The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Hash

Part 10: #Two #Aftercare #SixtyNineShades #Master #Epilogue

Jen didn’t know if she wanted to look at the book again right now. It had felt so good, she knew that sooner or later she’d give in to temptation and try to read more. But her body was exhausted, and another experience so intense would probably be more than she could stand. So she was grateful when Eric put a strong arm around her shoulders, and guided her to sit down on the log again.

“I think that was a very powerful experience for you,” he said, a note of seriousness in his voice that she hadn’t heard before. “And I care about you, so I want to make sure that everything is going well, rather than just pressing on with our fantasies. So you’re going to sit and rest, and we can talk about less exciting things, until you’ve got your breath back. Okay?”

“Yes, Ma—” Master. She almost said it, and only just caught herself in time. “Maybe that’s a good idea?”

“I see you’re not quite the innocent rose you’d like people to believe,” Eric gave a chuckle. “Is there a ‘Master’ in your life? Someone teaching you how to be a good girl?”

“No!” Jen squeaked, unsure if her voice was still weak from exertion, or if the intensity of her embarrassment had caused her voice to rise into the ultrasonic. “I mean… Maybe I tried it once. A little bit of bondage. A cane. You know? Nothing extreme. But when I think about how easily I find myself obeying, it kind of comes automatically. I keep thinking that word when I think of you. Is that okay? Or is that something you made… it’s not, is it? You would have asked me. But…” Her brow creased just a little as she tried to remember a conversation that felt like a lifetime ago, but had probably only been half an hour. “You asked me some things, I think? Things that you’re going to make me feel? But I don’t remember what they were. Did you make me think of you like…?”

“What do you think?”

“I nodded, I remember that. And I remember being excited. But I don’t know what the questions were. I’m drawing a blank. But I think I’ve been using that word in my head since last time, so you hadn’t asked me then. You could easily have… but you want my agreement, don’t you? Why does permission matter so much?”

“An old friend once told me that trust is like a karate black belt. Or like a diploma, maybe. Anyone could steal it, if they really wanted to. Some guy in the laundrette could take your belt while you’re looking away, and a diploma is something you’d keep on display rather than in a safe. But their value is in how you feel about them. The fact that you’ve earned it, and the pride that gives you. You don’t really gain anything if it’s taken rather than given.”

“I like that,” Jen nodded. “Earning my trust gives you a warm glow inside, and that makes you feel good. Too big a prize to waste by abusing it. Right? You sure got a way with words.”

“It’s my job. Sometimes, anyway. Leading your mind through the jungle needs good words, and a lot of practice. And writing tacky romance novels is quite an art as well. You need to balance the right amount of tackiness against a strong story, so that it’s amusing to people who’d buy it to mock the author’s writing, but still emotive enough for people who’d read it for the story. It’s a tough balancing act.”

“Wait, you… you’re not telling me you wrote that book?”

“No,” he shook his head with a smile, “I might have given it a look over, though. Most of these things are a committee effort now. Mathematical formulae, and analyses of different market segments. The vocabulary of the typical reader, and exactly the right number of advanced words per page so that it feels smooth and witty, but not overwhelming. You wouldn’t believe how much effort they put into writing books like this now, or the army of a dozen contractors commissioned to write endless variations of the same kind of scene, with exactly the right language and complexity for a given target audience.”

“I’m impressed,” Jen gave a little giggle this time. “Unless you’re joking with me. I really can’t tell, but I can’t deny that you’re good with words. You didn’t make me think of that word, though. That’s something creeping out of the recesses of my subconscious. You don’t mind, do you? And how did—” Jen couldn’t believe that he’d known she was going to say ‘Master’ from a choked-off half syllable. Not if he hadn’t encouraged her to think it in the first place. There must have been something else to put it in his mind. But before she finished asking, the answer was already in her mind, and her eyes went wide. She couldn’t stop the aggressive blush from painting her face crimson now, and probably her whole body was going to turn into a beetroot next.

“I must have seen it written down somewhere,” Eric gave the diplomatic answer. He didn’t need to say that it had been written in a scented latex-based ink, courtesy of a pack of marker pens. He didn’t need to mention that the words had been written on the inside of Jen’s thigh, because she knew that was the only place she had the word written down. A secret that nobody else would see, a little fantasy to help her get off when she thought about how easily she could be enslaved.

If he said anything then, she knew, she’d just throw herself on him. Exhausted or not, that kind of humiliation turned her on more than anything else in the world, and she knew that she was close to losing control just by thinking about it. The seconds floated past, and turned into a minute as she felt the cravings build up inside her.

“You can think it if you want to,” he said. “It’s flattering, really. But maybe we’d better wait a little longer before you say that to my face. So we can be sure that you’re ready. And if you’re going to track me down, I think we should see if we can chat about more innocent things as well.”

And they did. Movies, to start with. Neither of them watched many, but they both had some favourites to share. And books, of the kind that wouldn’t turn Jen’s thoughts to mush and her legs to jelly as soon as she so much as glanced at a word. They discussed maps too, and the kind of instruments Eric used to find this place. He didn’t like to use a phone’s satellite navigation when he went questing for a hash, and instead found his way with a sextant, an accurate watch, a compass, a pocket-sized book of tables, and more complex methods than Jen had ever imagined.

There were questions she was still too embarrassed to ask, like how many girls he’d shown the power of his words, or if he did this with guys too. She had no idea if this was the start of a relationship, a little more forward than most in her experience, or just some casual fun. She didn’t know if she was the only one to be devoting all her thoughts to this Master, or if she was joining some invisible freemasonry of slaves. She didn’t even know if she cared, which was the strangest thing. When she’d been in college, screwing around with guys who treated her like a piece of meat was a way to feel humiliated. But this wasn’t in any way casual; she was completely devoted to this man already, and she had no way of knowing if his feeling for her were so important. But somehow, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. Having someone who could make her feel so good, and who she felt so comfortable around, was worth far more than having a man all to herself.

A few times, she started to feel the excitement building inside her. But each time, Eric guided the conversation skilfully back to more mundane matters. Interesting, certainly, and unusual enough to arouse her usual curiosity, but that was all that would be aroused now.

“You don’t want to get carried away, do you?” he asked with a smile when she rested one hand on his leg. “I don’t want to tire you out too much. You need to drive home, after all.”

Jen nodded. He was right, she knew. And it was clear that he still wanted her, but he was determined to put her safety and comfort first. Retaining hjis self control so that he could be sure she was safe after her own willpower had seemingly evaporated. That was exactly why he was the best Master a girl could dream of.

“Actually, I’m on my bike today,” she admitted. “So I really need my legs to have some strength in them.”

And that was the start of a whole discussion on bikes. Why Jen chose to ride one, and whether Eric had ever tried it. The discussion touched briefly on the erotic potential of a throbbing engine between her legs, but moved on before she could get too distracted by the thought. And from bikes, they went to chatting about sports, and video games, and animation, and art styles. Genres of music and literature, and whether the cult of celebrity in modern media was a cause or a consequence of the interaction of famous people on social media. By the time Eric was walking with Jen back to where she’d left her bike, she was feeling glad to have met such a good friend. Someone she could chat with on any subject, and understand each other’s opinions even if they didn’t believe the same things.

“I’ll see you next time,” his last words filled her with hope again, and she knew that by the time she got home, it would be hard to think of anything but how much she wished Eric hadn’t been such a gentleman.

* * *

“Please, Dirk!” Amantha called out, her voice loud enough to penetrate all the walls of the cottage. The neighbours would all have known her feelings about the woodcutter, if this house hadn’t been the only one within a mile. “Please, harder!”

Dirk pulled her closer, effortlessly supporting her weight with just one hand around her hips. He took a couple of steps, turning around on the spot. And every step sent waves of pleasure up through his cock into the core of her being. Her next moan was wordless, and when he pinned her back against the balcony railing, she couldn’t have shaped a word if she wanted to. Today’s shade in her colour palette would surely be the blue-green of his eyes, almost matching the sky above. Or the almost-black inside her eyelids.

She tried to beg him to pound harder, but there was no need. This lumberjack knew exactly what she needed, and she didn’t need to think about a thing. Even her worries about where Bart might be, and if he could be close enough to hear them, were thrust from her mind by the urgency of her lust.

The next moment was a firework display in her head. The wave of pleasure washed over her so quickly that she didn’t even feel it building before her body exploded. And then she was just lying back on soft cotton sheets, with a streong arm to support her and make her feel protected.

“Thank you,” she gasped, before her mind was clear enough to be sure who she was thanking, or what she might have done to deserve that. She sucked in another breath, and forced her eyes open. Of course, the book was lying on the floor beside her bed again, with a couple of loose bookmarks spread out beside it. It never stayed on Jen’s pillow, or in her hands, and she was sure it had been abused more than any piece of writing deserved. It had been three weeks now since she’d come home with this book on the top of her shopping bag, face lighting up like a traffic light begging her friends not to notice what she’d bought. And in all that time, she still hadn’t managed to get halfway through the text. She wasn’t sure if the plot was any good, though it certainly wasn’t the puerile trash that supposedly-intellectual reviewers claimed.

As she picked it up again, and lovingly smoothed out the creases in the page, she was careful to put it on her nightstand without reading another word. Her mind went back to the man who might have been involved in writing that book, if his reports of committee-driven writing by the numbers weren’t more fanciful fiction. She wished Eric could have been there to fill her up while the character in the story was enjoying Dirk’s manhood; because even with all her fantasies, she was sure that a real touch would make it even more real.

And, as always, she tried to remember the things Amantha had yelled in the throes of passion. Had she called out “Dirk”? Had she yelled loud enough to wake the neighbours, and screamed exactly what she wanted her lumberjack to do to her? She was sure she had, but she couldn’t know for real. She couldn’t be sure if those words had come from her lips, or if they’d stayed firmly in her imagination. And not knowing made it all the more exciting. Simon hadn’t said anything, hadn’t asked who Dirk was. So maybe she’d been silent, or maybe he at least knew the characters’ names in a book that had been mentioned on the news, and he thought that some things were too embarrassing to even mention.

Jen could read all kinds of things into a knowing glance shared between her housemates early in the morning. She could easily believe that they knew exactly what she was doing. And that feeling, that she had no secrets, lit a fire between her thighs just as surely as the mens’ toned abs had aroused Amantha.

Before she knew what she was doing, Jen’s hands were wandering again. The slightest touch made her gasp and whimper, and she knew that in just minutes she’d be creaming again. But this time, it would be her own fantasies rather than the lust of a fictional character, driving her pleasure. And every moan, whether she managed to keep the volume down or not, would most certainly be real. Until the next time she met Master, she couldn’t imagine anything better.