The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Wife of Brian

Nobody cornered Susan Rothschild.

Nobody.

She fingered the necklace her husband had given her as she studied the clouds outside her plane window. They would be landing in New York in a few minutes, and she still hadn’t sorted out what he was up to.

Things did not feel right. The necklace was too expensive. The trip was unnecessary. They had just had another fight about children: he wanted them; she didn’t want to put her body and mind through that—she wouldn’t even consider it under the current prenup. But he wasn’t sulking like he usually did after this argument. Instead, he’d very sweetly asked her to go to New York and meet with a client until he could fly in the next day. And he’d given her a stunning diamond necklace this morning to express how much he loved her.

David Rothschild’s personal income easily boasted two commas when written down. Susan had married well from her upper-middle class upbringing. And though he was a sentimental man, David could only be played so far. Susan had worked out pretty accurately the tit-for-tat needed for various expensive gifts from her husband.

And she hadn’t earned this necklace.

Only two children for him could do that.

So what was going on?

Like a black bird, that question continued to pick through her mind as she deplaned, looking for an answer to itself, with an urgency that was starting to creep her out.

When she went to the baggage claim area, the question noticed three men in bland suits that stood around for a long time, never claiming any luggage. Why ... would they just stand around like that ... waiting ... for what?

Stop it, she told her mind, trying to shoo the question off.

When she began to wheel her retrieved luggage away, the three men simultaneously decided suddenly that they didn’t really need to claim any luggage anymore, and they moved after her, consulting their cell phones as they walked.

Oh, SHIT! The squawking of the question drowned out everything in her ears except her suddenly emphatic heartbeat.

But just for a moment.

Then Susan got mad. She’d never been the innocent, doe-eyed girl that let others bully her with intimidation, and she sure as hell was not going to start now.

She shooed the question—panic was not pragmatic—and parked her luggage outside the women’s restroom, stepping inside. That would buy her a few seconds. Thank God for invisible lines that men could not cross.

There were three other women in the restroom, one with blonde shoulder-length hair not too unlike Susan’s. Saying good-bye to her stunning diamond necklace, Susan unclasped and palmed it, faked a stumble and slipped it into the blonde’s coat pocket, apologizing for being so clumsy. Thank God for the coats of winter.

Then she pulled the mascara out of her purse and began reapplying it in the mirror where she could watch the blonde finish and walk out of the restroom.

Wait for it ... wait for it ...

Twenty seconds after the blonde left, Susan emerged from the bathroom herself, ready for any of three possibilities.

If the men were following the blonde, then David—deeply, deeply implicated David—had given her a transmitter disguised as a necklace, which these men were tracking with their cell phones and their attachments.

If the men were standing outside the restroom, still waiting for Susan, she would shriek, “Thief!” and bolt after the blonde with the expensive diamond necklace in her coat pocket, then involve so many guards and police that the three men would not dare to take her.

And if the three men were gone altogether, then Susan was mistaken and over-imaginative, and she would still yell, “Thief!” because that necklace was simply too expensive to lose.

Outside the restroom, the men were ...

... following the blonde.

Susan narrowed her eyes, seething. Ooooh, she wished she’d bitten off David’s pecker when she was earning her Ferrari last year. That lousy sonofabitch! Brimming with pissed indignation, she discreetly followed to see what her soon-to-be sued-broke ex-husband had planned to do to her.

The three men discreetly positioned themselves for their cell phones and attachments to triangulate and confirm the target. A quick visual check of the target against the image on their phones was satisfactory as well.

Armand nodded to the other two and continued to follow the target, who had rejoined a crowd of other travelers. Boris and Carlos signaled target confirmation on Boris’s cell, then waited for Deirdre to bring the car up.

If target boarded a shuttle, Armand would board with her to maintain visual, and the others would follow. If she took a taxi, the trio in the car would follow and retrieve Armand later.

She took a shuttle. So did Armand. So did much of the crowd she was with.

When she got off at her hotel, Armand signaled on his cell and continued on the shuttle to draw less attention. The others ceased following the shuttle, and Boris hurried to the lobby, hanging back from the registration desk while target checked in. Then he followed her as she headed for the elevator and joined her and others on the ride up. If he were to lose her, she still had the transmitter, and he still had his cell. But there were enough others on the elevator for him to unobtrusive.

He got off the elevator with her, kept a polite distance, then continued past her, taking note of the number when she stopped to let herself into her room. Around the corner, he signaled the room number on his cell.

Deirdre, in the bland blue, vaguely hotel maidish uniform she was already wearing in the car, approached the indicated room ten minutes later with a stack of folded towels and knocked. “Maid service. I have the rest of your linens ready now.”

She presented smile and raised the towel stack a couple inches when the door was answered. “We did not have enough linens for me to finish your room earlier, ma’am. If I can step in for two minutes, I can finish.”

“Of course,” target smiled and stepped back to open the door the rest of the way. Deirdre stepped inside and into the bathroom.

Target walked back into the main area of the room for several seconds, then returned holding several pamphlets. “Is it true the David Letterman show was filmed near here?” she smiled.

“Sometimes, " Deirdre smiled back warmly, “you could even hear the applause from the audience in the hallways here in the hotel.”

“Really?!” Impressed smile.

Deirdre shook her head gently. “No, I’m just teasing. But, yes, he was filmed just up from here.”

“Would you—” target fumbled with the pamphlets she was holding, “would you have any advice about good tours to take this week while I’m in the city? I found a Mysteries of Laura tour that I can’t WAIT to take, and I was trying to decide what other—”

Deirdre had prepared—three deep breaths and hold—then removed the small aerosol from between the towels and sprayed in target’s face.

“I—! What—?! Weahhh ...” Target’s eyes rolled up, and Deirdre caught her as she collapsed, then dragged her to the bed. She indicated task completion on her cell, then stood by the bed beside target, ready to mist above her face with the aerosol again as necessary.

Two minutes later, Carlos knocked once on the door. Target was still under the influence of the agent and did not need re-misting, so Deirdre hurried to the door to let Carlos in. He wheeled in his luggage, then she hurried back to keep vigil on target with her aerosol.

Carlos opened the luggage on the other corner of the bed and removed his tools: vial, hypodermic, tape and temporary restraining apparel—like a large canvas poncho with a strap to fasten in place back to front under the crotch, and with belts to tighten the arms snugly against the torso. He and Deirdre fitted target into garment. Tape over the mouth muffled potential noise. Then Carlos carried target to the chair where other straps on the garment fastened her securely to the furniture with minimal potential bruising.

Then they waited. Target had to be clear of the aerosol effects for ten minutes before administering the hypodermic.

Target’s eyes fluttered a couple times, then drifted open. Over the next few seconds, target came to awareness and tensed, then pulled against restraints briefly.

Carlos knelt down beside her and made eye contact for emphasis. “Do not struggle. What is about to happen WILL happen regardless of anything you do. When we are finished, you will be returned safely to your husband. Healthy and unharmed. Do you understand?”

Target sat rigidly, eyes wide.

“Nod if you understand.” Target so acknowledged.

“We have done this many times before, Mrs Rothschild, and we know what we—” Target became agitated. “Mrs Rothschild, calm down. We know what we are doing, and nothing untoward will happen to you. Unless you bring it upon yourself. You will only bring yourself harm if you struggle.”

Target remained agitated, and Carlos shrugged. Explanation at this point was simply a courtesy anyway.

Target made muffled noises while Carlos and Deirdre waited the requisite ten minutes. Then Carlos walked behind target to fill the hypodermic with 3 ccs from the vial. Coming up behind her, he pulled target’s head to the left by her hair, inserted the needle into her neck and evacuated the 3 ccs into her bloodstream. Target became agitated as soon as she realized what was happening, but Carlos had done this many times and had finished before she could start her struggle in earnest.

While Deirdre placed the vial and hypodermic in a small metal container in the luggage, Carlos massaged target’s temples, repeating soothingly, “Calm ... calm ... calm ...”

Ninety seconds later, the injection had taken effect, and Carlos moved around in front of target to make eye contact while he gave her instructions.

How ... very ... weird ...

Deborah Bryce had been so excited that the teacher’s convention would be held in New York City this year. She was just a teenager twenty years ago when she last visited NYC. And she had thought it was grand then; she could only imagine it now.

The kids both being age 19 and in college certainly made preparations for the week that she’d be gone easier—Brian was the type of husband that would concentrate so hard on whatever task he was working on, that he would forget to feed the children. Now it might be them bringing food home to him instead of vice versa, she thought with a smile.

She’d picked up a Fodors on NYC at the bookstore, ready to do the whole tourist thing without a twinge of embarrassment about it. She was going to go out with the other teachers that were also on the trip and she was going to have fun!

Then when the maid came in to finish the linens just after she got to the room, she’d thought she would ask her what places would be good to visit. It couldn’t hurt to get a native’s input, right?

She ... really hadn’t expected ... the drugged mist in the face.

The next she knew, she came to tied up in some canvas contraption, with tape over her mouth. The same maid was in the room with her, but now some Hispanic man was there too!

Ohgod, what did they WANT with her?!

She and Brian didn’t have enough MONEY for KIDNAPPING! So what could they want with her?!

She’d seen stories on TV crime shows about couples that would kidnap another woman and torture her to death for their own sexual thrills!

Ohgod, noooooo ... What about their kids? What would they do without their mother—And with the shame of ... how she was killed ...

The Hispanic man met her eyes and told her not to struggle. He promised that she would be returned to her husband unharmed.

Which was good. But the fact that he was letting her see his face, she knew from crime fiction, was not good ...

She nodded that she understood, feeling like she would vomit. Jesus, what would happen if she vomited with her mouth taped? God, she didn’t want to drown in her own vomit!

He continued talking, trying to calm her, and called her “Mrs Rothschild”.

WAIT!

Oh, thank God! It wasn’t her! They just had the WRONG PERSON!

She struggled and tried to squeal behind the tape. But they just looked annoyed.

Ohgod, no! She squealed harder into her tape and made big, important eyes at them. Please, just let her say one thing—ONE DAMN THING—and it would clear all of this up!

Please!

She WASN’T Mrs Rothschild!

They had the WRONG PERSON!

Ohgod, she didn’t want to die just because someone mistook her for someone else!

He got disgusted with her wriggling and squealing and stopped talking to her.

But she WASN’T her! She wasn’t this Mrs Rothschild! PLEASE! Some way—ANY WAY—how could she TELL them that?!

Don’t ... don’t let her die just because ...

Please!

The man and woman sat next to each other on the bed and waited, talking little. Deborah wriggled and squealed behind her tape—HOW? How could she let them KNOW?!

After ten minutes, the man walked behind her and the woman dug in the suitcase on the bed.

Suddenly, Deborah’s head was jerked to the left by her hair, and the man stabbed something in her neck!

OHGOD! OHGOD! What had he stabbed her with?!

He handed a hypodermic and vial to the maid.

Ohgod! A needle?! What had he INJECTED her with?!

OHGOD!

Ohgod!

Oh ... God!

Ohhhh ... Goddd ...

Whooooah ... Goddth ...

Whoooaah-oooah-whoahgoooddth ...

Deborah felt ... soooooo ... strange.

The man knelt in front of her, and she could not help but to meet his eyes and ... stay hung there ... at his eyes ... fascinated ...

“Mrs Rothschild, I have injected you with a substance to make you a bit more ... pliable. It will not harm you, but you must do as I tell you. We are going to go outside to my car, then I will drive you to your destination.

“Now I am going to remove the tape from your mouth. You will not scream.”

Still, she hung at his eyes, unable to look away.

He peeled the corner of the tape up, then mercifully pulled it quickly off.

“I ...,” Deborah sighed, “I am ... not ...”

“Be quiet,” he told her gruffly. “Do not speak.”

He held her eyes while the maid stepped behind and untied her from the chair.

“Stand up,” he told her.

And she did. Not unsteadily, she just stood up. Gaze locked on his.

Deborah was vaguely aware of the maid unfastening the canvas thing she had been tied up in and removing it.

“Very good, Mrs Rothschild.”

“But ... but I’m ...”

“Hush.”

Deborah found herself in the passenger seat of her own mind, dazedly watching herself go through the motions as she was told to by the Hispanic man.

“Now you will take my arm,” his stare held hers, “just like we are going out for a night on the town. We will go to the elevator and down to the lobby, then outside and to my car. You will behave entirely naturally. If you see anyone you recognize, you will snub them and pretend that you do not notice them. When we get to the car, you will sit in it calmly.”

Then he broke his gaze from hers, and Deborah felt her body lean to take his arm while she ... she ... while she really couldn’t get the gumption up to not.

Then she found herself walking out with him, still feeling ... very ... oddly ... strange ... while the maid packed the rest of the items into the luggage that she would bring down to another vehicle waiting for her as soon as she changed out of the maid’s uniform.

Deborah wandered in and out of a haze of terrible and wonderful things.

The Hispanic man had put a sleeping blindfold on her once she was in the car and told her to lean her head back until she fell asleep. She did, while he drove her to the facility where her retraining would occur. There, with the help of an instructional program made inescapably compelling by powerful drugs, she would metamorphose into a girl much more palatable to her sponsor, her husband, David Rothschild. Well, at least it would have worked that way, if she had been the right woman ...

Though Deborah bobbed up toward consciousness time and again, she never came fully awake again for the next three days.

There were hours when her back arched and moans leaked out her mouth as she came and came and ohholygod came some more until she was limp putty ripe for the re-casting.

There were hours where she was told lies over and over until truth was no more than some purple gunk smeared on her hands that stained whatever she touched.

There were hours during which the world spun ’round on its head, and Bad and Good dwelled in the same tedious gray tenements, while Horny luxuriated on satin sheets in the hot red penthouses; hours when Shame was just embarrassingly sexual and thrilling; hours when she indulged in degrading fantasies that could never be spoken of to ANYONE, not to coworkers or family or husband or even her own self, but only to the one friend that she could trust to understand these things and not judge her ... to the tender filthy slut deep down inside herself.

Hours when she craved to put lip and tongue to cock ... to swell a dick up with raw slutty eagerness until it just burst jism all over her face ... validating her as a woman and as a human being ... and she was almost ready to whore.

More hours and hours of salivating unbearably good orgasms, and new truths, until she WAS ready to whore.

And hours of reinforcement, until woman and whore were so thoroughly puddled together that one or the other was inextricable.

The woman ... was ... the whore ... one and the same.

Deborah woke up feeling fully rested and, although something seemed slightly amiss—for instance, she was not safe in her hotel room, but in some strange laboratory setting instead—pretty much at peace with things.

Untold orgasms frequently have deep contentment as a side effect.

The door opened, and a man in a white coat bustled in. “Hi, sweetcheeks,” he muttered over his clipboard as he scribbled.

Deborah looked down and noticed that ... well, she had not a stitch of clothing on. Nada. Nothing. Naked as a slut.

Hmmm, normally that would bother her. Especially ... with a strange man in the room.

“Hi, Daddy,” she smiled sweetly, with nips and pussy oddly perking at being on display for him.

Hmmm, she also did not normally call strange men “Daddy”. Or get so aroused at being naked before them. Peculiar.

“How are we feeling this morning, Mrs Rothschild?”

Somewhere in the middle of one of those many, many massive orgasms, Deborah had given up trying to correct her abductors. For orgasms like THAT, oh yes, she could be this Susan Rothschild for them. What’s the difference between one whore and the next, anyway? Right?

“I’m ...,” she chewed her lip, then smiled, “horny, Daddy.”

“All buttered up between the thighs?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” she nodded sweetly. And spread her thighs a little to show him. Normally she wouldn’t just admit to a strange man that she was fully lubed and aroused, but ... well, things seemed a little different somehow now.

The man nonchalantly parted his white coat, revealing that he too was naked underneath it, and Deborah’s eyes latched onto the luscious erection that was jutting out there. Ohsweetlord, he was hard! For her? The things she could do with it ...

She tentatively reached toward, paused, and since he didn’t stop her, cupped his balls in the palm of one hand and gently curled the fingers of her other hand around that swollen hardness. And softly ... strooooked ...

Normally ... she would ... REALLY ... never do anything like this. Would NEVER just ... caress ... and ... massage ... a man’s—

“I can suck so sweetly I’ll make you squeal ...” she breathed quickly, looking up at him with pleading eyes. Just let her show him how sweet she could ...

He nodded, and, unbelieving that she would EVER do ANYTHING like this, Deborah Bryce, mother of two wonderful children ... sank submissively to her knees, naked, in front of him, feeling her pussy dribbling lubricant into a puddle on the floor already. Then Deborah Bryce, high school literature teacher for fifteen years ... wrapped her lips, then her mouth and tongue, then her throat, around some guy’s hard-on.

If only her graduated students could see their hot teacher swallowing dick now ...

NORMALLY, that thought would NOT make so much more lubricant trickle out her puss and down her thigh ...

SOMETHING was definitely amiss here ...

She cough-gagged and came off him, leaving his prick swathed in spit, and looked up at him, eyes watering just a little, “Ohgod, baby, you’re so BIIIIG!” Then she went down on him again, just a little farther, even.

“Hmmm, good tongue action there, Mrs Rothschild,” he commented as he scribbled a couple notes on the clipboard.

“Geenk-oo,” she politely thanked him around the swollen dick in her mouth.

She worked that pecker with SOOO much more expertise than she EVER suspected she had—but, then, the woman WAS the slut, one and the same now—and he came in her mouth in relatively short order.

Like some whore too excited to swallow, Deborah let the cum run out her mouth and down her chin onto her breasts. Then, giving a naughty smile, she used two fingers to mop it up in globs and deposit them back into her mouth, where she DID swallow it with “Mmmmms” this time.

“Ohgod, thank you, Daddy.” Then she slurped more jism off her fingers into her mouth.

See? Deborah Bryce, steadfast member of the Parent-Teacher-Student Association, Dean’s list honor student when she attended college, faithful wife of her loyal husband for 21 years—Deborah Bryce normally would not even proudly display her own HUSBAND’S cum smeared all over her chin and tits like this.

Something was definitely amiss.

Not that ... she wasn’t enjoying it ...

As that slippery puddle on the lab floor between her knees certainly attested to.

“Very good, Mrs Rothschild,” the man nodded, making a big check mark on the form on the clipboard. “Do you understand what’s been done to you?”

Still on her knees ... naked ... cum smeared all over chin and chest, Deborah looked up. “Something ... something IS a little different, I think.”

Insert line here about understatement.

“Mrs Rothschild, you’ve been turned into a whore. A sex toy. Your husband’s own personal, private slut.”

“I’m—You—” Deborah frowned. Something WAS different. Radically different. Normally she did NOT wear cum as a clothing accessory. And CERTAINLY not when she wasn’t wearing any clothing! “You’ve ... turned me into a ... sex slave?!”

“Quite the ‘hot bitch’, too,” he smiled. “Your husband will be SO much more pleased with the new you. Stand up.”

She stood, chest still glistening with traces of spit and spurt.

The gentleman was pulling an ink stamp out of the pocket of his lab coat. After he completed the evaluation of each spanking new slut, he always stamped her ass with “Approved by Inspector 69” because ... well, just because he got a kick out of doing that.

“Why?” Deborah shook her head. “Why would Brian do this to me?”

“Silly slut,” he chuckled that she was too horny to think straight, “you mean ‘David’—your husband David.”

“No,” she frowned, “I mean ‘Brian’. Why would Brian DO something like this to me? I mean, don’t get me wrong: I don’t mind—it’s kinda NICE being all JUICY like this all the time. And the orgasms are simply INCREDIBLE! I just don’t understand what made him think of it.”

“You’re ... husband is ‘David’ Rothschild, Susan.”

“You can call me any name you want to, Daddy,” she reached for his pecker again, “but my husband’s name is Brian. Brian Bryce.”

“What ... is your name?” he asked, getting a badly sinking feeling.

“You can call me Susan Rothschild,” she breathed sweetly as she played with cock.

“Uhm, hold. Stop that.” He pulled her hand off his pecker. “But normally you’re Bryce something-or-other?”

Deborah shrugged. “Deborah Bryce. Or Susan Rothschild. Or whatever you want to call this bitch.” She shrugged, “We’re all whores anyway. But not many have a mouth as sweet as mine, do they, Daddy?”

Ohhh, shit ...

He backed out of her room. And headed up the hall.

There MIGHT be a problem here ...

Harem Spare ’Em

Seven people were gathered around a conference table with only six chairs.

There was also a lot of sweat in the room.

Aldo Gugino sat at the head, looking gravely over steepled fingers.

To his right sat his assistant Lorenzo and Dr Edison, who had discovered the issue. To his left sat agents Armand and Carlos. At the other end of the table was agent Boris. Agent Deirdre was left standing without a seat.

Aldo cleared his throat a moment as he glowered, then, “Let me ... get this right, gentlemen. We got ... the wrong bitch?” His eyes scanned those involved in this fiasco.

“Uh, that’s confirmed, sir,” Dr Edison nervously supplied, eyes flicking up and immediately back down.

“What are we doing to find the RIGHT bitch?”

“Our agents are acting quickly, sir,” Armand replied with the crispness of ex-military. “The true target will be alerted now, so the more rapidly we can reacquire her, the less impact this will have. Our agents are following leads as we speak, sir.”

Aldo nodded slowly, silently. His eyes pivoted back to Dr Edison.

“And the other bitch—she’s been treated?”

“Uh...bout 75%, sir. I halted her process as soon as I discovered the discrepancy.” Glance up, glance down.

Pause while Aldo pursed his lips upwards. “Can she be returned?”

Dr Edison was surprised. “Mrs Bryce? Returned? To ... her previous life? I don’t—I don’t think so. She’s ... she’s whore now.” He started to wither under Aldo’s glare. “I—we halted the—we stopped as soon as—”

“Dr Edison,” lips pursed, then relaxed, “can you FIX her? To go back?”

Dr Edison swallowed hugely, took a deep breath and steeled himself. “Three months to prepare a new program to return her fully to normal. I can—I can whip up something to give her a veneer of normalcy in a couple days, but I don’t think that will hold.”

Second after second, Dr Edison endured through Aldo’s stare and began silently offering up higher weekly tithes to God. God was up to a 55% take when Aldo muttered, “Get on that immediately after this meeting.” Dr Edison nodded and gave Him thanks.

“We should not waste more money fixing and returning her,” Boris spoke up. “She is already an investment for the company. We should complete her processing and sell her. Recoup our investment costs.”

Boris was working on his business degree at the local college.

Ignoring him, Aldo cast his gaze over the four agents. “How ... exactly ... did this fiasco happen?”

All eyes down cast.

“One of you is at fault ... or all of you are at fault.” Silence, so he turned with a cryptic smile to his assistant. “Lorenzo, remember Mr Savarov last year?”

“Yes, sir: he had a dozen enemies treated just so he could circle them ’round naked in a ring, each man impaled on the cock behind him, grinning inanely, and have them skip ’round and ’round singing that happy little ditty. Quite an example they served to his other enemies. I hear he still trots them out for parties, sir.”

“Powerful object lesson, that.

“Yes, sir, most powerful.”

“Hmm, think he could use three more singers to link into that sodomy ring? Carlos, you’re a baritone, aren’t you? And we could throw in another happy whore for his stable?”

“Deirdre,” Boris spoke. “It was Deirdre’s fault.”

“Boris?” Aldo nodded, “Continue.”

“She should have checked the purse for ID after the target was unconscious. She should have verified the bitch’s identity. She did not.”

Aldo looked at the female agent, who fidgeted very nervously. She REALLY didn’t want to be some asshole’s dumb, eager whore for the rest of her life. “They—they matched her to her picture—while I was in the car—I—I trusted them.”

“Agent Boris, stand and give Deirdre your chair. Let her face me directly while she tries to deflect blame to her teammates.”

Boris stood and stepped to the side as Lorenzo rose and moved to that end of the room.

“It wasn’t ME! I was OUT IN THE CAR when THEY confirmed her! I—”

“Agent Deirdre—Agent Deirdre: sit.”

Visibly trembling ... Deirdre sat in the end chair. Ohgod, she REALLY did not want to be—

Lorenzo brought the dart pistol from behind his back.

Aldo nodded at Lorenzo.

Lorenzo shot Boris in the thigh.

“What the—?! You BASTARDS! It was—it was ... tsssunnngggh—” He dropped to the floor.

“Boris,” Aldo steepled his fingers again, “Each and every one of you is guilty of failure. You ALL should have been more careful. But I just need one to serve as an example.” He sniffed. “And I don’t like you, Boris.

“Dr Edison, prepare the veneer for Mrs Bryce. And see to it that Boris eagerly looks forward to his new role in life as a singing cock-cap. You three: find the Rothschild bitch. Lorenzo, book us flights to—”

“Already booked, sir.”