The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Adjusters IV: Running to Stand Still

Sanderson’s Initiation (1)

Sanderson worked three Saturdays and two Sundays every month. Not that it bothered him that much—he was still getting his bearings in the city, and did not have much of a social life. Like many people upon graduating and moving to a new area of the country where they knew no one, he was having difficulties creating a social circle. Making new friends from scratch was painful, especially without the socially-oriented college culture he had relied on for the previous half-decade. Everyone he knew worked at the Institute, and he did not feel close enough to his colleagues to hang out with them outside of work beyond the odd outing for drinks after work on Fridays. He had not asked Beatrice out either; their schedules did not match, and except for meeting up for lunch in the Institute’s cafeteria twice a month when their shifts overlapped in just the right way, he hardly saw her.

Not that he had much time to ponder his social and love life. He was kept busy, with most of his time split between learning the rhythm of both the Institute and Blue Ward and getting to know the patients.

For the Blue Ward patients were unlike any he had ever encountered throughout his studies; they required individual attention to a degree that rivaled the schizophrenics with whom he had trained. He had never run across patients quite like them in case studies or the literature either. The nurses on the ward had confirmed what Doctor Dante had told him—and what his own cursory medical literature exploration had underlined—that these cases in Blue Ward were unique.

And coming to care for the patients and getting to know them revealed that their symptoms spanned a broader ranged than he had expected. Cassandra, for instance, was aggressively dominant and forward with her sexuality, constantly pushing against Sanderson’s—or any male’s—boundaries, pushing buttons, daring him to react and overpower her. It was clear, and not only because she admitted to it freely, that being overpowered was something that turned her on, even despite the drugs that supposedly reduced her libido and kept her under control.

Mouse, to pick another example, lay at the other end of the spectrum from Cassandra. Mouse rarely looked someone in the eyes, barely said a word above a whisper, and obeyed promptly and with what could only be described as a shiver of pleasure when told to do something.

Sanderson wondered about Mouse and Gutierrez. The two of them sometimes disappeared together in the afternoon. After his first day after Gutierrez had molested—there was no other word for it—the girl called Jennie, it had been pretty clear to Sanderson what the older nurse was doing with the submissive Mouse. Sanderson could not believe that others were not suspecting what he had figured out, but no one said anything—at least, no one put a stop to it. Sanderson wondered why, and did not understand enough about the inner workings of the Institute to feel comfortable reporting on Gutierrez’s actions.

What did not help matters at all was that Gutierrez seemed to have taken a liking to him. Sanderson could not decide whether that was a good thing. Gutierrez was not unfriendly, but he always gave the impression that he knew more than you did. And he was creepy. Still, Sanderson figured, until he knew more, it was probably better to have the older nurse as a friend than as an enemy.

He was interrupted in his thoughts by a caressing voice.

“You’re thinking way too hard, Young Thing. That won’t do in this place. Don’t you know we’re all empty-headed bimbos? We get confused and scared when there’s thinking happening.”

Sanderson resisted the urge to smile, and looked up at the patient who had appeared beside him. “Hello Cassandra. How are you this evening?”

Cassandra dropped down on the seat next to him, facing the window which reflected the purple skies of the setting sun. The recreation room’s lights were still off, and the entire area was in a creeping penumbra.

“I’m horny enough to ride even your tiny dick,” she said, turning her head towards him.

“God, you’re such a bitch,” he responded in kind, shaking his head.

They exchanged glances. He grinned first, as usual. After a beat, she did as well.

They had developed this odd rapport, the two of them. Cassandra was in fact easy to get along with, once one figured out her basic motivations. She sought dominance, dominance at all costs, while waiting for someone to dominate her. The dichotomy kept her sexually aroused, all the time, and she lived for navigating that thin line. Sanderson merely side-stepped her game, and teased her and joked with her and played her game just enough to keep her aroused but not enough to get in too deep. It had disconcerted Cassandra at first—she had not been used to not getting a reaction from her male victims, but she had come to appreciate the interaction. That Sanderson teased her by telling her he would bend her over his knee and spank her kept her pleasantly on edge.

Not that Sanderson was uninterested, of course. Cassandra, there was no denying it, was a beautiful woman, even if her goth makeup and the aura of confrontation about her he was not finding particularly attractive. Her body was a dream: her breasts were large, her ass was round and tight, and she flaunted either whenever she could. Even when she was not trying to be sexy—Sanderson had caught her once enthralled by a movie and chewing on a strand of her hair with her knees pulled back to her chest—she exuded sex.

That she kept talking about how good she was at sex, how much she liked it, how she could make it so much better for him than anyone he had ever had, did not help his self-control. Because he believed her. And he was horny. There was only so much masturbation one man could tolerate, and he was reaching that intolerance point fast. His fantasies had evolved into an intricate web starring the patients of the ward in various roles, starring Beatrice—pretty Beatrice—on the giving or receiving end of sexual depravities with patients, starring Jennie who had tantalized his imagination for the past weeks, and of course starring Felicity, she who had ruled his fantasies for so many years and that he loved to picture in a sizzling sixty-nine with Jennie, the two girls naked and licking each other, oblivious to the cruelty of the world around them.

“So what were you thinking about?” asked Cassandra, putting her hand on his thigh.

“Oh, nothing much. Just grabbing some quiet time before the start of my shift.”

“Dreaming about the hot bitch in room C-5?”

C-5 was the room in which Jennie was lying. Sanderson debated for a second how to respond to Cassandra’s statement, and realized with a sigh that simply debating a response was already a clear signal to the dominant woman. One thing he tended to forget was that the patients on the ward, as messed up as they might be due to their condition, were still as a whole smarter than he expected.

“That obvious?” he replied, giving the dark-haired goth a glance.

“No, actually. Mouse told me. She’s the smart one. She doesn’t miss much.” Cassandra, being Cassandra, could not help herself. “And she’s got a delightful squeal when you stick a big fat dildo up her cunt.”

Sanderson shook his head, and smiled. “I should probably go and check in before my shift.” He rose up slowly. “Anything happened today I should know about?”

“Allison had a lapse at lunch—had to be restrained until the crisis passed.” There was a tone to her voice that suggested that she would have been thrilled to take advantage of Allison while she was restrained, though Sanderson suspected she would have been happier to have been forced into the restraints herself. “The little cum-guzzler did a bit of a scene and came on hard to Rasmussen during lunch.”

That must have been some scene, Sanderson thought. Allison was a slim redhead with a killer body, a computer programmer by trade for a large software company before ending up at the Institute. She was afflicted with an irremediable fixation on semen, which could be tolerated while it remained controlled by the drug regiment of the ward, but that would once in a while spike up. When her cravings crested, she was liable to corner a male and attempt to perform fellatio on him, begging him to feed her his seed. Cassandra thought it was a hoot, and liked to tease the poor redhead endlessly about it. Allison’s cravings were often spiked by sweets, for some unknown physiological reason, and because of that her diet had to be severely constrained. Sanderson wondered who screwed up the lunch orders.

He tried to picture Allison attempt to seduce Rasmussen, the bulky male orderly who had reminded Sanderson of a club bouncer on his first day and had done nothing since to dismiss that image. Rasmussen was a quiet man who rarely spoke and when he did, did so with a faint Danish accent. He seemed to care deeply for the patients in the ward, even though he maintained a stoical face throughout the day. Rasmussen rarely showed emotion, either anger or pleasure. Most of the time, he looked bored. Sanderson had tried talking to the man a few times, but while he had never been rebuffed, he had never been encouraged either.

“Good to know,” Sanderson replied to Cassandra. “I’ll keep an eye out on her. Well, I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

“Oh that you will, Young Thing.”

The way she said it made Sanderson give her a questioning look. In guise of a response, Cassandra merely smiled enigmatically and blew him a kiss, her usual challenge dancing in her eyes.

* * *

It was not until mid-shift, past ten o’clock, that Sanderson would understand Cassandra’s cryptic remark. The evening as a whole had been a strange one. Several of the ward patients seemed more excitable than usual, which reminded Sanderson of Allison’s outburst earlier that day, and Cassandra kept tossing him knowing looks whenever he ran into her.

Sanderson had dropped by to see Jennie, something he found himself doing at least twice every shift, only to discover that her bed was empty. He panicked for a second, until another nurse on the ward told him that she had been sent away for a physical check-ups. Sanderson was annoyed by the strength of his reaction to seeing Jennie gone. He had grown used to her ready presence, an easy walk down the hall away, a silent reminder of Felicity; a psychologist might have ventured that she was a canvas on which Sanderson could project his longing for the one that got away. That she physically reminded Sanderson of Felicity merely ensured that the canvas already bore a suitable sketch.

He saw Mouse a few times over the evening, reading quietly in a corner on a computer tablet, trying to stay out of the way. He sat next to her, eyeing him warily, and her eyes dropped back down to her tablet. He saw her shiver slightly. Sanderson took a second to gather his thoughts. It was clear that every single movement Sanderson made near Mouse she tried to interpret as an order, or at best an instruction on how to behave.

“How are you doing, Lillian?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and pleasant. “I thought maybe you might be thirsty?” He handed her a tall glass of water. Mouse always tried to fade away in the background, and was so quiet and submissive that she tended to forget she had needs such as eating and drinking. Sanderson suspected that she thought so little of herself that she did not think she deserved either food or drink.

Mouse eyed the glass of water suspiciously, as if he might have poisoned it. But eventually she accepted it, because he presented it to her, and she probably interpreted his action as an order to drink. Which she did, with an expression of satisfaction as the cool liquid spilled down her throat. ”Thank you, Sir,” she said, her voice low and trembling, not meeting his eyes. The way she said it made Sanderson’s cock twitch, much to his dismay.

Sanderson felt guilty for a second about forcing her to drink, for that is what he had done, but that guilt was balanced by his duties as a nurse to ensure his patients were well taken care of, a responsibility he took seriously. And Mouse was in many ways like a kid, and she especially needed taking care of.

“Everything okay? Anything I can do to help?” he asked her, when she had finished the glass.

He thought at first she had not heard him, and finally she shook her head no. It was almost imperceptible. She never looked up. He saw her swallow, and he could swear she pressed her thighs together. She looked practically agitated, a state he had never seen her in.

“One question and then I’ll let you be, Lillian. I was just wondering what you were reading. I’m just curious, it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.” He kept his voice even, non-confrontational. He also kept a distance from the retiring woman, who gave him a quick glance before looking back down.

Sanderson waiting for several long beats, and when Mouse neither moved nor made a sound, he smiled and nodded and made to stand up. Before he could, Mouse slowly handed over her tablet. He did not pick it up, merely read the name of the file across the top of the screen, and he had to make an effort not to make his eyes widen.

L’Histoire d’O,” he said, again stifling the surprise in his voice. “That’s... interesting. Never read it. Any good?” He did not press on the fact that she seemed to be reading it in the original French.

Again, Mouse was silent for a long time before finally saying, in a soft voice, in a voice that Sanderson could not help but think invited him to take her, “Yes.” She looked at him once more, and this time held his gaze for a few seconds, and Sanderson saw passion in those eyes burning more fiercely than ever before. If her voice had been an invitation, that look in her eyes practically begged him to ravage her.

“W… Well,” he said, making his voice even softer to not upset Mouse after what he saw as an effort to open up and trust him, “I’ll leave you to enjoy it then. It was good to talk to you.”

He left Mouse alone, never looking back, missing the lingering glance that the submissive woman gave him as he made his way across the recreation room.

It was later, as he helped one of the patients with her bedtime ritual—Sherri, a beautiful blonde with a curvy body who used to be a semi-famous lingerie model before her breakdown—that Cassandra came back to see him.

He was helping Sherri into bed, as always amazed by the form the symptoms of her syndrome too. She had been, for lack of a better word, childified. She was not intellectually disabled, at least as far as all the tests that could be conducted showed. And her motor skills and reflex reactions were that of an adult, and even her reasoning abilities on technical matters were beyond the high-school level, but her vocabulary and her sentence construction and her hobbies were that of a young child.

In particular, she insisted on sleeping in her favorite pajamas decorated with fairies and pixies, and that the ritual included a bedtime reading from one of several children books she lined up on a little shelf by her bed. She was gleefully sucking on a large pacifier, a look of bliss on her beautiful face. In her arms, she cradled her stuffed animal, a rabbit she called Mister Noodle. From the nurses that usually handled the evening shift, Sanderson had heard that Mister Noodle needed to be replaced regularly, for Sherri would often ruin the toy by sliding it underneath her pajamas in the middle of the night while she slept and rubbing it against her crotch, drenching it regularly with her womanly juices.

He was just finishing reading to Sherri—The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe—when Cassandra came in, carrying a plate with three cookies and a glass of milk. Sherri’s eyes widened in pleasure. “Cookies and milk!” she squeaked, and extended her arms, Mister Noodle dropping to the side of the bed forgotten for now.

“Hi Cassandra,” said Sanderson, putting the book down.

“Hey Young Thing. Hi Sherri.” She looked at the former lingerie model on the bed. “You’re looking very nice tonight. I brought you a little treat.”

“Yay!” Sherri practically bounced on the bed, reaching up for the plate.

“Hold on,” Cassandra said, keeping the plate out of reach. She shot a quick glance towards Sanderson, and winked. “You can have your milk and cookie, but only if you’ve been good. Have you been good, Sherri?”

“Y… Yes?” Sherri looked uncertain, and under Cassandra’s stern stare, she blushed and looked down at her hands.

“Sherri, you know you have to be truthful,” Cassandra said. “What did you do?”

“I…” Sherri’s lower lip trembled as she spoke. “My girl parts were feeling all funny today, and I touched them.”

“So you touched your girl parts, did you? Between your legs?”

Sherri nodded.

“And your boobies?”

Sherri nodded again.

“And did you enjoy touching your girl parts and your boobies? Tell the truth, Sherri. Did you make yourself feel all tingly when you touched your girl parts and your boobies?”

Sherri swallowed and nodded again. “Yes…”

Cassandra smiled as her voice took in a rebuking tone. “Well, maybe instead of milk and cookies, we should spank your delightful round little bum. Over and over again until it’s all red and tingly like your girl parts earlier.”

Sherri’s lip trembled even more, and she looked like she was about to cry. “Please, Cass. No spankies tonight. I—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” interjected Sanderson, standing up.

“Oh come on,” replied Cassandra, now grinning widely. “You know as well as I do that the little slut’s getting all wet at the thought of getting her cute little ass spanked.”

“Cassandra, quit it. It’s okay, Sherri. It’s okay.” He leaned over the blonde on the bed, and put his hand on the shoulder. “You’ve been a good girl. You’ll get your cookies. Maybe it’s Cassandra that should get that spanking.”

“Ah!” Cassandra snorted, “I’d like to see you try!” And her eyes and her smile were challenging him, and he could sense in the tension of her body that she would, in fact, have liked to see him try. He sighed.

“Come on, give it up.” He motioned with his hand, and after grabbing two of the cookies, Cassandra put the plate down by Sherri’s bedside table.

While Sherri eat her snack, Cassandra handed a cookie to Sanderson, keeping one for herself.

“What’s that for?” he asked, grabbing the cookie.

“A peace offering.”

He took a bite. “Peanut butter. My favorite.”

“I know,” said Cassandra.

“Mine’s chocolate chip,” chirped Sherri, her mouth full.

Sanderson looked at Cassandra. “I didn’t know we needed a peace offering…”

She shrugged. “Can’t hurt.” She ate her own cookie. “Besides I have been teasing you a bit much lately.”

“Ah! Glad you noticed. Okay, apologies accepted.” Sanderson shook his head, thinking that he would never figure this woman out. Then again, mental patients tended to be unpredictable, something that he had a bad habit of forgetting ever since starting in Blue Ward, where their unpredictability took a different more subtle form than with the schizophrenic patients he was used to.

They finished their cookies—Cassandra’s was also peanut butter. “So how did you know peanut butter cookies were my favorite?” Sanderson asked, taking the empty plate and glass as Sherri lay down in the bed after having recovered Mister Noodle.

“You always get one after lunch at the caf.”

Sanderson eyed her and was about to make a comment about stalking when he noticed that he had no air in his lungs, and that he had no drive to take another lungful. His head swam. His fingers grew numb. He belatedly realized that he had just dropped the plate and the glass on the floor, where they had shattered.

“Well that was dumb,” Cassandra said, and her voice came to Sanderson through a thick blanket that distorted all sounds. He thought he heard Sherri say something, but he could not decipher her words. Then he realized he was on the floor, and he was holding on to the footboard of Sherri’s bed.

Though his vision was rapidly fading, Sanderson could see Cassandra lean down and do something to Sherri. Was she kissing her? he thought, the last coherent thought he could summon, and the internal image of Cassandra making out with the still beautiful former lingerie model sent a frisson of arousal throughout his numb body. He was no longer holding on to the bed; he was sprawled out on the ground, unable to move, unable to think, the whole room spinning faster and faster.

Cassandra was kneeling over him. “Sorry about that, Young Thing. But don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you. Over and over and over again.” She leaned down and kissed him, hard, hard enough that even through the numbness of his whole body he felt the sting of her teeth closing on his lower lip and drawing blood before she tongued him deeply, moaning in his mouth. He thought that she ran her hand down to his crotch and grasped and squeezed his cock, but he could not be sure, and he blacked out before he could worry about it.

* * *

The Special was waiting for Sherri in her limousine after the fashion show for La Senza. Not that she knew that he was a Special, of course, or that she knew what made a Special special in the first place. But she would discover soon enough.

She noticed him as soon as the driver closed the door after letting her in. He was sitting on the seat in front of her, in jeans and a tee shirt bearing a Rolling Stones logo. His hair was long, and he had a grin on his face. He looked old enough to be her father.

“Who… who are you?” she asked, in her mind running through the possibilities of what she could do. On cue, the doors locked around her.

“I’m Graeme,” he said. His voice was thin, and too loud for the space. “And you are Sherri Lowerwood.” He paused. “You’re hot.”

“T… Thank you.” Her cell phone was in her purse, which was on the seat next to her. There was no way for her to reach it easily.

Graeme was staring at her, and she could see his eyes were crazed. Was he high on something? He did not look like he had a weapon. She had nothing. And the doors were locked. Perhaps she could reach the button that could be used to call up the driver.

As if guessing what she was thinking, Graeme shook his head. “Don’t bother with the driver,” he said. “She’s mine now. Mighty considerate of you to hire a female driver. Made things much simpler.”

She’s mine? What did he mean?

“Look, Graeme, if you want my autograph—”

“Oh I want more than your autograph, Miss Lowerwood. Much more than your autograph. I’ve had my eyes on you for a long time now. You’re hot.” His eyes traveled up and down her body, and Sherri was thankful for the long jacket she had decided to wear.

“I’ve had this fantasy for a long time,” he told her, sliding on his seat to sit directly in front of her, “and you’re going to help me with it.” He reached into a plastic bag beside him and pulled out what looked like a large pacifier.

“Graeme, I don’t—”

“This won’t hurt a bit,” he said, and he reached for her hand.

She was not fast enough to pull her hand back, and she felt the tingle and then the warmth travel up her arm from her hand where his fingers touched her skin. The warmth spread throughout her body and reached her head and it spun and it was as if a cloud had descended upon her. Her mind blanked.

Graeme was talking. She could not hear the words he was saying, but the temperature in her arm, in her bones, in her head, fluctuated with the cadence of his words, of his sentences. She saw images in her head, dancing before her eyes, merging with everything around her. Images of childhood, of favorites toys, of favorites books.

She did not resist when Graeme told her to strip out of her clothes. He was disappointed that her underwear was white and functional, especially considering she was a lingerie model, and he decided that would be one of the first things he would correct when the driver brought them to Sherri’s place. He was sure that she had something sexy that he could have her wear. And then he would play with her.

Sherri, the pacifier in her mouth making her happy, spent the rest of the trip running her hands all over what she was now calling her girl parts, enjoying the pleasure she was feeling, while Graeme tickled her boobies and suckled on them, making her giggle and making her girl parts feel funny and all tingly. When she told Graeme, he responded that he knew exactly how to take care of that tingling.

Which he did, once they got to her place, and Graeme found the perfect negligee for her to wear, one that emphasized all the assets that had made her a successful lingerie model. He even found something suitable for the driver to wear.

For Graeme had invited the driver along.

Sherri was glad. She and the driver would have a play date.