The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Next!” called out Andre, to the waiting room outside the door. He lit a brown Gauloises Caporal cigarette—his favorite from Paris, flown into the Island just for him, and ran a hand through his tousled hair as the staff brought in another LoveDoll for inspection. He ran his horse-trader’s eye over the LoveDoll’s naked voluptuous body, supermodel looks, and an aura of sexuality that would have driven most men to erotic distraction. But not Andre. Then again, most men did not do what Andre did for a living.

“And who do we have here, eh?” he asked. The staff clinician gave him a clipboard. The LoveDoll—a girl who had been kidnaped, psychologically conditioned, physically modified and rigorously trained as a sex slave for sale—stood patiently before him. “Ah,” he said, reading her christened name, “Jeanette. That is a good French name. I think I love you already.” In fact the LoveDoll’s petite body, finely-sculpted nose, and large eyes and dark short hair gave her the look of a Paris ingenue. No doubt she had been customized for the European market.

“Very well, mon cheri, time to put you through your paces,” said Andre. “Position Four!” The girl immediately sank gracefully to her knees, then leaned back on her heels, palms held open and up on her spread thighs—the classic posture of submission. “Position Six,” ordered Andre. The LoveDoll obediently rose her hands and knees, then dropped forward on her elbows, her breasts brushing the floor, her rounded ass held invitingly high. “Excellent, Jeannette. Now, Position Seven.” She resumed her feet in one fluid motion, then placed her hands on the back of a chair, spread her legs, and bended forward with her back pleasingly arched and her head held up. And so Andre led the girl through the various posturings of the standard model LoveDoll. All the while, his keen eye roved over her body, looking for any possible flaws. The unblemished sheen of her form-fitted bodysuit, the glossy shimmer of her hair, the tantalizing moistness of her demure mouth and shaved pussy—everything checked out.

Not that Andre expected anything less. The Island clinicians were too experienced to let a flawed product get to final inspection. But Max still insisted on this final inspection before shipment to the clients. And Andre had to admit, it was Max, with his curious cold passion for quality control, that had established the Island’s reputation as the prime source for world-class sex slaves. Not an easy thing to achieve, when your reputation depended on discrete word-of-mouth recommendations among the world’s elite.

So Andre went through the checklist diligently: hair, skin tone, makeup, response to vocal commands, response to remote control commands, physical conditioning. At last he leaned his lanky frame against the wall and signed off his name with a flourish. “Congratulations, mon amie Jeanette. You pass. Of course, I could have inspected you with the same results after ten minutes in bed, without any checklist at all. But after all,” he added with a great Gallic shrug, “I am French, and I know about such things. Off you go, my pet. I hope your new owner appreciates what a treasure you are.” As he was speaking, his gold pen trailed down the clipboard. During the inspection he had formed his customary guess of the kidnaped girl’s selling price. He flipped to the last page on the clipboard, and noted with satisfaction he was right on the money. Four years in the while slavery racket does give a man a sense of the market, he mused.

Andre’s slender fingers stroked the silk scarf he wore tucked into his shirt. “How many more?” he asked one of the clinic staff hovering deferentially at his elbow. She was blonde and blue-eyed and very pretty—one of their earlier captives who had been conditioned for service on the island instead of being put up on the auction block.

“Just six more, Sir,” she answered in her soft contralto voice.

“Tres bien,” replied Andre, “very good. As soon as we finish this batch, then ring up Max and advise him the shipment will be ready for the hydrofoil run to the mainland tonight.” He turned to the door and bawled “Next!”

Robyn Dorset sighed inwardly. The man across from the dinner table—Byron Charlesworth was his name, scion to the Charlesworth family in Boston—happened to be her chief business competitor. That made the baroque romantic atmosphere of Boston’s most posh restaurant all the more out of place. The man had been talking all evening, and Robyn did not have the slightest idea why he had suggested a meeting, and certainly not a meeting with an overpriced menu and violins playing in the background.

She studied the face across the table. The man had once been handsome. But a slovenly disregard for appearance—he was a slob, no way around it—and a life of debauchery that even his family could not keep out of the papers, had taken their toll. He had bags under his bloodshot eyes a sullen expression on his still youthful face, and wine-stains on his expensive tie. Robyn knew her own success in business, as an upstart competitor to the Charlesworth family empire, was due in no small part to this young man’s lifestyle. He had run the family business into the ground. Robyn had heard the joke told more than once in her circle of industry friends. Question: What’s the quickest way to make a small fortune in this business? Answer: Give Byron Charlesworth a large fortune to manage.

She sipped the wine he had chosen, noting it was overpriced, wondering all the time what it was he wanted with her tonight? After all, she had just bested him in acquiring a large contract that had been awarded to the Charlesworth family business for years. But Robyn had demanded an interview, gave a snappy PowerPoint presentation that showed how the Byron Charlesworth had let the contract slide while he was off in gallivanting in Rio de Janeiro or the Italian Riviera or San Francisco, or wherever he could pay people to party with him. Robyn’s facts and figures won the day, and all that was left for Charlesworth to do when he came back was to snarl about disloyalty and betrayal and vengeance. So when his social secretary—not him personally—called Robyn and passed on his proposal to meet her here tonight, she did not know what to expect. A pack of lawyers to come storming through the restaurant lobby to serve her with the inevitable lawsuits—that was his usual method.

But nothing of the kind had happened. Instead, Robyn had been treated to almost an hour of monologue, as Byron Charlesworth talked on and on about his favorite subject: himself.

“So what do you think? Was I right to can that guy, or was I right?” Charlesworth demanded. He studied his reflection in the mirror against the far wall, just to confirm he was as good looking as he thought.

“What?” asked Robyn, a little guilty about the way her mind had been wandering.

“Haven’t you been listening? This manager who used to work for my dad thinks I’m now going to be his gravy train now that my old man has finally retired from the company. So I say, screw him.” He gestured with his fork, with a Brussels sprout still impaled on the end. “Screw him!”

“I see what you mean,” said Robin. What a jerk, she thought.

“But hey, I’ve been doing all the talking here,” said Charlesworth. “What do you think about the way I turned things around at the company?” He saw a waitress across the restaurant and snapped his fingers. “Another drink,” he snapped.

It occurred to Robyn he didn’t even ask her if she wanted another one, too. She pretended to just notice the time on her watch and feigned a yawn. “I had no idea it was so late, Mr. Charlesworth. Maybe you could tell me what this is all about.”

“What, it’s not good enough just to having dinner with Boston’s most eligible bachelor?”

Eligible for what, thought Robyn. “Well, I do have some business meetings to get ready for tomorrow, she said?

“Thinking of stealing another contract away from me, are you?”

Robyn shrugged. “We’re in competition, Mr. Charlesworth.”

“Yeah, well, that is what I wanted to talk to you about. How would you feel about a merger?”

Robyn stared at him. “A merger?”

“Yeah. With my experience in this business, and your—well, whatever it is you do—we could make tons of money. Tons.”

Robyn put down her fork. “If that is what this is about, the answer is no.”

“But wait, that’s not the best part,” said Charlesworth.

“What’s the best part?”

“When I say a merger, I mean in more ways than one.” And Charlesworth gave a leering wink from across the table.

Robyn knew she was attractive. In fact, she had worked her way through college as a model. Part of business, she had learned, was fending off the advances of men who seemed to think of her more of bedding her than working with her. But never had she encountered an advance more clumsy and less welcome than this.

As if to break the moment, a waitress came by and set his drink down. A small drop spilled onto the linen tablecloth. Charlesworth looked up at her with a baleful eye. “First day?” he sneered. The waitress apologized and backed away. “There goes somebody’s tip,” said Charlesworth, just loud enough for her to hear.

Robyn pushed her chair away from the table. “I really must be going—”

“And I said, sit down!” His well-manicured hand grabbed her wrist. She somehow disengaged herself and headed for the door. “Hey, where’s the fire?” he called after her.

Byron returned to his drink with a sullen shake of his head. “Nobody just walks out on me. Nobody!” he muttered. He didn’t know which burned him more: that her company was running rings around his, or that she had failed to fall for his charms. The fact that Robyn Dorset was a most attractive woman, even though that beauty was downplayed in her austere business outfits, made the humiliation hurt all the more.

In fact, his whole business plan for saving his company was to seduce her. And what had he gotten for his efforts? A slap in the face. “Bitch,” he mumbled. “Nobody walks out on me like that . .”

Suddenly, he remembered the phone number.

He recalled the locker-room conversation where he got the number. That’s how it all began. with his squash partner who was as rich and hedonistic as Charlesworth himself. Byron was whining that it was hard to find a woman these days who wasn’t just after his money.. The man had offered the number to Byron with a wink and an enigmatic suggestion to give them a call. “Won’t be cheap,” he said. “But if you want quality, you got to pay, you know?”

Was it some real expensive call girl service, Charlesworth had wanted to know. No, it wasn’t anything like that, said the buddy as he dried his ample belly with a towel. “Think of the most beautiful girl in the world programmed to do whatever you want”, he had said enigmatically. And then the buddy filled in the details, with occasional side glances past the lockers to make sure they were not being overhead. Well, that sounded pretty amazing, Charlesworth had said, but how much did it cost? His buddy snorted. “Hey, if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it,” he had replied, while slipping into his Gucci tasseled loafers.

His buddy then extracted from his wallet a gold card with only a single international telephone number inscribed on it, and slapped it into Charlesworth’s hand. It felt cool and metallic in Charlesworth’s palm, and it occurred to him the card was not embossed cardboard or gilded plastic—it really was gold “Keep it, " said the buddy with the nonchalance of the truly rich. “When you get yours, you can give me mine back.”

Programmed. The very thought made his heart race, especially when applied to the thought of taming that beautiful wench Robyn Dorset. Make a fool of him in business, would she? Reject his advances in public, dare she? He’d make really crawl for that, the bitch . . .

Charlesworth slewed around in his chair. “Hey!” he shouted at the waitress. “Where the hell are the phones around this place?”

Four days later and six thousand miles away, the man known as Max waited patiently for the final computer hookups to be made.

“Ready for induction.”

Max nodded at the announcement by the clinician standing by the computer, and took one last look at his latest subject before the induction switch was thrown. Where his younger associate Andre outfitted himself like a lounger in the Paris boulevard coffeehouses, with his loose-fitting clothes and loud ties, Max dressed like a British banker. He was possibly the only man on the island with a Saville Road custom tailored suit.

At first glance, the figure in front of him looked like a motionless, faceless crash dummy strapped to a dentist chair. Max knew this was an outer shell, with the girl clamped tightly inside only minutes before. A form-fitting helmet covered her entire head, eyes and ears covered with pads and plugs. The rest of her body, every inch of it, was enclosed in shell, like a pea in a pod, effectively immobilizing her. If you looked closely enough, you could see the abstractly feminine-shaped shell shake a bit—signs that the figure in the reclining chair, locked inside that iron maiden, was probably struggling. And if you listened closely enough, you could hear faint whimperings coming from inside the shell, the muffled protests of helpless girl. Not that the struggles or protest made the slightest difference to the girl’s fate.

“Jack her in,” said Max. The clinician stepped forward, holding a slender two-inch needle at the end of a fiber optic computer cord. Her hands guided the needle into an aperture in the helmet behind the captive’s ear until it snapped in with a secure click. Delicate surgery had been performed three days before, preparing this entrance into the girl’s cerebellum and planting a electrode at the base of her skull. The moment the needle clicked into place, the pod shook slightly with the frenzied thrashings of the locked-in captive.

Max spoke into a small microphone attached to the lapel of his tropical linen suit. “Karen,” he said not unkindly, “I know you can hear me. I know that my voice is in fact all that you can hear. We need total sensory deprivation to get the best results from our . . . procedure. But no one is going to hurt you. Try to relax.” His cultured voice betrayed no particular European country of origin, but seemed to be a mixture of them all. Max then gave a nod to the clinician—a former neurologist, herself only recently kidnaped and brainwashed into the cause by the same procedure, now looking quite comely in white patent-leather medical outfit. The attendant’s fingers obediently glided over the control dials of the computer console.

The cocooned girl-shape in the chair stiffened as the computer whirred in response to the first induction program. Max studied the video monitor showing the images now flooding through her mind, straight from the computer hard disk through to the input jack at the back of her head, and from there to her visual and auditory cortex. He knew that identical images were dancing across the mind’s eye of the captive in the pod, rather like dreaming. But instead of the random surrealism of the usual dream, these dreams were crafted to imprint a new personality on the dreamer. Max could not help feel a tingle of pride at the triumph in of their technique, honed to it’s final state of perfection on this island. Soon they would have one more freshly-minted LoveDoll to add to the inventory, to feed the ever-growing market for custom-designed sex slaves.

His pager phone hummed softly, and he drew it out, his eyes still on the video monitor. The caller ID flashed the sign of Andre, his personal assistant. “Yes?” he said into the device.

“The cruise ship is docking at noon, sir, right on schedule,” His assistant Andre’s voice crackled through the pager. “And Mr.Charlesworth arrived on the island jet for his appointment.” Charlesworth is coming after all, he thought. Byron Charlesworth, scion of the great Charlesworth family fashion-design empire. So much money, so woefully mismanaged, thought Max. He remembered how the arrogant young man had contacted Max, bypassing the usual safe channels, and demanded an appointment. “Triple the usual fee,” the young man had declared breezily, even before proper introductions. It never ceased to amaze Max, the way Americans threw their money around. But so much the better, he thought.

The bound form of the girl shuddered slightly as the first surge of dopamine surged through her bloodstream from the intravenous feed, the euphoric drug matching the image in her brain with the pleasure stimulant—a pattern that would repeat itself thousands of time before the girl was fully conditioned. Max turned to the attendant. “Keep me advised on her progress,” he said. “This is another special order.”

“Yes, sir,” said the clinician deferentially. She focused her full concentration on the computer read-outs, knowing her chances for being allowed an orgasm later that week depended on following orders to the letter.

Max unhurriedly made his way through the corridors of his headquarters, or “the “compound”, as it was called, which dominated the central hill on the island, rising above the lush tropical greenery and sandy coast and beachfront lodgings below. The compound’s architecture followed the resort image, with well-trimmed terraces, woven-wicker furniture and spacious walkways for the cool ocean breezes. Only a few of the resort guests invited to the island were invited to compound at the top of the hill, and those who did never returned to the recreational resort below.

His personal secretary was working at her desk outside his study. She looked up when she saw him. She smiled prettily and said, “Mr. Charlesworth is already here, Sir. He’s waiting for you.”

Max said, “Thank you, Ms. Lambert. I imagine I’ll be giving Mr. Charlesworth the standard tour of our facilities. Please advise the departments.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Max entered his private study, shutting the paneled door behind him. He loved this room. It combined old-world elegance with modern technology. A bank of video monitors lined one wall, showing the goings-on around the resort. Another wall was filled with Old Master oil paintings and leather bound books, with a thick oriental carpet on the floor. This was Max’s refuge, it suited him far more than the frolicking hedonism of the island resort. And he let his eyes linger toward the far end of the room: a beautiful girl on the revolving pedestal, bathed in soft lights, her naked body like living sculpture, in a slow dance from one provocative position to the next. Max had come to regard her as his favorite object d’ art in the whole room.

Off to the side of the pedestal a man slouched in the shadows. He turned at the sound of Max’s entrance. Max ran an appraising eye over his prospective client, trying to “place” the man and predict what sort of LoveDoll he wanted. Early thirties, he estimated. An expensive watch with far too much gold for Max’s tastes, the wrinkled polo shirt, the expression on his face of bored self-satisfaction—all of these proclaimed a message to Max’s discerning eye: More money than class, he decided. Nevertheless, Max extended his hand. “Mr. Charlesworth. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Charlesworth shook hands like he wasn’t quite sure Max was worth it. “Yeah, yeah, tell me something, is this girl here one of your productions?” And he nodded to the woman on the pedestal, now gracefully assuming a position on hands and knees, holding up her head proudly like a prized show-pet, her glossy hair shimmering under the overhead spotlight.

“She was a special case,” said Max delicately.

The young man continued to stare at her. “She looks familiar.” he said, his brow creasing. “I know I’ve seen her before, somewhere..” His eyes narrowed as the woman’s beautiful face rotated into view, her moist lips slightly parted and her eyes dreamily half-lidded. Her nipples brushed the surface of the pedestal as she lowered herself further, now on elbows and knees. Charlesworth’s eyes widened. “I know where I’ve seen her before. On the television, right? She was a some kind of roving reporter, wasn’t she? Damn, what did you do to her? I thought she retired or something.”

Max said, “Her name is Darcie McVey. Let’s just say she roved a little too far. In a way she did retire from her career in television talk shows. She now fulfills a more. . .ornamental role.”

“Son of bitch!” exclaimed happily. “So it’s true!”

Max hung up his suit coat carefully. “And what is true, Mr. Charlesworth?”

“Oh, come off it, Max! You’re into the white-slave trade here, aren’t you? That’s why your boys insisted I fly in your jet, not my own, to keep a lid on the location of this place.”

Max regarded his guest from a cool distance. “That’s not exactly what we do here, Mr. Charlesworth. No woman leaves this island unwillingly.” He reached over to his desk and pressed a button. There was a demure knock on his door, and his secretary entered, looking pert and pretty in her office attire. Her hair was pulled back and the stylish glasses seemed to emphasize, not hide, her facial features, such as the high cheekbones and full lips of a fashion model. Max turned to his guest. “Sherry, Mr. Charlesworth?”

“Sherry? Hell, no—I want a man’s drink. Gimme a scotch.”

Max forced a smile and said to his secretary, “A scotch it is. And I’ll have the usual, Ms. Lambert.” She nodded and stepped daintily over to the liquor cabinet. With her back to the two men, the secretary made a point of bending slightly over to tend to the drinks, giving both men an excellent view of her smooth, curvaceous derriere.

“Damn,” muttered Charlesworth, under his breath.

“Quite,” agreed Max. They heard the clink of ice cubes, then the girl brought their drinks over on a silver tray. Max murmured his thanks as she proffered the sherry, and noted how Charlesworth couldn’t help stealing a look at her fulsome breasts as she leaned over to tender his drink. Her perfume was subtle and elegant, like the lacy high-necked blouse she was wearing. Charlesworth noticed that the woman’s complexion was perfect, not a blemish to be seen, with a soft golden sheen. And her hair and make-up, too—absolutely perfect. Almost eerily perfect.

Max said, “Have a seat, Mr. Charlesworth, and perhaps I can explain more clearly what it is we do here.”

Charlesworth said, “Well, I figure that something strange is going on here. Two of your lady guards frisked me at the gate before letting me up the hill. That’s something you don’t usually see at a vacation resort. I went along with it. They got some kind of attitude, but I went along with it.”

“It’s good that you did,” said Max. “We call them Bambi and Thumper. They are both quite proficient in security work. Before they joined our organization, one was a special ops agent for the Israeli Mossad, the other a martial arts instructor for the one of the world’s foremost bodyguard schools. They would not think twice about giving you the chop. They’re lovely to look at, but they’ve been conditioned to maintain our security without question.”

“Conditioned? What does that mean?”

“Well, it means, among other things, someone like my secretary. Ms. Lambert. Tell me, Mr. Charlesworth, do you find her attractive?”

Charlesworth blinked his eyes, then uttered a short nervous laugh. “Well, yes, of course,” he stammered, with an uneasy glance at the woman standing beside his chair. She wore a look of prim efficiency, totally unruffled by her boss’s question.

Max said, “Ms. Lambert, would you please disrobe?”

“Yes, Sir,” she said the elegant young woman. She carefully laid her glasses on the desk, and with that small gesture her looks changed from prim to sultry. Before the disbelieving eyes of Max’s guest, she matter-of-factly unbuttoned her silk blouse and draped it over the coffee table, and slid the clinging fabric down her legs and stepped out of the pooled garment. Charlesworth was startled to see she was wearing a garter-belt and stockings instead of pantyhose. As unabashedly as if she were home in the privacy of her own dressing room, Ms. Lambert reached behind her and undid her black-lace bra. She tossed it aside and let her full breasts jut forward proudly, leaving her wearing only her matching black lace panties, stockings and heels. She reached behind, undid her hair and shook her head, so the glossy brown curls cascaded down her shoulders.

“That’s enough for the present, Ms. Lambert,” said Max. “Garters and stockings—I’m a bit traditional in my tastes, you see.”

Charlesworth continued to stare at the young woman standing docile in front of the two men. He said, “She’s one of your—that is, she’s been—”

“Conditioned?” injected Max helpfully. “But of course. We find that many of the subjects have talents we can put to use in our organization. Ms. Lambert—that’s her real name, by the way—used to be a vice president of a stateside bank—young, hard-driving, ambitious. She came to our resort seeking a some relaxation from her stressful career. We gathered her in to our little program, and midway through her training, the psych-testing discovered her administrative talents. I’ve used her as my administrative assistant ever since. She’s a marvelously capable woman—not to mention, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, a rather attractive one.” Max settled back in his chair. “Perhaps I should tell you a little bit about our organization. In the meantime, Ms. Lambert,” he continued matter-of-factly, “would you make our guest more comfortable?”

“Yes, Sir,” said the elegant young woman. She gracefully knelt at Charlesworth’s side and before the surprised man could protest, she unzipped his trousers and reached inside. Charlesworth felt her fingers slip over his cock, and she drew it out. Before he could react, his manhood had already hardened in response to her gentle massage. “My God,” he uttered, with a desperate glance at Max.

“No need to be embarrassed, Mr. Charlesworth,” said Max. “Here at the resort we take such doll-play for granted. After all, that’s what they’re here for.” The guest’s cock sprang to full erection as if given permission, and the kneeling woman’s hand now slid up and down with practiced rhythm.

Max continued. “Our organization is built on the premise that sexual satisfaction is the primary object of men’s attraction to women. Not to deny love, romance, and all that, but the men today are bewildered by rules of society that seem to place them at a disadvantage. If a man sees a pretty woman, all he usually wants is to bed her. He does not necessarily want to run the gauntlet of her emotional demands, nor surrender his credit cards to her, nor certainly marry her. All he wants to do is shag her. Perfectly natural, wouldn’t you say?”

Charlesworth only nodded, his attention torn between trying to follow his host’s explanation, and the surging pleasure rippling up and down his shaft from the expertly caressing fingers Ms. Lambert.

“There are alternatives, of course,” Max went on. “Brothels, mistresses, the occasional chance encounter at a hotel bar—but all of these are fleeting pleasures, filled with guilt and dread of all the things that can go wrong. Hardly satisfactory, wouldn’t you say?”

“Uhhhh...” gasped Charlesworth. He had abandoned all effort at remaining nonchalant, and now thrust upwards in tempo to the kneeling woman’s stroking. He noticed how she kept her attention on his cock, as if savoring every moment, and how her breasts rose and fell from her own shallow breathing, as if this was as much a turn-on for her as for him. Incredible! What was Max saying . . .?

“What was needed was a source of beautiful young women well-trained and psychologically conditioned to serve as sexual playtoys for men who appreciated quality, and could afford to pay top dollar. My associates and I set out to fulfill that need. We recruited personal trainers, cosmetic surgeons, even fashion designers. Most important, we hired some of the world’s most advanced experts in the fields of behavioral psychology. Some recently fired advisors from the American CIA gave us particular assistance in this area. Their brainwashing research was spurned by their new managers as not being quite cricket—fools, they did not know what they were giving up. We’ve put those techniques to use here—as you can see.”

Charlesworth found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything Max was saying. Ms. Lambert had leaned forward, letting her warm, soft breasts envelope his manhood. She cupped her orbs in both hands, and slowly massaged his cock, shamelessly using her body in any way to pleasure him.

“So we had the market, we had the expertise—what we needed was a steady supply of recruits to train as personal sex slaves. We used the traditional methods—drugging, kidnaping, and the like. But all these were dangerous, one-off acquisitions. Sooner or later the local law enforcement agencies would follow the trail to the very heart of our organization. So we came up with a better idea—this island.” Max spread his hands as if to show off the room and the world it represented. “We now let the recruits come to us.”

Max idly picked up a letter opening and pointed to the bank of television monitors showing remote views of various parts of the resort—beach with laughing, suntanned women playing in the sun, the hydrofoil boat dock on the otherside of the island, entrance to the compound with the two women security guards standing at ease but scanning the road with watchful eyes. He went on: “The island itself was purchased from the Saudi royal family. It took some doing, but we managed to arrange its political independence—under Saudi protection. We have agreed in turn to stock the harems of the sheiks with a steady supply of beautiful young maidens. You have no idea, Mr. Charlesworth, what value these Middle East moguls place on blonde, blue-eyed girls. In an age when their own womenfolk are learning to cast away the veil and mimic the liberated attitudes of Western female society, they savor the prospect of having a well-trained harem girl whose only purpose is to provide pleasure to her owner. Can you understand that desire, Mr. Charlesworth?”

Charlesworth was beyond answering. He gave up trying to pretend he could follow anything the older man was saying, his attention was entirely on the gorgeous creature servicing him. Ms. Lambert slid her chest down one last time, his cock sinking between those twin ripe melons of her breasts. Then she gently cradled his balls with one hand while she made a little “O” with the forefinger and thumb of her other hand, and pistoned it slowly up and down his throbbing manhood. Her red lacquered fingernails made a counterpoint to her crimson-lipsticked mouth hovering so close over the head of his cock her could feel her warm breath. The scent of feminine arousal wafted into his nostrils, telling him that she was as much turned on as he was by her instant subjugation from executive to love-toy-on-demand. As the tempo of his thrusting cock became more frenzied, she kept pace with her curled fingers, applying just the right amount of pressure and speed. Like a . . . machine, he thought.

Max took a sip of his sherry and waited calmly while Ms. Lambert brought the gasping guest to the verge of climax. A look of helpless concern swept across Charlesworth’s sweating face—would he orgasm right then and there, right over everything? But the girl was exquisitely trained. With perfect timing, just as his hips rose with one final savage thrust, her head swooped down to bring her full, moist lips over the blood-gorged head of his cock. Charlesworth gasped as his semen surged into her mouth, the girl’s swirling tongue coaxing spasm after spasm, never letting a drop escape the seal of her lips. When he slumped back in his chair, exhausted, she let her lips trail lovingly down his limp cock, and then delicately tucked him back into his trousers. At a nod from Max, Ms. Lambert rose to her feet and dressed herself. She checked her make-up in the mirror behind Max’s desk, put her glasses back on, and asked. “Will there be anything else, Sir?”

Max shook his head. She left the room like a vision, closing the door quietly behind her.

Charlesworth tried unsuccessfully to slow his racing heart. “That was. . .unbelievable,” he croaked. “Where do you find women like that?”

Max smiled benignly. “Actually, you can get quite used to it. Once you accept the notion that your LoveDoll is designed to be your private sextoy, there’s simply no reason not to indulge yourself whenever you like. As for where we find women like Ms. Lambert. . .you were invited to our island based on the recommendation of a mutual friend who said you were trying to get in touch with us.” He mentioned the name of a well-known Hollywood producer, the man Charlesworth had talked to in the locker room. “That friend is one of our long-standing clients who got tired of dealing with the whiny demands of every little starlet he had a fling with. The man wanted lovers who were a little more compliant, we provided what he was looking for, and we have had a long and satisfactory relationship with him ever since. Apparently you came to him with similar requests, and he passed your request on to us. He personally vouched for your discretion.” Max did not add that Charlesworth’s financial resources were also vouched for; with the investigator scrawling: “Money to burn!” as his summary.

“Our mutual friend suggested we give you a tour of our resort to see if that could be of help. Perhaps that would be the best way of explaining where we get our LoveDolls.".

The muted ring of the intercom interrupted. “Cruise ship docking, Max,” reported a disembodied voice. Max said, “Thank you,” into the speaker and turned to Charlesworth. “I always like to know when we take in a new tour. Observe.” He walked across the room and swung wide the doors of an in-built cabinet, revealing a large screen television. He switched it on. Charlesworth, his breathing returning to normal, craned his neck forward with keen interest as the landing dock at the seaside resort came into view. In the background, a troupe of women strolled down the gangplank of a gleaming white cruise ship tethered to the dock. Max worked the controls and the view from another remote camera came into view. The girls were in good spirits, the audio picking up their excited chatter. They sported all manner of tropical clothing: swimsuits, cut-off jeans, straw hats and sunglasses.

Charlesworth whistled. “They’re all lookers,” he said. “What is this, a bunch of strippers on vacation?” His eyes hungrily drank in the tanned thighs and bouncing breasts as the girls were led down the dock to the resort check-in.

Max said, “Hardly. Just ordinary girls. Attractive, yes. And they’ll be more attractive yet. Most of them will go home telling everybody of the wonderful time they had at our resort.” He resumed his seat.

Charlesworth narrowed his eyes. “Most?”

“Yes. A few will remain here. The ones most suitable to a new life of—shall we say, dedicated service?”

“This is the part I like,” said Charlesworth. “This is what my buddy back in the states was telling me. What kind of operation do you run here? What do you do to these girls to make em so, you know,—” he shrugged and pointed to the lighted pedestal where Daphne still continued her graceful, slow-motion posturing. “And that secretary of yours, Miss What’s-her-name—”

“Miss Lambert,” interjected Max helpfully.

“Yeah, her. Say, can I see her again? I mean not right away, but later on today?”

Max laughed. “Oh, I think you’ll find yourself like the proverbial boy in the chocolate factory, Mr. Charlesworth. I would advise you not to eat too much right away. We have already confirmed your letter of credit,” continued Max with polite candor, “so we know that you are prepared to consummate a transaction, if any of our young women strike your fancy. Why don’t I show you around and let you sample the wares, before you rush into any decisions?”

Charlesworth was already pushing himself out of his chair. “Let’s go,” he said.