The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


by Vendatrix


It was not until later that evening that the two men got together. Andre still sported his yachting cap tilted at a rakish angle, his silk scarf carefully tied loosely around his open-necked shirt. He drank his brandy, while Max nursed a small dark beer.

“Well, Andre,” said Max, as they settled down in his paneled study, “You look tanned and fit. The sea agrees with you.”

“Max, this was no picnic. You try kidnaping a boatful of women on the open ocean. A single coast guard cutter could have put us all in the clink.”

Max smiled. “Your sacrifice in boating with twenty-four beautiful, docile women has been noted in the corporate minutes,” he said.

Andre grinned his sea-dog smile and threw a leg over the armrest of his chair. “Actually, Max, it was not too bad. The worse part was writing those condolence letters to the next of kin about the loss of the ship.” He filched an apple from a bowl of fruit. A knife seemed to appear from nowhere in his hand. He flicked the blade open with a practiced snap and sliced off wedges to munch on.

Max said, “I bet they will be surprised that their lost loved one took out a life insurance policy before boarding. That should dry their tears.”

“And squelch any interest in investigating the loss. The next of kin will be too busy counting their money. Quite the chessplayer you are, Max.”

Max tilted his head to acknowledge the compliment. He said, “So no problems on the ship, eh?”

“I’ve told you, Max, no problems. The boys behaved themselves, the white coats knew what they were doing, the ladies were quite cooperative—”

“Except the one named Tamantha, apparently,” said Max.

Andre shrugged. “All in hand, mon chief. The sea was kind to us, too. No storms, glorious sun-filled days. Radiant sunsets. Ever see the sun set on the open ocean, Max? It can take your breath away. “He looked around, then his face brightened. “Ah, I see you still have your own private amusement show still. What was her name again?” And he gazed at the small amphitheater that lit one end of the study. On a pedestal beneath subtly changing colored lights, a voluptuous brunette postured in an endless routine of provocative poses. As Andre looked on with delight, she knelt on the pedestal and slowly leaned backwards so her full breasts quivered on upright on her chest like upturned bowls of jello. Her mane of glossy black hair cascaded behind her.

“Darcie,” said Max, his voice empty of interest. “Darcie McVey. She was going to do an expose newscast of our little operation here. She apparently thought it would help her career to bask in the limelight of the television cameras. Ach, it looks like the fates have given her what wanted—she is forever in the limelight now. Ornamental. Living art. I had one of the techs put her remote on an endless loop, had it coordinated with the changes in the lighting.” And as he said that, the girl reached down between her legs, her hand shamelessly stroking her loins, oblivious to the men in the room, as a new spotlight beam focused a rose-colored cone of light on her glistening fingers. “I barely notice her anymore,” said Max in a toneless voice.

“Oui, chief, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” said Andre, turning his attention back to his senior partner. “You need to get out more, to breathe the air. I’ve heard you have not spent much time with that other one—”

“Robyn Dorset” said Max.

“Yes, her. You keep her bound in those leather suits and hardly ever sample her treats. And the other day you sent me a memo—you know I don’t read memos, Max—that described the girls as. . . pleasure delivery systems’. Mon Dieu, man, you’re as tightly wound as those pocket watches you play with. Now look here—” and he got up, walked to the pedestal, and pulled the compliant Darcie to her feet. “Bend over, mon Cherie, that’s a girl. Now look here, that’s a marvelous derriere this girl has.” He gave it hearty slap with his palm. Darcie squealed a bit, then smiled. “As round and plump as this apple. Why not just enjoy her, Max? A little joie de vivre, a love of life, eh? Why all this brooding?” He glanced back at Darcie and said, “Go back to doing what you were doing, dear.” She began her arousing routine all over. Andre continued. “We have it made, no? You did it, Max. You built all this, not me.” And Andre’s wide swing of his arm took in the richly adorned office, the processing center outside the office, the island resort. “So do me this favor—live a little, okay? Am I coming through to you, Max? I hope so. Because when you get like this, you are. . .” he searched for the right English word. “Unfun. And I worry about you. Yes, I do. Me, Andre, your only real friend in the whole world.” And with that he threw himself back in his chair.

Max shifted in his chair. “Danke, mein Freund, my old friend,” he said. The fact is, we have a lot to worry about right now. Lydia Dunn was here, you know.”

Andre frowned. “I don’t like her. She’s a cold hearted bitch.”

Max tilted his head as if he was willing to concede the point. “Perhaps. But useful. She said that other groups are beginning to get back into this business.”

“Why? We do everything right, here. Our girls are primo, the best.”

“Demand, Andre, demand. The market demands. We need more, that’s all. That member of the British House of Lords was getting impatient. But if we can’t keep up with demand, others will try. They will not be as careful as we are. And before you know it, the authorities are alerted and the operation must close down.”

“But I just brought you twenty-four beauties!” protested Andre.

“Our agents have received orders this past month for twice that many. Oh, don’t get wrong, your cargo today took care of our most pressing needs. Nevertheless, our backlog grows. The customers on our waiting list won’t wait forever. They will turn to our competition. If we don’t fill supply, others, less scrupulous organizations might try to infiltrate the market, with their own careless methods. All it takes is one mistake—a murdered girl from a botched conditioning, a recruit picked up with a blown faked-death cover story—and then the authorities are suspicious and our whole operation will be exposed to the kind of publicity that will destroy us.”

Andre sliced another wedge of the apple with his razor-sharp blade. “I could handle the poachers, chief, the minute they try to muscle in. You know I have my people for this sort of thing. No problem.” His lips curled into an amused smile, but the eyes maintained their serious expression.

Max knew that on the Marseilles dockyards where Andre had his roots, there were still unsolved disappearances of men who had crossed this lithe Frenchman. He sighed. “Thank you, Andre, but to resort to violence means we haven’t done our work right. There was never a better man for a dark night than you. But they would retaliate—clumsily—and we would have to respond—effectively—and before you know it we would be reading about ourselves in the London Times and the Parisian L’Express, not to mention Interpol, Special Branch in the UK and the FBI in the United States. And then, my friend, we would be on the run again, just like in the old days. No. We need a more permanent solution. That’s why I had to consult with Ms. Dunn. An opportunity has presented itself.” And Max leaned out of his chair to hand Andre a file.

Andre flipped through it. “What is this, some kind of school?” he asked. Then he read aloud from a brochure inside the file. “St. Hypatia Academy for Young Women,” he entoned. He glanced sharply over at Max. “What is this all about?”

“Keep reading.”

Andre continued. “This world-class finishing school for women has long held a standard of excellence in developing mind and body and spirit, teaching proper deportment, and completing the education of young ladies prior to engagements or career opportunities. We specialize in

difficult’ students. We know how challenging it can be in a world of loosening morals to teach responsible behavior—’” Andre looked up and fanned himself with his captain’s hat. “So true,” he said philosophically. Then, impatient with his reading, he lay the file aside. “So tell me, Max. You have a plan, I can tell.”

Max said, “This academy is located in the United States, in a secluded New England countryside. Their usual student population is 300 per year, but that could easily be increased to twice that many. It is everything that brochure says it is, I’ve sent some of our people to check it out. The school is the most expensive, most in demand, and has an impeccable academic reputation. Unfortunately,” Max went on, steepling his fingertips, “the school also has a running deficit and most of their instructors quit last semester. Their finances are in disarray, the difficult students’, having been dumped here by wealthy parents, seem determined to turn this fine institution into what Americans call a party school’. The school is owned by a family trust, the last surviving member being the headmaster, who couldn’t unravel a garden hose, much less untangle the problems this place has.” Max smiled. " And that leads us to the opportunity.”

“What’s that, Max?” asked Andre.

“It’s for sale.”

Andre looked perplexed. “So now we are going into the school business, Max?”

Max’s smile became a wolfish grin.

“Ja, old friend. But our kind of school. Imagine a school of young women, essentially abandoned by their parents who ask only that we keep their spoiled children under control, and who pay us tuition and board for the privilege. A secluded school, where we can put in our own instructors, our own facilities. . .”

Andre’s puzzlement gave way to delight. “Max, you are a genius! We have and endless source of recruits. This kidnaping business could not go on forever—our people would make a mistake sooner or later.”

Max said, “Lydia Dunn said she will handle security. We can start conditioning the freshman class this fall. Perhaps you could be the one to teach our young charges proper deportment’”

Andre laughed. “But of course! After all, it is—” he grabbed the brochure and read from it, " We know how challenging it can be in a world of loosening morals to teach responsible behavior.’”

The two men refilled their glasses and made their plans far into the night, while the laboratory next door continued the process of transforming the cargo of girls into sex slaves of breathtaking beauty. . .