The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On this particular morning, I didn’t mind waking up alone quite so much, since in all honesty I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t dreamt or hallucinated the entire previous night. I actually giggled when I saw that some puckish guardian angel of mine had apparently decided to reassure me that it had been real, by making Tammy cast off her strapon in gay abandon and completely forget to take it with her, since it was lying in the corner of the room. Dazedly, I put it in a bag ready to take to work with me, and went about the rest of my morning routine with what I’m sure was an immensely stupid grin on my face.

An hour or two of office routine will cure most anybody of a threesome-inspired stupor, I think. I know that it was about mid-morning when I started to think seriously about the fact that I was going to have to call Jenny at lunchtime, explain what had happened and, and this was the sticking point, ask for Tammy’s number. There wasn’t anybody in the office I felt I could ask about the etiquette involved in this situation: how exactly do you approach one party to a recent threesome with a view to getting in touch with the other? I got the distinct impression that Emily Post wasn’t going to be much help to me either.

I found comfort in the familiar, putting my feet on autopilot at lunchtime and letting them take me to Hatton Plaza like they always did. After I’d eaten, I dithered for a while before coming to the only conclusion I ever could: there was nothing for it but to be honest. I called Jenny.

“Oh, hi Tony.”

She sounded distracted, distant. Not a good sign, I thought.

“Hi, Jenny,” I said, trying to sound even vaguely normal. “Umm, I think Tammy left… something at my place last night.”

“Something?”

“Yeah,” I said, and began seriously regretting making this call in public. I looked around to make sure nobody was in earshot, and whispered clarification: “the, uh… strap-on.”

“What?”

Now she sounded amused, which, as signs went, was equivocal at best.

“Look, nice try and everything, but I happen to know for a fact that Tammy did not leave her dildo at your place last night.”

“What do you mean?” I was genuinely perplexed at this point, and I looked down into the shopping bag at my feet. “I’m looking at it right now.”

“OK, here’s a hint: so am I.”

I paused briefly to ponder that statement, and associated mental images, and she carried on.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree anyway, you know. Tammy… gets very into roleplay, but most of the time she’s as gay as a tree full of parrots. Now, neither of us regrets anything that happened last night, but, well, don’t go expecting a repeat performance, OK?”

I’d like to be able to tell you, dear reader, that I listened carefully to that little speech and responded with becoming dignity and grace, but I was kind of thrown off my stride by the fact that halfway through it, a sharply dressed woman sat down next to me, took one look in the bag and said “Oh my god, is that what I think it is?”

Disconcerting, I think you’ll agree. Faced with two question marks, I dismissed the easiest one.

“OK,” I said into the phone.

“OK.” Jenny affirmed. “I’ll see you at the office sometime, then.”

“Sure, ’bye.”

“’Bye!” she said, as cheerfully as ever, and hung up.

I turned to face the interloper. She looked to be in her mid-forties, black haired and olive-complexioned, Ashkenazi or maybe Greek, I would have guessed. She wore a navy-blue suit with some serious shoulder-pads going on, and a cream-colored blouse which showed off a fairly liberal amount of cleavage that, in the circumstances, I did my very best not to get sucked into.

“It’s not mine.” What else could I say?

“Right,” she grinned. “Somebody just left their bag here, right?”

“The bag is mine,” I squirmed. “The… item is not. I was just trying to return it.”

“No luck?” She was still grinning.

I just shook my head, having long since run out of social formulae for the situations I’d been getting myself into. She twitched her nose in amusement and stood up.

“Come on,” she said.

I looked up at her from the bench, and I guess my confusion was evident on my face.

“Where are we going?”

“My hotel room,” she responded, and declined to elaborate further.

I stared at her for a moment, while she continued to grin. I was already halfway off the bench when it occurred to me to wonder what time it was, whereupon an ice-cold splash of real life hit me. I turned my move to follow her without question into a decisive step away, grateful that I had something sensible to say at last:

“I have to get back to work.”

She pouted in a way that seemed indefinably mocking, and reached into her pocket.

“I’m at the Hotel Connor, checking out tomorrow. Come join me after work. Room 1121.”

So saying, she handed me a keycard, then promptly turned on her heel and walked off in the direction of the hotel, which I could just about see a little way down one of the streets leading off the plaza. I followed her with my eyes, feeling the same befuddled, slightly drunk gestalt that had come over me while I was staring up at her, trying to come up with some non-preposterous response to being peremptorily ordered to her hotel room. Her rear, I decided, was shapely, even if it was a tad bit over-ample for my taste.

I shook myself out of it and headed back to the office.

On the way back to work, I told myself I would get all of my thinking done, about the prospect of paying my new friend the visit she’d demanded, before I got there, and so try to make up for the fairly useless track record I was setting in afternoons. Naturally, I failed, and the specific reason why was that at about two p.m. I realized that I hadn’t thought in terms of “should I go?” at any stage. It was always “what will happen when I go?” I also remembered the embarrassing way the encounter had started, and looked down to check that the strap-on wasn’t visible in the bottom of my shopping bag, and discovered that indeed it wasn’t, for the simple if startling reason that it wasn’t there any longer.

It was at exactly that point that I started to suspect that something was up. Finding two items I’d thought I’d lost in as many days had been something I’d naturally put down as coincidence, and at the time I hadn’t made the connection between the watch and Jenny, or the sunglasses and Jenny and Tammy. Well, you wouldn’t, would you? On the other hand, I was still distinctly inclined to believe that sweet, good-natured Jenny just wasn’t the sort to lie: her implication that I absolutely had to be inventing the tale of the forgotten sex toy to contrive a reason to see Tammy again rang so true that I couldn’t help wondering if I hadn’t made some silly mistake. But what? If there hadn’t been a strap-on dildo in my bag, I wouldn’t now have a keycard from the Hotel Connor and an assignation with a peremptory cougar. Then again, if there had been, where was it now? Where, for that matter, were the watch I’d worn on Monday and the sunglasses I’d worn the day before?

Anything I could contrive to explain the situation seemed sillier than the facts, so in the end I decided I was obviously missing something. Maybe the missing piece would present itself, and all would make sense, but until then, and if not, I wouldn’t think about it. Then again, wondering what would happen after work was making everything in my abdomen feel like it was doing backflips, so I decided that, on balance, thinking about that too much was a bad idea as well.

Autopilot, then, was what brought me to the door of room 1121 of the Hotel Connor, still in my work clothes and heedless of the fact that my car might well end up locked in the parking garage. It got me to the door, but I did think a little bit about what happened next. The situation was almost comically similar to the night before, but at the same time the shoe was very much on the other foot. This wasn’t my apartment I was about to barge into, but the hotel room of somebody whose name I didn’t even know. Under the heading of “he who hesitates is lost”, however, and thinking she wouldn’t have given me the key if she didn’t expect me to just walk in, now would she?, I did just that.

At that point I was invited to reappraise the rump I’d critiqued earlier on the basis of new information, since it was there before me clad only in a leather thong. It was definitely shapely.

As I shut the door my host for the evening turned around, and I saw two things. Firstly, and least importantly, the black leather thong was matched by a bra, and each of them had zippers in strategic places. Secondly, the thong was supporting an intimidatingly large black dildo, which I couldn’t help staring at.

“Ah,” she said, “there you are. Somebody’s eager! Come here.”

Instead of saying any of the things I could and possibly should have said at that point: you know, “I think you’ve got the wrong idea about me”, “nice outfit”, or even “hey, at least you’re not dressed as Batman”, I just did as I was told, staggering forwards like a Romero-vintage zombie. Pretty soon we were as close together as possible given the circumstances, and I was still staring at the dildo.

“You know where this is going, don’t you?” She said. I nodded.

“Touch it.”

I reached out and laid my right hand on the black plastic. It was warmer than I had expected, and I found myself starting to run my hand up and down it. She gave a nasal little snicker, and placed a bottle in my free hand.

“Better get it ready, don’t you think?”

I took the lubricant and started applying it to the preposessing phallus. Before long I moved behind her in order to get a more familiar grip, and found I was basically giving a handjob to a woman I’d just met. She giggled throatily.

“OK, that’ll do. Bend over the bed.”

At this point the hamster running in its wheel to keep my higher reasoning faculties going felt a need to at least try and put the brakes on the situation. I felt myself able to say “You know, I’ve never done this before.”

“Oh, really?” she queried, in tones that suggested she didn’t believe a word of it.

“Really!” I protested, then faltered a bit at the thought of confessing my debaucheries of the previous night to a stranger, before screwing my courage to the sticking place: “the… thing you saw earlier belongs to a woman I know.”

“And you just happened to end up with it? Lucky guy! Bend over.”

The hamster protested that she hadn’t acknowledged what I’d said or promised to go easy on me, but based on the fact that while I’d been speaking she’d moved in and stripped me of my jacket, and that as I moved to obey her I found that I was hard as a rock, it decided that there just wasn’t any point arguing with the rest of me and went on strike. I set my feet about shoulder-width apart and planted my hands on the bed.

She moved in behind me and undid my belt, before dropping my pants and underwear to the floor in a swift and, in its way, violent motion. She stood back up and her dildo struck my inner thigh as I heard her squirt some lube into her hand.

She started with two fingers and made me jerk forward, my knees hitting the mattress of the high hotel bed. The pain gradually subsided as she stayed shallow, working the lube in and gradually relaxing my ringpiece. She seemed to know exactly when to push the envelope, working her fingers in deeper every time began to think that the depth she had been working out was manageable.

Soon we were past the fingers stage, and I felt her put her hands on my hips in, I couldn’t help thinking, exactly the way I’d grabbed Jenny the night before. Let’s hope she doesn’t decide that a good slave always cleans up, the hamster popped briefly back in to say. Her right hand left again, and I soon realized she was using it to steady the dildo as I felt it first tease and then gradually enter my asshole.

She proceeded as she had with her fingers, waiting until I was just about comfortable, then taking it to the next level, until it felt like I must have had a yard of black synthetic dong back there, but she still hadn’t bottomed out. Mercifully, she didn’t go any deeper, but just kept up a steady rhythm. I was getting fucked.

Through the storm of sensation I became aware of my extremely erect dick slapping against me as it swung back and forth. I felt her hand slip off my hip, and she grabbed and started giving me a reach-around. Flapping around untouched, partaking of the novel experience of me getting fucked without it having anything in particular to do, the feeling of her hand on my penis, with the remains of the lube she’d used on my butthole still on it, was incredibly intense. Between that and the direct stimulation my prostate was getting, it wasn’t long before she had me shooting a load all over the sheets. She snickered again, put her hand back on my hip, and kept going.

I guess her strapon must have had one of those clit-stimulating doodads on it, because after a while she started getting a bit vociferous, and pounding me rather harder than I’d have liked, before she shuddered and let herself fall forward onto my back. She extricated herself and had me lie down, then gave me an object lesson in how dildos always have their second wind by holding my legs up in the air and taking my ass again. My head was propped up on the pillows, so I could see that what felt like about a yard inside me was actually no more than a third of the dildo’s total length. After she was done with me I remember falling asleep wondering vaguely if I’d be able to sit down the next day, or ever for that matter.