The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Nicotina: Origins Part Two

By Smokewriter

A loud thump broke the revere of a perfectly clear spring morning. Christina knew it was a perfectly clear spring morning by the glaring sunshine that assaulted her eyes despite the ineffectual attempt her hand made at blocking out it’s rays.

“Huh! What time is it?” Was all she had time to think before …

THUMP!

“Police. Open the door!”

The voice was gruff and humourless and managed to wake Christina entirely from her slumber.

Like the day after a night of heavy drinking, the memories of the previous night came back to her in snatches like the remnants of a vivid dream. Only it hadn’t been a dream, or so she thought, until she glimpsed herself in the same full-length mirror that just hours previously had reflected her perfect new body. But this time only plain old Christina Warner was reflected in the mirror. Lank shapeless brown hair that resisted any attempt at styling, nose that was too big for her face, and of course the slightly crocked front teeth that had haunted her since her teenage years.

“Yes, plain old Christina,” she repeated in her head not sure what was real and what was a dream anymore. Had there been a robbery, did the transformation actually occur or was it just a result of a concussion from her fall. Then it occurred to her that if there had been a robbery when she was working, and because she hadn’t reported anything, then of course, she would be the prime suspect.

“Just a minute!” she yelled loud enough for whoever was waiting outside her apartment to hear. Her mind struggling with ways that she could explain what had happened without sounding crazy, while at the same time she ran furiously about her room hurriedly dressing. She threw her most respectable pantsuit on over mismatched underwear, and attempted to slip her shoes on whilst walking out of her room. It was then her distracted eyes finally noticed the one detail in her bedroom that was blatantly different than usual. On her bedside table there lay an empty pack of cigarettes beside which the remnants of several cigarettes lay in a saucer that served as a makeshift ashtray.

Not having time to ponder further on this she hurried to the front of the apartment and opened the door. Behind it stood two plainclothes detectives, one was fighting a losing battle with a receding hairline and sported a ridiculous comb-over, the other wasn’t fighting much of a battle with his appetite and seemed to still be sweating from the effort of climbing two flights of stairs.

“I’m Detective Worden,” the taller and balder of the two announced, pausing for dramatic effect before adding, “Major Crimes Unit.”

“And I’m Detective Landsman,” his chunky companion said. “Are you Christina Warner?”

Christine nodded, trying to think of a single sentence that would completely exonerate her from any wrongdoing, and failing completely.

Landsman looked at her suspiciously, his eyes clear and alert and in sharp contrast to his soft doughy face. She had the nervous rabbit look of guilt about her.

“We’d like you to come down to the station with us. There was a robbery at your workplace last night, and we’d like to help us with our enquiries.”

Christina had never liked confrontation and she had to suppress the childish urge to run, to flee from her problems and hide in a ditch somewhere until they all blew over and she could return, unnoticed, to her normal life.

“Okay, Officer,” she replied meekly and allowed Worden to guide her to a nondescript maroon vehicle parked across the road from her building.

The short journey to the station passed in a blur of images, and colors, none of which Christina would later remember. She sat alone and small in the rear seat, head pressed against the cold glass of the window. At the station she was marched by several bored looking uniforms at the front desk before eventually being placed in a simple room furnished only with a decrepit table and two simple metal chairs that were fixed to the floor. The room lacked even the standard two-way mirror, all four walls were covered in dull painted brickwork and everything was illuminated starkly by a large sodium light.

Outside the room and out of earshot of Christina, Worden and Landsman were engaged tête-à-tête in a game of rock, paper, scissors for the precious prize of avoiding the breakfast run.

“You always go for rock dipshit,” Landsman mocked his partner affectionately holding his right hand parallel to the ground in the universal symbol for paper.

“Seeing as breakfast is on you today buddy, I think I shall indulge in some of Ronald McDonald’s finest McMuffins.”

“Asshole,” was the only reply Worden could muster wondering why he engaged in such games seeing as he always seemed to end up the loser.

Neither man was particularly worried about the case, they were confident that they had apprehended someone who at the very least knew what had gone down last night, and who would undoubtedly crack once a little pressure was applied.

“At least wait for me before interrogating her,” Worden grumbled as Landsman handed the keys of one of the department’s cruisers to him.

“Sure thing,” Landsman replied facetiously enough to worry his partner, who had already pocketed the keys and was making his way down the long corridor.

Landsman chucked to himself, he would wait for Worden to begin the interrogation proper, but he was damned if he was going to wait around for one of the small pleasures life afforded him. Fucking with a suspect’s head.

Alone in the interrogation room Christina gradually became aware of a faintly familiar sensation. It started with the echo of a tickle in her lungs, over the space of a few minutes the intensity increased, demanded her attention, became an urge. And she tried to fight it, to think of something else, to not desire it, but she could not. She licked her lips unconsciously, feeling the phantom weight of a perfect white cylinder and breathed deeply, disappointed that mere air could not satisfy her lungs. She realised for the first time in her life the difference between wanting something and craving it.

Christina gasped the arms of her chair hard and tried to fight the craving when Detective Landsman trundled into the interrogation room. The interrogation room was the only place in the building where smoking was permitted. Instinctively he pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from his shirt pocket and lit up, and although it was the clichéd thing to do, he passed the pack to his suspect.

“Smoke?” he offered simply.

Christina looked up calmly at him, relief flooding through her, there was no need to fight the horrible craving anymore. Effortlessly she slid out a single short cigarette from the pack. Landsman produced a flame from his lighter and leaned over to light her up. Christina smiled in anticipation, the delicious scent of the smoke overpowered his sweaty odour, and she brought her head forward, carefully touching the tip of the cigarette to the flame.

Her cheeks hollowed and immediately relief, relaxation and exhilaration rushed through her. Landsman drew himself up, ready to launch into one of his infamous tirades, when he made eye contact with her. Her eyes were green, almost cat-like, which would only be mildly odd had Landsman not been sure that they had been grey only moments before. He was perplexed only momentarily however, once she exhaled at him all his thoughts drifted helplessly away in a puff of smoke.

The power was back and Christina rejoiced in it. She could feel her body begin to change, first with her lips, which felt plumper as she drew on her cigarette again.

“Oh no, not in a public place,” Christina thought, fearful that her clothes would split at the seams and leave her naked, and to her surprise she felt the physical changes halt at her mental command.

Her eyes though remained bright green, and Detective Landsman remained ensnared in her gaze like a rabbit caught in headlights. Without thinking she bathed him in her smoke, and she noticed him relax completely, almost whimpering with need. Christina luxuriated in the unfamiliar feeling of confidence and power and decided to test out her new ability.

“You’re under my spell now Detective Landsman,” she purred seductively.

“Yes, under your spell,” Landsman droned back in a monotone voice.

Christina fought the compulsion to giggle. She had never gotten to play the femme fatale before, never had a man stare at her with such need and desire, and she was finding she rather enjoyed it.

“I think you’re a reasonable man detective, that’s why you know I’m the victim and not a suspect.”

Landsman wanted to believe everything Christina said, how could such a pleasant and beautiful young lady tell a lie. But there was something about her statement that stuck in his blurry mind, he had reason to believe she was a suspect, hadn’t he? He tried to fight to the haze of compliance shrouding his mind.

“Evidence …” he began slowly, disagreeing with her was like trying to swim against a strong current.

This time, seeing him struggle to fight her, Christina did giggle in amusement. Then she took another long and delectable drag from her cigarette.

“Silly, what difference does evidence make when you know I’m not a suspect,” she said, then she added, just because she could, “You care too deeply about me to see me locked up in here.” The thick smoke from the full flavour Marlboro punctuated her every word.

“Of course you’re not a suspect,” Landsman smiled dreamily back at her. Everything was so much easier and more pleasant when he swam with the current.

“Then why don’t you escort me out of her kind sir,” she said and offered Landsman her arm.

He rushed to take it, enraptured that he had pleased his—he searched his mind for the correct word to describe how he regarded Christina … Mistress was the first one that sprang to mind.

Christina continued to smoke leisurely as she was ushered from the station, taking deep slow drags and releasing voluminous clouds of smoke. As she was led to the door there were no complaints about her smoking. In fact, when she passed by people and her thick exhales hung fragrantly in the air many decided that smoking a cigarette would be an excellent thing to do, the ban on smoking indoors be damned. Even non-smokers suddenly felt the need and accepted the cigarettes offered freely to them by their smoking colleagues and friends.

A pretty brunette public defender, named Deborah, who had quit almost ten years earlier, initially refused the offer from a cop walking by, then as she breathed more of the ambient air she concluded that she did indeed want a cigarette. The lady that had been just been escorted past her by the fat detective seemed to enjoy smoking so much, it brought back memories of her own smoking days. After all, it had been ten long years of abstinence, one little cigarette wouldn’t hurt.

“Mind if I bum a smoke?” she asked her client, a simple-minded street thug, who had lit-up at the same time as everyone else.

He offered her a cigarette and light, which she accepted, and as the first experimental puff of smoke trickled down into her lungs she smiled. The taste was as good and the smoke as smooth, maybe even more so, as ever she remembered. It was like welcoming an old friend home.

Out front Christina bade her farewells to Detective Landsman, completely oblivious to the rash of new smokers she had left in her wake. She disposed of her Marlboro and immediately lit a fresh one. For the first time she began to clearly see the positives in her situation, she could have power and beauty. Even use it to do some good, to influence people to do the right thing.

Free and alone downtown, Christina felt the pressure in her bra grow as she fed her lungs with another delicious burst of nicotine. The fabric of her blouse stretched and struggled to contain her growing breasts. Stifling a moan of pleasure Christina could sense her body was fighting to return to it’s glorious natural state, only her will was holding the transformation in check. She too wanted to give in and shed her old form like a snake sheds it’s old unwanted skin. First though, she needed some new clothes, a girl as beautiful as she would be couldn’t display her bountiful nude form in public without attracting attention.

Some minutes later Worden returned to the police station, carrying a future coronary in a brown paper bag. Surprisingly he found his partner out front smoking a cigarette wearing a ludicrously happy, almost stoned, expression.

“You talk to the girl yet?” he asked as he handed Landsman the takeout.

“Yeah,” Landsman said, accepting the brown bag, then adding immediately without thought said, “She’s not a suspect. I let her go.”

“You what!” exclaimed Worden, his voice reaching a girlishly high pitch with incredulity. It was then he noticed the large tent in Landsman’s pants.

“Jesus H. Christ Landsman, are you standing out here displaying a fucking erection to the world?!?”

* * *

At the same time Christina was escaping the long arm of the law, Vince and Lance were parking their car beside a nondescript warehouse in an empty industrial park. It was the agreed meeting place with their employer, and judging by the stately old Rolls Royce in the parking lot she was already waiting for them.

Beatrice Fairchild was a shriveled old octogenarian. Bent small and fragile with age, her outward frailty betrayed a ruthless and cunning mind that had allowed her to amass power and wealth throughout her life. Often, the means by which her wealth was attained were highly dubious. Vince and Lance weren’t by any means the first men of questionable character that whose services she had retained. She did, however, have a problem with tardiness.

“You’re late gentleman,” a well dressed but muscular black man, who stood by her side, spoke in a clipped British accent.

“Quit complaining we’ve got what you want,” Vince replied. The code of the street by which Vince lived determined that you never back down from another man, and if you weren’t the biggest dog in the fight—well that was what Lance was for.

“Now Mr. Worthy, there’s no reason this should be anything other than a civilized business transaction,” Beatrice admonished her bodyguard. “If you two gentlemen hand over the vial I think you will find your payment more than generous.”

Beatrice motioned to Mr. Worthy who opened the plain black briefcase resting on a table separating them from Vince and Lance. Inside were green rows of bills, stacked neatly into twenty bundles of notes, each containing ten thousand dollars. Vince quickly did the math and liked the answer he came up with very much.

Lance moved a grubby hand towards the money, drawn in the way that a small child is drawn to the a fire. Instantly Mr. Worthy snapped the briefcase shut.

“I’m afraid were going to have to see the merchandise first old boy,” his voice was polite but his gleaming smile was obviously fake and he stared Lance down, daring him to make a move. He knew both Vince and Lance together wouldn’t stand a chance against a man of his skill.

Vince handed over the small vial of green fluid, and in turn Mr. Worthy carefully passed it on to his employer. Beatrice held the vial up to the light squinting through cataract eyes, examining it like a fine wine.

“Yes ... This is it,” she cackled as only women of a certain age can cackle.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Vince said, taking the suitcase. Truth be told the old woman and her bodyguard with the perfect gentleman façade just plain gave him the creeps. He and his buddy had turned to leave the semi-darkness of the warehouse when the old woman’s strained voice caught their attention.

“You gentlemen should be aware of two things. I don’t like giving my money away and I don’t like leaving loose ends.”

Neither man had time to even register a look of confusion before Mr. Worthy fired two silenced gunshots that struck the base of each man’s skull with deadly precision. There was a split second pause before both bodies collapsed lifelessly to the ground like marionettes whose strings had been severed.

“Excellent work Mr. Worthy,” Beatrice said, a look of pure malice on her withered features. “Now bring the briefcase. We have work to do.”

* * *

By late afternoon the implications of the previous night’s robbery had become horribly clear to the senior executives at Ramjac Biopharmaceuticals. They were gathered together in the boardroom, blinds dulled the light from the massive windows. The place was all clean lines and modern architecture. The group was a mixture of idealistic career scientists and hard-nosed businessmen seeking to profit from a high growth area. All of them were staring intently at a large flat panel monitor that played security footage from a secondary system that Lance and Vince, dearly departed, hadn’t disabled. Soundlessly it told the story of the attack on Christina, her horrible fall, and her amazing transformation. After the footage finished playing there was only silence as each man questioned their own eyesight.

Eventually the main financial backer, who really only understood and cared about the bottom line, took the lead. “This disaster could put us out of business, that there gentlemen, was our entire supply of extract 314. Everything has been lost or contaminated.”

“But it works,” the lead scientist interjected, “we have proof that it works.”

“That doesn’t do us any good if we don’t have any left. If the market hears about this we’ve had it, our shares will be worthless. There’s already been millions spent and years taken scouring the Amazon to procure what we had. Who knows if we can find anymore?”

“Or if there even is anymore,” another man added as he visualised the value of his stock options plummeting.

“We need to find the girl. Who is she.”

“Christina Warner“, some junior lab assistant,” the chief scientist said, “She’s nobody important.”

The chief of security, who had already lost his job in the eyes of the other men in the room, but who had yet to realise this for himself took this as his cue. “I’m already on that gentlemen. The police had her details before we unearthed this footage. My sources in the department confirmed that she was brought into custody, I’ll have some of my guys keep an eye on her and pick her up after she’s been released.

“And then what?” one of the more idealistic of them mentioned, “Slice her up. See if there’s anything left that’s useful.”

“No one’s saying that, it might not need to be anything too … invasive. Some blood samples, spinal fluid.”

At this suggestion everyone in the room felt the need to have their opinion heard, and to not hear the opinion of their colleagues, and the discussion descended into petty argument. Everyone began shouting above each other to be heard, schoolchildren in expensive Italian suits, pointing accusatory fingers at each other, the volume rising. Then, abruptly, it stopped. It stopped when they saw her.

“Hello boys, there’s no need to get all hot and bothered over little old me,” Christina teased.

They all recognised her instantly from the security footage they had just seen, except that she was even more beautiful in the flesh, as if mere pixels couldn’t capture the fullness of her beauty. She wore a simple, but classic, little black number that clung tight about her curves and stopped high enough above the knee that all of the eyes in the room were drawn to her shapely thighs.

Moving casually and liking the unfamiliar sense of the gaze of men on her she extracted a pack of VS 120s from a designer purse, shook one loose and placed it between her lips.

“I’m afraid there’s no smoking allowed inside the building Christina,” the chief of security told her.

But before he or any of them could do anything about it she produced a flame from an expensive silver lighter and touched it to the end of the long cigarette. She began to feel the increasingly familiar rush as the tobacco caught and she sucked the smoke into her lungs. When Christina finished her long inhale she flashed her captive audience a dazzling smile.

“Call me Nicotina, and don’t worry, you’ll soon forget all about what you’ve just seen.”

She pursed her lips and began to exhale, filling the room with her smoke. Then she immediately placed the VS 120 between her lips for another puff.

“Boys,” she said around the slender cigarette, “things are going to change around here…”

* * *

Later that evening in a hastily set up laboratory in the country residence of Beatrice Fairchild, Mr. Worthy was strapping leather restraints onto the wrists of the old woman. She was secured by her wrists to a hard flat hospital-style bed. Nodes attached to her skin linked to all kinds of medical equipment, which beeped regularly in time with her weak heartbeat.

“Are you sure about this Ma’am?” Mr. Worthy asked a final time as he prepared a large syringe filled with the green liquid.

She moved to quiet him, trying to raise her hand but finding it bound tightly. He persisted.

“This hasn’t been tested yet, there may be all sorts of unknown consequences. Why not let the scientists examine it first?”

“It doesn’t matter, my oncologist told me the cancer has spread again. I have only weeks, days maybe, to live. That is my last chance.” she said wearily and pointed a bony finger at the syringe he held.

“Better to go out on your shield, eh old girl,” he said, deep down he believed that what he was about to do would very likely kill her.

With great care he searched her arm for a vein, which wasn’t an easy thing considering her advanced age and deteriorating medical condition. Eventually, after minutes of searching, he found a suitable one. Despite his own cut-throat nature he paused momentarily. The old lady was a kindred spirit, other people had employed him for his impeccable skill at what he did, but they had no appetite for his methods. They didn’t want to see or appreciate his art, had no appreciation for his talents. Others turned in revulsion at photographic proof of a job well done. The old lady reveled in it.

Nevertheless Mr. Worthy was a professional, he prided himself in it, and professionals never let personal feelings interfere with their work. With a calm steady hand he squeezed the plunger on the needle until the entire contents had been injected into Beatrice’s bloodstream.

There was a pause for a second, and then of course Beatrice screamed out in agony with all her remaining strength, as the virus attacked all her cells both healthy and diseased. Beatrice squirmed violently on the bed, only the restraints preventing her from causing damage to herself. She felt as if she was being ripped apart from the inside out. The virus ran rampant through her defenseless body and she slipped into unconsciousness, the pain being too much for her to bear. Mr. Worthy moved to calm her when, to his surprise, her screams of pain became lower in pitch, less anguished, became what sounded almost like moans of pleasure. And then, to his even greater astonishment, the physical changes began.

The first thing he noticed was her hair, which began to push and flow from her scalp, it’s snow white color becoming a blonde hue as it thickened and surrounded her aged features in a golden halo. Except that her face wasn’t as wrinkled as he remembered—she seemed to have lost twenty years from her face and the changes weren’t stopping. Wrinkles became fine lines and then disappeared completely. Her cheekbones became less sunken and more prominent as her skin tautened and flushed with a youthful glow, a small spattering of freckles appeared across the bridge of a cute upturned nose. And then there was her body. With each breath her formerly flabby breasts gained new vigour pushing out from her lengthening torso and toned flat stomach. The gown covering her was pushed lewdly upward by the inflating mammaries. Lost in a dream, she whimpered in pain as her hips painfully widened and bones lengthened and shifted throughout her body.

Within minutes the serum had transformed Beatrice from a sickly old woman to a blonde bombshell who looked barely old enough to have graduated college. Then she awoke with a start, striking green eyes flashing open. With a flick of her wrists she snapped her restraints, not realising her own strength, and sat up. Only the lose fitting gown kept her modesty in tact and not for long as she shredded it with newly long and sharp fingernails as she stood. She wanted to make sure what she had seen in her vision was true. As she appraised her naked body, alive and glistening with sweat and oh so sensitive, she was not disappointed.

“How do I look Mr. Worthy?” she asked. She struck a pose, naked and unashamed.

“Magnificent Ma’am,” he answered honestly, enunciating every syllable of the word magnificent carefully and with wonder.

She stretched luxuriously raising her arms above her head of honey blonde hair before cupping her large breasts and tracing a slow ring around the areola and erect nipple.

“Mmm, I feel magnificent. So full of life, and energy. Youth is most certainly wasted on the young.”

Then she dropped her right hand to her perfectly toned stomach, tracing her index finger slowly and delicately from her belly button, past her nether regions, coming to rest on the inside of her thigh.

“And for the first time in so many years I find myself … horny.”

She jumped on him then, wrapping her legs around his waist and mashing her lips against his in an expression of need, of pure animal lust. All the while she tore at his clothes ripping them like an eager child tears at the wrapping of a present. It wasn’t making love, it wasn’t even intimate, it was the best fuck either of them had ever experienced. She rode him like a wild stallion bucking with his aggressive thrusts and pushing back, into him her strength now more than a match for his own.

Hours later he collapsed beside her, physically exhausted, his dark skin and defined muscles encased in a sheen of sweat. She was blonde and still radiant, slightly flushed, a cheerleader after a big game.

“I’ve missed that,” she said, barely out of breath. She ran a dainty foot down the length of his legs, enjoying the touch and feel of another person.

The stirrings of a long lost need brought Beatrice out of her post coital bliss, they reawakened old memories of something she had thought was long forgotten.

Turning to Mr. Worthy, golden strands of hair falling across her face she said, “I don’t know if it was the great sex, but suddenly I find myself craving a cigarette in the worst possible way …”

* * *

Somewhere in West Virginia, amongst a large tobacco plantation, in a deceptively old-fashioned wooden tobacco curing house there is a secret room. The room hides an ancient parchment that is encased in bullet proof glass. On the parchment is written a prophecy in a language so old it’s meaning has been lost to the modern world. It has been kept by and ancient and clandestine order of acolytes dating back from before the white man ever set foot in America. At the time of this tales events one of the acolytes stood guard, like his father and grandfather before him, awaiting the time of reckoning.

For days, weeks, centuries even, all had been quiet, but at the moment Beatrice experienced her reawakening there was a faint rumble in the air, a murmur of thunder shook the furniture, and the script on the parchment began to glow, bathing the room in soft light. The light illuminated the ancient inscription changing the language to modern English and revealing it’s true meaning. The man rushed to it and read with wide eyes. This is what it said:

In the time of uncertainty, of disbelief, when oil and metal and greed rule the land, the very fate of humanity will hang in the balance. Two shall be reborn, one of the light, one of the darkness. The Protector and the Corrupter shall battle and a new order shall arise.

The man hurriedly attempted to dial his cell phone, cursing his suddenly clumsy fingers. Finally he entered the correct digits and heard the dull sound of ringing at the other end. It only rang once before a professional sounding woman answered.

“FBI, agent Morgan speaking.”

The man couldn’t prevent the tremble in his voice.

“It has begun…..”