The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

College Undercover

Part 22

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.

“Come on, come on,” Carol muttered, desperately trying to stop the frustration she felt from making her voice too loud. This lock was all that stood between her and the last piece of information they needed to finally put Patrick away. At least she hoped that was what she’d find. Once it was open. She wanted it. She wanted it so bad she could taste it.

Really? a mocking voice in her head asked. Stephanie. Or at least that part of herself that Carol called Stephanie.

Yes, Carol insisted, jiggling the lock picks as she crouched behind Patrick’s desk. What she was looking for had to be here. No normal desk drawer would have a lock like this if it wasn’t hiding something important. I want him put away. I’m an informant.

Hmm, Stephanie considered. I suppose. I bet you cum when he’s locked up.

Stephanie was right about that. Informing was so good. It made Carol cum. She didn’t even have to touch herself. She could lie alone in her bed, at night, and think about all the criminals she’d help put away, her arousal building until her back arched.

Those orgasms were so good.

She could feel one building now, heat forming in her centre. Liquid arousal, her nipples hard. If she let herself she’d be moaning, a hand finding her own breast. She wanted to touch herself, but she couldn’t. That wasn’t her role at that moment.

I’m an informant.

But that wasn’t all she was.

The orgasm you get better be a good one, Stephanie pointed out. ’Cause when Patrick’s in prison he won’t be fucking you anymore.

Carol’s hands jerked. “Shit,” she muttered. She’d almost broken one of the lock picks. Stephanie was right about Patrick too. When she came from thinking about putting criminals away it was good, but it wasn’t the best. The best were the ones Patrick gave her. If Patrick was in prison he wouldn’t be able to fuck Carol. Carol loved it when Patrick fucked her. She was his whore.

I’m a whore.

Carol loved being a whore.

That turned her on too.

I suppose you could always go back to being a whore, Stephanie mused. Mrs Bowen would probably take you back. Lots of men to fuck you then. You could inform on them too. Bit of a come down though.

Carol couldn’t argue with any of that. At least it would let her hold on to both parts of her mind. The thought of losing one of the other was almost enough to chill her arousal. It wouldn’t be the same as living in Patrick’s mansion but Carol was sure that Mrs Bowen would take her back.

The madam had taken Janice back.

Her friend, Janice, who was currently standing outside Patrick’s office, keeping watch, as Carol looked for the pieces of evidence they needed.

Mrs Bowen had been overjoyed when Janice went back to the brothel. It hadn’t been immediately. Janice had needed to settle herself and her daughters in the city. Had needed to get herself back into shape. Carol had helped with all that. Found them a nice place to live. Given Janice money until she could start earning her own. Even paid for the personal trainer Janice needed to lose those few extra pounds.

And helped Janice remember the words whenever her friend seemed uncertain.

I want to be a prostitute.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

If a man pays me I’ll do anything he wants.

Carol hadn’t had to remind Janice of the words for quite some time now.

Janice didn’t just work at the brothel though. Whenever Patrick needed some extra entertainment for his parties, Carol made sure that Janice was hired. Even persuaded the mobster to let her friend visit occasionally.

Patrick’s daughter Ellen hated that.

With Janice’s help finding what Wainwright needed on Patrick had been so much easier. Janice had made sure no one found Carol when she went hunting for documents. Carol’s friend seduced Patrick’s men, men to whom Carol was off-limits. Men who would whisper secrets to Janice as they lay together after they’d fucked.

“What are you doing here?”

Carol almost dropped the lock picks at the sound of the voice in the hall outside. It was O’Connor, one of Patrick’s bodyguards. Tall and broad. Dark haired. Handsome, if you ignored the nose smashed in too many fights.

Carol didn’t move. She hardly dared breathe. Even if she was Patrick’s mistress there wouldn’t be much of an excuse she could come up with for being in his office. Not tonight.

It was up to Janice.

“Waiting for someone like you,” the redhead replied. Carol could imagine the smile Janice was giving O’Connor. The twinkle in her eye. Maybe she was flicking her hair with one hand, while the other slowly glided up her thigh.

Janice knew what to do.

Janice was a good whore again.

Thanks to Carol.

The ex-policewoman couldn’t help the pang of regret that pulled at her. She could have left Janice alone. Left her friend to her life in that little town. With her husband and her struggling business. Carol knew what she’d done to Janice. Turned her friend back into a whore. And sure, Janice enjoyed it. Both the whoring and the informing. Carol had made sure of that as well. But she hadn’t given Janice any choice. Worse than that, Janice had begged her not to do it.

Carol had done it anyway.

Just like Copeland. The man who had turned Janice into a whore in the first place. Who had turned Carol into a whore.

I want to be a prostitute.

Carol knew that she wasn’t the person who had first uttered those words. The first time she’d said them, in that cell on Copeland’s boat, she’d been deliberately casual. As if they hadn’t mattered. She’d been trying to outsmart Copeland. She’d failed at that. She’d escaped the cell he’d put her in but she’d never escaped the words. She was a whore, right to the core of her being. And when Janice had been free of that Carol had dragged her right back in. It was what a whore would do.

It was wrong. It was unforgiveable.

It was what undercover cops did all the time to their informants. Leaned on. Blackmailed them. Pushed them until they had no choice but to co-operate.

And she’d done it to her friend.

Much as she hated it something about that turned Carol on as well.

You had to do it, Stephanie admonished her. You wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be anywhere near getting Patrick, without her. That was true. Stephanie didn’t lie to her. She might be selective with the truth, twist it. But she never lied.

And Janice makes a good whore.

Stephanie was right about that as well.

“Really?” she heard O’Connor ask. From the tone of his voice Carol could imagine the look on the mobster’s face. Confident. Possessive. Just like the look on Patrick’s face right before he fucked her. Was Janice about to get fucked? It wouldn’t be the first time Janice had done that to distract someone from discovering what Carol was doing.

Janice was a good whore.

“You want to know what else I was waiting for?” Janice teased. Janice’s finger was probably on her lips now. Her glossy, painted, lips. Her hips would be swinging coyly from side to side. Janice knew what O’Connor liked. A good whore could read their johns. It hadn’t taken Janice long to read all of Patrick’s closest associates, his guards, his lieutenants. She knew what they wanted. She’d let most of them fuck her by now.

So it wouldn’t be hard to get O’Connor to fuck her. It was what she was here for anyway. Patrick was hosting a party tonight. Janice and a couple of other girls from Mrs Bowen’s brothel had been hired to provide a little extra something for the male guests.

Patrick’s staff would get their turn with them as well.

“A real man?” O’Connor’s voice oozed arrogance.

“Yeah.” Carol could hear the smile in Janice’s voice. “No,” the redhead continued. “What about here? Right here. Isn’t that his office?”

“You want it here?” There was uncertainty in O’Connor’s tone, but Janice would be able to work on that. Work on the idea. Taking someone as gorgeous as Janice, just outside his boss’ office. He’d even be able to persuade himself he was doing his job at the same time.

“Yeah,” Janice breathed. Carol could taste the arousal behind that word. A whore knew how to fake arousal. But Carol doubted that her friend was faking it. Janice loved being a whore.

The words had made sure of that.

I want to be a prostitute.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

I want to be used, sexually.

Copeland had been so banal. Such a little man in the scheme of things. But the words had burnt themselves into Carol’s brain. Burnt down through her until they were lodged at the core of her being.

With Carol’s help they’d burnt themselves into Janice’s mind again.

They were probably going through Janice’s head right now. As O’Connor pushed her up against the wall. Yanked her panties down. As she hiked the hem of her short dress up. Opening herself, offering herself to the man she hardly knew. It was what a whore did.

Janice was a whore.

Carol heard the thump as her friend was thrown against the wall. Could hear Janice moan as O’Connor entered her.

It had to be turning Janice on.

She wasn’t the only one, arousal making Carol’s lip quiver.

Janice was whoring. She’d been paid to be here tonight. She was having sex. She was a whore.

But more than that, she was helping Carol. Anyone who happened down the hall would turn and walk away when they saw what the redhead and the bodyguard were doing. Janice was being a whore and an informant at the same time.

The thought had Carol dripping. It was what she wanted for herself. What she needed. What she’d had for years. No more terror at the thought of not being able to whore. No more half-life, living in a dream without being able to do what she was grained to do. And all of it turning her on so hard.

Much as she wanted to lose herself in the sensations Carol couldn’t. She didn’t have long. Refocusing on the drawer she jiggled the lock picks. She was sure she almost had it. She moved the picks, in and out. Like O’Connor was sliding in and out of her friend.

I had to. It wasn’t what Janice had wanted, but someone had to deal with the scum. And was it that much of a sacrifice anyway? Janice had more money than she’d ever had have in that nowhere town. She was enjoying herself. She still had her daughters.

Carol knew a rationalisation when she heard one. She’d destroyed Janice’s life. All she could hope for was that in the end it would be worth it.

She heard Janice cry out in bliss as the drawer opened.

I want to be a prostitute. Janice had to be thinking that.

“Oh God, keep going,” Janice insisted. “Please, fuck me. Fuck your whore.”

From the sounds Carol could hear it appeared that O’Connor was obliging.

Hastily she rifled through the papers in the drawers. She couldn’t see anything important.

“Damn it,” she hissed. It didn’t make any sense. You didn’t put a lock like that on a drawer to hide receipts most of which looked legitimate. There had to be more.

“Harder!” Janice cried. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, you’re so big. Oh God, it’s so good.”

The words of a whore.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

Janice was happy. Even if it was an artificial happiness. Carol was happy. Even though they both knew how much Copeland’s words had changed them.

“God, you’re so deep, you’re fucking me so good.”

Deep? The drawer wasn’t deep enough. It had a false bottom. Janice was helping her again.

Carefully Carol pried at the edge of the thin plywood. She grinned as it came loose. There, in front of her, was a ledger, its covering black leather. Maybe it had the records she needed. Payments. Deals. With the other information she and Janice had collected this could be it. Carol could hardly believe it. She couldn’t take the book. Patrick would notice that. But that wasn’t what she was here for. Quickly she pulled out a small camera and started snapping page after page. With each snap her arousal shot higher. She could still hear the sounds of Janice and O’Connor fucking in the hall outside.

Carol paused for a moment, curious at what she’d found. It wasn’t as clear as she’d hoped. The cryptic entries in the book sent a pang of disappointment through her. Initials instead of names. Incomplete dates. But maybe the police could work out it. And it would be another step to getting Patrick

Oh well, at least he’ll keep fucking you for a while longer then. Stephanie’s concern was skin deep.

You’re me, Carol pointed out. If he’s fucking me he’ll be fucking you.

Stephanie batted her eyelids. Yes he will, she agreed. And isn’t it such a chore? Do you really want this to end?

Yes, Carol told herself. I do.

Whore. That was all Stephanie added before she disappeared back into Carol’s mind.

I know. Carol replied to the empty space in her head.

Carol would have liked to photograph the whole book but she didn’t have time for that. But she knew where it was now. Knew how the lock on the desk worked. She could come back. Janice would cover for her again.

I want to be an informant.

I want to be a prostitute.

The words were just as true for Janice as they were for her.

It was so good.

“Shit yeah!” O’Connor called, obviously reaching his own climax. “Now get out of here. The boss doesn’t like anyone hanging around near his office.

Hell. If O’Connor stayed outside the office Carol didn’t know how she was going to get out.

“Okay,” Janice replied. “But why don’t you come with me? Give me a tour. I’m sure there are some places that are really hard to see. Some things only a man like you could show me.”

Carol’s shoulders sank in relief as she heard Janice and O’Connor heading down the hall. Janice was going to get fucked again. It meant her exit would be clear but Carol couldn’t help feeling jealous.

She wanted to be fucked.

I’m a whore.

Carefully Carol rearranged everything, locked the drawer and slipped out of the room.

Patrick would fuck her later. If what she’d found really was as important as she hoped it was then the time for that was running out now. She’d just have to make the most of it that she could. Then she could decide what to do after that.

You’re a whore. Stephanie reminded her.

I’m a whore, Carol agreed.

* * *

“Fucking pair of whores.”

Carol rolled her eyes at the words. Next to her Janice almost spilt the expensive wine she was holding as she smothered her laughter. After rearranging her features into a carefully neutral expression Carol turned to the speaker.

“Can I do something for you Ellen?” she asked politely. With Patrick’s guests milling around it was what he would expect Carol to be. Polite. Decorative. Beautiful.

That was her role.

Carol was good at playing her roles.

Patrick’s daughter stared at her, contempt clear on the young woman’s features. The nineteen year-old was dressed to kill, designer dress and expensive jewellery. Everything a successful mobster could lavish on his only child.

“God, I don’t know what my father sees in you,” Ellen spat as her eyes raked dismissively over her father’s mistress. “Well, except the obvious.”

“It seems to be enough for him,” Carol observed. She couldn’t help baiting Ellen, just a little. Even though she sympathised with the girl. Knowing what her father did. Knowing what Carol was but having to live under the same roof for years. It was no wonder that the girl hated her. Carol was never anything but polite to Ellen. She’d tried to be more than that, but everyone has a limit on how many rejections they can take.

“He’ll get tired of you, you know,” Ellen huffed. “When you’re old and fat and ugly he’ll toss you out. You and your whore friend. I saw what she and O’Connor were doing. Outside his office. God, what a slut.”

Janice smiled at Ellen. “How long were you watching Ellen? Maybe I should have charged you.”

For a moment Carol wasn’t sure whether Janice was serious. The redhead’s deadpan expression didn’t give her any clues. But then she caught a twinkle in her friend’s eyes.

“You bitch!” Ellen cried, starting in Janice’s direction.

Carol grabbed Ellen’s arm as Janice took a step back. “Calm down Ellen.”

Janice could defend herself. But Patrick wouldn’t want his daughter making a scene. Patrick’s mistress would step in. Carol was Patrick’s mistress. It was one of her roles. She liked that role. It meant she got fucked.

“Get your hands off me,” Ellen snarled, ripping her arm free of Carol’s grip. “Who do you think you are? You’re not my mother!”

“No,” Carol agreed. “And I’m not your friend either. But take a bit of friendly advice and calm down. Or I’ll have a little talk to your father.”

As she uttered the threat Carol could feel Stephanie looking out of her eyes. For Stephanie it wouldn’t be a threat. It would be a promise. It was Stephanie that had made her voice hard enough for Ellen to believe her.

Ellen glared at Carol, the young woman’s mouth set into a fixed line. After a moment she muttered “You’re not worth it,” before turning on her heel and storming off back into the crowd of guests.

Carol thought for a moment about heading after her. She could try to calm the girl down. But she knew how Ellen would react. It would only make the girl angrier. She’d never been friends with Ellen.

You’re not a great person to be a friend of.

Carol wasn’t sure whose voice that was. It could have been Stephanie’s. The thought had been true. But maybe it was her own. It didn’t make much difference. Stephanie was her after all.

With a sigh she turned back to Janice.

Carol could see the flush in her friend’s cheeks, the contented look in her eyes. Even if she hadn’t overheard Janice and O’Connor Carol would have known what her friend had been doing.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

Janice loved being a whore.

Carol had seen to that.

No, Carol told herself dejectedly, I’m definitely not someone you’d want as a friend.

She pushed down the guilt pulling at her insides. What she’d found in Patrick’s office would make it all worthwhile. Make it all mean something. Make up for what she’d done to Janice.

It had to.

“You okay?” Janice asked. Janice was a good friend.

A better friend than I am.

“Sure,” Carol shrugged. “How about you?” She wasn’t sure what she was asking.

Janice simply smiled. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Of course Janice would say that. She’d been whoring. And helping Carol be an informant. Janice wouldn’t just be okay. She’d be ecstatic. Her arousal was probably still boiling, however calm she looked on the outside. Carol could understand that.

She felt the same.

Carol knew that Janice was being honest. Her friend was happy. Even if it wasn’t her choice. Did that matter? What was happiness anyway? Was it important where it came from? Carol was happy, and she knew that she wouldn’t have chosen this. Not the old Carol, Carol the policewoman. But she was happy. More than happy.

That didn’t give her the right to do what she’d done to Janice.

God, you’re so lame sometimes, Stephanie huffed. She’s happier now than she was. What’s the problem with that?

Carol knew she had no answer that the Stephanie part of her would ever accept. Maybe it would just be easier if she was Stephanie. She wouldn’t have so many doubts then. Stephanie always knew what she wanted.

Even if she told Janice now what Carol had done to her Janice would probably still be happy about it.

I want to be a prostitute.

Janice wanted to be a prostitute. Nothing was going to change that now.

“She’d make a good whore,” Janice mused.

“What?” Carol frowned.

“Ellen,” Janice stated, as if it was obvious. “She’s pretty. And she wouldn’t break.”

Objectively it was true. But Carol had a hard time thinking of the girl like that. It didn’t matter. “Patrick would have a fit. And so would she. So don’t even mention it to her. Not even as a joke.”

“I won’t. She’d never agree. But you have to admit that she would. And after the way she goes on at us it would be funny at least.”

Carol couldn’t argue with that.

And she certainly didn’t mention it to Patrick, later that night, when he was fucking her.

* * *

“Is it going to be enough?” Carol asked, looking at Wainwright as he sat across from her in the cheap diner. She’d had to dress down for the meeting. Her usual clothes would stand out too much in a place like this.

She still looked good though.

She always did.

She wasn’t sure what answer she wanted the police captain to give. If he said no, then she’d get to go on fucking Patrick. Carol loved being the mobster’s whore. But a whore wasn’t all she was, even if it was the most important part of her. She was an informant too. If Wainwright said yes then it would mean that she’d done her job. That would be so good. The idea already had her nipples tightening, heat rising in her centre. But if what she’d found was enough then Carol would have to think about what came after. Would Wainwright try to stop her being a whore? Or would he want her to keep going, maybe work for Mrs Bowen. Keep informing for him. As a whore.

Did Wainwright want her to be a whore?

Carol wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She knew that she wanted to be a whore.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

But her ex-boss? The man who’d wanted her to stop? Who’d wanted to get her help? But that had been years ago. Since then he’d been happy enough to use her.

I love it when a man uses me, sexually.

Was that what Wainwright was doing to her? Maybe not directly, but he knew what she was doing, fucking Patrick while she spied on the mobster and his organisation.

Once she and Wainwright had been colleagues. There’d been respect between them. Did all the police captain see her as now was as a whore to be used and then thrown aside?

That was what her johns used to do.

Part of Carol was turned on by the idea. That her old boss saw her as just a whore.

Liquid arousal was slipping through her.

I’m a whore.

She could feel herself moistening. It felt so good.

She was still waiting for Wainwright’s reply. She felt like a coin, balanced on its edge. It was going to fall. Heads or tails.

“I can’t tell you how the case is going Stephanie,” Wainwright declared. He hadn’t called her Carol for years. She knew that meant something. “That’s not how this works.”

The coin stayed on its edge. It didn’t matter. Either way, she was still a whore.

I want to be a prostitute.

She was so turned on.

And Wainwright was right. She didn’t get to know how the investigation was proceeding. She wasn’t a police officer any more. Hadn’t been one for years.

I’m an informant.

The police didn’t have to tell their informants anything. It wasn’t an even deal. It wasn’t a partnership. Informants were there to be used.

Like whores.

I want to be an informant.

I want to be used.

Wainwright was using her. It felt so good, her centre damp with arousal.

Is that it? Stephanie asked. Is that all you want?

Right then Carol didn’t care. She peered at the police captain, hoping to get some clue as to how close they were to putting Patrick away. As to how close the police were, she corrected herself. She wasn’t a policewoman any more.

I’m a whore.

Her arousal spiked higher.

“It was useful though?” she asked.

Wainwright considered her question for a moment before replying. “Yeah, it was useful. You did good Stephanie.”

Carol almost came at the police captain’s words. But she could see something in his eyes. She knew that he was looking her but just for a moment he wasn’t seeing her. Not as she was now. He was seeing the old Carol. The Carol before Copeland.

That didn’t stop him using her as she was now. She was a pretty, made-up, whore and he was using her. Need shot through her, tingling down her legs, her thighs aching to be touched.

I want to be used, sexually.

She was being used. Fire erupted deep inside. It didn’t matter how expensive her jewellery was. How many designer dresses were hanging in her wardrobe back at Patrick’s mansion. How much her Ferrari had cost. She was a whore.

“We still need more though,” Wainwright added.

He was using her. Using those skills she had from her old life. But he didn’t think of her like that anymore.

She loved it.

“Sure,” Carol smiled. “Whatever you want,” she breathed, the words slipping past her painted lips.

I want to be a prostitute. The words were in her head. They were always there.

I want to be an informant. Her roles told her what to do. How to be used.

“Just get some more pages out of that book.”

Wainwright was telling her what to do.

If a man pays me I’ll do anything he wants.

She could taste the edge of her orgasm.

She couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to, the wave crashing through her. She didn’t show anything, didn’t make a sound.

That was a skill a good whore had too.

I’m a whore. It was all she could think through the waves of bliss.

Sometimes the johns don’t want to see the whores enjoying themselves. But that never stopped Carol cumming. She loved cumming when she was used like a whore.

I’m a whore.

That might have been Stephanie. Even if it wasn’t the thought was true.

(To be Continued)