The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“What’s your name?”

She ignored the unwanted question. The questioner was an odd looking kid in black. Some kind of arty type she assumed in his turtleneck and black denims. And about fifteen years younger than she was. Tracey drew the newspaper toward her as the train rumbled to the next stop—her stop.

“Hey, what’s your name, I asked.” The voice was insistent and held an edge she didn’t appreciate. She put the paper down, looking him in the eye. “Tracey. Tracey Hollis.” Why she tell him that? Anyway the train stopped and she got up.

“Sit down. We’re just getting acquainted,” the kid demanded.

And her legs gave out from under her. Was she that tired? She didn’t think so, but...

“Tracey, I’m Mr. Locke,” the boy informed her—which was laughable, because he was all of twenty or so. Not a bad looking kid, but the ego was insufferable. “How about a coffee, so you can tell me more about yourself?”

She could walk back to her apartment from the next stop, but she wasn’t getting up to get off with the rest of the riders. She remained sitting across from the kid. Tracey nodded limply.

They went to a Starbuck’s, where he ordered a latte for each of them, but when it was apparent he wasn’t pulling out a wallet to pay, Tracey reached into her own purse and drew out a couple of bills. “Keep the change,” insisted Locke, pushing the silver back.

Pretty generous with her money! But she remained silent, content to follow, sit and begin drinking.

“I’m an artist. What do you do?” he asked. His smile was wide, friendly, confident—but his gray eyes were impenetrable.

“I’m an attorney with Browne, Taylor & Garrick.” Soon to be a partner actually. Which was why she was working so hard and why she had managed to get herself at a Starbucks having coffee with a kid fifteen years younger than she was. She had to get home—

“That will be convenient. Your career that is.”

What the hell did that mean? She cleared her throat. “I think you have the wrong idea about what is going on here, my young friend.” Tracey gave him a forgiving smile and picked up her briefcase. “I’ve got to get—”

“What are your measurements?”

A gasp. Then, amazingly an answer. In a clear voice too. “I’m a 32B-26-32.”

He chuckled. “You’re a B cup? You look so small!” He didn’t exactly keep his voice down and some other patrons overhead him and chuckled. Locke drank his hot coffee slowly, blowing on it. “I think you’re an A cup. I think your titties look like As, just like,” but he caught himself. “If you want me to believe you, you’ll have to prove to me you wear a 32B size bra. Go into the bathroom, take off your bra and bring it back to show me the tag with 32B on it. Go on—be a good girl and do it. Or I’ll leave right now.”

Tracey was on her feet, rushing for the bathroom. Before she knew what she was doing, she had unbuttoned her blouse, unhooked her bra and confirmed what she already knew was on the tag: 32B. Just barely, but she was a 32B and she’d show him now, PROVE to him she was, before he left...

As nonchalantly as possible, Tracey slipped back into her seat and handed the balled up garment to him. Without hesitation, he held the slight white soft cotton garment up before him. Pairs of eyes were watching, colleges kids giggling at her predicament and Tracey flushed a deep red. He demanded loudly that she show him the tag and in humiliated silence she pointed out the small worn tag.

“Well, I guess you DO wear a 32B bra, Miss Tracey Hollis. But this,” he flicked her Hanes For Her softcup bra on the table, “doesn’t do a thing for your figure—does it?”

Why the Hell should it? It was for comfort, not lingerie! She screamed in her mind. Why had she done that, why had she taken off her bra—

“Does it?” he repeated, this time with impatience.

“No, not at all,” Tracey Hollis answered immediately.

“I better take a look at the rest of your undies, Tracey. Let’s go back to your place.” He rose and she followed suit. Without thinking she reached out for the bra lying on the table.

“Leave it. It’s boring.”

Tracey Hollis was reeling, eyes avoiding the rest of the patrons as she followed him out. Three blocks later she was opening her door and allowing him in. While they walked, she tried to sort out what was going on, why she was doing this. To no avail. She was under his control. The doorman to her co-op brownstone looked oddly at the couple as Locke squeezed the older woman’s ass through her skirt. The twenty-something sealed the humiliation by leering at him and winking.

“Why don’t you get comfortable by slipping into your sexiest lingerie and high heels, fixing me a drink and then we’ll get on with your undies inspection. Hop to it Tracey!” Locke slapped her playfully on the ass and she scampered to comply. Five minutes later, Tracey shyly presented herself in a pink babydoll and pink three inch heels.

Locke’s smile was mocking. “God you need lots of work, Tracey! No boyfriend obviously—am I right?”

She shook her head in agreement. A doll. She was a damn doll with him!

“All right, forget what YOU think is sexy and go put on your sluttiest pair of panties and bra. Scoot!”

Swallowing hard, Tracey slipped on the cheap black lace thong she had received as a gag gift at a birthday party a couple of years ago and a black lace bra and tried again.

Locke was shaking his head. “Bra doesn’t match Tracey—does it?”

“No, but it is the closest—”

He waved his hand imperiously. “Take it off then. Your titties hardly need a bra anyway, Tracey! But I do like that thong—more what I like than that silly babydoll. Get me a vodka tonic and "

Obediently, she slipped off the black lace bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her smallish breasts swayed slightly as she pranced in the heels to prepare his cocktail. Upon return, he ordered her to wear each and every piece of lingerie she owned. It was admittedly not a large collection. Tracey hadn’t been in a relationship in a few years, concentrating instead on her career.

Strange what was happening, but maybe not so strange. Obviously some unconscious desire had permeated her and she had become infatuated with this kid though. Because it was feeling good to display her body for his pleasure this way. Ironic to her, because she had always considered herself to be an active feminist who hated submitting to a man. And yet here she was, pirouetting in her panties for his amusement.

“Like what you see?” she teased. She wanted this to happen. She could afford to be playful.

His gray eyes caught hers briefly. “Keep quiet. And put something else on.”

She didn’t like the tone, but did as he said. Finally she had worn every panty, bra, pair of stockings, camisole and other intimate garment she owned. They all lay at her naked feet on the floor in a pile of whites, blacks and pastels.

“Good. Now throw out everything that is made of cotton. Then every panty that is not a thong. Then every bra that is full-cut, padded or does not have supportive wiring. Throw out every pair of panty hose. You may wear what is left.”

He wasn’t kidding, because there was no smile on his face. Her lover wasn’t kidding. She had had enough. This wasn’t some sexual adventure any more. Tracey needed to assume control.

“Look, you’re a good looking kid—that’s probably why we’re doing this. But let’s just make love and cut the cute movie comments. This isn’t 9 1/2 weeks and I’m not about to throw all my underwear out. I doubt this is going anywhere beyond a one night stand, so why don’t YOU be a good boy, strip down and let’s both go into the bedroom. Ok.? If not, hit the highway, Jack.”

Locke put his drink down. Tracey wasn’t surprised as she watched him take off his belt. But then he wasn’t taking anything else off. She looked at the buckled over belt in his hands. It was a thick black mean-looking item. That’s when she began to grow frightened. Truly frightened.

“You’re a naughty girl, Tracey. You deserve a spanking for such sassy backtalk.” He patted his knee gently. “Come on, Tracey—time to learn how to speak properly to your new boyfriend. I don’t tolerate that kind of lip from a mere woman.”

She didn’t know if she pulled down her thong panty for her spanking or he did it himself. But it was his belt that crashed down on her bare backside and they were her tears that fell to the carpeted floor as the punishment accelerated.

Later she had been ordered into the corner, with thong around her ankles, and left staring into the wallpaper to contemplate her uncivil tongue toward her new boyfriend. Tracey rolled the word over in her mind. HER NEW BOYFRIEND. The one that had so casually taken her over his knee and spanked her like a little girl—despite the fifteen years that separated them. Despite the hate she felt for him.

“You can pull your panties up now Tracey. Learned your lesson?”

Tracey yanked the black lace thong up, happy for even the small modesty it permitted. “Yes, I did,” her voice replied, curiously laced with deference. Why? She despised him. Yet she was smiling in a simpering way now, eager to please.

“Throw out those unsexy undies now.”

She gathered them up and did so, tossing the perfectly good underwear into her trash. As she pushed them into the bottom of the kitchen trash bin, Tracey thought about what was happening in her apartment and wondered.

Returning to her living room, she stood before him quietly. Somehow it was natural that she should keep her head bowed, eyes averting his as she spoke to him. “What is going on here?” It wasn’t asked accusingly, but honestly.

“Oh, that. Well,” Locke ran his palms against her bare thighs, “I guess I own you now.”

She shook her head. “I-I don’t understand what you mean. You mean that we’re...involved?” It sounded stupid to put it that way, but Tracey didn’t know how else to describe it.

Locke’s pale angled face tightened with hilarity. “Involved? You’re hysterical. No—I mean you’re my property.” His gray eyes and lipless mouth widened at Tracey’s incredulity. “Can’t believe it? Then why have you acted the way you’ve acted all afternoon? You—Tracey Hollis, the great lawyer extraordinaire and defender of women’s rights?” He hopped up and gently pushed her into her bedroom. As he stood behind her, they both looked at the near nude woman looking sheepishly back at them from the full-length mirror.

“Look at her—recognize her? She’s Tracey Hollis. Thirty-five, successful lawyer, Dartmouth undergraduate, Duke law school. Almost a partner in Browne, Taylor & Garrick. Makes about one hundred twenty-five thousand a year. Drives a Range Rover—very chic! Owns this condo. Virulent feminist—local NOW chapter leader and liberal Democrat fundraiser. That’s the public Tracey Hollis. But NONE of that is important in the least to me. What is important to me is how my new possession can amuse me. Let’s talk about Tracey, Mr. Locke’s sextoy. ”

She shivered as he ran his fingers along her cheeks.

“Look at her face. She is not pretty. Tracey is too intense to be pretty. Look at her deep set hazel eyes. With those naturally thin eyebrows and high cheek bones, she looks almost angry. Intelligent eyes, always searching and sizing up the world. Look at that nose—thin and upturned, from down which her eyes are constantly judging and evaluating. So superior. And her lips don’t help—too thin, never painted enough to give one the unspoken promise of kisses-the mouth too tight, too determined. Her complexion is perfect, if far too pale. And of course her trademark auburn hair—a short slightly flipped pageboy that is all-business and easy to maintain.”

Locke caressed Tracey’s wan cheeks as they examined her in the mirror like doctors. “No—not a pretty face. There is too much independence, too much defiance in it. Like the body. Her small breasts, her nicely toned body—running suits her as an exercise, though she’d never think twice about aerobics, would she? Running is serious, aerobics would smack too much of body shaping to suit her feminists tastes. Though her hard little body has fine shape for what it offers.” He patted her backside appreciatively. “About 5″ 7′ and 125 pounds are we? Excellent for a woman your age. There are twenty year olds I know that would love to have your body, even with your tiny boobs. No—you’re not pretty, Tracey. But certainly striking. There is something in you that dares a man to break your spirit. To make you submit. Because once you are properly broken in and tamed, all that independent will and energy would be refocused on pleasing your master. You’d be eager to learn new tricks to perform. You’d make quite a playful little bedmate once that happened, wouldn’t you?”

Tracey didn’t answer. If not for self-preservation instincts, she felt she was in danger of her mind tipping into madness. Maybe it was a dream, because certainly she couldn’t be willingly submitting to this treatment, these comments, his chastisements. She would be acting: the police needed to be called, charges filed. Breaking and entering, attempted rape, kidnapping. A dream, certainly.

“I’m going to leave now. But first, I have some instructions for you.” Locke held her head in both hands and Tracey thought he might be trying to strangle her. Instead he whispered in her ear. Nasty things, despicable things.

He patted her ass one more time. “Be sure to remember what I just told you. You wouldn’t want to earn another spanking, now would you?”

The memory of the bright sparkly pain exploded in her head and Tracey shook her head vigorously. No, she definitely would not like to earn another spanking! And with that he left her apartment.

That had been a week ago and she had written off the whole episode since then. Why not—she only remembered it as a daydream, one she must have had on the bus. Weird but people have weird dreams, don’t they. It wasn’t like there was any proof that her mystery man was anything other than a figment of her imagination. Too much work—she needed to take a vacation, maybe go see her sister. And as the week had progressed, she made an absolute commitment to herself that she would take some time off. Because while the whole spanking dream was explainable (if real-seeming enough!), her new impulses were less so.

BUY NEW UNDERWEAR

Well, she had needed some things. That was easy to rationalize—Tracey was no clothes horse and she tended to hold onto things for years. Many of her panties and bras were showing their age. But the choices she was making seemed odd. She had never gone in for elaborate undergarments. It was a shame strategy that the male-dominated fashion industry used to goad women into buying whatever they were manufacturing—one she had never succumbed to. But now she found herself buying the skimpiest kinds of thong panties and little French-cut bikini nothings. All silk, lace or polyester too. No comfortable cottons that most of her old things had been. And the bras—matching push-up things she felt embarrassed about looking at, let alone buying. She was small-chested, but had never bothered to artificially boost her size up, except with some subtle padding. Now she was buying underwired half-bra things that made a small neat shelf of her once unremarkable chest. And that wasn’t all. Because in addition to the new impulse towards more interesting bras and panties, she had also gone and bought a number of different colored garter belts and stockings. She had felt an uncontrollable revulsion towards her pantyhose and thrown them all out.

BUY TIGHT CLOTHES

That was strange too—she had always favored the loose casual Gap look. But now she was buying skirts and blouses that left less and less to the imagination. Not that she was going crazy—her new clothes were quite acceptable. Well maybe that blue skirt was a bit too short for the courtroom and the sweater too form-fitting, but most of the new purchases were o.k. It was on Thursday when she found herself asking one of the secretaries where she had bought her black leather mini that Tracey realized she was dressing more like one of the firm’s younger secretaries than the other lawyers or partners.

SHOW MORE SKIN

Well, so she left a top button undone. Or two or three. It wasn’t such a big deal. And she didn’t deserve the stares she had received when she had come in wearing a cute new yellow belly shirt. She wasn’t due in court and she wasn’t seeing any of the firm’s clients. One of the older partners had spoken to her about it and she had brushed it off. And rightly so—she could dress any way she damn well pleased! None of the new impulses were that out in left field. Though the last one nagged her because of the frustration it was causing her.

DO NOT MASTURBATE

Tracey was a thirty-five year old single woman. She was too busy to indulge in any affairs, so masturbation was something she did on a regular basis. Hell, she could make herself come. It wasn’t something she was ashamed about. But now every time she felt the urge—before bed or in the morning—the impulse denied her. Like her trusty fingers had turned to cold iron. And though the impulse denied her release, it hadn’t taken away the urge or need. She was horny as hell and all she could think about was scratching the itch.

“How have we been this past week?” The voice was sly, knowing. She spun around. It was Locke. She had just come home—her door had been locked. Had she fallen asleep in front of the teevee? Was she dreaming again? Must be. Though it was still light outside, she couldn’t get herself up. She looked up.

“Stand up, Tracey. Let’s see if you were paying attention to me last week.” He gestured her to stand up and present herself for his perusal.

It was a dream, so naturally she obeyed him, easily rising up off the couch. HE nodded as he approached her. Without hesitation, Locke reached out to cup one of her breasts.

“Cute halter top—bet this got the attention of your fellow attorneys!” He squeezed her small breast and she moaned softly. “A perkier look for your little bumps too.” He yanked down the pink halter to reveal an electric pink strapless push-up. He plucked at a tag in the back. “Wonder Bra—good girl! At least there’s a little something to hold onto now.” He callouslessly unzipped her teeny black spandex mini. It slipped down her legs, revealing a matching electric pink lace thong panty. The tiny thing barely concealed her sex. Locke brushed his fingers against the brownish-auburn curls that peeked out from the lace panel. “Unslightly, young missy, very unsightly! But your taste in skimpies has vastly improved so I’ll let it pass—this time. I’m sure,” he chuckled, “you won’t let it happen again.”

She remained silent—as she always had in these strange dreams. Tracey wanted to, but ever since the spanking she had received from her dream visitor last time, she dreaded another such taste of his displeasure.

He snapped her thong panty. “This should be on the outside of your garterbelt, in case I might wish to use you. Always keep yourself accessible to your owner.”

The words rang hugely in her head. She noticed now that when ever Locke uttered a command, it filled her mind to the extent of overwhelming every single other thought. He acted with such much natural propriety about her, it seemed reasonable that she should hang on his every word or touch.

“Your body is trim of course, but you must pay more attention to bringing out those feminine curves of yours. Dressing appropriate will help—but you’ll receive other instructions about that. Hmmm. So far so good for the first week. Are your superiors taking note of your changes?”

She nodded, a bitter smile on her red painted lips. “Yes. I’ve been given a warning about wearing acceptable clothing.”

“And you’ve ignored it of course—because dressing like a little tramp IS appropriate for you NOW.”

She nodded. “Oh, yes.”

He snickered. “So the partnership is out by now.”

Tracey’s intelligent gray eyes blinked. “Oh, yes. In fact, I doubt I have any future with the firm at all at this point. I have been a big disappointment to them—I can see it in their eyes.” She was not bitter about this—it was the price of the dream that she remain nonplussed.

“Good. You’ve probably got another week before ruining your legal career completely with your slutty attire. Just enough time to get a few more things done before we move on to the next phase. But before we do that, I must congratulate my little slavegirl on her complete, unquestioning obedience. Such behavior deserves a reward—even from a cruel master like myself!”

Tracey found a wide silly grin blossoming on her lips. He was pleased with her—that was a good thing, she was sure of it!

Locke seated himself on the couch and pointed at the carpet before him. “Assume the position little bitch.”

Tracey dropped to her black silk stockinged knees, the toes of her black high heels perfectly perpendicular to the floor. With a small effort she spread her legs as far as she might, clasped her hands behind her back and kept her head bowed (THE POSITION).

“My obedient little bitch is accepting her training well. Soon you shall be a tamed little ornament for my strange whims. I am pleased. You may finger fuck yourself bitch.”

Trembling with lust, Tracey dropped her right hand between her legs, underneath her pretty pink thong. Her index finger found her pussy warm wet and waiting. She gently began pumping herself, hips rocking with increasing pleasure as she did.

“Keep your eyes open and look up at me little bitch. I want to see love and gratitude for me for permitting you such slutty play.”

She focused on his eyes. They mocked her, degrading her with their superior inspection. It would have been better had he allowed her to do this in private. It was so humiliating having to do this before a boy fifteen years younger than herself. And yet those were the rules...HIS RULES. She smiled gratefully up at him.

“Pretend I’m fucking you. Show me how excited you’d be. Go on—my cock is invading you.”

Tracey moaned and gyrated wildly. Her finger was pistoning now and she whipped her hair from side to side. Being penetrated by this man gave her life meaning; it meant she was important! Dirty leers crossed her wild flushing face—the cock was inside her now...

“Go on—finish off little bitch. I grow bored with your performance. You have fifteen seconds to bring yourself to orgasm.” Locke’s eyes pointed to his wristwatch.

It wasn’t long and she had no idea when she might be permitted such an opportunity again. She began plunging her finger faster and harder, and found her puss wetter and hotter...

“Seven, six, five...”

God no! She had to try harder! Tracey moaned harder and louder, her hips on fire as she bucked them against her slender finger...

“...four, three, two, one...STOP.” Locke savored her disappointment as his kneeling slavewoman yanked out her finger with a liquid plop! “Can’t cum? That is because only I determine when you are permitted to cum. Only I can allow pleasure into your life. And when you deserve to cum—which is the greatest accomplishment a slut like you can achieve—I will be the one who gives it to you.”

Perspiration made her pale face glow and her gray eyes were soft and round with unspoken pleading. All Tracey Hollis wanted to do was cum. She would do it on her knees before a college kid at his command like some ten dollar whore. She would do it however he liked her too—but she would do it if he let her. She prayed silently. She wanted so much to cum.

Locke’s smile was narrow and evil. Looking down at the kneeling woman, he snapped his fingers. “Cum, little bitch.”

Tracey felt her pussy explode. The snap echoed through her body, which immediately responded with a rocketing orgasm the like which she had never enjoyed. Vaguely she wondered if this was a wet dream and if her panties would be soaked when she woke up. Probably—who cared? This was heavenly! The pleasure might have lasted forever, when he snapped his fingers again and the warmth dissipated.

“Good. Now clean yourself.”

Tracey looked uncertainly at Locke then started to rise. He pushed her back down. “No—not in the bathroom. With your mouth.”

What did he mean? Then she looked at her sticky right hand. It glistened with her pussy juices, which coated the fingers and the palm which she had used to push deeper. A frown of disgust creased her pale face.

“Oh yes little bitch! The price of your naughty slutplay is cleaning up after yourself! Have you never tasted yourself?”

Tracey shook her head slowly. “No- never. It’s...gross.”

Locke ignored the comment. “I won’t repeat myself because I’d love the opportunity to take your over my knee again.”

Her tongue darted out, hesitantly, to her right hand. It was tangy, sticky, awful. She continued to lick.

“You’ll do this on your knees before me everytime you are allowed to touch yourself. When you cum this way, I want your pretty mouth to be filled with your little bitch taste. Soon you’ll know your taste very well.”

While she dutifully lapped at her fingers and hand, he spoke to her. “Now listen carefully...”

“So that’s it Doctor. These dreams are getting stranger and stranger and it is like I’m a prisoner of them. Like they’re REAL.”

Dr. Kelly shook her head, took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. In ten years of practice, she had never heard this one before. “Now you say he’s asked you to do some things this week for him. Tell me about that.”

Tracey shot her a look. “Not ask—he told me to do these things. I told you he’s not my lover so much as my...master.” She ignored the disgusted look on the doctor’s face and went on. “This week he ordered me to quit running. Said it was stupid because it didn’t help me build up curves in the rest of my body. He also said it wasn’t very feminine to run around. Instead he told me to join Bally’s and concentrate on aerobics.”

Kelly ran herself everyday and found it to be much more liberating and thoughtful that gyrating in some meatmarket in spandex. She made notes on her pad. “How do you feel about this change in your exercise?”

Tracey shrugged. “Well, I hate it of course. Those places are all about making woman self-conscious about themselves. Their about invoking body-shame so that women will do anything to shape their bodies into some fantasy men have. It is awful and embarrassing—especially when men at my office see me there tricked out in my leotard.”

“Then... why do it? Afterall, like Gloria Steinem said, ‘Women need men, like fish need bicycles’. Even dream lovers like yours are hardly worth the effort—either in real life or your fantasy life..”

The attorney looked up exasperated. “Fantasy? I suppose it is though it seems so damn REAL! Anyway, I already said—he told me too. He doesn’t care about my feelings on the subject. I think,” she paused at the epiphany, “that he likes making me do things precisely because I think they are humiliating to me as a woman.”

“Go on,” Kelly said tightly. “What else has he made you do?”

“He ordered me to shave myself. He didn’t like me with any hair down there so he wants me to keep it shaved regularly.” Tracey sat, flushed and looking away, trying to ignore the distaste now radiating from the therapist.

“I see. Now this dream lover of yours...can you describe him?”

“Young—I mean younger than me. I’d say twenty maybe. Pretty nondescript. Not someone you could pick out of a crowd easily. Smart. An artist I think. He likes to dress in black.”

Kelly put her pen down. “Not someone you’d be likely to throw yourself away on, is he? In your fantasies, are you passionate? Do you make love? What does he say to you? Can you remember any of your dreams?”

Tracey smiled wanly. “I can’t say he’s very affectionate. He hasn’t made love to me—he says it isn’t time for that yet—but he has allowed me to do, uh, other things if I’ve been good and done every thing he’d told me to do.”

“Tell me about these things,” Kelly pressed her patient.

“I’d rather not, if that’s o.k. Even talking about them makes me feel...ashamed. I mean he lets me do them and I feel pleasure doing them but I know they’re dirty and humiliating even while I’m doing them. He knows it too. He enjoys it. Enjoys having power over me.” Tracey shook her head. “Quite a bit of a dream, don’t you think?” She smiled bravely, but the attempt only showed how helpless she felt in the grip of her psychosis.

Kelly switched topics. “How’s work going?”

But that was the wrong path to take, because her new patient’s depression only deepened. “Terrible. I’m on warning and probably will be out of a job if something doesn’t happen to get me out of the doghouse.”

“What is the problem? I had heard you were a top-notch attorney—”

Tracey waved it of. “Do I look like a top-notch attorney to you Doctor?”

In point of fact, she did not. The woman sitting across from her was dressed in a tight pink poodle miniskirt, white seamed stockings, a pink ribbed half-tee and three inch pink heels. Her auburn hair was trussed up into a topsy ponytail, held by a red bow. Her pale face was punctuated by bright red lipstick and a foundation that made her naturally wan complexion sparkle with artificial excitement. She looked less like a thirty-five year old attorney than a seventeen year old obsessed with the boys.

“Well, now that you mention it. Tell me more, please.”

Tracey sighed. “He likes me this way. You see, women are just ornaments to him. He’s very specific—extremely specific—about what kinds of clothing he wants me seen in. No matter if it makes me look ridiculous. I know I look like something out of TeenBeat. But this is one of my day outfits—this is as serious as he allows people to see me—like some little feather brained bimbo. Night time it is much worse. Much worse.” She stopped for a moment then continued. “Everyone at work thinks I’ve gone nuts. You see he makes me go into the firm this way, argue cases this way. Of course I’ve lost every case since I started dressing this way—what judge or jury could take this seriously? So I’ve been put on warning. If I continue to come into the office this way, I’m out. Jesus, law school, all the hard work, almost making it to partner and then this.” She sobbed quietly.

Kelly handed her a tissue, then bundled her out before writing up her initial prognosis.

Ms. Hollis is reacting to intense stress, probably work-related, in the form of a highly regressive nymphomania. The condition, heavily masochistic, is no doubt a reaction to this highly competitive field. Her “dream master” is a manifestation of this self-destructive instinct common among successful women, as noted in Jaeger’s Monograph (New York, 1979) on the same subject. The psychosis is operating on many levels...

Friday. The worst day of her life. She had lost her position—everything she hard worked so hard for. Honor student in high school, Magna Cum Laude Pre Law, then taking her JD. Passing the Bar. Steadily heading up the ladder. Gone in an instant.

“You were fired today?” She started, then saw Locke sitting comfortably in her favorite—now HIS—chair. All in black as usual. The hallucinations begun again.

As always, she drifted into her fantasy life seamlessly. “Yes,” she answered dully. “I was...fired.” She stood before him, as was understood to be the rule, with head bowed, eyes averted.

“The lacy bimbo socks did it, I bet,” Locke mused casually. “With those five inch red heels, you look like you’d be ready to ball the entire jury for a favorable verdict. Oh well, thank goodness that career nonsense is over. With your reputation as a little courthouse cocktease, I doubt you could get a job as a paralegal. Though I’m sure there are plenty of male attorneys who might consider you for a secretarial position.” Locke winked lewdly.

Tracey felt her face go crimson. The shame never got easier to accept in her weird Locke-driven fantasy world.

“Anyway, I’ve got other plans for you baby. When I’m finished with you, you’ll DREAM of being some little office tail. We’ve got lots to do, including some redecorating. For which we’ll need some money. You took care of the financial errands I gave you?”

She nodded, handing him a bank envelope containing her life savings, the deed to her , the paper on her car—all she had in the world. Even the remainder of her parent’s inheritance to her. There was nothing left.

He took the envelope and without opening it, slipped it into his pants pocket. “I’m happy to relieve you of all that money. The bank teller must have thought you were a working girl getting ready to split town! You needn’t worry that empty little head of yours—I’ll handle this. It will bankroll us for our remodeling. Now, one last worrying thing.” He turned, serious now, to her and folded his hands. “Where were you last Wednesday?”

She struggled to keep silent. Her subconcious told her that her meeting with the therapist must be kept from him. It was a lifeline! If the therapist could help her escape from this sick nightmare, he mustn’t know about it.

“Tell me.” It was soft and easy—but it was a command. And Tracey broke and told him everything.

His young eyes graced her with a patronizing glance. “It is well you told me. It shows how deeply I have come to control you. But I knew already. Your simple mind is such a child’s puzzle to me—bright, colorful, obvious. But you told me. So that will have some bearing on your punishment.”

Tracey kept her eyes on the floor, but was secretly relieved. She knew he’d find out...it was good she had been honest...he might have some mercy now... Her eyes widened as he drew a long object out of his coat pocket.

“When I discovered your naughtiness, it became obvious that mere spankings wouldn’t suffice to make you mind your manners. So I purchased this—a new implement with which to keep my pet in line,” Locke explained. “You know what to do now little bitch.”

Tracey stifled a cry as she hurriedly unzipped her miniskirt. Though her bannana thong panties offered no protection, she kicked them off per the rules of punishment—always bare bottom. She draped herself over his knee, waiting for that new awful punishment tool to begin its descent.

Locke smiled, raised the riding crop and began to teach his slave another lesson in obedience.