The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Meanwhile back in the stone age ...

What? “What about the penthouse?” you say? Jeez, talk about a one-track mind. Look, I know you’re all ... eager to find out how Majestic Woman responded to her first “Discipline” session. Believe me, I was too. But there are a few more things you’ll have to know about me before the rest of all this will finally start making sense. Okay? I swear we’ll go back to the penthouse soon. Well ... before the end of the chapter at least.

So where was I? Oh yes! The story of ... moi. Meanwhile back in the stone age, I was looking down at what I had done, the blood in the water far below, the limp body unresisting as the tug of the churning rapids pulled it off of the rocks. I was horrified by my own acts, by the death I had dealt with my own two ... with Eevan’s own two hands. But I knew there was no turning back now.

I / Eevan ran back to the village, shouting for help.

“Jovan has jumped to his death!” I wailed, falling to my knees and crying. It wasn’t an act. Yes, I was lying about what had happened. But my feelings were my real feelings; I truly was horrified by what I had done.

We found “Jovan” cold and dead, washed ashore perhaps half a mile downstream. I buried “Jovan”, but I in my heart I mourned Eevan even as I became him. I was not the only true mourner. I was touched by how many were grief-stricken at the passing of strange, fey, crippled Jovan. But one mourner surprised me more than all the others.

Even wrapped in my own dark thoughts, I was moved by Navya’s mourning. Cunning though she often was, Navya was guileless in the face of Jovan’s death. She blamed herself. Her grief and her tears were unfeigned and heart-wrenching. Her pain was every bit as real and deep as mine.

We comforted each other. She shared with me her true guilty heart. Guiltily I faked sharing Eevan’s heart with her. For months Eevan had been ready to join with Navya, only needing to work up the courage to tell Jovan. But now Jovan was ready for this joining too.

So I did join with Navya and we had a good life, as long as I did not plumb her avaricious thoughts too deeply. She tried to manipulate me with her “natural talents”; Lady Macbeth had nothing on my Navya. With my talents though it was easy to counter her. I did not become the jealous, spiteful tool of her ambitions that she no doubt would have made the real Eevan.

But this was not a contentious, unhappy joining! She was beautiful, and our sex was wild and satisfying, especially as I learned how to tune my arousal to hers. I loved her, but not like an equal, not like a partner. Centuries, if not millennia, before there were actual “domestic animals”, Navya was my pet.

Oh, we were normal. We were “leading citizens” and good parents. We had many children; some of whom even survived to adulthood. What is that phrase? “Nasty, brutish and short”? Yes, that’s how it was.

My control over Navya was subtle, less “straps and chains” than “invisible fence”. And that control was for her own good too! She did not become the hated imperious hag she would have been if she had had her own way. But make no mistake, I truly controlled Navya. I controlled her simply by outmaneuvering her over and over again, and she was my reluctant, but happy, pet.

None of my children had my talents. In retrospect, many millennia later, I realized that if there was any genetic component to my psychic abilities, it must have been lost to humanity with the death of Jovan’s virgin body. But somehow Jovan’s “mind” and its abilities had transcended Jovan’s “body” which had given birth to those abilities, like a butterfly from a caterpillar.

Now Eevan was the one who seemed to have eldritch powers. Eevan was the one that could see the minds of man and beast. They said that the spirit of Jovan haunted me. That was far too close to the truth for my comfort, so I laughed it off. In point of fact, the laughing was easier for me than it had ever been before. At least some of humor, some of personality, must be chemical, genetic, innate, because it seemed that some of Eevan’s traits: his easy smile, his joking nature, his temper—quick to burn and quick to cool—became mine. It was as if Eevan was haunting me.

As I aged, eventually the day came that I could no longer keep up with the hunting party. I gave up the hunt, but to my surprise that only meant that Navya and I became more the leaders than ever before. Youngsters came to us for training. Adults turned to us for judgment. There was no real “chieftain”, but, with my mind powers and Navya’s ability—finally!—to rein in her spite and ambition for the good of the tribe, we were foremost among the old wise ones. We were busy, and respected, and loved. It was a good life, but it was too short for me. My eyesight was failing. Navya’s joints crippled her whenever the weather changed. And she was no longer the beauty she had been in her youth. Nor was I. My hair and teeth were falling out. I could see that the end was coming, but I knew a way out.

I began to practice body swapping, at first with children, but later with adults. Always careful that “Eevan” was secluded, far from anyone else, when each swap occurred. That way the panicked person in Eevan’s body would go unheard while I enjoyed his or her body.

Amazingly enough, I got away with it. Of course, no one believed the children’s stories, and the adults knew that everyone would think them mad if they told the same stories. Even so, long forgotten tales of “Jovan haunting Eevan” began making their rounds in the village again.

I was soon good enough at it that I could swap with anyone, instantly and painlessly. My plan continued to unfold. I went about choosing my target. Having sampled all of the minds in the village, I settled on Deetga, a strapping young man and a fine hunter. Residing in his body made me feel so alive. He was so strong and swift; his senses, so keen; his wits, so sharp; his passions, so powerful. Living in Eevan’s ancient forty-one-summers-old body felt nothing like that!

Intentionally, I began to play the mad, senile old man. It cost me my stature in the village, but I knew it would save my life. The last of my teeth had rotted out. My hair was white and thin. Navya had died the previous winter, and my bed was cold and lonely. Some nights I felt a twinge in my chest and feared that I would run out of time.

Finally I could wait no longer. I put my plan in motion. For several days I raved that I was really Deetga, and that Eevan had stolen my body. My children cared, but like the others, they stopped listening to their poor mad old father. I recall sensing my youngest daughter, Glissa—my baby at thirteen summers—suffering under the pain of my decline. She wished that I would die. Not so that my misery would end, but so that her embarrassment would end. Yes, she was definitely Navya’s daughter.

In the middle of the fourth night of my madness, I swapped permanently with Deetga. He immediately started screaming out in the dead of night exactly the mad ravings that I had spent days conditioning the entire village to ignore. Deetga couldn’t understand. No one would believe him. His despair pushed Eevan’s already decrepit body into steep decline. Deetga’s mind died in Eevan’s body in less than a month.

But I was alive. And how! Once more I was young and strong, captain of the hunt, lover of the most beautiful woman in the village. That woman was Eevan’s middle daughter, Selka, the spitting image of a young Navya. Yes, it was weird, but how could you really call it incest? I thought this would be the secret to my new life, living, aging, swapping old for new and living again. But after only five years I was unutterably, well, bored. I had done all this before! Even in Deetga’s wonderful young body, there was no particular thrill in doing it again.

I knew there was a bigger world out there, and I wanted to live in it. When we moved seasonally from hunting ground to hunting ground, we often encountered other villages, other nomads, moving just like we did. They had strange names; they made strange crafts; they spoke strange words; sometimes we could not understand these others at all.

Of course, when young Jovan had first met these foreign tribes; he always understood them perfectly. I’m actually certain in retrospect that I must have saved our village from war at least twice. Those foreign tribes were never quite so foreign to me.

Now, out hunting as Deetga, I often felt the presence of hunting parties from some of those other tribes. I began to imagine trading my boring life as Deetga for a new life in a new village.

One day I just did it.

I don’t know what my village thought of the madness that possessed “Deetga”. I don’t know what the poor man whose body I now possessed thought of his fate, trapped now in Deetga’s body. I do know that everyone in my new village thought “Cowmpu” was acting pretty weird for a week or two, until I had read enough language and custom and shared experience from the minds of those around me to pass as “normal”.

But it wasn’t enough. Within a month I was bored again. And so when the opportunity presented itself, I jumped again. And again. And again. I had no sense of geography. I had no sense of ethnicity. I had no sense of direction, of purpose, of time. I wandered and sampled and observed and wandered. I swapped and ate and hunted and fucked and swapped.

At some point—decades? centuries?—after I first left home, I actually became homesick. I tried to find my way back to my tribe in the hill country. But it was hopeless. Which tribe? Which hill country? It’s even possible that I found my home and didn’t realize it. There was no one in any of the tribes that I knew; no one in any of the tribes that remembered a “Deetga”, a “Selka”, an “Eevan”, a “Navya”, a “Jovan”.

You’ve heard it said that “you can’t go home”? Try living several lifetimes away and then try to go home. You literally can’t.

So I gave up. I resumed my wandering with a vengeance. I crossed deserts, jungles, and endless savanna. I think I must have spent the better part of a millennium in Africa before crossing—via the farthest body-swap I had attempted to that date—over the Pillars of Heracles into Europe.

The pale-skinned people amazed me. It was the skin color I remembered from my youth, but I had not seen it in so long that I had assumed my memories of younger days must have been mistaken, a misremembered dream.

Sometime after that, maybe a century later, maybe two, I first encountered what I now call a “cusp”.

I was somewhere east of the Black Sea. Don’t ask me exactly where; no maps, right? I had crossed over the Bosphorus Strait a couple of months before. I’m pretty sure that’s where I was. There’s not another geographic feature anywhere else in Europe that resembles the Bosphorus. There are geologists that say the Strait, and the Black Sea’s connection to the Mediterranean is only about seven or eight thousand years old. They’re wrong. The Bosphorus was there, and I crossed it, well over ten thousand years ago.

In any case, about a month after that crossing I was somewhere east of the Black Sea, when I swapped into a tribe that was doing something truly different. Instead of foraging for fruits and vegetables, they were growing them. I was shocked. This was genius!

They were beyond making tools: hunting tools or digging tools or porting tools, things that helped them acquire food. They were actually making food, right there in their village. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. Beans, squash, beets, carrots, berries, all growing right at arm’s length. They still hunted for meat, but everything else, most of their diet really, just required planting, harvesting, and a little bit of maintenance and pest control in between. And since the killed “pests” were edible for the most part, it even lessened their need to hunt!

Look, you’ve lived with the idea of agriculture all your life. You’ve almost certainly never even met someone who didn’t grow up in an environment permeated with crops as the main source of food. You don’t know what this meant, and I can’t even begin to explain the full scope, the full impact, of this invention.

I left the village and came back as a stranger just to ask questions. After all, one of their own asking such questions would seem too weird. I brought meat, most of a side of auroch, as a peace offering. Even so, it was touch and go for a bit. After gaining some trust I tried to find out how they had come up with the idea of planting food. The village chief tried to claim credit for the whole idea, and no one would gainsay him. But in all their minds I could see that they had learned the technique from another village further to the east.

So I swapped my way into that village and started in with the questions right away. So what if they thought me mad? I wasn’t planning to stay. My questions pointed me toward another tribe to the southeast, which led to another and another. Eventually I reached a village where even the grayest heads were puzzled by the very premise of my question. As far as they knew, they had always grown their own food. Nobody had “invented” anything.

And so I realized that I had missed the cusp of a great sweeping change that was sure to overtake all of humanity. “People” were changing. You have to understand that this was actually a somewhat scary thought for me. Places might be different, hot or cold, wet or dry, flat or hilly, with different flora, fauna, skin colors, languages. But where it mattered to me—minds, bodies, social interactions and roles—people were all pretty much the same. What if people changed so much that I could no longer sense their thoughts? What if people changed so much that I couldn’t swap into their bodies?

But fear wasn’t bothering me nearly as much as the other thing on my mind. There was an emotion that I don’t think I had experienced since ... since the day I threw Eevan off the cliff. I was jealous. Here I was, an immortal spirit who had lived for thousands of years, and someone else, one of those short-lived worms that I used for MY needs, had come up with this brilliant, game-changing idea of planting crops. I was the one who had lived fifty lifetimes, experiencing them through thousands of eyes. It should have been me that did this amazing thing.

So I resolved that if I couldn’t be the innovator, at least I would be the perfector. Of course, back then I didn’t have words for all these feelings and ideas, but I knew what I wanted nonetheless. I resolved to swap-travel everywhere that food crops were grown, learn what worked and what didn’t, and then become the ultimate farmer.

Well, I can only say that it seemed like a worthy goal for an immortal body-swapping spirit at the time.

In only twenty years of this exploration, I got my second cusp shock, the one that truly humbled me. Having seen the power of the domestication of food plants, I still didn’t make the leap. But, again, one of those ephemeral humans somehow did. I started encountering villages that had penned up herds of goats. Again, I failed to trace the practice back to its roots. I had somehow missed the genius spark of creation again. But the very idea of animal husbandry, of domesticating herds on the hoof, amazed me.

I simply had to admit, if only to myself, that being immortal did not make me a genius. That even given the idea that flora could be bent to serve mankind, I did not make the leap to see that fauna could be bent the same way.

But that was not the end of my second cusp shock. It went on and on. The more I traveled, the more I saw different ways that different peoples—peoples who obviously had had no contact with each other—had domesticated animals. I found peoples that not only used their goats for food but also milked them to help feed their own babies. I found peoples who had harnessed aurochs and were using their muscle power for carrying heavy burdens. I found peoples who had tamed wolves—almost as partners more than as slaves—fulfilling an amazing variety of purposes: catching pests in the fields, entertaining, protecting and babysitting children, helping with or even leading the hunt.

Every new innovation bewildered and humbled me.

But I steeled myself anyway. I told myself that I would study this phenomenon for as long as it took, hundreds or thousands of years if necessary. There had to be something to know about this wonder that could only be discovered by someone with a much longer perspective than that of a short-lived mortal.

To make a long story short, ultimately I succeeded. After only five hundred years of observation, I could tell that domestic goats were much different than the still-wild goats that were the ancestors of the modern ibex. Domestic goats had become smaller; they had shorter and less threatening horns; those that had been used for milk had changed even further, with the females displaying large distended udders even before giving birth.

And they were well on the way to becoming the voracious eaters that they are known to be today. Garbage disposal on the hoof! A few centuries after that insight I could tell that domestic wolves—dogs—were separating dramatically from their wild forebears, and even dividing into breeds according to how their masters used them.

Some ten thousand years before Darwin I was beginning to formulate a theory of micro-evolution. I could see these animals changing to favor the traits that their human masters wanted most. Of course, I didn’t have all the pieces, and I never did make the leap that Darwin did into macro-evolution. I never did see that mutation and survival advantage could, given an unfathomable amount of time, account for the entire variety of life on earth.

Hey, give me a break! I was just a three-thousand-year-old “cave man”.

So in any case, I had finally made a breakthrough that was beyond the reach of mortals. But it took me more than another century to figure out what to do with that breakthrough. I was living as a farmer on the banks of the Nile, not far from modern-day Luxor, when I was suddenly stricken with a heart attack. Out alone among my herds, I almost died before I found a suitable swap body miles away.

In the wake of my near-death experience my fright was like a wild animal gnawing at my guts. My “immortality” had almost ended right then and there. And I had been riding a twenty-three-year-old healthy body. This was simply not acceptable. I had to have a better pool of bodies to draw upon. And that is when I began my breeding program. I found a large number of isolated villages, in Europe, in Africa, in eastern and southern Asia, and I began to breed them.

My approach was much like that of any man who might want to domesticate a wild animal.

Foremost I cowed them into submitting to my overlord-ship. It wasn’t hard when you could swap grown men and women with helpless children and torture the children into submission. But such methods were brutal and, unfortunately, wasteful. Some of my slave villages were entirely wiped off the face of the earth before they submitted.

At the same time I protected and nurtured the ones who did submit. I scoured the world for the best weapons and fighting techniques known, and brought them back and taught them to my slave men. They learned how to defend their villages and tribes against wild wolves, bears, big cats, and of course against that most dangerous predator, the one that walks on two legs. I helped them avoid and survive famine, drought, and war. I made their lives better.

And ultimately, of course, I bred them purposefully. I chose the mating pairings and changed them at will. I tortured those who defied me, those who fucked someone who was not their approved mate. I bred my slave men for strength, health, and vitality. Well, at least up to age forty; I had no interest in riding any man older than that. I bred my slave women for beauty, for lustiness, for subservience; I wanted them to be my ideal mates.

This process involved not only pairing slaves that had the traits I sought, but also bloody, merciless culling. I remember one village in which the men had developed an alarming disease that killed them horribly and painfully in their mid-twenties. I now recognize that, in breeding for extreme male sexual prowess, I had probably induced early-onset prostate cancer. I certainly didn’t know that at the time. I ended up killing the entire village except for two unaffected families.

Other culling was necessary too. It turns out to be very hard to breed sex-linked traits into an animal population. I had to slaughter many a tall, muscular woman and many an effeminate, servile man to get the effects I truly wanted.

But it worked. In less than two millennia I was seeing consistent results. Even so, keeping up my herds began to consume all my time. At my peak head-count, I was holding over forty-five thousand well-bred slaves in thrall worldwide (well, in the world I knew about). And even more importantly, I was achieving my goals. It was gratifying, but there was a downside too. Quite frankly, it was too much work.

I never traveled anymore except to slave villages in crisis. And I was having trouble keeping my thralls enthralled. Young men tried to escape my tyranny and sometimes succeeded. Young women despaired of ever finding happiness and killed themselves. Besides all that, I became worried that another cusp would occur in the greater world, and that I would miss it entirely because I never saw any humans but those in my herds.

So, gradually, over the next century or so, I cut back my herds. Bloodily. Mercilessly. I eventually came down to ten thousand as the number of “domestic” human slaves that I could successfully keep under control and still have time to live in the wider world of “wild” humans.

At last, I had time. Endless, endless time. I was there and watching as the stone age gave way to the bronze age, and then as the bronze age gave way to the iron age. I didn’t miss the invention of the wheel, of woven cloth, of the bow and arrow, of the fired clay pot, of the broadsword.

And all the while I was fine-tuning my slave populations, introducing tendencies, physical traits, and heritable behaviors that pleased me. Large firm sexually-sensitive breasts. Vaginal strength and sensitivity. High sensory sensitivity in women in general. Powerful visual and aural acuity in men. Penile length, thickness, and stamina. Voluntary control of orgasm in both men and women. Submissive tendency in women to surrender that control to their man.

More and more and more.

As recently as ten years before I began Cynthia’s “training” I noticed a trait in some of my slave men that I decided I wanted in all of them. I expected to see stable results in five hundred years or so.

And that brings us almost back to the “current moment” of this tale, to which I’m sure you are eager to return.

Our heroine was broken on the wheel of my discipline and no longer needed to be confined to my “training apparatus”. I swapped us back to the penthouse again. She was once more prostrate before me while the color commentator recounted the last play, over the roaring of the stadium crowd. Knees, chest, and head down, ass up, suddenly again on the edge of an orgasm, arms outstretched on the floor toward the delicious smell of her Lord.

I knew the discipline would be necessary to ensure her compliance at the outset, but ultimately my control over her was based on the submissive, endlessly-horny body in which she currently existed; the result of thousands and thousands of years of focused breeding.

Briefly she considered making a break for it, running for the front door, or even to the balcony door to leap to her death. But I planted the next seed, the first one that was fully-formed sense memory.

In her head she heard me whisper, «“Discipline”»

She began to shudder uncontrollably, but at last got a grip and murmured, “How may I serve yo—”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

Angrily, her head came up to look me in the eye.

“How may I serve you, My Lord?” she growled.

“Such attitude. Do you need more discipline?”

“Nooo! No, My Lord.“

Shivering again, she took longer to tamp down her terror, but she did. Forehead to floor again, she said, clearly, evenly, meekly ...

“How may I serve you, My Lord?”

“Get me a beer, baby bitch.”

Frozen, for a second, she had thought she might get—a reward?

«C’mon, Cynthia! Pull yourself together. It’s just a dream. You don’t really belong to this anim—“Discipline”!» Yes, I had dropped the seed memory on her again.

With an audible squeak she sprang to her feet and ran for the kitchen. The bottles were right on the top shelf of the refrigerator. She hurried back out to the couch and held the beer out for me to take.

I looked up at her.

“Is that any way for a servant to present an item to her Lord?”

Inside her head: «“Discipline”».

She did it herself that time. I smothered a smile.

Falling to her suddenly weak knees, she caught herself with her free hand and righted herself. One hand holding the bottle, one hand under it.

She stuttered, “Y-your beer, My Lord.”

I looked at it with disdain.

“The cap?”

Look, yes, I was being an asshole, but I wasn’t just being an asshole. I had to break her and keep on breaking her until she internalized her slavery and my mastery. Everything depended on it.

In her fear and yearning she responded perfectly.

“S-s-sorry, My Lord. Please let me take care of it!”

Running to the kitchen, she rummaged through the drawers until she found a bottle opener. I was too amused to tell her the cap was a twist-off; besides, one more admonishment from me might have caused her to faint.

Pop. Run. Kneel. Hands and beer out-thrust. Eyes down.

“Your beer, My Lord.”

I took the bottle from the broken heroine without acknowledgment. Ignoring her. Watching the game.

Confused «Did I do it right?» and still on the cusp of orgasm, she pondered begging me for ... something, but she was far too afraid to interrupt me. The obedience itself made her feel warm inside, but it wasn’t enough. She needed my approval, my praise, my ... quite frankly my dick. So she remained kneeling before me, hands in her lap.

«No! Too tempting!»

Nervously she moved her shaking hands to her knees. She looked up at me, waiting, squirming in her need.

As I took pulls from the beer and watched the game, her eyes pooled with tears. They slid down her cheeks and dripped silently into her lovely cleavage. She shuddered. She fidgeted. Inside she yearned for my attention. But still she waited.

“That hit the spot. I’ll have another,” I said, waving the empty in her face.

She took the bottle reverently and pattered to the kitchen.

“Oh, and make me a sammich,” I said over my shoulder.

Oh, I am so evil.

Of course, she got the reference; I was testing her. But she passed the test. A look of rage flickered briefly across her face, but her terror and lust and submission quickly overwhelmed her reflexive—and, I must admit, righteous—feminist reaction.

She shuddered at how far she had fallen, but quickly shook it off and was back on task. She got out the beer and then frantically put it back.

«It’ll get warm».

She found the bread cabinet. Three types of bread. In the refrigerator, a ham, a roast, a turkey breast, four types of cheese, a head of lettuce, a beefsteak tomato.

«Too many choices! What if I get it wrong!! “Discipline” Oh, GODS!»

Two hours ago this was a strong, proud, independent, heroic woman. Now she was about to have a nervous breakdown trying to make a sandwich.

I can’t say it enough; I’m very good at this.

Buckling down she somehow overcame. If there was anything she knew, well, anything mundane she knew, it was food. The fear came from what she didn’t know, which would be me, my tastes, my preferences, my likes and dislikes. But she was striving mightily to get past that fear. She had no choice.

She chose bread, meat, cheese; peeled and washed several leaves of lettuce. She cut three generous slices of roast beef, looked over at her Lord, and cut another. Two slices of cheese. Three slices of tomato.

«What else? What else? Heat it!» Meat and cheese went into the microwave.

She debated taking me the beer right away and decided against it. Finally done she finger-tested the warmth of the meat, gave it another ten-second bump, took it back to the counter, assembled everything.

«Um ... Cut it!»

She gave it a nice diagonal cut and added two party toothpicks from the box she noticed when she was searching the drawers earlier. One more look in the ’fridge again and she added a pickle spear to the plate.

Inordinately proud of herself for someone who had just completed a task that a grade school child could accomplish, she was two steps out of the kitchen when she realized she forgot the beer. Fighting panic she somehow managed to get the sandwich back to the counter without dropping it.

Beer. Open. Grab. Hurry. Kneel.

“Your beer and sandwich, My L-Lord.”

I took the offerings from trembling hands.

“Good girl,” I murmured.

That “good girl”, the praise she had been hoping for, had her feeling warm and tingly. She visibly relaxed until she saw the face I made upon biting into the food.

“Whewe’s th’ muftid?” I said angrily around my full mouth. It was intentional. “Her Lord” would no need to practice etiquette around a piece of property.

She didn’t understand what she did wrong. Shaking like a leaf «“Discipline”», she ventured, “What’s wr-r-rong, My Lord?“

Swallowing, I tried again, “There’s no mustard, you worthless cunt.”

Terror overwhelmed her. Mostly fear of “Discipline”, but also a raw reaction to the cold chill she felt because she had displeased me, another genetic trigger bred into my female slavebodies over the course of many many millennia. “Let me fix it! Icanfixitletmefixit, My Lord. PLEASE!”

As I handed the plate back she rose unsteadily to her feet and ran to the kitchen in tears.

“You know,” I called after her, “You’re new, so I’m trying to be patient. But I have to wonder if this level of incompetence reflects a need for more discipline?”

She squealed as quaking hands open the ’fridge. In the door—three types of mustard.

«OH NO! ohno-ohno-ohno. I can’t do this.»

She called from the kitchen, clearly in agony, stuttering in terror, “M-m-my Lord? What type d-d-do you wa-w-w-wa-wa ... prefer?”

“With beef? The brown.”

Grab. Squirt. Then she was back in seconds, kneeling, head nervously bowed, eyes averted, as if expecting a fist, proffering the sandwich again. She flinched as I took a bite and chewed.

“Good girl. Pleasure yourself.”

Groaning loudly, one hand snaked down into her still-dripping snatch, while the other rose to pinch and roll a still-hard nipple. Trembling, crying, whimpering with relief, with fear, with lust, she worked two, then three fingers into her silky wetness, while her thumb strummed her hard clit like a banjo string. She was barely able to remain upright while watching me eat, drink, and watch the game. Her eyes drifted down to the bulge in my pants, and a thrill leapt from her sex out into her whole body. But—still she sat on the edge. She still. Couldn’t. Cum. Endless time passed.

“Time to clean up.”

She’d heard me speak but she was too far gone to make out the words. She had practically become a liquid. Her arousal was a small pool on the floor, sweat covered her body, drool dripped from her slack jaw, and tears streamed from her eyes. She could hardly maintain an upright posture, and she was quivering like jelly.

“Wha ... wha ... what? ... My Lord?”

“Get your lazy ass off the floor and clean this shit up!” I yelled.

Stunned, she tried to rise, slipping on the slick puddle beneath her and falling over twice before she stood, swaying and shivering. Then she was in motion, in mortal fear of “Discipline”. Soon bottles were disposed of, plates and utensils washed, counters wiped down and dried. She surveyed the living room, cleaned up crumbs and bottle rings, and gasped in dismay at her own leavings, a smeared puddle of cunt juice and sweat. Running past the front door without even a glance toward “freedom”, she found the hallway to the bathroom, grabbed a spare towel and ran back to clean up the slimy mess she had left in front of her Lord’s couch.

While she went off in search of a laundry bin for the towel I got up to inspect her work. There had to be something ... Soon she was back, standing in the kitchen doorway, bracing herself to keep from falling over. Looking at me as I was looking at the sink.

“You left water.”

“M-m-my Lord?”

I sighed. My expression said I was dealing with a slow child. “You left drops of water in the sink. If it dries there it will leave spots. Do you think it is okay to leave water spots in my sink?“

She fell hard to her knees and began to crawl to me. Looking up, pleading with her eyes.

“Clean it up!” I said, evenly but sternly

Honestly I’m not really such a psycho neat freak, but cultivating the pose of an obsessive neatnik turns out to be very handy in this sort of situation. It worked for me in much the same way that it works for drill sergeants with raw recruits. I walked around her, cowering, shivering, all hope lost. I ignored it all and went back to the couch. She sobbed as she lifted herself up by the counter. She grabbed a dishtowel in a violently trembling hand and somehow managed to wipe out the sink, not neglecting to sop up any drops under the spigot, not missing her own tears and sweat that she now found on the counter-top and lower cabinets.

Suddenly unable to walk again, she crawled back to the living room. She knew she could not resume jilling herself; she didn’t deserve a “Reward”. She wanted to beg me not to “discipline” her. She wanted to beg me to fuck her. She feared that she could not face me at all. She couldn’t understand how any of this had happened to her. «Is it dream logic? How can I fight it? “Discipline” Oh Hera, help me!» She couldn’t think of anything else to do, so she found her spot on the floor, her original spot, knees and head down, ass up, arms stretched in fervent prayer before her Lord. She composed herself as best she could.

“How may I serve you, My Lord?”

“I think I’ll fuck you now.”

She brought herself to her elbows and looked up at me, tears still streaming across the idiot’s grin on her face. I pointed to the couch, and she crawled to it, still unable to stand. She rolled over onto the couch, legs spread wide, looking up at me in joyous wonder, idly massaging a magnificent tit with one hand.

I waggled my finger “No,” and gestured for her to turn over. I briefly considered making her give me a blow job first, but she was already on a jagged edge. Besides, she couldn’t possibly be even minimally competent at fellatio. I didn’t want to have to send her back for discipline, not today.

Now she was on all fours on the couch, chin resting on its arm. I stripped off my shoes, socks, jeans, and boxers, not hurried, but not making a spectacle of it either. I turned to show her my rock hard erection, huge and thick. Her eyes grew wide as saucers and she let out a loud, involuntary whimper.

I positioned myself behind her sopping womanhood and idly rubbed my dick underneath against her abdomen. “What do you want, bitch?”

“Oooh, I want you, My Lord!“

“Can you be more specific?”

“Please fuck me, My Lord. I’m begging you!“

“Compose yourself, baby bitch, and try to tell me exactly what you want.”

“I ... I wa ...". Her frustration was epic, but she would not be denied. ”Please, My Lord. Ram your beautiful cock into my slimy, horny fuckhole until I c-c-cum.“

“Good girl.” I could see the relief wash over her. She had done well. She would be rewarded. I positioned my swollen glans at her dripping wet engorged labia, and ...

I swapped her back into her body.

Cynthia’s eyes snapped open immediately. The nightmare—wet dream?—was over. She was in her bed, soaked in sweat, reeking of sex. Her covers were ripped to shreds, and the crotch was torn out of her pajama bottoms ... and her panties. A slick river was running between her legs. Her clock showed ... three-twenty-eight AM. She screamed her frustration loud enough to rattle the knick-knacks on her dresser. Almost against her will, she imagined me thrusting inside her and finger-fucked herself to orgasm ... not as good as the one in the training room ... not as good as the one that had been building inside her when she woke from the dream. Even as she drifted back to sleep, she was ... disappointed. «I came much harder than that in my dream»

Back in the penthouse, my cockhead was still idly rubbing against her labia, torturing my slave, Annette. “You found a spare uniform?”

“Unngh Yes, Master. Several. But I couldn’t find any extra boots—nnga or tiaras or arm bands”

“That’s fine. You put it in the mail?”

“Express Courier, Mmmaster. It will be ... re-re-repacked into the diplommmatic pouch at the connn hah consulate, and repacked an’—sent again in Canberra. NNNgh, Three d-d-d-days, Master. Four mmmax. ohgod.“

“Excellent. You masturbated her? How many orgasms?”

“I—lo-ost count, Mass-ter. I couldn’t stop them, but they were so—w-w-weak! Oh! I ripped up her b-b-bedsheets and URRR HAHH! pajamas too-ooo.“

I paused behind her for a moment, feeling her desperate need. “Good girl,” I said, as I slipped frictionlessly into her warm, tight cunt.