the feeling that if she’d been on her own she’d have waited for something less risky, but her friend was already cold, and if they stayed here much longer they would get caught by the rain. Finally, she nodded, proving that she wasn’t that smart after all. The blonde sighed in thanks and headed towards the trunk.

“Uh-uh. No good going there, sweetheart,” I said, jerking my thumb at the back of the car. “Trunk’s full. You’ll have to put your stuff on the back seat.” She flushed a little when I called her “sweetheart.” I liked that—made her look cute. “You can dump those packs on the seat behind me, then one of you can ride up front. It’ll make it easier to talk.”

I watched as they did that silent consultation again. Neither of them really wanted to talk, but if that was the price of the lift. . .

The brunette nodded again, and the blonde opened the back door, throwing the packs on the back seat before moving to let her friend get in. Part one was complete; I had separated them. The blonde came forward to the passenger door, struggling out of her jacket. Underneath it, she wore a tight polo neck sweater in a dark green color, echoing a green in the tartan skirt. I blinked as the memory piece clicked in place. Now that I could see the complete outfit, I recognized it immediately. It was the uniform of an exclusive Catholic boarding school nearby—I always thought of it as the Virginal Preserve of St. Mary Buttclench. The sweater may have been the regulation style and color, but she’d obviously taken some trouble to tailor it, emphasizing a set of nice curves. I waited, expecting the brunette to do the same, but the yellow coat stayed firmly in place. She was going to be difficult.

Time for some introductions. “Hi,” I said, offering my hand to the blonde. “Charlie Parker.”

She stared at my hand, long enough for me to get the message and pull it back. That’s fine, honey, I thought—just wait until later. “I’m Beth,” she murmured, punctuating it with a little shrug. “And that’s Maria.”

They didn’t comment on my ‘name’—no jazz fans here, I thought. I also noticed that she didn’t give any surnames. I glanced back at Maria, who just nodded politely, her body tight and weary. I noticed that she’d positioned herself close to the door, although she was sensible enough to use the seat belt. Good. If what I had in mind was going to work, I definitely needed to have little Maria wearing her belt.

I smiled. “Doesn’t say much, your friend,” I said as we pulled away.

Beth gave that little shrug again. “We had a bad experience a couple of hours ago. A truck driver. He said he’d give us a lift but. . .”

“Aw, man. No wonder you looked so worried.” I shook my head, staunchly disapproving of all the perverts and wackos in the world. “I have to admit, I was wondering what two girls from Saint Mary’s were doing on a road in the middle of nowhere.”

They both stiffened. “S-saint Mary’s?” Beth stammered.

Interesting reaction. I decided to probe a little further. “Yeah—I recognized the uniform. You are from there, right?”

The tension in the car went straight off the graph. Something was going on between these two, something they didn’t want to be identified with, and I had just blown their hopes for anonymity.

“What makes you think that?” Beth said, stalling. She was obviously caught between the need to deny everything and the disbelief that some bozo in an old Ford could even possibly know about St. Mary’s. It was an exclusive school of the old line, the kind that daughters of congressmen and diplomats attended. As far as I was concerned, it was a training ground for girls who had the idea that they’re better that the rest of humanity breast-fed to them along with mama’s milk, a place where they learned how to use that long, sharp edge of wit and breeding against the lower classes. I’d found that much out from bitter experience.

I kept the easy smile, but I could feel a hot little caper of glee inside. It was time to sink a little misinformation into this upper-class piece. “Well, my wife’s an old girl,” I said sweetly. “The uniform’s been updated a little since her day, but the tartan in the skirt is unmistakable.”

“Tartan?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Ohhh—you mean the plaid.”

I nodded. The tartan was distinctive, belonging to the family of one of the school’s founders. Of course, few people outside the Ivy League set even knew that St. Mary’s existed, never mind being able to identify the tartan on sight. I had my own reasons for being so familiar with it. I could feel Beth looking me over, wheels clicking in her mind. It was obvious I didn’t fit her impression of a suitable husband for a St. Mary’s girl. Still, it’s hard to tell these days—I once stood next to Bruce Willis in a store in San Francisco, and I was better dressed than he was. As far as they knew, I could be a rock star or a corporate robber baron slumming at his New England retreat. The question was, could I be somebody who would remember them? Or worse, report them?

I decided to let her off the hook. “Check the yearbook for ‘82 when you get back,” I said, making it up as I went. “Her maiden name was Jennifer O’Neil. Pretty redhead, don’t think she got any special distinctions. She was a day girl there for four years.”

“Oh. A day girl.” Beth visibly relaxed. I understood why—day girls were usually on scholarships, normal middle-class Boston girls that the school took in to maintain their Christian piety. She didn’t say anything, but her body language spoke volumes; she’d been terrified that we’d meet at some Alumni party, afraid that I moved in the same exclusive circles she did. Afraid that their presence here might somehow make it back to the school or daddy? Seemed reasonable.

She cleared her throat. “I know a few day girls,” she continued, with that distinctive upper-class whine that came straight off the nose and managed to sound amused and condescending at the same time. “They’re. . .nice, I guess. And smart. Well, I mean, they’d have to be, for them to get into St. Mary’s.”

I clutched the steering wheel a little tighter, ignoring the impulse to backhand her. Five minutes ago she’d been a little girl freezing her butt off by the side of the road, an object of pity even for me. Now, after a few minutes in a warm car, all of her patronizing instincts were reasserting themselves. Any last traces of reluctance on my part disappeared—Bethie baby had sealed her fate with her own words.

“Yep, that’s what Jen said, too,” I said, blithely ignoring the attitude. “She was on a scholarship for poor girls from South Boston. She says that it’s a great school, although she did take some ragging about her neighborhood.” I watched Beth’s reaction, and Maria’s in the mirror, feeling the tension between them finally burst. I was nobody important, and there was precious little chance that I would mention seeing them to anyone they needed to worry about.

Now that I had them relaxed, I decided to change the subject onto something a little safer. “So, what about this trucker who gave you a bad time?”

Oh, yeah, Beth’s ego was back with a vengeance. “He was an awful, awful man. He said that he’d take us to Worcester straight away,” she complained, wrinkling that little patrician nose in distaste. “But once we were out of town he started to change. He pulled off the Interstate and started making lewd suggestions. When we wouldn’t do what he wanted, he threw us out.”

I thought about this. The place I’d found them was quiet, and there were large numbers of wooded side roads big enough to take a semi. Friend trucker probably thought he had a party on his hands and tried to get some privacy, and I had no doubt whatsoever that these two had encouraged him. Despite what you see on TV, truckers aren’t sex-crazed maniacs. Most of them work for big companies, and those companies run a virtual cartel. No trucker in his right mind would be willing to risk his job for two little tramps like these, not when there was so much pussy available on the road. If he’d turned off the interstate, it was because someone had given him the idea that he would be rewarded.

I decided to play with their minds a little. “So what kind of lewd suggestions did this guy make?” I wondered.

She shrugged, uncomfortable. “Well, you know. . .” she trailed off.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said virtuously. “The only young lady I make lewd comments to these days is my wife. I take it from your reactions that he was expecting something from you?” I tried to sound as disapproving as possible.” Something. . .intimate?”

She nodded indignantly.

“And how old are you girls?”

“Sixteen.”

“Man. Well, I hope you took the guy’s number,” I said, trying to sound convincingly shocked. Poor bastard. “He sounds like a complete sleazeball.”

“Oh, we got it all right,” Beth said proudly. “And when we get back, we intend to send his company a letter.”

Anonymously, of course. After all, I thought, they wouldn’t want to explain what they were doing hitchhiking to Worcester.

Doc’s was now only twenty or thirty miles away. Soon enough, my relationship with these two charming ladies would have to get a little unpleasant. I intended to put that off as long as possible, since every mile closer to Doc’s was a bonus. To keep them distracted, I started chatting, asking about the school and dropping the names of a few of the teachers that had been there when I’d lived nearby. As I’d expected, Maria said nothing, but Beth was a fountain of information. I didn’t get any closer to who they were or why they were going to Worcester, but she was more than happy to rattle on about what Daddy and Mommy did. Turns out Maria’s father was a banker of some kind, working out of the country for Chase Manhattan, and her mother was some socialite type from Long Island. I felt the disapproval from Maria as Beth let that little gem slip, but it shouldn’t have surprised her. Both of them had been raised in an world where what you did wasn’t as important as who you were and who you knew. Name dropping was second nature to my Bethie—too young to have much influence herself, she relied on hints about her access to power in order to impress me.

And then, I felt an electric shock go through me as she started talking about her own family. Her father was a lawyer, she said, some medium ranking partner in a large Boston firm who was content to bide his time and wait for his more senior colleagues to die. Her mother was a Walters from Back Bay.

Back Bay.

I glanced at her, obliquely studying the lines of her face. Once I knew what to look for, the resemblance was definitely there. I smiled to myself. Little did Bethie know that she was about to fulfill a fantasy I’d had for twenty years.

I started on the final stretch towards Doc’s place, waiting for the inevitable. Having been in the Service, I have this habit of thinking that everyone has the same sense of direction that I do. But apparently neither of the girls could tell that we were headed away from Worcester. Finally, after about ten minutes of scowling silence, Maria said, “We should have reached the Interstate by now!”

It was an accusation, a challenge of sorts. To some extent, I kinda liked Beth. She was stupid, arrogant and vain, but wasn’t really that unfriendly. Maria, however, seemed to be a real ball breaker. It was going to be interesting to see what happened with her. I kept my eyes on the road and grinned. “Normally, we should have,” I agreed.

Beth turned towards me, the first faint traces of real fear in her eyes. “But—”

“Oh, relax. All I meant was, I’m taking the scenic route. I’m not about to leave you two by an on-ramp in the middle of nowhere. There’s an oasis a few miles further down the Interstate. You can wait where it’s warm, and you’ll have a better chance of getting a lift from there to Worcester.”

“An oasis?”

I sighed. God save me from stupid upper-class cunts. “A truck stop,” I explained. “I couldn’t go back to the wife and tell her that I left two St. Mary’s girls to fend for themselves on a night like this, now, could I?”

Beth was satisfied, but Maria was more cautious. “If this place exists, why not use the Interstate to get to it?” she asked.

Snotty little bitch. I shrugged. “That section’s a toll road. I’m willing to help you girls out, but I don’t see why I should have to pay for it.”

That shut Maria up, but I could tell the honeymoon was over. The next time I needed to adjust the lights I reached over and threw an unmarked switch near the driver’s door. From now on the clock was ticking. It would only take them a few minutes to realize what I’d done, then all hell would break loose. Fortunately I knew of a perfect place not far from here. It was quiet and private, and if I could reach it my troubles would be over.

‘If’ is a million dollar word. It’s Fate’s way of reaching down and grabbing your nuts—you never know if she’s going to squeeze them until they pop, or let go. In this case she seemed to like what she was holding, because the girls didn’t say another thing until I turned onto a gravel road and drove into the woods. As we pulled into a little clearing, they finally realized what had happened. By then, of course, it was far too late.

Beth reacted first. “What the—what are you doing?” she demanded.

I smiled as I stopped the car. “End of the line, sweetheart.”

It must’ve been my grin. Her hand flashed down to the release button of her seat belt and pressed the little red button.

Nothing happened.

She tried again, and again. I watched, amused, as she pounded it harder, but wouldn’t you know it, the darn thing simply would not release. About this time she tried to move forward, not understanding that the seat belt reel was also locked and she was effectively pinned to her seat. I checked my mirror for Maria, who was starting to come to the same realization.

Beth let rip with an ear-shattering scream. No surprise there, as I’d marked her as a mouthy bitch from the start, but a car is a small enclosed area—my ears were ringing. The big surprise was how little fuss Maria made. She just sat there, watching both of us with huge, hollow eyes. I suppose it’s the problem with being too cerebral; you can’t handle the quick changes all that well.

Still, it gave me a little more time for the necessary preparations. Ignoring Beth’s howls as well as I could, I reached under my seat and found the small cloth bag I’d velcro’d there. I don’t think Beth even saw the handcuffs until it was too late. She was so busy pawing at her belt and shrieking that I had her first wrist locked before she knew it. She continued to struggle as I passed the other bracelet through the lap belt and caught her free hand, but by then it was over. With her hands chained to her waist, she couldn’t stop me from forcing the ball gag into her screaming mouth. I tightened the strap and the car was suddenly, blessedly quiet. She made a few muffled sounds and I could hear Maria whispering a prayer.

That’s when Beth burst into tears. She shifted to face me and tried to say something, but the only thing that came out from behind the gag was muffled moaning. Her body language, however, was eloquent as hell. Hands clutched together, eyes wide, she was silently begging for her life. Oh, yeah. I felt a wave of satisfaction at a job well done. I didn’t bother to reassure her (I mean, considering where they were going, why should I?)—my next priority was making Maria “comfortable.”

The seat belt trick had been rigged by a friend of mine. Tiny solenoids activated by the dashboard switch locked the buckle and reel mechanisms on all the passenger belts, leaving the driver free to move. I’d only used it once before on a multiple snatch, pardon the pun, and that experience had led me to ask for a number of refinements. Time to see if they worked.

I got out and walked around to Maria’s door. She was still struggling a little bit, probably out of habit. If she’d wanted to, she could have reached over and ungagged Beth, but she seemed to know it wouldn’t do any good. After all, Beth had been very vocal for most of the last five minutes—my eardrums were still throbbing—and no one had come.

Another set of cuffs in hand and ball gag ready in my jacket pocket, I opened Maria’s door and pushed a button on my key fob. There was a loud click as her seat belt disengaged. She froze for a second, then, with a speed that surprised even me, she sprang from the car. I lunged after her, grabbing the coat. We struggled for a second, and she managed to slip out of it, heading for the trees. That was absolutely fine. Grinning, I threw the coat away and started after her. I wasn’t really worried; her only chance was to make for the road and hope she could find someone to flag down before I got to her, and she was heading the wrong way for that. I’ll give her this much—she was good, probably a track star at school, but here she was in my world. No amount of sand track practice can prepare you for running on broken ground at night.

She almost reached the trees when an exposed root brought her down. I jumped on her, forcing her face into the moist black loam. She gasped for breath, choking on the dirt as I cuffed her hands behind her back. Somehow, she found the air for one scream. But even then, it seemed, I don’t know—half-hearted. Like her struggles in the car, it was as much a need to appear to be doing something as it was a serious attempt to escape.

Digging the ball gag out of my pocket, I forced it into her mouth and tightened the straps. She finally stopped struggling, and I let her get her breath back before pulling her up and dragging her back to the car. As we got closer I could hear Beth’s muffled sobs. In the twilight, I could just see her through the window, and I smiled at her look of despair when she saw us. I think she really believed Maria would get away. Feeling a little better, I dragged Maria towards the back of the car.

I paused by the trunk and opened it, grabbing my bag and snowboard and propping them next to the car. Maria decided to start struggling again but I wasn’t in a mood to play anymore, so I slammed the heel of my foot against the back of her leg, hearing the muffled squeal as she collapsed to the ground. Next to the spare wheel was a larger bag with more supplies. Plucking it out, I turned to find Maria trying to crawl away. Spunky little thing. I grabbed her by the shoulders and carried her the few feet to her discarded coat, dumping her on it. Then I opened my bag and went to work.

I used a couple of straps to fasten her legs together temporarily at knees and ankles. This was just to stop her struggling too much as I applied the duct tape. Great stuff, duct tape. I started at her ankles, winding the tape tightly around her legs until I reached the knees. These I left free as I had to be able to bend her legs, but I wrapped another band of tape halfway up her thighs to pinion them together. Wrists and forearms were similarly bound. Like Beth, Maria had been wearing a polo necked sweater underneath her raincoat. Now, duct tape over jeans makes a viable bond, but I was a little worried about the wool of the shirt stretching. I thought about it, then recovered the straps from her legs and reused them above and below her elbows, as added insurance.

Maria had nice tits, and now that her arms were pulled back they were thrust out in a very appealing way. I paused a second to have a quick grope and listen to her muffled protests. She was still a little too loud for my taste. Rolling her over, I removed the ball gag and replaced it with an inflatable bladder. I used a small pump to inflate this until her cheeks were distended and her eyes bulged. Satisfied, I secured it in place first with layer after layer of duct tape, and finally with a tight Ace bandage. Another grope test found Maria effectively silenced. I finished up by using a couple of straps to hog-tie her wrists to her ankles. She complained a little, or at least tried to, but she was a realist despite that little show of defiance earlier. She knew it was all over the moment she’d been unable to unfasten the seat belt—all she wanted now was to survive this.

I admit she gave me some problems when she realized she was destined for the trunk, but she was in no position to stop me. As soon as I’d got her nicely tucked inside, I threw her coat on top and closed the lid. Then my bags and snow board joined their packs on the back seat. Little Bethie was waiting for me, after all.

My brilliant career as a kidnapper got started after I’d left the service, just after Desert Storm. There had been a fraternization problem between myself and a female Navy officer. Now, we aren’t talking Tailhook here; in fact, she outranked me. As we were on our own time and there were no husbands or wives to get hurt, I never saw it as anyone’s business but our own. But they say that dress whites and Marine green don’t mix, even though we did OK there for a while. The brass didn’t see it that way, however, and decided someone had to pay. I was on my final tour intending to re-up later that year, so I was the obvious candidate. She was young and ambitious—I was old and cynical, so I cut a deal. No charges, I just left at the end of my final tour and saved her from the scuttlebutt.

I kicked around for a while after I got out, but to be honest I’d been a grunt too long to be good at anything else. Mercenary work just didn’t interest me. Hell, I’d fought and some of my buddies had died to make the New World Order, and I didn’t feel like helping to break it up again.

Then I came across Doc in a gambling house. The old bastard was one hell of a poker player, and after he cleaned me out with a full house we’d got to talking. Okay, at that point he’d been buying, so I did most of the talking. After a lot of extremely good Scotch, he asked if I wanted to make some good money for a delivery job. I thought he meant drugs at first. Bumming around looking for work wasn’t all that appealing, but the idea of being picked up by some hyper Feds on a drug-running charge wasn’t too swell, either. When I told him that, Doc just laughed at me and told me not to be an idiot.

I took another mental look at my bank account, and finally figured that anyone taking that stuff deserved what they got. Doc had his delivery boy, and I had a positive cash flow again.

So we went back to his hotel room, where he introduced me to a beautiful Asian girl called Mi Lin. I figured Mi was a hooker he’d hired for the night, but I was a little surprised when he offered me her services. I admit that those little oriental chicks always pushed my buttons, and this one was so willing. I’d been around the world and used the local pros in just about every country you can imagine, but I’ve never met any hooker who was so eager to please as Mi Lin. You know the drill—some don’t do oral, some don’t do anal, some won’t even kiss you. Mi never said no to anything—she had this long, long tongue, and licked me all over before giving me the most fantastic blowjob I have ever had in my life. Then, just before I was about to come in her mouth, she let it slip out with this obscene little plop, smiled at me, and climbed up to slip my cock into her cunt instead. I almost blew it right then and there. In the end, I’m glad I didn’t, because then I would’ve missed watching her moan and wriggle as she rode me like a rocking horse. Tight, wet—you wouldn’t believe the things her pussy could do. And she had this cute habit of calling me Master all the time. Quite literally, she was the best fuck I’d ever had.

The next day Doc turned up, all smiles and British cool. I expected him to give me a briefcase or something, but instead he told me to deliver Mi Lin to a cat house in New Mexico. It would take two or three days, he said, and of course I could use her as I saw fit during that time as long as I didn’t damage the merchandise. I expected Mi to object, but she seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement. I must’ve looked a little dubious, because Doc finally told me what he did for a living.

Doc was a trainer of slaves. No, that’s too simplistic—he was a creator of slaves, just like any painter or sculptor was a creator of art. He could take any normal, healthy woman and turn her into an obedient sex machine in a little under six weeks. It was hard to believe at first, but Doc claimed that Mi was living proof. I don’t know what Mi had been doing two months before, but now she was content to fuck and suck all night long. When I took her on the trip to New Mexico, I half expected her to jump ship at the first opportunity, but she seemed happy to be going along, as if she was looking forward to her new life as a Mexican whore.

At first, I couldn’t see how Doc’s business worked. Hundreds of runaways flood into New York every year, and there are pimps and pushers at every street corner just waiting for them. Want a sex slave? Just pluck a girl off the street, beat her a little, pump her full of smack until she’s hooked, then put her to work. That first year all I did was deliver slaves while Doc paid me a fortune to be a glorified taxi driver, and I still couldn’t see how he made his money. Who would pay for something that complex when junk and intimidation was cheaper?

Then, as I experienced more of Doc’s girls (one of the perks of being his taxi driver), I began to understand. They were extremely willing, and amazingly responsive to a man’s needs. While you were with them, you were literally the center of their world. They loved sex; in fact, they seem to physically need it. When they looked at your dick, the hunger in those eyes was real. When you fucked them, they really did enjoy it. There was no hint of deception, she wasn’t faking it or making out her shopping list while you were screwing her—she really did come and come. And Doc’s girls were conditioned to like you, not just fuck you. Do you have any idea just how intoxicating that is? To have a woman actually like what you say and who you are, without qualification or compromise? To know that she’s happy just to be with you? That made any man, no matter what he looks like, feel like a prince.

Then, of course, there’s the sex. Doc’s training protocol gives his girls mouths that a Las Vegas showgirl would envy—one of their blow jobs can hold a man at the edge of ecstasy for a lifetime. And when they fuck, it’s like nothing you’ve ever known; body weight, internal muscles, they use it all in a sex act that’s nothing short of incredible. Best of all, they’ll literally do anything you say. I began to see how a brothel owner could corner the market, to the point where he could force his competition out of business. And with this kind of programming, Doc’s girls could continue to command top dollar for years after a normal girl would be forced to retire. They were more expensive initially, but Doc’s slaves outlasted dozens of drugged up runaways.

After I’d been working for Doc for about a year, he asked me if I wanted to try recruiting, as he called it. Like I’d say no. We usually picked runaways or prostitutes, women who could go missing without being noticed. Occasionally, though, we got special orders though Doc’s contacts. The average contract was a guy who wanted his ex-wife, jilting girlfriend or pushy boss turned into your basic fuck toy. Because of the risks, these jobs often paid better than providing a fresh slave, but they also needed someone with a certain set of skills. That’s where I came in. I pulled twenty-three kidnappings last year, none of which have ever been reported. I’ve become the ultimate predator, the biggest, baddest cat in the jungle. I know my territory and my prey, know what to risk and when.

And like a cat, I sometimes play with my victims.

The moment I’d seen Beth in the full St. Mary’s uniform, some twenty-year-old feelings of pain and anger came back in a rush. And when she opened her mouth about who Mommy and Daddy were, I knew just how it was going to be. Somewhere, God had to be laughing his ass off. It may seem unfair that the girls were about to pay for someone else’s mistake, but it did have a certain symmetry. Besides, every St. Mary’s girl I’d ever met was a total bitch, and these two showed no signed of being any different.

I smiled at Beth, who wriggled in her seat as much as the belt would allow. I had something special in store for her and it started with a gag. Reaching into the bag, I found what I wanted. It was a rubber mouthpiece, with the front part shaped a little like a boxer’s gum shield. One of Doc’s perverted friends, a dentist who was called in if a slave needed dental work, made it for me. Once, in a drunken stupor, I’d explained an idea I had to him. The next time I’d visited Doc, a parcel had been waiting for me. . .

Carefully I filled the gum shield with a special resin. She watched silently probably trying to figure what I was doing. When I was ready I took a strap from the bag and slipped it loosely around her neck. I should’ve guessed she’d panic. She started shaking her head, blabbering and crying through the gag.

“Stop it!” I ordered. “I have no intention of strangling you—that isn’t what the strap is for. Now cut it out or I’ll hit you.”

She stopped, eyes full of fear.

Quickly, I unbuckled the ball gag. Before she had time to respond, I shoved the rubber mouthpiece between her teeth. As she shook her head and tried to spit it out, I forced one end of the strap under her jaw and the other over her head, then tightened it, clamping her teeth down on the gum shield. She blubbered, but she couldn’t get her mouth open. Next came the cuffs. Up front was good, behind was better. I released her seat belt, then one wrist. She tried to resist but didn’t have the leverage to do anything useful. I pulled a small loop of fishing twine loose from the seat and threaded the cuffs through it, then refastened her wrist behind her. She tugged for a while before realizing that there was no give in the new position. As she was busy with that, I replaced the seat belt and pushed the magic button to lock it. She tried to move forward but found that she was strapped into the chair again.

Reaching into the bag, I next selected a leg clincher, a device that straps around the thighs and clamps the legs together. She struggled with that, too, and as her legs weren’t currently bound it was a hell of a job to get the clincher on and tightened. However, once it was done the effect was perfect—Beth’s upper legs were completely immobilized. Lower legs were more of a problem. I have some special boots at home that are ideal for this, but of course you never have what you need on hand when you need it. Instead, I used an interesting thingy that Kitten had come up with—a length of a rubber material covered with cotton cloth on the outside and fitted with an adjustable Velcro fastener. Reaching down, I wrapped it tightly around Beth’s lower legs, just above her ankles, then fastened an eye on the device to a small hook under the seat. She moaned a little but now she couldn’t move her legs at all.

Then I removed the chin strap, sitting back so I could see her reaction. For a second her eyes bulged, then she gurgled. I smiled. The resin had set, cementing her teeth to the gum shield and locking her jaws closed. Still, her gurgles were too loud. Forcing her lips apart I located the small valve set in the front of the gum shield and inserted the pump I’d used earlier with Maria. As the bladder in the mouthpiece started to inflate, Beth’s cries became more and more muffled. When I thought she was quiet enough, I removed the pump and did a grope test to confirm. Yep, silent as the grave.

Now for the piece de resistance. I stuck a strip of flesh colored tape over her mouth, being very careful to work it around her lips. The tape was thin and except for color differences it was hard to tell where her skin stopped and the tape started. I managed to apply a layer of foundation makeup to her face and the tape, and after a few threats she held still enough for me to apply the next layer. I finished by painting a pair of pouty lips on the tape with lip gloss. Sitting right next to her, I couldn’t see the join. The tape was invisible, and the gloss lips looked like they were her own. Even a few feet away it would be impossible to tell she was gagged. Together, the mouthpiece and tape were almost a 100% effective—you could stand a few feet away and wouldn’t notice a thing. I pulled the plaid skirt down over the leg clincher, then got out and walked to her door. I glanced inside, trying to pretend I was Joe Pedestrian, or maybe Joe Traffic Cop. Her cuffed hands were behind her back and out of sight. The leg clincher was hidden by the skirt, the binder at her ankles looked like knee socks, and of course there was no sign of the gag. A casual observer could see nothing suspicious. I smiled and got back inside. As a final touch, I pulled out a long dark wig and put it on her head. I doubted anyone would remember her but it didn’t hurt to make her look a little different. Satisfied, I started up and headed for the road.

The first part of the snatch had gone really well, and I decided I deserved a little treat. Reaching over, I found Beth’s breast though the sweater and started to massage it. There was the tiniest noise—if I hadn’t been listening for it, the engine covered it completely.

“Tell me, Beth, was this what that mean old trucker wanted?” I asked.

Of course she didn’t answer. “Oh, now come on Beth,” I said, squeezing her breast tighter. “You can nod and shake your head, so I know you can answer simple questions. The only hope you and your friend have is to please me, and it would please me if you answer. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Good girl,” I said encouragingly. “Now, I’ll repeat the question. Was this what the trucker wanted?”

She nodded and looked down.

“Bet he wanted a blow job, too. Didn’t he?”

She nodded again.

“Thought so. You see, I doubt his schedule would leave him the time to fuck even one of you, so he’d have to make do with a little mouth action.” I grinned. “You know, it’s almost funny. If you hadn’t been so high and mighty and actually sucked the poor bastard off, you’d be safe in Worcester by now.”

She nodded and looked at the floor. A couple of hours ago she’d been horrified at the prospect of giving some poor trucker a blow job. Now she’d suck off the whole Teamsters Union just to be safe in Worcester.

“Sooo, tell me Beth,” I crooned, “do you want to suck me?”

She nodded frantically. It hadn’t escaped her attention that I’d have to remove the horrible gag for her to blow me.

“What about fucking me? Do you want to fuck me, Beth?”

She hesitated. It was fairly obvious she didn’t want to go that far. “Well I’m afraid you are going to fuck me Beth,” I said, in mock regret. “And suck me, and do whatever else I want. Do you want to know why?”

She was silent. I decided to tell her anyway.

“Back in ‘76, I was just a little older than you are now and living just a few miles from your Alma Mater.” She looked up.. “That’s Latin for St. Mary’s,” I informed her. “Anyway, I met this girl. Let’s call her Jane. She looked a lot like you, about the same size, same blonde hair, same uniform. I loved her. They say young love burns the hottest. Are you in love, Beth?”

She shook her head, her eyes slightly wide now.

“That’s a shame,” I said. “Young love is a wonderful thing. You see, my mother died when I was very young and my family got split up because of it, so when I fell for this girl, it was the first time in, hell, ten years or so that I actually had someone I could love. And you know what? She loved me, too, or at least she said she did. And she loved to show me just how much she loved me.” My grin was just slightly bitter around the edges. “We had sex day and night, every opportunity we got. Jane was one randy bitch, I’ll tell you—she was never satisfied. Cunt, ass, mouth, she’d take me any way she could, and a few ways I’d never even heard of before.

“But that’s not the best part. The best part was, I wanted to marry her. Can you beat that shit? I even had the perfect scene set up for a proposal. I’m talking roses, champagne that I really couldn’t afford, and a tiny diamond ring.”

I snapped my fingers. “And that’s when she backed off. Said she had to think about it, then shut up like a clam—she wouldn’t even answer my calls. You might’ve noticed that the security at St. Mary’s is tighter than a virgin snatch in church, so I had to wait for the Easter break.” I shook my head. “It must be close to twenty years ago today. I’m sure you can see the symmetry, Beth. Myself, I was amazed as all hell.

“But back to my story. I went to her family’s place in Boston to confront her. The bitch laughed in my face. She said that I was just a toy, a cute little blue-collar boy that she could just use and throw away. Worse, her father was there, and the fat, pompous prick offered me money to get lost. Or—get this, Bethie—he’d get his friend the police commissioner to have me picked up. I walked out that door with them laughing at me, Beth, feeling totally helpless and alone. Just as helpless and alone as you feel now.”

Several cars had passed us. I’d watched her reaction, felt her despair at knowing that the other drivers could see nothing wrong.

“After that, I joined the Marines. Got involved in Recon, did my share of interesting and extremely illegal ops. When I left the service, I met this guy, you’ll love him. He trains slaves, claims he can turn any woman into a sex toy in a few weeks. Once he offered to make a slave for me, sort of a Christmas bonus. All I had to do was choose the woman, and he would do the rest.

“So I went out to find Jane. It wasn’t difficult—her face was in the society columns almost daily. Trouble was, she was married and had a couple of kids. And kids need a mother, Beth. Growing up without one, I knew that better than anyone. Yeah, I could have taken her, could have used her as a fucktoy just as she used me, but then her kids would have suffered, and that didn’t seem fair. So I let her go. But my friend’s offer still stands. All I need is a girl.” I chortled. “And guess what? You are going to be that girl, you lucky little bitch. In a couple of weeks you’ll be sucking and fucking like the best whore in the world.”

We passed through a small town and I watched as Beth tried desperately to attract someone’s attention. With the little movement she had, she got a few strange looks but no one realized what was going on. By the time we left town she was weeping. I smiled. I could feel her despair, and I knew Doc would be pleased. The first stage of processing had begun.

When we were a few miles out from Doc’s, I pulled over and went around to the passenger side. Doc has a rule, one that all of his employees rigidly obey: no slave will ever know the exact location of his house. Which made perfect sense—the man supplied girls all over the country, and once they left his place they were effectively out of his control. All it took was one slip with the brainwashing techniques, and a girl could get away and alert the authorities. It doesn’t matter with our clients since they always work through a chain of intermediaries and don’t know our location, but the girls have to be brought here for training. So we always made sure that the merchandise was properly prepared before heading back to base.

I lowered Beth’s seat, letting it down as far as I could. Taking a small tube of cream out of the bag, I told her to close her eyes. She jumped a little as I applied the cream to her lashes and stuck an oval of surgical tape over each eyelid, sealing them closed. Next was a simple sleep mask, like the ones you get on long distance flights. I always thought that was a nice touch—it was dark and quite late, so even John Q. Lawman would assume my passenger was using a sleep mask in order to get some rest. Perfect.

Maria was next. She looked up and tried to say something the moment I opened the trunk, but a quick check of her bonds showed that she was still secure. I knew Maria would probably only see a brief glimpse of the place between trunk and dungeon, but a rule is a rule. A padded leather blindfold made sure she would be as blind as Bethie when we reached Doc’s. Satisfied, I hopped back into the car and drove on. Every mile brought me a little closer to Kitten; by the time I was entering the lane, I was very, very hard. It’s said that even a craftsman can make a mistake, and Kitten was mine. I came across her in a New York alleyway on a cold December day five years ago. She was young, although the grime and the smell kept me from realizing just how young. I remember she was just sitting in a corner, starving and probably contemplating whether to sell her blood or her virtue first. Then I came along and made that decision for her. She was the easiest capture I ever made, although I sometimes think she’d probably have signed up of her own free will if it meant 3 squares and a warm bed. It was only later while we were cleaning her up that we realized the truth. Kitten was only thirteen years old.

Believe it or not, this was a serious problem. Neither Doc nor myself are pedophiles and we don’t deal with anyone who is. Unfortunately, it meant we had a slave who was a good three years ahead of her sell by date. We discussed it, even contemplated throwing her back, but it was far too risky. Besides, as we watched her wolf down that first meal we realized what a hard time she’d had.

Kitten’s mother had been a pro in Pittsburgh. She hadn’t known her father. She’d gone into care at age nine after her mother was picked up for the third time. Somehow the lady had gotten an early parole, but died of a drug overdose before she could reclaim her daughter. Real nice. So Kitten drifted in and out of foster care until she finally ending up in a children’s home. She didn’t want to say much more, but Doc’s examination had revealed the truth. At thirteen Kitten was no longer a virgin, and hadn’t been for some time.

In the end, the solution to the Kitten problem was obvious. Doc lived alone except for various “guests,” and he wasn’t getting any younger. So Kitten became his house slave—cooking, cleaning and looking after the old man’s needs. He now claims that he called her Kitten because of the way she likes having her hair stroked, but I can remember what he really said that first time. After all, Kitten is the perfect name for a little pussy.

At fifteen, Kitten’s sexual side started to assert itself. With some reluctance, Doc started teaching her the various tricks he taught his sex slaves. I think even he was surprised by her appetite—on her sixteenth birthday, when she was legal by his standards, she took him to bed and, according to him, “rode him hard and put him away wet.” From then on she was Doc’s slave, lover, housekeeper, nursemaid, assistant, companion—in a weird sort of way, maybe even a granddaughter. But I always liked Doc’s definitive answer—as far as he was concerned, Kitten was a sorcerer’s apprentice.

Grinning, I bumped down the drive and pulled to a stop in front of Doc’s house. I kept asking him to get the road surfaced but he just smiled. The noise, he said, was an extra warning of visitor in case his assorted electronic systems ever broke down. The house itself appeared to be one of those big New England frame jobs, built for a large family and then left to age gently as everyone died or moved away. It was an effective facade; the real stuff wasn’t evident from the outside, and the first time Doc gave me a tour I couldn’t believe how he had wound up with a place like that. In any case, it seemed to suit him, and it was definitely perfect for his work.

Giving Beth one final check, I got out of the car. As I walked up the porch stairs, I heard his voice from inside: “Charles, old boy, before you come in go to the beer cooler and bring me a couple of cans. Take what you want while you’re there.”

I detoured for the old wood and wire cooler that sat on the porch. It had no refrigeration other than the cold New England air, but that seemed to be enough. I knew what I’d find inside—cans of British beer sent to Doc by one of his European customers. Grabbing a couple more for myself I went inside.