The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

But I Don’t Really Want This, Chapter 31

They’re hiking in the desert, the sun beating down. They had left the air conditioned car just ten minutes before, but she is already getting very sweaty. Booted and socked feet, the back of her legs, armpits, breasts, back, shoulders. Anywhere in contact with her hiking bag and bra or their straps, the weight they are carrying not helping.

Now a gorge. Narrow, deep, steep overhanging walls providing shelter. A dried out stream. Other people taking advantage of the shade. As much as might be expected along a designated hiking trail. Not crowded.

The gorge twists and turns, never more than 50 meters of visibility ahead. They turn a corner and the walls come together suddenly. Only a narrow passage allows access to the other side. Other people are here. Queuing. Passing their bags through before sidling in, shoulder first. Will and Nicole exchange hellos and wait their turn. They can see the narrow section is about 4 meters long. Some people join the queue behind them.

Will goes first, leading with his left shoulder, carrying his heavy satchel ahead of him in his left hand. The bag takes some damage from the sides as he forces it through. On the other side he puts it down and comes back—this time leading with his right—just far enough to accept Nicole’s bag from her in his right hand. He brings it through behind him.

Now it’s her turn. She aims her left shoulder at the gap knowing she is going to have a problem. Her head is turned to the left, looking at what is to come, but at the last moment she hears laughter behind her and turns to the right to see. Two groups. Some teen girls and a stag party. Why is a stag party hiking in the desert? Everyone is waiting for her, but not impatiently. Expectantly. How’s this going to work, they wonder.

Once upon a time this would have been easy for her. But the rock is rough and sharp against her twice-augmented breasts.

No wait, she thinks, that’s not the fantasy.

The rock is smooth and weathered by flood waters. The entire character of the gorge changes in her minds eye. No more jagged edges, just smoothly polished layers of colored sediments. It’s beautiful here. Despite this, the surface is still rock, and has high friction. Her breasts are dragged to the right as she moves to the left. Why did I decide to go hiking without a bra? It makes no sense!

She can no longer turn her head back to the left, to see where she is going, the passage is to narrow at head height. She can’t decide where to direct her eyes. The girls turn to each other to hide their laughs. The men stand there. They’re tall, broad, arms folded, satisfied smiles, sunglasses. Drinking beers. One of them nudges his neighbour with his shoulder. The neighbour turns and gives him a grin, they knock their cans together and redirect their gaze at her.

‘Will, I don’t think I can fit,’ she calls out.

‘You just need the right motivation,’ he says out loud, for all to hear. ‘Pretend you’ve gone out and gotten drunk.’ The girls stop laughing and whispering to listen. ‘Now you’re going home with a stranger. You’re willing, but drunk enough that he could be considered to be taking advantage of you. He’s old and fat and the odours of 48 hours of drinking and smoking are layered on top of his halitosis. Your back at his place. It’s messy. Dishes in the sink, rubbish overflowing, something growing on the walls. It would be dusty if it wasn’t so damp.’

‘He’s standing naked, his cock erect, decent size, but forced to point down by the huge belly hanging flabbily over his waist. You’re naked too, but too drunk to take any kind of lead, so you let yourself fall backwards on the unmade bed. The sheets are moist. They’re gathered uncomfortably in lumps underneath you. He’s heavy on top of you, you feel the weight of his belly on and around you. He’s trying but failing to support himself on his elbows. All the springs in the bed are gone and you sink deeper, fully enveloped by him. It feels like he’s crushing your tits. The bristles on his chin are sharp against you. He wants to kiss and you do, you feel his tongue spasming about violently in your mouth. He wants to own you, to conquer you. You taste the ash and the alcohol and the bacteria. You can feel the moist chunks of his last meal. But he doesn’t last long.’

Silence. They want to know what is going to happen. Nicole tries not to look at them, but the girls and the men fill the passage opening. Theirs nothing else to direct her gaze at. Simply closing her eyes doesn’t occur to her. Trapped.

‘He cums inside you and he immediately passes out, crushing you further beneath him, as the weight that he had managed to support falls suddenly onto you. Normally someone’s head would fall to the side, over your shoulder, but for some reason, the combination of his size and your tits means that his head settles comfortably—for him—on yours, sideways, his nose above yours. His breath is immense and inescapable. You know he will start drooling soon. Your upper arms are pinned. You can only move your forearms at the elbow. Through them, you can’t generate enough force to even stir him. Your legs remain spread, his hips and flabby belly forcing them very wide, wider than you could hold them yourself without using your hands.’

Disgust from the girls.

‘You didn’t cum and you’re still horny despite everything, maybe because of it. But you can’t do anything about it. You realise that when he wakes, when he gets up, you might be stuck in this position for five minutes as you wait to get the feeling back. Prone on the bed, legs spread for him, inviting him back. Letting him think that you just can’t get enough, can you?’

One of the girls peels away from the group, trying to control her laughter.

‘You want to pass out too, but you also want to cum. You attempt to move your hips, trying to see if you could rub yourself against him the right way, but you can’t. It’s a struggle to stay conscious now. As you drift off, the last thing you notice is his cock against you. Soft, wet, sticky. Your attempted thrusts cause it to slip down further. You realise he isn’t wearing a condom.’

Screams from the girls.

Will ignores them. ‘Now, Nicole, what I want you to do, imagine you’re a sperm, trying to pass through the cervix to impregnate yourself.’

Howls from everyone.

‘Oh my God!’ she screamed out loud on the bed. ‘Where did that come from?’

Her breasts feel as squashed as can be between the wall and her body. She takes another step and she feels the walls become narrower at hip height too. Now it’s as bad below as it is above. Why did she decide to go hiking in heels? The posture that they forced on her makes the narrow passage even more difficult to fit through, her boobs and butt sticking out so.

Heels? She sticks her right leg out and looks down. A neon pink pump with four inch stiletto, scuffed by the dust and debris of the trail. Was she wearing these earlier? She is sure that her shoes had been more comfortable, that her posture had been normal. She hadn’t been able to see them as she walked, of course, her new breasts—high profile—obscure the footfalls of her usual gait.

The high heels aren’t even of a style that might be appropriate in even the most forgiving of outdoor environments, in as far as any high heel could be appropriate. These aren’t simply heeled sandals. Her feet are encased in shiny, pink patent leather from heel to toe. If you ignore the color, they are extremely elegant and formal. She finds herself hoping that they have already been broken in. She wonders if she is wearing make-up.

Will takes her hand and helps her through the last meter and a half. She falls into his arms, looking up at him laughing, as they become one. They moved to the side and rested, drinking some water.

The teen girls are through now and they try to stifle their laughter as they whisper to each other and sneak glances at Nicole. Will is facing the girls, sitting on a large rock, gulping water. Nicole is standing next to him, facing him, looking down past her breasts at him. He looked good, she thinks. His new gym routine is paying off. He’s getting bigger, his muscles glisten in the sun and sweat. She realises that she is standing in profile for the girls, giving them the best view of her butt and breasts, exaggerated by the shoes, her back arched comically forward. But somehow it feels natural for her to stand this way, her lower spine somehow not registering complaints about excessive curvature. Her arms are pointed down at an angle away from her body—the palms of her hands parallel with the ground—attempting to lower her centre of gravity, provide more balance.

Now the girls aren’t laughing as much as a moment ago. She looks at them again. They’re different now. Older. Still teenagers, but 18, 19. College-aged, not high-school. Something else is different. Their clothes have changed. Not dramatically. Still appropriate for the trail, but their shorts are shorter, their tank tops show more skin. And there is something else in their eyes. Not just mirth. A promiscuous glint. More than that. Experience. They still find her very funny, but she is no longer the sole focus of their attention.

They are stealing glances at Will as well as at her. Stealing isn’t the right word. They aren’t trying to hide it. They’re open about it. Nicole looks at Will again. He is looking at them, returning their glances with a... is that a leer? He’s wearing sunglasses, but grinning. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. That’s different about him too. He shaves nearly everyday usually. The stubble is dense and dark. The girls gather their things and continue down the gorge. His eyes follow them, still grinning, enjoying the confidence in their legs and hips as they walk off. The one taking up the rear turns to look back at him. He grins wider for her. She smiles for him before continuing on.

But this is MY fantasy!

Next comes the stag party. They are in their late 30s and now they are dressed as 80s rock stars. Boots, tight jeans, leather or denim jackets, sunglasses, wigs—many of them permed—and head bands, blow-up guitars. Despite the sunglasses, the object of their attention could not be more obvious. She looks at her water bottle as she screws the cap closed, noticing as she does so that she has to hold the water bottle further in front of her belly to see it, further forward than feels natural. Too late to accidentally spill water down her chin, onto her top, she realises.

The men are rowdy, downing beers, laughing, competing good-naturedly for her attention, pretending to play their fake guitars, trying to out do each other on the solos. Nicole can’t help but laugh with them. The guys holler at every bit of positive feedback she gives, encouraging her on, encouraging them on.

She looks at Will. He is laughing at the show too. She feels safe with him. The guys are big and strong, but he is bigger and stronger and younger. They are only screwing around like this because they have his permission. They don’t seem like mean guys. Probably most of them are married, or in some form of commitment. They are was just letting off steam.

Will indicates it’s time to go. The men boo and aww and laugh. She heaves her heavy bag up onto one shoulder, enjoying the movement of her breasts. Then, as she swings the bag around her back—getting her arm through the other shoulder strap, which lands on her other shoulder—she luxuriates in the feeling of her breasts as they swung in the opposite direction across her chest. Woots and whoops. She is wearing sunglasses now too—she hadn’t had those in the passage—but she smiles for her audience. I enjoyed that as much as you did, she tries to tell them. Will gives her a wink and they continue on.

She had wanted that wink desperately, had removed his sunglasses from the fantasy in order to get it. But she preferred his look with them. They reappeared.

She definitely, definitely, definitely hadn’t been wearing high heels earlier. Even for someone with appropriate footwear, who can see where she is stepping, this ground is treacherous. With each step she tries to aim her heel where there are no pebbles or debris. She slowly applies her weight to the heel, feeling it sink in any sand. Then slowly she brings the toe down. She attempts to bring it all together into a walk that appears vaguely natural, a smooth series of movements, rather than distinctly numbered operations in an algorithm. The best she can do is an exaggerated swing of her hips, slowly using the full range of motion, giving her time to safely complete each footfall.

On the plus side, her legs must look amazing, even with the sweat and dust of the trail. Long, athletic. They end in meaty thighs. Her expensive denim shorts feel tight around them.

She realises as she examines the ground ahead, that she is looking past her cleavage, which bobs with each step. Armless though her t-shirt certainly was, hadn’t it also been a high neck just a moment earlier? Not deeply scooped?

The floor of the gorge is rising slowly now to meet the desert. There is no more shade, but the path is still narrow and there is still a long way up to the desert floor. The stag party is moving quickly behind them. She is too slow. They will catch up soon. Will takes her hand and steps to the side, so the guys will have room to pass. They are at the bottom of the slope now, but making good progress. Will gives her ass a long squeeze as they stand side by side, before moving his hand onto her hip. Nicole grins at Will and he gives her another wink.

This time his sunglasses didn’t disappear. She had decided that she can see his winks though them.

She is standing on the side of the men’s approach, their view of her unobscured. She hopes they had saw Will grabbing her ass.

What else does she hope? Yes. She takes the bag off her back and puts it on the ground in front of her. She bends over at the waist to open the main compartment, keeping her legs straight. As she pretends to feel around in the bag for something, she starts gently shifting her weight through her hips from one foot to the other. As she does so, she feels the transfer of momentum through her hanging breasts. As she continues to search, she directs her gaze down the slope, smiling for the guys. They grin at her and slow their pace, allowing themselves more time to enjoy the sight. I want you to look, she thinks, and they know it.

Will chuckles. He moves his hand from her hip onto her bent-over ass, and caresses it, his fingers stretching wide, claiming as much of the firm, round real estate as he can. His hand settles comfortably, resting, and then she feels his ring finger trace her labia.

The guys are passing now. Each of them gives Nicole a wave and a goodbye, exaggerating their disappointment at having to leave her. She makes her goodbyes sound a combination of sad and horny. The latter part requires no effort. She allows herself the release of giggles between goodbyes.

Ughh, I look so good, she thought to herself as she lay there, stroking herself. Her heels are raised dramatically in neon pink. Legs straight, powerful, toned, wrapped in shimmering, tan-colored tights that would be reflective in the poor light of a nightclub, let alone the blinding desert sun. She’s bent over, 90 degrees, as she pretends to fiddle with her bag. What had once been a pair of tight but stretchy white jeans, now roughly cut with scissors in the shape of panties. Loose threads everywhere. A perfect view of her thigh and hip and the curve of her ass for the guys as they walked up the hill. Incredibly, her back somehow is still arched. She must be doing some extreme yoga. Her implants, dangle and sway heavy beneath her, back and forth in time to the movement of her hips. A perfect view for the guys as they passed. Big lips and a big, big smile for each of them. She is no longer wearing sunglasses. She wants them to know what she is thinking, wants them to know how much she is enjoying it, doesn’t want to hide her eyes.

She stands up after they are gone, grinning at Will. His hair is longer. Not long long, just longer. A bit shaggier. Long enough that it now has a wavy character, but not long enough to reach his shoulders. It shines—just a hint—greasily. She likes it. It matches his stubble perfectly.

In his left hand he holds an open beer can. Somehow Nicole knows now that there are more warm beers in his bag. And that he has left a trail of empty cans behind them. He is in a great mood, really enjoying himself. They all want to fuck you, he says, smiling broadly at her, approving.

With his hair like this, with his face unshaven, he looks more mischievous, more fun. Less rules. She could fucking melt right now.

Well, good, she says. I want people to want to fuck me. She reaches out and puts her hand on his belt buckle, her fingers entering her pants, so that she can hold the buckle in her fist. Despite her height, her fist looks so small and powerless against him. That’s why I’m like this, she indicates her body, clothes with her free hand.

He laughs. Ha, ha! Good girl. He belches. He drops his empty beer can and takes another out of his bag. He sways slightly. The new can has a dent in it, probably from the narrow walls of the passage. He opens it and beer sprays from it and foam spills over the top. He doesn’t seem to mind or care. He shakes beer of his big paw absent mindedly, before rubbing it once or twice on his jeans. He looks at her, and strokes her face, and she can smell the beer, but he has already forgotten about the spill. She hopes he doesn’t scuff up her make-up too much. But it’s OK. If he really wants to, he can.

She can see the pink on her protruding lips. Hadn’t she noticed before? Her lips are permanently in her peripheral vision now—fantasy or not. Any colour or shininess is always visible. She realises that the colour matched her shoes. She sticks her foot out to the side, getting both her shoe and lips in the same view. An exact match! And she can see her lashes too, long and thick with not-completely-necessary mascara. She can feel their weight on her eye lids.

Nicole was conscious of the increased weight on her chest as her orgasm arrived. The bandages had come off two days ago, but she was still tender. She didn’t want to go all out yet, harm the recovery. A controlled orgasm with minimal shaking. It would still be good, like really, really goooooooood. It always was when she had time to think about it.