The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The wind, which had blown in direct from the Urals, threw a light, grayish powder over the nearly deserted schoolyard. A scrap of newspaper— startlingly white in the dim and broken light of a nearby street lamp—was caught in a sudden gust and pressed so flatly against a nearby chainlink fence it looked ironed on. The night was too cold for real snow. The stuff blowing in the air was feathery and ephemeral but not at all moist. Moreover, it was dirty, stained with an inner-city grime not even the chill Muscovite winter could make pure. The girl standing on the street corner shivered.

She was being stupid. She knew she was being stupid, and she damned herself for it. What she was doing was the height of stupidity. It had to be at least ten below. It felt as if her whole body were turning to ice.

If she didn’t leave soon, she knew the children in the morning would find her frozen solid.

Instead of leaving, though, the trembling girl raised her hands, only lightly gloved, to her mouth and breathed on them. Her coat was threadbare. She couldn’t afford the kind of garment she really needed to have. She should go, she told herself again. Better yet, she should go home, back to her family’s apartment, crowded though it was. At least with all the people there she would be warm again, from shared body heat if from nothing else. Then the girl remembered she couldn’t go home. She had made sure of that… somehow.

Frowning slightly, the girl walked into the shallow alcove of the building next to her and huddled into it, squeezing herself in as tightly as possible. She glowered as much from the bitter cold as from the utter perplexity dominating her.

What in the world was she doing here?

She had been asking herself that question again and again all night… and she still couldn’t come up with a reasonable answer. What in the world was she doing here?

She was waiting… waiting for someone. That much, at least, was clear.

But was someone going to meet her, or was someone coming to pick her up? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember.

It was disturbing that she couldn’t remember, but she didn’t feel as if she could leave. Not yet, anyway.

The schoolhouse notwithstanding, it was a bad neighborhood to be in, which made her standing and waiting there all the more ludicrous. The girl flexed her fingers and raised them to her chapped lips again. Strands of brown hair peeked out from around her coat’s hood. She jumped when she heard the sound of a motor approaching, and, instinctively, she turned her face to the school wall, not wanting whomever was driving the car to see her pale features.

The sound—heavy, powerful, and foreign—passed her a breathless second later, and she felt a little better.

Gangsters were the only people who would be out in this section of Moscow at night. She shivered, more from fright this time than from cold. She had heard the stories of rape gangs and enforced prostitution—no pretty girl in Russia could avoid hearing them nowadays—and she cursed herself again for being so bloody stupid. If the cold didn’t get her, the criminals would, whoring her off to an Albanian brothel by the end of the week, if she were so lucky.

What in the world had compelled her to come here? The girl shook her head, desperately trying to remember her interview from the day before. She knew there was something wrong with her, that something was dreadfully wrong with her head. She knew it. Knew in fact she was in danger here. But she couldn’t make herself leave.

She had… had an appointment here. But with who? And why?

She just couldn’t remember. She couldn’t… couldn’t….

“Ilya Tikhomirov?”

Ilya looked up and gasped loudly. She hadn’t heard anyone approach.

She stood and prepared to run… and instead found herself replying, nervously, “Yes, I… I’m Ilya.”

“Nice,” she heard the man say, nodding at the sight of her. Ilya could barely make out his features in the dim light.

He was her height, she thought, maybe even a little less, but wider around the shoulders and middle. His coat was two-sizes too large for him but looked invitingly warm and comfortable. He wasn’t wearing a hat. His hair was close-cropped. Both hands were shoved deeply into pockets. For some reason, Ilya didn’t think he looked Russian.

“You’ll make a pretty one,” the man said, stepping a little closer. “Yes, you’ll do fine. Very fine.”

Feeling dazed and confused, as if she were about to faint, Ilya took an involuntary step closer.

“Are you the… the… ?” She stopped. She didn’t know what she wanted to ask him first.

What am I doing here? maybe, or Who are you? perhaps… . It was so hard to think, though.

The man—Ilya was sure he wasn’t Russian now, maybe an American or a Canadian—nodded again.

“Yes, I’m here for you.” One hand came out of a pocket holding a tool. It was silvery-white. It gleamed.

He lifted the tool in Ilya’s direction.

Too late, some of her confusion fled. Ilya didn’t recognize whatever it was the man was holding, but he was holding it and pointing it right at her. That fact registered in a way as nothing else had that night.

I’m not supposed to be here! she thought. It was her second truly clear thought of the evening.

She remembered suddenly what she had said to her mama and papa earlier, too … and she felt ashamed and mortally frightened. They would never look for her now. No one would look for her.

She turned to run. Her mouth opened to scream.

Before she could do either, an incredible, glaringly bright light fell upon her.

The light enveloped her, like a million flashing cameras going off at once. For an instant Ilya could see her shadow stretched out and racing ahead of her at a blinding, inhuman speed. The ground beneath her feet disappeared, and a moment later the Russian girl felt herself falling. Falling into an absolute darkness. Falling into nothingness.

The man who shot Ilya lowered the device and stuffed it back into his pocket.

Powdery snow so dry it wouldn’t stick blew around him. He raised his hands and blew on them for warmth, unwittingly imitating the girl who had been standing there a few moments before. No longer, though.

Grunting with mild effort, the man reached down and picked up the girl’s cheap coat—empty now—and watched as the rest of her clothes trapped underneath were caught in a sudden gust and blown apart.

He tossed the coat into the air and watched it fly away too.

Hoping for some shelter from the wind, he backed into the same corner his pick-up had been crouching in. He was expecting another girl to show up sometime before dawn. He hoped she would hurry.

It wasn’t a safe neighborhood to be in at night.

Hours passed. In time the street became empty again. It remained empty until, as predicted, the neighborhood children came out to play. One of them found Ilya’s abandoned coat and considered herself a lucky girl.

It was going to be a good day.

Sandra was reviewing budget requests when she heard the knock at her door. Carl poked his head through and asked if he could have a few minutes. The look on his face told her it was going to be bad news.

Goddammit, she thought. “Tell me it’s not that bad.”

The hospital’s radiation physicist shook his head sitting down.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, doc,” he said. “I honestly don’t. I can’t find a drain anywhere along the system. It doesn’t make sense.” He settled in front of Sandra’s desk like a man defeated in battle. His eyes were puffy and tired.

Sandra turned and looked out her office window. “Goddammit,” she whispered, this time out loud.

We’ll have to shut it down, she thought, grimacing at the idea. That’s all there is to it. The Varian Clinac 2500 Linear Accelerator was one of the most expensive single pieces of equipment in the hospital, a highly specialized medical machine capable of beaming up to 24 megavoltages of X-rays… except now it wasn’t. They would have to have the trustees’ people come in, all of whom would no doubt scream at her for doing nothing while their precious machine decided to stop working. And she would have to talk to the insurance people, too, who would of course scream bloody murder and try to weasel out of payment. It was Monday, and already Sandra’s week was ruined.

“It could be a factory problem,” Carl said after a moment, and she turned back from the window to look at him. “I called Collins over at Rush-Presbyterian, to see if he’d ever heard of this problem, and he told me their TeleTherapy system was on the fritz too. Same thing at Northwestern, weirdly enough.”

Great, Sandra thought. That made the rescheduling problem even worse. Everyone would be calling in now.

“That’s hard to believe,” she said a moment later. “The Varian’s a proven model. They couldn’t all be out at the same time, could they? There are too many of them.” Her real worry had nothing to do with insurance or trustees or anything like that, of course. It was the patients. The Oncology Department treated dozens of patients a day—hundreds on occasion—and for some of them missing radiation therapy was no mere inconvenience. It was a matter of life and death. Everything would have to be rescheduled, patients sent elsewhere for treatment. It would be a nightmare.

Carl shrugged in response. “What do you want me to do, Doctor Pitzler?”

Dr. Sandra Pitzler looked at the clock on her desk. It was late. The engineer had been working on the Varian all day.

“All right,” she said. “As of right now, the E.B.R. room is off-limits. The insurance people won’t cover our policy if we go monkeying around with the emitter too much. I’ll have my assistant get started calling patients.” Mine and everyone else’s, she thought, wincing. “You call the company and start threatening. If it is their fault, I want somebody’s head, on a platter, delivered to me first thing tomorrow morning. This is intolerable.”

“Yeah.” Carl got up, yawning. “Tomorrow, then.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Dr. Pitzler. I wish I had more to say.”

Sandra sighed, then smiled. “I know. I’ll see you, bright and early. Bring your guillotine.”

The physicist laughed and said goodnight. Sandra called her assistant after he was gone and told her the bad news.

Sandra had become the hospital’s Chief of Oncology a year ago. At thirty-eight, she had been considered a tad too young for the position… either that or it had been her gender. There had been resistance over her promotion among the staff, nothing overtly prejudicial, but certainly the cause of a good deal of coolness among her colleagues. Her male colleagues, mostly. Sandra wondered what they would say when they heard about the linear accelerator, and if they would use it for ammunition to criticize her job performance. She didn’t see how they could, though. She had heard about the problem for the first time on Friday when one of the therapists reported a loss of power. The emitter simply hadn’t produced enough X-rays during the session. Carl had come in to check on it, at Sandra’s request, and for a few hours it seemed to be working fine again. Then the same loss of power occurred today, and Sandra ordered the machine examined more closely, causing the first in what she knew now was going to be a series of massive reschedulings. But she had no choice. No matter what, the emitter wouldn’t rise anywhere about 15 MV.

She considered. Some of her patients didn’t need anywhere near that level of radiation. Perhaps if they continued to service them and rescheduled… No, she thought a second later. It’s too dangerous. If the machine’s down, it’s down. Nobody should use it. For all she knew, the thing might blow up the next time somebody turned it on.

Sandra picked up the phone and debated about which of her inconvenienced colleagues she should call first. None of them, she decided: she called home instead. “I’ll be home around eleven,” she said.

“That’s cool,” her daughter, Rosalie, replied. “Is it okay if I have Shauna over? We can order a pizza and study.”

Sandra smiled. “You had pizza two nights ago… and no, Shauna may not come over. It’s still a school night, you know.” The bubbly teen groaned dramatically back at her over the phone.

“Oh, Mom, c’mon. We’ll study, I totally, seriously promise.” Sandra imagined they would, too, at least for a few hours. Rosalie was a good kid. “Please!”

She sighed. “All right, but make sure Shauna has a decent ride home this time. I don’t want her taking the train again late at night. It’s not safe.”

“She’ll have her dad pick her up,” Rosalie said quickly, obviously not wanting Mom to change her mind. “Okay, I’ll miss ‘ya, see you later, bye!” Click.

Sandra laughed lightly. She put the phone down and took a deep breath. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She turned to her computer and called up the names of all the doctors who would be affected. She had to scroll down the screen to see the entire list. Sighing, resigning herself, Sandra picked up the phone again and began dialing.

Three hours and several terrible conversations later she finished, at least for the evening.

Rubbing her eyes, Sandra got her coat and locked her office door behind her. She spoke briefly to Annie and gave her assistant some last minute directions. She also thanked her for staying so long after normal hours.

“Make sure you have a ride home, dear.”

The pretty blonde smiled. “I will, Dr. Pitzler. My boyfriend’s picking me up. Have a good evening.”

“You too.” Sandra yawned through her teeth and walked through the subdued lights of her office wing. The hospital floor was quiet. Sandra spoke to one of the nurses on duty about Mrs. Miller in I.C. and then went there herself to check her chart. She made a notation and was almost out the door when she stopped. Sandra hated leaving problems for the next day. She knew she couldn’t do anything about the Varian, but that wouldn’t make it any easier to sleep that night. Abruptly, she turned right and started toward the External Beam Radiation room. She had to see for herself.

She found herself almost praying the problem would be a factory malfunction. It would give her a chance to take her frustration out on someone responsible.

The room was unlocked when she got there. The lights were on, too. She could see them from underneath the door.

Wondering if Carl was still there, Dr. Pitzler opened the door and went in.

The room was divided into two sections, a control center and, beyond a thick curtain of glass, the accelerator’s gantry. Two men Sandra didn’t recognize were standing next to it. They stiffened when she came in.

“Excuse me,” she said sternly, looking them over. Both were wearing scrubs, but they weren’t doctors in her department, nor orderlies. She had never seen either of them before. “Can I help you?” one of them said, gulping.

They both had round faces and were beginning to go bald. They looked so much alike they could have been brothers.

“I’m Dr. Pitzler. Can I help you?”

Neither of the men said anything. They looked at each other, guiltily, Sandra thought.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Sandra asked. She looked around and saw a telephone extension on a nearby desk. She moved towards it.

The second man took one step forward, his hands up near his chest, twitching.

“I… we… ah,” he stammered. “We… work here, yes!”

“Yes, we work,” the other said, the one who had spoken first. They had odd accents.

“I don’t think so,” Sandra said, keeping an eye on them. “Just stay right there. I’m calling security.” She glanced down for just a moment as she picked up the phone. “Neither of you are supposed to be in here.”

She had a strange thought. Maybe it wasn’t a malfunction with the Varian after all. Maybe it was sabotage?

Anything was possible. The world was full of crazy people.

“No… do not call,” the first man said, trying to smile. He was short and pudgy and reminded Sandra of a character from a story she had read in college, The Catbird Seat, or something like that. He looked like a cartoon figure, the comical accountant stereotype brought to life. All he was missing was the green half-visor to complete the picture.

“We leave now,” the other added. They moved toward the door.

As they did, Sandra was able to see behind them and get a better look at the accelerator. One of its sides was opened up. They had been fooling around with the machine. “Neither of you are going anywhere,” she said.

She heard the phone ring, once. That was when she felt something cold press against the back of her neck.

She never knew what hit her.

Abruptly, all the strength fell out of Sandra’s arms and legs. She fell.

What the… ? The doctor released a small gasp and collapsed in a boneless heap on the floor, her muscles suddenly and completely unresponsive.

She couldn’t move at all!

Her body felt like a heavy, wet towel. Her muscles wouldn’t engage. They wouldn’t respond in the slightest way. It was as if she had been fit with a spinal block.

Her head rolled up—the motion was left over from her fall—and saw a third man standing behind her. He was identical in appearance to the other two. Sandra heard the phone placed back on its hook. The door to the hall was closed.

Exerting every ounce of willpower she had, Sandra made a strong effort to sit up.

It was no use. She had gone as limp as a rag doll. She couldn’t even close her eyes.

One of the men—she couldn’t see which one—spoke. It wasn’t English he spoke in, though, nor any other language Sandra could identify. It sounded like gargling, actually. It sounded like he was bringing up phlegm with each liquid-sounding syllable. One of the others responded with the same weird sound, however, and then they were all gurgling at one another, as if they were arguing and spewing up food at the same time. The second man stood over Sandra and looked down at her.

He sneered and sputtered something to his friends. He raised a strange tool, something Sandra hadn’t seen him carrying when she walked in. It was metallic and oval-shaped like the back of a silver beetle. He pointed the tool at Sandra.

Panic flared in her eyes—Oh my God, it’s a gun! He’s going to shoot me!—but nothing happened. All the device did when he pulled the trigger was make a harmless buzzing noise. The milquetoast little man stared at her, bewildered, then stared at the device in his hand. He shook it as he would a TV remote control that had malfunctioned.

He aimed it again at the doctor. Again, the device buzzed, harmlessly.

One of the man’s buddies gargled at him in a tone even the doctor recognized as disgust, as if the shooter had attempted something idiotic. The three men argued some more. Sandra tried to scream, but nothing would come out.

Why didn’t I leave? she thought, panicked. Why didn’t I turn around when I saw men here!?

You thought you could take care of the problem yourself, she answered herself a moment later. She was in charge. She was the doctor. She was Chief of Oncology. The responsibility was hers. But she had forgotten. She had forgotten one of her own basic rules. It was a thing she warned her daughter of every day, it sometimes seemed like.

Always make sure you have a ride home. Always make sure you watch out for yourself. Above all, always be careful.

Be safe.

Where was security? Why wasn’t anyone helping her?

Were they going to rape her? What had they done to her?

The doctor’s heart was racing inside her bosom, but her breathing remained shallow, normal. When the room’s edges began to go black, Sandra had to will herself to stay calm, to slow down her heartbeat before she passed out.

Terror threatened to overwhelm her, and in desperation she attempted an old trick from medical school, back in the days when the pressure of exams had caused her to suffer panic attacks.

She struggled to become clinical, to look at her predicament in a detached way and diagnose herself like a patient.

She was so scared, though. What had they done to her?!

Paralysis was a horrible, nightmarish state. As a physician, Sandra had treated many patients with varying degrees of the condition, some partial, others all but total, and while she had always given them her best attention and care, in the back of her mind she had still given thought to what life would be like for her if she were ever like that. Sandra had a living will made out, a document giving Rosalie the right to terminate certain of her body functions if she were ever in a coma or similar state, all laid out in medically precise terms and definitions. Sandra wasn’t afraid of that.

But paralysis! The legal and ethical problems were much more complex there. Life could be maintained almost indefinitely, oftentimes against the patient’s will… long, lingering lives of imprisonment within their own bodies. And no one under Sandra’s care had ever been so completely paralyzed as she was now!

She fought against a mindless fear. Precariously, teetering on the edge, she began listing points. They had paralyzed her somehow. Sandra wondered for a second if they had given her a spinal block of some kind, then dismissed the notion almost immediately. Whatever had happened happened in an instant, like getting hit by a bolt of lightning.

She wasn’t numb, either, thank God. Sandra could still feel everything, the cold floor beneath her, her clothes. That likely meant no permanent nerve damage. No spinal cord injury. She just couldn’t move. She had been instantly rendered immobile.

Nothing came to mind that could cause symptoms like that. Sandra focused on her heartbeat.

She couldn’t move, but her heart was still beating. She could still breathe. Whatever they had done to her had stopped her voluntary muscle control cold but left her autonomic systems untouched.

Maybe some exotic drug… .

The trio stopped gargling at one another. To her horror, two of them went around Sandra and picked her up while the third opened the hallway door, peered around its corner, and went out. He came back a few moments later with a gurney. The three of them put Sandra on it and drew a sheet over her head.

They’re taking me with them! she screamed inside. I’m being kidnapped!

They wheeled her through the door and outside. None of them spoke.

The hospital was deathly quiet. Sandra heard no one, not even any attending nurses or orderlies.

The sheet over her mouth rose and fell. She felt the sensations of movement—turnings, stoppings—and saw shaded lights through the covering, but she couldn’t tell where they were going. She knew when they got onto an elevator, but that was it. Between the dead silence and her obscured vision, Sandra lost all sense of direction.

Oh, please, please help me! she cried out silently, over and over. I can’t move!

The elevator went down, probably. A moment later the doors dinged open, and Sandra and her kidnappers were moving again. The new floor was even quieter than the one upstairs. Finally, after many minutes of uncertainty and unspoken panic, Sandra heard a final set of double doors pushed open and felt a rush of cold night air.

They were outside.

The sheet was briskly removed. Sandra was picked up by one of the men and carried. Her head lolled back unconcernedly, and she saw the morgue entrance lights above her. A large black car was waiting, with one of the three kidnappers behind the wheel. The doctor was quickly slipped into the back seat and followed in by the other two.

The car sped off.

Sandra had been put inside with her head face down, so she couldn’t see where they were going. She had been put atop the two men’s laps, in fact. Her face was practically in the groin of one of them. His penis throbbed beneath her lips.

You bastards, what have you done to me? she demanded silently, which was all she could do. Where are you taking me? Suddenly the doctor felt a sharp pain on her backside, accompanied by a loud slapping noise.

She had been spanked! The men gargled at one another in a way Sandra interpreted as laughter.

Pain and humiliation burned through her. The man who spanked her struck her twice more, in quick succession, and the stinging in her bottom became a roaring fire, the sensation made all the worse by her utter inability to express either pain or anger. She had never been spanked before in her life, not by her parents, certainly by no man.

The pain was nothing compared to the vulnerability of her situation, however, and the certainty with which it would invite rape. These men could assault her, she knew, and she had no way to prevent it. Dismay warred with her terror.

This can’t be happening, she thought. Oh, please, please, this can’t be happening. She thought of her daughter.

The men gurgled at one another. The more she listened to them, the more Sandra knew it couldn’t be natural. Her kidnappers spoke as if their lungs were filled with fluid and were trying to spit it out. She almost expected to feel warm phlegm hit her in the neck and shoulders. After a few minutes, the two in back flipped her over so she was looking up at their faces. As she was manhandled, she caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. For all the horror welling up inside her, her body’s outer expression said she might well have been asleep.

Her countenance proclaimed indifference. It was a total lie.

She had been more scared or humiliated.

They drove into the night. Sandra saw the familiar streets of Chicago pass outside the windows.

In her new position, Sandra was able to get a closer look at the men. She couldn’t help but stare at them. They were so drab and ordinary-looking it was hard to find words to describe them. They had rounded, pink features and almost no character lines in their faces. Their hair was a flat, mouse brown. Sandra couldn’t even tell how old they were. They could have been anywhere from their twenties to their fifties. They had perfect teeth… denture perfect. They looked like a pair of department-store mannequins.

Gurgling to his companion, the one supporting Sandra’s legs lifted up her skirt and parted her legs. At once the doctor attempted to scream again, to no avail. She was helpless as the dummy-like figure casually caressed her legs and stroked the inside of her thighs. Sandra sobbed mentally, hot and cold sensations crawling through her skin.

After a few minutes, the other man in back, the one supporting her head, began appraising her too. The man slipped Sandra’s coat off, then unbuttoned her blouse and the bra underneath. He cupped the doctor’s breasts and ran his thumb over her exposed nipples, tweaking them until they became erect and painfully sensitive.

The two of them massaged her soft flesh like experts, tickling and squeezing her and exciting Sandra against her will.

Sandra tried to ignore the feelings of her body. She struggled to tell herself it meant nothing, that it was an involuntary, mammalian reaction to stimulus, but these thoughts did nothing to stop the pleasure these men’s hands inspired, nor the way this reflexive feeling shamed her all the more. They pulled her panties down, and one of them inserted his fingers past the delicate and sensitive folds of flesh thereby uncovered. The man gently tickled her clitoris.

Sandra felt herself becoming wet, her body betraying her with its automatic lubrication, her uncontrollable arousal.

She prayed they wouldn’t take her unconscious stimulation as invitation to violate her further. Sandra’s mind moaned silently. After only a few minutes of manipulation, the men made Sandra curse herself as much as she did them.

Bastards! But though she struggled inside, her body remained as motionless as a life-size doll. She was their toy.

A burbled comment in front from the driver interrupted the assault. There was acknowledgement from the man holding Sandra’s head. The third man stopped fingering her and wiped his hand on her skirt. He made a motion she couldn’t see from her awkward position. They had all but removed every bit of her clothing, which lay in tatters around her.

A moment later one of them in back handed his companion a short, metal tube with a clear plastic end.

The thing looked a little like a flashlight, but Sandra suspected something else entirely. It had the same liquid design as the gun-device pointed at her in the E.B.R. room, though this tool was thinner and more sinister looking. For one horrible minute the doctor thought it was some weird kind of dildo, and that they were going to insert it into her… .

If they did, she would die, she would simply die, she’d never be able to take having that thing… .

The man holding the tube twisted it. It hummed.

The clear plastic end glowed. He switched it off.

Oh, please, please, no! Sandra’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of her frozen chest.

Contrary to her expectations, though, the man carefully lifted Sandra’s face up, cleared the hair away from her forehead, and pressed the end of the device against her bare skin. It was cold and reminded Sandra absurdly of a stethoscope.

She heard the thing hum again. Everything went a bright white.

The experience—brief though it must have been—felt like it lasted forever. It could only be considered in retrospect, for during its actual duration Sandra could neither sense nor think. Her head became hollow, and it was like a blazing liquid was poured inside her, filling up the vacuum of her mind with fluid light, a molten, shining ivory stream of ideas.

Though not in the least bit painful, it felt like having strobe lights attached to her eyes and turned on full blast. The light was everything. The light was the world, the men, the car… herself. It lasted hours… decades… millennia… .

Abruptly Sandra was back inside the car again. The man was lifting the tube from her forehead.

A cold, circular impression had been left behind by the contact.

An electrical tingling throughout her body prickled her skin into goosebumps.

Sandra still couldn’t move. She tried again, hoping that the… the whatever-it-was had somehow freed her, but it hadn’t. Her captors talked with more liquidy sounds, though it seemed now there was something different about it.

The quality of the gargling noises had changed. It sounded familiar now, as if she were listening to the sounds through a filter she hadn’t had before. There was a musical cadence to the splashes she had missed earlier.

What just happened? Sandra asked herself, calmly. She felt… strange. She felt drugged.

One of the men reached to the cleft between her legs and delicately pulled her fleshy petals apart again. He stroked Sandra’s clit, once, and such a thrilling wave of sensation passed through the doctor that her assaulter’s hands were immediately soaked in hot, warm juices. Sandra’s vulva felt swollen. The tingling in her skin passed quickly, but the feeling of arousal hands remained. Her breasts felt fuller, her nipples tighter, and the wetness between her thighs was, if anything, increasing, though the men were not using her beyond a common petting.

Using? she thought. Petting? Those were strange words for her to, well, use.

They seemed… inappropriate.

Didn’t they?

Sandra suddenly found herself hoping the men would speak again. But they were stubbornly silent now, as if by knowing she wanted to listen to them, they were keeping quiet deliberately. She remained naked on their laps, but after a few minutes of this vulnerability, the doctor gradually stopped noticing it. It no longer felt like such a big thing anymore.

Her nakedness felt, actually, increasingly comfortable, and when the men removed from her the last shreds of her outfit, the air on her exposed breasts and pussy felt relaxing after having been kept confined for so long and needlessly.

Something’s wrong, Sandra said to herself. The drugged feeling was not going away. It was getting stronger.

She no longer felt as angry or as violated anymore, though she certainly had a right to be.

After several minutes, she realized, sickly, the feeling she did have was a growing feeling of mellowness.

She was being held by men, and being held by men felt good.

No. No. That’s wrong, that’s just… wrong. But it was true, and it was getting harder and harder to deny.

Sandra’s world spun as she tried to cope with these unwanted feelings. Her eyes, meanwhile, continued to gaze blankly at Chicago’s brightly lit buildings, then darkened ones, and then a lot of the city she didn’t recognize at all. She was lost, both inside and out. Fifteen minutes later the car turned onto a side street and stopped.

The driver got out, and Sandra heard the sound of a garage door opening. They drove inside into deeper darkness, and then, finally, she heard the men speak to one another again as the outside door was pulled down.

The men in the back seat got out, and she was left there. The doors were wide open.

Sandra stared at the car ceiling as they started to argue. It seemed she recognized a fourth voice now, a new person, though speaking in the same underwater sewage dialect. Knowing there were more of them was bad. Wanting to see that male voice was even worse. Sandra was suddenly, and inappropriately, horny as hell.

She wished she could move again. Not to escape so much this time, though, as merely to squeeze her thighs together a little, or to touch her breasts or her clit. A very deep, very intense sexual itch was growing within her.

No, no, this isn’t possible, she thought, as she recognized this awful lust. I couldn’t possibly be attracted… I couldn’t… . She couldn’t complete the thought. It was too terrible. She was having hot feelings for the men who had assaulted her, for a man she hadn’t even seen yet, who might want to rape her—use her—too.

Sandra felt dirty. She felt hot and dirty. She felt like a slut.

What in God’s name have they done to me? she asked for the hundredth time now.

One of the men gargled. Frightened, Sandra found herself understanding a little of what they were saying.

Gurgle: “Interrogatory?” There was an angry undertone.

More gurgling and gargling. Sandra recognized her first abductor’s voice: “Response. Accident.”

Her terror, which had for the last several minutes been winding down, the passage of adrenaline replaced by shocked fatigue and the effects of her strange, trance-like stupor, bloomed anew with her unexpected comprehension. One of her captors—the driver, she saw—came back, reached in, and pulled her out unceremoniously, dumping her body to the floor. She was in a warehouse, she observed. It could have been any one of hundreds in the city. She could see the four men discussing her now.

The fourth man, the new one, didn’t look like the others, who for some reason now she thought looked like Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, only with a third figure, Tweedle-Dummer, added. The new man was dressed in a business suit and had dark hair and a mustache. He looked younger than the triplets, but he was certainly the one in charge. The others wilted visibly beneath his verbal assault.

He pointed at Sandra and gurgled: “Interrogatory-accusation?!”

It’s not his native language, she understood. It is for the others, but not him. Then, on the heels of this thought, How did I know that? Sandra thought about the device they had used on her in the car.

Her first captor spoke up. “Noncompliance. Failure.”

The businessman replied in equally liquid, sibilant tones. He was obviously angry, and his language—if it could be called that—was littered with intonations of implied incompetence. Sandra’s second captor gestured at her and articulated a fluid, “Danger-Opportunity.” The third man said nothing. He just looked down humbly, admitting his failure.

The businessman suddenly lashed out and struck the second captor in the face, knocking him to the ground. The driver still didn’t budge, but his companion did, stepping forward and raising his fists. The businessman stopped him. He simply reached out and touched the guy on the arm. The man fell as if poleaxed. Sandra saw a small metal device in the leader’s hand gripped between his thumb and forefinger. It looked like the cigarette lighter from a car. The end was glowing, bright and ruby-like.

The second man made an effort to get to his feet, and the businessman bent down and touched him on the back of his neck with the tool. In a flash of clarity, Sandra understood this was the same tool they had used on her. Her second captor collapsed next to the first. His eyes were open, like hers, blank and staring.

The driver backed away, hands out non-threateningly. Liquidly, he said (or emitted sounds to the effect), “Surrender. Compliance.”

The businessman looked at him, decided he wasn’t a threat, then turned and shouted at the two at his feet, each now as helplessly immobile as Sandra. “Declaration!” he shouted—it sounded silly, but that’s what Sandra heard—and kicked one of the paralyzed men. “Description! Incompetence!”

Though he stiffened at the attack on his paralyzed companions, Sandra’s third abductor kept his distance.

The businessman breathed deeply, then turned and walked over to Sandra. He hunkered down beside her and examined her. Oh God, she thought, trying desperately just to shiver. The man lightly took hold of her head and turned Sandra to face him straight-on. He was young, she judged, in his mid-twenties. He was very attractive. Well-muscled.

He was a very attractive man. As he stood again, Sandra’s glance brushed over his groin, and an unexpected warmth passed through her. Sandra’s nipples hardened again, painfully, and her pussy began tingling strongly.

No. No, that’s not real. That’s something they’ve done to me!

The businessman talked to his remaining subordinate. “Interrogatory?” Sandra understood he was now asking about her specifically. Who was she? Tell me everything you know. The driver spoke in liquid splashes, and she knew he was describing the incident in the therapy room. The attention of both men—two highly attractive, desirable men—made the doctor nervous and, in a daring acknowledgment, hot and sexy. Oh God, I’m terrible, terrible.

She felt her pussy becoming wet again, and a growing yearning emerged between her thighs.

The feelings she had had to have come from that metal tube, somehow. Her nipples throbbed painfully. Her mouth felt horribly dry. They had done something to her in the car. They had made her understand them better, but that was only part of it. Her breasts felt like they were swelling. Their raging heat was making her sweat, making her feel even more sluttish, and the more she thought about it, the greater that sluttishness felt. Unable to move, though, unable to relieve any bit of the heat building inside her, made Sandra so frustrated she soon believed she would die, literally die, if neither of them touched her soon. She would have begged the men if possible. She would have begged them to touch her.

Begged them to use her.

The men’s liquidy syllables became more and more understandable with each increase in her lust, it seemed.

“Can’t reverse program.” That was the leader speaking.

The driver: “Waste, not waste.” The other’s tone signaled agreement, grudgingly. He said I should be used, Sandra thought. That I should be used, since they had already—but this part of the sentence she still didn’t completely understand. It sounded like “translation.” The doctor found it hard to think past that point, however, for the thought of being used—what a lovely word, used—sent such a warm shuddery feeling through her that she almost consciousness.

So caught up was she in lust, Sandra almost didn’t catch the command: “Direction—put with others. Let translate.”

“Compliance,” the driver responded, and he bent to pick Sandra up. His touch, so objectionable a few minutes before, now felt incredibly good, incredibly delicious, incredibly appropriate.

He carried Sandra across the warehouse floor and into a smaller office section. There were several tables in the room—long hospital tables, she recognized—and he put her down on one. The helpless feeling of being unable to move, of being just a living doll beneath his fingers, only increased the fiery feelings of desire these men had ignited inside her.

The ache-need between her legs had become so great she would have done anything to relieve it.

If he releases me now, she thought, I’ll jump him and fuck him till he’s blind!

The man straightened Sandra out on the table. His fingers brushed over her engorged nipples, and she felt yet another wave of stimulation pass through her. She was sweating all over, she realized, especially between her legs. The man couldn’t help but notice her arousal, but he seemed to take it in stride, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. He said something to her, and Sandra made out the word “slut.” It was the first word she completely understood in his language, with no margin of error. He had called her a slut. Even more helpless warmth came with the realization.

The man seemed about to pick her up again when he paused. He smiled. It was a dopey-looking grin on account of his rounded features. He put a hand to one of Sandra’s breasts and squeezed it painfully.

Uncontrollably, the doctor’s sex got damper. In some horrible, perverse way, her body found the hard pinch exhilarating. Sandra’s captor leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Explanation. Translation. Programming, first-step.” He removed his hand from her tit, reached down out of Sandra’s sight, and brought up a lighter-tool like the one the businessman had used on his colleagues. “Fight, do not fight,” he gurgled. “Command. Satisfaction. Slut, use.”

He stepped away from the table and dropped his pants. He then took the tool and pressed it to Sandra’s stomach.

It hummed.

And like a switch had been turned back on, Sandra found she could move again.

She sat bolt upright on the table and screamed.

It was a cry as much of frustrated passion and sexual desire as it was terror and sudden relief. The driver grabbed Sandra and held her down, climbing on top of the table with her. At the same time he clamped a hand over her mouth, which mitigated the noise she made but did not stop it. Sandra kicked and struggled. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to mount her captor—plunge his thick, scrumptious cock deep down inside her—or scratch his eyes out. Maybe both at the same time.

Either way, Tweedle-Dummer proved stronger than she was. Sandra’s abductor pulled the doctor’s arms over her head and pinned them down casually with his hand. Simultaneously, he split her quivering thighs open with his own.

Unable to stop herself, Sandra squirmed enticingly beneath her attacker.

His mouth clamped down into the hollow of her throat. His other hand was all over her, gripping and pinching at her breasts. She gasped when she felt his penis touch the tender outer lips of her sex.

This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening! Sandra’s mind repeated to her, over and over. Her pussy was boiling hot. Her nipples were rock hard, her clit swollen, the mixed pleasure and pain igniting her body, filling her with wave after wave of involuntary, mind-drowning ecstasy. She climaxed upon penetration, screaming aloud her passions.

“Oh… Oh God, stop, oh, please, Please! Oh, God, no, No! NO! Oh, OH, OHHH!”

Wildly, she began sucking and rubbing against his face, arching her back, and writhing her body sinuously beneath his hands. Her clitoris throbbed with the force of her first orgasm. She gasped, panting like a bitch in heat. She whimpered in pleasure and denial. The doctor could hardly believe what was happening to her. She was being raped. She was being violated. And yet, earnestly, fervently, she found herself responding to her captor’s touch with total abandon, her body reduced by his coarse ministrations to a vessel of mere impulse, of pure animal sensation.

Never had sex felt so good before. Never had Sandra felt so hot, so obviously, painfully needy, and desperate for the touch of a man. The unfamiliar sensations demanded of her were humiliatingly intense, driving her deeper and deeper into a submission never before conceived.

“Oh, please, please, don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

This isn’t real. This can’t be happening! The man’s cock continued to piston further and further into her. She thought he would never stop. She kissed at the man atop her, mouth open and wild against his skin, her tongue lapping at his delicious, masculine vigor. Her pussy clenched around his shaft, desperately aching to pull more and more of him inside her. He gave one more sudden and intense shove, savagely, and she screamed beneath his spread fingers.

“Oh, yes, yes, oh My GOD, YES, YES… YESSS!!”

She climaxed again, uncontrollably. She was totally at her captor’s mercy, totally an instrument for his pleasure. The man leaned over Sandra’s spasming body, sucking on each of her red-hot nipples in turn, no longer bothering to keep her arms down or her mouth shut. Unbidden, her hands clutched at his back, drawing him nearer to her blazing form.

The juices from her enflamed cunt squirted out between them. Their flesh glistened wetly where it joined.

Multiple orgasms shot through her, each radically surpassing in their intensity any similar feelings from her past. The pleasure was a physical thing unto itself, a sensation so great it took root inside her. It awoke feelings, needs, desires in her flesh that Sandra could barely name, let alone understand. She was being used… and she was relishing in the fact.

She would never be able to look at herself the same way again.

Every nerve-ending in her body felt alive, woken up, shocked into an awareness of itself that now stirred could never again be forgotten. She moaned, not so much from either the pain or the degradation of her assault as from a simple awe of her newfound appetites.

Her rapist’s touch made her squirm like an animal. His touch reduced her to mindless obedience.

His touch was turning her into a slave.

When the man pushed off at last, Sandra could barely think. She lay on the table like a rag-doll, limper now than when she had been paralyzed. She felt empty, drained of strength… fucked. Fucked well and fucked totally.

And, horribly, part of her wanted him to do it again. The hunger in her loins had only been cooled, not extinguished.

The world spun. Part of Sandra was in denial, unable to face what had just happened, unable to face her enjoyment of it, either. Another part was wondering what was going to happen next. What were they going to do to her next?

The doctor’s mind had begun to turn in upon itself when she felt herself picked up again.

Sandra’s rapist carried her to a wide metal door set in the wall, like a vault. It was padlocked. When he got there, he threw the doctor to the floor and shouted at her, but she didn’t understand his words, and she just lay there, stunned into submission. The memory of her forced orgasms made her shake and drowned out all other thoughts.

A second shout snapped the doctor out of her burgeoning trance state. She understand the words better, too, this time: “Kneel slut!” She did so, obeying an instinct welling up inside her.

She waited, shivering, feeling well-used.

The man unlocked the door and opened it. “Get in!” he ordered.

Sandra didn’t know what to do. Part of her wanted to get up and run, escape into the street, not caring that she was as naked as a jaybird. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see her daughter again. She wanted to be comforted.

And yet, at the same time, all Sandra wanted to do was obey, because this was a man who had had the rightful use of her, had in fact finished using her, and moreover she had been given an order, and she… she was just a… a… .

There was no time to finish the thought. The driver kicked Sandra in the side to hurry her up, and without even realizing it, Sandra got down to her hands and knees and crawled through the open door. She barely had time to realize there were others inside the vault with her when the door slammed shut again, and she was in almost complete darkness.

The doctor began crying suddenly, great welling sobs drawn from her very soul. Sandra fell to the metal floor and shook, shuddering all over, her unexpected feelings of sexual need and sluttishness forgotten.

When she felt a hand press against her neck, Sandra screamed aloud and tried to back up through the door. She felt soft hands, feminine hands, press against her and hold her. Voices whispered and told her that it was all right. The men were gone, and she was safe for the moment. Sandra cried for a very long time.

Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the cell. The room, she saw, was filled with women.

There were twenty or thirty women, at least. Blondes and brunettes, small women, large women, busty women… women of all ethnicities, and all as naked as she was.

And beautiful, every one. They were all at least ten to fifteen years younger than the doctor. Some seemed barely out of their teens. Sandra felt out of place. She noticed not one of them was standing up. All of them were on their sides or on their knees, but not one of them was on her feet. That she herself remained on her knees was lost on her.

One of the kneeling women, shyly, crawled forward and tenderly reached out a hand to Sandra’s face.

Sandra drew back and almost turned away but for the girl’s comforting manner. But then she did scream again, loudly, when the girl asked her a question… in the same liquid-syllable tones as the men who had captured her!

The women, and the girl who had spoken to Sandra, hesitated at the new screech of terror. The girl spoke again, softer, seemingly apologetic for the language she had to use. She seemed to offer herself, and a moment later her offer was accepted. Sandra fell into the young girl’s arms and sobbed like a baby, and she was consoled, as best could be.

The girl—she seemed to be in her early twenties, if that—spoke to Sandra again after the first great rush of emotions passed, a catharsis which left the doctor feeling even more hollow and empty inside. In fluid tones, but with thick consonants, her fellow captive asked: “Russian?” Sandra shook her head.

“I… I’m an American,” she said. “What… what’s happening to me? Where am I?” And she began crying again.

Another woman crawled over with a bowl of water and got Sandra’s attention by gesturing toward her eyes. Sandra realized that her eyes were indeed hurting, from staring open so long, obviously. She was thirsty too. She used the water to soothe herself. She was so worried about Rosalie. What was she going to think when she didn’t come home?

Sandra tried to stand, and for the first time the women in the cell looked alarmed. The Russian girl—Sandra thought she sounded Russian—clutched at her hand. The woman who had brought the bowl clutched at the other, and together they pulled Sandra back to her knees. The Russian said something to her like, “Can’t stand. Must kneel,” in the gurgling but universal tongue of their owners and masters. Sandra’s understanding of Language increased with every word of it spoken.

She stayed on her knees. After a time she came to understand that the women were right.

Kneeling did feel much more appropriate than standing.