The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

To say Karen is happy is to say the surface of the sun is a bit toasty. Her face and half her pale chest is covered in a deep blush from her state of undress, and the blood rushing to her face from her constant embarrassment makes the discomfort that much more intense, but there’s a fundamental relief about her that—to my surprise—is even more intense than anything I’d gleaned from Gwen and Bell’s reunion.

That’s not to say the two former bunkmates aren’t pleased as punch to have found each other. When we found Bell, they’d all but surrendered themselves to fate. Curious, considering that Gwen had decided to take advantage of her freedom when we’d found her, ditching her chastity belt and bathing in the light of day. Did Bell’s lack of testosterone affect their drive? Judging by the collar on their neck, it’s safe to assume that their situation was a bit worse than Gwen’s had been, so more likely it was just good ol’ fashioned cruelty that beat the hope out of ’em.

Still, now that they’re in our merry band, they seem to be happy enough, and eager to help us hunt for supplies.

“Wait,” I tell my companions as we reach the road out of town.

The pavement of the road deteriorates as it leaves the suburbs. Logic suggests that it’s just because the area isn’t as built-up, and is therefore more exposed to erosion and overgrowth, but it looks as though the wilderness that the city had paved over or ripped up was slowly creeping back, ambushing the road as it stretches into the empty belt that separates the tight-packed suburbs from the larger, cheaper lots of those who lived in the fringes.

That’s not to say the houses were the tiny white-trash meth shacks you used to see on TV when Hollywood imagines country life. Far from it—a lot of the families who used to live out this way chose to take on the commute so they could live in a spacious home with a large yard. The houses get smaller and the occupants less wealthy as you get farther out, but everything in walking distance is pretty nice.

Gwen looks at me nervously, unsure why I’ve stopped us. Bell somehow seems to gaze at the overgrown fields and distant gnarled tree lines with both childlike curiosity and absolute indifference. The thought to question why we’ve stopped doesn’t even cross Karen’s mind as she obediently waits a half-step behind Jen.

Jen, on the other hand, gets it.

Of all our companions, she’s the only one who’s been this close to the edge of town since the angels came.

I know it’s safe to cross into the lands where the pavement crumbles before tall plants and distant woods. Red and her friends cleared out everything harmful around here. But still, my body doesn’t want to move. Even though it happened some twelve years ago, I can still see the once-glamorous Magnus family roaring down that road in their giant Hummer, desperate to get out of the city.

The cherubs that swarmed out of those woods to greet them was so dense that they looked like one giant, fluid creature, shifting and whirling as they took to the skies. When they dove in, they smashed into the side of that giant thing like a fist, blasting it off the road.

The one good thing about their terrifying number is that I couldn’t actually see what it did to the occupants. There was just a massive writhing pile of winged baby-monsters for a few seconds, and then all at once they fucked off back to their woods, leaving no trace of the most influential family in town.

Long grass, clumps of weeds, and some clusters of white flowers blooming on the end of long reeds rustle in the distance, hiding any evidence of the Magnus tragedy, and probably the wreckage of a thousand similar tales of woe. It’s overgrown now, but if I squint my eyes just right, I swear I can see some of the lemon-yellow candy paint barely poking out where the massive vehicle finally came to rest.

Everybody who reluctantly lived under the angels’ rule has a similar story. Either you saw those little fuckers make an example of some poor bastard, or you’d figure “it’s gotta be better than staying in town” and became an example for somebody else.

Jen never told me what she saw when she walked to the edge, but I don’t imagine it was any better.

I gently brush my fingertips along the handle of the obsidian knife at my side. There’s no way in hell it would save me against an entire flock, but it still gives me enough courage to shake the Magnuses from my mind.

“Stay on your toes,” I tell the group. “There shouldn’t be anything out here, but... if you do see something, turn around and run as fast as you can back to town. Got it?”

I look back to my companions. Bell nods, but Jen seems almost catatonic, her mind locked in a terrible memory as she stares at that tree line.

“Um,” Gwen begins.

“Yeah?”

“What’s out there?” she asks.

I think for a moment. “Did you ever see any Cherubs?”

Gwen furrows her brow and nods. “The flying babies in the stained glass.”

“You never saw them in your chapel or anything?”

She shrugs, boggling my mind. I thought they lived in the church, didn’t they? Maybe they hung from the rafters in the belfry like bats, waiting for something to spook them awake.

“They’re...” I mutter, trying to figure out how to phrase it.

“They’re flying murder babies,” Jen says, eyes still fixed in the distant past. “Like a swarm of piranha. If they see you going somewhere or doing something they don’t like, then thousands of them fly at you. Rip you apart. And laugh.”

I put my hand on Jen’s shoulder and nudge her mind back to the present.

“What’s a piranha?” Gwen asks.

“They’re like locusts,” I tell her, knowing at the very least the bible would give her some context. “Only instead of crops, they eat meat.”

Gwen falls silent and nods slowly.

“They’re gone,” I tell Jen, wrapping my arm around her as she leans into me. “Just like the angels. Just like everything else.”

She takes a deep breath. She believes that I think I’m telling the truth, but she her brain doesn’t want to accept it as fact.

Hell, my brain doesn’t want to accept it as fact, either.

“If they’re gone, then why the dramatic warning?” Bell asks.

Because I’m fucking terrified doesn’t quite seem to be the most leader-y response, so instead I say, “I don’t know. They might have missed one. Or maybe cherubs don’t eat wildlife, and there are hungry bears or wolves or something. Better safe than sorry.“

He’s right, though. The warning’s unnecessary. If there were some of those fuckers left alive within a mile or two, then I’d be able to feel their static... right? I guess I’ve never tracked just one. Maybe the static for just one is imperceptible until it’s got its weird little clawed baby-hands clasped around your throat.

Bell seems to gracefully accept my answer, but I can see suspicion behind their eyes. “Well, if that happens, and I see you sprint by, know that I’m tripping you.” Their suggestion is delivered with an impish little grin, but in their mind I can tell they’re completely serious. They were never made to labour and weren’t allowed to run, so both themselves and Gwen would be extremely ill-equipped in a foot race.

I feel frustration bubble for a moment, but then my better judgment reminds me that Karen had basically tried to do the same thing—use him as a meat-shield as soon as trouble arose.

“I meant more because I’m the only one with a weapon,” I say, smiling and patting the holster for my little knife and suddenly wishing it were something more confidence-inspiring like a sword or a battle axe. “But that’s good to know.”

Bell blushes a little—they don’t entirely believe that I’d jump on a grenade for them, but they don’t entire disbelieve it either.

“Are we good to go?” I ask Jen

She takes a deep breath and nods.

“Alright. Let’s get moving.”

It takes a little longer than I’d thought it would to finally reach a wide washed-out gravel path next to a cheap brown plastic mailbox. The metallic decals have rotted off, but the fact that it’s otherwise completely intact seems a bit unsettling. A testament to the longevity of plastics, I guess—a technology that I honestly have no idea if we’ll learn to make in my lifetime. I wonder if someday in the distant future, my great-great-great-great grandchildren will be going at a landfill with little picks and tiny brushes to marvel at cheap busted lawn furniture and Twinkie wrappers as mysterious relics of a lost civilization.

“Here we are,” I say as I look up the driveway, severely overgrown on either side, a few weeds and saplings narrowing it to little more than a footpath in places.

The home actually looks quite nice—two stories with white side paneling that drips brown here and there with time and neglect, its shutters and doors mostly black with weather-beaten paint that only peels in a few spots.

I hear Gwen yelp and take a leap backwards. My heart jumps for a split-second before I glean that it’s more surprise and disgust than terror, but I rush over anyways to see what’s the matter.

A forearm, mostly skeletonised but still connected to a wrist, thumb, and index finger by petrified joints. Its radius (I think? I can never remember which bone is which) is cracked where Gwen had stepped on it, but it otherwise looks like it was freshly looted from a movie set.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Whatever did that is long gone. But that was definitely done by cherubs, so you might want to watch your step. They tend to leave bits like this scattered all over.”

The fact that I’m relieved to see body parts on the front walk makes me feel a bit guilty. It definitely sucks for whoever lived here, but more bits out here where they can decompose naturally means less bits inside where they might still be... well, more human.

“Hello?” I say aloud—not quite a shout, but loud enough to be heard. “Anyone home?”

We stand quietly and listen. We can hear the buzz of horny cicadas in the distance, but the house completely silent. No sound, no thought, no static.

“Okay, we should be good,” I tell my companions as I walk up the rotting wooden steps to the heavy black door.

When I push it open, I’m pleasantly surprised at the state of the place. A small bench next to the door still has rotting moth-eaten jackets hung on its hooks, with decaying leather dress shoes and faded sneakers tucked beneath. Immediately ahead is a kitchen with a large bay window, completely intact, overlooking a massively overgrown garden that’s speckled with red blobs.

Tomatoes.

The garden is raised, keeping its bounty safe from most of the local critters, and there seem to be several types of plants that are still holding their own among the weeds, even so many years after the people who tended them became fertilizer.

I can’t help but smile. This is a decent-sized garden. Which means there might be decent-sized preserves somewhere.

To the right of the entrance is a living/dining room where three generations of strangers stare at me with welcoming smiles from a portrait hung over a large table, and a piano sits unused tucked away in the corner.

To the left, a hallway leads to a staircase heading up to the second floor on one side down to the basement on the other.

Dead leaves roll down the stairs. Which means the house isn’t quite as intact as I’d hoped. If there’s going to be trouble, that’s where we’ll find it.

“We should split up,” I tell the group. “You can keep in pairs if you want, but this house is definitely safe. We’re looking for anything dried, canned, or pickled. Just holler if you need a hand.”

Everyone gives me a nod and heads off on their separate ways. Bell, evidently more interested in exploring than scavenging, wanders into the living room, immediately walking up to the piano and gently running their fingers along the woodwork of the fallboard that covers the keys.

Gwen looks at the kitchen with her eyes wide with wonder, and I can’t help but peek into her mind. The sandy red clay tiled floor and the off-yellow stucco of the adobe-style walls have a soft warmth that she’d never seen in her convent, which was apparently as grey-and-white as possible. She never thought to question why, but I imagine it has something to do with some temperance bullshit. Colder homes for colder hearts.

Though, I have to admit, after feeling it through Gwen’s heart, that does look like one dope-ass kitchen.

Jen stays by my side, watching me with a little smile, and Karen stands behind her, arms crossed and eyes pointed to her worn and aching feet.

“Karen, you might want to sift through the shoes by the door and try to find something that fits,” I suggest. “We’re going to be walking an awful lot, and I’d rather not have to carry you.”

Karen’s eyes remain locked on her feet. “I’ll manage.” Her eyes snap up to Jen as she adds, “If I fall behind, please feel free to go ahead. I’ll catch up eventually.”

I sigh. “I don’t doubt that, but I get the feeling you don’t make it out this way much. We don’t want you to get lost.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

I give Jen a look. She sighs.

“Didn’t we establish that you’re no good to anyone dead?” she asks her new servant. “Get yourself some shoes.”

Karen nods, tears rolling down her face. “I... I don’t deserve your kindness...”

“Fine!” Jen throws her arms up. “Then, I don’t know, find shoes that are a bit too small if it makes you happy.”

A look of hurt confusion washes over Karen’s face, and I don’t need to read her mind to see that Jen is clearly frustrated with her duties as Karen’s keeper.

“Listen, Karen,” I say, “I think what Jen is trying to say is that she doesn’t want to inflict physical pain to punish you.”

Karen shakes her head. In her mind, my words are muffled, like she’s listening to me from the bottom of a swimming pool.

“You don’t want Jen to feel bad, do you?” I say, pushing the question into her mind as I ask.

Karen slowly shakes her head.

“You’re being punished for needlessly causing physical pain, right?”

She nods.

“So if inflicting pain is a horrible thing that miserable people do, why would you expect Jen to want to inflict pain?”

“But... it’s not needless...” Karen mutters.

“It is,” I say. I can feel a little resistance to the suggestion, so I decide to dig a channel around it—Karen isn’t as fragile as the nun, but I still don’t want to risk it. “I’m not saying you don’t deserve punishment for what you’ve done. But pain isn’t the only form of punishment.”

“It’s not?”

“There are lots of other types of punishment. Servitude. Humiliation. Denial. And a bunch of other things that I’m sure Jen has in mind. So pain isn’t necessary, right?”

Karen nods slightly.

“So I ask you again. Inflicting pain is a horrible thing for miserable people, correct?”

Karen nods.

“Is Jen horrible?”

Karen shakes her head. “No.”

“Is Jen a miserable person?”

Her head shakes more. “Of course not.”

“Then go find yourself some comfortable shoes, Karen.”

Karen nods, kneeling down next to the bench and rifling through the sneakers.

“I’m gonna check out upstairs,” I tell Jen. “You want to come-with?”

Jen smiles and nods.

“I don’t know whether you’re a genius or a madman,” she says once we’re at the top of the staircase.

I shrug. “I like to believe I’m a bit of both.”

I follow the trail of dead leaves to a room at the end of the hall and peek inside.

Apparently the house hadn’t been empty when it was attacked. I was expecting the window to be smashed in and maybe a body part left behind as they dragged the occupant out, but that bedroom was a nightmare—the entire rear-facing wall was smashed in, and body parts were scattered throughout. It looked like a storage closet in an off-season haunted house—the entire floor was littered with parts from who-knows-how-many people, and every inch of the walls and ceiling were painted black with dried blood. Mercifully, the open wall exposed the bodies to enough elements that they no longer had a smell to them, but they still had more human features than the bits outside.

I gently kick a few stray bits from the hall into the room and gently close the door.

“That room doesn’t exist,” I tell Jen. “I don’t think there’s any other breach, though, so barring any horrible surprises, I think we might be able to spend the night here.”

I can feel Jen’s excitement spike. “We get to spend a night in a real bed?”

It hadn’t even occurred to me that they wouldn’t have given her a bed, and I suddenly feel like a giant asshole for not suggesting that we leave the shop and sleep in one of the bazillion houses a stone’s throw away.

“No guarantee what their state is going to be, but fuck it, yeah. Might want to hunt down a linen closet, too.”

Jen bounces on the balls of her feet in excitement and lunges forward, wrapping her arms around my neck and planting a quick, hard kiss on my lips.

I suddenly realize that this is the first time she’s kissed me above the neck. She realizes this too, and pulls back awkwardly, her cheeks a furious blush. “Sorry, got a little excited, but... beds!”

“First to find the master bedroom gets exclusive rights,” I tell her with a smile.

Jen’s eyes flash with a competitive spark and she’s off like a shot to the end of the hall.

I chuckle to myself as I turn around and open the first door to the left of the stairs and am welcomed with a giant wood-post bed with a thick red blanket, overflowing with useless little throw pillows, and an open door on the far corner leading to the en suite bathroom I had spotted when we were walking up the drive.

“It pays to pay attention,” I smile. Then I notice something that lifts my heart into my throat.

A black leathery case leaned up against the wall, metal latches firmly in place, protecting something I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again.

A guitar.

I was never good by any stretch of the imagination, but rattling through the half-dozen songs I knew had filled so many lonely hours while I waited for my roommate to send me out on another errand. Any music other than pipe organs are catnip to angels and sentinels—Rock and Roll is the devil, don’t you know—and so most instruments in town were gathered and destroyed. It did strike me as odd that my roommate would let me play, especially since stringed instruments were sentinel-magnets, but I decided to not look a gift horse in the mouth.

I click open the clasps and sit on the edge of the bed, plunking the strings to see how wildly out of tune it is.

Thankfully, all the strings and heads are intact, and I’m easily able to get it in tune. (Whether or not it’s anywhere near the right key is another story—after all I’m far from pitch-perfect, but the strings are right relative to each other.)

I smile for a moment and enjoy the smell of wood and resin. I don’t know why, but acoustic guitars almost smell like they sound.

I start to pluck away at a bittersweet song whose title and lyrics are long-since forgotten. I do remember being ashamed of having learned it—at the time my friends and I were into songs that were three power chords under lots of screaming (not a single one of which I still remember how to play)—but still loving this despite the departure. And not just because it’s easy to play.

I plunk out the first verse, the notes trailing fluttering up and down the chords—the 3-to-3, the emo-two, the staircase, the triangle, 3, emo, staircase, staircase... G, Em, C, D, G, Em, C...

“So we’ve been told, and some choose to believe it,” I hear a sweet voice from the doorway softly sing as I pluck through the bridge. “I know they’re wrong, wait and see...”

A wave of emotion plows into the back of my eyes as a long-lost piece of me falls back into place. I’ve never heard Jen sing, and her voice is hushed and self-conscious, but it hits me in the feels with a giant sack of memory, and all I can do to keep it together is focus on my fingers and soldier through the chorus.

“Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection; the lovers, the dreamers, and me.”

I know there’s more to the song, but I really don’t want to collapse into a big blubbering mess in front of Jen (not to mention a house full of others who are supposed to look up to me as a leader), so I very quickly pluck through the outro and take a deep breath.

“Never figured you for a Muppets man,” Jen says, taking a seat beside me.

I take another deep breath and wipe a bit of mist from my eyes. “To be honest, I forgot where that song was from ages ago,” I say, carefully laying the instrument back in its case. “I’ve just always found it comforting.”

Jen notices my slight waver into the forbidden land of man-expressing-feelings, but thankfully she finds it sweet. “I also didn’t know you knew how to play.”

I’m tempted to tell her that I don’t—my old default response to “Oh, you have a guitar! Do you play?"—but it occurs to me that I’ve been rotating through the same handful of simple songs for over a decade now. “Only a few songs,” I tell her. “Just to pass the time.”

“So, for your name... does this make you a Kermit?” she says with a playful smile.

I pretend to think for a second. “Wouldn’t that make you Ms. Piggy?”

Jen’s jaw drops in playful exaggerated shock, and we both burst into laughter.

“So no Kermit,” she finally says.

“Now hang on a second, I think there might be some merit in this whole Ms. Piggy thing...”

Jen pulls one of the countless throw-pillows off the bed and bounces it off my face and we both once again burst into laughter.

For a few moments, we’re both young again—each blatantly cheating at whatever board game we’ve pulled off the shelf, throwing cheese puffs at each other whenever we’re caught.

It’s a nice, warm, welcome feeling, but it’s also fleeting, and a few moments later, we’re once again adults, sitting on the edge of a giant bed, just down the hall from a room full of body parts.

“I guess you win,” she tells me. “Have you been here before or something?”

I smile. “I saw it from the driveway.”

Jen giggles, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Shit. Right. I shoulda figured.”

“While I do have claim over my palatial estate,” I say, throwing on the most over-the-top snooty accent I can muster, “I may be persuaded to see fit to grant you permission to share this most humble abode. Hmmmmmayhaps.”

“Of course, your lordship,” Jen says with a wry grin, sliding off the bed and sinking into a deep curtsey. “I would be honored to share this humble palace with your eminence.”

“Very good. I shall find a corner on the floor that you might find quite suitable.”

I watch Jen’s smile develop a wicked curl. “Well, I had been planning to find a place on your lordships big wonderful cock, but I suppose the corner will do.”

My heart leaps, Sir Lordship von Eminence’s panic somehow working its way into myself. “Um... perhaps I was a bit pre-emptive in my assessment of the space...”

“Oh, no,” Jen insists. “I wouldn’t dream of worrying your lordship. My handmaid and I shall happily retire to the corner your lordship has generously offered, licking each other to orgasm after massive, sloppy, world-shattering orgasm whilst your lordship sleeps comfortably alone in his bed.”

I narrow my eyes. “Does Karen even swing that way?”

Jen shrugs. “To be honest, I get the impression that she’d enjoy it more if she didn’t. She didn’t protest any funerals or anything, but she was still pretty team-Jesus in the before-times. That doesn’t necessarily make her homophobic, but...”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Jen nods in silence for a moment.

“So about your dick-related sleeping accommodations...” I mention, before catching another pillow to the face.

We decided to spend the rest of the day exploring the house. We’d found some good stuff—a couple cans that seemed to be in order, a giant plastic container of rice that was miraculously still sealed, a big bag of rolled oats that seem to have kept (that one might be a bit of a crapshoot, but beggars can’t be choosers), five glass jars of preserves, and a treasure trove of dried spices.

The best find of all, however, were the labels on those preserves: “Welcome, Neighbor!", “Merry Christmas, Neighbor!", “Happy anniversary, Neighbor!", “Merry Christmas, Neighbor!” (again), and finally one that just says “Congratulations”.

Seems tomorrow we’re hunting for treasure.

A coal-fired barbecue in the back yard means Gwen has the tools she needs to prepare us the best meal any of us have been able to enjoy in years (yes, even compared to my signature Unseasoned Rabit a-la Canned Bean), and we actually spend a very relaxing evening eating together in the yard, blissfully unaware of the remains that are likely scattered throughout the tall grass. Even Karen seems to be enjoying herself, standing silently wearing nothing but a pair of cute pink sneakers and her training collar, her leash slung over her own wrist, clearly uncomfortable with her own happiness but happy nonetheless.

Afterwards, Bell and Gwen have settle into the room across from the master—two single beds on either side of a room that’s almost cartoonishly divided in half, one side painted pink with ballet shoes and unicorn posters hanging from the wall, the other painted powder-blue with a model airplane suspended from the ceiling and a few scraps pages cut out from magazines haphazardly tacked to the walls, so decayed that you can barely see the illustrated dinosaurs and fighter jets.

Surprisingly, Gwen calls dibs on the blue side, and Bell seems completely indifferent to being assigned to the pink.

The reunited bunkmates now bouncing on their beds and getting familiar with their accommodations, Jen and I walk into the master bedroom and turn our attention Karen, still demurely following behind. Her blush has been slowly retreating throughout the evening as she’s grown more comfortable with being nude in our company—but I can tell that it’s just a comfort with being naked around us, not being naked in general.

I let her see my eyes on her body, and add a push to the heat of submissive arousal that floods through her anew, digging her trough of discomfort a little deeper—not to make her more embarrassed, mind you, but to make sure she can always feels that thrill of shame when people see her exposed.

“There’s another room down the hall and a guest room on the main floor,” I tell Karen. “You can take your pick.”

Of course, the question is unnecessary. You don’t need to be a psychic to know where she wants to sleep. Karen—the woman we met in that abandoned house, who was desperately tearing through dead strangers’ belongings—wants to sleep as far away from us as possible. Downstairs guest room, down the hall and around the bend from the unlocked front door, surrounded by fully-stocked houses too numerous and far apart for us to possibly search if she disappears in the night.

“I’d like to sleep here,” Karen says.

“You want to share the bed?” Jen asks, not masking the disdain in her voice.

“N-no, of course not! I...” Karen’s blush consumes the rest of her body. “I’d be happy sleeping on the floor.” She quickly adds, “But I’ll leave you if you want your privacy.”

Jen’s cheeks pull into a grin I’ve never seen on her before. It’s stern and confident, resting somewhere between mean and naughty. “You want to sleep at the foot of my bed, like a puppy?” she asks.

Karen’s blush shifts from pink to red as she nods. She tries hard to hide how much the thought arouses her, clasping her knees together, but her big nipples harden as she adds, “Like a dog.” I press on her arousal a bit, sending a shiver through her body. That wave pushes her libido into her mouth, prompting her to add, “Like your filthy bitch.”

Jen’s mouth opens to respond, but she’s completely gobsmacked. Karen’s own eyes widen as she realizes what she just said, and her thighs begin to quiver in equal parts fear and anticipation of how Jen might take what she just said.

Silence fills the air in the room, but I’m having a great time listening to Karen’s mind racing. What did I just say? Why would I say that? She’s going to think this is weird. She’s going to turn me away. Or is she going to punish me? I don’t talk that way. I’ve never said anything like that! It was so humiliating. Fuck, I think I came a little when I said it. What’s wrong with me? I should just go. I should excuse myself and take the room down the hall. Then touch myself silly. Jeeze, I really am a filthy bitch... mmm...

Meanwhile, Jen’s head is equally busy trying to work out how to handle this.

I’m supposed to be punishing Karen. Should I say no? Should I... I don’t know, spank her for saying bad things or something? My first instinct when hearing a kid say something bad is to retaliate by saying something even worse. Does that mean I should call her something meaner? Dirtier? Or am I supposed to be rehabilitating her, telling her that she’s a beautiful and unique snowflake? I know I’m not supposed to, but it feels much more natural than smacking her wrists with a ruler or whatever... I sneak in to give Jen an inclination—just a little nudge—and she adds: fuck, I kind of want to punish her... just a little...

Finally, I decide to give a little present to both of them by breaking the silence. “I don’t know about filthy. But definitely well-behaved, right Jen?”

Relief washes over Jen as she gives Karen a sweet little smile. “That’s right,” she says, stepping towards the collared woman, stroking her long brown hair with one hand. “Good girl.”

Karen’s breath catches in her throat and squeaks out a whimper as a tremor rolls across her thighs, her eyes going unfocused and rolling back slightly. Jen’s touch unleashes a whole day’s worth of humiliation right into the tall brunette’s bald little shame-pot, wrestling control of her body for just a second or two.

“Th... thank you... my... Jen...” Karen’s voice is soft and breathy, warbling to the whim of a tiny orgasm.

“Are you sure you don’t want her to call you something else?” I ask Jen. “Her mistress? Her queen? Her goddess?”

“If I’m mistress, queen, or goddess,” Jen says to me, a playful glint in her eye, “would that make you master, king, or god?”

I nod. “King might be presumptuous and god seems kind of tacky given the state of the world, but I think there might be something to the whole master thing...”

I smile, expecting another throw pillow to go sailing into my face, but instead I see Jen developing her own deep-red blush, the curl of her lips shifting from playfulness to lust. “Karen,” she says, eyes still locked onto mine, “please feel free to call me Mistress.”

Karen nods, desperately suppressing the urge to touch swollen nipples or the bare pussy that’s making her thighs hot and clammy. Her hands are gently kneading the top of her mound—a compromise that lets her be touched while maintaining her submissive stance. “Thank you, Mistress,” she whispers.