The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Cassandra’s heels clicked smartly on the terrazzo floor as she stepped through the door. Immediately a headwaiter was there to greet her.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said politely. “A table for lunch?”

“Yes,” Cassandra replied. “For two. The reservation is under the name Foxworthy.”

The waiter checked his list. He was dressed in black formal attire. Chez Henri was one of the classiest restaurant’s in the city. “Ah, yes, here we are. You must be Cassandra then. Excellent. Please come with me.”

Cassandra didn’t recognize the headwaiter. She was sure she would have remembered him, if only for the beautiful modulation of his voice.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Where is Henri?”

“Ah, Monsieur Bougevain has taken a short vacation. I believe he and his wife are on a romantic cruise.” He smiled briefly.

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. A romantic cruise seemed unlikely. The last she knew, Henri Bougevain and his wife were cruising through divorce court. The rumour was that she had dropped in on the restaurant to discover her husband of twenty years feverishly porking a leggy waitress on his office desk. No doubt the headwaiter was being discreet.

The waiter picked up a leather-covered menu and led Cassandra through the luxurious restaurant. It was well past the peak of lunch time. The room was nearly empty. A few couples were lingering over coffee. Two rich businessmen were arguing over papers spread in front of them. Both of them stopped to look Cassandra over as she walked by.

She ignored them. She held her head proudly as she walked past. Cassandra looked every inch the young executive that she was, sleek and poised in her black pinstripe pantsuit and low black heels. The lines of the expensive suit flattered her slender figure. She wore her long hair in a complicated swirl on the back of her head. It made her look even taller. She didn’t need the blue-rimmed eyeglasses but they completed the intellectual look.

She looked around for Geoffery. He wasn’t at any of the tables by the window. He liked to sit where he could watch the women on the street. It was a habit that irritated Cassandra. She would break him of it soon enough. Most of the other tables in the room were empty.

“I’m supposed to be meeting my fiance here,” Cassandra said, “but I don’t see him anywhere.”

The waiter looked apologetic. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Mr. Foxworthy rang just a few moments ago. He said to tell you he has been detained in a meeting and will be a few minutes late. He sends his apologies.” The waiter was acting sorrier than Geoffery ever did.

Cassandra shook her head in exasperation. Being on time for things was another civility Geoffery had yet to learn. How many times had he kept her waiting while he “ran late” at one meeting or another? If Geoffery had not been such a perfect catch she would never tolerate such behaviour.

He was a perfect catch though. Cassandra was certain of that. He met all her minimum criteria, of which the principal one was wealth. A vice-president’s position at his daddy’s firm not only guaranteed a stable income, but also lifted Cassandra into the social circles to which she aspired. He was handsome and well dressed, secondary but still important criteria, and on the few occasions she had let him try, reasonably good in bed.

He had a few deficiencies in other areas that Cassandra was confident she could train him out of. Ogling everything in a skirt was one of them. Another was his difficulty accepting the idea of a young woman not only having a career, but pursuing it as actively and aggressively as did any man.

Cassandra was a smart, disciplined businesswoman. She worked hard, stayed on top of the market, and kept her unit profitable. She was well respected, if not universally liked.

Geoffery didn’t know it yet, but she had designs on his company too. Shouldn’t the wife of a vice-president, as fully qualified as she was, be catapulted into a director’s seat? Cassandra intended to press that argument on Geoffery’s old man. She planned to be running at least one major unit at Geoffery’s firm within two years. It still hadn’t penetrated Geoffery’s Neanderthal mind that she wasn’t about to jettison her career so she could hang about home looking pretty and raising babies. That wasn’t part of her business plan.

Cassandra was mildly surprised when the waiter lead her to a cosy alcove in the back of the room. “If you please, ma’am,” he said, pulling back a chair.

“Geoffery reserved this?” Cassandra asked.

“Indeed, ma’am. He said it was more to your liking than a table by the windows.”

Cassandra sat down. The headwaiter slid her chair in beneath her. She looked around with approval. It was a perfect table, secluded from the rest of the diners, with exactly the right blend of formality and intimacy. Maybe Geoffery’s manners were curable after all.

Cassandra set down her purse and the black satchel she carried everywhere. There was always work to be done. She took the red leather menu the waiter offered.

“Would you like something from the bar, ma’am?” he asked.

Cassandra shook her head. She never drank during the day. “No, nothing,” she said curtly.

“May I suggest one of the house wines,” the waiter pressed, “we have a fine California blush and the white is an Australian chardonnay.”

“I don’t want any wine!” Cassandra snapped.

The waiter backed down instantly. “Of course, of course. As you wish ma’am. I’ll bring you a small aperitif then.”

Cassandra was still studying the menu. “Fine, whatever,” she said.

The waiter disappeared silently. A moment later Cassandra looked up from her menu. Had she accepted an “aperitif”, a glass of wine to whet the appetite, when she had just said she didn’t want any wine? She shook her head. Maybe Geoffery would drink it.

The waiter arrived a moment later, bearing a tall glass of white wine on a silver tray. He laid a small cloth on the table in front of her and gently set the drink on it.

“Your aperitif, ma’am,” he said, “you love to drink, you sexy little lush.”

The man’s voice was so low and smooth Cassandra wasn’t sure she heard him. “What, what did you say?”

“I’m sure you’ll love this drink very much,” the waiter repeated. “Would you like to order now?”

Cassandra shook her head. “I’ll wait a few minutes for my fiance.”

“I expect he’s still boinking his secretary,” the waiter said reassuringly.

“He’d better be along shortly,” Cassandra agreed. “I can’t wait forever.”

“I’ll check on you in a few minutes.”

Cassandra was left to herself. She picked up the glass of wine. It was amber in the soft lights. Unlike many of her coworkers, she didn’t believe in alcohol with lunch. She liked to stay sharp. She took a tentative sip. The wine was lovely. She savoured the taste on her tongue. She took another sip.

When the waiter returned a few minutes later, Cassandra’s wine glass was half empty. She set it down as he approached. “I have just received another call from Mr. Foxworthy’s secretary,” he said kindly. “He regrets that he is still being detained. One round didn’t satisfy the little minx.”

The waiter had about the softest, mellowest voice Cassandra had ever heard. She loved listening to it. She wished he would speak up a little though.

“I’m sorry, what was that again?”

“I said, he expects to be along in a few minutes. He suggests that you go ahead and order your lunch.”

Cassandra sighed. Geoffrey would hear about this. “Very well,” she said resignedly. She took a sip of the savory wine.

“If I may suggest, ma’am,” the waiter said, “we still have some excellent lunch specials.”

“Oh? What have you got? Nothing rich please, I’m watching my weight.”

Cassandra was always watching her weight. It was part of her self-discipline to stay as sleek and slender as a model. Her doctor kept telling her to gain ten pounds. Cassandra was appalled at the thought. That would be a concession to self-indulgence. Staying slightly under-target was a mark of excellence, like bringing in a project below budget. She couldn’t understand why men were always staring at voluptuous, big-breasted women who were all curves and softness. That was another of Geoffery’s bad habits she would have to correct.

The soft-voiced waiter began reciting dishes. “We have a wonderful pork and vegetable medley with fine rice dumplings, or buttered salmon roasted with pine nuts and drizzled with sesame oil, or my personal favourite, Italian ravioli stuffed with ground pavalone, mushrooms and red pepper in a white cream sauce.”

Cassandra made a face. “Those are all much too rich. Don’t you have anything leaner?”

“I’m sorry, you’re already as thin as a garden rake,” the waiter explained.

“Come again?”

“There’s nothing else left this late in the day. May I suggest something simple, perhaps a club sandwich with sauteed potato slices?”

“No. I’ll just have a salad. With light dressing.”

“Excellent ma’am. May I suggest our Caesar salad, with lots of oil and bacon bits?”

Cassandra didn’t catch all of that, but she was tired of asking him to repeat himself. “Very well, a Caesar salad will do fine.”

“Excellent. Are you finished with your aperitif?”

“Oh, yes. I mean no, I mean, I may as well finish it.”

“Certainly ma’am. I’ll bring you something a little more robust with your salad.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra said. She picked up her wine glass again as the waiter drifted off. She took a deep draft. Goodness but that went down well.

The salad arrived a few minutes later. The waiter set it on the plate in front of her. The serving was generous. He brought another glass of wine with him. This one was a red.

“Oh, no, I don’t think, not another—” Cassandra protested.

“If I may suggest,” the waiter interrupted gently, “you’ll find this Bordeaux matches the salad perfectly.”

“Well, all right.” This was contrary to her regular habits. She deserved something, seeing how Geoffrey was making her wait so long. She tried the wine, decided it too was very good, then dug into the salad.

“Is everything to your satisfaction?” the waiter said a few minutes later. He appeared out of nowhere. He was carrying a wine bottle wrapped in a white towel.

Cassandra pointed with her fork. “Mmmm, this is absolutely delicious,” she enthused, around a mouthful of salad.

“Thank you. It has something in it to make you more compliant.”

“Hmmm? What’s that?”

“That salad always makes a big hit with our clients,” the waiter said. He topped up her wine glass before Cassandra could stop him. Then he disappeared again. Cassandra helped herself to some wine. It was too good to waste.

Fifteen minutes later Cassandra scraped the last bit of salad off her plate and set down her fork. She leaned back in her chair, feeling very satisfied. She was surprised she had finished that whole plate of salad. I’m eating too much, she decided with a mental shrug. She emptied the wine glass. She was drinking too much, too. Well, it was all Geoffrey’s fault.

The waiter with the wonderful soft voice appeared at her table again. She looked him over. She seldom paid much attention to servers. He was a middle-aged man with grey-streaked hair neatly combed back. He had a kind, avuncular face with blue eyes and a mouth that was permanently on the brink of a smile.

Not bad, Cassandra decided. Very sophisticated. Waiters like that could make her eat out more often. She suppressed a hiccup.

The waiter collected her plate and empty wine glass efficiently. He set them on a little wheeled cart. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?” he asked solicitously. “A liqueur perhaps?”

Cassandra was feeling oddly complacent. “N-no, I don’t think so,” she said uncertainly. Hadn’t she drunk enough?

“We have an excellent selection, ma’am,” the waiter continued. “Kahlua, Tia Maria, Triple-Sec, many others. It makes a fine end to a meal.”

“Well, I, I don’t know . . .” She didn’t feel like arguing.

“If I may suggest, something special: Creme de Violets. Very rare. A sweet, delicate flavour. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“Oh. Uhm, very well. Why not.”

The waiter reached over to the lower shelf of his cart. He picked up a tall glass and an ornate blue bottle. He poured a generous serving into the glass, then handed it to Cassandra.

“Please,” he said simply.

Cassandra took the glass. The Creme de Violets was as blue as a saphire. She took a sip. It was excellent: sweet, subtle and lingering. It tasted strong.

“Mmmmmmm, that is nice,” she said.

“I am delighted you agree. Please enjoy it. I presume you would like to see the dessert menu?”

“Dessert? Oh, I . . . I don’t . . . not sure.” Cassandra never ate desserts.

The waiter smiled. “Of course. Leave it with me. I’ll trot out a little something for you.” He walked away before Cassandra registered what he had said.

She was finishing the blue drink when the waiter returned. This time he was carrying a small white bowl on a silver tray. “Cream custard” he explained, setting it before her. “Satisfying, but not too heavy; rather like your tits.”

Cassandra swallowed liqueur. “What?” She couldn’t have heard right.

“You’ll like it,” the waiter repeated.

Cassandra picked up a small spoon. She took a delicate sample. It had been years since she had allowed herself a dessert, even on holidays. She slipped the spoon into her mouth.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm” she sighed, eyes closed. It was heavenly. She had to have more.

The waiter said something like “wolf it down,” while he refilled her liqueur glass, but Cassandra wasn’t paying attention. She was already on her second, bigger spoonful. She felt like laughing out loud.

She worked her way through the desert, enjoying every mouthful. It was so damned good—not only the food itself, but the relief, the freedom, the hedonism. She was indulging herself for once, and loving every minute of it. She unbuttoned the jacket on her pinstriped suit. Underneath she wore a mauve camisole over her brassiere.

The wonderful waiter was at her table the moment she set her spoon down. He whisked away the empty bowl. “I have a treat for you,” he said, “I’m certain you will love this.” He replaced the empty bowl with a new one. This one contained some kind of fruit-laden sauce poured over artfully shaped spires of pastry.

Cassandra looked at the confection blearily. She pulled off her glasses and tossed them aside. Another dessert? She had never eaten two desserts in her life. The sauce glistened. A chunk of peach slid down the flank of a pastry mountain. The dish was temptation itself.

“Our chef makes these on the premises, of course,” the waiter assured her. “I’m sure you will find this almost as delightful as sucking cock.”

Cassandra shook her head. What did he just say? She pushed back some hair that was falling out of its braid. “I . . . I don’t think . . .” she faltered. She couldn’t eat any more. Not possible. Why was she salivating?

The waiter smiled indulgently. He picked up a fresh fork, and cut off a small piece of pastry. He brought it to Cassandra’s mouth. “Open wide,” he urged, as if he were feeding a child. He put the morsel in her mouth.

Cassandra didn’t have the strength to resist. Her lips closed over the food. Her eyes closed. She made a little grunt of pleasure and surrender.

The waiter handed her the fork. He couldn’t really have said “Fill out those curves, doll-face,” as he walked away.

Cassandra dove into the second desert with renewed gusto. This time she did laugh. Chortling, she loaded big chunks of dessert on her fork and rammed them into her mouth. She filled her cheeks, manners forgotten, wallowing in forbidden tastes and sensations. She used her fingers to push errant bits of cake into her mouth. She spilled sauce on her clothes. She washed it all down with big gulps of potent liqueur. She felt giddy, as if she were flying through some jacked-up sugar high.

In the midst of demolishing the delectable desert, she came to a realization: she was hungry. She was always hungry. She was hungry when she got up and hungry when she went to bed and hungry every grumpy, driven moment in between. She was hungry for real, satisfying food and full-sized meals and rich desserts and to stop starving herself every day of her life since she was sixteen years old.

All too soon the second dish was empty. When the last morsel was gone Cassandra dropped her fork, sighing, then used her fingers to lick up the last drops of sauce. She helped herself to a deep draft of liqueur. She left fruit sauce on the glass. She burped loudly.

The lithe brunette pushed back from the table. She was stuffed. She looked around furtively, then loosened the belt on her slacks a notch.

The waiter appeared as smoothly as ever. “Was that satisfactory, ma’am?” he asked solicitously. He removed the stained wine glass and replaced it with another, clean and full.

Cassandra looked at him, nearly stupefied. Her hair was half out of its bun. Her cheeks were smeared with cream filling.

“Mmmmmmm, very satishfactry,” she murmured. “Soooo good.” She looked down at herself. “God I’m a mess.” That sentence set off a long string of giggles. She came to the conclusion, without much concern, that she was loaded. That creme de whatever was powerful stuff.

“If I may suggest, ma’am, perhaps you would like to freshen up a bit before Mr. Foxworthy arrives?”

Cassandra was already sampling the fresh glass of liqueur. “Who? Oh, yeah. Yes (titter). Geoffrey. Still not here. The bum. God, look at me (giggle). Oh, damn.” She had discovered the large stain on her pants.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that straight away,” the waiter assured her in his melodious voice. “Why don’t you step into the lady’s room for a moment, and I’ll see about getting your trousers dry cleaned.”

“Uhm, okay. Yes. But . . . what will I wear?” She climbed to her feet, lost her balance, and stumbled into the table. The waiter caught her adroitly.

“Please, allow me to escort you,” he said. He put an arm around her waist to hold her up. She leaned happily against his shoulder. He smelled of fine cologne.

“There’s nothing to worry about my dear,” he crooned, leading her toward the back of the restaurant. “That jacket your wearing is long enough to serve as a dress, under the circumstances. Whatever gets you through a fashion emergency, what? Besides, I’m quite certain you would prefer that to trousers. Short, tight and sexy is more your style isn’t it, sweetmeat?”

He said a lot more as they made their slow way to the washrooms in back. Cassandra wasn’t really listening. She was drowsing on his shoulder, feeling relaxed and satiated, letting that sweet, musical voice sweep over her like a summer breeze. She could listen to him forever.

They arrived at the ladies’ room. The waiter held the door for her. “Please, take all the time you need, ma’am. You’ll feel better once you’ve freshened up a tad. There are some basic toiletries laid out for you, I believe. Feel free to ditch the bra too.” He smiled benignly as the door closed behind her.

The washroom was well-appointed, as she knew it would be. She staggered over to the sink and doused her face in cold water. She cleaned the food stains off her face. Her hair had mostly fallen out of its bun. She let it loose, then discovered she was too tipsy to tie it back up again.

The cold water cleared her head a little. She used the facilities, then pulled off her stained suit pants completely. She shed her jacket and the camisole, which had blobs of custard and fruit sauce all over it. Remembering something someone had said, she removed her functional brassiere too. She put the jacket back on.

She looked at herself in a tall mirror. The waiter was right. If she did up all the buttons, the long jacket of the suit would pass as a very brief minidress. As long as she didn’t bend over—or even raise her arms—she could get away with it. This would do until she could find something better. For some reason the idea of baring her legs to the tops of her thighs didn’t trouble her particularly.

Without her underthings she was showing a daring amount of cleavage down the throat of the jacket. She enjoyed the feeling of the soft fabric sliding over her nipples. Seized by a sudden inspiration, she pulled the belt out of the stained pants and fastened it around her waist. She cinched it up tight (not too tight—her stomach was fit to burst) and admired the result. Even better.

She admired herself in the mirror. She really did have killer legs. Why was she always hiding them under those yucky pant suits? Outfits like this were definitely the way to go. She brushed back a lock of lustrous brown hair. The action lifted her hem and flashed her white panties. They contrasted fetchingly with the dark suit jacket.

Cassandra considered the slender, swaying figure in the mirror. Maybe she was a little on the thin side, she conceded. Her figure was well-proportioned, yes, but perhaps too understated? A few added pounds would go to all the right places: defining her hips, filling out her bottom, swelling her breasts. Couldn’t she be attractive while still looking . . . womanly? Nubile. Curvaceous. Even the words sounded round and inviting in her mind. A few more meals like this one and maybe she could keep Geoffery from looking out the window.

Cassandra turned this way and that, contemplating a bustier self. She was wearing dark blue knee-high stockings beneath her pants. She considered pulling them off, but changed her mind. They resembled shiny kneesocks, which combined with the jacket-dress to give her a sort of sexy-girly look. She decided she liked that.

The play of the jacket across her breasts was teasing her nipples, making them swell. The image in the mirror was flushed. She was getting excited. Drinking always made her horny. Somebody had told her that, once.

Biting her lip, she played one finger along the hem of her jacket, right at the top of her long legs. She slid the finger experimentally over her panty-covered bush. “Oh!” she cried, stiffening. That felt good. She did it again. There was moisture beneath her finger.

She decided to save her knickers before they got any wetter. She pulled the white cotton down around her thighs. Her fingers immediately returned to the pink treasure now revealed. One slipped inside her, then another. She groaned deep in her throat. She couldn’t stop now. Definitely too many drinkies.

She spread her legs as wide as her stretching panties would let her. She leaned against the wall with one arm, while the other pistoned in and out of her lubricating pussy. She was panting now, long brown hair draping down around her face as she hungrily pleasured herself. It was like a different kind of dessert: delicious, sinful, forbidden, and oh so good.

Her nipples sent sparks of delight to her brain with every slip and slide of the suit across her breasts. She had lovely breasts. What would it be like if they were just a tad larger; a little heavier; double handfuls filling her sweaters and overflowing her bras; turning heads as she walked down the street, her tits bouncing, her hips swaying, her tight clothes distended with the round fullness of her curves; and Geoffery watching her spellbound, hungry for her hourglass figure packed into sleek, stretchy things that she could peel off slowly, temptingly, like the skin off some exotic tropical fruit until the fire overwhelmed him and he had too—oh sweet merciful heaven!

The sleek young executive shook and shuddered as her orgasm spread through her. She threw her head back and closed her eyes in rapture. She lost her balance, stumbled a half-step against the cotton undies binding her thighs, then slumped against the mirror. Still cumming, she slid limply down the wall to land in a happy, twitching heap on the floor.

She lay there for a while, resting contentedly. She licked pussy cream off her fingers. Her hair fell over her half-closed eyes. I’m such a sexy little lush, she thought dreamily. She giggled.

Feeling much better now, Cassandra climbed to her feet and tidied her clothes. Her panties were wet, so she pulled them off completely. She wandered over to the sinks, where she found a variety of cosmetics neatly laid out on a stand. This restaurant thought of everything. She passed a comb through her hair until it glistened, then considered her face. The only lipstick was brighter than anything she normally wore. It looked good when she finished.

She tried a little eye shadow, only to discover it had sparkles embedded in it. Well, it was already on one eye. She decided to do the other. She winked at herself a few times. It was so cute it made her giggle.

When Cassandra emerged from the washroom she was feeling a good deal better. She handed her slacks and underwear to the waiter, who was waiting patiently. She hoped he couldn’t tell what she had been doing in the washroom. “Excellent ma’am,” he said. “I’ll have these dry cleaned and returned to you as soon as possible.” Despite his professionalism, his eyes dropped to her bare thighs for a long moment.

“Oh, no need t’ hurry,” Cassandra replied, smiling. “I like this style mush better.” She gave him a sparkly wink.

The waiter was still studying her legs. His expression had migrated from admiration to concern.

“What? Whazza matter?” Cassandra demanded.

“Oh, it’s nothing ma’am. Nothing at all. It’s just that . . . if I may suggest ma’am, your shoes are very attractive, but they were intended for your dull office suit, and perhaps—” He stopped, considering.

“What? What is it?” Her shoes were classic black pumps with one-inch heels. What could be wrong with that?

“Well, those drab shoes don’t really match the otherwise splendid ensemble you are wearing now, that’s all.” He raised a finger, as if struck by an idea. “If I may suggest, ma’am, I believe I have a solution. One of our waitresses left her street shoes here the other night. I imagine she is about your size. If you would care to wait just one moment I’ll go fetch them. Please, make yourself comfortable here.”

He led Cassandra to a comfortable chair among some potted plants. She felt cool leather against her bare behind. “Uhm, I’m not sure—” she began. The waiter had already gone.

Cassandra sat quietly. She drank the glass of wine the waiter had thoughtfully provided. This latest suggestion seemed odd. There was nothing wrong with her shoes. Was there? She didn’t feel inclined to fuss about it. After that interlude in the washroom, she was feeling wonderfully relaxed and languorous. She was quite sure she could fall asleep right there in the chair.

The waiter returned in a moment. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending your slacks out for dry cleaning,” he explained. “The shop promised to finish them with dispatch. In the meantime, why don’t we try these.” He hefted the shoes in his right hand.

Cassandra blinked. The shoes were enormous. They were outlandishly thick-soled slip-ons with chunky platform heels far taller than anything she had ever worn, or even considered wearing. They were red-brown, with a soft, plush surface and a shiny blue stripe along the top of the sole. They looked like something a raver girl would wear.

She tried to find the will to protest. “I, I don’t think I can, uhm, wear those,” she managed.

The waiter was already kneeling at her feet. “If I may suggest, ma’am, you may find these surprisingly comfortable.” He eased her right shoe off and replaced it with one of the platforms. “Fortunately, I believe we have a good fit. Let’s try the other.”

A moment later Cassandra’s feet were decked out in sexy, high-heeled, platform shoes. She flexed her toes. The shoes fit exactly. That was a surprising coincidence; she often had difficulty finding her size.

The waiter was still talking in that gentle, melodious voice, as pleasant and relaxing as the purring of a kitten. Cassandra loved the sound of it, even if she didn’t catch all the words.

He set her old shoes aside. He reached into his pocket and brought out a chain made of red and white hearts. He deftly slipped it around Cassandra’s right ankle and fastened the hasp.

“What—what’s this?” Cassandra asked. The row of hearts twinkled on her ankle, just above her garish shoe. “Please, I don’t want —”

“Pardon my presumption,” the waiter apologized, “but a patron left this here last week. I have been unable to return it, and it seemed a shame for such a rare, valuable piece to languish unworn. I believe it suits you well.”

The words “rare” and “valuable” extinguished Cassandra’s protest. “Well, uhm, if the owner doesn’t mind . . .”

“I’m certain she does not. Look, there is even a matching necklace.” He held it up in front of her, an open end in each hand. Before she could react he leaned forward and fastened another row of china hearts around her neck.

“No, wait, I don’t wear—”

“Why don’t you take a look. Allow me.” He took her arm and gently guided her to her feet. “There’s a mirror over here. I know you love to admire your hot little body.”

Cassandra was too busy trying to balance on her preposterous heels to catch everything the waiter said. He helped her shuffle over to a long mirror on a wall of the hallway. The anklet tinkled with every step.

Cassandra’s eyes went wide. She barely recognized herself. The jacket still revealed every inch of her long legs, lifted and shaped by the block-heeled platforms. With her knee-high stockings and bright lines of hearts swinging around her ankle and dangling in her cleavage, she looked more like a vampish schoolgirl than a serious young executive.

Cassandra blinked in surprise. Her eyelids sparkled. “I, I look—— sexy!” she exclaimed. She giggled loudly and watched her bosom jiggle. If it were a little bigger . . .

“Yes, I believe you have done rather well under the circumstances,” the waiter agreed. “I presumed you want to look your best for your fiance.”

Oh yes. Geoffrey. She was going to give him a piece of her mind for being so late. He would probably stare at her. She licked her lips. She liked that idea.

“I’ll have your old shoes sent to your office along with your trousers,” the waiter suggested.

“Uhm, OK, thank you,” Cassandra said uncertainly. She was not confident she could walk far in the platforms. Still, she decided she liked them. “The higher your heels the finer you feel.” Hadn’t she heard that somewhere?

Cassandra shuffled unsteadily back to her table, the waiter following. She took her wine glass with her. The dirty dishes had all been taken away and the tablecloth replaced. Someone had swept the floor. There was no evidence at all of Cassandra’s recent binge. Her sophisticated eyeglasses were gone too. Cassandra didn’t notice.

Cassandra was disappointed to see no one at the table. “Geoffrey’s not here?” she complained, pouting.

The waiter slid the chair under her. He said: “Mr. Foxworthy is on the telephone at this very moment. He asked to speak to you. Don’t you love to take it up the rear?”

“Wha? Oh, yes, of course, I’ll take it here.”

“One moment.” He gave his little bow and walked away.

He returned a moment later with an old-fashioned red telephone on a long cord. He set it on the table beside her and handed her the receiver.

“Hi Jeffy!” Cassandra sang. “Why didn’ you meet me for lunch?”

“Hey baby, I’m way sorry about that,” came Geoffrey’s voice. “Something came up on very short skirt—I mean, on short notice. It was a hard problem, so I had to really pound away at it for a while.”

Geoffrey sounded a lot more confident than he usually did. Cassandra heard a feminine giggle in the background. He called me “baby”, she thought idly. She had never tolerated that epithet. Now the word was stuck in her head.

“Welllll, okay. But you beh’er make it up to me. You know I don’ like you runnin’ late all time.” She crossed her knees, forgetting for a moment how little she was wearing. There was a big plate of cookies on the table. Cassandra grabbed one and munched on it idly.

Geoffrey’s voice was conciliatory. “Of course, baby, of course. I’ll try to do better. You know how hectic this job of mine can be. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we meet tomorrow, same time, same place. I’ll try to come a little sooner.” There was another titter in the background.

“I’ll hafta check m’schedul,” Cassandra replied automatically. She had trouble with the last word. Her mouth was already full with her second cookie. “But I thin’ tha’s a great idea. This restaurant is marv’llous. Don’ be late!” She washed down the cookie with a gulp of wine.

“Of course not. I’ll see you tomorrow, baby.”

Cassandra set the receiver back in the cradle. He called me baby again, she reflected. She liked that. It made her feel coddled and loved. She turned the word over in her mind. Baby. Baby baby baby. Yes, she loved babies.

The waiter arrived to take the telephone away. “Would you like anything else, ma’am? An after-dinner drink, perhaps?” For some reason he walked around to the far side of her table, closest to the wall.

“N-no, no more, please,” Cassandra begged. She noticed the waiter checking out her legs again. She felt her nipples tingle.

“If I may suggest,” the waiter said in that soothing voice, “A little something to make your visit special. It’s all natural and low calorie; the perfect end to any meal. You won’t be able to resist sucking it right down.”

“Wha, what is it?” Cassandra asked. Not another desert, she hoped. God she loved that voice.

“Just what you need, baby,” the waiter said, unzipping his fly.

Cassandra found herself looking straight at a long plump cock. It was dangling before her face, inches in front of her. She should have been shocked. She should have screamed. It was a very nice cock. Did the waiter call her “baby”?

She leaned forward a little to take a closer look. The beautiful cock was already half-way hard. She was so drunk. “I, I don’t think I can—mmmmmmph!” The waiter flexed his hips and Cassandra found herself with a mouthful of warm man-meat. Her bright-red lips closed around it reflexively.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmm!” she sighed, as she began to fellate him. This was the best desert of all. It was delectable. She took him in as deep as she could, until she felt the tip of his glans pressing against her throat. Why had she never done this for Geoffery?

The half-dressed executive made little purring sounds as she enjoyed her last dessert. It was so goody-goody good. She had always disdained oral sex, insisting it was nothing more than female subservience to a selfish male. She hadn’t imagined it could taste like this! She slurped noisily as she bobbed her head up and down, up and down, cheeks puffing and collapsing with each reciprocal stroke. She let him slip out deliberately. She licked his shaft like an ice cream cone, all the way down to the hairy base. She slurped and lapped her way back up to take him in again.

It was turning her on powerfully. She could feel her stiff nipples pressing against her suit jacket. Her face was flushed and her heart pounded. Cassandra was going all out now. She held and stroked his member with both hands, while her head bobbed joyously up and down. And all the while the waiter spoke to her in that kind, soporific voice.

Cassandra was too busy to pay attention, even when he said something like “oversexed lovedoll, ready to go down anywhere, any time.” Yet she did notice when the beautiful voice became jerky and huffing. She knew the best part was about to come.

A moment later the waiter groaned and stiffened. He began to shoot his load into Cassandra’s mouth. Somehow she knew it would be delicious. She wasn’t disappointed. She moaned in spite of herself from the sweet, salty sensation. She sucked and swallowed, eager to taste every drop. Finally, panting, she collapsed backward in her chair and let him slip away.

By the time Cassandra had begun to recover a little, the waiter had slipped his schlong back into his pants. He resumed his professional attitude, though his hair was a bit mussed.

“I trust that was satisfactory, ma’am?” he inquired.

She was still floating. “Maaaaaarvellous. That was m-marvellous. But uhm, did I . . . should I have . . . ?”

“If there is nothing else ma’am, I’ll fetch the bill.”

Bill? Cassandra wondered dimly. What bill? Oh, yes, the bill for lunch. She had completely forgotten. “Wait, I, I’ll put it on my card,” she told him. “I have to . . . I have meetings this afternoon.” She seriously doubted how useful she would be at the office. She picked up her purse and dug out a charge card, gave it to the waiter. He bowed and receded.

Cassandra took a moment to catch her breath. She had a little more wine. The waiter returned a moment later with a charge slip. “If I could get your signature, ma’am,” he said, laying it in front of her.

Cassandra took the proffered pen. It was a long, fat fountain pen. It reminded her of a stiff cock. None of the amounts on the bill had been filled in. “Uhm, there’s no—” she began.

“Unfortunately, our machine is broken at the moment. Please, add your signature and I’ll fill it in once the reader is repaired.”

“Uhm, okay.” She signed her name shakily at the bottom, and handed the paper back to him. He slipped it into a pocket.

“I’d better get goin’,” Cassandra said, climbing carefully to her feet. She picked up her satchel and purse.

The waiter stopped her gently. “If I may suggest, perhaps ma’am is not in the best condition to attend to business at the moment.”

“But, I have . . . uhm, meetings . . .”

“Of course ma’am. You have enjoyed some drinks with lunch. Until your trousers arrive back from the dry cleaners, I would counsel against making an office appearance. Even though you love to dress like a shameless tart.”

Cassandra didn’t quite catch the last part. She looked down at herself. She had almost forgotten she was wearing nothing but a suit-jacket and garish platform shoes. Wouldn’t that make a sensation at the office. She giggled helplessly. “What am I gonna do?”

“If I may suggest, ma’am, perhaps now would be a good time to go shopping. As long as you’re in need of some new things, why not take the afternoon to refresh your wardrobe. You’ll need some foxy miniskirts and high heels to excite the men in the office.”

“Well, I, I’m not sure. I shouldn’ be skipping off work. So mush to do. I’m comin’ up for promotion soon.”

“I shouldn’t be too concerned about your business affairs, ma’am. I’m sure your boyfriend would prefer you as a docile, cock-hungry baby-machine anyway.”

“Oh.” What had he said?

“I have taken the liberty of calling a limousine for you,” the waiter said. “Please, allow me.” He took the tipsy executive by the arm and led her to the front door. Her anklet tinkled. There was a car waiting. The driver popped out instantly when he saw Cassandra. He held the rear door open for her, staring happily.

Even with the waiter’s help, Cassandra had difficulty getting into the car with any degree of modesty. Getting out would be equally challenging. She reached up for her satchel. The waiter was holding it while she got in.

“If I may suggest, ma’am, you don’t want to be burdened with this all afternoon. It will only remind you of work. I’ll courier it over to your office. It will be there when you arrive tomorrow morning.”

“Oh. Uhm, okay, I . . . that would be all right. Thank you.”

The waiter handed the limo driver a small card. “Here are the addresses she wants to visit. You may have to help her carry packages.”

“As you like, mate,” the driver agreed. He tipped his cap, took one more longing look at Cassandra, then climbed behind the wheel.

The waiter leaned into the car. “It was a pleasure serving you, ma’am,” he said. “I hope to see you again soon. Don’t forget to buy some things that will make Mr. Foxworthy want to screw your brains out.”

“Yes, thank you very mush,” Cassandra agreed. “You’ve been so helpful.”

He closed the door. The limousine pulled away. The driver looked at the card in his hand, then at the lean, leggy, looped beauty in the rear seat. “First stop is Lala’s House of Shoes, if that’s all right,” he said.

Cassandra leaned back in her seat, indifferent to how much the driver could see. “Shertainly,” she replied. She admired the soft red platforms on her feet. She could use a few more pairs of sexy shoes. She burped.

The waiter watched the limousine disappear down the street. Still carrying Cassandra’s satchel, he returned to the restaurant. He passed through the kitchen, where a shapely waitress in old-fashioned stockings and quite immoderate high heels was being noisily screwed by an assistant cook. Alice had proved quite receptive to the waiter’s suggestion that the success of the restaurant ultimately depended on keeping the kitchen staff satisfied.

Henri Bougevain had left the headwaiter to run the restaurant while he was away. It was a gesture of gratitude for his help with Bougevain’s domestic troubles. Over several very wet lunches, the waiter had gradually convinced Mrs. Bougevain that Henri’s fling was a direct result of her failure to dress and act as his personal sexpot. She had abandoned the divorce proceedings once the waiter had explained that divorce would mean an end to her daily rides on Henri’s cock, which she had come to need like oxygen.

The waiter sat down in an office in the back of the restaurant. He closed the door against the girl’s happy squeals. He turned on an industrial-size paper shredder, then carefully fed Cassandra’s slacks into it. Little ribbons of pin-striped fabric flowed out the chute. He tossed her old shoes in one at a time. She wouldn’t be needing those any more.

He opened Cassandra’s satchel and rummaged through the contents. It contained a variety of documents. The waiter selected a third of these at random, including a paper entitled “Detailed cost estimates—Phase Two” and a memo stamped “Urgent.” He fed them carefully through the shredder. He wandered through the remaining papers and reports, tearing out the occasional page. The paper shredder hummed and crunched.

The waiter replaced the omitted papers with a handful of glitzy fashion magazines. He threw in some brochures for naughty underthings and sex toys. He shredded Cassandra’s memo pad and replaced it with a pink one, with red hearts around the side.

The waiter looked through the outside compartments. He discovered an electronic organizer and a small cell phone. He checked a number on the organizer and dialled the telephone. He asked the brisk voice that answered for Cassandra’s office.

“Yes, good afternoon. This is Emile from Chez Henri. Ms Cassandra was our guest this afternoon. She asked me to pass on a message. She has been called away on some urgent business and won’t be able to make any of her meetings this afternoon. Oh, no, she’s perfectly well. She simply decided that shopping for flashy outfits to show off her fuckable little body is a lot more interesting than sitting in a stuffy room all day talking about numbers.

“No, please, there is no need to reschedule anything. Cassandra will go along with whatever decisions the others make. Yes, that’s what she said. You will make sure to forget any important messages for her, won’t you honey? Excellent. And perhaps delete all her e-mail as well? She hasn’t got time to read that sort of thing.

“Thank you so much, ma’am. How kind of you to say so. Your voice is wonderful too, in its own way. If I may suggest, you could make it more throaty and compelling if you slipped a finger up your pussy while you talked on the telephone. Wouldn’t that be fun? Maybe you should slip your knickers off so they won’t get in the way. Good-bye now.”

The waiter smiled. He found a bunch of Cassandra’s business cards and casually tossed them into the shredder. He punched another number on the little cell phone.

“Ah. Mr. Foxworthy. Please forgive this intrusion. Cassandra left a few minutes ago. I’m afraid she had rather a lot to drink over lunch. Our special additives amplify the effect of the alcohol, as you know. She decided to go shopping instead of returning to the office.

“What’s that? Oh, I took the liberty of arranging the venues on her behalf. The after-dinner cookies will keep her mellow and suggestible for quite some while. I have also alerted the store personnel. I expect that they will have no difficulty persuading your lady friend to broaden her style horizons.

“Perhaps not just yet. But don’t worry about a thing, sir. Once she starts visiting regularly, we’ll have her plumped up, dumbed down and putting out in no time.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too concerned about that. The key is to help her overcome her inhibitions and fully enjoy intimacy. Once she sees convincing you to fuck her as a vital daily goal, she may be reluctant to insist on provisions that you don’t care for. An accidental pregnancy is inevitable. When we have her fully trained to enjoy life on her back, I expect she’ll be too busy popping your cork and popping out babies to have much time for a career. Besides, I expect her new style and attitude may prove incompatible with a management position.”

The waiter fiddled with Cassandra’s notebook while he spoke on the phone. He found her appointment schedule for the next week. He was about to delete it, but changed his mind. Instead he re-arranged times and days randomly. He did erase her list of telephone numbers, her to-do list, and some notes about a contract. He tossed the planner back in the satchel.

“Thank you sir. It’s been a pleasure. No, no need for that, sir. But thank you for reminding me.” He pulled the chargecard slip out of his pocket and set it on the desk. He filled in a four-figure sum for lunch, then gave himself a 50% tip. “As we agreed, this is in Cassandra’s best interest. I’m sure she won’t mind paying for everything.”

“Yes, tomorrow at the same time. No, no need for you to attend, but please stay near the phone. Thank you sir. Good-bye.”

The waiter closed the satchel. He used the telephone to arrange a delivery back to Cassandra’s office, then tossed the phone into the rubbish bin. He slipped a discreet pink vibrator into the slot where the telephone used to be.

A gentle knock came at the door. Alice, the pretty young waitress, stuck her head in, looking happy and freshly fucked. Her miniskirt mostly covered her stocking tops, if she was careful. “Excuse me, Emile,” she said courteously. “You asked to be alerted when Mrs. Hildebrande arrived.”

“Ah, yes, thank you Alice. I’ll see to her right away. Please make sure the courier picks up this briefcase, you perpetually horny sex machine.”

“Of course,” Alice said, smiling.

The waiter got to his feet. He smoothed down his hair and checked his jacket for lint. He passed through the kitchen to the front desk. A rich, middle-aged woman was waiting there, looking fine but uncomfortable in a flashy leather dress.

“Mrs. Hildebrande, how lovely to see you again,” he said. “I believe you have died your hair. Excellent. Very attractive if I may say so. I’m sorry, but your husband called to say he has been delayed at the office. He’ll be around shortly. Shall I show you to your table?”