The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

College Undercover

Part 17

Not for those under 18 (or whatever the legal age for this sort of stuff is in your area). If you’re not that old, Boo! Go away now. If you are offended by graphic descriptions of sexual activities, especially non-consensual ones, then don’t read this. All characters and situations are fictional.

Copyright © 2019

Archived on the Erotic Mind Control web site by permission of the author. This story may be downloaded for personal archiving as long as this notice is retained.

“And there’s nothing more you can tell me? Anything she might have said?” Wainwright examined the redhead, trying to decide whether he trusted her.

She’s a whore. The police captain still had trouble believing it, but he knew it was true. The girl appeared so innocent, sitting there on her own lounge, looking like just like another college girl. But give her enough money and she’d be spreading her legs. After everything she went through she chose that. It meant he couldn’t take anything the girl said at face value. But he’d been a cop long enough to know how to ferret out information.

“No, officer,” Janice replied, frowning. “I wish I could.”

Wainwright could see the look of regret on the girl’s face. It was almost as if she cared.

“I know I’ve already asked, but tell me about the last time you saw her.”

What had happened wasn’t the girl’s fault, the police captain reminded himself. If it was anyone’s fault it was his. Guilt knotted in his stomach. He’d let Carol talk him into this. Let her stay when every instinct screamed at him to pull her out. He should have done it.

He knew what Carol would say if she was here now.

We got the girls back. We got the girls back and that’s all that matters.

He could hear the tone Carol would use, the edge to it. Could picture her, determination etched in the slight crease on her forehead. It wouldn’t mar her looks. He hated thinking about Carol in that way, but he knew just how gorgeous she was. Had been. It would have been part of what made her so convincing as a whore. But only a part. The rest would have been how well Carol could play her role. She could always play the role, he’d never known anyone better. And if he hadn’t already known that then playing this part, for months, would have convinced him just how good she was.

Only a pro could do that, the police captain thought, then winced at his own choice of words.

“We’d just come back from, …, work.” The redhead wasn’t looking at him anymore. That only made her prevarication about just where she worked all the more obvious.

Can’t blame her for that, Wainwright thought.

“She seemed good,” Janice continued, her right foot twitching nervously where it hung in the air, the girl’s right leg crossed over her left, the flared end of the bellbottom jeans she wore shaking. Wainwright wondered if the rapid movement meant she was lying. Or it if was simply the nerves any whore might feel talking to a cop. His gut told him it was nerves. If the girl was lying she was damned good at it. “She always seemed good when we got home. We talked for a bit, nothing important. I think she asked about an essay I was working on. Then we went to sleep. It was late. She wasn’t here when I got up. I assumed she was out. It was only later I guessed something was wrong.”

“There’s nothing she said?” Wainwright asked. There had to be something, some clue. The last time he’d seen Carol, at the precinct, he’d sensed nothing. Nothing much anyway. A little anxiety over the enquiry. But more relief than anything else. It had been the same on their last phone call. He wasn’t surprised that she’d been relieved that the assignment was over. Not that it had been an official assignment, but he couldn’t bring himself to think of it in any other way. “Nothing in the days before?”

“She was worried about those last two girls,” Janice shrugged. “But that was it.”

It was Wainwright’s turn to frown. “Karen and Laura? She was worried about them?”

“Yeah,” Janice agreed. “Seeing them safe was what she always wanted.”

That didn’t sound right to the police captain. “She never told you they’d been rescued?”

“She,” Janice started, then stopped. Her foot stopped as well, poised in mid-air. Then it started up again. “Yeah, she did. But I think she was worried about what it had done to them.”

Wainwright had to stop himself before he said something he’d regret. Something like, Well, if anyone would know, then you two would.

Carol and Janice had been through what the other two girls had. Some of it anyway. All of them had been kidnapped by Copeland, brainwashed. But Karen and Laura had been given no choice about what happened to them. Sold off, forced to work as sex slaves. Carol and Janice had been able to make their own decisions. And ended up as whores anyway.

That’s not fair, he told himself. Carol had done it to find the girls. And Janice had helped her. They were still whores. He didn’t want to think about how many men they’d serviced in the months it had taken. He looked around the flat Carol had shared with Janice. If the furniture was anything to go by whoring must have paid them pretty well. For all he knew was still paying Janice that well. He didn’t want to ask.

More important was the hesitation in Janice when he’d mentioned that Karen and Laura had been rescued. No matter how smooth she’d been he was willing to bet Janice hadn’t known that. Which meant Carol hadn’t told her.

Why would she do that? Wainwright thought he might know. If Carol told Janice the girls had been rescued then Janice would know that Carol had no need to keep whoring. Would ask why Carol had kept doing it. Because it was clear she had, even after she’d rescued the girls. Janice’s story had only confirmed what Wainwright had already suspected.

It matched what Carol had left in her note. The note they’d found in her car, parked near the bridge. The bridge it looked like she’d jumped off.

Wainwright hadn’t wanted to believe it. No matter what the note said. Carol hadn’t been explicit. She knew Wainwright wouldn’t have been the one to find it. But there’d been enough for him to read between the lines. How she couldn’t live with what she was doing but couldn’t bear to give it up. He knew what she meant. She’d still been turning tricks, hating herself for it.

I should have got her out sooner. Wainwright felt his shoulders sag. He was getting too old for this. Too old to see another officer break under the strain of what they did. He counted up the days until he could retire. Wondered how many more orations he’d have to read at funerals before that.

Carol hadn’t had a funeral. Just a memorial service. Not many people there, just colleagues and Janice. They hadn’t found Carol’s body. Wainwright had clung to hope because of that. But as the days rolled on there’d been no sign of her. Janice had been his last chance. But the redhead hadn’t given any hint that she knew anything more than he did. He’d even hoped that there might be a sign Janice wasn’t the only person living in the apartment. But Carol’s bedroom was unused, and there was only enough washing up for one. It was there, next to the sink, clean and neat, waiting to be put away.

Wainwright wondered if all whores were that neat.

He sighed. He couldn’t think of anything else to ask.

“Thank you for your time Miss Thornton,” he concluded. “If you think of anything else give me a call. I’m sorry for your loss. I know you were friends.”

“Thanks officer,” Janice replied, staring out the window. “I know you liked her too.”

Wainwright rose, and walked out the door of the apartment. The stairs creaked under him. They reminded him of the sound of a coffin as it was lowered into the grave.

I am getting too old for this.

Janice waited until she was sure the police captain was gone. Then she picked up the phone. When it was answered she simply said “He’s gone.”

Even then it was two days before Carol returned to the apartment.

Not that she called herself Carol anymore.

* * *

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Janice demanded as soon as her friend entered the room.

The brunette paused for a moment before responding. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t give me that,” the redhead snapped. “Karen and Laura. You didn’t tell me they’d been rescued. I’ve lied for you. To Mrs Bowen. To the police. And you lied to me.”

“I never told you they hadn’t,” her friend offered.

“Fuck that Carol. You know what I mean.”

“Don’t call me that,” the brunette whispered. She didn’t want to hear that name. Didn’t want to think about what it meant. It wasn’t her name. Not anymore. At least that’s what she tried to tell herself. Had told herself, over and over. That name was for someone whose head was being ripped into pieces. So it wasn’t her name anymore. Not since that night she walked out onto that bridge and gazed out across the bay. A little part of her had thought about what it would be like if she did jump. It would have been one way to escape the pain she felt.

She hadn’t thought about it long. It wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She’d put too much effort into her plans to throw them away. But she did think about it, just for a moment. Imagined it. Pictured herself climbing up on the railing. Letting herself fall. Seeing the water come rushing up to her. Feeling the crash of impact. Would she be aware after that? Feel herself sinking into the icy depths? Or would the moment she hit the water be the end?

One way or another there’d be no coming back from it. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to do it. Not for real. But imagining it was important. It was part of what she’d needed to do. Symbolic. A way to say goodbye.

After she’d pictured it she’d felt so calm, calmer than she’d felt for days. Months, maybe. Calm enough to slip into her role. To welcome it, feel it tingling down to her fingertips. Feel it taking over.

Feel the agony in her head go away.

It was Carol who walked on to that bridge. It was Stephanie who walked off.

“What do you mean don’t call you that?” Janice cried, snapping Stephanie back to the present. “It’s your name. It’s over Carol. If the girls are free you don’t have to do this anymore. You can stop. You promised me that you’d stop.”

That last had been uttered in a whisper. Stephanie knew why. Carol had promised that she’d stop. Stop whoring. In a way she had. Carol wasn’t whoring any more. Stephanie was.

But fine distinctions like that didn’t matter to Janice.

“And what if I didn’t want to?” Stephanie answered, just as softly. She’d thought this would be so easy. It was her life wasn’t it? Couldn’t she whore if she wanted to? Isn’t that what she wanted? There was a whisper of voices, deep in her mind, that Stephanie didn’t want to pay any attention to. She wouldn’t. She didn’t have to listen to them. But Janice was a different matter. She couldn’t shut Janice out.

“That’s not you,” Janice implored. Stephanie could see tears in her friend’s eyes. “That’s the words. Copeland. Please don’t do this Carol, please.”

Janice was shaking. Her hands were clasped in front of her breasts, wringing, fingers curling and bending so hard that Stephanie thought her friends would hurt herself. Stephanie knew why. Janice was scared. Scared that if Carol couldn’t stop then she wouldn’t be able to either. That the words would control her. Forever.

“I’m Stephanie,” the brunette declared.

“No you’re not,” Janice insisted. “You’re Carol. Carol Taylor. Stephanie’s just a role. You need help Carol. This isn’t right.”

“Neither’s hearing voices in your head all the time!” Stephanie cried. “They’re gone now. I don’t hear them anymore.”

Janice stared at her.

This wasn’t how Stephanie had pictured it. She’d thought it would be so easy. That they’d laugh about fooling Wainwright. She should have realised how Janice would react. Janice had depended on her. She’d let her friend down. Just another mistake in a long, long, line of them. All she’d worried about was what she’d wanted. If she had her choice she’d be at the brothel, whoring. But Janice was obviously not going to let that happen as easily as Stephanie had hoped.

But she couldn’t change now. Couldn’t go back to what she’d been. Fear flared in her, the idea of being torn apart again too awful to contemplate. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, let herself go through that again.

She’d do anything to stop that.

Hadn’t she said something like that, about something else?

Stephanie didn’t let herself think about that.

“You don’t hear the words?” Janice asked, wide-eyed.

“What words Janice?” she asked softly, hating herself for the deceit.

“You know what words!” Janice stamped her foot in frustration.

Stephanie knew. Stephanie knew exactly what words Janice meant. The words didn’t control her now. They’d controlled her when she’d used that other name. But not her. She’d never let them control her again. Just the thought of it had her stomach knotting in cold fear. She’d do anything not to feel that afraid again.

Even use the words.

“I want to be a prostitute,” the brunette crooned. Don’t do this, a voice pleaded with her. She’d hoped to never hear that voice again. It was weak and faint but it was there.

She ignored it.

Janice’s eyes went wide.

“I love being a prostitute,” Stephanie’s voice was light as she smiled. She could see Janice’s lips quivering, the girl struggling not to repeat the words along with her.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute.”

“C-Carol? Why?” Janice was staring at her, eyes wide.

“C’mon Janice. You know the words. You can say them. I want to be a prostitute.”

“I-I. No.” The redhead shook her head, eyes downcast.

“Look at me!” Stephanie ordered. She had to do this. She had to. Even as something told her it was wrong. That she shouldn’t do this. It didn’t matter. She had to stop Janice questioning her. “I want to be a prostitute.”

Janice’s head snapped up. “I,” she swallowed. “I want to be a prostitute.”

“That’s it,” Stephanie smiled, edging closer to her friend. “I love being a prostitute.”

“I love being a prostitute.”

Stephanie knew exactly what was happening to her friend. The words were running around and around her head. Drowning out every other thought. Janice had no choice but to think them. Stephanie knew exactly what that felt like. She remembered it so well.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute,” she whispered, her mouth an inch from the redhead’s ear.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute.”

Something was telling Stephanie to stop. Pleading with her. Her throat constructed with guilt. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like. She was supposed to be Stephanie the whore. Who laughed and smiled and didn’t worry about anything. Who had control of her life. Not someone who hated herself because of what she was doing to her friend.

But at least Stephanie’s head didn’t feel like it was going to explode. Didn’t feel like it was so full of voices that there was no room for her. Didn’t feel like she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She might hate herself for what she was doing but that was nothing compared to her fear of going back. Back to what she’d felt when she’d had another name.

“I want to be a prostitute.”

“Oh God,” Janice moaned. “The words have still got you haven’t they. God, fuck. I want to be a prostitute.”

“Yes,” Stephanie lied. She could remember the words. Could remember what Copeland had done to her. That other her. But not to this her. This her didn’t have to listen to the words. This her whored because she wanted to. Not because of what anyone else had done to her.

Not like Janice. Janice was saying the words because that was what Copeland had made her do. Was still making her do, not matter how long since the redhead had seen him. He’d ripped into her mind. Planted the words there. Leaving her open, vulnerable. Open enough, Stephanie hoped, for what she was going to try next.

“And so does Carol,” Stephanie whispered, a hand slipping slowly down Janice’s side. She felt ill using that name. But she had to. That’s who Janice thought she was. So she said the name. “Carol wants to be a prostitute. You can say that for me Janice.”

“No, what?” the redhead protested. But it was weak and feeble and Stephanie knew her friend didn’t have a hope. “You, you were going to stop.”

“Carol wants to be a prostitute.” Stephanie’s voice was low, firm and clear.

Janice’s eyes were glazed. “C-Carol wants to be a prostitute.”

Guilt was churning through Stephanie. Janice was her friend. Had been her friend when she’d called herself by that other name. Was her friend now, when she called herself Stephanie. But really, Stephanie told herself, she wasn’t doing anything to Janice. Just making sure her friend let her do what she wanted. Wasn’t that what a friend should do?

Stephanie almost believed that.

Janice was swaying gently from side to side. Stephanie wondered if the redhead was seeing anything out of those glassy eyes.

“Carol should be a prostitute,” the brunette declared.

Janice shook her head. But it was slow, as if she could hardly move. “No. Carol. You shouldn’t. It’s the words. Even if you don’t hear them, it’s the words.”

Anger flared in the brunette. You’re wrong. She didn’t hear the words. Carol had heard the words but she didn’t. Carol. She hated that name. All it meant to her was pain and fear and doubt. When that had been her name she’d been lost. Lost everything. Her career. Her self-respect. She hadn’t known what to do. Her mind had been in pieces. The words had controlled her. So many people, so many voices, telling her what to do. She’d been weak, confused. Stephanie wasn’t like that. Stephanie knew exactly what she wanted to do.

Even if the guilt threatened to overwhelm her.

“Carol wants to be a prostitute. Carol should be a prostitute. You can say it Janice. They’re more words for you. You know about the words.” The brunette clamped down on the guilt, as best she could.

“Carol wants to be a prostitute. Carol should be a prostitute,” the redhead echoed, her voice empty.

“Good girl,” the brunette crooned, her lips brushing Janice’s cheek. “Say it again. Carol should be a prostitute.”

The redhead repeated the words. There was no hesitation this time. “Carol should be a prostitute.”

“That’s it. We’ve got all night. You can learn a lot in a night. You weren’t the only one who’d studied psychology, remember? You’re going to remember these words. And one set more. I’m happy that Carol taught me new words.”

She wasn’t sure what felt worse, saying that name or what she was doing to her friend.


“Yes!” Stephanie needed Janice co-operative. Needed to sink these words into her friend. “I love being a prostitute.”

“I love being a prostitute.”

“You can add to that Janice,” Stephanie crooned. “It’s so easy. I love being a prostitute. Carol wants to be a prostitute. Carol should be a prostitute. I’m happy that Carol taught me new words.”

Janice’s eyelids fluttered. There might have been a tear in the corner of one eye. If there was it didn’t stop the redhead’s voice being perfectly clear. “I love being a prostitute. Carol wants to be a prostitute. Carol should be a prostitute. I’m happy that Carol taught me these words.”

“That’s it,” Stephanie smiled. “We’ve got hours. We’ll need other nights. But that’ll be easy to arrange, won’t it Janice? So let’s repeat it again.”

Janice did as she was told. “I love being a prostitute. Carol wants to be a prostitute. Carol should be a prostitute. I’m happy that Carol taught me these words.”

Stephanie’s breath caught. It worked! She’d taught her friend new words.

Just like Copeland had.

She was just like Copeland.

Stephanie’s hand flew to her mouth as Janice started repeating the words over and over. She knew that she should stop her friend. Stop her before the words seeped in, became part of her. It was wrong. What she was doing was wrong. But then Janice wold argue again. Try to tell Stephanie to stop. Try to tell her to use that other name. Try to stop her whoring.

Whoring was what Copeland had told her to do.

Pain lanced behind Stephanie’s eyes. She knew why she didn’t hear the words anymore. She didn’t need to. When all she wanted to do was whore she didn’t need to be told. She just did it. It didn’t matter whether she called herself Carol or Stephanie or Jewel. Whoever she was, she was just a whore. The words had sunk so far into her she couldn’t hear them anymore.

They still controlled her.

She’d fooled herself. Told herself that she’d beaten them. But how could doing what the words wanted her to do be beating them?

“I want to be a prostitute. I love being a prostitute. Carol wants to be a prostitute. Carol should be a prostitute. I’m happy that Carol taught me these words.” It was Janice. Repeating the word over and over. The words Copeland had given her. The words Carol had given her.

Carol knew that she’d been fooling herself pretending that she was Stephanie. That was just a role. However well she played it. However well she believed it. Janice had been right. She was Carol.

Everything Stephanie did was me.

And Carol was a whore now. Nothing but a whore. Didn’t want anything else. Couldn’t imagine anything else. She needed to whore.

She didn’t know what to do. Call Wainwright? He’d welcome her back. But she couldn’t face going back to work. The idea left her cold and sweating. Her nerves for policework were gone. She’d proved that when she’d fainted on the roof of Conti’s brothel. She was a whore, not a policewoman. Wainwright would put her in a hospital. She wouldn’t be anything there. Not a policewomen, not a whore. Just a mad deluded woman.

She needed to whore.

She couldn’t stop Janice. Because if she did, Janice would want her to stop as well. Would probably call Wainwright. Carol couldn’t face either of them telling her to stop, let alone both. Carol had to be a whore, she had nothing else left. Could see no other future. So she couldn’t stop her friend repeating the words.

You lied to me! she screamed at the image of the whore in her head.

I’m you, Stephanie smirked back. Does that mean you lied to yourself? You lied to Janice.

Carol stared at her friend. Janice was staring as well, but at nothing, as she repeated the words Carol had given her.

She had said one true thing to Janice. She didn’t hear the words anymore. Even if they were controlling her she could at least think. Her mind wasn’t in pieces any more. There was no tempest of voices in her head. No feeling of being ripped apart. Being a whore was worth that. Anything was worth that.

Even what she was doing to her friend.

Tears rolled down Carol’s face as Janice repeated the words.

For hours.

* * *

The words were definitely gone. Carol knew it was because she was doing what they wanted, but they were gone all the same.

She loved being a whore. She loved it when men used her. She loved being paid for sex. She loved feeling men’s cocks ram into her, when they’d paid to do just that.

She loved that she didn’t hear the voices anymore. Even if she didn’t love whoring so much selling herself would have been worth it for the voices to stay away.

It even meant she could live with what she’d done to Janice. Not that the redhead seemed to mind. Janice never mentioned it. Carol even wondered if her friend really remembered. If Janice did, she never said anything. Even when Carol repeated what she’d done. Especially after she added more words to make Janice forget their sessions.

At least when she was being fucked Carol didn’t have to think about what she’d done to her friend.

Not that getting fucked for money was all she did. Carol still had dreams. Even if they were a whore’s dreams. Stephanie was useful for that. Stephanie was a role she could play. Stephanie could be hard and gleeful and all the things that Carol wasn’t sure that she could.

Carol was always good at playing a role.

You should ask her. Carol knew who the thought meant. Mrs Bowen. The madam had promised to teach her about more than just being a whore.

“I want to learn,” she said to the madam.

Mrs Bowen smiled at her. “Yes you do dear. I was right about you. I’m sure there’ll be a good chance soon.”

It wasn’t many days after that that she was called into the madam’s office, that office that was half a favourite aunt’s sitting room.

The madam looked at her, after Carol closed the door, a slight smile on the older woman’s lips. “How are you Stephanie?”

“I’m fine,” the brunette replied, easing herself on to one of the comfortable lounges, careful not to flash her panties with the so-short dress she was wearing. Mrs Bowen didn’t like it when any of her girls were ‘uncouth’. Carol almost thought that was funny, given what she’d done the first time she’d been in the room. What she did in that building every night. She wondered what the madam wanted. She was eager to get back to whoring. She remembered her request, the madam’s half-promise. Maybe the Mrs Bowen was going to teach her something.

The madam sat across from her, in a dress that reached to the older woman’s knees, her legs tucked up under her. Carol could feel Mrs Bowen considering her. “No problems? No repeat of those silly ideas?”

Carol knew what the older woman meant. That day when she’d come here, wanting to quit. When she’d still thought there was something for her other than being a whore. Silly. Why would I want to be anything else? Carol loved being a whore.

“No,” Carol replied. “I think it was just being caught in the middle of the raid.”

“I understand dear,” the madam nodded. “Something like that can be unsettling.” Then she smiled. “You do understand why I did what I did?”

Carol could remember exactly what the madam had done. She could remember Mrs Bowen’s hands on her, the madam’s fingers in her. How she’d cum bucking against the madam’s hand. How Mrs Bowen had taught her what she was. A whore. She understood now. The madam had only done what she had to do to keep one of her girls under control. That’s what a madam did. Every sensible whore knew that.

“Yes,” Carol nodded.

“But I didn’t ask you here to go over painful memories.”

Carol wasn’t sure that all the memories of that day were painful.

“I promised you I’d teach you, didn’t I?” the madam continued, not waiting for Carol to reply. “Yes I did. I’ve got something I want you to watch. You just come and stand behind me.”

Carol frowned, wondering what the madam wanted. She wasn’t going to argue though. That wasn’t what a good whore did. So she rose, and stood behind the lounge on which the madam reclined.

Just as she’d been told to.

Mrs Bowen picked up the phone and simply said, “Send her in.”

A few moments later the door opened and Gabriela crept in. The girl looked nervously about, swallowed.

“Sit down,” Mrs Bowen ordered curtly, indicating the seat that Carol had just vacated.

Carol knew who the girls was, Gabriela. Another of the whores that worked in the brothel. Not as pretty as Carol was. Or Janice or Ellie. But attractive just the same, with her dark Latina looks and flowing hair. Every girl that worked for Mrs Bowen was beautiful.

Carol liked Gabriela. She was friendly and the Latina had given her some useful information about Conti. What he liked, what he didn’t like. She’d been able to use that in her meeting with him. Not that it mattered too much, Conti had been dead minutes later.

Carol didn’t want to think about that, a queasy feeling stealing through her at the thought that she’d killed the brothel owner. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to touch a gun again.

But even so Gabriela had helped her. That didn’t matter now. Carol could feel the anger radiating off Mrs Bowen, even if she couldn’t see the older woman’s face. She hadn’t sensed it before, when they’d been talking. But she felt it now.

Like she’s slipped into a role.

“You know why you’re here Gabriela,” the madam began, her voice tight.

“No, I,” the Latino replied, her eyes darting around.

“Don’t give me that crap,” Mrs Bowen snapped. “You know the rules. No moonlighting. You work for me.”

Carol knew what Gabriela’s transgression was now. She’d whored outside the brothel. Outside Mrs Bowen’s control. Somewhere Mrs Bowen wouldn’t get her cut. Maybe the girl had felt threatened. It wasn’t just Carol and Janice and Ellie and Brenda who were prettier than her. There was Mandy and Tabitha now as well, the girls having joined Mrs Bowen’s brothel as soon as the police let them go.

Mrs Bowen had been so pleased with Carol about Mandy and Tabitha. The brunette couldn’t help smiling at the memory of the madam’s praise. But perhaps Gabriela hadn’t been so happy with the new additions to the madam’s stable.

“It was just once,” the girl pleaded, not even bothering to deny what the madam had said. She radiated tension, fear, her knees tight together and her hands clasped around them. “I won’t do it again.”

Some pimps and brothel owners would beat their girls. Even mark them if they went too far. Carol didn’t think Mrs Bowen would do that, but she realised she didn’t really know the madam.

“You shouldn’t have done it once.” Mrs Bowen’s voice was hard, like a sharp knife. Or a gun firing. “I could throw you out. Where would you go then? Conti’s gone. I can put the word around. No place would take you. You’d be on the street, turning tricks in the backseats of cars.”

Gabriela’s eyes were wide, deep brown pools. Carol could see the girl’s fear in them. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Carol felt for the girl. She wouldn’t want to be in her place. Wouldn’t want that prospect in front of her. She was a whore. They both were. But even a whore would prefer a high class place like Mrs Bowen’s to working the streets. She could console the girl. Tell her it would be okay, act on the sympathy she felt. Tell her that as long as she didn’t do it again Mrs Bowen would forgive her.

Carol didn’t think that was what the madam wanted. The madam wanted something hard. Something to put girl in her place. Something to make sure the girl never crossed her again.

Carol could do that. She could take on that role. It was what the madam expected Stephanie to do. Sometimes that’s what you do at work, Carol told herself. Put on a mask, Become someone else. Someone you weren’t when you were away from there. Someone different. Carol did that all the time. It was what her johns wanted. Someone who could be their fantasies. College girl, secretary, cheerleader, an endless parade of fantasies. So Carol put on her masks. Played her roles. She was so good at playing roles.

She could play this role. Even if some part of her didn’t want to hurt the girl. Even if she might lose another part of herself if she did. It was what her madam wanted. A smart whore did what her madam wanted. The madam called the shots.

Carol knew that. Gabriela needed to learn it.

Stephanie stepped out from behind her madam.

“Sorry’s not good enough,” the brunette hissed, leaning over Gabriela and grabbing her by the chin.

It’s just a role. It’s just a role. The thought ricocheted around Carol’s head. She didn’t want to think she was that hard, that mean. She was just doing what her madam wanted. That was all it was. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t what she’d have chosen.

Even if it felt so easy to do it.

The Latina’s eyes darted from Carol to Mrs Bowen and back again. “Sorry’s for little girls. You owe her,” Carol growled, pointing at the madam. She wasn’t sure if she should think of herself as Carol or Stephanie. It didn’t matter, in the end. Put yourself through the motions and soon will come the corresponding emotions. Someone had said that to her once. She was acting like Stephanie. It was easy enough to feel like Stephanie. “So how are you going to make it up to her? Or do we make an example of you Gabriela? Make it so you can’t work anywhere?”

“I’ll, I’ll work for less,” Gabriela pleaded. “Until you make up what you lost.”

Carol, or perhaps Stephanie, glared down at her. It was so easy to play a role.

“Two tricks Gabriela? I don’t think so. I think a week working without getting paid will be much better,” Mrs Bowen mused. Stephanie could hear the smile that was on the madam’s lips. She didn’t have to look to know it was cold and hard. That was what she had to be.

“Yeah,” Carol agreed, hoping her smile matched the madam’s, a crack echoing round the room as she slapped the girl’s face. “Got it Gabriela?”

Gabriela nodded fearfully, tears in the girl’s eyes, as her hand cupped her reddening cheek.

“I’m not sure how much I have to teach you,” the madam laughed, after Gabriela had gone.

Carol blinked. She wasn’t sure what had come over her. It had been so easy. Threatening the girl. Hitting her.

Oh God, I hit her. What’s happening to me?

It’s just what you do, she told herself. You just did what you needed to do. Sometimes in life that meant being hard. Doing what the situation demanded. Carol was good at that. Always had been. It was one of the many useful skills her other life had left her. Sometimes, at work, you just had to be someone else. Carol could do that.

Even if it meant like she’d felt like she’d lost some part of herself.

She’d done what her madam wanted. Her madam was in charge.

Carol realised those were more words that she didn’t hear anymore but obeyed anyway.

“I’m impressed,” Mrs Bowen commented as the madam rose from her seat. Carol was still looking at the door Gabriela had left through. Part of her wanted to run after the girl. Beg her forgiveness. She almost did.

She froze as Mrs Bowen’s arms went about her waist pulling her back in to the older woman.

“I knew I was right about you,” the madam whispered, her warm breath caressing Carol’s neck. “What else was I right about?”

“I” The words died in Carol’s throat. She didn’t know what she’d been about to say.

She didn’t want to admit what was happening, one of the madam’s hands slowly gliding down Carol’s side to the top of her thigh.

This can’t be real. What she’d done to Gabriela couldn’t be real. What the madam was doing couldn’t be real.

The arousal she was feeling couldn’t be real.

I do what my madam wants.

It was clear what Mrs Bowen wanted, spinning Carol around, her lips brushing over the younger woman’s. Carol could feel the madam’s breasts pushing into hers. It was so strange, being held by a woman. It was nothing like being held by a man. Mrs Bowen’s kiss was nothing like a man’s. Carol didn’t know whether that was good or bad.

But what she wanted didn’t matter. She was a whore. A good, little, whore. Who did what her madam wanted. What had happened with Gabriela proved that. She did what Mrs Bowen wanted, whatever Carol thought of it.

Mrs Bowen wanted to feel her breasts now. So Carol accepted that. She’d given so many people access to her breasts, her body. What did one more matter?

Put yourself through the motions and soon will come the corresponding emotions.

She remembered who had told her that. It didn’t matter anymore.

Carol know the motions. She knew how to kiss. Knew how to offer herself. Knew how to judge what her partner wanted.

Mrs Bowen wanted control.

Carol could tell that. From the force of her kiss, gentle and firm at the same time. From the hands that caressed her breasts. From the hunger in the madam’s eyes.

Carol let her have it. Let the madam guide her. Took her dress off when she was told. Slipped out of her bra.

Why are my nipples erect? Carol didn’t understand. She didn’t want this. She was just doing what her madam wanted. She’d always do what her madam wanted. But that didn’t mean she wanted it.

Yet her nipples were hard as Mrs Bowen flicked them and she was moaning (When did she start moaning?) and she was breathing so hard and she could barely stay on her feet.

“Oh you little minx,” Mrs Bowen crowed. “You want this.”

She did want this. Maybe because Mrs Bowen told her she did. Maybe to punish herself for what she’d done to Gabriela. What she’d done to Janice. Or maybe because she didn’t care who fucked her as long she got fucked.

Maybe it was all of it.

Somewhere Mrs Bowen had lost her own dress and her bra. The madam’s breasts hung there, larger than Carol’s. Carol couldn’t take her eyes off them. Mrs Bowen guided her head down, Carol’s lips latching around one nipple, struggling not to moan as the madam stroked her through her panties.

I do what my madam says.

That made it easier.

The bright, sharp, arousal crashing through her made it easier too.

She was on her back now, lying on one of the couches, the madam looming over her.

Carol wasn’t in to women. The thought of what they were doing made her ill. Yet her nipples were so hard and her pussy ached. Just like it ached to be filled by a john who was paying her. Maybe that’s all this was. Carol tried to stop thinking.

“Tell me you want this,” the madam said.

Carol knew what her madam wanted. And a good whore did what her madam wanted.

“I want this,” Carol said. And some part of her did.

She screamed in bliss as Mrs Bowen’s fingers entered her wet opening, Carol’s back arching. When had she lost her panties?

“Now dear, let’s see what else that tongue of yours can do,”

Carol was on her knees, two of Mrs Bowen’s fingers holding up her chin. She could taste the madam’s kiss on her lips. More than kissing, their tongues had been dancing, exploring.

The madam leant back in the seat, her legs spread lewdly. Carol’s eyes were drawn to where they met.

It was the first pussy she’d really seen.

Sure, she’d seen others. Been around enough naked whores. Seen naked women at the strip clubs she’d been in. But not like this. Never like this. So close, so open. This pussy was wet and aroused and waiting for her. Wanting her.

I do what my madam says.

Parts of her were screaming to stop as she leant in.

Maybe this is all I deserve.

“I said I’d teach you, didn’t I?” Carol could hear the smile in Mrs Bowen’s voice. “I’ve so much to teach you.”

Carol could smell the woman’s musk, so different from a man’s.

“Lick it dear, just like you’d want yours licked. If you’re good then maybe I’ll do it to you.”

Stephanie would do this. Carol knew it was an excuse the moment she had the thought. But it didn’t matter. She couldn’t say no. Mrs Bowen was her world. Carol had to whore. Needed to. Mrs Bowen was her key to that.

I want to be a prostitute.

They weren’t Copeland’s words, just Carol’s acceptance of the truth.

I do what my madam says.

That was truth too.

Put yourself through the motions and soon will come the corresponding emotions.

That was how she could get through this. It was what a whore did. Put herself through the motions. Carol was a good whore. She could do the motions.

Why am I doing this? she asked.

Because she told you to. Because you don’t want to be a whore your entire life, Stephanie replied. Or at least Carol tried to convince herself it was Stephanie and not her own thoughts.

Maybe being a whore was all she wanted. Maybe this was worse than being a whore.

Help me, Carol cried.

I am. Now do what our madam says.

She licked, her tongue rasping over the delicate flesh, the madam tensing under her.

“Oh yes, good girl.”

I’m a good girl.

“Now lick again, slowly and firmly, then in.”

Carol followed her instructions, all the time trying to deny how aroused she was.

Put yourself through the motions and soon will come the corresponding emotions.

If she put herself through these motions Carol didn’t know what emotions would come.

“And play with yourself,” the madam ordered.

Carol was used to following orders from her johns. Some of them liked to see her play with herself, bring herself off, as she sucked their cocks. She tried telling herself this wasn’t any different.

The way she was turned on was no different.

She came the moment her madam did.

It was the first time Mrs Bowen had Carol help discipline another of the girls.

It wasn’t the last.

She didn’t always have to hit the other girls. That was rare, really.

But it always ended the same way.

* * *

“I think you should go back to Angel’s,” the madam declared.

Carol had thought she’d been summoned to help discipline another girl. So much of her hated it. The cruelty, the manipulation. Even if it didn’t involve any physical violence the madam’s hold on her girls was frightening. And then what she and the madam did afterwards. She dreaded it, even as part of her looked forward to the two of them together.

Put yourself through the motions and soon will come the corresponding emotions.

It didn’t matter, she hated it. At least that’s what she told herself. But now she wished it was what the madam had wanted.

Carol had hoped the madam had forgotten Angel’s or wouldn’t bother sending her there again. Anything. She didn’t want to go back to the strip club. The first time she’d been there she hadn’t wanted to strip. Hadn’t wanted to expose herself in front of the crowd. She didn’t want to repeat that. Not because of the same fears.

This time she was afraid that she’d want to do it.

“Please,” she whimpered, “I don’t want to go there.”

It had been so long. So long since she’d been at Angel’s. So long since that night on the bridge. She didn’t really want to think how long. Weeks. Months, maybe. Her life was a parade of men who paid her. Mixed with ‘lessons’ from the madam.

How to tell when a girl was sincere in her desire to whore. How to keep them in line. When to placate a customer. When to throw them out. How to negotiate the labyrinths of bureaucracy so the authorities left the brothel alone. Who to lie to, who to bribe. Carol knew that Wainwright would pay in blood for that last information. But she did nothing, despite a tiny voice telling her that she should. She didn’t want the police captain knowing that she was still alive. And more than that she didn’t want to cross her madam.

Her madam let her whore.

Whoring kept the voices away.

Anything was worth that.

Even what she and Mrs Bowen did, when they were alone.

Even, maybe, stripping.

Carol knew she’d do what her madam wanted.

“Why?” She had to at least ask that.

“Sometimes,” Mrs Bowen explained. “You can tell that a girl’s learnt her lesson. But usually you need to make sure. You have to be careful who you trust.”

It was easier, the second time. Carol knew what to expect. Knew to put on the tassels under her bra. Knew to make sure her G-string was tight and revealing. She dressed herself this time. Even though Tracey was there, the girl welcoming her back with a hug and a smile that might just have been genuine, Carol didn’t need her help this time.

The same outfit was waiting for her. Carol wasn’t sure if it was the same clothes, or another set. She didn’t ask. It didn’t matter. She was going to wear them for such a short time, why should it matter?

As she slipped on the tight sweater and short pleated skirt Carol tried to analyse her feelings. She knew that there were men outside, beyond the walls of the dressing room. Men who were going to see her naked. She knew that that had scared her once. There was still a knot of worry in her stomach. But that might not have been fear at all. It could have simply been anxiety over whether she would be able to put on a good show.

Carol wanted to put on a good show. It was what Mrs Bowen wanted, so of course it was what she wanted.

There was eagerness in her too. She was going to strip. For money. That was sexual. It wasn’t quite whoring. But it was close. Close enough to keep her happy.

She realised that she might call herself Carol but she wasn’t the same person any more. She wasn’t the policewoman who had so desperately not wanted to strip. Now she was a whore who didn’t mind it at all.

She wasn’t sure what she felt about that.

“Now please welcome back, Jewel.”

Carol didn’t hesitate at Edgar’s announcement. Stripping was so much easier than thinking. Even before the manager’s words had died away she strutted onto the stage.

She paused in the centre, one hand on her rear, slowly rising, pulling the skirt with it, the hem slipping upwards. She could feel the men’s eyes on her. Wanting her.

There’s power in it. Mrs Bowen’s words rang through her head. Not like the other words. Just a memory. But a memory she wanted, revelled in. Just as she revelled in the gaze of the crowd.

Their eyes were on her as she shucked off her top. She took her time, the buttons of her blouse undone one at a time. She kicked her legs, the left making a high, sweeping, arc. Enough to give them a glance of what they’d be seeing.

Then it was the pole, wrapping herself around it, sliding down, before she spun across the stage, button after button undone.

She couldn’t believe that she’d ever not wanted this. She was a whore, what did stripping matter?

Especially when it was almost as a big a turn on as whoring.

And Carol was turned on. Electric arousal coursed through her as she arched her back, displaying her breasts in the oh-so-tight bra. She was getting wetter and wetter as she rid herself of every piece of clothing, the blouse gone now, the skirt soon following.

She was in front of the crowd of men, in only her underwear and she was so wet as she rubbed herself against the pole. She could feel the metal’s cool hardness, pushing itself between her breasts, rubbing against her centre, the waves of arousal crashing through her. She could almost forget where she was.

But unlike the first time, Carol didn’t want to forget. Pushing away from the pole, letting her high heels display her long legs she stretched her arms over her head, brought her hands together, as she swayed to the music, heard the cries of the men, watched them throw money on to the stage. Money for her.

If a man pays me I’ll do whatever he wants. It wasn’t the words. It was just her thoughts, recognising the truth.

She brought her hands down, pouted at the audience as she cupped her tits, leaned over to shake her torso. Then upright again, her hands at the clasp of her bra. With a smile that was half shy, half tempting she turned side on to the audience. As one foot rose from the floor, ankle rubbing slowly along calf, she undid the clasp then spun back to face them. Her hands lowered the edges of the bra, just enough to tease, drank in the cheers as she did, heard the sighs of disappointment as she raised the garment again.

Dancing to the music, always dancing, her body in motion, as all the men gazed at her.

Then more cries of encouragement as she lowered the cups, just enough for edge of the tassels to edge into view. The sounds of the crowd were almost like a cock ramming into her, cheers as it thrust home, sighs as it pulled out. Every movement stoking her own arousal.

She couldn’t stand it anymore. Couldn’t bear even the bra on her. She flung the garment into the crowd. Bent over, ran her hands through her hair, let her tits hang free in front of the men.

Carol floated back to the pole, spun lazily around it as she held on with one hand, the other caressing her breasts. As she knew the men wanted to caress them. She could feel their eyes on her, almost feel their hands.


That was one tassel, gone, her nipple exposed to the air, to the eyes of the men. Her nipple was so erect that it hurt.


And the other tassel was gone. She was giving them everything. Would give them everything.

Carol stretched and bent and swayed to the music. She eased a thumb into the waistline of her g-string. She wanted to pull it down. Wanted to be naked in front of all these men. She knew that once she hadn’t wanted that. That the very idea had chilled her. Right then, up on the stage, being naked in front of the crowd was all she wanted. Just for that one moment it was even better than whoring.

She wasn’t who she had been.

She loved that.

The shouts were deafening as Carol stepped out of the g-string, strutted over to the pole. She grabbed hold, wrapped her legs around the pole and slid down, her breath catching at the pressure on her clit. Then up. And down again.

That was all it took, Carol throwing her head back and howling out her orgasm as she shuddered against the metal pole, pressing her centre to the cold, hard, metal.

She didn’t leave the stage until she’d picked up every one of the bills that were thrown on it.

Despite the tiny, tiny, voice crying at the back of her mind.

* * *

The next night Carol was sitting in her room at the brothel, checking her makeup. All she had on were her bra and panties. If one of her regulars turned up she’d put on what he wanted. If none of them had by the time she was ready she’d pick something skimpy to wear in the viewing room. It wouldn’t take long until a man chose her. It never did.

Then he’d be fucking her.

Carol’s pussy clenched in anticipation. Soon, soon, she’d be getting fucked. For money. Like the whore she was.

She couldn’t wait.

Carol gasped as her door was slammed open.

Patrick stormed into the room, his face a dark cloud. Before Carol could react he was hauling her out of her chair, the whore struggling to balance herself on her high heels.

“What did I tell you baby doll?” he growled.

Carol’s cheek exploded in pain as Patrick back-handed her, the force of the blow sending her spinning across the room. She ended crumpled on the floor, just balancing on her hands and knees.

Oh god. Patrick had told her not to strip. Never again. And she had.

“What did I tell you?” Patrick demanded, looming over her, his hand drawn back for another blow.

“Not strip,” Carol replied fearfully. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You better be,” Patrick snarled, grabbing her painfully by the upper arm and hauling her back to her feet.

Then out of the room, Carol only just managing to glimpse two of Patrick’s bodyguards outside her door. Down the stairs, Carol stumbling along in his wake, in her underwear and high heels.

“I’m sorry,” she managed again, then cursed herself. She used to be better than this. Something more than this. Not a whore being pushed around by a mobster, so scared she could hardly form words.

Patrick pushed her through the door to Mrs Bowen’s room, Carol falling to her hands and knees again.

“We need to talk,” Patrick declared.

Carol knew that he wasn’t speaking to her.

(To be continued)