The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Don’t move.”

She found focus, and gazed up at the face staring down at her. The beady eyes, the round glasses, the curled hairs in his nose.

The man turned his head slightly over his shoulder.

“She’s not deep enough.” His thick German accent sprayed spittle on her cheek. “If she moves too much, I won’t be responsible—”

“I want her alert.”

It was a familiar voice. Feminine. Soothing. Perfect English. From somewhere in her head. She could feel her breath catching. She started to lose focus again and tried to concentrate on the man’s mottled cheek, his ear. She felt the weight of her head against a hard, flat surface. The room was white-bright. Focus. Was this an operating room?

“I understand, Mistress. But the risks ... ”

She felt like a stranger in her skin. Hearing them talk about her as if she were just going under anesthesia. Not able to speak for herself. Opening her mouth seemed like the most difficult thing in the world.

White overhead lights blinded her for a moment as the man receded out of view. Then she felt the cold touch of a hand on her thigh. Her legs stiffened to the icy caress.

Her eyes turned toward the woman—Mistress!—with an expectation that made her heart pound with need.

Her mistress looked down at her casually as she felt fingertips on her mons.

“Candy. You’ll be a good girl for us and not move your head. If you do, you will hurt yourself severely.”

A stroke to her cheek made her eyes close. She felt safe. She felt trapped.

She felt a distant anger like a puff of smoke behind the cratered landscape of her thinking. She felt joy.

A strap was fastened across her forehead and a man’s hand tightening it. Another strap across her chest. She could feel a half-dozen like it down the length of her naked body. Her legs were spread wide and fastened.

“Do you remember what we talked about this morning, Candy? You may speak.”

Her mistress’ voice almost purred. Her eyebrows raised expectantly with a hint of menace and covert sexuality. She parted her lips but couldn’t answer. Then the woman’s fingers began stroking her softly along her labia.

“I remember ... something.”

“You remember coming here? You were a guest. Who invited you?”

“Invited?”

The voice grew stern. “You weren’t invited. Were you? You were an intruder. Du warst ein sehr böses Mädchen. And you were caught. You are caught.” She snapped her fingers. “Back to reality, Candy.”

Memory. Where was it? Then realization. NO! She could almost feel her pores open and the sweaty droplets of fear seeping out of them. The heat on her neck. “I’m caught!”—her mind began to scream—“I’m not going to talk!”

Fingers found their way inside. The woman—“Not my Mistress!”—smiled broadly down at the trembling body. “There. I see we’re almost back. But you do need to calm down. I meant what I said. If you move your head while the doctor is working you could kill yourself.“

She found her voice: “Fuck you.”

Another serene smile, and the other hand rolled languidly across her naked belly and cupped a breast.

“That’s a good girl. All here now? I need you alert for this to work properly. ”

The woman looked away, checking the progress of her companions, before smiling down even more serenely.

“The process is rather invasive. But it does get to the heart of the ... matter.”

“You think torture is going to make me say anything but fuck you ... fuck you!”

She was trapped. How did she get caught? She was so careful. She even insisted on not having any cover, anything that might tip them off. This morning, she said. Hours gone. Was there even an interrogation?

There was a soft chuckle. She stared hard at the sinister face.

“Trying to figure it all out, Candy? Don’t worry, there’s nothing there left to remember. You told us nearly everything we needed to know.”

“Then why not just ...”

“... Put a bullet in your head? Now, what good would that do either of us? No, I’m afraid this is the next step. You see, physical torture has its limits. And, despite my skill, even mental extraction isn’t foolproof. And it takes time.

“No. The most effective way to make someone ... willing? Willing to do as I say. Willing to tell me what I need to hear. The most effective way is the exact opposite of physical torture. And it should certainly soften you up enough to tell us what you don’t even know you know.”

Her confused look made the beautifully horrible woman smile again. “I can see you’re intrigued. Let’s get started and I’ll hold your hand. I’ve been inside your head long enough to be able to answer your questions as they arise. But we will have to ...“

She snapped her fingers and another thick strap was pulled and tightened under her chin, slamming her mouth closed. Then buckled on top of her head. She tried to move it, but could only slightly.

“Uh-uh-uh. What did I just say?” The woman pulled her fingers out roughly. Then a sharp turn, with hateful intensity: “Don’t move your head.”

The file slid under my nose. Yuri Fisher leaned back somewhat pleased with himself. He knew I appreciated hard copies, not having to stare at a computer screen for hours. Especially not here. Even though I was safe within the walls of the Center, I didn’t like being monitored.

“Destroy them after. Of course.”

“Of course.”

“You’ve been briefed already.”

It wasn’t a question. “Twice. On the plane.”

He looked at his watch. Yuri wasn’t one to waste time on particulars. But as he drummed his fingers on its face, it was obvious there was more to discuss.

“About Hostetler. Damn shame. Good man. For a Kraut. They tried to make it look like a suicide. Low percentage shot straight on. He would have been more efficient.”

Yuri hated Germans. It was the old Soviet in him. “Good man” was a huge compliment. He’d been on both sides of The Old Cold War. The new one didn’t seem to hold much interest for him now that he was a London desk jockey. But the Center’s Brits still had their fun, insisting he have one of their clever names. Fisher. Or Cook. Or Driver. Or Baker.

“You knew Carpenter well? I heard something ...”

“I know her.”

“Three days. No word. I’d say she’s...” He let himself off. If he had heard the rumors—and I was certain he had—he knew better than to twist the knife needlessly into his next sacrificial lamb.

And that’s what I was. There wasn’t much doubt about that. One agent dead, one missing and nothing to go on. I recalled the briefers’ emphasized seriousness on the plane. A secret neo-Nazi organization was infiltrating the highest levels of German government and business, specifically centered in Berlin. But no footprints. Still, the gradual changes were evident in policy matters and Downing Street wasn’t blind to them. Something very wrong was going on.

Three generations removed from the Third Reich and there was new blood planning a rebirth. A Fourth Reich.

Their methods were outside the mainstream. The Whitehall wonks called it “mind control.” I could see Yuri laughing at that. But he knew my recent history. Knew it well enough to call me in. Who the hell else was he going to get? Hostetler was three times the agent I was. We both knew that.

“The Center tries to avoid any personal conflicts if it can help it. But, you do have particular talents for this.” He looked out the window at nothing. “Two weeks in the hands of Russian Intelligence. I’m surprised you still have your fingernails.”

He laughed as he turned back to me. Evidently, he hadn’t heard about the burn scars between my legs. Or noticed the last traces of a limp when I came in. Two weeks of torture for information which I must not have given them, since the only operations I was privy to went off without a hitch. Physical torture, drug-aided questioning, sensory recalibration—that is, sensory overload meant to turn my brains to cottage cheese. And their own attempts at hypnosis-induced interrogation. None of it worked on me.

I may not have been the Center’s best agent, but I was certainly among the toughest when it came to possible compromise. I had proven it the hard way.

And an American. And a woman. The James Bonds at Horse Guards hated my guts.

“Anything else?”

“Your contact information is in the file. You’ll get your specifics then.” I got up to leave. “Baker?”

Yuri had been through it all. He might have been 75 but he still looked 45. A Cold War veteran. No weakness, right? So I was surprised to see the sides of his eyes droop.

“Watch yourself. Gardener. Carpenter. They were good. If it gets too tight ...”

I closed the door before he could finish.

The file was read and burned before I hopped the flight to Frankfurt. Then a train to Berlin. Yet, from the time I took off from Heathrow something was nagging at me. It wasn’t the assignment. I’d had my share of cloaks-and-daggers, a career’s worth, and I wasn’t even 30. And it was usually a short career. Last ten years in this business and you were either very lucky or incompetent—or so my first chief, with the unlikely moniker of Foxtail, told me. I wasn’t sure which category I fell into but I still had a few years to go.

I wondered why Yuri had really picked me. The only way to get close enough to do what was necessary was to get inside. All the way. And the last time I did that didn’t work out so great for me. I figured that was the plan, anyway. I had no idea yet how I was going to do it.

The situation was mushrooming from what I had read. Why not send in the damned Bundespolizei? They suspected prominent Germans were being manipulated, either through hypnosis or some other method. Check them out. Excise them. Break them down. Seemed like the best course of action to me. I was voting myself out of a job too late. I was in Berlin.

The Reichstag, aside from its subtle menacing majesty, gave no hints of the Nazi horrors that were hatched inside its walls some eighty years before. There weren’t thousands screaming “Heil Hitler!” around its columns. Just fifty or so picnickers and tourists on a sunny afternoon.

I parked myself on the assigned bench near the street, out of the sun. A short, dumpy, middle-aged woman plunked down beside me, looking up at the building. There was almost awe and wonder on her face. But as she turned to me it all disappeared.

“I’ve lost my dog. I was hoping you have seen her,” she said without a trace of concern and more than a trace of a veddy British accent.

“Really? What breed of dog was she?”

“A terrier. A British terrier.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t seen her. I did see a dachshund.”

“Yes. That’s right.” She took a deep breath, as if restarting herself. She made me think of a shrunken Margaret Thatcher. “I’m Rook.”

“Rook?”

“Yes. R-O-O-K. Rook.”

“I’m Baker.”

“Oh, yes. I know that. Sorry to interrupt your holiday, but we have something rather urgent to deal with here as you have been informed.”

By “holiday” she meant my convalescence.

“I’ve been briefed.”

Her eyes fixed on mine. “Not enough. Not nearly enough. You read about Gardener. Bullet in the brainpan. Very messy.” She looked me over like a diner before an underdone sirloin. “You’re a lesbian, I understand.”

“I beg your pardon?” The accent was spreading.

“Come along, dear. It was a statement.”

“Is that why I was chosen for this assignment?”

“Frankly, it’s a concern. We believe the head of their organization is one.”

Is one. This wasn’t starting off well. My marksmanship, my tolerance to withstand torture, even my IQ out the window. She wanted to know if I ate pussy.

“Just tell me what I need to know. Then you can go look for your dog.”

“I can see why Carpenter liked you. Brassy. You’re going to need that. A rather tough lot here. They’ve been very gradual in their methods. Slowly taking over. The populus has no idea. But we do.” She gazed upward at the Reichstag. “We’ve noticed the changes. Someone left turning right, you see. They don’t seem to be in any hurry. Although it is spreading rapidly from the inside. And they look like everybody else. No blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryans marching around with swastikas carved into their foreheads. Do you follow?”

“I follow.”

“Gardener ... Hostetler ... got too close too fast. His orientation is probably what got him killed. Decidedly asexual. There is a sexual element here, Baker. But, frankly, we’re not exactly sure what it is. Seduction perhaps. The right people under the right circumstances can be seduced into doing almost anything.”

My eyes were on her, but I was thinking about Carpenter.

She sighed, as if having to explain anything to me was a toil. “Gardener refused back-up. Carpenter too.” Her fat palm patted my knee. “We’ll keep you at arm’s length. You will have cover. Carpenter even refused to know what Gardener had learned. Wanted fresh eyes on the situation. A new approach. She’s out of the circle now.”

“She used whatever method she thought best.”

“Not a very good method. For her. Or us. Waste of time.”

Rook’s flippant detachment made me want to punch her lights out. “What do you know about it? I can tell by the size of your ass you’ve never been in the field.”

She tittered. It may even have been genuine. “Yes. Well, perhaps you can pick up where Carpenter left off. I think after your ... experience, you may find out what we need to know.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“Why the location of their base, of course. Really Baker. Not very good on the uptake.” I wasn’t going to take the bait. I wasn’t sure, but I felt as if that satisfied her. “We need to know where—how do you Americans say it? Where they’re “holed up?”

“That’s it?”

She looked surprised. “Well, yes. Getting in is easy, Baker. Getting out? Well, I think you know how difficult that can be.”

She dug through her costume purse like a housewife searching for the car keys. “There.” She pulled out an envelope. “Carpenter left us three proofs.”

She handed it to me and I pulled out what was inside. A matchbook with the name of a bar on it. Bar Elise. A receipt for a health spa. And a ticket for a checked-out book at the Berlin State Library’s Haus Unter Den Linden.

“We don’t have the book.” She answered the question in my head. “One more thing. Getting information from them is one thing. Them getting information out of you is another. You know where you’re to report to us. It would be more than a bit embarrassing if they found us out, Baker. And costly. Or the extent of our knowledge of what they’ve been up to. You understand? We left your predecessors in the dark as much as we could. Had to. We’re taking a great risk with you, Baker.”

“So why are you?”

She needed time to think about that. I appreciated it. “Expediency. They’ve changed addresses before, we’re sure of that. We simply don’t have the time to lose. Good hunting.”

And she tottered off, as if my not knowing the location of her dog was all that was left of me in her mind.

She slid on top of me, and we pressed together with our thighs and fur and breasts. Our mouths perfectly joined, lips warming the other tightly. Tongues alive in an embrace that would never end.

She tapped my forehead.

(Skin cooling. A door opening. Voices. Russian. A whisper.)

“The Russian door is closed.”

(Pain! The voice louder. A tap on the forehead.)

“You don’t feel any pain. You don’t feel any more pain.”

(Calm. The scent of perfume.)

“I am Madame Kuzneyetzov. You remember me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What is your name?”

“Dee.”

“No. Not Dee. What is your name, Renee?”

“Ba—... Doug—... Douglas.”

“No. That’s wrong. Both of those names are wrong. What is your real name? It is Renee.”

“Anya ...”

“That’s not your name.”

“No ... you ...”

“But it isn’t, Renee. I am not Anya. I am your enemy. I have hypnotized you, Renee. I have been torturing you for two weeks. I want information.”

“Enemy ...”

“Tell me about Anya.”

(A sudden climax. Voices from a mile away. Feet. A door closing. Silence. A tap to the forehead.)

“We’re alone, Dee. You will remember how you were caught. What was done to you. How you struggled so valiantly. Fought them. Did you tell them what they wanted to know?”

“No, Anya.”

“I am not Anya. I am Madame Kuzneyetsov. You remember me. I hypnotized you. You were very brave. Do you remember?”

“Yes. I told them nothing.”

“Yes. It’s time for you to be returned. We are releasing you.”

“Anya?”

(A deep sigh above. Breathing. A teardrop wiped away. A tap.)

“Dee. Go back now to that warm place, that safe place now. See it? Are you there? Are we on the beach?”

“Yes ... the beach ...”

“We are alone, Dee. I am Anya. Open your legs for me.”

(A gentle push ... and the gentle buzzing ... the gentle ...)

“Anya!”

“Yes, my darling. It’s over now. You kept your secrets. You will keep our secret. Cum.”

The peak seemed to last forever. The clench of my cervix, the orgasmic surges forcing me to tighten and loosen, tense and let go. Soaking up my recollection—deep in my mind—like a sponge.

The fountain I produced was as an extension of my ecstasy—reaching out as far as I could. My hands wildly waved. I strained at my arms to free them ... so I could touch her.

“Dee. Listen carefully. You have your instructions. A baker’s dozen is 14.”

I went to the health spa first. I didn’t get anywhere, but I mentioned Carpenter’s name enough that whomever she had met there would find out. Pass the word.

The spa looked like a typical European spa. It was also full of gorgeous women. It was like a harem. I almost had to check myself to keep on point. But outside of the vapid smiles and cursory glances, I didn’t notice anything that would have been a clue as to why Carpenter would have wanted her support team to be there.

But it was seductive. Half-clad and smiling women. There was something behind those smiles, but it was nothing I’d read from any women before, gay or straight. As if their mere presence were an inducement to something awaiting me.

I left. Those few sweet good-byes felt more like “See you soon.”

Club Elise was a different story. The blonde Amazon behind the bar had trouble hiding her surprise at the description of my “friend.” An attractive Ukrainian-cum-Englishwoman in that dump wouldn’t go unnoticed. Apparently it hadn’t. Her “maybes” and “could haves” showed very clearly that she had seen Carpenter, maybe even talked to her.

My body language hinted of what could be, but the Amazon wasn’t going to play that game. There was nothing else to find there. No clues.

A woman named Frau Gehringer met me at the library. She was tall and very attractive for a woman in her 50s. She must have been something thirty years ago. She kept her reading glasses around her swanlike neck, very librarian, and her hair was in a severe bun, which may have accounted for the slight squint and taut smile.

“My English, I’m afraid, is not so good.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’d find my German is even worse.” We traded false, lukewarm smiles.

“You say your friend checked out a book here?”

“Yes. I have the ticket for the book. She never picked it up. I’m here to get it for her. ”

“I see.” Either she was being polite by not asking why Carpenter couldn’t get the book herself or she already knew the answer. “On Saturday, you say? I wasn’t here Saturday. But I know one of the librarians who was. She speaks English. Perhaps ... ?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She led me to another room.

That nagging feeling was back. So far, nearly all of the women I had encountered—at the spa, the bar and here—were lovely. If a bit too disinterested. I wasn’t flirty, but I had kept my eyes and blouse open enough to send a message without being overt. Rook had said there was a sexual element to their methods. I wanted someone I’d met—was meant to meet—to at least think I was going to be susceptible to that. Hostetler—Mr. Gardener—and his preferences made him not someone they could deal with and that cost him his life. I needed to tread very carefully.

No doubt Rook knew what I was getting into. I was being killed with kindness ever since I stepped off the train. And it was distinctly female-centric. It made me wonder how deeply this group had infiltrated Berlin society. I suspected everyone, even if I hadn’t met a single Nazi. Yet I knew I had. I was being led by the nose. Maybe Carpenter’s proofs had been a plant. Frau Gehringer’s part was to pass me along.

“Fräulein?”

Lia Holtz was not like the other women I had met. Her hair wasn’t blonde, but auburn, and her polite smile was politely genuine.

Frau Gehringer disappeared without a good-bye.

She was prim and perfect and desirable. Her frown at failing to locate the book—some random German novel that didn’t register anything with me—made her look much younger and more fuckable. Shit. I needed to get a grip. Lives were at stake. Carpenter was out there somewhere. But this was her last proof. And it led to Lia.

Lia didn’t remember seeing her, unfortunately. So we talked about literature and art and Germany, sandwiched between her duties at the library. But I wasn’t getting much. She appropriately shied away from any of my political comments. She then surprised me by offering me a ride back to my hotel, which I declined, then accepted moments later when I realized she wasn’t going to make the offer twice.

Halfway there, she turned to me and suggested we go to her apartment. The breeze was catching her hair just right. I couldn’t refuse.

“I have to tell you something, Lia. About my friend. The truth is, she’s missing. She’s been missing for four days. I’m looking for her. I think something may have happened to her.”

“Oh,” she said, downshifting into a turn. “And the book?”

“That part is half true. She checked it out, but didn’t take it with her evidently. The library ... it’s the only thing I know she did for certain here in Berlin.”

She kept her eyes on the road for a while, then turned to me and smiled. “I’ll make you a nice German dinner then.”

We wound up in bed. And it all felt perfectly natural. I didn’t push anything and neither did she. What she lacked in passion she made up for in skill, and she was more than willing to let me lead. Still, there was something missing. I’d had my mouth on enough women to notice. She wasn’t exactly going through the motions—she definitely knew what she was doing—and I was orgasming just from the enjoyment she was giving me. But although her body gave off the signs of arousal, I don’t think she even came close to cumming. At the time, it didn’t bother me. She was beautiful. And I was still having a good time.

I mean, what else was I going to do. I had exhausted my leads for the day. All I could do was return to the spa and the bar tomorrow and try again.

I wasn’t going to go back to the hotel anyway. I could always check-in somewhere else for the night in case I had company waiting for me. But if this was a trap, a lovely trap, then I wanted to try and get more information out of Lia before they made their move.

I heard the POP! of a cork as I came out of her bedroom.

“I thought...?” She grinned as she poured two glasses. I could indulge myself. This woman couldn’t be ... “You are dressing?”

“I’ll need to be going soon.”

“To look for your friend.”

“Yes.” I tucked in my blouse as she handed me a glass.

We clinked them, sharing after-sex smiles, and as I sipped she spun away from me—allowing me to stare at the smoothness of her back, the shapeliness of her pear-round ass.

“I’m sure she is safe. Please. Sit. For a moment.”

I nodded myself onto her settee. Lia stood across the room completely exposed to me. Yet I began to feel as if I was the one exposed. Then she smiled, differently, like one of the girls at the spa. All earnest and meaningless at once.

I felt my stomach heave. I began to fold. My head spun slowly and my focus fell from her face to her legs to the floor.

“I ... I think ...”

I tried to stand, but I fell forward over the table. Why didn’t she move? Help me ...

There was activity. All I could see was the carpeting through the glass coffee table. Then heels.

“Very well done, Lia,” another woman’s voice strummed above me. “You may go into the bedroom and masturbate to completion like the last time.”

“Ja, meine Herrin.”

Drugged. My arms and legs were everywhere. I leaned over the table, one leg stretched out behind me on the settee, the other kneeling. I tried to grab at the glass for some reason. My body was stiffening. The edges of my vision turn cloudy. I was in the shit now. Someone lifted me and pushed me back and I slid boneless onto the couch.

“Another troublemaker.” It was Gehringer. “Just relax, Fräulein Baker. We’re going on a trip.”

Those shoes.

Frau Gehringer was talking to a beady-eyed older man in her stylish blue dress and matching heels as I sat tied to a high-backed chair. I was in a warehouse of some sort. Those squints she had given me earlier hid sparking blue eyes that now beckoned me to swan dive into them despite my predicament. But my eyes spent most of our chat looking at those damned shoes. I was too groggy to keep my head up for very long. The Russians had drugged me too, so I was ready to put up a good fight—no matter how difficult it was to think.

“No. Her tolerance is high, but she’s worthless to me in a stupor.”

“Ja, Mistress.”

Mistress? Jesus. The interrogation had gone on a long time and Gehringer was getting annoyed. I was getting exhausted. “It’s all a mistake.” “I’m here on business.” “Interrupted my holiday.” “I don’t even speak German.” All with my head spinning and tongue hanging out.

She started again, but I was feeling sloppy drunk now on the dope they had given me and spat out as much nonsense as I could. But I was breaking down. It was harder and harder to keep up.

“Who is your contact?”

I struggled to focus from the seven-martini lunch sloshing through my chem-pickled veins. “My dog. I think I’ve lost my ...”

“Your contact. What were your instructions?”

“Instructions. Contact. My ... boss?”

“Yes, your boss! What is his name?!”

“R-O ... OK?”

She stood back and smirked.

“Am I okay? My dear. Are you okay?” There was male laughter behind me.

“I’m Baker.”

Someone entered the room and I found her blurry legs and then her blurry face and blurry hair. The reddish-brown that cut across her shoulders. Was she? My heart began to race. Anya?

“Who is your contact?”

“Anya ...”

“Yes, yes. Anya. Your lover. You work with her. Where do you work?”

“Axxol Corp—”

“You don’t work there. You are a British agent. You are a spy.”

“Anya?” My eyes fought for clarity, her shape, her smile. I rubbed my bound thighs together absently.

“Anya. You’ll see her very soon. She is your lover? You wish to make love with her. Again and again. You need to contact your boss so you can be with her again. Where will he be?”

“Again ...”

Gehringer turned toward the door, following my blurred-out stare. She nodded as she glared back at me again.

“Ah, yes. Anya is here. You made love to her. In her apartment. Remember?”

“No ... We made love on the beach.”

Gehringer was joined by another woman. She served the damned syringe martinis. The Amazon. They whispered.

“Das ist sinnlos. It’s getting us nowhere.” She snapped her fingers and my sleeve was rolled up. The Amazon injected me again. I felt sick. I wanted to throw up all over those blue Gucci heels. Slowly, very slowly, my head began to clear. I noticed Gehringer was wearing different clothing. Maybe I did puke on her shoes. I hoped I had.

Lia was standing behind her, her eyes down, her auburn hair cut across her shoulders.

“So who are you? Goering’s granddaughter?” The slap across my face stung. She bent down in front of me, one hand on the chair back.

“The preliminaries are over, Miss Baker. Now, look into my eyes ...”

She slid on top of me again, and we pressed together with our thighs and fur and breasts. Our mouths perfectly joined, lips warming the other tightly. Tongues alive in an embrace that would never end.

“The Russian door is closed.”

(A tap on the forehead.)

“Renee. Are you still in that special place? That warm place, for me. That safe place. Where are you?”

“On the beach.”

“That’s correct. It’s safe there. And so warm. You can feel the sun, can’t you?”

“Yes, Madame.”

(A sting. Pierced? Legs wide.)

“What is your first name?”

“Renee.”

“That’s correct. And you work for British Special Service. Don’t you?”

“No, I ... No. I work for Axxol Corporation ... analyst ...”

“You are lying to me, Renee. You had documents. You stole them. You’re a thief.”

“No ... it’s ... it’s a mistake.”

(Soft lips. A kiss. Madame. A long wait in silence. Tap to the forehead.)

“I am sorry. You will remember this, Renee.”

(The smell of smoke. A cigarette. Fingers rubbing.)

(PAIN!)

“Tell us what we need to know! You are an agent for the British! Aren’t you? Aren’t you??”

“No!”

(Blinding pain! The smell of burning flesh.)

“Who do you work for?”

“Axxol ... noooooo ...”

“You are an analyst for Axxol Corporation. You are their liaison in Moscow. You are keeping your secrets. Or are you lying to me?”

“I ... no! It’s a mistake! You’re making a mistake!”

(A muffled cry. Legs shaking.)

“Where are you now?”

“The ... the be—... no Moscowwww!”

CRRRACK-crack!

“IMRENEEBAKERIWORKFOR ...”

(Hand gripping tightly. Uneven breaths above. Whispers in Russian. Movement.)

“Set it. Set it now!”

(More footsteps. Russian voices. Aching pain. Arm stroked.)

“Renee. Listen to my voice. A baker’s dozen is 14.”

Now, look into my eyes ...”

A lifetime later. She snapped her fingers.

I was trying desperately to hold still. Eyes held me and I felt myself weakening. My hand slipped. I nearly dropped the glass. The vibrator felt incredibly deep as if the reverberations made even my hand buzz.

“Look deeply into my eyes,” she urged, commanded. “You can’t look away or you will drop the glass.”

I had to hold it tighter. I had to! I couldn’t dare drop it.

“Your mind opens easily, sweet one. Have you been hypnotized before?”

“Yes, Mistress.” The spasm between my legs was immediate. And true. She was Mistress. As if she had always been Mistress, from the very first touch of memory I found. My Mistress. I couldn’t have doubted it even if I had the will to try.

“By whom?”

“The GRU. Russian Intelligence.”

“And they asked you questions. The Russians. And you had to answer them truthfully?”

“No ... No, I didn’t tell them anything.”

“Nothing? Not even about Anya?”

A switch had been flipped. The longing. Anya, my lover ...

Mistress leaned over me like a swan about to pluck a passing fish unawares. “Who am I?”

“You are ... my Mistress.” A thin sliver of myself now fought the impulse.

“And you will obey me. Won’t you, sweet one?”

“Yes, Mistress.” The switch was flipped back.

“Very good. Give me the glass.” I did. I had to. But I never saw her take it. “You’ve done very well. I do believe your pussy is primed. Time for dreams, sweet one.”

I blanked out. For how long I couldn’t tell. But I was standing in a large room next to Mistress. I was relaxed, but my body was straight, my eyes unwavering. My pussy drooled in shameless tribute to her power over me. She dipped her finger inside me to inspect my creamy discharge as if it were batter for a dessert.

“Obey. Eyes forward, sweet one. There is something I want you to see.”

A man, no, two men wheeled in something large covered in a bed sheet. With a nod from Mistress, they pulled it back.

I gasped.

As the sheet fell away, it revealed a large glass box filled with water ... and in it, a woman.

Her chin rested on a board as if her head were being served on a platter. The plank sealed off the rest of the box, where the naked woman floated in slightly milky water. Her ankles were loosely chained to opposite corners of the tank. Her hands pulled and secured stiffly to its sides.

Between her wide-spread legs were two thick tubes, extending out from each orifice. They were secured to a box inside the tank which connected to a larger device on the outside. A pump.

Most alarming of all—a small patch of her long, brownish-red hair had been shaved on each side of her head just above the ear. And from each extended three thin wires leading up to the top of the tank and another box. She was plugged in. To something. Or, was it plugged into her?

I stared in fascination and horror. Then I heard a dim hum coming from the tank. Her body once floating now trembled, then stiffened, then shook. Her knees bent and her hands clenched. Her face began the dance with a grimace and ended it with a look of complete ecstasy.

It was Carpenter.

“Yes. You have a million questions. But they’re not important now. Are they, Renee?”

My attention immediately snapped back to Mistress.

“No, Mistress.”

“Your lovely predecessor. She was very helpful. And will continue to be.” Mistress walked over to the box and ran her hand down it like it was the small of a woman’s back. She pressed a tiny button fixed to it. “Candy? Can you hear me?”

Carpenter hardly moved, except for slowly trying to pinch her knees together in a wonton attempt to rub against the tubes. It was impossible in my mind to separate my anguish for her from my appreciation of Mistress’ power or my unbearable need to finger myself deeply.

Mistress gave me a faint, almost expectant smile. She pressed the button again.

“Obey. Is your name Candy?”

“No, M-M-Mistress,” came the weak voice from inside the box. Her eyes opened, full of glass.

“Tell me. What is your name?”

“Anyaaaaaa.”

The next build-up and climax sent Anya into near-convulsions. I became vaguely aware that I was secreting down my legs. Mistress looked pleased.

Anya.

“I thought that would spark a reaction.”

Mistress looked at me hungrily. I hadn’t noticed the tiny remote in her hand until she turned the dial on it. Anya convulsed again.

“Yes, Renee. She is having another orgasm. Hundreds in fact. It will all become perfectly clear to you shortly. You see, pain—although an extremely useful tool to extract information—can only take you so far. After awhile, the body begins to shut down and with it the mind. One would admit to anything, say anything, under that sort of duress. Whether it was true or not. I think you know what I mean?”

“Yes, Mistress.” She snapped her fingers.

I was led by the arms by two men, who laid me back on a table and began strapping my body down. I wanted to resist, but Mistress hadn’t given me permission. She approached the table and gave me a calming smile.

“But pleasure ...” She began stroking my hips, my thighs. “Activating the pleasure centers of the brain is much more effective. Pain makes a subject want it to end. Pleasure makes ...” She turned gracefully to glance at Anya writhing again in her box. “Pleasure makes a subject want it to go on and on indefinitely. And makes one very forthcoming with information in order to maintain it.

“You will get to experience it yourself firsthand.”

A strap was pulled under my chin. I could barely move. Mistress hadn’t told me to, but I wanted to.

“Back to reality, sweet one.” She snapped her fingers before my face.

Fucking God! Mind controllers!

She had suddenly cut my strings. I could see them falling off my limbs, and the weight of my body return. A moment ago I was her—fucking mistress? Goddamn it!—mindless puppet. Now, I was all here, I was back in my head, and spread out before her demonic gaze like buffet.

“There’s the fire in your eyes, Miss Baker. Or is it Douglas? You have so many names.” She looked down and petted my pubic hair. “The Russians have no subtlety. Burning your sweet flesh. And for what? My methods are much more effective. And, for awhile at least, your little pussy won’t mind. I am afraid, however, that by the time I box you up there won’t be much of your mind left.”

She looked over at Carpenter again with a finality that chilled me like nothing else ever had. I had been tortured before. Drugged. Hypnotized. And took everything the Russians threw at me. I had no such confidence now. This time, there was more than just information this sadist wanted from me.

“Can you do it without cutting any hair?”

“Ja, Mistress,” the older man answered. “Her hair is dark enough. No one should notice.”

I was on an operating table fully awake and unable to move or speak. I tried not to imagine myself in my own water tank, next to Carpenter—orgasming museum pieces for this sick cadre of Hitler wannabes.

“These, Renee,” she said, holding up a small case of what looked like six long sewing needles, “are going to be inserted into crucial areas in your brain.” She paused, but I held my eyes still. “With a remote, I will be able to stimulate these areas. That, combined with your indoctrination through hypnosis, will not only give you great pleasure—pleasure beyond your wildest imagination—but will also tether you completely to my control.”

She frowned, a mocking frown. “The process, however, is initially quite painful. Fortunately, once you are activated you’ll forget all about that. All you will want to do is orgasm and obey me. Orgasm and obey.”

I screamed into my clenched teeth, bucking as wildly as I could beneath the tight straps holding me down.

Hot, bright lights shined on my face from the sides. A machine was placed next to my ear, then the other. I was being x-rayed. Mapped. The Russians has burned my skin. These bastards were going to burn my brain!

“Don’t move your head, sweet one. The needles need to be placed in exactly the right spots. We don’t want you lobotomized. Do we?”

I froze.

“Good girl. I’m afraid all we can do is give you a topical for the pain. Not that it will do much good. But I will hold your hand.”

I heard whirring by my left ear, like a dentist’s drill, as my vision blurred from tears that couldn’t fall. I felt my labia fingered, then petted.

She whispered, “Don’t move your head.” Then, “Doctor? You may begin.”

The drill bore into my skull.

The nightmare didn’t last long. At some point, my senses must have turned themselves off, turned me off—my fuse box overloaded.

Then there was light ... and her eyes, inspecting me. Followed by a blood-freezing smile.

Mistress was pleased.

She adjusted the dials on the remote. My remote. The one connected to the long needles speared into my brain. The excruciating pain was gone, replaced by a numb weight in my head. And the newly constant feeling that my clit was being licked by a thousand tongues. I felt her fingers probing my cleft as I moaned, my utter despair fueling my unbearable pleasure.

I could hear myself “mmmmmmm” and it reached all the way into my spasming abdomen. My hot-wired body felt the converging electrodes of an arc lamp deep inside—making me cry out of shame and fear. Ecstasy and need.

Her fingers thrust deeper and the arc sparked inside me again. I was a hole needing to be filled.

“Good, sweet one. You’re reacting perfectly. Now, tell me. When you are free, you will go to see your contact. Yes?”

A spark. Deep. “Yesssssssss.” Then a surge. Nothing mattered more than that reward. Her reward.

“Good. And how will you do that?”

“Subway ... to the Ruhleben U-bahn station. Then walk to the building, enter and take the number three elevator.”

“And how will you get in?”

“Th-th-thumb ... thumbprint identification.”

“Wir sollten ihren Daumen abschneiden,” a man’s voice behind her said anxiously.

I could see her eyes burning. Her fingers released me.

“Shut your mouth! Idiot.” She looked down at me almost kindly. “She’s not the only one with thumbs. Besides, I want her there. Whole. And beyond suspicion.”

I tried to focus on something, anything, but the lightning strikes of pleasure lit up my brain again and were grounded on my clit. My sticky hands were frantic as I stood there. How long? I had no idea.

My eyes were drawn to Carpenter, writhing in her human fish tank. My captor ... Mistresssss ... had synched up our orgasms. As she stiffened, so did I. It was if I was sliding along her submerged body in united bliss.

Mistress was unscrewing me. My pussy felt vacated as the last wire was removed.

“Obey. Obey me.”

I snapped to attention, my nipples feeling like two foot-long neon bulbs. I could hear Mistress talking at me, her words pouring into me like lava, scalding my brain. But not a single word stayed in my consciousness long enough to understand what she asked of me. Ordered me. I knew I would obey her.

At last she stepped away and studied me. It made me shiver inside.

“I will indulge you, sweet one. Ask your question.”

“What’s going to happen to her, Mistress?”

Mistress didn’t even bother to move her head.

“She’s going to be my little sex toy. Obviously. She’s really not useful for anything else ... now.”

Mistress made me cum again. I couldn’t help myself, help Carpenter. I was a red-hot circuit and all I wanted to do was be TURNED ON.

“Of course, that’s how you were suppose to wind up too, my sweet one.”

I could feel the next wave building, her words were thrilling—I wanted it! I couldn’t reason. All thoughts were fleeting except for the need to obey her. And cum. My neck tingled, charged pulses going through the spikes in my brain, then down my body like a waterfall.

“Unfortunately, now that I have her the way I want her, and you’ve willingly told me everything I need to know, there really isn’t much need for you. Is there?”

“N-No ... Mistress.” It was clear. Mistress didn’t need me. But I needed her. Desperately. Turn me UP!

“No,” she said flatly. Something heavy clunked on the tray table beside her. “Obey. Come here.”

I climaxed again numbly, and faintly heard a lonely, needful moan escape from the box as I staggered toward Mistress.

“Obey. Pick up the gun.”

My hand was shaking as I lifted it, feeling almost lost without both hands free to press against my crotch. I just looked at it. Not sure what it could possibly be for. Mistress stood impassively. Unarmed but for my controls in her hand. She arched an eyebrow. Obey. Conflicting thoughts slammed together. I could turn and pull and ... she was my target! The head of an mind-controlling Nazi cult. The enemy. Or did I have it the wrong way around? I felt the surge of electricity—cumming!—and knew I was smiling stupidly as I squirted onto the floor.

For her. Thought melted away like butter around my frying brain as a new signal of orgasmic want shot down through my hips. She was my Mistress. I had to obey her. Needed to.

“You know what to do, sweet one.”

I sighed a “yes.” It was all very clear. What I had to do. I was building toward another climax—God! Was that my tenth or twentieth in these last few minutes? I bent my knees to widen my legs and open myself more for my slickened left hand.

I put the gun into my open mouth and sucked on the barrel, my eyes fixed on Mistress and her widening grin. I’m very good with guns—maybe she will let me shove it up my ass ...

But I had my instructions.

BANG!

The shattering of glass and the surging splash of water, cascading around my feet. The whirring of the pump cut off and it made me realize I wasn’t breathing. I sucked in air—I had cum again.

Carpenter hung limply in what was left of her box. A bullet hole in her forehead.

Mistress didn’t move for a long time. Then she pressed my remote and I sucked another breath in. The beginning of another powerful orgasm. I dropped the gun, landing with a plop in the inch of water, and pressed both my hands on my quivering cunt.

Two men, followed by Lia, entered hurriedly. I moaned, wanting Lia to see me fingering under Mistress’ control. Controls.

“Leave the mess. We’re moving. I want everything out before morning.”

“What about ...?” One of the men’s eyes were wide as he looked at Carpenter.

“Get me a knife, then leave her. I want her found.”

Mistress picked up the gun and stroked my cheek, sliding my eyes closed for a moment.

“You did beautifully, sweet one. I wasn’t completely sure if you would work. The Russians’ hypnotic fingerprints are all over you. But this?”

She touched the remote again and I shuddered from a jolt of pleasure throughout my body.

“This should keep you under control and extremely useful in infiltrating your organization once I’ve gotten back into your head.”

She handed the gun to Lia, who looked at me with a hint of what I felt was sadness. I hoped she could smell me.

“Follow her. I want them armed and ready to go immediately,” she ordered. Mistress sounded so commanding, so strong. It made me feel even weaker. “I’m not quite through with our little toy killer yet.” Then turning to face me: “Time for dreams, sweet one.”

I followed her instructions. I obeyed Mistress. Two sides of a coin flipping in my mind.

I was in the elevator. I had no recall of how I got there. But as a strode down the hallway, every step made things clearer in my head. My instructions.

I entered the office with a loud click of the door lock. And ... there was nothing there. It was completely deserted. Not even a paper clip. I stopped weakly at the thought that I might be in the wrong place, even though I had used my thumbprint to enter all the doors. I pulled the hat down over my ears tighter and felt the tiny pinholes under my hair. The gentle spark inside my brain. Mistress was letting me know she still controlled me, however mildly, even from miles away. I softly stroked myself through my clothes.

Over there. I walked across the room and saw something I hadn’t noticed at first. A black case. And on it, a set of keys. Yes. I remember. I picked the case up off the floor and put the keys in my coat. I left through the emergency exit unseen.

I was following my instructions. The car was where my feet took me. I drove and parked in an open, secluded garage I didn’t remember knowing where to find. I opened the case and pulled out a recorder and headphones. I put them on and pressed PLAY.

“Hello darling Dee,” the oh-so-familiar voice chimed in my ear. “A baker’s dozen is 14.”

I awoke in a sterile room. This wasn’t a hospital. It was quarantine.

And there was Rook at the end of my bed. Her piggish face beaming.

“We got them all. Every one. Well done, Baker. Well done.”

I sat up. Her happy face was no consolation. I couldn’t remember how I got there.

“What day is it?”

“Sunday. Day of rest.”

She walked to the window and clasped her hands together triumphantly before looking back at me to gauge my reaction.

“Our American allies don’t give us enough credit. Certainly the Germans don’t. And good thing for that, eh?”

“I told them everything.”

She nodded with appreciation. “Of course you did. Of course. No blame here. Mind control. Yes, very devious indeed. We knew they were going to put you under. You knew it too. Or we wouldn’t have dispatched you. ”

She sighed audibly at my unchanged expression. Explanations were not her thing. “Oh, you do have a gift, dear. A very high tolerance. That made them more convinced when they thought they broke you. You were going to be their little wind-up mole. They’ll be quiet now. For a time.”

It wasn’t sinking in and Rook seemed disappointed. Then it hit me.

“Yuri.”

“On ice. Permanently. Remember this, Baker. A person who double-crosses your enemy for you will eventually double-cross you for a different enemy. We’d had our eyes on him for quite some time.” She paused for emphasis. “Yes, quite some time. But he’s with the rest of his lot. And you’re here.”

She looked at me as though she were expecting a thank you. A rook can only move in a straight line, of course. The pawns in front as cover, then discarded to give control of the board to the superior pieces.

“So what now? Send me off to the Compromised Secret Agent Retirement Home and lock the door?”

“Oh, goodness no. Is that what you think? Baker, you’ve never been more valuable to us. You’ve been on the inside. And come out of it.”

“But the injections. They’re permanent?” I knew the answer.

“Well, we’ll have to keep an eye on you. Don’t want just anyone with a telly remote setting you off.”

Her attempt at humor came out as matter-of-fact.

“I killed Candace. I knew it when I did it.”

Rook moved in front of my bed again, and squeezed my foot as if it were my hand. “Couldn’t be helped. Had to be done. I don’t think there was much of her to save, do you? If there had been, I’m sure you would have come up with a way around that.”

“We weren’t lovers. Just friends.”

She nodded quickly, overcompensating for the miscalculation she shared with Yuri. “Get some rest.” Then, “Need your report. Say in...” A glance at her watch. “... six hours?”

I knew my career as an operative—even in the States—was going to be over, so I retired. Quit. They debriefed me in less than a day and I was out of the circle. I never saw Rook again. And no one came to talk me out of it. Foxtail said it was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t a choice. I had no future.

I packed quickly. I had put away some money and needed a long vacation. Somewhere distant. A sandy beach somewhere. Yeah, a beach on a tropical island. But that’s as far as my thinking could take me.

Two hours until the train. Most of my things I didn’t bother with. I tilted my head to read the titles on the rows of books I was leaving behind as I sat waiting. No reminders. Except for the six metal rods in my head.

There was a knock on the door and it made me jump. The war’s over, Dee! I would never have been startled before. Probably some Center lackey come to ask for whatever files I was supposed to have destroyed and hadn’t. I never left traces.

I swung the door open—then stumbled back in shock, recoiling from the sight. A weapon ... Damn! Turned them in. I inched toward the fireplace poker, my body tensed for combat.

“Hold on, Dee. I’m not here to do any harm.”

“How? ... You know my name.”

She stepped forward. “You remember me. Are you going to strike me?”

My fists were clenched, ready to spring, but she looked back at me evenly, her hands tucked under the shawl around her long, flowing black dress. I felt torn apart ... killkisskillkisskill ....

“We’re alone, Dee.”

I exhaled and semi-relaxed. She let herself in. It couldn’t be possible. She couldn’t have found me. Wouldn’t have. Standing in the middle of my Knightsbridge flat was the woman who had interrogated me for the Russians. Tortured me. Tried to break me. And she stood there calmly, passively. I shouldn’t be calm! I should choke the life out of her—the one who made me endure what still haunted my dreams at night.

“The Center’s hierarchy can be such sticklers for protocol. I nearly missed you. I do miss you. No one knows I’m here.”

“Anya. I ...” Wait. That’s not right.

Snap.

Her eyes brightened, but her face fell too. It was a clean break—I barely fought it—half of myself destroyed and half renewed. My heart pounded in my throat. She read my mind.

“It’s not Stockholm Syndrome, Dee. It’s much worse. Or better. That depends on you.”

She stepped close and ran her hand down my arm. I didn’t flinch. She seemed taller, much taller than I was, yet her eyes were there meeting me on equal terms.

“You remember. I’m not Anya, Dee.” She waited for me, but I couldn’t process the truth. “Perhaps it would be better if I explained a few things first.” I may have nodded. “Anya is dead. You shot her, remember?”

God, I had. Anya. Anya Korlenko. Candace Carpenter. My friend. There was no more Anya.

“Madame Kuzneyetzov.”

She smiled, warm and full, and it made me wonder why I wasn’t smiling back. She looked away for a moment, appraising my home, the packed bags and train ticket, the litter of my old life oddly in place.

“My name is Natasha. They’re very good at controlling you with guilt, darling. I think you surprised them by turning in your club membership. But it wasn’t your fault. None of it.”

She was sincere. I couldn’t yet piece it together, no matter that it was obvious. She was here. And it blinded me from anything else.

“If anyone is to blame it is I. I was the only one to get inside. Fully inside. Your strength nearly made you valueless for what we—they—attempted to do. What they did do to you.”

The smile had vanished.

“What you need to ask yourself now, my darling Dee, is who you did it for. Did you do it for them, the enemy? Were you their battery-powered assassin? Or did you do it for the Center? To clean up a messy situation as neatly as they would allow?”

She paused, letting me think about something other than her. She lightly brushed my short-cropped hair to inspect the tiny, scabbed-over holes. I could feel her sadness.

“I believe there was a third choice. You did what you did for Anya.”

She softly touched my forehead.

“Renee Baker. Open the Russian door now, please.”

I found myself gasping, grabbing my chest as I fell to the couch. Headfirst into a dream. It was if a series of tumblers were connecting in my memory. Unlocking what I dared not be true.

“You’re going to tell us everything eventually, Renee. You have no secrets from me. We’re only just beginning.”

Madame Kuzneyetzov’s accent was thick now. Southern Russia, maybe. Her eyes weren’t on me. They looked down. Waiting. I heard a distant cough, heavy with tobacco.

In Russian, she said, “I want some time with her alone.”

She was buttoning up my blouse. The cruel hands I had felt moments before were now soft and warm. We were alone.

“Open the Russian door now, Renee.”

Her face was close to mine, full of melancholy. I had been here before, I remembered, when they dragged me in. She interrogated me, hypnotized me. And here I was, hypnotized again. Powerfully. Why do I remember ...

She leaned into me and kissed me. “What’s going to happen to you will not be pleasant. But we each have a job to do.”

I don’t understand! Was this two months ago? Didn’t I ... aren’t I safe?

“I want you to close your eyes now. Think now about that warm, safe place again. Can you see it?”

“Yes ...”

Where are you?”

“I’m on ... we’re on the beach.”

“Correct. And we’ve just made love. And we will again.”

I felt myself swoon. I wanted her to kiss me again, to wrap herself around me. She stroked my face. I was lying on the beach with ...

“Anya .”

“That’s right, Dee. I am Anya. And we are together. We’ll always be together. Lovers. My darling Dee. You will keep your secrets. You will keep our secret. Won’t you my love?”

“Yes. They won’t get any information out of me.”

She kissed me again, and I wished I was naked and rolling in the sand with Anya in my arms.

“It’s time, Dee. We are going to a dark place now. But you will be brave. I will be there in your mind. You will keep your secrets. You will keep our secret.”

“Yes. I won’t tell them anything.”

“The Russian door is closed.”

Natasha brushed away an involuntary tear, as she had so many times before. We sat on my couch, knees touching, but that was all.

“My gifts can reveal the most terrible of secrets. Or hide them. Or unveil the most wondrous of spirits. Opening someone’s mind isn’t always a one-way street, darling Dee. It can include moments of sharing, even in the most treacherous of environs. When I learned what they had planned for you, I had hoped ... I had hoped that when it was all over and you had managed to survive, that I would see you again. And let you remember.”

I couldn’t speak. I thought the Center had chosen me because of my strength, my ability. Now I could see that I had been made into the perfect pawn. I believed completely in something that never even happened. Someone I never was.

“They were planning to send in Anya in all along. That’s why I had weeks to prepare you for something that hadn’t even occurred yet. That Yuri fellow miscalculated, thinking Anya and you were lovers. But I knew that wasn’t true the first day I put you under hypnosis. So, I replaced the love you were supposed to have for Anya Korlenko in your mind ... with me. To you, I was the Anya the Germans wanted to use against you. I’m sorry. I couldn’t find any other way. But I—”

“Don’t.” She had used Anya to manipulate me. They all had. But instead of a twisted trigger to control my mind, she had used it to keep me from falling completely under Gehringer’s—lord help me—spell. I almost winced from the phantom pain in the side of my head.

“Don’t.” It was my turn to wipe away her tear, and I painted her wetness slowly down my cheek. Her face showed me not quite pity but not quite remorse. Maybe it was both.

After a long moment, she started to speak again, but I cut her off. “Natasha. What about the ... burns? And my leg.”

She grew even more crestfallen, as if my painful, altered memories were hers too. In a way, they were.

“Proof, in part. Proof that you had been tortured at the hands of the Russians.” She reached out and touched me, but pulled back and put her hands in her lap. I thought of falling into those arms and what we might do. “Your leg was simple enough, although among the worst things I’ve ever done. Believe that. No, the burns had another purpose. One covered the tracker we injected into your body so that we could locate you. Locate them. The burn scar covered the incision and was healed by the time of your abduction, thus—if you were bodily searched—there wouldn’t be any evidence of one being administered just before you began your mission. Old scars from a past event they believed had happened. They had to believe it. You did.”

She stood abruptly, waiting for me to lead her to the door and out. She did what she came for.

“Your train, Ms. Douglas. Don’t you need to catch it?”

I raised myself to meet her. At that moment, I didn’t feel as used as I should have. Gardener or Carpenter may have succeeded, but the Center always had a back-up plan. Even if it meant raping my mind and torturing my body if for no other reason than to cover their bases. Scrambling me so thoroughly that even under the Nazis’ diabolical methods of extraction I would only give away what I was supposed to.

Natasha had raped my mind. Then saved me. Saved me from exposing myself or others by what I knew. Saved me from pulling the trigger with a gun in my mouth. My tracker was still going to work, after all. But there was something more.

“Natasha. I remember. Now ...”

She gave no hint. I had to do it on my own.

“Now ... take it all away.”

“Are you certain?”

I felt free, already, as I smiled at her.

“Yes. Certain.”

She didn’t smile back. But there was ... longing.

“A baker’s dozen is 14.”

She slid on top of me on the beach, and we pressed together with our thighs and fur and breasts. Our mouths perfectly joined, lips warming the other tightly. Tongues alive in an embrace that would never end.