The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Can you get e-mail from a dead person? Looking at his inbox Alan concluded that you could.

It was just shy of two weeks since he had learned of the death (maybe?) of his mentor, Dr. Jean-Pierre Massimo, and receiving his ring in the mail. Jack had sent him a message through the ring, or, perhaps was using the ring to communicate from another plane of existence. All he knew was that Massimo’s Seed, his earthly manifestation of heavenly power, was within the silver band Alan now wore on his left middle finger.

The e-mail read:

Alan,

Please go to the savings bank on the northeast corner of 80th Street and York Avenue, in the Yorkville section of Manhattan. I have a safety deposit box there in your name. The branch manager has a key waiting for you, and with your powers, have him give it to you. Inside the box you will find compact discs which contain about one-third of my research, as well as all of the information (not much, regretfully) I have managed to glean about our opponents. The information you will find on the discs will lead you to the rest of my research.

Buy a laptop computer. It should have no Ethernet or other networking capabilities. The data on the discs should never be uploaded to a computer which can be connected to an internet connection or even a simple telephone line.

Further instructions will be in the materials you get from the bank.

Jack

Following the instructions which he read off the card, which had been scotch-taped to the outside of the package in the safe-deposit box, Alan took it unopened to an office in midtown Manhattan, the same office he had went to to procure his fake I.D. that he used for his trip to Atlantic City. The office belonged to a middle aged lawyer named Wilkins, a solo practitioner.

As he sat in the office’s anteroom waiting for Wilkins to appear Alan studied his surroundings; the office consisted of four rooms, including this anteroom where the matronly secretary sat behind a polished oak desk. Three rooms were arrayed behind her. The middle room was a conference room, a large oblong table dominating its center, the walls lined with bookshelves groaning under the weight of volumes of New York Code and Federal Registers. The attorney’s office was on the left of the conference room, its door closed at this time. The other door was locked; where the doorknob usually would have been was a rather sophisticated piece of electronics, a complex lock with a reinforced keypad, plus a hand and fingertip scanner. Unlike the doors to the other rooms, this one looked to be made of heavy-duty steel.

Wilkins ushered him into his office, the East River and the United Nations visible from the window. “Please sit down, Mr. Sutherland. This whole thing is a complete shock to me. If it wasn’t for all of the work Dr. Massimo’s death has caused, I fear these past few weeks would have found me staggered from the shock of it all.” Alan (in the guise of his alter ego, Carl Sutherland) nodded, and the lawyer continued. “Dr. Massimo was my only client, the only client I have ever had. He hired me straight out of law school and set me up in this office, so my grief is not just professional, but personal as well.

Alan offered his condolences, which were accepted graciously.

“Once I received official confirmation of his death from the British authorities I broke the seals on several envelopes Dr. Massimo had left for me in the event of his death. Most of his estate will be transferred to his son in Geneva, but some of it will go to you, particularly certain items in his person collection of artifacts, as well as all of his field research notes, and most of his papers, too. One of the subsidiaries of his personal corporation, Cyaxares LLC., will now be under your control. Dr. Massimo instructed that upon his death all shares in it shall be transferred to you.”

Wilkins placed the first document back into a folder and grabbed another off his desk and removed a second set of instructions. “The office on the opposite side of the conference room was Dr. Massimo’s personal space for when he was working in New York. It is now yours.” Wilkins handed over yet another envelope to Alan, and Alan noted that this one had remained sealed, and was addressed to him. “Instructions for getting past the security door,” Wilkins informed him.

“Thank you. Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

“No sir, that is all,” Wilkins told him, but Alan could sense by the tone in his voice he wanted to say something else; he scanned him briefly.

“Are you sure?” Alan asked him, and understanding the nervousness on the lawyer’s face.

“Ah, well, uh, not to be indelicate at this sad point, and I know we don’t really know each other so well, but, um, I was wondering if you were going to continue to, ah, retain the services of this firm for all of your legal needs.”

Alan agreed and saw Mr. Wilkins relax visibly. He had the lawyer send his secretary out to lunch; he wanted the anteroom clear when he tried the door of Jack’s office. Alan entered the code contained in the letter on the keypad. A small screen appeared in the middle of the apparatus, a small metal panel sliding away to reveal it. Alan spent the next half hour or so answering multiple-choice questions by pressing on the keys of the keypad.

Jack had written a program to authenticate him, the questions asking for information only Alan, as a Vessel of a Seed would know the answers to. When the computer in the door was satisfied that it was really Alan Marshall standing before it Alan was prompted to flatten his hand up against the sensor so his palm- and fingerprints could be recorded. The machine also asked for a new access code, and a voice print.

Alan thought he as done, but the machine also asked for a “danger” code, a false password which would delay the opening of the door of the office by ten seconds, while small explosive charges in the computers detonated, obliterating the stored data on the hard drives, and incendiaries similarly caused all of the files in the file cabinets to go up in smoke, then triggered halogen fire extinguishers mounted in the ceiling.

At long last, Alan gained access to the office. A windowless space, with a lacquered wooden table in the center, the tabletop half taken up by a large computer monitor; one wall was lined end to end with black metal file cabinets, heavy duty-looking ones, made of the same thick steel as the door, each also sporting miniature versions of the same locking mechanism. The other walls were covered with maps and diagrams made on Massimo’s expeditions; most were yellowed, and some even had frayed edges. Alan rested the steel case he had that morning removed from the bank in Yorkville next to the monitor; he examined it closely for the first time; not wanting to attract too much attention in the bank, he had merely placed it in a canvas zip-up bag and left. There were no hinges, no releases to press to pop it open. He knew it wasn’t a solid block of steel, not only by its weight, but also because he could feel the box’s contents shift within, and anyhow, hadn’t Massimo’s e-mail message tell him that there were computer discs inside? Running his fingers over the whole of it Alan was confused; just as he was going to give up and start looking at the computer in front of him, he heard that voice.

“Don’t try to open it with your hands. It only opens at the command of the Seed’s Vessel.”

“Jack?”

“I am here,” the disembodied voice uttered.

“Is there some specific command that I need to use to open the box?”

“No, just will it open, and it will be.”

Alan looked at the box, and in less than a second he heard a pop. The top of the box was raised and slightly askew, and he took the lid off completely and set it to the side. Inside were the discs as promised, and he examined the jewel cases, reading the labels and putting them back in order. Satisfied he was organized now, Alan replaced them in the box, refit the lid to the top, and locked it using his power. He took a cab to a large chain electronics store, and bought a laptop using the credit card with the name Carl Sutherland, his Atlantic City alias. By the time he returned to Wilkins’s office the secretary was gone for the day, and the lawyer’s office door was shut. Deciding it was safer to leave the original discs behind the impressively secure office door, Alan transferred all of their data to his new laptop, filed the disks in one of the cabinets, then placed his computer into the now empty steel box, and put the box in his canvas bag. Exiting the building, he hailed a cab and told the driver he wanted to go to Grand Central Station; he had a nagging feeling, impossible to pin down, that he was being watched.

“Four to One, We have a visual. Out.” His partner picked up the telephoto and shot off as many pictures he could before the mark got into the taxi.

“Copy zat, I see him,” a heavily accented voice said, his voice distorted by the speaker of the radio. “Remember your instructions. You and Eight are to follow him, and no more. Surveillance only. Repeat, repeat, do not approach too close. Out.”

“That’s affirm. Four to One, I copy instructions. Out.” He put the car in drive, and pulled out to follow the cab his target had just hailed. He didn’t know why he was following this man. All he did know was that he had spent the last two weeks sitting in a parked car on Forty-sixth street between Second and Third, waiting for the signal for whom to follow. Seven hundred dollars a day he was getting paid for this; nice work, if you can get it. The agent he knew only as “One” had spent the last two weeks working as an elevator operator in this office building, waiting for the mark, whoever he was, to enter the office on the twenty-sixth floor. Once he was identified it was his job, “Agent Four,” to follow the mark home, and set up surveillance there. “Easy,” he thought to himself, counting his money in his head.

“He’s getting out,” Eight said. “Look, up there.” The cab had stopped, and the dome light on its roof was lit, indicating a now vacant cab. Two pulled to the curb, twenty yards behind it, and Three jumped out, following the mark into the station.

Grand Central Station was teeming with people, this being start of rush hour. Three followed the mark, figuring that he would head for the ticket windows, but instead he followed him straight to the platforms. Must have bought a round trip ticket, indicating he lived in the suburbs. He relayed this information over the radio.

“Shit! Where in fuck did he go?” Agent Eight swore to himself. Just as the mark neared the north side of the station a great group of people came streaming out of an arched passageway, interspersing themselves between him and the mark.

“Eight to Four, I LOST HIM,” he said frantically into his radio, trying his best to keep his voice down. “I’VE LOST THE MARK!”

“Find him, now,” the voice answered back, not Four, but One.

Eight searched all of the platforms, and walked through all of the trains idling on the platforms. He knew he had about a fifty-fifty chance; about half of the trains would pull out before he had a chance to search them.

Twenty minutes later it was all over. He had failed. He reported in.

“Return to base for debrief. Out.”

Ten minutes later he was at the base, which by coincidence was only a few blocks north of the station, in a non-descript office building on Lexington Avenue. His fellow stalkers on the pursuit team were already there when he and Four came in together. Four was not looking forward to this, but One could not have been more understanding or calm.

“I never really expected to track him down zo fast. Who knew if he vas even going to show his face at the lawyer’s? Ve’ve made good progress. Starting in the morning ve’ll deploy one team at the lawyer’s, and two teams at the station. Ve’ll spot him again, and next time we vont lose him.”

One dismissed his team. The photos would be ready tonight. The next day he’ll start sending teams of agents to all of the towns which are serviced by Metro-North, and have them shown around. A train conductor, a station worker, someone has to know where he was from. One of his men had bribed the manager of the computer store, so at least he had a name, “Carl Sutherland,” but a database search hadn’t turned up any address other than c/o Stanley Wilkins, Esq., P.C. The data team on the other side of the Atlantic would be tasked to investigate further.

He opened his laptop and wrote his report. That done, he started the encryption program; this program took a long time to do its business, encoding his text with such complexity that the fastest code breaking computer in the world would need at least a month to unscramble it. He leaned back in his chair and relaxed, his left hand absently playing with his necklace.

The necklace consisted of a thin chain looped through a hook on the top of a small silver sphere. The silver was very pure, his boss had informed him, and he must under no circumstances remove it while on the mission. Duplicates of his necklace were worn by all of the members of the pursuit team, and they were under similar instructions, forbidden to remove them until the end of the mission.

Alan found a seat. It was still early in rush hour, and the cars were less than half full. Plus, he had reached the station just as the inbound train had pulled in, and he had almost fifteen minutes before the turnaround. Sitting there quietly reading his newspaper he still had that feeling in the back of his mind, a feeling of being watched, or even chased. He tried scanning all of the minds in his vicinity, but nothing jumped out. He lowered his antennae, and went back to reading. Had anyone been following him, his transformation from thirtyish Carl Sutherland to teenaged Alan Marshall would have surely thrown them off his trail.

“Guess who?” a familiar and singsong feminine voice called. Kate had snuck up behind him and covered his eyes with her hands.

“Hi, Kate.”

“Spoilsport,” she pouted, coming around from the row of seats behind his and settling in next to him. “I wanted you to guess!” she mock-whined. “What were you doing in Manhattan?”

“I, uh, came in to have lunch with my dad. Went computer shopping after.” Well, the latter was true.

“Cool,” she said idly.

“Why are you taking the train? I thought you drove in.”

“Car’s in the shop. Busted fuel pump. Bummer.”

“Sorry,” he replied, genuine concern in his voice. Kate loved that car. Once she started college she would probably be experiencing withdrawal symptoms from not driving it.

The train pulled out, right on schedule, picking up speed in the tunnel. Kate leaned over towards him, resting her head on his shoulder, her fragrant black hair tickling his nose. Alan rested his right hand against her thigh, feeling her warmth trough the fabric of her knee-length denim skirt. She sighed contentedly.

Alan closed his eyes, unleashing his mind to delve within her thoughts. She was thinking about the night of the spring break party, when she and Alan had fucked in the garden as the party continued around them.

The train slowed and then stopped in Harlem. A few more people got on, but soon they were back at full speed. Kate looked down the center aisle; a businessman was exiting the bathroom and heading back to his seat.

“Come on,” she whispered to him, sitting up straight and taking his hand in hers.

“What?” he answered, a puzzled look on his face. He knew what she was thinking, but decided to play the innocent.

“The bathroom,” she said slyly, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“So? I’m not stopping you,” he replied, a small smile creeping across his face, letting her know he was on to her.

“I want you to come with me, to the bathroom,” she said as she pulled him up off the seat. Fifteen seconds later they were inside, the door locked. Though the cars of the commuter train were well air conditioned the bathrooms lacked a/c vents, and the warmth in the small chamber was instantly uncomfortable; Kate began pulling at her clothes.

She reached to his waist and pulled his shirt out of his chinos, her hands busily exploring his chest and back as he leaned in to kiss her, sucking her tongue from between her lips and into his mouth. She growled softly, dropping her hands to his belt buckle and unfastening it. He wriggled out of his pants letting them fall into a bunch around his ankles, and her hands attached themselves to his groin, rubbing his cock through the thin material of his underpants.

He turned her around so that she faced the mirror. One of his hands went to take down his shorts, and the other stole under her skirt, his thumb hooking the waistband of her panties. Her flesh was warm and quivering at his touch.

This was one of the parts she liked the best, when Alan took down her panties. It made her feel so, so—her mind rolled around, looking for the right word—so “taken.” Once she felt the panties bunched around her ankles she lifted up and stepped out of them, then reached forward, putting her hands on each side of the small sink, bracing herself.

Once she was situated Alan took her smooth firm ass in his hand, caressing the silky flesh as she tried to stifle her moans. He dipped lower, his fingertips dancing across her rapidly moistening slit.

“Hrmph, yeah!” she panted through her clenched teeth. “Touch me, touch me like that. " He gently explored her folds as she arched her back, pressing her ass into his hands. She gasped again as he slowly inserted a finger up her, and contracted her muscles, bearing down to squeeze the invader with her tight vaginal walls. She was about to come; Alan knew the signs well. Right before her climax he withdrew.

Kate growled at the loss of stimulation. She felt like a balloon about to pop from being over inflated, but just as she was about to explode the air began to be released from the valve. It was maddening, though she didn’t have long to wait. Just as she thought she was about to lose her mind she felt the head of Alan’s prick at her pussy. She pushed back at him, hoping to trap the tip of it in her cunt, knowing it was a long shot. He slowly ran the head up and down her sopping labia, and she shook and trembled in desire and anticipation. Alan kept at this longer than usual, thoroughly soaking his erection with her juicy secretions; the wait was excruciating to her; Kate’s trembling accelerated, and he could actually hear her teeth chattering as he sent her into a frenzy.

She gathered herself as best she could under the circumstances, trying to get composed enough the speak, to plead with him to spear her with his cock. Even if he had not been able to read her mind Alan would have known what she wanted. He saw in her eyes, which were glassy and expectant with arousal, her pupils extremely dilated, begging him to penetrate her.

“Here you go, baby,” he whispered as he simultaneously pressed his dick into her steaming channel and leaned over her to place his mouth directly at her ear.

“Hrmph, oooooh yesssssssss!” she hissed back at him, thrusting her ass against his groin as he sunk into her to the hilt. She knew she had to keep the noise level down, protected as they were only by the flimsy walls of the lavatory. As he began to pump in and out of her she tensed, clenching her jaw shut, breathing deeply through her nose, and concentrating on staying quiet. It seemed to be easier if she kept her eyes open, and she stared into the mirror. The image of herself being fucked by Alan was an amazing turn-on. The strangled look on her features, contrasted with his calm visage was dizzying to behold.

“Oh God,” she squeaked as she felt him probe at her anus. Upon his penetration she came like a freight train, or more fittingly in this case, a commuter train, biting down on the side of her hand to squelch her screams. She managed to keep quiet, but at the expense of some nasty looking bite marks on her palm and the back of her hand. Alan was matching the pace of his fucking to that of his finger moving in and out of her ass.

“You’re teasing me, aren’t you?” she said quietly.

Alan looked up into the mirror, amused by the smirk on her face. “What are you talking about, Katie? I’m not teasing you, I’m fucking you.”

She grunted as Alan speeded his attack at her provocation. “Do you know how long it’s ugh ugh been since you put that great big dick of yours up my tight little ass?” She punctuated the question by jiggling said ass. “Before the goddamned prom.”

Alan hadn’t thought about it. “Really? Has it been that long?” He and Kate had been taking it easy of late, well, easy for them. He didn’t really dominate her all that much since the night in the hotel room; Kate had broken down and confided in him that she was, at her core, an unhappy person. Alan knew from scanning her mind that she was seeing a therapist, but since she hadn’t mentioned it to him he hadn’t asked her any questions about it. Peering into her mind now he saw that she missed being used, being dominated. She didn’t quite want to go back to how it was, with her being a sex slave, calling him, “Master,” and all that, but she liked it when he took control of her.

“Yeah, that long,” she moaned. Alan slowed his pace and began plumbing her deeper, and she shuddered in reaction.

“Hmmm. So what are you trying to tell me?”

“F-f-fuck. Eeeergh! My! Ugh! Assssssssss!”

“Well, since this is your show, I guess I will,” he replied as he withdrew from her sopping pussy. Needing no further lubrication he placed the head of his dick at her rear entrance and slowly entered her tightest passage.

“Harder, faster, yes,” she huffed while he took his time penetrating. She gasped feeling at once his prick bottoming out in her ass and one of his hands on her pussy, fingertips playing across her painfully erect clit, and then moaned as she felt him pull out a bit, then fuck back into her. She began to rhythmically contract and relax her sphincter, sometimes holding his cock so tight she could actually feel the blood flow pulse through his cock.

Kate began to buck wildly, her herky-jerky motions checked only by her need to keep tight hold to the sides of the small basin. Stifling her desire to scream out at the top of her lungs when she climaxed, she let out huge gasps of air, her head shooting back, her long black hair whipping against his face. “Come in me!” she demanded, worried that if he continued to fuck her ass she would pass out. “Come in me, Alan, come in my tight ass!” The tight passage was still spasming wildly around his dick, and he obliged, blasting a prodigious amount into her rectum; Kate relaxed and sighed contentedly. His penis softened and slipped out of her, and she stood upright, pressing her back into his chest, slowly massaging herself against him. He felt that she was a bit unsteady on her feet, so he wrapped his arms around her middle to stabilize her.

A few minutes later they were back at their seats, a few stations from home. Kate called her mom on her cell phone to let her know she didn’t need a ride home, that Alan would give her a lift.

“So, what are you doing tonight?” she asked.

“Going to the movies with Pauline.”

“What are you seeing?”

“No idea. I always let her pick. She’s got better taste in movies than me. What’re you doing?”

“I have to be back in the city at 6:30 in the morning. I’ll watch a little TV and turn in early.”

“Do you like your work at the center?”

“It’s challenging. You know, ‘There but for the grace of God go I,’ and all that. Almost all of the girls there are abuse survivors, and they all have these dead eyes, like they’ve seen hell, or worse. It’s very depressing, but I try to help anyway I can.”

“Why do you go in so early?”

“I work in the kitchens, supervising the girls who prepare breakfast. Sometimes I can even get one or two of them to open up and talk while we’re working. I think their defenses aren’t so high in the early morning because they’re tired. That’s why I volunteered for breakfast.”

Alan got a flashback from prom night. “You’re a good person,” he said in all earnestness as he put his arm around her shoulders. Kate looked up and beamed at him.

“Nothing?” he asked incredulously. “No one in any station recognized him from the photograph?”

Agents had spent the last two weeks scouring all of the stations, and nothing had turned up. Agent One dreaded making this report to his boss, a man unkind to failure. If it were up to him he would take the lawyer and interrogate him, but his instructions were to the contrary. A team of agents had broken into the lawyer’s office, but found nothing much of interest, though they weren’t able to penetrate one of the offices within. The only thing they had found was an appointment calendar on the receptionist’s desk with that name, Carl Sutherland, entered for the time the mark had shown up. A more thorough search on the name revealed little; the only address listed was the office itself, and the credit report showed lots of cash, but no hints as to its source.

He decided to reduce the size of his team; two sets of agents sitting on the office building, and three sets deployed at Grand Central Station in shifts. If the trail picked up again he could always rehire the rest.

“Dude, your mom’s on the phone. Again.”

Alan took the receiver from his roommate and had a brief conversation with his mother, centering on whether he had enough pairs of boxer shorts and socks. Mom had just been shopping and bought him some more, and wanted to know if she could come down into the city and drop them off, and perhaps take him to lunch. She worried about him not getting enough to eat. Alan agreed, and he and his mom agreed on a day early next week. He hung up and turned to his smirking roommate.

“She’s my mom. She worries about me,” he sheepishly explained.

“Yeah, my mom worries about me too, but you don’t see her calling every day, do ya?” Soren shot back.

“Hey, for my mom it’s a local call, so quit yer bellyaching. You’re just worried that she’s tying up the phone and your girlfriend wont get through.” Soren threw a pillow at him, but it was a glancing blow, and failed to draw blood.

It was a few weeks into the semester, about a month after he came to campus (the first week was taken up by orientation). Alan was having a blast; for the first time in his life he didn’t have a curfew, didn’t have to tell his parents where and with whom he was going out. It was freeing.

Unlike many—or perhaps most—college freshman, he actually liked his roommate. Classes were tough, but exciting. College was a whole different way of learning, mostly by its rhythms. Instead of having every class every day like in high school, his college courses met two—or in some cases three—times a week. Most of the material covered was not spoon-fed by teachers, but assigned as reading.

The biggest shock came in the last week. On his first essay for his English composition class, a class for some obscure reason known here as “Logic and Rhetoric,” he had received a C. Never in his life had a gotten a C on a paper! Sure, a B here or there, but this was unprecedented. The TA had office hours in a few minutes and Alan planned on seeing her and asking her what the problem was.

The campus was swarming with students as he walked along College Walk, the pedestrian path that bisected the grounds. His destination was Philosophy Hall, on the eastern edge of school, easily identified by a cast of Rodin’s Thinker out front. His progress was slowed by recent friends coming up and chatting. Mike and Autumn from his biology section stopped him, and they made plans to get together for a study session.

The TA was using an unused seminar room to meet with students; she had no office of her own. A hand-lettered sign taped to the door read “Miranda Gorman,” and listed her office hours. “It’s always a pain, giving back the first assignments,” Miranda, the TA told him with a sigh as he took a seat across from her.

“How so?” he asked her.

“All you young geniuses,” she started, a mocking tone heavy on her voice, “Aren’t used to getting bad or average marks. Why, I’ll bet you’ve never gotten a grade less than an A in your whole life, and you’re puzzled at—” she glanced at her grade book and found Alan’s line in it “—at why I gave you a C. Huh? Am I right?”

“Well,” he replied softly, “I can’t lie to you; I did get some B’s on some written assignments in high school, but those were lab reports for Chemistry and Physics. But I’ve never gotten less than an A on English or History papers, and I was editor-in-chief of the school newspaper.”

Miranda’s eyes twinkled a bit at his admission. The past four freshmen had claimed they’d never received less than an A on anything, ever. “Hmm, an honest man. Where’s Diogenes when I need him?” she joked, assuming that the boy sitting across from her wouldn’t get the reference.

“I don’t know,” he rejoindered, “Getting his lantern serviced? It is nearing the end of the month.” Miranda broke up in surprised laughter. They got down to business. Alan pulled out his paper and she reread it quickly. The problem turned out to be his newspaper experience. A reporter tends to write in discrete paragraphs, so that if an editor decides to make cuts, whole graphs could be excised without compromising the readability of the piece as a whole. Miranda impressed upon him the need to make his writing more flowing, paragraphs which built upon one another to form one big mountain, rather than a chain of small hills. He thanked her as he stood to leave, making a small joke which she found very funny.

As she stood to walk him out he gave her a once-over, and she him. There were no other kids in the hallway waiting to meet with her, so they walked out the main door of Philosophy Hall together, and then walked down the gargantuan steps of Low Library towards College Walk.

“Do you have classes tomorrow?” Miranda asked coyly as they neared the gates on the Broadway side of campus.

“No, I lucked out. No Friday classes,” he told her. As he answered he looked at her, and though it was hard to read the expression on her face in the twilight of the hour Alan had other ways of reading her. When he peered into her mind he was almost shocked by the images running through them. Almost.

A few hours later, back at her apartment.

Alan and Miranda had met a bunch of her friends at a bar and grill of Broadway, sharing finger food and a few pitchers of beer. It was your typical grad student outing, consisting of quaffing intoxicants and complaining about faculty advisors. Alan didn’t add much to the conversation, but held his own.

Silently they had walked together to Miranda’s building, a small walk-up on Claremont Avenue. She invited him up.

He accepted.

He knew what he was in for, and was looking forward to it. Miranda thought she was going to surprise him, so he decided to play along and not burst her balloon. She led him into her second floor apartment, a small two bedroom, the kitchen table groaning under the weight of papers to correct, books and journals, and research notes. The couch was covered with junk, so she cleared space enough for the two of them and beckoned him to sit next to her.

“You seem—I don’t know—older than a freshman,” she said quietly as she ran her fingers through his hair.

“Older?”

“Yeah,” she half said, half sighed. “You kept up tonight. The conversations in the bar.” She leaned forward and kissed him softly on his lips, and he returned the gesture, his hands coming around her, lifting her blouse slowly upwards. She batted his hands away. “Slow down,” she hissed, “You’re not in high school anymore. Let’s take our time.” She looked deeply in his eyes, and they sparkled at him.

She kissed him again, and Alan, after waiting what he deemed to be a requisite amount of time, started to lift of her blouse again. Again, she swatted at his busy hands. “I get it,” Miranda chuckled, “You’re ready.” She stood and took him by the hand and led him into what he assumed to be her bedroom, but once inside yet again she rebuffed his attempt to remove her top. “Patience,” she counseled, her forefinger stroking his lips. She guided him to the bed, and gently laid him down upon it, then straddled his waist and bent over to lock her lips to his again. This time it was her hands lifting up his shirt, and he allowed her to remove it. Now stripped to the waist she attacked his nipples with her mouth and teeth, gently nibbling on them, pleased by his soft groans she received in reaction. Keeping his mind focused on his nipples she took one of his wrists in her hand and brought it up over his head so that his hands were hanging off over the end of the futon pad. Working quickly she attached it to the restraint installed to the top of the frame, and a few seconds later both wrists were bound.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Quiet,” she half-barked at him. “Do as I say and you’ll have a good time. Don’t do as I say and you wont. Got it? I’m in charge, and don’t you forget it,” she snarled. Her eyes were shiny with arousal as she surveyed him prostrate on her bed. She went to her closet and took some things out of it, not letting him see what she was getting, and then disappeared into the bathroom.

She was a different person when she emerged five minutes later. Gone were the khaki pants, Doc Martens and flannel shirt she had before. Now she stood before him as a bitch goddess in heat. Her leather boots were thigh-high and stiff, black and polished to a high gloss. Her panties were black and leather, though matte, softer looking than the boots. The bra holding her generous bust was of the same material as the panties, with holes cut in the cups to allow the nipples to peek through. Her face was almost as shockingly different as her change in attire. Her pale skin was even whiter than before, heavily masked by make up, and her lips were painted a great vivid scarlet. Her wavy light auburn hair, which she had worn loose earlier in the evening, was pulled back into a severe bun, held in place by a clip.

“Oh my god,” Alan gasped in feigned surprise, aware of her plans for this encounter as far back as she did, from the time the left office hours together.

The first thing she did was to take off his pants and underwear, shooting an appreciative glance at his large and rapidly expanding erection. “Nice,” she remarked as if evaluating a piece of meat at the butcher’s shop. Holding his cock with her fingertips she raked her nails up and sown the length until it reached full hardness. “Very nice.”

She moved up his body walking on he knees and placed her crotch in his face. Alan could smell her excitement through the heavy material of her leather panties. She reached under herself and popped the snaps at the crotch of her panties and jammed her pussy into his mouth. “Lick it,” she hissed, “Lick it good, and if you make me come, maybe I’ll let you come.”

He attacked her pussy with his lips and tongue, his task made a bit awkward by the restraints on his wrists. Miranda began to thrash lightly against his head, small mutterings and moans escaping past her lacquered lips. “The kid’s not bad,” she thought to herself as her arousal accelerated. “Not bad at all,” as her gasps became audible. He was concentrating on her clit, and the sensations were electrifying. She was about to orgasm and her upper body shook in arousal, her nipples pointy through the openings in her bra. She screamed, her cry echoing off the walls of the room. Unable to keep upright her body fell forward, her hands flat against the wall in front of her to hold herself off of him.

“What a find!” she said under her breath after her gasping subsided. She lifted herself off his face and collapsed on the mattress next to him.

“Are you gonna release me now?”

“Maybe soon,” she said, a smile on her lips. She gently took his cock with her fingers again, teasing him anew with her nails.

The front door of the apartment opened with a squeak.

“Randa? You home? You’ll never guess who I saw tonight! Randa?”

“Who was it?” Miranda answered calmly from her bedroom through the half-opened door.

“That fucking creep, Steve Ganske. He tried hitting on me ag—” Laura Drayton froze in the doorway, seeing her roommate, her part-time Mistress, geared up in her dominatrix outfit. On the bed next to her was a guy she’d never seen before, sporting the largest penis she’d ever seen. Laura lowered her eyes respectfully. “I’m sorry, Mistress Randa. I’ll shut the door behind me,” she said reverently.

“No. Go to your room. Prepare yourself and come back immediately.”

“Now we’re in for some fun,” Miranda said slyly to the bound freshman chained to her bed. “Hmmm,” she said languidly, one hand idly tracing patterns on his bare chest, the other still stimulating his manhood with her nails, “I wonder what my little teenager would like now.” She considered the cock in her hand. “Make that not so little.” An evil look came across her face. “Would you like me to, I don’t know, suck your cock?”

“Yessssss,” he whispered as she tightened her grip over his erection, the nails digging in slightly.

“I didn’t say you could talk!” she barked. “Let’s try again. Would you like me to suck your cock?”

He nodded.

“Pity for you. I don’t suck cock.”

The door to the bedroom opened and Miranda’s roommate reentered. Laura was wearing nothing more than stockings, a garter belt, and nipple clips; in addition to a dog collar, a blindfold hung loosely around her neck, waiting for her mistress to blind and bind her.

Miranda gestured to the door, and the shivering girl standing in it. “Like I said before, I don’t suck cock. That’s her job,” she said wickedly. To Laura, “Come here, cocksucker, and show this boy how you suck a nice cock. This is Laura, my cocksucker,” she explained with an even voice after turning to face him again.

Alan thought he heard Laura moan, but couldn’t be sure; his pulse was beating in his ears, his eyes fixed on his dominatrix teaching assistant. Once Laura had knelt on the bed Miranda look her by the ears and steered her towards his groaning erection. Laura quickly engulfed the helmet. Alan groaned in response; her tongue was a frenzy against his hardness. Miranda ordered him to be silent, and he quieted down.

“That’s right baby. Suck him. Suck him hard. Suck him good. Yeah. He’s got a nice cock, doesn’t he, baby?”

Laura nodded, half his dick swallowed down; Alan almost moaned again, but thought better of it.

“Suck his cock until he comes. He’s going to come down your slutty throat, and you’re gonna swallow it all. You’ll do that, wont you baby? You swallow all of his man cream for me, yes?” Laura nodded again, even more of him filling her throat.

“Don’t miss a drop. Ooh yeah, that looks so nasty, your nose buried in his pubes. Good job. Good job, baby. Swallow it all when he comes, or I’ll punish you. Yeah, suck it like that. Swallow all his nasty man come, his boy come, and then keep sucking him. Get him hard again. Get him hard again so he can fuck your Mistress. Do it, baby, do it for me, do it for me, do it for me, do it for me.”

Alan, with his power to control his own orgasm, could have let this go on all night, and her was tempted to draw it out as Miranda continued her filthy litany of command and encouragement. But all good things must come to an end, so he spewed into Laura’s mouth, keeping the volume of his ejaculate low to spare Laura any punishment. Laura pulled her mouth off of him and opened wide, showing Miranda her come, apparently a tradition between the two of them, and then made an over-dramatic show of swallowing it down before taking him in her mouth again, to make him hard for her mistress. Alan quickly regained his erection, surprising both women.

Miranda pulled Laura off of him by her hair, marched Laura over to the corner of the room attaching her collar to a chain and covered her eyes with the blindfold, returned to the bed and then straddled him. “You’re gonna be a good boy now, aren’t you? You’re gonna make me come, yes?” She half-groaned as she lowered herself slowly onto his dick, small gasps escaping her mouth; she had never been with a man so large. Alan decided to toy with her, and using his powers blocked her ability to orgasm. Up and down, up and down she stroked herself onto him, her excitement boiling, but for some reason she didn’t understand, not boiling over. “Fuck!” she moaned, frantic with sexual excitement but unable to climax.

“What’s wrong, Miranda?” he asked her, the evil grin now spreading across his face.

“Mistress! Call me M-mistress!” she barked back as best she was able through the haze of lust enveloping her. Sweat was pouring down her face, down her neck and over her bust, soaking the leather of her bra. Whenever he thrust up at her small droplets of perspiration dripped off her diamond-hard nipples and landed on his abdomen.

“No, I will not,” he shot back with a harsh tone in his voice.

She slowed her bouncing, both because her mounting fatigue and the shock at this boy’s defiance.

“Listen to me, son,” she whispered through half-clenched teeth, “I thought I laid out the rules after I strapped you down. I’m in charge here. Now shut up and f-fuck me” There was a horny weariness to her voice.

“You’re in charge? Then why can’t you come? Huh?” Alan brought his hands up and grabbed her breasts through her bra, squeezing them roughly, her nipples pressing insistently into the palms of his hands.

“How, <gasp> did you do that?” she shrieked, her eyes fixated on his unbound wrists as she ground her crotch into his.

“Magic,” he snarled back, rolling her over and off of him and getting on top, then slamming his cock fully into her. Miranda screamed incoherently. He strapped her in to the restraints attached to the bed’s frame; she was too week with exhaustion to resist.

“What are y-you g-g-gonna do to me,” she asked fearfully.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he said simply. “I’m gonna fuck you to within an inch of your life, and then I’m gonna come in your mouth,” he explained as he sunk his cock into her steaming and juicy depths. And I’m gonna make you come so hard your toes are gonna curl up.”

She groaned deafeningly loud. “NO!” Alan stopped his attack, just the head of his dick resting inside the entrance of her pussy.

“No? You don’t want that?” He gave her another inch, feeling her walls contract against his invader.

“No,” she insisted, her mind a fury of contradictions. He was in control, and she didn’t like it, but what he was doing to her was so powerfully erotic the excitement was insanely arousing. She could feel it, her juices dripping out of her womanhood to her ass and then onto the sheets.

“No? You want me to pull out? You want me to get dressed and leave? Or do you want me to fuck your tight little pussy and then come in your slut mouth?” he taunted her writhing form as he slowly pronged her with an inch of his cock, slowly pushing and drawing out, feeling her rubbery pussy lips grasping his shaft in an attempt to keep him from escaping her warm depths.

She couldn’t think straight, and the loss of control was terrifying to her, a Mistress, a person who tried her best always to stay in control. “No,” she grunted not knowing if she said that so he would continue or cease fucking her. She was out of her mind with lust.

Alan took that to mean that she wanted him to stop, and he pulled out of her, an obscene slurping noise resulting as her gash gave up his cock. He walked over to the corner where Laura was cowering and trembling and took off her blindfold. She looked up at him, her vision dominated by the sight of his twitching erection, covered in her Mistress’s secretions. It looked delicious to her and a drop of drool escaped from the corner of her mouth. This man—this boy—standing before her had dominated her Mistress, her dominatrix. He stared at her, saying nothing, and she moved her head as far forward as her chain would allow, licking the glowing pink head of his penis. “Yummy!” Laura thought. He took a small step towards her and she took his tool in her hand, rubbing it against her face and licking the shaft.

“Are you ready?”

Laura didn’t understand the question. She shrugged and continued to nuzzle his dick, her long blond hair tickling his most sensitive organ.

He pulled back and then knelt in front of her so their faces were level. “Are you ready? To help me?”

Her pale blue eyes shimmered, wide as pools, and she slowly nodded her assent. He reached behind her neck and released her from the collar, also detaching it from the chain. After disconnecting the nipple clips he led her over to the futon, so they were in sight of the quivering Miranda, and stood her in front of him leaning forward so that his chin was lightly resting on her left shoulder, then whispered his instructions in her ear. Her eyes went wide with shock and arousal. He left the room, leaving the door open behind him as he made his way to the refrigerator for a drink.

“What are you doing?” Miranda croaked loud enough for him to hear in the next room. “No, slave, stop, don’t do that. I am your Mistress, damnit! Let me go, please.” Alan downed half a bottle of water before coming back in, and he saw that Laura had followed his directions perfectly. Miranda was naked on the bed. No bitch-goddess boots, no leather bra and panties, only the collar, the slave collar, the collar she had used to restrain Laura. The blonde graduate student sat at attention in a straight-backed chair facing the bed, her hands crossed demurely over her naked crotch.

“Please Alan, please let me up. I’ll fuck you. I’ll I’ll I’ll I’ll even let you—” she paused, the thought almost sickening her, “—come in my mouth, please?”

“I don’t know, Miranda. Laura here has been most cooperative, unlike some people I know, unlike some people in this very room, as a matter of fact,” he retorted, toying with her. “I think Laura deserves a little attention, don’t you? Watch carefully what I do for her, because if you’re a good girl I’ll let you have some too.” He winked at Laura as he said this, and she began trembling again at the thought of things to come.

He motioned for her to stand, and took her place on the seat, then pulled her quaking body onto his lap, his hard cock resting against her ass. For the first time he stopped to take her in; she had a fantastic body, all curves, petite and very soft. He’d be surprised if she had ever seen the inside of a gym. There was no stringiness to her muscles, nary a right angle on her entire body. She was the essence of femininity. Her breasts were medium-size and beautifully shaped, capped by nipples so pale pink they almost matched her skin tone; a light dusting of freckles went from the bridge of her nose to the top of her bosom. Alan had his arms around her waist and his fingers in her mound, one teasing her clit, the other stroking her lips, occasionally running through the neatly trimmed patch of yellow pubic hair which crowned her vagina. Once she was sufficiently wet he would lift her and set her down on his dick, and that time was soon approaching.

Miranda looked up from the bed, her eyes wide and her jaw slack, taking in the sublimely erotic scene in front of her, wishing her hands were free, so badly did she want to play with herself. At least they hadn’t blindfolded her, though that was of small comfort in her current situation.

Laura was a squeaker. She let loose a loud one when he penetrated her, groaning deeply as the whole of him made it way up her tiny pussy, a passage never nearly stretched so much before. As he bottomed out she squeaked again, and yet more once he started lifting and dropping her, his hands firm on her fleshy hips.

“Yessss!” Laura gasped out. “Fuck me like that, yes!” Alan realized this was the first time she had said anything since shortly after entering the apartment.

“Looks good, don’t it?” Alan said, addressing the bound Miranda on the bed. Miranda licked her lips and nodded. Watching Laura orgasm on the end of his gargantuan dick was one of the most thrilling sights she had ever seen, and judging by her roommate’s moans she sure sounded like she was having the time of her life, and she wanted some of that for herself; the throbbing in her pussy was telling her so.

Before Miranda knew what was happening the pair had shifted. He was doing her from behind now, Laura face hanging a few inches above her own. Suddenly Laura dropped her head down and attacked Miranda’s mouth with her own, and Miranda eagerly reciprocated, her horniness overcoming her fear over the loss of control, her tongue busily exploring her roommate’s gasping mouth. Alan reached forward and cupped Laura’s forehead, drawing her away from her bound lover.

“Tell her,” he ordered Laura curtly. “Tell her this is the best fucking you’ve ever had. Tell her how it feels.”

“Oh God yes! So good. So hard! So long! So big in my tight little pussy. The best! The best! The best! The best! The best!” she chanted mindlessly, her face a mask of unadulterated pleasure and lust. Miranda felt the flow from her pussy increase.

“Oh my GOD! It’s happening! AGAIN!” the blonde submissive screeched as she exploded anew in an orgasm of epic proportions, collapsing half on the bed, half on her chained roommate, a cheek pressed into Miranda’s own heaving tit. Alan kept pumping into her, and in less then two minutes she exploded again, but less frenzied this time, as she was nearing the end of her stamina. As he pulled his still hard cock, shiny and dripping with Laura’s juices from her hot channel, the small girl have a last moan and passed out, her body limp against Miranda’s.

Alan lifted her up and carried her to her room, ignoring the crazed look Miranda was shooting at him as they left. After gently depositing her on her bed and pulling up the comforter to cover her, he quickly swallowed down the rest of the bottled water on the way in to Miranda’s bedroom.

“So, what did you think of that?” he asked her sneeringly.

“Please,” she huffed. “Pleeeease.”

“What do you want? What do you want me to do?” he asked back, a mock innocence in his voice.

“Do that to me. Please,” she pleaded.

“Fuck you?”

“Yesssss. I need it. Please. I want you. I w-w-w-want to c-come like that. Like sh-sh-she did.”

“You’ll be a good girl?”

“Anything. Anything, p-please,” she whined.

“You’ll suck my cock? Drink my come?”

“Yes!” she answered without the slightest hesitation.

He walked to the head of the bed and fiddled with her cuffs, releasing her from her bonds. He laid down on the mattress, and pushed her upright. “Show me. Show me how a GOOD GIRL sucks cock.”

She attacked him with her mouth, licking the underside with the flat of her soft tongue. She had absolutely no experience in this; growing up she had simply refused, and as a Mistress she had slaves for this task. She improvised, mixing kissing and licking and sucking into an opera of lust.

He tapped her on her shoulder and she understood, taking the head back into her mouth, waiting expectantly for it to explode. She needed not to wait long, and to her surprise she savored the taste of him. He flipped her onto her back, spread her legs and knelt between them. Amazingly he hadn’t lost a whit of his hardness, and she gasped aloud when the head of his prick came to rest on the lips of her drooling pussy, nestling itself against the soft auburn curls which covered her pubis.

“Beg.”

This was a game she had often played with Laura, so she knew what to do. “Fuck me, please, fuck me. I want to feel it in me, please. I’ll be a good girl, a good little girl, I promise, but please fuck me now. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” she howled as he filled her at last, her entreaties degenerating into incoherent grunting as he hammered in and out. Her entire body shook violently as he gave it to her, her head bouncing off the pillow, her arms and legs flailing about. Less than a minute after penetration she climaxed, her tight wet pussy grasping strongly at its invader, a shower of juices flowing briskly from her pussy, drenching his shaft and trickling off of his swinging balls.

“Come in me,” she begged. “Shoot your juice in my pussy, my good-girl pussy,” she squealed. “I have to feel it!”

Groaning himself, he came into her spasming channel, collapsing forward, covering her body with his own. She embraced him, her arms coming around his back, her legs encircling his sweaty ass.

“So good. So fucking good,” she muttered mostly to herself as she drifted off into her dreams.

The following Wednesday in class Miranda handed back the next batch of essays to her students. Alan flipped through the paper, excited that the comments were all positive. The grade however brought him up short.

D- Please see me at my regularly scheduled office hours, this Thursday, 5:30 to 7.

There was a smiley face under the grade.