The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

College Undercover

Part 6

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 © 2018

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.

Cities, Carol thought as she drove towards the brothel, are like any other living thing. Different parts for different functions. Some you like better. Some look better. And those two aren’t always the same. She hadn’t been surprised when Janice had told her where they were going. Nothing too up-market. Not near any homes, at least not where the good and decent lived, no matter how many of their husbands and sons might want the services on offer. Nor near any shiny offices where the great and the powerful worked. No, the offices near the brothel were the small ones, the ones that struggled day to day to keep the cash coming in meeting that going out. Trucking firms, storage, manual labour, repairmen, one-man-band professional offices. The ones that lived in fear that the next day would be the one when the money ran out and everything came crashing down. Carol could taste it in the air as she closed the door of her Dodge.

The brothel was in a building wedged between two others that towered over it. Like its companions its frontage was blank, non-descript. It wasn’t too tall, only three stories, but Janice said it went a long way back. But something about it seemed different. Maybe it was that Carol knew what when on behind its closed and curtained windows. Or maybe it was the nervous anticipation growing in her. She’d been on auto-pilot for most of the drive here, simply following Janice’s directions. She hadn’t wanted to think about what she was doing. Hadn’t wanted to pick at the newly healed scars in her mind. The two parts of her, the whore and the policewoman, weren’t at war anymore. But it was an uneasy truce and Carol didn’t want to test it any more than she had to.

She hesitated at the door. Carol knew that crossing that line meant something. Intellectually she knew that she could turn back at any time. In the hall inside, up the stairs, she could even turn and run half-way through the conversation with the madam. But she knew that she wouldn’t. She knew that, in some important way, this was her last chance to turn aside. Once she stepped inside then her course would be fixed. She could see the policewoman in her head, feel the hesitation in her, the fears and desires pulling her in different directions. The determination to find the missing girls, the horror at what lay ahead. Carol watched a tear run down the face of that image in her head. She caught her breath as the policewoman’s resistance faded just a little bit more. She could do this. She could always do what she had to do. Go through the motions. Play the part. She’d done it so many times before. But now she wasn’t sure that she was playing a part, pretending, this felt more real than any part she’d ever played, any cover that she’d ever had. Maybe more real than she had ever felt in her life. Outwardly calm, but trembling inside, Carol followed Janice across the threshold.

A man, large, muscular, his head shaved and his t-shirt tight across his chest, lounged against the wall.

“Hey Janice, didn’t expect to see you, got an extra shift?” His eyes flicked to Carol. The look wasn’t unfriendly but Carol could tell that he was sizing her up. She knew muscle when she saw it, and the slight change in posture that meant that she didn’t register as a threat. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Stephanie.” Janice gave the name Carol had used back on campus. “Stephanie, this is Tom.”

“She here for a job?” Carol could feel Tom’s gaze on her again. Evaluating her. But this time it was different. This time his eyes lingered on different parts of her body.

“Uh huh,” Carol was impressed. She couldn’t hear any strain in Janice’s voice. Carol was trained to tell when people were lying, but Janice seemed a natural. Useful for keeping their cover, but it meant she’d have to be careful in taking anything the redhead said at face value. It was reassuring in a way. She’d remembered how Janice’s evasiveness had made her suspicious when they talked in Janice’s apartment. Maybe it was the bond of their shared experiences that let Carol tell, maybe Janice had just got better at lying. Whatever, as long as no-one here suspected.

Suspected what? The question floated in her mind. She was here to be a whore. She wanted to be whore. What were they to suspect? That she was a whore pretending to be a policewoman? Carol knew what it felt like to play a role. The idea of being a whore didn’t feel like that. That felt real. It felt right. Being a policewoman? That felt like a role, like all the covers she had played before.

Carol felt her body respond to the big man’s eyes. She stretched and turned to give him a better look. She knew that he was thinking of her as a whore. She knew that she should feel outraged, but even the policewoman helped to smother that thought. A whore pretending to be a policewoman pretending to be a whore. One way or another Carol was here for a job, whatever anyone else thought didn’t matter, and if she could enjoy her work, well, so much the better.

Tom slowly nodded, “Yeah, I reckon she’ll do. Mrs. Bowen’s in. Let me check if she can see you.” Carol noticed a shiny black telephone on a long shelf next to where the big man stood. A quick conversation later and he waved them on their way.

Janice led her through the building. There was a large room, filled with couches and cushions. Two women lounged there, skimpy lingerie hiding little. Janice exchanged a quick greeting with one. The other had looked away, the fake smile dropping from her face the moment she realised that they weren’t customers. The two women weren’t as young as Carol or Janice, nor as pretty. Carol could see past the makeup, to the lines and tiredness that marked their faces. She knew that could be her, in a decade or so, worn out, waiting for whatever passing trade the morning brought, then making way for the younger and more attractive girls at night. Part of her wanted to care. Most of her didn’t. She realised that soon she’d be sitting in that room, dressed like them, waiting for some man to come and choose her. Pay her. Pay her for sex. She realised that she didn’t care where it led. It was what she had to do. A wave of dizziness hit her and she had to hurry to catch up to Janice.

The madam’s office was on the ground floor. Janice took her past steps which Carol imagined led to rooms where, where, well, where she’d be getting fucked for money if this worked out. Carol had to fight to keep her mind focussed. Images of what would happen, of what she wanted to happen, threatened to overwhelm her. Part of her just wanted to rip off her clothes and run back to the waiting room. Sit there in her underwear, or naked if she had to, and beg the first man through the door to pay her for sex. She struggled to keep the need under control.

It wasn’t exactly an office that Janice ushered Carol into, certainly not like any office Carol had ever seen. There wasn’t a desk, or any filing cabinets, or anything. It looked more like a sitting room. There was a large lounge set, high backed, plump, the material embroidered. Matching cushions were neatly placed in the corners of each seat. Light came from delicate lamps spaced around the room, casting shadows where an overhead light would have lit the whole room. Small tables, covered in fine lace, were dotted around the room, near each seat. A large, new, colour television, slightly out of place in the almost antique feel of the rest of the room, dominated one corner. It looked more like the room of a rich aunt than the office of a brothel.

An older woman, maybe in her fifties and wearing a crisp black dress, was sitting on one of the lounges, speaking on a phone. Carol guessed that she must be the madam.

The woman waved them to a seat. Carol could smell a scent in the air, something almost, but not quite, like the aerosol her aunt had used. It added a layer to the air, heavy and cloying. A fan whirred on a table in the corner.

The woman hung up the phone then paused for a moment before clasping her hands together in her lap. She leant forward towards Carol. “Tom tells me that you’re looking for some work.”

Carol nodded, “Yes, ma’am.” She couldn’t relax in the chair, nervous energy holding her muscles tight.

A slight smile twitched the corners of the woman’s mouth, “Well, Stephanie. It is Stephanie, isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for Carol to reply. “Why should I let you work here?”

“P, please I need the money.” That was a lie, but Carol needed to be fucked, fucked for money, and she let all that need flow out through her voice.

The woman’s smile widened, fractionally, predatory shadows flitting through her eyes.

“That’s why you want to work here. It doesn’t answer my question.” The madam leant back in the chair, left leg elegantly crossing over her right. “But why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, then we’ll see.”

Carol relaxed a little, but she tried to keep up the nervous appearance. Reciting a false life history was something she was used to, something she put herself through over and over before every assignment. Criminals were suspicious by nature, at least most of the ones she encountered were, and in undercover work you had to make sure that you knew your cover story. She reeled off the details of Stephanie’s life, growing up in a small town, coming to college, dropping out and hooking up with a card sharp. All fake, but she she’d lived that life, at the college and on the gambling case, for so long it almost felt like the truth. She finished with George’s “arrest” and how she was now almost broke, living on Janice’s charity.

“Well, uh, that’s me,” she finished. “Umm, I suppose lots of girls like me have come through here. I don’t claim to be anything special.” Carol’s fingers had laced together. She could calm herself if she wanted to, she knew that, but she thought a display of nerves might be more persuasive.

The woman smiled, more genuinely this time. “Oh every girl is special, in her own way. But, like I said, why should I hire you?” She slowly brought up a finger, painted and manicured, and pointed at Carol.

“Well, I, uh, I think I’m pretty and I can do this.”

The woman leant forward again. “Can you? That’s the question isn’t it Stephanie? Just what is it you can do?”

“I can, can be, a, a prostitute.” Carol swallowed after she said it. There it was, out in the open. She’d told the madam what she wanted, what she said she could do. She could feel it, almost taste it. What she wanted was so close.

“Can you?” Mrs Bowen snapped. Carol jerked back, surprised at her sudden change in attitude. “Stand up,” the madam continued. “Come on,” she added, a hint of sarcasm in her voice, “I don’t need girls who are stupid or slow. I need girls that do what they’re told.”

Hurriedly Carol got to her feet.

“Stand there,” the madam commanded, pointing to a point in the middle of the floor.

Carol stood where Mrs Bowen had indicated, not moving, as the madam slowly circled her. She wanted to turn and watch the other woman, but she knew that wasn’t what she was supposed to do.

One circuit, then another, then a third. Carol tried to read the other woman’s thoughts in her eyes, her face, as she passed through Carol’s field of view. Mrs. Bowen didn’t seem unhappy at what she saw, but for all Carol could tell she might have been looking at a display in a department store.

The madam was behind her when the next order came. “Strip.”

Carol’s hands shot to the buttons of her dress. She thought about drawing it out, putting on a show. But she hadn’t been told to do that. Following the order to the letter seemed the right idea. She could see Janice watching her, but the other girl’s expression was as inscrutable as the madam’s.

The silence as Carol’s dress fell to the floor, as she stepped out of it, was broken by another command. “Put on a show for the rest of it.”

Carol hesitated, just for moment. All she had on was her bra, panties and high heeled sandals. She imagined a man sitting in one the chairs. Tried to imagine getting his attention. She wanted him to choose her. She had to make him choose her. She could feel the policewoman protesting, her cries more feeble now, but still a presence in her mind.

Carol put her hands together behind her neck, then ran them up through her hair. She shook her head, tilting it back to thrust out her chest. Then she looked at Mrs Bowen, her tousled hair obscuring her view out of one eye. “He’s there” she said, pointing at the chair she had picked out earlier. The man she imagined sitting in it almost felt real now.

Then some instinct took over. Real, or learnt, or imagined, Carol couldn’t tell. She leant over, pouted at the chair, her hands cupping her breasts, offering them up to her imaginary target. Then she half turned, one hand running slowly over her upper thigh, her arse. She shook her head again, hair flying, as her hands sought the clasp of her bra.

Carol could feel arousal building within her, feel herself starting to get wet. She wanted to fling her bra away, but she made herself take her time, made herself slowly reveal her breasts, no, her tits. Held the bra to herself before slowly dropping it.

Then she teased with her panties, edging them down and back up. Never enough to full reveal anything, but enough to hint. She could see the man in her imagination. His eyes never leaving her. His gaze following her hands as they caressed her body. She could see his rising passion, see him wanting to possess her.

Then her panties were gone and she fell to her knees before the chair. She’d kept her heels on. Maybe that hadn’t been quite what Mrs. Bowen had intended, but Carol thought she was safe enough. She looked over at the madam, feeling the sexual hunger that lit up her eyes.

The madam considered her. One arm was wrapped lazily across her chest, supporting the other as her hand reached towards her face, her chin coming to rest on the thumb. “You’ll do” she nodded, a half-smile on her face. “You’ll do.”

A few hours later Carol was back, sitting in the madam’s office. Mrs Bowen had told her to go get something a little more “interesting” than the underwear she’d worn in the morning. Carol had raided her savings to buy what she hoped would satisfy the older woman. The lingerie was pink and white, frilly, tight around her body. Low cut in front, her tits almost spilling out. Carol hadn’t even thought of calling them breasts. Mrs. Bowen had given another of the half-smiles Carol was coming to know after she again removed her dress, showing off her new attire.

Carol had expected to be out front in the large room, where she knew Janice now was. Or at least that’s where Janice had headed. Maybe she already had a customer and was upstairs, having sex. Having sex for money. Carol could feel herself quiver, need, anticipation, arousal, running through her mind, her thoughts trailing to ribbons. But the madam had told her to wait here. Carol looked around the room. The policewoman, small in her head but still there, thought about searching the office. But the madam wouldn’t have left her here if there was anything too secret. Carol decided it was best to play it safe for now. She wasn’t sure if she could manage anything requiring too much co-ordination anyway. She was shaking. She held a hand in front of her, watched the small involuntary movements of her fingers.

Carol almost jumped out of her seat as the door opened. Disappointment ran through her as she saw Mrs. Bowen framed in the doorway. She’d hoped that it would be a man.

“You are eager, aren’t you?” the madam mused as she strolled over to Carol. “I like that. Don’t worry he’ll be here soon.”

“W-who?” Carol managed to force out, her throat tight.

“Your first customer, you silly girl.” Mrs. Bowen shook her head. “Some men’ll pay extra for a girl’s first time. Consider it a signing-on bonus.” She folded her arms and looked down at Carol. The erstwhile policewoman could feel herself being evaluated. She hoped she passed. “You ready? Got everything?”

Carol nodded. They’d gone over what Mrs. Bowen expected from her girls. Eager, agreeable, find out what the customer wanted and give it to him. If he wanted her to resist, then she would, if he wanted her to take control, then she’d do that. Carol didn’t care, whatever it took to get paid for sex. Her pussy was already wet, the need in her aching. Mrs Bowen had told her what to do if her body wasn’t ready, the jar of lubricant she’d find in every room. But Carol knew she wouldn’t need that. She would need the condoms though. Mrs. Bowen didn’t want her girls catching anything. Bad for business she’d said. Something the madam and the policewoman in Carol’s head agreed on.

“Room seven, get up there and lie on the bed.”

“Yes ma’am,” Carol said, heading out of the room as fast as the high heels that she was wearing would let her. Her head felt so strange. Part of her was so focussed. She could feel smoothness of the polished wood under her hand as she gripped the banister on the stair, the texture of the ornate wallpaper as her other hand glided along it.

The pictures on the wall were bright and clear and she could pick out every detail. Yet her thoughts felt like they were trailing away into ribbons. She could hardly string two words together, even in her head. She couldn’t believe what she was doing here. What she was heading, almost rushing, towards. There was a heat, a desperate need, already rising in her body. She wanted this, wanted it so badly. Needed it.

Every sound was magnified, her foot fall on the thick carpet, her breathing. Tension ran through her. Her erect nipples pushed against her bra. She could feel everything like it was the first time.

Which, in a way, it was.

Her breath caught as her hand fell to the doorknob. It would be here, in this room, that it would happen. What she wanted. What she dreaded. What she needed. She could still run. But she could hardly even remember why she might want to do that. If she ran away she wouldn’t get fucked. Wouldn’t get paid.

Wouldn’t be a whore.

I want to be a prostitute. I’m happy to be a prostitute. I want to be paid for sex.

Carol couldn’t put two words together, but the words could. They knew what they wanted. What she wanted.

Carol could only agree.

Carol wasn’t sure how she was supposed to lie on the bed. Just relax? She couldn’t do that. The anticipation she felt was too much. Look sultry? She didn’t know if that’s what the man would want. In the end she lay there, on her side, watching the door, knowing that the tension she felt would be obvious. Maybe that’s what he’d want in a girl for her first time. Carol was no virgin, but she felt more nervous than when she’d lost her cherry. Then it was all need, youthful rush, and she’d hardly realised what was happening as the clothes had been shed. Now she had what felt like hours to imagine what would come. She could feel herself trembling with need. Her imagination ran wild, images of a man taking her, thrusting himself into her, she could feel her nipples tightening, in tune with other things low in her body. The words ran around and around and around in her head, pushing everything else into insignificance. The policewoman in her head screamed at her, telling her to get up, run away. That she didn’t have to do this. That she couldn’t really want to do this. The images of her pussy stuffed with some stranger’s cock roared over the tiny protesting voice.

Carol’s imaginings broke into a million pieces as the door opened. Her world shrank down to the man who stood there. He wasn’t particularly good looking, but he wasn’t ugly either. He was a good deal older than Carol, late 40’s, maybe even 50’s, his hair greying but no sign of baldness. He wore a suit. It seemed to fit him well, Carol thought it might have been tailored. There was an air about him, of someone used to getting his own way.

“You Jewel?” he asked, as he shut the door behind him.

That was the name Carol had agreed with Mrs. Bowen. Carol pretending to be Stephanie who’d called herself Melissa who was going to use Jewel as her name as a whore. Layers upon layers. She could feel herself losing track of which layer was who, what each one meant.

“Yes sir.” It was the whore who answered, whatever name she used. The whore who wanted this man to take her.

“Get up.”

Carol didn’t need to be told twice. She scampered off the bed and stood in front of the man. She could feel her eyes wide, staring up at him. This is the man who is going to make me a prostitute, she thought. I want to be a prostitute. That last thought echoed around her head, as if it was suddenly empty, devoid of other thoughts. Even the policewoman had gone silent.

“You can call me Mr. Patrick.”

“Hello, Mr Patrick,” Carol smiled, unsure whether to try to look inviting or hesitant. Whatever she managed seemed to satisfy him. He covered the distance between them in two assured strides. Wrapping his arms around her he bent down and kissed Carol. She could feel her hands, fingers splayed, feebly waving in the air on either side of her as the man bent her head back. One of Mr. Patrick’s hands slipped down her back to roughly caressing her arse, the other rose up, cradled her head, holding her in the kiss. Carol could smell his cologne, taste the faint hint of cigar smoke on his breath. She pushed her body into his, her arms reaching around him, finally joining him in the embrace. His tongue explored her mouth, demanding access. Her feeble attempts at resistance only seemed to encourage him. After some time he pulled back, a broad smile not reaching his eyes. His hands travelled up her sides, reached her breasts and began to roughly fondle them. Carol could feel her nipples, tight and hard, as his fingers rolled them.

He stopped, then spun her around, pulling her back against his body, his hands returning to her breasts. Carol pressed herself back against him as his hands mauled her tits, cupping and squeezing them. She could feel his erection through his trousers, pushing between the cheeks of her arse. Her need, her arousal, spiked higher. His lips were on her neck, her hair roughly pushed aside. Her hands reached back, trying to find something to hold on to. She could hear herself moaning.

His lips explored her neck and ears, one hand firmly placed on her tits. The other dropped to her groin, fingers pushing at her nether lips through the lingerie. He didn’t ask, he demanded. Carol didn’t mind. She was a piece of meat, only there to do want he wanted. She was his, bought and paid for. Her arousal rose, hot and alive, the dampness between her legs threatening to turn to a flood, her orgasm almost within reach as the man’s hand ground into her pussy through the thin material. Carol hips thrust forward, pushing her centre against his hand, offering herself to him. She was breathing deeply, unable to restrain herself as the feelings rushed through her.

“Eager little thing aren’t you?” He sounded confident, patronising. Carol could only moan in response, her need not letting her form actual words.

She blinked in surprise as he released his grip, pushed her away. Not hard, but hard enough to make her stumble. She caught herself on the edge of the bed.

When she turned around he’d already taken off his jacket, was loosening his tie. “You just wait there, sweetness,” he indicated the bed with a nod of his head. “Keep yourself amused for a minute.”

Carol clambered onto the bed, turned around to watch him as he removed his clothes. He was careful. The suit was tailored, expensive. The thought crossed her mind that he didn’t want it crushed by some whore. He wasn’t in bad shape for his age, but he was no athlete. The fat of middle age showed at his waist, around his chest. Carol didn’t care. She knew, dimly, that she’d never have taken such a man to her bed before, before, well, before. But now was different. Now it didn’t matter what he looked like. She was his. Her pussy was his, her tits were his, her body was his. Like a candy bar, to be eaten up and forgotten.

The thought thrilled her.

She wondered what she was supposed to do while she waited. Unbidden one hand started massaging her breasts, the other traced the line of her slit through the panties of her lingerie. She felt herself, wet and needy. Sparks shot from her finger as she caressed her lower lips. She could feel her hips starting to grind.

Carol’s eyes focused, realised Mr. Patrick was standing in front of her. Her attention narrowed to his cock, almost fully erect, inches from her face. The cock that was going to be inside her soon. That was going to seal her fate, make her a prostitute. Quickly she slipped the condom on Mr. Patrick’s cock, gently caressed it, willing it to final hardness.

Hands were on her, undoing the lingerie, slipping the panties down her legs. A few brief touches and he pushed himself on top of her. She opened herself, wet, willing, eager. Her breath caught as he forced his way into her, her cries and moans drowning out the faint sounds of weeping running through the back of her mind.

I’m a prostitute, I’m a prostitute, I’m a prostitute, she thought over and over as he ploughed into her. She didn’t care what he did, how roughly he pawed at her, what he took from her. Nothing could take away the exultation she felt. Her consciousness dissolved into acquiescence and a blinding stream of orgasms.

After it was over Carol lay on the bed, exhausted, looking at Mr. Patrick through heavy-lidded eyes. Sweat and other fluids trickled over her body. Even with her anticipation she was shocked at how much she’d enjoyed what had just happened, how much she’d needed it.

“Thank you.” Carol could hear the breathy, sexy, tone of her voice.

Mr. Patrick paused in buttoning his shirt, furrowed brow, a questioning look. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Yeah, you were good. I’ll see you again.”

As he left, closing the door after him, Carol knew that she had to get up, clean herself up for her next customer. She could hear the policewoman crying faintly in the back of her head, but she didn’t care. She lay there, for a few minutes, savouring the feelings still rippling through her, the need that she’d felt for so long finally under control. As she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, looking for her flimsy garments she did a quick mental check. Yes, she still wanted to find the missing girls, get whatever other information she could. She scowled at the policewoman in her head, telling her that she would get what she wanted, telling her to stop crying. But right now Carol knew that what she wanted most was another man to pay her to let him fuck her pussy. She was a prostitute now. And she loved it.

(To be continued)