The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Pretty Little Things Part 2

Categories: ds ff ma mc md mf

SUMMARY: A well-meaning doctor tried to help one of her patients, only to find herself becoming the latest addition to a demented collection of dolls.

DISCLAIMER: This story contains explicit and unconscionable sexual activity, and is intended for adult readers only. If you have not yet attained the legal age of consent in your region, of if you have difficulty distinguishing between fantasy and reality, I urge you not to continue.

COPYRIGHT: © 2016 Trystor (). All rights reserved. This story must not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without express written permission from the author. But feel free to post links and tell all your (mature adult) friends that it’s here!

“Maeve, wake up.” The voice said again. Maeve’s world spun, vertiginous darkness, tilt-a-whirl orbits round the still-point pressure at the base of her skull.

She didn’t know where she was, but she sensed that she was naked, and the neutral feeling of the air suggested she was indoors. Naked, and she was kneeling on hardwood. Her knees were twin dull throbs. And she was wet between her thighs, juice settling, growing cold and sticky. Inside her loins, she was still hot. Buttery.

She was blind, and her mouth was full of cock. She gagged, shocked both by the rude thrusting presence and by the fact that, up till this moment, she hadn’t registered that it was there. When she slid backwards, she felt the thick ridge of the cock’s fleshy head push back against her lips, and she fought the urge to take it fully back inside of her again.

Her mind careened. Maeve was sucking some man’s cock, and she was blind; was this a rape? But she was hot, she was horny, so whatever lapse of consciousness had brought her to this state, perhaps she should just...suck a little longer? Pinch her aching clit and let this needy feeling drain away—

“Maeve. Now.” Another pressure on the back of her neck, more insistent this time, and finally she snapped fully into reason. This was wrong. She reeled back, falling onto her butt. The cock popped out of her mouth, leaving a wet smear of saliva and precum on her chin. She pawed at her face until she figured out what was covering her eyes: a satin sleep-mask. She pulled it off and flung it aside.

The man standing before her was nude, although a magenta dressing gown was bundled on the floor around his ankles. He seemed impossibly tall, though it must have been her position beneath him. His face was long and thin, with an aquiline nose and piercing dark eyes—the irises seemed almost violet in this light. He was smirking slightly as he looked down at her. His left hand was stroking the cock that had only recently been inside her mouth.

She knew who he was, and yet she couldn’t remember his name. There was an invisible fog that hovered in the air between them, blurring her thoughts about him. She wanted to stand up, or speak, but she found herself just staring up at his face in a tortured blend of fear and lust.

“I’d like to speak to you briefly, Maeve…but now I’m of a mind to let you finish what you started,” Said the man, sliding his fist more aggressively along his shaft. The motion was a peripheral blur to Maeve, who continued staring at his damnably familiar face. She knew that, whoever he was, she had strong feelings about him. But he wasn’t her…her husband. Oh my god! She had a husband! She was a married woman—a doctor!—and here she was, debasing herself to this…this…

“That’s it,” said the man, “Keep touching yourself. I’m nearly there.” The words made no sense to her at first, but then Maeve registered a distant sound that made her world spin again: a wet squelching sound, coming from between her legs. She looked down, and gaped with horror to see that her own right hand was mashing her clit and lips—jilling herself even as her captor jacked off.

Aghast, Maeve threw herself backwards and wrenched her traitorous hand away from her crotch. The motion was so vigorous, it sent a thin string of lubricant arcing away from her cunt, and it landed gleaming across the man’s thigh. He moaned ecstatically, either in response to this sensation or to Maeve’s panicked retreat, and his masturbating reached a fevered pitch. In some part of her mind, Maeve realized that this was the opportune moment to flee, while he was in the throes of his sick lust. She hauled herself to her feet, using a nearby doorframe for support. Over his shoulder, she could see a number of other doorways, including one that appeared to lead to a staircase leading down. She intuited that to be the way out, and she braced herself to begin running towards it.

But then, with a primal grunt, the man ejaculated. The stream was cataclysmic, spattering Maeve’s breasts and belly even though she stood three feet away. Instead of running as she’d planned, Maeve found herself staring at the man’s cock, as if she’d never seen a man come before. She found herself craving the taste of his semen—a taste which, she realized with dull terror, she’d tasted many times before. How long have I been here?

Her captor’s eyes were closed; he was still lost in the reverberations of his orgasm. Maeve observed herself now, as if from a distance. She wanted desperately to run from this demented, depraved situation—to escape this hallway, this house, even if it meant running out into an unknown street buck naked and covered in cum. But she couldn’t bring herself to move, even though she knew her window of opportunity was closing fast. Instead, she observed herself raising her hands slowly, moving her fingers across her torso, spreading the white spunk of her Master lovingly across her tits—

“What the fuck—?!?” Maeve cried aloud in anguish. She was revolted by her own actions, yet she could barely even remember her plan of escape from moments before. She just wanted to bathe herself in her Master’s juice—her Master?!? No. These were not her thoughts. This was something else, something he’d done to her. This was wrong.

But her outcry had snapped him out of his reverie, and now the thin man grinned to see her so debased. “Maeve,” he said again, “You’re a bad girl. You have too many thoughts in your head. But sometimes, those thoughts can be useful to me. That’s why I let you keep them.”

“Who are you?” Maeve demanded. Her anger swept in and allowed her a modicum of control. She dropped her sticky hands away from her tits and clenched them into fists. “How long have I been here?”

“Long enough for divorce proceedings to have gotten underway,” The man replied casually. He crouched to retrieve his dressing down, shrugging it back onto his shoulders but leaving it open at the front. “Although there are some hitches, yet. Your husband is having some difficulty accepting the new status quo.”

“Divorce!? I am not getting divorced!” Yes even as she said it, Maeve tapped into some dim memory of signing papers…and a phone conversation with David, telling him that it was over. Had he forced her to do that?

“Be that as it may, your chief value to me, and the reason I brought you back this morning, is as a physician. The dolls need their medications, and you are the only one authorized to procure them.”

“The…dolls?” Maeve felt a terrible chill down her spine. Suddenly, she was aware of another sound—the same damp squelching as before, but more distant. She wasn’t fingering herself, but somebody was.

With a settling, sick certainty of what she was about to see, Maeve looked through the doorway right beside her. Inside the long room, there were six mattresses, arranged side by side on the floor. Five of them were occupied by women: naked, blindfolded, prone and exposed. They were diligently, methodically stroking themselves—clit, vulva, ass—until their nethers glistened with anticipatory cuntjuice.

Maeve stared at the five women. She couldn’t see most of their faces, but she recognized them none the less. She’d known most of them when they were human, but they weren’t human right now. The intensity and focus of their actions told her exactly what they were. They were automatons; programmable fucktoys; wind-up dolls.

Her gaze shifted to the empty mattress, which lay nearest the door. Maeve choked on a cry of despair. She knew whose bed it was.

Then her Master was behind her, pressing his body against hers, his cock already starting to rise again as it pressed against her ass. Before she could cry out, his hand was on her chin, prying her mouth open.

“We’d best continue this conversation later,” He said calmly as he forced his fingers into her mouth.

Maeve’s mind and cunt went molten, and then Maeve was gone.

* * *

After leaving the clinic, Maeve drove home, fed her cats, and changed out of her scrubs. Her coat was coffee stained, and her pants had a faint stain around the crotch, made by her own secretions. She left the clothing strewn in the hallway while she showered. As she was towelling off, she heard her cell phone ring, but by the time she found it, tucked into her pants pocket, she had missed the call. David’s number.

Maeve stood naked in her hallway, holding her phone, and trying to think of what she could say to her husband. She knew she couldn’t lie to him, at least not for long, but the truth seemed impossible to even speak aloud. He would either divorce her or have her committed, or both.

As an experiment, she tried to put it into words, speaking only to the empty house. “One of my, um, patients appeared to be in, in some sort of...sexual distress. I tried to give her, um, to stimulate...” She trailed off, painfully aware of how absurd she sounded.

In a sort of daze, she went to the kitchen and turned on the oven. Whenever David was away on business, she treated herself to a frozen dinner and some junk television—a nostalgic throwback to her days at medical school. Sometimes she even ate standing up, as she often had to do during back-to-back intern shifts. Tonight, she wasn’t hungry, though, and she didn’t think TV was going to get her mind of what she’d done.

“I did it,” She said, to no one but the cats. “It wasn’t her, it was me. She wasn’t in control. In fact, I...I took control from her, I think...I made her compliant, somehow, when I...” She strained to remember the exact moment when Rebecca had gone from merely aroused to mindlessly driven. Something was fogging her memories; even though the incident had occurred less than two hours earlier, she was having trouble piecing it back together.

Great, even worse. When David called back, she’d have to give him the story in broad strokes. “I fucked some sex slave with my hand, and when that didn’t get her off, I took my own pants off and fucked her face.” There. Blunt, direct, and totally unforgivable.

Something twinged, in her mind and between her legs, when Maeve said the words “sex slave.” It seemed a near-perfect description of Rebecca’s behaviour. But Maeve also half-felt as though she were a slave, while Rebecca was in the room—certainly not acting fully of her own free will. But that was just as insane as the rest of it. No one had forced her to do anything.

With a start, Maeve realized that she was still nude from the shower. She’d wandered into the kitchen to prepare supper, and now she was standing in full view of the dining room windows. Luckily, the lights were mostly still out, or else the neighbours would get a clear gander at her tits and ass. She tromped back down the hall, kicking her clothes along with her, till she reached her bedroom.

As she got dressed, Maeve thought of David. He’d be home tomorrow night, unless the bad weather held. If she happened to keep missing his calls—it happened sometimes, especially when she forgot to charge her phone—then she had 24 hours in which to come up with a full confession that would not destroy her marriage. She wondered if perhaps she ought to try writing everything down. Maybe that would help her to remember better.

Or, wait! Maeve froze, her shirt half-buttoned, reckoning with the new plan that had just occurred to her. The medical records at the clinic would include Rebecca Morin’s home address. She could visit her, tonight, and demand an explanation. It was scarcely professional, but then, what she’d done to the girl this afternoon was far worse by any ethical standpoint.

As she buttoned up her jeans, she rationalized further. Ms. Morin left her office in even greater distress than she’d arrived. She had, arguably, been betrayed in her trust of Maeve. She may not understand what Maeve was trying to do—hell, Maeve scarcely understood herself. In a worst case scenario, Rebecca might think herself the victim of sexual assault. Maeve needed to set the record straight.

She returned to the kitchen and put a box of lasagna in the oven. There was Rebecca’s own welfare to consider, too. Whatever was making her act like this—Maeve still didn’t know if it was something medical, or if some outside force was acting upon her—it was still a danger to her, and Maeve had a duty of care. She just needed to stay professional this time; to approach the situation rationally, with a clear head, and not get distracted by the patient’s symptoms.

Maeve stood for a moment and tried to assess her state objectively. “If I ring her doorbell, and she greets me with the same display...” She shuddered, remembering the lecherous ritual the girl had used to moisten her own private parts. The mental image made her flush with embarrassment, but she didn’t feel the same coil of yearning in her loins. She pushed the memories a bit further, actively willing herself to remember the sight of Rebecca on her exam table, legs in the stirrups, smouldering cunt agape. She focused on the sharp, alkaline smell that had seemed to clog the office—Rebecca’s musk mingling with her own. And lastly, she pictured the girl’s ginger head darting between her own legs.

The rush of memories left her slightly dizzy, and guiltier than ever, but she was relieved to discover she was not harbouring any further thoughts of lust towards her patient. Now that she wasn’t completely taken by surprise, she felt that she could probably keep her head long enough to have a conversation with Rebecca, should she find the girl in a lucid state. Or, if she found her mindless and compliant, she wouldn’t be tempted to cross any boundaries. In fact, she could just order her patient into the car and escort her to the hospital, where hopefully someone will know what to do.

She retrieved her phone, ignored the message waiting from David, and speed-dialed the clinic switchboard, hoping the receptionist had not yet gone home. She was in luck; Shandra saw Maeve’s number on the display and picked up. Maeve asked her to retrieve Rebecca Morin’s personal information, stating that she’d promised to refer the patient to another doctor whom she happened to be seeing later tonight. It was unorthodox, but Shandra didn’t question it. Maeve wrote down Rebecca’s phone number and address on a pad of paper, thanked Shanda profusely, and hung up.

As Maeve ate her supper, she tried searching the internet for clues to Rebecca’s condition, but any attempt to Google the symptoms led her pretty much directly to porn. Standing at the counter, tapping away at her laptop, Maeve impulsively decided to click through, to watch some porn that she ordinarily wouldn’t even think twice about. She rationalized this as a final test of her resolve; watch something that reminded her strongly of the Rebecca situation, and see if it stirred her libido in the slightest.

She didn’t watch porn normally—she’d never been with a guy who claimed to be turned on by it, and she found the gender politics off-putting, to say the least—so she wasn’t sure what to choose. But a glimpse of hospital white caught her eye, and she clicked on a thumbnail that depicted one woman tied to a hospital bed, while the other, dressed as a nurse, leaned over her provocatively. The video took half a minute to load on her old laptop, during which she had to shut down three pop-up browser ads for penis enlargement. She was almost ready to nix the entire experiment when the video began.

There was no context or dialogue, it just jumped right in to a seduction. The nurse wore a white latex suit that squeezed her bosom almost to the breaking point. Her raven-black hair cascaded around the cleavage as she leaned down to “inspect” her “patient.” The girl on the bed was nude, bound and gagged, and was thrashing and moaning like a creature in heat. Maeve scooped some lasagna onto her fork, but it portion hovered halfway between plate and mouth as the action on the screen stepped up.

Slinking like a cat, the faux-nurse clambered up onto the bed, straddling the trapped girl but facing her feet, not her face. A quick camera cut revealed that the nurse was not wearing anything beneath her ultra-short latex skirt, and the sight of her shaved vulva drove the patient into further paroxysms of desire. She strained her neck, trying to reach the tantalizing pussy-fruit even though the ball gag in her mouth prevented her from doing anything with her prize.

The nurse, ungagged, had no such obstacle. She ran her hands along the patient’s thighs—long scarlet fingernails, such as a nurse would never wear—and then dived between her legs to part her labia. The patient’s crotch was shaved as well—it seemed as though every girl in porn-land had no pubic hair—and her vulva, once it was spread wide by the nurse’s probing nails, looked like an angry red gash against the girl’s white skin. The camera cut to an extreme close-up as the nurse let loose her tongue and began to tease her captive’s clitoris out of hiding.

When the scene cut back again to show the captive’s face, her ball gag had abruptly vanished—either the video was some sort of highlight reel from a longer film, or else the editing was simply shoddy, and Maeve didn’t have the experience to make an educated guess. With her mouth free, the bound patient was moaning and shrieking in earnest, and the campy soundtrack faded rapidly away, replaced by a symphony of gasping breaths and animalistic female groans. Eventually, the nurse leaned back onto the captive’s face, and the two girls sixty-nined for awhile, tongues flicking madly like two electrified snakes.

Then, another jump cut, and the patient was no longer tied up. The nurse was on her hands and knees at the foot of the bed, while the patient knelt behind her, burying her face in the former girl’s pussy. Neither of the girls seemed especially aroused to Maeve; the nurse bore a permanent sneer, while the patient seemed to be over-performing her lust, smashing her face against the nurse’s nethers like a mop head wrung into a strainer. But then the patient used her hand to start fucking the nurse in earnest, and the tone shifted subtly but demonstrably towards genuine arousal.

The nurse’s cunt was ample. Maeve watched, slack-jawed, as the other girl packed two, then three, then all four fingers in, then finally managed an entire fist. It really seemed to turn the nurse’s crank—Maeve’s clinical mind noted the angle of the fisting, and concluded that it was likely stimulating both her g-spot and her cervix. The nurse eventually slid a hand back underneath herself to work on her clitoris—this, Maeve concluded, was probably not for the viewer’s sake, since the angle of her body hid it from the camera. But it was helping her get off, and indeed within a minute she appeared to have a genuine orgasm.

Another jump cut, and now it was the patient’s turn to get righteously fucked. She was prone, not tied up but clutching the support bars on either side of the mattress, and her feet were elevated—just dangling in the air, though they reminded Maeve of Rebecca’s feet in the stirrups. And the nurse had extracted a cherry-red dildo from some nearby drawer and was pumping it, hard, into the other girl’s cunt. The camera was close enough that Maeve could see beads of sweat on her thighs, and rivulets of fluid along the ridges of the dildo as it slid back out from her depths.

As before, Maeve noticed the point when performance was subsumed by arousal: the girl stopped thrashing like a maniac, and started a series of concentrated hip-thrusts to match the dildo’s entrances. Her grunting became lower and more focused, and she let slip a few, half-gasped expletives that didn’t sound scripted. Her legs fell back, higher across her torso, till her thighs were resting on her tits. Finally, she attacked her own clit, reaching around her leg and buttock to tug it from the side. Maeve had never seen an engorged clitoris so rudely exposed.

Then the patient/captive/fucked girl became rigid, and slapped her own clit, hard, three times. The other girl seemed to comprehend the signal, and withdrew the slick red dildo, letting it fall out of frame. A few breathless seconds went by, and then the prone girl came, loud and messy. A jet of fluid surged out of her, and though her body was mostly still in the throes of her climax, her hand worked independently, slapping her slit so as to spread the ejaculate wider. It covered the nurse’s tits (which had, at some point, shrugged themselves free from their latex prison), and a few drops even hit the camera lens.

Then the video cut off, too abruptly for Maeve’s liking. She reeled back a few steps from her laptop, trying to process what she’d just seen. She knew it all went on, of course, and she knew the physiology as well as any doctor did. But it was still a bit of a shock to see those things in front of her, especially after the day she’d already had.

The big question remained. Was she aroused, or merely stunned? She undid the buttons of her jeans and slid an investigatory hand into her underpants. She couldn’t feel any swelling; her clit and inner labia were still tucked politely away. Still, she had to be thorough, so she pried her lips apart with her index and ring fingers, and slipped her middle finger in between. It moved smoothly up her snatch, triggering a gasp and an involuntary bucking of the hips.

She was wet. Okay. The lesbo porn had made her wet. So what?

So, she shouldn’t go. She knew better than to risk another bout of bad behaviour, to destroy any shreds of trust Rebecca might have for her at this point. She should tell someone else that her patient needs help. Or else she should leave well enough alone.

Maeve kept standing in her kitchen, unmoving, with one finger curled inside herself. On the laptop screen, a few feet away, thumbnails from other clips were cycling patiently past. “If you enjoyed this video, check out...” After a long minute, she slowly withdrew her hand and buttoned up her jeans.

Then she stuck her phone into her back pocket, grabbed Rebecca’s address off the paper pad, and left the house. The cats would finish her lasagna.

* * *

She had another crisis before getting out of her car. Rebecca Morin lived in a faded red two-story house in a densely packed neighbourhood, the kind where the houses stand mere feet from each other, and many have been converted into duplex apartments for working-class families. The street was likewise jammed with cars, so Maeve had to park on the next block down. The sun was setting, and the west-facing street was ablaze with yellow-salmon light.

Maeve decided she would call Charice. Someone ought to know where she was, just in case she found herself way over her head. Her friend Charice was a cop—they’d met during a standardized patient testing program during Maeve’s last year of med school—and while she wouldn’t begin to understand what Maeve was trying to do (who would?), she could at least be counted on for her discretion. Maeve knew that she was crossing a lot of lines by even coming here, to a patient’s house, but Charice wouldn’t try to talk her out of it.

She was actually hoping Charice’s personal phone would go to voice mail, as it usually did when she was on duty. Then, she could leave a message reassuring Charice not to worry, listing only the address plus a promise to explain everything later.

She wasn’t counting on Phoebe’s voice to pick up. Pheobe was Charice’s wife—the two women got married last year, Maeve had gotten smashed at the reception—but apart from that one night and a few other social run-ins, she didn’t know the girl that well.

“The bitch forgot her phone on the dresser,” Explained Phoebe cheerfully, “I think she’s cracking up. How are you?”

“Uh, fine,” Maeve stammered, “Or, well—I dunno. It’s nothing to worry about, but I can’t explain right now.”

“Is something up? I could help patch you through to Charice at the district.” Phoebe sounded only half-concerned. Maeve thought she must be distracted with something—watching a film, or texting. She wanted to just hang up, but she reminded herself of the risks.

“Can you just do me a favour, Pheeb? Write down this address. I’ll explain what it’s all about later.”

“Ooh, a mystery!” Phoebe’s interest was piqued, but Maeve simply recited the number and ended the call with a promise to call back tomorrow. “It’s nothing to worry about,” She repeated as she hung up. She only wished that she believed herself.

Maeve locked her car and strode up the street. The sun had sunk beyond a distant row of houses, and now the pink rays diffused into an orange aura that made all the cars’ lights seem to glow. In a few minutes, it would be dark, she thought. She stopped and transferred a few items from her purse to her coat pockets: cell phone, rape whistle, mace.

There were lights on inside Rebecca’s house, and she heard movement when she rang the bell. But it took a long time for the door to open, and Maeve spent those minutes doubting everything that brought her to this point. The vague resurgence of lust that she’d experienced at home was long gone; now she only felt shame, and the certainty that, whatever was going on with her patient, it was over Maeve’s head, or else she wouldn’t be here, now, like this.

Then Rebecca opened the door, and it all got much worse.

The curvaceous redhead stood simmering in the doorway. She was wearing a man’s dress shirt, silk by the looks of it, and apparently nothing else. Maeve could see her dark nipples through the sheer beige fabric, sliding tautly up and down as she worked to catch her breath. Rebecca’s face was flushed, and a sheen of sweat across her forehead caught a few dark tendrils of hair and pinned them in place. Like this afternoon, her face was caked with makeup, but now there was just enough smudged mascara to perfectly complete the image of the lascivious whore.

The two women stood for a minute, staring at each other. Maeve tried to keep her eyes off Rebecca’s chest, or her bare legs. Rebecca stared into Maeve’s eyes without a hint of recognition. She continued breathing heavily, although the flush on her cheeks was beginning to fade.

Finally, lamely, Maeve asked, “May I come in, Ms. Morin?”

Rebecca seemed confused, but she stepped back—stumbled, rather, as if the force of Maeve’s voice was enough to make her move. Maeve stepped cautiously across the threshold.

“Are you alone?” She asked pointedly.

Rebecca nodded. “I...I was just, um...” She fished for an excuse that would explain her disheveled appearance, but she came up empty, and ended up gesturing vaguely back into the house.

“Do you live here alone?” Maeve asked, regaining some confidence.

Rebecca struggled to answer this. “N-no, I have, or well, I had a roommate. He moved out last week. She gnawed at her lip and shifted from one foot to the other. The shifting of her hips was distracting, as it lifted up just enough of the dress shirt so as to give Maeve a whiff of the arousal between her legs.

“Ms. Morin,” Said Maeve, as professionally as she could, “I came here to apologize. My behaviour today was unacceptable. But I also hoped that maybe I could still, well, help you. Not—I don’t mean, help like before, I mean—could we just talk?”

Rebecca stood befuddled for a moment, then she turned and led the doctor past her entry hall, towards her kitchen. Maeve closed the front door behind her and made a point of locking it. Then she followed Rebecca, noting that the kitchen was around a corner, past a dented formica dining table and an island countertop. Beyond the kitchen was another doorway, circling around towards the front again via a small studio bedecked with jewellery-making equipment.

It took an effort for Maeve to note all this, because the lower curve of Rebecca’s asscheeks were swaying down the hall in front of her.

The dining room smelled heavily of Rebecca’s arousal. The girl turned and slumped into a faded blue chair, spreading her legs in unconscious provocation. The button-up tips of the shirt slid between her thighs, concealing her sex almost coquettishly. Maeve noticed a gleam of fluid, still moist, upon the lip of the chair, and she realized what must have been happening here, if Rebecca was telling the truth and she really was alone: she had been sitting here, just...touching herself.

Maeve took the seat opposite her, and positioned herself so that the table became a chaperone, shielding the other girl’s legs and cunt. She tried to keep her voice level and professional: “When you came to my office today, you knew that something was wrong with you. I want to help you figure out what’s happening, and how to make you feel better.”

“Better...” Rebecca echoed. Her right hand drifted absently beneath the lip of the table.

“I’m not going to touch you again, or ask you to touch me,” Maeve said, almost to reassure herself. “But I need you to tell me. When did this all start?”

“I think...six months ago?” Rebecca was obviously struggling to concentrate, but Maeve also noticed how she was subtly adjusting herself, sliding the base of her shirt aside to grant her fingers access to her cleft. “It started when he found me.”

“He?” Maeve ventured a guess. “Your new manager?”

Rebecca nodded, relieved. She followed this with a sharp, gulping sound, which Maeve took to be Rebecca’s reaction to her own fingers finding her clit.

“What did he do to you?” Maeve leaned forward, clenching and unclenching her hands on the tabletop.

“Do? He just...” Rebecca was struggling to keep her thoughts coherent, and her breathing was increasing as her hidden hand attacked the sweet, secret spot between her legs. “He just told me what to do. That’s all. How to market my jewellery. How to dress for success. He told me everything.”

Maeve wondered how much the other girl was even aware of what her hand was doing right now. So much of her body language, and even her actions, seemed completely involuntary.

“Has he told you to do anything...sexual?” Asked Maeve, feeling more absurd than ever. She sounded like a schoolmarm, but she was talking to a woman who as actively self-pleasuring.

Rebecca’s face grew as red as her hair. She bit her lip and nodded.

“What...” Maeve wasn’t sure what questions she should ask next, but she found she couldn’t resist asking: “What did he tell you to do?”

“Everything.” Rebecca grunted again, shifting her ass and hips as she used her fingers to enter herself.

By now, Maeve was seeing and hearing the other girl through a familiar veil of lust. The heady arousal she had felt back in her office had returned, in spades. But the table kept the two women separated, so she forced herself to concentrate instead on the questions and answers.

“Did he tell you to do...what you’re doing now?” Maeve asked quietly.

Rebecca was silent for a moment, apart from the dull, sharp gasps that snuck out while she finger-fucked herself. Her nipples jutted out against the silk shirt, and Maeve could imagine how good that must feel. She realized that she was close enough...if she wanted, she could just...reach across the table...pinch those walnut nubs between her...no. She thrust both hands firmly into her lap, to forestall temptation.

After a minute of staring down at the tabletop while her fingers keyed the contours of her pussy, Rebecca found the strength to speak. “He doesn’t...not exactly what to say. Not now, not...when I have my mind. But he lets me figure out...what...what I need.”

The word seemed pendulous inside Maeve’s mind. Need. “What do you need?” She asked, almost at a whisper.

“Same as you,” Rebecca said, gulping. “Sex. Fucking. Obedience.”

Maeve released an involuntary gasp. “I don’t want that.”

Rebecca was still staring down at the table, but she smiled. “You do,” she said, a hint of wryness in her voice. “You’re doing it right now.”

At first, Maeve didn’t know what she was talking about. Then she heard a sharp intake of breath, and realized it was her own—she was gasping again. In a dizzying instant, she became aware of what her own hands were doing. In the minute or so since she’d brought them down beneath the table, they’d worked their way into the tight cleft between her jeans and her abdomen, and now her long fingers had found her clit, awake and swollen, through her underpants.

Hot fog swirled inside her mind. What’s happening to me? She’d started masturbating herself without even knowing it?

Across the table, Rebecca’s body quivered as her fingers stepped up their game. She was obviously struggling to stay focused, but she managed to keep talking. “It’s, uh, it’s okay, Doctor B-Braithwaite. It’s not your fault. Him. He’s making you feel it. Opening you up.”

Opening me. That was a hot thought. Maeve adjusted one hand to tug open the buttons of her jeans, so the other would have better access to her clit and her pussy. “He’s not here,” She protested.

Rebecca chuckled, and Maeve chilled. “He’s here...through me,” She said, between grunts. “H-he says, once he’s touched inside you, he...oh god...he’s reaching out.”

Maeve shut her eyes. It was an attempt to regain focus, and maybe some semblance of propriety. But it had the opposite effect—with her eyes shut, she felt flooded with the lustful sensations of the other woman’s musky scent, her masturbatory groans. And then, Maeve’s own nether flesh, parting and blooming to her touch, fingers hungry as they dove beneath her underpants and found the wetness of her swollen lips, her clit...

For several luxurious, horrific minutes, both women lost the power of speech. Instead they sat across from each other and fucked themselves. It was an intimate thing—weirdly, even more so than just a few hours before, when Maeve had shoved Rebecca’s face between her legs.

“Oooh, fuck, yes!” Maeve wasn’t sure if that was her voice, or the other girl’s. She didn’t care. She decided that she needed to cum, hard, and so she concentrated on that molten memory: the red hair bouncing in between her thighs, the girl’s tongue on her clit, the muffled sounds of her own pleasure-breaths. Her helplessness. Obedience

“Ohhh god, oh god, oh fucking—” Maeve was moments away from climax when she heard Rebecca speak: “He’s here.” The wave of pleasure didn’t abate, it was too far gone for that—but it was coupled with a wave of fear. Maeve opened her eyes.

It was still just the two of them, aroused and disheveled, sitting tautly across from each other. Rebecca was still touching herself, and Maeve could tell that she, too, was inches from orgasm—but now she was looking down the hall, towards the front door. “He’s here,” she said again. She sounded both relieved and terrified.

Maeve looked too. The doorknob was turning.

“What’s going to happen?” Maeve whispered.

“He wanted you here,” Blurted the girl, “It’s why he s-sent me to you. S-sorry.”

“Sorry?!” Maeve’s anxiety was mounting, but it wasn’t quite enough to dampen down her lust; her fingers were still scrambling for that missed orgasm, and she felt miles away from having the willpower to stand up. “What’s he going to do to me?”

“Prob’ly—nngh!” Rebecca extracted her fingers from her cunt, “Prob’ly what he did to me. What you did to me, in your office. He’ll enter you. He’ll turn off your mind, so you can’t, um, think. You just...do.”

The doorknob was rattling, but the deadbolt held.

“Maeve,” Rebecca’s use of her first name was like a slap in the face, but it was nothing compared to the next thought: “He’s gonna make you his doll.”

Maeve bit her lip and forced her hands up out of her pants. “I don’t want to be his doll,” she said. It sounded less decisive than she’d hoped. “I—I’m married. I’m a doctor. I won’t be someone’s slave.”

“Not slave,” Rebecca murmured, almost to herself. “Deeper than slave. Much deeper.”

The doorknob stopped rattling. “Does he have a key?” Asked Maeve.

Rebecca answered faintly, “No. But if he asks me to open the door for him, I will.”

Maeve gripped the other girl’s arm. “Don’t do it. Rebecca, listen to me. You’re not his—his, his ‘doll.’ You’re a person.”

“Only for now,” She replied. “Maybe you should go.”

No maybe about it, thought Maeve, but she wasn’t about to abandon Rebecca. “Come with me,” she said, standing up but still gripping Rebecca’s arm. “Out the back. I have a friend who’s a cop, she’ll help protect you.”

Through the door, a male voice called out Rebecca’s name. “Let me in, please,” it added calmly.

Rebecca took a step towards the front hall. Maeve held her back. “You’re not a doll,” She repeated. “You can escape this.”

Rebecca turned and touched Maeve’s cheek. It was a tender gesture, but it also brought her fingers perilously close to Maeve’s nose, and the smell of girl-spunk made her dizzy. “I’m sorry,” whispered Rebecca. “You were always really good to me.”

The girl’s thumb was an inch from Maeve’s mouth. She didn’t think at all, just let her lower lip slip down to graze it, and then just like that, it was inside her. Her tongue soaked up the sour juice as Rebecca smiled at her. “Maybe, if we’re good, he’ll let us fuck sometime. You think?”

Maeve moaned. She was in agony. The voice behind the door summoned Rebecca again, and this time when she moved away, Maeve couldn’t stop her. She felt bereft when the girl’s thumb slid from her mouth. Her cunt was likewise empty.

Rebecca walked, a bit unsteadily, towards the front door. Maeve realized she had mere seconds before the door was opened, and she came face to face with the predator who’d somehow managed to entrap her psyche in his sexual web, without even meeting her. She had a powerful conviction that, if that happened, she’d be lost, her few remaining shreds of independence gone.

She licked her lips. She tasted sex.

Rebecca threw the deadbolt. There was no time left to find the back door, but Maeve realized she had another option, though a desperate one. She dashed into the kitchen and ducked behind the island countertop. It was a poor hiding place—if Rebecca’s master set foot in the kitchen, or even leaned over the counter, she’d be exposed—but she thought perhaps she could hide there until the man was distracted, or went upstairs, then she could grab Rebecca, duck through the studio room, and run out the front door to her car. Perhaps.

Around the corner, she could hear the door opening, and she could hear his voice questioning Rebecca. The words were indistinct, but something about the tone of his voice was still compelling. Like an electronic pulse that hits the perfect frequency, the one that makes your skull vibrate. Maeve vibrated every time he spoke.

They were moving down the hall. She crouched low and tried to make herself small; as she did so, she glanced down and realized her jeans were still unbuttoned. How easy it would be, to reach in there and finish what she started...no. She couldn’t make any noise, or he’d find her.

“...was as I expected, then?” The master’s voice grew clearer as they walked into the dining room. “Yes, sir,” answered Rebecca, with a flattened affect. Distantly, Maeve thought she should analyze the conversation carefully, in order to work out what sort of trick he was using to control the girl. If she could parse his hypnosis, maybe she could teach Rebecca how to resist it.

“Come here, then,” Maeve heard his resonant voice utter this command to Rebecca, but even she wanted to stand up and obey him. She fought to stay put. To hell with Rebecca’s resistance, she thought, I need to know how I can resist him.

Rebecca’s bare feet were barely audible upon the tiled floor. But then Maeve heard a series of abrupt noises—flesh on flesh, the girl’s surprised yelp, and then a sort of gagging moan. Maeve remembered hearing the same sound when she put the tongue depressor into Rebecca’s mouth. He’s putting something inside her. Her imagination raced, trying to picture what was happening only a few feet away.

“Bend over the table, Doll,” He said next, and Maeve’s head spun again. She’d heard Rebecca use the word ‘doll,’ but now its implications hit her much harder. She closed her eyes and remembered the glassy-eyed expression that Rebecca had adopted in her office—blank yet needy, receptive and subservient and objectified. A doll, to be posed and played with. To be used, as he was using her right now. Right on the other side of this countertop.

She heard sharp breaths, more fleshy connections. The sounds of sex. A doll’s reward. Maeve kept her eyes screwed shut and bit her lip as she listened to the helpless girl get fucked. It was terrifying and intensely hot. She began to fear that she might start touching herself again. Or, wait—god, no! She opened her eyes to see with horror that her hand was already down her pants, prying her lips apart and mashing her clit in desperate need.

The sounds of sex were increasing in volume. The man sounded close to climax. Maeve’s own manipulations grew more fervent, and she rationalized (if that was still the word) that she could let a few soft noises slip out, since he was so distracted. Fucking his doll on the table. God. Why did she find that so hot? She struggled to shift her jeans down past her cunt, so she could get better access. She would have to be quick.

As she stuck her index and middle fingers inside her pussy, a distant voice inside her head reminded her: You were going to run when he was distracted. You could still run.

She resolved to run. Just as soon as she could make herself cum. It would only take a minute.

On the far side of the island, Rebecca’s master released a low, tortured cry, which Maeve assumed to be climactic. There was no sound whatsoever from Rebecca. Quiet, obedient doll. Maeve tried to be silent herself, but she still needed a few more strokes before she could finish. It helped her along to visualize what was happening on the table. She imagined that the master had pulled out of Rebecca’s cunt an instant before cumming. She pictured his jism spread across her torso—on the silk shirt—on her blank, obedient face—

Ungh!” Maeve had a rough little climax, like a velvet punch. It wasn’t overwhelming, and it wasn’t what she was craving, but it would have to do—at least until she could get back to her car. Maybe then she could do it right, get three or four fingers up in there and really fuck herself good.

“Doctor Braithwaite.” The man’s voice froze her to her marrow. She’d cried out. She’d given herself away. The game was up.

Her fingers slid out of her pussy, but her hand still clutched her mons, magnetically, unwilling to let go of pleasure. Her clit and lips and pussy were a mass of pulsing wet heat, but the rest of her was cold with fear. She might still be able to run for it, especially if he was unable to chase her, with his pants around his ankles. She could escape. But Rebecca...?

“Doctor Braithwaite,” He said again, a bit more genially, “Now that you’ve had your fun, it’s time we were properly introduced. Please stand up.”

Her fists clenched and unclenched—both a defensive action and a last, sad grasp at pleasure. She noted vaguely that she still had her purse around her shoulder. Cell phone, rape whistle, mace. She wasn’t in so much danger, then, was she? She could still protect herself, if she had to.

She was still in control.

“Stand up.” The master said again, and this time it was not a request.

Trembling, vertiginous, Maeve stood up and beheld her master.