The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Sandra sighed, brushing a loose hair out of her face. The muted sounds of conversations at the other tables drifted past her, mixed with the clink and chatter of cutlery on plates. What was taking him so long? It had been a pleasant meal, made more so by her not having any part in its preparation or the cleaning afterwards. Despite that she couldn’t help irritation gnawing at the happy feelings. How long did it take to pay? Her husband should be back by now. She made herself look at the paintings on the walls of the restaurant, cheap imitations and not to her taste anyway, but anything to suppress her impatience. It didn’t work. Thoughts of the next day’s work drifted through her mind, taking advantage of the lack of anything else holding her attention. Half-hearted fights for dominance between plans and priorities were fought out across her awareness, wafts of ideas forming and disappearing, vague curiosity surfaced, what new disasters might land on her desk, who would argue with whom in the next day’s meetings. She flexed her fingers, fighting off the urge to check her phone, see if any work emails demanded attention. She made herself resist. Work time was work time; private time wasn’t, at least not tonight. She could worry about anything else tomorrow. Her husband still hadn’t returned. She rested her chin on her hand and sighed again, deeper this time, realising that she would simply have to wait.

The sound of a chair being pulled back brought Sandra out of her reverie. Finally she thought.

“What?” chin rising from hand the exclamation escaped Sandra’s lips before she could control the surprise. She’d expected to see her husband sitting opposite her. Instead it was a man that she didn’t know. She guessed that he was in his early thirties, perhaps ten years younger than she was.

“I’m sorry, that’s my,” She’d meant to say “my husband’s seat”, but the words didn’t come. The man’s smile cut her off, the words dying on her lips. It was an easy smile, all charm and intimacy, the smile itself a secret shared. He was well dressed. Sandra knew clothes, had some skill at making them, just a hobby, but it helped when making her own purchases. How to tell a well-made dress from one that would fall apart in months. What material wouldn’t attract dust and cat hair, would fall just the right way to make the best of a body on the wrong side of forty. The suit the man wore had to be expensive. It matched his figure in the way that a good suit should. The tailoring subtle, lines and curves meshing around him in a way no off-the-shelf garment could. Not promising what wasn’t there, not drawing too much attention, but hinting at the lithe body underneath.

“Did you drop this?” he asked, his hand stretching out toward her. An odd question. Not what she had expected. Even if Sandra had dropped something, he didn’t need to take her husband’s seat to return it. She blinked, looked at the proffered hand. It held, …, something? The restaurant wasn’t well lit, in the way such places aspire to the romantic, but there was enough light, dim overheads and the candles on the table, for flickers and flashes to reflect in Sandra’s direction. What was it? A coin? A gem? She frowned, peering at it. She still couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was she didn’t think it was hers.

“No, I, I”. Sandra stopped, shook her head. “No, it’s not mine.” She waited. The man withdrew his hand, pocketed whatever it had held. Sandra assumed that he would leave. Not that she minded the encounter. The man was attractive, she admitted, feeling a little guilty at the thought. She was having dinner with her husband, after all. Well, had just finished dinner, but even so. The man’s features were fine, even, just enough strength in the jaw, enough fire in his eyes, to more than hint at passion, attractive, very attractive, but not over-bearing. It was a face that promised to smile often. A face that you wanted to look at, a face that said it wanted to look at you, not at itself in a mirror. Cheekbones sharp, a face that Sandra could imagine just as easily laughing as demanding acquiescence at the board room tables hinted at by the suit. Her gaze drifted, unbidden, to the man’s eyes. They were blue, dark blue, sapphire shaded with ebony, darker than she had ever seen before. Not black, not quite. Definitely blue. There were depths to those eyes. Secrets there. Like the still water of a mountain lake.

Sandra swallowed. She really shouldn’t be looking quite that closely at another man, she told herself. Not tonight, not anytime, but especially not tonight. The man’s steady gaze, that easy smile still there, began to make her feel uncomfortable. Why was he still here? She’d answered his question. There was nothing more between them.

“Umm, that’s my husband’s seat. He’ll be back soon.” Sandra thought that was a polite enough way to ask the man to leave.

“Your husband?” The man’s brows furrowed, the smile gone. He looked genuinely perplexed.

“Yes, we were having dinner together. He just went to pay.” Sandra waved vaguely in the direction of the counter. Although for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to turn away from the man.

“Are you sure? He seems to be taking an awfully long time.” A smile was again at the man’s lips, this time speaking more of amusement. Lips just full enough to promise firm, gentle, kisses. The smile faded from his lips but continued to twinkle in his eyes, amusement half-concealed.

“Of course I’m sure,” Sandra snapped, irritation getting the better of her. Why would the man even question that? She indicated the dishes in front of them both. “See? Dinner.”

The man looked at the empty plates between them. As if evaluating the meal he hadn’t shared. “Well, you certainly ate. Two people did, judging from the remains before us. And there are two people sitting here. Perhaps it was you and I that had dinner?”

That was ridiculous. Sandra could clearly remember having dinner with her husb… She stopped. The memories wouldn’t come. That was definitely ridiculous. She’d just eaten. As the man said, the evidence was in front of her. She’d had dinner with, …, someone. She was sure that it was with her husband. But if that was right, why couldn’t she remember who had sat opposite her? She stared into the candle at the centre of the table, trying to remember. Had she drunk more than she thought she had? She normally didn’t drink much at all. It was her husband who drank. He was a good man, but just sometimes he over-indulged. Became a bit too merry. That wasn’t her. But maybe tonight she had. Even if her memory was playing tricks on her, she was sure that she’d shared the meal with her husband.

“Yes,” she said, through teeth edging towards being gritted, “Now I think it best you leave before he comes back.”

“Before who comes back?” the man asked, innocently.

“My husband,” Sandra looked straight at the man opposite her, hoping a determined look would help persuade him to leave.

“Your husband’s not here.” The man replied, his tone reassuring. Sandra wasn’t sure why she needed reassurance, but it was comforting just the same. Though their gazes were still looked she could feel her determination fraying.

“Yes,” Sandra forced out, not understanding why it was so difficult to say it, “he is.”

“Is he? You’re here. I’m here. I don’t see him.”

“We had dinner. He just went to pay.” Why did she feel as if she was trying to persuade herself as much as the man?

The man raised his palms, shrugged, a gesture of half-resignation, and half-amusement. “Sandra, Sandra,” How did he know her name? “You have to stop worrying so much. No-one here knows us. Your husband isn’t here. He won’t find out.”

Find out? Find out what? Sandra knew that something should worry her, she was worried, concern gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. But she couldn’t remember what it was that she should be worried about.

“That we’ve had dinner, of course.” Was the man reading her thoughts? Or was her worry etched plainly on her face? Sandra supposed that it might be. Why shouldn’t she worry about her husband finding out that she’d had dinner with another man? Wait. No, that wasn’t right. She’d had dinner with her husband. Hadn’t she?

“No.” Sandra shook her head, the movement as feeble as the sound of her voice.

“Sandra,” Her name again. “You have to forget these silly concerns. This time is for us. We had dinner. Quite a good one too, although next time you have to let me treat you to a slightly better establishment.” Next time? For there to be next time there had to be a previous time. And that meant that they had had dinner together. Had they? Sandra knew that she’d had dinner with someone. That was obvious, the empty plates bearing mute testimony. She could remember the food, she felt no hunger. She had eaten. But who had it been with? And why would it be with anyone other than her husband?

“I know this is still new to you.” At some point, Sandra didn’t know when, the man had reached over, taken her hand. He was gently caressing it now, sending shivers through her body. She knew what anyone watching them would think. “Let me guide you.”

That made sense. Sandra felt lost, sinking in confusion. She needed help. Wait, no. Why did she think that made sense? She didn’t need to be led, like some silly little girl. She was a successful woman, with a career, a family, a husband. Her husband, was, ..., where? Shouldn’t he be here? None of it made any sense, who was this man? How could she have had dinner with him if she didn’t know who he was?

“Who, who are you?” she whispered.

“Ah Sandra,” he murmured, between laying gentle kisses on her palm, “I shouldn’t have let you have so many glasses of wine. I did warn you didn’t I?” Was that right? Sandra felt muddled, cloyed. As if she had drunk too much. So perhaps she had. She remembered now. He had warned her to stop. That she might regret it if she didn’t. But she hadn’t listened, wanted to indulge herself. Tonight of all nights was the time for indulgence. Was the man saying something else? She really should pay attention.

“I’m sorry Richard.” Of course his name was Richard. How could she have thought that she had forgotten? She really must have had too much to drink.

“Did you enjoy the meal?” Sandra didn’t want to answer. Richard had stopped kissing her hand. Returned to those slow, gentle caresses. The sensations rippled out from her hand, washing over her. She was happy to sit there, savouring the moment. Struggling with herself, despite the desire to sink in the sensuous feelings coursing through her, she thought that she had better answer.

“Um, yes, it was very nice.”

“I think nice is understating it, don’t you?”

Sandra paused. She really just wanted Richard to keep caressing her hand. Just occasionally his fingers wandered a little further, to the inside of her wrist, making her breath catch in tiny gasps. He was making love to her, through her hand, promising what he could do other, more private, parts of her body. Why all these questions? He was right though. “Nice” didn’t do it justice.

“Yes, it was very good, delicious.”

“I agree,” Richard smiled, “I’m glad to have shared it with you.”

Wait, no. That wasn’t right. She hadn’t shared it with Richard, had she? Hadn’t she shared it with somebody else? Her husband? Maybe. But that didn’t make any sense. It was Richard talking to her now. Richard sitting across from her. Richard gently caressing her hand, like a lover. Lover? And hadn’t they been talking for a while now? Sandra could clearly remember that, even if she couldn’t remember everything that they had said. If there had been someone else, wouldn’t they be here? It must have been Richard with whom she had shared the meal.

“Yes, so am I,” Sandra smiled back at Richard, shyly.

“Now, we really should be going.” Richard rose gracefully from his seat, still holding Sandra’s hand.

“Wait,” Sandra protested, “Wasn’t someone? Paying?” Memories burnt within her, low and slow, dying embers. She was sure that someone had gone to pay. But who? Her husband? She was sure she remembered her husband going to pay. But that didn’t make any sense. She couldn’t have eaten with both her husband and Richard. There were only two sets of plates. And Richard was here now. Had she and her husband been here some other time? Was she confusing the memories of the two nights?

Sandra hoped that she was mistaken. She didn’t want somebody recognising her. Realising that she’d been here with two different men.

“You still worry about being seen with me, don’t you?” Richard shook his head, a hint of resignation. Why shouldn’t she worry? She was married. Wasn’t she? She was with someone. There was definitely someone else. Anyone looking at her and Richard would realise that there was something between them. He had his arm around her now, and the way he’d been caressing her hand earlier. You didn’t act that way with just a friend. Richard couldn’t be just a friend. That was the way you acted with a lover. But if Richard was her lover, shouldn’t she remember that? It didn’t make any sense.

“Are we?” Sandra began, then stopped, unsure of what to ask.

“Lovers?” Richard asked back, that smile appearing again.

Sandra relaxed, a little. Of course they were lovers, what else could they be? They’d had a romantic dinner together. Richard had caressed her hand, kissed her hand, made love to her hand. Anyone watching them would have no doubt, the way he held her now, protectively, leaving no room for questions. Still, worry gnawed at her. Why shouldn’t she be worried? What had she done to deserve a lover like this? He was younger than her, more attractive than her. Maybe if she was ten, twenty, years younger, then it would be different. She knew that people called her attractive. But at best she was now an attractive forty-something. If she looked as she did twenty years ago maybe then she could imagine holding on to Richard. But now? It couldn’t last. It was a dream. Impossible. Maybe that was why she felt as if she was in a dream, her thoughts moving through a fog. All she could do was enjoy whatever time she had with him.

Not that losing Richard was Sandra’s only worry. Wasn’t there someone that she didn’t want to find out about her and Richard? A husband? Sandra was sure that she had a husband. Well, maybe a boyfriend. No, she was old enough to have a husband. She felt something on her left hand. She looked down, saw a ring. She frowned, certain that the ring meant something. She couldn’t remember what. It didn’t matter. She was certain that there was somebody that she didn’t want finding out about her and Richard. Just as well he wasn’t here, whoever he was. If only she could remember his name.

“Yes,” Sandra said, realising that she hadn’t answered Richard’s question. “Yes, we are.” She smiled at him, drinking in his features. She really was so lucky to have a lover like him, young and handsome.

“Of course we are,” Richard replied, “And now it’s time to go.”

“Wait,” Sandra frowned, “Pay?, paying?” What was the matter with her? Something tugged at her mind. Something about someone paying for the meal. Had Richard paid? She couldn’t remember.

“Don’t worry, it’s all taken care of,” Richard reassured her as he led her out of the restaurant.

Sandra glanced in the direction of the counter. Certainly no-one was trying to stop them leaving. She saw a man there, about her age, deep in conversation with a young, pretty, brunette waitress. She was sure that it was the waitress that had served them. For a moment Sandra thought that she recognised the man, but she couldn’t put a name to his face. She watched as the waitress leant over to the man, a finger running along his neck. The girl’s body was arched, chest thrust forward, obviously offering herself to the man’s view.

“I think someone’s going to get lucky tonight,” Richard breathed in her ear, “Don’t you?”

Sparks ran along her nerves. Sandra wasn’t sure if Richard meant the girl or the man or himself. She simply nodded.

“Neither of them is as lucky as me,” Richard added. Warmth flowed through Sandra in response.

Outside a limousine was waiting. The driver, a man, perhaps in his fifties, gave a single nod in response to Richard’s direction of “Take us home please.”

Sandra wasn’t sure where the limousine was taking them. Her head wasn’t clear enough to concentrate on their route. The lights outside formed patterns that she couldn’t understand, the movement of the car making them swing and blur, large gaudy fireflies leaving trails in the night. Had she drunk that much? It wouldn’t have mattered. Richard’s attentions held hers. Nothing too outrageous. Was he worried about the driver observing them in the rear view mirror? Perhaps. But his kisses, his touches, though nothing that couldn’t be seen in public, kept her distracted. Maddeningly so. Every touch set a spark in her nerves. A gentle kiss behind her ear, a firm hand sliding over her hip, a soft brush that almost, but not quite, reached her breasts. The sparks fed a fire burning low within her. Sandra squirmed in her seat, leaning into him, trying to feel him along the entire length of her body.

They kissed. Richard’s firm lips met hers, Sandra’s yielding and wanting. She lost herself in the feel of his mouth, one of his hands running through her hair at the back of head, pressing their lips together.

Then he was leading her out of the limousine, one hand held in his, gravel crunching beneath her shoes, heels making her unsteady. She could see a house rising before her. It was large, a mansion, the outside lights casting an intricate web of shadows across its windows and porches. She heard the car gently pull away from behind them.

The double door, large, dark-wooded, opened before they reached it, barely making a sound. Richard led her inside, one hand still firmly, gently, holding hers. Sandra could see artworks on the walls, expensive furniture. A woman, young, attractive, wearing a maid’s uniform was standing by the door. Had she opened it? The servant curtseyed, her short skirt billowing out, and then she rose and walked away, four inch heels gently clicking across the floor.

“Do you like?” Richard asked, as he indicated the entrance hall with a wave of his hand.

How could she not? The room opened before her, sweeping stairs leading up, the balustrade dark, polished, wood, a match to the door. There were furnishings, beautiful, refined, exactly the right amount to fill the space without being cluttered. Objects, expensive and rare, were displayed on some of the tables. Sandra could imagine some Hollywood beauty of decades past coming down the stairs, slowly, gracefully, gown trailing behind her, elegant as the room in front of her.

Richard led Sandra upstairs, every question silenced with a kiss. She wasn’t sure whether she was trying to ask different questions or the same one every time. Her thoughts were shards of glittering crystal, sent sparkling and tumbling by each brush of his lips.

He led her past paintings and antique vases, past doors that she didn’t have the presence of mind to count.

Their journey ended in a bedroom, Richard’s hands guiding her towards the bed, large, silk-sheeted. Sandra realised that they must have passed through one of the doors but she couldn’t remember it. Something caught in her throat. She knew what was going to happen, what they were going to do in that bed. Part of her, most of her, was eager, expectant. Her body was alive, pressing itself against him. Part of her, a small part, was reluctant, resisting. It was urging caution, urging her to stop. Saying that she didn’t want to do this. That she wasn’t the sort of person who would do this. That this house, this room, with its delicate furnishing, embroidered cushions on a chair under the window and expensive bed clothes turned down by someone else’s hand, wasn’t her, wasn’t the place where she made love. That Richard wasn’t the man that she went to bed with.

“I,” she started, “I don’t.”

Richard smiled at her, his face inches away. She had to look up at him. Even with her two inch heels there was still at least five inches difference in height between them, perhaps more.

“I think you do,” he said. Then he leant in to kiss her throat. Sandra was sure that her heart was there, fluttering just under the skin. She could feel her body arch as his lips pressed against her, her movement lifting her neck towards him, offering it.

Sandra thought that perhaps she should pay attention to her doubts. They claimed to be important, necessary. But they slipped and slithered and vanished. Richard was holding her, pressing her to him, his kisses now on her lips, and her doubts had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, as his hands caressed her. The thoughts whispered across her mind and then were gone, no more important or lasting than the ripples on the surface of a lake.

As she returned Richard’s embrace Sandra realised that her dress was gone. Had she removed it? Had he? What did it matter? He was here and holding her and her body wanted him. It answered to his kisses and caresses and she was pressing herself against him, returning the kisses, her hands running over his strong body. It was both new and familiar. She must have done this before, been with Richard before. It seemed too natural for that not to be so. Yet she couldn’t remember any other time. Every touch, every moment felt new and precious. She never wanted this to end.

Other thoughts intruded. Something was telling her to stop. That she should what to stop this. That she wasn’t the sort of woman who would lose herself so easily in an affair. Every sensation that her body felt was trying to tell her that she was. Every kiss, measured down the length of her body, every touch, said that she was. Her arousal, her abandon, said that she was. Something said no. Voices, whispering in her mind, thoughts and feelings struggling to be noticed. Something telling her that the feel of the silk sheets beneath her wasn’t what she wanted. That it shouldn’t be Richard’s body melding with her’s.

Sandra tried to hold onto those thoughts. Or at least some part of Sandra, that wanted to think that it was all of Sandra, tried to hold on to them. With every moment the voices grew quieter. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust, pushed them further away. Parts of her mind seemed to vanish or reshape. She was changing and the feeling frightened her.

“No,” she forced, almost breathless.

“Sandra?” Richard asked, “Is everything all right?”

He’d paused, but Sandra could still feel him. How could she not. He was long and hard and deep within her.

“This, this isn’t, I shouldn’t.”

Richard propped himself on one arm, not withdrawing. With the other hand he stroked her hair

“Shh,” he whispered, “you know it is.” Then he kissed her, on the forehead, on both cheeks and on the mouth. With each kiss a worry disappeared, popping like soap bubbles on a sunny day. Parts of her mind vanished with them, or changed into something else. She thought that she should worry about that. But she couldn’t. The part that would worry had been the first to go, drawing down into a little point, then disappearing from her awareness when he kissed her forehead.

Sandra felt free. Free to give herself to him. Inhibitions gone, doubts gone she gave into her feelings, let her arousal take her where he wanted to go. Electric fire ran through her, leaving every part of her body tingling. Orgasms came, beyond her ability to count, until she wasn’t sure when one ended and the next began. Finally, spent, she slept.

To be Concluded