The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

6—A Third Ace Joins the Deck

By the end of the semester, I’d gotten really used to having Kim and/or Yana around, taking care of my every sexual need and most of the rest of them too. My eating habits improved with Kim’s cooking. Yana was better with take-out, but she had a few spicy dishes she did very well. The apartment had never been so clean and my laundry was washed and ironed every week on Sundays. Kim did the washing, Yana the ironing. Apparently, the men in the complex knew Kim’s routine, since the laundry room got suspiciously crowded on Sunday morning.

And then Kim had to go out of town in the same week that Matt and Rose asked for Yana for a few days.

With Kim, it was one of those family obligation trips for the holidays. You can’t get out of those when you’re still living at home. For Yana, well, it seemed like the decent thing to do for Matt. I told him they’d have access, after all—and he didn’t know about the trigger phrase I’d planted in Rose’s subconscious and fully intended to use.

Regretful as I was at the prospect of not having my ashes hauled as often as I’d like for a week, I figured I’d survive. Yana was cool with it. She did what we told her and loved it, a very nice change from her previous persona. Kim was quite a bit more tearful about it, but I knew she’d be fine—and come back hornier than ever, with lots of nasty little diary entries for me to read.

They’d only been gone for twenty-four hours when my life got even more complicated and interesting than it already was, if you can believe it.

A bit of backstory: up until a year ago, I’d been a serious relationship. Her name was Susan and we were in love and headed for wedded bliss . . . or so I thought. Until she made a pass at my best friend, made up some amazing stories about me cheating on her to justify her choice to start sleeping with yet another guy, then cleaned out the joint checking account we’d been contributing to for the wedding before telling me, some three weeks AFTER she’d already made the decision, that “it was over.” In other words, she broke my heart, ripped the pieces out of my chest and danced a tarantella on them before flitting blithely off to get engaged to a young local doctor, Barry, the new boyfriend of three weeks.

While Barry was a saint in a white coat, I was the “bad boy” boyfriend her parents—particularly her father—abhorred. I was the one who introduced Susan to her sexual self (over and over again) for two years prior to the break-up. And it had been quite an adventure. When we met, she was a senior in high school and I was the “college man” (an independent sophomore English major—not exactly the top of the social heap). She was this sexy blend of savvy and innocence—a 5′8″ zaftig babe with 36Ds, killer curves and long, honey-blonde hair down to the bottom curve of her glorious bottom. She knew what she wanted, but hadn’t yet figured out how she was going to get it or how much she was going to like it once she got a taste.

We tried just about everything two people with the right equipment and some imagination could try—and just about everywhere, including a racquetball court at the local Y . . . but that’s a story for another time. One of her favorite things to do had been to pose for photos that I then developed in the darkroom in the art building at my school. (In the days before I could afford a digital—the modern smut photographer’s choice). I had three large albums full of inventive erotica, with negatives, featuring Susan in and out of her clothes, in and out of doors and with me (and a few long, bulbous objects) in and out of her. Treasured possessions, those albums, though I hadn’t been able to look at them since she dumped me for Barry-boy.

Imagine, then, my surprise when Susan appeared at my apartment door one weeknight a couple of days after Kim left town.

She was dressed to the nines—plus. Black boots with little bows, tight black skirt, clingy white blouse, black choker and matching purse. She gave me her best “how could you not forgive li’l ol’ me” smile, grasped my forearm with those cool, slender fingers I remembered so well, and stepped in for a quick hug and peck on my cheek before I could get my jaw off the entry hall tile.

The stream of babble was all Susan. What’s going on with me quickly morphed into the far more interesting subject of what was going on with HER: New car, Mom—‘n-Dad good (not that I gave a fuck), “school’s great, changed my major three times this year, ha, ha,” mutual “friends” (who I haven’t seen since we broke up) are doing great, la-dee-dah, la-dee-dah, remember Scooter? (yes—the prick from her church who always wanted to score with her and who I suspected probably had) and Bets Bradley (not a clue who she was, but apparently she’d had a Very Bad Time at Vanderbilt and was now home, sucking at the parental teat again after a stint in rehab). “So, Anyway . . . yadah-yadah Big Plans and yadah-yadah Exciting Happenings.” And then she says, “In one more year, I’m done with school and Barry finishes his internship and then we’re getting married . . . oh, sorry to bring that up.”

I mumbled something about how it was fine, it’d been all of four months and I was All Better Now. And the whole time, my mind’s churning with bitter resentment as the memories of those last few weeks flood back and my heart’s aching all over again at how incredibly fucking gorgeously hot she looks and remembering how great those fingers always felt when they slipped around my prick, not to mention those silky blonde locks and those soft, pink lips. You’ll probably be thinking, “What about KIM?” to which I can only say, if you’re saying that, you’ve never had your heart broken like Susan broke mine. Kim was great, but Susan was my First Love (however misguided that may have been on my part). Kim was a keeper, Susan wasn’t—but that didn’t cool the warmth of the sentimental attachment to What Might Have Been, or the heat of the physical attraction I still felt away. The way it all ended just curdled those feelings into a nasty bile that I’d fed on, off and on, for four months.

Now, I’d like to say that the nasty scheme you’ve probably been expecting since the top of the chapter hatched AFTER the next words out of her mouth, but it wouldn’t be true. It was before. As I contemplated my bile and felt it rising as a background track to her blithe chattter. The full extent of what I was going to do matured as the conversation—and her attempts at manipulation—continued.

“So, Paul, I was wondering,” she said, doing a subtle come-on combined with a guilt trip by pouting at me, her head slightly drooping, through her feathery bangs, “If . . . maybe . . . if you’d let me have those . . . those pictures we took.”

And there it was. Who could blame her? Her ex-boyfriend had reams of photos of her that could be very embarrassing if they should appear, say, on the world-wide web or something. I’d certainly considered it, but didn’t have a scanner and, until this very minute, didn’t think I was that kind of person. My recent experiences with Kim had revealed a . . . well, let’s just call it a darker level to my personality, even as they had also fed something good in my soul.

“Susan, would you like something to drink? I’ve got this really great herbal tea.”

She relaxed a little when she agreed to the tea, assuming from my response to her sally that negotiations were now open. She figured I’d be reasonable and, knowing Susan as I did, she probably figured she’d have to be willing to put out at least a little before she got what she wanted. She just wanted it to be as little as possible and, once she had the photos and negatives, she could deny any accusations I might make. She also probably thought I was still the “nice guy” she’d dumped: the kind of guy who’d never make those kinds of accusations, or publish naked and nasty photos of her on the web–but the wife of an up-and-coming young doctor couldn’t take any chances.

It only took me a few minutes in the kitchen to whip up some Celestial Seasonings with a hint of Uncle Jimmy’s Hypnotic Herb, but all the while as we bantered back-and-forth about The Good Old Days, my mind was racing through the possibilities. I knew I wanted some payback—and a lot more than she was going to be willing to give me, even in her wildest imaginings. But what she was willing to do was about to change—drastically.

We’d been sipping away and chatting calmly for, oh, say about ten minutes (exactly ten minutes and twenty-three seconds by the digital clock on the wall behind her), when I let the first hint of my intentions drop. Nothing had been said about the pictures since her first mention of them.

“Y’know, I ought to go get some of those old pictures for us to look at. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Yes,” said Susan softly. Her conversation had been wandering for the last couple of minutes (she actually let me get a word in edgewise) and her eyes were slightly glazed.

“Why don’t you wait right here. I’ll go get it while you take your boots off.”

I was back with the first volume of pictures in a flash. Susan sat docilely on the couch, her feet tucked under her, her boots under the table. Plenty of room for me right next to her.

“Let’s look at these,” I continued as I nestled in beside her, opening the album.

“And while we look at them, you’re going to remember how much fun we had taking them . . . how much fun we had when we were together . . . how hot you always got when I took pictures of you . . . and you’re going to relax . . . just relax very deeply . . . and breathe slowly and evenly . . . “

And as I slowly flipped the pages of the album and the shots of Susan went from the modestly erotic early sessions to the hotter, wetter stuff, I coached her into a deep trance and planted some hastily concocted post-hypnotic suggestions and trigger words. (I’d learned a lot from my experiences with Kim, Rose, and Yana and had the phrasing I wanted worked out pretty well by now). Her primary trance phrase would be “Slut-of-Diamonds” and I would plant more later, to help her realize of few of the sexual personas I had in mind for my little doctor-fucking heartbreaker of an ex. The occasional pang of conscience I felt at the thought of what I was about to do was swept away by memories of what an incredible bitch she’d been in those last few weeks we’d been together, after she’d already started up with Barry but was still playing me for everything she could get.

By the time we reached the end of the first book of photos, I had her right where I wanted her and it was time to launch her back into reality – or at least the new version of it she’d be living in from now on.

I was back in my chair across the table from her, the photo album sitting next to her empty tea cup, when she snapped back into the world without really realizing she’d been gone. She smiled at me, a slight hint of the confusion she must be feeling was in her eyes and trembled on those lips that were about to be right where they belonged. Maybe she was noticing that her pussy was damp and her nipples hard from the aphrodisiac qualities of the Qin’jo tea.

“Um . . . weren’t we going to look at the pictures?”

“Why don’t you look through them, Suze. It’s . . . still kind of hard for me.”

That cleared her mind of any lingering doubts about what had just happened. If she even had a feeling that anything felt odd, it vanished in the little ego boost I’d just given her.

She picked up the album and started paging through it again and I watched as my first set of hypnotic suggestions began to take hold.

As she paged, her pupils began to dilate and her breathing began to quicken. Her free hand slipped into her blouse, her nails flicking her nipple. She shifted uncomfortably, then began a slow, steady squirm. Half way through the book, as she came to a set of pictures in which she was playing with herself, she looked up at me and smiled with a heated look in her eyes and quick tongue on her teeth. “Ooooh, I remember that day.”

That was my cue.

“Do you, Suze? You remember what got you hot enough to do that?”

The photos in question had been taken in her parent’s bedroom while they were out shopping. We’d been out in the back yard, catching some rays by the pool, and noticed her neighbor, the aforementioned Scooter from her church, watching from his upstairs bedroom window as I slowly rubbed suntan oil all over her chest and belly. After I “slipped” a few times and her top came loose, she pulled it off and gave the Scoot-ster quite a show before slowly getting up and strolling into the house topless.

She was the one who asked me if I had my camera that day, then dragged me into her folk’s room where she splayed herself out on the bed and brought herself off for the lens several times before insisting that I fuck her silly. (None of it much of a hardship, by the way).

“Do you remember how to get yourself off, Suze?” I asked. The suggestion triggered the need I’d planted in her.

She slid the album off her lap. Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse and began to work each one loose. All the while, she stared straight into my eyes with that “dare you to stop me” look that I remember awakening in her for the first time just about three years before. Then, on our first daytime date, I’d persuaded her that stripping to the altogether in the convertible on the way to the beach might be her best opportunity to lay in a good base. Another tale for another day.

Of course, there was no way I was going to stop her today, either, but she didn’t know that. I’d “suggested” to her that I was a really a good guy who was totally over her and wished her nothing but the best, but that she, in fact, still had a yen for me—and for some good, hard dicking in general, since Barry just wasn’t really cutting it in that department.

A little exploratory questioning while she was under determined that this was actually based on some version of the truth. She wasn’t satisfied with her sex life with Dr. Barry. He was so busy with school that she’d considered sleeping with another guy on at least two occasions, but didn’t want to queer the pitch with Bar. He came from money and the status of marrying a rich guy and a doctor to boot was just too much for Her Highness to risk. In fact, my exploration had revealed some serious kink underneath Susan’s bitchiness. I understood her a lot better. She was constantly trying to get guys to punish her, but protected herself from the consequences of her desires by picking guys who were fundamentally decent, who would never think to push back against her hard enough to make her cave and grovel. I wasn’t that guy when we’d been together, but now . . . now I definitely was. And I had the power to do it.

Underpinning all of the stuff I’d worked into her subconscious was the notion I’d planted that whatever happened between us today would be totally her idea. Truth be told, it mostly would be. I’d just provided the trigger, she was going to aim and fire as her libido directed—with an occasional nudge from me in the form of a challenge or question.

Susan parted her blouse to reveal a very full, very lacy unlined demi-bra through which her nipples, pointed like the proverbial pencil erasers and, as I recalled in that moment, very pebble-like in texture, were quite visible. She’d come ready for action today after all, as I suspected. Probably figured she’d get away with just blowing me one time for the pictures. Little did she know.

Her fingers went to the zipper on the side of the tight, black skirt. Once it was down, she had to stand up to continue the striptease, which she did by turning her back to me and slowly sliding the skirt over her butt and down her legs until it pooled around her feet. Before turning around to face me again, she deftly shrugged her blouse off, dropping it languidly on top of the still-open photo album.

Her panties were tangas (in a pale mauve color, complete with a little damp spot) that matched her demi-bra. She always did have taste.

When she turned her head to glance back at me, her butt gave a cute little twist and her long hair swayed gloriously from side to side.

“Should I go on?”

“I . . . I’m not sure if that’s such a great idea,” I mumbled, doing my best to play the noble-ex trying to hold it together. “I mean, I’m no big fan of Barry, but . . . “

“Look,” she said, turning to face me fully but maintaining the slightly off balance pose of the lingerie model, “I don’t want this to get back to Barry, but . . . well . . . I do want those pictures. And I have kind of missed you. It wouldn’t hurt if we just did it this once, would it?”

“Did what, exactly?” I wanted her to say it.

“Well,” and now she looked a little uncomfortable, because she didn’t really want to ASK for it . . . but she was probably finding that warm wetness between her legs was dictating terms at the moment. That was the Qin’jo, working its magic.

“I want. . . ” and I could see the struggle on her face. This was exactly what I’d hoped would happen. She was beginning to realize she didn’t have as much power in this situation as she thought, that she was, in fact, increasingly powerless. “I want you to . . . make love to me, Paul.”

And now she’d put the knife firmly in my hand. It was time to twist. But just a little one at first.

“I can’t do that, Suze.”

The look on her face—a mixture of frustrated desire, desperation and spoiled-little-girl hurt at being denied her candy—made all the pain of the break-up worthwhile.

“Why NOT?!” she all but whined.

“Suzie, honey. I can’t make love to you because I don’t love you anymore.”

“Oh.” And she really did seem hurt by that on a more adult level. It dawned on me that maybe she assumed I would be waiting here for her if she ever decided she wanted me again. I seriously doubted it meant that she still harbored any real feelings for me. Another thing that was about to change.

Then, a small light gleamed in her eyes and she looked up at me, her chin trembling every so slightly as the words formed in her brain and then tried to push their way out through resistant lips.

“Well . . . we could just . . . fuck.”

I was loving this and wanted to stretch it out a bit more. I put on my best it’s-just-not-that-simple look.

“Thing is, even though you’re still very beautiful and I don’t really like Barry all that much, I’m kind of seeing someone right now and just because she’s out of town doesn’t mean . . . “

“Please!” It popped out of her mouth so fast that it took a second for the look of abject terror to reach her eyes. The Princess of All She Surveyed had just begged a guy to fuck her. She wasn’t done yet.

“You want it that bad, Suzie?” Part of the suggestion I’d parked in her brain involved a growing aphrodisiac effect from the humiliation of hearing the diminutive forms of her name. She’d always hated being called anything but “Susan” and now every “Suze” and “Suzie” from my lips was making her hotter than the one before.

“Yes . . . I . . . I mean . . . I want to feel . . . I mean, I need to feel . . . “

“It’s not really about feelings, is it Suzie? ‘Cause I don’t have any feelings for you any more. I mean, you’re hot and I know you like to fuck and suck and we had some good times in the sack . . . and in the back seat and there was that time on the golf course and on that racquetball court . . . .“ I was prolonging her humiliation, but that was part of my pattern of hypnotic suggestions too. Every reminder of her wanton sexuality, every refresher from her sexual history and every roadblock I threw up that made her fight harder to have her rising need met would just make her hotter. I wanted her to know she was jonesing for it, not understand why and not be able to stop herself.

For the moment, she was speechless. Her own mounting lust was causing her hands to twitch. She wanted to reach up and get herself off, or at least pinch her nipples or something, but that would be abject surrender and she wasn’t quite there yet.

“What do you want, Suzie?

“I want . . . I want you . . . I want to please you . . . to . . ,“ This time her hand did stray to her nipple and the pinch she gave it made her gasp. Her knees quivered.

“You have to say it, Suze. You’re going to have to ask me for what you want,” I decided it was time for a big twist this time, “And then, when you tell me . . . no, when you beg me to give you what you want, then I’ll decide whether you get it or not.”

She looked stunned. I could see the angry retort form on her lips, followed by a look of panic in her eyes as she realized that if she said what she was thinking, I might not give her what she now had to have. And then this proud blonde bitch goddess of a woman cracked. I could see it in the set of her shoulders. They didn’t droop, they shifted to show me her boobs to their absolute best advantage. She was going for it with hardly a second thought.

“I want you to fuck me. Please.”

I smiled, but didn’t move.

“Please, Paul. I . . . I need to you to fuck me, right here, right now.”

“Really?” I replied. “But what about what you said to me when we broke up? That you’d never really wanted to do all the things we did, that I made you? And that you were faking it half the time?”

“I was lying, Paul! I was trying to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

“So you were kind of a bitch, huh?”

Her lips trembled and tears began forming at the corners of her eyes. She began to see what I was going to extract from her.

“Yes. Yes, I was a bitch. And I cheated on you, with Barry.”

“And you tried to seduce Scott, too, didn’t you, at that keg party when I was out of town?’

“I . . . I did. I was terrible.” She was crying now and her ragged breathing wasn’t just about the tears, because the fingers of her right hand were tracing the line of her panties just below her tight belly, occasionally slipping below the lace to tease the top of her very damp slit. “And I’m so sorry for that and for everything else. I just . . . ,” And then I saw the idea for a new tactic slide across her face. “I need you to fuck me really, really hard and get back at me. Make me pay for it all.”

“Y’know, Suzie, that’s a good idea. Making you pay for it all. But I think we’re going to do that MY way, if that’s all right with you.”

“Anything! I’ll do whatever, just as long as you—“

“No conditions, Suze. You’ll do whatever I say and I’ll give you whatever I feel like giving you.”

She looked abashed at this. It was beginning to dawn on her that she might not get fucked after all, but then I saw her confidence surge back. She was still the Amazing Susan, Best Fuck on the Planet. She’d break me down with her irresistible charms.

“Clear the couch and stretch out, but don’t finish undressing. I’ll be right back.”

When I returned with the video camera, her eyes widened and her hips bucked ever so slightly as she pulled her hand out of her panties quickly. She blushed. To me, it was fetching but for her, it was just another sign of her growing loss of control.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I said, turning the camera on her. “Would you like to show me how you do that again, Suzie. Like in the pictures?”

A question from me was a trigger for her desire to answer it with words or with deeds—and action always speaks louder . . . well, you know the cliché.

In moments, my video-cam was recording her as she plunged two fingers into her panties and rolled one exposed nipple vigorously with the free hand. The squishing sounds were loud enough to be picked up by the microphone. God, she was beautiful! I mean, there are very few things in this world more beautiful than a good-looking blonde pleasuring herself, but I have to admit she was made exceptionally beautiful in this instance by the sweet bouquet of revenge rolling around on my palette, like a swig of fine wine. I realized that this was not exactly the height of moral behavior on my part—using an illicit, if not precisely illegal substance to take revenge on a woman who had done me wrong was not something St. Peter would be patting me on the back for when it came time to make my way to the pearly gates—but, y’know, sometimes you just say “fuck it.” Or, in this case, “fuck her”!

She was getting close now. I remembered the telltale way she would bite at her upper lip just before exploding. There was a thin sheen of sweat over her entire body, her pussy hair was matted with juice and her toes curled even as her legs began to vibrate. I just couldn’t resist extending the torture.

“Why can’t you come, Suze?” And I could see the frustration in her face and the increased tension in her body as my simple question caused her orgasm to recede ever so slightly. I watched her struggle to get it back, but it stayed right there, on the edge.

“Do you need me to get you off?”

Her eyes snapped open and she stared at me. It was an interesting expression—part loathing of what she was finding herself compelled to do, part naked lust. A moan that combined similar feral qualities escaped her lips. Then, a panting, “Yes! Oh, God, please! Yes!”

“Then you’d better keep yourself ready for me while I get this camera on a tripod, hadn’t you?”

Another of those moans curled from her throat, her eyelids fluttered and I could see whites as she redoubled her finger’s futile efforts.

It took me a minute of doodling with the camera and tripod to get them hooked up and pointed just so. I ran an S-video cable into the back of the TV, so I could watch the action unfold and position myself properly. She was so busy trying to get off, she hardly noticed and, when I turned the camera back on, it was as though I’d never turned it off—groans and slurping noises from the heaving blonde porn star on the couch filled the screen. I took off my clothes and stepped into the frame in such a way that there was a clear image of me from the knees to the waist, cock in hand.

“Hey, Suzie, don’t you want some of this?”

Again, her eyes popped open. Her hand never stopped moving, but it did slow slightly as she licked her lips.

She was on me like a shot and, before I knew it, had my cock plunging in and out of her throat. She always was good at this, I remembered, between jolts of ecstasy. From the root to the head, I was slavered with salivary goodness. I glanced down at her and found her looking up at me, the glint of a satisfied smile in her eyes. She thought she had me, like she used to. She’d get me on the edge and keep me there for what seemed like hours, then stop and roll over and stick a cock-ring on me. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy dicking her long and hard, but with Susan, it was always, always about her getting her rocks off a few dozen times before she’d even consider letting me come—and the Princess never, ever let me come in her mouth.

So, that look she was giving me right then? Fuel to the vengeful flames, baby.

“Don’t you want to suck it, bitch?” I said, right into her power-trip eyes. “And swallow every drop?”

Again, she blanched. Hungry as she was for some cock, the last thing she expected was that I was going to drop my load down her for-all-I-knew-still-pristine throat. She was expecting some good, old fashioned fucking and a few dozen big ones, like in the old days.

“I think you’ll find a big surprise at the end of my stick, baby, if you suck it right.”

And her sudden fear was forgotten. She redoubled her efforts, her tongue tickling the underside of my dick like she was a pro in a hurry. The meaning of my little comment hadn’t escaped her and her instant surrender to it made it clear that she understood her role now.

I must I have dumped a quart down her throat. With the first pulse of my prick and every wad she swallowed, until I was dry, she inched closer to her own release without ever quite getting there. She gasped around my dick, moaned in frustration and longing, trembled and writhed against my legs, her hands gripping my butt-cheeks as she went back for more of the precious jiz that promised joy . . . but wasn’t going to deliver unless I said the magic words.

When I was done, I was weak in the knees and ready to sit down, so I stepped back, out of the frame of the camera lens and the image on the TV, leaving her there, gasping, rubbing her tits and diddling at her clit with quick, stabbing movements.

“Suze,” I said, once I’d seated myself on a nearby ottoman, “It isn’t going to happen unless I say it can.”

She looked at me hard, all the anger drained out of her gaze and replaced by pure, horny desire. She didn’t even question the veracity of what I’d said, only nodded slightly, as if to say, “Okay, what do I do now?”

“Get dressed and get out,” I said. It was now or never. She’d drunk the Kool-Aid, as they say, and it was time to push her to her limit.

“But . . . I want to stay,” she whimpered, “I—I’ll do anything you ask. Please?”

And I almost bought it. She looked so pathetic and sexy all at once—a sheen of sweat covered her from head to toe, her hair was matted, above and below, and she smelled of her own juices. She’d swallowed very efficiently, so there was no trace of my spunk on her face, but even from here, I could tell she had a mean case of dick breath.

“Then you’ll get dressed and get out. I’ll call you when I need you.”

I figured I’d let her go back to her little life with Barry and taste the pain and humiliation for a bit. He wasn’t going to be able to do it for her any more, even the little bit of it he’d been doing. No way he could compete with the hold I now had over her.

She didn’t argue any more, although her eyes still pleaded with me. I had her leave her underwear in my laundry and just wear her blouse, skirt, choker, and little boots home. The choker gave me an idea for later.

She made a half-hearted pass at the book of photographs, but I just shook my head. She sighed slightly, realizing that, not only was she not getting what she had come for in the first place, she’d also probably lost any chance of getting free from me ever again. I liked that she realized this, but didn’t really want her totally resigned to her fate yet. Her breathing was still a bit shallow and her cheeks flushed from being so turned on, so close to the edge for so long.

“Suzie, a couple of things before you go.” She shivered a little at the diminutive form of her name. It went right to her pussy now and, as close as she still was, sent a bolt of pleasure deep into her core. “It took some nerve to walk in here tonight. I’m not sure you get how nervy it was, ‘cause to you it probably seemed like a no-brainer that I’d give up the pictures for a little bit of nookie from you, and nobody any the wiser. To me, it was just another example of what a self-absorbed little bitch you are. But you are a good lay and you give good head and I like to think I had a lot to do with you getting good at those things so, as payback for the hurt you put on me, I’m going to take over your life.

“In fact, it’s not your life anymore. It’s going to change completely. You’ll still work and keep yourself up and be with your friends and, for now at least, you’ll still be with Barry. We’re not getting back together or anything—you’re just my slut. You’re not going to tell anybody anything about this, but when I call, you drop what you’re doing and you do what I tell you. I’m going to use you as I see fit and give you to whoever I want to give you to and you’re going to feel the shame and humiliation you’re feeling right now for every minute of whatever I put you through—but you’re also going to learn that part of you wants it, because you can’t live without this . . . “

And I leaned over and whispered one of the phrases I’d implanted as a post-hypnotic suggestions: “Slut of diamonds, come for me.”

And, like a good little slut, the third of my aces, she came. And came hard. Standing in my doorway, she went from trembling, on-edge and teary-eyed to epileptic rag doll. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her knees gave way and she collapsed onto me. I eased her to the floor where she convulsed in the throes of the deepest, richest and most satisfying orgasm she’d ever known—the one that I’d dug out of her subconscious and detached from all the psychological threads of restraint that keep it in check. When she regained some small control of her limbs, her hands went straight to her tits and pussy, popping the buttons on her blouse and rucking up her skirt to try and extend the pleasure in the moment.

After a good three minutes, she slowly opened her eyes. She looked like she’d just had a hit of heroin. Her pupils were tiny, her eyelids heavy. Her breathing slowed to something long, slow and deep, though not quite even. That would take a bit longer.

When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, throaty—very hot.

“Oh my God, Paul! That . . . that was the most incredible . . . I don’t know how to describe . . .” She licked her lips, trying to look sexy for me, without any awareness that she looked like a junkie whore after a night on the street. “Can I . . . could you . . . ?”

“Can’t do it now, babe.” With my eyes, I implied that there could be dire consequences. It wasn’t true, but I wanted her to discover for herself how much she now needed what I’d just given her. A few days with nothing after that little feast and she’d be even more willing and appreciative—and desperate for it—next time.

“Get out now.” The bastard was back, but this time she didn’t react with even a flash of anger or a plea for more, she just stood, albeit shakily, collected herself as best she could considering her shirt wouldn’t completely button anymore, her skirt was a wrinkled wreck and she had no underwear, and walked out the door. I stood there as she made her way down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps, she stopped for just a moment, looked back up at me with a touch of her now-bottomless desire for me creeping back into her eyes and her voice and said, simply, “Call me?”

“I’ll be calling, Suzie. Don’t you worry.”

A relieved smile darted across her face as she turned back toward her car and, I had no doubt, a late date with Dr. Barry.

Boy, was he in for a shock.