The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Wait! Did you see that sign?”

“I saw it.”

“Is that for real? Is this town really called—”

“You can stow the teenage snigger, Roger. I’m sure the people of Bimbeauville have heard all the jokes.”

“Well, you can’t help admitting it’s an evocative name. I wonder if the women here—”

Sarah cut him off again. “Look dirt-brain. We are going to be here for three days and I have no intention of tolerating your adolescent humour for the entire time. Get over it. It happens that the name has nothing to do with your taste in women. It’s derived from the French, “bande d’eau”—band of water—probably a reference to that narrow lake we just passed.”

He shot her a glance. The car bumped over an old stone bridge. “How do you know that?”

“Because I looked it up, moron. Unlike some of the people I am forced to work with, I do occasionally indulge my intellectual curiosity.”

Sarah swerved to avoid another rut. The road was old and in ill repair. It wound through a narrow valley between craggy hills. A small river—called Afon Geo on the map—occupied much of the valley floor; the river broadened at one point into the lake that Sarah had described.

Most of the higher land was forest. Rocky sheep pastures bordered the river. It was a scenic, empty landscape.

The Land Rover rounded another corner. The town of Bimbeauville came into view. The road transformed itself into the central street. Roger’s eyes widened. ”This is a mining town?” he asked.

Sarah’s reply was unusually hesitant. “Well . . . not any more I suppose . . . the mine closed five years ago. The main shaft flooded. Contaminated the water supply. Still . . .” She was looking around in bewilderment.

Bimbeauville was not what either of them expected. Instead of squat blocks of flats in dirty red and soot-black, the street was lined with stately townhouses with traditional slate roofs. The houses and shops were neat and well-kept, freshly painted in jellybean colours: red, green, yellow, blue. The streets were smooth, the pavements level and clean. Streetlights on quaint iron lamp posts lined the high street.

There were flowers everywhere. Every house, it seemed, had a garden in front, fairly overflowing with eager blooms. Flowers spilled out of window baskets and burst out of pots hanging from the street lamps; roses trailed over arbours and sprawled across dry-stone fences, blooming profligately.

“My god, it’s like the Chelsea Flower Show,” Roger said, “except without the old ladies in silly hats. For a mining town, this place is . . . Whoa!” His eyes grew even wider.

The woman was walking, or rather sauntering, down the street, a sack of groceries in the crook of one arm. She was the walking definition of the word “stacked.” A sleeveless top and tiny shorts clung to her voluptuous figure without covering anything more than necessary. Brown hair spilled over her shoulders and far down her back. Her white, wide-brimmed hat matched the lace gloves on her wrists and the high-heeled, cowboy-style boots on her feet.

Did she smile when she caught his eye?

“Holy shipyard,” Roger muttered under his breath. If this was the kind of women one found in mining towns, he would buy a pick and a helmet-light tomorrow.

“You can pick your jaw up off the floor now,” Sarah said coldly. “Honestly Roger, what is wrong with you? If you must ogle every tart on the street you could at least be subtle about it.”

Roger uncraned his neck, which had been turning like an owl’s. “Sorry,” he said, “but, uhm, I just wasn’t expecting . . .”

Sarah snorted. “Men,” she said with some bitterness. “You’re all the same.”

Roger said nothing. Sarah’s disdainful attitude toward her co-workers was well known. Around the office she was famous for her ice-cold put-downs of anyone she felt was her intellectual inferior, a group that included much of the staff. She was barely more tolerant of lesser women, especially the skittish young things that did the junior work. And heaven help the fellow who tried to chip through the frost and become her friend. Roger was her first assistant who hadn’t asked for a transfer inside six months.

It wasn’t that Sarah was unattractive particularly. A little plain perhaps. Her figure was a trifle thin. The aquiline nose tended to emphasize the keen intensity in her small, blue eyes.

The road entered a roundabout in the middle of town. Other streets radiated outward like spokes on a wagon wheel. The hub had been planted as a garden park. At its centre stood a statue of a Greek goddess (at least, Roger guessed she was a Greek goddess) forever bathing in a waterfall spilling out above her. The goddess was emphatically female, and quite undressed. She too looked out of place in what was supposed to be a grey industrial village.

“So then, where are we going?” Roger asked, mostly to break the silence.

She was studying the electronic map on the dashboard. “There should be a pub along here, with a few rooms. I think it’s called—”

“The Winking Fox?” He pointed to the hanging sign.

“That’s not the name in my notes,” Sarah said, perplexed. Nevertheless she parked the Land Rover in front of the building. The sign depicted a male red fox, standing on its haunches with it’s long tongue lolling out, winking at the viewer as if sharing a lewd joke. The sign swayed in the breeze. Flowers in the window boxes scented the early evening air.

“Get the stuff,” Sarah ordered, climbing out. “I’ll get us rooms.”

Roger watched her march into the pub like a commander. She was dressed in the khaki field clothes she always wore. He sighed heavily. In addition to their personal things, there was an array of water-testing equipment in the back of the Land Rover. Standard policy was that it had to be brought inside, to deter theft. Sarah never carried anything.

A few minutes later, Roger stumbled into the alehouse. He had two bags in each hand and another wedged under his arm. He looked around, surprised again.

The room was both cleaner and brighter than what he expected of a drinking establishment in a small industrial town. There were flowers on some of the tables and atop the upright piano in the back. There was even a classic jukebox in one corner. At the moment the room was empty but for a man in a farmer’s cap lingering over a pint and reading the newspaper. Over by the bar, Sarah was negotiating rooms with a honey-blonde who almost made Roger drop something.

The girl looked to be in her early twenties. She had long, thick blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a figure every bit as lush as the woman on the street. She sported a tight jersey with zig-zag lines of different colours, straining over a spectacular pair of headlights.

“No, no, no,” Sarah was saying in a voice heavy with exasperation. “I want two rooms, each with one bed. Two people, two rooms. Got it?”

The girl was puzzled. “But, why do you need two rooms? I could put you both in the front room, it’s really comfy. There’s a nice big bed, and if there’s only two of you . . .” She had a sweet voice with the natural lilt that identified people of this region.

Sarah’s temper, never very even to begin with, was wearing thin. “Look,” she almost snarled. “I’m travelling with my assistant. We each need a room. By ourselves. With one bed in each room. Do you want me to write it out for you?”

“Well, that’s tidy then. I’m sorry, I just thought that—oh, hellllo!” Her voice changed instantly into a sexy purr when she laid eyes on Roger. “Welcome to the Winking Fox. I was just sorting out your rooms with your assistant.”

“He is the assistant!” Sarah cried. “Can’t you understand anything?“

The girl was clearly confused again. “There’s no need to shout,” she said softly. Her pout would convince a condemned man to give her his last meal.

Roger dumped a pile of bags on the floor and approached the counter. “Can I help out?” he asked, mostly as an excuse to talk to the well-endowed hostess.

Sarah’s voice was cold. “I was trying to explain to wind-in-the-ears here that we each need a room. Counting to two seems to be a problem.”

“Sarah,” Roger chided. Her sarcasm could be cruel. He turned his attention back to Girl of the Giant Jugs. “Hi,” he said, grinning. “Please forgive my colleague. She’s had a long day driving here. I’m Roger.” He extended his hand.

“Gina,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers. “So you like, just got into town then?”

Beside him, Roger heard Sarah snort. He ignored her. “That’s right. We’ll be here for three nights, I think. And we will need a couple of rooms. One for her, one for me. OK?”

“OK!” Gina said brightly. “You can have the front room, and the back room across the hall can be for your assistant.” She lowered her eyes for a moment. “The front room has a big comfy bed.”

“For crying out loud!” Sarah broke in, “I’m not the—”

“Like, whatever,” Gina said. She was still looking at Roger. She let go of his hand reluctantly. She took up a pen and made an entry in the guest register. “You need to like, sign here,” she said to Roger, pointing at the page. Her fingernails were shiny red.

“Oh, give me that!” Sarah demanded, snatching up the pen. She signed the book with a few aggressive strokes. “There. We’ll pay as we leave. Now may we please see our rooms?”

“ Course,” Gina said easily. Her attention was still on Roger. “Follow me.” She picked up some keys off a rack.

I’d follow you anywhere, Roger thought privately as he turned to pick up his gear. “Oh, don’t worry about your things,” Gina said, “Uncle Gord will bring them up for you.” She gestured vaguely toward the man reading the paper.

Relieved, Roger abandoned everything except his and Sarah’s bags, and turned to follow Gina. Sarah did not offer to help. When Gina stepped out from behind the bar Roger determined that her appearance below the waist was as spectacular as the upper half. A white, pleated miniskirt ended far up on her thighs, coupled with white, 60s-style, stretch boots.

Roger suppressed the urge to whistle. Instead, he followed her down a short corridor and up a narrow flight of stairs. He didn’t really mean to look up her skirt—it was just that the combination of her thigh-riding hemline and the steep steps made it so darned easy. He grinned broadly.

“Roger!” Sarah whispered harshly, behind him. “Cut that out!”

Roger averted his eyes. He was still grinning.

The trio arrived at the next floor. Gina unlocked a room with one of her keys, then handed it to Roger. “This will be your room,” she explained. “With the big bed.” She handed another key to Sarah. “I guess you’ll be sleeping across the hall.” Her tone suggested that she thought this very odd.

“Thanks Gina,” Roger said.

“Oh, please, it’s like, no trouble, isn’t it,” the girl replied. She stepped up a little closer to him. “There’s a water closet at the end of the hall. And you can come down for dinner any time. I’ll be here until closing if you want anything.” Another step. “Anything at all.” She bit her lip.

Roger found himself very close to Gina’s blue eyes and ballooning bust. He was momentarily tongue-tied. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Sarah interceded. “You can run along now.”

“See you later,” Gina said, pretty much ignoring Sarah. She looked back over her shoulder at Roger as she walked away, clearly aware that his eyes were on her nyloned legs again. She winked at him.

“I like this town,” Roger declared, when Gina’s undulating rear finally disappeared down the stairs.

“Never mind the local tarts,” Sarah said, “we have work to do. We’ll plan the survey over dinner. Meet me downstairs in twenty minutes.” She picked up her bag and marched into her room. She closed the door.

Roger stood there in the corridor for a moment. How did he get saddled with this bitch? Then he thought about Gina and he smiled again.

The front room did have a big, comfy bed. Roger was just stretching out on it, later that evening, when there came a gentle rap at the door. “Yes, come in,” he said.

The door opened. Gina stood there, silhouetted by the soft light from the hallway. It was after midnight. “I’m just closing up,” she whispered. “I came by to see if you like, wanted anything.”

“Uhm, want? Me?” Roger replied. He was too occupied staring at her chest to say anything intelligent. He had had too much to drink.

It had been a peculiar evening. By the time he and Sarah came down to dinner there were a scattering of people in the pub. More drifted in as the evening progressed. Roger and Sarah had fish for dinner. Roger ordered the local brew; he liked to sample when he was on the road. Sarah had water.

“We’ll start tomorrow morning,” she said as she sipped. “You check out the pumping station and I’ll start surveying the water mains.” The town had needed a new water system when the mine flooded. “We have to check the—” She stopped. She was looking at the glass.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. That water is really good.” She took another drink, longer this time.

“Are you sure you should be drinking it before we’ve checked the system?”

“Nonsense, this is just routine verification, you know that. Wow. That is really, really good.” It was unusual for Sarah to be so enthusiastic. “Here, try it.” She handed him the glass.

Roger took a drink. It tasted like water. “I’ll stick with my beer,” he said.

“Suit yourself.” She lifted the glass and drained it in a few swallows. “Mmmmm, that is good.” She signaled the waitress. “Refill please,” she said, when the girl arrived.

“Of course,” the waitress chirped. She refilled the glass clumsily from a pitcher on her tray. She spilled a lot. “Another pint for you, luv?”

“I, I’m good,” Roger stammered. The waitress, who had already introduced herself as Megan, was a dark-haired beauty in a tight white top and a flouncy black micro-mini. She too was deliciously well proportioned, especially on top. She looked at Roger in a way that made his crotch tingle.

“Good then,” she husked, “enjoy yourself.” She touched Roger on one arm, lightly drawing her fingers up to his shoulder. Roger turned to ogle her splendid legs as she walked away. She was wearing narrow-toed, black ankle boots whose startling high heels made no sense for someone who was on her feet all evening.

Sarah didn’t notice. She was too busy drinking her water. Over the course of the next hour she finished four more glasses. She exclaimed about how good it tasted until Roger was tired of hearing it.

Megan flirted every time she came by. She bent over more than necessary to pour water for Sarah. She flashed her metallic blue panties every time. At first Roger hardly believed she was wearing stockings with a skirt that short. But the second and third flash confirmed it. He drank more beer.

After an hour or so Sarah began to yawn. They were poring over a schematic of the water distribution system. “We uhm, need to, uhm, check pressures at, uh, the ends of the network,” Sarah was saying. She was leaning on one elbow, studying the map that was spread out on the table. “That would be here, and uh, here and—” She paused to yawn again. “Oh god I’m knackered. That long drive. Look, I’m going to bed. We’ll sort this out tomorrow.” She got to her feet and headed off upstairs, a little unsteadily. She took her water glass with her.

Roger was left by himself. That suited him fine. It would be good to relax for a while before turning in. He had been watching the people as they drifted into the pub for the evening. The men were a ruddy, solid lot for the most part. They seemed both fit and healthy. The women, on the other hand, were amazing.

Every female that walked through the door could have modelled for a men’s magazine. Without exception they had hour-glass figures with gravity-defying breasts ranging in size from big to very big to jaw-droppingly enormous. They wore their hair long. They wore their skirts short. They wiggled and jiggled along in sky-high heels or platform boots or, in one case, hot pink training shoes decorated with crimson hearts.

The pub was a babe bonanza. Roger ordered more beer just so he could watch. It was hard not too. There was never an unattractive, or even slightly less than gorgeous, woman in the pub. They were all young, too. The women mostly arrived as parts of couples, often hanging on the arms of men much older.

Roger was nonplussed. Where were the middle-aged farm women in sensible shoes and scarfs? Where were the affable grandmothers, or the hard-bitten miners’ wives, or the slender, athletic cops, or the plump, bespectacled shop clerks? There didn’t seem to be any. Some of the women were clearly a few years older, maybe in their thirties, but that didn’t seem to deter them from skin-tight jeans and sparkly tube tops.

Everyone seemed to be having a great time. Someone picked out party songs on the piano. The men laughed and joked and played darts. They perched girls on their laps and fondled Megan’s ass every time she came by with more drinks. The women laughed and flirted and kissed and happily tolerated male hands everywhere. They seemed to be getting plastered.

Roger grew more puzzled moment to moment. The girls didn’t seem to be drinking particularly heavily. Some of the men were outpacing them two to one. Yet it was the women who were soon giggling foolishly, and slurring their words, and spilling their beer down their half-bare cleavage. It was like they had the alcohol capacity of a five-year-old.

It was all very peculiar. It was also, Roger had to admit, very arousing. He was quite certain he had never been in a room with so many busty, boozing beauties before. It only made things worse that Megan kept coming by to offer him a fresh pint.

Now that Sarah was gone she was even more bold. She deliberately rubbed her boobs against him as she bent over to replace his empty glass, or stood close beside him, sleek thighs rubbing against his arm as she asked for his next order. At one point she even slid her knee up on the arm of his chair. It was all Roger could do to avoid slamming her down on the table and having his way with her right then and there.

Wisely, he decided instead to go to bed. He put down some money for the beer. He left the extra as a tip. Megan seemed to find a serious challenge in making change. Roger waved to Gina behind the bar, who fluttered a delicate hand at him in reply, and wandered up the stairs. He was tipsy, and tired, and very horny. This explained his sputtering reaction when the delectable Gina entered his room a half hour later.

“If there’s anything I can do to like, make you more comfortable, you’ll like, ask then?” the bodacious barkeep asked, stepping into the room. The only light was a lamp by the bed. She closed the door.

“Uh, yeah, sure, I’ll be sure to let you know. Right now I’m kind of tired and it’s been a long day, so maybe you should . . . uhm . . . you should . . . uh . . . ohmygod.” Gina was standing beside the king-size bed. She was deftly removing her jersey.

She dropped it on the floor. “Do you like me, Roger?” she asked, in the voice of a timid teenager.

Roger worked to pick up his jaw so he could talk with it. Beneath the tight, bright jumper, Gina wore a flesh-tone, lace bra that presented her heavy chest like a gift. Her hands were busy behind her back. “I mean, like I hope so, because I really like you. And I think we had sort of a connection, you know? Here, let me get this off.”

She had unfastened her brassiere. She leaned forward to uncup her breasts, then straightened proudly. “You like me now, don’t you?” She sat down on the bed, turning to face him.

“Well, I, I, of course, I mean, you’re beautiful and . . . and . . . what are you doing?” Gina’s left hand was snaking over to his crotch. He was in his pajamas and a dressing gown. Before he could stop her, or even formulate an idea of why he would want to, his top-heavy hostess had her hand on his hardness. Roger grunted in surprise. He sat upright.

“You must be very tired after your long drive from the city,” Gina cooed, stroking him gently. “You need a little relaxation so you can sleep. I can help with that!”

“Gina, I—I mean, we hardly—we just—or, well, I guess, if you really want to . . .”

She was already leaning over his crotch. “Oh, I want to,” she breathed.

A moment later Roger felt soft female lips descend over his tool. He groaned, and flopped back on the bed. “I really like this town,” he declared, as Gina went to work.