The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lena Smith knew what she was doing in her life— and she had what she’d always wanted to have: an academic career in a film department. So far that career only consisted of her being a college student, working on her first degree. But all her life Lena had known she wanted to be involved in film. This was the best entry-point available to her.

The long-term goal was a little bit more ambitious— although Lena wasn’t so unrealistic in her aspirations as some of her fellow students. Someday, she could maybe hope to be an independent director with a respected filmography— and if she went for a master’s degree, or a post-doctorate in some specialized branch of film, then maybe she could be a respected independent director who also taught good classes, and every so often published an academic book to some acclaim and recognition. She wasn’t looking to be a director who racked up awards or became a house-hold name. But if she could make her own small films— teach, and write, then she could scrape a living together, and live a small but meaningful life. And that was ambition to her— even other people would spit on a standard that low.

In the meantime, being a film student had her in the ideal position for those future aspirations. She knew all the other film students; and when they wanted to collaborate on projects a lot them of them came to her— so she was getting her name out there on the amateur film circuit in her town. It could take a long time to build name recognition sometimes, she knew, so Lena thought it only made sense to start now.

Aside from that there were a few film co-ops in town; places that had their own equipment that they’d lend to co-op members; and would screen member films. She was a member of each of the co-ops available; so she was in those communities as well, taking recreational classes on the more technical sides of the medium— she felt she was getting a very well-rounded education, in this way— and making a lot of connections. For now, that was good enough. For now, that was everything she wanted. She was exactly where she wanted to be in life, and for this particular phase of things, she had all the resources around her that she needed them, and she was utilizing them just as she should be utilizing them.

She had a bit of a tunnel-vision thing going on, though. She was working abstractly towards the future because she’d made collaboration and community-building into habits. But really her project right now was finishing her degree so she could go on to further schooling— it felt like that project was all she’d really been thinking about, for the past three years of her life— since she was now in the third year of her degree, and with one more to go. She’d started out on this goal all that time ago, now— it felt so distant to her— she’d come so far, but she still had more to do, in order to finish up. She was a little eager to be done, even though that was still a ways of into the future.

She did love her long-term plans; loved her craft, loved the friendships she cultivated incidentally in the pursuance of it, and loved her studies. Probably more than all of the above though, Lena Smith loved partying. She put in the amount of studying required, but honestly, if someone were to enumerate all her waking hours and what she did with them— time spent partying and drinking would outstrip everything except maybe time spent actually engaging in filmmaking— either through co-op or collaboration.

A close second behind drinking would have to be time spent fucking— Lena had a busy sex-life, but she already thought like a professional— she was careful never to sleep with anyone who she had a creative relationship with— or who she hoped to have a creative relationship with. It worked out much better for to just pick up random guys at bars— to keep those areas of her life neatly separate from one another.

The rest of her time was filled with hobbies— she binged shows on streaming services— she played soccer, when she had the time, when soccer was in season— and when the weather was right.

In those seasons when soccer was off, she was more likely to be found playing poker— and she was fairly good at her. Her luck wasn’t the best, but she did have some legitimate skill, and she found when she played the other players, even with a bad hand— she was sometimes able to walk out of her there with substantial winnings— which she sometimes saved, sometimes invested into her art, and sometimes splurged with.

It was a good life for her— she had it set up as she wanted, and she thought that was impressive for a twenty-one-year-old. A lot of other twenty-one-year-olds’ lives were less collected than hers. And her appearance wasn’t bad either— she was short, at only five feet two inches height, but her dirty-blonde hair was long and lush, and both her breasts and ass were well-endowed. She had a lot of things going for her, and a lot to look forward to.

And even so. She wasn’t happy. She should be happy, shouldn’t she? She had everything she wanted; she was in the service of her lifetime goal, the thing she had hoped for and wished for and prayed for, for years. The thing she’d laughingly said she was predicting— claimed to be watching come in from afar— while all the time fearing it never would— that was thing which now unfolded in her life; which now surrounded her in her life.

She thought she was somewhat ungrateful— to have something she’d wished for so much, and yet to still be dissatisfied. Maybe she didn’t deserve to receive the things she wanted, if getting them only meant she was going to be ill-tempered and foul-mooded about having them. She was an amateur director, she did have amateur connections, she was honing her technical skills at all times; and her classes were interesting enough. It was everything she wanted, everything she waited for, right here. And she was still unhappy.

It might be a self-esteem issue, maybe— was it that she somehow thought she didn’t deserve to have these things which made her so happy? Was that why she lashed out in anger at the thought of having them, was that why she felt like there was an irrepressible need inside her to just thrash about and shriek her dissatisfaction? If it was that she thought herself undeserving… maybe that was almost comprehensible. But she still didn’t understand why she couldn’t accept having these things, why she couldn’t just observe their presence in her life, and smile placidly at that observance? Why couldn’t she be pleasant about this, why did it bring all manner of raw, unwanted emotion out in her?

At least, those things she had— though she seemed to resent them— at least she kept them in her life, and did not let that destructive— even perhaps self-destructive— impulse tear them all down, and steal them away.

At least they were only things; her career, her goals. They didn’t have feelings of their own. It wasn’t like there was some person who meant what those things meant to her— some person who meant everything and who she wanted to pull closer to her and spurn forever at once. It would have been worse if this had been some difficulty that she was having with such a person. If she’d carried a resentment inside that sometimes seemed as though it might come out and burst free of her.

If there had been such a person, she would have felt bad for them— felt bad, if anything desired they did were to cause in her that desperation to thrash and spurn. It would be like that person didn’t know what they were touching when they touched her— didn’t know what response they would evoke— it wouldn’t be fair to anyone, if they did something benign, or even something that Lena herself wanted— only for Lena to react to the receiving of that want in such an animal, untamed way.

It was just things— just good things in her life she struggled to accept, and not a person, so Lena could have a clear-conscience about it.

And everything was easier when she was drinking, anyway. She wasn’t happy— she couldn’t accept the presence of those things in her life she had long waited for. Couldn’t accept that things were going well.

But when she was drunk, or getting to be, that didn’t matter. She didn’t have to accept them. She didn’t even have to think about them. She could just get herself to the point of feeling the beginnings of a buzz, and following the way that soothed everything. She could go out to a bar or a club, and glow in the warmth of an alcoholic soothing— and dance, if she were at the club— or talk people up, if she were at a bar. Partying was, perhaps, not the most ideal method of coping, but it certainly worked for her. Sometimes it felt like the thing that was holding her emotional state together. Sometimes it felt like what it was really holding together was her life.

So she partied pretty consistently throughout the year— but the best time of all to party was part-way through spring semester, when it was officially spring break in her town— and many other places too. Usually, Lena celebrated spring break in town. She was doing that this year again too— but it was fun to toy with the idea, sometimes, of going away to celebrate it somewhere else.

This year, though, she was still celebrating it at home, and tonight was the first night of spring break, officially. Lena had chosen to honor that by going out to a bar, where she was now six drinks in to her night. She was not feeling drunk yet, though. Only tipsy— and she’d chatted at several different men so far. But none of them had really made an impression— none of them were men she particularly cared to take home with her. If she were going to choose a man tonight— and fuck him— he’d have to do a lot more to impress her than what the jokers tonight had done so far.

The most recent of these disappointing conversations had just come to an end, and Lena decided she wanted to have her seventh drink of the night. She got up from her seat, intending to walk to the bar— but someone unexpectedly cut in front of her, and in the chaos of trying to avoid crashing into them, she stumbled away and crashed into someone else.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” She was saying as she scrambled back. It was a man that she’d walked into: he was a man, he was quite a bit taller than her, and from what she could tell, he was bald. Other than that he looked absolutely ordinary in all of his features.

She had caught his attention, given that she’d walked right into him. Now he was focusing his gaze on her. “Oh, that’s alright. It clearly seemed to be a mistake.”

Lena felt— a little sputter of warmth in her chest. She couldn’t say exactly why, but she liked holding this man’s attention. For one thing, he seemed a lot more mature and sure of himself than the rest of the guys she’d so far conversed with this night. He might be worth talking to for a while, and he didn’t seem in any rush to get their interaction over with.

“I was just going to the bar to get another drink,” Lena said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to share.

“Are you alone here tonight?”

It was the warmth in her chest from his attention that probably made her so bold. “Yes, I came alone. I was hoping I wouldn’t leave that way, though— but so far all the men I’ve talked to tonight have been disappointing.”

The man looked intrigued at that. “That’s unfortunate. But is that something you often do? Come to bars and befriend… men?”

No need for euphemisms here, Lena thought. Not when she was feeling this emboldened. “I come to bars to find men I want to spend the night with. Usually I can find somebody.”

“So you were hoping to spend the night with someone,” the man said approvingly. “I was hoping the same. Let me introduce myself, as well as suggest I may, potentially, be able to fill the role you’ve been seeking to fill. I’m Jerome.”

He had extended his hand for a handshake. She promptly took it, and gave it the shake he’d both offered and had, clearly, been expecting. “I’m Lena,” she told him. “It’s a bit forward of you to offer yourself as my potential partner for the night, though.”

Jerome released her hand, and let his arm come back down to his side. “You don’t seem like someone who wants to dance around the inevitable— at least, not after going through so many other failed suitors tonight.”

That was true, he’d read her well. That warmth in her chest felt hotter— she smiled a little smile at him. “Why should I think you’d be worth my time?”

He gave her a very even gaze. “If you come home with me for the night, I promise what you get in return will be so overwhelming for you that you can barely withstand it.”

That was the kind of braggery she almost never heard. But he’d said—

“Come home with you for the night? I almost always have my nighttime partners over to my home, and not the other way around.”

He smiled. “Almost always,” he repeated. “But not always. Let me be that exception that you allow for. Come home with me tonight.”

She could fight it more— she could make him put in more effort, win her over— could make him give her chase. It was fun to play with men that way sometimes— if nothing else, it often built up their appetite and made the sex better when it finally did happen.

But the night was getting on, and the bar was starting to feel like a tired place to be. A change of venue would be good, and so far, the more time she’d spent in Jerome’s company, the more she wanted to be there.

“Alright,” she said, in a light tone. “Take me home.”

They then left the bar together. Jerome had a car waiting outside. “We’ll just go to my penthouse,” he said. “My other home is more inconveniently located.”

This piqued Lena’s curiosity, but she didn’t comment.

The following few minutes were a streak that rushed past. The car pulled up in front of a very luxurious looking extravagant building made of brown stones, with decorative metal columns that looked like they were really made of gold. Jerome got out of the car first, and helped Lena out, which she thought was nice. He kept his arm around her waist as he led her inside, and into the elevator— arm still there, too, as the elevator went up.

Normally, she would have followed things better— noticed more details in the atrium— (and it was so fancy it really did seem like an atrium and not a lobby). But she had still had six drinks so far that night. She was feeling buzzed— not drunk yet— but enough that the edges of things were starting to blur, and enough that it was hard to maintain direct concentration on something.

She really only felt like she’d gotten her bearings once they were to the top-floor, and in Jerome’s penthouse.

Lena had never been in a penthouse before. When Jerome had turned on the lights, she was careful to take a good and thorough look at everything.

It was an open-concept space, from one end of the penthouse to the other, and the four exterior walls were all completely windowed. There were screens around, which could obviously be moved in front of the windows to offer privacy or protection from blinding sunlight, but for the moment, the screens were scattered about the center of the room, and the floor-to-ceiling windows were unguarded, unblocked.

The building which the penthouse topped was tall; and there were no other skyscrapers nearby, so any privacy the screens gave, when put in place, was only theoretical— as there was no one at this level of height to look in through the windows. Through them could be seen the night that covered the city— and all the lights, of both buildings and cars and streetlamps, such an immense measure of distance down. But looking out those perfectly clean, perfectly clear windows gave the illusion that— Lena was not in a penthouse, but flying— she was bird, or she was travelling through air by some means of transportation— plane, hot-air balloon, hang-glider, something that had gotten her up, up, to be part of the night sky, to be at the same level of things that lived here— and the city was beautiful as just an array of distant, far-below lights. It was, simply, magical.

Lena turned her attention to the rest of the penthouse. Parts of it were so distant from her— because it was so large— that she could not tell what they contained, but what immediately surrounded her was engaging enough that she was contented just to look at it.

There was a fireplace— the kind that could be placed centrally in a room, as the flue went up through the roof and out— and this fireplace was centrally placed. Around it was a long couch that curved— it was really like a circle that had been made seating, the link of the sphere was only broken in one place, just so it could be gotten past, to sit on. It was a light-blue color.

He had not invited her to do so, but the couch looked wonderful to her— like nothing she had ever sat on, a perfect outline of a disk with only that breaking point in it for entry; with a pleasant, curved back, around the entirety of the thing. Lena could think of nothing more luxurious than seating herself on it— so she walked through the break in the circle, and moved along it a short-ways. Then found she wanted to move along it further. She moved until she was opposite that entry-break, with the long, tube-rising fireplace between her and it. It gave her the impression of an infinite circle— that impression would be even clearer, if there was ever going to be a flame in the fireplace— and she finally sat down, where she had wanted to.

And she could turn around, and still see outside— still feel like a flyer through air, whether that was through nature’s means, or humanity’s… and the couch was comfortable to sit on. She felt it was swaddling, was supporting her body fully. There were footsteps; Jerome was following her path, followed her until he was seated beside her. She was still looking over her shoulder, out at the night, at the shining city below. She only heard him move, and did not see. It would be polite to face him, now, since he’d invited her here, and was now directly next to her.

She turned around, and saw him.

The response she had seemed a little ridiculous to her. Something in her was like a scream— Jerome! — but it seemed more than anything like some kind of irrepressible scream of longing. Or of ecstasy, or of agonizing impatience— something pleasant and confusing at once. But there was something in him— some kind of attracting force, that spoke of power that just made her— Jerome! Jerome! Every time he seemed to express that power and call her to him by it. And he seemed to do that just by sitting there and existing, as the man he already was.

She had not seen him clearly before— he had been dimmed by things. By the bar, by the night, by the transporting car, by the dimmed atrium and then elevator lights. It was only now, that he was in full illumination before her, that she could really see him. And really seeing him made her need to make that exclamation of his name— Jerome! In a joy that seemed crossed with a frustration over its very existence— but still a joy nevertheless. She hoped that he would never give her cause to raise her hand, and shake her fist, and cry out, Jerome! In lamented hatred— in complete rage, and reproach. But she could not know the future, and for now— to see him was to feel that joy that doubted itself, agonized over itself— and it was because of that attracting power that seemed to pour fourth from him, come out of him in every bit of his body, like he were a lamp, and that power was the light he was putting forth into the room.

She could look more closely at his appearance, too, and not just the air that he surrounded himself with. Even sitting down, she could sense his greater height— he must have six inches on her, must fall short of six foot height by only one or two degrees. And yes, he was still bald— and yes, his body was still nondescript… with no particular muscle definition, but also no over-abundant amount of flab or body-fat. Even in his averageness, there was something appealing. He was a man, he was solid, and there, and it spoke something of his power that he was bald— completely bald, with nary a hair to be seen.

He could not have so fully owned his baldness if he were in anyway self-conscious— if he were anything less than fully secure in himself. And it was that security, that security which seemed to go with great knowledge and experience… that seemed to feed his power, or be a part of it. He might have been forty— he clearly had all the life-experience he lacked. Dashing, debonair figure— even in his averageness, dashing, debonair figure, who knew things, who knew things better than she did, most likely.

She felt their age difference, and it excited her— she twenty-one, he forty— she was living her life, she’d done alright so far, she had some knowledge of the world— but how much more he must know— how much, he would undoubtedly be able to show her. And the kind of things she might see… what they might stir in her, wake her up to. Things she’d had no idea of before, things that would have a meaningful impact on her, that might even change her— which as of this moment she still had no idea of, because she had never crossed ways with them before.

That confidence— that charm— it had been there, in the little they had spoken, but it was part of the overall air he had about him too, and as she beheld him once more, beheld him entirely, once again, it leapt out of her unbidden— Jerome!!! She needed to shake her fists in exultation to fully vent the feeling. But instead, she just sat peaceably there. There had never been any man like him in her life; she’d never met someone who… oozed… that kind of knowledge and power— such charisma. She felt very lucky to have been invited home with him.

“Are you comfortable, here?” He asked her, with a welcoming smile, and in a tone that spoke of further knowing— like he was reading her so well that he did know, but that didn’t make it any kind of a chore to prove him right.

“I’m comfortable, thank you,” she said, and smiled back at him. “We didn’t get a chance to talk much in the bar, because it was so loud there— but I’m glad we’ll have the opportunity now,” he volunteered— and he was a man who knew what he wanted, yes, she was sure, she was sure, that excited her even more—

“You’re not finding that the drinks you’ve had so far tonight are catching up with you? Or making it so your only path forward is to sleep them off?”

She shook her head, a bit giddy from his attention. Receiving, even by implication, the idea that she was important to a man like this, that she deserved all his attention and consideration— that was more intoxicating than anything she’d had at the bar.

“We said first names before,” she managed after a moment. “But maybe we should say full names now. I’m Lena Smith— I’m twenty-one, and I’m majoring in film at my college.”

His smile was so easy— so appealing to look at— “I’m Jerome Wilcox,” was all he said.

And it felt like— something screeched in her brain— the needle on a record player had skipped—

“Did you say— Jerome Wilcox? But— not the Jerome Wilcox who owns multiple tech companies. Not the Jerome Wilcox who is a billionaire success?”

But… why not? Her brain was combing through what she knew about him already… penthouse, but main home outside the city… a car and driver waiting for him… weren’t those exactly the kinds of things a billionaire would have?

“To be fair, I also enjoy going to a baseball game. Or taking one of my sports cars out for a drive. And I’m always happy to visit a casino, or host players myself and spend a night gambling. I set aside an amount I can afford to lose— I have the money to spare,” he laughed, and she found that charming to. His lightness, his ease—

But what kind of night was this? It was like magic too— the kind of thing that could only happen in a story. Too modern and grown-up to be a fairytale; but maybe something close to equivalent with that, something that had as much whimsy, as much wonder in it as that.

“I’m so lucky I got to come home with you,” Lena said, stunned.

Jerome shook his head— she was seeing him again, and— Jerome!!!

“I’m lucky that you came home with me. Do you know what I love to do, Lena?”

She shook her head, speechless in wonder still.

“I love to make a woman feel good, Lena. In ways that she never knew she could feel, herself. I like to show her new pleasures she never even imagined— I like to be the one guiding her through them. I like for it to be— that she has them by my permission. Does that sound like something you would like to?”

She felt flushed, and heated. That was nothing that she had ever experienced before. It made her feel virginal, made her feel innocent and swooning— made her feel she was in possession of some kind of chastity she must defend and that he was tempting away from her… like she lived many centuries before the current time. And she was by no means a virgin, nor chaste— but with all her partners, she held the power. She dominated them, and every man who had ever tried to dominate her had made himself seem like a complete fool, had made himself a joke in his failing of the task.

This was an invitation into something she had never been a part of before— because nothing about Jerome was laughable— he knew, he was so knowledgeable even about this— there must be so many things he knew about pleasure, so many things he knew about sex, and again it made her blush like the innocent to think of that. How was it that he could make her feel so swooning when she’d never felt that way in all her life?

But— could she accept that? Could she really let him dominate her, as fully as he might endeavour to do it? Would there be anything left of her after, if she gave herself fully to him. She had never surrendered in her life— what would happen if she surrendered now?

It frightened her as much as it attracted her, because there seemed a fearsome power in the experience— she felt its awesome nature even just in thinking about it.

But—

Her eyes flicked down; Jerome— Jerome!!! had angled himself, so she could see his lower body there. And if that outline at his crotch was accurate— he must be— he had to be monstrous there, easily the biggest of any man she’d ever—

She felt overcome by so many aspects of his person at once, like she really was swooning— like she would fall back on the couch now, and he would glide over her— and make her feel something. Something she would respond to virginally— opening herself to a first-tasted pleasure— something she would respond to chastely— something understood to be immoral, but too delicious to pass up— how could she do other than surrender?

“I would like that, Jerome,” she said, and it made everything in her body very quiet— she was tensed, ready for the next action.

He leaned forward in his seat— she realized he was taking hold of something beneath the couch and pulling—

Oh! The entire base of the couch was just compartments that could be pulled out. That was convenient— but should she have suspected otherwise from a tech-billionaire?

From the compartment he’d rolled out, he took two things. A small square silver remote— and a collar.

Lena had swallow her nerves, then. Truly like the virgin fearing the first time.

These things gained, he closed the compartment.

He sat back up, but did not approach her immediately with the collar. Instead, he got a better hold of the square, silver remote, and then pressed first one button on it, then another.

The first thing that happened was the dimming of the lights. They were not fully shut off, but brought down to ambient glow, something that oranged everything in a way that felt decadent even to look at. And the second thing to happen was the illumination of a fireplace. It was a decorative flue, then, for the flames were clearly of electric-making; now they danced, oranger even than the dim, glowing lighting of the rest of the room. All hope of seeing the break for entry in the couch’s circle was gone, as the flames constantly leapt within the fireplace’s pit, obscuring it even though that pit was otherwise transparent, and contained by glass on all sides.

It really was like the entire room was lit by candlelight, with the way everything seemed— roseyed, tangerined— it was lulling, it was soothing, reassuring, she felt it calming her mind.

And the flames in the electric fireplace were equally pleasant; just as warm. As she sat there on the couch, she felt only that she was basking— but now, Jerome leaned forward again— Jerome! — and opened the compartment again, set the square silver remote within, and closed it again.

He still held the collar in one hand.

It was sleek silver metal, like the square remote had been. That silver stood out in contrast to the warm tones that touched and overtook everything else. They reached it too— nothing was beyond them, but somehow, the silver seemed to stand out stubbornly against that warm wash of color. Like this was a collar that meant business— like it had its own designs on things, and would seen them carried out.

Looking at it gave Lena her first feeling of disquiet. She had already agreed to put it on— she didn’t want to spoil the fun— but there was a nervous swooping in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure if it was such a good idea anymore.

“Sit forward on the couch, Lena. I’m ready to put the collar on you, now.”

She still had her misgivings— but whatever magnetism Jerome had, that magnetism that was all his own— it made her inclined to follow along and do as he said. She shifted forward, leaning further out than she had to, and with both hands now, Jerome raised the collar to her throat. He unfastened it, put it around her, and refastened it again. Then he dropped his hands back to his lap.

He sat there looking at her. She… didn’t feel all that different. She just felt like… herself.

She had a sense of something, though. A sense of some movement— like a faint wave of air. It seemed to start at the collar, so faint it was basically impossible to feel it— but it travelled up— pulsed into her brain.

Then there was a moment in which the wave was gone. And while it was not there, Lena forgot that it had ever occurred— she was just sitting here like normal. Nothing had happened before.

Then the wave started again.

While it travelled up and through her skull, she felt it happening— she knew it was there. But when it had dispersed, she lost all memory of it. Her mind was flipping constantly between understanding that things were different now— and thinking that everything was still the same.

Even when she was aware of those waves, though… she wasn’t particularly worried about them. Yes, they seemed to be coming from the collar. Yes, they were seemingly able to travel through bone— and they were all ending up somewhere in her brain. But if they were doing something really wrong, really bad for her— there would be some symptom of a bigger problem. As the situation stood right then— she was exactly the same in all ways, felt the same— so there was no reason to fear those waves, nor fear the collar. In fact, even when her mind was alert to the fact those waves were there and travelling— only when they were actually present— she could stand to pay half attention to them. They didn’t need her total focus.

Just thinking that felt good— felt like a sigh, was just like slipping into a warm pool of water just to float there. All tension, all worry easing away… if there were waves, they felt almost nice when she could remember them. And when she couldn’t, it was nice just to sit there on the couch, right where she was.

In those moments where she sat there and felt exactly the same, there was a different feeling rising up— she had those beats of what felt like silence— and then had the moments between them. Those moments between felt like sinking into warm water; and the orange flickering of the electric fire lent something to this impression— cast shoots of light that could have been a sunrise over a lake.

But when it was silent for a beat, that feeling of relaxation stopped. And instead, there was a gnawing feeling of discomfort. It was even a bit like resentment— a twisted feeling of pain and frustration— a feeling she didn’t want to be here, doing this— she wanted to take the collar off, she wanted to leave here and go home—

Then she had reached a bridging moment, and everything felt alright again.

It was disorienting, though, to go from one state to the next. Disorienting, to be for one moment happy and contented with her life— and in the next, frustrated, angry over everything and impatient to get away, go somewhere better.

It was the central problem of her life, though, wasn’t it? Even outside this penthouse, even away from this man— she faced the same issue. She was either happy about having everything in her life set up the way she wanted it to be— or she was anguished because she felt she didn’t deserve it, and should be forced to give it up. Back and forth, back and forth— she didn’t want to think about any of it anymore. Didn’t want to think about anything. It was all too much work, to worry about the problems of the world, the problems of her life… she wanted to be a thing unthinking…

She should let Jerome become her distraction— yes, that was good. It felt better to focus on him, and ignore everything else. Yes, it seemed to become truer by the moment— her mind seemed to be going through the same cycle of happy, unhappy, satisfied, frustrated— but when she latched onto the sight of Jerome, it seemed to anchor her. Even in the moment the happiness and satisfaction dropped away— Jerome was still there, and he kept her feeling— interested, at least— and a little giddy. She could look at him, and forget everything else. Look at him and appreciate that he seemed to become more appealing by the minute.

Her body was starting to respond to the Jerome-watching she was doing.There was a bit of warmth, as sunset-flickering as the fire, as rosey as the rest of the dimmed lighting, but this warmth was spreading through her lower body— and dewing her folds, electrifying her clit. She was getting aroused, just as she sat here and looked at him.

She’d felt so— so responsive to him, even before she had put the collar on. He had made her feel— such tender emotion, had made her feel so… sensitive, so ready to receive from him. That had been all her own emotion— that had been her response to his magnetism.

But the way she was feeling now was nothing like that at all. Before, she had felt how fully she was a woman. Because she’d been a woman who wanted to give herself to a man she held in great esteem. But she… didn’t really feel like a woman, now. She was feeling… dehumanized, in a way that she liked. She wasn’t a woman, ready to give herself over to a man she respected and looked up to. She was some kind of creature, ready to crawl on the floor for the person who held authority on her. When she allowed herself to think that way, it intensified the arousal that was in her body, sparked further sparks where they sat in her clit, output further dew from between her thighs.

She should crawl on the floor— she was wearing her collar for him, the collar he’d given her. That made her… like an animal. And it was better to be an animal, wasn’t it? No need to worry about anything, or feel any stress. No need to even think— all she had to do, through her means of responding to the world, was go through emotion after emotion. And as long as she was looking at Jerome it was a good emotion. Like any animal looking up at their owner— looking up in admiration and affection, waiting to be taken care of, feeling only absolute trust.

It was still a choice to think this way. She could snap herself out of it— but it was fun to go along with it, fun to pretend it was real— hot, too.

If she could have had the feeling back that she’d felt earlier— that tenderness, that sensitivity. She would have rejected it— she would have chucked every feeling she’d ever had in her life, if it meant she could keep feeling like this. Responding to Jerome as a woman besieged by his charms was nothing.

Any woman Jerome could go out and find must surely respond the same way. No, it was far more special to react to Jerome like she was an animal he had tamed. She was the only one wearing his collar right now— and that set her apart from all other women who might otherwise have been her competition. She almost preened as she was sitting there. She was Jerome’s animal, his tamed animal— she wore his collar— it felt like she was becoming more and more committed to the game every time she thought so. It also felt like she was getting more and more turned on the more that she played into what was happening. She wanted to crawl— she wanted to do as he would bid her.

But for now, he was only sitting casually on the couch, letting her eyes drink him in. It felt somehow in this moment that she was being trained— and that was good. She had been a wild animal before, she didn’t understand how to display proper behavior yet.

It felt so much like undergoing training, in fact, that Jerome might as well have just told her to “stay,” but whether he had said it or not, it was clearly what he wanted her to do. And she was being so good by doing it— she felt her arousal intensify again— and she was staring to breathe heavier, panting animalistically— it was hard to keep her tongue in her mouth, so she let it flop out— panted, panted, still kept watching Jerome.

He was training her to be good, to be well-behaved. Breaking the wildness in her— he had tamed her enough to put the collar around her throat, but he needed to tame her more. All she had to do was trust that when he wanted something else from her, he would tell her what that was. Then he could train her to those other tasks, of his delight, whatever they would be.

She hoped he wouldn’t ask for her spoken input on anything, though. She was still… thinking alright, although things were starting to feel a bit muddy in her head. But though she could still think, she was sure that she would not be able to speak. She was being a good animal now, and they could only make sounds— make cries. They could not use language. They could not use words. And if she were to try, for either language or words, there would be nothing there to make use off. She probably could still make cries, like any other animals. But just as surely as it had seemed that Jerome had said, “stay,” if only with a look— it seemed too that he had said “silence,” with a second look. She had to sit here, panting, attending him— waiting for some other command. And she had to sit where she was without moving out of place— and she had to sit where she was, and keep quiet.

The only sound was her breathing. Her tongue was staring to pour out drool— but she didn’t worry about that. Her eyes were fixed on Jerome; and watching him felt good, then it felt better— it kept improving, making her feel more aroused than before. She was ready, full of pouncing energy, but she was obeying her commands so well— taking to her train so well. All that energy to pounce forth and move, but she was only sitting there still, tamed by a look— the look could go on forever and she wouldn’t even mind it. She felt soothed— it was relieving, not to have thoughts, not to have words, not to have worries, nor cares… just to have… this owner, this owner she could belong too, who would take care of everything for her. Someone else to do the thinking, someone else to do the deciding. There was still time to think— just barely— that Jerome putting the collar on her had claimed her, and no matter which other women threw themselves at him— he’d make no claim over them such as he’d already made on her.

And then that thought wisped away— and she could just be the animal again. Panting, ready to pounce, but behaving itself— full of arousal, full of energy, ready to move, to exercise itself, to move and move its body and burn some of that energy off— yes, that would be good— but it was good to follow what its owner showed it, it was good to sit in patience and wait, good to sit in silence, and wait too.

The animal panted more heavily— and for a moment, Lena could feel just how much of herself she had committed to going along with this game; it might have been a little alarming, if it hadn’t been so entertainment. It was still just pretend, no matter how real it felt— but she found she preferred to fully lose herself in the role.

The animal panted. The animal waited; it was not fully domesticated yet, but that could happen in time. It had a good owner that it could trust for everything, and he knew how to arrange everything the way that it should be. There was such pleasure in her body now.

Jerome shifted, finally. It called Lena’s mind out of that training-place, to be more attentive towards him.

“You feel that you belong to me, now, don’t you?”

Through the haze that had permeated her mind, Lena remembered how to nod.

“That’s what I really like, Lena— not just giving women new experiences, not just guiding them. I like claiming ownership over them. I like to make them feel how far they are beneath me. And now I want to show you what it’s like— to experience that.”

That woke a feeling of alarm in her. That was what he liked— to be domineering? That wasn’t what he’d admitted to before— he’d said one thing, but meant another, said one truth but kept another secret— the look that had come over him now filled her with unease— because it was a look that said he wanted to put shackles on her soul, and possess her entirely. This was less of a game then she thought. It seemed, suddenly, much more serious than that.

And still— it was Jerome. Just looking at him trained her— made her feel how good it was to be trained—

He had shifted again so he was close at her side.

“Tell me honestly, now. Can you think of anything, in this moment, other than your desire for me?”

The truth of it seemed to split her. “I can’t,” she whimpered.

He had to know how she was feeling— how submissive, how turned on, how below him— had to know how she couldn’t help but admire him. And knowing her jumble of feelings was that— he only worked it to his advantage, and leaned in, and kissed her.

Immediately, she was filled with shame. If his glances had been training, his kiss was more so— and his touch would be more so, and—

But she was ashamed, because she knew letting herself be trained was going to make her less than a woman. It was going to turn her back into that animal, wearing his collar— and given what he had just admitted, that streak of possessiveness she had seen— he might not be willing to let her turn back into a woman after.

But his kiss— it trained her again, though this time her mind was awake enough to be shamed by it. She wanted to cover her face with her hands, wanted to cry in them, hide, shy away— this was so exposing, this was so embarrassing— and yet his kiss was steady, and it woke a passion in her. A passion to really, truly belong to him— to crawl like the animal and forget her humanity— to be petted by him, to take anything into her mouth he wanted to put there, feed into— waiting for his indication, only following it.

She was kissing him back with full hunger, open and sloppy and wet, and when she did that, he seemed to devour her mouth more fully. She was losing control of herself— and that was shameful too, but it was his control that she was held fully within, and the feeling of his collar around her throat only reminded her of that. And he was shifting her back— looming over her, seeming to trap her to the couch.

And he kept kissing her in that taming way. Something in her kept trying to rise up— to lash out against the power he seemed to be setting over her, as surely as he had put the collar around her. Yet when it rose up, thrashing in anger and shame, the kiss was there, driving it back, pushing her into the cushions of the couch. They caught her body, but it really felt like he was the thing supporting her— just as he was the thing driving her back. Kissing, kissing, kissing, stirring that animal feeling, that animalistic need— would the shackles on her soul be so bad, if he were the one to hold the key that opened them, even if he was never to use it.

His hands were roaming over her, too, as he kissed and kissed her— he’d pulled just slightly back from her, so there was room for him to reach between her body and his. She understood as those hands moved— he was petting her— stroking down her chest, stroking over her stomach, like he was trying to calm her. Her touches were as training as she’d known they would be. She tried to want to resist, to break free of his control, but it felt so good to be bound in it— to become less than a woman— to get dragged, by those chains, back into an animal nature. Even as it made her burn in embarrassment at the same time.

This— this wasn’t who she was supposed to be, though. With all the other men she’d ever been close to, she had always been the one in control— that was part of her identity, she gave and they took what she offered— but now here a man was, taking from her, and she could only lie there and become what it was making her— surrender fully to the training of his touches, the training of his kisses. There had never been ecstasy like this, any of those earlier times in which she had been the one in control. But she was supposed to be stronger than this— she hated herself for not being able to stand up to this, and it made her flush in further shame.

And then those taming pets of his hands soothed her— and dragged her more into that animalistic nature. Yes, it was better to let all thought go. Yes, it was better to let herself be owned— he could have her, he could do what he liked— there was no ecstasy like this, this complete surrender. No man before had ever compared to this— no man after ever would—

He was shifting off of her— and she whimpered, making only animal cries, for the moment a bit beyond the point of using language.

He made her sit up— and then he was taking her clothes off of her, taming her with a look. She let herself be undressed, then heard the commands that had never been spoken, as before. “Stay,” and “silence,” and she watched as he stood, and undressed himself.

Her eyes shifted down, and latched onto his naked cock, once he had revealed it. It was more huge than it had looked when it had only been an outline in his pants. This was the most powerful image of all— had the most power to train her, could train her better than a glance from him. She hoped he would feed it to her— that would be incredible to take into her mouth. But it would be incredible, too, to take it between her legs. She hoped he would enter her unprotected, enter her bare— it was only the fleeting memory of a moment, the thought that she was lucky to have gotten a birth control implant so she wouldn’t have to think about that— could just be bathed and bathed inside with his ejaculate… without thinking. She should stop thinking— the sight of his cock trained her thoughts, and made her mouth drool. No ecstasy like this, no other man…

He moved again, dispelling her reverie. Once more he loomed over her on the couch— and she could only make a guttural noise somewhere between a grunt and a whimper. His movements seemed gliding, and once he was again over her, she felt fully held by his power— felt fully held by the collar. She could only submit to that feeling— submit to whatever he would do to her.

She felt him breach her channel, gliding in on the slickness that had been pouring out of her continuously— and his cock was the training thing, the same as when she’d watched it. It fucked her when he swivelled his hips forward, and made her the animal.

“Take it,” he huffed— and she fully surrendered.

He was so rough with her. Pillaging her— his hips slamming into hers, his cock stabbing in deeply. She seemed to grip him harder every time he entered in, her body trying to hold onto him even as he drew back out again, to slam in anew. It made her pussy ache— but ache so well— those other men, they had never fucked her so claimingly, nor so roughly. She had always been the one deciding how the fucking would go— more often than not, riding on top instead of pinned underneath, just receiving thrusts. When she had been the one driving down, to draw in her lover and then draw back off of him again— it had never felt like she’d been penetrated as deeply as she was being penetrated now. And there had been distant pleasure— but the pleasure in her now was all consuming, filling every part of her, making her an animal that just needed to rut against the source of the pleasure that was filling her.

And with the position Jerome had her in, there really wasn’t much room for movement, or shifting, or even shifting in response. She just had to take what he gave her— the best that she’d ever been given. She just had to lie there and take it— but the pleasure was everything, something she had never tasted before. And she couldn’t control her responses to it anymore.

She started making a keening noise— hearing the noise echo back to her ears made her feel less human— but she kept making the noise on impulse, as still Jerome drove himself inside of her, stabbing, stabbing, jutting his hips. He owned her soul more fully with each thrust— and the embarrassment had twisted wrongly, had become something that only underlined the pleasure that she was getting. It was better for the sake of being completely unlike what she would normally of done.

Better, for the fact that she was acting completely out of character— perhaps even losing her identity. And the only way she could express this anymore was just to go on keening, to just go on wailing. But she thought she must feel good around him— from the way he breathed so heavily, from the way he pumped himself into her body— he was likely getting even more pleasure than he was giving, and that was good, he should be pleasured— he should have everything that he could get from her— she did belong to him now, and he should plunder her.

His thrusts began to slow, as if he wanted to more fully savor the experience of fucking her— and the reduction to the pace only made Lena feel more owned. His cock felt like it was dragging its way into her— brushing against every part of her insides— stroking past walls, brushing against the underside of nerves. It made her shudder with her whole body as it came in so lazily; and then she was clenching on him— he was still pushing in deeper, though it felt like he had gone in as far as he could go. He was working his hips even further forward, bowing his back to get those few inches deeper.

It made her feel so stretched— made her feel so filled— and when he was absolutely as deep as he could possibly be, he pushed just a quarter of inch further. And then he truly had no leverage to get farther. The mechanics of their position would not allow it. He just stayed there, nestled into the deepest point, as her pussy throbbed around him. She was clenching a few seconds after that, and he just held still there, letting her grip at him, letting her work him— and still there was no sign of an impending orgasm from him.

He had control over his sphere of influence in the world— briefly she thought of all the companies he ran. He had control over her, as she lay here on this couch. But it seemed he had control even over himself. No orgasm would be coaxed from him, until he wanted to let it go— and he seemed more interested in the feeling of seating himself in her, than he was in the feeling of release.

As for herself, she couldn’t tell what was an orgasm and what wasn’t, anymore. The pleasure was everywhere in her, but sometimes her pussy was clenching— and sometimes it just throbbed, but either way she was being painted in mind-destroying pleasure. The emotion was the orgasm now— the emotion of surrender, of ecstasy, of excitement, of belonging. It was all one feeling, and that feeling was tied to him— the joy of being is, the rapture in knowing him as a person— and that was unending bliss. So she was having a kind of orgasm that was never going to stop. And the times between her pussy clenching were just as ecstatic as the times in which it only gripped around him, as if waiting.

Slowly, he began to draw back out of her. It was as much of a dragging sensation on the way out as it had been in— splitting her further open as he worked her in reverse, and yet she only gripped his cock tighter. Her whole body was flickering in pleasure as he withdrew, that delicious feeling everywhere with in, and her pussy was spasming constantly. It couldn’t stop— and the pleasure surged in her, and surged in her— and finally he had withdrawn until only his tip remained inside—

And then he began the slow driving in again. He would reach that deepest point again— maybe this time he would get a quarter of an inch even further than that. He shouldn’t be able to— but he’d likely manage it anyway.

Her mind was finally silent, flickering, too, like it was filled with static. There was only sensation. There was only experience. It could go on like this, forever, and she wouldn’t care. The shackles around her could keep her locked to this one place. She never needed to leave it— and he could drive into her like this for hours— draw back out, drive in again, and she would never begrudge it.

It was perfect. It was perfect, and she belonged to him, and he owned her— and he tamed her with every penetration, every thrust. She would always be his. She would always want to be his. And there was such pleasures in being his— she was spasming again, and he was pushing— it felt like even deeper than the last time— he was pushing, steady, calm, solid— there. She never wanted her pussy to be empty again— or, failing that, she never wanted to be apart from him, ever again. She would trail him at his heels from this day forward, and she would never even think to question that impulse.