Chapter 46: Coda - Smith's Story

Had it been nearly three years since the government entrusted him with The Project? Smith smiled as his "French Maid" brought him a Scotch in his elegant but discrete Daytown townhouse and marveled at how time had flown by.

Smith knew what he needed to know about the top-secret mind control experiment: up until now, it had been unstable, unpredictable and as likely to affect body as mind. Scary stuff -- but not as scary as the results of the early field tests. Otherwise known as "the victims."

Sure, the powers-that-be deemed it safe for humans before it ever left the lab. But by definition, it was a lab project that had yet to find a compatible human subject.

The first batch went to a small town in the desert southwest. A young, ambitious mayor was chosen, but it didn't take long before he and the women he chose became droolers who were now isolated and contained, allowed to live out their very simple lives safely. Were they still alive? Smith didn't care -- but he did feel sorry for a young American Indian girl he'd fucked who was caught up in the experiment. Very cute.

Batch two turned out to produce only a temporary mind fuck, and their chosen purveyor -- a Minnesota-based priest just out of seminary -- was gunned down by not one, but two women he influenced. The government allowed them to get off the murder rap by agreeing to undergo "evaluation" at their Facility. When they left, they remembered little past their high school graduation.

Batch three nearly hit the mark, with a Pennsylvania-based football coach targeted. His problem was that he preferred underage boys to adults. So far, that whole fubar was contained.

Next, there was a Batch Four (now known as 4-A), provided to a New York State teenager just a little older than Michael Wright. But the new problem of physical side effects reared its ugly head, and two families were changed forevermore. The purveyor, an honor student, was still under observation at The Facility. And what they were observing wasn't good.

But they were now watching the effects of Batch 4-C. An aerosol that worked fast, left no trace or physical damage and was irrevocably permanent -- the company had its product and the government had its weapon. Batch 4-B was the liquid version that Smith originally passed along to "the stoner kid" – as Michael Wright was initially known.

Perfect. Or as close as man can get to God, Smith thought.

At least it was one he finally felt safe employing himself.

His name wasn't Smith, of course. But names were not important in this line of work. All he needed was to make an unobserved connection with Michael Wright and, over the passage of time, simply keep a few doses for himself. Those inhalers were written off as misused by Michael, damaged or otherwise wasted. The first "lost" vial coincided with the creation of Smith's first slave – who was currently in the process of cleaning up his dinner dishes.

From the beginning, Smith had a plan.

No random babes would find their way into his harem; he would target only prime pussy. He used his job connections to close a deal on a drug lord's estate a long way from Daytown, California, that the government had seized, then called in a favor to have it disappear off the tax rolls. Fully furnished in an opulent manner, he would be hand-picking servants as well as concubines.

And there would be none of this "master" shit. He studied the classics and like the sound of "My lord." He like "My liege" even better, but decided to keep it somewhat real.

Speaking of reality, he would also affect his supervisors to have it seem he was on a perpetual assignment and remained on the payroll.

It all seemed so perfect; he'd only have to make sure he didn't cross paths with any of Michael's slaves while procuring his own; Meredith's women, in contrast, could be re-tooled as Michael so significantly proved at Carson High that day. But attempting to serve two masters of any sort would likely short out brain function somewhere down the line. That's why he'd be far away from Daytown when he began to act.

Kissing his servant/slave good-bye, he was right on time for his 12-hour shift watching the Class of 2009 party like it was 1999. Every now and then, Michael or one of his slave girls, would actually came up with a neat idea, he would file it away for his own use and make sure it did not enter the observation log.

His shift ended early in the morning, disembarking from the van with a bag containing all of the digital downloads from the night before. He duly logged in all video from The Clubhouse, Michael's street and the Carson High school grounds, double-checking all dates and details. He was alone in the office on this Sunday morning, allowing him to see his superior, F. Hampton Gray, when he arrived for his own quiet work time. As he looked at the clock, Smith guessed that Gray would be arriving about ... now.

"Morning, Smitty. How was the peep show last night?" Gray asked as he paused by Smith's desk.

"Enlightening," Smith replied, amused how his cover name had caught on. "Learn something new every night. In fact, I need to ask you a quick question. Mind if we talk in your office?"

Gray led the way into his windowless retreat, nodding at the janitor who had more of a Top Secret clearance than the average United States senator. As Gray glanced at correspondence that had arrived at his desk overnight, Smith paused as if to speak to the janitor, but instead spritzed him with a tiny dose of liquid from a palm-sized container. The janitor's expression did not change, as he awaited a command.

"Douglas, as soon as I leave, you will allow Mr. Gray to give you a blow job, and will do so every Sunday morning when he comes in for work. He will swallow your load and clean you," Smith said somberly. "You will then forget about it until the following Sunday. Go back to work, please."

"Yes, master," Douglas said, pushing his trash cart forward.

"What did you need to see me about? There's a lot I need to deal with here," Gray said irritably. "It's going to be a busy day."

"Some photos I need to show you," Smith said, producing a manila envelope. He laid it on Gray's desk as his boss sipped from his Starbucks cup, but as he opened the file, he also got a dose of spray from Smith's container.

Gray never completed that sip of coffee. He paused in mid-drink, hot liquid running down his white button-down shirt and into his lap.

"Mr. Gray, I now lord over you and you will agree with everything I say, without exception," Smith said, leaning close. "You will reassign me to unspecific duties and authorize a 50 percent raise. You will not question my whereabouts or my assignment. Oh, and you will also give Douglas your best blow job every Sunday morning."

"I understand," Gray said, setting down his coffee, not focused on his master. He reached for his desk recorder, a tiny digital unit that allowed him to leave work for his secretary, who came in mid-afternoon for two efficient hours of work without the boss present.

"Melissa, prepare the following document for my signature. I hereby authorize Clarence Fishman..." Smith winced at his actual name. " ... to be immediately reassigned to a change of assignment at my sole discretion. He should also be processed through to receive a 50 percent increase in pay effective on the first of this month. Sincerely, Gray."

A man clearing his voice came from the doorway.

"You ready for me in here, Mr. Gray?" Douglas asked.

"Yes, Douglas! Come on in!" Gray said if greeting an old friend. "Smith, was there anything else?"

"Sure, boss," Smith said as he headed for the door. "Don't forget to swallow."

As he looked back, he could see the older man unzip his overalls, producing a long, black cock that was quickly coming to attention. Gray was seated in a chair looking up at the man as Smith turned the corner.

As he relaxed during a flight that he'd booked under the name Smith, The Spook Formerly Known As Clarence Fishman closed his eyes and considered his immediate future. First, he'd try to ignore the temptations before him: the blonde stewardess, the mother and daughter sitting and reading across the aisle, the tanned model who passed his seat on the way to the restroom -- all stirred his cock and had him thinking about the deceptively small container in his pocket. A large dose of the compound, Smith brought it on board after showing an official looking FBI credential and declaring it as an inhaler.

No -- he would resist. Even though he shuffled paperwork enough to get nearly an unlimited supply of what was officially called Synapsia 4-C (Smith tended to just call it The Stuff), he did not want to get greedy or lazy. Both could get him caught, killed or worse -- it could lead to being subjected to a dose of The Stuff himself. No, care and caution would make this work.

Smith slept throughout the rest of the flight, erection at full mast and in full view of the stewardess who'd caught his eye. It drew only a quick smile from the woman, who'd seen it all before.

Before he checked his bags, Smith stepped into a restroom and completely changed his appearance. He powdered his hair and walked with a arthritic stoop through the concourse, pausing only at a rental car counter. It wasn't so much meant to fool the people he mingled with as the omnipresent security cameras. He even got help carrying his bags to the waiting rental car shuttle. He gingerly loaded his bags into the rental, then drove it all of a quarter mile, back to the airport parking lot, where a clean car awaited him. Once he left the parking lot, Clarence Fishman ceased to exist.

The man who arrived at the mansion in the Colorado Springs foothills a few hours later bore a resemblance neither to Smith or the old man in the airport. Thanks to a spray-on tan, a hairpiece and a fake goatee (soon to become real), Lord Mikal Ashton emerged from the car (which itself would soon be at the bottom of a Colorado mountain lake). An expatriate of an undertermined country, "Lord Ashton's" estate once belonged to one of the region's most notorious drug lords. Smith knew that the previous owner died in a hail of bullets rather than be taken alive, so there would be no future conflict about ownership. The official record showed the $2 million estate was paid for, in full, and its official "address" was more than 100 miles away from its actual location, two counties to the south. Official records, Smith knew, were overrated.

Waiting for him were his servants – or rather, the drug lord's. Miguel, a distinguished Mexican gentleman of a certain age, and a mother/daughter team of Maria and Naomi. All had worked at the estate for the drug lord, so no one knew the house better. All memories of his fearful employ were gone, replaced by "Lord Ashton" and his kindness. Thanks to The Stuff, their loyalty was absolute and their new memories unfailing.

But more than that, they would be partners (or co-conspirators) in his scheme to stock the place with his ideal harem. Furthermore, he loved the idea Michael gave him of making a beauty queen his main squeeze. Michael had worked hard to make the totally fabricated romance with Candace a real one, so Smith took that effort to heart. Two days later, after further distancing himself from his former life, Lord Ashton boarded a planed for Salt Lake City.

The city was a few weeks away from hosting the Miss Utah and Miss Teen Utah contests -- in the process providing a mind-boggling supply of beautiful, largely blonde virgin-types who were not defaced with tattoos or piercings that Smith found disgusting. His plan was as simple as it was sneaky -- target one of the judges (preferably a former champion) and put the power in her hands. He had no idea how many from the adult pageant he'd wind up controlling for his estate harem, but he knew himself well enough to know he'd target a teen or two as well. Anyone with a lot of sisters -- well, that would be special.

Smith almost didn't made it to Miss (adult) Utah.

The Utah Teen pageant unfolded first. Smith was enchanted by one of the past winners – Miss 2002, to be specific -- as well as its reigning queen. Miss '02, Quinn Johnson, was serving as one of the judges, and was the perfect stereotype -- blonde, naturally busty with perfect teeth and cheekbones. A phony media pass got him close.

"Once a queen, always a queen. How do you do, Miss Johnson?" he said to the now-adult beauty as hall buzzed in preparation. "My name is Smith; I write for the AP. Mind if I ask you a few things?"

Charmed by the distinguished looking reporter, but mindful of the rules, Quinn hesitated.

"Thank you. I'm sorry, but judges aren't allowed..." was as far as she got before his bogus inhaler sprayed her directly.

"I'm going to start over, Quinn," Smith said after a sufficient pause. "As your lord and master, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"No, my lord," she said, her smile fixed strangely on her face.

"Tell me everything about your sex life," Smith said, holding a tape recorder outward to complete the illusion.

"I was a virgin until I was 21," she began, "but a friend gave me a vibrator when I was 15 and I used it to break my cherry. I have been faithful to my husband and we have two perfect kids."

"Boys or girls?" Smith pressed.

"Two sons," she said, pride making its through the cloud of control.

"Quinn, you will heed my every command, beginning with this: you will forget you have a family. No husband. No kids. There is only me," he said as they locked eyes. "Your love and lust is for me totally, without question."

"Yes, my lord. Only you," she said, only the slight quiver of a lip betraying her lost life. In that moment, Quinn felt she'd forgotten something important, but the thought passed.

"You are 50-50 bisexual," Smith continued. "You do love the taste of a man's cum and take pride in how well you give head, but your favorite taste in the world is young girl pussy. However, the outside world incorrectly believes you have a family, and you pretend that you are a loving mother; and you love fooling people by pretending you have a family. There are two children who will pretend you are their mother, but you know it is all an act."

Smith paused to adjust his erection.

"You are my No. 1 recruiter of pussy in Utah," he continued. "That makes you special."

"Thank you, my lord," she replied, a single tear working its way down her face. "I won't let you down."

"Prove it, Quinn. Take us somewhere private," he commanded. She nodded and took his hand. He pocketed his recorder (which wasn't even turned on) and allowed her to lead him by the hand down a hallway and into a cozy, acoustically built studio.

"This is our interview room," she said.

"Strip to the waist and blow me," Smith said. With only a wordless nod, she removed her sweater to reveal a lacy bra holding large, full D-cup sized boobs. The bra was tossed aside and two soft, white orbs that had never seen the sun fell free. Quinn tied off her long, blonde hair into a ponytail, but then paused.

"What's wrong?" Smith asked, annoyed.

"I know what to do, but I've never done it before, my lord," she said, eyes filling with tears of shame.

"You will have plenty of practice, and I will not find fault with your effort," Smith said, touching her cheek with his fingertips. She brightened at that, and tentatively leaned over to kiss his above-average cock after pulling it free. She then licked some pre-cum from the tip like a lollypop, then took the entire head into her mouth. She looked up with questioning eyes and Smith nodded as he clinched her ponytail by the scrunchy.

A few minutes later, she was sucking like a pro, working his shaft with deft fingers and showing a hidden talent for deep throat.

"Swallow my seed," Smith commanded, and she did her level best to contain when he fired his load into her pretty mouth. When he was done, she sat up and licked her lips and fingers clean. She also noticed a few drops on her boobs.

"Thank you for allowing me to take my top off," she said, wiping her fingers across her boobs to collect the last of his cream. "You know, no one has ever seen my breasts before except ... except -- you know, the man pretending to be my husband. I-I don't know his name."

"It's not important. Just call him sweetheart," Smith said, zipping himself up. "By the way, how do you like your Christmas present from me -- your pretty ring."

She looked at the hugely impressive wedding band on her hand as if seeing it for the first time.

"Is that was this is? It's very pretty," she said, delighted and confused "Thank you, my lord. I'm sorry I forgot."

"Please get dressed," Smith said. "It's time for you to scout out the best and prettiest pussy here and you will be rewarded. But when we are done here, you will leave with me and stop pretending to be married. You will begin a new life."

"Yes my lord. Thank you, my lord!" she said sincerely as she reattached her bra and pulled he sweater back. To Smith's regret, the sweater was able to wipe two blobs of cum out of her hair enough so as to be unnoticeable.

"When you leave here, I want you to find the best tanning salon in town and get an all-over tan, especially on your boobs and ass," Smith commanded. "I find tan lines unattractive."

"Yes, my lord. It felt good being topless," she said, believing it.

A few moments later, everything was back in place and Smith's spy was ready to begin her mission. But Smith had one additional duty for Miss Utah Teen 2002.

"Quinn -- I need one more important thing first," Smith said. "You need to arrange a meeting for me with your outgoing queen."

"You mean Doreen?" she asked.

"Yes. Dori Spencer," he said. "As soon as possible."

"Wait right here," she said with a confident smile. Quinn hurried away before he could question her, but she did not disappoint. Less than 10 minutes later, the door to the interview room swung open and Quinn returned with a tall, long-legged specimen of female perfection. Who was wearing a tiara.

"Dori, this is Mr. Smith. From the AP," she said formally. With a smile that lit up the darkened room, Miss Teen Utah 2008 extended her hand. He noticed her nail polish matched not only her casual shirt, but her lipstick.

"Mr. Smith. Pleased to meet you," she said. "Ms. Johnson said you were working on a big story?"

Smith paused to take in Dori Spencer. She was a vision even in a glorified t-shirt and sweat pants -- not yet having changed into her (matching) dress for this opening ceremony. Despite having just turned 18, Dori's dancer's body was apparent through the tight sweat pants. Her handshake was graceful but not tentative, her hands devoid of rings and her face free of makeup.

Smith was enchanted; so was the newly bisexual Quinn, who licked her lips as she looked at her master. But Smith was going to hold off taking her as long as he could, better to know who he was acquiring.

"Sit down, please," he said. She sat across from his at the interview table while Quinn took a chair at her side. "So, Dori, has this year been a challenge?"

"Oh, I'd say it was more of an adventure than a challenge," she replied in her best queen-speak. "New places, new people. There was so much of Utah I knew nothing about! Then there was that trip to Atlantic City for the Miss Teen America contest."

"What was that like?" he asked, hurriedly producing his prop tape recorder.

"Wonderful. Disappointing. A little scary," she said, tossing her ponytail back with her hand. "I thought I'd fare better. I guess there's no place like home."

She followed that with a hearty laugh that endeared this young woman to his heart. This, Smith knew, was going to be his Candice.

"You were probably around some people -- other Miss Teen America contestants -- who had lived different lives than you," he continued the ruse. Out of Dori's view, Quinn gave him a puzzled look, which he ignored.

"Oh, for sure! No one I grew up with had tattoos or piercings, and some of them were 16 or barely 17," she said, shaking her head. "Of course, most of them were where the judges couldn't see them. One of the finalists had already had a boob job before she turned 17!"

"No boob jobs in Utah?" Smith asked.

"No -- well, maybe. Most of the girls I know do just fine with what God gave them," Dori said, again laughing heartily. "It might count against you in the Miss Utah Teen contest."

"Tell me about family," Smith continued. Quinn, now understanding, relaxed noticeably.

"Two older brothers, one in the Marines," she said proudly. "Two younger sisters -- in fact, Katy is in this year's contest! I'm so proud of her! She's only 16, but she's so much more mature that I was -- than I am. And Sam, our baby, is only 12, but she's the best dancer in the family."

"But you're acclaimed for your dancing!" Quinn cut in. "Everyone agrees you have a bright career ahead of you."

"Well, maybe," Dori blushed, perhaps embarrassed over being caught displaying some false modesty. "But she is good; it's unreal how fast she learned."

"The family all going to be here?" Smith asked. "It would be great for the story."

"Yeah! I mean, all but Stephen, our Marine," she said brightly. "That would be so cool! Oh! Is that clock right? I have to get ready..."

She's begun rising from her chair when Smith gave in and proceeded to make Dori Spencer his (or Lord Ashton's) lady fair.

"Dori, you will pretend nothing has changed until the contest is over, at which time you will become my lover and lady fair for all time. You will also be a compliant sex slave, doing anything I request without question. You will give yourself, body, mind and soul, over to me. You will become 50-50 bisexual, but faithful only to one man, myself. You will also introduce your family to me, one at a time. As soon as you hand over your crown, this life will be over and a new, better one will begin. But even as my slave, you will have domain over anyone else in my thrall. You can never act against me and will remain devoted to me in every way, even if I should be openly unfaithful."

"My lord! Yes, absolutely. I would love to be your lady fair!" she exclaimed as she took his offered hands.

"Then let us seal our bond," Smith said softly. Quinn wordlessly came up behind her and began caressing her firm but obviously sensitive breasts. I began tugging at her sweat pants and she moaned her growing arousal. Quinn turned her head and they shared a hungry kiss that did not reflect their recent conversation. Smith succeeding in tugging off her sweat pants with some difficulty, but she purred her approval as he then went after her pretty but conservative panties. Now nude from the waist down, Dori spread her impossibly long, toned legs to reveal a surprisingly hairy bush.

That will be gone soon enough, Smith thought.