Controlling the Detectives (The Magic Remote Book 3)

by Nadia Nightside

  Held in this chicken-wing position, Tracy could only squirm, tits shaking in her flimsy shirt. Carmen's smile so gleeful, almost orgasmic. Heather could see pussy juice sliding down her stockings.

  Outside, a hundred feet away, Heather could hear the muffled version of Tracy's screaming and yelling as it traveled through the glass and brush. And yet, she did nothing.

  Well, she did nothing to help Tracy. Her fingers had already started to work on her crotch through the tight fabric of her pants. It felt automatic—instinctive, really—to do this.

  As Heather's hot stroking continued, she just watched Monica happily sucking her man's cock. She watched Tracy struggling to get away, face turning red from the effort. And she watched the man in question clearly becoming excited by all of it. His hips bucked harder into Monica's mouth. The thick, high heels of Monica slid through the carpet as the hot young babe's legs became overwhelmed with pleasure.

  The two of them, Tracy and the man, seemed to be conversing. Tracy's responses seemed somewhat hysterical.

  Heather's radio was right there. She could call Sandra. She should tell her partner what was happening, that she could see Tracy screaming and crying for help. But she didn't. Instead, her hands went down to her jeans, unbuckling them. It was so easy to slide her fingers into her panties.

  The man picked up his remote and aimed it. Tracy's arms went limp. Heather watched Carmen's fingers slide up between Tracy's fingers. A bright, purple light seemed to be present in Tracy's eyes. It faded more and more as time went on.

  The man would say something, and Tracy would respond, nodding. As if she was in class, as if she was receiving some grand lecture. Shiny wetness could be seen running down Tracy's legs, running down from her skirt. Carmen slipped some of it up and licked it, nodding at her man and emoting enthusiastically.

  “Key?” Sandra asked again, the radio crackling. “Heather? Is everything all right?”

  Tracy started to smile at the man. Her nods became more enthused.

  The man pointed at the floor in front of himself, and Tracy hesitated.

  Inside of Heather's panties, her fingers were working happily.

  God, how had that happened? She didn't care. It felt so good.

  She already knew what was going to happen before it did. She knew the next step, and all she wanted was to watch it. To watch the girl's mind slip away from her.

  Oh god, what was wrong with her?

  The purple light filled the small room again. The man said something, and Tracy began to nod, and nod again. Carmen moved away from Tracy, who now stood in a happy daze.

  Carmen crawled toward the man and knelt in front of him beside her stepmother, sucking him gleefully. The two traded kisses and licks for a time, sometimes rubbing their tongues and mouths up and down his shaft together, their lips forming a perfect vacuum along his thick meat.

  The purple light seemed to exit from Tracy's eyes. The man said something and Tracy nodded happily.

  Ripping off her shirt, Tracy fell to her knees. Her entire demeanor bespoke of a female consumed with lust, with need, with the desire to serve. She was staring at the man with adoration in her eyes, with unrestrained envy at Monica's place on his lap.

  Only moments ago, Tracy had been filled with desperation and fear.

  Heather's fingers were deep in her cunt, now.

  Why wasn't she stopping this?

  She had her radio, right there. She could call Sandra and have her bust down the door within seconds. With her experience, she knew exactly what to say to Sandra that would have a whole SWAT team come within minutes, busting down the doors and not even putting themselves at risk for whatever the device was that the man held.

  But Heather did not call anyone, nor did she formulate plans of going in herself to somehow save those girls.

  Clearly, they wanted to be there now. Whether they had started that way or not, an enormous amount of happiness had been bestowed upon them.

  Forced upon them, she supposed would be a better word. Constrained around them. Tied to them, like hot, controlling ropes.

  The thought left her pussy sopping wet as she watched. So much power, delivered to those girls from that man.

  Tracy masturbated herself furiously in front of the young man. Heather could see hot phrases of worship leave her mouth, the hot gymnast's eyes heavily lidded with lust.

  The purple light filled the living room one more time. The man said something, and, purple-eyed, Tracy crawled forward erotically and slid up between the man's legs. Monica and Carmen, smiling, moved over to let her in. Their own eyes all purpled over. All the girls being brought further until control with each new wave of the purple light, even if it was only really intended for Tracy.

  The hot, young lovely breasts of all three happy women filled his lap. His hands roaming through their thick mass of hair, their young, pert breasts that were presented to him so eagerly.

  Monica and Carmen were saying something over and over as he fucked Tracy's face.

  Reading lips had never been a strength of Heather's, but she had learned some from years of watching others. Fuck her, Master. That was what they were all chanting.

  Fuck her, Master. Fuck her, Master.

  He was their Master.

  It did not seem as though he had any intention of making them wait for the seed they all so desperately wanted. His load shot out in fountains, first spraying Tracy, then Monica, and then Carmen, and then Tracy again. Each of them dripping wet with his cum, running down their faces in hot streams.

  Tracy seemed to get the most attention—the lucky one who was allowed to swallow the most cum straight from the source. Monica licked the hot spray off of the new girl's flawless tanned skin, even as Tracy licked Carmen.

  The whole scene was one of the most jaw-dropping situations Heather had ever seen.

  Heather could not do anything to stop it. She could not do anything at all except touch herself and wonder why oh why couldn't she not do anything except be hornier and hornier about what she saw.

  Feeling completely helpless to do anything else, she came, her orgasm rushing over her body. She writhed on the ground in the lawn where anyone could see her, not caring. It was so fucking hot.

  Her radio crackled again. “Heather? Heather? That's it, I'm calling for back-up.”

  “N-no!” Heather grabbed the radio, shouting into it. “Belay th-that. I'm fine. Don't worry. Everything is totally fine. I'm coming out now.”

  She got up and pulled her pants up as clandestinely as she could, and then hopped back over the fence.

  Sandra eyed her critically as she made her way back to the car. Heather was sweaty, every part of her as dirty as she felt, getting off to the enslavement of that girl.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  Heather took a breath. This would take some explaining.

  * * * * *

  Late Wednesday afternoon, Heather waited in her office, expecting Mr. Russell to arrive for the meeting they had scheduled.

  Her office was of a decent size, on the third floor of the police station. It was filled with multiple filing cabinets, the floor sporting soft green carpet that matched the drapes over the wide, open windows. Her desk was cluttered with various papers and photos—all the evidence she had gathered so far about Russell's unusual case.

  The meeting was at three o'clock. It was now three thirty, and to take her mind off what was keeping him, she reviewed the evidence before her as she waited for him to arrive.

  The gorgeous women lived in the sorority house. More than twenty of them. When they walked out, they dressed conservatively—incredibly so. But when they were inside, they de-clothed to put on hot, skimpy lingerie.

  After entering the door of the house, that one girl, Tracy, had gone from angry—irate, even—to a smiling cocksucker in less than ten minutes. How did that happen?

  It all had to do, obviously, with whatever that little remote was that the young man had. She had, after searching through her lis
t of possible suspects, deduced that he was Jared Plinkton, the neighbor who Russell had said was behind the dissolving marriage.

  Clearly, whatever effect the remote that Jared had somehow had affected Heather as well. That was why she had been unable to stop herself from fingering her hot cunt until she came right there in the yard, and why it had been a struggle ever since to not give herself a sequel to that hot showing.

  Yes, that was it. The remote was affecting her. It had nothing to do with anything at all that she wanted. It was all the remote, and that was why she had to talk to Russell and discuss a plan of action.

  She was looking forward to Russell coming in for more reasons than just discussing plans. She hoped, offhand, that she could seduce him into fucking her. This is why she had on the outfit she did as she sat nimbly on the front of her desk, her long legs crossed.

  She wore her tiny pinstripe suit, the one she put on when she was trying for promotions or when she went undercover to clubs and didn't want any guff from bouncers. The thin material elevated the hot, lovely globes of her tits, and the brief skirt only just covered the solid outline of her athletic rear. Smoky stockings adorned her lovely legs, setting off their terrific shape.

  It was just businesslike enough to wear to work, and just sexy enough to get her all kinds of looks from anybody she wanted. Heather felt good wearing it. Wearing this outfit, she would think, “Screw it, I'm a hero cop. I do what I want.”

  Oftentimes, husbands who felt wronged in marriages wanted to do a little revenge-fucking of their own, and Heather was horribly turned on ever since watching that house.

  She hadn't had sex in ages. And as far as being fucked—properly fucked and filled—it had been much longer. Years, maybe.

  It did not bother her very much that Russell was only single because of some odd, science-fiction mind control ray gun. She could let him know all of that after she had a good, honest fucking.

  Sandra, wearing black jeans, a thin white blouse, and a cute little metallic blue vest, busted into Heather's office, smiling eagerly. Heather felt a stab of disappointment that she was not Russell.

  “I've just had five separate sources confirm that . . . um, wow,” said Sandra, openly staring down Heather's cleavage.

  The detective knew, somewhat vainly, that it must have been driving Sandra wild to see her dressed up like she was, although that of course wasn't why she had the little outfit on.

  Heather smiled. “Your sources confirmed 'wow'?”

  Sandra shook her lovely head. “No . . . I . . . it's just your . . . anyway.” She took a breath. “I've got sources on campus that invites have been getting sent around to a super exclusive party tonight. There's some kind of swimsuit competition, and so far as I know, only girls are invited. Only hot, rich girls. They get five hundred dollars just for showing up. First prize is ten thousand dollars. Second prize is a trip to Hawaii.”

  “The sorority is funding that?”

  “Well, of course not. My bet is it's just a ruse to get the women in that this Jared kid wants. I'm telling you, he's going to be drugging and doping each and every one of them, just like how what he did to that girl you saw.” She shrugged. “Personally, I say screw 'em.”

  “Sandra!”

  “What? Those girls are born with a silver spoon in their mouths. Maybe getting a little cock forced down there will open up their Daddy's minds to giving law enforcement more of an edge.”

  “Come on. You don't believe that.”

  Sandra sighed. “No, I guess not. I just get frustrated with this, sometimes.” Her eyes clung to Heather's bosom. “Frustrated with lots of things.”

  Heather had not told Sandra her findings of the mind control device. It presented, really, two main problems if she did. The first of these was that Heather was fairly certain that, despite Sandra's obvious affection for her, the younger detective wasn't going to believe in mind control rays.

  The second and probably more obvious reason was that Heather hadn't radioed Sandra when she saw the device in action. How could she justify such a lack of action?

  Heather was having trouble justifying it to herself.

  Perhaps she stayed quiet because of the surrealness of it all—she imagined that someone was going to step out at any moment, someone with a movie camera perhaps, and say, “Nope, do it again. That take didn't look right.”

  But the real answer, the one that Heather shuddered to think about, was that she was terrified of confronting such a force because she couldn't guarantee how she would respond to such overwhelming control. Would she just want to crawl and kneel and suck and—no!

  She shouldn't even think about it.

  So instead, she had told Sandra only that she saw some various sex acts happening, which was true, and she suspected something illegal was the cause. Which, she supposed, was also true.

  “We need to be there,” Sandra said. “We could nail this case tonight.”

  “It could be,” said Heather. “We'll observe. Look, I've got a map of the house over here . . .”

  She slid off the desk and bent over at the map. She could not help, just a little, to bend over more than she needed. She knew Sandra was watching the hot flexing motions her ass made. It was fun to tease the poor girl.

  “I'll post myself here,” Heather said, pointing at where she had been earlier in the day. “You should go here.”

  She pointed at the opposite end of the house, far outside of the view of the living room. Heather's suspicion was that whatever Jared was doing, it would be in the same spot. He thought he was invincible—why wouldn't he display himself?

  “Wait,” said Sandra. “I'll be out of view of everything.”

  “You'll have this whole half of the house,” said Heather, pointing again. “If they're over there, we need eyes right away.”

  Sandra put her hands on her hips, nodding. “You're right. But, I wonder—”

  There was a timid knock at the door.

  Mr. Russell walked in. In the day and a half since she had seen him last, he did not seem to have shaved or showered. His blond hair was in a tangle around his handsome face. His shirt was untucked—it looked to be the very same shirt, even, from their prior meeting. One shoe was missing.

  “Hello, Mr. Russell,” Heather said.

  She moved back to the position in front of her desk, sliding one leg over the other and thrusting her delectable chest out. Sandra stared at her openly. Heather didn't mind.

  Just because he was a little disheveled did not mean she wanted to have a nice fuck any less. He still had a dick, after all, and she would bet that there was plenty of it.

  But, rather than eye her appreciatively, or even come closer, he stayed near the door. As if scared to come any nearer to Heather's lovely curves.

  “I . . . ah . . . hmm. Yes. I have come to . . . ah . . . rescind our arrangment, yeah? I want you to stop. No more looking at Monica. Or Carmen. None of them, please. Work on other cases, okay? Yes. I'll tell the chief if you don't.”

  Sandra was taken aback. “Quit? But, what about your wife? Your daughter? There has been some very interesting evidence accumulating in this case, and, if you'll come over here and look . . .”

  The young detective stepped toward Russell, who withdrew as if he saw a snake. He would look neither of the women in the eye.

  “No, no.” He shook his head. His hand shaking on the knob of the door. “She's much better off without a schmo like me. She deserves someone better. Someone who really can treat her right. Stop looking at them, I said. I've told the chief and now I'm telling you. It was all a big misunderstanding. I have no trouble at all. Nothing is wrong. Everything about Monica is so very right. So good. Don't worry.”

  Heather realized that something strange was happening here. At first, she had imagined that he had been drinking, but this seemed . . . more severe. Abandoning her seduction tract for a moment, she stepped forward toward Russell, concern on her face.

  “Mr. Russell, perhaps we should talk about this?
Talk about your wife?”

  “Oh god, I love talking about her.”

  Bliss slid over his face. His hand slid off the doorknob and down to his zipper, apparently unable to restrain himself any longer.

  “God,” he said, pulling out his cock. “I really hope she's happy. It makes me so happy knowing she's happy. I hope that guy she's with is really fucking the hell out of her. I mean, god! He's so damn good to her! I really need to make more money, so I can give it all to the two of them. She sings when he makes her cums, I saw. It's so wonderful.”

  Heather didn't know what to do. He did, as she thought he would, have a substantial cock. He bent over, stroking it furiously, continuing to talk about his beautiful wife.

  “What the hell?” demanded Sandra. “You better knock that off.”

  Russell seemed not to notice her protests.

  “He fucks her so good,” he moaned. “He just ruined her for anyone else! I don't deserve her, not after him. Don't deserve her. I don't deserve herrr...”

  Even with the relatively low amount of sex she had been having as of late, Heather knew an orgasm approaching when she saw one. She maneuvered past the jerking-off man and opened the door. Grunting and moaning, he began to shudder orgasmically.

  Sandra grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him out of the room. “Get out!” she yelled at him.

  They both shut him out of the office, even as he kept spasming and layering the carpet with his cum. She could hear his heavy breathing on the other side of the door.

  Clearly, something horrible had happened to this man. Something life-changing and monumental to reduce him from the proud, stern hunk that he was down to a sniveling, helpless, slug of a man.

  Someone had completely altered everything this man believed. Something, or rather someone, had wiped out everything that made him who he was, and replaced his personality with something more agreeable to their desires.

  She realized, suddenly, that her hot, still-unfucked cunt was completely soaking.