The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Carol’s sunglasses filtered out the worst of the sunlight coming in through the diner’s windows. She wasn’t used to the brightness, not any more anyway. Too much time indoors. Too many nights awake and days asleep. The sunglasses protected her eyes. Maybe they could also hide the confusion she felt, that she feared was all too visible in her eyes. Carol was good at hiding her emotions but if anyone could see through her evasion, it was Wainwright. She was a practised undercover police officer, but so was he.

Nervously she twirled the straw in her lemonade, wondering how much longer the police captain would be. She wanted this meeting over with. Maybe he was having trouble finding the place. He shouldn’t, he’d chosen it after all. He chose every location they met, and rarely the same place twice. Carol looked around, wondering why he’d chosen this diner. She couldn’t see anything special about it. Clean tables, if a little chipped and battered, the wallpaper fading, once bright colours now pastel. At least the food being delivered to the patrons smelt okay. Nothing to draw attention to the place. Food not too good and not too bad, prices not too cheap and not too expensive. Nondescript, average, ordinary. Perhaps that was the point. Somewhere you hardly remembered, the images seeping away like water down the drain in the gutter outside. And with that any memories of anyone you’d seen in the diner. If nothing else wondering what Wainwright saw in the place held other thoughts at bay. Or failed to, now that the idea had wormed its way into her head.

Carol swallowed anxiously. A couple of days hadn’t given her enough time to come to terms with the weekend, what she’d done. She didn’t know if she ever could. The memories frightened and aroused her at the same time.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Where was Wainwright? She wasn’t worried that he was late. Sometimes he kept her waiting, sometimes he was early. She didn’t know if he wasn’t that concerned with punctuality or deliberately avoided a set pattern to their meetings. It didn’t matter. She knew that he’d be here. She was much less certain about what would happen when he arrived. She remembered that she used to enjoy these meetings, teasing Wainwright with her revealing clothes and openly provocative behaviour. It wasn’t fun anymore. Keeping her secrets from Wainwright was getting harder and harder, Carol worried what he might see when he looked at her. Reading people was one of their skills and Wainwright was no fool. He’d edged close to the truth about her mental state. Far too close for Carol’s liking. If he realised what she truly felt about whoring there was no way he’d let her continue. And then she’d have to make a choice. She didn’t want to do that, feared where either choice led.

Worry about Wainwright, the uneasy realisation that eventually he would tell her to stop, was something she’d lived with since starting her new life. Although it seemed worse now, fear nibbling away at her facade of calm. She didn’t know if it was really getting harder to keep secrets from the police captain or whether it was simply that she had more to keep every time she met him. Memories of Patrick’s party flooded her mind, she couldn’t stop the clear recollections. How Patrick had flaunted her, how she’d flaunted herself. She knew how obvious it had been to everyone there what was she was. It was pointless to deny how much she’d enjoyed it, the happy glow that came with the memories couldn’t be ignored. That was the problem. Even though she accepted her situation, knew how damaged she was, Carol worried about how far she was willing to go. She didn’t want to just be a whore. The policewoman was still there, part of her mind. She knew that eventually she’d have to choose and no matter how much she loved prostituting herself, how easy it was to give into temptation every time she thought about it, she knew which choice actually offered her a future.

At least, Carol told herself, she could still worry, if she still worried that meant she had some control. If nothing bothered her then she would really be in trouble. She swallowed again, gnawing at her lower lip. Trouble? What had she been thinking? She’d had unprotected sex. Had hardly quibbled when Patrick had demanded it. If she was pregnant then she didn’t know what she would do. She had to hope she wasn’t. Even if she wasn’t pregnant now, Patrick might refuse to go back to using protection. Carol didn’t trust herself to deny him next time he demanded what he’d had from her at his party. Perhaps she should go on the pill. It probably wasn’t a bad idea anyway, accidents, as Mrs Bowen had said to her once, did happen. But the concession reeked of defeat, too close to admitting that the next time Patrick wanted unprotected sex, she’d acquiesce again. Carol sighed, confessed to herself that she probably would. Sex and money and whatever a man wanted.

If Carol was right, and they found Karen and Laura at Conti’s brothel, then it would all be over. She’d have to go back to just being a policewoman, Wainwright wouldn’t accept anything else. Choosing between the two sides of her life was the last thing Carol wanted to do. Still, if she had to choose, she’d do the right thing. She knew what she was, knew where Copeland’s abuse had led her. The events of the weekend had made her think, forced her to realise where her current life could lead. No matter how much she enjoyed whoring, she didn’t want it to be all she ever was. She made herself remember all the times she had told herself that she wanted to be a policewoman. Tried to reassure herself that she could stop being a whore when she had to. She had to believe that she was strong enough.

Queasy feelings rippled through her stomach as Carol told herself it couldn’t be morning sickness. The rational part of her mind insisted that it was impossible, that you didn’t get nausea after only a few days, at least as far as she knew. Little reassurance came from the thought. She was used to stress, had dealt with it for years as an undercover officer. If what she was feeling was pure nerves, then it had never affected her like this. If it was doubt at her own resolve, her ability to give up whoring, then she didn’t want to think about that. None of the options offered any comfort. She needed to get herself under control. She couldn’t let Wainwright think anything was wrong. Carol could feel desire building, teasing at her mind, an empty feeling radiating from her pussy. She looked around the diner, wondering if she could get any of the men here to pay her for sex. Perhaps the worker in the corner, overalls creased and greased stained. Or the young man at the counter, uniform crisp but cheap, what was he, maybe some delivery boy? She was sure she could tempt either of them. She knew how to present herself, could quickly tell what a man wanted, coy or forward, innocent or knowing, how to tease and tempt.

Carol wasn’t going to do anything, neither the madam nor the police captain would approve of her moonlighting like that. That more whoring was her first thought when she needed some stress relief was too much. Giving it up when Karen and Laura were found was what she had to do. Go back to the life she’d had before. If she could.

The sound of Wainwright seating himself snapped Carol out of her reverie. He was in no hurry sitting down, pulling the chair back slowly before easing himself into it, his eyes never leaving Carol. She tried to school her features into something resembling a normal expression.

Wainwright shook his head slowly as Carol watched him, neither saying a word. So much hung in the air between them, so much unsaid, notes and bells waiting to be rung, slivers of glass, twinkling, waiting to cut the first who touched them. Carol could almost see them there, hovering, waiting for the words to be said that would bring their meaning to life. The creases on Wainwright’s face looked deeper than she remembered, shadows haunted his eyes. Instinct, something approaching normal human interaction, made Carol want to ask what was worrying him. But she feared she knew the answer, that it was concern over her, what she was doing, that was etched into his features. The question went unasked, as she tried to ignore the churning feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to give him the chance to complain about what she was doing. She reached for one of the more innocuous of the images hovering in front of her.

“How’s the reception?” Carol asked, forcing herself to smile.

Wainwright looked at her for a moment, then relaxed, a little. Carol guessed he was pleased that she was asking about police work. That was what she’d intended.

“Good, we’re getting all three channels.” He paused a moment before continuing. “Do anything else interesting on the weekend?”

Carol could see the look in the captain’s eyes as he studied her. He was testing her. Wondering what her priorities were. Carol knew that she couldn’t tell him the truth, wasn’t even sure what it was. Was she a policewoman pretending to be a whore? Or a whore pretending to be a policewoman? She more than half suspected that he was thinking the latter, however much she wanted to believe it was the former. Whichever it was Carol was good at being someone that she wasn’t. She knew the answer that would satisfy Wainwright. She knew what the hidden depths behind his question were, had heard the sharpness in his tone.

She steered the conversation away from his suspicions. “Yes, I think I’ve got what we’re looking for.” Wainwright’s eyebrows shot up, but she hurried on before he could interrupt. “Joe Conti. I think they’re in a brothel he owns.” Carol kept her voice low so no-one else could hear, but she made sure the urgency she felt leaked into her voice.

“You sure?”

“Sure as I can be.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Wainwright leant back as Carol told of him of Mandy and Tabitha, of what they’d said, of what Patrick had told her. She kept her voice low, making sure that no-one could overhear them.

After she finished Wainwright was silent for a few minutes, thinking. “Yeah,” he said at length, “sounds good.” He stopped and looked at Carol. “I want you out.”

A dark pit opened before Carol. She couldn’t believe what the police captain had said. He couldn’t ask that of her, not yet. If he pulled her out now then she’d have to stop whoring. She could stop when she wanted to, at least that was what she told herself, but now wasn’t the right time. Not yet, it was all wrong. Carol knew that she couldn’t just refuse the order, Wainwright would be too suspicious if she did. She needed time, she needed to think. She needed to stall him, at least.

“No, it’s too soon. If I disappear now, Patrick might get suspicious. We can’t risk that, not after I’ve just put those, umm, things in place.” She looked at Wainwright. If this had been any other assignment he would have never tried to pull her out like this. No-one suspected her. She wasn’t in any danger. All it would do was rouse suspicion, endanger everything they stood to gain. He had to see it. Whatever reason she had for refusing him, she knew that she was right. Wainwright would never end any other operation like this.

The police captain frowned, the furrows on his brow growing deeper, signs of the war going on in his mind. Carol held her breath as she waited for his reply, trying to follow his thoughts. He was evaluating the situation as he would any other assignment, looking for the threats to his people. He wouldn’t think it was physically dangerous, but mentally was another matter. She could tell that he feared that he was putting her more and more at risk of a breakdown the longer he let her keep going. Carol couldn’t dare tell him that she thought the reverse was true. That forcing her to the decision point was what might break her mental state. Right now, she feared that being able to whore was the only thing keeping her sane. A perverse and probably self-defeating sanity, but at least she could function as she was. No matter how certain she was that she’d be able to give up what she was doing now, Carol wanted to put the moment off as long as possible. Even if just the thought of stopping made Carol feel like she was being asked to cut off a limb, it was still her decision and she could make it. She didn’t want to end up as Judy had, locked in a mental hospital, her need to be paid for sex tearing her apart. The policewoman in the back of her mind was telling her to make the decision now. Walk away with Wainwright and never look back. The whore was tempting her, reminding her good the sex was, how much pleasure she felt every time she was used. How much she wanted this. The policewoman glowered back, told Carol that if she wanted it that bad then she was an addict and maybe cold turkey was her best chance. That even ending up in hospital wouldn’t be so bad if they could cure her. Carol refused to listen to either image. She wasn’t an addict, no matter how good whoring made her feel. She’d make the decision when to stop and to hell with the images in her head.

“Ok,” Wainwright said at length, resignation tinging his voice, “ok, I’ll give it a bit longer. But as soon as we know whether the girls are at Conti’s, that’s it. No-one can do what you’re doing forever and not break.” Wainwright never called what she was doing ‘whoring’ or ‘prostitution’, it was always ‘it’ or “what you’re doing”. Hedges and prevarications, ways to talk without talking, avoid confronting reality.

Carol’s mind was spinning as she finally released the breath she’d been holding. It was a reprieve, but it wasn’t open ended. She knew that she’d be forced to a decision, sooner than she wanted. For now all she wanted was something to stop her nerves jangling and make the ache in her head go away.

Wainwright stood up, Carol thought he was about to leave. Instead he leant over the table, his voice low, too low for anyone else to hear, “You hear me detective?” There was a force in the question that she didn’t want to confront. The words rumbled up from somewhere deep, the sound like stones grinding against each other.

Carol nodded. Their faces were so close, Wainwright staring at her. She knew that gaze, had grown familiar with it over the last couple of years, but that didn’t rob it of any power. She remembered so many times, in his office, in the field, when he’d looked at her like that, captain making sure his officer knew exactly what he meant. But somehow the word detective seemed wrong, something that no longer applied to her. Just another role, as when one of her Johns had her dress up. Office worker. School girl. Teacher. Girl next door. Librarian. Pretend to be something she wasn’t. Just roles to cover what she really was. The thought that detective was just another mask for the whore ate at her. Desperately she hoped it was wrong, told herself she was still a detective, but the feeling lacked certainty. Wainwright’s steady gaze magnified her fears, maybe she was just a whore now, pretending to be a police officer. She couldn’t let Wainwright sense her doubt. Keeping her features neutral, not showing any of the turmoil she felt, she simply said “Yeah, I hear you.” And hoped that when Karen and Laura were found and she made herself give up prostituting herself that she could find the police officer in the wreck of her mind.

Carol stared critically at her image in in the large vanity mirror she shared with Janice. Her worries had seeped away as she concentrated on getting ready. She wanted her appearance to be perfect. Not that tonight was anything special, just another night whoring. Well, it was their first night back at the brothel after their weekend at Mr Patrick’s. Mrs Bowen had insisted they take a couple of days off. “Men don’t pay as much for haggard girls,” she’d said last week, before telling them when to come back. Even without that Carol wanted to look her best. So did Janice. They always did. They’d bought the vanity together. It was expensive, but nothing they couldn’t afford. There were three mirrors, a main one and one on either side, to let them check themselves out from any angle. It had plenty of drawers for makeup and brushes and everything else a girl needs, the mirrors and the top all edged in decorative woodwork, white paintwork gleaming. Carol was almost ready for another night at, …, work. She checked again for any flaws in her makeup, though she knew that if she hadn’t found any the last two times she’d looked she was unlikely to find any now. And she’d check herself again after getting to the brothel. Carol knew that she looked good. She looked like a whore, a pretty, made-up whore ready for work. She didn’t know whether it was better or worse to call it work and not whoring. Did a euphemism avoid the issue and show doubts? Or was it a way to make it all normal and accept her situation? She didn’t know. She knew that something had to give. One way or another Wainwright was going to tell her to stop soon. Doubts kept haunting her, no matter how confidently she told herself that it was her decision, that she could make it whenever she wanted to. She knew that the old Carol, the Carol from before Copeland had ever got his claws into her, would have found it an easy decision to make. The old Carol would have got away from a life of whoring as soon as she could. But she wasn’t doing that, hadn’t done that. Which meant she wasn’t the old Carol. The old Carol would never have been in this situation in the first place. She didn’t know how much she had left of who she’d been.

Unbidden, the words came to her lips “I want to be a prostitute, I’m happy being a prostitute.” She knew the words were true. She couldn’t deny them. If she was honest with herself, large parts of her didn’t want to. She forced herself to fight the thoughts, slippery and treacherous, that she should just surrender, give in to her desires and forget everything else. Summoning up what strength she could Carol made herself say “I want to be a policewoman,” and tried to believe she could make that thought win.

“You ok Steph?” Janice asked from the doorway.

“Yeah, I’ll be out of your way soon.” Carol knew that Janice needed the mirror to finish getting ready as much as she did.

“You want to go see a film this weekend?” the redhead asked as she worried over her hair, turning between the three mirrors to check every angle. Carol suppressed a smile. Janice’s hairstyle wouldn’t survive thirty seconds of a customer’s attention. Yet, she knew, first impressions counted.

“Maybe, anything good on?” Carol replied.

“No idea, I haven’t looked yet,” Janice shrugged.

“Why do you want go then?”

“Oh, nothing special, I just thought it might be nice.” Carol could see the other woman’s eyes fixed on the mirror. She could guess the thought Janice added to what she’d said. That it might be a nice change from last weekend. That it might be nice to do something normal. They didn’t do much that could be considered normal. Carol even less than Janice. At least the redhead had her studies. Neither had anything that could be called a social life. So sometimes they went out together. Just two friends, pretending that there was more to their lives than being whores.

“Yeah, ok.” Carol replied, her eyes on her own image in the mirror, one hand fiddling with her dangling earring. The temptation to spend every moment she could being a prostitute was strong, but Carol resisted that. It was a small victory, she told herself, a step on the way back to the life she’d had. She ignored the thought that maybe it was another defeat, pretending she could be a whore and have something like a normal life.

When they arrived at the brothel Tom told them to go straight to the madam’s office. Mrs Bowen was there, half-lying on one of the couches, her legs tucked up under her. She waved to them to sit down.

“Enjoy your weekend?” There was a sly edge to Mrs Bowen’s smile. Carol suspected the madam had been a prostitute herself in her younger years, most women in her position had.

“Yeah, sure,” Carol replied as Janice nodded. She could have said more, but she wasn’t sure that letting Mrs. Bowen know just how much she’d enjoyed herself was a good idea. She didn’t want to give the madam any more leverage over her than she already had.

“Any problems?” the madam asked. The questions, sitting in her boss’ office, it almost felt like a debrief. Carol’s perception shifted, overlaid with memories of Wainwright’s office, his questions after her assignments. It was too similar. Her head swam, she had to struggle to focus her attention. She looked at Janice, found the other girl looking at her. After a moment they turned back to Mrs Bowen.

“No, nothing,” said Carol. She was on edge, nervous. The similarities made it too familiar, too easy to slip into, something more making this feel normal. And did the madam know something? Had she gone too far with Patrick? Worse, had the listening devices been discovered and somehow been linked back to her?

Mrs. Bowen idly waved a hand at her, a reassuring gesture. “Oh don’t worry dear. I know you put on a little show for Colin. He likes you, nothing wrong with that. I just want to make sure two of my best girls are fine.” The madam looked at them, appraisingly. Like a storekeeper might assess their shop window display. The two girls smiled back at her.

“Good, you remember to tell me if anything ever goes wrong. Got that?” An order. Had Wainwright ever used those words? A memory told Carol that he had. An image flashed through her mind, Wainwright, at his desk, saying exactly those words, emphasised by a thrust of his hand, cigarette held between two fingers, whirls of smoke drifting up to the ceiling to be caught by the fan.

“Yes ma’am” Janice replied as Carol nodded.

“Any of the other girls there give you any problems?”

Carol relaxed. “No, it was fine.”

“We were kept busy,” added Janice.

The madam nodded, “Good, good. You get that many girls together, especially from different establishments, and the competition can sometimes be, well, fierce. And Patrick always chooses the best for his little do’s.”

The madam’s coy turns of phrase made Carol smile. Then a thought struck her. “I was talking to a couple of girls, Mandy and Tabitha. They said they were from Joe Conti’s place? They seemed pretty good, I wonder if we could tempt them away? But I don’t know much about him, so.” She was babbling, half-deliberately. Anything to get Mrs Bowen to open up about Joe Conti. Anything that might produce some information on the brothel where the two missing girls were likely being held. She held her breath, nervously awaiting the madam’s response.

“Hmm, Conti’s an irritating little man. I doubt he’d let them go for anything if they were the ones Patrick chose.” The madam paused, considering the possibilities. “But if they were at Patrick’s party they probably are good workers. You think they’re interested?”

“Not sure, to be honest. But they, you know, stood out.” Carol softly let the breath she’d been holding flow out. She wasn’t lying, not exactly. She remembered Mandy and Tabitha as pretty, and they seemed popular with the men, even given the competition. “Maybe if I talked to them again? Do you know where Conti’s place is?”

Mrs Bowen laughed, a surprisingly hearty sound. It was the first time Carol had heard her really laugh. “You think Joe Conti’s going to let you waltz into his place and try and tempt two of his best girls away? You do, don’t you? You’ve got gumption, Stephanie, I’ll admit that. If I thought you were stupid.” The madam shook her head. “But you’re not, are you? I think you just could do it. And even trying it would be worth it just to see his reaction. But he’d never agree to let you in for that. You two run along and let me think about how to get you in there.”

It was better than Carol could have hoped. If she could get inside Conti’s brothel she might be able to find out exactly where the two missing girls were held. Wainwright would have to value that.

Days passed and the madam said nothing to Carol about Conti. She knew that it was no use prodding Mrs Bowen, all that might do was get the madam irritated. Carol couldn’t afford that. She just had to hope that she’d have her chance before Wainwright organised the raid on Conti’s brothel. She didn’t think it would be too soon, given the flimsiness of what she’d given him it would probably take him weeks to get the go-ahead, the permission crawling through the courts and the bureaucracy. Then they’d have to scout out the place and come up with a plan. Carol thought about asking Wainwright to let her join the raid. Then told herself that he’d never agree, that there was no point even suggesting it. She knew his trust in her was paper thin. The thought hurt.

Carol found other things to distract her. She needed to know more about Conti. She told herself that a covert approach suited her better, that it was better for an undercover policewoman, much more her style than a full-on raid. Subtly she questioned Mrs Bowen when she could, the bouncers, even some of her customers, anyone that she thought might know Conti. She’d hoped one of the girls at the brothel may have worked for him at some time, but that proved a bust. Even so she gradually built a picture. Self-centred, obnoxious, someone who liked being in charge. Nothing she couldn’t have guessed. Carol did find one girl, Gabriela, who Conti had used when he’d visited Mrs Bowen on business. She filed away what the girl told her, at least Conti hadn’t been violent, but the busty Latino had told her that there was nothing considerate about him either.

She even dared asking Mr. Patrick about Conti. As Carol had suspected Patrick refused to go back to using protection. “Our little secret” he called it. He’d held her chin, his fingers gripping so hard they hurt, Carol painfully aware of their difference in height, and told her she was to use protection with everyone else. He’d kill her if he caught anything from her. Carol lay on the bed after he left, holding the extra money he paid her tight to her chest, like a love-sick girl would hold a note from her boyfriend. She stared at the wall of her room. She couldn’t believe that she’d agreed, hadn’t even wanted to disagree. At least she knew by now that she wasn’t pregnant. But she was relying on the pill to keep her that way. She knew it wasn’t foolproof. Visions of carrying Patrick’s child haunted her, but even that hadn’t been enough to make her refuse him.

At least Patrick had been willing to talk about Conti. He’d confirmed things Carol knew, added some more, spoken disdainfully about the Italian’s prickly pride.

“Conti? That little Italian prick? Struts around like some damned peacock and splutters like a baby if he thinks his pride’s been hurt. He’s a paranoid little shit too, thinks everyone is out to get him. You don’t want to go working for him do you, babydoll?”

Carol had reassured him, made him laugh at some joke, then took his cock in her mouth. Nowhere it hadn’t been before, but it seemed to make him forget any worries about her defecting to Conti’s stable. The policewoman was satisfied with the information she’d found about Conti, but that only encouraged her. Now she was taunting the whore, telling her that Jenny and Laura would soon be rescued and she’d be back in control. The whore glowered back, and flooded Carol’s mind with a kaleidoscope of images, arousing and degrading. The war in her mind made Carol’s head feel like it would burst.

Carol pushed the policewoman to the back her mind, told her to wait, that her time would come. That if Jenny and Laura were to be rescued they needed the whore. Always in her undercover work she’d spent most of her time doing whatever it as her cover was supposed to do. She’d submerge herself in whatever identity she assumed. Days would merge into weeks and sometimes months and all she would be was the role she’d been assigned. Carol had disappeared for long periods of the recent years. If she thought and acted like her cover there was less chance of a slip-up. She was good at it, very, very, good. The police work always came in rare moments. Now it was even easier. She didn’t have to make herself pretend. Whoring, giving herself to her Johns, was what she wanted to do. She didn’t care how they used her, came in her, on her, it was all the same to Carol. She loved whatever they did, whatever they had her do. As every cock found its way into her pussy, rammed or gentle, every time cum splattered onto her face, her breasts, every time she was groped and fondled, every time she was spanked and degraded, every time she revelled in the names men called her, every time a man used her mouth or arse, every time she watched yet another man’s eyes drink in her naked form, open and available to him, she felt the words seep deeper into her being, becoming more and more real, more and more a part of her. “I want to be a prostitute.” “I love being a prostitute.” Carol told herself that when the time came that she’d be able to stop. That what she did now would just make it easier, have her fill and walk away. That it was her choice and when Laura and Karen were safe she’d be able to rid herself of what Copeland had done to her, he’d be finished and they’d all be safe. But that time wasn’t yet, and she was thankful for that.

Finally Mrs Bowen called her in to talk about Conti. Carol sat down on one of the lounges, curled her legs under her, could see the madam smiling at her.

“I’ve thought of a way to get you in to Conti’s,” Mrs Bowen began, “Can’t guarantee those two girls, what were their names?”

“Mandy and Tabitha.” Carol replied, burying thoughts of the other pair, Karen and Laura. She didn’t want the madam to have any idea Carol was interested in them.

“Yes, that was it. Anyway, no guarantee they’ll be there. And if they are, you’ll have to find them by yourself. Of course I didn’t tell Conti you’d be looking for them. So I had to think of another reason.” She smiled at Carol, one conspirator to another, “I told him we needed to talk about Patrick’s parties and you’d have the details. We should charge Patrick more for the next of his parties. He pays for the weekend, but you girls need time to recover. He should pay for some of that too. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. Patrick will complain that he pays us a premium as it is. I wouldn’t mind if we could get some more out of that tight-fisted Irishman. Anyway it’ll get you in there. Just make sure Conti doesn’t see you talking to those girls. If you can get them to switch it’ll probably be the end of any agreement with Conti about Patrick, but Conti will be clawing at the walls, and that will be worth it. So get the girls or get Conti onside.”

It sounded reasonable to Carol. Except, well, it sounded like something the madam should do herself.

“Umm, ok, but why would Conti listen to me? I’m well,” Her voice trailed off. Uncertainty ate at her.

Mrs Bowen looked at her, her gaze pinning the younger woman, “Just a whore? Maybe, but you’re not stupid. You’ve got some sense about you.”

Carol wanted to protest. Getting into Conti’s brothel was what she’d wanted, but she was drawing too much attention to herself. In undercover work you had to stay unnoticed. Being too good at your job drew attention, and that could be dangerous. It happened, sometimes, but it upped the risk.

“What about Janice, she’s still at college and.” Anything to divert attention from herself but Mrs Bowen cut her off.

“Smart and sense aren’t the same thing. Oh, neither of you are stupid are you? Don’t bother answering that. You’re pretty, and good at the work and you like it. But both of you have more brains than the rest of the girls.”

Carol looked at Mrs Bowen questioningly. The madam looked her up and down, assessing her. It reminded Carol of the first time she’d met the madam, when the older woman had decided whether to let Carol join the brothel. She wondered what the older woman was thinking this time.

“Janice is a nice girl, smart. But she’s a bit of a follower. I’ve seen how she looks to you when there’re decisions to be made.” Carol hadn’t thought of it that way. She’d noticed her friend defer to her in front of Mrs. Bowen. But she’d thought it was because Janice knew that Carol was a policewoman. If Mrs Bowen thought it was something else, something that didn’t make her suspicious, well, that was fine with Carol. She stopped, remembering the files on the Copeland case, back before she’d even set foot on the College campus. The police assessments had said all the missing girls were followers, not leaders. That applied to Janice as much as the others. Maybe Copeland had thought girls like that would be easier to break. Had he thought the same about Carol? It could be that her efforts not to stand out, typical of undercover work, had made her appear like his other victims. She’d sometimes wondered whether the security guards had targeted her or whether her kidnapping had been opportunistic. The latter didn’t fit the pattern, so it was probably the former. But she hadn’t put up the same act in the brothel. She worried it was going to get her into trouble.

“Is that a problem?” Carol asked nervously.

Mrs Bowen smiled, warmly for once, “Not at all. I like a girl with a bit of drive. Reminds me. Never mind.” She waved a hand at Carol. Carol thought she’d been about to say it reminded the madam of herself.

Instead the madam looked at her. Carol felt pierced by the older woman’s gaze. “Umm, is everything ok Mrs Bowen?” she asked.

“You were one of them too, weren’t you?” the madam asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Umm, sorry?” Carol’s instinct was to hide, to deny anything that made her stand out. She tried to shrink into the lounge.

“That professor, what was his name, Chapman?”

Maybe the madam didn’t know that much, she didn’t seem to know Copeland’s name. “Who?” she asked, hoping she could pretend innocence.

The madam’s reply was whip-crack sharp, Carol started at the contrast to Mrs Bowen’s normal air of casual benevolence. “Don’t play me for a fool, girl. I know about Janice and she’s your friend, so you have to know. Her name was in the papers. But I know there was another girl, another one that professor didn’t sell on. I know all about his little scheme. I wasn’t going to get involved, too much risk, kidnapped girls and all that. Too much to get the police interested.” The madam’s eyes held Carol. The brunette wanted to look away, but feared that would only make the madam angrier. She said nothing, letting Mrs Bowen continue, hoped that a tongue lashing was all she would have to suffer. “Good decision, too. When the fools that bought the girls got thrown in the slammer, it meant more business for me.” For moment a look of smugness played over the madam’s face. Then it faded, replaced by her usual casual charm. “But I know. When Janice came to me I recognised her name, almost sent her away. But there was something different about her, something special. She wanted the job, her choice, no risk to me, so I took her on. I can see the same thing in you. You’re that other girl aren’t you?”

Carol hesitated, then decided lying wasn’t worth it. More of her undercover training, never lie unless you have to. The truth is easier to defend, making it harder for anyone to unravel the lies buried beneath it. “Yeah, it was me.”

The madam nodded, tight-lipped. “I thought so. You were too much like Janice, girls might be willing, but you don’t often find ones as keen as you two. You really like the work don’t you?”

Carol paused for a moment, teetering on the edge between silence and opening up. She imagined this was what criminals felt like, just before their confession. There was a pressure in her chest, things she wanted to say, that she’d only ever shared with Janice. But that wasn’t the same, Janice already knew her secrets, had lived them herself. Carol needed to let it out, needed to tell someone who didn’t know. She knew Mrs Bowen wouldn’t help her, that anything she told the madam would just sink her further into her new life. Maybe even give the older woman the keys to her mind, let her know how to keep Carol working if she ever faltered. Although that didn’t seem likely. Mrs Bowen didn’t seem the type to lock someone up and brainwash them, she’d just said she’d refused to even buy such a girl, let alone do it herself. Opening up was what Stephanie would do, confide in her madam. Carol knew it was a risk, revealing more to Mrs Bowen than was safe, but Carol didn’t care, the feeling was too much, she had to speak or she was going to burst. And when she started she couldn’t stop, the tale coming out in a torrent. About how she was kidnapped, what Copeland did to her, how she and Janice escaped. About how she felt when she was offered up as a bet in the poker game, how stunned she was when she discovered Janice was a whore. How anxious she was when Janice brought her here, worried she’d be rejected, how she felt about being a prostitute, working here, how much she loved it, needed it. She didn’t tell the madam everything, told her nothing of being a policewoman, or of the extra service she gave Patrick. But that was all she left out.

Carol realised she was crying and Mrs Bowen was holding her, gently, like a mother with a distraught child.

“Shush now child,” the madam whispered, gently rocking her, “you’re all right.” She offered Carol a lace-edged handkerchief for her tears.

“That’s quite a story. You going to be a good girl for me, Stephanie?”

Carol nodded in reply.

“Without that Copeland you’d have never have been here would you? You’re not going to run out on me are you?”

Carol nodded. “No, no, I wouldn’t. But it’s ok, I’m not sorry. I love this too much.” Maybe there was a lie there. She was sorry about what Copeland had done to here. She’d never wanted to be a prostitute, not until she was kidnapped, not until Copeland put the words in her head, words that she couldn’t free herself from. Not until they changed her. But a large part wasn’t sorry at all. Being a whore just felt too good. It had been easy to tell the madam that she wasn’t sorry and maybe it was close to the truth.

“Hmm, all right then,” a thoughtful look came over the madam’s face, “but you can like anything too much. Any time you have any worries, anything you think I should know, you come talk to me. You got that?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Mrs Bowen looked doubtful. “Really? I’m the madam, I say what goes. Yes, Stephanie?”

“You’re the madam, you say what goes.” Carol promised. The idea slipped easily into her mind, it was what a whore would do. It was what she should do. It was part of playing the role, and Carol was good at that.

“Good girl, there’s no point keeping secrets, is there?” Mrs Bowen patted her on the knee, a reassuring gesture, like a teacher with a small child. Carol felt a little puff of guilt about her unprotected sex with Patrick. A whore would confess that to her madam. But the policewoman still lurked in Carol’s head and Patrick was too important a source of information for her to risk upsetting him.

“I’m going to have to have the same talk with Janice, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Carol nodded.

“You’re both good girls, you just need to do what I say and it’ll be fine. Anytime you want to talk, you know where I am.” The benevolent, caring, madam was back, but Carol had seen beneath the façade. Shel knew she was putting a lot of trust in the older woman, and that was probably foolish. But all she felt was relief, that some of the responsibility was out of her hands, despite the risk she was taking. She loved being a prostitute, and it was natural for a prostitute to do what her madam told her. Her only fear was that the madam might prove true to her word in offering to take care of her. An ever-present danger of undercover work was becoming too attached to the people you lived amongst. She’d seen officers go native, watched them lose the ability to keep the role separate from the reality. If Carol became too comfortable with her situation, too reassured by the madam’s concern, it would make harder for her to walk away when the time came.

Mrs Bowen was speaking again and Carol snapped her attention back. “But,” the madam asked, her brow creasing, “How’d you keep your name out of the papers? Rich family? Anything I need to worry about?”

Carol shook her head, a rapid, nervous gesture “No, nothing. The police said it was just bad luck Janice’s leaked somehow. They said they wanted to keep all our names quiet, but some got out.”

The madam frowned at her, obviously considering her answer, “All right then, but if you’re hiding anything I won’t be pleased.”

Of course I’m not hiding anything, Carol thought to herself, a sardonic edge to the voice in her head, it’s not like I’m an undercover cop or anything. She could feel the queasy nervousness eating at her again, lying to Mrs Bowen was becoming as hard as lying to Wainwright.

“So when do I go see Conti?” Carol asked, pleased at the directness of her question. Not something a whore who was simply her madam’s puppet would ask. Carol may have felt safe, safer than she should, but she knew there were limits, that all Mrs Bowen looked on her as was a business asset, something to be used and, when the time was right, disposed of. But while she was valuable to the madam, Mrs Bowen would look out for her.

Mrs Bowen frowned, “I’m still working on that. I think the little rat is trying to play hard to get, probably wants to see how keen I am. I’ll let you know when I pin him down.” Carol’s heart sank. She knew the raid was still some way off, but she couldn’t wait for ever. She needed to get the missing girls out, didn’t think Wainwright could manage it without some inside information. She didn’t have the time for Conti to play games.

The madam must have noticed her disappointment. “You let me worry about that, I’ve got something else for you.”

Carol cocked her head, wondered what the madam wanted “Yes?”

“There’s a booking coming this weekend, for a stag do, they want some girls overnight. It’s a high-class address, probably all on the corporate ladder. The pay is good, if you’re interested.” The madam may have phrased it as a question, made it seem polite, but Carol knew that she was expected to agree.

She almost did, but then stopped herself. The temptation was strong, so strong, a night’s whoring, extra money, her desires, her needs, were telling her to say yes. Part of her was saying no. It wasn’t at the brothel, it would be someone’s house. After what she’d done at Patrick’s party what would that matter, she’d already flaunted herself to so many people. But, she told herself, those people had been criminals, or their families or hangers on. This would be different, average guys, even if well-paid. She didn’t need to do it. Her need to whore, to be paid for sex, was never far away, yet she could satisfy it here, in the brothel. She didn’t need to go looking for anything more. The weekend at Patrick’s had been different, that at least had the pretence of police work, more than pretence, she had actually done her job as an undercover policewoman. There was none of that here, no reason to agree. Didn’t mean she couldn’t though and it seemed so little different to what she did now. The brothel, a house, it seemed a small step, not one worth worrying about. She looked at Mrs Bowen, sensed some doubt in the madam’s look.

“What’s the matter?” Carol asked.

A look of disdain passed over the madam’s face. “These company boys can be, hmm, less than considerate. Selfish little punks, all of them. Get some beer in them and any façade of civility, of decency, drops away.” Carol had to stop herself laughing. She was a whore, what did she care about civility and decency? Yet there must be something worrying the madam, so she stayed quiet and kept listening. “Ex-frat boys, the whole lot of them most likely. Less well-behaved then Patrick’s people and you won’t have him there to protect you. You need help, just phone and Tom or one of the other boys will come, but it will take time to get there. You think you can handle yourself Stephanie?”

Stephanie would say yes, wouldn’t want to disappoint her madam. Carol thought she could say no. No was just a little word, so easy to say. She didn’t want to say it, so much of her wanted to say yes, Mrs Bowen wanted her to say yes. The policewoman was begging her to say no, but Carol ignored her. Carol told herself that she needed to play her role, that she needed the madam onside until Karen and Laura were found, that she’d said she’d do anything to find them. She tried to tell herself that this was just one more little thing, that with everything else she’d done it didn’t matter. Then tried to tell herself that one day she might believe that. Her doubt almost made her say no.

“Ok, sure,” she said, trying to hide her nerves. She was sure she could handle a mob of junior executives. If anything went wrong she’d be outnumbered, but she was trained to handle situations where she was one against many.

“Good girl,” the madam said and Carol felt a warmth at her approval, her doubts melting, “I knew I could count on you. You won’t be alone. They’ve asked for three, so I thought you, Janice and Ellie.” Carol wondered if the customers had asked for a full set. She was a brunette, Janice a red head and Ellie was a blonde, long golden hair flowing in waves over her shoulders, the other whore that Cal had brought to the last poker game. Whoever was organising this party had asked for the best the brothel had to offer. And when Mrs Bowen told her how much she’d earn for the night, Carol knew that the madam had made them pay for the best. She felt a warm pride at her value and wondered just how broken she was.

Apparently the house had a pool, they’d been told to bring bikinis. It didn’t surprise Carol as she looked at the houses as they neared their destination. Probably all of them had a pool. They were large enough, nothing like Patrick’s mansion, but the wealth was obvious, all different and all the same, nothing about their architecture stuck in the mind. Expensive, nice to look at, forgettable. Just like a high-priced whore. Never places she’d be asked as a police woman. So many doors opened to a whore. Not as a guest though, not as a friend. Just something to be used, then thrown away, like the remains of a catered meal at one the parties the people that lived here would throw.

It was early evening as the taxi pulled up in front of the house, Carol could just see stars over the lights from the streetlamps and houses. She remembered looking up at them as a little girl, wondering where she’d live, what would happen to her. The stars were the same but Carol was very different to that little girl. There was no chance that she’d ever live in a house like this. Angrily she pushed the thoughts away, the memories too painful. The lights streamed out of the house, the sounds of music and conversation easily heard. The party had started hours ago, but the organiser, Matthew, Carol hadn’t been told his last name, only that he was the best man and in charge, wanted them there after dark. Maybe he was afraid of what the neighbours might think, if they saw three strange girls turning up at the party, maybe the money wouldn’t stretch for any more of their time. Carol didn’t know, maybe they had just wanted no distractions while they watched the afternoon’s football game.

She caught the taxi driver ogling them as Janice paid him, the man averted his eyes, obviously embarrassed at being caught out. Did he know what they were? Or did he just think they were three pretty college girls, maybe visiting a friend? Perhaps he thought they were out of his reach, too young, too pretty, when he could have any one of them if he was willing to pay. Carol thought about giving him the brothel’s number. His window was open. She could lean in, angle herself so he could see just as much as she wanted him to see, even more of her breasts than the low cut dress revealed to the world. Not everything, enough to tempt but leave him wanting more. She could, but she didn’t. Carol wanted to think there were some people she met who didn’t know what she was. She knew that the men she’d meet in the house would have no doubts at all.

The door was opened almost as soon as they rang the bell, the man, presumably Matt, had probably been waiting for them, maybe even saw them pull up in the taxi. Short dark hair, neatly combed, light coloured polo shirt and dark trousers. Carol could see him smiling at them. She didn’t like that smile. It was all predatory, cold. He didn’t look old enough to be running corporate takeovers, maybe 30, but Carol could imagine him giving that smile to people who were told their jobs were safe then saw them disappear in smoke.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Matt, come in, and you’re?”

“Jewel” Carol said. Matt didn’t offer his hand. Carol hadn’t expected him to.

“Laurel,” Janice said.

“Belle,” Ellie finished the introductions in her southern drawl.

“Great,” Matt smirked, “This way, ladies.” He indicated a doorway to the left, just inside the front door. It led to a lounge room. She could see evidence of the party that she could hear carrying on elsewhere in the house, full ashtrays and empty beer cans. Carol didn’t think it was Matt’s house, there were photos of an older couple. Perhaps they were his parents or the groom’s. She wondered if they had a clue what was happening in their house. What would happen in their bed.

“Ok,” Matt said, leaning against the fake fireplace after they’d gone over the arrangements. Just formality, no change from what had been agreed. “Show me what we bought.” He was trying to act calm, but Carol could hear the nervous excitement in his voice.

The girls looked at each other, then Carol shrugged, she knew what he wanted. She stepped forward, pointed the toes on one foot to show off the length of her leg. Reaching around behind her she slowly pulled down the zipper on her dress, then shimmied out of it. She could feel Matt’s eyes running up her legs, drinking in the stockings, the suspender set holding them up. She clasped her hands above her head, gave a slow twirl. She looked at him as she spun, but she could see his eyes were fixed on her breasts, her momentum making them strain just a little to be free of the white lacy bra that matched the rest of her underwear.

“Oh wow,” Carol could hear the desire in Matt’s voice, she smiled to herself, pleased to have punctured his arrogant pretence of calm.

“OK, next.” Janice followed Carol’s lead, slowing stripping out of her dress. Her underwear was fire engine red, matching her lipstick, suspenders holding up her seamed, dark, stockings. She sauntered over to Matt, in her heels and underwear and ran one finger along his cheek. Carol was sure she could see a bulge forming in Matt’s trousers. Janice glided over to Carol, one foot carefully in front of the other, extracting the maximum wiggle form her arse. Carol had to stop herself from laughing as Janice rolled her eyes, her back to Matt.

As Janice stopped alongside her Carol leant over and slowly kissed Janice’s cheek. She could see Matt’s hands clenching and unclenching.

“Yeah, um, Belle.” The blonde took longer to lose her dress than Janice and Carol had. She teased, pulling up the hem then letting it down again, slowly rolling it off her shoulder to reveal her bra. Her underwear was black. Carol thought Ellie must have had some experience as a stripper, as she posed and stretched in front of Matt, finishing bent over, arse thrust towards him and her back arched.

“Oh man, yeah good.” Carol could see Matt trying to regain some composure. “Wish I hadn’t promised Glenn first choice.”

Glenn, that was the groom, Carol remembered. She wondered if the bride-to-be had any idea of what the stag party involved. If she knew her future husbanded was going to be fucking a whore. Or three, more than likely. And if he was prepared to do that just before the wedding, how long would he wait until afterwards before doing it again? Carol knew the temptations girls like her afforded, the acts they offered that most housewives never would. She knew that there were married men amongst her customers. Some didn’t bother to hide it, wearing their rings to the brothel. On others she noticed the pale skin where a ring normally sat. She supposed that she should feel guilty, fucking married men, helping them cheat on their wives, but it had never occurred to her. She was just a whore, she did what she was paid to do. Looking at Matt she couldn’t see a ring or any sign of one, but that didn’t mean every man here this weekend would be single. She shrugged, probably most of them had wives or girlfriends, it didn’t matter to her. She thought perhaps it should, but it didn’t. She never thought about what happened to the wives and children of the people she spied on in her undercover work.

“Okay girls,” Matt clapped his hands, clearly revelling in his authority. “Just give me a moment and you can make your entrance.”

The three women slipped back into their dresses and took the time to check their hair and makeup in a mirror above the fireplace. Carol could hear voices, what might have been speeches and shouts. Eventually Matt was back for them, sticking his head around the door and telling them to follow. He hadn’t bothered to knock.

As Carol headed out she could hear music playing, some disco number from the charts. She was the last in line, following the other two women into a much larger lounge. There was a sunken floor and on wall the largest television set Carol had ever seen, at least 30 inches across. The groom, Glenn, was unmistakeable, he was sitting in a lounge chair that had obviously been dragged to the middle of the sunken area. He was tense, his lack of familiarity with being the centre of attention plain, the beer in one hand, and the forced bravado he tried to display doing nothing to cover his discomfort. There were almost twenty other men there, already cheering and clapping, lined up around the edges of the room. Carol wondered how many of them would have sex with her before she left the house tomorrow. She realised it would probably be most of them, if not all. They weren’t looking at her now, though, all their eyes were fixed on Janice and Ellie. The redhead and the blonde were dancing to the music, their attention fixed on Glenn, thrusting themselves at him, fingers running along his arms, caressing his cheeks, bending over or kneeling, everything in time to the music, making sure he could see everything their dresses would reveal.

Carol joined in effortlessly, running her hands through her silky dark brown hair as she twirled in time to the beat, turning and twisting her body to emphasise her breasts, her hips, her arse. Slowly she lowered her hands, ran them up and down her body, caressed her own breasts. She was losing herself in the music, could feel her lips puckering, her head thrown back. She knew multiple sets of eyes were on her, imagining what they could do to her, what they would do. She could feel herself getting aroused, wanting the attention, letting every man here know that she could be his, would be there for whatever he wanted. One hand fell to the hem of her dress, copying the moves Ellie had used earlier, slowly drew it up, revealing the top of her stocking and the suspender that held it up. She could hear yells, wolf whistles.

Then the music ceased and Carol couldn’t stop herself pouting.

Matt was striding into the centre of the room, hands raised, palms to either side, “Ok gents,” he called out, “settle down, settle down.” He turned slowly, waited for silence. Then brought his hands together. “You know the rules. These lovely ladies are here to entertain you. But don’t tire yourself out too quick, they’re not leaving until tomorrow.” That got some snickers. Carol didn’t look away from the eyes roaming over her and the other girls. She could see the lust burning there. Some of the men were drinking, not entirely steady on their feed. Carol wondered how much they’d already consumed in the hours since the party had started. Maybe not all the men would be able to take advantage of the girls’ services. Carol cringed as some part of her regretted the loss.

“Glenn gets first choice. Come on girls, show him what you got, but leave the dresses on. We want something to look forward to.” The three whores lined themselves up in front of the groom. Carol caressed herself, lifted her breasts up, feeling their weight through her dress and bra, offering them to the seated man. She knew it was wrong, that she shouldn’t like this. Yet she couldn’t have stopped herself even if she’d wanted to. She could see Janice, preening, blowing kisses to the groom. At first she thought Ellie was doing little different to her or Janice, but then the blonde surprised her. Carol watched as Ellie slipped her hands up her long toned legs, then under her dress. Carol heard the soft click of suspenders being undone and then Ellie was pulling her panties down her legs, stepping out of them, before tossing them in Glenn’s lap. Carol mentally kicked herself for not thinking of the same trick. Matt had said leave their dresses alone, he hadn’t mentioned anything else. Ellie was smiling, pulling Glenn out of the chair. The groom-to-be wasn’t resisting.

“Oh yeah, we have a winner,” said Matt, clapping amidst the applause and wolf whistles from the other men. Ellie was leading Glenn upstairs, Matt had said that was where the bedrooms were.

“Now my turn,” he said, as he pulled Janice to him, his hands reaching around to maul her arse. He enjoyed himself for a while before pulling her to the stairs.

Carol looked around nervously. She was going to be left alone with the other men. It was clear that neither she nor they knew what was supposed to happen. She didn’t want to have to deal with them all, not at once. She could picture herself, thrown to the floor, dress ripped off, as one man after another took her. Part of her was afraid. Part of her wanted it. But for once it was the small part and even the whore wasn’t in favour of the idea.

Her eyes met Matt’s. She could see him smiling, perhaps sensing her fear. “Sort it out boys,” he called as he disappeared up the stairs, half dragging Janice behind.

Carol turned to face the other men. She was a whore, she wanted to whore. She’d been paid for. But even the whore in Carol’s head had her limits. She knew she couldn’t show the fear that Matt had glimpsed or the men would be a pack, tearing her apart like wild dogs. She had to take control. Carol could sense the uncertainty in the air, she had a chance, if she could use it. Carefully she edged towards the stairs.

One of the men was there, leaning against the bannister, his cool appearance betrayed by the eagerness with which his eyes regarded her. He looked fit, well-muscled. Not a body-builder, but if he worked in an office then he made up for it elsewhere. Carol measured the distance between them as she kept moving. Some of the men looked edgier than others, naked lust in their eyes, she could see they were weighing up their chances if the made a move for her. There were surreptitious moves towards her.

“Hey boys, how’d this afternoon’s game go?” The men stopped, stunned, unprepared for the diversion. “49ers win?”

Two of the men looked at each other, confused. “Umm, yeah,” one of them offered.

Carol had reached the man she’d spotted by the stairs, wrapped herself around him. “Great, you’ll have to tell me all about it,” she said to the rest as she hauled her target away. She could feel the crash of disappointment flow through the other men as the tension released, hear mutters of “no way”, “oh shit” and one “yeah, sure”. Carol looked at her chosen partner, saw him looking smugly at his friends. As she escaped up the stairs she could hear the sounds of voices, “Any more beers?,” someone asked, then “You think she really wants to know about the game?” And the derisive laughter in response to that.

The man, whoever he was, stopped Carol halfway to the next floor. He kissed her, roughly, she could feel his erection through their thin clothes. Those didn’t stay in the way long as they found an empty bedroom upstairs. He was strong, Carol was flung to the bed. She didn’t mind, she welcomed it. She was a whore and he was going to use her, fill her needy pussy. She didn’t have to wait long.

The next few hours blurred into another. It wasn’t like her experiences at the brothel. There she had time between each customer, to freshen up, repair her makeup, put some clothes back on, even if it was only lingerie, before her next trick. Here a man would come for her a few minutes after the last, the time it took for one man to get dressed, head down the stairs and let the others know one of the whores was free. Or, even if she was quick, ventured downstairs after slipping on some clothes, there wouldn’t be a moment without some man’s hand touching her, and often more than one man. She had to be on her guard, for now she had some control but she knew that if she let it go too far she might lose that. Sometimes it was just her, sometimes she saw Ellie or Janice or both, working just as she was. Carol played the men, used what the whore knew, what the policewoman knew, to read them, to know just how far to take the teasing, the tempting, to keep them on edge without letting them go too far. She slapped hands away and punctured egos when she had to, hid behind cushions and led them into games, let herself be taken upstairs or grabbed a man when it seemed the only way out of a situation about to careen out of control.

Carol knew she should hate what she was doing. She couldn’t even pretend that there was any point to it other than being used. There was no opportunity to talk, no chance to try to turn them into long term customers or see if any of them had something Wainwright might value. The police captain, what would he think if he saw her now? Sweaty, tired, covered in her own fluids and those of half a dozen men and, worst of all, the dreamy contented look on her face. Carol knew how thoroughly she’d been fucked. Sex, or the promise it, hung constantly in the air and it was almost one, long fuck, hour after hour and she was just a needy whore, wanting it, wanting to be filled and used. If she wasn’t being fucked then revelling in the edge, the promise, in the air. She could hear the policewoman crying, a gentle sobbing at the back of her mind. The whore just wanted another man to take her. Even if it was Matt, back for another round. The best man had had his turn at her, as rough and uncaring as she’d expected, but Carol had found early in her new life that her body reacted to that sort of treatment as well as to anything else.

Eventually the stream of men slowed and she had some time to herself. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. The last man had mentioned something about food, so Carol decided to see if she could find any. She headed downstairs, after taking a little time to clean up, and slipping her dress back on, determined to grasp at some dignity, no matter how shattered or illusionary.

Downstairs she could see Ellie, also back in her dress. The blonde was sitting in the lap of one of the men, his hands on her breasts as she wriggled her arse into his crotch, the blood in his cheeks rising as his friends urged Ellie on. Carol watched as the blonde slapped away the hands of other men who tried to fondle her. With their attention focussed on Ellie, Carol took the change to slip by unnoticed.

Janice was in the kitchen, snacking on some of the salad, clad only in bra and panties. One man was passed out the corner, snoring loudly. That, at least, reminded Carol of the parties she’d attended when she’d been in college. The redhead seemed unconcerned.

They exchanged greetings, it all seeming unreal to Carol as she picked at the meat and salad that were laid out, just two friends bumping into each other in the kitchen at a party. But one was in her underwear, the other wasn’t wearing any, and both had been fucked for hours.

“You ok?” Carol asked.

“Sure, you?” Janice look tired, but then Carol hadn’t looked exactly fresh when she’d glanced at her reflection in the mirror before coming downstairs.

“Well enough,” Carol shrugged. She heard more shouts and laughter from the lounge room. She wondered what Ellie was doing now.

Janice caught her looking in that direction “Think she’s made him cum?”

Carol’s eyes shot wide, “What? You mean, the guy?”

“The one she was sitting on? Yeah”, Janice waved a hand in the general direction of the lounge, a gesture of dismissal. “She said she could. Just by, you know.”

Carol shook her head. Part of her thought about what she could learn from the blonde. Part of her simply didn’t want to know.

“They’re pretty hopeless,” Carol could see the scorn in her friend’s face.

“You mean these guys?” Carol asked.

“Yeah, no idea, fumbling around like little boys.”

Carol had to admit the sex had been more quantity than quality. As a whore she didn’t expect any consideration, but these men seemed to have little idea how to get the most out of sex, even for themselves, let alone their partner. They just wanted their release, as quickly and simply as they could get it.

“Yeah,” the brunette admitted, “they are. I feel sorry for their wives.”

Janice grinned, “I know. Or girlfriends.” Then her look grew more serious, “Still.”

Carol knew what went unsaid after that last word. She could tell what was running through her friend’s thoughts. The same things were in her head. “I want to be paid for sex.” “I’m happy to be a prostitute.” “I love it when men use me.” Whatever the party guests might lack as lovers didn’t matter, she and Janice were getting paid, being used. They were whores, and what that meant to them could make up for a lot of deficiencies in a man.

“Yes,” agreed Carol. “How long before they realise we’re out here?”

“The sooner the better,” her friend answered and Carol could only agree.

Neither of them had to wait long to get their wish. Ellie chose another partner, or one chose her and they headed back upstairs. Other men came for Janice and Carol, she could see the eager look in her friend’s eyes, matching her own.

Hours later, sunlight coming in through the window, Carol awoke and wondered how much sleep she had managed to get. The ache in her head told her it wasn’t enough, however long it had been. She wanted a shower, perhaps it would help. A man’s arm was draped across her. She thought his name was Bob. He’d surprised her, at least making some pretence of caring about her pleasure and not just his, not that his technique had anything to recommend it. Still, if he was going to make an effort Carol was happy to give him some pointers. Who knew, perhaps some future wife would benefit, not knowing who to thank. She had no idea where the other men had spent the night.

After a quick shower she tried not to look in the mirror as she dried herself, not wanting to see the whore who would look back. Carol wasn’t sure what would be worse, seeing how used she looked or seeing the happy satisfied glow she knew would be in her eyes. Still, she was a whore, and a whore existed to be used.

So Carol smiled at Matt when the best man appeared at her door, thinking he’d be the next one to use her. Carol didn’t like him, but that didn’t matter. A whore isn’t paid to like her johns, a whore’s just paid to do what they want. If Matt wanted to use her, that was fine by Carol. More than fine, it was what she wanted.

“Clean up and get your bikini on. We’re all down by the pool.” It was an order, not a request. Matt didn’t wait for her reply. He just turned and headed downstairs. Bob still didn’t stir. Carol checked he was still breathing before leaving the room.

Janice and Ellie were waiting for her in the kitchen, they exchanged greetings, cautiously looking at each other to make sure they were all ok. Like Carol her companions were clad only in a skimpy bikini. All of them had added their high heels as well, it was second nature.

“Come on,” the blonde said, “let’s see what this pool’s like.” Then she strode through the door. Janice looked at Carol. Carol wasn’t sure she wanted to go outside, face the men. She’d lost count, wasn’t sure how many had taken her, but it was at least close enough to all of them as made no difference. She didn’t how she could look them in the eye. A shameless, brazen whore would do it, but as much as Carol wanted to be a whore, she could feel shame still flickering within her. She thought that maybe that was a good thing, but it made her fear what lay outside. Carol told herself she wasn’t giving into fear, that wasn’t her. She wasn’t a coward. A little doubt remained, that all her talk of bravery was just a rationalisation to cover up how her desire to whore was driving everything. It didn’t matter, either choice led outside. Carol shrugged at her friend, and headed after Ellie, after a moment she could hear Janice trailing behind her.

The girls were greeted by cheers and wolf whistles. Carol could feel her stride turning into a strut, the appreciation turning her on, dampening her fears, as well as other things. She saw that some of the men were lounging around the pool, drinking despite it being no more-than mid-morning, the sun strong in the Californian sky. Carol knew it wasn’t all of them, Bob was still upstairs, and perhaps some others hadn’t woken up yet. A couple of guys were in the pool, tossing a ball back and forth. Carol thought she might as well enjoy herself. Heading to the edge of the pool she slipped off her heels then dived in. She arced into the water, graceful, Carol was a strong swimmer. She settled into her stroke, the feel of the water flowing past her improving her mood, driving some of the tiredness away.

After a few times up and down the pool Carol had to stop. There were more bodies in the pool, too many to easily squeeze past. She stood up, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. She could feel it plastered to her head. A few more of the men had joined the ball game, the rest eagerly watching. The game had changed. Ellie was at the centre of it, the men throwing the ball between them and Ellie trying to catch it. At some point during Carol’s swim Ellie had lost her bikini top. The men seemed more interested in watching the blonde’s breasts, bouncing, dripping with water as she lunged for the ball and then rose from the water, than in watching the ball. Not, Carol admitted, that it was much of a surprise. Then the game stopped and they looked at her.

“Hey, Jewel, want to join in?” one asked. She didn’t know his name. Had they had sex last night? Had he used her? Carol didn’t know. She felt the loss of something, and didn’t know what it was. She didn’t want to think about it and made herself look at the men. She was sure that they didn’t just want her to play catch. They’d expect her to do what Ellie was doing, give them the same view. Why settle for one half-naked, dripping, girl when they could have two? Carol looked around for Janice but the redhead was nowhere in sight. Probably back inside with a man by now. Carol wished she was. The thought seemed odd, realising she’d rather be fucked than strip off in public jarred. Yet she’d never done public nudity, even at Patrick’s party he’d let her keep her dress, his hands may have been everywhere, but he’d left her that much. If Ellie had been a stripper than this was probably tame for her, but for Carol it was yet another step.

In her hesitation the decision was taken out of her hands. She heard someone behind her just before she felt the bikini top being undone and ripped away. She dived after the man, trying to retrieve the top. He backed away, laughing, then threw it to one of his fellows when she got close. Carol was good in the water, probably better than most, if not all, of the men, but numbers were against her. Try as she might she couldn’t corner whoever had her top. And then she stopped, realising that she’d already lost. She had dived and bounced around the pool for she didn’t know how long, topless. They’d all been able to watch her, her breasts, her tits, bouncing and dripping with water as she rose and dived back in. It seemed a strange thing to worry about, she’d lost count of how many man had fondled and abused her breasts and this was only looking. Yet it was different, so many men at once. The thought crossed her mind that she could tell them she was a policewoman, order them to stop, give back her top. She knew that they’d simply laugh at her, wouldn’t believe her. There was no reason they should. The authority the badge should have given her worthless.

“Ok,” she said, resigned, “let’s play ball.” She could see the men were disappointed, they were obviously happier having her chasing her clothes than a ball. The man holding her top shrugged and tossed it out of the pool. At least she knew where it was.

She heard Ellie squeal. Spinning in the water Carol could see the blonde splashing across the pool after one of the men, a scrap of cloth held in his hands. Carol realised it was the remaining half of Ellie’s bikini. The blonde seemed unconcerned at her nakedness, but Carol wasn’t prepared to go that far. She thought maybe she should, a whore should do what the John wants, but she couldn’t, it was too much. She knew that if she hesitated this choice would be taken from her as well. She dove into the water, swam as quickly as she could for the nearest steps. Every eye around the pool was on her tits as she climbed out. Carol shivered, and it wasn’t just from the cold as water evaporated from her skin.

She picked one of the men who was lying on a lounge chair, snuggled next to him, pressing her body into his. Carol grabbed his cock, started massaging it through his swimmers. It was already half erect. The man responded immediately, started mauling her arse. A stray thought drifted through her head. Was this better than what would have happened if she’d stayed in the pool? Sure, she’d have been stripped bare in seconds, but as she was, her naked tits rubbing into the man’s chest, jacking him off, his hands all over her arse, how could she think this was better? A small, rational, part of her mind tried to tell her how damaged she was that she didn’t run screaming from either choice, she knew it was true but was too turned on to care how broken she was. Carol could feel fingers fumbling at the ties of her bikini bottom. She was about to have the worst of both worlds. Playfully she slapped his hands away and rolled off the lounge. As she got to her feet she pulled him with her, whispering to him “C’mon baby”, putting every bit of sensuality she could into the words. She wanted into the house. She was a whore and she wanted to fuck and if she was using that as a refuge from public nudity, well, she’d sort that out later. Or maybe she’d just forget it, as she’d forgotten so much of what she used to be, of what used to matter to her.

Carol rolled over in the bed, looked at the clock for what must have been the tenth time that morning. Finally it was close enough to the time that they were being picked up that she felt within her rights to get ready to go. Even the whore had had enough to satisfy her. Carol left her last partner, Don, well, maybe that was his name, splayed over the bed, snoring lightly. After another shower Carol changed into a clean set of clothes and went to look for the other girls. She soon found Janice, alone in another of the bedrooms, combing her hair, damp from her own shower. The other bedrooms were empty, so they decided Ellie must be downstairs.

One of the men tried to take Carol back to the bedrooms, but when she protested the time was up it was Glenn who came to her rescue. The two men eyed each other for a moment, before Carol’s assailant shrugged and headed off. Carol thanked the groom, though she still wondered what the future held for his bride-to-be, then took the chance to follow Janice, who she’d seen heading for the kitchen.

“You found Ellie?” she asked as caught up to the redhead.

“Yeah, umm,” then Janice paused. She hadn’t turned to look at Carol, she was looking out the windows, in the direction of the pool. “Oh.”

Carol looked to see what had caught Janice’s attention. It was early afternoon, the sun at its height. The scene was vivid, clear, no shadows to hide anything from the streaming Californian light. The light that seemed too pristine, too pure, for what Carol saw. Ellie was on a table, on her hands and knees. The blonde was naked. One man was thrusting into her from behind. Another stood in front of her, and she was sucking at his dick. Carol could see the wide-eyed expression on Ellie’s face, almost comical as her mouth stretched around the member it embraced, watched as the blonde’s tits swung beneath her, in time with the thrusts from behind.

Carol couldn’t take her eyes off the scene playing out before her. The men were taking Ellie in a way no single lover ever could. Carol knew such things happened, couldn’t remember when she’d found out. If she’d been asked, back then, before Copeland, she’d have said taking two men at time was something only sluts and whores did. Not something she’d ever do. But back then she’d never realised she’d become a whore. That she’d love being a whore. What Ellie was doing was something a whore would do. Everything Carol had done with a John she could pretend might be something she’d do with someone she liked, a lover. Some of the things she did were crude and degrading but it was one on one and just maybe she’d find someone for herself someday and who knew what they might want to share. Carol realised it was pointless, a trick she played on her own mind, still it mattered to her. But this wasn’t like that, didn’t offer even that fig leaf of pretence.

I could look like that. Carol was both horrified and fascinated. She was a whore, she wanted to be used. Used like Ellie was being used. The men were thrusting into the blonde, Carol could hear the grunts from where she stood. She couldn’t deny the power it exerted over her, the pull she felt. She was horrified at how it aroused her despite how degrading she thought it was. She could see Ellie’s tits swinging beneath her, bouncing in time with the thrusts of the man taking her from behind. Carol couldn’t form coherent thoughts. Me. Mine. She tried to find some way to escape. Ellie was blonde, she was brunette. Her b-cups, verging on c, weren’t as large as Ellie’s d-cups. She wouldn’t then, look quite like that. But she was making excuses, flimsy, useless, transparent.

Carol could feel herself dampening at the thought of it being her between the two men, her arousal growing. She didn’t want to believe she wanted it. Even as she felt the revulsion at the degradation she wanted to be taken, used, right now, for a man to do something, anything. Sometime, somewhere in the future, it could be her being used like Ellie was now. Carol could almost see the policewoman standing on the other side of Ellie, the disdain and disgust plain on her face as she watched the scene unfolding. The policewoman had Carol’s face. Of course she did. She was taunting Carol, demanding that she choose. “Be like me or be like her.”

Carol heard Janice moaning, dragged her eyes to her friend. Janice was standing rigid, hands clenched, gripping the table. Carol could hear her friend muttering, saying the words “I want to be a prostitute, I love being a prostitute, I love it when men use me, sexually.”

Carol wanted to look back at what was happening outside. The only thing she wanted more was to find a man, maybe two men, and be a whore for them. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. She knew that she had to put some limits on herself or she would never escape this. What was happening out there, that wasn’t her, she could never let it be her. Somewhere, she knew, she still had some pride, some self-respect. She had to escape what Copeland had done to her.

Not letting herself look back Carol grabbed Janice’s arm and dragged her friend away. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. The words echoed in her head and her pussy felt so empty. The temptation to go back, hop on another of the tables by the pool and offer herself to the men was so strong. She didn’t stop moving until they were out the front of the house, she couldn’t afford to.

She was heading down the driveway when Janice made her stop. Carol looked at her friend, worried that she might want to head back into the house. She was worrying over nothing, she realised, as Janice stood there and smiled at her.

“You’ve done it again, haven’t you?” The redhead suppressed a giggle as she finished her question, more than a hint of hysteria plain to Carol.

“Sorry, what?” Carol didn’t know what Janice was talking about. Her mind was in pieces, her friend’s fragility finding its reflection in her.

“Rescued me,” Janice smiled, “dragged me away.”

Carol realised that Janice meant the time she’d taken the redhead from Copeland’s boat. This didn’t wasn’t quite so dramatic. Or as successful. Despite their reaction Carol didn’t think it would change much.

“We’re not going to stop though, are we?” Carol could hear the resignation in her voice.

“Do you really want to?” There was uncertainty in Janice’s question. Carol wasn’t sure what it meant. Perhaps the redhead wanted Carol to stop, maybe Janice wanted to stop. Or maybe she was just afraid Carol would leave her alone.

“Not yet,” Carol admitted, “but when Karen and Laura are free, then, well.” It hung in the air between the two women. Carol didn’t want to stop whoring, even now she felt the pull, the arousal, the helpless desire to give herself to any man who would pay. But the image of Ellie, the memory of what she’d done, ate at her. She knew she had to stop soon, or she’d be lost forever.

“What about you?” Carol asked, worried about her friend.

“Yeah, I know but not yet. I can’t, not yet.” Carol saw a frown disappear from her friend’s face. “Nice to know we can say no though.”

“Yeah,” Carol agreed. Being able to refuse meant something, but she wasn’t sure what. She knew that she had to stop soon though, or she might never be able to. The smile on Ellie’s face as she joined them a few minutes later only made Carol doubt her resolve even more.

It wasn’t easy telling Mrs Bowen that two men at a time wasn’t something they’d do. The madam looked at them, evaluating, thinking. Carol knew that one of the skills successful brothel owners had was knowing just how far to push a girl. And when to ease off and try again another time. Even when the madam agreed Carol knew it might not be the end of it. Mrs Bowen would do whatever she thought would make her the most money.

But for now Carol was safe enough. She’d said no to something, and that was important.

Even so her next meeting with Wainwright came too soon for Carol’s comfort. She was dreading that he’d order her out, force her to the decision before she was ready. The rational part of her mind said he wouldn’t, not yet. She’d persuaded him to let her stay until the girls were found. She needed whatever time she could get to prepare herself to walk away. Now it was the whore crying in her mind, refusing to give up. She was burying Carol in so many images that the brunette could almost taste the memories. Carol knew it was going to be hard.

Her worst fears, at least, weren’t realised. Wainwright didn’t repeat his demand that she quit the brothel. But he did tell her when the raid would be. In a few day’s time, Thursday night. She felt her stomach lurch, it was sooner than she had expected. Part of her welcomed it. She wanted the last two girls found. Wanted the last of Copeland’s work undone. And if that thought ignored what had happened to her and Janice, then somehow that didn’t matter. Soon it would be over. Not soon enough for part of her, too soon for the rest. Despite Wainwright’s reservations she was sure about her information.

“You’d better be right Carol. If they’re not there, we’re both in trouble.” Wainwright said, shaking his head.

“They’re there. Trust me. I know.” She was sure. Sometimes your instincts tell you it’s just so. Carol had good instincts. Another part of what made her good at her job. Whatever that job happened to be, working out who was guilty or knowing what she should do to maintain her cover. Finely tuned over years of undercover assignments her instincts now worked to make her a good whore, let her know exactly what a man wanted. Her instincts told her the girls were in Conti’s place. But she didn’t like Wainwright’s plan. Conti’s brothel was too large, larger even than Mrs Bowen’s. “Biggest damn brothel in the city,” Wainwright had said when Carol broke through his obfuscations, admitting they couldn’t get any information on where in it the girls might be held. Carol didn’t think barrelling into the place was going to work, whatever the captain said.

“And don’t you go getting any funny ideas. I want you well away from the place.” His warning didn’t make her feel any better.

Carol had no intention of being there on the night of the raid. She knew that might be the last straw as far as the Wainwright was concerned. She tried to ignore the queasy unease she felt whenever she pictured what came after the rescue of the girls. She had a date now, a time. The future was rushing at her.

So when Mrs Bowen called her into her office again, Carol knew what night to avoid, what night her visit to Conti’s had to be before.

“I told Joe Wednesday, made some excuse so I didn’t have to go myself. To be honest I’m curious. I doubt you’ll manage anything with those girls, but you might persuade Conti to help us get a better the deal from Patrick. I want to know how you do.”

Carol smiled, relieved. Wednesday was cutting it fine. It was only one day before the raid, so she’d have to be quick to get any information she found to Wainwright. But she could do it.

(To be continued)