The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sallow in the amber light of his hexagonal cell, D3 gazed at the stained-glass walls above him, unsure whether he was hallucinating.

There She was, sixfold: in her translucent gown, hands on hips, her serene smile taunting him. The six identical images of The Queen watched him with calm disdain. They crowded him in a hexagonal throng. In his head he heard their united chorus: Obey and serve. There is no other life but to serve your Queen.

He lost consciousness.

D3 awoke to the sounds of a leaf-blower humming far away, and the twittering of songbirds. He became conscious of a blindfold over his eyes. He twitched his face muscles to try and loosen it, to no effect. He tried to think straight: Where was he? He felt the fresh country breeze through an open window and caught the faint sickly scent of honeysuckle.” I’m still in The Hive. In one of the guest rooms, probably.”

He was lying on a firm cot. His tongue probed his sore mouth. He was missing a tooth. His arms and legs were bound. But mind was now clear on what had happened to him: They’d try to reprogram him, and when that had failed, they’d resorted to violence.

He heard a door open and people entering. Two? Three?

“Ok. Sit up. Here. We’re going to help you.” He recognised D6’s voice: Well-spoken. Educated. And implacably, infuriatingly calm.

Strong hands grabbed his ankles firmly and swung his legs over the side of the cot. Another pair of hands, gentler, took his shoulders and set him seated upright.

The gentle hands undid his blindfold. He blinked in dazzling autumn sunlight. He’d guessed right: He was in one of Hive’s guest rooms. D6 was standing before him and watching him. He saw two others in the room: Workers, in uniform. A man, and a woman. He recognised the man as one of his assailants in the cell. He was tall and heavy-set. He was leaning on the door, guarding the exit, his face expressionless.

The woman was shy-looking, in her early thirties. Hers must have been the hands that had sat him up. He’d not seen her before. She was oriental: Chinese, or Korean, he guessed. Big Manga eyes. Her smooth forehead showed the tattoo of her Hive Number: W406. She seemed to have some medical background, because she asked him a lot of questions, and checked his eyes and pulse.

“So guys,” D3 said brightly, looking in turn at the three of them.” What’s the crack, as the Irish would say?”

No answer. Fucking zombies. W406 avoided his gaze.

He repeated it, slowly, baiting them: “I said: What’s—the—fucking—crack?”

The male sprung from the door.

“Shut up, you fucking bumble, or I’ll—”

But D6 intercepted him and motioned him back.

D3 smiled grimly. The more they intimidated and strong-armed him, the more they showed their own fear. He turned his defiant face towards W406. Indeed there was fear in her eyes. But the fear was not for herself, but for the Hive.

“Please, don’t... Please don’t,” she murmured.

He taunted her: “’Please don’t?’ Please don’t what exactly? Please don’t be bloody and beat up because it reminds you how fucked up this place is? Please don’t—oh what’s the fucking use of talking to you.“

His shoulders slumped.

The four of them remained there for some minutes in silence, until they heard quick, staccato footsteps approaching; the hair on D3’s arms stood on end and his heart raced with anticipation and fear; the two Workers shifted uneasily. D6 held the door open, head bowed.

The Queen entered. She smiled indulgently when she saw D3, as though she’d found her errant child. D3 didn’t smile back. He stared sullenly at her for a second, and then looked away. She knew he was struggling to resist her. She knew him better than he knew himself. His nerve faltered.

Her rich silky voice commanded the others: “You can leave. Thank you. Yes all three of you.”

He noticed she was holding a notebook. It was his. So that’s how they had found him out: He hadn’t hidden it well enough.

Without a word, the Queen walked to a sink in the corner of the room and poured a glass of water. The tap, tap of her heels drew his gaze down, to her ankles. Always in her presence his eyes were downcast. She returned and sat down on the cot beside him, her thigh barely in contact with his. Gently she fed the cool water into his mouth. His dick stiffened, and he felt a sudden urge to grovel with gratitude at this small gesture. But it turned almost instantly to self-disgust as he realised how easily his steadfastness crumbled at her mere presence.

With supreme effort, he spoke, attempting irony.” So can I leave too, my Queen?” Fear, pain and exhaustion rendered his voice harsh and slurred.

“No. You, a drone, abused your trust and broke the rules, which as you know carries a punishment.”

“Punishment?? I’ve had the crap kicked out of me, and been locked in a reprogramming cell for God knows how many days. What was that then, a fucking reward?“

D3 writhed against the ropes. It hurt. But it fed his anger and cleared her poison from his mind.

“Shh. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have let them do that. I didn’t know they’d be so violent. But it looks to them like you weren’t just threatening to leave, but were actually intent on destroying the Hive.”

Yes. He had been: If they hadn’t let him leave, he would have brought the Hive down around him.

The Queen scrutinised him in silence for an agonizing minute. He tried again to return her gaze, but then screwed his eyes tight shut.

“You see that, don’t you? That’s what upset them. And it saddens me. That you have so much destructiveness in you. Please, open your eyes.”

She was so calm and reasonable. He opened his eyes. He started to feel wretched and stupid.

She touched his knee lightly with her fingertips. He trembled, as though she was pumping electric current into him.” You know, you’re still one of the very few people I trust. And I do still trust you, even now, Richard.”

Richard. Yes, that was his name, once.

She sat quietly, letting the silence weaken him. Although he knew her technique better than almost anyone, he was completely powerless against its effect: Wait, let the words sink in deep down.

“My Workers would do anything for this. To be so close to me, here, on the same bed, as you are.”

Pause.

“Yes, they would do anything for this. Some would even kill for this.” The menace in the remark was not lost on D3, and it had the effect of breaking her spell. Quickly she saw her mistake: Threats were no use. She changed tack:

“Do I have to remind you, of all people, of the Creed?”

She intoned: ‘The cycle of Want and Gratification can be broken. Only by surrendering Need can we end the Endless Suffering.’”

Once again she paused. Outside a songthrush sang sweetly.

“’Only in service...’—say it with me, Richard...’”

In unison they recited the Creed:

“’Only in service can we be free. Only by giving up everything we want can we obtain anything we desire.’”

D3 continued, alone, as The Queen watched him:

“’The Hive keeps us, and we keep the Hive. The Queen serves us, and we serve the Queen’".

Los Angeles, Two years earlier.

The bar was getting full, but Rich Brunner had seen his target and was seated next to her. He pushed away oyster shells.

“Hi, I’m Rich.”

The hooker’s eyes widened; she barely contained her laugh.

“Nice to meet you, Rich.”

“And you are?” What the fuck does it matter what her name is.

“Bella”.

Rich began to sing. Thiiis is the night, it’s a BEA-U-TIFUL night, and they call it Bella Notte...”

“Yeah, like that.” Bella eyed him and quickly figured him out, to a T: Late forties, spends time at the gym. Watches his diet. A Leg Man, definitely. And he has money. Works in TV or movies, but on the business side. Plays golf on Saturdays.

“So: ‘Bella’. Is that a stage name? Are you an actress?”

She knew he was trying to be cute, and that he knew full well what she was.

“No, I’m a sex worker.”

“Excuse me?”

“A sex worker. I have sex with guys for money.”

“Really? A sex worker...” Rich nodded appreciatively.” Are you on your break?” That did it: She broke a laugh.

“You tell me.”

“So how much does a sex worker get paid, for, say, a whole night?”

Bella was getting bored with this joker’s banter: Get the fuck on with it or fuck off.

“It depends on...”

“I know, I know, it depends, it depends...”

“...On in-call or out-call, and what, if any, your kink is, Rich. If it helps you decide, my place is here, in this Hotel. That will save you taxi fare. What is your kink, Rich? Is this what you like?” Bella pulled aside her long dress, which had a slit running all the way up, revealing a long shapely leg. She pulled further, right up to her hip. Rich gawped; his cock stiffened. Deal.

They rode the elevator to her sixth-floor suite. A couple from out of town joined them on the second floor. The four of them stood in that crowded space, embarrassed, avoiding each other’s gaze. Rich broke the silence, asking Bella loudly:

“So, who does your taxes?”

She unlocked her door with a card key and led him in. He looked around her big, well-appointed suite; she was doing all right. His dick was rock-hard with anticipation—and the Cialis he had taken earlier had kicked in.

Bella held out a hand.” Well?”

“Oh yes. Here...” Rich pulled out a billfold and slowly peeled off $100 bills. He purposely gave her $500 more than they had agreed. He wanted to see her reaction.

“Count it.”

“I trust you.”

“I may have made a mistake.”

“You told me you’re an accountant.”

“You’re going to trust an accountant?“

“I am.”

“Count it. It turns me on.”

“Oh, you’re into that? Financial stuff? You should have told me you had a fetish. Fetishes cost extra. Cough up.”

“Count it.”

“Not until you cough up.”

“But if you count it—”

“Okay. But there better be at least $500 extra.”

She counted the money.” Good boy.”

“Sucker! You could have doubled that.”

“Sure, sure. Like taking candy from a baby. I know how it works, Rich. I have a client who pays me five G’s, just to watch me use his Amex card. But today I really need...”—she leaned close to him—“...A good fucking.“

She undressed, down to her underwear. Her Louboutins she kept on. Her exquisite curves took his eyes for a roller-coaster ride; down from the nape of her long neck, around her smooth shoulders, between perfect breasts squeezed gently but firmly together by her black lace brassiere, across her flat belly and down, down. She pulled her panties up tight, turning them into a thong cleaving her pussy lips.

He undressed quickly and fell to his knees before her. He grabbed her firm round ass and breathed in her exotic perfume deeply, burying his face in her belly. He took the top of her lace panties in his teeth and tugged gently down. And on each side of her, down over her hips. She finished the job for him: She let them drop, stepped daintily out of them. She sat at the foot of the bed and lifted them delicately from the carpet using the point of her shoe. She straightened her leg, pointing her shoe towards him, and letting her panties dangle before his face.

“Oh yes. You’re a leg man alright. Sniff my panties, Rich.”

He inhaled. That perfume... She stood, scooped her panties from the carpet and fed them into his greedy drooling mouth.

“That’ll shut your yap. Now get up off the floor and fuck me. Fuck me, you fucking loser.”

Dirty talk. She knew what he wanted.

“C’mon, stand up. Fuck me. C’mon you perverted little fuck. Fuck my wet pussy.”

She took his hand and guided it onto her pussy.” Feel those hot, wet lips. All for you.”

He held his fingers over his nose, inhaling. He licked them. He approached her, eyes ravenous. She backed away in mock fear, until her calves were pressed at the foot of the bed. He pressed himself against her until she fell back onto it, with him on top of her.

“Ow, you’re too heavy, you fat fuck.” She wrapped her legs around his and rolled them over until she was on top. She pushed her hands onto his hairy chest until she was sat upright, straddling him.

“That’s right. You lie there on your Jew back.”

He burst out laughing, which made him choke. He pulled her panties from his mouth.” Sorry, did I just hear you say my ‘Jew back’?”

But she was not going to be side-tracked by his humour.

“Put my panties back in your filthy Jew mouth and shuddup.”

He did as he was told, and lay back, ready to burst. She shuffled back until she straddled him at the knees. She let a long bead of drool trickle from her lower lip onto his dick, which convulsed at its sudden touch. She ran her cool hands up and down his glistening shaft. She filled her mouth with more saliva and spat onto his belly, until there was a shallow glistening pool on his navel. With a middle finger she pressed his dick down into the pool and rolled it around in it until it was lubricated. She squeezed his shaft tightly in her fist and scratched his pee-hole with a fingernail.

“That tickles...” She dug the nail hard until he winced.

“Lie still. I’ll tickle you alright, fucker. I’m gonna make you cum like you’ve never cum before. I’m gonna give you a coronary. And that don’t kill ya, then I’m gonna make you lick all your cum out of my pussy till it’s cleaned out. Until there’s not a single one of your little Jewish tadpoles left inside my Catholic pussy.” He burst out laughing again, and this time, even she had to join in, in spite of herself.

“Then after that, you’re gonna lick my asshole with your forked Kike tongue and clean that out too. You’re gonna get that tongue deep in my asshole and clean it good.”

“That’s right. But first I’m going to shove that fat, ugly Jew cock of yours inside me. Right now. Oh yeah. Oh yeah...” She shuffled up and squashed his dick under her mons. She squeezed her thighs on his hips rhythmically. He started to cum. He couldn’t stop himself...

He felt his hot juice spurt over his face, his chest.

“Fuck....”

“That’s right fucker. That’s it. Cum till you’re dry, fucking Jew.”

He lay there, as the ecstasy of his orgasm faded.

“Wow. That’s the best sex I’ve ever had with an anti-Semite.”

Bella laughed.” You know it was just a game. I’m not really an anti-Semite.”

“Oh, don’t spoil it for me, darling”.

“Ok. And about eating my pussy. You know I don’t actually allow that.”

“It’s okay, I had dinner earlier.”

On his way home in the taxi, he felt unbearably horny again.” Jesus Fucking Christ, when will it end?”

The Uber driver eyed him in the mirror, but said nothing.

“Stop here. Yes just here”. The driver parked outside a strip club.” Have a nice evening sir. Good place. Ukrainian. Like me. Beautiful Ukrainian girls”.

“Yes. Beautiful Ukrainian hookers. Thank you.”

Rich arrived home at 4 AM. He kicked off his shoes and opened his laptop. And hit cams.com. He fell asleep after spending a frustrating hour or so trying to find a model who wasn’t playing cheesy Russian pop songs for background music.

He was woken the following day by his mobile phone ringing. He looked wildly around for it, then realised it was still in his pocket of his jacket, which he was still wearing. He fumbled for the phone.

“So? You coming, buddy?”

It was Paul. Fuck, this was Saturday; he’d forgotten that he’d booked a round of golf with him.

“Yeah. Yeah. Three PM, right?”

“No, you schmuck, Two PM. Which is in an hour. Fuck, You sound like shit. Rich you gotta fucking see someone about this. I mean it.”

On the third hole, Paul resumed his advice before teeing off.

“You know, it’s ironic. It’s really ironic.”

“Ok, it’s ironic. Play your shot, already.”

“I mean, two guys, wealthy, successful, both spend every waking hour horny and frustrated. But in my case it’s because I’m married and don’t get any, and in your case it’s because you’re single and never fucking stop. I mean you never fucking stop. What time did you get in last night?”

“I know. I should see someone.”

“You should. You should see someone.”

On the fifth hole:

“I dunno, Rich. Maybe you just need a vacation.”

“What vacation? My whole damn life is a vacation. I need a not vacation.”

“A not vacation?”

“Yeah, like a work camp.”

“Yeah, Rich, maybe a concentration camp. You know, Arbeit Macht Frei. Yeah that’s what you fucking need. A fucking concentration camp. That’ll fucking cure ya. I’ll look into it if you like. Richard. You stupid fuck: You need to see someone. You’re an addict. Okay?“

“Ok.”

“Look, I know someone. Not personally, but she’s highly recommended. I mean, this woman is the fucking best. Almost impossible to see.“

“Go on.”

“Yeah. Jack Weiss saw her.”

Rich snorted.” Jack Weiss? You mean for his cocaine habit? Look I’m not ...”

“An addiction is an addiction. And trust me, this lady knows addiction.”

“’Lady’? Is she hot, this lady? Is she a, a what, is she some kind of a...”

“Shuttup, asshole. She’s a nice English lady. She has a place, a retreat in England, she works out of London, but she has an office here in LA too. She deals with the top people, Rich. The top people. Politicians, movie stars. Royalty. She’s expensive. Reassuringly expensive.”

“Yeah, but a fucking retreat? I don’t need rehab, for Christ’s sake.“

“Maybe you don’t, maybe you do.” Paul put a hairy hand on Rich’s shoulder.” Just call her. Okay? Please.”

Rich sighed.” Aight. Ok. I’ll call Mrs Twiddlepussy.”

Tea and Scones

Rich jogged along Santa Monica beach, trying to keep up with the athletic young woman ahead of him. Her ponytail bounced in tantalising rhythm with her steps. She was wearing Nike black leggings, adorned with the words “JUST DO IT” leading up from the side of her knees, over her firm thighs, to her hips.

He was hypnotised by her ass. The sound of his breathing, locked in time with her footsteps, started to become a repeating command: “Just do it... just do it... just do it...”

He felt the uncontrollable horniness growing within him, and gained on his prey. Now he was less than two yards behind her...

Suddenly he stopped, panting. He reached for his phone.

“Yes, yes, Mr Brunner, she has read your email, and as we said, she will get back to you. I’m sure you can understand that Ms Sanders is very much in demand, and won’t be available to see you until April at the earliest.”

Rich tried to slow his breath.” You did tell her how urgent this is?”

In the two months since that conversation on the golf course, his sex addiction had reached the stage where he was no longer sleeping. His nights, and thousands of dollars were spent every week with hookers, or online with Cam Models, jerking off almost hourly. Now he was getting uncontrollable thoughts of rape.

And in that time the name of Lee Sanders had somehow cropped up all over the place. He’d read about her in the Washington Post. One of his friends had mentioned her in conversation. And of course he’d perused her web site and had been suitably impressed by the testimonials.

“Look. Jane. Jane isn’t it.”

“Yes, this is Jane. You ought to know by now, after the number of times you’ve been calling us.”

“Yes. Sorry. Jane, I’m prepared to pay. I mean a lot. I’ll pay you personally $1,000 if you can get me an appointment with Dr Sanders.“

“I—She’s away right now.”

“Where? London? China? I could see her anywhere. Anywhere is convenient. I’ll take the next plane out.”

There was a pause.

“Ok, Mr Brunner...”

“Richard.”

“Mr Brunner, I’ll see what I can do.”

He hung up. But within a few seconds, his phone rang.

“Yes. Yes this is he. HELLO! Hello! Finally. Thank God. Finally. Hello. No, sorry, it’s just I’d never thought I’d get to speak to you. No, please don’t apologize, it’s me should be apologizing for being such a pest. Poor Jane. Yes. Yes I did offer her $1,000. I was desperate. I hope you don’t... Oh, it worked! Well that’s okay then. I’m not usually the bribing type.”

The next morning, Rich was on a flight to London. And for the first time in weeks, he slept soundly, for the entire eleven-hour flight.

Rich shaved in the airport and took a cab from there to Lee’s office in Paddington. He buzzed an intercom by a large forbidding gate.

“Who is it?” A voice asked through the tinny intercom speaker.

“Richard Brunner. I’m here to see Lee Sanders.”

“One minute, the gate entry thingy doesn’t work. I’ll come and let you in.”

The gate opened. Behind it was a pretty row of gardens, looking out onto a willow-lined canal.

“Hello, I’m Lee. My place is just through here.”

“Hi, Lee.” Rich liked her immediately. She was probably in her early fifties, above average height, slim, slightly skinny perhaps. She had soft, full pink lips and wise, grey-blue eyes that made him imagine a Scottish moor, all cloud and dew and heather. Her hair was bleached blonde, gathered with a band at the crown of her head. Her dress was a blue and grey floral Laura Ashley design. Rich guessed she hadn’t changed her hair or dress style for forty years.

Rich, following her along the path to her place, checked her out from behind. She had a very good figure. Nice-shaped ass. Her dress was slightly too short for her age, but it showed off her legs. Young legs. The overall impression he got was of a Yoga teacher, or a retired ballet dancer.

Nice looking. But to Rich she looked way too “hippy” to inspire much confidence that she could actually do anything for him. He was expecting someone with a more professional and slick appearance.

And the gate not working, and her “office” too: It was the cramped living room of a little houseboat. Quaint and romantic, to the point of being distracting. But Richard fought his scepticism: So she’s a little eccentric. Big deal. What do I care?

Still, with all those clients, paying $3,000 a day and up, for consultations, she could at least afford fancier and bigger premises?

“Tea?”

“A Cuppa tea. How jolly nice. And scones, too, I hope.”

If she got his mockery, she didn’t show it: “No scones today. But I have some delicious walnut cake.”

“Oh—kaaay.”

Lee laughed.” Don’t worry. We haven’t started yet. And I can assure you, that by this time tomorrow, you’ll be cured. For ever.”

“Or my money back?”

“You won’t want your money back. Now drink your tea. And relax, Richard. This is all good.”

Richard drank his tea. And maybe it was her polite manner, the jet-lag, or the tea, but within minutes he felt deliciously relaxed.

“Let me explain how I see your situation, Richard, based on the notes you’ve sent me.

“Your immediate reason for seeing me is to cure you of a negative behaviour cycle, whereby shortly after having an orgasm, you need another one.”

“Correct.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to tell you something you won’t want to hear: This behaviour cycle is deep-rooted; perhaps you’ve not manifested it before, at least not so destructively and obviously. But I’m telling you Richard, I’m telling you...”

She paused. Well? Don’t keep me in suspense!

“I’m telling you. You are, deep down...”

Another pause. Richard blinked, and tried to focus.

“Deep, deep down...”

Rich’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Deep down, you know where it comes from. You know the truth. You’re weak. You know this. This is your nature. Deep, deep down, you’re weak, you’re lost. You try to keep this from everyone. You act strong, but deep inside... deep inside...”

Rich tried to move his mouth to respond, but found he was unable.

“It’s okay, Richard. It’s okay. It’s okay to be weak. It’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay. It’s okay to be a loser. Nobody can be a winner all the time. It’s okay. Now, wake up!”

Rich stirred and slowly opened his eyes.

“Fuck. Fucking hell. Wow. How the hell did you do that? Did you spike my drink, or what? Fuck. Sorry, you probably don’t swear. Fiddlesticks. Bother and befuddle. I’m impressed. Really, I’m impressed.”

Lee laughed.” Good. Now we’re going to start the cleaning. Spring cleaning, until all the clutter is gone. How does that sound?”

“Delightful.”

“Good.”

The session continued for many, many hours. Sometimes Rich flagged, and sometimes he joked. But Lee always brought his focus back. A few times he cried. There was a short break for lunch, and then further rounds of hypnosis.

It had grown dark by the time the session ended. Rich felt exhausted, and crabby. Part of him felt sure that the whole thing had been a waste of time.

“How are you feeling, Richard?”

He didn’t know quite what to say: He didn’t really feel any different.

“Tired.”

She watched him for a minute, intently. Then she appeared to make up her mind about something.

“You’re now cured.”

“I am?”

“Yes. Just like that. Believe me.”

He really, really did want to believe her. Somehow he didn’t want to let this nice lady down.

“Well, thank you. And I promise I’ll try and behave.”

“Uh-uh—That’s two escape routes: If you promise, you can break it. If you try, you can fail. Say it again. No escape words this time.“

“I’ll behave.”

“That’s better.”

Rich donned his jacket, but was hesitant to leave.” So, you don’t think I need to see you anymore?”

“No, you don’t need to see me, but, if you’d like to see me, just to let me know how you’re getting on, that would be nice.“

Rich, to his own surprise, responded: “Well, what if I felt like seeing you again, just because I like you.” He added hastily, “You see, I come to London on business sometimes.” That was a lie.

“That would be nice too. Call Jane at the office next time you’re here and she’ll arrange it.”

Rich was disappointed.” Don’t you have a direct number?”

“I don’t give it out. Richard, you have to leave now.”

“Ok, ok. I’ll call Jane. It was really nice to meet you. I’ll recommend you to everyone I know.”

“Thank you, Richard. Bye now. Safe flight.”

LA Confidential

“Are you going to eat that?” Paul eyed the last soft-shell crab roll.

“No, you are. I’m done.” Rich wiped his chopsticks and slid them into their paper cover.

“Sure? Because I don’t really want it.”

“I’m done, I’m done. Eat.”

Paul picked the roll with his fingers and popped the whole thing in his mouth. Still chewing, he eyed Rich appraisingly.

“You look good. I told ya. I told ya she was the best.”

“Yeah. The best.”

“What? You sound a little disappointed. Maybe you didn’t want to be cured.”

“Maybe. I dunno. I kind of expected, well, I expected to be happier now. But instead I’m just—bored, I guess.”

“Maybe you should go back to work. Or take up a hobby. One that doesn’t involve your dick.”

“Yeah, I thought about that. Work, I mean. It’s pretty hard to motivate myself to be honest. I mean, I don’t need the money.”

“Neither do I, but it gets me away from the missus. She still calls me an asshole, but at least she can’t call me a lazy asshole.”

Rich looked at his friend wistfully.

“Cut the crap. You and Celine are happy together. She’s wonderful and you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know it. And I also know what you went through, after Maggie. Any guy would be the same. Maybe not so fucking extreme, but you know, it’s pretty common to go a little nuts after a divorce.”

“Yeah. Well I’m done with that. ‘The cycle of Want and Gratification must be broken.’”

Paul was startled by this strange remark.

“Is that one of Mrs Twiddlepussy’s mantras?”

Rich felt a flash of annoyance.” Yes, that’s one Lee’s mantras. Among others.”

Paul stared at him. “Let me ask you something: And forgive me if I’m out of line here—”

“—When have you ever been in line?”

“—Just tell me, because I don’t want my best pal to turn into an even bigger schmuck than he already is: Are you turning into a fucking Buddhist, now? What is this woman, the Maharishi?”

“She’s not the Maharishi. I can tell, because she doesn’t have a beard.”

Paul ignored Rich’s attempt to lighten the tone. He was concerned for his friend’s well-being:

“Ok, so did she, what, hypnotise you or something? Because, you know, I detect a gleam here... I definitely detect a little culty gleam happening here... you know, I lived in Berkeley, I’ve seen...”

“Hey, don’t worry. I’m just, figuring stuff out. But yeah, she did make me think. She’s pretty deep.” At the word ”deep” he recalled her voice.

“Hey! You didn’t fall for her, did you?“

Even after twenty years of knowing him, Rich was still regularly astounded by Paul’s shrewdness. He looked like a dummy, but by God he was quick; there was no point in trying to bullshit him.

“I think I might have done.”

Paul burst out laughing.” Well, what are you going to do?”

Rich joined in the laughter.” I don’t know. I was thinking of calling her for a date.”

“Well, good luck to ya! I mean it. Seriously, good luck, old friend.”

The waitress appeared. She was cute. Paul got to her first:

“Check please. My treat.”

“Thank you. Can I tell you something? Promise not to tell anyone this: Not even Celine.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve had the weirdest fucking dreams since I got back. Every night, the weirdest dreams. And she was in them a lot.”

“Who, Celine?”

“No, stupid: Lee. Lee was in my dreams. Last night was a doozy: I was in jail, for something serious, like murder. You know, a life sentence. And she came to visit me in jail, like she was from a church and this was her good deed, to visit condemned prisoners.

“So she visited me, and we had tea and scones there in the cell, and she was like she is in real life, very polite and English good manners and all.

“And then she tells me, ‘I’ve spoken to the governor, he’s willing to let you out, if you come work for me.’”

“And, so you go and work for her in her big mansion in the country as a butler?”

“Well, almost. I go and work for her, but my job is looking through old photo albums. My photo albums. And sorting out which photos to keep and which ones to throw away.”

“Is that it?”

“No. Still, it’s pretty obvious so far, I mean, the interpretation?”

“Okay, I get the symbolism in her getting you out of your prison—your mental prison. And sorting through photo albums is like cleaning out your head. Like after my mother died I did the same thing. With the family photos. Clears out the crap.”

“Okay. So explain this next bit, Sigmund: Next thing in the dream, I’m going down on her. I can actually taste her pussy in my dream, like it’s happening for real. It’s fantastic. But then, two cops burst in, and she’s arrested. Turns out she has some kind of blackmail scam going, to do with the pictures.“

Paul thought for a moment.

“Maybe you don’t trust her. I mean, part of you doesn’t want to trust her, is trying to fight her influence off. I guess it must be pretty scary, letting someone you hardly know see inside your head. All the ugly and embarrassing shit. So the addict in you is trying to turn her into the Bad Guy. Hell, I was suspicious of her too when you started quoting stuff she said. Frankly she does sound a tad kooky.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s it.”

“You know what, Rich; just go with your heart. There: I bet you’d never expect to hear that from me. But I mean it. Stop figuring, stop being an accountant.”

“Ok. Thanks. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome. Of course, there’s also another interpretation of your dream.”

“Yeah? What?”

“That she really does have a blackmail scam going.”

The Flowers of Venn Street

Not for the first time during the three days since he arrived in London, Rich wondered what the fuck he was doing here.

He hadn’t called Lee’s office. He didn’t want any more stalling from Jane. He had to see Lee soon.

So he’d flown to London with the intention of meeting her “accidentally” somewhere nearby where she lived. He knew he was unhinged, he knew that most likely she would figure him for a crazy stalker and call the cops, but he couldn’t think of a better plan.

And now here he was, sitting on a mild September afternoon in jeans and tee shirt at an outdoor French Café on Venn Street in Clapham, breakfasting on coffee and croissant. He’d followed her yesterday morning after she’d left her place. She’d passed along this street. So he decided to stake out here hoping she would do the same today.

The waitress came out with his check. He fumbled for money and stared at the array of British coins in his palm. He asked the waitress to help him with the right money. She was the sort of girl he would have flirted with, and probably over-tipped, before his cure. She smiled kindly as she helped him with the coins.

“Richard?”

He turned. Lee stood just behind him, carrying cut flowers wrapped in paper. Sunglasses hid her eyes. She didn’t remove them.

He was flustered, but hoped he hid it behind his smile.” Hello! How are you?”

She smiled back, but didn’t reply. He had had an excuse rehearsed for their “chance meeting”, but now he’d been taken by surprise. He blurted unconvincingly:

“I’m here on business. I’m staying not far from here. I was actually thinking of stopping by but I know how busy you are. In fact I was going to call your office, but—”

“Richard. Stop.”

He fell silent. She removed her sunglasses.

“Why are you here?”

“I—I wanted to see you. Again. Not for, I mean, I just wanted to see you again. Lee.”

“Well, now you’ve seen me.”

“Yes.” Rich felt foolish. He should just go. He should just get back on that fucking plane and go.

She put the flowers on the table. They were crimson and pink, matching her blouse and skirt. But she didn’t move or say anything. She was waiting for him to talk.

“Won’t you sit down?”

She pulled out the seat opposite him and sat down. She ordered a café au lait.

After a minute of silence, she asked, “I can see something’s bothering you, Richard. Something’s still not right, is it? Here?”

She leaned forward and placed her hand over his chest. At this gesture he felt like weeping. He gazed down her smooth, delicate hand, then at her face. Her blue-grey eyes seemed to see into the deepest core of him. She was so beautiful.

An impulse came to him suddenly to go down on one knee and propose marriage.

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you. Or maybe I’m just —”

“— Don’t. Don’t edit. The first words you say should be the only words you say, because the first words you say come from the heart.”

Her coffee arrived. She took a sip.

Rich felt blissfully calm and content in the cool sunlight, watching the pigeons rummaging for crumbs. Lee broke the silence:

“My place is nearby. I mean my house, not my office. Let’s go there. I need to put these flowers in water. And I want you to know who I really am.”

With these mysterious and unsettling words, she drained her coffee, picked the flowers from table and stood up to go. Rich, following his heart, followed her.

The House That Jack Built

Lee’s house was a marked contrast to her little boat. It was a massive detached Victorian town house, surrounded by a high hedge, set in a quiet tree-lined street in Clapham Village.

A bicycle stood propped up on the wall by the broad front door.

Inside, the house was quiet, simple and elegant. There were few signs of modernity anywhere, except for a large iMac perched on a cluttered mahogany desk in the front room.

Rich, who was familiar with the housing market in London, guessed the place was worth over five million pounds. That was more appropriate for a woman earning over half a million a year.

“Do you live alone here?”

“I don’t spend much time here. But yes, when I stay here, I like to be alone. I don’t see clients here.”

She led him to a living room. It looked out onto a large leafy garden, bordered with rhododendrons and tall oaks. A monkey-puzzle tree stood by the immaculate lawn.

“Sit down.” She indicated a huge and comfortable armchair.

Slightly taken aback at her curt tone, He obeyed. She disappeared from the room, and came back carrying a vase with the flowers she had bought. She set it gently on a round table. Finally she seated herself on a large sofa, the big brother to his armchair. She seemed in no hurry to say anything.

“You said I need to know who you really are. So: Who are you, really?”

“I don’t feel like talking right now. Let’s just sit for a while.”

Had he said or done something to piss her off? Was she just moody? He couldn’t figure her out. But her demeanour made him reluctant to ask her any questions.

Eventually she spoke.

“Who I really am... Okay, I’m going to tell you who I really am, Richard. You may not like the real me. But I ask you to listen, without interruption, withholding judgement, until I let you speak. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

The Queen’s Speech

“I’m true British aristocracy. Few people, least of all foreigners like yourself, really understand what that means.

“My full name is Rose Margaret Sanders-Beaconsfield. I changed my name to Lee in honour of gypsy Rose Lee, and dropped the ‘Beaconsfield’.

“My family has a profound sense of entitlement which has been fostered over the generations. They would probably unnerve and anger you, an American Jew, with their air of superiority. And my brothers and sisters and I were all inculcated with this attitude from birth.

“We had nannies, servants, gardeners, housekeepers. Our private tutors were in no doubt as to their role: They were in the pay of my family, and their status was no different than the gardeners who tended and grew the orchards.

“But there was, in my case, something more. I had something my sister and brothers, and even my parents, didn’t have: I believed, I knew that I had a sort of psychic vision which gave me power over people, which I could employ to get my own way. I could make people do my bidding. By the time I was five, I was fully aware that I was different from everyone because I had this power. It made me feel isolated and aloof. I didn’t relish it. In fact I prayed to God every night to be relieved of this unasked-for magic power. I just wanted to be normal.

“When I hit my teens, I rebelled against my parents, as most teenagers do. And of course they were unable to reason with me or control me.

“I was at an all-girls boarding school. The rules and constraints there didn’t make any sense to me at all, and I ached to run away. I knew some older boys from the village, boys who rode motorcycles and took drugs. I fell in with them. I was curious about heroin. I used to watch them shooting it up and becoming docile and mindless. I wondered what would happen to my psychic powers after I’d taken it. Whether I’d be free of it. I started smoking smack. Then I started shooting it, and within a few months I was a junkie. Unlike the village boys, I had the wealth to maintain my addiction without resorting, as they did, to petty crime.

“When I was eighteen I met another boy, George, an aristocrat like me, who was also unhappy at school and wanted to leave. But he didn’t have the strength of character I did.

“He became obsessed with me and followed me around like a big dog. I used to enjoy setting him challenges, calling him “My Loyal Knight”. Once I set him the task of stealing his father’s gun and playing Russian Roulette in front of me.

“We moved into a caravan in Gloucestershire and lived in a kind of glorious squalor there for a year. I got George into smack too. I don’t know whether you’ve taken it, but it’s a wonderful drug: It’s heaven on earth. Joy and respite. But of course it can destroy you. Unfortunately it did that to George. He died of an overdose one night. We were in bed at the time. I woke up beside him and he was dead. From that day, I stopped taking it. It was easy to do. I felt the withdrawal, but heroin’s seduction was no match against my insurmountable willpower.

“George’s death wasn’t really my fault. His weakness was bound to lead him down that path sooner or later. Like you, Richard, he was congenitally weak-willed. But I felt very guilty about it, and it gave me a sense of responsibility about my power, which I’ve maintained ever since.

“I thought about what I should do next. I considered entering politics, but decided instead to study psychotherapy and addiction treatment. I enrolled in a course at the University of London.

“I moved to Clapham, into a communal house not far from here. There were committee meetings every week. I hated it. Everyone was miserable, although they would never have admitted it. They couldn’t even see it. The men called themselves feminists, and the women tried to act like men. Then I realized something: I alone knew what was wrong with the way they ran things. And I could fix it: The house needed to be run the way my family had run our house. It needed servants. It needed chambermaids, cooks, and footmen. And it needed a mistress of the household.

“There was one man in particular, Jamie, who was insistent that the place should be run, in his words, ‘more democratically’. He annoyed me. He called me ‘The spoiled duchess’. I decided to begin with him.

“Late one night Jamie and I were alone in the kitchen. There were dishes in the sink. I ordered him to wash them, but he refused, saying that it was not his turn to do them, and besides, it was about time I got my own hands dirty for once. I was studying hypnotherapy as part of my university course at the time. I decided on a little practical test of what I’d learnt. I said to him half-jokingly, ‘How about if I hypnotise you into enjoying doing the dishes so much you’ll beg me to let you do it every day’.

“He laughed at my audacious challenge. When he realised I meant it, he accepted. I knew that in accepting the challenge, a part of him already wanted to obey me. So it was easy: I made him slow his breathing, and his thoughts, until he became receptive to my will. Then I spoke to him as though he were one of my kitchen staff: ‘You’ll wash the dishes, every day from now on, because deep down you know it’s your place and it will make you happy. Don’t fight it, Jamie, give in to your destiny.’

“When I’d finished, he grinned at me and said ‘Is that it? That’s so pathetic!’ He thought it hadn’t worked.

“But I simply smiled back at him, and waited. And waited. He started squirming. I could see his hard-on under his jeans. Eventually he just got up out of his chair and washed the dishes, without a word. He continued to be the household dishwasher every day from then on. Because I knew, I really knew, that deep down he wanted that role.

“Starting with Jamie, I took over that house. One by one, they fell under my rule. It came naturally to me. I ran that house the way my parents ran my childhood home. A few left, but most of them stayed, because they preferred it. I gave them orders, and that created order and harmony. I never raised my voice, but I knew they feared to disobey me.

“After I finished my studies, I was ready to launch my profession as a hypnotherapist.

“I bought the houseboat, and started my practice there. Many of my clients were American, so I opened an office there too. I moved to Los Angeles for a few years, but came back. Then, last year, I met someone who changed my life.

“One afternoon I had a phone call from a young lady called Clare. She was the daughter of one of the women from the house. The mother had become an alcoholic, and the daughter, like me, had run away from home with a boyfriend, and they were living on a narrowboat on the canal. He was into drugs, and worse. He was a nasty man, and a bully. He was pimping for her, and beating her. She asked me if she could stay with me.

“I looked after Clare, like she was my own daughter. And through her I learned about online dommes. That’s what she did. She would pose and tease and pout on camera, and wear strap-ons and brandish whips. All that rubbish. I was ignorant at the time of the magnitude of the online sex industry: I didn’t even have a mobile phone, let alone a computer. I’d never used the Internet, or sent an email. All that technology seemed completely pointless to me. And it is pointless. It’s a wrong turn in our evolution. I’m going to teach you that soon, Richard: That’s not the way to a happy life.

“But anyway, I learned quickly, and decided that I needed to get involved. To change things, like I did in the house in Clapham. They were on the wrong track. I, of all people know what it really means to be a true female dominant. These poor girls were just victims. They preyed on the weak, but were preyed upon in turn. The were both the parasite, and the host. If it wasn’t their pimps, it was Apple, it was Mercedes who would suck their money from them while they in turn sucked money out of their victims.

“There’s something wrong, Richard, with the whole Capitalist system. It’s like a huge version of heroin addiction, a huge parasite, keeping us in an endless cycle of want and gratification.

People aren’t happy. The money flows around and around, and people aren’t happy.

They tried Communism. That failed. They tried Fascism. That failed too.

They all fail, because it’s always the men in charge.

“I’m sorry. That was a rant. Let me get back on track:

“Through Clare, I made contact with a number of online dommes, and offered them a training course in domination using hypnosis and other persuasive techniques. It’s become extremely successful. Woe betide anyone who gets caught in the web of a domme who I’ve trained. One or two of them are making millions every year.

“Some of those girls are just, just poor people, using their sex appeal to climb out of poverty. They think that they’ll find self-respect through money.

They’re very good at what they do, but none of them have the vision or ambition that I have. I’ve started a project, a kind of social experiment. It’s my bid to change the world. It’s called The Hive. It’s a society, modelled on bee society. I have about fifty people involved, and it’s growing, I’m getting new volunteers every day. They’re all people like you. Financially successful people, who feel there’s something missing, that money just can’t fill.

And you’re going to be part of it. In fact you already are part of it. You came to me. You followed your heart and it led to me, because you know I can offer you true happiness. I’m going to put you to work. But not washing dishes. I have a job that will suit you better.”

“And now you can talk.”

It’s the Pheromones, Stupid

Rich stirred.

“This Hive. Presumably you’re the Queen Bee. Getting all the honey.”

“Yes. But the honey goes to feed the Hive, not to me. I don’t need a lot of honey. Or money. I have enough.”

“Look. Lee, I really don’t know what you want me to say. I think, I think you’re just too…” —psycho bordering on criminal?— “I mean, this is too weird for me. I really think —“

“Don’t think.”

“Why the hell shouldn’t I fucking think? What’s so damned wrong about thinking?“

“Because when you think, you put up a wall inside yourself.”

“Yeah, to keep you out of my brain. I admit it: I mean, you fucking told me yourself. Your, whatever you want to call it, your psychic power. You can get inside my brain.”

“Yes. I can. And I can see inside it, and know your deepest desires.”

“No, you’re, you’re implanting stuff. You’re trying to. But I’m not letting you.”

“That’s true, you’re not letting me in. And I’m not going to force you to. Because I know you’re smart, and will end up seeing things my way. I don’t need to use any of my powers on you. It wasn’t any psychic power that brought you here, to me.”

“I’m not so sure anymore.”

Lee stood up, agitated.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Richard. Didn’t you hear what I just told you? I told you things about myself I’ve never told anyone. Anyone. Just stop being so afraid. Oh, God: How can I make this any plainer: You’re right for me Richard, and I’m right for you. I need you to serve me. And you need someone to serve. It’s who you are. And that’s why you’re here. Because you know it.”

“I came here, because I fell in love.”

“No. You came here because of pheromones.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Jesus, can you just talk like a sane person for one minute?”

“I don’t know what else to call it. So I call it pheromones. That’s how the Queen keeps the cohesion of the hive. The beehive is run by the Queen Bee’s pheromones. And you followed them to me, all the way across the Atlantic. Richard, you’re a born honeybee. A honeybee without a Queen.”

Rich laughed. But she meant it. That did it.

“Okay. Look, Lee, I gotta go. Good luck with your experiment. I hope you don’t get stung.”

He wanted this to be a parting shot, but she had the last word.

“Okay. I know what you really hope for.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Enough double-talk.

Final Call for Richard Brunner

At the airport, Rich waited for his flight to be called. Here, away from Lee’s suffocating power and weird world, here surrounded by ordinary folk, he replayed her words in his head. Bee Society? Jesus fucking Christ. He decided to call Paul for a chat. He needed to talk to someone smart and sensible, who wasn’t infected with whatever weird mind-fucking poison that filled his head.

“Hey, it’s me. It’s Rich.”

“Hey buddy.”

“Are you okay? You sound sick.”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m okay. You woke me. It’s 6:30 in the morning.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’ll call later. I’m at the airport in London. I have an hour.”

“Nah, I’m awake now. So? How’s Mary Poppins?”

“I dunno man, I feel like such an idiot. She turned out to be a psycho.”

“Yeah well, it was worth a shot.”

“I should never have followed my heart.”

“You followed your dick, not your heart, is all. Women can do that to a guy.”

“Yeah, they sure can. And some of them do. They release a chemical, and whoops, there you go, halfway across the world.”

“Talking of women, Celine has had someone perfect for you lined up, in case it didn’t work out with the English lady.”

“You know, I don’t think I’m really ready. Not yet.”

“No? Is that fear talking?”

“I think I still need to figure out what I want.”

“What, a nice-smelling lady who occasionally pussy-whips you, what’s not to want?”

“I guess it depends on the pussy. So tell me about this woman Celine has for me.”

“She’s nice. Very cute. She’s divorced, two kids. Smart. She’s an interior designer. She’ll get your humour. She can handle your crap, and give it right back.”

Rich listened to Paul’s sales pitch, with a growing sense of despair. He could picture what things would be like, at best: The first date, the first kiss, the first fuck, the first argument, meeting the folks... then the first vacation, maybe moving in together. Maybe even growing old together. That was the best he could hope for, and it filled him with dread. Why?

“Rich, are you there?”

“Yeah. She sounds great.”

“Wow, talk about enthusiastic.”

“No, it’s, sorry. Really, she sounds perfect.”

“But not a psycho. I get it.”

“No. Not a psycho.”

“Well, it looks like you’re set on destruction old pal. I can’t do any more for you. You’re own your own.”

After he hung up, Rich became aware of the loudspeakers calling his name.

“This is The Final Call for Richard Brunner on Flight VA1 to Los Angeles...”

He stood. He looked up at the direction signs, until found the one he was looking for:

AIRPORT EXIT: TRAINS AND TAXIS TO CENTRAL LONDON.