The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

You’ll have to excuse Lyssy—she’s had a rough day at the “lie-berry.” Being a “lie-berrian” is really tough for her these days, while being a liar is still amazingly easy. She even lied to me about being oblivious—she’s hardcore.

Girlfriend? No. Not too long ago, she was my fiancé—her name was “Alyssa” back then—but now she’s a lot of things to me, none of which is “girlfriend.” Sometimes I make her sleep on the floor.

Back when she was Alyssa, I loved her with everything I had in me. I loved how she came from poverty and ignorance and put herself through school, I respected her near-obsession with reading, and I adored her precise grammar and diction. She’d correct me and I’d eat it up with a spoon. I figured that I’d need to brush up on all that for the good of the kids we’d be having.

Maybe I’ll get her spayed.

I remember the day she got the job at the Hazelgrove Library. You would have thought she’d hit the lottery. She was going to make it her personal mission to imbue the children with a love of reading. I was happy for her, too, even though it meant that we’d only see each other on the weekends because of the long drive. I supported her!

One night she called me, sobbing and inconsolable, due to a rumor that the library was closing. I tried calming her, telling her that people never allowed their libraries or schools to close without a fight—civic pride and all that.

“Jeff,” she said, her voice thick with tears, “I can’t lose my job, I just can’t. Why, I imagine I’d do anything to save it! Anything at all!”

My heart ached for her, but it never occurred to me that she was telling me the literal truth—that she would do anything to keep her job. I knew she liked the library and Hazelgrove, but it was not the only place that needed a librarian—not even in this age of virtual reality and virtual illiteracy.

It hit me three days later, about five seconds after walking into her house that she really would do anything for her job. It must have been something about seeing that fat fucker of a mayor fucking her. (How’s that for alliteration?) I’d gotten off work early and showed up to surprise her, but she’d surprised me by making her cunt a commodity instead.

That pig was sticking his fat cock in my fiancé and asking her if she liked it as she was bent over the kitchen table (with its daisy print tablecloth) and she’s moaning “Yes!” over and over again. Only I could see her reflection in the toaster, and her eyes were dead. This was clearly a business transaction.

I suppose that should have made me feel better—that she was only banging that corpulent pile of garbage to keep her job—but it didn’t. It made me think I was a sucker for making love to a woman who’d sell it if the price were right. All the time I’d thought that making love to her was like worshipping at a sacred shrine, it was more like kneeling before an ATM machine...while an impatient line formed behind me.

The pig looked like he was either going to come or have a stroke (not that he had anything to worry about since his receptacle was trained in CPR) but it turned out to obviously be the former as he grunted his finish. I knew that, having already decided not to confront them, I should leave, then; yet, I wasn’t quite ready.

What I’d witnessed was nobody’s version of courtly love, yet Mayor McFatty decided to be formal.

“Miss Beauchamp,” he phlegmed, “I do believe that we might have money in the budget for the library after all. If you do your part—bake sales, book sales, and meeting me occasionally to discuss the matter—I believe that your job might end up on more secure footing than I’d initially estimated.”

I could hear that Alyssa was on the verge of tears again, but whether it was because of what she’d just done or for what she was clearly expected to do again, I had no idea. I didn’t really know her; I never had.

“But...you told me just the once...just the one...meeting!”

He chuckled. “That was before I knew what a delightful time we’d be having. You did enjoy yourself, right?” he asked, his voice threatening.

“Yes, yes of course!”

Fucking bitch.

I knew it was time to “get while the getting’s good,” as my old man used to say. I don’t recall the specifics of the ride home—I was too busy plotting my revenge. The second I saw her for who she really was, my love ended. My heart was so empty in those first few moments that the hatred was welcome.

As soon as I entered my apartment, I walked to the phone and dialed. I made sure to keep my voice warm and caring. She asked me where I was, sounding worried and perhaps guilty. It didn’t matter.

I told her I’d had to work late and that this was my first chance to call her. I aimed to sound disappointed as I told her I’d missed her all week, and that I would head out to see her first thing in the morning so we’d still have all weekend.

That seemed to satisfy her. I apologized, then, telling her I knew that—with all the worry about her job—she needed me there. She stammered that she might have overreacted a little. Then she asked me something so funny that I almost pissed myself.

“Jeff, baby, when you come out this weekend, do you suppose you could hypnotize me again?”

“You know it!”

“I know you’re afraid of taking it too far, but I trust you, so don’t hold back!”

“You got it—no holding back.” Now, before you go thinking she is a poor judge of character: up until a few hours before, she could have trusted me with her life. I would rather have died than harmed a hair on her special little head. “I love how much this turns you on—I’d never thought I would meet a girl who didn’t think it was strange.”

“I don’t just do it to humor you – it arouses me.”

“You mean it makes your pussy wet, sweetie.”

A giggle was her only response.

“You don’t have to say it—I already know. What are you wearing, Alyssa?”

“A robe,” she whispered, her voice husky and filled with a false sense of knowing what was on my mind. She had no idea.

“That all?”

“Yes, I just finished taking a shower.” Very good to know, thought I. Her voice became even lower, more intimate—my “beloved” was clearly feeling flirty. “In fact, I’m still standing here in the bathroom. I’d taken the phone with me in case you called.”

“How sweet! I don’t deserve you.”

There was a pause and she giggled again, but this time it sounded forced. The evidence of her guilt did nothing to soothe my loathing. “Hmmm, so here I am near-naked, beads of water still glistening on my skin. What can we do for entertainment until we can be together again?”

“I wonder. Why don’t you settle down on the bed and we’ll find something to discuss.” I could hear the slight creak of the hardwood floor and then the repeated squeak of the mattress springs as she playfully bounced up and down to let me show she’d arrived at her destination. “I’m there, big boy!”

“Alyssa, if you really want ‘no holding back’, we’ll have to deal with the compromise drawer.”

“I know,” she said in a resigned little-girl voice.

“Don’t sound so grim...that’s tomorrow.”

We had phone sex, then. While she thought of loving images of tender lovemaking, my mind was on revenge, degradation, and humiliation.

The next day I headed out early, as promised. I only made one stop: to see an acquaintance who was a computer whiz, and who also specialized in surveillance equipment. For such a supposedly “smart” woman, it amazed me that Alyssa had never considered blackmailing Porkchop.

On the drive to see my darling, I did my own form of self-hypnosis in order behave like nothing had changed – when in fact everything had changed. It was surprisingly easy—but then again, I knew how much was riding on my being completely convincing.

Our weekend went well; she made love to me while I fucked her. I found that, as physically attractive as she still was, unless my mind turned to revenge I could no longer get hard for her. I was surprised to discover that, if anything, my stamina rose as I contemplated my plans. She even commented on how amorous I was being, not knowing that “amour” had very little to do with it.

She went to church Sunday morning and, amazingly, was not hit by a lightning bolt. I encouraged her to stay for the coffee and cake which they served afterward. While she was gone, I quickly put the surveillance equipment to good use. When she got home, she found herself the proud owner of a webcam so we could keep in touch—what she didn’t know was that it was rigged to allow me to view her from my computer any time I chose.

That afternoon, I finally put her under—she’d been chomping at the bit since I’d gotten there. She really does love the feeling of surrender, and because of her complete trust and focus she was a perfect subject. After a year of exploring hypnosis, I knew the ins and outs of her mind.

She’d been right that I’d always held back, never wanting to take advantage of her. I’d never had the need to do anything outrageous; the mere fact that she had complete faith in me was always arousing enough. Just seeing this beautiful woman in a state of total trust and relaxation was pretty hot.

How could I have known that my history of never talking advantage of her was all I needed to take complete control later on? It seemed like some god or goddess who thrived on betrayal had brought us together—I began to look at my thoughts as sanctioned and sanctified. Why else would I have been entrusted with the ability to destroy everything she cherished most?

She went under easily, and soon she was utterly vulnerable to my commands—whims, really. I thought of all the possibilities and finally chose the one which my utter contempt for her made erotic beyond measure. Her lies took away the woman I loved and now she had to pay the price.

I’d teased her all weekend that I would get rid of her aversion to the compromise drawer for once and all. This was the drawer where she kept her sexiest lingerie. It was a “compromise” because she only wore these things on extra-special occasions. Initially, I’d kept buying her these items in the hope that she would learn to enjoy wearing them more often. Eventually, she confessed to me that she didn’t like to wear them because they reminded her of her past—the women in the trailer park she grew up in were all-too-willing to dress up in cheap clothes and cheaper perfume to occasionally pay their rent in “services rendered”. It didn’t help that the owner of the trailer park was quite possibly her father, and that she was quite possibly the result of rent negotiations.

Once she’d told me that, my trips to Victoria’s Secret ended. I never wanted Alyssa to feel that I considered her to be equal to trailer trash tramps and trollops—ironic, yes? She still chose, on her own, to wear the things on special occasions, and I have to admit that my protests that she didn’t need to were token only. She was a gorgeous woman who was appealing wearing Hanes Her Way – there were not words to convey how enticing she was in lingerie designed to beguile and seduce. And—truth be told—when she wore those things, she acted just a little more wantonly.

It eventually occurred to me that part of her liked wearing sexy, lacy, silky, and even bordering-on-trashy things. I suggested this to her one night after we’d made passionate love; I believe it was my 31st birthday. She buried her face in my chest and I could hear her say a muffled, “maybe a little” as my heartbeat pulsed against her lips. I could not have loved her more.

When my love for her turned to hate, it seemed only natural that I could find my vengeance in the contents of that drawer—and yet there was something else I wanted to do first. As much pain as I could and would extract from her childhood stories of her mother trading pussy for protection, there was another story that gave me my first inspiration.

Alyssa’s most cherished memory was her first trip to the little library a few miles from her home-on-wheels. She’d walked in and been overwhelmed by all the books—more books than anyone could read in a lifetime. As she was about to leave, the spinster librarian asked her if she’d enjoyed the experience.

“Oh, yes! I love the lie-berry and wish I could come every single day,” she said.

The librarian smiled and said, “I would love to see you at the ‘library’ again, dear.”

Alyssa had realized that she must have mispronounced the word ,and she’d felt her face become flushed, but the old woman had leaned forward and said, “The books here are free—a rich little girl and a poor little girl have an equal chance to learn at the library.”

The future Flab Humper had smiled and said, with all the dignity an 8-year-old from the wrong side of the tracks could muster, “Then I will make sure to come to the LIBRARY a lot.”

What a shame that she was more a product of her mother than her mentor, after all.

When she emerged from her trance, I gave her a gentle smile. “Feel any different, Lyssy?”

She smiled, gazing at the wall and squinting slightly, as if doing a mental inventory. “Noooo? Not really.”

“I bet you want to wear something from the drawer, right? I made sure it would no longer fill you with the same sense of shame.”

She hesitated for a moment. “W...well, maybe I feel a little more relaxed about it. I...I’m really not sure.”

“Why don’t you go put something on? Something extra-special.” I waited for the hesitation I knew would be coming. “What is it?”

“Jeff, I can’t lie...I don’t think it worked. I’ll go put on something if you like, but usually when I do that I almost have to prepare. If you just give me a minute, maybe I could...please don’t look at me with disappointment.”

I pulled her into my arms, holding her in an embrace that was just short of punishing. “I’m not disappointed in you, but in me. It had always gone so well before that I was sure I could fix you.” I breathed the words and their implication directly in her ear.

She pulled away. “I...can do it. You know what? Maybe I do feel a little more comfortable, after all.”

I gave her the smile of a besotted fool. “Baby, no—we can try again some other time. I don’t need you to do anything but be yourself.”

I have to admit it was hard to not let her know of my contempt in the heat of my passion, when inhibitions are at their lowest, but I managed. As my tongue probed the folds of her womanhood and I tasted the slight tartness of her desire, she thought I was doing it out of love—instead I was reveling in it like a child enjoys gamboling in the mud. We all enjoy getting dirty now and again, don’t we?

Afterward, after a suitable period of cuddling with the bitch, I “reluctantly” told her that I’d have to leave if I were to be any good at work the next day. She burrowed closer to me, sighing her regret.

“I know you have to go, but it’s so lonely without you,” she said.

“I’m sorry, dear.”

“It’s okay, I have to be at the lie-berry early tomorrow.” She immediately gasped, sitting up as sleepiness fell away. “Oh my God! Did you hear what I just said? I haven’t said ‘lie-berry’ since I was eight.”

At the exact second she’d gasped, my cock had gotten hard. I have to say she looked beautiful then, with the sheet clutched to her but not obscuring the side of her breast or the two dimples above her perfect ass, but that—as you can well guess—was not the cause of my renewed “interest.”

“Baby,” I said, gently pulling her back down onto the bed, “you were on the verge of falling asleep. Remember the time when you were about to drift off and you starting asking why polar bears were white instead of purple and pink?”

“I suppose you’re right, but what I meant to say was –“

I cut her off because I thought if she said it again I might just come all over myself, but I also wanted to be miles away when she discovered the permanency of her little verbal quirk. Instead, I told her that maybe I did have a few more minutes to spare, and then I played in the mud a little bit longer.

She called me the next day, in tears. “All day—every time I had to answer the phone I said that word. It was so humiliating! I could have just died. I can’t say my job title either!”

I wondered what she would say if she knew she was giving me prime masturbation material. In fact, I unzipped my pants and prepared to enjoy myself. “Lyssy, maybe you’re doing this to yourself—perhaps you have such a fear of saying it again that you cannot help it. When I was a kid, I had a pen pal in Biloxi, Mississippi – somehow I managed to write it as ‘Bixoli’ one time. The letter got to him and he made a little joke about it, but I still felt like an ass. After that, every time I wrote him it took me about 5 envelopes to get it right. Somewhere between my brain and my fingers the message got lost.”

“Maybe,” she said, sounding unconvinced, “but I work at a you-know-where! What am I supposed to do?”

“Just take a deep breath and say it right now—for me.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“You know I won’t judge you,” I said, stroking my cock.

“I’d rather not.”

“Lyssy, you were dead-on when you said you can’t avoid the word. So why not take a deep breath, concentrate, and know that you are speaking to Him-Who-Loves-You-The-Most.”

“Oh, okay,” she said in the little girl voice she sometimes got when she was unsure of herself. I heard her take a deep breath and then another. “I am a lie-berrian and I work at the lie-berry.”

I had to hit the mute button, then, as I shot my load halfway across the room. Thank Heaven that our little differences—what with her servicing the morbidly obese, and all—didn’t wreck my sex life.

The next night, she broached the topic I knew she would. “Jeff, do you think that when I was under you might have, you know, accidentally changed the way I said that word?”

“I really don’t see how. All I did was talk about how much I love and adore you and how your wearing sexy things wouldn’t change that. I said that wearing lingerie didn’t make you your mother.”

“Oh. I just thought because it happened right after I was under...”

“I thought that you trusted me more than that.”

“I do. In fact I was hoping you’d put me under again and fix it.”

“So then you do trust me?”

“Of course—with my very life!”

That following weekend I put her under again, arranging her “furniture” a little more, and this time I really took care of the lingerie drawer issues, making sure that all the Hanes Her Ways would be a thing of the past. I also took away the use of the words “autobiography” and “reference”, just for kicks. And I fixed any worry she might have about stating her job or job location.

When she awakened I asked her how she felt. She did her little mental inventory again, scrunching up her little nose, and then she near-whispered. “Lie-berry, lie-berrian, lie-berry, lie-berrian.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh Jeff! You fixed it!”

“Yep. I guess I did!” I reached over and straightened her bra strap, which had fallen off of her shoulder. She frowned and excused herself. When she came back she plopped down on my lap. “Where were we?” she purred.

We kissed for a few minutes. I lifted her shirt over her head to discover that, as expected, she’d changed. She was wearing the midnight blue demi-cut bra I’d bought her early on. I presumed the matching bikinis were yet to be uncovered.

“What have we here? What’s the special occasion?”

“I suppose I just realized that anytime you’re here is a special occasion.” She nuzzled my neck.

“I like!”

“It’s not too…sedate, is it?”

“Well, it’s a little tame, but you look great. And you know what else? You’re positively glowing. You always seem more free and happy when you dress like this. You should consider going a little racier at work, too—who’ll know other than you? Oh, and me.” ...and possibly Mayor Hasn’t-Seen-His-Toes-In-A-Decade.

She thought about it—undoubtedly taking into account how wonderful and natural it suddenly felt to wear something sexier—my clear approval was merely icing on the cake. “I think I’ll do that!”

“Good—it will make me feel closer to you that it will be our little secret.”

I could only assume her frown had to do with who else would be enjoying the delightful visuals, but then she plastered on a paper-thin smile.

In the following weeks, I took a slow and delightful revenge. A few sly suggestions per week. Just little, seemingly-random things; I couldn’t really know if they would come into play. There were some moments which were priceless—like the time she called me, embarrassed, because she’d told her book club that she thought Danielle Steele was the best writer of the 20th century. I had to hit the mute again—but this time it was to hide the laughter.

I also chose to make her hot for Her Meal Ticket. Why not? After a few weeks, I was bored watching her fake it. There was something delightful about the expression on her face as she genuinely came hard at his ham-fisted fucking technique. Even from seventy miles away it was priceless. After he left, she curled up in a little ball and wept. There’s no understanding women.

I took away her interest in serious literature, and then I erased her memory of the books. What good would the words of the greatest minds ever be to a whore? It was really my way of correcting a wrong; it was lamentable that her love of reading had blinded me to her true nature, but it would never happen again to another sap.

Instead, I gave her a more useful interest in sex manuals, and a photographic memory when it came to her new favorite topic. In short, she became an expert on dick as long as it was not preceded by the word “Moby.”

I made her voice more girlish, and most of her sentences soon ended on a higher note—as if everything was a question. “My name is Alyssa, and I’m the head lie-berrian? You want to check out Great Expectations—who wrote that?” She had to be pretty adamant about a matter to overcome that tendency.

Her slab of meat on the side didn’t seem to notice a change in her demeanor, but the even-more-frequent visits showed he noticed—and liked—her taste in unmentionables. Soon, I was as surprised as he by the specific details of her lingerie choices. Lyssy seemed to have a strange new interest in buying sexy little nothings. I knew it had to be hell on her credit cards, but since she was such a sensible girl...It was a treat to see what she came up with next.

It was a shame that the best parts of her outfits went unseen by most people. Fortunately, Lyssy became careless—and somewhat clumsy—as she went about her job; it must have been because she was lost in contemplation about the wisdom of Masters and Johnson. She seemed to forget the routine lessons which are drummed into girls from a young age concerning sitting with her legs closed, making sure her skirt had not ridden up, and being careful about what she revealed while climbing ladders. Within a few weeks, the whispers began that she was immodest – which was absurd since she didn’t become “immodest” until the third month.

I surprised her at the library one day, finding her up a ladder and wearing a perfectly sedate white linen dress. My greeting startled her, causing her to drop books as she spun around, almost losing her footing and slipping down to the next lower step. The only thing which caused her not to fall off the ladder completely was her dress catching on something—perhaps a rung of the ladder. Her startled yip called attention to her, giving the nearby table of teenage boys enough fantasy material for years, as her dress lifted to reveal long, stocking-clad legs.

Soon Lyssy found herself prone to daydreaming, since reading no longer interested her. Even when she tried to read for her book club, her mind wandered. “Jeff,” she’d share with a giggle, “you know who I was thinking about today? Cindy Weiss? She’s really pretty and smart? And I found myself wondering if she thinks I’m pretty too?”

Yes, my fiancé found herself wondering often if Cindy Weiss—or any number of attractive women – found her attractive. It began to preoccupy her. She had much better taste in women than in politicians—I made sure of that.

Lyssy’s interest in women went back to college, if not earlier, but it was clear that without a little help she’d never act on it. Now, my anger for her had yet to completely wane, but it didn’t take long to decide that she might be my best chance to design the perfect toy. So the push toward Sapphic Sex was not revenge, but an early Christmas present to myself. And more than she deserved.

One night, I picked her up from work, telling her I had a surprise. She asked if she could go home to change first, but I told her that her look was perfection. And it was—at least for my purposes. Honey-blonde hair in a loose bun which had allowed locks to escape and curl naturally around her face and the nape of her neck, a white blouse with one button too few for decorum, cleavage threatening to escape the top of her scarlet bra (which was clearly discernible beneath her blouse) a black skirt which showed ample leg, and her new obsession: black stockings and red garters. Oh, and her glasses, since she’d had a sudden, mysterious problem with her contacts bothering her eyes.

We drove to a bar fifty miles away, and I asked her if she noticed anything unusual. She gazed around, scrunching up her face in concentration. Finally it hit her.

“Jeff, you’re the only guy? Does that mean? You want me to...? I don’t know if I can...” I took her hand across the table. “But do you want to, baby? If you don’t, we can leave. It just seems that, lately, you’ve been hinting at an interest.”

She worried her lower lip beneath straight white teeth – thankfully, her lipstick was the new kiss proof/drink proof kind you could only remove with a blowtorch. Finally, she sat up straight, looked me right in the eye and said, “I want to! Thank you for being so understanding?”

Sweet. “I just want you to be happy and, as long as I’m your only guy, I’m fine with letting you play.” I pretended not to notice her guilty look. “I’m just here to keep you safe, babe. Consider me your bodyguard—and looking like that, you’ll need it.”

“Okay, but I think this is just a phase? Maybe I can get this out of my system tonight?”

“Sure.”

She was nervous, at first, refusing to let me move to another table even as I explained she’d do much better if I were less conspicuous. She sat there demurely sipping on a drink and looking a little panicked. At last she allowed me to move to the next table, and it wasn’t long before the women started swarming her. Who could blame them?

Even though I knew she had excellent taste, I was still concerned that tonight would be a washout. If she picked a bull-dyke, she’d be minus a bodyguard – and could find her own way home.

I believe we both saw her at the same time – a woman with hair about two shades darker than Lyssy’s honey-blonde curls. She was thin without being too thin, and tall without being too tall. She wore faded jeans and a leather jacket which she slipped off to reveal a wifebeater. She was easily the second-hottest woman in the place. She was soon offering to buy the first-hottest woman a drink—at least I assumed that to be the case, being only able to hear the husky timbre of her voice, but not the actual words.

The woman walked up to the bar, returning with one beer and one drink the color of glass-cleaner. She could’ve sat across from Lyssy, but instead chose a seat to the right of her, moving in even closer to the newly-minted airhead. I also moved closer, seemingly unnoticed by the woman (I put it down to not being her type), and could now hear them better. They were cozy in no time, and I was having the time of my life. Soon she would be screwing someone I actually wanted to see nude; it was a nice change.

There was a tense moment when I heard Lyssy’s new friend say, “I know what your costume is supposed to be, but what do you really do for a living?” The poor thing just didn’t get that perhaps she no longer resembled Marian the Librarian so much as the X-rated stereotype, so she kept trying to convince the other woman. Of course, she couldn’t discuss literature, and she couldn’t pronounce her job or where she worked, and her tits were hanging out, but she didn’t want to give up. It would have been amusing, except that I really wanted to see these two screw, and I could tell her potential playmate was not amused.

“Okay, Lyssy, you can be a librarian if th- ”

“I AM a lie-berrian!”

“Honey, I don’t suggest you ever interrupt me again. As I was saying, I just want to fuck you, and I’m willing to play along.”

“You do? Wanna fuck me?”

“Yeah, sure—and you want it too. I knew it right away. So I played the game and bought you a drink, and made small talk, and I’ll pretend like I believe you graduated high school, and that you don’t probably think that Dewey Decimal refers to one of Donald Duck’s nephews. But the next time you interrupt me, it’ll be a toss-up over leaving or slapping the taste out of your mouth. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Lyssy said in her little girl voice, “but Gina?”

“Yes?”

“I really do know all about Do-Me Decimal?”

I couldn’t help it—I started to laugh. Bimbos say the funniest things – makes you wish they stayed twenty-four forever, doesn’t it? Seriously, there was nothing better than one of my suggestions bearing fruit at a random time.

Gina still hadn’t looked at me directly. “Maybe now would be a good time for you to introduce John Wayne here—Stacy behind the bar said you two came in together. It’s my turn to share: I’m a Very Good Catholic. While others eat fish on Friday, I eat it anytime I get a chance. You know how some people give up meat for lent? I went one step further and gave up dick for life. And if you’re a librarian, I’m a nun. When you’re with me, you’re a nun too, which means that if you want cock tonight just let me know—I’ll get the strap-on.”

“Chill,” I said, “I just want to watch.”

Finally, she looked at me—I hoped she really didn’t have an in with God, because I don’t think she liked me too much.

“Yeah, good, because lesbians only exist for your viewing pleasure.” She turned her attention back to Lyssy. “To put it in simple ‘lie-berry’ terms, if you want to have fun with this Jane, you’d better tell him to ‘Run, Dick, Run!’ Am I being clear?”

Lyssy looked embarrassed and confused—I loved it.

“Gina, why don’t we stroll over to the bar for a second? Beer’s on me...and we can get the lady another Formula 409.”

I walked on ahead, knowing she would follow. I’m not saying that she was about to call David Crosby and ask him to be the father of her and Lyssy’s babies, but she wanted my fluffy new doormat pretty damned badly all the same. She probably saw the look on her new potential bedmate’s face—how her brain was about to fry—and knew she might be losing her chance.

“Look,” I said. “I’ve known Alyssa – Lyssy for years. She’s a submissive at heart, and becoming more submissive all the time. I’m her lifeline—she trusts me, and this is her first time with a chick. Stacy has gotten at least two really good looks at me, so I would be a dumbass to try anything, and I really just want to watch. If you want to take her home and have the time of your life, let me tag along. You want me to leave—fine—just promise to get her home in almost one piece. But I’d hope you’d see the advantage of having the little moron feel safe. Hey, you want to make a date with her after this, that can be as private a party as you’d like.”

She thought about it for a minute. “You’ll stay out of the way?”

“So far away that I’ll almost need binoculars. And you can play it anyway that you like – I’m there for her to think I’m her bodyguard.”

She shook her head and laughed. “You really are a prick.”

“Ain’t I, though?”

When we got back to the table, I leaned in close to Lyssy and whispered, “It’s okay, I told her that if she was too rough with my girl, she’d have to answer to me.”

“What if I want her to be rough...just a little?” she whispered back.

“It’s your night! Tell you what, if it gets to be too much just say the name of the guy who wrote Grapes of Wrath.

“A...a guy wrote that?”

“Can we move this along?” asked Gina. “Lyssy, you ever ridden on a motorcycle?”

“No? I don’t think so?”

“Looks like it’ll be a night of firsts for you.” She looked at me and smirked. “Try to keep up.”

“Aren’t we going to finish our drinks?” Lyssy asked.

“I’m not thirsty anymore,” Gina said, “but go ahead and slam yours.”

“Oh, I don’t really think I sho...” she saw Gina’s expression harden. “Okay.”

They probably made a better-looking couple than Alyssa and I ever had, but they had the clear advantage of being two women. I’m still unclear on why all women aren’t lesbians. If only the mayor had looked like Gina...Yes, I know that shouldn’t matter, but Alyssa screwing the circus fat man makes her a disgusting whore, while Mayor Gina makes perfect sense. The former makes me worry that I accidentally came into contact with bodily fluids, the latter leaves me hoping.

Soon, the two of them were straddling Gina’s motorcycle. I wished I had a camera. Lyssy’s arms around Gina’s slender waist, her skirt hiked up even more to reveal a perfect expanse of nylon-clad legs giving way to smooth flesh. Knowing the cycle was vibrating against soft, secret places. Bet you wish I’d had a camera too.

Gina’s house was surprisingly nice, but who cares? I only got a whirlwind tour anyhow as Gina pulled Lyssy, with her still-shaky legs, toward the bedroom. It was rather prehistoric. Lyssy gave a look over her shoulder to make sure I was still behind her.

The woman pointed out a chair in the corner, walking over to it with me. “Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe.”

“Why would I? I mean, what is it about watching two women going at it that would make me want to move?”

“Shit! I especially don’t want to think about you possibly doing that.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you hate her? You do, don’t you?”

“I have my reasons, so don’t try to analyze it. I’ll be quiet as a kitten.” I realized she was no longer looking at me, but was instead focused on Lyssy perched on the edge of the bed with her legs parted, staring at a picture on the nightstand of Gina with another woman. I sat down: it was show time.

Gina walked over and sat next to Lyssy, looked down at her partially-open legs, and asked, “Trying to tell me something?”

“I...I just can’t seem to keep my legs shut anymore?”

“That doesn’t seem to be a bad problem for a pretty girl like you to have.”

“I...” Lyssy seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “I didn’t used to be like this...I’ve changed.” She sounded like the woman I’d fallen in love with—there was no question in her voice. For the first time in a long time, and just for an instant, I allowed myself to love—and miss—Alyssa.

What a fool I’d been to assume she hadn’t noticed.

Gina’s expression softened. She put her hand on Lyssy’s cheek and gazed into her eyes. “My favorite song has a line about that—No it isn’t strange, after changes upon changes, we are more or less the same. After changes we are more or less the same...”

A smile broke across Lyssy’s face. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

Gina nodded, cupping my fiancé’s chin in her hand. “Very true.”

I watched, fascinated, fully sentient of what I was seeing. I’ve been remiss in not explaining why it had been so easy to hypnotize Alyssa. It had regrettably little to do with me, and much to do with her. I’d been fascinated with the topic as long as I could recall.

I can’t begin to tell you how many women I’d tried to hypnotize, with little success—including a humiliating incident with a babysitter. It remained a favorite fantasy—I even frequented a few discussion boards—but the reality was never the experience I’d wanted it to be. Until Alyssa.

There were many things which attracted me to her, but foremost was how she seemed to be more susceptible to persuasion than your average person. Her focus when a topic or speaker interested her was absolute. If an argument made sense to her, she remembered it and incorporated it into her own belief system.

I had semi-drunkenly explained my interest on our third date. She’d listened intently and said, “That’s absolutely fascinating!” She had meant it—although I was never sure if it was truly a pre-existing interest or one I’d just implanted.

I’d asked if she’d be willing to let me put her under, and she gave me a non-committal reply, but I’d seen the answer in her eyes. On our sixth date, she’d allowed it. I was already in love, and so I had been as responsible as possible. It wasn’t easy, but I’m sure my tale makes that abundantly clear already.

So much of Alyssa’s life and decisions were a direct result of this quirk in her nature. Her mother had traded her body for a trailer, her mentor was a librarian, and both were persuasive, so she took on traits of both. As she’d begun to move in more educated circles, and as she spent less time with her mother, the more acceptable qualities had risen to the surface.

Now, Lyssy had a new influence. Gina was persuasive, and I knew that look on Lyssy’s face all too well—the rapt expression, eyes blinking slowly as she gave the speaker her complete attention. I could only wonder how she would integrate those words.

Lyssy took Gina’s hand into her own smaller hand, placing it on her thigh. “I guess that means I’ve wanted this forever?”

“Good,” said Gina, “because I’ve wanted you since the second I saw you, and it seems like forever.” She leaned over and kissed Lyssy, then. There’s a reason they played the clip of Britney Spears and Madonna kissing repeatedly—you can’t see enough of two women making out. You want to see it repeated in slow motion, in black-and-white, sepia tone...on the silver screen, on a big-screen TV…in the privacy of your own home, in bars across the country...Well, you get the idea. It’s good stuff.

Gina’s kiss became more insistent, more open-mouthed, and Lyssy melted into her arms with a moan I could hear across the room. And then Gina pulled back.

“Look, Lyssy, I just wanted to fuck. No attachments or sharing personal details. No being sad. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

Lyssy reached up and undid the loose bun. Blonde curls spilled around her shoulders. She began to unbutton the few fastened buttons on her blouse. “Gina, you need to punish someone and you can’t punish her directly? I know how I sound, and I’m not as smart as I used to be, but I’m not dumb yet either? You can be as angry with me as you need?”

“What makes you think I’m looking for punishment? Does this look like a dungeon to you?” Gina gave an unconvincing laugh.

Lyssy slipped the blouse off and began unzipping the skirt. “I have some experience with the subject? I’m not expecting you to pull out whips and chains, but I knew right away what you wanted? It’s okay—I want it too? Sometimes it’s the thing which hurts the least?” The skirt fell around her ankles and she kicked it across the room.

She fell to her knees at the foot of the bed and laid her head in Gina’s lap and she waited. Blonde hair against denim. The black of stockings and the red of garters and bra contrasted with pale flesh. Someone once said that the reason blondes are sexier is that they somehow look more naked clothed than other women look completely nude. Lyssy had never looked more vulnerable or beautiful.

I couldn’t help but be aroused, even though I’d just heard as-good-as-a-confession that she was aware of what I was doing to her. I pushed that all away, for now, and focused on the beautiful women before me. One woman was soft, fragile, easily molded, and willing to be broken. The other woman was thin, leanly muscled, and filled with an anger she couldn’t outride or outrun.

Gina softly stroked Lyssy’s hair for a moment, then allowed her fingers to slide through the thick, silken mane. The next time her hand was buried there, it held on. She pulled her head up and made Lyssy look at her. Their eyes met for a moment and Lyssy, with what little freedom she had, gave a brief nod. I do believe I heard her whisper a “Yes,” but it was unnecessary.

The tough woman reached behind Lyssy, unsnapping her bra. Lyssy gave a gentle shrug which allowed the straps to fall off her shoulders. The bra fell to the ground. From my angle I could only see her back, but I knew exactly what Gina was viewing: near-perfection. Pale skin which gave way to a delicate pink you only see on truly light-skinned women. Nipples like the erasers on a No. 2 pencil—only slightly smaller than the nubs pressing against Gina’s top.

Gina reached out to touch the firm globes, cupping them gently and then more roughly when Lyssy arched her back to push them further into her lover’s hands. I could feel the rising heat from both women. I knew there would be no more offers to let Lyssy leave.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” rasped Gina.

Lyssy stood up on shaky legs and complied. She kicked off her shoes and put her left and then right leg on the bed, in their turn – unsnapping garters, removing stockings, and revealing more tantalizing flesh. Soon she was nude, completely exposed.

“Spin around,” said Gina. I saw her eyes widen at one point, and I could only smile. Man or woman, you had to love those little dimples right above her perfect ass.

Lyssy sank back down to her knees, running her hands up Gina’s jean-clad legs and then underneath the white shirt to cup the small, firm breasts of the female biker. Then she slid up on the bed and purred, “You’re so sexy, Gina. I just want you so much.” She ran her hands along Gina’s arms, “Are you as strong as you look?”

As if in answer, Gina grabbed her, flipped her, and forced her down into the mattress. Lyssy gave a yip which was both surprised and delighted. She gave a delighted purr as Gina fell across her, kissing her roughly and pressing her further into the bed.

She caressed Gina’s back, sliding her hands beneath the thin shirt, fingers splayed as she felt the play of muscle. Then her hands slipped down to cup Gina’s ass through her Levis. I just enjoyed the view of the increasingly-more-intertwined tangle of their bodies.

Gina, never stopping the kissing (which had to be bruising), reached around and grabbed Lyssy’s hands, placing them above both of their heads on the bed. Lyssy accepted this effort to immobilize her, but after a few minutes brought a leg up around Gina’s ass in order to press closer, causing the biker-girl to grind into her exposed womanhood. Lyssy gave a ragged moan which could only be interpreted as Gina’s crotch scoring a direct hit.

The slightly darker-haired woman pulled away in order to slip out of her own clothes. Lyssy was rapt. A less confident man might be a little insulted that both of them had really seemed to forget my presence. Hell, I didn’t blame them. Of all the places I wanted to look, not one of them involved me finding a mirror.

When Gina’s gaze drifted down Lyssy’s body, the pale blonde spread her legs wider, exposing herself more. Gina reached down and thrust multiple fingers into Lyssy without warning. It was a tribute to Lyssy’s arousal level that it was clearly a pleasant surprise, causing her to let out a ragged, “Oh!”

Gina took her now-coated fingers and rubbed her nipples with them. “Lick it off,” she ordered, and then tasted her own fingers. Lyssy eagerly rose up and began to suckle each nipple in turn. Gina grabbed the back of her head, pulling her closer and, undoubtedly, spreading the fragrance to her lover’s hair.

Lyssy reached down and stroked between Gina’s lean thighs. And then she pulled back, looked Gina in the eye, and began to delicately lick her own fingers.

“Damn, are you sure you’ve never done this before?” Gina rasped.

Lyssy merely giggled. “I wish. Would you like me to lick your pussy, Gina?”

“Don’t play with me, Lyssy. Don’t think your acting submissive will fool me into playing your little bitch, instead. I’m not stupid.”

Lyssy shook her head. “I wasn’t trying that? I’ll do whatever you ask? I promise.”

“Okay. I want to watch you get yourself off. Show me exactly what you do.”

Lyssy moved back to lean against the headboard, spreading her legs wide. She took a couple of deep breaths which were meant to calm her, but which were also fun to watch—trust me. Then she gave a slight nod and began to touch herself, beginning at her throat, moving down to her tits, and then down to her ribcage. Lyssy has this surprisingly sensitive ribcage which almost serves as an extra erogenous zone. Her hand hesitated for a moment at her belly, then slipped down between her legs, probing her own heat and wetness.

After only a few minutes, Lyssy was taking ragged intakes of air, her breathing shallow. Her eyelids were fluttering, and occasionally her tongue would flit across her parted lips, moistening them. Her pale skin became flushed with the heightened color spreading down to her breasts.

She mouthed something which I knew to be, “So good,” only because I’d heard it whispered in my ears many times before. Her hips began to lift off the mattress as the speed of her fingers increased. Her other hand reached up to run through her hair, pressing it back from her face. And then she came, moaning the word Oh four times – each time more drawn out than the one before, the last not time much louder than a sigh. Then her body went limp.

Several seconds later, she tentatively opened her eyes, blushing furiously as she was greeted with Gina’s silent perusal. She still didn’t look at me, but I could sense her awareness of my presence.

“Lyssy?” Gina asked at long last.

“Yes, Gina?”

“Now you can lick my pussy.”

“Thank you, Gina. Thank you!”

On the way home, as the sun began to rise, she spoke to me for the first time in hours. “I’d rather be in...in...what’s that place between heaven and hell where you burn off your sins?” she asked when her memory failed her.

“Purgatory,” I replied, knowing I’d taken the word from her weeks before.

“I’d rather be there for a hundred years than be without you for a day—I’d rather lose me than lose you.”

“I know.” I really did know. There was no denying she was proving it day by day. A better man would have forgiven her at that moment. I was not a better man, anymore—I was not even the best version of me.

If I brought Alyssa back, then I’d have to leave. She as much as told me she understood that. She said it best when she told Gina that she wasn’t as smart as she used to be, but she wasn’t dumb yet, either. I would have to absolve her of all of her sins in order to bring her back, but who would absolve me?

If I forgive her, I’ll lose her all at once and forever. Every once in a while, I still see bits of Alyssa, and that’s worth it all. When I’m done—when it’s time to go—I’ll bring her back.

When I let her go, she’ll go to Gina. I do believe they love each other now. Gina at her meanest is better to her than I am at my kindest. They could probably be happy together. Maybe I’ll even allow her to go to Gina whole. Maybe I would give her the gift she can’t give me—pure hatred with no love to fan the flames.

But not yet.

Perhaps you’d like to make Lyssy’s acquaintance a little better? I can wake her up if you’d like. The poor thing is frantic—she’s spent all her money on lingerie yet again, and needs to come up with the rent money.