The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

College Undercover

Part 24

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.

“Mrs Bowen?” The voice crackled out of the office intercom. “Your 2pm, Mrs DeWitt, is here.”

“Thank you Karen,” the madam replied, an elegant finger holding down the talk button. “Please send her in.”

Mrs Bowen leaned back in her expensive office chair and waited.

* * *

“Hello Janice,” the madam beamed as her visitor closed the door behind her. Janice was a picture in her designer skirt suit and perfect makeup. Of course Janice looked good. She always did. She was a good whore. “Good news again I hope?”

The madam rose, cheek kisses exchanged, and then indicated a chair for her friend to sit in.

“Of course it is,” the redhead smiled as she sat down and opened her briefcase. “Isn’t it always Steph?”

Janice hadn’t made much money as a small town accountant, all those years ago. The redhead had a lot of money now.

But not as much as Carol.

Maybe the fact that Janice was well-off made it alright. Carol had promised to take care of Janice. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was just what she’d had to do.

I want to be a prostitute.

Even after all these years the words where still there. In both their heads.

“Which do you want first?” Janice asked.

Carol knew what her friend meant. The reports on her legal businesses or her not-so-legal ones, one a cover for the other. Janice wasn’t just a whore. Janice was her accountant now as well.

Had been for well over a decade.

But the redhead was still a whore as well.

Of course, Carol knew that if she asked her friend which she preferred then Janice’s answer wouldn’t be ‘accountant’.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

“Whichever you like,” Carol replied.

“So how’s Mary?” Janice asked, an hour or so later, the last of the financial reports tucked away into her briefcase, money ready to head to the Bahamas and places even more obscure.

“Same as last week,” Carol smiled. “Still a teenager. But we get along okay.”

In the years she’d spent chipping away at Patrick’s edifice she’d given him a daughter, a half-sister for Ellen.

Carol was Patrick’s whore. If he wanted to breed her, that was up to him. Wainwright had exploded when she’d told him that she was pregnant. But it had been an impotent fury, nothing the police captain could do to change what had happened.

Patrick wouldn’t let Carol have more than one child. Didn’t want to risk her figure. He’d thought Mary was a good Irish Catholic name when Carol had suggested it.

He never realised that Carol had named their daughter after her madam.

The elder Mary Bowen doted on her god-daughter, that arrangement formalised after Patrick was arrested.

It was their daughter that Patrick had made Carol leave behind that day when they ran from the police. They couldn’t look after a baby on the run he’d told her. Carol had almost believed him. She’d wanted to, to ease the pain. Even as she’d known it was simply the mobster putting what he wanted first. His safety. Having Carol with him so he could fuck her. All what he wanted. A child didn’t figure in that. Even though he’d promised her that Mary would be sent on after them Carol hadn’t wanted to leave her daughter. She could still remember looking down at the small form asleep in her crib, Patrick demanding that she hurry up, emotions tearing her apart. But she’d done it. She’d left her daughter. Because she was a whore and an informant and she did what she had to do.

Afterwards Carol had promised herself that she’d never do that again. Mary was hers. Her daughter. The only child she’d ever have. Hers to take care of. Maybe the only clean thing to come out of this. Not the only good thing. Whoring and informing were so good, always so good. But a good mother would look after her daughter. Carol was so good at playing her roles.

“She’s been asking questions again though,” Carol added. “About how I make my money.”

“Oh?” Janice asked, immaculate eyebrows rising. “What are you going to tell her? Just the legitimate businesses? Or the others?”

“She knows about the legitimate ones,” Carol replied. “But maybe it’s time to tell her some more. I’m not going to lie to her forever.”

“Oh well, your choice,” Janice shrugged. “But that’s not going to be an easy conversation. If you want someone to talk to before you do it, just ask.”

Of course Janice would say that. Janice was her best friend. How could it be any other way, after all they’d shared? And Janice was right. How could telling your daughter about the brothels and escort service you ran be an easy conversation?

That wasn’t all Carol would have to tell her daughter eventually.

“Thanks,” Carol told her friend. “I just might take you up on that. Mrs Bowen keeps wanting me to tell her.”

“Mrs Bowen probably wants her to follow in your footsteps,” Janice observed archly. “Not sure that’s what I want for my daughters. And not sure the world needs another Mary Bowen. And did you have to call yourself Bowen? It confuses the hell out of my PA.”

Janice was a good accountant. Carol wasn’t her only client.

Carol knew what Janice meant though. Keeping the appointments straight between two Mrs Bowens could be confusing. The original Mrs Bowen loved seeing Carol and Janice. “Just like old times,” the older woman would say when they were together.

In many ways, it was.

Carol’s choice of name was an old argument. “I prefer Stephanie Bowen. Stephanie Patrick just sounds stupid,” Carol replied drily. “So does Mary Patrick.” Carol could have used those names. Patrick had married her, in the end, after he was convicted. Mainly for Mary, he’d said. Carol had just done as she was told.

She was his whore, after all.

She was Mrs Bowen’s whore as well. She’d accepted the madam’s offer, bought her businesses with money she’d salted away from what Patrick let her access. And more, from what she’d discovered while informing on him. My best girl, the madam had called Carol. You’re the one to follow me.

Another role for Carol to take on.

Carol was always good at playing her roles.

No one could tell her to change her roles now. Wainwright was dead. Heart attack as Patrick was being sentenced. Copeland was dead. Suicide a few years before that. Patrick was behind bars. Would be for the rest of his life. He still had enough pull for Carol to visit. Patrick’s cock was still the best cock. She was still his whore, whenever he wanted her. She was doing what Mrs Bowen wanted, the old madam wasn’t going to tell Carol to change her roles.

She was Mary’s mother. One more role.

“I suppose they do sound a bit odd,” Janice allowed. “And are you going to tell her everything?” Janice added.

Carol knew what Janice meant. How do you tell your daughter that you’re still a whore?

Carol was a whore.

Always would be.

Of course Carol was a whore. Even with the businesses she ran. She might be over forty but she’d always looked young for her age. And she had a body women half her age would envy. The time she put in to caring for her looks, and maybe Patrick’s dictate about only one child, had seen to that. She’d used the same personal trainer who had helped Janice, and others since. When a man wanted a more mature escort Carol was one of the ones on offer, even if she owned the firm. She didn’t need the money, her girls and her other businesses brought in more than enough.

Carol whored herself because she loved every minute of it.

I want to be a prostitute.

She’d never forgotten.

She wasn’t the only whore in the room. Like Carol, Janice was still on the escort agency’s books. There was no shortage of men who liked the company of a professional woman. Janice wasn’t alone in that. Carol had lawyers, doctors, stockbrokers, elegant young executives, all working for her. All of them beautiful. All of them whores. And Janice was still informing when she had clients that had something the police could use.

Janice was a good informant.

Carol’s friend was almost as good at that as she was at being a whore.

Janice loved being a whore and an informant as much as Carol did. Carol had made sure of that.

From what she bought from Mrs Bowen Carol had built her businesses. Grown them with what she’d learnt, as an undercover policewoman, from Mrs Bowen, from living with Patrick, from being a whore. Enriching herself and Janice in the process. Now Carol was the one in charge.

But she still loved to whore herself.

And pass information to the police.

Carol didn’t want to stop doing either. Didn’t know how. Whoring and helping the police were all she wanted out of life. Everything else was just trimming.

Maybe being a mother is a little more than that. Maybe.

She had her roles now. Madam. Mother. Informant. She’d played them for so long that they were second nature.

Of course, being a whore was much more than that.

It was what she was.

“One thing at a time I think.” Carol didn’t want to lie to her daughter, but there was only so much a teenager could take. Or be trusted with. There was no way that she could rely on her daughter to keep quiet about her mother feeding information that she gleaned from her whoring to the police.

Whatever she told Mary Carol had to do what she did. Both sides of her where still there. Still happy. She needed them both. Loved them. Whoring and putting criminals away. What more could anyone want?

“Probably best,” Janice allowed. “Just be careful. Lunch on Tuesday?” she added.

“Sure,” Carol responded, pushing call on the intercom. “Just let me check I’m free. Karen? Can I fit in lunch next Tuesday with Mrs DeWitt and Mrs Bowen?”

“Yes Mrs Bowen,” Karen responded crisply. “You’ve nothing booked then. And afterwards is free if you need it.”

Carol and Janice looked at each other. “Probably best,” the redhead commented.

“Thank you Karen, please book that in. Is the rest of my afternoon free today?”

“Yes Mrs Bowen. But Mrs DeWitt has a client booked tonight.”

Janice smiled at Carol, almost shyly. “I haven’t forgotten Karen. Mr Richardson. 7pm. I’ll be ready.”

Carol lifted her finger from the intercom after thanking Karen, arched her eyebrow at her friend. “Do you have a sitter arranged?”

“Of course I do,” Janice rolled her eyes. “You think I’d leave my girls alone?

Carol shivered a little at that. Never again. Even though it was twelve years since that day and Mary hadn’t been alone, the servants in the mansion to look after her, Carol would never take a chance like that again.

Janice always cared for her girls. They’d received the best of everything. And if sometimes they were a little spoilt Carol could hardly blame Janice for that.

“You have something planned? Anything I need to know about?” Janice asked.

“Just something I need to see to,” Carol replied.

Janice knew when not to push. “See you next Tuesday then,” the redhead declared, before the two friends said their goodbyes.

“Give my love to Heather and Amber.” Carol loved Janice’s daughters almost as much as she loved her own.

Janice smiled back at her. “I will. And give mine to Mary.”

You still make a good whore, Carol observed as her friend rose from the chair. Despite the years and two daughters there was nothing wrong with Janice’s figure. Thanks to the fitness routine Carol had put on friend on. And only just having passed forty Janice had some good years left in her yet, her face barely showing any lines.

“I want to be a prostitute,” Carol declared, looking up at her friend.

Janice’s eyes glazed over, just slightly, as a dreamy smile stole over the redhead’s face. “I want to be a prostitute,” she replied.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute,” Carol continued.

She wasn’t surprised by Janice’s answer. How could she be? “I’m happy to be a prostitute.”

“When a man pays me he can do anything he wants.” The two women were chanting in unison now.

“I want to be used sexually.” Then again. And again. It was what they always did, at the end of their private meetings.

Carol paused, gazing at her friend. She didn’t feel any guilt. That had gone long ago. Janice had more money than she would have had Carol left her in that little town. Her friend was doing more with her life than she would have there, still helping put criminals away. She had her daughters. What did Carol have to feel guilty about?

Nothing at all, Stephanie whispered.

“See you Tuesday Janice,” Carol declared.

Janice shook herself, the glassy look fading from her eyes. “Sure,” the redhead smiled and left.

After giving her friend time to leave Carol picked up her purse and jacket.

“Have the car brought around,” Carol ordered her PA as she left her office.

A few minutes later Carol was sitting in the back seat of a late model limousine. Her limousine. Not Patrick’s, not anyone else’s. She’d earnt that, as a madam, from her other businesses. It was so much more luxurious than her old Dodge but part of her still missed that car.

If I want one like it I can just buy one.

Shaking her head she pulled out her mobile phone.

Technology. It made so many things easier than they had been back when she’d first become a whore. Booking appointments. Arranging deals.

Phoning home.

“Mary? Hello dear. Could you ask Francesca to cook the salmon tonight? Yes I know I promised we’d watch a video. We will. After dinner. Make sure your homework is done by the time I get home. I should be there about 6.30. Love you too. Oh, and Aunt Janice sends her love.”

Carol knew how to be a good mother. It was the last role Patrick had given her. Just like Wainwright had wanted her to keep informing. She didn’t hold it against the police captain that he’d called her a whore when Patrick had been arrested. He’d have said the same thing if she’d still been a policewoman, pretending not to know her, protecting who she was. And if he’d meant what he’d said, so what? It was only the truth. He hadn’t even wanted her to stop. He’d realised how valuable she could be.

She was still doing what he wanted as well.

It felt so good.

Carol leaned back to enjoy the rest of her trip. It didn’t take long. Not in time or space but she could see the change in the buildings as the car took her past them. From the glittering skyscrapers, one of which held her office, into darker parts of the city. Older buildings, barely remembering when they’d been new. Some of them painted up, like an old whore trying to cover up her wrinkles.

I’m not that old yet, Carol told herself.

She wondered what she’d do when she was.

Part of her knew the answer.

The limo pulled up in front of a warehouse, the driver opening Carol’s door for her.

“Wait here,” she told him.

The man did as he was told. That was what he was paid for. That was his role.

“Everything alright George?” she asked her old partner, the ex-cop dressed in the uniform of a security guard.

“Yes Mrs Bowen,” he replied cheerfully, putting down his coffee cup. “Nothing much happens here.”

Carol had given George a job when he’d been invalided out of the police force. He’d been grateful. Grateful enough to not ask why Carol had faked her death. Grateful enough to keep a good watch on the warehouse. Grateful enough to not ask why his rich employer would ignore the warehouse for weeks or months at a time and then, for a week or two, visit two or three times a day.

Carol’s heels echoed on the metal stairs as she headed into the basement of the warehouse. Tapped out a rhythm on the concrete floor. She passed through doors to which only she had the keys.

She closed the last one behind her, locked it. Then turned to face the room’s other occupant.

The girl was strapped into the chair, leather bindings at her wrists, ankles and neck. She was naked. Despite the blindfold Carol could tell that she was awake, the girl’s hands slowly clenching and unclenching. Carol didn’t say anything. The girl wouldn’t have heard her, not with the headphones she had on.

Carefully Carol removed them.

“Who? What?” The girl managed.

“Hello Kelly,” Carol smiled. “Tell me what you want,” Carol ordered.

“No, no,” the girl whimpered. “Please, let me go.”

“Tell me what you want,” Carol repeated firmly.

“I, I want to be a prostitute. No, what? Why did I say that?” Kelly’s features contorted in fear.

“What else have you learnt?” Carol asked, ignoring the girl’s pleas.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute,” the girl replied. “I love it when men use me. No I don’t. I.”

“Yes you do,” Carol insisted. “You’ll learn. The words are in here now.” She tapped Kelly’s forehead, the girl trying to cringe away. But she had nowhere to go, her bonds holding her tight. “They’ll always be there. They’ll be part of you. You’ll be happy about that soon.”

They were the words Copeland had taught Carol, so long ago. But she’d improved on what Copeland had done. Carol had studied psychology too, as she told Janice so long ago. She didn’t rely on starving the girls. Or threatening to let them die of thirst if they didn’t cooperate. That was cruel. She had better ways.


Turning away from the girl for a moment Carol checked the IV that fed into Kelly’s arm. As Carol had expected it was almost empty. Quickly she switched out the bag for a new one. She’d had a lot of practice. Years to research and work on the formula. Carol still didn’t think it was perfect.

But it was very, very, good.

“What other words do you know Kelly?”

“I love being paid for sex. I love being a prostitute. No.” The protest was weak. But it was there. “Why am I saying those things?” The girl’s confusion was obvious, her brow furrowing, too drugged out to be genuinely afraid anymore, her thoughts adrift.

It was exactly where Carol wanted her.

Kelly hadn’t been in the room for all that long. She had days left. Days of being alone. Days of listening to the words, played over and over through the headphones while the drugs coursed through her system.

“You’re saying the words because you’re learning your new role,” Carol explained. Everyone had their roles to play. “So let’s try it again. I’m going to teach you some new words today.”

“No, not that,” the girl whimpered. “Anything but that. Please, let me go.”

“No,” Carol replied. “I’m doing you a favour.”

“What?” Even through the blindfold Carol could see the confusion, the disbelief in the girl’s expression. “How?”

“Stop,” Carol ordered, the girl falling silently. “Now start repeating what you hear.”

Carol slipped the headphones back on Kelly’s head, changed the tape on the large deck. Kelly would listen. And learn. The drugs in her system, what she’d already been through, didn’t give the girl any choice. There was so little resistance left.

“I want to be a prostitute.”

Carol couldn’t help smiling as Kelly repeated the first words Copeland had taught her.

I’m not like Copeland, Carol told herself. She didn’t sell the girls. Didn’t turn them into slaves. She helped them to be something better.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute.”

She let them keep their share of the money they earned. When she let a girl go, the girl would be at least comfortable, the best of her escorts rich.

“I want to be used sexually.”

Words like that meant they’d enjoy it. Kelly wouldn’t regret her time as a whore. None of them would. Carol knew how to make sure of that.

“I love being a whore.”

She’d improved on the words Copeland had given her.

Kelly would make a good whore. Maybe someone watching wouldn’t be able to tell it now, not with the girl’s matted hair and the sweat streaking her naked body, but Kelly was beautiful. Light brunette hair, the body of a swimsuit model and a face to match.

The johns would love her.

“I love it when men use me.”

Kelly would love fucking them.

“I do what my madam says”

That was important. There was too much at stake. The girls had to obey her. That wasn’t hard though. Once they understood how much they’d enjoy what they were doing obedience came easily. Emotions following motions. Kelly would obey. Kelly would enjoy fucking her johns. The girl would cum every time they did.

She’d cum when Carol fucked her too.

“I love fucking my madam.”

That’s what a madam did. Carol knew that was part of her role. Mrs Bowen had taught her that. Mrs Bowen was still teaching her that. Her and Janice. Mrs Bowen had made it clear what they should do.

She’s the madam she says what goes.

Sometimes lunch or dinner with the madam didn’t end at the restaurant. Sometimes the madam took Carol and Janice back to her apartment. Where Mrs Bowen would have the two friends prove that they were still her whores.

Carol knew what whores did for their madam.

Kelly would look so good cumming on Carol’s fingers.

“I want to be a prostitute.”

Almost every girl that worked for Carol had been through this now. Even the ones who held other jobs. Bound in the chair. Held there naked as the drugs poured through their systems, as the words burned themselves into their minds. Burned so deep that they’d never go away.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute.”

It was important that the girls enjoyed what they did. Anything else would have been cruel. But that wasn’t the only reason.

Or even the main one.

“I want to be used sexually”

Kelly was going to learn that other reason today.

“I love being a whore.”

But first the girl had had to keep learning about being a whore. Kelly would always be a whore.

Just like Carol.

“I love it when men use me.”

Kelly would be used. And be happy about it.

“I do obey my madam.”

Obedience. Carol couldn’t risk anything going wrong. Couldn’t risk losing what she had.

“I love fucking my madam.”

Carol loved fucking her girls. Because that’s what Mrs Bowen had taught her that a madam did. So she did it. And enjoyed it. But she wouldn’t call herself someone who was into women. However much freer society was about such things now. Not like when she’d been young.

It was just part of her role.

“I want to inform on criminals.”

That’s it! Carol smiled as Kelly found the first of her new words. The new words that Carol had promised to teach her today. The other important ones. The yin to the whore’s yang. The sun to the prostitute’s moon. The balance. The reason. It wasn’t that easy of course. The girl’s didn’t have her training, her experience as a policewoman. That came later. How to ask questions without seeming to. How to lie. How to break into briefcases while their johns were asleep. Everything they needed to know as informants. But only once they’d learnt to be whores. To do what their madam said.

More time in the chair.

Carefully Carol removed Kelly’s blindfold.

“I want to be a prostitute.”

As she’d expected the girl’s eyes were glassy, dilated and unseeing. Kelly was totally lost in the drugs and the sounds that played under the words. She’d learn her new role.

As a whore who informed on her clients.

What could be better?

Satisfied, Carol tied the blindfold back on the girl.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute,” Kelly announced, the blindfold stopping her knowing who her audience was.

Sometimes Carol listened to the tape herself. Lost herself in it.

It was so right.

Carol loved what she did, whoring and informing. It was so good. Why wouldn’t she share it? The girls had so much fun as whores, loving every time they were fucked. Loving what the johns did to them. Making money. And all the while gathering information. Mobsters, bent politicians, crooked businessman. All the deals, the lies, the corruption. Carefully filtered through Carol and fed to the police. To the honest ones. Carol knew which ones were honest and which ones were on the take. She fed that through too.

“I want to be used sexually”

All the while she and her girls whored.

Because they were whores.

The girls never agreed at first, but eventually they did. Why wouldn’t they? Whoring was so much fun. She’d told Brenda that, so long ago. And it was still right. And informing, serving the community. It was why she’d become a policewoman. But the girls made so much more money as whores.

“I love being a whore.”

But even when Carol let them go it wasn’t over. Carol made they were still young enough to have a life, be mothers.

That was another important role. Carol had learnt that.

“I love it when men use me.”

She’d have to think about letting Ellen go soon. Patrick’s older daughter hadn’t been Carol’s first whore, but she’d been one of the first. Carol had wanted to make sure she knew what she was doing before showing Ellen how good this life could be. She’d spent the months after Patrick was arrested preparing, recruiting her first girls. Learning from Mrs Bowen. Getting ready for Patrick’s daughter. The girl had been almost twenty-one when Carol had tied her into a chair like the one Kelly was in now, Ellen shrieking and cursing at her. Carol had worried that it wouldn’t work.

She needn’t have been concerned. It had always worked.

“I do what my madam says,” Kelly recited, her voice emotionless. She’d learn how to put on whatever emotions her johns wanted. That would be one of her roles.

Ellen was still one of Carol’s best girls. But she was almost thirty-two now. If she was going to have a family then Carol was going to have to let her go.

Although not before Carol made sure Ellen understood how important it was to be a mother.

More sessions in the chair.

Caro wondered what Patrick would think if he knew what his daughter did.

Everything his daughter did.

“I love fucking my madam.” There was just an edge of eagerness in Kelly’s voice.

Carol could still remember the first time Ellen had said those words. It had been two days after the girl’s twenty-first birthday. Months into Patrick’s trial. With him in jail and his organisation falling apart no one had noticed when Ellen dropped out of sight for a couple of weeks. And afterwards Patrick had been pleased when it looked like his arrest had brought his daughter and his second wife together.

He didn’t know how close they were.

“I want to inform on criminals.”

Wainwright would probably have been amused at what Patrick’s daughter did. Ellen was a good whore. And an informant

Kelly would be good at it too. She’d make a good replacement for Ellen. Carol couldn’t resist running a finger along the girl’s thigh, Kelly moaning in response to the touch. She’d picked Kelly out herself. In the interviews for a scholarship Carol funded at the University. The university she’d attended, oh so briefly, when she’d first used the name Stephanie Chambers. The one Copeland had worked at. It let her get to know the girls. Find the smart ones, the pretty ones, the not quite sure of themselves ones.

The ones she could convince how good this life was.

Carol smiled.

In a way I’m still at College, undercover. Not really, she admitted, but close enough for a small joke.

“I want to be a prostitute.” Kelly sounded more certain now. Carol’s was sure the words were in the girl’s head.

Not that there was ever any doubt.

“I’m happy to be a prostitute.”

You will be.

No-one noticed if the girls only disappeared for a short while. Even if someone filed a missing person report the girl came back.

“I want to be used sexually”

The girl would tell her family, her friends, that she’d just needed a little time alone. That she was okay. Whatever her madam told her to say

By then, that was one of the girl’s roles. Of course, it wasn’t the only one.

“I love being a whore.”

Carol knew how to teach girls to play their roles.

“I love it when men use me.”

And then, when they started to whore, either in one of Carol’s brothels, or, if they were particularly beautiful, in the Carol’s escort agency, no-one noticed. There were no files. No links. No investigation.

Kelly was beautiful enough for the agency, Carol decided, letting her fingers slide over the girl’s trim stomach as she admired the girl’s breasts.

“I do what my madam says.”

Carol would make sure that Kelly understood what she had to do. The whoring. The informing. And everything else.

“I love fucking my madam.”

And I’ll love fucking you.

It was only right that Carol would. Only fair to the girls. A madam had to treat her girls well. As long as they stayed in line. Carol was a good madam.

It was one of her roles.

“I want to inform on criminals.”

Soon, Kelly would understand just how good it was to be a whore and an informant.

It was the best.

Carol knew that.

She stopped the recording. Just for a moment. Kissed Kelly in the middle of the girl’s forehead. Even with the sounds not playing in her ears Kelly didn’t really understand what was happening, the drugs leaving her confused, vulnerable.

“You’re my whore,” Carol whispered. Just loud enough so that she knew the girl would hear.

“I’m your whore,” Kelly replied.

Carol smiled and started up the recording again.

“I want to be a prostitute,” Kelly declared. She sounded absolutely certain now, no trace of doubt left.

Carol had left her own doubts behind long ago. She knew what she was. Madam, informant, mother.

But more than anything else.

She was a whore.

(The End)