The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Triple Shot

He’s back again, Mr. Tall Triple Shot Cappuccino. Extra dry. He pays with a twenty and leaves a three dollar tip. The other baristas love his quick smile, the wicked glint in his dark eyes, his easy charm, and his expensive suits. I’m less impressed. Men like him—gorgeous, professional men like him—don’t take girls like us seriously.

Still, he’s hot, and he tips us well, so I smile as brightly as the others when he comes in on my shift. I don’t like the way he watches me with rapt attention as I make his drink, but he’s staring at my hands, not my tits, so I can’t complain.

“Have a good day,” I say as I hand him his drink.

“I intend to.” His fingers close over mine momentarily when he takes the cup. I’m this close to protesting, but his touch makes me feel as molten as his eyes. My cunt remember just how long it’s been since I’ve had something real between my legs.

Maybe that’s why I’m not surprised to see him leaning against my car after I’ve closed up for the night. “You’ll get your suit all dirty.”

He smiles, teeth dazzlingly white in contrast to his dark skin. “Then it will match my mind.”

Then I’m kissing him. Or he’s kissing me. I’m not quite sure. All I know is that his mouth is hot and the fabric of his suit is cool and soft as I untuck his shirt and undo his slacks. He tastes espresso-bitter, and that makes me laugh, because isn’t that supposed to be how I taste?

He lets me take him up against my car. He’s strong enough to hold me up, his fingers digging into my ass hard enough to bruise, but that only makes things better. My palms are braced against the roof of my car, my knees bump against the door, and he’s deep and real inside me. And when I lean my head back and moan, his lips are impossibly hot on my throat.

It’s frantic and quick. I think I scream when I come. I’m panting when we break apart, but he’s oddly composed. “That’s one shot,” he says.

I see where he’s going. Half of me wants to go there, and half of me doesn’t. I’m on my knees curling my fingers into his navy slacks before my smart half wins. He slides down my throat. I know he’s in control, but a woman’s never powerless when she has a man’s cock in her mouth, and he seems to like the way I have him pinned against my car. I like the way he feels inside me. I come when he comes.

I lean back on one hand. He’s still got a handful of my hair, and if he looked gorgeous before, he looks fuckable now. I wonder how I look, panting and flushed at his feet. Not like myself, that’s for sure.

I wonder if he’ll let me have a smart half when he demands the third shot.

Driven

Tom is convinced women can’t take care of cars. He’s a pig, but he’s hot, and if there’s one thing I love, it’s taking men like him down a notch or two. He’s suitably impressed by my Goat, lovingly restored by my womanly hands, I make a point of mentioning.

“I do all the work on her,” I say, stroking the hood.

Tom makes that scoffing noise men like him trot out when a woman dares to trespass in a man’s domain. He doesn’t make it again once I get him inside the car. The Goat hugs the turns, not quite hairpins, but as close as we’ll get in Nowhere Town. I almost forget I’m entertaining a man.

“Pull over,” Tom says, and the low rumble in his voice matches my Goat.

I flash him a quick smile, press down on the gas. “Say please.”

“Don’t tease, babe. It’s not nice.”

“But the ride is.” I know my Goat as intimately as I know myself. I take the next turn right on the cusp of too fast. It spooks Tom and makes me laugh.

“Babe,” he breathes, bracing himself with a hand on the dash.

“Done already?” I ease up on the gas. There’s a dirt road up ahead on the left. Not quite Lover’s Lane, but good enough.

“Maybe I’m just starting.”

I laugh again as I bring the Goat to a stop just around a bend in the dirt road. There shouldn’t be any cops for miles, but why tempt fate? “Don’t tease, babe. It’s not nice.”

“I never claimed to be nice.” He gives me that wolf smile that made me notice him in the first place and leans in to claim a kiss.

I let him have it. It’s one kiss, and he’s damn good. No wonder he’s so arrogant. He gets a hand up my shirt when I’m distracted, and he’s damn good with his hands, too.

His lips move down my neck, then to my ear. “I’d like to fuck you on the hood.”

I’m already wet, but the suggestion brings on the waterworks. “Yes.”

It’s almost painful breaking off the foreplay, but he’s got me pinned over the hood soon enough. The Goat’s still hot from the drive, probably too hot for this, but everything feels so good, so I don’t—or maybe can’t—care. Tom’s hands and lips are everywhere, and his voice strums through me, as insistent as the Goat’s vibrations when I really get her going.

“That’s a good cunt,” he says, sliding into me. After that, I lose track of everything he says. None of it is nice, but all of it is hot, and everything he’s doing builds up to one fantastic orgasm.

Later—what feels like a long time later—when we’re dressed and mostly decent, Tom steps close and fishes the Goat’s keys out of my pocket. “I’ll drive us back.”

Nobody but me drives my Goat, but this once, I make an exception.

Lush

The rum is cheap and burns when I knock back the shot. I shouldn’t take more, but he’s pouring me another shot. I think I’m supposed to be encouraging him.

There’s a woman with dark hair and pale skin decked out as a serving wench. She’s a little too plump for the costume, but not by much. She waggles her hips as she struts past.

Her breasts are full and soft and a cool contrast to the rum. I don’t think I’m supposed to be encouraging her, but she tastes so good, and I’m so wet.

Time stops.

The gin is smooth and goes down too easy. I shouldn’t take more, but he’s pouring me another two fingers, and now I can’t remember if I’m supposed to be seducing him, or if he’s supposed to be seducing me. I guess it doesn’t matter.

There’s a girl on the couch with dark hair and pale skin. She’s classically beautiful—plump and curvy and ripe for the picking. Her dress is shimmering grey silk. It ripples invitingly as she uncrosses her legs and slips off her strappy black heels. I’m there between her legs as she hikes up the dress inch by inch.

She’s smoother than the gin.

I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be seducing her, but how can I resist the explosion of taste so powerful, I can feel it deep in my throat? How can I resist her musk and the silky slide of her folds? And how can I resist her honeyed moan as she curls strong fingers in my hair, as the man I’m supposed to be seducing (or who’s supposed to be seducing me) enters me from behind and pushes me deeper into bliss?

Time stops.

The champagne is sweet and lingers on my tongue. I shouldn’t have another glass, but he’s pressing another into my hand, and I can’t remember if I’m here with him, or if he’s here with me.

There are too many people. It’s an art show of some sort, and I feel like I’m one of the pieces on display. My heels are too tall, stilettos, and I’ll topple over if anyone looks at me sideways. There’s a woman with dark hair and pale skin who looks absolutely stunning. Nobody will mistake her for anything other than a woman, fertile with curvy hips and soft breasts.

I shouldn’t be tempted to slip into the cloakroom with her. I should stay with the man who’s giving me another delicate glass of champagne, but she’s more intoxicating and I need to get away from the false laughter and empty compliments.

The cloakroom is dark and musty and makes everything about touch. Her skin is flawless under my fingers, my lips, my tongue. I think he’s watching somehow, because I’m not really exploring her of my own volition. An almost-voice whispers that she’d like a light nip here and a pinch there. She’s sweeter than the champagne, and her moans as I drink her run through me like bubbles. They pop in my head so all I care about is the taste of her cunt and the flex of her thighs under my palms.

Time stops. I don’t want it to start again.