The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Stories are like sex: they’re lots better with folks I know and trust. I trust Simon bar Sinister and his readers to keep this story only in www.mcstories.com (or your own hard drive, if you prefer.) I reserve all rights to all my stories and they may not be used anywhere else without my permission.

My tales will often contain fd, ff, and edi (Extremely Disturbing Imagination). All stories copyrighted. All rights reserved. Comments always welcome, but please use story title in your email subject.

The library of my stories are referenced at: http://www.asstr.org/~EyeofSerpent/library.html

—)
Eye

Synopsis:

Crossing the path of those who find what they never sought—Seeking for something you may never find again—.

Quick & Dirty: Seeking

EyeofSerpent

Leaning into the mirror, wiping a wet paper towel at my blouse, I sorted through anger, regret, the beginnings of a headache, and resignation. The club had turned out to be trashy instead of very exotic or informative. My reason for being here was really the—so far—unsupported idea that important questions could be answered. Yet this very young, very trendy nightspot did not have the air of evil or subtle traffic in the bizarre that I expected.

My last really clear thought before it all went bad was, ‘Stupid waiter. These damn little parasol drinks do not come out of silk.’

A cold pinch at my back of my neck. Sudden heated rubbery muscles in my chest. The counter came up and knocked my boobs into my ribs. I got my hands out but cracked my chin on the edge of the sink. Things lost clarity. Focus. I blinked into the bathroom mirror where a very brightly colored whore waved a lurid fingernail in the air over me. A gleam from the nail’s purple tip. A drop. A sudden pinch of cold on the back of my neck. Heated strain to breathe. Hot muscles in my legs. I slid down further losing my grip on the sink. My mouth smeared lipstick on the cold marble counter as I sank. My knees felt the grit on the floor through my stockings.

She smiled at me in the mirror. “Nosy blondie now get a nasty treat.” The bathroom echoed with her dolly voice. The air between my ears echoed too.

Dammit. I pushed to stand up and heard myself grunt and hiss. My neck was so cold and liquid ice ran down the left side of my throat. I thought of the pepper spray in my purse. The black bag was on the counter but blurry. It might as well have been a thousand miles away. My hand was certainly in another time zone. The strongest demand for a fist only produced a wicked spasm.

I screamed. A long whistling squeak came out instead. Needed help.

The whore laughed. A chill went up my spine because the laugh was so damn unreal that no person could have created it. It chattered and rattled like a rat might laugh at a cat tied up in a bag. She leaned down and whispered through the cloud of perfume around her. “Nosy blondie pain in ass to wrong people. Now get a good lickin’.”

She smacked me on the bum—hard with the flat of her hand.

My ass flesh sang a chorus of hot halleluiahs. But my following whimper was a sorry thing. Now. Now was a good time to run back to the hotel and fly out of Hong Kong immediately, if possible. No story. No possible explanation to my editor would be worth what was already happening.

Then I realized my privates were soaked. Burning. The heated nerves singing in my ass were searing straight through my crotch.

A cold soft focus wrapped itself around my heart.

I was leaving. Right now. I pushed. My reward was the rubbery muscles of my arms unbalancing me and I hit the floor tile sideways. I tried another scream. Just a hissing thread of air blew out.

Rat-chatter of laughter above. I heard a metal snick and looked out the corner of my eye to see the whore holding an open red switchblade. She leaned down and slit my skirt up the back to the waist.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I kicked my legs; they splayed instead.

Her voice came into my ear like a hot worm. “Blondie pain in ass.”

A finger popped through my hose and pushed between my cheeks. With skilled evil, she wiggled then thrust straight into my anus. The burning of my face joined the crackling sting of my ass. Then the finger started a stroke. Again. More. And it felt huge. It felt powerful. It was hot.

So irresistible. So dirty.

“Blondie like being pain in ass,” she crooned at me.

I gritted my teeth and thrust back to elbow her in the face. Failed. Mumbled with cold lips. “Bln dd pn nn ath.” My arm flopped wildly. She grabbed it as it came near her again. Her hands were so warm. Her nails purpled and shimmered with an oily look. She dragged her claws down my arm and wrenched the wrist over behind my back.

“Blondie big pain in ass,” she spat at me.

“Bln dd bd pn nn ath.” I agreed. Agreed? No. I shook my head knocking my temple against the tiles. Woozy. Hot. Horny.

The whore sang softly like a lover. “Blondie like being pain in ass for sure.”

The fiery worm was writing dirty thoughts on the blackness in my soul. The pumping thrust in my ass was sweet and music tingled through the ceramic tiles under my cheek. There was nothing stopping my drooling mouth from thrashing out, “Bln dd lkk bd pn nn ath frr srr.”

No. No. But so sweet and dark.

As dark as my hole filled with a fat sausage finger, whoring me on the dirty floor. So syrupy sweet a dark that the fire could burn through it like a trail of gasoline dashed upon my spine. I was drunk and sober. I was mad, angry, hot, fucking, drunk on my own violated ass. So darkly sweet and full of fat, fat fucking heat. The rhymes floated inside the dark, arriving from unsealed vaults that were selfish and musty and hot. No. I shook my head against the floor.

No.

She pulled my hand back, twisting me. Her finger came out of me. With her grip like belted pinching rubber bands, she guided my finger in. She twittered. “Blondie big pain in ass. Make bung bung. Say it with push.” She started shoving my numb hand like a piston.

No. Lips dirty from the floor. “Bln dd bgg pn nn ath. Mak bg bg. Say ith wt pss.”

If I could… I twisted. Rolled. She lost her grip on my hand. I think she cursed in Chinese. I mouthed something in repetition and the searing worm drew it in letters smoky and hot on my groin.

Yes.

My finger felt better than hers. And it was under me. I squirmed and pushed and fingered myself. The ceiling was a board without chess pieces. She stepped over me and anchored her scarlet high heels to either side of my waist. I blinked her into focus. Finger. My hand twitched, maybe slower now, but just as dirty and hot as the thrust, slicked by my sopping sex, pushed my arousal higher.

“Pain in ass blondie good to leave Hong Kong now? Ass hot enough to make pussy liquor up?”

I gasped, putting on a puppet show for trash. Filthy humping parody. And came. I drooled. “Pn n ath bln dd gd lv hnn knn now. Ath ht enff t mk pssee lker up.” I came again.

She bent down and quickly snaked her purple fingernails over my mound. The ceiling lights burst slowly, shooting out red-hot fragments. Yes. That was—No. That. Yes.

My legs spread. My finger trapped but crooking and pushing behind. Yes. Ass hot enough. Pussy liquor. Ah. Ah. Oh, how I came.

The demon squatted. Her fingers rolled up the hem of her skirt.

My eyes locked. Her privates. No surgery could do That. No woman would do That to their—. No. No. I couldn’t move my numb neck—and my eyes spiked on arousal and fear—forgot they could close.

“You go away. Never talk of Hong Kong unless you want some of this.” She stabbed a finger at her twisting and swollen lips.

I tried to nod. Nothing. “U g wy. Nvr tk f hng kng lss u wnt sum f thss.”

She caressed my face. “Hot ass.”

“Ht ath.” I moaned. I worked my finger, thinking somehow if I did more she would do less.

She brought her other hand to my face. A finger slid inside my mouth tasting of woman. I bit. She slapped me. I came and the ceiling celebrated with sparks. “Pussy face,” she whispered.

No. I—“Pssi fath.” It was—becoming easier. The hot worm wrote and wrote. Hot ass. Pussy face. She wanted me to leave. I would go. Gladly. Gladly. Gladly.

She squatted deeper, her knees compressing my boobs. When she sat wetly on my stomach, I came again in horror.

“Pussy face,” she whispered. “Maybe I sit your—.”

A dull scrape of sound interrupted her. She stood up straight as a soldier and twitched to turn.

Chunk.
Chunk.
Chunk.

She spun above me. Red blotches on her back. My eyes fouled with red color and fear. She fell towards the sinks and twisted. Her body bounced on the floor tiles.

A dark-skinned woman with a very small gun watched her for a minute while I tried screaming.

The woman appeared satisfied my tormentor was dead. She stepped over to me and pointed the gun with the nail-polish-sized bottle attached to the end at the whore. “Did she sit on your face?”

At that moment, I didn’t remember. Couldn’t care. I had to come again. I had an audience and I had to squirm on the dirty floor and come. And then I did.

The dark-skinned woman squatted over me. Then the gun was under my nose, smelling of dry bitter fumes. “You’d rather be dead now if she did.”

I agreed. Somehow a head nod resulted.

Her eyes relaxed and the bottle-muzzled gun went away into the pocket of her loose black trousers. She hauled me to my feet, so quickly that I felt like a child. But standing, I was taller than she. Her raven hair smelled of herbs.

The delight—to smell something besides bathroom and pussy made me giddy. I leaned to kiss her—for saving me—for smelling of herbs, desert and sunshine.

She slapped me.

I came hard.

She reached and pulled at my arm, drawing my pistoning finger from my ass. That didn’t feel quite right at all. Why did she want me to stop? But I so wanted her to be happy and take me out of there.

She did. She yanked and pulled and walked me from the club into the dark night.

But I never saw her after that night. I hung on her every word. Did all she asked. There were strange streets and two cab rides. The night was living darkness that knew the whore in me was thrilled to be alive. She spoke Arabic. She had an Egyptian passport she had to show a guy at one point, but when I tried to slip my hand in her purse later to get her name, she slapped me.

I came again. Sweet. I smelled of pussy.

And bundled, protected, watched, and herded, I finally sat down on a box at the cargo side of the airport some hours later. Sitting made my ass throb wonderfully, but my rescuer did not hear my whimpers or moans as the call to mate. She gave me nothing but my life.

I left Hong Kong in the morning on a cargo flight and I’ve never been back.

Whatever she was looking for, it wasn’t me.

END