The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Good thing Clarabelle was so out of it, reflected Mrs. LaMode, Else she might tell her father that “thingy” just happened in the doorway . . .

Maddy was having as much trouble as ever concentrating on particulars as she flopped the teenager down onto the couch without ceremony and in such a way as to reveal to the fur-coated mom her daughter wasn’t wearing a shred of panties!

Why, the little trollop!, Maddy reflected, until her addled brains could recollect, in fact, she herself was wearing none.

“I should really put some on,” and so Maddy said that aloud, as if to persuade herself she wasn’t near the trollop type she’d just accused her daughter of being, and although she had no intention of following through on the assertion right away, obviously: she still had to open the package!

If she’d had concerns about the sluttiness of her daughter’s circumstance, those concerns should have been partly assuaged by the discovery of the article of missing clothing in the package—for they did appear (O, they certainly were)—they were her daughter’s panties!

Maddy gasped stupidly, as do women who know they should feel shocked, even as for the moment—and for one reason or another—they can’t quite work themselves up to it; she stepped back from the cherry wood dinner table and let the white and flower print panties she’d just discovered drop noiselessly to the floor.

Peering into the package on the table, Maddy saw a note. She picked it up and read it:

“C/o The Chocolate Moose Boys—

“To whom this should concern,

“You want your daughter the uppercrust slut she was or the twodollar whore she could be with just another 20 vials of Spank in her virgin veins? Well choice is yours To whom! We want a hundred grand—we don’t care how you get the money but get it fast. No later than tomorrow afternoon. Put the money in a package with any address you want on it and give the package straight to your mailman tomorrow and we will manage the rest. We get the money by tomorrow night we leave your daughter alone. We don’t and you never see her again. (And none of this the money took a day to wire bullshit—We don’t get the money by tomorrow whatever the reason your daughters a whore!)

“O yeah and P.S. beeyawtch! Tell that hubby of yours (unless this is him reading in which case go tell your own sorry dumb ass beeyawtch!) to stay off them talk shows; he’s making us all sick in CO with his bitching and just always being a limpdick son of a bitch.

“Adios dooshbag!”

Maddy’s eyes went in and out of focus a few times as she stared fruitlessly at the very offensive note, failing rather miserably to make heads and tails of it. She was flushed, embarrassed, angry, horribly confused, still naked but for the musty fur coat, incidentally, hung open now, giving her “koochie” and “boobies” plenty of air.

She was overcome in short, and bluntly said as much when, a moment later and all of a sudden, she began to splutter. Then her bottom lip trembled uncontrollable.

“Waaaah!” and next thing you know, the thirty-something mother was crying like a baby (but then, she had always cried thus), tears rushing down her bright red apple cheeks, saliva bubbling up on the edges of her gaping cherry-lipped mouth, and snot collecting quite visibly at either nostril of her button little doll-nose.

Why’d they have to be so MEAN! And where were she and Paul ever going to get a hundred thousand dollars! Maddy searched her all but empty mind in a veritable panic at the quandary.

They were still paying down the house, so they couldn’t possibly have that much on hand . . . Could they? It’s true, Maddy knew as much about the LaMode family finances as she did about her husband’s worklife—all that was Paul’s responsibility. Even so, her husband had mentioned to her in passing their having “some little” set aside in “an IRS, or whatever”; and hadn’t he said something else once about some foreign accounts on “those one islands”?—And, of course, they had made some pretty good investments over the years, or so Paul bragged infrequently when he’d had a bottle of wine to himself, investments off tips her husband had gleaned, usually without realizing, from those same “deep-pocket donors” who secretly insured his growing status in the Party—But then, Maddy wondered, hadn’t everybody made those same investments? Seemed like, if the way Paul brought them up at parties was any indication—everybody but she seemed to know what he was talking about . . . But then, it couldn’t be that much, then, could it? the money they made by these “investments”, if everybody else had made it, too? Otherwise everybody else would be rich, and if everybody was rich, why would anybody be asking for money like these guys who sent the note . . ?

“Doy-eee!” Maddy scoffed at herself, through her drying tears, “That doesn’t make no logical sense.”

And anyway whatever money they did have saved was for their retirement. Paul was really strict about that. He hadn’t even let Maddy take out that measly forty grand to buy one of those little European coupes all the wives were going gaga for last year (and for Maddy couldn’t at all recall what reason). And, besides, they had to get the money by tomorrow—impossible! Because a hundred grand was a lot of money, wasn’t it? And it wasn’t like they kept that much in easy reach, say, in the very house she was standing in, even in a safe in the basement she had seen often enough but had never inquired about what was in it . . .

Well, that was that, then. Mrs. LaMode looked her teary eyes over her shoulder at the snoring figure of her daughter, splayed out full-beaver on the couch. The bad men were just going to have to take her little baby away . . .

But, on the other “thingy”—and strange to say, Maddy’s tears stopped entirely, as she lost herself in thinking the matter over from the few sides of it her perception could ascertain—they couldn’t very well just let Clarabelle be made into a two-dollar, “um, prostitute”, Maddy wondered, could they? “I mean, what will the neighbors say!”

But on the other “thingy”, again, one hundred grand sure was a lot of money . . .

“Better just ask Paul,” the good wife spoke up more optimistically. “He’ll know what to do!” And Maddy actually smiled through wet but drying eyes at the thought of a happy resolution to this troubling turn of events.

Mrs. LaMode wiped her eyes with her fur coat sleeve next and, grabbing a tissue from the occasional table, blew her nose loudly. Then she just stood there for almost a whole minute, as if trying to recollect something.

“O yeah,” she said at last to the empty dining room. “Pie!!!”

She crumpled up the blackmailer’s note absent-mindedly and tossed it into the kitchen kick-top garbage, then hurried over to inspect the charred pie in the sink.

“Should be grody—but it’s yummy,” Maddy concluded after having choked down as much of the last pie as was not cooked to the point of resembling plastic.

She at once recognized and relished the warm happy feeling that flooded her senses almost at the first bite of the overcooked wakka-wakka. Though not as intense—i.e., not causing her at once to full out and messily climax—it was still at its base that same feeling she had experienced earlier in the day, that had caused her, with so shockingly little of life’s typical prevaricating, to . . .

“Um, whatchamacallit, with the mailman’s ummmmm . . .”

And then as now, Mrs. LaMode was surprised (surprised and relieved) to find she wasn’t overcome with enough shame and guilt anymore at the thought of what she’d done on the mud porch that afternoon to properly inhibit her from thinking about doing it over and over again:

“. . . And again . . . I mean, why stop?” our slutty heroine-to-be honestly wondered, and she did mean that as in, “Why ever stop?”

The buzzing sensation in her mind had returned, the gentle aching where she’d hit her head, only Maddy was no longer troubled by either of these. To the contrary, they felt good, sort of; they discouraged her from thinking too hard about anything, and, in the meantime, encouraged her to make herself feel better—much better—any way possible. After all, what did Maddy hate more than thinking too hard, and love more than making herself feel much better (indeed, in these respects she was pretty much like anybody)? No, the buzzing, the gentle ache, both seemed almost reassuring, oddly, giving her the unwavering impression—even without her usual deliberate stabs at optimism—that everything would be just fine if she just never thought too hard about just about anything and just tried to make herself feel much-much better “just, like, all the time . . .”

“Shore is wet down there!” the silly matron apostrophized, and she slid a hand down between her naked thighs, as if just to make sure. Yep, really wet all right. Since her hand was at the spot anyway, Maddy figured she might as well oblige her poor, hot, drippy, hungry “koochy”, began massaging it and, biting her lip, moaning ever so slightly at the first unmistakable graceful rearing of her newly familiar unbrookable arousal.

Her hand automatically found out her firm, almost rubbery, clitoris, an easy find, too, as the little bulb had swollen up something special—it felt, Maddy mused as she squeezed it as soft as can be between thumb and forefinger; every bit like a small round grape, it even had a slight purplish hue to it, she noted through almost-closed eyes, peeking at it, as her hips were thrust out in front of her, through the crack of her cleavage; only, unlike that fruit, at each “pluck”, it gave rise to a juice both more copious and less sweet.

A translucent spray shot from the woman’s nethers, as she had just turned her hand sideways on an impulse, to see if she couldn’t better get a finger in that way, and all this happened as if by-the-by, the housewife not even opening her eyes again or looking up from her gently prodding motions to take in where her orgasm would land. Though it beggars credibility, still documentary evidence attests, Maddy’s uncanny spunk landed nowhere but in poor SlimJim’s disgracefully empty water dish.

After a few seconds of the steady stream of female ejaculate, Maddy’s thighs began their now familiar automatic judder. She twitched uncontrollable, and her spray of lady-cum became more intense, blasting out in not just one stream, but several, many of which landed still in the dog dish, but some of which missed it, bathing the black and white glazed porcelain tiles of the floor, the boringly ornate white wainscoat, and one spunky little spray even making it as high as the admittedly rather low hanging kitchen calendar—the theme of this one was Marmeladova’s Kitchen, featuring stills from the show of the popular television cooking maven, Glazy Marmeladova—where it plastered the celebrity chef’s white apron with unassuaging élan.

“O gaaawwwwwd!!!” Maddy roared almost triumphantly obscene in the face of such superhuman arousal. “Gaaa-yaaa-yaaa-yaaa-yaaa-yaaa-yaaa-yaaawd!!!” And her squeaky voice caught, broke, and recontinued in time with her violently air-humping thighs, cunt, and ass.

At last, the lady’s steady spray diminished. Like a hose that has had its water shut off at one end, the housewife’s loins continued to pulse out their lust-fluid, albeit slower and slower, less and less distance, till at last it was a mere trickle to the floor at her white ankle socks with little red hearts on them.

Maddy LaMode reached around sensibly for something to put in her mouth—anything. She was still by the sink, wherein one side of which still lay the charred, inedible remains of her third pie (for in her hunger, she had eaten it straight from the sink). Next to it was a brush scrubber. Without thinking, she picked this up and, briefly weighing both ends of it with her bleary eyes, she wisely forwent the brush, and stuck its long blue handle in her mouth. This soothed her a great deal for some reason. Following her incredible mind-breaking miracle-gasm, the busty slut housewife was inclined to feel frightened; she still felt “re-e-e-e-e-eal good”, waves of sensual invigorating pleasure shooting through her body’s every inch; but at the same time, not being able to recall where and who she was, not entirely able to shake the feeling of having just skirted something very harrowing, squirted something very naughty, and most tellingly, not having a man around immediately to hold her in his powerful embrace and reassure her she was going to be all right and his “good little girl”—all of these left the woman in a very timid if very exalted frame of very frazzled mind.

Sucking the brush handle helped, though. It was long and hard, and gave her something to do with her mouth . . . She rolled the handle around her mouth with her fervent, fast, fat little tongue, she pulled it all the way out to the tip and then, quite suddenly, shoved it all the way back in. That wasn’t far enough for Maddy, though; she wanted it even farther back than that, so her lips could feel the brush, and so positively choked herself on it three or four times in quick succession, till she feared she might by doing this actually puke up the yummy, pleasure-inducing, pie, so she stopped. By this point, the insanely good “thumping” of her loins had been replaced by a more manageable delightful, continuous “thrum”.

Maddy then let the brush slide from her throat, from her mouth, a long impossibly thick belt of spit attaching itself to that swallowed end like an entirely lubricative umbilical cord, finally breaking off at her lips and falling into her vast cleavage.

“Christ almighty!” the horny Christian housewife gasped hoarsely, looking distractedly down meanwhile, in order to wipe some of the handle’s spittle onto her huge erect right nipple. She smiled: How could she have forgotten these babies? “MMMMNNNnnnn . . .”

“Holy fucking shit!” Clarabelle had evidently awaked from her strange drug-induced stupor, was standing precariously, hands on both sides of the doorframe, holding herself up; she was still dressed like a whore. She stared wide-eyed at her mother, who stared blushing, blear-eyed, smiling, squirting back at her. “MOM!!!”

Maddy had to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind but again the desire to spout mindless profanity—and what kind of example would she be setting if she said . . !

She bit her lip instead and tried very hard to smile at her daughter in a way she at least hoped was friendly, cleared her throat indeliberately (this accidentally brought up another impossibly thick belt of drool, however, which Maddy was hard put to get rid of, wiping it from her lip with her hand, her hand with her tit, and, as this didn’t get rid of it, finally, rubbing it on the under part of her rump, just under her coat hem, a good thirty seconds till at last her hand felt drier), and in the sweetest most maternal voice imaginable, said the following: “Hunny-Bunnies! (HACK!) ’Scooz me . . . You’re ’wake! I wasso-o worried . . . But you shouldn’ swear, Dear . . . Anwyaryou dreshed like a whore?” At this question the daughter’s eyes bulged and the mother’s eyes glanced down at her own hanging out and enormous tits and very conspicuous swelled and drippy cunt. The mom blushed: “Um, you musht be hungry. There might be a li’l pie left, if you wanna suck the pan.”

And Clarabelle’s mother turned to find the pie pan in the sink behind her; when she had turned back round, she saw her daughter flat on the floor again, passed out.