The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

College Undercover

Part 23

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.

“Thank you for coming to see me Stephanie,” Mrs Bowen greeted. The older woman stepped out of the way to let Carol enter.

It was strange, being back in the madam’s apartment. Carol could appreciate how expensive the place was, stylish furniture and chic decorations. She didn’t recognise it all, the madam having obviously redecorated since Carol had last been there, years before. Furnishings she remembered discarded when they went out of fashion, well before they were worn out. Replaced with the newest style, the new decade bringing more muted colours. It was all just as expensive, in its understated way. But Carol could also remember how awed she’d been the first time she’d visited the place. Now, after living in Patrick’s mansion for years, it wasn’t quite so impressive.

Am I getting used to that kind of life? Carol knew that she couldn’t afford to. Whatever happened after Patrick was arrested Carol wouldn’t be living in a mansion.

However blasé Carol felt about the apartment, Mrs Bowen herself was another matter. A shiver went through Carol as she stood in the madam’s presence. With her casually elegant outfit and perfect hair the madam might have been some society matron. But Carol knew better. She could feel the air of command around the older woman. She could remember what the madam had had her do.

All of it.

Why had the madam asked her here?

Carol hadn’t expected the invitation. They hadn’t even met when Carol had been arranging Janice’s return to the brothel. That had been phone calls. Mrs Bowen had been suitably grateful to recover one of her best girls. And of course she’d asked Carol to come back.

I want to be a prostitute.

Even if both of them knew that the offer hadn’t been serious. They knew how Patrick would react if Carol did try to go back to whoring for the madam.

She’d seen that in his attitude tonight.

“You’re not going back to working for her baby doll.” It was a statement of fact. Delivered in the voice Carol had heard so many times. The voice that said someone would get hurt if Patrick didn’t get what he wanted. Badly hurt. Once Patrick wouldn’t have let her anywhere near the madam. He liked to control where Carol went. But as the police closed in he had less time to monitor her. So here she was.

It was the freest Carol had been in years.

Even so Carol knew that he wouldn’t have let her go if Mrs Bowen had invited her to the brothel. Part of her was happy that they weren’t meeting there. And part of her, well.

I want to be a prostitute.

Carol knew what she would have felt if they’d met at the brothel. She hadn’t been back there since the night Mrs Bowen had sold her to Patrick. Even though it was years ago her memories of the place were so vivid. So many men. Fucking her. Paying her. Giving her so many orgasms.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

She was Patrick’s whore now. But if she was to set foot back in the brothel it would be so hard to resist the temptation. So hard not to sell herself. So hard to resist the pleasure of being fucked by a man who’d paid her.

But they weren’t at the brothel.

Carol could feel the madam’s eyes on her once they were seated. Once Mrs Bowen had given her a cup of that coffee that tasted almost as good as sex.

“You hardly look a day older Stephanie,” Mrs Bowen commented.

“Neither do you,” Carol smiled. It wasn’t much of a lie on either part. It could have been that time, when Carol still worked in the brothel, when Mrs Bowen was still her madam.

In a way Mrs Bowen still was.

The madam had sold Carol to Patrick. She was still Patrick’s whore. Still doing what Mrs Bowen had told her to do.

She’s the madam. She says what goes.

Carol hadn’t heard those words in years. But they were still there, in her head, like all the others.

The two women talked for a while, of nothing and everything. Mrs Bowen asked how Carol was, how she liked living where she did. Carol asked how business was. Anyone listening would have thought it was just two old friends, catching up. The sort of questions people asked each other all the time. But even though it wasn’t spoken they both knew what they talking about.


I’m happy to be a prostitute.

“You probably think I’m going to ask you to come back,” Mrs Bowen smiled eventually. Carol had thought that. And she was going to have to say no. However hard it was going to be. At least until Patrick was through.

You just want to be a whore again? Stephanie huffed. God!

I want to be a prostitute, the words answered. Or maybe Carol had answered. They were all her thoughts. Stephanie. The words. Whatever she managed to edge in. All her. All in her head.

Even if she hadn’t been the one to put them all there.

“You always were my best girl,” the madam continued.

Carol stifled her laughter. Politely. Just enough to the let Mrs Bowen see she was amused. It was what the madam would expect. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Mrs Bowen raised her eyebrows. “Some of them Stephanie dear, yes. But with you I meant it. You and Janice were special. Thank you, by the way, for persuading her to come back. But that’s what I meant. You and Janice were both good workers. Both smart. But you had that something extra, you knew how to handle the other girls. Remember how I said I’d teach you?”

Carol did. The lessons in how to run the brothel were so clear in her mind. Both what Mrs Bowen had told her and what the madam had had her do. Disciplining the girls. And what came after.

She didn’t want to think about the tremor of arousal that she was feeling.

“It didn’t quite work out that way, though, did it?” Carol smiled back. She didn’t think being sold to Patrick had been the madam’s plan. It had certainly stopped the lessons. She could remember how they’d made her feel.

She could feel her nipples pressing against her bra.

“No,” the madam agreed. “Not then. But this is now. I know the problems poor Colin is having. What are you going to do if the police get him?”

Mrs Bowen had to be the only madam Carol had ever met who referred to the police by that word. Not cops or fuzz or heat. Police. It was genteel. It almost made her smile.

The way she was feeling was anything but genteel.

“Are you saying I could come back to you?”

I want to be a prostitute.

It would be so good. She could whore. And she was sure there’d be crooks amongst her clientele. She could inform.

Her arousal was turning liquid.

God, you’re such an idiot, Stephanie cut in. Don’t you know what she means?


“Yes,” the madam replied. “And no. You’re too good for that. And I’m getting too old for this. I’m looking to sell up. Not now. But soon. Long enough to finish your lessons.”

“What? I?” Carol stumbled. “Patrick?”

“Stephanie, Stephanie,” the madam sighed, shaking her head as she rose to her feet. Mrs Bowen didn’t take her eyes off Carol as she covered the short gap between the two women, one elegant, high-heeled foot, placed in front of the other. “It’s what you were made for.”

Yeah, but by who? Stephanie snickered.

Mrs Bowen was sitting next to Carol now, one perfectly manicured hand resting gently on Carol’s bare thigh, heat shooting from the contact. “I’m sure we can come to a deal that suits us both. Compared to what Patrick has I don’t want that much. And there’s still so much I can teach you. Do you remember it all?”

Mrs Bowen’s hand was sliding higher, finding the hem of Carol’s short dress. Sparks erupted deep inside the younger woman.

I’m not like this, she tried to tell herself.

She’s the madam, she says what goes.

You could be the madam, Stephanie pointed out. Think about it.

Carol was trying to. So very hard. Because then she wouldn’t have to think about what Mrs Bowen was doing.

Wouldn’t have to think about how her body was reacting, the heat rising in her. Wouldn’t have to think about how her head was turning to the madam, what it felt like when their lips met, the velvet touch threatening to drown her.

Carol yanked her head back. “No. Patrick will kill me.” He’d made it clear no-one else was to touch her. Not like that.

Mrs Bowen laughed. It was musical, a bright, tinkling sound that reached all the way down to Carol’s toes. Not the throaty laugh you’d use on a john, though Carol was sure Mrs Bowen had mastered that one too. This was a laugh that would appeal to a woman. Somehow the madam had known what it would do to her. Carol was sure that the madam had been a good whore.

“He won’t know,” Mrs Bowen pointed out, fingers grazing over Carol’s breast. “Unless you tell him.” Carol’s dress and bra provided some protection from the contact. But the dress was so thin and the bra was flimsy lingerie. Why had she worn lingerie?

Because you always do. You’re a whore.

Did Mrs Bowen want to see her in that lingerie? She’d seen Carol naked, the very first day they had met. And so many times since.

“I’ve so much left to teach you, my beautiful girl,” the madam purred, turning Carol’s head back. She didn’t kiss Carol on the lips, not immediately. There was a butterfly-light touch on Carol’s cheek, enough to set her lower lip quivering, and then another. A spark shot through her as the madam’s fingers passed over her nipple. Carol’s centre was burning, needy.

“You need to learn what a girl wants. When to be hard. When to be soft.”

Carol’s nipples were so hard. But inside she was so soft. It was what the madam wanted.

She’s the madam, she says what goes.

Carol knew what role the madam wanted her to play. The eager student, the compliant whore. Someday, the dominant madam herself.

Carol knew what it was like to play a role for Mrs Bowen. She’d done it for so long. It had turned her on so much.

She was so turned on.

One of Mrs Bowen’s hands was under her skirt, a fingernail grazing the soft flesh of Carol’s inner thigh, fire erupting from the touch.

“Should we get you out of this dress?” the madam teased. “We could leave you in it for a while. How many of your johns treated you like this? Made sure you got what you wanted?”

So very, very, few had. Carol didn’t mind. She would cum anyway. Really it had only been Patrick who had been interested in her needs. And he only did it to show how much control he had over her.

Mrs Bowen wasn’t any different.

But the orgasms with Patrick were so good. Much as Carol didn’t want to admit it, they had been with Mrs Bowen as well.

Carol was trying desperately to hold on to something. It was so hard when she didn’t know what it was.

I’m not into girls, she protested.

Could have fooled me, Stephanie smirked, revelling in the arousal coursing through Carol’s body. And what does it matter anyway? She’s offering you everything you want. So what if you have to fuck her to get it? You’re a whore. You fuck people for money. She’s offering you that and more. Go on whore, fuck her.

The reply came so easily. I’m happy to be a prostitute.

“Please,” Carol moaned.

“Please what, Stephanie?” the madam smirked. She was leaning over Carol now, so close. Carol could feel the presence of Mrs Bowen’s body. Could almost imagine sparks leaping between them. “Please take your dress off? Please keep doing this? You’d be surprised how many of the girls respond to this. Carrot and the stick. I know you can do the stick part Stephanie. I’ve seen it. But the rest? Let’s get you out of this dress.”

The madam’s hand was behind her, pulling the zipper of her dress down, pushing it off her shoulders. Carol’s bra was left exposed, delicate, expensive. Lingerie that had been bought with Patrick’s money. Lingerie that Carol had earnt by being his whore.

I’m a whore.

Carol sighed as the madam kissed her neck.

“Let me show you want you want,” the madam whispered. “What you need.”

Mrs Bowen’s hands were a whisper across Carol’s bra-clad breasts, teasing, promising. Carol’s nipples were as hard as diamonds. The younger woman’s back was arching as gentle kisses rained on her neck.

“You need to learn just what a girl needs. When to be fast.” A hand raked up Carol’s thigh. “When to be slow.” That hand trailed gently over her panties, Carol’s vision blurring. “When to be gentle.” The madam’s other hand was cupping her breast. When had Carol lost her bra? “When to be cruel.” Mrs Bowen tweaked Carol’s nipple, hard, the pain riding the edge of pleasure, splintering her thoughts, leaving her gasping.

Mrs Bowen’s hands and lips were on her, everywhere. The touch set Carol’s skin on fire, sent need pulsing through her. “Every girl is different,” the madam breathed, her lips a hairsbreadth from Carol’s ear. “You have to learn what they want. What to give them. Make them want it. Do you want it Stephanie?”

“Yes,” Carol managed. She didn’t really know what Mrs Bowen was offering. It didn’t matter. She just wanted more of those lips, more of those fingers. More of what the madam was making her feel. It wasn’t what Patrick made her feel. That was all desperate, screaming, need. This was subtler, softer, drawing her in.

It was just as irresistible.

A finger trailed the edge of her opening. Carol had no idea when she’d lost her panties. Her dress was bunched around her waist. Her hips thrust up, desperate for more contact, a moan escaping her lips.

Carol could imagine want she looked like. A young woman, wanton, needy, naked as she was played by the older woman. Such a contrast to the madam, Mrs Bowen still in her elegant outfit. They’d know who was in charge. Not Carol, who was simply sitting there, letting it happen, her tits on display, legs spread as Mrs Bowen played with her pussy, an amused look in the older woman’s eyes as she had her way with Carol’s body. Anyone looking at Carol would know that she eager for what was being done to her, that she wanted to be used.

I want to be used sexually.

“Yes, you do want it,” Mrs Bowen smiled. “The secret Stephanie,” the madam continued. “Is to make them think you want them. Make them believe it. Everyone wants to be wanted. The problem is, I really do want you. My best girl.”

Did Mrs Bowen want her? Or was she just saying that?

With the madam was making her feel it hardly mattered.

The madam didn’t say anything else, her lips fastening around one of Carol’s nipples.

A line burnt between Carol’s pussy and that nipple, arcing electricity making her cry out. She could feel her hands at her side, fingers clenching and unclenching uselessly as the need pulsed through her. The madam’s teeth were grazing over her nipple as Mrs Bowen’s fingers teased at her opening.

Carol was so wet. She was so empty. She needed to be filled.

Please. She couldn’t form the word, coherent speech beyond her.

Even her thoughts disintegrated as Mrs Bowen’s finger slipped inside. Filling that empty space between her legs. Her back arched as Mrs Bowen stroked her inner walls, Carol thrashing on the lounge.

Then the finger was withdrawn, circling so near her clit.

“Please,” she cried.

Mrs Bowen let go of her nipple, Carol crying out as the madam’s teeth raked over the sensitive flesh.

“How could I refuse my best girl?”

And then her lips were on Carol’s breasts again. And her fingers were inside Carol again. And Carol didn’t know how many there were. She didn’t care. She didn’t care that it was a woman, that it was her madam, doing this to her. It was just too good. Too electric. Her climax was crashing towards her, she needed it. She’d beg for it if she had it.

Mrs Bowen didn’t make her beg.

She did make Carol cry out, her thumb on Carol’s clit as the younger woman screamed out in bliss.

That thumb was still circling her clit as the aftershocks rolled through Carol.

“Could you do this, Stephanie?” Mrs Bowen’s other thumb was gently stroking Carol’s nipple as the madam cupped her breast, the pleasure still humming through the younger woman. “Could you do this to a girl and make her believe that you meant it? She’d be beautiful of course.”


She wants you to. Carol didn’t know whose thought it was.

She’s the madam. She says what goes.

Carol knew that she could do it. Because that was the role Mrs Bowen wanted her to play

Carol was so good at playing her roles.

And she was still so turned on.

“Can you do this Stephanie?”

Carol cried out as the madam’s fingernails raked over her breast, so close to another orgasm. She knew the answer to the madam’s question. The only answer. Whores were expected to fuck. It’s what they did.

I’m a whore.

And if that was other whores, when Carol was the madam, well, she could do that.

She’s the madam. She says what goes.

Carol made herself to look at the madam, forced a smile on her face. It didn’t matter what she felt. How hard she’d just come. A whore could always raise a smile. And it was Stephanie’s smile, half innocent, half raw temptation. Stephanie was looking out of her eyes, gleeful as the arousal tore through Carol’s body.

“Let me show you,” Carol purred. Because that was the voice she needed right now. It was the voice Mrs Bowen wanted her to use. Carol was a whore. A good whore always knows the right voice to use.

I won’t be just a whore, Stephanie declared. I won’t.

But you will be a whore, Carol answered.

True, the image of the girl replied. So let me show you what a whore can do.

Stephanie was a tidal wave in Carol’s mind, the girl’s determination spilling over her. Her hands were on Mrs Bowen’s body. Where they Carol’s hands? Or Stephanie’s? Or was that just an excuse? Stephanie was her, nothing more than a part of her.

It was so easy to give into that part. Let Stephanie kiss the madam. Let Stephanie run her hands over the madam’s body. A body that showed little of its age. It wouldn’t have mattered. Carol was a whore and she took whoever paid her. She let Stephanie embrace the madam. She couldn’t have stopped even if she wanted to.

Do I want to stop her?

Stop thinking, Stephanie ordered curtly.

It was easier not to think. To let herself be guided.

I’m a whore She was.

She’s the madam, she says what goes. Maybe someday that would be Carol.

I’m happy to be a prostitute. A prostitute did what was needed.

And sometimes she did what she wanted.

Part of Carol wanted this. She didn’t know which part though.

It was easier not to think, just listen to the words.

I want to be a prostitute.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

And watch.

Stephanie Stephanie, Stephanie, not me, Stephanie. was helping the madam hike her dress up. Stephanie was kissing her way up the madam’s thigh, rivers of arousal coursing through Carol’s body. Stephanie’s! Not mine!

I’m you, the girl replied.

It was true. Stephanie always told her the truth.

Something inside Carol broke. She was surprised that there was anything left to break.

She was so turned on, she could feel herself dripping. She could see the evidence of Mrs Bowen’s arousal in the damp patch on the older woman’s underwear. Could smell the woman’s musk as she eased the garment down her legs.

“So pretty,” Carol cooed as she gazed at Mrs Bowen’s centre. Or maybe it was Stephanie who said those words. Did it matter? She was a whore. She had a whore’s instincts. She knew what to say.

And what to do.

So I want to do this? She’d done it before, years ago. But that was when she worked for the madam. When she could give herself that excuse.

I won’t be just a whore, Stephanie insisted.

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

Maybe this was the price.

Carol heard the madam moan as her tongue traced the length of the older woman’s opening.

“That’s it,” Mrs Bowen encouraged her. “My best girl. Oh God, yes. You’ll be so good at it. You’ll have them wrapped around your fingers.” Carol was sure there was a snicker at the end of that. She could still feel what the madam’s fingers had done to her, minutes ago.

Her own fingers were gliding over the madam’s thighs, her teeth grazing the madam’s clit, like the madam’s teeth had grazed her nipple. She remembered what to do. What Mrs Bowen had taught her. It was so easy.

It was her role.

Carol loved playing her roles.

Stephanie smiled in satisfaction as the madam cried out.

The madam gently stroked her hair as Carol’s head lay nestled between the older woman’s thighs. “My best girl,” Mrs Bowen murmured. “That was fun wasn’t it? Yes it was. I’m sure you’d be happy to go again. But you need to get dressed now.”

Carol frowned, but she did as the madam told her to.

Her panties were so wet.

As she finished adjusting her dress Carol looked quizzically at the madam.

Mrs Bowen smiled at her, a smile that said she knew something Carol didn’t.

Fear flashed through Carol. When you were undercover you didn’t want people smiling at you like that. Because maybe they knew what you were.

I’m an informant.

If the madam knew that then Carol was in a lot of trouble.

“You can come out now Janice,” Mrs Bowen called.

Carol heard a door open behind her. She turned, then gasped in shock. Janice stood there. Carol’s friend was dressed in a pale blue baby doll negligee, the garment matching the colour of her eyes. The material was so transparent that Carol could see her friend’s breasts, and the skimpy panties that she was wearing.

“Janice?” Carol asked hesitantly.

The redhead didn’t reply, Carol could see the uncertainty in her friend’s eyes, Janice just as surprised to see her as Carol was to see her friend.

“It’s one thing,” Mrs Bowen began, “to show me how well you can please me. It’s another to do it to a girl who isn’t quite so sure.”

Oh God. Carol could sense where this was going, much as she didn’t want to think about it. There was a pit in her stomach.

“Janice has agreed to help with your lessons.” The madam’s smile was thin, her eyes glittering. “Haven’t you Janice, dear?”

“Yes Mrs Bowen,” the redhead replied.

Carol wasn’t at all sure that that was true. Not completely anyway. Janice had obviously been asked here for something. But she doubted that Mrs Bowen had told Janice that it involved Carol.

“Janice is such a good girl,” Mrs Bowen mused as she beckoned the redhead over to her. Janice glided past Carol, her feet, which Carol now saw were shod in high heels, placed perfectly, one in front of the other, just like the madam’s had, the redhead’s arse swaying invitingly. “I’m so glad you brought her back to me,” Mrs Bowen continued.

Janice didn’t stop when she reached the lounge on which Mrs Bowen sat. Didn’t sit next to the madam. Instead the redhead lowered herself onto their madam’s lap.

Oh God.

“I did miss her so,” Mrs Bowen declared, one hand resting possessively on Janice’s hip. “I tried to make her stay. But she wouldn’t. She was so determined. But you were able to get her back. I know I’m right about you Stephanie.”

Janice tossed her head, her shining hair spilling about her, her arms resting lightly on the madam’s shoulders. Carol could see the flush in Janice’s cheeks, faint but clear against her friend’ pale complexion.

One of the madam’s hands was on Janice’s cheek, guiding the redhead into a kiss. Carol stared, wordless, as that kiss went on and on.

Oh God. It was all Carol could think. How long had Janice been in the apartment? She must have arrived before Carol had. How long had she been here before that? What she was watching couldn’t have been their first kiss of the evening, not with how easily Janice allowed it. What else had Mrs Bowen and Janice been doing?

Carol knew. She knew what that flush in Janice’s cheeks meant. She’d seen it so often, when Janice came back from being with one of her johns. She could see how erect her friend’s nipples were. She hadn’t let herself see all that a moment ago, but she couldn’t deny it now. She knew what the madam and Janice had been doing. What the madam had made Janice do. Now, and all those years ago. When Mrs Bowen had forced Carol into stripping Carol had known that the madam was making Janice do something as well. But her friend wouldn’t tell her. And then Carol had been sold to Patrick and the chance had been lost. But now she knew.

How many women’s beds had Janice gone to? How many times had she been in the madam’s?

“Now then Stephanie, I want you to show me what you’ve learnt. With Janice. Let’s pretend you’ve asked her to do something she doesn’t want to do. Perhaps strip. Perhaps widen her clientele.”

Carol knew why Mrs Bowen had chosen those examples. One for her. The other for Janice. The madam was proving a point. That she was the one in charge. That she made the decisions about what her girls did.

She’s the madam. She says what goes.

Janice was looking at Carol. With how the redhead was perched on Mrs Bowen’s lap, the madam’s hand idly stroking the redhead between her legs, Janice’s head resting on her shoulder, the madam couldn’t see Janice’s face. But Carol could. The flush in the redhead’s cheeks had grown clearer and there was a bright, brittle, light in Janice’s eyes. She could see Janice’s lips moving

I’m a whore. Those were the words on Janice’s lips. Carol knew it was true. It was what she’d done to Janice. She’d forced her friend back into this life. Delivered her back to the madam. Back to this.

The words on Janice’s lips changed. You’re a whore.

That was true too. Janice knew that better than almost anyone else.

I want to be a prostitute. The words swirled inside Carol’s head. Engulfing her thoughts. She was a whore. Janice had said so. And being a whore meant obeying her madam.

“You know what to do Stephanie. Show me.” The madam’s voice was soft. But there was a core of steel in the velvet.

She’s the madam, she says what goes.

That could be Carol, someday, giving the orders.

In her mind Stephanie was smiling, a hard, predatory, light in the girl’s eyes.

Janice doesn’t want this. At least that’s what Carol tried to tell herself. Her friend looked so vulnerable in the outfit she was wearing, one of the madam’s elegantly manicured finger tracing the line of Janice’s opening through those oh so thin panties.

“Off you go Janice,” the madam ordered lightly, the redhead rewarded with a pat on her rear after she rose to her feet.

Janice sauntered over to Carol, her arms now resting on Carol’s shoulders, Janice’s eyes fixed on hers, a smile on the redhead’s lips.

“I want to be a prostitute,” Janice whispered, too low for the madam to hear.

What was Janice trying to tell her? Carol didn’t know. It was all too much. Was her friend simply echoing the words back at Carol? Or reminding Carol of them? Telling Carol what she was, telling her to obey their madam?

Maybe that’s what Janice was trying to tell her. That neither of them had any choice.

“I’m happy for Stephanie to be a prostitute.”

More words that Carol had given Janice. Words that echoed in Carol’s head as well.

“Why?” It was all Carol could muster as a reply.

Janice didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead Carol could see the look in Janice’s eyes shift, subtly. It was still bright. But now there was amusement, mixed with challenge. It was the look Janice’s eyes had held when she’d laughed at Ellen. Joked about Patrick’s daughter being a prostitute. Was Janice laughing at Carol now? Something shifted in Carol’s head, like a switch flipping.

Whore, Stephanie declared. There was a burning need to show Janice who was in charge.

It was what Mrs Bowen wanted.

The redhead’s expression shifted again. To hesitation, uncertainty. Carol knew it was fake. But it was so convincing. It was the look of someone who needed to be told her place. It was the look Janice needed to play the part Mrs Bowen had given her.

It was Janice’s role.

Carol knew what her own role was.

She was so good at playing her roles.

“Tell her you want her to strip,” the madam ordered.

Carol shivered at the memories.

“Janice,” she smiled. One of Stephanie’s smiles. So tempting. “You need to strip. You’ll learn so much from it. A good girl knows how to do things like that. Don’t you want to be a good girl?”

“I, I don’t know,” her friend replied.

Mrs Bowen was watching them avidly, the weight of the madam’s gaze pressing on Carol. They were puppets, playing out a scene the madam had devised. Going through the motions.

If you go through the motions soon will come the corresponding emotions.

Carol didn’t want to think about what those emotions would be. She didn’t have to. She had her role to play.

She smiled at Janice, one finger slowly tracing down Janice’s cheek. “Of course you want to be a good girl. Everything will be fine. I’ll take care of you.” Carol’s other hand was on Janice’s hip. Where the madam’s had been. It glided up the redhead’s torso, coming to rest just brushing the side of Janice’s breast, the finger that had been on Janice’s cheek pressing gently on the redhead’s lips. Janice just stood there, passive. “You don’t have to say anything. It will be so easy. It’s what you do with your johns. A girl like you will be so good at it.”

Carol’s hand moved so that it was cupping one of Janice’s breasts. The negligee may as well have not been there. She could feel the weight of Janice’s breast, feel how erect the nipple was as her thumb brushed across it.

“And a good girl like you?” Carol breathed. “You’ll enjoy it so much. It’ll feel so good.” She could feel Janice quiver under her touch, feel how hard Janice’s nipple was.

“I, I don’t know,” Janice whispered. “Like that? In Public?” Fear and uncertainty radiated off her.

It was all an act. Carol knew that. An act for Mrs Bowen. Janice was a good whore. She knew how to fake her emotions.

Carol kissed her friend on the forehead. Gently. All concern and tenderness. She couldn’t tell if those emotions were real or fake

Stephanie knew how to fake her emotions. “Just listen to me. Trust me.”

Carefully she brushed a lock of Janice’s hair aside, the redhead gazing at her uncertainly.

Maybe that wasn’t an act. Neither woman knew how far they were supposed to take this. How far the madam would want them to take this.

Stephanie didn’t let any of that show.

“Come over here,” Stephanie said. Or was it Carol, pretending to be Stephanie? Was there any difference? Carol was so good with her roles. “Just sit with me.” They both knew that was a lie. “You’re so beautiful.” That was true. “Your body is so wonderful. And you love it when your johns look at you. How they make you feel. It’s such a wonderful feeling isn’t it? Being wanted? You know it is.”

Carol’s hand was gliding up Janice’s thigh, the redhead quivering under her touch.

“Such a good girl. You can be a good girl for me, can’t you Janice? Mmm, so good, so beautiful. Think of how you feel when one of your johns looks at you.” Her hand had reached the top of Janice’s thigh, the flesh so soft under her touch. “You love it. It makes you feel so good. It turns you on. Knowing that he wants you. He’s only thinking of you. Think of how that makes you feel. How it turns you on.”

Carol leaned in, kissed Janice’s neck. Gently. She could feel Janice’s pulse racing under her lips.

“Doesn’t it feel so good?” Her fingers were drawing slow, lazy, patterns on Janice’s thigh, edging closer and closer to the redhead’s centre. Her lips trailed higher, her other arm holding Janice tightly against her. The redhead moaned as Carol’s fingers almost brushed her centre.

“Think about how that makes how feel. How good it is. How turned on you are. You’re turned on now aren’t you Janice?”

Janice simply nodded. Carol was just a small voice in the back of her own head. Watching as Stephanie played Janice’s body

She’s my friend, Carol protested.

What does that matter? Stephanie demanded. She’s a whore. You made her a whore. A whore needs to do what she’s told. I won’t just be a whore.

Carol could tell that Stephanie was prepared to pay the price for that. Any price. That was how her world worked. Do what had to be done to get what she wanted. It was what everyone had done to her. Wainwright. Bowen. Patrick. All of them.

Even Janice, reminding Carol of what she was.

See? She’s a whore.

I need to take care of her, Carol insisted.

Of course you do, Stephanie agreed. That’s what a madam does. Takes care of her girls. When you’re the madam you can take care of her. You’ve already given her money. Found her that house. Found her that trainer. Seen her girls into a good school. You’ve paid her. She’s your whore. Your first whore. Now we’re showing her what that means.

“Such a good girl. I’ll take care of you. Make sure nothing bad happens to you. Isn’t that what I always do? And it will feel so good. Up there, on stage. Just think about it.” Stephanie was smiling, remembering her last time on stage, stripping. How much she’d enjoyed it You Carol, I’m you. How much you enjoyed it. “So many men. Their eyes fixed on you. Thinking of you. Wanting you.” Janice quivered as Carol’s fingers brushed her labia. Janice was so wet. She had to be so turned on. “Such a good girl. If one man wanting you turns you on so much how about ten? A hundred? All watching you. Thinking of nothing but you. How much they want you. You’re so gorgeous. You have to let them see. It will be so good.”

Janice’s eyelids were fluttering. Carol didn’t know how many of her words Janice was taking in. She knew what Janice was feeling, how her friend was drowning in the sensations running through her.

“Such a good girl,” Stephanie crooned. Her finger had slipped under Janice’s panties. Was pressing at her friend’s opening. Not inside, not yet. But tracing the length.

Janice moaned.

“How good this feels? Up there it will be even better.” Carol paused, her tongue slowly licking Janice’s cheek as her finger kept up that slow, torturous, teasing, her friend starting to writhe next to her. “Just think of it. All those eyes on you. Making you feel so good. Such a good girl.”

Janice’s hips were rising. The redhead was so wet. With just a little pressure Carol could be inside her. Janice wanted it. Wanted to be filled. Her arousal was obvious, the flush in her cheeks, her erect nipples, her dripping opening.

Carol sucked a breath between her teeth as she realised how wet her own centre was, how arousal was pulsing through her. It would so easy to slip inside Janice.

“Let me make it easier,” she said, reaching for her friend’s panties. Janice’s hips rose, making it so easy to slide them down. “Such a good girl. My good girl. So beautiful. You’ll love it so much. Just like this.”

Her fingers were back at Janice’s opening. A little movement was all it would take. Such a little movement. But it would mean so much.

I want to be a prostitute.

Mrs Bowen wasn’t telling her to stop.

She’s the madam, she says what goes.

Stephanie wanted that.

“Will you do it for me Janice? Be my good girl?” Carol’s fingers grazed slowly over Janice’s lower lips.

“Please,” Janice moaned.

Stephanie grinned. “That’s not the answer Janice. I can tell how much you want to. I can show you how good it will feel. How much you want it. Just say yes Janice. Tell me you’ll strip.”

“Yes.” Janice was agreeing. But what choice did she have? She was a whore. She’d do what her madam said. Carol was pulling Janice down with her. The two of them, together, falling further and further down into some dark hole.

“God, please, yes.” The redhead was begging now.

It would be cruel to deny her, wouldn’t it? Stephanie teased.

I’ll take care of you Janice. I will. I promise. It was all Carol had to offer.

Something more broke inside Carol as her fingers slipped inside her friend. Maybe that’s all she was. Broken pieces of who she used to be. Her lips sought Janice’s as her fingers brushed the redhead’s inner walls, Janice kissing her back eagerly. Carol’s fingers were where so many men had been. She was using her friend.

I want to be used sexually.

Those words would be in Janice’s head.

It felt so right.

Janice cried out as she came, calling Stephanie’s name.

Even now she knows what name to use.

Janice was such a good friend. Carol wanted to cringe under that thought but her role wouldn’t let her.

“Not bad Stephanie, not too bad all,” the madam applauded, Janice still shuddering with aftershocks, Carol’s fingers still working at her friend. “A little quick perhaps. But then I think Janice rather wanted it, didn’t you dear? I think she may have wanted this for a long time. It doesn’t matter. We’ll have some more practice another time. I’ll find you a girl who isn’t quite so eager. But let’s see how good you are. If Stephanie told you to strip, would you do it Janice?”

“Yes Mrs Bowen,” the redhead replied eagerly.

“Do it Stephanie. Tell her that tomorrow that she’s going to Angel’s and she’s stripping.”

Carol’s breath caught in her throat. Angel’s the place where she’d stripped. Where first she’d been horrified and then she’d learnt how good it was. She couldn’t do that to Janice.

Stephanie didn’t give her a choice. “You’re going to Angel’s tomorrow. Janice. You’ll strip. And it will feel so good.”

“Yes Stephanie,” Janice agreed. It was the same tone she’d used to the madam.

Oh God, no. What had she done to her friend?

“Well, that’s settled then.” The madam nodded to herself before continuing. “Now Janice, why don’t you show Stephanie just how eager you are?”

“Yes, Mrs Bowen,” Janice replied. That same eager, happy, voice.

Janice was a good whore, she did what her madam wanted.

The redhead slipped to the floor, kneeling between Carol’s legs. She looked up, just once, after she eased Carol’s panties down and dropped them on the floor. Gazed into Carol’s eyes. Carol tried to read the emotions there. Need, fear, arousal, compassion. All those and more.

Please, don’t do this Janice. But Carol couldn’t form the words. Couldn’t move.

She had to do what her madam wanted.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute,” Janice whispered. Then she leaned in. And Carol didn’t hear anything more. Not until she was calling out Janice’s name.

“Very nice,” Mrs Bowen smiled. “Still some things for both of you to learn, but very nice. Now, why don’t you both come over here and show me what you’ve learnt? My best girls.”

Carol did as she was told. So did Janice.

Mrs Bowen was their madam

A good whore did what her madam told her to do.

It was far from their last lesson.

* * *

“Watch the carpark,” Patrick ordered curtly, the bodyguard he was speaking to heading over to the window and pushing the curtains aside just enough to peer out the window.

Carol looked up from where she was sitting on the bed, hands on knees that were tightly pushed together. “They’re not going to find us are they?” she asked nervously.

“Don’t you worry about that, baby doll,” Patrick reassured her. “I’ve got it all under control. Just need to make a few phone calls.”

Carol smiled at him. Like she believed him. Like everything was all right.

They both knew it was a lie.

If everything was alright they wouldn’t be in this second-rate motel room, with tattered wall paper and a smell like it hadn’t been cleaned in days.

Patrick had pulled her out of bed in the early hours of the morning the day before, the dim light of pre-dawn barely slipping past the curtains. Told her to pack a few things. Carol knew what was happening. The police were finally making their move. All the work she and Janice had done had paid off. It was all going to be worthwhile.

But somehow Patrick had found out. He’d run, taking her with him. After all this time, all the years of waiting, of informing, of being his whore, Patrick was going to slip away from them.

He hadn’t let her take much, just a couple of dresses and some underwear thrown into an overnight bag, a few pieces of jewellery, to be turned into cash if they needed it. He wouldn’t let her take anything else. Not her shoes, or her furs.

Or other things. Important things. No matter how much she’d protested. How much she’d begged.

Carol wouldn’t think of that now. Couldn’t. Much as she wanted to. She was an informant. She had a role to play.

Playing her role turned her on.

They’d stayed at a different hotel yesterday, moved to this one today. Carol knew the drill. Never stay in one spot too long. Don’t make yourself obvious. Patrick knew it too. She could feel the anger rolling off him, his rage at being cooped up, not knowing who to take his frustration out on. Even with everything she and Janice had done he’d never known where the leaks where coming from. He’d tried to trace the source. Pounded people to make them talk. But he’d never suspected Carol or her friend.

“Let me make it better,” she offered, one hand reaching out to his forearm as he pushed past her. Carol knew what she could do. Let him fuck her. She was his whore.

She wanted it.

Angrily Patrick shook her hand off, Carol shrinking back on to the bed.

Is that all you’re going to do? Stephanie demanded.

Carol knew what the girl meant, that other part of her. Stephanie wanted this finished, one way or another. Then Carol would be free to take up Mrs Bowen’s offer. She’d be the madam then.

Or Stephanie would.

But part of her was afraid. She’d lived the life of Patrick’s mistress for so long now. Maybe it was all she knew now. So much of her didn’t want to let it go. The mansion, the clothes.

Being fucked by Patrick.

If Patrick was locked up he wouldn’t be able to do that.

I’m an informant, Carol told herself. If she wasn’t they wouldn’t be here. But the police would never find them, not in a place like this.

Unless someone told them Patrick was here.

All it would take was one phone call.

Carol knew the number to call. But she couldn’t do it, not in front of Patrick. That would be suicide. If she could get out of the room she could slip to the front desk, make the call. But Patrick hadn’t let her leave his side. Not for a moment. Well, he did, to shower and such, but that didn’t get her to a phone. She couldn’t think of any excuse. Anything she wanted, he sent one of his bodyguards for it. The phone beside the bed was taunting her. All she needed was a few moments alone.

Patrick was on the phone now. Trying to call in favours. Trying to get the cops off his back. But he’d lost so much, thanks to Carol. And Janice. Cops he’d bribed taken down, or forced to retire if there wasn’t enough evidence to convict them. His organisation chipped away. Carol didn’t look at him as he made the calls. But she was listening. Even now she might overhear something she could pass to Wainwright. When this done. When she was free.

If she still knew what freedom meant.

I want to be a prostitute.

The words would always be in her head.

“Just shut up and listen,” Patrick snarled down the phone. “Tickets. To Ireland. You know the names. Just get them.” He slammed the phone down.

“Ireland?” Carol asked, her confusion genuine.

“Yeah,” Patrick smiled at her. “Don’t worry baby doll. The cops will never get us there. I got money stashed away.”

“But,” Carol didn’t know what to say. Patrick couldn’t get away. He couldn’t. Even if he took her with him. It would mean the informing had been for nothing. Even with the men she’d helped out away it wasn’t enough. Not if Patrick escaped. It would mean she’d just been his whore.

I want to be a prostitute.

If she went with him she could still be his whore.

For just a moment Carol let herself think about that. She could go with Patrick. Stay his whore. He could fuck her for the rest of her life.

She could feel her body warming at the thought.

“Don’t worry,” Patrick smiled. “She’ll come over after us. My people will see to that.”

Carol knew what he meant. But she wouldn’t think about it.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

She could be. Patrick still had money. He said so. He could fuck her. Give her things. She’d still be a whore. But it wasn’t all she was. Even with what Copeland had done. Even when she’d tried just being a whore. It hadn’t worked. It had torn her apart.

I’m an informant. That meant something. Even if it was so much less than what she’d once been, it meant something.

Patrick patted her on the cheek, Carol nuzzling into the touch, the fires spreading through her body. She still wanted this man. With everything he’d done, everything he was, she wanted him. No else fucked her quite like Patrick did. She was his whore. “Everything’ll be okay,” he reassured her. “I’m going to the can. Don’t answer the phone if it rings. And you, keep an eye out,” he told the bodyguard. “And stay away from the window baby doll. I don’t want anyone seeing you.” Even now, that possessiveness of the mobster, focussed on her.

That turned her on, too.

Carol looked from Patrick’s retreating back to the phone. She could reach out. Grab it. Maybe make the call before the bodyguard stopped her.

But she’d be dead before the police arrived. Someone like Patrick would turn so quick if you betrayed him.

I want to be a prostitute.

She wouldn’t be a whore if she was dead.

Carol looked over to the bodyguard, the man’s eyes fixed on the carpark outside. All she had to do was get him out of the room. Just for a moment. Nervously she rose from the bed. Headed over to the window. She could do this. She’d been a policewoman once. An undercover officer. Something more than an informant. And even as just an informant she knew how to lie.

To everyone, and to herself.

“Hey!” the bodyguard, Shaun, snapped at her as Carol pushed the curtains apart. “He said to stay away from the window.”

Carol ignored the man’s protests. “What’s that?” she asked innocently, pointing over to a clump of bushes along one wall of the motel, the car park surrounded by the U-shaped building.

“Huh?” Shaun responded.

“I’m sure I saw someone sneaking around down there,” she insisted.

“You sure?” the bodyguard replied doubtfully, staring intently in the direction Carol indicated. “I don’t see anyone. And anyway, Dave’s down by the car.”

That the other bodyguard Patrick had brought was out of the room only helped Carol, but she needed Shaun gone as well. “I don’t think he could see that from where he is,” Carol offered. “You better go tell him.”

She could feel the indecision in the man. I can do this. she told herself. She wanted to do this. If the bodyguard was out of the room she could make the call, tell the police where Patrick was.

She’d be informing.

Her centre burned hotter at the thought, need curling, tight and hard. Part of her wanted Patrick now. Wanted him to fuck her.

But what she needed now was the bodyguard out of the room, before Patrick was back.

Carol glared at the man. “Do you want to tell Mr. Patrick that you missed something? It might be the cops. If you’re quick you’ll be back before he’s out.”

The man looked over his shoulder at the bathroom door. Hesitated for a moment. Carol knew there wasn’t anything she could do. If she insisted too much he’d get suspicious. She could only wait. Sometimes that’s what you had to do. Be patient. She’d been so patient, in the years she’d spent with Patrick. All she needed was a few more moments.

She could tell the moment Shaun made a decision.

“Just checking on something boss,” the bodyguard called out before he headed for the door.

Carol had her own decision to make. She could sit back on the bed. Or even just stand there. Do nothing. Let it happen. Like so much had happened to her. Then she’d be Patrick’s. She’d be his whore for as long as he’d have her.

I want to be a prostitute.

It wasn’t all she wanted.

Carol dived for the phone. Desperately her fingers fumbled at the numbers, her long fingernails slipping on the rotary dial.

And then she was through. She didn’t wait for the person who picked up to answer. Quickly she rattled off Patrick’s name and the address of the hotel. Added the room number. Hung up.

She’d just finished rearranging herself on the bed when Patrick re-emerged.

“What was that?” he asked suspiciously, looking at the door.

“Um, he thought there might have been someone out there,” Carol offered nervously.

Patrick frowned. “Someone out there? Get your stuff. We’re moving again.”

Carol had to struggle to stop herself calling out. If they left now the police wouldn’t get here in time. Patrick would escape. She had to keep him here. So he could be arrested. So it all meant something.

He’ll never fuck you again, Stephanie offered slyly.

Carol wasn’t sure what that part of her meant. Stephanie wanted free of the mobster. Wanted to take Mrs Bowen’s offer. Wanted to learn everything the madam had to teach her.

Even the things Carol didn’t want to think about, the things that the madam had her and Janice do.

She especially didn’t want to think about how much she enjoyed those lessons.

But if Stephanie wanted free of Patrick why would the girl be making Carol think about how good it was when Patrick fucked her?

One last time won’t hurt. Stephanie smiled.

Oh. Carol needed Patrick to stay here. She needed to distract him. She knew how to do that.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she smiled. Or Stephanie smiled. It didn’t matter. “If there were cops they’d be all over the place. We’re safe. Aren’t I always safe with you?”

Carol knew how to play Patrick’s pride. She always knew what her johns wanted.

“But I know how you could make me feel safer,” She leaned back on the bed, stretching her body, offering it to him. Like she’d offered it to him so many times over the years. “Please. I need it.”

Carol gazed up at the mobster. She was putting everything she had in her look. Everything she’d learnt in her years as a whore. Everything Stephanie was. Everything she was. It was so easy. She played her roles so well. And this was hardly playing. It was true. She wanted him. Right down to the core of her being she wanted this man to fuck her. He’d paid for her. He owned her.

Carol loved that. Her arousal turned molten, her breasts aching to be touched.

“Please,” she breathed, the tip of her tongue flicking her upper lip, her thighs rubbing slowly against each other. She needed him, one last time. She needed to be his whore.

I want to be a prostitute. She was. It wasn’t all she was. But it was what she was at her core. When everything else was stripped away, it was what she was. Carol knew she wouldn’t have been like that without Copeland. But it didn’t matter. It was what she wanted. What she needed.

She needed to be fucked.

Like the whore she was.

Patrick turned to the door.

Locked it.

He was already unbuttoning his shirt as he turned back.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

She was a whore, looking up at her john, offering herself to him, waiting to be taken. Her breathing rasped in her throat, thick with need, her nipples so hard. She didn’t take her eyes off Patrick as she slipped out of her dress. She could feel the warm, running, arousal between her legs. Rising off the bed she reached into his boxers, cooed in delight as she grabbed his thick cock, already hard. Her knees went week as her hand wrapped around the shaft. She knew so well what his cock felt like inside her, her chest heaving at the thought.

Carol fell to her knees in front of him, this man who had bought her, her hand moving to cup his balls as her lips wrapped around the glans. She could barely keep from moaning. It was so good. He was inside her. She was a whore and she was getting fucked.

“Oh yeah, baby doll.”

Her attention narrowed down to that cock. She barely heard Patrick yell “Fuck off,” when his bodyguard tried the door. It felt so good, pleasure radiating out from her mouth as that cock slipped down her throat. Her centre was a void, wanting to be filled. But she did nothing about that. She was a whore. It was only her john who mattered. And she knew what Patrick would do to her, oh so soon.

She stayed there, on the floor, so still, as he fucked her face. Used her.

I want to be used sexually.

It was turning her on so hard.

In and out, Carol savouring the feel, the sensation, the taste. Memorising every piece, even though she knew it so well.

She almost cumming when he pulled out.

“On the bed,” he ordered. Carol would have known anyway. But saying it was what he wanted. He was in charge. He gave the orders.

And then his hands and mouth where on her. Everywhere she wanted to be touched. Everywhere her body was crying out for contact. The inside of her left wrist. The spot just below her right nipple that always drove her wild. His fingers were inside her, driving her higher. She was cumming, names and words spinning in her head until she couldn’t separate them.

Patrick always liked to bring her off before he entered her. To prove he could. To prove he could make her cum whenever he wanted. To show he was in control. Carol didn’t mind. She was a whore. She’d do whatever she was told.

And it made the orgasms when he was inside her so much better.

She came, screaming, over and over, until that one last orgasm as the cops broke down the door.

I want to be a prostitute.

I’m an informant.

Wainwright was staring at her. Staring at her naked breasts as she fumbled for the sheet, trying to cover herself as Patrick was led away.

Half-hysterically Carol realised that after all these years and all the men who had used her, everything she’d done, all the times she’d stripped, that it was the first time that the police captain had seen her naked.

“Bring this whore along too,” Wainwright ordered.

Someone threw her some clothes. Carol let herself be led away. To whatever future she had now that Patrick was done.

(To be continued)