Finding Good People

"Well, of course, we're trying our hardest," the scientists stammers. You sigh heavily -- you know without a doubt that he and the other researchers genuinely are, so there's no sense in being mad at them. None of them can lie to you, or at least, none of them can lie to you yet. And even if they did finally succeed at their task, you've plenty of electronic safeguards in place to know when their work is complete, whether they're going to tell you or not.

What was their task? Only the most important one in history: finding a cure for mind control.

You'd been gifted -- cursed really -- with this power only a few short years ago. At first it was incredible: the opportunity to finally tell people what you really thought about them was cathartic. No longer having to pay for things was incredible. And sex whenever you wanted it? Well if there were a word to summarize that reality... maybe "orgasmic" would do.

But as with all things, the novelty wore off shortly, and you set about building an empire for yourself.

Initial work was sloppy: your powers work at short range, and even then are more akin to strong suggestion at first. You tried some small scale governmental reforms, (who wouldn't?) but several small crises occurred before you had large scale influence down. You'd learned to work behind the people in power, rather than trying to become one yourself. As for how such a thing was even possible, the current theory is a viral cloud that surrounds you and makes nearby parties more susceptible to influence. As more viral spores enter and infect a person, the effect becomes more pronounced, until the other party is completely enslaved to your suggestion. According to the recipients of this virus, it's not even an unpleasant experience to be infected -- though it is somewhat confusing. This was good to hear, especially with the confidence that your subjects can't lie if given the order not to. You'd hate to be causing anyone undue pain over an effect you can't control.

And that really was the ironic rub of it all: you can't control your power. You can't turn it off, turn it down, or make it stop. Everyone you run into falls victim, and though they would go about their lives as normal after their infection (thank God!) they became permanently attached to your commands. No more friendships, no more girlfriends -- you can't even be sure your dog genuinely likes you! So after a relatively short time with this power you set about assembling the finest minds in medicine to study you, and try to come up with a cure. Not so that you can undo everything of course, but at least so that you can bring a few people back to normal, if only to enjoy your fabulous new life of wealth and power with you. And maybe reform world governments, who's to say? Might as well do some fixing of things while you've got the skeleton key to the human mind! And once you have the cure, you can always distribute it later.

For now though, no such luck.

You take your leave of the chief scientist and his lab, and board the elevator up to your personal suite. A soft ding rings out as you arrive.

Your apartment is the penthouse suite of a downtown hotel of course, and the lab you've just exited takes up what was once the basements. The room before you is a study in minimalism, with a color pallet of mostly greys and blacks, sparsely populated by furniture, electronics, and short marble statues. Being a classics major in your bygone university days, you can't help but adorn your room in a fusion of Ancient Grecian and contemporary styles. It makes you feel refined, and at first it made you feel powerful.

These days you've tired of that power, but the statues still look nice.

You walk to your desk, which faces out the floor to ceiling windows onto the city and sit down, putting your feet up on the desk. Your personal assistant, a commandeered military AI turned secretary named Aiva, speaks aloud from the speakers built into the walls.

"A long day sir?" She asks. Her voice is smooth and velvet, borrowed from your favorite actress.

"Indeed, Aiva." You watch the marker lights of a plane as it drifts through the night overhead, angling for the airport just south of the city. Raindrops fall gently against the glass. Below you, a thousand cars and street lights lend their glow to the ground level, bathing everything in a golden-white hue.

"Shall I send in your head ****?" She asks, this time more sultry than before.

"I believe you should," you reply. "And turn on something classical." A minute or two passes as you watch the city, and a piece of music whose name you don't know wafts about the apartment.

Your door swings open as the head of your harem enters at the command. Five feet four inches -- that's 162 centimeters for you metric lads -- of pale beauty, your head **** Nicole is confidently wearing a slim floral sundress. You watch her reflection in the glass as she seems to glide over to you, stopping next to your desk to kneel. Her pert breasts are small but firm, and her dress does little to hide the sculpted ass beneath, the product of long days running track for your university. She's barefoot of course, and her blonde-over-brown hair is tied up in a simple ponytail, because there's something about that particular practicality that just gets you good.

"Hello Sir," she says sweetly. She's the timid type, so under normal circumstances she wouldn't make much of a leader, but it helps that her charges don't ever misbehave.

"Hello Nicole," you reply, swiveling in your chair to face her. She's beaming, happy just to get the call to come see you. "How has your day been, my darling ****?" She shifts slightly, eyes bright.

"Oh it was good Sir! I did the rounds and nothing was out of the ordinary. Your girls are behaving themselves." That was good to hear. In spite of your orders sometimes they got a bit... testy with one another. "I missed you. If you'd permit me to ask -- was your day productive?"

"Afraid not," you say, reaching out to grasp her by the chin. You run your thumb over her lips and she parts them on instinct, taking your thumb in to suck on it. You briefly enjoy the sight of her, hands calmly in her lap, mouth wrapped delicately around your finger, so naturally subservient to you. That availability, that freedom to use her any way you liked; _that _was still as good at getting you hard as it was when you first got your powers. Naturally your pants grow a bit tighter at the sight.

"On your feet slut," you say, standing up. She stands with you, hands at her sides, that same beaming smile on her face as before. "Inspection time." She places her hands behind her head, and spreads her feet to shoulder width, eyes locked ahead. You kick your chair away and circle her, like a lion circling a gazelle. You run your hand along her ass over the dress, stopping to feel its firmness. Circling back to her front, you get a handful of her breasts too, squeezing gently. The sundress wrinkles under your grip.

"Open," you say, and she opens her mouth, eyes towards the ceiling, tongue out. There's not much to inspect, but you savor the view for a moment. "Tits." She closes her mouth, eyes back to straight ahead, and slides the straps of her dress off of her shoulders. You tug gently down on the dress as her hands return to behind her head, and with a visual pop her perky boobs slide out into view. Naturally she isn't wearing a single undergarment. Smooth as silk and just firm enough, her chest's elegance is completed by a pair of cute pink nipples that are now quite hard. Taking one breast in your hand, you lean in to suck on the other, eliciting a moan from your subject. You flick her nipple with your tongue and then lean back up to look at her. "No commentary," you say. "That's 10 strikes so far." Your **** practically glows at the suggestion, though it's ostensibly a punishment.

"Yes Sir," she replies simply.

You tug further down on her dress, sliding it over her ass and onto the floor. She steps out of it and you kick it away, forgetting it. Her body is slender, and her ass is shapely. You palm it, coming around behind her, and she bends slightly to give you a better view. You reach below it to her pussy and slide a couple fingers in for a moment. Another moan from your subject.

"What did I say about commentary? Five more."

"Sorry Sir," she says happily, "I'll try to be better." You somehow doubt her resolve. You suppose you could order her not to make a sound -- that was fun from time to time -- but you suspect she was angling for a punishment intentionally this time. Might as well give it to her. You spank her open handed on the right side of her ass, and instinctively she counts "One!"

You continue, each time she squeals and says the number of the strike, starting to tear up around eight and starting to cry silently around twelve. When you're done, her pale ass is shaded red all over to match the flowers on the discarded dress. You come around to the front of her and she straightens, eyes locked ahead with the same smile, in spite of the tears. You plunge a pair of fingers into her now drenched pussy and fuck her with your hand for a moment, before extracting your digits and bringing them up to her mouth. She opens, sucking her own juices off of you.

When you take them out, she manages a quiet, "Thank you Sir."