The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Quite a tour, Max,” said Charlesworth as he settled himself in the chair facing Max’s desk. “All these girls came from your resort operations?”

“Most of them, yes. A few months ago, they arrived thinking of nothing but the pleasures of an island holiday. Now they’ve programmed into sex slaves to our clients. Life can be so unpredictable, at times, " he added philosophically. “Did you find our dolls pleasing?”

“Hell, Max, I wanted to jump each and every last one!” said Charlesworth, with his high pitched laugh. “How much do they cost?”

Sensing they were entering negotiations despite Charlesworth’s casual tone, Max chose his words carefully. “Naturally, that depends on several factors, Mr. Charlesworth. The girl selected, the level of conversion, any special programming—”

“What do you mean, special programming?”

“Oh, we can condition your doll to fulfill any particular fantasy. Many of our clients start with the basic model, then come in for upgrades in the doll’s programming. We serve a very demanding and sophisticated market. There’s no single definition of beauty. Americans go for the busty blonde type—probably from a lifetime of gazing at airbrushed centerfolds. The French like their petite ingenues with classic features and stylish dress. The British want their rubber, the Germans their leather, and the typical Japanese salaryman’ executive can’t seem to take his mind off of uniformed school girls. We cater to all tastes, whatever the market demands. Once we get an idea what you want, we pick an appropriate body type, make whatever physical modifications appeal to you, and program her to your satisfaction.”

Charlesworth eyed his glass of scotch that had been poured by Ms. Lambert a few minutes ago. “Let’s say I wanted the works,” he said off-handedly. “How much would that cost?”

Max said, “I’m sure the girl of your dreams is affordable to a man such as yourself.” He quoted a price.

Charlesworth whistled. “Pretty steep, Max.”

“But worth it,” replied Max, “Considering you are buying a lifetime of pleasure. Imagine having a docile, well-trained sex slave at your call, conditioned to think of you as her lord and master, and beautiful beyond anything most men could ever imagine. Think about what it would be like to possess what other men can only covet. I’d be glad to call Ms. Lambert in again, to refresh your memory how glorious a possession that is,” he added with an ironic smile.

Charlesworth laughed again. “No, Max, that’s not necessary. You’re right, it’s worth the money.”

“Excellent,” said Max with satisfaction. “Perhaps now you can tell me what you have in mind.” He slid a keyboard from underneath his desk, tapped on a few keys. The wide-screen television screen across the room crackled to life. Displayed was what looked like the schematic for a woman’s shape. “Let’s design your future concubine, shall we?” purred Max. “We can start with body shape: slim, athletic, or voluptuous—” Charlesworth reached into his pocket. “No need for all that. This is what I want.” And he tossed a photograph across the desk in front of Max.

Max stared at the photo. The image was not posed, that was for certain. A woman exiting an office building, probably taken with a telephoto lens from some distance away. Her hair was swept back, she had aristocratic features—an aquiline noise, dark eyes, with a minimum of make-up. The trenchcoat she wore loosely from her lanky frame; Max could see she had the long legs and slender torso of a fashion model.

“That,” said Charlesworth, “is what I want.”

Max frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You want a LoveDoll who looks like this?”

“No. I want her. The original. I want her here, on this island, so you can break her. I want her to be my LoveDoll. Her name is Robyn Dorset. That’s Robyn with a y’.”

“Perhaps you should explain yourself,” said Max, his eyes boring through his rimless eyeglasses at his guest.

“This woman,” said Charlesworth, “has become a real pain. First, she sets up her company on a shoestring in direct competition with my company, which has been in the family for years. Then she lowballs the hell out of the bidding, and before you know it, she’s stealing our best customers. And then she has the nerve to turn down my offer of marriage. That’s right, she could have been Mrs. Byron Charlesworth, but she apparently thinks she’s too good for that. Just because she runs her own little company, she thinks she can just walk all over me.”

“And she’s beautiful, besides,” said Max, as he studied her photograph again. His looked up at his client with knowing eyes.

“Yeah, and the little bitch knows it.”

“So let me see if I understand you correctly, Mr. Charlesworth. You want us to kidnap this specific girl, transform her into your LoveDoll, then turn her over to you.”

“You got it, Max. You got goons to make a snatch and bring her, right?”

Max took a deep breath. “Mr. Charlesworth. . . we don’t have goons’, as you put it, who do that. Almost all of our subjects come from the resort operations, where we control virtually all aspects of the process. We have never gone into the outside world and just plucked a specific. . . recruit. . . off the street. We need extensive background checks on all our candidates—family ties, psychological profiles, susceptibility to conditioning, medical histories—”

“Deal or no deal?” interrupted Charlesworth rudely.

Max exhaled and deliberately unbunched his fists beneath his desk to overcome the temptation to reach across throttle this arrogant little monster. Beneath the surface of Max’s cosmopolitan urbanity lurked the dark and violent instincts from the hard days of his youth in the slums of Vienna—hidden but accessible, like a sheathed knife.

“I’ll discuss your proposal with our board of directors,” said Max curtly.

“A million now as down payment, another million on delivery,” said Charlesworth.

“As I said, I will present your proposal. In the meantime, you will be our guest overnight. Anything we can do for you to make your evening more pleasant?”

Charlesworth barked out a laugh as he caught the meaning. “Bet your ass, Max. Since I’m here, I plan to have fun.”

“I’ll have a catalogue of our available house LoveDolls sent to your room, Mr. Charlesworth. We will talk tomorrow.”

Max discretely allowed Charlesworth to sleep late, before ringing his room with an invitation to brunch. Max knew the man had ordered two LoveDolls for the evening, and Max doubted little of the night was spent sleeping. His guess was correct; Charlesworth shuffled into the dining room with dark circles under his eyes, a slack jaw, and a silly grin.

“Coffee for Mr. Charlesworth,” Max ordered the French Maid waitress LoveDolls, who scurried off as quick as her chain-hobbled heels would allow her. “Good morning,” he greeted his guest.

“Mmmphgrumph,” replied Charlesworth, who slumped into the chair and dully watched the coffee being poured. The fact that he did not even bother to look at the waitress’s perky breasts bounce as she leaned forward to pour the coffee confirmed how satiating the man’s evening truly was.

Max took a sparing taste of his croissant, then said, “Let me come right to the point, Mr. Charlesworth. I discussed your proposal to the board last night by our satellite uplink. Our directors live all over the world, you see. You will be happy to know they agree to your proposal.”

“Money talks,” said mumbled Charlesworth smugly. “Just make sure the bitch is totally broken in for me. Oh, one other thing. I want her to know exactly what’s happening to her.”

“That can be arranged, Mr. Charlesworth. Now, if you will excuse me, we have another cruise ship docking this afternoon and there are things I must attend to.” Max rose from the table and headed for the office.

Three weeks later the newspapers carried a story about a woman executive, one Robyn Dorset, who had gone on her yearly trek in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. Her automobile and campsite were found abandoned, and after a fruitless search, she was deemed she met her end somewhere in the mountain ravines. One week later a Cessna six seat aircraft skimmed over the waves, with a sedated passenger strapped to a stretcher taking the place of four removed seats. The manifest declared the passenger to be a patient en route to a hospital for emergency medical treatment; in fact the aircraft had swerved off its flight plan, dipped below the radar, and sped to the island resort. Waiting for it on a hidden runway near the hydrofoil dock was an entourage of doctors and medical personnel. The patient was carried out on a stretcher and whisked up the hill past the security gates before the sleeping resort knew yet another guest had come to the island.

Robyn Dorset woke slowly, drifting up through layers of pink haze. Soon she could see shapes moving beyond her slitted eyelids, the brushing past of a white medical gown. Where am I, she wondered. She forced her mind to think back to the last thing she could remember. Mountains. That was it—she had squeezed in a short vacation from work, hiking alone through Wolf Pass in Colorado, to let that keen mountain air clear her head. The recollection of setting up camp, and starting out the trail. Then seeing some other hikers coming after her—odd, without backpacks or even water. Then—

She remembered now. A struggle, then the sharp sting of a hypodermic needle, then blackness. She tried to shake her head to clear it, but found that a band around her forehead prevented that. To her alarm, she could hardly move any part of her body. She blinked rapidly to clear the film from her eyes, and saw that she was strapped securely to a posture-molded chair. Small patches of bandages held electrodes in place over her body, with the wires trailing off the bed.

“Good morning, Ms. Dorset,” somebody spoke to the side of her bed. The accent was vaguely European. She swiveled her eyes—the only part of her body she could move—to see a man of medium height, with the trimness of a bantam-weight boxer. He wore a black sportscoat over a black turtleneck shirt. His eyes studied her intently from behind rimless glasses.

“You in charge here?” asked Robyn. Her voice sounded thick to her own ears. Even sitting up made her weak.

“Yes.”

“What am I doing here? Is this a hospital?’

“It is a medical clinic, to be sure, Ms. Dorset. You underwent a minor surgical procedure at the base of you skull. But you are not hurt, do not fear.”

Robyn shook her head to clear it. “Brain surgery? Okay, let’s not play twenty questions. What am I doing here?”

“First, drink this,” the man said with an air of authority. He held a cup to her lips Robyn took a tentative sip—it was coffee, it was delicious and helped clear her head..

“Thanks,” she said. Some of the grogginess melted away. “Now tell me what’s going on before I spit this in your face. Why am I tied down? What is this, some kind of ransom deal?” she asked with surprising calmness. “Who are you guys?”

Max drew up a chair and sat down next to her, as if to console her on her sickbed. He said, “A reasonable question. I’ll be as forthright as I can. My associates and I are in the business of training suitable consorts for wealthy and powerful people. These consorts usually serve the purpose of sexual gratification—in variations too numerous to mention. You have been selected by a particular gentleman for his own purposes.”

Robyn stared at him, then burst out laughing. She said, “Oh, this is too much. White slavery went out centuries ago.”

“Has it, now?” said Max with his little smile.

“This is some joke, right? My staff is always telling me to get away, and this is there way of making the point. Well, they all get high points for realism. But enough is enough.”

Max shook his head. “No, Miss Dorset, I must unfortunately assure you that everything I said is correct. When you leave our institute, you will be psychologically conditioned and physically trained to serve the needs of your future owner.”

“My OWNER? And who might that be?” Max noticed she was already unsure of her situation, discretely testing her bonds.

“The man who commissioned us is. . . Byron Charlesworth.”

Robyn’s head jerked up and for the first time Max saw real alarm in her eyes. The silence held for several seconds.

“You’re not kidding, are you?” she asked slowly.

“No.”

“Whatever that little creep is paying you, I’ll double it.”

“Sorry, no. Once we undertake a commission, we see it through, Ms. Dorset.”

“You know my friends will come searching for me.”

“They already have. In fact, there was a touching memorial ceremony at the foot of the precipice where you had your unfortunate accident, when the search was called off. As your body was presumed to have tumbled into the falls below, no effort was made to try to recover your remains.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Max extracted from his portfolio, the newspaper from her hometown, turned to the obituary section, and silently handed it to her. “As you can see, Ms. Dorset, they all thought highly of you. I should have such an obituary. But do not delude yourself—nobody is coming to save you. There comes a time when every one of our trainees learns to accept her fate.”

Robyn fought the medical straps binding her to the bed in a sudden burst of fury.. Max let her struggle. When she finally fell back panting, he said, “Save your strength. Your training begins immediately.”

“Go to hell!” she gasped. “You can’t force me to do anything.”

Max gave her a pityingly wise smile. “We won’t have to,” he said. “That surgical procedure in the back of your head I mentioned earlier, that was so we can have direct input into your sensory cortex.” Max spoke to somebody out of Robin’s sight. “Jack her in.” Robyn sensed movement behind her, and a rubber-gloved hand holding what looked like a thick, stubby needle passed at the edges of her percaught sight of a thick needle. Her eyes grew wide and her body thrashed against the bonds.

Max placed a hand over her forehead. “This will not hurt, Miss Dorset. Try to relax.” And to her astonishment, his voice in fact soothed her. She barely felt the insert of the needle into the back of her skull.

“What. . . what are you doing?” she asked.

Max said, “You’re going to see certain images and hear certain sounds. These sights and noises are generated by our computer. A special helmet will now be placed over your head. Don’t be afraid, it is merely to block out what’s happening in this room, so your senses won’t be confused.”

The helmet went on easily over her mannish haircut. Robyn found herself engulfed by darkness and silence—total sensory deprivation. The meaning of Max’s comments became suddenly clear to her: Everything she felt and saw and heard and tasted would be controlled and manipulated by her captors.

Robyn fought against the wave of panic. Utter silence, utter darkness—it was like being in a womb. She felt a kind electric buzz at the base of her skull. Then, crazily, an image floated before her eyes—a picture of herself, naked, lying face up on a bed. But it was a softer, more sensuous—and yes, more beautiful version of herself. Robyn had always harbored a secret pride in her strong slim body, with a bodyfat-to-weight ratio hammered down to next to nothing during grueling sessions in the gym. She had been determined to meet men in business on their own terms, with a handshake just as punishing and a body that was just as tough as anything a man would have. But the physique posturing in her mind’s eye was more appropriate for a boudoir than a boardroom. Robyn “saw” the changes with a kind of uneasy fascination: this Robyn’s hair was now long and luscious, with streaks of highlights, falling over the pillow in silky waves. Her body was still slim, but now contoured with soft curves instead of rippled with muscles. Rounded full breasts—two sizes larger than her present C-cup—jiggled ever-so-slightly, erect nipples pointed skyward like tiny twin peaks. As if in a dream, this Robin’s face turned her face, so the imprisoned Robyn felt she was looking in a mirror. The dream-Robin’s face was impeccably made up with eye shadow, eyeliner, glistening lipstick, longer lashes—cosmetics that Robin had spurned in the past. The dream-Robyn’s body seemed to be gyrating back and forth in a slow, sensuous rhythm. Then the picture in Robyn’s mind came more into focus, and she gasped as she saw the shape of a man—indistinct, almost generic—making love to her, grinding his muscular thighs and hips between the dream-Robyn’s legs, his thick arms planted on either side of her torso like pillars. The dream-Robyn’s hands slid over his rock-hard body, stroking his back and arms and buttocks with her long fingers. For one mad moment, Robyn locked eye contact with herself. She felt as if she was looking into her own soul. Then the dream-Robyn’s eyes fluttered with another wave of passion, and she tilted her head back on the pillow with a long gasp as the man’s mouth sought out the moist hollow of her throat.

Amazingly, Robyn felt the pressure of the man’s lips and tongue on her neck! A heat began building in her loins in response to the images floating in front of her mind.

God, she thought, they’re toying with me. This isn’t real!

But she heard the growling of her dream-lover’s passion in her ear, the deep, the ragged breaths, even he scent of his sweat and sex. And then another sensation penetrated her lust-fogged senses.

She felt a shaft of something hard on the inside and soft on the outside slid with unerring accuracy past the petals of her pussy. Lubricated by her own moistness, it penetrated slowly but relentlessly deep inside. Her body reacted of its own accord, spasming and writhing and bucking up to meet the passion-stoking intruder. Then the shaft began to slide back and forth inside her—and at its deepest thrust, something warm and buzzing fluttered over her clitoris, sending a new wave of spiraling pleasure coursing through her body. My God, she thought, what are they doing to me?

The image of the couple making love still danced in front of he eyes. Robyn realized that the thrusts of the dream-lover matched the tempo of her own ravishment. And every tender kiss and loving caress of her dream lover made itself felt on her flushed and tingling skin. She felt herself merging with the dream-Robyn, becoming one with her. . .

Max studied the encased form of Robyn with satisfaction. The girl was responding well to the first series of computer-generated mind-control images. Her body even quivered and arched, at least for the fractions of inches allowed by the tightly wrapped bonds. The powered dildo apparatus was pistoning slowly back and forth through the entry in the suit, and it’s glistening surface bespoke how quickly the captive girl’s arousal had been ignited. Soon the mere touch there would be enough to send her into spasms of pleasure, and she would forever be kept in a state of simmering sexual heat. Now for the psychological fine-tuning. . .

Max activated the computer console. His slender, sensitive fingers—the fingers of a pianist, someone once told him—played over the keyboard. He called up one of the first of many submissive program matrixes, and punched in the commands to merge Robyn’s self-image with the faceless, generic form in the matrix. His eyes darted between the keyboard and the videoscreen showing precisely the picture being displayed in Robyn’s hi-jacked mind.

Robyn “saw” the difference immediately. A thick leather collar developed like magic around the neck of the dream-Robyn. Then wrist cuffs. . .then ankle-cuffs. And each appearance was accompanied by a surge of pleasure deep inside Robyn’s belly as the synchronized dildo increased the tempo of its thrusts. Her imaginary lover pinned her chained wrists to the bed—Robyn knew it, because she could sense the pressure on her own wrists—and began to ravish her harder, deeper, for his own pleasure. Simultaneously, a voice whispered in her mind: “I love being fucked like this . . . this feels so good. . .I need this so badly . . . all good slavegirls get fucked like this. . . and I want to be a good slavegirl. . .” Her brain was being taught its first positive lesson: compliance brought pleasure. She felt herself giving in to the seductive reassurance of the strangely familiar voice. It suddenly occurred to Robyn that the voice was her own! She tried to block the words out of her mind, but the voice was inside her own head, like her own thoughts. It was like hearing herself think.

In the outside world, Max made a small adjustment to the audio accompaniment, matching the computer output to the pitch and frequency of Robyn’s synthesized voice. He was a master at making the subject think she was hearing the sound of her own thoughts. He kept a keen eye on the readout of Robyn’s brain waves, carefully monitored by hundreds of sensors in the helmet.

One of Max’s assistants noticed his hand poised above the stimuli keys. “This soon, you think?” she asked.

“She’s intelligent,” said Max. “It won’t be long before she realizes her mind is being manipulated, and then she’ll try to fight back. Any moment now. . .”

Robyn’s head was swirling from the assault on her senses. Her body tensed as another wave of sexual stimulation coursed through every nerve, as her imaginary lover’s rough palm cupped and squeezed her breast—a sensation that was seamlessly matched by the actual sensation caused by the electrodes taped to her body, and she felt herself giving in to the pleasure of this strange dream-logic. Then the voice: “Oh, I love that feeling of letting my master use my body that way. . . I want him to squeeze my breasts, I don’t care how much it hurts. . . that’s what I am here for. . .to please my master. . .”

Master? The word sparked some self-awareness back into Robyn’s mind. What was going on here? Why were they doing this? It felt like she was being. . . programmed! Robyn knew she had to fight back, somehow. By a conscious act of willpower, she crystallized her resistance into a single word in her mind: NO!

“There it is,” said Max, his eyes darting to the sudden spike in her EKG brain readings. Max smiled in grim satisfaction, and flipped the “Punish” switch.

It seem to Robyn that her head exploded and her universe was filled with a jolt of absolute awfulness. Not pain; this was more the after-affects of pain, the immediate and involuntary snatching of a hand away from a hot stove. Her brain had been taught its first negative lesson: defiance brought punishment.

Before the stars had stopped swirling in her mind’s eye, the positive program resumed. The image shifted. Now she saw herself kneeling between the man’s legs, kissing his feet, her hair languidly tumbled over her shoulders. Her lips rose. . .she saw how the dream-Robyn was being pulled up by a silver-chain leash attached to her collar. . .the imaginary-lover’s cock swam into view: erect, thick, pulsing with heated desire. Just then the real dildo, buried deep in her pussy, strummed in vibration, and Robyn felt the tremors of pre-orgasm begin to shake her very insides. Then she watched in dread fascination as her image’s mouth slid up the shaft of that cock (and in fact moist pads at mouth level in the helmet pressed down against her own lips in perfect timing), and the Voice came to life again.

“I love my Master’s cock. . .it tastes so good. . . I love to worship his cock. . .” And Robyn once again felt herself lulled by the steady beat of her own stoked sexual hunger. But—wait! All this was a trick! She had to resist! She had to—

The shock this time was even worse. Max could see her tightly bound body quiver as the computer zapped a spasm of punishment-reaction through the wires connected to her helmet. A few seconds of rest, then another submissive program began again—with hundreds more in the computer’s memory, Max knew, ready to be uploaded.

Max said, “We have a good fix on the brainwave of her resistance-thoughts. Let’s go to automatic. And be sure to calibrate the response to any changes. This one is quite clever, she might try to change her thought patterns. I’ll be in my office if you need me.” One of the clinicians took his place at the console.

Max knew that his latest captive was tough-minded. She would take a long time to break. But the computer had already learned the nuances of her brain activity, and would gradually condition her mind into subjugation. It would not be long, Max knew, before Robyn Dorset’s mind belonged to him. And for such a prize, he could afford to be patient.

Max strode back to his office. His secretary Miss Lambert had a stack of papers for him to read and sign. She leaned over his desk to point out an item of correspondence from a Singapore tycoon thanking him for the latest addition to his harem. Miss Lambert made a point of brushing her breasts against his body coquettishly. Max debated whether to take her on the desk as a work-break. But his mind was on the new girl down in the clinic so he patted her on her fanny and sent her back to her office. He worked straight for several hours, handling the multitude of administrative tasks needed operate his network. When the stack of papers had migrated from his “in” tray to his “out” tray, he stretched in his chair. His eye caught the file of his latest captive—Robyn Dorset. He had read it before, but he reached it again to review the summary in the front, alongside her photograph:

Name: Robyn Dorset

Age: 27

Education: Business degree, minor in music. Post-grad at Stanford School of Business. Put herself through school doing modeling assignments.

Status: Single [Max smiled at that. Robyn’s future status would be found on no standard forms, he thought.]

Work: Began as trainee/intern for a securities firm in Los Angeles; later organized her

own firm.

Other interests: dance, aerobics, art collecting. Obviously a talented young woman, he thought. He doubted if Byron Charlesworth would avail himself of those aspects of her personality. The very thought of that man made his stomach clench. Max shook his head. The hard lessons of his life had taught him the benefits of rational thinking, and although Charlesworth’s obsession with humiliating Robyn Dorset made him an excellent customer for Max’s network, he despised making decisions on the basis of emotions. He wondered if the man’s venom would eventually burn itself out, and he would be bringing the object of his hatred back as a trade-in a few months hence for something more young and nubile.

“Max,” buzzed his secretary on the intercom, “They’re finished in the clinic with Robyn Dorset. She is being taken to the recovery room.”

“Very well. After she has rested, have security bring her to my office.”

Robyn Dorset had barely blinked her eyes open in the recovery room when the two amazons arrived to take her some place. That’s what Robyn thought of them, two expressionless, sinewed amazons, each with short-cropped hair and a grip like steel. They both had a hard kind of beauty, like chiseled marble. Something about their predatory looks, like big jungle cats forever poised to pounce, made Robyn shiver. “You are to see the Director,” one of them said, pulling Robyn to her feet. “Put these on,” said the other, tossing her a pair of towering high heels with a small locks on the straps. Another set of locks secured an fifteen-inch hobble chain between her ankles. As they marched her down corridors, Robyn tried hard to keep up with her rapid, mincing steps. They escorted her directly to Max’s office.

“Good afternoon,” Max greeted Robyn. She stood dazedly in front of his desk. Max gave a curt not to the two guards flanking her, and they both slipped silently out the door. Without their support, Robyn almost toppled over on the high heels and had to clutch at the desk to keep herself balanced.

“Not used to our footwear, I see,” said Max.

“No, I’m used to sensible shoes. These are impossible to walk in.”

“You will get used to them, my dear.” Max leaned back in his leather high-backed executive chair. “I imagine you have many questions,” he said, as he steepled his fingertips.

Robyn looked at those slate-gray eye behind the glint of his rimless glasses and wondered how many answers he would holding back. “I rememer you,” she said. “You’re the guy who put me under. Told me a bunch of nonsense about being kidnapped.” She swayed slightly. Max gestured with old-world courtesy at the chair in front of his desk. Robyn slid into it, grateful to find relief from the balancing act on the high heels. “As a matter of fact, I do have some questions,” she drawled. “We can start with those two bitches who dragged me out of bed.”

“Oh, them? That’s Bambi and Thumper. They make sure people behave themselves around this place.”

“And where exactly is this place?”

“Offshore.”

“So we’re playing games, are we?”

“Hardly, Miss Dorset. This is very serious business.” Max noticed her wince and crease her forehead. “Headache?” he asked solicitously.

“Feels like somebody ripped into my skull with an icepick, actually,” said Robyn.

Max poured a glass of water into heavy crystal glass from the liquor tray behind his desk and passed over a box of tablets.

“What is this?” asked Robyn, looking at the pills. “Another knock-out drug? Or high-octane aphrodisiacs?”

Max shook his head. “Aspirin,” he said.

Robyn scrutinized his face, then shrugged and gulped down a pill with a sip of water. They sat in silence for a minute. “Max—that is your name, right, Max?”

He nodded.

“Max, what the hell is going on here? Is what you told me before—before whatever it is they did to me in that clinic—is what you told me about Charlesworth and slavery and all that nonsense really true?”

“Yes, I am afraid it is, Miss Dorset.”

“Kidnaping is a crime, you know.”

“So is murder, but politicians send young lads to fight and kill all the time.”

She shook her head. “Max, don’t be silly, that’s a ridiculous comparison. Politicians don’t have young women snatched off the street all the time’, to be used as concubines.”

Max gave her a penetrating look. “Oh?” he said. “And who is being silly here?” Something in that look gave Robyn the realization that this man had personal knowledge of just such transactions. She suddenly felt that, despite her own talents and aggressiveness, she was terribly out of her depth here. It would somehow be far easier to handle if this Max was a thug, but his charming, courteous ruthlessness threw her off balance. But she reminded herself of one of her personal mottos: never let them see you sweat. Find out as much you can, girl, she told herself. Keep the initiative.

“So what’s the next step, Max?” she asked. “Am I to be dragged in chains to that creep Charlesworth? Is all this to turn me into a common whore for that man?”

“Rather an uncommon one, I should say,” replied Max.

“If you think I’ll give in to that man, you’re crazy. I’ll scratch his eyes out.”

“Actually, Ms. Dorset, you will do whatever he says. You will be programmed to be helplessly in love with him. There would be no difference between that synthetic adoration and what your American romance novels call the real thing.’ And no, chains won’t play a part in your delivery. We continue with your mental conditioning. The conditioning will etch a self-image on your mind of being a compliant, obedient slave, devoted to your owner’s pleasure. It will likewise create—through thousands of repetitions, a total aversion to disobedience. By the time we’re finished with your programming, you’ll go to him on your own, craving to serve him.” He was going to add that the programming would gradually ratchet down her ability to think, but decided not to.

The quiet certainty in his voice made Robyn’s heart drop. “Rather than just go along with that, why don’t I just grab that ashtray on your desk, whack you upside the head with it, and make a run for it?” asked Robyn.

“You would not get far, Ms. Dorset. Bambi and Thumper have, ah, standing orders to take down anybody attempting escape. They are very good at their jobs.”

Robyn remembered the expressionless look on the faces of the two amazons, their hard bodies and the steel-like strength as they escorted Robyn to this office. And Robyn caught the hidden implications of Max’s last statement. “When you say standing orders’, you mean they’ve been. . . conditioned?”

“Very astute of you, Miss Dorset. Yes, that is correct. Both of them have been given total immersion treatment. Their purpose in life is protecting the security of our operation here, a mission they take in a very personal way. As a diversion and reward for a job well done, we’ve also programmed into them a kind of mutual aggressive sexual attraction. I’m told their bouts of love-making look more like catfights.”

Robyn’s eyes roamed around the room. She suddenly noticed Darcie McVey, one of Max’s early acquisitions, sleeping on a darkened pedestal. At least she appeared to be sleeping. She rested her cheek on her folded hands, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes closed, but kneeling so her ass still raised high in the air. She said, “One of your mind-slave puppets, right?”

Max nodded. “She was a former newscaster snooping around for a story,” he said. " We still trot her out from time to time to do promotional advertisements for the resort. When she’s not performing, I keep her in my study for decorative purposes. Right now she’s in a powered-down mode.”

“Is that what is to become of me? Another piece of ornamentation, a pleasure toy?”

“Oh, Ms. Dorset, the future will take care of itself, never fear. You might a conversion into a LoveDoll not to be all that terrible a prospect. No more hassles, all your needs taken care of, being pampered by an adoring owner. Some women might call it paradise.”

Robyn shook her head. “Do very many of your victims fall for that line of bullshit?” she asked.

Max gave her the barest of smiles. “More than you would think, Ms. Dorset. In the meantime, after your rest period, your mind-conditioning will continue. We’ve learned the treatment is more effective if it is spread over several days through several sessions. We will also begin your physical training; Mr. Charlesworth has given us his preference for specific body modifications. Think of it as a really, really comprehensive make over.”

Robyn snorted. “Yeah, right..” She cocked her head. “That music in the background—that’s Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto, isn’t it?”

Max said, “Yes, it is. Do you like Bach? I discovered his music late in life. Now he is one of my favorite composers.”

“One of my favorites, too. So what’s a guy who likes Bach doing in a sordid line of work like this, Max?” Robyn felt like the fabled Schherezade, putting off the moment of reckoning by telling stories, or in Robyn’s case, asking questions.

“Why am I in this business, Ms. Dorset? It’s a global economy. Market-driven. If I was not here providing this service, someone else would surely be. Perhaps someone who does not like Bach.” Max glanced at his Rolex. “Time we got you back to the recovery room. You should get some rest before your next session. I’ll have somebody escort you back.” He pressed a button on his intercom.

Robyn slowly stood up from her chair. The door to his chambers opened, and Bambi and Thumper stood outside, their hard and unsmiling eyes trained on Robyn. She gave Max a quizzical look. “Before I go back, I have one more question.”

Max raised his eyebrows.

“Why are you telling me all this?” she said. “Why are you even talking to me?”

Max said, “It’s customary to have an interview with each of our subjects after the first conditioning session. I happened to be going through your file and decided to conduct the interview myself.”

And all that, he knew, was a complete lie.