Hypno Harem 2: Harem-Scarem!

by Morgan Wolfe

  “Influence. Transcranial Influence.”

  “Whatever. If it is real,” said Fred, putting a pipe in his mouth. “I don’t want to be dancing to Kim Jong-un’s tune.”

  “Fred, you know smoking’s not allowed,” warned Larry.

  “Not going to light it,” said Fred. “Helps me think.” Like the rest of his colleagues in Covert Operations, Fred said they did the heavy lifting, but never without another department telling them what to lift.

  “So, what do you think?” said Ed.

  “I think this is a wet job.”

  “You mean erase the North Koreans?”

  “Yes and maybe anyone else who Knows Too Much.”

  “This agency doesn’t do wet jobs anymore,” said Larry.

  “No, we don’t,” agreed Fred. “Also we don’t torture.”

  “No indeed, that’s what foreign agencies are for,” said Ted.

  “This operation is being conducted on home soil,” said Larry. “We need finesse.”

  “We need the tea cup chappies.”

  “MI-5? They’ve got their own restrictions these days.”

  “They also have her.”

  “Her? You mean…”

  “Yeah, her.”

  “Still? After that mess in Belorussia?”

  “She’s an independent contractor now but still available.”

  “Expensive?”

  “Very, but if you want wet-finesse, so to speak, if you want kid gloves and cold-blooded, who you gonna call?”

  “So what do we do?” said Larry. “Someone make a motion.”

  “I move we place a call to MI-5,” said Ed. “Have them call her.”

  “Seconded,” said Ted. “But she reports to us.”

  “Show of hands,” said Larry. “All in favor?”

  Four hands went up. “Motion passes,” said Larry. “Let the record show vote was unanimous. Meeting adjourned.”

  There was a scraping of chairs. “I’m going to lunch,” said Ed. “Anyone?”

  “I’ll join you,” said Ted.

  “Me three,” said Fred. “Larry?”

  “Not today,” Larry said, gathering his papers. “I’m going upstairs to the Secure Room. Have to place a Transatlantic call.”

  License to Chill

  Across the Atlantic, on the Mediterranean coast, it was past midnight in Le Grand Casino de Monte Carlo, which is to say that the betting action had finally become serious. There were five players at the Baccarat table, including an aging Greek shipping magnate, an international playboy, a noted Berlin fashion designer and a dissolute Hollywood star who had survived three face-lifts and a string of flops. They were all frequent players at the casino.

  The fifth was an infrequent player, a tall striking woman in a tuxedo with platinum hair cut in the fashion called Faux Hawk. She was beautiful in a severe way, her face full of planes and angles rather than soft rounded features. Standing behind her and squeezing her shoulder was a redheaded female of head-turning but more conventional looks. When her escort opened a small tin of cheroots and put one in her mouth, the redhead bent to light it.

  The winners of the last round collected their chips as the dealer called out. “Placez vos paris se il vous plaît. Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. Placer vos paris.”

  The actor boozily raised his glass of unblended scotch in salute to the player across the table. “Lady Luck seems to be with you tonight, Ms.…”

  A ringtone sounded. The player with the platinum hair pulled a phone from the pocket of her tux and glanced at the screen. She favored the aging star with a smile from her lush, cruel lips.

  “Blond,” she said, exhaling a puff of cheroot smoke, voice cool and husky. “Jana Blond.”

  “Your Future Ends Here”

  Emma sat in the back of the subway car. It was crowded when she got on but now there was only the young man sitting next to her and a couple of older passengers up front. She’d ditched the car and bought clothes at a thrift shop: drab, shapeless pants, top, jacket, purse, scarf. She looked one step up from homeless but at least she wasn’t in hospital whites anymore.

  She stared ahead vacantly. A poster on the wall showed a happy young woman clutching some kind of diploma. The headline read, “Your Future Starts Here!”

  What future? She’d tried using Otto’s credit cards but they’d already been shut down. They must have found him not long after she got away. That was close. She had about sixty in cash, no ID. The irony was she had money in the bank but couldn’t get close enough to withdraw it. There must be all sorts of alerts out for her. She’d be spotted the moment she entered the lobby and she’d be back at Harrowdale the same day. She could see Otto’s evil grin, “Welcome back, Emma.”

  Again, she had to admire Woody’s dark ingenuity. He’d hacked her brain, programmed her to jabber about how he was blackmailing her into awarding him his supposedly hard-earned PhD in neurology, how he was controlling her mind, forcing her to give him blow jobs.

  And there was the runt’s genius. It was all true! He had blackmailed her. He was controlling her mind. And the more she ranted about it (his work too), the crazier she sounded. Of course the University had put her on medical leave. Of course her (mind controlled) daughter had committed her to a mental hospital, though an ordinary psych facility, not Harrowdale.

  And then, Woody Goodman’s inspiration, he’d mind-hacked her to escape the hospital, tie him up in his apartment and douse him with gasoline, cackling “burn, baby, burn” as she searched for a match. And then in the nick of time, Candi had come through the door to stop her and free him.

  She gave the little shit credit for nerve. It had been a risky play but it worked. Woody got his doctorate and her daughter and Emma got convicted of attempted murder, locked up for the rest of her life in the loony bin. Oh, the brilliance, Woody! Bravo, bravo!

  “Bravo,” she muttered under her breath. The young man beside her looked up from his magazine. She’d sized him up already: expensive clothes, no style, had to be a tech geek homebound from a late night of programming. She stared straight ahead. Nothing unusual here, buster. The subway’s full of people talking to themselves. Go back to Wired or whatever you’re reading. After a moment he looked away.

  So now what? She couldn’t ride the subway all night. She couldn’t even get a menial job, not without an ID. She was trapped here in Philadelphia, half a continent away from Woody and her daughter. No one to turn to who didn’t think she was crazy. No way to—

  A pull at her sleeve. Him again, he was holding out a slip of paper. What did he want? Against instinct, she made eye contact. He wasn’t bad looking actually, somewhere in his early thirties, clean-shaven, nice jaw. Something imploring in the eyes.

  Against instinct again, she took the slip of paper. What did she have to lose? She gave it a glance.

  $50 4 hand job

  Emma resisted the temptation to toss it in his face, stand up and walk… walk where? To another subway car? She barely had fifty dollars in her $7.50 purse. She was no longer Dr. Emma Starke, Director of the Neurology Department at Templeton University. She was just a drab middle-aged woman in used clothes riding the subway to nowhere. The fact was she could use fifty bucks.

  Emma summoned up nerve from somewhere deep inside. She turned and looked him in the face. She made herself smile. She heard her voice say, “Make it a hundred.” She saw the look of relief and gratitude that flickered across his face. He pulled out his wallet, gave her three twenties. “The rest… uh, after,” he mumbled.

  She thrust the bills in her purse, resisted another temptation to stand up and walk off. The young man put away his magazine, but not before she caught a glance at what he’d been reading, if “reading” was the right word. This wasn’t Wired. It was Hustler or something like it and what he’d been looking at was a photo spread of a leather-clad dominatrix. His pants bulged tellingly.

  In Emma’s brain gears meshed and tumblers fell into place. She looked at his face. She didn’t se
e aggressive male lust. She saw soft, almost feminine compliance. He was waiting for her to tell him what to do.

  “Unzip,” she said curtly, amazing herself at how easily the words sprang to her lips, how effortlessly her larynx vibrated to just the right tone of seductive command.

  Quickly, the young man pulled down his zipper. He looked at her again, as if uncertain how to proceed. He’s waiting for permission, she realized. “Take it out,” she snapped.

  He complied, not that his cock needed much help, the crown already eagerly poking through the opening in his pants. It was circumcised, a respectable size. Somehow she knew just what to say. “Pathetic.”

  He ducked his head in embarrassment. His cheeks flushed. He cupped his hands over his cock which, contrary to the rest of him, stiffened and pulsed with excitement.

  “Absolutely pathetic,” said Emma, stretching out the words, curling her lips in contempt. The cock grew.

  “Look at me!” she commanded. He looked up, a little boy afraid of punishment.

  “Shameful,” she said, voice full of reproach. She had no idea what he should be ashamed of, but she had a hunch he was.

  Right again. His cock was huge now, a nine-incher at least. The tip glistened, precum oozing from his slit. He was excited. God knows how often he’d ridden this subway, fantasizing that some busty dominant female would appear out of nowhere to publically humiliate him.

  She repressed a laugh. Imagine anyone taking her for a…

  For a dominatrix… The germ of an idea took seed in Emma’s mind. What if… What if…

  “Please,” the young man groaned softly.

  She turned to him. Oops! For a moment he’d slipped her mind. Sorry. The word died on her lips. Who was she to apologize to this worm?

  “Shut up,” she snapped. He suppressed another groan. The cock wiggled like a thing alive. His hands hovered close to it, yearning to touch, to stroke. Hadn’t she been paid to do that? So far it hadn’t been necessary. He was doing fine on his own, hands free as it were.

  And that gave her another idea. “Take your hands away,” she ordered. He obeyed, though he clearly didn’t know what to do with them. They fluttered first one place, then another. Meanwhile his cock throbbed.

  Emma reached up and unknotted the scarf around her neck. “Put them behind your back,” she said.

  The young man’s eyes widened. This was something not part of his fantasy! This was taking the game to a whole new level! She could see trepidation and excitement battling in his face.

  But his hands stayed where they were. Emma made her own face stern. “Did… you… hear… me?” she intoned slowly, as if stretched to the limits of human patience.

  “Yes…” he said meekly.

  “Then do it!”

  He slipped his hands behind his back.

  “Turn around,” she said. “Back to me.”

  He hesitated. “What are you…”

  “Don’t make me say it twice,” she said, voice full of quiet menace. Shit! I sound scary!

  He turned his back to her. She crossed his wrists, noting the expensive watch on the left one, and wrapped the scarf twice around them. She knotted it, pulled tight.

  “Ouch,” he muttered.

  “Shut up or I’ll gag you.” Jesus! Where did that come from? She did a little more work with the scarf, another knot. There, he wasn’t getting out of that for a few minutes. She took off the wristwatch.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” He said this quietly, afraid of drawing attention.

  She grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back against the hard plastic seat. His cock was drooping. The game had taken a turn he didn’t like.

  She reached out her right hand, grabbed his cock and squeezed hard. That did it! He was stiff again, hard as a baseball bat. “God,” he murmured, eyes swimming in ecstasy and confusion.

  She leaned close, whispered in his ear. “You want to know what I’m doing? I’m robbing you is what I’m doing! Taking what I want. I had my eye on you back at the station, wanted you from the beginning. You’re such a sweet little boy, I’d love to strip you naked, use you over and over.”

  His eyes closed. He practically swooned. She stroked his cock, careful not to nudge him over the edge. The minute he spurted, he’d be back in the real world. Couldn’t have that.

  She pocketed the watch. How much would that fetch at a pawn shop? Fifty dollars, a hundred, more?

  The train was starting to slow, station coming up. For the first time, she glanced toward the front of the car. There were only two other passengers, a skinny old man and a teenage black girl. They stared at her wide-eyed. She grinned at them. No need to get alarmed. Just a game. They looked away, embarrassed and, despite her grin, a little afraid.

  Slowing down. Did she have time to get his wallet? Probably, but Emma decided not to push it. He might resist. He’d lose but she wanted to avoid a tussle. It was unlikely but if he lodged a complaint with subway security, they’d take assault more seriously than simple theft. She had sixty cash plus at least fifty in pawnable goods. That was good enough. She was already planning ahead.

  The car came to a half. His eyes opened. She shook his cock and—Whoops!—there she blows! She quickly wiped her hand on his coat, leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Loved it, sweet boy. Au revoir!” He actually smiled at her. Of course, he probably thought she was going to untie him.

  She ducked out the subway door. As it closed, she heard him yell, “Hey!” Too late, sweetie. I see some nice black teenagers getting on. Get them to untie you.

  The middle-aged executive stopped at his usual newsstand just outside the Market Street station. He bought a copy of Forbes and another of Time and, well, Stiletto. Looks, um, interesting. He tucked the magazines under his arm and headed downstairs to the subway.

  The woman idly flipping through an issue of Vogue, the woman in the drab outfit, the one with the silver streak in her dark hair, put her magazine back in the rack and trailed after him. A small smile played on her lips. Around her neck was a bright scarf bought at a dollar store.

  And in her purse was something purchased at a novelty shop, a pair of shiny new handcuffs.

  Li’l Berta

  Dr. Roberta Crofts-Bailey pretended to jot in her notebook as her patient, a trophy wife five years into her marriage, bored and desperate for attention from her husband outside the bedroom, droned on. “I am an interesting person,” she said in an aggrieved tone. “People don't take me seriously because I’m unlucky enough to be beautiful, but I have a mind. I have a mind!”

  “You certainly do,” murmured Roberta, checking the time on the wall clock. She’d positioned the clock so it would be in her line of sight whenever she made eye contact with patients. The woman was about to launch into her anxieties over an upcoming dinner party, complicated by the fact that she depended on her best friend Julia for scheduling advice, invitation advice and menu advice but at her last party had made the mistake of seating Julia next to Walter and it was her observation that the bitch played up to him shamelessly.

  “Well,” chirped Roberta. “I’m just dying to hear this but unfortunately our time’s up. I so look forward to next week!”

  She collected her check and ushered the woman outside. She shut the door and leaned against it with a sigh. What a drama queen! Self, self, self. That’s all her patients talked about.

  Roberta locked the door. They’re all so immature.

  She shucked her Sloane mock riding jacket ($349) and tossed it on the floor.

  Grow up, people!

  She unbuttoned her Nicola navy-blue crepe blouse ($165) and dropped it on top of the jacket.

  You’re adults. So be adults!

  She shed her pair of Audrey Brooke maroon platform pumps ($359) and wriggled out of her Slater lake-blue silk pants ($279).

  Act your age!

  She pulled off her Hanes Silk Reflections pantyhose ($29) and her Bali Comfort Bra ($68).

  Get a life!

&nbs
p; Naked now except for the authentic Navajo turquoise squash blossom necklace ($1,099) around her neck, which she unfastened and dumped on top of her clothes, Roberta reveled in her wild freedom, her utter joy in shedding society’s choking constrictions. Now she could be herself, no one else. No pretending! She danced bare-footed around the office, trilling a happy tune, until she reached her desk. Picking up her iPhone, she texted a message to Daddy.

  Li’l Berta ready in ten

  She opened the small closet next to her office bathroom. Inside was her Minnie Mouse dress, freshly cleaned and ironed. Below it were bright red sandals. On a shelf above it was a ping-pong paddle. Beside the paddle was a bright red bow. Beside the bow was a neat pile of underwear.

  She took down a pair of Hello Kitty panties and slipped them on.

  Oooooo! Li’l Berta already wet!

  Welcome to 4Play!

  The club’s four-piece band struck up Stars and Stripes Forever as the latest performer left the stage to scattered applause and a few lusty yells of appreciation. It was late afternoon at 4Play, Houston’s premier strip club, and while the audience was thin, it was game.

  The MC, a weary stand-up comic, trotted onstage. “A big hand, please, for Dinah Might and her bang-up performance – and I do mean bang!” He stomped out the smoldering fuse of an unexploded firecracker, the remnants of Dinah’s noisy routine.

  Jong, Mung and Sook sat at a table in the back. Going to the strip club was Sung’s idea. Their primary mission was to bring back Popper’s book, but they’d also been instructed to observe American customs and culture so Hometown U.S.A. could be brought up to date.

  And, oh boy, did it need updating! Having belatedly discovered their duds were out of date by half a century, the three had purchased new clothes. Jong and Mung were wearing polo shirts, khaki pants and loafers. Sung wore sandals, a pleated maroon skirt and a green sleeveless top with matching jacket.