The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

For awhile, I just sat in my little red Fiat and wondered how it could possibly be that I wasn’t trembling. It seemed uncanny; I was certainly frightened enough. My thoughts were scattered, my awareness reduced to the queasy ribbon of dread that writhed inside my belly and the prosaic sight of the CupOJoe’s through my driver’s side window.

I couldn’t go inside that restaurant. It was impossible!

I had to go inside that restaurant! It was unavoidable.

Worse yet, I knew that I had precious little time in which to act. I’d already been just sitting there in my car for, what... five minutes? Ten? I was already late, and there would be no profit at all in keeping DarkHorse waiting any longer.

It had to happen. Whatever might be, I had to go in there. CupOJoe’s was a public place, a cross between proper restaurant and coffee shop. It was certain to be filled at this hour with civilized strangers who would not just sit idly by if this man, this total stranger, were to attack me. Surely there could be no danger in simply meeting him, as he’d demanded. I would go in there, sit across from him, find out what he had to say. And maybe that would be the end of it; he would be satisfied, and I might once again be safe.

Sure, I thought, and yanked my car door open with a savagery that surprised me. His little note had promised far more than a simple conversation, and I couldn’t begin to fool myself into believing he wouldn’t follow through.

My head lowered, face burning with the awareness that he’d likely be watching me even now through the restaurant’s plate glass windows, I waited for a string of cars to pass and then marched across the street.

There were several people on the little wooden-floored terrace outside the shop, and they all seemed oblivious to me, lost in their own little conversations or bits of literature, their own lives. I nonetheless paused for a moment after crossing the street and briefly studied each of them, half-expecting to find myself on the receiving end of some penetrating, “I know you” type of stare.

Getting no takers, I very self-consciously crossed the terrace and let myself into the restaurant.

Inside was light and motion, a dinner crowd in full swing. People eating, talking, sometimes laughing. The rich scents of good food and very good coffee. Piped in music, always music in CupOJoe’s, along with the merry babbling of the little waterfall that was set back near the restrooms. The tinkling of dinnerware in use.

I said the above because I’ve been in CupOJoe’s so many times before, and therefore know exactly what it’s like on a regular business day. Had that been my only visit, right there and then, I’m sure I couldn’t now repeat a single detail about the place. I was far too lost inside my own little dilemma to notice any such trivia.

Recognizing no one, nor still any particularly meaningful gazes directed my way, I seated myself at an amazingly unoccupied table and waited nervously to find out what might happen next.

What happened next was a visit from a pretty young waitress, welcoming me, introducing herself, showering me with an infinitely pre-rehearsed spiel about the place’s food and drink offerings. A couple of times throughout this, her smile seemed too wide, too knowing, as though she understood exactly what I was doing there.

Or maybe it was her eyes, so bright and shining. I just don’t know. Surely it’s clear by now that I was vastly uncomfortable and no little bit jumpy, reading too much into otherwise inconsequential things. I’ve heard the question before, offered as a joke: Are you still paranoid when they really are out to get you?

Funny joke.

I ordered a caramel macchiato, and breathed a shallow sigh of unutterable relief when she went away. Then I just sat there, glancing surreptitiously at the surrounding people, wondering which of them might turn out to be DarkHorse.

DarkHorse. It’s a funny name, I know, but that’s just because it’s a screenname. At that point in my story, I knew precious little (indeed, less than I imagined) about the person behind the name.

We’d met online, courtesy of a website called mcstories.com. The “mc” stands for “mind control,” and if you can’t guess the flavor of the stories... well. Read on and become enlightened.

I’d composed a story of my own for the site, one wherein the female protagonist falls victim to a group of neighborhood children. Employing techniques that one of them had picked up online, they gain power over her and make her into a sexual slave for their entertainment. Having read the story myself a few times since its publication, along with several of the others that the site offers, I realize now just how simplistic... how nearly standard a work it was.

However, it did net some fan mail. The site allows its aspiring authors to provide an email address for their adoring fans, and I had taken advantage of this service and then promptly forgotten about it over the quiet months that followed. Then one day, out of the blue, my inbox included among its offerings a letter from one PyxieStyx, who gushed over how she wished she might have been in my poor protagonist’s shoes. (“Bare feet” might have been a better term, but I understood where PyxieStyx was coming from; I’d entertained very similar fantasies when I wrote the piece.)

I return-emailed PyxieStyx, expressing my very real gratitude for her letter and sharing the confidence that I’ve just expressed to you, that she and I enjoyed similar personal fantasies. The rape daydream, the longing to have all control taken away, so that one might simply let go and discover what sexual entertainments one’s new owner intends to explore...

Another apparent fan dropped me a note some weeks after I’d exchanged pleasantries with PyxieStyx. This next admirer was DarkHorse. And when I answered that email, DarkHorse sent me another. I answered again, was again answered in turn, and presto! Instant dialogue.

Our correspondences were innocent enough at first, but as might easily be expected of two mcstories regulars, we quickly lost any hope of a G rating. DarkHorse seemed smitten with me, personally, almost from the beginning. And though I believe myself quite happily married... I nonetheless just as happily accepted such attentions. As DarkHorse’s talk became increasingly dirty, so did mine.

How can I defend this? How can I begin to explain? One might so easily conclude that I simply do not love my husband, but nothing could be farther from the truth. My darling Haim... he is my true mate, in my mind and flesh and heart and soul. He is my very best friend and the father of my child.

But if you have been married for more than three years, and especially if you both work fulltime jobs, you might possibly understand. You might know how powerful the loveplay is at first! And you might also know of how that initial potency begins to fade with time and familiarity. Had DarkHorse shown up at my doorstep during the most erotic days of our online affair, would I have surrendered my flesh to this stranger? Never. But online, exchanging nothing more than words, ideas...

That is very different. And I am a young woman with what I imagine to be exquisitely kinky tastes—desires which my Haim would never understand, were I to dare confess them. How could I resist this opportunity to explore all these longings, all these passionate fantasies, in so safe a medium as online?

But then, I knew that what DarkHorse and I enjoyed was an infidelity. So what if this stranger only possessed me in our respective imaginations? Once one allows the conquest of one’s most secret heart, what difference whether or not they also surrender their flesh? DarkHorse had me again and again, so very thoroughly and for so very long. My most secret thoughts came out, one by one. Gradually, but not at all gently, my soul was laid bare.

Eventually, I was persuaded to email a number of extremely erotic pictures to DarkHorse, with myself as the subject. Sensing that only the nastiest of prose would be fit to accompany such a gift, I also utterly surpassed all my previous letters, inviting my invisible admirer to use me in ways that I will now only describe as... thorough.

Once again leaping to my own feeble defense, I stress that it wasn’t my idea.

Oh, where to begin this explanation?

Okay. Haim and I are originally from Hulon, a small city in a land called Israel. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? I actually came to Hulon from another place called Hertzlia, but that is irrelevant. It is in Hulon where Haim and I lived before coming to America, and it is in Hulon that I pretended to yet live, as far as any of my more questionable online correspondents needed to know. As far as DarkHorse knew... or so I had imagined.

DarkHorse charmed me with the outlandish declaration of intent to become a bestselling author, solely in order to afford a trip to Israel. I would be located, a bit of horrid blackmail material would be thrust under my nose, and I would be forced to oh-so-enthusiastically surrender my body. For perhaps two weeks, I would be as helplessly willing a sex slave as I had ever fantasized!

All DarkHorse needed from me was the blackmail material. Failure to provide this would be too cruel a thing, I was informed in a written “tone” of mock severity, for it would crush the aspirations of one who might otherwise become one of the world’s greatest voices.

I laughingly typed out a refusal, citing my terror of one day finding nude pictures of myself splattered all over the ‘net. Five minutes later, if that, I had my response. DarkHorse simply promised to never do such a thing. You might be amazed to find that I believed this promise, but as I have told you, we’d been pretty deeply inside one another’s heads for quite some time by then. When DarkHorse offered a promise, I believed it.

And whatever else occurred, that promise has been assiduously kept. As you’ve surely already guessed, those pictures certainly have come back to haunt me! But I’ve never seen them online, and I never expect to.

Instead, on the evening that preceded this tale’s beginning, I received this email:

My sweet, sexy-assed Noa,

I’ve bad news and good news! First the bad: I don’t think I’ll ever be a good writer. I think I’ve a lot of gifts, and I look forward to demonstrating some of them to you! But writing... not so much.

Now the good news: I’ve still found a good use for your pix! Two, actually, but I intend to use only one or the other, and I’ll let you choose which. Here are your choices.

1) I can trust that because I own these pictures, and all these deliciously naughty notes you’ve written me, you’ll now see fit to meet me at that CupOJoe’s place near where you work, at 5 p.m. tomorrow. Come alone! I mean it! And come ready to listen and to obey me. I mean that, too, Noa.

2) I can visit your husband at (and here, to my horror, was printed my home address) and show him who he’s really married to. Then visit your workplace (again, the address was provided) and give them a thrill. You’ve told me about how you get paid a lot of money to size up other high-tech firms before your own company does business with them. Would Mr Kiefer, or any of your other bosses, be upset to know that a trusted exec like yourself has such a nasty private side? I bet they would.

Noa, you’re unnecessarily afraid right now. I hope you’ve read this far! Because the thing is, I’m not some secret enemy who’s finally revealing my true face or something. I don’t hate you. Far from it! All the things I wrote about desiring you, adoring you, wanting to own you, were true! And that’s all that’s going to happen to you if you do what I say! I’m going to become your owner, loving and protective. I promise.

Unless you just fleeb out and force me to expose you, I’m not going to do anything worse to you than the things we’ve discussed. I’m going to enslave you, Noa. I’m going to take over your mind, and I’m going to use you sexually, and beyond a few friends whom I really trust, NO ONE ELSE WILL EVER KNOW!!!

You’ll be safe, and you’ll still have your life. The only difference will be that, from time to time, you’ll secretly be forced to do a number of things that you SECRETLY WANT TO DO ANYWAY. I mean, this will happen if between now and tomorrow evening you can convince yourself that I’m for real, and that you must obey me! Obey without question or hesitation. Surrender wholly to me, Noa. Otherwise, you’re well and truly fucked for life, I think. After all, Hell hath no fury like a stalker scorned.

Your choice, sexy. I hope and expect to see you there.

Love, DarkHorse

P.S. Wear black panties.

And so there I sat at CupOJoe’s, waiting, wondering. There was no relief in the fact that no one had yet approached me. As long as DarkHorse enjoyed possession of those steamy letters and shockingly erotic pictures, I could not imagine there being any relief for me under any circumstance.

“Ms Fischer! Hey!”

Warm coffee slopped over my fingers as I jerked in response to hearing my name. It had been spoken in a girl’s clear voice. Looking up, I was appalled to see Brandy Miller smiling down at me in pleased recognition. No, I thought, along with a few choice mental curses. Please, no. Not here, not right now.

Brandy was our babysitter. She was a smart, conscientious, horribly pretty girl of 18. Haim was quite fond of her, and I’ll admit that this had much to do with why I privately loathed her so. But there was more to it than that! Although she had a gift for concealing her true nature from most eyes, I too often detected hints of a nosy, prying side to her personality; for all that I’d never heard her share a single malicious confidence, I could only conclude that this marked her as the most discreet gossip in human history.

Discreet gossip. A contradiction, yes, I know. Brandy was nothing if not a study in contradiction.

She was ever courteous in dealing with her elders, fluent in the ways of please and thank you. She knew when to speak and what to say, and more importantly, when to say nothing at all. Nonetheless, hers was a personality that was forceful to the point of being outright obnoxious.

She was so outright beautiful that it was a rare male of any age who could refrain from closely studying her perfect little body and oh-so-fair face. Slim but curvy, she was, with breasts the size of apples beneath a blouse that was never quite tight enough to offend. Lithe and leggy, and you may go ahead and apply to her jeans or skirt the same philosophy behind her choice of blouses... never slutty, but only missing it by a hair’s breadth. She had shoulder-length hair like honeyed waves, and her mischievous eyes sparkled above a perfect little nose and full, glossed lips that could part into the most irresistible of coy, come hither smiles. Smooth, creamy skin. Perfect teeth. To me, she was a creature of almost reptilian ugliness.

And again I confess to the percentage of such feelings that were driven by nothing more than simple envy. And again, I tell you that it was not envy alone that lay behind my dislike for Brandy Miller.

Exactly as though I had invited her to join me, the girl took advantage of an empty chair. Sophisticated as only a 21st century Western girl can truly be, she carried with her a designer bag from the top of which poked the edge of a pearl-pink laptop and a manila folder. The bag was obviously half-stuffed with other things, to the point of looking rather cumbersome, and along its side was a weblike pocket holding diskettes, colorful pens, a cell phone, a tube of lip gloss. She carelessly parked the bag on the floor beside her, then sat erect with the folder in her hands. This she began to leaf through, exactly as though we were study partners at some school cafeteria.

I could only stare, wondering at the naked effrontery of this pest. What might occur if DarkHorse were to see this girl in my company? I could not imagine. But how should I rid myself of her?

“Would you please order me a juice?” she asked absently, her attention captured by the pages inside her little folder. I only stared, slightly amazed, until she finally spared me a glance and said, “Apple.”

“Of course!” I finally responded, sounding a little breathless to my own ears. “And might I do anything else for you?”

“Nothing for me,” she demurred, “but there’s something you might do for yourself, if you wouldn’t mind hearing a friendly suggestion...?”

“Please, I am all ears.”

“In the future, Ms Fischer, make it a habit to password protect your internet access every time you log out, especially if you’re going to be leaving anyone alone in your house. And if you like the dirty websites at all, be sure you sign up for them under a screen name that’s different from your email address... Tamar.”

And smiling wickedly, she set the manila folder on the tabletop and gently slid it across to me. With a sense of horror that surely set my face blazing—I could feel its radiant heat—I knew exactly what that folder held.

I also had an instant, epiphanic understanding of all that had transpired. Later in our relationship, Brandy asked me for my thoughts on the matter, and seemed very impressed with how accurately I’d pieced it all together. By that point, I am ashamed to say, I even derived an intense, pathetic satisfaction from the knowledge of her approval.

Envision it! A girl of 18, nosy, intelligent, utterly wicked, left alone but for the baby that is her charge inside the house of a young couple. See her going through their closets, their drawers, studying all the little clues to their most private lives.

Watch as she finds the key to their computer cabinet and unlocks it, then perhaps trembling in her excitement, presses the little button that turns the machine on. Play of light across her face as the monitor is charged with electric life, and with the click of an icon, she is taken to a Yahoo home page.

Nothing there; Yahoo is for Haim, who never allows the computer to helpfully remember his personal settings. It is ironic, for my Haim has nothing to hide; he is a truly good man.

But this is only the beginning of our nosy little lady’s online quest for curiosities. She looks to the top of the page, that thin little space wherein one types the URL that one would next like to visit. Clicking upon the little inverted pyramid to the right of this space, she opens a dropdown list of other sites that Haim and I are wont to visit. Google.com, Uncyclopedia.com, Wikipedia.org. Facebook. All the standard fare, dismissed after only a cursory glance.

Two, however, catch her attention. Clicking upon Hotmail.com, she discovers that I have neglected to password protect my account. Gleefully, she goes through my private mail. She almost certainly reads the letter from PyxieStyx, which I have saved in a folder that I have casually marked as “Stuff.”

Intrigued now, she goes back to the dropdown list and calls up mcstories.com. See her eyes widening as her dark heart finds a banquet of delicacies to savor!

Her advice to me, that day at CupOJoe’s, is most sound. At the mcstories.com site, there are 132 would-be authors whose screen names begin with the letter A. From this, one might easily imagine how unlikely it would be to locate a single target among the whole of them... unless, foolishly, that writer has indeed chosen a screen name that is all but identical to her Hotmail address.

Tamar. It is a name that I chose from II Samuel. If the reference eludes you, perhaps that is just as well.

See this girl taking a chance, looking through the Stories by Author list and hitting the proverbial jackpot, a single work by Tamar. Eliminating the possibility of coincidence, a single click pulls up the author’s full email address for the benefit of any adoring fans.

And there she sat, delightedly reading my tale of thorough rape and relentless shame. See her eyes becoming glassy, her moistened lips slackening with deep, unholy awe. She has discovered a treasure beyond compare, a king’s ransom in purest dirt.

She goes home that night, accesses the site from her own cute little laptop, and laboriously constructs a false identity. She becomes DarkHorse. And then gradually, very carefully, she begins a courtship ritual as intricate as it is diabolical, never giving her victim the least hint of her true identity until the trap is sprung... the damning pictures are hers... and the hope of escape is quite simply...

...gone.

I took the folder in hands that at last trembled, and found that I could not open it. I could only stare at its blank, creamy surface, and listen to the pounding of my own pulse. When at last I looked up at Brandy, I wilted inwardly before the naked hunger that shone from her piercing green eyes.

“On second thought,” she breathed, “never mind the juice. Come on.”

She rose, plucked the folder from between my numbed fingers, and took a few steps toward the restaurant’s entrance. Then, sensing that I wasn’t following her, she returned and leaned down to whisper in my ear.

She was lightly scented with jasmine. From our correspondences, she knew perfectly well about my weakness for that sweetly enticing aroma.

“Noa,” she murmured, “I’m going to punish you for not immediately getting off your ass and following me out of here, but if you’ll only kick your mind back into gear right now and get busy with obeying me, then I won’t have to scar you for life. But please, Noa... don’t test me. Now come on.”

When she turned again to leave, I somehow managed to force my weak, shaky legs to support me. Nearly stumbling over my own feet, half-numbed with raw disbelief that any of this could possibly be happening to me, I meekly followed her out of there.

The whole way, I was more than half-hypnotized by the casually seductive twitch of her perfectly shaped, snugly jeans-clad bottom. “I’m going to use you sexually,” my own babysitter had written to me. “Things that you secretly want to do anyway...” Simply impossible, that she could have meant such words, that she might soon expect me to meekly kneel between those arrogantly swaying hips and... and...

...this isn’t happening, not happening, impossible, not happening, was the steady, barely coherent mantra that consumed my thoughts as I followed her out of the coffee shop and across the street to my car.

But it was happening, far more quickly than my reeling mind could begin to grasp. I had fallen into my own story, and unless this were all some cruel prank, I was on my way to experiencing things that simply could not be considered outside the realm of pure fiction.

Brandy walked around my Fiat and halted beside my passenger-side door, clearly waiting for me to open it for her. Silently, fumbling with my keys, I did.

“Where are we going?” I asked after I’d forced myself back around the car and into the driver’s seat. My voice came out a subdued, wary monotone.

“Well, were there any last-minute changes to Mr Fischer’s plans?” Brandy asked, her own voice intense with suppressed excitement. “Still off with the little one to Michigan for a week? Going to visit the grandparents?”

“They left this morning.” And this time there was a catch in my voice, and I realized I was on the verge of tears.

Brandy studied me for a quiet moment, then dug inside her bag, down toward the its very bottom. At length she produced a piece of paper that had been folded several times into a little packet. Unfolding this, she revealed a tiny, pink and white capsule that she held out to me.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the capsule toward me. “Swallow this. It’ll help you calm down. Make you feel good.”

“What is it?” I asked, extremely wary now.

“It’s a mind-control pill,” she said, caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Take it. Now.”

Knowing better than to let this hellion drug me, but seeing no way out of the situation, I took the capsule. And yes, of course, I considered hiding it under my tongue or something... but she watched me so closely, I found I dared not attempt such a subterfuge. I swallowed the capsule.

“Brandy,” I then heard myself saying, as I gripped the steering wheel and stared sightlessly through the windshield. My voice had become harsh, too quavery to be authoritarian, but only just. “You can’t seriously mean to go through with this. Blackmail? Extortion?”

“Mind control,” she deliberately enunciated. “You’re going to be my slave, Noa, unless you’ve decided you prefer the alternative. Start the car now and take us to your house.”

Frustrated, I started my car and pulled carefully out into traffic.

“Just know this, then,” I said between clenched teeth. “Until this blows up in both our faces, you can have your fun. I won’t... I can’t cross you, Brandy. I can only hope you won’t do the things you threatened... deliberately expose me like that. It would utterly ruin my life, and do great harm to my husband and our little boy.”

“Noa, as long as you’re cooperative, you’ll never be exposed. Not deliberately or otherwise.” She sighed. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’ll be unable to keep such a secret, and all too soon I’ll tell the wrong person. People always gossip; it’s unavoidable, right? Word will spread like wildfire, and it will become public knowledge, and then both our lives will become... very unpleasant. Right? Something like that?”

“Exactly like that,” I muttered, and again the tears threatened to flow. How could this girl see our approaching doom so clearly, yet refuse to recognize it?

“Noa, dammit, don’t you know better? Can’t you see me as anything more than a foolish girl? I mean, fuck!” Again she sighed, though it came out sounding more like a snort of helpless frustration. “Look at the thinking, the planning that got us to this point! Please trust me, Noa. Just... focus on surrendering to me, ‘coz that’s the only real danger you face now... the risk that you’ll balk. Because then, yeah... I promised I would destroy you if you refused to play ball, and I always keep my promises. So, you know, either commit yourself completely or not at all. Will you do just that much for me, Noa? Please?”

We drove in silence for a bit. My house... my family’s home was about five miles away. To her credit, Brandy was content to just sit there and let me think.

“But that’s the other fear,” I finally admitted. “I tell myself that I’ll play along with this because I have to. I allow myself to hope that the enormity of this... this choice... will sink in, and you’ll back off before anything really terrible happens. But I don’t think you will. And Brandy, although I’m genuinely desperate to avoid exposure, I’m also terrified that... that...”

“You’re scared that I’m going to demand something of you, something you can’t bring yourself to do. You’re scared you’ll freeze up, or just panic outright and tell me no,” she murmured. “Something like that?”

“Yes,” I whispered, trembling badly now.

“Answer me this, then, Noa. Are you willing to try to surrender to me? I don’t mean just obey my orders until you run up against one that you can’t. I mean surrender, in your mind and heart. Devote yourself completely to obeying and pleasing me.”

My trembling momentarily escalated into a helpless shudder. What this horrible, evil girl was suggesting, and in such a sweet, helpful, reasonable tone! I genuinely feared that I would rebel right then. Just pull the car over to the curb and kick her out, and damn the consequences.

Perhaps she saw this in my face.

“Bark like a dog. Now,” she snapped.

And at once, feeling foolish, feeling horrified by the helpless surreality of this moment, I obeyed. I yapped and yapped, my face set in stone, waiting for this girl to see how dangerously stupid a situation she had created.

Brandy laughed, her hands covering her mouth. Not the response I had hoped for. I could feel myself blushing, but I grimly forced myself to continue barking for her amusement.

“Okay, stop,” she called out over my yaps, and at once I fell silent, feeling the protest of my jaw muscles as I clenched my teeth in fury. “Now answer my question. To save yourself, can you... will you make a serious effort to simply embrace this new relationship of ours?”

“Y—yes,” I said, my voice subdued now. “Brandy, to save myself, I will really try.”

“I don’t mean just your words and actions,” she unnecessarily explained. “I’m talking about your thoughts, too, Noa. I’m talking about making yourself want to be my slave.”

“I could never want such a thing,” I nearly snarled. “Therein lies your mistake, girl. What I wrote... that is fantasy, nothing more!”

“Girl?” she asked, clearly finding the word distasteful. “Try Mistress instead, slave. Got it?”

“Yes,” I sighed.

“Yes, Mistress,” she corrected, a faint warning in her tone. “Of course, you must never call me that in public without my permission. But privately... you will always call me your Mistress. Got it?”

“...yes, Mistress...”

I don’t want to report this next part. I don’t. But if I start conveniently leaving out the more embarrassing bits, then why bother continuing with this account at all? After all, it only gets worse. So.

Saying those two words to her... yes, Mistress... it did something to me. Down in my belly and even lower, at very core of my sex, I felt a sudden ache. A hungry stirring. I had just been ordered to acknowledge another person as my Mistress, my owner, and I had meekly obeyed. For years before that moment, such a thing had only been the stuff of sweetest secret fantasy. Now fantasy had become horrific reality, and in that moment I was aroused by the knowledge of it.

And this is, perhaps, worse: I did nothing to stifle that first tingling of desire. Nothing at all. I let it make its way through me, a warm wet longing between my thighs that pulsed outward through the rest of my body, and I hoped that it might somehow counteract the pride and fear that stood between myself and perfect, even eager obedience to this hideous girl.

How could I do otherwise? I was not foolish enough to imagine that I could end this scene with the right choice of rebukes. I believed Brandy when she said that any resistance would likely be my complete undoing. So? If I were committed to placating her, as it seemed I indeed was, then what possible profit would there be in stamping out these stirrings of... of pleasure? When they might be the very thing that made my enslavement remotely tolerable?

You understand, or you do not. I’ve explained it as much as I can.

“So okay, I get it,” she said. “You can never desire to be my slave, even though you already are. But that wasn’t the question. The question was, will you try to want it? Will you try to let this stuff turn you on, try to... you know, to let down your guard, free your mind, and enjoy it?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Another silence followed as she digested the simplicity of my response. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that she was watching me closely.

“Well, good. Super! Then don’t worry. That drug I gave you, and some video stuff I’m going to show you when we get to your place... that’ll take care of the rest. But it works better if you don’t fight it.” Then she laughed. “Mostly better for you. I studied the website. A couple of people have died from trying to fight this stuff. Quick ticket to an embolism. And for the rest of the fighters, it wasn’t a very nice experience.”

WHAT??? At first, I could think of nothing to say in response to this outrageous claim. Finally, I found my voice.

“Please... Mistress. I’m not stupid.”

“I never imagined you were!” she replied, sounding mildly confused. “Wait, you’re actually hurt! Why?”

“Mind control pills?” I asked, exasperated. “A hypnotic video? I... From your letters, I developed the idea that you would never lie to me.”

“I never break my promises,” she said. “There’s a difference. But for this little matter, I don’t think I’ll waste one of those promises. Just... wait and see, okay?” Then her voice turned merry, wicked. “Besides, the tools are just insurance. I can already control your thoughts. The body’s just a fringe benefit.”

“This I’d like to see.”

“Okay, slave, you see that red light up ahead?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Don’t slow down anymore than normal; that would be cheating, and cheating is punishable. But before we stop for that light, or cross through the intersection if it turns green first, you’d better have thought up ten words or phrases that rhyme with some, or I will force you to have sex with a dog. A big dog! And yes, it’s a promise. So let’s hear them! Go!”

“Come,” I said at once, my mind rendered sharp by a wash of desperate, adrenal terror. “Glum. Tom Thumb. Tummy tum tum. Hum! Dumb! " I began to grow frantic; the traffic light loomed ahead, only seconds away! “Plum! Rum! Bum! And... oh God, oh God... please noooooooo... CHUM!!!”

We passed under the light, which had turned green. Brandy burst into delighted laughter, and I know that once again my face was glowing brick red.

“So?” She asked, once she’d somewhat regained her composure. “What organ do you think you just surrendered to my desires, slave? Your liver, maybe?”

I was so rattled, I couldn’t tell if she expected an answer. I wasn’t even sure I could speak if she wanted me to. My whole body was trembling yet again, almost shuddering. Where I gripped the wheel, my knuckles had gone bone white.

“Cruel.” My voice was barely audible.

“Come again? Slave?” Brandy smiled winningly. “Rum thumb slum gum tummy tum tum come again?”

“That was cruel, Mistress,” I muttered grimly. “You would have done it, wouldn’t you? Mated me with...”

“With a dog, yes. I would have taken pictures and added them to my little Noa the Fuckslave portfolio. Do you believe me?”

Defeated... truly beaten... I slumped behind the wheel, watching the color return to my knuckles.

“...yes, Mistress...”

“Well, good. Here comes your street.”

When we arrived at my home, Brandy had me pull into the garage and close the automatic door behind us. As gloom began to settle over my car, the garage’s light automatically clicked on. Ours is a nice house. Brick, two stories tall, with a swimming pool in an expansive back yard.

Brandy had me unlock the service door between the garage and the house, then stood aside while I keyed the reset code on our burglar alarm. Then, closing and locking the door again behind us, she led me into my own living room. She ordered me to stand in the center of the room’s carpet, between our coffee table and the television. Then she set her bag upon the coffee table, flopped herself carelessly onto our leather couch, and simply regarded me for a moment, smiling faintly.

“By now the drug should be kicking in,” she said at length. “I wouldn’t bother trying too hard to notice its effects; it’s a very subtle drug, Noa.”

“What was it?” I asked, wondering if I truly would be happier for knowing.

“I told you,” she exclaimed in mock exasperation, “it’s a mind-control pill.”

Although I carefully avoided rolling my eyes, she seemed to detect some of my continuing disbelief. Sitting forward, she removed her laptop from the bag and cracked it open. At the touch of a key, the screen lit up.

“Take your clothes off,” she absently instructed me as she began tapping at her keyboard. “Toss me your panties.”

“Y- yes, Mistress,” I whispered. And, feeling utterly mortified the whole while, I stood in the center of my own living room and did exactly as this 18-year-old girl said. Slowly, my fingers helplessly fumbling with the buttons of my blouse, I obediently stripped myself completely naked for the entertainment of my babysitter. Then I gently tossed my panties onto the coffee table before her.

“Black,” she said approvingly, sparing the panties a glance. “Good. How did it feel, putting them on?”

I knew exactly what she meant by that question. Imagine yourself in such a situation. Someone has gained power over you, some distant person whose face you wouldn’t even recognize if you met them. To demonstrate their power, they’ve picked the color of underclothes you’ll wear on a given day, and on that day you discover that you dare not disobey.

As I had pulled those panties up, past my thighs to fit snugly against my sex and my ass, it had been as though that stranger were touching me there. Reaching out invisible hands and...

“It was humiliating, Mistress,” I responded. “And frightening.”

“But not the least bit erotic?” She looked up from her keyboard and cocked an eyebrow.

“That, too,” I confessed. “A little.”

“Good.” She finally studied my naked body, her expression frankly appraising. “You’re as pretty as I knew you’d be, slave. Lift your breasts. And pinch the nipples for me; I want you to make them pout.”

I obeyed. Strangely, the physical sensation that most captured my awareness wasn’t this self-abuse that I performed for my Mistress, nor even the heat of my blush, but rather the cool caress of the air conditioning against my naked bottom. Somehow, that was the touch that drove home the reality of this experience for me. Once again, I felt that horribly erotic response stirring within me.

Brandy smiled, then twirled a finger in the air to indicate that I should turn around. I obeyed.

“Stop,” she commanded once my back was turned. “Now get down on your elbows and knees. Good. Now move your knees farther apart. Farther... good. Now move your ankles even farther apart. Good. Now, slave, I want you to sway your back so that your ass thrusts up into the air. Try to touch the carpet with your belly button.”

If you cannot visualize how I looked in that pose, then I am grateful. I do not think it’s necessary that I describe it to you. Suffice to say that my feeling of helplessness was absolute. I could imagine no more vulnerable, no more humiliating nor immodest a pose than this.

I heard her rise from the couch, and then her feet came into view to my right. Squatting beside my head, she gently placed the laptop upon the carpet between my outstretched hands. A set of ear buds had been plugged into the side of the device, and these she carefully inserted into my ears. Then very gently, she took me by the chin and turned my head so that I was looking up at her.

“I’m going to take a shower now,” she said. “Don’t move out of that pose. Just kneel there, stare at the screen, listen to the music, and keep remembering your commitment, to try to give your whole heart to this experience. Okay, slave?”

“...yes, Mistress...”

“Remember... don’t move unless you have to, and then you’d better be ready to explain yourself when I get back.”

“...yes, Mistress...”

She turned my face back toward the screen, clicked a key, and walked away.

What followed was a very strange experience, certainly the strangest of my life up to that point. Once again, I call upon you to imagine yourself in such a situation, kneeling quite naked in the middle of your living room, your bare ass thrust upward, the cheeks forced wide open by the positioning of your legs. You can feel the AC touching your most private, most sensitive parts. And you hold that position, because another has ordered you to do so. You obediently maintain that pose, even in their absence, while strange abstracts of colored light create smears and flickering starbursts before your staring eyes, and a selection of electronic ambient music seems to play inside your head.

I recognized the first piece. It was called Halcyon, a composition at once gentle and pounding (you know what I mean if you’ve heard it). And lost within its sweet insistence, I imagined I heard something else, some extremely rapid pulse of faint sound behind the notes.

I knelt, completely naked, and watched and listened, and in my mind I engaged in something that was more emotion than thought. There was the natural, ongoing urge to rebel against this entire situation, to at the very least maintain some fortress of resistance within my most secret, innermost heart. However, Brandy and I had reasoned it out too well between us; at the very best, therein lay disaster. And so, as well as I could, I surrendered to this utterly bizarre experience. Defenses down, I let the sight and sound and feel of it all simply wash through me.

And despite the cool touch of the air conditioning, the heat between my thighs began to subtly but surely build...

I don’t know how much time passed before Brandy gently interrupted my reverie. I couldn’t hear her approach; for all I knew, she first sat or stood behind me for quite some while, enjoying the way I knelt exactly as she had instructed, my bare sex and ass thrust upward in silent offering. How could she not savor such a perverse conquest over a woman 10 years her senior?

My first awareness of her renewed presence came in the form of her hands gathering my hair, lifting it away from my throat.

Then there was the not-quite-rough touch of tightly woven nylon against my skin, accented by a pinpoint of hard metallic coolness. She was fastening a collar about my neck. A pet collar. Despite this abrupt development, I remained perfectly still and kept my eyes glued to the computer screen. Perhaps I truly was hypnotized by that point.

Feeling the tug of a leash that was attached to the collar right below my voicebox, I finally looked up at my young Mistress. Brandy squatted beside me and gently removed the buds from my ears. She was dressed in one of my bathrobes, and held the leash in her left hand.

“Did you enjoy the show, kitty cat?” Her voice was soft, as gentle as her touch, but in her eyes I saw a burning excitement. Whatever entertainments she had in store for this evening, I knew that they were about to begin in earnest. And though my heart pounded at this realization, it wasn’t entirely with fear.

“...yes, Mistress...”

“Well, good kitty. I found some whipped cream for you in the fridge. You want some, don’t you, kitty kitty?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Beg for it, then. Rub your head against my ankles and meow for it, kitty.”

I meekly lowered my eyes in surrender, then turned and ducked my head, gently rubbing my hair against this girl’s bare ankles. I meowed piteously.

Giggling, she scratched me lightly behind the ears. I think it was more the giggle than the scratching that did it, but for a moment I shivered uncontrollably.

“I’m still going to punish you later,” she confided. “Tell me why.”

“Because you had to tell me twice to follow you out of the restaurant, Mistress,” I promptly replied, still caressing her ankles and calves with my hair.

“You were shocked at the time, though,” she said in a thoughtful tone. “Do you think I should waive your punishment?”

“...no, Mistress...”

“Oh, you want to be punished?” she asked, surprised.

“Please, no, Mistress!” I meekly cried, wondering if I spoke truth. It had to be true, hadn’t it? I couldn’t actually want this horrible little... little would-be rapist to treat me even worse... could I?

“But you feel you deserve it, whether you want it or not,” she guessed.

“...yes, Mistress...”

“Good kitty. But again, that’s for later. Right now, let’s feed you some whipped cream.” She turned and, leash in hand, guided me to the couch. I crawled meekly behind her, my eyes on her bare heels. Out of the corner of my vision, I saw that she’d slid the coffee table out of the way.

After she’d seated herself comfortably, she tugged gently upon the leash, guiding my head upward until I knelt between her legs, my forepaws... my hands resting lightly between her knees at the edge of the couch. With little surprise at all, I watched as she twitched aside my bathrobe and, taking a can of whipped cream from beside her, sprayed a line of it up the inside of her firm left thigh. Then she slid forward, slouching so that her naked sex was exposed, mere inches from my face. Like all the rest of her, it seemed, her sex was as perfect in appearance as any vagina could hope to be. Even her fine down of pubic hair looked soft, nearly inviting.

She applied another spurt of the whipped cream to that little mound of hair, deliberately getting a dab of it onto the very tops of her pussy lips, right where her clitoris would be hiding between them.

“Lick it clean, kitty,” she breathed, then leaned back and mercifully closed her beautiful green eyes. Her smile was easy, confident, and I think it was this more than anything else that further kindled my excitement. I couldn’t be aroused by the idea of licking another female’s flesh; I’m simply not into women. But that smile, that victor’s smile, and all that it said about our new relationship... that turned me on, even as it utterly humiliated me.

I obeyed.

The thigh was almost easy, a warm, clean expanse of flesh turning slippery beneath my lapping tongue. It was certainly a terrible shock to perform such an act—to willingly lick this girl’s warm inner thigh, and it further deepened the knowledge of our frightening new relationship. But still, if I had to use my own mouth in so demeaning a way, then it was at least a comparatively good place to start.

Her pubic hair offered a far greater emotional challenge, but I coped by simply not thinking about it. I just did it. I made myself wrap my lips around those soft, curly hairs, and I forced my tongue to lick, and then I began to suck away the mix of whipped cream and saliva. Her responding sigh of pleasure washed through me like a wave. I could feel the rest of the whipped cream smearing against my chin, which in turn was gently spreading it onto more of her pussy.

By that point, I don’t believe I minded overmuch. I was doing it; that was all that mattered. I had a mouthful of another woman’s... of a girl’s pubic hair, and I was licking and sucking at it because she was making me do so, and as my lower jaw moved rhythmically up and down, she began to grind her pelvis in response, stimulating her clitoris against my chin... and even that was a tolerable thing.

Indeed, when I knew that the time had come, I almost too willingly lowered my head and went to work on her pussy in earnest. It was very hot, very wet; at once her juices mixed with my saliva, filling my mouth with the taste of her. Each time I swallowed, I drank a little of her pussy juice.

This should certainly have been the most difficult part of the whole ordeal, for what could more thoroughly symbolize total submission to another person than to kneel before them and use your own mouth, your lips and tongue, to please that other’s sex organ? To actually drink their sexual lubricants because they demand it of you? It should have been impossible.

It was easy. I licked her gently at first, tentatively, but with increasing gusto. Finally, I dared probe between her lips with my darting tongue. Knowing from personal experience what a woman likes, I paid careful attention to the little bud of her clitoris, giving it a steady tongue-massage while I slid my paws... my hands up to gently spread her pussy lips for better access. In precious little time she was writhing, thrusting her hips, insistently grinding herself into my mouth. Her own hands fell gently upon my head, where she grabbed a double handful of hair and tugged quite forcefully.

I cannot say how long we stayed like that, with me kneeling naked between Brandy Miller’s legs, obediently eating her out. I know that it was a long time; eventually my jaw began to ache with the effort of it, and a fresh sheen of sweat made her thighs slippery against my ears. The only sounds were of my licking and sucking, accompanied by her harsh breaths and occasional moans of pleasure.

“...when I say now...” she finally gasped out, but then her breath caught as my tongue plunged especially deep into her pussy. Her hips bucked for a moment, demanding that I continue to probe her deeply. More time passed before she even tried to speak again.

“When I say now,” she eventually repeated between gasps, “lock your lips around my whole pussy, then drive your tongue in as deep as you can and just wiggle it inside me.” She giggled, sounding delirious. “And start swallowing, kitty. I’ve some milk for you... oh! Now now NOW...”

And I obeyed her instructions, and she violently came, gushing into my open mouth. And humiliated beyond any hope of description, but feeling helpless to deny her this terrible service... I drank her, drank deeply, even as the throb of my tongue inside her caused more mouth-filling orgasms, a whole series of shuddering ejaculations.

When she was finally, clearly finished coming in my mouth, I carefully licked away the last residue of her hot juices. Your guess is as good as mine regarding why I would do such a thing, for I assure you that I had not abruptly fallen in love with this monstrous girl. But yes, I did that for her at the end. I licked her clean, inside and out.

Brandy allowed me to gradually slow down my ministrations until I was doing no more than languidly, almost dreamily licking her sex. My mouth had by then made absolute peace with the taste of her, my nostrils with her scent. Her thighs had relaxed against the sides of my head, and her fingers absently stroked my hair.

At length, she sighed and almost casually grabbed a fistful of my hair, drawing my head back so that I was looking up into her half-lidded eyes. Her whole expression was deeply relaxed, sated.

“Good kitty,” she murmured. “Good slave. Now I want you to kiss my cunt, and I want it to be impressive. Loving. Tender, but also really passionate. Kiss all around it, too, if you want. Be creative! But the main thing is, convince me that you’ve fallen helplessly in love with my pussy.”

She then released my hair. At once, I lowered my head and obeyed. I must have done well because a couple of times throughout, she writhed, snickered, breathed out comments like “oh, that’s good…” And once again, time seemed suspended. I couldn’t hope to guess how long we continued like that, with her utterly relaxed on my couch, simply enjoying the loveplay of my lips and tongue against her pussy.

Eventually, she became aroused again and made me return to massaging her clitoris with my tongue. There is a spot inside a woman’s vagina, a spongy little patch along the channel’s roof that is very sensitive, and this she had me stimulate with two inserted fingers while I serviced her with my tongue. And in time, she made me enclose my lips over her entire sex again, so that again she could turn me into a receptacle for her come. This second time, her body shuddered violently and she cried out as she squirted her juices into my mouth and down my throat.

Afterward, she folded her hands contentedly over my head and just lay there, panting, her whole body faintly trembling and slick with sweat. Thinking that it would please my young Mistress, I began to very tenderly kiss her pussy again, but she took a fistful of my hair and pulled me back to look up at her once more.

“Crawl around behind the couch, kitty,” she ordered me in an unsteady voice. “Then get up and bend over the back of it.”

As I quietly obeyed, she rose and also circled behind the couch, taking up her bag along the way. She stood directly behind me as, blushing faintly but too utterly cowed to even consider protest, I rose and obediently bent myself over for her. The cushions were the kind that curve up and over the back of the couch, so that no sharp edges dug into my hips. For this, I was pathetically grateful.

“More,” she commanded after I’d assumed the desired position. “I want you to open your legs wide for me, then bend over until you’re up on your tiptoes and the blood’s rushing to your head. Do it now.”

I obeyed. Behind me, I could hear her digging through the bag, taking things out of it. At one point there was the tearing sound of two Velcro pieces being parted. Whatever preparations she was engaged in, it took a couple of minutes.

“Okay, three more things,” she finally said. “I want you to reach back, grab those ass cheeks, and spread them wide for me. And I want you to lift your head so that you’re looking at the far wall. And then… no matter what I do to you… I want you to hold that pose, slave. Don’t you fucking dare move.”

Her words provoked within me a stab of hard, bright terror, instantly penetrating the sense of numbing defeat that had settled over my mind. Very quickly, unconsciously hoping that my prompt obedience might inspire some degree of mercy, I obeyed. The faintest of whimpers escaped my throat.

I felt her fingertips smearing some kind of lubricant over my asshole. This… was as new an experience for me as had been the earlier requirement that I eat her out. I’d certainly imagined both such situations before. After all, they were both in the story I’d written, and were also included among the many sexual kinks that I’d discussed with Brandy in her DarkHorse persona. But to have them actually happening to me? To me? As the shock of this moment reasserted itself, I gave out a helpless moan.

“Are you scared?” she murmured, and I could sense that she was smiling. “Good. You should always be scared of me, kitty kitty. But if it helps, this still isn’t your punishment. I just want to work on your ass a little bit, so that it’ll be properly stretched out for anyone I want to loan it to. Don’t worry; of the three sizes of… attachments that I brought, today I’m only going to use the smallest. Unless you piss me off. Aaaaand I’m going to fuck your hungry little pussy with a strap-on, to reward you for how well you lapped at my pussy. You can thank me in advance, if you’d like to.”

“Thank you, Mistress!” I immediately cried out, my voice at once small and cravenly desperate to please Brandy Miller.

“You’re welcome, slave,” she replied, and then I felt the hard, rounded tip of something touching the very center of my asshole. It immediately began to push forward, into me, becoming thicker along its length. I cried out once, and then again, as this object steadily forced me open. And then, just before the humiliating discomfort could become truly painful, the object sharply narrowed again so that I closed around it, holding it in place inside myself. I felt it twitch within me as Brandy did something at the base of it, then immediately it began to vibrate along its length.

At the time of writing this, I remain Brandy Miller’s helpless slave. However, I don’t think I’ve ever been helplessly naïve. I knew perfectly well that she’d just ended my anal virginity with a vibrating butt plug. That knowledge was the most that my mind could manage; all other thought was perfectly obliterated by the raw sensation of this thing, buzzing inside my ass, making me clench my muscles in an involuntary attempt to expel it. Brandy laughed and gave it a long series of little pushes, so that it drove further into me, withdrew… drove in, withdrew…

“Mmm, Noa… my Noa, my slave, look at you writhing! You love this, don’t you, slut?” Brandy languidly emphasized that last word, drawing it out, savoring it.

I couldn’t answer her. I was breathing too hard, gasping, as indeed my body squirmed in helpless desperation. My fingers dug into my buttocks, hanging on as though for dear life. All I could give her by way of reply was a forceful shake of my head, daring to deny this hateful claim.

At once her other hand was at my pussy, two fingers slipping between the lips, finding me achingly hot, sopping wet. She laughed at this discovery, and I know that my face had to have gone the color of old brick.

“No, you’re not a slut,” she mockingly soothed, and her fingers drove deeply into my pussy. It was so wet that she surely had no difficulty at all, though I couldn’t help gripping her fiercely and crying out again. “Actually, you’re amazingly tight! Holy shit, check you out! You’re so horny, you could compete with Texas for oil production, and still I can barely squeeze two fingers into you! Oh, you poor girl… you just don’t know the changes that you’re in for…”

Then she fell silent for a little while, contenting herself with steadily finger-banging me while, with her other hand, she kept the little butt plug moving, thrusting inside my bottom. I spent the whole time helplessly wiggling in place, sometimes moaning or giving out incoherent little cries of protest, or perhaps of raw need… I can’t deny that I was going insane by that point, over-stimulated. But throughout, I managed somehow to hang on tight to my asscheeks, and to keep my legs opened wide for her.

Does it seem that by this point I had simply thrown my dignity to the wind and embraced my new role as Brandy’s adoring slave? She had certainly reduced me to a state of total cooperation, and my own body had come to respond with desperate desire, with a sexual yearning that was quite overwhelming in its raw intensity.

However, one thing remained to silently inform me that I was still a human being, and that I had not chosen any of this for myself. This last little spark of dignity was, ironically enough, my own sense of deep, burning humiliation. Too easily, I could see through my tormentor’s eyes as she looked down from above and behind me, watching the twitch of her toy butt plug as it stuck out of my helplessly wriggling ass. Watching in victory as my body responded longingly to her least touch. All too well, I knew of my total degradation, and the shame of this knowledge caused my eyes to overflow with helpless tears. They burned tracks down my cheeks, then dripped from my trembling chin onto the couch’s cushions.

Still, the longing could not be denied. She had mastered me. She had conquered me and, wounded dignity or no, I now wished only for her to remove her fingers from within my sex… and to replace them with the strap-on cock that I knew she wore for me.

And just like that, she obliged. One moment her fingers were moving inside me, probing, teasing ever greater heat and lubrication out of my trembling flesh. The next, they were withdrawn and there came a few still, quiet seconds as she repositioned herself behind me. One hand… the wetted one… found my bare hip, while with the other she guided the knobbed tip of her dildo up, between the lips of my sex. She pushed forward, and I felt the exquisitely sharp sensation of being penetrated.

And then her other hand came up and she was gripping both hips, squeezing me firmly, and she rocked forward in a long, slow thrust, until her pelvis mashed hard against me. And it was official then: Little Brandy Miller, my 18-year-old babysitter, was fucking me. And throughout this, like some cruel afterthought, that evil little butt plug of hers continued to buzz inside my ass.

Had she not already been crystal clear regarding the terrible usages she had in mind for me, I think that first fucking would have spelled it out. She was neither brief nor gentle, opting instead to… what is the contemporary American slang for such a thing? To turn me out, I think they call it, when one is fucked to within an inch of one’s sanity. She fucked me hard. She fucked me thoroughly. She fucked me until her every stroke was causing me to cry out in ragged desperation, until my body convulsed with helpless orgasm and I painted my own inner thighs with hot come.

And then she continued to fuck me until, much later, I came again.

She fucked me until I hung limply over the couch, weeping uncontrollably, my pussy feeling raw and swollen to twice its size. And when she at last decided she was finished taming me, still she stood there for a bit, her artificial cock filling me. She stood behind me, impaling me, and whispered to me.

“You belong to me, Noa.”

“…yes, Mistress…” I managed, my own whisper a hoarse, barely audible thing.

“Say it.”

“I belong to you, Mistress.”

“You will always belong to me.”

“I will always belong to you, Mistress.”

And more. We took turns affirming my devotion to her, my eagerness to serve her in any way she might ever imagine, to worship her always as my new goddess. And I’m not entirely certain that I didn’t already mean it. Yes, certainly, she owns me now, body and mind, willing heart and living soul. But perhaps even then I had totally surrendered to her, had become her willing slave.

Fuckslave, she has taken to calling me lately, as though slave weren’t descriptive enough. I love it when she calls me that. Always, it makes me want to be put to immediate use for her pleasure… even for her amusement, if nothing else.

On that first evening of our new relationship, Brandy finally took up my leash and had me crawl behind her into my bathroom, where she drew a hot bath for me. I knelt in the tub and she joined me there, both of us naked, and she carefully… I think lovingly… bathed me.

After toweling me off, she announced that she was done with me for the day. However, while she dressed, she gave me a number of parting instructions: I was allowed to remove my collar in public, but must always wear it in private. Though she believed I’d feel no need to masturbate for awhile, I was to refuse myself any such release if the desire should somehow surface. And at five the following evening, I was to be clean and naked for her, kneeling exactly as she had first made me kneel, in exactly the same spot on my living room floor. The front door of the house was to be left unlocked, and if she should somehow be unable to show, I was nonetheless to stay in place and simply wait for her until six.

With a wicked grin and dancing eyes, she magnanimously told me I could watch TV while I waited.

Brandy’s house is little more than a block away from my own, so she mentioned nothing about a ride home. Instead, she briskly retrieved my black panties from where they’d lay forgotten atop the coffee table, and stuffed them into her bag along with all her other possessions. Then she sighed, teetering on the verge of departure.

However, after shouldering her bag, she stopped and just stared at me for a moment. Blushing, I tried to lower my own eyes, but she gently placed a knuckle beneath my chin and raised my head until I returned her measuring gaze.

At that moment, a thrill passed through my body over the awareness of my continuing nakedness. The fact that she was fully clothed, and that she could direct me with such a casually intimate touch... I can’t explain how this moved me so, but it did. My legs felt very, very weak, and I had to will myself to breathe normally.

“Noa,” she said, and her voice seemed uncertain, nearly timid. “I’d like it if you took just a moment to suck my breasts before I go, but that isn’t an order, and I promise you’ll never face a single consequence if you refuse to.” She grinned. “I’ll probably make you suck them tomorrow, anyway, so no big. But… you know… will you do it for me now?”

There was a pause. Then, biting my lip, I jerked a tiny little nod.

Her breasts were annoyingly firm, the nipples a lovely shade of pink. Like everything else about her… too damnably perfect. When she was finally satisfied and made me stop, I whimpered. Brandy laughed, her eyes sparkling.

And then she closed her shirt, gave my ass a casual slap, and was gone. I spent the rest of the day in a sort of daze, and had great trouble sleeping that night. And though it was torturous to do so, I obeyed her command against masturbation.