The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“So you were here yesterday?” Kim Lascelles asked Sam O’Neill as they walked through the lobby of the Craven-Wilford Institute.

O’Neill nodded. “I had it a good lead that the missing girl I’m looking for was here.”

“But?”

“But I came up empty. She’s nowhere to be found.”

“Bummer. Anything the Bureau can help with?”

O’Neill gave a wry grin. “Not really. Beside, it’s one of those cases that the Bureau doesn’t want to hear about from me.”

“Oh” was all she said. “One of those.” She gave him a look. “You know they still call you Mulder?”

“I’m just surprised they’re old enough to get the reference. And does that make Scully?”

Lascelles grunted. “You wish. Still got that thing for redheads, I see.”

He was suddenly defensive. “Just making conversation, really.”

“Sure, sure. So what did you think?”

“About?”

“About this place. Hold on—” She turned to the receptionist, who was looking at them askance. “Special Agent Lascelles, FBI.” She showed her badge. “I’m here to see one of your patients.”

The receptionist was flustered. Lascelles could have that affect on young people. “Uh, I don’t have any records of a visitor for—”

“Just get me your supervisor.” Lascelles was polite but curt, the tone of voice of one used to be obeyed.

The receptionist went to her phone while Lascelles turned to O’Neill. “So? This place?”

“It’s… impressive, in its own way. Friendlier and warmer than I thought it’d be. I expected something out of that Cuckoo’s Nest movie. It’s more like a nursing home.”

“No kidding. Wait till you see the Ward we’re going to see—Blue Ward they call it. It’s phenomenal, especially considering the girls that they got in there.”

O’Neill nodded noncommittally. “That’s where they kept Lillian Shepard?”

“Yeah. It’s a whole ward full of people with the same thing she was diagnosed with. A name this long. Ah, there he is.”

Someone dressed officially showed up to talk to Lascelles, and O’Neill stepped back, not listening, thinking about the coincidence of Lillian Shepard finding herself in the same ward where he had been directed the previous day looking for Jennifer Hansen. O’Neill did not believe in coincidences.

Lascelles looked angry when she returned.

“They can’t find her,” she said.

“Oh.” O’Neill could not honestly say he was surprised. Coincidence upon coincidence. And he did not believe in coincidences.

“We’re going to Blue Ward to find out what the hell’s going on!”

O’Neill followed Lascelles, who seemed to know where she was going. He wondered how often she had come to visit Lillian Shepard over the years.

Sister Margaret was manning the Blue Ward desk that day, and she smiled when she saw O’Neill again. “Mister O’Neill. The investigator returneth. Are you going to pull a Columbo ‘Oh, one last thing…’ on us, try to catch us in a lie?”

O’Neill smiled. “Not today, sister. My colleague from the FBI seems to have misplaced one of your patients.”

Lascelles was looking at them, still angry, and now suspicious. “You were here here yesterday?”

Margaret looked at Lascelles, and slipped her fingers over the keyboard. “What’s the name of your patient, honey?”

“Shepard. Lillian Shepard.”

“Hum,” Margaret said, look up files. “Hmm. Ah. Here we go. Lillian Shepard admitted August… Oh dear, the poor child. Severe case of DSCS. Responded well to the drugs though. And yes, I see it here. She was transferred out two months ago.”

“Transferred out? Where? And why?”

Margaret shook her head. “No details here. Just said that she was transferred out. Signed off by Doctor… Doctor Michael Dante. Oh dear.”

“Why isn’t there any detail of where she was transferred?”

“Sometimes, things happen quickly, or get lost.”

O’Neill was listening, not liking any of it.

“Why would a patient be transferred out?” Lascelles continued, her anger tinged with worry.

Margaret thought about it. “That’s the thing, honey. I couldn’t tell you. Patients come in and only leave when… well, when they’re done. I’ve never heard of a patient just being transferred to another facility.”

“Can you page this Doctor Dante for us, the one who authorized the transfer? He should know.”

Margaret looked apologetic, almost ashamed. “He’s no longer with us,” she said. “He left perhaps two months ago.”

“When Lillian was transferred?”

“I don’t have the exact dates—I wasn’t working in this ward yet—but more or less.”

Lascelles bit her lip. She did not believe in coincidences either.

“I don’t know what to tell you, honey,” Margaret continued. “All I know is what this computer tells me, and it’s not telling me a lot right now.”

Lascelles looked like she was about to say something harsh, but restrained herself and merely told Margaret in a clipped tone that they would be back.

O’Neill had a thought, and waited for Lascelles to step away from the desk—she was pulling out her cell phone to call someone—before talking to Margaret himself.

“Sister, could I ask you a favor?”

“Go right ahead, honey. I’m so sorry not to have been able to help your pretty colleague.”

“Was there another transfer from Blue Ward in the same time frame as Lillian Shepard?”

“That would be unlikely. I mean, one is already odd, but…” She tapped on her keyboard, frowned, tapped some more. “That’s weird,” she said after a while. She turned her screen toward O’Neill. “Look. If I check for patient movements on a daily basis, cycling through the days, the only transfer is for Lillian Shepard. But if I do this,” and she clicked a few things on the screen, “and ask for all transfers over a time period, then I get two. Lillian Shepard, and another.”

“What’s the other?”

“Can’t tell you, because the system gives me an error if I ask for information about that patient. Patient not in database.”

O’Neill nodded. Someone had scrubbed the database, but left a dangling reference to a record that had been deleted.

“What was the date of the transfer?”

“Same date as Lillian Shepard.”

“And no transfer information?”

“None. That’s weird.”

“Doctor who signed off on the transfer?”

“None. The fields are all blank.”

“Thanks, Sister Margaret. You’ve been really helpful.”

“I have?”

“Yes.”

“O’Neill!” It was Lascelles. “Come on.”

“What was that?” Lascelles asked as they walked down the hallway.

“Just confirming a hunch. So where are we off to?”

“Doctor Michael Dante lives fifteen minutes away. I ran his name through our database. I’m planning on finding out exactly what’s happened and get him to tell me where he sent Shepard.”

From her tone of voice, O’Neill had no doubt that Dante would sing. This might prove to be entertaining, he thought.

Kim Lascelles and Sam O’Neill found the house of Doctor Michael Dante without any difficulty, on a picturesque tree-lined street. It was almost a mansion, something that O’Neill could see belonging to a physician, but one in private practice, not one working in an institution.

O’Neill let Lascelles lead the way. Not only was it her case, he also feared what she would do to him if he interfered. For one, she had a weapon. He did not.

Lascelles could not find a doorbell, and used the old-fashioned brass knocker. Either because it was designed that way or because Lascelles could barely contain her tension, it seemed to resonate too loudly. O’Neill half-expected to see a maid answer the door, or a butler.

It was neither. “May I help you?” The woman looked to be around the same age as Lascelles, and spoke with a thick southern accent. South Carolina, if O’Neill had to guess.

O’Neill did not need any advanced detective skills to see that the woman was pregnant. Sixth or seventh semester, most likely. His mind automatically calculated that she had been in her second trimester when Lillian Shepard and possibly Jennifer Hansen disappeared from the Institute.

Lascelles seemed to know exactly who the woman was. “Mrs. Dante? I’m Special Agent Kimberly Lascelles with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Could we speak to your husband?”

“First of all, Special Agent Lascelles,” the lady said with a dismissive tone that O’Neill knew must have be grating to Lascelles, “It’s Mrs. D’Amour—I kept my maiden name. Second, pray tell what you think my husband has done this time?”

Lascelles’s looked as forced as it was. “I’m afraid I would need to speak your husband first, Mrs. Dante.”

D’Amour sighed, whether because of her husband or because of Lascelles. She dismissed the annoyance that was Lascelles the way her family must have dismissed any sort of annoyance for the previous two hundred years, by simply ignoring it.

“Well, my husband is not here, Special Agent Lascelles. If you really want to talk to him, you will have to hunt him down. Good luck.”

There was something in her tone of voice that O’Neill detected. Once again, he played a hunch.

“If you knew where we could find him,” he said before Lascelles could react, “perhaps we can take advantage of the occasion to, perhaps, just perhaps, put the fear of God into him? Or perhaps better, put the fear of God into her?” There was almost a wink in his voice, and D’Amour picked up on it immediately. She stared at him for a few seconds, and O’Neill thought that she might just smile.

“Very well. I believe you will find him in the bed of one Beatrice Wilkins.” She rattled off an address, almost spitting it out. “The little blonde bimbo honestly thinks she can steal him away from me. Ah! The stupid little floozy.”

She stopped, and O’Neill kept a carefully friendly expression on his face. He said nothing. He could feel Lascelles behind him fretting, and he hoped she would not say a word either. But she was a good cop, and she trusted him, and she remained silent.

D’Amour eventually felt the need to fill the silence. “My husband is nothing without me. And he knows it. I don’t care if he goes and satisfies his dirty cravings with these little sluts, but he’s not leaving me. He owes me too much. I would crush him like a June bug. Beside, who does she think she is? Does she honestly believe she’s the first little strumpet with a tight behind that has caught my husband’s wandering eye? He’s going to use her like the trollop she is and when he gets bored of her he’ll come back to me and she will not even be a memory.”

“We will put a good scare in her, Mrs. D’Amour,” O’Neill said.

“I hope you do. Good day.” And she came closest to slamming the door as someone of her breeding could. The brass knocker thumped softly.

“What the hell was that?” Lascelles asked on their way to the car.

O’Neill shrugged. “A complicated marriage.”

“Remind me never to get married.”

“They’re not all like that,” he said.

“Right. The rest of them are worse.”

Finding Beatrice Wilkins’s apartment was even easier than finding Dante’s house. Wilkins rented the third floor of an old Victorian house from a couple who worked a nearby research laboratory.

The apartment had its own entrance, and Lascelles rang the doorbell with impatience. Her anger had now given way almost fully to worry.

“Hold on!” came a young woman’s frantic voice. “Hold on!”

The door opened on a pretty disheveled blonde in her mid-twenties, wearing a short satin robe out of which a beautiful pair of legs peeked out. O’Neill did not need to smell the musky aura surrounding her to know that she had been having sex recently. “You got here so much quicker than—oh!—”

She stopped short, money in her hands, when she spotted Lascelles and O’Neill on her doorstep. Her hand reflexively clasped her robe shut, which made O’Neill almost smile since that movement did nothing to hide her legs, which were by far the most attractive part of her anatomy.

“Miss Wilkins?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Special Agent Kimberly Lascelles, with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. We’re here because—”

“Oh my God! You’re here because of what happened to Richard, aren’t you? Oh my God! It was so terrible!”

Beatrice had forgotten all about her robe as she clasped her hands over her mouth and O’Neill could see tears pearling in her eyes and there was no doubt she was upset and three seconds away from a major breakdown.

O’Neill could tell that Lascelles was torn—on the one hand, she wanted to find Dante and question him about Lillian Shepard, and on the other she was enough of a cop to realize that Beatrice knew the dead man and therefore might be useful to the investigation into his murder.

O’Neill took her out of her quandary. “Miss Wilkins, I take it you knew the victim?”

He had elected to approach her paternally, modulating his tone of voice carefully, and it seemed to work. Beatrice looked at him with tears in her eyes, and nodded emphatically. “I did! Very well, in fact. I… I was the one who reported him missing—It was an anonymous call, of course, but it was me, and when they found his body—I saw it on my newsfeed earlier this week and I wanted to call the cops and tell them I knew him and… but I didn’t I was so scared but you found me after all and—wait, I’m not in trouble, am I? I mean, obstruction of justice or something? I was about to go see you, I swear, I just—”

“You’re not in trouble at all, Miss. The investigation is just starting. Could we come in and talk with you about Richard Sanderson?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, opening the door wide. She looked at the money in her hand, momentarily confused, then set it down on a little shelf on the wall by the door on which were keys, gloves, and a small transparent cup half-filled with coins.

She let them inside, up two flights of narrow stairs. This used to be the servants’ entrance, Beatrice told them. The apartment itself was quite spacious. It was almost a loft, the single bedroom closed off from the living area and kitchen. O’Neill noted that the bedroom door was closed. He knew that Lascelles had registered that fact as well.

“About Richard Sanderson,” Lascelles started.

“We were in love,” Beatrice said, and then lowered her voice after a swift glance toward the bedroom which neither O’Neill nor Lascelles missed.

“We had a wonderful thing going,” Beatrice continued more quietly. “He was a wonderful man, fully supportive. I wanted to be an actress—he came with me to an award show, did you know that? I won the Godot Award for best actress, and he was there to celebrate with me! He was super proud, I know, and even when he disappeared, I could feel his presence over my shoulder guiding me and it gave me the courage to do what I needed to do and I quit my job at the Institute and I threw my lot with my acting troupe full time. Now,” she said through tears that had started falling, “I’ll do it in memory of him!”

Lascelles was taking notes. “So you worked at the Institute with Sanderson, then?”

“Yes. I worked with Richard. Practically mentored him. He worked in Blue Ward, with the DSCSes. I was part of the general staff of the psychiatric unit, since I was more senior. But we hung out a lot, and I showed him everything I know. I even helped him figure out a case of misdiagnosed patient, who was sedated for no good reason. Woke her right up, and she was right as rain—well, as right as can be in that place. She was still pretty sick. Richard was so proud—you could tell, because he was so happy she was awake. Good thing I’m not jealous type, because you have though he was taken with that patient given how attentive he was with her. I mean, she was truly beautiful—but most of them in Blue Ward are anyway.”

O’Neill did not believe in coincidences. “What was that patient’s name?”

“The one they woke up? No idea.”

He pulled out Jennifer Hansen’s picture from his pocket. “Might this be her?”

Beatrice looked at the photograph for several seconds, and then nodded. “Yup. That’s her.”

“Thank you.” This did not tell him where Jennifer Hansen was, but now he had connected her to Richard Sanderson. He would ask Beatrice if he knew what happened to Jennifer Hansen later.

Lascelles had lost nothing of the exchange. O’Neill glanced at her, and nodded. Let her interpret that however she wants, he thought.

“What about Lillian Shepard? What do you know of her whereabouts?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Lillian Shepard. She was a patient in Blue Ward. She’s been transferred out.”

“I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t hang out in Blue Ward much, certainly not enough to know patients by name. She was transferred out, you say? That’s weird. Patients don’t get transferred out of Blue Ward. Not alive, anyway. Sorry,” she added. “You can’t kick the nurse out of the actress, it seems.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Richard Sanderson?”

“Richard? Are you kidding me? He was a sweetheart—inoffensive. Everybody loved him, and he seemed to love everybody right back.”

“According to the initial investigation into his disappearance, Richard Sanderson was involved in a scuffle at work, shortly before he disappeared.”

O’Neill admired Lascelles’s thoroughness. She must have read over the full investigative report before the trip.

Beatrice suddenly looked nervous. “I… No, I mean, it was all a misunderstanding, I remember—something like…”

“Miss Wilkins, where can we find Doctor Michael Dante?” Lascelles delivered the first punch, and it hit. Beatrice blanched.

“I… I don’t understand…? Why… who… Why would I know where…?”

“Miss Wilkins, his wife Mrs. D’Amour informed us we would find him here with you.” Second punch.

Beatrice, already woozy from Sanderson’s death and from the unspoken but clear implication that Michael Dante might have had something to do with that death, collapsed. The tears that had been slowly dribbling down her face now gushed out, and she started sobbing without no restraint. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she kept repeating, over and over, rocking in place on her seat. Her robe had fallen open, O’Neill noticed clinically, and a round perky breast peeked out. It had bite marks on it.

“Tell me, Miss Wilkins,” Lascelles continued, her tone cold, relentless. “Do you think it’s possible that Michael Dante, jealous of the attention Richard Sanderson was giving you, aware that he was losing you to this younger more handsome man that seemed to appreciate you in a way he never could because he was shackled to this woman he married and that he could never leave because all the money was hers and because she was the only one who, God only knows why, could tolerate his chasing pretty young things in skirts like a teenage horn dog with a penis for a brain, that Michael Dante could have decided to take it upon himself to rid his world of a rival in a permanent way and afterward perhaps play White Knight to your damsel in distress?”

Lascelles’s hand had drifted to have clear access to her gun. “Do you think that might be possible, Miss Wilkins. Does Michael Dante have a temper, Miss Wilkins?” Lascelles’s tone had become lashing.

Through her tears, Beatrice stared at the FBI agent, horrified. “No! Michael’s temperamental, yes, and emotional, but it’s passion, he’d never… he’d never hurt a fly!” But her expression and her tone belied her words, and before she could think about it further, the bedroom door burst open.

The events that followed were probably a blur to Beatrice, but to O’Neill and Lascelles, they were predictable, and predicted.

A man who had to have been Michael Dante exploded out of the bedroom with a loud yell wielding what O’Neill had time to identify as a field hockey stick. Ready for this ever since Lascelles starting egging on the man who had to have been listening at the bedroom door, O’Neill dove into Dante’s legs, chopping off the man mid-stride and bringing him down full force. At the same time, Lascelles jumped off her seat and pulled out her gun so that when Dante crashed practically at her feet—sending the stick smashing into a window to add to the general confusion—all she had to do was drop to one knee and point the gun at Dante’s head and threaten to “Fuckin’ blow your head off if you move just a nostril!” for the scene to come to a stand still.

A stand still but for Beatrice screaming madly, in a fetal position on the couch, unable to process what had just happened.

All in all, it had gone better than O’Neill had feared.

Three hours later, Sam O’Neill was drinking a dark beer while Special Agent Kimberly Lascelles had a double tequila. She was still in her suit, but off the clock. They were back at the bar they had met the previous night. Neither of them was having a burger.

Lascelles had not changed in one other respect, O’Neill noted. For as long as he had known her, she had always been ready for action, for any sort of action, and exceedingly good under pressure—reliable, solid, effective. But when a tense situation passed, she was left with this internal energy that begged for release. Drinking and fighting was one way she had always coped with it. And tonight looked like it was going that route as well. He braced himself for possible damage.

“So Dante confessed to the murder of Richard Sanderson,” she was saying. “Not sure they’ll get a first-degree charge to stick, but it’s a clear second-degree case. He claims he ran into Sanderson coming out of a bar one night and they fought, resuming the quarrel they had had and that caused Dante to be discharged from the Institute.”

“So all in all, pretty good for a day’s work.”

“Yeah. But no dice on Lillian Shepard’s whereabouts.”

“Oh? So he didn’t authorize the transfer?” O’Neill had not had a chance to interrogate Dante about his possible role in the disappearance of Jennifer Hansen, and had been happy to let Lascelles take the first stab at questioning the prisoner. He still believed the two disappearances were linked.

Lascelles shook her head before downing her tequila and ordering another. “Nope. And unfortunately, I tend to believe him. He was fired from the Institute a full week before Lillian Shepard’s transfer, and beside, he claims he would not have had the authority to transfer her. And when I mentioned something about the Connelly brothers or even that someone might be interested in taking her, he seemed genuinely puzzled. And whatever Michael Dante might be, an actor he’s not. He had no clue what I was talking about. So bugger all on this trail.”

“Bugger all?”

Lascelles shrugged and drank another tequila. “Figure it’s time for me to try out some new expressions.”

“I’d stay away from British slang, personally.”

“Ah!” Lascelles laughed, as the waitress brought her another double tequila which she downed in one shot. “So what’s it take have some fun in this God-forsaken town?” She spoke loudly, and O’Neill could see some of the folks at the bar glance in her direction.

She was stretching herself back, one arm in the back of the bench, and the movement emphasized her chest, which the men at the bar could not help notice. Her blouse was unbuttoned enough to show some enticing cleavage, and her eyes held a challenge that few of the men there at the bar could meet. Those that could would face a formidable opponent if they thought they could get into her pants so easily. Those that fought through that particular gauntlet would be met with out-of-this world sex.

There would be broken bones littering the ground before that happened, though, O’Neill reflected.

Having seen enough action for the day, and still worried about the fate of Jennifer Hansen, he pulled Lascelles up despite her protests. She tried to push him away but almost lost her footing. “Come on, Lascelles. Time to call it a night,” he told her.

“Come on, it’s barely eight! Plenty of time for some fun! Come on! What do you say we grab a few of those bozos and fuck’em up real good? See if there’s a real man in the lot, you know? Like in the old days?”

“Maybe later. Come on.” He nodded to the waitress. He had had the forethought to start a tab guaranteed by his credit card for exactly this sort of situation.

“Come, Lascelles. With me.”

She struggled against him as he pushed and pulled her out the door, using his bigger bulk to his advantage. He was under no illusion that Lascelles could give him a run for his money were she to get serious about beating him down, and part of him was on alert in case she decided to do just that. But she did not. Either she was too drunk already, or she did not in fact want to fight him.

Her hotel was near the bar—everything was near everything else in this place—and he walked her over, half carrying her as she heaped abuse upon him, calling him things he had not heard since he was in high school.

The clerk at the front desk gave them a disapproving glance but did not try to stop them. O’Neill took Lascelles to the elevator, not wanting to navigate the stairs. Inside the car, he searched for her keycard after she grunted at him to get lost when he asked for it.

“Are you trying to feel me up, Mulder?” she mumbled before leaned against him as if the movement of the elevator was took much for her drunken balance.

“You wish, Scully,” he replied, fishing the card out of her back pocket, unable to not notice that her ass felt wonderful in his hand, toned and hard.

Once he had dragged her into her hotel room, she stopped struggling, and looked like she was about to collapse to the ground. He practically carried her to the bed. “Come on, Lascelles.”

Lascelles grinned, and said, in a voice tinged with alcohol, “you gonna tuck me in, snug and tight, keep me warm through the night, Sam? The way you used to?”

“I’m going to tuck you in, yes, nice and tight. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get your rest and that you don’t get in trouble.”

“What if I want to get in trouble? What if I want to be a bad girl? A super bad girl? You gonna punish me? You gonna punish me with that bat between your legs, Old Man? Still got that Louisville slugger between your legs? It used to fit my pussy just right—I remember…”

“Okay, okay, you’re drunk. Come on…”

He had managed to get her jacket off on the way, decided that it would be courting disaster if he tried to remove more, and it was high time to get her into bed.

He let her go for one second to reach down and pull back the covers, and that one second was all that Lascelles needed.

Before O’Neill had any chance of reacting, she had hooked him under the arm and twisted her legs giving her a pivot and she flipped him over her shoulder, following right after him.

O’Neill, winded, stunned, found himself on his back on her hotel room floor, with Lascelles straddling him and grinning broadly, looking pleased with herself and not drunk at all.

“Gotcha,” she said. “You’re getting slow, Old Man.”

He made to stand up but she pressed on his chest with a firm hand. “Oh no. You’re mine now.”

He sighed. “Come on, Lascelles, you’re not yourself. You just need to wind down some, the way you always do after a big day. You’re reacting.”

“Oh I’m definitely reacting. I need a big fat dick inside me, for one. For two, this is a reaction to you showing up, out of nowhere, here, looking as hot as ever, and it’s been a day and you haven’t fucked me yet and we can’t have that, can we?”

As if to punctuate her words, she pressed her ass onto his crotch. “My, my,” she said, leering. “Still as big as I remember. I missed him!”

She took off her blouse in one swift movement, her large breasts bouncing in her bra, functional yet feminine. “How about you, Sam? You miss my babies? My big fat babies you loved to suck on?”

O’Neill groaned. She felt good on top of him, and looked even better. He could not remember the last time he had been with a woman. Two years? Three? He had forgotten how amazing it felt. And this was different.

It was Kim on top of him. His Kim. Feeling her weight on him reminded him of all their times together.

Lascelles seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. “None of that romantic crap, Sam. Live in the moment.” And then she kissed him, hard, hungry, wet. He was in the moment.

Soon her bra was gone, his shirt was gone, and her breasts on his skin felt amazing and his hands down her back felt like they were going home.

She straightened up again, giving him an eye full of her chest, as generous as it ever was, her breasts heavy and tipped with large areolae and stubby nipples that begged to be handled. He reached up with a hand.

Lascelles own hand was lightning fast, and she slapped his face, hard. As he blinked the stinging tears out of his eyes, she had leaned back down and was kissing him again, as hard as before if not harder, nibbling on his lip, all the while shifting her hips back and forth on his crotch, rubbing her pussy against him through too many layers.

“That was for not calling me for six years, you fucking bastard!” she snarled, her face inches from him, lust and anger fighting it out on her face.

“You told me to get the hell out of your life!”

“And you fucking listened?”

Before O’Neill could retort, she was kissing him again, and rubbing her whole body against his, and he gave up trying to understand what Lascelles was thinking or feeling or doing.

The rational part of him knew that this was all a mistake, that they both would regret it, if not in the morning then later, that this could go nowhere, that they had tried before and it had failed miserably and ended in pain and suffering. A more primitive part of him told him to shut up and fuck her.

In the melee that ensued, he grabbed and played with her breasts as she deftly opened his pants and pulled them down with her feet. Her breasts felt good, as good as they looked, and he remembered enough about her to know to squeeze them hard and pinch her nipples. Lascelles had never been a gentle sexual partner, and she did not expect gentleness in return. What was that saying about women who worked hard playing hard?

O’Neill’s ruminations were wiped out when he felt Lascelles’s mouth wrap around his cock and suck him in. He gasped, remembering in vivid detail her sucking abilities, the way she viewed it merely as a prelude to more involved sexual calisthenics, an appetizer before the main course. She loved sucking cocks. It made her wet. And it made her good at it.

O’Neill melted into the floor and simply enjoyed Lascelles’s mouth on him, her thick lips wrapped around his shaft, her tongue hard and demanding, her rhythm relentless. He was big, and she had always struggled to take him in deep, but she had also always relished the challenge. Nothing had changed as she tried to force his cock as deep as it would go. He idly wondered who she had been using as a sexual release for the past six years—it was unlikely that she had gone without for so long.

He was so taken with her activity, so enthralled by the feeling of her soft, warm, wet mouth sinking deep on his cock, the feeling of her large breasts against his legs, that he was caught by surprised when she flipped around and straddled him in a sixty-nine position—she had shed her own slacks at some point in the process, and she was completely naked—which not only gave her a more propitious position from which to swallow his shaft, but also placed her trimmed fragrant pussy right there in front of his face and gave him an opportunity to indulge.

He dove in, the way he knew she liked it, without preliminary, without foreplay. He dove in and stuck his tongue in her pussy and she moaned into his shaft in her mouth as he tongued her forcefully, his hands on her fantastic ass pulling her down onto his face, his hands squeezing her cheeks in rhythm with both his licking and her sucking. Her abundant juices were dripping down onto his face, but he did not mind.

It did not surprise him when Lascelles eventually shivered and pulled back from him, his cock shuddering at the transition from her sultry mouth to the cold air of the room, in the same lithe movement turning around and pulling O’Neill on top of her and wrapping her legs around him and pulling him tight.

“I need you to fuck me hard,” was all she said as she guided him inside her and he closed his eyes and savored every second his cock spent burrowing a passage into her tight but drenched pussy.

“Fuck yeah,” Lascelles growled as her entered her, and her hips pushed up to meet him. He sank into her warm pussy as it closed around him, beckoning him deeper. There was no struggle pushing in balls deep, as she accepted him all, her thighs split open wide.

“Fuck me Sam,” she growled, and he did, with long hard strokes that sent her large breasts bouncing, even as they kissed frantically. Her hands were on his ass urging him deeper, her legs around his hanging on for dear life. The floor of the hotel room must not have been comfortable, but she did not seem to care, and in fact probably considered any discomfort as fodder for her arousal.

They fucked. There was no other word for it. They fucked, and they fucked hard. And through it all, Lascelles moaned and groaned in O’Neill’s ear, whispering dirty words to to egg him on into fucking her dirty cunt harder.

She clutched his shoulders, held on to him tight, pulled him to her. Her breath in his ear was short, warm. “Tell me… a story…” she whispered, tentative yet eager, her voice broken by O’Neill slamming into her.

In a flash, O’Neill was brought back in time. She had often asked exactly that. Tell me a story. O’Neill knew what she wanted—he knew how her mind worked, what turned her on. Lascelles, the hardcore FBI cop, a woman in a man’s world, in a role which she herself viewed as a stereotypical male role despite all of her feminist leanings, subject to the same biases that the rest of culture fostered, biases for her gender, for her race. The one place where Kimberly Lascelles let go was in her head, in her fantasies.

O’Neill knew all of that, and Lascelles knew that he knew. Her request was not only a gesture of desire, but also a peace offering, a reconciliation of a sort, a statement of trust that touched him deeper than anything else she had done until then.

He slammed into her harder. “You want a story, Kim? You want a dirty story?”

“Please…” She never opened her eyes.

He paused, giving her the impression that he was thinking about it, teasing her, and she groaned “Please…” again and pressed her body against his.

He slowed his pace down, from hard rapid thrusts to long slow ones that would have frustrated her if not for the anticipation.

“Let me tell you about the Institute,” he started, keeping his voice low. He was staring at her, while she kept her eyes closed. Her mouth was barely open, her lips wet. “They have this wing, you know, where they keep the really twisted patients, the psychos, the sociopaths, the insane ones. The ones that would think nothing of grabbing and taking and raping a little slut to within an inch of her life. They keep them apart from the rest of the population, for obvious reasons: they’re too dangerous. They’re kept in cages deep in the grounds of the Institute, where they can’t hurt anyone.”

Lascelles must have approved for she let out a “ohh” that ended with a grunt and her hips shook and her pussy squeezed his cock.

“That’s right,” he said, “they keep the sickos there, and that’s where He brought you.” It was always He in her stories. “You got a blindfold on, you don’t know where you’re going—you got a pair of fuck me heels on that make you stumble as you walk and He wrapped a robe around you to keep you from being too cold, but you know it’s not going to be on for long once you make it to where He’s bringing you.”

She groaned again. “God yes…”

“Do you wanna know what those psychos see when He takes off your robe for them, for those animals?”

“Please…” she whispered. “Something slutty?…”

“Oh yes. He pulls off your blindfold, and you see that He’s got a ski mask on, and He pulls off your robe and you feel the biting cold of the cellar-like room you’re in, filled with cages with psychos in them screaming at you and you got this tiny red bikini on, the kind you can’t wear for swimming, the kind that barely covers your big tits that keep on popping out. And all those sickos in their cages go nuts, banging against the bars, hooting, catcalling, shouting at you, dancing and jumping knowing that they’re going to take you, some of them with their flies open stroking their cocks as they leer at you, anticipating what your tight holes will feel like when they plow into them.”

She moaned again, and she grabbed him harder and bit his shoulder to keep from screaming, and her hips danced. “Yes…” she said, “harder Sam, fuck me harder!” Her eyes were still closed, but he knew what he would see in them if she were to open them. He picked up the pace, still keeping to his long strokes, but making it a point to slam hard on the finish, eliciting a groan every time.

“You know He’s going to open their cages, let them have a go at you, let them do whatever the fuck they want to you, using you like a tramp, like a slut, like whore—you’re just going to be a toy for them, not a human, not a thing, just a set of holes for them to ravage, flesh for them to scratch and bite and slap—”

“Oh God,” she moaned again, louder, clutching him.

“He wants to put up a special show for them, so He presses on your shoulders and it’s clear what he wants and you drop to your knees and you think that He’s gonna make you suck his cock but no, He pulls out a chain leash from his pocket and snaps it to your bitch collar, and pushes you down on all four—”

“Fuck yes!” she growls and bites into his shoulder, her whole body shuddering in desire. “Like a filthy bitch,” she groans, lost in her own world.

“That’s right, like a filthy bitch. And then He pulls on the chain and has you walk around in front of those crazies, on all four like a bitch, and they scream at you, ‘bark, bitch!’ and ‘come and lick my bone, cunt!’ and He walks you up and down the row of cages, advertising you, making them hornier and hungrier and making sure that when they’re unleashed on you there will be no quarters, that you’ll be used like you’ve never been used before. And when all of the nutjobs are drooling with desire, half naked, their hard cocks dripping pre-cum, He ties you up to a pipe by your leash and pats you on the head and then He leaves after flicking the switch that opens the cages and the animals rush out toward you, hungry, insane—”

“FUUUUUUCK!….”

Lascelles came. With a final howl she clenched and scratched his back with sharp fingernails, not caring or even noticing that she was leaving marks that would last for days, and her pussy milked O’Neill’s cock and as she trembled in the throes of her orgasm he exploded himself, feeling like he had finally made it home.

Before she passed out from the emotions of the day, Lascelles whispered drowsily that she loved him. Which, O’Neill would reflect later, was probably the most surprising of it all.