The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Noise in the Night

by miketheFable ()

Some crimes are too heinous to warrant any punishment lesser than death by shotgun. Thumping one’s stereo at four in the morning arguably qualified, Sheryl believed, as she tossed and turned in her bed, pillow wrapped around her ears, trying to decide which side was thicker. After turning like a rolling pin on the mattress for what seemed like forever, she finally decided the situation could not go on.

She had already been over there three damn times before. Yesterday, last Wednesday, last week. The very walls of her bedroom throbbed with a catchy, clingy, dancey rhythm that hooked into her mind. Her very eardrums were being pushed into the centre of her brain, or so it felt. She threw the pillow at the foot of the bed and looked at her clock. Four fucking AM. No fucking excuse. None.

And so it was that Sheryl found herself leaving her house in a pink robe, green-goo cleansing mask, plush cow slippers and a Franchi Spas-12 shotgun. She stomped up to the neighbour’s stoop and cracked the butt of the gun against the door several times. The music pulsed in her head even outside, but nevertheless someone had heard her and opened the door, a young man, a complete jerk as far as she was concerned. She didn’t care otherwise. Music burst forth like a tidal wave, spilling out into the street.

Without a word she casually put the business-end of the shotgun up his nose.

Someone must have seen him raise his arms, since a few seconds later the music was promptly turned down. Enough, at least, for Sheryl to be heard.

“Hello,” she grinned smartly. “I’m here to fix the stereo.”

* * *

Catherine looked through the open door into the foyer, watched Vincent escort a young woman out of the police station. The girl looked as though she’d been arrested in her bed, for her face looked unmade and her robe was fluffy and pink. And her plush cow slippers went squeak squeak squeak when she walked. Vincent held the door and the girl left without a word. After taking a few moments to jot notes in his pad, Vincent finally entered the briefing room and shut the door.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Sheryl Pestka. Held a gun to her neighbour’s face because he kept blasting his stereo at four in the morning.” Vincent answered, yawning out the last few words.

“It’s been a long night.” Catherine remarked, viewing the entries in her own pad. “Petty squabble. Petty squabble,” she began, going down the list, “and this, this shouldn’t even require the police.”

Vincent chuckled. Then yawned. Patrolling overnight always left him weary.

“Sometimes I wish something big would happen, some big crime.” Catherine said.

“Something other than petty squabbles between neighbours you mean?”

“Something like that.” Catherine hugged herself and leaned back in her chair. She opened her phone, flicked it shut, then raised her arms behind her head and unpinned her hair, which dropped down to her shoulders. “Maybe a big robbery, and I’ve got to go in and stop it, gun drawn.”

Vincent wasn’t really listening. Or at least, he gave no answer. He sat hunched over, his head hanging but his eyes turned towards Catherine. They scanned briefly over the front of her bulletproof vest, made note of the way it fit over her chest.

“You try one of those new bulletproof bras yet?” he asked. Catherine shook her head.

“Tell me more about this Sheryl girl. She looked interesting.”

“She’s just at her wit’s end.” Vincent explained. “She’s gone next door before—never with a gun—but there’s been problems there. I don’t know, it’s the third time this month. I think her neighbours are deliberately toying with her. If she pulls something like last night again, though, I can’t help her.”

“Did she press charges?”

“No, she’s not willing to go that far. I kind of agree with her, sort of. It really shouldn’t have to get to that. I told her, though, one more time and she should do something about it. Funny as it was, she really can’t go sticking that shotgun in the guy’s face anymore.”

Vincent, sighing, flipped his pad shut and stuffed it into his uniform pocket. The chair creaked as he leaned into it. He remembered that Catherine had recently glanced at her cell phone.

“You want to get breakfast?” Vincent asked.

“I was thinking Chinese.” Catherine answered.

“Chinese sounds good.”

“Anything specific?” Catherine asked, re-opening her phone.

“Ya, those little garlic spare-ribs.”

“General Lee’s or Lucky Star?”

“Lucky Star. I could go for some good Won Ton soup, too.”

Catherine speed dialled Lucky Star and put the phone to her ear.

Vincent then remarked: “No Chop Suey, though. I fucking hate that stuff.”

Catherine smiled pleasantly, and contemplated getting just that, just as Lucky Star picked up on the other side.

* * *

Late at night a phone rang. A young woman shot up in her bed, rigid and mechanical, like an animal at the end of its rope.

Sheryl glared at the phone, then at the clock. The clock said it was three-thirty-seven in the morning.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Sheryl mumbled. She grabbed at the darkness for the phone, knocked the clock over in her haste, every noise a needle in her brain. The phone rang repeatedly, the sound like a drill. When it’s not music, it’s this crap, she thought. Honestly, who the fuck calls this late? She then found the receiver, yanked it off the cradle and held it to her ear.

“What!!” she shrieked.

On the other side there was soft static, undulating currents and what sounded like the ocean. Sheryl listened quietly to the sound for over two hours, growing more relaxed as time went on, eyes fighting to remain open, struggling to stay awake so she could listen a little more. Just a bit longer, just a little more.

Finally, at five-fifty-one in the morning, the sound abated and Sheryl calmly put back the phone. She fell back into the embrace of her pillow and was asleep almost instantly, smiling.

* * *

Vincent parked his cruiser in front of Sheryl’s townhouse unit. There were a number of people sitting on the stoop next door amidst some beer bottles, cigarettes lit. He could only faintly detect the sound of music, meaning that they had indeed turned it down since Sheryl’s latest visit only minutes before. At least she’d managed to go a whole month, he thought. It’d been a while since he’d been to her house.

There were a number of men standing by Sheryl’s front step, looking at the house yet still maintaining some distance. Compared to the neighbour’s house, Sheryl’s was completely dark. There was a faint light coming from one of the upstairs windows, a faint orange glow.

Vincent exited the cruiser and marched up to the front door. As he passed, one of the drunken idiots asked him to bring her out when he was done, because she was feisty and he liked that. Vincent told him to fuck off and that he’d deal with them later. Charges were going to be laid; the party was over.

He knocked on Sheryl’s door, hand poised at his gun. The door swung inward, and he saw that the deadbolt had been beaten severely. There were cracks in the door frame where the bolt had tore at the wood; it was the kind of scene one expected to see at a forced entry. In an instant he raised his gun and backed away from the door.

“Someone break in here?” he asked the men, without looking at them.

“No, no,” one of the drunken idiots said, “the bitch is wacko, man. A total ditz. She locked herself outside and busted her way back in, she was so pissed.”

“You stay right there.” Vincent ordered, pointing at the group of men. He slowly made his way into the house, scanning the dark hall with his gun at point, panning from side to side. There was light coming down the stairs, so his made his way up, like a moth. At the top of the stairs was a doorway, door wide open, light pouring through. There he found a bathroom, soft light burning over the vanity mirror, counter laden with cosmetics, lipstick, perfumes, hairspray. There was a box of hair-dye on the toilet lid. Steam was rising from the shower, and with it the sound of rushing water. The air smelled like peaches, and he felt compelled to note its pleasantness and inhale deeply.

Then, a giggle.

“Ms. Pestka?” he called out. No answer. The shower curtain revealed nothing about what lay beyond so he reached out and pulled it aside. (!)

She looked like a dream, standing there nude in the shower, lathering her breasts with soap that smelled of peaches. A wall of steam hit him in the face, but Vincent knew that wasn’t the only reason he’d broken into a sweat.

Sheryl looked up at him, grinning giddily, giggling like a little girl, cooing, too, as she kneaded her tits with her fingers. Those, Vincent thought, were new. So was the hair.


“I don’t go by that name anymore.” the girl said. She bit down on her lower lip and looked him over, her eyes pointedly staring at his crotch.

Vincent inhaled the peach scented fumes, and lowered his gun. He wasn’t so wound up now, wasn’t so alert. Sheryl was okay, no one else in the house. Except him.

“I was hoping you would come.” the girl moaned, cupping her breasts and squeezing them together. She pinched her own nipples and pulled at them, milking them. She seemed to giggle at that, seemed to love that.

“What’s going on?” Vincent asked, now more curious than alarmed or angry or concerned. The peach scented soap filled his nostrils; he dropped his gun to the floor. It thumped softly on the bath mat; he barely heard the sound. Nothing could wake him now.

“Come here.” the girl whispered, her eyes repeating the message with gesture. Come hither, they said. Vincent stepped forward, first one foot, then the other, into the tub. Hot water poured down his legs, then down over his head as he stepped under the water with her.

“I’m Sherri, now.”

“Sherri...” he toned impassively. Was this wrong? he thought. He shouldn’t be doing this. Sherri knelt down in front of him, unzipped his pants. This is wrong, he thought. Then again, who would know? He’d dreamed of something like this, something fantastic, something to break the monotony. This was exciting. This is why he joined the police force.

But he was all wet, how would he explain that when he got back?

The solution was so simple. He could ditch his cruiser in the river. Yes, that was a good idea. Ditch the cruiser in the river, go missing for a few hours. Lay low for the night, then walk back in the morning. They’d understand at the station, he knew they would.

They had too. He needed this.

Sherri pulled out his cock and stroked it; Vincent groaned as if his entire soul was tying itself in a knot, coalescing at his crotch, growing tense and stiff. Sherri handled his growing erection with care, pressing her lips to its tip and forming a ring for it with her thumb and forefinger. She gave it a few gentle pumps, then welcomed it into her mouth.

Vincent looked up at the ceiling, towards heaven, and felt the warm soothing rain that washed over his face. That cleansed him.

* * *

The radio in Officer Vincent Vimont’s cruiser crackled to life. Catherine’s voice came over from the other side.

“Unit 22 to Unit 40, come in please—Unit 22 to Unit 40, Vincent are you there?”

The car was empty. At this hour even the party next door had died.

“Unit 22 to Unit 40, I need back-up at 346 Tamerlane, the Museum, for a Code 13. Damnit, Unit 40, where are you?”

More crackling. A deep voice piped in.

“Unit 70 to Unit 22, I’m on route. I can be there in five.”

“Negative unit 70, I need to go now. I need someone close by. Unit 40, are you there?”

“Unit 67 here, I’m on my way. Will be there in seven.”

“Unit 70 to Unit 40, where the hell are you? Get down there!”

“Base, this is Unit 67, where was Unit 40’s last known position?”

“Base here. Unit 40 is only a few blocks from the museum. A code five at Orient Park.”

“Unit 22 to base, I’m going in alone. Multiple suspects at the museum, tell the others to have their guns drawn. Out.”

“Negative Unit 22. Wait for back up. Do you hear me?”


“Unit 22? Come in 22...”

* * *

Kim looked anxiously at the phone on her bedside table. Had it moved? For a moment, she dreamed it was dancing.

Wishful thinking.

She turned back towards the light, holding the walnut-sized diamond between her and the bulb, admiring the colourful flourish as the many rays prismed through it. To her it looked like a compound eye. What did one call a twenty-sided shape? She tried grasping for the word, but it was a word she had never learned. Perhaps it did not exist.

Cathi, who was performing her assigned exercises, spiked heels click click clicking on the treadmill, turned her head to eye the jewel whimsically. Distracted, she began to fall behind, slide towards the back of the conveyor, girlish eyes enthralled by the pretty rainbows. Kim snapped her riding crop against Cathi’s bum, and her new pet hopped into a ginger trot, regaining parity with the machine. She pushed the tip of the crop against Cathi’s rouged cheek, turning the bimbo’s sluttishly painted face back towards the training screen, where it belonged. Kim watched the girl’s gaze absorb the electronic snowstorm, happy with how quickly she fell through the rabbit hole. Military and Police types were easy like that. They knew how to follow orders. Like a good, virtuous cop, Cathi had always wanted to serve. And serve she would.

Already Cathi’s posture was coming along nicely. Her hips were twisting and buttocks swinging appropriately, which in turn provided the correct amount of counter-motion in her newly expanded chest. Kim watched as, occasionally, Cathi’s eyes would glance away from the screen and look down at her inflated rack; she was still unused to such large breasts. Kim wanted it that way, knew that her Mistress enjoyed that fresh-from-the-assembly-line awkwardness that new bimbos often displayed towards their bodies. Kim reached out and slipped her fingers through one of the hoop piercings in Cathi’s nipples, pulling ever so slightly, wrapping her finger tips around Cathi’s hard, sensitive nub. She watched the bimbo shiver and close her eyes, lost.

Kim returned to her notes and, removing the pen from her lips, checked the last box on her checklist.

Shutting down the treadmill, she motioned towards the bed, then abandoned the clipboard by her phone. Cathi, spurred on by a few playful licks from Kim’s crop, hopped off the conveyor and trotted over to the mattress, taking a seat on the edge. Kim placed her hand on Cathi’s chest and coaxed her down, putting one knee on the mattress and swinging around so that she straddled Cathi’s face.

With purpose, Kim settled onto her bimbo-doll’s mouth. She sighed serenely at the feel of Cathy’s tongue, blushed intensely at the feel of Cathy’s hot breath licking her inner thighs and buttocks. She reached out to one of Cathy’s tits, admired the firm, globe-like shape of it. Such perfect, doll-like proportions, Kim thought.

“My little Barbie girl.” Kim murmured, massaging the bimbo’s chest with a firm hold. “My little wind-up toy.”

Casually, Kim leaned forward and flipped Cathi’s skirt up, admired her bimbo-slut’s smooth mound. She parted Cathi’s thighs and, jewel in hand, cupped the bimbo’s sex, slipping three fingers inside. She wriggled and pumped them into the doll’s tight snatch. Then she pushed in the jewel, Cathi’s hips bucking at its insertion.

“For my Mistress on her birthday. A small gift.” Kim mused.

Speak of the devil; a ringing in Kim’s ear. Her cell phone danced across the table.

The End.