The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In Washingon D.C., three months later—

Cassie-542 (a.k.a. Private First Class Cassandra Winger) said to her boss’s boss, “I’m sorry to bother you, Colonel sir. But Lieutenant Commander Stepford is sick today, and I need more pens.”

Colonel Stewart’s voice remained businesslike, even as he discreetly looked Cassie over. “‘Pens,’ plural? How much writing do you do, Private Winger?” Making a joke, he added, “And we do have keyboards around here, you know.”

The joke was that this conversation was taking place in the Department of Defense Cybersecurity Command, of which Colonel John L. Stewart was the newly installed commanding officer. There was more silicon within those walls than on a Hawaiian beach.

And judging by the way that Colonel Stewart kept glancing at Cassie’s big tits, he was wondering whether those walls contained silicone as well as silicon.

Cassie now gave Colonel Stewart a smile that was friendlier than it needed to be. “I need only one pen, sir. But Lieutenant Commander Stepford prefers we requisition them a box at a time.”

Colonel Stewart now returned Cassie’s warm smile with one of his own. “I think I can help you with one pen, Private Winger. Come into my office.”

“Yes, sir,” she said with a smile.

When he walked behind his desk, she walked behind it as well, maintaining a distance of eleven inches between her body and his. He looked startled at her nerve. She smiled at him and said, “So you won’t have to lunge or overreach when you hand me the pen, sir.”

Since the colonel’s eyes now had an excellent view of Cassie’s chest, he didn’t object.

Colonel Stewart pulled out his top middle desk drawer. As his hand reached into the drawer, Cassie glanced down for a mere split-second. When his hand came up, holding a pen, her gaze tracked his hand. When he held the pen out to her, she “overreached” slightly, and there was an instant of skin-to-skin contact.

“Thank you, Colonel Stewart, sir,” Cassie said, holding his gaze.

“You’re welcome, Private, but now I’m kicking you out.” He gestured toward the bright red “Top Secret” filing cabinet. “I’m still learning the ropes of my new command.”

“I understand perfectly, sir,” Cassie said. “You’ve been our C.O. for only two days? It’s probably still confusing.” Cassie walked four steps away (putting 10 percent more sway in her hips than normal), then turned around to face Stewart again. “Colonel Stewart sir, there are dozens of people here who are lots smarter than one young PFC clerk. But if I can help you in any way—”

Cassie’s gaze dropped demurely. “—all you need do is order me, colonel sir.”

Ten seconds passed before he spoke: “I’ll keep that in mind, Private Winger. Now shoo, and shut the door behind you.”

Cassie walked to the door, her hip-sway now boosted to 20 percent over normal. As she shut his office door, only then did she allow herself a smile of triumph—

Cassie-542 had gotten The Club what it wanted—and it wasn’t a pen, or even a wild night of passion with John Locutus Stewart.

The Department of Defense Cybersecurity Command was tasked with detecting and thwarting hacking of military websites and computers. And Cassie’s sister bimborg Linda-5 was one such hacker.

Needless to say, the DoDCC had elaborate rules for the passwords that its own people used. “No parent’s name, no spouse’s name, no kid’s name, no pet’s name” was just Rule One on the list. When somone finally invented a password that followed all the rules, it was this weird medley of letters and numbers, and nobody could remember their own password. It was big-time against the rules to write down one’s password, with court-martial if you got caught, but every DoDCC newbie did exactly that. After a few days, a week at most, the newbie had learned his password, and so the sticky-note got shredded. But during that first week at DoDCC, almost every newbie had a sticky-note with his password written on it, hidden somewhere in his desk.

When Colonel Stewart reached into his desk drawer for a pen, Cassie glanced into his drawer for a very brief time. To be specific, she glanced into his open drawer for one twenty-fourth of a second. But that was enough for Cassie to see his sticky-note, focus on it, and transmit the image to Linda-5.

Linda-5 had “told” Cassie in The Club, “I could still hack into DoDCC without any ‘insider’ passwords from you. But the more passwords I have that I didn’t get through brute force, the longer it takes for the organization to suspect they’ve been hacked.”

So now Linda-5 could detect the DoDCC detecting her, and could thwart the DoDCC’s trying to thwart her. Cassie-542 felt deep satisfaction that she had helped The Club in this way.

Hours later was 1600 hours, and Cassie-542 gave Colonel Stewart a promising smile as she walked out the door. Hours after that, in a different part of Washington, Susanne Nash gave a tired wave to the last of the White House checkpoint guards, and walked to her car.

Susanne’s job was Assistant to the Chief of Staff for the First Lady of the United States. Susanne loved her job, considered herself fortunate beyond measure to have it—

—but lordy, sometimes it would be so nice to be able to go home at five o’clock, like the rest of the USA.

C’mon, what’s the use of being gorgeous if you don’t have the time to be lavishly wined and dined? Susanne thought as she smirked.

Susanne’s dry cleaner was practically within spitting distance of the White House, so the drive was short; still, Susanne barely got there before the place closed. Walking out of the dry cleaner with her hangered clothing, Susanne caught her reflection and thought, My hair needs a trim. Right next to the dry cleaner was a hair salon, so Susanne stowed her clothing behind the driver’s seat, locked her car, then walked into the salon.

Susanne was the only customer. Two women, presumably stylists, were talking in a corner, while a woman about Susanne’s age was sweeping up cuttings. The sweeper woman looked better suited to working in a strip club than a place catering to women, even though her makeup was understated. But her dragon-lady fingernails and enormous breasts were, to put it mildly, over the top.

Susanne wondered why a woman who had spent good money on fake fingernails and whopping-big breast implants hadn’t visited a dermatologist about the warts on her hand. But Susanne figured it would be rude to ask.

“I’m Tanya,” the stripper-couldbe said to Susanne. “What can I, you know, help you with?”

“I need a trim,” Susanne said. “If you’re still open.”

Tanya gave Susanne a dazzling smile. “We’re open as long as you need for us to be, sweetie, you know?” As Tanya led Susanne to the shampoo sink, she asked, “You just now get off work?”

“Yes, later than usual. But unfortunately, not terribly much later.”

Tanya was lathering-up Susanne’s head. “So where do you work? House? Senate? Supreme Court?”

“White House, actually.”

“Oh my god, that’s like, so totally cool.”

“It is, actually. I sort-of work for the First Lady. Last week I walked up to him and her, I had some letters for her to sign, and President Martin Russell actually smiled at me. Moments like that make—ow!”

While Susanne and Tanya had been talking, Tanya had been massaging Susanne’s scalp with her long fingernails. But her hand had slipped or something, and one of her fingernails had really scratched Susanne’s neck.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Tanya now said. “Let me, like, find you a Band-Aid.” Tanya hurried away.

Tanya returned a short time later. “I couldn’t find you one. I am so sorry, you know?”

But by then, Susanne didn’t care. Somehow she’d slipped into a state of being both more alert and less alert, both wired-up and dreamy. It was as if Susanne had drunk four pots of coffee and then someone had hypnotized her.

When Tanya leaned forward and started kissing her, to Susanne it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

And then Susanne thought, Unit Susanne-912 has function as a Spy Babe/Welcomer. Unit Susanne-912’s function is unique. Susanne was too far gone to wonder why she would think such a strange thing.

Six minutes later, both Susanne’s hair and her brain were well washed.

Three months after Sally-63, the first Terra Airlines stewardess, had been Welcomed, Stephanie shocked the shit out of me.

“King James,” Stephanie said, “we now can perhaps Welcome Holly Russell or Beth Russell. What do you, like, want for us to do?”

“Wait, whoa, time out! The Holly Russell? The Beth Russell? The no-kidding First Lady and First Daughter?”

Stephanie nodded calmly, as if what we were talking about was no big deal.

After several seconds of thought, I said, “You said ‘perhaps.’ What are the odds of success?”

“The Club estimates the odds of successfully Welcoming Holly Russell as 98.64 percent. The odds of Welcoming Beth Russell, without first making her mother a Welcomer, we estimate as 58.03 percent.”

I thought hard. At last I said, “I want you to go after Beth. You’ll probably have better luck if you wait a few months till the Christmas party. If you do Welcome Beth Russell, make her an Ass-Kicker Babe. She’s studied Tae Kwon Do with the Secret Service, so we’re covered if she punches someone’s lights out. But once you start your moves on her, keep me informed, regardless.”

Despite the low odds, both I and The Club got lucky (I suppose): Three days after my conversation with Stephanie, Beth Russell—the college-age daughter of the president of the United States—became my slave. Which was good, because I was low on redheads.