The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I

It was like seeing a ghost from the past, looking at her through the glass. “No?”

“No, I don’t know her.”

“Okay, I have to ask, have you ever been arrested or convicted of any crime?”

“Not yet,” I said with a half smile. The subject was sitting on the other side of a unidirectional glass window, looking bored in a foam-white sweater, scrutinizing coffee stains on the table. She was beautiful, thick disheveled blonde hair, high cheekbones, the swell of her breasts palpable through the wool of her shirt. And she reminded me uncannily of someone I’d once known. I tried to hide this from Hargrove. “Why her?”

“You think people were falling over themselves to get wires screwed into their head like Bride of Frankenstein?” My interlocutor was a somewhat chubby Mediterranean type in his late twenties, all bubble gum and premature hair-loss.

“No, but this is going to be a big story, CNN, Drudge Report, the works, just like Robot Rat.” Robot Rat was the popular name for a cognitive science study out of DARPA in which a rat was “remote controlled” by stimulation of its hypothalamus via some very grizzly looking electronics. “A lot of people are going to get famous. I bet a lot of graduate students would like to be sitting where she is. She can’t be more than 23 and her name is going to go on some very heavy papers after this.”

“It’s not going to be like Robot Rat. I told you this is going to be discreet.” Suddenly Bubblegum looked a lot more serious. “Anyway, we aren’t DARPA, we’re off the radar.”

I know, I thought, nobody’s heard much about you Conchler Foundation people. Newly established or not, you should have a lot more publications than you do. My faculty friends at Stanford say you’re very well reputed so I’m going to take their word for it. “I know, I know, discreet for God’s sake, but when you publish…”

Hargrove answered by raking the ceiling with his eyes as we pushed into the interview room. The woman’s face lit up wonderfully as she came out of her reverie. “Hello, I’m Dr. Bell,” I managed, changing modes. She stood up when we entered and took my offered hand. Her eyes met mine, sky blue.

“Hi, I’m … this is embarrassing,” she smiled and pushed back a strand of hair. Her eyes went to the table and she blushed charmingly. I knew that she wasn’t allowed to tell me her name, common in these kinds of enterprises, for her protection after the experiment.

“It’s okay, I know all about it,” I smiled.

“Anyway, call me June.” She was beautiful, when she smiled, probably brilliant too, to be involved in the experiment, not to mention so young. Something about the blush and the exuberant handshake suggested my reputation had preceded me. (The young sexy intellectual groupie is every professor’s private fantasy.) I looked for and found a slight flush around her neckline, hard with the sweater, noticed the dilated pupils. In the interest of professionalism I forced myself to come straight to the point.

“So, you know what you’re getting into, June?”

“Yes, Dr. Bell. Dr. Hargrove has explained the details of this particular implementation to me many times. I think I’m allowed to say that it’s a subject of professional interest for me as well. I don’t think I could keep that hidden for very long, anyway.”

“Oh, very good.” I wanted to roll my eyes at Dr. Bubblegum Hargrove, my companion, since this revelation fairly well destroyed the purpose of our safeguards on her identity. After a very finite number of phone-calls I, or he, or anyone, could find her name. I assumed that she knew this as well, and was being amicable by suggesting she found the idea of being protected from us silly. As well she might, I thought. Hargrove seemed strangely unfazed.

“So, I’m sorry to be brief, but as you know our interaction should be kept minimal before the procedure, I just wanted to stop by and see you myself before we got started.”

“You mean, check me out, ‘approve me’?” She asked coquettishly. God, she was amazing. So much like...Phoebe.

I laughed, “Yes, partly perhaps.” I met her eyes. “I think you’re very suitable. I’ll see you after the procedure. Best wishes.”

“Yes, see you then.”

Hargrove and I left her in the interview booth and walked away briskly. The sooner we were gone, the sooner she could be escorted back to her quarters. She would be living in the facility until the end of the procedure. “So, she’s okay, you think?” He asked.

Yes, you bastard, I thought, I can see that knowing smile behind your eyes. “She’s fine. Very suitable. Maybe a little too knowledgeable for our own good though. You can tell she finds this all very amusing.” Any psychology student would, I thought. She knows the experiment has already begun, knows that it began when she entered the compound, and will end, if it ends, when she leaves. She knows, or suspects, that our motives and methods are not exactly what we say, that the experiment has a psychological as well as a physiological dimension.

“Lots of stuff not to be amused about,” Hargrove said. It was true; in the morning she would undergo brain surgery, however minimally invasive. A battery transceiver the size of a raisin would be implanted at the base of her skull, connected to electrical conduits terminating in her gray matter. Naturally the wires are very fine, and they were engineered to harmlessly biodegrade in the bloodstream after a number of weeks. In the meantime, however, June would surrender her most primal feelings to the leaders of the experiment, Hargrove and myself. The levers that largely drive human behavior, to what degree we would soon see, would be subject to our control. The girl was giving us an enormous reign, the only safeguard being the fragility of the transceiver device. I had insisted that it be located such that the subject could destroy it easily, by pressing his or her fingers over the nodule.

“Yes, you’re very right. So it’s you and Stephenson in the O.R. with June tomorrow?” The actual procedure was quite easy for a good neurologist, so we considered it fairly arbitrary which member of the team performed the installation. I had implanted a similar setup in two chimps, a hedgehog and some eels. Hargrove’s C.V. suggested he had done about the same.

“Don’t sweat it, Dr. Bell. Come observe if you want, but you better be ready to crane your neck some and have a strong tolerance for Vivaldi. We don’t have a theater here like you Stanford boys.”

“I’d love to, but I’m going to need to start adjusting the device telemetry as soon as you get me the maps of the braincase and the mood sequences.” The device would have to be configured for June’s physiology.

“Yeah, I figured. We got our problems, you got yours. Scans are on the mainframe, should be copied to your directory.”

“Actually I got root permissions, so I think I’ll just…” Hargrove’s air of insouciance was immediately blown away as his eyes cut at me. I was smiling.

“Not funny, Doc.”

“No, I suppose it’s not. I’ve still got some prep to do and you probably want relax. I’ll catch you in the morning.”

“Right. Well goodnight, Pops,” He said, prodding me. I was actually only thirty-four, and in good condition, good looking. I watched him waddle on for a few steps after diverging from him around a corner. What was really on the mainframe?

II

I was watching the tapes of the procedure in my office the next afternoon. June was conscious, necessary to ensure correct placement for the probes. She was smiling sometimes at the light manner of Hargrove, though her head was held stock-still by an insectile looking apparatus. We turned out to be very lucky, in that no boreholes were needed in the braincase. June had fractured her skull as a child and some portals were deliberately left open to release fluid pressure on the brain, very common in serious head injuries. A little local anesthetic and a small incision through the menenges and it was all over within an hour. June was ambulatory afterwards and sent off to dinner in the recovery ward.

I was guiltily watching the segment of the video in which the probe placements were being tested. Watching June’s responses become more strained as the alpha probe was pushed into the pleasure center.

“There?…There?” Hargrove was saying, calmly, as he manipulated the insertion tool behind a screen of paper. At each prompting June become more and more stimulated, ultimately reduced to incoherence as the probe was fired in what would eventually be its final resting place, the Medial Forebrain Bundle. Quite a mundane name for something with such cosmic implications. June’s professionalism evaporated on the last discharge and her limbs went rigid, she attempted to nod, though the apparatus prevented her. There was a very guttural moan on the audio that affected me more than it should have. A nurse was dabbing a trickle of saliva from her chin.

“The surgery channel?” Hargrove asked, from the hallway, pushing his bulk into the doorframe.

“Looks like you did some nice work. Those responses appear to be very solid.” I said, turning my attention to him, hoping I didn’t look too flushed.

“Yeah, the op was dynamite. So you’re on, I guess, tomorrow you get set up in the Bungalow.”

I smiled at the name the environs had acquired. “You mean Area 7H?”

“It’s a freaking beach house, my dear colleague.”

He was right; it was a beach house. The experiment called for a normalization of unusual behaviors in the subject’s mind, and the setting was intended to minimize the stress of these changes. “I hope it has some Coronas and a waterslide.”

Hargrove’s mouth smiled at me. He looked at his watch. “Look Doc, the real reason I came by here…” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a large envelope, pushed it towards me on the table. “No batteries.” “Excuse me?” “There are no batteries in the device.

It’s powered by the temperature differential between her body and her scalp. Also the wires are stable. The device is for life.” I was stunned. “Are you insane? The temporary nature of the device is precisely…” “Doc, shut up. The protocols have changed.” Hargrove’s face was stern, suddenly militant. He produced a dossier. “This tells you what you’re going to be doing in the next few days. The story we gave you about altering the subject’s dietary preferences was a cover. The page three document explains the mission.” “What do you mean, ‘mission’? My job as I accepted it was to study…” “’Mission’ means a mission. The Conchler Foundation is a subsidiary of certain elements in the United States government. What you need to know is in the folder. That’s all.” He stood up as if to leave. For three seconds I considered if what Hargrove was saying was actually possible. Yes, the Conchler Foundation was an established research institute, but the results it produced and its mode of operation were unequivocally strange. Some kind of secret-ops government project was plausible. “Now wait a minute, goddamn it, I’m a scientist not a CIA agent and I expect…” “Sleep on it Doc. Read the dossier. And open the envelope. I’ll answer any questions over breakfast.” Hargrove left, closing the door after him. I looked at the table, picked up the envelope, took out its contents. Goddamn. Photographs of Phoebe, the girl June so mysteriously resembled. So it was blackmail. I looked again at the first photograph. Phoebe had been a research assistant of mine a few years ago, as well as a sexual partner. Our interests overlapped hugely and the intimacy of our working relationship flowered inevitably into a romantic one. We would spend the days implanting chips into mice, training them to run mazes by remote control. At night we would eat dinner together, go to movies, museums, and discuss books do other things we enjoyed. It was unapologetically bourgeois. For a while.

She was into D&S, I learned. She also had an extracurricular interest in the stimoceiver research. It started out as a casual joke about sex zombie mice. There was a progression to oblique suggestions that the research was erotically stimulating for her. Jokes that she wanted me to “do her” whispered between the sheets. Eventually she dropped the pretenses. It became a proposition, a request. She asked me to condition her, told me she wanted to belong to me, be my sex toy. She wanted me to change her into whatever I wanted her to be. It was her consumate fantasy. I put up a sham resistance, but ultimately I relented. Who could refuse such control?

The pictures, mirroring our relationship, became progressively more explicit. Phoebe’s clothes became more revealing, her hair grew and became lighter. Her posture changed, she became more aware of herself, looking more flushed. Her libido was being ratcheted up, week after week, her seratonin output modified. Abruptly, the settings in the pictures changed from the campus to my home, indicating the period when we began living together. I saw Pheobe through the curtains in a French maid’s uniform. The next photo showed the uniform gone, me fucking her on the dining room table. I became strangely sad remembering this perfect time in my life with Phoebe. The mindgames, some playful some serious, the love between us, and the perfect sex. One night she was a human bookstand, holding a novel for me to read with feigned concentration, secretly pining for the perfect moment to drop the ruse and fuck on top of the ottoman. Another night she might pretend to be a young runaway, staying at my house, providing sex at my whim in exchange for room and board. We were living in a sexual dreamworld.

Perfection, if you will pardon the didactic tone, is inherently unstable. Phoebe’s new fixations were soon impairing her ability to perform research, starting to compromise her dreams, or what had been her dreams before the treatments. She was completely devoted to me; she began to forget her professional life, wanted to be my slave. She was my slave; any other word is inadequate. When a woman sleeps beside your bed, nude except for a collar, wearing a chastity belt to prevent her otherwise constant masturbation, she is your slave. A sexual slave.

Phoebe was coming in giant screaming orgasms four times a day, but she was failing out of the graduate program. I felt I couldn’t allow that to happen, couldn’t let our lusts supercede her career. I asked her to leave, and she refused. I told her that her feelings were artificial, and she said that just excited her more. Eventually I came to a decision. I would program her to leave, make her want it. I was well practiced at making her want things. Giving her up was horrible. At first I found it impossible to live without her, her support, love, to say nothing of the unbelievable sex. For a time we maintained contact, I followed her relationships, spoke to her on the phone. I had tried to uproot some of the enhancements Phoebe and I had made to her mindset, to overwrite the sexual obsessions. When I found out she was the live-in concubine of a local physician I knew I had failed. Nevertheless, as time passed it became clear that her life was her own, that I had surrendered my right to interfere. With all the strength of will I could manifest, I weaned myself from her, let her slip away, stopped following her life. I turned my whole attention to my research, making breakthrough after breakthrough, and amassed the technology that was being field tested with the ‘June’ chip.

But Phoebe’s effect on my life persisted. I thought of her constantly, though I had lost track of her. 10 months ago she reappeared unexpectedly. It was in the paper. On the sixth page, beneath the fold, over coffee and bagel I read that Phoebe was dead. She was murdered, found in the bay, raped and strangled. I got in touch with her family through Stanford and learned that it was true. I was distraught, crushed, apoplectic with remorse. No doubt her murder had been a consequence of pursuing the perversions that I had forced into her head. Constant lewd, dangerous and passionate sexuality had become a way of life for Phoebe, under my guidance. And now, I felt, she had paid for my crimes, my abominable manipulations, with her life.

For three months I couldn’t work; consumed by guilt I spent my days in a stupor, my nights in quiet, in tears. I contemplated suicide. I resigned my post at Stanford, because I could no longer work, and because I felt I had betrayed my profession. I was despondent. I thought I couldn’t seek any lower. Then one morning, when I was at my lowest ebb, Hargrove appeared.

He presented himself as a student of psycho-correctionism, he desired to perfect society through psychology. He was well versed in my work, approached me about a new project, on a remote Caribbean island. It was a chance to forget my life in California and remove myself from society, my history. And also my temptations. For there are temptations for those who know what I know, techniques that can be construed as nothing other than control of the human mind. Temptations remained, despite my torment over my past deeds. The black desire to seduce and vamp up another girl, willing or unwilling, was a constant, looming possibility for me, something I struggled daily against. I had tasted total sexual satisfaction, at a level the reader would have to experience to understand. And I knew how to achieve it once more, though I knew I could not, must never be allowed to enjoy that fruit again. So I fled. And now here I was, in Conchler’s domain.

There were screams from the forgotten video equipment, bringing me back to the present. In the video of Hargrove’s operation on June, the scene had changed to the installation of the pain inducement connections. I watched for a moment in quiet fascination, and then switched off the monitor. On the table there remained the dossier Hargrove had left. I opened the docket and began to read.

III

The dossier revealed that ‘June’ was not a psychology graduate student as I had presumed, but a covert operative of some kind. She was being prepared to infiltrate the harem of a very powerful, very radical Saudi Arabian Sheik.

“Harem?” I asked Hargrove with a cocked eyebrow.

“Yeah, you better believe it. Sheik H, as we call him, has over 60 women and girls living in residence at his several palaces, dedicated to shining his knob, and select other knobs. In Saudi Arabia and abroad. Some of them are in this country.”

“You allow that?”

“It suits us. You have to look at the big picture. These girls will leave, age, become disgruntled and so on. They’re a huge potential source of information.”

“About…terrorism?”

“About whatever.”

“And June?”

“June is James Bond. You are Q, except that rather than provide her with mechanical gadgets, flame throwing curling rods or whatever the fuck, you equip her with mental resources. Of the kind we described.”

“Which, for a right leaning organization like your own, are more than a touch scandalous.”

“Forget that. We do what it takes. We need June, at times, to want to fuck anything that moves. We need June to be a world champ at giving blowjobs. We need June to enjoy her work, to be convincing, to preserve her own life, and to serve her country. Thanks to you, I trust, she will be extremely convincing.”

“When this procedure is complete, I don’t know if you understand, it won’t be an act, she won’t even think about…”

“Yes. I do understand. So does she. And anyway, as you’ll find, she’s quite naturally…felicitous. It was part of the selection process.”

“And her similarity to Phoebe?”

He was quiet a moment. “Coincidence. A coincidence on purpose. We need you on board.”

I looked out the window of the kitchen across the shore to a mansion about a mile away, in light fog, looking mythical. Area 7H. I nodded slowly. In three days, I moved into the bungalow.

IV

“Hello June, welcome,” I said as she swept into the room. I wasn’t sure if she had been in the house before, but guessed she hadn’t. She had on a blue sweater over a conservatively cut chestnut skirt; her blond locks very straight, eyes limpid, and straight at mine. Her mouth, a red tulip, was posed in an uncommitted pucker. “Sit over there please, won’t you?” She seated herself gracefully in a chair at the kitchen table, next to a sunny window, overlooking the sea. The day was threatening to turn gray. There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask her, but knew I had to wait. Be professional. I wondered if she knew about the pictures of Phoebe. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she said, a brief smile emerging.

“Nervous?” This elicited a light breeze of laughter from her. “No headaches?” It was a week since her surgery. Her recovery had been superb.

She shook her head.

“Good.” “So we’re just going to start, if that’s okay with you?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I’ll just come right out. Are you a virgin? I’m sorry, I have to ask.”

“No.”

“What’s your experience, sexually speaking.” I almost added, “Please be honest,” but stopped myself.

“I’ve had intercourse with three men, and long term relationships with two.” She was very serious, eye contact very direct. On her right hand her thumb and index finger touched briefly. I was curious about the third man. Noted it for later. “And how were those relationships, sexually speaking.”

“The first was very good. Special, isn’t it always.” She had a sardonic smile.

“Yes, first times are very special.” I cleared my throat and briefly looked up at a skylight. “Let me come to the point. You’re about to enter into something very serious.”

“Yes.”

“And dangerous. Not just the mission. I mean, this tampering with your feelings. I would be cruel not to be completely frank with you while your mind is your own. You’re going to become what could be construed as a harlot, in your natural impulses if not your actions.”

“Yes.”

“And while you’re here, you’re going to be a…slut, frankly. In a few days you’re going to be wagging your ass, begging me, I mean that literally, begging me to fuck you, or do anything I want with you. It’s not going to be dignified.”

“No.”

“You’ll be wearing next to nothing, you will want to wear nothing, and your thoughts will focus on sex, on your pussy and my cock. Trust me June; this is something I’ve learned a lot about the hard way. I feel you must be told, warned. I must warn you. You will, if you continue, find yourself…anticipating…being allowed to suck cock. In the presence of others you will…prefer…to be on your knees before them. Upon meeting a new individual, your first thought will be, ‘please use me for sex.’ These are not exaggerations.”

June composed herself. “Doctor,” she said, “I understand. I would not have been selected for this assignment against my will. I choose this, just as Phoebe chose what happened to her.” She let her display of knowledge sink in, watching me. “However, she and I differ in one important respect. I’m performing a job that I am prepared to die doing. If all I have to do is give up some knee jerk sexual inhibitions and take on a few more compulsions, I’ll consider myself lucky. I know you’re going to make me want to…have sex. I’m prepared. I’m looking forward to it, in a weird way.” She looked into the distance, then at me. “I assure you, I understand completely.”

I thought for a moment. “Part your legs.” I said, softly.

She looked stunned briefly, “I don’t see what…” She exhaled concussively as I depressed the left hand button on a small transmitter in my pocket. She was doubled over somewhat, though her eyes immediately met mine as she righted herself slowly, staring at me through her bangs. She looked feral. I wondered how many seconds it would take her to kill me if she wanted to. I imagined not very many. She lifted herself into a very erect posture, watched me deliberately, lips fixed, and slowly spread her legs a few inches.

“Wider, slut.” A few inches more. I met her eyes, expectantly. She knew what I wanted. With very delicate, beautifully fine fingers she lifted her skirt above the knee to provide more latitude for movement. She spread her legs wantonly, watching me, her head erect, jaw set, breathing deliberately moderated. Her panties were visible now, very white under the rumpled hem of the skirt. She was very beautiful, sitting with her back arched, her cheeks regal, brilliant lips and eyes.

“Show me your pussy.”

The skirt rose a few more inches and a slim hand pulled the crotch of her panties to one side. She looked at me, challenging, proud of her performance. Her mound was slightly red, mild arousal, with normal amount of pubic hair. She wasn’t shaved. “Very good.” I dragged my thumb lightly across the right hand button on the transmitter. Her head inclined forward approximately a centimeter and there was a faint sound of breath. Her pupils dilated, eyes became distant. The lips I wanted to drag my mouth across parted infinitesimally, and emitted a barely perceptible, “Ooo.” I admired her control, trying to maintain my objectivity. She had broken eye contact only very briefly, reestablished it quickly but calmly.

After a moment of silence, the corner of her lips lifted slightly into a repressed smile. I almost laughed as well, but choked it back. Thoughts of Phoebe sobered me. She was very strong. “Can you do this?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“You like this, don’t you.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Good.”

V

Later that night, I was looking out the living room window. The air was tinged refreshingly with salt, and surf was audible, maybe a hundred yards distant. The sky had cleared and a bright moon was silhouetting some very majestic looking crags across the bay. Behind me June was in her underwear, walking back and forth between two columns, a dueling distance apart. She was instructed to pace the length between them until ordered to stop. A laptop resting on the coffee table was monitoring her neural activity. I turned away from the window and sat at a chair, observing her. I confess I liked to see her in her skivvies. She wore high-cut white panties, with lace piping around the legs. The breasts were cupped in a matching bra. Her ass was a wiggling muscular bubble above impossibly sculpted legs. She had C-cup tits and a stomach like the bottom of an ice cube tray. I had to compliment Hargrove on his taste in women.

“June, sit please.”

“Okay,” she said, walking lightly over the hardwood floor to plop onto the couch next to the computer. I marveled slightly that she could be in such a good mood after so much apparently senseless pacing.

“Okay, I think we have enough data to try this. This software has been observing your brain stuff.”

“Brain stuff?”

“Precisely,” I said. “It’s been mapping your cerebellum.” I tapped in a few commands. “All right. I need you to sit up straight.”

I grabbed a black headband, sprouting an assortment of small antennae, and placed it on my head. “Don’t laugh.” The headband looked as dignified as could be expected. “So what is all this for. Let me … okay. So we call this ‘virtual telepathy’. This thing on my head can see when I’m being…pleased, and the computer rewards your brain in proportion to my satisfaction with your actions.”

Her face wore an expression of mock confusion. “Straighten up. Now, I need you to just relax. Ready?”

She nodded with sarcastic gravity.

“Are you ready to stop being silly and start being serious? I’m not above giving you an old fashioned spanking.”

“Yes, Doctor Bell, Master, I’m very ready.” She said seductively. She was amused. That’s good, I thought.

I hit enter on the keyboard, turning on the array, and watched. She cocked her head to the side, and shivered slightly, tussling her hair. The headband was already registering quite a bit of stimulation; I hoped the abruptness of it hadn’t been unpleasant for her. “I feel…different,” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was joking. She rubbed her inner thigh, sexily, judging my reaction. She looked straight at me. “I feel…hot,” she said somewhat throatily, observing me, bringing her face close to mine. Her eyes glazed for a moment. The comment had triggered a rise in my cock, triggering a pulse in her pleasure center. She smiled.

She stood up, turned and began to walk towards the stereo. She looked back, blushing, when she felt my appreciation for her ass. She bent over deliberately, shuffled some cds around and stood again, swaying back towards me. Al Green began to filter through the stereo speakers. “I need to…Baby needs to get fucked,” she breathed, resting her hands on my knees, looking me straight in the eye, her face scarlet. She crouched onto the balls of her feet in front of me, her legs spread wide, observing me as her hands snaked up my thighs. Her comment and her manner hit their mark; I was more turned on than I had been in months.

I watched her lips crinkle into a smile and her eyes squint as she was rewarded for my strong response. She was shining now, a visible sheen on her flushed forehead, her eyes bright and glued to mine. I was unbelievably turned on; I hadn’t expected her to take things so far so quickly. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that we were periodically redlining the output of the stimulation device.

“God, Baby needs to get fucked,” she said, panting now, but still, I thought, teasing me. “She needs Dr. Bell’s hard cock to shoot in her pussy.” She laughed, and threw her head back as my response rushed into her.

“June, I don’t know if we…”

“Shhhhhhh. Isn’t this what you want, Doctor Mind Controller?” She said as she wriggled closer to me, her hand moving lightly back and forth over the iron-hard lump in my trousers. With a few deft movements, my cock came out of my pants and she was holding it in her beautiful agile hands, slowly pumping it up and down. “Isn’t this what you built the device for? You expect me to believe you just wanted to see some rats flip around?” Her lips were swollen and parted, and her eyes were half-lidded. I could almost feel the pleasure the device was pumping through her. “I know why you built it. To fuck girls like me. Didn’t you?”

I was at a loss for words. Her face was advancing towards mine. Very delicatedly she pushed our mouths together, while rubbing my chest with her free hand. Somehow my shirt came open and June kissed her way down my torso.

With a glance at me to confirm my approval, she slid her succulent red lips over the glans of my penis. I cried out. I felt her stiffen against me. My hands went into her mass of hair and settled over the back of her head as she began to suck me lightly. After a moment of teasing she began in earnest, stroking me with her mouth. She had a preternatural sense for what I wanted, the result of our quasi-telepathic link. She dragged her tongue across the underside of my cock, and then plunged it deep into her wet pink mouth, over and over. One of her hands snaked up around my balls and began a slow and delicate juggling act. I could feel fluid begin to well up in my cock. I knew I was going to come like a piledriver, very soon. I looked down and her eyes met mine, her head pushing down over my cock again and again as we watched each other. Her breathing was wild, exhalations coming in audible grunts that blew through her nose as she pumped and pumped and pumped me.

Very soon I crossed the point of no return, and after an endless moment of pure ecstasy, I felt my ejaculation begin. She clenched against me in response. With a shout I came into her mouth, my balls unloading again and again. Her eyes screwed tight as she tried to keep me inside herself while riding out waves and waves of pleasure.

“God…” She said as her mouth fell away from my temporarily spent cock. She was resting her head in my lap, her arms wrapped around my waist, hair and face speckled with semen.

“Are you okay?” I asked, taking the transmitter off my head.

She was silent for a moment, then collected herself. “God yes, I’m fucking fantastic. That was amazing. Put it back on.” She lay down onto her back at the base of the couch and spent a few seconds breathing and looking at the ceiling, her right knee moving absently back and forth. I was trying to evaluate her condition, but my mind was somewhat blown by my recent enormous orgasm. “Put it back on.”

I put it back on. She sighed, looked at me. “Get hard,” she said. As I watched her, her right hand went under the waistband of her panties, and she began rubbing her pussy at my feet. “Get hard, and fuck your bitch,” she said. She watched me watch her. Her tongue was visible between her tightened lips as she concentrated on didling herself. A damp stain had been growing in the crux of her legs since we started our explorations a few minutes before. Her fingers moved beneath it now, slowly, then spasmotically. She was panting.

“Get up,” I said. “Go to the bedroom.”

Grabbing my knees, she pulled herself up, bending in to kiss me as she righted herself. It felt wonderful to finally be able to push my mouth against hers at will. I reached for the back of her head and held her there for a moment. Slowly she pulled away, turned and stalked off toward the bedroom, not looking back.

“Holy shit,” I said to myself.