The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When he was twenty-two, Arthur Bowman had gone to see a stage hypnotist on a work trip to Las Vegas. It had all been good fun. Two women—plants, he had no doubt—had been called on stage, where an entertainer whose name Arthur no longer remembered proceeded to work his so-called magic. With bushy eyebrows twitching, pale eyes piercing, diamond (“diamond”) pendant swinging, the two women had fallen under his trance. They had raised their arms without realizing it; they had made animals noises, right down to the clucking chicken; and of course, they had stripped down to their underwear.

None of it had been very believable, but even as a bit of performance art, Arthur had been entertained enough not to demand a refund. It was for quite some time his first and only introduction to hypnosis. Now, twenty years later, on the recommendation of a branch manager hoping to impress the boss, he was attending his second.

The Witch Doctor Dega Ualu.

Technically, claimed the ingénue introducing the talent, this was not hypnosis. What they were about to see was something far more ancient and powerful than any mere Svengali mesmerist. What they were about to behold was true magic.

The lovely young woman bowed—deeply, making sure none could miss a glance at her bounteous cleavage—and stepped aside as the self-described witch doctor took the stage. Arthur hadn’t known what to expect, but it hadn’t been this. Bald and clean-shaven, it was hard to pin down his age, though he would have guessed between 30 and 50. Too leisurely to be young, but too erect to be old.

Beyond his composure, Dega Ualu was surprisingly ordinary. He was dark-skinned but ethnically hard to pinpoint. If he was calling himself a witch doctor, Arthur supposed he must be Creole, but that could just be an assumption he was meant to make. Dressed in dark jeans and a lighter denim shirt, a worn-looking pair of loafers and a bolo tie, he looked more like he’d wandered in off the street than come to perform. The audience applauded politely, but plainly wasn’t that impressed. Clearly they had more fervor for the attractive ingénue than the night’s unremarkable main act.

“Dance for the people, girl,” he said in a deep voice thick with a cajun accent. Dega Ualu didn’t even look at her, but the spotlight that suddenly pointed at her made the audience do so. There was a pole there, one that hadn’t been apparent before it was lit up. By the time Arthur looked over the buxom blonde was already spinning on it, her knee hooked to keep her aloft. As she leaned backwards, breasts sinking down to her chin and very nearly bursting free from her skimpy garments altogether, she was still spinning.

Arthur was no stranger to pole dancing; too many clients were the sort who preferred meetings in a gentleman’s club to those in the boardroom. This girl was pretty good, he decided. Maybe a bit too energetic—the way she was whipping her body around, she was going to burn out in minutes. Still, she had the basics down cold: beauty, grace, and the willingness to be watched doing it. Her emoting could use some work; whenever she slowed enough that he could see her face clearly, there was nothing erotic about it. No feeling at all.

The spotlight dimmed on her as another brightened back on Dega Ualu. “You. Woman. Come here.” Arthur frowned at the lack of stagecraft, the absence of theatricality. The man said the minimum number of words to convey his meaning, and pointed. The audience in the dimly lit club strained their eyes to follow his finger, but even as a silhouette, it was clear who he meant. The woman looked around as if unsure, but quickly stood up and approached the stage.

His first instinct was that it was another plant. Probably just some prettier-than-average brunette with believably commonplace underwear to reveal that he’d paid a hundred bucks to come up and go through the motions. Once the stage lights illuminated her, Arthur saw she was just that—prettier-than-average and brunette, though he couldn’t attest to her underwear—only he quickly realized she was no plant. He recognized her.

“Tell them your name, woman,” Dega Ualu instructed.

Arthur expected her to provide an alias, but she leaned toward the microphone and confirmed her identity clearly. “Mary Ellen Paige.” She glanced awkwardly at the half-naked girl (who had evidently removed her skirt in the brief time Arthur had looked away), high-kicking and gyrating her hips to a song only she could hear.

Mary Ellen Paige was a lawyer at the city prosecutor’s office. Arthur only recognized her because she worked specifically with the financial crimes office, and once in a while someone crossed him or one of his subordinates got caught taking a shortcut. And because she was a prettier-than-average brunette. She’d gotten her hair cut shorter since he’d last seen her, one of those lopsided pixie cuts, but he’d have been sure who it was even if she hadn’t confirmed it.

Arthur watched in rapt fascination as Dega Ualu went through his variation of the same routine he’d seen before. There was no clucking like a chicken, but when the witch doctor told her to “take in the spirit of the rat”, Mary Ellen started twitching her nose, cleaning her whiskers, and scurrying about the room. Instead of the usual take-control-of-her-limb routine, he told her that her arm belonged to the waitress now, and Mary Ellen spent several minutes going around the room filling drink orders and carrying trays, all the while frowning and muttering to herself as if unable to resist her arm’s impulses.

All the while, the blonde girl on the pole danced unrelentingly.

Most interestingly of all, Arthur watched as Mary Ellen turned beet red while “offering the people her body,” as Dega Ualu put it. She had come in a woman’s business suit, but one after another she shed the jacket, blouse, skirt, stockings, and even the pedestrian bra he’d suspected she was wearing. She had an utterly blank look on her face, but Arthur knew women. The color in her cheeks either meant arousal, humiliation, or (in rare cases) both. He didn’t know the woman well enough to guess which.

“Keep those on,” Dega Ualu instructed as she began to lower her panties. Some men in the audience voiced their disappointment; Mary Ellen Paige was that sort of girl whose body, once revealed, more than excused any minor defects of the face. They might have groaned anyway. Some men didn’t care.

“Would anyone like to fuck me?” she said suddenly. She wasn’t standing near the microphone, but she raised her voice to a near-shout without quite forsaking her plaintive tone. She asked like it was a call for help. “I’ll do it. Or could I go down on you? You can use me however you want. Anything.”

The audience was shell-shocked. Considering this was billed as an adult hynotism show, most had probably expected to see someone stripped, at least partially. Nobody had imagined they’d see a woman debase herself as such. This was taking the routine to a new level.

Naturally, it only took a moment before some of the men in the audience recovered and began responding to her offer. As Arthur watched in fascination, Dega Ualu took control of the situation, bidding Mary Ellen to count the money in her purse—sixty-three dollars—then give it to him. The witch doctor clenched his hand around the bills, gesturing at it with the other hand in mystical-looking ways. Arthur thought he could see a shimmer in the air around it, and for the first time he was unsure if this was more than a mere trick.

“This money is imbued with your freedom,” Dega Ualu told her. “And I keep that freedom for you. Until someone makes me a better offer.”

Four men rushed the stage at once, shoving each other roughly enough that Arthur didn’t think they were part of the show either. Only when they got there did they realize they needed to reach for their wallets. One of them backed away, howling that he’d been an idiot not to have more cash on hand. Another raised up a handful of bills to the witch doctor, only to have it slapped away by a third, who firmly placed his own money in the dark hands of the night’s entertainment.

“You go with this man now. He buys your freedom—you negotiate it with him now.”

Mary Ellen’s feet began moving toward him while her face still seemed to be processing the shock of it. The audience was riveted by the sight of this woman following a stranger to his seat, where, after he patted his thighs, she seated herself on his lap and proceeded to allow him to paw at her in ways that were wildly inappropriate in public, even had this been an actual strip club.

“Stop dancing girl. We go now.”

Arthur had forgotten the girl was there. He hadn’t even noticed she’d gotten naked. Before he could do more than appreciate the exquisite shape of her ass, Dega Ualu and his assistant had vanished backstage.

“All right, let’s give it up for the Witch Doctor Dega Ualu, ladies and gentleman!” said a man, probably the club manager, who rushed on stage a moment later. The bewildered crowd faintly applauded, many still too transfixed by Mary Ellen grinding her ass into the crotch of the man who’d “bought” her. “Next up, we have something we think you’ll really like…”

And that was that. An employee quickly asked Mary Ellen to get dressed; Arthur couldn’t hear the exchange, but it culminated in the gentleman getting huffy and storming out with his acquisition.

Arthur took a few deep breaths to stop his head from spinning, wondering if anyone else had just seen what he had seen. From the way the audience quickly turned their attention to the next act, some cheesy sleight of hand artist, he didn’t think so.

Just like he had assumed all those years ago, they all thought they’d seen a pair of paid actresses (or rather, an actress and a dancer) perform a strange routine. Nobody else knew that Mary Ellen Paige was the woman’s real name, and that she was a well-educated and presumably well-off woman who had no earthly business participating in such a tawdry spectacle. She didn’t seem to have come with anyone, so there were no friends, no boyfriend or husband to raise a ruckus. Arthur himself was only just now appreciating that the routine had probably gone on for close to thirty minutes, and the woman had danced entire time like a constant whirlwind of activity. The amount of energy that would take, the strength and stamina… it was like she’d been sprinting, while lifting dumbbells, for half an hour. She must have been slowing when Dega Ualu and Mary Ellen were commanding attention… mustn’t she? The only way he could imagine someone keeping up that level of activity that was with a gun to their head.

What had he just seen?

It was two weeks later that Arthur stepped out of his car in the shabby trailer park where Dega Ualu purported to live. It hadn’t been easy conducting a surreptitious background check; the man didn’t get much press other than some mediocre yelp reviews, and nothing so much as suggesting he had genuine command of the supernatural aside from his own advertising. Arthur’s PI, the usual guy he employed for clandestine work for his company, could only confirm that the witch doctor either wasn’t working under his real name or was an undocumented immigrant. Even so, he couldn’t find any trace of him before the past six months, and that only when he emerged as a performer.

So Arthur made a few phone calls, and here he was.

The door to the dusty brown trailer opened as he approached; inside, he recognized the dancing girl from the stage. She didn’t have all the makeup on, and instead of her gawdy trappings she was wearing a simple but flattering house dress. Up close, he could see this woman was a true beauty. Many ingenues looked good dolled up in makeup and from a respectable distance, but this woman was a real head turner, top to well-padded bottom.

“Come in, Mr. Bowman. Dega Ualu waits.” Her voice was as emotionally flat as her face. She had a future in poker if she ever tired of servicing shamans.

Arthur wasn’t in the habit of addressing the help, and this girl was clearly as subordinate as it got. So without responding, he entered the trailer, though calling it a trailer was aggrandizing it. It was in truth little bigger than a camper. Bathroom aside, it was all connected, and it was clear they hadn’t bothered tidying up for him. Empty alcohol bottles were scattered liberally, and the scent of cigar smoke filled his lungs immediately. The full-size bed near the back of it was in total disarray; either Dega Ualu was a fitful sleeper, or his ingenue was as energetic in bed as she was on stage.

The witch doctor himself was seated on one side of a minute kitchen table, hands folded calmly on its surface, his gaze directed across from him as if Arthur were already seated there. Accordingly, he hurried more than was his intent to be so. Even face to face, he still couldn’t tell the man’s age, though looking into the depths of those pale blue eyes, Arthur wondered if he’d shorted the man.

“Mr. Ualu, thank you for meeting with me, and for welcoming me in your home,” Arthur began, setting down his briefcase beside him.

“Dega Ualu,” the man said. It had the distinct sound of a rebuke.

“Dega Ualu, of course, my apologies.” An awkward silence ensued as Arthur waited for the man to speak, and Arthur soon caved. “You strike me as a man who prefers to get right to the point. Am I correct in that assessment?”

Arthur waited; his only reply was a barely perceptible nod.

“Good. Then perhaps I should start by explaining my interest in you, and why—”

“I know why you come, Arthur Bowman,” the man interrupted in his heavy accent. If anything, it was thicker now than it had been in his show.

“But I haven’t said…”

“You want what all men want from Dega Ualu.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. He never approved of referring to oneself in the third person, but if the man wanted to play the guru, so be it. “All right, I’ll play along. So before we go any further, I’ll be needing some proof that you really are what you say.”

The witch doctor was silent a long moment. “Your eyes see more than many, Arthur Bowman. You see enough to know there’s something to prove. But to prove that my juju can put the urge to do the unnatural in a heart, you must be willing to see the unnatural.”

Arthur flashed a wry grin. “Shock me.”

Dega Ualu nodded slowly. “Take the gun out of the drawer and shoot at Arthur Bowman’s heart.” He didn’t look up, but the blonde clearly knew she was being addressed.

“What?!” Arthur barely had time to stand and turn before the woman pulled the trigger. Her aim was true, but in such close quarters, that wasn’t hard.

Arthur lay on his back, looking between the two in horror. “What the fuck did you just do, you crazy bitch?!”

“What I was told to do,” she said in her eerie monotone.

With effort, he tore open his shirt, some of the buttons tearing free and bouncing across the dingy floor. No matter, the bullet had already ruined his shirt, along with the kevlar vest beneath it. There it was, the flattened metal embedded in the complex fibers. He plucked it off and tossed it across the floor, then with some pain, got back to his feet. He remembered his corporate security chief warning that the kevlar might stop a bullet, but don’t expect it not to hurt like hell. The man had not been wrong.

“Is this how you conduct business, buddy? Huh? Shoot your clients? No wonder you live in this fucking dump!” He spat on the floor.

“You come to me wearing armor. I think it is you who expects to conduct business like this, Arthur Bowman. I see this, but she did not. She thought she would kill you, and did it because the voice of the witch doctor says the words. Do you need more proof?”

He looked over to where the woman was still holding the gun at her side. “Not if you’re going to have your bitch shoot me again,” he grumbled, hesitantly retaking his seat.

“As you will it. Shoot yourself in the head.”

His adrenaline already pumping, Arthur managed to dive at her and knock the gun out of her hand only a second or so after she pulled the trigger. As the gun tumbled to the floor, he turned to look between the girl—still alive and well after the pistol failed to discharge a bullet—and the witch doctor. Then after a moment, the girl began opening drawers, rifling through their contents intently.

“What the fuck is she doing now?” he demanded.

“I’m looking for a bullet so I can shoot myself in the head, Mr. Bowman,” she said evenly.

“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” Arthur said, directing this to Dega Ualu.

“That is not my way. I load one bullet for you, but the girl, she is still of use to me, so only one it is. Stop.” The girl stopped on her way out the trailer door; Arthur could only surmise she’d failed to find her bullet and was headed out to purchase one. At his command, she froze in place near the door. The gun was still in her hand.

“The two of you are awfully literal, and as a man of business, I appreciate that,” Arthur said, once more re-taking his seat. The witch doctor didn’t seem to have moved an inch since ordering the shootings. “But this could still be a ruse.”

“You are a powerful man in your world, Arthur Bowman. Let us say we agree this was persuasive, and you are confident you can strike at me if you are deceived.”

Arthur considered that, and quickly decided that yes, if this was all b.s., then there was no supernatural hokum to fear, and he could easily find people who would leave the fool’s carcass in a dumpster. And if it wasn’t…

“So let’s call me convinced, for now. What’s next? What can you do, what do you charge?”

“You want power over a woman.”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah. Like you said—what every man wants.”

“Then you will leave here without your briefcase, Arthur Bowman.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You’re not much of a negotiator, are you. I’m prepared to pay $10,000.”

“A man who comes to a meeting in armor is a man who plans ahead. You did not bring money you were not prepared to spend. So the money you bring is what you are spending.”

Arthur glowered, but soon let it go. The briefcase had many times his initial offer, but so what? His company would earn that back before the end of the month. That he trusted Dega Ualu would deliver—assuming he really could deliver—was rooted not entirely in the case of Mary Ellen Paige. According to his PI, she had resigned from her job without notice, sublet her apartment and sold her car. This was not a man guided by humanitarian impulses. He nudged the briefcase across the floor until it was on Dega Ualu’s side of the table.

“Fine. Deal. Now what? I mean, you need one of her hairs, or some kind of voodoo doll or something? I don’t know how this all works.”

“Say her name.”

Arthur had thought long about this. Even if none of this panned out, just entertaining the notion had been an enjoyable fantasy. There was no question that if he was to transform someone into a sex slave, it had to be none other than that cunt next door, Jada Ballard.

From the day she’d moved in, he’d disliked her, and over time that dislike hardened into a genuine contempt. Like anyone who could afford to buy a home in his gated community, Jada Ballard was a gifted professional. In her case, she was a former reality TV star from some insipid dreck called SoCal Coast. Arthur had never seen an episode of course, but the way it pervaded culture, he knew far too much about it. Rich, beautiful, useless young people born to money they could never hope to earn on their own engaging in malicious drama. After her years there, Jada had taken her stardom and launched it into a career as a cosmetic and hair model, and started a business selling her own line of beauty products. She didn’t really manage any of it, naturally, but they let her think she did, and so the people who did the real work got to keep their jobs.

As a person, she was the sort of famous-for-being-famous celebutante he’d always despised. As a neighbor, she was also a loud, intrusive, pushy, and downright mean-spirited member of the community. She held parties every weekend with the music so loud he could feel it in his bones next door; meanwhile, she’d used her clout with the homeowner’s association to levy such heavy fines on the property behind her that they’d actually had to move out—all because she’d found the color of their home offensive and refused to repaint it when she complained.

But she was also undeniably gorgeous, in a way that would tell even someone who’d never met her that she wasn’t just attractive; she was a celebrity who’d gotten by entirely on those looks. She was one of the sexiest women he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t to never hear that condescending voice of hers say anything more than “yes, sir.”

She was going to be his mindless fuck puppet, right up until he got bored of her.

He’d thought this all out well in advance, so there was no hesitating in his response. “Jada Ballard.”

“You know this woman.”

It didn’t sound like a question, but Arthur felt compelled to answer anyway. “Yeah. She’s my neighbor.”

Dega Ualu slid his hands across the table, palm up. “Concentrate on the girl.”

“Oh, we’re doing this now?” Arthur was surprised. He didn’t want to think what this implied, if this man could do this to her from miles away. Dega Ualu simply held his hands in place, and so Arthur had no choice but to take them in his and see what happened.

There was a surprising warmth to the man’s grip, and it only intensified as he maintained it. He didn’t so much as squeeze Arthur’s fingers; his hand position didn’t change from when they were open on the table. Arthur pictured Jada, her smug, beautiful, snobby face, wiped clean of emotion and docilely scurrying to obey him. He’d start with tearing down that eyesore pink marble statue and fountain she’d installed. Then a nice long blowjob. Then another.

“Jada Ballard, your ass belongs to me.” He grinned at the thought of what was in store for that bitch.

There was a sudden flash of heat, and suddenly Arthur’s hands were knocked back like there’d been a miniature explosion in Dega Ualu’s palms. Had the man pushed, or had something else actually happened?

“It is done.”

“That’s it?”

“Her ass, as you say, belongs to you now. Go. See for yourself.”

Arthur eyed him suspiciously, but his deep eyes still betrayed nothing. “All right, I guess. And no offense, man, but I hope we never need to meet again.”

The witch doctor made no reply. As he brushed past her by the door, the girl adopted an utterly fake smile and waved at him with her pistol. “Goodbye, Mr. Bowman. Thank you for seeking the counsel of the Witch Doctor Dega Ualu.”

When Arthur got home, he started with some painkillers and a long bath to help him forget the throbbing pain in his chest from the gunshot. What had that old coot—or was he a young fool? he still wasn’t sure—been thinking? Arthur hadn’t told anyone he was going there, for obvious reasons; if he’d been murdered, likely no one would have ever caught the killer.

The combination of medicine and wine proved too much for him, and Arthur didn’t wake up until well into the next day. His chest felt better, but still had one hell of a bruise. It was Saturday now, and while that didn’t mean a day off, not for a man in his position, it did mean no one had missed him at the office. He had a glass of juice and some toast, and while he ate, he peered out the window at the Ballard house.

As luck would have it, Jada was actually in a good position to be observed, out working on her garden. Which is to say, she was berating the people she’d hired to work on it for her. Two years back, she’d called ICE on a man because, she’d complained, he’d left her rose bush “too thorny.” Today she was taking a hands off approach, which was to say she was sipping tea on the deck in sunglasses while watching them hawkishly to make sure they didn’t try to steal anything.

“No time like the present,” Arthur muttered to himself as he slipped on some comfortable clothes and headed out into his own back yard. Yards in this neighborhood were expansive; casual encounters between neighbors having a barbeque on the same night simply did not happen by coincidence. After pretending to inspect his own modest flower bed for a moment, he made his way over to the fenceline and waved in greeting.

“Good morning, Jada!” he called. Even here at the border of their two properties, it was shouting distance.

Jada didn’t bother yelling back; she just raised her glass of tea to him and gave him a nod of acknowledgment.

“Do you have a moment? I wanted to talk something over with you,” he pressed. Not really, of course, but there would be an oral component to it. That thought helped him maintain a smile.

He could read her disinterest in speaking to him in the pause before she stood and sashayed down to him. Fuck, but she was beautiful. Nobody who was that much of a brat had any business with such a face, such a body. She had a loose-fitting robe on, but beneath that he was pretty sure it was just a one-piece swimsuit.

“Yes, Artie?” she said as she grew close. She knew full well how much he hated the nickname. The first couple times he’d said something she’d pretended she’d forgotten, and thereafter insisted she’d just internalized Artie and was beyond correction.

Time for a test, Arthur thought. “Tell me kindly what time you have on your phone,” he said, careful to phrase it as an imperative. Then, to be less awkward in case it failed, he added, “I think I had some kind of electrical surge last night, and mine’s going all schizo.”

“I left my phone up by the house. Don’t you have a clock in your house? Just use that.” Her tone was dripping irritation at being summoned for such a stupid request.

“Right, right,” Arthur said. Damnit, did he have to make it a direct command? Maybe she’d heard a question mark on the first request. He tried again, looking out to where the workers were planting a fresh flower bed. “Tell me who your new gardeners are.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t they just wonderful? They’re apparently one of the best landscaping firms in the region. They do the governor’s mansion. My publicist had a connection, that was the only reason I could get in their schedule. Looks like you’ll have to keep relying on… whoever did… that.” She waved a dismissive hand at the scraggly remains of the vegetable garden he’d attempted last year.

“Oh that was all me—trying to get a few fresh zucchini going, but I couldn’t get them to grow to save my life.” Inwardly he was fuming. How could she be resisting? If Dega Ualu had conned him, there was going to be a reckoning.

“Ah, no wonder. I’m sure your little company keeps you busy. Maybe take some time off, try some delegating. You could try to meet a nice older woman, see if she can help you get your tiny zucchini to grow some.” She smirked over her shoulder as she turned to leave. Typical fucking Jada, unable to be civil for two minutes.

“I’m gonna shove my zucchini up your ass, Jada!” he snapped at her back. Some of the gardeners looked over in surprise, but quickly returned to their task. This was nothing the help would want to get involved in.

Jada stopped. Just stopped, twenty feet from the fence. Finally she glanced over her shoulder at him, an impatient expression on that painfully pretty face. “Well? I have places to be.”

Arthur spat a parting shot over the fence line before storming to his car and making a beeline for Dega Ualu’s trailer park.

“The Witch Doctor Dega Ualu isn’t here,” intoned the girl. His girl. Arthur had found her lying out on a towel in the small patch of grass in front of the trailer. This time, her body was concealed only by the skimpiest of bikinis. She was on her front at present, the top untied in the back and the bottom barely making an appearance from where it emerged between her shapely buttocks. It almost distracted him from his fury. Almost.

Arthur ignored her, pounding on the door of the trailer once he found it locked. “You in there, you damn thief?! Huh? You in there?!”

“The Witch Doctor Dega Ualu isn’t—”

He continued over her. “You have five seconds to open this shit door before I kick it in, and your ass is next, doc! You hear me?! Five! Four! Three… You know what, fuck it.” He gave the door a hard kick. It creaked heavily, and he had little doubt a few more would stove in.

“The key is underneath that rock,” the woman said, pointing calmly.

Arthur glared at her before kicking the rock aside. Sure enough, there was a key. He’d been looking forward to doing this the hard way, but there was enough civility in him not to want to be barbaric if the alternative were so simple.

Inside, the trailer looked much as it had, save that it was empty. Arthur double-checked the bathroom, under the bed, even in the large cabinets under the counter, but there was no sign of his quarry. Angrily, he stepped back outside.

“When will he be back?” he demanded of the girl. While he’d been inside, she’d rolled over, revealing the two tiny leopard-print triangles over her nipples. The patch of fabric over her mons pubis matched in pattern and in degree of coverage. Normal stories didn’t sell bikinis this size; either she’d special ordered it, or was wearing something made for a child.

“Not until after you are gone, Mr. Bowman,” she answered vaguely.

“I don’t think so. I’ll wait here all day if that’s what it takes.”

“Then perhaps he will be back tomorrow,” she opined, seeming to wonder aloud. “I know only what he told me.”

He frowned at her, though his anger didn’t seem to register with her. After a few minutes pacing around, he was calm enough to attempt a discussion. “So, did he say anything about how he fucked me over? What he’s going to do to protect his scrawny ass before I beat it into the ground?”

“Why would you desire to harm the great Dega Ualu?” she asked, a hint of puzzlement touching her otherwise monotone voice.

“”For stealing my fucking money, that’s why!” he snapped.

“Nothing was stolen from you, Arthur Bowman. You made an exchange. A portion of your power for a portion of the great Dega Ualu’s. I heard you make this deal.” She took a deep breath, and it looked like it nearly burst her tit free from its meager confinement.

“Yeah, and I held up my end, but the rat bastard flaked on his! The woman didn’t do a thing I said. She was… well, nothing like you, that’s for damn sure!”

“Like me?”

“Yeah, a stupid obedient slut who knows to do what the fuck she’s told.” He glowered down at her.

She smiled softly, but only for a moment. “You know me too well,” she said, “though perhaps I am too simple to know now. But you did not tell the great Dega Ualu you wanted her to be like me. Do you not remember?”

“What do you mean? Of course that’s what I wanted. He went through that whole ‘you want what every man wants’ bullshit, and if a pet like you isn’t what every man wants, then I’ve exclusively met the wrong kind of man.”

“Perhaps I am what you wanted, but I am not what you asked for. Do you not remember, Mr. Bowman?”

“I remember just fine. We held hands, I gave him the name, focused on the bitch’s face, and bam, he said it was a done deal.”

“The Witch Doctor Dega Ualu can grant ownership of another’s attributes. For the woman in the show, it was her obedience. For others, it may be their independence, or their loyalty. For me, it is my soul.”

He gave her a long look. “Right. Cool. Well I sure as shit don’t control jack shit on Jada Ballard. Trust me, I just tried.”

“You are sure? Her ass did nothing you asked of it?”

Arthur blinked. “Uh, what?”

“Her ass. Your ass now, I suppose. Did it do nothing you demanded?”

“Pardon my language, but what in god’s holy fuck are you talking about?”

“You told the Witch Doctor Dega Ualu that was your desire. I heard it with my own ears. You said this woman’s name, and that her ass now belongs to you. You even said you liked dealing with men who are very literal. Do you not remember?”

The blood drained from Arthur’s face. “You’ve got to be fucking joking me.”

“I was told to answer your questions, Mr. Bowman. I would not joke with you.” She rolled her shoulders to adjust her position slightly, ripples of tit-flesh dancing before his eyes.

“But… that’s not… what does…” He grit his teeth. “Well have him do it right! I don’t just want a piece of her—I want her on her hands and knees, begging for it! I wanted to see that little bitch squirm!”

“No doubt with control of her ass, you could arrange some degree of squirming,” the girl replied with a note of sympathy. “But there is no fixing this. I do not presume to know the limits of the great Dega Ualu’s power, but I know that he does not use it on or for the same person twice.”

Arthur just stared for a long moment. This girl, this buxom vision of submissive sexuality that should have been his in the form of Jada Ballard… He’d been tricked. But then, he thought about her reaction to his shout about the zucchini. Could he really…?

“You tell that son of a bitch that this may well not be over. I’ll find out for myself just what that ass is worth, and if it’s less than what was in that briefcase, I’ll be coming back.”

“The Witch Doctor Dega Ualu has asked me to tell you that he will know when you are coming, and he will not meet with you again.”

“We’ll see.”

The girl rolled onto her front side again, her own ass on inviting display. She continued, “And if you return, he says I am to finish what I started.”

A chill ran through Arthur’s veins despite the heat of the day. “You’re one crazy bitch, girl.”

“I am as the great Dega Ualu has made me, Mr. Bowman.” The ingénue closed her eyes, and Arthur left.

It was two days before Arthur laid eyes on Jada Ballard again. He’d decided on the way home that he didn’t trust either the girl or that black bastard enough to just knock on her door and demand she take her pants off. So he set up his laptop near a window overlooking her house and kept watch. It rained on and off most of that weekend, and the only time he caught so much as a glimpse of her was as she was pulling out and later back in to her driveway. Arthur bided his time, telling his assistant to cancel his Monday appointments so he could maintain his vigil.

Monday, the weather dried up and the gardeners were back to finish the job. Naturally there was Jada, openly scrutinizing their every move from her roost on her elevated deck. It was time.

He let himself into her yard through the side gate in his fence. (Jada had had a lock installed on it shortly after moving in, but after a surveyor had been called in to verify that yes, by just under a foot, the fence was on his side of the property line, she had reluctantly called a locksmith to have it removed.) The gardeners wished him good morning as he walked by; he nodded softly in response.

“Good morning, Jada,” he said as he ascended the stairs to where she was reclining on her deck chair. She was dressed much like last time, a diaphanous robe over a one-piece swimsuit, this time lavender. A pair of large-frame sunglasses kept him from seeing her eyes, but from the direction her head was tilted, he was sure she wasn’t bothering to even look at him. No sense acknowledging what you prefer didn’t exist.

“Oh. Hi, Artie. Clocks broken again? I’m afraid I can’t help you with your zucchini problems. Maybe ask one of the gardeners.”

“Cute. So look, I was wondering if you saw—”

Just as Arthur was about to employ the stratagem he’d been developing all weekend, she held up a hand to silence him. “Look, we don’t enjoy one another’s company enough for small. If you came over to use my ass, let’s get it over with, but otherwise just leave me in peace, all right?”

Arthur blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say…”

“Make up your mind, Artie. I don’t have all day.” Arthur stared a long moment until she finally held out her hands and sighed. “Well? You can’t just stand there and stare at me all morning.”

“Uh, OK. Show it to me.”

Arthur did well enough with the ladies that he seldom bothered with pornography, but once after he’d seen Jada exiting her pool, her bikini suffering a bit of a wedgie, the brief glimpse had titillated him enough to google it. He didn’t remember any more the results of the search, but he recalled there were over two hundred thousand results. The much-televised butt of one of the stars of SoCal Coast.

Now here it was in front of him.

It didn’t disappoint. In fact, it was magnificent—perhaps more impressive even that the witch doctor’s girl. Her waist was the typical narrow midsection of the young starlet, pinched in only to flare out at hips whose whole purpose seemed to be to support an ass otherwise too ample for the rest of her frame. Even bent over as she was, the outward protrusion of it was clear, a bubble that would never pop. It had enough meat on it that it jiggled softly just from the subtle movement of Jada retrieving her phone from the pocket of her robe and switching it on to distract herself while she was ogled.

His hand was reaching for it before he even realized. A self-conscious glance over his shoulder, however, confirmed that every one of the landscaping crew were at the least furtively glancing and in one case openly staring.

“Erm, why don’t we take this inside?”

“I’m not taking a strange man inside my house, thanks.”

“Strange…! You’ve known me for almost five years, Jada. Now would you rather I feel you up in front of your oh-so-exclusive crew here?”

“What you do with my ass is your business, Artie. If you want to make yourself a spectacle, be my guest.”

Arthur didn’t even know what to make of this. Was Jada Ballard seriously giving permission to play with her ass in front of a group of hired help? Outdoors, where heaven only knew who else in the neighborhood might be watching? The trees around the fringes of the property granted a modicum of privacy, sure, but there were lots of windows, too many angles to cover.

“All right then, I guess I’ll just take my ass back to my house,” he grumbled. Jada didn’t budge in the least as his hand slipped inside the back of her swimsuit. Rather than go right for the ass itself, he instead gripped her swimsuit like a handle and started pulling her along behind him as he walked away.

Jada squawked at the suddenness of it. “Careful! Do you know what this suit costs? I’ll have you know it’s appearing in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition this year. Tear it, and you’ll be reimbursing me even if I have to take you to court.”

Arthur ignored it as he marched her right past the gardeners, through the gate, and back inside his own house. Jada stumbled along awkwardly behind him, neither cooperating nor resisting; she merely let him direct her as he guided. The workers stared in shock at the way their famous, high-powered client was being manhandled by the stranger next door, right up until he slammed the door shut behind them.

“Yech, I can’t believe you asked me for the contact info of my landscapers and not my cleaning lady,” Jada said, eyeing her surroundings distastefully. It was true that Arthur’s own cleaning service hadn’t been there in a few days, but he knew she was just being haughty.

“Jada, you can’t even imagine how long I’ve waited for this moment, you obnoxious, entitled bitch. Take off those clothes and present yourself. It’s well past time someone put you in your place.”

“Turn around then.”

Arthur blinked. “Excuse me, what was that?”

“I’m not taking off my suit in front of you. Turn around.”

“What?! That’s my ass, isn’t it?!”

“Obviously. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let some pervert ogle the rest of me.”

He glared. How could Dega Ualu have bungled this so badly! “I have a perfect right to see it how and when I want, wouldn’t you agree?”

She mulled it over for a moment. “I suppose.” Jada sure didn’t look happy about it though.

“And I’m not the one who decided to cover it with a one-piece. Now if you won’t remove that swimsuit from my property, then I’ll have to do it myself.”

She rolled her eyes as if she were tolerating the demands of a petulant child. “Fine, Artie. Have it your way.”

With that, she put her shoulders back and let the robe slip down to the floor. A final dirty look over her shoulder and she began peeling down the swimsuit. Fuck, but she was sexy. Jada Ballard might be the Cunt of the Universe but with looks like hers, she could get away with it no questions asked. Her hair looked like a shampoo commercial even on this casual Monday morning. Just seeing the bare skin of her back was somehow tantalizing, but a second later she’d peeled her scant covering down beneath her ass—his ass—and he forgot about everything else.

She had one hell of an ass for a white girl. Arthur remembered helping his godson move into his college dorm several years back, when SoCal Coast had been at its peak popularity, and three different rooms had featured the same poster of Jada Ballard in a strapless sports bra and workout shorts so small you could see the bottom fold of her ass, and so tight you could just make out the shape of her panties. Her trash show was beneath Arthur’s notice artistically, but the image stuck in his head well enough that it had been the first thing that had popped into his head when he found out who his new neighbor was to be.

Now, it was bared before him in all its glory. It was on the tight side, but just round enough that it would be better described as “softly padded” than “toned.” A tiny dark mole on her left buttock was the only blemish, a beauty mark on her rear face. Her pussy was plainly visible between flawlessly smooth thighs, and Arthur was pleased to note it was as picturesque as the rest of her. Probably paid top dollar for it, he suspect, but genetic or synthetic, it was the prettiest little pink pussy he’d ever seen. Money well spent, if that were indeed the case.

Arthur lowered his pants, heedless of the sneer tainting Jada’s pretty face as she hastily averted her gaze. His cock already at half-mast and growing, he stepped up behind the reality starlet and placed a hand on either hip, rubbing his shaft slowly in the cleft of her perfect ass. “I am going to fuck you six ways to Sunday, Jada,” he said, lining up his tip with her slit. The way she tensed at his pronouncement got him the rest of the way to fully erect in an instant.

“Um, yeah, you stick that in me, and I’ll have you in prison for rape so fast both your tiny little heads will spin,” retorted Jada with a sneer.

Arthur could practically hear the sound of a needle being crudely lifted off a record. “Come again?”

“You may own my butt, but the rest is mine. You go out of bounds, I’m keeping your ball. So to speak.” She gave him a firm, no-nonsense look over her shoulder.

“But… your ass…”

“Uh, huh. Did your third-rate prep school fail you so badly you can’t tell the difference between an ass and a pussy? Jesus, I thought if anyone would recognize what a pussy looks like, it’d be you, Artie. Or is your morning routine truly so rushed you don’t even give yourself a once-over?”

Arthur staggered back under her verbal assault. “But… it’s right there, in the middle of your ass. My ass. That means that, err…”

“It means you need to learn how to keep your prick to yourself. That’s what it means. You want to stick it in my ass, that’s your business, but lay a finger on the rest of me and I’ll get my tits dusted for prints if that’s what it takes to wreck your life.”

A thousand vile terms for that swindler Dega Ualu raced through Arthur’s mind. What the hell good was her ass if he couldn’t fuck her! There was the other hole, yes, but Arthur had never had a taste for anal sex—the notion of what else went on down there simply squelched the fires of his libido, try as he might to step outside his comfort zone.

“Well what the hell am I supposed to do, dry hump it?!”

He was really fuming at the witch doctor, but Jada didn’t know that. “I don’t care what you do with it. What you do with your toys is your business.”

He stood there trying to think of a way to spin this for long enough he had to insist twice that he wasn’t done with her ass yet. At least that seemed to work; Jada seemed to sincerely regard it as his property, and thought no more of him insisting on where it was kept than she would the stapler on his desk.

Finally, he hit upon a desperate idea, and gave her ass a hard smack with his open palm. Here and there Arthur had been with women he’d braved a spank or two on, but that had always been playful, a little jolt of disruption in the midst of revelry. Arthur had never done it like this, to genuinely cause pain.

It seemed to work. “YOUCH!” shrieked Jada in angry surprise. She said no more, silently scowling at his kitchen counter.

He did it again. Less of a shriek this time now that she was anticipating it, but still a hard flinch. Then he smacked it again. This one struck just right, leaving a crimson handprint on her evenly tanned posterior.

“Does that hurt, Jada?”

“Of course it does, you dolt,” she shot back at him.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Obviously.”

“All right then—let me fuck you, and I’ll stop.” But to Arthur’s immense and growing frustration, she simply laughed. “What! What’s so funny?”

She rolled her eyes, speaking with condescending slowness. “Why on earth would you think that threatening to damage your own property would somehow magically coerce me into fucking you? Seriously, why don’t you threaten to fill your pool with cement, break a few windows—see if that’ll uncross my legs, Artie.”

He ignored the fact that her legs were anything but closed, and even kicked them further apart with one foot. She permitted it, evidently reasoning he had a right to easier access to the innermost reaches of her ass. “Don’t you do that swimsuit fashion shoot every summer? Do you really want to show it off covered in hand-shaped stripes?”

“How surprising that you follow my work,” she said, sarcastically, the tone not altering even after he gave her another spanking mid-sentence. “If only there were some way to call my agent and reschedule it for a time when you’re not actively interfering with my time, then take the shots then! Oh wait, there is a way, and I think I just discovered it.”

Artie just stared at that paradise between her legs, framed by the paradise atop them. “But… what if I agreed to, um, give you your ass back? Just one ride, and I’ll give it back. Good as new.”

“Are you dense or something? It’s your ass. Yours. Besides, even if you had the authority to give it back, which you clearly don’t, it’s damaged now, and I wouldn’t trade you the change under the seat of my lambo for it.”

Nothing made her budge in the slightest. Her ass was his ass, and everything else on her was entirely hers. She was no more willing to yield to his advances than she would have been any other day. Not when he threatened to plaster pictures of it on the internet (for which she threatened to sue), nor when he suggested that he might pump it full of drugs (when she said she’d call the police and report him for possession).

It was around then, give or take a few futile pleas and mocking taunts, that Arthur lost his cool.

It was a long week for Arthur Bowman. Not only did he wind up having to abstain from so much as looking at Jada’s normally glorious rear end, lest the mental image of the bruises and welts he’d inflicted on it linger, but Dega Ualu managed to handily thwart his token efforts at reprisal. Arthur was too afraid of the witch doctor and his psychotic blonde pet to go back himself; the PI Arthur hired to find him (and perhaps rough him up a tad, for a bonus) stopped returning calls two days into the search. Arthur wondered if he’d just lost his appetite for the case, or if the man was now another thrall of the witch doctor.

Jada, to his surprise, didn’t even try to steer clear of him, or at least no more than usual. On the couple times he saw her across the yard, she nodded curtly, and on the second time even asked if he was looking for some alone time with her butt or just being neighborly (in which case she invited him to go have some alone time with his own).

The following Friday, he followed through on his threat to her from the previous week, and like he’d by now come to suspect, it did nothing to dissuade her. No, Jada Ballard followed him with no more objection than an irritated sigh, submitted to his every ass-related instruction, even insisted on his perfect right to do so. She was so convincing that the woman actually stopped to ask if Arthur was into some kind of human trafficking.

“Of course not. You don’t think you’d have heard about it on the news if I’d disappeared?” That was Jada talking, referring to herself in the third person like she was the Queen of California.

“You’re… holy fuck, you’re Jada Ballard! Jesus—can I get a headshot? This has got to go on the wall!”

“No you most certainly may not,” she snapped.

“You can have an ass-shot,” Arthur countered. “And no, it won’t have your face or any other proof of identity, so it’s my decision, right Jada?”

She mulled it over. “I suppose.”

“Then let’s get to work.”

“You’re serious? You really want… this?”

“I don’t care. It’s what he wants. That’s all that matters.”

“All right. Um, I’ll need you to sign a waiver, though. This is… I just gotta.”

“It’s his ass,” Jada repeated. “Have him sign.”

Ultimately, she signed, if for no other reason than to move the process along so she could get back home and be done with all this. Arthur watched from a chair across the room. Having never seen a tattoo done before, it was interesting watching the slow and steady movements of her hands, the way she completed the patterns in what felt to him like counterintuitive orders, yet it all seemed to work out. It was beautiful, in fact.

The project took all afternoon and well into the night, even with the woman stopping twice for breaks to rest her hand and let Jada stand up and stretch. Per his promise, Arthur delivered on his “assie”—a joking term for a selfie of the ass that he and the artist came up with somewhere during the long process. Jada, ever the firebrand, reminded the woman that she’d sue her for everything this crummy little shop was worth if the name Jada Ballard were ever attached to the pic.

Again, Arthur found himself preferring to wait to see the improved product rather than commit the ugly in-between moments to memory. The woman at the parlor said they should give it two or three weeks before letting it get wet, and while complete healing would take months, the lion’s share of the pain and the unpleasant parts of the skin’s appearance should subside by the time she was ready to wash it.

Arthur gave it three, just to be sure. He’d waited this long, after all, and he knew it would take time for his other ass project to yield results, too.

“Good morning, Jada,” he called on the fateful morning, having finally decided he’d waited long enough.

“Hello, Artie,” she replied with plain disinterest from her deck chair. Today there were no landscapers. Just them. He noted she was wearing a bikini, as she’d done every day since he’d made her strip out of her one-piece. Smart girl. He’d barely gotten a glimpse of her tits.

“Lose the briefs, bitch,” he commanded as he climbed the stairs to her deck.

“Haven’t I told you you’re not welcome on my property? I feel sure I mentioned that somewhere,” she said, standing and untying the strings on the sides of her bottoms. They fell down on their own a moment later, then she moved the magazine she’d been reading to obstruct his frontal view of her pussy.

“If you’re going to keep my things over here, I have a right to come use them. Now did you follow my instructions?”

“Obviously. The last thing I need is you coming over every morning to do butt maintenance, Artie.” That had been the only concession she’d made, agreeing to tend to his ass-related instructions in his absence, simply to keep him from being more hands-on in his custodial rights.

“Show me.”

With yet another roll of the eyes, she turned around and positioned herself on all fours on her deck chair.

There it was again. His second ass.

He wasn’t sure what drew his eyes more insistently, the tattoos, or the butt plug sticking out of her like a pacifier that had been shoved up her ass. It was gold in color, with a red-painted iron ring affixed to the end. Arthur hooked his finger inside the ring and pulled—gently at first, then more insistently until it overcame the clenching of her ass and began to slide out. It glistened with in the morning sun as it slid out, and Arthur thought it remarkably clean-looking given its port of origin. It glistened in the sun with the residue of the lubricant he’d insisted she keep her ass filled with.

He’d been quite explicit on that point.

As he tossed the butt plug aside, his eyes roamed across the finished results of the tattoos. They were still a bit glossy, but he remembered the scabbing and the dry skin phases from his own modest tattoo (his fraternal greek letters). Jada was past all that, her sumptuous rear end poised like he was invited to take a bite out of it. Or do anything else he might wish. In fact, this invitation was explicit.

Arthur was familiar with the expression that a picture was worth a thousand words, but he’d never really believed it. Jada’s naked ass was a testament to his dispute. The surface, once nearly as smooth and unblemished as a plastic doll, was now a tapestry of interwoven descriptors, each more depraved and whorish than the next.

SoCal Cunt

No limits

Spoiled little skank

DTF

Spank me daddy

Bimbo butt slut

Begging 4 it

Fill me thrill me

Rear deliveries only

On and on it went. He’d brainstormed quite a list, and he’d forgotten some of them. Arthur had meant to humiliate her, of course, leverage her shame into access to that forbidden cunt, but of course that wretched witch doctor’s magic had done nothing of the sort. She’d expressed her disgust with his crudeness and left it at that. He may was well have had it painted on the wall of his bedroom for all she reacted.

Arthur had accepted at last that if she tolerated this—a smattering of filth so vulgar she’d never be able to wear those short shorts from the poster again without being mobbed by the paparazzi—then she’d tolerate anything he did to her ass, and offer nothing to spare herself. He thought of that day last month, when Dega Ualu’s ingénue pointed a gun at her head and pulled the trigger. The man finally understood it. That girl didn’t consider any of her parts to be her own, and so had thought nothing of putting a bullet in one of them. It wouldn’t faze her in the least. The only reason to bother having her harm herself was simply to satiate one’s desire to cause harm.

Which was the precise thought Arthur had as he sunk his cock into her ass and reveled in the sound of discomfort from his sexy celebrity neighbor. And the thought he maintained as he imagined it was a pussy, and fucked it like one.

She’d been stretching it out for weeks now, keeping a series of slowly expanding plugs inserted (liberally coated in lubricant) whenever it wasn’t actively in use. Jada was performing frequent enemas to keep clean, and it was as much a cunt as an ass could learn to be.

“Tell me I’m a pig,” he said, gripping her hips and slamming her ass into his cock in time with his thrusts, heedless of the whining noises she was making.

“Do I really—YEEEOW, fuck—really need to state the obvious? I’ve known, ungh, you were a pig for years.”

“Tell me you hate this.”

“I’m not a pirate’s parrot, trained to speak on… yeeeergh, command. But since you bring it up, yes. The whole neighborhood can seeEEEEEEEOUCH! See you, you know. Do you have any shame at all?”

Arthur began to rain down blows on her backside, watching the flesh rippling with each one, then overwhelmed by the greater force of his thrusts. It really did feel a bit like a cunt, he grudgingly acknowledged. Tighter, different contours and shapes, but it was hot and wet and tight, and that was enough.

“Tell me I can’t fuck you.”

“Christ, you’re a savage!” she whined as he jack-hammered into her ass. “And no, never. For the millionth time, you’ll never ever get in mmmmmmmy, ungh, pussy. You will never get to fuck me, Artie.” She paused, then added in an mildly irritated tone, “Except in the ass, of course.”

Arthur could barely hear her now, the blood roaring in his ears as he thundered away at her. He’d never fucked a woman in such manner before. Who would permit it? He was close. So close. He just needed to hear this bitch say one more thing.

“Tell me whose ass I’m fucking.”

She gripped the armrests of her deck chair to hold herself as steady as she could, her face smushed against the back of it to keep from him ramming her into it with each ferocious thrust. “It’s… ungh… it’s… oh wow, goddammit… it’s… it’s your ass, ArtieeeeeeeeEEEEEEE!”

He came, and in spite of herself, in spite of everything, Jada Ballard came with him, limbs thrashing in wild ecstasy as her ass pushed her across her own orgasmic threshold and sprinted toward the horizon.

“Get off me,” she snapped once they’d both finished. He’d collapsed onto her back, and finally realized it was not something she had to tolerate. As he pulled out, some of the last dregs dribbled out onto her ass, speckling Never say no with his spunk.

It was his. His ass. He could induce those whimpers and gripes whenever he wanted to, then fuck it to his heart’s content.

“Happy to. Though it seems like we’re both getting off this morning, eh?” He smirked.

“I’m still not letting you in my cunt, Artie.”

He patted his second ass affectionately. “Why would I even want to?”

Arthur didn’t bother with another kevlar vest this visit to the trailer park. Foolhardy? Perhaps. But he had a sense that Dega Ualu somehow knew friend from foe, and his empty-headed puppet seemed to follow his lead.

Once more, the ingénue was out in front of the trailer. If she was wearing a different bikini from last time, it was only in the pattern, and her body was so mouth-wateringly spectacular, who could be bothered to notice what was on those irksome scraps blocking the final few inches from view. She didn’t rouse herself from her sunbathing when he parked his car, nor even open her eyes as he approached.

“You’ve returned, Mr. Bowman,” she said. She must have peeked, he thought. How else… Arthur shook the thought off.

“I have. Is Dega Ualu about?”

“I have already told you he will not meet with you again.”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah, well, you also said you’d shoot me if I came back a third time, yet here I still stand.”

“You’re not out of my line of fire yet, Arthur Bowman.” The words might have been a joke on anyone else’s lips, but that deadpan tone of hers was incapable of humor. Still, he took some solace from the certainty that her bikini could conceal a pistol about as well as it could a battleship.

“Well, I assure you there’s no need. I came to apologize and clear the air, not to complain.”

The girl extended both arms over her head and stretched with a little groan; what the act did to her tits had him rock hard in seconds, nevermind that he’d just cum in Jada’s ass not two hours ago. “I am glad you do not come to trouble the Witch Doctor Dega Ualu.” Her eyes finally opened, and she squinted up at him. “May I ask what has changed?”

“You know, you have got to be one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen. I’m sure you get that all the time.”

“I do.” She wasn’t put off by his apparent non sequitur.

“See, and that’s what I thought I wanted. You. A brainless piece of T&A to pleasure me and stroke my ego. I mean, who wouldn’t? Look at those tits, for pity’s sake.”

The girl directed her eyes down to the heaving mounds on her chest, then slid the tiny triangles of the bikini to the side. She cupped them in her hands, jiggling them as if to see how they looked in different configurations. “They are impressive tits, Mr. Bowman,” she agreed.

He lost himself ogling her for a moment before returning to his point. “See, but that’s the thing. There might have been a time when you were what I wanted, something simple and attractive and at my beck and call. But I didn’t come here wanting to use the body of Jada Ballard. I thought that was what it was, but it was something deeper.”

“Deeper?” she pursued. Her boobs remained uncovered, as if it didn’t occur to her she shouldn’t be topless in a strange man’s presence and in her front yard, such as it was.

“Let me ask you something. Has Dega Ualu ever actually punished you? You know, for displeasing him, not performing up to his standards, whatever.”

She shook her head. “No.”

Arthur released a small chuckle. “And he can’t. Can he.”

Another shake. “No, Mr. Bowman, he cannot.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I am his, and if he wishes to harm me, then that is my purpose—to be harmed. To be punished means to have something done contrary to one’s desires, and I have no desires of my own to contradict.”

Arthur knelt down beside her; she didn’t react to his proximity. “Exactly! You see, what I really wanted was to make that fucking bitch squirm. And if he gave me the whole kit and caboodle, made her like you, I’d never have seen her glare into the cement around her pool while I fucked her ass in front of her vaunted landscaping crew.”

“She must have hated that.”

“You have no idea, blondie. I needed her to hate it—and that’s what Dega Ualu gave me. If he’d given me her tits, her cunt… I’d have had my fun and gone back home. But her ass… just hearing her bitch about being made to come from my dick up her butt, that’s worth a dozen mindless twats.”

“To some,” she noted.

Arthur stood back up. “Right. Well anyway, I just wanted to pass on my gratitude. I don’t know if this was some great insight on his part or just dumb luck on mine, but… well, tell him I said thanks.”

“There is no need, Mr. Bowman.” Whether she meant it as a de nada, or that the witch doctor didn’t care about his gratitude, or even that he was somehow observing through her eyes and ears, he didn’t know. As her eyes closed once more, he helped himself to one last long look at her before returning to his car. He didn’t waste time putting it in gear; the girl had gotten him good and hard again, and Jada’s ass was going to pay for it, griping impotently all the while.

Arthur glanced back only once, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the girl in his rear view mirror, but though he saw her, that wasn’t what arrested his attention. Two of the blinds in the trailer were parted, and as his car rounded a bend, he thought he could see two piercing eyes gazing between them almost imperceptibly. Almost. Did he detect a nod? Had he really seen the witch doctor’s eyes at all?

No matter. Jada Ballard was waiting, and her ass did indeed belong to him.