The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The days and weeks became a blur, routine blending one into another. Get up, eat, exercise, shave, primp and preen, go to work, get fucked. Over and over. Then do it all again. The words were always with her.

I want to be a prostitute.

Carol would catch herself murmuring them sometimes, when no-one was around to here.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

She didn’t try to fight the words now.

My body belongs to the man who pays me.

She believed the words.

Carol knew that her body was the most important thing that she had. She knew she had to take care of it, like a craftsman cares for his tools. Janice’s roommate Helen moved out, taking a place with her boyfriend. Carol moved in. She knew that some of the girls who worked at the brothel drank, smoked, weren’t as careful with their health as they should be. She and Janice weren’t like that. They planned their diet, exercised together. At times Carol’s single-minded focus on her body would faze even Janice. The other girl would beg off, insisting she had to keep up her college work, while Carol would still be working on her stretches, or checking for a stray hair in her eyebrows, or working on a new style of makeup. Change became effortless, in only a few minutes Carol could switch her makeup and clothing from girl next door to office worker, from school girl to street hooker, from elegant socialite to candy striper, whatever she thought her next customer might want. The outfits slipped one to another, each a new role. Carol was used to switching roles, switching who she was. But always, now, she knew that she was a whore, presenting herself to whoever would pay her.

Carol paused, her eyes on her reflection in the mirror as she checked her look for this evening’s shift. Customers. Clients, Johns. Whatever. Carol didn’t care as long as they were men who paid her to let them fuck her. Her tits, her pussy, her whole body, just an object, something they could buy. At times she wanted to hang a “for rent” sign around her neck. It was as if she was a tenant in her own body, that it wasn’t really hers any more, that she was just maintaining it until the next man who would take temporary ownership came along. “I’m a prostitute, I’m a prostitute, I’m a prostitute,” she muttered happily to herself as she looked in the mirror.

Satisfying as those thoughts were, thinking of her pussy as something to be rented out by the hour, they weren’t the only ones in her head. There was still a little more to her than that. The policewoman was there. Sometimes weeping in the back of her head, sometimes thinking, always watching. Carol knew she had to keep the policewoman content, stop those tears before they turned to anger. She’d wheedled some useful information out of a couple of her clients. It was easy for her to tell which ones where criminals and which weren’t. The policewoman handled that. The prostitute didn’t care. What she’d found was enough to keep the policewoman satisfied, enough to keep Wainwright from pulling the plug on the whole situation. She didn’t let the policewoman out much, the whore was in control almost all of the time. That was the way Carol liked it.

Carol enjoyed her meetings with Wainwright. She wore short, tight, clothes, an attitude to match, sultry and available. Smiled at the faint hints of fear in the depths of her erstwhile boss’ eyes. She played the part of the prostitute just enough to scare him, but not enough to make him order her to stop. They had to be careful about the information Carol provided, make sure that any arrests couldn’t be traced back to her. But Wainwright knew his job. Carol trusted him. She hadn’t found anything too important yet. Useful, but nothing major. Maybe soon though. Wainwright told her that Mr. Patrick, Colin Patrick, but she never used his first name, was an important man in the city’s underworld. But Patrick hadn’t told Carol anything yet that would interest Wainwright. And for all that there was nothing about the two missing girls. She was still too new to ask the madam anything about them directly. But Carol knew she had to find something about them soon, or Wainwright would want her to give up. She couldn’t face that.

Mr. Patrick was one of her regular customers. After that first time he would always leave instructions for what he wanted for his next visit. Sometimes he liked her to dress up as an innocent teenager, all light cotton dresses, little white socks, mary jane shoes and hair in pigtails. And underneath the dress the sexiest lingerie she could find, always in pink and white, like she’d worn the first time. He liked it even better if she acted the Lolita; half-innocent, half-temptress. Hell, he was old enough to be her father. Carol sometimes wondered if Patrick had a daughter, maybe she should ask Wainwright to find out. Maybe she could use that girl’s name with Patrick. Or maybe that would be going too far. Sometimes he wanted the college girl look, curious but naive. Sometimes he wanted something more upmarket, elegant. For those times he wanted her unwilling, but with a resistance no more than feeble. Most of her johns weren’t that interested in variety.

Carol was learning how to tease out of her clients exactly what they wanted. She was becoming very, very, good at it. Her police training, her undercover work and some instinct were combining to give her skills she’d never dreamt of. A noise from Janice broke Carol out of her reverie. She could see the other girl in the mirror, coat hiding whatever outfit she’d chosen for the night. It was time for them to go.

The brothel looked as it ever did, but familiarity hadn’t yet stopped Carol’s mood lifting when she saw it. Or a warm dampness starting between her thighs. Tom told them that they had to see Mrs. Bowen before starting their shifts. Carol tensed. The delay irked her, her pussy wanted to be filled. A glance at Janice told her that her friend felt the same way. But the faint voice of the policewoman told her that she had best do whatever the madam wanted. Carol agreed, reluctantly. Putting Mrs. Bowen offside was the last thing she wanted. She might lose her place here. And that would be … bad.

Mrs. Bowen was sitting in one of her lounges when they entered, left leg crossed over right, the dim light reflecting off her expensive shoes. She waved at the other seats. “Come in dears, sit down.” Carol wasn’t sure what the madam was thinking. Being able to mask emotions went with the job, she supposed.

“I’m sure you girls just want to get to work, don’t you?” Mrs Bowen asked, a half-smile creeping on to her face.

“Um, well, yes,” replied Janice, her hands clasped in front of her. Carol simply nodded.

“Eager little things aren’t you?” Their madam waved a hand in their direction, the question obviously rhetorical. “That’s part of what the clients like about you. Some girls can fake it better than others, but you two.” She shook her head. “Never mind. I have special request for you. From Mr. Patrick.” Curiosity tugged at Carol’s mind. Perhaps some new persona he wanted? She knew how important it was to keep the regular Johns happy. Was he looking for a threesome? Was that why Janice was here? Faint tendrils of resentment of her friend crept through her mind. She was a good enough whore to satisfy her clients. Even a prostitute can have her professional pride.

Mrs. Bowen’s words cut across her thoughts. “He’s throwing a party in a couple of weeks. A whole weekend. He wants you two there.”

It wasn’t what Carol had expected. Mentally she apologised to Janice. She’d heard about bookings like this. They could be big earners. Mr. Patrick paid well. Carol was already looking forward to it. A whole weekend of whoring herself. But something about Mrs. Bowen’s look said there might be more to it than Carol thought. “What’s the problem?” she asked.

Mrs. Bowen wrinkled her nose. “Colin’s parties can get a little wild. There’ll probably be girls from some of the other establishments as well.” Sometimes the madam’s old-fashioned turn of phrase almost made Carol smile. “But he never gets as many girls as he invites people. It can get … hectic.”

Carol frowned. “Anyone ever get hurt?”

Mrs. Bowen shook her head “No, no. You should be fine. And he pays very well. Very well indeed. Just, hmm, get some rest beforehand.”

Carol could feel the excitement fluttering through her as she applied the last of her makeup. She’d spent days deciding what clothes to wear. Not that it really mattered, she thought, she expected to spending much more time this weekend out of them than in. But she wanted to make a good impression. And this was her first time really going out anywhere since starting her new life. At first all she’d been able to think of was something tight and slutty. But Janice had suggested that they dress up. They’d gone shopping, even tried on a few evening gowns. Carol had amused herself wondering what the shop assistants fussing over them would think if they knew she and Janice were a couple of prostitutes looking for something to wear for a weekend of whoring. She’d had to struggle to stop herself laughing out loud at one older woman, who’d asked if they were looking for something special for their beaus. Silly woman, Carol had thought, whores don’t have boyfriends. In the end, while it had been fun trying the gowns, they’d gone for cocktail dresses. Short, but just the right side of respectable. Easier to get out of than a gown. Blue for Carol, a green for Janice that set off her eyes. The skirt of Carol’s dress flared out, showing off her legs to perfection. She twirled in front of the mirror, watching the skirt rise. The dress was off the shoulder, its top lined with white lace, curving over her the top of her breasts and plunging between them.

“Ready Steph?” Carol could see Janice in the mirror, leaning against the door frame, her eyes rolling at Carol’s antics. It hadn’t taken long to get Janice to use Carol’s cover name instead of her real name. She’d explained to Janice that they couldn’t afford any slip-ups, that Janice had to think of her as Stephanie. They couldn’t afford Janice to call her Carol in a moment of inattention. Janice had nodded and looked thoughtful and hadn’t called her Carol since.

Carol stopped her twirling, a hand reaching out to the vanity to steady herself. Yes, she was ready. The prostitute was primped and primed. The policewoman was ready too. She’d met with Wainwright as soon as she could after finding out about the party. The bugs were Carol’s idea but Wainwright had leapt at the plan. Planting listening devices in the home of one of the city’s leading underworld figures was an unexpected bonus. Something that could justify Carol’s ill-defined assignment. Justify it for a long, long, time she hoped.

“How long since you placed one of these?” Wainwright had asked, as he handed over the three devices.

Carol frowned. It didn’t matter what she was doing now, she hadn’t forgotten her training. She could still act like a policewoman when she had to. She knew she had to get this right. To stop the policewoman in her head from protesting too loudly. To make sure Wainwright didn’t pull her in.

“A while, but I remember. Nowhere they’re going to be spotted, but not so hidden they can’t pick up what’s said. Don’t worry sir.” Carol regretted the last sentence as soon as she said it. She could see the shadows in Wainwright’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, detective?” Wainwright hadn’t bothered hiding the emphasis on the last word. “Why shouldn’t I worry?” He shook his head, concern radiating off him. “You haven’t cracked. I thought you might. Hell, anybody would. But if you haven’t cracked, have you gone native? You getting off on this, detective? How many men has it been now?”

Carol squirmed under his gaze. Wainwright was no fool and his guesses were too close to the truth. Carol was regretting the skimpy outfit she was wearing. She knew that she looked like a whore. It was part of the cover for their meetings. They looked like a whore and her client. “I know why I’m here, sir,” she forced out, her teeth gritted.

Carol could feel Wainwright’s eyes sweeping over her. Examining her? Looking for signs she had gone native? Carol shivered, she knew that it was true. She was beyond native, she enjoyed whoring herself, in ways most of the other prostitutes didn’t. But she couldn’t let Wainwright know that.

“You’re good Carol, but no-one’s that good. If you don’t get a lead on the girls soon I’m pulling you out anyway.” Wainwright’s features were set. Carol knew that look, knew how determined her boss could be. She wanted to scream. She couldn’t stop, she wouldn’t let him make her stop. But if she rebelled that would be the end of her in the police. She needed both parts of her life. She couldn’t bear the thought of the two parts of her mind at war again.

Carol looked in the mirror, running over the conversation with Wainwright. The three listening devices, the adhesive to fix them in place, weighed down her purse. She’d have to find a way to convince Wainwright to let her stay. Her pussy ached, empty, the need to be filled a constant companion. She pushed the thoughts away. She’d find a way. She had to. The weekend promised so much. Whoring. Police work. It was what she wanted.

“Yeah,” she turned and said to Janice. “Yeah, I’m ready. You right?” Janice nodded. Carol hadn’t told the redhead everything, but Janice knew that Carol had police work to do this weekend. She’d cover for Carol if the policewoman needed to slip away.

The girls knew a car was coming, but the limousine was a surprise. A wine bottle and glasses were waiting for them. They giggled and chatted on the drive. Carol knew that the eagerness she could see in Janice’s eyes was reflected in her own.

Patrick’s mansion took Carol’s breath away. Okay, she thought, it was brash and spoke of more money than taste. It didn’t just speak, it shouted. The last of the afternoon sun shone off the white of the building. Two long wings, double storey, fronted with a pillar-lined patio, spread out in welcome. Or warning, like arms raised. Towers marked their ends, like clenched fists. The centre of the building, higher than the wings, presided over the landscape, its confidence matching that of its owner. The roof swept back, up and up, the windows decorated with carvings, aping old European elegance. The tyres of the limousine crunched on the gravel as the car came to a stop before a fountain over-burdened with statues. Carol could see that the party must be well under way, judging by the number of cars already here. Lincoln Continentals, Cadillac Eldorado’s, Buicks and Oldsmobiles jostled for space with expensive European cars, Mercedes and Jaguars.

The girls were led through the house, paintings and ornate furniture making no secret of its owner’s wealth. Behind the house a vast sweep of green grass was dotted with large tents.

Carol thought that there must be well over a hundred people there, maybe two hundred, guests mingling with waiters and waitresses. There seemed to be slightly more women than men amongst the guests. Carol couldn’t believe that all the women here were prostitutes. And, to be honest, some of them, despite their expensive dresses, simply couldn’t be. Not pretty enough, too old, too fat, too, well, too not what was needed. So which ones were? Or were she and Janice the only ones here yet?

“Ladies,” a rough voice, but polite in tone. Carol’s head snapped round. A man, his features matching the gravel of his voice, but looking at home in a tailored suit stood to their left. He had corsages in his hands, was standing before a table were more were carefully arranged. He was offering one to Carol, the other to Janice. It seemed in keeping with the party until Carol noticed the faint bulge under his jacket, reminding her just whose party it was.

“Miss Laurel,” the man said. It was almost a question, but more out of politeness than uncertainty. He handed a corsage of red flowers to Janice. Laurel was the name Janice used at the brothel. “And Miss Jewel. Please wear these at all times.” He handed a corsage of white to Carol. There was a pin in the back, to attach it to her dress. She could see now that all of the women present had a corsage. Blue and yellow were the predominant colours. A few had red, like Janice. And those few were all young and pretty, wearing clothes that accentuated their bodies. Carol looked at them, how they held themselves, the way they watched the other party goers, the men, the other women. Carol was sure that they were prostitutes. Patrick was using the corsages to let the men know who was ‘available’. But if red was for the prostitutes, what was white? Carol couldn’t see anyone else wearing a corsage like hers.

Carol and Janice drifted through the party, sipping at the drinks a waiter had offered. It wasn’t long before a man approached Janice. Slipped an arm around her waist, his hand openly caressing her hip.

He smiled, a predatory grin, and said “Come on” before leading Carol’s friend away, back towards the mansion. Janice shot a small smile at Carol before disappearing into the crowd.

Alone now Carol watched the same sequence, or small variations on it, played out between guests and other women with red corsages. A man would approach one of them, some hesitant, most confident and after a few words, or none, take the woman to the mansion. And a while later they’d be back. Carol knew what was going on. But no-one was approaching her, or at least not like that. In one way it made sense. Her corsage was white, not red. But she was getting frustrated. After the second time Janice was taken Carol went back to the man who given her the flowers to check that she had the right colour.

“Yes,” the man had said, “Mr. Patrick was very specific that this was yours.” Carol couldn’t stop the frown forming on her face. She knew that there were prostitutes here, getting fucked. She was a prostitute. I want to be a prostitute. I love being a prostitute. The words echoed in her mind. But she wasn’t getting fucked. Her pussy ached with need. The thought of what was going on, what should be happening to her, made her want to cry out in frustration. She looked around for Mr. Patrick. Maybe the white meant she was for him alone. The thought soothed her emotions, made her smile. Maybe she was special. His special whore. But she couldn’t see the party’s host.

Well, if she couldn’t be a prostitute, then she could be a policewoman. The feeble presence in the back of her head grew a little stronger. The sooner she placed the listening devices, the sooner she’d escape the chance of someone finding them on her. Clutching her purse to her chest she headed into the house.

Wainwright had briefed her on where she should place them. They knew the layout of the mansion from the plans filed with the city when it was constructed. One device for the dining room, one for a library that Patrick was said to use for ‘special’ meetings and one for his office.

The first two rooms presented Carol with no problems. In the dining room the large oaken table offered the perfect hiding placed. Carol fixed the device underneath the table, where two beams met to form a corner. The adhesive paste smoothed the bug’s shape. Even if someone looked under the table, in the darkness it would take much more than a casual glance to see the device. The library was even easier. A large fireplace, which looked more decorative than functional, gave Carol the obvious location to hide the second bug.

As she moved from room to room, her undercover training helping her maintain a casual appearance over the nerves she felt, Carol saw couples heading in and out of the house. A few of the women didn’t have the red corsages. But those pairings seemed more intimate, exchanging kisses and small gestures. Carol guessed that they were actual couples. They didn’t interest her. At least not the prostitute. The policewoman made some attempt to memorise the faces, in case the information could be of any use to the police. Criminals were often particular about who their daughters or sisters were seeing, their protectiveness seeming at odds with their morals until you realised how much they treated their families like possessions. And sometimes the women chose who they liked, whatever their fathers or brothers might say. Sometimes openly, sometimes in secret. And those secrets could be used, for information, for leverage.

But the prostitute didn’t care about all that. She watched as the women with red corsages were led upstairs. Jealousy spiked in her, warring with arousal. Why wasn’t she getting fucked? For once the policewoman took control, telling the whore to wait.

The last device was the most important. The first two had self-contained batteries, long-life, but they’d eventually run down. The third device was for Patrick’s phone. It would run forever, powered by the phone’s electric current. The hardest to place. No simple matter of fixing it in place with some adhesive. Carol would have to unscrew one of the phone’s covers, then fix the wires in place. The office was unlocked. They hadn’t been sure it would be. Carol thought about searching the desk for anything useful. But Wainwright had told her not to. He’d laughed when Carol had suggested it, saying that Patrick would never leave anything lying about when that many people were wandering around his home. Carol’s fingers itched, but she did what she was told. She unscrewed the phone’s cover, shooting nervous glances at the door. If she was caught she’d have a hard time explaining what she was doing. The phone’s internals revealed she set to work, the small tools Wainwright had supplied slippery in her grasp. Nerves getting the better of her the pliers escaped her hold, falling to the floor. Cursing Carol went to her knees, hoping that she could quickly find them. She froze at a sound outside the door. Panic rose. She’d remembered to close it, and she was behind the desk. But the phone was in pieces, the situation obvious.

Carol had no choices left. After some desperate scrabbling she found the pliers and urgently set about setting the device in its place. She could hear voices outside. She was sure one of them was Patrick. Fear warred with arousal. She wanted to be finished here. The two parts of her mind had different reasons, but both agreed that the sooner it was all done the better.

The job finished Carol replaced the phone’s receiver on the handle and was slipping the tools back in her purse when the door opened and Mr. Patrick walked in, another man she didn’t recognise behind him.

Her heart in her mouth Carol could see the suspicion on the crime boss’ features “Jewel? Why are you in here?”

Carol almost ran to him. Her hand traced slowly down his chest. “Looking for you,” she purred.

Patrick smiled, a slow, cold, twitch of the face. He placed his hand over hers where it traced the lines of his chest “Party not to your liking baby doll?”

Carol pouted, “Everybody else seems to be having fun, but not me.”

Carol could feel Patrick’s other hand on her hip, tracing around to her arse. A casual, possessive gesture. His smile widened and Carol could see something, some fire, lurking in the depths of his eyes. “Don’t worry little girl, we’ll have our fun soon.”

Carol ran a finger of her free hand along the top of his belt “Why not now?” she breathed.

Patrick grabbed both her wrists, held her hands palm out before his face. “Soon, but not just yet. You wait a little bit longer.” Then he kissed her palms. “Off you go, I’ll find you when it’s time.”

Carol rubbed her body against the length of his. She couldn’t bear the wait. Her whole insides were empty, wanting to be filled. The knowledge that the other whores were getting fucked tormented her, the images running around her head. “Please,” she mewled. She could feel her nipples, through her bra and the thin fabric of her dress, as she rubbed herself against him. She didn’t care how openly she was offering herself. She was already bought. She wanted to be taken.

Patrick smiled again, white teeth showing “Soon,” he repeated as he pushed her towards the open door. “Now off you go,” he added, patting her behind. “I’ve got some business to attend to.” He guided her out and then signalled the other man to enter the room.

Carol almost cried out in disappointment as the door closed behind her. She thought she had guessed right, that the white corsage meant she was reserved for Patrick. It made her feel better, but it didn’t help with the need radiating from her pussy. Sighing, she hitched her purse on her shoulder and headed back to the party. She’d just have to wait until Mr. Patrick was ready. The policewoman was done for the weekend. Carol pushed her into the dark place at the back of her mind. The prostitute wanted her turn.

A little while later Carol was fuming as Janice was led away yet again. It wasn’t fair. She envied the flushed and happy look on her friend’s face. Carol couldn’t understand why Mr. Patrick was making her wait. In her jealousy and frustration she didn’t notice when two other women wearing red corsages approached.

“Jewel, isn’t it?” one of the woman, a blonde, asked. Like Janice and Carol the other two women wore cocktail dresses. And as with Janice Carol could see faint flushes in the other women’s faces, and the signs of makeup being hastily reapplied. She didn’t need the red corsages to tell her what part these two had in the festivities. Carol’s mouth formed a thin line. Why was every whore here but her getting fucked? Reluctantly she forced herself to be polite. “Yeah, hi.”

“Umm, I’m Tabitha,” the blonde said, “and this is Mandy.” She indicated her black-haired companion. Carol was sure that Mandy must die her hair. Black that perfect wasn’t natural. Not for someone with skin that fair anyway. Carol wasn’t sure what the other two wanted. They made small talk, about the party, about the clothes and the cars of the guests and the house’s furnishings. Just when Carol was about to give up in frustration, make her excuses and find somewhere else to sulk the blonde asked “Umm, that other girl you were with, the redhead, is her name, umm, Janice?”

Carol straightened. The two had addressed her by her working name. She guessed ‘Mandy’ and ‘Tabitha’ weren’t their real names. So how did Tabitha know Janice’s real name? And why was she using it?

Carol looked at the other girl through narrowed eyes, “Yeah, but she prefers Laurel.” She let the emphasis fall on ‘prefers’.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” The blonde was obviously flustered. Her dark haired friend cut in, shifting the conversation back to safer topics. But the pair soon made their excuses, leaving Carol alone.

She debated with herself for a moment, her fingers idly tilting a glass of wine back and forth. Then she put the glass down and followed the other girls into the crowd. She had nothing better to do. It wasn’t hard to shadow them, although Carol had to be more cautious as they reached the edge of the party, finding a place in a bay at the side of the mansion. Keeping people between her and her prey Carol edged towards a corner that she hoped was near enough that she could overhear them.

“I told you it was her,” Carol heard the blonde, Tabitha, half hiss, half whisper.

“So she’s got red hair and is called Janice. Doesn’t mean it’s her.” Mandy now, scepticism clear.

“It is, I saw her photo in the paper. She’s one of the ones that professor guy got,” Tabitha insisted.

“No way,” Mandy protested so hard Carol could almost feel the other woman’s head shaking. “If it was she’d be like the other two and they’d never let her out.”

Carol’s felt her eyebrows shoot up. “Other two.” Could Mandy be talking about Karen and Laura? If Tabitha had recognised Janice as one of Copeland’s victims then the other two could only be the missing girls. How did Tabitha and Mandy know about them? Sure, that two girls were still missing was public knowledge. But Mandy seemed to know more than that—the comment about not being let out wasn’t something she could have got from the papers. Could the two missing girls be held at the brothel where Mandy and Tabitha worked? Carol debated trying to pump the other two whores for more information, but the choice was taken away from her as a couple of guests approached the girls and led them into the mansion.

Sighing she headed back to get another drink. The lead sounded promising and maybe she could pry out of someone else what brothel the other two worked in. But for now it looked like alcohol was the only thing she was going to get inside her. She glanced at the sky. The sun was beginning to go down. By the look of the sky she’d been here for hours. The party was now illuminated by lights on poles, their electric glare looking nothing like the torches they pretended to be.

A pair of hands on her shoulders made Carol jump. A voice, Mr. Patrick, whispered in her ear. “Ready, baby doll?”

Carol felt her knees go weak, heat and dampness rising from her centre as all thoughts of the missing girls vanished. She had to swallow before she could force out her answer “Oh, oh, yeah.”

Patrick took her by the hand, led her towards the mansion. Upstairs, deeper in the building, she saw two men in suits directing another couple, the woman sporting a red corsage, to the other wing. Carol was guided, unresisting, past the men, who nodded in acknowledgement to Patrick. She was led down a corridor, their steps muffled by the long carpet. Patrick stopped and indicated a door.

Carol was hardly breathing. She knew what was coming. She was going to get fucked. She was a whore. Bought and paid for. And now she was going to be claimed. She was trembling, need rolling through her. She wanted to be taken now. She didn’t care if Mr. Patrick threw her to the carpet in the hallway. She wanted him inside her.

But it was obvious Mr. Patrick didn’t want to be that public. He was gesturing her inside. The room was large, lavish. Maybe it would have been tasteful, if there was just a little less decoration. Carol didn’t care. Her attention was focussed on the bed, large, the dark red cover screamed expensive. She didn’t have much time to admire it before Patrick caught her, spun her around to face him. His kiss was rough, his hands seeking, demanding, more urgent than usual. Perhaps he shared some of the frustration she felt. Perhaps the waiting was pulling at him as well. Carol was ready. She’d take whatever he wanted. It’s what a whore did. What she did. What she wanted. What she’d do to get fucked. She could feel herself quiver with arousal.

Her dress was gone, almost before she realised it. Thrown somewhere. Mr. Patrick took his own time shedding his clothes, his eyes never leaving her. Carol stretched and preened under the gaze. Then he was back, her bra and panties roughly yanked away.

Carol could feel his erection against her body, almost ready. Her hands brought him the rest of the way, expertly. She was an expert now. She knew how to handle a cock. She knew what a whore had to know. More than that, she was good at it. Very, very good.

When he was good and ready she reached for her purse. Her clothes were scattered across the room, but she knew where her purse was. She had her priorities straight.

She felt Patrick’s hand grasp her arm. His weight, on top of her, stopping her from reaching out.

“No.” A fierce light burned in his eyes, piercing her.

“But…” she forced out. Words were hard. Her world was burnt down to getting him inside her. She’d waited too long. She couldn’t wait anymore.

“You’ve been a good girl haven’t you?” Patrick grinned.

Carol nodded.

“Used a rubber every time, yeah?” The grin was wide, predatory.

“Y-yeah”

“Not this weekend you don’t.” Patrick looked like he was ready to swallow her up.

“I…”

“Shush. I’ll pay you double. The old bat doesn’t have to know.”

Oh god. Carol had never had sex without protection. Not as a whore, not before. Not ever. It was the one thing she had left. The one thing she hadn’t sold. Now Mr. Patrick was offering to buy it. The most intimate contact she could offer. Sex, with him coming inside her. For money. To be able to leave his cum in her. The idea was burning through Carol. Patrick would fuck her, really fuck her. Cum inside her. Pay her for it. And then she’d go back out to the party, knowing that his cum was as deep within her as it could get.

I’m a prostitute.

“I love being a prostitute.

I’ll let any man who pays me do anything he wants.

Would she let this happen? Carol tried to imagine what it would feel like. But then she imagined the money. And how much more of whore it would make her.

“I, I’m not on the pill” she whispered.

“You’ll just have to take that chance, baby doll.” Patrick’s tone was possessive, assured. Carol knew that he’d only been waiting because he knew he could take her whenever he wanted. She was a whore. Right now she was his whore. Who’d do whatever he wanted. Even this. Let him cum inside her. No protection, nothing. She’d feel it, carry it with her. Maybe even get pregnant. There was no choice. There never had been. If he wanted her to risk becoming a knocked-up whore, then yeah, she’d do that.

Patrick kissed her, not asking, demanding. A hand mashed one of her tits. Her arousal spiked, her nipples ached they were so hard, the dampness between her legs threatening to turn to a flood. She was a whore. For now she was this man’s whore. Her pussy was his and she wanted it filled.

She’d never felt so aroused, so needy, the hours of watching other whores be lead away to be fucked had pushed her into desperation. Without waiting Patrick thrust inside her, slipping easily past her opening, she was so wet. Carol moaned, her hands gripping the bed clothes. Patrick mauled her tits. She knew that she was being used. Carol didn’t care. A prostitute existed to be used. Whatever her client wanted, she’d give. And for Carol, give happily. She thrust herself up in time with Patrick’s assaults on her pussy. Carol came again and again.

She was used and ridden and when he finally came she could feel it shooting into her womb. She was left gasping for breath. Carol squirmed underneath him, wringing out the last feelings she could get from his rapidly deflating dick. Finally, she thought, finally she’d got fucked. But it wasn’t enough. Even though she was exhausted, for the needy, wanton, whore she was it was never enough. She hoped Patrick might be ready for another bout soon.

But she was disappointed. “Get dressed,” Mr. Patrick told her. “Don’t bother with the underwear and don’t fix yourself up too much,” he added, as he got up and headed for the bathroom.

Carol could hear a shower running as she looked at herself in the mirror. Why didn’t he want her to clean herself up? She could see her image in the mirror. She was flushed. Her hair was a mess. It was obvious she’d just been fucked. Maybe the fucking of her life. Then it hit her. That was what Mr. Patrick wanted. What he wanted people to see. She was his whore. He wanted people to know that he could still take a whore and fuck her to the edge of exhaustion and beyond. Carol wasn’t here just to be fucked, she was here to let everyone at the party know just how well she’d been fucked. She was supposed to go outside, dishevelled, with just her dress and nothing under it and everyone there, everyone, was going to know what had been done to her. What she was.

Carol’s breath caught in her throat. Everyone at the party would know what had happened, what she was. Sure, she was a whore. She wanted to be a whore. But the only people who knew were Mrs Bowen, the whores and the others who worked at the brothel and her customers. But if she did what Mr. Patrick asked then everyone at the party would know. She didn’t have a red corsage, the sign that marked out the prostitutes here. Nobody knew yet. But if she did as Mr. Patrick commanded, then they would. They all would. Could she do this? Parade herself around like a whore? No, not like a whore, Carol realised, as a whore. It’s what she was, but was she ready to make it that public? Could she? It was another bridge, one of many, taking her further and further away from what she’d been. Sinking her deeper into her new life of prostitution. She stared off into the distance, half-hearing the policewoman in her head railing against the idea. But that was easy to ignore. She had no choice, Carol told herself. She couldn’t risk putting Mr. Patrick offside. That would make Mrs. Bowen angry and risk her place at the brothel and that… Carol didn’t want to go there. So, yes, she would do as she was told, like a good little whore. She’d make sure everyone at the party knew she was a whore, and just who’s whore she was. She’d do it.

And more than that, she loved the idea.

I’m happy to be a prostitute.

I’ll do as I’m told.

The words never left her.

The rest of the weekend was either being fucked by Patrick or making it clear to everyone at the party just how well he’d fucked her. Even as the alcohol flowed and the party grew wilder, couples not making it back to the mansion, Patrick made sure no one but him laid a hand on her. It gave Carol a sense of pride, a perverse one according to the policewoman lurking at the back of her mind, but pride just the same. When they weren’t fucking Carol was edgy, needy, wanting. Patrick took his time, getting his energy back. He wasn’t a young man. But it was obvious he was making a point. Was the waiting intended to make her more desperate, hopelessly eager when he came for her? Or was there no thought for her at all? Just the possessiveness of a typical criminal? Whatever the cause the result was clear. She was horny, wanting, her pussy ached to be filled. She could tell how bright the eagerness was in her eyes whenever Patrick was near her, how she melted into him whenever he touched her. She knew that he was putting on a show, making it clear how much this pretty young prostitute was willing for him to do whatever he wanted to her. Outside the mansion, in front of the guests, he’d grope and fondle her, put a hand up her dress, her tits and pussy open to him. He played her like an instrument, teasing and building her desire and then making her wait. She didn’t just allow it. She welcomed it. It was beyond the simple acquiescence of money for sex. She knew that everyone could see her need. It was obvious in her flushed face, her breathlessness, her eagerness to push herself against the older man, to rub herself against him. She didn’t care. All the people there knew she was a prostitute. It was right. It was what she was and Carol didn’t care how many people knew.

The policewoman watched, quiet for most of the weekend. She edged out just once, when she asked Patrick about Mandy and Tabitha.

“Why are you worried about them, baby doll?” he asked, stroking her cheek. “Jealous or something?”

“It’s not that. They seem pretty popular. Mrs. Bowen wanted to know if anyone here was worth recruiting.”

Patrick laughed, hard and short. “Yeah, she’s a shrewd one. Don’t think Joe’d let them go though. She’s welcome to try, but if Joe gets angry it’s her problem.”

“Joe?” Carol asked.

“Yeah, Joe Conti.”

Satisfied, the policewoman let the prostitute take back control. And she was just happy to be fucked.

It was two tired but satisfied whores who returned to the apartment Carol and Janice shared.

(To be continued)