The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Don’t you just hate it when you’re reading a book, and long about Chapter 5, just as you’re hoping the author is going to shed some badly-needed light on the subject, you encounter the words:

One Year Later.

Still, that’s just what is about to happen here, so please try not to choke on your disappointment and let’s just muddle on.

Now, by this point, you’ve probably formed some conceived opinions about me (if you stick it out and follow this diatribe to the end, I’ll bet those opinions are going to change).

Whether you view me as a staunch fighter for truth, justice and the American way or just some lucky nerd that got the girl, you’ve probably noticed that modesty is not my strongest suite. While this rambling bunch of words may not impress you, I DO try to string subjects and predicates together effectively. On the other hand, I’ve had some small experience with editing, as well, and so I also pride myself in recognizing effective writing when I see it.

Quite frankly, when I came across Dee’s diary, I had to admit that she’d done an excellent job of piecing together all the pertinent facts surrounding the next part of our saga. Do I feel badly about publishing such personal insights? Absolutely not. I mean, it’s not as if she can complain about such a violation of privacy. And this, her last journal (alas, no other will ever be written), sums it all up with the sort of emotionally vivid observation I could never attain.

Still, I must warn the reader that this story is about ME! It’s about my long, sad slide into the depths of degradation. In the last portion of our story, you observed me making a solemn oath that I would NEVER follow in the footsteps of the antagonist. And in this portion …. Well, let’s just continue, shall we?

DEE’S DIARY.

THURSDAY, MAY 3rd.

Well, I’ve done it. I’ve figured it all out. In my last entry, I told you why. Now I can report where, when and how.

It’s going to be at the lake house, so I’ll be all alone and miles from anyone. It’s going to happen next Tuesday (Ben and Martha’s day off). And I’m going to use the pills Dr. Walters gave me. They’re very strong (I’ve already written about how they help me sleep through the night without a hint of the dream), and they have all sorts of warnings about only taking one per night. I’ve started skipping them. The nightmares are back, but that won’t last long … just until next Tuesday. The prescription calls for one refill, and I’ll be able to do that on Tuesday morning. That will give me eleven pills, and that’ll surely be enough.

Now that it’s all decided, I feel much better. I really do. I’ll sign the new will tomorrow morning, and the private lawyer I picked out seems like a good one. It should be air tight. The money will be gone (finally gone!), and so will I. It will all go to good causes. I just wish I could say that my life had been for a good cause ….

I just picked out my last novel. I think I’ll end with an old-fashioned mystery. The Door, by Mary Roberts Rinehart. I’ve never read her before. I’m sure I can finish by Tuesday.

I’m going to go to the gym every day this weekend and start on a diet. I want to lose five pounds.

I do hope I’ll be a pretty corpse.

FRIDAY, MAY 4th

You’re not going to believe this. I’ve met somebody! No, not a guy; it’s a girl. And no, it’s not THAT, either. I think she’s going to be a friend. A real friend! I haven’t had a girl friend since … well, I guess since Francine Schwartz when I was thirteen (and THAT didn’t last too long, thanks to Daddy). Have I actually spent my entire life with no friends?

Anyway, her name is Brenda Fielding, and I met her at the gym in the workout room. I was on a treadmill, and she was on a Stairmaster near the other end of the room. We were facing each other, and I watched as this guy on the machine next to hers started talking to her. She seemed really shy, but whatever she said to him finally discouraged him, and after a few more minute’s exercise, he got off his machine, then came over and started hitting on ME! It took me awhile to convince him that I wasn’t in the market, either, and at last, he left to search for better hunting grounds. She caught my eye and smiled at me, and I smiled back. Then, about ten minutes later, the whole scene was repeated with another guy, but in reverse. First this new asshole started flirting with me, and when I FINALLY discouraged him, he got off his treadmill and tired to hit on HER! The whole scene was so funny that she started laughing out loud, which really pissed him off. And then she got off her machine and came over and started working out on the one next to mine.

We talked and talked, and it made the hour seem to just fly by; and when we were finished (I think she extended her workout until I was done, but I’m not sure), she asked me if I’d like to go out and get a drink with her. I told her that I hadn’t brought a change of clothes, so I couldn’t, and she said, well, if we couldn’t go out, we could get a couple veggie drinks and sip them at the concession stand out by the pool. I followed her into the locker room, and stood nervously as she stopped in front of a locker and immediately started stripping out of her clothes. She looked at me sort of funny and said something like “Come on, let’s get showered and go to the refreshment stand,” and I told her that I always waited and showered at home, and that I didn’t even have a towel. It was hard to carry on a conversation. She has a really, really nice body (not grotesquely top-heavy like me), and I was trying hard not to stare. I just couldn’t tell her the REAL reason I never shower at the gym. But she just sort of seemed to ignore my stares, shrugged, and told me what kind of drink she wanted and that she’d meet me there in a few minutes, and she flounced off to the showers.

I bought the drinks and only waited about ten minutes before she walked up wearing a pretty matching sweat outfit, and we continued our conversation from the gym as if it had never been interrupted.

She’s some sort of freelance reporter that writes articles for various types of magazines. She’s married to a prof in the English department out at the University, and I guess they’ve only been together about a year, because the honeymoon DEFINITELY isn’t over yet. She’s still bonkers over the guy. To tell you the truth, I think she carries the whole “adoration” thing a little too far, because whenever she talked about him, she got this far-away, dopey sort of look in her eyes. But that didn’t happen too often, because she was always discretely trying to turn the conversation back toward me, trying to find out who I was, what I did. She must be a pretty good journalist (unless she already KNEW who I was – I was never really sure). Anyway, I was having none of that, and I gave her my usual vague answers and shifted the conversation right back her way. We must have sparred that way for another hour. It was fun. She was fun! I really, really like her.

Before it was over, she had worked a promise out of me that we’d do another workout together at 11:00 tomorrow and then shower, change, and go to lunch. I finally relented by telling her it would be my treat. As soon as I got home, I made reservations at Alphonse’s. I think I’ll wear that blue silk blouse I bought two years ago: the one Daddy would never let me wear.

I don’t know how I’m going to get out of that shower, though. I CAN’T let her see me in the shower. No one’s ever seen me like that. I’d just die if anyone ever saw!

Oh well. After Tuesday, it won’t really matter, I guess. No one will see that part of me, even if the service is open-casket.

I wonder if Brenda will come to my funeral.

SATURDAY, MAY 5th

This is going to be a long entry. I finally told somebody! I still can’t believe it. I never even wrote about it in my journal after “the event” … I couldn’t bring myself to even think about it! But now I’ve told Brenda, and I believe that maybe if I write it all down here, I can finally accept what happened. Not that it’s going to change my mind about Tuesday. But it would be nice to finally feel at peace about the whole thing at the end of my life.

We met today as agreed. I’ve never brought a change of clothes to the gym before, and I wasn’t really sure how the system worked. I found an empty locker that no one was using and hung my clothes in it. I didn’t have a lock, and I think that I was sort of hoping that someone would steal my things so I would have a good excuse when it came time for the dreaded shower, but after our workout (it went by so fast talking to Brenda!) everything was still there. I just started getting dressed in my nice clothes, putting them on over my sports bra and panties, but Brenda joked about me being all “stinky” for our afternoon out and started laughing and tugging at me to get my offensive body into the shower. After all my lame excuses were used up, I finally surrendered and stripped. There was no one else in the locker room at that time (thank God!), so I figured that if I always stood facing her, maybe she wouldn’t notice ... maybe she wouldn’t see.

She seemed sort of smug having finally gotten me to agree to accompany her to the shower, and she stopped her giggling banter and taunting as I shyly finished taking off the bra and panties, openly staring at me and blushing when she realized she was gawking. She said I had nice breasts. They’re not nice. They’re just big. I hate them, and I told her so. But she laughed at that, and said that ALL women hate their breasts, or at least wished they were different. She motioned me toward the showers, but I made sure she walked in front of me.

In the shower, I always faced her, turning on the water as I stood to one side, my back toward the wall. She didn’t seem to catch on at first, and after several minutes I actually thought I was going to get out of there and get my clothes back on before she saw, but I got soap in my eyes and must have turned too much as I was rinsing it out. The next thing I knew, she had actually put her hand on my butt.

I froze. I’d been caught. I couldn’t look at her; couldn’t even look up. I stood very still, looking down at my feet, the soap still stinging my eyes; though the tears that came weren’t from the soap, of course. But in the shower, she wouldn’t see the tears. She wouldn’t hear me cry, either. I’m a quiet crier. Living with Daddy taught me that, and I can honestly say that he NEVER heard me cry. Big girls don’t cry. All my tears are silent.

She used both hands, one on my waist and the other on the top part of my butt, to slowly turn me so she could better see that part of me. I silently let her. I’ve never been so embarrassed! Her fingers traced first one of the longest scars, then another. From the small of my back to the bottom curve of my ass. From the left cheek almost to my shoulders. Her fingers were soft. Gentle. Erotic. I shivered uncontrollably for a moment.

“It still hasn’t healed,” she said softly.

“Yes it has,” I said in words stronger than I thought I was capable of producing. “The wounds healed almost two years ago.”

“It’s not the physical scars I’m talking about,” she said, sadly.

My head snapped up, and I found myself startled by the proximity of her. Her face was inches from mine, her eyes not looking down at the scars, but directly into my own, directly into the center of my very being. Her hands were still on my body. Her left nipple scraped briefly across my right one. I couldn’t look away. But then she stepped back from me and turned toward her own shower nozzle.

“You’d better hurry,” she said, as if nothing had happened. “Your hair is wet, and I’m going to have to help you with it. What time are the reservations for?”

I was still breathless. Hadn’t she felt it? Whatever it was … that spark … that feeling as if our souls had touched? I fought for control. “One fifteen,” I muttered.

She turned off her shower and walked out into the dressing room. “We’d better hurry. We can borrow a hair dryer from the front desk.”

We helped each other dress, and I must admit that when were finished, we looked pretty foxy. Brenda, as I think I’ve mentioned before, is absolutely gorgeous. Her hair is very long, very straight, and very black. The green silk blouse and white slacks she chose made her look chic, intelligent and sexy, and I felt a little like the ugly girlfriend that always attaches herself to a pretty one to try and gain a little recognition.

Alphonse greeted me like a relative, hugging me and kissing me on both cheeks. I’d only been in there once since Mommy and Daddy died (with Ben and Martha for Martha’s birthday), but he insisted on seating us and waiting on us personally. He made a great show of it for Brenda’s sake, and I could tell he was enthralled by her. (We wound up spending almost three hours at that table, and at one point, when I had gotten up to use the ladies’ room, he made it a point to tell me to take our time and stay as long as we wanted. I pressed four one hundred-dollar bills into his palm and told him what a real dear he was, and asked if he would see to the tip for his waiters. He, of course, never looked at the bills, simply pocketed them and told me I would always be one of his favorite customers. I’m glad I had the opportunity to come here one last time.)

Brenda was nervous, but very excited by the whole affair. I didn’t ask, but I got the impression she’d never been in a five-star restaurant. While she never commented on the number and placement of the silverware, she watched me closely but casually. I was quick to pick up the proper fork, so she could follow suit without embarrassment.

I ordered a bottle of Dom, and she watched the cork-popping ritual with glee, but when our glasses were filled, she leaned forward conspiratorially and confided that she had an extraordinarily low tolerance for alcohol. She seemed genuinely distressed that the wine would go to waste. I had to laugh. She is so sincere about everything! She was right about the champagne, though. She sipped that one glass the whole time. I had four! But at the end of it all, we were both about equally tipsy.

Our conversation meandered here and there for awhile, but eventually it became more and more intimate. She changed the subject often, and I was caught off guard more than once. At one point, she started talking about her relationship with her husband; and I’ve got to say, it sounds absolutely bizarre! He hypnotizes her! Often! Like every day! I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because she was quick to defend him. She insisted that he only does it so often because she wants him to. In fact, she says, she often begs him for it! I was flabbergasted! How could she give up that much control to him, I asked. And she spent several minutes telling me how wonderful it is to just let go, give in, surrender to someone you love. I felt myself getting hot and blushing at the concept. I must admit, it did sound nice. But what do I know? I’ve never really had a “someone you love.” Not really.

She abruptly changed the subject, then shifted it back to her love life, telling me how she confides in Freddy (her husband) about everything; but she hadn’t told him about meeting me yet, since he was away on a camping and fishing trip with some of “the guys,” and wouldn’t be coming back until late this evening. And then again she changed subjects, leaving the real questions hanging in my mind like an anvil suspended by a weak string. Everything? Was she going to tell him about the scars on my ass and back? Was she going to tell him who I really was? Did she know herself?

And then, during the main course, she was talking about this historical article she was doing, hoping to sell it to a major history journal. It was about some riot that took place in Alton, Illinois at the beginning of the 19th century. And then, without warning, she was telling me about her first sexual experience.

Maybe it was the wine. I’m not really sure. All I know is that I hung on her every word. She had been raped! By her uncle, none the less! I could easily see that telling the story was extremely painful for her. She looked down at her hands as she spoke, and halfway through, she started crying. It was sad and erotic and infuriating and very, very intimate; probably the most intimate story I’d ever heard. I couldn’t believe she was telling me about this, the most private and embarrassing moments of her entire life. But the underlying message was there, as well. She was giving me the opportunity to do the same; to tell her about my scars. She was subjecting herself to the pain of telling her story so that I could tell mine if I so chose.

And then, just like that, I WAS telling her. Looking back on it now, it was a really crazy thing to do. I mean, I’d only known this woman for 24 hours, and here I was, telling her something that no one, and I mean NO ONE, knew or even suspected. It just seemed so … RIGHT to tell her!

And so, dear Diary, for the first time, I’ll write the words here. They won’t be around for long, of course; I plan to burn all my journals Tuesday evening. But maybe this will help. Saying it to Brenda seemed to.

I had to give her a little background, of course. I told about how Daddy had prohibited me from dating or even going out with friends. I explained how I spent all my days in the big house, studying with tutors and in home study or correspondence courses. And about how the only real free time I ever had was in the garden with Ben, or helping him with the car, or cooking with Martha. The happiest moments of my whole life, the accomplishments I’m proudest of, took place in the flower bed or the kitchen or under the hood of Daddy’s Grey Ghost. I was allowed to read for pleasure one hour a day at lunchtime, and two in the evening when I went to bed, as long as I’d done my lessons properly and wasn’t being punished by Daddy for some infraction of the rules.

Mommy was always very nice, of course, but Daddy never really allowed her to be a real mother. It was the position of dedicated servants to raise a child. Mommy’s life was to be dedicated only to Daddy. She spent her days and evenings upstairs in the big room she’d put her quilt racks in, stitching and cutting and batting and stretching. When Daddy called her, she went. When Daddy needed her, she was there. When Daddy wanted her, she gave herself willingly. Always. I listened at their door when I passed sometimes. When I was allowed to watch video movies in my room on weekends (as a reward when I was good), I often watched films that had love scenes, so I knew the sounds of love. Mommy and Daddy made them behind that door sometimes. She was his lover. His slave. Such was the position of “wife” in Daddy’s eyes.

When I turned twenty, Daddy made me build a mutual fund portfolio, and I had to manage it, with his help at first, of course; but eventually he made me do it all by myself, and he kept putting more and more money into it. I hated it! But, of course, I couldn’t complain. This is what Daddy had prepared me for. This was my legacy. This was my Hell.

When I was twenty-two, the new Economics building opened on the campus; the one built entirely from his contributions; the one bearing his name. The dean, as a gesture, offered to allow the generous patron’s only daughter to attend the first graduate course in the new spaces. And so, for the first time, I was allowed outside unsupervised. Ben drove me in the Ghost, and that, of course, made it a bit like a circus. A 1937 Rolls Royce on a college campus! Daddy might just as well have sent me to class in a spaceship! Of course, I was very nervous and excited, but Daddy had really laid down the law, with a list of rules as long as my arm.

I was very disappointed in the course. Daddy had made me read the textbook they were using almost three years before. I found myself daydreaming and watching the men and women around me, and if the professor asked me a question, I could always give an acceptable answer without thinking too much. Some of the girls in the class would whisper and cast glances my way. But it was the guys that particularly enchanted me. They looked, too. I’d never been around many men, and the looks they gave me ranged from sidelong glances of curiosity to outright leers. I found that I couldn’t maintain eye contact (something I have trouble with to this day), and I’d always find myself blushing after discovering someone gazing at me.

Just before the second class, I had my first conversation with Jay. He was one of the “leerers” in the first class, and while he introduced himself to me and started asking me pointed questions to get the conversation going, I found myself stammering and blushing and actually sweating. I was talking to a guy! I was actually doing something that normal girls do! I still don’t remember much of the things we said, but I remember that I thought it was wonderful. After class, he caught up with me again, and he made me sit next to him on a park bench outside the Econ building, and we talked for almost half and hour (until Ben came looking for me) about a myriad of topics I don’t remember. I begged Ben not to tell Daddy that I’d met somebody, and he consented. But that would only make my guilt much worse, as things turned out.

The next class was on a Thursday, and I made Ben drive me earlier than normal. Sure enough, Jay was there early, too, and I hurried over to him and said Hi. He had been talking to another girl, but he suddenly ignored her completely and gave all his attention to me. I felt fantastic. I felt pretty. I felt wanted. And for the first time, I began to wonder if I felt in love. Jay was a big, strong guy, with wavy blonde hair, a firm jaw, and rather cruel, bright, intelligent eyes. He put an arm around my shoulders, led me a few steps, and then turned me around to face him again. He stood very close, and while it excited me in ways I’d never imagined, I found myself backing away from him slightly. In another minute, I realized that he’d positioned me in such a way that my back was against one of the walls in the hallway. He put his right hand next to my head and leaned in close, talking all the time. I guess it was a classic pose: the schoolgirl trapped by a guy in the hallway. But I didn’t really know what to do about it. I didn’t really know if I WANTED to do something about it. The body language was unmistakable. The aggressive hunter and the tame fawn eating out of his hand. The predator and the innocent. The dominant and the submissive. Was this the way Mommy felt with Daddy? People were looking. Girls snickered and whispered to each other.

I struggled to keep up some semblance of conversation, and then was absolutely mortified to discover that the topic had somehow turned sexual. Even then, all I could seem to do was blush furiously and answer every question honestly. His voice was soft, gentle, strong, and very, very authoritative. I prayed that no one else could hear. I could only whisper my responses, which gave him an excuse to move even closer to me. Our faces were touching. Did I ever go out of the big house? No, not really. Never with friends? No. Ever date? No. Never? No. Never even did it with a guy? (Oh, God!) No. Never let a guy touch me? No. Ever wonder what it felt like? And when I hesitated, he put his lips to my ear and ordered: Answer me! I shivered. Yes. Do you ever touch yourself? NO! Don’t you ever want to, though? No … I mean … I don’t know … I mean … no. Are you sure? No … I mean, yes.

People were drifting into the class, but he made no move to let me go. “You’re very pretty,” he said, and I could only gawk and stammer. “I want you,” he said, and I suddenly realized that I was breathing hard for no apparent reason.

“Shouldn’t we go into class?” I asked, and he told me that he felt like skipping class. He asked if I’d ever skipped class before, and I started muttering an explanation, but before I got too far, he said: “I want you to skip class and go with me.”

“Where?”

“To heaven.” And when I could only look at him dumbfounded, he laughed and whispered something I don’t remember into my ear. I shivered and stuttered and fell quiet. I looked up into his eyes, feeling trapped and wonderful. His lips were so close to mine they were touching, tantalizing, smelling faintly of wintergreen. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” I asked, but he shocked me to my core by saying: “Baby, I’m going to fuck you ‘til the cows come home.”

My mouth seemed to try to work, but no words came. He told me that he was going to take me away from my rich snob of a father, and he was going to show me all the things I’d been missing all these years. Half the girls who’d gone into the class (the class we were missing!) he had already screwed, he said. They knew how to please a man. They knew what it felt like to have a man deep, deep inside (I shivered again, despite myself). They all knew what sex was like. But with them, it was just sex. It would be different with me. He was falling in love with me, he said, and now he wanted to show me what it could be like, sex with someone you loved. He was going to suck on my big, beautiful breasts and nipples. (Shiver.) He was going to touch me in ways I’d never dreamed; in places I didn’t even know existed. He was going to do EVERYTHING to me. I was about to make love, he said. Make REAL love.

And when he was silent so long that I instinctively looked up at him, he kissed me. Kissed me hard. I think I’d have fallen if his body hadn’t been pinning mine to the wall. I felt weak and dizzy and … something else. Something very exciting was happening in my tummy and between my legs. When he finally stopped, he kept his lips gently touching mine.

“Make love with me,” he urged. “Please! I want you!” He paused and I panted, but remained silent. “Don’t you want to?” he pressed.

And I said yes.

Now, anybody with an ounce of common sense would agree that this whole scenario was such an obvious cliché that any girl with half a brain would have 1) laughed in his face and 2) slapped it as hard as she could. But it was really, really hard being a 22 year old walking hormone who had never even been close to a member of the male gender, and who suddenly found herself being told all the things she’d always dreamed about. He was going to make love to me, and certainly no one had ever done anything like that before. He was going to LOVE me, and no one had ever done that before, either. But more than anything else, he was going to take me away from Daddy, and that was the most intoxicating thing of all. I was going to escape! I was going to be free!

He took my hand and led me down the hall and out the door. It was if I was in some sort of trance, being led away. I didn’t care where, as long as it was away from my life. Far away. And now I was going to have an adventure, just like in the books I was allowed to read. Adventure, sex, love, freedom. In the space of a quarter hour, Jay had changed my life, and now I was just along for the ride. To my astonishment, he led me right up to Ben, who was waiting in the car, and told him in a rather respectful manner that he wouldn’t have to wait for me anymore; that I would be going with him today.

Ben seemed to take the situation in with a glance, and he shook his head sadly. “Don’t do this, Dee,” he told me soberly. “Your father will kill you.”

But Jay answered before I could find my voice. “She’s old enough, sir;” he told Ben, again speaking respectfully but sternly to the man behind the wheel of the Rolls. “She’s old enough to make her own decisions. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Still, I wanted you to know.” Ben glanced at Jay with nothing but contempt, refused to speak to him, and again pleaded directly with me to come home with him. He said that if I did, Daddy would never know about this.

And Jay forced the issue. Decide, he demanded. Home to Daddy, or ME. Decide now!

And of course I chose Jay.

He led me to his car, a hot little blue convertible sports car, and opened the passenger door for me. He put the top down, started the engine, and roared off. Within a block, he glanced in the rearview mirror and barked a delighted laugh, and I turned to see Ben following us in the old Rolls. But in another five miles Jay had left him beyond the horizon, and with my red hair flying wildly all around my face, we leapt forward at the speed of freedom. To this day I don’t know which direction we were heading. We were on a major road, but I don’t even know if it was an interstate highway. Jay drove fast, weaving smoothly through the traffic. We didn’t talk; the wind prohibited easy speech, and there was really no need for it.

After about half an hour, he pulled into the parking lot of a very large metal building with huge, blaring letters atop its roof: ADULT BOUTIQUE – BOOKS – VIDEOS – NOVELTIES – XXX .

“What’s this?” I laughed uncertainly, but he was already out of the car, around to my side and holding the door for me. I took his hand nervously. “I’ve never been in a place like this.” But he didn’t say anything. He took me into his arms and kissed me hard again, and then, while I was still dizzy and panting, he led me to the door. And I let him, like a lamb to the slaughter, meekly, obediently.

I’ve never seen anything like it, before or since, though I find myself dreaming about it some nights … often, in fact. There were several people there, though almost all of them were men, and I caught several of them casting glances my way. Jay didn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular, but walked slowly through the aisles. It took me awhile to realize that he was watching me as I looked at the amazing wares for sale. He had led me into a seemingly endless display of VCR and DVD video movies of hardcore pornography. Very hardcore. I could only gawk. Please keep in mind that I had never, ever seen anything even remotely like pornography, if you can discount the R-rated movies that just about anybody can rent from their local video rental stores. But none of the love scenes that I had ever viewed showed … THAT! The act, I mean. The actual showing of man’s penis being put into a woman’s vagina (I would learn to call it a prick and a cunt in the coming three days). I was mesmerized by the sight.

But this was nothing compared to the pictures on the video cases that were coming next. Men using their tongues, women using their mouths, women accepting pricks of all shapes and sizes in an amazing variety of ways. Women accepting those pricks in their asses! (Why? For what purpose?) White, gooey stuff all over women’s faces. For a long minute, I couldn’t figure out what it was, but then I saw a picture of a prick squirting it at a woman’s open mouth. I had never seen it before, though I’d read about it in an encyclopedia. So that’s what it looked like! One picture really is worth a thousand words, especially if those words are forbidden in your household.

By now, I had come to realize that Jay was watching me, watching my reaction to all this, and I was about to make some comment when I was struck dumb by what was in the next section of videos. Women tied up. In all sorts of ways. In all sorts of poses. Being subjected to all sorts of humiliating things. It had to be the most erotically stimulating thing I had ever seen. I stared openly at one beautiful damsel who was sporting more square knots than a bo’s’n mates’ convention, and she was gazing helplessly into the camera lens as a man’s hands were clipping some sort of torturous-looking contraption onto her nipples. “Why is she letting him do that?” I asked Jay.

“Maybe she just wants to find out what it feels like,” he answered, watching me closely; but I could only stare back into the trussed-up girl’s eyes and say nothing. I could imagine what she was feeling, somehow. I could almost (almost) feel it myself. “Or maybe she has no choice,” he whispered in my ear. And THAT made me jump a little. I gawked at her. No choice. So helpless. Was that fear in her eyes? Pain? Lust? All three?

After a long minute, Jay grabbed my hand and began pulling me back toward the front of the store to some sort of display. It contained lots of what I first mistook for necklaces, but the words above them took away all of the mystery. Well, not all. Not by a long shot. “Nipple Clamps.”

“How big are your nipples?” he asked cruelly.

I looked around to see if anyone had heard. The guy behind the register was certainly close enough, and he was looking right at me. I stammered. “I don’t know … I mean … um ….”

“Compared to other women’s,” he prompted. The guy at the register was obviously listening intently.

“I don’t know,” I said softly, blushing beet red. “I’ve never been around other women.”

Jay barked a laugh and dragged me to the nearest section of videos. He pointed to a couple of the covers. “Like hers?” he asked, “Or hers?”

I thought for a moment I was going to faint. I looked around at the various videos, and finally picked one that depicted a woman whose breasts looked the most like the ones I’d seen in the bathroom mirror every morning. I pointed silently and meekly, then found myself being pulled back to the display of clamps. He took his time picking one, looking from the cruel devices to my chest, as if he was trying to envision what they would look like. He finally chose one, and then another; one that didn’t seem to make any sense (it had THREE clamps attached to chains that met in the center. I didn’t have the voice to ask him how it was supposed to work).

“Do you have any money?” he asked, matter-of-factly.

I reached into my small purse and pulled out a credit card that Mommy had let me use the last time we’d gone shopping together. He snatched it out of my hand and walked to the register. But instead of checking out, he picked up a shopping basket and began walking around, snatching things from racks and display cases and tossing them unceremoniously into the tote. I took one look at the leering man behind the register and hastened to catch up, watching in horrified fascination as dozens of various and sundry obscenities, all obviously destined to be used on me (on me!) were added to Jay’s growing collection.

There were vibrating things and massive phallic things (called, the sign proclaimed, “Dildos”), and lotions and lubricants (lubricants for what?), and a blindfold, and something that looked like a ball with a strap coming out of it (I couldn’t begin to imagine what THAT was for), and another vibrating thing, and something called a “butt plug” (I gasped loudly at the thought of that one), and a coil of rope, and then he came to the handcuffs. He took great pleasure watching me as he carefully chose a pair, plopped it in the basket, and picked up another one which had a much longer chain connecting the two cold-looking metal cuffs. Next, it was back to the video section. He chose three of them rapidly: the one I had been so enthralled with, called “Beautiful Betty, Blissfully Bound,” one called “Timid and Tied,” and one called “The Story of ‘O’.” And finally, it was over to the huge book section, where he chose a couple of distinguished looking paperbacks called “Master’s Little Wench” and “Chained and Trained.”

The expedition somehow found its way back to the cash register, where the leering guy looked at the credit card, asked to see my ID (thank God Ben had gone with me to get a drivers license!), and he rang up the whole bunch (casting a melting glance my way between each item) in surprisingly short order. $528 worth. He handed the card back to Jay, who handed it back to me.

“Would you like some personal instruction with these purchases?” the nasty man asked.

Jay ignored him and led me out of there. The air smelled especially sweet after that. I stood dizzily as Jay opened the trunk of his car. He shook a bunch of dirty, smelly clothes out of a small blue gym bag and transferred all of his purchases into it. He slammed the trunk, held my door as I silently got back into the car, and plopped the gym bag onto my lap. And then we were roaring back down the road again.

We stopped once more at a grocery store, but he made me stay in the car. He went in, leaving me alone with that gym bag in my lap, and in a very short period of time he was back with two bags full of food. I saw perhaps a dozen boxes of frozen entrees, and I tried desperately not to show any distaste toward his “quick and easy” cuisine. I also spotted a six-pack of beer and a bottle of liquor of some sort. And once again we were off down the highway.

As I think I mentioned before, I have an awful sense of direction, so I really have no earthly idea where the little house is, even to this day. It wasn’t that far from the horrible “adult” store, maybe a thirty minute drive, but I paid no attention to anything except the blue gym bag. I found myself trying desperately to remember every item Jay had purchased back there, and when I formed a picture of something in my overactive mind, I tended to fixate on it and imagine myself interacting with it the way Jay intended. We drove in silence, but my brain was screaming.

The small, yellow house was set back off the narrow country road at the end of a long, one-lane dirt driveway. It was sort of quaint, I guess, and I think I told him so when I saw it; but what I was really thinking was that it was very, very private. No one could hear me here. No one would possibly be able to find me. I was alone with him. Totally alone. Did I really trust him? Did I really love him?

He didn’t say a word; just grabbed the groceries and walked toward the door, stopping when he got there and casting a quizzical look back in my direction when he’d gotten it unlocked. I got out of the car, and carrying the gym bag, followed him inside.

It was a very small house; maybe eight hundred square feet total. As he busied himself putting the food and drinks away, I wandered around, looking. Only one bedroom. One bathroom. Sort of a living room/dining room/kitchen combination, which was the largest room in the house. A small patio that was lost in tangled woods all around. It was clean, if a bit cluttered. A small table stood in one corner of the living room next to an old couch and served as a desk, supporting several stacks of papers.

He startled me when he came up behind me, and when I spun around, he kissed me again. I found I could do nothing with my hands because I was still holding the blue bag, and as he broke the kiss, he took it from me, rummaged in it a bit, and brought out a pair of the handcuffs. Before I could even think about it, he had ratcheted one of the cuffs onto my right wrist. Then he took the bag into the bedroom, leaving me alone to gaze in absolute and utter fascination at the thing dangling from my arm. It was strangely hypnotic. It spoke volumes of things to come. I wondered if my eyes looked at all like those of the woman on the cover of the video. I felt like her, or at least how I imagined she felt. Would Jay put those nipple clamp things on me? I wasn’t totally helpless like the girl on the video. Not yet. I heard my heart pounding as Jay came back out of the bedroom. He had taken his shirt off, and removed his shoes and socks. Oh God, things were happening quickly!

Without a word, he walked up to me and began unbuttoning my blouse. He pulled it roughly where it was tucked into my skirt, and there was an awkward moment when the hook at the other end of the handcuffs got caught as he took it off of me, but he managed to get it free. He left me standing there in the middle of the room as he went back into the bedroom (to hang it up in a closet, I guess), and I was alone in the strange room, feeling almost naked and very, very vulnerable.

When he returned, he walked behind me, positioned my hands at the small of my back, and fastened them together. At last, I was bound. Was it everything I’d been hoping for these past 45 minutes? I heard a zipper, and it took me a second to realize that it was my skirt, which was now loose and sliding down over my hips. He snaked his arm around my bare midriff to hold me steady as he held the garment down around my ankles, and I just naturally lifted first one foot and then the other as he finished removing it. Then he was gone again, back to the bedroom to hang up the skirt, and I shivered at the feel of the warm air caressing my bare skin. He walked right past me when he came back, though, and I turned to watch as he went into the kitchen and came back with a very big, mean-looking knife.

He held it in front of me and I made a little noise, but he put a finger gently to my lips, and I was silent for the moment. He looked at me intently, his eyes drinking in my heaving chest, my frightened eyes, then my whole body again. He kissed me gently on the forehead, and raised the knife and cut one of my bra straps. He watched me again for a long moment, and then cut the other one. I made another little whimper, but he ignored it. He walked around me as I stood there, stretching the moment out, and finally I felt him pulling on the back supporting strap of the bra as he sliced through that one as well, and the whole thing, under tension, flew forward off my chest and fell into a worthless pile of shredded cloth on the floor. He walked back around and stood in front of me again, raking me with his hungry eyes, especially my breasts, which were rising and falling with every jagged breath.

“Very nice,” he said softly.

“They’re too big,” I replied in a very small voice, but again he silenced me with a finger to my lips.

“You are not to speak unless I ask you a question,” he said sternly. This would be the first of a whole weekend’s worth of rules. I would remember them all, however. I remember them to this day.

He sliced off the panties, too, though there was really no reason to do so except to emphasize the finality of their destruction. He knelt and supported me again with an arm around my buttocks as he removed my sandals, and left me naked (oh, so totally naked!) as he put them away with the rest of my clothes. He took a metal folding chair from the dining area and set it behind me, then sat me down so that my arms were behind its back, my back and butt pressed almost entirely into its cold metal surface. Next, he set to work cutting lengths of the soft nylon rope and tying my ankles and knees the chair, spreading my legs obscenely. He also looped part of the rope through the handcuffs, though I couldn’t see how, stretching my arms downward, so that I was really, really (finally, totally) helpless. He could do anything to me now. Anything. And now, as he bent to kiss me after surveying his handy work from every angle, he let his hands roam freely across my breasts, rubbing, pressing, tweaking, pinching, caressing, squeezing.

He put his tongue in my mouth. I didn’t know how to react, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. My body reacted for me, and I found myself gasping and moaning into his open mouth as my torso jerked and heaved against his hands. His touch became a catalyst that made my body move and feel and strain without any sort of input from my brain whatsoever. Every time he pinched one of my nipples, I made a little noise that mixed somehow into the tangle of lips and tongues; but when he took a nipple between thumb and forefinger and rolled it back and forth, back and forth, I groaned very loudly. He finally broke the kiss, laughed delightedly, and slid one hand lower across my quivering abdomen and between my legs as he kept up the delightful rolling motion to my nipple with his other.

Jay’s finger slid very easily inside my vagina, which made me shiver uncontrollably. “Why are you so wet?” he asked, teasingly.

“I don’t know,” I managed to mutter, almost a whisper. I’d sometimes found myself moist “down there” when I woke up in the morning, but I never really thought about why.

“This is your cunt,” he said, a teacher to a slow student. “Say it, please.”

“That is my cunt,” I whispered obediently, quivering all over.

“And this is your clit,” he said, in the same tone.

He rubbed his palm along the length of my dripping opening, scraping it cruelly across my little button near its top. I jerked so violently that the chair came entirely off the floor and made a metallic clang as it landed again. “Ahhhh!” I screamed, shaking spastically and trying frantically to understand what was happening.

“Say it!” he intoned, plunging his fingers (two of them this time … at least, I think it was two … it felt like two) back into my “cunt.” “What is it?”

“It’s a …. AHHHHH!” I screamed again as his palm slid again across the little troublemaker.

He began rubbing his hand up and down, up and down, faster and faster across the offending clit as he continued to assault my right nipple by rolling it unmercifully between his thumb and finger. “Say it!” he hissed into my ear. “Say it!”

“It’s my … Ahhhh! My cl – Ahhhh! Cl – cli – cli – AHHHHH!” And suddenly something very strange happened to me. I didn’t realize that I had been pulling on the handcuffs, but when “it” happened, I jerked upward with my bound wrists so hard that my whole body (chair firmly attached) nearly twisted out of his grip. He had to let go of my abused nipple and wrap his free arm around me to keep me from careening across the small room. I clearly felt the muscles of my newly dubbed “cunt” contract over and over again unbidden, and a magnificent tingle ran throughout my naked being. I swear I felt it all the way down to my toes.

He finally stopped rubbing, but persisted in his harsh questioning. “What just happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I gasped, my chest heaving. “Was that an orgasm? Did I have an orgasm?” I’d heard about it. I’d read about it. I’d always assumed “it” only happened when a man stuck his thingy into a girl. That’s what it looked like in the few “R” rated movie videos I’d seen, though of course, they hadn’t actually shown that particular aspect of it. Had it finally happened to me? Just by touching?

“You came, you slut,” he responded. “I pinched your tit, and fingered your cunt, and rubbed your clit, and made you cum. Say it!” He started rolling my other nipple between his thumb and finger.

“You pinched my … um … tit, and fingered my c – cunt, and rubbed my – OH!– my cli – clit, and made me cu – cum,” I stammered.

“Very good,” he said, letting go of me completely. I thought it was over, but to my astonishment, he walked around in front of me, knelt between my splayed legs, and cruelly spread the lips of my cunt apart using the fingertips of each hand. Then quickly, amazingly, he jammed his face into me and started licking.

I was still shaking from the “cum” I’d just experienced, but this feeling was so utterly foreign and unexpected that it was all I could do not to break rule number one and scream “What in God’s name are you doing?!” My body was literally catapulted back into an orgasm much more violent than the one before. He let go of my cunt lips to wrap his arms around my legs and the front legs of the chair as it heaved and bumped and scraped on the hardwood floor. When he finally stopped licking, and when I finally stopped coming, and when he finally got to his feet and stood over me, I found that I didn’t even have the strength to look up. I truly thought I was about to pass out. The room was spinning wildly before my eyes.

“You’re a fucking slut, Dee,” he said matter-of-factly. “Say it.”

“Fu – fuck – fucking slu- slut,” I muttered between heaving breaths.

He stood looking at me for the longest time. I couldn’t seem to keep my head from lolling. Finally, he began untying my ankles and knees, and I felt the tension on my wrists slacken. He stood me up, but had to keep a firm grip on my elbows to keep me from falling.

“Are you ready to become a woman, Dee?”

I looked into his eyes, questioningly. This was it. This is what I’d been waiting for all my life. I tried to nod my head, but I don’t know if I moved it the way I’d intended. He sort of half led me – half dragged me into the bedroom, and for the first time, I notice that each of my ankles was dragging a length of the soft rope. I was still tied, yet free. He unlocked my hands and dropped the cuffs on the floor, then he rummaged through the blue bag again and came out with the other pair (the one with the longer chain connecting the two halves), and I stood meekly as he bound me again. Now, though the chain ran behind my back, still connecting my hands, my arms were able to hang straight down by my sides. I gave a little “eeek” as he literally picked me up and threw me onto the bed.

He positioned me on my back and methodically began tying each of the ends of the loose ropes to the bedposts, spreading my legs far, far apart. The chain from the handcuffs felt uncomfortable, pressing into the lower part of my buttocks, my arms firmly trapped at my sides.

He put on a little show for me, I think, really taking his time removing his pants, then finally his underwear. I don’t really know what I was expecting. He wasn’t as big as the pictures I’d seen on the video covers in the sex store, but he looked very hard and his prick (he made me call it a “prick”) pointed almost straight up toward the ceiling. He walked up so that it was level with my eyes and let me get a good look at it, and after a little while, he put his hand behind my head, bent his prick down with the other, and pulled me toward it, telling me to put it in my mouth. I parted my lips without hesitation, and he pushed it in. I didn’t really like the taste of it, but it wasn’t too bad, and I wanted desperately to please him. Trussed up the way I was, I had very few ways of doing that other than tacitly obeying him. I think he enjoyed it until he pushed it in too far and I started gagging as he hit the back of my throat. I’ve always gagged pretty easily (I have to drink a lot of water just to get a pill down), and after a few moments he relented when it became evident that I might throw up. He looked very disappointed, and I felt worthless and useless. I started to apologize after I got the coughing under control, but he rather harshly reminded me of rule number one, and I fell miserably silent.

Next, to my astonishment, he began massaging my breasts and clit again. I didn’t know what to do, but then, of course, there was absolutely nothing I COULD do, and I soon felt myself spiraling back upward toward yet another big orgasm. He suddenly stopped however, positioned himself between my bound legs, and began rubbing his prick up and down the length of my cunt. I was very wet and slippery, and it felt wonderful. If he kept doing that just a little longer … just a little longer … but he ceased abruptly and began pushing it inside of me.

Now, I guess this is the moment that is indelibly etched into the memory of every woman, though I suppose you could call my situation a little out of the ordinary. I distinctly remember expecting it to hurt, and it did, I suppose, but in a much different way than I thought it would. I guess I would liken it to having your fingers stretched too far apart. “Stretch” is a good word for it. I was being stretched too far, or at least my cunt was. It went in easily enough, but the walls of my insides were being forced to accommodate something that was just too big. It was over very quickly, or at least I thought it was over, as his pubic hair was suddenly grinding into my own and our bodies were pressed firmly together from groin to shoulders. I tried desperately to reach up and hold him, but my hands could go no higher than my own hips.

He lay against me like that for a long minute, and then began drawing out of me. Had he cum? I hadn’t felt anything. But after rising only a few inches, he thrust down, back deep inside of me. He wasn’t through at all … he was just beginning. It was a motion I was going to get used to, and one I was going to get to like, despite my bashful innocence. He would later tell me how much he liked pumping in and out of me, but I felt more of a “filling and emptying” deep inside me rather than just “pumping.” I was stretched painfully to admit him then felt almost lonely when he pulled away. He did this over and over again, probably twenty times, before he made a sort of surprised, shouted noise and his whole body stiffened. I felt his cock sort of lurch inside me, jerking a little up and down, though he stayed buried in my cunt as far as he could, and somehow I felt a great sense of accomplishment. I had pleased my man sexually. He had cum inside of me.

He lay heavily on top of me and I longed to hold him, but could not. He panted heavily from the exertion, and after a long minute, he pushed himself up with his hands and looked smugly down at me. I couldn’t help but notice that his prick had gotten small, and was threatening to slip out of me.

“You’re a woman, Dee,” he said, as if he were a salesman congratulating a new client. “How do you feel?”

“I love you,” I said, looking into his eyes and desperately trying to convince myself that this was true. It had to be true. It MUST be true.

He barked a short laugh, which hurt much more than any physical assault, but he threw me into an indescribable state of mind by saying “I love you, too, Dee,” and then he got up off of me and went into the bathroom.