The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

(Ravenswood, West Virginia. Six months ago.)

He is fuming by the time he reaches the church. The traffic on the Interstate was insane, and he had all sorts of difficulty finding the church, the address he had scribbled in his notebook had smudged, and he ended up looking for Cross Avenue rather than Crooks Avenue. And he did not want to stop and ask for directions, not wanting to attract attention.

Not that he thinks that what he is doing is wrong—but heathens so rarely understand when confronted by designs beyond their comfort zone.

He steps out of his car, and freezes. Guests are coming out of the chapel, large smiles on their faces, congratulating each other.

He is too late. The wedding is already finished.

He swears under his breath. He is too late. And he cannot hit the reception afterwards, because Lizzie has told him that the reception is a tightly guarded affair—one of the guests is a well-known local politician.

He will have to abort. He will have to forget about this and go back home. But he has taken his pills already, and his shaft is throbbing in his pants, demanding release. And he has primed himself up in the car, looking ahead to the impregnation ceremony that was to take place, to the joy of exploding deep in the womb of his next chosen Vessel.

Maybe not all is lost. He puts on a smile, and advances towards a group of older guests slowly going down the steps of the church. He always has better luck with the older folks.

“Excuse me,” he says to a woman that has to be in her eighties, on the arm of a woman that has to be in her sixties. “Did I miss the ceremony?”

The younger woman looks at him with a slight frown. Is she suspicious? “Are you with the groom’s party?”

She must be with the bride. “Yes. I’m an old friend of the family.” Be vague. “Haven’t seen them in forever. I had to move away. When he wrote to tell me of this joyous occasion, I made sure I could clear my schedule, but...”

“Don’t mind Gwen,” says the older woman, “she’s a sour puss. Jealous because she’s an old spinster—”

“I’m not!” protests Gwen, turning to the older woman. “Jealous, that is. I think it’s wonderful.”

The older woman ignores her. “In any event, yes, the ceremony is done. And quite nice it was, too. I’m delighted for my great niece. But you will be able to join us at the reception, yes?” Her eyes are kind, and he feels a ping of guilt at using her. But then again, her relative will bear his Offspring, an honor that will reflect on the whole family.

“Sadly, I can’t attend. My father is in hospital—kidney cancer—and he could go anytime, and I do not want him to be alone. So I have to return shortly. Do you know where I could find the bride and groom, so I can congratulate them?”

The older woman pats him on the arm. “I’m sorry. I’m sure your father appreciates what a good son he has.” Wendy’s back straightens at the comment, and she looks about to protest once more. The older woman ignores her again. “Sandra and her new husband are out back for pictures. You should be able to find them easily.”

He thanks them both, profusely, and excuses himself before heading down the path that brings him around the back of the church. He walks quickly, but without rushing. He had planned on everyone being busy with the wedding preparations, as opposed to everyone just lounging around, basking in the Saturday afternoon sunlight.

He spots the couple with the photographer and her assistant by an imposing tree in the courtyard of the church. There is no convenient place to hide, so he stays near the rear wall of the church, in the shadows, hoping that they will be too distracted to notice him. He should really abort this outing, but the hardness in his trousers is screaming loudly for release. His seed wants—no, needs—to propagate. He can do this.

His arousal is not helped by looking at the bride—Sandra—who is trying to follow the photographer’s suggestions and sit, with her new husband’s help, on the lowest branch of the tree, a mere two feet from the ground. The tall redhead is hindered by the long sleek wedding dress she is wearing, which clings to her curves like the most revealing of evening dresses. The long pencil skirt is wrapped tight around her legs, preventing her from moving as she truly wants. Her husband has to heft her up, which she lets him do with much giggles. They look so in love even he has to stop and appreciate it.

After a few pictures with Sandra on the tree with her arms wrapped around her husband’s neck, the opportunity he has been waiting for arrives. When the photographer’s assistant plants her sunshade into the grass and says something to the photographer before taking off for the church, it is time to act.

He is near the door. It is a simple matter to reach out with an “Excuse me, miss” as she passes by him, and lightly touch her shoulder. That touch is enough, as it always is. The expected sensation travels down his arm and tingles in his finger tips. She stops, looks confused for a second before turning towards him with wide almost adoring eyes. She seems about to say something. He interrupts her before leading her inside.

“Don’t say a word. You will continue doing what you were about to do. But when you get back to the bride and groom, you will tell the bride privately that her aunt Gwen wants to see her for a few minutes in the church, alone.” Gwen is the only person whose name he knows in the bride’s party, and he hope that Sandra does not have a feud going with the discontent celibate. “She says she has a gift for her that she doesn’t want her mother or anyone else to know about.”

The assistant nods quickly, her eyes still wide, her lips slightly parted. He ponders almost reflexively whether she could serve as a Vessel before dismissing the idea. She is pretty, in her own way, and if one squints at her just right, she may even pass for elegant—he idly wonders whether she is good in bed, or how much practice she has suckling on men’s shafts—but she does not have that aura of purity that shines from women when they choose to unite themselves to their soulmate.

“Go, now, continue your errand,” he says, and after a slow shake of her head, the photographer’s assistant turns and heads down the hallway towards what he guesses is the restroom.

He worries for a second about using his Gift on two women within so short a time. This outing is turning out to be more uncertain than he imagined. He resists cursing to himself. It would not do—this is a house of worship. And he is a God.

He tucks himself behind a column when the assistant emerges from the restroom and returns to the courtyard. He watches through a window as the couple poses for more pictures, the groom vaguely awkward but clearly head over heels for his beautiful bride, the redhead wife maintaining a radiant smile throughout the proceedings, her hand never really breaking contact with her new husband.

It tugs at his heart, before he quashes it down. The pain inside, undirected, shifts slowly to anger.

He smiles to himself when the photographer’s assistant, taking advantage of the photographer adjusting the cummerbund of the groom, leans towards Sandra and whispers in her ear, nodding towards the church. Sandra looks up, a slight frown marring her perfect features, but thanks the assistant. Sandra tells the group that she needs a restroom break, and that she will be right back.

He watches her slowly make her way through the grass towards him, walking slowly because the tight skirt of her dress hampers her movements and because her tall heels tend to dig into the soil. That slowness only serves to exacerbate his arousal. His new Vessel is coming towards him, in all of her virginal splendor.

When Sandra comes through the doorway and stops to look around searching for her aunt Gwen, he steps behind her after confirming that they are alone and gingerly runs his fingers down her naked shoulder.

The contact is strong, the buzz going down his arm is chilling, and Sandra shivers at the touch and its effect. He keeps her from turning around immediately and holds her in place to admire the view before him, the way her neck is exposed by the high bun and the low-cut back of the dress, the way her waist is cinched by the corset she wears underneath, the way her ass is emphasized by the cut of the dress coming down her hips. For a moment he feels dizzy, overwhelmed by the prurient desire to push the redhead down to her knees and mount her, just like that, without ulterior motive but sheer selfish lust.

He shakes his head to clear the thought. He has a job to do, a Ministry to populate. It would be blasphemous to think otherwise. Pleasure is a distraction, possibly a sin—he looks up to the cross above the altar down at the end of the chapel he can see from where he is—and it is his duty to seed Worshippers.

“To the bathroom,” he tells Sandra, giving her the smallest of pushes. “Hurry.”

After a last look around to make sure no one is looking at them, he follows Sandra, who tries to go so fast she practically hobbles her way to the door in her unpractical dress.

Inside, he locks the door after them. Sandra has turned around, is staring at him with large eyes full of meekness and desire. She reminds him of his Lizzie, with her red hair bunched up over her head, her high cheekbones, her ruby red lips. His cock throbs, screaming for release.

“Sandra,” he tells the bride, “I am your Lord, your Savior. I am the Light that illuminates your life and reveals the Truth. You are my Servant. You are my Vessel.”

Sandra shivers, closing her eyes for a few seconds before opening them and nodding, maintaining eye contact. “I am your servant, my Lord. Your vessel.”

The way she says it makes his cock throb even harder. This is getting dangerous. She is temptation, perhaps sent to distract him from his Duty, from his Path, from his Destiny.

“Turn around,” he tells her. “We don’t have much time. Lift your skirt, and bend down over the sink.” It will be easier to resist if he does not have to look her in the eyes.

Sandra obeys without saying a word, turning around and pulling the skirt of her dress up her long legs. He unfastens his pants while she does so, pulling out his cock who responds like it has a mind of its own. He is primed, there is no doubt about it.

Sandra is having much difficulty pulling her dress up her thighs, so tight it is. She struggles, and he loses patience. He pushes her down over the sink—Sandra shrieks in surprise, then moans in pleasure—and pulls hard on the material, which rips along the slit already cut in the side. The rip goes up nearly to her waist. He does not care. He bunches the dress up over her hips, telling her to hold it in place. Part of him does wonder how she will explain her new look at the reception, but then is distracted from that line of thought.

“My, my! No panties?” he says, surprised at the sight before him. Her stockings are garter-belt thigh highs, in which the garters are built into the stockings and frame the redhead’s round and exposed ass like a prize painting. The wedding garter sits high on Sandra’s left thigh. He can see the sparse reddish hair between her legs, embracing dark pussy lips that pout away with desire.

“Rhett asked me to go without,” responds Sandra, her voice husky. “He said he’d find it kinky to know I was butt naked beneath my dress at my own wedding. Said it would provide some fuel for our wedding night later.”

He grunts at the thought. Did he just feel a wave of jealousy at the thought of Sandra and her new husband—Rhett—cavorting in their honeymoon suite? He has to snap out of it. Jealousy is beneath him. He has no business getting emotionally involved. This whole day is turning out disturbing, and possibly dangerous. All of a sudden, he is anxious. He has to finish this, and quickly.

He frees his cock, which jerks and slaps Sandra between the cheeks, prompting her to moan and reach back to grab it. She grasps it and starts jacking him off against her ass, swaying it in time with her tugs.

“Slide me in, Sandra,” he says, reaching down to pull her dress down from her chest and paw the released breasts. “Welcome your Lord into your womb for He shall impregnate you.” He squeezes her breasts, pulling her back against him.

Sandra lines his cock against her pussy and pushes back, sending the hard shaft deep inside her in one smooth motion. “Oooooh!” she moans, grinding her ass against him when he is fully inside.

Within a minute, he is fucking her with long thrusts that threaten to send her into the mirror overlooking the sink. He watches Sandra’s face twisted in bliss as she bites her upper lip to keep from crying out loud. He watches Sandra’s breasts swing with each lunge, her nipples big and red and advertising their readiness to feed the Worshipper she soon will grow within herself. He also catches sight of himself in the mirror, and avoids maintaining eye contact as much as possible.

With Sandra bucking and moaning beneath him, he realizes that he is reluctant to breach the question of the boon for her husband. Which is unfair to the man, who is generous enough to share his bountiful wife with Him and to let her bring a new Worshipper for his Ministry into the world.

He grunts under the conflicting emotions, and Sandra mistakes it for a signal to head down the finish line, and she reaches between her legs to fiddle with her clitoris while increasing the frequency and melody of her moans. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” she breathes out.

He focuses on the task at hand. He will deal with the husband afterwards. The whimpers Sandra makes with each of his thrusts merge with the sound of flesh slapping on flesh, and he instinctively puts his hands on the redhead’s hips to pull her back against him more forcefully as he starts to rut into her with added vigor. He is getting close.

Sandra herself is on her way to a massive orgasm, if her jerky movements are anything to judge by. She is still fiddling with her clitoris while at the same time squeezing one of her breasts, her eyes closed, her breath short, her mouth open. The garter has slid down her leg to pool around her ankle.

“Sandra,” he rasps, the sensation deep in his balls telling him he has to hurry, “I will now baptize you into your new faith. You will accept my Seed deep into your womb, and carry it to term so that you can bring forth a new generation of worshippers for your Lord. Tell me, do you want my Seed?”

Sandra’s initial response is a series of short bursts of breaths and a tightening of her already narrow pussy around his cock. “Yes...” she moans, thrusting back with force. “Yes! Yes!” She puts her hands up against the sink to offer more leverage. “Yes! Come deep inside me—flood me! Make me your woman, my Lord!”

He does. One strong lunge and he explodes inside her, and that act seems to trigger her own orgasm, for she stiffens and her hands clench on the sink and her mouth opens wide but no sound emerges and her pussy clamps hard on his cock and then seizes madly, milking whatever leftover Seed he has not already spurted deep in her womb.

Sandra goes limp, her knees buckling, while he is trying to catch his breath and shivers every time she moves—his cock is too damn sensitive after climax. Thanks to the pills he has taken, he is still hard, and he remains embedded inside her, stopping her pussy with his shaft, giving his Seed a chance to propagate his Godhood.

“Sandra, you are now a Vessel of your Lord.”

Sandra merely moans in response, trembling slightly with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

And now, time to deal with the husband. Who is probably starting to wonder what his darling wife is up to. He fights the battle that is raging inside him. Part of him does not want to help out the husband. He stares at the red hair pulled up in a bun atop Sandra’s head. Lizzie. He will not share Lizzie. He shakes his head. However he feels about it, he has to offer the husband his boon. Doing otherwise is to shirk duty, and even gods have to abide by rules, for otherwise the foundation for morals crumbles.

“Sandra,” he says, running his hand over her back, “tell me of your husband’s fantasies.”

“My Lord?” Sandra’s voice is tentative, as if coming from afar. Like she is not used to coming so hard, he thinks. Which both makes him proud and protective. Then he curses himself for getting attached.

“Your husband—Rhett, is it?—must have a fantasy, involving you. Something he would like you to do, would like you to be, that you are hesitant to procure, hesitant to become. Tell me, Sandra, tell me of your husband’s fantasy. Does he have a secret he doesn’t know you know?”

“My Lord,” she starts, after a moment’s hesitation. “Rhett sometimes writes fan fiction stories for a dirty web site.”

“Oh really? And what does he write?”

“Stories of girlfriends and wives with an exhibitionist fetish, showing themselves off to other men, or other women, and getting turned on.”

“Interesting. And you think Rhett’s into that?” He is still hard, and slowly starts sawing in and out of her pussy, almost as an afterthought.

“I know so,” she says, sighing and twisting her hips in time with his movements. “He’s tried to get me to wear more revealing clothes when we go out, says he loves the thought of other men looking at me and wishing they were with me. It always makes our lovemaking more vigorous afterwards when we get back.”

“Bet he’s gonna like that little alteration we made to your dress, then,” he says, thinking of the long rip that will undoubtedly bare the redhead’s long legs.

“I’m sure,” she says, moaning as his cock pushes deep inside her.

“Listen to me well, Sandra.” He grips her hips, and starts plowing into her again, picking up speed with every sentence. He knows he will not come again, and they do not have time for a prolonged make-out session, but the way her pussy grips his cock is too good to pass up. “From this point on, you will get turned on—really turned on, wet your panties on the spot turned on—when you feel men and women looking at you and wanting you. You will get off on showing off your body as much as possible. The thought of going around naked all the time, your big boobs out in the open, your pussy gaping wide open beckoning tongues and cocks, drives you crazy with lust. But you will defer to your husband for matters of dress. At the beginning of every day, you will ask him what he would like you to wear. When you go out, you will model for him different possibilities. You will bring him shopping, asking him to build you a wardrobe of the sort of things he would like to see you in. Do you understand, Sandra?”

“Yes, my Lord,” she groans, as he pounds into her with force. “Oh! I will dress the way my husband wants me to dress, and the more revealing the attire, the more men will look at me and the more turned on I will get. What... Oh! What if Rhett wants me to flash people?”

“Then, my dear Sandra, you will happily flash people, basking in the knowledge that you are admired, wanted, desired, and that will make you even hotter.”

Sandra groans louder at that, pressing herself back against him and grinding her ass into his groin. He admires the line her dress makes with her legs, the exposed posterior a soft rounded cushion for his hips to slam into on every thrust.

He cannot help putting in a little dig. Does that make him evil? Is that the first step in the slippery slope to self-damnation? He does not know—does not care at the moment. For he is a God, and he is rutting.

“In fact,” he says, watching the redhead make her way rapidly towards another orgasm, “you will have a lot of fun tonight showing yourself off at your own wedding reception, making the most of that new slit in your dress. You will bask in the knowledge that all those men are stealing glances at your legs, thinking of what it would feel like to feel those legs wrapped around them, imagining how tight your pussy is, how soft, how warm, cursing your new husband for being the lucky one to have snagged out the hot piece of ass you are. Tonight,” he ads, while Sandra’s moans grow in desperation, and her thrusts back against him start to lose their rhythm, “I want every man guest at your wedding to go away thinking you are the biggest fucking cock-tease they’ve ever laid eyes on. We’ll see how your dear Rhett feels about that!”

Sandra comes—he does not know exactly what she is thinking, what has gotten to her, whether she has deeply held exhibitionist fantasies of her own, but he reaches out quickly and puts a hand over her mouth to muffle her screams. He cannot not risk being discovered. They would not understand.

His hard cock is still embedded deep into the spasming pussy of the redhead who is going slack against him, a line of sweat sliding down her forehead. She is beautiful, of course—every bride is, it is part of the ritual. And now she is a Vessel.

There is no time to waste. He pulls out with a twinge of regret, as he would have liked to enjoy her more leisurely, and fastens his trousers. “Sandra, clean up, and go back to your husband.” His timing is impeccable, because just as Sandra is straightening up and readjusting her dress—that ripped slit up her side does bare a cock-hardening amount of white flesh—there is a knock on the bathroom door.

“Sandy? You in there? Are you okay?”

A man’s voice. Probably Rhett, he figures. He leans towards Sandra, and whispers in her ear. “Sandra, you will go out and apologize to your husband. You will not remember me being in here with you—all you will remember is coming in here and making a decision to be more daring, to be more revealing, because you finally realized that it turns you on, and it turns your husband on. As far as you are concerned, it will all be your idea, a product of a long reflection. Do not answer me back. Wait for me to be in the stall, and then leave. Do not let him enter the bathroom.”

Without waiting for an answer, he crosses the bathroom trying to make as little noise as possible and enters the stall, climbing on the toilet just in case Rhett manages to peek in. He hears Sandra unlock and open the door.

“Sandy! Are you okay? You look... my gosh! What happened to your dress?”

“Rhett, my love! I’m fine. I just... I just had a crazy wicked idea. I hope you won’t mind...”

He cannot hear the rest, as the voices fade with the door of the bathroom closing. He allows himself a sigh of relief.

Today has been an infuriatingly close day.

And his cock is still maddeningly hard in his pants.

(Charleston, West Virginia. Six months ago.)

“No. Not quite.”

Elizabeth Bowden looked at Shelley Caskill, her longtime friend, and sighed. “What’s wrong with this one?” She looked at herself in the mirror, liking the way the wedding dress fit her, with its open top showing off her collarbone, the embroidered corset doing just enough to push her chest upwards and hint at cleavage, the widening skirt with its satin shine. She turned to the side, and ran her hand over her flat stomach.

Shelley shook her head. “I sill maintain you should wear something shorter.”

“Shel, this is my wedding—it’s not prom.”

“Sweetie, when you got it, you flaunt it. You said it, it’s your wedding—it’s your day. Time to show off. Time to make sure every guy knows exactly what they won’t be in the running for no more. And,” she added with a sly grin, “I bet you anything you want that prom dress you wore back then it still causing hard-ons to this day. Hell, if I had your legs, I wouldn’t wear anything that went down further than my ass.”

Elizabeth laughed and shot Shelley a you-don’t-fool-me glance. “You never wear anything past your ass, Shel.” She made it a point to eye the short sundress that her friend wore and which exposed an impressive expanse of flesh.

“Yeah, but if I had your legs, then guys would flock to me.”

“Guys flock to you all the time, Shel.”

“Ah! Guys flock to me because I’m easy, not because of my legs.”

Elizabeth shook her head. This was not a new argument, more like a dance routine in which every dancer knew their steps. “Well, I like this one,” she said, turning around to look at herself from the back over her shoulder.

Shelley grunted, and turned to the salesgirl who was moving mirrors around so Elizabeth could look at her backside without destroying her vertebrae. “I think I saw this dress in a version with a long tighter skirt instead of the princess one?”

The salesgirl nodded. “Yes. Would you like to try it?” she asked Elizabeth.

“Yes, she does,” answered Shelley.

The salesgirl looked at Elizabeth and Shelley in turn, and when Elizabeth shrugged and smiled, the salesgirl went to look for the dress.

Shelley stepped up on the platform to help her friend disrobe, her short blonde hair giving her a mischievous air that fit the young woman perfectly. Back in high school, Elizabeth recalled, Shelley’s hair, still blonde, was long and flowing while her own red hair was shorter. Shelley cut her hair early in their college years, while Elizabeth grew hers to the long and curly look she favored these days.

Shelley, pulling down the tight corset’s zipper, looked up in the mirror to see her friend looking back at her. “What?” she asked.

“Just thinking about high school. And college,” replied Elizabeth.

Shelley snorted. “I know you’re getting married, sweetie, but you’re a bit young for the nostalgia bit.”

“It’s not nostalgia. It’s just... You know I love you, right?”

Shelled stopped as she pulled down Elizabeth’s dress, letting it slink down to her waist. Her eyes dropped down to the lacy blue bra Elizabeth had on. “You so need some sexy lingerie for your wedding day. White, too. Pure white. Virginal white. And for once in this crazy world, that’s going to be appropriate.”

She raised her eyes, and Elizabeth was surprised to see tears pooling on her lower lids. “I love you too, you silly goose.” And she hugged Elizabeth.

They were interrupted by the salesgirl returning with the requested dress, but the young girl seemed unconcerned by the display of emotion.

Elizabeth stepped out of her dress to switch it for the new one.

Shelley whistled. “Damn, Lizzie, you still have a rockin’ body. Breaks my heart.”

“Right—like you really let yourself go, Shel.”

Shelley took the dress that the salesgirl handed her and gave her a weighty glance, and the girl understood immediately and disappeared, leaving the two friends alone.

“Ah!” Shelley snorted once more as she helped Elizabeth step into the new dress. “I’ve got to keep up my shape—not all of us have hooked a prime fish on our bait like you have.”

Elizabeth sighed. The short-haired blonde nursed her body carefully through many hours at the gym and regular triathlons with the odd marathon thrown in for good measure. She had a hard, toned body that looked like it belonged in an Italian courtyard, preferably sculpted by Michelangelo. How she could prefer Elizabeth’s body—rounder, softer—was a mystery to the redhead.

“You’ll find your man,” said Elizabeth. “I have no worries.”

Shelley shrugged, pulling the tight dress up around Elizabeth’s waist and lining up the sides of the corset.

“We’ll see. Honestly, if I can just get Ronaldo to call me within a week of us getting together, I’d consider myself satisfied.”

“You’re still seeing him?”

“Seeing is a bit strong. We cross paths once in a while—the odd race, the odd bike event. Sparks fly, and then it’s back to our corners to recuperate before the next round.”

“Commitment-phobia?”

“I think it’s not so much commitment he’s got a problem with, but me. He likes me—but I also infuriate him. I don’t think he’s equipped to deal with me. That I race and that I often beat him makes me an odd creature, but that I’m independent with my own career just sticks in his craw if he thinks about it too much. He’s brought in a lot of the Old Country with him from Spain, and I’m not quite what Mommy Dearest wanted for him, a good wifey that would stay home and raise the kids and wait for him with stars in her eyes.”

“So he’s not hot for an aerospace engineer on the fast track to take over her division and on her way to make human space travel to Mars possible?”

Shelley was pulling up the zipper in the back of the dress.

“I don’t think he knows how to deal with it. It’s like he doesn’t really think it’s serious. Like he thinks I’m doing it just to pass the time until I find myself a good man and settle down and be a good catholic mother. Like he thinks my bosses are just playing along, indulging the silly little girl until she realizes the truth and leaves the serious stuff to real men.”

Shelley was heating up, and Elizabeth could not help but grin at the image that Shelley was painting. Shelley had been a spitfire in school, and she and Elizabeth had partied hard and had milked their years both in high school and in college for all they were worth, but Shelley had worked even harder than she partied, and finished top of her class in mechanical engineering so far above the next candidate that her name was still whispered in the hallways of the Mechanical and Aerospace Engineering department at West Virginia University. The thought of Shelley—who could verbally rip apart a poorly thought-out design in less time it took to physically rip the blueprints it might be printed on—whiling away the time until a man would take her away from her delusions of space travel to a life of gleeful domesticity was risible.

“I’m going to regret asking this,” said Elizabeth, “but why are you still giving him the light of day if he’s so... what’s the word?”

“Chauvinistic? Old-fashioned? Backwards?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“The sex, sweetie—the sex is just out of this world. The guy is a god in the sack. He’s got this big dick that stretches you out just right, that gets in and fills all the nooks and crannies, and when he starts pounding with it, he just batters the very air out of your lungs. And you know how crazy I get for a big dick backed by a guy who knows just how to use it...”

The look Shelley gave Elizabeth carried so much history that the redhead, already shaken emotionally by the dress shopping experience—which cemented the reality of her upcoming nuptials down the road six months from then, but who was counting really?—felt a few tears of her own in her eyes.

Shelley must have noticed, because she stopped fiddling with getting the sleeves of the dress perfectly right and hugged her friend from behind once more, and Elizabeth melted into the hug and wrapped the blonde’s arm around herself like a blanket.

To try to lighten the atmosphere, Elizabeth quipped. “Of course I remember. What was his name? Harry? Harry Mulholland, I think”

Shelley grinned. “Oh yeah—Harry the Mule. Dick as long as my forearm and nearly as thick. God, you know, I still get soaking wet thinking about him? I’m sorry you never got to experience him—when he pushes into you for the first time of the night and he forces it in and your pussy finally gives in and spread wide open, it’s like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.”

“I remember exactly what his dick looked like, thank you very much, and I also remember you screaming like a banshee when he thrust into you.”

“Screams of joy, sweetie.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Pain—joy—two words, one concept. He made me come, and come hard, didn’t he?”

“Was that what it was? I thought those were epileptic fits.”

“Oh, mock, mock, mock. But I distinctly recall you not making fun of it when you were slobbering all over his third arm after he was done with me.”

“Really? I though you passed out after he fucked you.”

“Not passed out enough to fail to notice that the Mule was too much even for the Deep Throat Queen of Kanawha County.”

“Not for lack of trying, for sure,” Elizabeth responded, a light blush spreading to her cheeks. Those were good memories, and much to her dismay she could feel herself getting damp between her legs. Almost automatically, she started plotting how she should steal a moment with Greg later that day; perhaps she could convince him to take a mid-afternoon coffee break if he was too busy with meetings.

“No shit,” said Shelley, a flush coming to her own cheeks. Her arms tightened around Elizabeth, and her hands pressed against the redhead’s sides. “I thought you’d choke yourself on that much meat. I swear your throat was bulging—and there was what, at least four, five inches left to go? There was so much spit dripping down to your tits, sweetie, it was disgusting—and very very hot.” She pushed her hands up Elizabeth’s chest, which did nothing to help the redhead’s increased arousal.

“Harry certainly seemed to enjoy it,” she said, her breathing accelerating. He nearly killed me when he started fucking my mouth—I don’t think he was quite thinking straight.”

“Who would? There he was, with his cock almost balls deep into the redhead with the hottest mouth on campus, kneeling before him and slobbering all over his tool with her perky tits hanging out, after fucking the hottest blonde on campus into oblivion, and getting ready to do it all over again.” Shelley’s hands had reached Elizabeth’s breasts, and were squeezing hard through the tight corset which seemed specifically designed to emphasize a woman’s assets.

Elizabeth moaned in response, and gave a quick glance to see if the salesgirl had come back before closing her eyes and enjoying her girlfriend’s caress. “Shel, the salesgirl could come back any minute...”

“Let her. She’s cute. I wouldn’t mind spreading those scrawny legs of hers and seeing how she enjoys some good old-fashioning pussy licking.”

“Shel, you’re an oversexed slut, you know that?”

“Oh, look who’s talking—” One of Shelley’s hands dipped down to Elizabeth’s crotch. The skirt, straight and tight down to Elizabeth’s heels, had a long slit that came almost obscenely high on her thigh, and Shelley slipped a hand through it and touched Elizabeth’s naked thigh. The redhead shiver. I’m definitely finding Greg after this, she thought, meetings or no meetings. And in six months time—but who’s counting?—he’ll be able to plow into me the way I want him to.

“So, how’s Greg?” asked Shelley, breaking into Elizabeth’s dreams and fantasies of being taken, and taken hard, the way she had seen her best friend being taken so many times over their many adventures.

“Greg? He’s fine, what do—”

“No, you silly goose. In bed—how’s he in bed? And what caliber is he packing?”

“Oh! He’s good—better than good. He’s got a wonderfully flexible tongue, and magic fingers. And he can play me like a piano. And his cock is quite nice, thank you. Not a monster like the Mule—nice, straight, thick, just the right fit for my hand and my mouth, and for my pussy. Reminds me a lot of that freshman we cornered back at Christmas that year, you remember?”

“Oh yeah. Sweet kid. Brandon something, right?”

The way Shelley said his name made Elizabeth curious. “I think you’re right. Brandon. He fell for you pretty hard that night.”

“I seem to recall he was very fond of you throating him, Lizzie.”

“Only until you straddled him and pushed your dirty little cunt into his face and made him tongue-fuck you before you jumped his bone.”

Elizabeth saw Shelley blush lightly, something she had rarely seen her friend do, and she wanted to ask further, but then Shelley’s fingers finally sneaked their way to Elizabeth’s panties and underneath the gusset and touched the dripping folds of her pussy and caused the redhead to moan.

“Do you think one day we’ll double-team that hubby of yours?” asked Shelley.

“Ah! So you can snatch him away with your wily pussy?”

“Lizzie, sweetie, by that point, he’ll have sampled yours,” replied Shelley, her fingers teasing the opening as she talked about it, “and it’s going to be pristine and new and so fuckin’ tight that he’ll have no consideration for any other so you have nothing to fear.”

Elizabeth snorted, but did not argue with her friend. “Anyway, I don’t think Greg’s quite ready to hear about all of my adventures.”

Shelley looked at her friend’s face in the mirror, and her smile had a naughty twist to it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, right? Come on, Lizzie—aside from the fact that no heterosexual male has the ability to pass up the chance to take the One-Two Screw Crew to bed, I’ve seen that look in his eyes, your Greg. He might be all sweet and nice and innocent, but there’s a little pervert inside screaming to get out. Trust me—you know I can spot them—and Greg’s one of ‘em. I don’t know what sort of fantasies that fiancé of yours has in that good little catholic boy heart of his, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a threesome. ”

“I don’t know, Shel...”

Shelley’s fingers were dancing over Elizabeth’s lips and once in a while would dip upwards to tease a hardened clitoris begging for attention. Elizabeth was having difficulty staying upright, and found herself leaning back into her friend, at the same time providing the blonde ever greater access.

Fuck, I had forgotten just how good she can be with her fingers, thought Elizabeth in a haze.

“Imagine this, Lizzie,” continued the blonde. “After the wedding, after Greg’s finally popped your cherry, after you’ve drained your new husband dry, I come in and join you—I’m sure we can give him some new life upon seeing his new bride and her maid of honor dyking it out, all dressed up in wedding paraphernalia—guys go crazy for that stuff, you know that, and Greg’s not gonna be any different.”

“Shel...”

“It’ll be like in the good old days—the One-Two Screw Crew back in action, getting it on while a guy looks on, until he can’t help himself and jump in the fray. Except this time—” and Shelley punctuated her statement by pressing the tip of her finger between her friend’s lips, breaching her pussy and eliciting a deep moan from the redhead, “this time, you’ll be the one with your legs wrapped around the guy’s waist, getting plowed by a thick cock while I’ll be the cum-craving slut slobbering all over it afterwards while it’s still wet with your juices.”

Elizabeth shivered and trembled under Shelley’s treatment and her words—she could see it way too easily, her Greg rutting inside her, fucking her hard, her legs wrapped in fine white stockings clinging to him, her hands clasping his shoulders, shivering in orgasm after orgasm as he unloads deep inside her, and then her best friend, her dear best friend with her naughty fingers and even naughtier tongue swoops in and cleans off her new husband’s cock and sets about to get him hard again for yet another round of debauchery. And Elizabeth knew that she would let her best friend fuck her husband, and she would play with the blonde’s small breasts while she did so, and shivered at her husband’s reaction and realization at exactly what kind of girl he had married, and she also knew, deep down inside, that Shelley was right, and that Greg would unleash his inner animal, his inner repressed self, and that he would embrace it, embrace her, all of her.

She turned her head and Shelley’s face was right there next to her, and her lips were there, close by, rosy and wet and smiling, and Elizabeth leaned forward and her lips pressed her best friend’s and they kissed, softly but with growing passion, and the kiss stifled the moan that rose from Elizabeth’s throat as Shelley’s fingers found their target and drummed a slow burning orgasm from the redhead who would have collapsed as her knees buckled had Shelley not held her up.

By the time the salesgirl returned to see how Elizabeth was faring, the two women had readjusted their clothes, Elizabeth was breathing normally, and Shelley was smiling while sucking the tip of one of her fingers, a smile on her face.

“We’ll take the dress,” said Elizabeth.