The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Wearing clothes after so many months of proudly flaunting her nudity felt so odd. True, Myra still had a wardrobe of sorts, the clothes that she donned when she and Blake went out for a meal, a movie, or a dance, but they were her slut clothes, designed to make a lavish display of her body. Then, too, she always felt the keenest excitement when she put on those clothes, knowing that as soon as they had a moment of privacy, Blake’s hands would be under them, on her hot flesh, tearing away the cloth and turning her all the way on, making her surrender to his will, to his commands.

But now instead of fishnets and garters, stiletto heels and short skirts and plunging necklines, she wore an expensive and carefully tailored light-gray business outfit, not unlike the ones she had worn back in the bad old days of being a Globalspan consultant. And her hair, her beautiful soft long brown hair, was gathered at the back of her head into an old-maidish bun. As she checked herself in the hotel-room mirror, Myra thought despondently that she looked like a frump, not the slut she joyously was.

But from behind her, Blake said simply, “Beautiful,” and the word lifted her heart.

She turned around and cocked a shapely eyebrow. “Maybe I should get another pair of horn-rimmed glasses,” she said. “I feel almost naked without them.”

Blake sat on the edge of the bed. “And hide those gorgeous green eyes? No way.”

Myra couldn’t help smiling. “Part of it is my contacts, you know. They’re tinted.”

Blake, casually clad in jeans and a royal blue polo shirt, a good color for him, patted the bed and looked at her suggestively.

“No,” she said. “You’ll muss me.” She smiled, and between them hung the unspoken condition: If you order me to do it, I will have to do it, but you have told me to pretend independence, and this is part of the game.

“You’re right,” Blake said. “Okay. I’ll restrain my impulses for the time being.” He tilted his head. “Would you like to get rid of the contact lenses, my sultry, sweet slave?”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “But laser surgery can’t fully correct my vision.”

“No, not surgery,” he said. “The problem is an imperfection in your corneas and the lenses of your eyes. The corrective can remedy such imperfections. I just have to modify it so you can use it directly in your eyes, without irritation. I have been working on that.”

“It would be nice not to have to fuss with contacts,” Myra said.

“All right,” Blake agreed. “That will be your special reward if you can capture this—” he reached to pick up the thick file folder on the bed beside him and turned it to read the name—“This Tracy Tonsen.”

“Thank you, Master,” Myra said, obediently lowering her eyes in gratitude. “I will bring her in and she will serve you well. I promise you.”

He grinned. “Go ahead, my perfect slut. Go on your way before I—muss you.”

The task of seeking a new recruit had at first seemed so daunting, but in the end computers had made it infinitely simpler. Myra had made the suggestion. Blake had made up his mind about the new . . . plaything. She should be young, no older than twenty. He had a fancy for a blonde. She should be pretty and have a good figure, but a few flaws in her features or complexion would be no problem, not with the corrective available to fix her up. But of vast importance was that she should have no close ties, no family to worry about her, to pursue her when she vanished into their private paradise.

And, he had suggested with a randy grin, a virgin would be best.

Myra had agreed at once, her imagination aflame. To take an innocent, a girl who had never known a lover, one perhaps even afraid of sex, and to turn her into a cock-hungry ravening slut, into a slave who would welcome any perversion, any invasion of her body, who would humbly perform deeds usually known only to whores and courtesans, yes, that would be simply delicious.

And Blake agreed that he didn’t want a bimbo, a mere brainless receptacle. A bright girl would be more useful, more fun to break down, and in the end far more rewarding. Given those constraints, Myra suggested new college graduates as the obvious pool. And because her background as a consultant had made her an expert interviewer, she soon generated a plan. . . .

Some time before that, Blake had incorporated a small business, Domprojects. Then, on company letterhead, Myra had simply solicited colleges and universities in the nearby states that had placement departments, specifying the type of employee they were looking for. She obeyed the letter of the law in the qualifications, not specifying a gender, even . . . and she smiled lasciviously to herself at the thought of ensnaring a naïve virginal boy, of taking command of his cock and his will. Maybe one day Master would permit her to find a toy like that just for her own amusement.

But not now; now she needed a girl, a virgin, an inexperienced blonde. The placement offices had obliged by sending her lists of their soon-to-be graduates who fit her detailed criteria. She received them all on her computer, and she set up a method of rapidly scanning through and editing out those who would not be suitable. Well more than three thousand possibilities had come in, and when she winnowed out the males, she still had fifteen hundred girls to consider. The next step was to narrow those down to the most likely. Many criteria went into the mix: No sorority girls, no girls who were graduating by the skin of their teeth or the talents of their tongues on the dean’s dick. If the girls indicated family ties, they were out. They had to have a certain GPA. They couldn’t be joiners, couldn’t be cheerleaders or debate team captains. From fifteen hundred, Myra cut the pool to thirty-one. Then she telephoned each of those girls, and from their conversations, she had gradually cut the possibilities down to just one, Tracy Tonen, who had coincidentally been the hardest one to contact by phone. There were fallbacks if Tracy did not work out, but Myra had a good feeling about her target.

On paper, Tracy was perfect. No family, because she had been orphaned when she was only six, and she had been raised in a state orphanage until she was ten, and then she had been taken in by a convent that operated an all-girl school. Myra gathered that Tracy had narrowly escaped becoming a nun. Now, though she didn’t know that her voice revealed it, she harbored resentment at the harsh life she had known among the sisters of little mercy.

At the age of sixteen she had managed to complete all the high-school requirements. She escaped the convent school when she had taken the college entrance exams, scoring so high that a state college had offered her a generous scholarship. Four years at the college came next, four lonely years because, as Myra’s discreet inquiries indicated, she was so timid about even friendships. A very competent private detective reported that she had never had a boyfriend. But Tracy had earned an honors degree in accounting and now, nineteen-about-to-turn-twenty, she stood on the edge of graduation like a woman standing on the verge of the Grand Canyon: she had no connections, no friends, no family to help her find a job, make her way, establish herself. The only thing waiting ahead of her seemed to be an endless drop. And so Tracy Louise Tonen had grabbed at Myra’s offer of an interview the way a drowning girl might grab a line tossed to her from the shore.

Now Myra was going to learn if she would do.

Tracy stopped herself from murmuring a prayer and mentally snarled at the nuns who haunted her memories. She felt terribly jumpy, frightened of the interview. She sat in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair in a corner of the Placement Office waiting room despondently, all too aware of her cheap clothing, the plain white blouse, the old-fashioned black skirt a little too long, the black flat shoes she had tried to dress up with liquid polish, though there was no way to disguise their worn-down heels.

No jewelry, because she didn’t own any. And she wore just the minimum of makeup, a light application of lipstick, a little powder. She knew she was too thin, that her blonde hair should have been fuller. She had done her best, tying it back with a blue ribbon. Even that was pathetic, she thought to herself. It made her look too young, it made her look like a hungry Alice from Wonderland.

She drew a deep breath and sighed. She was going to blow the interview, she knew she was. Only once before had she been through anything like this, when the college admissions committee had quizzed her about her desire to go to school, and back then her keen desire to escape from the convent had driven her to an earnestness and a decisiveness that had carried her through. Now she was merely miserable.

And frightened. Four years and she had never left the University grounds once in all that time, except to visit museums and libraries and the grocery store or the cut-rate clothing stores now and then. In fact, she had kept the same dormitory room for the whole four years, unheard-of. As soon as she could, a girl moved out of the dorms, the popular ones to sorority houses, the wealthy ones to upscale apartments, the poorer ones to downscale apartments where they crowded in with half a dozen friends.

But none of those were for her. She wasn’t sorority material, she had no money, and she had no friends. And besides, by staying in the same dorm year after year, she made a little money, in her Junior and Senior years becoming an R.A. on a pittance of salary.

And she got to help other coeds, in her small way. Tracy remembered the nights she had dealt with freshmen girls vomiting wretchedly after drinking too much, with semi-hysterical girls sure they had become pregnant after being with their first boy, with an occasional suicidal girl on the edge because she had confessed her lesbian longings to a roommate who had rejected her in revulsion.

Tracy had never lost a single one of them. She had mopped up the vomit, calmed the girls and steered them to medical help, arranged for the incompatible couples to have different roommates. They had all been thankful, but they had resented her in that obscure way that the beneficiaries of help often turn on those who aid them.

None had become her friend, and she had no one to whom she could confess her deepest shame: she envied those girls. They were at least living, not just existing in a dull routine round from dorm to classroom and back again.

Tracy was breathing so fast her head began to spin. She held her breath, fighting hyperventilation. It wouldn’t matter, she told herself. If she failed to get a job with Domproducts, she failed, that was all. She could find something to do. If she did well on her certification exam, the college might be able to find her a place, or she might even be able to work in the college’s business office. Surely she could find—

“Tonsen,” the receptionist said. “Your interviewer is ready. Room fifteen, that way.”

“Thank you,” Tracy said, her voice coming out in a whisper. She stood up, tugged nervously at her skirt, and went to room fifteen as if she were walking to the guillotine.

The door to the interview room stood ajar, and when Tracy gave it a tentative tap, a woman’s voice called, “Come in, please.”

Swallowing hard, Tracy stepped inside a small cubicle with one window looking out over the tops of the trees in the quad, green with spring growth. A table held a slim briefcase and a few papers, and a very attractive brown-haired woman in a gray business suit sat in one of two frayed armchairs. She rose, smiling. “Tracy? Hi, I’m Myra Blount. Come in, close the door, and have a seat, please.”

Tracy did as she was told, acutely aware of her shabby clothes and of Ms Blount’s obvious sophistication. Sitting nervously, Tracy leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap, and her ankles crossed.

“Nervous?” asked Ms Blount with a sympathetic smile.

Nodding, Tracy said, “Yes, Ms Blount.”

“Myra, please. May I call you Tracy?”

“Yes, please do.”

“Very well, Tracy. Why not start by telling me what you’re looking for?”

With an embarrassed shrug, Tracy said, “I need a job. I’ve been in school for four years on a scholarship, and now I’m about to graduate. I’m very good at bookkeeping and I hope to pass the qualifying exam to be certified as a public accountant.” She ran out of words.

“Of course you’ll pass the exam,” Myra said. “I’ve looked over your record, and it’s excellent. Let me see, you have a 3.89 GPA, and you’re graduating with honors. I’m sure the certificate exam will be a breeze for someone as bright as you. But I have to ask you this: Is your heart really set on becoming a CPA, Tracy?”

Tracy shook her head. “Not necessarily. I know I’ll have to settle for an entry-level position, and I could work as an office assistant or anything.” She bit her lower lip, an old habit. Was she appearing too desperate? Well, she was desperate, so that was that. “I’ll really take anything,” she said. “I don’t have to be a CPA.”

Myra tilted her head to one side. “Well, of course you can still qualify, but I’m offering you something rather different to consider, Tracy. I work for Domproducts, Inc. You’ve never heard of us.”

“No,” Tracy agreed with a wan smile of agreement. “I haven’t.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not offended.” Myra’s green eyes twinkled mischievously. “We haven’t set out to be notorious, after all. We’re not publicly traded. But we’re developing a very healthy cash flow, and frankly, we need a business manager, someone to keep track of accounts payable and receivable and someone to manage our investments. We’re not large, but we offer lots of fringe benefits as well as taking care of all your basic needs. We have an investment portfolio that brings in a steady income, but the source of our profits actually is in the cosmetics business. You see, we hold several patents and license various products. Would you like to see one?”

“Sure,” Tracy said.

Myra popped open the slim black briefcase and took from it a small pink plastic compact. “I think this would be your color. It’s a new all-natural, hypoallergenic face powder using our main product as its primary ingredient. Take a look.”

Tracy opened the compact and saw very fine powder, a faint pink, about the shade she always used. “I see.”

“It isn’t talc, but a special formulation of our own. See what you think of the aroma. Take a deep sniff, Tracy.”

Tracy held the open case to her nose and sniffed it, feeling a tingle as some of the tiny grains misted into her nostrils. “Pleasant,” she said. She wrinkled her face. “It reminds me of something, but I can’t quite place it.”

Myra chuckled. “That happens a lot. It’s all-natural, as I said. Keep that in mind and try again.”

Another deep, nose-tingling sniff. Tracy frowned, trying to place the aroma, a sweet scent, but not like perfume, not cloying, more like some natural fragrance. Not. . . not flowers, not reminiscent of vanilla, but a warm sort of smell, a smell that for some reason put her in mind of a sunny day. Tracy gave up and shook her head. “It’s so familiar, but I just don’t know.”

“Honey.”

“Of course!” Tracy exclaimed. She took an even bigger sniff and this time she recognized the aroma as the tingling spread all down the back of her throat, making its way toward her chest. “Yes, it’s just like honey.”

“Keep that sample,” Myra said. “Use it every day. Here, take some matching lipstick.”

“Uh—thanks.” Tracy accepted the tube.

Myra nodded pleasantly, then opened a folder and looked down at its contents. “Tracy, I’ll give you the basic outline of our operation today and you can tell me if you’re interested. If you are, I’ll ask you some questions. They may seem rather personal, but once you understand the nature of our proposition, I think you’ll come to understand why they’re necessary.”

Tracy nodded, feeling the honeyed powder somehow calming her nervousness, and Myra went on to explain that the business operated out of the primary owner’s home. “Don’t get the wrong idea from that. It isn’t a mom-and-pop organization, I assure you,” Myra had added with a laugh. She went on with other details: If Tracy were offered the position, she would be expected to move into the house, where she would have her own two-room apartment and kitchen privileges. Her rent and food would be part of her compensation package. “We don’t have maids or butlers, of course. We all pitch in to make sure everything’s tidy, but that’s pretty simple. Also, a cleaning service comes in for a couple of hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for the really heavy chores. As to your duties as business manager, they’d be fairly standard bookkeeping duties, plus oversight of investments and some executive assistance. You would work under me,” Myra said, “and also under the CEO. Sometimes you’d work under both of us at the same time, which may seem a little challenging, but the rewards would be deep. I know this all sounds rather eccentric, but we’re very serious, and the potential for personal change is vast. As to our stability, well, I’ll let you judge for yourself. Here’s our profit statement for the last quarter.”

It was the first time that Tracy had ever looked at one of those in real life, not just textbook examples, but she saw that the company income was indeed substantial, more than she had imagined. “Wow,” she said at last, looking up from the columns of figures.

“We thought we’d start you in this salary range,” Myra told her, passing her a card on which she had scribbled some numbers.

Tracy’s eyes widened as she saw the figure. “That would be wonderful!”

“Good. Now I have to ask those terrible personal questions. If you feel uncomfortable—”

“No.”

“—but if you should, just let me know. I don’t want to intimidate you at all. I’d rather your position be completely comfortable and that you feel relaxed, okay? First, I was a little concerned when I saw you had no parents listed.”

“My mom and dad died when I was little.” Tracy said, remembering that she had just mentioned that in passing when Myra had first called her. But then she supposed Myra must have spoken to a great many potential employees and had probably forgotten, so she went on to explain about the orphanage and then the convent, telling the story as directly and honestly as she could. “I don’t have any other relatives that I know of,” she finished.

“I’m so sorry,” Myra said, and Tracy couldn’t help thinking that she did look sorry, that she wasn’t just saying that. “You make the convent school sound pretty depressing.”

“It was,” Tracy said honestly. “Cold in the winters, hot in the summers, and the orphans had to join in with the sisters and do all the work around the place. They were good enough, I guess, but they didn’t particularly encourage fun and games, and they were always after us about committing to the Church.”

“I gather you didn’t want to do that.”

“I didn’t feel drawn to their religion. I’ve never been confirmed or anything, and I think that was one reason the sisters treated me a little more harshly than some of the others. Anyway, I didn’t get close to any of my teachers, and as I say, I don’t have any relatives at all.”

“How about close friends? A boyfriend?”

Tracy shook her head and looked at her feet. “I’m kind of shy, I guess. I do okay in a school or professional setting, but I kind of find it hard to fit in with girls who’ve had a more, well, normal background. And no boyfriend, well, no, I’ve never—well, I—I just haven’t—”

“Oh,” Myra said. “You’re a virgin.”

Her cheeks felt hot with a blush. “Yes.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Tracy,” Myra said with a laugh. “It’s not a permanent condition. There’s a cure, you know.”

Tracy gave a feeble chuckle.

Myra glanced down at a list and checked something off. “So I suppose you’d say you’re inexperienced sexually? Because Domproducts is in the cosmetics line, you know, and let’s face it, cosmetics are meant to make the customer more sexually attractive.”

“I. . . I haven’t really had any experience,” admitted Tracy.

“Oh, so no close girlfriends either?”

Tracy couldn’t meet her eyes. “I—well, some of the girls, you know, they’re attracted to each other, but I’ve never felt that, and no, I’m not, you know.”

“Not a lesbian,” Myra said kindly. “What you tell me won’t go anywhere else, Tracy. Trust me on this. And lots of college girls experiment. You don’t have to be a lesbian to have an experience or two. Some lucky girls even find out they’re bisexual. You know, being bisexual means you never have to stay home on a Saturday night.”

Tracy tried to laugh, but it sounded miserable. “I’m usually, you know, in the library on Saturday night. I’m sorry I don’t have any friends to tell you about. I just wasn’t raised to be very outgoing.”

“That’s not a huge drawback,” Myra assured her. “Not in the financial end of the business, of course. But you do get along with others?”

“Oh, yes. I never have any quarrels or anything.”

“How are you at pacing yourself? In our business, sometimes it comes in quick spurts. Would you be able to handle that, do you think?”

“I think so. I’ve had to adapt to college life, and I did pretty well.”

“So you’d consider yourself open to new experiences?”

“Sure.”

“And you wouldn’t object to hard work, I’m sure. You know how it is sometimes, when the day just seems so long and hard and you have do deal with rigid schedules. To very tight deadlines, that kind of thing. A girl can take quite a pounding in the business world. But of course the CEO would be behind you all the way.”

“Yes,” Tracy said. “I think I’d be very easy in that case.”

“I’m sure you would be. And Blake, the boss, is pretty great, to tell you the truth. I mean, the man knows how to give you your strokes. I’m a bit surprised that you say you have no close friends, though. You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you,” Tracy said in her smallest voice.

“You could be more attractive, though, with a little attention.” Myra reached for the lipstick in Tracy’s hand. “May I?”

“Uh, sure.”

The next thing Tracy knew, Myra was leaning forward, her emerald-green eyes intent as she put the soft lipstick against Tracy’s lips. Tracy felt the glide of the cosmetic, tasted its honeyed flavor. For some reason her heart was beating fast. Myra’s face was inches from hers.

“Good, good,” Myra said, her breath warm against Tracy’s cheek. “Very nice lips, nice and full and shapely. And now let me apply just a trace of our powder.”

The soft powder brush came from somewhere, possibly the briefcase. Myra dipped it into the fine pink powder and with short, quick strokes she began to apply it. The brush tickled Tracy’s nose, and she inhaled sharply, ready to sneeze, her nostrils filling with the tingling aroma of the cosmetic. “Didn’t mean to do that,” Myra said, drawing back. “But when you get home, check yourself out in the mirror and see if you don’t think that’s a little better.”

“Th-thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Now one last embarrassing question, and then I won’t trouble you any more. As I said, the company produces beauty products and, to be frank, sexual aids. Lubricants and such things. I take it you have little experience with such things?”

“Not any,” Tracy confessed.

“So you don’t masturbate at all?”

The question came so casually that Tracy answered without thinking: “Sometimes in the shower, when I’m washing down there. And I like the feeling, but you know, the convent put a big damper on that kind of thing.”

“It really relieves the tension, though,” Myra said cheerfully. “I used to get myself off at least once a day! Well, I’ve put you through the ringer. You probably wish you could masturbate a little right now—just joking!”

“Well, tension,” Tracy said with a nervous laugh. “But the sisters would say it wouldn’t be polite, you know.”

“I think you just made a joke,” Myra said. “What a pretty smile you have. And I do love your lips. All right, then. Would you take the position if we offered it with the conditions and the salary I’ve outlined?”

“Oh, yes, thank you!”

“Not at all. Hm. I think I have a pretty good picture of you, Tracy. I’ll be in town for another week. How can I get in touch with you?”

“There’s the dorm phone.”

Myra made an impatient tsk. “Here,” she said. “This is a new employee assortment, but I don’t think it’s too premature.” She thrust a flat box into Tracy’s hands. “Go ahead, open it.”

Tracy undid a gold elastic band and opened the box. Inside were eyebrow pencils, more samples of powder and creams, and—“A cell phone?” Tracy asked.

“Yes, with a thousand minutes prepaid. The mini charger is there, and your phone number is on the label on the back of the phone. Now, I want you to apply our products every day until you hear from me. I’ll call you in a few days, Tracy. I think you’re just what we’re looking for.”

“Thank you,” Tracy said again, feeling both elated and strangely bothered.

“Master, she’s just what you’re looking for,” Myra said later that afternoon as she stood naked beside the hotel bed. Her right leg rested on the mattress. Behind her, Blake was taking her doggy style, long, hard wonderful strokes of his cock in her tight welcoming pussy. “Ahh. . . a virgin, yes, but ripe . . . oh, that’s good . . . for the taking.”

Blake reached to cup her breast, exciting and pinching the nipple. “Then give her a little time,” he said.

And Myra did, five days to be exact. Then, having arranged everything with Blake, she dialed Tracy’s number. Tracy answered on the first ring.

“It’s Myra, dear,” she told the girl. “Are you ready to come to work for us?”

“Really?” Tracy asked. “Oh, yes, Ms—Myra, I mean. Graduation is this Thursday, and then—”

“Come to my hotel and we’ll talk about it,” Myra said, and she gave her the hotel name and the room number.

Tracy felt as if something inside her were quivering. She had never been in a hotel like this one before, all subdued lighting and thick, plush purple carpets, rich wood paneling and cream-colored doors with discreet gilded numbers. She found Myra’s room and tapped tentatively.

Myra opened the door at once. “Come in, dear,” she said. “My, your complexion is lovely!”

“Thank you,” Tracy said. “The cosmetics are very—uh, I’m sorry.”

Myra was wearing a plush white bathrobe with the hotel monogram on one swelling breast. Her brown hair, no longer confined in a bun, cascaded in a soft fall on either side of her long neck. She laughed. “You didn’t interrupt me. I was working out in the hotel fitness room earlier, and I took a shower. It was so warm and delicious that I just let the time get away from me. My timing’s off, not yours. So you want to work for us, do you?”

“Yes,” Tracy said. “I’ll graduate Thursday night, and then I can sign up to take the accountancy exam—”

“Don’t bother with that,” Myra told her. “You can take the exam in our state after you move. Now, let’s plan on getting you down to your new job. Can you fly Friday morning?”

Tracy’s head spun. “Yes, but I’ve never—”

Myra opened a laptop and began to tap at the keys. “It’s just four days, so I might as well stay over until then, too. Very well. Hmm. There’s a ten a.m. flight with space in first class.”

“First—first class?”

“There, I’ve booked our seats. We’ll go down together. By three Friday afternoon, we’ll be moving you into your new apartment. Do you have any furniture or—”

“No,” Tracy said.

“—or any large luggage? Good, just pack your bags. Let me e-mail ahead, and CEO Rogers will take care of furnishing your apartment. He has wonderful taste, so you’ll like the furnishings. Oh, and of course the cosmetics and so on have to go in stowed luggage, so I’ll be glad to take any liquids you have. Speaking of which.” She raised one eyebrow in an impish smile and went into the next room, returning with a wheeled cart bearing two champagne flutes and a bottle in an ice bucket. “I think a little toast is in order.”

“I don’t drink much,” confessed Tracy.

“Just one glass.” Myra expertly opened the champagne and poured. As she did, her robe came loose and Tracy glimpsed one round, perfect breast, its nipple pink and taut. “Oops!”

Laughing, Myra handed the filled glass to Tracy, and then tucked herself back into the robe. “Well, lucky it’s just us girls. Cheers, Tracy.”

They clinked glasses, and Tracy sipped the champagne, finding the taste surprisingly good. A second toast, and then a third followed.

Myra asked, “What about clothes, Tracy? Are you going to need some working clothes?”

“Well, maybe when I begin earning my keep,” Tracy replied. “Right now my bank account’s about wasted, so I guess I’ll make do with what I have.”

“Oh, nonsense. We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” Myra said decisively. “I’m empowered to give you an advance clothing allowance. We’ll look for something that will show your figure off a little better. And some good shoes, and some underwear that will make you feel sexy.”

Tracy felt hot, from the champagne, she thought. Though to tell the truth, she’d been feeling a little high for days now, and, well, she’d been fingering herself in the shower more than usual. Just thinking of it made her feel squirmy and sort of, sort of wet and warm down there. She lowered her eyes and said, “Myra, there’s something I have to say. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you earlier, but—but thanks. I never had a sister, or—well, you’ve been very decent to me.”

Myra set her own glass aside and cupped her hand beneath Tracy’s chin, lifting her head. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she whispered, leaning in close. “You are a lovely girl.”

And somehow her lips were on Tracy’s mouth, and Tracy found herself kissing her, kissing her with heat and passion. When Myra’s tongue touched hers, Tracy felt as if she should recoil, should say no, but somehow she couldn’t do it. When Myra held both of her hands and pulled her to her feet, Tracy rose obediently, returned Myra’s embrace, locked her mouth on the older woman’s mouth, writhed, and groaned. It was as if all the strange, strong urges she had ever known had slumbered under the surface and now were breaking through. Her hips twitched, and she felt Myra’s leg move between her legs, and oh, she felt so dizzy, but light as air, as if floating.

“Come,” Myra whispered, leading her to the other room, the bedroom. The big king-sized bed waited, the covers turned down already. The room smelled of honey, of two scented golden candles burning on the stands on either side of the bed. Myra dropped her robe, and it pooled to the floor. “Come on,” she said, urgency in her whisper.

Tracy’s head spun. She kept looking at Myra’s, at her, well, pussy, and it was bare, no pubic hair at all, so smooth and bare, a soft split mound, and Tracy kept thinking she had never seen anything so pretty.

“No,” she murmured when she realized that Myra was opening her blouse, but she shrugged out of it and did not object as Myra undid her plain white cotton bra.

They kissed again, breasts flattening against each other, and oh, Tracy felt so wicked but so eager. She undid her skirt herself, hooked her thumbs in the waistband, and shed the garment, then her panty hose and panties.

Myra’s fingers twirled in her pubic patch, her damp pubic patch. “Ah. A natural blonde,” she said. She pulled the naked unresisting Tracy to the bed. “Now you’re going to learn a few things, darling. Be a good student.”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

And naked in bed, yes, she welcomed the silken touch of Myra’s skin on hers, the glide of soft woman’s lips over her breasts and her yearning nipples. Myra whispered guidance, and Tracy obediently nuzzled the gorgeous round breasts and suckled them, and when a warm tingling liquid flowed into her mouth, Tracy accepted and swallowed it hungrily. Myra cooed and stroked her hair. “That’s good, Tracy, that’s good, darling. Yes, take it all. Soon you’ll learn to suck a cock, and you’ll be such a good cocksucker, won’t you? Oh, yes, sweet, that’s so nice. Now, darling, go down on me. You don’t know what that means? Here, let me lie on my back. Now, sweet, slip off the bed, here’s a pillow for your knees. Kneel here, that’s right, and put your tongue on my pussy and lick. Play with your tits, darling, make the nipples hard. Stroke your pussy with your other hand. Lick me! Use your tongue! Do you feel how wet I am, darling? Oh, that’s so good.”

What am I doing?

Tracy felt as if she were in the grip of a fever. Kneeling beside the bed, with Myra’s shapely right leg hooked over her left shoulder, with Myra’s hand stroking her hair and her cheek, she buried her face in Myra’s hairless snatch, her tongue flickering and her lips nibbling the soft pink folds. Her right hand cuddled her own breasts alternately, playing with the hardening nipples, while the first two fingers of her left hand were stroking her own clit, feeling the hot juices flowing.

This is wrong, this is wrong, this is. . . so good.

Myra came with a gasp, and then she pulled Tracy up onto the bed and on top of her but reversed, and Myra’s mouth found Tracy’s pussy, and oh, God, she came and she came. They lay in the sixty-nine position, with Myra still whispering instructions, and Tracy brought her to orgasm again with lips and tongue and fingers, and Myra licked her and nuzzled and sucked at her clit until Tracy shuddered and yelped with another release.

In a long, slow glowing time afterward they lay together, naked breast to naked breast, and Tracy lazily traced the curves of Myra with her fingers and Myra whispered into her ear, hypnotically almost, repeating her demands, her orders, her commands, over and over. Tracy stayed that night, her fears and doubts evaporating, and she began to see the sense of serving a man, of becoming a slave. And God, she came and came over and over again, it was the best feeling of her life, much better than her furtive shower-fingering, each time better than the last. And Myra seemed devoted to her pleasure, so she began to see it was only right to repay pleasure with even greater pleasure.

And the softly murmured commands grew more explicit, more wicked, more thrilling.

And by morning she was hopelessly, helplessly in thrall to Myra.

And Myra told her how wonderful it would be when Blake took her virginity.

And how she would parade around, gloriously naked, abjectly available, and how on command she would suck or fuck or abase herself in any way to please her master and her mistress.

And it was all good.

Oh, it was all so good. . . .