The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Arts (2/2)

by Marlissa

Dr. Karen Kelly was astonished how much could change in a few days. Ever since that wonderful Doctor Locke had come to visit regarding the Hollis case that morning. Evidently he had been handling the Hollis case. He had looked so young at first—not more than twenty if she had to guess, he looked like a college student actually—that she was actually suspicious. But then she realized she must have been mistaken, because his knowledge was so much greater than her own. And she had been practicing for ten years!

After he had explained that he was already treating Tracey Hollis, she gladly handed over the case file. It was something she never did, but then he was a professional of the highest order. A brilliant man. Not that he had said anything in particular about the case, but he gave the impression of such confidence, she wouldn’t dream of gainsaying him.

He was about to leave then, but she found himself asking him if he’d like a cup of coffee. He had stayed for an hour, forcing her to cancel a scheduled appointment—but it was certainly a good investment in time. Because as a therapist, he had been kind enough to talk to her about her own problems. Like Glen.

Good old philandering, perverted Glen. The papers had arrived the end of the previous day by courier and were actually in her desk drawer waiting to be signed. All the misery behind her with the stroke of a pen. Divorce after a long three years had seemed so close. Images of his indiscretions, his cheap affairs with the young receptionists and secretaries that he preferred most as conquests, crowded her brain for a brief moment. He hadn’t denied the affairs—said they were his right as a man—but was furious at her insistence for a divorce. He had fought it up to a point, then wearily walked away. Still she could list the disgusting degrading demands that he made of her in bed—all refused. So overbearing. So arrogant. So male chauvinist. So Glen.

But that was this morning. Because after Dr. Locke’s visit, she had torn up the papers without a second thought, informing her lawyer that she had had second thoughts. Her lawyer was mystified but had acceded to her wishes. How could she know how much the thought of Glen’s cock dominated her mind, how she had thought of nothing else but pleasing her husband like the dutiful little wifey he had expected her to be—and she had fought so hard against? Dr. Locke had kindly corrected her thinking about Glen—how their marraige meant everything to her (her new motto- “A woman needs a man like a fish needs water”), how husbands—not wives—made the rules, how the husband must be honored and obeyed in ALL things. She shivered when Dr. Locke had carefully pointed out these facts, shocked at how far she had strayed.

When he left, she had an idea of how to make it up to Glen. Her heart told her it was her last chance, so she must go for broke. If it was cheap and sleazy Glen wanted, it was cheap and sleazy Karen Kelly would be. Afternoon appointments were cancelled and Karen dashed back to her apartment—the one she had foolishly taken a lease on after the separation. She reminded herself she must get out of that horrible empty place—the thought of being alone in that apartment without Glen’s cock... She had prepared quickly for her surprise meeting with Glen, dressing to surprise him. Karen thought briefly about not making her first stop, then forced herself to make it. If it was what Glen wanted, she would accept it as the price of being a good little wifey. How she had hated that expression, when he had called her that in front of her friends. Now she only hoped he might call her that again!

She parked the car and took the elevator up to Glen’s executive suite, the one from which he ran his real estate business. She brushed into his office, gathering her courage up and looked up. He was outraged at first, but the pleading expression on her face sent a message he understood at once. “Well, well, well. Miss Snooty Feminist Bitch Therapist here to ask for a break on the settlement? Well, forget it!”

She shook her head. “No, no! I’m not here for that. In fact,” she stopped talking, then placed the torn-up divorce agreement before him, letting it finish the statement for her. Then as his jaw dropped, she slipped out of her raincoat. Underneath she wore nothing but the black lace Merry Widow he had bought for her and a pair of black patent leather high heels. She had never worn it before now.

“I, uh, was hoping you might consider taking me back. I, uh, know that I’ve had a bad attitude problem, but I promise I’ll work hard to make you happy.”

Glen’s voice wavered for a second. “And the affairs?”

Karen blushed. “What can I do? You’re the man. I’m just the good little wifey. But I’ll try harder to make you happy. To do the things that I hope will keep you happy with just me.”

With that, she placed her last purchase on the desk. Glen looked up at her smiling. “O.k.,” he said as he unbuckled his belt, “But this time I’m going to be a lot tougher on you than I have been. I let you get away with too much.” He reached for the KY jelly as Karen bent herself over the desk. As he entered her in that way for the first time, her heart leapt. She had earned his cock—and she would never willing walk away from it again. No matter what she was told to do.

* * *

Brandy had spoken to her little sister only six hours earlier, but she had managed to catch a flight and was now almost at her door. What the hell was going on? She had wondered frantically on the flight from Logan to LaGuardia, wishing the 737 to cut through the fog over Long Island Sound. The taxi was moving now, finally, through the Queens traffic. She had only thirty minutes left to figure out what the hell was happening.

The scary thing was that she had forced the issue. She hadn’t spoken to her in a few weeks—work for her Boston College courseload had doubled, now that she was a full professor. The number of her art history courses had doubled over the Break, keeping her hopping. So when she called Browne, Taylor & Garrick, she was astonished to discover she was no longer with the firm. And something about the snickering way she was informed of this by the receptionist told her the departure was not voluntary. A call to her home found an odd sounding Trace on the other end. The timid tone, not at all the fast talking, all business Tracey, said she’d like her to come down. It was an emergency, she said, nothing more. Obviously a breakdown had occurred somehow.

Amazing—Trace was in her own way as driven as she was. While she had scored big in the vicious wars of academia, Tracey had taken on the legal eagles of her own calling. Both sisters were overachievers, focused on their respective fields. Neither had ever allowed a man to come between themselves and their ambitions. Though separated by only two years—Trace was thirty-five and she thirty-seven, they had many of the same characteristics. Both were single, professionals, ambitious, feminists, single-minded. What had happened then?

Brandy had to remind herself that though this was the case, they had many differences, many of which kept them from being too close. She secretly considered Tracey shallow and materialistic—a bit of a bitch. While she was herself very aloof, Brandy didn’t need to be the boss all the time the way her sister did. It was annoying. If pressed, she had to admit she wasn’t completely sorry about Tracey’s reversal of fortune. Might teach her a lesson. Brandy was honest about the competitive nature of the relationship with her own sister. A little voice promised a lot of satisfaction if in fact Brandy needed to fly down and save the day for Tracey somehow.

The taxi stopped. She knew the driver had been staring at her through the rear view window during the trip and she enjoyed it. Though she never went out of her way to attract male attention, she knew her tight frame, well-scrubbed athletic face and inquisitive green eyes did a lot to draw it. Not that she was a knock-out—her figure was too small on top if tight below—but she had had her share of lovers over the years. She brushed an medium length chesnut tress behind her ear and told the driver to stop. After she had him unload the luggage, she was delighted to shortchange him—what a creep! How dare he stare at her that way!

She totted the small bag to Trace’s and knocked on the door only to find it open.

“Trace?”

No answer. Weird. The place was dark and she wasn’t at all familiar, having never been to the new place her sister had bought a couple months ago. It took her a moment to find the lights, but there wasn’t anything particularly unusual about the place. Except maybe some of the art on the walls. It looked familiar but didn’t strike her in any specific way.

“Tracey?”

Still nothing. She walked into the kitchen, then the bedroom, where her concern began to flare. The place looked like something out of a New Orleans bordello. Mirrors on the wall over the bed, which itself was a deep red king-size waterbed sporting a brass frame. The bed sheets were leopard skin. A television VCr unit waited to be turned on at the foot of the bed and unbelievably a camcorder, mounted for use! Really Trace! she chided her sister mentally. Turned into quite the vixen did we? A thrill of superiority flashed through her. Well, well, well. Little sister was kinky!

With a quick look around to ensure she was alone, Brandy opened the top drawer of the dresser. Normally reserved for underwear, this drawer was filled with dildos and vibrators of all descriptions. Butt plugs too. She opened the other drawers. It was like her sister had won a shopping spree from Frederick’s of Hollywood. There were all kinds of brazen little nothings—thong panties, push-up bras, teddys—and none of it was particularly tasteful. Cheap, overly revealing and in all materials. Lace, silk, cotton, polyester, leather and latex. What had her little sister gotten herself into? Brandy would NEVER let her live this down!

She jumped at the sound of the door shutting.

“Trace?”

She walked out into the kitchen and saw the door she had missed before. Evidently a basement of some sort. She tried the light but this one refused to go on. Carefully she made her way down into the abyss of the light starved underground room. There were no windows, but some light from the kitchen faintly followed her and she could make out the steel cages on the wall. Her last thought was that Tracey must have bought a dog to keep in this basement kennel.

* * *

Brandy woke with a start, rubbing her eyes furiously. She felt as if she had been unconscious for a week. Feeling a cold hard surface underneath her, she rolled over on her stomach, instinctively feeling for the bump on her head, the blow that had knocked her out. But there was none. It was dark and it took her a moment to realize she was inside one of the dog kennels.

“Tracey!” she yelled.

A “shush!” responded to her from the other cage. In the gloom, she could make out her sister Tracey—nude but for a dog collar!

“What the hell is going on here?” she demanded. “What are you doing in there?” But Tracey shook her head, unable or unwilling to speak. She desperately pressed her fingers over her mouth indicating she should be quiet.

“Ah! Ms. Brandy Hollis! Welcome!”

The voice. She had heard it before. At school. Her mind leapt forward. The art upstairs. It all fit.

“God damn it, it’s you Locke!” She shook the locked cage door. She began to stand but the kennel ceilign allowed for no more than kneeling. “Justin Locke!”

The figure approached from the murk. “Yes. You have a wonderful memory. A high quality mind and impressive talents. But like your sister, I doubt you’ll be taking advantage of them any more. Other...talents will become far more crucial to your new role than those.”

“Look, I’m sorry I flunked you, but this is insane. Let me out and maybe they’ll be an arrangement of some sort—get you some help...” There wouldn’t be—he do hard time for this, she’d make sure of it, but she had to get out of the cage.

“You can leave your kennel anytime. Go ahead—the door isn’t locked despite what you think. See?” He opened the door and shut it again lightly. But when she attempted to do the same, it was impossible!

“You can’t get out because I haven’t given you permission. You may now though.”

She did so, automatically. “Look Locke—let my sister out of there. You’re a nut—don’t make it worse on yourself. All over a course failure—Jesus! That was last year!”

Locke smiled. “I’m not doing anything—other than everything I’ve always wanted to do to you. You see, I was pretty bitter when you failed me—my paintings are, despite your opinion, marvelous. I could have used my powers to change my grade. But when I entered your mind, I found a spirit begging to be dominated, humiliated and broken. Brandy Hollis—a willful little cocktease that tormented her male students, a bitch that needed taming. And then imagine my surprise to find you had a sister with just the same kind of temperment as yours! As you know I’m an artist and a wonderful idea came to me—an idea that will now come to life. But you’ll know all this soon enough. Strip off those clothes for your master now...little bitch.”

Tracey thrust her face outside her kennel to watch as the young man began the process of mastering her older sister. An unmistakably hot pang shot through her, a vicious pang, as her sister dumbly unclothed herself. Brandy’s face was a portrait of shock—at herself, at Locke’s ability to command her, at the hell she now faced.

“Good. Small like your sister—just as I remember. Your sister has all kinds of advice on that subject—making her titties look bigger than they are is very important to her. She’ll be helping you out with things like that, teaching you the rules and so forth.”

“Rules?” Brandy kicked off her panties now, but her mouth still seemed to belong to her.

“Oh yes. The rules. Very important to follow the rules. Else...” Locke switched on a light, revealing the rest of the basement.

Brandy held herself upright with all her strength. It looked like the Marquis De Sade’s playroom.

“Let’s start, shall we?” And Brandy felt her will being bent to his, changing it, refashioning it like an artist.

* * *

NOTICE:

The following courses have been cancelled or reassigned. Please check with the Registrar’s Office to rearrange your schedule as needed:

  • French Revivalists Intermediate Studies 307
  • The Russian Naturalists 423
  • Dutch Humanism and Art of The Reformation 356
  • Graduate Russian Imperial Studies 501

The Dean signed his name to the memo, not at all pleased with Professor Hollis’es announcement that she would not be returning to teach the courses noted.

“You won’t make tenure with this on your record,” he informed her grimly—and truthfully.

The click on the other end of the line ended the matter for him and he dispatched a note for immediate termination of Brandy Hollis’es contract.

* * *

Locke awoke to the soft slurping of his bitches, who were lapping at his cock. He had allowed them to sleep on the floor by his bed, leashed to the bedpost of course, instead of ordering them to their kennels as was the norm. He gathered up the leashes in his hand and watched their tongues darting below him, one over his cock and the other working diligently on his ball sac. With their new identical look—long brassy blonde curly hair—it was hard to know which was which was servicing his cock. A pair of scared green eyes looked up—ah, the older sister. He lowered the leash, allowing her to return to her duties. Her tongue responded with gratitude—the privilege of pleasuring him was preferable to a punishment of some kind. His bitches never knew whether they would be used or ‘corrected’ by their owner.

He closed his eyes, feeling his groin tighten with pleasure as the sisters continued their task. It was fine that he had allowed them the honor of sleeping at the foot of his bed—they were so excited about the rare privilege that they were working extra hard to make this wake-up call of theirs one he would remember. As well they should—if he were so much as one iota dissatisfied with either of their efforts, one or both would be spanked, cropped or worse.

Locke had been pleased with their play the previous evening. He had bid them to a bout of strap-on wrestling and he had watched as the two had prepared themselves with anticipation. Hot oil lathered over their glistening bodies, then the latex waist cinchers and the thigh high latex high heeled leggings, topped off with the omnipresent dog collars and they were ready. Strap-on wrestling was difficult as neither was allowed to scratch, choke or punch the other. It was more a silly spectacle of hissing, slippery grappling, nipple twisting and hairpulling—the epitome of catfighting.

The older bitch had triumphed. She was a bit taller, a bit hungrier and at last she had forced her little sister on her back, with hands pinned and her hot wet crotch in her face. Randi (she was Randi now and the younger one Lacey—both sufficiently artificial names that gave males the satisfaction of knowing these women had changed their names to too-obvious double entendres for wry masculine amusement) had looked up with some expectation at her master, but he shook his head. Randi would be allowed her prize but no more. With a pout she rolled off her sister, slapping her rump as she did.

“Get ready—I won this time!” The command sent the nude now-disbarred attorney off to her dresser. Randi needed only one item to continue the fun and she found in the girl’s toybox, eagerly choosing a long, sleek black strap-on to present to him. He nodded and she belted the nasty dildo around her waist, now waiting for her sister. Lacey similarly held up some items which Locke likewise approved. As she readied herself, Locke flipped on the video camera—he would record this tryst for commercial release.

At last Lacey offered herself up to her conqueror, a prettily painted up prize wearing a dainty white lace thong panty, strapless push-up demi-bra and white 5 inch heels. Locke was gratified to see how quickly Lacey had come to know the drill. She kept her head bowed, lips pursed and arms behind her back, all the while with her small chest thrust out. But Randi, who was increasingly the victor in the strap-on wrestling matches, displayed little interest in soft cuddly foreplay. She wanted to use her defeated sister without the slightest bit of romance. With both palms, Randi pressed Lacey’s shoulders downward. The bested redhead understood what her mistress desired and complied immediately. Should she displeased her conqueror, Locke’s rules were hardfast—the winner would be permitted to punish the untamed loser with the implements of discipline that Locke’s dungeon was so well equipped with. Lacey had no wish to find herself both raped and punished and she took the ebony dildo in her wettened mouth and began to slowly deepthroat the prong. Randi stroked her sister’s longish red-brown hair, occaisionally directing her subservient sister’s mouth to some under-worshipped region of her proud black prick.

With the clap of her hands, Randi barked the inevitable command. “On your fours!”

Lacey scampered to obey, the thirty-five year old attorney offering up her ripe boyish ass to her sister’s urgent lust. Locke grinned as the subjugated vixen’s eyes closed shut as the thong was yanked aside and the cock stuffed inside her. The pained expression was evidence of how much the forced entry was to be avoided. And yet the little bitch was being defeated more and more, as Randi had begun to assume a dominance over the pair. A tear trickled out, then another as the older chesnut haired filly in latex began to truly ram her cock home, deep into her slave sister.

Locke wandered into their minds. He relished Randi’s exuberant mastery, the disdain she felt for her younger sister and the flame of dominant lesbian lust that was attached to it—attached by her master three months ago. He searched for any residual spark of sibling love and found none. He had crafted this one well—she was all bitch, living for the opportunity to first please her master, then use and dominate her sister or failing these three, pleasuring herself as her master watched on. To Randi, there was nothing else in life.

Lacey was enflamed with humiliation and pain at being raped by her sister this way. She bucked her hips in an attempt to ease the thrusting against her tender insides, but to no avail—Randi would have no mercy on her. Despite her loathing of her latex mistress, Lacey could not help from becoming aroused by her sister’s fondling of her peach-sized breasts. They were growing hot, her nipples both saluting hot little buttons of flesh as the exquisite nails of her sister scraped over them, twisting them cruelly through the guazey white lace of her brassiere. She was ashamed at becoming so hot for her victorious sister, but her puss was wettening rapidly. Naturally—Locke had laid in quickly sexual responsiveness to such lewd lesbian caresses.

Locke kept the camera trained on the two as eventually Randi “came” into her prize piece. He would entitled this one “Battle of the B Cup Bimbos” and sell it on the speciality lesbian market. Sister lezzie acts, especially where one wore shiny black latex and the other frilly white lace, attracted lots of interest. He had every anticipation that it would sell well. Not great—they weren’t pretty—but well enough.

As had “Dildo Debutantes.” And “Sizzling Sisters’ Slitfest.” And “The Mistress’es Naughty Maid.” The Hollis girls’ videos always grossed respectably well. Not that the movies were their only areas of expertise. When he had started them on their new porn careers, he had first insisted they break all remaining ties by demanding they call their old colleagues and bosses. He devoured the sight of his little bitches as they whined on the phone to those in their old lives.

“Please Danny...I REALLY need the money. I’ll pose anyway you want me to! Only a dollar per polaroid—I have LOTS of sexy things to wear for you! You don’t have to buy any you don’t want to keep. Please Danny? Didn’t you like me when you were in my class Pretty please?” Randi writhed, furiously fingering herself as her Master watched. Her face was red—from lust or humiliation?—as she begged to sell her old student compromising snapshots of herself.

Lacey humped herself hornily as she pleaded to be allowed to speak to her old boss. “Please Ma’am! I just HAVE to speak to Mr. Garrick. I have all kinds of pictures of me in my pretty panties that I KNOW he’d like to see me in! Please, may I speak to him? Can’t you please just pass on the message?”

He’d made them call each and every former male friend, associate, client or even mere acquaintance to make the shameful offer of selling posed polaroids of themselves. Many took them up on the offer, anxious to see the haughty bitches displaying themselves in film on their specific commands—all for the price of a few dollars. Not a few were interested in more and Locke horrified his bitches by considering the offers for as long as a day. But it wasn’t necessary—he had no fear of using them that way (they were only playthings), but didn’t want to wear them out too soon. There were so other many uses to put them to—and after the photo-calls were made, their reputations were destroyed and he was free to explore them.

The website, sistersluts.com, kept them busy. For $3.95 per minute, you could watch them play together at 28.8k. The offers from the skin mags were frequent too. Not the top-end porno mags, mind you, but the Hollis sisters did get lots of work from specialty books like “Lesbo Lickers,” “Lil’ Titted Twats,” “Leather Lezzies” and others. They didn’t pay terrifically well—a few hundred bucks a shot—but these were the best gigs his bitches could get.

As they lapped obediently, he looked at some of the better shots that were immortalized in frames around the room. In one, Lacey was nude on her fours, a leash tightly clipped to her dog collar and held by Randi, who knelt behind her, spreading her sister’s holes for use by the reader. In Randi’s other hand she held a riding crop, ready to chastise her sister should she fail to please. Lacey for her part looked back with terrified eyes, a fear so strong it was giving him an erection as he looked at it. A tongue lingered, then went back to work with greater vigor.

In another, the two sisters were locked in a passionate 69, clutching each other’s thighs, but looking up innocently as if caught by surprise with lips formed in perfect Os of surprise. Two naughty maids found fondling without permission, with black crisp skirts pulled high and black lace panties pulled away from slick tight pusses.

Now Lacey was on her knees before Randi wearing a petite red lace bra and panties, her long lank auburn hair held tightly by her sister. Randi looked down at her clad in a latex bra and thong. She was less an older sister, more a stern and selfish lover hot for pleasuring by her pet. Lacey’s tongue was extended, eyes closed. It looked as if she was scared and she had been. Locke insisted the girls frolic in fear, always in fear—of him and each other.

His erection had returned. He cupped his sluts’ faces, patting them lightly. They nervously snuggled together, staring down at his crotch humbly and their faces wet with their lascivious chore. There was something about his former professor’s countenance that demanded degrading—perhaps too much a sense of superiority over her bitch sister, perhaps having assuming too much self-importance. She needed reminding of what she was, what her role was in life now. Then he slipped a finger around her collar and pulled her forward. Holding her tightly, he shot a load of white creamy goop across her stern, intense face. She closed her eyes as the sticky ropes landed with a plop all over her aristocratic mien, thin lips bent in angry shame. But she dared not display such arrogannce and the expression melted into false gratitude. Lacey understood what he had done and snickered.

“Clean this bitch off—and share every drop with her or I’ll tan your hide but good!” he commanded. The thirty-five year old disbarred attorney, now a cum-hungry whore, began lapping the come off her sister’s sticky face. Then, as she accumulated a mouthful of goo, she shared a deep soul kiss with the thirty-seven year-old former art professor, not cum-splattered sextoy. The two continued their oral lustfest til each other’s tummy was filled with his salty jism.

“Sixty-nine.”

They obeyed the familiar order without pause. In perfect synchronicity—like mechanical dolls. He smiled. His living art was a masterpiece. And he had so many great works still within him.

THE END