The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Trina looked over as Brittany walked toward her.

Trina was standing at the podium, the lunchtime greeter at Tempe, the hot new Santa Monica restaurant. Her black t-shirt cost eighty bucks and hugged her tits like saran wrap. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the restaurant, but Clint the manager thought she was “bubbly”, so she worked the entrance, smiling at passers-by, subtly hinting that a fifteen dollar chicken sandwich served by a sexy waitress might be just what they wanted.

Of course, saying that Trina wasn’t the prettiest girl at Tempe was like saying an opal isn’t as pretty as a pearl. Girls come to Los Angeles, girls with dreams of movies or maybe, if they have to, television, and most of those girls wind up waitresses or receptionists or store clerks. Some of them fall lower than that, and wind up dancing, or worse.

But some of them fall higher; Tempe paid well enough — very well for a restaurant — and even if that bastard at Fox hadn’t called her back Trina was living a pretty good life. Even outside ‘the business’, a good body and a pretty face were worth quite a bit. She had her job, had her apartment, had her yoga classes and her weekend clubbing.

Right now it was two-thirty; they were going to close soon, that hour-long break between lunch and dinner that said, along with the modern eclectic decor and the attractive waitstaff and the (Trina thought) ridiculous prices, that Tempe was It and Hip and Now, was a Place to be Seen. Not a place that was open just all the time.

Brittany arrived at the door podium — for a moment Trina thought she looked blanker than usual, but she dismissed it. “Brit’ney?”

“Hi Trina!” Brittany chirped, staring at her with wide eyes and a vacant smile. “You have got to come over to table sixteen. There’s a guy there... he’s dreamy.”

Trina’s smile loosened a little, which was her expression of a frown. No one really frowned in L.A. She didn’t recall anyone dreamy coming in for lunch that day. Brittany was an airhead, but she usually had good taste.

“Um — I’m doing door, Brit’ney. Clint doesn’t like it when there’s no greeter.”

“Come on Trina, just come look at him. There’s no one here, we’re about to close.” Brittany took hold of her arm and mock-pulled.

Trina shot a look at the empty entrance, rolled her eyes, and let Brittany pull her into the restaurant. It was emptying out, only a half dozen of the forty booths were occupied. The waitstaff had already wiped most of the glass-top tables, and the glass pebbles in the tables glittered under the overhead lights.

Important people sat in the back room, with slightly plusher booth seating and its own door into the kitchen. Brittany pulled her along, into the room — she hadn’t let go of Trina’s arm, and Trina was starting to get annoyed.

Three booths here had people in them, but the booth with Mister Dreamy Was obvious; all the female waitstaff were clustered around it. Trina frowned as they approached, trying to see who it was they were fawning over.

He turned and looked at her; short brown hair, speckled blue eyes, a face that wasn’t special at all. Plain John, maybe a bit less than that. Definitely not ‘dreamy’. He had to be rich, and Trina didn’t go for ugly guys who were rich. She didn’t have to.

Trina yanked her arm from Brittany’s grasp — the bubblehead was staring blissfully at the nobody in the booth, her eyes gone all cloudy. Trina rolled her own eyes and made to turn away... but then there was— something. She looked again.

The man in the booth was staring at her. He was... was...

Cute.

Handsome.

Really handsome.

Godlike.

Trina felt a rush of lust and love and worship well up hot in her chest. She had been so wrong. He was dreamy — no, he was more than that, he was perfect. Prefect in every way. She wanted him, needed him. Needed to serve him. To please him.

To make Him happy.

She moaned softly as the realization of the truth filled her. He was the perfect man. She would serve Him and love Him and obey His every whim. Forever.

He gestured at her.

She stepped closer.

“You’re Trina?” he asked.

She nodded vigorously. “Ye— yes,” she stammered. “Yes please.”

His eyes roamed her body, caressed her tits. She tried to push them forward as subtly as she could, display herself to Him without being an obvious tramp.

Oh God, maybe He would fuck her. Oh please Yes.

He nodded, smiled, and the rush was almost good enough to roll her eyes back in her head. “You’re cute,” He said. “You’ve got personality.” His eyes seemed to glow.

“Take off your shirt.”

She reached down and yanked it off.

“And the bra.”

Unsnapped and on the floor.

His hands came up and she moved into them, letting Him stroke her. It was like praise from her mother, like pleasing every teacher she ever had. Nothing had ever felt as good as His hands enjoying her flesh.

“Nice,” he said. He nodded at His tan slacks.

“Get it out and get me off.”

Eagerly, she dropped to her knees. All her coworkers were standing around and her only thought was how lucky she was that He had chosen her to suck His cock and not them. They were not jealous because He was perfectly fair and just but she was sooo lucky just the same, and then His erection was free of His pants, through the slot in His loose boxers, and it was perfect and perfect and perfect, and she breathed on it almost unwilling to believe how perfect this was and then she kissed it and began to lick it all over.

Above her head His hands were on Marissa’s tits, and Brittany’s, as Trina sucked him off. Her boyfriend — what a loser, what an imitation of a real man — had wanted her to watch a porno with him last night and now Trina was sorry she had not, because she wanted only to suck His cock as well as she possibly could and maybe the porno could have taught her something.

Then He was coming, spurting, and of course He would want her to swallow it so she did, although she never had before, she swallowed it all and kept wrapping her tongue around His dick and sucking until a touch on her head backed her off.

He was smiling at her, and it was like the sun shining down on an open and eager flower.

“You’re cute, Trina, I’ll take you with me. And you,” He said to Marissa, as He zipped up his pants. “Both of you put your shirts back on and follow me to my car.”

“Yes, Master,” the girls chimed, and giggled as they realized they had said it at exactly the same time.

Master. Yes.

Trina savored the taste in her mouth and followed Him out of the restaurant.

Arundsen’s car was quiet.

The road blurring by beneath it hummed — a sound halfway between a happy cat and the blank portion of a vinyl record. Andrea looked out at the scrub. It looked like inland California summer, dry golden grass and grey dirt and greasy bushes, and she could hear the buzz and clicks of the insects in her imagination.

Mulholland. A friend of a friend had died up here, one of the regular victims of high speeds and a curving, cliffside road. Andrea hadn’t known him.

It didn’t really fit into Los Angeles; the city stretching away beneath seemed like a painted backdrop, the immediate scenery giving the illusion of driving through the arid California countryside even when they were in the heart of one of the largest cities in the world.

Rich people lived on Mulholland.

Andrea looked at Arundsen. Nondescript severe, she’d call him. A sharp nose, brown hair going to grey. His elegant fingers sat lightly on the leather steering wheel. No glasses, no facial hair, nothing with which to distinguish him.

Only his mind.

She had sort of expected him to drive a Mercedes, maybe a Cadillac. But his black Infiniti suited him better — an elegant, expensive, and unmemorable car.

Six months and this was the first time she’d ridden in his car.

Were they on this drive back before he had... taken her under his wing, she would have been full of questions. Where were they going, who were they going to see, why them and why now. But these last months had drilled into her the futility of them. Arundsen never explained anything he didn’t have to. Anything that she could, or should, be able to figure out, he simply wouldn’t respond to. Anything that would be revealed in good time.

The Socratic method, done with silence.

It worked okay, but it could really piss her off.

And then, apparently, they were there, the Infinity slowing, a driveway appearing on the left. An ornate gilded gate swung open as Arundsen guided the Infiniti into the driveway.

It was quite an estate, and totally hidden from the road. Andrea watched silently as they purred past long rows of palms set into an immaculate lawn, riding on smooth new asphalt.

A peacock hopped down out of a gingko tree.

The house at the end of the drive was old LA, Spanish colonial with balconies and a red tile roof. ‘House’ wasn’t the right word it was a very definite mansion. The driveway curved into a circle in front of it; Arundsen slowed and stopped the car directly in front of the colonnaded entryway.

A woman stepped out of the shade, dressed in a grey chauffeur’s outfit; double breasted, buttons forming a neat rectangle which was distorted by her large chest. She had on a matching grey cap.

She has to be hot in that, Andrea thought.

Arundsen was getting out, so Andrea did the same. He came around the front of the Infiniti, handing his keys to the woman dressed like a chauffeur. In his other hand he carried a slim black valise; Andrea had never seen it before. She waited for him to come around the car; he gave her a quick glance, and then led them up to the house.

The large front door opened as they approached.

A woman in a French maid’s outfit stood there. Like the chauffeur, she was in her late thirties, her makeup immaculate, her hair feathered. There was a tiny padlock on her black choker. Andrea didn’t stare.

She had slaves of her own, didn’t she?

“Master,” the woman said in a breathy voice, and for just a moment Andrea thought that Arundsen lived here and these were his girls. “Welcome to my Master’s house. If you would please follow me, the major domina awaits you.”

They followed the maid through the house; the marble-floored hall was cool and lined with art and statuary, which the mincing doll ahead of them doubtless dusted when she wasn’t leading guests around.

She stopped at an open door on the left, standing just past it in the hall, and gestured them inside.

It was a study, done in light wood paneling and inset bookcases. A globe the size of a man stood in one corner. At the front of a heavy wooden desk, a woman was kneeling on a pillow. She was dressed in an ornate silk kimono.

As Arundsen approached, she rose with the smoothness of Long practice.

“Doctor Arundsen,” she said. “Please be welcome to my Master’s house.”

“Thank you, Calpurnia. Have the others arrived?”

“Most of them. Mistress Snowdon is here, as is Master Lyons, and Mistress Pell. They await you in the conference room.”

“I shall see them, then, thank you.”

“As it pleases you, Master,” she replied. Her face was elegant, her features slightly oriental. She must have been in her forties, her black hair touched with silver in a way that only accented its complex beauty.

She went to a bookcase, stroked a spine, and the case next to it slid open.

They followed the woman into another hall, this one unadorned, the floor a deep white carpet.

“Your slave must wait in the antechamber,” the woman said; Andrea realized that she was talking about her.

Would Arundsen clarify their relationship?

“Of course,” he said.

They reached the end of the hall. There was a door directly ahead of them, which Arundsen opened, but there were also doors on the left and the right. Not sure where the antechamber might be, Andrea went to follow him, then stopped. She turned to the robed woman.

“The antechamber?” she asked.

“Inside, and on the right,” came the reply. The woman’s eyes were a grey-blue color, dark as a stormcloud.

Arundsen was waiting inside the short corridor beyond. “This should take only a little time,” he said as he turned back around. “Wait in the antechamber until I collect you.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

The corridor ended at another three doors. Arundsen gestured at the right hand door, then opened the one in the middle. Andrea had a glimpse of a long oval table and a woman in a white dress, then he was inside and closing the door behind him.

She repressed her frown, and opened the door on the right.

It was a sunlit room; there was a small courtyard beyond beveled glass windows. The room itself was furnished as a sitting room, with embroidered sofas and chairs. A writing desk with a pink marble surface stood against one wall.

Just inside the door, and facing it on his knees, was a man; his short dark hair was immaculately cut, and he wore perfectly ironed slacks and a pressed white shirt with a tuxedo tie. He was staring into the hallway, right through Andrea, a small smile on his face.

She hesitated, not sure whether to address him or not.

“They’re all like that,” a female voice said. “Mistress Pell likes them dumb and happy.”

Andrea turned; the wall in which the door stood was composed of bookshelves, and a pretty dark-haired girl in jean shorts and a teal t-shirt stood with one long finger resting on a spine.

She’d thought the voice sounded familiar.

“Nicole?”

Nicole smiled.

The door swung silently shut behind him.

The table was just a touch too angular to be called oval. It, and the chairs, were the only features in the room. An oval panel on the ceiling was the only light.

Without speaking, Arundsen walked to a high-backed chair and sat down.

Across from him was another man, slowly drumming his fingers on the table. His silk shirt was open at the collar, revealing a chain of gold and amber beads; at each wrist he had a matching thick bracelet. On the man’s left, leaving an empty chair between herself and the man, was a woman in her thirties, sandy blond hair and pale green eyes. She was wearing a gold necklace with an opal set into it.

At the end of the table, on Arundsen’s side, was a slightly older woman in a simple white dress. Her dark hair, blue eyes and deep red lips were something from old Hollywood. One corner of those lips curled ever so slightly upward.

She spoke. “Arundsen.”

“Snowdon.” He turned his head at a measured pace. “Pell. Lyons.”

They nodded at him.

The room was quiet.

“So,” the movie star finally said. “We’re all wondering why you called us here.”

“I hope it’s to explain himself,” the man sitting opposite Arundsen snapped. “Those damn helmets of his have been popping up all over the country. Chicago, Boston, Vancouver. If you’re going to spread your stuff around, Arundsen, then what’s the point of all this?” He waved his hands at the room and the four of them seated in it.

“Vancouver isn’t in the country,” the blonde said.

“Yeah, fuck you too,” he replied, not looking at her. “Well, Arundsen? Got an explanation?”

He looked back coolly. “We are not all here yet,” he replied, laying his black valise on the smudgeless surface of the table. “When we are, I shall tell you why I have requested this meeting.”

The man rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

They sat in silence for a while. Then, the door opened, and the woman in the kimono entered.

“Masters,” she said, never lifting her eyes from the floor, “Mistress Fawn has called and informed me that she shall not be attending. Master Rose is arriving now.”

Behind her, a handsome man in his mid-forties entered the room. He was muscular, his broad shoulders notable even under his robin’s egg blue oxford shirt. His head was shaven, his moustache and goatee a dark brown. He nodded at the figures seated at the table.

“Arundsen. Snowdon. Pell. Lyons.” He put his slim briefcase into a chair, and slid into the one next to it, next to Arundsen. His dark eyes were curious.

“So tell us, Arundsen, what brings us all together like this?”

Arundsen looked at Calpurnia and moved his head ever so slightly. Although she had never raised her gaze from the floor, she turned at his signal and closed the door. Then she seated herself at the end of the table opposite from the woman in white, not in a chair, but kneeling on a cushion on the floor. Her chin was just visible above the tabletop.

Arundsen opened his valise, and drew out a slim stack of papers.

“My colleagues,” he said, laying the papers on the table in front of him. Several of them were photos of a young man, paparazzi shots, different angles. The man walking along the street, getting out of a car, dining at a restaurant. Always accompanied by very pretty girls.

“We have a natural.”

“So,” Nicole asked. “How long have you been a slave?”

Andrea just looked at her blankly while she collected her thoughts.

Nicole... Sheridan? Was that her name? In the nine-thirty section of human physiology. Bright, gregarious, always hanging out with a gaggle of bright gregarious friends. Most of them from Tau Epsilon, Andrea seemed to recall.

A slave.

Whose? She wasn’t the right age, or the right look, to belong to the house. One of the people in the conference room, then. The woman in white?

“Hello? Earth to Andrea?”

Andrea smiled. “I’m, uh...” Should she stick with Arundsen’s line? Did he care?

Screw it. She was no slave.

“I’m not a slave,” she said.

Nicole’s eyebrows slid upward. “You’re not? Then why are you in here? Who did you come with?”

“Doctor Arundsen.”

Nicole’s pursed lips reflected glossy light. “Oooh. Arundsen. Mistress says he’s... different.” She cocked her head slightly. “So you’re really not a slave?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m his student.”

Nicole left the bookcase and to her, crossing the distance between them until Andrea could smell her faint perfume. It smelled of lilacs and sunlight.

Nicole peered into her eyes. “You’re telling the truth. You’re not a slave.”

Nicole’s own eyes were almost comically expressive. Their blue depths practically sparkled with curiosity.

“So he’s told you about... all this? About us?”

“Well. Not about you. But yes.”

“So you are his student. More than that. His amanuensis. His protege. His... lover?”

Andrea ignored the question. “Who do you belong to?” she asked.

Nicole smiled. “I belong to my Mistress, Diana Snowdon. I am Her devoted slave, Her obedient property. Her well-anchored bedwarmer.”

“Do your friends know?”

She laughed lightly. “Most of them are Her slaves too. Why do you think they are my friends?”

There was movement behind her, and Andrea turned to look. Another woman had entered the room, dressed in a leather skirt and a loose white blouse over absolutely enormous breasts. Her white teeth shone in a wide smile.

“Hi Nicole,” she said, thrusting out a hand adorned with inch-long nails. “Hi new girl.”

“Hi Holli. Holli, this is Andrea. Andrea, Holli.”

“Hi Andrea,” Holli said in a breathy voice, squeezing Andrea’s hand gently. “Whose slave are you?”

“She’s not,” Nicole said, stepping around Andrea as Andrea released Holli’s hand. “She’s with Arundsen.”

“Oooh, Arundsen,” Holli replied. Nicole leaned over to kiss Holli — a kiss which lasted significantly longer than Andrea anticipated.

She stood awkwardly. There was a flash of tongue.

“Mmm, Nicole,” Holli said. “We don’t see each other enough.”

“Mistress doesn’t really get along with your owner,” Nicole shrugged.

“Hmf.” Holli pouted.

Nicole turned to Andrea. “Holli belongs to Doctor Rose. He’s a plastic surgeon in the valley.”

Holli’s eyes went dreamy. “Mmm. Master.”

“A plastic surgeon?”

“Plastic tits and plastic minds.” Nicole made an amused expression. “Doctor Rose likes a certain type of woman,” she said.

“Bimbos,” Holli chirped. “He likes bimbos, and he carefully molds us all to perfection.”

Andrea nodded slowly.

“So Mistress Pell is here,” Holli said, pointing at the kneeling man. “Do we know this one? I’m not real good at remembering things.”

“New to me,” Nicole replied. “Another silent type.”

The man’s eyes never looked away from the open door. His vague smile never wavered.

Andrea looked at him. He looked perfectly normal. A handsome man in nice clothes. The sort of guy that any woman’s eyes would track behind her sunglasses. And now he was this, an obedient dog with no thoughts other than to await his Mistress’ return.

And Holli, the bimbo. Cheerfully rejoicing in her own mindaltered stupidity. And Nicole... normal on the surface, but secretly brainbound, ecstatic in her own irresistible programming.

And all of Nicole’s friends. All slaves.

Andrea began to think she had been lucky.

“So, what do we do?”

Pell looked up from the photo she held. They were all looking at the pictures; even the Snow Queen’s eyes held some interest as she considered the one in her elegant hand.

“Obviously, we kill him,” Lyons said. He pointed across the table with the glossy in his hand. “From what you say, Arundsen, this guy just has to look at you to make you his thrall. We can’t trust that. We can’t suborn it. He has to die.”

Snowdon’s voice was cool music. “Is that what you recommend, Doctor?”

“I recommend nothing,” Arundsen said. “What Lyons says, however, is correct. The information I have tells me that this person can exert total, permanent, and nigh-instant control over thoughts and emotions, without any outside assistance.”

“So even to approach him with a slave,” Rose said, “is to invite complete takeover. First the slave, and then once the slave belongs to him, they lead him directly to the owner.”

Lyons nodded. “He has to die. Sooner or later he will stumble upon one of our slaves. And once one of us is turned...”

“Who will do it?” Snowdon asked.

“Why not Arundsen?” Lyons suggested. “He’s got the big-shot friends in Washington. Surely they could spare a hitman or two.”

“We could contact Auslander,” Pell suggested. “I understand his methods are—”

“Absolutely not,” Lyons snapped. “I won’t have him here. Bad enough the hold he has on the East Coast.”

He glared at Pell, who shrugged.

“I concur,” Rose said. “We don’t want Auslander here. Lyons is right. Arundsen should see this taken care of.”

“I cannot do so,” Arundsen said. “I do not have the... personnel. You know this.”

“Oh bullshit,” Lyons replied. “You could have ‘the personnel’ in a moment if you wanted them. This ‘I don’t keep slaves’ schtick of yours doesn’t fool anyone.”

“Very well then,” Arundsen replied evenly. “I will not do this. Not at the present time.”

“Then when? Once this natural of yours has one or more of us wrapped around his finger?”

Arundsen didn’t reply. They all looked at him.

“So we are on our own, is what you are saying,” Lyons finally said.

“Nothing new there,” Rose said. “I’d like to thank you for bringing this to our attention, Arundsen.”

“You are welcome.”

“That’s it?” Pell asked. “Here’s someone you have to watch out for, go home?” She looked around the table. No one replied.

“That’s it for that,” Lyons finally said. “But now that Rose is here, I want to get back to my earlier point. What about Arundsen distributing those goddamn caps of his all over the goddamn country?”

Andrea sat on the sofa and contemplated the sunny courtyard. She wondered when the house had been built; the twenties? Thirties? Later? The courtyard was reminiscent of a cloister, entwined columns supporting the red tiled roof of a wrap-around veranda. In the center was a fountain, splashing away in a small lawn surrounded by desert shrubbery.

Whose house was this, anyway? The woman who had welcomed them in wasn’t the owner of her own flesh, much less a mansion in the Santa Monica mountains.

“It’s a pity,” Nicole said. She had come from the bookcase to stand over the sofa.

Andrea looked up. “What’s that?”

“That you’re spoken for. Mistress would like you.”

Andrea didn’t have a reply.

“So,” Nicole said, sliding down onto the sofa next to her, “what’s Arundsen like?”

She thought a moment. “Stoic,” she replied. “What’s... what’s your Mistress’ name again?”

“Diana Snowdon,” Nicole replied. “She’s perfect. Beautiful and kind and erotic and wise beyond all beings. Of course, I would say that, wouldn’t I?”

Andrea nodded. “Yeah, you would.”

“But honestly, she’s gorgeous. And smart. Even if I weren’t her utter slave I’d admire her greatly.”

“But you are her utter slave.”

“Oh, yes. Yes yes yes yes. Am I ever.”

“Since when?”

Nicole shrugged. “A few years now. She took my housemate first. Ah, lissa. She answers to one-sixty six now. Mistress turned her into a guard. I see her at the estate a lot. She’s a great fuck, even mindwiped.”

Andrea looked over Nicole’s shoulder. Holli was just standing there, smiling vapidly at them. “Should we include Holli in our conversation?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nicole replied. She turned. “Holli, do you mind if we ignore you?”

“Not at all Nicole,” she chirped. “Bimbos have nothing intelligent to say, anyway.”

“You look pretty, Holli,” Nicole said. Holli beamed. Nicole turned, saw Andrea giving her a flat look. “Well, she does.” Seeing no change in Andrea’s expression, Nicole sighed.

“Andrea, I can tell you are new at this. And since you aren’t a slave, or you think you aren’t, I’ll give you a little friendly advice. Forget about treating people as equals. Holli is a bimbo. That guy on the rug over there is a mindwiped drone. I am a little different than them; I still have my personality wrapped around the obedience that is the core of my mind. But treat slaves as what they are. Holli is a happy, brainless bimbo. You are only going to confuse yourself if you pretend otherwise.”

Andrea nodded doubtfully.

“Now you... you I’m still trying to figure out.” Nicole twirled a finger in her hair. “Speaking of, why did Arundsen take you as his... student anyway? I mean, he’s had other grad students and never brought them to any of these little get-togethers. Why you?”

“I... I’m not sure. He’s not the sort of man who answers many questions.”

Nicole smiled. “He has a lot in common with Mistress.”

She opened her mouth to add something, but closed it and stopped talking. Her eyes began to twinkle.

“What?” Andrea finally asked.

Nicole’s smile quirked at one corner. “I was just wondering if Arundsen might let Her... borrow you.”

“Um.”

Nicole grinned. “Sort of an exchange program. I could teach your classes, wash his test tubes. You could learn the perfect way to please a woman, and you could become so obedient that a year would pass and your conscious mind wouldn’t remember any of it. Sound like a fair trade?”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Aww, you’re no fun. Hey, want to make out?”

“What?”

Nicole slid closer. “Want to make out? You know, kiss, touch?” She brought up her hands and cupped her breasts. “Have some fun?”

“Um. That’s, um, flattering, but no thanks.”

“Why not? Is it because I’m in your class? That doesn’t stop most instructors. Oh, you don’t do girls?”

“No, I—” Andrea shook her head. Nicole was getting to her. It didn’t help that fucking Nicole actually sounded like a really fun idea. “I do do girls,” she said. “But I only do my girls.”

“Your girls?” Nicole’s brow wrinkled for a moment before she smiled again. “You have slaves?”

Andrea nodded warily. Suddenly, she was worried about what Nicole really wanted.

Nicole’s eyes sparkled excitedly. “You are his student. You’re a Mistress!”

Andrea nodded again.

“That’s awesome. Of course, Mistresses make the best slaves, once they are turned.” The glitter began to look like menace. “And turning them is the most fun.”

Andrea had no intention of being intimidated. Or at least of showing it. “So you’re offering to fuck me in the hope that you can get into my mind?”

“No, I’m offering to fuck you because I’d really like to fuck you. I’ve had a thing for you for months.” Nicole waggled a finger. “Which is not to say that I don’t want to get into your mind. Bringing you home blessed-out and obedient and ready for deep core programming would have me creaming like nothing else. But that’s for another day, and another place. Mistress told me I was not to try anything here.”

“Neutral ground, huh?”

“Pretty much.” Nicole pinched her nipples through her t-shirt. “Ooh, you’re a Mistress. A junior Mistress. God, Andrea, you’ve turned me on more than if you were naked and frigging yourself right there in front of me.”

“Yeah, well. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks. You sure you won’t make out with me? Come on, I can see it in your eyes. I won’t do anything you don’t want, promise. Hell, we can just suck face. I just want to taste you...”

“Not right now, thanks.”

Nicole sighed dramatically. She let her hands drop. “Oh well. Say, how many slaves do you have?”

“Some.”

Nicole snorted. “Nice evasion. I’d offer to swap myself for one of your girls — if I could, what I mean is I’d ask Mistress to do it — but you really shouldn’t trust anyone else’s slaves. And especially not me. Obeying your every word while secretly brainwashing you would turn me on sooooo much.” She grinned again.

“Isn’t that a no-no, Nicole? Poaching someone else’s... people.”

“Oh, sure. Mostly. Sort of. Actually, there are mostly just some very specific agreements about enslaving from SCU. But back at your place? Just you and me, and your bed, and our lips and fingers? All bets would be off, lover.”

“I see.”

“Agreements are only words, Andrea. And I’m a slave. I have no morals at all. What Mistress tells me is the only thing that is important. I’d ask Her if I could take you, and if she said yes...”

“Arundsen would be grumpy.”

“I bet he would be.”

They looked at each other. It was the weirdest standoff Andrea had ever been in.

She tacked. “You know, Nicole, Holli is right there. I don’t think she’d mind a little tongue fencing. Or more.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t. Nice to see you are thinking about her as a slave, by the way. And she tastes very nice. But she’s not really my type of girl.”

“And what exactly is your type of girl,” Andrea asked, almost against her will.

“Girls with free minds,” Nicole grinned, “so I can shackle them.”

The look of fun and lust on Nicole’s face was so... pure, it almost glowed. Andrea was torn between the impulse to just enjoy looking at it, and the impulse to look into the courtyard and draw and end to the conversation.

She kept looking.

So did Nicole.

She would enjoy fucking Nicole. Nicole was just so... alive. Her slavery made her radiant. And fucking her would be a dangerous thrill.

But not here. Not when Arundsen could return at any moment. Having him find Andrea’s head between Nicole’s thighs, or vice versa, or even the two of them sucking face, would be more embarrassing than Andrea could even consider.

As for later... the risk would make the sex almost irresistibly fun. But Andrea wasn’t ready, and wouldn’t act until she was. She didn’t know what Nicole could do. Didn’t know just how to protect herself. And she knew better than to think she could take Nicole from her Mistress. Not with the little she knew.

Not yet.

“Oh, hey, Andrea. I have a question.”

“What’s that?”

“On the third question from this week’s homework. Do you really want us to list all the functions of the lymph nodes, or just the main ones?”

Krissy’s hand was quivering as she dipped two fingers into the vaseline jar and pulled out another thick dollop.

Master was going to fuck her ass!

She’d never been fucked in the ass. Heck, she’d never had sex before Master came two nights ago. But her mother had brought Him back from the beach and He was so perfect in every way and obviously they both had to serve Him and please him in everything.

And He’d fucked Krissy and it had been so wonderful, the thing best ever — and of course He also fucked her mother and fucked both of them together and tonight He decided to do Krissy in her ass.

For just a moment she was scared and kind of icked but then she realized how Kinky it was and how Nasty and how all that made her Hot. So very, very Hot — her pussy was dripping right now as she smeared the vaseline all around her asshole, and pushed her two fingers up inside and worked it around in there.

She’d given herself the enema with the enema kit that mom had brought home from the store, and she was almost all ready for Master to have her ass.

There. Perfect.

She hoped. She wanted to please Him so MUCH, more than anything she had ever wanted before ever.

Krissy rolled the stockings up her legs, and clipped the garters to them. Her hands were still shaking, but she was so excited and she wanted this so much she just couldn’t stop herself trembling all over. Her asshole felt all greasy and slimy and she hoped it was just right for Master’s hard cock to fuck.

Putting on her best sultry expression, she walked out of the bathroom and into her mom’s bedroom.

Dad had left. He was staying at a hotel somewhere, doing extra work to make money for Master. Krissy had missed him for a little while, but now she didn’t.

Her mother and the other girls smiled at her as she walked into the bedroom. Master, reclining on the bed, smiled too, and Krissy’s heart leapt at seeing him.

Mom, as naked as Krissy — no, more naked, wearing nothing at all — got up from the bed and came over to her. “You look wonderful, Krissy, like such a perfect little slut. Master,” she asked, turning her head down the way Master expected when slaves talked to Him, “doesn’t she look wonderful?”

“She does,” He said, and Krissy and her mother both quivered a little.

“Come over here,” He said, and Krissy’s heart raced as she walked to the bed and climbed over to Him. His hands touched her skin and she shivered, thrilled to be close to Him.

One of His other slavegirls — her name was Trina, Krissy remembered, not that it mattered — began to lick His dick. He petted the girl’s hair with one hand while stroking Krissy with the other before pulling her up to Him. His hand slid down between her legs and His fingers found her pussy, her wet wet wet pussy, and began to rub and pull at it. Krissy moaned helplessly.

He pushed the other girl’s head back, and Krissy lifted a leg over His body and positioned herself. His strong hands tilted her hips just so and she felt His cock pushing against her greasy asshole; she tried to relax but she wanted it so much, and then He was pulling her down and she was opening, stuffing His cock into her well-greased ass, and it hurt but her mind was telling her it felt so good, felt so Kinky and Nasty and Hot, and as her cheeks pressed into His hips she was already cumming.

Master began to bounce her up and down, and it was Kinky and Nasty and very uncomfortable, but her pussy was on fire and Krissy pulled on her nipples and the other girl whose name she never learned slithered in and began to flick her tongue against Krissy’s twat while Trina sucked on Krissy’s tits, and she had Master’s cock stuffed in her ass like a corncob and her pussy was so hot and she was coming again, and then He was coming, and she felt the weird slimy spurts in her ass and she leaned back and the girl whose name she didn’t know fastened her lips over Krissy’s pussy lips and sucked on her.

She loved her Master so much.

Being fucked in the ass by Him was the best thing ever.

As Krissy pulled her sore asshole off of His wonderful cock, her mom crawled over with glittering eyes to suck Him back to being hard.

“You know why we are out here?” Nicole asked.

Andrea looked up from the magazine. “Hm?”

“Why we’re out here. While our owners — or, in your case, your mentor — are in there?”

“No.”

“Because we could be weapons. Any slave could be sewn full of explosives or something and would quite obediently jump on one of the other owners and detonate herself.”

“Yuck.”

Nicole shrugged. “Yeah, but as a slave, it excites me to think about doing it. About obeying that much.”

“Andrea,” came Arundsen’s voice from the doorway. “We are finished.”

“Yes, sir,” Andrea said, mostly relieved to be able to get away from Nicole. She stood up and walked to the door.

In the corridor, the various owners stood. The puppy-dog manslave was already leaving at the heel of a short blonde woman; a muscular bald man stood and waited for Holli to join him.

She flounced out.

Diana Snowdon came out of the meeting room. She really was gorgeous, dark brown hair, ruby red lips, deep blue eyes.

She sort of looked like Nicole.

Andrea wondered if she would have felt Snowdon’s presence so much if she hadn’t just spent an hour in the company of her devoted slave. If she didn’t know what the regal-looking woman could do.

“Andrea,” Arundsen said, and Andrea realized he was introducing her, “this is Diana Snowdon.”

She fumbled to find good words. “Mistress Snowdon. You have a very enthusiastic slave.”

Snowdon gave a slight smile. “A great many of them, actually. But Nicole is something special.”

That was it. Snowdon returned her gaze to Arundsen. There was a moment, a pause, and something was communicated without being spoken.

Then: “Snowdon.” “Arundsen.” And she was following him down the hall.

“So.”

Arundsen spared a moment to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. The road purred by beneath the black Infiniti.

Andrea had her window rolled down, her elbow hanging outside the car. Back in the gorgeous Southern California afternoon. She’d rolled the window down as soon as she’d gotten into the car, before Arundsen could start the air conditioner.

Passive-aggressive, but he hadn’t said anything.

“Whose house was that?” she asked.

“James Keever’s.”

“Hm. Snowdon and Pell, Lyons, Rose. You. No Keever. Was he out of town?”

“He’s dead.”

Andrea looked at him.

“James Keever was killed sixteen years ago when his Cessna went down in southern Utah.”

She nodded. “I see. But his slaves are still his slaves... they know he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“And it doesn’t matter.”

“Correct.”

“And that makes his house a relatively safe meeting ground. Because all of his systems to defend himself are still in place, but he’s not there to use his home turf advantage against the rest of you.”

Arundsen, typically, didn’t reply.

“And that also explains...” she tapered off.

“Explains what?”

“Why his slaves all had 80s hairdos.”

He gave her another glance from the corner of his eye.

“So who runs the place?”

“Calpurnia. She was his major domo at the time of his death, and she has continued to run the estate.”

“Who owns it then, if he’s dead?”

“It’s owned by a small foundation, set up by Keever’s heirs.”

“Are you part of it?”

“I am one of the directors.”

“Did you know any of them before he died?”

“Not one.”

Of course. “You’ve used this place for sixteen years? Don’t you worry about someone booby-trapping it? You trust the others to leave it alone?”

“Keever was a very intelligent and meticulous man, and Calpurnia is a very intelligent woman. Tampering with his estate would both be very difficult and leave obvious signs. And I shall answer your other question as well, though I feel that I have answered it sufficiently before. I cannot afford the luxury of trust. No place is safe; the Keever estate is merely safer than most.”

Andrea nodded. She watched the dry grass and the scrub brush whip by; then they were turning onto Sepulveda, and suddenly there was traffic, people in Lexuses and BMWs and the badly beaten pick-up trucks of the men who did their lawns.

Did she want to see Nicole again? She’d see her, of course, in class. But outside of it?

Suzanne should have taught her a lesson.

She put Nicole out of her mind.

She looked at Arundsen. Sometimes he could be prodded into giving more information. “That was a nice house. And the slaves seemed well-kept.” He didn’t respond, so she tried more directly. “Was Keever a good owner?”

“He was a son of a bitch. He was in it for the money; he would wipe and reprogram women and sell them abroad. The slaves you saw today, including Calpurnia, were destined for secret harems within a month or two, and new slaves would have taken their place.”

Andrea was surprised by the touch of anger in Arundsen’s voice. No one not by his side for months would have been able to tell, but Andrea realized with some shock that he was glad that James Keever was dead.

Suddenly, Andrea knew that Arundsen had had him killed.

She stared at his inscrutable profile.

Why? Everyone in that room today did the same thing. Arundsen did it himself, entrancing co-eds and fucking them and wiping their minds clean, leaving only little irresistible keyholes in case he felt like having them again.

Theories came and went as fast as she examined them. Arundsen couldn’t have cared that Keever was making slaves. Had he been drawing attention? Taking too many women, too fast? Was his cupidity offensive? It couldn’t have been. What then?

Was it personal?

Arundsen had no family. An only child, both parents dead — at least if official records were to be believed. No institution had his home address.

Had he known Keever?

Or was it something else entirely?

He had to be so fucking mysterious.

She realized that he was looking at her.

“Yes?” she asked. Had she missed something he’d said?

There was a tiny, Arundsen-size smile on his lips. “You liked the Keever estate?”

“It was nice.”

“It was prosaic. Wait until you see Snowdon’s. We’re going there on Friday.”