The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

UNFAITHFUL

By Captain Easy

1: The Couple

Quick sideways glances told Sandra that Brand was still stewing. A tall man of twenty-six, he sat slumped in the waiting-room chair, arms folded across his chest, chin down, frowning at the patch of carpet just in front of him. He had dressed carelessly, unlike him: his brown slacks did not quite match his pale green shirt and tan sports jacket. Sandra pretended to flip through a celebrity magazine—why did waiting rooms always have such a stock of women’s and celebrity magazines?—but couldn’t keep her attention on the photos and the scanty captions. Why had she done it? Worse, why had she done it three separate times? And what crazy impulse made her casually tell her husband all about her infidelities?

Counseling, her friends had advised. Even if Brand resists.

He did, of course, but Sandra was the more resistant one. The shame.

Only when she discovered that Dr. Marlowe was now in private practice did she agree to attend counseling sessions. And now—

“Mr. and Mrs. Paulson? The doctor will see you now.”

With a grunt, Brand got to his feet. Sandra sighed and put down the magazine. Her heart pounded in her chest. Brand held the door for her—stiffly, remotely, as though she were a stranger—and they entered Dr. Marlowe’s office.

It had been five years and more, but Sandra recognized Dr. Marlowe at once: a trim woman of fifty, severely clad in a gray business dress, her brown hair (streaked with gray now) worn in a bun, her eyes sharp and deeply blue behind slim dark-rimmed glasses. “Come in, please,” she said. “Let’s sit in the conversation area.”

Her office was at the corner of the building, and in the bright angle formed by two windows a love seat and two armchairs clustered. Brand took one of the armchairs, and Sandra sank, alone, onto the love seat. Dr. Marlowe took the remaining chair. “I’m Carla Marlowe,” she said with a smile. “And you are Brander and Sandra?”

“Brand,” he said shortly.

“Brand,” she corrected herself. “I’m pleased to meet both of you.”

Brand murmured something, but Sandra said, “I took Behavioral Psych with you at City College.”

“You did?” Dr. Marlowe tilted her head. “Yes, your face is familiar,” she said. “But I suppose your name is different.”

“I was Sandra Adams back then.”

“Oh, yes, I do remember you,” Dr. Marlowe said. “Good heavens, that must have been five or six years ago! Well, I’ve retired from teaching now and have returned to private practice.” She seemed to ponder for a moment and then said, “Perhaps you might consider going to a different therapist, Mr. and Mrs. Paulson. Sometimes it’s difficult to develop trust if one party knows the therapist and the other doesn’t. How do you feel about that?”

Sandra felt her cheeks grow hot with a blush. “I . . . don’t want another therapist. This is difficult for me.”

“I don’t care one way or the other,” Brand said flatly.

Dr. Marlowe nodded thoughtfully. “Very well. If it doesn’t make any difference to you, then I have no objection, either. Brand, I sense some reluctance on your part.”

“It’s not reluctance. I just don’t give a damn.” He looked away from Sandra, and his voice was tight: “She was unfaithful to me.”

Sandra began to weep.

“I see,” Dr. Marlowe said. “Sandra, do you have anything to add?”

“I love him,” she said in a soft voice. “I don’t know why—why I did it.”

“What he says is true, then?”

She nodded.

“And how did you find out about this, Brand?”

He erupted: “She bragged about it, that’s how! She told me! Three times in one month!”

Sandra’s shoulders were shaking now, so wrenching were her sobs. Dr. Marlowe handed her a box of tissues. “Is this true?” she asked. “You told Brand that you had . . . indulged in relations with other . . . men?”

“Yes.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not like that.”

Brand snorted.

Dr. Marlowe asked, “Brand, let me ask you a hypothetical question: would you have felt differently if Sandra’s . . . experiences had been with other women?”

“Betrayal is betrayal,” he said flatly.

“And if the experiences had been only fantasies?”

His face was sour. “Why the hell would she need to fantasize about other men?”

“Don’t you fantasize?” Dr. Marlowe asked.

“Sure. Everybody does, I guess. But she says she really, you know, had relations. With a goddamned delivery guy! Then with two other men!” His face got very red. “She fucked them!”

“Just a moment.” Dr. Marlowe rose, went to a cabinet beneath a rank of bookcases, and came back with a black oblong case. She took from it a sphygmomanometer and stethoscope. “Take off your jacket, please.”

Rolling his eyes, Brand removed his sports jacket and submitted as Dr. Marlowe took his blood pressure. She opened the Velcroed pressure cuff with a sound like a smoker’s cough. “One-sixty over ninety. Do you have hypertension, Brand?”

“Not until this happened,” he said bitterly.

“All right. Brand, you’re emotionally very upset. No, don’t explain—we know why you’re upset. It will be more productive for your therapy if you relax before we continue our talk. I want to spend half an hour with Sandra. I’m going to call my assistant and ask her to take you to a relaxation booth. There’s not much to it—you’ll wear a couple of skin-patch sensors, and you’ll watch and respond to a soothing program on a computer screen, while hearing tranquil music over headphones. Then we’ll get your side of the story.” She replaced the blood-pressure equipment in its case and in the cabinet, and then at her desk she made a brief telephone call. Moments later a stunning blonde came in. She wore a white nurse’s uniform, its severity softened by her burgeoning bosom and her sweet face, her eyes a clear, light Scandinavian blue beneath pale blonde hair.

“Marie,” Dr. Marlowe said, “take Brand to booth one and set up program DM-IL-1 for him.”

“My pleasure,” Marie said, and with a pretty smile that dimpled both cheeks, she turned to Brand. “Follow me, please.”

With a grunt, Brand rose, donned his jacket again, and followed her out of the office. Sandra watched them leave with a feeling close to despair. “I don’t know what made me do it,” she murmured miserably as the door closed. “I love Brand. I’d never be unfaithful to him.”

“Just a moment,” Dr. Marlowe said. At her desk she busied herself for a while with her computer. “Adams, Adams,” she said to herself. “Yes, here you are, in my old records. Hmm. I see.” She came back and sat across from Sandra. “Tell me about your first infidelity,” she said. “I suspect I know how it came about, but I need some detail.” She leaned forward and patted Sandra’s hand. “Calm down, Sandra. Things will work out fine, I promise you.”

Sandra managed a crooked little smile of gratitude. She sighed. “It was so crazy,” she said. “About two months ago. I was home and Brand was at work. We got a delivery of a computer program that Brand had ordered, and the package came C.O.D.” “That isn’t usual these days,” observed Dr. Marlowe. “No, but Brand doesn’t like to use credit cards online, doesn’t trust them—he had a problem with identity theft years ago, before we married. Anyway, the delivery man was about thirty or so, five or six years older than I was, and nice-looking, very athletic, short hair, tanned, good features, you know. So he brought the package to the door and told me how much it cost, and for some reason I—I asked him to make love to me. Right then.”

“Do you remember how much the package cost?”

Sandra shook her head. “Forty-something dollars, I think. Why?”

Smiling, Dr. Marlowe asked, “Was it by any chance . . . 4643?”

All at once Sandra felt wonderful. Wonderful and wicked. It was like stepping naked into a warm sea, feeling the water buoying her breasts, rippling against her pussy. She purred. “Mmm, yes it was.” She giggled, feeling all tension seep from her. She felt loose and sexy and…and wonderful.

Dr. Marlowe shook her head. “I should not have used numbers as the trigger,” she said. “Sandra, you are in a trance. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dr. Marlowe.”

“Relax. I want you to feel utterly free and calm. Relax. Listen to the sound of my voice. I am in control.” “Yes,” Sandra said happily. “You are in control. Just like. . . like in college.”

“That is correct. Listen to me. I want you to close your eyes. Good. Now imagine that you are very tired. Picture to yourself a mall. You have been shopping, enjoying the day. Now you are going to return home. You are looking forward to that. You are coming to an escalator. I want you to step onto the escalator, Sandra. As you ride it down, the lights will grow soft and dim. You will hear music. It will make you feel very good, relaxed and sexy and free. Ready? I am going to count backwards from ten to one. Count with me. As we count, you are descending the escalator, and you are feeling better and better. When we get to zero, you will be absolutely relaxed, completely receptive to any suggestion I make.”

“. . . Yes.”

“Ten.”

“. . . ten. . .”

“Nine. Eight. Seven.”

Sandra counted backwards, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. But also of need. Of sharp, urgent need.

“One. Zero.”

“. . . one . . . zero . . . .”

“Are you completely relaxed?”

“Very . . . relaxed.” “Good. Sandra, this is a result of a posthypnotic suggestion that you first received more than five years ago, when you were nineteen and in my Behavioral Psychology class at City College. At the end of the semester, I ordered all students to forget our experiments. You have forgotten them?”

“Yes.”

“I give you permission now to remember. Think back on what happened in our class, Sandra. Remember now.”

God, did she remember! Twenty students, ten boys, ten girls! Shedding inhibitions, shedding clothing! Orgies in the classroom, two or three on one, her mouth full of cock, her fingers stroking another girl’s pussy, so good! Evenings at Dr. Marlowe’s home, fucking in the swimming pool, being taken from behind while she ate out another girl, delicious, oh, she needed that, she wanted that!

“I remember,” she said, her voice throaty. “May I get comfortable?”

“Go ahead,” said Dr. Marlowe.

Sandra stood and unbuttoned her rose-pink blouse. She tugged it from her skirt and dropped it onto the love seat. Then she unfastened and removed her bra, her full breasts bobbing free, their crinkled nipples pink and sharp with desire. She unfastened her belt and removed her tan skirt, then her pantyhose. Completely naked, she sank back onto the love seat, spread her legs without the least vestige of shame, and casually began to play with her pussy, stroking, teasing her clit, feeling her juices slicken her fingertips. “That’s so much better,” she said. She smiled, brought her fingers to her mouth, and licked them, tasting herself, loving the salty, musky tang. With her left hand she cradled and fondled her tits, and her right slipped eagerly back down to her pink, shiny slit. “Mmmm.”

“What did you tell the delivery man when he gave you the numbers?”

Sandra chuckled. “I said, ‘Come in, I’m going to fuck you.’ And I did! I took him to the bedroom, stripped myself and then him, and I went on my knees and began to suck his cock. It was already so hard. Mmm, he had a nice cock, not so big but springy and curved. I hadn’t tasted another man’s cock in four years, just Brand’s. It was so good. I sucked his cock hard, and I played with his balls. He fucked my mouth! He plunged deep, and I licked and sucked, and he came in my mouth! Ooh, I love the taste of cum! I sucked and sucked and swallowed until he said, ‘Jesus, Lady!’ Then I pushed him back on the bed. I fed him my tits, made him lick and suck them until he got all hard again, and then I sat on his cock and felt it going into my tight hot pussy! Oh, I rode him and rode him, and he lasted a long, long time, because he had already shot his cum in my mouth, and I came three times! Oh, it was soooo good!”

“And the other times?”

“He told a friend about me. A policeman friend. He and his partner came to my door a week or so later and told me they were investigating—” she giggled—“a 4643! So I just melted. I fucked them both, one after the other! I wanted one of them to fuck me and let me suck the other one off, but they had to leave.” She pouted. “Brand got home not long after that. He wouldn’t fuck me! He was busy with stupid old work!”

“And when did you tell Brand?”

“Last weekend. We got into a fight. I was horny for days after the cops left! Brand was going fishing with a friend of his, but I wanted him to fuck me before he left. He said he didn’t have time! So I told him I’d been fucked three times in the past three weeks and if he didn’t want to do me, I could find someone who would!”

Sandra had grown agitated. She was putting her fingers inside her pussy now, wishing that she had a stiff cock down there instead. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and strained toward an orgasm that was just beyond her. “Help me,” she whimpered.

Dr. Marlowe went to her desk and returned with a dildo, a vibrating dildo. She handed it to Sandra and said, “Bring yourself to climax.”

Gratefully, Sandra switched on the humming shaft and then eased it into her pussy. She brought both legs up, resting her heels on the edge of the love seat, rocking her hips as she thrust forward to engulf and savor the vibrator. With her free hand, she pinched and stretched her nipples, feeling them pulse, feeling the rising warmth, the tingle. The air had become musky with the perfume of her pussy. She felt her clit being teased, tormented by the vibrator. She remembered the delivery man, his delightfully springy rod—ahh! Yes! Yes!

“I—oh, I’m coming!” she groaned. “Ahhhhh! Ah, God! Fuck, yes!”

The orgasm lasted forever, it seemed, like those she had grown used to having while in Dr. Marlowe’s psych class. Then, regrettably, it ebbed, leaving her breathing hard, aglow, feeling naughty. She switched off the vibe . . . but brought it up and began to suck it, using it to fuck her mouth. Her impish eyes teased Dr. Marlowe, who sat looking on complacently.

“Yes,” Dr. Marlowe said. “I think I will enjoy this case.”

. . . . To Be Continued?