The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Kelly was a history junkie. Not only did she major in history at Simmons College in Massachusetts, but she kept the History Channel on in our condo all day. She taught tenth-grade history, so she claimed all of her studies and TV watching were for work.

With all this in mind, I wasn’t surprised when she told me her big dream over dinner one night.

“I’ve been thinking about a research trip,” she said. “Just you and me. Hear me out and try to keep an open mind.”

“Okay, this sounds expensive,” I said, suppressing a grin.

“Don’t worry. It’ll pay for itself in terms of culture and life experience,” she said. “Besides, I checked our savings and we’re doing more than fine, Mr. Top Pharmaceuticals Salesman of the Year.”

“No thanks to Mapleton public schools,” I said. “You know there’s no reason to stay there. Unless, of course, you’re just doing it to be the wet dream of horny fifteen-year olds.”

Her eyes widened slightly and she punched my upper arm, which made me chuckle.

“Shush, you! I’m serious,” she said, her arms widening as if she were making a big announcement. “Just let me tell you about the Lapin Heritage tour!”

“Ok, Mrs. Lapin,” I said, with a smug grin. “This sounds like a vacation that involves little sun, but lots of castles and ancient villages. Am I right?”

She hit me with another glare.

“Peter,” she said. “In a couple years we’re going to start having children. We won’t be able to travel as much. Don’t you want to tell them that you’ve been to the place your family is from?”

“I have been there,” I said. “It’s Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Before that it was the south side of Chicago.”

“Peter, seriously!” she said. “I’ve never been to Ireland and you’ve never been to Russia.”

“Kell, I’ve never wanted to go to Russia,” I said. “Yes, technically, I’m Russian-American, but it’s not like that’s a big part of my life. I like College Football, Bud Light, hot dogs, not-well, whatever it is they do over there.”

“But you could learn!” she said. “Your parents, maybe your grandparents, came directly from there.”

“Nope,” I said. “I’m fifth-generation American. Anything Russian in our blood was washed away decades ago. My parents and grandparents were as American as it gets and raised me the same way.”

“That’s just sad,” she said. “Your entire cultural identity erased.”

“I do have a culture!” I said. “It’s just not that one. Don’t you think there was a reason for that? Maybe they wanted to get away from all of that and start over. You know, like immigrants tend to do when getting away from an oppressive government and culture?”

“As someone who’s been studying Russian history, culture, and language for years, I know for a fact that you’re missing out,” she said. “You can bury your head in the sand all you want, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t part of who you are, and who our children will be. After all, being Irish is a big part of who I am, even though I’ve never been there.”

“That’s because you look like the Irish wet dream,” I said. It was true. She had porcelain white skin, bright blue eyes, and amazing fiery-red hair that cascaded over her shoulders.

“Okay, that’s the second time you described me as a wet dream in two minutes,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Are you frustrated? Have I not been taking care of my wifely duties?”

She batted her eyes at me and slid her hand toward my belt buckle. She unbuckled the belt, and lowered my zipper, with a beautiful, coy smile. She lowered her head down in the right direction, but I knew from experience that those lips were going to stop shy of my dick.

Her warm, loving hands were a different story, though. She started running her fingernails gently up and down my cock’s length, as she continued her sales pitch.

“Can’t you just see me in Ireland?” she said, with a sly, seductive smile. “My red hair offset by a cream-colored cableknit sweater. Maybe we’d be in a pub, drinking Guinness. Maybe I’d have a little too much and be up for anything. Maybe you’d take me out behind the pub, and we’d have a roll among the rolling green hills.”

Admittedly, her dirty talk wasn’t the best, but it was still cute. Plus, I got the point; her striking beauty certainly lent more to my imagination. I loved her so much.

“Alright, alright,” I gasped at her touch, wilting under her tempting gaze. “We can go.”

Her smile widened and she grasped my dick with her warm palm, generously finishing what she started. Afterward, she handed me a tissue to clean myself off. As I was doing so, she was already online booking the trip.

We went during the high school’s winter break. We enjoyed a few days in Ireland, loving the tours, the locals, the cuisine, and, of course, the pubs. We really should have made Ireland the whole trip. However, it was a heritage tour for each of us, so we left the emerald isle for cold, grey Russia.

It was freezing the moment we stepped off the plane. We’d underestimated the frigid climate and hadn’t dressed warmly enough.

“Brrr,” Kelly said, teeth chattering, as we climbed into our taxi. “Wish I’d brought more than this wool coat.”

The driver looked in the rear-view mirror and said something in Russian. I checked my pockets for my phrase-book, but Kelly giggled and replied in Russian.

“Since when do you speak Russian?” I asked.

“Hon,” she said. “Don’t you remember? I double-minored in Spanish and Russian.”

I did remember that, I guess. I just didn’t realize she spoke it so fluently. God she was smart. I hoped are kids would get her brains…and beauty. “Well, what did he say?” I asked.

“He asked what a beautiful woman like me was doing in Russia, and why I was without a fur coat.”

“And you said?”

“I said that he shouldn’t flirt so openly with my husband here,” she said smiling.

“We could get you a fur coat,” I said.

“Are you serious?” she asked. “I know the dollar’s strong here, but that’s still a bit expensive.”

“Think of it as a souvenir of our heritage trip,” I said.

She said something in Russian to the driver and he made a U-Turn.

“What’d you tell him?” I asked.

“I asked him to take us to the nearest furrier,” she said. “Why wait? I’m freezing.”

Kelly and I walked out of the fur salon with her snuggled deep into her new beaver stroller with majestic crystal fox cuffs and a collar. At least that’s what Kelly told me the saleswoman said.

As we walked down the block to our hotel, I noticed several men who passed looking back at her. To say she got a fair amount of attention in Russia was an understatement. She was taller than most of the women here, and her gorgeous red hair helped her attract many glances. I felt good about it; after all, she was going home with me at the end of the day.

She giggled and blushed at offhand comments from Russian men. I didn’t want to know what they were saying. She’d latch tighter onto my arm after each encounter, which reassured me.

When we returned to the hotel, our concierge greeted us in Russian, asking us if we were enjoying our stay. Kelly didn’t translate that for me, but I was starting to get the hang of watching how she responded to certain questions. The inflection in her voice, her smile, etc. I told her to ask him if there were any historically based events going on tonight.

“Потомок Распутин выступая на городской площади” the man told her. Her eyes lit up, she apparently liked what she heard, as she responded very positively to it.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well, there is a presentation by an actual descendant of Rasputin,” she said excitedly. “You know, the monk, Rasputin?” Kelly asked. I didn’t know. I made a joke to her about drafting him on my ‘russian monk’ fantasy league. She play hit me.

“He was a monk in the late 19th and early 20th century,” she said. “He was reputed to have healing powers, and eventually became adviser to the Tsar’s wife.”

“Sounds sketchy,” I said. “Why not the actual Tsar’s adviser?”

“In a way he was,” she said. “Since he made the Tsarina relay his counsel to the Tsar. They say he had some sort of hypnotic power. Plus, it was suspected that they were having an affair behind the Tsar’s back.”

“I wouldn’t doubt that,” I said. “And he hypnotized people?”

“No one was able to prove it,” Kelly said. “But people back then and some historians today believe that his acts of ‘healing’ were a result of hypnosis. That he made people think they were healed and they eventually got better on their own. There were also rumors that he controlled people to a much greater level. Recruiting a secret army of bodyguards, and using women as his concubines. Some people even say that Alexandra, the Tsar’s wife, was his sex slave.”

“And that’s how he fathered his children?” I asked, “Hypnotic force? Isn’t that frowned upon with the monastic community?”.

“Oh, he had several illegitimate children,” she said. “But that’s all beside the point. What do you think? Should we check out the presentation? If you’d rather stay in and try to find a movie in English, I totally understand. You’ve been so good about the language barrier.”

“Well,” I said. “We’re only in Russia once—hopefully. Let’s get dinner and see the maybe-grandson of a creepy monk. What could be better?”

Kelly squealed and gave me a big hug. I felt the soft fur of her coat up against my face. She released me from her hug, took me by the hand, and led me to our hotel room. Even though I wished I wasn’t a sucker for her every whim, I was glad about all the great appreciation sex I was getting on this trip. It had been especially great on the Emerald Isle, so I could only imagine how “appreciative” she would be in cold, language-barriered Russia, especially when I was putting on a good face so she could enjoy the trip.

Once Kelly began talking about a historical subject, there was no stopping it. If it was something she was knowledgeable—even passionate—about, it would be impossible for her to stop lecturing whomever was in earshot about it.

I didn’t mind this during dinner, as I was sipping a nice vodka while gazing at the radiant redhead sitting across from me. I would have enjoyed watching her reciting the Moscow phone book, so it didn’t bother me as she rambled on about Rasputin.

“Everyone who met Rasputin remarked on his eyes,” Kelly said, animatedly. “How hypnotic they were. They were like shining steel, bright, brilliant, and sharp. Like they could see into a person’s soul. In fact, I think his eyes became part of his legend.

I nodded, chewing my steak.

“In fact, many historians used fantastic words to describe his eyes,” she said. “British author, Gerard Shelley said, ‘they seemed to emit soft, velvety rays, caressing one almost as one feels the caress of a melodious voice.’ Pretty neat, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Seeing you quote historians at length is neat. But what about the rest of him? Or was he all eyes?”

“Ha,” she said. “You’re funny. His face was very ‘meh’ if you look him up on Google. Except his eyes. Maybe that’s how he got Alexandra.”

“The Tsar’s wife, right?” I said.

“Exactly!” she said. “You do pay attention. But yes, they were surrounded by controversy because he practically never left her side. They were too close and many rumors of an affair roamed the palace. But no one did anything about it, for some reason.”

“Nothing?” I said. “That’s weird. If I were as powerful as the Tsar and found out my wife was cheating, that guy’s head would be on the chopping block!”

“Aren’t you sweet?” she said, smiling, as her hand found mine beneath the table. “Lucky for you, you’ll never have to worry about that.”

“Damn right,” I said. “So how did Rasputin get away with it?”

“There are a lot of theories about that,” she said. “Some say it was because an invaluable adviser during World War I. He relayed his ideas to the Tsar through his wife. Others say it was his magnetic charisma. The peasants would get upset when he spent so much time at the palace, since he was supposed to be their representative, but every time he held a “vstrecha,” or meeting with the townspeople, they would adore him again, even pledging their allegiance with enthusiasm.”

“Or hypnosis,” I said.

“Or that,” she said. “But I think that’s just a superstitious myth left over from a fledgling industrial society.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “You know a lot about that era, don’t you?”

“Oh my God,” she said. “You have no idea. I used to be obsessed with early twentieth century Russia in undergrad. The clothes, the manners, the language, and the literature. I sometimes wish I’d grown up then.”

“But then we wouldn’t have met,” I said, teasing.

“True,” she said. “I’d trade all of that for you, my love.”

After I paid for dinner, we took a cab to where the concierge said tonight’s ‘vstrecha’ with Rasputin Junior (or whatever he called himself) was.

When the cab pulled up to the building, I thought he’d been mistaken, until Kelly confirmed with the driver that this was the place.

It was a modest building that looked like it was once a theater or college lecture hall at one point. We entered and followed others to the main hall, which had a large stage, and an even bigger projection screen behind it.

As we took our seats, I noticed that it was a decent-sized crowd, mostly middle-aged and older people. I guess I should’ve expected that. None of the local history-based events we had back in North Carolina attracted a young crowd, except people like Kelly. The rest of us were too busy partying.

I was surprised the building management didn’t turn the heat on, especially considering the elder audience. It was so cold in the theater that Kelly didn’t take off her fur coat. Although, she probably kept wearing it because of all the attention it attracted. She really seemed to stand out, in fact, as a sharp contrast to the rest of the audience. She was young, had fiery red hair, and breathtaking beauty. The rest were wrinkled, hunched, and grey-haired. I was lucky to be here with her, even if we were in Russia.

About ten minutes after the event was supposed to start, five large, muscular guys emerged in formation through a side door on the stage. Holsters and bulges beneath their black military jackets told me they were armed. What the hell? Were we at the right place? I didn’t want to have mistakenly attended an underground freedom fighter meeting.

Then, they stepped aside, making way for a man who followed them in. He looked like he was in his early forties, due to his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. He had a trimmed goatee, owl-like eyebrows, and an intense glare. He wore an expensive-looking suit, with a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at top, and no tie.

“I thought this guy was like a monk,” I whispered to Kelly.

“His grandfather was,” she said. “This guy isn’t sticking to that part of Rasputin’s reputation.”

“He’s dressed sharp,” I admitted. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Oh you,” she said, punching my shoulder lightly. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Let’s watch the show.”

The man stepped to the center of the stage and began speaking in a firm, deep voice. Despite me not understanding what he said, I could tell it was well-practiced and eloquently spoken. Kelly was trying to both listen and translate. It was hard for her, but she did her best to keep up.

“He confirms rumors that he’s Rasputin’s grandson, and we can call him Rasputin-Novyi. It means New Rasputin,” she said, while listening. “Oh. He’s saying the government is corrupt. No news there.”

This announcement from Rasputin’s grandson caused the audience to murmur. Based on the head shaking, scowling, and boos, I could tell it wasn’t good.

Rasputin-Novyi said something curt in response to the crowd’s jeers and it silenced them immediately. Some glared at him with wide eyes, aghast.

“Whoa,” Kelly said.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He says he will be the next Tsar of Russia.”

“But they don’t have Tsars anymore, right?”

“They don’t,” Kelly said, listening to him.

“Should we go?” I whispered. “I think we stumbled onto something we shouldn’t’ve.”

“Wait,” she said. “I want to see where this show is going.”

“Yeah?” I said. “What about those guys with guns?”

Almost as if on cue, I noticed one of the guards looking at Kelly, conspicuous with her red hair and exquisite fur coat. He turned and whispered to the one beside him, who also started looking at her. I had a bad feeling about this.

That was when I noticed Rasputin-Novyi also looking at my beautiful wife as he spoke.

As my uneasiness grew and I was contemplating a swift exit, the projection screen behind Rasputin-Novyi lit up with a close up of his eyes. Weird. Was this something their culture did for entertainment or political pressure? I was uncomfortable. He had strange eyes, which seemed piercing and direct, looking through me. It was how Kelly had described the original Rasputin’s eyes at dinner.

He spoke more slowly, calmly, and no longer halted for crowd interruptions, which faded and subsided into silence.

“What’s he saying?” I asked Kelly, squinting at him.

I didn’t understand a word he was saying, but he kept speaking and speaking.

“Kel?” I asked, turning to her. She was staring at him, eyes focused. I shook her by the fur-covered shoulder and she blinked, turning to me.

“Huh?” she asked, tiredly.

It wasn’t just her, I noticed. Everyone in the crowd was looking at him, especially at the screen behind him that displayed his grey eyes.

“What’s he saying?” I repeated.

“Oh,” she said, dully. “He’s saying, uh, he’s saying—”

She trailed off, distracted by more things that he was saying. This was different from the excited and energetic Kelly I had dinner with earlier. She acted like a zombie.

There were a few elderly people a few seats away from us, who were also staring like Kelly was. They started saying something in unison. “nash korol,” they said. “nash korol.”

“What does Nash Korol mean?” I asked Kelly, shaking her arm vigorously to get her attention. She looked at me, confused for a moment. I pointed to the older people, who were chanting. “What does Nash Korol mean?”

“Our king,” she whispered, her vacant gaze settling back toward Rasputin’s own projected stare.

“This guy is a nutbag, Kel,” I said, grabbing her hand, and starting to rise. “We should go.”

“He’s magnificent,” she breathed, pulling her hand free from mine.

A new chant started among the crowd. “sluzhit’ i povinovat’sya,” they said over and over, louder and more determined each time they said it. Kelly also started chanting it.

“What does that mean, Kel?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“Serve and obey,” she said, not looking at me. She began settling back in her seat. Her body relaxed, but her eyes focused on him exclusively, and a placid smile crept onto her face. My heart stopped as her whispers of “sluzhit’ i povinovat’sya,” turned into impassioned shouts.

I stood up, noticing the trembling in my legs. I had to get out of here. I pulled at Kelly’s arm, trying to get her on her feet, at least. She kept chanting ““sluzhit’ i povinovat’sya” in her perfect Russian, resisting me, pushing me away.

Rasputin-Novyi smiled at his audience, pleased. Even the close-up of his eyes, reflected behind him, showed his grin.

I was officially freaking out, but I couldn’t leave without my wife! While standing, I could see everyone in the auditorium was chanting, except for me, Rasputin-Novyi, and the guards. The guards and Rasputin-Novyi looked at me, the only person standing in the lecture hall.

He turned to Kelly, sitting beside me, chanting and shouting in Russian. He held his hand out in invitation to her and said something I didn’t understand. Kelly’s glassy eyes filled with purpose and she stood, walking away from me and toward him.

“Kelly, stop it now!” I shouted, blinded by jealousy and fear.

“I must go to him,” she said, never looking away from the stage. “nash korol. He is our master. Sluzhit’ i povinovat’sya.”

“No!” I said. “He’s done something to you.”

I grabbed her from behind, determined to carry her out of here if I had to.

“He’s opened my eyes,” she said, trying to break free of my grip. “Let me go!”

My heart jumped as I saw Rasputin-Novyi point in my direction and his armed security approaching me. I was still holding onto a struggling Kelly, when they got to me. One of them raised his assault rifle and smashed my nose with its base. I collapsed to the ground, dazed, and in shrieking pain. I heard several guns cock, and could feel them trained on me. The guards grabbed me by the arms and pulled me to my feet, still in their grip. When I looked up, Kelly was already happily standing in front of Rasputin-Novyi on stage.

“Kelly!” I yelled out, helpless.

She didn’t respond at all. Her eyes never left those of the mad monk’s descendant. He kept speaking to her, eyes locked on hers. I had no clue what he was saying, although it was obvious his words had put some sort of spell on the audience, and my wife.

She kept staring at him with her beautiful, vacant blue eyes. He stood in front of her and stroked her fur-covered arms, speaking to her the whole time. She quietly repeated Russian words back to him. He leaned in toward her, and she surprised me by wrapping her arms around him and hungrily kissing him, like he was her long lost love.

No. Hell no! This was not happening. In hindsight, this must’ve kick started my adrenaline, because I threw two guards off me with newfound strength and wrestled another to the ground, before recovering and running to the stage at full speed. I was getting us out of here.

Then, I felt a bee sting on the back of my neck. I reached up to swat at it, but my knees buckled under me and the ground rose up to hit me in the face.

When my eyes opened, I found myself sitting upright. I was tied to a chair in a hotel room. The guards from earlier were sitting around a card table, laughing at a TV show they were watching while playing cards. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the stench of whiskey. The odors overpowered me and I coughed uncontrollably. They all turned in my direction.

One of them approached me, his face stern and hardset. I braced, ready for him to hit me.

“On bodrstvuyet,” he said, a smile growing on his face. He held a bottle of vodka to my lips and tilted it back. I sipped, then drank, but it became too much and filled my mouth. I choked and sputtered on the burning sweetness, spilling some on my shirt front. He clapped hard on my back with his other hand, and smiled.

“Smotret’ shou!” another at the table said with a big laugh.

The others laughed heartily, and they asked me something in Russian. I shrugged. They asked it again.

“American!” I said, after clearing my throat. “Do you speak English?”

The one who fed me vodka said, “Yaiss. I speak English. What are you doing here, American?”

His accent was thick, but I understood him.

“Where’s my wife?” I asked, half-crazy with worry. “Wife. Esposo. What’s the Russian word for wife?!”

“Oh, she is wife?” the Russian guard said. “You must see.”

He said something in Russian to the other guards and they scooted aside in their seats, allowing me to see the TV. I felt sick to my stomach when I realized it was live footage from Rasputin-Novyi’s room. He was sitting on the edge of his hotel bed making out with some woman sitting on his lap. She wore only a fur coat, a fur coat that I recognized—wait, it couldn’t be. No. It was her. I recognized that red hair, even in black and white. My wonderful, sweet wife. The future mother of my children was sitting there like a call girl, perched on his lap. This was the worst thing I had ever seen.

His hand snaked down her body, reaching up her thigh, and settled between her legs, fingering her exposed pussy. He slowly, deliberately worked his finger in and out of Kelly’s pussy. She squirmed into his touch, moaning with delight as he massaged her inner workings with his finger. She giggled with pleasure, wiggling her ass into him and thrusting her hips into his hand.

I started shouting and shook furiously against the ropes. The guards chuckled, before resuming their viewing. Despite my efforts, I wasn’t going anywhere. The knots were unbreakable.

Rasputin-Novyi said something to Kelly that I didn’t understand as he freed his dick from his pants, and rubbed it against her fur-covered side. She desperately reached for his cock and massaged it in her hands, treating it like a precious gift, and cooing over it in Russian. The fingerfucking combined with his cock in her hands caused her to tremble with a minor orgasm. Then, he pushed his finger deeper into my wife’s spasming pussy as she closed her eyes, widening her legs for him.

She opened her eyes, smiling lasciviously at him. She began jerking him off lightly, while clenching her pussy around his fingers, grinding into him as she shook. After her orgasm subsided, she gasped, hungry to catch her breath.

The hypnotist grinned at his conquest then slid his fingers out of her. He motioned for her to stand, said something in Russian, and she knelt before his cock. With a grin, she snuggled suggestively into her fur coat, pulled her hand back into the sleeve, and began stroking his dick up and down with the fox fur sleeve. He shuddered, closing his eyes, and said something else. She dutifully leaned in and licked a drop of pre-cum from his cock, eagerly swallowing it, relishing his taste.

“Mother fucker!” I yelled, struggling to my feet while still tied to the chair. The pain and jealousy of watching her bring her mouth to his cock when she had never once done that for me was unbearable. One of the guards casually picked up his handgun from the table, pointed it at me, and lowered it slowly, gesturing for me to sit. I did.

On the TV, Kelly lowered her head to his cock, getting ready to take him fully into her mouth. Instead, Rasputin-Novyi placed his hands on her fur-covered shoulders and gently lowered her onto her back. She obediently lay back on the ground, spreading her legs for him, eyes expectant and filled with longing.

He stood over Kelly, appraising her beautiful, milky white body. He nodded approvingly, knowing what a prize he had. Recognizing the value of who he had taken from me.

Kelly’s tits heaved and her lips quivered with anticipation as the fiend smiled down upon her. He knelt and leaned down, taking a hardened nipple into his mouth. He sucked at it, alternatively tonguing it, before giving her other breast a light slap, making it bounce. She squealed with delight.

She loved to have her breasts played with and somehow this bastard knew it. He whispered more Russian words to her in his deep, calm tone. Effectively placing a dagger into my heart, her eyes hooded with lust and she spread her legs for him, before he positioned himself between them. She eagerly guided his cock to the opening of her wet, waiting pussy and groaned in pleasure as he entered.

Her moans deepened, before erupting into high-pitched yelps. She shouted lustfully in Russian and humped back against his cock. She wrapped her legs around her handsome partner, guiding him deeper into her. She gripped his ass and let out even more whimpers of pleasure as he went deeper and deeper into her. He must have found her G-Spot, because I could see her whole body shiver and her toes curled. She bucked and writhed under Rasputin’s weight as her body convulsed.

With his dick buried deep inside her, he rested a moment.

Kelly pulled Rasputin-Novyi closer against her, grabbing his hips, and thrusting against him, trying to fuck him as much as she could.

She begged him with words I didn’t understand, but her lustful, desperate tone wasn’t lost on me. She dug her nails into his ass, looking him directly in the eye.

“What the fuck is she saying?” I asked the guards. “Tell me!”

“You should not know,” one of them said.

“Tell him, Yuri,” another said. “Is no matter.”

“Okay,” he said. “She says to him, ‘Fuck me, please, my Tsar. Oh God, I need you to fuck me, to own me. Please. You are my royal Master.”

No, she couldn’t. What the hell? How could this man have brainwashed my perfectly sane wife so completely? So quickly? Was he really Rasputin’s grandson? Was he really fucking magic?

On the TV screen, Rasputin-Novyi laughed, and resumed thrusting into her, holding her tight in his arms. He used slow, steady strokes which grew faster and faster. Occasionally, he pulled his cock out of her pussy, teasing her outer lips with it before reentering her suddenly. This caused her to yelp and gasp with delight each time, a tired, hungry smile on her lips.

He kissed her, muffling her moans as her mouth eagerly consumed his, tongues dancing.

As good as our sex life is (used to be?), I’d never seen her fuck like this, so wanton, so animalistic. She alternated between pulling him deeper into her and caressing her exposed breasts with her fur coat’s cuffs and collar.

Then, he said something in Russian and thrust hard into her, seemingly finishing, as he quivered in place, emptying into her. At this point, Kelly bucked and cried out, lost in a long, body-shaking orgasm, cumming harder than I’d ever seen. She screamed the same phrase over and over in Russian, passion in her voice, and desire in her eyes, as she gazed on her orgasming partner.

“She says she will be his royal bride,” a Russian guard said.

I started breathing heavily. Rapidly. This was a bad nightmare. It had to be. I couldn’t catch my breath. I inhaled desperately, but each breath was hollow; it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t deny it had happened. I couldn’t accept it. It was like suffocating, like choking on air I couldn’t breathe in. I hyperventilated, wondering if my life was ruined from now on. Black spots danced in front of me. Was my marriage over? Divorce? One of the guards said something, then I felt a prick in my neck. My heart pounded against my chest, trying to escape. My vision blurred, before fading to black.

“Peter, sweetie,” Kelly cooed from far away. “Wake up.”

I was dizzy, discombobulated. With some struggle, I opened my eyes, my vision swimming. It was dark and dim, wherever I was. Kelly stood in front of me and smiled, seeing my eyes open.

“There he is,” my love said soothingly, her beautiful blue eyes staring into mine.

Where the hell was I? Had I passed out? Was it all a dream? I’d awakened at eye level with her, and she was standing. My arms were held up and when I tried to lower them, my wrists ached. I swiveled my head, trying to look up. I was caught in something, and could barely see my wrists held in shackles, chained to a stone wall. What the hell?

As I scanned the room, my eyes adjusting to the dark, it appeared I was in some kind of dungeon. It was dark, damp, and cold. A breeze caused my body to shudder involuntarily, and that’s when I realized my shirt was unbuttoned and open, and my pants were around my ankles.

“K- K- Kel,” I said, teeth chattering. “Wh- what the hell’s going on?”

“Shhhhhh” she said, placing her warm finger to my lips. A soft sensation met my chin at the same time. She was wearing a fur coat, I realized. I began to remember everything, despite the fog of half consciousness. Oh God.

“It is good now,” she said, softly, with the hint of an accent. “We have learned what is wrong.”

I remembered Rasputin, the armed guards, the camera in his hotel bedroom, and my innocent wife passionately cheating on me. No. No. This had to be a long nightmare. This couldn’t be happening.

“Kelly, we need to get out of here!” I rasped, struggling against my chains. “Let me go! This is dangerous. We have to get to the embassy and take the first flight home.”

“Shhhhh, Peter,” she said, with an unmistakeable accent. A Russian accent. “There is nothing to be worrying about. We are in no danger.”

“No!” I shouted, my voice reverberating off the walls. “Why are you talking like that? What has he done to you?!”

She laughed, enjoying my struggles. She stepped back and I saw that she wearing only a full-length fur coat and panties. It wasn’t the fur coat I bought for her; this one was dark brown, maybe black. It was draped low over her shoulders, bunched around her elbows and back, barely covering her milky white breasts.

“Kelly, please.” I said. “This guy has you brainwashed or something!”

“Oh, Peter,” she growled in her admittedly sexy lilt. “It is of no worry. You are safe here with me. Is no Rasputin here. Just you and me.”

“What do you want?”

“To fix problem,” she said, caressing her breasts with a sleeve of the fur coat. “We are knowing now why you do not respect nash korol.”

“What?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s language barrier,” she said, a gleam in her blue eyes, staring deeply into mine. “You did not know what he said, so you did not hear.”

“Kel, I—” I said.

“I fix it,” she said, approaching me, shrugging her fur coat up onto her shoulders.

“N- no, please,” I said.

“Can you feel my gaze, Peter?” she asked, her eyes growing larger in my vision as she drew closer. “So intense and piercing. Looking into your soul.”

This was spooky and flat out weird, but her warmth and nearness caused my cock to stiffen, brushing against the front of her fur coat.

“mmm” she said. “You are happy to have me near you, yes?”

I nodded weakly, eyes drawn to hers.

“Look at my eyes, husband,” she said. “You can trust me. I am your lover. Does it feel good to feel my soft touch and look into the eyes of your loving wife? Are not my eyes your whole world? Does it not feel like you could lose yourself in them? Relax and gaze into them softly. You are looking into the eyes of the woman you love. Lose yourself in the love you feel for me. No need for speaking. Happy to be with me alone. Not fighting this wonderful feeling. Just breathing deeply and losing yourself in my eyes. Losing yourself in your love for me.”

She was so close to me, my dick swathed in her soft fur, almost touching her warm body. It felt wonderful, especially despite the freezing dungeon. Involuntarily, my body leaned closer to hers. Her face so close to mine, all I could see were her eyes. She moaned audibly, which caused my cock to twitch.

I hoped she would touch me, and she did. She gently stroked my face with her warm fingertips, and the soft, warm sleeve of her fur coat. I jumped a little when I realized she was doing the same thing to my exposed cock with her other hand. Her fingers’ warmth and soft loving caresses combined with the fur felt so good. My cock was stiff and hot in her hand.

“Yes, that’s it, Peter,” she whispered. “Let me make you feel so good. You want me to touch you like I always have. Feel the love you have for me. Yesss, just relax and come into my eyes.”

I moaned, thrusting against her touch, against her fur coat, feeling sensual thrills as we shared an intimate gaze.

“Submit to me, Peter,” she said. “It feels so good, so right. So much easier than struggle and resisting. Submit to me and to your love for me.”

“Pl- please,” I said, feeling warmth spreading through my body, my eyes lost in hers. “K- Kel, let me cum.”

The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes told me that she was smiling. She stared intensely into my eyes for the next few moments, not saying anything, but continuing to fondle my body. Her hand, which had been caressing my face, moved down to my neck and chest. Then, it slid lower until both of her hands were working together, stroking my waist, causing me to quiver in anticipation. Then, they both moved lower, one hand sliding back into the fur coat sleeve and caressing my bare thighs, while the other firmly jerked me off. She knew the exact pace that would drive me wild. Years of practice had taught her that. I was putty in her hands.

“Submit to me, Peter,” she said, her eyes seeming more focused, more powerful. “Submit to my eyes. Submit to the pleasure I give you. You are under my power.”

It was hard to think there was only her eyes and her touch, but soon I was forgetting about the cold dungeon, my anger toward Rasputin, all of it. There was just Kelly with her arousing accent and skillful touch and her eyes capturing what remained of my thoughts. Just telling me to submit to her as she made me feel so hot.

“You want to serve and obey,” she said firmly. Part of me knew this wasn’t right, that I had to fight. But the way her skilled hands teased my cock overwhelmed my thoughts, turning them into tiny whispers. I was so close to orgasm that I’d agree to anything just to get her to finish me. She was so seductive and in control that it turned me on more than she ever had.

“You want to serve and obey,” she said again, her eyes widening in insistence. “Lost in my eyes. Under my power. You want to serve and obey. Serve and obey. Say it. Say it, husband.”

“Serve and obey,” I said before I could stop myself. It was so hard to think. She dipped her tongue into my mouth, then resumed her stare.

“Serve and obey,” she said again. I loved her so much. I actually wanted to give into her.

“Serve and obey,” I said. The pleasure felt so good. I was so hot now.

“Serve and obey,” she repeated. She pressed her wet vagina against my throbbing cock.

“Serve and obey,” I said louder, straining against her, horny and desperate to enter her.

“Sluzhit’ i povinovat’sya,” She said, an evil smile crossing her lips.

“Sluzhit’ i povinovat’sya,” I breathed, blind with arousal.

“You belong to me,” she said.

“I belong to you,” I said.

“You belong to me, and we belong to nash korol,” she said. “Say it.”

“We belong to nash korol,” I said, gasping in pleasure.

“I am your queen,” she said, firmly, wrapping the fur cuff around my cock and jerking me off more intensely. “Moya koroleva. Say it.”

“Moya koroleva,” I said, my voice strained with arousal.

“You are mine,” she said, stepping away from me. “Cum for me now, my slave.” My penis pulsed and throbbed, betraying me as the most intense orgasm exploded from me, even without her hands or soft fur to pleasure me. The intensity caused me to gasp and sink against my bonds. My eyes never left hers, and she seemed pleased.

“Now sleep, my Peter,” she said, as my world faded. “There is much I have to tell you.”

Two Years Later….

My phone chimed with a text from my mom.

“Check CNN,” it said. “This Russian leader has a wife who looks like Kelly.”

I went on CNN’s website and scanned the headlines for Rasputin Novyi. Who else could it be? Sure enough, it was them. He was to give a speech with all of Russia’s government present; there was only one way that would end. Very well. And there was a beaming Kelly on his arm, engulfed in a majestic sable fur coat.

There was a link to an interview with Mrs. Alexandra Rasputin about her husband’s impending speech.

I had to nip my mother’s concern in the bud. She was an old woman who was mourning her daughter-in-law’s untimely death. I understood. I missed Kelly, too. More than I can express. I texted my mother:

“Mom, you have to let it go. Kelly died in a car accident. This Alexandra Rasputin lady is not her. She looks similar, but that’s all. Please let it go. You’re worrying me.”

A few minutes later, she replied: “Danny, I’m sorry I bothered you with this. I wasn’t thinking about what effect my text would have on you. I can move on, I promise. She just looks so much like her! And I worry about you. You work all the time and I hardly see you anymore. I love you!”

I texted “I’m fine, I love you, too.”

I opened a new window on my computer. It was pay day, so I had to make some transfers. I went through the same procedure I did every two weeks. Just before hitting the send button, I said, “Sluzhit’ i povinovat’sya.” I felt a rush of joy and purpose as I clicked Send. I knew I had done my part for Lord Rasputin and Queen Alexandra. Whatever helped him gain more power, afford a wonderful feast, or weapons for his guards.

Once I finished, I went back to the open CNN window and watched the interview with Mistress Alexandra. Thanks to the subtitles, I could understand what they were saying.

“There is no question of your strong feelings to Mother Russia,” the interviewer said. “But there are rumors that you were not even born in this country. What do you say to those rumors?”

Mistress Alexandra laughed, a musical melody that caused my heart to flutter, as she snuggled into her black fox fur coat. Mistress’s fur collection had become her trademark in the same way Rasputin’s eyes were his.

“There have always been rumors,” she said, in flawless Russian. “But they are only rumors. I have lived my whole life here, always feeling that our country is overdue for change. I was a small girl when I saw the Soviet Union collapse, and it gave me hope, a hope that one day we would return to a traditional monarchy with a strong king to lead us to pride in our country. Then, when my now-husband hosted a political rally a few years ago, he made me believe that we can restore Mother Russia to her original glory as the crowned jewel of the East.”

“You are well-spoken and in some things, I agree with you,” said the blonde interviewer. “But what makes you so sure this Rasputin Novyi, as you call him, is the man to rule Russia?”

“Perhaps I will need to explain in greater detail after this interview, since we are almost out of time,” she said, smiling slyly, as she caressed the collar of her black fox coat.

I saved the video to my personal stash, a collection of jpgs and clips that featured my mistress. She was clearly poised to convert this skeptical, attractive reporter to our cause. My hand dove into my pants, and I masturbated to thoughts of her and Lord Rasputin taking over Russia, changing the peoples’ minds one at a time.