The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Voyeurs and Victims

(mc, ma, mf, md)

Disclaimer: This is an adult narrative, involving explicit sexual activity. If you are under age or are offended by such material, don’t read it. The story is my intellectual property; you may download it for your own amusement, but do not repost it on any site that charges uses for the privilege of reading the story.

1

Blair Byers had not intended to linger in the park, but she found the first warm Sunday in spring just a little too tempting, and so she had wound up her daily run near the duck pond, where a mixture of oldsters and kids were tossing bread to the waddling, quacking residents. She sank onto a vacant bench, leaned back, and closed her eyes, feeling the sun’s gentle heat on her face and arms. Over her headphones came the sound of “Pumpin’,” a hard-pounding tune just right for a fast three-mile jog. Blair breathed deeply, let her heart’s rhythm subside to something less than the music’s meter, and mentally planned what she would do with the rest of Sunday.

Eighteen more hours before she had to go to work again. A long hot shower. No, better yet, a bath. With some bath oil that would leave her skin soft and slippery, all the better to masturbate with, little girl. Damn. She had to find a new guy. It wasn’t right for a twenty-five-year-old girl to have to satisfy herself so often. . . .

She opened her blue eyes and looked around. No prospects here. The youngest senior citizen was maybe sixty-five, the oldest boy maybe twelve. Robbing the cradle, robbing the grave. She sighed as the song finished, switched off her music, got to her feet, and mopped her face with the small towel she wore around her neck. Home, girl.

And then as she walked toward the park’s western exit, past a rowdy softball game, past teens goofing and skimming Frisbees, she saw them, a couple, no—no, three of them, in the shadows of the maples, on the grass, but in plain view, and they were fucking!

Well, two of them were, guy and gal, stark naked on a big yellow beach towel, she on her back, legs doubled, soles of her feet showing above his shoulders, and he was pounding his cock into her pussy, great intense strokes that made her round pink ass quiver from the impacts. The other guy lay nearby on a red towel. He was dressed, except he had tugged his jeans down to mid-thigh, and he lay on the grass just watching and—and jerking off, stroking his cock. What the hell?

Why didn’t anyone say anything? Why weren’t the cops there, for godsake? You can’t just strip down and fuck in a public place—except they were doing it! Feeling oddly excited, Blair swerved and walked closer. Now she could hear the eager slap of flesh on flesh. From this angle, she could see the man’s balls dangling, swinging to the beat of his efforts. The other man, the one stroking his dick, lay on his left with his back to Blair, his head propped on his left arm. She couldn’t really see his cock, but the motion of his shoulder and right arm made it clear that he was masturbating as he stared at the two locked lovers.

She stopped ten feet away. The black-haired girl was gorgeous, a really pretty face, clenched hard on pleasure like a fist holding a stone. The guy was just okay, blonde hair clipped pretty short, balding pink spot at the crown of his head, maybe thirty, not in the greatest of shape, a little pudgy. She couldn’t see his face, it was buried against the girl’s neck, his gasps for breath muffled by the tumbled ringlets of her hair. She had one arm around him, her slim hand caressing the back of his neck, and the other arm stretched out, fingers clutching the green spring grass. Her head was thrown way back, and from between her taut lips came a series of rising, urgent moans.

“You can come soon,” murmured the third man. Now Blair was close enough to see his cock, impressive in its erection, and his hand fondling and caressing the shaft. He seemed to be enjoying his excitement, prolonging it, maybe waiting for the couple to climax before shooting his load of cum.

“Excuse me!” Blair said in what she meant to be a stern voice. It came out a little breathless and fluttery. God, they were going at it!

The man jerked like a gaffed fish, rolled, tugging his jeans up. He pulled the jeans over his cock—a really nice cock, Blair couldn’t help noticing, long and thick—and got up on his knees. Behind him the girl writhed in an obvious orgasm, pumping her hips, yelping, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“You don’t see this,” the other guy, the one who had been jerking off, said. He had an exotic face, pale, rather sharp of chin, with devilish eyebrows and curiously tilted eyes, under a crown of curly brown hair. “You can’t see us.”

“I do see you,” Blair said. “What the hell are you doing? What are they doing?”

As if answering her, the guy threw his head back—he had a kind of battered look, as though he had played football in high school years ago and had been put through the wringer—and he roared, “Oh, God, I’m coming!” And he did, so copiously that a jet of white cum squirted from the woman’s well-filled pussy.

“You can’t fuck in public!” Blair said.

The masturbating guy jumped up, still tugging on the waistband of his jeans, and ran toward the park exit onto Seventeenth Street, jogging without looking back. He followed the curve of the path, vanishing behind the maples—

And the black-haired woman screamed, “Oh, my God, what are you doing to me? Get off, get off!”

Then heads started to turn. The closest spectators were nearly a hundred yards away, but they clearly wondered what was going on.

The man frantically rolled away, his slackening erection pulling out of her pussy, trailing silvery cum behind it. He scrambled for his clothes, found khakis, and without bothering with underwear, he began to tug them on. Impulsively, Blair picked up the big red beach towel and held it as a screen.

The woman wrapped herself in the yellow towel. “Hand me my top!” she said to the man. “Hand me my pants!”

“What the hell were you doing?” Blair asked.

The black-haired woman shot her a look. “I–I don’t know! We were walking through the park and—my pants, Bob, my pants! We have to get out of here!”

The guy had tugged on a tee shirt, and the woman pulled a soft top over her head, pulled it down past her hips, and then, hopping, put first one foot and then the other into a pair of tan slacks. Bob grabbed up the rest of their clothes, socks, underwear, bra. “Let’s go,” he said.

“But why did you—”

Neither of them wanted to talk to her, it seemed. They blundered hand in hand to the path and toward the gate. “Hey!” Blair called. “Your towels!”

“Not ours!” Bob yelled. They practically ran from the park.

Blair picked up the other towel. Beneath it lay a flattened canvas bag, and she retrieved that, too. The man and the couple had left nothing else behind them. Looking back, Blair saw that the kids and the old men had evidently decided nothing more serious than a lover’s spat had taken place. At any rate, they had gone back to their Frisbee tossing, their ducks, their softball game. With some automatic sense of tidying up, Blair tucked both wadded beach towels into the big canvas bag—it looked like a giveaway, something you’d receive at a trade show, an unbleached off-white color with a vivid green and blue logo on it for Tantrist Press, whatever that was. She walked out of the park swinging the bag at her side and still puzzling over what she had seen.

2

She got to her apartment and took the two beach towels to her tiny laundry room. She shook them out of the bag and then held them up, studying them. One towel, the one the guy had been lying on while he masturbated, was a brilliant lemon-yellow, with an orange smiling sun face in the center, paler orange flames surrounding it. The couple’s towel had a dense pattern of strawberries. Both of the towels felt soft and looked new, or almost new. Blair tossed the first towel into the washer, hesitated, and took a delicate sniff of the yellow towel. . . the musky aroma of pussy, the cut-grass scent of semen. God, they had been going at it!

“Disgusting,” she told herself and threw the red towel into the washer. She poured in some detergent and fabric softener and started the machine.

Then she went to the bathroom and stripped. An advantage of living in a big apartment building, she thought, was that you never ran out of hot water. She filled the deep, oversized tub, poured in some lavender-scented oil, and got a big, soft towel for herself. She slipped into the water, turned off the faucet, and lay back. Great tub in this place, another attraction. She could lie at full length, completely submerge herself. Now her tits were twin peaked islands, coral islands, she thought wryly. Disgusting, those two in the park. Fucking right out in the open! Her tight pink pussy clamped on his pounding cock, riding its gleaming shaft.

Dreadful. Still. . . Blair had had her share of lovers since high school, but none of them had been, well, kinky. Or even adventurous. None of the boys or men she had slept with had never even talked about swinging or about orgies. She’d seen a couple of porn movies, sure, but they didn’t arouse her. People on the screen made sex look like a taxing and unpleasant job, as though they were laying bricks, not each other.

But seeing a live couple had been different.

Not that she was, you know, a pervert or anything. Not that she was one of those voyeurs who got their kicks from watching other people have sex. Not that it had really. . . aroused. . . her. . . .

“Oh, shit,” Blair growled to herself. “Who am I kidding?” She was turned all the way on. She tingled with the need for release.

She took her time, tweaking and pinching her nipples. She took a palm full of the lavender-scented oil and anointed her breasts, feeling the strain and pulse of her excited nipples against her palms. She could see in her mind’s eye the lovers in the park, her legs bent at the hips, her long legs springing against his chest, her pretty feet framing his head, her round ass bobbing on the red towel in pleasure and greed. And the guy, though not so great-looking, was an enthusiastic lover, pumping her without pause or mercy, in and out, giving her long, long strokes of his rigid rod.

Blair raised her left leg and crooked it over the edge of the tub, opening herself. Her right hand drifted down, past the mossy underwater drift of her pubic hair, to her slit. Even in the warm bath water, her fingers still felt slippery from the bath oil. She stroked herself, purring with the gentle sensations of arousal. Her clit throbbed at her touch, and she caught it between the tips of her forefinger and middle finger, rolling it, squeezing it. She felt her hips moving involuntarily. God, the guy’s cock, the masturbating guy’s cock, had looked, mmm, tasty. It had been thicker, longer, than any of her lovers’ dicks had ever been. She thought of it at the welcoming entrance of her pussy, slipping up and down over her most private flesh, its round, pliant plum-colored helmet parting her nether lips, bathing itself in her juices, spreading her wide and making her ready.

Now she had a finger in herself, pumping. With her free hand she reached down around her butt and pressed her own asshole. A little shameful kink of her own, one that she’d never mentioned to any of her lovers. A little fantasy. . . one cock in her pussy, one in her ass, taking alternate strokes. The water in the tub sloshed as she masturbated, feeling heat rise and spread from her center, lifting her on a long slope. Two fingers inside her now, deep, and the first joint of another in her asshole, feeling the muscle clamp down. “Yeah,” she moaned.

Faster and harder, and now she was gasping, her whole body taut. Flashes of the fucking couple played in her mind: faces, pussy, cock. And then, with a shriek and a shuddering gasp, she had pushed herself into orgasm. She lay gasping, pulled her fingers from inside her pussy, and sucked them. She tasted good.

* * *

Later, wearing only a robe, Blair moved the clean towels from the washer to the dryer. She picked up the canvas bag and wondered about the man who had been watching the couple. Had he stumbled across them the same way she had? No, no, something about him was, well, weird. He had been speaking to the two lovers in a soft, commanding voice, directing them, telling them when they would come. When they would be allowed to come? Giving his permission?

And then he had blurted out that peculiar assurance: “You can’t see us.”

What in the hell had he meant? The couple had said the towels weren’t theirs. Maybe the bag wasn’t, either. “Tantrist Press.” What did that mean? Blair went to her computer and logged onto her Internet account. In a search engine, she typed in “Definition: tantrist” and learned that the word meant “An adherent of Tantrism.” Great. She chased the word to another definition and found out that it meant “a creed encouraging its members to seek enlightenment in perceiving the unity of the self and the material world, combining ideas and doctrines of Hinduism and paganism, including magical beliefs and erotic rites.”

She thought of an old joke: What did the Buddhist tell the hot-dog vendor? “Make me one with everything.”

The Tantrist Press had a website, as she discovered. It was a New York company, a subsidiary of a huge publishing concern, and it published “works of philosophy and psychology, as well as select translations of difficult-to-obtain foreign works.” She browsed a few authors and titles: The Elements of Jainism, by E.W.C. St.Clair-de Grosvenor. The Vedanta and the Philosophic Essence of Jungian Archetypes, by Professor Amasi Cinquefoil. Wow, that sounded like just the thing to thrill the reader. A lot of the books were not quite so esoteric, but rather were basic college texts: Behavior: the Basics, Introduction to Modern Psychology, A Survey of World Religions, titles like that.

Hmm. On the web site she found a list of conventions, symposia, and other meetings at which the Tantrist Press offered previews of its line. Blair had been to trade shows herself, and she knew that many companies offered giveaways like the canvas bag as promotions for its materials. Now if she could pin down which show had offered the canvas bag...well, if there was a show in town or nearby where the bags had been given out...Hmm.

The website directory listed “Hyman G. Feldman” as the community-relations coordinator for the company. She composed an email:

Dear Mr. Feldman:

A colleague of mine has a beautiful canvas bag with your logo on it, and I’d like very much to purchase one just like it. Are they available? Please let me know.

She sat back from the computer. There. Maybe that would lead her to the man who owned the bag. Or maybe not. Damn, this was getting to her. She licked her lips.

She couldn’t keep the image of the fucking couple out of her mind. They had been so abandoned, so damned wrapped up in each other—his cock, pumping, making slushing sounds as it plunged in and back, in and back, her round ass glistening with her own flowing juices, maybe with his saliva (had he warmed her up by licking her? God, Blair loved to be licked by a man!), their moans and the pleasure over her face.

Blair spread her legs and reached down. Oh, really, this was ridiculous! Once was always enough for her.

But her slit flowed with her pussy juices, and its flesh was slick and eager, and—oh, hell, she was so horny. She arched her back, put her feet on the desk, and gave herself up to pleasure.

And besides the fucking couple, in her mind’s eye she saw again the observer’s springy, erect, magnificent cock.

Oh yessss.....

3

I can’t believe I’m obsessing about something so—so nasty.

For by Monday morning, Blair had to admit that she was obsessing, big-time. She had fingered herself to climax three more times on Sunday afternoon, lazily recreating in her mind the image of the two lovers, copulating unashamedly right out in the open, not caring who saw them. Or maybe not knowing who saw them. The strange guy had insisted, “You don’t see this,” as if saying it made it true. On the other hand, nobody else in the park seemed to have noticed what was happening, not until the masturbating guy ran and the woman yelped in dismay. Up to that time it was as if the two were putting on a private show just for Blair.

And the thought kept her hot and horny, the idea of just watching. Well, not just watching. Maybe directing the duo, telling them what to do, and maybe at the opportune moment joining in.

“This is perverted,” Blair assured herself. But that didn’t keep her from fantasizing, or from dreaming later on, vivid and erotic dreams of control and submission. Somehow or other she got to work on time, reviewed the art for some magazine spots (photographers always wanted to get too damned artsy when all they had to do was show the product), marked some photos for reproduction and tossed others. Then she ran through the proofs for half a dozen newspaper and magazine ads (two department stores, a couple of restaurants, a couple of local accounts, one beauty salon, one fat farm/spa). Blair pushed herself pretty hard, because whenever she slacked up, her treacherous thoughts wandered back to the park.

Just before noon she carried some artists’ time sheets up to Judith Ortiz’s office for final approval before sending them on to Payroll. Judith, trim, dark-haired, and looking much younger than forty-five, told her receptionist to send Blair on in, and Blair found her boss chatting with Mark Turnwell, one of the copy writers. “What’s that, Payroll forms?” Judith asked crisply. Blair neither liked nor disliked her: Judith was someone to work for, and though she could be demanding, she seemed fair.

“Time sheets for Preston, Rodriguez, and Warren,” Blair said.

Judith put on her wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Warren trying to screw us?”

“No, I kept my own check. The hours are right this time.”

With a grunt, Judith initialed the sheets. “Thanks for handling these. They used to drive me crazy.”

“No problem.”

Blair was on her way out when Judith stopped her with a question: “What do you think of Holly Craven?”

Pausing in the doorway, Blair frowned a little. “Holly? She’s okay. She works hard, and nobody can touch her on the local accounts. Real creative.”

“Would you say she’s indispensable?”

“I guess nobody is.”

“Thank you, Byers. That will be all.”

Blair stepped through the doorway and one of the time sheets got away from her, fluttering to the floor. She stooped to retrieve it and overheard Mark Turnwell’s baritone: “So you’re letting me go?”

Judith Ortiz’s laugh was husky. “Lover, don’t worry. I’ll fire Holly, not you. You’re too good in bed to let go.”

Blair’s cheeks flamed. She felt dirty, as if she had been witnessing something like the couple in the park again—but this time with absolutely no arousal. The thought of Judith in bed with Mark Turnwell somehow did not appeal to her. Damn. Poor Holly—she was good at what she did, a hell of a lot better at the job than Mark, whose prose was clear but uninspired, without sparkle.

Lunch time. Blair had her salad and yogurt at her desk, and just out of curiosity she checked her email. Lo and behold, there was a reply from Hyman G. Feldman:

Dear Ms Byers,

I’m glad you liked the canvas tote—that was one of my little designs. Unfortunately, we ran only a limited quantity of them and have no more in stock, or I’d send you one. It was a promotional piece that we used last spring at book shows and such. You might be able to find one on eBay, or maybe you could check the local colleges. We did a show in your city last May, and we gave away a couple of thousand of the bags there. Thank you for your interest in Tantrist, and do let me know if I can be of any further service.

It took only ten minutes of surfing before Blair learned that the meeting had to have been the one held on the first weekend of May at the City Convention Center: Issues in Social Sciences Education, it had been called. And there was the name of the president of the organization, and his phone number.

Blair spoke to his secretary, who told her that the convention had been a bitch to put together. “We had about a hundred members from here in the city, and nearly four thousand from around the country,” she said. Yes, she remembered the tote bags—in fact, she had one. No, she had no idea of finding out who among the attendees had the bags—“Just about everybody seemed to have one. It was good for carrying the freebie books in, you know.” Why, yes, there was a list of attendees. It had been printed in the event program booklet, and they had plenty of those left. “I’ll drop one in the mail to you,” the woman promised.

When she got home, tired and restless, Blair wondered why the hell she was bothering to pursue this crazy thing. Well, she knew, really. It was because the memory of those two coupling strangers made her feel so hot, so alive. She hadn’t felt like that in, well, forever. Blair bathed and then lay on her bed, examining the purchase she had made on the way home—a purchase that had caused her to summon up all her nerve.

The vibrator looked just like a cock, down to a couple of swollen balls at the base. And the soft rubber felt approximately sort of like a real one. Naked, Blair turned on the vibrator and toyed with it, touching its tip with her tongue, running it over her straining nipples, then rocking its bulging head in the moist crevice of her pussy. All the times she tried to picture the fucking couple in the park, but the memory was no longer quite as sharp, quite as vivid. Blair tried imagining herself as the woman. She pushed the vibrator in, felt it humming and buzzing inside her. Yeah, not bad. She began to move it in and out, pumping herself the way the somewhat pudgy blond guy had pumped the woman—ahh, good, good.

But not as sharp, not as fresh as the pleasure she had felt that first time in the bath. Blair moved her hips, fucking the dildo, feeling it press buzzing deeper and deeper into her. Mm, if only she had another one, maybe a smaller ,thinner one for her asshole....

She made do with her finger and, fantasizing, she brought herself at last to a gasping orgasm, feeling her pussy muscles clench down on the vibrating dildo. For a few minutes she lay on the bed breathing hard, feeling the sheen of sweat that had broken out on her skin. She hadn’t stopped at the gym for her regular workout—treadmill and weights. Couldn’t let that slide. Couldn’t get so damned horny that she had to get home to finger herself off every night.

She brought the dildo up and sniffed it, smelling her own arousal. Impulsively, she opened her mouth and took the fake cock inside. Guys were supposed to go crazy over that. She sucked and licked and nibbled, imagining the rubber dildo was the fat cock of the guy in the park.

More and more, Blair was simply aching to meet him.

TO BE CONTINUED....