The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Oranges and Lemons

I had wanted to get there early and I thought, maybe, I had, as I pushed open the door to the pub across the street from the British Museum. I had imagined this meeting many times, but in my imagination I had worn my confident clothes, my sexy clothes; knee high socks and a bright pair of shoes. Red lipstick; stripes and plaids. Like in the song.

Instead I was wearing what he told me to wear. I was wearing pink, the pink dress with white and magenta flowers my wife had bought me for an Easter past and bare legs and magenta velvet heels that made my height, already over six feet, inexcusable. I gawked over the bar as I ordered a St. Clemens; the bartender scowled at the cheap nonalcoholic drink. I smiled back a pink and wobbly smile that went past his uncaring face and bounced back to me from the mirror.

“Trish?” I recognized the voice from the table tucked away in the corner; I recognized it well enough to feel a little dip in consciousness at the harmonics and accent. I closed my eyes and when I opened them there was a fizzy lemony drink in front of me and five pounds gone.

“Hi,” I said. I was early; he was earlier. He gestured for me to sit and I did, eager to be less… tall. Huge. He looked like the pictures I’d seen, a trim friendly-looking man with a tidy goatee, not the least bit… sinister.

“Hello, lass,” he said, and smiled. He reached up a hand to brush back some of my long hair out of my face, and despite the crowded room, despite the fact that he was ten years younger than me, I let it turn into a caress. “You’ve dyed it.”

I smiled; wavering again but determined to be brave. You don’t fly 5,000 miles to cry in a pub bathroom. “Surprise?” His eyes moved sharply over the blonde balayage layered into my mousy hair and he nodded. He liked it, and I felt some clockspring in my chest unwind.

I realized his hand had moved down from my hair to rest on one of mine, and I laid my other one over it. I’d debated for hours about wearing my wedding ring; a token of loyalty to my almost-magically understanding wife? Or a brief holiday from one life into another one? My hand was bare, and as his covered it it felt like the right decision.

“Thank you for coming here to see me,” I said, trying to keep my voice quiet, sweet, to avoid the rougher tones that hid in my register. “Was the drive—”

“It was fine, pet,” he said easily, and I closed my eyes. My eyeshadow was pink; pink framed behind dark red acrylic frames, and I felt myself blush more than pink behind thick foundation.I breathed in and found that it didn’t clear my head as much as drag me down. When I opened my eyes the room seemed brighter and the parts that weren’t him seemed hazier.

“You said you wanted to meet somewhere public,” he said, very carefully. “In case things didn’t feel the same as they do online?” I nodded, also very carefully; like my head might fall off.

“And do they? Feel the same?”

“Yes,” I said in a croak, and drank my first and only gulp of the fizzy lemonade and Orangina. “Yes, Sir.”

He stood up, and I swayed to my feet and we swept out into London’s drizzling January.

* * *

The hotel was just down the street; the same one we stayed in on my honeymoon, a long and low and cozy building. In one of these warm and overly upholstered rooms my wife was sleeping, but tonight I wasn’t coming back. Tonight I had a second key.

The whole way to the hotel I’d been conscious of my height, my towering ridiculous height, and as soon as we were through the door I moved towards the bed to get the mary-jane heels off. “What are you doing?” he said mildly, and I faltered. Colored hotly.

“I was going—I mean. May I take off my shoes? Sir?”

“No, you may not, lass.” He smiled. “Feeling too tall?” I nodded. “You know the cure for that, don’t you?”

I nodded again, and slipped off the bed to my knees. He smiled and stroked my head again, like a docile pet, and sank himself onto the bed. As he stroked me I leaned towards him and sank forward, resting my burning cheek against his lap. I could feel a warm, firm length behind the fabric of his slacks—the closest I’d ever been to a man’s cock, and I hesitated before going further. I just rested there a moment. Then I thought of my foundation and the marks I must be leaving and I started to move, but his hand was heavy on my head and stroked me back into compliance.

“That’s my good girl,” he said; quietly, but loud enough for me to hear the trigger, and I squeaked into his thigh as the waves of pleasure crashed over me. Something clenched in the middle of me and pulsed; the muscles of my thighs wavered and I was not just resting on him but collapsing into him as he crooned my good girl, my good good girl as I edged and edged again.

“That’s where you belong, fucktoy,” he said. And then other words, you came all this way just for this, I think, but the word struck their sense from my head. Made my head swim. When I could think again I’d opened his fly and I was stroking him. I looked up at him and smiled my pink lipstick smile, still wavering, and I said something stupid, like, I’ve never done this before. As if he didn’t know.

“It’s all right, gorgeous,” he said, and I burned bright red again; blushing more from the compliment than the handjob, and he smiled at that. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re a beautiful sexy bimbodoll and you don’t have anything to worry about.”

Bimbo. I swayed forward and took the tip of his cock into my mouth, looking up at him, and he gently took my glasses away. Bimbodoll. My hand moved up and down, up and down, and in the swaying pumping motion I felt my whole mind rocking up and down, up and down. Bimbo. Conversations online, in text and voice, conscious and in trance, flickered through my mind in disconnected fragments as I fractionated myself on his cock.

He was a hard man underneath, and that wasn’t innuendo—he was hard, he was sadistic, but the kindest gentlest sadist I’ve ever met, and in the kink world you meet more than a few. He was hard but what he asked of me was to be soft, to be vulnerable, to lay myself open to that hardness, that sharpness; and so while he didn’t have to cut into it, the potential was always there, sharp and cruel and sweet and potent for both of us. Because we didn’t have to be everything to each other, just one thing, just one special night on holiday, and there and then I was nothing more or less than a pink and pretty bimbodoll without a thought in my head. With nothing in my head but him, his words and his body moving in my mouth.

His hand fisted in my brown-blonde hair as he got close, the first tingling sting of painpleasure, and he pulled me away. I tumbled back, rocked back on my actual heels and panted, my mouth suddenly empty and feeling tender; bruised. “Oh,” I panted.

“The night is young, pet,” he said kindly. “Take off your pretty dress.”

I stood gingerly, biting my lip again; the haze of the suck-trance passing off, I could remember to be self-conscious. It was a wrap dress, and I unwrapped it; I was wearing a matching rose-colored underwear set underneath, but the blank spanx that savagely controlled my my outline spoiled that a bit. I unhooked the bra, the weight of my new breasts still unfamiliar, and realized his angle had him looking directly at the scars on the undersides. I crossed my arms over them almost without a thought.

He waved me closer, and I stepped towards him, still shielding myself. It didn’t work. Instead his fingers hooked under the waistband of the spanx and swept the constricting undergarments and my panties both down around my ankles. I teetered as they tangled around the shoes I was still wearing, and his hand closed firmly over my thick hip to steady me. I closed my eyes then, because his hands and his eyes were on the most embarrassing and unfeminine parts of me.

And then he was touching me—it—his fingers distant and chill through the metal cage. “Perfect, pet. Just perfect. So small and soft and pink and wanting. Poor thing. Look how it drips.” I shuddered at the word.

“Silly little thing. That’s not what this is about for you anymore, is it?”

“No Sir,” I whispered. His hands slid up to my breasts. I could feel his voice in my tits, every word, every scrape of his accent making the nerve endings there sing, and as his hands began to touch my nipples I didn’t know how I was going to stay standing.

“How long has it been?” he asked. I swallowed and said, Six months, and he said, “Good girl!” I sank to my knees again as another edge hit me and more wetness dribbled down my leg. “And your wife has quite gotten used to the strap-on, hasn’t she, lass?” His hands kept touching my chest as I nodded—somewhere in there my eyes had opened and I was looking into his eyes, the classic induction—and I said yes and he said, “Almost prefers it?” and I said yes Sir again, in a helpless mix of pleasure and embarrassment and shame and perfect controlled submission as one hand crept behind my hair to grip the back of my neck.

I was looking into his eyes and being touched and being held and controlled and everything telescoped and swam. I’ve never been any good at hypnotic amnesia, never lost time in a trance, and I didn’t that night, but time worked strangely for sure; time was strange as hell.

It seemed like his clothes vanished between blinks; it seemed like he spent hours making me ready, rubbing and touching and opening me to him, and then in a blur he was inside me and it was happening. Pain and pleasure and pleasurepain and that slim silver tube wobbling between us catching the light in crazy glimpses and fractures, but that’s not what it was about. That’s not what it was about anymore. It was about him, it was about pleasure, it was about being a funnel by which some divine pleasure poured into the world and into the man I was wrapped around, and there was pleasure enough for me just in being that conduit, in pleasing. It was a pleasure in being, in existing, in giving that was more than a paltry flood of hormones and spasms.

It wasn’t fundamentally different from the pleasures of my wife, because she could dominate me too; knew how to take what she wanted from me and make me feel pretty and frilly and silly and good only for pleasing. But it was different; different in his hunger. In his need to be inside me, in the heat and speed and pressure as he demanded more and more of me, driving moans and cries and strange sounds out of my throat I didn’t know were in there. To be fucked; to be fucked like this and not get hard, to be so turned on and well-used and have it only turn and spiral inward and twist in sharp needy coils inside of me, a heavy throbbing center that he drove into again and again.

And then release; not mine, which had happen in a strictly biological sense somewhere in lost time, but his, the point in time where his hands left marks on me as he couldn’t help it at last. The point where I had given all he needed from me and I could just collapse beneath him and be nothing, nothing at all, and the ecstasy and shudder of that final collapse and that final, final good girl.

As I lay there a shuddering wreck he smiled, and he kissed me, and he took off my shoes and tucked me in.

* * *