The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

JAYWALKER

by Downing Street

(dowstreet@yahoo.com)

Something odd happened to Lise on Thursday.

It was a strange day to begin with. It started out drizzly and chill, but in mid-morning a south wind sprang up. In less than an hour the day was bright and warm. Nothing about that in the weather forecast.

Lise was downtown, in the old part of the city. She was on traffic duty, an assignment that translated into handing out endless parking tickets. The narrow, winding streets of the old town were never intended for modern traffic. People tended to park anywhere. She had just arrived at Circle des Lions, a major tourist attraction. She watched a man amble right into the street.

“Des tourists!” Lise muttered to herself. The man was gawking at the historic buildings, paying no attention to where he was going. He had a guide book open in his hands. He simply kept on walking into the street.

Surprisingly, three lanes of traffic stopped without fuss. The drivers waited patiently for the man to pass. Nobody sounded their horns. Lise shook her head. It was amazing that the man hadn’t been hit.

Lise decided this fellow was a good candidate for a citation. She closed her ticket book and hurried over to where the man was now standing on her side of the circle. He was still admiring the architecture of the historic quarter. “Monsieur!” Lise cried, “Arretez s’il vous plait. Une moment.”

The man turned to look at her. He smiled gently. He was young, less than thirty, of rather slender build, with brown hair and an ill-advised goatee. His clothing was casual but stylish, expensive looking. “You will have to speak English,” he said. “I never did get around to learning French.”

Lise frowned. One never knew what language tourists might speak. She tried: “You . . . should walking . . . not in avenue . . .”

He smiled again. He seemed utterly relaxed, not at all concerned that he was being confronted by a police officer in a foreign country. “You can do better than that,” he said.

Lise blinked. Of course she could do better than that. She was fluent in English and half a dozen other languages. She boasted once that she could seduce a man anywhere in western Europe. Why had she stammered so a moment earlier?

“Sir,” she began. “Jaywalking, it is dangerous and illegal. Did you not notice that you were walking into the street? You could have caused an accident!” She spoke with a light French lilt that sounded charming even to her own ears. Not quite the stern image she was trying to project.

The man only smiled. “I hardly think so. Look, I crossed at a marked crosswalk. Where’s the problem?”

He gestured to the road behind him. Lise gaped in surprise. There was a clearly marked crosswalk, as he said. There were signs in French and English on either side of the street, and painted stripes across the road. How could she have missed that before? She had walked around this circle hundreds of times.

She frowned. Why would someone put a crosswalk there, instead of at an intersection? The location seemed utterly random. It made no sense. Yet the paint on the white crosswalk marks was faded, scuffed with tire marks. The crosswalk had clearly been there for some time.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, Officer—” He paused to read her name tag—“LaBelle. You made an honest mistake, nothing more.” His smile took on an edge of condescension.

“But . . . but, that crosswalk, it wasn’t—”

“Perhaps you’re a little new at this? How long have you been on the force?”

“Four years,” Lise replied, before she could stop to wonder why she was telling this to a stranger.

“Four years,” he repeated. He stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “A long time to spend handing out tickets for jaywalking.”

“Sometimes I work in the station house too.” Now that he mentioned it, she had been on the paper route, as her colleagues called it, for a long time now. What about her plan to make corporal?

He chuckled. “I’m not surprised. I imagine your superiors like to keep you around the office so they can enjoy the way you fill your uniform.”

Somehow the brazenly sexist comment did not offend her. Lise raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t unusually attractive. At least, she never thought of herself so. She was realistic about her appearance.

She looked down. She was wearing the standard uniform: blue shirt and navy blue tie, navy trousers and black walking shoes. The fitted shirt did press against her breasts a little, and the trousers were snug around her hips. She kept her blonde hair very short, so she didn’t have to pin it under her hat.

Was this an image that other officers admired? She thought it over. She did remember some lingering glances as she walked about in the office. Out loud, Lise said: “Look, that is hardly relevant. I have clearly made some sort of mistake here. I will not detain you any longer. Good day sir.”

The man said: “I have an idea. I wonder if your advancement has been held back because of your looks. Maybe your fellow officers think you are too girly to be taken seriously.”

“What? Of course they do not. Whatever do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you’ve heard people say things like: She’s too pretty to be a cop.’ Maybe for you it’s true. Have you considered that?”

Trop belle pour une flic? The conversation was going strange. Lise wondered for a moment why she hadn’t left yet. “Do not be ridiculous. My colleagues are professionals. They do not judge me by my looks.” She brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen out from under her cap. She needed to get a cut.

Lise felt rather less conviction than she conveyed. The more she reflected, the more she remembered how she drew constant male attention around the station house. The other cops were always checking her out. Forgetting their work to watch her go by. Admiring the extra sway of her hips she liked to add when she noticed.

What? No, she never did that.

Of course not.

Well, maybe . . . sometimes.

She looked down at herself. For some reason she was wearing her dress uniform, with the skirt and leather boots. The press of her bosom against the fabric of her blouse was fetching, she had to admit. The snug skirt flattered both her figure and her legs. She couldn’t quite remember when boots had replaced pumps on the dress uniform, but they sure looked good.

More questions. Why was she wearing this uniform on traffic patrol? This outfit was strictly for the parade ground—wasn’t it? Certainly she would draw more appreciative looks in this uniform than the trousers and walking shoes she used to wear.

She frowned. Something felt funny.

The man laughed his annoying laugh again. “My dear, we all judge by looks, whether we admit it or not. Men are visual creatures, pure and simple. We cannot avoid responding favourably to an attractive woman any more than an attractive woman, like you, can resist welcoming that attention. It’s in our nature. We are all about attracting the other sex. Sex underlies everything we do, at the most basic, subliminal level.”

That was quite the speech. Lise said: “What are you saying? That my colleagues cannot treat me professionally because I am a woman?”

He was still smiling. “No, I’m saying they don’t want to treat you professionally, because you are a good looking woman. And perhaps you don’t really want them to either, for the same reason. It’s so much more fun to be sexy.”

Lise set her fists on flaring hips. “Oh, that doesn’t make a lick of sense.” She liked the sound of the word “lick”.

“Really? Take a look around. Look more closely at how people respond to each other. See that woman over there?” He flipped a hand toward a drab young woman, probably an office worker, striding briskly down the street in a serious black trouser-suit. She carried a briefcase in one hand and a purse over her shoulder.

“Yes, I see her. Do not tell me she is not being professional. She could be a lawyer.”

“In fact she is a personnel manager. Her name is Jeanette. But that doesn’t matter. She is about to have an encounter that reveals a less professional side.”

“How do you know all—oh.” A dozen yards away from them, the woman’s purse strap broke. The red leather purse slid to the ground. The woman stopped, caught by surprise. Immediately a young man passing by picked it up and returned it to her. He was another business man, Lise surmised, wearing a suit without a tie and deliberate stubble on his chin.

“He is being the gentlemen,” Lise said. “What does that prove?”

“Keep watching.”

The woman accepted her purse with a smile. The two of them spoke in French for a while. Lise couldn’t make out the conversation. Jeanette was rather pretty, she decided. Her first impression had been wrong. Jeanette was slender, but certainly curvy enough, and her snug black trousers were set off by fashionable high heels. Lise hadn’t noticed those before.

Surprisingly, the two were still chatting. They seemed to be hitting it off. Jeanette was still smiling. She laughed at something the man said. She drew closer, and placed an open hand on his lapel. She dropped her purse again. She hardly seemed to care. Lise noticed that Jeannette’s hips were swaying back and forth, a few inches each way, slowly and seductively. Her black leggings telegraphed the flex of her thighs.

The man’s body language suggested easy confidence, almost swagger. Jeannette was eating it up. She was standing very close now. The conversation had dropped to whispers. She let go of her satchel so she could lay both hands on his suit jacket. He put a hand on her hip. He fondled her shiny vinyl tights the way a man would admire the finish on a sports car. Jeanette’s hot whispers transitioned smoothly into hotter kisses.

The couple began making out right in the middle of the pavement. Jeanette slipped her hands around his neck, running her fingers through his hair. Their lips and tongues danced. Lise pursed her lips, tasting her own scarlet lipstick as she imagined what lucky Jeanette was feeling.

The man’s hands slid boldly onto Jeanette’s bubble ass. He pulled her forward, pressing her aggressively against his crotch. Lise heard a feminine whimper. He began sliding his fingers down between her legs, rubbing the camel-toe revealed by her sprayed-on tights. Jeanette lifted one foot to slide her leg against his. Her stiletto heels were the same liquid scarlet as the forgotten purse at her feet. Lise noticed belatedly that Jeanette had the body of a swimsuit model.

“Mon Dieu, they are almost having the sex right on the street,” Lise blurted. “I should stop them! I should—”

Her intervention proved unnecessary. The man pushed the panting Jeanette away for a second. He indicated they should leave with a casual jerk of his head. Jeanette nodded obediently. He led her away, with the obviously aroused Jeanette almost climbing onto him. Her tights rode low on her hips, just above the two perfect crescents of her ass-cheeks. Her purse and briefcase lay on the grass, abandoned.

“Well, her professionalism didn’t last long, did it,” the man beside Lise said easily. “Confronted with a sexually arousing male, she melted into her natural, feminine persona.”

Lise gestured, confused. “They were not—that—what has that got to do with me?”

His sanguinity was unbreachable. “Why everything, of course. Haven’t you found yourself in similar situations? Where your professional training was valueless against the timeless need to be a woman?”

The filing room at the station house was clean and brightly lit. To Lise it was still an anachronism. In an era of high-tech electronics and ubiquitous computers, why did the Gendarmerie insist on so much paper? More to the point, why was she standing here filing old case reports instead of working on the street, like a real cop? She trained to be a policewoman, not a secretary in uniform.

The word “uniform” prompted her to look at herself. She was in the skirted dress uniform that the captain insisted all female officers wear around the station. Lise had objected at first, perhaps less stridently than she should have done. Eventually, she acceded. Orders were orders. She had been trained to obey orders, even arbitrary, sexist ones.

Maybe she even enjoyed obeying orders.

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind her. Captain Maynard was there, a crisply handsome man with swept-back hair greying at the temples. “Ah, Officer LaBelle—Lise—I have been meaning to speak with you.”

“Yes sir?” She made to turn about to face him, but the Captain was standing close behind her.

“Please, do not interrupt your work,” he said over her shoulder. “I only wanted to tell you that you are a credit to this station. An exemplar of the image we want to present to the public. You make a fine officer in that uniform.”

“Th-thank you Sir,” Lise responded. She could feel the heat from his body.

“You agree with me then,” he went on, “that the adjustments I proposed are beneficial to the image and morale of the station, yes?”

“I—I suppose so, Sir.” The adjustments Captain Maynard was referring to included knee-high leather boots, closely fitted blouses and skirts, and no jacket at all. There was no denying that the new uniforms improved station morale, at least among the traditional male officers. The three-inch heels were a touch impractical for chasing down suspects.

“Excellent,” said the Captain. He was whispering in her ear now. She could feel something solid pressing against her rump. It moved when he flexed his hips. “I appreciate your co-operation, and that of the other girls. Of course I don’t want to seem inflexible. You may wear your uniform a little differently, to express yourself, if you like.” As he spoke, he reached around her and loosened her tie. Then he began to open the top buttons on her blouse. The overworked fabric sprang farther apart with each released button.

He stopped at the third button, when Lise’s white bra came into view. Lise said nothing. She thought about stopping him, but did not. He was her superior officer. He was pressed against her, holding her in a kind of bear hug while he violated her clothing.

She could feel his erection against her ass. She could sense the pent-up maleness of it as it twitched in his trousers, a hungry predator eager for release. She could smell his skin; his warm breath tingled against her ear.

Lise still didn’t move. Captain Maynard pulled the lapels of her blouse apart, bringing more of her impressive chest into view. “Feel free to be a little glamorous,” the captain explained. “Don’t let the uniform inhibit your femininity.” Now his hands moved lower, to caress her hips through the navy blue skirt. “We can give you a little leeway with hemlines too,” he continued. “I understand stylish young women like to wear them a little shorter.” He ran his fingers along her thighs, perhaps indicating where a pleasant hemline might ride.

Lise struggled to find her voice. “Captain, I—I don’t think you should order—”

“Please don’t think of this as orders,” Captain Maynard said. He was still wrapped around her, stroking her thighs. “Merely recommendations. Something for you to consider, for the good of your station. For your Captain, heh?”

Lise’s head was spinning. She knew this was all wrong. Somehow she couldn’t muster the spirit to resist. The captain’s sheer masculinity overwhelmed her. She was as helpless before it as a ship in a gale. The sensation of his cock pressing against her was infinitely distracting. Only a few layers of fabric lay between his hard-on and her greedy darkness that longed to welcome it.

She should object. She should rebel. He was as much as ordering her to dress provocatively. But he was the Captain, as he had gently reminded her. Her superior officer.

Didn’t that word imply that she was the subordinate? The inferior officer. The one who accepted orders. The one who obeyed orders. She felt a shiver run up her spine, and not only from the strong man humping her buttocks.

“S-Sir,” she stammered, “I will . . . I will try to . . . as you wish, Captain.” She used the traditional French phrase, ‘a vos ordres’. Orders (yes!) were to be obeyed. What a lovely word. She was leaning forward, head down, resting her hands on a filing cabinet for support.

“Excellent!” exclaimed the captain. “Tres bien! I knew I could count on you to understand. Carry on.” He slapped her on the rump, making Lise jump, then strode away triumphantly.

Lise stayed where she was for a long time. She was breathing hard. At length she lifted her head and looked around. She looked down at her half-exposed chest. She had lovely breasts. She would need some new brassieres. Pretty ones, with partial cups and lift to show off her bounty. Different colours.

She moaned. Filing could wait. Right now she needed to spend some personal time with her pussy. Her narrow heels clicked smartly as she hurried off toward la toilette.

Back on the street, Lise reeled from the memory. She looked about, momentarily bewildered.

“What is the matter?” her interloper asked.

“I—I am not sure. I was . . . remembering something . . . an encounter with my captain . . . but . . . I am sure it never happened. Could not have happened. Could it?”

“How would I know? It’s your memory.” His eyes kept flicking downward.

Lise looked down, following his gaze. She gasped.

Her tie was gone. The top three buttons on her tight-fitting blouse were wide open. Her breasts were not so much exposed as displayed in a navy blue, half-cup brassiere trimmed with big flowers. Her breasts were substantially larger than she remembered.

A breeze around her legs distracted her from the impossibility of her boobs. A quick check confirmed that her lower assets were as well displayed as the top. It almost made sense, given her newly remembered conversation with the captain, that her uniform skirt would be foreshortened to mid-thigh, revealing filmy, dark stockings above the slick boots. She looked smoking hot—and completely incongruous as a working policewoman.

Something was definitely out of joint.

Lise brushed back her hair in a familiar gesture. It must have fallen out of it’s clips. She tried to ignore the warm feeling she was getting from men on the street staring at her. Instead, she studied the strange man beside her. There was an edge to his smile she didn’t like. Something in his eyes alerted her caution: something primal and wild, barely contained behind a civilized exterior.

“You—” she blurted, “You are involved in this . . . oddity somehow. You are making . . . I do not understand, but . . . who are you?”

“My name is Damien. I’m a tourist of course, lately visiting Paris.” He indicated the guidebook in his hand. “The book says your town is worth seeing, so I made a side trip to take a look. I’m glad that I did. It really is very beautiful.”

Lise raised a gracefully curved eyebrow at him.

“Of course,” the man went on, “I couldn’t resist making a few improvements.”

“Improvements? How do you mean?”

“Take those gargoyles over there. Nice, aren’t they?”

The gargoyles extended from the roof of a stone church from the twelfth century. Lise knew them well. When she looked at them now, they were different.

Very different.

The winged dragons she remembered, or thought she remembered, had been replaced by nude torsos of cherubic nymphs, their long tresses and abundant breasts exquisitely captured in stone by a master carver. Their mouths were open and round, of course, to drain rainwater off the roof. The stone lips were full and distended. The figures held both hands curled in front of them, as if they were sounding some invisible celestial trumpet.

Or sucking on a cock.

Lise’s mouth hung open. How could this be? The carvings were lewdly suggestive, even by the standards of a sophisticated Frenchwoman. They should have been a scandal. Yet the local people were walking along beneath them as if they had always been there (and that was true—wasn’t it?). Tourists were stopping to look and take pictures like tourists always did. All the nymphs looked blissful, with big eyes half-closed.

While Lise watched, a young man sight-seeing pointed to the nearest nymph, admiring. He leaned over to whisper something to the pretty young wife or girlfriend beside him. She was wearing walking shorts and flip-flops. The girl nodded demurely. She looked back up at the suggestive carvings. She was rubbing her knees together. Wait a minute: now she was wearing tight short-shorts and spike-heeled ankle boots that set off her tanned legs.

Her man tugged on the woman’s hand. She continued to stare at the nymphs. He tugged harder. At length he pulled her attention away long enough to lead her down a nearby alley, into the shadows. Lise knew instantly what the couple was going to do there. She had interrupted (or secretly watched!) enough spontaneous blowjobs to know how evocative those nymphs could be.

But that was preposterous. Nothing like that had ever happened. How could she remember events so clearly while at the same time remain certain that they were imaginary?

Damien’s smug voice brought her back from her confusion. “The fountain is impressive also, I do say.”

He was referring to the sixteenth-century fountain in the middle of the Circle. At its centre was a statue of a French philosopher, whose name Lise had forgotten, with an open book in one hand, and a trio of students gathered at his feet. When Lise looked that way, the fountain was different too.

Now the philosopher sported a smug grin, a tipped wine bottle instead of a book, and a colossal boner straining against his breeches. The three students at his feet that Lise remembered (or thought she did—weren’t they different . . . or something?) were now three voluptuous maidens, largely undressed, one of them on her knees, head thrown back and mouth open to gulp spilled wine, the other two clinging to the philosopher’s pant legs and gazing upward toward his crotch. Jets of water tumbled down over all of them.

Lise turned about. Everywhere she looked, every statue and sculpture, every engraving and keystone face, was transformed from what she remembered into a graphic feminine figure, often depicted in an act of sexual service. All around her she could see women admiring the statues, biting their lips, drawing closer to their partners. Getting turned on.

It was all impossible. As certain as she was that the whole Circle had changed in the past five minutes, she simultaneously remembered it’s potent, pornographic imagery had always been there. Why else would it be called La Circle de Desir? It’s blood-heating atmosphere was famous. Even after years of exposure, Lise was not immune to it.

She turned to the smug young man standing next to her. “You—you are doing something here, yes? You are responsible for this childish illusion.” She threw back her long hair to glare at him.

He said: “Oh, there’s no illusion. I can change things. Pretty much anything, really. I had a sort of accident, you could say, a while ago. I was trying to do an anthropology exercise. I was a doctoral student back then. The exercise involved recreating an ancient ritual at the centre of a standing stone circle. Somehow I ended up rewiring the universe. The vectors of power, the forces that shape the universe and determine what we call the laws of physics, they flow through me now. Crazy, what?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is some sort of trick. And it is wearing thin.” For some reason the phrase “wearing thin” reminded her that she was wearing thin, microfibre panties under her brief uniform skirt. They matched her brassiere, right down to the gaudy flowers. She liked the tickling feel of them against her ass cheeks. Why did her thoughts keep wandering like this?

“A trick? Oh my no. Though I suppose you may be forgiven for being skeptical. Let me show you how I can improve things. Take that couple over there, for example.” He tilted his head toward a pair of middle-aged tourists walking by.

“What about them?”

“Describe them for me. Like a good little policewoman.”

“They both appear to be about 40 years old. The man, he is of medium height, heavy build, with a long moustache and thinning hair. Wearing a windbreaker, jeans and sport shoes. The woman, probably his wife, is a few inches shorter, plump, ear-length brown hair, wearing a pink and white track suit with white sport shoes. She is carrying a red sack purse as ugly as everything else she is wearing.” The last part came out with unexpected candour.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Tacky, isn’t she. Let’s do something about that.”

“What do you—oh Mon Dieu!”

The couple walking by looked different. The man, still balding and moustached, was walking straighter and carrying his head a little higher than before. His wife was transformed.

Her face was un-lined and pink-lipped. Her hair was much longer, and done up in a careless pile of loops and ringlets. Her figure was narrow at the waist like a twenty-year-old, but broadened to womanly hips below and generous, well-shaped breasts above. Her legs continued the parade of curves down to delicate feet.

Lise could see all this immediately because, in place of the shapeless track suit, the woman was wearing a hot-pink bodystocking. She set it off with dangling white earrings, a white belt, and white ankle-warmers, the last stretched over pink, platform sandals with skyrocketing heels. She had a dreamy look on her face as she tottered along beside her husband, holding his arm with both hands for support.

“That’s Oscar and his wife Stephanie,” Damien explained. “They have been married for twenty-three years. Oscar likes to take Steph out and show her off to the people on the street. Parading her, he calls it. Steph understands that her role is to look her best so that other men will admire her and envy her husband. They’re taking advantage of their European vacation to buy Steph some terrific new clothes.”

Lise groped for words. “Yes, but . . . but . . . a moment ago she was . . . different.”

“She was boring you mean. Boring and bored. She worked at a department store and played bridge. She’s much happier now, being her husband’s barbie doll. See how excited she is? Being put on display like this makes her wet.”

Stephanie wasn’t the only one. Lise was still staring. Her panties were growing moist. As the couple walked by, she could see that Oscar’s hand was on his wife’s pink-painted behind. He was drawing one finger up and down her ass-crack. The front of her body stocking was low-scooped, revealing the overflowing bra underneath. Lise was certain that the nipples on Stephanie’s boobs were stiff. Like hers.

She pulled her eyes away when she realized she was staring. Her mind was whirling. An overflow of unfiltered impossibility was overwhelming her reason. “You—you cannot go . . . changing people!” she almost shouted at the man-devil beside her. “Look what you did to that woman. She is not a wife any more; she is, she is the sex slave!”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Damien replied, as unruffled as ever. “Though she certainly does enjoy sex. Steph has followed the ancient code of submitting unto her husband. She has decided to abandon defying her submissive nature, and instead embrace the comforting peace of obedience. I think perhaps you can relate to that.”

The world flickered.

“You wanted to see me, Officer LaBelle?” the captain asked. He was seated behind the big desk in his private office. Behind her, Lise could hear the murmur and clatter of the daily business of the police station.

“Y-yes, Sir,” Lise replied. “I’m speaking on behalf of the other girls—I mean the other women officers—as well.”

“I see. What is on your collective female minds?” He didn’t sound very concerned.

Lise knew she wasn’t presenting a forceful image. She was wearing her dress uniform, with the latest adjustments to heels, hemlines and headlights that the captain requested. Today her brassiere sported red-and-white stripes, matching her high-cut panties. Red and white striped socks spilled over the tops of her boots. All the girls—dammit, women officers—at the station dressed this way now. Of course, none of them could hold a candle to Lise.

She began her rehearsed speech: “Sir, I object—we object—to these new uniforms. It is inappropriate for you to require this style of dress around the station. And we believe we should be given more responsible duties than filing and telephone desk. We are fully trained police officers.”

“Oh, are you now. I suppose you think you should be out on patrol, with the other officers.”

“Well, uh, yes. Yes, Sir. We do.”

“Investigating complaints? Dealing with the public? Chasing down suspects?” He got up from his desk as he spoke, approaching her.

Once again Lise found her resolve shaking in the face of the captain’s dominant personality. He was her commanding officer. Commanding. He gave commands. Her role was to obey commands. But he couldn’t command her to dress like eye candy—could he? Why was she making this complaint, instead of one of the other girls—officers, rather?

“He really likes your big tits,” Manon had explained. The other girls had all nodded in agreement.

Captain Maynard was standing close in front of her. Even in her four-inch heels he was still taller. “Lise my dear,” he said patiently, “I have to consider the safety and welfare of the division. An officer like you presents certain . . . liabilities in the face of conflict. How would you respond, for example, if you were arresting a suspect and he did this?”

Without warning he reached out and cupped one breast in each hand. Lise gasped. The captain slipped her tits out of their slight, striped confinement. He began kneading them gently, using a thumb to tease her nipples.

Lise cried out; she waved her arms around aimlessly. Dazzled by the surge of sexual heat that lanced through her, she couldn’t think how to stop him. “Ah! Ah, oh oooh!” was all she could manage.

“You see,” the captain explained, as if to a slow child, “an over-sexed girl like you, walking around with your hot bod on display, you’re practically inviting a felon to take advantage. He would too. He would use your own sexual urges against you. Perhaps even like this.” He bent forward and began to kiss and nibble her nipples. His hands were still busy.

Lise groaned out loud. She threw her head back. Blonde hair tumbled down behind her. “P-please!” she managed at last. “Please—Sir, please don’t—oh nooo!” The frontal assault on her self-control continued. Lise made an effort to push him away. Somehow she only stroked his hair as he nibbled and nipped and kneaded.

“You see how vulnerable you are?” the captain wondered, raising his head for a moment. “How unprepared you are for an aggressive felon who might try this!” Abruptly he spun her about, pushed her up against the desk until she fell forward off her high heels, then deftly kicked one boot aside until she was spread-legged and helpless. Her tight miniskirt slid up over her ass. The captain reached down and began to fondle her slit through her gauzy panties.

Lise could only shudder and gasp in heat. “S-sir! Please! No, not there, no, ooooh.”

“You’re already wet,” the captain observed. “A pervert would notice that immediately. It would encourage him to take further advantage.” To illustrate his point he slipped his fingers under her stripes and into her wanting honeypot. He began to pump in and out.

Lise moaned and twitched. “Oh, sweet god, please Sir!” she cried. She was no longer certain what she was begging for. The fingers in her pussy were slurping and sliding in and out, in and out, one pressing up from time to time to ignite her clit as it passed by. The captain pressed against her so he could reach around and delight her boobs with his free hand. Lise shuddered and shook as his fingers worked magic.

When the hands on her femininity suddenly went away, all she could do was whimper. She heard something behind her. The captain turned her around gently, by the shoulders. “Are you even prepared,” he wondered out loud, “to disarm a suspect—who has a weapon?”

He had lowered his uniform trousers and underthings. Lise found herself face to face with his erection. She gulped. He guided her to her knees. She made no resistance. She was breathing hard, staring. The captain’s liberties and her silly complaint about the dress code hardly mattered now. In a matter of moments her world contracted to the beckoning boner bobbing before her. She knew what she had to do.

A few seconds later her two-foot blonde hair was swinging back and forth as her lips slurped up and down her captain’s commanding cock. I’m the (slurp, slurp) subordinate officer, she realized delightedly as she felt his shaft fill her cheek. He’s the (mmmmm, yummy yum) superior officer, my (sluuuurp!) superior, my (oh yes!) commanding officer, who gives me commands that I have to (up down, up down, sucky suck suck) obey!

Obedience was her epiphany. Her blowjob transformed into a joyous celebration of her newfound place in the order of things. She licked, she kissed and she sucked. She used her tongue to tickle his balls and torment his glans. She used both hands to hold his hips as she began working him in interest, releasing a grunt of need and arousal with each downstroke.

She felt him stiffen. She drew her lips up his length, sucking intently. The captain lurched backward, groaning, to shoot his hot load all across her stiff-nippled tits. Lise lifted them like a chalice to receive his cum.

Finally, when he was spent, he lifted his member back to Lise’s lips so she could lick him clean. Then he stumbled backward and began to pull on his uniform. Lise stayed where she was, breathing hard. She wasn’t sure she even could stand up. A drop of jism dripped off one nipple and stained her miniskirt.

“You understand now, I hope,” the captain said, still out of breath, “why I cannot grant your request. It is for your own good that I assign you to less demanding roles.” He paused to fasten his belt.

“Tell the other girls that I have considered their position,” he said, “and explain my decision. Also, all female officers are to report to the gymnasium for one hour after each shift for exercise and toning. I want my girls to be in top shape. Understood?”

Lise still hadn’t gotten to her feet. “A vos ordres,” she said.

“Oh, and Officer LaBelle, one more thing”

“Sir?”

He held out his cup. “Bring me a fresh cup of coffee.”

Lise was back on the street again. It took her a moment to get her bearings, so bright was the memory in her mind. “Dammit, that didn’t happen!” she almost shouted at the man beside her, “you made that up—you planted that memory, or something. The captain wouldn’t—I would never—”

She shook her head, bewildered. Even as she was speaking, she had been fighting the growing certainty that it had happened. The memory of it made her melt.

Moreover, that incident hadn’t been the last time that Captain Maynard had disciplined her, or one of the other girls, with his pleasure-pistol. Hadn’t he spanked Barbara that very morning, with the door open so that everyone in the station could hear? And hadn’t Lise gotten so excited listening that she started secretly pressing her crotch against the corner of a desk?

No! This was impossible! She refused to accept any of it.

“Whatever you’re trying to do, it won’t work,” she snarled at the man beside her. “I can tell this isn’t real—and you are in unimaginable depths of trouble if you don’t stop at once.” Despite her anger she was acutely aware of how sexy her French accent sounded.

Damien said: “I think that’s because you are directly interacting with me. I haven’t quite figured that out yet.” He stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “Maybe you are so close to my influence that you aren’t completely distinct as a part of the universe I can manipulate. I’m not sure. Look, I can make improvements to say, her”—he nodded toward a middle-aged tourist walking along with her husband—“and she won’t even notice the change.”

The woman in question now had the figure of a well-developed twenty-year-old, displayed in a floral-print, baby-doll dress, pink-and white striped thigh-highs and shiny black maryjanes with platform wedge heels. She was sucking on an oversized, pink soother as she wiggled along beside her husband. Oh, pretty! Lise thought, before she could remember to be shocked.

Damien was still speaking: “She’s far enough away, you see. Yet for some reason, if I make improvements to someone talking to me, they eventually notice.” He gestured toward Lise as he spoke.

What now? Lise looked down at herself. She gasped. How had she not noticed the difference in her own appearance?

Her uniform had changed again. Now it was a navy-blue minidress, belted tight at the waist but half-open on top, that exposed perfect legs almost to her rump. The bright gold epaulettes on each shoulder looked more comical than official, as did the police insignia sewn on the front, over the logo “To Serve and Obey.” She was still wearing boots (did the heels grow even higher?) but her pantyhose had been replaced by girlish, navy-blue stockings that stopped at mid-thigh.

Lise knew without looking that her face was cute and demure, bereft of any sternness one would expect of a cop. Her golden blonde hair, thick and wavy as a wheatfield in July, tumbled down almost to the hem of her sex-fantasy uniform.

Lise teetered on the edge of hysteria. “Stop this!” she nearly screamed at Damien. “Revenez-moi! I do not look like this!”

He merely grinned that maddening grin. “Why not? You’re scorching hot. An ultra-babe. Come on, you were so . . . ordinary. Why can’t you accept being beautiful?”

“Beautiful? This isn’t beautiful, this is—cartoonish! Nobody has a rack like this!” To illustrate she reached down to heft the two glorious, gargantuan globes bursting out of an underwire half-bra. She held them up accusingly, damning evidence before the jury. Her titties felt warm and natural in her hands.

“Maybe I overdid it a few sizes,” Damien conceded. “But look, you’re giving every man in the square a boner.”

A quick glance around confirmed that this was true. Every man within shouting distance was staring with jaw-dropped ardour. Even women had helpless desire in their eyes.

Lise made a long, low sound in her throat, a moan equal parts anguish and arousal. She felt she was going mad. This entire episode was so defiant of life and physics that her mind refused to accept it. She stared at the grinning demon before her. The look in his eyes convinced her that it was not she who was mad.

She had to do something. Despite everything that had happened, and an increasingly clear memory of sucking and fucking her way through police training, Lise remained a policewoman. Time to call for back-up.

She reached down and snatched her radio—only to discover that it was not a radio but her ever-present make-up kit, a pink case with a sparkly kitten face on the front. The captain insisted that female officers carry one at all times. Seeing it reminded Lise that she should check her lip gloss. Instead, she threw the case forcefully onto the grass.

“Allors, you son-of-the-devil,” she snarled at Damien. “Put your wrists out toward me. You’re coming down to the station.” She flipped her handcuffs off her belt. For some reason they were gold plated, with inlaid jewels. Before Damien could react, she grabbed his right wrist and snapped the cuff around hers, then clipped the other side around her left wrist.

She stopped. Damien raised an eyebrow. “A problem?” he wondered.

Lise looked at her wrists, neatly restrained in her own handcuffs. “Why—why did I do that?” she said in a tiny voice. She didn’t have the key.

“Force of habit?”

The world flickered again.

Lise stepped gingerly into Captain Maynard’s office. “More coffee, Sir?” she asked, indicating the silver coffee pot in her hands.

He held up his cup wordlessly. Lise carefully refilled his cup with fresh coffee. She needed both hands to manoeuver the pot, which was as well because her wrists were cuffed together. Today her handcuffs were pink, to match her luminous pink stockings. That didn’t mean they weren’t effective. The captain liked to keep “his girls” handcuffed most of the time around the station. He said it was good for discipline.

The captain stared openly at Lise’s heavy chest as she poured. He kept lowering the cup so she needed to bend over further. Lise felt her cheeks burning. She was wearing the captain’s latest interpretation of the female officer’s uniform. The required colour of her thigh-highs changed each day.

The outfit could be considered an officer’s uniform only because all the women in the detachment wore the same thing. The front zipper on Lise’s tiny dress could be pulled up, with some effort, to strain over her super-heavy tits, or worn down, to show them off. The captain preferred zipper down.

“Have the men been served?” the captain asked.

“Y-yes Sir. I have served coffee to everyone.” She hung her head, mortified. The captain made her serve everyone coffee, every day, “to keep the office running smoothly”. In her super-short “uniform” it was nearly impossible to pour out without flashing her ass to the lucky man behind her, and her enormous chest to the man in front of her. Worse, with her hands cuffed together it was completely impossible to fend off the gropes and fondles that inevitably followed. Lise was a very popular officer.

Being downgraded from a serious police officer to a cuffed coffee cutie was beyond mortifying. She hated every minute of it. She couldn’t bring herself to refuse the captain’s orders. He was her commanding officer. Commanding. Her role was to obey.

It turned her on fiercely. That was the most humiliating part of all. By the time she had finished making her morning rounds with the coffee pot, remembering who liked cream or sugar, and trying to ignore the hands fondling her panties and the suggestions and remarks from the other officers, Lise was nearly panting in heat. She was sure everyone could see it. Some days she had to trip back down to the gymnasium change room to derive a little relief from her fingers before she could go on. Make that most days.

One day she discovered Manon there, doing exactly the same thing. The sight of her lovely co-worker, lying back on a padded bench, legs in black boots and gaudy yellow stockings (because it was Tuesday) spread wide open, chest heaving and breath huffing as she plunged her wet slit with three fingers, was more than Lise could resist. Stumbling forward, she grabbed a couple of fresh towels from a rack to kneel on, leaned forward between Manon’s thighs and replaced Manon’s fingers with her tongue.

Manon had her eyes closed. She yelped when she felt the first eager licks. It was already too late. She couldn’t have mustered the strength to resist Lise if she wanted to—and after five seconds she didn’t want to. Lise brought her to a screaming orgasm that was probably audible in the squad room. Then Manon returned the favour, using her fingers inside Lise’s panties and her mouth on Lise’s jutting jugs. Somehow it only made them hotter that they were both handcuffed.

Back in his office, the captain said: “I’m feeling a bit peckish this morning. Perhaps a croissant would be good.”

Lise’s voice quavered. “P-please Sir, not today. Not—not when I’m . . . like this.” She waved the coffee pot in a gesture intended to indicate her uniform.

“It’s only a few blocks to the boulangerie. You will be back in no time.”

“Yes, but, Sir . . . please!”

“Be off directly. Two butter croissants. Be sure they are fresh. Don’t keep me waiting.” He made no move to uncuff her wrists.

She hung her head. “Yes . . . yes, Sir. She turned and shuffled out of the office in her high-heeled boots.

Fetching pastries for the men was the worst exposure of all: the shocked stares; the suddenly frozen conversations; the propositions. She had to walk down a busy street, three full blocks to the nearest bakery, looking like a uniform-fetishist’s dream come alive. She had to act as if there was nothing out the ordinary while she made her purchase from the drooling clerk devouring her curves with his eyes. She never had to pay. By the time she got back to the station her panties would be soaked.

As she walked out the door she passed Manon, trying to deliver the mail with cuffed hands, wearing the same ridiculous uniform as Lise. She looked mortified, bewildered, and hopelessly aroused. Lise made a note to join her in the change room when she returned.

Back on the street, Lise reeled as a flood of new memories cascaded into her mind. “Oh Mon Dieu, yes Yes YES!” she cried. “I remember everything now!” She steadied herself with both cuffed hands against a tree that she didn’t remember being there a moment earlier. She was wearing blue cotton gloves that matched her uniform. She was panting in heat, so turned on she felt she could cum from a single touch.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” Damien said, “and work off some of the tension.” He gestured toward a padded bench she had never seen before. The bench was sheltered from the street by blooming rhododendrons (in September?) but afforded a perfect view of a pornographic statue.

The curvy cop let out a long whine of sexual need. Helplessly, she collapsed on the bench with one boot-capped leg over the arm and her glorious blonde hair fanned out behind her, thrust her cuffed hands under the hem of her mini-uniform, wiggled her blue-gloved fingers under blue satin panties, and began to pleasure herself. Only the row of bushes prevented her actions from being completely public. She made little “uhn” sound with each thrust. She flexed her hips up and down.

“Remembering more clearly now?” Damien asked, settling in beside her.

Lise’s fingers never stopped. She wished she had a free hand to fondle her tits. “Oh yes, yes, I remember, oh god so hot so hot, so awful,” she babbled. “Captain . . . Captain o-order oh sweet heavens I love orders! Captain ordered me to, to . . . mmmmmm, spend morning on . . . p-parking duty. I was . . . f-five minutes late with—nnng!—his c-coffee. Not my fault. H-had to man the front desk be-because Barbara was sucking off the duty officer!

She was masturbating wantonly now, her foot rocking up and down, her face flushed and perspiring, hair flying everywhere. Her mammoth mammaries with their rock-hard nipples threatened to slide right out of her decoltage with every upthrust of her hips.

“Captain knows wha what this does to me. Displaying myself in public. This . . . ahh! This ridiculous uniform. Everybody stares. Tourists take pictures. N-no modesty. It’s . . . horrible! And, and when . . . oh fuck yes! . . . when I get back to the station I’ll be so horny and wet and crazy I’ll do an-anything so he will fuck! Fuck! Fuck! me until all I can think about is his cock in my pussy and his hands on my titties and I cum, cum, cum until my brain melts and I’m his obedient big-boobed bimbo-cop!”

Vocalizing that blissful scenario pushed Lise over the top. She came, screaming in delight, convulsing on a park bench in the middle of a busy plaza. She heard other cries of pleasure echoing her own. Random women around her were cumming too. A pair of middle-aged matrons gaping at the statue in front of Lise collapsed to the ground in unexpected, simultaneous orgasms. When they finally climbed to their feet again they were beautiful, provocatively dressed, and kissing.

“You’re feeling better now, I think,” Damien said, as calm as ever. Lise had forgotten he was sitting there.

Lise was floating in the glow of her climax. “That . . . that was the best cum . . . ever,” she said dreamily. She slipped her joined hands out of her cunny and raised them to her mouth to lick her gloved fingers. She was out of breath and utterly relaxed. “I am a mess,” she observed. “Cap’n’s gonna be pissed. He’ll spank me for sure.” The prospect did not dismay her at all. In fact it gave her tingles.

Damien said: “I’ll fix you up.” Instantly Lise felt composed again. Her hair was combed and arranged; the perspiration vanished from her skin; even her soaked panties were fresh again, though she suspected that wouldn’t last.

She leaned over and kissed Damien gently, on the lips. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re an inhuman beast without a conscience and you should be locked up, or worse. But I never felt so much like a woman as I do right now.” She smoothed down the front of her uniform to emphasize her point. And her points.

He grinned. “You’re welcome. What are you going to do now?”

“I’ve got to get back to the station. I’m walking hornies and if I don’t get to the Captain soon, that gorgeous stiffy of his will be up Manon or Barbara instead of me! Fuck, I hope he spanks me first.”

She got to her feet. Her six-inch boot heels thrust her up on her toes and exaggerated the curves of her legs. Diamond-encrusted handcuffs sparkled on her wrists. Blonde hair billowed out behind her like a flaxen cape. Her tits were a phenomenon. She looked like a walking wet dream and she knew it.

The moment she stepped out from around the bushes, every eye in the plaza was on her, despite the improbable number and variety of alluring women all about. She turned back for a moment. “Damien, this change in the weather, the sudden sunshine—that was you, wasn’t it.”

He shrugged. “I loathe sight-seeing in the rain.”

Lise smiled. “Do try to behave yourself. Try, at least. Au revoir.” She couldn’t wave good-bye so she puckered her lips into an air kiss for him. Then she strutted on her way. She was eager to get back to the station and the afternoon of submission and screwing she so desperately needed.

What a wonderful day this had turned out to be.