The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Previously, on The Adjusters: Jennifer Hansen was a senior student at Darnell University, and had just gotten engaged to fellow student Daniel Malcolm, when she is abducted by Biff Cusker, a brother at the local Delta Iota Kappa fraternity, and programmed as his private sex slave using technology provided by one Doctor Cargyle. While her fiancé and his friends try to find out what happened to her, Jenn is forced to obey Biff’s depraved wishes and is used in every way possible, doing things she would never have done otherwise, all the while fully aware of what is happening to her. To ensure that she is not taken from him, Biff programs a fail-safe into her mind: if she is ever away from him for more than a few days, she will start to feel irresistible urges to offer herself to strangers and get them to fuck her as hard and as often as they can, and those urges will only get worse and worse. At the end-of-year party thrown by his fraternity, DIK-Bash, Biff is confronted by Daniel Malcolm, and dies in a conflagration that destroys the fraternity house—but not before sending Jenn away, away from Daniel and her friends, and out into the world to fend for herself.

The Adjusters IV: Running to Stand Still

The Craven-Wilford Institute

Richard Sanderson donned his uniform, trying to relax. His first day of his first job out of college—some anxiety was not only understandable, but expected. He had a few nursing internships under his belt, of course, like everyone else, but internships were different. One was mentored, supervised.

But this was the real thing. He was alone, left to his own devices. Sink or swim. So this is what independence feels like, he thought.

He looked at himself in the mirror in the employees’ lounge, which was lined up with lockers on one side, and a couch, a few tables, and a small bookshelf on the others. A large window against one wall let light in and offered a view of a pleasantly wooden area—filled swampland, he had been told. He practiced making relaxed friendly faces even as he checked to make sure his shirt was buttoned correctly. Focusing on details had always been his trick to control anxiety at exams and public functions throughout his life. And this is what it felt like—an exam, doubled with a quasi-public function.

He looked again at his blonde hair, unable to quite get used to how short it was, the shortest he had ever worn it. It looked good, he agreed with the hairdresser he had seen just the day before, who had suggested the new length as a way to mark his starting the new phase of his life. His shoulder-length locks had fallen ominously around him while she worked, like a rain washing away the past. He wondered again, as he had for the past day, how Felicity would have reacted at seeing his hair. She had loved his long curls.

He shook his head to clear it. He had been thinking about her a lot these past several days. Undoubtedly a side effect of his breakup with his latest girlfriend. Whenever he had setbacks in his love life, his mind kept going back to Felicity.

He gently pulled his mind from those thoughts. He had to focus. Today was his first day at the Craven-Wilford Institute, and he wanted to make a good impression.

The Craven-Wilford Institute for Mental Health was the premier facility for research and care in mental disorder on the East coast. Sanderson had applied for a position on their staff, like many in his graduating class, but he had harbored little hope, despite his specialization in schizophrenic care. He had been the first surprised when Human Resources at the Institute called him up and invited him to interview. He was even more surprised when he was offered a job. His parents—who worried about their son like parents were wont to do—had been elated and proud, even if it meant that he would be leaving their beloved Indiana.

His last girlfriend had been less understanding, and had categorically refused to follow him to the East Coast, and had given him an ultimatum: her or the Institute. The choice had not been difficult.

He had arrived not even a week ago, and he had not yet found an apartment; he was crashing at a friend’s place. His life was a whirlwind, everything up in the air, everything different from everything he knew. It was scary, it was exciting, it was maddening.

The previous day he had had his orientation, filled with administrative trivia and also an introduction to the Institute: an overview of the various divisions, the day clinic on the first floor to treat emergency cases, the short term treatment and housing facility; the longer term treatment wing where more difficult cases were isolated, including those under judicial supervision awaiting trial or triage to another long-term facility. The Institute also housed their own research facilities, with state-of-the-art laboratories and teams of researchers studying an array of mental disorders, as well as lecture halls and faculty offices for the teaching staff affiliated with the nearby state university.

Sanderson’s friends had teased him about getting a position in the sexual disorders unit, which was one of the pillars of the international reputation of the Institute. Sanderson, as far as he was concerned, wondered how his own background suggested to Human Resources that he should be assigned to that unit, and he suspected an error that would be corrected quickly.

Sanderson had to admit to a noticeable spark of arousal as his mind’s eye conjured up the image of a stereotypical nymphomaniac, a femme fatale of allure and unquenchable need, willing to do anything to find satisfaction. He quashed the inappropriate thought with a nervous laugh, not only feeling guilty about it, but also realizing that he was buying into a fantasy—mental health disorders generally got in the way of grooming, especially when it landed them at the Craven-Wilford Institute.

I probably just really need to get laid, he thought with another nervous laugh. One downside with losing a girlfriend is that one lost access to regular sex—and being in a new city made the problem difficult to correct.

He shut his locker, and picked up his badge. His goofy face—he had never been particularly photogenic—looked back at him, and seemed to know something he did not.

He made his way to the long-term treatment wing’s front desk, which doubled as the admission desk and the security desk. The wing was not locked down, unlike the violent patients unit in the basement, which boasted reinforced plexiglass walls and guards equipped with tasers. They had a reputation for shocking first and never really bothering with questions.

Things were different on this wing, saw Sanderson as he approached the pretty nurse behind the station. It would be a nice change, he reflected, not to have to worry about physical violence. He was not a small man by any measure, and he could hold is own in a fight—he had been a wrestler in high school, though he had not kept it up—but he disliked physical confrontation.

“You must be Richard Sanderson,” said the pretty nurse, standing from behind the desk and extending a hand towards Sanderson, who shook it. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m Beatrice.” Her smile was contagious.

“Nice to meet you. Nice place you got here.”

And it was. Unlike many of the centers where he had interned during his training, which often were a coat of paint away from condemnation, this wing was modern and could not have been older than five years old. And the colors, while the neutral common to hospitals the world over, were admittedly warm neutral colors, with touches of burgundy that Sanderson considered almost risqué.

“Isn’t it? We’ve lucked out—when they grew the Institute, we had first dibs for our new digs, and here we are. And wait till you see the break rooms. Hope you like coffee... our machines are killer!”

Beatrice grinned and pushed a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Beatrice was young and pretty and seemed to have a nice body beneath her nurse’s white uniform. Fuck, he thought, chiding himself. I really need to get laid. Or I’m going to get in trouble before the day is over.

Beatrice seemed not to notice his trouble, and she sat back at her console, typing on a keyboard.

“So where did they put you? Oh—I see they assigned you to Blue Ward. Interesting. Well, I’m sure the ladies will appreciate having a good-looking new nurse taking care of them.” She looked at him with a sideway glance at that, and her smile was flirty. Sanderson smiled back, wondering whether to reciprocate her flirting.

“Blue Ward. Got it,” he said, as though he knew what that meant. “And, huh, does that mean we’re working together?” He tried to give Beatrice a flirty smile like she had given him.

“No, sadly. I’m Red Ward. Bipolars. Never boring, those. No, you’ve be assigned to—” she checked her screen, and Sanderson could detect a frown and a bit of a pout on her pretty pink lips. “Gutierrez. Figures.”

Without commenting further, she pressed a button by the side of the desk, and spoke into a microphone. “Gutierrez to the front desk. Gutierrez to the front desk.” Her voice resounded on hidden speakers.

She looked up at Sanderson, and he detected an apology in her smile. “The usual routine is that you’ll shadow Gutierrez for about two weeks, learn the ropes, the details of your specific ward, the schedules, the routines. Every ward has its own rhythm, its own life. You’ll see. Gutierrez will bring you up to speed on that.”

“Blue Ward. What are the patients like?”

“They’re an odd bunch—well, everyone’s an odd bunch here, I guess—but Blue Ward is a bit... difficult to qualify further.” She lowered her voice and looked around, as if she was imparting a deep secret. But there was no one within earshot. “Word is, no one actually knows what’s wrong with them, but they’re degenerating quickly. Lots of doctors come here to examine them; researchers, not clinicians. I mean, we have our assigned residents, of course, but there’s a lot of research interest.”

Sanderson had no response. Beatrice merely looked at him meaningfully as if he knew what she was talking about. To break the awkwardness and to keep from blurting out what part of him really wanted to ask—are you free tonight for drinks and a long fuck?—he nodded towards a cross on the wall behind the desk.

“I’ve seen quite a few of those around.”

Beatrice turned her head to look, and Sanderson appreciated the way her neck curved, the skin smooth and soft-looking, and he wondered what it might feel like to lightly run his lips down her neck.

“The crosses? Yeah, I think we’ve kept most of them. I mean, I heard that they took down some of the most egregious ones—you know, those where Jesus looks like he’s bleeding his guts out for real?”

“But this isn’t...?”

“No, it’s not a Catholic hospital. But it used to be a convent. The Sisters Hospitallers, I think. That was a while back. They kept one or two of the old buildings, in the back, but they tore down the rest and rebuilt from scratch.”

“Yet they kept the crosses?”

Beatrice made a face, and bade him closer. He leaned down, and noticed her perfume. His head swam for a second.

“People asked for them to be put back. This place is haunted.”

“Haunted?”

Beatrice nodded. “Haunted. Screams late at night, moans, the works. Freaked people out like you wouldn’t believe. We petitioned to get the crosses back, you know, just in case.”

“In case they didn’t move the bodies when they moved the cemetery to build this place?” Sanderson joked.

Beatrice swatted him playfully on the shoulder. “Very funny.” She turned serious. “Laugh all you want, but some nights, if you’re in the right place, at the right time, and it’s real quiet, you can hear them...”

“Who?”

“The souls of those that were held here long ago and died, alone, abandoned, forgotten.” Her eyes—big, blue, beautiful—shone.

Sanderson was saved from needing to come up with a response by the arrival of an older man in nurse’s uniform like Beatrice.

Beatrice leaned back, and nodded to the newcomer. “Gutierrez, this is Richard Sanderson, newly assigned to Blue Ward. He’s going to be your charge for the next two weeks. Treat him well. We like him.” Beatrice smiled to Sanderson.

Sanderson automatically extended his hand towards Gutierrez, who hesitated for a second before shaking it. The shake was hard, nervous. Gutierrez looked up to Sanderson, nodded then he shifted his eyes to Beatrice for a split second before dropping them down to Sanderson’s chest.

Sanderson examined his new mentor. Gutierrez looked to be in his late thirties, of average height and average weight, with perhaps narrower shoulders than really was becoming on a man of his size. He probably hardly attracted any attention in a crowd, and he looked like that suited him just fine. His darker complexion betrayed some of the Central American origin that Sanderson read into his last name, as did his cropped dark hair.

Gutierrez voice had no trace of accent when he greeted Sanderson. “Nice to meet you, Sanderson. Welcome to the family.” He spoke quickly, without much pause between sentences.

“Thanks. So you’re my mentor, then?”

Gutierrez gave Beatrice a quick look before shifting his eyes back to Sanderson’s chest. “So it seems...” He let his sentence trail.

Beatrice smiled at Gutierrez, although her smile seemed somewhat forced. “That’s what the system tells me. The plan is for Sanderson to shadow you in the Blue Ward—teach him the ropes, what he needs to know, and in two weeks or so we can let our little birdie fly on his own.”

Gutierrez gave a small nervous smile and nodded his head, never looking up from Sanderson’s chest. “Okay then,” he said, with a quick look at Sanderson. “Let’s go, then.”

Gutierrez turned, and headed down the hall. Sanderson, utterly fascinated by the older man’s body language, shared a glance with Beatrice, who merely shrugged and gave him a wry grin.

“Thanks Beatrice. And...” He paused, unsure what to say next. Keep it simple, man. “Well, I hope I’ll get to see you around.”

Beatrice’s smile beamed. “I’d like that, little birdie. Good luck.”

Sanderson hurried after Gutierrez, who was waiting by a translucent blue glass door.

“Try your card,” Gutierrez said, gesturing to a slot near the door.

Sanderson swiped his ID card through, a green light flashed, and he heard the release of the bolt unlocking the door. Gutierrez went through, and Sanderson followed him into Blue Ward.

Gutierrez was walking in front of Sanderson, and he turned to look at the younger man frequently. He seemed more relaxed now that Beatrice was not around. His head was straighter, and his eyes made contact. Even his voice sounded less strained.

“So why did you apply for Blue Ward?” asked Gutierrez.

“I didn’t. I was assigned.”

“Oh?” Gutierrez frowned, and looked at him strangely. “What’s your training?”

“Schizophrenics.”

Gutierrez nodded his head. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”

“So who’s in Blue Ward? I just learned of it not half an hour ago, and I’m not sure I really understand.”

“Every ward is color-coded,” Gutierrez replied, gesturing towards the walls of the hallway which were painted a pale blue. “Blue Ward is, to put it bluntly, the nympho ward.”

Gutierrez stared at Sanderson as he spoke, as if studying his reaction. Sanderson’s eyes widened slightly—nymphomania was the old term for hypersexuality and sexual compulsion disorders now favored in clinical settings. In college, he had heard tales of technicians and nurses dealing with nymphomaniacs, and while he fully believed those tales to have been apocryphal, if not straight wish-fulfillment fantasies, the images those tales summoned had often made their way into his wet dreams, as it had for several of his male colleagues, and possibly several of his female ones as well.

Gutierrez gave a small smile, as if he had seen what he had hoped to see on Sanderson’s face, and nodded. “And let me tell you, not just run of the mill nymphomania either. Oh no, I’m talking cream of the crop here at the Gallery. Nymphomania with a dash of addiction, a touch of delusion, and a sprinkle of dissociative disorder. Quite a mix, quite a mix.” He smiled at Sanderson, who did not know quite how to respond and so merely gave a small smile in return.

Gutierrez seemed a different man when he entered what Sanderson would learn was the main recreation room of Blue Ward, where patients congregated and socialized and played games and read and generally got out of their small rooms. He had seemed so uncomfortable in Beatrice’s presence that Sanderson wondered whether the two had some history. That was always the main difficulty with joining a new workplace—one had to learn the existing social structure and navigate it without messing up. He pictured Gutierrez rutting on top of a squirming Beatrice urging him to fuck her faster. He shook his head to clear it of the slightly disturbing visual.

The Blue Ward recreation room was, all things considered, an enjoyable area, without being overtly exciting. Sanderson, who had always been sensitive to the aura of locations, attuned to the subtle psychological shifts induced by colors, textures, and layout—some of his less charitable girlfriends had used the term oversensitive—could appreciate the skills shown by whomever had designed this room, and the ward in general. The color scheme remained in the tones of blue, sprinkled with off whites and grays. A few large windows lit up the side of the room, offering an opening for the morning sun. Large couches and lounging chairs were sprinkled across the room, along with tables and large bean bags, most occupied by patients recognizable by their light blue pants and tee shirts.

As near as Sanderson could tell, patients were all female, and on the young side—the oldest no older than her mid-thirties. But what was particularly striking was that they were all beautiful, although some showed signs of wear and tear. Drugs? Sanderson wondered, aware that hypersexuality sufferers often turned to alcohol and drugs. Some of the patients were talking quietly, other playing cards or board games, but the majority of them simply sat in silence, staring off into space, a peaceful look on their faces. Most could have been models; they were that good looking. Sanderson was disturbed.

A couple of nurses were walking around the room and talking to patients, while another sat behind the dispensary counter, reading a paperback. The lack of a glass wall told Sanderson that patients were rarely unruly. Nevertheless, a bulky male nurse with the body of a club bouncer stood in the corner, keeping a calm eye on the proceedings, looking bored.

Gutierrez introduced him to the other nurses, and Sanderson noted Gutierrez, while much more in his element than he was at the front desk, also was somewhat shifty with his interactions with the nurses, and avoided most direct eye contact. The nurses, for their part, seemed more tolerant of Gutierrez’s quirks, and even joked with him. They greeted Sanderson with pleasure, going so far as teasing him for being male, looking pleased at the prospect. They seemed generally kind and well-meaning, as well as professional, and Sanderson liked them immediately. They smiled easily, and he felt welcome.

He felt a presence very close behind him, then a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a pair of dark eyes with bold black eyeliner staring at him, the main features in a beautiful pale face. The woman’s lips were shaded a deep dark red, and her smile was equal parts seductive and wolfish. She had found a way to marry her dark makeup, her pale complexion, and the blue clothes she had been given as a patient.

“Hello there, Young Thing,” she said, her voice promising dark bumpy things in the night.

Sanderson’s training with schizophrenics included keeping them at a safe distance without antagonizing them, and so he automatically took a step to the right away from her without giving the impression that he was in fact stepping away from her.

“Miss,” he said by way of greeting, keeping his voice casual.

“Cassandra,” said a man’s voice coming from behind Sanderson. “We talked about this—personal space.” A tall lanky man in his late forties, with curly black hair, an aquiline nose, and intelligent eyes, came to stand next to Cassandra. He was in a white shirt with rolled sleeves, unbutton at the neck.

The woman called Cassandra batted her eyelashes at him as she spared him a quick glance. “You know, you should be much more forceful when you say that, Brown Eyes. You know how hot it gets me.” She turned her gaze to Sanderson. “How about you, Young Thing? You got what it takes to put me in my place?”

Cassandra kept running her hand on Sanderson’s arm, and she pressed close against him, taking advantage of the distraction caused by the tall man’s appearance. Sanderson, who had been on edge all morning, could not help but appreciate the warmth and feel of the flesh against him. He did not step away this time.

“Cassandra,” the tall man said, “you made so much progress those last session, controlling your urges. Are you really willing to toss it all away?”

Cassandra smiled a dirty smile, and wiggled her body against Sanderson’s, sighing loudly and threading her hands through his hair. She smelled of fresh soap, and her eyes held both a challenge and a promise of delights of the flesh.

She was not his style, not by far—although he could acknowledge that she was beautiful and sexy—but if anything she reminded him how horny he felt. Between her and Beatrice earlier, and the patients as a whole, and the knowledge that he was in a ward full of women with difficulty controlling their sexual urges, Sanderson was starting to worry that he had maybe made a mistake accepting the position.

“I don’t know,” Cassandra said, reply to the tall man. “I guess it depends on the new guy here. Can you bring me off, Young Thing? Are you the big fat cock that I’ve been waiting for all this time?”

She reached down with a hand to rub his crotch, and Sanderson jumped. Cassandra smirked.

The tall man had a little smile on his face, despite the frown he directed at Cassandra. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “because everyone thinks it their first few days: you’re thinking that maybe, just maybe you made a mistake accepting the position.” He waited for confirmation from Sanderson, who nodded dazedly. “Mister Sanderson,” said the tall man, who seemed to know Sanderson’s name, “meet Cassandra, who’s been with us for nearly a year now, one of our longest patients. As you can tell, Cassandra has an aggressive sexual presence. Don’t let her walk all over you—you may not like it.”

Cassandra grinned, and dragged her fingers down the side of Sanderson’s face. Her nails were clipped so short as to be practically nonexistent, for which he felt he should be grateful.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Cassandra purred. “I’m thinking that Young Thing here would like it. A lot. I can always tell.” She stepped closer, and whispered in Sanderson’s ear. “I’ve got the tightest pussy you can imagine, boy, and I’ll make you squeal like a little girl when I squeeze your cock with it.”

“Cassandra,” the tall man said with warning in his voice.

Cassandra stepped back, making a mock-sad face.

“This hunk,” she said, as though she had never been interrupted, “is Doctor Michael Dante, our resident doctor and all around fun guy. He’s got a nice cock that makes you tingly in all the right places and cum that tastes like Puttanesca.” She eyed Dante, whose expression did not betray anything. Sanderson wondered whether Dante had slept with Cassandra. It might not be that surprising, given the atmosphere of the ward and its temptations. He was not a prude, but his ethical boundaries had not been thoroughly tested in the field.

Dante shook his head, and lifted his right hand. “You do remember I’m married, don’t you, Cassandra? Happily so, too.”

“Oh Brown Eyes—I was married too, once.” A shadow crossed her face, and made her lose her thread for a second, and she frowned. Then she smiled naughtily once more, and looked at Sanderson, taking another step towards him. “But then I learned that the more cocks, the bigger the cocks, the better.” She was close, close enough to kiss him. The look in her eyes was that of the spider eyeing a fly trapped in its web.

Sanderson swallowed, thinking back on his training. He steeled his voice. “Cassandra...”

Cassandra smiled with a smile containing real pleasure, and not a challenge this time. Sanderson saw her shiver, closing her eyes. “Oh,” she said in a sigh, “there may be potential in this one. Oh yes, real potential! Want to try to tame me, Young Thing?” She opened her eyes again and the look in them sufficed to make his cock achieve full erection on the spot, so full of pent-up lust it was.

“And you,” she said to Dante, looking at him sideways, while thrusting one of her legs between Sanderson’s, “if you’re so happily married, how come you’re fucking around with little Miss Prim and Proper?”

“Excuse me?” asked Dante.

“I can practically smell her on you. You’re giving it to that blonde cutie nurse—Beatrice, is it? That’s what gets it hard for you? Pretty little blonde bimbos that play hard to get but fuck like little sluts when everyone’s back is turned?”

“Cassandra...”

“You’re so hot for that little blonde cunt that it makes me wet. I’ve diddled myself often thinking of you holding the little bitch down and fucking her pretty ass off, right here on these couches. Tell me, Brown Eyes—does she like to be spanked while you fuck her? Does she likes getting her titties slapped, her nipples pulled, her ass fisted as you plow her cunt raw?”

Her leg was pressing against Sanderson’s cock as she spoke to Dante. Sanderson was spellbound by the image she was painting in his mind. Is it true? he wondered helplessly. Is Dante sleeping with Beatrice?

“Cassandra,” Dante said firmly. “That’s enough. I think we’re going to have to revisit your dosage—you seem to be spiking again.”

Cassandra had shivered noticeably at Dante’s tone of voice, and she gave him a seductive smile, while rubbing her leg in Sanderson’s crotch. She winked at the nurse before stepping back and walking away from both men.

They watched her go, Sanderson’s eyes dropping down to Cassandra’s toned ass easily imagined through the thin material of her pants.

Dante sighed. “Cassandra can be a bit... intense at times. Don’t let yourself be bowled over. She is a master manipulator. And she’s going to dominate you if you don’t dominate her.”

Sanderson gave a sweeping look around the room, noting that Gutierrez had slinked away and was hanging out with patients at the far end of the room. His attention returned to Dante. “I’m Richard Sanderson, as I’m guessing you know.” Dante nodded in response. “I’m curious—why are the patients medicated?” He did not recall medication being central to the treatment of hypersexuality, at least not to the extent that the patients in the room suggested. “Is it a new protocol?”

“An excellent question.” Dante gave the room a sweeping look just like Sanderson had done, and spoke to him while watching patients. “While you may have been told that these girls have an hypersexuality disorder, Mister Sanderson, that’s not quite right. And we have an atypical protocol for a very atypical syndrome. We don’t really have a name for what ails them—we’ve taken to calling it Degenerative Sexual Compulsion Syndrome. You’ll learn more about it when we sit down and chat about it later in the week—make sure you’re on my schedule—but basically, we don’t know what they suffer from exactly, and that’s one reason why they’re all here, so they can be studied and possibly cured.”

Sanderson’s interest was sparked. “So what is it? Clinical manifestations?”

Dante smiled a sad smile. “To a first approximation, increased sexual sensitivity, obsessional think, with compulsive and addictive tendencies, as well as a need to seek validation through sexual relations, either dominant or submissive. The compulsion seems pathological, and there is no identifiable release for the cravings.”

“So is it just a psychosomatic need?”

Dante shook his head. “No, they seem to have a physiological basis. In fact, there is significant neurological damage, and it is progressive, leading all the way to the central nervous system.”

Neurological damage was never good news, especially if it reached the central nervous system. “Lethal?”

“Hundred percent mortality rate. Once the damage reaches the spine or the brain stem, the sympathetic system is affected, and organs begin to shut down.”

“So the treatment...?”

“The treatment is purely palliative, although with the right combination of drugs we can slow down the destruction of nerve cells, and also subdue the cravings without entirely eliminating them. When the damage is too extensive, we often induce coma.”

“How long do they have?”

“It varies, a lot. No one knows why. Untreated, damage reaches lethal levels anywhere from two years to a single month. Progress accelerates as damage is done; spread rate is proportional to the affected area. Treatment can slow down the progression by a factor of ten, fifteen in the best of cases.”

“A month,” said Sanderson, in shock. He did not know of any nervous system disease that could ravage a human being so rapidly.

“That’s not the strangest thing,” continued Dante, who seemed to enjoy speaking of his charge. “One of the side effect of the syndrome is personality changes.”

That intrigued Sanderson, whose work with schizophrenic patients had confronted him to personality changes intimately. “That’s not unheard of in hypersexuality disorders.”

“But not to the extent you’ll see. The changes are all over the place, from mild to severe, sometimes leading to alternate personalities compared to statements about the patients prior to admission.”

“And I take it that the personality changes track the damage to the nervous system?”

Dante shook his head. “That’s what you’d think, right? That’s what anybody would think. But no. The personality changes are surprisingly stable, and seem unaffected by the nervous system damage. Nerves get damaged, but the changes do not get worse. Although, there is a correlation, if a mysterious one: the extent of personality change seems to track the rate of progress of damage, and not the extent of damage.”

“That’s... weird.” Sanderson tried to construct a mental model of what might be going on to explain such a correlation, but failed. Biology had never been his forte, one of the reasons he chose nursing over medicine.

“Weird is definitely the consensus on this one.” He checked his watch, then clapped his hands, and spoke to the room. “Okay folks—group session in room B in five minutes.”

As several patients stood to file out of the recreation room, Dante nodded to Sanderson. “Well, welcome to our little family. Whatever else it might be, boring it is not.”

He turned and left with a group of patients.

Sanderson turned to see that Gutierrez, who had circled the room while Sanderson was speaking with Dante, was whispering something in the ear of a young patient. The young woman, a thin waif of a woman that seemed to be floating in her clothes, listened to Gutierrez, nodding once, her beaten dog expression hardly changing, her eyes looking down at the floor. Gutierrez smiled and patted her on the shoulder.

“We should probably do our round,” Gutierrez told Sanderson.

They left the recreation room down a different hallway than the one from which they arrived. Gutierrez gestured while he spoke, once in a while stopping at a door and knocking once softly before opening it and taking a look inside. “All the patients are housed in the wing, sometimes sharing rooms. Some of the patients do not do well when they are alone. Some do not do great when they are in company.”

They walked down the hallway, and Sanderson saw patients reading, sometimes playing games, sometimes interacting with computer tablets, more often than not, sitting on the bed and doing nothing. All were as good looking as the ones he had seen in the recreation room.

In one room, a tall toned blonde was doing yoga, caught in a seemingly uncomfortable pose that showed off her flexibility and her tight fit body. Gutierrez winked at Sanderson, who blushed when he caught himself staring.

Gutierrez walked them to the next room. “You’re going to like this one,” he said, a glint in his eyes. “If you thought the previous one was nice, this one’s going to blow your mind.” He took out what looked to Sanderson like a remote control from his pocket, and pressed a button on it. Then he opened the door, and led Sanderson inside.

He nodded to the girl on the bed, who was lying down, not moving, her eyes closed. He walked to the side of the bed, and leaned over the girl. “Hello, gorgeous. Did you miss me?” He kissed her on the lips, pressing for a long time. One of his hands grasped her breast through the thin hospital gown, and he squeezed it roughly. The girl did not react. Gutierrez pulled up slightly. “I certainly missed you.” He then ran his tongue slowly up the side of her face slowly, from her chin up to her forehead. He laughed softly.

“This is my new friend Sanderson,” Gutierrez told her, pointing to Sanderson. “Come here, Sanderson, come meet one of our most accommodating guests here at the Gallery.”

Sanderson stepped up quietly, in shock. But what shocked him was not Gutierrez’s behavior, as wrong as it was. It was the girl on the bed. She was stunning. And she reminded him of Felicity so much it hurt—similar long brown hair, similar soft features, similar cheekbones. Even her full lips were a memory trigger for him. The girl on the bed looked so peaceful she was almost angelic, and Sanderson felt it disrespectful to speak in a normal tone of voice, and thus merely whispered “Hello...”

She did not reply, did not move.

“She’s stoned out of her mind,” said Gutierrez. “She can’t hear you. Or see you. She can’t feel a thing, in fact.” As if to illustrate his words, he grasped one of her breasts through her gown and squeezed hard.

The girl did not flinch, did not react.

“Why is she sedated? Who is she?” He wanted to tell Gutierrez to stop pawing her, but did not.

“She says her name’s Jennie. At least, when she’s awake enough to say anything. Which don’t happen too often. She goes nuts.” Gutierrez had a little smile when he said that, one that Sanderson could not interpret. “You’ll get to see it soon enough. It’s quite a sight.”

Gutierrez leaned over to rub his nose against the girl he called Jennie. “Isn’t that right, baby,” he said as if he were talking to a child, “you go crazy? That’s right... that’s right... shaking that tight booty of yours, begging and crying.” He licked her lips, to no discernible reaction from the girl. “Been a while we haven’t had a date you and I, gorgeous.”

“Gutierrez,” chimed in Sanderson, “do you... well... do you have to do that?”

Gutierrez laughed, his face still an inch away from the girl’s. “You hear that, baby? Seems like Sanderson thinks I’m taking advantage of you. But we know better, don’t we? How about we show him? You up for that? Oh, no need to be shy. We’re all friends here, right? I mean, we’re all gonna be real good friends.” He grinned wide. He looked more animated than Sanderson had seen him until then—like a proud teacher showing off a prized pupil.

Gutierrez turned to Sanderson. “Know what we call her—behind the doctors back, of course? You know, her nickname? Come on, give a guess.”

“No idea,” replied Sanderson.

Gutierrez paused for effect. “Biff’s Cunt,” he said, a twisted grin on his face.

“What?”

“Lock the door. Go on.” When Sanderson had done so, Gutierrez beckoned him over. “Come here. Right there, foot of the bed. Right. Now look at this.” Reaching down, he lifted the girl’s hospital gown, baring a pair of lovely legs that Sanderson struggled not to ogle too blatantly.

“Behold,” said Gutierrez, with a dramatic flourish, only to groan. “Oh jeez, look at that. They put some panties on you, baby.”

A pair of white cotton panties indeed covered the girl’s crotch. Sanderson could see the bump of her mound of Venus, tensing the material over her sex.

Gutierrez shook his head. “They’re not even sexy either. Freakin’ nurses...” he muttered, as he grabbed the cotton panties and unceremoniously slid them down the girl’s legs. Pocketing them, he pushed the girl’s legs wide apart. “Feast on this, Sanderson.”

Whatever misgivings Sanderson might have had evaporated when his eyes landed on the soft skin between the brunette’s legs. A soft cropped fur covered a perfectly folded pussy that invited sin, its blood red labia beckoning. And in an arc right above the top of her slit ran a tattoo that spelled out Biff’s Cunt in dark red letters.

“So what do you think?” asked Gutierrez, lifting his nose out of the girl’s panties. “Pretty sweet, ain’t it?”

“Who... who’s Biff?”

“The lucky son of a bitch that was tapping that before she ended up at the Gallery, I guess. Who cares? Just look at it.”

Gutierrez looked at Sanderson a moment, then ran his hand over the girl’s crotch. “Do you know the best bit? Look at this...” He slipped three fingers into Jennie’s slit, and they sank in easily. The girl’s hips twitched, and Sanderson could swear that she tilted her pelvis upward. Gutierrez fucked her for a few seconds, driving his fingers deep inside and pulling them out to the tip over and over again.

He pulled his fingers out to show Sanderson. “See this? This chick’s dripping wet twenty-four seven. She’s practically begging ‘Come take me, you stud!’” he said in a little falsetto voice. “This pussy’s primed for fucking any time of day or night.”

Sanderson was looking at Gutierrez, not believing that the man was behaving so inappropriately. But his eyes were drawn to the girl’s legs, to the now damp lips that looked like they were asking for a sideway kiss.

Gutierrez gave Sanderson all the time in the world to take in the sight. He sucked the fingers he had fucked the girl with into his mouth. “Mmm... Sweet honey,” he said.

Gutierrez leaned over to mock-whisper in the girl’s ear. “You’re good enough to eat, baby.” He winked at Sanderson. “Wanna taste? Go ahead. She won’t mind. Trust me—she won’t mind at all.”

Sanderson swallowed, his eyes drifting back to the girl’s crotch. There was no denying that part of him wanted to touch her, explore her, enjoy her. The way he had touched, explored, enjoyed Felicity. But this was wrong.

Gutierrez waited patiently, but finally shrugged his shoulders. He leaned over the girl one more time. “It’s okay, baby,” he told her, “he’s just shy. Don’t take it personal. You’re still drop-dead fuckable. He’ll get around to it. No one can resist you, you know that.”

Before reaching over to pull down her gown, he ran two fingers through her slit once more. When she was covered up again, her legs together, he rubbed those fingers onto her lips, coating them with her own juices.

Before Sanderson could say anything—and what could he say?—there was a knock at the door. Sanderson jumped as though he had been shot.

Gutierrez merely grinned, and glanced at Sanderson before walking to the door.

Sanderson’s eyes were drawn back to the girl on the bed, to Jennie. He wondered what color her eyes were—whether the deep warm brown of Felicity’s. The more he looked, the more he saw Felicity there on the bed: her long brown hair with which he use to play after they fucked, her long slim body that he spent so many nights caressing until she joked that he would rub her away layer by layer to which he replied that he was simply polishing her like the precious stone she was, her perfect face into which he had gazed and seen his past and his future and all the ages in between. Somehow, quite naturally, his whole day—his whole last few weeks—had led him to this point. He stared.

Whether Gutierrez knew all that was running through Sanderson’s head was anyone’s guess. But he looked for a long time at the young nurse, studying him with the eyes of someone who had spent his life watching other people and gauging them and searching them for exploitable flaws, as he opened the door.

Sanderson noted almost absently that it was the waif from earlier, who cast her eyes down and said nothing as Gutierrez looked at her.

“Ah. Mouse. Right on time. Come in.”

The girl he called Mouse walked in, her footsteps hesitant, never looking up. Sander cast her a glance, tearing his gaze away from the brunette on the bed. The first impression he had derived when he had seen Mouse in the recreation room held up to closer scrutiny: she must have been in her late twenties, though her body seemed like that of a teenager, and she gave out the aura of someone who was expecting either one of Gutierrez or Sanderson to start hitting her.

Gutierrez did not hit her. He put his arm around her shoulder, affectionately, and introduced her.

“Sanderson, this is Lillian, one of our patients. Everyone calls her Mouse, though. Mouse, this is Mister Sanderson, our new resident nurse who started this morning. He’s going to be introduced more formally later on, I take it, but I figured you might enjoy meeting him more... personally.”

Sanderson was not sure he liked what Gutierrez was implying—what was he implying?—but he smiled at Mouse, who had not lifted her eyes from the floor. “Nice to meet you, Lillian,” he said, keeping his voice soft, as if he were talking to a frightened kitten. “I’m Richard.”

Mouse took a long moment before slowly raising her eyes and looking at Sanderson. She did not smile, only spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. “Mister Sanderson.” She nodded her head imperceptibly before dropping her eyes back down.

Gutierrez patted Mouse’s shoulder. “Come on, Mouse. Let’s take care of that thing.” He guided her back to the door. “Feel free to keep an eye on Jennie,” he said to Sanderson over his shoulder. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sanderson hated himself for blushing. He did not watch the older nurse and the shy effacing waif leave and close the door behind them. He stared at the girl on the bed, the girl Gutierrez had called Jennie, the girl with Biff’s tattoo above her pussy, the girl who reminded him so much of Felicity it hurt.

He remained staring a long time.

* * *

Gutierrez led Mouse back to her room and locked the door behind him. Mouse let herself be steered, keeping her eyes down the whole way, never saying a word.

Mouse knew the drill, of course, but she did not presume his wishes, which was one of the reasons he was so taken with her. That, and the fact that she never spoke unless talked to, and rarely looked him in the eyes. She was safe.

Gutierrez looked at Mouse for a long while, letting his arousal blossom, sliding his eyes over her slight body hidden underneath the formless clothes she had been given. He savored the moment. Kissing and palming Biff’s Cunt earlier had turned him on something fierce. He wondered whether that new guy Sanderson would take advantage of her. That would simplify everything. But he feared that Sanderson would probably just end up watching her with that look he had, the one that said he was seeing a ghost. But Sanderson would give in, eventually. If not that day, then some other day. Gutierrez was sure of it.

He nodded to Mouse. “You know the routine, right? You know what’s going to happen now?” He liked to stretch out the anticipation, and to see Mouse’s reaction.

She trembled all over, and finally looked up, her eyes wide. “Please... Mister Gutierrez... I can... You don’t have to...” Her voice was low, lost within her own breathing. But she finally dropped her eyes back down, and her shoulders slumped, defeated. Gutierrez was impressed she had managed to summon up that much resistance. Doctor Dante must have been playing with her medication dosage again.

Gutierrez relished the moment of power. Seeing her like this in front of him, he had difficulty believing she had once been an up and coming assistant district attorney in DC. Until she snapped, that was, the way all the patients in Blue Ward had done, yielding to a sudden psychotic break that left them nympho, and doomed to die. And in the case of Mouse, left her quiet and submissive and with several kinks that made her a favorite in the Ward and with Gutierrez.

“Mouse—strip for me.”

Never looking up, she slowly pulled her shirt over her head, revealing a functional bra underneath. She slipped off her pants, and remained for a second clad only in her underthings. Her body was thin and frail, looking as though it might snap if handled roughly—but Gutierrez knew from experience that it would not.

Closing her eyes, she removed her bra, exposing small pert breasts tipped with round hard nipples. Her panties went the same way, revealing a sparse bush covering a pair of lips that were nearly tucked all the way inside her pussy. She made no attempt to cover herself. And she kept looking down, the way Gutierrez loved.

He stripped off his pants. He was already hard. He stepped towards Mouse.

“Please,” she said, one last time, in a barely audible whimper. She never looked up.

“You sound like you’re begging me to do it, Mouse. Is that it? You’re asking me to treat you like the useless little fuck toy everyone knows you are?”

A small moan escaped Mouse’s lips, and she shivered uncontrollably for a few seconds. Gutierrez saw her nipples harden, and she clenched her thighs together. He knew her enough by now to know her had just gotten instantly wet.

“Because that’s what you are, aren’t you? A dirty cock-hungry slut?”

She shivered even harder, and her knees buckled. She let out a sharp breath.

“A filthy three-holed whore...”

Another shiver, longer this time, and her hand twitched.

“God, look at you,” he said. “It I let you, you’d always be diddling your hungry twat in the hope that men will see you and want to fuck you raw.”

She moaned, and squeezed her thighs together. She did not take the initiative, could not take the initiative. She could only stand there, meek, hungry, waiting submissively for her Master to tell her what to do, to order her about—the more humiliatingly, the better. Gutierrez marveled at the form that her psychotic break took.

“Normally,” he told her, “I’d tell you to assume the proper position for cum sluts like you, on your knees, and suck my cock with your worthless mouth,” and Mouse shook at that, and almost dropped down to her knees as instructed. Gutierrez continued, “but we’re in a bit of a rush today, so how about you get on your bed on your hands and knees and offer me your stretched-out cunt for me to fuck as I see fit?”

With a last shiver, Mouse crawled onto her bed, head first, and thrust her ass up, assuming a position she had become quite familiar with over the months she had spent at the Institute.

Gutierrez watched her, admiring her tight slim almost boyish posterior, the pinkish rosette nestled between her small cheeks, and beneath it the red wound of her womanhood, shiny with her juices.

Gutierrez walked up to her, his dick leading the way, pointing exactly where it wanted to go. He did so relaxingly, almost gingerly. Mouse was inoffensive, unable to resist him in any way, and there were no cameras in patients’ rooms unless they were under sedation.

On an impulse he did not question, he slapped the slim girl’s ass, not as hard as he could have, but harder than she might have expected, for she yelped in surprise. But she thrust her ass upwards.

He slipped his dick between her legs and pressed the head against her pussy. Mouse’s breath caught, then resumed again, more rapid. Gutierrez could feel her moisture on his sensitive glans.

“Put your head down into your pillow, you little cum-lapping whore—and push your ass back onto me—impale yourself on me, show me how much you crave a thick rod deep into your slobbery cunt.”

Mouse shook, both from the pleasure and from the anticipation, and in one smooth motion dropped her head into her pillow, and pushed herself back onto Gutierrez’s jutting dick.

He closed his eyes and stifled a groan, savoring the feel of the girl’s unbelievably tight pussy sliding over his shaft like a snug warm glove. She was dripping wet, which made penetration possible at all—his dick was not particularly large, but she was definitely on the small side.

For a few minutes, as he knelt behind her happy to let her do all the work, Mouse fucked herself on his dick with robust smooth well-practiced thrust of her ass, her thighs quivering under the strain, little whimpers of pleasure and shame escaping her lips. Gutierrez once in a while ran his hands up her back and down over her ass cheeks, caressing the soft hard flesh.

He started thrusting for himself after a while, a little bit at first, then more and more forcefully. Mouse stopped moving and spread her legs wider and raised her ass higher to offer the nurse a more arousing target.

Gutierrez muttered to himself as he rammed into Mouse from behind. “Oh Pietro,” he mumbled, in a high falsetto voice, “fuck me harder, you stud. Rip me open, you wild man—stretch me out and ruin me for all others.”

Mouse, whether she heard or not, did not respond, did not react; not only was she used to Gutierrez’s behavior, she was also weathering intense waves of pleasures wracking her body.

After a few minutes of heated fornication and half-whispered mumblings, Gutierrez picked up the pace and slapped Mouse’s ass with a stinging blow.

“So what do you think of our new nurse, eh, Mouse? Nice-looking man, don’t you think? How long do you think before he figures you for the slut that you are, before he realizes that all he has to do is pat you on the shoulder or grab one of your tiny tits for you to drop your pants and spread your legs wide and offer up your filthy cunt for him to fuck?”

Mouse groaned at his words, and he felt her pussy spasm around his shaft. Gutierrez pounded her harder, feeling his cum start to boil in his balls. He grasped Mouse’s bony hips, and used them as handles to drive into her with renewed frenzy. Mouse let herself be so manhandled, little whimpers coming from her lips.

“Who knows,” Gutierrez said, “maybe Sanderson will take a fancy to your skanky ass and decide that your asshole could use a good stretch. How long has it been since you’ve had a good reaming, you little ass whore? I bet a slut like you gets off on a good hard ass fuck.”

Mouse’s movements became more spasmodic as Gutierrez’s words affected her.

Feeling himself getting close, Gutierrez pulled out and moved up on the bed and with two jerks of his hand came copiously all over Mouse’s pillow, right next to her face. Some of his cum splashed on her cheek.

Mouse looked at the white liquid pool next to her with an exhausted expression, sweat pouring down the sides of her nose.

“Go on,” said Gutierrez. “You know what to do.”

While Gutierrez got off the bed to put his pants back on, Mouse dutifully licked his spent from her pillow, her tongue lapping up the thick pool staining the pillow case. Her eyes were closed.

Gutierrez smiled, then leaned down to whisper in Mouse’s ear. “Don’t change the pillow case tonight. When you go to sleep, I want you to smell my cum all around you, and think of how much of a whore you are, of how you get off being a little cum dump. I want you to imagine the new guy Sanderson spewing all over your face, coating your ugly mug with thick cum, all the while telling you that you’re the most disgusting slut he’s ever met.”

Gutierrez left her shivering with shame and desire, licking the remnants of his cum from her pillow.