The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

LoeserTech, a company which derived more than ordinary pleasure from its industry-wide nickname “Loser Tech,” had, despite the moniker, achieved for itself a comfortable niche in the competitive field of entertainment electronics. The company’s products were almost exclusively supplementals to existing computer games: add-ons which boosted performance or otherwise allowed video-game players to do things never envisioned by the game manufacturers themselves, such as, for instance, winning. The licensing fees LoeserTech paid for the privilege of building on other people’s works were exorbitant. Despite this, what the company produced sold well and earned for its stockholders a reasonable, if modest, profit. Thus, a mere four years after its founding in a hacker’s backroom study, LoeserTech had more than enough capital to purchase its own building and set up in-house production there.

The LoeserTech building sat on its own acreage of land in semi-rural Oregon. The countryside was pristine. Low hills and green fields dominated. The building proper was a two-story structure and surrounded by a stone fence selected more for its rustic appearance than for any ability it had for keeping people or animals out. More than one employee gazing out a window had seen deer grazing on the grounds. The real security was inside, handled primarily through electronic surveillance and concentrated in vital areas like R&D and the labs. Overall, the building remained as it had been envisioned by its architects—low-key and out-of-the-way. Only two security guards were needed to roam the halls at night.

Darren Straughan lighted an empty coffee lounge briefly with his flashlight.

Seeing nothing other than chairs, tables, and a few suggestive posters of famous video-game heroines, the watchman closed and locked the door behind him. He crossed the dark room humming tunelessly. He drew a security key from the small box near the door on the other side of the room and checked his watch. He was right on time, as usual. He inserted the key into the lock on his belt, heard it click, then went out into the main hall adjoining the lobby. He jiggled the lock on the door behind on his way out.

He always jiggled. Better safe than sorry was his motto. Most of the time.

The guard let out a brief yawn and smiled. This was the best time on his shift. He had let the cleaning staff out an hour ago, and he had finished his second rotation around the building. He could replace his partner Max at the front desk and put up his feet for a few hours… if the younger man was there. He sighed. Darren hadn’t complained about his partner’s occasional nighttime visitors, yet, but they still worried him. He had regretted taking the few bucks the new guy slipped him almost from the start. It had been a mistake, obviously. It implicated him in Max’s goings-on.

Darren was a family man. He needed this job, and he definitely didn’t need the aggravation of his new partner using their mutual shift to try out excerpts from the Penthouse forum page.

Just lately, Max had been slacking off more and more, too, probably because he knew Darren didn’t quite dare turn him in anymore. Nevertheless, he had made his displeasure known to the younger man when he caught him two weeks ago with a redheaded slut who looked like she might still have been in high school. He broke the two of them up and made Max promise never to bring in anyone else. So far his partner had kept that promise.

Why was it, then, that Darren felt anxious whenever he was out on patrol and he had to leave Max alone at the desk?

Darren yawned again and closed his eyes, walking on automatic. He had been a guard at LoeserTech since the building opened. The place was out in the boondocks, and it was a long drive in every evening from Baker, but the scenery was nice, and, aside from having to break in a new partner every seven or eight months, it was Darren’s dream job. It was very quiet. Nothing ever happened. Actually, he hardly ever even saw anyone who worked there during the day. Dr. Brafford was the only one who worked nights, but he stayed pretty much to himself in his lab. Darren and whomever his current partner was usually had the place all to themselves. Most, he had found, could not take the quiet and long hours for very long. It got to them. Darren, though, liked the time alone. For the first year he had continued going to college, but after a while he quit, not seeing the point anymore. He already had everything he needed. His wife was working steady, they had put money down on a new house, and the kid was turning out all right. What did he need school for? Still, Nancy was always getting on him to go back, and maybe he would, some day. You should have been a doctor, his mother was always telling him, too. Or a lawyer. You could go back to school and become a lawyer. Darren smiled.

He could picture the two of them conspiring at home while he was out, hatching ways to get him to go back to college. He liked that they cared so much, but, really, he… .

Darren had turned the corner to the lobby, still humming. Then he paused, stopping in mid-step, mid-thought. Harshly whispering, he muttered, “You dirty son of a bitch.”

The security desk in the middle of the lobby was empty. Moonlight streamed in through the clear glass windows making up the first-floor front of the building. Darren’s partner was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit,” Darren said, louder, and stalked over to the abandoned desk.

I knew this was going to happen. I knew it… I knew it… I knew it.

In his experience, the newbies he partnered with either could not take the quiet and long, empty hours… or they tried to take advantage of them. Some slept. Some played video games. His current partner liked to fuck underage girls.

I swear to God, Darren thought, if I catch him with someone, I’m gonna kill him.

Darren’s eyes raked the empty hallway from side to side. He saw no one. Shit, if Max gets me fired, I really will kill him. This was as flagrant a violation of security as the watchman could imagine.

He briefly thought about calling Max on the handheld radios they both carried and ordering him to haul his ass back and fast, but he dismissed the notion almost immediately. He didn’t want to risk Dr. Brafford hearing. Okay, Darren thought. Okay. Where would I go for a nighttime rendezvous?

He slammed his flashlight hard against the abandoned desk. Someplace nearby and outside the high security areas, he hoped, and Christ! not near the production areas, shit, there are automatic sensors there and everything!

Darren was so furious he almost didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. But he did. He whirled on his heels, expecting to see either his erstwhile partner or his latest teenybopper. Darren opened his mouth to shout a curse. Instead, he stopped. Stopped cold, then hot.

For a long moment the security guard stared at the figure in front of him. There was no helping it. His eyes widened, bulging. His mouth went dry. His hand, which had been clenched around his flashlight, opened. The tool rolled across the surface of the desk and fell to the floor with a loud bang, unheard.

Darren felt his face grow red.

A naked woman was walking toward him from the tech wing. She was smiling.

Darren did a double-take. Almost naked: the woman was wearing black high-heeled shoes, “fuck me” pumps that made her long and velvety smooth legs seem even longer and more beautiful than they already were. Their tapping across the tile floor was what had alerted him.

The woman stopped and posed before him. Her smile widened further.

Darren found it difficult to breathe. The woman’s thigh-length hair fluttered around a shapely waist. She sighed and lifted her breasts, drawing in her stomach and straightening her back in one easy motion the sight of which sent electric thrills coursing through the watchman’s body. The woman’s figure was perfect. Her breasts were high and firmly rounded. Her nipples poked out like little bullets, bobbing up and down with each heated breath. The fleshy lips of her naked, hairless pussy, framed between exquisite dancer’s legs, pulsated with visible desire.

One lithe arm stretched out toward Darren. The other remained snug behind the woman’s back. She turned slightly, and for a timeless moment the sinuous lines of her trim and saucy backside were tantalizingly glimpsed. And yet, despite the woman’s overwhelming beauty, the quality which most drew Darren’s attention was simply the color of her skin.

She was green.

Emerald green.

Iridescent green, from delicate hand to petite foot.

Even in the dim light of an empty lobby in the middle of the night, there could be no mistaking the woman’s eerie, unnatural complexion.

The woman was green.

My God, Darren thought, thunderstruck. My God. His mouth hung open like a fish. Blood rushed to his head.

After a minute of frank appraisal, the woman smiling even brighter with the security guard’s stunned reaction to her, she said something. Her words were unfathomable, though, and flew past Darren barely recognized by him as speech.

“Akito keno karalti?” She tilted her head to one side coquettishly. “Akito dunugu momikki?”

She’s green, he thought. His eyes never drifted from her. She’s green.

In some distant part of his mind, Darren had the thought that maybe Max and his latest conquest had been playing with paints, that maybe they had been involved in some kind of weird sex game. He had heard of such things, though he had never quite dared suggest any to Nancy. But as the woman stepped closer and repeated her question (“Akito keno karalti?”), he saw clearly that that couldn’t be it.

This woman wasn’t wearing green paint or green latex or anything like that, no more than she was wearing any clothing.

She was simply green… naturally green… perfectly green, like an alien from a cheap scifi flick.

Darren’s erection came on so strong he grunted, half in pain, half pleasure.

A red cloud slipped past his vision. The haze did incredible things to the strange female’s outerworldly appearance. Darren’s teeth clenched. He raised one hand—he wasn’t sure which—and saw that it was trembling. He found at the same time he was soaking—drowning—in perspiration.

“Who… who are you?” he whispered, then couldn’t help but moan, sure that he would come in his pants like some overeager teenager. God, what kind of perfume does she have on?

The woman took a step closer, within grasping distance, in fact, and Darren’s arms at once ached to pull her in closer. She was shorter than he was. She looked up into his face, and for the first time Darren got a close look at her eyes. He shivered in mixed fear and delight. Her eyes, like everything else about her, were green, but they were a fiery solid green, without irises, pupils, or whites.

The woman’s eyes, in other words, were as blank and featureless as the eyes of a statue.

Despite their utter blankness, though, Darren knew he was being seen. He could tell from the woman’s face and her seductive grin. Her hair was bluish-green and appeared like glimmering silk. The watchman longed to plunge his hands through it. His whole body was shaking. He had never felt so warm and shaky in his life. He felt that if this woman so much as touched him, he would go up in a burst of flame.

“Momikki,” she said softly, in a voice as pretty and doll-like as a little girl’s. It was a statement.

Darren was about to say something back—he wasn’t quite sure what—but before he could the woman pushed herself against him. The weight of her exquisite bosom pressed hard against the security guard’s chest. Her smooth thighs caressed his rail-hard yet clothbound penis. The watchman groaned again, shuddering all over. Unbidden, his arms reached around and pulled this fresh, slender emerald goddess tight against him.

Her skin felt unearthly. Touching her was like touching satin or warm silk, yet it was as if she were charged with electricity at the same time. She moaned herself once, in his arms, softly, in obvious, needy desire. She raised her full and luscious lips to Darren’s own. One arm wrapped around the back of his neck like a vise. The woman’s tongue darted out delicately and tickled the inside of Darren’s mouth. The guard’s temperature soared. Her breath was sweet and flowery, and, totally overcome with sensation, Darren seized her. His hands pressed down against her giving waist first, then lifted to cup her preternaturally fine and supple ass. Her breasts were astoundingly firm. Darren could feel her rock-hard nipples digging into him.

From somewhere far away he thought he heard the sound of footsteps again, but he paid them no mind.

Darren’s whole being was caught up with one naked desire.

He had to have this woman.

He had to. If she didn’t let him, he would take her by force.

A new and even harder railspike bulged beneath his damp underwear.

The intruder’s one hand continued to grip the back of Darren’s head. Unnoticed, her other hand, the one holding the short metal tube she had concealed, crept around to his neck. She pressed the tube against the guard’s bare flesh. A moment later, Darren heard a low hissing noise and felt an unexpected pressure in his throat. There was no pain. Instead, an even stronger and more fiery rush of passion passed through the guard’s body. Unbidden, he broke their kiss and tilted his head up toward the ceiling. His eyes bulged unblinkingly. His veins swelled with boiling blood.

Darren felt as if this lovely creature had injected him with a stream of molten lava.

His nerves were on fire! But not with pain.

Pleasure… waves and waves of molten pleasure steamed through Darren’s shaking form.

Nancy, the security guard thought, once. Then a red-hot cloud burned its way through him, obliterating all further possibility of thought. Over the green woman’s hair, Darren saw his partner Max approach. He was following in her footsteps. His shirt was torn asunder. His uniform trousers had been ripped away. He shuffled rather than walked, as if he were drunk. He was grinning like a fool.

His eyes burned bright and green… absolutely blue-green.

Like the girl’s, Max’s eyes no longer had pupils. They revealed now only a deep, deep green mindlessness.

Earlier, this might have caused Darren some unease, but his green lover drew Darren’s face down to her own again, and they merely resumed their kiss. Fire pulsed through his veins. He forgot everything. Max, LoeserTech, his job, his wife… everything. Darren gave himself totally to the hot, naked, impassioned flesh beneath his own.

The woman devoured the security guard’s face with her kisses. Her teeth tugged on Darren’s lips as she pulled back and down, tugging away with the same motion his uniform shirt. Her lips floated across his bare and hairy chest, stroking it with her tongue. Darren felt her lips pass ever lower and lower against his body. She was at his stomach.

Then… lower.

Darren felt his pants pulled off to his knees. He saw the green woman kneel before him and open her mouth. Then he was lost in overwhelming sensations.

Everything, Tiffany knew, had to be absolutely perfect.

Sitting in the backseat of her service’s limousine, checking her makeup for what had to be the hundredth time that evening, Tiffany wasn’t sure why everything had to be perfect. It just had to be, and she accepted that. Seeing a slight tremble in her lips, the blonde slowly counted to ten and managed to regain a small measure of control over herself.

Why am I so nervous? she thought. Her stomach felt queasy. Her teeth chattered in spite of the car’s heater. It’s just a trick. Just one more… and she blinked. Client. That word. Client.

Just one more client, like any of hundreds of other men I’ve done… done… . Tiffany blinked again. A sickening wave of vertigo swept over her.

When it passed, she found herself looking in her compact again. She thought her lipstick needed one more slight adjustment. It was a good thing she checked. Her appearance, after all, was everything.

And everything had to be perfect.

Tiffany reached into her small purse. As she did so, she tried to recapture her lost thought. It wouldn’t come back. Whatever had been on her mind, it couldn’t have been very important, or she would have remembered.

By the time she finished the reapplication, the limo (No, it’s a taxi) had pulled up in front of the hotel.

The driver turned around. “Okay, lady. We’re here. That’ll be… ah, $34.65.”

Tiffany blinked. Why am I so nervous? It’s just a trick. Just one more… but a wave of dizziness eclipsed the errant thought before it could begin. Her vision blurred. Bad girl, someone said to her from somewhere, from the back of her mind, perhaps. You’re a bad, bad girl. The pretty girl in the back of the yellow taxicab released a low moan. She must do better! Everything had to be perfect!

“Hey, you okay back there?” the driver (Malcolm) asked her. He looked at her in blurry-eyed concern.

The world split in two. Tiffany’s perspective changed. It was like watching some strange TV show where the same actor is shown doing two entirely different things at the same time. In one view, Tiffany saw herself reaching into her purse and handing a short, smelly taxi driver two twenty dollar bills and telling him to keep the change. In the other, and this view somehow felt more real to her, more there to her, Malcolm, her escort service’s exclusive chauffeur, got out of the limousine, walked round to the back of the car and to her side, and gallantly opened the door for her. Malcolm, she knew, was very considerate of the ladies under his charge. He drove all the girls who worked for the escort service.

“Yes… yes,” Tiffany said, after a moment’s thought. “Yes, I’m fine, Malcolm. Thank you for asking.”

The driver gave the blonde another funny look. “Malcolm? I ain’t named no Malcolm, lady.”

Tiffany felt her hand grip the door handle. Part of her watched serenely as Malcolm chivalrously held the door for her and helped her out, as if she were a respectable lady. The handsome chauffeur gave her a wink as their eyes met, and she smiled automatically. All the girls with the service liked Malcolm. Some of them even gave him free tumbles from time to time. For the life of her, Tiffany couldn’t remember at the moment whether she too had ever done so or not. As she tried to recall, she opened the taxi’s back door herself and stepped out beneath the hotel’s vast, well lit entranceway.

“I don’t know how long this trick’ll take,” she said. “Two hours, maybe. You can wait here, if you like.”

Malcolm (No, he’s just a taxi driver, dammit!) didn’t say anything. He just eyed Tiffany as she moved away from the car. A light precipitation, more a thick rain than a real snow, fell outside the awning. She closed the limo (taxi) door behind her and took a few wobbly steps toward the lobby. The “double vision” upset her balance.

Malcolm, her considerate driver (All the girls thought he was so considerate) got back in the limousine and waited. At the same time, her smelly taxi driver sped off twirling a finger obscenely toward his forehead.

Alone again, Tiffany’s conflicting perspectives merged back into one. This was a comfort.

She blinked. A pretty blond girl suddenly found herself standing beneath a vast hotel awning.

Tiffany looked up and tried to read the strange sigils and figures of the name emblazoned on the overhang. They made as much sense to her as Egyptian hieroglyphics.

She blinked again. Where was she? She wasn’t sure how she had got there.

Had someone brought her? She seemed to recall a… a limousine? Someone named Malcolm?

She couldn’t remember. It couldn’t be very important.

As was customary in such situations, Tiffany waited expectantly for someone to tell her what to do. Eventually, as she knew it would, a soothing voice spoke inside her head. You are at the Carstairs Regency Hotel in Chicago.

“I’m at the Carstairs Regency Hotel in Chicago,” Tiffany whispered, then looked up at the sign again. Sure enough, the meaningless scrawls resolved themselves into legible words: ‘Carstairs Regency.’

She had made it there on her own. Tiffany felt a surge of pride at the accomplishment.

You are a whore, the voice went on. Your client is in room 467. He called the service asking for a blond whore.

“My client is in room 467,” Tiffany repeated. She continued to stand near the entrance for several more moments, blinking rapidly. A uniformed hotel employee saw her, waited, then stepped over to see if anything was the matter.

The look on the girl’s face as he approached was frighteningly blank.

“Miss?” the man said, concerned. “Ma’am?” She looked at him expressionlessly. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

He reached up to touch her shoulder, but before he could she spoke. “My client is in room 467,” she said.

The bellhop stepped back, perplexed. “Uh… okay.”

Tiffany smiled at him, then strode sexily forward, deliberately putting a sensual sway in her walk. “I’m a whore, and my client is in room 467.” She breezed past him, opened the glass and metallic doors, and went in.

“What the fu…” the hotel bellhop said, then shook his head and followed her in. He wondered if he should call security.

A tall, dark-haired man with a touch of silver at the temples was sitting in a lounge area near the doors and reading a newspaper. He looked up as Tiffany passed, resumed his reading, then looked up again sharply as his eyes acknowledged the sight. Tiffany winked and rolled her tongue lewdly at him as she strolled on past, enjoying the certainty she had that the man was wondering what she would be like in bed. She felt his gaze on her ass and legs and was warmed by it.

She was such a whore! It took all her might not to start giggling. She was (No, this is wrong!) certain all the other well-dressed men and elegant women in the lobby watching her knew what she was, knew how low she was, how utterly cheap (This is so wrong!). They were probably wondering which of them she had come there to service.

Her lips were so red. Her fishnet hose was so silky fine. Her black minidress was so tight.

What else could she be but a whore?

For the right price, she might have been there for any one of them. Their loss not to have called the service earlier.

She went to the elevators. On her way she passed a life-size poster display of Carmel & Creeme, the teen pop duo who were performing tomorrow night at Soldier Field. She stopped and gazed blankly at the smiling spandex-clad pair. After a few heartbeats, the blonde blinked rapidly three or four times in quick succession, reoriented herself, and moved on. Behind her, watching carefully, the bellhop tracked her movements while standing near a convenient wall phone.

Tiffany made her way slowly to the center elevator, her hips rolling seductively.

Casually, so her head wouldn’t pay attention to what her hands were doing. the blonde reached into her purse and took out a safety pin. As she pushed the call button with one hand, the other flicked open the safety. She ran her thumb over the sharp metal, hesitated briefly, then stuck it in sharply. Tiffany winced at the unexpected pain, blinked, and put a hand to the wall to keep her balance as another vicious wave of vertigo almost swept her off her feet.

When the dizziness passed, she blinked again, confused. She stared up at the elevator lights.

Elevator? What was she doing in front of an elevator? In the Carstairs Regency Hotel?

Tiffany’s confidence faded as she felt the hand guiding her (controlling me?) withdraw. What am I doing here? She couldn’t remember. She… she couldn’t remember anything! What’s my name? she thought. Tif… Tiff… Tiffany? That didn’t sound right. That wasn’t her real name!

You are at the Carstairs Regency Hotel in Chicago, Tiffany, the voice inside her head spoke. Your client is in room 467. You are a whore. He called the service specifically asking for a whore.

“No,” she whispered. “That’s not true. That’s not true. I’m not a whore. I’m not!”

Her stomach did flip-flops. Tiffany (NO! I’m not a Tiffany!) grit her teeth and endured.

You are at the Carstairs Regency Hotel in Chicago. You are a whore. Your client… NO! Stop it! Stop it!!

The attractive blonde in the fishnet hose and revealing minidress shook like an epileptic. The bellhop put a hand on the phone and picked it up. Before he could say anything, though, the girl straightened, and, when the elevator doors opened, stepped in as if nothing were the matter. To hell with it, the man thought a second later. She’s just a whore.

He put the phone down.

Tiffany tossed the safety pin in the elevator’s ashtray. Unashamed, she felt a liquid warmth building between her thighs at the thought of servicing a client tonight. She was glad she had decided to wear her best black wonderbra and matching silk panties before leaving the House. The bands at the tops of her nylons, held in place by the stays of her garter belt, felt snug and comfortable. She was a cheap snatch, but she hoped the customer liked her anyway.

His pleasure was all that mattered.

In fact, Tiffany wanted nothing more at that moment than to be the most delightful plaything this john had ever had!

“Everything has to be perfect,” she said aloud in the empty elevator and waited for the correct floor. There was a mirror behind her, and she looked at herself in it. I’m a whore, she thought. I’m a blond whore. I’m a blond whore wearing fishnet stockings and high heels. Tiffany’s stomach fluttered with excitement each time she repeated this mantra. I’m a whore. I’m a blond whore. I’m a blond whore wearing fishnet stockings and high heels.

The elevator doors opened, and, blinking, Tiffany pivoted neatly and seductively and went out into the hall. She looked around eager for her room assignment. The walls on this floor were a pale green and inlaid with lovely patterns. Potted plants and mirrors were spaced every couple of yards. Tiffany stopped at one of the glasses and took a final moment to preen in front of it, to make sure one last time.

“Everything has to be perfect,” she said, smiled, and ran her hand through her long blond hair.

She looked absolutely scrumptious. Her dress was perfect. Her bosom, pushed up by the bra, was full and inviting. Her legs and thighs promised every delight. She was a blond whore, and she was proud of it!

I’m perfect, she thought. The perfect prostitute. The perfect call girl. The perfect… .

She frowned again. No, that wasn’t right. That just wasn’t right.

Tiffany leaned forward and stared at the eyes reflected back at her from the glass. Something was wrong. Something wasn’t perfect. Her eyes did not match either that face or those golden locks. Her eyes definitely did not match that heavily made-up, showgirl-like face. The vertigo, inevitably, mounted, but Tiffany fought it, struggling to remember who she was and why she was there. She knew Tiffany wasn’t her real name, but she couldn’t remember her real one!

She couldn’t… she couldn’t remember!

Tiffany wasn’t her real name. It was her label. Her price tag.

She had a price tag instead of a name.

The blonde knew she had had a name. A place where she had worked in an office.

She sighed, despair filling her. It was all so fragmented, her memories a collection of disparate images. Nothing connected. One moment she was a whore. The next she was an… an accountant? A secretary? She remembered a time when she had been a Barbary slave girl. Another time she was dressed in a scanty French maid’s uniform. It was like someone had opened up her head and stirred the contents with a spoon. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t remember! The blonde moaned awfully.

Her throat choked up, and her eyes closed on tears.

When she opened them again, Tiffany shrugged, took out her makeup kit, and did some required maintenance to her face. Everything had to be perfect. Her client was expecting the best.

No. More than that.

He deserved the best.

Looking around, she eventually found the room. Timidly, breathing shallowly, warmth still tickling the inside of her thighs with passionate fingers, Tiffany knocked and waited. It didn’t take long. The door opened, and a large, broad-shouldered man in gray invited her in.

“Mr. Stein?” Tiffany asked, a luscious smile lighting her lips.

She all but swooned when he nodded.

He was the most virile, attractive man she had ever seen! My God, the blond whore thought. I’d do him for free! The flaming in her pussy went up another fiery notch.

Not speaking, the john in the gray suit beckoned Tiffany into the bedroom. He sat on the bed, motioned for her to stand in front of him, and then held his hands primly to his knees. Tiffany stepped closer, her knees feeling weak and trembly. The man looked about fifty, with light red hair only now beginning to come in thin. His fingers—Tiffany found herself mysteriously drawn to her client’s handsome fingers—were blunt and stubby. A lifetime of work on the farm showed in their rough texture. He was so incredibly good looking! She had just met him, and already she was lost to his utterly incredible charms! He gazed at her, scrutinizing her up and down.

Tiffany did her best not to quiver, but it was hard for a girl not to shake a little when stared at by the stern and powerful eyes of her Master.

The blonde blinked. Master? The word had just popped into her head.

It felt very… very natural, though.

Master. She rolled the word around in her mind. Her Owner and Master. Tiffany did start shaking, and she might have gone on shaking for quite a bit longer had not her Owner and Master finally deigned to speak to her. He said but one word, yet it filled Tiffany with a terrible joy.

“Strip.”

Heart pounding, willing herself to be calm and collected so she could do it right, Tiffany put her hands to the back of her neck and unfastened the clip there. The top of her dress loosened, but she held it up with her arms, which she crossed enticingly across her bosom. She lowered them gradually, wriggling her hips and bending her knees at the same time. She knew the key to any successful strip was the slow building of anticipation. The sheer fabric fell around her shoulders. She stretched, smiled like a cat, and pulled the sparkling cloth down one inch at a time, cautiously revealing the creamy swell of her breasts first, then her flat, taut tummy, and then, only after several turns and spins, her long, black-clad legs.

Tiffany posed before her client (Master) clad only in bra, panties, garters, and stockings.

His (My Master’s, Tiffany thought) breath quickened. Tiffany tried to step out of the pile at her feet gracefully, but she tripped and lost her balance (No, he is not my Master. I have no Master!). The john nodded, though, and Tiffany’s excitement grew. She hoped she was doing well on her test.

Blink. Test? What test?

An annoying, painfully persistent resistance tried to surface, and the blonde stumbled as she kicked her dress away. Ignoring it as best she could, Tiffany raised her hands to the back of her neck again and, trembling, lifted her satin-covered breasts to her owner’s (the john’s) eyes. She tilted her thighs towards him and swayed to inaudible music, remembering now long lessons in front of a mirror and a Trainer, watching herself disrobe over and over, wanting to be perfect, needing to be perfect, to be absolutely pleasing. The client nodded again, and Tiffany unhooked the fastening. Her bra dangled for a moment, and, with a practiced sweep of her arms, she cast it across the room.

Her breasts hung free and passionately. The nipples throbbed with untold desire. Lowering herself to her knees, her legs spread and clad in silken finery, Tiffany longed to wrap herself around her john’s (Master’s) body. At his silent direction, the whore crawled before him. Her muscles twitched spasmodically. Her body needed his. She needed her Master’s prick so badly inside her. His eyes roamed over her lowly frame. His stare blazed into her with unholy fire.

God, but she wanted him! Please, please, she begged silently. Her servile eyes pleaded.

Tiffany didn’t care if she was or wasn’t a call girl, prostitute, or whore. She just wanted Him. She wanted Him so much!

The john got up and stood by the side of the bed, towering majestically over the trembling blonde. He unhooked and dropped his pants and underwear. Tiffany gasped at the sight of his thick manhood in front of her face.

“Make sure you swallow it all,” he told her.

Vertigo. Nausea. Tiffany felt her head nod. “Yes, oh yes, please,” she begged. What a wonderful privilege. She would most definitely swallow it all!

Instructions—a whole series of nonverbal images—flooded Tiffany’s mind. Like the experienced whore she was tonight, a whore who had gone down on men a thousand times, the young woman bent and delicately began licking her Master’s testicles. She accepted his precious jewels into her mouth and sucked on them, first gently, then with increasing ferocity and devotion. She traced the length of his penis with her tongue, slurping over it like a little girl with a candy cane. She knew exactly what to do.

The knowledge was just there, on what must have been a subliminal level. The instructions flowed as smoothly through her mind as her lips did around her Master’s tiny engorged helmet. She exerted pressure in just the right spots for maximum nerve stimulation.

His shaft throbbed like a small animal in her mouth. Controlling her breathing (Absolute breath control is essential in superior fellatio, her internal voice reminded her), she began taking her Master deeper inside her. She pushed her mouth forward, sliding his thickness past her painted lips. She felt him throb with masculine vigor. Her lips and tongue traced patterns developed over countless hours of practice. Simultaneously, her head bobbed up and down in a rhythm perfectly in tune with his heartbeat, which she could sense now with almost medical precision. She took even more of him inside her. Her hands stroked her Master’s bare legs and thighs, providing a resort-quality massage automatically.

Her throat tightened in response to the first taste of his sperm. Her suction was careful, expert. Her tongue played with him lewdly. When he came, he came like a eruption: a volcano exploded inside her mouth. She swallowed everything. She slurped his cum up like a starving minx, in fact.

The Master grabbed Tiffany’s head and thrust forward, fucking her mouth brutally, and without the slightest show of resistance she took it all, slowly and methodically. She finished minutes later by licking his groin clean. The taste of their mixed fluids melting in her mouth was like nectar.

Tiffany was still licking her lips as the Master pulled his pants up and sat down again. Abruptly, sighing resignedly, he pulled a small, silvery device from his jacket pocket. It was about the size of a tea saucer, flat and octagonal. One side of it, Tiffany saw, glowed softly.

The client/john/Master looked at the opalescent side of the tool briefly, then tapped at it with his blunt fingers. Immediately, the floor, the hotel room, Tiffany’s entire world, all spun like an evilly spinning top. Through the resulting vertigo, the blond girl realized something.

She realized, in fact, quite a few things.

Oh my God, my name isn’t Tiffany. It’s… it’s… <forbidden knowledge>. I’m not a whore!

No. No, not a whore. Not that.

Tiffany’s eyes narrowed. She remembered.

As if a door had opened in the back of her mind, the prostitute/Barbary slave girl/French maid/slave remembered… or, at least, as much as the Chief Slaver ever allowed her to remember. Tiffany. Tiffany, for instance. It really wasn’t her name… but he, the Slaver, her Master, her (no… NO!) beloved Master, wouldn’t let her remember what that was.

Tiffany looked up at him in total surprise… and, dammit still, continued overwhelming sexual need and desire.

God, she hated him! God, she loved him… needed him.

She remembered.

She remembered the House.

She remembered this was a test.

She remembered everything, including what she had become.

And what they were turning her into.

Tiffany looked up at the Chief Slaver in surprise… and hatred… and desire.

“You’re fighting the program, Tiffany,” he said. He stood, and Tiffany lowered her face to his feet, hating herself for it, yet loving him desperately. He patted her on the back of her head.

Programmed to do so, she purred like a cat. God, she hated him!

He bent low and examined her hand. “And look, you’ve injured yourself. Here, see what you’ve done.” His sour tone made Tiffany feel incredibly guilty. She had damaged her Master’s property!

This is not right, a part of her thought. This is so not right! But it was her life now. She was <forbidden knowledge>. They had taken her in the night. They had <forbidden knowledge>.

“We’ll need to work on your fellatio, too, if we have time,” her Master said. “Tomorrow’s a busy day. I have an appointment in the morning.” He pet her again, and she closed her eyes, resignedly.

“We need to get some sleep, don’t we, slut?”

“Yes,” she whispered, head down.

She felt fingers under her chin. The Chief Slaver lifted her face up to the overwhelming majesty of his own. “Yes, what?” he asked her, sternly, and she shuddered, remembering their long lessons together.

His punishments were inhuman.

“Yes… Master,” she whispered. A single tear flowed down one pretty cheek.

He nodded. He stepped over to the desk and picked up another futuristic device that had been lying there unnoticed. This one was larger than Tiffany’s controller and shaped like a flattened, silver football.

The Chief Slaver fiddled with the projector’s controls, then aimed it neutrally at the floor.

“We’ll work on it later,” he repeated. “Improve your reflexes, your conditioning more. Perhaps a new program will work better, eh? Something that gives you less initiative?”

“Whatever Master wants,” Tiffany said, grinding her teeth in shame. “I live only to please you.”

He nodded. “Let’s go.” He lifted the silvery tool.

There was a flash of incandescently bright light, and when it was gone, so were they.

The scientist stared blankly at the screen before him.

Slowly, eyes never wavering, his right hand crawled toward the tray next to his desk. It fumbled about for a bit, then latched hold of the golden treasure it sought.

Dr. Brafford brought the Twinkie to his mouth and chewed. “Shit,” he muttered through frosting-laden teeth.

At his direction, the animated figure on the screen landed a circle kick to the armor-plated demontroll she was fighting. The maneuver all but decapitated the drooling beast, yet he was dissatisfied. Brafford sighed in disgust. He looked at a secondary screen next to him and tapped in another line of code.

He hit the reset key and tried again.

“Fuck,” he whispered, seeing the results. No matter what he tried, the timing sequence was off. The game’s higher levels were easier to reach, which was the intent, but the action looked forced. The game’s heroine moved as if she had strings attached to her arms and legs. It wasn’t at all sexy.

The computer specialist cursed a third time, then spun his chair around to the work station behind him and went through the notes on his deskpad. He had to find a way past this programming problem. LoeserTech was on deadline, but producing a unit that turned a world-famous video star into a stick figure was worse than useless. Maybe if he inserted a series of breaks here, eliminated these dead-codes there… ? His scowl deepened.

The scientist was so lost in thought he didn’t hear the door to his lab open. He only became aware he had visitors when one of them bumped into a desk and knocked a tray over. Brafford looked up, irritated and angry at the interruption. This was exactly why he preferred to work nights, so he wouldn’t have to deal with idiots… .

The Twinkie fell unnoticed out of his hand.

The company’s two night guards, each half-dressed, each with glazed over, green-within-green eyes, stumbled into the room. Both had silly, dreamy expressions on their faces. One of them, Straughan, Brafford thought his name was, carried a large brown bag that looked like an oversized purse. Both were giggling in a way that otherwise would have chilled the scientist right down to the bone.

Neither, though, were what caused Brafford to gasp, stand, and become short of breath. No. That was the result of the girl who accompanied them. It was her presence, and her presence alone, that had that effect. She was the most gorgeous creature who had ever lived! Gorgeous… and green!

Brafford’s skin flushed. He gazed at the verdant woman in awe. Her strange blank eyes met his. Her huge pointed nipples stiffened even more perceptibly.

She likes me! Brafford thought, giddy and feeling drunk. Oh… oh Wow!!

He felt dizzy.

The beautiful intruder held a silvery-plastic tool in her emerald hands. It was a weird something that looked more like it had been grown in a vat than manufactured. It was all soft curves and valleys, very much like the intruder herself. The device made a whirring noise, and the woman waved it about as she would a Geiger counter. It drew her to a bank of expensive computer chips and other electronics on a stack of shelves. Nodding, satisfied, she turned and looked at Brafford again. This time the feeling the scientist got while under the scrutiny of her alien perception felt anything but erotic.

Despite her allure, it dawned on Brafford that maybe he was in a little trouble here.

“Ediyetr nangark, pal momikki,” the woman said, her empty eyes straying to the two guards.

She pointed at Brafford.

Nothing happened. The guards stared at the woman in obvious longing, yet it was clear neither had the faintest clue as to what she had just said. She sighed. “Sonarg. Ediyetr nangark pal.”

She made a hugging gesture with her arms, then pointed at Brafford again.

Run, the scientist thought. Run. But he couldn’t. He didn’t have the strength. The woman held up a short metal cylinder and made another gesture toward the guards. She pointed at her neck.

“Dunugu momikki. Pal!”

This time the guards understood. So did Brafford. At the last moment, the scientist did try to run, but the two security men quickly had him. He struggled, at first. These efforts stopped after the woman injected him with the contents of the tube she carried. After that, all the scientist could do was mew plaintively.

The emerald intruder saw to his needs first, then her own.

Later, in a willful effort at self-control, she resumed her search of the lab with the device. Fifteen minutes later she finished loading several thousand dollars worth of electronic chips into her bag. The three men attending her, all now blessed with green-within-green eyes, competed for the opportunity to carry it for her.

When she was ready to leave, using slow words and lots of gestures, the intruder got Darren Straughan to drive them away in his car. The direction they headed in was nowhere near his home in Baker.