The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chapter One: Lions and Tigers and Lawyers

Bob sat on the park bench watching the little foreign looking man push the fruit vending cart past. His family was like that cart all things considered, he thought to himself. Mostly fruit and nuts, with a few mixed vegetables thrown in for variety. Bob chuckled at his unspoken jest. No one seemed to take much notice. City parks were full of people who talked to, or laughed, or argued with themselves. And had anyone bothered to take notice (which was unlikely) they surely wouldn’t openly acknowledge it or worse make eye contact. Who knew what sort of crazy he might be? Or worse he might be one of those evangelical zealots who only live to convert others to one religious cult or another. No one in the busy city had time for this, but no one had a satisfactory way to remove this nuisance either. It was an unwritten rule, Bob thought to himself, that eye contact above all was to be avoided in city parks. People went to these artificial crowded islands of pseudo-nature to be left alone after all, and Bob having been a city dweller all his life had the rules committed to memory, and applying them avoided the obvious. And so, no one noticed Bob chuckling to himself like he had just checked out of a state hospital.

The irony of going to a crowded place to be alone struck him as equally funny, and he laughed aloud again. Bob scowled. “What are you looking at?” The passerby quickened their pace and was gone. Must have been an out of towner, Bob concluded as he looked up to see he had finally reached his destination, and gave the passerby, the park, and his rambling jest no more thought.

The outside of the lawyers office was exactly the way he imagined it would be, sterile official, pompous and impressive. As if the architecture outside somehow validated the prestigious institution or generated awe in the legally uninitiated. Somehow Bob didn’t believe that an impressive building necessarily meant the lawyers within were also automatically impressive as well. But for the most part Bob was in agreement with the greater majority of people concerning lawyers.

Bob hated lawyers. In, sign the papers, and out again, that was Bob’s plan. And besides, there was only one thing more contemptible than lawyers, and that was Bob’s afore mentioned family. Bob pictured his family, on a far distant African plain, or maybe deep in the jungle, scavengers, ripping and tearing and maiming and shredding a barely dead carcass. The image fit. The last, and as far as Bob could remember, ONLY time he ever seen his family fully assembled was also at a funerary events. Basically: when the pickings were at their best. Uncle Rudolf even vaguely resembled a jackal if viewed in profile from the side, Bob decided.

Then Bob imagined his whole family burning in hell, and that required absolutely no imagination at all..

Bob sighed deeply and pushed the glass door open using the ostentatious brass push bar. Bob sighed again at the thought of a lawyer and the roomful of “family” that awaited him. Bob had an idea. Turn around, run screaming from the building, and forget the whole thing. This thought pleased Bob. But it wasn’t very practical so Bob continued forward into the great open lobby. More artificial nature surrounded Bob with all its disturbing unnatural symmetry. A manmade jungle full of lions and tigers and lawyers. Momentarily distracted Bob wondered about the strange lobby scent. Was it canned “great outdoors” or “fresh forest breeze” being pumped through some hidden ventilation system? Mostly the smell just made him queasy. Bob thought the whole effect was tacky, and the place smelled like one of those pine tree air freshener thingies that hangs from the rear view mirror of cars. He was sure “real” fresh air smelled nothing like this (not that he had been out of the city proper since he had been a child).

Bob looked up suddenly, just in time not to bash himself. Bob’s thoughts had carried him to the reception desk.

The formal amenities and necessary information exchanged, the ultra efficient sexless secretary forwarded Bob to the correct conference room. The idea of the will’s reading taking place in a large impressive sounding room like “Main Conference Room Three” was disconcerting. And Bob thought it boded ill for the whole affair. Just how many relatives had been drawn by the smell of death to need Main Conference Room Three?

The doors swung pretentiously inward, not unlike everything else in the office. The scene inside the conference room a new image in Bob’s mind at the first sight of his family. Vultures; circling, waiting, staking out the best bits of meat left when something (or someone) finally died. The lawyer, who could have been a cardboard cutout from the waist up but for the slightest sign of life in his hands, quietly shuffled papers (looking ever so important doing it) undeterred, amid the chaos of plots, maneuvering, and family politics. Somehow seemingly unaware, or at least unfazed. Or perhaps more correctly disconnected.

A glance told Bob that all that prevented the coming feeding frenzy in Conference (Piranha Tank?) Three was the official pronunciation by the lawyer that Martin was indeed dead and not coming back (he had been a fearsome old coot and even now they had some pause), forever leaving his property and possessions to the strong (blood in the water), and or quickest to snatch a bit and run. This was going to be one of the most contested wills in the history of mankind, there was no doubt. Once that pronunciation was made though... the circling ritual would end, and there would be no mercy, no prisoners, one uncontested probate survivor. And a pile of dead or seriously maimed relatives. That image made Bob smile slightly. All the greedy relatives stacked piece by piece like split kindling and cordwood. It was, after all; the nature of his family’s beast....

Somewhere generations ago they’d stopped teaching the children to play nice together.

Bob chuckled to himself, but this time without humor; realizing for the first time that he was undeniably related to these people despite years of self denial. And as an equally undeniable release of the building tension. The laughter initially bordered more on hysteria than any secret mirth. Had he already discarded the scream and run away option? But seriously, If he had the choice to either be in a cage with ten hungry lions or Main Conference Room Three with his family... No question, lions, easy. He rubbed his forehead in anticipation of the coming migraine, and cursed himself for not going the long way around the park so as to stop at one of the corner pharmacies to get an extra large extra strength bottle of headache pills. The migraine came sooner than expected, in the form of of a cousin (or so they said) who immediately engaged him in a conversation he wanted no part of, had no interest in, and was clearly a thinly disguised attempt to learn something in advance about the wills contents.

Thankfully, Bob was blissfully ignorant of any actual details. Bob couldn’t understand why any cousin, distant or not would believe he knew anything? The old guy hadn’t spent 20 minutes with him in twenty years. Bob nodded (like he gave a rats ass) in all the right places and thoughtfully grunted occasional acknowledgments and affirmations. When the “cousin” seemed spent Bob told him exactly what he thought they wanted to hear and wandered away leaving them to believe they had a big payday coming. It was all too easy. Why do they call them distant cousins when they’re always the first ones in your face? They’re hardly ever distant enough, Bob concluded.

Across the room Bob watched the “distant cousin” in an animated exchange with some other distant relative. Clearly he was spreading the gossip Bob had surreptitious fed the hungry swine. Amazing how fast he had swallowed the shit Bob had offered like it was a seven course meal. Gossip stuffed with fresh stroked ego. Throw in a side of innuendo and sprinkle liberally with avarice and greed and half bake. Bob laughed loudly, very loudly. Heads turned, but he just kept laughing. He must have seemed mad, even in this group, laughing for no apparent reason, irrationally, at a joke untold. Bob was beginning to draw puzzled and worried stares from an assortment of cousins, uncles, aunts, and nephews, not to mention the sea of nameless otherwise probably vaguely related faces present. This, for no apparent reason anyone could outwardly see, amused him even more. It was a good inside joke. Even the lawyer stopped putting on his legal dog and pony show for appearances momentarily to take notice when Bob continued laughing all by himself. The quiet stares were becoming hushed talk and impolite gawking.

Bob reminded himself, not for the last time that day, that the rules of engagement were quite different for family members then for people met casually on the street, and especially at family gatherings, where more than casual eye contact had a subtle host of meanings. For example: Eye contact with crazy family members was to be considered a valid way of letting them know you have A) noticed B) now have something on them, and C) are saving it to use against them at a later and more damaging date or inconvenient moment. Bob knew these things but it all just amused the hell out of him.

If good ol’ Uncle Marty had left Bob anything good in the will Bob was certain that the relatives would recall this moment, and immediately (if not sooner) try to have him declared legally incompetent, straight jacketed, a whisked away to a “restful” place, to put whatever bauble it might be, back up for grabs....

It was so nice to have family, Bob assured himself with another chuckle.

Chapter Two: Anything Worth Doing...

The meat had been laid out on the table for all to see. But when all the drooling and salivating was over, everyone at Uncle Martin/Marty’s going away party was left unsatisfied and empty. The great sumptuous feast everyone had expected the will to be, it wasn’t. Martin Greenhill hadn’t let parasites attach themselves to him in life and he wasn’t going to let them do it now he was dead. Bob was building a respect for this man he had never really known. After all, anyone that put it to this family good, couldn’t be all bad....

Bob surveyed the carnage wrought by the reading of the will. The piranha had barely been allowed to nibble, the vultures had been shoed away, the jackals had been put out on their heels, and the assorted nameless scavengers dispersed and dismissed with a curt; “No thank you, not today, we gave at the office.” Basically all the big cash and prizes had gone to various charities. Bob especially enjoyed the look on the face of the “cousin” he had spoken with before the will was read.

All in all, a very good day.

Soaking up the well deserved suffering of maimed and mutilated relatives, and savoring its fading flavor a moment longer, before it was at last gone, Bob’s attention finally turned to his own rather odd bit of inheritance.

“To my nephew Bob, I leave something without a name, or one that I have been able to assertain. (Bob looked at it... Box was a good name) But none the less its value to me and the mystery of it give it value I now give to you. It was my most prized possession. It is special in ways I was unable to discover. Maybe you will fare better in this respect. Guard it well, and through it remember me”.

What the hell sort of incoherent crap was that? Apparently Uncle Marty’s little red choo choo had chugged around the bend some time ago and never been seen again. Marty was fruit AND nuts. The thought was touching though.

Bob looked at this mysterious “object”. It was a simple dusty wooden box with a tarnished copper lock piece and a key. The hinges, also copper were worn and tarnished but still secure. Looking at the little box now was even more anti-climatic than it had been when it was handed to him. The relatives weren’t going to fight him to the death or have him locked up in a nut house to gain title to his inheritance.

Bob looked at the box again. It was obviously one of those mass produced gift boxes. He didn’t dare to hold out hope that there would be a gemstone the size of a golf ball or something equally valuable inside. The box said it all. More likely a goofy exploding golf ball. He had seen the parting (gag) gifts the other contestants had gotten as thanks for playing the “Good-bye Marty Game”. Was the old guy yanking his chain too? Bob frowned. Then Bob shook the box gently like one does with an uncertain christmas present. It felt disappointingly light and empty. How could Uncle Marty have know that Bob had always wanted and needed a box with a lock? Bob chuckled, the good humor of the day returning. What the heck, he didn’t have to leave me anything, Bob told himself. And if nothing else the reading of the will was damned entertaining. Bob decided that whatever was or wasn’t inside the box was more than he’d started the day with, and it was all right with him if Uncle Marty did belong on that fruit vendors cart! Bob slipped the small box into his coat pocket and gave it little thought for some time.

Bob fumbled for the tiny key, and with some difficulty fit it to the tiny keyhole. “Here’s to you Uncle Marty,” Bob said, turning the seemingly insignificant little key with a ceremonial flourish. “To Marty....” .

Surprise of surprises the little box was empty inside, unless one counted the dust fuzzies stuck to the cheap looking velveteen interior. Bob wasn’t really surprised or disappointed, but somehow he had held out that little bit of desperate hope that something at least interesting (not necessarily valuable) might be at the bottom of his cracker jack box life metaphorically speaking. Or in the case of the box, literally for just this once.

Bob lived a relatively ordinary and decent life (with the exception of those times he spent with his family, which brought out the worst in him). Overall Bob was deserving of a break. Something better than dust fuzzies and corroded old gift boxes. Bob popped the top on another pop and took a giant swig, wishing it was something stronger than grape soda, and again cursing his choice of paths today. Family, gathering, and he hadn’t thought to stop at the packy (liquor store) on the way? What HAD he been thinking? When was the last time that time with his loved ones hadn’t been a reason to tilt a few afterwards? Bob looked at his watch 9:34PM. The corner mart closed at 9:30,. The Booze Barn closed at 10PM but it’d take him at least 2o minutes to get there, and they always closed a few minutes early. He’d never make it, and that pimply faced snotty clerk behind the counter on a Saturday would never cut him two minutes slack. Crap! Bob went back to examining the rather ordinary box that had cost him a day of work (and pay), made him spend time with his family, and now cost him his one relaxation, a good buzz. He looked at the box and wished very hard that things were different.

At first Bob felt nothing. Then there was a blinding pain behind both temples, like someone had driven an ice pick into both sides of his head simultaneously. The room spun away and up and Bob felt himself hit the floor with a sickening thud as it rushed up at him. Unprepared, he crumpled like a cheap tin car hitting a wall at 60 mph. Bobs mental airbags didn’t deploy in time either and his arms didn’t protect him as he collapsed in a heap and lay there looking mangled. Many pairs of arms helped him up and he heard himself mumbling incoherent thanks as he steadied himself and began dusting himself off. “And I leave the following to my cousin Rudolf...” The words trailed away in Bob’s mind. Apparently he wasn’t in his grungy little apartment, eating cold pizza and swilling grape soda...was he ok??? So where... “And last but not least I leave to my nephew Bob...” Bob’s legs weakened again but didn’t quite buckle. Hadn’t he already done this once today? Or was this some sort of ugly flashback experience brought on by some unremembered trauma?

“ I leave this...” The lawyer paused to reach beneath the table and pull a box about the size of a small toaster from some hidden shelf. It was of faded but obviously once nicely finished pine with sturdy looking hinges and several metal bands and trim work. Slightly rusty or corroded but restorable from what Bob could see. Maybe worth a few bucks? It wasn’t exceptionally heavy but it obviously wasn’t made by some cheap mass produced souvenir box company either. The lawyer indicated that one of his assistants should deliver it to its new owner. Bob was too shocked and disoriented to do anything else but take it when handed to him. Bob could have sworn this had happened differently, but just accepted it, a strange disturbed look never leaving his face. Several family members actually asked him if he was all right, and afraid to reveal he might be having a breakdown (a bad weakness to show in front of this group) he said everything was fine, he just needed a little air.

That night Bob celebrated. It had turned out he didn’t need the headache medicine after all, but stopping to pick up some booze had been a really good idea. Now he had something to celebrate with! Bob stared at the unopened box. His curiosity was killing him. He hadn’t wanted to open it in front of the relatives, knowing that if it turned out to be something interesting or semi-valuable they would have immediately contested his claim to it and the whole scene would have been a nightmare. So he had waited. Not telling them that he had subsequently received a key from the lawyer after the wills reading , and claimed that it was probably empty anyway (though it had a little weight to it), and he would rather have a key made than break the box open lest what little value it might have be lost.

Now that he had something to celebrate with he just wished he had someone to.... celebrate with. The pain came again and Bob felt like someone was driving railroad spikes into his brain and out the rear of his head, nailing him to the wall. This time he didn’t fall over, just leaned precariously, and threatened to do so.

Chapter Three: Everything is Relative

Bob looked across Main Conference Room Three just in time to see the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his entire life. Bob wanted her to mother his children. Bob wanted her in the cloak room. Hell, Bob wanted her on the lawyers desk with EVERYONE looking! Bob had never felt anything like this. But a horrible thought occurred to him. This was a room full of relatives, and odds were she was a cousin one way or another. And since this wasn’t a back water bayou where everyone in the community was related anyway, the idea should have and did repulse him. As she suggestively slinked closer something in Bob twisted, stretched, and broke. Suddenly, Bob didn’t care if they were related. He wanted to breed with her and have the most beautiful two headed children. Her very presence made his pulse race madly. He wanted to slobber over every inch of her. Reason had deserted him. He was a sex starved animal with one total all consuming obsession. He was a big bad wolf and he was gonna huff and puff and eater her all up... and down, and inside, and out.

In reality, Bob just stared.

She was perfect, flawlessly carved and curved from flesh colored marble. Her lust colored lips glistened, oozing sexuality. Her firm, well endowed rounded, slightly upturned pert breasts made it impossible for anyone too mistake her for their mother, but make any boy wish she were so he might have suckled there as a child. It was probably just the air conditioning, but even through her silk top one would swear her nipples were begging to be suckled and fondled and seen the way they stood at attention. Her silky well toned legs went right up to her waist, only parting briefly into a perfect narrow v shaped wedge so you could read her lips. And they were saying come on it, its warm and comfortable inside. Stay awhile and come back again soon. Her beautiful long hair flowed down around everything, highlighting , accenting but somehow never obscuring any sensual detail. She moved with an unnatural grace, and looked like a classical statue, an eternal beauty when she ceased moving and stayed motionless, listening politely to some bit of gossip or conversation. It was these moments he enjoyed watching her the most. Her alabaster skin seemed almost the shine like marble in sunlight at those moments. She lightly swallowed a sip of wine, delicately. Slightly parting those full firm lips. There was so much potential. Potential for jail-time and serious trouble with his family. What was he thinking? Had he forgotten where he was? If she was here then she was R-E-L-A-T-E-D. And that meant two headed mentally defective children. “Hello?” She asked softly, in a plaintive yet sexy voice. “Uhhhhh...” was all Bob managed.

The daydream broken, Bobs dream girl stood directly in front of him, and had apparently been speaking to him for several moments while he had been “awol” (absent without lucidity). “Sorry”, he finally managed. “I was... distracted, thinking about poor old Marty.” The question had been designed to ascertain why she was at the will reading, and against the odds Bob was praying she was there with someone, or a friend of good ol Marty, or some servant hoping to be remembered in the will, or something..anything but a bloodsucking relative. Though the sucking he wanted her to do in his daydream fantasy had little to do with blood. “I think I’m in the will, though I’m not sure. Uncle Marty...” The rest of her words trailed off into verbal oblivion. Bob’s thoughts spun wildly away into the cruel sadistic universe. How could the fates have bent him over and done him so cruelly again? He imagined the fates, all in S&M leather, whipping the piss out of him. Clearly the god or gods in charge thought the funniest thing in all creation was a good anal reaming. And Bob was one of their favorite playthings. Must be the excruciatingly funny faces Bob made when they did him and the punchline was delivered. This news clearly came with no pre-lubrication. Second cousin... related through... nice to meet... bits and pieces came through as Bob cursed the universe, and whatever or whoever was writing this script. The daydream ended again, and Bob became aware that he had been (loosely speaking), through this portion of the program before.

“I was wondering if you knew anything about the will.” She batted her baby blues. Bob immediately wondered how badly she wanted to know.

Was he imagining it or was she actually kinda coming onto him?

“Form a sort of alliance... one hand washing the other... be ever so grateful”.

“Right.” She was the cousin trying to figure out what was in the will before it was read. He hadn’t remembered her as so beautiful or even a HER for that matter. He thought of many ways she could be grateful.

“If we worked together on this we’d have to be close”. She smiled. “Joined at the hips”. Bob swallowed hard. Looking into her eyes he could see there wasn’t anything she wasn’t willing to do to get a better cut or a little useful information. Or her very own piece of Bob. Apparently the attraction was so strong the idea of having beautiful three headed children after endless days and night of passion didn’t bother her in the least either.

What was wrong with them? This time Bob didn’t mislead her about her chances. With Uncle Marty and the will she had zero chance, with Bob she had a sure thing.

Bob again received the box. This time it was a small steamer trunk sized affair with fairly elaborate brasswork. He needed help dragging it up the two flights to his apartment. It was a good thing “Lisa” left the will reading with him. The packy owner had stayed open an extra hour today (luckily) and Bob bought a magnum of champaign. They drank about half of it out of the bottle before the first inhibitions fell away. They drank the second half off of each other, and then they had sex first on top of the trunk, and then just about everywhere else in Bobs apartment. Afterwards she told him to stop worrying. She had been fixed some time ago. They had sex again on the stairwell as she left.

The next day Bob truly hated himself. He was going to hell. Express. He had become the inbreeding redneck he had made jokes about his entire life. If he could do a cousin what else was he capable of...? If any of this was in fact real. If it was, then the horrible hangover was hardly punishment enough he convinced himself. Someone should castrate him, before the next family gathering. Before he did something even more hideous, before he found a cousin who wasn’t fixed. Before he went completely...

Bob staggered and hit the floor really hard. He had been pacing around his small but stylish apartment ever since she had left. The sun had come up and it was past ten. As small as his apartment was he probably had walked a short marathon while pacing, maybe the full twenty six miles. He was trying to walk off his shame. Work through it, find a justification, convince himself that it was only a dream. His feet hurt, his legs were cramping, he still smelled her all over him. It wasn’t a dream. Her animal attraction remained. She had marked her forbidden territory, and he had encouraged her. Ridden a primal beast and morality be damned!

Bob returned to the present in a pool of blood. He was face down over the trunk he hadn’t seen in his latest circuit of the room. His nose might even have been broken from the impact. It was definatly damaged and bleeding everywhere.

Good, he thought.

And he was going to return whatever was in the trunk too, he decided. He didn’t deserve it and it had indirectly been the reason they had met, and he didn’t want the reminder around. But... would it just show up again in a later delusion even bigger?

Bob got up, realizing he’d torn his best jeans, given himself a golf ball sized lump on the side of the temple, and after applying some ice to his nose until the bleeding finally stopped, his thoughts turned again to opening Uncle Marty’s damned trunk. Not that this was the first time.

Bob thought again about the girl, his “cousin” ? Maybe he’d call her up (she’d given him her number) and give her whatever was in the trunk, and then never see her, his accursed family, or that damned box again. Meaning no more funerals no matter how rich or eccentric the relative.

Why had she wanted him as bad as he had wanted her? It was as if his wishing for it had... Never...ever again!

Except the moment he opened the trunk for a peek and mumbled something about wishing things had been different, he was struck in the head by what felt like a baseball bat (why did this always hurt so much?). His consciousness suffered a line drive into left field, where it stayed for quite some time. Again he came to in the one place he never wanted to ever go again.

“And now for the reading of Martin Greenhill’s last will and testament...” Oh crap.

Bob laughed to himself. Maybe there was justice in the universe. Payback was, as described, quite the bitch.

Or was he just on his own choo choo to Coo-Coo-Ville?

Or was something else going on here?

Chapter Four: Opening Pandora’s Box

Bob resolved to test his two theories. Either he was having a wonderfully elaborately decorated nervous breakdown, or there was something not entirely natural about that damned box. If it was the first then he’d never really know for sure, as all of the events would be part of the delusion rendering a reality check null and void. Come to think of it, if it was the first then he couldn’t very well check out the second possibility could he? And If it was the second... crap.

But still he had to try to figure this whole thing out or he definitely would go completely mad if he wasn’t already well on his way. So Bob played along to see how things would go this time. Until he got the box or trunk or whatever it would be this time, he couldn’t really do much about things, and could only essentially go along. Bob’s inner scream was lost in the corporate jungle that was the law office, smothered in the greed and avarice that was family.

It occurred to Bob that he again had the run screaming option, but then he’d never know, would he? He didn’t immediately discard this possibility, but instead stood transfixed, suddenly realizing he had the hangover migraine of a life-time from the night before which couldn’t have possibly happened. That at least remained unchanged, he chuckled to himself unsteadily, as a wave of nausea nearly swept him over.

Bob felt like he might be sick at any moment. The plush pea green carpeting beneath his feet seemed suddenly to be made of softening jello. It’s color and motion were worsening his condition by the second. Bob grabbed onto the nearest folding chair like it was a lifeboat on a jello ocean and leaned on it for support. Next time I’m gonna specifically make mention of NO hangover, Bob told himself. If there was a next time... The reading of the will seemed to drone on forever like some boring gregorian chant from the middle ages this time. Strange how a hangover distorts ones sense of time, Bob observed painfully as events seemed to slow even more....

Hours later they came to the part about the box.

Bob needed to hire a couple of the guys hanging out on the corner near the funeral home to haul the monstrous wardrobe box back to his apartment. It weighed a ton this time. And the girl? The girl was even more beautiful (if that was possible) and hornier than before. She didn’t insinuate ANYTHING this time. She’d practically jumped his bones right there at the funeral. He’d barely escaped her afterwards in the cloakroom, where she stuck her tongue down his throat and groped his balls in front of several shocked relatives. (Not that he found her style unpleasant) In fact, Bob narrowly escaped with all his clothing (which triggered another fantasy). He also came away with a hastily scrawled note from “Lisa” to the general effect that she would meet him later at some S&M club on the strip for a little related foreplay. It ended with the following: “Once you’ve tasted my forbidden fruit you’ll never go back to apples again”.

Oh Christ! Now she was repeating things back to him that he’d only thought!

Bob nearly panicked as he read those words sitting in his nice first floor split level condo, his back braced against the door, staring wildly at the box that barely fit through the sliding glass doors around back by the jacuzzi and the japanese garden. And worst of all, several envious relatives had actually threatened him this time!

Uncle Rudolf had voiced the family’s sentiment best: “You already have almost as much as Martin, why’d he leave so much to you. Not like you need it. Not like the rest of us couldn’t have used a little. I hope you rot in hell you greedy bastard!”

Someone somewhere in the back of the ugly (family) mob yelled something about him not living long enough to spend it, but he couldn’t see who. Not that it mattered as the sentiment was clearly shared by just about everyone.

In the end Bob barely got out of there alive, only to find that someone had cut two of the two hundred and fifty dollar tires on his lexus sedan.

Bob didn’t know what to say or do, so he hopped a cab and when he got home he slipped into the wine cellar he’d had built three years ago to get something to settle his nerves.

His nerves didn’t get settled. The second he came back inside the anonymous threatening phone calls began. They continued uninterrupted until he unplugged the phone. It didn’t help.

It was then, sitting there staring at the giant box , trying not to imagine the endless stream of phone calls he had only interrupted and not stopped, that the savage desperate pounding on his door began.

It was Lisa. And she was screaming at the top of her lungs all the things she’d do if he let her inside (not all of them upset him). The neighbors however, must be having a conniption fit, he thought. The last thing he needed was a crazy horny slut on his doorstep demanding he fuck her brains out or she’d kill herself. The cops would be showing up at any moment. His neighbors were beginning to gather on their lawns and they looked none too happy to have their quiet little neighborhood made...less quiet. The whole scene was starting to look like something out of a bad b- monster movie. The villagers were getting restless, and at any moment someone was going to show up with a pitchfork or torch and lead the mob up his driveway to burn him out, figuratively anyway.

Bob forced himself to unlock the box, which now had three separate locks and a chain around it for good measure. As the last lock began to tumble Bob paused. Maybe he should think things through BEFORE he opened it this time? Bob sat back and tried to think clearly, which was difficult with the pounding and screaming and grumbling and all.

It was then the flashing lights of a police car turned into his driveway. One of the villagers had gotten restless and the mob was surging forward behind the boys in blue.

Bob was out of time so he took his best and only shot....

Chapter Five: Epilogue

Bob moved into Uncle Marty’s mansion about a week after the will was executed.

The few surviving family members (most were long dead of one thing or another) felt that the most deserving family member had indeed received his just dues, and they heartily congratulated Bob on his well deserved windfall.

About a month later Bob married the lawyers beautiful (and it turned out wicked kinky) assistant Lisa after a whirlwind romance. She immediately quit her job (which they didn’t need the income from anymore) and devoted herself full time to pleasing and pleasuring her lord and master the awesome Grand Sex Master Bob in the dungeon of her dreams beneath the ancient manor house that had been Uncle Marty’s until recently.

And as the years passed (and they stayed young, and strong, and eternally beautiful, because Bob didn’t miss the old aging loophole), it never ceased to amaze submissive leather slave Lisa how perfect she and Bob were together. And how perfect they would be forever....

Epilogue: Bob’s View

Looking back on “things” Bob agreed completely with Lisa about their being perfect together, and he definitely wouldn’t change anything. Over the years she had never failed to be his perfect plaything and companion, anticipating his every want and need.... just like he’d wished it....

Well, maybe one thing, Bob decided after considering: He’d put an off switch on Lisa. She was insatiable....

Well, maybe two things: That darned box in the back yard was BIGGER than a two car garage, and couldn’t be moved with a crane, and he was sick of making up explanations for why the damned humugous ugly thing was there....

Ok, three things: He would have added a porn star sized shlong for himself, that vibrated like it had batteries in it on command.... lol.

But all and all, Bob figured he had done alright.

Besides, he could always get a couple dozen guys from the town to help him open the box and turn all the six foot long keys.