The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Adventures in Engineering

I came in the back door with two sacks of groceries. My husband, holding a beer bottle at the kitchen table, reminded me that we were going out for dinner at the Keitel’s. I really hated their “dinner” parties, but we’ve tried getting out of them before and it never seems to work. Something planned always gets changed around or cancelled at the last minute and we find ourselves at loose ends, desperate, arguing, and end up once again fitfully picking at their lavish catering, admiring it profusely, and consorting with their conspicuously-wealthy guests.

“Shit, I said. “I hate going over there. They invite such a weird collection of people.”

“Including us, which is probably why we keep getting asked to come back.”

“Oh,” I countered. “More because you’ve known him for a hundred years, since you both worked at that big mining company and none of us had any money. He loves nothing more than to reminisce about the good old days of poverty.”

“That’s part of it, sure,” he admitted. “But from my point of view, he’s a valuable guy to stay friends with.”

Mason Keitel had left their engineering firm nine years previously with a handful of patents that the huge corporation they’d worked for couldn’t legally take away from him. He was now worth several millions. His much-younger wife, Fiona, had clerked for the power company before he found her and chose to elevate her away from that lower level of toil and want. I shouldn’t talk; I used to teach kindergarteners. Anyway, she showed every sign of genuine devotion to him, as he to her. And, of course, she was very pretty.

I said: “Mason usually has something special on for you, uh, something he wants to show you or demonstrate on his giant TV screen. I get stuck chatting with a bunch of bleached-blonde girlfriends from his car club. It’s like hanging with the repo-wives.”

“And you ain’t gonna be no repo-wife,” he said, on cue, because that’s one of the things we do with each other, the pop-culture references we share.

“You know we have to go, so get ready,” he said. “You don’t want to look like poor white trash wandering in amongst the crowd of society-folk.”

I knew he was right; we had to go. So I had to get ready.

I dressed carefully, like you needed to for one of Mason and Fiona’s gatherings. Jeans were okay, but with a good label. My reliable black boots, tee-shirt and blazer. Nothing shabby. Nothing unusual, certainly nothing too tight or too sexy. You don’t want to attract attention in that crowd. At least I don’t. Their clothes and their behavior can be extravagant enough without my help. I like to blend in, smile and nod and leave quietly. On my own, I would never have wanted to be around them at all. But Mason was usually able to get his way. He was older, but he had long been extraordinarily close to my husband, Jeff, who had also trained as a materials engineer. They both were still vaguely in that business and they rarely talked together about anything else. And, yeah, we were also starting to accumulate more cash than I knew what do with. For some reason I found that kind of hot.

So we got in the car; it still had the new smell. He drove and I rode as appropriate for our gender roles. “Jeff,” I said on the way. “Promise me you won’t disappear into Mason’s office or den or whatever he has over there and spend all evening messing with some new and exotic but ultimately useless piece of technology.”

“Usually it’s the pool room in the lower level.” They wouldn’t have owned a basement; their “lower level” had a view.

“Whatever. Just don’t leave me alone in that house. They’re all carnivores.”

“Yeah,” he smirked at me. “And you’re just the helpless prey.”

“I mean it. You don’t want to make me mad. I might stop coming with you.”

“You wouldn’t do that.” He put on his thoughtful expression. “Who would you come with if not me?”

“Asshole!”

“Okay, I’ll be good. The truth is I don’t know what they have going on right now. I haven’t heard about anything technological. Probably just their usual mind games. I promise to stay upstairs with you, all night, that we may converse of weighty things as men will do, men such as are serious and not dumb floozies or repo-wives.”

“Asshole!” I said again, but now I was smiling. I knew he’d made a concession and would stick to it.

“You’re looking good tonight,” he grinned. “I like those boots.”

So I thought that was okay.

To be honest I’ve never liked Mason Keitel. There may be too much competition between us over Jeff. I’d never admit it to any of the people we knew, but to me his personality just radiated a sort of reptilian smarminess that’s hard to describe. He was unfailingly polite, even gracious, predictably generous to a fault, his manners so exaggeratedly correct that it was hard to say anything against him. My father, a man who hated all the rich on general principles—even he had announced he liked Mason. So I kept my peace.

I’d heard some nasty things about his treatment of women. He was rumored to have had affairs with others than his wife, maybe many others, maybe other things had happened. But they were only rumors. Nothing anyone would ever say on the record: no convictions. It was often said that any less-than-perfect behavior was now buried anyway, deep in the ancient past. It was said, but I didn’t know. I don’t think it would’ve mattered to me. It still just gave me the creeps being in the same room with him. Fiona, for her part, seemed unmindful of it all. If she knew of anything dark, she’d never said so.

I had the sense that many people were afraid of Mason Keitel. Mason’s wife, though, was someone I liked just fine. She was the kind of person who was always eager to help.

There was already a crowd when we arrived. Fiona buzzed us through the security gate, let us in the front door, and led us to the vast spread of food. You’d expect her to be harried, dealing with the mob of crazies and eccentrics that flocked around her husband, but she was never that. She carried an aura of mildly detached concern, like she floated above the madness. She only wanted to know if we needed anything, and promised it would be brought to us, no matter what it was. Jeff and I gravitated away from the catered food, the crowds, and the hovering servers, toward the grand living room, where there were still plenty of places to sit.

Fi had told me they had a minor celebrity for a guest, a sort of swimsuit model who had just been on the cover of some relic of a national magazine that still managed to flog a few hard copies. I was unfamiliar with her name, Kelsey something-or-other, but when she came strolling out of the kitchen gnawing on a chicken wing I recognized her right away. I have to admit she was something to look at. All legs and long thick dark hair and blue eyes. I’d never been any kind of lesbian, but this girl made me feel a tiny bit of a thrill. She wore a powder-blue clingy cotton bit of nothing that hardly covered anything, and emphasized what little it did cover. Every man there at least turned his head to watch her walk by. Even the few gay men present had to admire the way she decorated the place, maybe even if they didn’t become quite so immediately, obviously, physically aroused as all the others.

I estimated this girl was not many years past twenty. She glanced around the room, caught my eye, and presented me with a smile that didn’t exactly light up the house, but made the space around her seem dimmer and less interesting. She spat a bit of gristle daintily into her palm and took three quick, long-legged, purposeful strides straight toward me. I wondered what I might think of to say to her.

I didn’t have to make up my mind, though, because she was still six feet away when she spotted my husband, Jeff, sitting on a couch behind me calmly sipping a beer. She made directly for him, blowing right on past like a forgotten dream-vision, stopped, hesitated briefly, then turned and handed me the bony remains of her chicken wing. Her smile was so honest, so convincingly friendly that I accepted it without question and, not knowing what else to do, I put the bones in my purse, along with her gristle. She turned back to the couch, plopped down next to Jeff and began to talk into his ear.

This chain of events disturbed me and I felt a little weak in the knees, but Fiona was suddenly there, close behind me. She put her hands on my arms and gently guided me to a chair. I was thankful, glad to sit down, but the big leather armchair where she’d placed me was diagonally across the room and facing directly at the spectacle of her disgusting slut of a guest-of-honor oozing herself into all the available gaps and spaces between her lithe body and my personal-possession of a husband. There were only one or two people in the way to inadequately obstruct my view.

I started up out of the chair, but Fi was there, her hands now on top of my shoulders, pressing me back down into place.

She said: “You need to stay sitting here. You’re upset. I don’t want you to try to stand. Keep your ass in that chair!” There was concern in her eyes if iron in her words. I reflected that she was only a year or two older than me.

I wanted to get up, but I wasn’t capable. My butt seemed to be glued to the seat. I put my hands on the arms and tried to push myself erect, but I couldn’t succeed. I didn’t have the strength.

Fi said: “Don’t try to lift your hands, either. You’re too tense. You shouldn’t try to move or speak. You don’t want to upset yourself more. This feeling will pass. This all will pass. Now relax. I know: I’ll bring you something to drink.” She stepped smartly away.

I looked around. There must have been forty or fifty people in there and the adjoining rooms. I realized that I hadn’t seen Mason Keitel at all yet, in his own house, where I was sitting across from my husband and some tramp, with my hands and my ass firmly if inexplicably stuck to one of his large and expensive living-room chairs. Things were getting generally strange.

Jeff was just sitting there, too, seemingly oblivious, nodding along like he was trying to look like he was paying attention. I knew him too well to think he would listen attentively to anything that wasn’t primarily about his own beloved world of engineering. What that bitch, Kelsey, was saying to him wasn’t my primary concern. It was that lovely body.

But maybe she didn’t think he was listening to her closely enough, because as I watched, she used one hand to pull his face forcefully toward hers while using the other to hike up her absurdly short dress high enough to throw a leg across his lap and press her crotch right up against the business section of his jeans.

I didn’t move. Maybe they—I mean the Keitels—had done something to me, something sinister, maybe like with psychedelic drugs or mind-altering electronics? Maybe I wasn’t being allowed to move. I wouldn’t have put it past them. But why? To what end? I’d have felt silly mentioning it. Maybe I just wanted to see what was going to happen. Oddly, no one else in the room was paying us any attention at all. I had the distinct impression that the dead leather of my chair had gripped me by the ass and was not letting go.

Someone blocked my view. I grimaced angrily and craned my neck to see, but kept my lips pressed tight together and made no complaint. At the time I wasn’t sure why.

I caught a glimpse of the two of them: she had her hands down where I couldn’t see them. I imagined her fumbling with his belt, his zipper. I was sure I caught a glimpse of pink skin. She’s got it in her hand! God dammit! I couldn’t see either of their faces. Flimsy blue fabric covered her ass and his lap. The general buzz of conversation drowned out anything they might be saying to each other.

Now there were other people in between us. Damn! Was she squirming around on him, merely being a public tease? Or had she managed, with all these people in the room, milling around, talking and eating, with our host and hostess disappeared off to some other private corner of their massive house—had she gotten that thing of Jeff’s—and mine—out and inside her, secretly, with no one crying out in shock and horror? No one even noticing? Was this Kelsey, the beautiful young sex symbol, right now posed nearly naked on about a million high-resolution computer monitors in front of guys with their dicks in their hands, was she now fucking my husband right in front of me? I began to have difficulty breathing.

I mean I’m married to the man. I’m well acquainted with his cock. And I can tell you that if Kelsey had managed to get any of it out of his pants, there was plenty there for her to use in whatever way she might have had in mind. She was tall, yes, but for all that she was a small girl, and very young. All her height was in her legs. My husband Jeff—I say proudly—carries around a good ten inches of meat that—when I grant him certain small favors—can quickly rise up about as thick and hard as a beer bottle, almost as slick, though perhaps not so smooth, nor so gentle. . .

Huh. . . I had to stop and think about that for a minute. I spent some time picturing that big familiar thing of his plunging in and out, in and out of her instead of me, all slimy and throbbing, inevitably bumping up against and stimulating her undoubtedly large and sensitively erectile clitoris. I knew that by now she would be entirely caught up in her own lewd, mindless pleasure. Her vaginal secretions are seeping out and down and mingling with his as he pounds up into her, gradually developing a rhythm, and they begin to move naturally together, more and more urgently in love as they approach their building climax. . . They grapple. . . Oh. . . My. . . God!

If I could only get a look at their faces.

If I could only get my mouth on his dick. . . Oh, oh. . . Jesus K. Motherfucking Christ!

When I stopped shaking I looked down at the cushion under me and realized I’d come inside my own jeans. There was so must moisture there it looked like I’d pissed myself. I didn’t think I had, but my unexpected orgasm had been so intense that I’d totally lost myself for a minute. I couldn’t be really sure what had happened, to me or to anyone else around me. I’d never moved my hands from the arms of my chair.

I raised my eyes, deeply embarrassed, and looked across the room, at the couch, looking for Jeff. . . and Kelsey.

They were both staring at me in astonishment. They hadn’t been having sex. They hadn’t been doing anything at all, except talking. Engaging in the most innocent type of conversion. About money!

But that wasn’t right at all. I couldn’t have imagined everything. And money is never innocent.

I blinked and drifted away for a while. I now suspected I’d been hypnotized. More time passed.

I looked again and Jeff was nowhere to be seen. I saw only Kelsey and Fiona.

Kelsey the model had stripped down to only her pumps and a delicate golden necklace. The necklace was flopping up and down, unlike her tits, which were too firm to bounce and only jiggled. Her head was tilted back, her eyes closed, her expression contorted. But she was saying: “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, oh, mommy, yes!” in a voice that didn’t sound to me like she wasn’t right in the middle of an extremely good time.

Fiona sat very close by, her two hands on Kelsey’s nipples, rubbing and twisting. There was a speck of saliva at the corner of her parted lips. You could see she wanted to help.

Then I finally saw Jeff. He’d been there all the time. He was sitting behind and under Kelsey, his pants down in a puddle on his shoes, that frightfully great dick that I had looked for with so much apprehension was now fully up inside the girl’s pussy and really banging her good and hard from behind. They call that the reverse cowgirl. I wondered if I was somehow causing this to happen.

But now that I had a front row seat I couldn’t take my eyes away.

In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. . .

Her vocalizations became louder and less clear, finally degenerating into one long, pulsing, animal moan.

It seemed like it went on forever, but I was never the slightest bit bored.

Somehow supernaturally I could feel him moving inside me as he was inside her, as if he was screwing both of us at the same time, and also I was getting to watch the whole thing, which was the newest experience and the most exhilarating part for me.

I came again, and again, and I think maybe a fourth and fifth time, without even moving. I don’t remember that part of the night very well.

Now it was my husband that was doing all the driving, but his visage was passive, his eyes blank and unaware, like his body was the one being used by someone else for some other purpose. Had it all been arranged for the girl? I was sure now that something extremely odd was going on, something involving us and the Keitels. I didn’t understand, but I was completely exhausted. I came to the realization that I just no longer cared.

After a while I noticed that nearly everyone had gone away. I didn’t see Jeff anywhere.

Fi was there. She took me by the hand and lifted me out of my chair and led me down a hallway toward the part of the house I knew to contain the bedrooms.

I was willing to go; I wanted to be with her and do what she asked of me. I felt like all the tension and pressure and willfulness I normally contained and struggled with had been drained out of my mind and body by the many orgasms. I was left feeling nothing inside me but compliance, and it was amazingly pleasant to feel that way. I would have wanted to bring Kelsey along with us but someone had carried her off. I thought that life is probably very peculiar for a supermodel.

It occurred to me with sudden clarity that the reason I was always reluctant to join the Keitel’s for “dinner” was that these things—or things very similar—had probably happened to me a great many times before. I wondered how often everything turned out this well, at least for me.

Fiona and I were halfway down the hall before I realized that Mason would be waiting in the bedroom. I still hated the son of a bitch, but at that point I knew I wouldn’t be able to do anything but comply.

END