The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Whether You Want To Or Not

Chapter 1 (Prelude)

Just one wouldn’t hurt, I thought.

I’ll just stop at a bar or something for one beer. I make a point of never drinking alone, but it had been a long, long day. I’ll just stop at that bar over there for an after-work drink, just like any other guy with an ordinary job. Almost as if I were such a person.

I pushed open the stately, heavy-looking door into an atmospheric interior. And by atmospheric I mean poorly lit, but come to think of it bars usually are that way, at least for my taste.

I perched myself on a bar stool, slightly on the high side, feeling slightly childish with my legs dangling. Until I found the foot-height ledge protruding from the bar, anyway. I tried to dispel the momentary feeling of childishness by ordering a Guinness in a voice deeper and gruffer than my usual one.

After the bartender brought me my prize, he stayed in front of me, as though to see if I wanted anything else. I looked up to dismiss him with a “thanks,” but I hesitated when I noticed that he wasn’t looking at me.

He was looking over my shoulder.

He was looking over my shoulder with enough fascination that I turned around, half-imagining that no one would be there and I would look silly again.

I didn’t. Well, perhaps I did, from the way I stared. In front of me, approaching the bar, was a vision from a dream. I want to say a wet dream . . . but although any dream with this creature would definitely have been a stimulating one, she was too full of grace for such a crude description.

My eyes flicked first, as they usually do, to her legs, in the hopes that they would be sheathed in something stretchy if not shiny. And they were: subtly glittering black stockings up to her lower thighs, leaving just a few inches of flawless creamy skin below the feathery bottom of her white silky skirt. The loose, flowy kind that makes one imagine a dancer’s twirl and the delights that such a move would reveal.

My eyes then, an all-too-short instant later (or not noticeably long, I hoped), found a white Lycra corset top embracing her slender upper body. She wasn’t what would objectively be called well-endowed—average at most—but with her slim waist and overall very petite figure (I doubt she was significantly over five feet), the perfect globes poorly concealed near the top of her outfit were quite dramatic, particularly encased in stretchy whiteness. She was wearing a necklace, but my eyes had already been drawn upwards by the straps over each delicate white shoulder (a different, softer white than the one of her skirt and top), and past, to her face.

This is where my mouth may have slipped open a little. Her triangular, elfin face, with its high cheekbones, as well the shining black cascade of hair that waterfalled over her shoulders, looked like those of someone of Asian origin, but her eyes . . . her eyes.

They were the deep uncompromising blue of the sky.

In short, at least physically speaking, she was a living combination of many girls I had yearned for over the years, and many I had only imagined. Wearing an ensemble that I might have begged my wife to wear, had I the nerve. It was almost eerie. . . .

I suppose in some distant corner of my brain I was reasoning that, given the impossible rarity of the entrancingly incongruous combination of facial features and eyes, she must be wearing color contacts, but the rest of my brain didn’t care, and besides, by that time she had reached the bar.

“Anyone sitting here?”

Her voice was like music, but I failed to hold up my end of the duet. I was still dumbfounded at her appearance—not to mention her approach—and I actually twisted my gaze back to the bar for an instant, unable to believe that she was addressing such a question to me.

But the bartender had already gone to tend other patrons, so it was up to me to respond.

“Uh, yeah, of course,” I replied stupidly. “I mean, feel free.”

If her voice was like music her laugh was like the tinkling of bells. She perched herself on the bar stool next to me, her legs dangling adorably, not even coming close to reaching the ledge I had taken some time to find.

“Whatcha drinking?”

I’m no Tom Cruise, and no Brad Pitt. This doesn’t happen to me. I mean, maybe it doesn’t happen to them either, but definitely not to me. Phenomenally beautiful girls don’t come up to me and ask me what I’m drinking. But debating this in my head was clearly not the way to keep the conversation going. “Guinness,” I replied. That didn’t seem like enough of a reply, so I added, “Would you like one?” Not something that a happily married man should say, but it seemed like the right thing to say, and I always have had a habit of saying things for no reason other than that.

“Lemme try,” she responded, and reached out an arm to my mug. The gesture drew my eyes to the perfectly-fitting midnight-black silk glove stretching up to her elbow (who wears gloves like that anymore other than at costume parties?). Before I could react—not that I would have—she had raised my mug to her lips and taken a gulp. She passed it back (the volume hardly noticeably decreased) with a sparkle in her eyes, and said, “Sure! If you don’t mind.”

I didn’t mind. Would you?

By that time I had recovered my senses more or less, and time was once again moving at its customary pace. I flagged down the bartender again, ordered another Guinness, and as I fumbled for my wallet, wished that I had a “tab” onto which I could coolly ask him to put it. When it came, she raised her class to me with a bright “Cheers!”

I went with the flow and clinked mugs with her, after which she took a hearty chug of her brew. I grinned—nothing like a little undercurrent of drinking competitiveness with a pretty girl—and took a bigger chug of mine.

After making the appropriate noises of appreciation, I decided to throw a line back to the shore of reality. “We haven’t met before, have we?” I queried.

“Remember this?” she asked by way of reply, showing me her necklace. I looked at it closely for the first time, and noticed it was a single crystal of a piercing blue gem . . . the same blue as her eyes. It didn’t look familiar, though.

“I—” I began, trying to lift my gaze to her face again, but she interrupted me.

“See that mark in the middle?”

I kept looking at the gem. Or at least that’s the direction my head was turned. Honestly, it was nestled between the two lusciously rounded hills in her stretchy top. Where do you think I was looking? And here she was giving me a perfect excuse to keep looking.

It would have taken quite an effort to tear my gaze away from those curves. And I couldn’t think of a good reason to do so.

“See the way it sparkles?”

At this somewhat-incongruous remark, sounding like something out of a corny hypnosis scene in a movie, I looked up suddenly with a sharp, incredulous “What?”

Or at least I meant to.

What really happened was that I moved my head ever so slightly, without changing my gaze, and questioned her with a very not-sharp “Whuuu . . . h?”

“Shh, shh,” she said with a hint of laughter. “Shh. It’s ok, don’t worry. Just relax. Shh,” as though calming a child.

“Uhhhh,” I protested intelligently. Something was clearly wrong. I felt light-headed and dizzy, like my brain was full of fuzz. Fuzzy fuzz fuzz. All fuzzy.

“It’s ok,” she said to me in barely more than a whisper. As she did so she put one gloved hand just above my knee, sending shivers of excitement up my leg and spine. “You feel good, and sleepy.” I wouldn’t have been able to really argue with that, even if my tongue had been working right. It was true. I did feel good, and sleepy. Just as she said. Her words, her hand, her breasts, straining against their enclosure. These things filled all the spaces in my mind left unfuzzy.

“Umm,” I asked. Her hand was drawing delicate circles on my thin slacks. I watched her breathe, and listened to her whisper.

“Sleepier and sleepier,” she whispered. Each circle she drew on my leg brought her hand closer and closer. Closer to something that she shouldn’t be touching. She really shouldn’t. But if only she would. “It’s so hard to resist my drug, isn’t it. It’s going all throughout you now, filling every . . . part . . . of your body,” she pressed on, moving the circle of her hand closer to my crotch with each word.

I’d like to say that at the word “drug” I jumped up and yelled for help. But all I could think of was her words, her hand, her breasts.

“Does this feel good?” she now asked. Her hand was almost at my crotch. “Does it?” She now let her hand sweep lightly over my straining erection.

“Ohhh,” I groaned. She grinned impishly.

“I know it does,” she said. “I know exactly what makes you feel good. More than anyone. More than you even do. I know that this feels good,” she breathed, squeezing slightly at the word “this.” I groaned again, and noticed (although noticed isn’t quite the right word) the edges of my vision getting funny. Fuzzy.

“It feels too good, doesn’t it,” she continued, letting her small hand enclose my erection at the word “too.” “And sleepy. Sleeepy, good, shh.” She was now gently caressing, massaging my groin.

“Ohhhh,” I groaned, throatier this time. It felt so good. I couldn’t resist the combination of everything. I saw black spots, and the fabric of my slacks was thin enough that I could feel every twitch of her nimble fingers, now running over the engorged head of my erection, now gently massaging my whole crotch again.

“I cccc—” I managed to say.

“Shh. Sleep for me now. You can’t help it, I know. Don’t worry. You don’t have to. You’re mine now.”