The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Ethical Slutmaker: Strange Bedfellows

By Kris Cherita

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Lorelei pressed her face deeper into Alexis’s cunt to muffle her moans as she came, then returned her attention to licking the therapist’s lovely clit until Alexis climaxed. The two women lay side by side for a moment, still locked in a 69 position, until Alexis wriggled out of Lorelei’s embrace and slid her leg between the other woman’s thighs so that it rubbed against her shaven twat. “Actually, that wasn’t why I…” Lorelei began, then surrendered to the delicious sensation, feeling another orgasm beginning to build up. Alexis sucked a swollen pink nipple into her mouth and reached down to cup Lorelei’s wonderfully firm buttocks, then teased her asshole with a fingertip. It was several minutes before either woman could speak coherently, and then Lorelei said, “Stop. Please? I have to get back to the bar soon, and this can’t wait.”

Alexis sighed. “If you really just wanted a massage, you should have said so half an hour ago. Your boobs giving you back pain again?”

“No, my back is fine.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You know Rhonda Varney? The anti-porn campaigner?”

“That pain in the neck? What about her?”

“She’s running for mayor.”

Alexis was silent for a moment, then muttered, “So much for fucking afterglow. Do you think she has a chance?”

“With her husband’s money and the religious right behind her? I think she might. You know how few people bother voting for mayor; it won’t be hard to stack.”

“True, dat.”

“And if she gets it, she’s talking about gentrifying this end of town, and that’s going to be bad news for a lot of businesses that have leases due for renewal. My club and a lot of other bars, the clinic, the adult bookshops, this place…”


“So, seeing as you can talk almost anyone into almost anything…” Lorelei batted her enhanced eyelashes.

“It’s not as easy as you make it sound,” Alexis said soberly. “I can usually persuade people to forget some of their inhibitions and enjoy sex more, but even that takes time, and changing someone’s politics or religion… that’s almost impossible. And even if it wasn’t… well, we’re not going to be able to get Varney the Vampire in here for a chat, are we? You’d have a better chance of getting her onto your show.”

Lorelei shrugged, and began picking her clothes up from the floor. A retired porn star, she now ran a lapdancing club and had a sex advice show on a local radio station: her voice had always been as much of an asset for her career as her spectacular fake tits, her attractive face and her large but shapely butt. “She’d never agree to that—well, her advisors wouldn’t. Too much chance of her going off-script. Is there anything you can do?”

Alexis thought for a moment as she watched Lorelei bending over, and resisted the urge to dive back into that magnificent ass. She briefly toyed with the idea of setting up her equipment in the sound booth at the radio station, with aphrodisiac incense in the small chamber and the suggestibility-inducing subliminals over the airwaves, but decided that that would be much too risky. “Is there anyone on her staff who might be persuaded to help us? Anyone with a weakness?”

“I don’t know,” said Lorelei, as she slid her g-string back up her legs. “As far as I can tell, they’re all either expensive PR people or fanatics like her.” She hesitated. “Do you know anything about her husband?”

“He’s a state senator, his name is Peter, his family has money, his first wife died, he’s about twenty years older than his new wife and he used to be a lawyer. That’s about it.”

Lorelei nodded. “He fucked up his shoulder a couple of weeks ago. There are jokes and rumours about how he did it, but he may be telling the truth about it happening while he was playing golf—he does that a lot. Anyway…”

“You think he’ll come here for a massage? Here?”

“His doctor is a big fan of my movies. If I can arrange it, will you see him?”

Alexis chuckled. “And here I thought I was good at manipulating people!”

Lorelei grinned, lifted up her enormous boobs, and licked her nipples. “Once you have someone by the balls, his heart and mind will follow. Was that a yes?”

Rita looked at the senator as he lay face-down on the massage table. He wasn’t in bad shape for a man in his fifties—tanned, with broad shoulders and well-maintained silver hair. He’d seemed a little uncertain as he’d walked in, particularly after his first glimpse of Naomi’s phenomenal cleavage, but the decor of the lobby and the detailed questionnaire he was handed seemed professional enough to reassure him. He’d relaxed after being asked to strip down to his shorts, and after being draped with a towel from the waist down. Rita massaged his shoulder long enough for the incense and the music to take effect, then purred, “How did you hurt your arm, Senator?”

“Teeing off on the third hole.”

“Wow! That’s my favourite hole!” said Rita cheerfully. “It must be inconvenient, not being able to use your right arm much.”


“Must be awkward when you have to sign anything.”


“Or do push-ups.”


“Or missionary position, or masturbate—or do you do that with your left hand?”

“No, I prefer my right,” he said, then blinked.

“It’s okay,” said Rita, soothingly. “I’m a licensed therapist and a registered nurse. You can talk to me about sex. It’s like talking to your doctor.”

“Oh.” That sounded a little strange to the senator—his doctor was a man in his forties, not a young pretty blonde whose voice and perfume and his hands on her back were giving him the best erection he’d had in years—but Rita sounded totally convincing. Maybe his cock was pulling all the blood from his brain, he thought, and smiled.

“How often do you have sex?” When he didn’t reply immediately, she added, “With yourself, or with anyone else.”

“About once a week.”

“Is that all? You poor man,” said Rita, with genuine sympathy. “With your wife?”

“Yes… mostly.”

“With anyone else?” Silence. “Apart from yourself.”


“Do you like sex?”

“Yes…” he said, though he didn’t sound entirely certain.

“Does your wife?”


That sounded more promising. “Does she like anal?”


“Does she suck your cock?”


“Do you eat her pussy?”


“She likes that?”


“What’s her favourite position?”

“Sitting down while I kiss her feet and eat her pussy.”

“I mean, for fucking.”

No reply. Rita waited, then said with barely disguised incredulity, “She doesn’t like fucking?”


Rita shook her head. “Are you impotent?” she asked, resisting the urge to slip her hand under the towel to check.


“Do you like fucking?”

There was a long pause, as though the Senator was trying to retrieve an ancient memory. “I did,” he said, finally. “Jenny, my first wife, liked fucking, and I liked fucking her.”

“Just ‘liked’? Not ‘loved’?”

He nodded. “We loved fucking.”

“You loved each other, and you loved fucking each other?”


At Alexis’s insistence, Rita had studied the senator’s biography and she knew that his first wife had died in a car crash and was rumoured to have had a drinking problem. “Have you and Rhonda fucked?”


“But you stopped?”



“She found out about DeMonique.”

Rita raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Tell me about DeMonique,” she purred.

Peter always made sure to arrive at DeMonique’s apartment a few minutes early, but never too early; Roger, the senior partner who’d recommended her, had pointed out that many of the dominatrix’s clients were judges, and that meeting one on his way out of her dungeon would be embarrassing—and not in a good way. After he was buzzed in, Peter stripped off and showered in the changing room, donned one of Jenny’s dresses, pink silk panties and a curly blonde wig, then carefully applied lipstick and eyeshadow before knocking on the inner door and requesting permission to enter.

DeMonique, wearing a black leather corset, matching knee-high boots, and wet look crotchless knickers, was sitting on a specially constructed chair with her thighs very slightly apart. “Hello, Penny,” she said, with a slight smile. “Have you been a good girl this week?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I do hope you’re telling me the truth. You know what happens to naughty girls who lie.”

“Yes, Mistress. Yes, I am telling the truth, and I do know what happens.”

“You’re blushing, Penny. Are you sure you’ve been a good girl?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Take off your dress. I want to see if you’re blushing all over. No, not the panties. Not yet.”

Peter obeyed, as always. He and DeMonique had drawn up a contract on his first session, specifying activities that were completely off the menu—including penetration for her, and pegging, whipping, cock-ball torture, water sports or scat, or anything that left lasting marks for him. They had been negotiating the finer details ever since, safe words and verbal and visual cues to tell her what he did and didn’t want on a particular day. When his self-loathing was particularly intense, he favoured being trampled underfoot, face down so that it hurt his neck to be able to look up at her while she did it. On better days, he would ask her to remove her boots first so that he could kiss and lick her bare feet, and would like on his back so that he could stare up between her shapely legs—again, depending on his mood, she might be fully dressed, or completely naked, or anywhere in between. Sometimes he came in his panties while worshipping her feet or her delicious cunt; other times, he would continue kissing up her body as far as her magnificent breasts, and she would jerk him off until he exploded over her feet, her belly, or her tits.

DeMonique looked him up and down, and twirled a lock of her red hair around a finger. “I think you’re lying, Penny,” she said in a gently disapproving tone, and stood. “Come over here and prove you’re telling the truth.”

Peter obeyed, hastily lying down face up on the yoga mat on the floor. DeMonique squatted over him, then lowered her sculpted butt onto his face so that his nose was embedded in her asshole. “If you lie to me, your nose will grow,” she said, “and I’ll feel it. So, have you been a good girl?”

“Yes, Mistress!”

“Don’t lie to me. Good girls get to eat my pussy for dessert. Naughty girls don’t get any dessert. Do you want dessert?”

“Yes, Mistress!” he said, even more emphatically despite having to breathe through his mouth. “Yes, please!”

“Have you been a naughty girl this week?”

“No, Mistress!”

“You haven’t come in your panties?”

“No, Mistress!”

“Have you played with yourself?”

“Yes, Mistress, but—only when I was thinking of you! You’re so beautiful that I couldn’t help it!”

DeMonique ground her ass down on his face for a moment, then relented. “I suppose I can forgive some lustful thoughts,” she said grudgingly.

“Thank you, Mistress! May I have dessert, then?”

DeMonique smiled at his unconcealed enthusiasm, then said with mock severity as she returned her splendid ass to her chair, “Not yet. Do I look like I’m dressed for dinner? Take my boots off.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

DeMonique stretched out her legs and watched as Peter removed one boot, then the other, kissing them quickly and without his usual level of reverence. He made up for this once her feet were bare, sucking DeMonique’s toes until her nipples were hard, then kissing her soles, her ankles, and slowly working his way up her calves, then her inner thighs…

“Stop.” She stood, pulled her crotchless knickers down to her ankles, and then stepped out of them. She waved them in front of Peter’s face for a moment, then sat down on the edge of the chair with her legs spread wide. “Okay, Penny. Would you like some dessert?”

“Yes, please, Mistress!”

“Very well.” She leaned back and smiled as Peter enthusiastically kissed the heart-shaped patch of chili-red hair that pointed to her clit. She popped her labia minora out of her shaven cunt, and he eagerly lapped and sucked the delicious juices out of her divine depths before kissing and licking her clit. DeMonique held his head in place, careful not to dislodge his wig, and after little more than a minute, realized that she was dangerously close to coming—something she had promised herself she would never do with a client. She held her breath, trying to postpone her orgasm, then squeezed one of her nipples and pushed Peter’s face away from her cunt. “Did I tell you to make me come?”

“No, but… no, Mistress.”

“Did I give you permission?”


She inhaled and exhaled slowly, carefully. “You’ve been a good girl, Penny, but don’t presume to know what I want.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Would you like to watch while I make myself come, so you can see how it’s done?”

“Yes, Mistress! Please come for me—“

“I’m not doing it for you,” said DeMonique gruffly, as she diddled her clit and arched her back. She came a few seconds later, gasping, then sat there in silence until she’d recovered, held out her hand, and told Peter to kiss her fingers. He eagerly sucked the juices from them, then slowly began kissing his way up her arm, tracing the lines of her tattoos with the tip of his tongue.

In her time as a dominatrix, DeMonique had learned to gauge a sub’s moods and self-esteem by how high he dared to raise his eyes. Those most desperate for discipline and punishment were content to worship her feet; those whose egos were healthier might fixate on her callipygous ass or her succulent cunt, and only the least timid dared peek at her wonderful breasts. She let Peter get almost to her shoulder before stopping him and saying, “Penny, pull your pants down to your knees.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

DeMonique looked down at Peter’s rigid purple cock, and reached out with both arms, one hand pulling Peter’s face into her cleavage, the other gently stroking his cock until it erupted over her forearm and her thigh. She pushed a nipple into his mouth and held on to him for nearly a minute. “That’s good, Penny,” she murmured. “It’s all good. I’ll see you next week.”

“I never saw her again,” said the senator, sadly. “Rhonda had hired a detective and found out where I’d gone, and told me never to go near her again. She said that from now on, she would be my only mistress, and I would only obey her.”

Rita continued rubbing his back. “How was that for you?”

Peter shuddered, and his voice sounded as though he was close to sobbing as he described the ways his wife had changed the ritual. She was happy to humiliate him, but he had to be naked before he worshipped her feet and her cunt, because she didn’t want to have any sort of sex with someone who looked like a woman. They had stopped fucking, and when she touched his cock rather than telling him to jerk himself off, she gripped, yanked and twisted it hard enough to hurt… and if he came, she made him lick it up.

Rita winced. While she’d never acquired a taste for BDSM, she knew that most submissives had detailed fantasies that they wanted acted out. And while she was bisexual and liked eating pussy almost as much as she loved sucking cock, enjoyed rimming women and men equally, and loved the taste of dicks that had just come out of cunts or asses (her own or any others that happened to be handy), she also knew that many men were turned off or even revolted by the idea of swallowing their own come. Either Rhonda Varney had kinks of her own, or she’d spent a few minutes googling femdom and thought it was one-size-fits-all. “You must miss DeMonique terribly.”


“You miss her sitting on your face. That sweet minge and that gorgeous arse…”


Rita stripped off her skirt, revealing her shaven cunt. “I’m not DeMonique, but you’d like me to sit on your face like she did, wouldn’t you?”


“Roll over. I have to adjust the table.” She turned the headrest into a queening seat, and positioned herself so that her beautiful butt was just above Peter’s face. “Did you ever lick her arsehole?”


“You must have wanted to, though,” she crooned, and suddenly, he did want to. “I’m going to put a song on the stereo, and you can lick mine until it finishes,” she added. She walked over to the sound system, and looked at the playlist for the longest song in its memory. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’? ‘American Pie’? She finally settled on ‘Alice’s Restaurant’, returned to the queening seat, and giggled softly as she felt his tongue touch her anus, tentatively at first, then with increasing enthusiasm. While he rimmed her, she took her smartphone out of the pocket of her smock and sent Alexis a text. When a reply arrived, a few minutes later, she reached down and rubbed her cunt until she came, then asked, “Would you like to talk to DeMonique again?”


“She’s moved to New York, but her skype account is still the same, and she’d love you to call her. Is your wife home now?”

“No. She’s at a meeting.”

“Excellent. Go home now, and dress up like you did for DeMonique. Makeup and everything: use Rhonda’s, if she’s made you throw away your own. Don’t worry if you can’t find the wig. Just call her, tell her you’re still the good girl she wanted you to be, and ask her what she wants you to do—and do exactly what she tells you. Will you do that, Penny?”

“Yes, Mistress—I mean…”

“It’s all good. You can call me Mistress if you like. Get dressed, go home, and call her. Now.” She watched him hastily dress himself and hurry out of the room, then stuck a finger up her arsehole and jilled herself off again before walking back into the foyer. “You’re sure found the right DeMonique?” she asked Alexis, who was sitting there waiting for her.

“Ukrainian redhead dominatrix, with a fantastic rack and Russian gangster tats on her arms, who used to live and work here in town? It wasn’t difficult.”

“You know her?”

“I spotted her a few times in the gym,” Alexis replied, smiling at the memory.

“And she’ll co-operate?”

“I think so. I pretty much wrote her a script, and I know she can follow those—after they tell each other what they want, she’ll make sure he says what a ball-busting bitch his wife is and how much he wants a divorce. She’ll record the call so that it shows his face, but not hers, and send us the file.”

Rita pouted. “Humiliating him like this seems a bit cruel. I mean, he’s seriously fucked up, still feeling guilty about his first wife, but I don’t think he’s as bad as the new wife.”

“Oh, I’m not planning to release the recording,” said Alexis. “I’m going to send a copy to him and to his wife, and say that if she doesn’t agree to a divorce and to pulling out of the mayoral race, I’ll put it on the net. She may not care how much it embarrasses him, but it will make her a laughingstock too, and lose her a lot of support from her gang of prudes. I think she’ll try to negotiate rather than call my bluff.” She grinned. “And if she wants to negotiate, she’ll have to meet me here—and I’m pretty confident that we can talk her into agreeing to our demands.”