The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

ISLAND OF THE ULTIMATE LOVEDOLLS

(Disclaimer: adult material, don’t read if you’re a minor, don’t try this at home. This is the third part of a trilogy. Parts one and two are already posted on this archive.)

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Part 2

“The thing you must understand about our recruitment policies,” said Max, “is that we try to leave nothing to chance.” They were strolling down a covered walkway from the compound to the beach resort below. They walked through the wrought-iron gate, where the two woman security guards stood “at ease”, their lean and muscled bodies dressed in khaki shorts and tight-fitting t-shirts with the resort logo. Max casually waved at them as he escorted his guest through the gate into the recreation area: the turquoise ocean on one side, swimming pools and verandas on the other, and a shimmering sandy beach in between.

Cool ocean breezes mingled with bursts of fun-loving laughter from the frolicking girls. In fact, beautiful young women seemed to be the island’s only population. They seemed to be everywhere: tanning by the pool, sipping drinks, getting massages under covered verandas by female attendants, playing a game of volleyball on the beach.. Charlesworth couldn’t take his eyes off them. Max noticed. “They are all quite comely, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Charlesworth?” he said. “Not by accident. We promote our resort as a spa for women only. A tropical paradise, with full amenities—beauty treatments, counseling, personalized trainers, special diets, and a wide range of leisure activities. A place where women can go to rejuvenate, get away from fickle boyfriends, demanding husbands, or the usual singles scene. And at absurdly low prices, too—a pittance, in fact. Disguised as an introductory offer’.”

Max shaded his eyes and regarded tanned young bodies. “You see, we know how women think. Most girls shrewdly calculate they can enjoy the complementary first visit, and decline the Life Membership in the club. In fact, we make sure the Life Membership is so expensive, that nobody in their right minds—not even Americans—could possibly afford it. That way, we discourage return visits by those we choose not to select for our special treatment.”

“Special treatment?” asked Charlesworth, as they strolled along the walkway next to the beach.

Max nodded. “As you might have suspected, Mr. Charlesworth, we are hardly in the business here of running a vacation spa. At least that’s not our primary enterprise. Please do not misunderstand me, our little island does actually rate as a world-class resort—in fact, I recommend the Chateaubriand for dinner tonight, the chef’s specialty. But this place serves another purpose—a means to acquire, psychologically condition, and train these young women for a lifetime of service as sex slaves to the world’s elite. In a global economy where virtually anything can be bought, why not a market for female companionship?”

“Yeah, why not,” agreed Charleworth enthusiastically as they stopped by one of the tiled swimming pools.

Just then a volleyball came bouncing over from the beach, followed by two girls in gloriously inadequate bikinis. Both had sun-basted bodies and curvaceous figures, and they looked identical. Max obligingly stuck out his foot and stopped the ball with his tasseled shoe right before it rolled into the pool.

“Thanks, mister!” said one of the girls. “My sister Julie here thinks you have to, like, KILL the ball when she serves.”

The other feigned shock. “Jen, I can’t believe my own sister would ever cut me down in front of the only two men on this island, so far.” And she laughed prettily.

Max did a little flip with his foot and the ball bounced nicely into Julie’s hands.

“Hey, how did you do that?”

“An old football trick, or soccer as you call it in the States. I used to play right wing, many years ago, in Europe,” said Max.

Jen eyed him with interest. “Not that many years ago, I can tell. You’re in fantastic shape.”

Julie rolled her eyes and said, “Don’t mind her. We’re twins, but you can always tell us apart. She’s the horny one.”

Jen gave her sister a winning smile. “Why, little sister, what an silly, insulting, and ACCURATE thing to say!” she said, and then promptly shoved the other girl into the pool with a shriek of laughter. Max helped her out of the pool.

“Oh, sorry, mister, did we splash you?”

“No problem, my dear,” said Max. “Have you been guests at our resort very long?” he asked politely, offering Julie a towel off a nearby rack.

“Three days!” said Jen. “It’s really fantastic. I’m like so glad Julie talked me into coming. I thought it would be some kind of rip-off, but it’s positively rufus! You work at the resort?”

“Yes, I look after things around here,” said Max with a casual wave of his hand. “I hope you both enjoy your stay. Julie and Jen, correct?”

One of the identical twins slid an arm around her sister. “You got the names right, but which one is which?” she demanded playfully, Max shook his head in surrender.

“Well, we ain’t tellin’!” she said, and they scampered back the beach, volleyball in hand. Both men watched the twin pairs of bubble buttocks barely covered by the swimsuits. One of the girls turned around and gave Max a look of unabashed invitation, then whispered something in her sister’s ear. They both giggled.

Max looked thoughtfully after them. Charlesworth was about to say something, but Max held up his hand. “One moment,” he said. His slender fingers pulled a cell phone from the inside pocket of his tropical linen coat. “Registration,” he said crisply. A small wait, then, “Yes, didn’t we have silicon valley tycoon, in the States, with an order for a matched set of two, one blonde, the other redhead? Check the particulars of a Jen and a Julie, first names, probably sharing a room. Have their files on my desk this evening.” Max snapped the cell phone shut, and motioned for Charlesworth to resume their stroll.

“Just like that, eh?” asked Charlesworth. “So, does he get a discount if he gets a two-fer?” And he laughed at his own joke.

Max forced a smile, then continued with his background briefing. “We run ads for the resort in all the suitable magazines, featuring discounts that make the trip easily affordable. All our prospects are carefully culled. Naturally we select only the most beautiful applicants. Those with fewer ties back home are singled out for special attention. During their week here, the girls are scrutinized, secretly psychologically tested during counseling sessions, evaluated in our clinic for future cosmetic surgery—all under the guise of being pampered by our attentive staff. By the time they start their indoctrination as LoveDolls, we have already matched most of them to buyers, so that the future owners can custom design their dolls to suit their tastes. Our buyers are used to getting exactly what they want in the other facets of their lives, and they expect no less from us when they take title to their LoveDolls.”

“For how long?”

Max looked surprised. “How long do the girls stay LoveDolls? Why, forever, of course. The process is reversible, in theory. But no buyer has ever . . .returned the merchandise, so to speak. However, you can always have your LoveDoll upgraded for a new sexual persona or just to be programmed with the latest techniques. We have a random surprise’ feature that has become quite popular, particularly with our more jaded customers.”

Charlesworth shook his head. “I got to hand it to you, Max. Quite a set-up you got here. But how do fix the girls? Do you drug em?”

“No. Drugs wear off, and could be dangerous to the girls. And what’s the point of having a zombie for your personal concubine? No, we use methods that are more lasting, and convert the girls into something far more desirable.”

“What do you mean?” asked Charlesworth.

“I’ll show you.” And he led the way through the security gates back to the compound, the two guards in their scanty leather guard stiffening as they passed. Charlesworth felt their eyes on his back.

The first thing Charlesworth noticed about the room was how dark it was. The only illumination came from dim red lights. Then the scent—a strange mixture of the crackling machine-like smell of new computer equipment overlaid with the deep musk of female arousal. When his eyes adjusted to the shadows, Charlesworth saw how the room as actually an extended hall, the two facing long walls lined with posture-shaped beds, almost like dentist chairs—twenty on each side. A small staff of white-coated female attendants patrolled the central aisle—checking on readings, making fine adjustments to the bank of controls over each bed. But strange as this scene was, the sight of the occupants of those beds was stranger still.

On each bed was strapped an attractive naked woman. Hundreds of electrodes on white adhesive patches were placed over their bodies—along their arms and legs, torso, and neck. Charles could see that the breasts and inner thighs were especially covered. Wires snaked from each electrode to a central conduit, which in turn led to the computer console at the head of each bed. A single large electrode protruded from the base of each girl’s skull, visible between the twin headpads. Each girl wore a kind of half-helmet that covered the eyes with pads and the ears with plugs. Each girl’s lips were wrapped around a cylindrical gag.

“What is this place?” he asked wonderingly.

“We call it the incubator’,” replied Max. “You asked if we drug the girls. Only at first, as a sedative. The actual transformation of these women as LoveDolls begins here. See those wires coming from the back of her head? Yesterday our neurologists implanted a small plug with direct access to her visual and auditory cortex. In effect we control what she sees and hears, through this console. Even as we speak, images and sounds are being transmitted through her brain, as real as experience itself.” Max pointed to a small video monitor over the bed showing a naked girl outfitted only in collar and wrist cuffs kneeling on elbows and knees, and being mounted from behind by a faceless male figure. The man in the video grasped the girl’s red hair, and pulled her head back as he gave her bottom a few tender smacks with the palm of his hand.

“That’s what she’s seeing right now? A movie?” asked Charlesworth.

“Not just any movie. We have a basic matrix, onto which we upload her own image. It’s a movie with an audience of one. She’s seeing herself. And this type of submissive behavior is reinforced by the sensors.” Charlesworth looked down. The figure was so tightly strapped down to the bed he had imagined it was completely motionless. However, he could see now tiny movements against the straps—writhing and twisting, the two mounds of the breasts rising and falling with each panting breath from her flaring nostrils. “Notice how the actions on the screen are followed by electrical impulses to her body. Synthetic sensations—but to her mind, they are as real as an actual touch.” Charlesworth noted how the monitor showed the girl’s virtual lover stroke her inner thigh with his hand; the girl’s thigh twitched in response to a synchronized impulse from the electrodes. The girl arched her back slightly and moaned softly with deep-throated pleasure.

Max continued with his professorial tone, as if he was explaining the workings of a new piece of lab equipment, instead of a diabolical machine to transform helpless young women into mind-controlled sex slaves: “We have two types of movies, actually. These are scenes we want to hardwire into her behavior pattern, so the visual and auditory images are reinforced by pleasurable stimuli. In this case, stimulation of her vagina, clitoris, and breasts, with other warm caresses over her whole body by the network of electrodes But there’s also negative movies, too—disobedience, disrespect, refusal to maintain her beauty. These are dealt with through negative reinforcement. Pleasure and discomfort—the two poles that govern behavior. That’s the reason for all these wires. We exercise complete control of every sensation of our subjects during the incubating period. That is very important. Here, I’ll show you why.”

Max lifted a cover over the girl’s torso. The faint rhythmic noise that Charlesworth had heard grew louder into a definite slurping thump. Charlesworth now could see the slow pistoning of a whorled and pebbled cylinder between her spread legs through an aperture in the suit. He glanced up at the monitor—the tempo was precisely the same as the image of the girl being taken in the picture. The cylinder glistened from the fluid of the girl’s soaking pussy. Charlesworth now understood the underlying musk scent that permeated the room. A glance around the other beds showed the tightly bound bodies to be likewise stimulated. And when he really listened, he could hear a kind of guttural mewing from the hooded helmets of the helpless women, kept constantly in a state of arousal.

“We prime the subject’s libido this way,” said Max. “That reinforces the pleasure of the visual image in her mind. At the same time we close down her cognitive functions so that these images are the only stimuli her mind responds to.”

“How do you do that?”

“That’s actually quite easy. Any time we see left-brain activity through the Catscan—evidence that the girl is trying to think—we jolt her with unpleasant stimuli. Eventually the brain learns to short-circuit its own thoughts.”

“Amazing,” he said. “But can’t they just blank their minds to the images? Don’t they even try to resist having their minds molded this way?”

“To answer your first question,” said Max, “the visual images and auditory accompaniment are projected straight into their brains. It’s not like they can close their eyes. It’s more like a . . . dream. The same dreams over and over again. One hundred thousand repetitions, to be exact, to be sure the desired behavior is imprinted on their personalities. As for your second question, most of them do resist. But the console immediately picks up the brain waves caused by defiance, and administers a jolt of, well, exceeding unpleasantness. After a while, the brain learns not to resist. The horse never even gets out of the gate, if you see what I mean. It’s not that the subject is cowed into obedience; it’s more like the central cortex won’t even permit resistance, after a suitable number of lessons. Sooner or later the subject reaches a crossover point’, where she no longer fights the process, but surrenders to it. It’s about as simple application of neuroscience that you could ever find, straight Pavlovian conditioned reflex. It just takes time and dedication. And money. Lots and lots of money.”

“After they finish here, do they go straight to the buyer?” asked Charlesworth as he surveyed the rows of tightly bound women being relentlessly programmed as complaint love slaves.

“Hardly. We have only just begun. Come with me.”

They left that building and strolled on to the next. Charlesworth blinked at the bright tropical sun sunlight after emerging from the shadowed red light of the “incubator.” They took a path to another building. “Physical conditioning is next,” said Max. “We follow that up by beauty treatments of the highest caliber. Then we work directly with the client to determine what level of LoveDoll he wants.”

“What do you mean, what level? Can’t you just ship them out as they are, once they learn to take orders?”

Max turned and regarded his guest with surprise. “Mr. Charlesworth, we offer a quality product here. Each client has special needs and desires. Once we match up a girl with the client’s general parameters, we then determine what kind of content she should have. A stay-at-home concubine, what we call her a housepet’? Or someone he can take and show off to his golfing buddies, and therefore somebody who needs to be trained to function in public? Ms. Lambert would be an example of that.”

“Oh, yes,” said Charlesworth, his face lit up with a sudden flickering of happy recollection.

“Our most discriminating clients,” Max went on, “like their girls converted into what we call Ultimate LoveDolls.”

They had reached the doorway of another building. “Somehow,” said Charlesworth, “I have this feeling that’s what you’re going to show me.”

“You’re a perceptive man, Mr. Charlesworth. I believe my associate Andre is there waiting for us. his way, if you please.” The building was cool and well-lit, compared to the womb-like darkness of the incubation chamber. Charlesworth felt thick carpet under his feet, and noted expensive trim on the walls. And also unlike the clinical atmosphere of the “incubator” room, this building seemed designed with more style and comfort.

A man stood up from one of the chairs in the lobby. “Mr. Charlesworth,” said Max, “this is Andre. He helps look after the day-to-day operation here.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Charlesworth,” said the new man.

Charlesworth studied him. His English was good, but like Max had more than a trace of European—in his case, mostly French. There the similarities ended. The man was younger than Max for a start. And devilishly good-looking in a scruffy sort of way. He wore a loose jacket and an expensive dress shirt open at the collar. Max’s hair was close-cut and slightly gray at the temples; Andre’s black hair hung down over his forehead in disheveled bangs. If Max was a strategist, Andre had the air of a man who put plans to work on the ground.

“I think we have some interesting models on display today, monsieur,” said Andre. “The red tags you will see on a few of the pedestals mean sold’ by the way—not that we could not quickly come up with a replacement, if that is your pleasure.”

“I feel like I’m buying a new Ferrari,” said Charlesworth, jokingly.

The building was constructed with a circular hallway, with small platforms scalloped in the outer wall. Each of these vestibules had an information screen with various specifications and the LoveDoll’s name, although Max assured his guest they could be programmed to answer to any name. But Charlesworth wasn’t listening. He was staring at the first LoveDoll on display.

She was a beautiful oriental girl, slim and petite, with breasts of generous size without being overly large. He body was incased in a skintight covering that stopped only at her neck. The covering was shiny black, as black as dark piano keys, as black as her hair that was styled straight down past her shoulders, and brushed to a fine glossy look. She knelt with hands on her thighs, palms up, eyes downcast—a position that served as a “powered-down” mode. A sign next to the kneeling form identified her as “Lia”.

“Is she a . . . robot?” asked Charlesworth in wonder.

“No, she’s a person. But completely programmed for sexual service. We’ve added several modifications to make her more, ah, functional.” Max lifted her chin with his forefinger, and she compliantly raised her head. “Her vagina has been electro-exercised to the point where she can flex for maximum pleasure. The clitoris and nipples remain in constant stimulation, which means she’s ready for sex at any time. Her cognitive skills have been shut down, except for her sexual training.”

“Shut down? You mean she’s brain dead?”

“No, no. . . Nothing like that. Their old personality is. . . .” Max searched for the proper English word. “Let us say. . . deactivated.’”

“So is she’s still a person then? Can she hear us as we talk?”

“Of course, she’s still a person,” said Max patiently. “Except now she is a person whose purpose is now totally channeled on satisfying the desires of her owner. And yes, she can hear us, she’s programmed to respond to voice commands. Or this.” And Max hefted a remote control from a shelf next to the vestibule. He showed Charlesworth the range of orders: “Kneel” and “Spread-Eagle” dozens of others, as if some Kama Sutra manual had been emptied of every possible combination of positions. “And then, there’s the modulating controls, on this dial here. See—’faster’ and slower’, harder’ and softer’.

“I’ll be damned,” said Charlesworth. “Just point and click. How does it work? I mean, how did you—”

Max interrupted. “How do we get the LoveDolls to respond to the remote? It is really quite simple. We surgically implant a transponder at a precise location near the girl’s cognitive cortex. During the psychological conditioning you already saw in the Incubator’, a specific frequency is matched to each command. After a hundred thousand repetitions, the subject is programmed to respond not just to commands for that particular function, but to its related frequency. They do it without thinking about it. Naturally, Mr. Charlesworth, I cannot reveal the precise techniques and protocols for this treatment—trade secrets, I am sure you understand.”

“Who cares about that, all I want is the end product,” said Charlesworth. He eyed Max with new curiosity. “Who the hell are you, Max? Were you a psychologist before you started all this? Russian Mafia? Or some kind of government intelligence service. And if so, which government?”

Max said, “I believe it was Shakespeare who said that life is but a stage, and in his time, a man plays many parts.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. “At any rate, the remote control comes standard with all our LoveDolls. Personally, I like old-fashioned method—voice activated.” Max turned to the kneeling girl and said. “Come here, Lia.”

The girl rose. Not with the jerky motions of a machine, but fluidly and with infinite grace. He long, straight black hair swayed suggestively over her back as she walked toward Max. As she passed Charlesworth, he caught the faintest whiff of her perfume hovered around the girl—fresh, like lilacs after rain.

Max said, “We have had good results with Oriental women. She was quite shy at first, we had to overcome certain deep-set inhibitions. But once we amplified her sexual appetite, she became a willing pupil. Here, I’ll show you.” He addressed the LoveDoll standing in front of him. “Lia, face the wall.” She did so. “Position Eight,” he said. Lia pressed her hands to the wall, spread her legs and rose to her tiptoes, so her bottom was raised enticingly on those slender, well shaped legs. Max slid his palm over that smooth orbs of her asscheeks, as if testing the ripeness of fruit. “Exquisite, wouldn’t you say?” The girl was already undulating her legs and buttocks in a manner that made Charlesworth want to grab her hips and just ravish her from behind. Max’s hand explored her inner thighs, and Lia arched her back like a petted cat, her head thrown back, and uttered a sigh. Her movements flowed gracefully, sensuously.

“Like a china doll, isn’t she?” asked Max, admiring her delicate features. “Of course, if you’re looking for something more domestic. . .” Max patted the girl’s behind and pressed one of the keys on the remote. Lia slowly disengaged from her position and resumed her position in the vestibule. Max gestured for them to resume their inspection around the walkway.

“Our next model is the most popular,” said Max, stopping at the next vestibule. “Blonde, large breasts, blue eyes—we do quite a trade in these.”

Charlesworth studied her figure with awe. She looked to him like a committee had designed the perfect woman in fulfillment of Western male sexual fantasy—and then he realized that was precisely what Max’s people had done. It was as if they combined the best features of athletic cheerleader, sun-drenched beach babe, and lingerie model, and had somehow rolled them into this stunningly beautiful vision in front of them. She knelt with a straight-back disciplined posture, hands behind her head, those magnificent breasts thrust forward. Max handed him the remote, and Charlesworth felt the thrill of total control as he summoned her to her feet. She stepped toward him—again, not mechanically, but seductively, her lips slightly parted. Charlesworth noticed this doll stood on six-inch stiletto heels, which impelled her to thrust her jutting breasts forward for balance. He ran his hand over her shoulders, her arms...then, after a slight hesitation, cupping the inviting globes of her breasts.

Charlesworth said, “Her skin is so smooth.”

“It’s not skin, actually,” said Max. “It’s rather an incredibly thin film that covers her whole body. The stuff is woven with strands of polymer micro fibers and it actually bonds molecularly with her skin. We use it on all our Ultimate LoveDoll models.”

“It feels good. What does it do?” asked Charlesworth, fascinated, as he drew his fingers across the unmoving girl’s flanks.

“First, it shapes the girl,” replied Max. “Our subjects are already in excellent physical shape, we’re selective enough to choose only the best. But this second-skin perfects them even more. Each fiber in the material has a tensile strength designed to contract until the right contours are achieved.”

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Charlesworth.

“Forgive me, I used to be something of an engineer. Let me put it this way: that covering exerts enough pressure to gently but relentlessly mold her body into a physique that is perfect and unique for her alone. Naturally, we use other cosmetic surgery methods to enhance each subject’s natural beauty, but so much can be accomplished by proper diet, steady exercise—and this bodysuit. The suit also covers any blemishes, and can change colors: natural, like she is now, or silvery, or jet black. Observe.” Max pressed the LoveDoll’s remote, and her skin seem to shimmer. Like a chameleon, it changed from the transparent flesh color to a metallic look, like quicksilver over chrome, from the bottom of her toes to the top of her neck. “That’s for clients with a futuristic taste,” said Max. “Other modifications include the vaginal strengthening and modifying her mouth into a narrow channel with saline pads, kept perpetually moist and slippery through adjustments to her salivary glands. Some of our clients even say that oral sex with our LoveDolls is the best of all. Come along, Mr. Charlesworth, I think you’ll find our next model rather interesting. . .”

When they left the display room an hour later, Charlesworth felt he had seen every dimension of lust-inducing womanhood that could ever be conceived. It seemed each LoveDoll was more beautiful than the last. And what he found particularly thrilling was the thought that every one of them had been snatched from the their ordinary world and converted into living sex toys, saleable to the highest bidder. He shook his head at the wonder of it all.

Max led the young man back to central precincts of the compound. “I need to stop by the office and check something, do you mind?” he asked. Charlesworth shook his head. He followed Max into yet another office. What’s it going to be this time, he wondered.

The office turned out to be a large open area with about a dozen girls in office attire tapping away at computers. “Office attire” in this case meant leather mini-skirts, stiletto heels, and silk blouses with ruffled lapels that framed their bare, full breasts. As Charlesworth looked around, it seemed to be a common uniform. Some of the girls typed away with straight-backed posture, their breasts proudly jutting over their keyboards. Other wore telephone head sets, and talked in different languages to what Charlesworth guessed were world-wide buyers. Each girl wore what looked like a small black pager on her hip. Max leaned over one computer console and had a word with the operator, a girl with short dark hair, dark eyes and pert breasts with red-rouged nipples.

When Max nodded in satisfaction to whatever the short-hair girl said, Charlesworth cleared his throat. “Are all these girls. . . ?” he let the question hang.

“Of course,” said Max. “As with Ms. Lambert, we sometimes find that a subject’s administrative talents can be used as much as her beauty. From time to time we find someone who can best serve us here in the office.”

Charlesworth could not help running his eye salaciously over the office of young, beautiful women, so intent on their jobs, so utterly seductive in appearance. It was like a the models for a swimsuit calendar suddenly decided to play office for an afternoon. He said, “Do they. . .”

“Mr. Charlesworth, all the women in the compound are available for play, at any time. That’s what they are here for. Here, I’ll show you.” He reached down and plucked the small pager-looking unit from the belt of the girl he had been talking to. Max’s thumb expertly punched in some command. She stopped typing on the computer, then slowly rose from her chair and slipped out of her mini skirt—with nothing on underneath. The girl then leaned forward, elbows on the desk, back arched, legs spread in an inverted “V”, her ass held high in compliant invitation. Charlesworth glanced around the room nervously. All the other girls kept working as if their colleague was not compliantly offering herself for ravishment.

Max ran his hand over the round rump of her ass with a connoisseurs’s touch. “Delightful, isn’t she? Ever been in office before, Mr. Charlesworth, where a pretty girl caught your eye? And perhaps wondering what it would be like to bed her? In this place, the difference between wondering and actually finding out is about. . . thirty seconds.” His hand slid down to the soft creamy smoothness of the girl’s thighs. She sighed and arched her back even more, so her legs soared straight up into her ass in an even more lascivious posture. “We actually place many of these as executive assistants’ to certain CEO’s. And they all report back the same thing:

These girls really know how to type!’” The two men shared a laugh. Just then another one of the office beauties came up to Max with some kind of report, with that seductive undulating walk that Charlesworth noticed was common to all of the LoveDolls in the compound. Her fragrance seemed to swirl lightly around the two men. Charlesworth noted that she made a point of standing close enough to Max that her erect nipples brushed his chest through her satin blouse, and she regard Max with a soft, any-time-you-want-it smile. After she returned to her desk, Max noticed Charlesworth’s look and said, “All of our office staff are conditioned to flirt. In America, I know, sexual advances in the office are frowned upon, even forbidden. Here, they are mandatory. What nonsense, to take pleasure out of the workday like that!” And Max gave the girl a friendly squeeze pat on her behind as if to emphasize the point.

Charlesworth said, “Do they, er, mind all this attention you’re giving them?”

“Do they mind?” repeated Max in surprise. “My dear fellow, they need this. They crave it. They live for it. Their libido has been permanently hardwired into the on’ position. This one here—” another pat on her leather-clad ass—“would like nothing better right now than to drop to her knees and give you a good servicing, any way you want it. Right here. Right now.” Max watched his guest keenly, as Charlesworth ran the tip of his tongue tentatively over his lips, entranced by such beauty, so close, so available—

Max checked his watch. “Shall we be getting back?” he asked innocently, with mischievous gleam in his eye. Max led the way out of the office, chuckling to himself at his client’s wistful glance backwards. Max tried to end such tours with such an encounter. By the time it came down to negotiating prices and terms back in his study, Max knew that organ Charlesworth would be thinking with would not be his brain.