The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Oh yeah, that’s it, it’s so big, fill me up, do it, fuck me, I want it, fuck meeeeee,” Carol’s voice dissolved into an inarticulate cry of pleasure as her last john of the night shoved his cock into her needy pussy. The guy had no technique, but the whore didn’t care, she just wanted to be used. Needed it, after what had happened earlier that evening.

Carol dug her fingernails into the man’s back, not enough to break the skin, but enough to hurt. Because she knew that was just how he liked it. Her knees were pulled up, almost to her chest, as the man rode her, in and out.

Earlier she’d gazed at him, expression all coy innocence, a finger lightly on her lips, her naked body lewdly exposed, seen the hunger in his eyes, before he’d lunged in, unable to restrain himself any longer. It had been the way she’d rocked her hips from side to side, knees pulled up and high heels touching her arse, pussy wet and open, that had pushed him over the edge.

It didn’t take him long to finish, but that didn’t surprise Carol, she’d been teasing him from the moment he’d walked in her door. Pouting, tempting, giving him glimpses of the little of her body the short skirt and tight top covered. He’d loved every minute of it. That was the beauty of regulars, you knew exactly what they wanted. He’d been even happier when Carol gave him a striptease, putting to use everything her madam had made her learn. It had turned her on as well, offering herself, knowing that he was going to fuck her, knowing she was being paid. Her arousal always burnt hot, liquid and seething, with every act of prostitution. She came, the waves thrumming through her body, moments after her john did.

It was the same every time.

I want to be a prostitute.

Carol offered the man a smile and blew him a kiss as he left, giving her head a little shake to send her loose pigtails flying around her face.

One of the man’s hands twitched as he struggled for control. He lingered in the doorway, obviously wondering if his wallet and his body were up to buying more of her time. Eventually he shook his head and in a voice tinged with regret he said, “See you next time.” Then he swallowed before closing the door after him.

Always leave them wanting more, Carol smiled to herself. Then she stopped and frowned. She wasn’t sure she’d see the man again. Conti’s was only days away and then she was done. Or at least she was supposed to be. While the man was a regular he wouldn’t come back that soon. Maybe she was already saying goodbye.

Carol didn’t let herself think about it. Definitely didn’t want to consider the way the thought hurt. There were too many things to think about. She held her memories to what she’d done tonight, here, in her room. The raw pleasure of men taking her, fucking her, the knowledge that she was being paid, had kept the pain and the guilt at bay. Stopped her remembering what she’d done to Brenda. Even readying herself for her next john, waiting in her room or preening in the line-up with the other girls, had been enough to occupy her mind.

She’d been worried that she might slip into being Stephanie again. Carol knew that she was playing being a whore, needed to stick to her role. But Stephanie was different. That role engulfed her, like no other ever had. And Stephanie wasn’t someone Carol liked.

But even when the passion overwhelmed her, head thrown back in ecstasy and crying out as hot rivers of bliss rode her nervous system, it had all been Carol.

It didn’t mean that she was free of that other part of her. She had sensed Stephanie there in her head, along with all the other fractured pieces of her mind, but the girl was just an image, a whisper, nothing like the burning, living, presence that she’d sunk herself into earlier that evening. Not even stray thoughts to torment her. Stephanie had remained just what she should be. A role Carol could pick up and put down whenever she wanted to. Not something that took over, turned the policewoman into a role the whore could play. It was so easy when she was whoring. Whoring made her feel safe, kept all the hurt at bay. Even as she knew how wrong that was.

I can stop. I know I can, Carol told herself, and wished the thought wasn’t riddled with doubts. She’d known too many junkies, heard their protestations about how they had their habit under control, could stop whenever they wanted to. She told herself she was better than that. She was a policewoman, or at least she could be one again. She didn’t think about that for too long. It was like a present on a Christmas wish list. If you didn’t think about it too much, then maybe it would be the one your parents bought and you’d find it under the tree and everything would be right with the world.

Thoughts of the future pushed aside, shift over, Carol headed home, tired and fretful. No longer able to lose herself in her work she couldn’t avoid the memories of what had happened earlier in the evening, what she’d done. Tears threatened to come, the guilt numbing every other feeling. By the time she returned home the trip had given her far too long by herself. She couldn’t escape the thoughts of what she’d done to Brenda.

Carol was crying, unable to stop the flood of tears, as she opened the door.

“Hi,” Janice called from their kitchen. Carol hadn’t expected the redhead to be up, not at this hour of the night. She suspected her friend had deliberately stayed up to see her.

“Um,” Carol swallowed, her voice choking, “H-hi.” She started to head to her bedroom. She didn’t want Janice seeing her like this.

The redhead’s face appeared around the doorframe, “Steph? What’s wrong?”

Oh God, not that name. Please, no.

Carol wiped away the tears, tried to put a smile on her face, “I’m okay. It’s, it’s nothing.”

Janice frowned at her, arms crossed, “No it’s not, Steph, I can tell.” Her lips formed a thin line when Carol didn’t reply, “Talk to me, is it the other night again? It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.”

Carol stood in the middle of their lounge room, unable to move. Yes, it was, it was my fault. Carol wasn’t sure if she meant the other night at Angel’s or what she’d done to Brenda. Right now everything seemed like her fault. She’d put herself in this position, it was her responsibility.

“Steph?” Janice asked gently.

“Don’t,” the brunette begged. “Don’t call me that.” She was scared by the hint of panic in her voice. She never panicked, you couldn’t afford to in undercover work. She always kept calm, always, that’s who she was, not this shaking mess of emotions.

Janice hurried over to her, put a hand on the trembling brunette’s arm, “Carol? What’s the matter? Please, talk to me.”

Carol let Janice lead her to the lounge, let her friend sit her down.

“Carol?”

I can’t tell her. She’ll hate me. She should hate me. I hate me.

“Please, look at me.” Janice’s voice was becoming frantic. “Was it one of the johns? Mrs Bowen?”

Carol turned towards her friend. She couldn’t bear the redhead’s gaze. Instead she put her head on Janice’s shoulder and cried.

Janice coaxed and pleaded until Carol couldn’t say no anymore. She knew that Janice would despise her for what she’d done to Brenda. But she couldn’t bear the weight alone. She had to tell someone or she was going to break. Slowly, haltingly, with tears and apologies punctuating her tale, Carol told her friend the story of the evening.

“You need to get out,” Janice said at last.

Carol nodded. She didn’t blame her friend for telling her to leave. For what she’d done it was mild as punishments went. Slowly she rose to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Janice asked, confusion creasing her brow.

“Leaving, you told me to go,” Carol said, the pain in her chest making every breath a struggle.

“Oh God,” the redhead cried. “Sit down, that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She pulled Carol back down, refused to let her go until Carol promised not to leave.

“I meant you have to get out of this. You have to stop. It’s tearing you apart.”

It was Carol’s turn to frown in confusion, “Sorry? What?”

Janice sighed. “Look, I think I know what happened. Well, I can make a guess, anyway. You didn’t know what to do, you were stressed, really stressed. After the other night and what Mrs Bowen wanted you to do tonight, well, no surprise, right? We all put on an act when we have to, hide behind it, use it to avoid our problems. And you’re better than anyone at taking on a role. Tonight, when you didn’t know what else to do you just let the role take over. Really take over.”

“I suppose,” Carol agreed, wanting whatever absolution she could get. “It’s like there’s this role where I’m Carol pretending to be Stephanie. And then the one where I am Stephanie. And that last one, is just. Well. I don’t know. Too much. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah,” Janice sighed. “But I don’t like you referring to yourself as a role. I don’t know how much more you can take. What happened to you wasn’t normal.”

Part of Carol wanted to agree. The part that said she should stop whoring, go back to her old life. But that part was small and weak. “But I felt okay, afterwards, working. I felt good.”

Janice shook her head. “Maybe, I don’t know. No stress there I suppose.”

“So I don’t have to stop?” Carol asked, hopefully, then caught herself. Her voice had been too bright, too eager. Far too enthusiastic for someone who was supposed to give up whoring in a matter of days. Eventually she continued, hoping she sounded more sober. “I can’t just stop now, not for a few days more, anyway. And like I said, I was okay tonight. Afterwards, anyway.”

Janice studied her for a moment, concern in her eyes, “Well, maybe not the work, no. But everything that goes with it? You come across something else you can’t handle and you might lose it again. You want to take that chance?”

Carol paused, uncertain. She could sense that other role in her head. But it was dormant, unthreatening. Was Stephanie just waiting for her opportunity, or did Carol have her under control? Would anything too stressful see her reaching for that role again? And then losing herself.

“So, you think I’m so fucked up I’m getting multiple personality disorder or something?” Carol asked glumly.

“Oh God,” Janice blurted. “I don’t know. I’m not an expert. Hell, I’m only a sophomore.” The redhead stopped and ran a hand through her hair, worry creasing her face. “I don’t think so. You said you remember everything? And when you were, umm, playing her, you could remember everything too?”

“Yeah,” Carol sighed.

“Then no, I don’t think so.” Janice said at last. “You wouldn’t remember everything if you did. But sinking that far into your role that you’re not you, then blacking out. It’s not good, Carol, it really isn’t.”

“I think I can handle it, I have to,” Carol insisted, trying to persuade herself as much as Janice, “but what I did to Brenda….” She could feel the tears starting to come again, hot and painful. She stared down at her hands, clasped in her lap.

Janice took her friend gently by the shoulders, bobbed down so she could look Carol in the eye, “I know it’s harsh, but don’t worry about Brenda, I think she was going to do it anyway. You said how much she wanted the money. And I can’t believe that someone playing at mediation will do to herself what Copeland did to us. So don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?” Carol wanted it to be true, that nothing she’d done had changed Brenda’s fate. But it was so hard to believe, with the guilt eating at her.

“Yeah, I am,” Janice said, “Come on, you think sitting on the floor going ‘om’ is going to turn someone into a prostitute? It took Copeland a lot more than that to do it to us.” Carol frowned as she saw a shadow pass behind Janice’s eyes.

The brunette recalled the image she had of Brenda meditating, but it didn’t seem so bad now. It was almost funny. She imagined a big cheesy grin on the girl’s face as she chanted the words. The image of Brenda in her imagination stopped, shook her head and said, “Man, that’s so fake.” Then got up and walked away. Carol could only hope that she could do the same in a few days. The image was reassuring, but Carol wasn’t sure she believed it. She knew what repeating the words over and over had done to her and Janice. She’d just have to hope Brenda didn’t suffer the same fate.

“You really think she was going to do it anyway?” Carol asked, her conscience needing the reassurance.

“Yes, I do, I,” Janice paused, a cloud passing over her features. “Mrs Bowen talked to me about her.”

Carol’s eyes widened in surprise, “She did? Did you meet Brenda?”

“No,” Janice shook her head firmly. “And Mrs Bowen didn’t say anything about involving you. She just told me about this girl, Brenda, and how much she wanted money and what a good worker she’d make. If I’d known she was going to get you to help I’d have at least warned you.”

“Oh, okay,” Carol replied. “But when did you talk to her?”

“She, umm, well,” Janice stumbled. “She just told me.”

Carol could tell her friend was hiding something. Her instincts were screaming it at her. Something that made her friend more than just uncomfortable. There was guilt there as well. Carol had interviewed enough people, witnesses, suspects and sources, to know when someone was covering up. To know when you got near to something the person really didn’t want to talk about. And whatever Janice was hiding was something her friend wanted to keep hidden.

“You okay Janice?” More guilt flashed through Carol. Janice had been there for her, but if something was worrying the redhead she hadn’t noticed. Carol wanted to think she was a better friend than that.

“Yeah, I’m. I’m fine.” Janice looked away, waved a hand feebly in Carol’s direction.

“No you’re not,” Carol insisted. “Look, you’ve been here for me, too much lately. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

Janice looked back at her, a wry smile on her face, “No, I…. Not tonight, not now. I’ll tell you, but not now. Promise me you won’t ask me until after you’ve got the girls back.”

“Janice…” Carol wasn’t happy at leaving it alone, whatever it was.

“No, promise me you’ll leave it. Really.” There was a finality about Janice’s statement, a firm look on her face.

Carol sighed. Pushing her friend would only make the redhead clam up tighter. “Okay, but you’re telling me soon. You going to be alright?”

“Yeah,” Janice swallowed then nodded, “I will. Let’s just say you’re not the only she’s had do things you don’t want to.”

Carol frowned. ‘She’ had to be Mrs Bowen. The brunette was half-tempted to try again to get Janice to open up, but the look on her friend’s face dissuaded her. Janice wasn’t going to say any more tonight. That wasn’t going to stop the brunette worrying about her friend. Just the reverse.

“Okay,” she agreed at last, resigned.

“Good,” her friend smiled at her. “You just think about those two girls. You can do it. I know you can.”

At least one of us does, Carol thought.

Janice must have sensed her doubts, “No, really, you can.”

Carol knew that had to be her focus. She held on tightly to the thought. She had to help save the last two girls, Karen and Laura. Only a policewoman could do that. She could remember what it felt like to be one. Her training had never left her, her sense of duty. It was why she was here, partly at least. Over the next two days she made herself remember, made herself think like the policewoman she once was.

She still enjoyed her time with every john. She couldn’t stop that, didn’t want to. The policewoman was there though, observing, assessing, practicing her undercover skills. Carol could feel herself changing, the habits, the thought patterns, coming back, like slipping on a pair of old familiar shoes. In some ways it was reassuring, the knowledge that the old Carol was still there a relief.

In another way it scared her. It felt like slipping into a role. Just like any other of her roles. If she could so easily become Carol the policewoman, then would it be just as easy to be Stephanie the whore? The whore who’d done what she’d done to Brenda. And if the policewoman was just a role, what made it anything more than any of her others? Carol didn’t want to think about it, forced herself to think of the missing girls.

It wasn’t just about the girls. She had other reasons for what she did, reasons to be a policewoman, or at least that’s what Carol told herself. Patrick wasn’t the only mobster who used her. Carol liked to think it was because she was attractive and good at what she did. But she knew it might just be because of her connection to Patrick, the other mobsters wanting a piece of his girl. She wondered at times why he didn’t scare them off. Why he didn’t scare off all her johns. She didn’t spend long thinking about it. Or how she’d referred to herself as his girl.

Especially not when her fingers were wrapped around the cock of another criminal, her tongue teasingly licking the tip.

“Oh God,” she moaned. “It’s so big.”

It wasn’t, not really. She’d seen enough cocks by now to know that. A veritable forest of them. But Carol knew what men liked to hear. What this man liked to hear. His name was Thomas O’Shea. He was short and stocky and in a few years that muscle would turn to fat. Carol didn’t care. He was a man. He was paying her to prostitute herself.

“I just love being fucked by someone like you.” That, that was truth. He was a man who was paying to fuck her. Carol couldn’t get enough of that. She wanted him inside her. Now, her pussy empty and needing. But her wants, her needs, didn’t matter. Except in as much as they served his.

O’Shea loved seeing her on her knees in front of him, in a tight, sky-blue, blouse and short, white, pleated skirt and sneakers and bobby socks. Loved her hand on his cock. Loved her lips on his cock. So that’s what she did. Willingly. She’d worship that cock if that’s what he wanted. As long as he paid. She’d do anything if he paid.

I love being a prostitute.

If a man pays me I’ll let him do whatever he wants.

She kissed the tip of O’Shea’s cock, drew a teasing, painted, fingernail up the side of his shaft, quivering in delight as he moaned in reaction to her touch.

Carol was a good whore. She loved being a good whore.

It would be so easy to just be a good whore. That’s what Stephanie was. She could just be Stephanie. It was so tempting.

But being a good whore wasn’t all Carol was.

“Tell me something you’ve done,” she whispered, her voice husky. “God, it makes me so hot to know what sort of man is fucking me.” Then she wrapped her lips around that cock.

O’Shea’s hips bucked, his cock thrusting down her throat.

She was so turned on, liquid fire pouring through her. This was what she wanted. She needed him to use her. She needed O’Shea’s cock inside her. The cock of the man who was paying her. It didn’t matter where he put it. That was up to him. He’d paid. And she was the whore he’d paid. Her lips clamped down on the shaft, the sensation shooting through her. It was all she could do to keep listening, her attention wanting to shrink down until her world was only her mouth and that cock.

“Oh God, oh yeah,” the mobster gasped. “You’re one hot bitch. So damn hot. I can see why Patrick likes you. But you’re just a whore.”

She was.

I love being a prostitute.

“You want to know the sort of man who’s fucking you? You hear what happened to Johnny Sorento’s boys? That was me.”

Carol recognised the name of another of the city’s mob bosses. The police may never be able to pin anything on O’Shea for that, but it would be valuable information just the same.

That was for later. For now she was O’Shea’s whore.

Carol’s lips were tight on his shaft as she drew her head back, tongue twirling under his tip before leaning forward, forcing him as far down as her throat could take. Her fingers pinched her nipples, through her bra and the thin blouse, twisted them painfully. O’Shea loved that too. Loved to see her hands molesting her own tits while she was still clothed.

Every john had their quirks. She knew that. It was what a good prostitute understood.

“Oh fuck,” he cried. “That’s just. Fuck. Geez. You want more? You’re one crazy bitch you know that? Lose the blouse now. And the bra.”

Of course, he liked her molesting her naked tits as well.

Carol did as she was told, her mouth never releasing his cock.

“Now pull those nipples. Hard. Maybe I’ll tell you some more.”

Carol could only oblige, her fingers tugging at her nipples as her head bobbed back and forth. Why wouldn’t she? He was paying her.

If a man pays me he can do anything he wants.

“That’s it. Oh fuck. Look at you. Maybe once we pull that bank job I’ll tell you about that. What will you do for that? Shit. My big fucking mouth. You tell anyone and I’ll gut you.”

Carol looked up at O’Shea, her eyes wide and her mouth full of his cock. She nodded, as much as she could. It seemed to satisfy him. At least she thought it had, his cock jerking, load emptying into the condom he wore.

“Now get me ready again,” O’Shea ordered brusquely. “I’m not finished with you.”

As he ploughed into her, short skirt bunched around her waist, Carol wondered if she could get him to tell her more. Even knowing that a bank heist was in the offing might be enough. Other officers could hit a few other sources, piece it together. O’Shea would never trace it back to her. She almost felt like a policewoman again, even as O’Shea’s cock rammed home, an undercover cop digging out one of the city’s dirty secrets.

An undercover cop who was about to help find the last two missing girls.

But after O’Shea had left Carol couldn’t shake the fear that she was just assuming another role. The uncertainty cut deep, she was terrified that the policewoman was nothing more than a charade, like every persona she took on. Every other persona. That thought sent a chill through her. A horrifying, hollow, feeling that her roles were all she was and that underneath them was nothing at all. Except the needs Copeland had put there.

I’m real, I’m me, I’m a policewoman. She clung to the thought, had to. But Carol couldn’t shake the feeling that she was fooling herself.

Pain lanced behind her eyes.

You sure she’s real?

Carol froze in the middle of fixing her makeup, readying herself for her next john. The thought had been in her head, her voice, but there was an image behind it. The image in her mind that matched what she was making herself into. Decorated, beautiful, tempting. Ready to fuck, ready to whore. Anything but a policewoman. Stephanie smiled back from the mirror, bright-eyed and knowing.

Look what I’m doing, she thought. I’m sitting here, fixing myself up after my last john. Waiting for my next one. That’s not what a policewoman does. That’s what a whore does.

Realisation slammed into Carol. The words were true. “Oh fuck,” she whimpered.

Yeah, the girl in the mirror shrugged, looking bored. I do that a lot. Get paid for it, too.

Carol tried to force the thoughts away. “I’m me. I’m not that role.”

Really? Stephanie asked, interested now. Prove it.

Carol frowned. She concentrated, reaching for the feelings of being a policewoman. She could touch them, almost taste them…

I’m still here, Stephanie teased. You still want to be a whore.

“What do you want?” Carol’s teeth ground together. She knew that it was insane, talking to herself like this. She didn’t want to think about how close to madness she was.

I’m you, you’re me, so what do you want?

“For you to disappear.” Carol threw down her makeup brush in frustration.

Liar! the girl grinned, I can’t go away. I’m you. That part that really wants to be a whore. And you’ve got a problem, sweetie. You think you can give this up? You don’t want to give this up. It’s controlling you. Controlling us. Controlling me.

“I am going to stop, I will,” Carol insisted, trying to ignore the desperation in her voice.

Blah, blah, heard it before. You say you want to give up, but deep down you don’t. You can’t. But you don’t want it owning you. What’s poor little Carol to do?

“Rescue the girls, go back to what I was before. What I do after every case.” Carol was angry now. She stood up, started pacing the room. The room where she’d fucked so many men. This was stupid, arguing with herself. She wanted to throttle the girl. If only they didn’t share a throat.

She’s only a role. She’s only a role.

Stephanie laughed, light and breathy and even Carol could feel how sexy it was. But what if I’m the role you want to be?

Carol didn’t want to admit it, but she knew there was at least some truth in the girl’s words.

I want to be a prostitute.

Stephanie is a prostitute.

That might be what Stephanie was, but they were Carol’s thoughts, after all. Stephanie was just the aberrant, uncontrolled voice that lurked in her mind. Everyone had one of those. The little voice that spoke the hidden desires. All the things you shouldn’t want to do. All the thoughts about whoring that Carol didn’t want to have. They’d fed into that role.

I love being a prostitute.

How am I going to give this up?

After all she’d done, with how much she loved whoring, needed it, how was she going to go back to just being a policewoman? Copeland’s words would still be in her head, the need he’d put in there driving her, controlling her. After the months she’d spent feeding those desires she wasn’t sure that she could just cut them off, go cold turkey. But she knew that if stayed as she was it would control her, utterly, her need as bad as any junkie’s.

Stephanie is a prostitute. I don’t have to fight it.

Carol scowled at her own thoughts. “I can beat it, I can stop.” She had to believe that.

Sure you can sweetie, Stephanie, Carol, somebody, thought, admiring her nails. Then she frowned. There was a mark on one. God, how useless can I be? Can’t even do my nails right when I worry about stupid things like what I used to be. Everything was so much easier when she focussed, when she accepted what she was.

When she was just a whore.

After Stephanie fixed the flaw she smoothed out her short skirt. Then she glanced at the mirror, preened and posed, smiling that smile. The one Carol knew so well, the one she used. Half innocent, half-temptress.

“What do you want?” Carol cried.

What do I want? Just to help. Help myself. This hurts. I don’t want to feel like this.

“Help? How?” Carol couldn’t believe the girl wanted anything that innocent. Anything innocent about Stephanie was just a show she put on. She should know. She was Stephanie and Stephanie was her. She’d created that role, nurtured it, fed it. Lived it. It would be so easy to just give in to it.

I know what I want, Stephanie smirked.

I want to whore.

That was never a phrase Copeland used.

It was all Carol’s. No it’s not, it Stephanie’s. But she’s me. It’s mine. Oh, God.

Desperately Carol tried to think of Stephanie as something separate from herself. But maybe that was giving her too much power. Stephanie was an excuse, something to blame her own temptations upon. Her own sins. Brenda, and so much more. But if she didn’t think of Stephanie as something apart from her then Carol would have to admit that all those thoughts were her own.

Maybe she should just give in. Be Stephanie. Forget the missing girls, forget being a policewoman. Just be a whore. Get fucked for money, over and over.

Like I told Brenda, Carol couldn’t stop the thought completing, that’s a lot of fun.

She could feel Stephanie’s self-satisfied smirk pulling at her lips, feel the girl preen as she looked at herself in the mirror through Carol’s eyes. Felt her laughter, her selfishness, her pride in being desired, the joy she took in whoring. Stephanie liked whoring, revelled in it.

See? the girl asked, a smug look on her face. You could, it would be so easy.

“Go away,” Carol fumed. That was the coward’s way out. That would be giving in, to what Copeland wanted, what Mrs Bowen wanted, what Patrick wanted. Just give into that role and never come out.

Carol was so good at taking on a role.

But this role? Stephanie wasn’t just a whore, she was a monster. She’d helped turn Brenda into a whore without a second thought.

I want to be a prostitute, Stephanie laughed.

“No, I,” Carol looked around the room, desperately seeking a way out. But she couldn’t escape the image in her head, its voice. Her face, her voice. Her thoughts.

C’mon Carol, you know you want to. Just say it. I want to be a prostitute.

“I want, I want to be a prostitute.” Carol couldn’t believe what was happening, that some piece of her own mind was making her do this.

I love being a prostitute

She was helpless, she couldn’t stop herself. “I love being a prostitute.”

I want to be paid for sex

“I want,” Carol’s breath caught. Not because she stopped herself saying the words, but her pussy was dripping, her nipples rock-hard, her arousal spiking so high she could barely speak, “I want to be paid for sex.” The brunette gripped the back of her chair, she could barely stand, her legs had turned to jelly.

That’s it, Stephanie smiled brightly, You can do it. I need to be a prostitute.

I need to be a prostitute.

That’s all I need. Carol didn’t know which part of her that thought came from.

“No, that’s not true,” Carol whined. “I want to be a policewoman.”

Maybe, Stephanie allowed. But I know which one you want more. Needy. Little. Whore.

“That’s not true,” Carol growled, refusing to think about what it meant that she was arguing with a piece of her own mind.

Yes it is. And when you’re ready to admit that, I’ll be here. Then she laughed and blew Carol a kiss before disappearing back into the recesses of the brunette’s mind.

Carol collapsed back into her chair. She couldn’t believe what had just happened, refused to believe it. She promised herself that she’d take back control of her own life. She’d prove Stephanie wrong. The girl wasn’t real, just some twisted image her subconscious had dreamt up to torment her. Carol didn’t need her. She’d be a policewoman again, she had to be.

“I will be,” she told herself.

(To be continued)