The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The following story contains adult material. If below the age of 18, go outside, get some fresh air and do something healthy (g).

If you ARE 18, then you should know the following story is about women who are forced through mind control to participate in non-consensual sex, public humiliation, and b&d, in both m/f and f/f situations. Both the characters and occurrences in this fiction are completely fictitious.

Please forward all comments to

The Conditioners

By Marlissa

2 of 33

Chapter One: A Question of Acquisition

Joanne Morgan developed an immediate distaste for the man who had just entered her office, but was not sure why. Perhaps it was because of the way he had rudely ignored Kirk, Pamela Henessey’s assistant, who had brought him up to her suite and was now anxiously awaiting instructions, as if the boy’s mere presence was an affront. She knew male secretaries were a relatively new phenomena, but at her company, they were de rigueur for her executive cadre. Men like Klaw would have to accept the trend with more grace-or risk offending potential partners.

Like herself.

Joanne Morgan smiled. “Coffee, Mr. Klaw?” she asked, voice capped with the thinnest veneer of hospitality. He shook his head and she dismissed Kirk with a curt nod. “Well,” she continued, “you’ve called the meeting. What do you have in mind?”

The man remained silent for a moment. Considering how to approach her? Reviewing his options? They had met briefly at a conference in Lucerne some three months ago—perhaps he’d start there. Maybe she’d even enjoy fencing with this competitor.

No.

Her sense of distaste increased. There was something unpleasant she had heard or sensed about him at the time. Something the conference attendees had been tittering about. She cast about in her memory for the incident, but couldn’t recall the specifics. It had involved a young woman.

Damn!

He was appraising her now. And she had the uncomfortable feeling that he had just given a B—tops.

Aw, screw him.

For forty-three, she knew she looked damn good. She wasn’t about to undergo plastic surgery to impress guys like this.

Finally, he spoke: “I’d like to buy your company, Joanne.”

She was taken a little aback. Offers had come her way before, albeit not quite so straightforward. But Cain was a smaller player in the international consulting field—more specialized in the scientific and defense business. Why would he even want to buy a firm like Morgan & Company, with it’s broader consumer and manufacturing based clientele?

The answer hit her immediately.

Of course.

The Jackson Organization. A small, medical imaging firm. Morgan & Company had gone head-to-head with Klaw’s outfit over that client and had landed the contract. That must be what brought him here.

Her sense of dislike for the man made her speak quickly. “We’re not for sale. Period.” She smiled perfunctorily, her eagle-sharp features tightening in satisfaction at rejecting the offer out of hand.

Klaw smiled to himself, savouring some secret irony. “You’re not for sale. Hmmm.” He looked around her plush office. Appraising it. “It would be easier that way—no muss, no fuss. But you’re not interested at all—even if the offer was as generous as it needed to be?”

He had asked the question almost, it seemed to Joanne, as if he rather hoped she would turn down the as yet unspecified generous offer.

Strange.

“No, I’m afraid not. I built this company from nothing. My reasons for turning you down have little to do with money. You see, Morgan & Company is an example of what women entrepreneurs can do if they put their minds to it. That’s important to me. I’m not willing to sell at any price.” Particularly, she thought to herself, to a creep like you.

Klaw nodded. “Very well. But I’m afraid Joanne that you’ll soon see what happens when men put their minds to something.”

As he rose from his seat, he noticed and then picked up the photo of Katie, Joanne’s daughter. “A very pretty young lady. Your daughter?”

Off balance, Joanne nodded. “Yes. Katie’s my daughter. She’s attending the London School of Economics for post-graduate work.”

Now why had she been compelled to give him that information?

He surrounded this thought with a second of silence and then replaced the picture on the desk.

“Good bye, Joanne.”

Instead of offering his hand, he gave her a curt bow of his salt and pepper head and left without a further word.

Strange duck, Joanne Morgan thought, then plunged herself back into her piles of paperwork.