The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

If you had been a neighbour watching him from the comfort of your immaculate front garden, you would have wondered whether he was breaking in to his own house.

Although, of course, that would be absurd, as he held his keys tightly and silently—what is there to be broken when you legitimately unlock? Still, there was something predatory about it: the creeping, the sneaking, the checking for observers out of the corners of his eyes.

Now, if you really had been a neighbour watching, it would be likely that you were one of those who found Howard Kirk odd—deeply and substantially odd. Marrying a younger woman while blatantly not stopping your bachelor ways... well, it’s just not acceptable. To this opinion, dissenting voices were rarely raised, and certainly never in such numbers that they could become a choir.

Turning back to your chores—or perhaps to your forgettable paperback—you would add one more piece of evidence to your overwhelming conviction that Howard Kirk was a deeply odd individual. Having earlier pushed up your sunglasses in order to peep and pry more clearly, you would now firmly seat them back over your eyes as you continued to be ignorant of the fact that Howard was not odd. He was just ahead of the curve.

And the curve was about to sweep the rest of his neighbours with it, too—out of their gardens and out of their houses and all the way out of their lives. That’s because curves are shaped like waves.

Howard Kirk reflected on his own actions slightly more charitably than most of his neighbours would have. He was, to his mind legitimately, concerned that his beautiful, intelligent, and most-importantly young wife was being systematically brainwashed by that dreaded scourge of enlightened civilisation. Insidiously, its corrupting acids dripped on to her, bit by bit, day by day. As he had written in an email to one of his closest friends—apologies, to his one close friend—“she’s watching a tremendous amount of daytime TV.” (He would find out he was wrong: she was, instead, watching a tremendous amount of TV during the daytime. If he had not been so habitual in returning home so late every evening, he would also have noticed the regular delivery of DVDs).

Howard was on a mission of covert observation, with anthropological intent, in order to save his wife from the mundanity of a housebound existence. Besides, if she was out of the house more, he could bring his sexual conquests home. It was cheaper than renting motel rooms by the hour.

And so he thought his activities were transparently irreproachable.

Considering the unfairness of his situation, Howard quietly closed the front door behind him and, thrilling at his own skills, almost knocked a vase on to the floor by banging his hipbone jarringly against the corner of a table.

His eyes watered with unvoiced pain.

Continuing to walk softly to the entrance to the living room, avoiding the table carefully, Howard made absolutely sure that his wife was unaware of his presence.

A cursory glance around the door frame revealed to Howard that he could have thrown a shoe at the “loving room” embroidery panel that hung above his wife’s reclining body. She still would not have reacted. The TV was blaring its messages of mediocrity so loudly, and she huddled on the sofa opposite with such devotion—peering owlishly at the screen from behind designer glasses—that it would have been a Sisyphean task to rouse her. Beneath the beige blanket, she looked to him like a well-fed caterpillar cocooning itself so that it might become a dusty moth. In being so utterly spellbound by the gogglebox, she was embodying all the personality attributes that he was desperate to avoid—settled, satisfied, stay-at-home. He wanted salacious, surprising... sexually-adventurous.

Howard lusted for the memory of her tender, unfocused pre-marital self. He wondered whether comfort could do this to all people—make them lazy and self-satisfied and mean with their bodies.

His right hand pinching tenderly at the bridge of his nose, as if warding off one of his celebrated nosebleeds, he wondered how marrying a dazzlingly attractive young woman had come to this.

Yet there was something that Howard Kirk failed to perceive, being so fixated on the unfairness of his situation.

Sophie Kirk, oblivious to his disgust, lay entranced in the darkened room, curtains having been pulled shut earlier by fingers eager for solitude. Beneath the blanket the same squirming fingers were hot and ready. Her body lay on its side, right on the edge of the cushions: as if invisible tendrils pulled her towards whatever the screen displayed. She didn’t consciously know that her body was aiming completely and entirely for the same hot, sticky outcome that she had achieved every single afternoon for some weeks. She felt a peppery feeling of anticipation, yes. A certain slickness, maybe. But no more.

Right now, not realising that she was lying in wait for her own surprised submissiveness, did she have a memory of the past four days; how they ended in a gasping resolution which had slowly nibbled away at her ability to refuse the ideas being presented to her?

Was she aware that the same would happen today?

And could she guess that, at some point, she would be a mere puppet of whatever will lay behind these images?

Afternoon turns to evening. The curtains, now, are closed against the darkness; not against the light.

Twisted away from her on the kitchen stool, hands cradling his face like blinkers, he was as distant as a person could be while still remaining in the same room.

Sophie reached over the counter top tenderly. “Howie...” she started, her face a mush of contrition.

Time passed. She continued to look at him lovingly, every atom of her being radiating concern.

He maintained a stoic attitude of separation. The hard lines of his posture accentuated a stark division, as if he mocked her softness. He was her opposite. Yin and yang, while mixed together, never actually combining.

There was a subtle wave of revulsion that passed over his body as she yet again tried to pet him. Like an electromagnetic force, it left her hand dancing above him, afraid to touch but equally unable to remove it entirely. As her fingers described confused, loving shapes above him, it was as if she was sculpting his aura into frothy peaks.

Trying another tack, she slipped down from her own stool and padded over, her robe swamping her slender frame in a cloud of softness. The same softness with which she wanted to subdue her husband, in order to strengthen their bonds.

At last, his eyes met hers, shining hard behind the flinty glance. The channel was opened between them, and she threw obscuring and enveloping clouds of admiration at him with planned purposefulness. Slowly dropping to her knees, he could not avoid her open face as it gazed up at him in total submission.

“I just want to make you happy,” she started, “why aren’t you happy?” She seasoned this entreaty with the adorable pressure of her head against his knees.

Howard didn’t know how to start. He had never met someone before who did not want something in return for his own reward of sexual satisfaction. And neither did he think that this relationship, even though between man and wife, could become so altruistic.

“What would make me happy,” he started, his voice dry and rasping with spent anger.

He started again.

“What would make me happy would be if you were still the woman I married. Just a few weeks ago... we’ve only been married a little over a year!” The strangled quality of his voice made it clear that he was about to get angry again.

She did not respond immediately. She lengthened the silence by making her way to him. Kneeling before him, knees cushioned by the thickness of her robe, she continued to stare longingly at his face while her hands started to caress and knead the tension from his feet.

His toes wiggled involuntarily in a small spasm of surrender. His face threatened to break into something less like a grimace.

Resolute, he tried to get annoyed again: “we’re together because you were young, and I seduced you. We agreed to a...”

She nodded, somehow entirely caught up in his explanation and at the same time totally devoted to his feet.

“...particular arrangement,” he explained euphemistically, and tailed off.

She remained silent.

“Look, in short,” and he pulled his foot from her hands, “in bloody short I married you so that you wouldn’t lie around being a bloody housewife.”

She waited a moment, gazing into his eyes. She nodded once, but emphatically.

The question mark hung between them, pendulous.

She continued to chase away the tension with practised thumbs.

He was expectant.

She gently placed his foot back in its proper place, stood up, and with exquisite pressure sat in his lap. Howard found himself grasping onto the soft cotton of her robe in order to maintain purchase on the stool. His left hand poked into the loose wrapping and found its fingertips nestling against warm, soft skin. She gently moved her leg up and down.

“I have something to show you,” she started.

He handled the book as an object of derision. Unwilling to admit short-sightedness by wearing his glasses, he brought the cover closer to his face and squinted slightly.

“The Fulfilment of Women and Man, by... Qu-qa Qin?” Howard wasn’t particularly interested in Chinese culture, but he didn’t think it sounded like any Chinese name he had heard of. Then again, his education on the subject had stopped around the time of Bruce Lee.

“Yes, darling. Although it’s more of an elongated ‘i’, like ‘queen’.”

Something tore at the edges of his memory, but his lap was too full of his wife’s body again. She had settled him in his favourite chair while getting the book. Then she had come back, dressed in some scandalous lingerie that he didn’t remember ever seeing before. As she walked in that... particular way... which reminded him of why he had pursued her so single-mindedly against all the advice of his jaded friends who had forgotten the wonders of lust, the basque cupped her ample bosom in a way designed to contrast the voluptuousness with the tight swerve of her waist. And, beneath these, nothing. Subsequently her trimmed snatch was rubbing very satisfyingly against him.

“It’s a pen-name. She has been very successful in helping Chinese couples to find joy in sex past the simple utility of procreation.”

He frowned in distaste and made a wriggling motion which threatened to unseat her. “This isn’t about having kids, is it...?”

Her cool and calm hands gently cupped his jaw. “Shh, darling. It’s about the sexual liberation of couples beyond staid, conservative monogamous relationships. It’s about not having kids.”

Howard was about to accept this happily, until he grasped her wrists with noticeable force. “This isn’t some lecture designed to get me to accept some string of filthy affairs, is it? I told you, we have to vet these things before hand. I want to be...”

He didn’t say ‘...in control,’ but it took his brain’s vocal supervisor using judicious censorship to achieve that aim. His eyes wandered from hers as he considered.

“...sure that you are safe and happy at all times,” he finished, his voice suddenly less strident.

Sophie looked back into his eyes with impish pleasure written on her lips and laughed.

“Don’t you see? We won’t be happy until we lose these notions of ownership over each other.” She took the book from him and brandished it like a Bible. “We need to accept each other for what we are, and enjoy watching each other grow towards our full potential.”

He studied her with quizzical skepticism. He was about to ask, ‘Will this involve peyote?’, as he’d heard of living nightmares during various remarkably bad trips taken by his more spiritual acquaintances, but his starstruck wife simply pressed a calming fingertip to his lips.

“Come,” she breathed. “It’s time that you met Her.”

Howard just about caught the reverence in the invocation of Her name. “Isn’t she in China?” he asked, puzzled, as Sophie pulled him from the chair, almost hopping with enthusiasm.

“You have your partner with you?” sang Qu-qa, in a voice that was like the baby steps of a devoted wife coming to serve you.

They were on the sofa, the huddle of the blanket still pooling on the floor. Curled up against him, Sophie’s eyes drank in the light from the screen eagerly.

“Yes!” replied Sophie, gleaming as if she was entertaining an important guest. (“This is the porn starlet that writes your posh sex book?” asked Howard, but all he received in reply was a critical glance).

“Good. You can now both start progressing to your fulfilment together.”

It was creepy, but the timing of the sing-song voice was exactly as if she was aware of the viewer. This was intensified by Sophie’s happy answer to the screen, and her electric thrill at being addressed by it in return.

“This is a recording, right?” asked Howard, half-directed at Sophie, and half-directed at someone who he hoped would not answer. However, at that moment, Qu-qa continued talking in a way that overlapped him, and he allowed himself to relax.

“—time to reveal the full nature of a blissful union between man and wife. Wife, please leave the room.”

Sophie squeezed Howard’s hand as if to reassure him about the first step of a perilous journey. Then, she gave absolutely no thought to obeying: she simply acted.

In bed, later, time and place confused, Howard attempted to locate himself in a maelstrom of new and disconcerting thoughts.

He was elated to find that sexual hedonism was a nourishing, empowering, and acceptable path for a married couple. The way forward, for both of them, was unlimited sexual activity in order to strip away the bonds that desire used to hold you back to the material world. While Howard was not totally convinced by the spiritual side, he was up for some unlimited sexual activity.

The problem was that his wife would be involved.

“In the spirit of honesty,” Howard admitted, attempting to bare his soul alongside his body, “I must reiterate that I may have already been unfaithful in our short time together as a married couple.” As if the formality of his language was a rug to hide the stain of his many transgressions.

He lay back, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, terrified at his eagerness to confess. Some strange buttons had been pressed by the inviting voice of their other-worldly sexual mentor.

Howard waited for his wife to reply to him—with distress, with anger, with acceptance.

Instead, she remained beside him, sitting up with her feet tucked to her side. Her hands slowly sought his body, as if her fingers were drinking the sheer presence of his skin.

She continued, her left hand able to reach down to his thighs, her right teasing nipples and tickling sides.

Howard forgot conversation, and started to react. A tingling awoke, and in the wake of her fingers it felt as if the soft moonlight played a dance across him.

With glacial slowness, and a glacier’s implacability, her left hand weaved from his hip to circle the base of his thickening member. He could almost feel her smiling, as if a warm flush of joy was emanating from her.

Following her hand, her head leaned down and skimmed across his upper body, a loose fringe of hair exciting yet more stimulation, as does a trailing hand dipping from a boat borne by the currents.

In precisely the amount of time necessary for eyes to roll back and the back to arch, her smile was upon him. All he would be able to see, if he looked, would be the silvered image of her tousled, bedtime hair caressing him.

She let her lips rouse him, quicker than he had ever experienced before, a state of absolute abandon. Then, as if burned by the heat of his pumping blood, she stopped.

Sexual potential pouring from him into a vast, empty nothingness, he wondered briefly if this was his punishment.

Sophie quietly left the bed and, hinges supernaturally quiet, left the room.

Leaving him confused, he fell asleep without being aware that it had encircled him and besieged him so quickly.

The lenses of Sophie’s glasses showed the mirror-image of the woman. Behind them, lit only by the screen, flickered enraptured eyes that sought the next level of sexual liberation. She was prepared to give up everything to this paranormally alluring figure—her husband’s body was the least of the costs she was prepared to incur in return for absolute bliss.

Like a magicicada sensing that a brief communal flowering above ground was at hand, she had chosen the correct DVD for this stage of the sexual enlightenment programme. She tingled with the pleasure of service, as well as a thrilling sexual undercurrent, at following it so slavishly.

Curtains pulled haphazardly against prying eyes—as if she had little interest in whether strangers ogled first her left hand slickly teasing with moist lips, and then her right testing each nipple and the firm flesh behind them—Sophie continued to mouth the essential words of her many, many lessons.

And, at the end—when sanctioned—hesitancy replaced speed, a fierceness of hunger replaced a more reserved yearning, and she breathed one word of respect and submission: “Sifu”.

“No, we can’t have sex,” she said, a shaking head untangling soft tresses.

His eyes stared at her with a feverish sheen of lust. He was deriving more heat from her tucking her hair back behind her ears than he had ever dreamed possible.

“But...” and he did not want to say, or whine, ‘I want to cum,’ as such petulance was so alien to him. But it was there, unbidden, behind his tongue.

“We must repudiate such conservative notions,” she continued, in reply to the unspoken. “You must save yourself, and find out about the woman’s role. But, in this relationship of open sexuality, trust that your rewards will be great.”

He noticed that her not only were her words those of Sifu Qu-qa Qin, but so were her speech patterns. Even the dainty movements of her head seemed to be slowly becoming less and less her own. He would have been worried, unless so distracted by sexual need. With urgency, he grabbed her elbow, trying to coerce her into lust.

Dipping her head towards him: “All in good time, husband.” She, rewarding his gaze, smiled.

Sophie was upstairs, chanting some kind of mantra, stimulating herself subtly with a certain pattern of touches from a vibrator. When she orgasmed, Howard knew, he would hear her through the floor of the bedroom.

How he wished to be brought to the shuddering end of his own journey into sexual openness. Docile and chagrined, he nursed his bewilderment while kneeling in front of the screen. Which of the lessons had Sophie placed in the player now?

“You may look up,” whispered Sifu Qu-qa, rewarding him with beauty.

Every aspect of him was aligned towards yearning after her praise. How many nights, weeks, months had he knelt here, the pain of his knees unsubstantial and dream-like, just like the passage of time? Remanent magnetisation meant that she always hovered at the fore-front of his thoughts. But, right now, the pull was strong. All of his will and his composure thrust out of him, connecting to her image. Some kind of thread emanated from him, and jolts travelled up and down—jolts of pleasure from obedience, and disdain from disobedience. He did not know which he treasured more.

It was an undeniable fact that the pull emanated from the head of his cock. Prone to being enraged at all times, no matter how uncomfortable or unsuitable, it thickened and stiffened immeasurably as Sophie bent over to place the disc in the tray. Ogling the figure that he had been unable to treasure for so long, his thoughts would switch powerfully to an even more powerful vortex—the strength and dominance of Sifu Qu-qa.

She started speaking, and he twitched to the rhythm of her perfect words.

The lessons were arranged in a tight, controlled spiral. To start with, from the book, and in short tutorials, he learned the place of a man and the place of a woman in a sexual relationship without limits.

As he became more and more tightly compressed by unreleased pressure, trying to accept the vastly improved sexual drive of his wife, he was drawn further into a parallel world. His wife took to roaming the house in scandalous underwear, flecked with near-constant arousal, and Qu-qa invited him further into a world of vastly increased sexual contact. She would reach for vegetables during cooking, and he would watch her play idly with it as she consulted the recipe book. Having found deeper levels of arousal, Qu-qa took the opportunity to teach him that a true sexual relationship involves the woman taking charge by finding suitable Vessels for her husband. He, desperate for any release, tried to accept this. At the research labs, he tried vainly to cover spontaneous and irreducible erections with loose cloth from his trouser, draping himself with lab coats, strategic desk ornaments and turns to the wall. The brief touching hands with a young female secretary, the coquettish smile of an intern looking for favour, and he would be blushing and moving and hiding. Qu-qa, calm as ever, told him to wait, and wait, and wait; her lips only occasionally looking as if they might break out into a smirk.

Howard had waited. Now, he felt, it must be time for his final lesson.

Howard was exhausted when he joined his post-orgasmic wife on their recently unshared bed. She cuddled herself in a long lamb’s wool cardigan, hair tucked on one side of her head, legs underneath her. She was, as usual for this time (of night?, morning?), using the internet. He could see nothing of the laptop screen, but took the optimism on her face as a good sign.

He noticed, suddenly, that the pink tinge of dawn was seeping past the curtains. He blinked, realising that it was the weekend, and 48 hours of sexual release had been promised to him. He realised that his wife was about to tell him what she was doing through Sifu’s website. His softening cock suddenly reinforced itself with the intuition that it would be very hot news.

Sophie glanced at him with a studious satisfaction. Obliquely, she started with “I think I’ve picked the perfect Vessel.”

Howard remained deferential. He had learned to wait.

Tapping her teeth with a fingernail, then: “Sifu says she is ready. She wants to give herself to an attractive, distinguished, and sexually competent older man.” A quick glance of, ‘that’s you’.

Sophie leaned forward, picture zoomed in, soaking in every pink inch of this young woman’s flesh. She felt she had been told everything about her—hopes, wishes, dreams, and long-held sexual desires.

It did not occur to her to consider how many of these long-held desires were extremely recently developed. It did not occur to her to consider whether her own desires were fictitious. She simply obediently acted upon them.

At last, sighing over a job well done, she turned the laptop screen to face her husband.

Howard seemed to remain non-committal. However, his penis, longing to experience the friction of another human body, started to pulse as if holding back a reservoir of stored sexuality.

Perhaps the parting of his lips and the clenching of his teeth gave him away, as his wife smiled in anticipation their union in separate sexual fulfilment; she turned the screen so that he might see what fruits he was about to pluck.

Holly was as freshly scrubbed and enthusiastic as her picture and her profile suggested. She was without either shame or fear as she knocked on the door. She was simply looking forward to reaching sexual fulfilment.

Sifu had taught her well. She knew exactly who to talk to first, what to say, how to act, and when to fuck. A rigid list of behaviours and their triggers had been instilled into her through instruction, repetition, and the rewards of orgasm.

The next behaviour came to life as the door opened. Holly came in, removed her coat, and followed the Wife in to the house with the sure and easy stride of the professional salesperson. She did not particularly notice the Wife’s simple, elegant wrap dress, pearls, and made-up face—as if she were a stereotype of a housewife who had been expecting to entertain guests. Holly had not been instructed to notice such details.

Setting out her stall with professionalism but no other human qualities, she quickly disrobed, neatly folding her clothes over an out-of-place chair that seemed to have been put there for that very purpose.

Sophie regarded the young woman with clinical detachment.

“You are the Vessel,” she asked, without her tone reflecting that she was acting a question.

Holly merely nodded.

“The Vessel,” continued Sophie, “exists for the sexual enlightenment of others.”

The Vessel nodded.

Sophie showed no satisfaction. “Turn,” she demanded, and with a finger to her cheek assessed the body of her husband’s first human sex-toy.

Holly slowly turned clockwise, head straight forward, as if she were a revolving mannequin. Her body was sleek and smooth, and Sophie looked for signs of blemishes and imperfections as she displayed herself in the feeble light of the darkened living room. What she saw was a dusting of freckles against pale skin. Her red hair was pulled up in a long pony tail, high on her head.

“Let your hair down,” prompted Sophie. Holly complied, putting no more effort into the motion than necessary.

“Stop,” ordered Sophie, and moved on to the second portion of the examination by coming right up to Holly’s body and testing it with her hands.

“Bend over,” she snapped, and Holly reached forward and down to put her hands on the arm of the sofa in front of her.

Sophie played her hands over Holly’s back, testing her flesh for some invisible but necessary quantities that she was compelled to measure. One hand fondled the breasts for firmness, the other travelled down her legs for the musculature of the calves and thighs. It did not occur to either to find this arousing.

“Sit,” was Sophie’s next curt direction. Holly straightened up, turned, and then sat on the sofa with economical movements. Her legs hinged apart easily at Sophie’s questing hands. Sophie retrieved a dildo from the coffee table, and without warning tested the internal features of the younger woman. Lubrication, tightness, and depth were all sounded out with brisk motions.

Holly did not move to increase the stimulation, or entreaty her partner for either less or more.

The fun had not begun yet.

The Wife led the Vessel. The Wife held the Vessel by the hand. Neither the one steering nor the one being steered up the stairs contemplated the future. They did not need to. What lay before them was a glorious succession of planned, prepared, and purposeful present moments. What was about to happen was expected and undeniable.

In the hallway, Wife waited for the Vessel to open the door. The younger woman did not need to be asked.

If the Husband was excited by the young, firm, and utterly available body of the Vessel, he did not particularly show it. It may have been that, in his previously life, Howard had seen Holly in the neighbourhood, and absent-mindedly considered the shapeliness of her rear as it cavorted. Perhaps he had imagined her face, with its cute smearing of freckles across the nose, a mere breath away from his cock. He may have even coveted the idea of his wife watching them from elsewhere, powerless to stop the relentless pounding of Holly’s needy pussy; straining in one direction to pull her husband from her, straining in another direction to watch and stroke and let the inevitable orgasms happen.

The past did not matter.

In this present moment, Husband was driven mad with an unchecked lust that had raged through him since the changes Sifu Qu-qa Qin had brought upon his relationship. He was ready, more than anything, for sanctioned sexual release of any kind. Yet, sitting cross-legged on the bed, head down and eyes closed, the only part of him that showed this was his erection, which strained from him as if it desired to be let loose from his body.

Neither the Wife or the Vessel paid attention to the low mumbling coming from him; some repetitive mantra with some distinguishable words such as ‘fulfilment’, ‘desire’, and ‘union’. They merely stood in front of him, the slightly older woman dressed in a way to cement her role as commander of the naïf, the slightly younger woman unblushingly naked and seemingly thoroughly innocent.

At a word from the Wife, Husband looked up. His face did not show any signs of emotion, his eyes simply locked on to those of the Vessel that had been brought to him, and a bond formed. Both anticipated the release of their union—although perhaps one more feverishly than the other.

The Wife sat in an armchair, facing the bed, in order to direct the action and monitor, at all times, sexual suitability of the Vessel. The irony of being the final arbiter of this compatibility without having fucked her husband for so long completely escaped her. Instead, she pulled the bottom of her dress up to expose her hot, slick, pink area to the cool air. It looked across the room longingly at the sexual tableau and seemed desperate to join in.

The Vessel was drawn by the pull of the Husband’s eyes to the theatre of operations and lay down on her back, spread-eagled, waiting for the final test.

As the Husband sat up next to his conquest, another set of rules came into play.

“Please, check her pussy,” said Wife, graciously, waiting patiently to check her own.

Husband grunted and, with no resistance whatsoever, plunged in three fingers. Without nodding or talking or even eye-contact it was confirmed and communicated that the Vessel was suitable.

“Is she young enough?” asked Wife hopefully, and at that received a nod.

Without pause: “beautiful enough?", and “stimulating enough?", and each of these were answered wordlessly.

Wife was becoming enraptured by the fulfilment of her role, her hands snaking down to her moist centre as they had so easily and so often since learning the lessons of the celebrated Sifu. Irresistibly turned on by having manufactured the extra-marital sex of Husband, she started to lightly press a fingertip down and around and along the puffed line of her inner lips. It was most important that she match Husband, and prove their union by reaching fruition together without actual contact.

Husband was also single-mindedly drawn into the activity. “Willing enough?” was tested by him putting his testing fingers in the Vessel’s mouth to be cleaned. With a swirling of her tongue, she totally and entirely accepted her own juices from his fingers. Her eyes made connection with his, in expectation of the next step, where the two strangers would become as close as possible.

Which came first, no-one could tell, but Wife ordered “mount the Vessel” and slipped the slippery solitary digit inside herself. Her moan indicated surrender to both in equal and total measure, low and raspy and the culmination of a long process.

As the straining, bucking cock of Husband entered her, Vessel let out a sound herself—somehow more surprised, with more abandonment. Immediately, she wrapped her legs around Husband’s body and tried to draw him in closer, consuming his cock with her pussy, his skin with her skin, his face with her eyes. Her hands flitted, for one moment grasping his as they used her hips for more purchase. As her hips bucked against the insistent rhythm of his own movements her head rolled back and her eyes followed and she slapped the bed with wild, crazy arms.

“See, Husband?” lectured Wife in husky tones, “you pleasure her so much already.” Noticeable, Wife was using more pressure and speed within herself now.

Husband, trying to stay as deep within Vessel as possible, moved backwards and pulled the slim body after him. He reached the edge of the mattress and stood on the floor. After re-orienting and re-entering, he started to pleasure her from a new angle. He grasped her firm buttocks and pulled her onto him. The Vessel’s arms crossed her body and she played with her tits, wishing for him to ogle her.

Rules changed, roles followed.

Her sweet, piping voice not matching the words she had been trained to say, Vessel subdued Wife with: “He brings me to orgasm so quickly.”

Wife reacted by rudely pulling at the top of the dress to free her breasts, slipping one loop from a shoulder and trying to squeeze the flesh above the material.

Vessel continued: “he shows me how much he prefers my young, untested pussy.” Vessel elongated the vowel of the last word, and the pounding she was receiving could be heard in her voice.

Wife was becoming a quivering mass of shameful, sexual need. She said nothing; just gasped.

“My tight, virginal walls,” the Vessel lied, not being a virgin, “are going to undulate around his thick cock.”

Husband grunted in expectation.

“I am going to cum,” she continued, emphasising the word with a need that ignored the fact she had had her body rocked with orgasm not long before, “I am going to be fulfilled by your husband’s member.”

Husband pulled out of her, his penis glistening and cooling in the much cooler air. Then he slammed back in, and she tipped over the edge.

“He wants only to fuck me!", came the undignified screech, and Wife closed her eyes, let her head roll back, swallowed hard, and tried to keep in control of her orgasm. Her hips still rotated as if rubbing insistently against her fingers, but she brought that wet hand up and grasped her hair, dishevelling herself even more. She had almost shrunk into the chair, nothing more than a prim and proper housewife reduced to a voyeur of improper contact between Husband and Vessel, a bucking figure of comic lust that could control nothing—not her clothes, not her actions, not her voice. She was just a pink slit yearning for the attention of her Husband’s manhood, getting off on being totally unable to attain it.

Husband gasped, willing and unwilling to cum yet himself, and pulled out of Vessel as she gibbered and frothed around him. As his bulbous head left her with a pop, her pussy still writhed and sucked in total abandonment. He longed to join her, but there were still more steps to go. He stood and waited for the proper time.

In the hiatus, Vessel reached down with both hands and felt herself, as if surprised by the power that her tight hole wielded upon the minds of men. She smiled, and the smile came through in her voice: “Husband needs me. He wants to complete me and himself. We will reach fulfilment together.” Then, more of a sneer, “You are not worthy of him. You do not excite him.”

Wife reacted to being demeaned with visible electricity. Her cheeks flushed and she looked longingly at Vessel. It was as if the poles of sexual magnetism had shifted, and now she desired nothing more than the attention (physical, verbal, emotional) of the younger woman.

Now Vessel took control, and brought Husband to kneel on the bed, leading him by the hand as she had been led earlier. Without words, he followed orders, and turned his back completely on Wife. Looking across the bed, all she could see was his compliant body waiting patiently for yet more fulfilment from the younger Vessel. Vessel locked her eyes onto Wife and raised herself to her knees on the bed. With small, sure movements, she straddled herself over the still straining sword, seeking to sheathe it to the hilt. She had to stretch to achieve this, as Husband pointed so far into the sky.

Still holding the eyes of the Wife in her gaze, Vessel gravely stated a fact: “He will unload himself into me. That is the order of things—you will get none of him.”

Wife squeezed her breasts hard, mouth open, soundlessly screaming in delightful sexual frustration.

Vessel slipped down so that he entered her. He grunted in response. Her hard nipples scraped across his chest. His hands were behind him, trying to push himself up futilely into her. She, her arms nestled on his shoulders, concentrated on milking him intensely, and keeping their skin rubbing together. He hands sent arcane signals to Wife, wards to keep her away, spells to keep her intoxicated.

Vessel’s eyes were sometimes on the Husband, keeping him docile, sometimes on Wife, drawing out gasps of excitement. Each time she flicked her eyes back, over the shoulder of Husband, Wife would be biting her lip and trying not to reach down to pleasure herself into total abandonment—both of herself and her husband. Her hands inched, creeped, slithered.

Husband’s hardness was, even if it seemed impossible, becoming more noticeable. Vessel, slowly controlling and forcing this change, refused to give herself up to her earlier abandonment. She wanted Husband and Wife to reach that stage, so that they could be completely sated and spent at once.

With a few more small, economic movement, Vessel moved this mechanism of sex to the final stage. She squirmed and rolled from the impalement of Husband, and unhurriedly reached the floor. Her head and eyes swung and locked upon Wife’s.

Her voice, low and different, signalled the last act of abandonment. “You are not going to feel him in you again. Instead, he will fuck me, and you will feel his vibrations through me. He wants my younger, toned, more delectable body—and would not even consider fucking you in the same way.”

Wife, barely breathing, showing almost no movement, was entranced by this realisation.

Vessel continued taking small steps forward.

“You will reach fulfilment in this second-hand way, yet it is still more than you deserve.”

In total control, she beckoned for Husband to follow. Falling to her knees, she displayed herself in front of wife.

Then, in a screeching moment of pleasure, she placed her sweet face in Wife’s sweet pussy as her hands found support on the chair and Wife’s body. Her tongue lay wet and ready against Wife’s hot hole, her nose buried in the womanly fuzz above it.

Husband entered Vessel from behind, and Wife felt the second-hand jolt of his irresistible force as it pushed Vessels’ tongue to make even more moist contact.

A full, yet measured piston movement. Another jolt. Vessel moved her face and tongue up so that it teased Wife’s clitoris. Wife gasped in pleasure.

Vessel, full of Husband’s length, gazed up at Wife. “This is the closest you will get to him pounding you. This is how things must be.”

Wife murmured those last words as an agreement, as if saying ‘amen’, and immediately lost her composure again as Vessel resumed licking at her at the precise moment that Husband smoothly pulled out and pushed back in.

Husband sped up. His cock, delighting in finding itself at last getting the stimulation that it had been physically denied for so long—making do on a thin gruel of fantasy—was ready to surrender itself totally to the spasming walls of the Vessel. The Vessel felt it, the jerking movement of the cock inside her giving her full warning. And she passed this on to the Wife, licking and sucking with insistent force.

Wife, grasping Vessel’s head, signalled that she too was about to surrender.

With a final push, a final jolt, a final lick, and a final pull, the three reached fulfilment more or less together.

Howard pulled out, cock slick and wet with the juice of a stranger, and staggered back to the bed. He fell across it awkwardly.

Holly, something alien and intimate unplugging from her, felt a violation of fluids soiling her insides. Some moist crevice filled her nose and mouth with musk. She, too, backed away, and moved so quickly and so far that she jarringly hit her coccyx on the leg of the bed behind her.

Sophie blinked, body exposed and cool, hot pussy moist. She saw all this happen with dreamy amazement.

The first one to scream was Holly.

Howard and Sophie had showered separately and with their thin, unspeaking lips pressed against an unpleasant taste of final transgression.

They wore their robes and kept a shocked distance. Sophie’s face still seemed wet, but Howard did not want to mention it. He was tired, emotionally and physically and intellectually. Untouched and unwanted mugs of coffee sat bereft and cooling.

They were trying not to talk, as they did not know what they would say.

In the absence of any other possible behaviour, Sophie fell upon routine, and logged in to the same website as always. Her shoulders unhunched slightly at the simple pleasure of having something to do.

It was, however, completely the wrong thing to do.

With a strangled noise, she beckoned Howard to look to. While he did come forward, a clear barrier was still present between them.

A big banner, blinking: “Will the married couple ever fuck again? Who cares! You have more to worry about!” This next to a picture of Qu-qa, winking.

Dissolving, a map of the world appeared in front of them. Red pins started to populate it, and with morbid fascination Sophie rolled over them. The first pins were on overseas American military bases—news reports from various worldwide agencies, some in English, some translated—where soldiers were reporting the confusion of friendly fire and snatched explanations of anger over the possession of DVDs of a beautiful Chinese woman. The word had not been spelled for them, so agencies tried to spell it and failed. It came out close to “Cuckquean” most of the time.

New pins were appearing as a new day dawned across America. Stories of angry husbands, brothers, fathers, boyfriends, babbling and incensed about scenes of sexual impropriety. Men and women pulled from their houses and charged with the most unspeakable acts and rewarded with equally unspeakable ones.

The warning of sirens floated through the air, from far away but not too far, signalling that the chaos was reaching this suburb as well.

Howard gulped. The heavy tread of an angry man floated through the front door, which was then beaten on by angry fists.

The couple wished that they could find solace in each other, but neither knew how to any more.

And, above the sound of sirens and anger and confusion, perhaps, the lilt of a sing-song voice laughing.