The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Saturday morning sun backlit the curtains hanging in my large bedroom window, and I both winced at the brightness and told myself for the hundredth time that I was going to invest in “blackout” curtains to solve that problem, at least on weekends, when I wanted to sleep late. The girl wasn’t beside me, but the sheet and thin blanket on my king-sized bed seemed to have transformed into a sort of igloo, right in the center of the sleeping area.

“Polly, what in the hell are you doing?”

“It’s so small and soft and cute,” a voice floated up to me. “How does it get so big and hard and mean?”

“Mean?” I tried to sound more offended than amused.

The igloo collapsed. Her head suddenly popped into view beside me, then it settled onto my shoulder, as if it had homestead rights. “Oh, sir. It pounded me! So hard and so deep! I can’t begin to describe what it made me feel!”

I huffed a noncommittal sound. “And now you think it’s cute.”

“Yes, sir. It really is! I could look at it all day!” She started to slide downward below the covers again, but I wrapped my arm around her and held her in place.

“Touch me,” I ordered.

Her hand went down to my shaft immediately, and she wrapped her fingers around me. “I was hoping you would let me do that,” she whispered.

I issued a small moan. “You can do this whenever you like.”

“I can?” She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t think you should let me, sir. I’d probably be playing with it all day long.”

“Mmm. I suppose you’re right. Okay, scratch that order. You can play with it whenever you think I’D like it.”

“Oh, gosh, sir! It’s so big again! Just like last night! So hard!” She was silent for a time, and I moved my hand to guide her fist up and down. “Like this?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yes. Just like that. And, from time to time, cup and squeeze my balls.”

“Like this?”

I issued a shuddering groan. “Yes.”

She experimented with them for a while, then stroked me some more. “And when I’ve teased you too much, you’ll jump on top of me and push way, way, way deep inside me; and then you’ll gush your pleasure.”

“I’ll cum. You should start calling it that.”

“You’ll cum inside me.” She sighed deeply.

I felt my end approaching too fast; and with a huge effort, I rolled toward her, toppling her over on her back. I winced as her grasping fingers held onto me a little too long, but it didn’t hurt overmuch. With a conflicted moan, she relinquished her hold and put her hands on my shoulders. “That’s what you do, too,” I told her. “You cum when I touch you.” I mauled her sex with my fingertips, assaulting her clitoris and labia before plunging two fingers into her depths. When she gasped in erotic shock, she arched up toward me, and I bent down and sucked a nipple into my mouth. She issued multiple noises: grunts, squeals, gasps and moans.

Within thirty seconds, I knew I had her on the edge of orgasm. Rather than give her that prize, I mounted her. This time, her fingers went unbidden to my shaft, squeezing me, guiding me; and then, she threw her arms around my neck and held me to herself as I lowered my cock slowly, slowly into her sopping hole.

Last night, in an almost frantic level of urgency, I had set up a pretty dramatic pace right from the beginning. This time, there was no pace at all. I pushed into her to the maximum extent possible, then I spent time grinding my hips and pubic area into hers, seeking to give her the greatest amount of stimulation. Two things came of that strategy, one somewhat expected, the other not. Before I had finished half a dozen of those maneuvers, her body stiffened, she arched violently up into me, and she came hard, vocalizing her pleasure through a series of sounds I can’t really describe properly. Throughout it all and beyond, I kept going without cease, slowly pushing to the absolute depth attainable, grinding, and repeating. But then I felt the wetness on my shoulder.

I backed away and looked at her. “You’re crying! Am I hurting you?”

“Don’t stop!” she blubbered.

“What’s wrong?”

She started hitting me on the tops of my shoulders with her bare palms, chanting her demands in time with her blows. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Exasperated, I thrust into her again. Temporarily appeased, she took a shuddering breath. “You have to cum! You have to cum inside me! Ooohhh! Please!”

I was close anyway. A couple more thrusts was all it took, and I slammed into her body and let my passion overwhelm me. Holy shit, I came hard! For a long minute, I simply didn’t care about her pain. As I finally, finally came down from that high, however, doubts and consequences slowly worked their way into my consciousness. Her tears were still there, but they were silent tears.

“Tell me what’s wrong? Did … Did I hurt you … inside?”

She shook her head in the negative. “I’m just being silly.”

“You will tell me what’s wrong,” I ordered sternly. I looked down into her eyes, which were literally pools of tears. As soon as I said it, they flooded, spilling in multiple directions at once.

“I love you!” she wailed, throwing her arms around my neck and clutching me like a boa constrictor. “I love you! I love you!”

I was about to pry her off of me, but thought better of it. If she was this emotional now, I wasn’t sure how that response would play out. Matters of the female heart baffled me in the best of times. I found this one simply unfathomable. “If you love me, why the hell are you crying?”

“Because you’re going to send me away! You told me last night that your plan was meant for a pretty girl! And you told Mr. Pickening that I’d be staying for a few days! And I wish you could make me pregnant! At least then, I’d be able to take a part of you with me! And sir, I swear to you, I won’t argue or make a scene; I’ll just walk away and leave. I promise! But now, I know what true love is! And I’ll always remember ….”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Polly! Shut up! I’m not going to send you away!”

She looked up at me with huge eyes. “You’re not?”

“No. If the plan works, I’ll keep you with me for as long as you want to stay.”

“But … But you said ….”

“What I said was the truth. What I tell you in the future will be the truth. That is my one promise to you: I will always tell you the truth. I have withheld the details of my plan because at some point along the way, you might tell me that you don’t want to be involved anymore. And, if THAT turns out to be the case, THEN you will leave me. And if you do decide to stay … well, then you will be with me forever.”

“I will?”

“You will, if it is your wish.”

“And this big ‘decision’ will happen in a few days?”

I smiled at her. “That’s correct. In three days, you will make your decision.”

She hugged me tightly again. “I’ve already made my decision! I never want to leave you!”

“Never say never,” I advised, trying to unwrap myself.

She smiled gleefully. “Never never never never!”

I moved to the edge of the bed and stood, dragging her body with me, all the way. “Shower first. I will teach you how to wash a man. And after that, breakfast. I’m starving.”

She finally let go of me. “Yes, sir,” she said, smiling broadly, blushing shyly. And then, she skipped naked into the bathroom ahead of me, chanting “Never never never never!”

And that was the beginning of our first day of training for the plan.

Following the shower (during which she learned how to wash my back with her soap-slick breasts), I gave her the first of many, many rules of the house. It was my intention for her to be naked whenever she was here. She blushed at the concept, but capitulated. I made concessions, as well, bumping the thermostat up a few degrees for her comfort and consenting to let her wear an apron while cooking. During the formation of these little rules, she would often make outlandish requests that caught me by surprise. For example, she suggested that we turn the thermostat down at night so we could cuddle to keep warm under the blankets. Quite the romantic, my plain Miss Pike.

She cooked omelets (with extra cheese) while I made toast. The dining area is next to a balcony, which is accessed through a sliding glass door, though it was too cold to eat out there this time of year. “Will I have to eat out there naked when summer comes?” she asked. “We’ll see,” I answered. And the thought of it troubled her for some time.

She wanted the grand tour of this, her new home. I told her (more than once) that this would not be her home until she had made her decision. She replied (more than once) that her decision was already made. Over and over, I explained that she did not yet know all the demands I was going to make on her for my plan to work. And over and over, she told me that it didn’t matter. That whatever I insisted on, she would do. ‘Anything’ became her favorite buzzword. She claimed that she would do anything to stay with the man she loved.

All of this ‘love’ stuff was the result of the hypnosis, of course. But it was an essential element in my overall scheme, and so I continued to encourage it whenever I ‘put her to sleep,’ which I did no fewer than six times that first day. In each occurrence, I deepened and solidified her feelings of love for me, and then I began associating love with obedience. Her level of submission was already so profound that it was actually impossible to see if my suggestions were having any added effect.

I left her to her own devices for half an hour during late morning, and I walked back to the nightclub to retrieve the Prius. I could think of nothing in the apartment that would reveal anything further of the plan, so I gave her free rein, just so long as she remained naked. She mentioned, upon my return, that the rooms I called home made up the cleanest and most orderly place she had ever seen. Once again, a mark of my affliction. Sociopaths tend to be “Type A” personalities.

After lunch, I bent her over the kitchen counter and took her from behind. It was extremely satisfying for both of us. I get a big kick out of sexual domination. I used the interaction for yet another training exercise; and after I buried myself balls-deep into her sopping channel, I urged her to try and explore her inner muscles and attempt to make them do her bidding. I’ve found that the average woman severely ignores the kegel muscles, and use them only in an attempt to control her bladder when she has to pee. But working them when a man is inside her, I explained, is usually extremely pleasurable for him. She worked hard at it, which was difficult for her while I was pounding her from behind; and I decided to reward her for her efforts by reaching around her and rubbing her clit hard. I timed that little maneuver perfectly, and we came simultaneously.

Throughout the day, I became convinced that she was turning into a real slut. Polly seemed to get a sexual ‘kick’ out of just about everything, whether it was the soft caress of my fingertips on her face or a slobbery lick to her genitals. Literally everything I did to her seemed to result in a sexual reaction. Quizzing her over dinner revealed that she had never even masturbated. (“Mommy told me that touching is a sin.”) Where in the world had this overt sexuality come from? Are nymphomaniacs born and not made? I’d never really considered it before. Following another steamy hour of sex that evening, I began to get my first doubts about whether I would be able to keep up with her carnal appetites. But then again, doubts have always been my worst enemy.

As per the plan, that night in bed, after I ‘put her to sleep’ yet again, I first introduced the word “slave” into my monolog regarding love, submission and obedience. I watched her face closely as I did so, and I did not see any reaction to that at all. Encouraged, I reiterated it, several times in fact, and she seemed perfectly fine with suggestion. I turned out the beside lamp, turned her away from me and cuddled against her, holding her tenderly. She had begged me to let her turn down the thermostat an hour before bedtime, and the room was chilly, so I welcomed her warmth.

Since she was still in her trance, I suggested that she dream about being on a distant planet. She was part of a spaceship crew that had crash landed. She had been taken prisoner by the local populace, only to learn that all females in that culture were sex slaves. I, a member of the ruling family in that city, had purchased her; and now she was about to spend her first night, alone and afraid, in the bed of her new master. The servants of the royal household had forced her to drink a love potion, and she could already feel its diabolical effects.

I left it at that and settled against her slender body. In only a few minutes, I was asleep.

The bedside clock read a few minutes after three o’clock when she awakened me, her body wracked by convulsive orgasmic spasms, her cries echoing in my ears. Knowing the probable cause of this disturbance, I simply held her until she had finally calmed and had her breathing under control.

“I had a dream,” she said softly.

“Don’t worry,” I ordered. “I’ll hold you and keep you safe. Now, go back to sleep; and perhaps you can rejoin your dream.”

She sighed. “Yes, Master,” she whispered. In thirty seconds, she gave one, brief little snore; and she remained quiet and still until morning.

Sunday was to be a big day in the life of the plan. Today, she’d realize what the plan was … or at least understand the basics of the thing. I wouldn’t identify the other players in the drama until the time came to introduce them. Hell, beyond the first one, I didn’t know them myself. I simply figured they’d materialize when the time came. But that was still weeks, perhaps months, away. Her training needed to progress … this day in particular.

I awoke to find that the igloo was back; but this time, instead of waiting for an invitation, she was gently stroking my cock and balls. “Having fun?” I asked, stretching and rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Yes, sir. It’s wonderful to watch all of your parts wake up in the morning.”

“Mmm.” I let her work at it for a minute more before giving her the first order of the day. “Use your mouth,” I commanded.

I heard a sigh filter up from the covers. “My first blowjob,” she mused.

I suddenly barked a laugh and squirmed. “NO!” I objected. “Suck it. You don’t actually blow.”

Movement ceased for a moment. “A suckjob?” she queried. “Why do they call it a blowjob if you’re not supposed to blow?”

“Ah, one of life’s great mysteries. I suppose the first caveman didn’t have the proper term for ‘suck’ when the first cavewoman performed the act.”

Soon, I was sighing in bliss as my neophyte taught herself the ropes. “Continue to rub it up and down, and play with my balls using your hands,” I urged. “Most men like the maximum stimulation you can provide. And try using your saliva for lubrication as you stroke.”

“Like this?”

“Oh, God! Yes, like that. Keep sucking. Put as much of me in your mouth as you can.” I lost track of time for a while. Finally, I felt myself nearing completion. “When I cum, you need to increase your efforts even more. Men will be greatly satisfied if they know you swallow their seed. You need to get used to the taste, to the texture. Drink as much of it as you can.”

She answered in incoherent mumbles around my cock, but she made a surprised sound as I built to my orgasm and began cumming hard. She held on for a few seconds, then sputtered and coughed loudly before settling down and sucking some more. I felt hot moisture on my thighs, on my legs and on my balls. I threw back the covers and looked down at her. She was crying.

“I … I couldn’t swallow it all. There was so much! I tried, but ….”

I laughed and pulled her up to my level, holding her. I didn’t want her to be discouraged when we were getting so close. “That was a gallant first effort. It felt wonderful.”

“You get bigger when you’re about to cum. I can feel it in my pussy. I can feel it in my mouth.”

I sighed. “We have a lot to do today. Let’s get cleaned up.”

“I’ll wash your back with my soapy breasts again!”

“Nope,” I told her firmly. “Shower for me, bath for you. You need to shave.” I rubbed my chin. “So do I.”

That caused a frown. She reached down and ran her palm up and down her right leg. “Am I stubbly? I’m sorry. I ….”

“I want you extra smooth. Always. And that includes your pubic hair.”

Now she was really self-conscious. She plucked at her pubis. “Am I too long? I trimmed it up before our date.”

“Smooth,” I commanded. “I want you to shave between your legs. No hair, anywhere on your body. Men like that in a woman.”

She gazed at me curiously. “You keep saying that. You said it yesterday a lot, too. ‘Men like this,’ and ‘Men like that.’ I only care about pleasing YOU.”

I gave her my sternest look. “I’ve given you a command. Are you going to refuse it?”

That made her blush. She looked down at her bare feet, which she shuffled. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

So, I used the walk-in shower, while she ran a bath. Following that, I brushed my teeth and shaved; and by the time I was finished, she had lathered herself with a bar of soap and was intently scraping away at her nether region with a disposable razor I had given her. “Please be careful,” I commanded. “I missed the course on sutures.” She paused in her work while she giggled at that. The act of precision shaving seemed to take all of her concentration.

I left her to it. I had things to do, anyway. First, I set out items that I’d purchased when I bought the dress, but had kept hidden from her until now: a pair of blue jeans, a plain blouse and a pair of simple canvas shoes. Next, I went to the kitchen, fixed a cup of coffee in the Keurig, and checked my email. I had made appointments with two individuals for later in the day, and I was thankful that everything still seemed to be on track. Satisfied, I logged out when I heard her in the bedroom; and, carrying my cup, I meandered back.

“Oh, sir! Am I going to be allowed to wear clothes today?”

“First, let me see how you did,” I stated.

Blushing red, she held out her arms and modeled for me. The lack of pubic hair made her look little-girlish; which, I assume, is the whole point. I saw no reason to comment. “Put on the clothes, and we’ll go out for breakfast. Then shopping. You need all the womanly essentials if you’re going to live here. For now, at least, we’ll just assume that you’re going to agree to stay. If you choose otherwise, you can keep everything, and I’ll set you up in a place of your own.”

She canted her head and gave me a look of pure curiosity. “Why won’t you believe me when I tell you my decision is already made?”

“Because I haven’t told you everything yet. Trust me, when the time comes, your decision will be harder than you think.”

She just shook her head and smiled. Then she turned to the simple clothing. “There aren’t any panties or bra.”

I walked out the door into the kitchen. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear anything at all. Come on. I’m starving.”

Four minutes later, we were waiting for the elevator. I allowed her to claim my hand, and didn’t object as she held it possessively all the way to the car, which was down in the garage. I let her hold it in the restaurant, too, as we waited for her bagel, fruit and yogurt, and my hotcakes and bacon. I kept the conversation mundane, tasking her with committing to memory a list of the various necessities she would need in her new home … assuming that she chose to stay when I presented her with that ultimate decision tomorrow. And, of course, as she had done consistently up until this point, she told me definitively that that choice had already been made by her. I didn’t press the point.

After the meal, we sat in the car in the restaurant parking lot; but when I didn’t immediately start out for the mall, our next destination, she glanced at me expectantly. “Lean over here, Polly. I need to put you to sleep.”

“Oh,” she said, obviously surprised by the statement. She only paused a moment, however. “Do you want me to leave my seatbelt on?”

Hmm. It was a pertinent question. “No. Unstrap and come here to me.”

She unbuckled and leaned as far over to my side as the bucket seats permitted, turning her head so that I could speak directly into her ear. To say I was pleased by this would be an understatement. It seemed to me to be the ultimate submission, giving me her mind, without question or hesitation.

“Ssshhhh,” I whispered. Almost at once, her body sagged and struggled against the overwhelming pull of physical weariness and crushing drowsiness. “Sleep,” I ordered. And she collapsed.

Well, this wouldn’t do. She was sprawled face-down across my lap, and anyone looking our way would naturally jump to the wrong assumption. “Sit up in your seat, Polly. Yes, that’s it. And now, go deeper and deeper and deeper still. Down and down and down you go. I need you to tell me when you are so deep in your trance that you would submit to anything I say and obey my every wish.”

“Oh, sir. I’m already there. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

I considered my words. “You say you are in love with me.”

“More than anything else in the world, sir. I’ll love you forever.”

“You know and understand my emotional limitations, don’t you? You know that I find it almost impossible to hold onto and express many emotions; and that I have no conscience as you, and most other people, do. Do you understand that?”

In her sleep, she visibly saddened. “Yes, sir. I know that you can never love me. But that doesn’t really matter. I love YOU! I will always love you!”

“If you choose to stay with me, what kind of relationship will we have? There are correlations in life. What are they?”

Her brow furrowed. “I … I don’t understand, sir.”

“If I could love you, then over the years, you would become something like a spouse, even if we didn’t get married. That’s the type of relationship that NORMAL people have. But I am not normal. I will never be able to love. And so, if I keep you for years, what will you be to me?” She was becoming agitated. I didn’t want to push her to the extent that she woke up. “I have lots of things in my life already,” I hinted. “A car. An apartment. A set of golf clubs.”

“Oh.” She settled down and sobered considerably. “I … I’ll become a possession.”

I let her hear my sigh. “I’m afraid it’s true. Could you ever find happiness as my possession? Could your love survive?”

That had the effect I thought it might. She’d be enduring love in the face of adversity. She considered it romantic. “Oh, yes, sir. I will, I promise. I’ll do anything.”

“What do you call that?” I mused. “A person who is a possession. There’s a word for it.”

“OH!” she exclaimed, the thought suddenly taking shape in her mind. “I … I’ll be a … a slave.”

“You keep saying that you’ll do anything. But really; will your love survive slavery?”

I suddenly realized that she was breathing very deeply. “Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Oh, yes.” I couldn’t help but smile, knowing the reasoning she was undoubtedly using. If enduring adversity was romantic, then, in her mind, declared slavery had to be the ultimate level of romance.

“Hmm,” I mused out loud. “If you are to be my slave, then how should you act? What should you do? How do good sex slaves behave?” This last little phrase caused a shiver to run through her body. “If you truly want to be a slave who appeals to me, how should you act around me? How can you best display the concept that being my slave is what you desire?”

Now she was agitated again. “I … I don’t know.”

“All of these thoughts and decisions are yours, Polly. You have figured all of this out completely on your own. When you wake up, you will remember what we have discussed in general, though you will not remember the exact words we used. But you will know that none of the conclusions you’ve made were due to either orders or suggestions on my part. All of these revelations are yours and yours alone; and you will find them deeply personal. In your mind, you will work hard to solve the unanswered questions.

“And now, on the count of three, you will awaken from your deep, deep sleep. One Two Three.”

She opened her eyes, blinked a few times, and stretched. Then, she suddenly straightened and looked at me. “Oh!” She took a few deep breaths. “Oh, sir!”

“Your subconscious and I had an interesting conversation, even though you did most of the talking.” I reached out and held her hand for a moment. I considered it an admirable bit of acting on my part. “I wish I could have been more helpful in your decision-making. Now, buckle your seatbelt, and we’ll be off to the mall. Do you remember your shopping list?”

With a worried, faraway look in her eyes, she reached across herself and worked the seatbelt mechanism. Then, after too much time had gone by, as an afterthought, she said “Oh. I’m sorry. Yes sir, I remember.” And, lost in worried thought, she didn’t say another word until we’d arrived at our destination.

We started in the huge drugstore that was located next to the mall, where she dutifully fulfilled each of the items on her memorized list: toothbrush, razors, sanitary supplies, cleansers, lotions, conditioners; the list went on and on, and filled three shopping bags when we checked out.

I noticed the changes in her in the next destination, which was a lower-end department store in the mall. She needed more pants, and when I asked what she wanted, she asked instead what I preferred. When I told her that what she was wearing now was just fine, she chose three more of the exactly the same thing. I commented that a little variation would be nice; so, she put two back and eventually picked two more of the same type of garment in different colors … but only after asking my opinion in each case.

When I told her to pick out another pair of shoes, she did the same thing, picking another pair like I’d purchased, then quizzing me about the color before she consented. Slowly, I broke the code. She was trying as hard as she could to let me make all the choices for her.

She was stymied when it came to the blouses, however. Once again, she begged me to make the decision. I suggested plain button-up long-sleeved blouses, rather than the pullover type she was wearing. When the first choice was made, she plucked one off the rack in her size; but I made her put it back, and picked one in size medium instead of small.

“It’s too big, sir,” she said deferentially. “There will be way too much room up top. I’ll look like I’m wearing a sack.”

“I want this one,” I told her flatly. “I’ll buy you a sewing machine online, and you can alter them, if they don’t fit.”

For only a moment, logic and obedience warred behind her green eyes. Why did I insist on something that would need to be altered when we could simply choose the proper size? But then I saw it: capitulation. She lowered her gaze, clearly said “Yes, sir,” and put it with the other items we were purchasing. The same applied to the next four blouses, all in the same too-large size. I considered it an important moment in our relationship.

Laden under the strain of numerous shopping bags, we ventured out into the mall itself; and I led her to a store that sold lingerie and other sexy wares. I pointed to a display of silky briefs; but she suddenly had eyes only for the ones next to it. Frankly, I couldn’t tell the difference, though the price as a bit higher. “Oh, sir,” she gushed. I’ve never owned anything like this, ever!” Her excitement was palpable.

I smiled at her earnestness. “Go ahead and pick a half dozen,” I told her.

“Really?” She seemed overjoyed for a moment, but suddenly deflated. I could almost read the thought processes in her eyes. She was trying with all her might to defer to me the way a slave would; and now, she was unsure if she should be happy about getting something that she found so attractive. “I don’t know, sir. They’re awfully expensive. I think you should pick the ones you like best.”

I plucked the panties out of her hands, made as if to return them to the display, then smiled and handed them back to her. “I choose these.”

An over-broad smile split her features; and she laughed and bounced on the balls of her feet in excitement. “Oh, thank you, sir. They’re one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen!” She settled down a bit, but kept the smile. “What size should I get?”

“You should get the proper size, of course.”

She laughed again. “Will you always be so incredibly baffling?”

“I promise you,” I told her flatly, “I might be mad, but there will always be a method.”

She shook her head at that. “Oohh! Can I get the yellow ones?”

“I told you to pick six. Of course, you can get the yellow ones.”

“I don’t want them if you don’t like them. Would you like to see me in red?”

And so, it progressed. She had to ask permission, each time; though her excitement clearly telegraphed her intense interest. Finally, I took the six pairs up to the register.

When the sales lady left to find a shopping bag, she leaned into me and whispered: “Sir, aren’t you going to buy me any bras? If you take me out somewhere, people will stare at … at my nipples … if I’m not wearing one.”

“I’m not going to buy you any right now. Maybe sometime later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Back in the mall proper, she informed me that she had to pee, and she asked me for permission to use the restroom. With a sigh, it dawned on me that I would forever be redefining and seeking limits on my own rules in this, my first true “relationship.”

It was a bit of a struggle, but I got all our purchases out to the car without dropping anything. All the way back to the apartment building, she looked around, smiling, obviously in a much better mood than she had exhibited on the drive to the mall. From time to time, she sighed deeply, a half-goofy expression on her face. She had clearly resolved her feelings about sexual slavery.

The parking area for my building can only be accessed by remote control from a car, which raises a barrier, or by the elevator or stairs, which are in the center of the basement. My assigned parking spot was in the back, against the far wall. The lighting isn’t very good in that area, and I always rely on my headlights.

“Stay there,” I told her as I set the parking brake and turned off the car’s lights. I got out and walked around the vehicle, then opened her door and took her hand to help her out. “Most men feel good about helping a lady. Always wait; in a car, or at a door, or at the table. Only do things yourself if the man doesn’t help you first.”

She nodded but kept her eyes low. “Yes, sir.” I could tell that there was more she wanted to say, but she kept it to herself.

Instead of walking toward the car’s trunk, I led her forward, toward its front. The wall here was cinder block, and painted a thick, dark gray, which seemed to merge into the shadows. “Men are impetuous. They might act unexpectedly. It is alright to act surprised, but it is NOT alright to react violently. Rather, you are to accept what is happening to you, and try to respond to the situation in the way you believe HE wants.”

In less than two seconds, I had unsnapped her jeans and pulled down the zipper. Then I yanked hard, pulling them all the way to her ankles. She gave a startled little “Eeep!” and staggered back against the wall. Kneeling, I ran my right hand down the back of her left calf, then used my free hand to lift her knee slightly. Her shoe came off with the pants leg. I repeated the action on the other foot. Standing again, her frantic eyes caught mine. But before she could ask her questions, I barked: “Hands up! Now!”

She never hesitated. Immediately, both hands were raised high. In a single motion, I stripped her blouse up and off her now-naked body, and I flung the thing off to the right somewhere. Oddly, she kept her hands extended up high, while her eyes remained locked on my own. I refused to answer their hundred unspoken accusations, but I didn’t look away from them as I unbuckled my belt and undid my own trousers. I shoved them, along with my underwear, down to my knees, then grasped her just below her butt and pulled her a foot off the floor, pressing her body back into the cold wall. Her hands came down now to encircle my neck, and her legs scissored around the small of my back.

I felt heat at the tip of my cock, and I realized that I was lined up perfectly, so I grasped her waist and pulled downward. Finally, she spoke.

“Sir! W … What if … if somebody sees us? Oohh! Sir! SO deep, sir! Aahh! Oh, gosh, sir! You’ve never been so deep! OH!”

I stepped back away from the wall a foot or two. Whimpering, she simply held on with shaking arms and legs. I suddenly bounced upward onto my toes, then back down all at once, hitting hard on my heels. She shrieked in pleasure. One of her legs slipped off of its perch around my waist, and I could tell it took a huge effort to put it back again. Shaking, she pulled away enough so that she could look into my eyes, though hers were clouded by lust. She kissed me on the side of my nose, on my cheek, on my jaw, on my lips. “Cum inside me, sir! Deep deep deep inside me!” She gave me a half dozen more little kisses. “I’ll do anything, sir! Anything, forever and for always! I’ll be your slave, sir! But, please! Please cum inside me!”

I reached up between our bodies, and I pinched her left nipple hard. Her mouth opened in a silent scream for a long three seconds; then she sagged forward, her face buried into the side of my neck. Once again, I arched up onto my toes and came back down with a shuddering thump. The muscles inside her pussy gripped me hard, then released, then gripped again, while her orgasm ravaged her whole body. Without outward motion of any kind, her spasming muscles brought me to the brink almost instantaneously. I arched upward again, then let us fall the two inches with a body-shuddering impact. Thump thump thump thump. And I pushed her back against the wall and released torrents of liquid passion into her depths.

Thirty seconds later, still rasping for breath, I picked up my head and tried to take stock of the situation. I was still leaning heavily into her, pinning her against the concrete wall, her feet about six inches above the floor. Her right arm lay limp over my left shoulder, while her left arm sort of flopped out and back against her side. Every now and then, her legs would jerk, sending them slightly akimbo, before they, too, settled back down, limp and ineffective.

I gave her another half minute; and I kissed her on the cheek. “Come back to me now, Polly. We have to get upstairs.”

She blinked and forced her eyes to focus. “Oh, sir. Oh my God, sir. That was … That was ….”

I ignored her and lowered her until she was standing on her own again. Pulling back, my cock slid free of her; and, without ceremony, I pulled my underwear and trousers back up into place. “Your blouse is over there somewhere. Here are your shoes and jeans. Pick them up and wait for me.”

She padded off in search of the blouse. “Do you want me to put them back on, sir?”

“No. I like you like this. On a Sunday, there’s a fair chance you can make it back to the apartment without anybody seeing you.”

She took a breath to comment, but stopped herself. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, after a long pause.

In the elevator, she worked her body behind me. Laden with shopping bags, I suppose there might be a chance she could remain hidden back there. There is normally a pause in the floor indicating needle as it climbs past the Lobby level, but she didn’t know this little fact. When the doors failed to open and the car climbed beyond and up past the second floor, I had to remind her to keep breathing. Our floor’s hallway was deserted, as well, as was usually the case on a Sunday afternoon; and she followed my slow advance toward our sanctuary, then waited patiently for me to unlock the door.

Inside, I dropped all the bags, turned her toward me, and I kissed her, long and hard. As she always did, she responded by putting her arms around my neck and wriggling her naked body into mine. “You’ve done exceptionally well today, Polly. I’m very proud of you. And, I’m beginning to believe you when you tell me that you will choose to stay with me.”

“How can you have any doubts, sir?” she asked.

“You still don’t know all the details,” I countered.

“But I think I do. I think I’ve figured them out.”

She still had her arms around me, but I pushed her back so that I could see her face properly. “Oh, you have, have you?”

She nodded. “Yes. You still keep doing it. Telling me what men want; what men might do; what men expect.” She took a deep breath. “You’re planning on selling me, aren’t you, sir? You’re going to let other men use me. You’re going to turn me into a prostitute.”

“No, of course not!” But I paused and considered. I parted my lips to continue, to explain; but I pondered some more, instead. “I’d never thought about it in those terms before. I suppose that, in some people’s way of thinking, it COULD describe it as prostitution. But I swear, that word never entered my mind as I thought up the plan.”

She looked at me with curious eyes, but knew better than to make more guesses. I sighed. “I want you to go get cleaned up. Take a hot bath, and relax. There are two men coming to talk to me in about an hour, and I need you to help me. Try to do something with your hair, if you can. Go now. I’ll come to the bedroom and tell you before they get here.”

She nodded. “Will I be naked for them, sir? Will I have sex with them?”

“You will do whatever I tell you to do … unless you have decided against staying.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry sir. Can you please bring me my new hairbrush, sir?”

I had put on a scowl, but I took it off again. “Yes, of course. I’ll put all of your new things on this side of the bed for you. Now, please get started.”

“Yes, sir.”

At five minutes before four o’clock, I walked back into the bedroom and found her in front of the dresser mirror, brushing her hair. All of her new belongings were piled on one side of the king-sized bed, but most of its surface was free. Her expression was pretty much a blank. She was obviously not happy, but she seemed resigned to see things through.

“You look fine,” I told her evenly. “Please come here.” She set down the brush and walked to me. “Sit on the edge of the bed, please,” I commanded. I stood back and observed her carefully. Nodding, I told her: “This is just fine. Stay here and wait. I’ll introduce you, and then I want you to follow any order given to you … from anybody. Do exactly as you are told. Do you understand?”

Her eyes were misting, but she nodded. “Yes, sir. I won’t let you down, sir.”

I held her hand for a moment. “I know you won’t.”

She started suddenly when we heard a knock on the door. Her hands came up involuntarily to cover her bare breasts, but under my stern glare, she lowered them and rested them at her sides on the bed. I rewarded her with a small smile and a nod; then I left her.

“Are you alone?” I asked the man, barely concealing my displeasure.

“Bagholf was supposed to meet me here,” the tall gent said blandly. “He’s not here yet? It’s only just four o’clock.” He checked his watch to make his point.

“No,” I muttered. I chastised myself for my impatience. “Can I get you something while we wait?”

“There’s no reason I should wait for him,” the guy responded. “We each have our own agenda. I’ll get busy with her now, and Bagholf can have his way with her when he gets here.” He chuckled at the inuendo. “Where is she? I only have half an hour.”

“In here.” I led the way, then stepped aside to let him pass.

“Are you Polly? May I call you Polly? I’m Doctor Rheingold. It’s truly a pleasure to meet you.”

Uncertain, she stood, then sat back down, then stood again. She inadvertently covered her breasts, but only momentarily; then, her hands fell in front of her crotch, before she forced them to her sides. At last, her right hand came up and she shook his outstretched hand. She attempted to suppress her alarm when he failed to let go of that hand.

“I … I’m pleased to meet you, too, doctor.” I could read the immense confusion in her features; for, while the man spoke, and shook hands, and failed to let go, it was obvious that he had no interest at all in her breasts, nor in her crotch, nor in the fact that she was nude. He was staring openly at her face, and at her face alone.

Using the hand holding hers, he pulled her closer. “Open your mouth, Polly,” he commanded.

Ah, the thoughts that must have been going through her head! She already knew that she was now living in the presences of a madman; but here was one that she suddenly suspected was madder still. Her eyes darted to me, then back to the doctor. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth.

“Wider,” he commanded. She complied, though I could tell she was suddenly very frightened. The man nodded. “You take good care of your teeth,” he said. Not praise, just a statement. “Close.” He waited for her to shut her gaping mouth. “Now look up.”

She shot me another startled glance, then raised her eyes toward the ceiling. Exasperated, the man dropped her hand and grabbed her chin with pinching fingers. He forced her head back to a severe angle. “Look up!” he barked. She issued a startled noise, deep in her throat, but maintained her head at that angle. It must have been quite uncomfortable. He let go of her chin and plunged his hand into his sportscoat pocket, then he pulled something out and stuck it unceremoniously up her nose.

Polly whimpered loudly and brought both hands up and put them on his arms. She wasn’t trying to push him away; she just needed something to hold onto. It was quite a sight. Both of his hands were near her face, both of hers were just below his shoulders. It was like some sort of macabre dance.

He stepped away from her, and she staggered and nearly fell. “Lie down, please. On your back.” He worked with both hands with the implement, and I could finally tell it was one of those light gizmos that doctors use to look in your ears and down your throat. He popped the plastic cap off of it, then put the two pieces away, one into one jacket pocket, the other in the opposite.

There was a knock on the door, and I went to answer it. This man was shorter, more muscular, burly. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was tied up due to an accident on North Avenue.”

I stood aside, and he entered. “Rheingold’s already in with her. Can I get you something?”

“I’d love a beer.”

I hadn’t actually expected him to accept, and I hoped that my demeanor didn’t express my displeasure. I needed this man. I led him into the kitchen, and rooted around in the refrigerator. “Guinness?”

“Great. Thanks.” He walked over to the glass door leading to the deck. “Nice view of the park.”

“Yes. I like the place. Centrally located. Nice neighborhood.” I was horrible at small talk. I handed him a tall glass. There was too much head on the beverage to drink yet, but he didn’t hesitate. Then, he used the back of his jacket sleeve to wipe his lips. What a clod.

He seemed to reach the conclusion that I wasn’t going to be much of a conversationalist. “Well,” he mused. “Where’s our patient?” Carrying his glass, he followed me down the short hall to the bedroom. Entering, he said: “’Afternoon, David.”

“Hello, Conrad.” The taller man snapped several pictures while holding his phone very close to her face. “Now, back to the left,” he ordered. Polly turned her head, which was leaning back on the bed itself, rather than on a pillow. He had programmed the phone to make a clicking sound when it took a picture. He fumbled in his coat pocket again, took out a felt-tip marker, and began drawing dots on Polly’s cheeks.

“Hi, Polly. I’m Doctor Bagholf. Please don’t bother getting up. I can see you’re busy. I would like your express permission for me to touch you. Do you consent?”

Her breathing deepened. “Yes, Doctor. You may.” Blushing, she spread her legs apart.

Bagholf barked a laugh, then he set his glass on the dresser, walked over to the bed and began kneading one of her breasts with the fingertips of both hands. Blushing even more now, Polly slowly, slowly brought her legs back together.

I left the room and wandered back to the kitchen. Finding a coaster, I came back and put it under the glass of beer.

Rheingold finally stopped taking pictures and motioned me over. I stood at his side, and watched as he pointed. “The mouth will be easy; but as we discussed, it will take a long time to completely heal, and she might feel discomfort for some time. Maybe two to three weeks. Are you absolutely certain that you don’t want to make the lips fuller? It’s all the rage now.”

“No. I’m certain.”

He shrugged. “Okay, then. With thinner lips, we actually have more options. When we spoke in my office last week, you seemed intent on what I refer to as the ‘Cupid Bow.’ After seeing her, that one is certainly doable. You still want to go that way?”

“Yes.”

He made a little huff of a noise. “You’re a man of few words, Baxter. Alright, then. The rhinoplasty will be the most time-consuming part of this, and the most delicate. It will also represent the most dramatic change to her appearance. Once again, I can’t be more emphatic about this part. If I run into any complications at all, the interior work will take precedence over the exterior. Breathing is more important than a cute little button nose. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Finally, the cheeks. As I mentioned, there are three zygomatic bones, and I’m going to be breaking two of them on either side. You must know that, while her appearance has an excellent chance of being everything you’re expecting, for the next three or four weeks, she’s going to look like somebody’s worked her over with a meat hammer. There is going to be a LOT of bruising.”

“Yes. I understand.”

He stood away from the bed. “Okay, then. I’ll see you both tomorrow night at seven.” He turned to the other doc, who was happily pawing Polly’s tits. “You got all the forms, Conrad?”

“Yep.”

“Christ! You two are a couple of real chatterboxes!” the man groused. “I can see myself out. Good day.”

After we heard the door close, Bagholf put a hand on her bare shoulder. “What a bedside manner!” he mused. “Here, Polly. Let me help you sit up.”

She accepted his proffered hand and rose to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, smiling shyly. The man sat beside her.

“There’s plenty of tissue for me to work with. My part in this will only take about thirty minutes, and I should be able to do it simultaneously, alongside the work on your face. My only concern is that you realize that I don’t work on nipples. Too much chance of a really serious infection in areas of the body we don’t want to upset. Like the lymphatic system. The nipple is the most complicated part of the mammary gland, and a lot can go wrong there. So … we’re looking at an end result of long nipples on large breasts. Some people might find that a real turn-on, but I don’t want you to start thinking of yourself like you’re a caricature by Robert Crumb or something.”

“I understand. That will be acceptable,” I told him.

He touched her very lightly on a bare knee. “Do YOU understand, Polly?”

That question really pissed me off, but I couldn’t really fight him over this. He probably considered it some sort of ethical obligation. She looked startled at it, though. She looked toward me questioningly, but I refused to give her any sort of signal, so she met the man’s eyes. “If it’s what he wants, then I want it, too.”

“Ah. I see. It’s like that, then.” He turned his attention to me, but he clearly thought less of me now than he had when I’d offered him a pint of stout. “Any questions,” he asked bluntly.

Frankly, I couldn’t care less what this man thought of me. However, I wanted to make it clear that we were all on the same side, here. And, as a matter of fact, I DID have a question. “I’ve read where some women experience a loss of feeling following a procedure like this. She is … very sensitive in that area, and I’d like assurances that her physical pleasure will not be at risk.”

He nodded, and his features softened a bit. “What you’ve read probably occurred in the 1970s and 80s. Breast augmentation back then used implants pre-filled with silicone gel. Many plastic surgeons in those days made a very long cut on the underside of the mammary, and then stuffed these large implants under the existing tissue. Nerve damage was not uncommon. With Polly, I’ll make a very small incision, insert and place a flat implant at the base of the gland, and THEN fill it with a saline compound, actually a thin gel. We’ve come a long way in the past half century. The risks to Polly are minimal, and the healing process is much improved.” He patted her on the bare leg again, figuring that he was giving her moral support, I guess; when, in fact, he probably just enjoyed touching a nude female.

He stood long enough to take something out of his back pocket, then he sat back down beside her … too close to her. He handed her a sheaf of papers, folded vertically, so that they would fit into his pocket. She unfolded them while he fished around in his jacket and pulled out a ballpoint pen. He handed it to her, then plucked the papers from her fingers. “If you’re just deferring to your boyfriend, then you probably don’t care about reading this stuff.” He flipped a couple pages. “I need you to sign here.” He pointed. She hesitated only momentarily and did so. He flipped a page. “And here. And here.” He turned another page. “And here.”

He took the pen back, then crammed the papers back into his pocket. “Nothing to eat or drink after eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. When you come to the office tomorrow night, you’ll get undressed, and then meet Doctor Jonesland. He’s going to hook you up to an I.V., and probably give you an injection. You’re going to start feeling very sleepy, and after they wheel you into our operating theater, you’ll take a little nap. When you wake up, someone will watch you for a while to make sure you’re okay from the anesthetic; and then, Baxter, here, will drive you home. I’ll see you tomorrow, but if everything goes as planned, you won’t see me.” He picked up the pint glass, and in three noisy gulps, he drained it.

“It was wonderful meeting you, Polly.” He turned to me and handed me the empty glass. “Baxter,” he said, canting his head slightly in acknowledgment. And he turned and walked out. We heard the front door open and close.

“Asshole,” I muttered.

“Oh, sir,” Polly enthused. “I liked him! I thought he was sweet!”

“He almost left a wet ring on the dresser from his glass!” I mumbled harshly.

She giggled at that. Then, she was quiet for a long time. “You … You’re going to make me … pretty.”

“I told you before. My plan requires a pretty girl.”

“But, sir, that’s … crazy! This has got to be costing you a fortune!”

“It is,” I agreed. “And, it’s illegal.”

That startled her. “What do you mean?”

“They’re doing it off the books. After hours. I’m paying cash, and they won’t be claiming it on their income taxes. Like an undeclared gig.” I set the glass back on its coaster, then I sat down on the bed next to her, close, like the asshole had done. Unlike with him, however, she leaned sideways into me, and she worked her arm underneath mine.

“This is all so incredibly complicated! You’re obviously rich. If you needed a pretty girl, why don’t you just spend the money and HIRE one for your plan?”

“When are you going to get it through your thick head that you ARE the plan? I don’t just need a pretty girl; I need YOU. I keep telling you, Polly. You’re perfect. Well, almost. And what’s not perfect, we can make perfect.”

“Oh,” she said, finally figuring it out. “You don’t need a pretty girl … you need a pretty slave.”

“Bingo.”

She was silent for a long time. “I thought my life had turned into a fairy tale. But … if it has, then it has a horrible moral.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ugly girl falls in love with the handsome wizard, and he rewards her by turning her into a beautiful princess? What an awful storyline!”

I stood. “Get up. I have lots of things for you to do tonight.”

She rose, too. “What is your desire, m’lord?”

I was unfazed. “First, put away your new things. You get the middle drawer of the dresser and half the closet. The middle drawer in the bathroom, too; and the bottom shelf in the medicine chest. Next, use my cellphone to call your brother. Tell him you’re well, and that I’ve arranged a place for you to stay. Don’t reveal anything else. I’m going to the market. You’ll cook dinner when I get back.”

“My culinary skills are rather plain,” she hedged.

“I’ll teach you.”

At this point, my narrative is going to shift dramatically. Please keep in mind that we were still six to eight weeks away from the first scheduled event in the plan; and it might be even longer until we saw the second … or the third. And then, eventually, I will address the catastrophic event that no one (not even I) could possibly foresee. But that was still months away. Much of the intervening period was fraught with the mundane; and so, I will save the reader the exercise of wading through the commonplace, and concentrate instead on hitting the appropriate high points.

The next day was obviously one of those; and yet, the medical procedures themselves were routine in every respect. To say that she was nervous about it beforehand would certainly be an understatement; but, once again, everybody is anxious prior to a surgery. Very little about the day itself was particularly worthy of mention. It was cold and clear. We stayed overlong in bed, and she teased me with her hands and mouth until I grew impatient and took her hard, with a level of authority just shy of violence. I drove her to orgasm before I experienced my own. Like I said … nothing out of the ordinary.

She was a bit more … clingy than usual, and she told me that she loved me at least half a dozen times. I’m not sure why she did that. I mean, what the heck was I going to do about it, anyway?

We had a late brunch, and then she began her “fasting period.” In mid-afternoon, and for the first time, she begged me to “put her to sleep,” and I complied. I suggested that she dream about being a Hebrew slave, purchased by a Roman statesman who happened to look like me, and who was intent on making her bear his children. I let that nap linger for four or five hours; and more than once, I heard her cry out in passion.

This was a Monday, a workday, but I had called in advance and taken it as a personal day off. It was also the day I had decided in the overall scheme that she should formally accept or decline my invitation to remain with me permanently; but that all seemed anticlimactic now. When I made the formal offer, she simply said “Of course, I will,” and that was that. At least, it was in her mind. I explained that contracts were always two-sided legal instruments, and that I had neglected to explain what she would get out of the deal. She gave me that look of hers that let me know that I was an idiot, but that she, in her graciousness, would tolerate me.

Still, I had worked up a little speech about this; and so, I explained to her that she would always be considered my most prized possession. I went further, and let her know that I always, always took very good care of my possessions; and ergo, I would always take very good care of her. It made her smile, though not to the degree I had expected.

I had arranged with this group of medical professionals weeks in advance, long before I knew Polly would be my choice for the plan’s implementation. I just assumed that the woman I eventually chose would need some sort of augmentation. On Friday, after I had picked her, I set the wheels in motion for a Monday evening procedure (after the conclusion of working hours), with the particulars to be determined the day before. Things had worked out perfectly, and I was just a little surprised at how smoothly it had gone.

We arrived at the private elective surgical center precisely on time. As we expected, the place was closed and dark, but someone was waiting for us, and hustled us inside. In ten minutes flat, she was naked except for a surgical gown that gaped open seemingly everywhere, and she was settled on a hospital bed and hooked up with an IV drip.

At that point, everything stopped until the administrative portion of the evening was complete. I’d brought along a briefcase filled with cash; and, one at a time, I sat down with and paid them all: the two doctors I had already met, the anesthesiologist, and two nurses. I handed twenty grand to Rheingold, the face doc, and another five to his nurse practitioner. Bagholf got eight for the boob job, and his nurse practitioner was paid three. The anesthesiologist got eight, which I knew was too much, but I couldn’t find anybody else on the spur of the moment, so I paid it.

I went back to see her one last time before they took her in, but she was already asleep. Since all the lights were off in the waiting room, I stayed in the room they’d prepped her in. I had brought along a dozen work files; and for a long time, I simply lost track of everything else around me.

When they wheeled her back in, she was awake and sitting up. Even though I was expecting it, the sight of her rattled me. Her head was wrapped up like a gauze basketball, and the only breaks in the white bandage mess were very small openings where her eyes, nose and mouth should be. Her chest, too, was a mass of white cloth.

Rheingold was wiping his hands on a linen towel. “Everything went just fine. There were no complications at all. I’ll drive by your place and remove the bandages on Saturday.” He handed me a bottle of pills. “Oxycodone. No more than four tomorrow and Wednesday. Then, reduce that number by one each day. There are only fourteen pills there. When they’re gone, Ibuprofen only. A little bleeding is normal. If it doesn’t seem to be stopping, get her to an emergency room ASAP. Any questions?”

I looked around. “Where’s Bagholf?”

“He left two hours ago. He told me to tell you: no trampolines or jump rope for a few days.” He waited for my reaction; then shook his head at my lack of humor. “Just kidding. He said he’d swing by on Saturday, as well. Said everything went just fine.” He was putting on his coat. I was surprised to find it was after eleven. “Any questions?”

I looked around. “What now?”

“Jerry is rustling up a wheelchair to get her out to your car. Her clothes are in that plastic bag. You can keep the hospital gown. See you this weekend.” And he walked out.

Polly never made a sound. The wheelchair ride was uneventful. The nurse suggested she lie down on the back seat for the ride home.

Upon getting out of the car in the garage, Polly stood for a long time. It took me a minute to realize she was looking longingly at the spot near the front of the car where I had pinned her to the wall and fucked her the day before. The walk to the elevator in the garage was slow but steady. Obviously, we encountered no one in the elevator and upstairs hall at that time of night.

I put her in our bed and tucked her in. “Are you okay?” I asked softly.

“I feel like I fell off a cliff,” she mumbled softly.

“Well,” I commented, “that’s your voice. No doubt about it. It dawned on me that if they swapped you with somebody else, and I’d never have known.”

Her laugh turned into a groan. I went to my laptop and sent an email, calling in sick for the next day. I don’t know why it hadn’t dawned on me before that I’d have to stay with her. I got ready for bed and crawled in beside her.

I gave her one of the oxy pills when she began crying softly in the middle of the night. Starting the next day, I began experimenting with hypnosis. It was just as easy to put her under, and while she was asleep, I could distract her with other thoughts, even erotic ones. However, while she was awake, I couldn’t seem to take away her pain. My suggestions could help her tolerate it, but I felt somehow impotent not being able to conquer it.

For that first week, she could only drink through a straw. I went out and got her powdered supplements to mix with milk, which she drank, but hated. For dinner, I’d get her a large milkshake from the burger place down the street. I learned that strawberry was her favorite. I worked from home most of that week, but had to go in to close a couple sales on Thursday and Friday. I gave her sponge baths in the evenings; and on Friday, I sat her beside me in the living room and gently rubbed her to orgasm. She begged me over and over to let her satisfy me, in return, but I refused her that satisfaction.

Late Saturday morning, Rheingold dropped by and took off the bandages. I knew what to expect, but I still recoiled at the sight. Holy crap, what a mess! Her entire face was an ugly dark purple. Both eyes were swollen nearly shut, her nose looked like a smashed fireplug with a couple plastic tubes coming out of it, and there were neat rows of tiny little stitches just about everywhere. The doc was absolutely overjoyed! Wonderful, he exclaimed. Simply wonderful. It never dawned on him that we weren’t necessarily overawed by him constantly congratulating himself, rather than giving any credit at all to his patient.

He prescribed an antibiotic, told us to leave the bandages off for now, commented he’d be back in another week, and he left. I tried my best to prepare Polly for what she would see in the mirror, but she was still devastated; and she burst into tears. Between sobs, I realized that she was afraid my plan wouldn’t work now because she had failed to become pretty for me. I told her that such logic was totally absurd, but there seemed to be no consoling her.

Bagholf came just after lunch. He took one look at the patient and whistled in appreciation. “Damn!” he told us. “Rheingold is an A-number one horse’s ass, but he sure does spectacular work!” We both expressed our doubts, but he reiterated that Polly’s face was a work of art. “Just give it another month,” he told us. “You’ll see!”

He then proceeded to peel gauze off her body the way an archeologist unwraps a mummy. Again, there was a LOT of bruising, but the results this time were much more evident to us mere mortals. I saw immediately what he had been referring to when he expressed concern about long nipples on big breasts. And these were big. Yes siree, they were. I was dismayed to realize that my cock was hardening at the sight of them.

He was about to prescribe antibiotics before we told him about the other order. He read the script and nodded, satisfied. He was leaving the bandages off, he told us. He’d see us next week. And he was gone.

“It’s very lucky that we picked the larger-sized blouses,” she said, looking at the mirror in awe.

“Lucky there’s a method to the madness,” I replied.

So, the routine began. And, for the most part, it stayed routine; though, of course, routines change.

On Sunday, I let her straddle me in bed. It was a very careful endeavor, but immensely pleasurable for both of us.

I left her alone in the apartment the following week, though I slowly started bringing home more and more of my work. I purchased a flatbed scanner, and I started showing up in the evenings with all of those files she had sorted. I had her digitize them. More and more often, I would discuss upcoming meetings with her, and I’d tell her my opinions about how certain contracts should be changed during renegotiations.

She was overjoyed to have something to do during this long period, but she worried that I was ignoring my own secretary when I used her efforts.

“I don’t have a secretary,” I explained. “The last one quit three weeks ago. I’ve never been able to keep one for very long. They can’t seem to overlook my … shortcomings. The truth of the matter is, I’m going to hire YOU as my secretary, just as soon as you’re able to work in the office again.”

“Really?!” she squealed. I found myself smiling. I hadn’t seen her this excited since before the operation. She suddenly had a thousand questions. What I did not tell her was that being my secretary was a vital part of the plan. But she would learn all of that soon enough.