Perfect Crime
Chapter 2
The morning after Laura’s departure, me and Agent Ramirez entered the actress’ house, eyes tired and muscles sore from an eight-hour guard shift. Ramirez was the first to open the door to her bedroom: to his surprise, and my feigned shock, it was completely empty. The hastily made bed with a carefully folded blanket on one end told a story of van Beek waking up and leaving on her own volition. “Where the hell did she go?” my colleague wondered out loud.
As we looked through the house for signs of the celebrity, Ramirez recounted the story of how he scared away a black sports car as it was pulling over into Laura’s parking space. He was so sure of them being the mobsters, that he even called the Division to inform them the job was done. Us staying until the morning was supposed to only be ceremonial, and yet Laura had slipped through our fingers. Or at least, that’s what the FBI knew.
A prominent note on the kitchen counter helped clear up the situation: “The pressure got to me, and I had to leave town for the next few days to clear my head. I’m perfectly safe, and I hope you aren’t mad.—Laura”
“So, what do you have to say about this?” Ramirez turned to ask me after gazing at the note for a solid five minutes. However, I wasn’t holding my chin, pondering how the actress had escaped. I was packing my belongings into my duffel bag as quickly as possible.
“I don’t know her well enough to judge. Collins is gonna be pissed that we didn’t catch her leaving, but she had the home field advantage.”
“At least we can rest assured that she wasn’t kidnapped. The first estimation from our Division’s handwriting expert is that the note matches Laura’s writing, and that it wasn’t written under duress. In fact, it looks as if she was greatly relaxed when writing it, which doesn’t track but whatever. Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asked as he inspected my bag.
“Home. I asked for a day off to recuperate from our night shift. It’s really cool that you already sent a pic to forensics, but I gotta go. Good luck with figuring this out.” I zipped my bag shut and was out of the door before Ramirez could inquire any more as to my sudden day off. With joy in my step, I unlocked my car and set off to Van Nuys, where I knew the beautiful blonde actress was waiting for me, and no one else but me.
The safehouse was a modest, single-storey brick building with an inconspicuous entrance and windows obscured with cardboard. Annoyingly, it lacked a doorbell, but enough knocking on the wooden door got my new acquaintance to open. Still in the same nightgown as last night, she stood under the doorframe.
“Good morning, hottie,” I told Laura as my two hands roamed to her buttocks, which I grabbed and squeezed. The greeting was a bit on the nose, but she had to get used to it, so why not start early?
“M-morning, James.” Last night’s misadventures had evidently taken a toll on her, though they hadn’t made her look any less stunning.
“Your note worked as intended, so congrats. The FBI will think this was a self-exile for the moment.” I waited for her response, but Laura simply stood there, content to pay attention to her hypnotist with a blank expression. “Come on, I haven’t made you my sex toy yet, show some spark, some initiative!” I snapped my fingers in her face to drive the point home. Laura started rapidly blinking, before she shook her head a few times as some of her old personality started to return.
“Uh… Alright then, what are you planning to do next, James?” she asked with an uplifting, almost flirtatious tone, no doubt influenced by how I’d been treating her in our little time as hypnotist and subject. I appreciated her change in attitude, but she had only spoken a single free-willed sentence, and I was already starting to doubt myself.
What was next? My plan so far had been sloppily executed, mainly because there was no plan at all. Taking Laura had only been a spur-of-the-moment decision, born out of a need to finally use these skills to help myself, instead of only working for the Bureau. Where had that left me? The FBI would already be tracing me back to Laura’s departure as I spoke, and going back to the Bureau would practically be begging to be sent to a Supermax in Colorado. I couldn’t afford to get any closer to my colleagues—I had to get as far away from them. Sitting behind my desk, I opened my laptop and beckoned to Laura. “Come here,” as I showed her my lap. “And lose that gown.”
“Sure thing!” She dropped it in a heartbeat, revealing her mouth-watering, lingerie-clad body in its entirety as she climbed atop my lap.
“Now,” I said as I began massaging her shoulders. “I need you to do a favor for me, Laura. Do you know any friends in LA who own private jets?”
For the first time since last night, Laura thought. Twirling a strand of her dirty blonde hair as she did, she was tempting me to imagine her as a completely mindless bimbo. “Yeah, I know a few. But none of them are that close to me.”
“I see. Go on the laptop and sign in to whatever social media you have. I need you to find a friend, or acquaintance or whatever, that we can meet today. I’ll deal with getting them to lend their jet to us.” The hypnotized actress didn’t need to be asked twice. As I drew the chair closer to the desk, reducing the space between me and Laura, she began searching.
With the dedication of a mindless servant, she browsed after , but if I wanted her to be successful, I would have to encourage her. The occasional slap on the ass elicited a few soft moans, but she needed more to work her best. As I placed both hands on her waist, I started sliding down her black panties until they reached mid-thigh. Then, after gently guiding her to the right position, I lowered her pussy onto my cock.
Laura let out her loudest moan yet as she started slowly riding me, always sitting on my lap. I thrust my erect member inside her as she searched through the page of a friend of hers, then pulled out again as she moved to the next page. Whenever she got distracted by my pace, panting and searching for my lips, I would give her another slap on the ass, sending her back to work.
Eventually, after twenty minutes of back-and-forth, she produced a result. “How about -oh- this one, James?” she turned to ask me as her body still bobbed up and down. The laptop displayed the of one Monica Navarro.
“Very, ah, pretty,” I told her truthfully. Fit body with enough curves, green eyes, brown hair reaching slightly below her shoulders, she definitely had the chops to be an Instagram model.
“Sure, but I meant for your -oohh- jet. She rents one, and she’s in the city this week. Her last post says she’s visiting a fashion galá tonight.”
I smiled triumphantly. “That would be great for us. Do we know which one?”
“It’s organized by… Whitworth Fashion,” Laura tried to say with her cunt full. “Fat chance of meeting her there, their events are only for the elite of the elite. No one is getting into that event, much less in a day.”
“Leave that…” I said as I felt myself approaching a climax. “... to me.” I exploded inside Laura, and she soon followed suit.
Laura tugged at her new outfit, feeling too constrained by the skirt and apron. “You just had to make me knock out the petite cleaning lady to steal her uniform, didn’t you?” she scowled at me over the earpiece I had given her for her own first mission. What could I say, I liked a lady in tight clothes.
“Operatives do not question commands in the middle of an ongoing op. Neither do my subjects. Now continue down that stairway, Whitworth’s office should appear on your left.” That was the ultimate goal: the office of Anne D. Whitworth, granddaughter of the luxury fashion company’s founder and director of the local branch in California. We’d get her and then… the right doors to the jet would open, eventually.
Laura opened the door to find Whitworth working, most of her body obscured by a large computer screen. The businesswoman looked up at her, and flashed a look of confusion before exclaiming: “Don’t you see there’s someone working here?” The unusually good-looking cleaning lady was having none of it, though. Reaching down to her tool belt, she took out her canister of light hypnotic gas, and one hand threw it across the room as the other applied a plastic mask over her mouth and nose.
“What the fuck? Why are you wearing a mask in heuuuhhhhhh…” As Whitworth inhaled the mysterious gasses thrown her way, I could see the majestic sight through my subject’s bodycam. Her head lolled over to one side, throwing her blonde hair all over the place as her blue eyes were drained of all emotion. Laura approached the woman standing in front of her, checking her eyelids were still open—the gas didn’t actually knock the subject out, it only put them in an extremely suggestible state.
“Alright, girl. Prepare the induction exactly as I told you.” Laura set a tablet on the desk, and turned Anne’s chair around so that she was directly facing the screen. Then, she tapped “play” and a flurry of spirals was unleashed on Anne, who was struggling to regain her agency as evidenced by her attempt at forming syllables.
“Now, repeat the instructions for her, after me,” I said over the earpiece again. Laura let out a soft ‘yes’ to let me know that both women were ready.
“Focus on the screen, and only what exists on the screen.” Her voice echoing my instructions came off equally commanding, exactly what Anne needed to be put in her place.
“The world outside the spirals doesn’t exist until I tell you otherwise.” Again, Laura’s voice said the same line, a second late.
“And as your eyes sink into the spirals, so does your consciousness sink deeper and deeper.” Anne was taking well to the suggestions, and in fact she was mouthing them. Her ample chest rose and fell in sync with her breaths.
“Now, you feel your eyelids are growing heavier, and staying awake is so difficult.” My first slave’s voice was starting to grow more relaxed and careless as she repeated the words, but I had greater problems to concern myself with.
“Feeling very tired. And you will peacefully drift off to sleep in
Three”
“Three.”
“Two”
“Two.”
“One”
“One.”
I snapped my fingers. Laura snapped her fingers. Anne collapsed back to her chair. Laura collapsed to the floor.
Laura woke up, her eyes feeling groggy. It wasn’t her first time underneath an office desk, but a quick look around confirmed it to be a woman’s office. So what was she doing here?
A sound of continuous, irritated finger snaps could be heard over her earpiece. Oh right, she was on a mission to force some rich lady to let them into her party.
“Laura? Laura! Get back up!” James, her Master, was audibly annoyed by the feed he had been getting of Anne’s stocking-clad legs as viewed from the floor this entire time. “Give her the orders that we discussed before!”
“Okay, okay,” she said under her breath, still waking up. Laura handed her a mobile phone that would fit as a prop in a 2000s movie, with only one saved: Master. “Ms. Whitworth, have this. You are to obey all the orders of the man who calls you from this phone. You will always pick up his calls as soon as possible. He will call you for an hour between 2 and 3 PM to make sure we are all on the same page, and give you your first orders.”
“Yes. I hear and I obey,” Anne spoke mindlessly.
Anne’s phone, not the burner for her Master’s calls but the newest smartphone on the market, was on speaker mode as she called the firm’s event organizer.
“Hey hon, I just need you to add two last names to the invitees list for the galá tonight.”
“What? You know how much of a nightmare it is when you ask for this stuff on the very same—”
“The names are. Laura van Beek.”
“Uh, one sec. Got it.”
“And Ronald McMullen.”
“Who is that guy anyway? Is he coming with van Beek? And why does your voice sound so different?”
“Just … add him.”
Laura was still in the room, waiting for the conversation to finish. “Good girl. Master has ordered me to reward you for a job well done,” she said once the call was over.
Anne heard the sentence, which meant nothing to her. “I hear and I obey my Master,” she said, her voice dull and monotone. Without saying anything more, Laura slid two fingers under her deep blue dress and into her pussy. She started furiously fingering the woman, only going faster every time she heard her praising their Master.
I was just finished with a nauseating one-hour call with Anne Whitworth, the second woman I had brainwashed in the last week without acting on orders. I had laid down all the basics: trigger phrases, behavior one-on-one and behavior when in front of others. Was it too much for a subject that was supposed to do one job for me and then be discarded? Probably. But from what I’d seen of her and that tight, plunging-neckline dress in Laura’s camera feed, she wasn’t a woman you only used once.
One thing was for sure: a proper plan, with , was necessary if I was to turn my back on the FBI. That was the reason my next phone call was to an old friend.
“...” From the other end of the line, I could only hear faint static.
“Mark, you there?” I asked, worried my only ticket out of the States was gone.
“Well, I guess we ditched all the codewords and rituals,” came the other voice with a small chuckle.
“We don’t need them if neither of us is working for three-letter agencies any more.”
“Damn, son. You left?”
“I did.”
“Then why the secure line?”
“I need your help. I’m in big trouble because of a woman. Well, it’s two women now. Essence is, I need some of your connections to make it. I’m gonna leave the country in the next few days.”
“Well that’s certainly a plot twist. You know I don’t do this shit anymore, but there’s a trustworthy tech-wiz kind of guy who owes me some favors. I’ll hook you up and he will give you everything you need to cross the border, and then some.”
“Awesome, what’s his name?”
“Oh, you won’t be meeting him in person. Just call him Oversight.”