The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Pavlov’s Girls II: Undercover, Going Under

Chapter One: The Infiltrator

Brenda Cassaday inspected herself carefully, checking her reflection in the small mirror in her makeup kit. At last she decided she was ready. She opened the door of her late-model compact and got out. Standing, she brushed off the neat women’s suit she was wearing and patted down her red hair.

The Pavlov Research Clinic was a fixture in the city. It was a highly successful therapeutic institution, and had an impressive reputation for research as well. But its current director, Dr. Sergei Pavlov, was a mysterious figure. Since his takeover of the Clinic from his Russian-émigré father in the late eighties the Pavlov Clinic had seemed to disappear from public view. Even physically—the Clinic grounds were fenced by thick greenery which largely obscured them from view. The only opening in the wall of green was at the front gate.

Brenda was at the gate now. There was a buzzer, positioned more or less at her eye level, with a small plate under it reading PRESS FOR ADMITTANCE. She reached up and pushed the button.

There was the expected raucous buzz, followed by a brief crackle of static. Then a female voice spoke up: “Yes?”

“My name is Brenda Cleland,” Brenda responded. “I have an appointment with Dr. Pavlov?”

Silence. Two or three minutes passed. At last the voice returned: “Come on in, Ms. Cleland. The Doctor is expecting you.” The gates swung open smoothly.

Brenda climbed back into her car and drove through. Inside, the Clinic’s drive ran in a gentle curve through manicured lawns. Several of what appeared to be patients could be seen outside in the company of attendants. Paula frowned: all the attendants were gorgeous young women, and their white uniforms looked like fetish versions of nurses’ outfits: beneath the starched white cap each one wore, they had on tight blouses open to expose considerable cleavage, tiny white skirts, gartered translucent white thigh-high stockings and polished white pumps with five-inch heels.

She had protested when George Wilson, her editor at the Weekly Sensation, had handed her this assignment. “No one gets in to see Pavlov. He never gives interviews.

“Then you’ll be getting a scoop, won’t you?” Wilson had retorted. The beefy man had planted his hands on his chipped desk and leaned forward at her. “Besides, you won’t be going in as a reporter. You’ll be going in as a patient.”

“What? Are you nuts?” She had been incredulous.

“No,” the editor had returned smoothly. “and neither are you, I know—but it’s the perfect cover.” He’d looked at her earnestly. “I wish we could get you in as an employee, but you’ve got a lot better chance of being accepted this way.”

“Why are you so interested in this shrink, anyway?”

Wilson had replied with an edge in his voice. “Look, Bren, there’s something going on there. There has been for years. I’ve heard stories—never mind.” He’d paused a moment, collecting himself. “If some of the stuff I’ve heard is true, exposing it would give you the story of the year. Of course, if you can’t handle it—!”

That had done it. Knowing she was being manipulated, she had given in. Wilson had known just what to say: a big story might be her ticket out of tabloid hell.

Now she was here.

She climbed the marble steps up to the colonnaded entrance to the main building and went in. Another beautiful woman sat smiling vacantly at a large polished oak desk bearing a brass plaque which said REGISTRATION. Brenda went over to her, and the woman looked up.

“May I help you?”

“I-I’m here to see Dr. Pavlov,” stammered the reporter, doing her best to act the nervous applicant for psychiatric care she was supposed to be. “I’m, uh, Brenda. Brenda Cleland?” That was the alias she and Wilson had worked out; she had credit cards and other documents in that name with her. “I, I had an, an appointment today?”

Still smiling, the registration nurse nodded. “Let’s see . . . ah, here you are!” She pressed a button on her desk phone. “Paula, would you come to the front desk, please?”

“Yes, Miss Thomas,” a feminine voice answered. A minute or so passed, and then a woman with a model-perfect face and rippling honey-blonde hair in a Farrah Fawcett ’do appeared.

“Escort Ms. Cleland here to the reception area,” the nurse—Miss Thomas, evidently—said. “Dr. Pavlov is expecting her for an intake interview.”

“Yes, Miss Thomas,” Nurse Paula said. Taking Brenda by the arm, she urged her away down a corridor leading rightward. “This way, please.”

The two of them soon arrived at a small room lined with comfortable-looking couches surrounding a small glass-topped table. A bookshelf contained a selection of recent magazines. A small window opened into a room within which several more attractive females labored busily over paperwork. To the left of the window was a door painted in hospital green and marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

“Wait here,” Nurse Paula directed. “The Doctor will see you soon.” The white-uniformed staffer moved off.

Brenda snorted. If her past experiences in doctors’ offices were any guide, “soon” could mean she’d be waiting two hours.

She was pleasantly surprised when, after only fifteen minutes or so, the green door opened and a tall am in a white coat emerged.

“Miss Cleland?” the man asked.

“Dr. Pavlov?”

The white-coated man nodded. “Please come this way.”

Brenda obeyed, following him. As she passed through the door behind the doctor, she smiled. Things were going well, so far.

Pavlov led her down another corridor until they arrived at a door with a brass plate on it bearing his name. He ushered her inside and said, “Sit, sit. Make yourself comfortable, Miss Cleland.” He looked at her. “Or do you prefer Ms.?”

“M-miss is okay, Doctor.” Brenda kept up her act as she looked the psychiatrist over.

One thing you could say for him, she decided, was that he certainly looked the part. Tall, lean, with graying hair, he had a neat black mustache and a short salt-and pepper two-pointed beard. The multi-pocketed white coat he had on completed the picture.

When Brenda had taken a seat, the doctor hung up that coat on a coat tree in one corner. Underneath he was wearing a pale blue shirt, red tie and dark slacks. He sat in the large upholstered chair behind the paneled desk which dominated the room and looked at Brenda.

“Tea, Miss Cleland?”

“Yes, thank you.” Brenda was now genuinely nervous. She’d gotten farther into Pavlov’s inner sanctum than any other reporter in a very long time. She didn’t want to screw it up.

Dr. Pavlov pressed a button on his desk phone and spoke into it. A few minutes later, a nurse with honey-blonde hair in a flowing Farrah Fawcett ‘do came in carrying a tray on which rested a gently steaming teapot, a small ceramic milk container and sugar bowl, and two china cups.

“Thank you, Paula,” the doctor said. “That will be all for now.”

“Yes, Doctor Pavlov.” Nurse Paula bowed deeply, giving the psychiatrist a nice view of her substantial cleavage, then straightened and left.

“How do you take it?” asked Pavlov, waving gently at the tray.

“Two sugars, please,” answered Brenda. “No milk.”

The doctor nodded and busied himself with the tea. When Brenda’s cup was ready, he held it out to her. Before she could take it from him, though, he spoke again: “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to remove your jacket? It’s rather warm in here.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Brenda got up, crossed to the coat tree and draped her suit jacket on one of its limbs. With her back to the desk, she didn’t see Dr. Pavlov reach into his shirt pocket with his free hand, take out two small white tablets and drop them into Brenda’s tea. They sank into the dark liquid and dissolved almost immediately. The psychiatrist smiled.

When Brenda returned to her seat, Pavlov handed her the teacup he’d offered before. There was no visible trace of the extra flavoring he’d added. Once she took the cup, the doctor poured one for himself, adding milk but no sugar.

Pavlov waited for his visitor to take the first sip before tasting his own beverage. The two of them then finished their cups. When Brenda was done, Pavlov asked, “Would you like another cup, my dear?”

“Another cup,” Brenda echoed. The tea she’d drunk made her feel warm and relaxed.

Pavlov obliged her, refilling her cup and adding two sugars as before. He watched as she downed her drink. As she finished, she thumped her cup onto the tray now resting on the doctor’s desk and sank back into her chair.

Pavlov regarded her with satisfaction. The tablets he’d slipped into her first cup were taking effect. As he watched, her eyelids fluttered and her mouth fell slightly open.

“Miss Cleland?” he prompted. There was no response.

He tried again. “Brenda, can you hear me?”

“Mm. Yes, Doctor.” Brenda’s eyes remained half shut.

Pavlov rubbed his bearded chin. There was a small puzzle here. Why hadn’t she responded at first? “Tell me about yourself, Brenda.”

The undercover journalist felt so good. So warm, so safe. From under lowered lashes she regarded a doctor’s office magically transformed. Shapes were simpler, colors brighter, as if she were now inside an animated cartoon. She seemed to float in her seat. The doctor was asking her something, wasn’t he? She struggled to understand. It was so hard. . . .

“Tell me about yourself, Brenda,” Pavlov repeated. He had an inspiration: “Start with your name. What’s your name?”

“Brenda Cl—Cluhh—,” the reporter tried to answer. But that was wrong, wasn’t it? She fought to remember. “No, Brenda Cassaday. Brenda Cassaday.” Yes, that was right.

Pavlov nodded. His suspicion had been correct: she’d come to him under an assumed name. Now to find out why. “Why did you tell my people you were Brenda Cleland?”

“Disguise,” Brenda mumbled. “Needed a . . . disguise.”

“Why did you need a disguise, Miss Cassaday?” The doctor looked searchingly at the drugged woman. “Why did you come here?”

“Story,” she explained. “Newspaper story.” Under gentle guidance from Pavlov, she laid out the whole scheme.

Pavlov rubbed his beard again and sighed. He supposed it was inevitable that the Clinic would draw such attention eventually. Perhaps it had been a mistake to avoid the press so completely in the past. A few carefully managed interviews and media tours would have helped keep his institution from becoming a tempting target for scandal sheets like the rag this woman worked for.

Pavlov rose and walked around his desk until he was standing over Brenda. He looked down at her, speculation in his eyes as his eyes roved over her body. The redhead had a pretty face, and there was a lush figure under the confining suit she wore: long, elegantly tapered legs, a small waist and full, nicely separated breasts. She’d make a nice addition to my stable, he thought. Er, my staff.

The trick would be to manage her acquisition. Ironically, she’d handed him a perfect opening. It would require some modifications to the standard conditioning protocol, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

Returning to his seat, the doctor pressed a button on his phone to activate the PA system and said, “Rhonda. Candy. Front and center, girls.” It was a standard command; the orderlies would drop whatever they were doing and report immediately to his office, ready to obey.

Rhonda, a short brunette with green eyes, arrived first. A few minutes later, Candy arrived. She fluffed her cotton-candy burst of light blonde hair and settled into place at attention next to her darker co-worker.

“Girls, ten-HUT!” Pavlov barked.

The orderlies came to attention and said in unison, “Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov?”

The psychiatrist rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. The robot voices the girls were using were an affectation; they were perfectly capable of speaking normally, but it amused him to have them speak in “robot” style when summoned this way. He gestured toward Brenda and said, “We’ve a new special patient, girls. Escort her to Room 100, please. Her treatment is to begin immediately.”

“Yes Doc-tor Pav-lov,” said the brunette and the cotton-candy blonde. Working together efficiently, they hoisted Brenda to her feet between them and moved toward the door.

“Hey,” the reporter slurred, “wha’s happ’nin’? Where you . . . takin’ me?” She tried to raise her head; it came up briefly, then flopped down again.

“Now, now,” the doctor soothed, “don’t worry. You’re going to get the help you came here for. Everything’s going to be all right.” He moved to the door and opened it to allow the three women to pass through.

Some time later, Dr. Pavlov entered Room 100. The therapy room was ready, he saw: Rhonda and Candy had secured Brenda to the treatment bed and fastened the headset’s electrodes to her scalp. The instruments connected to the headset all read nominal, he noted approvingly. The girls had learned well.

Brenda had come back to more or less full awareness. When she heard him come in, she tried to twist her head to look in his direction. Her restraints kept her still. Pavlov moved around until he was in the redhead’s field of view.

“And how are we feeling?” the therapist asked in a faux-sympathetic voice. “Comfortable?”

“You’re crazy!” Brenda was furious and frightened. “They’ll lock you up and throw away the goddamn key!”

“Tsk, tsk,” Pavlov chided. “As I’ve said to others here, within these walls I decide what words like ‘crazy’ mean. And as for anyone locking me up for all this—who’s going to tell them?”

Brenda felt a chill. “You’re going to kill me?” She struggled against her bonds again, as uselessly as before.

“Kill you?” Pavlov’s voice took on a shocked tone. “Dear me, no! Why should I kill such a good-looking woman?”

“Then . . . I don’t understand.”

“You shall,” the doctor promised. “Now, let’s try this, shall we?” He moved to a small control panel and twisted a knob.

Brenda gasped. All at once, the most unimaginable pleasure was roaring through her. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think; she could barely see.

And then it was over. In the grip of that fantastic sensation, she had strained against the straps holding her to the table as every muscle clenched in ecstasy. Now she sagged back, exhausted.

“What,” she wheezed, “was that?”

“Pleasure, my dear,” answered Dr. Pavlov. “The apparatus to which you’ve been connected is capable of stimulating the pleasure centers of your brain directly, as strongly as I wish.” He leered at her. “And as you’ve just experienced, I can stimulate you strongly indeed.”

“But . . . but why?” Brenda was baffled.

Pavlov produced a small silver bell. “My great-grandfather, as you may or may not know, was the famous Dr. Ivan Pavlov. His early experiences in reflex conditioning demonstrated it was possible to train animals to respond automatically to a simple stimulus by associating it with a reward—food, in his work.”

He shook the bell, which made a tinkling sound, and turned the control dial again.

“Nnn-nuhhh!” The sound burst from Brenda’s lips as pleasure ripped through her again. “UHUHHH-HHH!” Then, just like that, the feeling was gone again and she slumped back, stars chasing one another behind her tightly-squeezed eyelids. It took her most of a minute to regain enough control to open her eyes.

“Of course,” Pavlov noted, “great-grandfather didn’t have modern technology to work with, or human subjects, either.”

He looked down at Brenda. “When I’m through with you, dear Brenda, you won’t want to expose me. You’ll do anything I say, you’ll believe anything I choose to ask you to believe, because you will have learned one simple truth.” He rang the bell. “Obedience is pleasure.”

JOLT. Pleasure roared through the reporter again, sweeping away all thought before receding.

“Obedience is pleasure.” Ring. JOLT.

“Obedience is pleasure.” Ring. JOLT.

“Obedience is pleasure.” Ring. JOLT.

A woman’s voice was shrieking “Obedience is pleasure! Obedience is pleasure!” Dimly, Brenda realized she should recognize the voice, but then the bell rang again and the wonderful feeling poured through her, pushing the thought away. On and on it went, until finally the world went black.

Dr. Pavlov looked down at the stupidly smiling woman unconscious on the treatment table. This first treatment had gone well, he judged. Already she had begun to repeat the key phrase in response to the stimulus. Soon it would embed itself in her mind, reshaping her thoughts.

He addressed the orderlies. “Take her to quarters,” he directed. “Let her rest. When she wakes, give her a one-cc dose of ecstacine and bring her along for her next treatment.” He furrowed his brow. “She’ll be amenable to first-stage cognitive imprinting, I think.”

This would be an interesting case. Brenda Cassaday had come to the Clinic masquerading as a would-be patient. Should he program her to simulate a genuine mental breakdown? Certainly that would be one way to obtain long-term control over her.

Reluctantly, he decided against it. This wasn’t some anonymous woman snatched from a bar by his operatives, someone whose disappearance into the Clinic could be concealed with the help of reprogramming and some judicious plastic surgery. Her colleagues at the Weekly Sensation knew her, knew where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Having her “crack up” would look too suspicious, and making her disappear would be just as bad.

No, this was going to take some finesse.