The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Adventures of Rania

Part Five: Boy Crush

Categories: mc, mf, md, hm, nc, ds
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The story so far: Rania, a 20-year-old Princeton student who is also the princess of the small Arabic country of Kazeb, became the victim of the obsession of her brother Nasser, the king, and was subjected to the brutal brainwashing process that was used to create slaves in her father’s father’s day. She emerged as her brother’s helpless plaything, trained to arouse and give pleasure, and incapable of disobedience (or speech). When a coup resulted in her brother’s execution, Rania was smuggled out of the palace and sold to common slavers in Libya. Picked up for a song in Sudan by a discerning South African middleman who discovered many of her hidden talents, she was resold, for considerable profit, to Charles Carling, a New York aristocrat who dabbles in slaveowning. Cicely Scott, a beautiful 20-year-old who knew Rania at Princeton, persuaded her boyfriend Berling to lend Rania to her, and exposed the princess’s degradation to their circle of college friends. But Carling’s violent death prompted Cecily to turn Rania over to her persistent college suitor Paul Robbins and his friend Steve, who are driving cross-country with their attractive cargo....

* * *

Paul and Rania stood in their motel room, 30 miles east of Knoxville. Steve had taken the room next door. Rania was still dressed in her French maid outfit, partially covered by one of Paul’s sweaters.

“Let’s see if you have anything normal to wear,” said Paul, opening the trunk into which Cecily had chucked every single item that had the slightest connection to Rania. But the French maid outfit was Rania’s most conservative wardrobe. Paul was disturbed as he pawed through the array of fetishwear and erotic toys that came with his beloved, as if she were an accessorized sex doll. He was desperately attracted to Rania, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her in her current helpless condition. His idea was to treat her with tenderness and respect until the brainwashing wore off and she returned to normal.

Still, he couldn’t help wondering what she looked like in that wispy babydoll....

Paul stood up and faced Rania, who looked at him as if she was begging to be fucked. “Rania, don’t worry—I’m not going to touch you,” he said. “Let’s get you all better, and then we’ll see...I mean...” It was difficult for Paul to stand so close to Rania without reaching out to her. “Well, you know how I feel about you, of course,” he said. “But I want what’s best for you.”

He touched her on the shoulder, with emotion. Rania immediately threw herself into his arms.

“Oh, Rania,” he said, holding her tight. “I love you so.” Everything happened very quickly. Rania slid a hand down Paul’s stomach and toward his crotch; before it reached its destination, Paul had popped a button on Rania’s blouse in his haste to get at her breasts.

For one night at least, Rania had found someone she could not wear down in bed. Paul had been dreaming of Rania’s body for two years, and he dove into its soft flesh as if he would never leave. He was a romantic fellow, and he tried to fuck Rania gently, gazing into her eyes and telling her over and over again that he loved her. But Rania was too hot and urgent, and worked her mobile hips around and over him so that his slow thrusts always turned into frenzied rutting. If he caressed her breast, he found it in his mouth; if he kissed her stomach, he somehow ended with her writhing, wet sex in his face. As the night wore on, he became less inhibited about using his beloved’s body, and even ventured to realize his long-held fantasy of fucking Rania’s breasts. The experience was everything he had hoped for: Rania lubricated her cleavage with her own juices, squeezed her breasts tight around his sex, and rippled her back muscles to slide him back and forth through the vast, soft sheath of her chest.

Lying in bed in the morning, Paul didn’t feel especially guilty about abandoning his plan of temporary abstinence. After all, Rania had obviously enjoyed herself. But, deep down, something didn’t feel right. He was actually a bit conservative, sexually speaking; as ecstatic as his long night with Rania had been, it had been more the kind of night he imagined having with a prostitute than with the woman he loved. But his nagging dissatisfaction vanished when his arm accidentally touched Rania, and the sleeping girl rolled toward him and pushed his hand between her moist thighs. “Oh, honey,” he said, instantly overcome by emotion, which turned into lust in the space of a few seconds.

Steve knocked on the door at 8:30. The fugitives from justice had planned an early getaway, but no one had gotten enough sleep to wake up at dawn.

“So you switched to Plan B?” Steve said.

“Could you hear us?” asked Paul groggily.

“It was like you were in the room with me.”

Paul didn’t want Rania’s maid outfit to draw attention, so he insisted on running to a nearby Wal-Mart to buy some clothes, leaving Rania in Steve’s care. No sooner was the car out of the motel parking lot than Steve had dropped his pants and ordered Rania to approach him. Still half asleep, Rania found her mouth plastered around Steve’s morning erection.

“Turn it up to 11, Rania,” said Steve. “We’ve got to finish before Paul...oh, Christ!”

Paul didn’t know much about women’s clothes, and wandered into the juniors section, where he picked out sports clothes in size S. As a result, Rania looked about as conspicuous in the new outfit as she did as a French maid—the bra Paul bought was unusable, and the sweatshirt and sweatpants were skintight and left acres of flesh exposed. Along with the leather high heels from the French maid outfit (Paul had forgotten about footwear), the new clothes made Rania look like an inexpensive whore. But there was no time to shop again, and the fugitives hit the highway. Paul’s strategy was to go to the remotest place he could find, and live quietly there until his loving care snapped Rania out of whatever was troubling her. He knew that going to the authorities would get Cicely in trouble; and anyway, he didn’t want Ranya taken away and locked in an asylum somewhere where he couldn’t reach her.

At night, the trio stopped at a motel off of I-20, somewhere east of Shreveport. Paul’s vague thoughts of going back to his original, chaste game plan went out the window as soon as he found himself alone in the room with Rania. Their lovemaking was a bit less crazed than on the previous evening, but also more adventurous, and somewhat rougher. Paul spent the daytime hours lost in romantic, adoring fantasies, but when he actually got his hands on that overripe, yielding little body, he couldn’t resist the impulse to do dirty, aggressive things to it. And however far he pushed her, Rania seemed to want more, licking and sucking him into a frenzy. He had never had anal sex in his life, and didn’t think he was interested, but no sooner had he thrown Rania into bed than he started working his way into her ass; Rania helped ease the penetration with her sex juices, and was reamed mercilessly for her efforts. Afterwards, Paul freaked out a little and spent the better part of an hour cleaning himself up; but his disgust turned into passion again as soon as Rania undulated into his arms. Returning to the good old missionary position, he fucked Rania so hard that her head banged repeatedly against the headboard. Rania was dizzy and achy from the blows to the head, but she could not stop herself from squirming and thrusting her hips, and Paul believed she was enjoying herself. And some part of her must have been, because her sex was so wet that she left a big spot on the sheets.

Lying next to her afterwards, Paul said, “You know, Rania, you don’t have to do everything that other people want you to.” He sounded a bit irritated. Rania, her head still throbbing, could see what was going on inside Paul’s mind more clearly than he could. Nonetheless, she automatically arched her back at the sound of his voice, pushing her soft breasts to within a few inches of his face, even though she knew it was exactly the wrong thing to do. Paul rolled to his side, away from her.

In the morning, things generally looked a bit better to Paul. Feeling safer now that he had put almost 1500 miles between himself and New York, he decided to take Rania shopping for some decent clothes, with Steve tagging along. This time he made Rania try everything on, to avoid miscalculations. While she was putting on a loose-fitting blouse, Paul’s eye lit on a very brief pair of hot pants, and he handed them to Rania after her return from the changing room. “Here—this will be for you to wear for me in private,” he said with a smile.

By the time the shopping was over, Paul had selected quite a bit of private wear for Rania, including a few dramatic push-up bras and halter tops. (The tube tops he wanted to buy would not stay on Rania’s very mobile breasts, as Paul discovered to his embarrassment.) A small group of employees and shoppers began to loiter in the woman’s wear dressing rooms, waiting for Rania’s appearances. As he was thinking that it was time to leave, Paul saw a young female employee run out of the dressing rooms, visibly perturbed, tucking one of her breasts back into her blouse, with lipstick smeared comically all over her face. She had made the mistake of complimenting Rania on an outfit and touching her on the shoulder to adjust a strap; before she knew it, Rania’s tongue was in her mouth and her hands were on her breasts. The extent of the lipstick damage indicated that the girl had not put an immediate stop to her first lesbian encounter.

Paul and Steve dragged Rania to the checkout and made a quick getaway, heading west on I-20. “I don’t understand you, Rania,” he said crossly. “Don’t you know what that kind of behavior looks like?” “Well, what do you expect is going to happen when you take her out in public?” said Steve. “She has to learn self-control,” said Paul. Rania, still flushed from her interrupted excitement, fidgeted in her seat. No one said much all the way across Texas, which is a long time to keep quiet.

That night, in a motel somewhere in the west of Texaa, Paul told Rania to put on a halter top, hot pants and her leather boots, then fucked her against the motel wall, thrusting hard and showing her no affection. Walking away from her without a word, he felt unclean, the way he had on the few occasions when he had visited prostitutes. This rescue was not working out the way he’d expected.

He felt an urge to go to the bathroom. Turning around, he saw Rania in the whorish outfit he had dressed her in, still up against the wall, her hairy sex visible on one side of the dislodged hot pants, a trickle of Paul’s semen running down her thigh. She looked longingly at him. Wearily, he touched her on the arm, forgetting that this would cue the sticky, sweaty princess to wrap herself around him.

“Rania, stop it!” he yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushed her to the ground. Rania looked up at him from a kneeling position, her face in front of his crotch, making little wet movements with her mouth. In a fit of unthinking anger, Paul shoved his cock in her mouth and urinated down her throat.

It was hard to find a sexual indignity that had not already been visited upon Rania. Fouaz’s trainers had given her practice at being a human toilet: she drank the urine down so rapidly that only a few drops escaped from the corner of her mouth and dribbled down her chin. All the while she looked up at Paul seductively.

When it was over, Paul was completely horrified with himself. Rania, noticing that the act had almost restored Paul’s erection, began working her mouth around it.

“Rania!” shouted Paul, pulling away. “That’s disgusting!” Rania remained on her knees, making little provocative movements. “Go wash your mouth out, now!” he said. In a flash Rania was at the bathroom sink. Paul felt incredibly dirty, and immediately wished that he had washed himself before sending Rania into the bathroom. It was an act of will for him to sleep in the same bed as Rania, and he did not touch her for the rest of the night.

The next afternoon, the trio pushed into New Mexico. Paul had gotten about as far from civilization as he wanted to, and began looking for a place where they could stay for a while, even though his doubts about rehabilitating Rania were troubling him.

At a truck stop near the Arizona border, Paul and Steve took Rania to use the ladies’ room, then left her there for a moment while they got snacks in the convenience store. This was a big mistake, as they discovered when they found Rania on her knees behind the washrooms, giving a blowjob to a trucker.

Livid and shouting obscenities, Paul dragged Rania off of the trucker, who fled in embarrassment, though he was twice Paul’s size. Paul shoved Rania into the back seat, and the boys sped off.

“You fucking whore!” Paul screamed at Rania. He was shaking, and would not calm down.

“Dude, pull over—I’m going to drive,” said Steve. He had to threaten Paul with violence to make him comply.

As the sun was setting, the trio arrived at a remote national park in southwest Arizona, which they had picked earlier as their destination. Paul had brooded in silence all day, and Steve was hoping that he would head to a distant corner of the park and leave Rania unattended. Steve had been using Rania as a blowjob dispenser at every opportunity, but there hadn’t been enough opportunities for his taste.

However, as soon as the car pulled into its assigned spot in the camping area, Paul grabbed Rania by the arm and dragged her off into the darkness. While Steve waited irritably in the car, Paul found an isolated spot, ripped Rania clothes off, and fucked her on a picnic table.

“Where’s Rania?” asked Steve when Paul returned on his own.

“Who gives a fuck,” said Paul, grabbing his sleeping bag and walking away. A few minutes later Rania returned to the camp area, stark naked. Paul had thrown her clothes away, and she couldn’t find them in the dark.

“Yo, Paul!” yelled Steve. “There’s a naked chick here looking for you!” When he received no response, Steve assumed that Paul had wandered far away, and ordered Rania to suck him off before he zipped her into a sleeping bag for the night.

Paul was only twenty yards away, though, well within hearing distance. The next morning, Steve found his and Rania’s luggage on the ground next to where their car used to be. Paul was already three hours away, on the road back to New York, cured at last of his long obsession with Rania.

Steve walked over to Rania’s sleeping bag. The naked girl was lying still, as ordered, her extravagant curves visible even through the thick bag. “Looks as if it’s just you and me now, Rania,” he said. A few trailers were parked within eyeshot of them, and their elderly inhabitants were up with the sun and milling about. Steve pulled a pair of shorts and a skimpy top out of Rania’s luggage, and pushed them down into the bag, leaving them between Rania’s breasts. “See if you can stay in the bag while you put these on,’ he said. Rania started wriggling and moaning when Steve touched her chest, but she was too constrained by the bag to stop him from withdrawing his arm and walking away. He sat on a picnic table, contemplating his options while watching poor Rania undulating in the narrow bag, trying to get into the tight little garments without unzipping herself.

Being stranded in the middle of the Sonoran desert without a car is certainly an annoyance, but Steve had just as much plastic as Paul did, and he eventually managed to get transportation to Ajo to rent another vehicle. He decided to remain at the park for a few days, playing with Rania and pondering the situation. He enjoyed fucking Rania, but got more pleasure from the concept of her total pliability than he did from the act itself. One orgasm was pretty much like another to him.

Late one night, after the old people had retired to their trailers, Steve sat by his Coleman burner, relaxing and watching Rania play games with her breasts. At the moment, she was standing a few feet away from him, topless in black panties, hands behind her head, twirling her breasts in opposite directions like a burlesque performer. Steve had always liked this trick, and Rania had picked it up quickly.

Steve had been thinking that it might be fun to be a pimp for a while. No one in this part of the world except him knew that Rania was a Princeton undergraduate and some kind of Arabic royalty. She actually looked quite a lot like a Mexican whore in the trashy outfits that Cecily and Paul had dressed her in. And she certainly acted like a whore, or at least like every guy’s fantasy of a whore. If one wanted to check out the criminal life, what more anonymous part of the country could one choose?

“What do you think, Rania?” he said idly. “As long as you’re a zombie anyway, we might as well make some money off of you.”

Rania gave Steve a sexy look and leaned a bit forward, as if trying to bring the orbit of her breasts closer to him. She knew Steve’s plan, because it amused him to have one-sided conversations with her. The idea of selling her body for money was a mere technicality to her at this point. She was so relieved to be rid of Paul that she was almost looking forward to a life of simple degradation.

Still, it was humiliating to be bouncing around helplessly at the command of her former classmate, and her chest was getting quite achy.

* * *

Steve and Rania headed west into the California desert, where he began observing the action at truck stops. The technique he developed was to stand Rania in a visible place in the parking lot, dressed in something slutty, and to wait at a distance. When a customer approached Rania, he would move in and negotiate a deal, using phrases he’d heard in movies. He would explain that Rania couldn’t speak, but was a great little lay nonetheless. After an awkward first day trying to cope with the problem of where to consummate the transactions, Steve returned the rental car and leased a tiny trailer. It was a bit of an investment, but he was having fun.

Rania was a big hit with the truck drivers. The sight of her in a push-up bra and low-cut top was the sort of thing a man didn’t expect to see more than a few times in his life, and certainly not at a truck stop. Her customers would have been more than happy just to pull on her breasts a few times while fucking her, and were amazed to find her sopping wet and ready to use every inch of her body to serve them. Steve had to keep an eye on his watch and interrupt the act, as Rania would of course do whatever she could to keep the johns in bed. For the most part everyone was cooperative, paid up, and got out when requested. Steve couldn’t work the same truck stop for more than two days in a row, or else crowds would start to collect.

At nights, Steve would take Rania to bars, checking out possible new markets. He had the bright idea of entering Rania in an amateur strip contest, and she brought the house down, despite some difficulty wriggling out of her bra. Steve was able to rent her out to a few of her admirers after the contest, taking them out to the trailer parked on a side street.

This new routine came to an abrupt halt one evening in San Bernardino, when Steve pimped out Rania on the turf of a gang with its own prostitution business. Steve was beaten pretty badly, and fled in the trailer, his days as a desperado over. He boarded a plane back to the East Coast the next day.

Rania became the property of the street gang. They didn’t hurt her much for whoring on their turf—there was no point in hurting someone so submissive and eager to please. While trying to figure out what to do with a mute, retarded prostitute, the gang members took her to a house that served as their headquarters, and put her through several days of relentless sexual initiation. What started as a punishment turned into a long orgy, as the gang members discovered that Rania’s capacity for sex was seemingly inexhaustible.

Eventually Rania was installed in a small room in a fleabag hotel. The gang brought johns to the room, briefed them on Rania’s deficiencies and fine points, and escorted them out afterwards. The business end of the operation was fairly efficient, and Rania found herself fucking a great many strange men each day. It was a rough life, but, once Rania realized that she wouldn’t be hurt, she accepted the routine. All things considered, the life of an anonymous and well-protected whore was as much as she could hope for now.

The gang was endlessly amused by Rania, and liked to keep her around the house when she wasn’t on the job. Her kneejerk sexual reactions were a bit hit with the boys: they never got tired of groping and goosing her, to watch her moan in pleasure and throw herself at whoever had touched her last. One weekend Rania found herself naked and face down on the grubby carpet while a tattoo artist put the gang’s mark of ownership on her right ass cheek. Rania shed tears as the needle pricked her again and again: she had never liked tattoos. But she had been told to lie still, and there was nothing she could do. Afterwards, she was ordered to fuck the artist as payment.

At one weekend party at the gang’s house, after having satisfied the needs of a great many of the attendees, Rania was injected with heroin by one of the gangsters, just for kicks. The euphoric effect of the drug mixed in an odd way with the perpetual hyperawareness and anxiety that the princess’s training had instilled in her.

In the wee hours of the morning, one of the gang members stumbled into a little room in the back of the house and found Rania, naked, her eyes half closed, lying on the couch, her legs still spread wide open from her last fuck. The boy felt a momentary pang of lust as he looked at Rania’s wet, pouting sex, but decided he was too tired to do anything about it, and flopped into a chair.

Rania watched him through heavy eyelids. She said, “Do you want me to do anything?”

The boy stared at her and sat up. Rania said, “What’s wrong? Don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Yo, bitch! You can talk?” the boy said.

“Yes,” said Rania. Her English had only the slightest trace of an accent.

“I thought you was deaf and dumb.”

Rania looked puzzled and sleepy at the same time.

“What’s your name?” said the boy.

“Rania.”

“Rania? Shit. What kind of name is that?”

“It’s Arabic,” said Rania.

“Arabic? Are you an A-rab?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Motherfuck,” said the boy. He pondered this new development. “Well, Rania, or whatever the fuck your name is, get your ass over here and suck my dick.”

Rania was very unsteady on her feet, but she got up immediately and crawled over to the boy’s crotch. After she had gotten him hard, the boy pulled Rania astride him, and she rode him as enthusiastically as she could, given her opiated condition. Throughout the act, she kept up a steady stream of chatter that sounded almost involuntary. “Ohhh...is this what you want? If you want something else, just tell me! Ohhh, I’m going to come! Ohhh...just tell me what to do, I’ll do anything you want me to!”

“Shut up, bitch,” the boy finally said. “You was better silent.”

Rania completed her ministrations without another word. After the boy shot his load inside her, he pushed her back onto the couch, put his sex back into his pants, and went to sleep. Rania sank back into a stupor. Her hand made a little motion toward her crotch, then stopped dead as she remembered that masturbation was forbidden. After 15 disoriented minutes, she drifted off.

The next afternoon, the gangsters tried to get Rania to speak again. But it was no longer possible. They slapped her around a little, then gave up and sent her back to her hotel room and her busy schedule of appointments.