The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Suzie Slade was either famous or infamous in the investigative journalism community, depending on your perspective and in particular whether she’d inserted her nose into your business affairs. She had broken a number of national above-the-line stories about the rich and powerful, and her trademark photo—red hair, heavy-rimmed spectacles, rakishly tilted hat, big bust pushed forward—had stared out at the public from any number of features in the past few years.

Ironically, Suzie was actually a mousy blond, had 20/20 vision, was not particularly tall, and sported pert but quite small boobs. It was in her natural guise that she was most effective in infiltrating organizations, both criminal and financial—though the border between those was fuzzy at best.

Right now, Suzie was trying to sell her next investigation to her editor Joe Smale. Joe was very fond of his reporter, but was also prone to headaches and acid reflux when trying to manage the frequent fall-out from her stories—such as threatening phone calls, bomb hoaxes, powerful politicians threatening to have his entire staff jailed. He chewed an antacid as Suzie expounded on her plan.

“Look Joe, we know that Representatives Harriet Harris, Judy Yates and Lola Lewis are all on the commission for funding missile defense.” She dropped a photo of a congressional hearing featuring the three political ladies to prove her point. “They were all pro-Dynadyne Systems three weeks ago. Here are the transcripts.” A pile of paper in fixed-width type joined the photo. “They all dropped out of sight over the weekend of the 15th, nothing on their schedules.” Three printed schedules joined the pile. “From a tip, we have photos of them arriving at the Sonoran, same day.” Three black-and-white photos, taken with a long lens. “And this week they suddenly dump on Dynadyne in the hearing.” A photo of the Dynadyne Systems president with a haggard face. “Government’s not buying the Dynadyne system for the next two years at least—and maybe not ever.”

“Which means...?” Joe prompted her.

“Which means someone got to them, and the obvious place they did that is the Sonoran. I’d bet it’s someone from JetCorp, but we don’t know who. Yet.”

“And you want to...”

“I want to go there and turn it inside out, find out what’s going on.”

“Suzie...” Joe rubbed his face. “You can’t just bust in there like a SWAT team. Do you know what kind of people go there? It’s world-famous, for gosh sakes. They’ll get you thrown in jail and lose the key. You’d be lucky if you got out within ten years. You think I can afford to send you food parcels for that long?”

“Of course I know who goes there. And I can become one of them. Just get me in, Joe. Low key. Scout around, get the info, get out, compile the story, start leaking it around the national press to drum up interest, give you the exclusive. We all win!”

Joe groaned. He could see where this was going, knew the likely fallout, but also knew how valuable it would be if Suzie could actually land this scoop. And he knew that she could. She was simultaneously his best and most frustrating reporter.

“Okay, okay. I’ll call Jill Liebermann at L,L+S and have her stand by for when you inevitably—and I mean, inevitably—land in jail.”

“You’re the best, JS,” Suzie beamed. Joe sank into a chair and contemplated his angina medication bottle.

“Oh, one more thing...”—Joe groaned and lowered his head—“I need you to front me some cash. I can’t put this on the corporate credit card, and my bank would have a fit if I tried to get this on credit.”

“Sure, sure.” Joe rubbed his bald spot. “What’s the damage?”

“Eight hundred.” That didn’t seem so bad. “Obviously, I can’t file this as a legit expense because the receipts will be in my alias.” That seemed bad, but not unexpected.

“Of course, of course. I always wondered—with all the banks tying themselves in knots about Know Your Customer and proof of ID, how did you get that account and credit card in the name of ‘Janet Joseph’?”

Suzie hesitated.

“Know what? I don’t wanna know. Eight hundred. All right. Fine.”

“Um... that’s per night? And I need, at minimum, five nights to have a good chance to get the info. Maybe six. At least I won’t have to expense meals!”

Joe idly wondered if an actual heart attack would be worse than his regular conversations with Suzie.

“Well, if the worst comes to the worst—and it probably will—at least you’ll have the best skin in Sing Sing. Best case, this might be the first actual vacation you’ve taken in years.”

The Sonoran Institute was indeed famous, in a low-key way, as an expensive but tasteful and high-quality residential spa. It advertised in only the most exclusive publications, with no price list—if madame had to ask, madame could likely not afford. And it would be a madame; they were very careful to keep it a lady-only space.

Residing in forty acres of well-tended countryside, which provided an agreeable privacy buffer, the four-story building hosted on average 40 of the more exclusive but low-key successful women in the country. They tended to stay for 3-5 days. All food was included. Phones and cameras were politely but firmly requested to be confined to guests’ rooms. All this and more had been turned up in Suzie’s researches; she was fully informed and equipped for her raid.

Suzie donned her new personality and became “Janet Joseph”, an editor for a real second-tier publisher based in Memphis. Janet was looking to kick back and relax after a stressful couple of book releases which hadn’t made it to the stores because of tedious, painful and non-disclosable legal reasons, and Suzie’s college friend who actually worked at that publisher was ready to respond to any enquiries about here. Any fellow-publisher could sympathize with her workload. There were probably some first-tier publisher people there already, which was a plausible hook for her being there—the Institute frowned on excessive networking, but some idle chat was to be expected.

Janet took an Uber from the local airport, which rolled up at the wrought-iron gates at the appointed time just before midday.

“Name, madame?” The gate guard was a middle-aged lady, with a pleasant but impassive face.

“Janet Joseph.” She handed over her driver’s license, which was completely authentic—albeit also fictitious in name.

The guard checked her iPad. “Yes, I see, thank you.” She handed back the license. “I’m afraid you’ll have to exit the car here; we don’t allow non-guests within the property. We’ll get you a ride to Reception.

“Oh—of course!” Janet had known full well this was going to happen, but it always paid to appear behind the curve. She removed her wheelie bag from the trunk and thanked her driver, then followed the guard to the gate building.

“Please have a seat, ma’am. Our driver will be here soon.”

Janet was careful to appear only idly curious about the gatehouse, but her eyes were taking everything in. The surveillance equipment appeared top-of-the-line, and from the monitors it seemed to cover the whole grounds with significant overlap between cameras. Someone was very invested in detecting intruders.

Janet shrugged internally. Oh well. They hadn’t detected her. Walking through the front door was remarkably effective, in her experience.

Ten minutes later a small electric cart drove up, crewed by another lady in a security uniform, and drove Janet to the main building. She admired the carefully tended and watered grounds as they drove along the main driveway.

“Lovely place,” she offered. “How long have you worked here?”

“Thank you, ma’am. Been here a while.” The driver was polite but reserved.

At reception, the driver helped Janet with her wheelie into the small but expensive glass-and-marble lobby and bid her good day. A sharply dressed, severely coiffed lady was behind the reception desk.

“Ms Joseph? Welcome to the Sonoran. May I please see your ID?”

Janet handed it over, clearly admiring the lobby as she waited for the receptionist. Someone had paid a lot of money for their interior design and the quality furnishings to do it full justice. Mind, at eight hundred a night, perhaps it wasn’t surprising. She was a little surprised though to see that no-one else was waiting at reception.

“Thank you.” The receptionist returned her license, after carefully scrutinizing Janet’s face and swiping the card through a reader to check its legitimacy. Janet was unconcerned, mostly because the license had indeed been issued by a legitimate DMV. “Please have a seat. Your intake consultant will be with you shortly.”

Janet knew the dance. Even the most expensive pre-booked appointment would require you to wait a little, just to show that you were fortunate to be here. She settled into a seat and picked up her phone to browse email—her fake identity email, not her real one. The latter was only accessible by a hidden app and was protected by a good password she’d never used anywhere else. Janet had been taught tradecraft by an expert, retired early from the intelligence services, whom Janet had met in murky circumstance. She still missed her friend, Sadie; she’d survived a number of dangerous assignments in Bulgaria and China, only to be laid low by kidney cancer.

“Ms Joseph, please come through.” Another lady, this time in a medical tunic. “I am Kate.”

Kate ushered Janet into a door past the receptionist, and along a narrow corridor into a small room marked “INTAKE 2”. She took a seat behind the desk in there, indicating the guest seat for Janet.

“Thank you for filling in the application online.” Janet had spent a good hour doing that, giving a blow-by-blow of her health history, and it was mostly truthful apart from her name and exact birthdate. She figured that it made no real sense to have more fibs in flight than she needed. “You’re here for six nights, yes?”

“That’s correct. It’s possible I may need to leave one day early. I’ll know more mid-week.”

“Well, I hope that you can stay the full duration. We will enjoy having you here.” Kate scrolled through her iPad notes. “Today is mostly pre-scheduled for you as an introduction, but you will be able to select activities and treatments in the other days. Although your therapists will give you recommendations, and I suggest you consider them seriously.” She took an expensive-looking branded leather folder and passed it over to Janet. “This is all the information you need to know, but I can give you the highlights. Your room is on the third floor, number 310; your card will activate your room lock and the elevator. First floor is mostly social spaces—restaurant, sun deck, spa pool, sauna. Second floor is treatment rooms and some guest rooms. Fourth floor is executive level, your card won’t work for that.”

Janet had inferred this might be the case from her research, but it was good to have the confirmation.

“Of course. 310, you said, is my room?”

“That is correct. There is a dress code in the public spaces: robe, vest, and shorts, you will find them in your room. And no mobile phones or cameras outside your own room, please, or we will have to ask you to leave. The only thing you should need is your card.”

“I understand.”

“There’s no alcohol allowed on site. We do have coffee and tea but we suggest that you don’t have more than 1-2 cups per day; try to replace it with water, with or without ice. The restaurant food is included in your stay, and we think it’s very good, but we recommend going light on quantity. After all, as you wrote, you’re here to improve your body as well as your mind. Fortunately, we can help with both.”

“Lovely.”

“How are you feeling now?” Kate asked, suddenly motherly.

“Relieved, I’d say. It’s been a busy month. I could really use a real break, connecting back with myself.” Janet partially feigned a yawn. “And I’m so tired.”

“Oh, then you’ll approve of the curfew,” Kate smiled. “Everyone in their own room by 8pm. No late night pajama parties!”

Janet laughed. “Sounds great.”

“I’ll take you to your room.” Kate stood, and opened the door for Janet. “Your first appointment is in forty minutes, so you have some time to change and get ready.”

Janet ended up being very busy in those forty minutes. As soon as she was shown to her small but comfortable room, she stuck her keycard in the supplied refrigerator (stocked mostly with bottled water and kombucha), changed into the provided vest, shorts and robe, pulled out her hairdryer and then subjected the card to an intensive 5 minutes of heat before returning it to the icebox. Another cycle of that, and to her satisfaction the card no longer worked well when she tested it on the lock. She took the elevator back down to the first floor, and the internal reception desk.

“Hello, I’m sorry to bother you, but my room card isn’t working well.” She proffered the sabotaged card.

“Please test it on the pad.” The receptionist indicated a sensor. Janet obligingly touched the pad, and it gave an unhappy squawk.

“I’m sorry about that. What name and room, please?”

“Janet Joseph, 310”.

“One moment...” The receptionist was clearly comparing Janet with a photo on her computer. They took security seriously, it seemed. “Yes, I see. I’ll generate a new one for you.” She presented a replacement.

“Great, thank you. I’ll just toss this one.” Janet went to the nearest garbage can and dropped in the card. At least, that was what the receptionist thought she saw. In fact, it was just a blank piece of white card that Janet had in her hand; she had palmed the original sabotaged card.

“Thank you!” She waved and headed for her first appointment.

Janet smiled to herself as she walked down the corridor. All going to plan, so far. Now she had to find a patsy.

Three hours later Janet had been prodded, examined, scanned, poked with needles and subjected to intense scrutiny about her diet and habits. Assignment aside, she was seriously re-evaluating her lifestyle. Perhaps she should ease back on the number and duration of gin and tonic discussions with her journo buddies. The things she did for journalism!

Fortunately her next appointment was for something more enjoyable. Jo, her ‘aestheticienne’, had Janet lie down and rest while Jo gave Janet’s facial skin an intensive going-over. Usefully, and surprisingly, Jo was quite chatty and gregarious; Janet’s other appointments had been conducted by older woman who were pleasant enough but definitely not inclined to chat. Perhaps it wasn’t popular with most clients.

Janet had already found out that Jo was a new hire, having been here a few weeks, so thought she’d probe about the 4th floor.

“I see we’re not allowed on the fourth floor—who do they have up there?”

“Oh, lots of people.” Jo gave Janet’s face a good pummelling with her expert hands, causing Janet’s lips to go ‘wub wub wub’. “Generally, people who are in the public eye to some degree. They do come down here for treatments, and the restaurant of course. They have a few things up there, like their own private sauna. After all, if you’re someone like the princess of Monaco, you don’t necessarily want to be sharing with everyone else; you want to be with people like yourself, who understand. Right?”

“Makes sense.” Janet raised her eyebrows. “You’ve given a facial to the princess of Monaco?”

“Hah! Nobody that glamorous.” Jo pulled out her tweezers to attack Janet’s cowlick. “But you’d be surprised who we get here.”

Janet was quite sure that she wouldn’t be that surprised.

Jo slathered on some thick clay-like substance and put a mask over Janet’s eyes. “There you go, darling. Take a snooze! Forget about everything, for half an hour at least. I’ll be right here.”

Janet sighed and closed her eyes. She really could do with the rest, to be sure. It was good thinking time.

That evening, Janet idly flicked through her TV’s program options while she ruminated on what she had so far. The fourth floor was the key. And the keycard was also the key. How to get up to the fourth floor without being caught, or even making people suspicious? She had some resources that should help, but forging a card which would get her up to floor 4 was way beyond her.

The Institute had a very restricted range of TV programs, all available only via streaming. They clearly wanted their guests’ minds to rest as much as their bodies. There were a few tasteful rom-coms, and a couple of period drama series, but Janet had seen most of the former and wasn’t a fan of the latter. She ended up with a nature show investigating the wildlife of the Panamanian jungle. It was vaguely interesting, but not compelling, and after an hour Janet gave up and slipped into bed. At least the sheets were soft, and the mattress firm. It had been a long day, and tomorrow would likely challenge her resourcefulness.

At breakfast on the second day, Janet was pushing around some smoked salmon with dill on wheat toast and sipping on her single allowed coffee—the dietician hadn’t quite banned her from the substance, but had been very clear on her thoughts about the wisdom of Janet typically chugging four or more cups per day. Compromising, this morning Janet had picked the biggest available cup and filled it to the brim.

Although it appeared to the casual observer that Janet was daydreaming, she was covertly scanning the cafe room; trying to look at faces without making eye contact. She was looking for anyone she recognized—there! Three tables over, talking quietly with a Chinese lady. A tall woman with Nordic features. She was something big in the World Trade Organization. What was her name? Johnson? Johanssen, that was it. A good chance that she was on floor 4. All right, worth a shot.

No-one else tripped Janet’s recognition, so Johanssen it was. Fortunately, she was almost directly between Janet and the dinner tray return.

The robes they all worse had a wide, deep pocket down the left side which turned out to be an excellent place to store one’s roomcard, and indeed Janet had seen many women do just that. Janet just had to hope that Johanssen had discovered that trick too.

She scooped up the notepad she’d been doodling on and bussed her tray back to the collection point, in no particular hurry and not particularly close to Johanssen and her friend. As she passed, she checked with a furtive side-glance how Johanssen’s robe was hanging: Yes! it was free, and the pocket opening was accessible. Now she would see if Sadie’s coaching on the finer arts of thievery was still paying off.

On the way back she judged her path very carefully. As she came parallel with Johanssen, she deliberately hooked her left foot on a chair leg from another table, and stumbled, dropping her notepad on the floor besides Johanssen’s table.

“Crap!”

“Oh! Are you OK?” asked Johanssen, concerned.

“I’m sorry, still not really woken up. I got this.” Janet braced her right hand on the side of Johanssen’s chair and bent down to pick up her notepad with the other, deliberately fumbling. With Johanssen’s attention distracted, her right hand came free and dipped into the pocket, finding the card as she expected. A quick switch for her sabotaged card, and as she stood she removed her hand from the pocket.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

“It’s quite all right.” Definitely a Scandinavian accent there. Johanssen turned back to her companion.

Janet suppressed a smile as she left the cafe. Sadie would have been very proud.

Fifteen minutes later she was lounging around the internal reception area reading a tract on essential mental clarity when Johanssen came down to complain that her card no longer worked. The reception lady tested it, confirmed that it was broken, and asked for her name and room. Janet’s carefully tuned ears heard “Johanssen, 403.” Thank goodness for precise Scandinavian diction. Game on!

The rest of the day passed frustratingly slowly; although Janet had learned patience over many years and assignments, it didn’t mean she liked using it. To distract herself, she tried to throw herself into the classes and sessions. After all, Joe was already paying for it; she might as well make maximum use of the agency’s sunk money.

The morning swim was wonderful; she hadn’t been in a pool in over a year, and the weather outside was excellent today. She had enjoyed poaching herself in the sauna, and met a chatty girl in there with whom she clicked and enjoyed talking about nothing in particular until they both resembled steamed tomatoes. The dietician follow-up appointment was less fun though; she had insisted on booking Janet a colonic hydrotherapy session for the next day, promising Janet she’d feel ten years younger. Janet had her doubts but had not been able to argue herself out of it. The things she did for journalism!

Finally, after an intermediate yoga class where Janet’s natural coordination and balance almost offset her total lack of recent practice, it was 5:30pm; the time that the restaurant opened for dinner. Janet went straight there, trying to avoid looking like she was in a hurry. She selected a ratatouille, and went to a corner table. With her notebook open she pretended to be focused on doing a small sketch—she was a decent artist with a pencil—but was in fact watching for her patsy to arrive.

There! Johanssen was by herself this time, but looking around for someone. Not apparently finding them, she went to the plating counter. Probably to get something meat-based, the skinny bitch. Janet caught herself—it wasn’t Johanssen’s fault that Janet’s dietician was all over Janet’s admittedly horrible diet. She knew that if she’d selected the seductively-scented brisket that she’d have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow.

Janet bolted down her ratatouille, which was practically a crime against its chef, and returned her tray. The coast was clear. It was time to return to her room and don her disguise. Now to see if her preparation had paid off.

From the Institute’s brochure, Janet had very carefully observed the style of tunic and name badge that the staff wore. Tucked under her normal clothes in her wheelie case was a medical tunic of the exact same style, and a suitably styled name badge marked “WHITE”—the least memorable name she could come up with. Now she dressed herself in the tunic, smoothed the fabric down, wrapped her hair into a tight, orderly bun, and checked herself in the mirror. Game on!

She checked her door’s peephole: no-one around. She slipped out of the room and walked purposefully down to the elevator area. Pressing “Up” she stood in a relaxed pose, as if she had no concerns. Always look as if you belong, never look uncomfortable or surprised. She could have been a great actress, but was sure that sooner or later she’d have murdered a scriptwriter in a dispute over dialogue.

The arriving elevator had one lady, a guest, who exited with a muted “hello” and walked to her room. Janet strode in to the elevator, touched her badge to the reader, and hit “4”. Would it work?

It did! The “4” light was illuminated, and the elevator started moving upwards. Janet stood patiently until it settled at the top floor.

The elevator “dinged” and Janet walked briskly out. Floor 4 was very similar to the floors below; a corridor of guest rooms, and a separate section for treatment facilities. She identified a small sauna, as Jo had described, and a separate consultation room—but nothing that looked suspicious. Ah well, it had been too much to hope for to find a room marked “EVIL CONSPIRACY”. Instead, she walked back to Johanssen’s room 403, and badged in.

Johanssen’s room was unfortunately boring. No papers, a powered-off laptop that presented an implacable “Password input>” prompt once powered on, a phone that didn’t use any of the common unlock codes. Janet quickly frisked through Johanssen’s purse, and the clothes in the closet—nothing. Damn it! The only thing she discovered from the cards in her purse was that her first name was Ingrid, and she did indeed work in an exec role at the World Trade Organization.

There were voices outside. Someone was coming! Janet briefly cursed, and looked for an exit. There was none. Improvising, as she did so well, she ducked into the clothing closet next to the door and pulled its louvred doors shut. There she crouched in a corner, tucked under Johanssen’s hanging dresses and suit, waiting.

Sure enough, the door clicked open and Johanssen entered saying a cheery farewell to someone outside, hoping to meet up tomorrow. The door shut, and Janet heard the creak of an office chair as Johanssen sat at the desk. Janet silently thanked her lucky stars that she’d powered down the laptop after her few attempts at guessing a password. Still, it wasn’t clear how she was going to get out unless Johanssen left—and there was no indication yet that she was planning to do so.

As time went on, Janet became less and less optimistic, and was starting to resign herself to hours in the closet until Johanssen went to bed and hit REM sleep. This foray had been a bust—unless there was something she’d missed? Did she have the wrong patsy? Did she have time to find a new one? She was idly plotting a repeat strategy if she could find one: abuse Johanssen’s card, use that to swap with the new patsy’s card. Would reception get suspicious at the high rate of card failures? Could she successfully eavesdrop for the new room number without being flagged? How else could she find out the room? Maybe follow someone back from a meal, and note where they went?

A knock at the door started Janet, and by the sound of it Johanssen too. She opened it, and welcomed someone into the room. Janet could make out someone wearing a staff tunic, but not who it was. Fortunately their voice carried into the closet well.

“Dr Lee made up this solution for you to drink; it should help with your digestion. She asked me to make sure you took it.”

“Of course.” There was a “gulp” as Johanssen downed the liquid. “A little bitter!”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Rinse with kombucha, it will help. Thank you. Have a good night.” The visitor left.

Janet heard Johanssen sit on the sofa with a sigh, and turned on the TV. Janet idly wondered if the fourth floor guests got a special program selection—but apparently not, because Johanssen ended up with the same nature program Janet had been stuck with the previous night. The soothing voice of the narrator could have lulled Janet to sleep, had she not been stuck in such a cramped position.

Fifteen minutes later, Janet was getting desperate, feeling increasing pressure on her bladder. She was starting to calculate her odds of a successful stealth crawl out of the closet, when she heard a soft snore. She dared a peek around the closet door to see Johanssen passed out on the sofa. Janet raised her eyebrow—by her watch it was just past 7pm, Johanssen was clearly not the party-all-night type.

She gave it as long as she dared for Johanssen to slip deeper into sleep, then gently moved the handle of the door to minimize the inevitable “click” as the lock disengaged—but it was not responding. The handle was immovable. Janet was starting to perspire. She rechecked Johanssen—still asleep, thankfully. It wasn’t even 7:15pm. Did the fourth floor have an earlier curfew? How the heck was she going to get out before breakfast? Sooner or later she’d have to pee, and that was going to be really hard to conceal.

She squinted through the peephole. Someone was coming! She ducked back down into the closet and re-closed the door.

The door beeped, and someone entered. “Ms Johanssen?” They took a couple of steps towards the sofa, and leaned over. “Very good, she’s out.” A second person put a wedge under the door to keep it open, and more people brought in a trolley of some kind. A quick lift, and the sound of buckles snapping, then the trolley was pushed out—Janet caught a glimpse of Johanssen’s peaceful, sleeping face. The last person out removed the door wedge, and let the door swing slowly shut on its hydraulic mechanism.

Leaving it as late as she dared, Janet darted out of the closet and grabbed the door handle just before it clicked shut. She held it a half inch away from closing, and cautiously viewed through the peephole. The staff were pushing the trolley away from the elevator, down the other end of the hall—where there was another elevator, and if Janet’s spatial memory was to be trusted, that one didn’t have doors on any other floor that she’d seen.

The staff pushed the trolley into the elevator, and let the door close behind them. As soon as they did, Janet was out of the room like a jackrabbit. She forced herself to pause, once in the corridor, and walk without too much rush towards the new elevator.

This one was marked “STAFF ONLY”, which Janet took as a challenge. She checked around, and seeing no other people pressed the “CALL” button. Gratifyingly, there came the noise of motors as the elevator came up toward her. She tried not to appear too anxious, but paid close attention to the mechanical noises. Once the elevator sounded close, she wandered off to the side of the elevator and scrutinized a tasteful inspiration poster mounted just down the corridor.

There was a “ding” and the elevator door opened. Janet used her side angle to look for anyone exiting—but there was none. She slipped in and looked at the panel.

There were only two buttons: “4” and “B”. There was a card reader, but she hit the “B” button to see if it would do anything.

Gratifyingly, the “B” button lit up and doors closed. She stood in the elevator and waited patiently for it to descend. It was slow, but even accounting for that it seemed to go longer than she would have expected. How deep was the basement?

The elevator door opened in the basement—and four nurses dressed in scarlet scrubs and caps were waiting outside. They moved into the elevator before Janet could even move to exit, surrounding Janet and holding her arms by her side. There was a sting in her neck—she gasped, “ouch!”

Her arms and body were pinioned very effectively. She debated trying the “do you know who I am?” gambit, but almost immediately a cold feeling started to spread from the site of the sting. As it rose up through her neck, her lips and tongue went numb so she couldn’t protest even if she were to try. The feeling descended her spine, causing her legs to go wobbly. The nurses promptly scooped her up and carried her out of the elevator into a waiting wheelchair. Someone had been expecting her.