The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Mom! Stop! That’s—oh my God, that’s Bridget Eagleton! Please, can I—please?’ the young basketball player begged her mother and coach, doing a double take at the black-haired beauty in the green and gold sweats striding quickly through the Final Four fan festival, eyes locked on the directions to the scouting combine on the signpost up ahead.

“I do believe it is! All right, but only if you catch her. And don’t be rude! She has a life to live too!” the mother said, but the last admonitions were lost as the girl sprinted off.

“Sorry! Hi! Ummm, Bridget? Can you sign my jersey? You’re why I wear number ten! I think you’re great!” the kid stammered, backing away as Bridget’s eyes grew huge before she recovered with a blush and a stage grin that hid the shiver the last word reflexively sent up the spine of any Northern State alum.

“Aww, I’m so flattered! Here you go!” Bridget said as she signed the kid’s autograph with a rushed flourish. Damn kids. When I’m hunting, even their stupid autograph requests get me going. And her teammates are coming. Time to fly, Eagleton. One ruffle of the girl’s hair, a trademark move that had long made her a fan favorite, and a slidestep got her away from the dilemma, and when she was sure no one was looking, she rolled her eyes. False faces were harder to keep up than they had been back in the day. Normally, she could play the role assigned to her, and be as sweet as everyone wanted her to be. But for two days in April, she was all business.

Most people thought it was W business, and she fed their delusions by wearing the green and gold of her summer team. But it was her winter team she was scouting for, and the mere thought made her sigh with delight as she unzipped her jacket to air out her warm body—and pull out her marching orders from her cleavage. The Russian came back to her easily enough as she began to fantasize about what would happen over the next eight months. The text itself was innocuous, designed to seem innocent if anyone saw it. “5 players, 2 division 2, 2 division 3, 1 for the developmental team.” The last part made Bridget take off her jacket and wrap it around her waist, then grab a bottle of water just to ensure no one noticed how excited she was.

Scouting for the developmental team meant “get the lowest-level, no-talent nobody who thinks she’s somebody, promise her the best and highest paying team in Russia, and don’t mention the catch”. If she hadn’t buzzed off to the idea the night before, Bridget would have needed the ladies’ room that second, but her self-control held as she shook all the coaches’ hands, greeted them cordially by name, and retreated to the last row of the bleachers.

The sign read Professional Non-Invitational Scouting Combine for Seniors, but Bridget knew how to translate that out of bullshit. It was an audition for the players who thought they were good, or who wanted to show their dedication to coaches. College coaches looked here for hard-working assistants, pro teams came looking for office personnel or practice bodies, and overseas teams came looking for people with US passports. The basketball on the court could be called subpar without it being too much of an insult, but the once-in-a-lifetime gem found there was enough for people to keep following their dreams.

And there was Bridget in the top corner of the last row, her laptop excusing the fact that her legs were fully spread, the scouting report on the screen actually a pornographic novel in Russian for when she got bored of the lumbering centers and homely women with a third grader’s hand-eye coordination just adding “tried out for the pros” to their resume. It was a pathetic waste of time for people trying to find basketball talent, and the coaches knew it.

“Seattle does it right,” she heard the Indiana assistant complain. “Send their best player just to let the league know they were there, and have the folks who know what they’re doing out finding real players.”

“You think Number 10’s looking for basketball players, Astor? Just because she made a career out of four years in Bird’s cage doesn’t mean she isn’t still oversexed Northern State trash. You know how many business cards she’s given out with her cell phone number on them, looking for a cheap hookup?” the Hartford coach said, looking over his meticulous notes.

Bridget seethed, tempted to get up and slug him, but she tamped down her Bronx upbringing. She couldn’t lose her cool. Not when she was enjoying the best two days of the year. So she kept her eyes on the climax of her novel and muffled her obscenities into her jacket. But one phrase kept rolling around in her mind and burning her blood.

I may have sang—but I was never caged, she thought angrily. And the Hartford coach had no way of knowing.

In 1998, Anton had found himself with a problem. His recruitment methods didn’t account for future success bringing a top player he couldn’t ignore—who was completely willing to join, without any of the inducements or inductions that served as the entering wedge for the bulk of his programming. Young Bridget had ached to join the Bulldogs, wanting to be a part of the team, even though she had no idea what it entailed. Every method failed to bring her under for her official visit, and she went in with a clear head and an open mind. Only the graceful skill of Miss Peggy’s tongue had kept Anton from being exposed. But Bridget Eagleton was more and less than Number 10, more and less than the Bronx Bombshell—she was no goofy nickname, no sixth sense, just the best basketball player in the country, controlled enough to stay within the bounds of the system, but free enough to take her controlled teammates and use them as the perfect weapon. She gave herself to the controls, but everyone knew that was more for recreation and relaxation than it was for building skills.

She’d never defined herself as heterosexual, or homosexual, or even bisexual. She was just as comfortable showing off her legs in a cheerleader’s skirt in high school to impress the football team as she was in a pair of jeans flirting with the girls in math class. She thought of herself as simply sexual, and Anton’s controls made that addiction even stronger. One of her most infamous quotes had told the world that, and they didn’t even know it. “I don’t get it, Doris. I score 45 points and win a national championship, and my teammates still think I screwed the pooch!”

A smile came to Bridget’s face in the modern day, and she let daydreams of her great past distract her from the parody of basketball going on out on the floor. Something on the floor demanded her attention, and she grabbed her guidebook to match up the pretty blonde wearing #343 with her information. “Kelly Rice, four-year starter, Northern Utah,” she muttered aloud, running the stats and the specs through her head. 45% 3-point percentage, blah blah blah, meaningless stats, 5′6″ in media guides and Moscow stilettos... 2.85 GPA, dumb enough to fall for it and smart enough to be fun. She pushed the screen down slightly and took a longer look at the nicely built dirty blonde as she shot her threes and timidly stopped short in the lane lest she break a nail. Ohhh, and she already likes to look sexy! Bridget adjusted the computer on her lap and pulled her jacket close over her breasts, lest her excitement show. But she kept staring at Kelly as she did the slalom drill, and she could just envision Kelly in the red and yellow warm-ups, mindlessly practicing with the team... in the red-and-white striped skort uniform, in full makeup, happy to sit on the end of the bench and look pretty... in the ruby red, super tight microdress that was the team’s off-court uniform, her blonde hair a uniform platinum shade, shaking her hips with only her sexiness on her mind, not a care left in the world but to perform for the lucky man she was auctioned off to.

Bridget closed her laptop and squeezed her legs together until she was sure she could look presentable, then relaxed into her superstar persona as she walked down to talk to Kelly. “Damn, girl! How’d you not end up in the elite combine? Those moves were as good as mine!” she said with the broad grin she was famous for.

Kelly wasn’t fooled. “Utah! Already married! Not LDS, so you can’t join us for a free diamond and a threesome! There are stories about Northern State, you know.”

You don’t know the half of it! “Is that the new one going around? I wouldn’t do that,” Bridget lied. “I could use a new rock, but I guess I’ll have to settle for the cheap junk the W gives out instead of the real diamonds—and dimes—I could get by dishing off to the best sniper I’ve ever seen. Oh, right, you think I’m showing up the Domers with the green and gold. I was here looking for potential for my other team. Well, if you know anything about how this business works, you could say my real team, in Russia.”

“Yeah, right. Two spots for Americans, one more if you sleep with a Russian boy and get a fake passport. I’m already married, so that’s out. Yeah, I’m sure Katie McGill is giving up six figures in Russia for me. Or did you get tired of being so cold in the winter that you decided to give me your spot out of the goodness of your heart?”

“You’ve got a lot of work to do before you’d be good enough for the senior team,” Bridget agreed, getting warm between her legs again at the thought of what that work entailed. “But here’s the thing. They have multiple divisions, kinda like college. D2 has two spots for Americans, D3 has two spots for Americans... you get the idea. Same owner has a team in each league. Same stripes, same name, and... yeah, I said it, same pay. Those Russian millionaires are reckless with their money, you know.”

“I’d prefer my money not smell like dead mobster, but I guess it’s better than some banana republic. I’m tired of the LDS wetting their pants, thinking I’ve converted—going overseas and making it seem like a mission would be even worse. Okay, give me a number for anyone who’s done this before. I’ll do some research later,” Kelly said, trying to get Bridget to stop looking down her jersey.

“Sure, how about Angela Dowdell?” Bridget replied, writing down a phone number on the back of a Russian business card.

“The all-time 3 shooter? That’s where she went? She did this?” Kelly spluttered, shocked and believing for the first time.

“When she was starting out, yeah. Now she’s on top of the world in Turkey.”

“That much I know. Leading scorer for the Istan Bulls, right? I know a little bit for a Utah girl. Okay, I’ll call her tonight!” Kelly said with a stunned look of excitement, heading over to the bench and programming the number into her phone.

Bridget headed back to her perch, fighting back a smile, eyes locked on Kelly the whole time, already seeing her as the finished product. Helps that “Angela Dowdell” only exists when that phone number rings, and that the only thing “Angela” remembers about Russia was that playing that year was the best thing that happened to her. Bridget allowed herself a small smirk, thinking of her first project. Only Angela’s meaningless record kept her on the court; otherwise she would just be Angelina Davydova, the moral support for Istanbul’s men’s team, the velvet tongue of the women’s team, and the happily doting wife of the team owner. The best part is that I didn’t even have to lie to Katarina—Kelly. The way the Turks like it, Angelina really is on top of the world!

Her smile broadened as she sat back down, connected her cell phone to her laptop, and sent off Kelly’s pictures to her owner. While waiting for a response, she leaned back and sighed in bliss, allowing her erect nipples to rub against the inside of her bra and release some of the delicious tension building up inside her. Only good reason for bras to exist, she thought, fantasizing about having Kelly—or, by that point, Katarina, between her legs instead of the computer. The ding of a new e-mail in her inbox pulled her out of it.

$45,000 upon arrival, $87,000 payable throughout the season, $13,000 deduction for husband.

Thirteen thousand dollars was a pittance in this line of work, and Bridget didn’t worry about it. It was less of a deduction and more of a signing bonus than she had expected. She could almost feel Kelly’s tongue doing figure eights around her clit already. She could take no more, and retreated to the bathroom to finish her fantasy before returning to the stands to focus on the desperately needed post presence.

“Hey! Hey, Bridget! Bridget! Bridget Eagleton!” Out of the cacophony of voices calling her name from the autograph pit in Seattle, one male voice was just a little more urgent, a little more strident, and she traced it to its owner. She cracked a coy smile and hoped she had packed a few extra condoms; he had abs enough for her to be interested and long fingers that suggested he could do interesting things to her while he fucked her raw. When he saw that he had her attention, he said, “Just wanted to thank you.”

“Easy there, cowboy! Game hasn’t started yet, and as for the postgame, well, wouldn’t you wanna know?” she teased as she signed her card with her phone number, eliciting giggles from a few of the old hands.

“Kelly warned me about you. Sorry, I should have introduced myself first. I’m Jeffrey Rice—you got my wife that job in Russia. We put that signing bonus into a down payment on our new house, and just one season at that salary will put us well on our way. Thank you so much! I thought she had no future, except maybe as some slave wage grad assistant or a high school teacher. I don’t know how to repay you.” His grin was heartfelt, and Bridget could understand what had attracted Kelly to him.

Now I know where the marriage penalty went, she thought, making polite noises to Jeffrey and the rest of the fans before running to the locker room to warn her owner about the issue.

The text in response was swift. Not the first time. Court costs come out of your Kelly checks. Bridget considered this, pulled out her red and white clutch purse, and considered using the credit card in Angela Dowdell’s name to wire some more money to get that house halfway paid so that he had something her owner could use as leverage when Kelly finally became Russian property. Cost wasn’t an issue; there were millions in that account, due to “Angela’s” continued fame, and the credit line was paid as a matter of course.

The countdown clock reminded her that she still had a job to do, and even though Seattle wasn’t the team of her heart—or other body parts—they gave her the platform she needed to serve her owner, and that was all that mattered in the end.

It had been a very good year, if Bridget did say so herself. She’d led Seattle to the best record in the West, then claimed a title by out-dueling the flying Amy Bryants in the finals. Of course, she was the only one in Seattle who was able to look past the various smokescreens the Peaches put up, thanks to her inside knowledge (and inside knowledge of Anastasia Belyayeva and Alina Bogdanova, gifts for which Amy should have been more grateful, in Bridget’s opinion). And that was even before boarding her flight to Russia with her latest acquisitions: Alikia, the bronze goddess who flunked out and bounced from one juco to another before ending up at a low-level farm school; Lisa, a long-legged tree who was too easily cut down by mobile guards; Nicole, the former poster child who ended up in D-I four surgeries later; Sam, a feisty redhead who would have been a second-round pick for her toughness and skill set if she hadn’t been five-foot even by media guide standards; and of course Kelly, who was the last to take her seat, greeting her future teammates.

“Angela even helped with our mortgage payments until my arrival bonus comes through. You weren’t kidding about owners not caring about money,” Kelly said with a smile.

Bridget smiled back and went to her seat in first class, sketching out who her conquests would become: Precious, the exotic African sex princess; Lenka, a Russian bombshell whose long legs knew no end; Nicolette, the porn poster child who would be famous for her surgeries; Sami, a redheaded firecracker whose small frame could dominate even the strongest hockey enforcer; and Katarina, the perfect prize for a Russian billionaire looking for a blonde treat to show off and share. There was a reason Bridget was getting such a salary for her, and she licked her lips at all her catches. Reclining her sleeper seat, she drifted off into a fantasy of her finished products all over her in gratitude.

She only came awake when they landed. Her owner was waiting right there. Sergei Zhukov was a towering figure of fear to most, always seen in impeccable coal black suits with no expression on his face even as he ordered his rivals’ deaths. He looked over what Bridget brokered and cracked a faint hint of a smile. “You earn more every year. Your limo awaits. I will be caring for this crop myself,” he said.

Even as used to controllers and focus objects as Bridget was, she found herself drawn to the spiral cut version of the diamond championship ring that adorned his finger. “Promptness is a virtue,” she said, unable to catch her breath until Sergei pulled the ring back with a chuckle.

“D3 need to be ready for the films, after all. The one with past fame and the dark troublemaker are the D3? The rest D2? Ahh, yes, our athletes will love these beauties. You will get your payment card the moment they have crossed the threshold,” Sergei said, leaving Bridget to the limo as he met the other girls and gave his big plastic welcome speech, his heavy accent hiding the mockery in his words.

Bridget had to hold back a moan when Alikia’s eyes went half-lidded as she was already beginning to break under the power of the ring. Before she could make a spectacle of herself in public, she ducked into the limo—and into the stink of a fresh bleach job and the empty eyes of a glossy-stockinged street whore.

“Evelyn McMurtry—no, I’m sorry, Eva Muratova—I see you’ve developed off the developmental team already,” Bridget said, smirking at the former NAIA megastar who had been naive enough to think that meant anything outside of small towns and glorified high school gyms in Wyoming.

“Da,” Eva said, showing off her newly developed breasts on command and handing over the red Bank of Moscow credit card in her former name. This was Bridget’s payment—every last ruble that her products made, at her disposal, tax free, scrutiny free, available whenever she wanted. She put the card in with her collection and gladly slipped off her pants for her free sample, closing her eyes and opening her legs. The only shots Eva would be taking would be the ones clients balanced on her spectacular tits, and the only crossovers she’d be performing would be to entice men to enter her brothel—and that suited Bridget just fine.

“Think you’re better than me, do you... ooooooh, yes, maybe that way, but that’s by design,” she breathed out dreamily as she was taken to Sergei’s mansion, where the elite foreigners stayed.