Pink Zone Rising

by T. MaskedWriter

Copyright© 2018 by T. MaskedWriter

Mind Control Sex Story: Tonight on LiveFire: Goodallazine, one year after the first attack, how the world has changed.

Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   Mult   Consensual   Drunk/Drugged   Heterosexual   Horror   MaleDom   Harem   Anal Sex   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Pregnancy   Voyeurism   Public Sex   .

“Girls of fifteen (Sexually Knowing!)
The ushers are sniffing (Eau de Cologne-ing!)
The seats are seductive (Celibate scene!)
Pretty girls digging (Prettier women!)”
-The Who, “5:15

This ended up graduating from Note to Foreword. I got back into writing two years ago, starting with a little experiment in dialogue with no description about two best friends realizing that their soulmate had been staring them in the face their whole lives, thanks to their mind control powers.

In that time, I have deviated from what I assure you that I never would have dreamt of calling if someone else hadn’t first, “The Equalsverse,” exactly once. The one story that I’ve gotten plenty of feedback on, the only story that gets requests for a sequel, has been “Pink Zone Warning.” I’d thought that once we knew Larry and Jill would fuck happily ever after, the story was over. I truly hate the villain that I have created. Maybe that’s why I find it so compelling.

I haven’t kept count of how many people have told me that they’d like to see more of this world, and where it was heading. Not a boast-worthy number; say more than three, less than eight. Enough for me to consider that they might know something that I don’t. So, I decided to run with it. Welcome to the second of what I hope might spawn an anthology: Tales From The Pink Zone. Maybe I AM on to something here, who knows? This could end up something like “Master PC;” a world that others might like to write and play in. I’ll come up with some guidelines if anyone’s interested.

There’s no San Finzione in this world. I intend these to be short stories, unconnected except by the world. Larry & Jill got married, he DOES treat her like his wife and friend, not his slave, they’re happy. Local news did a human-interest story on them, and Jill’s written a book about it; their story’s told. On to the next Tale!

And as always, if Dr. Goodall and/or any of her family should read these stories, please accept my sincere apologies. Her name was chosen BECAUSE of her lifelong devotion to science and the protection of endangered species, and my admiration thereof. And because I couldn’t think of a less-deserving person whose name could be associated with something that started out with such noble intent and ended up being as horrible as Goodallazine. Conversely, if there IS some real MRA group calling themselves the Sons of Adam, fuck you. It struck me as a good enough name for one that someone might have thought of it already. If so, don’t care.

Pink Zone Rising

Images played on the screen. Stock footage of scientists working with chemicals and animals. Ominous music played as the announcer’s voice came in.

“Goodallazine,” he said. “A chemical created with only the best of intentions. But now...” The image switched to the scales of justice, a stack of papers falling on one side, knocking them out of balance. A graphic of the word “DIVORCE,” in lettering to make it look like a red rubber-stamp slammed across the screen diagonally with a loud thud. “It’s cost you your marriage!”

The image changed to a serene duck pond with a park bench in front of it. A man in an expensive suit leaned against the back of the bench, looking into the camera. A peaceful, friendly smile was on his face; as if he’d been for a nice stroll around the park and hadn’t noticed his old pal, the camera, sitting there and decided to stop by. Everything about him exuded serene confidence, and the music changed to stock tranquil commercial music.

“Our society is being changed dramatically,” he said calmly to his old friend. “New laws on marriage and divorce are being written practically every day. It can be a scary, confusing time, and that’s why the law offices of Jason Litwack are here for you.”

A caption identified the man as “Jason Litwack, Attorney at Law” as he took a seat on the bench to continue his brief chat with the camera.

“My team and I are charting new areas of Divorce Law every day. Unusual new terms are coming into our profession all the time; such as ‘Involuntary Adultery,’ ‘Non-Consensual Abandonment,’ ‘Medically-Compelled Public Indecency,’ and so many others. We’re here to help you through this devastating period.” He bowed his head and shook it on the word “devastating.” Jason stood up and looked back into the camera.

“Goodallazine has cost you your happy home. It shouldn’t have to cost you everything.”

More tranquil stock music played as the phone numbers and addresses of the various law offices of Jason Litwack appeared on the screen.

The image changed, and the end of the commercial was seen playing on a screen in a television studio set up for a panel discussion. Carlton Sage, the veteran newsman who hosted the show and sat at the head of the table, turned to face the studio camera.

“That was the latest commercial from one of our guests, Jason Litwack, Attorney at law. Good evening, I’m Carlton Sage, and you’re watching LiveFire, live from our Washington D.C. studio.” He changed tone from a welcoming one to a stern one. “Goodallazine: often called the ‘Pink Plague.’ One year ago, today, San Francisco; the first attack by members of the so-called ‘Sons of Adam’ terrorist organization and their hood-wearing, voice-disguised leader, Adam One.”

A picture of the now familiar hooded figure filled the screen. A figure seen many times in the media, and many more in the nightmares of free-thinking women the world over, always with some famous former lesbian servicing him in his videos, now devoted to him and his cock by the pheromone’s effects.

“And in that year,” he continued. “As the global manhunt for Adam One has continued, seventeen more cities around the globe; and the authorities are still unable to agree on a discernible pattern, have fallen prey to them. Tonight, we take a look back on how the world has changed in that time. We’ll open up phone lines at our second commercial break. Let’s introduce our panel.”

He turned to face the guests. The camera cut to each one as he introduced them, and they all nodded sagely as their names were given.

“Jason Litwack, Attorney at Law; whose commercial we just viewed. Seated next to him, Father James McKenna of the local D.C. parish will discuss how Goodallazine has affected the Church. Haley Smoot is here, from the newly-formed Department of Women’s Security, to talk about what the government is doing to take care of Goodallazine victims. Dr. Jennifer Park, a Sociologist with Georgetown University will discuss changes in our society in the last year, and what they mean for the future. And next to her is Kenzie Starnes, representing the Coalition for Women’s Rights Now; credited with creating the #WhileWeStillCan hashtag. Our panel tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen. They’re under LiveFire!”

The opening graphic to the show displayed each word of the title being shot around the bullseye of a target until the line above it said “Live,” and the line below said “Fire.” They merged into the LiveFire logo over the bullseye.

Two work vans, advertising janitorial services, pulled up to the Service Entrance of the television studios where LiveFire was being aired, and other shows with studio audiences were being taped at the same time. Through the window inside, a guard saw the vans and checked the schedule on his clipboard. Janitorial wasn’t supposed to arrive for another two hours.

One never knows where that mistake, that moment of carelessness that brings about the end of one’s life, might be made. When one might be standing on a chair to change a light bulb and fall and break one’s neck, answer the door while cooking and get into a conversation and forget that you left the open cooking oil bottle too close to the stove and return in time for it to blow up in your face, drop something in the car and bend to pick it up and not see that the vehicle ahead has stopped. The security guard made his when he decided not to call it in. A fatal vocational error caused him to not be suspicious. Arriving up to an hour beforehand to unload their equipment had happened before, but two must be some kind of misunderstanding. They still had time to go get dinner and come back before they had to be there. He’d just go politely let them know, and maybe they’d pick him up something from wherever they decide to go. He walked out, toward the driver’s side door that was now opening.

“Hey,” he told the man stepping out of the driver’s seat as the rear doors opened as well. “You Guys’re way early. If you want...”

He didn’t complete the sentence before the man pulled out a suppressed pistol and put two rounds through the guard’s head. One of the men that came out of the back of the truck dragged his body in-between the two vehicles and started searching the corpse for his keycard. Another stepped toward the door that the guard had been walking out of and was now automatically shutting and dropped a crowbar in the door’s path to keep it from closing. He stepped in, making sure the door was still blocked open, and secured the guard’s station. From there, he was able to watch the cameras and press the button that opened the steel garage doors that the vans had parked in front of.

More people emerged from the vans, pushing cleaning carts full of chemicals and other things. The man in the guard’s station let them in and turned on his radio as he watched the cameras.

“Involuntary Paternity is an area in which we’re seeing more and more cases.” Jason Litwack told the camera. “Some of these men just don’t want the responsibility of caring and feeding for a woman for the rest of their lives just because she, driven insane by this horrible chemical, jumped him on the street. A year ago, you needed a prescription for erectile dysfunction medicine. Tonight, I could go out to the vending machine in the hall and buy a bottle of Viagra if I wanted. Sex and the legalities thereof are changing, and so must lawyers.”

“Sure, it’s been great for business for you.” Kenzie Starnes commented. “Divorce Attorney has become the fastest-growing profession, with Wedding Planner a distant second. But what happens to the women who lose cases against you, Counselor? What’s done with them? Either sent to an asylum, a life of prostitution, or becoming the Neighborhood Slut in order to vicariously get some of what this stuff has made their bodies demand from that man.”

She turned to Haley Smoot.

“And what is the government doing about it? What are we doing to protect our daughters? Locking them away in prison camps!”

Haley Smoot cleared her throat before speaking.

“The Protective Camps are, thus far, the best protection we have been able to provide these girls. Goodallazine affects women of child-bearing age; it doesn’t recognize Age of Consent. Protective Detention, at least until they reach Age of Consent, is the best measure we can take for them until a cure can be found.”

“I’ve heard stories about the camps.” Kenzie replied. “How any pornographer would give his left testicle to sneak a camera into one of them, and a few just may have! Stories of guards accepting bribes to let men have ‘a few minutes’ with one of the girls. And what are they being taught in there? Math? Science? History? No! They’re taught how to one day please your man; and at night, they teach each other what girls can do to get some relief from the constant arousal without a man.”

“Which is why the Church is relaxing our views on homosexuality.” Father McKenna interrupted. “Families are coming together as women do the right thing and men realize they have little choice but to embrace marriage and the traditional family. The fact that incidents of rape are at an all-time low proves my point.”

“By force!” Dr. Park interjected. “Because this substance is giving them that ‘little choice’ of which you’re so fond. And there are fewer incidents of rape, because women are being turned into virtual Sex Zombies! In the past year, we’ve seen chastity belts come back into fashion! And a woman wearing a gas mask or paper filter throughout her day is an everyday sight. Your agency,” she turned to Haley Smoot to say. “Has done some good work, providing lockers in women’s restrooms containing Nuclear/Biological/Chemical suits in the event of an attack. But every day, every woman lives in fear that her home or work might suddenly become a Pink Zone. That she might abandon her life and family for the nearest convenient cock. Reports of incest INcrease every time there’s an attack, because sometimes, that nearest cock might belong to a relative, but they’re too crazed with lust to recognize that it’s wrong.”

Pink Zone had become the common term for an area affected by Goodallazine. During the Paris attack, a reporter mistranslated “Hot Zone” as “Pink Zone,” and the phrase caught on. In addition, because words like “fuck,” “cock,” and “cunt” were becoming commonplace words that one heard every day, television censors had been forced to adapt; and were more lenient than previously.

The camera turned to Carlton Sage. He turned to it and addressed the audience.

“Certainly, a lot to consider. We’ll go to the phones when we come back from these messages.”

The “cleaning crew” moved swiftly through the building.

Wherever there was a door that could be opened to the outside, they opened it; windows, as well. Men and women in janitor’s jumpsuits walked into every women’s restroom in the building, rammed a long spike through the NBC Suit Lockers a few times, then covered the holes with duct tape. By the time anyone noticed them, it would be too late.

Meanwhile, two men carried one of the cleaning carts to the roof. They removed the false cover, with the top halves of bottles of cleaning products glued to the top, to reveal the device. Two large metal tanks were connected to a small explosive that would rupture the tanks and send the Goodallazine inside into the air. One of the men looked over at the Mall and could see the Washington Monument, lit up at night, in the distance. He snickered and pointed it out to his companion.

“Gonna be a lot of that tonight.” He pointed out. The other man chuckled, then got back to business. He set the timer on the device for ten minutes, then informed the others over the radio that it was armed.

The rest of the group abandoned their carts and made their way back to the service entrance.

“Did I do good, Daddy?” One of the women on the crew asked one of the men on their way out.

“You sure did, Baby.” Came his reply. “You’re definitely getting some when we get back to the hideout.”

The woman squealed with glee as she skipped her way into the truck, the crotch of her uniform and those of the others already soaking in anticipation of their reward for obeying their masters.

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