The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

ROGUE STATE

2. Truth or Consequences

The command compound was not at all what I’d expected despite a couple years monitoring the arms trade for the Congressman. Instead of slovenly guerillas lounging around smashed up jeeps and tricked up Humvees’s, I counted a half dozen FV101 Scorpions, a British APV offered to the less fortunate at bargains that usually hovered around a quarter million American. Fronting the gate were two M41’s, a little but well-armed American MPV, packing a 76 mm cannon. We hadn’t used it in sometime although the Thai Army did. Rounding out the United Nations look were three Chinese-built Type 531 personnel carriers, their former Thai Army markings still apparent under a fresh paint over, prowling toward the gate. They could be on the way to anywhere near—they were fully amphibious. Althogether, gas/rubber/oil added, there were several million of assets casually draped across the yard.

Apart from the hardware, it looked like a small but high-tech corporate office campus, roofs bristling with dishes, antennae and arrays. Security cameras were everywhere. Armed, uniformed soldiers were everywhere but they kept to their stations, quiet and disciplined. The little staging camp outside Kamphaeng Phet where I’d been choppered from Bangkok had nothing on this place at all, K-Phet’s CIA & NSA assets notwithstanding.

Somehow this frightened me much more than if I’d wound up in a rowdy pirate’s cove. Still, I was rather calm, and wondered if the water I’d been given by at the clearing had contained a bit of alcohol or something, as I also felt slightly numbed since drinking it.

We went inside one of the larger buildings, entering beneath a sign that said in several languages, including English: “Police.” The wooden floor was smooth to my bare feet. The soldiers had taken my boots and socks off on the way over with grins all around and the taunting admonition: “No running!” I had the impression they thought this would inhibit me in some way, but I grew up in a modest middle class Angelino Latino neighborhood that was like a little village, where all us kids ran barefoot from house to house all day long, mock stern abuelas shushing us.

Now I was told to sit on a plain wooden chair in a very barren room whose only other contents were a couple of other chairs and a smashed-up Gameboy on the floor. I was pretty sure this was not the greeting room for honored guests, especially after they strapped a heavy leather collar around my throat. Not that I’d worn one before, but the collar seemed thick, laden with things sewn into it. I was relieved to sit, at least. Since drinking that tin-tasting water in the truck, my mind had been drifting a bit dizzy, a bit dreamy.

All sorts of horrible movie images of interrogation flashed through my mind. In between the imagined crack of rubber hoses and sickly sweet sizzle of electro-shock, I was trying to figure out how to lie.

Seriously.

Like the song says, it don’t come easy. Not to me. I am a cop’s daughter from a strict Mexican family, a good Catholic school girl who grew up believing in following the rules, telling the truth and obeying authority above all.

I know, I know; what the hell was I doing in politics? The truth is I thought America was too important to leave to the crooks. I thought good people could make a difference. That’s why I joined my Congressman’s staff – he was a rock-ribbed conservative, an elder in his church, a leader of his party and scion of the Southern Baptist Convention. Even if he seemed a bit uncomfortable with Catholics, he was absolutely hell on sinners. He was against crime, corruption, and Cadillac liberals. Unlike socialists, Democrats, movie stars and other drug addicts, he truly loved freedom. True freedom. He understood what freedom truly was—the right to behave the way you’re supposed to behave. No more; no less.

It was why I was willing to climb into a little helicopter, fly over an Asian jungle and try to get him information he could use against dope peddlers and skin merchants. He was for the truth, and I was there to get it for him, so that he could fight against those who hated freedom. People like his Democratic opponent in the current election—a man funded, we believed, in part by the drug-runners who originated in this place.

But now I was their captive, and thus came the paradox. I needed to lie to protect good people. My boss had said he had inside sources placed with the local warlords. I didn’t want those people hurt, which they might be if I said anything to tip off that an investigation was underway. And it occurred to me, no-one had thought to school me a bit on how to do that, how to get through interrogation without giving up too much. My friends in the State Department got some hostage training to be diplomats. Couldn’t someone have schooled me a bit for this job?

Just a little bit?

And for whatever reason, right now obeying authority—any authority—seemed especially compelling. Fish out of water, I told myself. Reaching for new rules with the old ones gone. Stay focused, I thought, but my thoughts seemed to drag up through mud.

I had fifty different terrifying notions of who might enter the room next, and not one of them came close to the scholarly young Anglo who did. Not that he was milquetoast. He was buff with a rock edged jaw. But he wore wire frame glasses like that Beatle that was killed back before I was born. Although they hadn’t carried a good CZ knock-off like the Israeli forty mill he had strapped to his thigh, nor the Russian Bizon sub he slung off his shoulder and lowered carefully to the floor—well, apart from those details, he might have been matriculating in the English department with a thesis on Lord Byron. He had a thoughtful expression as he began flipping through the pages in a manila file, and he reminded me of fellow grad students I’d known at Stanford.

The three guys with AK-47s who filed in behind him, however, were from central casting, whistled up for one of the 70’s chicks-in-chains Third World prison flicks. Bad-ass, ill-tempered, and mean-spirited toughs in fatigues who sent my stomach twisting in on itself as they eyed my body up and down with such intensity I wondered if there was a test later.

“I’m Special Agent Roger Stephens,” the scholar said, closing the file and staring hard into my eyes. “I’m an investigator for the Republic of Sop Ruak. I’m going to ask you a few questions. You will want to tell the truth. For each lie, there will be consequences.”

“What’s Sop Ruak?” I blurted out, voice shaking.

He didn’t answer immediately, looking me over starting at my bare feet on up to my tousled black hair, his eyes warming with each inch. “We are a sovereign national state centered around the confluence of the Sop Ruak and Mekong rivers.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Hardly surprising. You’re an American. The United Nations refuses to recognize us. Your national media refuses to cover us. Your nation says we don’t exist. We occupy a key niche in the world economy, but no one in the world likes to acknowledge that. But as you’re learning, that doesn’t mean we don’t exist.” He drew a chair to a point directly in front of me and sat down. “And we do intend to defend our sovereignty from espionage.”

Espionage? I was the good guy here! I was the investigator. I was investigating him! “This is ridiculous. You’re saying you run the Triangle? This—Sap Rock?”

“Sop Ruak. And yes, this is our sovereign territory.”

“I see. So, I guess, what? The Kuomintang is just gone? SUA—they got nothing to say about it?”

He shrugged. “We’ve reached a power share agreement with both the Nationalist Chinese and with the Shan Burmese.”

“We? You sound American.”

“Don’t be insulting,” Stephens smiled. “I’m Canadian. I immigrated two years ago to the Republic of Sop Ruak.”

“So from a country that barely exists,” I said. “You’ve gone to one that doesn’t exist at all.”

“You’re going to find we’re very real, indeed.” He leaned forward, his eyes like lasers. He had an air of authority to him so strong it seemed to succeed out of its own assumption of power. “What’s your name?”

I hesitated – but what could that hurt? “Anita.” His stare kept burning until I added. “Anita Rosales.”

He smiled, nodding. “Good girl,” he purred. “Very good.”

My collar buzzed pleasantly, and after a quick but relatively painless prick of my neck beneath it I sensed a little tide of endorphins surfing through my blood. Mild, but sweet; nice. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad, after all.

He went on in the same honeyed voice. “And who sent you?”

“Sent me?” I tried a sincere frown. “I’m just a tourist.”

His smile twitched. “And what sights did you hope see here in Sop Ruak?”

“I … well, the tropical forests. I have a deep commitment to environmentalism and –“

What stopped me was not the expression on Stephens’s face, which didn’t change, but the agonizing bolt of electro-shock that spiked from the collar down my spine and on down into the floor. I arched in the chair and then fell back, gasping for breath, sweat broken out fresh on my brow. He leaned forward, patting my forehead with a handkerchief in his left hand.

“Bastard!” I spat at him. He leaned back, holding up a little remote in his right hand.

“I told you, lies have consequences,” he said.

“I’m not lying!”

“Not well, no,” he chuckled. “Let’s try again. Why are you spying on my country?”

“I told you. I’m just a tourist.”

Another searing white blast, harder and longer, made me scream and left me quivering, a tear running down my check, a bead of sweat drawing a line down my spine. I drew a rattling breath and exhaled, “Pleeease ….”

“Yes,” he said. “Please. Please stop lying. I am not a sadist. I don’t enjoy hurting anyone. But I have a job to do, and part of it involves getting the truth from you. And I don’t understand why you would keep lying, anyway. I can tell you’re a good girl, someone for whom lying is hard. Lying to the police authorities of my country should be much more difficult for you – if you are the sort of woman I think you are.”

His face was neutral but it was obvious the three thugs standing around him were enjoying this greatly. I couldn’t stop trying to twist the pain and the fog of dope out of my body, and Stephens’ eyes roamed up and down my curves.

Stephens stood and bent over me, his fingers lightly stroking my hair where sweat matted it against my eyebrows. “There are alternatives, though,” he said. “Consequences that don’t involve pain. That help you correct your behavior in a more indirect way. Wouldn’t you prefer that?” He rubbed the back of his fingers against my full lips.

“Sure,” I snapped back, his fingers flying away. “Why not?”

“I’d prefer you just stop lying,” he said, “but we’ll adjust the consequences as you request. So tell me, who were you to report to when you got done photographing our country from the sky?”

“No one.” I swallowed hard, closed my eyes, even as a voice in my head told me just how much a liar that made me appear. But then, it was the truth: I was a liar, right now. “No one. I’m just a tourist.”

I braced myself for a shock that didn’t come, and my muscles shook a bit as I relaxed, eyes open and wide, staring at him.

“Stand up,” he said, quiet and firm.

The see-saw went on: this could hurt, but how could that? That could hurt, but this ... what could it hurt?

I stood up and he smiled again. “Good girl. But you’re still lying. You know lying is a sin. And in this Republic, it is also a crime, when you lie to a state’s investigator. Consequences?” He paused for effect. “Take off your shirt.”

Take off my shirt? Right here? In a bare room surrounded by three leering strangers and a guy whose clinical calm was unnerving?

“You are proving to be a liar, and thus you must provide utility to our humble Republic in some other way than the truth,” Stephens said. “I’d say entertainment is the next most logical slot. Entertainment of one type or another.” He raised his little remote and wagged it in the air, his lips lined tight. The three goons moved a bit closer, the fat one licking his fat little Mao Tse Tung lips, the creep.

Creep with an AK-47. One of three in the room. A lurch of belated pleasure from the drug and auquent waft of fog in my brain drained any other resistance.

“Damn you,” I muttered, unbuttoning the shirt as quickly as I could. No way I was turning this into a strip tease. I yanked it off and tossed it to the floor, noticing how my creamed coffee skin contrasted against the sensible white bra I’d put on that morning. I realized we were now probably heading into the place this “interview” was going all the time. Being a female captive, helpless in the hands of an enemy – I had little doubt what that might mean. And considering I was a hot little twenty-four year old at the mercy of mercenaries left no doubt.

I stood trembling in the room, suddenly a little bit cold, very much scared and more than a little bit angry, the three yokels with AKs shuffling their boots and all but bursting into song. These dirty little backwater criminals had no right to do this to me. I was an aide to a respected Congressman, a leader on the national American scene!

“Your pants,” Stephens murmured. I gave him a fuck-you glance off his forehead, noting as I did that a glaze had come over his eyes. Bastard was no different than any of the three guards, from any man, I suppose. Having this sort of power over a beautiful woman, using it so cool and casual like, was a major shot of aphrodisiacs straight into the loins, where all his thinking was now likely being done. So much for the “scholar.”

“Go to hell,” I said to the floor.

I heard him flip a switch and braced myself – but it wasn’t a shock. It was that endorphin drip, this time much stronger. It even felt thicker in my blood, and my head began to sway a bit. My God, it felt good, and this time the feeling lingered. No—grew. Licked up from my belly, over my ribs, a hot sticky sap that numbed my nerves.

“That was for obeying,” he said, “with the shirt. Now – the pants, Anita.”

I’m not sure why I reached languidly down to open and then drop my cargo pants into a bundle around my feet. My eyes were half-closed, and with an alacrity so swift it made my stomach toss a bit, I felt like I dropped in a dream. The endorphin drip, I thought. Holy hell, it felt good. And another little gush came from my collar just then, a syrup of pleasure sliding down slowly.

“Very … very good,” Stephens said. I opened my eyes fully, fought my brain back into go-mode, and realized I had been stroking my flat belly up to my breasts and back down again to the top of my plain white panties.

“What the fuck is in that drip you keep shooting into me?” The words echoed hard in my ears.

“It’s to help you,” he smiled. “Help you be the good little obedient girl you really are.” His words echoed, too, but from a foggy distance.

I sat slowly down in my chair, slumped back, my bare legs held close together. Sitting seemed to help my head stop spinning, and now modesty returned with a burnt-rose blush that flashed from my throat to my toes. “I want my clothes back,” I said. “And then I want to see the American ambassador.”

The guards laughed while Stephens gave me an amused look.

“You’re supposed to be a real country? Then act like it. I am an American citizen you have detained and I want to see the ambassador.”

“I told you, your country does not recognize us. There is no ambassador. And you’re not just an innocent detainee. You’re a spy. A terrorist. My country’s intelligence arm having made that assessment, your own country has established its opinions on the legalities involved. The rules of Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo apply.”

“Shock me, strip me, humiliate me – whatever. At the end of it all, you’ll have a tortured American tourist on your hands, and hell to pay.”

His scorn waved over me like a blast of heat. “I very much doubt anyone will even note your absence.”

That did it. Anger forced me to focus enough to shout. “Look, you jerk! People are going to come looking for me. People with a lot more firepower than your little tin pot, jackass, would-be government will ever have.”

His eyes said: checkmate.

“I’ll consider that a confession,” he said.

“Consider whatever you want. For me, this interview is over. You’re learning nothing from me.”

“Ms. Rosales, this little interview was for your education, not ours. Consider it the start of your training.” He had picked up that manila folder with the file inside.

“Training?”

He looked inside the file. “Anna Maria Rosales Monterey,” he said. “Born and raised, Los Angeles, California. Master’s degree in history with honors from Stanford, on a full scholarship. Currently on the staff of a powerful Congressman being groomed for a run at the White House next time around, or perhaps the time after. Impressive, chica. Not bad for a policeman’s daughter from east L.A.”

He looked up. “I have, here, your California driver’s license number. Social security number. Bank account numbers. In case you’ve forgotten them.” He handed me a single sheet from the file. It had all that information and plenty more besides. The addresses of siblings, for example – work and home. The point was clear: this people knew I was coming. And they were prepared. A chill shot through me when I saw the address of my grandmother, my dear abuelita. Someone had actually gone to that much trouble, to track down the address of a diminutive little Mexican grandmother living in the provinces.

They didn’t want the information so they could send flowers, I was sure.

I dropped the page, feeling like the entire world had been pulled out from under me like a rug, only there was no floor to fall on, just stark empty terror. I stared down where the sheet had indeed hit a floor, focusing on that as a little concrete fact to hang on to.

“This isn’t the work of a tin pot drug lord,” I whispered. “Who are you people?”

He took his seat opposite me again. “You came here to learn that and report back to your Congressman, yes? I am sure he appreciates having such a dedicated and … lovely … assistant. You will learn what you want to know in ways much more real and details greater than you could have gotten from your little sky cam.” He was tickling little spurts of that endorphin drip into me, like soft caresses, not on my skin but on my brain, then squeezing my heart from the inside, controlling the thump thump thump.

“And then you can report to your Congressman,” he went on. “You see, Ms. Rosales, I will help you do your job dutifully and much more completely than you could have had we not … met.”

“Had I not been captured, you mean.”

“Apprehended,” he corrected me.

The drip was accumulating in my system, and for the first time, I realized the sensation of pleasure in my belly was matched by a itchy cry for attention from other parts of me. The “fun parts” as an old boyfriend once said. I kept my hands balled up in fists, aware that my breasts were swelling slightly, their tips peaking. I was glad the plain “battle ax” bra I wore was too thick to betray that.

“The dope,” I said. “You can’t … you can not do this to me.”

“I can do anything I want,” he said. “You are the spy, and the liar, and the criminal, here in this Republic. You see, we are the world’s first, honest narcostate. We don’t lie. We say who we are and how we make our money. And we offer other products, as well.”

“What else?”

Silence, then: “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

I shook my head, a line of sweat plastering my bangs to my forehead.

“Or,” he sighed, “you could simply join us.”

“Excuse me?”

“I read your thesis, on the munitions trade and its role in the inter-war politics of East Asia, in the 1930s. You’ve got a very good grasp on the kinds of things we do here. If you’d submit to some significant psychological ‘surgery,’ detailing out that bourgeois conscience of yours, you could be an excellent associate.”

“Never.”

“Of course, not. And yet, with that very bourgeois guidance system in your head, you do want to please me,” he said. “I’m in charge. Every molecule of your body has been trained to obey the one in charge. I know that deep down, you’re a good girl. You understand there is a natural order. There are natural laws. There are rules established that must be followed, authorities that must be obeyed, or all is chaos.”

I heard my voice say, “Yes ….”

“Yes! You see, my drugs and my conditioning, they can not make you what you can not be, but they can help you become one of the possibilities you have kept in the shadows of fantasy and fear,” he smiled.

“Are you a new country?” I asked. “Or a league of pop psychologists?”

“My country believes foremost in order, and we have allies all across the globe, preparing to take their rightful place in re-establishing good order after the inevitable collapse of the current regimes. We are the first nation state of a new world order.”

“Why,” I licked my lips, which suddenly seemed parched. “Why tell me?”

“You are intelligent,” he said. “Educated. You represent an interesting experiment for me. And to have you fully aware of the circumstances will comport with the experiment.”

“Experiment?” A low throb was starting in between my hips, his dope kicking in on lower and lower levels, literally and psychologically.

“In submission, my dear. Village girls and street urchins are one thing we have in abundance. But as our plans progress, it will be increasingly important to know how to deal with women of your strengths. And I dare say, we could rapidly develop a specialized market in that right now which would be most profitable. But I need a subject.”

He talked more, droning odd chains of numbers and mashed up words. His voice turned into my head, presumably into my subconscious. His voice became a low drone and my head began running at a low hum, at a level I associated with that weird sleep that you sleep when totally exhausted, the kind that is always arriving but never really comes.

He snapped his fingers, and I fell into the room mentally, head clear and eyes dry. Suddenly, I missed the numbing comfort of the fog. Every nerve in my body was achingly taut in the silence of that bare room.

“Now, finish for us, my dear,” he said. “Strip yourself naked.”

The drip; the fear; the sense of having been completely cut off from my own world with nothing but his words to guide me; all kinds of things drove me to my feet. I unclipped my bra even though I was shaking my head, full of tumbling numbers and whispers. I hated him, and I despised his three goons. But I felt more bound than I had when they’d tied my hands behind my back, and that thought in turn stirred up that hot liquid swirl in my tummy. My nipples began to swell, and this drew Stephens out of his chair to stand and flip them with his thumbs. I moaned, and a hot blush of shame coated me fast as a flame on gasoline. He squeezed and I rubbed my legs together, desperate to keep the oil that suddenly leaked there a secret.

“Most responsive,” he said, “and wonderfully submitted, eh?” That drew laughs from the other three, but thankfully, they didn’t step closer. Stephens began to massage my breasts with the back of his hands, the knuckles rolling and kneading at my firm, taut flesh, squeezing a nipple now and then between two knuckles.

“Just one thing,” he murmured. “The one thing we don’t know. Why, exactly, ARE you here? Why have we drawn your congressman’s eye?” He nuzzled my neck, smelling—surprisingly—wonderful, the heat from his throat mixing with the little hot gasps I gave as he pinched a nipple between two knuckles, once, twice, and then again harder.

Could the “why” really betray anyone? I stalled for time, trying to think that one through the vines of pleasure, anger, flame and sticky hot oil tangled through my entire body, focused not so much on my head anymore as my quivering thighs, where his fingers trailed up and down, down and ... up. Not quite there, but near enough as to send a wave up my belly. Damn it, and damn me! I had never been this hot, at least not without getting fucked and loving it, and the notion that this notion was in motion in my head under these capital “B” Bizarre Circumstances infuriated me almost as much as it scared me shitless.

“Is this how your beloved country does interrogations?” I muttered. Temper flared in my head, anger at my helplessness masquerading as willful submission. This smug criminal was using me as his little plaything, obviously getting off on it, and I couldn’t stop it. Worse, I couldn’t even stop reacting to it, stop the dampness from gathering in my panties. His free hand now roamed up and down my rib cage, every down a little lower, squeezing and obviously enjoying the tight curve at my hip and then the firm ass below. I was a plaything playing literally into his hands.

“Humiliation is a key technique for securing submission,” he said. “And I have to think that a beautiful young woman like yourself, a political player, has to find this … distressing, at least. Being reduced to a toy for the people you came here to harm. Hating it, resenting it – the drip allows you to keep that much autonomy. But not enough to keep yourself from obeying us – and enjoying it on an animal level.”

I felt cold steel on my bare thigh—the back of a combat knife. A chill trailed up, and then the blade slid on its side against my hip, under my panties. Stephens gave it a quick snap! and the left side of my panties ripped loose.

“I’m glad you’d rather not join us,” he whispered, lips brushing the lashes of my closed eyes, his tongue tickling where my upper teeth held my lower lip back. His roving hand took hold of the panties by the back and ripped them off completely. “You’ve chosen Fate Number Two, one we’ll both enjoy a great deal more, whether you like it or not. But first, I have to persuade you to tell me that little thing, remember? Why it is your Congressman is interested in us? Think on it a moment, and then let me in on the big secret.”

It was not thought he stimulated, though. His palm cupped my sex, pumping it gently, squeezing that lemon until the juice ran down my leg. I’d heard that in a half dozen blues tunes ... and as my mind drifted just a bit off on that note, I caught one rational thought flitting through my mind like a leaflet in the wind. I turned it in my mind’s eye and saw the face of the man I’d been trying to remember.

Spence.

I could stall with that little bit of information they wanted. Stall ... as long as I could. Give Spence time to—woah!

I had buckled over, squirming now, my lips pressed tight, my chest balled up, holding in a moan and Stephens worked me good, slow and hard-soft-soft-hard. I bent over his hand farther, my face at his waist, ignoring the hot beaming smirks I sensed from all four faces around me, my own hands gripping his wrist as his palm pulped me, wet, mushy, slow, then hard, and wetter. Shameful. Shameful! And—

God-damn! I wanted to come. I cut lose the imaginary leaflet, let it twitter through the wind and into the fire burning me up from the middle out.

“No,” he said, pulling back quickly.

“Noooo!” I crumpled to my knees in front of him, then knelt there, naked, sweating, panting. “Goddamn you,” I rasped. Chill ran through the sweat coating my body, and I looked up at my gloating interrogator. “That dope’s good,” I said, my voice shaking. “Makes me do things ... feel things I wouldn’t if ....”

“It lets you feel things you fear,” he replied, voice infuriatingly calm. “And it is easing you into a new life. Now—come with me.”

I shook my head.

“Come on,” he said, voice casual, but the command seemed to spike through my will. I stood unsteady on my feet. He led me out followed by Larry, Curly and Mao. I wasn’t crazy about stepping into a public passageway while naked, but between three Kalashnikovs at my back and a head full of Stephens’ snow job my bare feet padded obediently along. Outside, I found yet another grinning soldier waiting.

The guy who had caught me. The guy’s whose friends had died on my behalf.

“So,” he said. “You’ve chosen the slave’s path?”

… to be continued ….