The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Imogene

This is a work of fiction, intended for mature adults who enjoy hypnoerotic fantasy. This story contains adult language and themes, including hypnosis, masturbation and sex, all of which (as you know) will rot your mind and cause hair to grow in unlikely places. Proceed at your own risk. If you’re under the age of consent for your area, we’ll all just assume that you’re here by accident. Just keep hitting the back button on your browser; I’ll let you know when it’s okay to stop.

Permission granted to copy this story for personal use, or to re-post it on any non-commercial adult site, in its unaltered form, including my pen name and e-mail address, and this full disclaimer. If you are planning to post this, please drop me a line; I’d love to visit your site.

* * *

The July sun beat down upon the streets and people of Montréal. It was too humid for underwear, almost too hot to smoke, and far too hot and humid for anyone with sense to linger outside in the afternoon haze. Which was the main reason Isabelle was bustling toward a nondescript wood and brick building, remarkable only for its sloping glass roof. Or so she told herself.

She’d rechecked the address from the air-conditioned comfort of the taxi; this was definitely the place. And the small bilingual sign by the door confirmed it. Monique Perrault, Atelier/Studio, 7e Étage/7th Floor

She took one last long drag from her cigarette before grinding it beneath the toe of one of her stylish black pumps, and hurried inside before she melted. The small lobby was stuffy, but not nearly as much as the air outside. She pressed the button to summon the elevator cage, one of the open-walled ones so popular in the middle of the last century. She heard and felt a low thrum as it responded.

It still wasn’t too late to leave, she thought. Henri didn’t know what she was planning, and hadn’t asked for it; she could always get her husband something else for his fortieth birthday. Something less ... intimate.

At that thought, a warmth pulsed between her thighs, completely unrelated to the air outside. The elevator had arrived, and was beckoning to her. Daring her. With a resigned sigh, she entered the cage, slid the door shut with a clang, and pushed the topmost button.

It settled to a stop one minute later, facing a short hallway with only two doors. The one to the side had an official-looking sign that said Sortie; it obviously led to the fire stairs. The one facing her had Atelier painted on in black script, and a gold knocker in the center.

But before she reached the door, a gorgeous blonde flung it open from the other side. She was wearing form-fitting black Capri pants, black mules, and a strapless flower-print bandeau top that seemed barely adequate to the task of supporting her substantial cleavage. Her tan lines were obvious, as was the four-pack of abs that gave definition to her soft belly.

And she spoke fluent French, with a Québécois accent and a huskiness somewhat at odds with her feminine form. “Madame Georges, oui? Bonjour; je suis Monique. Comment allez-vous?”

Isabelle was taken aback by the woman’s beauty and her forwardness; she quickly stammered out a reply. “Um, oui, yes, bonjour; I’m Madame Georges. And you are, uh, the sculptress Mademoiselle Perrault? Forgive me; I don’t speak French very well.”

The blonde woman gave a husky giggle. “Forgive me, madame; all I had was your name, and I simply assumed. You do look very French, you know, with that short brown hair and those strong eyebrows. Très aristocratique.”

Isabelle flushed slightly. “That’s very kind of you. But please, don’t call me madame; I can’t be more than a year or two older than you.”

The artist laughed again; Isabelle couldn’t help noticing how it made those substantial breasts jiggle. “And so you return the compliment; I thought you a year or two younger. Very well; I shall call you Isabelle, but only if you will call me Monique.”

It was Isabelle’s turn to laugh. “Fair enough, Monique. May I come in?”

“By all means.” Monique stepped aside, her extended arm sweeping into the studio in an obvious invitation.

* * *

Two hours later, Isabelle found herself doing the unthinkable: She was posing, completely nude, in front of a beautiful woman she barely knew, allowing her to create a miniature sculpture of her bare body from head to knees. Nor was she doing anything to preserve her modesty; instead, she was half-sitting on a cloth-covered wooden stool, her hands behind her back resting on the stool itself. The position lifted and supported her already perky breasts, as well as completely exposing her dark pubic thatch below.

Yet she was somehow able to hold her pose without complaint, despite some lingering embarrassment and her craving for a cigarette—and despite the fact that every time Monique pressed and stroked the clay statuette in front of her, Isabelle somehow felt an answering touch on the same part of her body. In fact, through her golden haze of pleasure, the young wife had barely noticed how much time had passed. Or that except for her slow and shallow breaths, she had been as immobile as the sculpture taking shape between Mademoiselle Perrault’s knowing hands.

Upon entering the loft, she’d made the usual appreciative noises about the beauty of the various busts and sculptures, not to mention the beauty of the view. The sloping window she’d seen from the street looked out across the Saint-Laurent River to the picturesque suburb of Longueuil, though many of its features were obscured by a thin layer of condensation, as the humid outside air came into contact with the somewhat cooler glass.

Monique had apologized for the lack of a secretary; hers was still recovering from a bout with heat exhaustion. In turn, the brunette had explained what she’d come for: an artistic nude to present to her husband in two week’s time.

During the course of her brief tour, Isabelle couldn’t help but notice a rather prominently displayed ceramic self-sculpture of her hostess, thirty-five centimeters tall from head to crotch, and done without arms in the style of the Venus de Milo.

It was also a slightly different color from the rest of the pieces; when she’d asked about that, Monique had explained that it was an experimental material, very rare and expensive, and with different properties than her usual fired clays.

She’d asked if she could touch it, and after a moment’s pause the artist agreed. She’d let her fingers wander over its curves, impressed by how beautiful it was, and wishing that Monique would be able to do as much for her.

What she hadn’t known at the time were the unintended effects her manipulations were having on her hostess. A frisson of pleasure had passed through the blonde’s body with each loving caress; and when Isabelle had at last removed her hands from the statue, Monique had surprised them both by insisting that she wanted to use the more expensive ceramic for Isabelle’s sculpture, at no extra cost and if she didn’t object....

* * *

The piece was almost done now, and a remarkable likeness it was. In fact, Isabelle hadn’t remembered her breasts being quite so large or firm, but a quick glance down at her own chest showed that the sculptress was indeed being faithful to her model; either that, or perhaps her bosom had somehow been enlarged to match that of the sculpture.

If that was the case, then the magic was affecting the rest of her body as well. Her waist seemed a bit more tapered, her legs smoother, her buttocks somehow both firmer and fuller. Even her pussy felt more exposed to the cool room, almost as if the tangled thatch between her legs had somehow been wiped away.

Monique’s hands were lingering over that part of the statue at that very moment, her fingertips gently stroking right between its legs, over and over again. Isabelle helplessly watched her do so, shuddering with the pleasure being delivered to her own enflamed groin with each stroke. She wanted nothing more than to reach her own hands around and bring herself to climax—in front of Monique, if need be—but was prevented by whatever mysterious force was coercing her to hold her pose.

The sculptress chose that moment to break her silence. “You are loving this, aren’t you, ma chérie? Don’t bother to answer; I already know, and besides, you cannot move anyway.”

She flicked her finger against a clay nipple, the barest of touches. Isabelle’s immediately hardened in response. “Why is this, you may be thinking? I did tell you the clay was special. It doesn’t just mold statues; somehow it molds reality itself. What I do to this,” she indicated the work in progress, “changes you. I wanted you to be the perfect model, and so you do not move.” She began trimming excess clay from the statue’s base, the last step before firing.

“I wasn’t planning to use this on you, you know. All I can think of is that you must have felt something, some secret desire, while you were touching my sculpture earlier. I’m not angry about that, by the way. You couldn’t know, and it’s mostly my fault for leaving it on display it in the first place.”

Isabelle remained frozen on the brink of climax, absorbing her hostess’s words. Her innocent wish, that Monique would do to her what she’d done for herself, had somehow come true. Monique had used the magic clay to make herself more beautiful, more desirable; now she’d done the same for Isabelle.

Moreover, Monique had knowingly used the clay’s special properties to transform a somewhat shy and reserved wife into a sultry, sensual woman. Completely gone was the brunette’s embarrassment at being exposed, the craving for a cigarette; they had been replaced with pride in her own body, and a craving for something quite a bit more intimate: her hostess’s touch. The fact that she had never before been interested in any woman in that way seemed almost beside the point.

Her hostess, meanwhile, had flipped over the statue and impressed her studio’s seal into the base. As she carefully loaded it into the kiln, she called over her shoulder, “I’m planning to name this piece Imogene. It’s the Latin word for ‘a perfect likeness’, which is far more appropriate than anyone will know. Except, of course, for the two of us.”

Having sealed and set the kiln, she crossed the studio and stood directly in front of her still-immobilized model. She ran her hands up and down Isabelle’s arms, finally touching her bare skin for real; the brunette yearned to be able to return the favor.

Monique chuckled; her husky voice so close sent a thrill through her subject’s hapless body. “Are you wondering, ma petit chou, why you are still unable to act, even though your statue has been set into the kiln? It is because I wish it so; I am not yet done ... admiring you.”

She let her hands wander over Isabelle’s body at will, following each tender caress with an equally soft kiss: on her lips, her breasts, her tummy, her thighs. When at last she thrust her hand forward, cupping it between Isabelle’s slightly spread legs, only the magic of the statue kept the brunette from crying out and leaping with delight into her soon-to-be lover’s arms. They both felt the rush of wetness, and Monique knew that her ministrations had finally allowed Isabelle to fall over the edge into climax, for the first time that evening—but if each had their way, hardly the last.

The blonde happily allowed her fingers to continue exploring that which had become the focus of her subject’s existence, quickly bringing her to a second impossibly quiet and motionless orgasm. She leaned forward to purr in Isabelle’s ear, “I’m very tempted to leave you immobile like this a while longer, my love, but it will be so much more fun when you’re able to explore me as well.”

Then she reached behind her own back, releasing the catch to her bandeau and allowing her magnificent breasts to spill free at last. Isabelle now knew it was some kind of magic, rather than science, that made them stand up so proudly. Another moment and the black Capris followed suit, making it obvious that Monique had chosen to go au naturel that afternoon as well. And sure enough, her mound was just as bare and smooth as Isabelle’s. And very pink, and swollen, and oh-so-wet....

“When we are alone,” Monique murmured, “I think that I shall call you Imogene, as well.” She stepped forward and slipped her arms around Isabelle’s waist, pressing their naked breasts together, and nibbled at her ear. Indicating a plain wooden door on the far side of the studio, she whispered, “Stay with me a while longer, ma chérie; my bedroom is just over there. Let me introduce you to the delights of being with another woman. Now at last the time has come to release your body—but hopefully never your heart.”

With that, the formerly restrained and faithful wife, who until that moment had never kissed a woman out of passion, reached up and seized both sides of Monique’s face, pulling her into a soul kiss that was as forceful as it was desperate. For a full minute and a half, Isabelle thrust her tongue deep within Monique’s mouth as if it was a warm wet finger, while rubbing her new larger (and perkier, and much more sensitive) breasts against any available part of her lover’s sweaty body, and grinding her drenched and swollen mound into her well-padded upper thigh—until at last she grunted and screamed with her third and most powerful climax so far, and the first of her own volition.

Still panting, she pressed the two carefully manicured middle fingers of her right hand up and into Monique’s slick channel, as high as they would go—and immediately began to piston them up and down, somehow sensing that this would bring her blonde and buxom lover to her own explosive peak within seconds. Sure enough, Monique clutched at Isabelle’s shoulders, alternating screams with sighs, her knees wobbling as she stood on her tiptoes and leaned most of her weight onto her new lover. Her perfect lover.

And as the Québécoise came down from her climax and threatened to collapse onto the studio floor, Isabelle caught her in her arms and revived her with another deep kiss. Half carrying Monique, half fondling her, the young wife headed toward the unassuming bedroom door, and the delights that awaited the two of them beyond. “Monique. My love. I really need you to fuck me. Now.”

“Mais oui, ma Imogene.”

Those were the last words that either of them had cause to speak for a good long while.

* * *

Two days later, Monique fired up a perfect duplicate of the statue, this time from ordinary clay. Henri enjoyed his birthday gift very much, displaying it proudly in the parlor, and taking every excuse to brag to guests about his magnificent (and much more uninhibited) young wife.

Monique and Isabelle remained fast friends and discreet lovers, spending at least half a day together almost every week—though of course poor Henri had no idea just how close they’d actually become.

That is, until his forty-fifth birthday drew near. But that’s another story.

* * *