The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Adjusters IV: Running to Stand Still

Aware (2)

The appearance of Gutierrez—the Pig—confirms my worries. I know it’s him because of his breathing, both loud and shallow, and his cologne, which smells too sweet. I hear and feel him tidy up my room and check on my drip lines, the way he and every other nurse does during their rounds.

I hear him go to the door and I guess he looks up and down the hallway because he opens the door and then closes and locks it. I cannot see the grin on his face, but I can practically feel it from across the room.

Some of the nurses that attend me are sexual opportunists, definitely, but Gutierrez is a pig. I know, because I’ve encountered my fair share of pigs lately. But at least those were all about messing about with a woman that was up and awake. Gutierrez, on the other hand, seems to get off on the fact that in bed unable to move, talk, or do anything.

I feel him by the side of my bed, near my head.

“Hello gorgeous.”

That’s what he always call me.

“Did you miss me?”

Of course not, you disgusting pig. I want to spit in his face. Biff was a bastard and an asshole, but at least he had some backbone. He wasn’t afraid to get in your face and confront you. He liked to act like he was just a big stupid log, but he was smarter than he looked. He was fucked up in the head, for sure, and he had it in for his cousin and for pretty much everyone else in the world, but he had balls.

Gutierrez, not so much. If he were an animal, he’d be a rat. Not one of those cuddly lab rats either. No, the vermin that live in sewers and stay out of the way and sneak up to steal your meal when you’re not paying attention.

The only reason he’s next to me is because I’m drugged up to my ears. I’d like to see how he’d react if I were awake, and in full possession of my faculties, and not as the sex-starved slut that Biff turned me into. I’d kick his balls so hard he’d be the new Farinelli.

Gutierrez leans over me and he presses his lips on mine. I always expect him to have bad breath, and he always surprises me. He kisses me hard, his lips bruising mine as he shoves his tongue in my mouth. My lips part, because I can’t clasp them shut and stop him. He tongues me deeply, and much to my dismay—even though of course I’m not surprised—my body awakes and reacts to the contact.

One of his hands is on my chest, and he squeezes my breasts through the sheet and my gown. This is just prelude, I know. He’s not going to be content with simply feeling me up. He’s locked the door, so this is going to be a longish session. Again, it’s all as expected. There’s a rhythm to this place, and it’s an easy one to pick up.

“It’s been too long,” he says, kneading my breast. “Way too long.”

He pauses for a second before giving me a long lick up the side of my face. He clearly relishes the fact that I can’t do anything to resist. I bet that’s what gets him hard, too. He’s never tried to fuck me when I’m awake and going crazy for cock the way Biff wanted me to be.

Gutierrez’s saliva is wet on my cheek as he tongues my ear, breathing hard. I can tell by the shakiness I can hear in his breath that he’s rubbing himself through his pants, if not straight up jerking off.

Gutierrez is predictable, if nothing else. He’s got a routine, and he sticks to it. He likes it that way. I bet you anything he’s the kind of guy that eats the same freaking breakfast cereal every morning, has done so for the past decade, and gets really angry when the store runs out of his brand and he has to improvise.

As I knew he would, he straightens up and moves my head towards the edge of the bed. I know what’s coming, and it doesn’t help. He’s got his pants down, and he’s stroking his dick. He’s clean, at least, and as far as male shafts go, his is actually pretty nice. If he wasn’t such an asshole, I would even see him getting some success with the ladies. But as it is, it’s no wonder he has to resort to fucking the resident drugged up girl. I’m sure it does wonders for his inferiority complex, too.

“You’ve got such a pretty face...” he murmurs, before slapping his dick over all said face. I hate when he does that. Or at least I feel I should hate it, but really, I’m just numb to it all. The fucking I can take. But this, this is just bad. Plus it’s like a bad porno flick. My body doesn’t care. My body feels cock near, and if it were a dog it’d be panting and whining. As it is, I feel my pussy heat up.

He rubs his dick over my cheeks, against my nose, over my lips. He’s leaking pre-cum, and it’s smearing all over my skin. It doesn’t get in my eyes, for which I’m grateful because it stings like nothing else. But soon I feel sticky all over, and I pray that it won’t start to itch.

I don’t have time to ponder too much before I feel the tip of Gutierrez’s now rock-hard cock pressing against my lips and pushing in. “Time for your snack, gorgeous,” he says, in a low voice, and he slowly invests my mouth with his shaft. My lips don’t resist, and part to let him in, and I feel the hard flesh run over my tongue and the taste sparkle all across my taste buds. Even through the numbness I feel, it sends fireworks down my body. The taste of male flesh is activating whatever fucked up programming Biff put inside my head, and I can feel my pussy juice up instantly. It doesn’t affect me too much, because of the drugs, but it happens, I can feel it, and soon my body is going to get really horny but unable to do anything about it.

The drugs take the edge off and let me control what I’m feeling, but the pressure is there, the craving is there, the desire is there.

“Fuck I love your mouth,” Gutierrez groans softly as his dick reaches the back of my mouth. My body gags reflexively, and Gutierrez sighs before pulling out slightly.

With his hands on my head keeping me in place, he starts fucking my mouth with short quick stabs. I’ve had my share of dicks in my mouth in the past year, and this one is no worse than the rest, nor better. It’s a dick, fucking my mouth, using me as a sex toy, the way most guys have. Sometimes I swear it’s like they don’t even see me except as a pretty shiny thing with holes to stick their dicks in. Although I shouldn’t complain: the ones that see you as a person that can be humiliated and hurt are worse. Much worse.

Gutierrez is not that sophisticated. He fucks my mouth selfishly, thrusting hard and pulling on my head with his hands. My mouth is filled with saliva, and the sounds would be disgusting if not for the fact that my body reacts to the situation and I feel the craving for that cock to spear into me and fuck me into oblivion.

Gutierrez is not paying any attention. He’s fucking my mouth, mumbling under his breath, the way he’s wont to do. “Fucking great mouth, fucking great.” He always does that. He’s not the loud kind, he’s always mumbling to himself as he fucks me, always a soft voice, as if he’s lost in a little world of his own. “Little cock sucking slut. Take my cock—that’s it, like that, just like that—nice and deep.”

He starts getting into it, and his dick is banging the back of my throat, which makes me even wetter. And Gutierrez starts to speak in a disturbing little soft falsetto voice. “Oh my God, Pietro—your cock is so big! Fuck my mouth, Pietro! Fuck my mouth hard! I’m just a little cock sucker that loves your fucking cock!”

He groans, and I can feel his hands clench in my hair, getting a better grip. He lifts my head up to get a better angle, and fucks harder, with long strokes that slide the tip of his cock in my throat, choking me, and I can’t do anything about it. The humiliation of it, the feeling I’m just a toy for him, revs my body up even further. My nipples get hard, my pussy gushes. My body cannot help it. It was programmed to react this way. I’m still floating on my cloud of bliss, taking it all in.

“That’s right, you little slut. Take it, take it all, my big cock.”

His cock is big enough to be uncomfortable as it plows its way inside.

“What’s that, baby?” murmurs Gutierrez. “You want me to fuck you now? ‘Yes, Pietro, I want to feel your big cock in my tight little cunt! Pleasure me like only you know how to do!’ Well, baby, if that’s what you want!” He does my part in his falsetto voice.

His cock slides out, and I can feel drool spill out the side of my mouth and pool on the sheet. In one grandiose gesture, he pulls off the sheet that covers me and bares my body. I only have a thin hospital gown on, which is good because they keep the temperature on the warm side in here.

Gutierrez takes a moment to look at me, I can feel it. Then I feel his hand on my thigh, caressing softly, before rising up and grasping the hem of the gown and pulling it up my body. Despite the temperature, I shiver when the air hits my naked stomach, and then my breasts. I’m wearing panties, the granny panties that the hospital nurse slides up my legs after she washes me. I know Gutierrez hates them—he’s said so repeatedly, and says it once more, muttering under his breath about them.

Then his hands are on my breasts, and just like that my pussy is on fire. No matter how much I expected it, it always takes me by surprise. I’m again thankful about the drugs that numb the connection between my mind and my body, because otherwise, I’d be a babbling fool begging this man to take me and use me however he wanted, just so that I could extract an ounce of pleasure out of giving him my body. As it is, that’s pretty much exactly what my body’s saying, but that’s just physical. Like the pain you get after stubbing your toe. It hurts, but your mind can ignore it if it really wants to.

Gutierrez kneads my breasts with his hands, grabbing them and pawing them and pinching my nipples that have been hard for the past several minutes. I can’t see his face because my eyes are closed, but I can just imagine the look he has. Then his hands leave my body and I hear him pull his pants off.

The bed sinks as he climbs on, and I feel him straddle my hips. His erect cock thumps on my stomach. He reaches down and straightens my head, and I can feel him tower above me now, caressing the side of my face with his hand while grabbing one of my breasts with the other. He smears the drool that dripped down the right side of my face, and slides two fingers in my mouth. In the state I’m in, and with his hand on my breast, he’s making my body react even more strongly.

“God I love your tits,” he says, still in a low voice, almost to himself. He kneads them with both hands now, roughly, feeling them press into his palms, pushing them up and down and left and right.

When he moves higher up on my body, I know what’s about to happen, and indeed I feel his cock slide between my breasts, and he squeezes them together with his hands. And then he starts fucking his cock through the tunnel he’s just created.

“Oh yeah, ‘Fuck my tits, Pietro. Fuck my big fat tits with your big cock!’” he continues in his falsetto voice. “‘Are you gonna come all over my face and my tits, Pietro? You gonna come before you fuck my tight cunt?’”

This would be ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that I’m unable to resist any of it, and that my body is begging for more. I can feel my pussy open up and gush, slicking itself up for an upcoming penetration, the way it always does.

Gutierrez knows that about me, and he straightens up after a few minutes of jerking his cock between my breasts, turning himself around on my chest, facing down to my feet. He pulls off my underwear before spreading my legs wide, and my pussy starts pulsating when it is exposed. Gutierrez runs a finger through my slit, and my body just loves it. My consciousness if hovering above it all, uncaring, aware of my body, but unaffected. Bless these drugs.

Part of me should be hating this. And part of me is, there is no doubt. But the hate is so high level, so abstract, that it is almost guilt-induced. I feel I should be hateful, but I’m not. I’m just numb.

Pleasure—my body is reacting to pleasure, like a heated spike through the ground that is my skin. Gutierrez has bent down between my legs, in a sixty-nine position, and his tongue is flicking my clit, and it’s sending fire through my lower body and tingles into my nipples. When he thrusts two fingers into my sopping wet pussy, the fire becomes an inferno consuming everything ahead of it. My body loves it, craves it, demands more.

Gutierrez is not particularly good; his licking is perfunctory, his fingers not well timed—sometimes too slow, most of the time too fast. I analyze all of this with the detachment of a scientific observer. Gutierrez has probably never satisfied a woman in his life. Any girlfriend worth her salt would have coached him. But my body doesn’t care. He’s male, he’s touching my pussy, he wants me. That’s plenty enough.

I feel the head of his cock at my lips, pressing straight down, and of course it slips in, because I can’t stop it. As Gutierrez finger fucks me with gusto, he jerks his hips up and pumps his cock into my mouth from above. He seems to enjoy it, because his licking becomes spasmodic and almost an afterthought. I taste his pre-cum, washing down my throat. His balls thump my nose on the downstroke, and once in a while he stuffs his cock in deep and grinds his hips and I fear I’ll choke.

My body doesn’t care—it likes it. My body is primed to be used like a sex toy, to be treated like a bunch of holes for men to stick their cocks in. My body is going crazy from the fingers thrusting in and out of my pussy, and the tongue sliding over my clit.

“I think you’re all nice and ready for me now, gorgeous,” Gutierrez says, straightening up and sliding his cock out of my mouth. He manages to turn around on the narrow bed without falling off, something I really wanted to happen, and position himself between my legs.

As he always does, he pulls my legs apart and bends them at the knee, pushing them up to my breasts so that I’m completely open before him. I’m grateful I’m still limber from all my years of dancing and from my yoga because the way he’s pushing my legs back puts a huge strain on my hamstrings.

Of course, the position is degrading—naked, legs splayed and pushed back, pussy exposed. My body is basking in the humiliation, and I can feel moisture leaking down my thigh and pooling between my cheeks. I’m just glad—really glad—that Gutierrez has never shown any interest in sodomizing me. That was Biff’s specialty.

Gutierrez rubs his cock on my pussy, and it feels delightful. “Pretty pussy,” he says. “Such a pretty pussy. ‘Oh, Pietro, my tight cunt is aching for you. Please, Pietro, fuck me, fuck me hard. I want to feel your big cock in my tight little cunt.’ I like it when you beg, gorgeous,” he continues, supplying both parts of the dialogue.

Slowly, he presses the head of his cock between my pussy lips, and because I’m so wet, he slides in, as the cliché goes, like a hot knife through butter. And I have to say, it feels good. At least, my body loves it. I know I should be disgusted, but I’m not. I’m numb. But my pussy isn’t, and it squeezes the slowly invading cock with gusto.

As he penetrates me, Gutierrez leans on top of me, pressing my knees against my breasts, his weight on the back of my thighs. With one hand he caresses one of my feet by his head, while he kisses the other. He bottoms out inside me like that, his cock fully embedded, and he groans in sheer happiness.

And then he starts fucking me, with long deep thrusts driven from his hips and his legs. He’s supporting himself on my thighs, which starts to become uncomfortable after a while, but the discomfort is more than made up by the fire that’s spreading from my pussy outward.

Gutierrez mutters to himself the whole time, as he usually does by that point. Sometimes, it’s in his own voice, telling me how much of a slut that I am for willingly spreading my legs like that for anyone coming through the door, telling me that he likes my tits, that he loves the way my pussy feels around him, telling me to take it like the cunt I am. Nothing particularly original, sadly, and after a while the mind-numbing stupidity of it all gets to me—which is pretty amazing, considering that he’s practically raping me. But such is my life ever since I left North Alexandria that it’s hardly bothering me anymore. And that it’s hardly bothering me is something that should bother me even more.

Gutierrez is not privy to this internal conversation, of course. Once in a while, he starts with his little falsetto, playing my role, as if I were urging him to fuck me harder, faster, to drive his cock into me like a man, to plow me like a slut deserves to be plowed, to make me come so hard on his big fat cock. Gag me with a spoon, please.

I retreat deep inside myself, and do what I usually do whenever Gutierrez comes to spend some quality time with me, which is to simply ride the waves of pleasure of my body, who couldn’t care less about the ethics of the situation. As far as my body is concerned, it’s getting fucked, and it’s happy.

Gutierrez has stopped muttering, and is now starting to pant. A drop of sweat falls on my cheek. All I can do is lie back and get pummeled. I do hope he doesn’t start really dripping on me. I hate that. Not only is it gross, it tickles and itches something fierce.

His panting means he’s almost done, and that’s great, because that means he’s not going to flip me around and take me from behind, the way he does sometimes. I usually end up with my face smashed into my pillow, or into the mattress, and it’s uncomfortable, especially after a few minutes of fucking when he’s been pushing my body forward and my head starts to press against the headboard. I think I pulled a muscle more than once from such acrobatics. As it is, I’m already going to feel this afternoon’s performance in the back of my thighs for the rest of the week.

Gutierrez starts to hammer into me faster, and my pussy goes simply crazy. I admit, it’s pleasurable—very pleasurable. Part of me just wants to surrender to it, surrender to the feeling, give in. It beckons, the way a lazy Saturday winter morning in bed cuddling under the covers with your lover does, promising warmth and love and freedom from the worries of life.

But the drugs keep me from surrendering, which is just as well—I have surrendered to it before, been forced to surrender to it before, and it’s a mess. It is less cuddling with your lover in bed and more being chained up in a dungeon with a fire blazing nearby and a stony faced whip-wielding Master pounding into you from behind. Heat of a different sort.

Gutierrez is getting close. I can feel it. My pussy can feel it. His cock is swelling up, getting ready to burst. The hunger deep in my cunt peaks, screaming for release and for his seed. I listen, amazed as I always am by the sheer strength of the need, glad to be free of it, frightened by its continued presence. Biff fucked me up something bad, that’s for sure. The bastard. I hope he gets what’s coming to him.

Gutierrez is huffing above me, his eyes closed, his lips moving but no sound coming. I never know what he says there, at the end, before he comes. I’m curious, I admit it. What else is there for me to do but wonder? Is he making me talk? What is he making me say? What is it he tells himself to carry him the last yard to the finish line, to get him over the edge? What sick twisted story is he telling himself?

Just as he’s about to come, he pulls out, the way he always does. He straddles me, and jacks off, real fast. He whimpers a little bit, and his back twitches. He never comes inside me. I suspect because it’s more difficult to clean me afterwards. Whereas if he comes all over my chest, like he seems about do...

And indeed, with a loud exhalation and a jerking forward of his hips, his cock explodes, sending long strings of cum all over my chest all the way up to my face, a copious production that never ceases to amaze me. I’ve seen a lot of men come in the past months, and few can manage to spurt manageable distances. Gutierrez can. His semen is watery, and I can feel it drip off the sides of my face and down my neck.

Gutierrez remains above me, cradling his cock, rocking slowly back and forth, breathing in and out. It’s over. Of course, my pussy is still screaming for him to come back inside and plow me even harder than he already has—grab my tits, pinch my nipples, punish me for being a needy little slut that can’t keep her legs closed.

“Thank you, gorgeous,” Gutierrez finally says, running one of his hands up the side of my body, tickling me. “You’ve got the most amazing pussy ever.” He slides his hand in the cum that found its way between my breasts, and starts massaging it into my skin, kneading my breasts over and over again, which does absolutely nothing to help quiet down the fire between my thighs. My mind remains above it all, observing quietly.

“Here,” he says, leaning over and running his now sticky fingers over my lips, pushing them in, “you deserve your reward.” His slips his cum-coated fingers into my mouth, and I taste his bitter offering.

Gutierrez gets off me after rinsing his fingers in my mouth, clearly relishing the thought of making me eat his cum. Once in a while, to change things up, he will spurt directly into my mouth—he’s a bit weary of that because I’ve choked a few times, and the last thing he wants is to get in trouble. Which is one of the reasons why he goes to the adjoining restroom and comes back with a wet washcloth, and proceeds to clean me up.

The cloth is warm, and his touch is gentle. He is silent as he washes me, and it’s like I’m with a different Gutierrez, a loving, caring Gutierrez. The guy is a psycho, I’m sure of it. That’s really the only explanation for how he goes from fucking a drugged-out-of-her-mind woman to cleaning her up tenderly.

When he’s done he pulls my gown down my body, and covers me back up. He even takes a second to adjust my hair, and make sure my head is lined up right so that I don’t get uncomfortable. A psycho, I tell you. And a pig.

He finishes it up with a soft kiss on my lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, gorgeous. I’ll let you get mentally ready. It’s going to be a special night.”

Fuck. Just as I feared.

* * *

The Buffalo cops raided the motel in the middle of the night, while Jenn was with a customer. She was straddling him on the bed, his cock embedded deep into her ass, slamming up and down like a crazed woman, her hair wild, her breasts bouncing when the man underneath her was not simply grabbing them with both hands and using them as handles to guide her. He was having the fuck of his life, and had vowed that he would return whenever he could scrounge up the two hundred dollars that this crazy chick went for. The cops changed his plans.

Jenn barely noticed that officers had entered the room, guns drawn, shouting “This is a raid—raise your hands and drop any weapons!” She kept fucking with abandon, caring about nothing but for the sensation of the man’s shaft stretching out her rear as it pounded into her over and over again. When the officers approached her, she registered they were male, and then stared at the closest one, her lips spreading into a wide grin, asking him if he wanted to fuck her throat and feed her his cum.

The cops had the worst time trying to get her off the man, and she fought them, shouting to be allowed to have the man’s cock inside her again, begging, whimpering, mewling her need. The cops were taken aback when they noticed that she was chained to the bed in the small, a long chain trailing on the ground and giving her enough mobility to reach the desk and the bathroom, but not enough to reach the outside door.

The owner of the motel, which doubled as a part-time brothel featuring a cast of illegal immigrant girls—mostly Mexican—that barely knew any English, had had to resort to the chain for Jenn since threats were insufficient to keep her under control. She kept trying to run away, mumbling something about Cleveland, her eyes crazed, her hands dropping to her crotch several times a minute, when they were not fondling her own breasts, or reaching out for the crotch of someone close, male or female.

Jenn was his best talent, providing him with the biggest profit margin of all his whores. She had landed on his doorstep one late Spring night, half-ripped clothes hanging off her body, having been thrown out of a limousine filled with partying visiting businessmen. She was covered in semen, some of it drying in her hair and around her mouth, and she kept asking him if she could suck his cock, begging him to fuck her, to make her feel good. The man obliged, and realized he had struck gold: the girl was beautiful, knew how to please a man, held no identification, and had a fascinating tendency to want to fuck anything that moved.

He always took her first thing in the evening, before his customer showed up—he liked her fresh, and since she had been without cock for an entire day by that point, she always had a vocal desperation that simply drove him insane with lust. Seeing her so willing to demean herself for a chance to slide his cock between her lips was so close to a fantasy of his that he sometimes thought that he had died and gone to heaven, a feeling that only grew stronger when he rutted between her legs, her large breasts pressing into his chest, her lips by his ears spewing forth a stream of dirty filthy dialogue to keep them both aroused.

Most of the time, she was barely coherent, unable to resist attacking either man or woman whenever they got close. The owner of the motel had to resort to giving her sleeping pills during the day so she could rest. His drug supplier, a local pusher that refused to deal hard drugs and specialized in prescription pills, was happy to trade pills for quality time in the sack with the “wild brunette with the silky cunt.”

As the cops hauled everyone away, Jenn had to be restrained, and she kept begging the cops to fuck her, offering to satisfy their dirtiest desires, their vilest fantasies, if only they would stuff her with their cocks and fuck her until she passed out. Many of them might have considered it, even, but a young officer took pity on her and called psychiatric services at the local hospital. Medical personal took custody of her and sedated her, and eventually referred her to the care of the Craven-Wilford Institute for Mental Health, the one facility on the East Coast that they felt was equipped to deal with whatever was hailing her.

* * *

I must have fallen asleep shortly after Gutierrez left. And I can’t have been sleeping for too long, because I’m still floating above my body, disconnected from it. The drugs are still floating through my system. For how long is the question, is always the question. Doctor Agnieska, I fear, programmed the automatic drug dispenser connected to my intravenous drip to gradually reduce the dosage until that time when my body is able to reassert its control over my mind, and I will go insane with lust, unable to resist my urges, a sex-craving addict begging for her fix.

There is a presence by the bed. That must be what woke me up. Has Gutierrez come back to abuse me some more?

No, it doesn’t sound nor smell like Gutierrez. The presence is silent. Breathing deeply. A man. Looking at me, I can feel it. Staring at me with roving eyes.

I recognize his smell. Fresh soap—Irish Spring. It is the new nurse. Sanderson, I think. I wonder if he’s going to touch me. It’s sad that that’s pretty much what I’ve come to expect from men around me.

But no, he does not reach out to fondle me. Somehow, he guesses I’m awake, and he speaks softly. “Are you awake? Gutierrez said your name was Jennie. I know you can’t answer me, but I’m guessing you can hear me. I checked, and the drugs you’re under shouldn’t provoke unconsciousness. And beside, your monitor show Beta waves.”

He pulls something closer to the bed.

“So Jennie, I brought a wheelchair. This may sound stupid, and if it is, tell me.” He stops and I can feel the smile on his face, and a stammer of embarrassment. “Sorry. That was in really poor taste. Anyway, I thought we could go and spend some time in the rec room. At least, it’d be less boring than being cooped up by yourself in this little room.”

I think I’d cry if I could. Thank you, I tell Sanderson internally, as he pulls back the covers and tries to figure out the best way to pick me up and slide me into the wheelchair. I consider this a reprieve before the hell that is to come.