The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I looked at my wife, and then at the man she held under her thrall. His adoring, attentive gaze was frightening—I hadn’t ever seen anyone look at her like that. Has she mutated again? I weighed my next words carefully, but she spoke first. “I’m sorry an’ I know I shouldna done it, but he was like the second person who interviewed me and he said that he wasn’t gonna let them hire me so I didn’t know what to do and I got real mad and then I told him he’d approve me for the job and I told him to come home with me after the day was over.” Debbie took a breath, as did I. “I was gonna do something really mean to him, but then I decided to wait until you got home before I did something really stupid,” she finished.

“Debbie,” I cautiously began, “you can’t do this to everybody who makes you mad, or who you’ve had a grudge against.”

“I know,” she admitted with a whine. “But he’s been such a bastard to me for so long, and he flat out told me that he had the power to kill my application, and he was gonna use it because he didn’t think I was management caliber and I wasn’t even gonna get to finish interviewing and—”

I held up my hand to interrupt. “I get it. But what are you going to do with him now?” She didn’t know. “You generally need to have a plan before you take someone over,” I cautiously chided her. I as, more than a little worried that she would get mad at me and turn me into a permanently mindless thrall. Instead, she blushed, embarrassed, reminding me that, at least for now, she was still Debbie, the shy woman I had fallen in love with. It simultaneously hit me that she looked quite delicious and predatory with her cigarette holder, wearing slimming black pants and matching top. It was a slightly different, more modern (and definitely more evil) take on the femme fatale that had brought Mr. Scary to his knees. “And why the ummm... costume?”

“Well... I changed out of my interview clothes when I got home, and... well, I kinda like the image of me looking like this and being Dickhead’s irresistible mistress,” she admitted, still blushing, before understanding what I was asking. “Oh, it doesn’t mean I’m going to seduce him. I wouldn’t touch this jackass with a ten-foot pole.” She paused. “Although I am tempted to give him the worst case of the smoking fetish in the world.” Noticing my worried glance at her victim, “Don’t worry about him, Ray. He so adores his mistress that she can say anything she wants about him, and it makes him happy. Isn’t that right, Dickhead?”

“Yes, mistress,” he happily chirped as predicted.

Debbie’s newfound ability to manipulate emotions troubled me, but that would have to wait. I needed to prevent her from doing something stupid to him. “So you’ve brought him here, you’ve got him adoring your every movement, and you can’t think of anything to do with him?” She nodded, citing dominoes. “I’d think you would at least want an answer to the question of why he’s been such an asshole to you before you let him go.” My wife blinked and turned a deep red: she hadn’t thought of that. “If nothing else, at least your power can give you some piece of mind, even if you can’t do anything— permanent—to him.” She asked him why he hated her so much, and he replied that he adored her. “Ask him why he was so mean to you before,” I corrected.

“Dickhead,” Debbie asked, “why did you pick on me so much when I worked there, and why did you say that you were going to stop the interview earlier today?”

He looked at her with reverence. “My wife says that you’re just a fat, sloppy bitch, and the fact that you still can’t control your weight shows that you’re not management material. But she’s always told me that you couldn’t be trusted and it made her happy when I would tell her how much trouble I caused you.” Completely perplexed, she asked who his wife was. “Nancy Haller.” I could see Debbie’s incomprehension even as I mouthed, “who is Nancy Haller?” She asked the question.

“My wife was president of your sorority in college, mistress. Her name was Nancy Bridges then,” Dickhead helpfully supplied, and I could almost feel the torrent of bad emotions and memories flood into my wife’s head.

“Debbie—” I warned, and she waved curtly, cutting me off, her face dark.

“It’s fine, Ray. I’m—not—going to hurt him,” she said, gritting her teeth, obviously fighting the urge to do exactly that. I asked Debbie for an explanation, hoping to distract her from her proximate target. A longstanding emotional scar had just been exposed, and I didn’t know what it was going to make her do. “She was a year behind me, and tried to remake the sorority in her image: glamorous, beautiful, rich, popular, snide, petty, cruel—and she pretty much succeeded. I wouldn’t quit, although lord knows she tried her best for the three years we were there together. I was too fat, too ugly, and too poor to belong. She made sure to let me know that I didn’t fit in, and she had a clique of supporters that wouldn’t let it go. Never mind that I had one of the better GPA’s in the sorority, and jocks came over to the house for tutoring sessions with me.” Her eyes reflected the pain of the experience. There was a silent pause. Finally, my wife heaved a sigh and cast the memories aside. “But— it’s been over ten years, and I’ve more or less grown past it, especially since I met you,” Debbie resumed, sounding a little bewildered. “Why does it matter now that we each have our own lives? Why can’t she let this go?”

“Because, she thinks it’s important to keep fat, ugly and poor people like you in their proper place, mistress,” Dickhead fawningly answered. “She says they always need to be reminded who should be in charge of things.”

“That snotty little bitch!” Debbie snapped with an edge of bitter surprise. She looked at her thrall, commanding, “Go get dressed, and lose your erection even though it still excites you to worship me.” Dickhead virtually leapt into the bathroom with a big smile on his face.

“Send him home like nothing happened,” I immediately said. My wife looked at me with surprise. “You’re going to need some time to calm down and plot. Don’t do anything rash. You’ll regret it, because it appears that you’re getting more powerful, and that encourages sloppiness.”

“Yes, teacher Ray,” she sighed, the anger visibly draining, “Grasshopper will listen and learn.” When Dickhead returned as bidden, Debbie gave him a cover story concluding with, “You did your best to stop it, but they’re still considering hiring me. Can you do that for me, Dickhead? Can you tell your wife that for your mistress?”

He nodded eagerly, looking at her with such adoration that it was almost cute—if you didn’t catch the lust beneath it. “Don’t get an erection thinking of me,” she warned, “or I will be unhappy with you.” His face fell. “In fact,” she wickedly added, “you won’t be able to get hard for Nancy either, and you’ll have to make some excuse. She cannot know about your devotion to your mistress, Dickhead, or I will be forced to let you go forever.” The expression of horror on his face at the suggestion left no doubt that Nancy would have no idea that her husband had been co-opted.

After he left, Debbie said, “He’s the perfect husband for her. Very good-looking, great job and salary, a real prize catch, as those girls would say, and he’s obviously easily controlled by pussy.” She lit a More and placed it into her holder. “I never realized that I was still at war with her. Part of me wants to just –get her back. But you’re right,” she sighed, “I should just put this behind me and be the better person about all this. I’ve removed him as an obstacle, so, I guess I’m good.” Her shoulders slumped.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t get revenge,” I piped, “I just said you need to be careful about it.”

I emphasized the necessity for discretion and restraint in her vengeance against her college nemesis every chance I got. She’d listen, make a neutral noise, and then go about her business, so I wasn’t sure if I was getting through, but I kept trying. I knew that Debbie was generally very good at covering her tracks, but deeply personal stuff always invited carelessness. Later that week, I was having that same one-sided conversation again when she finally chose to respond. “You’re not just my husband, Ray. You’re my teacher, and I depend on you to make rational judgments about me and my power.” My wife leaned over the back of the sofa, wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on the neck. “If it hadn’t been for you, Dickhead would be probably be dead and I wouldn’t get the continual, perverse enjoyment of knowing that he’s my love slave, worshipping me as an unattainable goddess. You can’t believe how that makes me feel. Especially since he can’t feel anything for his wife.”

I asked if that wasn’t revenge enough. “No, because she’ll eventually just ditch him for another trophy husband. In college, when her pussy stopped getting a guy to do what she wanted, she’d have a new boyfriend within the week. I expect this would only take her a little while longer. The important thing to her is that she gets what she wants when and how she wants it.”

“Whatever you do,” I said, “it’s got to be mostly private. No making her gain 100 pounds by eating everything in sight.” She pouted. “I know, that was first on your list.” Now that she had calmed somewhat, I felt that I could bring up the topic that worried me the most. “So,” I began, “Did it ever occur to you that your power has grown? You used not to be able to make people do things long-term, and you definitely couldn’t command emotions. Dickhead is so in love with you right now—”

“No, it’s not love. There’s a difference,” Debbie corrected. “It’s adoration. I just put him in a state where he’s willing to do anything for me.”

“Without a hint of sexual connotation?”

“Well,” she blushed, “I wouldn’t say that. But it’s not like he’s gonna ever get any. I can give him enough of a tease so that he keeps holding onto hope. You taught me that I can be sexy, and I don’t get to use it a lot on anybody other than you.”

She’d managed to sidetrack me. “Be that as it may, dear, you’ve still made a permanent change to his emotional state. Congratulations. Now you can start your own religion, or pick anyone in the world to be your completely devoted love slave. You’re not quite omnipotent yet, but you’re way, way more powerful than you were just three weeks ago.”

“Again with the substitute husband thing,” Debbie grumbled. “You’d think you want me to find somebody else.”

“No,” I immediately said. “But now it’s possible, and that kind of power is an incredible temptation. You could wind up being a real goddess, not just Dickhead’s idolized one. I wish I knew what spurs these jumps in ability. I think they have something to do with the headaches. Did you—”

Debbie nodded. “Just as soon as we were alone in his office and he told me that he had the power to keep them from hiring me, and he was gonna use it. It was really bad... I saw a really bright light in my eyes and it felt like somebody hit me in the head with a sledgehammer.” I asked her if she had felt anything else. She thought for a moment, and then shook her head. “Just headaches.”

I had a suspicion. “What were you feeling when he said you didn’t have a chance?”

“Defeated,” replied my wife. I asked her what emotion she felt next. “I remember thinking how unfair it was, and how unfair he was being—and then I got really, really, mad.” Her face lit up. “And that’s when I got hit with the sledgehammer!” I cocked my head. “That’s exactly the moment when it hit!” Debbie excitedly said, but calmed quickly. “But I’ve been angry before without headaches. We have disagreements all the time and I don’t get them. I don’t show any new powers after those,” she added, puzzled.

“I’m guessing that rage is the trigger, not just your everyday, garden-variety anger,” I said. “I’d like you to get another—brain scan. See if anything has changed in there.” Her objection was much weaker than I had expected. “Aren’t you curious, too, Debbie?”

She nodded slowly. “Ray,” she began in a small voice, “you’re scaring me a little. What does this mean? Am I going to become like those people in Star Trek episode, except there’s only me, and no one to stop me?” I told her that I didn’t know, and I didn’t think anyone could know. The room filled with silence for a while until Debbie broke it. “I think you’re right about my mutations,” she began with a surprising strength in her voice. “And I think that the only person who can help me with this is me. I also think that the only person who can help me come to grips with pending godhood and help me to maintain my humanity is you.” She looked me in the eye. “I can probably make you happily fulfill that role. But—” She sighed and her expression softened. “I really, really, really, really want you to choose to be that person.” There was another silence. Then her somber air vanished and her impish smile appeared. “Being sole, favored consort to a goddess could have its benefits, y’know.” I opened my mouth, but she continued, “I know, you’d rather just have me, Debbie, the sexy, chubby, funny chick you married and no, I didn’t read your mind. I still can’t do that. It’s just that I’m your wife, and I know these things.”

“I’ve created a monster.”

“No,” Debbie countered, “Mr. Scary did. You keep her human by being a constant reminder of what she stands to lose.”

The following Thursday was triple good news day. Meridian had announced their project bonuses, and I was going to be very well rewarded. Better still, Debbie’s CAT scan had come back with no change—whatever it was, her continuing mutations had no medical manifestation. But the best news of all was that my wife finally had a new job. Dickhead had given her a very enthusiastic, albeit professional, approval, tipping the scales in her favor, and she would be starting in three weeks. We went directly to Peterson’s to celebrate.

Debbie chose one of Peterson’s private label Churchills for her after-dinner cigar while we talked about possible vacation destinations. She wasn’t opposed to Paris again, but thought it might be nice to see a different part of the world. The conversation meandered, eventually turning to our respective cigars. “Pretty smooth, it’s a nice cigar. Not as good as the Lanceros, though.” she commented as she let some smoke drift from her mouth. She regarded the 54-ring cigar with an evaluating eye. “And it’s definitely not feminine.” I was about to comment when her face lit up.

“What?” I asked, teasingly, with no clue of what had just hit her.

She smiled and whispered, “I know what I can do to Nancy.”

“Ray, we have a dinner date tonight,” Debbie announced over the phone the following morning. “Can you get off a little early so we can dress nicely? We’re—going out to dinner.” I said sure, the short notice shouldn’t be a problem. “You are so good to me,” she sunnily said, making me smile. “And no, it’s not Peterson’s and Heather’s not involved. Does that make it even better?” I tried to find out what she had planned, but she deftly sidestepped the questions. “It’s a surprise, OK?” I acquiesced and sent a kiss over the phone line. “See ya when you get here.”

Debbie was ready when I got home, all dressed, smart casual, with just a touch of formality. “Wow,” I said, “you look great. Where are we going?”

“Out,” was all she said, smiling mischievously.

I dressed appropriately to match her, and she happily took my arm as we stepped into the hall. “You drive, I’ll navigate,” she bubbled. This was the woman I’d fallen for, and it promised to be a great evening. She directed me downtown, pulling to a stop in front of a ritzy high-rise condominium overlooking the shore. “This is the place,” she chirped, waiting for the approaching doorman to open the car door. “Debbie and Ray Grant for Franklin Haller,” she told him. “We’re expected for dinner.” The happy aura that had been surrounding me since her phone call at the office dissipated instantly. “Don’t make a scene,” Debbie offhandedly said, smiling. Within minutes, a valet had taken the car, and accompanied by the doorman, we were on our way to the 23rd floor. “Wow,” Debbie whispered. “I had no idea she was doing this well. I know Di—Frank— doesn’t earn this kind of money.” The doorman discreetly ignored her comment, but as the elevator rose, my stomach stayed on the ground floor. Whatever this was, it was not going to be a normal evening with another couple.

When we got to the 23rd floor, the elevator opened into a mini-lobby, facing an impressive set of double doors. A full-floor condo in the stratospheric rent district. She was doing well. The doorman rang the bell and announced, “The Grants have arrived for dinner.”

One of the doors opened. “Debbie!” Dickhead enthusiastically greeted her. “Nancy and I are so happy you could make it. And this must be your husband. Frank,” he jovially said, extending his hand. “Frank Haller.” Since he had no memory of his time in our home, I re-introduced myself and he led us into his home, with a slightly disconcerting bounce in his step. My wife surreptitiously put her finger to her lips, still smiling. What worried me the most was the complete lack of malice behind that smile. Debbie was definitely up to something, and she was taking great pains to hide it. As we turned the corner of their spacious entry, Dickhead said, “Debbie and Ray, I’d like you to meet my wife, Nancy—although they know each other already.”

A very good-looking, well-shaped blonde about my height smiled, “Hello, Debbie,” she said, through almost-imperceptibly tightened lips. Nancy was not happy to see us, but she was making a valiant effort to conceal it. “It’s been a long time.” The two women kissed each other on the cheek briefly, the differences in their sizes accentuated by their proximity. “And this is your husband,” she said, unable to keep a small note of surprise out of her voice. She gave me a longer smooch on the cheek, engulfing me with her admittedly pleasant scent, her leg discreetly against my crotch. I realized that she was probing for a reaction right in front of my wife. Old habits die hard.

“So what have you been doing with yourself?” Debbie asked. “Whatever it is, you’re doing well for yourself. This is a really nice place.”

“I’m in ultra high-end real estate. The segment of the market that most people—” I caught the shortest of hesitations. “—can’t even think about. It’s a recession and inflation-proof business. My commissions are high because I produce, and I picked up this little gem—” Nancy waved expansively. “—For a steal. The previous owner had tax issues, and I was the first to know that he was thinking about selling it,” she finished with a smile of wolfish pride. “So you’re going to be working with Frank?”

“Not really with him,” my wife replied. “Different department, different type of work. I’m glad to finally be doing something after going to school for so long.” Dickhead reappeared with wine, interrupting the two women’s carefully neutral pas-de-deux. His self-appointed task completed, he immediately began trying to engage me, and his insistence made it difficult for me to stay with the women and keep an eye on Debbie. No matter how superior Nancy thought she was, she was a short breath away from having Debbie rip her perfect little life apart, and I didn’t want that to happen. Nancy was too visible and too high to fall very quickly. I knew that Debbie had sufficient power to drop her into the gutter overnight—and a lot of pent-up motivation. My wife gave me the same happy, unconcerned smile she’d had all night as I reluctantly let Dickhead drag me away. It made my blood run cold.

He showed off their wine collection in their walk-in “cellar”, his collection of sports memorabilia, and generally being—a guy. Dickhead wasn’t trying to show me up as much as he was showing off; there was no malice in it at all. I wondered what Debbie had done to make him this hospitable, and how. After talking about his courtside tickets for the pro basketball team and enthusiastically inviting me to join him for a game or two during the upcoming season, we headed back to our ladies.

They were still chatting with apparent amiability. Debbie asked me about my “bonding time” with Dickhead, her plans still completely veiled. I gave a pleasant answer, unsure of how she wanted me to play my part. Some of the stuff he had really was cool, and the offer of a courtside seat was extremely tempting—if I hadn’t known the ultimate genesis of his offer. After Dickhead and I told the women what we’d been doing, my wife interjected with, “Well, I think it’s time to drop this façade. Nancy, I know you can’t stand me, and the feeling is mutual.” All three of us were visibly shocked, and Nancy opened her mouth to protest. “Oh, can it,” Debbie snapped, and Nancy fell mute, puzzlement on her face. “So, while we’re here, you’re going to say what you’re really thinking without realizing that you said it aloud, and you won’t notice that anything strange is going on. The puzzlement on Nancy’s face cleared while Debbie continued giving orders. “You’ll go on thinking that you said what you meant to say. Dickhead, you won’t notice a thing, either—and Nancy, you won’t realize that I’ve given your husband a new name.” Debbie turned to me. “Ray,” she gently, but firmly, warned, “don’t stop me.” I shrugged. What could I do to stop her? She smiled. “Now, where were we, Nancy?”

“I was thinking that I’m gonna kill Franklin for inviting you here for dinner,” her suitably bewitched former nemesis replied. “I can’t figure out why he would invite a cow like you, and your husband—and don’t ask me how you managed to land him—he’s way too cute to have to settle for you—into my house when he knows I can’t stand you. I don’t trust you further than I can throw you. If it wasn’t so gauche, I’d have him check your purse and your husband’s pockets before you leave to see if you’ve stolen anything.” Then Nancy smiled, “I was thinking that it’s time for dinner. Shall we?” without any hint of knowing that she’d just told us exactly what she was thinking.

Debbie tugged on my shirt as we turned to follow them into the dining room. “See what I mean? She’s a bitch, but really good at hiding it,” she whispered. “I wanted you to see for yourself before— well—let’s eat first.”

As we sat down at the table, Nancy muttered, “I hope we have enough food for six. She’s so fat, she eats for two, three if she’s pregnant. Could she be? I wonder if he can even find it under all that flesh?”

Debbie smiled at me again, followed by Dickhead and Nancy, and I thought, “This is gonna be one hell of a long night.”

The dinner conversation was filled with Nancy’s snide, disdainful asides, so much so that it was almost comical. After Dickhead cleared the table, Nancy opened a silver cigarette case and removed a super-slim cigarette. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all,” Debbie said, removing her own case from her purse, “if you don’t mind me joining you.” Dickhead rolled his eyes a little—smoking was obviously a contentious issue with him. Something flickered behind my wife’s eyes—and I instinctively knew that he wasn’t going to like what that meant. Debbie removed a More and accepted the light that Nancy gave her.

Nancy couldn’t let the appearance of the brown cigarettes pass without critique. “Now I get it. I always knew she was a little iffy—and now I know. She’s a cigar-smoking dyke, so he’s probably just a fag. That would explain his earlier lack of a reaction.” My wife shot me a warning glance, so I kept my incensed thought to myself. My wife really wasn’t exaggerating about how much of a bitch you really are. “I don’t remember you smoking cigars in college,” Nancy noted as her public comment. “In fact, I can’t remember you smoking anything, not even a little pot.”

“I only picked up the habit a few years ago,” Debbie casually explained. “But you’re wrong about one thing, these aren’t cigars.”

“Oh?” her antagonist dismissively issued.

“No, they’re cigarettes, but I get that a lot. Not a lot of women smoke Mores these days.”

“No self-respecting woman would go out in public smoking cigar-looking things unless she was a dyke. Now I know he’s definitely gay,” was Nancy’s pronouncement, covered with a half-hearted, “I suppose some might call a brown cigarette chic and daring.” She turned to Dickhead. “I guess it’s a substitute for a cigar so she can at least feel half like a woman.”

My wife smiled again, but this time, it was like a cat that had finally cornered the mouse. Uh-oh. Time for the endgame. “No, it really isn’t a cigar,” Debbie said, reaching into her purse. “This,” she declared, revealing a Churchill, “is a cigar.”

“God, what a dyke!” Nancy immediately said. “Do you make it a habit to carry around cigars?”

“My husband and I like to sit and have a good cigar every so often,” my wife neutrally commented, “especially after a good meal.”

“He is so gay. Sucking on a cigar must remind him of the dick they both wish she had,” Nancy remarked. “I could never smoke something quite so—” She hesitated, searching for the gentlest term she could find. “—Masculine.”

“Actually,” my wife interjected, “I would think that you would find cigars—intriguing as a symbol of your status and power. And you have the status and power to not care what other people think.”

Nancy nodded slowly, “True. If I did smoke cigars, it wouldn’t matter what other people thought.” There was a pause. “And I’d still be gorgeous.”

“And you’re really curious about cigars... especially the really fine cigars, because they cost so much more than a pack of cigarettes. Just being able to afford them, like the fine wines you have, is a sign of status—and think of the cachet of a smuggled Cuban cigar... mmmmm, they’re the best in the world, and you only like the finest things in the world, right?”

“Yes, of course,” Nancy said. “I can easily afford them and I like to surround myself with them.” She turned to her husband, “That’s why we only go on first-class vacations to exotic places, unlike them—they probably have to scrimp every dollar just to drive to Branson or someplace like that.”

Unfazed, my wife continued, “And now you have a chance to indulge that curiosity, yet another opportunity to set yourself apart from the rabble. “I assure you, it’s a very fine Churchill, and it costs about eleven dollars just for one.” Nancy was looking at the cigar with earnest interest now; I couldn’t tell how much of that was Debbie’s active doing, but a few seconds later, Nancy shifted in her seat and asked Debbie if she could try one.

“How do I do this?” Nancy asked. “I don’t know where to start.” Dickhead gave his wife a withering look of disapproval, causing her to retort sharply, “Franklin, stop it. I can do what I want.” Debbie calmly instructed Nancy on the basics of cigar smoking, while Dickhead looked at me with confusion and helplessness. Easy to see who has the balls in this house. Nancy got the cigar started, but my wife had left out the part about not inhaling. As her long-time nemesis gagged, a smiling Debbie encouraged Nancy to think only about the rich and powerful image she would be projecting. Dickhead glared, but as Nancy recovered, she muttered, “I’m not gonna let this thing get the better of me. If fatso can do it, so can I.”

Four puffs later, Nancy had acclimated herself, and was inhaling shallowly, just like she had with the superslim cigarettes. “Now, just think of the cigar, and the image it projects of you. Just visualize that as everything else fades away... the only thing that is important is the cigar and your powerful image... just the cigar and your image. Everything else fades away for now until you hear me say your name,” Debbie purred. “Now Dickhead, it is time to remember that I am your mistress,” she immediately resumed. I shot a worried glance at Nancy, but I needn’t have bothered; she was completely self-absorbed with her cigar, showing no signs of recognizing any other presence.

“Yes, Mistress,” he fawned, devotion on his face.

“I want you to look at your wife now, and as you watch her smoke, those sexual feelings that you have for your mistress will be one thousand times stronger each time she sucks on that cigar.” He gasped, his face showing an entirely new, and powerful appreciation for the woman who already held him by the balls. I wondered where Debbie was going with this. “Yes, those very, very strong feelings as you watch her smoke... in fact, from now on, every time she smokes, you will have these feelings. Do you understand?”

“Yes—” he grunted, “—Mistress.”

“That’s a good boy.” Debbie removed another More and her medium-length holder. “And now, remember everything about your mistress,” she commanded, lighting it. Dickhead thrust upwards in his seat. Debbie timed her puffs to alternate with Nancy’s, putting his head on a swivel. Puzzled, I continued to watch silently, still clueless of where all this was leading. “And because I want you to enjoy the sight, you won’t ever complain about your wife smoking ever again, will you Dickhead?”

“No, Mistress!” he eagerly panted.

“Good boy,” she again praised. “Now close your eyes, sleepy, sleepy, and dream about your Mistress and your wife smoking.” His body sagged more deeply into the chair and his head flopped loosely onto his shoulder. Her plan flowing smoothly, Debbie ignored me and returned her attentions to Nancy; there was still a good half of the Churchill left. “Nancy. As you smoke the cigar, lost in the wonderful image of yourself, you are becoming aware of a new sensation... a sexual sensation... as the thought of sucking on the cigar reminds you a little bit of sucking on something else. Your body instinctively knows what it is, and you feel it more strongly, than you think about it. With each puff, the sensation grows stronger, while your mind struggles to grasp what it is...”

I suddenly realized where this was leading. “Debbie!” I protested, standing up.

“Sit down and relax, Ray,” cooed my wife. “Enjoy the ride, because we’ve got a ways to go tonight.” I was briefly aware that I was being controlled before I sighed, relaxing as I had been told, and sank back into the chair.

I came to my senses back in our apartment. My knees were bruised and the muscles in my hips and inner thighs were extremely stiff and sore. While I had a very good idea of what had happened to cause it, I had no memory of the evening’s events after Debbie told me to ‘sit down and relax.’ I groaned, “Not ‘personal penis’ duty again, Debbie. I don’t even get why you considered me, your husband, to fuck your worst enemy instead of some bum off the street.”

“She needed the extra motivation to justify it in her head,” said my wife. “Made it easier to manipulate her. Besides, I don’t want her to catch anything. I’m not done with them yet.” Debbie paused, and then asked, “Are you OK?” in a voice full of concern. I looked at her with amazement—she’d mind-controlled me, and yet, she still cared. I nodded—I wasn’t really hurt, although it was extremely disconcerting to have the evening’s events a blank. I was simultaneously afraid of, and impressed by, my wife. She’d shown a side of herself that I wasn’t sure I liked. On the other hand, as her mind-control instructor, her demonstration of the skill she possessed in using her power was satisfying. I told her about my mixed feelings.

She shrugged. “It’s just like taking Tantric Yoga to its fullest... it’s all in the mind, Ray. Everyone’s mind, and all of us are better at controlling certain parts of our own better than others. I just happen to have access to other peoples’.” I cocked my head. “It’s amazing what and how quickly I can learn when I’ve got an experimental subject I don’t really give a shit about.” Debbie retrieved her long cigarette holder and put a More in it. “Sir?” she politely, demurely asked before resuming, “I’m sorry I couldn’t show you the same thing about Dickhead that you got to see about Nancy. I’d already—adjusted—him before you came home that day. I know, it was careless, on-the-spur of the moment and...” She made a sour face. “...It was ultimately unsatisfying.” She took a luxurious drag, interrupting the course of the conversation. “I still like it when you look at me like that,” she smiled, one still full of shy disbelief that I found her physically attractive.

“So what have you been doing with Dickhead? And when?” I asked, reluctantly shaking myself from my fantasy.

“Just seeing what I could do to his mind and his body,” Debbie answered. “Over the past two weeks. I fixed it so he’ll cum any time I say, ‘That’s a good Dickhead,’ and pat him on the head. I’ve been working on him for a couple hours each day while you’re at work.”

“Ever been—tempted?”

“Not really,” she casually answered without any sign of deception. “Every so often his body inspires—thoughts—just like any sexy picture would. But guys like him think they’ve got it made, and sex with them is more about them than you.” She ruefully added, “Past experience,” to answer the question that I was forming. I hoped that she wasn’t reading my mind. “You, on the other hand, almost care more for my good time in sex than your own, out of a sense of love and devotion, without mind-control. That’s too special for me to fuck with.” She took a final draw, french-inhaled, and exhaled, leisurely, sexily—again transforming herself into my own private fantasy. “Except in a literal sense, of course,” she impishly grinned. Then her eyes went horny.

Debbie rode me like a madwoman, her hips in constant motion, threatening to orgasm yet again. I had lost count and so had she. Her grand plan had finally been revealed, but her passion threatened to wash away any trace of trepidation or fear I felt about it. I realized that I was the favored consort to a woman who could have anyone in the world, and that she had committed herself to maintaining our bond. And if it was all a mind-controlled illusion— it meant that she cared enough about me to leave me the illusion. She slowed her frantic thrusts, grinding at me more, and her blushed face turned near-purple. “Ohhhh... SH—!” Debbie’s pussy seized me, her mouth was open in a perfect “O”, and her nails dug into my chest as she blinked rapidly. Her eyes rolled up into her head, she groaned once, and melted onto me, panting non-stop endearments, keeping me inside her through her aftershocks. I was enraptured; we hadn’t had such volcanic sex since before her original mutation. It wasn’t long before her endearments turned into encouragements. I felt huge thrusting at her from beneath, my pace increasing as I greedily urged more sensation out of our fucking. I screamed my release to the room with a guttural, prolonged, “UURRRRRGGGGHHHHHH!” Debbie moved her hips some more, stimulating me further, and suddenly, at the peak of feeling, my body sizzling everywhere, it was... nap time.

I called in sick the next day, and Debbie re-awakened me at about eleven with brunch in bed. Then she bathed me, not allowing me to lift a finger, and afterwards, she gave me a long massage. I was feeling very loved, and decadently pampered. “I wanted you to see that I can ask you for big favors the old-fashioned, submissive way,” she said. I was on an endorphin high, so she had me right where she wanted me. “I don’t want you to get mad at me or feel bad about me using Nancy and Dickhead—to explore my powers.”

I remembered what she’d managed to do to Mr. Scary. “How— dangerous—is that for them?”

“Not very. I could have physically hurt them right away and been done with that. Why on earth would I want to kill them now after I spent so much time in carefully crafting such an elaborate revenge?” I wondered aloud why it mattered what I thought.

“Because it does,” Debbie earnestly said. “What you think is extremely important to me. I may be able to—make you do things, but that doesn’t stop me from beating myself up over it afterwards. I want to make you happy because I’m hopelessly in love with you. I can’t—I won’t—change that. Ever.”