The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dream a Little Dream With Me


Part Five

Nicole rose groggy and tired. And frustrated. Actually, the operative word was horny. The man she’d been dreaming about—the man who bound her, hurt and humiliated her, and somehow made her feel more sexually alive than she ever had in her waking life—had ordered her not to come without permission. And she’d obeyed. She was proud of how obedient she’d been to her dream Master. Despite the deep, longing, aching need between her legs, she hadn’t come.

I’m a stupid slut. I think with my cunt.

It might have surprised her, the easy way she’d come to accept the voice in her head telling her these things, except that she was thinking with her cunt—well, with her clit, anyway. That tiny pleasure center seemed to have taken over every part of her that wasn’t immediately concerned with pleasing Mister Chasseur.

I’m a stupid slut. I’m made to serve my man.

It was so much easier to let the voice—her voice, now—in her head guide her than it was to worry about what to do. She was a stupid slut who thought with her cunt and was meant to serve. That much she could understand. In her current state of exhausted titillation, that was all she could understand.

The alarm clock, however, kept ringing no matter how often she hit the snooze button, and eventually she realized that if she didn’t rise, she’d be late for work ... and that could hardly be called good service. What if Mister Chasseur wanted her and she wasn’t there? The idea was unacceptable, and it was this thought that finally forced her to drag herself out of bed and pad, naked, across the apartment to her bathroom.

She paused in front of the bathroom sink and stopped to look at herself in the mirror, inspecting her body carefully for anything that might displease Mister Chasseur. She couldn’t come without permission, after all, and wanted to be sure as she possibly could be that that permission would be forthcoming.

I’ve got a nice body; it’s a slut’s best asset.

The way she’d been teasing herself all night, almost in an act of contrition for her uncontrollable needs, had left its mark on her. Her nipples stood straight up as if begging for some—any—kind of attention, and her pussy lips were red, swollen and glistening, sticky with lubrication.

I’ve got a slut’s body. She wondered why the idea pleased her so. She thought it should upset her, but couldn’t have said why.

Showering for work was a tortured exercise in self-denial. It seemed that the night had enhanced the sensitivity of her skin, and every signal it received was of sexual pleasure. Just running the washcloth over her arms and shoulders made her shudder with longing, and when she soaped her breasts, she moaned aloud.

She approached the idea of cleaning between her legs with something approaching horror, not knowing how, in her heightened state of arousal, she could possibly avoid coming. It felt like the slightest touch down there would tip her over the edge. For what seemed like the first time, she stopped to wonder why she was so horny. It wasn’t like her to lose control like this; she might take a lover every now and again, and she’d rarely go a week without a good, satisfying jilling session ... but this aching, driving need was completely foreign to her.

I’m a slut. Of course I want to come. A slut’s body is a pleasure machine. The thought pleased her because it was not simply a repetition of something her Master had taught her, but rather a reasoned response to a question, one she had thought of by herself. It seemed that, stupid slut though she was, she’d begun to learn to function in her new role.

Her next thought, however, pleased her less. A slut’s body is for others’ pleasure, she told herself, You can want whatever you will, but you take only what Master wants to give. And above all, you serve.

The reminder was all she needed. Serving meant being at work on time in case Mr. Chasseur wanted her for ... something, and service meant having a clean pussy in case that something included fucking her. She soaped her bath sponge and managed, if only barely and through a supreme act of willpower, to clean herself quite thoroughly without coming.

Drying herself was nearly as bad as washing had been, but she was armed, now, with a sense of purpose that protected her from any extraneous desires.

Service is my watchword. When I’ve served well, when I’ve shown that I know my place, Master will let me come. I will NOT come before then.

Dressing was another challenge, but for entirely different reasons. She wanted to please Mister Chasseur; in fact, she had to. By the same token, however, the office had a dress code that she couldn’t break ... at least not too badly ... without getting sent home. Getting sent home meant she wouldn’t be there if Mr. Chasseur needed her.

In the end she chose a teal miniskirt with black lace around the hem that she had purchased to go clubbing and a black silk blouse. Mr. Chasseur had seemed to appreciate the silk she’d worn the night before. She hesitated a moment before choosing some of the lingerie she’d purchased the day before; he’d been very specific about wanting access to her in case he wanted a “quickie,” but had also really seemed to enjoy what she’d worn to his apartment. Surprised at her own daring, she decided to take a chance and pulled on a pair of sheer black, crotchless panties that not only hid nothing but actually accentuated her firm runner’s ass, and an equally see-thru demi-cup bra that left her nipples completely exposed while giving her small breasts a bit of cleavage. The feel of the cool silk on her nipples when she closed the blouse made them stand up, twin points of flesh, clearly visible through the thin, clingy material.

The thought of being seen in public like this would have mortified her only two days ago, but now she shrugged off the embarrassment she still felt. She was a stupid slut; sluts showed off their bodies. Besides, Mister Chasseur had liked seeing her nipples through her blouse last night. He would enjoy it again today, and that was all that mattered. Maybe if she pleased him enough, the Master she kept dreaming of would be equally pleased.

She slipped her dainty feet into a pair of spike heels—more club wear, repurposed to pleasing Mister Chasseur—and headed for the building’s lobby. No time for breakfast or even coffee today if she was going to get to work on time.

She didn’t have a suit jacket that would match her brightly-colored mini or the shiny, spike-heeled pumps, so she wore her leather jacket again. As she crossed the lobby she could feel the cool air on her exposed nether lips. She could also feel ... and see ... the doorman’s eyes on her teats. She’d never really taken much notice of him before, but now she wondered what would happen if she just walked up to him and stroked his crotch. Would he fuck her, or just assume she was a whore and call the police? Or would he assume she was a whore and fuck her anyway? That thought, combined with the way her pussy was exposed to the morning air, excited her even more than she had been in the shower earlier. She had to just stand there for a moment, breathing and trying to get herself under control.

The cab driver was just as bad. In fact, it was a wonder they didn’t end up crashing, he spent so much time staring at her nipples instead of paying attention to the road. Nicole was sure he thought she must be a prostitute. The mixture of disapproval and desire on his face when he looked at her told her that. The idea ... that this ugly little man in front of her thought she was available, that if he offered her money he could have her ... turned her on even more than she’d been since waking last night. She clenched her thighs together, rubbing them against one another. She let out a little moan at the sheer pleasure of the sensations assailing her.

The driver nearly ran into a mailbox.

She arrived at her cubicle three minutes late, cursing herself for the extra time spent in the shower that morning, for spending so much time teasing herself before rising to prepare for the day, even for the moment spent at the coffee machine on the way to her cubicle, to grab something that would keep her awake through the morning. Most mornings, a difference of a few minutes would have meant nothing to her, but she had changed, and she knew it. She resolved to never again be late getting to her desk, even if it meant rising and arriving early.

She sat at her desk, automatically pulling the miniskirt down a bit to protect herself from its inevitably riding up on her, and signed in on her computer. She opened her report on Andersen Shipyards, but she couldn’t make any sense of it and didn’t really try. Instead, she rubbed her thighs together to keep herself from putting her fingers under her skirt and stroke herself right there at her desk. She wanted ... no, needed ... to come, very badly. But she needed permission, her dream Master’s or at least Mister Chasseur’s, and Mister Chasseur hadn’t even arrived at the office yet, much less called for her.

I’m a stupid slut. I need to learn obedience. I’m not to come without my man’s permission.

So she sat at her desk, rubbing her legs together and trying to ignore the persistent, aching need in her pussy while successfully ignoring the report on her monitor. Eventually she noticed that her thighs were damp with her constant arousal. She went to the ladies’ room to wipe herself dry, not wanting her skirt to soak through and display her filthy need.

She spent a lot of time, that morning, in the ladies’ room.

Finally Mister Chasseur called her, just as she was signing off her terminal to go on break. “My office,” he ordered, “Five minutes.” He hung up without waiting for a response.

Nicole stood, took a moment to straighten her miniskirt and blouse, and walked through the assembled cubicles to his office. Everybody who saw her seemed to be staring, the men lustfully, the few women on staff disapprovingly. Both kinds of stare embarrassed her, but both kinds also made her hotter. She could smell her own arousal now. . I am such a slut. Oh, God, please fuck me ...

Mister Chasseur was on the phone when she entered his office. She waited quietly by the door, trying not to listen in on his private conversation, until he noticed her and motioned her over. His eyes never left her body as she approached, sliding from her teats to her hips to her legs and back again. When she grew close, he smiled and pushed away from the desk, patting his lap. Nicole nodded her understanding and sat there, letting her bottom press against his cock. It was still soft, but Nicole planned to change that as soon as possible ... as soon as he’d let her.

He let his hands roam over her while he spoke with his caller. Nicole tried to ignore the conversation, instead allowing the voice in her head to tell her how to please him. But it was difficult with his hand all over her, first on her knees, then up her thighs and up under her skirt. When he began to pinch her nipples, she released a low, quiet moan. She felt him begin to harden beneath her.

“Listen, Jake,” he said into the phone, still playing with her teats, “I’ve got a meeting in about two minutes. You know the quality of my merchandise. You’ve been wanting one for ages, and this one isn’t gonna stay on the market for long. I’m giving you first refusal because you’re a friend, but don’t jerk me around on this. Okay, okay ... just think about it. Talk to you soon.”

He set the handset in its cradle and then took both breasts in his hands. “My nose tells me you’re getting into the spirit of our new relationship,” he told her, “You smell like a whorehouse on payday.” Nicole felt her cheeks redden and said nothing, just ground her ass into his crotch while he pinched and pulled at her nipples.

By the time he let go of her teats, she was fairly panting with arousal, her inner thighs damp with her juices yet again. “Get up,” he ordered, “and strip for me.”

Nicole rose unsteadily on her high, spike heels and took a step backward to afford Mister Chasseur a better view, then began to unbutton her blouse. For some reason, she found she couldn’t look him in the eye once again. It seemed to happen every time he gave her a direct order; she would suddenly come over shy, unable to meet his gaze.

Stop it. Look at him and smile. You need to work harder at pleasing your man.

Nicole smiled at Mister Chasseur, whose expression hadn’t changed since he’d ordered her to strip, and began to sway slightly, back and forth, creating a dance as she bared herself for him. She shrugged her shoulders out of the blouse and allowed the smooth, slinky material to slip down her arms and fall off her hands, where it puddled on the floor. Continuing to smile, she let her hands fall over her breasts for a moment before sliding them down her sides. Then she turned away from him, unzipping and sliding her miniskirt down her long, toned legs, letting him get a good, long look at her ass before she turned again so he could look at the frilly, practically transparent lingerie she wore for him.

“Very nice,” he smiled at her, “I especially like the underwear. But didn’t I give you very specific orders about what you were to wear today?”

Her smile disappeared. “Y—yes, sir, but I thought since this won’t get in the way if you want to, you know, fuck me, and you seemed to like what I wore last night so much . . .”

“I did like what you wore last night,” he interrupted, “But since we both know thinking isn’t your strong suit, maybe you should quit trying it and just learn to fucking do as you’re told. Now, take those rags off and get over here. You can crawl this time.”

Nicole had to blink back tears as she unhooked her bra and slid it off her shoulders, and then pulled the crotchless panties down her legs. Lingerie still in hand, she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to his feet, where she looked up at him. “I ... I’m sorry.”

He smiled down at her, reaching out and running his fingers through her hair. Nicole wasn’t sure which felt better, the physical sensation or the sense of forgiveness, but she nearly purred at his touch. “I know you are,” he told her, “but you have to learn to do what you’re told. Now, you’re going to give me a nice, slow, thorough blowjob.”

You have to learn obedience.

She crawled between his knees and placed her fingers on his belt buckle, grateful for the opportunity to redeem herself and determined to do a better job than she had last time Mister Chasseur had her in this position. She laid her palms, one at a time, against his crotch, stroking him as she undid the buckle, feeling the warmth of his cock and balls as she prepared to pleasure him.

I’m meant to serve.

It was harder to get his slacks down this time; he didn’t help by lifting his ass off the chair. But that was okay with Nicole: it just gave her more opportunity to show him that her attitude had really changed. She was gentle but firm with them and with his boxers, forcing them down around his shins before tongue-kissing her way up his inner thigh.

He was only beginning to grow aroused when she arrived at his crotch. She could smell soap and a tiny bit of sweat, but not the musk of his arousal. Her own scent, on the other hand, seemed to pervade the entire office. She found herself wishing he’d just throw her to the floor and fuck her violently.

Stop it. You’re a servant. Serve. Obey. If you want him to fuck you, make him want to fuck you.

She kissed the tip of his cock and placed it between her lips, swirling her tongue around the head and then, before it got too big, taking its entire length into her mouth. She worked the entire underside of the shaft with her tongue and then began to pull back, sucking almost greedily on it, feeling it thicken and harden already under her ministrations. When she sucked it back into her mouth, it was already long enough to press uncomfortably against the soft palate at the entrance to her throat.

Slow and thorough, he said.

She held him there, pressed against the back of her throat, and swallowed, working her tongue once again on the underside of his member, her nose pressed into the mat of his pubic hair. She swallowed once again. And again, feeling the heat of his blood as it engorged him, feeling his pulse on her tongue, the press of the cockhead as he filled her throat.

She began to gag, suppressed the sensation viciously. I’m made to serve my man. Serve. Obey.

Only when she had her gag reflex firmly under control did she pull back again, continuing to suck, continuing to fondle him with her tongue. He was fully erect now, hard and warm and stiff in her mouth, and being so close to him, so close to that part of him that had made her come so hard, was pure torture. She wanted nothing more than to lie back and have him fuck her, to come again the way she had last night.

I have to learn obedience. Slow and thorough. Serve. Obey.

Remembering her lesson from the day before, she turned her gaze to his face as she pulled away. He had a report in his hand and was reading it, one hand resting casually on top of her head. Once again, she had become nothing but a convenient orifice. The thought made her pussy clench, yearning to be filled.

It was only when her jaw began to cramp, when her own saliva was running down her chin and she was beginning to wonder how long she’d been sucking him and when or whether she’d be missed in the outside office, that he looked up from his report and then down at her. He smiled and took her hair in his fingers, pulling her off of him.

“You’re learning, slut. That was almost competent.”

I’m a stupid slut. I’ve got a nice body. My body is made for service.

“I suppose from the stink you’re filling the room with that you’d like me to fuck you, now.”

She looked up at him, embarrassment, hope and lust in her eyes. “Yes! Yes, please ... sir.”

He looked down at her for a moment, prick still rampant, as if considering whether it was worth the effort. Finally, he rose and said, “All right. Get up and bend over my desk.”

Nicole fairly leapt to her feet and hurried to do as he’d told her, bending over the desk until her breasts lay on the desk’s blotter pad and her cheek lay on the wooden desktop. She arched her back a bit and spread her legs, letting the sticky, wet lips of her sex open for him as she looked back at him expectantly, lustfully.

Mister Chasseur placed his hands on her hips and kicked her legs further apart, then lifted her right leg until her knee rested on the desktop, spreading her open even wider to him. He guided the head of his cock between her nether lips, and then just held it there for a moment as she quivered and shook with need.

“Please,” she moaned.

Grinning down at her in a way Nicole might have found disturbing or even frightening had she not been so overcome with her need, he grasped her hips again and shoved into her.

Her vaginal muscles spasmed around his prick as he filled her, and she was momentarily transported to someplace where thought became impossible, where the only things in the world were the feel of his cock inside her, his hands on her hips, his belly slapping her ass as he ground into her.

My body is made for service.

They rutted like animals. There was no art and, of course, no gentleness to their fucking, just raw, animal passion. But still, the voice inside her made her do what she could to pleasure him, squeezing when he moved inside her, rippling her internal muscles and milking him when he was still. For what seemed like a long time there was no sound but an occasional grunt or gasp.

But eventually her own heat, the way she’d teased herself to distraction through the night and the morning, betrayed her. She teetered on the edge of orgasm—of disobedience. She heard her own voice, muffled as if by great distance, begging—no, babbling, “Please. Oh, God, please. Please let me ... please let me . . .”

I’m not to come without my man’s permission.

Permission, however, was not forthcoming; when he began to climax, flooding her pussy with his cum, she had to bite down on the heel of her own hand, hard enough to draw blood, to keep from coming herself. The pain cleared her head a little, but didn’t stop her muscles’ continued spasming around his softening member, nor the plaintive whimper that escaped her lips when he pulled out of her, collapsing back into his chair.

“Get over here and clean me up, whore.”

Nicole pushed herself up from the desktop, turned a little unsteadily, and dropped to her hands and knees. She blushed furiously as she crawled to him, ashamed at her failure. Hadn’t they done this just the night before? Hadn’t he had her clean her juices ... her “stink,” as he’d put it ... off him in precisely the same way?

I may be a stupid slut, but I’m meant to serve my man. This isn’t good service.

As she was licking and sucking him clean, he ran his fingers through her short, blonde locks, then gripped her close to the scalp and pulled her off him. “What the fuck were you going on about while we were fucking, anyway?”

She found herself blushing crimson. Mister Chasseur didn’t know about her dreams, about the Master she needed so desperately to please. If she told him, he’d think she was crazy. Hell, half the time she thought she was crazy, the way she was changing her whole life to please somebody she only dreamed about . . .

“I … I was asking permission to climax,” she mumbled, not daring to look him in the eye.

“So? You don’t need my say-so to come.”

Her blush, if anything, deepened, but her nipples, which had been stiff and sore all day, seemed to grow even harder. She didn’t want to explain it. If she was honest, she wasn’t sure she could explain, but she had to say something.

“I … I do. I really do.”

He quirked his head to one side, still smiling at her as if she was a mildly interesting puzzle he was trying to solve. “Whatever. Get dressed and get the fuck out of here.”

She looked away, staring anywhere but in his direction as she gathered up her clothing. She wasn’t sure why … everything they had done, she had done willingly and more than willingly … but the encounter had left her feeling soiled. The need for a good, solid orgasm, stifled for hours now, was still there, but even more desperate in the moment was a need to get out of there, away from him, to hide in her cubicle and think about somebody or something, anything, else.

As she was picking up her panties … the special, sexy panties she’d bought specially for him, Chasseur said, “Uh-uh. Hand me the underwear before you leave. Maybe next time I tell you to do something, you’ll actually do it.”

He’s in control. Obey. Serve.

She wordlessly replaced her skirt and blouse, and just as silently handed him the lingerie, which he locked in a lower desk drawer. She didn’t know what it was, the disobedience or the things she’d done in search of an orgasm that had never come, but she had never in her life felt so befouled. She wanted to cry. She turned silently away from him towards his office door, and almost had her hand on the doorknob when his voice stopped her cold.

“Rhodes? Don’t bother cleaning up before you go back to your desk. I want you sitting in a puddle of my cum, thinking about what filthy perversions you’ll perform if only I’ll let you have that orgasm you want so bad.”

Responding to his orders had become automatic, though she couldn’t have said when that happened. “Yes, Mister Chasseur.”

Nicole returned to her cubicle, already beginning to feel some liquid—his cum or her juices or some mixture of the two—beginning to seep down her thigh. The thought of being caught like this, no underwear, nipples still rock-hard under a thin, silk blouse, smelling of recent rut and with barely-identifiable fluids leaking down her inner thighs, was mortifying. She hurried to her cubicle and just sat there silently, hoping nobody would need her, or for that matter, notice that she was there at all today.

As she sat, she thought about what she had done today and, because he had told her to, about what she might do, what she might have to do, to earn the orgasm she still craved above all else at the moment.

Anything; I’d do anything, and not for the orgasm, either. I’d do it because he is in control. He’s taken control of my life away from me.

No, he hasn’t. I’ve given it away.

She wasn’t sure what was more degrading: the truth of that realization, or the fact that it made her want to touch herself.

Nicole got no work done that day. Mister Chasseur took her twice more, first making her suck him to completion during her lunch break and then, in the late afternoon, ordering her to sit on his cock, skirt hiked up around her waist, reverse cowgirl-style, and fuck herself on him while he made phone calls from his desk. In between, she sat in her cubicle and wondered when he might let her come, or what she might have to do for the privilege. Occasionally she would retire to the ladies’ room to finger herself just a little, just enough to keep her on edge.

And every once in a while, she’d compare the sex she was having with the sex she’d been dreaming about for the past couple of nights. The differences were small but, she thought, significant in that she was never quite as excited, not quite as able to just let go and enjoy herself, with Mister Chasseur as with the Master she dreamed about. There was the mystery of who her dream Master might be, of course, with his almost-familiar voice and hidden face, but she didn’t think that was it. There was something else, something missing.

Bondage. The answer came to her while she was riding him. She hadn’t even been thinking about it; the knowledge just popped into her head. Mister Chasseur hasn’t tied me up, yet. I’m always bound in my dreams.

The idea—the solution to a puzzle, a problem, that she hadn’t even realized was a problem until a moment’s idle speculation brought it to her attention—was so exciting that she had to clamp down on herself, hard, to keep from coming right there. Clamping down on herself made her clamp down on him, so to speak. He came very quickly after that.

When he was done, he shoved her off his softening cock to the floor. As Nicole began to lick him clean, he said, “Nine, tonight. Wear something suitably trashy, but try not to look like a whore walking through my lobby. I have a reputation to maintain.”

There was a good-sized mall close to her neighborhood. She stopped there on the way home from work for something “suitably trashy” … and for a coil of clothesline.