The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


Chapter Twenty-Five. Satin Doll.

Louis Wentworth came into the living room, where his wife Elle Murphy was lazing by the fire with a big book in her lap. “What are you reading?” he asked.

She held up the oversized volume. “THE ART OF PIN-UP?” Louis said, a bit nervously. “Am I in trouble?” He asked because, not long before, he had lulled her into a hypnotic trance and “transformed” her into Miss Lace, the classic Milton Caniff pin-up girl from World War II. She’d enjoyed the experience (as had he!), but Louis knew he was always courting trouble when he stepped out of his submissive role, even at her invitation. Elle was of a gently mischievous nature, quite capable of taking revenge on an impudent hypno-husband for the sheer joy of reminding him that his place was at her feet.

Now, though, she gave him a dazzling smile and patted the seat on the couch next to her. “Of course not, darling,” she said. “Sit down with me and look at these paintings.”

Louis happily settled in next to her. It was a cold, sleety afternoon in the East Hills of the Tri-County area, and next to Elle was, as usual, the warmest and most inviting spot in the house. Her delicate perfume—Hypnose by Lancome (Louis knew berceuse he bought it for her whenever ordered to do so)—and her own distinctive fragrance drew him to her magnetically, as if she were an appetizing dish he was tempted to devour. He looped an arm around her waist; she smiled again, leaned slightly into him, and said, “Here’s Miss Lace,” she said. “I enjoyed being her.”

Miss Lace was the famous cartoon bombshell drawn by Milton Caniff to cheer the hearts of young soldiers during World War II—and perhaps the hearts of young women on the home front, who could imagine themselves as sultry sirens comforting their men. Elle had made a good Miss Lace, in point of fact, and he was glad she’d enjoyed that imaginary metamorphosis.

Elle was looking at him mischievously. She stroked her neck with her left hand, drawing his attention first up to her chin and mouth and then down to the faint hint of cleavage at the top of her blouse. He found himself following its movements with his eyes. “It was quite an experience,” she went on. “Sexual attraction is always transformation, one way or the other, it makes us someone we aren’t, sometimes a new person forever, and sometimes just someone different for a little while—think of all the myths about it. Ovid’s stories are full of girls or gods made into animals or clouds or trees—think of all the Shakespeare heroines who dress as boys. You … persuaded … me that I was Miss Lace, and being her was completely different from being myself. When you made love to Lace, I felt so outside myself that it was like I was the other woman, luring you away from myself.”

Louis was still watching her hand move up and down. “That is sexy,” he said absently, not entirely sure what he was referring to.

“Oh, really? You enjoyed being unfaithful to me with me?”

Now he was flustered. “That? No—of course not—I mean, it was you, after all—”

She laughed at his discomfiture. “Silly boy,” she said. “Of course it was me. And of course it was sexy. But I’m not sure you can imagine how different I felt—really like another person. Everything felt different—my body, my skin—and the sex was amazing. Amazing! I kind of feel sorry for anyone who hasn’t really been—transformed—that way.”

“You transform me all the time,” Louis said, his eyes still on her red nails as they moved slowly up and down.

“True, true,” she said. “But still—being Miss Lace was so different from being me. It was as if you had distilled all the pure sexiness in my nature and left all the rest behind. I felt like a cross between a woman and a panther. Oh, never mind, darling, I am being a bore about this, aren’t I? We can talk about something else. Tell me about your day instead?”

“A bore? Never! Now I’m curious what it felt like to be pure distilled female sexiness. Tell me—maybe I can use it in one of my books.”

“Are you sure?” She batted her eyes at him ironically. “You know I hate to talk about myself…”

“Elle, I think you’re the most interesting person in the world—you couldn’t bore me if you tried.”

“Well, if you’re sure….” Her hand slowed but did not stop, lazily traversing the distance between her collarbone and her cheekbone, with Louis’s eyes following helplessly behind. “I remember when you began to hypnotize me, you talked to me about the feeling of silk on my skin—do you remember?” she asked.

He nodded.

“And what’s interesting is that I could—actually—feel the silk sliding across my body, touching me everywhere—but also that as you talked I began to feel different inside my body—I began to feel so heavy, heavier and heavier, not just relaxed but still, immobile, like a kind of living statue, as if I couldn’t move at all unless you moved me or your voice moved me and my mind grew as still as my body and I began to hear you tell me I wasn’t myself anymore, I was drifting away and becoming Lace instead, heavy and graceful and sensual and open to pleasure, I am not sure you can imagine how drowsy and easy and open and calm and quiet I felt, if you felt that now you’d drift away from this place, this time, you’d feel your body changing, you’d feel yourself becoming Miss—Miss Satin I would call you—if you were feeling what I was feeling and so if you picture how I looked when I became Miss Lace you’d know how you’d look to me if you became Miss Satin, how you look to me right now, so open and sensual and caring only for pleasure and focused only on giving and receiving pleasure and leaving your old self behind for now and becoming free and quiet and heavy and drifting and now you are Miss Satin, so beautiful with your tiny waist and your long legs and your little rosebud breasts, and feeling so sensual and heavy in your body and you can just drift away into pleasure while I talk to your unconscious and it doesn’t matter what I am saying because you’re not you you’re drifting away … drifting … drifting …”

Louis woke with a start. He was stretched out on the couch. The room was cozy and warm but the fire was burning low. The evening was wearing on. He’d fallen asleep in front of the fire and had a dream; he’d dreamed Elle had talked to him about being his pin-up girl. In the dream she hadn’t been angry at him, she’d enjoyed it, she’d told him it felt—he felt a little shiver as he remembered that dream. He hoped being Miss Lace really had been that much fun for his wife. He would have to ask her.

Meanwhile, though, it was getting later and the sleet was still rattling against the windows. It seemed like a good time to take a hot bath and get into bed—perhaps he could get Elle to talk about Miss Lace again, and if not, then he could read about her—in his dream, though, there’d been two, Miss Lace and Miss … Satin? Was Miss Satin real or imagined? Was there a Miss Satin among the old-time pin-up paintings? There must have been, why else would he have dreamed about her? He could picture her vividly, her tiny waist and long legs and little rosebud breasts. What would she smell like? Like the smooth and delicate fabric of a dress worn by the most beautiful woman live, like roses and musk, like sex . . . What would she feel like? His fingers tingled with imagined pleasure, then he imagined what Miss Satin herself would feel if Louis rubbed her skin gently, or even touched her nipples….

He stopped and shook his head as if to dismiss the dreamy feeling. He felt, suddenly, obscurely guilty, as if in his mind he had just been unfaithful to Elle, which would be unthinkable—and yet he felt that Miss Satin—where had that name come from?—was as familiar to him as his own wife, indeed, as familiar as his own skin—was that in the dream too? Or had he dreamed that he was her and somehow unfaithful to himself?

The warm bath was cozy. He lingered in it, running his hands over his skin and imagining his body if it were different from what it was—smooth face and slim waist, delicate breasts, long, slender legs—but finally, reluctantly, he got out, dried himself slowly, rubbed lotion on his legs, and slipped on the sleepwear he had laid out. At once then he felt heavy, drowsy—not sleepy so much as still and quiet and eager. He more or less poured himself into bed, waiting—waiting for—

“Well, hello, darling,” said a contralto voice. “No, don’t get up.” Elle seemed to be towering over him, immensely far away. She reached down and lightly stroked his cheek with her hand. “You look just . . . divine.” He could not move or speak as her face drifted nearer and nearer and then her mouth took his firmly and Satin leaned back, luxuriating in Lace’s kiss, relishing his surrender to Elle—as Miss Satin opened her robe and opened her legs and her arms and gave herself to Mistress Lace.

“You feel wonderful, Satin Doll,” that marvelous contralto whispered. “Miss Lace is going to make you feel even better.” With a smooth movement, Elle reached down and grabbed his erection, pushing down his pants and greedily taking it into her mouth. “You’re going to give it up to me right now, Satin—it’s mine anyway, you can’t hold back, I can make you come whenever I choose, give it up—” and dimly he thought that it was odd for Miss Satin to have an erect cock and to be coming like a firehose, or was it odd that Louis had opened himself to Miss Lace? But in any case, his vision dappled and his body bucked as Elle sucked him . . . .

After a time, he settled back into himself. He was Louis again. He was in bed with his wife Elle. But his skin still tingled, his nipples felt electric, the spectral body of Miss Satin played in the air around him.

“Hello, old tiger,” Elle said. “Did you enjoy that?” She gently, teasingly, brushed his thigh with her hand. “My heavens, how sexy you feel, Satin—did you shave your legs just for me?”

“Did I—what? No—I—what—” He felt her hand traveling up and down his thigh, and the feeling was new. Had she shaved his legs? Or—wait—had HE shaved his own legs? When had that happened? Why did doing that without knowing it seem so . . . sexy?

“Look at you, darling,” Elle said. “Let me help you cover up a bit.” She slid his underwear up over his legs. “Hmm, these are lovely, darling—such nice silk, and they fit you so well, how do they feel?”

“They feel—like—they feel like…” He realized that he was wearing silk panties—when had that happened? Why? And why did the idea seem so sexy? And why as the panties slid up to cover him was he suddenly fully erect again, with no warning, and filled with a volcanic lust all at once, and why was his mind so full of images of himself in silk and satin lying back as Elle—or was it Miss Lace?—took the cock in her hand and made Satin scream with pleas—

“Oh, God, Lace, oh, my God, Lace—” he gasped as he spurted again into her hand. He heard her giggle as his body contorted. “My, my, so eager,” she said. “Why is that? Is it something about these pink silk panties—”

He was fully erect again as soon as she said the word “panties,” and she exclaimed with pleasure as she climbed atop him and settled down over his erection. “You’re confused, aren’t you, darling? I want you to close your eyes because what’s happened is that I’ve stolen your lovely cock—it’s my cock now, not yours at all—and I am using it on you, darling Satin, and you are spread wide open for me and I am filling you up, feel it—” He was shivering, and he heard from a long way off a series of small, shrill yips, and only as the last one lengthened into a full-throated scream of pleasure did he realize that the sounds were coming from his throat as Lace penetrated him and Satin wrapped her smooth legs around Lace and gave in to her completely and drifted into blackness speckled with flashes of lightning ….

Louis woke after a few minutes, warm and heavy and glowing with pleasure and looking into the amused eyes of his wife. “So,” she said, “did that give you a sense of what it was like to be Miss Lace?”

The images of the last hour floated through his mind, disjointed but intense. “You—made me shave my legs?”

“Make you? Darling, you begged me to shave your legs, don’t you remember? Well, not you, but Satin—Satin was dying to shave them, it was her idea.”

“And what about the pan—” He didn’t even manage to finish the word before he felt again that almost inhumanly powerful desire, and his cock was fully erect yet again.

“I have to admit, the silk panties were my idea,” she said. “You certainly have responded to them well, though. They are going to be very useful to me.” She reached down and stroked his erection, lightly tickling it with her nails. “Yes, indeed. And please don’t worry that you’re depriving me of any of the lovely lingerie you buy me. These panties aren’t mine—I made a special order in your size. I ordered two dozen pairs, in various colors. I’ve decided you’re going to be wearing them a lot.”